Well its been a long while, this story in not abandoned. As I'm sure everyone's life has been turned upside down by this insane year, mine was too. I spent many months at sea with no internet connection, and upon my return wound up moving across the planet into yet another isolated part of the world to do a completely new job which required months of retraining and even more on the job experience. So I have had almost no time to write, but fear not. Even if it takes me decades, which it hopefully wont, I do plan on finishing this story.
-YaBoiPutin
( )
When Simo awoke it took him a moment to realize that everything that had just happened wasn't some horrid nightmare, but the reality of his situation. He looked around himself and realized that he had been bound to a large and ancient oak tree, he had been taken somewhere deep in the woods, he was inside a makeshift tent that surrounded the massive tree he had been tied to, and across from him, chained to a post set deeply in the ground, was the Sneazel that he had tranquilized. It was unconscious and looked as if it had been beaten, dark blue bruises covered its body and its left eye was swollen shut. He, by comparison had gotten off comparably light, his nose was throbbing in pain and he could smell and feel where the blood of his broken nose clotted and froze, yet it had been bandaged and set into its proper place.
He could hear the sounds of what must have been dozens of people talking and moving about outside, and could smell something being roasted over a fire. Simo was filled with a cold terror, much worse than when he had encountered the Sneazel for the first time, for he came to the realization that he had been kidnapped by bandits. The snippets of conversation he could just barely catch seemed centered around his kidnapping and the murder of the 'Old Man' which he took to mean his grandfather. A grim and sad feeling cascaded through him, and he felt the tears well up and drip down his face at the remembrance that his beloved if cold grandfather was now dead in the snow courtesy of a brigand's rifle.
Although the Sinnoh region, along with most of the larger regions elsewhere in the world, was technologically advanced and economically strong, much of that power and wealth was confined to the few small cities that Sinnoh boasted, the rural towns that dotted along the routes all too often did not reap the benefits of their advanced society and often only survived by a bare thread through farming, mining, and local industry which refined raw resources produced by the aforementioned. Those who dwelled in these small towns were often kept employed by social connections and familial ownership of said businesses, otherwise powerful labor syndicates, (and to a smaller extent, aristocrat families) controlled most of the larger mining, farming, and industrial operations of rural areas in the Sinnoh region. Employment for those without the social connections, such as outsiders and other social outcasts, especially those with criminal records, could be extremely fickle, and so many took to banditry. Smaller bandit gangs were often consumed by larger ones who would then consume others or be consumed themselves to form veritable hordes that wandered the uncharted lands of the Sinnoh Region, and those that survived the harsh wilderness and violence of their lifestyles were often experienced survivalists and guerrilla fighters, and as such, were often hired or recruited by rebel and terrorist groups that formed from time to time (indeed, even the Sinnoh Ranger Corps often recruited directly from captured bandits in exchange for reduced or commuted sentences) in the midst of the political turmoil that frequently rocked the region's upper echelons.
Bandit gangs also could take many forms, while in the tundra and deep woods of Northern Sinnoh bandits rode by ski and snowmobile, some who lived on the warmer steppes lived as the legendary khans of the ancient times: from horseback, others who dwelled in the woodlands and swampland of the south traveled by foot or boat (often called River Pirates), and rarer in the current age but still occasionally seen despite the League's control of the main roads: motorized bands of road warriors and biker gangs who preyed upon unprotected truck convoys and unfortunate travelers.
In the generations prior, armies of bandits and brigands were the largest menace of the more civilized portions of the Sinnoh region in the wake of the Collapse, even more so than powerful wild pokemon. Towns could be looted and scattered to the wind without justice or recourse, cities held under siege, isolated farming hamlets extorted or held for ransom, and even the shipping convoys that traveled the official routes were not safe from the brigand hordes, so secure were the roads in the grip of the bandit warlords that rose following the old Empire's apocalyptic collapse. But the Sinnoh League had gone on what many now called the "Cleansing": The Ranger Corps, local city police and county militias, the Army, and untold numbers of vengeful civilian volunteers turned mercenaries, even the Gym Leaders with their retinues, led by the old Champion Atillus Borodin himself with the Elite Four at his side, all eager for payback against the menace that plagued the land for so long. In the end, they had won, the routes made safe and the cities secure, the small towns that dotted the land no longer feared the howl of engines in the night or strangers at their gates. Yet even this could not fix the root cause, and although they had never since been as powerful or organized, they were still the nightmare of isolated hamlets and travelers who dared to veer off of the established routes and into the less secure trails and uncharted wilds.
