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Winning usually never comes without somebody losing. Success is that much worse.
Success
A Pokémon POV fic
It had started out as a regular doomed-to-fail mission to snatch that Pikachu. You know, the ones where that twerp or one of his friends usually cream us, with the complimentary electric shock to top it off. Like I said, doomed to fail. As they always have.
Except this time, it—we—didn't.
He'd been too close to the edge of the road, I guess. When Weezing spewed out the normal smog cover, he had tripped, blinded and choking, already reaching for his Pokéballs. His fingers would never reach them, as he fell straight into the path of an onrushing car.
He never knew what hit him.
His friends hadn't seen him fall, but the screeching tires and the sickening thud of a ton of moving metal hitting delicate flesh cut through the air like a knife. A sudden gust of wind cleared the Smoke Screen away, revealing the horrifying scene. The twerp's body, mangled and broken, lying in a heap some 20 feet away. The driver of the car, still gripping the steering wheel, his face pale and set in an expression of dread. The large dent in the front bumper . . . For one eternal moment, we all stood there, frozen, unable to do anything, just silently staring. The world held its breath.
Suddenly, the car sped away, leaving long, ugly skid marks burned into the pavement. Briefly, I wondered how a person so young would cope with the knowledge of having killed someone.
Just like us
As if the car's departure was some prearranged signal, time started to flow onwards again. Sounds registered in my sensory input: the quiet chirping of bird Pokémon, so out of place in this ghastly scene. The wind rustling softly through the trees. And one unfamiliar noise. I concentrated on that sound, trying to identify it with my numb brain. It wasn't until the kid's friends started running towards him that I realized what it was.
Screaming.
The redhead was the first to reach him, cradling his head in her lap, begging him to wake up, to talk to her. It didn't take any medical training to see that her pleas would go unanswered.
The other boy, the girl-crazy one, placed a hand on the girl's shoulder as she started to shake with silent sobs. His face was an emotionless mask-had he gone through something like this before? Apparently so.
Surprisingly, the Pikachu hadn't moved from its spot; it stared at us, the building anger clearly visible in its large black eyes. It started to snarl, eyes starting to glow a deep, dull red, the color of old blood.
I have never forgiven myself for the reaction I had to the sight of those eyes.
Unconsciously, my body moved on autopilot, sweeping forward of its own accord, snatching the Pikachu and stuffing it into the specially prepared rubber bag we had brought. As I shoved the bag into the team's waiting hands, motioning them ahead, I stopped to pick up something from the ground before dashing into the woods myself.
But before I had tied the bag closed, I had had time to whisper three, heartfelt words.
"I'm so sorry."
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"Jessie?"
James' gentle hand on her shoulder snapped her back to reality. "Huh?"
James pointed to the clock on the wall. "Mission, remember?"
She blinked, surprised, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. Who's getting the ax this time?"
"Some politician that's pushing to spend more money on the police force."
"Okay, then." She swiped her hand across her eyes, then pulled the mask part of her black uniform up past her nose. "Let's go."
James made an annoyed expression before putting his own mask on; the black fabric itched and made his eyes swell, but they had been a mandatory part of their uniform ever since they had been promoted to Team Rocket Elites. Because of their capture of one of the rarest Pokémon to walk the earth. That had been three years ago.
Something sparkled momentarily in the dim light before a black gloved hand reached up and brushed the shimmering points away. James frowned. Had those been tears in his partner's eyes? Jessie had shown barely any emotion since that day three years ago . . .
Nah.
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Before heading out the door, she cast one last glance over her shoulder, her gaze coming to rest on the battered, ripped piece of red and white cloth and the small rubber bag sitting on the small table, one of the only pieces of furniture in the room. Memories those simple articles invoked . . .
"I'm so sorry . . ."
The lights snapped off.
~owari~
Notes: I know, I know, another one of those "Ash dies" stories that I like, to read and to write both. Depression can be a cure for Writer's Block, I've found. *grins like Duo on a Deathscythe-piloting-mission-induced high* Hope you liked.