So... new chapter... Okay, I know I said that updates would be more sporadic than I had planned early on, but I just couldn't stop writing. This chapter is the result of a few free hours over the weekend between part-time jobs and finishing it up at work during the week while pretending to do my job, so I hope you like it! Feel free to give me any feedback, positive or negative! Even if it's as simple as a Follow or Favorite or writing a college dissertation tearing into me via the reviews!
But without further ado, enjoy Chapter 8 of A Slothful Journey!
Labored breaths wheezed between Alton's lips, a growing pain in his side finally forcing him to abandon his sightless flight into the forest. He slumped against a tree, the rough bark providing almost as much comfort as his Ariados silk sheets from back home. At least the heart-stopping roars from the Copperajah had faded into the distance. Either it had lost his trail, or the urchin had suitably distracted it.
Father had told him about those kinds of people, those who wallowed in squalor and complained about their hardships instead of working hard to better themselves. Father always made sure to emphasize just how hard he had to work to turn the Creed family business from a small million Poke company into the titan of the industry it is today.
It was plain to see what kind of person the urchin was, what with the grimy, patchy clothing and the matted mess of hair. It was like he had never even been to a tailor in his life. Choosing a Slakoth as a starter was just further proof. Obviously, Alton had been given a Surskit to test if he could properly differentiate between proper Pokemon and trash, as had several others. It was a pity that it seemed only he caught on to the hidden test, but what else could be expected from a Creed besides excellence?
"Is that what you really think?"
Alton shrieked in a totally masculine tone and whirled around. Peering out from behind a tree was a girl. Her blonde hair and pale skin appeared almost silver in the moonlight, and for a brief moment, Alton entertained the idea he was talking to a spirit. At least, until he noticed the patchy dress and scruffy shoes, both a hideous mud brown. Seems another urchin had found their way to him; Father was correct when he said they could smell money better than a Meowth.
"Do you really think that because of someone's appearance, they are inherently worse than you are?" The girl's questions were starting to grate on Alton's nerves. And how was she understanding what he was thinking? Perhaps he spoke aloud and didn't realize? Well, it didn't really matter; he would educate her all the same. It was the least he could do for someone of her standing.
Alton swiped a hand through his hair, pulling it back into a rough imitation of what it had been. "Well, of course not. I'm better than others for more reasons than just their appearances. I'm Alton Creed, of the Creed Family. My father is responsible for supplying THE Devon Corporation with all the materials they use for manufacturing. Without my family, there would be no Devon Corporation, and society itself would crumble. My family helped to build the Hoenn region for Arceus' sake. You should be grateful to even look at me, let alone speak with me."
"The Creed name may be meaningful, but you did not make it so. Being proud of your ancestor's accomplishments is expected, but claiming their greatness for yourself is the height of arrogance. Your name is Alton, just as mine is Cherie, and my brother's is Malic. You should make something of Alton instead of relying on the fame of Creed.
Alton's hand froze mid-swipe, his eyes narrowing at Cherie. "You don't get it, do you?" His voice dripped with disdain, the earlier tremor gone as he straightened up, looking down his nose at her. "It's not just about pride. It's about what's rightfully mine. My father built a legacy, which means I'm entitled to everything that comes with it—respect, power, wealth. Why should I bother with anything else when it's all being handed to me?"
Cherie's voice seemed to gain weight as she spoke. "Entitled? Do you think the world owes you something just because of your last name? That's not how life works, Alton. You have to earn—"
"Earn?" Alton scoffed. "Why should I waste my time earning what I already have? Urchins like you and that brother—Malic or whatever his name was—will spend your whole life groveling for scraps while I'm dining on the finest luxuries this world has to offer. That's just how it is. Some people are born to rule; others… well, they're just there to be ruled. At least I know my place in the world."
Cherie stepped forward, an ugly grimace twisting her lips. "You think your father didn't have to work hard for what he has? That he didn't face challenges, make sacrifices?"
"Of course he did!" Alton snapped, looming over the smaller girl. "And because of that, I don't have to. That's the whole point! My father worked so I could live in luxury and be better than everyone else. It's called a legacy!"
"Legacy isn't about living off someone else's achievements, Alton. It's about continuing it, building something of your own, contributing to that legacy with your own efforts."
"Spare me the lecture," Alton crossed his arms. "I don't need your approval, and I certainly don't need to prove anything to anyone. I'm Alton Creed. That's all the proof I need."
