- 35
- Posts
- 14
- Years
- Seen Jul 3, 2011
Rated PG-13 for mild violence and swearing.
This story started off intended as a short one or two-paragraph affair, since the leader of a role-play I'm signing up for had asked me to write a short sample extract as part of my sign-up. However, a few sentences on, I realized that I sorta liked how the story was turning out, so I decided to just take it all the way.
This is basically a vignitte featuring my character in the RP. He's a teenager named C.J. who's, not to spoil too much, rather atypical. The RP itself is named E.N.T.O.U.R.A.G.E., and I have faith that it's gonna turn out very interestingly. If you (god forbid) like this story, I'll be incredibly flattered, then I'd recommend you take a second to check out the RP in the Pokemon Roleplay section. It's still in the sign-up phase, but even so, I think it's looking pretty fun so far. :P
Also, this story contains a few characters taken from the other accepted sign-ups in the RP thread. I admittedly haven't yet asked for permission to include them, so if you're the owner of one of those characters and feel I didn't do your character justice, then just drop me a quick PM and I'll write you out of the story ASAP.
***
The alleyway was a stinking, cluttered, run-down cesspool of decomposition and filth. Situated in the poorer suburbs of the city, it was used as a dumping ground by the apartments and business that lined its surprising length, and so played host to some of the nastiest and most outright disgusting sights and smells known to humans and Pokemon alike. It was shielded from the moon by airborne smog on most nights, such that the best illumination that could be had in the twilight hours was a sickly, creamy glow that only served to grosteque-ify the atmosphere even further. It was ugly. It was unpleasant. In other words, for C.J., it was the perfect spot to train his fledging echolocation skills.
Shuffling his feet slowly and keeping his head bowed low, C.J. made his way silently across the stained cobblestones. He sensed his way through the surroundings and kept his eyes closed; he doubted they'd be of much use to him in the dark, anyway.
Across the floor was scattered a considerable amount of debris and rubbish, and not to mention the occasional overturned garbage can. The smells they emanated were often unbearable and always distracting. He would have wrinkled his nose in disgust if it wasn't for the fact that he needed total concentration just to avoid tripping over his own feet as walked. The alleyway would have seemed straightforward, albeit rather distasteful, to most people, but to him it was practically an urban minefield, complete with treacherous bumps and pitfalls waiting patiently in the shadows to send him sprawling on the ground.
Carefully he stepped over a sea of broken bottles, around a heaping pile of decomposing matter, and clambered over a torn-down fence. So far, so good. He'd done a reasonable distance without crashing and falling into anything unpleasant. But the alleyway was deceptively long, and he knew he had some distance to cover. And so he focused on sensing his way through the route ahead.
Focused enough, at least, for him not to notice the pair of sinister figures creeping up behind him.
Something heavy smashed into the back of C.J.'s head. He let out a small yelp of shock and pain. The echoes of the impact rang agonizingly through his skull and he felt himself falling, but a pair of rough, powerful hands grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet before he hit the concrete.
Half-dazed by the attack, he tried to regain control of his senses. He heard gruff voices, but couldn't quite make out what they were saying.
Immediately, despite his fuzzy consciousness, C.J.'s mind started racing. His attackers were probably common muggers of some sort, he realised. The E.N.T.O.U.R.A.G.E. bounty hunters wouldn't have been nearly so kind to him. Besides, he had been hunching and his hood was pulled low over his head, concealing his face, so they'd probably thought he was just some poor old lady who took a wrong turn to her way home from the market. Easy prey for a quick buck.
Finally the ringing stopped, and the growls echoing in his ears began to make sense. "...doesn't look rich, man," he heard one complain. "I mean, this goddamn cloak's in shreds already! What the hell's there to steal?!"
"Hey, maybe he's one of them Pokemon trainers. Y'know, walk around, fight others... time wasting morons, if you ask me. I'll check his backpack. He could have a few rare ones with him. Sell for a bit on the market."
The apparent leader made a motion for C.J.'s backpack. That probably meant he didn't have any other goons with him to boss around. And that meant there were only two of them. That was good.
"Please," C.J. moaned. "I was just passing through... I don't want any trouble."
