best laid plans
Goddammit, what the hell do you think you're doing? Taking my place? Sheesh.
Sorry 'bout that, folks. Anyways, if there was one lesson I ever learned about life is that irony's cold glare was your best friend sometimes. Think about that.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Chapter Seven:
A Gastly Experience through the Ghastly Tower
“Hello, dear guest. My name is David Milwood; you've messed with Team Rocket too severely. It's time for you to die.”
With his gun loaded, he pressed it to the forehead of the boy and pulled the trigger. He heard the bang, loud and clear, and the last surprised gasp of Christopher Lawrence Avrich Jr., resident of New Bark: fourteen years old, son of Elizabeth Kaitlyn Avrich and Christopher Lawrence Avrich Sr. “Good-bye.” He saw the blood mixed with the boy's sweat, his brain matter splattered on the pale wall behind them. He reached forward, wiping his tears away with his thumb.
He smiled slyly. It all seemed too real to him now: he had just blown out the brains of an imaginary boy. Not even the gun had been loaded. But he practiced his hits before they occurred, to make himself more prepared.
Preparedness was what he needed. His job wasn't easy on the psyche; he was smart enough to admit that. He did it for the pay, and for... other reasons. But the pay his predominant reason. It was tremendous for a grunt in the DPS (Down-low Pay System; simply keeping your source of pay on the down-low. To most people it looked as if you were just doing some high-paying job; like a computer technician or some other thing), and he needed the money desperately. He set aside fifteen-percent of each kill's payout: but the rest was spent on food, money and weapons. He did have one Pokemon he needed to feed, and it was a muncher, taking about forty-percent of his money.
But he was satisfied, he supposed. It payed the bills and it gave him his thrills.
He let his smile fade and let loose a sigh. “Now, Noctowl, let's hurry and get back...”
He did have three other Pokemon that didn't need to be fed. He liked those the best: those who could get the job done and get the hell out of his life until they were needed again. He sat on the stool where the imaginary corpse sat, pushing it out of the way and allowing him to relax. Now he simply had to wait.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It took a few days, but after the clearance from the Homicide Detectives and of course, from his mother, Chris was able to reach Violet City alongside Joey. Very little actually occurred on the trip there, except for an encounter with a wild Spinarak: turned out Joey was a sufferer of arachnophobia.
“Alright!” Chris exclaimed, albeit with a bit of hesitance in his voice, “let's see how we do at this place.”
“You sure, Chris?” Joey asked. “We just got here... we really don't want to go inside. Maybe get some rest...”
Chris smiled slyly. “You can get some rest, maybe. I'm challenging this place. Me and Bosca will Ace it!”
Joey reached up, wiping the sweat off his brow. “I'll be at the Pokemon Center... I'll reserve a room for two, 'kay?”
“'kay,” Chris agreed.
So that was how Chris managed to get into the predicament of being lost inside Violet City's most famous landmark.
It was a tower that was said to be a hundred feet tall. A hyperbole, Chris thought, as he looked at it: it was thirty, forty at max. But oddly enough, if you looked at its old, brown structure close enough, it seemed to sway with the gentle wind that always blew through Violet.
Still, forty feet was a large bit of space to cover. He got no help, either. There were plenty of monks who resided in the tower and knew every square inch of the chewed up wooden place by heart. The rules of the “Sprout Tower Challenge” stated that he couldn't receive help. The only help he could get was “The hearts of him and his Pokemon”. Bla, bla. All that Bull Snot.
He only got out because he nearly died.
“C'mon, Bosca. Hop on, you gotta be ten times as tired as I am.”
“...Mmmmiiissshhhh...”
He lowered his shoulder, allowing Bosca to hop up. He sighed with discontent, but trucked on. He was met with a bit of a roadblock: a large spider web hanging in between two wooden beams that was the only open path he could find.
“...Here we go,” Chris whispered – and shot through the web, his body filling with a sudden burst of anxiety. He nearly toppled over onto the ground but managed to catch his balance at the last moment, his face paling and his skin turning cold as ice. This place had an ominous feeling. He swiped himself out of the remains of webbing, and kept walking forward. Maybe it was just the natural vibe of the place. Wooden, creaky, dark and having the entrance covered in spider web... these were all key horror movie signs of something going terribly wrong.
