Pokémon A Myriad of Mons (Bingo Prompts)

[NebulaDreams]

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.

---

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.

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.

 

[K_S]

Review family traditions.

And in a few.lines we got a name. A conflict. And a mon thats bucking type.

Though inhabe to admit this could beninterpreted as the first "hit mon top" if his dance moves are hip hop inspired.

So as in actual dojo. Or.is the family group called a dojo?

Been there done that... The early get up to do what you want is a nightmare... A needed one but still... Ans thats tje trade off. A few minutes momemts of bliss and a feeling of rightness for all that effort. And thats on a good day. Bad days and its like trying to ligjt a fire with a broken lighter and a soggy wood pile.
Still its interesting that his base culture gave him enoughnof a base to realize what passion was.even if it strips his resources to pursue it.

The problem of drawing from the bottom of the barrel supplys is they love to break. Irreparably. And if its old enough it might be impossible to fix.


I mean maybe a specialiat but they're rare these days

Lovely touchnof foreshadow with his gloves getting in the way of what he wants while wrangling damage control (or trying).

Ung awkward father son bonding. I cringed through it. I meam dads trying but has zero flexability per tradition. .sons just metaphorically kicked in the face... And nothing good comes of it. Also i am with vim most exercises are so boring.

So until pep memtiomed the humans cooking i missed they were being trained? Observent i know. (Bows)

He had everything he needed but not vim so logically vim bolts...tjough wjy hes being chased is baflfing. . no one called an alarm after all.

Amd he rips off jisngloves and licks up jis treasure amd books. Good for him and hope it ends well.

Thanks for the read.

 

[NebulaDreams]

I wish I had good punching puns, but my brain seems to have punched the gun on that.

That was a low blow, punch up instead of punching down with your humour.

I notice that Hitmons (or just Hitmonchan) tend to use nonverbal communication unless it's serious business. It's an interesting little detail I enjoy a lot.

The non verbal communication part was present in I, Isobel since the fighting type society there communicates with attacks (either greetings or expressing what can't be communicated with words like difficult emotions).

Okay so for more general thoughts:

This was a short, simple, but very effective one shot. We see a Hitmonchan who goes against the mold of what a Hitmonchan usually is, preferring dancing over fighting, footwork over punching. His father isn't supportive, but he seems to be less malicious and more a product of a culture that doesn't respect pushing the envelope, but rather looking down on it. We also get hints to the relationship between these Fighting types and the humans at their dojo.

I would have liked to see more about the relationship between Hitmonchan and Hitmonlee/Hitmontop, given their respective connections to leg stuff and dancing. (I connect Hitmontop to dancing given its inspiration from capoeira, which combines elements of dance into its techniques). Then again, maybe we'll see more of that in the other one shots. If there are other one shots about Vim (which I hope there are I liked this a lot), I predict that maybe he'll meet other dancing Pokémon.

Very good stuff, Nebula! Would love to see more of this.

I'm really pleased you read and enjoyed the fic. I initially wrote it off as a failure since absolutely nobody seemed to read it and I didn't know how to feel about writing it either since I struggle with pulling off pacing in short stories, but I'm glad you connected with it. It was nice to see a review on this and look back on what I wrote nearly two years back (and it really wasn't as bad as I made it out to be).

I could've had more of a connection with the Hitmontop, looking back at it. I envisioned it as taking place in Kanto so the Hitmonchan wouldn't be as familiar with them as they would be in Johto, but it would've been interesting to explore it more.

Still its interesting that his base culture gave him enoughnof a base to realize what passion was.even if it strips his resources to pursue it.

AKA Every strict parent ever.

So until pep memtiomed the humans cooking i missed they were being trained? Observent i know. (Bows)

I only had a loose idea of how Hitmonchans fit into this world, but if I recall correctly, my thought process for writing them was inspired by sumo wrestlers and how they have a strict regimented lifestyle where they live in a commune and have a hierarchal structure based on sporting merit. The humans in this case would be more like facilitators or guardians who oversee what's happening and give the Hitmonchan the means to train.

 

[Umbramatic]

Hi! I'm here for Blitz! I am reviewing Degloved of these shorts! Let's go!

Ah, our protagonist is a Hitmonchan. Punchy punchy punch.

...Except this one doesn't want to punch. He wants to DANCE.

He's talking about dancing and getting in the zone just like he would with boxing.

...His cassette isn't cooperating though.

Something something Simpsons "money can be exchanged for goods and services"

And uh oh, his dad caught him. This will not end well.

Interesting the dad uses sign language. Oh, wait, they all can?

Our Hitmonchan protag feels about punching like I feel about math.

Don't call him a Jynx man.

Ah the familiar father son argument. -stares off into the distance-

He does it, he goes "fuck this" and runs

His glove, is he gonna take it off? Title drop????

YES, HE PEELS IT OFF! PEELED HITMONCHAN HANDS! HE'S FREE!

So this was a nice short little thing. The prose was nice, for starters. It was intresting looking at the perspective of a Hitmon colony and looking at one who doesn't fit in. I was half expecting him to want to kick but dancing is also a feet thing I guess. It's intresting how it's an outright mental replacement for the flow of boxing in his head. Also it's neat hitmons communicate via body language just as much as words.

