Salem was in her master's home; a place she had not seen in more seasons than she cared to remember. She was in his bedroom, of course, perched on top of his wardrobe and looking down at it. She had always loved sleeping there…
Something is wrong.
She realised then she could not smell anything, or feel anything. Her vision was off, too; everything seemed far away, clouded, colourless. She decided it wasn't important. Feeling kittenish for lying on top of the wardrobe, she jumped down, sat neatly in the centre of the room and slowly panned her head to view it.
One wall was entirely taken up by pokémon posters, of course, like the room of nearly every boy her master's age. Photographs of several past Elite Four teams, various gym leaders and other such exalted trainers were there: some of the most cherished examples even had autographs scrawled across them by the trainers themselves. There were pictures of some of his favourite pokémon – persian among them – maps of Kanto and Johto, lists of gyms and badges, pages torn from encyclopaedias, everything he could lay his hands on.
He had fiercely resisted all pressure to take his shrine to pokémon training down, even after choosing not to become a trainer… he still added to it when he thought he could get away with it.
No, that's not right.
He had stopped adding to it not long into his teens. The wall's posters shouldn't even be there – he'd torn them all down and hidden them under his bed long ago. Then, Salem finally saw the wall properly: it was almost bare, just as it should have been. Only her pokéball and some of the novels remained, she remembered – no, not remembered, saw.
Salem chided herself for getting lost in her memories, and moved on. Her body felt sore and she had a growing headache, but she ignored that. It wasn't important.
His desk had school papers on it – worksheets and past exam papers and research notes and such – she loved it when he read them to her, so she could learn with him. It was a complete mess, which was partly her fault for walking all over his work when he was up too late at night studying. Recently, she'd been doing that all too often.
You haven't been doing that.
She hadn't been doing that all too often. In fact, she hadn't done it since he'd taken extra tuition sessions at the weekends, and his work ethic had improved. And that had been ages ago. His graduation certificate was pinned to the wall above his bed. She had just been imagining that she and her master were kittens again, that was all. The pangs in her temples worsened, and she drew back her lip in displeasure.
This can't be real.
No, everything was exactly as it should be, right down to her master's stuffed teddiursa doll, smiling, bright eyed and waving. It lay in the bed, under the pokéball pattern duvet.
It's not real.
No, everything was exactly as it should be, right down to her master's stuffed teddiursa doll, its body ripped open, the stuffing torn out and the face shredded. It was propped forlornly up against the bed, which was, of course, an insipid pattern of blue stripes.
It's still not real!
Salem's temples throbbed, and she whimpered at the pain and confusion.
Nothing here is real.
She looked up, eyes wide, and saw that the walls had gouges and dents in them, like open wounds, the plaster bleeding to the floor. She'd forgotten about that, and she hadn't noticed it, but it had always been like that, she was certain. She had no idea why it was like that, however.
Because my master was so frustrated he was crying.
No idea at all.
And then you left.
She'd never left, or she wouldn't be here.
You left, and you know why.
She left, but she didn't remember why.
You left when it broke.
Near the centre of the room, not far from her, the broken thing remained.
A shattered pokéball, its shards gleaming deep red and cool grey.
It's not real.
She padded over, her chest tight. She took a fragment in her paw and held it up to see an alien face stare back; only half pokémon, and only half human. She gripped the shard so tightly her palm bled.
Though the blood was stark against the cream of her fur, she felt nothing.
You're not real, either.
"I was pretty real, last time I checked."
Salem groaned, blinking blearily as someone shook her awake. Their grip was strong; she was easily rolled over onto her back. A lithe, dark-furred figure arched over her, its eyes bright and bemused. Between them was a golden glint, a gem of some kind, perhaps. Salem put a paw to her charm self-consciously, then saw her fingers and remembered where she was. What she was. She stared at her hand, blocking out the voice of the dark figure as she carefully moved each finger in turn, marvelling at the control she now had over each digit.
"Mind telling me about this dream that was so interesting that you had to keep muttering about it?" the figure asked, grinning. It let go of her shoulders, and Salem saw that its paws were tipped in long, vicious claws. She stared at the creature's arms and realised they bore more than a few deep scars. Salem felt a sudden sense of disorientation, then the figure blurred, losing focus, and she shook her head to clear it. She looked around the room, and saw no other morphs but the dark-furred one who had woken her.