He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled. He was just being a worry-wart. A nervous-nelly. That type of person was something he had always hated, and he chastised himself mentally for being such a hypocrite. He continued to walk on.
Suddenly, after a few minutes of walking, his foot his a floorboard just as normal. But this one gave a particularly odd sound: Chris thought he heard it hiss. He was paralyzed for a moment, but shrugged it off and continued his walk.
Bosca was shivering. As if her innate Pokemon senses were telling her something. Chris looked at her through his peripheral vision, but didn't say anything. He laughed quietly. Or she could just be cold. It was oddly breezy in here – maybe there was a window closeby! Then he could look out and at least estimate how far up he had gotten, also in-turn giving him a good perspective of where to go next. He sighed with relief, searching around in what was now near pitch-black for some source of light in the distance. As he kept walking, he saw nothing.
He finally spoke. “Hey, gal, did'ja see anything? You alright?”
“Mish... mish, Shroo, shroomish.”
“...Really now?” he asked. He could definitely sense fear in her voice. Something was up. Bracing himself, he tilted back his head and screamed as loud as he could (putting one hand over Bosca's closer ear in order to prevent hearing damage to her), “HEY! Whoever is in here, get out of the shadows! I know you're here!”
The only response was a surprised cry from Bosca, and the sound of Rattata scurrying away. He sighed. “Sorry, gal.”
“...Mmmiiissshhhh...”
Suddenly, Chris felt something pass by him. He knew it was in no way an illusion or a phantom brush. Or perhaps it was the latter. Perhaps this place was haunted? He was in a dark room with no human company at what... nine, ten P.M.? It fit the template for a Haunted House story perfectly. Chris shivered with anxious anticipation.
And he shivered again just seconds after he calmed down when the wet, large tongue lapped his right cheek. He screamed in surprise, jumping aside and toppling to the ground – really, this time. He heard a surprised shriek from Bosca, looking over to find her. He only saw glowing eyes, huge ones, but with pupils about the size of a small bead.
Then it rushed forward. Chris felt it envelope him. He tried to scream but no sound would come out: with his last desperate strength, he slid his arm out, reaching for Bosca, but he only heard a thin thud sound and a rolling tumble as his hand hit fabric. His backpack. He cursed mentally, then his world went black.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Hello, handsome.”
Chris looked at the odd invader of his thoughts, his arms folded over his chest. “Who are you, and why are you in my head?”
This invader stood at the exact same height as him, but with long brown hair down to her shoulders. Her body was of the hour-glass figure, her garb being a plain black dress. Her eyes were small and beady, black pupils staring at him, piercing into the depths of his very soul.
“Because I'm hungry,” the girl said. Her hand moved up, revealing a struggling purple and white mass in her hand. She stuck the Rattata in her mouth and chomped down, chewing noisily. Chris flinched, hearing the crunch of its skull in her mouth. She let her tongue out of her mouth, painted a bright red and licking her lips. “You looked tasty.” Her lips were now stained as well, leaking onto some of her mouth. She tossed the dead rat aside, and Chris watched it seem to sink into the dark gray floor, creating a small wave of ripples.
The next moment, the girl had disappeared. In her place was a man, taller than him by a long shot, at least three feet: and Chris was five foot six. He stepped back, his eyes wide with horror.
“Time for you to die, Mr. Avrich – you've messed with Team Rocket for long enough!”
He let loose a howl of laughter, making Chris visibly shake. He stepped back, and the man stepped forward. Twice. Each step Chris made backward, the closer the man drew to him, and before long they were so close that their noses could have touched. Had they been of near equal height. The man was a lummox, his broad, calloused hand pulling out a gun from his pocket (Chris was surprised he hadn't noticed it before), and pressed it against Chris's forehead. He pulled the trigger.
Chris felt a sudden jolt of pain shoot through his head, tumbling backward onto the gray, shiny surface of Dreamland (so he called it), sending ripples outward. He opened his eyes and saw that a small flag had burst out of the gun barrel, reading in tiny blue capitals, “BANG!”
The man roared with feminine laughter. He faded back into the image of the girl. “You fear easy,” she mused. “This is going to be quite a meal...”
Chris stood up, focused on one thing and one thing only: gettting out of here alive. He shot forward, his hand curled into a firm fist, aiming for it to hit the girl square in the face. But before he even got there, an agonizing pain shot through his arm. He screamed, his face going a bright red, his body convulsing slightly as he hit the ground.
