Sayuri - Prologue

"Mayday, mayday! Helsinki Station, this is Captain Asbjørnsen! Trader-class łyzør'vÿnðe ship, The North Wind, in need of assistance! Repeat, trader-ship North Wind in need of immediate assistance! Mayday! Helsinki Station!"

Blood dripped into Sayuri Asbjørnsen's eyes from the deep gash above her forehead as another torpedo slammed into her ship, ripping through the outer hull. The entire łyzør'vÿnðe starship shuddered under the savage impact. She grabbed the edge of one of the front-bank control panels to keep from falling as smoke stung her eyes. She blinked hard to try to clear her vision. Why was it so hard to see?

She realized the illumination paneling overhead had blinked out, the power killed with the last torpedo blast. The only light on the Main Bridge came from the flashing crimson warning lights on the walls.

"Boreal?" Sayuri cried as cold panic frosted her blood. "Are you okay?"

A series of shrill, pain-filled clicks and beeps stung her ears as she staggered, trying to get to the captain's seat. She had to jack in, had to see what the damage was. She had to make sure he was all right!

Sparks exploded from one of the manual control panels; they seared her wrists and face, the skin unprotected by her company-issued uniform. Sayuri yelped and jerked to one side, away from the shower of red-hot shards of metal. The ship's speakers issued a loud, apologetic beep. She risked waving a hand at one of the vis-sensors embedded in the wall.

"I'm okay," she called. "Hang on, I'm almost there."

She stumbled into the captain's seat just as another torpedo exploded against their hull. Buckling herself in, she shoved her hair out of the way to allow the spine-jack to slip in at the base of her neck. Immediately the schematics flashed across her eyes and a voice rumbled inside her head.
Sayuri, I'm tapped out, I need time to reload my shots and we can't take much more damage! I don't know how long I can maintain life-support! You're going to have to abandon shi—

"That's not an option! I'm not leaving you," she snapped, trying not to choke on the smoke spewing onto the Main Bridge. Another control panel exploded in a fountain of hot metal shards and crackles of electromagnetic energy. "Mayday, Helsinki Station! Someone! Anyone! This is Captain Sayuri Asbjørnsen of Polaris Corporation, we're taking heavy damage! We are under attack by Nĵörðunn ships! Repeat, under attack by three Nĵörðunn ships! Mayday, mayday! Please respond…Boreal?" Dark, slanted eyes stared at the rippling stars on the main view-screen. The schematics glowing across her eyelids flashed and shifted. Her mouth fell open as the warping space twisted and writhed. Somehow Sayuri managed to croak, "What is that?"

I…don't know…

On screen in front of her, the stars wavered and shifted, rippling as if underwater. While claxons shrieked and the crimson lights flashed from the overhead backup-illumination panels of the Main Bridge, Sayuri stared at the sliver of pulsing ambiance ripping through the space between the shifting stars. Because she was jacked in, she knew that glow was shortwave ultraviolet light—something regular humans couldn’t normally see. Only being hooked up to the ship's vis-sensors let her see it.

Another barrage of torpedoes shoved the ship toward the extending line of UV light. The entire łyzør'vÿnðe ship shivered like a frightened horse. Some of the interior Bridge paneling groaned and began to buckle. The engines screamed as they shifted automatically into reverse, trying to pull away from whatever Sayuri was looking at. The ship jolted, shuddered. Didn’t move.

Sayuri, I'm stuck! Boreal yelped.

"What do you mean, you're stuck? Uhn!" A jagged piece of paneling shot off from the wall, zooming in front of her face. She felt the trickle of fresh, warm blood down her forehead before the slicing pain registered. "Ow…Boreal…" She raised a shaking hand to her forehead. Her fingers came away dripping blood.

You're okay, he told her. You're still jacked in. The bio-connector's reading that you're injured, but it's just a cut. I can see it on my vis-sensors. You're okay. Humans always bleed a lot from head wounds…Boreal snarled something in Drókvæðä, his native language, that didn’t translate into English, Japanese, or Icelandic, but she knew it wasn’t good. I can't shake us loose from the gravity of whatever that is! We're already stuck in its event horizon!

