Authors Note: I was inspired to write this mainly by the work of Metal Dargon, his story Sacrifice and subjugation is one of the greatest stories I have read on this site, but the vast majority of this story stems from my own imagination in what I hope is a somewhat original take on the pokemon universe so do not take this as mimicking his ideas, world, or even general tone and writing style. I love to worldbuild and the relative openness of pokemon's lore gives me plenty of room to explore ideas, please leave constructive feedback and don't be afraid to tell me if shit sucks.
Please enjoy: Pokemon: the White Death
-YaBoiPutin
Edit: (26APR20) Following a particularly constructive review, my own rethinking of the plot, and actually writing out a full outline, I was deeply dissatisfied with the original two chapters and have rewritten them almost completely. While the general plot has remained largely the same, several key events are being changed to better fit this story's darker and gritty tone. So if you read the original chapters I recommend rereading from the beginning as the first arc is now completely different.
( )
Sinnoh was an old land, its people beheld old traditions, and the ruins of old civilizations that had predated the Sinnoh League (yet some were more recent) dotted the wilderness. One could be forgiven for believing Sinnoh, and much of the world in fact, to be remote, harsh, and devoid of people (if one counted humans as the only people). In fact, only a few generations prior, the human empires of old had been brought down in a storm of violence so horrific and nightmarish that those who survived spoke little of it, as if a creed or oath bound the old veterans and survivors into silence whenever the young dared ask of the Great War. The earth had been forever changed, almost all of mankind lost, reduced to small populations in scattered regions, hardly a fraction of what they were; little was remembered of the time before when humanity's power was at its height. But like all things, time marched forth, and humanity slowly found its place again, as it always does.
Sinnoh was the northernmost of these Regions, and by far the largest in terms of landmass (eclipsing the size of the Indigo League that governed Kanto and Johto almost thrice over), but among the most sparsely populated of all of them. Beyond the few cities and towns that dotted the landscape along the coasts, rivers, and ancient roadways, one could go a long time without ever knowing civilization existed in Sinnoh at all. Yet if one went to the farthest northern reaches, where the temperature never rose beyond freezing, a part of the land beyond the arctic circle, one could find the small city of Snowpoint.
Snowpoint had been built almost entirely around the Temple of its namesake relatively recently after the Great War, by an archaeological expedition that needed a base camp for their spelunking in the temple. However the extreme cold within kept them from the deepest levels, and the true builders and majority population of modern Snowpoint did not take kindly to the desecration of their sacred temple. Snowpointers, as they are known in the modern times, were once known as the Scyflings, a collection of tribes and clans that wandered the arctic circle and the farthest northern reaches by ship, ski, and sled dog; many had served the old Sinnoan Empire as mercenaries and privateers over the course of centuries but had retreated into the far north following the desolation of the Great War. They drove the Sinnoan intruders out at gun and blade point for their intrusion, chasing the archaeologists back to their ship with surprisingly no bloodshed. The Sinnoh League in those days was new and unstable, and could not expend the resources to take back the township but could not afford to look weak by just surrendering, so they negotiated a deal: the newly dubbed Snowpointers could keep the land if they acquiesced to the Sinnoh League's rule as an autonomous province; and after some discussion among the tribal leaders, the clans agreed to the league's terms if only to avoid the unnecessary devastation that a territorial conflict would bring.
In the years following Snowpoint grew to be a welcome outpost to the occasional traveler that managed to survive the trek over the mountains, and it was a valuable trade port that exported the precious metals and fossil fuels hidden below the northern ice sheets and within the ancient mountains; a pokemon gym that specialized in ice types soon emerged and took its place as one of the eight great gyms of Sinnoh, and the end point of an often deadly pilgrimage through the mountains for pokemon trainers seeking a challenge of survival. The town grew moderately wealthy and soon the Snowpointers, mostly the ones that lived in the city itself, began to adopt more Sinnoan customs and cosmopolitan attitudes, while the rural ones who often hunted for a living and preferred to live on the snowy wastes were regarded as hokums and backwards loons. For 'it's dangerous out there' was the oft-said exclamation shared by urbanite humans across the world, so to did it come to be said by the city dwelling Snowpointers too; for even if the regular wildlife was dangerous, pokemon, creatures who could harness forces mankind could scarcely understand also prowled the snowy wastes.
