Aftershock
Chapter 2: The Uncertain Traveler
"But, Mother," Amaren said, with a hint of dismay, "is there no other alternative?"
Mother Jivate, a maternal old lady with much apparent inner resolve, sighed. She was the head of the Pokèmon Center, and took both her position and her title with a kind of dignified pride, not hesitating to give guidance and hospitality to any who wished for it.
"There are quite a lot of other occupations, dear, but you're much too underage for them. Only trainers can legally be as young as you are, remember. You could live in an orphanage, but you wouldn't want to, would you?"
Amaren hung his head, oppressed by the dilemma of it all. He had once felt to be content with anything but a trainer's life, but now his alternatives seemed equally deplorable. Suddenly fired with an urge, he raised another topic.
"When the forest burned down…" he began, then trailed off. It was evident, however, what he wished to know, and Mother Jivate nodded gently, compassion in her eyes.
The shock and grief of two day's loss finally came crashing down upon him, and he raised his head again, fighting back waves of dread.
"The fire surrounded the village completely, before anyone could escape. I'm sorry, Amaren, but the village was ruined."
"Then, my family…" He stopped himself before he could go too far. He mustn't think about that, it only made the thought much realer.
He was suddenly struck with an all-pervasive urge to do something, anything at all. It filled every extremity of his thought, blocking out all other feeling, and he was compelled abruptly to rise from his chair in the small back-garden, excuse himself curtly from Mother Jivate's office, and return to his quarters, noting very faintly the rudeness of his departure.
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It had been two hours since Amaren had locked himself in his room, and his restlessness was showing no signs of submission. He toyed with each of the decorative articles in turn, but no fraction of his previous fascination for them could break past his barrier; he picked up the complementary Slate hanging over the wall, turning it on to find no interest in the generated images which flashed across its reflective surface. He attempted to mull over his future plans, but foresaw no progress in that direction. A second's pacing and no more was afforded him – in a single jerk, he turned to the only alternative remaining: his Pokèball.
A flash of light, badly startling the holder, and the Abra was released.
A humanoid creature lay in a lazy curl at the corner of his carpet, a yellow, flat-headed Pokèmon with a distinct resemblance to a human fetus. Dark russet plating covered his torso like a loose shirt, but the harmlessness of its closed, contently serene eyes seemed to ridicule Amaren's fear of the creature. He recalled tales of others' encounter with the species, and realized that it was unlikely the Abra would know even how to attack. Why, then, was the trainer – temporary caretaker of a Pokèmon, more accurately – so irrationally incapable of approaching it?
He kneeled down and nudged the Abra in the side, feeling ridiculously similar to a king contemplating a pile of something rarely seen on the streets. He wondered what the Abra would think of his behaviour, and subsequently began to wonder what his father would have thought of his previous thought. The Pokèmon was likely in some absurd world of its own, or too underdeveloped to understand the meaning of his gesture – and, in any case, only those of an eccentric caliber felt the opinion of a Pokèmon to carry any significance to them.
It was then, with a sudden jolt of pain, that a thought entirely foreign to his own wandered in his mind and echoed across its walls, refusing to exit: [I'm not that unworthy.
Amaren nearly reeled with shock, realized the cause of this abrupt oddity, and resumed the stunned slump into his chair which he had attempted to prevent a moment ago.
He stared at the Abra for so long that the Pokèmon shifted with discomfort, then averted his eyes. "Telepathy," he whispered.
Louder, though still carrying an apprehensive tone: "You can talk with your mind?"
The Abra merely curled into a deeper sleep, giving no indication that it had sent a telepathic message into Amaren's head. A vague hint of disdainful contempt did, however, enter his mind in the exact manner as the words. The trainer – caretaker – wondered if he was mad.
Amaren was yet unwilling to forfeit his communicative rapport with the Pokèmon, however, and picked it up apprehensively with both hands. The Abra was surprisingly light for its size; its head alone weighed a considerable bulk, and it was apparently difficult for the Abra to lift it. Wondering when he had transformed from wandering stranger to a mother figure, Amaren cradled it awkwardly with his arms, attempting to coat his strange aversion to the meaning of the creature within his mind with a disguise of the care which, seemingly, the Pokèmon demanded.
Suddenly, nerve-wrenchingly, the Abra opened a condescending eye and lifted into the air, supported by nothing at all. [That was disturbing, the telepathy calmly continued, placing Amaren in a position he was profoundly relieved would never be seen again by living eyes.
[There you go again with the "Pokèmon don't matter" mentality. Was this the heroic adventurer that helped me in my direst peril?
Boy and Abra each stood before the other, pondering what to do with the one in front of them. The Abra chuckled, unpleasantly as though he was amused with the thoughts currently passing through Amaren's head. In honest moments, Amaren would admit the sight of the airborne Abra disturbed him deeply.