Most of this mattered very little to Simo, bandits had not been seen in the lands of his grandfather since long before he had been born, as the Gym Leader Ivannov and his predecessor were particularly ruthless in ensuring their extermination decades prior following the Second Battle of Snowpoint. Questions such as why they were this far north, away from the deep woods and mountain ranges that were largely uninhabited by civilized folk, why he had been kidnapped, and why they hadn't simply been mugged did not cross his mind in favor of simpler and more immediate questions: 'What are they going to do to me? Why did they shoot grandpa? Why is the Sneazel here?' The Sneazel in question began to stir, and sluggishly attempted to rise to its feet. Simo said nothing as the little pokemon failed to stand, falling on its rear, and almost as an afterthought: looking towards the boy in front of it, which made it freeze suddenly and then bear forth its claws of ice.
( )
Runt's morning had gone from bad to worse in a matter of moments after the other gang of Fur-less Ones arrived, it did not matter to him that they slew the older one and beat his younger assailant into unconsciousness, they did not take kindly to his presence either when they realized he was alive and sedated; so they beat him until he was also unconscious for good measure. He had nightmares of his early cub-hood, of the predations of his brothers and sisters, and now of being paralyzed by this Fur-less One. When he awoke he knew he could move, but it was so very painful, and there was an unwelcome presence weighing down his neck. He drew in a sniff but his sense of smell was muted from the stench of his own blood and the succulent scent of raw meat, fresh from a kill, somewhere near. The pokemon tried to make it to his feet, eyes shut as pain coursed through him from the exertion and the unfamiliar cold weight on his neck pulled him down onto his behind. He opened his right eye, his left swollen shut, and looked about before his eyes fell on the Fur-less One that had caused him so much trouble.
He froze, examining the boy's predicament: restrained to a tree by strange binds, and they both were sat in a warm enclosure that every instinct told Runt was unnatural. Rage welled up in the little pokemon and with a hateful snarl lunged at the human in front of him, ice claws ready to finish what he had started that fateful day six weeks before.
Yet he was cut short by both the pain of moving and the heavy thing on his neck, which he realized kept him restrained to a strange spike in the ground. He turned and crawled to what kept him prisoner and pulled with all his might, trying to free himself, to escape and get his revenge on the Fur-less one who now glared at him just as hatefully, and spoke in their strange tongue.
"You're too weak to pull that out."
Runt did not understand what exactly the Fur-less one had said to him but he did certainly understand an insult when he heard one, no matter the language. He whirled around and snarled back at the boy, growling in his own tongue that he WOULD free himself and he WOULD get his revenge.
( )
Simo glared back at the Sneazel, who snarled and growled at him after he uttered his admittedly petty, childish, and rather pointless taunt. Part of his mind questioned the merit of arguing with a pokemon that couldn't really understand him and he couldn't understand in turn either; but yet his emotions, usually so controlled and icy as his grandfather encouraged came boiling out all at once, and Simo let forth an angry tirade:
"Shut up! It's your fault that we're here, if you had never come to our land none of this would ever have happened! I wouldn't be here and grandpa would still be alive! But he's dead all because we had to find you 'cause you mauled my face! I wish you had never been born! I HATE YOU!"
Simo's eyes were watering and he slumped back against the tree as tears fell forth, he sobbed, but not for long. A heavy stomping came through the flap of the tent with a shout of:
"You stop that gods damned racket boy!"
Simo looked to see a large older man standing over him menacingly, he was grizzled and scarred, covered in poorly stitched clothing made of what looked like bear furs and what remained of some winter jackets, he was huge and muscular from what Simo could see but even now the boy could see the considerable limp in his left leg from what was obviously a previous knee injury that likely never healed properly. His dark and malicious eyes narrowed before his meaty right hand swung out backhanded.
SMACK!
Simo saw stars and he could feel a welt forming on his forehead from the man's knuckles and it took him a moment to stare back up at his captor.
