Charizard2006
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This is an on-going story that I've been posting to other sites. The overall public review has been wonderful, so I'm hoping to get a following here as well. I'll post what I have, and let me know what you think. As for what the story's about, I'll let you figure it out. The story is rated 'R', mostly for violence and action sequences, but I'd like to assume we're all mature enough for that sort of thing. Anyway, with that said, let's start this.
~Charizard2006
* * The Dark Lord * *
Chapter 1
When he was very young, his father was a hero.
Tucking him into bed at night, his father would
tell him tales of courage and valor; men who conquered
and vanquished evil. The Golden Warriors who marched
forward, never looking back, never afraid. The warriors
would march into battle for their king and their people,
and they would win.
His father was one of the Warriors. His father would
never admit this, but in his heart he knew. His father
served the king of the great lands in the best of times.
The times where the harvests were good, the people
were happy, and the king was alive and well. The warriors
kept watch over the people to keep them safe, his father
would tell him. And safe they were kept, until the day
everything changed.
When you were very young, his father would tell him,
a Dark Lord rose. The Dark Lord, they say, could
cast a spell on the crops and the lands and then it was
that the lands were no longer fertile. The Dark Lord
would starve his followers and use black magic on them
to keep them under his will. The Dark Lord, his father
told him, wanted the crown of the King. He wanted it
so badly that he sent his armies across the lands,
destroying everything in their path.
The Golden Warriors rose to fight the armies of The Dark
Lord. Charging into battle, never looking back, determination
in their eyes. The Golden Warriors rode on their mighty
steeds of metal and iron, waving their flags in the name
of the King, and fight they did. They fought in the name of
truth and justice, and love and hope, and all the things that
made the Great Kingdom great.
The Dark Lord's Army was tremendous; one so great that it shook
the land when they marched, and would flatten the ground with
their footprints. The sky turned black with the Dark Lord's
magic and the Golden Warriors could not see. But march they did
into battle; outnumbered, and outgunned, they marched. They never
looked back. The battle, his father would say, went on for many
days and many nights. The frightened villagers retreated into
underground caves and into the forests and into tunnels underneath
the kingdom, so alas they were safe from the hordes of the
Dark Lord's Armies.
The Golden Knights, with all their armor and strength and machines,
with all their graciousness and bravery, failed the king miserably.
The King did not run when the Dark Lord's armies approached his
castle. The King did not flinch when the Dark Lord approached his
throne and demanded the crown. The King died a man of honor at the
blade of the Dark Lord's sword. And so it was, the Great Kingdom
died that day with the King.
And that's the life you were born into, his father would tell him,
a time of famine and disease, a time where hope is almost
diminished. But someday, his father says, someday the Dark Lord will
die and the land will be great again. Someday the people will rise
and take back the Kingdom that is rightfully theirs. Someday there
will be new Golden Warriors who will rise up to avenge their fallen
brethren.
And he believed all this.
He believed his father until the day The Dark Lord and his armies
came and took him.
There was no such thing as a good Poke'mon.
This was a thing that his father told him long ago. All the good
Poke'mon died back in the days of the great battle between The Golden
Warriors and The Dark Lord. The best of them, his father said, died in
that fateful battle.
Foxx mused over his journal and ended his thoughts with a splotch of
black ink on the dirty yellow pages. He looked up over the sea of
wreckage that lay before him and wondered what life was like, back then.
Times were simple, like his father had told him. People had driving machines
that took them to and from places, and there were flying machines that took
people anywhere in the world, over oceans and mountains, within hours.
He had seen pictures in old books and magazines, but it was still hard for him
to imagine these great machines that his people had used in the times before
the war. He picked up his half eaten can of peaches and chewed thoughtfully.
A warm gust of wind on a cloudless day told him that winter was over, and that
spring was beginning. This was good news. It meant that scavenging for food
and supplies would be easier. His bunker crew had made it through the winter
comfortably, the pre-war reserves in the bunker kept everyone well fed, as long
as they would ration it. But these supplies were all but infinite, and to make
sure they would have a steady diet, scavenging for these things was a necessity.
He spooned out the last bit of peaches from the can and drank the syrup slowly,
the way his father had taught him. He licked his lips and placed the can inside
his backpack and watched the sun rise over the decimated city skyline. In the
distance he could see Machoke and Machamp units roaming the land in search of survivors.
They normally didn't spend much time searching out refugee bunkers, like Foxx's, because
refugees never gave them any trouble. What they were looking for was equipment left
behind by The Resistance.
