Categories > Anime/Manga > Pokemon > The Only Way Out
A Shot in the Dark
0 reviewsMitchell arrives at the pharmacy, where he receives help and his first Poké Ball from the cashier, Joanna. Once he gets home, however, he discovers an unfortunate scene...
0Unrated
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Disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon. Pokémon is the property of Game Freak and Nintendo and all of those awesome people who invented it.
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By the time Mitchell had gotten to the pharmacy, the sun had set halfway. The city streets were now bright with the warm colors of sunset, brilliant oranges and vibrant reds and yellows. The streetlights, set on a timer, had just flickered to life but were not powerful enough to make an impact with the sun still visible. Few people ventured out into the streets, but those who did were working their ways toward the stores, out to get a couple of ingredients for the night's supper. Mitchell made no attempt to cover up his bruise, partly because he did not know how bad it was and if anyone would notice. He stepped through the door as it slid open in his presence and gave a friendly nod to the nearby cashier, who saw his bruise and began staring. She looked nice enough, and those big almond eyes staring at Mitchell so inquisitively just made him want to talk to her. She reminded him of a kitten. But he didn't have time for her, with his mother lying unconscious and still in the same place as his father.
Now that he was at his destination, he wasn't sure what he should buy. Alcohol? Would that work? He didn't know, but he grabbed it anyway and dropped it into the plastic basket he had grabbed on the way in. Bandages were unnecessary, he thought, but he did need some cotton balls for the alcohol. As he walked, he saw more and more products that he could not tell were necessary. He came to a shelf with bottles of store-brand ibuprofen and grabbed three. He would leave one with his mom and take the other two with him when he left, just in case. Now that he thought about it, he might as well take the entire store with him. As far as he knew, he could be lying injured in a forest somewhere with no one there to help him. The journey couldn't be too unsafe, could it? If ten year olds were allowed to roam freely, then it shouldn't be overly dangerous.
"Umm, sir? If I may interrupt your search, you might want to just get some ice packs and a bottle of acetaminophen for pain relief, if you're trying to get rid of that bruise," he heard from the front. It was the voice of the cashier. She sounded exactly how Mitchell would have expected if he hadn't been preoccupied with other matters, helpful and caring. The boy set this basket on one of the shelves and left it there, grabbing a bottle of acetaminophen and two ice packs. He didn't know how many he would need, having never performed first aid before. He walked over to the cashier and set the items on the counter while she rang them up.
"Are you a trainer?" she asked, grabbing a plastic bag from the roll below the counter and scanning the medicine. He shook his head.
"Really? You look like you would be one. Does that hurt?"
She was a curious one, but Mitchell had seen that in her eyes when he had walked inside the store. Her auburn hair was in a tussle, as if she had just lost something important and spent a couple of hours searching for it desperately, but she seemed calm and collected. Her fingernails were painted black and she wore a light eye shadow, her lips pink and full. According to the nametag she had on her left side, her name was Joanna.
"Yeah, a little bit. Happened a few minutes ago. Maybe half an hour, tops," he replied, watching her set the bag full of stuff on the counter and read the price off of the cash register.
"That'll be 54 credits, sir," she told him, and he reached for his wallet. He pulled out his credit card and paid for the supplies, completely forgetting that he still had bottles of ibuprofen in his backpack. Joanna flashed him a pretty smile and told him to have a good evening, stopping him just before he stepped through the front doors.
"Wait!"
He looked back at her, suddenly realizing that he had almost committed theft. He expected to see a condescending and scornful gaze on her face, but she hadn't seen him take the bottles in the first place. She bent over once satisfied that he was not leaving and reached under the counter, pulling out a small red and white ball. There was a box under her counter that had at least twenty more of them, all of them about the size of a golf ball until the button on the front was pressed. She tossed it to him and he caught it as it bounced off of the bruise on his chest, sending small waves of pain throughout his body. He held it in his palm and looked back up at her smiling face, his own expression seeming to ask why she had given it to him.
