Masterfade: J [PG-17]

[+Kira+]

I EXTEND TO ALL YOU STRANGERS WHO MAY POSSIBLY BE READING THIS FANFICTION A HAND OF WELCOME.

Hello thar. I hope you enjoy ingesting my meager words. Feel free to excrete them if they do not satisfy.

I shall attempt to update every Tuesday.


DISCLAIMER: I do not, unfortunately for Ash (who would be getting lots of buttsecks if I did) own Pokemon. BET YOU NEVER SAW THAT COMING.



RATINGS: Rated PG-17 for BUTTSECKS? NOPE. But there are some sexual implications. Gore, swearing, lots of things good little boys and girls don't want to read about. So you're a good little boy or girl? Go away.



CHAPTER LIST (subject to change)

1-Oh No

2-Case In Point

3-Plasticities

4-Opposite Day

5-I Can See Your House From Here

6-Don't Be Scared

7-Almost There

8-Are You Okay?

9-The Last

10- Can I Stay?

11- Careful Where You Stand

12-Calm Downstairs

13-The Cold Part

14- Into The Sun

15- Just Don't Ask

16- The Masterfade



Well. Do read. Or something.

M A S T E R F A D E : J

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
C H A P T E R O N E : O h N o
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~





.ten years ago.




He was the unchallenged leader of the most powerful underground organization currently known to man. He was one of the wealthiest men on the planet. His Pokemon had been manicured and genetically altered until their strength knew no bounds. What more could one man desire?

The answer, Giovanni Rucci thought as he gazed down upon the three pale faces, lay in front of him.


Fifty percent completed.


There was a faraway yowl, and Giovanni turned his attention to the steel-plated door. His Persian lay in front of it. Its creamy white tail swept back and forth across the floor with discontent.

“It's all right, my friend.”


Sixty percent.


“They're harmless.”

The single most powerful man in the nation swept his hand toward the source of Persian's disquiet. Hooked up to so many tubes and wires they looked more like mechanical beasts than Pokemon gods, they still retained a touch of the legendary as they lay prone in their cages.

Entei. Raikou. Suicune.

Nothing more than shadows.

It had cost Giovanni millions of dollars, and the very expensive lives of many professionals, to procure the three.


Seventy percent.


It had cost him his own son.

The boy lay in front of him, his face still and tinged green beneath the eerie glow of the glass pod he lay within. His long red hair mingled with the probes extending from his forehead, his upper arms, his chest.

Flanking him were the supine bodies of the other children. Two ordinary five-year-olds lifted casually from a nearby adoption center. Nobody brought forth paperwork or social workers when Giovanni Rucci entered an establishment. A girl and a boy. The first two he'd seen, dashing about in a yard littered with dead leaves, stopping to whisper about the established-looking gentleman approaching them.


Eighty percent.


He wondered idly what their names were. The girl's began with an A. Alison, maybe. Or Alice. Not that it mattered even in the slightest. They were cocoons from which he would, in ten years' time, harvest the gold.

Persian yowled again.


Ninety percent.


They would grow up, closely monitored, in an ordinary environment. They would become ordinary children, have ordinary fights, eat ordinary food.

They would be slaughtered like cattle when the Masterfade occurred.

It took Giovanni a moment to realize that the quiet buzzing of the process had ceased. He turned to behold the flashing green number on the monitor.


One hundred percent.




Transfer completed.




~+~





.ten years later.





“Milo!”

Aline's shout echoed through a hallway still with early morning. A nearby door swung open and a disheveled head popped out.

“Aline, shut the f*uck up. Milo's asleep.”

Ignoring this, the girl threw on her jacket, slung her bag over her shoulder, and stalked down the hall. Stopping in front of a door papered with Sticky Notes, she banged on it, causing several of the notes to flutter to the floor and several more doors to open, allowing disgrunted heads to shout their displeasure to Aline. She didn't seem to mind.

