In Our Darkest Hour [PG-13]

h POKE

angry kid and a keyboard
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    • Seen Jan 17, 2016
    My name and my life are of little importance to the content of the story. However, as this is my first fiction, I welcome anyone to comment on the material below.

    *May not be suitable to those of a younger persuasion due to graphic depictions, mild language, and the corruption of the pokemon series.

    Introduction:

    Lord, in our darkest hour
    Pray for those of us who have sinned
    That in our dying breath we may
    See the spires of Heaven awaiting us...

    The prayer murmurs its way to the top of the chapel, but I can feel it being
    repelled at the top, unanswered. The creature is in pursuit; I can feel that now, too.

    There is nothing left to do except pray that the night will end, that it will return from
    whence it came, but I know that's all a lie. I'll never live to see the sun rise.

    ... From the Night
    -- Chapter One of In Our Darkest Hour

    "Baron?"
    I could hear him, but I chose not to listen.
    "Baron Petrovich?"
    I wondered when he'd go away...
    "Can't you see I don't wish to be bothered?"
    "Baron, this is important... it needs your attention."
    It was not often that I left my chamber, in those days.

    Now that I remember, I can picture the night clearly in my mind: the clouds, the dead air, and the creature.
    It was a night where the air hung heavy and silent, anticipating the coming rainfall. And quickly, as I
    turned away from the towering bedroom window and locked eyes with the butler, I wondered if there really was
    something this time. It had been so long since... I had had a patient in my house.

    "We found it -- found... something outside the front gate. Please, Baron, I implore-"
    I had had no time to listen on as he blathered; for all I could care it was a deer, "Hmph. Very well then."

    He led me down into the atrium, where the candles had long since gone out, leaving foreign shadows in their
    place. The sounds of our hollow shoes echoed dully across the room: clack-clak clack-clak clack-clak. He
    led me to the basement, down far below the gates and the storm window of my chamber; finally to the operating
    room. That was the first look I got at the thing.

    It was... a flower. And yet it was massive, unlike any flower that would grow on this Earth. They had lain
    it out on the table I had used for patients so long ago. The plant was so large itself that it could barely
    fit from end to end on the cramped stone. So, I came forward, for now I was quite pleased, "How did it come here?"

    "We're... not entirely sure. I was the one on patrol, but it was already quite dead when I got to it. And the
    smell; It emitted such a strange smell. Almost like honey, if that helps you."

    I bent forward. There was a purple fluid welling up inside of the central cavity, but out of reach by a rather
    sharp array of fangs. The smell, however, was pungent to my nose; noticeably so. "Are you sure it smelled of
    honey?"

    "I'm certain, sir. Why? Was I wrong?"

    "..."
    Perhaps the first part of post mortem decomposition for this beast was the stagnation of its fluids.

    Looking down again, I could now see something quite clearly: eyes. The candles did not shine very brightly,
    but it was enough for me to see them; glassy little things, set into a stone gaze from the ties of death.
    They were hollow, for a green fluid, almost like blood or chlorophyll, had flooded into them. Obviously,
    this creature never did have sight.

    "D-Do you know what it is, sir?"
    "I haven't the slightest. It is... unlike anything I've ever seen before. Therefore, I suggest you leave
    me to my work. You and the other security are dismissed for the evening."
    "Verily, sir."

    Once I was sure he was gone, I took a small surgeon's knife from an aluminum plate I had nearby, and
    proceeded to take a biopsy of the creature's skin. When I cut it open, its green "blood" substance flowed
    out readily onto the floor. The stranbut merely seeped and gnawed into my clothing until I was eventually
    forced to get a new set of clothes. As I held the skin sample in my hand, knowing not whether this was
    true or a dream, I realized: this was no flower.

    I sat there for the rest of the night, and as each candle went out as time progressed, I could feel the spirit
    of this creature closing in on me. It's spirit! I was a man of science, a surgeon of my day, and yet here I was
    reduced to superstitious nonsense by some foolish ghoul of the night! Yet still did I sit there, until the last
    candle final sputtered to silence, and then it was just me, me and some... thing.


