Lamb to the Slaughter (SERIES, Rated R probably?)

[The Dude]

LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTER​

Chapter Index:
Prologue
Chapter One: Imprisoned in a Bed

PROLOGUE – The Cotton Guard


I am 9. I am in a beautiful penthouse. I have never been anywhere so nice before. In my hand, I hold a small metal ball, about the size of a tennis ball. I remember what he said about how to use it. With my thumb, I press the button. The ball slips out of my hand, as I, startled, watch light leap from it. The light forms into solid matter. Solid, living matter.

Shattered glass.​

The creature trembles. For a long time, we both stay still, watching each other. I am terrified, but awed by its beauty. It is, no, she (it must be), is like a sheep, but grander, more magnificent. The same shape, the same fluffy, cotton-like fur. But strangely, the fur has a different color; a creamy yellow hue. It reminds me of butter. And stranger still, her skin seems the color of one of my favorite crayons. Cobalt blue.

Blue sky.​

She sniffs the air, and shakes her tail slightly. That also seems odd. Her tail, like her ears, has a pattern of solid yellow and black colored rings in an alternating pattern. It ends in a luminous orange ball.

The bright sun.​

For all that, I see the most difference from an ordinary sheep in her eyes. In those eyes, I see oceans. I see fear and love and hate and joy and the whole damn range of emotions. I see an “I”.

I am falling.​

Somewhere in my memory, I know the name hides. Sheepish? Baabaa? Marpy?

“You’re a Mareep.”

The pokemon’s eyes dart back and forth. Is she searching for an exit? Why?

Why is this happening?​

Because I am the Other. To her, I represent the Monster, the Darkness. No wonder she wants to run. But if it were me, I wouldn’t run. I don’t know why, but I never run.

I should have run.​

I move towards her slowly. In doing so, I risk spooking her, but I take a chance. She stays firmly rooted to that spot, shivering as I approach. Spreading my arms wide, I hug her.

I didn’t expect her to grab me.​

On contact with her fur, I feel a static charge course through my body. But this isn’t my first time getting shocked. We stay like this for some time; minutes, hours, a day, I don’t know. At some point she relaxes and the static stops. She makes a low, pleasant noise, an “mmmmmmm”. We look into each other’s eyes again, and now we understand each other.

I looked into her eyes, and I saw madness.​

“Do you understand people talk?” I ask her.

She nods. Odd, to see what looks like a farm animal make such a human gesture.

“I’m Tamara, your…” What am I to her? Master? Trainer? Owner? No, f__k no. Each of those reminds me of Porto Calabara. I can’t command her. She can’t be mine any more than one man can be another man’s property.

“I’m your friend, if you want me to be.”

She said she was my friend.​

The Mareep nods again.

“Would you like me to give you a name?”

This time, she not only nods, but also her tail bobs and her fur crackles with static. Closing my eyes, I cycle through all the names I know, but none seem right.

From the moment she walked in the door, things didn't seem right.​

Then I remember Smoke on the Horizon. It’s a novel I read several times, until Mrs. Jabal burned it to punish me. In it, a heroic young girl leaves her tradition-obsessed tribe, and makes her way across a vast dry wasteland. Along the way she meets several people who (like her former tribe) seek to box her into a role. The girl refuses to let them. At the end, she finds a map, a boat, and an ocean. The girl’s name is Zazo Rike.

“Would it be alright if I call you Zazo? It’s the name of one of my heroes.”

She was my hero.​

She approves, and is now and forevermore Zazo the Mareep. Zazo, oh Zazo. Zazo will be my guardian. When I can’t be a hero, she will be. We’re in this together. We have each other’s back.

Zazo tried to warn me, tried to have my back.​

And the penthouse dissolves. I see Zazo still, like a lighthouse shining in the fog. Nothing else. She cries out to me, but now I’m not sure why. Danger? Where? I call out to Zazo.

“Where’s Jennifer?”

Zazo, her eyes full of dread, points a leg towards me. I turn around, and I see her. But she has no eyes, only little fires in the sockets. And her hands are caked in a dark red substance.
“M…..mom?”

My mother threw me out the window.​

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

All criticism welcome, but remember, this is the prologue. What do you think? If there's anything that seems awkward, I'm definitely going to edit it.
In case you're wondering, this is going to be a long story. Long. And I promise it won't be this dark most of the time. But it CAN get this dark.
Chapter One will probably be up by Monday. I promise it will be more straightforward.

 

[Beth Pavell]

I'll throw down a quick first review to get thing started. I wish, though, that more people would post first chapters at the same time as prologues. It's difficult to really form much of a sensible opinion on the prologue alone. You seem to be aware that the prologue is a bit vague, which is why I'm prepared to wait for Chapter One before really deciding whether I like it or not. One thing I will say is to make sure that the prologue isn't too disconnected from the story as you tell it in the first few chapters. If the prologue isn't "explained" for a long time then you might find that you're just frustrating your readers from the get-go rather than hooking them in.