"If you're that advanced," the villager suddenly said, attempting to gain a vaguely oppressive air, "how did you get trapped and comatose in the middle of a burning forest? Tell me that."
The Pokèmon spoke physically this time, opening his mouth to emit a cry entirely drowned by the telepathic message which accompanied it. Though Amaren could not define how he knew it to be true, this method of speech seemed more natural to the Psychic.
[What, have you never been a Psychic-type? (Oh, wait, you haven't. Anyway,) magical elemental powers aren't so easy to gain with us Abra. I only have rudimentary telekinesis and hereditary telepathy – they're such crude – shallow (and also rather vulgar) – words that have no relation to their subject – at this point. I mean, distance-thinking? Distance-moving? Ow, my head.
[Indeed…
Amaren suspected the Abra was attempting tastelessly to wrong-foot him with absurdly complex thought-sentences, at which his perpetrator inserted a "right, you are," within its labyrinth of punctuation. Perhaps it would be more convenient for all concerned if he simply admit –
[Thank you, your highness, the Abra suddenly blurted, cutting clean through the chaos of both Amaren's and his – its – own thoughts. [It takes great suffering for an exalted creature such as yourself to accept that I am the sole source of intelligence in this room, and am therefore higher than you.
And, at that comment, the creature fell silent, returning to its stubborn slumber in a washbasin at the left wall.
Amaren sighed, exhausted. Every step he made was no less than a blunder into yet another unforeseen, undesirable complication.
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Despite the deepest implorations of his shrewdest inner devices, Amaren continued to attempt to engage the Abra in conversation daily, obeying some whim of his own which he did not wish to analyze. He was still averse to the idea of training, but some coil somewhere in his mind (or, perhaps, in some entirely different being, solely committed to Amaren's changes in thought) had unexpectedly shifted, opening some unseen latch to a new universe of thought, whose inevitability grossly outmatched his own powers of resistance.
His apprehensive mission, unfortunately, encountered little progress in its weary trek. The Abra seemed to have lost all regard for Amaren after his first encounter, and deigned to speak with the human for lesser and lesser periods of time, preferring to spend the majority of the days in his peculiar feigned sleep. The days grew shorter, more and more quickly approaching his fifth, last night of stay at the Center, and the monumental task of rebuilding a life seemed only to grow greater and more forbidding, enfeebling his attempts to tackle it.
On the fifth evening, however, Amaren strode into Mother Jivate's office, the Pokèmon in his care hovering bizarrely over his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he began.
"Mother, I've decided."
"Have you? And what do you plan to do?" She was undoubtedly surprised by his sudden confidence.
"I was really unsure if I had the strength to take a job that involved so much… spirit," he began.
[And I was all for finding a new forest and starting a new lease on life, you know, the Abra unexpectedly added.
Heartened, Amaren continued. "I heard that becoming a trainer could even mean being reborn, to take on an entirely new life."
[And, as you can see, he could hardly stand a change that big, of course.
The Mother raised her eyebrows, seeming unsure as to the purpose of all this.
"My Abra here wasn't too willing to cooperate with me, either."
[I had my reasons, he retorted defensively.
"So you can see how much hope I had in that direction. And, in any case, I really didn't want to train."
"All right," Amaren's audience said uncertainly, "what have you decided?"
"I have decided…"
We have decided..
With the sigh, and the unloading of eternity's burden: "I will be a Pokèmon Trainer."
[And I shall be Amaren's 'starter', as they call it.
[CENTER[//\/\/\/\/\//\\//\\//\/\/\/\/\/\/\\//\\//\\/\/\/\/\/\//[/CENTER
"What should I name you, though?" the Trainer murmured, speaking to the lazily rocking Abra on his shoulder.
[Why, your impertinence… I'll have you know I come from a glorious, enlightened community, and have long ago developed the primitive tradition of names by myself!
"All right, then," he said with mock, irritating dubiousness, "what are you called?"
[Oh, nothing very extravagant. Just this –
In a flash of thought, a series of visions hammered Amaren's mind: idyllic jade, giving way to passionate scarlet, and a reconstruction from gray, the rebuilding of a house, a mansion, a hill, a mountain: a cliff, a plunge – and then utter demise.
Reality recovered itself shakily, restoring normality. Amaren had long learnt to withstand such experiences with a minimum of bother, but he was still given to wonder of the inner workings of his Pokèmon's mind.
[ – well?
The human looked around, realizing that his Pokèmon had not yet ceased talking. "What'd you say?" he asked, severely relieved his voice was not shaking.
[I said, I am commonly referred to as Ytarrik.
Amaren snickered, as visibly as he humanly could. "Ytarrik is a very… normal name," he laughed sarcastically.
"Tell you what," the trainer continued, "I shall appoint you the glorious nickname of Yt. Like that? Yt?"
[No! he cried, sending a wave of affectionate irritation into Amaren's mind. [Don't debase the beauty of a verbal work of art!