    ***


    "Lucas, you know how much I love you, honey, and how I never want to see you get hurt..."
    "Mom, I'll be fine. After all, I have my pokemon with me."
    "That's... that's just the thing. What if it gets hurt? Then how will you keep safe?"
    "Mom. Stop. I know what I'm doing out here. You just have to trust me. Maybe that's a new concept for you?"
    "For me? Oh please. Whatever, just... go."
    "C'mon I never meant to make you worry."
    "No, no. It's alright, you just go off and have your little 'pokemon adventure.'"

    I don't think I'll EVER understand her. Oh well, I have more important matters at the moment, so I just open
    the screen door and leave, without saying a word. She'll worry about me, I know that much, but its the professor
    his research that's at the top of my mind.

    Examining the package he had given me earlier in the day, I could already see that it was something important. A
    computer? Pokeballs? I guess it was never for me to know. There was, however, one thing: the lone pokeball on my belt.
    I could feel the little creature inside: my own pokemon. I know it seems strange, but for the first time, I felt
    as though I had power. Almost as if this cute thing were my key to success.

    I'm walking out of town now, and I can feel the autumn breeze tickle down my neck. The next moment, its completely
    still. Everything seems so light, I can feel... rain. The mud builds up quickly along the routes shoddily-paved
    path. It gets into everything; my shoes, my hair, my eyes. Heh. At least I have my--

    "Lucas, are you going to wake up?"
    Of all the rotten luck!
    "It's time for your medicine, little guy."
    "... You don't need to patronize me."
    They give you medicine here. It makes you all better. Makes you have something to hold on to... in this god-forsaken
    gray world. At least it doesn't work very well.
    "Oh, don't be a poor sport, Lucas! It'll all be over in a second."
    I have half a mind to stop her right now, before she pulls out the syringe. She'll fill me up with "happy juice" and
    I'll be "all better"... I'm just lucky they haven't given me a lobotomy yet.

    Shhhh-ick. She fills up the slender glass container with some strange blu-ish medicine. Jaws... my... my jaws.
    "Alright, now hold still."
    Yes, that would work splendidly.

    The syringe comes forward in her hands, but I see it in slow motion. I wait for the right moment, and find it.
    Teeth. The sink into the skin like a knife into butter.

    "Goddammit, Lucas! We don't do that here, not at Saint Christopher's!"
    Saint? Saint of what? Trapping children in this torturous gray world. Each day I break myself off from this place a
    little more, and that's an acheivement for me. All they can say to my "parents" is that I'm "slipping away" and that
    there's "nothing they can do about it".

    "You're son is just going to have to be lobotomized. I'm afraid there's no other choice..."
    The gray parents always say no. That's one thing I have to thank them for.

    "Somody get down to Lucas' room. The prick bit me!"
    "Eileen, are you alright?" Sounds like the secretary.
    "Yeah, yeah. I think I'm bleeding some, though."
    "Well, why don't you go down to the offices. If you report this to them, I think you can convince the superintendent
    to move Lucas out of your care."
    "Yeah, thanks Barb."

    As long as I'm not here, I suppose.
     
    Last edited:
    Ah well. Perhaps patience is the key. Speaking of perhaps, I believe this next chapter overuses that word...

    A Matter of Discussion
    Chapter Two of In Our Darkest Hour

    He stared at the candle's flame for a bit as I finished my recanting my story, and all I could hope was that he would
    believe it. Thinking, thinking, thinking! What a terrible waiting game this was.

    Then, he burst out laughing; hearty laughter. Not a chance. I already knew what he was going to say.

    "Preposterous! Dmitri, I've had more than plenty of your vodka and still it makes no sense to me. An animal... that
    looks like a plant, you say?"
    My face turned red. "I have proof. A skin sample, if you'd like to look."
    "Oh, yes, yes. Please do, Nikita. I think I'd be able to recognize it. Perhaps better than you, after a fashion!"
    And in with the laughter again. The biopsy of its skin would do me no good; I'd have to show him the creature...

    I returned a while later with the skin, and when I placed it in his hand I could see he was unimpressed. Still, there
    was hope in the way he viewed it with his looking glass.

