Pokemon Fan Fiction / Pokemon Fan Fiction ❯ Requiem of a Dream ❯ Prelude ( Prologue )

Disclaimer: I, sadly, do not own Pokemon, which belongs to its specified companies. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning all the characters, plots, and events that are in this story.

 

A.N.: To my readers, yes it has been awhile. I've been drastically trying to improve my writing skill, and I hope that this new story will help solidify what I'm trying to do. Sincerely, I hope all those, reviewers, and non-reviewers, enjoy this story immensely, though I'll gladly accept any thoughts, suggestions, and criticism's and what have you.

 

Requiem of a Dream

 

By: Saffire Persian

 

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Prelude

A piece or movement that serves as an introduction to another section or composition and establishes the key.

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Thunder rumbled ominously across the midnight sky, while chilling rain pelted the earth below, coalescing with the soggy dirt and grass. The wind was a violent maelstrom of activity, swirling and buffeting all the unfortunates that had chose to weather out the storm, outside and unprotected. The sky above was clouded, darkened with a thousand shades of black. The stars and moon were all but gone, swallowed entirely by the dark, malicious clouds that now blanketed the sky above the city. They were greedy, swallowing everything that came into their path, blanketing the world below in darkness.

 

Lightning raced across the sky, illuminating the ground below for a few brief moments, then whisking away back up into the clouds that sent them, before darting down to tease the ground again. The pattern continued, as if in some malicious jest upon the inhabitants that could do nothing, trapped in their pitiful dwellings. The thunder's voice seemed to echo that statement, voice laced with unprecedented malice. It was mocking them, especially mocking him.

 

Castor was alone, perched atop a flat roofed building, ruby eyes gazing upon the desolate city. The wind buffeted his thick, silky fur, while the rain soaked his already bedraggled body to the core. He was cold, but found he did not care. The Absol's gaze was fierce and watchful, but obviously distressed. Castor's emotions and thoughts were as tumultuous as the storm that now assaulted the island city of Sootopolis. Confused and for once at a loss of what to do, he stood there, watching, waiting . . .

 

For what?

 

A friend. A light in the darkness.

 

Why?

 

To prove everything wrong. To prove himself wrong.

 

But was he wrong? Was he some how at fault?

 

Castor did not know. He could only hope.

 

He felt powerless, like a blind newborn that relied upon its mother for constant care and vigilance. A newborn could do nothing. Nothing. His efforts sitting, ever watchful, had yielding nothing. For three hours he had sat, an immovable sentinel upon the rain soaked roof, scouring the ground below with desperate eyes, wishing to catch a glimpse of a certain Pokemon. He had braved the torrential winds and rain, ignoring all physical and mental discomforts in hope of waylaying his friend, and reviving the wings of hope that had died in him some time ago. If he could at least save one life - one life that actually meant something to him - he would be satisfied.

 

But Castor had not seen her. He knew she must have already crossed the paved walkways in the darkness, determined to pursue her ultimate fate. How he had missed her, he did not know. All of his attention had been devoted to that one task: finding her. It was a simple task that anyone should have been able to do. But he had failed . . . again.

 

Crrracck.

 

Lightning flashed, following by an ominous roar. Castor braced himself against the buffeting wind as it slammed into his body with all the might of a deadly tidal wave. Thrown back a few paces, Castor closed his eyes, claws digging into the cement surface, trying to find purchase as best he could

 

A vision assaulted him again, far more powerful than whatever disaster could beset him. The vision came upon him so fierce and sudden, he cried out, terrified.

 

To think the things that occurred in the realm of imaginary could be so much more terrible than the things that existed realm of reality. He knew what the vision was about before it had the chance to fully make itself known, but that did not stop it from coming. The world around him faded. The screaming of the wind lessened, and the amorphous drops of water evaporated, until all that was left to his perception was that of what the vision willed.

 

He was in almost completely enveloped in darkness, the ancient smell of wet and stale air assaulting his sense of smell; but even more overwhelming was the smell of death; the smell of rot and blood. His vision began to focus, pupils dilating to take in all of the available light.

 

Even the dark could not protect him from the scene before him. Castor saw the blood, the twisted bodies, and most of all, the shadowed faces in all its hellish glory. He had seen this all before, but that did not take away the sting - the sting the pain, fear, and revulsion that he had been left to deal with from the first encounter. Dizzy and nauseous, Castor noticed the million shard of rock littering the ground around him, points as sharp as a Scyther's blades, and stained with the blood and flesh of those who had met their unfortunate demise. The bodies were broken and cut, twisted at every hideous and unimaginable angle, and the blood that mingled with the rocky earth had almost a life of its own.