( )
One of these rural families resided in a small cottage, only fifteen miles south of Snowpoint (which of course in the local conditions, might as well been a hundred if one were on foot), an elderly grandfather and his twelve year old grandson. The elder's name was Simo Thorsund, he was a hardened veteran of the Great War, and in his time, a famous and feared marksman, but to a lesser degree a pokemon trainer whose promising career came to a tragic end that he never spoke a word of, as the pain it brought him was simply to great to relive. His wizened face was wrinkled with age and countless regrets, heavily scarred by his experiences in the war that shattered the world and the violence that followed as human civilization collapsed, his eyes were dark and intense almost like black coals set deep in his face. He rarely smiled, but to most he was a friendly if quiet old man, like most of his generation.
He took care of his grandson in the place of his daughter; who had been missing and presumed dead since the boy was around four years old, and the boys father, who the very thought of brought an angry scowl across his features if only for a moment. Simo Thorsund, like many things in his storied past, never spoke of what had happened to his beloved daughter, and only in his darkest and most alcohol ridden moments with what comrades he had left, expressed his hatred and disdain for the man his daughter had loved and yet had abandoned their son upon her death.
The old man's grandson resembled the grandfather who he was named after: a narrow face with a strong chin and like his surrogate parent (and many Snowpointers) his hair was white as the snow he grew up in. Yet there was a single stark difference, unlike his grandfather's black coal-like eyes, his were like his hair, an icy bluish white that stared with unnerving intensity, these eyes were rare even among Snowpointers and many of the more traditionally minded elders often spoke in hushed tones about the meaning of such eyes. Otherwise the young Simo grew up as most rural and wilderness children did: strong and healthy from constant exercise on his Grandfather's land and the chores that came with such an isolated lifestyle.
Simo had been educated well by his grandfather and the other elders who occasionally stopped by on snowmobiles or by dogsled to speak with the elder Simo. From the young age of six he could read and write on peer with children twice his age and recite information from his grandfather's textbooks as if they were printed into his mind, but mathematics always gave him a deal of trouble like many children like him. However, the elder Simo focused his grandson's education on the practicalities of life in the snowy wilderness and imparted his own passion for the natural world onto his charge. Simo developed a keen fascination with the natural world, but was taught not to shirk from its dangers or challenges.
At the age of eight, his grandfather purchased him a small single shot bolt action .22 rifle and began to teach him the art of hunting, "as all true Snowpointers should" he often said, and in the four following years had proven himself enough that his grandfather trusted him to hunt rabbits and other small game in the woods around their cottage on his own, but he would always be joined by his grandfather if he wanted to hunt beyond the confines of their land or take after bigger game, in such cases he would merely act as his grandfather's spotter, since his varmint rifle was not practical for bringing down larger game such as deer or defend him from wolves or even worse predatory pokemon such as Sneazel, their evolved forms of Weavile, the rare but fearsome Beartic, or the territorial Abomasnow who led snover clans across the tundra. It could not be said that the boy did not take after his grandfather as a marksman, and the old man hoped to mold him into as much an expert sharpshooter as he, but without the terrible lessons that could only be imparted by the experiences only war can bring.
Anywhere else the day would match the coldest winter evening, but to a Snowpointer, it was a pleasant October afternoon: a comfortable 9 degrees Fahrenheit and no wind chill. The younger Simo clutched the small rifle as he edged through the snow on his belly, he was trying to make it to the top of a slight rise in a snowbank where he could see just over the underbrush and into the trees of the woods not far from his grandfather's cabin, but would keep him hidden still. Even with his youthful inexperience, Simo would have proved hard to spot, he wore a white poncho over his grey thermal clothing, his head was covered by a white ski mask, his rifle had been spray painted a similar shade of white, and he shoved snow into his mouth to hide his breath, just as his grandfather taught him. It didn't take him long to settle into the bank, and he took a moment to get his rifle in position.
