The Scion of the Hunter: Tribulations of the Mad

Disclaimer: I do not own Pokegirls. There, now will you lawyers PLEASE stop stalking me?

Yes. I have made a new fanfic. Yes, I am one big asshole. And YES, it is a PokeGIRL fic, but this is my life, and if I want an outlet for all my pent-up perversion, then by Joe Macky, I'll get one.

Besides, do you honestly want me to go ballistic when I go make relationships for Naruto in Virtue of Knowledge? Now that is just asking for trouble...

On a side note, the protagonist (that doesn't necessarily mean he's gonna be an agent of good) of this story is a madman, so yeah, things just took a turn for the insane.


"State your name soldier."

The man stepped up to him. He saluted. "Lieutenant Roy Derring, reporting, sir!"


"Impressive mission Lieutenant, just as always. How many have done again?"

"One hundred and forty-three sir."

"Heh. That's a lot. In fact, I'm proud to say you've outdone yourself." The man stood, grinning toothily. "Consider yourself a captain."


"It's a promotion boy! Now go get drunk with your team like you youngsters always do when you get a promotion. Shoo!" The grizzled general all but pushed the newly-minted captain out of the room.

Roy managed an awkward salute, before the door was slammed in his face. He blinked.

He was a captain.

He grinned.


"What do you need of me sir?"

The general's usual boisterous smile was subdued, and it was enough to worry the captain. "Boy, you've always said to me that your dream is to make a mark on the world. To be unforgettable like the great men of old: Alexander, Leonidas, Parmenion. I told you that the best way to do that these days is to join the military and rise in the ranks as the best." He sighed. "I've found something better."

Roy's eyes widened, and he smiled. "Really sir? How?"

"You know The Night's Hunter boy?"

The captain shuddered. He did.

"We've acquired a blood sample of him, and the higher-ups have decided to make a project devoted to recreating greatest killer the world has ever seen. You're the last of your family boy. No one will miss you if you die, and that's one of the requirements. Don't panic boy! They're looking for volunteers, and I stress this: volunteers. They NEED to be volunteers. It's a paranoia thing." He leaned heavily on his chair. "You can decline boy, and there won't be any consequences. If you accept, there's a big chance you'll die, but I had to offer this to you, because I promised I'll tell you about other methods. Well boy?"

Roy gritted his teeth. "I risk my life everytime I go on a mission. How is this any different? Sign me up sir."

The general nodded gravely.


A thousand volunteers. A thousand hopefuls who hoped to make themselves matter.

Two-hundred and thirty-three survived the aftermath of the operation.

Of that number, over half of them committed suicide after they "saw the grand truth" from the "great one" that had spoken to them.

The so-called 'great one' had come for him.

"Do you wish to see the truth?"


A chuckle. "Why? Don't they say that the truth will set you free?"

He glared at the entity. "Sometimes. Only...sometimes. I believe that this one...will just make me want to kill myself."

The being grinned. "Very well. It is your choice after all. However, prepare yourself for pain fleshbag. As close as my children are to your species, they are as far from yours as any can possibly be, and only the best will emerge a tempered sword."

It left him, and as promised, pain erupted like a volcano.

It lasted for months, and finally, of the less than a hundred left that had declined the offer of 'truth', almost all had turned out to be failures. While some functions improved, others had been shot to hell. And a big part of them had gone insane from the pain. Practically, they were worthless.

Roy was the only one who wasn't, and he wondered if he was the unlucky one.


"Muscle strength, organ efficiency, bone density, brainpower. Everything about him is superior to ordinary humans." The scientist told the general.

The old man glared at him. "He's also changing. Did you look at him? The boy had a tan anyone would kill for, and now he has skin like a corpse's. And those damn eyes. It's like the devil is corrupting the poor boy." His voice was gruff, but with an undertone of pity.

"He's also getting memories."

"Well fuck. I'm guessing it's from the bastard isn't it?"

"In one of his more lucid moments, he told me about it. And yes, they fit the legends. In fact, he doesn't get any other memories besides those behind the stories."

The general's grip threatened to break the wooden chair. "Double fuck."


"Wait up Roy."

The ex-captain stopped, and slowly he turned towards the general. He spoke, and his voice chilled the man. "That isn't my name. Not any more. Now, I'm just Mortis."

The general frowned. "Death? The idiots up high couldn't think of anything original couldn't they? Nonetheless, none of that EMO thing boy. To me, your name is Roy, and it always will be."

