Author's Note: Aaaay, I finally remembered the codeword to this account~ ;u;

Anyways. This is based off of the creepypasta/bootleg game known as Pokemon Black. Which seems to be a popular fic topic nowadays, I've noticed... Anyways! You can find it here: /post/866743831/super-creepy-pokemon-hack

I hope you enjoy. c: Part Two (which will hopefully be more climatic) will be coming your way soon.

xxx

Was one truly the loneliest number?

He remembered wondering that very question many years ago. He'd disregarded it as being a lyric to a song only his mother could love before, but as time past, he'd found more of an answer to that question than he could have asked for.

He remembered it all so fondly. The soft fabric of his pricy sweater against his clutched fingers, the look of utter horror in the eyes of the other boy. Tears. This cocky little bastard, the very one who'd been running circles around him, mocking him since day one… now crying for mercy in his hands. It gave him a sort of sick satisfaction from the irony. Shame, grief, pity… They had all melted away long ago. He had won. That was all that mattered.

At ten, he'd been different. At ten, he'd kept his head down, saying not a word but 'yes' or 'no' if he could help it. He'd taken his rival's jeering in stride, trying to ignore his words. It'd always been like this, after all- he should have guessed that receiving a Pokemon by no means meant escape from his role as designated punching bag for the old professor's grandson. No, the competition he'd tried to avoid before was intensified between them, starting from the moment he arrived in the lab.

His bitter hate for everything his rival stood for, his own private desires for power… Perhaps that was where it came from.

He wasn't sure entirely where it had really originated; when he'd first arrived at the Viridian City Pokemon Center to heal his Bulbasaur, however, an additional Poke ball had sat on the tray. When he'd asked the kindly nurse about it, she gave him an odd look. "What Pokeball?" She had asked. "There's only one there. Regardless, we hope to see you again!"

Well, the Center was filled with trainers both young and old that day- perhaps she was too busy and hadn't taken a good look. She'd made a mistake was all. He'd chalked it up to that and left the Pokeball behind, figuring it would be returned to its rightful trainer soon. It wasn't his, and surely, whoever owned it would be distraught without their prized companion. He promptly forgot the little mishap, returning his attention to the delivery of a small package from the Mart to Professor Oak.

The next time he reached for his belt, however, he found not one, but two Pokeballs attached. He removed the second from his belt as the Caterpie he was eying noticed him, marveling at the fact that it was strangely cold to touch. The little bug, frightened by his presence, launched a stream of silk at him, which drove him to act….

It'd all become hazy after that. Quite literally, in fact. But he knew what happened. The distorted cries of pain, the overbearing stillness in the air, the single massive dark splotch against the canvas of the sunny route… The death that came without fail afterwards. At ten, it'd made his stomach churn. When it was all over, leaving the helpless little green bug curled into itself, eyes blank, he'd thrown the Pokeball into the woods and ran away. When the Pokeball found its way back to him yet again two days after, he'd accepted it and tried to ignore it to the best of his abilities as he traveled. It was vile and hateful, a power that nobody that walks upon this earth should have been allowed to possess.

Yet as the time past, he found himself waking in the night, reaching for it, wanting another taste of what the mysterious power that lied within could do. He'd held back, tucked it away into his bag, tried to destroy it- anything. But just as it would always dutifully reappear within any period of time ranging from a minute to a week… His temptation grew in strength.

One day, a young boy clad in shorts came. He had a smug little smirk on his face that said he had everything to prove- it reminded him so much of his rival. Dear, dear Green. He'd seen him around once or twice as he traveled. They fought, yes, though he'd won with the Pokemon he'd caught and trained himself. He'd always hoped that one of Venusaur's vines would miss their mark and accidentally strangle his rival, yes, but he hadn't dared to use the death contained in the capsule. That… seemed far too harsh.

Yet not harsh enough for this Youngster, it would seem. Giving in, he'd allowed The Death (Which the boy had called a 'Ghost' in hushed tones after he'd unleashed it) to make quick work of the boy's Pokemon. The Youngster began to scream and cry for his uselessly cowardly dead Pokemon, which gave a rush of sadistic pleasure within the older trainer's own person. Finding the boy irritating after a few minutes, however, he gave his magic little one word command.

The child screamed inaudibly for help as he watched his Ghost tear the boy limb from limb, skin peeling back and rotting away with bone and muscle until there was quite literally nothing left. He walked away. Later that evening there were reports of a mysterious tombstone appearing on the side of Route 6 on the news. He'd just smiled to himself from behind his Pokedex, pretending to be engrossed in the articles the red plastic encyclopedia had to offer him. He kept the small Kanto news staff particularly busy with the mystery from that moment on. His run through the Indigo Plateau, which he made sure was undisturbed, was just the icing on the cake.

Seeing the ten minute champion wiggle in his grasp like a hooked Magikarp, the trusty Pokemon that had gotten him there stacked up in a still lukewarm heap of tensed muscle and blank eyes in the corner of the room… That was definitely the cherry on top.

"Red… You can't do this! I-I'm your friend, remember?"

Friend? He scoffed at the word. Friends don't relentlessly bully one another until one becomes a heartless killer. Well, no, he wasn't a killer- Pokemon were property, human lives a possession too delicate not to slip and break. To be more accurate, friends perhaps did not steal from each other. He smiled warmly down upon Green, making the other male's eyes glint with a shred of hope, though as he tightened his grip on the front of Green's sweater, this fell away quickly. As the word 'Curse' was muttered, he let go, allowing his own tool to go about the work it was given to him to do.

Just like that, his Rival was reduced to nothing, just as many before him had been. He had finally won. He remained standing there, the tiniest of smirks on his face as the old professor approached, shocked. Turning to the old man who'd thrust him headfirst into this fate, the sentiment of power coursing through every fiber of his being, his smile simply widened. The Ghost was there, as it always had been, and would strike on his word. Professor Oak demanded answers from Kanto's newest champion. He had but one to give him.

"…Smell you later."