The leader looked at him, startled. Then an ugly sneer came to his scarred, also ugly mug. "Hey, kid," he said mockingly, "No offense, but whaddya talkin' bout? We ain't giving ya trouble. We just teachin' you a lesson. Don't you go round stompin' around at night, 'specially on our turf. Accidents could happen, and we ain't always gonna we around to help ya out. Eh, Mikey?"
The human buffalo with the vice grip on C.J. arms burst into bellowing laughter. C.J. doubted he even knew what the other guys was talking about. But that was of little consequence, anyway. The strength was rapidly returning to his brain and body, but he kept up his act of weakness. He needed an opening first.
"Let me go," he snarled, giving his voice a touch of pathetic valour, like a dying knight proclaiming to his cackling enemy that he would never surrender. Most of the "pathetic" part came naturally. "Let me go, or you will suffer."
His statement was so ludicrously silly that C.J. himself almost laughed. Buttface (as he had hereby christened him), beat him to it. "You think you some kinda bigshot, eh?" bellowed Buttface. "Hell of a joker you are!" He turned his ugly mug to Buffaloman, who, as if on cue, let out that same bellowing laugh. Then he turned back to C.J., a huge, cocky grin stretching his hideous face from ugly ear to ugly ear. "Well then, ya little brat, you'd better get me now, or this is gonna hurt!"
Buttface drew back his arm, curling his fingers into a tight ball. He was right – a punch with that amount of wind-back probably WOULD hurt.
C.J. had no immediate plans to find out if it would. Forcing his mind into action, he quickly sent a weak Psychic pulse up right into Buffalo's head. Buffalo winced, and loosened his vicegrip by just the tiniest of fractions - enough for C.J. to wrestle one arm free. He dropped to the ground just as Buttface's knuckles flew over his head and straight into Buffalo's ribcage. Something cracked. The big man turned a strange hue of blue, purple in the yellow moonlight, and collapsed face-first into a pile of fruit skins and rotting meat. C.J. wormed his other arm free and jumped to his feet, facing Buttface, who was grabbing his bruised fist and shouting all kinds of back-alley pleasantries at no one in particular.
C.J. quickly hobbled over to his overturned backpack. But suddenly, faster than he could possibly have expected, Buttface recovered and lunged at him, fire in his squinty, coal-black eyes. He jumped out of the way just in time, but a severe pain tore into his side as he landed. He turned, hand clutching his torso, and saw Buttface staring, no, tracking him. In the thug's hand, something metallic and shiny glinted in the cold moonlight. It didn't take him a half-second to realise what it was.
"You put up one hell of a fight, kid," Buttface sneered. "Now come clean. Who the hell are you? Ain't nobody - no human, that is - in this land able to outspeed the likes of me."
The pain was crippling, almost enough to send C.J. to his knees. The wound was probably a lot deeper than he'd initially assumed. Buttface seemed dangerously aware of that fact, like a Sharpedo tasting the distinctive saltiness of blood in the water. Despite that, C.J. forced himself to straighten up. He couldn't afford to risk another unexpected lunge on the mugger's part. He won't be able to dodge it this time. His only hope of survival lay in scaring Buttface off, or at least intimidating him somewhat – carve an opening for him to escape. He just hoped the man's brain didn't fire off as quick as his attacks.
"Listen here," he snarled with as much menace as he could muster, "you slimy, ugly, sordid pile of week-old scum. Listen well. You have no idea – I repeat – no idea who you're dealing with here."
Not the most eloquent speech, and C.J. was uncomfortably aware of a tenuous quiver in his voice, but it seemed to work. Buttface was caught off guard by the singularly unexpected reply. What with the man's obviously oversized ego, he'd probably expected the strange hooded weirdo standing before him to drop to his knees and beg for his life. Which he'd almost, admittedly, been tempted to do.
"Take off that goddamn hood!" he finally yelled. "Go on, do it! Show me who the hell you are!"
"As you wish," said C.J., as forebodingly as he could. He lifted his hand from the slash. A warm, sticky liquid flowed down his left thigh, and he almost screamed. Almost.
Slowly, dramatically, he lifted the hood off his face, dropping it over his shoulders. Buttface stumbled backwards, his expression somewhere between utterly flabbergasted and completely horrified. His voice quavered as he spoke.
