Chapter One:
Denial
Disclaimer: I do not own the series Pokémon. Like, at all. It and all its respectable characters are © to Game Freak and Satoshi Tajiri. However, all writing contents and semi-plots here are © to me; unless it is stated otherwise. All shows/ books/ video games/ songs that are mentioned in this chapter are all © to their respective owners, I do not own them.
Notes: Whoo, boy! I had an interesting round of reviews that doubled as constructive critique! Thank you so much! However, I will have to ask, as respectfully as possible, to keep any disagreements you may have with others in the review section…please keep them out of the review section. If there are disagreements between two or more parties, then I implore you to keep it private. I don't want my story to become a battleground, and I would greatly appreciate it if people didn't nitpick another reviewer's critique. It feels…petty. I do welcome healthy debate and constructive critique, so long as it's for me, rather than as a second-hand spat towards others. If you have concerns that involve me, I don't mind you hitting me up in the PMs. If you have concerns with another party, I again implore you to take it up with said party. I'm not here to play favourites or side with anyone, so please don't try it with me.
My whole thing is, I want people to enjoy the story. If there are mistakes, I appreciate it being pointed out, but I also love it when you point out your thoughts on the whole rather than just the parts of chapter! It helps me know what needs improvement, and what you enjoyed!
Secondly, to sort matters out, I served eight years in the Marine Corps, and in my previous unit before I got out, I was the only full-time, active duty female in my tiny unit. We are human, and we can be dumbasses, just like anyone else that aren't in the military. We just happened to have access to big trucks and big guns while we were being dumbasses. HA! Seriously, you can Google stuff on Marines being dummies, and I would recommend the comic strip series Terminal Lance Corporal by Maximillian Uriarte if you wish to enjoy more Marine culture in humourous situations while learning about said culture at the same time!
Apologies for the lengthy notes! I'll try to not do it often. With all that said, let's move onwards and upwards, and let us enjoy the new installment of Blue Skies! Thank you again for the lovely critiques and reviews, my fine readers!
"History says there was an explosion, who am I to argue with history?"
"Usually the first in line."
-The Ninth Doctor and Rose Tyler, "Doctor Who"
"I'm telling you, I have no fucking idea how I got in that house!"
Her hands had been cuffed for a better part of the day, her back and shoulders were aching from sleeping on that couch for god knows how long, and it only worsened after all the manhandling and…and being thrown to the ground by a…
No, just…no. Pokémon do not exist. They don't. They just don't. I'm dreaming. I have to be dreaming. A beat passed at the thought, before she grimaced. But if this is a dream, than it's a pretty damned uncomfortable one.
This was all made worse by all the waiting—Christ, she hated waiting, it was the story of her life in the military alone—especially when hunger was gnawing angrily at her gut like a starved animal, and no one has offered her anything since she arrived at the police station hours ago. Not to mention, she was bare-footed and freezing. She was sure they had cranked up the A/C in the room just to make her uncomfortable.
Time only seemed to be dragging itself further now that this interrogation was underway.
It's been a long morning and yet it's felt even longer, like a lifetime has passed her by ever since she had woken up and even longer since she had gone to bed the night before. Without the passage of time, either with the sun's mark in the sky or with the use of a watch—neither of which were available to her—it was difficult to tell exactly what time it was. For all Sergeant Hawkins knew, it could be the day after she woke up.
The first and most obvious thoughts that crossed her mind were of her wondering if Ashton Kutcher had, somehow, revived his old Punk'd television show or if she was somehow involved in a Jackass-style guerilla film. Now she felt as though she was simply waiting for Steve-o and his entourage to leap out at her laughing like maniacs. Unfortunately, there were no shenanigan-and-adrenaline-fueled idiots coming forth to fess up their ruse. No one was ripping away hidden cameras to shove into her face or to reveal tiny microphones feeding her every word to a live audience. There were no declarations of "GOTCHA!" shouted at her.
Isn't that what everyone hopes for when they end up hauled into a police station, dazed and confused, with no notion as to why they were being brought in? That they were being pranked, either by professionals with a camera crew or at least their friends with an iPhone recording everything?
No, no. She was certain that this was real, and she was hating every single second of it.
Now that the shock had passed her some hours ago, there was only a cold metal desk, a hard seat, and glaring phosphorescent lighting glaring down on her.
