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Bonds that Bind (Vol. II) - Chapter TwoChapter Two: ReconciliationEvening down an alleyway behind the “Horny Hound” tease club, the new Granbull bouncer just started his shift, better prepared for the weekend bustle, or so he hoped. This was only his third week on the job, hitting up college during weekdays while earning his pay working shifts here. He was only young, pressured by his father to earn his own income if he expected to keep living at home. Landing this job had been easy enough, the work of a bouncer rumoured to be unpleasant, and proven true quite quickly. Weekends at this place tended to bring out the right vulgar drunks, too much money to splash on entertainment and booze; the weekday bouncers had it much better. But, as a college friend told him, he didn’t have to like this job, just to see each night through until exams rolled around. Despite appearances, he didn’t enjoy conflict one bit, having to put on a front when called to deal with a situation. Still, he figured cash-in-paw was something to be grateful for, gaining employment on bulk alone; his boss, Mr. Vinson, cared little for qualifications, demanding diligence of his male employees, yet treating all his girls with a deep, personal level of care. The Granbull didn’t have much of an opinion concerning his boss, simply preferring to do his job well and get paid. “Hey!” he found himself shouting at a Houndoom, casually trying to gain access through a back door to the club, completely ignorant of the guard. “Come on, man, no free passes! You want in, form a line out front,” he said, nearing the horned canine and indicating the club’s entrance behind him. Ordinarily, most folk would take the hint and do one . . . this guy, however, slow-turned to face him, heavily knocking the guard’s confidence. Something about the Houndoom oozed bad vibes, yet the Granbull stood his ground, keeping eye contact and adamant on doing his job. Hunter grinned. “New guy, right?” The Granbull said nothing, though his tense posture betrayed agitation. Hunter skulked closer, violating personal space; lenity depended on his victim’s reaction. “I don’t wanna rip a hole in your throat over something so trivial. Would be . . .” Hunter’s eyes roamed the younger dog’s body, hinting gay attraction, “such a waste.” The Granbull backed into a dumpster, paws held up protectively, chest rising and falling with his breathing. Playing the hardman failed to discourage the Houndoom, now genuinely concerned for his safety. “Yo! Ta-take it easy, man,” he implored, Hunter basking in his panic. “We cool, we cool —” Just then, the door to the club swung open outwards, a Meowscarada stepping out. “What’s going on here?” he demanded at once, quick to spot his employee slacking off. “Boy, you’re not paid to gasbag, now get this guy round front before I dock your pay.” By ‘guy’, he obviously meant Hunter, who vocalized an intake of air through gritted teeth, expressing how much that stung as he turned to face the taller feline. “Bit ’arsh, Ricky-boy,” he told the Meowscarada with an air of familiarity, and the Meowscarada’s expression reset, “we were sorting it.” The Granbull youth looked from Hunter to his boss, knowing him strictly as Mr. Vinson. Vinson contemplated the situation for a number of silent seconds, glad of his arrival for his employee’s sake. “You —” said Vinson, addressing the adolescent, “breakroom — now.” The Granbull didn’t need telling twice, challenged with avoiding Hunter’s disturbing glare as he edged on by. Standing at his boss’s side felt like the biggest relief ever, fearful for what might have happened without intervention. “Should I contact the police? Mr. Vinson?” “Not necessary,” said Vinson calmly, his gaze locked with Hunter’s, the Houndoom not remotely concerned with the mention of police. “We know each other, regrettably.” Facing the Granbull, he added, “Take thirty to settle, then do your job. I’ll handle things here.” The purple-furred canine nodded compliantly, suddenly seeing the Meowscarada in a different light — a firm man, committed to the care of his employees. While it could be viewed as favouritism, Vinson prioritizing his girls’ wellbeing, here was proof his men counted equally. Complete silence was a fantasy around this part of town, always some kind of commotion down the main street, if not music from this very club. “Ricky-boy,” started Hunter, keeping things friendly now they were alone, “not pleased to see me?” Vinson pointed his index finger. “Don’t — don’t come ’ere acting all chummy-chummy. What the hell d’you think you’re playing at — freaking the fuck outta my staff. Their time is my time, and I have a responsibility to make sure he isn’t scarred now.” Hunter shrugged, maintaining his smug grin. “Comes with the territory. Then again . . . he won’t find worse than me; a minute longer an’ I was gonna drag him away. Nice an’ dirty back here.” Vinson didn’t want to picture Hunter’s obscene desires, visibly revolted just hearing him. “Y’know what, Hunter,” he said, disgust in his words, “I don’t need your poison anywhere near my business.” “Aw, don’t be like that, Ricky-boy —” “It’s Rick, and don’t forget it,” said Vinson forcefully, wiping the grin from Hunter’s face. “Years ’ave made you soft,” said Hunter, using his no-nonsense voice. He scoffed, examining the club. “You could’ve sold this dump by now, leave this shithole of a town.” Rick crossed his arms impatiently. “Why’re you here? If it’s to see her, you can keep dreaming.” “Rick,” Hunter began, his tolerance dwindling fast, “I’m only letting you speak to me like this ’cause we’re old mates . . . but piss me off any more, I will end you.” Wisely, Rick stayed quiet, letting the friction ease. After several moments, Hunter resumed. “I got some loose ends to tie up, that’s why I’m back. An’ I’m not gonna get many more opportunities like this, so, yeah, I need you.” Rick vented some indignation through his nostrils. “Ruthless. Can’t believe I dropped outta school for you, fell for the bullshit you spun about making this town ours. So go on, then,” he said, lifting his snout in an