Descent
by Skorupi-anon
Chapter 1 - Rumination
There's a lot on my mind today.
(music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNA4k_EoqnM) My time at the Clover Guild, while brief, has been interesting, there's no denying that. For starters, I really do enjoy spending time with Furret, even if she can be overbearing at times. We've only gone on a single adventure together so far, that being when we explored the Wither Woods a few days ago. It was an exciting journey, despite the danger... hell, the danger is what made it interesting for me. Of course, finding Porygon2 was an incredible experience, too. I'm not one for adventuring alone, but with Furret, I don't mind doing it more often, especially since she seems to love it so much.
Life in general has been much more comfortable since joining the guild, now that I have shelter, good food, and an actual bed, a far cry from my time spent fending for myself in the wilderness. I have a great friend who I can trust, and allies who are willing to support me. I have a source of income and a sense of security, too. I should be immensely grateful for all that I have now. And, yet... why do I feel so... uneasy?
Other than our dungeon adventure, I haven't gotten to see any action in days... specifically, I'm referring to fighting. The last time I can remember getting into a fight was against that feral Breloom, and that was before I had even met up with Furret for the second time. It already feels like it happened forever ago. Since then, confusing thoughts have been welling up in my mind, for long enough that I'm having difficulty ignoring them any more.
Something's changed about me since arriving in this world. I don't know exactly what has changed, I just know that something's different. When I was still human, I was terrified of any kind of confrontation, but in this new body, the rush I feel when I'm fighting is to die for, almost like it's some kind of drug. I had contemplated the possibility of losing the drive to fight once I had settled down and didn't need to hunt for food anymore, but I was wrong. This abrupt change in pace is making me restless. I don't care who my opponent is, I just need to keep fighting.
But... why?
...I don't know.
...
I'm so deep in thought, I forget to pay attention where I'm going, and I find myself walking straight into something black, roughly my size, but taller. I'm knocked backwards, both from surprise, and the impact. I shake my head, and in front of me, I see a Sneasel with a notched ear, sitting down and resting a hand over her stomach, where I had just collided with her.
“Hey, watch it!” she barks, annoyed.
“Ah, geez, I'm sorry, I wasn't...” I mutter awkwardly.
Ignoring me, the Sneasel gingerly pats her head, and asks out loud, “Are you okay up there, Booker?”
“Yes, I'm alright,” a disembodied voice responds.
The unknown voice catches me off guard, as it has no immediately apparent owner, but atop the Sneasel's head, I spot a tiny Ribombee, sitting casually.
Unsure if she had payed attention to me the first time, and feeling guilty at the thought of potentially harming the small Bug-type Pokemon, I repeat, “Uh... sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you guys okay?”
Slowly standing up and patting herself off, the Sneasel gives me a blank look. “Yeah, yeah, we're fine. Just, watch where you're going next time,” she says, pointing a claw in my face.
“Oh, Sneasel, please calm down, okay? I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose,” Booker assures her.
“Yeah... sorry,” Sneasel grumbles, still seeming a bit irritated by our collision.
Attempting to make up for his partner's ill-mannered, callous attitude, the Ribombee shyly states, “U-um, I don't think I've seen you around here before. My name is Booker, and this is my friend, Sneasel.”
Booker's companion grunts in affirmation when her name is mentioned, and she looks away coolly, with crossed arms. “We're Team Brave,” she adds, her tone sounding more relaxed.
I nod my head, and say, “It's nice meeting you both, I'm Smith. I formed a team with a friend recently, but, she's out shopping today, so... I have some free time, ha ha,” I chuckle awkwardly. It might not the best look for me to be lounging around aimlessly, especially since I'm new here. Changing the subject, I ask them, “So, uh, where are you guys going? I hope I'm not interrupting anything important.”
“No, it's fine,” Sneasel informs me. “We're just heading to the dojo for some training.” Booker nods in approval.
“We... have a dojo?” I ask, surprised. The building is pretty large, so it makes sense that there are plenty of rooms I still have yet to explore.
“Sure we do. Everyone needs to get some training in somehow,” Sneasel says. “'Course, there usually aren't that many other Pokemon there, besides Booker and myself,” she adds, her expression souring. It seems like she's disappointed, maybe even frustrated, by how infrequently our guildmates utilize the dojo.
