POKÉMON:  WARRIOR'S DESIRE

Usual disclaimers apply.  These characters do not belong to me.

And now...let the show begin.

TIME:  That Saturday morning, around 9:30 AM

LOCATION:  Guest suite of Ashura Ketchum, Indigo Plateau

            Sweet dreams.

            That was the last thing she had said to them the other night.  And for the last few nights after the seemingly uneventful banquet hosted by the League, dreams were anything but sweet.

            Oh, the banquet had been quite lovely.  The food was top-tier – as was to be expected of the League – and the reunion Ash had with Brock, Tracey (and even Ritchie, to everyone’s surprise) made the night only that much more enjoyable.  A few gym leaders and Elite he learned were entering the tournament as well.  For the most part, everyone who was participating in the tournament was a guest that night.

            Once the meal had concluded, the 25 fighters (and only the fighters) who are entered in the tournament were ushered into a smaller hall, whose lights were considerably lower than the other hall.  Inside, each of the would-be-combatants were led through a carefully set-up pathway.  The temporary walls of this creation were lined with words, images, and artifacts of the past champions and other famous figures in the World Pokémon League’s past.  Memories stirred in the minds of the warriors, some good, some bad, some somewhere in between.  Stunning images of legendary Pokémon beckoned to them.  Battles depicted upon the sprawling walls seemed to question their desires, their motives, their very foundation as a person.  Champions of the past in the wake of their recent championship victories – including the image of Ash hot in the wake of his Orange League victory, much to the surprise of Ash and his crew – seemed to grab at them and peer into their souls as if to say, “Are you ready?  Are you scared?”

            Once the sheep were finished being herded through this maze, they were assembled before Ms. Prima, standing on an elevated platform with a plethora of burning candles surrounding the area where everyone was gathered.  Once she was sure she had everyone’s attention, Lorelei spelled out the structure of Lord of the Fight.

            Everyone would fight everyone else participating (provided no withdrawals).

            Each week, usually during the weekend, twelve fights will take place – three during the day, three during the night.  They may take place on Friday & Saturday, Saturday & Sunday, or Friday & Sunday, depending on when they are scheduled to fight.  By this system, each fighter will get one bye week.

            The fights are to be one-on-one encounters.  Victory is achieved when your opponent gives up, taps out, is knocked unconscious, or cannot get up after a 10-count.

            On many occasions, they will have to travel to meet their opponent – and not necessarily to their opponent’s home turf.

            If one is not feeling capable of continuing the tournament due to injuries or other personal issues, they are welcome to withdraw from the tournament.

            At the end of the 24th week, the fighters with the top 8 records will be invited to participate in the championship rounds – all will take place in one day, at Indigo Stadium.  These will be single-elimination encounters.  The one who comes out on top will be crowned Lord of the Fight.

            She also informed the combatants that starting this Friday, fights will begin right here in the Indigo Plateau.  In fact, each of the combatants received their own schedules for the tournament before the night’s events, and Lorelei’s announcement served as a reminder for everyone.

            Once the announcements were made and everything finalized, Ms. Prima dismissed the fighters in her own, unique, very well thought out method.  “I leave you now to your own devices.  Warriors, good luck in the tournament,” Prima said.  She had taken a step back, and at once, the candles surrounding them were extinguished simultaneously.  Her sweet, sultry voice called out one last time, seeming to echo off the walls.  “Sweet dreams.”  The lights came on, and the doors on the far end of the room – leading out into the main hall – opened before them.

            And Lorelei was gone.

* * * * *

            That night, and for several nights after that, Ash began to have increasingly stranger and stranger dreams.  At first, they were nothing too much out of the ordinary – how things could have been if one decision had been made over another, things related to “scary” video games or movies he’s experienced recently, but none were as bizarre as last night’s.

            Ash was reliving every last detail of his Pokémon journey, but nothing was going right for him.  He was losing more battles than he ever lost.  Gym leaders – including Brock and Misty – not only defeated him, but also humiliated him worse than he’s ever been humiliated in his life.  All the laughing, the taunting, the mockery, it was all swirling around him like a violent sandstorm.  And through all the chaos ensuing in his subconscious, he heard his name calling out to him...

            Ash...Ash...

* * * * *

            “Ash, wake up!  Ash!”