 

Castor found his eyes unwillingly lingering on the faces of the dead. Their smiles were haunting, deepening the dark ambience that permeated the cave. Castor wanted to close his eyes, unwilling to look upon the faces of death, but they would not let him go. The eyes were staring at him, beckoning him with their magnetic gazes. Join us, they seemed to say, join us in this dance of death, and find out where you truly belong.

 

Castor flinched, trying to tear his spirit-self away from the scene that had haunted his deepest nightmares, and hunted him in his most pleasant of dreams. It was a plague, a never-ending curse. He hated it. He hated it with every fiber of his being. Nothing would change that.

 

Castor's vision lurched, and was magnified a hundredfold. His vision panned around the scene of destruction, focusing and unfocusing until he found his gaze fixated on a familiar face, dashed with cuts, her eyes were crying tears of red. Castor's throat constricted. Bile rose in his throat.

 

“No!”

 

He threw his spirit body aside, tearing himself away from the fibers that bound him to this alternate reality.

 

He landed hard on his shoulder. He was back on the cement roof, gasping for air. The rain felt welcoming, and the thunder was a glorious herald back to the kingdom of reality. The elated feelings were quickly siphoned away, replaced with the feeling of dread. Castor arose, ignoring the pain that shot through his right shoulder.

 

“I won't let it!!” he hissed. “I won't let it!”

 

He bounded off the building, landing in a swirling mixture of grass and mud. Without a moment's hesitation, he darted down the deserted streets, paw-falls echoing eerily through the deserted alleyways. Castor ignored the rain, he ignored the thunder, he ignored everything but the place of destination:

 

The Cave of Origin.

 

It was a place of beginnings, where everything was rumored to have begun.

 

But was it really? Or was it merely disguised to take on a more fortunate light.

 

To him, it felt like the beginning of the end.

 

++++

 

Entering the Cave of Origin was like breaking the very bonds of reality. Time itself seemed to freeze as the momentum of Castor's bound carried him into the cave that had long haunted his nightmares. The darkness that pervaded the cave was as like a voluminous ebony cloak, thick and suffocating, chasing away any light that dared to try and shine through.

 

Even as a nocturnal creature, Castor's eyes still had trouble adjusting to the sudden lack of light, and the atmosphere only continued to darken, taking on a more sinister shade with every laboring step he took deeper into Origin's tangled web. A deep sense of reluctance flooded his body, and his pace slackened to fit the rhythm of his mood.

 

The living-yet-dead aura that permeated the cave made the fur on the back of his neck rise, and his chest seize up in a faint recognition. The Cave of Origin reminded him of Mt. Pyre, the one other place he had found to possess the otherworldly feeling of something that had not yet been tainted by the touch if time, or rather, had transcended it. It was a feeling that Castor had never expected to feel again. But there was one difference, one tiny detail, that differentiated this place from Mt. Pyre: Mt. Pyre had given him a sense of peace, a cold reassurance of thing to come, the Cave of Origin gave him nothing but uneasiness and foreboding. He had the distinct feeling that he was not welcome here.

 

The pathway was beginning to spiral downwards, a chill wind blowing from some unseen crack in the cavern's walls. The Absol continued on his pathway to the very heart of Origin. A colony of Zubat were the only ones to observe Castor's passage, turning as a single mass to watch his progression. He ignored the chatter and squeaks that following him as went by, concentrating on navigating through Origin Cave.

 

Faintly, he could smell human here, as well as a mixture of other scents, including one of which he never which he never expected. Eyes narrowing, Castor raised his head, pondering the new development.

 

“What could he…”

 

So absorbed in his recent thought, Castor didn't notice the approaching body, until it was almost upon him. Forced to think upon his feet, Castor turned abruptly, legs splaying in a hope to regain balance as his paws scrapped across the rough floor. His foe was relentless, already coming after in a headlong charge. Speeding up, Castor jumped over the humanoid being, landing hard on the rocky floor, using his right forepaw to pivot him to the side.

 

The sudden twisting movement on his right had had proved too fast, too harsh, for his previously injured leg, and within the first sharp wrenching movement, it did what Castor always feared it would do: give out.

 

His balance thrown off, Castor was only quick enough to avoid what might have been a lethal blow. He did not escape the attack entirely, however, the vice-like jaws snapping shut over his front ankle with a sickening crunch, showing no sign of letting go.