"Even if you aren't a trainer, they can make really good pets. That's on the house," she said. He smiled back at her and walked through the door, hearing the alarm start up before Joanna deactivated it.
"Must've been the Pokéball!" she called after him, and he broke into a run, wanting to get back home as soon as possible. The light was fading quickly and Mitchell was not completely familiar with this part of town. He would have to go through the trees, those dark foreboding oaks that could house anything. He wasn't usually allowed out of the house, period. The only times he had ever come through here were when he was with his parents. These woods held memories of pain, hard and repeated across his body. His father took him out here to beat him on his generous days. "At least I let you out of the house," he would always say. The prick.
The night had engulfed the trees completely, the waning gibbous of the moon casting what light it could on the dark soil around Mitchell's feet as he ran toward his house. How long had he been gone? An hour or less, it hadn't felt any longer. But it was easy to lose track of time when he had so much going on in his mind; his mother's injuries and safety, the possible, though justified in his eyes, murder of his father, the pump of adrenaline in his veins after he had knowingly stolen medicine from a store, and the possibility that even if his father had not died, he very well might soon.
He could now see the lights streaming out from inside his house through the windows. His mother was still lying sound asleep on the couch, the angle that Mitchell was looking in at displaying her perfectly. He would have to get a little bit closer to see if his father was still down, which seemed likely if his mother hadn't been touched in the time that the teenager was away. He stepped out of the trees and into the small clearing around the house and saw sudden, frantic movement away from the porch. It was Kenneth. He jumped down the four steps that led up to the porch and started running away, but his pace seemed awkward. In the dim light, Mitchell realized that Kenneth was running backwards, his arms extended out in front of him and clasping a small metal object that was pointed at the front door.
The silence of the night was broken by the sound of the front door being blown off of the hinges by a powerful tackle from inside, then the resounding boom from the end of a rifle that protruded from the new opening. A split-second later, there was a pained scream and Kenneth's shadow collapsed to the ground in a heap, somersaulting over itself down a small incline until his came to a rest in the damp grass below. The rifle came out a little further and Mitchell could see his father standing at the other end, loading up another shell and whimpering in pain with every movement that strained his broken arm. Mitchell stared disbelievingly at his friend, who now lay motionless. He screamed.
Another gunshot rang in the air and Mitchell felt the skin on the side of his neck split open and start to burn, warm fluid trickling from the shallow gash and pouring down his neck and onto his brown shirt. His hand shot up to cover the slice and he ran back down the path and into the forest. The bullet had only grazed him, thankfully. But Kenneth, half-conscious in the grass, had not fared so well. The bullet missed all internal organs but was lodged in between his ribs, dangerously close to his heart. He panted for breath involuntarily and lapsed into a deep sleep, feeling the warm blanket of his own blood covering his shirt and seeping into the thick sweater. A warning shot was fired from the rifle into the air, causing a flock of slumbering birds - Pidgeys - to fly up out of a tree and into the night sky, headed north to Viridian City.
"If I ever catch you around here again I'm gonna blow you and your mom's head off, boy!" the threat came, the voice angry and hoarse. Mitchell slumped down against the tree as the first of the tears fell, the tears of mourning for his dead friend who had only been in the line of fire because Mitchell had asked him to take care of his mom. His family troubles had stolen the rest of Kenneth's life away, a life that could have yielded so much in the fields of science and biology. The rest of the tears came pouring out, from pain and knowledge that he had failed his mother. She would be beaten more and more as the days came and went. Mitchell couldn't allow it to happen. His father would pay.
As soon as he saw his father's silhouette on the upstairs windows, Mitchell stood up on shaky legs and began to walk along the tree line to his friend's body. Now he could see the expression on Kenneth's face. It was contorted into an expression of pain and covered in dirt. One of his eyes was half-open and the eyelid twitched rhythmically. The index finger of his right hand was still wrapped around the trigger of the 9mm, its silver finish gleaming in the moonlight. As Mitchell approached, he tried to choke back a torrent of tears but could not. He sobbed quietly for his friend, reaching for the gun and taking it away slowly. Kenneth's hand fell limp when his finger slipped off of the gun and landed in the grass. His breathing quickened and his eyes shot open, inciting a brief, shocked cry from Mitchell.