Technical accuracy's fine, the inner monologue here seems kinda old for a nine-year old, but if this is supposed to be a memory that could explain it. Again, I refer you back to giving a least some explanation to the prologue early on in the body of the story. Oh, and since you've labelled it "Mature" you don't need to censor the language

 

[The Dude]

Thanks for your comments. Yeah, truth be told, more than anything else I wanted to have the thread up, to give me the kick in the pants needed to type up/revise Chapter 1 (like a crazy old man, I write all my rough drafts of everything on paper, then type and revise at the same time).
I'm glad you picked up that it's a memory, recalled by someone older.
This is very much tied in to the rest of the story, as Chapter One follows from it, and it establishes themes that will be present throughout the story.
Optimistically, still hoping to have Chapter One up tomorrow or even tonight.

 

[The Dude]

Okay, so, lol at when I said I'd have Chapter One up. But here it is, FINALLY. All criticism is welcome.

EDIT 1: The lines are broken!

EDIT 2: The Garry conversation's been cut down quite a bit, to make things less enigmatic/inaccessible. Also a bit's been added to the end.

Chapter One: Imprisoned in a Bed

Am I awake?

Everything feels fuzzy, and not in the hugging a Growlithe way. A thought passes through. Is this the entrance to the afterlife? I swat that idea away. There is no beyond; death is the period at the end of a life sentence. I don’t know this for sure, but my empirical experience suggests it, and my gut concurs. Moving on then, I’m taking suggestions self. My thoughts?

I want a banana.

Zazo’s probably hungry now.

Did the Roserades win the ball game?

I wonder why she threw me out a window.

Wait, back up. What’s that last one?

Window, window, she threw me out the window.

Last thing I remember, I dropped ten stories. Okay, maybe I am dead. A ten story defenestration tends to be fatal. On the other hand, I think I recall falling feet first. Just my luck, I might be crippled. Do I remember the “her” the stray thought refers to? No, it’s not coming to me. There’s a certainty of the gender and a feeling of shock, but no identification.

Feel something, T., reach out for one of your senses, or else miraculously discover latent psychic abilities. I feel nothing for a great long time.

But then, something after all; a feeling of pressure builds inside of me. I know this feeling. Reaching into my memory vault, I pull out the file on that sensation. Oh, no. I gotta pee.

And there it goes. On the upside, the piss activates more nerves. I can feel my private parts, my thighs, and my butt, a little bit. It’s kind of warm.

Another sense turns on. Of course, it’s smell. Somebody fed me asparagus, the absolute fucker. It makes piss smell like distilled essence of landfill.

Then, a noise sounds. “BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.” A machine sounds a tone at regular intervals. I’ve seen enough medical dramas to recognize a heart monitor, and its presence comforts me. I like hearing, but also it tells me where I am, and a little information about my condition.

Let’s play detective here, T.: observe, gather the evidence, and deduce. Point one: I’m not wearing underwear, it feels like. Point two: I remember falling out a window. Point three: It doesn’t seem like I can move anything. Point four: there’s a heart monitor-like sound. Point five: I was fed asparagus recently.

Conclusion: I’m in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors (presumably also an IV drip, but I can’t feel my arms yet to confirm), and I was unconscious for long enough to necessitate force-feeding. Because, realistically, I would die before willingly ingesting asparagus. Right?

Sure. Yep. Of course. DEATH BEFORE ASPARAGUS.

It’s a principled stand, one I’ve believed in longer than anything else. Back in the orphanage, they never could get those sickly green spears down my throat. One staff member almost lost a finger trying. I wish he had lost it.

Hey, here we go, the prickling feeling of nerves waking up’s starting. Aaaaagh. It’s horribly itchy, and I can’t scratch. Spiders, spiders dancing all over my body. And then the tingling’s the least of my problems. A leg wakes up, and announces agonizing pain. I hear a scream from somewhere in the distance. It could have come from me. Or not, I can’t really tell.

Can we go back to feeling nothing here?

I realize my mouth’s definitely awake only when I bite down hard on my tongue. Sense number four arrives for the party, in the form of a metallic, salty flavor.

Vampires must have broken taste buds.

Yes, that sure is the taste of blood. Welcome inasmuch as I’m glad I can taste things, but it’s a terrible taste.

Hey, if we can feel our legs, we’re not paralyzed!

Excellent point, self. My spine must still be intact. Might still be crippled though, depending on how fucked up the left leg is. Wait, am I sure it’s the left leg?

Yeah.
Pretty sure.

Also, come to think of it, if I can bite my tongue, I’m not like that guy in that one film I saw on cable late at night. Bathysphere, I think it was. Dude could only move one of his eyes. But this needs further testing. I try moving the tongue, and it obligingly rotates around my mouth.

So, I have touch, smell, hearing, taste. Come on eyes, you slackers. Open up now. Show me the light. My face gets a serious case of the spiders as I strain to open my eyelids. Groaning from the effort, I finally manage to open them a crack.

Bright white light, humming fluorescence. A pattern of dots comes into focus. Is it some kind of arcane code? I can solve this. I spend entirely too long trying to puzzle it out or connect the dots, before I realize it’s just a ceiling tile. Okay, that’s probably all I’m getting from sight until I can move my head and body.

