A/N As I am a huuugggee fan of both the Hunger Games and Pokemon, I was trolling around the internet this afternoon and had a sudden thought: What if the two were combined? Answer: Lots of blood.
Thus, this short little not-quite-a-drabble piece. It's not going anywhere, not really. I don't have any plans to continue it. The use of tense keeps changing between past and present, but I'm too lazy to fix it. This isn't that good. I just needed to get it out there.
The main character is Brendan Birch (I prefer to call him Seth, but whatever), and his pokemon was influenced by the begining sequence of Giratina and the Sky Warrior (if you pay attention to the opening credits, you'll see what I mean!). I had to fix it though, as I hardly think a seventeen year old could have a reasonably rare, fully-evolved pokemon (I prefer the idea of realistic pokemon yolo).
Hope you enjoy, yadda yadda. :)
As I ascended towards the surface, I felt my heart rate pick up.
Without thinking, I let my fingers brush against the cool surface of the pokeball on my hip, tracing over the slight ridge of the release button. This was the 57th Annual Hoenn Hunger Games, and at this precise moment in time, I had only one weapon.
As the glass tube broke the surface, the glare of the sun forced me to shield my eyes. Sheer white light flooded my gaze until my sight adjusted, leaving the battlefield before me. This world seemed under-saturated, as if the fierce sunlight drained all colour. Slowly, I took in my surroundings.
Twenty four other tributes stood on circular platforms either side of me, forming a great ring. In the middle lay the Cornucopia, a harsh, modern atrocity – it seemed to be covered in some kind of reflective surface – the structure springing out of the ground like a bundle of thorns.
I had been waiting for this moment. My life had only ever been about one thing: the Hunger Games. My childhood had traipsed along this rhythmic pounding, each beat of my juvenile heart mimicking the countdown clock, the remaining tributes, the cannon fires, victory fanfare. An only child to parents of no great importance, it seemed like I was destined for the arena. My household was draped with an oppressive knowledge that someday, I would be the District 9 'Lavaridge' tribute. Sure, there were other kids. Some families even worse off than our own. But you don't get to seventeen, with your submitted name increasing year by year, without suffering some form of fallout.
For seventeen years I had been waiting to do my District proud. I had been waiting to fulfil my macabre destiny.
Adrenaline hit my bloodstream like a shot of ice; my breath hitched. Leaning forward slightly, I put my weight on the balls of my feet, ready to spring forth like a seviper. My head pounded with the heat of the overhead sun.
The arena was a dusty, rocky expanse. It seemed undecided between a mountainous region and a desert – in the far distance, off to my right, slight ridges punctured the otherwise unbroken horizon line. Maybe there were caves in those hills.
My heart raced.
11, 10, 9, 8…
I increased my grip on the pokeball. In my peripheral vision, I noticed the other District 9 tribute, three platforms away from me. Dark sweat stains streaked down the front of her shirt, hair pulled back into two tight ponytails. Her eyes were enormous with fear.
5, 4, 3…
I held my breath. Go!
Before most of the other tributes had time to react – the signalling cannon fire deafeningly loud, ricocheting off the huge boulders littering the field – I leapt from my platform.
My brain seemed to go blank. Shooting over the dusty ground, jumping over rocks and dodging a sudden burst of fire, I ran for the camouflage backpack on the fringe of the Cornucopia's bounty. Snatching it up with my left hand, I wheeled back into the fray, eyes pinned to the hills in the distance. Between the Cornucopia and that oasis lay what seemed like miles and miles of desert, occasionally interrupted by impossibly huge rocky outcrops.
As I passed the ring of platforms, a terrific pain flared along the back of my right calf, and I stumbled.
"Fuck!"
Blinded by sudden tears, I forced myself to keep running. Behind me, I heard the ever-distancing sounds of the carnage. Pokemon and human screams mingled with increasing fervour. In the back of my mind, I thought I heard a spray of gunfire, but by then I'd dashed into the shadows of the rocky arena, and into my journey for the caves.
A few hours later, I forced myself to take refuge underneath a great overhanging shelf of sandstone.
The immediate, cool shadow was bliss after the ferocious heat of the midday sun. Collapsing against the wall, I slid to the ground, gritting my teeth against the burning pain of my leg.
Gingerly dropping my backpack and unclenching a fist from my pokeball, I propped my left leg up off the dirty ground.
The entire back of my calf is a blistering red mess. Charred bits of flesh fringe the cavernous hunk of the missing muscle. Now that I've stopped moving, it seems impossible that I had been able to run this far in the first place.
Willing myself to remain impassive (who knows where the cameras are; it's this thought that causes me to glance up at the cornflower blue sky, struck with fear), I dug a hand into my backpack and dragged it between my legs.
"Come on, lady luck," I murmured. It'll probably be a week or so until I see another tribute, and the sound of my own voice will be the only thing keeping me from going insane. Well, that and…
Like how a pregnant woman constantly touches her belly, reassuring herself of the life growing within her, I let my fingers trip over the pokeball at my hip. I'll have to let him out sometime, but a perverse side of me wants to keep my pokemon a secret. The other victors and viewers of the Games know who he is, of course, but with any luck, they might have forgotten the meek, slender kid from District 9 and his pathetic 4/12 score.