Interested by her apparent dilemma, I ask, “Do you like training?”
A passionate fire ignites in her eyes. “'Like' training? I love it! That thrill I get when I'm fighting a strong opponent... it's one of the most awesome feelings in the entire world!”
My intrigue turns into excitement, and I can feel the blood rushing through my veins in anticipation. Who knew there would be someone like me waiting here at the guild? Things could be a lot more interesting if I had a sparring partner to keep me company when I'm not out on a job. Forgetting my issues from before, I eagerly tell her, “If you show me the way there, I'll train with you, if you'd like.”
With stars in her eyes, she exclaims, “Seriously?! What are we waiting for, then? Come on, you two, let's roll!” Booker holds on tightly to Sneasel's head, and the Dark-type jogs down the hallway. I hurriedly scuttle after her, elated at the chance of having a friendly match.
...
Together, the three of us enter the guild's gymnasium. The room is much larger than any other I had seen in the building thus far, the ceiling reaching far above our heads. By the edges of the room, I see multiple training dummies made of straw, in varying states of disrepair; some of them unscathed, others heavily worn after enduring countless attacks. There are also makeshift weights, designed for heavy lifting. Most of them don't seem as big as the weights from the human world, probably due to the small statures of many Pokemon. In the center of the room, a large, circular ring has been prepared, its boundaries marked by a long rope. It vaguely reminds me of the kind of ring that sumo wrestlers would duel in.
“Wow,” I remark, my flat tone in contrast to my feelings of awe at the sight of the gym. “It's bigger than I expected, and there's actual equipment here, too.”
Sneasel gives me a vaguely perplexed look. “You're impressed by this? There's not very much here, and this is far from the best equipment, since money can be tight, but it gets the job done, I guess.”
Slightly embarrassed, I confess, “W-well, before joining the guild, I didn't have any weights, or anything fancy. I basically just beat up on a bunch of boulders, and lifted heavy rocks...”
Her face lights up, and the corners of her mouth curl into a smile. “Hah! That's crazy! You've gotta be pretty dedicated to your training if that's what you were doing. I like it!”
Booker, on the other hand, looks worried for me. “Geez, that doesn't sound very pleasant, Smith. I hope things weren't too rough for you...”
“Ah, uh, it's nothing, don't worry about it,” I dismiss, bashfully. “That was in the past. Right now, let's just get to sparring.”
“Yeah! Booker, you can be our referee,” Sneasel says, placing her companion atop a stack of wooden planks near the arena.
Sneasel and I both enter the ring, taking our places on opposite sides of the arena. She enters an offensive stance, light on her feet, and claws poised. “I always look forward to sparring with the new guys,” she admits, with a grin on her face. “Get ready, because I don't like going easy!”
“Right,” I say. I assume a stance of my own, although within me, a sense of unease rears its ugly head. Not long ago, I was ready for action, but now, for some reason... I can feel my resolve wavering. I should be totally ecstatic to finally be fighting again, but my mind is slowly being clouded by the same complicated thoughts that I had experienced earlier. Of all the times to be hung up on them, why now? I try my hardest to repress them, barely managing to stay focused on Sneasel.
From the sidelines, Booker yells, “Sneasel and I brought Oran Berries, so if either of you get hurt, then please, eat some. Now, if you're both ready, then... go!”
(music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUazs5eIkbo) Sneasel sprints towards me with remarkable speed, and I'm only given a split second to react. I don't have enough time to match her speed myself, and even if I did, she's still faster than me, so I'm forced onto the defensive. I jump to the side as her claw soars ferociously through the air where I was just standing. Even though it whiffed, her attack had sent adrenaline rushing through my body, like I had just been struck by a jolt of lightning. That close call was exactly what I needed; I can finally get out of my own thoughts and focus on the fight!
Snapping her head to the side, now facing my new position, she rushes at me again and prepares to take another swing, but this time, I don't back down. Instead, I dash forward a short distance as well, and as I do so, I bring the points of my tail claws together, as if balling up a hand into a fist, going for a blunt strike. The gap between us has been closed; both of us are at point-blank distance from each other. There's no chance of me dodging her attack at this range, but if it means landing a sure hit of my own, I don't mind enduring some pain.