Next step, here we go. Let’s talk. I’m already making a little noise, and my mouth is active.

“Uggggggggggghhhhhffffffffffffrrrrrrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuuuuuuuuoooooooooohhhhh.”

A good start. One sound this time.

“Ffffffffffffff.”

Control. After that sound, another. Then another. String them together, and you have words.

“Ffffffffuuuuuuuhhhhhhhh.”

Alright, almost there. I’m doing a great job, if I do say so myself.

“Ffffffffffffuuuuuuuhg….FUCK!”

I curse quite loudly, and then continue repeating the same curse over and over, like a sailor’s Chatot. Ah, hell, I probably alerted the doctors.

Over some sort of intercom, a woman’s voice, nasal and shrill, says “Doctor Chaboise to Room 413, Doctor Chaboise to Room 413.”

Because I’m a stubborn ass, I decide to get as active as I can by the time she arrives. With great difficulty, I manage to wake my neck up, and twist it to see what’s in the room. I’m on a high bed. The room seems quite spare, and it lacks a certain something one might expect for the room of a teenager in a coma. I see no flowers, no cards, no gigantic plush Teddiursa.

What were we expecting, really?
But I thought she cared about me enough to…

I remember. I wish to the Gods I did not, but it comes to me, the memory of her face yet not her face, a mask worn by a monster. At least, that’s what I hope.

Doctor Chaboise turns out to be a rail-thin, freakishly tall woman with sad eyes and a long broken nose.

What, they run out of fun doctors?

In a characteristically grave tone, she says “Miss Lange, is it? I am glad to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

I consider an array of responses, from frank to affectless to irreverent.

TELL HER SHE LOOKS LIKE A GOZZLING.

I am not going to do that. I settle on confused.

“Wh…wh…wherrre ammmm I?”

I sound positively special, goddamn.

“You are in the Long Term Care Ward of Dialga’s Infinite Mercy Hospital. You’ve been here,”
She hesitates.

“How long do you think you’ve been here?”

“A cup-cup-couple day?”

GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER MOUTH.

Dr. Chaboise says “You have been in a comatose state for 27 days.”

My face makes an attempt at looking shocked, but I can only imagine how bizarre it looks to the doctor. Twenty seven days is a long time, days I’ll never get back, days stolen from me.

“Has my mother been here? Is she here right nouggh?” I cough a bit.

The good doctor shifts uncomfortably, and then changes the subject. With what must be her ‘talking to cancer kids’ voice, she says “Oh, dear, there is someone who would very much like to see you.”

Don’t patronize me, lady. I’m not a …well I’m almost not a kid anymore. Seven months.

Dr. Chaboise crosses round to the other side of the bed, and bends down where I can’t see. She comes back up holding the best damn living thing ever in the entire universe, in my humble opinion. It’s a big, fluffy, yellow, and marvelous beyond all description. The Mareep snores a little, and sparks come from her blue snout. Slowly, the doctor places her on the bed beside me.

“Zazo! Zazo, wake up.”

She rouses quickly. Zazo blinks, and then for a long time we hold eye contact. I don’t need to say anything. She knows, and I know.
Then she curls up next to me. The static on her fur stings, but it’s a familiar pain. Zazo’s electricity calms me, lets me know that I’m alive, and safe.

Dr. Chaboise asks “Miss Lange, do you need some time alone?”

“No. Tell me about my leg.”

“The bones in your left leg shattered upon impact, allowing the rest of your body to escape injury, aside from the blow to the head. We have done what we can to repair the leg, but there’s steps that can be taken now that you are awake.”

“What?”

“Law requires me to receive your permission before starting the treatment.”

“Why?”

“The issue is that the treatment is synthesized from the blood of several types of pokemon. Some patients have religious or moral objections.”

“I’m not religious, or moral. Do it.”

Dr. Chaboise scrawls something on her clipboard.

“Do you need anything else Miss Lange?”

Do I? Probably, but nothing seems that pressing at the moment. Then I feel the dampness around my thighs.

“Nurse. Pissed myself.”

The doctor blanches, and rushes out of the room.


Over the next several hours, I am never alone. Nurses, doctors, and technicians crowd around me like vultures over a corpse.

That’s quite rude.

Look, I’m just sick of people standing over me and poking at me with things. They plunge the giant syringe with the pokemon blood treatment right down into the bone, and contrary to the kind-faced fat nurse’s gentle assurances, it FUCKING HURTS. At least they take out the IV drip, and remove the heart monitor. Other than the leg, I’m fine.

When the fat nurse comes back, I guilt her into getting me food that absolutely does not contain asparagus. I mean, she owes me, for lying, right? She also switches on the TV, and adjusts my bed for ideal viewing. If guilt tripping a person into doing things for me is wrong somehow, I don’t want to be right.

On the TV, there’s some kind of televised match. Kanto invitational, broadcast on PLBN2. On one side of the field stands a confident-looking young man, around my age, wearing a blue jacket with the initials “IS” in big gold cursive. He also wears a wispy mustache.

Idiot probably thinks it looks manly.