Cherie paused for a few moments, a weariness surrounding her. "Then you'll never be more than a spoiled child clinging to his father's coattails. You may carry the Creed name, but it means nothing if you're unwilling to step out of its shadow and make something of yourself."
Alton rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed. "Whatever. I'm perfectly content where I am, thank you very much. I don't need to 'step out of any shadows.' I've got everything I could ever want."
"And nothing you actually need," Cherie shot back. "I can see this conversation will go nowhere, but I cannot allow your arrogance and slight against Malic to go unpunished. Enjoy the consequences of your actions."
Cherie vanished before Alton could muster a retort, leaving him alone in the trees. "Wait—" he called out, his tone more annoyed than anything else.
"Punish me, hah! And she called me arrogant. I didn't even see her carry a Pokeball. How could she punish–"
The ground beneath him trembled slightly—a familiar, deep, rhythmic vibration that sent a chill down his spine.
A low, rumbling breath brushed against the back of his neck, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of earth and iron. Alton froze, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, as if in a nightmare, he turned his head.
There it was, looming impossibly close, its tusks glinting like polished steel in the dim light filtering through the trees. The Copperajah's eyes burned with an unnatural, vengeful fire that sent a jolt of terror straight to Alton's core. Its massive trunk curled and uncurled menacingly, a dark red liquid decorating the dull green skin. The beast was so close that Alton could feel the heat radiating off its enormous body.
His blood ran cold as realization struck—this time, there was no escape. The Copperajah had found him. And there was no urchin in sight.
Malic had understood that, factually, Pokemon training was a dangerous profession. That, underneath the shiny wrapping of glory and fame the league liked to portray it as, being a trainer was balancing on the edge of life and death itself. He had understood that Pokemon were living forces of nature, beings of immense power guided by their own understanding of the world and their own desires. But never did he imagine he would end up in a situation like this.
Staring up at the descending foot of the Copperajah, Malic thought this would be the part where his short life flashed before his eyes, but all he could think about was Danes. The boy idolized trainers and spent practically every other moment strutting around the orphanage, proclaiming he would be the next champion. How many kids like Danes had ended up like this, pinned to the ground, death's shadow looming over them? How many trainers had met their ends, alone and afraid?
Malic had never wanted to be a trainer. He had never chased adventure or craved excitement. Pokémon training wasn't his dream—it was just something that had happened to him, a path he'd stumbled onto because there was no other choice. He didn't belong.
And yet, in that moment, staring up at what seemed like the end, something shifted inside him. It wasn't fear of his death that gripped him, nor regret for the choices that had brought him here. It started small, barely an ember drifting along the winds of his thoughts, but something sparked it, and it grew and grew until it burned in his mind.
Maybe he hadn't chosen this life, but it was the life he had, and he wasn't going to let it end here—not like this. He thought of Slakoth, safe in its Pokéball, and of the countless stories of those who had faced impossible odds and come out the other side. He thought of Danes and the kids like him, whose dreams of becoming trainers were fueled by hope and belief in something greater.
Malic had never sought out this path, but he was on it now, and that meant something. It meant he had a responsibility—not just to himself, but to Slakoth, to Cherie, to Mrs. Chloe, and all those waiting for him to someday return, to the very idea that even someone who hadn't asked for this life could find their own version of strength in it. Even if he should die, Malic held that conviction tightly, knowing that, for a moment at least, he truly understood. He didn't have to be a champion or a hero—he just had to be strong enough to keep going.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, there was a flash of movement—so fast it was almost imperceptible. A streak of black and green shot across the battlefield, slicing through the air with the precision of a blade.
In an instant, the blur was between Malic and the Copperajah. The Copperajah's foot came crashing down, but the dark figure lashed out before it could connect with a series of rapid kicks. Bladed limbs moved in a blur, each hit landing with a resounding bell-like peal against the Copperajah's thick hide. The force of the blows was enough to throw the Copperajah off balance. Its foot wavered in the air before slamming into the ground mere inches from Malic's head.
Malic felt the rush of air as the Copperajah's foot crashed down next to him, the ground cratering from the impact. The dark Pokemon didn't relent; its attacks were relentless as they drove the Copperajah back. It blurred again, moving like a whirlwind as it darted in and out of the Copperajah's reach. It targeted what could be called soft spots of the Copperajah, slashing at the back of its legs and trunk with surgical precision.
