*~*The Felicities and Fallacies of Pokémon Training*~*

Chapter Tenth: Crawling in the Dark

Written By The Duke of Briarcliffe

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Author's Notes: Thanks to everyone who reviewed. Going to keep this one short. Lay back, grab a Clearly Canadian, and let the good times roll. —The Duke of Briarcliffe

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"What you do speaks so loudly that I cannot hear what you say."

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-1882, American Poet, Essayist

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"GET UP, YOU'RE NOT DEAD. WELL...NOT YET ANYWAYS."

His revival was much easier said than done. Duncan had been sinking further and further into an abyss that started off as a beautiful turquoise that transformed into a serene cerulean right before his eyes and then into a tranquil navy and lastly, into a melancholy black. From the depths of his conscience, he saw a bright beam of light towards the water's surface; however, the beam didn't pervade the thick layer of mental unresponsiveness that he was trapped in.

"I said to get up," a harsh voice persisted.

He began to float. It was a slow, steady ascent and the serene cerulean, though not so serene because it'd been tainted with scarlet, thus making a sedate violet, proved to be the thickest layer to pass. Radiance showered on him as he was submerged, and dazedly did he look around at his surroundings for a clearer understanding.

His throat was throbbing and sore. A stinging pain circulated through his body, each wave sending him more and more discomfort. He could hardly breathe. The attacker had got him right in the Adam's apple, and he was afraid that if he was to utter a single statement, he would sound like a six year old. So, he decided not to speak after all.

It was still dark in the loft, and he didn't know who the intruder was. The identity just had to be uncovered. His very life was on the line, however, he thought that he would die more peacefully if he knew whom his murderer was. His vision was still hazy, and he felt color-blind.

"Hello?"

In a swift movement, the intruder grabbed his arm, the hand being gloved with smooth leather, and yanked him up to his feet with a surprising amount of strength. Duncan swaggered, unable to keep his balance. And then, just when he thought that he was steady, he got slapped down again—this time being a punch to the jaw that made him fall into the couch.

He let out a low grunt. Whoever it was packed an amazing punch, that was for sure. He was afraid. There was a tingling sensation in his groin and he was afraid of what the consequences might be. After all, he did have dignity. Peeing in his pants was the last thing he wanted to do. He needed help. He frantically looked around.

"Oh no," said a mechanical voice, "you're not going anywhere."

The voice was so robotic. He knew that it could not be that of actual human beings. Terror attacked his very being; he felt like crying for his mommy to come save him. Reflexively, his knees were drawn to his chest and goose bumps dotted his skin.

A few seconds seemed to have lasted for minutes, or even hours. The anticipation gripped his veins. His death was now certain, and he felt so defenseless. But then, after many more minutes passed he realized that plan of action would be necessary. Here he was, a young man over six feet tall and weighing one hundred and eighty seven pounds, shivering like he was a little mouse, while the cat loomed high above him, ready to pounce. He couldn't go down like that. He couldn't go down while knowing that he at least had a chance. He had to fight for his own. Everyone holds the divine right to fight for their lives.

But when to strike?

"I've been watching you for a while lately, Duncan. And I know your ways," the person droned. "And now...you're going to pay for your behavior." Whoever it was pulled out a shiny object that glinted in the soft moonlight. Duncan's heart skipped a beat as the object hovered ever more closely. The knife gleamed on his cheek, and without turning his face one-degree, he watched as it ran over his skin, near the jawbone. His fear numbed the pain of the blade. He could hear the person breathing.

It was now or never.

He sloppily dived for the intruder, clipping the anonymous person in the waist, pushing whoever it was with his body. The person was dragged along by the force until it came into Duncan's mind to stop, causing the person to slide across the floor. It was practically noiseless, like black silk oozing between a person's fingers. Pausing, Duncan looked at the person who lay on the floor. He was masked—that much he could discern.

But that pause was his downfall, literally. In one fluid motion, the person spun on his back, whipping out his legs, kicking Duncan to the ground. His head hit the ground pretty hard. It seemed as if a headache began immediately after his untimely descent. Rolling a few paces, Duncan leaped to his feet. When he could feel the other person regaining their balance, he charged blindly to where he thought he was. Missing entirely, a sharp elbow dug into his back, felling him once more.