inquiring manner, “who’re you running from? Must be pretty bad if you’re here.” “I went where the contracts took me,” justified Hunter, refusing to feel contrition over those he’d abandoned years ago. “Living cosy and domestic, that’s your life. The thrill of the hunt will always be mine.” A definite excitement lit up in Hunter’s eyes, and Rick could only guess his victim count. Killing was dark business . . . and something Hunter excelled at. “Details don’t matter — she in, or what?” Knowing Hunter would stop at nothing to get his way, Rick picked the easiest option, inviting the hound into his premises. “Hope you know how massive a favour I’m doing ya,” said the Meowscarada owner as the door closed behind them, music reverberating through the walls of the corridor. “Verlene’s not gonna be pleased.” “Cute of you to defend her,” grinned Hunter, his gaze roaming a poster-covered wall, complete with a fire alarm tripper and extinguisher. Clearly, this section of the club hadn’t been tended to in years, left behind as focus went into the main attraction and overall face; these posters were from a different era, both outdated and marred. The same could be said of the corridor: dingy, time-worn, and cluttered with various branded alcohol boxes, all empty. Rick kicked one such box in annoyance, reminding himself to come down hard on the laziness of his staff regarding booze deliveries. “Then again,” furthered the canine, “you always were jealous of what we had.” Ignoring Hunter’s remark, Rick told him the way, soon turning a sharp corner and pulling open a fire door leading to a refurbished stretch of corridor. Hunter was quick to express his glee, gawping up at a photo dating back fairly recently. Resized to a larger format, it featured the club’s dancers, almost all of them with their Meowscarada boss front-middle, boasting his new neon signage front of the club. And right beside him, all punked up and rebellious, stood a Midnight Lycanroc, the only girl unsmiling, her red eyes piercing. Whatever passed for sentiment crept over Hunter as he took in Verlene’s image. He absolutely left things on a sour note, but he’d soon win her back. He couldn’t help but find the whole thing ironic: a Meowscarada owning a hound-themed club. Rick always did have an affiliation for canines, as far back as school, and originally how the two became friends. “You ever grow the balls to screw ’er?” Hunter called after Rick, deliberately wanting to get under his skin; Rick, who had been walking down the corridor, paused without turning, his left hand clenching into a fist momentarily before unclenching. The Meowscarada faced the Houndoom still stood by the photo, refusing to rise to it. “I was there for her,” retaliated Rick. “This whole time while you . . . chased a blood craze! I,” he emphasized, holding a constrained hand to his chest, “never stopped caring.” “Just not enough to take her from behind,” Hunter pressed, basking in the cat’s vexation. Resting his gaze on the other male’s crotch, he added, “Damn, you really must have underperformance issues, huh? Well don’t worry, I’ll care for Vern the way you can’t. Might even make room for you.” “She’s over you and the hurt you caused. You’re wasting your time.” Hunter’s grin never swayed. “Love the confidence.” Nothing more was exchanged as Rick led Hunter to the club’s VIP room, a large, shadowy space used for lounging and private acts, reserved for refined clientele with cash to splash. Luxurious sofas offered comfort or intimacy or both, while dance poles promised performances even more erotic than on the main stage. A quiet bar was being set up by a Machamp, surprisingly dexterous and light with his hands. This early into the evening, a single frequenter had booked in this weekly treat, a male Squawkabilly of blue plumage — and with a certain fondness for the club’s Manectric, Kyla. Regular as clockwork, became Rick’s thoughts of the pair, both in their own shared world as Kyla rubbed her chest and belly against her spread-eagled client, all on a sofa. No question she was doing her job competently, judging by her client’s drooping tongue and rolled back eyes . . . “Is the kitty thirsty?” came the teasing, feminine voice of one of Rick’s Lucario girls, looking super attractive as she came alongside her boss. Rick pulled his gaze away from the amorous pair. “I can help with that,” she offered up herself, bringing a paw to the Meowscarada’s lower belly and caressing. “Say . . . your office?” It was no secret to all his staff that the Grass-type was hard to read, due in part to his masquerade mask, his expression inscrutable ninety-five per cent of the time. When it came to his girls, however, he was attentive and soft-hearted, the approachable sort no matter the issue. So to have him take the Lucario’s wrist in a declining manner hit her as surprising; right now, his office served a less-enjoyable purpose. “Will you fetch Verlene for me?” Rick asked of the Lucario, her chest features more prominent than on males. “Send her up,” he added, indicating his office overseeing the entire VIP lounge. Constructed entirely of reinforced glass, one needed to climb planks of glass scaling the room’s left wall, rising to (almost) the ceiling where a cubed office floated, held aloft by a white, square support column. Rick had this made to keep a watchful eye over things . . . among other reasons. While the Lucario wasn’t best pleased being turned down, she would still do as asked, Rick freeing up his hold so she could go, Hunter drooling over her backside. “Thought this dump was beneath you,” said Rick, rightly indignant. “A bloke can change his mind,” responded Hunter, all but hypnotized by the nameless Lucario’s strut. “Maybe you’ve done all right, roped in some proper fitties. . . .” Two more ladies turned his head, a Furfrou with her tail and hair trimmed in the shape of a star, and another Houndoom; both greeted their boss in passing, the second Houndoom raising Hunter an inviting smile. He fought the urge to mount her this very moment, knowing he couldn’t afford to blow this one shot at winning Verlene over. “People are just objects to