She didn’t bother asking if he'd done everything he could. She knew he had. He knew the ship's systems better than she ever could. Biting her lip, she said, "Give me visual on the Nĵörðunn."
Immediately an image of the three Nĵörðunn ŧrø'ayłe cruisers—their version of a warship—appeared on screen. She stared at the spiky, dark gray behemoths indiscriminately firing their weapons at her. Another volley launched itself even as she watched, slamming into The North Wind hard enough to make her bite her tongue. She spat coppery blood, wiped the sleeve of her captain's jacket across her forehead to mop up some of the blood oozing over her skin, and narrowed her eyes.

"Why are you guys firing at us?" She muttered, even as the strange rift-like slice between the stars yanked them further toward it. "I'm nobody. Just a contracted trade-captain and I just barely got promoted, I'm only twenty-three, I haven’t even really done anything, I wasn’t in your space…so why are you after me?"

She closed her eyes. Schematics still glowed against the darkness of her eyelids. The readings from the rift didn’t make any sense to her, though. "Boreal, what does all this mean? Can you process it?"

It's dimensional distortion, he replied, sounding torn between panic and awe. On at least five levels.

"English," she muttered. Sweat chilled on her skin as a control panel short-circuited off to her right, sparks erupting from the front hatch covering its wire-and-microchip innards. No way could she pilot the ship manually now. She'd have to do it jacked, or not at all.

It's a wormhole.

Her eyes flew open. "What? To where?"

Don't know, he said softly. And we can't get out of its gravity well.

Suppressing panic, Sayuri calculated. Chewing her lip, she stared at the attacking ŧrø'ayłe cruiser as her own ship shuddered and threatened to fly apart. They couldn’t outrun the Nĵörðunn. They'd been playing cat-and-mouse games for the last three weeks, ever since her graduation from Polaris Corporation's Flight Academy and her promotion from desk jockey to ship's captain, when she'd been stupid and decided to take that job…

Ugh, she'd been an idiot. And now there was no way she could outrun the Nĵörðunn. A łyzør'vÿnðe trading ship wasn’t military, it couldn’t go up against a ŧrø'ayłe warship in a fight or in a race. And if she couldn’t outrun them, they'd blow her and Boreal to pieces. But this wormhole…

She'd heard about wormholes from her father. Having a renowned quantum astrophysicist for a father had its upsides. She knew wormholes occurred naturally near certain types of quasars and pulsars. The Blue Anderson Quasar was only ninety parsecs away; that was close enough. But she'd never seen a wormhole before. Something about the electromagnetic output from the rift made them impossible to capture visually. Wormholes could potentially distort time and space, so if Sayuri went in, she had no idea where or when she'd come out.

But if she didn’t go in, the Nĵörðunn would kill her…and Boreal. Boreal, who'd been her best friend since she was five years old and her parents had apprenticed her to Polaris Corporation so she could be a łyzør'vÿnðe captain. She couldn’t let anything happen to him.

The ship rocked hard as they took another hit.

Backup shields are down, Boreal said. Great. They'd been patchy before, barely covering anything but the Main Bridge. Now they were completely gone?

She nodded, coming to a decision. Her instructors hadn’t prepared her for anything like this at the company-owned flight school she'd attended for the last eighteen years…but she was Sayuri Asbjørnsen. She was the captain of The North Wind. She was responsible for the life of her crewmate, and she wasn’t a coward.

She could handle this.

"Boreal, take us straight into the wormhole."
With the breaches in the hull, there's a chance we might not survive going through. The excess gravity's putting considerable strain on our hull integrity.

"Well, we definitely won't survive staying here! Come on! That's an order!"

Aye-aye, Captain, he replied, and a semi-colon and a parenthesis appeared in the middle of the laser-visual displayed against Sayuri's vision as the engines shifted out of reverse and kicked into high speed. Sayuri bared her teeth in a grin as The North Wind lurched into swift motion. They're chasing us.

"In fifteen seconds, they won't be. Nĵörðunn can't go through wormholes; the temporal displacement does something weird to their organs, remember?" That fact was one of the only things that had allowed the Terran Alliance to win the war against them twenty years ago.

Crossing the rift threshold in fifteen…fourteen…thirteen…

"Hey, Boreal?" More alarms began blaring as the gravity of the wormhole began stressing the hull. A hideous, shrieking groan echoed through the Bridge. Sayuri leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes again. Her heart beat hard against her sternum. She tightened her fingers around the arms of the captain's seat. "Just in case we do explode in a horrible shower of molten shrapnel and space slag…you know I love you, right?"