"God… dammit, kid! What in the name of **** are you?!"
Despite everything, C.J. grinned weakly. "You don't want to know," he called dramatically, emphasizing every word. "And neither do you want to know what I am capable of."
For effect, he lifted an arm, his right arm, and called a flickering blue flame into his hand. It was an effortless trick and completely harmless, but silhouetted against the skyline of distant buildings and bathed in ethereal moonbeams, C.J. had no doubt that he looked much more impressive, more dangerous than he really was. His truly bizarre appearance would surely help the effect somewhat, too.
His risky ploy was, apparently, working. Buttface took a step back, then another. Resisting the urge to bring his hand back to his wound, C.J. walked forward too, keeping the ghostly blue flame suspended above his outstretched palm. His backpack was almost within arm's reach, and he winced as he bent down to reach for it.
Had it been just slightly brighter in the alleyway, C.J. had no doubt that he would have seen Buffalo coming. But it was dark, and the attack was coming from behind, and his head was fuzzy and blood was flowing from an open gash on his side. As it was, perhaps it was impressive enough that he managed to turn and see the assault a split second before 300 pounds of flying muscle crushed him face-first into the stinking cobblestones underfoot.
The impact forced every single atom of air out of his lungs, and then some. Before he had had time to even breathe, Buffalo grabbed C.J.'s limp shoulders, dragged him upright, and curled five steely fingers tightly around his throat. The morph coughed, but it came out more like a desperate, half-choked gargle. He tried to inhale, but nothing went into his lungs. He tried in vain to pull away the arm that was strangling him to death, but he couldn't. His injuries had left him far too weak.
"I don't care what the hell you are," spat Buffalo. "You cause me an' my bro here hurt, an' I'm gonna kill you. Simple as that."
Suspended a good two feet off the ground, C.J. scratched at the vicegrip on his throat, but it remained firm. The carapace plate on his chest had cracked, and breathing was rapidly becoming impossible, if it wasn't already. Strength started to drain from his limbs. His mind was going blank.
"Kill you, an' make it hurt. Goddamn sonuvabit…"
"Put him down, man."
C.J.s triangular ears instinctively pricked up. Buffalo looked at Buttface in disbelief.
"What the hell did you say?"
"You heard me, Mikey. Put the kid down."
Buffalo sneered, then hurled C.J. into a wall, letting him fall to the ground with a sickening crunch. The Pokemorph wondered if the morphing process had left him with a ribcage. If it had, he was pretty sure that at least half of it would've have gone right then and there.
When his vision had stopped spinning, he inhaled sharply, letting a lungful of foul sewer air out of his mouth and a new lungful in. The stinking odour of excrement and decay had, to him, never smelt better.
He breathed again. A sharp stinging pain shot through his chest. Evidence, then, that he probably did have a shattered ribcage after all. In his semi-conscious state he wasn't quite sure of what to make of the revelation. Or of anything else, for that matter.
Buttface crouched down next to him, tilting up his chin until those beady, coal-black eyes were staring straight into his. His expression has terrifyingly unreadable.
"Got your breath, kid?"
Still dazed and utterly numbed from the pain, C.J. nodded.
"Great. Mikey?"
A familiar pair of rough hands promptly shot towards him, hauling him upright once more. The strength had completely gone from C.J.'s legs, and he hung like a lifeless puppet in Buffalo's grip.
Buttface paced arrogantly before him, twirling the switchblade hypnotically between his fingers as he walked. C.J. watched it spin.
"Y'know, freak, I must say you've got a lot of guts," started the thug. "Ain't half bad at fightin' too. I mean, you still suck, but I've faced off against worse. Most just beg for their life. Rarely works, in case you were wonderin'."
A grotesque snigger escaped from his lips. He continued, spinning the switchblade as he walked. "But callin' my bluff? Pretendin' you were some super-almighty magician kinda freak? Hell, that was pretty good. Almost got me, too, I'll say. And people don't trick me very often. Most people don't even try. They're smart that way."
Buttface stopped in his tracks. He turned to face C.J. The morph's distinctive triangular ears were plastered limply against the side of his head.
"You got something to say, freak?"