The announcer calls the young man Istvan. On the other side, a short, rugged-looking middle aged man takes a drag off a cigarette. Istvan is shouting at his Blastoise. The older man nonchalantly tells his Grumpig to bounce.

“Istvan sees the writing on the wall,” one announcer says.

“Oh, yeah, that’s gotta be tough. Kid’s the champ one year, and the next, he might be out in the first round. And in a 6-0 blowout, no less. We haven’t even seen the rest of Russell’s team!”

Istvan scowls, as he orders Blastoise to withdraw into her shell. There’s a rumble in the stadium, a buzzing among the crowd.

Istvan’s opponent says “Remember what we planned, Psych Up” and the Grumpig’s eyes glow. Then his entire body glows.

Istvan orders “Skull Bash!”, and, unexpectedly, the pig pokemon just stands there and waits as the Blastoise charges. Confused, Istvan frantically consults his PokeNav.

As he does, one of the announcers says “Great play by Russell. His Grumpig used the Psych Up technique to copy the defensive boost Blastoise gained from withdrawing into its shell.”

It’s too late to stop the Skull Bash, as the turtle rams the pig. Blastoise lands on its belly, but the Grumpig easily floats to its feet. With the defense boost, he shrugs off the powerful physical attack like it’s a basic tackle.

His trainer says “Let the turtle fly,” and he obliges, using Psychic to fling Blastoise clear across the arena. She smashes into the arena wall, and crumples.

A chime sounds, and the referee says “Blastoise is unconscious. Istvan is out of usable pokemon, so the victor of this match is Ross.”

The view cuts to Istvan’s cheering section, where a dozen girls sob hysterically. And then it cuts back to the winner of the match, Ross Russell. Russell hi-fives his Grumpig, and the two leave the arena together. Istvan kneels next to the Blastoise, stroking the giant turtle’s head.

I know a Grumpig. It’s kind of cool seeing one battle after basically living with one for over four years.

Werner probably used to battle like that.

But wait. What the commentators say next turns everything topsy-turvy, like an Inkay.

“Ross Russell’s major league debut has everyone talking, especially about his Grumpig, Werner.”

“Well, we’ve got Ross here in the broadcaster’s booth to talk about Werner, and how he beat Istvan Stoczjevski.”

The camera dual screens, between the broadcaster’s booth and a locker room, where Ross sits. Ross is a salt-and-pepper haired bruiser with a wide, many-times-broken nose, dark brown eyes, and a distinctive scar running from the corner of his right eye down to his neck. But his voice is incongruously melodic, smooth, and even gentle.

He says “Believe it or not, I got Werner in a trade, not all that long ago. Best trade I ever made, I’d say. You know how rough it can be, training a traded pokemon? This wasn’t like that at all. Werner and me, we got on famously from the get-go.”

“Who did you get him from, if I might ask?”

“Hahahaha, it’s kind of a funny story. Believe it or not, I met this lady in a bar. They were having a Trainer Night; anyone with a trainer’s license gets half off pints. Nice deal. Anyway, this chick says she’s done being a trainer, and asks me if I’m one. She’s looking for a surfing pokemon. As luck would have it, at that time I thought I could train a Wailord. But, you know, they’re huge.”

The commentator interjects “Oh, I have a little firsthand experience with Wailords. Mine popped outta its ball, damn near destroyed my house.”

Both men chuckle. Ross says “Yup, best trade I ever made.”

“I’m sure the biggest question on our viewers’ minds right now is: how did you do it? Istvan is a globally ranked master, and six months ago, if I’m not mistaken, you were a boxer? What’s your secret?”

Ross pauses for a second, and then gives a crooked smile.

“I guess boxing prepared me for the mental aspect of this sport. When you get right down to it, psychologically, they’re the same. The give and take, scouting for weaknesses, stalling, constantly searching for an opening.”

“In this metaphor, pokemon are the fists?”

“Uh, sure. Except, with pokemon, it ain’t about ordering something of yours to do something, and it happens. Some people think that way, but the people that know different, like me, have the advantage. Pokemon think and feel, and they got their own ideas. They can be creative. So, as a trainer, you have got to trust your pokemon.”

“Do you think that’s Istvan’s problem?”

“Yeah. The kid obviously cares about his pokemon, but he doesn’t give ‘em enough trust.”

“Kids these days, right?”

“Nah, it’s an all ages problem.”

“What about the next match, Ross? You’re up against either Marlowe Bannister or Kielle Vitansky. Tough competition either way. Which would you prefer to go up against?”

“Vitansky, easily. I don’t really want another blowout. I want a real match. Bannister’s…I dunno, I feel rude trash-talking a possible future opponent, man. Look, I gotta go. I have a date, actually.”

“Oh, well good luck, Mr. Russell.”

It cuts to commercial break.

Holy hell.
What is Werner doing with that man?
Jennifer wouldn’t trade him away like that, would she?

I try running scenarios, but nothing makes sense. Ross’s bar story sounds like Tauros shit, that’s for sure. My mind races, but then abruptly slows down. Oh. The nurse is craftier than I gave her credit for. Must’ve been ground up sleeping pill in the applesauce. Yeah that’s….


