Oh, crap.

I slid off of the crates, all soreness and aching pain completely forgotten, a ducked behind them—back pressed firmly against the wooden slats. My eyes were probably as big as two moderately sized grapefruits at the moment, and all I could hear was the curious whrrrrrrrrrring sound of the R.O.B's wheels scooting over the metal floor.

Then the noise stopped.

I held my breath, hiding in the shadows of the slat. Oh, no—he saw me—he saw me—he saw me—I'M GOING TO DIE.

I made a snap decision in less than a millisecond. This thing was a machine. He had to have seen me, and if he didn't—he would see me anyways in a few seconds now that the whrrrrrrrrrring sound had restarted and was getting steadily louder. Steadily louder and closer and closer and closer and freaking closer to my hiding spot holycrapholycrapHOLYCRAP,

I squeaked and flipped over, slamming my arms down ontop of the wooden crate and extending the plasma-gun out far and straight. All in less than a second, I took in the slow movement of the R.O.B's head as it quizzically turned to stare at me. Then I felt my finger squeeze the trigger and registered the jolt that ran up my arm from the weak kick of Newton's Third Law. All in less than a second, I watched the R.O.B's metaphorical brains (wires) explode as the beam of light from the plasma nailed the robot straight between the camera-lens eyes.

All in less than a second, I registered this.

And all in less than a second, I wondered where the heck had this surprising string of actual beginners luck come from. I mean, surely, surely I couldn't have actually aimed and nailed the R.O.B. straight in the eyes. That would put a damper on the whole n00b thing I got going on. Why now? Why not when I was plummeting to my death?—although the random string of thoughts somehow triggering flames that I didn't even know Samus's zero-suit had was pretty lucky. But again—why not sooner? Why now?

I slowly stood from behind the crates, still flabbergasted that that had actually worked. I spared a moment to glance over and watch the two separate slabs of metal that made up the door slide together and close, before I walked, almost hesitantly, over to the sparking and twitching fallen parts of the R.O.B. and prodded it with the tip of my (epic) boots.

It was… dead. Even though it was a robot and wasn't alive to begin with— but I digress. One hit K.O. I felt a little bad for the thing, as I struggled to pick it up (and failing miserably) and dump it behind some crates. It was just minding its own business, coming into this storage room for who-knows-what and found itself head-shot by a severely freaked out girl.

Or it could've been coming in here to kill me. But, whatever.

Eventually I managed to hide the R.O.B. behind some crates—no need to leave incriminating evidence in plain sight—and shoved a few more crates (very heavy crates, mind you) in front of the door. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that if these R.O.B.s really wanted to get in here, a few flimsy crates wouldn't really stop them—but it might confuse them long enough for me to get my act together and crawl back up into the vents.

After doing this, I took in the rest of the storage room. It was decently sized, now that two or three big crates were stacked in front of the room. Maybe 20x10 and maybe 10 feet tall? I wasn't about to get out my measuring tape, but it would make a decent 'base' for now. The edges of the steel room were lined with shelves, which were in turn lined with more boxes and random trinkets I couldn't even begin to find a name for. Most of the crates were in the center of the room, leaving a l_l shaped walking space, which I quickly utilized and opened the nearest crate.

With all honesty, when I said 'who knew when the next time was that I could sink my fangs into a hamburger'—I seriously did not know that there were hamburgers here.

I bemusedly lifted the packaged (and probably dried) hamburger out of the crate, dangling it from my hand and holding it out at an arm's length as if it might bite me. I shifted my gaze back down to the crate, still rather in disbelief that it was filled with packages and packages of food. Brawl food. Like the ones that pop out of the crates and the balloons but with an air-sealed plastic wrapping around each.

Maybe my luck was starting to turn.

Among the strawberries, omelets, fried rice and sushi platters, there proved to be no water. They even had ice-cream in a little freezer box down at the bottom, but they didn't have water. Sucks for me. The only drinks they did have was milk, which I wasn't eager to try, and tea—which wasn't my top choice either. In the end, after struggling with the IMPOSSIBLE packaging for several minutes, I found some grapes and popped them in my mouth for hydration.

Now for the hamburger.

That little plastic package was clinging to life like nobody's business. It refused to tear. I eventually got to the point of frustration where I actually shot it with the plasma-gun-paralyzer-thingy, which—to my everlasting surprise—actually worked. Mind you, the burger was a little burnt and shocked me when I first bit into it, but after peeling off the blackened lettuce and tomato—the gooey cheese canceled the gag reflex and I enjoyed my burger.

