Cutlerine
Gone. May or may not return.
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- The Misspelled Cyrpt
- Seen Mar 15, 2014
Well. Despite having no feedback at all to my last story, I've been working on another. I guess I'm either stupid or determined.
This one is kind of a parody of the storyline in the Johto region, like my last one parodied the Kanto story, and so there are references between the two - though you don't have to have read the last one to read this one.
Rating's always tricky, but I'm going to go for a 14, maybe a 15, mostly because of the torture scenes andsome a fair bit of swearing. Expect darkness, bleak attitudes, graphic violence and suchlike. I really need to lighten up in my next story.
Without further ado, then...
The Rocket Revival
Prologue
If you go down to Mahogany Town on a moonlit night, and you walk down to the lakeside, you can see the remains of the old concealed fort, where the warriors of the hills once dwelled, aeons before the unification of Johto. You can see the fishermen, grizzled and grey, sitting on the docks or out on their boats, half-asleep, dreaming of the times when you could catch whole schools of Magikarp in a day. You can see the lovers, the young enjoying the moonlit night and the old remembering the days when they, too, possessed the charm of youth and could be carefree on wild nights such as these. You can even, when the mists over the lake are clear, see the backs of the occasional Gyarados as they stir like wolves to the touch of the lunar rays, coasting below the waves like huge, sinuous sharks.
But on that night, there was more to see than fishermen, or lovers, or historical ruins. Four figures stood silhouetted against the gentle waters, and if you looked hard, you could just about make out a fifth, skulking unseen a short way off.
The leftmost figure blew a plume of smoke into the air from a cigarette, and broke the silence.
"What do you mean by calling us all the way out here?" he asked.
"You have to see it yourselves," another replied. He was stooped, and swathed in a thick dark cloak that billowed out in all directions. "Look." He swept his free hand commandingly out towards the lake. "I think I told them to do it now – ah, yes, there it is!"
His companions obeyed, and watched as something huge rose up from the dark water, a colossal, craggy face surrounded by spines and fins, as tall as a man. Glazed eyes, the size of car wheels, stared out, unseeing, at the four people on the bank.
"Wha..." The smoker recoiled, startled at the speed and silence of the beast's appearance.
"It was a perfect success, then," breathed the third figure. Her pale hair gleamed in the moonlight. "I don't see any defects. Unless...?"
"There are a few," admitted the man in the cape. "A few persistent tumours. But nothing like with the last one."
The fourth figure, much shorter than the others, now posed his own question.
"Will he be as... tractable as this one?"
"No, no," answered the second man. "This one was immediately exposed to Signal 2."
"So if he... when he returns, he will be... completely back to normal?" He sounded faintly hungry, like a starving wolf that has sighted a sheep.
"Completely," the man with the cane assured him. "Everything will be exactly as it was before."
The fourth figure grinned. "Perfect."
Without being prompted, the giant head sank back beneath the waves, as silently as it had appeared.
"That's the end of tonight's show," the man wearing the cloak told his companions, turning to face them. "Now get back to work, there's still a lot to do before we're ready."
And, if you had still been there at the water's edge that night, very soon you would have seen nothing more than the ruins and the fishermen again, and the dark air would have been calm once more, as if nothing had ever happened.
Chapter One: My Thoughts on the Matter
Mahogany Town. One of Johto's premier tourist destinations, a Mecca for those interested in the ancient; the town was the oldest in the country, and it was there that you could find buildings surpassed in age only by the Ruins of Alph down by Violet City. In just a day, if you were so inclined, you could take in the tour of the lakeside ruins; the Rage Candy Bar shop, where you can watch the confectioners at work; the houses from which sprang the historically illustrious, down in the Old Town; and the exhibition in the Gym that chronicled the remarkable history of the area.
That was what they put on the brochures, anyway; that's what lured in the crowds of holidaymakers eager to see the famed wonders of our town. But what did they find when they got there? The same things as in Ecruteak, or in Goldenrod – or wherever it was they'd come from. Johto's proximity to Japan had meant that any culture we had of our own had been swamped in the last three years as they exported their media and technology here; the building of the airport and the connection of our PC network to the Internet had seen to that. Ironically, in a world afflicted by Westernisation, we were the victims of exactly the inverse: Johtonians were watching their country being Easternised, or, more specifically, Japanised.
That was where I lived, or used to, before the Rampage. And I can tell you that it didn't wash away the sin and darkness, no matter how biblical a spin they put on it; it was just the biggest disaster in a town that had been full of them for decades.
Maybe I'm biased. I was never anyone important, and I never had much money. I worked as an assistant in the confectioners', and helped out at Pryce's Gym at the weekends, one of the few Trainers left in the town. I lived in a run-down apartment on Kayro Street where the wind came in the windows and the rain in through the ceiling. My existence wasn't as luxurious as some who lived in Mahogany.
But I knew that town, I lived and breathed it for nineteen years, from birth until just a few months ago, and I know that it was nothing more than another Viridian, or a smaller Saffron. Mahogany was a large town like any other, and it carried with it all the baggage that that entails: crime, unemployment, the apathy that comes with a lifetime of not daring to dream.
However, there were a few days – just a couple – when it stopped. When the daily battle to stay alive in Mahogany stopped and became something more. One bitter day in February of last year, when there was snow lying a foot deep on the streets and fingers of ice creeping in under my door, I met Silver, and everything began to change.
Chapter Two: The Mugger
"Good afternoon, how can I help you?"
Sometimes I smiled at the customers, but today was one of the days when I just couldn't face it. What did I have to smile about?
"Could I please have four Rage Candy Bars?" asked the woman. She was pushing fifty and had a train of small children in tow; doubtless a tourist hoping to try Mahogany's famous specialty. She would be disappointed – everyone was, they were just pounded rice cakes – but I wrapped them up and gave them to her anyway.
"That's 1200 Pokédollars, please."
I put the money away in the till and gave her the change, then watched her leave with her children, leaving the shop silent once more. I doubted there would be many other visitors today; the only people who really wanted to buy things from this store were the tourists, and there were precious few of those in winter.
Wandering away from the till, I slumped down in the armchair near the back wall. From here, I could see the door; if anyone came in, I could be back at the till in a flash.
Without much energy, I dug around in my bag and found my Pokéball, which I pressed the button on. There was a brief flash of light, then a low chirp, and Tercier swung elegantly out to come to rest on a nearby shelf, almost tipping over a bell jar full of sugar.
"Sss," he said, gazing around with a look that suggested he'd have liked better surroundings, but had long since given up expecting them. I'd found him in the woods near the lake when I was eleven, ostracised from his pack, and kept him ever since; if he still harboured any hopes that our situation might improve, he was sorely mistaken.
"There's some paper over there," I said, waving in the general direction of the till. "Knock yourself out."