Sitting across from her sat an older gentleman, donning a simple outfit of an off-white button-up shirt, a navy-blue tie noosed under the collar of his shirt, suspenders connected to his dark trousers, and an age-and-weather-worn face, burnished from years of squinting at paperwork…or perhaps crime scenes. His hair was dark, but it was dashed through with some grey peppering his temples. At his side, sitting quietly on its haunches, but with its attention trained solely on her, was a burnt-orange and black-striped fire-breathing dog that couldn't possibly exist, because pokémon don't exist.
Sergeant Hawkins wanted to cling to the notion that she was still sleeping. Or in a coma. Or hallucinating. Anything else that pointed to the contrary. Her attention drifted to the dog again, and her mind corrected it to, it's a Growlithe and then she re-corrected herself to, nope, not possible, it can't be real. Nope, nope, nope! It's just a dog. Just a regular dog!
She wanted to scoff at her own denial. Then she wanted to scoff at her denial of her denial.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!"
Sergeant Hawkins jolted in her seat, startled, squaring herself back to face the cop across from her again. If he had said anything prior to shouting at her, she hadn't caught it at all.
He looked annoyed and weary, with bruised-looking flesh beneath his sunken eyes. He clenched his stubble-infested square jaw, and she could just make out the sound of teeth grinding against teeth. His clothes were rumpled and just as tired-looking as their owner. He tiredly took a long-suffering gulp from the mug of coffee resting beside the scarce pile of papers in front of him. His sepia eyes roamed across the words scrawled on the first page, then the second. The noise of pages shuffling about and grazing across one another was deafening, the sound amplified by the tiny room. Sergeant Hawkins grit her teeth at the sound, her nose wrinkling into a faint grimace. Her eyes strayed away once more, for only an instant, to glance at the large mirrored surface adjacent to their table. One-way mirror. Standard procedure. Someone was watching on the other side, recording everything for good measure. Wanted everything on the record.
She'd seen enough cop shows to know that they weren't alone, not really. There was some truth in television, after all.
"So," the cop across from her started. Hanson, Detective Hanson is his name, she told herself. He had introduced himself earlier as Detective Hanson. He introduced his Growli—dog partner—as Cassius. Cassius stared her down as Detective Hanson continued. "You refuse to give your identity or home of record, your trainer ID, your registration paperwork…basically anything and everything related to you, specifically. You're quite mum on the word, aren't you?"
Sergeant Hawkins said nothing. Partly, it was out of a stubborn resolution to listen to her gut, and her gut said, "don't say anything". Another part of her was too fucking terrified to talk at all, even if she wanted to speak. She didn't trust herself to not blurt something out that would make her appear unstable. She didn't want to be lumped into the same category of people who hawked their beliefs to the world how the end was nigh, nor with conspiracy theorists who wore tinfoil hats to keep the government from reading their minds.
Things already looked bad enough as it was for her.
"Am I being charged with something?" she finally inserted, frowning at the cop. He grimaced back, his face contorting until he spoke again.
"You were trespassing on private property, and in a gym leader's personal home, for that matter. What do you think?"
"Then don't I get a lawyer?"
"Why would you need a lawyer if you supposedly didn't do anything wrong?" Detective Hanson countered gruffly.
"I didn't do anything wrong, as far as I'm concerned. I meant what I said. I have no clue how I got in that house. I was home last night, went to sleep in my own bed and then I woke up on that guy's couch."
"Uh-huh. Sure, Jane Doe." The cop glanced over at his dog partner and they shared a fucking look with one another. A fucking look! Sergeant Hawkins pretended not to notice. "And where, exactly is your home, again?"
Jesus fucking Christ, I'm in the Twilight Zone. I went to bed playing Pokémon and Assassin's Creed, and I was bound to dream about both of them. Or dream about one them, at the very least. When am I going to wake up?
Deep in her gut, she already knew the answer to that, and those thoughts swirled in her head, making it hurt with the possibilities that she could and couldn't fathom all at once.
I need to give them something, she thought as she wracked her mind desperately. Pokémon, pirates, military, the barracks, fucking robot dinosaurs…fuck, fuck, fuck!
"Shay."
"What?"
"Just...just call me Shay. Shay Kenway."
A moment of panic. Thinking about pirates and video games and her waking life merged together in a moment of pure panic and exhaustion and the sudden, irresistible urge to say something, anything in the face of what was leering down on her. It had been the first name that came to mind and it had been blurted out with reckless abandon, without real thought put behind it.
