Categories > Games > Pokemon

Rokon Master

by _Sorkari_ 0 reviews

Rowan - a young man who yearns to become a trainer - comes across a pregnant Ninetales on his way home one evening, mauled and inches away from death. He takes her home and, with the help of his mo...

Category: Pokemon - Rating: R - Genres: Angst,Drama,Horror - Warnings: [V] [?] - Published: 2018-07-06 - 3645 words

It was an interesting thing, growing an immunity to something that, in a much earlier time, would have crushed you beyond imagination.

Rowan couldn't quite fathom his father's acrimony towards Pokemon. All he knew is that it had something to do with the heavy limp and the grotesque scars that littered the entirety of his right thigh. It was understandable, he supposed – if you were crippled beyond repair by a Pokemon, would you still be attached to them?

Which was why the mere mention of becoming a trainer vexed his father. It was a topic that was rarely discussed in their household, lest the arguing and eventual physical brutality ensue.

So that was why he wasn't moved by his recent argument with his father earlier that evening. Well, besides the strong scent of alcohol in his breath and the conveniently placed empty bottle of alcohol that could be broken at any moment. He didn't bother arguing any longer when his father growled, "I don't care if you're seventeen today. It's either you wait another year or you move out now."

Okay. Okay. One more year. Just one more year.

But why did one year feel like such a long time? Even as Rowan contemplated it now, just one year seemed to him like it would be a decade. Three-hundred and sixty-five more days to go, and he'll be on his own, on his way to the local professor for his very own Pokemon.

Assuming his father was either dead or, under the spell of some deity out there, willing to accept a fire-type under his roof.

A groan left his lips. He absentmindedly pushed himself back and forth on the swing-set, the gravel crunching lowly beneath his feet, until he heard the sound of footsteps sifting through the mass of pebbles and sand. A few feet away, there was a young girl – no more than twelve, most likely – passing through the park with her mother, with a Torchic chirping happily in her arms and a wide grin on her face.

There was an odd plummeting feeling in his chest, as if something in him had dissipated into naught more than a thin, silvery wisp of smoke. The chains of his swing creaked as he halted and left the chair. There was no point in staying in his childhood safe haven any longer.

It was around six, bordering seven o'clock, judging by the dying rays of golden sunlight over the bulky horizon. The streets of Lilycove City were relatively empty around this time, stripped of both human and what little population there was of Pokemon, leaving Rowan to walk home safely (well, as far as traffic goes).

The lampposts flickered to life at some point; it surprised him to know that he had stayed out that late. What was it, exactly? The contemplation of how he'd somehow make a good enough income to move out, or the sheer disappointment in his father's mini, drunken rage earlier?

The alleyway he usually cut through on his way home was oddly warm that evening. On most nights, a chill would run its fingers down his spine and elicit shivers and goosebumps, but this night was different. He came to the realization of what caused that mild disturbance when he ventured into the heart of the alleyway.

The only thing he could manage was a delicate whisper; "Oh, Christ. . . ."

A fox-like Pokemon lay on its side, its chest rising and falling thinly, with a faint glow of orange radiating from its slack jaws. Its thick fur of gold and white matted heavily around its leg with the undeniable evidence of teeth marks, loose flesh, and a white, sharp object protruding just below its knee. There were bite marks that littered over its chest, its shoulders, on its muzzle, all bleeding quite freely into the depths of its luxurious fur.

Its narrowed eyes swiveled to him, draining of its bright crimson color at an alarmingly fast rate. Rowan's breath hitched in the back of his throat; he neared the poor thing with slow, meticulous steps, though he was slightly discouraged by the crinkle in its muzzle and the shallow swaying of its nine tails.

He came to his knees before the Pokemon, and by the faint glow in its jaws and the readjustment of his pupils, the large swell of its belly became evident. As he reached out towards the Ninetales' pregnant stomach, a low, shaky growl issued in the back of her throat, three of her nine tails coming up to wrap around it.

Her tails, however, offered no resistance; Rowan ran a soothing hand along her stomach, through the fur that was soaking wet and clinging to the gaps of his fingers, and with that, she let her defenses down. Crimson orbs lingered on him for a few seconds longer before they slid blissfully shut.