But the real clincher of this. The real big stupid lore revelation. We know what Hitmonchan hands really look like. Or at least we have a description. Now we need pictures. -J Jonah Jameson voice- GET ME PICTURES! PICTURES OF HITMONCHAN HANDS!

Thanks for the read!And good luck to Vim's musical career.

 

[windskull]

I stumbled across this while looking for something short and sweet to review before the end of this year’s review blitz. While if I remember correctly you’ve pretty much completely shifted away from fanfic, I hope that some of the stuff I bring up here might be useful for you, none the less.

First off, I thought that it was neat that you initially had Vim and his dad communicate nonverbally through gestures. I wasn’t entirely clear on if these were things that had certain set meanings, or if we were getting Vim’s interpretation of the motions, but I did find it neat, none the less.

On a slightly critical side, I did notice that this fic falls into the “dad’s dream is not the mc’s dream but foists that upon them,” which can be overused a bit at times. But it is a popular trope for a reason. I do feel like it falls a little bit too far into the cliche side here for my personal tastes, but its still an enjoyable story none the less.

And then I want to touch a little bit on the ending. I will admit, when I initially finished reading the story, I found my self wondering why he didn’t just wrap his arms around it and carry it that way or something. But after a moment, it clicked with me that metextually, the degloving is meant to be a symbolic gesture. It’s a disconnect from his family and his culture to leave and live out his dream, even if it hurts. And I think that works well.

I think that’s everything I really wanted to cover. While relatively stereotypical plot wasn’t my favorite thing, I did enjoy the story overall. It had its charms, and it feels like it had a lot of thought put into it. Especially the ending. Glad I took the time to read it!

 

[NebulaDreams]

Welp, it's been a while. I ran out of steam pretty quickly with the first prompt bingo, but hopefully I'll do better this year. This first one ended up being longer than a drabble but I'll still post it in this thread.

The prompt for the whole of the bingo was 'human/inhuman', and these are the bingo slots:

The nature of humanity	Humane monster, monstrous human	A different way of thinking
A human transformed	Behold, a man	The nature of ghosts
What sharp teeth you have	What brings us together	Empathy, or lack there of

This one was written using the prompt 'What sharp teeth you have'. It features a Lycanroc and human acting in a straight-to-TV production of Little Red, both typecast as the big scary monster and the damsel in distress respectively, and how humans and Pokemon try to bridge the gap as actors. This was semi-inspired by Shelley Duvall's Faerie Tale Theatre episode.

Typecast​

Little Red knocked once, twice, then thrice behind the cardboard door.

“Grandmother, grandmother!” she cried in a shrill voice. “I have brought you some apples! Will you let me in?”

That was Garou’s queue. He couldn’t speak, but if anything, that made his job twice as easy. As much as he hated being typecast as the big, scary monster, it was the first step towards something greater. All he had to do was bring his own flair to the pre-recorded performance.

“Oh, yes dear!” he lip-synced. “Let yourself in; I am a little under the weather!”

He fixed Grandma’s cap over his head before Little Red skipped inside the room. The actress was a bit older than what the role required, but she was the spitting image of a fairytale figure, not just because of her rouge dress and her dolled-up hair, but from the way she carried herself as well. From her ballerina-like waltzing to her doe-eyed expression, every part of her performance was tuned to perfection. Garou had a lot to live up to.

“Oh my, what big ears you have!”

Garou flopped both his ears, going for a mix of cute and threatening. “All the better to hear you with, my dear.”

“And what big eyes you have!” she said.

He bulged his eyes as if a camera was pressed against his face. “All the better to see you with, my dear.”

Little Red blinked like a Stantler doe.

“And what big hands you have!”

Garou showed off his claws like a blinged-out billionaire and ran it through his mane. “All the better to hug you with, my dear.”

Oh, he felt so deliciously evil then. He didn’t expect to fit so comfortably into the role of the big, bad wolf, but he actually really enjoyed it. A bit too much. He was meant to be a distinguished actor, not a heel.

“Oh, grandma…” Little Red’s voice lowered. “What a terrible mouth you have.”

And now for the killshot. Garou licked his lips, then showed off all his canines, polished to perfection. “All the better to EAT you with.”

Little Red gasped. By then, it was too late. Garou pounced on her, pinning her body against the hardwood floor, and lowered his head, maw inching closer and closer to Little Red’s petite face. The world needed to know how terrible this big, bad wolf was, they needed to really believe in him, they needed to hate him, they needed to–”

“Stop, stop!” Denise screeched, thrashing against Garou. “Somebody, stop him!”

Wait, that wasn’t in the script. It wasn’t like Denise to break character. What was–

“Cut!”

As soon as the director yelled, Garou backed away from Denise on all fours, and Denise backed away from him, both on opposite ends of the stage. Garou panted, pulling himself out of his trance, while Denise sobbed, knees tucked to her chest. His trainer, Lana, ran on stage, putting herself between the two, then the director, stage hands, and bodyguards followed.