'Breath, survey, focus on movement or odd colors, identify target, aim, breath out, fire' the boy mentally repeated the steps his grandfather had drilled into his head as he scanned through the iron sights of his rifle. Soon a small snow rabbit hopped into his view, and he moved to aim the rifle down towards his quarry. He had done this hundreds of times before at this point and he waited for the rabbit to stop and sniff the earth before pulling the trigger.
POW!
The .22LR round had left the barrel before the sound had reached his ears and struck the snow rabbit in the abdomen, on a creature so small, such a wound was fatal almost instantly, and preserved the valuable flanks where the bulk of the meat lay. The small creature fell onto its back and twitched a few times in death before lying still.
Simo waited a moment before moving to approach his prey, it didn't move from where it lay, as it was surely dead: so he stood out of the bank to retrieve his kill, walking forward to grab it, he was unaware of the presence that had been stalking him for much of the afternoon.
( )
The young Sneazel that stalked Simo had done so with the full intention of stealing whatever the lad killed. It had followed and observed him from the shadows for the past week when the twelve year old had come out to hunt. The Sneazel was alone, and although in reality more than capable of slaying young Simo, it had never before seen what its kind had called: "The Fur-less Ones" and had no real understanding of what they could do or if it could bring one down, so it had watched him use the strange stick-like object that he carried to kill the small game he hunted; as such, the young pokemon played it on what it thought the safe side was and determined that it would be less risky to steal a kill rather than try and take down the young human. Right now, it thought, was the perfect opportunity: the human was excited by its kill and was not paying as much attention to its surroundings.
As the boy went forth to claim his dead rabbit, the Sneazel that called itself Runt leaped forth and put itself between the boy and the dead rabbit, its ice claws formed as much as the young one could make them and it hissed menacingly as it had seen its old gang do during similar thefts. To make the other hunter flee in terror rather than fight for their rightful kill. It did not occur to the young pokemon that it would have been a far safer and easier affair to simply steal the rabbit and run, as the thefts he had observed had been against wolves, bears, and breeds of predatory pokemon that were generally solitary and unwilling to fight a gang of his kind.
Simo jumped with a start and reflexively aimed his rifle at the interloper, belatedly realizing that he was facing one of the most feared pokemon of the surrounding mountains and tundra, a Sneazel. Simo's knowledge on the Sneazel line came to the forefront: ambush pack hunters who would happily prey on lone humans, especially children. This particular place was not an area they were known to frequent and Simo had never seen a live one beyond nature documentaries he occasionally watched with his grandfather, he had never anticipated encountering one so near his home.
Simo had no idea the pokemon was all alone and the fear of being surrounded by a Sneazel and Weavile gang made him look around feverishly, his rifle still raised. A primal terror within him took hold: he feared he was surrounded and there was no escape.
Meanwhile, Runt froze also in fear, it had seen what the human's rifle had done to its prey and believed it would also suffer a similar fate, unknowing that Simo, in his haste and fear, had not remembered to reload. The Sneazel had hoped the boy would run rather than respond with a threat display of his own. The two stood, paralyzed by the murderous potential of one another for a moment before Simo's terror addled brain made a hasty decision: to try and scare the Sneazel away with a warning shot. He aimed his rifle just to the left of the Sneazel and pulled the trigger.
CLICK
The realization of his mistake and what it potentially meant made Simo's stomach drop, his eyes now plainly showed his terror as he lowered his rifle slightly and his eyes locked with his antagonist, whose reddish eyes now glared with a wicked anger into his. Little did he know that even if he had actually fired, the vengeful natures that are universal among dark type pokemon, let alone the Sneazel line, would have also resulted in the altercation that was about to follow.