For a second there, he assumed she had finally let go, his heart jumping at the conclusion, but the embers that burned strongly in the back of her throat still illuminated its weak jaws reassured him. It didn't matter what kind of risk he was taking at this point; all that mattered was that he saved this Pokemon, consequences be damned.


The door creaked loudly as Rowan let himself into the house. Ninetales was surprisingly easy to carry; she was dangerously light despite the cubs she carried. As he stepped out into the small kitchenette, he saw that his mother was stirring a large pot at the stove, humming cheerfully to herself.

"Mom? I, er – need a little help with something."

At this, she turned and started, "Rowan? I was worried sick -!" her scolding was cut short at the sight of the Ninetales in his arms. The fox Pokemon was curled into a rather comfortable position, its tails lightly swaying this way and that. "Jesus. . . . Where did you find it?"

His mother immediately turned off the gas and left the pot without another look back. She cupped Ninetales' muzzle in her hands, her thumbs gingerly caressing the area around the bite marks in small, soothing circles. Its eyes cracked open once more; with a soft rumble in its chest, it nuzzled into her palms.

"I sort of ran into her on the way home," Rowan replied. It nearly startled him to hear the worry in his own voice. "I – I wasn't sure what to do – I can't take her to a Pokemon center without catching her, and with Dad and all, I – I don't – I don't know what to do, Mom, she's pregnant and I -"

"It's okay." The gentle tone in her voice soothed the harsh pounding in his chest and helped him regain the breath he unknowingly lost in the ascension to hyperventilation. "She'll be just fine. I need you to go upstairs and get the first aid kit and a few blankets, then meet me out back in the tool shed. Okay?"

The tool shed? It seemed like a stable enough plan, but the shed belonged to his father. It wasn't used like it had been before, though, when he didn't question anything and his father didn't drink, but there was still the threat of her discovery. Regardless, it was a better chance than nothing, and certainly a better fate for the pregnant Ninetales, even if she ran the risk of getting caught and potentially killed.

Killed. The word sunk into his mind like the thick block of ice that plopped into the pit of his stomach. Despite the ambivalence, he agreed; "Okay."


Not long after, when he had retrieved the first-aid kit and a few blankets from the storage room, his mother had set to work. She was an exceptionally well healer, considering her past with parents who used to run a Pokemon Daycare – which often made him wonder how she married a man like his father.

The sight wasn't something he could easily handle, nor were the sounds doing any justice to his attempts at keeping the bile in his throat at bay. His mother washed Ninetales' fur, cleansed the wounds with alcohol, applied ointments to the shallow bite marks and scrapes, but the cleansing of her body made the wounds more vivid. With the torn skin, missing patches of hair that revealed bruises that had already blackened, and the now apparent bone that was sticking out at an awkward angle, he was no longer able to stay in the same room.

So Rowan left the shed and ventured back out into the night. It was already nearing eight-thirty – close to the time his father would usually be coming home. The chill that ran its disgusting fingers along his spine forced him back inside the house, to which he discovered that the person he least hoped to see was standing inspecting the abandoned pot in the kitchen.

His father glanced at Rowan as he slid the glass door open, asking gruffly, "Where's your mother?"

There was a light slur in his voice, Rowan noted. "I d- don't know." He damned himself for stuttering.

His father's eyes narrowed. "You're lying to me, boy." Rowan fought the urge to run as his elder stepped nearer to him, that heavy limp even more apparent now that the world was spinning and his head was buzzing in the blinding state that was intoxication. "What're you hiding out there?"


The harsh shove delivered to his shoulder nearly caused him to lose his balance. If it wasn't for the thick glass door behind him, he would have fallen. "Liar," the man hissed, the scent of alcohol and bile heavy in Rowan's nostrils. "Where is she?"

His words were said slowly – deliberately – most likely to avoid to slur, or to further intimidate his son; whichever came first. To this, Rowan finally admitted, "Outside."

"Outside?" The silence that followed the question vexed him. Rowan's chest stung as he was shoved – punched, more like it – the door once more. "Fucking use that big mouth of yours, boy!"

"Dad, I -"

The glass door squeaked open once more, to both Rowan's relief and his father's surprise. His mother, this goddess that had saved him so many times before, appeared absolutely ignorant, as if she had done nothing wrong.

"Where were you?"

