Sloven
12-29-2007, 12:01 AM
Dying is not fun
By Sloven (Yayyay!)
Note: This shall be a multi-capture story. Thankyou~
Chapter 1: The Orange
Target: Buizel
Range: Simple- 5k-10k
Achieved: 13 666 (OMG. I'm not gonna get it then T_T Darn unlucky numbers...)
Chomp, chomp, chomp.
The boy broke his focus away from his rough drawing. What was that noise? Confused, he scanned the room with his piercing blue eyes while remaining on his bed, curious if someone he didn’t know snuck in and had started to loudly eat a carrot. Satisfied that this was not the case, he returned to his work. It was going to be an elaborate picture for his mother’s birthday, which was today. He’d previously forgotten it and had to start working at one o’clock in the morning to have any hopes of getting the outline down and then scanning it onto his computer.
Chomp, chomp, crunch.
There it was again! Slightly rougher in sound, and seeming to originate from under his bed. Five-year-old fears began swirling in his mind after lying dormant for six years or so. When he was little he had a chronic fear of demonic-looking Pokemon, like his late father’s Houndoom. Through the miracle of night-lights he had conquered this fear, or so his mother thought. He began shaking slightly in terror.
Chomp, chomp, RIIIIP.
Oh, God, he thought fearfully. It’s eating Barak! Barak, a specially-bred Mareep, was his best friend since his only other human friend, Carlton, had began his own journey with a Buneary. Barak was specially bred as to be sensitive to the boy’s bipolar swings. He was a new type of service Pokemon, to allow mentally disabled children to go on their own journeys. What if in the middle of travelling on a mountain these sorts of kids had a depressed swing and flung themselves off? It was these Pokemon that kept them still and calm until someone came along or they came to their senses. They were usually bred by the local breeding centre near where the bipolar kids lived, and so he had obtained his by the kindly old couple near the outskirts of his home city, Goldenrod. If Barak was dead, he couldn’t start his journey after giving his mother the drawing!
But he could not dwell on these thoughts too long. He had to check what was really happening under his bed. Taking a deep breath, he manoeuvred so he was sitting on his knees at the left edge of the mattress. He reached down and gripped the splintery, wooden frame underneath said mattress and swung down, so that he could peer under the bed. His strawberry blond hair seemed to be electrified; as it attempted to drift down to the ground, ut held securely in place by his hair follicles. It was fairly dark under there, despite the main overhead light being on. His bed being pushed right into the corner didn’t really help. The boy squinted slightly, feeling pressure growing on his face as blood abandoned his abdomen in favour of the boy’s head. He could make out a faint, blurry cloud-like shape. A blue oval marked the front of the cloud, a golden orb connected by a thin tail to the cloud marked the end. The boy sighed in relief. No demon. “Barak, don’t eat my sheet,” he commanded, though it sounded like a request.
The small sheep Pokemon turned to his master. In his mouth was a strip of yellowed fabric, hanging out of both sides of his muzzle like drool mixed with pus. The ripped material had previously been stuffed down between the wall and the bed as the boy didn’t need it in the slowly rising spring heat. Barak gave a delighted bleat at hearing his master’s voice and trotted to the sourced of it, giving the boy’s head an affectionate butt before returning to chewing on the sheet. The boy gave a gentle smile and swung back up, to return to his piece of art.
~~~
“Happy birthday, Mum,” Matthew Pyre announced to a thin woman. Isabelle Pyre gently removed the cylindrical present from her son’s grasp. She smiled weakly. She was a sickly woman whose condition deteriorated after her husband had died three years ago. She had not cried about it once, but Matt knew there was something up with her. She requested that he do more and more things around the house. She had held him back from his journey for a year so he could continue working. Matt had contacted a maid service and asked for their help about a week ago, so Isabelle finally let her son loose.
Matt sat down on the fluffy pink doona, watching as his mother unwrapped the present, discarded the shiny plastic wrapping onto the carpeted floor. She frowned slightly when her present was revealed to be a cardboard tube, like a toilet roll for a very long man. Matt urged her to look inside. She poked a spindly finger into the tube and brought out a rolled up piece of paper. She unfurled it in a similar fashion to a pirate on old treasure movies, throwing a brightly coloured picture into the woman’s eyes.
