Author's Notes: I am a nudist
"Not again," Misty whispered, leaning over Brock gently, brushing away hair with her thin, pale fingers. "He's going to die of pneumonia if this keeps up."
Gary poked the mud which cradled his friend with two fingers, biting his lip all the while. He shook it off quickly, letting the rain do the rest to cleanse it from his fingers.
"Let's just get him out of here," Gary sighed and shook his head, "I don't know what will happen if he starts going farther."
"We've got to watch him Gary," Misty shouted against the wind, though it seemed demure aside from the required elevation of voice.
"Y-yeah," Gary coughed, realizing that it was one of the first things he and Misty were able to agree upon.
Ash looked in silence, wondering how Brock was connected to the dreams he kept having. . .
Blood Destiny Wilted and Desecrated"At least the weather isn't so bad today," Misty broke the silence as she and Brock held hands, walking slowly along the bank of a murky pond formed by the recent rains. "It hasn't been this nice in a while."
Brock lifted his head to look around him, scoffing at his surroundings. The world seemed to be in black and white—even Misty's vibrant red hair seemed lackluster lately. He gripped her hand even more tightly.
"It doesn't matter what the weather is like," Brock forced a smile at his love, "as long as I'm with you, it always feels warm and sunny."
Misty shook her head and chortled, finding some comfort in Brock's lie. Nothing could feel sunny when there was a constant fog over the world.
"Sit with me, Misty," Brock pulled Misty's hand downward as he sat in the grass along the edge of the pond. "We haven't just sat together in a long while."
Misty complied, not worrying about the dust which clung to her clothes which hadn't seemed to fit quite right in months. . .
Brock's hand seemed clammy and made her's itch. She wanted to let go, but couldn't do so without alarming him. He edged closer to her, his breath causing the skin of her neck to tingle. She craned her neck closer to his lips, quickly reminded of how her desire for him had not faded.
Brock pulled Misty's back into his chest and wrapped his arms around her waist, letting his lips and breath along with them trail along her collarbone to her shoulder, pulling back at the sleeve which covered it a little as he rested his head there.
"I like just being with you, Misty," Brock whispered.
Misty leaned into him as well, letting her stomach churn for a moment as she stared forward into the grass, letting the ground blur in front of her until the gray strands morphed into an ocean of translucent, broken glass, blood dripping from their sharp tips—
"Brock," Misty gulped, then turned around, no longer sitting and leaning backwards into his chest, but on her knees and grasping his shoulder-blades, letting her jaw quiver as her heart snapped like the jaws of a wolf in a trap for its life, letting sweat trickle down her temples as she stared at the man in front of her.
Brock seemed taken by surprise, his dark-black dyed hair stood up on its elated ends even more than usual, and Misty couldn't even see the lighter horizon compared to the velvet darkness of Brock's hair and skin. Her stomach felt like it was twisting upon itself, as she could have sworn that the eyes which resided behind the violent scars which lightly etched his face were the same gentle ones she knew before—
"Misty?" Brock asked, unnerved by her staring. He cupped her face with his hands, nerves shaking within his spine as his suspicions flittered to the surface of his mind. Misty had been acting distant—as if Brock had committed crimes for which he could not repent—
"Brock," Misty replied with a rigid gulp, put her shaking arms around him and pressed her lips firmly to his. It felt strange to openly accept the delicate brushing of skin she once enjoyed and now feared—but it was so easy to eagerly drink the affection which was always available when not rejected. Her skin felt heated against his, and he was easily pushed down into the ocean of grassy shards—and hands easily searched longingly for the comforts of skin desired throughout the storm which ravaged their peace of mind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tracey shook even harder as he looked out the window, barely able to hold on to the sheets which shook within his incredulous hands, his eyes burned by both the fire of Misty's ginger hair, and by the pain of the scarlet blood stains which still dripped black from the wholly saturated linens—letting it defile his hands and spirit as he did so, letting the sanguine fluid merge with that of his brackish tears.
He had a decision to make—there was still doubt as to the name of the slaughterer, but only to an optimist.
"Tracey," a stern voice crept up behind his pained ears. "You can't protect him this time. It could be one of us next time."
Tracey's dry mouth couldn't physically utter a reply, and thus he remained stationary, letting the blood loll over his shoes, not caring what became of him at that moment.
"I see them too," James whispered, putting a hand on Tracey's shoulder. "And it'll break her heart. But I don't see—"
"But I see," Tracey gulped. "His friends will want proof—more than we have—and the others won't want him to live."
"It's not like they'll have a choice," James cringed, "Ash and Brock are too strong for any of you to take anyway."