This isn't the time to get sentimental. The contents of my backpack are hardly anything to get worked up about: an empty water canister, a silver tarpaulin, ten packets of tauros jerky, and a pair of binoculars. Right at the bottom, though, I found a thin roll of white bandages and a short switchblade.
In terms of weaponry, it's not looking good, but the bandages must be a sign of some deity. With inelegant glee, my calf is wrapped tightly and efficiently with the entire roll. I should have sued some water to clean off the wound, but it's unlikely I'll find a convenient pool within hobbling distance.
I packed up the rest of the bag, slinging the binoculars around my neck and tucking only the switchblade into the pocket of my regulation khaki shorts. Hauling myself to my feet, I shielded my face from the sun and took in my surroundings.
The sides of the arena must have fed into this maze of a canyon, as far away on the right I can seen the gleam of the Cornucopia. The flat surface of the arena was some kind of illusion, then. I grabbed the binoculars and gaze out towards the hills. Before, I could only make out faint smudges, but now I can see that the hills are in fact some kind of gigantic rock shelf. Almost as if the entire arena was a rocky fishbowl.
Checking my meagre possessions, I head towards the edge of the arena – and hopefully to some caves. Ignoring the possibility of a Gamemaker's sick idea to drive the tributes closer together, I might be able to hide out until the very last waves of the Game. Then I can come out, all guns blazing.
I've only managed a mile or so before my leg gives out.
"Shit." I crawled towards a slim shadow beneath a boulder, hiking up the lip of my shorts to inspect the bandage. Although already a bit dirty, there's a faint red smudge right over the yawning gap of the wound. "Fantastic."
The sun in the sky indicates it's only early afternoon. If I wait until dusk, there's a chance I might be found by some other tribute. Not only that, but my throat feels like a dried leaf and my head is swimming. I'm not unused to heat – I am from District 9, after all – but this weather in the arena was unnatural (which, come to think of it, probably was).
Suddenly overcome with fury, I pound a fist into the ground. My pokemon was supposed to remain a secret! He's hardly a small creature, and who knows how visible he'd be in this environment…
Shaking, I gulp down some humid air and force myself to remain calm. Anger is one of my many vices, but I had to stay cool for really only one reason.
"Don't let Them see your true colours, Brendan." My mentor's face swam before me, his white eyebrows furrowed with concern over glazed blue eyes. "You gotta keep up the image created for you, understand?"
According to the Games, I was Brendan Birch: son of hot spring miners; a 'career' tribute; rock, ground, and fire-type pokemon specialist; dazzling charm.
According to my pathetic parents, I was Brendan Birch: failure.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed the pokeball from my side and, holding it at arm's length, pressed the small release button twice.
On the first push of the button, the black and white sphere grew to the size of an orange. On the second press, it burst open, sunlight mingling with the white bolt of energy and the decorative yellow stripe design.
The whiteness grew and moulded itself into a creature two and a half metres tall. Bulky in size, the light eventually faded, leaving the ultra ball to snap shut.
"Rhydon."
My impressive pokemon raised himself up to his full height, dark grey scales muted against the palette of ochre rock. The gigantic horn-come-drill on his nose protruded a good forty centimetres, the bone thick and deadly.
Meeting my gaze, Rhydon gave a low rumble of affection. Despite my previous reluctance, I grinned in response.
"Hey, buddy," I greeted, lifting a hand and stroking the cool slate-like texture of his cheek. "We're in the Games, now. You ready for this?"
Rhydon nudged his face closer to my hand and growled, his reptilian eyes closing briefly in happiness. Smiling, I hobbled closer to him, gritting my teeth against the pain of my leg.
"Up." Despite a Rhydon's peculiar ability of forgetfulness, this command was familiar. Lowering his body to the ground, Rhydon placed his front arms on the ground and took my weight easily as I slid clumsily onto his shoulders. Gripping the odd frills either side of his ears, I made sure I was at least somewhat comfortable. I tapped Rhydon's right frill, and he raised himself slowly, adjusting to this additional weight.
"You okay?" I asked, absently stroking his cheek. "We're heading towards those hills in the distance."
Rhydon growled again and moved forward, his huge, lurching gait hardly unseating me at all. I'd trained Rhydon ever since I'd found him as a young rhyhorn in the surrounding mountains of District 9. He was a help to my parents, who both worked in the mines, opening up channels for precious hot spring water to run towards the Capitol. He only evolved this past winter, six years in training. His new form was still sometimes awkward – I was still getting over the sheer power contained underneath his diamond-hard scales – but he was a welcome change to the mindless persistence of a rhyhorn.
As we moved out of the shadows and into the beating rays of the sun, I sat up a little taller, my heart bursting with pride.
I was going to win these Games. I was going to win with my one pokemon by my side, bringing prestige to my humid, coal-black District.
My name is Brendan Birch. I will be the 57th victor of the Annual Hoenn Hunger Games.
Feeling dizzy with thirst and daydreams, I hardly noticed the figure ten metres away or the tiny, blue pokemon by her side.
As I caught sight of them, Rhydon bellowed in alarm, there was a heaving wave of water, and the world went black.