The picture was, in style, cross in between real life and a cartoon. It featured the whole of the Pyre family: Matt, Isabelle, Noel Pyre (Matt’s father), Gard the Houndoom who continued to watch the Pyre abode for his late master, and Barak. The picture had its colours greatly brightened from real life, Isabelle’s straw coloured hair appeared golden and the eyes that the parent and child shared was dynamically more blue. For an eleven-year-old, Matt was extremely talented in art even if his other grades weren’t as good, as if it compensated for his extraordinary ability. His mother called him a mini Van Gough, as the famous artist had the same condition as the boy.
Isabelle smiled warmly at her son. She had fretted about ever seeing him again, but this picture would help her through lonely nights. She could remember the times when she had to comfort the boy when he woke up with wide, terrified eyes as he dreamt about the time his father was murdered to when he received his first Pokemon with more ease than without a reminder of him. She had immediately found this better than any photo, as Matt had made this himself. “Thank you,” she said, gratitude prominent in those two syllables. Matt smiled back. He loved the feeling of being praised and of being thanked.
“Mum, can I go now?” Matt asked blatantly. Isabelle merely nodded, her attention focused on the picture. Matt felt a delightful mix of excitement and euphoria welling up inside him, willing to burst with manic energy. He caught the eye of his partner, whose black eyes gave Matt the impression that the Pokemon was feeling the same as the bipolar child. “C’mon, Barak- I gotta get stuff from my room!”
The Pokemon bleated back something in reply. Matt wished he could understand Pokemon. He figured it would make his training days a fair bit easier. The eleven-year-old and the Mareep practically ran to Matt’s room, trying and almost failing to contain their excitement. Matt changed from his simple, long-sleeved pyjamas to clothes more suited for travelling- A dark blue vest that had a zip-on hood on the back, a white T-Shirt on underneath that, slightly baggy denim shorts and a visor for his head, the sort of cap without the top. Considering Barak was a service Pokemon, he had to stay out of his ball at all times. This was not possible without the blue bandana that Matt now tied around the Electric-Type’s neck, with the words “Service Pokemon” printed on said material.
Hoisting a backpack over his shoulders, twelve usable Pokeballs clipped to his magnetic belt, Matthew Pyre was prepared to face the outside world.
~~~
“Nnmph… Barak, no one told me it would be this boring!” The sheep looked up at his trainer sympathetically. No-one told him that he was to be the Pokemon of a manic-depressive kid! The world liked its secrets. Barak brooded on this for a little while.
The path Matt was walking along had been reduced to clay as many, many feet over many, many years had trampled on the grass. The air smelt sweet as a gentle breeze washed over flowers to the left of the child. A large-ish lake was present at his right. The boy kept his eyes trained at the ground. A stupid trainer law urged people to battle if they caught eyes. Matt envied autistic people. They seemed to dodge eyes as if other eyes contained a deadly plague! He couldn’t battle others at the moment, as he had a single Pokemon only.
“Oi. Sheep.” Barak snapped out of his philosophical thoughts and turned to look at his trainer. Sheep? How derogatory. Matt stared down at him with an unreadable expression. “LastonetothelakeisaBadEgg!” he cried suddenly, turning on his heel and darting to the large body of water. Barak engaged in this game, galloping at a slightly faster pace than his master. Sure, Matt was slower than a sheep but he was pretty fast as humans go. Barak found this surprising: Matt was obviously shorter than other boys his own age.
Matt loved running. He felt free, almost as if he was flying. The whole world became a blur as the redhead ran. He would never stop running! Never! Never! Nev-
Matt’s foot slammed into a protruding rock that he had failed to notice. He felt the jar even through his Nike sneakers. He was flung into the air, his expression of joy quickly changing to one of fright. He wanted to fly, but not like this! Everything seemed to slow down. He windmilled his arms in a hope that he’d slow down. He must’ve been going fairly fast, as he sailed a few metres past the shore and was staring into the depths of the murky lake.
SPLASH.
Matt seemed to do a perfect dive into the lake. Every nerve in his body screamed at the cutting cold temperature of the water. He flailed his arms and legs, regretting that he never took swimming lessons. He opened his mouth to scream, and only a few bubbles and a muffled noise came out. He was going to die! He flailed his arms faster, but the effort was futile. The waters still contained some winter chills. He stopped flailing. It was a record. One hour and he was already dying. Through semi-closed eyes he saw something orange deeper down. It meant nothing to him.