C.J. remained silent. A grin tugged at the corners of Buttface's ugly lips.
Suddenly, without warning, the thug drew back his fist and slammed it right into C.J.'s chest. His carapace plate cracked even further. A coppery taste came to his mouth. It was a devastating punch, and had probably taken out another rib. He wondered how many more it would take before he got lucky and had one pierce his lung. Maybe one already had.
"Ain't dodging that one now, are you, freak?!" screamed Buttface. Then he threw his head back and guffawed.
When he'd calmed down, he stared at C.J. again, an inquisitive glint in his eye. "Y'know, I think I know what you are. An Ar-ba or somethin'. Believe it or not, me and my bro here used to be trainers once. As you can guess, things didn't quite work out all that well. But I sure as hell have seen your kind before. I mean, normal ones. Not freaky, half-human half-Pokemon weirdos like you."
"But you know what, kid? I like you. You've got guts facin' up 'gainst me. Not smarts, but guts. I admire that."
The switchblade stopped twirling. Flashes of silvery light darted down its blade.
"An' for that, I'll make it quick."
There was already blood on the knife. C.J. gave a last, desperate squirm as it approached, but Buffalo tightened his grip even more. Buttface grinned.
"Smile," he snarled. C.J. held his breath and closed his eyes.
A flash of blazing yellow light lit up the entire alleyway. Buttface flinched, and was suddenly enveloped by a sparking, crackling ball of electricity. He fell backwards, landing on his back with a heavy thud, and started squirming viciously on the floor. Buffalo yelled something inaudible and motioned to pin C.J. into the ground, but he let out a deafening scream and bent over, massive hands clawing at his ears.
The alleyway devolved into a scene of mass hysteria. Murkrows darted from rows of toppled bins and flew, squawking, into the night. Mangy Rattatas leapt from under and behind steaming piles of garbage and sped away. Flashes of dazzling light tore at the darkness, casting massive shadows on the walls, and the two thugs were screaming. C.J. barely noticed anything until a familiar face appeared beside his.
"Holy crap," started Sinestra. His black cat-ears started to twitch. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."
C.J. smiled weakly, but didn't reply.
"Hey, Drake, could you lend me a hand here?"
All of sudden, C.J. felt himself being lifted into the air again. Quickly but gently, Drake settled the near-unconsciousness Abra-morph on his shoulders. "How are you feeling?" the Rhydon-morph asked hastily.
"I think I've been better," came the mumbled reply.
"Yeah, that'll do. Sinestra, we're drawing way too much attention. We need to get out of here now."
"Agreed. Joker, Aris, if you've had your fun…"
There were two other Pokemorphs standing behind the writhing, shrieking duo. One lowered his arm. Buffalo abruptly stopped screaming and became eerily quiet. For a second he teetered precariously on wobbling feet, then he tipped over and rolled sideways, right into a heap of bottles that promptly came crashing down on him. The halo of lightning roasting Buttface alive didn't stop, however.
"C'mon, Aris! Stop it!" yelled Joker. His four orange wings flared open. "That's more than enough!"
"You kidding?!" yelled Aris. "I'm not leaving till this guy's brain has fried!"
"And we're not gonna let you kill anyone! Enough people out there are baying for our blood as is!"
The Jolteon-morph bit his lip, then dropped his arms. The aura of lightning dissipated and Buttface collapsed completely, his scarred, dirtied skin a raw shade of pink.
"I would have done it, you know," gasped Aris.
"We all would've, Aris. We all would've."
C.J. stirred slightly.
"Least we found him. Is he alive?"
Sinestra put a hand to C.J.'s neck. "Yeah, but not for much longer," the Persian-morph said, alarmed. "His pulse is weak. He's lost a lot of blood already."
"Then what are we waiting for?" said Drake. "We have to go now."
The five Pokemorphs, one hoisted over a shoulder, took off down the alleyway, dashing headfirst towards the end of the concrete bottleneck. For a moment, C.J.'s eyes slid open.
His eyesight was fuzzy, but he blinked, pointing his vision upwards into the sky. A white disc hung suspended in the air miles above him, but seemed no more than centimeters away. It was strange, like a bizarrely, inexplicably serene dream, and for a moment he wondered if he could reach out his hand and touch it.
