Here, the rain never stops. It patters on peacefully—safe in the knowledge of its immortality. The sun never shows. It hides behind the clouds, content to bring the full daylight elsewhere.

The things Below, however, do not last forever. Fleeting unto fleeting—life unto death, the rhythm of life has been done countless times before, and it will be done countless times to come. All heartbeats march on towards death. All breaths one day cease. No one runs forever.

The buizel had been running ever since there was light enough to see. A day's steps taken in perhaps a quarter-hour. At last, his burning legs gave out from beneath him. He collapsed, kicking up slugs of mud with his fall.

He gasped to catch his breath, propping himself up with his arms before his face sank too deep into the mud.

The exhausted weasel looked warily about him. The rain gently poured, but he couldn't hear the pattering over his own pounding heart and wheezing breaths.

There were small houses and shops on either side of the street—built on top of wide stone slabs to keep them from sinking into the ground.

Everything was dimly light that morning, and everything would stay dimly lit throughout the day. Rainy Town never saw the sun.

He let his head fall. Almost there, he thought, resting his neck. He watches as his arms finally sink to the stone underneath. It must've been a good four inches of mud before they stopped. Now, his racing heart begins to slow, his mind can now afford to recall what had happened.

The night before, a fierce hurricane swept through the region. All through the night he watched as the roof shuddered against the howling winds, and flinched at the creaks and groans of the wooden frame. And when the storm had given way to the peaceful pattering of the eternal Rainy Town drizzle, he knew his worries had just begun.

You see, a stranger appeared at his door amid the storm. Her voice—though hoarse—betrayed a foreign accent, and was barely loud enough to be heard above the howling wind. In the dim light, it took awhile for him to recognize the night-darkened form of a servine. He couldn't remember the last time he saw one. She had wrapped a Vine Whip around whatever she could find on his front porch, holding on for dear life against the wind. The side of her head was bleeding.

How could he deny a wounded wanderer?

With no candles (they were useless here), he ignited small luminous orb shards to give dim and fleeting light while he treated her wounds. A proper bandage for her head, a dry blanket for her shivering, a cup of fresh water, a small meal of what he had… She couldn't keep the last one down.

He worked in silence as the storm raged on—and he would remain silent, because he was astonished at what she had to say. I c-can't remember, she'd say in quivers. I can't remember…

Not a single thing?

No, not a single thing.

"You need rest, miss," he said, trying to explain her predicament.

So she rested, and he gladly offered his own bed in keeping with Jacobian hospitality. When the morning light came, however, he realized what she wore.

He had heard stories of those that wore storm-gray scarves like that. They called themselves the Union, sworn enemies of the Exploration Team Federation that would ravage the towns and exploration guilds in the northern provinces. Their leader claimed to be a human, sent from Above to save the world from the mystery dungeons, which had been spreading for the last few years. His followers were the most organized group of bandits the land had ever seen… That's what he'd heard.

What were they doing here, so far south?

So he left while she still slept, leaving a note at the door saying he would be getting medical supplies to treat her injuries. It was a difficult note to write: a complete lie.

He huffed, half-recovered. Further down, he spotted a sign that pointed the way: POLICE, it read.

It wasn't that far now… Maybe, he thought, maybe I can do something worthwhile. With his breath finally caught up to him, he picks himself up, and follows the sign, letting the rain clean the mud off his fur.

If only he had looked behind him. He would know she followed close behind.


The buizel, like many residents in Rainy Town, had a special talent. He could tell the time by how wet he was.

Soaked to the bone. Still morning.

For him, it was an instinct that comes with standing in the rain every waking hour, working jobs that never kept him, envying the apprentices of Swanna's Guild as they passed him by in the streets.

He wanted to be like them. He wanted to keep people safe; but he couldn't. He didn't pass their tests.

Some people wouldn't let him forget.

"Hello, Tom!"

He yelped as someone slapped his back, a loud smack pierced the silent dawn. A dewott passed into view with a cheeky grin. Tom did not return a smile.