    "Well, good friend, I'll tell you this: I've not seen anything quite like it, but that proves nothing. For all we
    both know it could have just been a plant. All you need is more sleep, friend. Then you shall see things in a clearer
    light, eh?"

    "why do I argue with you like a child? It was real! Real as I live, with teeth, and eyes, and... and that rubbery skin
    that you have. How can pass that off as mere delusion?"

    "This? This proves nothing. It is a trinket, most likely from a far off land. You're just trying to trick me, aren't you?"

    "I swear to you I am not! Come, I'll even show you the creature itself."
    He got up, but oh so reluctantly. However, as soon as I entered the secret stairwell in the library, the stench
    was there. No doubt, if the skin did not make him believe, the body would. And yet, as I descended, there was...
    something wrong. Out of place... No! I need not run for I knew, I knew and the fact of the matter came bearing down
    on me, a meteor of failure.

    It was gone. The operating table was barren, wiped of even the trace of what had been there.

    "Nikita, where-"
    "Dmitri, leave me. Perhaps you were right, perhaps all I need is a good night's rest."
    "V-very well then, friend. Please, try not to strain yourself so much over work."

    I did not respond; I didn't need to. All he did was pick up his tweed jacket and brown hat and leave, just as silent as
    I, watching him do all this. Dmitri was lost, only a few people left now.

    Clearly there still had to be someone who would still believe me, even with so little proof. If only Moschi were here...
    I wonder where he has gone?

    "Butler?"
    "Yes, Baron."
    "Bring the record for Moschi Lezhev to me. It's in the library, I believe."
    "Right away, sir."

    He came back, brown-paper folder in hand, and bestowed it to me gently. I'm reading, and suddenly the words pop out at me:
    disappeared November, 1898. That's it! He must be just outside of the city... He always did dream of being an ascetic.

    "Butler?"
    "Yes, sir?"
    "Gather the horses. We shall be departing."

    ***

    The sky is as red as a deer as it bleeds into a clear stream. So bright, so gradient, this light is. Pietros told me that
    the red somewhere that the reason the sky lights itself on fire with each sunset is because of the pollution from Moscow.
    I had a feeling that it was Moscow. I can see the outline of the city now: its silhouette blazing and smoldering along
    the horizon. I can see the gray people as well, always going somewhere, with something to do. Bustling in their gray suits
    against the backdrop of gray buildings and gray smoke. Here, however, it is green, and the subtle tidings of spring have
    washed away the snow that falls in the wilderness.

    How I love it when it becomes green. Moschi always makes Pietros and I go into the woods and collect all the fresh berries
    during spring. And after the berries come the deer; I can taste fresh venison now. Oh, how I love it when it becomes green
    in the wilderness!

    Still, darkness is coming, and Moschi hates it when I am late for supper. Turning back into the woods, I can see that above
    the canopy the fire is already being eaten by blackness. I am running, and I am running through the woods so quickly that
    my shirt tears, I don't why I am, I just know I should.

    I return to the cabin and realize that it was the spirits who were telling me to run, for there is only silence. Something
    is wrong; just get through the tar-paper door. So quiet, so empty, yet the ashes in the fire pit are still warm.

    "Moschi?"

    Nothing.

    "Moschi!"

    A crow responds, mockingly almost, its caws coming through into the house like some tin demon. Suddenly, I can hear it.
    Sobbing amidst the crow's laughter. Crying on a fallen branch, there is Pietros.

    "Pietros... What has happened?"

    I look into his eyes. His tears roil down a contorted face; so hurt, so in pain, I can feel even the weight of the spirits'
    sadness in them. Those eyes... They hold nothing but gray, and in them I can see it all clearly now. The spirits speak
    through him and into my being. It's all I need to know.

    The gray men have been here, and they've taken Moschi. He was my father, he was my guide to the spirits. And now...
    I'm off to Moscow.
     
    I can't say much because the story hasn't gotten far yet, but I really like it so far. It's got a sense of anticipation that makes me check for updates, and I like the mystery around it, like you're purposefully not being told everything. Keep up the good writing. =3
     
    Oh, don't worry. It'll all start to come together. (At least you're reading it!)