By the time Garou caught his breath, he realised what he’d done. He’d just scared the life out of his co-star.

–

Garou whined as Lana ran a brush through the back of his mane. There wasn’t a shred left of that big, bad wolf, only a snivelling Lycanroc staring back at him in the grooming room mirror.

“Oh, quit your whinging,” Lana said. “It’s not your fault.”

Garou growled a response. Even if Lana didn’t understand him, she knew the intent he expressed half the time.

“Well, they wanted a big, scary wolf, so you gave it to them. That’s the whole reason you’re here.”

Garou let out a low whine, then yelped as Lana pulled a tangle out of his fur.

“Yeah, but just between you and me, Denise is a prima donna anyway.”

Garou didn’t know if that was true. He’d only met his co-star on set while he was performing, as human and Pokemon actors tended to stay in their own lane.

“Urgh?” he uttered, as if to ask who Denise was.

“Denise Furelise has been acting all her life, Garou. Heck, she was in those Lucari-O adverts when she was five. Five. That sort of fame would warp anyone’s brain at that age.”

“Ohhh,” Garou groaned. He knew what Lucari-Os were, at least. He’d cut his teeth performing in Pokemon kibble ads too, yet that didn’t automatically make someone difficult to work with. If anything, Garou felt like he was being the difficult one.

“There, all done.”

Garou inspected himself, tilting his head to see where Lana had combed his fur. She was a natural at this, as there wasn’t a knot in sight. Even so, that did nothing to lift his spirits. He sagged like a burst Drifloon and whined again.

“Come on, Garou.” Lana brought her fingers under his chin, ready to scritch. “You’re doing fine. I wouldn’t be backstage with you if you weren’t.”

Garou purred lightly as she ran her nails along his neck, becoming putty in her hands. He felt silly even though he still liked being pampered. At times like this, he wished he was a Rockruff again and didn’t have to think about his public image or his acting ability, just the feeling of Lana’s warm hand on his mane.

Someone knocked at the door.

“Er, Lana,” Mr. Director said, “could we have a private chat? Denise’s agent wants to talk to you too.”

Lana brought her hands back and sighed. Somehow, Garou knew what was going through her head and what her conversation with Mr. Director would’ve entailed.

“Sure.” Lana turned back to Garou. “Can you entertain yourself for a little bit?”

Garou nodded.

“Alright. I shouldn’t be too long.”

Lana slunk out of the room, looking back at Garou before the door closed. Garou huffed. He snacked on some kibble from his favourite Crown Canine brand in his favourite glass bowl, but the biscuits rattled in his stomach like stones. In lieu of a script, Garou played back the voice actor’s recordings, only to find he didn’t have any lines after gobbling Little Red up. Finally, he primped and preened himself in the mirror and tried to squeeze a smile out of his newly groomed self, but his reflection didn’t cooperate.

Garou kept staring at himself as he thumped his feet. He couldn’t just sit there while Lana was trying to put out his fires, and possibly stopping him from getting fired. He kept turning over the whole incident in his head. Most humans feared him even if they didn’t say anything to his face, and he hated that. If the people on stage knew him as well as Lana did, they’d trust that he’d never hurt another human.

But did he go too far playing the villain? Lana said otherwise, but this was Fairyland Theatre, not Cry Wolf. He’d seen a couple of the episodes in preparation for this gig, including one that covered The Little Primarina aesop. It was campy, sure, and not the type of acting Garou wanted to be remembered for, but it wasn’t about him. He needed to show the cast and crew that he could’ve toned it down.

More than that, he wanted to apologise to Denise.

Garou slunk out into the hallway, already overwhelmed by the long, empty space that connected all the rooms. There was nothing stopping him from exploring the studio, even as a Pokemon, but Garou felt so self conscious dragging his sharp claws across the soft linoleum floor. He passed by a Machoke stage hand lugging a bunch of audio equipment with her, biting back the urge to battle this formidable fighting type.

“Hey,” he said, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible.

“Um, hello?” she bared her fangs, half-smiling, half-not. “You’re, erm, Garou, aren’t you? Pleased to meet you and… stuff.”

He tried to smile, maybe recapture the cuteness of his old Rockruff form, but he showed more teeth than he intended and the Machoke recoiled. “Pleased to meet you too. Do you know where Denise’s room is?”

“That’s, um, not my job, sorry. Excuse me.”

The Machoke hurried to continue her business. Garou tried not to take it to heart as he continued navigating the studio on his own, picking out Denise’s voice amidst the sea of voices and cries in all the different rooms, past the shuffling footsteps and the clattering of stage hands. She had quite a sweet, high-pitched voice, even in adulthood.

What he heard instead was Lana’s hushed voice, mixed in with the director’s. He tiptoed across the length of the hallway and pressed his ear against the door of the director’s office.

“Yes, I know. I… Garou knew what… look, it’s my fault, I didn’t–”

“I don’t care–” another female voice said–”I’m here for Denise’s best interests and you–”

That didn’t sound good. Garou whined again; he should’ve just gone back to his room and accepted his fate. But Lana had worked so hard to bring him into stardom, and Garou had worked just as hard to make a good impression. He wasn’t about to throw that away.