Salem glanced at it, then looked away. The figure was clearly another morph, feline and female like herself, but that was as far as the resemblance went. "I was sleep-talking?" she asked, embarrassed.
"Don't worry about it," said the other hybrid, "it was nothing bad. Not that I'd be one to judge you if it was."
Salem looked back at the morph, more studiously this time. Her fur was a deep charcoal, well groomed and healthy judging by the sheen. What at first seemed merely like longer, jet black fur around her head was more probably hair, like a human's. Like Salem, she wore a plain uniform, but smoke-grey rather than cream.
Strangely, she seemed to possess a trio of short, stiff tails and an elongated left ear, each a deep carmine – closer examination revealed them to be feather-like in nature. Salem had heard of far more bizarre species from her master, but this morph seemed uniquely outlandish to her, despite – or perhaps because of – their similarities.
"What are you?" Salem ventured.
The dark morph blinked. "Okay, you're a slow one. If you're still suffering the after-affects of the Change you should have this explained to you. I, like you, am a pokémorph: a hybrid of human and-"
"No," interrupted Salem, still blearily gazing at the morph's carmine 'feathers' and oversized claws. "I know that. I mean… what… what were you?"
"Stop staring, meowth," cautioned the other morph. "I'm just a sneasel, save your gawping for the serpentine hybrids."
Salem looked away, and blinked slowly in apologetic appeasement. The sneasel did likewise, grinning drily. Something about her confidence, the fluency of her human tongue and the easy way she carried herself with both intimidated and reassured Salem. Or perhaps it was just those razor claws…
"So meowth, what's your name?" asked the sneasel, adopting a languid pose, leaning on the sofa's arm. "Mine's bloody long, but you can shorten it to Dusk, so call me that."
"Salem," she replied, quietly.
Dusk waited a few moments, and when no further response seemed forthcoming, she shrugged, and continued talking – this time in pokéspeak, which suited Salem just fine.
"We've been assigned to the same squad, Salem, so we'll train together, work together, eat together, sleep together – in a strictly chaste sense of course, unless that's something you're into," said Dusk with a grin. She sighed when all Salem gave her was a blank look. "That was a joke. Never mind."
Salem glanced away apologetically, but still did not understand the joke.
"Anyway," Dusk continued, "we don't strictly have a squad leader, as such. Good thing too, or there'd be a fight for the role. I hear you've got Proctor as a counsellor, and while he's a nice kid, he's got no overabundance of brains, so if you're the type that needs a mentor, which I'd say you are, best come to me, or Pariah perhaps, he's a decent guy. If you do want a guide, I'd be happy to start you off with a tour of this lush paradise we find ourselves in, courtesy of our friends the Syndicate."
Salem did smile at that, which seemed to please Dusk, who offered her a hand – with claws sheathed – to help her up. "Yes, I think I would like that," she managed, taking the sneasel's paw. There was a brief feeling of vertigo as she came upright, but Dusk's grip was firm, and she could steady herself.
"I do not think I have seen any lush paradise yet," Salem commented, in human tongue, speaking slowly and with excessive care.
Dusk smirked, though Salem was not sure whether it was directed at her attempt at humour or the difficulty she had with human words.
"Jokes aside," the sneasel commented, still in pokéspeak, "it's not unpleasant here. Let's see… for now you'll need to know your way around the morphs' floor of course, and I'm sure you'd love to see the surface, that is genuinely pretty close to being a paradise, for me at least."
Salem cocked her head to ask for elaboration, and Dusk obliged. "This floor has the lounge, sleeping quarters, mess hall, stuff like that, and of course the gym! The surface has a cleared area for the base's parade grounds, open air gym, and such, but also a large forested area for field exercises. For now, that's all that's relevant to you."
Again, Salem struggled to think of anything to say, but Dusk didn't wait for her, and instead set off at a brisk walk out of the lounge. Salem followed, inevitably lagging behind. When Dusk noticed, she groaned theatrically and slowed to match her pace.
"You'll get used to the new legs pretty soon," Dusk assured her. "It only took me a week before I was darting about in sparring sessions just fine, though I'm still not as agile as I used to be. You might take a bit longer, being an ex-quadruped."
Salem simply nodded, uncertainly. She found walking bearable, and could imagine running after some practice, but combat seemed an impossibility. She had not even fought in some time… She followed Dusk down one of the three corridors that led out from the circle of the lounge, into the curved hallway with which it connected.