The Copperajah bellowed in frustration, swiping at the dark blur with its massive trunk and stabbing with its tusks; it was too slow. The blur dodged and weaved, dancing around the attacks with such ease it almost made the previously terrifying attacks of the Copperajah seem like a toddler throwing a tantrum. The blur suddenly launched into the air, briefly disappearing against the backdrop of the night sky.
"Axe Kick Hopps!"
The aforenamed Hopps crashed down onto the Copperajah. His spiked leg swung like a guillotine directly onto the base of Copperajah's skull. They seemed to freeze in place for a moment, then Hopps backflipped off, landing between the still-standing Copperajah and Malic.
Copperajah stumbled, drunkenly swaying a few steps to the side before it steadied itself. It roared once more, but exhaustion had dampened the sound. Then it turned and lumbered away, its footsteps growing fainter as it began to carve a new path into the depths of the forest.
Malic, still pinned beneath the tree, could hardly believe what had just happened. This Pokemon, Hopps, had saved him—at the very last second, when all hope seemed lost, he had swooped in and faced down the Copperajah with ease. Indeed, Pokemon were amazing.
A shadow fell over him again, but this time, it was not the looming foot of a Copperajah. Arthur, the Pokémon Ranger who had escorted him to Littleroot, had kneeled beside him. "Don't worry, kid, I got you. Now, Hopps and I are going to leverage this tree. When we do, I need you to crawl out from under it. Think you can do that?"
Malic nodded, and Arthur slid a sturdy branch under the tree that trapped Malic. Hopps, still by Malic's side, moved to help, his sharp legs bracing against the trunk. Together, they lifted the tree just enough for Malic to crawl out. Harsh, stabbing pain ran through his shoulder as he crawled, but he persevered, worming his way completely out from under the tree.
As soon as he was free, Malic limply rested on the ground, pale and gasping. Arthur knelt beside him, his hand firm on Malic's uninjured shoulder. "You did good, kid," he said. His voice was thick and steady as if he were talking to a startled Ponyta. "Hopps and I will take care of the rest. You're safe now."
Malic just gave another tight nod. His head was swimming; the pain from his shoulder and relief from being rescued drowned out any attempts at speech. That is until he remembered–
"Slakoth!"
"Slakoth? What do you mean?" Arthur cocked his head at Malic's somewhat random outburst.
"My Pokemon…Slakoth…threw his Pokeball…in the woods." Malic gritted out. His shoulder felt like it was on fire, and the blaze was only getting hotter.
"A Slakoth? Wait, you didn't have a Surskit?" Arthur internally swore. Did that mean that there was still another trainer out here?
Malic shook his head, his breathing becoming more and more ragged. "Hopps, area search. Locate a basic Pokeball." Hopps saluted Arthur's curt orders and leapt into the trees. Arthur turned his attention back to Malic. "On a scale of 1-10, how much does your arm hurt?"
"About a 6."
Arthur prods Malic's upper arm, drawing a whining hiss from his lips.
"Maybe a 7."
Arthur's eye-roll was visible even in the dim moonlight. "Well, it's too dark to make any guesses, not to mention I'm not a medic. But we'll get you back to the lab and have someone take a look at you."
Was a broken bone supposed to hurt so much? If so, he might have to apologize to Cherie. She had complained for weeks when she broke her arm after falling out of a tree.
"Wait! M-my sister! We got separated when the Copperajah found us. She needs help."
"Well, as long as she keeps her Pokemon on her, she should be alright."
"She doesn't have one! She snuck into the enclosure. She's only fourteen!"
Arthur shook his head. "That's impossible."
"It's true. We have to find her!" Malic struggled against gravity, which seemed to have intensified since he laid down.
Arthur pressed firmly on Malic's chest, keeping him on the ground. "No, I mean, it's literally impossible. We have ranger-trained psychic types scanning the enclosure and surrounding it with barriers. You would have hit a wall if you had tried to stray too far from the lab, and it's the same thing trying to get in. Unless she's the Dark Archetype of the century, there is no way she could have even gotten in, let alone escape detection."
Malic felt sick. How could Cherie have been with him if it was impossible for her to be out there? He knew what he saw, what he heard—it felt real, painfully real. But Arthur didn't seem like a liar either.
"Listen, kid," Arthur said, his voice softer now, almost apologetic. "I don't want to scare you, but there's something you need to understand. Sometimes, Pokémon can mess with our heads. Illusions and hallucinations are the bread and butter of most psychic and ghost types, not to mention the side effects of half a dozen Grass-type spores."