He sucked in a breath of self-control. "Hello, Oliver," he greeted. "What was that for?"

The dewott threw out his arms in mock offense. "Wha-at?" he groaned. "I can't say hello? …What are you doing out so early?"

"None of your business."

The dewott hummed, seeming to let the matter go. Tom was about to move on when he stepped in his way, changing the subject.

"What are you these days?" Oliver asks. "I hear you got a new job. What's it...newsboy?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just that…" he looked away, hands behind his back. "... I thought you wanted to be something else. I think it was...an explorer?"

No reply.

He flinched again as Oliver laughed suddenly. "An explorer! That's right! What a joke!"

His laugh rang revoltingly in Tom's ears. That's right, he echoed. A joke.

"An explorer…and you can't seem to venture beyond Damp Forest."

Tom coughed, gently pushing him to the side. "Excuse me."

Oliver resisted. "Ah-ah. Hold on there."

"What?"

"You know, it is tantamount for my species to practice our techniques daily. I would like to spar with you."

The buizel laughed. "We both know you would win."

He pushed more aggressively. Oliver resisted just as much.

"I insist."

"Get out of my way," Tom barked, shoving now. His mistake.

Oliver shoved back, causing him to stumble with ease. Not a second later, the blade of a Razor Shell sat threateningly under his chin. It's blue aura was intense, catching the eye of bystanders

"I insist, Tom," he said.

He breathed, pushing it away, calm as he could, with the last of his patience.

"No."

Oliver stepped back a bit, not sure what to do. A moment, and he laughed.

… "Heh. You have some nerves, Tom. I'll give you that."

At last, he made way. He watched intently as Tom passed him. Waiting until he was just behind. He gripped a single scalchop, too calm for anyone to notice. A bright blue aura emerged slowly out of it—taking the gentle curve of a Razor Shell blade, and illuminating his calculating face. Oliver assumed the correct striking stance, and waited for the correct time. By the time Tom noticed, it was too late for him.

He struck swiftly and precisely, a long sweep from right shoulder to lower back. Tom cried out, his arms barely quick enough to break his fall.

"No wonder you failed," Oliver remarked. "You're too oblivious."

Tom gulped, but he couldn't swallow his pride. The police station, just a little ways further, blurred away in rage.

He was already defeated.

Oliver allowed him to stand and face him. Tom gritted his teeth. As he assumed a battle stance, he could only see red.

A small crowd starts to gather. It's a fight, said the rumors and the ruffians and the passersby. A dozen, maybe. Even guild members showed up. All likes gather, like those eager to watch the hanging, to watch the show.

"You were a washout then," Oliver taunted. "I'll prove you'll always be one."

Tom moves first.

He plants his feet, Water Gun shooting out. Oliver replies with a well-aimed Water Gun of his own. The two attacks meet, and the great crashing sound obliterated the once silent dawn. Stream opposed to mighty stream, each eager to prove they were stronger.

Tom flinched first, ducking down as Oliver's Water Gun prevailed—sailing overhead.

A breath of courage, and the buizel takes his turn. Leaping forth, he engulfs himself in churning water, and surges forward like a guided missile.

Oliver grins, knowing just the counter. He evades at the final moment before Tom hit. The dewott's arm glows white, and he strikes down hard on the Tom's spine. The Brick Break shatters his charge.

The buizel cries out, tumbling as the Aqua Jet's momentum carries him through the waterlogged mud.

He struggled to stand. His feet sank further than he anticipated. The mud had deepened from their attacks, and now he struggled to find sure footing.

Inspiration.

He forgets standing up. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw: Oliver draws a single scalchop. A bright blue aura grows out of it, hardening into the distinct blade of a Razor Shell. The dewott approaches, and he waited for the right time. Closer, closer

He seized his chance.

Bringing his split tail round, he swung at Oliver's ankles. The Aqua Tail sweeps him off his feet. The dewott yelps, falling to the quagmire, sending mud to the humid wind.

Tom winces from the move, his back still reeling, but he didn't have time to rest.