Foxx had heard of a resistance movement years ago, but thought it was all rumor. It was
only until recently that their radio equipment began to pick up radio broadcasts of
a man speaking out against The Dark Lord. The man had a rough, deep voice. Almost
menacing. He talked of men and women banding together, uniting against The Dark Lord.
He claimed to be a remnant of the Saffron Militia, and that he was stationed with
other remnants of the Poke'mon Island Government. Foxx's father had taught him
the art of combat and basic military strategy, but Foxx only applied these skills
to scavenging and sometimes haggling with unreasonable traders. He had only fought
a few times against a group of raiders who tried to break into their bunker and steal
supplies.
What the man spoke of was a rebellion against an unbeatable enemy. There was not much
that people knew of "The Dark Lord", but surely he was an unstoppable force if he were
able to crush the government of humans and decimate cities. Foxx knew, now that he was
older, that his father told him stories that were nothing but metaphors. He theorized that
The Dark Lord was a Poke'mon, and that he used his special abilities to control other
Poke'mon into submission. This is why there were no good Poke'mon left.
Foxx wrapped his scarf around his face and pulled his goggles over his eyes. Apart from
the miles of empty, blown out buildings and wreckage, the land was flat and dry. Dust storms
and fields of withered, dead crops made up the landscape. He walked against the wind, toward
an empty convenience store, its front window shattered and its contents looted long ago.
But there was always something overlooked. There was always a stray can of corn or spam
or something on the ground. There always was, and there had to be. He stepped inside the
quiet room and took his googles off. He wished he had a flashlight, but the wind up
one he used so frequently had broken the year before.
Nothing in the room but scraps of paper and empty tin cans. He pushed aside the carts and
hopped behind the clerk's counter. Opening drawers. Some string, a couple moldy brochure
pamphlets. Papers about Employee Codes of Conduct. In the back of the drawer was a
withering rolled up sheet of paper. He took it out and unravelled it. It was a Call To Duty
poster for the military. It showcased a man dressed in armor, much like that of which his
father described to him, standing on a pile of rubble holding a flag of the Poke'mon Islands,
other armed, similarly dressed men standing beside him, and Poke'mon standing on the sides of
the men. It read, "Take the Fight To Mew-Two: Enlist Today!"
Normally he would have discarded a poster but he had never seen anything like this before.
He ran his fingers over the faded ink of the paper and studied the hardened, determined
expressions on the men's faces. He folded it up and slipped it into his backpack. He emptied
more drawers and kicked aside some of the trash on the ground. Nothing here.
A little disappointed, Foxx didn't notice the figures looming outside the building, standing
on the rusted vehicles and the stacks of rubble. He didn't hear them whisper to each other,
gripping their spears while their eyes burned through his skin. When he noticed them, they
were too swift for him to react, pinning him down while they grabbed his backpack and emptied
its contents on the ground. Foxx tried to cry out, but the weight of the Machamp's foot on his
chest was too great, so he could only lie there in a silent horror. He had encountered
Machoke units before; this was a common thing in the wasteland. They either considered you dead or dying and didn't see you as much of a threat, letting you on your way. There must have been something about him that caught their attention.
As the Machokes looked through his things, scattered on the pavement, the Machamp looked down at him and growled. He was clad in a strange metallic armor that set him apart from the rest of the unit. He must have been in charge.
"..What..you doing..here?" The Machamp growled in very broken English. Had he not pressed more weight onto Foxx's chest, Foxx would have just sat there in a stunned silence. He had never heard of a poke'mon talking before.
"..I'm...just looking for food.." he wheezed. He hated himself for being caught so easily. This is exactly the kind of thing his father had trained him for, and he had conducted himself horribly. Sloppy and stupid.
The Machokes took out the poster and unfolded it. They studied it for a minute and talked quietly amongst themselves. They conveyed their findings in a strange language to The Machamp who looked at the poster, and, looking even more furious than before, returned his gaze to Foxx.
"What do you know about Ian Surge?" he asked loudly, his English suddenly very clear.
"Who?" Foxx coughed. The Machokes held a spear to his neck, but the Machamp waved them off. He spoke to them in the foreign language as they tied his wrists together and pulled a blindfold over his eyes. They buckled him in chains and carried him over to a large, metal cylinder where he could only hear the soft whimpers of other humans.
Foxx only had his own terrified thoughts to keep him company amongst the whimpers. Where were they taking him? What did they want with him? Who was Ian Surge, and what did he have to do with him? The cylinder rumbled loudly and shook violently. Foxx had never been in a car before, but this must have been what it felt like, and judging from the sounds of the people around him, he slowly began to realize they must be heading toward one of the Dark Lord’s Deathcamps…
His father had told him of these before, as a child. He told him that these were dark places that The Dark Lord took people who stood against him, to be punished. Most of the people that went into these camps never came out again. Foxx lay there in a silent horror as the cylinder came to a slow, rough stop.