you, aren’t they? Well my girls deserve the best treatment — Verlene deserves best.” “Oh, it must really haunt you,” grinned Hunter, lifting his gaze to Rick. “All this time and still it’s me she wants. ’S’pose I should thank you for keeping my seat warm.” “Verlene’s done more for me and this place than you can ever grasp!” Rick raised his voice, Kyla and her bird client pausing their fun. Not caring that he was making a scene, Rick said, “Bah!” turning his back on Hunter and making for the stairs to his office. Relishing in the mood, Hunter followed closely behind. “Tell ya one thing ya got goin’ for ya: a pretty nice ass,” said Hunter conversationally as they climbed the stairs, all activity below resuming as normal. Rick came to a halt but kept his gaze straight, Hunter watching as a roaming hand brushed his cute bun of a tail, the Meowscarada clearly conscious of Hunter’s perving but soon pressing on up the stairs without comment. Rick’s office was passcode protected, the Meowscarada bringing a clawed finger to one of the ten digits before glancing slowly around at Hunter. In a childish manner, Hunter looked away, showing no interest in copying the code; four beeps later the steel-framed door unlocked. Being able to see through the floor gave Hunter a mild sense of vertigo while Rick seemed wholly unaffected, the feline simply making for his executive chair behind his desk. Vertical, sliding blinds offered privacy, as did a film layer over the flooring, everything internal hidden from prying eyes. As Rick poured himself a swig of blended whisky, Hunter got comfortable on the two-seater sofa, actually taking care not to claw away or jab his head horns into the fabric. Paperwork lay sprawled before Rick but he couldn’t bring himself to file any away with Hunter grinning. “Gonna leave me parched, Ricky-boy?” said Hunter, enquiring after a drink. “Figured you’d wanna keep a clear head,” replied the feline, caution in his tone. “Besides, don’t need you overstaying your welcome.” Hunter exaggerated looking sad, setting a paw to his chest to appear offended. “After I came all this way. . . .” Like relentless waves washing over a beach, his perturbing grin returned. “I’ve been well, thanks for asking. Learned a fair bit about anatomy. Hey,” he said eagerly, “tell me your weight and I can work out how many pints of blood you have.” “I don’t need to know,” Rick said defensively, trying to keep off the topic of blood. “There were times we really needed you. Me and Verlene trusted a friend — who betrayed us because he’s ill,” he stated boldly, bringing a finger to his forehead to emphasize Hunter’s sickness. Regret quickly flipped Rick’s face upside down. Hunter rose to his feet, still on the sofa. “Ill, am I?” Rick held up an apologetic hand. “That came out wrong. Look, you can’t just swan back into our lives and not —” “Ill.” Hunter dismounted the sofa, slowly, intentionally, again causing no damage to it. Rick swallowed, tracking as the canine edged nearer him. “See, that sounded like honesty . . .” “Hunter, we’re friends —” Rick tried to reason, leaving his chair and cowering behind it, his legs turning to jelly. “. . . and that isn’t very smart. Might wanna start begging. . . .” Fearing for his life, Rick backed up until there was nowhere else to go, bashing into a filing cabinet in the top-right corner. Not even a masquerade mask could hide his panic, no blunt or weighty object in reach to grab and defend himself with. But then — “Yeah, what is it?” said a female, Midnight Lycanroc disinterestedly, her arrival most timely. The hunched canine wasn’t afraid of self-expression, her left ear double pierced with gold earrings, two hoops near the tip of said ear; a lone hoop pierced her other ear but away from the tip; although rarely seen, she had a tongue piercing also. A worn, studded leather jacket gave her a punkish look, reinforced by a pair of spiked bracelets on her wrists. Despite her appearance, she kept herself groomed no less than others. “You know Angel won’t let anyone else do her fur, so this better be good. Why’re you — ?” “Verlene,” gasped Rick, and Verlene had never seen him so relieved before. “Thank fuck. He’ll listen to you.” “Who?” she demanded. “The hell’s going on?” Verlene was left wordless as Hunter showed himself from behind the desk, his expression softening at the very sight of her. “Still gorgeous,” he broke the ice. “More than gorgeous.” Verlene shook her head in disbelief, completely unprepared for this. How had a ghost come back to haunt her, long after she thought she had rid? “I have to be high.” Once more with feeling, she said, “I have to be high.” “Fuckin’ count me in!” said a gleeful Hunter, checkmating Rick from his game. “Verlene . . .” began the Meowscarada, meek and down in the mouth. “So much for promising, Ricky,” Verlene turned on the cat. “’Course you’d be spineless when it counts. All mouth, no balls.” “That’s . . . that’s uncalled for,” stuttered Rick, his defence fast crumbling, all to Hunter’s knowledge. “I-I didn’t just invite him in; he was harassing security. If I hadn’t —” “He snarled at you and you bricked it,” Verlene proposed a more likely scenario, terse. “Nothing’s changed.” She scrutinized him from head to feet. “Can’t even stand up for yourself, never mind me. Well fuck you” — she showed Rick a middle claw, Hunter receiving double treatment from her other paw’s middle claw — “and you. Done trusting either of ya. . . .” And she made to walk out. “God I’ve missed that sass,” cheeked Hunter, quick to push the Lycanroc’s buttons as though they’d never been apart. He read, not aloud, “Sent from Hell” on the back of her jacket, devil horns crowning the first letter while the last sported an imp tail. Now she had seen him, an itch for answers surfaced, forcing her to stall, as much as it irked her. “All right, I screwed up here,” Rick admitted, showing his hands in surrender as Verlene turned to face both males. “You screwed the pooch, dick!” laughed Hunter, his bloodlust of a few minutes ago reset to zero, thankfully for Rick. Rick ignored the Houndoom’s mockery, only focused on sealing the rift Hunter was cleaving