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

Note: Do you guys/gals like this fan-fiction? Then please leave a favorite or a following: it would really make my day, and drive me to continue writing! Reviews or PMs are also very, very appreciated, because I love hearing your opinions and thoughts on this. Thanks, and enjoy your read!

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

DOUBLE WARNING: Especially in this chapter (Rape).

Chapter V

Again. Again and again. The swine was at it again.

Didn't he come before? Was he still not satisfied for the day? Maybe it was another day – did that mean she was losing the track of time, that she was losing her consciousness? If she had stayed awake she would have definitely noticed the change of date, after all. So, it was likely; that would have explained why her head was spinning like crazy. Well, it wasn't like it mattered anyway.

How much longer? She just wanted him to go away. That day he was smelling even worse than his usual piss-stained shirt rubbed of soggy butter. It was disgusting. As he was moving her insides, she shivered at the cold, icky layer of his sweater more than anything else.

It was the worst. She had already learned not to care about the crawling feeling in her violated body, she could just close her eyes and forget it; it helped he was never facing her. (at least he could had the decency to do that, to look into her eyes.) But that feeling, she could not-

Suddenly he grabbed her and began moving with more force. – … that revolting smell, she was not able to endure. She thought it would start to infect her: she would start to smell like him, she would emanate that same sweaty illness through gross, bubonic skin that would cover her wholly. She would rather kill herself than live with that.

Every time he came downstairs he was more and more nauseating. If she could at least puke... but her stomach was nothing more than dried bread and water. Actually, she did think she was-

He began moving faster. It hurt, a lot. But it was a good thing, it meant he was almost done, so she clung her hands to the chains she was locked with, and endured. - … she was going to puke, she was sure of it. She tried to gulp to help a bit; her eyes answered by dropping a tear or two. Then she waited.

Nothing, she was not throwing up. Goddamn her weak, pathetic body. At least seeing her digesting acids on the gray, dirty wall in front of her would have been something new. It was not ticking a second, that recurring hell she was living. Her owner was not going to clean it, she was sure of that: at least she could have kept her nose close to it and sniff her stench to hide his much worse smell.

As those were her thoughts, the man kept shouting monosyllables, without restraint, for the good time he was having. He just pushed and pushed, without even caring when he was going to finish, for the simple reason he could do it again whenever he wished. Before ending he would moan louder, from the cry of a seal to that of a whale; she still didn't care, as she was desperately closing to herself, deaf to any noise.

Finally, he was done. For the moment, he was done. Even waiting for him to zip his pants as he looked at her - such a silly creature she was! - and leave seemed to take an eternity. Every time it was hard, every time it was becoming harder to endure the process: her body was fever-ly shaking, her head terribly sweating, her heart pumping violently. She damned her feminine, fragile body.

Chained, beaten up, physically and psychologically destroyed, the creature was still not admitting defeat. In fact, she still wanted to preserve something: her pair of red, vivid, most beautiful eyes were still shining in all that darkness, ones which no sorts of genetics or magic tricks could hope to achieve, for the disappointment of all the rich, female human that asked for those.

They were jewels, carefully nestled inside their white turf, hidden treasures of Gaia Mother. No pupil, but a kaleidoscope of shapes and forms like crystals bound together was inside those smooth spheres of her, rapidly spinning at any solicitation, like a ballerina, widening to the smallest of beats, brightening or darkening as a reaction to the outside world or her body in anger, in happiness, in joy, in depression, in fear, in passion. All of these, scattered in leaves through the universe, were bound up together with love in her two volumes only. They were skies of infinitely blended colors, oceans of rushing waters in crimson reds, calmer or blazing, edges of a cherry above a floor of ruby; they had magenta and violet touches here and there, perfect impurities of a painter's proud work, which seemed to move like a constellation of stars, and likewise light they would not reflect, but emanate: a pale, sweet, purple light.

