Post by ~Alpha Suicune~ on Jul 25, 2008 12:08:31 GMT
::NOTICE::
The following profile contains a ludicrous amount of STUFF. If you are allergic to large quantities of STUFF in any way, I suggest you navigate away from this page immediately.
Thankyou. Have a nice day.
:;END OF NOTICE;:
Name
Arley, just Arley. He may have once had a surname, but it is long forgotten.
Nickname(s)
Lucca, Wolver, Foxtail, K-396 (his old I.D. number)
Gender
Male
Age
Not entirely sure; 15 would be a good estimate age.
If a Pokemorph, what kind?
Riolu appears to be the dominant gene splice, but there are traces of what may be Vulpix.
Sexuality
Previously straight, he now finds himself more bi-sexually attracted as there was a mix-up with the DNA, and they spliced him with that of a female Riolu and not a male as previously intended.
Appearance
A mop of glossy, shoulder-length scruffy black hair lies on top of his head, his fringe covering most of one amber eye and the top of another. The more prominent bangs, mostly those covering his eyes, are also tipped with a strange red colour, probably due to some pigment that got there by mistake during morphing. His eyes fade to black around the edges, making him appear to be perpetually wearing some bizarre kind of gothic eyeliner. Most people’s first reaction would be ‘Emo’, and they could be mistaken for thinking that: with his gaunt face, red-black hair and reclusive attitude, he may as well be. However, he is not; that’s just a by-product of the morphing process.
Rugged, grey-black markings around his eyes and nose almost resemble a mask, lined with fur and getting darker towards the outside of the ‘mask’, so Arley’s eyes almost seem to be glowing silver and illuminating the fur around them, His eyes in question are actually, as aforementioned, a brilliant, clear amber colour, flecked here and there with gold and grey. The mask, and the eyes, are both clear traits of a Riolu. Arley was injected with the DNA of one some time into his morphing, and it became the dominant gene type.
Also a result of being partly Riolu, and another un-subtle sign, is a long, grey-blue tail extending out from the base of his spine. Covered in thick, almost velvety fur, it has the same red tip that his fringe bears. The mutation that caused the pigment to appear in his hair must have been throughout the body. At roughly two feet in length, the fur on the tail bristles when Arley is angry, afraid, or just cold. Paws for hands and feet are another gross mutation, and one that was possibly not well thought out in the morphing process. Rough, durable pads and long, hooked ebony-black retractable claws are not a fair trade-off for opposable thumbs and fingers in everyday life. It does, however, eliminate the need to wear shoes; which is why he is seemingly always barefooted.
A gaunt, seemingly stretched face bears skin that is not pallid, as might have been expected at first glance, but is tinged a nutty red colour, leaving him with skin that looks as if it may have been put under a sun-bed for tanning before being applied. Almond lips provide quite a contrast to his grey-silver ‘mask’ of fur, and behind them lie gleaming, almost bleached white teeth with elongated canines and jagged molars. They sometimes emerge slightly from under his lips, giving him an uncomfortable vampire-esque look. Black tiger-like stripes curl over his cheeks, sliding down his shoulder bones and across his back.
His chest is awash with spiralling strands of a thin but soft ginger fur, stopping short of his neck and reaching across his back with long, red tendrils. It doesn’t really hide the fact that his ribs are prominent, with little muscle around the chest area. At the base of his spine, the red fur stops short, to be replaced by the glossy black of his tail. Where the two fur colours meet, there seems to always be some sort of struggle between the colours as they each strive for predominance.
Down his legs, the ginger fur gets thicker, coating each of his thighs in a blanket-like layer of shaggy ginger fur. The thighs themselves are thick and muscular, in stark contrast to his lanky upper body. His ankles are elongated and sleek, making his legs resemble more a quadruped, like a Ninetales’. At his knee, the fur colour changes to the velvety black seen on his arms, and his lower leg could almost be described as ‘on fire’. Swirling patterns of black and ginger adorn it, blending into each other harmoniously if not accordingly. As on his hands, cruel, hooked claws protrude out of each toe on his paws. As the only patches of bare skin are on his neck and upper chest, he does not technically need to wear any clothes, but they help him feel more normal.