Salem breathed, and tasted the more or less fresh scent of many morphs. "Why is this place empty of people?" she asked, lightly inclining her head towards Dusk.
Dusk grinned. "You fell asleep at the daftest time. It's two in the morning, most sensible morphs are asleep."
Salem did not entirely understand why that should be the case, but she accepted this explanation without comment. As Dusk led her around the base, familiarising her with the locations of things and explaining the regularly placed signs which gave directions in written human tongue, Braille and simple pictograms, Salem found that rather than aching more, her legs began to feel natural and her strides became smoother and less awkward. Subtly, Dusk moved gradually faster, until Salem was following her at a brisk pace, and barely needed to think about the motion of her legs.
Most of what Salem saw was merely functional, but despite the mundane nature of the mess hall, sleeping quarters and so on, she was fascinated by the ordered sensibility of it all. As Dusk explained to her, the mess hall served a huge variety of foods suited to most morphs' palates, and it was not at all compulsory to eat there at particular times, or at all if a given morph disliked crowds or noise. There were similarly several different kinds of quarters, adjusted for the relative size and weight of some morphs, for example. Morphs that insisted on solitude could be even granted single rooms with assessment and permission from their counsellor.
All the while, Dusk kept up a steady rapport, never running out of things to say. Just as she eased Salem into a steadier gait, so she encouraged Salem to be increasingly vocal.
"You never asked what I heard you mutter in your sleep, Salem," she purred, as they walked down another bland corridor. "Don't you want to know what you were saying?"
"Do not tease me, Dusk!"
"You do, don't you?"
"Well," admitted the meowth, "I do want to know a little. But I do not think you will tell me if I ask. I think you will play with me like a rattata."
The sneasel's feather-ear twitched in amusement. "You bet I will."
"I do not bet," Salem said, furrowing her brow, "but fine, I will ask. What was I saying?"
Dusk danced ahead of Salem, snickering. "I'll tell you… but you have to spar with me in the gym, first!"
Salem flattened her ears and widened her eyes. "Dusk, I can't fight you!" she protested.
"And I can't tell you what you wish to hear until you do," insisted Dusk.
The morphs stopped, having come to the end of the passageway. Dusk moved to the side, and held out an arm in the direction of the heavy-looking double doors at its end, in mock-hospitality.
Salem growled quietly. It wasn't as if she had never fought before. She had her own scars, from spats with other pets, from her master's attempts at training her… from seasons spent in alleyways scavenging for territory against other strays. Compared to Dusk, though, she was a kitten.
"What are you worried about, Salem?" asked the sneasel. "Seriously, why not?"
The meowth folded her arms in stubbornness, imitating something her master had always done when defiant. "I have barely started walking, I would lose easily."
Dusk smiled. "That doesn't matter. The earlier you start sparring, the better. I'll go easy on you, of course, and I promise you won't get hurt. It'll be fun!"
Salem closed her eyes and sighed, feeling that the other morph would inevitably persuade her to fight, regardless of how much she argued. She moved forwards and flinched when the doors opened on their own, but walked through as calmly as she could manage.
The gym was a vast structure, much larger than any room Salem had seen before. She guessed it to be forty or so strides in width, and sixty or more in length. Its height extended up into what she thought must be the floor above – there were windows, presumably for observation, high in the walls. The ceiling and walls alike appeared to have handholds, though she couldn't guess why someone would need to use them.
Most of the space was taken up by a large enclosure; an arena with the League standard pokéball emblem painted onto it. A narrow walkway ran the length of the gym's perimeter, separated from the arena by a shield of thick glass. There was a second set of doors set into the barrier, flanked by what looked like a computer. Salem gingerly stepped through. The ground inside was made of sandy earth, which was warm under her paws.
Dusk grabbed her shoulder and pulled her roughly back out of the arena, and she let out a startled mew. The dark type sniggered.
"Silly Salem. We're not going to fight in this biome!"
The feline gave her an incredulous look, her tail writhing in displeasure. Dusk grinned, and moved over to the computer interface. She placed and held her paw on the screen, then tapped on it rapidly. Satisfied, she stepped back.
