The Dark Type

I hate rain.

I’m not really the only one in my party of two, either. Of course, I don’t have the luxury of being put in the dry pokeball, like my partner. Even though this is probably the only time my Houndoom would ever ask to be put in his ball.

Maybe you wouldn’t mind the rain so much right now if you’d thought to get an umbrella or coat before you left. Of course, my brain couldn’t be this practical on my way out the door seven hours ago. It had been raining for six, and dark for two. And here I was in a tank top and capris.

But finally I can see lights in the distance. I let out a sigh of relief, my cold-numbed legs inspired to move a little faster. Only a little longer and I could find somewhere to rest, and leave Ilex Forest far behind me.

As I reach the suburbs of the city, I notice smugly that even the bored trainers that usually loitered at the outskirts had retreated to dry land in the face of the downpour. Even when your pokemon was tired and miserable in its pokeball, it never failed that another trainer was determined to battle. I’d learned the hard way that some of the most intent would go so far as set their pokemon on a trainer with her back turned, as I discovered with some bitchy little lass passing through Violet City.

Too bad for that little skank that Houndoom really doesn’t like Persians.

My tennis shoes let out that one certain satisfying squelch that only occurs on a paved road, though I would much rather my shoes weren’t in squelching condition at all. Even so, I'm immensely relieved to finally be within city limits.

I wander the streets for several minutes, trying to find a sign pointing visitors to some place to stay, but the rain obscurs my vision like a glittery black veil, and even the well-lit signs don't showing anything helpful. I let a gust of air out my nose, and it snagged—just my luck to start getting a stuffy nose, but what could I expect?

Another footstep splashes nearby, and I lift my head quickly to see that distinctive belly pattern that only showed itself on Poliwag evolutions. It wasn’t a Poliwag, but damned if I could tell if it was a Poliwhirl or a Poliwrath in this light. It shuffled up to me, wide eyed, and reaches out a white hand. The other, I see, holds a grocery bag with milk, eggs, and cocoa.

“You probably love it out here, huh?” I stutter through my chattering teeth. It extends its hand farther, so I decide that it might be best to just go with it.

By the time I start paying attention again, I'm under the awning of somebody’s front porch, and the Poli-whatsit is poking at the doorbell for a little old woman to answer.

After answering, it takes all of one look for her wrinkled eyes to widen, and she ushers me in with a “Ho-oh’s ashes, what are you doing out in the wet, dressed like that?”

Standing in the threshold of such a nice, well kept house in my soaking clothes embarrasses me considerably, so I start taking off my shoes and socks almost immediately, not even flustered at the Jigglypuffs dancing a pattern on the cloth. I don't realize the woman left before she reappears and throws a towel over my head.

“You’re soaking wet,” she chides, scrubbing me like something furry thing fresh out of the bath. Over her shoulder, I see a sleepy Arcanine lazily watching the fireplace and breathing flames on it every so often. My hand goes to the ball at my hip—Houndoom doesn't like other canids.

“Here, it’s just me, dear,” the woman says. “I’ve a warm robe you can wear if you like, and I’ll see to getting those clothes dried.”

I hesitate, but instinctively realize there's not much danger here. Pokemon often obey whichever trainer raises them, but they only went above and beyond if that trainer was well-liked, kind. Reassured, I shrug out of my (thankfully waterproof) backpack and unclip the poke ball from my belt loop and set it down before skinning myself of my wet shirt and pants.

The woman grunts and helps me into what has to be the fluffiest blue bathrobe I’ve ever seen. “You’re a pretty thing. That must be a pretty strong pokemon in that ball, for you not to be worried about being raped out on your own like that.”

I blink at her bluntness. “Pretty strong,” I reply, suddenly shivering now that I'm getting warmer. She gives a small “hmph” and touches a strand of my wet hair, which hangs to my navel when it's dry and holds its curl. Wet and heavy as it is now, it brushes the top of my thigh.

“How do you expect to keep your hair so long when you leave it down in the wet like that?” she murmurs. “Come on upstairs. You can sleep here tonight if you wish. I have a spare room—my daughter went out to be a trainer a couple years ago, so you can borrow her room.”

I smile to myself, picking up my stuff and following her up the stairs. This little woman reminds me a lot of my grandmother back in Saffron City, in the Kanto region. She's a gruff old lady too.

When we get to the bedroom, I look around while my hostess sits me down on the bed and brushes out my hair until it's fit to be braided, and then takes care of that as well. The walls are decorated liberally with posters of gym leaders, both male and female. There are a lot of Goldenrod’s own leader Whitney, and almost as many of Monty from Ecruteak, though I notice there are no few of Pewter City’s Brock, either. A real hottie, to get a fan all the way here in the Johto region. I'm not exactly the type to go mooning after guys I don’t know, but if I think about it, I can understand why it doesn't exactly burn the eyes to have those posters on the wall.

“Is your daughter taking the league challenge?” I ask as the woman ties my hair.

“She is,” the woman tells me, her voice purring with pleasure, and pride. “She’s up in Olivine right now, training to challenge that steel type leader. Having a bit of a hard time of it, but she’ll manage.”

I hum encouragingly, and she rises and bids me good night before closing the door behind her. Only after the door is latched do I reach for my pokeball and release Houndoom. He gives himself a huge shake, even though he's already dry, and walks to me and rests his head on my lap. I pet his nose, then run my hand over the cracked horn branching from his skull.

I found my Houndoom outside Lavender Town one day, unconscious and with a broken leg, and a cracked horn. Blood had dyed the grass around him. There was no collar, no ball; just the large pokemon that I could only assume had been left to die. I took him in to the pokemon center, and it didn’t take long for him to be revived and biting at anything that came close, and when it didn’t, he flamed. Nurse Joy ended up tranquilizing him just to keep him from burning the center down, and inadvertently letting him stay just lucid enough that he would grow used to my scent when I visited, which was often. When we took him off the tranquilizer, he tolerated me, then trusted me. By the time he was ready for release, he wouldn’t go. He's been by my side ever since.

It bothers me that anybody would leave a pokemon by itself like that, but Nurse Joy told me that there was no way Houndoom would have survived if he was left alone much longer. And he had to have been abandoned, because Houndour and Houndoom don’t run wild in that area. Besides, some of the attacks Houndoom knows still surprise me—attacks that the average wild pokemon wouldn’t have to learn. I'm not sure at what level he is, but he’s never had trouble fighting any other trainer’s pokemon.

I yawn loudly and curl up in the covers of the bed, and Houndoom hops up and lies beneath my feet, warming them almost immediately. I'm asleep in seconds.

I woke up when light came in my window, though it was pale due to the clouds still reining over the sky. My pokemon lifted his head at the foot of my bed, and came up to lick at my face with a hot tongue. It wasn’t the sloppy, enthusiastic kiss of a Growlithe puppy, but a calculated touch that was used to get my attention before the owner of the tongue went and pawed at my pack.

I was in the midst of hand feeding him when the door opened and my hostess stopped dead in the doorway, her eyes wide and staring at Houndoom. Her face darkened.

“You’re a Rocket.”

“I am not!” I answered indignantly, though I knew it was no good. There was a huge prejudice against dark-type pokemon and their trainers, due to how common it was for them to be persuaded into helping bad trainers. Like the Rockets.

She stiffened, and said formally, “You might as well get dressed and be on your way, Miss.” And she was gone.

I blew air from my mouth and nose, the frustration intense. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, no matter where I was—people just didn’t trust dark-type pokemon. Which always translated to distrusting me.

Nothing to do but get dressed and leave, at this point.