Tercier gave me a long look that left both of us in no doubt about his superiority to me, then stalked off towards the counter. Climbing agilely onto the counter, he regarded the paper disdainfully before flicking his long, prehensile tail over his shoulder and starting to draw. For a few minutes, all that could be heard was my breathing and the scratching of his nib.
I sat up a little and looked at my watch. The time was five past four; in winter we closed at half-four, and I could leave as soon as the shop was tidy after that. Since we'd had two customers today, the shop was spotless, and I would be leaving as soon as the minute hand crawled laboriously onto the six.
"Twenty-five minutes to go."
Tercier looked up slowly with a vaguely aggrieved air. I raised my hands in mock apology.
"Sorry for interrupting you, master draughtsman."
He tipped his nose skyward and shut his eyes, either offended or pretending to be, and then returned to his work.
Time passed, and eventually it was time to leave. With the most enthusiasm I'd had all day – slightly more than none at all – I called Tercier over to my shoulder, and put his drawings in my bag. As I forced the shop door open against the snowdrifts, a wave of cold air blasted in at me, and I turned my face away to avoid it; slamming the door shut as best I could, I struggled up the street, knee-deep in snow. I had only one pair of boots, and they'd been ruined quite a while ago – as had the pair of jeans I was wearing. The winter was colder than any on record, and my thin clothes just hadn't been able to take the relentless, driving snow.
"I hate this weather," I told Tercier. He gave a delicate cough and huddled into the hood of my coat. Feeling sorry for him for once, I recalled him to his Pokéball and put him in my bag.
It was a long, long walk back, and every step soaked my feet and calves in icy water. Even if I had been able to afford the bus, no one had cleared the roads for days now, with most people preferring to stay inside. Activity in the town had come to a virtual standstill.
"Hey, you!"
I realised with a jolt that someone had been calling for some time now; I'd been too wrapped up in my thoughts to notice. I glanced around and discerned a figure struggling across the road towards me. Wondering if they wanted me, I looked around. The street was deserted aside from me.
"Yeah, you! Goth!"
"I'm not a Goth," I replied wearily. "There's a difference between Goths and people who just wear black."
I've always maintained that. I hate being labelled as something I'm not by people who don't know me.
"Fine, girl-who-just-wears-black," amended the figure, and I could make out now that it was a guy my own age or a couple of years younger. He had long, crimson hair – as long as my own – and his clothes were scuffed and ripped. There were bruises on his face and hands and a cut on his cheek. Despite his jovial words, his face was hard and maybe even a little desperate.
"What do you want?" I asked warily, as he came to a halt in front of me.
"Money," he said simply. "Mercury!"
A dark flash passed before my eyes; I blinked and there was a Sneasel balanced on my chest at an impossible angle, clawed feet snagging the fabric of my coat and taloned hands at my throat.
"Give me everything you've got," he said.
I tried very, very hard to keep calm, despite my suddenly dry mouth and pounding heart, and formed what I thought was a coherent response.
"This is stupid," I cautioned him, "we're in broad daylight in a residential street with everybody at home."
"Don't care." His eyes had gone hard. "In case you hadn't noticed, girl-who-just-wears-black, I can't afford to discriminate right now. Besides, this snowstorm is hardly broad daylight."
He was right; no one would see us through the snow, and he did look like he needed it; I suspected he'd been sleeping rough. God knows how he'd survived in the snow.
"I don't have any."
"Liar. Everyone has some. I'm sure you mean you don't have much. That's different." He indicated my bag. "Give that here."
I did so, aware that if I failed to comply, I would probably have my throat cut. This guy was desperate. While his Sneasel held me hostage, he rooted through it with hands blue from cold.
"Purse." He took it out, opened it, and found a single 2000-dollar note. He glanced up at me. "That's it?"
I nodded.
"Whatever. It'll do." He continued to rummage, while the Sneasel glared up at me from behind those strange Clockwork Orange-style eyelashes that they have. Shortly after, he came up with Tercier's Pokéball. "What's in here?" he asked cautiously.
"My Arcanine."
"Well, that's a lie. You're nowhere near rich enough for that." He dropped it back into the bag and gave the lot back to me. "You can keep it, I guess." He looked away. "I... wouldn't steal something like that."
Despite my situation, I almost asked him what was wrong; he looked so angry and sad that it took all my willpower not to.
"I'm not like them," my mugger said, so quietly I nearly didn't hear him. Then, louder: "Mercury!"
The Sneasel back-flipped off my chest in a split second, landing lightly on the surface of the snow without sinking in, and looked up at its master.
"Goodbye," said the guy, and turned to walk away, the Sneasel zipping ahead of him. I stood there, half in shock and half torn up with pity, and the spell was only broken when he stopped a few steps away and looked back. "I forgot to say," he said, "thanks."
Then he walked away and was soon obscured from view by the falling snow. I watched him go, confused about what exactly had just happened, and started walking again only when I realised that I was drenched from head to foot in freezing water.
Chapter Three: Gold
By the time I'd got home, I had recovered. Who cared if another kid was dying on the streets? There were hundreds of them in Mahogany – and probably thousands in Goldenrod or Saffron. Most of them were angry and sad, in all likelihood; what made the guy who mugged me any different?
The previous day, I'd been driven by the ice-cold draughts to seal my windows shut with plastic cement; it hadn't helped, as the walls were too thin to keep out the cold and the roof was leaking semi-frozen water at strategic points, under which I'd placed buckets. Now, I was poorer by the cost of a tube of plastic cement, and just as cold. I'd also lost what money I had left for this week to the mugger, and I thanked the heavens it was Friday. If I could make it through to Sunday evening, it would be fine: I'd get a few thousand dollars from Pryce for my work at the Gym. Not for the first time, I wondered if I wouldn't be better off moving in with my cousin in Ecruteak – but then I remembered that that wasn't an option.
Firstly, I had to change before I got hypothermia; I only had a few sets of clothes, and most of them are the same: black shirt, black jeans, black coat. Once I'd done that, I was marginally warmer, and got into bed to further warm myself up. It didn't really work, but I was soon asleep anyway, exhausted by the cold and my current lack of food.
Saturday morning came, and I woke early to an odd clattering noise; it took me a few moments to work out that it was coming from my teeth: they were chattering while I slept. Annoyed, I got up and checked the time, and found it was quarter to six. I thought that Pryce might be at the Gym by now – and if I turned up, he was bound to offer me something hot to drink at least. Cheered by this thought, I picked up my bag and went to see if my boots had dried out. They hadn't, but they had frozen solid from all the water. I hit them on the floor a bit, to see if I could crack the ice off, but it remained staunchly attached, and I had no choice but to force the now-rigid leather back onto my feet.