I know. The computer chirped and whistled at her as Boreal's voice filled her mind, soft and affectionate. Same goes, you punk. But I don't plan on blowing the two of us up today, thank you muchly. I've got a little more class than that. Hang on to your captain's wings, Captain. In five…four…

Just before they crossed the threshold of the wormhole, a sharp buzzing filled Sayuri's skull, the hum that came when her æspÿrøn—the extrasensory ability that allowed her to successfully pilot a ship like Boreal—manifested itself for a brief flash of time.

An image appeared, superimposed across her closed eyelids. It was a guy, with skin the color of burnt caramel and eyes like rich, dark chocolate. His head was shaved and he had a short, black goatee which made him look older, but his gaze seemed young. Maybe her age. Maybe a little older than her, but not by much. He wore a white, short-sleeved shirt and trousers of some rough, antique-blue material.

Those chocolate eyes were kind. So kind. But the fear on his face screamed at her even as he opened his mouth to yell her name…and then the vision disappeared. Sayuri frowned as a surge of phantom-something—loss? Sorrow?—shot through her chest.
Three…Boreal said as the ship groaned and the hull shrieked. Two…one…

Darkness There, and Nothing - CH. 0 - Mea Culpa, Sea Culpa

Author's Note: so this idea came to me in a dream, which normally doesn't work for me, but this time it did. Yay! So here's the first chapter of my Loki fic. Just so we're clear, although no obvious female love interest appears in this first chapter, I just want to be clear that this fic is not slash. I'm trying some very new, very different things for me with this fic. So the female protagonist and love interest is more of a secondary character and my main focus will be on Loki's point of view (and Thor as an outside observer looking in). I hope you guys enjoy what I've got planned. Let me know what you think. Hugs!

Soundtrack: I got the idea for a soundtrack from the genius Alydia Rackham. I don't normally tell people what I listened to for a fic, but it worked for her, so why not? For the first scene, I listened to "Knowing You by Heart" from The Little Princess (1993) and "Love Theme" from The Dark Crystal. For the second scene of this fic, I listened to "Here without You" by Three Days Grace, "Dark Waltz" as sung by Jackie Evancho and Haley Westenra, "First Snow" from the film The Fountain, and "Skyfall" by Adele (not necessarily in that order).

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Darkness There, and Nothing…

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Prologue
Mea Culpa, Sea Culpa

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Thor strode to the long table in the currently empty Great Hall—empty, that was, save for his mother. The lamplight burnished her long hair as it tumbled about her shoulders, reflected off the slender golden chain about her throat. The moment Thor's boot-steps echoed off the smooth stone floor, Frigga turned to her firstborn with beseeching eyes.


"Well?" His mother asked softly when the Asgardian prince settled onto the bench beside her. She reached out and clasped his large hand with her slender one. "Did you learn anything? You two have always been so close; did he say anything to you?"


The prince bit back a sigh. His mother and brothers had asked him to take on the heavy task of spying on Loki, his foster brother, in an attempt to discern something in regards to what Loki had done on Midgard and before, in Asgard, during the king's time in the Odinsleep. After receiving bizarre reports of the second prince's behavior, the king and queen had deemed it prudent to discover more—if it was possible. So they had sent Thor.


"He…spoke to me," Thor murmured. Which was fairly astonishing in and of itself. Loki hadn't said a word to anyone in the six months he'd been imprisoned in Odin's dungeons, except to make a few innocuous requests of Frigga. "But the things he said…" Thor shook his head. It's your fault, damn you! Yours…and mine…"I did not understand him."


Frowning, Frigga took both her son's hands in hers and gently squeezed. "Tell me what happened, dearest. Perhaps I might be able to make sense of things."


Loki had always been close to their mother, Thor acknowledged silently. Perhaps she had the right of it. Clearing his throat, Thor began, "I went to the dungeons as we'd agreed. All was silent, except for the sound of a pencil against paper…"



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Scritch-scritch-scritch.


The gentle scrape of charcoal against parchment was the only sound in the vast corridor, save for the crackling of the torches in their wall sconces and the snap of flames in the hearth of one of the cells.

