Tevun-Krus #112 - Animal SF

Blood & Pokéballs - A Pokémon Story by @PhonerionBallznevsky

Blood & Pokéballs

by PhonerionBallznevsky

[Author's note: This is a horror story set in the Pokemon universe, featuring graphic and disturbing scenes. Use your own judgement.]

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Save for the boys' cruel laughter and the occasional choked cry of a helpless pidgey, the silence in Viridian Forest this afternoon is unnatural. While normally the chatter of wild rattata, caterpie and weedle is overwhelming as one walks these ancient woods, at the moment the other pokémon are all in hiding, fearful of what they see happening to one of their own. 

It has been going on for over twenty minutes now... the suffering. The pidgey itself turns one dark, watery eye towards its victimizers, willing them to stop, to leave it to die in peace. Its wings have been all but broken, feathers missing from its mahogany-brown plumage, systematically plucked out for the boys' own amusement. One of its toes is bleeding, the claw broken during the initial struggle with its attackers. It struggles to fly, flapping once, twice, but its wings lack the strength to carry it up to freedom.

It tells them to have mercy, its melodious voice now weak, fading. They roar with laughter and poke it with a stick, right in the crux of the injuries. The pain is immense—unbearable—and the pidgey lets loose a shriek. It fears death now, fears how such a concept might bring relief from the torment, fears what these boys might do in order to give it.

But what is that? It hears something coming. The crackle of breaking twigs, a rhythmic thudding, and maybe even the scent of another pokémon? It smells different: predatory, like the larger birds that roam the skies, swooping down to catch a nesting metapod. But not quite like those birds, no. A different scent.

The boys turn from their fun, alert to the interloper. They see a young man emerge from a bush. He wears a red hat and a plain white T-shirt. His face is grim, his mouth a tight line, like he's determined to accomplish something here, no matter the cost. When his eyes see what the source of their amusement is, he stops walking. Somehow his mouth grows tighter still.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asks them. His voice is raspy, dry, like the desert east of Fallarbor Town.

"The fuck does it look like, 'tard?" says the biggest of the boys, the one with the low, sloping brow and the jutting jaw. He's the one who came up with the idea, urging his friends to partake, though he has taken a limited role in the torture itself. "Just having some fun with a stupid fucking bird. Got a problem with that?"

The young man in the red hat bows his head, shakes it in anger. "Yeah... I do. For one, I really hate that word." His voice is even lower than the biggest boy's brow. "You're what's wrong with this world. All of you. Somebody should teach you a lesson. Show you how it feels to hurt something defenceless, to hurt something for no reason."

One of the boys in the back—the one with the red afro and the face losing a war against both acne and freckles—starts acting like a Mr. Mime, playing an imaginary violin. Everyone laughs.

Everyone except the young man in the red hat.

He says, "Maybe you should think long and hard about who your friends are. While you still have the chance."

The big one says, "Maybe I should come over there and shove my foot up your ass. Teach you to mind your own fucking business, dickhead. But your little toes would probably twitch if I went and did that. Huh?"