POKÉMON: WARRIOR'S DESIRE
Usual disclaimers apply. These characters do not belong to me.
TIME: Simultaneously with Chapter 2, though at night
LOCATION: Basement of the Vermilion City Gym
Loud voices were shouting in every which way. The stench of sweat, blood and a hint of flatulence was heavy in the stuffy basement of the Vermilion city Pokémon gym. By day, it was where aspiring trainers fought – and oftentimes squarely defeated – in the hopes of earning a Thunder Badge. At night, it was another story.
The gym’s was the locale of the Vermilion City Fight Club.
Many of the combatants in the club were from Vermilion, but once in a while, a few out-of-towners came by for a visit. There were few new people from meeting to meeting, because rules 1 and 2 are simply put – the best-known rules – “You do not talk about Fight Club.”
A few dozen people gathered in the Vermilion fight club every week, down in the basement of the gym amongst bad lighting and brutal fights. The fights took place on old wrestling mats hastily taped together and to the floor with duct tape. Blood stains covered them here and there, and the mats themselves had turned from their original blue to a rusty reddish color.
The leader of the bunch – the one who organized these weekly rituals – was the same man who ran the Vermilion city gym. In his eyes, there would be no better place to host it then at the very gym that he controls. The burly marine, 1st Lt. Jason Surge, stalked around the hoards of people cheering and taunting the fighters currently beating the hell out of each other. His Raichu followed him closely, his wide body shifting in between the spectators. Surge smiled at the sight before him. One of his thug trainers, a British punk rock enthusiast, was straddling the waist of his opponent, a resident Tae Kwan Do school owner named Hong Lin. The rocker grabbed the back of Lin’s hair, and slammed his face into the ground repeatedly. They were on the edge of the mat, and Lin would get to taste the concrete as his face was slammed repeatedly against the unforgiving floor. With each slam, more and more blood poured from his nose and mouth, cumulating in a puddle where he was being slammed. At the sight of a shard of tooth dropping from his mouth into said puddle, that was enough.
“N...no m-more...” Hong choked out. The rocker got up and walked away, his fists raised in victory, the crowd cheering wildly. Hong struggled to pull himself to his feet, before a large hand grabbed him by the back of the neck, flinging him aside.
“Great. Now git outta here!” Surge shouted, kicking him in the ass to emphasize his point. He turned around to the ring. The winner of the last fight was nowhere to be seen, disappearing into the crowd. Unconsciously, he unzipped his vest, and his hands found the buttons of his shirt, and were in the process of undoing them one by one. He was preparing to engage in a fight himself.
Another rule of Fight Club – “No shirts, no shoes”.
Before he could remove his size 15 steel-toed army boots, he felt a tug on the back of his knee. His Raichu tugged at his pants with one paw and had something in his other.
“What is it, Raichu?” Surge asked, casting an over-the-shoulder glance at his Pokémon.
“Raichu, rai, rai...rai, Raichu,” {That Tae Kwan Do guy dropped this,} Raichu responded.
The lieutenant held out his hand, and Raichu placed the papers in it. Unfolding them, he gave the papers a glance over. It was the same information regarding the new Lord of the Fight tournament to be sanctioned by the World Pokémon League. “Hmmm...a fighting tourney? T’ree years from now? Say.........d’at sounds like fun! Don’t it, Raichu?”
“Raichu!” {I say go for it!}
“I t’ink I shall. Gotta get in ta training, though. Every little bit counts!” He discarded his vest and his shirt, revealing his tanned physique, his well-defined, hairy chest, and his bulging arm muscles with the Marine slogan Semper Fi tattooed on his right bicep. He pulled off and dropped his boots onto his shirts, stuffing the information in his left boot. There were numerous groans and shouts as he stepped onto the mats. It was a rare treat that the operator of the fight club actually fought. But what a welcome sight it was.
He raised his hands, palms opened, and gradually the crowd calmed down. When there wasn’t any other sound than that of Surge’s knuckles cracking, he spoke. “So who wants some?!” he shouted.
Instantly, the crowd lit up again. There were no challengers for a few moments and amongst the cheers, many looked around to see who would step up and fight the boss. There were no takers for a while until a man about 6’8” and about 200 lbs. stepped up, flinging his shirt to the side. He was a street basketball player known simply as Abe.
Abe was taller than Surge, but he was pretty skinny. He had a longer reach than Surge, but his arms seemed like toothpicks. They took to the fight immediately, Abe coming at Surge with a handful of jabs and hooks.
Surge took the first shot right on the chin, falling back a step under the blow. He was surprised at how much power was in such skinny little arms. Clearly he had underestimated this one.