Where did Denise stay? Even as stars, they were only there for that one episode, so they didn’t have the luxury of their private rooms. What was a human version of a grooming room? A dressing room? Humans needed dresses. Grooming, not so much. But how was he supposed to find it if he couldn’t make out what the signs said?

Simple. He just had to peek through every door until he got the right one. Garou poked his head into a rehearsal space where a Delphox, of all Pokemon, held what was hopefully a foam skull in his claws.

“Woe, folly of man,” he spoke in human tongue to a crowd of human co-stars, “a plague, they bring, to our once-divine species, and a plague, we bring onto them…”

Even though half the words were lost on Garou, he knew talent when he saw it. He wouldn’t have been able to live up to that Delphox… wait, why was he worrying about that? He needed to find Denise.

He tried the next room, and barked when something from behind the door ambushed him. He stumbled backward and hissed at the menacing figure he caught in his hands, only to realise it was a mop.

On the next door over, he just saw a bunch of men in suits in some stuffy office.

“What do you mean, nobody watches TV anymore? Then why the hell are we throwing millions of Pokedollars at this? Intern, is that my coffee?”

The suited human turned whiter than white when he glimpsed at Garou. He squeaked and slammed the door, hoping nobody followed him back out as he tried the other rooms. From the sewing room he obviously had no business being in, to the toilets that he couldn’t even bring himself to enter, he wasn’t having much luck. There was one last room to try at the very end. But what if it was just another damp-smelling broom closet, or something worse?

His ears picked up the squeak of office doors opening. That must’ve been Lana, Mr. Director, and Denise’s agent, judging from the clack of heels and loafers. Whatever were they talking about?

“Well, I still don’t think Garou will be too pleased to hear that…”

What did that mean? Oh no, his butt was totally fired. He would return to a humdrum existence of beating the snot out of other Pokémon. Then what did he have to lose? He charged through the last door and found the dressing room… which looked exactly like the grooming room except there were no beds on the floor. And there was Denise, who powdered her face. She gasped as she saw Garou enter.

“Oh, jeez!” Denise stood up, grasping at her chest. “What–what are you doing in here?”

Garou slouched. Of course, she was still scared of him. What would he even say to her? He didn’t know how to speak human. How could he show her he meant no harm?

Garou whined and lay on the floor, like he used to when he was a Rockruff. It felt ridiculous and he was definitely too old to be doing it, but that always used to work on other fraidy Pokemon. Would it have worked on Denise?

“Oh, what a day.” Denise sighed and pinched the bridge of her rouged nose. “What am I doing here?”

Garou rose and tilted his head. Denise didn’t seem afraid of him anymore, but her body was still tense.

“Urgh?” he asked.

Denise took a few deep breaths, gathering herself before she paced around the room.

“I didn’t wanna do this.” Her heels clacked against the rubbery floor. “That agent only picks these kinds of cute roles for me, like, I told her I didn’t wanna be another Polly the Ponyta Rancher.” She stopped. “Ugh, why am I talking to a Lycanroc about this anyway?”

“Orgh,” Garou grunted, crossing his arms. He knew what that show was. It seemed too girly for his tastes but it was all the rage when he was a Rockruff. Even Lana used to watch it.

“Whatever.” Denise slumped into her swivel seat and let out another sigh. She opened her mouth to speak, only to close it. Her body was still tense, like a scarecrow. There was probably a lot she wanted to say, but she didn’t seem to have the words for it, or didn’t know how to express it.

That was how Garou felt every day of his life. Even if he could speak, he didn’t quite know what to say. Then, what was he supposed to do?

Do what he did best: act.

Garou growled and stood on the tips of his hindpaws, making himself look as tall as possible. That snapped Denise out of her funk, but Garou didn’t want to go too far like last time. He stomped and paced around the room, holding out his arms like he was back on the set of that lame wolfman horror film. That wasn’t his proudest moment of his career, but it got him his current role.

“Oh, that.” Denise quirked an eyebrow. She didn’t seem impressed, but at least she wasn’t freaking out like before. “I knew you from Midnight. It wasn’t a great film, no offense.”

Garou shrugged. Lana had streamed it on her TV since they didn’t release it in the cinemas. He was looking forward to the day when he could attend his own premieres in front of a proper moviegoing crowd. He had a point to make, though, and Garou found a tennis ball in the corner of the room next to a bucket of them.

Garou knew not to dive for the nearest ball-shaped thing anymore, so he wasn’t about to headbutt the wall to get it. What he did instead was pick it up and offer it to Denise. She turned the ball around in her hands.

“You want to… play catch?”

If they wanted him to act like the dog he used to be, Garou was capable of doing that. He sat on his hindquarters and lolled his tongue. Denise stared at the ball for a moment longer, then smirked and threw it in the air; Garou sprang to catch it with his mouth, and he ran around the dressing room as if he was high on licorice. He could hear Denise’s laughter through his zoomies, but that wasn’t all he wanted to do.