            Back in reality, Ash was having quite a bad dream.  Misty saw what started out as light tossing and turning as blatant refusal to get up.  But that wasn’t the case.  His thrashing became more violent, and was now accompanied by incoherent gibbering.  Misty, clad only in an undershirt of Ash’s she put on shortly after getting out of bed, started to shake Ash, trying to coax him out of his dream state.  She soon was straddling his stomach, shaking him forcefully by his shoulders.

            “Ash!  Ash, snap out of it!  Ash!”

            With a startled yelp, Ash sat straight up in bed.  In his delirium, his head slammed into Misty’s inadvertently.  Their heads met with a dull wham!, causing both of them to groan loudly and lean to one side.  They both of them to tumble to the floor, entangled in the bed sheets and in one another.

            “Gee Ash,” Misty said, suddenly becoming aware of her current situation.  “Don’t you think it’s a little bit early for that?”

            Groaning, Ash rolled off of his girlfriend, pulling the sheets over his lower half of his body instinctively.  He passed a quick glance over her, noticing she was wearing one of his undershirts – probably one he was wearing sometime yesterday.  He groaned as he pulled himself to his feet, Misty up a second later.  “So what time is it?”

            “It’s almost 10 o’clock, Ash,” Misty answered, glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand.

            Ash hummed in acknowledgment.  Treading across the bedroom, the sheets now discarded, he headed for the bathroom.  “Well, I’m getting in the shower,” he announced, not noticing Misty start to follow.  “I wanna get some breakfast and take in the fight that’s happening today.”

            “Sounds like fun,” Misty added.  As Ash was about to shut the bathroom door, he felt Misty push it aside and wrap her arms around his neck from behind.  “Mind if I join you?”

            “Misty!  Well, look, uh...” Truth be told, he wanted to get all the necessities out of the way as quickly as possible, so he can eat – and knowing how hungry he suddenly became, eat well, he would – and catch the opening fight this afternoon (being a Master and champion of the league, having V.I.P. seating arranged for he and his friends would be no problem; it was the principal of the matter that bothered him).  And he couldn’t get that done staring at his girlfriend’s nude form mere inches away from him!  But seeing said form in all its beauty captivated Ash, the way it always did.  All form of protest evaporated as she put his lips to his in a deep kiss, her hands wandering over his body.  “Oh, what the hell...”

TIME:  Noon, that day

LOCATION:  Indigo Stadium

            Whilst the other spectators in attendance were captivated by the lavish ceremony signifying the opening of the tournament, the fighters who were watching were more focused on the fight to come itself than the fanfare currently taking place.

            The fight would be fought in the same stadium – on the same field – as the Indigo Championship matches.  The only modification to the field was the large platform built on the stadium itself.  It was a large, elevated stone platform, easily 20 ft. tall, with an extended shelf about halfway up, in an effort to catch fighters who may fall off the edge of the ring.  Metal staircases were built into the sides where the trainers’ boxes would be, indicating the corners of the individual fighters.  From Ash & co.’s viewpoint, they were on the same plane as the fighters themselves.

            Ash, Misty, Brock and Tracey were seated in the front row, towards the right side of the field.  From where they were sitting, the battleground was tilted at a 45º angle from the South end.  The humidity mixed with the hot sun made the midday a little less comfortable, and would give the fighters an extra something to worry about.  Severe weather conditions could just as easily deplete a warrior’s strength just as easily as the fight they are in.

            They could see down by the trainer’s entrance, and spotted an overweight young man around Brock’s age, wearing dark black jeans with black shoes.  He wore a red polo shirt with yellow spiked trim around the bottom hem and along the sleeves.  His mussed, shiny green hair was the most noticeable feature about him...aside from the brown leather bullwhip curled and holstered at his left hip.

            Tracey was the first to notice him.  “Check the guy with the whip,” he said, pointing down at the mystery fighter.  He was slowly starting his ascent up the metal staircase, which closely resembled a fire escape more than anything else.

            “Who’s – that’s A.J.!” Misty said, noticing the familiar hairstyle and face.  “What’s he doing here?”

            “Competing, what else?” Ash said.  Misty flashed an annoyed glare at her boyfriend.

            “I know that,” she answered.  “But...I dunno...I didn’t see him at the ball the other night.  And...are you allowed to bring a weapon into the ring?”

