Author's Note— I've put a dark twist on the world of Pokémon. I know this story will not be for everyone, but I'd love more than anything to hear the thoughts of you who read through this mad tale. Brace yourself.
Chapter I
There is nothing I hate more than traveling at night.
Actually, that's not true. There are far worse things in the world—dark and wicked and unthinkable things—that I hate much more than traveling at night. I wouldn't even mind venturing into the nighttime if only the dark and wicked and unthinkable things didn't show their horrid faces every time the sun slipped below the horizon. Dusk is no longer a time of peace and beauty around here; it is a time of warning. It is a time of deadbolts slamming into place and blinds flurrying shut and lights snapping off, always leaving Lumiose City in quite the opposite state of what the great capital's name seems to imply.
I was young when this Era of Darkness began. Young and naïve enough to not fully understand the dread that would befall the Kalos Region—but old enough to remember my father telling me there was nothing to worry about, that the trainers wouldn't let conflict plague the land and in just two short years at the age of ten I would be a trainer too and help my father fight.
But that was then.
Now, conflict most certainly plagues the land. Now, trainers are scared and weak and few and far, far between. Most wear the sunken-eyed, grey-haired, defeated look of my father. It is a sad, heart-wrenching expression of having witnessed the demise of something irreplaceable—the look of having lost a loved one.
I call it the look of the Ghost Trainer.
My father was once great though; he once blazed with the grandeur of Lumiose city itself, one of the most elite trainers of his time. He fought long and hard against the Flare and the rise of the Dark Era until one night he came home limping, cut and bloody and bruised—his fingers clenching a single Poké Ball. I caught a glimpse of his eyes then, as black as the bags were under them and withdrawing from the world with every passing moment, displaying to me a mixture of disorientation and agony. At that moment I decided I wanted to run from Lumiose City. It hit me like a punch to the gut: if my father couldn't stop the Flare, no one could. As he collapsed to the floor that night following the battle that reduced him to a Ghost Trainer, I couldn't help but recall the six Poké Balls he had strapped around his waist when he left the apartment that morning. His belt was empty upon his return, save for the sole Poké Ball he still gripped in his hand even as he folded into unconsciousness.
That was three years ago. Now, at the age of sixteen, I still live in Lumiose City with my father. Leaving him—especially at his weakest—was not something I could do. I tried to convince my father to go with me, to escape the city while we could, to flee from the Kalos Region altogether, but it took months for him to even speak again. For months he drifted through each day in a haze without the slightest acknowledgement of me—and without releasing his grip on his last Poké Ball. Whatever happened to him that night will stay with him forever, and is something I never want to experience. I may have given up on my father back then if it weren't for Professor Ashoka.
Ashoka's always been quirky fellow. No matter the hour on the clock, whenever I see the man he is full of life and vigor, his energy knowing no bounds. He is clever and remarkably intelligent in spite of his hot temper; a gleam of mischievousness eternally dances in his eyes that are framed by crow's feet from decades of both laughter and ire. Despite his elder age, his hair is a perfect shade of black—my father, younger than the professor, went grey before the older man. I don't know the origins of their friendship . . . only that it's an ancient one.
The professor nearly lived at our apartment through the months of my father's depression. He would tell me that we needed to give my father time. Not long after that he lost his patience and resorted to yelling at the man. Then he would change his tone and plead with him, beg him for something so much as eye contact. My father, for the longest time, never responded. I began to lose faith that he would ever recover, and when Ashoka saw the disheartenment in me he snapped on my father, cursed him and yelled at him and accused him of not even loving me, his rage growing until he grabbed my father by the collar of the shirt and with his free hand ripped my father's last Poké Ball from his grasp, launching it over his shoulder without a care as he continued to shout until tears began to form in the very corners of his eyes. Only with the clatter of the Poké Ball hitting a wall and dropping to the floor did I see my father's eyes begin to focus. The hand that once held the Poké Ball clenched into a fist, his mind subconsciously searching for something that was supposed to be there, and anger flicked across my father's face with the realization that the precious object was missing. With a whir his knuckles collided with the jaw of the man before him who hadn't stopped yelling long enough to notice the instantaneous change in my father's features.
Ashoka hit the ground on his hands and knees, an immediate silence clipping over the room. I wanted to scream at my father, how could he attack the man who was trying to help him—but the professor, although pressing his hand to his face in significant pain, looked up at my father and broke into a smile, then leapt to his feet and embraced his old friend in a hug. At the insanity of it all I couldn't help but smile too as my father looked over at me, the fog clearing from his eyes. He told me he was sorry. His days of not speaking were over. Little did I know back then, his days of Pokémon training were.
He still wears the look of the Ghost Trainer to this day, three years later. He has never truly recovered from his final battle, but he is better than he once was thanks to Professor Ashoka's mad methods.
I am still not a trainer. I gave up wanting to be when I saw what became of my father that night. How could a man who was once so great and tall—who was once my hero—shrink to the figure now curled up in bed across the room? He snores gently as I know his last Poké Ball is hidden safely in our two room apartment. Outside, snow falls.