His lips twitched into the barest hints of a smile.

The general grinned. "That's better. Now let's go eat something fancy. You look like a corpse."


Mortis they called him. Death.

But then again, what was he but death?

He had become so much greater than what he once was. A hundred of the best had been pitted against his lonesome, and he had emerged victorious. A thousand, and the result had been the same. What was he now?

A clone of The Night's Hunter?

No. Anything but that. He didn't want to be a monster.

But...he was turning into one. He had delighted in the crack of broken bones and the moans of pain from the soldiers. He had wanted to kill, and only the presence of the general had kept him from doing so. But soon, not even that will do, for he was going mad. Yes. Mad. The memories that were not his were flooding his head. It wouldn't have been so bad if it was just like watching a TV, but memories didn't work that way.

New memories worked as if HE was doing it all over again. He saw himself kill, slaughter, murder. He felt himself glory in what he did, and he loved it. Oh, the power The Night's Hunter has. Such addictive power, and he knew it would be his if he let himself be lost to the madness.


They say it has only been a year, but has it really been that short?

It felt like years since he was...normal.

These days, it was only through the combined efforts of his iron will and the general's presence that he remained sane. He was regularly put through missions now, and every one was a magnificent success. Each one brought him closer to the brink, and the last one had almost done it.

The memories had gained a whole new perspective when he did his regular check-up on the target's location. It had been just like one of His old missions, and he had snapped. He had done it then and there. He had killed everyone inside the base without any help from his team, and he only regained his senses after he struck the fatal blow to the last one: a young boy no doubt browbeaten into joining them.

He had been smiling like a madman when had done so.


He was now crazy. Now how would he know that you ask? Well, he had read books, and what he did certainly qualified as mad.

After all, killing a priest and an entire church full of Christians counted as insane didn't it? He had impaled the priest to the altar, and the man had been forced to watch his people slaughtered, crying all the while, before he cut off his head and played kickball with it.

Everyone was terrified of him now. They were terrified he would flip out and kill everyone. His men, the people around him, even the general himself. Oh, poor old man. Don't be. He may be mad, but he would never forget what he did for him. Never. Mortis never forgets...



The general's question merely made the smile widen. "Why what? Why did I kill everyone? Why did I spare you? Why am I crazy? There are many ways to interpret 'why'."

He shook his head, even as he gazed sadly at the blood-soaked walls. "Oh you poor boy. I should never have told you about the project."

"And why not? I feel so damn alive! And no doubt, I'll be in the history books! It's a dream come true!"

The old man shook his head once more. "Not in this way it isn't."

Mortis shrugged. "Whatever. I'm off to cause mayhem to the innocently fun to harm populace of the world. Ta-ta old man!" He ran away, and the general heard not a sound.

Mortis didn't stop until he was in one of his safehouses, and it was there that the madness dropped to reveal the man; Roy.

He cried. For all the deaths he had caused, and for the others he will. The world will suffer, because he lived.


A ruined town burned in the light of the afternoon, eerily silent, no scavengers entering it despite the tantalizing smell of dead meat.

In the town square, stalls were lined up, as were garlands and ribbons and flags and other decorations. It was the day of a festival, but none were there to celebrate.

In the middle of a sea of corpses, a man sighed, the sound lost in the wind.

He opened his eyes, showing blood-red orbs. Well, most of them anyway. A third of his right eye remained stubbornly brown, but the red was spreading, and if you looked closely, you would see the bloody color seemingly corrupting the brown shade, red tendrils digging into the russet body and growing thicker.

He stood up, staring straight ahead, his corpse-pale skin a stark contrast to his black bodysuit, his brown hair streaked with black that seemed to ebb into brown as time passed. "Stop hiding. I can see you." He muttered, in a voice cracked with apathy and a deep weariness found only in the hardest of lives.

In the middle of the street, a figure formed, an inky-black body, and a blank red helm that showed nothing. It was like staring into a pool of blood. The Night's Hunter had come.

Mortis laughed, the sound a harsh disparity to his earlier voice. An unnatural fervor was in it, along with a madness unlike any before. "They finally sent you didn't they? It took a lot longer than I expected. Heh. Their bigotry knows no bounds."

A dull gray katana and gun appeared in the helmed man's grasp, and he stalked forward.