Shit. I didn't mean to say that.
The terror-induced lump returned to lodge itself in her throat at the faint look of approval in the cop's eyes. They glinted and flashed like the eyes of a predator hot on a trail that would lead to a fresh kill. Her gut twisted again, this time to drop a little further down her abdomen in dread.
Stupid. Keep your fucking mouth shut.
"All right then…Shay. Now we're getting somewhere. Let's try this again—"
He stopped quickly at the gentle snort of his partner, whose head snapped toward the only door leading out seconds before it opened. Another officer, this one in uniform, stood there in the doorway, tipping his head in Detective Hanson's direction. His eyes slid toward her once, briefly, then was back on Detective Hanson.
"Need a quick word."
"Can't you see I'm busy?" He replied, motioning lazily in Sergeant Hawkins' direction. He scowled at the other officer.
"Not with me. Chief's orders. He wants to see you."
Detective Hanson issued a heavy exhalation, a noise that sounded as though it took every ounce of effort from every part of his body to expel. He snatched up his mug and the sparse sheets of papers. He whistled sharply and called for Cassius to follow him. Just like that, she was alone again. Waiting.
God, she hated waiting. It was just like the military. Hurry up and wait. When someone with more rank or a bit of shiny on their collars wanted something from you, it had to be snappy and quick. If you needed something, it was simply the waiting she was left with. She wished she had a book or something. She had a book or two in her pack, if she recalled correctly. Her pack had been confiscated back at that man's house when the cops had arrived, before she could even investigate what was inside it. Probably her wallet and military ID and driver's license…
But they said I had no identification on me. Or maybe they're trying to psych me out. Trying to see if I lie. Shit. I shouldn't have said anything. I done fucked up.
Sergeant Hawkins couldn't recall if she had had her wallet in her pack. It was all fuzzy, like a dream she was trying to desperately hold on to and it was simply slipping through her fingers like water.
She didn't have to wait as long this time around. She barely even had to wait five minutes. The same cop who came to grab Detective Hanson returned, appearing apologetic as he crossed the room. Dare she even say, he looked absolutely mortified as he extracted a set of keys from his belt, and carefully, gently uncuffed her. Sergeant Hawkins wrinkled her nose, rubbing at her wrists and found them to be just as sore as she expected them to be. Her wrists were thin and bony, so they had tightened the cuffs as much as possible to keep her from slipping out of them.
"Am I getting my pack back or did you guys already sell it for chump change to buy yourselves a new coffeemaker?" She griped. That earned her a bewildered look.
"Um…no, ma'am. We're just getting it out of evidence right now. Everything should be just the way it was before we took it."
"Oh, so no permanent property seizure this time? Good. Maybe I'll hit you guys up with a good Yelp review."
"I'm sorry, but what's a Yelp review?" The officer gave her a rather puzzled look that was bordering on annoyed.
"Never mind." Curbing herself, Sergeant Hawkins inhaled slowly. Now that she was most likely home free, she was letting her annoyance shine through. She needed to keep her tongue in check. The officer motioned for her to follow him. "Is there any reason why I'm not being grilled anymore?"
"Funny story actually," he replied, stepping aside to let Sergeant Hawkins out into the hallway. Standing just off to the side of the door, leaning against the wall, was the man who's house she had awoken in earlier that morning. The very same man who had called the cops on her and then subsequently had her arrested for supposedly breaking into his home. The cop, sensing her bewilderment, smirked a little at Sergeant Hawkins. "He's not pressing charges and pulled some strings to get you out without needing bail. I'd say, 'thank you' to Gym Leader Norman if I were you."
Back in the house again. Back where it had all started.
Sergeant Hawkins stood in the threshold of the doorway, awkward and frozen. She stared over at the spot near the couch where she'd been brusquely knocked to the ground and pinned there by a sharp-clawed beast until the cops came and hauled her away earlier that morning. Her throat felt dry as desert sand as she stared at the broad-shouldered backside of the man who had first had her arrested one hour and then had her released from police custody a different hour altogether.
It's been a strange day something like that happens. She just didn't believe anything like that would ever happen to her.
He paused at the front door as he carefully pulled his shoes off his feet, then shed his coat. He made a small detour to drape it over the arm of the couch, unconcerned as he went about his coming-home ritual. Carefully, Sergeant Hawkins edged her way inside, quietly closing the front door behind her. She jumped at the sounds of bellows and chatters and conspicuously loud yawns and suddenly found herself not quite alone with Norman anymore. She closed her eyes, squeezing them tight, hoping it'd erase the sight of creatures that shouldn't exist. That's because video games aren't real life. This isn't real, I'm seeing things. Oh, crap. Maybe I am crazy.