“T, awaken. We have much to discuss.”

The voice is unmistakable, breathless and overdramatic. I groan, as I rub the sleep out of my eyes.

“Sydney.”

The visitor sits in a chair on the left side of the bed, holding a steaming cup of something; probably green tea. Sydney Stanwyck has long shiny blonde hair, stunningly blue eyes, sensitive lips; and of course a classy purple ensemble. Jacket, pants, and an ascot.

Who wears an ascot in this day and age?

But Sydney wouldn’t be Sydney if he wasn’t a tremendous fop.

“Hullo, T. I am glad to see you’ve rejoined the land of the living. For quite a time, it seemed your fall might be fatal. There was a day where I had to scream at the hospital staff not to unplug you, the idiots. I knew. I knew you wouldn’t give up that easily. You’re too bloody stubborn.”

He allows himself to look faintly concerned, which is pretty amazing. Stanwyck tends to keep his emotions locked in a pretty box, covered in a wrap of fashionable detachment. It serves him well as a policeman, with all the brutal shit he sees. But it drives me insane. It is a rare, and beautiful thing when he lets a tiny little shred of something real slip out.

He continues talking. “You don’t have to worry about the medical bills. I’m picking up the tab. Just concentrate on getting better, dear. I’m told you shall be starting physical therapy on the morrow.”

“Thanks. Where’s Jennifer?”

If I expected him to be bothered by the question, I’m sorely disappointed.

“Vanished. Your fall triggered a complex series of events that lead Jennifer to an inevitable confrontation. One I strongly advised her against, by the way. But that is no longer my business. If the International Police wish you to know it, their emissary coming tomorrow will tell you.”

“You’re not here in an official capacity.”

“No, of course not. I may not have shown it, but Officer Lange was a close friend. She saved my life more times than I can count. And I made a promise. One I intend to keep to the best of my ability.”

“Who was Jennifer confronting? Was it Coen?”

“I cannot confirm or deny that. But…she is no longer considered an officer of the International Police. She took extreme actions.”

“Have you talked to Ross Russell?”

He frowns for a second. “Where did you…?” He looks at the TV, and then nods.

“In fact, we have. Russell’s story checks out, to a degree. A woman matching Jennifer’s description was seen by the bartender talking to Russell 3 weeks ago. But that is the last time she was ever seen.”

“Could Russell…”

“Werner swears no.”

“What.”

“Werner corroborates the story in full. Normally, pokemon are not considered unbiased witnesses on their trainer’s behalf, but knowing Werner’s impeccable character, the inescapable conclusion is that Russell has not lied.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Listen, Tamara. We must proceed on the assumption Jennifer isn’t reappearing any time soon. What, then, happens to you?”

Part of me doesn’t want to admit the possibility. But I’ve never been a chump. Denial is for chumps. The writing’s on the wall here. Plus, from what I remember, and what I suspect, I can only imagine what she’s done.

“I don’t know.”

“Jenny knew. I did not know, when we last lunched together, that would be our last chat. In retrospect it seems obvious, but everything seems obvious in retrospect, doesn’t it? She asked me to look after you if anything should happen.”

“Yeah, you told me that.”

“She wanted you to attend a serious school, somewhere to set you up for a stable career, promising steady employment. She wanted you to study a serious subject like business, engineering, medicine, or science; one of those practical studies. Jenny wanted for you a normal life.”

It takes me a while to digest this.

A normal life? Really, Jennifer?

I can’t even picture myself wearing business clothes.

It’s typical, controlling Tauros shit.

Maybe it is better that she’s gone. I can imagine her giving me that death glare until I put on a fucking blouse, skirt, and, oh gods, heels, for the big interview at some boring serious corporate office.

HOW DARE SHE.

No. No we are not doing this. It’s easy. I buck authority as a reflex, and have done my whole life. Let’s be somewhat reasonable, and not a petty teenager, for once.

Sydney interrupts my thoughts. “Normal doesn’t mean the same as boring, really it doesn’t.”

“You don’t believe that, Syd.”

Sydney points at me with a well-manicured finger.

“I believe you can be much happier if you make peace with the world.”

I cross my arms and stick out my tongue.

“The world’s gonna have to give up some concessions first.”

He shakes his head emphatically. “The world owes you nothing, girl. And it will give you nothing.”

This does not come as news to me.

“No, it cares. It wants to make me suffer. The world enjoys my pain. It laughs at my pain. What’s the Alleman word…schaudenfreude?”

I start to tear up, which really bothers Sydney. Has he forgotten I have magic tear ducts?

Must’ve.
Awesome.

He hands me a handkerchief. Oh Sydney. You have fallen prey to the power of a girl’s tears.

“T, you don’t have to go to an elite academy. In my book, you’re an adult, and can make your own choices.”

All the bad, shitty parts of me seize on that remark. Right on the verge of saying “Okay, then, I won’t go!” the cavalry arrives. I owe Jennifer so much. My life, probably, and certainly my sanity. Even if she did try to kill me. But I have a pretty good idea what was going on there.

So I say “Yeah, I do have to go. For Jennifer. But look, if I don’t like it, I reserve the right to leave.”

