Intro: A Walk

Intro to the story, author's introduction: Written to "Pretender" by the Foo Fighters. I've had this random idea rattling around in my head... it's a strange one, very surreal, but I wanted to see if I could make it work. Basically this is a writing exercise where I am trying to mesh a series of random story snipits together, some are easily conectable, some are not.

Official Summery: Normally trainers trained pokemon… but sometimes that shoe fit the paw nicely. Add to that the fickle nature of memory and things are made a mess all around.

Once there had been another. That other had been a quiet entity of white, with saucer wide eyes the no-color of ice.

Back then, with the other, there had been a shred of normalcy to life. Things had there patterned course. Time came and went, refrained from its present hopping… and the disorientation hadn't become a fact of life. Unfortunately then wasn't now, and now was to be endured.

As if catching the taint of self pity that stained the leash holder's thoughts the leashed lifted one red snout to the air and let out a loud sniff.

All the better clear out the stench of your pity, black eyes rimmed round by red fur seemed to say with the merest of gazes. The sniffer in this case had coal black eyes and though stark they were expressive eyes mounted on an equally versatile façade.

"And you like me, why?" The leash holder murmured. Her voice was mundane; low though, very low, and soft. Beyond those outstanding features the voice and its owner were as mundane as could be.

Another sniff… more like a snuff this time actually, was the answer. Black eyes broke contact as the creature shook its head in disbelief.

If it was all possible the sick-sweet smell was thickening from offensive whiff to lingering miasma…

And in truth that glance said all that needed to be said. Reiteration was a waste of time in the eyes of the efficient, and the owner of those black eyes was efficient to the core. With the stomp of orange and black stripped paws the leashed went forward at a crisp pace… and the leash holder was all but forced into a trot to keep pace.

After two minutes of a trot things became more lively as the pace was upgraded to a sprint.

"No! Stop…" Words were barked out, forced past sharp pants.

The red head topped with a red tinted mop of white, said mop bobbed up and down with its own rhythm as the gait went. Tongue lolling the leashed let out a sharp "arf" that was more challenge than jest. A snarl from behind and the increasing of the slack of the leash told him that the challenge was being take up. With a self congratulatory bark the leader of this two personed pack picked up the pace, upgrading sprint to a level of a mad dash.

His banner of choice was the flare of his mane, the slicked back fur on his scalp and the parting taunt of a swish of his curled tail was his favorite mode of passing the world by. His victim of the moment got a long time to look at that tail and its swish. And, outre of the bizarre, the leash holder managed to keep up. Granted, the series of gasps and wheezes behind him that the pace keeping wasn't easy, not in the least…

But life wasn't easy, as the self pitying were so fond of dwelling on.

Life wasn't easy, it wasn't hard, it just was. You lived it, soft or cruel, you lived life and part of living was keeping up. He ran until the fire in his cut fed so rich it singed the back of his throat. He ran until his muscles burned as hotly as the budding inferno in his mouth, and it was only when both were unbearable that he staggered to a stop. Sod was scarred as his small black claws dug, scarred then scorched as the familiar fires rushed past his teeth.

When he was done scorching sod he looked back, small tail a-wag the name of his kind dribbling from his snout like spare Embers after a Flamethrower


"Wh… whelll… I… I'm… glad.. yooo… you're… having fun!"

Complaint done the leash holder went down with a particular whiny croak. The clasped came in nice, ordered, segments. First the leash slithered past pale finger, then the knees folded and gravity did the rest. Head cocked to the side, tongue lolled out till it ached, the Growlithe watched the human's unfolding fall without blinking. Humanitarian heavy training aside -he was to be a police dog after all... no heartless pyros allowed in those ranks- he felt compeled to dredge up a wince of shame when the body came down with a dull thump and the smell of cooking flesh reached his nostrils.

But only after the cooking smell reached his nose, not before.