Those eyes were gentle, those eyes were soothing, those eyes were a mixture of purity and depth, those eyes would cradle you and make you forget completely yourself, forever. Those eyes could be alluring as well, with their long eyelashes. She would keep her face slightly tilted, her mouth barely open as if to kiss you, leaning closer; she would faintly breathe in and out, and you would find yourself already lost, by just looking at those eyes.

She was protecting them from him, she would never show them to him, she would hide them and show him fake, soulless, emotionless eyes. He was not even trying to see them, nevertheless; that was despicable, that was ugly, that was unforgivable, that he would abuse her body, but not her beauty.

Those beautiful eyes, which were her whole world and her whole being, in that particular instance were crying.

Glorious Odysseus, I'd rather serve as another man's laborer, as a poor peasant without land, and be alive on Earth, than be lord of all the lifeless dead.

"It's from the Odyssey, eleventh book. Odysseus travels to the Underworld and makes a sacrifice to the souls of the dead in order to know his future fate. Among those shadows is Swift-footed Achilles, the Greek demigod who had irately fought in the war of Troy."

The boy was pondering, looking at the passage written in the book he was holding. A few months had passed since he was first rescued, and his health issues had finally started to worn out. He was fit again, ready to start anew, even if it would still take him a while to get fully back in shape; he tried to reduce such time by doing physical activity twice his norm whenever his body allowed for it. That also meant coming to a decision about his future: that was the far harder toll on his shoulder, compared to the literal weights he was using for those series of push-ups he would do.

"He is the main character of the Iliad, and also makes a small appearance in this book. Here he states that looking back, he would have rather chosen to live a long life, devoid of glory, than the short one he had opted for."

Once again, he was talking with the surgeon about the proposal of leaving the City he had lived his last few months in, an idea which came into shape more and more as the boy's conditions improved. The young man knew what being in a regime meant, and he definitely didn't want to be stuck once more in that same situation – a worse one, even, because he was without the care and company of his father, which he had given up to attempt freedom. Though the thought of re-encountering such a scarring, life threatening experience and of living by himself, fearing everyone and everything, scared him to death. The surgeon would always wisely try to discourage him from the insane idea, and would always leverage such points to his favor.

"That is, the goddess Thetis, his mother, had told him those were the two ways he could have met his end."

The boy then would reply that he didn't really know if that was the kind of life he wanted; he didn't want to be isolated from society, he just wanted... a 'better' society? To change what was unfair, to stop the ridiculous War that was waging even though no one even knew who to fight against anymore. Someone had to do it, he would exclaim, and there was no way he could have accomplished anything from the inside. He had to leave, he had to search an answer outside, he would argue.

"His response was: 'I shall not return alive but my name will live forever', and then followed through that decision to his last breath, sacrificing himself for a greater good that never actually came," finished lecturing the surgeon.

"And you imply that on top of that, he regretted his choice," commented the boy.

"Undoubtedly he did."

The boy stood silent for a while. He mentally replied it was only a myth, yet he could not but acknowledge that some truth was in those words: after all, if even an all-powerful hero, a killer of thousands, a demigod of war was struggling with the matter, an insignificant little boy like him definitely had no say in it. The boy really wished for a different world, but who didn't of his era? And if he had no means of reaching such a high objective, he was no different than anyone else. What would his dead corpse be good for?

"What am I supposed to do then? Should I just... give up on everything?" he reluctantly asked.

"Oh now, don't be tragic," said the surgeon. "You sound like it's either all or nothing! You know, I'd tell you a chemistry joke to cheer you up, but I know I wouldn't get a reaction! Oh oh! Oh oh oh!"

"Please..."

"Okay, okay, sorry about that."

The man turned around at his desk, still chuckling for his "brilliant" joke and trying at the same time to hide his laughs like a kid who can't contain his emotions. He browsed through a few sheets and papers, then picked up something.

"Here, take a look at this."

He handed a blue folder. It contained several sheets, all of them having some or some other data about the boy, especially about where he was found, how he had recovered, what he looked like. There also were a few photos of his face and body both before and after the surgical operation he had done.

