NONNIE, NYX
HE/HIM
27
December 12
Ballonlea, Galar
andressexual
Enforcer
GRUNT
in the low lamplight i was free, heaven and hell were words to me
TAG WITH @straub
onyx straub
quick escape [ee]
POSTED ON May 29, 2022 1:39:42 GMT
A shrill cry of glee strikes through Zia like lightning as she grips the flailing rodent in her feet. Her beak tastes fur, then flesh, then fresh blood as she savages Chuchi’s back, her shoulderblades, the nape of her neck. A scattering of black feathers, iridescent as though slicked in oil, come to rest on the ground. There are small red pricks of blood on her chest from where Chuchi managed to tear the pinions free-- they’ll itch as they grow back, but it’s not much of a bother.
Only when, by some miracle of Pokemon biology, Chuchi manages to drill into the underside of Zia’s foot does she squawk and lift up-- just the one limb, the other one still has her pinned by the hind end-- but there’s blood, now, from Zia’s toe, as the tip of her talon hangs limply in the air; Chuchi is wriggling free, wriggling and her mouth foam is flecked with blood.
Onyx can see Andres’ eyes going a bit blurry, telescoping in on the unconscious and very broken men behind him, then coming back to his face. Andres’ skin has gone pale. His legs are shaking. He’s blubbering like an infant, saying he’s sorry, trying to explain away Chuchi’s behavior. Part of him wants to comfort the man, as sickening as it sounds-- it’s not Andres’ fault he’s partnered with a rabid, no-account rodent.
It’s not really much of a comfort.
Onyx does little but scoff and rolls his eyes. He knew, eventually, either Zia would win or Chuchi would get away. Onyx’s world was very black and white, and he had full confidence in his partner. She was a force even more malicious than he was.
Eventually, Andres wrapped his shaking, sweating fingers around Chuchi’s Pokeball and called her back, leaving nothing behind but a streak in the dirt and blood splattered across the grass. The Manectric that remained stayed close to Andres, listening intently to his trainer.
Zia let off a string of loud, raucous calls that Onyx recognized as her laughter. They were ear-splitting noises from deep within her chest. Onyx let her gloat a bit before he gave a sharp whistle; considering herself the victor, the crow lifted off the ground-- skimmed close over Andres’ head to frighten him-- and cruised up to some height.
In the silence that follows, Onyx drops his hands. He steps up to Andres, and for all he lacks in height, he makes up for in menace. His eyes are ruby-red, though Andres may be able to see the dark, purple bags plaguing his face.
“You keep your mouth shut,” Onyx says, “or I’ll find you. I’ve got your number, Buenaventura.” He lets that sink in, as tactile as a plummeting anvil.
After he’s made enough threatening eye-contact, he turns away. “Now, I mean it. Get the fuck out of here.” You don’t want any part of this, and there’s a stab of bitter disgust in his gut that this could be in any semblance, shape, or form, a version of him protecting Andres.
“I won’t ask nicely again.”
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