//Mix\\
I'm usually a bird.
- 1
- Posts
- 14
- Years
- United Confederacy of Gnats
- Seen Jan 7, 2010
YO.
Some of you may know me from Serebii, but I decided there was no harm in waltzing on over and making an appearance here, too.
DISCLAIMER: I OWN POKEMON. YUP. I DO. SORRY ABOUT THE WHOLE EVOLUTION OF NOSEPASS THING.
(not really)
Finding Acai is not a trainer fic. It's a Pokemon Ranger fic. (Those games are unreasonably addictive.) It's based on the first Ranger game. Woo. No, really. WOO.
It's about this girl who becomes a Pokemon Ranger. YOU NEVER WOULD HAVE GUESSED IF I HAD NOT TOLD YOU. ADMIT IT.
~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+
Rated PG-13 for bad stuff I'm sure will happen eventually.
~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+
| Just for fun | [Soundtrack]
1: A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left // Andrew Bird
2) Energy // The Apples in Stereo
3) Fluorescent Adolescent // The Arctic Monkeys
4) Hunting for Witches // Bloc Party
5) Sunny Moon // The Cat Empire
6) Everybody Here Is A Cloud // Cloud Cult
7) Ole Black 'n Blue Eyes // The Fratellis
8) Wine Red // The Hush Sound
9) Gold Guns Girls // Metric
10) We've Got Everything // Modest Mouse
11) Fake Empire // The National
12) Send Me On My Way // Rusted Root
12) Phantom Limb // The Shins
13) Dr. Worm // They Might Be Giants
14) Family Tree // TV On The Radio
~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~
CHAPTER LIST:
1 // Size Too Small
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CHAPTER ONE: SIZE TOO SMALL
~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~
One pair of black leggings that go WAAY too far up my thighs. One pair of shoes that look like they walked straight out of the nearest time machine. One bathing suit – no, a jumpsuit – something like that – with a zipper up the front that I'm pretty sure is made of ice as it presses against my stomach.
One girl too tall and too broad-shouldered for this apparatus, nearly falling over as she yanks the leggings that were quite possibly stolen from a nest of strippers up her thunder thighs.
The girl? That's me. The uniform? That's the torture device sent by none other than my idol, Spenser Albright, the one-and-only Ranger Leader who, for some deranged reason, has deemed me worthy of examination. A decision which will probably change the instant he notices how badly this uniform fits. It was probably made for flighty, flexible little Ranger girls.
Yeah. Right.
Whoever this confection was designed for, it definitely was not Acai.
Right. I know what you're thinking. Yes, an acai is a type of palm tree. Yes, my mother saw the word on a bottle of juice, thought it was pretty, and saved it for her child, who was unfortunate enough to be me.
Okay. I know what you're thinking AGAIN. (When did I develop mind-reading skills?) Another whiny, sarcastic teenager on a bender for some attention. Well, I'll give you points for "sarcastic." My mom's really not that bad. And this uniform's only a little tight. And I guess... I guess I'm just nervous about this whole meeting-my-role-model-possibly-getting-taken-on-as-a-Ranger-apprentice thing.
Mainly I'm surprised that Spenser didn't drown under my endless barrage of letters, but I guess he's a good swimmer.
HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK
OW. Jesus. Who installed an elephant as this ship's... horn thing, I forget what they're called. Anyway, I figure the earsplitting noise means we're either sinking like a stone or we've arrived in Fall City, and I'm really hoping it's the latter. I grab my stuff and leave the cabin, and am instantly swept up in the rush of seasick hordes seeking to escape their floating prison. Hey, that was poetic. Maybe I'll abandon my prospective career in ridiculous outfits and skip off to write poetry under the sunset all day. La de dah.
Oh, my lord, I AM one of those obnoxious teenagers. I'm even MENTALLY obnoxious. Spenser will kick me in the teeth. All right. Starting now, I'm going to be one of those peppy darling determined little creatures that prance around wearing clothes made of rainbows and with big sparkling anime eyes. Maybe I'll have a sheet of long black hair, too. Maybe a Legendary Pokemon will choose me as its partner because I'm just that special. Maybe I'm full of bullsh*t and it's imperative that I shoot myself in the head before I start actually saying this stuff out loud.