The brown-haired man grinned widely, showing off pointier-than-normal canines. "So it finally comes to this doesn't it? The greatest killer that ever walked the earth, and the madman spawned from his blood. I wonder who'll win?" He unsheathed a gleaming katana from his back, while his left drew a black pistol from its holster on his hip.

The helmed man tilted his head to the side. "Is that even a question? Do not delude yourself fool. You are nothing compared to me and my kin. Any one of mine can kill you. It is a mere coincidence that I was sent for your head."

Mortis growled, the sound more primal than any man's had any right to be. "Arrogant bastard! You say all that while you come at me with weapons that have no right to exist! Without it, you will lose! No doubt! Fight me truly, The Night's Hunter, or are you a coward?"

The shadowy figure stopped, cocking his head to the side. He seemed to shrug, and his weapons disappeared, to be replaced by a plain katana and a silver pistol. "Once. Just this once. And never again. You fools need to understand that the legend did not come into being without a mountain of corpses to support it."

The brown-haired man cackled wildly, and they rushed at each other. Sparks flew as their blades met, even as they shot at each other.

They both dodged, abhuman reflexes showing themselves fully, and they spun, blade grinding against gun, gun grinding against blade. Limbs flashed in unidentifiable movements, and they ended up locked, staring resolutely at each other as they each tried to get the upper hand in the tied limbs.

The Night's Hunter broke the lock, dislocating his shoulders with twin loud pops, and he surprised his enemy enough to be able to hammer him with two limp blows as he spun away, reasserting his shoulders with nary a flinch. His enemy spat at the ground, and proceeded to shoot at the inky figure.

He seemed to blur and fade and teleport, none of the bullets hitting him. He reacted with a similar volley, and the brown-haired man avoided them with the barest of movements. A sidestep here, a tilted head there, a slight bend somewhere.

They glared at each other, and suddenly they were both gone.

A lamppost was cut in half, and the severed rod fell to the ground with a clang. Bullets broke through windows, shattering them, while the ground was razed by multiple slashes. Blood flew every now and then, along with the meaty thuds of flesh on flesh.

A minute later, the guns were thrown away as they ran out of bullets, and sometime later, one of the swords dropped to the ground. It was quickly followed by the other as someone screamed in rage.

The sick crack of breaking bone was heard, and they were visible once again, the helmed man having blocked a solid kick from the red-eye. He didn't even flinch at the doubtless broken forearm, and proceeded to grab the leg against it. His grip tightened, and bones broke and dislocated under a grip that could warp steel.

Mortis didn't so much as raise an eyebrow, proceeding to leap away. He grabbed his leg, and with a twist, reset the limb. Then they went head-to-head once more, the injuries that would have disabled any other men but bee stings to them.

Bones broke and shattered, tendons were stretched and ripped, while muscles strained and broke. Blood was leaking from the red-eyed man's lips, and he continued fighting, their bodies blurs as they fought with lethal skill and physical ability.

In the end, only one remained standing, as the red helm seemed to shine even as the inky body seemed to fade. Things snapped in rapid succession, followed by a continuous staccato of meaty blows that were done with such swiftness, it was a single note of horrifying pain.

The Night's Hunter's elbow slammed into the brunette's throat, followed by a devastating punch to the cranium. The red-eyed man was thrown away from the force, landing limply on the ground. The helmed man landed pitilessly on him, and proceeded to mercilessly hammer him with bone-breaking blows.

Even then, Mortis never once quivered in pain, reacting as best as he could with offence. But he was overwhelmed, and as the inky figure slammed his head brutally onto the concrete, he spoke, somehow managing to speak clearly, sanely, despite all the pain he must be in. "Finish it. End this accursed existence. It's what must be done."

The helmed man turned him over, and his fist slammed onto his enemy's spine. The body shuddered, an instinctive response. Then two fingers dug deeply into the back of his neck with vicious fervor, and the body went limp.

The helmed man stood up, and somehow, he seemed to grin, despite his mouth not being visible, but in an instant, even that was gone.

He looked behind him. "It's done."

The general nodded. "I was afraid you'd kill him."

"I owe you, and you know I always pay back my debts."

The old man nodded.

The Night's Hunter looked at the limp body. "To think...that such a shady copy could cause so much trouble. NOW do you understand why we cannot be on anyone's side?"

"I always did. My superiors didn't."

The inky figure chuckled. A chilling sound. "And they never will."

"Oh hell, don't tell me you killed them." The way the helm seemed to shine told him everything. He sighed. "Then how the heck am I gonna get access to the needed tech?"

