Author's Note: Well, then. Aftershock, the finest example of my work, though even this has several problems. (I'll just say that the sentence syntax improves dramatically after the prologue.) This is in fact a new venture for me: I have never written a full fiction with ay human character at all, and I have additionally never kept my characters this happy for so long. I have also never written a Trainer fic before, though I mean to do much better at this last category in later works. I will caution readers: the later chapters are intensely gory, violent, and depressing, and it would do well to approach this work with this knowledge before you begin reading it.
Disclaimer: Oh, you know. I don't own the region of Kanto or its geographical locations, which I have borrowed from Satoshi Tajiri and Game Freak and then elaborated upon. Neither do I own any of the pokèmon species, nor the basic gist of the trainer gadgets, nor the battle mechanics or the effect of their moves, nor... ad infinitum.
Aftershock
Prologue: Run
Amaren stumbled through the smoldering wreckage, fear erasing all other thought, flames licking at his heels. Out of a subconscious daze, memories arose to flash before his eyes.
…
The clamor of amazement, admiration. A flash of ruby and white as the centerpiece of the display swiveled into full view.
Age three, if he recalled correctly. His uncle, an illustrious Trainer with four badges to his name, had returned to his home village near the perimeters of Saffron City to relate the tales of the outside world with the members of his vast family. Amaren had been too young to understand him then, but the strange tokens of his adventures had not failed to dazzle him.
"Everyone must know what a trainer is, eh?" Amaren's uncle announced, his voice rising above the noise. A note of mock concern darkened his face as a large majority shouted back their ignorance of the trade, and he quickly remedied the fact with another speech - largely meaningless to Amaren, though he appreciated the wonder of the situation. Various greater participants to the discussion shot their comments at the old friend.
"And the Pokèmon were fine with that?"
"Madmen, they are, my man, don't get your head too turned by their flashiness."
"Go on, Artir, you can't possibly say you did that for a living…"
"Oh, yes, I did," Uncle Artir called back, producing what seemed to be a small, metallic ball from his breast pocket. "And just because you won't believe me, I brought this: a Pokèball, a device capable of capturing – yes, capturing, I know how it sounds – Pokèmon and fitting them into its tiny form! Watch!"
He pointed the sphere at a nearby spoon, and the odd device split down its middle to form a red and white half. A beam of crimson light jumped at the spoon and swallowed it whole, before dissipating to leave a faint circle of soot where the utensil had been. With a laugh, he shouted out a command – "I call you: Teaspoon!" – and depressed a button at the center of the Pokèball, releasing the beam again; and, this time, it materialized back into the spoon, at a different place. It seemed evident that the Pokèball had somehow stored the spoon inside it, even though the spoon was far too long for its diameter, and this caused widespread amazement (and panic) among the group.
A great deal of time and bother was expended upon this new development, but relative order was finally restored to the gathering. Amaren's uncle took on a new gravity to his voice, though it was uncertain whether he has still joking.
"This was my very first pokèball. The one item, bestowed to me by a professor himself, which made me an official trainer. I spent the entirety of my journey with my dear starter living within this very 'ball, but now I have moved on from it, and I must carry its legacy to the next holder. I bestow this to…" Choosing randomly, he picked through the crowd and pointed at one member…
"Little Amaren, of course."
The toddler looked about in confusion, and then realized the sheer privilege he had been given. He gaped in wonder and pride.
"Someday you'll become a great trainer like me, but until then, keep this with you to remember your uncle Artir. I even made a chain to go along with the Pokèball, so you can keep it around your neck!
"Here, Amar, this is how it works," he explained, crouching down to the boy's level to ensure he had his full attention – an unnecessary task, by the raptness of his sheer joy - and the present Amaren felt his consciousness of the memory slipping. A single sentence reverberated off in his mind, before it finally faded…
Someday you'll become a great trainer like me…
…
Age twelve, the beginning of Amaren's coming of age in the village. Winter fast approached, and the last stores of supplies for its preparation were being collected. He and his elder brother, Garten, had been assigned the task for firewood, and it was to this end that they hastened from their small abode, their parents shooting a flurry of cautionary words as they jogged down the path to the ring of forest around their village.
