It Never Gets Old (PG-13)

[Crazy Weavile]

Part 1: Discovery

Prolouge:
The sound of gears turning filled the worn concrete hall. In the shadows, an old woman in a pink blazer and sweatpants lay in wait. When a guard entered, she took her cane and used it to smash his helmeted head against a wall. The guard slumped to the floor, his head laying against his gunmetal armor. Upstairs, a small boy of five years old sat, waiting for the gargantuan clock those gears operated to strike midnight. And it did. The hands reached that high point, and a light became visible in a thin crack at the base.. The boy dusted off his blue jeans before taking the sledgehammer strapped to his neon green vest and smashing the clock face. He reached forward, and the light reached forward to embrace him, instantaneously blessing him with all the wonders of the world, from the pure white glaciers of the north to the lively festivals of the people in this city. He paused for a second before blowing it out. He took a strange, alien-looking device out of his breast pocket and spoke into it.

“Mira, I'm done here. Get me out of this dump before it goes,” he said. On the horizon, a rickety contraption looking entirely incapable of flight zoomed toward the clock. As it reached the clock, it dropped in altitude and extended legs from its egg-shaped body. A young woman, presumably Mira, was sitting at the helm. She helped the child up into the craft before lifting off once more.

“I do love to watch this. It never gets old,” she stated before setting the craft on a course to the south and going around to the back window. The window took up the entire wall, and was in stark contrast to the rest of the rusty cabin, full of dryrotting furniture and exposed metal. Through the window, one could see the land behind the craft violently shudder before it began to ripple. These “ripples” were roughly fifty feet high, and devastated the lands surrounding the clock, obliterating everything for miles around, and then causing major damage to an even larger area around that.

“So, mission accomplished, then?” asked the boy.

“Indeed,” Mira replied.

Constructive criticism is strongly encouraged.

 

[Crazy Weavile]

CHAPTER 1

Richard Vales wasn't a poor man, but he certainly wasn't a rich man. As such, he had recently started to take on various odd jobs to help accomplish more than simply making ends meet. Today, he was sitting in his car, a well-used cyan four-door affair, trying to get it started. His balding head shining with sweat, he managed to get it running after about ten minutes of nothing. He tucked his off-white, coffee-stained polo into his black slacks and was just leaving the driveway when he heard a whining noise from the back seat.

“Bui...”

The Pokemon making the noise was a small, orange thing, somewhat like a cross between a cat and a dog. It had an odd yellow sac around its neck, a yellowish stomach, whiskers, and two relatively short, fluffy tails.

“Bui...”

“Yes, Buizel. I was in fact stone-drunk last night. No, I'm not drunk anymore. The alcohol is out of my bloodstream,” replied Richard. Buizel frowned, but curled up in the back seat anyway, and Richard continued out. He explained,

“Today, we're going to be transporting a television from our client's house to the repair shop. You think you can help keep it steady back there?”

Buizel nodded. Richard drove down the road, watching the children at play and looking at the small, simple houses until reaching the corner of Bronze Street and Green Way. He stopped, and walked about halfway across the road before stopping in his tracks. The children were all inside. There wasn't a soul outside.

A tremor. The road split along the middle as a tidal wave came rushing toward Richard. A flood? He looked again. It was land. The land-tidal-wave continued on its path, tearing up whatever lay in its wake. Richard would have continued to gawk at this bizzare sight, were it not for the fact that a chunk of pavement flew into his stomach and sent him zooming into a telephone pole.

Richard lay in a wasteland, filled with scattered chunks of road, trees, cars, and buildings. As he opened his eyes, he gasped to see his right leg bleeding profusely. He immediately leaped up, only to scream in pain as he attempted to stand. He sat back down, and ripped the sleeve off of his shirt to create a makeshift bandage to tie around the wound and control bleeding. He grimaced as he tied the sleeve around his leg in a tight knot. Then, he got up, ensuring minimal weight was placed on the injured leg.