            “Beats me,” Brock said.  “But if he’s using the style I think he is, it’s gonna be his key to victory.”

            Misty had no idea what Brock was talking about.  Seeing the knowing glances coming from Ash and Tracey, Brock figured at least they knew.

            Just as A.J. finished his ascent to the ring, Ash scoured the other end of the ring to see whom the whip-master would be fighting.  The sight of his opponent was just as shocking as the sight of A.J.  “He’s fighting Ritchie, huh?” Ash said to himself.  He pointed to the far end of the ring, and saw Ritchie bouncing up and down in place, flexing his arms back behind his back over and over again.  The kid was more full of energy and vigor than they ever recall in the past.  Usually Ritchie was calm, reserved, and calculating.  Now wasn’t such a case.

* * * * *

            “...he hails from Cerulean City...LET’S GIVE IT UP FOR ANDREW “A.J.” JOHNSON!” the announcer’s voice boomed over the PA system.  The crowd popped as if they were issued a direct order from the League president for the young whip-wielding youth.  He smiled as he felt the cameras on him, throwing a solitary gloved fist into the air.  The smile wasn’t one of humility, but pride...maybe out of arrogance.  He saw his opponent standing opposite the ring from him, and surveyed him.  A.J. knew he had most of the advantages over this kid – experience, skill, weight...you name it.  In fact, considering the vitals barked out by the announcer, A.J. easily outweighed Ritchie 2-to-1.

            Meanwhile, Ritchie had basked in every word describing him, and every cheer from the crowd.  The energetic young man was still bouncing up and down in place as his opponent was being announced.  Clad in a tight black tank top and baggy green pants (which were tucked into his shoes), Ritchie felt as good as he (thought he) looked.  His chestnut hair spilled out from the back of his head, leaning gently against his shoulders.  He was wearing white leather fingerless gloves, and he was throwing a few punches in the air as A.J.’s introduction concluded.

            Looking through the crowd, he saw Erika, seated a few rows back, in the same part of the arena as his corner.  She gave him a polite wave when their eyes met, and he flashed a peace sign at her as if he were to say, “This’ll be no sweat.  Watch!”  The referee beckoned them over, and explained the rules to the two fighters.  After the mandatory handshake, Ritchie and A.J. returned to their starting positions.  “Begin!” the ref shouted.

            Ritchie exhaled deeply and settled into his stance.  A.J.’s eyebrow arched in awe such an...unusual stance.  Ritchie was standing sidelong to A.J., his legs shoulder length apart.  His left hand about two feet in front of him.  His fingers gradually became more curled from thumb to pinkie.  His right arm was curled against his body, his hand looking like it was clutching at his heart.  Shrugging it off, A.J. took a defensive stance, not feeling the need to draw his whip just yet.

            Ritchie exploded forward at A.J., his fist cocked at his side.  When he came within striking distance, it flew out at his opponent, attempting to knock his block off with one blow.  A.J. parried the attack, but got caught by a kick to the stomach and another blow to the face.  Composing himself, A.J. shrugged off the next handful of blows from Ritchie, calmly taking his time, not in a rush to get his offensive rolling.

            Besides, what he didn’t want everyone to know is that he’s not as good a fighter in close quarters as he is from a distance.

            A.J. bode his time, waiting for an opening.  There!  He blocked a high overhead strike from Ritchie, grabbing his hand and yanking them downward, at the same time, driving his knee upward, nailing his sternum.  Ritchie was doubled over as A.J. smashed an elbow into his back, laying him out face down.  A.J. wasn’t finished, as he reached down to grab Ritchie by the back of his shirt and pants, and send him flying across the ring with a good heave.

            Now it was time to get serious.

            Ritchie pulled himself first to one knee, then another, and faced A.J., just as A.J. grabbed at his left side with his right hand.  He noticed A.J. do a complete spin, wielding the weapon that was once previously tied at his side.  “Alright, Whiplash,” he said to his weapon, “let’s show this punk just what we’re made of!”  Before starting his attack, he cut loose with a variety of skillful strikes at the air, and it became abundantly clear that these weren’t just random lashes like an animal tamer would use to control unruly Pokémon at the circus, but marks of raw, undeniable skill.

* * * * *

            “Soubenjutsu.”