A strong arm grabbed him and sent him into the wall farthest away from the bedrooms. His back tensed from the impact. A slicing sound was heard as the culprit landed a one-two punch to his abdomen, knocking the breath from his very body. Swinging violently, the culprit ducked and added one more punch for style. Then, grabbing Duncan's shoulder, he fell to the ground and used his leverage to send Duncan high above his head by way of a steady leg.

A bone-chilling laugh rang through the air, as Duncan lay paralyzed on the floor. But the culprit's fury was far from over. Grabbing a long, bare foot, he spun Duncan around, his body much like an axis, and sent him skidding into the front door. A shiny knife pounded on the door as it embedded itself into it, just centimeters away.

The moments that followed were very still and very quiet. There was no audible sign of Madison or Boomer beginning to stir; the noise hadn't awakened them from their slumber. And Duncan was severely outmatched. He felt so weak right then, not being able to handle the culprit that held his life in the palm of his tactful hand.

"What? No more energy left to fight? You're weak and you're pitiful. A disgrace to be called a man and an ignominy to be called a human being. You're not even fit to be called an organism."

Duncan was unsure of what was awakened inside of him, but the next thing that he knew, he was off and had lifted the person, who was lanky by some measure, high above his head. He didn't care about the expensive coffee table that was about to be damaged, he wanted this person disarmed and defenseless to. But, litheness was then taken to another level, for, before he could realize what was happening, the person had worked himself out of his grasp and legs were coiled around Duncan's neck. Quicker than the eye could blink, Duncan was back on the ground once more. This time...with a splinter stuck in his cheek—and it is not the one farthest from the ground. And, to make things worse, he was thrown back against the door.

He was a wheezing and panting heap up against the door, peering at what he thought was the person whose own body was a lethal weapon. He'd better not try any more desperate maneuvers, because that's all that they were desperate, and when one is desperate, things don't always come out as planned. This criminal, this fiend, was indefatigable; there was not one influx of breath that could be heard from the agile killer, showing his stamina.

Feeling that all was lost, Duncan lolled his head up toward the ceiling. That was when a slight projection caught his attention. He couldn't tell what color it was, but he knew that it might be helpful: vital to his survival. He braced himself. He was going to count to three. One...two...three! He jolted up towards the sky and flicked the switch. Light filled the room. The moment of truth.

A shooting pain seared through his very eyeballs, causing him to fall back into the door and rub his eyes. The criminal grabbed his shoulders and flung him towards the ground, where he turned him onto his stomach and harshly placed his leg on his shoulder blade and pulled his arm up.

"You think that you've got me, when you don't even know at all!" He pulled even harder, triggering a prompted groan on Duncan's behalf. He shut his eyes as the pain briefly paralyzed him. Turning his head ever so slightly towards the right, he saw that the black boots were kind of...petite. It was highly improbable that these feet belonged to a guy...which would only mean that this was a woman...which meant that he could rush her one last time. Once she'd released his arm, he used his arms as a means of support and did the most intense push-up of his life. She lurched back. Then, clambering up to his feet, he rushed her into the door with all his might, she letting out a light groan.

Now he knew that it was a girl. What else could explain the way her body felt against his? She donned all-black apparel and a black ski mask and black gloves. Her breathing was short and labored from the intensity of his gesture and her body stiffened as she tried to get out of his grasp. He was squeezing the breath out of her with his masculine bear hug, and her legs kicked and squirmed. Then, out of the blue, her head jerked forward and grabbed his shoulder (with her mouth). He automatically let her go. His intimation left him wide open for a well-placed head-butt. He lurched back.

"Who are you?" he asked, as the girl thrashed at him with ready fists.

"The Avenger."

"Of what?"

"Of pokémon," she said, bruising his lip. Licking his lip, he engaged in an arm-lock with her and somehow made it so that he was positioned behind her, and she was in a headlock of some sort. He pulled the hat from her face and practically died.