“Buizel? Buizel?!” he called. A few feet away from him, Buizel crawled out from under a car, albeit battered- bruises and scrapes covered her body. Nevertheless, she was alive.

“Good. Rinse your wounds off, you're a mess!” Richard instructed. Buizel rested her face in her paws and sighed before using a high pressure jet of water from her mouth to clean her wounds. She then proceeded to do the same for Richard. Richard looked at himself in a puddle by his feet. He looked every bit as bad as Buizel, if not worse. His leg had a recognizable lump which appeared to be a protruding bone in it. Buizel, on the other hand, appeared mostly fine. As Richard looked around, the dying and the dead lay on the rocky ground while survivors searched for their friends and family. Buizel pressed on his broken leg while he was observing this.

“What?” he asked in a hushed voice, attempting to avoid disturbing the mourning.

Buizel pointed to an object on the horizon- the large clock in the park, which stood mostly undamaged in the midst of this mass destruction.

 

[Crazy Weavile]

CHAPTER 1

Richard Vales wasn't a poor man, but he certainly wasn't a rich man. As such, he had recently started to take on various odd jobs to help accomplish more than simply making ends meet. Today, he was sitting in his car, a well-used cyan four-door affair, trying to get it started. His balding head shining with sweat, he managed to get it running after about ten minutes of nothing. He tucked his off-white, coffee-stained polo into his black slacks and was just leaving the driveway when he heard a whining noise from the back seat.

“Bui...”

The Pokemon making the noise was a small, orange thing, somewhat like a cross between a cat and a dog. It had an odd yellow sac around its neck, a yellowish stomach, whiskers, and two relatively short, fluffy tails.

“Bui...”

“Yes, Buizel. I was in fact stone-drunk last night. No, I'm not drunk anymore. The alcohol is out of my bloodstream,” replied Richard. Buizel frowned, but curled up in the back seat anyway, and Richard continued out. He explained,

“Today, we're going to be transporting a television from our client's house to the repair shop. You think you can help keep it steady back there?”

Buizel nodded. Richard drove down the road, watching the children at play and looking at the small, simple houses until reaching the corner of Bronze Street and Green Way. He stopped, and walked about halfway across the road before stopping in his tracks. The children were all inside. There wasn't a soul outside.

A tremor. The road split along the middle as a tidal wave came rushing toward Richard. A flood? He looked again. It was land. The land-tidal-wave continued on its path, tearing up whatever lay in its wake. Richard would have continued to gawk at this bizzare sight, were it not for the fact that a chunk of pavement flew into his stomach and sent him zooming into a telephone pole.

Richard lay in a wasteland, filled with scattered chunks of road, trees, cars, and buildings. As he opened his eyes, he gasped to see his right leg bleeding profusely. He immediately leaped up, only to scream in pain as he attempted to stand. He sat back down, and ripped the sleeve off of his shirt to create a makeshift bandage to tie around the wound and control bleeding. He grimaced as he tied the sleeve around his leg in a tight knot. Then, he got up, ensuring minimal weight was placed on the injured leg.

“Buizel? Buizel?!” he called. A few feet away from him, Buizel crawled out from under a car, albeit battered- bruises and scrapes covered her body. Nevertheless, she was alive.

“Good. Rinse your wounds off, you're a mess!” Richard instructed. Buizel rested her face in her paws and sighed before using a high pressure jet of water from her mouth to clean her wounds. She then proceeded to do the same for Richard. Richard looked at himself in a puddle by his feet. He looked every bit as bad as Buizel, if not worse. His leg had a recognizable lump which appeared to be a protruding bone in it. Buizel, on the other hand, appeared mostly fine. As Richard looked around, the dying and the dead lay on the rocky ground while survivors searched for their friends and family. Buizel pressed on his broken leg while he was observing this.

“What?” he asked in a hushed voice, attempting to avoid disturbing the mourning.

Buizel pointed to an object on the horizon- the large clock in the park, which stood mostly undamaged in the midst of this mass destruction.