    And now, Chapter Three:

    Drifting
    Chapter Three of In Our Darkest Hour

    Delusions. Hah. That's what Eileen says when she wants the gray parents to think that there's actually something wrong with
    me. I almost believed her nonsense for a second, and I might have allowed them to bring me back to the "real world". It's a
    good thing I always come to my senses, even if it takes a while. All you have to do is remember the real world, the pokemon,
    and everything else.

    Right now, I'm just in limbo, that's all. One day, I'll be a full-time trainer, and there'll be nothing in between me and the
    real real world. Here's to hoping that that time will come soon...

    "Alright, come on, get up! I gotta move you outta the upper floor and into one of the solitaries, and that's a long walk with
    a crazy like you, so I don't want no trouble."

    Hm. Curtis. They only send him in when they think you've done something real bad. Grays... funny what they do to quash a
    little rebellion. Still, I'm in no mood right now, and I don't think I could take big old Curtis in the first place. Heh,
    and he is big, or WAS big. Eileen said in one of her (frequent) talks with the secretary that Curtis used to be a circus
    strongman. Isn't that ironic. These days, I think he works mainly through intimidation.

    It's truly a funny thing, walking through these familiar halls; all the familiar, happy (tormented) faces moaning as I pass by.
    At times like these, I can appreciate how lucky I am that they haven't bothered with any of their "cures", other than the
    wretched medicine. There is, of course, lobotomy; something that is so quick and easy that I would hardly consider it a bad
    thing at all... except for the results. The surgery seems simple, but, oh... in reality they are scooping out a portal to
    another world, something that grays see so little value in. So little value, that they merely scrape it out of the head with an ice pick.
    "Just don't forget the anesthetic!"

    But they do a great many other things, such as... the electro-"therapy". This is perhaps the most despicable of all, for I can
    hear the small children as they scream in agony! And this glorified torture is what allows patients to stay in touch with the
    civilized world. Now that's something I can laugh to.

    But before I get the chance, I'm shoved by meaty hands into a dark space. I can feel, but I cannot see. And what I feel;
    ...well, although it may not be prude for me to think of these things in detail, I can feel saliva. It's caking everything in the room,
    and on the floor, and in the cracks of the board there is a horrid stench of excrement, which leads me to imagine that the
    poor child before was never let out of his cage.

    At least--
    I am drifting...

    off.

    Rain? After all this time? Oh, bother. It's coming down in blankets now, pelting me like bullets. "Charmander!" And, as I throw
    my pokeball to the ground, a creature no larger than a lizard emerges. Well, it's something for me to call my own.

    "Charmander, use Flame Wheel!"

    It did just as I said. For my part, the flame wheel had worked just I had expected; no rain on me, no rain on charmander, and
    everything else is splendid. I guess I'll just wait out the rain under a tree.

    "Come on, let's go over to that tree now. Keep it up, Charmander, you're doing great!"

    I sit down, and yet... something's wrong. There's someone else here.
    "Hello? Is there anybody out there?"
    "Только я, хороший мальчик, Только я..."

    What? I don't share worlds. I'm a loner.
    "I am alone! You're not here!"
    Oops. Slipped out.

    "Нет, Вы не."

    I wish I... knew what was real.

    ***

    These dreams... such strange dreams ever since I have taken Moschi into my house. He claims it as a curse on my name; how he has
    changed since becoming an ascetic. No matter! Perhaps I myself may be able to... convince him to talk.

    "Butler! Come, we are going to see Sir Moschi."
    "Indeed." And yet there's a crackle of fear that sparkles out of his throat. The butler knows well my... methods.

    I can hear it now; a symphony of familiar clamoring as our two pairs of feet move synchronously across the brightly lit atrium. Any
    doubt I had escapes me with the touch of the cold, iron handle leading up into the tower.

    A funny thing, this tower. The previous owner, now long deceased, claimed the dungeon at the top of this stairwell to be one of the
    circles of hell. Even if it is, I do not fear Satan, and I most certainly do not fear God. Moschi... there is no higher power to save you
    if you don't talk. There will be only me, dear boy, only me...
     
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