Garou stood on his hindpaws again without skipping a beat. He poised himself, channeling that prince-turned-Grimmsnarl in The Beast In Me. That role required subtlety and grace, and Garou gave it as he offered the ball to an invisible figure like a plucked rose, moving every inch of his body in the most regal manner possible. He hadn’t copied Grimm’s movements for hours in the mirror just to flub it. Garou clinched it with a twirl and a bow.

“Woah,” Denise uttered, holding a hand to her mouth. Yes, it worked! Denise was about to clap when the door slammed open. It was Lana, Mr. Director, and whoever that woman was that followed Denise everywhere. It must’ve been her agent.

“Lana,” the agent said, “get that Lycanroc away from her.”

Garou whined, making himself look as small as possible, yet he felt even smaller. Lana looked kind of disappointed too; she’d told him to stay put. Maybe he should’ve. He hobbled away from Denise, ready to accept his fate.

“Tyler,” Denise said, standing up. “Garou hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“But–” the agent gripped her clipboard–”then, what was he–”

“He was just showing me his acting range. Weren’t you?”

Garou nodded vigorously.

Tyler inspected her clipboard and sighed. “After all that…”

“So, what are we doing about Garou?” Mr. Director asked.

Lana and Tyler looked at each other as if they weren’t quite sure what to do either.

“You weren’t gonna sack him, were you?” Denise asked.

“No, no, of course not!” Lana said, though her nervous laughter betrayed her tone. “It was just a misunderstanding, right?”

“Yeah.” Denise approached the three and bowed. “I’ve just had a bad day, that’s all.” She bowed to Garou too. “And I’m sorry, Garou. I, er, said some not nice things about you to my agent. If I knew they were going to–”

Garou patted her head softly, like he was Lana, except in reverse. It was his turn to act like a human for a change. So he bowed to Denise, then bowed to the rest of the crew. He hoped he would continue acting. More than that, he hoped they finally saw him for the actor he was, not just good at his job, but good with his co-stars too.

Lana didn’t look like she was about to scold him any more. Tyler shrugged and pulled out a cigarette from her pocket. Mr. Director scratched his beard, then clapped his hands. “Right. Let’s take five, then start from the top.”

–

“All the better to EAT you with.”

Denise, or rather, Little Red, gasped as she did before. And Garou pounced on her, as he did before, except this time, Denise made a meal out of her performance, falling to the floor in mock terror. Garou licked his chops for the camera before lowering his head to Little Red ever so slowly, but not so close that it looked like he was literally about to eat his co-star.

“Cut!” Mr. Director yelled. “That’s good enough, you two! Next scene!”

Garou offered her hand to Denise ever so gently, and she took it with a smile.

 

[NebulaDreams]

The nature of humanity	Humane monster, monstrous human	A different way of thinking
A human transformed	Behold, a man	The nature of ghosts
What sharp teeth you have	What brings us together	Empathy, or lack there of

This one’s based off the ‘What brings us together’ prompt and also serves as yet another prequel to my fic Beasts Like Us. This one focuses on the meet cute moment between our Machoke protagonist Glen and his human boyfriend, Barry, as they smoke outside the music venue featured prominently in that fic.

Twin Fantasy​

My Red Sandy Numel fills my lungs as I take a drag. It warms me for a moment — my little dose of sunshine in a cancer stick — then the chills roll in again as I exhale it back into the freezing night. I try not to slip on the frosted pavement as I prop myself against the brick wall outside The Cave where us smokers usually hang out.

Us smokers. As if. I know I don’t belong here. The human smoking beside me, some goth in guyliner, shifts away from me. He tries not to be noticeable, but it’s obvious as he avoids making eye contact with me, then he takes one big drag of his cigarette, coughs, and flicks it away before retreating back into the cave. Not to mention the stares I get from humans passing by on their pub crawls. To think you have one of Circhester’s biggest alternative clubs on the corner of its biggest dives.

Well, fuck you all, I’m staying here. I deserve this. Besides, I need to get away from the noise throbbing beneath me, echoing out from some hipster who can’t play his guitar. They called the supporting act ‘shoegaze’. I swear humans come up with all these dumb terms just to sound cool.

Soon enough, the music stops, claps echo from downstairs, and whatever’s on the DJ mix filters in. My cigarette’s burned to the tip. I could go back in… but I can’t really enjoy myself. I’m slightly buzzed from the Pekkochu I downed back in my place, but I can’t buy any drinks here, even though I’m an adult just like everyone else.

I stare at my wrist, ink star stamped onto my purple skin; blue from the cold. I catch a glimpse of those red streaks across my arms and feel a little sick again, though maybe it’s the smoke and the drink. I might just go back after this last cigarette. I’m not confident about this next act: Melting Nanab. For all I know, ‘noise rock’ could just be literal noise.

I try to smoke another Sandy Numel, but my lighter refuses to work; not even a spark. Fuck. I’ll have to get that weird neighbour to buy me another one. More humans from The Cave join me, and a part of me wants to leave, but I need my fix now. I stare dumbly at the line against the wall, gauging who’s the most likely to help me out.

