A/N: Well, here's the end of the Scyther story. I'll have a new adventure
soon. And I could really use a lot of reviews. Let's me know how I'm doing.
Because they must pay. Because they are traitors. They made him like this. They turned him into a shadow of what he had once been, and now he must roam with shadows. He could not make himself better. But revenge. Ah, sweet revenge. More tempting than anything else. Is there nothing greater than to rip out the hearts of the traitors? Make them feel the pain he did? Revenge was like a drug. He needed more and more of it; he was addicted. But now they had gathered traitors into one big pile! His eyes grew cold, yellow, feral. It was time. He had waited far too long. It was time. It was time. Much blood for him to feast.
"He's cut the power generator!" cried one man. "He's gonna kill us!" "Shut up!" Trent snarled. He switched his flashlight on and scanned the cabin, trying to balance his Walther PPK and the flashlight at the same time. Nothing moved. No Scyther surprises. Trent kept his heart rate as low as he could. It would be foolish to panic.
It would also be foolish to get his head lobbed off.
"OK, boys," he said to them men behind him, "I need you to get to the back door and when I say so, you run to the van outside." Enraged voices murmured behind him, mostly along the lines of "we'll be killed!" They complied anyway, backing to the door that would lead to escape. . .or certain death. Trent kept his ears open. Scyther, he remembered, could be heard by the sound of their flitting wings. But no sound came within the dark cabin. Only the sound of the tree branches tapping lightly on the window came. Trent backed up to the door where the other men waited. He grabbed the van's keys on the table, gun still performing at 180-degree scan in front of him. "OK, guys," he whispered, "I'm gonna count to three. One. . .two. . ."
It came in a blur. For a split second Trent could see a green blur with a monster's face zooming towards him. It hit him in the jaw and he fell, dropping the flashlight and gun. The men yelled in fear. Trent found himself on the floor, blood oozing from nose and mouth. Enraged at the affront, his head scanned the room fast, and found the men running as fast as their legs could carry them. Except for the one man with a Scyther's blade at his throat. The Scyther hissed furiously, a sound that sent chills up Trent's spine.
He acted.
Furiously, he launched himself across the room, grabbed Scyther, and slammed him into the wall. Vases and pictures shattered on the impact. Trent wrapped his arm around the Scyther's throat in a choke hold and held on for dear life. Scyther was incensed. Screaming aloud, the wings on its back trembled madly. They slapped Trent's body and he was forced to release. The Scyther turned around and pointed at Trent, then charged with his blade extended, ready to tear life and limb from the Pokemon Detective. Trent dove to the ground. The Scyther missed and kept going. . .straight into the opposite wall. Splinters flew everywhere. The blade was lodged in good. Trent saw is chance. He ran over to Scyther, who was yelling and trying to wedge out his stuck blade. He delivered a series of uppercuts right into the face. Stunned, the Pokemon shrieked and finally released the blade. . .and sent Trent sprawling with a kick to the chin. Trent lay on his back on the floor, seeing the distorted creature rear up and scream. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw his gun. He grabbed it and fired two shots into Scyther's chest. Scyther flew back into the wall, clutching his chest. Then he got back up. After taking two bullets.
Sheer panic gripped Trent by the stomach. The Scyther, obviously more angry than hurt, stumbled over to where Trent lay. It hissed again, causing flecks of hot spittle to sprinkle on Trent's face. Bullets did not work. Fistfights did not work. There was just one last solution. Trent wiped the blood off his lips and smiled. "Now you've made me mad, Scyther, old buddy." The Scyther tilted its head curiously as if the say "what the hell are you talking about?" And Trent hurled to the Pokeball into Scyther's face. It fell to the floor and split open, lighting up the cabin. The light took on a form, and the form slowly became visible. His silver wings glowed in the moonlight. It was beautiful. It was a nightmare. Scyther paused to analyze the threat, then smiled. It would no match. He swung a blade at the new Pokemon and snarled something. Skarmory yelled back.
And they charged.