As if attempting to escape from Aline's steady pounding, the door swung inward. Standing behind it, ruffling his dark hair in an attempt to banish the sleep from it, was a boy. He would have been tall if it weren't for his awkward slouch. His unwashed bangs fell stubbornly into his red-rimmed eyes. He blinked wearily at Aline. “Hi.”

“Hi?” repeated Aline with a note of disbelief, as if the simple greeting were the most bizarre thing Milo could have said. “I know you're forgetful, but this is ridiculous. Pokemon? Professor Elm? Becoming trainers? Any of this a'ringin' a bell?”

“Oh shi*t!” swore Milo, whirling and causing an avalanche of clothes to topple from his dresser as he rummaged for a clean shirt. “Sh*it, Aline, I'm so sorry! I swear to God I'm a f*ucking moron. Feel free to castrate me or something. I deserve it.”

“You can't castrate what isn't there,” said Aline dryly, leaning against the door frame and observing Milo's frantic search for a sneaker. “It's all right, Mi, jeez. We'll just be a little late.”

“Did you have to wake the entire hall?” said Milo, nervously smoothing his pillow-matted hair as he stuck his head into the hallway and saw several grumbling students glaring in Aline's direction.

Aline gave a uninterested shrug. “I'm sure they'll jump at the opportunity to add it to their list of things to whine about.”

A nearby gaggle of girls looked offended.

“And do you have to say everything so loudly?” whispered Milo, a cherry blush spreading from the base of his neck to his cheeks. He pulled down a hat backwards over his hair, attempted to put on his other sneaker while hopping on one foot, fell over, righted himself, applied the sneaker, and slammed the door behind him, panting.

“Congrats,” said Aline, patting the boy on the shoulder. “I should give you an award every time you manage to get dressed in the morning without causing anyone severe bodily harm.”

“Come on, Aline, everyone's staring,” mumbled Milo. The girl took off in long strides down the hall, ignoring the whispers and giggles of the other students.

So she was something of an outcast. The other students had ridden into the prestigious Slowpoke Academy on a wave of money and family connections; she and Milo, two oddball orphans from the Goldenrod Center for Children, had wormed their way through the cracks with scholarships and high test scores.

Milo was the brilliant one. The patient one. The one who convinced Aline that studying for exams was more important than staying up late eating popcorn and watching House.

“Try not to scare your Pokemon too much, Aline,” called a daring girl, whose group of friends immediately dissolved into giggles.

Aline turned a vampire smile on them all.

“No promises.”


~



Professor Elm sighed.

Why were the prospective trainers always late?

It seemed to be a running tradition that at least one of them had to sleep in. Receiving your first Pokemon was a coming-of-age experience, for Pete's sake. Disregarding the fact that he was probably the only human being alive who still said for Pete's sake, Elm was still quite annoyed. Was it a conspiracy? Was that it?

WERE ALL THE TRAINERS CONSPIRING TOGETHER TO MAKE HIM STARE ANXIOUSLY AT THE CLOCK WHILE BEADS OF SWEAT SLIPPED DOWN HIS SPINE?

WAS THIS REVENGE FOR HIS SAYING "FOR PETE'S SAKE" TOO OFTEN?

Probably.

Professor Elm sipped his coffee and waited.

And then, a second before he would have given up on trying to look casual so they'd be impressed when they arrived, the doorbell rang.

"Come in!" Elm called, arranging his legs to look especially unconcerned. You never knew who'd grow up into someone you had to impress. "The door's unlocked."

He heard a girl's voice. "Come on, Milo, stop being such an a*sscake."

And then the two teenagers were standing in his lab. One girl, her hair in pigtails, her gray eyes sizing him up, and one boy, standing behind her, his face brick red.

"Welcome!" said the Professor, uncrossing his legs in a manner that would have been very cool, had the action not bumped the table, causing scalding hot coffee to spill all over Elm's white coat.

Milo brightened. He could see they were going to be friends.

"Let me help you with that!" he said, rushing forward, only to tangle his foot in one of the many wires strewn about the floor and careen headlong into the Professor.

Aline blinked at the coffee-stained pile of limbs on the floor.

"Are we getting our Pokemon now?


