Summary-The number one pokemon on everyone's list was a pikachu; thanks to the legends of that one boy from Certamia managing to defeat the Elite Four and become champion (the legends also gave rise to everyone's pikachu being named some variant of "Sparky"). Of course, few trainers managed to make it to the Elite Four, with most giving up after the fifth badge. Except for one boy. Armed with nothing but a common rattata and a burning desire to avenge his brother's death at the hands (jaws, really) of a rouge trainer's feraligatr, he vows that he will be the one to break the tradition.
The stadium lights shone brightly, sending a glare down onto the battlefield, illuminating the two trainers and their pokemon. A pikachu, yellow paws crackling with barely-suppressed electricity, stood to one side, black-tipped ears twitching as it sized up its opponent- a decent-sized raticate, its sharp incisors glinting in the lights, brown fur puffed up due to adrenaline coursing through its system.
"Sparkles!" the pikachu's trainer- a slim young girl with her brown ponytail swishing a little yelled. "Use thunderbolt!" The pikachu did, sending a bright hot bolt of lightening at the raticate. Her opponent scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Typical. They all start out with thunderbolt," before ordering the raticate to dodge and then "Tolman! Hyper fang!"
The raticate nimbly leapt out of the way and onto the pikachu, biting down hard on its back and shaking it. The pikachu squealed harshly in pain, paws flailing about ineffectively and small specks of blood dotting the stadium floor.
"Sparkles!" the girl cried out. "Use thunderbolt again!"
The pikachu tried, sparks flying around its body, but the raticate held on, ignoring the electricity coursing through its body. The pikachu's trainer looked almost hopeful, until the other trainer sent out one last command.
"Finish it Tolman."
The raticate bit down again, the yellow rodent going limp in its jaws and then sliding down to the floor, blood slowly staining its yellow fur.
"Pikachu is unable to battle! The championship goes to-" But the roar of the crowd drowned out the announcer's last words, as the raticate wearily walked to its trainer.
"Good job," he murmured, scratching it behind the ears. The new champion glanced once into the harsh stadium lights as the announcer tied the medal around his neck, marking him as the Certamian League champion. This is for you, Fergus, he thought, fingering the shining gold medal.
Bastion wakes up with a start, rubbing his head. "Ow," he says, picking up the lanturn clock that had fallen during the night (and onto his head). "Stupid thing doesn't even work," he grumbles, shrugging off the mudkip pajamas (that were ratty, about two sizes too big and not even his) and untangling his legs from the dratini sheets –which he had made a face at, at first, but on which his brother remained firm, claiming "tradition." Finally getting out of bed, he walks over the persian rug and to the closet, reaching in for what he knows is an already tattered grass-stained pair of light-brown cargo pants, and a plain green t-shirt-thankfully not one with something like a bulbasaur or a chikorita on it.
"Although that wouldn't be out of place in this room," he muses, glancing around at the pokemon-themed room- the aforementioned bed sheets and pajamas, and he couldn't forget the huge collection of pokemon figurines, most of which were there, except for one obviously missing- feraligatr. Bastion knows where it is though; after all, he was the one who threw it as hard as his five-year-old arms could into the woods surrounding their house, after that day. His parents and Fergus's screams, bones crunching as the feraligatr gnawed them to splinters, when Chui zapped the feraligatr with the harshest thunder his young eyes had ever seen, Lien's screams when the feraligatr swallowed the raichu whole, Terin dragging the other teen back before he went for the gator with his bare hands, his own screams- a shrill screechy sound that still echoes in his dreams sometimes. Eleven years later and it's probably still there, he thinks, shaking his head to get the sounds out and starting to pull on his charizard-patterned socks (they had been a gift from his brother and he really couldn't bear to part with them, even if they were getting too small and were so worn that he couldn't really call them socks anymore).
"Bastion!" his brother calls, interrupting his musings. "Get your slow-as-slugma butt down here!"
Bastion winces. And that would be Terin. I do wish he would stop with all the pokemon allusions. I'm not five anymore.
"Bastion! If you don't hurry up, I'm leaving your pancakes to Missy!"
That farfetch'd gets enough food as it is; she can barely use cut, Bastion thinks, walking down the steps and into the brightly lit dining room. "I'm coming, Ter. And would it kill you to stop with the pokemon allusions all the time? I'm not five, you know."
Terin chuckles. "I know you're not five," he says, swinging the small slender teen into his arms. "But I still see that adorable little five-old with that mop of black curls and those cute dimples and-"
Bastion squirms out of his arms, glaring at his older brother. "Yes. That means no more hugs like that."
Lien-his brother's partner- laughs, coming out of the kitchen with a big plate of pancakes, sneakily slipping one to the fat farfetch'd waddling behind and quacking plaintively at him. "Bastion's got a point, Ter."
Terin smiles at Lien, also stealing a pancake off the plate, and passing the rest to Bastion. "I know. But still-"
Bastion tosses the plate onto the table, narrowly missing a near-full glass of iced tea, and interrupts. "Can't I just leave now or do whatever it is that you want me to?"
Terin and Lien look scandalized. "Of course you can't leave now. We still have to give you your birthday present."
"Ayas, come!" Terin whistles and a scarred growlithe pads into the room, a small box held by a string in its mouth. "Happy birthday. Sorry we kept you so long but you know how it was back then." Those confusing lonely first few months without them, with only his brother and Lien who were too involved in their own grief to acknowledge him.
"And think of it this way, kid, you'll be able to intimidate all the other rookie trainers!" Lien says brightly, trying to break the somber mood.
Bastion's eyes light up. "You got me an absol! Or-or a bagon!"
More loud laughter. "Not hardly," Lien snorts. "We're not that rich. Missy caught this one outside our house." He smiles proudly at the farfetch'd who nuzzles his hand, begging for another pancake.
Bastion blinks. "You didn't get me a farfetch'd did you?"
"Not all farfetch'd are as plump as Missy, Bastion."
"She's not plump; she's healthy," Lien grumbles, dragging the hefty duck into his arms.
"And spoiled."
"She deserves to be," Lien says, one hand stroking the light brown feathers.
"So, what's in the box?"
"Open it and find out, kid."
Bastion opens the box, surprised when a purple blur shoots out and lands in his lap, its nose and whiskers twitching, little squeaks coming from its mouth, oversized incisors glinting a little in the lights. "It's a-"
"Rattata! Rat! Tata!" the purple rat pokemon squeaks, nibbling at Bastion's pants leg.
"Oh, looks like he likes ya. Good, you can leave now."
"Lien!" Terin says, swatting his partner on the shoulder. Lien simply smiles and lets one of his hands drift towards a place Bastion prefers not to think about. "On second thought, that may be a god idea. Bastion, sweetie, I love you, having raised you for the past eleven freaking years, and good luck. Stuff's on the table, bye! And come visit!" Terin finishes, already being dragged away by a rather impatient Lien, who adds, "Don't forget to send us some money!"
Bastion sighs, grabbing the scuffed beaten hand-me-down pokedex and the four or so pokeballs on the table and, rattata's claws digging into his shoulder, and heads out the door.