But I'm sure that would be terribly scarring for everyone on board, and so I shrug and slide sideways through the crowd, trying to ignore the massive wedgie this jumpsuit is giving me. Like, picture the biggest wedgie anyone's ever had. Then triple it by ten. No, twenty. That's my wedgie. This fabric is trying to mate with the crack of my -
"Papa, hurry, hurry! It's Fall City! Fall City!"
Some little boy overdosed on the Prozac this morning. Wait, do people give Prozac to little kids? Maybe there's a youth version. Why do I think about these things? Anyway, I realize as I reach the deck that the kid's got some reason to be excited.
Fall City is beautiful. Yeah, it's got the reputation. Glittering city lights over the bay and all that. From the postcards, I expected something more wholesome. But it's beautiful in a dangerous sort of way. Like there are dark corners behind the tall skyscrapers, which are plastered with so many windows they look like they're made of ice.
I need to work on my descriptions.
"Papa, look! There's a girl in a clown suit!"
It takes me a minute to realize that Prozac Boy is talking about me. In fact, most of the people around here are talking about me, whispering to each other and pointing with scarcely-hidden giggles. I'd like to say that my face didn't turn bright red, but I'm not much of a liar.
Not like I can blame them. This uniform suits me about as much as ugliness suits this city.
And I still have a wedgie.
Wedgie or not, though, I don't want to be left behind on this rocking structure of doom (no, I was not seasick. I just happened to throw up a few times and stagger around with a green face, that's all) so I hurry down the metal bridge extending from the boat to the wharf. But not before shooting Prozac Boy my best wicked glare. I'll show YOU clown suit. Heh heh heh.
Okay, so my threats aren't exactly top-tier. But my intimidating stares are boss. Okay, so maybe it looks a bit more like I've got something in my eye. Maybe I do look a little ridiculous with my dyed-blue hair and my jumpsuit, but whatever. I signed up for this.
I step onto the concrete wharf along with a stream of people. Most of them fall immediately into the arms of somebody who's been waiting for them. A mother, or a sister, or a friend. Trying to be surreptitious, I glance around for Spenser, but the green-haired god is nowhere to be seen. Maybe the boat's early. Or maybe it's late and he's left already. Argh. I hate my brain so much. It says "maybe" too often.
Time to wander around like an aimless tourist, then.
I swear to god, with each step this wedgie worms itself deeper into my... well, you know. I've never won any prizes for being tactful. And what's worse, the little red jacket that came with the outfit barely skirts the top of my waist, so my wedgied bum is exposed for the world to see. Perhaps this whole "Ranger" thing is a cover for a secret stripper society.
Finally, I throw away any self-respect I've ever had and yank the stupid fabric out of my butt, gleaning a few scandalized stares from a nearby gaggle of old women, who have probably never had wedgies in their long and wrinkly lives.
Well, so far, this has been a lovely adventure. Lots of things happening and whatnot. I'm about to turn around and ask the nearest sane person if they've seen a tall famous person with green hair about, but before I can do that, there's a pretty enormous explosion.
Wait, what?
I whirl and find myself coughing hard, because the air is suddenly full of dust and smoke. I can't see. I'm guessing nobody can, because there's a lot of screaming coming from the air around me. Another explosion. A BOOOOOOOM. The sound of cracking concrete. Terror. Terror everywhere, jumping from body to body like a pack of fleas until it finally hits me.
"There's one of them! I see the uniform!"
Hoarse breathing suddenly in my ear. An arm thrown around my neck and I'm yanked off my feet. Dragged backward. Can't breathe. Grit in my eyes. Somehow this is all the uniform's fault. I lash out with my foot. Hit hard flesh. Hear a grunt, and then there's a blow to my stomach that makes the notion of hurling my breakfast very tempting. So I do, and I twist my head to the side just in time to splatter my captor.
I feel the arm jerk back. I'm free. There's never been anything so glorious as the air that now rushes into my lungs. Someone's making these horrible ragged gasping sounds. It's me. My stomach is throbbing, and I grasp it as I stumble backward, away from the hoarse voice swearing violently.
All my brain can do is think swears. Sh*t, sh*t, sh*t. Is this the normal human reaction to a crisis?
There's a sudden WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP and all the dust and grit is blown away. I can see again, and I'm under the huge shadow of something. A helicopter, which slices the air around it so loudly I feel like my brain is being driven into itself.
Then I notice I'm in imminent danger of dying and throw myself to the side, striking the ground about a foot from where the helicopter settles to the ground, sending a whirl of dust into my face.
