Soul of a Thief
It was a strange sight, seeing your reflection in a mirror and not recognizing the person staring back. In his heart of hearts he believed his soul could still be salvaged, even though his past, as dark and grim as it was, filled with hate, there was a small, untouched piece of him that could be brought into the daylight.
It was never on his own accord that his life, this life of running, hiding, death and destruction, was the way it was.
He remembered, faintly, but remembered far back into the day's of his childhood where he dreamed of becoming a Pokemon Trainer. The two words alone should have let him crack a weary smile. But his lips remained a stretched thin line.
But at eighteen, a man forced to grow up early due to his parents murder. A murder in which the blame was thrown onto him, no matter how far fetched it sounded.
A murder which sent him along a dark path to find his parents killers, the life of a thief, a criminal, a fugitive.
A fugitive indeed.
A fugitive of twelve years.
Twelve years of pickpocketing, living under bridges and in ditches, breaking into stores so that he didn't starve or freeze to death. Constantly on the run so that Officer Jenny's wouldn't toss him in the slammer, God knows how many run-in he's had with em.'
He had grown up without a childhood, teaching himself how to fend for himself in the wild and back alley ways. Where scum and druggies would try and do him in. Try to get him to get a fix or run up a convenient store for cash.
He'd been tempted at times, not knowing what LSD or cocaine were. What would happen if you did shots of vodka at the age of eight. Rapists, murders, escaped convicts, burglars, he'd been amongst the likes of them in the shitter, more then he would care to admit.
Not his proudest moments.
But they shaped him, yes. Yes it did, showed him how to turn crack heads and bums in for rewards so that he could buy honestly. So that he could pay for a new pair of sneakers, without pulling off the tags and switching the shoes out in a change room.
So that he didn't go to an indoor pool and pay a ten dollar fee so he could get into the locker rooms and break into occupied lockers for wallets, shirts, deodorant... He'd done a lot.
He hated it all, he really did. Getting high in some rundown warehouse with six others. Hopping cargo trains in the dead of night. Getting in fights over a bottle of whiskey...
This was his life.
The life of a junkie, a bum, someone who never had a fair chance in life due to some... Outrageous claim that a six year old, murdered his parents...
The man in question, was tall, tanned, and in dire need of a shave.
He reached out to touch the mirror, his dark brown eyes staring ashamed at his reflection. Long black hair, reaching past his shoulders, and dangling ridiculously in front of his eyes. His right eye sported a nasty scar, one in which he got for snatching a ten grams of coke off a dealer.
A thick, bushy dark beard was dust ridden, greasy, tangled... He hadn't shaved in six months, his knife had been jacked unknowingly by a bum he was sharing a freight with on his way to Saffron.
And then there was his clothing.
A ripped, stained, torn, ragged trench coat that had seen him through many rough times, while under neath was a mostly yellow shirt, which had been originally white. His jeans, torn at the knees, damp with mud and gunk.
His shoes, brown and gray sneakers, smelled absolutely foul, with his recent venture in the sewers to get away from a Jenny who was after him for pawning a bike he had stolen the day before.
Overall he looked like a cross between a bum who had reasonable funds, but spent it all on crack and shots...
His hand fell to the sink beneath the mirror, a razor, toothbrush, hand towels, a shower, toilet... All though were at his disposal at the moment. For the first time in years, he had the luxury of hot water, clean clothing. And if he had heard correctly, a hot meal not from a dumpster.
So he was thankful, thankful to the men in black who picked him off the street and brought him to this office building where they said they would feed, clothe, and wash him... He still had no idea why he was here.
But if this Team Rocket, kept this up. He'd do just bout anything they asked of him. Specially if it they gave him a bed to sleep in, heck even a couch cushion would be better then a wheel-less shopping cart with half a tarp covering him.
He'd learn soon enough, and he wasn't in all to much of a hurry anyways.
He wanted to look good for this Mr. Giovanni Viridian, seeing as how he was the one who had requested that he be brought here for whatever reason.
It was the least he could do for the man.
I went to continue writing for AOP, but couldn't get a flow going so I opened a new doc. and just wrote blindly.
And unknowingly, it turned into a new story idea, one in which I'm going to continue on with.
Chapter's should be no longer then 2K words, keeping updates frequent in the down time between AOP + AGP chapter uploads.
Now as a question, since I'm only on the second chapter, which Pokemon should Ash train with? Should he stick with Pikachu, or should he be given a completely different Pokemon? And if so, which would you like to see?
Enough of this now, thank you for taking a look at this story, and please feel free to drop in a review.
I'll see ya next time!