Scyther knew the best way to kill a Skarmory was to get the neck, where it was the weakest. The joint where the wing met the shoulder was also good for bloodshed. He slashed several times, but Skarmory blocked each one with by putting its metal wings over the weak spots, each impact making a metal clang like banging two pots against each other. Then it grabbed Scyther's claw with its talons and spun it like a top. Scyther was caught completely off guard and attempted to free himself. Skarmory let go, and Scyther skidded across the room into a table. It shattered, making a pile of lumber. And one angry Scyther.
Trent managed to stagger his way to the door where the other men were already footing it to the van. He winced slightly as his rib ached. Must be broken. Blood crusted his left eye, and his lip was swollen. He watched Scyther get up from the wreckage, and leap, vaulting off the ceiling and slamming his feet into Skarmory's chest. Skarmory cried out and fell to the ground, dazed but not beaten. It spread its wings gracefully. Tiny little points of light danced on his chest, forming unique star-shaped objects. Then they flew out at one hundred miles per hour and struck Scyther. There were hundreds, thousands, millions of them, no bigger than the size of Trent's thumb. Swift attack. Scyther stumbled back from the barrage, then fell to the ground, wounded. "Go! GO!" Trent yelled. "NOW!" Skarmory returned to his Pokeball and he flew like a Rapidash to the van. Trent quickly opened the door, slammed it, and put the keys in the ignition. His fingers rattled, but he managed to get the keys in. The engine roared to life, and the van started. "GO! GO!" the men behind him yelled. Trent's hand put the car into drive, his foot slammed on the accelerator, and with a squeal of the tires they were off. Safe. . .
Then Scyther's form landed on the hood and sheared through the windshield like it was paper. Blood and dirt encrusted his body. Its blade slashed wildly, cutting into the upholstery and barely missing Trent in the driver's seat. Trent quickly dove for cover. Scyther howled for blood, or vengeance, and hooked his foot right into Trent's neck. Trent gasped for air, then found his eyes a millimeter from Scyther's blade. The Scyther gave a smile that was all teeth. He did it. He had won. He had him. Trent's eyes closed, ready to feel the Scyther drain the blood from his jugular. . .
. . .and Golbat came out of the sky and sank his teeth into Scyther's flank. Scyther, with a shout, attempted to dismember Golbat. But the Bat Pokemon flew into the night sky, then bolted back to slap Scyther with a Wing Attack. Golbat came from every direction. The Scyther was pounded from every which way. First Golbat was attacking from the right. . .no! From the top! No! The left! He was everywhere! Scyther, fed up with this nuisance, spun around in a Swords Dance. He became a sadistic green tornado. Golbat withdrew into the sky to avoid the spinning monstrosity and waited. Scyther promptly leapt into the sky and went after Golbat, ready to savor his blood. His blade extended into the air, to hack Golbat's wings off. When he was merely three feet away, Golbat gave a Screech. A very loud one. It shrieked all the way through the forest, so earsplitting it began shattering the remaining windows of the van and the cabin. Scyther lost control of his senses and tumbled to the ground. He landed in a column of dust, twitched, and did not move.
Trent hobbled out of the van, dabbing with a tissue at his bloody nose. Golbat, weary from the battle, perched on his shoulder and made a quiet screeching noise at him. "I'm fine, just a little beat up," Trent assured his Pokemon. Golbat's reply had more than a hint of sarcasm in it. Trent smiled. "I suggest," he said, "that you tend to your own wounds." They observed the Scyther, now half-dead, on the ground in front of them. His breathing was labored. He seemed comatose. Trent spoke into his cell- phone. "This is Williams, my badge number is 24601742. I have the suspect, injured, at Dunsparce Ridge. I request immediate backup for apprehension. Bring a Growlithe squad, I don't want any slip ups." "Roger that," came the Cerulean Police's reply, "we'll be there in a few minutes." Trent closed the cell phone and let out a sigh. Golbat, still on his shoulder like a parrot, sighed as well. That was that. He'd. . .