The clothes in question he normally wears are simple; he is oblivious to much of recent fashion trends, and besides, even if he knew exactly what was 'trendy, hip an' happenin'', how would he get the clothes? With no money, and not exactly the figure to walk into a shop and buy clothes, he is stuck with his current outfit. Thieved from the lab, it consists of a thin, black cotton polo shirt with a low-cut neck, probably made for the summery higher temperatures of the lab rather than the bitter cold of the snow outside, a pair of patched demin pants, worn and frayed at the knees, a grey dappled fleece made of some kind of (hopefully) artificial fur and lined with flaaffy wool, and a black bandana, used primarily for hiding his rather prominent blue ears. No shoes adorn his paw-like feet; there were none in the lab, and anyway, why bother? It's not likely there would be any to fit his grossly misshapen feet, and they are warm enough as they are, coated in a blanket-like layer of black fur.
Personality
Arley was rebellious as a child, a trait which is still shown in him today. He much preferred the company of his father, a ginger-haired ex-ranger of a relatively athletic build, to that of his mother, a short, portly woman who once competed in contests, with black hair and a motley collection of freckles around her cheeks and nose. He would not obey a command, or do anything much for that matter, unless he was given a valid reason why. This stubbornness, coupled with Arley's disregard for the feelings and contempt for the company of his mother, caused her to apparently age very quickly, lines scoring her face before she was forty. It also frequently got him into trouble; he used to have what can best be described as 'a way with words', and was quite practised at weaselling his way out of uncomfortable spots.
He had, and still has, to an extent, an annoying habit of frequently 'zoning out'; not being aware of the passage of time, or of noises in his surroundings; simply staring at a blank patch of grass, river, sky, or often just un-focussing his eyes and staring at seemingly nothing at all. He would do this for periods of up to ten minutes at a time, before some river Pokémon caught his eye and he grabbed his pencil.
To while away the long outings spent away from home, at the beach, enjoying the tide washing in and out as it tickled his toes with white, foamy fingers, in the forest studying the bubbles of sap leaking from the trees that grow over fifty feet tall, or at the top of one of the cliffs, delighting in watching the wild wingull as they swoop overhead, Arley used to always keep a sketchpad and pencil with him. He would sketch nearly everything he saw, and many countless notebooks full of - surprisingly accurate for his age, albeit childish - drawings and pictures lay scattered around his small bedroom. Each drawing was precious to him - like a photograph. Maybe it was never as accurate, or as scaled, as a photograph, but each one captured a special moment in time for him, and he treasured each one like it was a priceless jewel or ancient artefact. One of the things he misses most, somehow, is the ability to hold a pencil. Rough, padded paws do not have opposable joints, and make it almost impossible to hold any sort of utensil, let alone a pencil.
He could almost be described as 'nocturnal', having varying sleeping patterns and sometimes staying up the whole night to sketch distant stars, new constellations, or simply to watch the flocks of Murkrow fly over the forest. This means he used to get most of his rest during the daytime, in quick naps whenever he felt like it. He was often seen with bruised eyes, blurred and tired from lack of sleep. This used to limit his attention span by a considerable amount, as it was not beyond him to simply doze off if he found the current subject of discussion tedious.
History
Arley's parents, and for the most part, Arley himself, spent most of their lives in the small, picturesque coastal village where Arley was born. It was relatively cut-off from the rest of the region; with sheer, white chalk cliffs to the east, the sea to the south, and a large, dense patch of evergreen forest behind, where the trees grew over fifty feet tall, it was not hard to imagine that they were protected, but also sealed in. To the west, the land gave way to a strip of glittering white beach, which stretched along the shore for some three miles before rounding a spur of land and disappearing from sight.
The village wasn’t exactly rich, but it wasn’t poor, either. Glittering white sands and tropical seas make the area one of the most attractive beaches in the region, and as such, there was a steady stream of beach-goers and tourists to the area. There was a local ice-cream shop, where people could purchase cold beverages, and on some days, savoury snacks, as well as ice-creams and frozen lollipops. A small fishing dock held a fishing booth. The idea was simple; customers would pay for loan of a fishing rod and some bait, and whatever they caught during the allotted time was theirs to keep. Pokéballs were also available to buy, and the total price depended on the quality of the rod, bait and the time spent fishing. It was easy enough to do, and produced a steady flow of income.