“This is my world you sit in,” the girl deadpanned, her eyes narrowing, “this is my world and thus my rules. My rules state that I can't be harmed.”
Chris looked up at her spitefully. “Who the hell ARE you?”
“I am everyone, and I am no one. I am the departed.”
“You're a ghost?”
“No, I'm a Ghos. Without the T. Also known as some countries,” she mused, peeling away part of her face as if it were another part of her routine, revealing a small section of blasting purple gas, “as Gastly.”
Suddenly, it made sense to him.
He picked himself up off the ground and ran toward her again. This was still his mind. He was going to push this ***** out of it if it killed him. Which he had the distinct feeling that it probably would.
He slipped his hand forward once again, this time coming within a few inches of her face before another jolt of pain shot up his arm. He ignored it the best he could, continuing to shove himself forward: and he broke through. The punch connected with a thick cracking sound, and Chris watched, awestruck as more pieces of the false face flecked off like pieces of glass from a mirror. More of the purple gaseous substance leaked out, now giving her a bit of a gas cloak.
The cost of this, though, was that his arm was now immobile. He had use of one arm. ****. This wasn't turning out well, but he was making progress: the only question was how much progress he could make until he couldn't use any of his body parts. What would happen then?
He supposed he would find out. He had nothing to lose. He was going to be eaten if he didn't try to fight, and was probably going to be eaten if he did anyway; a damned if you do, damned if you don't situation. He would rather be damned if he did, than damned if he didn't.
He looked up from the ground with furious eyes. “Now you'd better get out of my goddamn mind before I make you!”
Gastly-Woman cackled madly. “Make me, then, boy! I am infinite! You can't beat me with your weak little mind!”
Christopher Avrich grinned from ear to ear, leaking anxiety out of every pore in his body. “Let's go then, *****.”
“Name calling, young man. Name calling.” The Gastly-Woman walked forward calmly, her psychic barrier pushing Chris back a bit. He had made a hole in it from his pushing earlier: he would have to use that, he figured. “I like you. You're a feisty one. I believe you'll be quite the tasty one too!”
Chris dashed toward her, forcing himself to ignore the barrier she had around her and using its hole to his advantage. He picked up his good hand, hoping his hardest to actually find it. It was invisible; there was no sure way. He thrust his palm against one-spot: pain. He screamed, jumping back as she walked closer.
“Play, play, little child, as it will be your last playdate... shall we enjoy it?”
Chris picked himself up out of the daze he was put in, and made another frantic grab for the spot. He felt his hand slip through: good. Now to execute his plan. With a forceful grunt, he tugged his arm diagonally. He hoped that through sheer will and force combined, he could get the spot moved, moving the location of the barrier.
But something even better happened. At the cost of another arm's usage, going numb and limp in by his side, he saw her entire torso break away. She was a floating mass of purple gas now with a human face. Her legs were not attached to her, but instead moving directly on their own. She didn't even seem to notice.
“Trying to break through the barrier is futile,” she deadpanned, her mouth still. Chris recognized this to be telepathy.
He brought his leg up, smashing it down through the broken hole. It connected to the leg-space, but passed on through. Shattering of glass could be heard, and now the legs were gone entirely. His leg went numb. With one final gesture, Christopher Avrich grabbed onto the sides of the tangible psychic barrier and gave the face a firm headbutt.
It shattered. The girl let loose a gasp that ended in a,“..astly!”, before the world around them began to crumble. Chris caught a piece of the sky hanging from its original place and held it fast, its sharp edge cutting into his now not-numbed hands. He felt blood trickle down his wrist, painting his skin red.
He let go only because a voice told him to. He didn't know why, but he trusted it.
“
Let go, son,” the voice said.
“Wake! The Gastly has left you – you are a lucky one.”
Christopher Avrich woke up to a world that was made of the word “pain” – he saw it in many different colors. Light pinks, pale blues, bright, blinding reds, and the sheets of white heat. Oh god, the white hot agony that pulsed throughout his body, making him gasp as something was pressed down in his hand.
“Who...are...you...”
“...This is for me to know and you never to know, son,” the voice said, and within moments Chris felt himself begin to fade out of consciousness again. He heard the slight chirping of a concerned Bosca... and then nothing.
