I decided that this should be rated PG13 for language. But I think I used one too many 'fuck's. I'm not quite sure. Correct me if you're willing. Also, if you see any errors, feel free to point them out. I'm not exactly in the right state of mind at the minue. :)
So, my first pokemon fic in an age.
It burns his skin. He feels it flaking, peeling, falling away from his muscles and bones. It falls to the floor, charred, ash. The fire spreads across his body, blue and red, and in parts invisible, taking his skin and his life and his flesh. It takes his life and gives it back, in the form of ash that blows about in the stiff breeze that feeds the fire.
It burns until he can’t see, until his eyes are gone and all that is left is the blackened skull, and even that will crumble soon, crumble into dust and bits of bone. From dust to dust, ashes to ashes, life to death.
It burns. It excruciates him—
Suddenly he’s awake, panting, staring at the ceiling, searching for the invisible flames. The phantom flames that trace phantom pains across his flesh. He holds up his hand, stares at it in the dark, but can see nothing.
He rolls over, gropes for the light and knocks the alarm clock off his bedside table. ‘Shit,’ reaches for the light, finds it and switches it on. His hand is pale. He searches it for flames—telltale scares, burns, blisters—but there is nothing; he rolls back over onto his back and sighs, stares at the art deco ceiling before stretching, cracking his neck bone and climbing out of bed.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ Domino says.
‘Good morning, Domino,’ he says. He sits down at the table opposite her and eats the breakfast that a now gone dan’in provided. It steams; he burns his tongue on it and his fifth word of the day is ‘Shit’.
Domino hides a smile behind her hand, pulls a folder from underneath the table and slides it across to him. ‘The Experiments are going well,’ she says. He opens the folder, flips through the pages. A pile of Polaroids fall out. He picks them up.
‘And these are?’ he asks.
‘Photos,’ she says, ‘one a day on experiment #244, showing the advancement of mutation.’
He looks at them. There are fifty. The first shows a normal, healthy little boy. He is nine. He has startling blue eyes. He smiles for the camera. In the second photo, his eyes are even brighter. In the third and the fourth, there is not much change. By the fifth, the little boy is no longer smiling, he looks as if he is in pain.
By the seventh, there is no white in his eyes. They are totally blue. By the twentieth photo, he is still recognizable, but an unknown hand holds his arms up to the camera, showing the tinge of blue on his now claw-like fingernails, and opening his mouth to reveal long, sharp fangs.
He drops the photos onto the pile. ‘That’s nice,’ he says. He stuffs a bit of bacon in his mouth and crunches on it.
‘There’re more,’ she says.
‘I’ll look at them later,’ he says.
‘All right,’ she says. She pushes the chair back, stands, and walks out of the room.
He flashes back:
‘Sir!’ a voice cries out.
It’s too late. The little injection gun has shot it’s milky liquid striped with pale purple strands into his blood stream. He sees stars. Then everything is black, and he hears a distant voice saying ‘Quick, someone grab the medical kit and a—‘
But it is gone.
Domino finds him sitting on an armchair near a window, the only window in the building. The sun streams in the window. She can smell his clothes, hot. They smell as if someone’s been ironing. She steps forwards, her heels click on the floor.
The photos splay across his lap. Little boys, little girls. Various stages of mutation. Here a girl her arm bone jutting out from the skin, only it’s sharp and deadly. There a boy, his hair writhing as if alive, his eyes burning. There a girl with marks on her cheeks that glow. There a boy, here a girl—
‘Isn’t it brilliant?’ he asks.
‘A revolution,’ she says.
He snorts. He picks up the Polaroids and stuffs them back into the folder and hands it back to her. ‘Nice work,’ he says. ‘Let me know how it turns out in a month or so.’ He looks at her and she nods and takes the folder and walks off.
She stops by the door. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ she asks.
He takes a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and puts them on. The glare isn’t muted by the glass.
‘I’m fine,’ he says.