~Charizard2006
* * The Dark Lord * *
Chapter 1
When he was very young, his father was a hero.
Tucking him into bed at night, his father would
tell him tales of courage and valor; men who conquered
and vanquished evil. The Golden Warriors who marched
forward, never looking back, never afraid. The warriors
would march into battle for their king and their people,
and they would win.
His father was one of the Warriors. His father would
never admit this, but in his heart he knew. His father
served the king of the great lands in the best of times.
The times where the harvests were good, the people
were happy, and the king was alive and well. The warriors
kept watch over the people to keep them safe, his father
would tell him. And safe they were kept, until the day
everything changed.
When you were very young, his father would tell him,
a Dark Lord rose. The Dark Lord, they say, could
cast a spell on the crops and the lands and then it was
that the lands were no longer fertile. The Dark Lord
would starve his followers and use black magic on them
to keep them under his will. The Dark Lord, his father
told him, wanted the crown of the King. He wanted it
so badly that he sent his armies across the lands,
destroying everything in their path.
The Golden Warriors rose to fight the armies of The Dark
Lord. Charging into battle, never looking back, determination
in their eyes. The Golden Warriors rode on their mighty
steeds of metal and iron, waving their flags in the name
of the King, and fight they did. They fought in the name of
truth and justice, and love and hope, and all the things that
made the Great Kingdom great.
The Dark Lord's Army was tremendous; one so great that it shook
the land when they marched, and would flatten the ground with
their footprints. The sky turned black with the Dark Lord's
magic and the Golden Warriors could not see. But march they did
into battle; outnumbered, and outgunned, they marched. They never
looked back. The battle, his father would say, went on for many
days and many nights. The frightened villagers retreated into
underground caves and into the forests and into tunnels underneath
the kingdom, so alas they were safe from the hordes of the
Dark Lord's Armies.
The Golden Knights, with all their armor and strength and machines,
with all their graciousness and bravery, failed the king miserably.
The King did not run when the Dark Lord's armies approached his
castle. The King did not flinch when the Dark Lord approached his
throne and demanded the crown. The King died a man of honor at the
blade of the Dark Lord's sword. And so it was, the Great Kingdom
died that day with the King.
And that's the life you were born into, his father would tell him,
a time of famine and disease, a time where hope is almost
diminished. But someday, his father says, someday the Dark Lord will
die and the land will be great again. Someday the people will rise
and take back the Kingdom that is rightfully theirs. Someday there
will be new Golden Warriors who will rise up to avenge their fallen
brethren.
And he believed all this.
He believed his father until the day The Dark Lord and his armies
came and took him.
There was no such thing as a good Poke'mon.
This was a thing that his father told him long ago. All the good
Poke'mon died back in the days of the great battle between The Golden
Warriors and The Dark Lord. The best of them, his father said, died in
that fateful battle.
Foxx mused over his journal and ended his thoughts with a splotch of
black ink on the dirty yellow pages. He looked up over the sea of
wreckage that lay before him and wondered what life was like, back then.
Times were simple, like his father had told him. People had driving machines
that took them to and from places, and there were flying machines that took
people anywhere in the world, over oceans and mountains, within hours.
He had seen pictures in old books and magazines, but it was still hard for him
to imagine these great machines that his people had used in the times before
the war. He picked up his half eaten can of peaches and chewed thoughtfully.
A warm gust of wind on a cloudless day told him that winter was over, and that
spring was beginning. This was good news. It meant that scavenging for food
and supplies would be easier. His bunker crew had made it through the winter
comfortably, the pre-war reserves in the bunker kept everyone well fed, as long
as they would ration it. But these supplies were all but infinite, and to make
sure they would have a steady diet, scavenging for these things was a necessity.
He spooned out the last bit of peaches from the can and drank the syrup slowly,
the way his father had taught him. He licked his lips and placed the can inside
his backpack and watched the sun rise over the decimated city skyline. In the
distance he could see Machoke and Machamp units roaming the land in search of survivors.
They normally didn't spend much time searching out refugee bunkers, like Foxx's, because
refugees never gave them any trouble. What they were looking for was equipment left
behind by The Resistance.
Foxx had heard of a resistance movement years ago, but thought it was all rumor. It was
only until recently that their radio equipment began to pick up radio broadcasts of
a man speaking out against The Dark Lord. The man had a rough, deep voice. Almost
menacing. He talked of men and women banding together, uniting against The Dark Lord.