The victor picked up the body. "You won't. Because of what has been done to this pitiful creature, he is now our business. Go. All of your problems have been taken care of by the Sovereigns. Everything will be as they had been, only better."

The general stared at him, before giving up. "Alright, do as you will, but whatever you do, please don't kill him. None of this is his fault."

"I never break my promises." And with that, the helmed man was gone.


"What have you found out?" The male voice was perfectly polite, its tone carefully controlled as to not reveal anything.

"What we expected. The marks are appearing, and he's starting to look like a clone. The foreign cells are overwriting everything. It's just too much for normal human cells." Female, exasperated and somewhat full of pride, slight German accent.

"Honestly, when will the idiots learn? It's times like this that makes me regret letting the Recreator fix everything." Another female, haughty, practically same voice as the one before her. Twins.

"Are we going to kill him?" Male, teenager. Overexcited and eager.

"Maybe." Male, and cold, oh so very cold.

"Really?" The teenager was brimming with excitement now. "Oh yes! Finally! Something to shoot that's actually a challenge!

"Actually, no." The cold voice confirmed, and the teenager groaned gloomily.

"And why is that? This is an abomination, an insult to our entire family by the idiots that owe their existence to us." The second female.

" their defense, we WERE the ones who blew them up in the first place." The first female.

The haughty female seemed to be pouting. "Oh, put a so-"


The sound silenced everyone, and the first male started speaking, his voice commanding. "The abominations are those misshapen eyesores that we destroyed. This a survivor, and the nearest any human can possibly get to being one of us."

"I can feel a 'but' coming." The teenager.

"Shut up." Everyone but the first male said it.

"But that is it. He is merely the closest copy of us, ever. He will never be good enough to be among us, and he is a man hated by the world for what his madness has made him do. We can hide him, but a man such as him cannot live a life of anonymity. Most would choose to just kill him and get it over with, but a certain one of us made a promise."

"So what then?" The cold voice.

"Throw him into a portal while he's dosed up to his eyes in Comprehension, and make sure to livewire the machine. And make it a bumpy ride." The first voice.

"Umm...won't that make him crazier?" For once, the teenager was making sense. "Why would you want that do happen?"

"Because Dave said so." The first voice's answer made everyone flinch.

"...very well. Whatever must be done in his will." The second female was deferential now, a complete one-eighty for her.

"Make sure it is so." The first voice commanded.


Comprehension. A unique drug in that it caused sanity, for it forced the mind to comprehend everything about, inside, and around it, in that order, at least until the drug wore off. They say that if you comprehend through enough things, you'll eventually comprehend the meaning of life and the answer to the universe.

But, you know what they say; too much of anything is a bad thing, and there CAN be too much sanity. An ounce was the highest-accepted non-lethal dose. They had dosed him with an amount three times that.

Mortis was convulsing wildly, as he was forced to face his madness and comprehend it, to calm it, to harness it, to become sane once more. Surprisingly, it seemed that he was actually succeeding with the help of the drug.

They didn't bother finding out, as they revved up the portal.

"Umm...are we supposed to just throw him in like this?" The first female.

Silence for a moment, before the first voice spoke. "Take away his weapons. Give him a Vasa katana and an Alteris pistol. Remove the bio-suit and dress him in the adapter matter. Here, put this around his neck. We don't leave our own unprotected and looking like a tourist in another world."

The teen's voice giggled. "Do you know how weird that sounds after you asked them to get rid of the stronger weapons and a super-suit?"

"Shut up." Everyone.

The teen seemed to sulk.

Ten more seconds and Roy would have finally gone past the madness. Ten more seconds and he would be a sane man once more, but they didn't bother about it. They grabbed his shaking body and threw it bodily into the unstable portal.

If it were a secure one, it would have been just as if they had thrown him through another door, but they had pushed its power output to the limit, all the while making the essential calculations as loose as possible. They had even downsized the protections so that he faced just-below-fatal rigors of dimensional travel. This was going to hurt.

His mind was basically finishing gathering all its cards and getting to know them when they threw him in, and his mind shattered beyond all hope of redemption. Memories were blasted into a magnificent mess, even as he screamed at the loss in his final moments of lucidity.

His body experienced sudden heat, before suddenly being replaced by extreme cold, then electrocution, followed by being unable to breathe, all the while hurtling through space like a lumpy plane.