He dreams of fire. The fire licks him. The fire caresses him. The fire consumes him. Gently, lovingly, takes the pain away and replaces it with oblivion. He burns to death, a witch on the stake, a martyr on the cross.
He dreams of fire when he’s asleep.
He smells it. He tastes the soot in his mouth. He feels the flames shoot down his back when he’s awake and not concentrating, drifting off into another realm. Drifting away, away until the pain brings him back and he slaps himself internally.
In a meeting. In the toilet. In the shower. Eating lunch. Fucking someone.
He feels the flames.
Over the next few weeks he wears the sunglasses whenever he’s out of his room, and he is hardly ever out of his room. He becomes a recluse, even more so than before. He hides in the darkness. He watches through cameras and eventually he doesn’t leave his bed. Eventually, he sits there, morning, noon, night. The room is windowless.
Over the next few months his eyes become a pale lilac, his skin becomes white and his hair falls out. He doesn’t get up to move. His legs evolve into nothing, his arms evolve until the food is placed into his mouth by a loving dan’in and—
‘God,’ Domino says, ‘what’s happened to you?’
Then he opens his eyes and it isn’t real, and the fire is licking at his feet.
He leaves the room, on an impulse, with Domino saying ‘But Sir, you must meet our latest Experiment, I assure you sir, that this is a masterpiece!’ and him saying ‘Later, Domino, later,’ and then he goes out and finds a toilet and sits in the cubicle and throws up into his hands, onto the floor. It splashes onto the graffiti, carrots for lunch.
The fire licks at his legs, even when his eyes are open.
They drive down the street. It’s dark, and when he looks into the tinted windows, he can see a perfect reflection. The street lights attempt to shine through. Sunglasses at night: frowned upon, he doesn’t have a hangover, and even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t last this long. He wears them because his eyes glow purple, and that’s disturbing. He wears them at night. He wears them to bed.
They become a part of his body, but a removable one.
They drive aimlessly down the street. Aimlessly towards nowhere, and then he hides behind the darkness of his glasses and gets the driver to stop at a drive-through window of a take-away store and he orders the most fattening thing that he can possibly think of, and he eats it all, licks the grease off his fingers and then scrunches the wrapper and throws it in the bin of the underground car park.
The fire incinerates him as he walks away, and it’s not until he’s climbing the stairs that the door blows in and the putrid smoke flows up the stairwell and there’s screams and dying people, and Domino appears.
‘Sir!’ she says. ‘There’s been an attack! Hundreds dead! You’ve got to get to safety—‘
And then she falls forward, with a pipe penetrating her back and into her heart, and he climbs the stairs on his hands and knees and the fire licks at his feet but he climbs faster and gets away. It’s on the news, when he gets to his bedroom and turns the TV on and climbs underneath the covers.
He doesn’t wake to the sound of knocking.
They trundle him into a closed ward of a hospital. Hundreds dead. Blood all over the place—the hospital is clean, white floors, white walls, a few tiles here and there, a blood stained piece of clothing—but only in his dreams.
‘Sir?’ a voice says. ‘Sir, you need to let go of those glasses—we have to perform—‘
‘Sir?’ another voice says.
‘Just take them off him,’ another another voice says.
‘You can’t escape it,’ they say. ‘It’s coming for you.’
It comes. It comes on wings of flame and feet of ice and the claws are stone, the eyes are rubies and the mouth is sharp diamond teeth that grind his bones as the breath of fire burns the flesh from his skeleton. He looks down at himself, a skeleton from an illustration of the bible sitting upon a white horse holding a scythe. Death and War and Famine and Pestilence emit.
He wakens to fire spreading across his legs, and he screams, and it burns. It burns him away to a puddle of unidentified ash in a little bed in a little hospital, because everyone forgot him. He prays, in the last few minutes of coherent, agonising thought. He prays, and they say ‘God is dead’ and he believes them.
They say, ‘Sakaki is dead’, and he believes them.
Sakaki believes no more.