 

Castor struggled, instinctively pulling his body away, hoping to release his right leg from large jaws, but to no avail. The harder he pulled, the harder the grip became. Grimacing at the thought, but seeing no alternative, he went into a Swords Dance. The newly created adrenaline coursed through his body like fire through ice. The pain in his limb began to fade away into a dull ache, as the Sword's Dance reached its peak. His body twisted and writhed with the newfound rhythm that jolted through his body; and with a last hard twist, he tore his foreleg free. Not even the Swords Dance could block the sudden acute onset of pain that radiated from his leg, as skin and fur was ripped from it, leaving a bloody, though luckily intact, limb.

 

Castor limped closer to the other wall, tucking the bloody paw close to his body. He didn't dare put any weight on the injured leg, quite certain it was broken. Looking around, seeing that making a mad dash was completely out of the question, Castor assumed a defensive stance. His attacker turned towards him, its jaws spitting out a great clump of white fur. Shimmering red eyes materialized from the darkness, doe-eyed and vulnerable, while its face radiated pure, untainted innocence. A Mawile.

 

It looked like a lost child, hungry and cold, wont for attention. Had it not bit him, Castor might have been moved to sympathy. They made eye contact. The Mawile's ruby eyes brightened up considerably, its dainty mouth curling up in a fanged smile.

 

“Kitty, kitty . . . are you lost, little kitty?” It was a feminine voice, as sweet and pure as honey. A sweet fragrance reminiscent of wildflowers seemed to fill the air at her words.

 

The Mawile was staring at him beseechingly, while the second maw trembled, like it was about to burst into tears. She was expecting an answer, but the sweet scent was fast becoming overpowering.

 

“It's none of your concern,” he finally said, with a snarl, sounding braver than he actually felt. “Get out of my way. Now.”

 

“Lost kitty must learn to be patient, yes?” She laughed, her body quaking with unsuppressed mirth. She took a step forward, hands clasped behind her back. “Poor kitty … lost and all alone. Just like the other kitty, but not for l-o-o-n-g.”

 

“What other `little kitty'? Where?” Castor's attention was roused, and despite the newfound feelings of security, Castor remained defensive. Slowly, he began backing up, towards the other end of the cave. She mimicked his moments, taking one leisurely step at a time. Her gaze was sympathetic, accepting.

 

Like an angel, Castor's mind began to say, the flowery scent filling his mouth and nostrils. His muscles were fast becoming liquid; his mind relaxed; his fears and worries were gushing out from his body in great waves. He stumbled in his backwards stride, leaning against the wall, swaying.

 

The Mawile made a swirling motion with her tiny finger. “Down, down, down. All-l-l-l the way down. Deep down in Origin's belly, all alone. Back to the beginning kitty went, yes.” The Mawile noticed the Absol's perplexed expression. Her grin became wider. Her angelic appearance was beginning to look far more sinister. “Dead.”

 

Castor's posture became rigid, jolting him out of his growing reverie. Castor's red eyes shown with a sudden understanding. Rage filled him, one single thought overpowering all. “You lie!”

 

The Mawile giggled. “Poor kitty.” Her glance became thoughtful, as if recalling some fond memory, her beautiful singing voice now resounded off the cave's walls, mocking in all its angelic, alluring magnificence. She began skipping toward him, each word of her song accented with a graceful bound.

 

“ Bound, Broken, Searching, Fighting . . .”

 

Castor's mouth was curling up into a fierce snarl, full of unprecedented malice. Images from previous visions began to flash through his mind, like intense, blinding flashes of light. The Sweet Scent was making his head spin, and it was become increasingly hard to concentrate. But through the deepening haze, Castor now saw at once what this thing was. She was far from what her appearance belied. She was no angel of mercy, but a fallen one, dammed from whatever heaven that existed upon the earth, bound to this darkness. The sweet smell, Castor realized, was not one of blooming flowers, but decaying ones.

 

“Ripped, Twisted, Fading, Crying . . .”

 

Castor had heard enough. He began to hobble along the rough floor. He had to get out, clear his head of the horrific images that were now flashing spontaneously in his mind's eye with each new syllable.

 

“Lost, Alone, Bloody, Dying . . .”

 

But he had to keep moving. He ignored the singing voice as it came closer and closer, focused only on the thick tendrils of smoke that were curling around him, enveloping his body in its gentle grasp.

 

“Writhing, Reaching, Passing, Sighing . . .”

 

He was phasing out, beginning to disappear in the ebon haze. He pictured the destination in his mind, in all its horrid glory. He had never been there before, but he could see every detail clearly in his mind. He hoped that alone would be enough.