~+~



Ten minutes later, after Professor Elm had changed his coat and inspected Milo for bruises, the three stood in front of table upon which three Poke Balls sat.

The Professor paused.

WHAT IF THEY GREW UP TO BECOME FAMOUS POKEMON MASTERS?

WHAT IF THEY CITED HIM AS THE CLUMSY MAN WHO CONSTANTLY SPILLED COFFEE ALL OVER THE PLACE?

WHAT IF HE BECAME A DISCREDITED LAUGHINGSTOCK AND WAS FORCED TO MAKE A LIVING BY WORKING AT A CONVENIENCE STORE?

Oh well.

"That's Cyndaquil, this is Totodile, and that's Chikorita," explained Elm, indicating each Poke Ball in turn. "If you're planning on becoming trainers, I'm sure you've done enough research to know which Pokemon you've planned on choosing - hey!"

Aline was tapping each Poke Ball to the beat of "Eeenie meenie minie mo, touch a Growlithe by the toe, if he hollers let him go, I choose you!"

She took the middle Poke Ball.

"She's a bit weird," said Milo in an aside to Elm, who nodded vigorously. The dark-haired boy reached for the Poke Ball containing the Chikorita.

"Lovely," said Elm, clapping his hands and wondering exactly how quickly he could get this over with.

“Milo, we will release our Pokemon simultaneously and it will be a ceremonial moment,” commanded Aline, pressing the button on her Poke Ball as Milo hastened to comply.

Each minor shadow in the lab was extinguished as brilliant white light poured from the red-and-white capsules. When the brightness faded, two Pokemon stood on the tiled floor amidst the discarded papers and broken machinery.

“Toto. Toto toto diiiile!” quipped the diminutive sea-blue crocodile, flashing a peace sign and striking a gangster pose.

“Great. A Totodile with a rapper complex,” said Aline, interested.

“Chika,” warbled the second Pokemon. She was a pale green dinosaur-like creature, her neck ringed with small green bulbs. She shook her head experimentally. Her eyes widened as she spotted the two humans, and she promptly sprinted away to hide behind a stool. The Totodile, however, waddled over, seized her by the tall leaf protruding from her head, and proceeded to drag her back in front of Milo and Aline.

The two watched the Pokemon grapple on the floor.

“I like them,” Aline declared.

“Would either of you prefer to nickname your new starters?” said Elm in a well-rehearsed voice. Aline tapped the side of her head, her gray eyes flat with boredom.

“I decided what I was going to nickname that thing ages ago. It's Faber.”

<Faber? What kind of pansy-a*ss prancing name is that?> spat the newly-christianed Faber, whacking his spiked tail against the ground in distaste. <What kind of pansy-a*ss prancing trainer are you?>

“Exactly the kind of pansy-a*ss trainer who will whip you into cream,” said Aline coolly, turning to Professor Elm. “And why is this dimwad suddenly comprehendable?”

Elm wiped a bead of sweat from his eyelid. “It's a new theory that when a trainer nicknames a Pokemon, the channels of communication are opened, though the Pokemon usually doesn't choose to initiate conversation so... abrubtly.”

“Yes! I read about that!” said Milo eagerly. He turned to a quaking Chikorita, her head leaf still gripped tight in Faber's claw.

“Your name is Ceroma.”

Terrified, the Grass-type stared up at him with huge eyes. “Chika... chikori!”

Milo sighed. “I suppose it is unusual for a Pokemon to open itself up to a trainer right away.” He bent to pick up Ceroma, who squeaked in fear but did not struggle.

There was another lightning flash of light, and Faber was sucked back inside Aline's Poke Ball.

“That was a rather brief meeting,” noted Elm.

Aline shrugged. “Hey, I'm not in this to make pals. That squirt isn't going to become the most powerful Pokemon ever by pulling on that Chikorita's leaf. I'll let it out again later. Milo, let's get going, hey?”

“But -” Elm stuttered, momentarily taken aback. “Don't you want a little more preparation? Some tips? Lunch? It's a hard road out there, you know.”