Yet the boy meant everything to the Orange. How dare this white, near-white and blue come tumbling into his territory? The Orange narrowed his brown eyes. He felt a little impressed by the White-NotWhite-Blue. It had dived a fair distance from the sand. But the lake belonged to the Orange (and a few of his siblings, but the Orange would never admit to that) and the White-NotWhite-Blue had just came in as if the world had belonged to it. He growled menacingly. The White-NotWhite-Blue had stopped. But this didn’t deter the Orange. He allowed adrenaline to fill his small, wiry muscles with immense power. He would convert this into speed energy as he launched his attack.
Letting loose a water-muffled battle cry, the Orange sped forth, slicing the water. It was his favourite attack: Quick Attack. It made him feel invulnerable. The White-NotWhite-Blue seemed oblivious to its impending doom, still floating there, a few bubbles rising from where the Orange guessed its mouth to be. The Orange screeched again. STILL ignoring him! He was close to the White-NotWhite-Blue now, and could see it was one of the big walkie things that usually lived on land. The Orange continued his attack, head-butting the walkie in the chest. The White-NotWhite-Blue walkie’s eyes opened in surprise.
Matt registered a mammalian creature ramming into him, knocking the last few dredges of breath out of his burning lungs. The orange creature was surprisingly strong, as the boy rocketed out of the water and onto the sandy shore. His lungs automatically took an enormous breath, savouring the life-giving oxygen wrapped in a delightfully scented package. Barak practically flew to his bewildered master, bleating with a melancholy tone. Matt absentmindedly petted him, staring out over the rippling waters in case the orange Pokemon surfaced.
Indeed he did. The Orange rose almost theatrically out of the water, walking out on stubby legs rather than bobbing up like its breed is famous for. As soon as they cleared the lake, its two tails began swishing madly. The inflatable collar of air around its neck was puffed up at least twice its usual size. Malice was the only word Matt could find that described the evil twinkle in its light brown eyes.
“It’s a Buizel,” Matt whispered, actually afraid of this short orange weasel. “Aren’t they native to Sinnoh? What’s one doing in Johto?” A part of Matt’s brain that liked goofing of figured out a few possible ideas, including it came from a lost egg. Possibly a Bad Egg due to its personality, it added. Matt believed one thing at that moment and one thing only- that small Buizel wanted to kill him.
And he was right. The Orange killed any intruders that he saw, unless they were a lot bigger than him like the huge blue snake thing with a huge mouth that a walkie had let out two weeks ago. Although this walkie was bigger than him, it was a particularly small walkie kit and it was scared. It had a Yellow Cloud close by. The Orange had not seen a Yellow Cloud before. “Bu-eeeeee!” the Orange hissed, karate chopping the air for effect. The Yellow Cloud frowned and stepped between the Orange and the Walkie.
Matt felt immensely grateful to the small sheep Pokemon. Even though he had sensed that Barak felt contempt to the bipolar child at times, he was risking his life to save him. Matt stood up, feeling a surge of determination washing through his body. He would help Barak beat the murderous Buizel. They would win.
“Buuuu-iiiiEEEEE!” the Buizel cried, taking a deep breath. Its cheeks puffed up, magnifying two tan stripes on either side of its face that Matt had not noticed before. A few streams of water trickled out of each side of its mouth. It seemed to exhale next, but instead of the customary Carbon Dioxide wafting out of its lungs a large jet of water rocket out of the agape jaw, heading to the faithful Electric Sheep.
“Dodge it!” Matt tried to command, but got only half way before the Water Gun piledrived into Barak. Matt rubbed his eyes, not from disbelief but from lake water that had seeped into his visor and leaked out the bottom, impairing his vision momentarily. The next thing he knew he was on his back, clothes sodden yet again. The cheeky bugger got him. Feeling angry at himself and the Buizel, he leapt up. Barak had also recovered and was standing next to the boy. The Buizel was preparing another Water Gun.