I stepped out into the early morning air, and it was colder, if anything, than yesterday. I wished I owned a Fire-type Pokémon, like the family who lived across the road; there was always a path neatly seared into the snow from their front door to the pavement, and at night, you could see orange light glowing in their windows from the fires they had. Cursing everyone who owned a Vulpix, I hurried down the street and off towards Pryce's Gym.
---
The Gym, the Gym, the Gym. It was thirty minute's walk from my apartment, in the heart of the Old Town. It dated from the time of the hill warriors – the ones they now called ninja, to attract more tourists – and was the only part of the ancient fort complex still standing. It had been restored more times than there had been Presidents of Johto, and was a simple, solid building constructed of huge stone blocks. There had once been a complex series of battlements and walkways atop it, but those had collapsed hundreds of years ago, and no one had known exactly how to go about rebuilding them, as there were no records of how they had been arranged. So the job had been left, and still, several centuries later, it hadn't been done.
The doors were open, as they were from five in the morning, when Pryce got in, to eleven at night, when he left. I went inside and immediately felt the cold recede; this might be a haven for Ice-type Trainers, but Pryce was old and his bones ached, so he'd put the central heating on full blast as soon as the snow started falling. Properly warm for the first time in days, I slipped through the darkened reception area and through into the staff training area. The ice on the floor had long since been replaced by special slippery plastic, and it was just as warm in here as in the lobby. I put my coat on a hook by the door and slid over to Pryce, who I'd spotted at the other end of the room.
"You're here early," said the old Gym Leader amiably. He was boiling something on a stove set up behind his podium, next to a cupboard that I knew was full of chocolate biscuits – his personal weakness.
"It was cold. I couldn't sleep." I released Tercier from his Pokéball and let him go and sit on the radiator.
"Now you know how I feel." He gave a wheezy chuckle and coughed. "'Scuse me, Monique. You want some tea?" Pryce gestured to the pot boiling on the stove. I nodded. His tea was from the foothills of Mt. Mortar, real Johto stuff – not green tea from Japan.
"I was mugged yesterday," I said. "I was wondering if you knew the guy, because he had a Sneasel."
"Sneasel? Tricky things, those." Pryce poured out two cups and handed me one. My hands felt like they were on fire, even through the ceramic mug; it was fantastic. "If you don't treat 'em just right, they betray you. But if you do get it right, there aren't many things so loyal. Very serious about everything they do." He paused, aware that he was getting carried away with his favourite topic, Ice-types. "But wait. Mugged?"
"Yeah, by this weird guy with red hair. Not like ginger hair – properly red, like—"
"Crimson?" Pryce asked, staring at me.
"Y-eah," I said, taken aback. "How did you know?"
"I know that one," he said, shaking his head. "A bad sort. A Pokémon thief."
"Really? He said he wouldn't steal mine."
"Aye, well, it probably wasn't rare enough for him. He stole a rare Pokémon in New Bark about a month ago. Totodile, it was – right from Professor Elm's lab!"
I'd heard about that. It had caused uproar; there had been rumours of Team Rocket returning and resuming their Pokémon theft business before a kid called Gold had been discovered as a witness and told the police it was another boy. Of course, the Rockets couldn't have returned; since the death of their leader and around eighty of their number three years ago in a failed experiment in Saffron, they'd pretty much disbanded.
"That was the same guy? I thought he seemed... I don't know. Weird. Kind of like he wasn't a real mugger at all."
Pryce shrugged. "I don't know anything about that. I'd report him to the police, if I were you." He took a gulp of his tea, and I took a sip. I regretted it instantly as I burned my tongue, remembering too late that Pryce could drink tea at stupidly high temperatures. He grinned and stood up, reaching around for his stick. "Ah, shall we get to it, then?"
He beat me three times and called it training, by which time it was eight o'clock and the other Trainers were arriving. There were two other than Pryce who worked there full-time, and three more (including me) who came there in their free time. The two permanent Trainers were Kirsten and Jake, both of whom, like Pryce, used only the Ice-type; in contrast, we part-timers had an eclectic mix of types, from my Smeargle to Francis's Golduck to Marion's Electabuzz. We couldn't afford to specialise; we were just ordinary people who happened to have a Pokémon that they liked to train with. Pryce no longer had the luxury of being picky about who worked in his Gym, with so few Trainers around, and took us in gladly.
We trained together for a few more hours, and talked about holding the tournament again sometime. That was how Trainers from outside the Gym could win Pryce's Badges: defeat the Gym Trainers, or, if there were enough, the other contestants, and then beat Pryce. The last tournament had been held four years ago, and there had been a meagre five entrants; Pryce hoped the interest in battling that had been sparked in Kanto by the rise of the spectacular Gym Leader of Saffron, Russell Curtis, and his nephew, Red, of Viridian City, might have percolated into Johto by now. I was quietly dismissive of his optimism. No one wanted to battle anymore; it was just a thing of the past, unless you were in a fight and it became a necessity for self-protection. That was why there were so few Trainers nowadays.
In the end, nothing got decided, because the telephone in the lobby started to ring, and when Pryce came back after answering it, his face was so grave that it cut through all the conversation like a knife.
"I've just had a message from Professor Elm – the Pokémon researcher, down at New Bark," he added for Francis's benefit, since he looked confused. "Do you know of his Pokédex project?"
We murmured our assent; everyone did. It was a duplicate of Oak's initiative in Kanto: getting wide-ranging, powerful Trainers to spread out across Johto, capturing specimens of every species of Pokémon they found to be sent back to New Bark, so that a comprehensive database – the Pokédex – could be established, containing in-depth information on each one. Since its inception, a Trainer called Lyra had already discovered a new species: the sly and devious mimic that had been named Sudowoodo.
"He's got a Trainer out on it – Gold, you'll know him from the news story about the stolen Totodile. Gold started on his way to Mahogany from Ecruteak a week ago, going on foot and promising to call Elm to make sure he arrived safely – but he hasn't made contact."
We all drew in a sharp breath. With the snows as they were, it was quite likely that this Gold had either got lost or been trapped out on Route 42; I hoped he'd had the sense to take cover in Mt. Mortar's caves or something.
"Anyway, Elm's asked me to orchestrate a search for young Gold," Pryce said. "You're all helping me, right?"
A general noise of assent went around the room, echoing off the high walls and ceiling. It would, I supposed, be an adventure – and I was keen that Gold should reach Mahogany, if only because he would probably want to challenge the Gym, and we badly needed business.
"Right," said the old Leader. "There are six of us, and I want us to pair up in terms of strength: the three strongest each with one of the three weakest. That way, if any of us do get into any trouble out there, we should be OK."
