Rain could really surprise himself. Just now, looking over his memories (a travel journal he kept by his side...Ever since childhood.) tears involuntarily sprung to his eyes. There was an entry on Cherokee…If there was ever a closer thing to love, this was it. The girl annoyed him, it was true, but he loved her, in a strange, other-worldly way, a world of non-involvement and cool hostility. When he was a young adolescent, she was still a little child…And in his thirties, that four-year age gap had somehow closed itself, though she was the picture of youth…Not that Rain would know, it was a long time since a visit to Pallet…But when he visited, two years ago, he had not been disappointed.
Cherokee had a vast amount of chestnut hair, that kinked into a coil at the end, and hung way below her waist. Her eyes were also dark green, she often WORE green (cut-off dungarees, summer dresses, Capri pants), and her face was still that of a 10-year olds. Rain grew up with Cherokee, and Mist, his childhood friend, who he would reminisce about later. When they were young, they of course had a more innocent touch around pokemon. They would help the younger village children raise their cocoons into Butterfrees and Beedrills ("It's all in the massage!" Rain would say.) And give advice about the care of the tame pokemon in the wild grass-the perfect feed for Pidgeys, How to not scare the local Oddishes, etc. Cherokee collected pokemon-she did not fight them-and everything was a new project. She raised tiny Jigglypuffs into huge tame bloaters, and when little girls cried, envious of Cherokee's Jigglypuffs softer curls and sweeter lullabies, she would give them away as pets. She'd raise common wild pokemon, setting them running in her yard, eating her own-recipe food, her floors scattered with pokeballs. She'd buy rare types from unsuitable trainers, build them up and set them free. She'd owned many types, the difficult, aggressive and the passive. She'd witnessed deaths and births and was capable and driven with every kind, no-one a lost cause. When she eventually got into fighting (her early teens) her squad was constantly changing. Her only constants were a Pidgey she'd raised from an injured baby (who'd never evolved…He was age-old but his growth was stunted, and though a fierce fighter, never quite seemed capable of the change) and a Misdreavus that always floated free, around her shoulder. It seemed to have quite a blank stare, and a bit of a drool. However, it had a cold manner and its attacks knocked a foe right out-it's psybeam was particularly cruel, and unusually purple in colour, as opposed to silver. The Pidgey matched Jack-it too tore out vital organs and such. Cherokee reminded Rain so much of himself sometimes-pokemon often had to prove their worth to Cherokee, too. Blood-stained and amputated she'd find them, raising them to be the fiercest fighters or the cutest pets, at random will.
Mist was his companion since birth. Their mothers lived next door to each other, for a start. Mist had a lot of long, straight scarlet hair, and dark eyes. He too often wore black, but his ideals were far from dark. He looked on every pokemon with kindness, especially water pokemon, but now they were bitter against each other. Rivals perhaps, except Mist avoided Rain in disgust. He said that Rain had turned away from the truth, slaughtering pokemon in battle when knocking the opponent out was perfectly acceptable. Rain argued the truth WAS death, but Mist had walked away. They'd had one more battle after that, a rematch, years after adolescence, and Mist claimed he would make Rain see the lighter side, by only knocking out his whole squad, but Jack and Azumarill had assaninated Mist's whole squad. All six of them. Fallen after another. Mist ran from battle, tears in his eyes. Rain buried the blood-stained carcasses, looking at the glassy stare of the eyes, swatting Jack away from the exposed meat, head in his hands often. Destruction. He looked at it. A dark battler, he was. And how? He didn't know how impossible his talent was. The corpses were piled high. A Tauros here. But defeated by a Murkrow? How? It was so big…The skull of a Pinsir smashed in by Azumarill's boulder-tail. Various limbs scattered around, a head…Jesus. He pushed the remains into a deep grave, patted the soil firm, bowed his head and left the scene. A scene he would have to leave many, many times in the future. But the grief was worth it. One day, it could happen to him. But the risk was a rush. The urge of him and his team to get better. Through age and strife and attack and ill-will and bad reputation and so much blood.