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Darren’s feet, clawed and shoe-less, pounded the pavement. He could feel his Eevee friend trembling in his arms, and guilt tied his stomach into a knot at the thought that Fox had suffered through that needless abuse because of him. Why had he protested; he knew Team Rocket, had known them since he was born.
<<< Go back to A Dex of My Own
Darren hadn’t forgotten about the conversation he’d overheard, far from, but it had ceased to haunt every moment of his days. He resented many parts of his daily routine, though perhaps most the part where he was locked in that bare room every night after dinner, not least because so much of it was focused on one of two despicable things: either he was treated like a barely-sentient tool, the way most of the Rocket members’ own Pokémon were, or someone was trying to mold him into one of them, something he had little interest in. He’d seen just enough of the real world to know that he in no way desired their approval.
The room was dark. Not pitch black, but a dusky sort of half-assed darkness, light leaking in around the closed — and locked — door. A cot stood in one corner, a form curled up on it, covered by a blanket, though the light from the door did reflect on what might have been a tail covered in orange scales sticking out from under the cover and spilling over the edge of the simple bed.
Free.
He’d been there for two days, now, and it was finally starting to truly sink in. He was free. His every action wasn’t going to get back to his mother; his stepfather’s iron hand was not going to come down on him if he cast a glance in the wrong direction; he didn’t have to constantly stay on his guard to not slip up. He was, really, free. Free to look and, more importantly, free to do.
The atmosphere at The Rabbit Hole was different. The music was playing, but for its own sake; no mostly-naked dancer was occupying either of the stages. Danil was a fixture behind the bar, as always, the blonde werewolf mixing drinks with a friendly grin, but tonight he took the time to down a bottle of beer of his own every so often, crushing the neck of the glass bottle between his teeth and spitting the shards into the trash can in lieu of using a bottle opener. But the most obvious clue was still probably the dress of the employees and the lack of customers.
The slate-grey young canid shifted his punch-dagger in his hand, making sure for what must have been the hundredth time that he could quickly go from having the weapon palmed and nearly invisible in his hand to having it ready to be used. Even though he’d been assured the beasts kept in the palace were all ornamental, giving anyone a chance to sound the alarm before he’d downed his target would be a very bad thing indeed. A shiver ran through his dense, plush fur, and his large, pointed ears twitched. He’d always prided himself on fighting the good fight, doing the right thing, but freeing an entire country from a tyrant was an almost dizzying difference in scope from his past experiences.
“Ready to go home, Jeevi?”
The dark blue fox rose from where he had been curled up under a desk when he heard his name, stretching and yawning toothily before sticking his muzzle through the strap of a bag that had been leaned against the leg of that same desk and shrugging it down his neck where it came to rest securely against his chest. :Very, thank you, Pailine.:
“So how was your day, short stuff?”
Ravaethinne Griffon lay on her stomach on her much younger stepsister’s bed, watching the three-quarters wyvern girl’s tails sway lazily where she sat by her computer. She’d stopped by to return a book she’d borrowed, and when Becky had turned out to be home alone had stayed to keep her company. Not that it seemed to be neccesary.
He gasped in pain when someone gently shook him awake, even that tiny bit of motion sending pain lancing between his temples. It was, hands down, the worst headache he’d ever had the misfortune to suffer.
“Soeman?”