When she opened them again, she was still faced with the sight of two Slaking that were lazing about on the hardwood floors, an energetic Vigoroth was tailing Norman into the kitchen, and a few other pokémon sat in a circle facing one another as they preened and chattered. A Zigzagoon, a Spinda, and a Linoon.
The names of the pokémon came automatically to her, as easily as breathing or blinking. It was nearly impossible not to acknowledge them, recognize them. Denying it was only making her head hurt, right at the base of neck. Or was that another cluster tension headache coming on?
The Zigzagoon was venturing closer, sniffing carefully, bushy tail wagging and black eyes sparkling with delight and interest. She backed into the door and flinched when it jumped up on its hind legs and laid its front paws to rest on her knees. Its claws dug in as the Zigzagoon flexed its digits and stared up at her. A fit of panic welled up in her chest and she gently shooed the air while bending her knee, forcing it to hop down.
"Go. Go away. Shoo. Go away, go on now. Git! I said git!"
The Zigzagoon appeared distressed at her apparent disinterest, but nonetheless did as requested and ambled away, head hanging forlornly.
"Not a fan of Zigzagoon?" Norman interrupted. She jumped, eyes darting up to meet Norman's from across the room. He looked even more fatigued than Detective Hanson had appeared earlier. If Detective Hanson's exhaustion had been skin-deep, then Norman's was buried deep into his bones.
"Not exactly in the mood to play," she offered instead. A frown pulled at her lips as she stared at Norman. "I'm still confused as to why you bothered yanking me out of the station, especially since you put me there in the first place."
His dark eyes roamed over her, scrutinizing behind a veil of tiredness.
"I overreacted, and it took me time to sort things out. I've had a long couple of weeks. I apologize for the inconvenience. Now, what would you like for dinner?" He turned on his heel to head back into the kitchen but stopped at Sergeant Hawkins' behest.
"Wait a minute, wait a minute. I wake up in your place, without any knowledge as to how I got here, you call the cops and have me arrested after you assault me and accuse me of breaking in, and then you proceed to yank me out after nearly a whole day at the police station, and you just…offer me dinner?"
Norman stared at her, gazing at Sergeant Hawkins as though she were dense. Perhaps she was. She couldn't really tell at this point anymore.
"Yes. That sounds about right. So good of you to join the rest of us on the matter. Now, dinner. I'm afraid I'm not much of a cook, but I can manage well enough. I have a few frozen meals I can heat up in the oven, but if you'd prefer take-out, there's a nice place in Oldale Town that delivers to Littleroot, no problems."
She didn't want to hear those names, and yet, they were thrown out without a care. Oldale Town. Littleroot. Towns that were from the Ruby and Sapphire games. Games she'd had on hand the night before. She wished desperately, longingly to be dreaming, but given the state of her hunger, discomfort, mild oncoming pain, and overall misery she doubted it very much.
With every passing minute, her rejection and utter denial of the current situation was growing weaker.
"I…I'm sorry, I'm just still processing this. Or maybe I didn't exactly make myself clear enough. Why are you helping me?"
"Can't a man admit he's made a mistake and attempt to repair it?"
That threw her for a loop and she snorted derisively.
"I mean…duh. But I still don't understand why you went to the lengths that you did. Why bring me here? Shouldn't letting me go on my way be enough for you?"
Norman lingered in his spot, perhaps cultivating an honest reply suited for the situation, or maybe to chastise her and tell her off and to be grateful she isn't rotting in a cell without being able to post bail. Instead he simply walked away without a word after a few seconds of deliberation. The eyes of his team turned from where he had stood to look at her, all of them silently burning into her.
She was the first to look away. When she glanced back up, Norman was still out of sight, clinking away in the kitchen.