Now that I was no longer famished, I proceeded to ransack the rest of the room. I nearly impaled myself with a beam-sword, found several (disappointingly empty) pokéballs, but eventually found some sort of leather belt that I quickly modified to serve as a holster for that blaster of Samus's. Following, I plopped myself down on the floor of the room and leaned up against the back of a crate and entered my muse mode.

In the game, there seemed to be an enemy every few feet. Somehow, I mused as I absently stroked the Mr. Saturn I had freed a few minutes ago, I doubted that this would be the case here. There were tons of the R. before outside the complex, but it didn't possibly seem like there could be many more. Maybe now was the time to get out of this room, while all of the R. were out there . Unless there were more, half outside, half inside—in which case I was (again) screwed. But it was a pretty big facility, based on my two-thousand foot plummet to my death, the prospect of there being that many R. and Prisms to fill the entire place just seemed… illogical.

But when were video games ever logical?

You can either sit here and waste away on packaged hamburgers, or actually take a risk and get the heck out of here, I told myself, setting my jaw and putting the Mr. Saturn down on the floor beside me. Now's the time to make a move.

I made my way over to the door and pulled the crates away—taking my time, of course. No need to hurry my death along. When the doorway was eventually cleared, I hesitated a few feet away from the doorway, shifting restlessly from foot to foot—drawing the blaster from my makeshift holster.

"I'm so going to regret this later," I muttered, taking a step forward—

—unexpected door opening.

I squeaked and vaulted back over the crates.

Oh, so brave.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Warning Four.

Be fully prepared for the twisted mind that of which is Nintendo.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

*insert epic stealth mode music here*

Seriously, I needed my iPod or something. All these moments where music would have been so great were just slipping through my fingers.

It turns out that the door opening randomly had been triggered by none other than yours truly. After peering over the top of the crates and watching, um, nothing, come in—I made my way back over to the door and tested the theory that it was motion activated.

It was.

Anyways, after the first few minutes of sneaking around at a crawl pace with my heart thumping so loudly in my ears I thought surely someone must've heard it by now—it wasn't that bad. There were practically no R.O.B's using the corridors, and nearly every room I popped my head into was either storage or I could quickly pop my head back out and run away if any R. were inside. I found that when this happened, I wasn't followed. Either they couldn't be bothered or they didn't see me—which was perfectly fine by me. Just keep on working Mr. R..

The Primid, however, were a lot more aggressive. The first time I ran into one, I had made the mistake of relaxing in the slightest and slowing down my trotting pace. I turned a corner without looking and actually walked into the thing. It was actually about my height, (which was actually a little embarrassing), and it took all in all about two seconds of us staring blankly at each other before it tackled me in the mid-section.

Ow.

I was just lucky it wasn't one of those Primid with the Beam-Swords. In that case (I had learned in my 'base' that those Beam-Swords burned) I would have likely died, but instead of dying I earned myself a nice collection of bruises on my stomach as I was pummeled hard in the gut by those not-very-soft brown gloves. I had eventually managed to destroy the thing by getting my legs under it from my spot on the floor and barking out a terribly choked 'FLY ON!' That managed to get it off of me, it recoiling with a nasty looking burn on its stomach that oozed purple, and me shakily raising my arm and shooting it several times in the head.

More beginners luck?

Or maybe I just had a knack for shooting things.

Or maybe I was just going to walk out of this rabbit hole without any more attacks by said Primid while riding a rainbow unicorn which spawned orange bubbles as it ran.

I was a little more cautious after that, nursing irritably my aching abdomen. I peered around each corner before I turned, always had a finger on the trigger, and was generally more careful than before. I had made a good distance from my base, always turning left when I got to a split so I wouldn't get more lost than already was, and my journey was surprisingly easy after. Any Primid that attacked me I always spotted from a distance and could nail before they got too close. I didn't have to deal too much with leaving, um, bodies behind as they dissolved into creepy purple floating bubbles after I finished them—and all and all, I think I did pretty well.

Up until I found the room.

The room.

As in, THE room.

I peered around the corner, shoulder pressed firmly against the wall and blaster close to my chest. Two Primid. Both with Beam-Swords. Stationed outside a door. I quickly ducked my head back around the corner, gritting my teeth. Obviously, something important was in there. I could risk trying to get in, which would be hard since I couldn't shoot both Primid at the same time and had zero fighting skills what-so-ever. The room was probably under surveillance too, and I could bring unnecessary attention to myself. It seemed like no one had been sent to deal with me, so far, but that could all change if I went in the room. It would be smart to avoid guarded places like that.