"Now you listen now and you listen good boy. If you don't want to wind up like your grandpappy you'll stay quiet and in those binds, if you behave yourself we might untie you but don't get any ideas: you'd never make it back to Snowpoint, nobody will find you out here, these woods belong to the Fontovik Clan and you ain't going nowhere until we either get your ransom, or someone looking for a nice, good looking, little Snowpointer boy pays some good money for you, but I doubt that considering how fucked up your face is. You do something stupid or piss me off enough and I'll kill you like I killed your grandpa and feed the scraps to this little monster if one of the pit fighter rings doesn't buy him first. You understand?" His voice was that of a southern Sinnoan, likely from Pastoria, but Simo couldn't really tell, his voice rough and raspy from what was probably a lifetime of cigarette smoke.
"I SAID: DO YOU UNDERSTAND BOY?!" the older bandit screamed, much of his spittle flying into Simo's face, the rest getting caught disgustingly in his unkempt beard.
"I understand.." Simo whimpered meekly but glared with eyes full of primal hate, the man it seemed did not care what his answer was, as the old bandit turned and limped from the tent with a huff.
Runt simply stared at the boy after the large and rather loud Fur-less One left, his anger at his fellow prisoner clashing with a rather alien feeling: sympathy. But a more pragmatic line of thought grasped the creature: if this gang of Fur-less Ones would do this to one of their own kind, what would they do to him? It occurred to him that a rival gang of his own kind would probably have been even less merciful, and they certainly would not have left the Fur-less One cub alive, but that still begged the question: What was to happen to him?
He struggled some more at the restraints, but could not break free. So the pokemon resolved to simply sleep, for there was little else to do and he was growing tired after all. The pokemon curled into a ball, and remained that way until nightmares of being hunted and paralyzed overtook him.
( )
It was a solid two hours before anyone entered their tent again, the time passed agonizingly slow to Simo, who could hardly adjust himself in his binds. His stomach growled as he counted the tan stitching on the tent's seams for what seemed like the millionth time. He was startled when a new voice called from the flap of his canvas and reindeer fur prison.
"Hey." Simo looked towards who had come into his cell, and was moderately surprised by the cleanliness of the lanky and shaven young man who entered his vision, a bowl of what smelled like a meat stew of some kind in his left hand.
The young adult, or teen perhaps, was dressed in what looked like woodland pattern hunting gear that had honestly seen much better days, a moccasin hat resting atop his head. He smiled disarmingly at Simo, who after his previous visitor, whose gaze held nothing but distrust, hatred, and although he wouldn't admit it even if it was obvious, terror.
"Hey man, I'm just giving you two food, nothing malicious here." the newcomer entered slowly, seemingly careful not to make sudden movements. With his right hand he revealed a slab of venison, the scent of which awoke the restlessly sleeping Sneazel. The pokemon glared with suspicion, but quickly caught and tore into the meat whence it was tossed in a leisurely arch from where the newcomer stood. Standing out of reach of the vicious creature, the young man crouched with the bowl of soup, a spoon, grabbed out of a pocket, in his hand.
Simo could see where this was going and made no move to cooperate. Childish refusal to eat his only real form of rebellion against his captors.
"Come on kid, it'll make this worse for the both of us unless you just eat, I cant let you starve yourself in good conscience."
"Good conscience?! Where was that when you people shot my grandpa?!" Simo couldn't help himself, his anger burning red on the edges of his vision.
"… I should have seen that coming. Look kid, my name's Nicolas, you can call me Nick. I can tell you right now that me and a lot of the other guys don't like what Hugh did to your grandpa, much less what's being done with you, but we need the money or we're all dead."
The silence was deafening.
"And if I have to let that old crippled bastard sell you to whatever demonic pedo ring he's trying to get in touch with to keep from getting my throat slit over another man's debt then I'll do it. I'm sorry alright." He seemed to be more or less trying to convince himself of that rather than his gang's hostage. Even Simo could see that, but the boy certainly had no response to that other than for tears to fall, both at his intended fate, and the whole situation.
'I won't cry, I can't cry. Not anymore.' He thought as he forced himself to stop crying, the tears that had already fallen formed a small sheen down his cheeks. He looked away.