The one closest to me is another hipster looking dude in a flannel shirt. He’s a bit chubby and has a nose ring, which he huffs mist through, making him look like a fire-breathing Tepig. Wow, he’s… kind of my type. He’s got a nice, soft face too, slightly damp from the sweat of The Cave. I wonder if…

No. I don’t wanna go down that road again. Every time I tangle with a human, it turns to utter shit. Besides, he might just be as much of a douche as every human I met. He turns to me with a quirked, bushy eyebrow, probably seeing me for the freak I am like everyone else does.

“Sorry,” he asks in a polite voice, “I don’t suppose you have a light on you?”

The cigarette dangles from my maw, sticking to my lips.

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

“Oh. I left mine at home.” He doesn’t bat an eye at how I just spoke human. He smiles — the way he smiles, his plump cheeks puff up, and he hides it behind his hand as if he’s embarrassed — and turns to the emo chick beside him. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a light for me and… what’s your name?”

This evening’s full of surprises. He’s more polite than most humans. “Glen.”

Emo girl blinks at me, but otherwise doesn’t comment as she offers her lighter to me and this nice human. Now I can enjoy my Sandy Numel. It tastes all the sweeter after that screwing around. The human smokes too. I can just see the Gold Winking Weezing packet poking out of his pocket. Weak stuff, but not a dealbreaker. Aside from that, I can’t think of anything to say as a conversation starter, not for a lack of topics, but because somehow, a part of me doesn’t want to mess this up. The silence doesn’t feel awkward though, just needed.

“They should fix their mixing at some point.”

That’s the first thing the human’s said in a while.

“What?” I ask. I’ve got no idea what he’s talking about.

“The mixing. It just sounds really muddy and cold when it shouldn’t.”

I’ve never heard music described that way, let alone whatever that noise was. “How so?”

The human takes a drag, and his pudgy hands twirl as if he’s conducting an orchestra. “Live shoegaze shouldn’t sound like that. It’s meant to be like a warm hug of sound. I don’t think they’ve adjusted the mix; they just slapped some reverb on it and called it a day.”

I blink, trying to take it all in. I get the gist of what he’s saying. “It just sounded like noise to me. Not that I’d know much; I didn’t even know what shoegaze was before tonight.”

The human shrugs. “That’s fair. I actually listened to Beautiful Rewind before I came here and it sounds way better. Probably because he has more control over his own mix.”

I never heard it explained like that before. My music knowledge is minimal at best, but he broke it down in a way that I kind of understand. I’ve spoken to humans here before about it and they all turn their nose up at me as if I’m some caveman.

“I ought to listen to more bands before I see ‘em, really. I’d probably enjoy them more.”

“I don’t always.” He flashes a cute smile that he doesn’t hide this time. Trails of smoke twirl in the air as he animatedly moves his hands. “It can be fun to just turn up on the night and listen to them blind.”

I shrug. “I guess. I went to the Nervous Young Inhumans show a month back and I’ve enjoyed them since.”

“No way, I was there!” He chuckles. “I love them! I guess I just about missed you, then.”

I can’t help but laugh too. How did this big lug miss a Machoke among a crowd of humans? To be fair, I probably would’ve picked him out based on his body type. Though piecing it together, he does look familiar. Yellow flannel kind of sticks out anyway. My eyebrow ridge shoots up.

“Were you wearing glasses then?”

“Yeah.” He taps his temple. “I got contacts. New prescription. Still takes some getting used to, but I’m liking it.”

Now I have to see him in them again. I bet it’d suit him. Then again, his eyes… the way he looks at me is the same other Pokémon look at me, like one of their own. I can tell because there are no creases in his eyes, no hint that he’s looking down on me. Just kind, brown eyes.

I stare at my cigarette. We were talking so long that the tip is just ash now. Not that I mind. I scrape it on the brick wall, and this human does the same after he finishes his.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Barry.”

“Barry,” I mouth, like I want to memorise the shape of it. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same!” He looks into The Cave’s entrance. “Should we go back in?”

“A bit early, isn’t it?”

“I wanna get to the front if I can. Melting Nanab’s really good live.”

I stare at the club’s neon sign, flickering on and off. I’m still dubious about this next band, but somehow, I take Barry’s word for it that they’re gonna rock.

I lean away from the wall. I don’t know if Barry notices the big, dumb smile on my face right now.

“In that case, I’ll join you.”

 

[NebulaDreams]

The nature of humanity	Humane monster, monstrous human	A different way of thinking
A human transformed	Behold, a man	The nature of ghosts
What sharp teeth you have	What brings us together	Empathy, or lack there of

This one’s inspired by the prompt ‘Empathy, or lack there of’, and is a bit more bittersweet than the previous two stories, but I hope you’ll enjoy. Again, I don’t know the meaning of a drabble. This one features a character some veterans might recognise: Admirari from the old draft of I, Isobel, except overhauled. So disregard the old version of her character and just take this as it’s own thing.

Nil Admirari​

A bird’s crying out for its mother just a hundred metres away. Its cries are so faint that any other Pokemon wouldn’t pick them out, but it radiates such a strong emotion that my tentacle flails behind me like a Seviper fighting a Zangoose. Flying types shouldn’t even be anywhere near my abode, and I usually wouldn’t pick out their stray emotions if I wasn’t so close to the cave entrance. That’s where all the books are, partially bleached by the sun to avoid getting damp. The stone’s warm beneath my not-quite-feet too.