between friends. “Don’t give him a chance,” he tried to reason. “Look at everything we built together, without him,” he pointed a clawed finger at Hunter. “We’ve got a good thing going with this place, which he’ll ruin. Tell ’im to get lost and we’ll talk this through.” “If it’s what you want, Vern, I’ll listen,” said Hunter, shrugging indifferently. Verlene briefly pondered her response, subjecting Hunter to a hard stare. “It is . . .” she said finally, redirecting her stare to Rick. The Meowscarada looked taken aback. “Do one, Ricky.” She gestured the door with a head flick, needing some time alone with Hunter. “Your club obviously matters more than me.” “What?” said Rick, dismayed. “It’s always been ours; I couldn’t have made it without you.” “Like I need reminding. You’ve dreaded this for absolutely ages, wanting things to stay the same, me never looking for a better life. Now you’re worried things’ll change.” “I don’t wanna see you hurt again.” Rick resisted the pull of Hunter’s burning gaze, adding, “He’s bad news and a sex pest — would’ve raped that kid Granbull, for fuck — gah!” In the blink of an eye, Rick found himself on the floor, Hunter’s full weight pinning him down. “Squirm, bitch!” Hunter snapped, his maw primed to deliver a killing bite to Rick’s neck. “Get off him!” bellowed Verlene, darting to Rick’s aid by kicking Hunter, her force knocking him into Rick’s desk. The Meowscarada scrambled to his feet, seeking protection behind Verlene and positively quaking. “Have you fucking lost it?” Still Rick was not out of danger, Hunter snarling with feral aggression. “I’m doing what you can’t: breaking chains,” growled Hunter, and Rick knew this wasn’t an empty threat. “’S’cuse me?” Verlene got sassy, setting her paws on her hips. “I’ll break whatever I damn want. You don’t own me — neither of ya,” she added to Rick, who hurriedly tried to side with her. “Give us some space, yeah?” she cut him off. “You’ll just piss him off.” “He’d love nothing more than that,” Rick warned her, his legs as stable as jelly. “You’re past all that! Please, don’t let him worm his way —” “I’m not thick, Ricky!” she snapped. “Seriously, go do anything else.” Discussion over, the Lycanroc focused the Houndoom, waiting until they were alone. Reluctantly, Rick respected Verlene’s wish, softly closing the door behind him and traversing the glass steps down. The club’s music spared the two canines complete silence as Hunter loosened up. “Shoulda let me kill ’im,” he mumbled. “Dick has it coming.” Verlene showed sharp teeth as she chuckled, looking to the side and shaking her head. “Get clued in!” she opposed. “You fucked everything when you fucking fucked off! Ricky, yeah, picked up the fucking pieces . . . even if he is gutless. . . .” Mild bewilderment flashed across Hunter’s face, unsure of her sudden dejection. “Am I supposed to have done something?” he said, but still Verlene would not lift her gaze. “I told you the sitch back then; that messy business with my old man. I was sloppy, damn lucky who came along. Mack took and honed me into something deadlier: his perfect mercenary.” Looking him dead in the eye, she said, “Fuck Mack!” It irked Hunter to hear anyone talk dirt of his Swellow mentor, the man whom guided his calling. Hunter owed the avian his bloodthirsty reputation, not least grateful for his own private messenger, Cody, Mack’s dutiful son. “Everything went shit the second he stuck his beak in!” “Mack’s the reason I’m not behind bars,” argued Hunter, willing to exacerbate things with Verlene if it meant defending his mentor, though he’d rather she calm down and be glad to see him; he was always coming back for her, when the time felt right. “All the evidence disappearing was him, he cleaned up big time. How could I walk away when he saw potential in me? I had to leave.” “You shoulda fessed up,” Verlene told him coldly. “Least with you in prison I’d know where you are and could visit.” “I’ve earned out there, Vern,” said Hunter fervently. “And after my . . .” the word caught in his throat and was forcefully spat out, “master . . . achieves control, you an’ me can live like celebs!” Were Verlene less agitated, she would quiz Hunter on his choice of title; who the hell addresses someone as “master”? Whoever he worked for must have some superiority complex. “Fuck a Ducklett. A big, posh house and he fixes all,” sneered Verlene. He moved closer, parking his haunches and attempting to take her paw in his, successful for only a few words. “Yes, and I’ll make up for lost time —” She pulled away, appalled at herself for enjoying his touch again, however brief. “You’re deluded. Y’know I tried so hard to reach you after you left — but I had no other choice . . . in the end. . . .” “What?” blurted Hunter, pissed off at all the cryptic talk, Verlene and Rick both guilty of it. “What fuckin’ hap — ?” “I HAD AN ABORTION!” cried Verlene angrily, her eyes flashing crimson. While it wasn’t in the Lycanroc’s nature to weep, she couldn’t hold back choking, tears wetting her fur. Hunter said nothing at all, his face contorted with guilt as he watched her move onto the sofa, tucking in her legs and looking feeble. He considered cutting his losses and staying out of her life for good, absolutely rubbish when it came to empathy. But if ever there was one constant in the killer’s life — through all the years, wherever he found himself, whoever his target was — it was Verlene and wanting to be with her. Resolved to step up, he joined her on the sofa, initially giving her space. “. . . Was it mine?” he asked finally, his voice disturbingly tender for any who knew him. Despite her worked up state, Verlene managed to roll her eyes. “Whatta you think, genius?” she sniffed. “Right,” said Hunter apologetically, “’course. For, uh, what it’s worth . . . you did the right thing.” Verlene glared. “Fuck me, you’re heartless.” “I’m being real,” he answered back. “Teenage parents are tragic; we’d be the same.” He didn’t bother to mention how many pups he’d, potentially, fathered until now, the Houndoom having raped his share of females and sometimes males when the mood suited him. Past victims meant