Sergeant Hawkins felt her gut twist, whether it was because of guilt or something else, she couldn't quite pinpoint. She remained glued to her spot, one hand clinging to the strap of her pack, the other kneading the base of her neck where her headache was growing. Dithering only a moment longer, she finally broke and tiptoed her way toward the couch, unhitching her pack and swinging it to the ground. She followed it down, hands already yanking on the zipper as she sat there on one knee, rifling through her things. She had taken her uniform out as soon as she had gotten to her room, intent on doing laundry that weekend. She found two small green monsters; a sketchbook; a pencil case; a plain spiral notebook; a folder for loose sheets of paper with messy pencil sketches; a sandwich baggy filled with pretzels; an opened water bottle; an unopened Powerade bottle, a new and unopened bottle of Tylenol; her folding knife; a copy of "The Martian" by Andy Weir; her iPod with its charger; a miniature speaker; an extra phone charger; and her Mac laptop and the external hard drive with all her extra files and its charger…
But not her phone. Not her wallet.
Both had been on her nightstand, one charging and the other taken out of her pack to pay for pizza…
Of fucking course. The two most important things and neither of them were on her.
No wonder the detective had grilled her so relentlessly on her identity at the police station. He hadn't done it to catch her in a lie. He had done it because they understandably and literally couldn't identify her, at all.
Great. I have no way to call home, no ID to prove who I am, and on top of that…I have no shoes or socks. Not that I can call home or that my ID would do me any good, now that I think about it…
She glanced back at the single pair of shoes sitting by the front door, amending that she didn't necessary need socks or shoes now, but it had been cold at the police station. It had also been awkward traipsing around, trying not to stub her toes or trying to avoid getting stepped on. Worse still, she hadn't been able to feel her toes at the station either, and here it wasn't much better.
Yet again, she reflected on how the longer the hours ticked by, the less likely she felt she was dreaming. It was strange entertaining the idea that this all might be very real, but mostly, she saw it as inconvenient. She wasn't sure what was going to happen. Would someone from back at her unit, come Monday, attempt to reach her when she failed to show up to work? Would someone come by her room, only to find it empty? Would they mark her as a deserter, disappeared off the grid, out of sight and out of mind? Did time pass differently here than it did back home, or would it pass the same as it was here?
Questions, questions, questions. Data, data, data, I cannot make bricks without clay. I cannot make solutions without answers.
She kept thinking about her family and her friends, but realized they wouldn't know she was missing, not until either someone told them or if she didn't answer calls or texts. And she was known for going weeks without doing either. It wasn't out of spite, she simply found it exhausting to talk on the phone and after a full day's worth of work calls, she didn't have it in her to talk to anyone else afterwards. Texts were easier in the long run—but she was simply terrible with being consistent in that department as well.
It all spiraled to just one thing: nobody knew she was missing.
The thought terrified her, and with each passing scenario that rolled around in her head, the sicker she felt to her stomach, and the urge to bust out crying grew more tempting. She had to forcibly control her breathing, to steady her nerves, to dissipate those urges. Even when it felt like her throat was pinching shut, she somehow managed to sip down another breath and quell those urges anew.
Focus. Focus on what you know, what you can do, if this is all real. You're in Hoenn. That guy in the other room is a gym leader. He's supposed to help people.
She kept repeating that mantra, but invasive little thoughts that served as devil's advocates kept breaking through.
What if this isn't like the cutesy game you like playing? What if this is some dystopian version of the game, where pokémon fight to the death and people die violently at the…various appendages of pokémon and there's guns and anarchy and—
Sergeant Hawkins clenched her jaw, zipped up her pack, and shook those thoughts away.
Suck it the fuck up, buttercup. Stop worrying. You can handle this. Stop bitching and just deal with things as they come. You can do that much, can't you? You made it through the fucking Marines, you can make it through this bullshit. Minute to minute, hour to hour, day to day, Sunday to Sunday.
She knew how to handle a gun. She had to, given her line of work. She knew how to protect herself. She knew how to terrify the ever-living fuck out of men two times her size and three times her weight. She wasn't some fucking lightweight pushover.
She was a goddamn Marine.
It was time to start acting like it.
Straightening, Sergeant Hawkins positioned herself on the couch she had awoken on earlier that morning and continued brutally pummeling her insecurities into submission and asserting the need to control what she could. Namely, at the moment, herself.
When Norman returned, she swallowed down the nervousness she felt bubbling up and trying to painfully lodge itself in her chest like a stitch in her side.
"Thanks for the help. I know I sounded like a brat earlier, but…I do mean it. Thank you."
Norman watched her carefully, his expression cool and calm. She noticed his gaze flicker away from her, sweeping over the faces of his team, before they returned to her. He nodded in approval.
"You're welcome. I apologize for the rough treatment earlier today. Dom can be a bit overzealous sometimes."