“Signal Beam!” Matt roared, pointing at the offending Pokemon. Barak’s tail began to glow, or more specifically the orb at the end of his tail. The light it was letting off was a faint green, and when cast upon the boy made him look quite ill. As the Buizel fired his Water Gun so did to Barak with his Signal Beam. Matt thought it looked like a thick, light green laser light, except laser lights don’t usually jag up and down to resemble a stock chart. When it hit the water stream it ceased its flight and fell to the ground, as if it was merely poured by a bucket. The Signal Beam eventually hit the aghast Buizel, who fell to the ground and began twitching madly.
Matt was about to celebrate his victory as the weasel got up, appearing slightly dazed but very much in one piece. It hissed loudly, yet it was not looking at Matt. It was looking as a nearby tree. The Buizel began rotating its arms madly, sand whipping up in a small tornado it was making. The winds around its arms were getting more furious; until with a screech of anger, it let the tornado loose on what it thought was Matt. The tornado zigzagged madly across its path, threatening to turn into a water spout as it neared the lake and then to die out as it went near the path. Alas, it hit true after a few gut-churning seconds and the tree shook madly. The tornado grew in size and ripped a few branches off the poor Camphor Laurel.
But the tree got its own back. One of the loose branches flew free of its captor and struck its tormentor down. The Buizel cried out in anguish. The hardy little thing staggered up, rubbing a wound on its forehead. Matt could tell it was close to defeat, but there had to be one more move; “THUNDER!” he yelled, eyes wide with anger. Barak’s wool began to spark slightly, rapidly growing in size. He was shimmering now. The Electric-Type bleated harshly as a streak of yellow lightning zipped out of his fur, headed straight for the terrified Water-Type. With an emphatic BOOM the electricity hit, the cries of the fried Buizel drowned out by the thunder.
Matt again rubbed his eyes, unable to see properly from the glare of the lightning. He squinted. The poor Buizel looked awful, fur singed black, twitching, and moaning piteously. Matt felt quite bad. Perhaps he’d better get it to the Pokemon centre. He knew he wouldn’t rest well unless he got this poor Pokemon some medical attention. Sighing, he realised he couldn’t carry it- it would only injure it further. So he plucked a Pokeball off his belt and flung it at the Buizel...
By Sloven (Yayyay!)
Note: This shall be a multi-capture story. Thankyou~
Chapter 1: The Orange
Target: Buizel
Range: Simple- 5k-10k
Achieved: 13 666 (OMG. I'm not gonna get it then T_T Darn unlucky numbers...)
Chomp, chomp, chomp.
The boy broke his focus away from his rough drawing. What was that noise? Confused, he scanned the room with his piercing blue eyes while remaining on his bed, curious if someone he didn’t know snuck in and had started to loudly eat a carrot. Satisfied that this was not the case, he returned to his work. It was going to be an elaborate picture for his mother’s birthday, which was today. He’d previously forgotten it and had to start working at one o’clock in the morning to have any hopes of getting the outline down and then scanning it onto his computer.
Chomp, chomp, crunch.
There it was again! Slightly rougher in sound, and seeming to originate from under his bed. Five-year-old fears began swirling in his mind after lying dormant for six years or so. When he was little he had a chronic fear of demonic-looking Pokemon, like his late father’s Houndoom. Through the miracle of night-lights he had conquered this fear, or so his mother thought. He began shaking slightly in terror.
Chomp, chomp, RIIIIP.
Oh, God, he thought fearfully. It’s eating Barak! Barak, a specially-bred Mareep, was his best friend since his only other human friend, Carlton, had began his own journey with a Buneary. Barak was specially bred as to be sensitive to the boy’s bipolar swings. He was a new type of service Pokemon, to allow mentally disabled children to go on their own journeys. What if in the middle of travelling on a mountain these sorts of kids had a depressed swing and flung themselves off? It was these Pokemon that kept them still and calm until someone came along or they came to their senses. They were usually bred by the local breeding centre near where the bipolar kids lived, and so he had obtained his by the kindly old couple near the outskirts of his home city, Goldenrod. If Barak was dead, he couldn’t start his journey after giving his mother the drawing!