But high-risk equals high-reward. There could be something good in there. Something really good.

Like an exit.

I flipped around the corner and took a shot at the first Primid, still half-hidden around the wall. It jumped, spazzing as the electricity jumped up its skin, and it just had the time to turn its head before another shot hit it square in the chest and it dissolved into purple floating dots.

Success, I allowed myself a tiny smile. One down—

I let out an 'oof!' as something hit me hard in the shoulder, sending me spinning out from behind my corner and sprawling onto the white-tiled ground. Right. Numero Dos.

Blinking the stars out of my vision, I focused rapidly on the beam-sword that was honing in on me from my dazed position on the ground. I squeaked and rolled to the side, the 'bzzzt!' sound of the sword hitting the tiles ringing in my ears. I continued the roll, swirling up onto my knees and sticking one out to balance myself. Bringing the blaster up, I blindly shot three beams of light into the unfocused distance and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the blow to come that would hurt like he—

—nothing?

I pried my eyes open in the slightest, before letting them widen as the remains of the Primid floated off and dissolved into the ceiling. "Epic," I murmured, still surprised that I had managed to hit both of them and come off mostly unscathed. The beam sword swiveled slowly on its axis, left unattended on the floor, with a low hum. I hoisted myself upwards and reached down to carefully pick it up. Pressing the small button on the side, the deadly beam of light vanished and I clipped it onto my hoister belt with the other two I had recently collected. I would probably throw two of them in the nearest supply room, the next time I found one—leaving the beam swords suspiciously on the ground in the middle of the hallway was probably not good for my stealth mode thing I had going on.

Speaking of being good for my stealth mode thing—that was surprisingly… easy. I mean, I hadn't walked away completely unscathed, but I had been expecting a burn or two in the least. Maybe even some internal bleeding. I was suspicious now, as I slowly crept over to the now unguarded door. Maybe there would be more guards inside.

The door slid open and I leapt to the side, poking my head around the corner warily before slowly pacing into the mostly dark room with my—Samus's—blaster trigger-ready. It was suspiciously dark. Why would they keep a room dark, I could barely see a thing—

"Piiiiiiiiiiiiiika-chuuuuu!"

I jumped, as if shocked. Which is kinda ironic, considering which smasher I had just been faced with. The room was flooded with temporary light as a bright neon-green light bounced around in some sort of glass container machine just a few feet ahead of me. As my eyes adjusted to the ever shifting light, I could make out no-other than Pikachu laying limply against the glass-walls of the cylinder container. I was lost, for a second, at what was happening—Pikachu turning his head and squeaking mutely inside the machine to stare at me (that made me really nervous, as he had probably no idea who I was).

Cue Reminder.

Quite suddenly, the machine started again, Pikachu squeaking shrilly (and I could barely hear him through the thick glass container) and the room again flooded as the electricity bubbled around the glass. It was hurting him; it was draining him of his electricity. It was a freaking Pikachu Generator, and who the heck would ever come up with such a freaking inhumane device for the freaking sake of freaking, freaking, power?

I was suddenly very, very angry.

FWZT! FWZT! FWZT! Three shots of plasma sent thin, hairline cracks through the glass container. It wasn't enough, and I slowly lowered the blaster back to my side—eyes alight. How had Samus freed him?

Oh, right. My finger flicked the little switch on the side of the blaster.

The glass exploded as the plasma-whip hammered once into the now slightly-broken glass cage. Instantly, an alarm started to blare—making my head hurt—and the room began to strobe-light a blood red color. Honestly, I could've cared less, walking briskly over to the remains of the glass container and gently lifting the small little form of the pokémon out of the wreckage. He squirmed pathetically in my arms for a second before going completely limp, something that made my blood run cold. He was still breathing, thank god, but didn't—in the games—didn't he jump out of the glass and proceed to dry the crap out of the R. that burst in?

Oh. Reminder.

I turned around, still holding Pikachu close to my chest. Right on cue, about ten or so R. flooded the room—looking very, very intimidating at the moment and much less passive than they had been before. But you know what?

I was angry.