Most prisoners of Asgard's king couldn't lay claim to a fireplace, or a sumptuous, four-poster bed draped in emerald and black, or a table with a blown-glass oil lamp. Most prisoners weren't given books, sheaves of paper, bottles of ink, the finest quill pens, and sticks of charcoal to amuse themselves with during the long days of their captivity.

But then, most prisoners weren't Loki Odinson, second prince of Asgard.

Thor watched Loki from the shadows beyond the torchlight. His younger adopted brother bent industriously over the black-wood table, sketching something. Dark brows knitted together, lips pressed into a thin white line, Loki worked almost feverishly at a drawing his brother couldn't see. Pale fingers grasped the stick of charcoal so forcefully that Thor was surprised it didn't snap in his grip.

Loki leaned closer to the table, his hair spilling like ink over his shoulders and across his brow. The Asgardian noticed that his younger brother had actually bitten his lower lip so hard in concentration that a pearl of blood had risen up on the flesh.

Suddenly Loki stopped, jerking to a halt as if frozen. He stared down at the sketch, brow furrowed, face utterly bloodless. Emerald eyes blazed with something that might have been madness…or anguish. The charcoal pencil fell from his fingers to hit the floor. He swallowed audibly; Thor heard it even from where he stood. A trembling fingertip stretched out to caress down the length of the parchment in a strange pattern.

Thor frowned. The guards had spoken to Odin and Frigga about this odd behavior, and neither king nor queen could account for it. Balder, Tyr, Víðarr, and Hermod had considered it Thor's duty—as the eldest—to investigate. So here he was, and the utter desolation on Loki's face astonished him. The guards had said nothing about that. What was the drawing of—what could it be of—that it moved Loki this way? Thor was about to open his mouth to call out to his little brother, forgetting momentarily the need for silence and secrecy, when Loki lunged to his feet, snatched up the drawing, and making three quick strides to the hearth, cast it into the flames. Then he half-crouched, half-fell before the fireplace to watch the paper burn to ash and smoke.


"What do they know of darkness?" Loki rasped to the fire. One hand lay on his knee, gripping so tight his knucklebones stood out stark against the flesh. "What do they know of the choking blackness of the void? What do they know of isolation? Nothing." He bowed his head. A tremor shivered through his tall, lean frame. "Nothing at all."

"Loki?" Thor could remain silent no longer. Stepping from the shadows of the prison corridor into the sienna light of the flickering torches, he approached the transparent ensorcelled glass that separated his younger brother from the outside world.

Loki's head whipped around. Something savage flashed across the pale face before the pseudo-Æsir smoothed his features to careful blankness. He rose slowly to his feet. The blackness of his shirt and trousers, with only the deep emerald green tunic to alleviate the darkness, made him seem even paler than normal. Almost sickly. Loki arched one knife-thin black brow at his foster brother.

"Come to keep me company, Brother?" A small smile played at the corner of Loki's mouth. "Come to ease my loneliness?"

Thor scowled. Any touch of sympathy or concern he'd felt evaporated like night mist in the morning sun at his brother's words. "Do not mock me, Loki. I came merely to see what mischief you might be getting up to."

Slender but powerful shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. "Another coup, as you can plainly see," his younger brother replied with a familiar—and irritating—smirk. "Even within the walls of the stoutest prison, a man can conquer the world." A shadow appeared to flit across emerald eyes. Loki's arrogance seemed to falter, and the smirk wilted at the edges. "Yes…with loyalty and conviction, or even merely with desperation at his side…or perhaps madness…"


"You're not clever," Thor snapped. There was something about Loki's words that left him unsettled. He let that unease morph into anger buzzing like hornets in his blood. "What would you know of loyalty?"


With another mercurial shift of temper, the other prince spun on his heel with a wordless snarl and paced the length of his cell. Every movement snapped and jerked with edgy tension. Thor suppressed another surge of unease. Until his incarceration here in Asgard, Loki had never been so…changeable. So quick to spin from one mood to another. When rage had taken him in the past, there had always been a build-up, some signs of warning. Not this rabid fury that seemed to spring from nowhere.
Perhaps the Midgardian known as Banner had been right all those months ago when he'd claimed Loki was mad. Like a bag of cats, he'd said. And mayhap Loki had truly succumbed to actual madness…


Desperation…or perhaps madness…


"What do I know of loyalty?" Loki asked softly. Rage—and something else, something dark and cold and terrible, something Thor did not wish to examine too closely—gave the mild words a razor's edge. "When have I ever stolen something truly precious to you, Brother?"