But he could not dwell on these thoughts too long. He had to check what was really happening under his bed. Taking a deep breath, he manoeuvred so he was sitting on his knees at the left edge of the mattress. He reached down and gripped the splintery, wooden frame underneath said mattress and swung down, so that he could peer under the bed. His strawberry blond hair seemed to be electrified; as it attempted to drift down to the ground, ut held securely in place by his hair follicles. It was fairly dark under there, despite the main overhead light being on. His bed being pushed right into the corner didn’t really help. The boy squinted slightly, feeling pressure growing on his face as blood abandoned his abdomen in favour of the boy’s head. He could make out a faint, blurry cloud-like shape. A blue oval marked the front of the cloud, a golden orb connected by a thin tail to the cloud marked the end. The boy sighed in relief. No demon. “Barak, don’t eat my sheet,” he commanded, though it sounded like a request.
The small sheep Pokemon turned to his master. In his mouth was a strip of yellowed fabric, hanging out of both sides of his muzzle like drool mixed with pus. The ripped material had previously been stuffed down between the wall and the bed as the boy didn’t need it in the slowly rising spring heat. Barak gave a delighted bleat at hearing his master’s voice and trotted to the sourced of it, giving the boy’s head an affectionate butt before returning to chewing on the sheet. The boy gave a gentle smile and swung back up, to return to his piece of art.
~~~
“Happy birthday, Mum,” Matthew Pyre announced to a thin woman. Isabelle Pyre gently removed the cylindrical present from her son’s grasp. She smiled weakly. She was a sickly woman whose condition deteriorated after her husband had died three years ago. She had not cried about it once, but Matt knew there was something up with her. She requested that he do more and more things around the house. She had held him back from his journey for a year so he could continue working. Matt had contacted a maid service and asked for their help about a week ago, so Isabelle finally let her son loose.
Matt sat down on the fluffy pink doona, watching as his mother unwrapped the present, discarded the shiny plastic wrapping onto the carpeted floor. She frowned slightly when her present was revealed to be a cardboard tube, like a toilet roll for a very long man. Matt urged her to look inside. She poked a spindly finger into the tube and brought out a rolled up piece of paper. She unfurled it in a similar fashion to a pirate on old treasure movies, throwing a brightly coloured picture into the woman’s eyes.
The picture was, in style, cross in between real life and a cartoon. It featured the whole of the Pyre family: Matt, Isabelle, Noel Pyre (Matt’s father), Gard the Houndoom who continued to watch the Pyre abode for his late master, and Barak. The picture had its colours greatly brightened from real life, Isabelle’s straw coloured hair appeared golden and the eyes that the parent and child shared was dynamically more blue. For an eleven-year-old, Matt was extremely talented in art even if his other grades weren’t as good, as if it compensated for his extraordinary ability. His mother called him a mini Van Gough, as the famous artist had the same condition as the boy.
Isabelle smiled warmly at her son. She had fretted about ever seeing him again, but this picture would help her through lonely nights. She could remember the times when she had to comfort the boy when he woke up with wide, terrified eyes as he dreamt about the time his father was murdered to when he received his first Pokemon with more ease than without a reminder of him. She had immediately found this better than any photo, as Matt had made this himself. “Thank you,” she said, gratitude prominent in those two syllables. Matt smiled back. He loved the feeling of being praised and of being thanked.
“Mum, can I go now?” Matt asked blatantly. Isabelle merely nodded, her attention focused on the picture. Matt felt a delightful mix of excitement and euphoria welling up inside him, willing to burst with manic energy. He caught the eye of his partner, whose black eyes gave Matt the impression that the Pokemon was feeling the same as the bipolar child. “C’mon, Barak- I gotta get stuff from my room!”
The Pokemon bleated back something in reply. Matt wished he could understand Pokemon. He figured it would make his training days a fair bit easier. The eleven-year-old and the Mareep practically ran to Matt’s room, trying and almost failing to contain their excitement. Matt changed from his simple, long-sleeved pyjamas to clothes more suited for travelling- A dark blue vest that had a zip-on hood on the back, a white T-Shirt on underneath that, slightly baggy denim shorts and a visor for his head, the sort of cap without the top. Considering Barak was a service Pokemon, he had to stay out of his ball at all times. This was not possible without the blue bandana that Matt now tied around the Electric-Type’s neck, with the words “Service Pokemon” printed on said material.
