route_1065 | It's a bird! It's a plane! It's a... flying shark

Entry tags:

It's a bird! It's a plane! It's a... flying shark

Who: Anyone in Olivine who wants to hop in
Where: Olivine Pokémon Center
When: Throughout July 30
Summary: There's a hurricane and the Sharpedo are flying, so the Pokémon Center is a natural place to take shelter.
Rating: starting with PG for injuries and mild language. Thanks, Sharpedonado
Log:

What a way to end a month of rain, rain, and... more rain. A hurricane striking the coast is just about as extreme as you can get, weather-wise, and Olivine City is battening down the hatches. The damage is inevitable, but people have been taking what precautions they can over the past few days.

What isn't helping is the ill-timed swarm of Sharpedo coming up the coast. So have fun when the storm starts lifting them out of the water and flinging them at innocent bystanders.

The Pokémon Center is an obvious safe place for travelers to hunker down and wait out the storm. It's equipped with provisions and (hopefully) space to accommodate most anyone who needs shelter. Power will more than likely be lost at some point, but the best people can do for now is wait this disaster out.

((This log is mingle style, so put up headers and add your tags to the entry as you want!))

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There was grumbling in the basement of the Pokemon Center.

Shit, after a few hours with a crew stacking sandbags around to keep the roads from washing out and to try to keep water away from at least one building in this town, Blake was soaked to the damn bone. He was stripping off his raincoat and sitting down on a stool to wring out his socks.

The bare bulbs overhead gave a strong, steady light. The chug of the generator was textured with a few crackles and the ting of teeth tapping metal.

"Tired, Steve?" he said. "The squirrel can take over."

Steve made a firm snub around her mouthful of metal. Blake didn't speak dog, but he caught the gist that she had a few more Thunder Fangs in her.

From upstairs, somebody yelled that there were sharks flying around in midair outside.

"No there aren't," Blake said to nobody in particular.

"Yes, there are." Because Scar could be a contrary asshole, too.

He was shuffling downstairs, the side of his head patched up after his... collision. He was really down here to check on the generator keeping this place running, but he couldn't resist the side comment.

Oh, was it a contrary asshole-off he wanted? Blake just grunted. "There's no such thing as flying sharks."

A few sparks went up as Steve kept gnawing on the generator. Blake tossed a glance at the guy coming down the stairs. He was a pretty distinctive-looking fellow. Kind of Middle Eastern-looking, huge white scar all over his face. How the hell would you even get something like that without getting dead in the process?

It looked like he had something more recent, too. Bandage stuck to his head.

Blake squeezed water out of his sleeve. "The hell happened to you?"

"A flying shark," he said pointedly as he approached the generator to take a peek at the Snubble currently sinking its teeth in. Hm. That was certainly useful. It was a shame he didn't have any electric types to contribute.

Not that he particularly wanted to be stuck in the basement supervising with someone who, gasp, didn't believe in flying sharks.

Blake looked at him dubiously. "A shark flew by and bit you in the head."

He thought about that for a wile, then sighed deeply.

"Fuck, I've been here too long. That sounds plausible."

"The wind is picking them up. I was taken by surprise, and I got knocked into something by one of them." What it was, exactly... He couldn't remember. But those Sharpedo were surprisingly heavy.

A Skitty, who was following at Scar's ankles, bounced over to take a look at what Steve was up to.

"Wind's supposed to pick up plastic bags, not fish with big teeth."

Nothing around here tended to do what it was supposed to.

He grabbed a clean rag from a low shelf and rubbed at his wet hair. At least, he hoped it was clean.

Steve was focused on her job, keeping a steady flow of power into the generator. It took some concentration, since it was not made with the intention of being gnawed on.

Blake threw another glance at the guy, and says, with all the social graces of somebody who's spent the last few hours slinging sandbags around in the rain, "I'd ask if a flying shark tried to bite your face off, too, but it looks like somebody got there first."

"That's what I thought as well." He's about to urge Miriam back upstairs, to stop bothering them.

But then the stranger speaks up again.

It's always the eyes, that they mention. Those scary, bloody eyes. Offhanded comments. How dare he get angry? But it's rarely the scar. No one ever has the gall to mention it. Perhaps stare, but that's unintentional. They always stare. But they never say anything.

"And you would be wise not to." Maybe there isn't much threat in the words, but there certainly is in how they're spoken, or in Scar's stance, or in the way he's glaring daggers into Blake. That there is the look of a triggered serial killer.