"You tried to kill me, Brother. I deem my life very precious, thank you."


To his amazement—and fury—Loki scoffed at the accusation.


"Let us say I did," Loki hissed, reminding Thor that his brother had never actually admitted that he'd tried to kill the crown prince during his exile to Midgard. "What of it? It was a conflict betwixt the pair of us, no one else."


Now it was Thor who scoffed. "So those innocent people whose homes you destroyed—"

Loki held up a sharp finger. "Homes, you said. Was anyone killed?"


Thor lifted a brow and folded his arms across his broad chest. "I was. The Destroyer's blow broke my neck. If not for Mjölnir's returning to my hand, I would have died. What say you to that?"


"I say that my point has been made: I attacked you, and no other person. The Destroyer only attacked Sif and the Three because they sought to interfere with it, which you allowed. I kept the combat between the two of us. I never killed someone in an attempt to get at you. I kept it between the pair of us, involving no one else!"


"I involved no one else!" Thor protested.


"Liar!" Loki roared suddenly, with enough venom that Thor actually stepped back from him. The guards shifted restlessly. Thor tried to speak, but now whatever words had been festering inside his brother spewed forth, and would not be halted by anything Thor could do.


"It's your fault, damn you! Your fault the Chitauri…" Loki dropped back against the white stone wall of his prison and slumped to the floor, defeat etched in every line of his face, every angle of his body. "Your fault…and mine. The slaughter, the pain, all that innocent blood…all of it for naught, and all because you couldn't let me alone."


Thor took a single step toward his brother. His shaking hands convulsed into fists. Rage and disbelief twined together in a thorny tangle in his breast. "Let you alone? Let you alone?" Thor's voice rose to a leonine roar with every word. "Let you butcher helpless Midgardians, slaughter countless innocents, so that you, in your arrogance and callous disregard for life, could rule Midgard? I should have let you destroy an entire world, all so that you could be their king?"


"No!" Loki roared back, surging to his feet. Wild-eyed, the prince yelled, "I was trying to save them!"

"Save who? The Midgardians? You mowed them down without a thought, without one regret!" Venom had been building up in Thor as well. He didn't know how long it had been fermenting inside him—since learning of Loki's betrayal? His attempt to steal the Asgardian throne? Since he'd murdered Coulson?—but he would spill that poison now, and let Loki drink it to the dregs. "You're a liar, a murderer, a traitor! You attempted to save no one except yourself, Laufeyson!" Loki jerked, recoiling as if he'd been stabbed. "Who were you trying to save, and for what?" Thor demanded, voice dripping derision. "Hmmm? Answer me if you can! And tell the truth for once!"


At first he thought Loki would fly at him, attempt to hurl some spell despite the transparent shielding protecting him and dampening Loki's magic. For several heartbeats, a twisted expression of half-mad—rage? Pain? Turmoil?—twisted Loki's face. His eyes burned green as rushlights at twilight. But he didn't try to attack his foster brother. Instead, he merely trudged back to the table and slumped heavily into the chair. He dropped his head into his hands. Sighed.

"Yes…I know I am a murderer, Brother. How well I know it. Do I despise myself for it? Do I mourn the blood on my hands?" Loki lifted his head, draping his arms across his thighs. His hands dangled limply between his knees. He scoffed softly at his brother. "You've already decided that. What hope is there of changing your mind? I tell you there is none. And a liar…so is the man you and I both called 'Father,' yet you don't hold it against him. As for treachery, well, my loyalty belongs to another. That's all there is to it, I'm afraid."

"To who?" Thor demanded. "To Thanos?"

A bitter, humorless smile twisted Loki's mouth. "No. He will die one day, by my hand, for what he did to…" The anguished expression he'd worn when studying the burned drawing returned. Something cold pulsed like an ache in Thor's chest. What made his little brother look like that? "…to them," Loki concluded in a voice that was nearly a whisper.

Baffled now, the anger draining away to leave him slightly numb and out of breath, the golden-haired prince demanded, "To who, Loki? Who are you talking about?"