I was paired with Francis, as I was relatively strong; Pryce went with Marion, the weakest of us, and Kirsten and Jake went with each other. Before we left the Gym, Pokémon fully healed up and dressed warmly, Pryce insisted on giving each pair a flask of tea to take with them, 'in case of emergency'. I smiled for the first time all week: I could only really smile when at the Gym; the one part of my life that wasn't utterly bleak was the part that involved the kindly old man.
Since this was an emergency, Kirsten, who had passed her driving test a few months ago, volunteered the use of her car to get out of the town; Pryce sent his Piloswine ahead of us to clear the roads, and we made good time, reaching the outskirts in just a few moments. When we reached the motorway, we stopped in a lay-by, and Pryce spoke again:
"Elm got that computer man in Goldenrod, Bill, to trace Gold's Pokégear signal," he said. "We should be looking around the easternmost entrance to Mt. Mortar's cave network."
It didn't take long to get there – there were no cars on the motorway, and it was wide enough for three Piloswine to travel abreast, clearing a wide path for us. We parked in the Mortar Memorial Car Park, its namesake the Mortar Memorial completely buried in snow, and split up in our pairs to scour the area, agreeing to meet up again at four o'clock if no one had found him.
I don't know how long I spent walking effortfully up and down the riverbank with Francis, struggling past frozen brambles and through the snow-laden trees, but it was far too long. Every so often, a branch would give way under the weight of the snow on top of it, and a wet white wave would descend onto our heads, soaking us even through my hat and Francis's hood; once, Francis lost his balance and fell onto the icy river, skidding out several metres before coming to rest against a log embedded in the glassy surface. It took me twenty minutes to get him back up – unlike me, he had money to spend on food, and so while I was slipping lithely through the gaps in the forest and springing to my feet when I fell, he was waddling around like the fat lump he was. It was one of the few times when I was glad I was poor – because I sure as hell didn't want to be as useless as Francis.
All the while, the snow kept falling, and as the light began to fail, I knew that if we didn't start back soon, we too would become lost. I was reaching the limits of what I could stand, especially when I hadn't eaten since Friday morning, and I was just about to suggest to Francis that we turn back when he raised a pudgy, gloved finger and cried:
"Look!"
I followed his pointing finger and saw a figure, lying out on the ice, half-buried by drifting snow. A Pokéball was clenched in his fist, and as I watched a weasel-like face peeped over the snowdrift. When it spotted us, a Quilava flowed up and over the prone body, jumped up and down, and ignited its head. The signal was clear: we need help.
Quickly, we rushed over to him, and I felt for a pulse with fumbling fingers. He was still alive – but obviously in a bad way. If it hadn't been for the Quilava's fire, I doubted he'd have survived.
Francis gave me a worried look.
"It's OK," I told him, "he's alive. Just." I stared at Gold for a moment. "You can drive, right?"
"Yeah...?"
"Go back to the car, borrow Pryce's Piloswine and bring it here. We need to get this guy to a hospital fast. You have a mobile, don't you?"
"Yes, I do—"
"Then call the others as you go. Make sure they don't get left out here."
"Got it."
Francis hurried off back the way he came; I hoped he wouldn't get lost. If all else failed, I was fairly certain his Golduck would show him the way back – it was considerably smarter than he was.
"OK, Quilava," I said, crouching down and looking at the serpentine Pokémon, "help me here. We've got to get him off the ice."
The Quilava and I tried to tug Gold along, but succeeded only in rearranging his limbs. He was far too heavy – maybe it was the cold sapping my strength, but he felt like a lead weight, and my arms like strips of fabric.
"I see you found him."
I looked up sharply, recognising the voice. Sure enough, there was the mugger, standing on the opposite riverbank, his dark coat flapping slightly in the wind. His long hair blew across his face; if I hadn't known that he wasn't there a moment ago, I would have accused him of having set the situation up so that he would look good. As it was, I just stared.
"Help me," I shouted into the wind. "I need to get him to a hospital!"
The mugger leaped down lightly and landed on the ice without skidding.
"Why should I help you?" he asked, over the wind, which had begun to howl. "I hate that guy."
"What? He's dying!"
He shrugged. "So what. He's not a good person."
"Who are you to judge that?" I was furious now, half because of his attitude and half because this guy was getting under my skin and irritating me in a way that no one else had ever been able to. I pride myself on not losing my temper – ever.
"I know him well enough." He took a step closer. "He informed on me when I took the Pokémon from Elm's lab – though I guess I did deserve that, stooping to that same act that I swore I would stamp out of existence." An ugly look of self-hatred crossed his face. "Believe me, I wouldn't have done that if there had been a way around it. But he's attacked me several times now. He beat me up near Ilex Forest, and in the Burned Tower in Ecruteak. The guy's a psychopath." I stared at him, not believing a word. This guy definitely had some nerve. "You know, he even claimed I stole my Sneasel from some guy in Cianwood. I've never even been to Cianwood. I've had Mercury for as long as I can remember." The mugger looked down at Gold's body, and the Quilava next to it, which was starting to growl at him. "You can shut up and all," he snapped at it. Then he sighed. "But despite all that..." He looked up at the sky, and then back down at Gold. "Despite all that..."
He gave another, bigger sigh, and reached down to haul Gold up, slinging him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, grimacing as the leaden weight settled.
"Come on then," he sighed once again. "Where do you want him?"
Still, I just stared. I didn't understand this guy at all.
"But..."
"But what?" he asked. "You're right, he's dying. I'm a terrible person, I guess, for not wanting to save him. But I'll do it anyway, even though I really, really want to leave him to freeze to death here. Where do you want him?"
Wordlessly, I pointed, and he began to trudge towards the riverbank, the Quilava following him distrustfully, still emitting the occasional snarl.
"What's your name?" he asked, as he clambered up the bank, with some difficulty. Seeing that Gold was slipping, I rushed over to help.
"Monique," I answered.
"Mine's Silver," the mugger-turned-saviour replied. "Funny, isn't it? Gold and Silver. Like we were destined to be enemies."
I didn't say anything; I wasn't entirely sure he was sane. He scared me, even while he was helping me.
Silver let Gold fall gently from his shoulders and laid him down on the snow. Rubbing his shoulder, he looked towards the trees, and said:
"Your friends are on their way. I should probably leave."
In an instant, the snow had obscured him, and he was gone; maybe it was his Sneasel's control over ice, or maybe it was just a trick of the weather, but it seemed like magic at the time. I didn't have any time to wonder at it, though, because just then two Piloswine smashed through the trees in front of me, snorting and panting, and Karen's car pulled up next to me. I saw it had been towed here by the Pokémon, and had to wonder at their seemingly inexhaustible strength.