Amaren merely laughed, running down the entrance stairs of the DRPNT, the Department for the Registration and Provision of Neophyte Trainers. There, after a long show of identification and paperwork, he had become an official Trainer, complete with beginning supplies. Surprisingly, he had met with no resistance against his requests, despite his peculiar position.
"Shut up, Yt," he said good-naturedly. "Look, their official Trainer Provisions are… shiny."
He was holding up a moderately large backpack, containing a great variety of glimmering objects inside it.
[Shiny?
"You get my point. Here they have a store of five Potions – "Relieves most minor scratches and burns, and assists greatly in the healing of average to moderately serious injuries," it says. Not bad, not bad... Oh, wow, they even have a Super Potion! Those things are expensive, I've heard. And what's this?"
He showed Ytarrik a flat, black tablet, with a table of official-looking details displayed electronically on its front surface, pertaining, presumably to himself. A metal very like gold plated its top face, seeming as if it could fit like a cartridge to some other device.
[Oh, that? he said, rolling his eyes. [Can't you read? That's your Trainer Card. It tells people who you are, so they can begin officially serving your tyrant whims.
"How'd you know that?" Amaren asked, impressed.
[It's on the note attached so delicately to the back of the card, that you tore off two seconds ago. You didn't notice it, but if I couldn't go into your subconscious memories and decipher what it said, I'm not an Abra, am I?
He seemed very proud of himself, expecting some more praise.
"Oh, okay," Amaren muttered, attention rapidly waning. He had not yet emptied his new bag of its contents to the full.
A collection of assorted sundry preceded the discovery of another hidden treasure: one glittering Concentrated Storage Device, lying at the very bottom of the pile of overturned objects inside the backpack. While his admiration had been somewhat dampened by his first experience of its kind, Amaren could not deny a distinct admiration for the fact that no less than twenty-five different living beings could reside inside it. He pored over its many controls, noting that the maximum Pokèmon limit in this specimen had been demoted to a mere five, seemingly accommodating the extra Ytarrik residing in his Pokèball.
A sudden jolt of memory reminded him of a character he had met centuries before, when his integration into this new world was yet incomplete. Beginning to move with greater purpose than his idle roam, therefore, Amaren headed back to the Center in search of Ruki. He dove into the main hall, an area he had been previously shunning due to the excess of resident society, attempted to cut through the amalgam of bewildering colours and appearances, and spotted her sitting alone at a small table at the back.
Ruki was clad in a delicate white shirt, made in some elegant style of which Amaren knew not the purpose, let alone the name; and her jeans were those indeed which she had worn on Amaren's first encounter with her. There was no friend or acquaintance to keep her company, but she seemed perfectly complete by her lonesome, content in her sole orientation towards her own inner devices.
She looked up with alert interest as he came near, and greeted him warmly, as though to an old friend: "Ah, yes, Amaren, I knew you'd come eventually."
"Hello, Ruki," the boy returned, somewhat wrongfooted by her reply. Yet, even as his first encounter with her, a useful semblance of comfort soon took over him, and the newfound friends engaged into deep conversation.
"I've done as you insisted, so long ago, if you remember," the new Trainer announced cheerily, "and started training Pokèmon" – this, eliciting a noise of surprise and delight from his companion.
"I knew you'd take the sensible path in the end, didn't I say? Although I was suspecting it from the start, you know, seeing from your Abra." And, with a single motion, she took Ytarrik out from his airborne position to Amaren's side, commenting on how adorable he was – with only minimal protest from the Pokèmon's side, severely surprising Amaren.
"You know, of course," she suddenly brought up, "how they force all Trainers to travel in groups, for our own safety? Well, I was thinking I really didn't want to adventure with anyone else all my career. I thought…"
"Do you want to train with me?" Amaren finished, and a faint note of uncertainty entered Ruki's eyes.
"Well, that is, only if – you know – "
But Amaren grinned openly, sending great relief to his companion. "Why, of course. I'll travel with you!"
[Hey, Ytarrik suddenly interrupted, drawing scarce as much attention as he had once known. [Don't I get a say in this?
"No, you don't," laughed Amaren, but Ruki asked for Ytarrik's opinion, with great seriousness. She seemed to see some hidden gravity in the Abra's words.
[I deem, he replied with great pomp, [by the excellent and undeterred powers of rationality and foresight gifted to my house from my oldest fathers, that...
"That?" the humans chorused.
[I approve of this union. Mainly. I see, however, and here he could not keep the mirth from his thought, [that great destruction and misery lies in this path, but I am unable to care. Let the adventure begin!
Taking his words as jokes (for no party involved – no even the Abra – could see any other point to them), they began their new life, their rebirth. A world of thought had died behind Amaren, but a greater still lay before him. Affairs had seemed most hastily out of control before, but now he felt ready to match his pace with theirs.