A voice. Over some sort of intercom. "ALL PERSONELL PLEASE SUBDUE YOUR PRISONERS AND PROCEED TO THE HELICOPTER."
I stagger to my feet and wipe grit from my eyes just in time to see several men, all suited in black and similarly masked, racing toward me with arms outstretched.
I want to curl up in a ball and sob. I want to tell them to leave me alone, I'm scared, I'm new, I'm only fifteen. I want to be strong enough to punch them all in the face at the same time. But I can't do any of those things. All I can do is stand there, not knowing what's happening, not knowing anything, and wait for the single second to pass before they reach me.
The second passes.
And nobody grabs me.
This is because someone has shot out of nowhere, seized me by the arm, and hauled me away so quickly my feet can't do anything but run for fear of my arm being yanked out of its socket.
"RUN OR DIE!" shouts the arm-grabber, and I register very quickly that "run or die" is my current reality. I'm not a big fan of dying this very moment, so I guess running is my only option. And run I do, thanking my lucky stars I was on the track team in high school.
Everything rushes past in a blur. We're being pursued; something whizzes past my ear, and then another something, and I realize we're being shot at. Not bullets; the something sticks in a bulletin board we pass, and I see that it's a dart. A hypodermic dart.
Run. Run faster. Heartbeat. Heart beat faster. Feet pounding the pavement and the pavement says ouch. Confusion. Yes, confusion. And I notice two things. The arm-grabber is a boy. And he's wearing a uniform like mine.
We're running along the side of the wharf now, rounding abandoned warehouses and hearing nothing but the WHISK WHISK WHISK of darts shooting past our heads.
And then I hear an "unh" and the boy stumbles and crashes magnificently to the ground, dragging me down with him. For a second there's nothing but a ringing in my ears and the taste of blood in my mouth as my face hits stone. Then I shove myself upright. Oh, sh*t. More internal swears. The boy's got a dart the size of my thumb embedded in his neck. He lies sprawled limply on the ground, head lolling to the side.
I have a second. I have two seconds. I have two seconds in which to get up and run, to dart away and hide somewhere and leave this "RUN OR DIE" boy to the devices of these people.
I'm going to regret this.
I yank the dart from the boy's neck and throw it over the side of the wharf, into the water. Ignoring the pulse of fear and pain in my head, I get to my feet, step in front of the boy's body, and marvel at my own false bravado for a second before cocking my head to the side, locking eyes with the first of several masked men who have stopped in front of me, and saying, "Come get it."
They don't even bother to laugh at me.
Things happen very fast. The first man hands his dart gun to the second, strides forward, shoves me aside, and kicks the unconscious boy into the water.
No.
"No!" I bellow, witnessing murder not being on my to-do list. I throw myself toward the edge of the wharf – the boy's body has vanished beneath the slight waves – how long does it take to drown? - but the man in black grabs me and strikes the side of my face. I barely feel it. I'm cursing him now, calling him names I didn't even know were in my vocabulary as I struggle with strength I didn't know I had.
"I thought we weren't supposed to kill any of them," said one of the other men casually, twirling the dart gun in his hand.
"We need the number one alive and one other for questioning. We've got the latter," grunts the man holding me. I've been trying to kick him in the balls for the last twenty seconds. I always assumed that if I ever got grabbed by a man, I'd just kick him in the balls and that would be that, but it's a lot more difficult than it looks in the movies.
Meanwhile, there's a drowning person approximately five feet to my left and I can't do anything about it.
A shadow blocks out the light above me, and my first thought is that the helicopter is dissatisfied with its initial failure and has come back to squish me like gum into the pavement.
But it's not the helicopter.
It's a Pokemon. A Bird Pokemon. A Fearow.
And riding on the back of the Fearow is the one person I'd have chosen to see if I could have seen one person at that moment.
Spenser Regan.
THE END
~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~
YEAH, SO. First chapter I whipped off in like fifteen minutes. Hence the not-very-good-ness. But I had fun writing it, and I got some more words under my belt, and that's what matters to me.
~Mix
Some of you may know me from Serebii, but I decided there was no harm in waltzing on over and making an appearance here, too.
DISCLAIMER: I OWN POKEMON. YUP. I DO. SORRY ABOUT THE WHOLE EVOLUTION OF NOSEPASS THING.
(not really)
Finding Acai is not a trainer fic. It's a Pokemon Ranger fic. (Those games are unreasonably addictive.) It's based on the first Ranger game. Woo. No, really. WOO.
