Wes’s determination brought him to the kitchen where he padded his way over to his kibble-filled bowl and forced himself to eat the mush inside. From there he began to pace around the kitchen table.
Were he to leave on his own, he needed to approach his future logically. He couldn’t simply walk out the door and expect to find a researcher who had been missing for twenty years. He needed a starting place and answers to simple questions. Where was Bill last seen? What were the circumstances and motivations behind his disappearance? Did he have any old colleagues or family who might still be alive?
Wes shook his head. He was getting distracted. The pokenet would provide some answers, but not all of them, and it could wait until the evening. First he would use the daylight to his advantage to see if he could learn to fight and survive on his own.
One Week. Wes told himself. In one week he would piece together a plan and set off.
Turning to march across the kitchen to the back door, Wes paused again as he spotted Rastigan’s pokeball sitting atop the kitchen table. For all that it had helped him, Wes recognized it now for what it was: a symbol of his servitude. It was the chains that bound his freedom to his ‘trainer’. It may be attuned to a certain dead Weston now, but the League had the keys to override such things. Whoever owned that ball owned him. It meant his very life sat there. Open. Vulnerable. Protected from the League by only a flimsy deadbolt and a few panes of glass.
Wes shivered at the thought.
He trotted over, grabbed the ball between his teeth, and headed to the family room past where Ben sat perched upon the back of the sofa. The froakie's two unblinking yellow eyes watched as he pushed aside the curtain to the patio, letting sunlight wash across the room. Wes scanned the backyard to find it empty except for a taillow that splashed and chirped in the birdbath near the back of the fenced-in lawn. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Wes flicked up the latch on the sliding door with his nose and nudged it open, letting a wall of spring heat and humidity roll across his thick fur. He grimaced.
Ben tilted his head at Wes in consideration and then hopped off the couch to land with a plop at Wes’s feet and jumped through the door and into the sun. Wes stepped out behind the froakie, pausing to close the sliding door behind him. With one last look around for unwanted visitors, he trotted past the birdbath to where a narrow path snaked its way into the forest and out of sight. Ben kept pace beside the absol with lazy hops.
The froakie blinked at him.
Several minutes later, the two pokemon soon stopped at a wide clearing in the woods littered by boulders of weathered rock. It was a favorite training ground for Wes and Ras. The dirt was still torn by Rastigan’s claws from years of training. The rocks were chipped and gouged, and the many surrounding trees bore deep scars from stray attacks. It was once a place of peace for Wes, although now it only served to dig up memories that tore at fresh wounds.
For a moment Wes cast his eyes over the muggy clearing and listened to the song of taillow and spearow. He remembered the first time he’d come here with Ras years ago, cheering his friend on as the absol worked to perfect Scratch; the same move he planned to learn now.
Ben hopped by Wes into the clearing, trampling over the churned soil. The action rubbed against Wes’s raw wounds and building stress. Simmering anger and frustration bubbled forth.
Wes snapped, a low growl building in his throat.
Wes responded.
Wes just stared at him. It was a rattata. The wild pokemon around Denville were notoriously weak and nothing more than a mild annoyance for a pokemon like Rastigan. Most would just run away anyways.
Ben gave Wes the froakie equivalent of a shrug before hopping out of the clearing and back down the path without another word, leaving the absol alone in the forest.
Swallowing a growing lump in his throat, Wes turned to the largest of the scarred boulders standing in the center of the clearing. Learning to fight as a pokemon meant learning the moves of a pokemon. That began here: in the same place Rastigan once learned.
Wes lifted a forepaw to rest his three vicious claws on the rock’s surface. Dark and nearly as long as his fingers once were, the claws were honestly terrifying, although they were designed to rend flesh and not rock. To do that required the focus and power of a properly executed move, and Wes wasn’t sure where to begin.