They’re really desperate for their mama bird to come. I could– oh never mind, the emotion’s disappeared. Either the bird’s mother found it or it got gobbled by some other wild Pokemon. I don’t know which one I’d prefer.

Now I can focus, I retreat back into the cave depths with my copy of Wolf at the Door, the second in the Maury Whistleblower series. This one directly picks up from the last entry where Maury and her Lycanroc sidekick have to uncover another grisly conspiracy, starting with a scientist who’s discovered by his lab assistant with his face melted off. Nil had read the first few chapters of the previous book, Cry Wolf, and he commented on how extreme the murder methods were, but otherwise doesn’t judge my reading habits.

I try to curl up in the crevices of the cave wall and escape into the tangled mysteries of this page turner. After reading so many theory books on Pokemon biology, the philosophies of different Pokemon societies, even pop science books on various concepts of emotion, I need something lighter. Yet as I’m reading the buddy cop dynamic the human and her Lycanroc share (despite everything, the Lycanroc has to beg Maury to buy him his favourite dog-friendly ice cream), all I can think about is Nil.

It’s just past four o’clock in the afternoon. Nil should have started his meditation retreat, and many humans will have joined him for a three hour session. He invited me to come along half an hour into the session, as that’s usually when people start diving deep into their meditation rituals. It’s not completely devoid of emotion, but it’s a space for humans, even Pokemon like Medicham, to examine their emotions and let them pass without it consuming them.

It’s Nil’s secondary source of income to being a trainer, and a business he takes great pride in. I can see why he wants me to come. Yet I know it’s not a good idea. I’m dangerous. I’ve holed myself up in this cave for a very good reason. Besides, I have all the time to meditate alone. That’s what I’ve been doing ever since I became a Hatterene.

The words on the page of the thriller pass through me like mist. Simple sentences like ‘Maury scratched the back of Lasso’s head’ take me a few tries to parse. This isn’t working, not because I’m not engaged, because I want to know why the killers tried to suppress the scientist’s research on undiscovered neurotransmitters.

I heard that humans take medicine to balance chemicals such as dopamine that aren’t being produced, therefore regulating their emotions. Experimental antidepressants are still being produced for certain Pokemon too. I don’t know what would drive someone to kill so they could stop that. If there was a drug that cured my ailment, I’d take it in a heartbeat.

I head back to the cave entrance and place the book back on top of the leaning pile. There’s so much to read, but none of the titles grab me. On any other day, I’d just whittle the time away reading everything from cover to blurb. Take that away, and there’s nothing to distract me from my thoughts. I faintly see the sun shining from the cracks in the entrance and let out a heaved sigh.

I want to cry, but the tears don’t come. How can I when the thought of seeing someone’s scrunched up face covered in salt and snot makes me want to gut them? My tentacle flails around as if it's angry, yet there’s no good outlet for it, and looking at it rationally, there’s nothing that’s triggering that right now. The sun’s shining and I’ve got my creature comforts, yet I don’t smile, but that doesn’t mean I’m not content with what I have. Yet I don’t feel afraid either. Afraid of what, some harmless Morpeko or clueless human? Others are afraid of me, if anything.

All of these emotions live inside me, yet they’re buried, like someone’s turned the volume down on them. That doesn’t stop me from feeling a mixture of all of these, contrary to what some humans claim about Hatterene. Yet, the strongest emotion for me right now is loneliness.

There’s debate about whether or not loneliness counts as an emotion. It’s a state of mind. It’s an emotional response to isolation, not an emotion in itself as it’s arguably a mix of fear and sadness. I can be alone and not be lonely. I’ve got whole worlds that people live in within my tentacle’s reach. I know Nil and his team are thinking of me out there too. It’s some comfort, at least.

I look around my cave. There are a few plush sleeping bags and blankets dotted around, courtesy of Nil. I’ve got matches and flint for making tea, though I have to be careful with how I use it in the cave. There are even a few berries and snacks stowed away in a wicker basket for when I get hungry, though I require little.

All of this is cast in a duvet of darkness that only I can see.

I don’t cry when I get sad, as many do, but there’s this sinking feeling at the bottom of my not-feet, like I might become a ghost and phase through the cave floor. My tentacle flails; I’m mad that I’m stuck here due to factors beyond my control. My heart soars at the thought of meeting Nil again, yet rapidly beats at the thought of going out too.

This is temporary. Emotion is a state of mind, a defense mechanism, a chemical reaction. As long as I don’t let it become me, I’m safe. Yet, just for today…

I’ve decided I’ll go to Nil’s meditation retreat after all. I take a deep breath and imagine myself at the Haven Fields Farm on Circhester’s outskirts. I imagine the vibrations of steel drums, no doubt Petrichor’s doing, I imagine humans and a handful of Pokémon sitting cross-legged on yoga mats, the smell of fresh grass, and the warm sunlight streaming on my features. And somewhere in that field, there’s a mat saved just for me.