Runt, like all pokemon, was a sapient being, and quickly deduced that the human had just tried to attack him, its weapon had failed, and most of all: the pokemon could now see the terror in the young boy's eyes. Simo had just unknowingly escalated the encounter by proceeding from threat display to attempted attack. A rule that was instinctive to wild creatures was now broken, and this was now a fight. Runt, true to his nature, was now angry that the human would try to kill him as it had and leaped forward, ready to kill. The reality that it would have done something similar if the situation was reversed was lost on the juvenile Sneazel.
Runt rushed Simo faster than the human's eyes could ever track, the boy attempted to cover his face and neck instinctively, it was this and Runt's own inexperience as a fighter that saved his life. Simo screamed and fell on his back, as the pokemon's claws had missed his jugular, the intended target, and sliced open his right arm up to his shoulder through his jacket, the ice cold claws numbing the filleted flesh as blood poured forth.
This had been easier than the pokemon had thought it would be, Runt circled above the downed human, relishing in the terror of its now prey and the victory it thought it had claimed. Simo in his mortal terror memorized the face of what he thought would be his death, the scarred face of a juvenile Sneazel. Never once did it occur to him that he had not been attacked from his blind spots by a gang and that no others had come to the aid of his opponent. In a last ditch effort allowed by the dark type's laziness on making a killing blow, Simo grabbed the barrel of his rifle and swung it like a baseball bat. Runt saw this and decided to end it, but misjudged the human's speed: Instead of a windpipe opening slice from Adam's apple to chin, it struck the human boy in an upward arch from his chin, cutting apart his lips, to his right brow, just barely missing his eyeball, due to being hit in the side of the head with the butt of Simo's rifle. Simo stood, adrenaline pumping and he raised it again to defend himself as blood poured down his face from his wounds.
Runt flipped back up from where he lay and decided then and there that the killing of the human wasn't worth it, a tender lump forming on the side of its head in addition to a small cut dissuaded Runt from furthering the altercation. The young Sneazel turned and grabbed the dead rabbit before shooting off into the undergrowth, leaving Simo badly lacerated and without his prey. He was fortunate that Runt was so inexperienced and alone, adults of his kind would have never left him alive, wounded as he was.
Simo could barely feel the cuts due to the cold air and the frostbite that formed over his cuts but knew he was hurt badly and his jacket was shredded. As fast as he could slung his rifle over his left shoulder and took off towards his grandfather's cabin, blood trailing behind him from his arm and face in his adrenaline fueled sprint. He was justified in his haste, his grandfather was much more versed in first aid than he. Eventually he could no longer run, and staggered as quickly as he could to the clear hill where his grandfather's cabin stood. A pained "Help me!" escaping his mouth, quickly followed by a scream of pain as his lips, sliced so deeply by his assailant, parted agonizingly when he called for aid.
He could see his grandfather standing and running from his porch before he fell, unconscious from shock, blood loss, and exhaustion.
( )
Runt made off with the rabbit to its den, devouring the small mammal ferociously upon arrival. The dark ice type decided that the area was a good hunting ground and resolved itself to killing the little Fur-less One the next time it saw him, even though Runt had gotten what he had wanted, the clubbing had hurt him enough to, in his mind, justify killing the one that had done it and take its territory for himself. Then perhaps, it thought, it could find others of its kind and form a new gang.
Runt had been alone in these woods ever since he had been driven from his parental gang by his biggest sibling, Claw-of-White. He had been the runt of the litter sure, a position that among his kind was usually a death sentence, but Runt was a much more ruthless sort and tougher than his parents and gang elders had initially thought when they first gave him the demeaning name of 'Runt' upon his birth.
The second largest of his siblings had been called Sharp-Bite and was by far if not the biggest, the meanest of the clutch. From as soon as they could move and open their eyes, Runt had been the target of his and the rest of his sibling's violence. This was normal in a Sneazel clutch, the weak and peaceable of the siblings would eventually be killed and devoured by the bigger, more violent, and cunning of their brood. Those who survived would eventually be driven out to join other gangs, while the largest or most violent sibling would be allowed to stay with the gang of it's birth.