"I should talk to Ash," Tracey whispered, still unable to work his mouth properly due to its bitter desiccation. "Maybe he'll see reason."
James looked to the floor. "You can't take care of everyone all the time. And now—I don't think anyone would expect you to."
The sheets in Tracey's hands began shaking gently, and James grabbed them from him, not caring if they became blood stained as well.
"They won't hate you Tracey," James put the sheets aside and grabbed Tracey's stained hands, "it's not your fault."
Tracey walked away from James comforts slowly, "I hope you're right."
"I could always tell for you," James nodded. "You don't have to do it alone."
"I don't want to drag you into my problems," Tracey shook as he entered the hall, "I don't want anyone to be dragged into them."
Tracey ran almost aimlessly to the bathroom to try and rinse the blood from his hands. As cold water seemed to glide over the red, leaving it as it were, Tracey shuddered with an image of its origin—the girl lying on the bed, slashed through every artery she had—blood drenching the bed so profusely that when turned over nothing but clear liquid drained from the wounds as she had no blood left to leak.
His thoughts then traveled to Brock, how one night he had gently lifted Misty from where she had fallen asleep on the sofa, carrying her as if walking upon a cloud, lying her so carefully that she didn't wake—kissing her forehead so gently—
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"What're we gonna do when everything is back to normal?" Misty asked, lying her head on Brock's chest after pulling her lips from his one last time.
"There's a question," Brock contemplated as he smelled and ran his fingers through Misty's hair. "How old are you now?"
"Brock!" Misty slapped him jokingly, "I'm sixteen!"
"Oh," Brock chuckled, "right. Too young to live together, I guess."
"You really need to see a doctor," Misty whispered, "with these passing out spells all the time—"
Brock's movements stopped suddenly, and he stared at the gray-crusted sky for a moment, not even musing on Misty's comment, just staring. "Doctor," he mouthed, "yes, I think that would be good."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"It makes sense," Ash looked at his feet, turning away from the window where Misty and Brock were easily seen having a rare moment to themselves. "But I—"
"Of course it makes sense to you!" Gary shouted, "you've known him for years and don't know a fucking thing about him! He didn't do it—I don't care how much evidence there is!"
"Like I was saying," Ash nearly smirked at Gary's outburst, "I don't think Brock did it. And it's not because it's not somethin' he would do, it's because I've been having dreams—I knew something like this was gonna happen, I didn't know it already was."
"What happened in your dreams?" Tracey suddenly gained interest.
"I," Ash began to speak, but then felt as if he were drenched in a fog, "I don't know—they just leave me with a feeling."
"I don't think that's enough just to let your friend go," one of the other Espiritus, the lover of the one killed, chirped while trying to keep his voice from cracking.
"He wouldn't have—" Gary began to yell at the dejected man, but Ash put his hand on Gary's shoulder, silencing him, oddly enough.
"I think we should just ask Brock," Tracey coughed, using Ash's motion as a cue. "He—he wouldn't want to hurt people. If it is him, it's probably not on his own volition—and if it isn't we'll find out while he's confined—"
"Confined?" Gary's eyes widened. "You're shittin' me!"
"Gary," Tracey looked to the floor, "people's lives are at stake here—"
"I don't think we should do that then sit around and see if someone dies," the aforementioned Espiritu became indignant, "we have to protect everyone! This CANNOT happen again!"
"I feel for you," Tracey's voice cracked, "but what can we do? It was security people who were killed before, and—"
The room fell silent as a door slammed in the front room.
"Isn't anyone here?" Misty whispered.
Brock looked around the room, as if his eyes would hear something that his ears had missed. Emptiness devoured their ears besides the soft and nerve-wracked sound of each other's breathing, and their footsteps grew softer as they neared the hallway.
"It's not such a bad thing that no one is," Misty swallowed gently, her face still flushed from both the immersion of hot air which occurred after opening the door and the heated blood which Brock's solid hands gently caressing her skin had induced.
Their footsteps felt soggy as they made their way down the hall. Brock's lips and hands tingled, and he almost felt nauseated as his nerves twitched their way from his throat to his stomach. He was unsure as to why his nerves would decide to revolt on him at that moment in particular, but he felt even more lost as Misty's lithe frame dug into his own, reaching for various reassurances.
The lingering worry of what had become of everyone stayed itself in the rear of Brock's mind as he stopped in front of the door, gathering Misty's hands into his own and drawing them gently to his lips, kissing them shakily, reenergizing the tingling sensation they had felt outside on the gray grass.