They dared a heavy sprint, blundering through the silver forest (ignorant of danger), and came to rest at a promising clearing to be temporary base for their operations. A great deal of branches had shed from a great deal of trees around them, and the boys quickly worked to collect them in neat piles.
Despite the bleak onset of cold, a decided air of good spirits yet wafted in the air, and the brothers worked with the efficient swiftness of cheer, calling out jokes to each other sporadically. They settled completely into their respective tasks, working single-mindedly, before –
"Did you hear that?' Amaren suddenly hissed, and the snap of dried twigs punctuated his statement. Winter was a lethal season for the forest-dwellers, and many Pokèmon, otherwise tame and peaceful, were driven into desperation in preparation for the frost. Legends told of the lone, deathless Houndoom who prowled the frigid confines, preying on the weak…
Another rustle, and Garten's hand tensed on his hunting knife. A single, maniacal eye peered out of the darkness before them, devoid of reason, and Amaren slowly drew out his own blade –
A full-grown Mightyena burst out from the gloom in a roar of desperation and lunged for Amaren's brother, who dodged out of the way nimbly, pushing his paralyzed brother away from the fray. On flashed his knife, zooming into the monster's side, but the moment of offense cost him his guard; the Mightyena pounced on Garten, attempting to crush the human under the wolf's steaming weight, and his left arm broke with a sickening crack.
With a cry of pure agony, the prone human tore away from the Mightyena's rough embrace, staggering off; and this cry alone could jar Amaren into motion as he raised the knife held loosely in his hand and threw his form in the way of the heaving creature. It remained there only for an instant, however; Garten pushed him back away, turning feebly to face the Mightyena, and prevented all of Amaren's attempts to join the brawl. The wolf reared back again, charging for the elder fighter's forlorn figure, but iron stabbed his great chest this time, clean through the heart, as Garten threw the knife with the last of his strength – and the monster fell at last with a great report.
The two minutemen staggered together, out of the battleground.
"Why didn't you let me help you?" Amaren groaned as he heaved his brother's near-limp weight onto his shoulder. "I could have held my own with him!"
"No… you couldn't! You should have stayed out of this, you're too –" He trailed off into unintelligible tangents of agitation.
"Too what?" his supporter snapped bitterly. "Too weak, too incompetent, too useless?"
But Amaren felt his thought slipping from this memory, and pulled into another, fresher...
…
Present day, age fourteen. Lone sojourns into the forest were finally, grudgingly allowed him by his parents, and he took this privilege very well.
What had transpired to cause the forest fire, and how the Water Sport proofing yet allowed its devastating tongues to envelop the land whole, no living observer could say; and these secrets are lost forever with the forest itself. Amaren himself, however, had moved halfway up the untrodden dirt path that clove the woods in two, more used as a reference to areas within the woods themselves than the path from the village to the rest of civilization, when he saw the fire.
The fire had made its abrupt introduction by wrecking the way of the path with the charred remains of a fallen trunk, forcing him into the woods into panic and in search of escape. Every bottleneck, every natural gateway, every ford, was utterly ruined by the desolate ravages of flame, and Amaren felt an insuppressible rage of panic flood his own mind, pushing him forward through bramble and peril. Soon, within moments, reality seemed to give way entirely to nightmare, and at each turn lay another wooden corridor blocked with searing flame, another puzzle to unlock, another game with no lesser stakes than his very life. The length of his flight reached an event horizon, pushing his mind closer and closer to insanity, nearing the point of infinity…
A clearing, and a single Abra huddled at its center. A brief moment of indecision, and then grudging determination, the clink of chain as he took out the Pokèball from within his shirt, compelled to save at least this last remnant of his home, his life, despite all inhibitions. With a flash of light, the tiny form was hidden safe within its sphere, and a feeble twitch and a ping, though startling, served only to convince the human of the complete intersection between the Pokèmon's path and his. Another exhausted, desperate sprint, and then air
The stunning vastnesses of Saffron City hammered his hazy eyes.