“But you must give it a chance. You never know, you might enjoy it after all. You’re smarter than you realize, Tamara.”

“Alright. I’ll give it a shot.”

“At least a week.”

“Okay.”

We shake hands.

In the next week, as I undergo physical rehab, I get a number of visitors, mostly Jennifer’s police colleagues, and a few teachers from school. All of these visits turn out pleasantly enough, except Garry’s. I never really warmed up to Jennifer’s boss, and in the past he tended towards stiff formality when talking to me. I know he has a sense of humor, I just never saw it. Felt like there was some sort of unresolvable tension between us. When he comes, it’s on police business: my official statement about my attacker, and questions about Jennifer.

I don’t see him come in, as I have my attention on the TV, watching a retrospective on a gym leader that just died. Still boggles the mind how silently he moves, given his size and weight.

First, I hear heavy breathing, and I turn to see a mass of gleaming metal standing next to my bed.

“Garry?”

He turns, and I see a terrifying thing, a gigantic armor plated lizard with wickedly sharp horns and an equally sharp jaw. But his pale blue eyes water with emotion. In a low clanking voice, sounding almost like a robot from a terrible sci-fi movie, he says “Hello to you, Tamara Lange.”

“Hi.”

“I would not wish to disturb you, but it is urgent. We must find Officer Lange.”

“How would I know anything? She disappeared after my fall, right?”

Garry does what must be the Aggron equivalent of a shrug.

“You know her, better than any. Where would she go?”

With a quivering lip and wet eyes, I say “Please, Garry. Tell me what happened. It’s all so confusing.”

Behind those little blue eyes, I can see the gears turning.

Then he says “I am sorry. I do not have authorization to tell you.”

“Absolute Tauros shit.”

“Please believe Tamara Lange, I would tell you if I were not explicitly forbidden from doing so.”

I recall a conversation with Jennifer from about a week before the fall. She said the new bosses at the International Police were pricks. They were trying to force out Jennifer and her team through constant interference and micromanagement. So, I do believe Garry. Hell if I’m not gonna rake him over the coals, though.

“You owe me an explanation.”

“Again, I apologize. And, too, for what I must ask from you. Please, tell me the identity of the one who threw you out the window of your apartment.”

I ain’t telling you shit, Garry. Not until you tell me what happened.

“It was an accident,” I say with my best poker face. People tell me I can be downright unreadable, and I like to think that’s true. But Garry’s no ordinary person. He’s not a human being, in fact.

“No.”

“No?”

“You could not have tripped and fallen with sufficient force to shatter the window. Nor would any sort of tripping launch you high enough into the air. It is clear to me you are being untruthful.”

“Okay. Sorry. I-I-I didn’t want to admit it. I jumped.”

Garry closes his eyes for a second, breathes in and out, and then opens them again. He makes eye contact with me, and holds it for an unnervingly long time. I hold on as long as I can, but it isn’t long enough. My eyes close briefly, offering relief, and defeat.

“You don’t scare me, Garry. I know you too well.”

“The point is not to scare you, Tamara Lange. For many generations, my species practiced a ritual, translatable as the Fire of Seeing. You might call it a fancy name for a staring contest, but our mythology said that when two locked together in the fiery intensity of true, unflinching eye contact, the stronger could see the truth in the weaker one’s eyes. I am no conservative zealot, but I value the old folk ways, and at times rituals such as the Fire of Seeing prove to possess real power. Tamara Lange, you hold within you a great power, but in the Fire of Seeing, I have seen that there is much you would not have me know. That is unwise. As Jennifer would say, you need to ‘come clean’.”

“Don’t invoke Jennifer to persecute me.”

Garry grinds two claws together, creating a deeply unpleasant noise. It’s what he does instead of raising his voice.

“I could show you real persecution, Tamara Lange. I believe you know what it looks like, and you do not wish to experience it again. Would you like me to find a switch? That could be arranged.”

“You’re bluffing,” I snarl at him.

“More than you? The Fire of Seeing has shown me that in totality everything you have said to me and every gesture you have made has been deception. I do not understand why.”

He seems genuinely sad, and puzzled. Holy shit, Garry, you’ve dealt with people lying to protect others they love who have done bad things. You ought to understand.

“Jump in a volcano, Garry.”

“Sydney warned me about you. He was correct. It appears you have no interest in giving information to the International Police.”

“You have got to give to get, Garry. Nothing from you, nothing from me.”

He nods. “I understand. I am unable to provide you with the information you seek, so I cannot, in turn, ask for the information I seek from you.”

“We are at an impasse, then.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I cannot tell you anything, but I am here to ask you questions. Why would Jennifer Lange climb to the top of Mt. Coronet?”

Was that so hard, Garry?

“You know as well as I do, she wasn’t well. Off the deep end, I guess you could say. She had a conspiracy theory she was obsessed with, something to do with Gods. I don’t know the details, but you know, in some stories, Mt. Coronet is the Crucible of the Gods, some nonsense like that. I guess it fits the pattern. But look, Garry, I’m tired. Do you understand that I’m in a lot of pain right now?”