When Loki lifted his head to look at Thor, Thor found himself speechless. The look of bitter, icy hate in his brother's eyes was like a blow to the belly. Even in the midst of their battles on the Bifröst and Stark Tower, there had never been this deathly-cold loathing in his little brother's eyes.

"Your ignorance excuses nothing," Loki spat. "Their blood is still on your hands. On the hands of Thanos and his Other. And," here his voice dropped to a broken rasp, "and on my own." Turning from his bewildered audience, he added softly, "I know my sins well. They are carved into my flesh and bones. Go from me, Thor. Torment me no longer."


"Loki…" But his brother did not turn back. Feeling as if something vital was even now slipping from his grasp, Thor murmured, "I will be back to finish this later, Brother. I will expect an answer to my question." With an oddly heavy heart, the crown prince turned and strode away.

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Bewildered, Frigga listened to her son's recitation to the end. Shook her head.

"I…I don't know what he could mean, who he could mean." Tracing the silky smooth grain of the table with the tip of one finger, frowning, she shook her head again. "I cannot fathom what Loki means, except that…perhaps he somehow blames you for the deaths of the Midgardians during the conflict."

Thor scowled. "It was hardly my fault he decided to invade with an army of savage Chitauri ready to slaughter anyone they came across. He'd have to be mad to blame me for that."

In a voice as soft as falling snow, Frigga murmured, "Perhaps…perhaps he truly is mad."

The scowl melted from Thor's face and he sighed. Pressing his mother's hand in tender reassurance, he said, "Don't worry, Mother. I will go back to him tomorrow and see if he'll speak to me again. Maybe we can discover something."

"What hope is there for Loki, Thor?"

He didn't know. But if there was hope for his brother, Thor vowed silently that he would find it.

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Author's Note: so…that's my prologue. What do you guys think? Let me know! I love reviews/critiques, and I love to hear from my readers. Have a nice day, you guys! Hugs to everyone!


Concerning the Titles: The chapter title refers to two things—the song "Hellfire" in Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and the Latin phrase used in that song. "Mea Culpa" literally means "my mistake," and "sea culpa" means "your mistake," but it can also be translated as "my fault"/"your fault." So the title of the prologue is literally "My Fault, Your Fault." The title of the fic is a quote from Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven." It actually goes something like, "Here I flung wide the door…Darkness there, and nothing more."

Pokemon Ivory - Prologue

Pokemon Ivory

Prologue

Death-Match

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Everyone always said that setting out on the journey would be the greatest experience of any Pokémon Trainer's life. From that first instant of looking into the starter Pokémon's eyes, until the moment when the Pokémon League Champion was forced to conceded defeat and they interred your name forever in their records as a fellow Champion – it would all be worth the trip. It would be the dearest and most treasured part of life. The bonds forged, friendships and rivalries begun, experiences gained:　that　was the point of setting out at the tender age of sixteen to become a Pokémon Master. At least, that's what people always said.
 

But no one ever talked about the pain. Blistered feet from hours upon hours, days upon days of walking. Shoulders that ached from the weight of the pack ladened with potions and elixirs. Eyes burning with the sand and grit from Route Four. Sunburn so hot it sizzled from the Skyarrow Bridge, where there had never been any place to seek shade. The ravenous hunger, like the razor fangs of an angry Gyrados, raking at the belly when camped out in the icy winter grasslands of Route Six, without enough money to feed either Trainer or Pokémon. Thorns and poison barbs were always a danger in Pinwheel Forest, painful shocks and even electrocution in Chargestone Cave.

 

 

After suffering near-frostbite in Driftveil City, the red-hot-needles feeling of life returning to frozen limbs could never be forgotten. Nearly drowning in the crystal-clear waters of Undella Bay, trapped in the sucking tentacles of an Octillery intent on murder-by-bludgeoning wasn't a memory likely to be forgotten, either. No one talked about the tears, the biting cold of winter in the wilds, the searing heat of high summer, the pangs of homesickness that were nearly as strong as the hunger pains. There was never a mention of the heartache as a Pokémon died in its Trainer's arms.