 

The Faint Attack was finally complete, and he vanished, pushing his body through the very fabric of the earth. Whatever continuity time and space held, was shattered as he traveled through a plane of reality that was real, but not quite real. He was concentrating on his destination with everything he had, but something disrupted the teleportation. A body, wrapped in the same Dark-type energy as he, slammed into his ribs. The exultant face of the Mawile filled his vision. Concentration disrupted, both Castor and the Mawile were flung out of the pseudo-dimension, phasing into existence with a loud, echoing crack. Now, they were both falling deep into an abyss with no ending in sight; Castor a solid, white figure, bristling with anger; the Mawile the perfect picture of fallen grace, laughing insanely with glee.

 

Snarling, Castor twisted around as he fell, scratching and biting the steel skin to his best ability, trying to ward off Mawile's persistent advances. In a final act of desperation, he maneuvered himself until he was on top of the spiraling mass. The Quick Attack following gave him the burst of energy he needed to distance himself from the steel-type.

 

Falling fast, and angled to the right, Castor dropped past the Mawile deeper into the expanding crevasse. There were no signs of immediate pursuit, but Castor knew it was only a matter of time until the Mawile became annoyed and attempted to catch up with him. Castor's head was clearing, the Sweet Scent's effect withering away.

 

Castor forced himself upright, a growl rising in his throat as the faint silvery glow of Iron Defense now covered the Mawile's body, adding not only to her defense, but her to her weight. She was falling faster toward him, excelled by her added weight. He would turn that into his advantage, and her downfall. He would make certain of it.

 

`Fool.'

 

He bared his fangs, chancing a glance down at his oozing leg. The stinging, fractured pain beginning to rise once more, as the Swords Dance's effects began to decline. He would have to work quickly. Focusing on the task at hand, Castor's eyes glowed a pure white for a few, meager moments, images flashing through his mind, though nothing definite or clear. Outwardly, nothing appeared to have happened, but Castor knew better.

 

The Mawile had used Iron Defense again, drawing closer with to the Absol with every passing second. Her laughter echoed off the slick walls.

 

Filled with more spite then he had ever felt towards a single creature, Castor began to rise up into the air. The shrill howling of air filled his ears as the Razor Wind came to his call, buffeting him upwards in great, persistent gusts, until both he and Mawile passed one another. The Mawile's laughter changed into screeches of fury.

 

The tables were turned.

 

“You lie!”

 

The pent up energy was released, each scythe shaped projectile clattering mercilessly against the steel-enshrouded body. Though doing little damage, the wind succeeded in thrusting the Mawile deeper into the void where there would be no return.

 

The Mawile's screeches had not yet faded away, when the Razor Wind finally ended. Castor found himself falling once more into Origin's dark embrace. Faintly, he could make out the form of the Mawile attempting to Faint Attack up to him.

 

But she did not see what he saw.

 

She didn't feel the air shiver in anticipation of the arrival of the arriving force. She did not notice the subtle light beginning to pierce holes in the dark curtain. She did not notice the energies gathering at the very bottom of the abyss, until the attack's lethal hiss interrupted her laughter. She was foolish enough to turn and look at the swirling mass of energy surging towards her, gazing at the white-rainbow flecked orb with a mixture of awe and horror. She didn't even flinch when the Future Sight fully enveloped her tiny body, instead, giggling like a young, happy child.

 

But the orb held no mercy for the laughing Mawile within, just as there was no mercy in Castor's glassy eyes. The Mawile's giggles quickly turned into high-pitched screams as the Future Sight finally took hold; the energy coursing around the Mawile's body like electricity. The Mawile's body spasmed and jerked as the Future Sight shattered her steel defenses.

 

Castor could only watch on, coldly, with a small sense of satisfaction that would no doubt turn into guilt as the day wore on. But for now, he was full of a justified vindication. The screams stopped just as the attack began to wane, vanishing altogether in a pass of nonexistent wind.

 

The Mawile did not stir, her body limp, falling from where it had once been suspended. Unconscious or dead, Castor did not particularly care. His objective had been accomplished, and now, his mind was blank, and the feelings that shot through his body were strange.

 

As he surrendered to the darkness, the Mawile's chant echoed oddly in his head.

 

Bound

Broken

Searching

Fighting

Ripped

Twisted

Fading Crying

Lost

Alone

Bloody

Dying

Writhing

Reaching

Passing

Sighing…

 

 

Falling…

Falling…

Falling…