"Fuck man…" he heard a sigh "Look just let me feed you, and I'll… I'll try to help you, this shit ain't right." When Simo looked back up, the bandit called Nick lifted the spoon of stew to his lips, he acquiesced and allowed himself to eat the provided sustenance. It was gamy and bland, but it sated his pained stomach and warmed his belly. With the aid of his new supposed ally he ate until there was none left in the bowl, after which Nick left, and Simo would not see him again until the next morning.
Simo barely slept that night, his position was not conducive to good sleep, and his emotions would have probably kept him awake regardless. He envied the Sneazel, who despite thrashing and whimpering in his slumber, at least got some rest.
He was untied the next morning by another bandit who did not introduce himself but explicitly told the boy that there would be consequences should he leave the tent. So he had nothing to do but pace, lost in thought, his mind wandered back to his dream: of being a Pokemon trainer, and if he would live to see it. Simo remembered when he first told his grandfather, two years earlier. Rather than dismiss him with mutterings of youthful fantasy, the elder Thorsund sat him down and explained as best he could to a ten year old the true dangers of Pokemon training, saying: "Don't listen to the damn Sinnoan TV channels, training pokemon is not glamorous, the coordinators down in Hearthome have whole crews dedicated to caring and training of their creatures, which are always the least dangerous and most cooperative of their kind. Hell most of the sport battlers are the same way. There's a reason so few do it the true way."
"Why grandpa? Whats the true way?" Simo had childishly asked.
"Because its a life of hardship, suffering, isolation, and death. Real trainers, not the ones you see on TV telling your whole generation to sign up for their nearest Gym's apprentice program, don't often last long, they live hard in the wilds, and often get killed by the creatures they think they can tame. Think son, you've seen the championship battles, do you really think the elite four, the gym leaders," he paused "the champion himself. Got where they are from pageantry and televised grand standing, real trainers are out training and risking their lives for years to get where they are, and quite a few don't make it." he reiterated his prior point but did not expound on what he meant by 'The True Way'.
"Simo. Take it from an old man, unless you are prepared for the harsh life ahead of you, do not go down that path lightly. I would know, and I suffered for it."
The old man's grandson had no real response, how could he, and it was the first time his grandfather had disclosed that he had been a trainer at one point, a member of what was regarded as the modern warrior aristocracy among the more traditional of his own people.
"But didn't you also-" Simo had learned some of the details of his Grandpa's own reputation among the older generation and sought to connect the dots so to speak.
"Yes" his elder stated sharply, cutting off the rest of the question, "It made me an arrogant fool, with delusions of invincibility." Simo Karteski Thorsund said no more, leaving his grandson to mull over what he had been told.
Now years later, Simo pondered those words yet again, and looked to the pokemon that was imprisoned with him. Anger welling up but yet, in the back of his mind, a more rational line of thought began to creep forth: 'If I want to escape, I'll need help. More than just Nick.'
When dinner came, a bandit brought a bowl of stew and left, giving nothing to the Sneazel, who glared as Simo began to eat. The boy tried to turn his back, but the pokemon's icy stare and hungry expression brought forth something for the creature he had tried to quash: sympathy. Simo tried to tell himself that what he was about to do was to gain the creature's trust so it wouldn't kill him the second they escaped. But if he was honest with himself there was a deeper truth: Simo thought it was cruel to eat in front of a hungry person (even an animal if he was honest) and not offer something. He gathered his resolve and made the first step to try and ally with his fellow prisoner.
( )
Runt saw one of the older Fur-less ones bring forth that strange liquid that he recognized as food they gave to the cub he was imprisoned with. He waited for anything to be offered to him, but no, they left without giving him anything. This made the small pokemon rather angry, but rather than waste his energy in a futile attempt at lashing out from where he was chained, he sat and glared at his fellow prisoner. The fur-less cub first met his eyes, his angry red meeting the human's ice white. It was in that moment Runt realized his own facial scarring matched the wound he had given the young boy. This irritated the small pokemon, he didn't want to notice the things they had in common, like being orphans, prisoners, and shared facial scarring, he wanted to hate this fur-less one with everything he had.
He snarled viciously as his companion stood and determinedly marched over to just out of reach, Runt growled and spat. How dare this weak cub taunt him! He would make extra sure to-
He cut off his display in disbelief, the fur-less one had put the bowl on the floor and slowly edged it over to the young sneazel, the succulent meaty stew still left sloshed gently from the movement. Runt couldn't help it: his expression went from one of violent rage to one of visible confusion as he looked at his former foe. This was not how things worked, he was supposed to hog the food for himself, rather than help an enemy, let alone one of a different race entirely.