When Abe attempted a kick to Surge’s gut, he caught the oncoming foot and yanked the skinny guy to him, smashing his head in with a clothesline. His bicep felt like a brick against his face, and Surge smiled inwardly. During his time in the army, Surge was taught Commando Sambo hand-to-hand combat. By the time he was discharged, he was dabbling in Le Drit military assassination techniques. Occasionally, in the past, some people would complain that a formally trained fighter had an unfair advantage in fight club.
They would get the shit kicked out of them ceremoniously.
Enough toying, Surge thought to himself. Surge wound up, and his left fist slammed into Abe’s head, sending his skinny frame to the ground, hard. He walked over and onto his prey, slamming his feet into his lower back over and over. As he stood over what looked to be his fallen opponent, Abe struck again, grabbing at Surge’s leg, punching him in the knee such that his kneecap became temporarily displaced. Abe snatched the same leg up, causing Surge to fall to his back on the hard mats. With his free foot, Surge kicked Abe right in the chest as Abe attempted some fancy leg twist on his downed opponent.
Shaking off the pain in his knee, Surge hopped back to his feet. He spear-tackled Abe, crashing into a wall in the process. Abe could feel – and hear – his back cracking up against the merciless concrete wall, while at the same time, his gut being ground into hamburger meat as Surge pounded him repeatedly. He threw about ten punches, all seemingly deeper and harder than the one before it.
When he stepped back from the wall, Abe collapsed, gasping for breath. The fight was over.
TIME: Around 2:30 AM
LOCATION: Vermilion Harbor
The meeting ran into the twilight hours. When the fights were all done, everyone just left, drifting from the gym and apart from each other. Lt. Surge partook in numerous fights, showing everyone that he wasn’t rusty, he wasn’t out of shape, that he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
Down at the Vermilion docks is where Surge and Raichu retreated for the evening, the master and his Pokémon sitting on the edge of an old, wooden dock, staring at the full moon over the sea. While he was there, he carefully examined all the information, committing everything into memory. With three years to prepare for the tournament, Surge could only imagine the fights he would have – not just in the tournament itself but also in his fight club.
He sighed, reaching into his rolled-up sleeve and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He stuck one in his mouth and reached for his Zippo lighter, and with a flick, the flame came to life. He lit the cigarette and inhaled, then blew the smoke out above his head, watching it fade into nothing. What kind of opponents would he meet in this tournament? He mentally thumbed through the gym leaders he knew of.
Solomon Blaine, the Cinnabar Island gym leader. He has to be pushing 60, at least. How could that guy fight? What style could he use?
Koga, the leader of the Poison Fist ninja clan, and the Fuchsia City gym leader. It seemed an unwritten law that all ninjas are inherently badass, and Koga was no exception to the rule. Actually, knowing how deadly Koga is, it’d be better to refer to him as a badass motherfucker. Yeah, that seemed about right.
Erika, no...Sabrina, no...Misty, pfft, yeah right...“Blue Gary”, hmmm...don’t know about that kid. Such weakling gym leaders. Why do these little brats get gyms and control of badges just handed to them? Brock...
Ahh, Brock “The Rock” Ballas. The Lieutenant saw the scene earlier today, when he left that runt Misty and her boyfriend Ash to study under master Bruno. His thought went to Bruno. Now there’s a guy that can give me a challenge! But what about...Ash?
The same little boy that bested his Raichu with his Pikachu so long ago was now a Pokémon master, and apparently had received similar information on this tournament. Not from a mocking point of view, but from a serious viewpoint – his entering the tournament would be career (if not, literal) suicide. If he got to fight someone like Bruno, or Koga, or especially himself, he could end up dead. Not only does he not know how to fight (supposedly), but his pride would never allow him to quit; Surge got to see that first hand. Still, he saw him fight and win against impossible odds before, so knowing him, he had a trick up his sleeve.
“T’ree years,” Surge said, taking another drag off his cigarette. “D’at much time can pass by you without you ever knowing it, huh Raichu?”
“Rai,” {I feel ya,} Raichu answered.
Surge finished off his cigarette, flicking the butt into the water below. He stood, and Raichu followed suit. “We got a long road ahead of us, Raichu. Tomorrow, everything’s gonna change from now on.”
“Rai, chu,” {Do what you must, then,} he called back.
His Raichu lumbering slowly behind him, Surge headed back to his apartment for the evening, planning his new daily routine mentally for his preparation for the Lord of the Fight tournament.
NAME: 1st Lieutenant Jason Surge, USMC
STYLE: Commando Sambo and Le Drit
DOB: 29 February 1960
HEIGHT: 6’3”
WEIGHT: 244 lbs.
HOBBY: Collecting military antiques
FAVORITE FOOD: Veal
MOST IMPORTANT: His gym
LIKES: Spur-the-moment actions
DISLIKES: Indecisiveness