I’m in the cave, then I’m not. I’m in Nil’s field, unevenly setting not-quite-foot on my special mat. True to Nil’s word, every human, plus a Hitmonlee and an Indeedee, is in their element. Most let their emotions wash off them like water off a Farfetch’d’s beak, while a few are still sifting through theirs like leftover grains of rice. My tentacle swivels slightly, but the emotional potency is muted enough that I can just about control it.

Nil barely notices I’m there. It’s only when I sit down that he slightly cracks open one eye, nods, then closes it again. He’s pleased to see me, of course, though he knows not to show it as much in my presence. Petrichor waves at me, then stops as the Drizzile realises what he’s doing. The happy feeling lingers, then it fades as he focuses on his water abilities, pouring himself into a bucket to simulate the sounds of a dripping cavern.

Now there’s nothing stopping me from settling into a meditation position as my tentacle becomes an impromptu seat.

“Now, keep concentrating on your breathing,” Nil instructs. “Any thoughts you may have left, acknowledge them, feel them, and let them pass.”

His speech breaks the trance. Some lose focus and waver. Complex human emotions trickle in: anxiety over bills, emasculation in a relationship, anhedonia, ennui, even lust, experiences that should lie beyond my grasp as a Pokémon yet are laid bare before me. It’s like I’m listening to a foreign language and hearing the tone’s intent without digesting the meaning of the words.

My tentacle bounces, threatening to make my body lose its balance. Any more of this noise and I might just tumble like a three-layered cake.

“Focus on your surroundings,” Nil cooes, “how does the wind feel on your cheek? What types of birds are chirping around us? Where does your body ache? If you find yourself floating away from the path, these sensations will ground you.”

I try to focus on these things. There’s a very slight breeze that doesn’t relieve the heat. I can’t tell one Pokémon’s birdsong from another; they’re all screeching in pain in different pitches and frequencies. There’s still that hollow feeling deep within me. I wonder if that’s how Banette feel: all full of cotton and ectoplasm and no organs.

“Think of what pains you the most and look at it like you’re watching a film. Don’t cast judgement on it, just experience them as they are and think about what you see inside yourself.”

I feel like Nil’s missing the point of watching a film. You’re supposed to feel something from it, like I do when I read my murder mysteries. But just for his sake, I try to look at my thoughts and feelings like an outside observer.

I can just imagine myself. Wide brimmed and pointy hat. Tentacle as long as my dress-like body. No arms. I think of all I could achieve with arms; I’d make tea faster and wouldn’t have to treat the brewing process like an assembly manual.

That’s just on the outside. On the inside, to the average human, they’d just describe me as difficult. Quick to anger. A ticking time bomb. I remember when I winded Nil with one punch to his chest, just because he cheered upon winning a battle against a particularly insufferable trainer. If that happened now…

“Do not try to structure your thoughts. Let your mind flow from thread to thread, like a stream sluicing through river stones.”

Nil has a way with words. And Petrichor’s doing his best to create a good atmosphere, manipulating his water-spewing abilities to create tapestries of textures with sound alone.

But I can’t let my thoughts flow like water. I can’t concentrate when one human’s dozed off mid-meditation and is snoring like a sleep apnea patient, when another human’s frustrated about being dragged along here by his partner and isn’t paying attention, when another human’s severely depressed but is trying to hide it, creating a pressure in the atmosphere that just builds and builds and builds and I want to put them out of their misery, one quick swipe would do it—

I catch myself. This can’t go on. Just before I lose it completely along with my balance, I think of home and how damp and quiet it is and how I’d rather be anywhere but here at this moment.

The instant I teleport back, I rush out of the cave and slash a nearby rock latticed with the scars I’ve inflicted. That doesn’t relieve the pressure, the never-ending sensation that the air itself will explode and disintegrate me into nothingness. I cry, scream, and shriek like the Forest Witch I am, yet still, the pressure doesn’t stop. It never does.

—

I’m back in my little cave nook, reading chapter after chapter of Maury’s misadventures. The pressure subsided slightly, though still ever present. Nil’s meditation session was just too much for me, but that’s behind me. Now I’m alone again, and accept that I’ll face many days alone, perhaps the rest of my days. Meditation is about accepting the constants and variables in your life and letting them pass, and that, too shall pass.

Except… what is that? There’s a slight buzzing, like a ringtone without a phone. That’s Nil. He’s trying to talk to me. For a human like him, it’s a gift, albeit an unstable one that could disappear from his grasp at any moment. For me, it’s like an invisible thread, one I have to focus in order to pull.

Are you there, Admirari? he asks. The psychic thread appears before me like a thick telephone wire, and I seize it with my mind.

Yes.

I’m glad you could make it, at least for a little bit. I hope you can come again.

Whatever pressure’s left releases like air from a balloon. Nil’s there. No matter where he is, no matter how difficult I make things for him or myself, he’s always there. I can’t be with him right now. Maybe not for the foreseeable future.

Thank Arceus I’m not a Gothitelle. There’s at least some hope in not knowing the future.

I hope so too.