Scyther struck. Its left blade single-handedly punched Golbat off his perch and sent him sprawling. The other blade, like a fist, hit Trent in the sternum and he flew into a tree trunk. He heard his shoulder snap and blinding agony shot up his spine into his brain. He resisted the urge to cry out. Trent's useless hand dove for his gun. Scyther, bloody, scared, and infuriated, came back, and hauled Trent up. The blade lifted high into the sky. Scyther let out a screech of triumph. In a single millisecond, Trent remembered that this was the call a Scyther gave out before it killed an animal for a meal. He couldn't resist, and remembered how he'd failed as a Pokemon trainer. Now he'd botched as a Pokemon Detective.
At least this time he wouldn't have to live with his failure.
He saw the white light of heaven coming towards him as he died. Pure, immaculate light; the light that signals an end to all life and the transcendence of the soul. Trent basked in the glow of the light . . .which got more intense.
Wait a minute, he thought. Those are headlights.
Scyther didn't see the van coming. Until it was too late. He saw the headlights, turned around, and was crushed by the van plowing into his body at 50 miles per hour. Gavin, in the driver's seat, felt no remorse as he did it. He watched the Scyther's blood splatter on the fractured residue of the windshield and the hood. He watched what had once been Scyther's arm go one way, the chest go another, and the blood went in all places. Trent stared into the headlights, bewildered. Then his vision blackened. As he saw the Cerulean Police arrive, he collapsed to the ground and did not get up.
When he woke up, he found himself staring at the pink ceiling. A light glared into his eyes intensely and he shut them. He licked his dry lips, still caked with a bit of blood. He eventually made his arms move and he sat up. Ah, that made sense. It was a hospital. Then he remembered. That's right, he thought. A Scyther kicked the crap out of me.
Every atom on his body ached. He managed to grab the glass of water on the tray nearby and slugged it down eagerly, so fast that his stomach nearly vomited it back up. His eye was still swollen, but the other was fine. He watched as a nurse with her Blissey walked in. He managed to moan out a few syllables. "Where am I?" The nurse looked him over. "Cerulean Hospital. Sit back down! You need your rest." "Scyther?" he croaked. The nurse's look became melancholy. "It was run over. He died." "Ah," Trent nodded. Now he remembered. Then he remembered something else. "Gol-" he murmured, then found his voice gone. He sat back into the soft cushion of the bed, cleared his throat, and began again. "Golbah?" He couldn't even move his lips to make a "t" noise. The nurse looked confused. "Hmm? Oh, Golbat! Oh, he's fine. He broke a wing, but with a few days rest he'll be as good as new." Trent nodded, then closed his eyes and breathed deep. Over. Done. Now for some sleep.
NINE DAYS LATER
Trent put his hands up to the faint scar on his lips. He hoped no one would notice. He wasn't concerned about his appearance, but he hated people prodding him for questions. Once again, Indigo Coliseum was packed. A little girl with a Yanma passed him; he took notice of a Torchic, amazed since you didn't see those every day, not around Kanto; and he narrowly avoided a spinning Hitmontop. He just had to smile. These little kids, some not even ten years old, were definitely going places.
He unlocked the door to his office, only to find Mr. Ketchum sitting in front of his desk, his fingers steepled in front of him. Trent straightened and stared in confusion. "Sir?" "Trent, I heard. Good job. I'm very, very proud of you." Trent nodded. "Thank you." Ketchum then looked him over. He noticed the scar on his lip, and his hand was bandaged. "You look. . .awful." Trent leaned against the wall. "Like a Tauros ran over me. No--a herd of them." Ketchum nodded, then smiled. "Trent, I'll be blunt. You need a vacation after that."
Trent shook his head waved the suggestion aside. "I don't take vacations. I like my work." "Trent, honestly! You're all beaten up! You need some rest!" Then Ketchum reached into his pocket, and pulled out a ticket. "It's for a private booth in the Coliseum. Go watch the battles." "Sorry, sir, but I have to refuse. You need a report on the Scyther, and I have to write it." Ketchum sighed, and rose. "Trent, don't push yourself too hard. I don't like it." Trent smiled barely. "Sir, I think the tournament is about to start. You'd better get out there." Ash's expression fell, and with a sigh he left the office.
Trent closed the door behind him and sat as his desk. Putting a stick of gum into his mouth, he turned on his computer. Out the window, the Coliseum glowed with the fireworks that were beginning, signaling the beginning of the competition.