 

 

In point of fact, all anyone ever　did　talk about was the bright side of the journey to Victory Road: fame and glory, friends made, whimsical romances enjoyed, tourist attractions photographed, battles fought and won. But the path to the Pokémon Championship was impassible, unless a Trainer was willing to wade through blood for the chance to fight the brutal League. There was a reason – a very good one – why Pokémon were often called "pocket monsters." And mastering the monsters demanded something that many were never willing to give. Those that were, were rarely willing to speak of it.

 

 

No, those who had gone before never spoke of the pain. There was no hint that loneliness and starvation, fear and bloodshed stood between home and Victory Road. They never warned young Trainers that the road to the Pokémon League was full of danger, pain, and loss. That every turn in the path could mean death for a Trainer... or for a beloved Pokémon.

 

 

But Ivory knew of pain, and danger. She knew of death. And at this moment, she and death were locked together in fierce battle. Even if death did not yet know that it was coming for her, it didn't matter.　She　knew. After two years on the road, battling trainers and gym leaders and wild monsters, coming through scarred and battered, but triumphant and unbowed, Ivory Nox knew what death looked like, smelled like, felt like.

 

 

Blood soaked one leg of her cutoff jeans, darkened part of her once-white shirt. There was an acid burn on her left cheek from a Joltik attack. Harsh ventilation from the air conditioning abraded the raw flesh across her cheekbone. She'd lost her vest in one of the brutal battles on the way to the throne room, and her bag with its potions, berries, and healing elixirs. Without her first aid supplies, everyone had been taken down – Draculina, Elvis, Rebakah, even Lilo. She only had two Pokémon left. Just her, the indomitable Shaggy, and the elegantly lethal Galen; three against a madman. A madman who still held a piece of her heart hostage.

 

 

"You're out of your mind," Ivory whispered. Every second of looking into his eyes was like a gush of blood from a heart wound. Every moment ticking by left fear oozing icily through her veins. "You're completely crazy."

 

 

She clutched the last of her Poké Balls in one hand. Blood and fluid trickled from the blistered burn on her right arm and leg. Only Shaggy's quick shove had saved her from a painful death at the fiery claws of N's vicious Reshiram. The Scrafty had scored his own bad burn as payment for his efforts, though only a first-degree affair. Even now though, pain throbbed from the human girl's seared flesh, and the Pokémon's. The Scrafty shuddered with the searing agony of it that he could feel emanating from his Trainer. Ivory wondered if her wounds actually pulsed in time with those of her injured partner, or if it was only her imagination.

 

 

"You still willfully persist in seeing me as the villain, Ivory," the boy she squared off against said with a slow shake of his head. "Why?"

 

 

"You want to take Pokémon away from humans."

 

 

"That's always been the goal, Ivory." The boy grinned disarmingly. Phantom pain lanced her chest. Another intangible gush of heart's blood. This couldn't be the same boy who'd taken her on the ferris wheel... could it? "We're trying to free Pokémon from bondage, don't you get that?"

 

 

Shaggy growled at N, lifting his massive, scaly fists in obvious challenge when the boy took a step toward Ivory. The noxious stench of a sludge bomb waiting to form filled the throne room. N only smiled.

 

 

"I must commend you, Scrafty, for wanting to defend your Trainer. But you don't need to stay with her. Join Team Plasma. Be free of her. Be free of all humans."

 

 

Her Scrafty, nicknamed Shaggy all those months ago when he'd been a shedding little Scraggy Pokémon intent on kicking butt and being the best Fighting Pokémon in Unova - back when he couldn't even keep his pebble-like skin covering his little tummy - glanced her way with reptilian eyes that only practice had given her the ability to read. He didn't　want　be free of her. He didn't want to give in. Fire burned in his gaze, urging her to keep fighting.

 

I know you're hurting,　Shaggy's eyes seemed to say.　I　know　it hurts. I　know　you're tired. But we're strong. We　must　keep going. We　must　keep fighting. You　know　we must.

 

Pain and hunger made Ivory dizzy. Maybe she ought to give in. N wouldn't abuse her Pokémon, that was certain. Though perhaps his goons would. She'd seen the way they'd beaten the little Munna in the salvage yard nearly to death. But everything hurt... and she still had to fight Ghetsis. She only had two partners left. If she gave into N, they wouldn't have to be hurt. He'd probably even heal her other Pokémon. That possibility pulled at her heart the strongest – if she held out, and the fight took too long, the others would die.