Sharp-Bite saw Runt as below his worry at first, the others would surely kill and eat the little one if he did not get around to it. Yet Runt lived, scarred and on constant alert, but lived. Runt fought his bigger siblings constantly and although did not always necessarily win, he stayed alive and grew in the esteem of the gang elders and his parents for his tenacity. Over time Sharp-Bite eventually saw him as a rival, a foe to be defeated in his own quest to usurp Claw-of-White as the alpha of their litter. He plotted to kill off his most troublesome and smallest sibling.
But Runt would not lay down and die.
The young Sneazel recalled that battle with pride, his bigger sibling struck him after their gang fed on a dead Caribou, and the two wrestled and attempted to claw the other's throat out as their parents and their gang watched; the conflict escalating rapidly from a minor insult to a duel to the death. Runt had attracted the attention of his elders, and all wanted to see if the vicious runt of the litter would win or be finally put to death like the runts of previous litters uncounted.
Sharp-Bite was bigger and stronger but Runt was smarter and much more agile, rolling over his brother as he charged and dodging rather than trying to grapple and scratch. The whole struggle lasted only a couple of minutes: Runt dodged out of the way of a wild lunge and used his brother's momentum against him by clothes-lining him, slamming Sharp-Bite into the snow onto his back. What happened next brought a small chitter of satisfaction to the young Sneazel: he mounted the chest of his brother, brought his claws down with a cry, and tore apart his rival's eyes in a flurry of scoop-like scratches directly into the eye sockets and face.
Sharp-Bite began to screech in agony and terror at his blindness and mutilation, Runt jumped off of him, leaving him to crawl and stagger around helplessly as the older Sneazels and their Weavile elders hissed and chattered their approval. Runt stood, claws coated in his brother's gore, and snarled at Claw-of-White, prepared to fight him as well; the win against the second best of his litter giving him the confidence to even dare to threaten his most domineering sibling. But his biggest and most violent brother was just as devious as he, and chose not to engage him in open battle, devising a plan to eradicate his now true rival on his own terms.
Sharp-Bite's blindness had rendered him a liability and waste of food to the gang, thus the elders slew and devoured him mere moments after Runt left him there in the snow, mewling pathetically in pain. It had seemed to Runt that he had finally turned things around for himself, that night the elder Weaviles chittered proudly to him rather than sneering their disdain at the sight of him or outright ignoring the juvenile, and his other siblings looked upon him now in fear and did not dare cross him; so Runt basked in his victory. That very night would prove to be Runt's undoing within the gang: as he slept, Claw-of-White attempted to slay him, but his scent awoke the young Runt before his throat could be opened, the two dueled but the runt of the litter was caught on the back foot, and Claw-of-White would not fall for his tricks. His rival cut him across the face, and to Runt's later annoyance, almost the same way he himself would later do to Simo Thorsund.
Runt realized during the duel that Claw-of-White would overcome him and chose to flee into the night, and never return rather than die. The gang and his parents would eventually forget about him, as was the nature of their kind. Runt spent the next few weeks trying to find safe haven and suitable hunting grounds; he traveled many days and sleepless nights, a mixture of good fortune and sheer will to live kept him alive until he came to the lands of the Thorsund family, where there were no marks on the trees or ice of other Sneazel or Weavile gangs.
It was this series of events that had led to his mauling of the young human, and set in motion a nightmarish ordeal that would change the lives of them both forever after.