It was a relief when the portal finally spat him out, and he crashed painfully to the ground, tearing up the grass. Vaguely, he heard two more things being thrown out, even as he felt the jumpsuit he had been dressed in slither and pulse and change.

Something seemed to shatter, the sound much like breaking porcelain, though by now, he was too tired to care, and he embraced the sweet oblivion of sleep.


Professor Alphonse Mahogany Stroak dropped the cup of tea he had been drinking from as what could only be described as a tear in the fabric of reality opened in his veranda, spitting out a young man dressed in a pulsing gray jumpsuit that immediately changed into black pants, trekking shoes, and a plain gray shirt. The portal spat out a sheathed katana and what looked suspiciously like a pre-Sukebe gun, before disappearing.

He glared at where the portal had been at. "ANOTHER dimensional traveler? Someone up there really hates me doesn't he?"

He looked at his titmouse. "Maryanne, would you be a dear and get this poor boy in the infirmary? He looks like he's gone through hell."

And indeed he did. There were burn marks all over his body, along with numerous cuts, bruises, lacerations, and, strangely enough, bluish spots that could only have come from extreme cold.

The pokegirl complied.


He opened his eyes, and saw light.

He blinked, and in a second, his eyes got used to the glare, and he looked unflinchingly at the lightbulb. He shifted his sight, and studied the room.


The word came unbidden into his shattered mind, and all the information associated with the word came with it. He just lay there, knowing that if he was in a hospital, then he wasn't in any immediate danger, and he rested.

The door opened, and a female stepped in. Female because it was obviously so by the figure, the breasts, and the vagina, but its larger-than-normal ears, fur, and tail somehow made him think of a mouse.

The mere thought of the word sent all his memories about it rushing back, which was based mainly around him setting up traps and poison for them, or just plain trying to kill them with a machine gun.

He studied the female, and decided that yes, she DID resemble a mouse, and proceeded to think of ways to kill her just like every other mouse.

Maryanne, heedless of the man's thoughts, approached him, smiling as best as she could while he stared at her with his strange eyes. They were red, and seemed...cracked. Like a mirror hit by a blow that didn't quite shatter it, but one it certainly didn't suffer unscathed. It was unnerving. "You're awake. Good. The professor was worried about you."

He had been in the middle of devising how to make use of a giant mousetrap when she spoke, and he blinked, tilting his head to the side. She...talked. Mice didn't talk, so did that mean she wasn't a mouse? He shrugged, and abandoned both thoughts, deciding it would be easier to think later on, when his entire body didn't feel like crap. "Professor?"

"Umm...yes. The professor. You gave him quite a shock when you got here."

There was silence for a while, as he didn't now what to think. He didn't know anything besides hospitals and how much he apparently hated mice, and the only thing he got out of 'professor' was the image of him reclining on sofa while a man in a suit talked to him, jotting down notes on a clipboard. He didn't like it one bit.

He closed his eyes. "Sleep now. Talk later. Head hurts." He muttered.

Maryanne blinked, and by the time she opened her mouth, he was already asleep. She pouted.


He had slept for a day, and by then, he felt properly rested, if a bit disgruntled. The mouse/female thing had told him that the professor wanted to talk to him. Deciding that it would be rude to decline after living under his roof, he agreed, all the while devising ways to kill the mouse/female thing if it turned out that she WAS a mouse.


Professor Stroak smiled as his visitor entered the room. He stood up, and was about to welcome him when the man suddenly looked at him. His cracked red eyes stared into his own, and he saw madness in them, along with a hostility unnatural.

The man hissed, the primal sound making the professor wince, and the man leaped away, backing into a wall, shaking wildly, cursing like a sailor. He tried to approach him, but the man yelled at him. "NO! Do not go near me! Stay away-NO! Just...don't move. Don't move. I need to concentrate."

Reluctantly, the old man complied, and slowly, the visitor stopped quivering. "W-What's wrong?" He tentatively asked.

The man breathed deeply, the action controlled. "I do not know why old man, but the moment I saw you, I had the sudden urge to kill you." The blatant answer made Stroak gasp in shock. "It still persists, and I keep it in check only through a force of will that I cannot promise I can keep up."

"Why? I'm sure I haven't done anything to provoke you. Why, I even helped you recover."

The man sighed. "I do not know that, for I do not know much of anything besides the fact that I apparently kill every mouse I see, layouts of various hospitals, and that I went to a psychiatrist once."

Stroak blinked in surprise. "You have amnesia?"