To the young Sneazel, the act of sharing was only done under the threat of violence, as was most forms of cooperation in Sneazel and Weavile gangs. Only the closest of companions and life-couples shared food of their own volition among his kind, as prey would be torn to pieces and the gang's members would only eat what they could rip from the corpse before others got to it first. Rather unwittingly, Simo had performed one of the highest acts of reconciliation that Runt's kind recognized, and one that Runt had never personally experienced after he had opened his eyes for the first time, and only witnessed between his birth parents after. Said Sneazel's thought process had been entirely derailed as he switched between staring at the bowl of stew and the human boy who offered it to him, who had absolutely no inkling of what his (in his mind) rather mundane gesture meant to the pokemon.
Runt remained utterly silent as the ice claws that coated the two prehensile fingers on each paw receded to enable him to grab the bowl and pull it towards himself. He tasted the strange food, and found it to his liking, lapping up the warm liquid and eating the cooked meats that floated in it rather gingerly despite his previously savage demeanor. After eating his fill, which had been more satisfying than the scrap of meat he had received in the morning, he couldn't help himself and let out a happy chitter, his eyes afterward immediately locking with his fellow prisoner, who had remained rooted to his spot, watching the pokemon eat; almost daring him to mention the noise. Runt hadn't meant to express himself like that.
( )
Simo couldn't help himself, he snorted at the Sneazel's happy vocalization, it was such an uncharacteristic sound for such a violent and vicious creature, like that of a chipmunk or squirrel. He and the creature locked eyes again, this time he noticed a strange questioning edge to the stare. Truly it was the first time he realized (although he logically knew) that this was a sapient creature, more than a mere animal, and much more intelligent and emotional than he had initially realized.
He felt as if he needed to say something but didn't and turned away, laying down out of reach of his companion.
For the next few days, things settled into a routine. Simo would either be woken by a captor bringing him his breakfast or by his own nightmares, then would either pace the tent or attempt to sleep, curled under a ratty fur blanket that had been draped over him while unconscious after the second night, despite the daylight and noise of the outlaw camp, and in the evening he would be given stew, which he would always eat half of and offer the rest to his fellow prisoner when his captors left. Despite being held captive, he was almost never visited beyond an occasional guard poking in their head to check on him. He did not see the disgusting Hugh at any point, but was certain he heard his voice shouting at others outside. He never saw hide nor tail of Nick for the duration of that time, and he never brought him any meals after the first time.
As for the Sneazel, Simo's anger at the creature had begun to subside in earnest, and he gave up trying to hate the creature. He had no way to tell what the creature thought of him in any measure, he dared not get closer to it than necessary. But yet, the boy did note that the pokemon no longer glowered at him maliciously or snarled when he looked its direction. However that did not mean he trusted the thing: Dark types in general could be deceptive and Sneazel were certainly clever plotters; he was not willing to risk life and limb to make further overtures of friendship at that point.
Things changed after the fifth day, after a particularly quiet afternoon, Nick returned to give Simo dinner. The young man poking his head through the tent flap and giving a small yet earnest smile. He seemed much more conflicted than he had the last time Simo had seen him, and rather than stand sat down with the boy.
"Here's your dinner, anybody come to bother you at all, has Hugh hurt you any?" He questioned, his voice spitting out the sentence much more rapidly than he had probably meant. He ran his hands through his brown hair nervously, displacing his moccasin hat, and his hazel eyes flickered to the tent flap.
"No…" Simo answered cautiously. He had not once been bothered since Hugh's initial assault, but he attributed that to not causing any trouble. He knew there was no escape. Nick seemed to want to speak more, as he shifted, clearly uncomfortable, but instead stood back up after sitting in awkward silence as Simo ate the stew, the same bland one of venison and potatoes he had been given had every night.
"Well. That's good, keep behaving yourself and don't cause no trouble. Please. I'll uh, ah. Try to visit you more often kiddo, if I can." The young bandit walked out of the tent, and when his steps finally dissipated, Simo looked over to Runt.