The Flare force us to live this way. To live these restricted, stressful lives. The night is when they are worst—I've witnessed more beatings than a sixteen year old should, all from peering out of our boarded-up windows at frightened Lumiose survivors scuttling around past nightfall . . . then being caught by Flare brutes. They do it simply because they can, the Flare. They attack without reason, unleash the fury of their sociopathic Pokémon on the defenseless citizens. In fact, it's better to be without a Pokémon if caught by the Flare, because the punishment for having one is far, far worse than merely being spotted roaming after dark. Carrying a Pokémon is a death wish.
Which is why, when I hear a curious scratching at the door of our apartment in the dead of night, a dreaded feeling in my gut tells me it can only end badly. I want to ignore it, to roll over and squeeze my eyes shut and forget about the helpless noise, leave it in the cold. But when I close my eyes, I see the Flare wreaking havoc on innocent civilians, my father being assaulted from all angles, Professor Ashoka himself with his back against the wall—and myself, trapped behind an invisible barrier in the distance, watching everything I care about being laid to waste. And as the scratching persists, a tiny spark ignites within me, saying, You don't have to live this way. Here I am. Fight with me.
I step out of bed and go to the door.
Lucan. My lab. NOW.
PS— Get acquainted.
Her name is Fury.
That is all that is written on the scrap piece of paper that I take out of the baby Vulpix's mouth. She has a black scarf tied with care around her neck. Her fur is a soft hue of orange while the curly, tangled mane on top of her head is a blood red, matching her six tails. Her eyes are brown and warm, staring up at me with all the hope and love in the world. She pants small bursts of fire, an effort to stay warm in the cold.
I cannot help but break into a grin at the sight of her. It has been six years since I've seen a Pokémon that didn't have the crazed look of the Flare in its eyes. My father's Lucario . . .
But I have no time to reminisce. A few inches of snowfall make the night silent and muffled—and, fortunately, make it easier to pick up on the thunder of footsteps in the distance, shouts echoing, calling, "It went this way!" They are tracking the Vulpix. To the Flare, a rogue Pokémon is nothing more than a threat that must be neutralized.
I panic and feel the blood drain from my face. I scoop up the Vulpix with shaky arms, not quite noticing when she nibbles my hand. With one arm I pull the door shut behind me and slam the deadbolt into place, the other arm keeps the Vulpix pressed against my chest. She squirms and lets out a slight whine.
"Fury! Shh!" I hiss, knowing if we're discovered, we're doomed.
My father stirs from all the commotion. His tired muscles pull himself into a slumped, somewhat upright position, and I watch his silhouette reach for the light.
"Dad, don't!" I whisper harshly.
Light fills the room.
My father squints, rubs his eyes for what seems like an eternity as I stand in the middle of the room, heart pounding, eyes wide, arms wrapped protectively around Fury, snow in her fur and sweat in my hair. When my father finally focuses his eyes on the scene he simply reaches back over and flicks off the light.
"Lucan." He speaks after a moment. I hear a Flare's Mightyena barking menacingly in the distance. Growing closer.
"Yeah, Dad," I respond, out of breath from fear.
My father speaks slowly and deliberately. "You are going to make an amazing trainer."
He stands up and crosses the room, his eyes meeting mine in the darkness. I stand dazed as he embraces me in a hug. "I love you, son."
"What?" With one arm I hug him back, the other still wrapped around Fury. "Trainer? Dad, I-I love you too . . . but what do you mean—" My father pulls away, and my stammering words are caught in my throat as I see the round red and white object he offers to me in the shadows.
"Take this," he says solemnly.
"But it's yours."
"Do not protest."
I hesitate, then close my fist around the Poké Ball. With this motion, my father gives me a nod and moves to the door. I stand frozen in place, confused and afraid, wishing I had never opened the door to this Vulpix.
"Lucan, I need you to do one more thing for me . . ." He says grimly.
He opens the door. Snow blows inward and he steps out, drawing the attention of the Flare mongrels who have just turned a corner and sighted him, the sounds of their bloodthirsty Pokémon howling and racing forward, eager to attack.
"Dad! Don't!" I cry.
I watch as he takes a runner's stance, and for some twisted reason my mind can't make sense of what is taking place. Time is moving in slow-motion as my father turns to me for one final instant and shouts:
"Lucan, I need you to RUN!"
Then he takes off.
I race to the door and watch in grief-stricken horror as my father sprints out into the snow toward the three Flare members and their Mightyenas, only to be overcome moments later by a torrent of claws and fangs, dragged to the ground.
I hear his cry of pain. I cringe and call for him. The Flare ravagers look up, notice the blonde-haired boy lingering worriedly in the snow with his Vulpix, and they point fingers in my direction, shout, try to command their soulless Pokémon to charge at me. Then, as if mechanically, my feet begin to carry me in the opposite direction—toward Professor Ashoka's lab.
I squeeze Fury to my chest so tightly she whimpers. My feet pound through the snow.
I do not stop running the entire way.