Then the rest was a blur of snow and pulling and pushing, and a long drive through white snow while I half-slept, and then a mishmash of doctors and Pryce talking in worried voices; I was so overcome with fatigue that I was pretty much unconscious, but I must have walked home somehow, because the next thing I remember was waking up in the freezing cold on Sunday morning.
This one is kind of a parody of the storyline in the Johto region, like my last one parodied the Kanto story, and so there are references between the two - though you don't have to have read the last one to read this one.
Rating's always tricky, but I'm going to go for a 14, maybe a 15, mostly because of the torture scenes and
Without further ado, then...
The Rocket Revival
Prologue
If you go down to Mahogany Town on a moonlit night, and you walk down to the lakeside, you can see the remains of the old concealed fort, where the warriors of the hills once dwelled, aeons before the unification of Johto. You can see the fishermen, grizzled and grey, sitting on the docks or out on their boats, half-asleep, dreaming of the times when you could catch whole schools of Magikarp in a day. You can see the lovers, the young enjoying the moonlit night and the old remembering the days when they, too, possessed the charm of youth and could be carefree on wild nights such as these. You can even, when the mists over the lake are clear, see the backs of the occasional Gyarados as they stir like wolves to the touch of the lunar rays, coasting below the waves like huge, sinuous sharks.
But on that night, there was more to see than fishermen, or lovers, or historical ruins. Four figures stood silhouetted against the gentle waters, and if you looked hard, you could just about make out a fifth, skulking unseen a short way off.
The leftmost figure blew a plume of smoke into the air from a cigarette, and broke the silence.
"What do you mean by calling us all the way out here?" he asked.
"You have to see it yourselves," another replied. He was stooped, and swathed in a thick dark cloak that billowed out in all directions. "Look." He swept his free hand commandingly out towards the lake. "I think I told them to do it now – ah, yes, there it is!"
His companions obeyed, and watched as something huge rose up from the dark water, a colossal, craggy face surrounded by spines and fins, as tall as a man. Glazed eyes, the size of car wheels, stared out, unseeing, at the four people on the bank.
"Wha..." The smoker recoiled, startled at the speed and silence of the beast's appearance.
"It was a perfect success, then," breathed the third figure. Her pale hair gleamed in the moonlight. "I don't see any defects. Unless...?"
"There are a few," admitted the man in the cape. "A few persistent tumours. But nothing like with the last one."
The fourth figure, much shorter than the others, now posed his own question.
"Will he be as... tractable as this one?"
"No, no," answered the second man. "This one was immediately exposed to Signal 2."
"So if he... when he returns, he will be... completely back to normal?" He sounded faintly hungry, like a starving wolf that has sighted a sheep.
"Completely," the man with the cane assured him. "Everything will be exactly as it was before."
The fourth figure grinned. "Perfect."
Without being prompted, the giant head sank back beneath the waves, as silently as it had appeared.
"That's the end of tonight's show," the man wearing the cloak told his companions, turning to face them. "Now get back to work, there's still a lot to do before we're ready."
And, if you had still been there at the water's edge that night, very soon you would have seen nothing more than the ruins and the fishermen again, and the dark air would have been calm once more, as if nothing had ever happened.
Chapter One: My Thoughts on the Matter
Mahogany Town. One of Johto's premier tourist destinations, a Mecca for those interested in the ancient; the town was the oldest in the country, and it was there that you could find buildings surpassed in age only by the Ruins of Alph down by Violet City. In just a day, if you were so inclined, you could take in the tour of the lakeside ruins; the Rage Candy Bar shop, where you can watch the confectioners at work; the houses from which sprang the historically illustrious, down in the Old Town; and the exhibition in the Gym that chronicled the remarkable history of the area.
That was what they put on the brochures, anyway; that's what lured in the crowds of holidaymakers eager to see the famed wonders of our town. But what did they find when they got there? The same things as in Ecruteak, or in Goldenrod – or wherever it was they'd come from. Johto's proximity to Japan had meant that any culture we had of our own had been swamped in the last three years as they exported their media and technology here; the building of the airport and the connection of our PC network to the Internet had seen to that. Ironically, in a world afflicted by Westernisation, we were the victims of exactly the inverse: Johtonians were watching their country being Easternised, or, more specifically, Japanised.
That was where I lived, or used to, before the Rampage. And I can tell you that it didn't wash away the sin and darkness, no matter how biblical a spin they put on it; it was just the biggest disaster in a town that had been full of them for decades.
Maybe I'm biased. I was never anyone important, and I never had much money. I worked as an assistant in the confectioners', and helped out at Pryce's Gym at the weekends, one of the few Trainers left in the town. I lived in a run-down apartment on Kayro Street where the wind came in the windows and the rain in through the ceiling. My existence wasn't as luxurious as some who lived in Mahogany.
But I knew that town, I lived and breathed it for nineteen years, from birth until just a few months ago, and I know that it was nothing more than another Viridian, or a smaller Saffron. Mahogany was a large town like any other, and it carried with it all the baggage that that entails: crime, unemployment, the apathy that comes with a lifetime of not daring to dream.
However, there were a few days – just a couple – when it stopped. When the daily battle to stay alive in Mahogany stopped and became something more. One bitter day in February of last year, when there was snow lying a foot deep on the streets and fingers of ice creeping in under my door, I met Silver, and everything began to change.
Chapter Two: The Mugger
"Good afternoon, how can I help you?"
Sometimes I smiled at the customers, but today was one of the days when I just couldn't face it. What did I have to smile about?
"Could I please have four Rage Candy Bars?" asked the woman. She was pushing fifty and had a train of small children in tow; doubtless a tourist hoping to try Mahogany's famous specialty. She would be disappointed – everyone was, they were just pounded rice cakes – but I wrapped them up and gave them to her anyway.
"That's 1200 Pokédollars, please."
I put the money away in the till and gave her the change, then watched her leave with her children, leaving the shop silent once more. I doubted there would be many other visitors today; the only people who really wanted to buy things from this store were the tourists, and there were precious few of those in winter.
Wandering away from the till, I slumped down in the armchair near the back wall. From here, I could see the door; if anyone came in, I could be back at the till in a flash.
Without much energy, I dug around in my bag and found my Pokéball, which I pressed the button on. There was a brief flash of light, then a low chirp, and Tercier swung elegantly out to come to rest on a nearby shelf, almost tipping over a bell jar full of sugar.
"Sss," he said, gazing around with a look that suggested he'd have liked better surroundings, but had long since given up expecting them. I'd found him in the woods near the lake when I was eleven, ostracised from his pack, and kept him ever since; if he still harboured any hopes that our situation might improve, he was sorely mistaken.
"There's some paper over there," I said, waving in the general direction of the till. "Knock yourself out."