Hoisting a backpack over his shoulders, twelve usable Pokeballs clipped to his magnetic belt, Matthew Pyre was prepared to face the outside world.
~~~
“Nnmph… Barak, no one told me it would be this boring!” The sheep looked up at his trainer sympathetically. No-one told him that he was to be the Pokemon of a manic-depressive kid! The world liked its secrets. Barak brooded on this for a little while.
The path Matt was walking along had been reduced to clay as many, many feet over many, many years had trampled on the grass. The air smelt sweet as a gentle breeze washed over flowers to the left of the child. A large-ish lake was present at his right. The boy kept his eyes trained at the ground. A stupid trainer law urged people to battle if they caught eyes. Matt envied autistic people. They seemed to dodge eyes as if other eyes contained a deadly plague! He couldn’t battle others at the moment, as he had a single Pokemon only.
“Oi. Sheep.” Barak snapped out of his philosophical thoughts and turned to look at his trainer. Sheep? How derogatory. Matt stared down at him with an unreadable expression. “LastonetothelakeisaBadEgg!” he cried suddenly, turning on his heel and darting to the large body of water. Barak engaged in this game, galloping at a slightly faster pace than his master. Sure, Matt was slower than a sheep but he was pretty fast as humans go. Barak found this surprising: Matt was obviously shorter than other boys his own age.
Matt loved running. He felt free, almost as if he was flying. The whole world became a blur as the redhead ran. He would never stop running! Never! Never! Nev-
Matt’s foot slammed into a protruding rock that he had failed to notice. He felt the jar even through his Nike sneakers. He was flung into the air, his expression of joy quickly changing to one of fright. He wanted to fly, but not like this! Everything seemed to slow down. He windmilled his arms in a hope that he’d slow down. He must’ve been going fairly fast, as he sailed a few metres past the shore and was staring into the depths of the murky lake.
SPLASH.
Matt seemed to do a perfect dive into the lake. Every nerve in his body screamed at the cutting cold temperature of the water. He flailed his arms and legs, regretting that he never took swimming lessons. He opened his mouth to scream, and only a few bubbles and a muffled noise came out. He was going to die! He flailed his arms faster, but the effort was futile. The waters still contained some winter chills. He stopped flailing. It was a record. One hour and he was already dying. Through semi-closed eyes he saw something orange deeper down. It meant nothing to him.
Yet the boy meant everything to the Orange. How dare this white, near-white and blue come tumbling into his territory? The Orange narrowed his brown eyes. He felt a little impressed by the White-NotWhite-Blue. It had dived a fair distance from the sand. But the lake belonged to the Orange (and a few of his siblings, but the Orange would never admit to that) and the White-NotWhite-Blue had just came in as if the world had belonged to it. He growled menacingly. The White-NotWhite-Blue had stopped. But this didn’t deter the Orange. He allowed adrenaline to fill his small, wiry muscles with immense power. He would convert this into speed energy as he launched his attack.
Letting loose a water-muffled battle cry, the Orange sped forth, slicing the water. It was his favourite attack: Quick Attack. It made him feel invulnerable. The White-NotWhite-Blue seemed oblivious to its impending doom, still floating there, a few bubbles rising from where the Orange guessed its mouth to be. The Orange screeched again. STILL ignoring him! He was close to the White-NotWhite-Blue now, and could see it was one of the big walkie things that usually lived on land. The Orange continued his attack, head-butting the walkie in the chest. The White-NotWhite-Blue walkie’s eyes opened in surprise.
Matt registered a mammalian creature ramming into him, knocking the last few dredges of breath out of his burning lungs. The orange creature was surprisingly strong, as the boy rocketed out of the water and onto the sandy shore. His lungs automatically took an enormous breath, savouring the life-giving oxygen wrapped in a delightfully scented package. Barak practically flew to his bewildered master, bleating with a melancholy tone. Matt absentmindedly petted him, staring out over the rippling waters in case the orange Pokemon surfaced.
Indeed he did. The Orange rose almost theatrically out of the water, walking out on stubby legs rather than bobbing up like its breed is famous for. As soon as they cleared the lake, its two tails began swishing madly. The inflatable collar of air around its neck was puffed up at least twice its usual size. Malice was the only word Matt could find that described the evil twinkle in its light brown eyes.