nothing to Hunter, simple pleasure at that time with zero consequence. “So I’d be a shit mum, huh?” she retaliated, and Hunter was transported to their youth, this tiff so like how they used to be. It was almost like no time had lapsed at all. He scootched into her personal space, already comfortable with embracing her, wrapping a paw around her waist; while Verlene did not reject him, she still felt tense. “That’s not our speed,” he told her, taking genuine comfort in holding her again. “Same as you being stuck here. There’s important stuff you need to know, and it’ll be safer if you join me.” Verlene suddenly became very paranoid. “People better not be after me ’cause of you.” “Like I’d let that happen,” he assured her. “Nice try. Hoping to change the subject. It fuckin’ hurt, making that choice.” “We made a mistake and you sorted it. Abortions exist for those reasons. And I’m the last guy who should father a pup.” “Imagine facing responsibility,” Verlene sneered, knowing she should be spurning his touch yet wasn’t. “What if I hadn’t gone through with it? What if you had a pup after all?” “Who cares about what ifs?” said Hunter dismissively. “Getting you up the duff wasn’t planned; nothing back then was.” He remembered their teenage years, going to the same school, skiving classes they hated, his first sexual encounter with her in the school’s indoor swimming pool; Verlene had managed to pinch the cleaner’s keys for the pool’s storage room, ensuring complete privacy. Family life wasn’t easy for either canine, Verlene forced to live with her half-sister after coming home to a note left by her mother writing that she had skipped town and was never coming back. Coerced into the role of legal guardian, Verlene’s sister showed up to her flat that same day with boxes full of stuff, carried in by two of her most obnoxious friends. The grim tone for their future years together was set early on, the older Lycanroc always overshadowing, often belittling, and prioritizing self-indulgence: throwing/going out to parties, bedding the hottest fella she could while never making a relationship work, the list went on. She never even defended Verlene when, on the day she moved in, her friend openly mocked Verlene on being abandoned, setting off the second friend who then ganged up on her, saying truly hurtful things. Suffice to say Verlene owed her temperament to her sister, gradually growing used to her and arguing back by her mid-teens. Hunter was never welcome around if Verlene’s sister had anything to say, contributing to Verlene’s reasons for leaving home, which she eventually did on a sour note. But for all her sister’s faults, she at least provided for Verlene and very rarely got physical — unlike Hunter’s father. Financially better off, Hunter grew up in a proper house with his father, mother, and younger brother. Living, however, was anything but pretty. Hunter’s mother had not worked a single day since marrying Hunter’s father, leaving the latter as sole provider. Working as an actuary for some insurance company, Hunter’s father was on a handsome salary, affording a nice home and luxuries. But behind closed doors, Hunter’s father was an abuser of alcohol. His wife blamed it on his job, initially supportive of him and advising a change of career; she could very easily find work again. No. He was too damn good at what he did. If a little pick-me-up was what he needed to face the next day, then so be it. That’s how it started. As time went on, Hunter’s father hit the bottle harder and harder, managing to sober up for work but bringing home a volatile temper. Hunter’s mother bore the brunt of his aggression, both Hunter and his brother witnesses to the female’s declining confidence, her voice seldom heard by the end. She went from outgoing, proud mum to demure housewife, only allowed to leave home for groceries or the odd treat out. Hunter’s father paid his pups minimal attention, barking at them to “shut up” if they dared play too loud. None were spared beatings when he got especially drunk, rage sometimes triggered by simply being in the same room. “Rick give you the idea?” Hunter then asked. “He wanted me to keep it,” Verlene surprised him. “Said he’d be there for us, no matter what. Dummy even wanted to adopt,” she mentioned with a fond smile. “Complete simp,” scoffed Hunter. “’E’d say anything to get you in bed. On that note . . .” he added, sounding apathetic, “did you ride him, even once?” But Verlene saw straight through him; this was no throwaway question. “Full cowgirl,” she pulled his leg, grinning cruelly. For Hunter’s maddening expression, this was so worth it. “Fucking jealous or what!” she blurted. “I don’t get jealous, I get what I want,” said Hunter warningly. “So you ain’t shagged anyone else?” Verlene returned fire. “Taken a vow of celibacy?” When Hunter failed to answer, she said, “Didn’t think so.” She pushed him away, not aggressively. “Me an’ Ricky have never been a thing. We’re close, but not in that way.” Hunter did not interrupt, believing she was telling the truth. “I’ve had plenty offers, good for some fun.” Downing her gaze, she then confessed, “Moving on from you, turns out . . . pretty hard.” “That’s not all that’s hard,” Hunter got vulgar, again invading her personal space. “Ugh,” said a revolted Verlene, angling her snout up and away from him. Resistance, however, was futile, for she felt a paw stroke her left thigh, then a tongue wetting the side of her face; she couldn’t hold in a pleasured moan, her uptight state slackening. “I’m so horny for you,” he breathed in her ear. “Gimme that pretty pussy.” He got his wish very abruptly. Deprived of him for all these years, the Lycanroc’s lust surged, seeing her overpower and pin him down, flat on his back. Watching him hungrily, she removed her jacket and threw her leg over him. The sofa did not escape the pair’s wild reunion unscathed, claw marks now defacing it, not that either canine cared. Undoubtedly, Ricky would do his nut in over this, but Verlene could easily buy a replacement. Right now . . . she needed a drink. Leaving Hunter sprawled on the sofa, she made to pour herself a glass of