The sun set on the old cottage, the old wood creaking as it dismissed the sun and the wheat field swaying in a dance to the stars. White crackled paint and an old, ash filled fireplace was all to greet any wandering eyes. It was an old house, a simple house. And in it lived a simple man; he wanted nothing more out of life than peace and quiet, being able to enjoy the tranquillity of the world without all the advertisements and picture perfect people being thrust in your face. Said man was often up hours before dawn, away from the house and down by the creak that fed the fields irrigation. In his hands a brush, and on the bank, a canvas. Although the irrigation system siphoned from the creak, it never detached from its beauty. But the man saw none of this great beauty, as if the colour was drained from the world around him. Being an artist and long time sufferer of clinical depression had driven him away from such things, even the label of 'clinically depressed' clung to him, sounding like something that exiled him from the rest of the 'normally depressed' people. That was why we lived here, it get away from all of it, all of the lies in the streets, in the shops, in the people. It had all taken a toll on his psyche, depriving him of a passion he once had for the finer things in life. Even the simple things seemed to be wisping away fast these days. He sighed before packing away the paints, the stand, and the canvas. He couldn't continue today, maybe one day he could see its beauty again, but not today.
Walking back to the house he reflected, as he often did. This was his life, the life of a hermit, an outcast. He had everything he needed and everything he wanted. So why did he feel so damn empty inside! He felt like there was something missing in this life, yet he couldn't figure out for the likes of him what. He internally chuckled, no one his age would be worrying about such thing, they would be out in the world, exploring and partying, but not him. His rose coloured view of the world had been lost long ago. He was always ahead of his peers in mental age, but he felt it as if it were physical age. He pondered about things no one else did, he acted like no one else acted, he seemed wiser and more aged than anyone else he knew. He had figured out countless puzzles and philosophies but he could never answer that one nagging question. Who am I?
Shaking the thoughts from his head he climbed the steps of his rustic home, another night all to himself in the darkness of night and glow of the fire awaited.
As he entered the house again, door creaking to meet him, he felt slightly more at ease. The sun reflecting off his golden brown hair made small patterns on the floor as he walked. Hair cut at a medium length curled upwards, chin tapered to a small defined point, clothes hanging limply on his frame. One might think him a student or a beggar, an odd combination, bringing a cruel irony with it. Being 22 years of age, he was still in his prime, but felt years ahead of himself. Setting the canvas back in the corner, he slowly sunk into his couch. Eyeing the walls many cracks and dents he had meant to patch up, he remembered when he first brought this place. It was an auction, the old folk who owned it had now moved to a retirement home due to their condition. The house was dilapidated and described as a "Home makeover dream", but the bidding never reached past a hundred thousand. He had bided eighty-nine on the house and was the only one who had bid. All the others turned their nose up at the place, but the old coupled smiled at the meagre amount he had placed. They thanked him for bidding more than they thought they'd get and told him to take care of the place, all those memories they had of their former lives were fading but they would always know the house on the river front. That's what they told him, and be found a small amount of closure in knowing he was caring for the house they loved.
He lit the fire and settled in for a good book from his small library. Currently he was reading from the Dan Brown series, finding the plot twists intriguing, they made him think and ponder about the characters lives outside the text. The fire flickered in the darkness of the house, casting a soft glow on everything. It heated the place well, and such a thing was needed when the house was without insulation. He wondered idly, how the old couple had survived the cold nights the house endured. There was another fire place in the bedroom so that was probably it. Where the fire light ended, the star light began, white, arcane light pouring from the lights in the sky, making for quite the sight over the wheat fields.
As he read through the pages, he let his mind wander, forgetting the story he was involved in and instead, shifting through his problems. He sold his paintings for money and made enough to live off, but not much extra and because of this, his house was full of things he had brought at yard sales and small second hand shops. Little trinkets hung on the walls of the house from his shop browsing; many had no significance but to add a little charm to the place. But he had a few things that were of sentimental value on the walls. Directly over the fire was his diploma in the fine arts, signed by his professor, and scrawled in his own handwriting, his name. Michael.. In reality, Wolfwood wasn't his real last name, but he had changed it to sever the last of his ties with the world. Not even his name held interest in him enough to keep it. As his mind wandered over these things, he began to slowly drift off into a sleep, as he often did in front of the warm fire.
But before the bliss of sleep captured him, a loud bang was heard, like a gun going off. He was annoyed but dismissed it as another local firing at birds or something. He settled back in to sleep, but yet another bang went off. Either it was a war or some very persistent birds. Before he could finish his thought, another bang erupted. He dragged himself from the comfort of the couch and walked to his door; he opened it and exited onto the porch.
"Whoever's crazy enough to be shooting at this time of night must be paranoid or bored" he muttered "or both". He scanned the world for any sign of light. A flash appeared to his right; he instinctively turned and yelled "Shut youself up over there!"
But what he saw was definitely not a smoking gun or angry farmer. Arches of electricity were flying around the wheat field, vaporising anything they touched. Michael shielded his eyes from the light as the arches became more intense and wind whipped the trees around the field. There was no indication of where it was coming from, it was just appearing instantly. Soon enough though, a small warp occurred in the centre of the phenomenon, it seemed like reality itself was bulging out of the air. The distortion retreated but quickly let out a shockwave, forcing Michael back a step. After that, the arches seized and silence came once again. A few small fires were scattered around the area, but Michael ran over and quickly stomped them out before they could grow. He didn't know what the hell had just happened, but there might be something here that could give a clue. Electrical storms and distortions don't just happen randomly; something must have snapped or malfunctioned on something else. He walked slowly through the smouldering wheat, looking for god knows what. The only thing he could guess could create something like this was a snapped power line, but the power lines ran from his house to the road, so that ruled that out. He felt his foot graze something to the side of him; slowly he peeled away the wheat strands to see what he had hit.
But as soon as he saw what it was, he quickly backed away with a small gasp. He panted and waved his hand in front of himself a few times to test his vision, making sure this was real, Even slapping himself to test if it was a dream. But nothing, this was real, and he now had a sore cheek. He peeled away the grass again and this time, studied what he saw.
White skin with symmetrical patches of green, a rosebud like object speared though the navel, white and green dress complimenting the skin. Hair curled over a white, rounded face, seemly asleep in a serene dream. Michael may have been withdrawn from society but he knew what this was. This was a freaking Pokémon! A Gardevior to be exact. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind at once, how, what, when, why, which. He had had a short period playing the game before, but it was fiction! A story thought up from the mind of Japanese guys head! This was impossible, but it was happening. After sitting for nearly an hour in wonder and thought, he sighed. He would have to think this over when he was more awake, and less in shock. His eyes turned back to the slumbering creature, he couldn't leave it here either, it'd probably wander off and get killed somehow. He walked over and picked the creature up. Telling from the presence of breasts and remembering the game, she was obviously female. She didn't stir as he hoisted her up in his arms, cradling her head, he didn't even know if she could speak. But if she did, there would be a lot of questions asked.
He carried her back to the house and slowly placed her on his bed, pulling the covers up before gazing over her again. This shouldn't be possible, but somehow it is.
"If this really is a dream, I'll know soon enough" He said to himself as he wandered back down to the living room and lay on the couch, falling into a rough and fitful sleep.