Little Monsters
They've come again.
Day, night, it matters not. Whether it be under the scorching heat of sun, or the entrancing light of the moon, the monsters always come. Once again, the town comes under attack.
Once again, we rush to defend it. And by "we," I mean the small party I lead, because most of the villagers do nothing but ask us to fetch ten apples, or kill five monsters in exchange for a pitiance. We're errand boys, fated to give up our lives so that the people of our town may continue to live theirs. So they may follow the script, as if obeying the commands of a program of old. Idle thoughts make one a monster's plaything, but as my group and I rush to the entrance, I cannot help but entertain them. Cannot help but entertain the possibility of saying "enough," and giving up all power and control.
Such thoughts I manage to quash however. This is our town. Our town is without a name, but whether it stand or fall, our names will be on the lips of history. Or so I hope, for any many other towns have fallen to these creatures? How many generations of men and women have been their slaves, across this land and others? Seven, at the least. Legend says it all began in a small town on the southern coast of a far-off land. Of a boy who sought to be master of these monsters, not knowing that he was breeding the creatures that would one day come for us all.
"Here they come!"
The words do not surprise me, even though I thought we were meant to be silent protagonists. But then, what use is silence when the world grows quiet, and the cries of the living are all that stand against the howls of the damned? If we are to be remembered, should we go quietly into the night? It occurs to me that the whole "won't be lost to history" thing might work better if our town had a name, and wasn't just called "town," but beggars can't be choosers. And warriors can't be historians.
"Stand to, stand firm," I say, clutching my sword.
There's four of this time, but there'll be more soon. There's always more. To go beyond the town means near-certain death. To enter the long grass is certain death. At the gate, in that twilight place between day and night, life and death, is where we make our stand. Against the lizard of fire. The turtle of water. The plant given life and mind of animal, with the malicious intent that all its bastard kind possess. All powerful in their own right. But all the servants of the one most terrible of all. The one that comes up to us. Staring at us. Daring us to believe that it isn't intent on our destruction. That the lightning it summons from its body is natural, and not part of divine judgement. The one whose tail can be of iron, and can move as fast as the wind.
"Begone," I say. "This is our town."
It continues to smile, like the Devil trying to ensnare unwary children. And, I mean, we are children, but…
I shake my head. It matters not. All that remains is the battle. The slow, turn-based battle, where every blow can be one's last. All that remains is to see what the creature does. Will it retreat into the wilds, or press the attack? What battle cry shall it utter? Standing on its hind legs, squeezing its cheeks, causing electricity to flow from them like blood from a gaping wound, it utters its challenge. Just as it always does.
"Pika pika!"
And thus, battle is joined.
A/N
So, GameFreak spends its time making Pokémon games, where you leave towns to catch monsters. Now, it's making a game where you stay in a town and monsters try to kill you.
...makes sense. 0_0