"Kenny!" he said quietly, but Kenneth only shook his head. His eyes closed back up and he lay there breathing for minutes before he finally said anything.
"I think I did a good job," he said, his teeth now showing through his slight grin. Mitchell looked at him confusedly.
"You said protect your mom, right? I did it," Kenneth tried to explain, but Mitchell did not know what he was talking about. Edward was awake and in pain. That, coupled with the destroyed TV, only meant that he would be angrier. With Amber unconscious, who knew what would happen to her soon. Kenneth tried to sit up but felt the bullet in his chest and stopped, then lowered himself back down into the grass. He clenched his teeth and hissed through them to ease the pain.
"I talked to her a few minutes ago. I went in, I know you told me not to but I did. I couldn't see if she was breathing. So I went in, and she woke up and saw me and she didn't remember me, so I said I was Kenneth and that you went to go get something for her bruises and she smiled. Then, I heard your dad start screaming and told your mom to pretend she's asleep until your dad came outside, then go out the back and get the police. I climbed out the window and started banging on the door and he thought I was you and came after me with that rifle he kept over the mirror in the front hall. I tried to shoot him first but he shot me right when he knocked the door down. When your mom heard the door come down she ran out the back door, now she should be going to the police. We can...chill, while she's gone," Kenneth explained. Mitchell looked at him, awed by his heroic deed. The injured boy smiled at him and turned his head away from the light, covering his face with one arm.
"It's not deep. I think I'm gonna be okay," he said. Mitchell looked at the part of Kenneth's chest where the bullet looked like it had gone in. It looked like it had just missed his heart.
"Don't move. I'll be back in a minute," Mitchell told Kenneth, standing up with the gun in his hand. The slide had not locked back, so he had at least one bullet left. Kenneth had not fired any and it was full when he had given it to him, so it very likely had all fifteen shots. But he might need these bullets in the coming days. Overkill was unnecessary. But the fallen hero would be avenged.
"Where are you going?" Kenneth asked, propping himself up on one shoulder and grimacing as he rose his upper body to get a better view of Mitchell, who was now running toward the house. Kenneth's mouth opened to scream for the other boy to stop, but his voice did not come out. If he screamed, Edward would hear. Edward would then kill Mitchell. But it seemed that once Mitchell was inside, one of the two would never set foot outside again. Kenneth sighed and slowly lowered himself, letting gravity do the work little by little.
Mitchell stepped over the fallen door and walked through the frame, entering his old home. Even though it had been less than an hour since he had been inside, it felt very surreal to him, and a tad foreign. For once, he heard something in there that he had never heard before. Silence. The sounds of explosions, screams, and the jingle of the nightly newscast were all gone. He could not even hear his father's loud snoring. For a split-second, he stopped and took it all in. This would be the last time he would ever set foot in this building. It would be a very memorable experience.
The floor over the living room groaned. It angered Mitchell because it had broken the silence, but also because that was where his room was. Edward was doing something in his room. He looked down at the gun and clicked the safety on and off a few times before leaving it off. The door to the bedroom upstairs squeaked as it slowly opened. Mitchell smiled. Good thing he had never decided to fix that door. He placed his foot on the first carpeted step and lowered his weight onto it slowly, so it would not creak. He repeated this for each step until he reached the top, his pistol preceding him. He could see the light on through the crack of his old bedroom door. His father was standing near Mitchell's computer, picking up small square objects and lighting them on fire. His photographs.
"Don't touch those!" Mitchell screamed, his father turning around with a shocked look on his face as the boy barreled through his door, the knob slamming into the sheetrock behind it and breaking through. Edward dropped the flaming picture, which stayed in the air long enough for Mitchell to see his and his first girlfriend's faces igniting.