The Sneazel had gotten used to the routine, and had been pacing impatiently during the perceived interruption. He looked at Simo expectantly, cocking his head and chattering quietly. The boy quickly moved to push the bowl over, but this time going a lot slower and reaching farther into the pokemon's reach than he normally would, rather experimentally.
Runt stared as the bowl was slid towards him, the contents of the wooden bowl's aroma reaching his nose. Runt reached out and grabbed the bowl but felt a strange and warm presence, both Sneazel and human froze as Runt realized he had been hasty and grabbed the Fur-less One's hand, which still clutched the wooden bowl.
Compared to his own, the appendage was very warm and much softer than Runt had imagined, and the thought of how strange it would be to have five fingers flashed briefly in the creature's mind for a moment before the appendage was slowly pulled from his grip.
Simo traveled through a few emotions when the pokemon grabbed his hand, firstly fear, but then a strange sense of confusion, and finally with a breath of resolve, courage. As he took back his hand from the cold and surprisingly gentle two fingered grip of the small pokemon, he stood back up and looked upon the Sneazel he had been stuck with. Perhaps it was the physical connection, but he couldn't be angry with the pokemon anymore, even the irrational line of thought that it was all the pokemon's fault fading into the background as Simo had a realization that most do not make until they are far older, and some do not make at all:
The world is a cruel place, and sometimes terrible things happen to regular people for seemingly no reason. All of them had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they had been victimized simply because there had been an opportunity.
Runt did not touch his food, staring up at the human boy he had been trapped with. He too found himself unable to be angry or even vengeful despite himself, and the pokemon had an epiphany as well:
The situation would only be worse if they focused their anger at one another, and perhaps they would need each other to survive an escape attempt. The boy's act of kindness deserved some reciprocation, even if it was an almost alien concept to the young Sneazel. Runt decided then and there: even if this would only be a temporary alliance, and despite everything that had happened to them over the previous days and that fateful day weeks ago: they had become gang, and when they escaped, he would let him go unharmed.
The human stared and slowly pointed at himself and said four words that made no sense to the pokemon at first:
"My name is Simo." The white eyes locked with the red, another awkward staring match ensued.
Runt then understood: this was the Fur-less one's name, the emphasis on the last word 'Simo' clear even to him. It was strange yet made sense, his kind couldn't have been the only ones with names after all. His kind never bothered to learn the names of the other creatures of the frozen lands, aside from the Wooden-Ones, all else was prey.
Even among the wild gangs that prowled the ice, it was impolite to refuse to give one's name after another had introduced themselves. So Runt did so, but to Simo it sounded as just another round of chattering as the pokemon pointed at itself, in a rather uncanny mimicry of Simo's own gesture.
Although Simo clearly understood, and was rather surprised to find himself excited by the prospect, that the Sneazel had seemed to understand (at least the intention of) what he had said, but also had responded in kind. Of course he had no way of even mimicking the noises that had been spoken to him, let alone decipher their true meaning, so he decided to simply name the creature himself, it was getting annoying to refer to it as 'the Sneazel'. So he pointed gently at Runt and said the first thing that came to mind when he saw the creature: "Skar". It was then that he truly noted for the first time, that the pokemon's own facial scarring was an almost perfect match to the ones the creature had left upon on him during their first encounter. The fleeting thought of fate crossed his mind for a moment, but left, more impossible coincidences had happened after all.
Runt was not sure what to make of the name that this 'Simo' had given him, that wasn't the name he had told the Fur-less One. Yet, the meaning came clear: Simo lightly (and unthinkingly) gestured at the pokemon's face. Among his kind, scars were a symbol of glory, survival, and willingness to endure, even from battles lost. Runt decided he liked that name better, no-one would ever take him seriously as 'Runt' a name meant to mark him for death, to demean him for his size, and bemoan his perceived weakness. 'Skar' was a much better name, and in that moment. The Sneazel known as Runt died, and in his place: Skar was born.
It was strange, the two of them in their awkward and imprisoned glory. One, a mere child of the race that fancied itself the rulers of the earth, and once had been; the other: a runt of a race of vicious killers gifted with the manipulation of ice and darkness. Bound by the need to escape alive.