Everyone knew that pokemon tapped into a strange energy that grew as they did: feuling their moves, toughening their hides, and honing their reflexes beyond human limits. However, despite a century of scientific endeavors, little was known about it; or at least little that the League would admit. Wes knew the power existed within his new form, but how to draw upon it? Perhaps it was like flexing a muscle and simply wanting to use a move would let it happen.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
Seeing no reason not to try, Wes willed a basic scratch attack into existence, dragging his claws over the surface of the rock while his mind envisioned the attack he’d seen Rastigan perform countless times before. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened.
Wes stepped back, thinking. The power had to come from somewhere and had to be easy enough to use that even the newly hatched could pull at a glimmer of strength within a few days. He was missing something. Something simple and instinctive. Maybe he was trying too hard and just needed to let his body act.
Wes swung his paw at the rock while trying to envision power blooming at his claws.
They hit the stone with a dull scraping sound, but nothing resembling a proper attack. What was he doing wrong? The power that properly trained pokemon could put out was immense. Even Rastigan was strong enough to gouge rocks. Was his human mind not able to grasp it? He’d watched Rastigan perform the same move countless times. What was different now?
An angry squeak from the nearby underbrush drew Wes from his thoughts. He turned with some curiosity as he heard the commotion draw closer. Wes watched amused as a purple rodent with a white underbelly barreled out of the brush and into the clearing. It darted forward, its panicked eyes latching onto the much larger absol standing before it.
What are you going to do, attack me? Wes thought. Rastigan would eat these things for breakfast. Sometimes literally.
The rattata flashed with the glow of a quick attack, rocketing towards him faster than he could follow. It crashed into his shoulder, sending him tumbling backwards beneath the force of the blow.
The vision appeared and left in the space of an instant. Wes froze in surprise, blinking in confusion as the rattata flashed white with the glow of a quick attack, rocketing towards him faster than he could follow. The rattata crashed into his shoulder, sending him tumbling backwards beneath the force of the blow.
Wes came to a rest on his side against the base of the boulder. He struggled to push himself upright, his shoulder bruised and weak. A meter away the rattata glared at him with hateful eyes, its body glowing white once more. With a grunt Wes stumbled away, knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to evade in time.
Another vision appeared as a ghost of reality, and Wes braced himself in anticipation for the inevitable attack. This time the rattata struck him in the haunches, sending him skidding sideways before collapsing to the churned earth. The rattata screeched while Wes struggled to stand, his bruised muscles wobbling in protest. Wes growled his frustration, his amusement long since replaced by fear. He could hardly move let alone defend himself or fight back. Ben was right after all.
A bubble of water shot out of the forest to strike the rattata on the rear with a pop that echoed across the clearing. The force of the attack sent the rodent tumbling through the air over Wes where it landed in a heap amidst the roots of a nearby tree. With a squeak of pain it shook itself and disappeared into the unbrush.
Slumping back down with a groan, Wes watched as Ben hopped out of the woods with a large blue oran berry in his mouth.
Wes glared at the berry and then at Ben in realization.
Not weaker than me. Wes thought inwardly. He wanted to deny Ben’s claim of weakness, but how could he do that when a little purple rodent defeated him so soundly? Wes hurt enough that he was more than willing to swallow his pride. Besides, he owed the froakie an apology.
The froakie corrected.
Wes sighed at Ben’s bluntness, but held back a response.
Ben nodded.
Wes ate the berry in a single gulp. Within seconds a warmth began to flow beneath his skin, easing the pain in his bruised muscles enough for him to stand. He shook himself, murmured a word of thanks, and faced the marred boulder with a new determination.
Shadow blinked his large yellow eyes.
The froakie answered as if the answer was obvious.
From my power? Wes thought. It was what he’d be trying to do before. Or was it? Maybe he was thinking about it wrong. He’d been looking for something familiar before, like a muscle he could flex, but maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe it was so foriegn to his human experience that he was looking for the wrong thing entirely.
