Barely a week ago, he had received his first Pokemon; a murderous, feral thing masquerading as a rabbit named Nicodeme whom he could make out dashing effortlessly a few paces ahead alongside the small fluffbird named Rigel who was, amusingly enough, assigned to Rory, who was muttering indecipherable verses under his breath like a fervent prayer. Probably curses, and knowing Rory, somehow that seemed surprisingly appropriate.

His first meeting with his partner pokemon had left him with two huge gashes across his nose when the beast went for his face after making short work of his fingers.

His first outing at the local bar degenerated into a brawl of which Rory and he were still suffering nightly potato duty for. 

And their first day training so far had been an absolute disaster: They were told that they would be running the forest trail, which seemed simple enough. What they weren’t warned of was the instructor deciding to use his goddamn one-mon demolition derby squad to launch cannonballs at the recruits, many who promptly lost their shit within five seconds believing Kanto to have suddenly regained control of the disabled weapons and was now conducting a surprise blitz before they scattered like a school of terrified fish. 

In all the chaos and flurry of fallen trees, one of the steel fuckers caught him dead in the shoulder as he was made a grab for the petulant rabbit who was inches away from being crushed. 

Next thing the Frenchman knew, he was underwater, the blow of the steel ball having plowed him clear off the trail, down a ledge and plunging into clear, cold surface of one of the many mountain lakes of Blackthorn City—-he didn’t have time to remember the name of this one, having remembered that he couldn’t swim first and foremost. 

Wonderful. How pathetic was it for him to die before the battle even began? 

In between contemplating the question and struggling for all his worth, something else suddenly broke the surface of the lake.

Someone.

A gingerhaired, surly, goatee’d someone who stared at him like he was the dumbest waste of space who ever lived, but held out a hand anyway.

Taking the hand offered, Mathis found himself dragged to the shore, and the hand suddenly turned into a fist which knocked him upside of the head good as he tried to clear his lungs of water. 

“Why didn’tya tell us ye couldn’t swim ye feckin’ bampot?!” 

Came the roar as the Scot’s face was ruddy red with how livid he was.

Mathis, who wanted to counter with the fact that those sort of facts never really made their way into casual conversation unless you were on board a sinking ship persay held his tongue and bowed his head apologetically, too disoriented to offer any words at the moment. 

Weird. This was the second time Rory came to his aid. The man was certainly a master of the mixed signals, all too happy to punch him the jaw for the last Numel cigarette yet never thinking twice when it came to having his back. 

“Come on ye sod.”

The growl sounded resigned as Mathis felt the man pull and prop him up. 

“Gotta get back up there before we catch a cold or that bawbag decides tae hamshank on us fer fallin’ behind.” 

“Merci beaucoup, but I can walk monsieur. You should go ahead.”

Mathis offered, finally having gained enough breath to speak. 

As they kept running, the sound of crashing and wood splintering told them that Dreeson, the cannonball-tossing pachyderm’s assault was far from over, and Mathis had to wonder what sadist ordered this back at camp. 

The medical bay was going to have a field day.

To their left was a stone-faced doctor whose name Mathis recalled as Simon who had a fire rat on his shoulder and had a firm grip on the thing who looked ready to just jump off and do the panicky thing rodents did if given the chance. 

He couldn’t blame the poor creature. 

Up ahead, Rigel and Nicodeme ran in tandem—-the bird’s twittering coupled with the hare’s occasional grunts and growls told them they were conversing. Every now and then the chick would look back at them worriedly only to be apparently reprimanded by the hare to move faster, judging from the Rigel’s sudden burst of speed.

A young lad with bright red hair, no more than eighteen was running to their right with a Houndour and he looked ready to double over and collapse—- Mathis’s features softened as he held out a hand to the teenager. He knew the boy and was rather fond of his presence even if they had never really spoken all that much. 

Their eyes met for a split second when the boy’s gaze suddenly darted to the left and he let out a strange sound which resembled a strangled squeak. Confused by the odd reaction, Mathis felt his blood go cold when a shrill, sinister ‘WHEEEEEEEEEE’ went whistling barely a hair’s breadth from the back of his head. 

In the blink of an eye, the dreaded steel ball had smashed headlong into the young man who was thrown back and violently sandwiched between steel and the trunk of an old oak which groaned visibly from the force of the blow. 

“ICHIGO!” 

In vain, he tried to claw and reach out for the boy only to be dragged back onto the trail by a disgruntled Rory who grit his teeth and spat impatiently, 

“Leave him ye bleedin’ idiot! We’re sitting ducks if we stay any longer and the stupid beast got its eye on the upright ones! Get movin’ before we’re next in his sights!”