Trent's eyes stared at the picture on his desk.
He sighed, and began typing the report.
Because they must pay. Because they are traitors. They made him like this. They turned him into a shadow of what he had once been, and now he must roam with shadows. He could not make himself better. But revenge. Ah, sweet revenge. More tempting than anything else. Is there nothing greater than to rip out the hearts of the traitors? Make them feel the pain he did? Revenge was like a drug. He needed more and more of it; he was addicted. But now they had gathered traitors into one big pile! His eyes grew cold, yellow, feral. It was time. He had waited far too long. It was time. It was time. Much blood for him to feast.
"He's cut the power generator!" cried one man. "He's gonna kill us!" "Shut up!" Trent snarled. He switched his flashlight on and scanned the cabin, trying to balance his Walther PPK and the flashlight at the same time. Nothing moved. No Scyther surprises. Trent kept his heart rate as low as he could. It would be foolish to panic.
It would also be foolish to get his head lobbed off.
"OK, boys," he said to them men behind him, "I need you to get to the back door and when I say so, you run to the van outside." Enraged voices murmured behind him, mostly along the lines of "we'll be killed!" They complied anyway, backing to the door that would lead to escape. . .or certain death. Trent kept his ears open. Scyther, he remembered, could be heard by the sound of their flitting wings. But no sound came within the dark cabin. Only the sound of the tree branches tapping lightly on the window came. Trent backed up to the door where the other men waited. He grabbed the van's keys on the table, gun still performing at 180-degree scan in front of him. "OK, guys," he whispered, "I'm gonna count to three. One. . .two. . ."
It came in a blur. For a split second Trent could see a green blur with a monster's face zooming towards him. It hit him in the jaw and he fell, dropping the flashlight and gun. The men yelled in fear. Trent found himself on the floor, blood oozing from nose and mouth. Enraged at the affront, his head scanned the room fast, and found the men running as fast as their legs could carry them. Except for the one man with a Scyther's blade at his throat. The Scyther hissed furiously, a sound that sent chills up Trent's spine.
He acted.
Furiously, he launched himself across the room, grabbed Scyther, and slammed him into the wall. Vases and pictures shattered on the impact. Trent wrapped his arm around the Scyther's throat in a choke hold and held on for dear life. Scyther was incensed. Screaming aloud, the wings on its back trembled madly. They slapped Trent's body and he was forced to release. The Scyther turned around and pointed at Trent, then charged with his blade extended, ready to tear life and limb from the Pokemon Detective. Trent dove to the ground. The Scyther missed and kept going. . .straight into the opposite wall. Splinters flew everywhere. The blade was lodged in good. Trent saw is chance. He ran over to Scyther, who was yelling and trying to wedge out his stuck blade. He delivered a series of uppercuts right into the face. Stunned, the Pokemon shrieked and finally released the blade. . .and sent Trent sprawling with a kick to the chin. Trent lay on his back on the floor, seeing the distorted creature rear up and scream. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw his gun. He grabbed it and fired two shots into Scyther's chest. Scyther flew back into the wall, clutching his chest. Then he got back up. After taking two bullets.
Sheer panic gripped Trent by the stomach. The Scyther, obviously more angry than hurt, stumbled over to where Trent lay. It hissed again, causing flecks of hot spittle to sprinkle on Trent's face. Bullets did not work. Fistfights did not work. There was just one last solution. Trent wiped the blood off his lips and smiled. "Now you've made me mad, Scyther, old buddy." The Scyther tilted its head curiously as if the say "what the hell are you talking about?" And Trent hurled to the Pokeball into Scyther's face. It fell to the floor and split open, lighting up the cabin. The light took on a form, and the form slowly became visible. His silver wings glowed in the moonlight. It was beautiful. It was a nightmare. Scyther paused to analyze the threat, then smiled. It would no match. He swung a blade at the new Pokemon and snarled something. Skarmory yelled back.
And they charged.