"Yeah, that's right," she said in her normal voice (without the synthesizer), breaking free from him. She whirled around. "It's me. And I know what you did."

"Imagen?" His thoughts were in a frenzy. Every single blasphemy in the world must have sputtered from his mouth and his eyes were very crazed. His face was contorted into an expression of confusion, he was absolutely flabbergasted, disbelief, and disgust.

"Yeah, that's me." She pushed him onto the couch, making it so that she was the one that he was looking up to. "And you deserved every single thing. You know why? Because you're a demon: a really rotten mother******. You deserve to be punished."

"What the hell did I do?"

"Don't play dumb, you bastard. You very well know what you did. You should rot in hell. Nobody deserves that, nobody." Her resolve was wavering; he could hear it in her voice. And, in spite of this, he couldn't help but to feel a bit worried about her, even though she was the vessel of his turmoil.

"Nobody deserves what, Imagen?"

"To be abandoned!"

His heart traveled amazing lengths to reach his throat. He knew that he had been found out and he couldn't utter a damn thing to make himself seem innocent, or justified, especially in her eyes. "Imagen...I...I..." he stammered on his sentence, something that he had rarely dumb. He always could form his sentences before.

"Don't say a damn word. Don't say a goddamn word! I don't want to hear it." She paced back and forth from one chair, past the obliterated coffee table, and to the other chair. Then, with an infuriated grunt, she slapped him across his face as hard as she could, causing his head to snap. He heard an indistinct crack on his neck, but it wasn't broken.

She stomped over to the door and threw it open and said softly, "I'm finished Nasturtium. You can come in now." As a result, a scraggly looking thing slithered into the illuminated room with a downcast face, her violet eyes hidden. Her leaf was no longer lush, but was withered on the edges. She looked like she'd been to hell and back again.

"Nasturtium," he called out, surprised. She looked up to him, her face melancholy and sad, no longer bitter; however, it quickly fell back down again. Imagen lifted her up and gave her a hug and whispered soothing words into her ear. "Don't worry, he's going to take you back. I'll bet my life on it. I'm going to make him take you back."

"[I'm tired...and hungry,]" she said in a hollow voice. Immediately, Imagen rushed to the refrigerator and pulled the crisper door open, and took out a random fruit, which Nasturtium weakly ate.

"Do you see what you've done to her? (She didn't give him time to answer the question.) She looks like shit! And it's all your doing. Her leg is fractured. Did you know that? Oh no, you didn't. It must have happened after you threw her out of your door. Oh, don't look so confused Duncan. I was there."

"But how?"

"I was walking home from a late night at the Pokémon Center. It was raining like hell outside, but I kept on going. And as I was passing this building, I heard someone yelling, so I stood behind a tree and watched everything unfold. And it broke my heart. And I hate you because of that."

"Why do you hate me? I've never done anything to you. She's not even your pokémon."

"That is not the point. The point is that you abandoned her. You threw her out. I saw you! You had her by the scruff of her neck. I didn't immediately pick her up, because I thought she'd be better off without you. But, when I saw her unconscious in Celadon Park, when I took James to the playground, I knew that I had to take her in. But she won't eat like she's supposed to, and she's losing weight, drastically."

The report startled him. He'd never expected for her to get sick or anything of the sort. He was so blinded by fury, that he hadn't realized the possible outcomes. But, in spite of all this, he still didn't want to take her back. He voiced it.

"Oh no, you're taking her back. She is not my pokémon. I have not captured her. So you'd better make room for her pokéball on that necklace of yours, petty bastard."

"I'm not. She's out of my hands. She's on her own. She was a wild pokémon before; she can be one again."

"Apparently not, or otherwise, she wouldn't be in this type of condition."

"I have another pokémon now. She's nothing but a bad seed. And she's blocking my dream."

"Of what? Of using people and giving them away. I'm sorry that in your little world, everything works out perfectly, but in the real world, things don't always work out. Shit happens. People have to own up to their responsibilities. And that's exactly what you're going to do right now. I won't stand this again."