( )
Simo's grandfather had been able to save him through a timely and experienced application of first aid, but it was not enough to ensure his recovery. He had called the family doctor, Dr. Caitlin Eddain, to assist in the speedy recovery of his grandson and to give him an infusion of Blissey egg essence. The good doctor was stern and uncompromising, with a notoriously blunt and grim bedside manner, borne from her years of front-line service within the Sinnoh League Federal Defense Force and many more as a trauma surgeon in Jubilife City. Snowpoint City did not have a hospital, and only extremely serious cases could be teleported or flown to the hospitals in the bigger cities in the south, as such: it was the norm for doctors to treat patients from home or their own small clinics, aided by the healer pokemon of the Happiny line. She had ensured that the young boy had no infections and made certain that the frostbite that had entered his wounds dissipated properly.
Simo awoke the next morning, and was met by the stony face of his grandfather, who's eyes briefly betrayed their relief at his precious grandson's awakening. The boy tried to open his mouth, and was met with the painful sensation of stitches pulling his face and lips together. He could only open it partway, just enough to be able to eat and speak softly without pain.
"You're a lucky man Mr. Thorsund" the voice of the family doctor snapped Simo's attention to her, her expression perpetually disappointed and judgmental, but Simo could tell she was relieved. He was familiar with the iron-willed and harsh woman, as he frequently wound up in her care following many outdoor misadventures. Her dark and beady eyes narrowed at him harshly, her graying hair usually pulled into a ponytail was frazzled by what Simo had learned to recognize as genuine worry, "Frostbite has thawed, and no infections, you are lucky that whatever it was that got a hold of you was clean enough but your formerly handsome face is going to have some rather impressive scars, try not to open your mouth too wide, the stitches in your lips might separate." She said 'Lucky' in almost a snarl. "Did you get it in your head to tangle with a wolf pack or harass a polar bear, what mauled you? You damned fool, always getting into some mess, I don't know why this old codger lets you roam the woods alone."
Her facade cracked into a look of shock and surprise when Simo answered, cutting off her tirade: "...Sneazel..."
There was silence for a moment, the doctor about to speak again but the elder Thorsund raised his hand. "What actually happened, are you saying you were attacked by a Sneazel gang, and escaped?"
Simo recalled the face of the pokemon that had done this to him with a flash of anger. He composed himself, it would do no good to shout his anger in his condition. "I had just shot a rabbit, when I went to get it, it jumped out in front of me and hissed. I got scared so I pointed my gun at it."
The doctor and elder looked at one another before back to Simo. "Go on" his grandfather urged.
Simo relayed the tale as best he could remember it, he was not interrupted. His grandfather's face became impassive once again, the doctor's one of more sincere concern.
"...And then I ran as fast I could home, and then I passed out at the bottom of the hill."
He awaited the reaction of his elders, would they be mad at him for what he did?
"You are lucky to be alive, and that Sneazel was alone." His grandfather intoned sagely.
Simo was about to respond, but then he remembered: He hadn't been assaulted or ambushed by other Sneazels or worse, Weaviles, as he fled or battled with his assailant.
"If it wasn't, we." He paused, "we would be finding the leftovers of your corpse." Several emotions flashed through his grandpa's eyes as if he couldn't settle on which one, but they returned to the stony almost emotionless expression they always contained.
The full realization of his, in reality, good fortune was sobering to the young boy.
"The way you describe it, it sounds like a very young one, probably recently orphaned or driven out by its siblings perhaps. This too close to our land, we will have to either kill or capture it and turn it in to the gym."
"We will?" Simo asked after his grandfather finished speaking.
"Indeed, if it claims these lands for its own, everyone who comes here, including us, will be in danger, especially if there are more of them or if it forms a gang with other orphans. Not until you are healed though, I will need your help on this son." He stopped when the doctor grabbed his arm and turned him around to directly face her.
"Are you kidding me, you old loon? Why not get Robert or Joe out here, they can help you, hell, I could help hunt the little monster that did this to him, if I-." the doctor whispered harshly, practically dragging the elder into the next room, Simo couldn't catch anymore than that as they left, the doctor's whispering growing increasingly frantic and angry.
"But you would ask it of your grandson?!" Came the doctor's sudden near shriek from the other room. Simo was startled by her sudden yell. His grandfather's reply was simple, but annoyance clear in his tone as his voice boomed:
"These lands will be his one day, he must learn. I will hear no more of this. Thank you for your services doctor, but if you have nothing else to say, begone."