"Or to even open your mouth again."

Blake hadn't gotten a good look at his eyes yet. Hell, he's almost used to red eyes. Ishimaru had those, too. He couldn't figure it out and he probably didn't want to.

"Settle down, buddy." Blake waved his hand without looking up. His gut told him this guy was nothing to worry about. One of those guys who got by on size and a scary face and never actually hurt a fly.

"You don't wanna chat about it, fine." He tossed the wet towel back on the shelf. "I got uglier."

That was what had made him curious, really. You didn't get a lot of pretty symmetrical scars.

"Do not tell me to settle down." Though Scar shows no intention of becoming any more riled up, he's not going to let himself be calmed down by this guy, either. There isn't anything further he wishes to say, at least not unprovoked. Scar turns to return upstairs. To remove himself before he loses his temper.

"Think again, pal." Ralph heard the exchange as he passed by.

"Shrew! Shrew!" Aaaaa no no no Bossy hated the water! The ground-type all but galloped into the center. With her lumbering owner and his gaggle of useless friends in the lobby, she scurried for any place she thought could possibly be safer than the puddle-scattered entry way. Oh, look, a door!

She instantly metroid-rolled down the stairs.

Blake remembered that voice. A punch to the head tended to do wonders for recall.

Then a yellow round thing came barreling down the stairs. Steve yelped in surprise around her mouthful of generator.

"Hey!" Blake yelled up the stairs from where he sat on the basement floor. "Don't go throwing armadillos down here!"

"What?" Ralph's voice came from above. He leaned around the corner and looked down into the gloom where his Sandshrew was unfurling and trying to shake her senses right-side-up. "Bossy! Quit runnin' off like that. You're down half and need to see the nurses!"

"Shrew!" Bossy shot back as she dusted herself off. Then she spotted the last 'mon she expected to meet face to face. Steve! Ignoring her trainer completely the Sandshrew bounded over chattering excitedly.

Ralph just groaned and started to squeeze his way down the stairs. Fine, he'd just grab her himself.

Steve looked up and Snub!bed in excitement. It was her friend from the network! She jumped away to go say hello.

When Blake looked up, there was a guy about the size and shape of a boulder lumbering down the stairs. "She's fine," he said, pouring water out of his boot.

The lights dimmed, and Steve started back guiltily. She'd forgotten her job for a second there.

Blake waved her off. "You're on break. The flying rat can take over."

He pulled a ball from his waist. "You're up, Tom Landry."

Soon there was an Emolga electrocuting the generator to life. Blake threw a glance at ~~Donkey Kong~~ the big old bastard.

"If you're here to punch me in the head, a couple thousand gallons of water beat you to it."

Ralph let out a chuckle and lifted both of his FACE DESTROYING HANDS in a 'no weapons' gesture.

"Not today, chief. Nobody's put a hit out on you far as I know. Bossy, c'mere!"

"Shrew!" The Sandshrew shot something quite rude back at her trainer before throwing her stubby arms around Steve's neck. Somebody SANE! Somebody who genuinely liked her! If someone had told her after that prom that she'd be so eager to see a pink blob dog with a built-in dress again she would have called them crazy. She gestured to Steve's chrome chompers curiously.

"Bah," Ralph waved an arm. Fine, ignore him. See if he cares. He looked around the dank basement and can't help but freeze up at every little electrical pop that he hears. "Been a while..."

That wasn't that comforting, when they're hands that could bend fucking sewer pipes, but it was a good faith kind of gesture.

"Good. I got enough of a pain in my ass from the weather."

Steve, for her part, was returning the hug with enthusiasm. It was a rare treat to see a friend in person. She explained how she was Thunder Fang'ing the generator into working. She was helping! Also she'd thrown a bunch of sandbags around.

"Yep," Blake agreed. "Funny thing, how we never go get a beer or anything. You're stuck here too, huh?"

He looked up at Ralph and saw the odd, stiff way he was standing. "Relax. The rat won't blow up anything. It's just keeping the lights on."

"...Good." As somebody who used to live in an electronic device that plugged into the wall, Ralph wasn't a huge fan of storms. His attention lingered on the living sparkplug before looking up at the ceiling. "And yeah, me an' the kid were hikin' and before we could get too far outta town the sky opened up."

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It's a bird! It's a plane! It's a... flying shark

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