She nearly flinched at the harshness of her husband's tone. Regardless, she snapped just as roughly, "Quit acting so paranoid. I went outside to bring in the bedsheets." That's when Rowan noticed the sheets in her hands; they were a dark, soothing brown, much like her own eyes. "I have to wash them again, though. You won't believe where I found them lying around."

The older man's nostrils flared, and for a second, Rowan sincerely thought that his father didn't buy it. The sudden fear of the threat that this man posed died down, however, as he retreated with a grumble that went along the lines of 'stupid woman. . . .'

She glared at her husband's retreating back, only to turn her attention back towards her son. She winked, and with that, she left to cleanse the sheets of whatever may have tainted them. That's when he noticed the much darker shade of brown that took up a majority of the middle, poorly hidden by her arm, which was stained with crimson.


It was surprising just how quickly Pokemon could heal.

Within just one month, Ninetales was capable of walking again – with the close attention of Rowan and his mother. First, the bite marks that started to heal, then the bruises faded from black to yellow, then to nothing at all, until the fur finally started to grow back. The once bloodied, matted fur with a slight hint of brown was now back to its luxurious shade of light gold.

Every day, Rowan visited Ninetales right after school, bearing gifts of food and water; and in return, she greeted him with a happy yip and an affectionate nuzzle. This time when he entered the tool shed, however, he realized that Ninetales wasn't alone; next to her was his mother, who was attending to a bucket of water and a soiled cloth.

With that came the faint whimpering and scuffling. He wasn't able to stop the wide grin that spread across his lips; Ninetales raised her head to glance at him, her crimson eyes that had once been clouded and empty now full of life. Despite being enervated from birthing her cubs, she still yipped and nuzzled into the palm of his hand with vigor, gladly accepting the berry that he offered.

"Mom, you shoulda told me something earlier!" he laughed, and in response to such a joyous tone, the fox Pokemon's tails uncurled from her cubs and wagged vigorously. "This is great! When do you think we can -" His eyes fell upon the conflicted look that weighed on his mother's countenance. "Mom? Are you all right?"

She didn't bother responding; she merely gestured over to the small bundle by her knees. There, barely hidden between the soft folds of the towel, was a Vulpix; its eyes were still closed, its fur not yet developed, its skin severely wrinkled. Instead of its coat being a light chestnut, it was golden, with the curls on its head a dark shade of orange.

Ninetales whined at the apologetic look he had given her.


Life was an interesting thing.

At some point, that Vulpix was alive. Developing normally. Breathing and eating in synch with its mother. Living.

But what caused it to be a stillborn would always be a mystery.

They buried her later that night, after his father had stumbled his way home and passed out on the couch. Ninetales stayed behind with the rest of her cubs, but when they returned to the tool shed, they noted the slight dampness in the fur beneath her eyes.

A few days after that, her cubs opened their eyes, and shortly after that, they were able to walk on their own. Rowan couldn't fathom the vague sense of fatherly pride that bad overcome him, seeing Ninetales up and moving again with four Vulpix trailing happily behind her. They tackled each other to the ground and nipped at each others ears while Ninetales lazed comfortably nearby.

The hardest part about the experience, however, was acknowledging that he would have to let them go at some point.

He never captured Ninetales, nor did he expect her to stay when she had cubs to nurture and a home to go back to. Pondering this, he curled up on his side, burying his face into his pillow. It was amazing while it lasted – his first experience caring for a Pokemon. It may not have been anything like training a Ninetales may have been, but the fact that he had cared for a Pokemon with the help of his mother was satisfying beyond belief.

Rowan was dozing off at this point, with a nostalgic feeling in the pit of his chest that brought a smile to his lips, when he heard yelling the distance. With that muffled voice came the sound of glass breaking, of wood crashing, and the undeniable crackling of flames bursting to life. He immediately left his bed to investigate, only for the bitter realization of what the cacophony had been to dawn upon him with the feeling of being doused in a bucket of ice cold water.

Flames greedily licked at the broken boards with thin, orange tongues, the remains of what the tool shed used to be breaking down to naught but ash. Not too far from there, he could see his father with a long stick of wood that seemed to have been broken from one of the boards that had been blown away in the explosion of fire.

As his father jabbed the pointed end of the stick at one of the Vulpix, the young Pokemon growled and spat a small ball of flames that exploded dangerously near his hand. He immediately dropped the wood with a loud curse, and with that, Vulpix darted off into the forest, presumably in the direction where its family had fled.