It's about this girl who becomes a Pokemon Ranger. YOU NEVER WOULD HAVE GUESSED IF I HAD NOT TOLD YOU. ADMIT IT.
~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+
Rated PG-13 for bad stuff I'm sure will happen eventually.
~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+
| Just for fun | [Soundtrack]
1: A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left // Andrew Bird
2) Energy // The Apples in Stereo
3) Fluorescent Adolescent // The Arctic Monkeys
4) Hunting for Witches // Bloc Party
5) Sunny Moon // The Cat Empire
6) Everybody Here Is A Cloud // Cloud Cult
7) Ole Black 'n Blue Eyes // The Fratellis
8) Wine Red // The Hush Sound
9) Gold Guns Girls // Metric
10) We've Got Everything // Modest Mouse
11) Fake Empire // The National
12) Send Me On My Way // Rusted Root
12) Phantom Limb // The Shins
13) Dr. Worm // They Might Be Giants
14) Family Tree // TV On The Radio
~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~
CHAPTER LIST:
1 // Size Too Small
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
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Anyway.
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| F I N D I N G . A C A I | ~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~
Anyway.
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| F I N D I N G . A C A I | ~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~
CHAPTER ONE: SIZE TOO SMALL
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<Invitation>
Through the seven letters you've sent me, I have come to understand your strong motivation to become a Pokemon Ranger.
I would like to meet you.
I want to see for myself if you are really worthy of becoming a Pokemon Ranger.
Enclosed you will find a Pokemon Ranger uniform and a ticket to the ferry that will take you to Fall City on Sunday. Meet me at the harbor; with that uniform on, I won't have much trouble spotting you.
Best regards,
Spenser Regan
Ringtown Leader Ranger
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<Invitation>
Through the seven letters you've sent me, I have come to understand your strong motivation to become a Pokemon Ranger.
I would like to meet you.
I want to see for myself if you are really worthy of becoming a Pokemon Ranger.
Enclosed you will find a Pokemon Ranger uniform and a ticket to the ferry that will take you to Fall City on Sunday. Meet me at the harbor; with that uniform on, I won't have much trouble spotting you.
Best regards,
Spenser Regan
Ringtown Leader Ranger
~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~
One pair of black leggings that go WAAY too far up my thighs. One pair of shoes that look like they walked straight out of the nearest time machine. One bathing suit – no, a jumpsuit – something like that – with a zipper up the front that I'm pretty sure is made of ice as it presses against my stomach.
One girl too tall and too broad-shouldered for this apparatus, nearly falling over as she yanks the leggings that were quite possibly stolen from a nest of strippers up her thunder thighs.
The girl? That's me. The uniform? That's the torture device sent by none other than my idol, Spenser Albright, the one-and-only Ranger Leader who, for some deranged reason, has deemed me worthy of examination. A decision which will probably change the instant he notices how badly this uniform fits. It was probably made for flighty, flexible little Ranger girls.
Yeah. Right.
Whoever this confection was designed for, it definitely was not Acai.
Right. I know what you're thinking. Yes, an acai is a type of palm tree. Yes, my mother saw the word on a bottle of juice, thought it was pretty, and saved it for her child, who was unfortunate enough to be me.
Okay. I know what you're thinking AGAIN. (When did I develop mind-reading skills?) Another whiny, sarcastic teenager on a bender for some attention. Well, I'll give you points for "sarcastic." My mom's really not that bad. And this uniform's only a little tight. And I guess... I guess I'm just nervous about this whole meeting-my-role-model-possibly-getting-taken-on-as-a-Ranger-apprentice thing.
Mainly I'm surprised that Spenser didn't drown under my endless barrage of letters, but I guess he's a good swimmer.
HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK
OW. Jesus. Who installed an elephant as this ship's... horn thing, I forget what they're called. Anyway, I figure the earsplitting noise means we're either sinking like a stone or we've arrived in Fall City, and I'm really hoping it's the latter. I grab my stuff and leave the cabin, and am instantly swept up in the rush of seasick hordes seeking to escape their floating prison. Hey, that was poetic. Maybe I'll abandon my prospective career in ridiculous outfits and skip off to write poetry under the sunset all day. La de dah.