Arley's parents had a small job mending fishing equipment. This made sense, as it was mainly a fishing village, with the majority of occupants going out in boats every day and selling on their catch. They would mend anything; from nets to boat hulls, lures to cages, they would be able to fix it. Arley's father was very clever with his hands, and they made a comfortable living. The small village was very much a lax community; none of the villagers were afraid to help out their fellow occupants, as there was always plenty to go around, whether it was money, business, food, or simply the warmth of friendship. It was a tight-knit community, alright.
It's hard to explain exactly what happened next. The villagers all have different theories. Some say there were rumours of a curse on the village, some say the tourists found a better strip of beach. Some people have even gone so far as to say that there was something in the woods... something blocking the tourists and beachgoers, something savage... All these theories have been tossed aside as rumours. What is certain is that people stopped coming to the village. The supply of beachgoers simply began to dry up. There might be fifteen one day, only eight the next. And, naturally, as the commerce dried up, so did the steady flow of income that was the village's lifeblood.
At first, the village attempted to survive as a localised community. The rope-maker would construct nets for the fishermen, and they in turn would provide the rope-maker with enough fish to feed his family. But it was soon apparent this system would fail; too many of the businesses relied on a steady flow of new customers. After all, you only need one net to catch fish, right? The income began totally vanishing. People that were once social and welcoming were closing their doors and shutting out the unfortunate few who had already succumbed and were driven out of their homes, begging for food from their fellow residents. Desperately, some of the villagers tried to move away from the village, buy a house elsewhere. But it was impossible; they hadn't enough money, and nobody would buy their old houses. The picturesque little village they once knew was slowly but surely becoming a death-trap.
Nobody can quite agree when she came. Some say it was three months after the travellers stopped coming, some say three years. But all remember the events that took place that day, and possibly saved their lives. Or, so it seemed.
Helicopters were an uncommon sight in the village, and some of the younger children had never seen one in their lives. So it is quite understandable that when a huge black helicopter began descending upon them, a crowd of the twenty or so remaining villagers flocked along the beach to watch, staring in awe and shielding their eyes from the sand the great beast of a vehicle kicked up as it descended. A bold insignia, in striking gold and yellow paint, was emblazoned on one mighty metallic flank, and the tail was decked with the same colours. There turned out to be only two people in the craft; her, and her pilot.
Her proposition was simple: she was making a new product for the convenience of young people, most notably trainers and coordinators, and she wanted some test subjects for it. They would be staying at the testing facility for as long as needed, and would each be paid fair wages. The money would be sent to the young people's parents. It seemed like a gift from heaven at the time; an answer to all their problems. Money, and one less mouth to feed! After some anxious muttering, the crown managed to produce a group of about twelve people, their ages ranging from six to thirteen. Little Arley, who was only around three and a half years old at the time, went along too. His parents desperately needed the money, and after some discussion, she consented for Arley to come along too.
Of course, she didn't tell the villagers what kind of product they would be testing. What if one of them found out that no products like that were being made? There could be inquiries, accusations... pretty soon, they would be questioning what was actually happening to their 'darlings', unravelling the lies she had so carefully woven over the whole thing... no, best just to leave them in the dark, celebrating in innocent, beguiled joy.
The lab the 'specimens' were first taken to was relatively small. It was atop one of the cliffs painfully near their home, and from the outside looked as if it was one of the hides set up, to watch pokémon, and which sometimes had healing facilities to help rangers who brought in injured pokémon. Regularly, trucks would drive along and over to the lab, unloading their cargo of chemicals, drugs and other things the 'specimens' were injected with, fed, or had mixed up with their food and water. At first, being away from home, some of the younger 'specimens' were throwing up a racket; shouting and screaming, bawling for their parents, and thrashing about. Some of the older ones, too, wept for the lives they had once known, but they did it quietly, so as to set a good example. Tranquilising drugs were soon administered, and the screaming children gradually calmed down. Tests were run on them; their lung capacity was measured, and the strength of their bones tested; their heart strength, blood pressure, and muscle structure were all tested. All small, technical details, but these would be important later on; splicing genes was a delicate process. One wrong gene splice, or an overdose of some drug, could quite easily result in the death of the experiment.
Soon, some of the experiments were siphoned off and moved to another lab, and she went with them. The ones that were chosen depended on the results of their tests, and only about three or four of the original group of twelve were moved on. The ones left behind... well, best not to think about them, really. Harsher tests were run on them, and, alarmingly, the majority of the remaining group died within days of separation.