Malic's breath caught in his throat. "You think Cherie was… an illusion?"
Arthur nodded slowly. "It's possible. People tend to see what they want to see. Stress and fear have a way of making illusions even more convincing. I've seen plenty of experienced trainers get fooled, much less someone just starting out."
A twisted mix of relief and fear filled Malic's gut. Maybe Arthur was right, and he was just the victim of some trick. But a kernel of doubt stayed ever-present in his mind. What if she was real and out there, alone and waiting for him? He couldn't gamble her safety on a chance.
Arthur placed a hand on Malic's good shoulder, grounding him. "I believe you think she was real, and maybe she was. But we can't be sure. What I do know is that we've got to focus on what's in front of us right now—getting you back to safety. If Cherie is real and out there, we'll find her. The rangers are out in full force and scouring the enclosure."
Malic's head felt heavy, his mouth filled with cotton. The weight of the day had finally caught up with him, but as his eyes began to shut, he felt a smooth weight settle in his hand, one that had already started to feel familiar. A tightness eased in his chest, and he let himself fall into the darkness, content with the Ranger's promise and Slakoth's Pokeball in his hand.
Arthur watched Malic's eyes flutter, his body going limp on the ground as exhaustion and pain finally overtook him.
"Rest well, kid. You've earned it." Arthur knelt beside him, quickly checking his pulse. It was there, strong enough but erratic, the strain of the night's events clearly taking its toll. Taking on a rampaging bull Copperajah with just a Slakoth was certainly a way to start your trainer career, but it could have ended much worse. Judging by how much the area was torn up, it seemed like the kid had played it smart and not gone head-to-head with it. If he had...Arthur stopped that thought before he could finish it. No gallow humor until after this whole mess was wrapped up.
Arthur looked Malic over, trying to figure out how best to get him back to the lab, but before he could, a chill ran down his spine. Hopps must have sensed his unease and snapped to the ready, dark energy already crawling down his spiked limbs.
A figure stepped out from behind some trees, a girl with long blonde hair and pale skin that almost seemed to shimmer silver. She was much too young looking to be an applicant, which would make her Cherie. Anyone else would have realized this and sighed in relief. After all, an underaged and defenseless civilian was now within his ability to protect.
But something was off. The forest was too quiet, the air around them thick with a presence that Arthur couldn't quite grasp. He glanced at Malic, then back at Cherie, his instincts screaming that something wasn't right.
"Cherie, right?" he asked cautiously, his voice steady but laced with a hint of suspicion. "Malic was begging me to come looking for you. How did you get here?"
"Oh, did he? That's sweet of him. He always was a good boy, so kind to others, even if most don't see it." Cherie's voice was that of a child's, but her tone and words made her sound old and experienced. It sent a chill crawling up Arthur's spine.
"You sound like you're quite fond of him. Which is interesting, considering that you just met him."
A grin grew on Cherie's face, one that was a touch too wide and had much too many teeth. "My my, what gave me away?"
"Just a hunch. Like I told Malic, we've had Psychic types scouring this area since the test started. There would be no way for a human to sneak in undetected." Arthur's thumb caressed the shrunken balls on his belt. The last time he had felt pressure like this, he had been facing down an Alpha Arcanine. His instincts were blaring at him to get out, that the thing facing him now was an apex predator. One who seemed particularly suited to prey on humans.
"Ah, Psychic's, always ruining the fun. Well, just so you know, I have known Malic a lot longer than just a few days. You can say we share a close bond, even if he doesn't know it yet." Arthur's blood ran cold. A bond, a long connection, plus a casual disdain for Psychic types all but confirmed Ghost type. Was Malic her focus? If so, this situation had shifted from bad to shitshow real quick.
"Calm yourself, Ranger. I can feel your anxiety from here. Don't worry; I'm not here to do anything…drastic. Is it so hard to believe that I just wanted to check up on Malic, especially after he so bravely fought for my safety?" The not-Cherie wiggled in place, giggling like a schoolgirl. Arthur found it vaguely disturbing that the toothy grin didn't drop from her face the entire time.
"It wouldn't be so hard to believe if you didn't insist on hiding behind that illusion."
"What about if I was hiding behind you instead?"