Ricky’s whisky. While she did that, an amusing thought occurred to Hunter. “’E’s gonna be so pissed at this mess,” he grinned, floating on cloud nine and not seeing Verlene shudder after a swig of whisky, much too pungent for her. The Lycanroc set down her glass and rejoined Hunter, snuggling up to him. He gave her another lick. “Wanna go for round two?” But Verlene pulled him into a hug, just wanting to share this moment of bliss. “. . . Shut up a second,” she told him with closed eyes, nose expelling audible breaths. “All right,” replied Hunter passively, “we can shift down a gear.” For awhile, they rested in each other’s embrace, but it wasn’t long before Hunter began to fidget. “D’you have to!” Verlene choked him off. “Well what are we — geriatrics? I got reserves for ya.” “Look, dick-for-brains, we can make a go of things again, be together — which, shock horror, means more than sex. You’re not picking me up and putting me down when you feel like it anymore. This time’s gonna be different.” Hunter set a paw on her wrist. “You don’t know the full story. Shit’s ’bout to go down big time,” he grinned. “Or soon enough. You’ve heard on the news ’bout the prime minister, yeah?” “Who hasn’t?” Verlene rolled her eyes. “Hold on. . . . Oh, you better be joking.” Hunter’s grin broadened. “Fucking twat!” she exclaimed, rushing to her feet and combing her claws through her hair, completely dumbfounded. Hunter did not pass up his opportunity to admire the female’s backside while her back was briefly turned to him. “You’re . . . you’re involved?” she faced him with a hiss. “And now so are you,” he said gleefully. “Get bent! You’re committing mad treason! Like hell are you draggin’ me into it!” Hunter shrugged. “Bit late for that — you already know too much.” Unsurprisingly, Verlene cussed with rage. “WHY? Ricky had it right about you, but my dumb ass had to give you another chance!” “Forget about that weed-head,” said Hunter, irked, now sitting up on the sofa. “You’d be on the wrong side of a war if I hadn’t shown up.” “I’m fuckin’ touched,” came a blunt response. “Jus’ start explaining.” Over the next several minutes, Hunter revealed the identity of his master, the once-Origin God of Justice, Nex. Verlene, like all those raised in education, learned of the Origin trio through history lessons, knowing them as Light, Life, and Justice. It was said Arceus Himself blessed a forsaken Earth, bringing into existence the first known Mew and Celebi, both serving a vital role. The Mew used his affinity for light to influence the Sun itself, achieving perfect balance for hundreds of millions of years. This opened the floodgates for the Celebi to spread her seeds to every reach of the globe, giving rise to all flora and fauna, including Pokémon. Extinction events and natural selection reshaped the world over and over throughout the reign of Pokémon, enduring to remain the dominant species. The Darkrai, according to records, arose much more recently after Arceus revisited this Solar System, deeming a third God necessary for a new age of living. One could spend a lifetime chasing enlightenment, guessing where in the cosmos Arceus graced. Clues were out there: alien beings such as Deoxys falling to Earth very rarely during meteor shower events; or more recently the discovery of Ultra Beasts, an outbreak of the powerful creatures occurring over in Alola after a scientific incident, since contained. These “alien Pokémon” were not limited to those of legendary or mythical power, indeed common species now acknowledged as any other: the Cleffa line, Gothorita, Staryu and Starmie, to name some. Whatever one’s belief of Arceus, devout or feigned, His influence was undeniable, felt across infinite stars. Despite her initially treating him with contempt, Hunter did not deviate from his tale, describing his fear and awe of Black Nex’s strength that day in the forest. Adding to Hunter’s already massive ego, the fact Black Nex sought him out first said a great deal, the Houndoom entrusted with matters of consequence, his only equal being that sanctimonious drip, Marcelo. Unfortunately, Verlene’s frustration soon bested her and she snapped. “How in the fuck d’you expect me to believe half this shit!” Hunter’s eyes darted right and left, making out that the answer was clear. “By coming with, obvs,” he said with a wry smile. “Oh just fuck off — we’re done!” Like somebody flicking a switch, Hunter got serious. “I’m not messin’, Vern. The whole lot of it is true, an’ this kidnapping business is where it starts. And I get it, your mind’s fried like southern chicken —” “Whoever you’re really working for,” she interrupted, offering him a waning chance to come clean, “jus’ back out — walk away.” She approached him, looking him square in the eye. “You said you’d earned, well so ’ave I. We can go wherever together.” “I can’t,” said Hunter without blinking, and Verlene growled in annoyance. He could see it was tearing her up, their relationship painfully close to being rekindled. “I’m in too deep. Nex needs people like us —” “Fuck off saying that name!” Verlene raged, her eyes aglow. “How stupid d’you think I am? You fell for a Zoroark illusion, face it.” She shrugged off further lies he had in store, speaking over him to offer an ultimatum, “This is gonna be your last chance. I’ll pack some things then we can leave, a clean break away from here.” And she turned to exit, nearing the office door. “I’m already thinkin’ —” Hunter heaved a regrettable sigh. “Knew it was gonna come to this . . .” “— Inari’s expensive taste, so dig dee —” Upon contact with the door, something otherworldly occurred . . . something to grab any atheist’s attention. At once, Verlene’s whole body froze, the canine questioning her sanity as a crimson hand closed over her wrist. As if materializing from glass itself, the hand billowed like smoke or a wisp, and Verlene yanked backwards in an effort to free herself: All this did was fully expose the creature, another Shadow of Black Nex pulled like a child’s nightmare from another realm. It maintained its grasp as it floated, a withering scowl about it as it considered the female. As with