The second lab was much larger than the first; there were easily over a hundred specimens there. Some were suspended in fluid-filled capsules, linked with tubes and wires to life-support systems while tests were run on them. Many were simply caged up, awaiting their fate. The group, Arley included, were put on a new course of drugs, designed to pacify them and ready their body for the gene-splicing. In some cases, that meant erasing their memories; slowly, their minds were purged of all memories of parents, homes, wants. Even their names were, over time, slowly erased. They meant nothing anymore; the experiment numbers were their titles now, their old names simply a meaningless collection of syllables. It was pathetic to see them, living out their days in silent monotony, not making a sound if they could help it, and all plagued with the same, terrible thought that hounded them, day in and day out: some time soon, it's going to be me pulled apart on that splicing table.
It was an unavoidable fact; as such, most of them were willing to accept that dreadful fate. There was nothing they could do about it, and those still with the power of independent consciousness for the most part decided that they may as well make the most of life while they were there. Oh, there was still the odd suicide attempt here and there, by individuals who had become so traumatized that they couldn't bear living, but mostly they were ignored, drowned under the sheer weight of compliance.
Slowly, the experiments in the lab began to thin out. New ones were brought in less often, as the doctors refined splicing techniques and she began to glean a greater understanding of the finer points of the splicing procedure. The number of experiments was brought down to as little as twenty, and for every two failed experiments, there was one better-engineered, working morph, their features disfigured and usually unrecognisable. She kept the experiments she felt turned out well; they were seen around the lab in staff uniform, shuffling with hunched backs to their tasks and grunting when spoken to. The remaining subjects were put on a new course of drugs; these were mixed with a dye that coloured their skin and the lining of their stomachs. The drugs themselves were to prepare the body for the long and hazardous morphing process; the dye would, allegedly, make it easier for the doctors to do their gruesome work. This could only mean that their time was soon.
Arley always remembered that night, when they came for him. The moon was full outside, and casting its pallid glow on the snow outside, tainting it silver. He was taken out of his cage, but he didn't struggle. What conscious thought he had left reasoned, told him that it would be no use. So he went in resigned silence. He was given stronger versions of the dugs they had been on for a month or so. His clothes were stripped off, and he was wired up into a life-support system. Suspended in a vat of amber fluid, and kept alive by the oxygen mask clamped to his face and countless tubes wired into his flesh, he was totally helpless. There was no chance of escape now; realistically, there never had been. He would have to accept that what was going to happen next was unavoidable, and cling on to the fragile but substantial hope that he would survive the process.
His body went into a coma-like state. For the most part, he was blissfully unaware of what was happening to him. He was routinely given injections of some sort or another DNA; whether it was on his chest, legs, or the new tail that had been painfully stretched out from the base of his spine. His body began to change; he was resembling less a young boy of no more than eight, and more some grotesque, werewolf-like creature, feral and inconsiderate. Sometimes, when he was more in a light sleep than a coma, his sense of hearing would come back to him, and he would catch glimpses of conversations.
"...96 is doing well, ma'am. Better than we would have thought. We shall hopefully be able to move onto the next stage of testing soon, and a new gene splice shall be introduced."
He dimly recognised the new voice. It was her.
"Very good. Make sure you are careful with this one, I wouldn't want to lose him after all this..."
There was a brief silence, then:
"Do you have records of his name, doctor?"
There was the sound of heavy boots clumping on the tiled floor, then somebody rustling through a document.
"Arley, ma'am. Just Arley. We don't have a surname."
"Arley..." her voice sounded quiet, almost thoughtful. ”Very well. Proceed with the next stage of testing as soon as possible."
"Very well, ma'am..."
As intended, they went ahead with the second gene splice. A syringe of a clear, whitish liquid was injected into his thigh. Where the genes spread along bare skin, ginger-gold fur sprang up, spreading across his leg like wildfire. Where it met muscle, it tightened. On his legs, they began to swell, painfully stretching the bones along his ankle. It seemed to battle against the previous host DNA, as red and black seemed to struggle for predominance. The fur coiled along his back, reaching around his chest and up his spine with long, snaking tendrils...
Suddenly, there was a loud thud , followed by some muffled shouts and the sound of hobnailed boots being bashed against the reinforced steel doors of the lab. A gruff voice cried,
"Open up! We know you're in there!"