The air around Arthur grew dense as if the very shadows were thickening. The once gentle breeze stilled, and, without a sound, a figure materialized just within his peripheral. A Mismagius, its form emerging from the darkness like a specter from a nightmare. Its violet, ethereal body seemed to flicker in and out of existence, as though it was only partially anchored to this world. Wisps of shadow curled around its wide-brimmed, witch-like head, its eyes glowing with a sinister, knowing light that bore into the back of Arthur's skull. The eerie, almost mocking smile, the same as that shown on Cherie, was fixed on its face.
If Arthur had found the sensation before to be overpowering, this was like having that Copperajah sit on his chest. It wasn't the overwhelming, direct power that he was used to. No, while it was plenty powerful, it was the feeling this Pokemon carried, the utter wrongness that almost seemed to warp the world, that made a cold sweat break out on his brow.
"Better?" The Mismagius continued to talk through the Cherie projection, but Arthur didn't dare take his attention off the now-revealed Pokemon. Hopps, similarly taken off guard by the sudden appearance of the Mismagius, shot forward, the condensed Dark energy of a Throat Chop wreathed around his arm.
In an instant, a swirling vortex of indigo and violet flames appeared between Mismagius and Hopps, writhing like Ekans as it lashed out in several arcing blasts toward Hopps. He managed to dodge a few, but all it took was one grazing his leg and delaying his dodge by a second for him to get blasted across the clearing, smashing into a tree and slumping over, scorched and weak.
Arthur recognized Mystical Fire; he had seen Grace, Bruce's Gardevoir, use it several times. But how Mismagius used it, how it managed to control several spiraling strands enough to herd Hopps into a hit, no wild Pokemon could come up with something like that. "You've had a trainer before, haven't you?"
"Ooh, a brilliant deduction! Though I suppose that, to be a ranger, you must have some brains after all." Mismagius giggled in sync with the Cherie in front of him.
"You said you've been protecting him," Arthur said, voice taut with accusation and curiosity. "But why? What do you want with Malic?"
Mismagius's smile grew, an unsettling blend of mischief and malice. "Oh, Arthur, such a dutiful ranger. Always asking the right questions, aren't you?" The Cherie projection echoed the sentiment, giggling in that same eerie sync. "But some answers are not meant to be heard, at least not now. Let's just say that Malic and I… have a bond that transcends time and space."
Arthur's brow furrowed, his stance tense. "A bond? He's just a kid—he hasn't even started his journey. I'll ask you again, what do you want with him?"
Mismagius floated closer to Malic, her eyes dimming in a way that almost seemed saddened. "Not everything is about what one wants, Ranger. Sometimes, it's about what one must do."
Before Arthur could react, Mismagius's form shimmered with a ghostly light. The temperature in the clearing dropped as the air crackled with an unnatural energy. Mismagius reached out, and an ethereal tendril of energy connected her to Malic.
"Stop!" Arthur lunged forward, the Ultraball ripped from his neck and tightly clasped in his hand. The moment he moved, a powerful force slammed into his chest, knocking him back. He gasped, the air driven from his lungs as he was pinned to the ground, the pressure from Mismagius's earlier presence now magnified tenfold.
"Protective, aren't you?" Mismagius cooed, her voice dripping with dark amusement. "It's admirable, really. But you must understand, I mean him no harm. Quite the opposite, in fact."
Arthur fought against the overwhelming sense of wrongness that radiated from Mismagius, veins bulging in his neck. "You expect me to believe that? After what you did to Hopps?"
Mismagius drifted back, her laughter echoing softly through the night. "Oh, the Lokix will recover. You should have faith in him, Ranger. ]He's strong. But you must learn, Ranger, that not all battles are won with brute force." She paused, her eyes narrowing with a knowing glint. "Sometimes, it's about control."
Arthur's vision blurred for a moment as he was pressed back down once more. A wave of dizziness overtook him, and the oppressive aura pressed down like a vice. He blinked, and when his sight cleared, Mismagius was gone, leaving only the rustling of the forest and the faint, lingering chill in the air.
"Kid…?" Arthur croaked, glancing at the boy who lay unconscious but breathing easier, his wounds no longer as severe. Had the Mismagius healed him? Hopps groaned from where he had landed, but the Lokix was already stirring, struggling to get back on his feet.
A soft whisper floated through the trees, Mismagius's voice barely audible but still tinged with that mocking tone. "Take care with him, Ranger. He's more important than you know. And I'll be watching."
And just like that, the presence was gone, leaving Arthur in the dirt alongside Malic, under the unseen, watchful gaze of a Mismagius.