"Dom?"
"My Vigoroth." He motioned to the white-and-grey pokémon hovering close at his side. The Vigoroth in question gave her a quiet snarl. She resisted the urge to childishly stick her tongue out in return. She was pretty sure she'd lose it if she tried.
"That's fine. I guess I'd do the same thing in your place."
Wait a minute…
"So," Norman started, glancing off back into the kitchen. Sergeant Hawkins felt a prickle of cold crawling up her spine and rest at the base of her neck, with the hairs there standing up at attention. A stupidly belated realization dawned upon her, and she looked away, down at the coffee table, where it lay empty…and dusty. In fact, near everything in the room was dusty or untouched. Even the floors had been covered in a light coat of it, with bits of it clinging to her toes and the soles of her feet. Why was it so dirty in here?
Why were there no pictures or art or signs of anyone else living here?
Something isn't right.
"Leftovers aren't an option; everything's cleaned out in the fridge. The frozen meals all have freezer burn, so they aren't viable to eat and I didn't think to go grocery shopping before coming home, so I guess the only question is what kind of takeout you'd like."
Where's Norman's wife and kid?
The guest bedroom was about as Spartan in decoration as the rest of the household. It was almost reminiscent of what she'd expect of a divorced dad, rather than a family homestead. Have they not moved in just yet? Did Norman move into the house before they did, and they just haven't sent in everything?
No. That doesn't feel quite right. There were no photographs around in sight. A loving dad and husband would have pictures of his family somewhere, anywhere. There were boxes in the front room, too. Most of them untouched, unpacked.
Dread coiled up in her gut, heavy as stone and as corrosive as acid. She tasted bile at the back of her throat as the idea of the worst invaded her train of thought.
Did they die? Or were they killed?
As soon as she and Norman had eaten, he showed her the upstairs guest room, told her she was free to use the guest bathroom, or to get more food if she felt hungry. After fetching her some extra blankets for the room, he left her to her own devices.
There was a small flat screen sitting on the dresser, so she turned that on and began flipping through the channels in an attempt to distract herself.
Pokémon, pokémon, and more pokémon. What a surprise.
If I went to bed now, would I wake up home?
She doubted it, but it couldn't hurt to try…right after a nice long hot shower.
Sergeant Hawkins quietly left the guest room and padded down the hallway to the bathroom, pausing at a thin decorative table pressed flush against wall. There was an empty little glass bowl the colour of clear bluebell, but nothing much else. Frowning at the lack of decoration, at how plain it all was, she disappeared into the bathroom, iPod and speaker in hand. Bottles of shampoo, conditioner, a wash cloth, a towel, and a bar of soap were already laid out on the counter for her.
Anticipation thrummed through her and after getting the water turned on and dialed in at the perfect temperature, Sergeant Hawkins stripped and stepped into embrace of the hot water. Inhaling deeply, she felt the heat and steam spread through her, pattering at her backside like the gentle tips of fingers easing away all her tensions and cares in the world and washing them away down the drain.
She wished it were that easy. Her head was swimming with even more questions and even less answers than when she had started her day out. She wanted to give in to the logical end of things, to simply let things be, to take things in stride as they come…but that wasn't the easiest route for her. She was stuck feeling completely and utterly rattled, her nerves frayed, her worries bristling and ready to snap upon any small snag or problem that crossed her path. She was a singular ball of tension, drawn so tight that the slightest tug or pull of pressure would make her snap and break.
She stayed in the water, hoping it would alleviate some of that tension, and for a time it worked. The music eventually lulled her away from the hard-pressed thoughts that plagued her. She lingered for a few minutes longer after she finally stepped out, feeling cleaner than when she had gone in.
Norman had been gracious enough to loan her a pair of sweatpants and plain white t-shirt, although judging from their size, they were hilariously too large for her and quite possibly Norman's. The shirt and pants alike hung on her frame as though she were emaciated, and she had to yank the sweatpants' drawstring taut until it wasn't falling down past her ass and tied it off. She let the shirt be as it was.
The moment she opened the door to the bathroom, with a puff of steam escaping in an instant, it all came back: the stress, the worry, the dread.
Standing guard outside the door was the little Zigzagoon. As soon as the door creaked open and the slant of light fell on its backside, the pokémon turned around, eyes glinting merrily at her. She hadn't been prepared for an impromptu guard standing wait outside for her. She startled, having nearly stepped on the little pokémon. She backpedaled into the bathroom, sucking in a lungful of air and held it to keep from hyperventilating. She's had a long damn day, and this was only adding to the pile, goddammit!