She froze, as did her doctors, as suddenly the door burst inwards, jolted off its hinges with a screeching noise. A regiment of police streamed in, clad in black uniform, with their visors pulled low. Many of them had shields, and the majority of them had sleek black rifles in one hand. She screamed at her doctors to run, and they turned their backs, grabbed a handful of precious documents, and scattered for cover. The police shot after them; bullets tore through sheets, ricocheted off walls, and punctured the glass of life-support capsules. Arley narrowly missed being impaled with a shard of glass as a bullet tore through the outside of his life-support system, the new weight of his body tugging out all the wires linking him to the vital instrument, so he lay sprawled out unconscious on the floor. Elsewhere, havoc reigned. Some over-eager officer had decided it would be a good idea to burn some of the papery research documents, and now flames licked over a good half of the building. Many of the remaining experiments perished in the fire; those that didn't were mostly killed by bullet wounds. In the havoc, nobody noticed the roar of a helicopter engine, or the sound of its twin blades slicing the air as it flew off into the night, gold insignia winking in the feeble glow of the moon.
Later, the police had cleared out. The foolish fire had destroyed much of the lab, but a team of reconnaissance units were coming to salvage what they could from the wreckage. Arley's body had gone unnoticed in the catastrophe. His heart was still beating, but the warmth was draining from his body, and it was hard to tell how long it would keep the valiant effort up.
Something, a dark shape, stalked over to Arley. It made no sound; it was obviously skilled at moving in darkness, and its paws may as well have been made of velvet fro all the sound it made. A slanting beam of moonlight briefly illuminated the gold-grey fur that covered the beast's canine body, and its prominent ribs, covered by a thin layer of skin. It looked over Arley with hungry eyes, the blue irises winking in the faint light. Nosing him over, it placed one paw upon his chest for a moment, as if to verify a heartbeat, before seeming to nod. A grin seemed to curve along its snout - there's a lot of teeth to be considered with Mightyena and facial expressions - and it bent down, jaws poised above Arley's neck.
A white shape hurled itself out of the darkness, bounding with long strides towards the gold and grey-furred Pokémon. It turned its head, blue eyes wide with terror, and was bowled over by the sudden attack. Growling and getting to its feet, it was about to attack again when the white shape warningly fired a Shadow Ball at the Mightyena, who promptly turned tail and fled. The Absol watched as the Pokémon vanished into the darkness, giving a satisfied snort, then turned to Arley.
The body seemed to strike him by surprise. It was one of the subjects from the recently burned lab, that much was obvious. But it seemed to be alive; Absol could sense a heartbeat. The body was warm with life, and, nudging its snout against Arley’s chest, Absol could tell he was breathing steadily, albeit slowly. The cold would hopefully wake him out of unconsciousness soon. Absol tilted his head at the strange experiment. It was human – but, it was also Pokémon, and Absol found himself taking pity on the strange creature.
Arley woke slowly, rising steadily out of his sleep like a swimmer would rise to the surface of the water to breathe. Blearily opening bloodshot, amber eyes, the world around him seemed to be entirely composed of a grey mist, fog that swirled around him. His first thought was that he had died, and gone to some sort of heaven. There was also this strange, repetitive, slow drumming noise.
It took Arley a few moments to realise that the sound was his heart. He was alive, then. That was something. His next thought was that the morphing process was complete: he had become what he had become, and there was nothing he could do about it. As he tilted his head to look about him, however, and his brain, still sleepy from the drugs and the coma he had been in for the past few months, struggled to take in the burnt lab around him, he realised something had happened. One glance at his smashed life-support system was enough to tell him that the morphing process hadn’t been completed; he was an unfinished work and, by the looks of things, would always be.
The thought was depressing, but he didn’t have time to think on it much longer, as the Absol came bounding into view. In its mouth was tenderly held a bunch of clothes, most likely stolen from the wreckage of the lab. Arley realised, embarrassed, that he was naked, but then also realised that he was for the most part covered in thick ginger or black fur. Gingerly taking the clothes from the Absol, he looked up for a second into its blue-red eyes.
”Why are you doing this for me?” he asked, his voice trembling with unused rustiness, and coming out as more a collection of squeaks and yips than recognisable English. The Absol seemed to understand, though. It looked away for a few seconds, and then looked back, regarding him solemnly for a few seconds with its sapphire eyes.