Misty drew herself closer to him, imploring him to meet her lips with his own. Brock's eyes shut slowly, and he was about to lean in for a kiss when a gentle, purposeful cough from behind startled him.
Brock turned around after having his flesh jostled away from muscle, and Misty was very noticeably flustered as well. The large group which seemed to have appeared so suddenly immediately set off alarms in their heads.
"Haha," Brock laughed tartly and nervously, "I was wondering where you all went off to."
Tracey and Ash merely looked to the ground, whereas Gary stared openly at his oblivious friend.
"Brock," Tracey coughed, as always feeling resentful toward his occupation as the harbinger of difficult news. "I—Ash and I want to talk to you—alone."
Gary's eyes fled towards theirs, becoming at once shocked and hardened. He chose the moment directly afterward to run into his room, slamming the door with all the tensed strength contained in his sylphlike frame.
Brock's mouth dried up in an instant; the moisture thereof obviously relocating to his temples where sweat began to bead and fatten to trickle down his hairline.
"Okay," he quietly agreed, "Misty, I think you'd better—"
"Like fuck I'm gonna keep out of this!" Gary shouted, running back into the group, having reconsidered his previous decision.
"If it's so important I'm not keeping out of it either!" Misty crossed her arms, her bile warming as Gary's presence trickled rage into her stream of emotion.
"This is what we didn't want to happen," Tracey grumbled.
"They'll be at it for an hour," Ash frowned, knowing that they couldn't possibly have hoped to keep them out of it.
"She's right," Gary pointed towards Misty, quite unexpectedly, "neither of us should be left out of this."
"No guys," Brock stepped away from Gary and Misty, "it's okay if they want to talk to me alone. I'll tell you about it—later." Brock garbled the last word as if he'd already felt there wouldn't be a later.
"But Brock—" Gary started, extending his hand and grabbing Brock by the shoulder.
Brock removed Gary's hand gently, shaking his head. "I'm a big boy, Gary. I can take care of myself."
Gary at first seemed indignant as he reiterated this statement in his mind, but as he looked over to Misty who was quietly shaking as she watched Brock walk away with Ash and Tracey, he diverted his attentions.
"I don't know why you had to open your big mouth," he snapped at her. "You don't even know what's going on!"
Misty didn't snap back, however. Gary was about to make another statement in anger, but paused as Misty turned towards him, her eyes welling with tears.
"Misty," Gary blinked, "crying? You don't even know what's wrong. I hardly believe you even care. You'd probably pull the switch on the electric chair yourself if Brock "
And for this statement, Misty drew her hand back and thrust its knuckles into Gary's jaw, clattering his teeth and causing him to fall to the ground.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brock wished at that moment that they hadn't converted the gym into a bit of a house over the years because the bedroom he was taken in still had the atmosphere of a gym—the floor was still hard and scratched from battle, and the karma of the butterflies which escaped the stomachs of trainers looking for a badge still hung thick on the air like wispy smoke from a candle blown out and fluttering around the room like a mindless spirit.
Brock looked to the floor, taking a seat on the edge of the bed so he could kick at a certain scratch while Ash and Tracey composed their thoughts in order .
"We've been trying to keep it from the others," Tracey began, quietly, "to keep everyone from panicking, but three people have been mysteriously murdered in the past few days."
Brock suddenly bolted upright, his muscles becoming rigid and his breathing ceasing. "And I?"
"No, Brock," Ash walked over and put his hands on his shoulders. "I know it wasn't you."
"Ash," Tracey closed his eyes, "we can't go by a dream. We know it wasn't on purpose, but you have had those weird spells where you can't remember what you did, and the times have been, well, suspicious—"
"Oh," Brock stood up, brushing Ash's arms aside, "God, no—"
The water was cool and splashed up aggressively against Brock's torso, and he nearly fell over as his vision came back into focus.
"Where?" he asked himself, not bothering to fill in the rest of the question.
It was the first time he'd blacked out and not ended up unconscious somewhere only to be found by one of his friends.
"What have I been doing?" he whispered, as he fought the cold which wracked his body to wade through the lake back to shore.
"If I passed out I'd be dead," he grumbled, dipping his hands into his water to remove a subconscious filth before crawling out of it onto shore. "What's happening to me?"
Colors seemed to flash in Brock's mind, as if he were about to pass out, but he fought it, dragging himself to his bed inside the gym, where he could retain consciousness no longer.
"Three people," he shuddered, shrugging off the memory which had arrested him to its haunting reminder of how he'd been so naïve.
