“Capture that slave!” The gruff warden barked as a leaped over a hollow trunk. His Pyroar raced beside him, skillfully maneuvering through the forest. It crunched through a thick branch that was careening towards them, to which the man grunted in thanks as he sheltered his eyes from the splinters.

A fierce gust of wind smashed into him, threatening to topple him. He braced himself, stamping his foot deep into the mud. A shout echoed from beyond a faraway hill. The man’s face lit up. They’d found that blasted slave. “I should’ve never chased after that rat.” He muttered as he, with much difficulty, pulled his foot out of the mud.

Without so much as a step, Pyroar roared to the left, and he thrust his body aside. Mud was splattered everywhere as a towering tree fell where he was. He kicked his feet, scrambling away from the collapsed tree, then put his hands on the ground and forced himself up. His Pyroar roared once more, but this time it sounded…unusual. Feral. Not something he had trained it to do.

He glanced up, only to find it darting off without him in a beeline towards the distant shout. He took a sharp breath, then instantly burst into a coughing fit. He didn’t understand.

“Why is this happening? Did we anger the Gods?” He cursed under his breath as the coughs began calming down. This was supposed to be a day of celebration, a glorious day in history. The End of the Century War. He was supposed to be home, celebrating with his sweet, sweet daughter. Drinking with his friends. Laughing at those Paldean slaves as the color drained from their faces. So why? WHY?

He barreled aside as another branch catapulted itself into the mud, then hastily scrambled to his feet and took off towards the source of the shout. Trees swayed and swayed under the unrelenting winds. Mud was pulled airborne. The rain hailed in sheets of white, pelting the poor warden like hailstones.

He coughed again and stumbled, clutching his chest; it hurt, hurt so badly that he wondered whether there was a gaping hole instead of lungs. After a few agonizing seconds, it finally subsided and he stood atop two wobbly legs. He looked ahead, and to his relief, he had reached the search group.

The members had more or less entirely gathered, and they were awaiting his orders with less than eager expressions. One man coughed, and as though a chain reaction, many others followed suit. Their loyal Pokemon stood beside them like shaky statues, growling, snarling, chattering; a Sneasal bared its teeth as he arrived, unbefitting a loyal soldier of the Army.

“The rat’s gone that way, sir.” A soldier reported, his Fletchling cupped tightly within his hands.

Weary and desperate, the warden’s eyes frantically scanned the surroundings, catching a fleeting glimpse of the red Pyroar disappearing into the forest’s depths. “Follow it!” He barked as he took the initiative and plunged into the dark forest.

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The Pyroar barreled through the forest like a Ryhorn through stone. Ungraceful. Trees were slashed apart, rocks overturned, and dirt flung into the air. It sniffed the air, ignored the rain that it inhaled, and immediately took off to the left. Water stung its eyes, yet they remained wide open.

It swatted away an incoming branch with its body, ignoring the numbing pain that emerged from its back. It could smell it. Prey. Food.

Its ears perked as a familiar voice reached them. The beast stopped for a moment as rationality took over. But its instincts instantly won over and it resumed its chase, teeth bared and slobbering.

“Get back here you-” The warden shouted as his foot caught a root, and he face-planted into the mud. He put a hand to the ground to lift himself up, but a boot stepped on him, then another, then another, until it felt as though he was a Paldean slave on a midwinter afternoon. His hand caught one of the legs and pulled himself up using it, sending that person into the mud as a result.

The forest seemed endless, and Pyroar led them deeper and deeper into it. Soon, after several more minutes of searching and deafening rain, the warden grew worried. Perhaps Pyroar wasn’t feeling well, or could it be acting weird, too? He glanced at the soldier whose hands were protecting a drenched Fletchling. They were shuddering, as though something was kicking from inside. The boy winced as a squawk sounded out from inside.

“Sir, where’s your Pyroar?” The same boy turned around, looking directly into his eyes. The warden’s eyes shot to the front, and he could feel his heart stop. It was gone. Pyroar had disappeared into the woods. Visibility was poor enough, but now that Pyroar was out of sight and all they had to lead them was the vague imprints of destruction along the way, there was little hope of catching up to it.

“Pick up the pace!” He tried to shout, but the howling winds carried it away. Cursing under his breath, he broke into a sprint and hoped that the others would follow. Thankfully, they did. Racing through the forest path that had been thankfully cleared out for them, they chased after the Pyroar.

If it was up to the warden, he would have left long ago, before they even decided to chase after that blasted slave. But now that Pyroar, a gift given to him by the General himself, had rushed off, he had no choice but to chase after it. What would the General do to him if he had lost it? He shivered at the mere thought.

“I see it! I see it! It’s right there- The slave!” The soldier screamed with a finger pointed. The warden turned towards it, and he could feel joy creeping into his heart. He picked up his pace. Now all he had to do was to order Pyroar to capture that slave, then return home and into the safe confines of Lumiose Kingdom.

Pyroar slashed at the rag-wearing slave with its claws, scratching the clothing, but ultimately missing. It growled in frustration. It extended its head and crunched its teeth, but the rat jumped away. What a coward. The Pyroar lunged at the slave’s head, missing it entirely as it dropped down. It crashed into a tree, sending sawdust into the air.

“Pyroar, Take Down!” The warden shouted as he neared them, but Pyroar had other plans. Perhaps it had heard wrongly. Perhaps it was in the wrong state of mind. But its body began glowing a bright red. Brighter and brighter. Until it was akin to a bloody sun in the cold night. The warden’s heart dropped. “NO NOT OVERHEA-”

An explosion of fire erupted from the Pyroar, sending bits of what were once trees catapulting through the air like shrapnel. Fire engulfed the forest like a flood, devouring the foliage like a starved animal. Rain, no matter how torrential, had no effect on it. It sizzled and disappeared on contact. That was the power, and horror, of Overheat.

The warden staggered to a foot. A comically large stick jutted out of his shoulder. Or was it a piece of a trunk? Heh. Heh. That’s funny. All he had done. Just to die by his own Pokemon. Corpses of both humans and Pokemon lay where he stood. The Fletchling protecting soldier’s eyes were wide open, but they were staring at something beyond life. The Fletchling was gone. Probably killed or run away.

His eyes locked onto the leaving Pyroar’s back. It wasn’t even looking at him, as though he was a side-effect. Inconsequential.

“Ha… Mari…” He muttered, as flames began to lick his boots.