He let out a breath. "Yes. what it is called."

The aged professor frowned. "So you do not know your name?"

The man froze, the word echoing in his shattered mind.


Many came unbidden, but only one shone above the others.

"No. I know my name, or at least I think it's my name..."

"What is it?"

He took a deep breath, as if saying the name was a great effort. "Mortis."


For professor Stroak, it had been a hell and a half to get to know Mortis.

The man was mad, that much he could tell, and his questions had been rather pointed and terrifying; "Is she a mouse? Because if she is, I'll have to kill her."

He had immediately discouraged this notion by saying that Maryanne was a pokegirl, certainly not a rodent.

Mortis' reaction was a blank stare.

He had amended this by explaining to him exactly what a pokegirl was, and somehow, this evolved into a history lesson of what happened worldwide starting from the time Linda McKenzie found out about Sukebe's first creations.

When he had finally finished, the blank stare had become pointed, and Stroak was wondering whether telling him about it had been such a good idea.

Mortis sighed deeply. "If I was a moral person, I just might try to kill this entire blasted world just on speaking terms, but considering the fact that I believe I was a man that deserved the worst circle of hell for his crimes, I won't."

Stroak blinked stupidly. "What?"

Mortis grinned, the action unsettling in the fact that it looked completely fake, as if the one doing it didn't know how to do it, and did it based entirely on how he heard it should be done. Considering the man's level of amnesia, that just might be it.

"I get...glimpses. Peeks into the person I possibly am, and I tell you professor, they're not good. A sea of dead men isn't nice. A building of tortured women doesn't inspire benevolence. A school of mutilated children doesn't indicate kindness." He sighed. "So many dead people...what can I possibly be, to have done such atrocities? Compared to what I see, whatever pervertive sins this world's men may have commited, are but a drop to the lake of atrocities I may have done."

He had then stood up, and promptly waked back to the infirmary to sleep.

Stroak couldn't manage such a thing for days.


"There were two other things that the portal spat out besides me, what were they?"

Stroak flinched at the sudden question, moreso by the fact that he had never heard him coming. He turned to face his rather unwelcome visitor, and proceeded to gulp, unnerved by the intent gaze, the cracked red orbs staring a hole into him. "A sword and a gun. That was all."

Mortis tilted his head the side. "A gun..." A spark of memory seemed to come to him, and he understood. "Weapons both. Of course, after what I said a few days ago, it should be fully expected of you to try to keep me away from anything even vaguely dangerous." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Nonetheless, I want them. They are the only things I have left from where I came from." It was an order, and Stroak couldn't help but give him the things.

Mortis studied the weapons carefully, before holstering the gun to his thigh and clipping the katana to his belt. He nodded. "Thank you." He left.

Stroak stood still for several moments, before he nearly collapsed in relief. He almost thought that Mortis would recover memories better left in the depths, and go on a killing spree worthy of his memories.

He blinked as he realized something: he had thanked him.

That, was a marked improvement.


In the days after Stroak's first conversation with him, Mortis had simply trudged around the facility and the surrounding hill, and had done the same after being given his weapons, so it was a surprise when the red-eyed man approached him for books.

"Books?" The professor had exclaimed, blinking furiously.

Mortis looked straight at him. "Yes. Books. I apparently reclaim memories associated with new words I think of, and what better way to find new words than to read books? I intend to reclaim as much of my old life as I can, be they for better or for worse. And then...I'll see what I think of."

As dangerous as letting a possible genocidal maniac reclaim his memories was, Stroak didn't have a choice in the matter, as Mortis seemed prone to snap if he didn't do as he said, so he obliged.

But even as he sent messages asking for books from various universities and libraries, he entertained the thought of secretly asking for help, or maybe to ask his dragoness; Anastasia, to fight him. Certainly Mortis, with all the possible skill he had in killing, was free prey with his memories buried deep inside him, but Mortis' next words stopped this line of thought.

"I know what you're thinking, and I don't fault you for it. I have an idea of what I seem to normal people's not a nice picture." He sighed. "Right now, I have a very crude grasp of morals, but if I'm as bad as I think I am, then that will fade into the wind if I recover myself fully. I owe you. I owe you a lot, and if there comes a time where I'm too much of a danger, don't hesitate to kill me." He had left after these words, and Stroak had decided to risk it.

After all, even if he DID recover his memories and try to kill him, he would still take his bet on Anastasia winning. Entire platoons of soldiers along with tanks and other war vehicles had tried to take on Dragonesses and lost. What chance did a lone mass murderer have?