Edward grabbed his rifle, which was resting against the side of the bed, and tried to turn it to face his son. Mitchell was too fast and slammed the butt of his 9mm into the side of his father's head, knocking him to the ground. He moaned in agony as looked at the rifle that fell from his hands. Mitchell bent down and picked it up, cocking it and aiming at Edward's head.
"On your knees," he commanded, and his father obeyed, for the first time in the middle-aged man's life. The teenager faltered for a moment when he realized that his dad had actually listened, then regained his composure and kept his malicious gaze on the man.
"You wouldn't," Edward spat. So, even in the face of death he wouldn't stand down from a challenge.
"Oh, trust me, Edward-"
"Dad."
"-I've been waiting for this for years now. What makes you think I won't do it after how you've treated Mom and I all these years? Look at me, Edward. I don't play any sports, why do I work out? Do you want to know why? So that one day I could fuck you up as much as you've fucked us up!"
Edward shifted his weight as if he was going to stand, but Mitchell pushed the gun closer to his face and he stopped moving.
"I'll give you ten seconds to apologize for everything. And I might kill you anyway," Mitchell told him. Edward looked at his son like he was insane.
"If you're going to kill me anyway then I'm not gonna apologize!"
"Fine. Ten. Nine. Five,"
"You said ten!"
"Apologize!"
"NO!"
"Four. Three,"
"You won't pull that trigger, you fucking pussy,"
"Two-"
"If you pull that trigger you'll go to prison for the rest of your life!"
"One."
Edward cringed as Mitchell pulled the trigger as hard as his finger would let him, bracing for the recoil of the gun. There was no boom, no splatter. Mitchell looked at his father disbelievingly, noting the sadistic glare that Edward gave him.
"Oops. Forgot to load," he said, moving again to stand up. Mitchell screamed and slammed the butt of the rifle into Edward's face, knocking him into the wall and down to the floor, unconscious yet again. His broken arm seemed even more twisted than it had downstairs. A small orange glow on the floor near Mitchell's foot alerted him to the small fire that had started on the carpet, the source being the photo, which still sat in a charred mess in the center of the flames. The teenager considered leaving the fire there, to let it consume the house and his father with it. No, he couldn't do it. He had to think about his mother. Where would she live, if her house was destroyed?
He took his handgun back out and pointed it at Edward's head, his finger wrapped around the trigger.
"Bang," he said, stomping out the fire and turning to leave the room.
Kenneth was now rolled onto his side, a small black notepad in front of him on the ground. He carried it with him everywhere he went. It was his research pad of sorts. Professor Oak had given this one about a month before, when he had gone to apply for an internship at the lab. He was supposed to go out around Pallet and document everything he could about the native Pokémon, and then bring the pad back to Oak in one month's time. That month would be over the next day. He wouldn't be getting the job in this state.
With a small black pen, Kenneth scrawled a note that he wanted Mitchell to take to the professor.
Dear Prof. Oak,
You may remember me from one month ago. My name is Kenneth Adler, and I am an aspiring biologist. I came to you a month ago requesting an internship and you told me to go out and document everything I could about the native Pokémon in and around Pallet Town. When you get this, I'll probably be in the hospital. I'm giving this pad to my friend Mitchell, who will deliver this and the Charmander you lent me for protection back to you. You may review it at your leisure, since I will likely be in recovery for some time.
I have a request, however. If you review this pad and find it satisfactory, I would ask that you give the Pokédex that I would have received to Mitchell. He's had some family problems and has decided to leave Pallet Town to become a Pokémon trainer. I believe that the Pokédex will be invaluable to him, since he is new to the world of Pokémon and may not know enough about them to become good at what he wants to do.
Mitchell came walking out of the house as Kenneth finished writing his note. He reached around his back and grabbed the Pokéball that was clipped to his belt. The Charmander had served him very well. He kissed the ball goodbye and felt the warmth of the Pokémon in response. It felt good on his hands, which were beginning to grow cold.
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Author: And so ends Chapter 2. Read and review, people, I'd love to hear feedback from the readers. Notice that I kept my promise and toned down the language? Yeah, I figured it wouldn't make much sense for Mitch and Joanna to have a cussing match. The next Chapter will involve the delivery of the letter, Mitchell's starter, and (possibly) the meeting with the rival.
Disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon. Pokémon is the property of Game Freak and Nintendo and all of those awesome people who invented it.
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By the time Mitchell had gotten to the pharmacy, the sun had set halfway. The city streets were now bright with the warm colors of sunset, brilliant oranges and vibrant reds and yellows. The streetlights, set on a timer, had just flickered to life but were not powerful enough to make an impact with the sun still visible. Few people ventured out into the streets, but those who did were working their ways toward the stores, out to get a couple of ingredients for the night's supper. Mitchell made no attempt to cover up his bruise, partly because he did not know how bad it was and if anyone would notice. He stepped through the door as it slid open in his presence and gave a friendly nod to the nearby cashier, who saw his bruise and began staring. She looked nice enough, and those big almond eyes staring at Mitchell so inquisitively just made him want to talk to her. She reminded him of a kitten. But he didn't have time for her, with his mother lying unconscious and still in the same place as his father.
Now that he was at his destination, he wasn't sure what he should buy. Alcohol? Would that work? He didn't know, but he grabbed it anyway and dropped it into the plastic basket he had grabbed on the way in. Bandages were unnecessary, he thought, but he did need some cotton balls for the alcohol. As he walked, he saw more and more products that he could not tell were necessary. He came to a shelf with bottles of store-brand ibuprofen and grabbed three. He would leave one with his mom and take the other two with him when he left, just in case. Now that he thought about it, he might as well take the entire store with him. As far as he knew, he could be lying injured in a forest somewhere with no one there to help him. The journey couldn't be too unsafe, could it? If ten year olds were allowed to roam freely, then it shouldn't be overly dangerous.
"Umm, sir? If I may interrupt your search, you might want to just get some ice packs and a bottle of acetaminophen for pain relief, if you're trying to get rid of that bruise," he heard from the front. It was the voice of the cashier. She sounded exactly how Mitchell would have expected if he hadn't been preoccupied with other matters, helpful and caring. The boy set this basket on one of the shelves and left it there, grabbing a bottle of acetaminophen and two ice packs. He didn't know how many he would need, having never performed first aid before. He walked over to the cashier and set the items on the counter while she rang them up.
"Are you a trainer?" she asked, grabbing a plastic bag from the roll below the counter and scanning the medicine. He shook his head.
"Really? You look like you would be one. Does that hurt?"
She was a curious one, but Mitchell had seen that in her eyes when he had walked inside the store. Her auburn hair was in a tussle, as if she had just lost something important and spent a couple of hours searching for it desperately, but she seemed calm and collected. Her fingernails were painted black and she wore a light eye shadow, her lips pink and full. According to the nametag she had on her left side, her name was Joanna.
"Yeah, a little bit. Happened a few minutes ago. Maybe half an hour, tops," he replied, watching her set the bag full of stuff on the counter and read the price off of the cash register.
"That'll be 54 credits, sir," she told him, and he reached for his wallet. He pulled out his credit card and paid for the supplies, completely forgetting that he still had bottles of ibuprofen in his backpack. Joanna flashed him a pretty smile and told him to have a good evening, stopping him just before he stepped through the front doors.
"Wait!"
He looked back at her, suddenly realizing that he had almost committed theft. He expected to see a condescending and scornful gaze on her face, but she hadn't seen him take the bottles in the first place. She bent over once satisfied that he was not leaving and reached under the counter, pulling out a small red and white ball. There was a box under her counter that had at least twenty more of them, all of them about the size of a golf ball until the button on the front was pressed. She tossed it to him and he caught it as it bounced off of the bruise on his chest, sending small waves of pain throughout his body. He held it in his palm and looked back up at her smiling face, his own expression seeming to ask why she had given it to him.
"Even if you aren't a trainer, they can make really good pets. That's on the house," she said. He smiled back at her and walked through the door, hearing the alarm start up before Joanna deactivated it.