Oliver growls. Lifting his face out of the mud with one arm, he swings the Razor Shell with the other, slashing at his feet, kicking up more mud.

Tom scurries back, struggling to avoid the attacks. The traction-less slop now working against him. Through sheer fright, he managed to struggle away.

For a moment, they were separated. For a brief time, they stood opposite one another, catching their breath, wiping their face, regaining their footing.

Mud-drenched monuments to their own pride. The filthy earth sliding down their arms and backs as the ever-present rain drowned out all the other faces, and voices, and commotion. The crowd had grown—a dozen more now.

"Not bad!" Oliver called. "But you can't keep dodging forever!"

"It's called Swift Swim!"

With a growl, he drew his second Razor Shell. "It's called cowardice!"

Tom only blinked, and Oliver had closed the distance. His momentum was unstoppable. Backstep after backstep was forced on Tom as blade after blade sliced at him. Not a blow landed, but his courage was cut to pieces.

His back hit hard on a wall. His heart sunk as a Razor Shell was thrust forth like a rapier. He ducked to the left, in time to have it land just left of his cheek, shaving off a whisker.

Oliver was relentless, bringing the second blade to bear. Tom struggled to keep his footing as he rolled across the wall. The second strike landed, flying mortar stung Tom's face as he barely escaped.

But the move had made him dangerously off-balance. Oliver was right. He couldn't keep dodging forever.

Oliver seized his chance. He swung right with the back of his fists, bringing across a devastating Brick Break.

His face took the whole of the blow. His neck swung, his feet launched off the ground. For a moment he was weightless in the air. Suddenly the world was suspended. Darkness.

When Tom managed to wrestle back his consciousness, the dewott was standing over him, anger beaming from his eyes. He had retrieved his scalchops, and two Razor Shells were hanging over his head. Tom's vision was still spinning, but he managed to muster a few words, arm raised in protection.

"I forfeit…you win!"

"You don't deserve—!"

Oliver never finished, disappearing in a fierce gale, and a torrent of small leaves—glowing sharp with aura energy—rushed through, mistifying any drops of rain that dared to fall in its path. Tom ducked his head under his arms, eyes squeezed shut as the storm whirled above. The howling wind. The flurry. The startled crowd. The noise. Already dazed, he couldn't help but think he was losing his mind. Had the hurricane returned?

But the storm quickly passed, and the wind died away. The noise quieted, and the rain fell again at his face. Tom found the courage to open an eye,

then the other.

He looked around wearily. Oliver lay unconscious, upside down against the wall. He glanced the other way to see the servine a few yards off, standing triumphantly.

The crowd quickly began to thin as now-terrified onlookers skitter away. Only some guild members remained, but they only stared, unsure what to do.

"Howdy, folksss," she said, accidentally letting slip a serpentine hiss.

She cleared her throat. "He's with me."

Thoroughly shaken, Tom sat himself up, the servine helping him to his feet with a Vine Whip wrapped a little too tightly around his arm. The onlookers murmur frightfully.

"You okay there?" she asked with an assertive tug. "Come on, let's getcha home."

She marched off, pulling him along. He reluctantly followed, not sure what else to do. The grass type was too dangerous to be resisted. He gritted his teeth nervously, feeling the weight of a hundred eyes upon them as they hurried away. They disappear down the street, the rain their cloak.


AN

Credits to Knightfall66's Pokemon Mystery Dungeon: Overthrown for the idea of using Luminous Orb shards for light. I definitely recommend his work for the refined style and detail.

I tried my best to incorporate details of the pokedex entries for buizel and dewott in the battle scene. Tom had the benefit of a better speed stat, but was unable to overcome Oliver's greater discipline and well-practiced techniques. Of course, a well-exploited type advantage is bound to trump even that. Hopefully, it worked out well enough to be entertaining.

Chapter 2: Pursuit is in the works! I have a better idea of what I'm doing now, so hopefully it won't take another 13 months to get it published haha.

Thanks for stopping by! Your viewership is always appreciated. ^^

Happy living!