( )
Another three days passed uneventfully, but on the evening fourth day; Nick returned, this time walking tall and triumphant. He handed Simo the bowl of stew with a bright and snaggle-toothed smile and bent down to whisper only something upon seeing the child's questioning stare:
"Tomorrow me and some others will get you out of here, just no matter what happens stay down and wait for me and only me. I'll make things right."
As quickly as he came he left. Simo was excited by the prospect of freedom, but a thought occurred to him. Nick was still an outlaw bandit, even if he was benevolent at that moment. What exactly was to happen after he was freed from Hugh's vile machinations, and he also realized: what would become of Skar? He doubted the bandits would be as charitable to the pokemon.
He laid down to sleep after he and his new friend finished their portions of the stew. Skar had begun to fill out and no longer looked so thin and unhealthy, his small crest above his ear a healthy crimson rather than a pale pastel red. Although Simo wouldn't dare attempt to pet the creature even after all the progress they had made, he certainly felt an urge now to give affection like one would to a particularly cute cat or dog. 'Perhaps,' he thought, 'maybe if we get out of this I might train him after all'. Yet he was hardly able to sleep that night, the anticipation of Nick's vague rescue attempt excited and frightened him. He tried his best to communicate what was happening to Skar, but the pokemon just looked at him confusedly, his human tongue falling on deaf ears. He gave up with a sigh and eventually fell into a light sleep.
But not for long.
The yelling outside was the first indication that something was wrong. Simo and Skar awoke and heard the hostile and overlapping shouting. So much so that it was indecipherable but he thought he heard both Hugh and Nick's voices within the cacophony, but it did not last long. As a gunshot rang out, there was silence for all of three seconds, and Simo dove to the ground as a storm of gunfire broke out. He could recognize the booms of long rifles and shotguns, the claps of handguns, and on occasion: the chatter of a sub-machine gun.
Skar, lay on the ground clutching his sensitive ears, the weapons of the Fur-less ones were so loud he could hardly stand to open his eyes against the thunderclaps made against his eardrums.
In the midst of the bursts of gunfire, the screams of men, and running footsteps, Simo crawled around the base of the tree in the center of the tent in order to take whatever cover he could no matter how rudimentary.
The few minutes the gunfight lasted seemed like hours the two prisoners, on at least two occasions stray rounds burst through the canvas of the tent, leaving holes that let in more of the morning light. Eventually though, all fell silent, and Simo ventured to stand up. He looked over to Skar, who let go of his ears and stood but froze, looking in the direction of the tent flap. It was probably the ringing in their ears that kept them from hearing the crippled man's approach, but Simo certainly heard his opening tirade, making him whirl to face the man.
"You. All this, for you. That stupid bastard Nick, him and his boys mutinied for your sake boy. And now… Everyone. Is. Dead. But me, and you." The older man snarled, stepping forward with his limp. Simo could see he was wounded, his left hand clutching his belly while the revolver in his right was aimed at Skar.
"NO!" Simo shouted as the weapon fired, he only saw out of the corner of his eye the pokemon thrown to the ground by the shot.
A hot rage filled him, his grandfather had been killed by this man and his bandits, the one who tried to save him was also supposedly dead, and now this wretched individual had shot Skar, the pokemon he dreamed of training when he escaped. Simo's vision was red at the edges, his ears still ringing, and he breathed harshly, his rage building to a boiling point.
"Look at you huff and puff like some goddamned Tauros bull, too bad you'll die like a dog instead, all this trouble that you've brought." Hugh pointed the rusty barrel of his gun at Simo and pulled the trigger.
CLICK
With a huff of indignation, the bandit threw the pistol to the side, where it thudded into the dirt, and drew a long Bowie knife from his belt. He took a step towards the boy, but it flipped a switch in Simo, the fight or flight reaction had activated, and Simo chose to fight. Even in his almost inhuman rage, his reddened vision fixed on the weak knee of the elder bandit, and with a scream, Simo charged.
Hugh was caught off guard by the child's rush, and howled in agony when Simo's booted foot collided with the side of his bad knee, hard enough that it popped inward and shattered with a wet snapping noise.