Tercier gave me a long look that left both of us in no doubt about his superiority to me, then stalked off towards the counter. Climbing agilely onto the counter, he regarded the paper disdainfully before flicking his long, prehensile tail over his shoulder and starting to draw. For a few minutes, all that could be heard was my breathing and the scratching of his nib.
I sat up a little and looked at my watch. The time was five past four; in winter we closed at half-four, and I could leave as soon as the shop was tidy after that. Since we'd had two customers today, the shop was spotless, and I would be leaving as soon as the minute hand crawled laboriously onto the six.
"Twenty-five minutes to go."
Tercier looked up slowly with a vaguely aggrieved air. I raised my hands in mock apology.
"Sorry for interrupting you, master draughtsman."
He tipped his nose skyward and shut his eyes, either offended or pretending to be, and then returned to his work.
Time passed, and eventually it was time to leave. With the most enthusiasm I'd had all day – slightly more than none at all – I called Tercier over to my shoulder, and put his drawings in my bag. As I forced the shop door open against the snowdrifts, a wave of cold air blasted in at me, and I turned my face away to avoid it; slamming the door shut as best I could, I struggled up the street, knee-deep in snow. I had only one pair of boots, and they'd been ruined quite a while ago – as had the pair of jeans I was wearing. The winter was colder than any on record, and my thin clothes just hadn't been able to take the relentless, driving snow.
"I hate this weather," I told Tercier. He gave a delicate cough and huddled into the hood of my coat. Feeling sorry for him for once, I recalled him to his Pokéball and put him in my bag.
It was a long, long walk back, and every step soaked my feet and calves in icy water. Even if I had been able to afford the bus, no one had cleared the roads for days now, with most people preferring to stay inside. Activity in the town had come to a virtual standstill.
"Hey, you!"
I realised with a jolt that someone had been calling for some time now; I'd been too wrapped up in my thoughts to notice. I glanced around and discerned a figure struggling across the road towards me. Wondering if they wanted me, I looked around. The street was deserted aside from me.
"Yeah, you! Goth!"
"I'm not a Goth," I replied wearily. "There's a difference between Goths and people who just wear black."
I've always maintained that. I hate being labelled as something I'm not by people who don't know me.
"Fine, girl-who-just-wears-black," amended the figure, and I could make out now that it was a guy my own age or a couple of years younger. He had long, crimson hair – as long as my own – and his clothes were scuffed and ripped. There were bruises on his face and hands and a cut on his cheek. Despite his jovial words, his face was hard and maybe even a little desperate.
"What do you want?" I asked warily, as he came to a halt in front of me.
"Money," he said simply. "Mercury!"
A dark flash passed before my eyes; I blinked and there was a Sneasel balanced on my chest at an impossible angle, clawed feet snagging the fabric of my coat and taloned hands at my throat.
"Give me everything you've got," he said.
I tried very, very hard to keep calm, despite my suddenly dry mouth and pounding heart, and formed what I thought was a coherent response.
"This is stupid," I cautioned him, "we're in broad daylight in a residential street with everybody at home."
"Don't care." His eyes had gone hard. "In case you hadn't noticed, girl-who-just-wears-black, I can't afford to discriminate right now. Besides, this snowstorm is hardly broad daylight."
He was right; no one would see us through the snow, and he did look like he needed it; I suspected he'd been sleeping rough. God knows how he'd survived in the snow.
"I don't have any."
"Liar. Everyone has some. I'm sure you mean you don't have much. That's different." He indicated my bag. "Give that here."
I did so, aware that if I failed to comply, I would probably have my throat cut. This guy was desperate. While his Sneasel held me hostage, he rooted through it with hands blue from cold.
"Purse." He took it out, opened it, and found a single 2000-dollar note. He glanced up at me. "That's it?"
I nodded.
"Whatever. It'll do." He continued to rummage, while the Sneasel glared up at me from behind those strange Clockwork Orange-style eyelashes that they have. Shortly after, he came up with Tercier's Pokéball. "What's in here?" he asked cautiously.
"My Arcanine."
"Well, that's a lie. You're nowhere near rich enough for that." He dropped it back into the bag and gave the lot back to me. "You can keep it, I guess." He looked away. "I... wouldn't steal something like that."
Despite my situation, I almost asked him what was wrong; he looked so angry and sad that it took all my willpower not to.
"I'm not like them," my mugger said, so quietly I nearly didn't hear him. Then, louder: "Mercury!"
The Sneasel back-flipped off my chest in a split second, landing lightly on the surface of the snow without sinking in, and looked up at its master.
"Goodbye," said the guy, and turned to walk away, the Sneasel zipping ahead of him. I stood there, half in shock and half torn up with pity, and the spell was only broken when he stopped a few steps away and looked back. "I forgot to say," he said, "thanks."
Then he walked away and was soon obscured from view by the falling snow. I watched him go, confused about what exactly had just happened, and started walking again only when I realised that I was drenched from head to foot in freezing water.
Chapter Three: Gold
By the time I'd got home, I had recovered. Who cared if another kid was dying on the streets? There were hundreds of them in Mahogany – and probably thousands in Goldenrod or Saffron. Most of them were angry and sad, in all likelihood; what made the guy who mugged me any different?
The previous day, I'd been driven by the ice-cold draughts to seal my windows shut with plastic cement; it hadn't helped, as the walls were too thin to keep out the cold and the roof was leaking semi-frozen water at strategic points, under which I'd placed buckets. Now, I was poorer by the cost of a tube of plastic cement, and just as cold. I'd also lost what money I had left for this week to the mugger, and I thanked the heavens it was Friday. If I could make it through to Sunday evening, it would be fine: I'd get a few thousand dollars from Pryce for my work at the Gym. Not for the first time, I wondered if I wouldn't be better off moving in with my cousin in Ecruteak – but then I remembered that that wasn't an option.
Firstly, I had to change before I got hypothermia; I only had a few sets of clothes, and most of them are the same: black shirt, black jeans, black coat. Once I'd done that, I was marginally warmer, and got into bed to further warm myself up. It didn't really work, but I was soon asleep anyway, exhausted by the cold and my current lack of food.
Saturday morning came, and I woke early to an odd clattering noise; it took me a few moments to work out that it was coming from my teeth: they were chattering while I slept. Annoyed, I got up and checked the time, and found it was quarter to six. I thought that Pryce might be at the Gym by now – and if I turned up, he was bound to offer me something hot to drink at least. Cheered by this thought, I picked up my bag and went to see if my boots had dried out. They hadn't, but they had frozen solid from all the water. I hit them on the floor a bit, to see if I could crack the ice off, but it remained staunchly attached, and I had no choice but to force the now-rigid leather back onto my feet.