<You are partly Pokémon now. That means you are kin. How could I not help you?>
Arley considered the Absol’s words. The Pokémon was right; he was partly a Pokémon now, whether he liked it or not.
Pulling on the clothes, they were rough and scratchy against his skin, but he was grateful for their warmth.
”I only wish… there was some way I could repay you – for saving me, I mean.” His voice still trembled and squeaked, but no longer cracked from disuse. The Absol turned to leave, then remembered something suddenly and turned back.
<As a matter of fact, there is.> he said, a hint of amusement seeming to creep into his rough voice. <I only ask that you take this.> Nosing an amulet towards Arley, he noted the twin poke ball pendants that hung from it. Looking at the Absol questioningly, he slipped the pendant around his neck.
<There. Now we are even.> said the Absol, satisfied. Turning to leave, he leapt off over a snow-covered spur and was gone.
Arley stared after him as his bladed tail disappeared, then shrugged, fingering the charm around his neck. The two pokéballs hung there, set in a piece of metal almost like a yin-yang system, in gold and silver. His rough pads traced the lines on it curiously. Why had the Absol wanted him to take it? He would work that out later. Shivering despite himself, Arley set off down the slope. There had to be a town nearby – hopefully, they could give him shelter and directions.
Anything Else?
His experiment number, K-396, is tattooed on his left thigh, but it is all but concealed by a layer of thick fur. When he transforms, the Riolu genes become more dominant, but a patch of red fur is visible around his legs and chest.
Chosen Path
Trainer
The following profile contains a ludicrous amount of STUFF. If you are allergic to large quantities of STUFF in any way, I suggest you navigate away from this page immediately.
Thankyou. Have a nice day.
:;END OF NOTICE;:
Name
Arley, just Arley. He may have once had a surname, but it is long forgotten.
Nickname(s)
Lucca, Wolver, Foxtail, K-396 (his old I.D. number)
Gender
Male
Age
Not entirely sure; 15 would be a good estimate age.
If a Pokemorph, what kind?
Riolu appears to be the dominant gene splice, but there are traces of what may be Vulpix.
Sexuality
Previously straight, he now finds himself more bi-sexually attracted as there was a mix-up with the DNA, and they spliced him with that of a female Riolu and not a male as previously intended.
Appearance
A mop of glossy, shoulder-length scruffy black hair lies on top of his head, his fringe covering most of one amber eye and the top of another. The more prominent bangs, mostly those covering his eyes, are also tipped with a strange red colour, probably due to some pigment that got there by mistake during morphing. His eyes fade to black around the edges, making him appear to be perpetually wearing some bizarre kind of gothic eyeliner. Most people’s first reaction would be ‘Emo’, and they could be mistaken for thinking that: with his gaunt face, red-black hair and reclusive attitude, he may as well be. However, he is not; that’s just a by-product of the morphing process.
Rugged, grey-black markings around his eyes and nose almost resemble a mask, lined with fur and getting darker towards the outside of the ‘mask’, so Arley’s eyes almost seem to be glowing silver and illuminating the fur around them, His eyes in question are actually, as aforementioned, a brilliant, clear amber colour, flecked here and there with gold and grey. The mask, and the eyes, are both clear traits of a Riolu. Arley was injected with the DNA of one some time into his morphing, and it became the dominant gene type.
Also a result of being partly Riolu, and another un-subtle sign, is a long, grey-blue tail extending out from the base of his spine. Covered in thick, almost velvety fur, it has the same red tip that his fringe bears. The mutation that caused the pigment to appear in his hair must have been throughout the body. At roughly two feet in length, the fur on the tail bristles when Arley is angry, afraid, or just cold. Paws for hands and feet are another gross mutation, and one that was possibly not well thought out in the morphing process. Rough, durable pads and long, hooked ebony-black retractable claws are not a fair trade-off for opposable thumbs and fingers in everyday life. It does, however, eliminate the need to wear shoes; which is why he is seemingly always barefooted.
A gaunt, seemingly stretched face bears skin that is not pallid, as might have been expected at first glance, but is tinged a nutty red colour, leaving him with skin that looks as if it may have been put under a sun-bed for tanning before being applied. Almond lips provide quite a contrast to his grey-silver ‘mask’ of fur, and behind them lie gleaming, almost bleached white teeth with elongated canines and jagged molars. They sometimes emerge slightly from under his lips, giving him an uncomfortable vampire-esque look. Black tiger-like stripes curl over his cheeks, sliding down his shoulder bones and across his back.