He claimed to be a remnant of the Saffron Militia, and that he was stationed with
other remnants of the Poke'mon Island Government. Foxx's father had taught him
the art of combat and basic military strategy, but Foxx only applied these skills
to scavenging and sometimes haggling with unreasonable traders. He had only fought
a few times against a group of raiders who tried to break into their bunker and steal
supplies.
What the man spoke of was a rebellion against an unbeatable enemy. There was not much
that people knew of "The Dark Lord", but surely he was an unstoppable force if he were
able to crush the government of humans and decimate cities. Foxx knew, now that he was
older, that his father told him stories that were nothing but metaphors. He theorized that
The Dark Lord was a Poke'mon, and that he used his special abilities to control other
Poke'mon into submission. This is why there were no good Poke'mon left.
Foxx wrapped his scarf around his face and pulled his goggles over his eyes. Apart from
the miles of empty, blown out buildings and wreckage, the land was flat and dry. Dust storms
and fields of withered, dead crops made up the landscape. He walked against the wind, toward
an empty convenience store, its front window shattered and its contents looted long ago.
But there was always something overlooked. There was always a stray can of corn or spam
or something on the ground. There always was, and there had to be. He stepped inside the
quiet room and took his googles off. He wished he had a flashlight, but the wind up
one he used so frequently had broken the year before.
Nothing in the room but scraps of paper and empty tin cans. He pushed aside the carts and
hopped behind the clerk's counter. Opening drawers. Some string, a couple moldy brochure
pamphlets. Papers about Employee Codes of Conduct. In the back of the drawer was a
withering rolled up sheet of paper. He took it out and unravelled it. It was a Call To Duty
poster for the military. It showcased a man dressed in armor, much like that of which his
father described to him, standing on a pile of rubble holding a flag of the Poke'mon Islands,
other armed, similarly dressed men standing beside him, and Poke'mon standing on the sides of
the men. It read, "Take the Fight To Mew-Two: Enlist Today!"
Normally he would have discarded a poster but he had never seen anything like this before.
He ran his fingers over the faded ink of the paper and studied the hardened, determined
expressions on the men's faces. He folded it up and slipped it into his backpack. He emptied
more drawers and kicked aside some of the trash on the ground. Nothing here.
A little disappointed, Foxx didn't notice the figures looming outside the building, standing
on the rusted vehicles and the stacks of rubble. He didn't hear them whisper to each other,
gripping their spears while their eyes burned through his skin. When he noticed them, they
were too swift for him to react, pinning him down while they grabbed his backpack and emptied
its contents on the ground. Foxx tried to cry out, but the weight of the Machamp's foot on his
chest was too great, so he could only lie there in a silent horror. He had encountered
Machoke units before; this was a common thing in the wasteland. They either considered you dead or dying and didn't see you as much of a threat, letting you on your way. There must have been something about him that caught their attention.
As the Machokes looked through his things, scattered on the pavement, the Machamp looked down at him and growled. He was clad in a strange metallic armor that set him apart from the rest of the unit. He must have been in charge.
"..What..you doing..here?" The Machamp growled in very broken English. Had he not pressed more weight onto Foxx's chest, Foxx would have just sat there in a stunned silence. He had never heard of a poke'mon talking before.
"..I'm...just looking for food.." he wheezed. He hated himself for being caught so easily. This is exactly the kind of thing his father had trained him for, and he had conducted himself horribly. Sloppy and stupid.
The Machokes took out the poster and unfolded it. They studied it for a minute and talked quietly amongst themselves. They conveyed their findings in a strange language to The Machamp who looked at the poster, and, looking even more furious than before, returned his gaze to Foxx.
"What do you know about Ian Surge?" he asked loudly, his English suddenly very clear.
"Who?" Foxx coughed. The Machokes held a spear to his neck, but the Machamp waved them off. He spoke to them in the foreign language as they tied his wrists together and pulled a blindfold over his eyes. They buckled him in chains and carried him over to a large, metal cylinder where he could only hear the soft whimpers of other humans.
Foxx only had his own terrified thoughts to keep him company amongst the whimpers. Where were they taking him? What did they want with him? Who was Ian Surge, and what did he have to do with him? The cylinder rumbled loudly and shook violently. Foxx had never been in a car before, but this must have been what it felt like, and judging from the sounds of the people around him, he slowly began to realize they must be heading toward one of the Dark Lord’s Deathcamps…
His father had told him of these before, as a child. He told him that these were dark places that The Dark Lord took people who stood against him, to be punished. Most of the people that went into these camps never came out again. Foxx lay there in a silent horror as the cylinder came to a slow, rough stop.