Then he closed his eyes again, and everything went black.
This story started off intended as a short one or two-paragraph affair, since the leader of a role-play I'm signing up for had asked me to write a short sample extract as part of my sign-up. However, a few sentences on, I realized that I sorta liked how the story was turning out, so I decided to just take it all the way.
This is basically a vignitte featuring my character in the RP. He's a teenager named C.J. who's, not to spoil too much, rather atypical. The RP itself is named E.N.T.O.U.R.A.G.E., and I have faith that it's gonna turn out very interestingly. If you (god forbid) like this story, I'll be incredibly flattered, then I'd recommend you take a second to check out the RP in the Pokemon Roleplay section. It's still in the sign-up phase, but even so, I think it's looking pretty fun so far. :P
Also, this story contains a few characters taken from the other accepted sign-ups in the RP thread. I admittedly haven't yet asked for permission to include them, so if you're the owner of one of those characters and feel I didn't do your character justice, then just drop me a quick PM and I'll write you out of the story ASAP.
***
The alleyway was a stinking, cluttered, run-down cesspool of decomposition and filth. Situated in the poorer suburbs of the city, it was used as a dumping ground by the apartments and business that lined its surprising length, and so played host to some of the nastiest and most outright disgusting sights and smells known to humans and Pokemon alike. It was shielded from the moon by airborne smog on most nights, such that the best illumination that could be had in the twilight hours was a sickly, creamy glow that only served to grosteque-ify the atmosphere even further. It was ugly. It was unpleasant. In other words, for C.J., it was the perfect spot to train his fledging echolocation skills.
Shuffling his feet slowly and keeping his head bowed low, C.J. made his way silently across the stained cobblestones. He sensed his way through the surroundings and kept his eyes closed; he doubted they'd be of much use to him in the dark, anyway.
Across the floor was scattered a considerable amount of debris and rubbish, and not to mention the occasional overturned garbage can. The smells they emanated were often unbearable and always distracting. He would have wrinkled his nose in disgust if it wasn't for the fact that he needed total concentration just to avoid tripping over his own feet as walked. The alleyway would have seemed straightforward, albeit rather distasteful, to most people, but to him it was practically an urban minefield, complete with treacherous bumps and pitfalls waiting patiently in the shadows to send him sprawling on the ground.
Carefully he stepped over a sea of broken bottles, around a heaping pile of decomposing matter, and clambered over a torn-down fence. So far, so good. He'd done a reasonable distance without crashing and falling into anything unpleasant. But the alleyway was deceptively long, and he knew he had some distance to cover. And so he focused on sensing his way through the route ahead.
Focused enough, at least, for him not to notice the pair of sinister figures creeping up behind him.
Something heavy smashed into the back of C.J.'s head. He let out a small yelp of shock and pain. The echoes of the impact rang agonizingly through his skull and he felt himself falling, but a pair of rough, powerful hands grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet before he hit the concrete.
Half-dazed by the attack, he tried to regain control of his senses. He heard gruff voices, but couldn't quite make out what they were saying.
Immediately, despite his fuzzy consciousness, C.J.'s mind started racing. His attackers were probably common muggers of some sort, he realised. The E.N.T.O.U.R.A.G.E. bounty hunters wouldn't have been nearly so kind to him. Besides, he had been hunching and his hood was pulled low over his head, concealing his face, so they'd probably thought he was just some poor old lady who took a wrong turn to her way home from the market. Easy prey for a quick buck.
Finally the ringing stopped, and the growls echoing in his ears began to make sense. "...doesn't look rich, man," he heard one complain. "I mean, this goddamn cloak's in shreds already! What the hell's there to steal?!"
"Hey, maybe he's one of them Pokemon trainers. Y'know, walk around, fight others... time wasting morons, if you ask me. I'll check his backpack. He could have a few rare ones with him. Sell for a bit on the market."
The apparent leader made a motion for C.J.'s backpack. That probably meant he didn't have any other goons with him to boss around. And that meant there were only two of them. That was good.
"Please," C.J. moaned. "I was just passing through... I don't want any trouble."
