Origin Story: Part 1 - Haunted by the Truth

CH15: Throwing Practice

"Yiah!... Hi... yah!... Yaigh!!" you yelled, the sharp steel leaving your fingers and flying through the air, slicing through the chilling wind and stabbing into a wooden crate, missing the 'S' and barely hitting the '.'.

An annoyed growl left your breath as you walked over to the crate, gently grabbing the hilt of your throwing knives before swiftly pulling them free, picking up the two stray knives on the ground and bringing the bundle with you as you walked back to your spot several feet away.

Now that the ship had set sailed, and the days became longer and longer, everyone on board the ship had to preoccupy themselves somehow. Now that you were stuck, with nothing else to do anymore, no more thoughts that cluttered your mind and made you worry, you encouraged yourself to wake up every morning, before dawn, before most of the others would be waking up, to train.

If you hadn't woken up already.

Doing nothing for days on end was making you antsy, and you knew it's only a matter of time you start snapping at people, for no reason, making this entire trip worse for you. You need to stay quiet, out of the way. A person among a sea of many.

But... you were in the middle of the oceans, making your way back to a region that was much too close to Johto. You were starting to think ditching this shipping vessel and forgetting about this supposed relative of yours would do you some good.

Yet, instead of dwelling too much on a future you were unsure of, you decided that you might as well do something with yourself, and honing your skills would probably be the best option.

Your father wasn't a dumb man. He taught you many things, first for fun, but after your mother's death it was a necessity to learn a particular trade of skills. Stealth, defense, fighting tactics, and all sorts of things. Who knows if your pokemon will be with you? You could end up all on your own, surviving on your own knowledge and your own wits. You found it amusing that there are books out there on cheating the system, from picking locks to making tiny smoke bombs, but then again it's an amateur book, your father would tell you, and then state, once you learned all you can from the book he'll show you more.

Well... sadly, that expertise he apparently had won't be taught to you, but you can, at the very least, figure out what you're best at.

You were like your father, in a lot of ways. You weren't built like a tank, but you weren't too slim and slender like your mother was, either. You are a very good climber, building up your upper body strength, but your father insisted that you learn how to run. To be quick on your feet. Learn how to tiptoe your way out of a suspicious situation, before things got bad.

He let you try a few weapons, but a gun was something he never let you touch. Why? Well... guns kill in an instant, without any real skill behind them. If you want to use a weapon, you better be an expert at it, instead of wielding items that will only get in your way. So, you know knives, how to use knives, how to sharpen them or keep them dull. He bought you fifteen throwing knives, once, and told you to start training with those, but now there are only thirteen... but that's still a large amount, considering you tend to lose things rather quickly.

So, knives are really the only thing you know how to use, with a tad of skill. You recall days you and your father would be out in the middle of the woods, waiting patiently for something, or merely taking a break.

Because a child your size could never think about taking down a grown man like him. You would have to grow up, at least a few more feet, before that can ever become a reality for you, but... you know where to kick, and apparently you have a very powerful kick.

Half of the knives you had in your hands were placed on the ground, the other half slipping into your bottomless Rocket grunt pocket, while one lone knife was in your hand. Once again, you slow aimed, moving your arm backward before letting out a strained yell, the knife leaving your fingertips, spinning through the air, and cutting into the crate, in between an 'o' on the crate.