            The strange word Ash uttered made Misty’s brow furrow in puzzlement.  “What did you say?” she asked.

            “That’s the style that A.J. is using against Ritchie,” Brock filled in.  “Soubenjutsu is whip-slashing abilities.”  He leaned back in his seat, his hand to his chin.  “And if I’m guessing correctly, that makes A.J. a weapon-whore.”

            “What’s a weapon-whore?” Tracey asked.  Such a term was unfamiliar to him, but strangely he knew what the name for whip-slashing skills was.

            “That’s someone whose fighting style revolves entirely around the use of a weapon,” Ash answered.  “Be it a staff, sickles, or in A.J.’s case, a whip.  I’m not saying they’re all bad or anything, but if he is a weapon-whore, Ritchie will have a better chance of winning if A.J. were to suddenly become unarmed.”

            “I don’t see that happening,” Misty said.  “A.J. definitely seems to know what he’s doing with that thing.”

            “If not, he’d get beat in every fight he was in.”

* * * * *

            A.J. was on cruise control now, toying with his opponent with his whip.  He smirked with pride at the accuracy he had placing whiplashes on his bewildered opponent.  Ritchie’s guard was upset with every crack of the whip; when Ritchie would block, A.J. would attack what he wasn’t guarding.  A.J. was tempted to shout out “Dance!” with each crack of the whip at Ritchie’s legs, but seeing Ritchie take tiny, panicky jumps this way and that way was entertaining enough.

            When one such slash made Ritchie’s leg shoot backwards behind him like it was blown out of a cannon, A.J. was quick to retaliate his opponent’s sudden lack of balance.  He lashed out with his whip hard, striking Ritchie right in the face.  He tumbled to the ground, his moans muffled by his hands, which had covered his face under the force of the blow.  Ritchie brought himself to a kneeling position, a large welt visible on his face.  A.J. lashed out again, but Ritchie tumbled to the side sharply.  When he regained his footing, he felt his right shoe was much more loose on his foot than it had previously been.  Instinctively, he bent down to tie it, when he noticed something odd.  Upon A.J.’s last strike, the laces on his shoe were all broken; the impact of the whip had snapped every strand where the laces crossed one another.

            He had little time to try and correct the problem, for A.J. lashed out again.  This time, when Ritchie blocked, the end of the whip coiled around his forearm, and the combatants found themselves in a brutal tug-of-war, trying to pull the other one in.  Eventually, Ritchie’s footing gave way, and he lurched forward, right into a side kick that spun Ritchie halfway around, and flat on his ass.  A.J. bent his whip in half and in half again, and knelt behind Ritchie, the folded up whip under his chin.  He pulled back hard, while burying his knee into the small of Ritchie’s back, choking him.  He held this position for a little while, until he started to spin around, still choking Ritchie.  He did several complete spins, building up speed, and finally released him, sending him flying.

            Ritchie was struggling to breathe, but was now quite upset.  A.J. tried to snag Ritchie again, using the same technique, but Ritchie was ready for it.  He spun his arm in a circle to divert the oncoming attack, then spun around, as if to deliver a backhand shot to someone’s face.  His hand grabbed the whip, and he yanked back, causing the whip to fly from A.J.’s hand.  Shocked, A.J. looked at his now-empty hand as Ritchie stormed in for his attack.

            “Yaaah!” Ritchie struck the dumbfounded A.J. with a flurry of punches to his upper body, only this time he didn’t manage a good enough defense to repel them all.  When A.J. was left reeling from a hard (by Ritchie’s standards) uppercut to the chin, Ritchie fell backward sharply – one hand catching his fall, his other high in the air – and cracked his still laced shoe against A.J.’s knee, causing him to fall flat on his back.  Ritchie bounded back a few steps, readying his next big move.

            With a loud grunt, Ritchie jumped up at his opponent, who was now getting back to his feet.  His body did a full rotation in mid-air as he brought his right knee to his stomach, then extended his leg straight against his body.  He took dead aim as he came down, unleashing his move upon the unsuspecting A.J.

            “RITCHIE KIIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!!!”

            Ritchie’s aerial axe-kick came down diagonally across A.J.’s chest, knocking him down again.  The crowd was starting to get behind Ritchie by the time A.J. was disarmed, and now a number of them were on their feet as the tide of battle began to sway in his favor.