The bandit fell to the ground like a felled tree clutching his broken knee, and in his fury Simo pounced, howling with rage, mounting the chest of the older man and snatching the blade from the ground. Clutching the handle with both hands, he plunged the blade into the outlaw's chest. He stabbed, and stabbed, and kept stabbing long after the old man was dead. Finally the red haze subsided enough that Simo stopped, pulling the blade out after one final stab. He fell backwards after standing and taking a few steps back, Simo was all at once horrified by all the blood, terrified at what he had just done, and in a way that frightened him more than the act itself: Satisfied and pleased that the man was dead. He laid on his back for a moment, and was surprised to see a familiar face suddenly stare at him from above: Skar!
The pokemon had a rather rough and bleeding gash on the top of his head, the bullet had simply grazed him. The red eyes of the creature filled with almost: Concern, with a tinge of amusement perhaps? He moved aside when the boy stood back up.
Simo took a few minutes to get a grip on himself, successfully fighting the urge to vomit at the many wounds he had inflicted on his attacker, and at the amount of still warm blood he was covered in. He heard no movements from outside, aside from the rustle of the snow covered branches and the howl of the cold steppe winds. A chitter stirred him from his stupor, and he turned to look at his companion, who stared up from where he was chained almost expectantly.
'Oh, the chain.' he thought as he looked down at Skar, his vision shifted over to the corpse he had made. 'He probably has it, if not I'll have to figure some other way to let Skar go.' It was then he noticed he still clutched the bloodied knife in his left hand. He looked at it, his white eyes reflecting back from the flat the blade through the gore. It's handle of oak and pommel of ivory, stained red like his hands.
Shaking, he cut the sheath off of Hugh's belt, and placed it on his own before gingerly searching the rest of the man's body. Fortuitously, he found a ring of three keys in the dead man's breast pocket. Simo turned to look at Skar, who looked up at him with an odd expression.
( )
Skar was impressed, although he had no real understanding of a human's physical capability; in his mind, Simo had just accomplished the equivalent of a young juvenile Sneazel killing a Weavile Elder, a wounded and old one yes, but he had just slain a social superior regardless. The young Sneazel thought that Simo would perhaps make a good Alpha of a gang offhandedly. He watched the boy get his bearings but got impatient and chattered, logically this old Fur-less one would have the means to release him from this horrid bind that kept him imprisoned and weighed down by the neck, in his own way insinuating that Simo should hurry up and search the corpse.
When the boy turned with a strange ring with the metal shapes that dangled and clanked, Skar was slightly apprehensive about letting him get that close but resigned himself to relying on the companionship and trust they had built in the previous week. The boy hesitated, and even Skar could tell he was unsure and afraid to approach. Annoyed by his slowness, Skar pointed with one of his prehensile fingers at the collar that kept him chained.
( )
Simo was at once startled and amused by the impatient and intelligent expression the pokemon wore as it pointed at it's chained collar. So he quashed his vestiges of fear and decided to take the chance that Skar wouldn't kill him, and approached slowly. The pokemon didn't make any untoward moves or rapidly reform his ice claws.
Taking that as a good sign, he knelt and reached out. Skar flinched at the approaching hand but otherwise did not move, again seeing no reason to retreat: Simo traced his hand carefully along the collar, and feeling the cold and coarse fur that flowed around it, until he found the latch, two of the keys were far to large to make sense, and fortunately for them the remaining key unlocked the collar with a small clank.
As soon as it clicked open, Simo practically jumped back when Skar grasped the device and tore it from his neck, hissing and spitting at it, and then stomping on it, unburdened by its weight.
Simo stood back up as Skar seemed to remember that he was free, the two stared at each other for a moment before Skar darted past Simo and into the world outside. Simo hurriedly chased after him, only to stop moments after leaving the tent, horrified at the scene before him:
The bandit gang lied dead all around the camp, some lay where they had fallen, others had dragged themselves a small ways before expiring, their blood freezing in the cold to form vast red pools. Immediately at his feet was a face he had earnestly hoped to see alive: Nick, his eyes staring unblinkingly upwards, the bullet hole that ended his life like a third eye that stared accusingly from his forehead.
Simo couldn't breathe, his breath hitched in his throat as he stared at the scene around him. This coupled with what had just occurred in the tent pushed Simo over the edge, he panicked. The boy made a crucial mistake, he ran, without care to where he was going: deep into the icy white wastes that lay just outside of the forests, the cold and unforgiving frozen steppes of the lands beyond the Coronet Mountain Range.