A moment later, the doors slid shut and the entire arena sank into the floor, moving down with a deep clatter of mechanisms. Salem tried to peer down into the gaping hole the arena's absence had revealed, and saw a dimly lit, cavernous space, containing complex machinery and, she realised, several more arenas. She thought she even saw huge tanks of water, but they were gone before she could get a better look.
After a short while, a new floor moved up to replace the sandy one. This time, the arena was grassy and vegetated, with a variety of foliage covering it, mostly leafy ferns and small trees. Dusk strolled through the doors, ears perked.
"I must admit, I really like this one," she announced. "There's plenty of opportunities for stealth, the ground cushions your falls nicely… it's perfect! And we have it all to ourselves, given the ridiculously early time we're up and about at. We felines, eh?"
Salem breathed shallowly, trying to stay calm and suppress the urge to flee. She stepped inside, and thankfully, she did not tremble.
Dusk stood at ease, head tilted expectantly. Salem took up what she hoped was an acceptable combat pose, crouching with her paws out in front of her to protect her underside, as close to her natural four-legged stance as she could manage. Dusk smirked at her again, shaking her head.
"I refuse to kick your ass without teaching you a proper fighting stance first," she exclaimed. "Stand straight. Now let me show you…"
Salem obeyed, and Dusk eagerly darted to her side. The sneasel stood parallel to her, demonstrating her own stance; facing sideways in relation to her body with one arm forward, the other at her side.
"A meowth pounces and grapples," Dusk explained, "but you can't do that with legs like these. Neither can you claw your opponent in a flurry, or hope to rake their belly with your hind legs. It just won't work."
She looked at Salem expectantly, and the meowth hurriedly assumed the same pose.
"So," she continued, "if you're in close combat with someone, keep one arm up not to attack but to defend, and the other is there to catch them out if they lunge at you. Obviously this won't be relevant to ninety percent of situations, but it's still useful."
Dusk turned to face Salem, who did likewise. Without notice, Dusk reached forwards to lightly tap Salem's charm with an unsheathed claw.
"Could have had your head off just then!" she joked. Salem thrashed her tail in irritation.
Dusk laughed. "I'm going to attack you," she warned. "Block me."
The first swipe was slow, and Salem's paw darted out to grab it. Then she felt Dusk's other claw neatly prod her under the ribs.
"Watch both my arms," the sneasel admonished, still grinning widely. Salem growled under her breath, impatient to get her embarrassment over with.
Again, the first swipe was slow, but rather than grabbing it, Salem deflected it with a swift jab, and clawed at the other arm. Dusk squeaked, apparently not expecting a counterattack, then laughed again, seemingly endlessly amused.
This series of brief, flurried attacks continued for some time. Each time, Dusk would introduce some new contrivance for Salem to counter, and each time she would anticipate, adjust, deflect, until both of them – though mostly Salem – were covered in myriad scratches. First it was merely different attacks from Dusk's claws, then kicking and biting, then they circled each other to add movement to the many things for her to think about… There was no plateau, no room to rest or become complacent. Each time Salem adapted, Dusk would change her strategy, and there was little time to adjust.
She felt herself beginning to tire long before Dusk showed any sign of exertion. "What would the point be of fighting me now?" she demanded. "I'm… I'm tired…"
"We're both tired," Dusk asserted. "You're just not hiding it as well."
"Fine then, what are the rules?" Salem asked, giving in.
Dusk cracked her knuckles gleefully. "First to yield to the other is defeated. That's it!"
"I yield."
Dusk glowered at her. "If you don't put up a fight, I won't tell you what you were talking about in your sleep. Which you want to know, right?"
"Yes… but I still don't know why you want to fight me," murmured Salem, wondering if the drops of memory she might gain about her past were really worth the effort of fighting the clearly more experienced sneasel.
"Listen, this is the best way to prepare you for training," Dusk insisted. "The tougher you have it before you begin training, the easier you'll have it during training. Most of this squad are pretty hard, and I don't want you to feel awful cause you're lagging behind in performance."
Salem breathed heavily. "Well, who else is in the squad?"
"You and I, obviously, and four others. I was first to be hybridised and you're the most recent, but a couple of them still aren't morphed quite yet. They're expected to be awake and walking in the next day or two, though. The other two that have already gone through the Change? You should meet them in person pretty soon, I think. I'll introduce you!"