She was even less prepared when the damn thing opened its mouth and began to fucking talk to her.
"Oh, good! You're out! Any longer and I would have had to get Mister Norman!"
She stared at the Zigzagoon, mouth dropping open, eyes bulging wide, breath caught in her chest in an aching hitch. Unperturbed and unaware of her shock, the pokémon continued, dancing excitedly on the spot on rapid little paws.
"It's so nice to see someone else that isn't a gym challenger or student for a change! Are you staying for long, Miss?"
"I…I, uh…" Anything she had to say was left to die in her throat. Her voice fell silent, her mind going blank.
"Is everything all right, Miss?" The Zigzagoon paused, head tilting, nose wiggling as it—he, it definitely sounded like a he—sniffed the air in her direction. When Sergeant Hawkins was finally able to untangle her tongue, her voice was an octave higher than usual, on the verge of breaking completely, but she managed to squeak out an answer.
"I…I don't know anymore, I think…I think I'm gonna…go lay down now."
"Oh. Oh, well, all right, Miss. Sleep well!"
With that, the Zigzagoon zoomed right down the hall and down the stairs, disappearing from sight. Sergeant Hawkins stared after the bushy-tailed creature, her whirlwind of thoughts having finally come to a grinding, agonizing halt for the first time that day—although it wasn't in the way she had wanted. She moved after some time simply standing there, straining to listen to the sudden clamour of voices below her. Gruff bass tones, a high alto, a pair of sonorous rumbles, the enthusiastic high pitch of the Zigzagoon that was akin to a child's voice. Norman's voice occasionally mixed in with the rest but was largely left silent.
She hurried back down the hallway and sequestered herself away in the guest room, flipping through channels and pausing at segments that featured various pokémon on screen. This time, she found herself focusing a little more on parts that featured the pokémon themselves, and more importantly, if they too spoke like people.
A contest Pikachu was dressed in pink frills and delicate lace was waving at a crowd, yelling her thanks to her adoring fans while her trainer stood beside her, crowing much the same.
Next.
A flock of Wingull were griping about the swarm of Tentacool moving in on their favourite fishing spot. A disembodied voice, the narrator, coolly reflects the patience of the Wingull as they sit on the beach as the sun rose over the horizon.
Next.
A Nidorino and a Gengar bash into one another as stadium lights glare down on them both. The Gengar taunts the Nidorino with a vexing grin. The Nidorino blusters out a snort, snapping at the Gengar to shut up and fight. The announcer, much like the last program, seemed oblivious to the conversation passing between the battling pokémon.
Next, next, next.
More questions arose as Sergeant Hawkins spent the next hour flipping desperately through channels. Did anyone else hear the pokémon speaking at all, or were they ignorant of the words the pokémon spoke? She finally had to shut the television off, her head near to bursting as her headache returned in full force. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling pressure building up behind them as she began rubbing at her temples and the base of her neck, but to no avail. She finally caved and fished out the Tylenol from her pack and downed two pills, wincing as one pill went down sideways.
With that said and done, Sergeant Hawkins quickly turned in for the night, hoping that she was simply imagining all these voices. After some time, however, before she fell asleep, she wondered if that truly was something she wanted and if that was the better alternative to her actually being able to understand pokémon.
Note: I have a confession to make. I sometimes repeat words in my sentences (simple words such as 'please' or 'again'). It's a mistake that I'm sure you'll eventually notice. I am trying my hardest to correct myself. I've gotten much better at not doing it, but I slip from time to time, and don't even realize I do it while writing, not until I go back and read through everything. If you notice it, please feel free to let me know. Chances are, I might have missed it on my initial round of editing.
Also, as a generous heads-up, I am going to try to do a once-a-week update to this story, although it is tentative, since I have a fully loaded schedule this semester. Here's to all the fiction writing, video game development, and animation history I'm gonna be learning!
Thank you again for reading!
And now a new term!
Green Monster: These are bright green, hardcover notebooks that I have generally only ever seen in Marine Corps Exchange stores. Equivalent products are probably sold on other military branch installations, but I haven't had much experience shopping through them. These notebooks can come in a variety of sizes but they all share the same name of "green monster". It's just a matter of specifying their size when ordering and purchasing them via online.