            He couldn’t help but play to the wild masses, working the crowd as some started to chant his name.  Even amongst the chaos around her, Erika couldn’t help but shout encouragement at him.  Unfortunately, he became so enthralled with playing the crowd that he didn’t notice A.J. pull himself up and regain his weapon.

            He curled up his whip and holstered it against his side, and snuck up on the unsuspecting Ritchie.  He didn’t notice his presence behind him until it was too late, when he turned around to check on his foe.  A.J. knelt and punched Ritchie as hard as he could in the stomach, causing him to double over.  As he rose, the top of his head met Ritchie’s chin, and Ritchie staggered backwards, holding his now sore jaw.  As he turned around, he walked right into a heavy headlock takedown, all of his weight crashing against his chest.

            Ritchie clutched his chest with a heavy cough, the pain shooting through him suddenly immobilizing him.  A.J. took hold of his enemy’s legs, tucking his ankles in his armpits.  Then, he began to spin around again, bringing Ritchie off the ground.  After building up enough speed, he released Ritchie’s legs and fell back against the ground, launching Ritchie off the side of the ring.  The crowd gasped in horror as they saw the Celadon kid crash into the protective shelf designed just for such an occasion.

            As he lay there, he saw Ritchie’s shoe land next to him.  He looked at the broken laces and smiled, admiring his own handiwork.

            A referee descended a small ladder down to the shelf close to where Ritchie landed.  For arenas like this, a fighter could leave the ring only once before being disqualified on a ring-out.  Slowly, Ritchie got back to his feet, leaning against the side of the ring, his breathing ragged.  He saw the official approach him and did his best to maintain his composure.  “That’s one strike for leaving the ring, son,” the referee explained.  “Once more and you’ll lose the fight.”  Ritchie nodded in acknowledgment.  The ref saw his condition and questioned Ritchie once more.  “Do you feel you’re able to continue, Mr. McManus?”

            “Yeah, I’m fine,” he answered.

            “Do you want to continue?”

            “Hell yeah.”

            “Fine.”  He motioned to the ladder.  “Up you go!”  Ritchie ascended the ladder to find A.J. being directed to back off from an official.  Once Ritchie got a good distance away from the edge, the referee ordered the fight to continue.

            Ritchie got back in his stance.  A.J.’s hand found the handle of his whip.  Both were staring a hole in each other, waiting to see who would blink first.

            That would be Ritchie.

            A.J. suddenly lashed out with his whip, covering the distance between he and Ritchie in the blink of an eye.  The whip made a loud crack as it struck the side of Ritchie’s head, right in his left temple.  Ritchie exhaled slightly as he collapsed to his right side on his back.  The crowd was stunned at this attack, and soon the ten count would begin on Ritchie.

            A.J. knew two things – a) the count couldn’t be interfered with without restarting from “1”, and b) he had this fight won.  He waited until the count hit “4” before giving Ritchie one last shot to grow on.  Without moving from where he was, he brought his whip up over his head and down upon Ritchie with a loud crack.  The whip struck the prone Ritchie right in his chest, causing him to convulse in pain, clutching his chest.  The ref struck him with a warning before restarting the count.  Ritchie tried the best he could to at least get off his back, but could not even get to a knee before the count expired, and gave Ritchie the loss.

            “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THIS MATCH IS OVER!  THE WINNER BY KNOCK-OUT IS A.J. JOHNSON!!!”

            Ritchie was barely aware of the announcement by the time he saw a figure standing over him.  A.J. looked down at Ritchie with a smug smile, shaking his head slowly.  Ritchie was hurt too much to do anything about his current situation.

            “Stupid little punk,” A.J. said in his heavy Southern accent.  “This fight was over the second you took your eyes off me.”

            A.J. strode off and made his way down the metal stairs at his corner, disappearing into the locker room with a cocky smile and the first win in the tournament under his wide belt.

NAME:  Andrew “A.J.” Johnson

STYLE:  Soubenjutsu

DOB:  5 May 1980

HEIGHT:  6’1”

WEIGHT:  305 lbs.

HOBBY:  Pokémon training, leadership training

FAVORITE FOOD:  Soup (preferably clam chowder)

MOST IMPORTANT:  His gym, his Sandshrew, his whip

LIKES:  Being in control

DISLIKES:  Weakness