those before her, Verlene discovered its immunity to her touch, failing to jab it with her claws and passing straight through like a cloud. Behind her, Hunter abandoned his seat to approach. “Don’t bother squirmin’,” he chided, not yet giving the order for her release. “It’s got jus’ one weakness.” Verlene refused to heed his words, straining the cubital fossa region of her arm. But before she could rip the very thing off, Hunter met the Shadow’s inky-black gaze, willing it to free her. Like an obedient servant, it did so, Verlene left dazed and flustered. “Oi!” Hunter then shouted, for a vengeful, dark-driven aura enveloped Verlene, ready to Lash Out. Getting in her way was enough to deter her attack, which would’ve been pointless in any case. “You tryna be daft on purpose? Stop.” The aura swiftly ebbed away, though Verlene’s temper did not. “Where’s he hiding?” she demanded, tossing her gaze over the office, trying to discern anything out of place; a tall plant or perhaps a new filing cabinet, anything that could be used to mask the scent of an illusionist. “Dunno who you mean.” “This is gettin’ old. Your Zoroark fraud!” And she went back to searching. “Totally obvious ’e snuck in . . .” “Before you got here — when we were fuckin’ — when abouts, exactly?” Verlene hadn’t an answer. Up until this point, she never had the impression anyone was eavesdropping. She trusted her senses to pick up on trickery, whether by smell or hearing the faintest disturbance, even while as riled up as she had been. “I came alone,” Hunter told her truthfully. “Nex ain’t no Zoroark, he’s the real deal. As for this thing,” he glanced up at the Shadow, “it’s like a print — a-a manifestation of his will.” It appeared Verlene was listening to some extent, at least, for she ceased looking for that which wasn’t there. “Fuckin’ madness,” she said in a resigned tone, again gazing at the creature. “Yeah,” he sympathized, giving her a few moments to really process it all. “Now picture my ass gettin’ jumped! I had no idea who the fuck I was dealing with.” Verlene pulled a sad face. “Aw, poor you.” Sarcasm gave way to an explosion of emotion and she screamed, hit by the implications of Hunter’s organization, being involved. If she were to believe it, nothing would ever be the same again. All these years nurturing this club, thousands of hours constructing a semi-normal life . . . she could kiss it all goodbye. Hunter’s words heralded nothing short of catastrophe . . . war, kidnapping of the prime minister’s family, Black Nex . . . trouble was definitely brewing. “You’ve ruined everything!” “Once you know more, you’ll thank me.” “I won’t puke with gratitude,” she sneered. Meanwhile, the Shadow simply floated there, watching the argument unfold with almost amusement. “The fuck you starin’ at!” she barked at it, invoking zero response. “Make it go away,” she told Hunter, who shook his head the once, grinning with eyes shut. “Not now you’re listening,” he replied, reopening his red eyes. “You don’t belong here, Vern, workin’ a drab job so the taxman can do ’is. That all you want ’til your teeth an’ fur fall out, livin’ off your cushy pension plan?” And there he saw her: the temper of his childhood crush, all fired up. His years of absence had taken their toll, orchestrated by Rick’s fair and square approach to life. All that ended here, no more compliance, forbearance — time to take what was theirs. “Life dealt us shitty hands, now’s our chance to make people pay. There’s so much rage inside us, not somethin’ you can bottle up. Go on,” he goaded with a toothy grin, “smash it to pieces.” Verlene said nothing, her brow furrowed in deliberation. . . .Xen Seki reached the door to Quinton Thieldel’s office puffing and panting, the cape-adorned Bisharp alerted to the prime minister’s public announcement a mere hour before going live on regional television, radio, and other media! What on earth was he thinking?! To suddenly reach a pivotal decision without consulting himself — only top adviser to Regional Security! — was utter madness! It was emotionally driven and embarrassingly unprofessional, regardless of the situation. Seki heard commotion on the other side of the door and rapped aggressively until he was given access, flying his way inside the famed office. The space bustled with activity, namely that of reporters/photographers, starved of information regarding the kidnapped Flygons and primed to gorge on every little detail soon to be revealed. Quinton himself was nowhere to be found, though Seki did spot a familiar face idling in a corner: Superintendent Owen Hollins. Flustered, Seki made his way over to the Barbaracle. Aware he was being approached, Hollins lifted his gaze. “Ah,” he began, “wondered how long it’d take. Come for a front row seat, have ya?” “Hardly,” said the Bisharp, in no mood for humour. Looking over his shoulder to check for eavesdropping, he hissed, “I’ll have your badge for this! We’re playing right into our enemies’ hands, all because you couldn’t give false hope!” “The forty-eight hours are up,” replied Hollins, not taking kindly to Seki’s threats but keeping his voice down likewise. “You try putting on a smile when nobody knows a damned thing about this cult! To add to that, I’m getting reports of unruly behaviour in normally peaceful communities, outside of Verculum. Given the timing, I’d say that’s no coincidence. All my claws are tied.” “Good thing I have my own connections,” said Seki, his manner condescending. Nearby, a certain Liepard reporter caught the scent of gossip and risked closer inspection, both men briefly oblivious to her presence. “We can at least put a name to these felons: One Creed.” “Great,” scoffed Hollins. “Outmanoeuvred by a group of lunatics.” “My thoughts precisely,” agreed Seki. “We can’t allow Quinton to . . .” he trailed off, their earwigger not so discreet anymore. “You again,” he addressed her, recognizing her as Whitney Frey, the Liepard who had publicly quizzed him on the kidnappings mere days ago. Whitney herself was surprised he’d remembered her at all. With her cover blown, she approached the pair. “Off the record, Mr. Seki,” she