He stared at these latter ones in shock, eyes wide open: he really had been a mess. A pile of meat and twisted entrails gushing out in dark fluids was in place of his torso, to the point the holes the buzzing monster had created were not even visible. One rib was out in the open, clearly out of place. He imagined the whole thing trying to live and breathe, its intestines out in the air pulsating up and down, as the liver followed. The boy instinctively glanced down, then back at the photos. He touched his torso and slowly dragged his hand to examine every organ and every bone, compulsively checking that everything was in its place.

Indeed it was. Yet the sight reeked of decomposition, and death. How in the world did that team of surgeons "magically" fix him? That could be called anything but a "routine operation". And though just living through that would be unthinkable, recovering in just four months was way off any reasonable argument. What was the surgeon hiding from him?

After a few seconds, the boy couldn't stand the sight anymore. He violently closed the dossier, before dumping it on the ground.

"Did you just show me those just to scare me, and make me change my mind?!" spit the boy, in pent up anger and restraint.

"No, I did not!" shouted the surgeon with a clear, controlled voice. "Look at the rest of the documentation, will you?"

The boy wore an expression of clear warning: if he was to pull another sickening trick like that he would have not hesitated to jump on him.

Then he slowly picked up the dossier. More documents: a few of them were half-empty or completely blank; the last one in particular, though, had to be filled with basic information such as name, age, date of birth, signature.

"The Federation welcomes you aboard" was written in bold characters at the top of the paper.

"I talked with a 'friend' of mine. He got me a permit for you to live in this city so that you can settle down. You are going to work as a soldier, which is a privilege, far better than anything else as of these times," proposed the surgeon.

Yet the boy didn't seem enthusiastic at the idea.

"It's been four months since I have found you; everything considered, I'd say you are fit to strain your body once again. And you do need to have a job: I'm not going to feed you for the rest of your days, even if I could. I'm not your father," concluded the man.

The boy gave no reply at first, lost and conflicted in thought. In the end, as he was presented with the reality of things, "All right," grumbled the boy, and he gave up.

A few cars were dashing through the streets, motors rumbling as the boy had never heard so often in his life. The city was noisy of people walking through the sidewalks, chatting and laughing while enjoying an appetizer at a cafè, or dining in some of the frequently placed restaurants and pizzerias. Fountains and aisles decorated the main roads, and the garden of the city sat ample, and felt truly open; elderlies were resting by the benches, kids were darting to catch the football they were cheerfully playing with. He would later discover the city had a university, a library, a gym, a swimming pool, a theater, and quite the selection of bars to enjoy during Saturday nights, which were brimming of blues, yellows, violets of neon tubes and lights of high buildings and entrance signs of pubs. Dresses were no less flashy, either: young gentlemen in black or white nightshirts, unbuttoned not just once, but fully open, and red or dark gowns for the share of women who weren't simplifying and going out with just golden brassierès and undergarments.

His hometown was nothing more than stone age prehistory compared to the bliss of the City. All that fervent human activity was truly mesmerizing for a village boy like him, if a bit intimidating at first. He felt small and excited, a new kind of life waiting for him. He ended up wasting his first night of free roaming feeling embarrassed and going in circles around a few streets for a good two hours and even then, he managed to get lost.

Grass was painted a pale green by the warm sun that rose the following day. Its patches were perfectly tidied, almost too perfectly: in truth, there were no worms, no bees, no birds anywhere to be seen, but the boy didn't really pay worry to it. More than anything, he was paying full attention to the road as he didn't want to be late for his first day of military training.

Twenty minutes later he was facing the barracks, and ten more he was presenting himself to the-)£T34S=A)£RH24"£)%R

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"Yeah, maybe this life is not going to be so bad as I thought," he admitted that same evening to the surgeon. The man promptly answered with one of his jokes which, for the sake of the reader's sanity, I do not present here.