His stomach sunk with that thick block of ice; it weighed him down, stripped him of his ability to move, threatening to tear him apart if he did. At the same time, his heart jumped with the kick start of adrenaline at his father's snarl; "This is your fault!"

It had been forever since he last saw his father move at that speed; he barely had time to process what was happening before he tried to retreat into the safety of his room, but his father grabbed his wrist and yanked him onto the ground with another snarl, "This is all your fault!"

"Dad, I -" Rowan's protest was cut off with a pained cry as a foot connected with his abdomen. "Dad –! Dad, please -"

"Keeping a fucking Ninetales -" He emphasized that word with a stomp to the chest that left Rowan gasping for air. "into my shed -" At this point, the world was spinning around him from the lack of air and the pain in his torso. "Keeping a damned Pokemon . . . without my permission -"

The older man sounded as if the event was the most ludicrous thing that could have ever happened. More importantly, his voice was laden in acrimony, with the hostility that threatened Rowan with another hospital visit, until he heard the deity that was his mother scream, "Brandon, stop it!"

She gripped onto her husband's forearm and tried to tug him aside, but that did no good; he merely yanked his arm out of her grasp and punched her square in the jaw. She fell to the ground with a whimper.

Rowan tried to get up, tried to fight back somehow, but the fear that he always held of his father weighed his limbs with led, immobilized him with intimidation, kept him in check with terror. The sound of a belt being unbuckled could be heard amongst the cackling of the fire.

As the first whip of leather cracked against his forearm, he cried out - then again and again, the leather made contact with every inch of his body it could reach, until the fire that had enveloped the shed tore and bit at his flesh in the form of the belt.

At some point, when the pain was too much to bear and breathing became nearly impossible from the brief episode of hyperventilation, he passed out on the ground next to his sobbing mother.


Waking up had never been so hard to do.

The night air chilled Rowan to the very bone, but despite being left numb and as stiff as board, an inferno erupted on his arms, legs, and back when he attempted to move. It scratched and gnawed at his skin in the form of welts, the pain eliciting a faint moan.

He didn't know how long he was out there, nor how long ago his parents had left. By the time he became accustomed to the pain enough to sit up, he could hardly feel his feet or his hands, nor could he hardly feel anything besides fire and needles on his skin. Internally, however, he was empty; there was no block of ice that was anxiety or fear, no moths tearing away at his stomach with guilt or apprehension – nothing.

Somehow, he managed to get up. It was a miracle, considering how beaten he was, how mentally and emotionally enervated he was, but he still managed it. Still managed to limp to the glass door, which for some reason was wide open, and into the black hole that was his God forsaken home. He switched on the lights, and with that came the view of the disaster that replaced his old home.

The dinner table was overturned, numerous vases and various ornaments were smashed, a pool of blood gathered in the living room and trailed off in small droplets to the front door. Dark brown eyes took this all in with a shaky sigh.

A soft thud and the sharp clink of glass in the distance caught his attention. Down the hallway, in his parents' bedroom, the door was thrown wide open, allowing the light to pour out into the darkness. A muffled voice was heard – a strangled gasp, a small gag – and with a sharp intake of breath, he went to investigate.

And when he arrived to the scene, he would have screamed, would have panicked, if he wasn't so beaten, so broken already.

Numerous bottles of alcohol were scattered around the floor, some broken and others spilling onto the carpet. His father slumped back against the headboard with the mouth of a broken bottle in one hand. The sharp edges were coated in blood, the thin, red fingers trailing down the tinted glass, while his other arm lay limp at his side. Crimson coated his entire forearm, trailing down from the thick, messy lacerations that traveled down the length of the vein in his wrist.

And attached to one of the metal bars of the headboard was the end of the belt, while the other wrapped tightly around his neck. Along with the slowly blackening skin that poured over the leather, speckles of dried blood could be seen on the buckle. It was ten times harder to breathe, ten times harder to even think, when the only thing Rowan could focus on was the dying light in his father's eyes.

And from his father's slackened jaw, thin wisps of smoke emerged. The smoke curled and danced along his arms, then stopped just above his knees in a glittering cloud of light yellow. Over time, that cloud spun and inverted, its ridges and outlines now becoming apparent.

Atop his father's corpse sat a faint, yellow Vulpix, staring happily at her mother's savior.
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