Oh, my lord, I AM one of those obnoxious teenagers. I'm even MENTALLY obnoxious. Spenser will kick me in the teeth. All right. Starting now, I'm going to be one of those peppy darling determined little creatures that prance around wearing clothes made of rainbows and with big sparkling anime eyes. Maybe I'll have a sheet of long black hair, too. Maybe a Legendary Pokemon will choose me as its partner because I'm just that special. Maybe I'm full of bullsh*t and it's imperative that I shoot myself in the head before I start actually saying this stuff out loud.
But I'm sure that would be terribly scarring for everyone on board, and so I shrug and slide sideways through the crowd, trying to ignore the massive wedgie this jumpsuit is giving me. Like, picture the biggest wedgie anyone's ever had. Then triple it by ten. No, twenty. That's my wedgie. This fabric is trying to mate with the crack of my -
"Papa, hurry, hurry! It's Fall City! Fall City!"
Some little boy overdosed on the Prozac this morning. Wait, do people give Prozac to little kids? Maybe there's a youth version. Why do I think about these things? Anyway, I realize as I reach the deck that the kid's got some reason to be excited.
Fall City is beautiful. Yeah, it's got the reputation. Glittering city lights over the bay and all that. From the postcards, I expected something more wholesome. But it's beautiful in a dangerous sort of way. Like there are dark corners behind the tall skyscrapers, which are plastered with so many windows they look like they're made of ice.
I need to work on my descriptions.
"Papa, look! There's a girl in a clown suit!"
It takes me a minute to realize that Prozac Boy is talking about me. In fact, most of the people around here are talking about me, whispering to each other and pointing with scarcely-hidden giggles. I'd like to say that my face didn't turn bright red, but I'm not much of a liar.
Not like I can blame them. This uniform suits me about as much as ugliness suits this city.
And I still have a wedgie.
Wedgie or not, though, I don't want to be left behind on this rocking structure of doom (no, I was not seasick. I just happened to throw up a few times and stagger around with a green face, that's all) so I hurry down the metal bridge extending from the boat to the wharf. But not before shooting Prozac Boy my best wicked glare. I'll show YOU clown suit. Heh heh heh.
Okay, so my threats aren't exactly top-tier. But my intimidating stares are boss. Okay, so maybe it looks a bit more like I've got something in my eye. Maybe I do look a little ridiculous with my dyed-blue hair and my jumpsuit, but whatever. I signed up for this.
I step onto the concrete wharf along with a stream of people. Most of them fall immediately into the arms of somebody who's been waiting for them. A mother, or a sister, or a friend. Trying to be surreptitious, I glance around for Spenser, but the green-haired god is nowhere to be seen. Maybe the boat's early. Or maybe it's late and he's left already. Argh. I hate my brain so much. It says "maybe" too often.
Time to wander around like an aimless tourist, then.
I swear to god, with each step this wedgie worms itself deeper into my... well, you know. I've never won any prizes for being tactful. And what's worse, the little red jacket that came with the outfit barely skirts the top of my waist, so my wedgied bum is exposed for the world to see. Perhaps this whole "Ranger" thing is a cover for a secret stripper society.
Finally, I throw away any self-respect I've ever had and yank the stupid fabric out of my butt, gleaning a few scandalized stares from a nearby gaggle of old women, who have probably never had wedgies in their long and wrinkly lives.
Well, so far, this has been a lovely adventure. Lots of things happening and whatnot. I'm about to turn around and ask the nearest sane person if they've seen a tall famous person with green hair about, but before I can do that, there's a pretty enormous explosion.
Wait, what?
I whirl and find myself coughing hard, because the air is suddenly full of dust and smoke. I can't see. I'm guessing nobody can, because there's a lot of screaming coming from the air around me. Another explosion. A BOOOOOOOM. The sound of cracking concrete. Terror. Terror everywhere, jumping from body to body like a pack of fleas until it finally hits me.
"There's one of them! I see the uniform!"
Hoarse breathing suddenly in my ear. An arm thrown around my neck and I'm yanked off my feet. Dragged backward. Can't breathe. Grit in my eyes. Somehow this is all the uniform's fault. I lash out with my foot. Hit hard flesh. Hear a grunt, and then there's a blow to my stomach that makes the notion of hurling my breakfast very tempting. So I do, and I twist my head to the side just in time to splatter my captor.
I feel the arm jerk back. I'm free. There's never been anything so glorious as the air that now rushes into my lungs. Someone's making these horrible ragged gasping sounds. It's me. My stomach is throbbing, and I grasp it as I stumble backward, away from the hoarse voice swearing violently.
All my brain can do is think swears. Sh*t, sh*t, sh*t. Is this the normal human reaction to a crisis?