I stepped out into the early morning air, and it was colder, if anything, than yesterday. I wished I owned a Fire-type Pokémon, like the family who lived across the road; there was always a path neatly seared into the snow from their front door to the pavement, and at night, you could see orange light glowing in their windows from the fires they had. Cursing everyone who owned a Vulpix, I hurried down the street and off towards Pryce's Gym.
---
The Gym, the Gym, the Gym. It was thirty minute's walk from my apartment, in the heart of the Old Town. It dated from the time of the hill warriors – the ones they now called ninja, to attract more tourists – and was the only part of the ancient fort complex still standing. It had been restored more times than there had been Presidents of Johto, and was a simple, solid building constructed of huge stone blocks. There had once been a complex series of battlements and walkways atop it, but those had collapsed hundreds of years ago, and no one had known exactly how to go about rebuilding them, as there were no records of how they had been arranged. So the job had been left, and still, several centuries later, it hadn't been done.
The doors were open, as they were from five in the morning, when Pryce got in, to eleven at night, when he left. I went inside and immediately felt the cold recede; this might be a haven for Ice-type Trainers, but Pryce was old and his bones ached, so he'd put the central heating on full blast as soon as the snow started falling. Properly warm for the first time in days, I slipped through the darkened reception area and through into the staff training area. The ice on the floor had long since been replaced by special slippery plastic, and it was just as warm in here as in the lobby. I put my coat on a hook by the door and slid over to Pryce, who I'd spotted at the other end of the room.
"You're here early," said the old Gym Leader amiably. He was boiling something on a stove set up behind his podium, next to a cupboard that I knew was full of chocolate biscuits – his personal weakness.
"It was cold. I couldn't sleep." I released Tercier from his Pokéball and let him go and sit on the radiator.
"Now you know how I feel." He gave a wheezy chuckle and coughed. "'Scuse me, Monique. You want some tea?" Pryce gestured to the pot boiling on the stove. I nodded. His tea was from the foothills of Mt. Mortar, real Johto stuff – not green tea from Japan.
"I was mugged yesterday," I said. "I was wondering if you knew the guy, because he had a Sneasel."
"Sneasel? Tricky things, those." Pryce poured out two cups and handed me one. My hands felt like they were on fire, even through the ceramic mug; it was fantastic. "If you don't treat 'em just right, they betray you. But if you do get it right, there aren't many things so loyal. Very serious about everything they do." He paused, aware that he was getting carried away with his favourite topic, Ice-types. "But wait. Mugged?"
"Yeah, by this weird guy with red hair. Not like ginger hair – properly red, like—"
"Crimson?" Pryce asked, staring at me.
"Y-eah," I said, taken aback. "How did you know?"
"I know that one," he said, shaking his head. "A bad sort. A Pokémon thief."
"Really? He said he wouldn't steal mine."
"Aye, well, it probably wasn't rare enough for him. He stole a rare Pokémon in New Bark about a month ago. Totodile, it was – right from Professor Elm's lab!"
I'd heard about that. It had caused uproar; there had been rumours of Team Rocket returning and resuming their Pokémon theft business before a kid called Gold had been discovered as a witness and told the police it was another boy. Of course, the Rockets couldn't have returned; since the death of their leader and around eighty of their number three years ago in a failed experiment in Saffron, they'd pretty much disbanded.
"That was the same guy? I thought he seemed... I don't know. Weird. Kind of like he wasn't a real mugger at all."
Pryce shrugged. "I don't know anything about that. I'd report him to the police, if I were you." He took a gulp of his tea, and I took a sip. I regretted it instantly as I burned my tongue, remembering too late that Pryce could drink tea at stupidly high temperatures. He grinned and stood up, reaching around for his stick. "Ah, shall we get to it, then?"
He beat me three times and called it training, by which time it was eight o'clock and the other Trainers were arriving. There were two other than Pryce who worked there full-time, and three more (including me) who came there in their free time. The two permanent Trainers were Kirsten and Jake, both of whom, like Pryce, used only the Ice-type; in contrast, we part-timers had an eclectic mix of types, from my Smeargle to Francis's Golduck to Marion's Electabuzz. We couldn't afford to specialise; we were just ordinary people who happened to have a Pokémon that they liked to train with. Pryce no longer had the luxury of being picky about who worked in his Gym, with so few Trainers around, and took us in gladly.
We trained together for a few more hours, and talked about holding the tournament again sometime. That was how Trainers from outside the Gym could win Pryce's Badges: defeat the Gym Trainers, or, if there were enough, the other contestants, and then beat Pryce. The last tournament had been held four years ago, and there had been a meagre five entrants; Pryce hoped the interest in battling that had been sparked in Kanto by the rise of the spectacular Gym Leader of Saffron, Russell Curtis, and his nephew, Red, of Viridian City, might have percolated into Johto by now. I was quietly dismissive of his optimism. No one wanted to battle anymore; it was just a thing of the past, unless you were in a fight and it became a necessity for self-protection. That was why there were so few Trainers nowadays.
In the end, nothing got decided, because the telephone in the lobby started to ring, and when Pryce came back after answering it, his face was so grave that it cut through all the conversation like a knife.
"I've just had a message from Professor Elm – the Pokémon researcher, down at New Bark," he added for Francis's benefit, since he looked confused. "Do you know of his Pokédex project?"
We murmured our assent; everyone did. It was a duplicate of Oak's initiative in Kanto: getting wide-ranging, powerful Trainers to spread out across Johto, capturing specimens of every species of Pokémon they found to be sent back to New Bark, so that a comprehensive database – the Pokédex – could be established, containing in-depth information on each one. Since its inception, a Trainer called Lyra had already discovered a new species: the sly and devious mimic that had been named Sudowoodo.
"He's got a Trainer out on it – Gold, you'll know him from the news story about the stolen Totodile. Gold started on his way to Mahogany from Ecruteak a week ago, going on foot and promising to call Elm to make sure he arrived safely – but he hasn't made contact."
We all drew in a sharp breath. With the snows as they were, it was quite likely that this Gold had either got lost or been trapped out on Route 42; I hoped he'd had the sense to take cover in Mt. Mortar's caves or something.
"Anyway, Elm's asked me to orchestrate a search for young Gold," Pryce said. "You're all helping me, right?"
A general noise of assent went around the room, echoing off the high walls and ceiling. It would, I supposed, be an adventure – and I was keen that Gold should reach Mahogany, if only because he would probably want to challenge the Gym, and we badly needed business.
"Right," said the old Leader. "There are six of us, and I want us to pair up in terms of strength: the three strongest each with one of the three weakest. That way, if any of us do get into any trouble out there, we should be OK."
I was paired with Francis, as I was relatively strong; Pryce went with Marion, the weakest of us, and Kirsten and Jake went with each other. Before we left the Gym, Pokémon fully healed up and dressed warmly, Pryce insisted on giving each pair a flask of tea to take with them, 'in case of emergency'. I smiled for the first time all week: I could only really smile when at the Gym; the one part of my life that wasn't utterly bleak was the part that involved the kindly old man.