This resulted in another flurry of insults and shouting but Simo ignored that for the presence in the room that he had somehow not noticed until that very moment: the Blissey that Dr. Eddain had brought with her and was likely responsible for his quick recovery from the blood loss. The pink healer pokemon approached his bedside and held up a syringe filled with a whitish liquid and trilled with a smile. The egg essence of their kind was almost a miracle cure for most common aliments and through some mechanism still unknown, could replenish the blood supply of the body even at the brink of death. As they were also quite intelligent and benevolent almost to a fault, rarely were they battle trained, instead they were utilized as medics and nurses. It was a rare sight indeed to see a pokemon center, hospital, clinic, or even veterinary offices that specialized in non-Pokemon animals without at least one of their line on staff.
"Hi Valkyrie, thanks for healing me." It was not the first time (and probably not the last) he had said those words and tried not to yelp when the pokemon gave him a second injection of egg essence into his right shoulder.
( )
Six Weeks Later...
Simo had healed, but as the doctor said: his face would be heavily and permanently scarred, but at least he could open his mouth all the way now despite the disfigurement. In the previous weeks, he and his grandfather (more his grandfather if he was honest with himself) had set up a plan of action for capturing this delinquent Sneazel. His grandfather decided it would be best if they captured it and turned it in to the Snowpoint City Pokemon Gym, and the current Gym Leader: Ivanov Johanson. Like most pokemon gyms, the Snowpoint gym was in constant need of juvenile pokemon to be given to apprentice trainers at the gym who would use them as their starter pokemon while they worked on their Journeyman Pokemon Trainer Licenses, even if only a few would ever even be qualified to attempt the examination.
To this effect, Simo's grandfather dug out his own, almost antiquated, Journeyman license; something that had surprised his grandson since he almost never spoke about his past, let alone his short-lived career as a trainer. The old man took a day trip to the city and had procured a pokeball and an air-powered tranquilizer rifle. When the fateful day came, the elder handed the tranquilizer gun to his grandson.
"Its been a long time since I've tracked Sneazel, but I haven't forgotten. You will hit it with the tranquilizer, and I will throw the pokeball. However, if one of us misses, I will draw my handgun and put it down. Stay with me and if we are ambushed do not run into the woods blindly, that's what it, or they, will want." The elder practically growled, he was not to be disobeyed, especially not in a situation such as this. Simo knew this, and merely answered: "Yes grandfather, I understand. I wont miss."
His grandpa patted his shoulder, "that's the attitude we need".
The two of them set off into the woods, at a slow pace while his grandfather searched for any sign of the Sneazel, the two were silent, fearful of giving away their position and intent. Simo let his grandfather work and stayed close but out of his way, mentally going over the information on Sneazel's he had read and his grandfather taught him over the past few weeks.
'Sneazel leave faint tracks and are smart enough to remain upwind of prey and enemies, they typically use ice manipulation to move like skiers over long distance, but, but if this one is young enough, he might not know that trick, look for faint indents that resemble a small Y shape, otherwise we will have to blind track and look for carvings on trees and in the ice sheets.'
'Sneazel and Weavile use a complex and likely regional system of symbols to leave messages and mark territory, those residing in Sinnoh's far north were used in Professor Sean Rowan and Professor Samuel Oak's groundbreaking study on Pokemon sapience that later proved their, at the time, widely derided theory that most pokemon were sapient creatures.'
All this rather academic information floating around his head was punctuated by a rather chilling answer he had gotten from his grandfather when he asked if he had ever hunted a Weavile: 'You don't hunt Weaviles boy, they hunt you. You can only pray that they decide you aren't worth the trouble or defend yourself when it comes calling. If there is one out there, which I doubt, it will likely come to us long before we ever find it.'
