...No.

No.

I'm sorry, but no.

I could give you an actual Author's Note that talks about the work and stuff, sure. But there's absolutely no point. You read the summary. You know what you're getting into. You're already going to stab me in the face (or, at the very least, feel the express urge, desire, or impulse to do so) after reading this, so I might as well start to flee while I still can.

In case it wasn't obvious enough already, this fic contains violence, slight gore, angst galore, and near character death. Viewer discretion is advised.

Also, I don't own Pokémon. Really, do I seem Japanese or in any way rich to you?

One last thing before I leave you to it: please note that this was written in one go at literally midnight through the AMs, so, even though it has been edited, please do not be surprised if you see some glaring literary mistakes that are just bad ideas even though they're technically not "wrong".

Edit: Fixed some typos and such and added a part that hadn't transferred properly from Google Drive.

With all that out of the way...

Ha Ha (It's Not Funny)

His feet were freezing cold.

And how ironic was that? Because he could say that meaning two different things, and it would make sense either way. Right now, he was leaning towards the more literal interpretation, but that didn't mean the figurative one wasn't true.

It was hilarious.

Ha ha.

It wasn't as if he'd made much of a mistake. Well, that was a lie—he had made a rather grievous mistake; a few of them, in fact. The more accurate thing to say would be "he hadn't made any obvious mistakes". Goodness gracious, though, had he made a mistake (and he was definitely delirious if he was not only admitting to it unabashedly, but using the phrase "goodness gracious" in the process).

His first mistake had been visiting that Pokémon ranch with his folks as a child. And, well—in all honesty, he hadn't had much of a choice there. The ranch had been his father's idea of a good time, not his (did that man think of much besides Pokémon, work, and family?), so it was really no fault of his own if they insisted upon dragging him along, claiming that he'd have fun no matter how much he protested.

And, really, it had been a nice little trip at the time; a seemingly harmless escapade and an excuse to gape in awe at fully-evolved and well-bred Pokémon. They'd gone to the finest ranch in Johto, and he'd spent much of his time trying to rack up the courage to approach a rather sinister-looking Typhlosion who turned out to be quite mellow and sweet. He and his mother had laughed it off, and even his stoic father had cracked a smile.

But it hadn't been harmless. Little did he know that this innocent encounter would end up with him sprawled out in the snow, bleeding profusely and sobbing into the heaving chest of his very first partner.

Because that ranch visit all those years ago had got him thinking. He'd gotten thinking that perhaps Pokémon were just as cool as he'd been lead to believe all his life. And, with a grin from his mother and an encouraging nod from his father, he'd decided what he wanted to do with his life: he was going to be a Pokémon trainer like so many before him. But he was different than all those folk who ended up living on Victory Road for the rest of their lives. No, he was going to be the Pokémon Champion.

How hilariously naive of him.

You know—because the dangers existed, but they would never really happen to him, only to someone else.

Ha ha.

His second problem was his misguided choice in starter Pokémon. Okay, yeah, sure—he hadn't so much chosen Mudkip as he had blindly groped for the ball closest to the top of the Professor's bag, and there was no way he could've predicted the less-than-favorable outcome, but it was a mistake nonetheless. He had been happy with his decision at first—everything had been right as rain still, so he had nothing to worry about. Why would he regret when nothing had gone wrong?

Because taking only a water type with him in the dead of winter was a good idea.

Ha ha.

Now, in his defense, part of it was just that he was new here (Hoenn was a tropical region; they didn't get snow, right?). The rest was just a result of the excitement rushing through him: he was lucky enough to depart on his own journey (and so fresh after 10!), and the thirst for adventure had hit him like a train and was still in the process of grinding his mind to mush under its wheels. Still, he hadn't even the common sense to bring an extra jacket along or anything. No. Because that would have been far too logical. Something clearly forbidden in his brain at the moment.

But even those two errors wouldn't have been a problem if it wasn't for the third mistake he made. They'd just piled up so fast—he hadn't noticed he was digging his own grave until it was already far too late.

There was no harm in walking. For that's what he had been doing—simply strolling along through the snow-free Petalburg Forest, shivering a bit in the brisk air but not truly cold. He was far too preoccupied with his own anxious enthusiasm to be affected by temperature at the moment.