His chest is awash with spiralling strands of a thin but soft ginger fur, stopping short of his neck and reaching across his back with long, red tendrils. It doesn’t really hide the fact that his ribs are prominent, with little muscle around the chest area. At the base of his spine, the red fur stops short, to be replaced by the glossy black of his tail. Where the two fur colours meet, there seems to always be some sort of struggle between the colours as they each strive for predominance.
Down his legs, the ginger fur gets thicker, coating each of his thighs in a blanket-like layer of shaggy ginger fur. The thighs themselves are thick and muscular, in stark contrast to his lanky upper body. His ankles are elongated and sleek, making his legs resemble more a quadruped, like a Ninetales’. At his knee, the fur colour changes to the velvety black seen on his arms, and his lower leg could almost be described as ‘on fire’. Swirling patterns of black and ginger adorn it, blending into each other harmoniously if not accordingly. As on his hands, cruel, hooked claws protrude out of each toe on his paws. As the only patches of bare skin are on his neck and upper chest, he does not technically need to wear any clothes, but they help him feel more normal.
The clothes in question he normally wears are simple; he is oblivious to much of recent fashion trends, and besides, even if he knew exactly what was 'trendy, hip an' happenin'', how would he get the clothes? With no money, and not exactly the figure to walk into a shop and buy clothes, he is stuck with his current outfit. Thieved from the lab, it consists of a thin, black cotton polo shirt with a low-cut neck, probably made for the summery higher temperatures of the lab rather than the bitter cold of the snow outside, a pair of patched demin pants, worn and frayed at the knees, a grey dappled fleece made of some kind of (hopefully) artificial fur and lined with flaaffy wool, and a black bandana, used primarily for hiding his rather prominent blue ears. No shoes adorn his paw-like feet; there were none in the lab, and anyway, why bother? It's not likely there would be any to fit his grossly misshapen feet, and they are warm enough as they are, coated in a blanket-like layer of black fur.
Personality
Arley was rebellious as a child, a trait which is still shown in him today. He much preferred the company of his father, a ginger-haired ex-ranger of a relatively athletic build, to that of his mother, a short, portly woman who once competed in contests, with black hair and a motley collection of freckles around her cheeks and nose. He would not obey a command, or do anything much for that matter, unless he was given a valid reason why. This stubbornness, coupled with Arley's disregard for the feelings and contempt for the company of his mother, caused her to apparently age very quickly, lines scoring her face before she was forty. It also frequently got him into trouble; he used to have what can best be described as 'a way with words', and was quite practised at weaselling his way out of uncomfortable spots.
He had, and still has, to an extent, an annoying habit of frequently 'zoning out'; not being aware of the passage of time, or of noises in his surroundings; simply staring at a blank patch of grass, river, sky, or often just un-focussing his eyes and staring at seemingly nothing at all. He would do this for periods of up to ten minutes at a time, before some river Pokémon caught his eye and he grabbed his pencil.
To while away the long outings spent away from home, at the beach, enjoying the tide washing in and out as it tickled his toes with white, foamy fingers, in the forest studying the bubbles of sap leaking from the trees that grow over fifty feet tall, or at the top of one of the cliffs, delighting in watching the wild wingull as they swoop overhead, Arley used to always keep a sketchpad and pencil with him. He would sketch nearly everything he saw, and many countless notebooks full of - surprisingly accurate for his age, albeit childish - drawings and pictures lay scattered around his small bedroom. Each drawing was precious to him - like a photograph. Maybe it was never as accurate, or as scaled, as a photograph, but each one captured a special moment in time for him, and he treasured each one like it was a priceless jewel or ancient artefact. One of the things he misses most, somehow, is the ability to hold a pencil. Rough, padded paws do not have opposable joints, and make it almost impossible to hold any sort of utensil, let alone a pencil.
He could almost be described as 'nocturnal', having varying sleeping patterns and sometimes staying up the whole night to sketch distant stars, new constellations, or simply to watch the flocks of Murkrow fly over the forest. This means he used to get most of his rest during the daytime, in quick naps whenever he felt like it. He was often seen with bruised eyes, blurred and tired from lack of sleep. This used to limit his attention span by a considerable amount, as it was not beyond him to simply doze off if he found the current subject of discussion tedious.