“Thank you, Tamara Lange. I am sorry for upsetting you. Good luck to you in your recovery and all future endeavors.”

“I hope you never find her.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I think it is quite likely we never will. Who could disappear better than a member of the International Police?”

Good point. But if they won’t find her, what chance will I have? Garry shuffles out of the room, waving with a claw as he does. I wave back, but he’s already gone.

Five days into my physical therapy, I can walk on my own, using crutches. This is pretty huge, because I can reach the toilet now. No more wetting myself or nurses picking me up awkwardly and holding me over a bucket. Assured by the nurses that I can do it, I shimmy out of bed, and grabbing the crutches, hobble my way over to the bathroom. A nurse opens the door for me, and I go in. I’m on my way to the toilet, when I see the mirror.

Damn, that girl’s got a scratched up face. The eyebrows are too thick, and it looks like she hasn’t eaten in weeks, she’s so gaunt. And the hair, it’s so long and greasy! She’s tall like me, though, that’s something. I stick out my tongue, and she mimics me, with a smug look in her pale green eyes.

I must be pretty woozy from the pain meds, because it takes me a few minutes of making weird faces to realize I’m looking at a reflection of myself.

That night, I sit on the bed watching a stupid animated sitcom with Zazo.

“Am I ugly, Zazo?”

Zazo emphatically shakes her head.

“Ah, what do you know, you’re just a little lamb.”

On the screen, a Nidoqueen in an apron slaps her husband, a Nidoking wearing a baseball cap. There’s canned laughter, but it’s not particularly funny.

Abuse is never really funny.

I search for the remote and Zazo gestures. Oh, it’s fallen off the bed, goddammit. I could try to get it, but I’d still run the risk of humiliating myself.
“Should I call the nurse?”

Zazo looks at the remote, and shakes her head. She hops off the bed, and carefully grabs it with her mouth. Then she hops back up, and drops the remote right by my hand.

“Uh. You didn’t have to do that. That’s what nurses are for, silly.”

Zazo gives me a look.

“Yeah, okay, I know nurses aren’t servants. Servants don’t stick needles in you when you tell them not to, for one.”

Ignoring Zazo’s judgmental stare, I grab the remote, and switch channels.

A local wrestling match, could be interesting. Damn! I know it’s fake, but that chair slam looks really nasty.

Oh, a reality show, I hate these. But sometimes watching them makes me feel pretty good. Two overly made up women with gigantic manes of blonde hair scream at each other, and then dig their nails into each other’s faces. People tell me these are members of the same species as me, but I’m not sure about that. This is too nasty, too violent.

Here we go, nature program. Nothing can possibly go wrong here. OH NO. That’s a Deerling carcass.

Nope nope nope nope.

Finally, I find the least violent program possible: a public access show about local politics. People drone on and on about the school bond, zoning issues, ordinances about battling in the city, whether to legalize gambling.

Maybe Sydney’s right. Boring’s not so bad. Nobody dies, nobody gets hurt.

My arm around Zazo, I drift off into sleep.

 

[Beth Pavell]

Ok, so I've had this one earmarked for further reading:

Technical Accuracy/Style
Needs some serious tidying up. Very much a wall of text, and when you're writing fanfiction, you can't make the story awkward to read. My eyes were beginning to blur by the end of it. So, line break after every paragraph, and preferably between speech as well. The breaker lines between scenes are a bit messy too - it doesn't really matter what you use for a breaker line, so long as it's standardised. The breaker line is effectively punctuation, and punctuation should be "invisible" - that is, there, but interpreted so quickly that the reader doesn't really notice that it's there. Similar thing goes for inner dialogue - that is, thoughts written out like dialogue. For the most part they're italicised, and that's fine, but make sure that they're consistent

Story
I'm not sure where to start here. I don't dislike the general ideas in this story. I'm not usually a fan of PMD-style talking pokémon, and less so of pokémon as gods, but I'm always willing to be pleasantly surprised. The problem is that for nearly 6,000 words, this is far too cryptic. There's a fine line between setting up a mystery to hook the reader in and so mysterious as to be impenetrable, and I think you're on the impenetrable side. You've got half the chapter taken up by two long conversations that really don't tell the reader much. It's tiresome to read, because it doesn't make any more sense the more you read.

I think you would be better served by cutting the conversation with Garry and replacing it with some character building for Tamara. Who is she? What makes her tick? Let's see a slice of her life in the hospital, now she's up and about. That way we're more likely to care about her missing adoptive mother when the time comes to talk about her.

Characters
Tamara ... I'm on the fence with her at the moment. She does come across as a teenager, and that's a good start. Her inner monologue bounces between the loquacious and the vulgar, and I'm not certain whether I like that yet or not. Her waking up scene takes a long time to get going and suggests and analytical frame of mind, but we don't see a lot of that in subsequent scenes. I almost want to suggest that you remember to use words that Tamara would use rather than ones that you would, but I'm not sure if that's what you were shooting for in the first place.

Final Thoughts
I'll be honest - this needs some work. Don't be afraid to go back and edit published chapters if you have to - I do so in response to feedback and I've ended up with some chapters that are much better for it.