"Must've been the Pokéball!" she called after him, and he broke into a run, wanting to get back home as soon as possible. The light was fading quickly and Mitchell was not completely familiar with this part of town. He would have to go through the trees, those dark foreboding oaks that could house anything. He wasn't usually allowed out of the house, period. The only times he had ever come through here were when he was with his parents. These woods held memories of pain, hard and repeated across his body. His father took him out here to beat him on his generous days. "At least I let you out of the house," he would always say. The prick.
The night had engulfed the trees completely, the waning gibbous of the moon casting what light it could on the dark soil around Mitchell's feet as he ran toward his house. How long had he been gone? An hour or less, it hadn't felt any longer. But it was easy to lose track of time when he had so much going on in his mind; his mother's injuries and safety, the possible, though justified in his eyes, murder of his father, the pump of adrenaline in his veins after he had knowingly stolen medicine from a store, and the possibility that even if his father had not died, he very well might soon.
He could now see the lights streaming out from inside his house through the windows. His mother was still lying sound asleep on the couch, the angle that Mitchell was looking in at displaying her perfectly. He would have to get a little bit closer to see if his father was still down, which seemed likely if his mother hadn't been touched in the time that the teenager was away. He stepped out of the trees and into the small clearing around the house and saw sudden, frantic movement away from the porch. It was Kenneth. He jumped down the four steps that led up to the porch and started running away, but his pace seemed awkward. In the dim light, Mitchell realized that Kenneth was running backwards, his arms extended out in front of him and clasping a small metal object that was pointed at the front door.
The silence of the night was broken by the sound of the front door being blown off of the hinges by a powerful tackle from inside, then the resounding boom from the end of a rifle that protruded from the new opening. A split-second later, there was a pained scream and Kenneth's shadow collapsed to the ground in a heap, somersaulting over itself down a small incline until his came to a rest in the damp grass below. The rifle came out a little further and Mitchell could see his father standing at the other end, loading up another shell and whimpering in pain with every movement that strained his broken arm. Mitchell stared disbelievingly at his friend, who now lay motionless. He screamed.
Another gunshot rang in the air and Mitchell felt the skin on the side of his neck split open and start to burn, warm fluid trickling from the shallow gash and pouring down his neck and onto his brown shirt. His hand shot up to cover the slice and he ran back down the path and into the forest. The bullet had only grazed him, thankfully. But Kenneth, half-conscious in the grass, had not fared so well. The bullet missed all internal organs but was lodged in between his ribs, dangerously close to his heart. He panted for breath involuntarily and lapsed into a deep sleep, feeling the warm blanket of his own blood covering his shirt and seeping into the thick sweater. A warning shot was fired from the rifle into the air, causing a flock of slumbering birds - Pidgeys - to fly up out of a tree and into the night sky, headed north to Viridian City.
"If I ever catch you around here again I'm gonna blow you and your mom's head off, boy!" the threat came, the voice angry and hoarse. Mitchell slumped down against the tree as the first of the tears fell, the tears of mourning for his dead friend who had only been in the line of fire because Mitchell had asked him to take care of his mom. His family troubles had stolen the rest of Kenneth's life away, a life that could have yielded so much in the fields of science and biology. The rest of the tears came pouring out, from pain and knowledge that he had failed his mother. She would be beaten more and more as the days came and went. Mitchell couldn't allow it to happen. His father would pay.
As soon as he saw his father's silhouette on the upstairs windows, Mitchell stood up on shaky legs and began to walk along the tree line to his friend's body. Now he could see the expression on Kenneth's face. It was contorted into an expression of pain and covered in dirt. One of his eyes was half-open and the eyelid twitched rhythmically. The index finger of his right hand was still wrapped around the trigger of the 9mm, its silver finish gleaming in the moonlight. As Mitchell approached, he tried to choke back a torrent of tears but could not. He sobbed quietly for his friend, reaching for the gun and taking it away slowly. Kenneth's hand fell limp when his finger slipped off of the gun and landed in the grass. His breathing quickened and his eyes shot open, inciting a brief, shocked cry from Mitchell.