began, “how serious is the threat? My daughter, you see, she’s only five; she’s not going to understand sudden turmoil anywhere, much less on our doorstep.” “It won’t come to that,” assured Hollins with a stern look. “No offense, Superintendent,” replied the female in a no-nonsense tone, “but the police force has proven itself less than capable. Isn’t that the reason the prime minister has an announcement?” “No shades of grey with you, huh?” said Hollins, irritated. “Perhaps,” Seki interjected, looking from Hollins to Whitney, “in the interest of prudence, you forget anything you think you heard . . . that way I don’t authorize your arrest.” Utter disbelief stole over the beautiful cat’s face. “Arrest?” she repeated, rather loudly, yet not loud enough to draw attention. “I don’t think so!” “Do you really want to challenge me on that?” replied the Bisharp, asserting his power quite nastily before reconsidering his approach. “Think about your little girl, how upset she would be. Is it really worth —” But much bigger things were about to go down, for Quinton had emerged from his private washroom. He involuntarily pulled in all eyes immediately, a plethora of voices vying for his attention, and relentless camera flashes damn near blinding him. A lone Granbull security guard flanked the Flygon, loyally waiting by the washroom door until he was ready. Natural intimidation helped to tame the crowd, the Granbull mock-charging and growling. “Two minutes, Prime Minister,” announced one of the camera crew, counting down the time until all this went live. As Quinton settled himself in his chair, dressed smartly, Seki seized his chance and pushed, shoving through the crowd and slamming both palms down on Quinton’s desk. “This isn’t the way!” hissed Seki, and Quinton simply looked at him. Enervation did not compliment his attire, but at this point, Quinton wanted one thing only: an end to his nightmare. “Don’t be a fool, man!” “Sixty seconds!” “I can end it . . . get back my family,” Quinton said meekly, now a dragon without his roar. “If you do this, you’ll forever regret it!” “Live in thirty!” Stepping in, the Granbull barked, “Move it.” Seki never even gave the brute a glance, conveying pure disappointment in Quinton. Begrudgingly, Seki resigned himself to the sidelines, only able to watch now as fate unfolded. At the call of “Ten seconds” came virtual silence, Quinton eyeing up the main camera through which he would be broadcasting. “. . . five, four, three, two —” “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Quinton opened up with, keeping his voice steady. “To any who aren’t aware of my situation and are wondering why their show or video is being interrupted, I will be swift: I face a most . . . impossible decision.” He inhaled deeply, his front already under strain; he honestly didn’t know how to best deliver his speech. “M-my wife and boy have been kidnapped . . . and the only way to get them back safely is by stepping down as prime minister. To that effect, I will comply.” For the benefit of his interview, the photographers switched to non-flash pictures, the frequency of which spiking at Quinton’s shock announcement. Amongst the crowd, Seki balled a hand into a tight fist, livid that the kidnappers were getting exactly what they wanted. “What happens next, no doubt you’re asking,” Quinton added. “Protocol nine will come in place until such a time a successor is elected — martial law should not enter the equation. I wish I had more light to shed than this, and I am deeply sorry for the upset caused by my actions today. Seven . . . seven unforgettable years I have served our region, all thanks to your trust in me. It breaks my heart having to shatter this trust. If there is one thing we can be certain of it’s that life is too short. Look to those closest to you, perhaps sat with you right this moment: a sibling, a parent, a partner, a friend . . . take not one second for granted. To those responsible: I do not know what you hope to gain, but if you have any heart you’ll honour your word and return my family without harm . . . please. Thank you for your time. . . .” And with that, Quinton stood from his chair, ending his announcement, hounded by an onslaught of voices and camera flicks as he made to leave his office. Once more, his Granbull guard put himself in between, giving the former prime minister some breathing room. With the Flygon gone, one sharp-eyed reporter dashed for Seki, keen for his insight regarding regional security; a few others cottoned on to this and got involved, a mini crowd forming before the Bisharp. Seki gathered his composure and spoke with purpose, giving his honest take on the ugly, leaderless mess but vowing to maintain order and stability. While the future seemed uncertain and murky, Seki would see the region through.

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_{This is a community for all kinds of art-loving Pokemon fans! Home of activities such as the Pokeswap and Draw Me a Pokemon, we encourage artists of all types and all skill levels to join us and produce great Pokemon art!

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Comments

AshleyGamer1995 Featured By Owner Aug 13, 2023

All of the Eeveelutions are just so cool in many ways, and what they do. Here's one awesome picture I found of Flareon and Glaceon. (FIRE AND ICE UNITE!)

Meccalia061 Featured By Owner Jun 22, 2023 Student Digital Artist

i wonder if crossovers are allowed? because i made something i REALLY wanna share here

(2 Replies)

KNUCKBLOWN Featured By Owner Apr 29, 2023 Professional Digital Artist

Oh wow I can’t evolve this

(1 Reply)

pikajane Featured By Owner Apr 25, 2023 Professional General Artist

Hi there! I've been a member of this fan club for over a decade, and today is my first time visiting again in years. I just wanted to say that it means so much to see you're still hosting Draw Me A Pokemon every week!

This group meant so much to me during my college years especially, and it makes me so happy to see that it's still fostering a love for drawing pokemon for future generations.

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