The leader looked at him, startled. Then an ugly sneer came to his scarred, also ugly mug. "Hey, kid," he said mockingly, "No offense, but whaddya talkin' bout? We ain't giving ya trouble. We just teachin' you a lesson. Don't you go round stompin' around at night, 'specially on our turf. Accidents could happen, and we ain't always gonna we around to help ya out. Eh, Mikey?"
The human buffalo with the vice grip on C.J. arms burst into bellowing laughter. C.J. doubted he even knew what the other guys was talking about. But that was of little consequence, anyway. The strength was rapidly returning to his brain and body, but he kept up his act of weakness. He needed an opening first.
"Let me go," he snarled, giving his voice a touch of pathetic valour, like a dying knight proclaiming to his cackling enemy that he would never surrender. Most of the "pathetic" part came naturally. "Let me go, or you will suffer."
His statement was so ludicrously silly that C.J. himself almost laughed. Buttface (as he had hereby christened him), beat him to it. "You think you some kinda bigshot, eh?" bellowed Buttface. "Hell of a joker you are!" He turned his ugly mug to Buffaloman, who, as if on cue, let out that same bellowing laugh. Then he turned back to C.J., a huge, cocky grin stretching his hideous face from ugly ear to ugly ear. "Well then, ya little brat, you'd better get me now, or this is gonna hurt!"
Buttface drew back his arm, curling his fingers into a tight ball. He was right – a punch with that amount of wind-back probably WOULD hurt.
C.J. had no immediate plans to find out if it would. Forcing his mind into action, he quickly sent a weak Psychic pulse up right into Buffalo's head. Buffalo winced, and loosened his vicegrip by just the tiniest of fractions - enough for C.J. to wrestle one arm free. He dropped to the ground just as Buttface's knuckles flew over his head and straight into Buffalo's ribcage. Something cracked. The big man turned a strange hue of blue, purple in the yellow moonlight, and collapsed face-first into a pile of fruit skins and rotting meat. C.J. wormed his other arm free and jumped to his feet, facing Buttface, who was grabbing his bruised fist and shouting all kinds of back-alley pleasantries at no one in particular.
C.J. quickly hobbled over to his overturned backpack. But suddenly, faster than he could possibly have expected, Buttface recovered and lunged at him, fire in his squinty, coal-black eyes. He jumped out of the way just in time, but a severe pain tore into his side as he landed. He turned, hand clutching his torso, and saw Buttface staring, no, tracking him. In the thug's hand, something metallic and shiny glinted in the cold moonlight. It didn't take him a half-second to realise what it was.
"You put up one hell of a fight, kid," Buttface sneered. "Now come clean. Who the hell are you? Ain't nobody - no human, that is - in this land able to outspeed the likes of me."
The pain was crippling, almost enough to send C.J. to his knees. The wound was probably a lot deeper than he'd initially assumed. Buttface seemed dangerously aware of that fact, like a Sharpedo tasting the distinctive saltiness of blood in the water. Despite that, C.J. forced himself to straighten up. He couldn't afford to risk another unexpected lunge on the mugger's part. He won't be able to dodge it this time. His only hope of survival lay in scaring Buttface off, or at least intimidating him somewhat – carve an opening for him to escape. He just hoped the man's brain didn't fire off as quick as his attacks.
"Listen here," he snarled with as much menace as he could muster, "you slimy, ugly, sordid pile of week-old scum. Listen well. You have no idea – I repeat – no idea who you're dealing with here."
Not the most eloquent speech, and C.J. was uncomfortably aware of a tenuous quiver in his voice, but it seemed to work. Buttface was caught off guard by the singularly unexpected reply. What with the man's obviously oversized ego, he'd probably expected the strange hooded weirdo standing before him to drop to his knees and beg for his life. Which he'd almost, admittedly, been tempted to do.
"Take off that goddamn hood!" he finally yelled. "Go on, do it! Show me who the hell you are!"
"As you wish," said C.J., as forebodingly as he could. He lifted his hand from the slash. A warm, sticky liquid flowed down his left thigh, and he almost screamed. Almost.
Slowly, dramatically, he lifted the hood off his face, dropping it over his shoulders. Buttface stumbled backwards, his expression somewhere between utterly flabbergasted and completely horrified. His voice quavered as he spoke.