"Kenny!" he said quietly, but Kenneth only shook his head. His eyes closed back up and he lay there breathing for minutes before he finally said anything.
"I think I did a good job," he said, his teeth now showing through his slight grin. Mitchell looked at him confusedly.
"You said protect your mom, right? I did it," Kenneth tried to explain, but Mitchell did not know what he was talking about. Edward was awake and in pain. That, coupled with the destroyed TV, only meant that he would be angrier. With Amber unconscious, who knew what would happen to her soon. Kenneth tried to sit up but felt the bullet in his chest and stopped, then lowered himself back down into the grass. He clenched his teeth and hissed through them to ease the pain.
"I talked to her a few minutes ago. I went in, I know you told me not to but I did. I couldn't see if she was breathing. So I went in, and she woke up and saw me and she didn't remember me, so I said I was Kenneth and that you went to go get something for her bruises and she smiled. Then, I heard your dad start screaming and told your mom to pretend she's asleep until your dad came outside, then go out the back and get the police. I climbed out the window and started banging on the door and he thought I was you and came after me with that rifle he kept over the mirror in the front hall. I tried to shoot him first but he shot me right when he knocked the door down. When your mom heard the door come down she ran out the back door, now she should be going to the police. We can...chill, while she's gone," Kenneth explained. Mitchell looked at him, awed by his heroic deed. The injured boy smiled at him and turned his head away from the light, covering his face with one arm.
"It's not deep. I think I'm gonna be okay," he said. Mitchell looked at the part of Kenneth's chest where the bullet looked like it had gone in. It looked like it had just missed his heart.
"Don't move. I'll be back in a minute," Mitchell told Kenneth, standing up with the gun in his hand. The slide had not locked back, so he had at least one bullet left. Kenneth had not fired any and it was full when he had given it to him, so it very likely had all fifteen shots. But he might need these bullets in the coming days. Overkill was unnecessary. But the fallen hero would be avenged.
"Where are you going?" Kenneth asked, propping himself up on one shoulder and grimacing as he rose his upper body to get a better view of Mitchell, who was now running toward the house. Kenneth's mouth opened to scream for the other boy to stop, but his voice did not come out. If he screamed, Edward would hear. Edward would then kill Mitchell. But it seemed that once Mitchell was inside, one of the two would never set foot outside again. Kenneth sighed and slowly lowered himself, letting gravity do the work little by little.
Mitchell stepped over the fallen door and walked through the frame, entering his old home. Even though it had been less than an hour since he had been inside, it felt very surreal to him, and a tad foreign. For once, he heard something in there that he had never heard before. Silence. The sounds of explosions, screams, and the jingle of the nightly newscast were all gone. He could not even hear his father's loud snoring. For a split-second, he stopped and took it all in. This would be the last time he would ever set foot in this building. It would be a very memorable experience.
The floor over the living room groaned. It angered Mitchell because it had broken the silence, but also because that was where his room was. Edward was doing something in his room. He looked down at the gun and clicked the safety on and off a few times before leaving it off. The door to the bedroom upstairs squeaked as it slowly opened. Mitchell smiled. Good thing he had never decided to fix that door. He placed his foot on the first carpeted step and lowered his weight onto it slowly, so it would not creak. He repeated this for each step until he reached the top, his pistol preceding him. He could see the light on through the crack of his old bedroom door. His father was standing near Mitchell's computer, picking up small square objects and lighting them on fire. His photographs.
"Don't touch those!" Mitchell screamed, his father turning around with a shocked look on his face as the boy barreled through his door, the knob slamming into the sheetrock behind it and breaking through. Edward dropped the flaming picture, which stayed in the air long enough for Mitchell to see his and his first girlfriend's faces igniting.
Edward grabbed his rifle, which was resting against the side of the bed, and tried to turn it to face his son. Mitchell was too fast and slammed the butt of his 9mm into the side of his father's head, knocking him to the ground. He moaned in agony as looked at the rifle that fell from his hands. Mitchell bent down and picked it up, cocking it and aiming at Edward's head.