Wes closed his eyes and reached inwards, thinking, searching. A minute passed, and then two. Then, suddenly, he understood. He wasn’t looking for a core of power or a muscle to flex or a move to imagine into existence. He, an absol, was the power. Energy permeated every corner of his existence. An overwhelming web of darkness hosted a rainbow of other colors that flowed and twisted into an almost tangible rope of power.
He grasped at that power, coaxing it into his mental hold, and it came willingly. A myriad of colors rose and fell through his mental grasp until only white remained unperturbed by his attention. It came easily as he carried it forth into the tangible world. Power tingled in his forelimbs and shimmered along his claws, sharpening them.
Wes opened his eyes to see a faint white light covering his claws. He swung at the rock, his claws scraping along the surface with a grinding screech. Sand and dust fell away from the attack, leaving three long white scratches on the surface. They weren’t half as deep as the ones left by Rastigan or even Shadow’s bubble, but he’d done it!
Wes tried again, and again. With each attempt the move grew weaker and exhaustion began to seep into his limbs. He pushed onwards until his forepaws grew sluggish and he could no longer draw upon the white strands of power. Something deep within his mind screamed for rest.
However, pokemon did not gain power and skill through moderation. Instead of resting, Wes pushed himself onwards.
When he trained with Rastigan, they would often run through the forest together while Wes made up little games of agility for his pokemon. He would toss sticks in random directions for the absol to cut out of the air, or challenge him to weave between the trees and leap from rock to rock. Rastigan would respond with surprising agility, dancing through the trees and throwing out slashes and quick attacks to intercept the tossed projectiles. The games taught physical agility, coordination between moves and movements, and the creativity to string everything together.
Wes couldn’t do all of that here and now, but he understood the importance of the training just as he understood that the strength of his moves were not everything. A true battler was coordinated in each body, mind and power, while being creative enough to out-think their opponent’s strategies. Thus when at last Wes could no longer draw out the power for a proper Scratch, he turned his attention to the clearing itself.
He pathed out an obstacle course of sorts. One that forced him to leap from boulder to boulder, dash between the trees and across logs before returning back into the clearing. At first Wes stumbled through the course under Ben’s amused gaze, but with every lap his movements became more sure, and his foriegn body responded with an instinctive power and grace.
By the tenth lap the course became all too easy and Wes set his eyes on the tallest boulder in the clearing. Rising some three meters above the churned earth, it was too high for Wes to climb with a normal jump. Yet as he dashed through the last of the trees, whispers of possibilities crawled through his mind. He leaped, instinctively reaching for the power thrumming in his veins. His claws glowed with the faint light of a Scratch as they dug into the stone, giving him the purchase to launch himself atop the rock where he stood panting in triumph.
Wes may not yet contain the strength to defeat a wild rattata, but the power was there, hidden yet tangible. It whispered of potential far beyond what Rastigan had achieved in his training, or the power displayed by the powerhouses in the televised tournaments. The whispers came from the furthest horizon of possibility, hinting at strength far beyond his wildest imagination.
**********
Wes nodded and glanced back down the path towards the house. Something nagged at the back of his mind. Not quite a vision, but an itching within his horn.
The froakie nodded and hopped back down the trail with a weary absol in tow. Wes’s dreams of a cold shower were cut short when he nearly stumbled into Ben on the edge of the backyard. He followed the froakie’s gaze only to freeze in shock at the sight before him.
The rear door of the house had been blasted inwards. Shards of glass, pieces of siding, and charred floorboards were torn and broken. A burnt couch had tossed and flung across the family room to shatter the television screen and dent the far wall. In the center of the debris stood a police officer with a notepad in hand and a growlithe beside him.
Adam sat on a wooden kitchen chair before the police officer with his hands on his forehead. There were tears there, dripping one by one to the floor. Shadow broke away from the forest to hop across the lawn.
The growlithe turned to see the two pokemon near the edge of the woods and began to bark a warning, but Wes was already out of sight running back along the forest path to the training meadows.