(Well this is it! I can't believe it! My first real, novel-length fic! I've spent over a year on it, and although I'd love to say it's perfect…it's not. I'm just starting out with real novel-length stuff, so I'd love for you tell me what you think, even if you think it's utter crap…better than staying silent! Without further ado, on with the story!)
(Special thanks to KeepItM and Nigel Yearning for their invaluable beta assistance. Be sure to check their stories as well. I have done several rewrites of this work; this is the final work.)
(Disclaimer: Contains strong language and graphic violence. Discretion is advised. I do not condone or support any of the illicit/immoral acts mentioned in the story. Pokémon and its trademarked characters/names do not belong to me.)
Oyster Shells
by Micah Debrink
Chapter 1
Well, hello there. I'm a samurott, the name's Mack. I've had about twelve trainers thus far. They've been all very nice to me and given me everything I want, with a little coercing that's all. The last one I had was total pleasure. Felt so great when she touched me. She was obviously impressed at my power, but I was more impressed at her power, to captivate. She was one of the best games I've played.
How long has it been since I actually decided to sit at a table a write about my thoughts? There are way too few blank sheets in my notebook. Too much of my time occupied with trainers and my assigned activities. They want me for my power. I can deliver the most badass Hydro Pump you'll ever experience. I've got one page for every opponent I've knocked out. I'd be killing trees if I didn't put these sheets of paper to use soon.
I grew up in the wild, right around Undella Town. I still remember those days as an oshawott. What if he'd been writing this? Or sitting right beside me, watching me write this? The young oshawott: what'd he tell me? Why did you do that? That's so mean! Heh. Maybe he'd puke. Maybe his face would cringe in revulsion of his older self. Maybe he'd just scurry away from me. Oshawott would just leave me. That fucking bastard would disown me, for Arceus sake! Yes, I'm a self-hater. I can't see that happen. Where did the years go? Where did Oshawott go? "Oshawott is trapped. I needed to free Oshawott. Show him the great sights of the world, the great adventure I have experienced."
Because people say I have done something despicable, I plead you, to listen to me with open ears, and do not let them dissuade you. They say I have no profundity in me. They say I was a ruthless serial killer, the lowliest of the already-lowliest pokémon. That I should be euthanized like all the other humans. The newspapers give me the title, "Pokémon Killer, On the Loose: 10 Trainers Dead." What I have accomplished…is more valuable. It's not worth the P200 Sunday paper headline. It's an adventure, a realization, vices expressed out; maybe all of the above. What you will read is not the prettiest story you have read. But do all great events in history have to have pretty pasts? Just look at the wars. Victory is celebrated at its dusk, but in its shining day, it claims many lives.
I call myself Mack. Mack, the brave army general. Four shining stars. My weapon of choice. Not my built-in seamitar, no. I prefer something wielder. A long sharp katana, if I can get my hands on it. The mystique of human weaponry just fascinates me. What power do humans have without their brains? Nothing. What power do I have with my attacks? Not as much as the humans. That's the thing. Brains, intelligence, can solve everything.
That's why I've been trying to become more like a human. I've since learned how to read, write, and speak human language. And I've experimented with some of their more peculiar habits. One in particular that of "the player." There's a single great power with this behavior. It brings out the pokémon in humans, brings them to my level so I can trap them more easily. And being a player full-time has its perks. The minute you lose the game, no worries. You just find and put in a new game until you lose that one. But the games are always coming, like a free subscription. Didn't I tell these humans are a clever bunch? Who cares where the old games end up? They're tired, old, broken after hard play, who wants them anymore? They're probably in some dump, some junkyard. Maybe I should be the bulldozer, plowing the trash into the incinerator. I'm trying to forget it all, hoping it'd be as easy as letting it go in a ball of flames. But the games of past, as they burn, will always leave some indelible fume, some mark on you.
Having been through so much in life, let's say I'd become bit jaded. My standards were raised so high I couldn't reach it by standing on hind legs with my seamitar clutched. Unfulfilled goals and an empty, despondent heart. But then he introduced me to the katana. It felt so much lighter and comfortable than my own sword. It was longer, and reached further up, only pushing the bar higher. All twelve of them…each one was a stepping stool so I could once more reach that new, higher standard I set for myself. A stack of stepping stools, one on top of the other. One, two three. But then after, eleven, twelve, you realize you're wobbly. How many stepping stools are you perched on? How high up are you? And then you ask yourself: is this really the standard you need, or even truly want? The one you want to uphold on yourself and others? You look below to the ground, the time where there were no stepping stools, no katana. Just you and your Arceus-given seamitar. It's absolutely frightening up here.
You kinda want to go back to that lower, simpler place. When nothing had to be exactly to a T. You were just exploring, trying to find what suits you, what fits you perfectly. But then you forgot to account for your growth. The suit doesn't fit you anymore. It's itchy and tight now. You struggle to get it off, ruining that perfect suit and it's perfect folds and creases. And in the midst of struggle, you tumble back down to the floor, having been perched up precariously on all those stepping stools. You hit bottom. Hard. And you meet your old friends. The oysters: those shitty bottom feeders. My body languishes from the tumble, the Great Fall. I think I can see those oysters again. I have a concussion right now. So I'll try to this with as much lucidity as I can.
I'm reflecting on what I've done. A katana is a powerful weapon of destruction. I keep mine sharp so it is also intelligent. Its intelligence has slain number twelve. I see my reflection in the pool of blood gushing out of my trainer, flowing like a slow river into the storm drain. I'm satisfied that the rain will wash away this horror; this bottom-feeder filth. There's another dream above me, ripened from years of curiosity, learning, and wisdom. I've brought eleven lovely humans to their demise. Just because I'm a pokémon, they say, doesn't mean I should be treated differently. They call me a cold-blooded killer. But I am a vampire in a sense. I've fed off these warm-blooded bodies that have trained me. I've fed off some of their courage, their strength, their morals. I think I'm a little braver now. I'm brave enough to put this all down on paper, to say these souls did not die in vain. I beg you to see my side, the side of wisdom. They will never see or understand me: only the wise can see the wise. Only the ones who value the pearl will appreciate it truly. I hope you are the persnickety sort of gem expert.
Now it's all over, maybe there are some things I should have done with her: trainer number twelve. There're some things I've always wanted to try.