Pokemon Fan Fiction ❯ Twisted Hierarchy ❯ Twisted Hierarchy ( One-Shot )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

The stadium booms. You can feel it through your feet: the rolling tremors as half a million people cheer and clap and stomp their feet for a foe you'll soon be facing. With trepidition you walk at your trainer's side into the battle arena, squinting in the glare of the spotlight. You look up to see your opponent and it's a Sandslash. The simple sight of its sandy hide, those silvery claws, the mahogany brown spines down its curved back… it makes every sense in your lithe Rattata body scream in terror.


This is the enemy.


Even with the presence of your trainer behind you, even with four years of training and fun times separating you from the wild, your instinct still sings high pitched and feral, wailing danger, danger, danger!


In the wild, that Sandslash would kill you. There is no changing that.


And so it is with tingling nerves that you take up your place in the battle arena, it is with a mind screaming for you to run that you await your trainer's commands. You lower your head and square your shoulders in preparation, trying so hard to hide your terror as you narrow your angular crimson eyes and bare your sharp fangs. The Sandslash simply moves one clawed foot forward and leans inward, the black oblivion of its predatory eyes betraying no emotion but casual confidence as it clicks the claws on its hands together in a bored fashion.


Your heart beats faster.


"You ready, Rattata?" says the disembodied voice of your trainer from somewhere behind you.


Her voice is comforting, even with the hint of nervousness that comes with it. She believes in you and that gives you some confidence. Not enough, but some.


The roar of the crowd increases: the battle is about to begin. Sweat is already trickling between your shoulder blades.


"Begin!" the referee orders from the sidelines and you just catch sight of his flags as he swings them through the air.


"Rattata, quick attack!"


There it is: the order. Going against everything you know, you hurl yourself at the natural enemy. Your claws provide decent traction in the dust of the arena surface but the screaming of your instinct is making it difficult to keep up the normal pace. Ahead of you Sandslash's bored visage remains unchanged as it brings one dual-clawed paw back in a languid arc over its shoulder; almost whipping yourself with your long, curved tail you demand that extra burst of speed that will gain you the advantage of first hit.


You should have listened to instinct.


Instead of landing the blow and darting out of the way of the predator's powerful slash your inhibitions have made you sluggish. Even as you lurch into the air, twisting your body so as to plough into the enemy with your shoulder, Sandslash's blow is falling, those razor sharp claws slicing easily through your violet pelt and into muscle and flesh. The horrified cry of your trainer mingles with your own as you land on your side at Sandslash's feet. Its paw is wrenched brutishly from you with the indifference of a killer, leaving you lying stunned, wounded and vulnerable in the shadow of a hunter.


The instinct is hysterical now, its cries of fear merging together with the desperate plea to retreat in a mindless babble of confused sound. Your large ears ache as you struggle to get up - it's difficult to hear the orders of either trainer over the roar of the crowd and the burble of your brain. Unable to decipher your trainer's words you concentrate on getting up and away, giving the blank and unresponsive face of your foe one last glance before you unwisely turn your back and scamper a safer distance away.


Turning hurts, your wound stinging as though laced with burning fire, but not as much as the calculated slice that sheers straight across your forehead before your brain even has the chance to process the pursuit, let alone the attack. You wail and try to back away as those murderous claws rip across your defenceless face repeatedly but it is as though your back legs have turned to jelly. Your hindquarters give way, instinct scarily silent, and you tumble over, baring your creamy underbelly which Sandslash instantly goes for. The pain is incredible and you actually reach out to instinct for a source of direction but to no avail: you are on your own.


Terrified by the pain and the remorseless, dead look currently dominating Sandslash's gaze, you jerk your head forwards blindly, trying desperately to catch the other Pokémon in your teeth for a powerful super fang. Out of sheer dumb luck your sharp fangs sink deep, causing Sandslash to jerk involuntarily. Biting down harder you open your crimson eyes once again, only to find that you've somehow locked onto the shrew's throat. Your small rat's mouth is filled with a metallic taste it is not accustomed to as a scavenger: fresh blood.


Uncertainty has now replaced your muddled instinct and you release your opponent without thinking, completely overcome by the wrongness of the situation. You are not the predator. And yet now it is Sandslash who is reeling back, its previously soundless maw snapping open in a bone chilling screech as its fleshless claws grope for the wound. Unable to feel anything through the sharp protrusions, it is only making matters worse by gouging its own flesh as it tries to staunch the bleeding. Its eyes contain nothing but fear now but a chance glance at its trainer's face shows that the true glare of a predator has been transferred to him.


It takes you a second, thoughts hard to process in the din of the other Pokémon's dismay, but now you realise why your instinct has deserted you: you were not fighting the predator. That is obvious from the Sandslash's bawl of fear as its trainer gives a roar of frustrated anger and returns it to its Pokéball. You were fighting prey, a creature so twisted by the perversion of natural hierarchy that it could not feel the rush of the hunt when it first set eyes on you. Overcome by the realisation that one man had done such a thing you stagger back, spitting blood from between your teeth, until your hurting body is pressed against the comforting warmth of your own trainer's legs. As she picks you up carefully, her arms wrapping around your small body in a comforting gesture despite the blood that is discolouring her front, you realise that you have, for once, defeated the predator.


But only when it too was reduced to victim.