DISCLAIMER: I do not own Pokémon, which is of Nintendo and Game Freak.

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WARNING: Adult themes are commonly depicted within this story, such as profanities, physical or sexual violence. Please refrain if you are susceptible.

Chapter I

"I can't… I-I can't," stuttered the young man, his blood cold at the sight in front of him. The tears in his eyes were shatters of ice, slicing - not sliding - through his cheeks, but he couldn't stop crying: what he was witnessing was a scene far more brutal than he could have ever imagined.

In the meantime, the crowd had exploded: shrieks, tears, cheers. More cheers. Anarchy was reigning inside the square, a messy mass of messy men squeezed within a place too small for all of them, their jostles and screams booming noises. The boy was engulfed within the crowd, pushed and tossed around so hard he felt he was crashing full speed, barely keeping grip on his consciousness.

"What the hell are we doing? While enemies should always be treated as worthy opponents, they should also be respected in their defeat!" he screamed, desperate to find someone, anyone who would stop that.

Yet the crowd kept acclaiming the violent show, deaf to reason. They were not going to stop the show.

The soldiers who were controlling the area stood silent, grimacing as they watched the crowd go insane. Their role was not to reassure their citizens, but to force every single individual not to divert their sight from the scene in front of them. Neither they were going to stop what was happening.

"Why is nobody doing something? Have we lost our humanity? This! This is just savage! It's just a sadistic play on death!" he kept screaming, and screaming.

Yet the crowd cheered on, and on.

His words had been completely meaningless. He couldn't endure any more of the violence, the crowd, the voices, the chaos, and so he did the only thing he could to protect his sanity: he desperately tried to withdraw into himself, seeking air he could breathe against that drowning feeling of despair. Soon his consciousness began to drift away, as the outside world blurred its edges and its colors into darkness...

The icy feeling of a cold breeze, then images of the roads and the people of the city. The boy saw himself walking, granting a bored look to the sluggish scenery around him. Monochrome were the buildings, so similar to one another they could not prevent getting you lost, were you to wander around, although the inhabited area was anything but large; monochrome were the streets, nostalgic of a forgotten time in which they were being used and well-kept. Even the pale light that shone upon the city was gray, that cloudy day of November; you could say the same for everything else, from the scarce vegetation to the much more frequent images of propaganda, loosely attached to walls as old as the World itself.

"GLORY TO OUR HEAVENLY SAVIOR!" was written in black, bold letters in one of the posters, the one which pictured a row of tanks in front of a man standing above all of them as if he was taller than a mountain. His face was so bright it was impossible to identify him, and it was so radiating the Sun itself was put to shame. His right arm was stretched out of the small piece of paper he was barely contained within, commanding his numerous troops to march forward.

"BEWARE OF TRAITORS!" said another one. It was vertically divided into two parts, each containing a face close up: on the left a person with an angered expression of his darkened eyes and his emphasized worry lines and cheek borders, with nose piercing, and tattoos painted on every open inch of his skin - without a shred of doubt any physiognomist would have gladly indulged in that abundance of negative, evil connotations of his -; the right part showed instead the face of a bulky, ferocious monster, with a large mouth and rough skin of an unnatural blueberry color and tips and spikes pointing in every direction. It was clear the two were intentionally given the same look and facial expression.

It couldn't be said that these posters were fascinating, yet even those were eye-catching compared to everything else: at least between the usual dark gray, clay, and black of the city, the boy could also find hints of red and crimson, vivid and bright colors, for sure, but weirdly entrancing.

Eventually, a bunch of teenagers running through the road bumped into the boy, interrupting abruptly whatever journey of his mind he was lost within at that time.

"Over there!" "Come on, hurry up!" "Move it, guys, we really need to see this!"

They had been laughing as they had darted through the road. A strong rush of nausea hit the boy at the thought: it was disgusting to see how kids could be so playful and cynical about death. Even then he could still hear their wicked grins and chuckles as if echoing through the entire square...

They turned left at a crossing a few meters away. It was only a secondary road, yet several people seemed to be headed in that general direction; others were looking at each other, some confused, some troubled, mumbling or checking the time, only to start moving in that same manner.

It was time. On a Sunday morning, the sheep would gather together to partake in the holy function, the church's bells merrily clanging to convince everybody to enter the parish. Similarly, the loud, crackling speakers on top of poles all around the city were sinisterly announcing that it was time, and that indeed citizens were required to be bestowed a bloody blessing that day.

The boy hadn't noticed it was time until that exact moment, after he had heard from the speakers the resounding reminder of the martial law condition, the trumpets march and the drum skin being violently hit. Why was he always paying so little care to everything, how could it be he was always so unaware of himself...?

Just like everyone else, he began walking.

After all, even if he had always despised the practice - of course he had! - he knew well he would have never dared to defy the duty imposed on him. He was a coward, and he knew that whenever he was criticizing others – how foolish it was to believe that "The Federation imposes on us, but it's a necessity," that "They rule us to protect us," that "The world is full of enemies, so violence is our ally," that "The military are our heroes," that "We can sleep in our beds without worry thanks to them." - he wasn't acting differently than anyone else, which meant he was being a hypocrite on top of it.

Soon enough the narrow road was replaced by a very crowded square. In the center a wide wooden altar was set, on top of which a black metal frame, its angled sharp blade anxiously waiting to fall. It was much wider and taller than what would be used for the size of a human body, which made it all the more unsettling.