Scyther knew the best way to kill a Skarmory was to get the neck, where it was the weakest. The joint where the wing met the shoulder was also good for bloodshed. He slashed several times, but Skarmory blocked each one with by putting its metal wings over the weak spots, each impact making a metal clang like banging two pots against each other. Then it grabbed Scyther's claw with its talons and spun it like a top. Scyther was caught completely off guard and attempted to free himself. Skarmory let go, and Scyther skidded across the room into a table. It shattered, making a pile of lumber. And one angry Scyther.
Trent managed to stagger his way to the door where the other men were already footing it to the van. He winced slightly as his rib ached. Must be broken. Blood crusted his left eye, and his lip was swollen. He watched Scyther get up from the wreckage, and leap, vaulting off the ceiling and slamming his feet into Skarmory's chest. Skarmory cried out and fell to the ground, dazed but not beaten. It spread its wings gracefully. Tiny little points of light danced on his chest, forming unique star-shaped objects. Then they flew out at one hundred miles per hour and struck Scyther. There were hundreds, thousands, millions of them, no bigger than the size of Trent's thumb. Swift attack. Scyther stumbled back from the barrage, then fell to the ground, wounded. "Go! GO!" Trent yelled. "NOW!" Skarmory returned to his Pokeball and he flew like a Rapidash to the van. Trent quickly opened the door, slammed it, and put the keys in the ignition. His fingers rattled, but he managed to get the keys in. The engine roared to life, and the van started. "GO! GO!" the men behind him yelled. Trent's hand put the car into drive, his foot slammed on the accelerator, and with a squeal of the tires they were off. Safe. . .
Then Scyther's form landed on the hood and sheared through the windshield like it was paper. Blood and dirt encrusted his body. Its blade slashed wildly, cutting into the upholstery and barely missing Trent in the driver's seat. Trent quickly dove for cover. Scyther howled for blood, or vengeance, and hooked his foot right into Trent's neck. Trent gasped for air, then found his eyes a millimeter from Scyther's blade. The Scyther gave a smile that was all teeth. He did it. He had won. He had him. Trent's eyes closed, ready to feel the Scyther drain the blood from his jugular. . .
. . .and Golbat came out of the sky and sank his teeth into Scyther's flank. Scyther, with a shout, attempted to dismember Golbat. But the Bat Pokemon flew into the night sky, then bolted back to slap Scyther with a Wing Attack. Golbat came from every direction. The Scyther was pounded from every which way. First Golbat was attacking from the right. . .no! From the top! No! The left! He was everywhere! Scyther, fed up with this nuisance, spun around in a Swords Dance. He became a sadistic green tornado. Golbat withdrew into the sky to avoid the spinning monstrosity and waited. Scyther promptly leapt into the sky and went after Golbat, ready to savor his blood. His blade extended into the air, to hack Golbat's wings off. When he was merely three feet away, Golbat gave a Screech. A very loud one. It shrieked all the way through the forest, so earsplitting it began shattering the remaining windows of the van and the cabin. Scyther lost control of his senses and tumbled to the ground. He landed in a column of dust, twitched, and did not move.
Trent hobbled out of the van, dabbing with a tissue at his bloody nose. Golbat, weary from the battle, perched on his shoulder and made a quiet screeching noise at him. "I'm fine, just a little beat up," Trent assured his Pokemon. Golbat's reply had more than a hint of sarcasm in it. Trent smiled. "I suggest," he said, "that you tend to your own wounds." They observed the Scyther, now half-dead, on the ground in front of them. His breathing was labored. He seemed comatose. Trent spoke into his cell- phone. "This is Williams, my badge number is 24601742. I have the suspect, injured, at Dunsparce Ridge. I request immediate backup for apprehension. Bring a Growlithe squad, I don't want any slip ups." "Roger that," came the Cerulean Police's reply, "we'll be there in a few minutes." Trent closed the cell phone and let out a sigh. Golbat, still on his shoulder like a parrot, sighed as well. That was that. He'd. . .
Scyther struck. Its left blade single-handedly punched Golbat off his perch and sent him sprawling. The other blade, like a fist, hit Trent in the sternum and he flew into a tree trunk. He heard his shoulder snap and blinding agony shot up his spine into his brain. He resisted the urge to cry out. Trent's useless hand dove for his gun. Scyther, bloody, scared, and infuriated, came back, and hauled Trent up. The blade lifted high into the sky. Scyther let out a screech of triumph. In a single millisecond, Trent remembered that this was the call a Scyther gave out before it killed an animal for a meal. He couldn't resist, and remembered how he'd failed as a Pokemon trainer. Now he'd botched as a Pokemon Detective.