He fell to his knees, his face in his palms. "That must be why I've been blacking out—I haven't been an assassin for so long—it—"
"No!" Ash dropped to his knees as well to wrap his arms around Brock. "I told you it wasn't you—even not on purpose! Trust me!"
"But if it was," Tracey found it hard to oppose Ash. He was upset that Ash wasn't helping with the solution they'd agreed to. "I think it would be best if we didn't let it happen again."
"Yes!" Brock agreed, but found himself gripping Ash harder for comfort, "I give you permission—kill me, I deserve it!"
"No," Ash stroked Brock's hair, "we can think of another way."
"Confinement," Tracey sighed. "Just for a while. Until we figure out where the real problem is. Look—it's for your own safety. The other Espiritus aren't handling this so well."
"You really mean for their own safety," Brock sniffed, "but it's ok. I'd let them do whatever they wanted."
"No," Tracey shook his head, "I did mean for your own safety. We have a room for you—one you won't be able to get out of. But it's comfortable enough—and someone will bring you food and water. I swear it's only temporary."
"What'll Misty and Gary think of me," Brock muttered to himself.
"Gary knows," Ash winced, "and he thinks we're being crazy and you really didn't do anything. I don't know about Misty."
"Sketchit," a tall, androgynous Espiritu walked in, quite out of breath. "We were unable to locate Senior Officer Oak—we're sorry that—"
Tracey closed his eyes tightly, clenching his fists at the news.
"My sister?" Gary blinked. "I thought she was sent into town to try and stop Mistake worshipping?"
"She was supposed to be back four hours ago," Tracey whispered. "It was an overnight mission, not two day."
Gary smirked. "Oh, you should know May by now, she takes her damn sweet time no matter what she does." The smirk that began to show the wobbly concern behind it as the statement lingered in his mind.
"The lake," Brock mouthed, soundlessly, not even consciously realizing that he had done so.
"I know what I have to do," he announced through clenched teeth, standing up and helping Ash up as he did so.
"Brock?" Ash blinked.
"I won't be back," Brock whispered, then took off running down the hall.
"Wait!" Misty shouted, but even she couldn't catch up once Brock was out the door.
~`~`~`~`~`
"There's definitely something down here!" Espiritu Derith announced, removing his breathing gear from his mouth.
"Can you bring it up?" Espiritu Claridene shouted back to Derith, her words battling a strong wind which had kicked up to kick away water from the lake and onto the disgruntled shore.
"Yeah, Gerald and Terra are doing that now," he shouted back, though his words hit Claridene's ears a little too sporadically.
The diving clothes didn't keep much of the cold out, but such minor things were plunged to the farthest niche of the diver's minds as they manually pulled up a fragile and rapidly degenerating object from the bottom of the lake.
"Whatever it is," Claridene laughed to herself nervously, trying to convince herself that the situation could in no way become serious, "it's going to be annoying to haul all the way back to Pewter if it takes that long to drag up."
However, 'annoying' wasn't quite the word to describe what horrors would be racing through their minds as they delicately carried a carcass back into the town to be buried among countless others which had fallen since the reign of the Mistakes. . .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The skies were a little lighter as the sun battled the artificial clouds which plated the sky like a grape frosting, and the tops of nearby foothills flaunted a baked apple color that the cloud-filtered sunlight accentuated. Wind was the only thing to hear for miles—wind which whistled and wind which pulled clouds from their roots and which whisked away thoughts from nervous or tainted minds.
The stranger's footsteps were delicate as each foot avoided leaving its foreign residue upon the bleached shell that the city of Lavender. A group of hardened teenagers dared set in the street to enjoy each other's company, but a quality of defiance stank within their words and postures as they did so. They all fell silent as the stranger walked up to them, hands on hips.
"Aren't you worried that the mistakes will get you, just sitting out here like this?" was the wisdom which the stranger bestowed upon them.
"We'll fucking kill a mistake that fucks with us," the biggest one proclaimed defiantly, "we're sick of their shit."
"I'd help you," the stranger's mouth contorted into a ghostly grin which even frightened one who would stand up to a mistake a little, "but sadly, I have other business to attend to."
The stranger walked off with footsteps slow and methodical, not worrying about making a scene in the slightest—worrying even less than the group of suicidal teenagers.
"I dunno what that moron is thinking," a girl in the group shook her head. "At least we have smuggled weapons."
"Hey, uh, you! Stranger!" one of the kids called out. "Don't go that way! No humans are allowed in that cave! Even we're not dumb enough to go in there!"
But the stranger chose not to hear, and the footsteps continued—unhurried—but with all the destination in the world contained within each crack upon the weathered stones of the street.
