Prompt 1 - Degloved
NebulaDreams
Ace Trainer
- Partners
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| Battle Scars | Between Two Worlds | New Abilities |
| Family Traditions | Language Barrier | Captured! |
| Thrill of Evolution | Overwhelmed by the City | Out in the Elements |
Here's where I'll be posting my Pokecentric bingo prompts for this anniversary event! Knowing the types of stories I write, I expect these stories will be longer than drabbles, so I thought it would've been better to post them in their own thread.
Even though I've made sure to edit these stories and make sure they line up with my standards, since I largely wrote these on the fly, expect it to be a little rough and improvisational in nature.
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First prompt: Family Traditions
Degloved
To be a Hitmonchan was to be defined by your fists. The way you punched, how fast you punched, and how you picked yourself back up after working yourself to exhaustion, of course, because you punched for too long. Your gloves, which were never to be taken off, were the source of your pride. Vim, however, wanted to be defined by his footwork. Degloved
Vim found refuge on a hill far away from the dojo. It was early morning, and no one from his clan would bother him as they were all asleep. Well, most of them. He only had an hour to practise, so he had to make every minute count. Vim set the boombox down on the grass, pressed the triangular button with his elbow, and the music played, filling the air with washes of synths and pounding drums.
Vim found a groove, tapping his foot along with the beat. It was the same song it always started with, and he had played it so many times that even though it sounded distorted at this point, he still heard it correctly in his head. Vim swayed along with the rhythm, stepping from left to right as if dodging punches. As indifferent as he was to his training, it fed into his little dance routine.
Eventually, Vim lost himself to the music. He was totally in his element, blocking out the rest of the world as he spun around. A lot of the Hitmonchan in his clan talked about hitting the zone, that state of being when they purely focused on the thrill of the fight, fully living in the present for just a few minutes. This was like that for Vim. He didn’t know what he’d do with this newfound ability, but if he had the chance to do it all the time, he would.
The music cut to a grinding halt as the speakers whirred loudly. Vim desperately pawed at the tape deck, trying to get the cassette out, only for the magnetic tape to fly out like inky spaghetti.
He looked at all this mess. Crap, where would he find another cassette like that in the garbage? No, humans used money. Money was used to buy nice things. How would he afford something like that, however? His dojo had no use for it, as the human higher ups managed all of that. Maybe he could’ve convinced them to buy him another tape, but, well, there was a reason he came here in the morning.
Vim tried to cram all he could into the deck with much difficulty, as his gloved hands didn’t allow him to grasp it firmly. Eventually, he forced the tape back into the stereo and coaxed his hands to grab onto the handle, barely keeping a grip on it as he made his way back to the dojo.
Vim gingerly traced his steps down the hill to the tower, hoping he’d be able to sneak into the sleeping area without anyone noticing. But on the way, his dad, Pep, spotted him. Vim stopped dead in his tracks.
They stared at each other. Vim waited for Dad to speak, and when he didn’t, Vim tried to pluck up the courage to say something first. But his lips locked tight. He couldn’t talk back to a black belt. Dad approached him and eyed the boombox as if it was an alien object.
He tapped Vim’s side with his glove, and then his head.
‘What were you doing?’ he signalled.
Vim did a little jig on the spot. Dad just glowered at him, then punched the air in rapid succession and pointed his glove to the dojo. He wanted Vim to come with him to the sparring court, so he did, carrying the stereo with him.
They crept up to the outdoor training grounds where they usually practised, and only a few other early-rising Hitmon were there, pelting away at their punching bags. They didn’t notice the two as they went about their business. Dad withdrew two training stands from the equipment shed and placed them into the court, signalling Vim to come over first.
Dad touched his shoulder, then punched at one of the bags. ‘Let’s test your endurance.’
Vim rolled his eyes, only for Dad to clip him around the side of his head. He wasn’t joking. Vim knew how this would turn out. He could’ve pounded bricks into dust in his sleep. So, he set the speakers down, took a deep breath to gather his energy for the three minute period, and punched away at the bag stand.
Punch after punch after punch after punch. Whenever Vim practised like this, he felt more like a Magneton rather than a living, breathing thing. There were only so many ways a Hitmonchan could’ve punched fast before it just looked and felt the same. No expression in it whatsoever.
After that time was up, Vim stepped away from his target, stretching his tired arms. The bag was all dented and dinged from that string of hits – Vim thought he did a pretty good job. Dad frowned, however, and patted his shoulder, slowly running his glove down his side.
