Foul Play

There have been many explanations for what Dark energy embodies; a kind of venom? Negative probability? It seems to work like a venom once it gets into the bloodstream, heading for the most sensitive areas in the body. Which would explain why Dark-types have always been the bane of Psychic-types, who usually have sophisticated mental powers enough to purge illness, as the essence of the energy would target the brain.

Foul play is a great example of both theories; the user of a Foul Play technique inflates blood vessels particularly in muscles and organs (thus the Attack power multiplier) to cause physical pain. Transfer of energy is usually in physical contact or skin breaks, then, working like a venom, targets blood passages to swell.

A normal attack of this kind will only last a few seconds, enough to only inflict pain and meant to wear down endurance. But a recent find in illegal fight rings and in the wild with Dark Pokemon strong enough to cause vessel and muscle schisms and, in extreme cases, inflict fatal strokes upon victims when the head is targeted. Thankfully, few are capable of that power.

Last fight. Okay, last fight. Clear your mind. Forget the faces of those you've killed before now. Forget the blood that paints the floor and your fur with crimson. Loosen up. Shake your weary head to dispel the bitter thoughts.
And yet the blissful memories of the past somehow seem to have a choke-hold on your cerebellum (or somewhere in there). The innocence you once had. That you and your partner shared for countless years; growing physically, mentally, and emotionally as one. Sure, there were others that joined our "little band of misfits" (as you often dryly called it), but even then we were all together.
So what happened?
What was the point where that innocence fled his mind, making you kill for gain?
Of course, you knew the answer; one of us died. Died at the hands of the ringmaster of these pit fights, due to just one instance of the "big man"'s big-headed-ness. Something died in him, too. You could never quite put a finger on what. He definitely had bloodlust that you had never observed at any point in your life. The only thing you could equate it to was revenge, but even that was a guess. He wasn't cruel to you or anyone else who he used to fight, he was just not what he used to be.
You shake your head wearily again, and pinch the bridge of your bridge to hold back the nausea. After this fight, you'll just go get some anti-depressants, like you always have, and sleep. That's all you really have to look forward to these days.
The door before you slams open, and you recoil from the sudden light, sound and smell of decay. Jeering, coarse yells filled your hearing and you scowl in both the attempt to look fierce and the disgust of what you are about to do.
Walking out to the middle of the pit, the crowd roars its approval. You are a good fighter and killer, you remind yourself. That's the only reason they're cheering. There's no pride. Indeed there wasn't; the grubby characters that filled the stands were all horrible people who had nothing better to do than bet their drug money on the best contestant. And that "best contestant" just happened to be you.
On the other side of the ring, an identical door opens to reveal your opponent. She is small and probably not very well trained, observing her shudders of barely-suppressed terror. You sigh, knowing her fate all too well, that she would fight you.
You ignore the announcer - a grubby, cotton-mouthed man - until the blare of the horn signals the beginning of the fight.
You go through your process that you always do to steel yourself of emotions. Close your eyes. Clear your mind. Focus on the goal: antidepressants and bed. Open. You walk over to her with a dead expression, simply wanting it to be a quick death. She sees your approach with wide eyes and shrieks of fear. A little bubble of energy filled her mitten-like-hand, and flew at you at what seemed a snail's pace. You simply move to the side, casually watching the bubble mosey past and pop just behind your head. Another shrill cry, and she tries to flee.
"Please don't try to run," you try to soothe her. "I don't wish to be here any more than you do, so a quick death would satisfy both of us, wouldn't it?" This did little to nothing to soothe her, and she just kept sobbing and beating the door that had sealed her fate. You dry gulp, and ignore another wave of nausea as it swamps you. This has to stop, you think, I'm beginning to pity her. Once more you steel yourself, make a dash towards her, place a red-taloned hand on her head, and released a small jolt of energy into her skull with a zap.
She gasped and shuddered as the foreign matter overloaded her body, but made no other motion as she slid to the ground, soundlessly.
It was over. A small trail of blood leaked out of her ears. She died without even registering pain.
The crowd jeers, as they always do, and two lank humans clothed in dirty white garments take her body to wherever they put the dead (there were some rumors about an incinerator, but you try not to think too hard on it). Overhead, her owner roars in anger and storms off of his podium and into the crowd. At the same time, your owner just surveys the crowd, waves, and saunters off in the opposite direction. Just like he always has for the last... four, five months? You've lost track.
You, too, take one last sweeping glance of the audience before walking back to the now-adjacent door behind you.
It's a dimly-lit equivalent of a locker room. First thing to do is go to the toilet and vomit. That gets rid of the nausea, at least for the moment. Wipe the bile off your muzzle, then drink some water, again to keep down the nausea. You grab a dirty towel to dry your face, and go to your locker for your antidepressants. The bittersweetness of forgetting your worries was the only pleasantry you had anymore. You had no friends or confidants anymore, because they had all died in the ring. He wouldn't listen; he had shut his eyes and ears long ago. So medications are your only friend now. Now to get some sleep.
You prick your ears to a curious noise that seems to be coming from the fighting ring just as you turn your back to leave. The announcer is saying something.
A rematch?
The doors open yet again, without warning, and you hesitantly, slowly advance forward to see what the commotion was.
A hulking mass of skin and rock stands before you; a living mass of adrenaline and killer instinct. The other human who had lost was back on his podium, sneering confidently at you. Apparently, he had bribed the ringmaster for another round, and he sent out his strongest partner. It roars a challenging, tumultuous bellow that rocks the podiums and the floor.
You stand momentarily to make an assessment of your adversary. Large upper arm muscles, thick tail, short legs that can hardly support its weight. Assumable low intelligence. Projectile capabilities from craters in hands. Plan of attack: stage one, take out arms, making missile and melee attacks impossible. Stage two, disable the legs, rendering movement difficulties. Stage three, kill it by causing a stroke. Alternative kill strategy: target the spinal column to cut nerve transmissions to body, then cause stroke.