"God… dammit, kid! What in the name of **** are you?!"
Despite everything, C.J. grinned weakly. "You don't want to know," he called dramatically, emphasizing every word. "And neither do you want to know what I am capable of."
For effect, he lifted an arm, his right arm, and called a flickering blue flame into his hand. It was an effortless trick and completely harmless, but silhouetted against the skyline of distant buildings and bathed in ethereal moonbeams, C.J. had no doubt that he looked much more impressive, more dangerous than he really was. His truly bizarre appearance would surely help the effect somewhat, too.
His risky ploy was, apparently, working. Buttface took a step back, then another. Resisting the urge to bring his hand back to his wound, C.J. walked forward too, keeping the ghostly blue flame suspended above his outstretched palm. His backpack was almost within arm's reach, and he winced as he bent down to reach for it.
Had it been just slightly brighter in the alleyway, C.J. had no doubt that he would have seen Buffalo coming. But it was dark, and the attack was coming from behind, and his head was fuzzy and blood was flowing from an open gash on his side. As it was, perhaps it was impressive enough that he managed to turn and see the assault a split second before 300 pounds of flying muscle crushed him face-first into the stinking cobblestones underfoot.
The impact forced every single atom of air out of his lungs, and then some. Before he had had time to even breathe, Buffalo grabbed C.J.'s limp shoulders, dragged him upright, and curled five steely fingers tightly around his throat. The morph coughed, but it came out more like a desperate, half-choked gargle. He tried to inhale, but nothing went into his lungs. He tried in vain to pull away the arm that was strangling him to death, but he couldn't. His injuries had left him far too weak.
"I don't care what the hell you are," spat Buffalo. "You cause me an' my bro here hurt, an' I'm gonna kill you. Simple as that."
Suspended a good two feet off the ground, C.J. scratched at the vicegrip on his throat, but it remained firm. The carapace plate on his chest had cracked, and breathing was rapidly becoming impossible, if it wasn't already. Strength started to drain from his limbs. His mind was going blank.
"Kill you, an' make it hurt. Goddamn sonuvabit…"
"Put him down, man."
C.J.s triangular ears instinctively pricked up. Buffalo looked at Buttface in disbelief.
"What the hell did you say?"
"You heard me, Mikey. Put the kid down."
Buffalo sneered, then hurled C.J. into a wall, letting him fall to the ground with a sickening crunch. The Pokemorph wondered if the morphing process had left him with a ribcage. If it had, he was pretty sure that at least half of it would've have gone right then and there.
When his vision had stopped spinning, he inhaled sharply, letting a lungful of foul sewer air out of his mouth and a new lungful in. The stinking odour of excrement and decay had, to him, never smelt better.
He breathed again. A sharp stinging pain shot through his chest. Evidence, then, that he probably did have a shattered ribcage after all. In his semi-conscious state he wasn't quite sure of what to make of the revelation. Or of anything else, for that matter.
Buttface crouched down next to him, tilting up his chin until those beady, coal-black eyes were staring straight into his. His expression has terrifyingly unreadable.
"Got your breath, kid?"
Still dazed and utterly numbed from the pain, C.J. nodded.
"Great. Mikey?"
A familiar pair of rough hands promptly shot towards him, hauling him upright once more. The strength had completely gone from C.J.'s legs, and he hung like a lifeless puppet in Buffalo's grip.
Buttface paced arrogantly before him, twirling the switchblade hypnotically between his fingers as he walked. C.J. watched it spin.
"Y'know, freak, I must say you've got a lot of guts," started the thug. "Ain't half bad at fightin' too. I mean, you still suck, but I've faced off against worse. Most just beg for their life. Rarely works, in case you were wonderin'."
A grotesque snigger escaped from his lips. He continued, spinning the switchblade as he walked. "But callin' my bluff? Pretendin' you were some super-almighty magician kinda freak? Hell, that was pretty good. Almost got me, too, I'll say. And people don't trick me very often. Most people don't even try. They're smart that way."
Buttface stopped in his tracks. He turned to face C.J. The morph's distinctive triangular ears were plastered limply against the side of his head.
"You got something to say, freak?"
C.J. remained silent. A grin tugged at the corners of Buttface's ugly lips.
