Chapter 11
The door to the Pewter City Pokemon Center pushed open with a cheery jingle from the silver bell affixed to its frame in red ribbon. In rushed a gust of frigidly cold air and sleeting rain, unusual for that time of the summer, followed by a miserably wet boy. He was soaked from the tips of his white-blond hair all the way down to his brown boots that squelched as he stepped inside and forcibly shut the door behind him.
Orion shook out his head, sending drops flying everywhere, and stood, shivering, on the welcome mat for a moment while the excess water dripped off of him and into the spongy surface of the black fabric. Never one to track water and mess into a house that wasn't his own, he waited patiently for what felt like ten minutes before he swiped the bottoms of his boots on the mat and headed off to the front desk.
The woman there appeared to be doing a crossword puzzle. She had on wire-rim glasses of a strange pink-purple color, and looked up as he approached.
"Oh! My goodness, how long have you been standing there? Here," she said, fussing around behind the counter and pulling out two large, fluffy white towels from seemingly nowhere. "Take these, and dry yourself off a bit. You must be chilled to the bone."
It was a very nice gesture, something that reminded Orion of motherly concern, and he smiled. "Th-thank you, ma'am. I'm Orion Fremont… F-R-E-M-O-N-T… yes, that's right… and I'd like to room here for the night, if it's not too much trouble. My team would much appreciate a recuperation as well."
The woman smiled and accepted the slightly-wet pokeballs from him. It took him a few moments to detach all of them from his complicated-looking belt, a device he'd jerririgged himself, but eventually he handed over the last one. She examined them carefully and smiled.
"Quite smart of you, to label these. You wouldn't believe how many trainers come in here asking if we've seen a misplaced Pokeball… as if they don't know just how many pokeballs get misplaced a day! Shame, really…" She slipped the balls into little pockets on what looked like a conveyer belt behind her and fastened each one in snug. Then she pressed an intriguing looking red button the size of a half-dollar—something right out of a sci-fi flick, Orion thought to himself—and the pokeballs zipped off behind a red curtain into the back regions of the Center's office. Orion knew they'd be waiting for him in the morning.
When the woman handed over a silver key attached to a keychain of a Chancey with a black "#33" attached to it, Orion almost collapsed in relief. "Just give us a buzz if you'd like your bed linens changed or need more towels in your room!"
Orion thanked the woman and headed off down the well-lit hallway. As he passed the rooms numbered 1-12, he examined closely the few rooms with the doors open. Inside each room looked the same: one single bed, one side table/dresser combo, a door (which Orion assumed was a bathroom) and a series of pegs in the wall. Very Spartan in its furnishings, but nonetheless charming and inviting.
Orion wouldn't have cared even if the beds were made of straw—it was a safe haven and a place to rest his head. When he reached room #33 and turned the key in the lock to push the door open, however, he found that he had a visitor.
Crouched in the corner of the room was a small purple Pokemon with two buck teeth that seemed too large for it, even considering that their kind's teeth were large to begin with. The Rattata's ears perked up as Orion entered the room and flicked on the light, and even as it was scurrying away he was reaching for one of the spare pokeballs he kept on him.
He didn't know why he didn't just let it get away. Maybe it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, or maybe it was because he was a normal Pokemon type trainer. But whatever it was he had chucked the chrome sphere at the retreating rodent's hindquarters in about two seconds flat. The ball missed target by about three inches—Orion's intention—and watched as the red light engulfed the creature nonetheless. Orion often times spent the money he earned from odd jobs around various towns on these "new" types of pokeball; the kind that made actually striking the creature with a pound of hard metal unnecessary.
Fully expecting the ball to pop back open and the Rattata to flee, Orion waited with bated breath. Then the ball stopped shaking and the flashing red light faded, however, he strolled over and picked it up.
"Well," he said, scratching his head. "That was lucky."
Placing the pokeball next to his dresser table, he wondered if the Rattata had been a level 2, which would explain the ease in which it was captured. Feeling a pang of remorse, he removed his sodden boots and tossed them in a corner. He hadn't really wanted to capture a baby Rattata and remove it from its family.
Unbidden, the image of his father's face rose in Orion's mind. You fucking pansy, he'd probably be saying. You'll never have what it takes to be a Pokemon trainer. Why don't you go write more of your fucking retarded children's books.
Sighing, Orion flopped backwards onto the bed. He'd always known that his pacifistic nature had caused his father stress. Lt. Surge of Vermillion didn't want his son to be known as a fairy. As it were, Orion wasn't exactly the picture-perfect image of "manliness" in his father's eyes—but that hadn't been a problem until recently.
Surge seemed to be slowly losing his mind recently. That was saying a lot if even Orion believed it—he usually gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. Yet, it was true; his father was going insane. It had started with the three-day long, nonstop training sessions that he had forced Orion to partake in. Orion figured it was just another method of his dad's to get him to enjoy smashing beer cans on his forehead and pimping around town… but then the month-long meetings began. His father would disappear, leaving a note and some cash (usually about twenty bucks) for his son. The hastily-scrawled letters would read the same thing every time: "Gone to an emergency meeting. Don't fuck up the house, and don't let anyone in the gym."
Orion's little red alarm bells hadn't even fully started blaring at that. But when his father came back home tousled, dirty, windblown—and bloody—at three a.m. one night two weeks ago, that had been the last straw. Orion had been up raiding the fridge for food that wasn't energy drinks or frozen raw beef—a fruitless hope—when the screen door had opened very, very quietly. This wasn't like his father's usual gusto at all, so Orion had assumed he was being robbed. He remembered groping in the dark for the phone to call the police and instead nudging the blade of a very lethal kitchen knife he'd left out on the counter while cooking earlier that day and cutting his finger on it. Hissing, he'd pulled back.
A second later, a chain was pulled and the bare bulb in their kitchen was sparked to life, and in the flickering light Orion and Surge had regarded each other with wide, surprised eyes. Surge's entire right side was caked in blood, and his combat boots were completely brown with dried mud. Some of the dark matter—mud or blood, Orion couldn't tell—was smeared across Surge's face as well. Only his black briefcase seemed untainted, and Orion couldn't recall his father ever owning a briefcase.
In the silence that remained the two bleeding men had slowly come to their own separate conclusions. Orion knew that Surge had been trying to creep back into the house so as not to awaken Orion and be caught in that state—and Surge knew that Orion would begin to ask questions.
So he'd started yelling, thrown his briefcase to the floor and ordered Orion back up the stairs and into his bedroom. Fucking brat, what the fuck are you doing sneaking around down here at three-fucking-thirty in the morning, fucking juvie!
Orion had scrambled back up the stairs as if a stampeding herd of Taurus were hot on his trail.
And without even stopping to rest, he'd packed a backpack and climbed out the window. He didn't even know where he was going, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew his father would find him in only a matter of time, and that the punishment would be great—but he didn't care. Whatever his father was a part of, Orion didn't want in. He didn't want any affiliation with a man who would return to his home soaked in blood. And in spite of his burning curiosity, Orion really didn't even want to get to the bottom of it. He was satisfied to know that it was bad.
Thoroughly exhausted from his seemingly endless train of thought, Orion drifted off to sleep in a comfortable bed for the first time in weeks.