Since this was an emergency, Kirsten, who had passed her driving test a few months ago, volunteered the use of her car to get out of the town; Pryce sent his Piloswine ahead of us to clear the roads, and we made good time, reaching the outskirts in just a few moments. When we reached the motorway, we stopped in a lay-by, and Pryce spoke again:
"Elm got that computer man in Goldenrod, Bill, to trace Gold's Pokégear signal," he said. "We should be looking around the easternmost entrance to Mt. Mortar's cave network."
It didn't take long to get there – there were no cars on the motorway, and it was wide enough for three Piloswine to travel abreast, clearing a wide path for us. We parked in the Mortar Memorial Car Park, its namesake the Mortar Memorial completely buried in snow, and split up in our pairs to scour the area, agreeing to meet up again at four o'clock if no one had found him.
I don't know how long I spent walking effortfully up and down the riverbank with Francis, struggling past frozen brambles and through the snow-laden trees, but it was far too long. Every so often, a branch would give way under the weight of the snow on top of it, and a wet white wave would descend onto our heads, soaking us even through my hat and Francis's hood; once, Francis lost his balance and fell onto the icy river, skidding out several metres before coming to rest against a log embedded in the glassy surface. It took me twenty minutes to get him back up – unlike me, he had money to spend on food, and so while I was slipping lithely through the gaps in the forest and springing to my feet when I fell, he was waddling around like the fat lump he was. It was one of the few times when I was glad I was poor – because I sure as hell didn't want to be as useless as Francis.
All the while, the snow kept falling, and as the light began to fail, I knew that if we didn't start back soon, we too would become lost. I was reaching the limits of what I could stand, especially when I hadn't eaten since Friday morning, and I was just about to suggest to Francis that we turn back when he raised a pudgy, gloved finger and cried:
"Look!"
I followed his pointing finger and saw a figure, lying out on the ice, half-buried by drifting snow. A Pokéball was clenched in his fist, and as I watched a weasel-like face peeped over the snowdrift. When it spotted us, a Quilava flowed up and over the prone body, jumped up and down, and ignited its head. The signal was clear: we need help.
Quickly, we rushed over to him, and I felt for a pulse with fumbling fingers. He was still alive – but obviously in a bad way. If it hadn't been for the Quilava's fire, I doubted he'd have survived.
Francis gave me a worried look.
"It's OK," I told him, "he's alive. Just." I stared at Gold for a moment. "You can drive, right?"
"Yeah...?"
"Go back to the car, borrow Pryce's Piloswine and bring it here. We need to get this guy to a hospital fast. You have a mobile, don't you?"
"Yes, I do—"
"Then call the others as you go. Make sure they don't get left out here."
"Got it."
Francis hurried off back the way he came; I hoped he wouldn't get lost. If all else failed, I was fairly certain his Golduck would show him the way back – it was considerably smarter than he was.
"OK, Quilava," I said, crouching down and looking at the serpentine Pokémon, "help me here. We've got to get him off the ice."
The Quilava and I tried to tug Gold along, but succeeded only in rearranging his limbs. He was far too heavy – maybe it was the cold sapping my strength, but he felt like a lead weight, and my arms like strips of fabric.
"I see you found him."
I looked up sharply, recognising the voice. Sure enough, there was the mugger, standing on the opposite riverbank, his dark coat flapping slightly in the wind. His long hair blew across his face; if I hadn't known that he wasn't there a moment ago, I would have accused him of having set the situation up so that he would look good. As it was, I just stared.
"Help me," I shouted into the wind. "I need to get him to a hospital!"
The mugger leaped down lightly and landed on the ice without skidding.
"Why should I help you?" he asked, over the wind, which had begun to howl. "I hate that guy."
"What? He's dying!"
He shrugged. "So what. He's not a good person."
"Who are you to judge that?" I was furious now, half because of his attitude and half because this guy was getting under my skin and irritating me in a way that no one else had ever been able to. I pride myself on not losing my temper – ever.
"I know him well enough." He took a step closer. "He informed on me when I took the Pokémon from Elm's lab – though I guess I did deserve that, stooping to that same act that I swore I would stamp out of existence." An ugly look of self-hatred crossed his face. "Believe me, I wouldn't have done that if there had been a way around it. But he's attacked me several times now. He beat me up near Ilex Forest, and in the Burned Tower in Ecruteak. The guy's a psychopath." I stared at him, not believing a word. This guy definitely had some nerve. "You know, he even claimed I stole my Sneasel from some guy in Cianwood. I've never even been to Cianwood. I've had Mercury for as long as I can remember." The mugger looked down at Gold's body, and the Quilava next to it, which was starting to growl at him. "You can shut up and all," he snapped at it. Then he sighed. "But despite all that..." He looked up at the sky, and then back down at Gold. "Despite all that..."
He gave another, bigger sigh, and reached down to haul Gold up, slinging him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, grimacing as the leaden weight settled.
"Come on then," he sighed once again. "Where do you want him?"
Still, I just stared. I didn't understand this guy at all.
"But..."
"But what?" he asked. "You're right, he's dying. I'm a terrible person, I guess, for not wanting to save him. But I'll do it anyway, even though I really, really want to leave him to freeze to death here. Where do you want him?"
Wordlessly, I pointed, and he began to trudge towards the riverbank, the Quilava following him distrustfully, still emitting the occasional snarl.
"What's your name?" he asked, as he clambered up the bank, with some difficulty. Seeing that Gold was slipping, I rushed over to help.
"Monique," I answered.
"Mine's Silver," the mugger-turned-saviour replied. "Funny, isn't it? Gold and Silver. Like we were destined to be enemies."
I didn't say anything; I wasn't entirely sure he was sane. He scared me, even while he was helping me.
Silver let Gold fall gently from his shoulders and laid him down on the snow. Rubbing his shoulder, he looked towards the trees, and said:
"Your friends are on their way. I should probably leave."
In an instant, the snow had obscured him, and he was gone; maybe it was his Sneasel's control over ice, or maybe it was just a trick of the weather, but it seemed like magic at the time. I didn't have any time to wonder at it, though, because just then two Piloswine smashed through the trees in front of me, snorting and panting, and Karen's car pulled up next to me. I saw it had been towed here by the Pokémon, and had to wonder at their seemingly inexhaustible strength.
Then the rest was a blur of snow and pulling and pushing, and a long drive through white snow while I half-slept, and then a mishmash of doctors and Pryce talking in worried voices; I was so overcome with fatigue that I was pretty much unconscious, but I must have walked home somehow, because the next thing I remember was waking up in the freezing cold on Sunday morning.
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