Suddenly, without warning, the thug drew back his fist and slammed it right into C.J.'s chest. His carapace plate cracked even further. A coppery taste came to his mouth. It was a devastating punch, and had probably taken out another rib. He wondered how many more it would take before he got lucky and had one pierce his lung. Maybe one already had.
"Ain't dodging that one now, are you, freak?!" screamed Buttface. Then he threw his head back and guffawed.
When he'd calmed down, he stared at C.J. again, an inquisitive glint in his eye. "Y'know, I think I know what you are. An Ar-ba or somethin'. Believe it or not, me and my bro here used to be trainers once. As you can guess, things didn't quite work out all that well. But I sure as hell have seen your kind before. I mean, normal ones. Not freaky, half-human half-Pokemon weirdos like you."
"But you know what, kid? I like you. You've got guts facin' up 'gainst me. Not smarts, but guts. I admire that."
The switchblade stopped twirling. Flashes of silvery light darted down its blade.
"An' for that, I'll make it quick."
There was already blood on the knife. C.J. gave a last, desperate squirm as it approached, but Buffalo tightened his grip even more. Buttface grinned.
"Smile," he snarled. C.J. held his breath and closed his eyes.
A flash of blazing yellow light lit up the entire alleyway. Buttface flinched, and was suddenly enveloped by a sparking, crackling ball of electricity. He fell backwards, landing on his back with a heavy thud, and started squirming viciously on the floor. Buffalo yelled something inaudible and motioned to pin C.J. into the ground, but he let out a deafening scream and bent over, massive hands clawing at his ears.
The alleyway devolved into a scene of mass hysteria. Murkrows darted from rows of toppled bins and flew, squawking, into the night. Mangy Rattatas leapt from under and behind steaming piles of garbage and sped away. Flashes of dazzling light tore at the darkness, casting massive shadows on the walls, and the two thugs were screaming. C.J. barely noticed anything until a familiar face appeared beside his.
"Holy crap," started Sinestra. His black cat-ears started to twitch. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."
C.J. smiled weakly, but didn't reply.
"Hey, Drake, could you lend me a hand here?"
All of sudden, C.J. felt himself being lifted into the air again. Quickly but gently, Drake settled the near-unconsciousness Abra-morph on his shoulders. "How are you feeling?" the Rhydon-morph asked hastily.
"I think I've been better," came the mumbled reply.
"Yeah, that'll do. Sinestra, we're drawing way too much attention. We need to get out of here now."
"Agreed. Joker, Aris, if you've had your fun…"
There were two other Pokemorphs standing behind the writhing, shrieking duo. One lowered his arm. Buffalo abruptly stopped screaming and became eerily quiet. For a second he teetered precariously on wobbling feet, then he tipped over and rolled sideways, right into a heap of bottles that promptly came crashing down on him. The halo of lightning roasting Buttface alive didn't stop, however.
"C'mon, Aris! Stop it!" yelled Joker. His four orange wings flared open. "That's more than enough!"
"You kidding?!" yelled Aris. "I'm not leaving till this guy's brain has fried!"
"And we're not gonna let you kill anyone! Enough people out there are baying for our blood as is!"
The Jolteon-morph bit his lip, then dropped his arms. The aura of lightning dissipated and Buttface collapsed completely, his scarred, dirtied skin a raw shade of pink.
"I would have done it, you know," gasped Aris.
"We all would've, Aris. We all would've."
C.J. stirred slightly.
"Least we found him. Is he alive?"
Sinestra put a hand to C.J.'s neck. "Yeah, but not for much longer," the Persian-morph said, alarmed. "His pulse is weak. He's lost a lot of blood already."
"Then what are we waiting for?" said Drake. "We have to go now."
The five Pokemorphs, one hoisted over a shoulder, took off down the alleyway, dashing headfirst towards the end of the concrete bottleneck. For a moment, C.J.'s eyes slid open.
His eyesight was fuzzy, but he blinked, pointing his vision upwards into the sky. A white disc hung suspended in the air miles above him, but seemed no more than centimeters away. It was strange, like a bizarrely, inexplicably serene dream, and for a moment he wondered if he could reach out his hand and touch it.
Then he closed his eyes again, and everything went black.
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