Time needed to execute: three minutes.

Hazards: tail, projectiles, unpredictable methods of attack.

The horn blared.
There's no need for you to steel yourself this time; this one wants to kill you. You let your instincts take over. Dodge the hail of rocks, take a test jab at the upper arm. Exposed skin is very sensitive, make note of this. Weave around the blind haymaker, and, using the horns on its head, run up and land behind the target.
Target hasn't had time to register location. Disable arms. Left arm (It roars in bewilderment and pain as purple light seeped into the shoulder. It convulses, then the whole arm hangs limp), right arm (It roars again, this time adding frustration to its call as it loses feeling in its other arm). Engage stage two.
Target has registered your position. Dodge the next barrage of rocks - dodge failed. Evade attacks and head to the end of the ring to assess wounds.
A large chunk has embedded itself into your skin. Tenderly, you pull it out, hissing as the exposed muscles announce their protest. Another chunk has grazed your arm; thankfully, it's only a bruise. You run over your plan again, taking your wounds into account.
Left arm incapable of lifting past the shoulder. New hazard is the loss of right arm. Dodge whenever you can.
New time needed to execute: five minutes.
You pull yourself out of your analysis to find that it is lumbering towards you with a large chunk of concrete, apparently torn from the opposite wall. Once more, you let your consciousness surrender to battle instincts.
Focus energies into your right arm, eject sphere of energy into ground for a smokescreen. Run between its legs, then engage stage two. Left leg (It stumbled, screeching in surprise and pain as the muscles in its legs swelled uncontrollably), right leg (you over-did it; the muscles burst under the skin, rendering that leg useless and toppling the monster to the ground). Avoid tail as it flails in its pain - evasion failed. Roll with the momentum and stand - ribs broken, lung punctured, curl into defensive posture. Keep an eye on the target. Using adrenal control, block pain. Stand, and approach the target in attempt to execute stage three. Tail is still a liability. Avoid tail, disable nerve transmission.
A sizzle, and the monster convulses as you fracture spine and sever the nerve cord. Your inner killer retreats, and you take a moment to survey the scene once again. The monster can't even so much as move it's jaw, but it can look at you, apparently. One maroon eye holds your gaze. At first glance it appears mindless and feral, but you look deeper. You always have, which, as you've been told, is your best quality.
It pleads release. Not surrender. It wants to be done. Has it, like you, been through countless fights, forced by an unfeeling master to kill for gain? Has it, like you, had enough?
You concede. Once again placing a hand upon its skull, for the second time that day you let loose a blast of energy strong enough to reach the brain. A shudder akin to that which your old opponent made, and it was still.
Standing, you turn and begin walking towards the exit. You ignore the raging human who had now lost two partners. You ignore the jeering crowd, the booming announcer, and your human, and you just keep walking. And yet, pain explodes from your chest and you topple over to the dirt, stopping your march.
The adrenaline had gone, uncovering the raw agony that a punctured lung and three broken ribs could give. Clutching your chest, you moan, just wanting it to end, so you could get your antidepressants and sleep it off, like you always have. The crowd jeered to an irritating degree, and all you want is silence. All you need is to rest, and let your accelerated bodily processes do the rest.
A crazed thought comes to your mind. I could be the one who silences them. An equally crazed grin weaves itself across your face. I'll never have to fight again. I'll never have to end another life, EVER. I'LL BE FREE.
Ignore the pain as adrenaline soon smothers it out. Stand, and let the killing instinct take over once more.
Scale the walls and easily Smile insanely as you kill the onlookers in merciless haste. Heed not their confused and fearful cries as your glowing claws rend through them and silence them permanently. Just kill them all, you egg yourself on, Kill them all and you're free. Finally, all had been vanquished. The splattered gore illustrates a morbid picture of countless slobs that the world was now free of. The adrenaline still pumping, you are about to get your antidepressants before you are stopped in your tracks.
Him. Your partner. And he's holding a gun to your head.
Why, you plead to him, I just wanted this to stop! He doesn't hear you.
Just as you think you suppressed your killer, it takes over just as he pulls the trigger, and before you can stop yourself, he's lying on the ground, dead. Bloody tears trickled to the dirt, and his face was that of mild surprise. His ears, too, were bleeding.
What have you done?
You're free now.
Isn't that what you wanted?
You fall to your knees, bewildered. Before you can really register the situation, your body finally fails. The overexertion had made the broken ribs punch through your heart, and now you were bleeding to death from the inside. Months of abuse, mentally and physically, finally did their job.
This is what you truly wanted; release. No more killings. You won't die happily, but at least you'll be done killing. With that in mind, and a small smile, you close your eyes for the last time.