Very angry. Angry, angry, angry. Alright, so you come up with a freaking Pikachu generator that powers your entire super-secret super large evil military base. That's fine. That's a great idea, actually. But was it really necessary to torture the little guy in the process? How freaking sick, and how freaking twisted was Nintendo's mind? Never mind that it was just a video game, never mind that the creators of this game had no idea that this was all actually real, never mind the fact that this is exactly the sort of thing I would write in a dark story (which is totally beside the point)—mind the fact that I was NOT happy about this whole thing, and that made all the difference.

I gently placed the pokémon on the ground behind the generator, patting him once on the head—there was no need for him to see the carnage that was about to follow (insert evil bahahaha here). I stood straight, ducking as a shot from the winking light atop a R.O.B's head whizzed by my ear. I glared at the R.O.B. (he would be the first to be destroyed) and flicked the tiny switch on the side of blaster.

Time to get serious.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

"Time to go, Sparky," I said, feeling uncreative in my nicknames today as I scooped the little mouse pokémon up. I stepped over the sparkling masses of R.—wondering why the heck I had not used the plasma whip earlier. It was the sole reason, now, that I no longer questioned Samus's beastliness. That thing was the ultimate weapon. I seriously needed to get one of these things.

Pikachu shifted a little, but other than that—nothing.

I, after the first long streak of un-n00b-ness I had had in a while, felt absolutely terrible. In the games, after Samus had rescued Pikachu from the generator—he had jumped out, looking pretty ticked off, and proceeded to help Samus kill every R.O.B. in sight. While I did that pretty fine on my own with the most excellent weapon ever invented, Pikachu hadn't helped. He had just… laid there in a pile of glass while I nearly died several times (trust me, it was nothing new, you don't want to hear about it) but fended them off in the end. It wasn't… right.

I had been late.

How much torture can this little guy put up with? Maybe I came an hour or two after Samus was supposed to come, maybe even three. For all I knew, I could've been a week late—and because of my slowness, Pikachu was spending another waking moment in that sick-excuse for a plot device. It was my fault that he was lying pathetically in my arms as I made my way back to my base instead of trailing along by my feet.

I cursed myself. Quietly, because I didn't need any more attention now that I was limping and had a burning hole in my shoulder from where I couldn't dodge a laser, but I cursed myself all the same.

I entered my base without my trouble. Either all the R. in the area had been dispatched to the generator room when I tripped the alarm, or I was just lucky. Either way, it was a sorry sight to see as I shoved the crates back in front of the door—wincing in pain—and practically collapsed back against them, holding the still rather unresponsive pokémon to my chest.

"I'm so sorry, Pikachu," I sighed, thumping my head back against the crate. I coughed once or twice, blinking the wariness, sweat, and blood out of my eyes before I glanced back at the pokémon. There weren't any physical wounds I could see, as I glanced over his fur, but for all I knew he could be internally bleeding or something horrible like that—

—wait.

My eyes narrowed, and for a second I forgot about how much my shoulder burned, or how much my hands ached or how much I hated myself. All I could think about and stare at was the little tiny piece of fabric caught behind the mouse pokémon's ear. All I could think about was the leathery feel of the fabric, and the familiar brown color and how dang similar it was to—

My eyes widened.

I gently placed Pikachu on the tiles next to me and I rolled, knees bending into a crouch. I had assumed, for the sake of assuming, that all the brawl characters I was hopefully going to avoid were all themselves to—that they hadn't disappeared and replaced by some foreigner from another world. I had assumed that I was going to be the only exception to that rule and hopefully was the only one there ever was going to be. But if that assumption was true, then why was I clutching in my palm—so feverently—a little shred of my little brother's brown flight jacket?

That was the day I learned to never assume.

Slowly, I brought my elbows to the ground and I lowered my head till my curls were hanging in my face and I was at eyelevel with the pokémon. I blinked once—twice—meeting the tired eyes of the little mouse and slowly asking—

"—Bruce?"

"Piiika-chu," Pikachu murmured pathetically, ears drooped and looking so dang adorably pathetic that it made my heart plop.

"Right," I said, disappointed, drawing my head up off the ground a little. "I'm a little rusty on my pokémon-language skills—I forgot for a second that they can only repeat their name a billion times over."

No response.

I thought furiously for a second, before re-lowering my head. "Hey, bud," I said, the cheerfulness in my voice so fake it made my stomach do flips. "I'm a little confused right now. I'm going to ask you a question, and if the answer is 'yes' then I want you to say… um… 'Pika.' Okay? And if the answer is no, say… chu?—chu. Just chu. Got it?"