‘Your technique is slow,’ he signalled. ‘Slower than usual.’
Vim sighed, rubbing his gloved fists. He punched rapidly at the target again. ‘I’ve still been practising.’
Dad patted his chest and crossed his hands together into an X. ‘Your heart’s not in it.’
He didn’t respond to that, hiding his gloves behind his back instead. Dad undid at the black belt around his waist, holding it before Vim. He crumpled it in one hand, and pointed his free glove at Vim’s waist.
‘You won’t have this belt if you don’t practise hard enough.’ He tied it around himself again and hugged his torso. ‘Our family has to pass this belt around. That’s why this training is important.’
Vim’s fists tightened. Dad grumbled and took a deep breath.
“Enough of this, tell me what’s going on, in words, this time.”
Vim was pleased to speak at last, as punches and kicks couldn’t have conveyed what he felt. Even with that, he still struggled to speak, his mouth wobbling.
“I-I wanna dance,” Vim said. “It’s when I feel like I’m at my best.”
Dad scoffed. “You’re not a Jynx. Boxing is your calling.”
“Why does it have to be?” He stared at his gloved palms. “Who decided that’s all we had to do?”
“From the beginning, when we were given these fists, even before I was born.” Dad grabbed his wrist and ran his glove across the smooth, red surface. “Without these, we’d be worthless.”
Vim took a deep breath, covering Dad’s hand.
“There’s more to life than just punchin’ stuff.”
“Even so, it’s difficult for any of us to find a calling beyond this.” He stared deep into Vim’s eyes. “Where will you go to dance? How will you earn your keep? What will you do to look after yourself? How will you do all of that just by moving your body to music?”
Vim broke away from Dad’s stern gaze, looking down at his boombox. Lots of possibilities swirled in his head. He saw others like him, including Machoke, Hitmontop and Ludiculo dancing on those TVs.They must’ve found a way to make something out of it. How he’d get there was another question entirely.
“I dunno. That’s what I wanna find out.”
Dad cupped Vim’s hands in his gloves.
“You have all you need here – we’re lucky to have the humans cook for us. I just don’t want, well, whatever this is to get in the way of your training.”
“It’s not.” Vim snatched his gloves away from Dad’s grasp. No, there’s no way he would understand. He had to throw him off his scent for the moment. “I mean, it won’t. I’ll practise more.”
Dad smiled, bumping his glove against Vim’s. “Good. I don’t want to see you going out in the morning again. Rest is important, and that will only break your focus.” He nudged the stereo with his foot. “Whatever scrapheap you got that from, I expect you’ll put that back where you found it.”
Vim smiled back, trying to pacify him for now. Dad went back to the dojo, leaving him on his own. The other Hitmons stared at Vim, only to go about their own business again.
Dad was right, in a way. He had everything he needed here. But it came at a cost the rest neither saw nor felt. Just for one day, Vim wanted to see where his dancing would take him, and if that meant breaking away from the dojo, then so be it. He ran, carrying his boombox back to the hill, then took a right turn. That town was up ahead with its metallic structures, where music played, where no Hitmon from the dojo would bother him. He sprinted like never before, keeping a death grip on his speakers, only for it to slip from his grasp.
Vim stepped back. His boombox lay face down. Was it broken? He couldn’t tell. But still, he couldn’t let it go.
Those other Hitmon, including Pep, ran towards him from far away. They probably wanted to take him back. It wasn’t like he’d be gone forever. If they caught him, though, that meant he’d have to leave the boombox behind. He couldn’t let that happen, but he couldn’t keep a firm grip on it. Vim stared at his right gloved hand and gasped.
What if he— No, that was silly. It was probably dangerous. But it was worth a try, as the Hitmon were gaining on him.
Vim tugged at his hand. The glove was stuck tight to him, like a leech, and it stung the longer he pulled. It was loosening up, however. With one final tug, he grunted in pain as he degloved himself.
His three-fingered hand was all pink and fleshy. The breeze cut through it like a blade, making it sting all over. It only worsened when he grasped the boombox’s handle, sending new stabs of pain through his tender skin. But at least now, he was able to fully grasp it. So he braved through the burn, just like the bruises throughout the rest of his body and the aching limbs that came after withstanding countless barrages of punches.
Vim left the glove behind and ran, the wind in his face and the beats in his head.