"On your knees," he commanded, and his father obeyed, for the first time in the middle-aged man's life. The teenager faltered for a moment when he realized that his dad had actually listened, then regained his composure and kept his malicious gaze on the man.
"You wouldn't," Edward spat. So, even in the face of death he wouldn't stand down from a challenge.
"Oh, trust me, Edward-"
"Dad."
"-I've been waiting for this for years now. What makes you think I won't do it after how you've treated Mom and I all these years? Look at me, Edward. I don't play any sports, why do I work out? Do you want to know why? So that one day I could fuck you up as much as you've fucked us up!"
Edward shifted his weight as if he was going to stand, but Mitchell pushed the gun closer to his face and he stopped moving.
"I'll give you ten seconds to apologize for everything. And I might kill you anyway," Mitchell told him. Edward looked at his son like he was insane.
"If you're going to kill me anyway then I'm not gonna apologize!"
"Fine. Ten. Nine. Five,"
"You said ten!"
"Apologize!"
"NO!"
"Four. Three,"
"You won't pull that trigger, you fucking pussy,"
"Two-"
"If you pull that trigger you'll go to prison for the rest of your life!"
"One."
Edward cringed as Mitchell pulled the trigger as hard as his finger would let him, bracing for the recoil of the gun. There was no boom, no splatter. Mitchell looked at his father disbelievingly, noting the sadistic glare that Edward gave him.
"Oops. Forgot to load," he said, moving again to stand up. Mitchell screamed and slammed the butt of the rifle into Edward's face, knocking him into the wall and down to the floor, unconscious yet again. His broken arm seemed even more twisted than it had downstairs. A small orange glow on the floor near Mitchell's foot alerted him to the small fire that had started on the carpet, the source being the photo, which still sat in a charred mess in the center of the flames. The teenager considered leaving the fire there, to let it consume the house and his father with it. No, he couldn't do it. He had to think about his mother. Where would she live, if her house was destroyed?
He took his handgun back out and pointed it at Edward's head, his finger wrapped around the trigger.
"Bang," he said, stomping out the fire and turning to leave the room.
Kenneth was now rolled onto his side, a small black notepad in front of him on the ground. He carried it with him everywhere he went. It was his research pad of sorts. Professor Oak had given this one about a month before, when he had gone to apply for an internship at the lab. He was supposed to go out around Pallet and document everything he could about the native Pokémon, and then bring the pad back to Oak in one month's time. That month would be over the next day. He wouldn't be getting the job in this state.
With a small black pen, Kenneth scrawled a note that he wanted Mitchell to take to the professor.
Dear Prof. Oak,
You may remember me from one month ago. My name is Kenneth Adler, and I am an aspiring biologist. I came to you a month ago requesting an internship and you told me to go out and document everything I could about the native Pokémon in and around Pallet Town. When you get this, I'll probably be in the hospital. I'm giving this pad to my friend Mitchell, who will deliver this and the Charmander you lent me for protection back to you. You may review it at your leisure, since I will likely be in recovery for some time.
I have a request, however. If you review this pad and find it satisfactory, I would ask that you give the Pokédex that I would have received to Mitchell. He's had some family problems and has decided to leave Pallet Town to become a Pokémon trainer. I believe that the Pokédex will be invaluable to him, since he is new to the world of Pokémon and may not know enough about them to become good at what he wants to do.
Mitchell came walking out of the house as Kenneth finished writing his note. He reached around his back and grabbed the Pokéball that was clipped to his belt. The Charmander had served him very well. He kissed the ball goodbye and felt the warmth of the Pokémon in response. It felt good on his hands, which were beginning to grow cold.
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Author: And so ends Chapter 2. Read and review, people, I'd love to hear feedback from the readers. Notice that I kept my promise and toned down the language? Yeah, I figured it wouldn't make much sense for Mitch and Joanna to have a cussing match. The next Chapter will involve the delivery of the letter, Mitchell's starter, and (possibly) the meeting with the rival.
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