Mortis firmly closed the book, before settling on his chair. "I'm done."


"Gardening. I apparently had a pot of dandelions back where I came from, but that's all I got. Something small and inconsequential. It's all that I get now, nothing major, just a single minor tidbit." He gestured to the other books on entirely different subjects he had read. "I've recovered all that I care to recover, and I am deciding what course to take in this foreign world."

Stroak smiled. "For a man who's gone to the future, you seem decidedly calm about this."

He shook his head. "No. I don't believe that. Something is missing in this world, something I know would have stayed if this truly is the future."

Stroak shrugged. "Whatever you say."

Mortis looked at him for a few seconds, before turning his gaze elsewhere. "I feel like a hobo, and no-don't say otherwise professor. I do nothing for you. I eat your food, I take up your space, and I do nothing but give you nightmares and headaches. I need to do something, and as much as it should gall me, there is no other choice: I have to be a tamer."

Stroak blinked in surprise. "What? I thought you were against that!"

Mortis smiled slightly, the action still decidedly fake-looking and unsettling. "No, I never said I was. I only said I would be if I were a moral person, and professor, to be honest, I am insane. I get what morals mean to normal people, but they are but words to me. I can torture and kill a child and feel no remorse for what I did."

The professor paled at this, and Mortis frowned. "See what I mean? That's another nightmare for you. I may be mad, but I have my pride; or what SEEMS to be my pride, and it demands that I pay you back for all the trouble I have caused you. I shall be a tamer. I will earn my keep and pay you back, and no, you have no choice over the matter."

Stroak sighed. "Very well, but if you want to be a tamer, you have to pass either a written test or a psychic interview." The professor chuckled. "We could see where that would lead to. They'd lock you up so fast it'll make your head spin."

Mortis spoke in a monotone. "So I'm stuck with studying everything about pokegirls until the most renowned professor of this world decides that I'm good enough for him." He groaned in despair. "Oh joy. Did I mention that I apparently hate learning?"


Teaching Mortis had been...interesting.

Aside from his very obvious hatred of anything even slightly resembling an education, he apparently had enough sense to endure the torture and actually learn. While this made teaching him quite enjoyable, the underlying threat of him snapping from frustration and trying to kill everyone put quite a bit of a dampen on his spirits. Nonetheless, it didn't take long before Stroak had decided that he had learned enough to pass the test.

Stroak himself administered the basic assessment, Mortis coming out with no blood gifts or curses whatsoever, despite the greater-than-normal abilities he seemed to show (Stroak surmised that this was because the test acquired the results through studying the DNA, and since Mortis didn't have a single pokegirl cell in him, abilities that might be similar to blood gifts weren't counted as such), before taking the test and passing perfectly. It was with great pleasure that the professor handed him his pokedex and tamer's license.

Mortis studied the gadget, familiarizing himself with it, before shrugging and putting it in a pocket. "So...what pokegirls do I get to choose from?"

Stroak grinned. "Follow me." He led him to another room, where three pokeballs lay innocent on three cushions. "Well, take your pick!"

Mortis looked at them, as if willing them to open up and reveal their contents. "Do I get to open them all up and choose?"

"Nope!" This was said with not a small amount of glee.

He sighed, and grabbed the middle one. "DO NOT tell me what's inside. I'll found out myself later." And with that, Mortis walked away from Stroak and into the wide world of pokegirls, sure to face copious amounts of danger, perversion, and madness. Not necessarily in that order and possibly simultaneously.

Stroak resisted the urge to cry like Soun Tendo as he watched his several-month-long visitor walk away. He had actually started warming up to the corpse-pale young man. If he was to describe it, he would say that Mortis had the charm of a demon that honestly wanted to be good, and tried to do so through acting like what he had heard moral people acted like. It was endearing in a very freaky sort of way.

"You do know that you're sending a possible genocidal maniac into a world so unlike his own that anyone from his timeline would probably go crazy from the strain, right?" His Dragoness, Anastasia, commented.

The professor grinned. "Yup. But hey, Mortis is already crazy. And he can't be any worse than a mantis at the most. He's a strange man, that boy, and one way or another, he's going to give the league a very big headache."

"Sadist." Anastasia muttered.


And so ends the first chapter of the story of an insane amnesiac mass murderer in a world that is any pervert's nirvana.

Anyone seeing the possibilities there?