At least this time he wouldn't have to live with his failure.
He saw the white light of heaven coming towards him as he died. Pure, immaculate light; the light that signals an end to all life and the transcendence of the soul. Trent basked in the glow of the light . . .which got more intense.
Wait a minute, he thought. Those are headlights.
Scyther didn't see the van coming. Until it was too late. He saw the headlights, turned around, and was crushed by the van plowing into his body at 50 miles per hour. Gavin, in the driver's seat, felt no remorse as he did it. He watched the Scyther's blood splatter on the fractured residue of the windshield and the hood. He watched what had once been Scyther's arm go one way, the chest go another, and the blood went in all places. Trent stared into the headlights, bewildered. Then his vision blackened. As he saw the Cerulean Police arrive, he collapsed to the ground and did not get up.
When he woke up, he found himself staring at the pink ceiling. A light glared into his eyes intensely and he shut them. He licked his dry lips, still caked with a bit of blood. He eventually made his arms move and he sat up. Ah, that made sense. It was a hospital. Then he remembered. That's right, he thought. A Scyther kicked the crap out of me.
Every atom on his body ached. He managed to grab the glass of water on the tray nearby and slugged it down eagerly, so fast that his stomach nearly vomited it back up. His eye was still swollen, but the other was fine. He watched as a nurse with her Blissey walked in. He managed to moan out a few syllables. "Where am I?" The nurse looked him over. "Cerulean Hospital. Sit back down! You need your rest." "Scyther?" he croaked. The nurse's look became melancholy. "It was run over. He died." "Ah," Trent nodded. Now he remembered. Then he remembered something else. "Gol-" he murmured, then found his voice gone. He sat back into the soft cushion of the bed, cleared his throat, and began again. "Golbah?" He couldn't even move his lips to make a "t" noise. The nurse looked confused. "Hmm? Oh, Golbat! Oh, he's fine. He broke a wing, but with a few days rest he'll be as good as new." Trent nodded, then closed his eyes and breathed deep. Over. Done. Now for some sleep.
NINE DAYS LATER
Trent put his hands up to the faint scar on his lips. He hoped no one would notice. He wasn't concerned about his appearance, but he hated people prodding him for questions. Once again, Indigo Coliseum was packed. A little girl with a Yanma passed him; he took notice of a Torchic, amazed since you didn't see those every day, not around Kanto; and he narrowly avoided a spinning Hitmontop. He just had to smile. These little kids, some not even ten years old, were definitely going places.
He unlocked the door to his office, only to find Mr. Ketchum sitting in front of his desk, his fingers steepled in front of him. Trent straightened and stared in confusion. "Sir?" "Trent, I heard. Good job. I'm very, very proud of you." Trent nodded. "Thank you." Ketchum then looked him over. He noticed the scar on his lip, and his hand was bandaged. "You look. . .awful." Trent leaned against the wall. "Like a Tauros ran over me. No--a herd of them." Ketchum nodded, then smiled. "Trent, I'll be blunt. You need a vacation after that."
Trent shook his head waved the suggestion aside. "I don't take vacations. I like my work." "Trent, honestly! You're all beaten up! You need some rest!" Then Ketchum reached into his pocket, and pulled out a ticket. "It's for a private booth in the Coliseum. Go watch the battles." "Sorry, sir, but I have to refuse. You need a report on the Scyther, and I have to write it." Ketchum sighed, and rose. "Trent, don't push yourself too hard. I don't like it." Trent smiled barely. "Sir, I think the tournament is about to start. You'd better get out there." Ash's expression fell, and with a sigh he left the office.
Trent closed the door behind him and sat as his desk. Putting a stick of gum into his mouth, he turned on his computer. Out the window, the Coliseum glowed with the fireworks that were beginning, signaling the beginning of the competition.
Trent's eyes stared at the picture on his desk.
He sighed, and began typing the report.