He hadn't even registered the danger until the territorial Pokémon was lunging at him with a blood-curdling snarl.

It all happened so quickly that he never even got a good look at the Pokémon. Figures that the strongest Pokémon he met, he wouldn't get a chance to register in his Pokédex. And, at first, that was truly what he was worried about—after the first tackle, he had assumed that it would leave him be.

Because wild Pokémon are always so cooperative, courteous, and reasonable.

Ha ha.

Pain had assaulted him with a cruel vengeance, tearing a scream from his lips, as sharp teeth ripped and tore through the tender flesh on his arms. He could hear the distant sounds of little Mudkip trying desperately to fight off the beast, but, with one swipe of what looked to be either a claw or a tusk, the much smaller Pokémon was sent hurtling through the air and the predator resumed its attack. He hadn't been able to comprehend much after that as the pain only grew and grew. Eventually, it peaked with an agonizing rain of slashes that reduced his back to a bloody pulp and painted most of his body and the surrounding soil red.

He was too far gone to scream after that, no matter how much it hurt hurt hurt.

Because, you know, he had just gotten mauled.

Occupational hazard, he supposed.

Ha ha.

After laying waste to the boy who had wandered too close, the Pokémon trotted away, not even trying to eat its prey. He never did figure out what he'd done—if he had walked into its territory or trod on its tail or what. For all he knew, it was just sadistic and wanted to see someone suffer before bed. If that was the case, it had certainly succeeded. Definitely something to put on its resume.

How long he lay there, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that he was slumped across the forest floor, limp body quivering in pain and utterly drenched in blood, when Mudkip hobbled up to him, whimpering and crying. The little blue creature took one look at his Master's back before breaking into small sounds that could've been sobs or laughter; he was too far gone to tell at the moment. Curling into his Master's chest, Mudkip gave a few croak-like noises that were probably meant to be reassuring.

And—how ironic—it turns out that he may have been a good Pokémon Trainer after all, because he calmed his partner down with ease despite his tongue being far too thick and swelled in his mouth for him to form comprehensible speech.

Not that he would ever know now that his chances of being a Trainer were quite literally hacked to pieces. Along with almost every inch of his flesh. He could feel his back dripping off of his bones in chunks, along with the rivers, and he did mean rivers, of blood. No doubt, the moist soil of Petalburg would soon be totally saturated in the crimson liquid.

You could say his chances of survival were just a little slim.

Ha ha.

You could also say that fire was kind of hot, or that snow was kind of cold, or any other gross under-exaggeration.

Ha ha.

He wasn't laughing.

And then—wow, he swore to God that something up there in the universal control room really hated him, because he started to cry. Only it wasn't the pain racking his body and consuming his thoughts that tore the tears from his eyes. No; he started crying as soon as the first snowflake landed on his nose and a punch from the harsh reality of the situation made his head reel.

He was laying, completely unprotected and unable to protect himself, in the middle of the woods in the dead of winter, he was losing blood faster than Dad lost his keys, and now a freak snowstorm was hitting him. Hitting him and his water Pokémon.

Of course, he'd never said anything to poor Mudkip, but that was the first time he ever doubted his heat-of-the-moment decision. If he'd gotten a Torchic, then perhaps the fire chicken could've been able to keep him warm. As it was, his body, already trembling with the effort of staying conscious, began to shake uncontrollably from the frigid temperature. Pain throbbed over every inch of him, only worsening with every slight movement, but he couldn't stop no matter how he tried.

So he cradled Mudkip to his chest (as well as he could with his nearly useless arms) and whispered in a hoarse voice, "Don't worry, bud; don't worry. We'll be alright. Help is coming."

Help wasn't coming.

He realized that pretty quickly. It was around the time his shivers and words were reduced to pathetic mewls every few seconds as the pain increased slowly but steadily, eating away at every part of his body like acid. Within an hour or two, he had lost hope completely, instead opting to wrap Mudkip in his hopefully warm embrace (body heat and all, right?) and pray that at least one of them made it. Preferably Mudkip, because, after mere hours of knowing each other, they were already close-knit.