She slashes her claw sideways, raking them across my face, while I simultaneously use the end of my tail to unleash a powerful right hook into her cheek. The recoil of the impact sends us both staggering away from one another in opposite directions. My face stings a lot after that one... she's clearly no pushover.
Rubbing her face where she had just been stricken, Sneasel briefly winces in pain, before an enthusiastic smile sprawls across her face. “N-not bad at all! You must have trained really hard to hit with that kinda power!” she commends, loudly.
“Y-yeah, thanks,” I reply, unable to clutch my own face, as I lack hands. “You know how to pack a punch, yourself...”
“Are you two okay?” Booker shouts. We both glance at him and give silent nods in response.
As we reel in pain and catch our breaths, I'm given a moment to reflect. I'm finally met with a strong opponent once more. I feel alive again... or, at least, I should. This time, however... something feels... wrong. That attack of hers... I know she wasn't holding back anything; the lingering pain in my face tells me that much. Yet, I can't help but feel like something's... missing. What is it? I think back to my previous encounters, searching for an answer. Something about fighting ferals is definitely different than friendly practice, but I don't know if I can pinpoint what that is...
“What's wrong?” Sneasel jeers. “Don't tell me you're giving up after just one hit? Come on, snap out of it!”
From outside the ring, Booker raises his voice and asks, “Is everything alright, Smith? I-If you need to take a break, that's fine...”
It takes noticeable mental effort to exit my own consciousness and process their voices. After a short delay, I stammer, “Uh, n-no, I'm alright. Let's keep going.”
“Good,” Sneasel remarks. “I'm just getting started!”
She stretches her hands out to her sides, with her palms upright, and the air around them seems to distort. I hear a crackling sound emanating from her palms, and before my very eyes, the air itself freezes, tightly condensing into many small crystals of ice, resembling tiny, frozen throwing stars. Running along the edge of the arena's boundaries, she flings two of the sharp projectiles at me. I'm caught off guard, not expecting her to have any sort of ranged attacks... I'm not confident that I can avoid this one.
Only serving to complicate matters further, I'm becoming more and more distracted by my thoughts, still trying to understand the strange anxiety I feel about this match. The more I dwell on it, the deeper I fall down the rabbit hole of my own mind, unsure as to why I'm feeling this way, and why I'm having so much trouble staying engaged with what should be a thrilling contest of strength. By the time I can force my attention back onto Sneasel's attack, it's already too late; the frozen spikes are flying straight towards me, and they'll hit me at any second! Dodging is out of the question again, but this time, she's too far away for me to counter her directly. My best bet will have to be to defend myself, somehow.
With what little time I have left, I stand my ground, and when the shards of ice are close enough, I strike one of them with my tail, shattering it to pieces. Unable to guard, the other one pierces my forehead, leaving behind another stinging wound. I flinch, and grunt in pain. Meanwhile, I hear Sneasel shout, “Stay focused!” as she produces even more projectiles within her hands, and whips a volley of four of them at me.
Now that I've seen, and subsequently endured, the attack once, I have a better grasp on how it works. I'm able to sidestep all four of them without much difficulty. Immediately after throwing the icicles, she sprints after them, using the projectiles to cover her approach. I've adjusted to her speed, and I'm beginning to understand the correct timing with which to respond to her attacks. She's just about to enter my range, when... something horrifying happens.
I freeze completely.
I'm prepared to act, but... externally, nothing happens. It's like I'm flicking a switch, yet the lights won't turn on. Mentally, I recognize, and can react to, her actions, but there's no sort of physical response associated with my thoughts. My muscles won't move an inch. What the hell is this feeling? Have I gotten rusty? No, this is different, I think. It's like the instincts that have been drilled into my head have vanished completely. Why am I so distracted? What's... what's happening to me?
She quickly gets right into my face, and it's no longer possible to dodge; I have to defend yet again. She swipes another claw at me, and it takes every last bit of physical and mental fortitude that I can muster to force myself to move again. Using my tail claws, I'm just barely able to catch her wrist mid-swing.
