Pokemon Mystery Dungeon: Hands of Creation

Chapter 127 - Direction

It had all happened so quickly. To go from so much activity to none at all was almost enough to put her into a new kind of shock. The numbness of adrenaline was wearing off. The fact that her entire lower half was missing caught up to her. Vision blurry, mind slipping away, she tried to speak and only vomited blood. Breathing wasn't working at all.

That look Owen had given her. Those eyes, defeated yet determined. Like he was already calculating what to do after the loss. She needed to have faith, for now, that he could carry on alone, somehow. And perhaps he had faith that they would find a way to get him back.

So, she couldn't die. She couldn't forget him again. She wouldn't fall to the Void the same way Amia had. It was unacceptable, inexcusable. Especially to that false god. She had enough troubles from the real ones, usurpers, and now that mockery.

A mockery that nearly killed them all... How were they supposed to stand up to it?

Those fading thoughts buzzed in her mind as her scales lost their shine. She had to focus, single-mindedly, on surviving. She didn't know when or for what aid or even if there would be any aid, but that was her focus. She'd forgotten who was with her, who could save her, and briefly, she forgot about Owen in favor of her next breath, her next empty thought.

Something blurry waved in front of her. She squinted, focusing her gaze on it. An olive-green arm. Olive green scales. Green scales, yellowish. Claws. Demitri, it was Demitri. She tried to speak his name but nothing came. Then, the arm reached forward and held her cheeks, and he said something comforting, which made her feel even less comfortable. Something bad was about to happen.

Sharp, hot, twisting pain electrified her midsection and her eyes shot wide. She curled and flailed, but then it felt like a hundred arms descended upon her, pressing her into the earth. Then came ten thousand needles against her scales, along her lower body, and a deep, snapping noise as something cracked into place, repairing itself impossibly fast.

She took her first, stinging breath and wailed.

A gruff voice shouted something that felt sarcastic and annoyed, but also relieved. She had a sense of the emotions in his words, but not the words themselves.

Then, the voice spoke again, "Hold still, it's almost over."

Jerry, it was Jerry. He was the one who'd saved her from another strike. How strong was he, truly?

She tried to focus on those thoughts instead of the pain, but it was hard. Every movement she made—and something about her body felt the need to move just then—brought about a redoubled, tingling electricity. She convulsed and curled and that only made the pain worse. A side of her head felt hot next, and healing light draped down that same side, restoring her ribbon. It was paler. Discolored. That wasn't typical of healing. What sort of curse did those blighted attacks have?

"Zena, can you hear me? Can you reply?" Demitri asked.

Zena tried to speak again but all that came were grunts. She felt like she couldn't breathe, or if she tried, she would only use all the air to scream.

"Slowly, slowly," Demitri said, and only then did Zena realize how frantic her movements had been.

It was... embarrassing, and she looked away, ashamed. Like she was some primal feral caught in a cage. That brief instant that she'd lost her composure, though, and her vision blurred again. This time it was from tears. No, no, she couldn't do this in front of everyone. But it hurt, it still hurt, even after the healing. Echoes of the pain were still there; she couldn't forget it.