What do you know? He may have been a passable Pokémon trainer after all.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Brendan allowed himself a moment for his own personal pity party: just a moment to revel in the sheer unfairness of it all. This time, the tears dripping off the edge of his nose had nothing to do with the cold. If it hadn't been for the sheer pain and fatigue currently holding the reins, he might've felt adrenaline rush through him as the situation made itself perfectly frank.

'I'm going to die.'

He'd heard of Pokémon Trainers who had died on their adventures before. People who had been trampled by stampeding Rapidash; people who had been dragged underwater by smirking Tentacruel; even the people who had died in sillier ways, like those who had been hugged to death by Arbok who didn't know their true strength, or those who were standing too close when their little Magikarp evolved.

Somehow, he found those stories less funny now.

Because, you know, he had to be one of the stupider ones. Killed for walking.

Ha ha.

Until that very day, he had always hated Mightyena. But now, as a Trainer's Mightyena tore away from her Master's grasp and rushed toward the heavy stench of blood in the air, barking wildly, he found his hatred quelled. He heard the Trainer scream—of course, a poor little kid would find him like this, broken and bleeding to death—before hands grasped at him, making another howl of pain escape his lips.

He couldn't hear what she was saying—not really; not over the pounding in his ears. But he got the general gist when she gently lay him back down in the snow, turned, and began to run along the path, shouting for help. Meanwhile, her Mightyena lay across his body in what he later recognized was an effort to warm him. Now, though, he felt no change in body heat, having lost the ability to feel the cold many minutes ago. At least he had stopped shaking.

The weight of the wolf on his fresh wounds kept him awake just long enough for the Trainer to return with a familiar blur of red and black. A very familiar, very frantic blur. Something about that seemed wrong—something told him that the red-and-black blur should have been much calmer, but he didn't have a clue what it was.

He was half-lifted, propped up off the ground, and it took him longer than it should have to realize that he was looking into the face of his father, who didn't seem as unshakable as he usually did. Eyes wide and expression urgent, he opened and closed his mouth; it took his son even longer to realize that he was speaking. That was what people did to communicate, right? Move their mouths? Still, he couldn't hear a word of it—he supposed his father would have to speak louder.

Where has his father gone? Had he run off to the gym again? His vision was too blurry to make much out but a white background and a splash of shadow in the middle of his line of sight. Eyelids drooped and muscles went slack as he felt himself slip away...

Smack!

For a terrifying moment, the late arrival of his adrenaline had him thinking with perfect clarity—long enough to recognize the fact that his dad had just slapped him and that his name was being called by someone or other. Dazed, he looked over to his father's face, blinking confusedly up at the man.

Something warm and wet splashed against his cheeks. At first, he thought that he had started crying again without even noticing it himself—then he heard shaky, ragged breaths from above him, somehow deafeningly loud despite the otherwise stark silence ringing in his ears. After a slow gear-turn in his mind, he realized that it was his father who was crying—Dad—Norman Maple, the famously stoic gym leader known to be nothing if not level-headed, was actually crying.

His first thought was 'I wonder what's wrong?'

His second thought was 'Oh, yeah.'

His eyes stuttered shut, even when he earned another stinging strike to the cheek, and he soon found himself plunged into darkness, his senses extinguished like fire. Someone was yelling, but they would have to find someone else to help them.

He was really starting to have cold feet about this whole "Pokémon Trainer" thing.

Not that he would have feet to be cold after this ordeal—assuming he even survived it, that is. Because, you know, frostbite and stuff. Who was to say he wouldn't need an amputation or two? 'Better a little stumpy,' he thought to himself, 'than a little dead.'

Ha ha.

It really wasn't funny.

BEFORE YOU BREAK OUT THE PITCHFORKS AND TORCHES... I apologize profusely for what I've done. Also, you should know that I fully intended for it to be implied that he lives; I just couldn't find a way to put it in without making it seem awkward, forced, or tension-breaking, so I was forced to leave it out. Quite a shame.

In any case, please drop me a review if you liked it or if you have any specific complaints so that I can grow as an author and all that jazz.

I'm going to go reflect on my life choices now.