Dusk's enthusiastic babbling allowed Salem a merciful minute to catch her breath. She decided to take the other morph's reasoning to heart, and do her utmost to – if not outright defeat Dusk – at least make her work for her win.
"…there are plenty of other squads and more on the way, though, so you should probably just hang around in the lounge, say hello to people…"
Salem realised that Dusk really would toy with her before defeating her utterly and that there was only one way she could make the fight difficult for the sneasel.
She needed to attack first, without warning.
"…there's one or two humans who are actually good company, though I find the rest merely tolerable…"
Salem tensed in anticipation, waiting. Dusk stopped speaking, smiled.
Salem struck out, landing a blow to the temple. Leaving no time for Dusk to recover, she slugged the sneasel in the stomach, then once more.
Stunned, Dusk lashed out. The jab was easily knocked aside; she kept attacking. A swift swipe raked Dusk's face. She was too slow – it left only shallow gashes.
Instinct kicked in; the sneasel lunged.
Salem tried to dart backwards, but the slash landed anyway. Pain stung her arm. Adrenaline barely dulled it. The scent of blood suddenly smothered her senses.
Another cutting swipe – too rapid to evade – caught her ear. Dusk was faster by far.
Salem leaped, trying to grapple with the other morph to negate their gulf in speed. She grasped Dusk by the shoulders and they fell together.
She winded the sneasel for scarcely a second. A paw shot up to seize her neck in a vice grip. Dusk's hold was icy on her skin… and far too strong to shift.
She rained punches down. None were effective. Her head throbbed. Her muscles ached.
Dusk dragged her off, slammed her into the ground, then smacked her knee into the feline's gut and left her gasping.
Struggling was impossible. She could barely think.
Dusk put a claw to her neck.
Salem choked out something incomprehensible. Dusk released her grip on the meowth's throat a little.
"I yield!" she gasped.
Several seconds passed before Dusk finally let go, breathing rapidly.
"I offered to go easy on you!" she spluttered, wiping blood from the cuts on her cheek.
Salem smiled uncomfortably. "You never said I had to go easy on you, though."
The sneasel laughed and got to her feet, before offering Salem a hand to pull her up. She flinched at the searing pain that ran up her arm, but forced herself not to cry out. The wound did not look severe to her, and was already beginning to clot. She wondered anxiously what the pain would be like if she had received a more serious injury.
She felt nauseous as she considered that more serious injuries might be inevitable.
"Fair enough," Dusk said. "And you did put up more of a fight – although a much shorter one – than I expected. Sorry about being so tough on you, I was just… kind of surprised, I suppose."
"I do not mind at all," Salem said with a vague shrug. "Now will you tell me what I was saying during my dream?"
Dusk blinked, and her ears perked. "Didn't think you remembered your dream. Now I'm curious about what it was."
Salem gave her a derisive glare, and Dusk threw her paws up.
"Fine, fine! I'll tell you. You were just muttering weird phrases. Stuff about how something wasn't right, how things weren't as they should. I didn't catch all of it, but you said something about you leaving. You said 'I left when it broke,' I think and 'it's not real'. You mostly used pokéspeak, except for the occasional human word."
Salem nodded cheerlessly.
"Hey, at least it wasn't anything embarrassing," teased Dusk. Her effort was met with an even more derisive glower and she sighed, giving up. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me about your dream, then?"
Salem flicked an ear, her face inexpressive.
"Fine then," Dusk muttered. "Be a killjoy. I won't tell you about all the amazing dreams that I have. They really are something special."
"I'm sure they are," replied Salem with a drily amused purr, despite her ashen mood.
Dusk cracked her knuckles. "Care for another round? That was a fun scuffle but I was expecting something more substantial."
Salem answered her with nothing more than a mute frown.
"Okay, whatever, but you should at least practice regularly or you'll be sorry for it during training," opined the sneasel, before sauntering out of the arena. Salem trudged after her, licking bitterly at the gash on her arm.
As she followed the other morph wherever it was she had resolved to take her next, Salem wondered why she had agreed to the terms that came with the decision to become a morph, and whether that choice would be worth it. She knew why she would have made the choice, of course. She was glad she'd made that choice, and was reminded of it every time she smiled, or spoke, or felt her fingers brush against a door handle.
She felt a twinge in her arm wound and growled softly.
She knew why she'd made the choice, yes. She just hoped she didn't come to regret it.