"Chu."

I paused.

"Good enough for me," I said, thinking about that in my head a few times. "Um, okay. First question: Are you alive?"

"…pika."

"Good!" I encouraged, patting him once on the head between his ears. "Question Two: Are you a boy?"

"…pika."

"That's a good sign," I mulled. "Last Question." I paused—the moment of truth. "Are you a Pikachu?"

Silence.

And then—

"—Pikachu."

"Bruce!" I squeaked, both strangely happy and strangely horrified at the game time in a whirlwind of giddiness. I scooped him up, holding him up and out at an arm's length, grinning like mad. "Oh-my-gosh, you're alive! And you're in a video game! With me! I'm not alone! And you're a Pikachu! Which is kinda' disturbing but at the same time so, so epic!"

"…pika," Bruce said, looking at me with lidded brown eyes, hanging limply in my arms with arms and legs dangling.

"Bruce!" I smiled again, still in that strangely happy mode.

"Pika-pika-piiiiiiiika-chu."

"Oh, right." I quickly put him down, where the little sucker immediately curled up into a ball. "You know, we're going to have to work on this language barrier thing. I get your general tone, but I think we're still going to have some issues."

"Pika."

"Yes!" I said happily, before quickly getting serious. "Are you hurt? Where does it hurt?"

"Chu." His voice was muffled under his furred paws.

"You're not hurt?" I asked, quizzically cocking my head to the side.

"Pika."

"You are hurt?"

"Chu."

"You aren't hurt," I confirmed.

"Pika."

"You are hurt?"

Bruce lifted his head from under his paws and glared at me. "Piiiiiiiiiika, Pikachu—pika-pika."

I stared blankly black.

"So, you aren't hurt."

"Chu."

"You're tired, then?" I pressed.

"Pika."

"Okay, okay," I said, trying to back off, give him some space. Maybe that generator didn't really hurt him, just left him really tired. That would be a much better outcome than what I had hoped. "So you just want to rest a little?"

"Pika."

"Okay then," I confirmed. I was chattering aimlessly now, relieved and just generally letting off steam over all my worry that had just been deflated. "I'll back off. We can do that. Resting's good. I'm a little tired too. Rest time equals fun time. And I am a fun sister—

"Pika-chu."

"Okay," I said, getting the hint. "I'll shut up now. Time for rest."

And rest we did.

oooooollo. Hi. Remember me? It's been like (looks at calendar) eight whole days. That's quite a while. My apologies! I was hoping to get this chapter up sooner but I just was constantly studying for this A.P. test (which is over now, YAYAYAYAY!) nd had general difficulties with this chapter over all. I dunno why. Maybe because the order went like... filler, filler, pointless filler, plot, seriousness, humorous-filler? I don't know. It took me several hours to write this one and I wasn't even that distracted.

That distracted.

Anyways-I hope you liked it! The scene where Zero-Suit Samus rescues Pikachu had always really bothered me. It just shows how twisted the mind of Nintendo really is-hehe. (just as twisted as mine, I'm such a hypocrite) Well, anyways. That's what happened to Bruce! These whole yes-no questions are really going to be an issue, as seen above. ^^

IMPORTANT NOTE BEFORE I RESPOND TO REVIEWS: Does anyone know a good Beta-reader? I'd really like one, as I know I make no sense sometimes and I would really like a nice (thought not necessarily in the personality type of way) editor. I've looked around on the Beta-Page but I'll finally find a person I like and then I'll look at their page only to find that they haven't posted anything or added a favorite since like 2003 and I'll be wondering if they're even still alive. Haha. But yes, if anyone could shoot me a PM about a Beta they know (or are) that would be aweeeeeeeeesome.

IN RESPONSE TO YOUR REVIEWS (or review, but, I digress)

To Loopy Panda: Yes. Plot Advancement. I find it livens up the story a bit, don't you think? I feel even more special to actually get a review which starts the review response in the AN-thank you for that. ;) The rocket-boot idea wasn't actually mine, to be honest. I saw it in a YouTube Video called Samus vs. Master Chief which is actually a very nice action video if you're looking for something to do. And yes, Allusions. I do enjoy a good allusion-more to come. Thank you for your compliments and your review, it really made me smile! (gosh, I know, Minecraft's so addicting... gah)

And until next time, people! Thanks to Chrissie DeKourson for adding this story to your story-alert-hope to read your voice one day. :)

-Fleet