People everywhere were moving and talking: a single convicted. A big one. A drake, even. Five meters high. No, eight. Ten, maybe. Can't be more. No, definitely not human-like – this brought a general sigh of relief, several expressions reassured, yet a few disappointed, or even upset ones.

The boy felt comforted: at the very least it was going to be easier than usual, that time.

Or so he had thought. And how much he was wrong...

A dozen soldiers lined up in the middle of the wooden platform, immediately after they had raised their weapons, and stood still. A lump of medals of honor shaped in form of a man marched up there, at which they saluted. Stocky, short, but with a well-defined muscular tone, Commander Clutcher was more sparkling gold from medals than military green from his uniform, and less of visible skin than that. He would have almost been a comical figure, if only he wasn't greeted with such a disarming silence by the audience. Behind him, a gigantic metal box, as tall as the frame, was being dragged by a few soldiers to the altar, barely wide enough for it. Growls could be heard from inside it, but no one paid enough care to it, mesmerized by the voice of the commander.

"People of humanity, I do know we have to face a perilous life, day after day." he began shouting, completely ignoring the microphone next to him.

"But fear not! We are the superior species of the entire universe, and so We Shall Not Fall!" For each of those last words he pounded his chest.

"We shall reclaim what belongs to us: this planet is ours to use, and so are its pitiful creatures! A lush world awaits its conquerors, and we will make slave every single one of its beings!" He stretched his arms wide and looked at the crowd left to right.

Then he toned down his voice, following the customary of rhetoric talk. "God will avenge our children, and our men's deaths."

And then up again, like a roller coaster. "They say God betrayed us, but I tell you He did not! Such a statement is heresy! God's doing is right, and we are on His side! Pray! And have Faith: God will give us everything we want, if we are obedient." Emphasis on the "if".

"But, we also need to do our work: God does not punish the puny filth of this world by himself. Instead God sends us, the Army, to execute His word of Justice. Now, we will see His Justice!" "Justice" was more spit out than spoke.

The boy knew any sane priest would have declared that little speech of that little man pure blasphemy; the peculiarity of that occasion, is that no one did.

The soldiers put their weapons back with a swift two-steps movement and tapped their feet, perfectly synchronized. One after another, starting from the furthest from the commander, they walked down the altar and reached the box while readying their stun guns.

Finally, the container was opened. What a magnificent creature it contained!

It was crimson, with spots of orange on its ends and a lighter tone for its belly. It was as high as a house and as large as a ship, the shape of a fierce drake who could stand on its two beefy legs. Its shiny long claws compensated the short length of its arms, while the horn in its head could easily drill one's body; so could its pronounced jaws, which seemed made of steel. Its tail was literally burning, and so did its mouth as its roar made the ground tremble. It would fiercely gaze upon you with those dark blue eyes, bigger than one's hand! And far from being a show of raw force, its wingspan easily covered half of the entire square, and would definitely allow it to fly high and fast. What a fearsome creature...!

… Electrocuted by the soldiers, a single thunderous zap, and brought head down to the ground. The chains on its legs, arms and wings weren't allowing it any form of rebellion, and it looked severely exhausted already: scars and cuts were easily seen everywhere on its body, and its eyes seemed unable to focus - who knows what they had done to it beforehand...

A pained growl was all it could muster as they chained its neck and dragged it to the frame. Its gigantic body moved slowly and mechanically, almost thoughtlessly.

The boy knew something had been off; something in its lost eyes of a lost dog, or maybe in its shaky movements, anomalous of such a majestic body. Maybe something of its heavy breathing, something about its beaten stance or its lowered head... Truly, without the force to resist, the powerful being had been no more than a scared, lonely puppy.

It was eventually put under the shining blade, held by a single rope, and a single, fatal knot.

The crowd was silent more than ever.

Commander Clutcher gave one final look at the scene, before nodding at himself in self-contempt. As he raised his hand the bond was loosened by one of the soldiers...

… And the blade fell.

The images came back full force at the boy, to his terrified little eyes and his young, immature mind. A soldier had noticed he had fainted during the execution, and he was violently slapping him to wake him up. He didn't want to, but he was going back at the scene of the execution, he couldn't stop his mind from awakening, he was seeing the blade falling, falling, falling falling falling hundreds of times, gaining more and more momentum, rushing as it dove the dragon's neck with tremendous force...

…yet, unfortunately, the hit did not kill the beast, as the blade went only halfway through.

"GYAAAAAARGHH!" it screamed in a deafening roar, its mouth wide open. The creature's nerves and vessels were gushing out along with a stream of blood and the pieces of the tongue it had itself bit. Everything was pouring out everywhere, a flood of liquid down on the crowd - the blessing had been given - and that mess of flesh, it could have been the work of the most brutal and insane butcher. The beast was bawling and bellowing, insane.

The chaos, the horror, the shrieks, the cheers, everything was back! The boy turned around to search for a focal point, something, someone who would act and stop that mess!

But once again, no one did. They left the fierce beast like that, even those few troubled by regret.

Thus the show went on. But, slowly, less and less. Panting, wheezing. Breathing, barely. Noiselessly, and finally soulless.

A dragon closed its eyes that day; it was the end of its misery.

May it rest in peace.