There's a sudden WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP and all the dust and grit is blown away. I can see again, and I'm under the huge shadow of something. A helicopter, which slices the air around it so loudly I feel like my brain is being driven into itself.
Then I notice I'm in imminent danger of dying and throw myself to the side, striking the ground about a foot from where the helicopter settles to the ground, sending a whirl of dust into my face.
A voice. Over some sort of intercom. "ALL PERSONELL PLEASE SUBDUE YOUR PRISONERS AND PROCEED TO THE HELICOPTER."
I stagger to my feet and wipe grit from my eyes just in time to see several men, all suited in black and similarly masked, racing toward me with arms outstretched.
I want to curl up in a ball and sob. I want to tell them to leave me alone, I'm scared, I'm new, I'm only fifteen. I want to be strong enough to punch them all in the face at the same time. But I can't do any of those things. All I can do is stand there, not knowing what's happening, not knowing anything, and wait for the single second to pass before they reach me.
The second passes.
And nobody grabs me.
This is because someone has shot out of nowhere, seized me by the arm, and hauled me away so quickly my feet can't do anything but run for fear of my arm being yanked out of its socket.
"RUN OR DIE!" shouts the arm-grabber, and I register very quickly that "run or die" is my current reality. I'm not a big fan of dying this very moment, so I guess running is my only option. And run I do, thanking my lucky stars I was on the track team in high school.
Everything rushes past in a blur. We're being pursued; something whizzes past my ear, and then another something, and I realize we're being shot at. Not bullets; the something sticks in a bulletin board we pass, and I see that it's a dart. A hypodermic dart.
Run. Run faster. Heartbeat. Heart beat faster. Feet pounding the pavement and the pavement says ouch. Confusion. Yes, confusion. And I notice two things. The arm-grabber is a boy. And he's wearing a uniform like mine.
We're running along the side of the wharf now, rounding abandoned warehouses and hearing nothing but the WHISK WHISK WHISK of darts shooting past our heads.
And then I hear an "unh" and the boy stumbles and crashes magnificently to the ground, dragging me down with him. For a second there's nothing but a ringing in my ears and the taste of blood in my mouth as my face hits stone. Then I shove myself upright. Oh, sh*t. More internal swears. The boy's got a dart the size of my thumb embedded in his neck. He lies sprawled limply on the ground, head lolling to the side.
I have a second. I have two seconds. I have two seconds in which to get up and run, to dart away and hide somewhere and leave this "RUN OR DIE" boy to the devices of these people.
I'm going to regret this.
I yank the dart from the boy's neck and throw it over the side of the wharf, into the water. Ignoring the pulse of fear and pain in my head, I get to my feet, step in front of the boy's body, and marvel at my own false bravado for a second before cocking my head to the side, locking eyes with the first of several masked men who have stopped in front of me, and saying, "Come get it."
They don't even bother to laugh at me.
Things happen very fast. The first man hands his dart gun to the second, strides forward, shoves me aside, and kicks the unconscious boy into the water.
No.
"No!" I bellow, witnessing murder not being on my to-do list. I throw myself toward the edge of the wharf – the boy's body has vanished beneath the slight waves – how long does it take to drown? - but the man in black grabs me and strikes the side of my face. I barely feel it. I'm cursing him now, calling him names I didn't even know were in my vocabulary as I struggle with strength I didn't know I had.
"I thought we weren't supposed to kill any of them," said one of the other men casually, twirling the dart gun in his hand.
"We need the number one alive and one other for questioning. We've got the latter," grunts the man holding me. I've been trying to kick him in the balls for the last twenty seconds. I always assumed that if I ever got grabbed by a man, I'd just kick him in the balls and that would be that, but it's a lot more difficult than it looks in the movies.
Meanwhile, there's a drowning person approximately five feet to my left and I can't do anything about it.
A shadow blocks out the light above me, and my first thought is that the helicopter is dissatisfied with its initial failure and has come back to squish me like gum into the pavement.
But it's not the helicopter.
It's a Pokemon. A Bird Pokemon. A Fearow.
And riding on the back of the Fearow is the one person I'd have chosen to see if I could have seen one person at that moment.
Spenser Regan.
THE END
~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~
YEAH, SO. First chapter I whipped off in like fifteen minutes. Hence the not-very-good-ness. But I had fun writing it, and I got some more words under my belt, and that's what matters to me.
~Mix