"Simo." The boy's attention was snapped to his grandfather and out of his day dreaming. "Pay attention, look here." The elder looked somewhat annoyed by his lack of attention but did not comment on it, more concerned with pointing out the very faint Y-shaped tracks that lay in the snow in front of them, hugging the trees where they could but this deep in winter, there was no longer any underbrush to hide them.
"These tracks must be recent if we can see them this clearly."
'Clearly?' Simo thought, 'I would have never even noticed them they are so faint.' He did not say anything but nodded his affirmation.
The pair followed the tracks for over three hours, losing them but finding them again twice. They were both on very high alert for ambush by not only their quarry, but also other wild animals and pokemon that could alert their quarry to their presence or attack them themselves.
Finally when the afternoon was reaching its end, they had a stroke of luck: the Sneazel may have been able to hide its den to the untrained eye, but even Simo could make out where its tracks descended into a hollow in the base of a tree trunk and did not come out. "We've got him son, now we wait, be ready with that dart gun, and wait for him to get a few paces from his den before you shoot him." The elder Thorsund practically whispered. Simo only nodded and laid in the snow with the rifle, prepared to get some payback against the creature that mauled him.
( )
Evening came, and Runt prepared to leave for his nightly hunt, but the creature was not hopeful. In the previous weeks since his encounter with the young Fur-less One, the winter had truly set in, food was so scarce he hardly ate only once every few days, he became thinner and thinner and he feared he would have to risk ranging farther than where he had established himself. However, despite his situation, he had become so confident that he hardly ever sniffed the air for threats when he left his den, his arrogance had grown since his attack on the Fur-less one. So when he slunk out from his den under the tree, it was only the instinctive feeling of being watched that told him anything was wrong, he looked to his left, his eyes falling on a snowbank that he did not remember being that large when suddenly the figure shifted and the scent he had not paid attention to caused his mind to ring in recognition: the Fur-less One!
PSHEW
Runt felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, he saw a strange dart embedded in his skin. Angered, and shocked that he had been tracked, he tried to charge, but his limbs felt so heavy, and suddenly numb. The pokemon staggered and tripped, falling into the snow on its belly, only just able to turn its head as its body began to relax and leave his control. Runt had never been so terrified in his entire life, and it only got worse when he realized as another figure emerged from the bank, that the one he had mauled and now had paralyzed him was not alone. But as he laid there, he heard a distant sound, one he had never heard before, and it seemed like his assailants did not notice the low and unnatural growling.
( )
Simo resisted a cry of victory for his shot and debilitation of the Sneazel, and his grandfather slapped him on the back in a rare display of paternal affection.
"Excellent shot Simo" the old man said as he stood behind the boy. "He might be awake but he isn't going anywhere for the time being. How thin he is, poor thing, this might be the best thing to happen to him."
"Thanks grandpa, are you going to capture it?" Simo asked as his grandfather made no move to throw a pokeball.
"No son, you are." He held out the pokeball he had purchased for this purpose. Simo stared in surprise.
"But I thought-" he started.
His grandfather cut him off: "This will make him legally yours, when we get home, I plan to enroll you at the Snowpoint Gym, Leader Ivannov and I will teach you everything you need to know to become a trainer, I know that's been your dream."
Simo could barely believe his ears, he hugged his grandfather tightly. He heard from in front of them the sound of snowmobiles but didn't pay it any mind, even when they seemed to come to a stop, it was normal for people to ride through this area. Letting go and with an encouraging shove from his elder, he prepared to throw.
BANG
Simo jumped as a gunshot rang out from the treeline in front of them, he was suddenly terrified as a group of scraggly men on beaten up snowmobiles emerged from the shadows, all armed, and one's rifle still smoking.
"Simo" the boy heard a shaky gasp and turned.
His grandfather clutched a reddening wound in his chest and almost as if in slow motion, toppled to the ground on his back, Simo couldn't tell if he was screaming or not, as he clutched his grandfather, the light fading from his eyes. He felt a hand grab his collar and turn him around, a raised fist, and all then all was dark.