“No road's too hard for Milo. He's a secret badass,” confided Aline to Elm, who glanced doubtfully at the dark-haired boy, who was now crooning to his frightened Pokemon. “Really. You don't have to worry about us.”

“Of course not – wait – well – goodbye!” shouted Elm, for Aline had seized Milo by the arm and yanked him out the door without waiting for a reply. The bell tinkled, and the lab was silent once more.

That had to be the quickest trainer initiation ever, Elm thought.

He looked woefully at the coffee stain on the floor.

Now on to more important matters.

First and foremost, more coffee.



~+~




.ajax.



I'm going to kill them.


Fleet as prey, silent and deadly as a predator, he raced through the forest as the deadly mantra rang through his head.

I'm going to kill them.

No. No. Killing them would only be one more step toward the fate his father had ordained for him. A cruel fate. An unwelcome one.

No, he could not kill them.

If you don't, they'll kill you, buzzed a malevolent little voice at the base of his skull.

Not if I can run fast enough.

You can't.

He was a blur over broken branches and tree stumps alike as his pursuors gained. He could hear them, winging their way above him, each beat of their enormous wings causing the treetops to ripple. If he would only stop for a moment, they would spear him with their sharpened beaks or lift him to a fatal height with their claws.

He was strong. He could heal. He could also die.

Giovanni told you to watch out for them. You didn't. You let yourself be followed until it was too late. And now it's too late. You're going to die. You're going to sustain a fatal wound and bleed your life out over the insects who will doubtless drown in the viscous fluid. A thousand tiny soldiers to accompany me to the grave.

I'm going to die.




I'm going to run.








.END.

[Blackjack Gabbiani]

I'm sorry. You completely lost me the moment I ran into a string of astericks where letters should be. Nothing pulls me out faster than self-censoring.

[+Kira+]

It wasn't self-censoring. It's a forum mechanism. I'll fix it.

[Blackjack Gabbiani]

Forum mechanism edits out the whole word, not a single letter.

[+Kira+]

Forum mechanism edits out the whole word, not a single letter.

If one wishes to include profanity in fanfiction on this forum, one must evade the censorship clause, either by italicizing one of the letters or replacing one with an asterisk.

Example: *** versus a*ss.

Sorry it bothers you so much.

[TSreh]

As far as I know there is no such thing as PG-17. The ratings go like this:
1. G
2. PG
3. PG-13/14/15
4. R
5. NC-17

And there are no paragraphs. Its just lines. Seriously, the only thing you have resembling a paragraph are two lines that occasionally pop up. The 'ten years ago' sequence could have been a proper chapter in its own write had it more description and history put in. How did he get the legendary beasts? Put that in and it creates more interest for the reader.

[Yonowaru in Chaos]

Originally Posted by TSreh

And there are no paragraphs. Its just lines. Seriously, the only thing you have resembling a paragraph are two lines that occasionally pop up. The 'ten years ago' sequence could have been a proper chapter in its own write had it more description and history put in. How did he get the legendary beasts? Put that in and it creates more interest for the reader.

That's really just up to personal preference. Really, the only reason why paragraphing is so important to the reader is that it prevents fatigue from reading literal walls of text. Otherwise, what constitutes a paragraph is entirely up to the writer.

Ditto for description; entirely up to the author. I don't think s/he wants to reveal everything when it's only the first chapter.



Anyway...

What's here is certainly interesting, but I'm not sure about the general execution of it all. Sure, some youths put swear words into every phrase they say, but what's here just looks like swearing for the sake of swearing. Some of it is needlessly distracting and sort of makes the whole thing sort of tasteless. Which it isn't, so I suggest that you cut back a bit on the swearing - especially in normal conversation.

Aside from that, this is pretty well written. This looks like it's going to be a pretty good trainer fic, so I'll look out for it ;]


P.S. Oh yeah, and if you want to evade the profanity filter, just put random tags within the word, but not actually around any letters. As such:

Fu[b][/b]dge

And you might also want a Moderator to approve this, as posting fics rated R or NC-17 without permission is against the rules.