“It’s a Buizel,” Matt whispered, actually afraid of this short orange weasel. “Aren’t they native to Sinnoh? What’s one doing in Johto?” A part of Matt’s brain that liked goofing of figured out a few possible ideas, including it came from a lost egg. Possibly a Bad Egg due to its personality, it added. Matt believed one thing at that moment and one thing only- that small Buizel wanted to kill him.
And he was right. The Orange killed any intruders that he saw, unless they were a lot bigger than him like the huge blue snake thing with a huge mouth that a walkie had let out two weeks ago. Although this walkie was bigger than him, it was a particularly small walkie kit and it was scared. It had a Yellow Cloud close by. The Orange had not seen a Yellow Cloud before. “Bu-eeeeee!” the Orange hissed, karate chopping the air for effect. The Yellow Cloud frowned and stepped between the Orange and the Walkie.
Matt felt immensely grateful to the small sheep Pokemon. Even though he had sensed that Barak felt contempt to the bipolar child at times, he was risking his life to save him. Matt stood up, feeling a surge of determination washing through his body. He would help Barak beat the murderous Buizel. They would win.
“Buuuu-iiiiEEEEE!” the Buizel cried, taking a deep breath. Its cheeks puffed up, magnifying two tan stripes on either side of its face that Matt had not noticed before. A few streams of water trickled out of each side of its mouth. It seemed to exhale next, but instead of the customary Carbon Dioxide wafting out of its lungs a large jet of water rocket out of the agape jaw, heading to the faithful Electric Sheep.
“Dodge it!” Matt tried to command, but got only half way before the Water Gun piledrived into Barak. Matt rubbed his eyes, not from disbelief but from lake water that had seeped into his visor and leaked out the bottom, impairing his vision momentarily. The next thing he knew he was on his back, clothes sodden yet again. The cheeky bugger got him. Feeling angry at himself and the Buizel, he leapt up. Barak had also recovered and was standing next to the boy. The Buizel was preparing another Water Gun.
“Signal Beam!” Matt roared, pointing at the offending Pokemon. Barak’s tail began to glow, or more specifically the orb at the end of his tail. The light it was letting off was a faint green, and when cast upon the boy made him look quite ill. As the Buizel fired his Water Gun so did to Barak with his Signal Beam. Matt thought it looked like a thick, light green laser light, except laser lights don’t usually jag up and down to resemble a stock chart. When it hit the water stream it ceased its flight and fell to the ground, as if it was merely poured by a bucket. The Signal Beam eventually hit the aghast Buizel, who fell to the ground and began twitching madly.
Matt was about to celebrate his victory as the weasel got up, appearing slightly dazed but very much in one piece. It hissed loudly, yet it was not looking at Matt. It was looking as a nearby tree. The Buizel began rotating its arms madly, sand whipping up in a small tornado it was making. The winds around its arms were getting more furious; until with a screech of anger, it let the tornado loose on what it thought was Matt. The tornado zigzagged madly across its path, threatening to turn into a water spout as it neared the lake and then to die out as it went near the path. Alas, it hit true after a few gut-churning seconds and the tree shook madly. The tornado grew in size and ripped a few branches off the poor Camphor Laurel.
But the tree got its own back. One of the loose branches flew free of its captor and struck its tormentor down. The Buizel cried out in anguish. The hardy little thing staggered up, rubbing a wound on its forehead. Matt could tell it was close to defeat, but there had to be one more move; “THUNDER!” he yelled, eyes wide with anger. Barak’s wool began to spark slightly, rapidly growing in size. He was shimmering now. The Electric-Type bleated harshly as a streak of yellow lightning zipped out of his fur, headed straight for the terrified Water-Type. With an emphatic BOOM the electricity hit, the cries of the fried Buizel drowned out by the thunder.
Matt again rubbed his eyes, unable to see properly from the glare of the lightning. He squinted. The poor Buizel looked awful, fur singed black, twitching, and moaning piteously. Matt felt quite bad. Perhaps he’d better get it to the Pokemon centre. He knew he wouldn’t rest well unless he got this poor Pokemon some medical attention. Sighing, he realised he couldn’t carry it- it would only injure it further. So he plucked a Pokeball off his belt and flung it at the Buizel...