 

[The Dude]

Thanks! I intend to do some editing. I'm not super fond of the Garry conversation either, and it could be cut without hurting anything because it is WAY too cryptic.
As for the character's language, she's supposed to be both vulgar and loquacious, so I'm glad you picked up on that. There's supposed to be a constant tension between her intelligence and her petty angst, but I'll work on making that clearer.
Definitely going to fix the lines. I was wondering if that was the standard way.


EDIT: LINE BREAKS FIXED. The Garry conversation's going to be seriously trimmed, but not cut, and the last scene will be much expanded. Hopefully tonight. I'm realizing I really don't want to even touch on the Gods stuff this early. It's too confusing and large scale at this point.

 

[Flaze]

I learned a new word yay! (adds loquacious to his dictionary)

Plot: Okay, first of all....I don't quite have a concrete idea of exactly what the story will be about, neither do I have much of an idea in regards to why the Pokemon are talking but I do assume that at least we'll find out eventually...I hope xD it's a bit confusing to know that there are Pokemon that go around on their own and can talk while others are treated like Pokemon are normally treated but I trust that this will be explained. Other than that I don't have much to say from what we have.

What was presented in the prologue and the first chapter did intrigue me and makes me believe that this will be pretty interesting, seems like it'll have a bit of a mystery edge to it aside from having adventure (I think Tamara is most likely going to look for Jennifer) but who knows since this story is just starting after all. There's also the mystery regarding what happened in the prologue but aside from that there isn't much to go on but at least it's enough to keep me interested, though maybe giving a little more info in the next chapter will probably work better.

Characters: Much like the story the characters remain as mostly a mystery to me. It is a bit hard to connect with Tamara right now I have to admit, mostly because of the fact that her type of personality is one that I've seen a lot. Sarcastic but amusing and troubled teenagers are abundant and while I do find some of the things she says funny her general character so far is still threading on familiar soil. That's not a bad thing though, especially since it's just the first chapter, but I do recommend focusing more on fleshing out her character more in furture chapters.

Style: Well I'm certainly glad you fixed the problem with the spaces because I was honestly scared to read when I saw that. Aside from that I think what you've got so far works well enough, I didn't notice any big grammar mistakes and I think there was good amounts of description considering the fact our protagonist was just waking up and it is first person so it relates a lot to how the character is feeling or was feeling.

 

[Life]

Here for the Review Game!!!!

I'll start with the negatives since I think it's better to end on a positive note.

My first comment that I have to say is that you wrote in waaay too many plot-lines. The Gods? International Police? Pokemon Tournament? Werner? Missing person? Hospitalized protagonist? When you're the reader who doesn't know the big picture, it's too much to make sense of. That is not to say I'm intrigued with these events, just that it's too much for the reader to handle, especially at chapter one. I'm sure that you're just trying to set up the story, and that's great, but again, it's hard to make sense of.

Second thing, and maybe this is just my incompetence, but I didn't realize Garry was an Aggron until after I finished the chapter, read the two other reviews, and went back to reread the Garry conversation. Talking Pokemon isn't a huge issue for me, but it leaves me confused as to who's a human and who's not. Is Garry just a weird exception to rule of Pokemon can't talk, or are most names in the story that of Pokemon? Again, I'm sure this will all be explained later- and that's perfectly fine- but for me, I'm more confused then intrigued at this point.

But those are really the only bad things I can say. I think the grammar and spelling (as far as I saw) is flawless, and I like Tamara. From what you have shown, she seems to be a character with quite a bit of depth and personality, so that's good. I'm also a fan of Zazo, if only because she's cute. You've done a good job to make me read your entire chapter in one sit, because most chapters with 4,000+ words will bore me by the end of it. Though you do use a good vocabulary, the style makes the story easy to read, which I enjoy greatly.

Oh, and it appears that you had a formatting problem at first, but everything looked fine when I read it. So A+ there. Just remember to always double space when you're posting to these forums, because one big chunk of black text isn't very appealing.

Overall, I think this is a good start to what I predict will be a big undertaking. Good luck!

 

[Beth Pavell]

Since Life seems to have forgotten to post their review in the Game, here's mine! I know I've already reviewed this chapter, but since it's been revised I'll find as much new to say as I can.

First of all, much better. The formatting makes it ten times easier to read, which means that I'm ten times more willing to stick with it. Still look like there are a few inconsistencies here and there with the line breaks, but nothing another read-through couldn't fix. I feel like maybe you need a simple breaker line in there to separate the scenes, but the narrative does make it clear where one scene ends and another begins, so something to just bear in mind, I think.

The revised second half of the chapter works MUCH better. There's a mystery there, but it's no longer so mysterious as to be annoying. Better use of mundane events to show off more of Tamara's character now. Her inner monologue feels a bit realer this time round - she now feels more like a character with layers.

Small nit-pick, but it goes to casual characterisation anyway - I don't believe a doctor would react that way to a patient having pissed herself. It takes a lot to squick out a doctor, and even more to squick out a nurse. They will, after all, have had to deal with all manner of squishy things going through med school