Her last statement puzzled him. She'd mentioned this James in the former paragraphs and she had added again to her very last statement. Something was troubling her. She was getting careless. And that was something that Imagen never did.

"Again? What do you mean, 'again'?"

She clutched her hair. "How many times do I have to tell you that it is none of your goddamn business?"

"How many times do you have to keep on bringing it up?" he countered.

She jutted an accusing finger at him. "You don't know anything about me. Your world is too bright for you to ever be able to comprehend what I've been through. You know nothing. Nothing!"

He looked at her oddly. Her eyes had begun to glisten and she fallen beside him on the couch. She looked away before turning back to him, looking him into his eyes. "Imagen...is everything all right?"

"No! Nothing is right anymore. Nothing!" She couldn't help but to whine. Everything was just falling onto her at once. She couldn't keep everything bottled in anymore in that airless bottle called her conscience. It was about to be opened.

"What's wrong?"

"Everything. The position I'm in. I don't know what to do. Everything is done because it has to be done. I can't be a normal teenager. I have responsibilities and I do my best to take care of them. I have a responsibility to my grandparents, to James, and most of all...to my mother."

She began to explain:

"I live with my grandparents. Both of them are tri-lingual, but one speaks French, and the other, the worse one, speaks Spanish. After my mother died, about a year ago, I've been living with them. Abuela works me to death. If it's not cleaning, I have to cook, or do her fucking hair, when she can't see a goddamned thing. Ugh, as much as I hate to say this, she's the biggest bitch in the whole world. I never get any credit for all the things I do. I work two jobs and am in a class to become a Gym Leader. A Gym Leader of all things! It's the only thing that I like to do, the only thing I want to do, the only thing I want to be. I still haven't paid for all of my dues! Grandpère is as blind as a bat too. But at least he's nice. Do you know that I have to wipe his ass everytime he takes a shit? It's disgusting!"

"How did your mother die?"

"A car accident. She was in a car crash with her asshole of a boyfriend one night. They had been drinking, and they didn't see the light turn red. An oncoming car ran into them, on the passenger's side, where my mom was, and she died instantly. That asshole is off somewhere, living life while I'm stuck with his child."

"Did he...rape you?"

"No he didn't rape me. If that bastard even attempted to put his hands on me, I would have sliced his balls off. No. He got Mom pregnant and she had James. The night of the crash, I'd been babysitting at home. James was so young back then. He couldn't understand. He's only one and a half now. I love him so much. I would do anything for him...I...I...I would die for him."

"Have you tried to contact him?"

"Yeah. But what's the use? He won't do anything. He won't even pay child support. As far as I'm concerned, I'm not his half-sister; I'm his mother. He's not my brother, but he's my child. I'm taking care of him. I'm doing all the things that a mother should do. It's all her fault! If Daddy wouldn't have died, none of this would have happened. Now I'm stuck. And everyday, I just hope that my grandparents would die: it would make everything so much easier. But it seems like whenever you want something like that to happen, it all seems to be so prolonged. I just wish this all would blow over, but it won't. It never will. So I have to keep my head up. I have to stay strong. I can't cry. I cannot cry." Her voice was very high and distraught.

"You can, Imagen, just let it all out," Duncan said in a soothing tone. He looked over at Nasturtium, who had climbed upon the couch and gotten in between the two. Her haggard eyes peering at theirs. Unconsciously did Imagen succomb to his strong, warm, secure embrace. And unconsciously did Duncan rub her soothingly on the back and say comforting words as her body heaved with vicious sobs. Soon enough, when Imagen had cried herself to sleep, Duncan too fell into a deep sleep, but this time, it was of his own goodwill.

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Concluding Statements: Another breathtaking chapter if I do say so myself. I absolutely loved this chapter. I've never done anything quite so...murderous (???), but it's in preparation for scenes to come in future fanfictions. So what do you think? Did I do a good job? I hope so. I need all of your input. It's necessary for the proper developnent of my writing skills and style. So Marie, was this battle up to par with you? ;-) —The Duke of Briarcliffe