To my dismay, she perfectly reads my panicked counterplay, and without any hesitation, she follows through with her other claw and lands another clean hit, slicing me across the face again! Startled by the sudden attack, and compounded by the intense burning sensation I feel on my head, I'm powerless to defend myself as she extends her offense with a short combo of rapid, chained slashes.
“Your movements are so sloppy all of a sudden! Take this more seriously!” Sneasel demands, her excited smile drooping into a slight frown. One final blow from her knocks me away, sending me stumbling towards the edge of the ring.
Shaking from the pain, I look down at the hard, wooden floor, staring unfocused into the void, my (nonexistent) brow furrowed intensely. There's something seriously wrong with me right now. My negativity and uncertainty have spiraled out of control, wreaking havoc upon my senses, disorienting me, and dulling my instincts. I experience an unsettling mixture of panic, frustration, confusion. There's too much on my mind. It's no longer possible for me to continue fighting like this.
I feel defeated.
Noticing my turmoil, Booker shouts with his tiny voice, “Um, i-is everything alright, Smith?”
I can't answer.
Sneasel walks up to me, her arms crossed. “What's your problem? You were doing great at first, but now it's like you're a totally different person. I can tell that you're strong, so, why won't you fight me like you mean it?” she asks.
Following a brief pause, I bluntly state, “We should stop.”
“What?!” she shouts, her patience with me having run thin. “You're not even trying anymore, and now you're telling me you're giving up? What gives?! Am I not--”
“Sneasel!” Booker interrupts. “Pl-please, settle down. If he wants to stop, then... you shouldn't force him to keep going.”
Sneasel prepares to argue, before catching herself, and taking a deep breath, then exhaling. She looks away from me, and mutters, “Fine. Sorry.”
Seeing her so frustrated fills me with guilt. Trying to defuse the situation, I collect my thoughts to the best of my ability, and explain myself. “No, I'm the one who should be sorry. You're a very skilled fighter, I won't deny that. It's just... there's a lot on my mind right now... I need time to think, alone. I'll gladly rematch you in the future, if you'd like. ...Sorry.”
Sneasel looks at me from the side, and with a gentler demeanor than before, she asks, “Promise?” I sense a hint of genuine concern, as well as excitement at the prospect of a future battle, in her voice.
“Yeah,” I reassure her. “Thanks for the match... I'll be going now.”
I wave goodbye and step out of the ring, feeling exhausted as I walk towards the exit. From behind, I hear Sneasel yell, “You better keep that promise, Smith! I want you to fight me like you mean it next time!”
Booker raises his voice too, saying, “Stay safe, Smith...”
Their encouragement makes me crack a smile, but only for a second, before my expression drops, becoming drab and emotionless.
...
(music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNA4k_EoqnM) Ever since the short-lived sparring match against Sneasel, it's all I've been thinking about. My hesitation, my inability to stay engaged with the fight, my inner struggle... I think I have an answer as to why things happened the way they did. Before, I had acknowledged that fighting ferals didn't feel the same, and now, I think I understand what was missing when I fought against Sneasel.
The reason why I couldn't take our training seriously is because there was no risk.
It's the only conclusion that makes sense to me. The environment was too controlled. Booker was there to break things up if someone got hurt too badly, so there was little threat of anything bad happening to either of us. Hell, there were Oran Berries on standby for us, so we didn't even have to worry about being knocked out. Sneasel didn't want to seriously hurt me, and I didn't want to badly injure her, either. I admire Sneasel's strength, I really do, but I found myself unable to give it my all because there were no stakes. Neither of us were ever in any real danger.
When it comes to ferals, though, it's a completely different story.
Against ferals, there are no rules, and no referee to intervene if things go awry. Ferals don't know how to hold back, even if they wanted to. I'm forced to fight like I mean it against them, because my life is on the line. Nobody has to go easy on each other, and I can express my full strength without restraint or regret. That's what a true battle is to me.
...There's something seriously fucked up about me if the only way for me to feel alive is to risk my life. I chuckle to myself, amused by the black surrealism of my situation. Am I even the same person as I was before I arrived in this world?
...Is there something wrong with me?