 

 

Eyes like the blood of ancient redwood trees suddenly filled her vision. Galen – her very first Pokémon, her elegant and deadly, jewel-like Serperior with his razor-edged vines and loving eyes – trilled inquiringly in her mind. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. Yet Ivory imagined she could feel one of his vines lightly caress her cheek. Ivory stared into phantom pools of liquid sunset before closing her own eyes, drawing a deep breath to steady her resolve. Galen knew every Pokémon she'd ever captured. He knew them even better than she did. He would know what they wanted her to do.

 

 

"Shaggy and Galen don't want to be free of me. We're partners." A bit softer, she added, "We're family. We love each other." Gray eyes snapped open, sparking with fury and determination. She clenched her fists – both to steady her resolve, and to keep from fainting from the pain. There would be no backing down. "We won't give in. We won't give up."

 

 

N frowned. Was that sadness in his eyes? For a moment, Ivory thought she saw the glimmer of memory: a Ferris wheel at night, the lights of Nimbasa city lighting up the dark like a thousand stars, and the golden glow caressing their faces as they talked. Then N blinked and the image was gone. Without a word, he summoned Vanilluxe and Carracosta. When he looked at her, it was like looking at a stranger. "Very well, then. The battle continues."

 

 

The battle continued? This battle with death. Were the others alright? Were they still holding on? Draculina, her precious Swoobat; Elvis, her gentle but determined Gigalith; Rebakah, her swift and reliable Unfeazant; and Lilo, her hydro-pumped Simipour. They'd fainted. She had to get them to the Pokémon Center before they succumbed to their wounds and... and...

 

That means,　she told herself, clenching her fists tighter,　I've got to beat this guy and Ghetsis quick, so we can get to a Center. So we can get help. So suck it up and fight!

 

"Yeah," she said aloud. There was no hesitation in her voice. No fear. Only the barest quiver in acknowledgment of her wounds. She was pretty sure Shaggy would have smiled at her if he could have, so she smiled at him. "The battle continues. Galen! Come on out! Shaggy! Galen!　Attack!"

 

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Explanation of the Purpose of This Fic:　My husband told me about a (funny?) fanfic he read once called "Emphasis on Monster." The concept of it really struck me – Pokémon are monsters. They probably eat each other. When wild Pokémon fight, or when evil trainers attack people or wild Pokémon, they probably kill or seriously injure their opponents/victims instead of just making them faint. Traveling around what is basically Japan before urban expansion is difficult, especially when you're, what? Fifteen? At the most. Ash is voiced by a woman, so I don't think he's hit puberty yet. My friend who likes Pokemon says he's like, 10 when he starts in season one.

 

Pokémon and humans get sick, hungry, cold, tired, injured. Yeah, there are Pokémon Centers, but what if you're not close enough to one? What if, when Squirtle and Onix are fighting, Onix breaks Squirtle's shell (a big deal for a real-world turtle)? What if Pikachu eats a poisonous berry? Or Blue Trainer slips on the mountain path and breaks a leg? Or gets seriously burned by an angry Ponyta? Falls in a hole? Trapped in a blizzard?

 

 

So this fic is based off of Pokémon White's game play (minus the random level-up battles and other such boring tedium) as played by a girl, with all those things in mind, as well as the emotional development of a kid on the road, alone, taking care of themselves and their Pokémon for an entire year or more.

 

Preemptive Notation on Artistic License:　Because the world of Pokemon is, by necessity, 2-dimension, we lose out on a lot of sensory information about that world. We lose out on more information due to the fact that the show if for children. For example, what does a Lilligant smell like? Do Servines have eyelashes? If an Onix broke a Squirtle's shell and you can't get the Squirtle to a Pokémon Center, will the Squirtle die? If Arbok bites a human being, will the human die? Can Sawk take off its gi? What does roast Unfeazant taste like? Does Whimsicott make a good pillow? Do Snubble have dog breath?

 

 

We don't know the answers to any of these things (well, we might have the answers to a couple, but not all of them). Hence, I am warning you now, there will be some details in this fic that are purely from the author's imagination because I can't find information on these things (like whether Snubble have dog breath). I just want everyone to know. In the Author's Notes at the end of each chapter, I'll tell you what things I made up.

 

 

Have a nice day!