History
Arley's parents, and for the most part, Arley himself, spent most of their lives in the small, picturesque coastal village where Arley was born. It was relatively cut-off from the rest of the region; with sheer, white chalk cliffs to the east, the sea to the south, and a large, dense patch of evergreen forest behind, where the trees grew over fifty feet tall, it was not hard to imagine that they were protected, but also sealed in. To the west, the land gave way to a strip of glittering white beach, which stretched along the shore for some three miles before rounding a spur of land and disappearing from sight.
The village wasn’t exactly rich, but it wasn’t poor, either. Glittering white sands and tropical seas make the area one of the most attractive beaches in the region, and as such, there was a steady stream of beach-goers and tourists to the area. There was a local ice-cream shop, where people could purchase cold beverages, and on some days, savoury snacks, as well as ice-creams and frozen lollipops. A small fishing dock held a fishing booth. The idea was simple; customers would pay for loan of a fishing rod and some bait, and whatever they caught during the allotted time was theirs to keep. Pokéballs were also available to buy, and the total price depended on the quality of the rod, bait and the time spent fishing. It was easy enough to do, and produced a steady flow of income.
Arley's parents had a small job mending fishing equipment. This made sense, as it was mainly a fishing village, with the majority of occupants going out in boats every day and selling on their catch. They would mend anything; from nets to boat hulls, lures to cages, they would be able to fix it. Arley's father was very clever with his hands, and they made a comfortable living. The small village was very much a lax community; none of the villagers were afraid to help out their fellow occupants, as there was always plenty to go around, whether it was money, business, food, or simply the warmth of friendship. It was a tight-knit community, alright.
It's hard to explain exactly what happened next. The villagers all have different theories. Some say there were rumours of a curse on the village, some say the tourists found a better strip of beach. Some people have even gone so far as to say that there was something in the woods... something blocking the tourists and beachgoers, something savage... All these theories have been tossed aside as rumours. What is certain is that people stopped coming to the village. The supply of beachgoers simply began to dry up. There might be fifteen one day, only eight the next. And, naturally, as the commerce dried up, so did the steady flow of income that was the village's lifeblood.
At first, the village attempted to survive as a localised community. The rope-maker would construct nets for the fishermen, and they in turn would provide the rope-maker with enough fish to feed his family. But it was soon apparent this system would fail; too many of the businesses relied on a steady flow of new customers. After all, you only need one net to catch fish, right? The income began totally vanishing. People that were once social and welcoming were closing their doors and shutting out the unfortunate few who had already succumbed and were driven out of their homes, begging for food from their fellow residents. Desperately, some of the villagers tried to move away from the village, buy a house elsewhere. But it was impossible; they hadn't enough money, and nobody would buy their old houses. The picturesque little village they once knew was slowly but surely becoming a death-trap.
Nobody can quite agree when she came. Some say it was three months after the travellers stopped coming, some say three years. But all remember the events that took place that day, and possibly saved their lives. Or, so it seemed.
Helicopters were an uncommon sight in the village, and some of the younger children had never seen one in their lives. So it is quite understandable that when a huge black helicopter began descending upon them, a crowd of the twenty or so remaining villagers flocked along the beach to watch, staring in awe and shielding their eyes from the sand the great beast of a vehicle kicked up as it descended. A bold insignia, in striking gold and yellow paint, was emblazoned on one mighty metallic flank, and the tail was decked with the same colours. There turned out to be only two people in the craft; her, and her pilot.
Her proposition was simple: she was making a new product for the convenience of young people, most notably trainers and coordinators, and she wanted some test subjects for it. They would be staying at the testing facility for as long as needed, and would each be paid fair wages. The money would be sent to the young people's parents. It seemed like a gift from heaven at the time; an answer to all their problems. Money, and one less mouth to feed! After some anxious muttering, the crown managed to produce a group of about twelve people, their ages ranging from six to thirteen. Little Arley, who was only around three and a half years old at the time, went along too. His parents desperately needed the money, and after some discussion, she consented for Arley to come along too.
Of course, she didn't tell the villagers what kind of product they would be testing. What if one of them found out that no products like that were being made? There could be inquiries, accusations... pretty soon, they would be questioning what was actually happening to their 'darlings', unravelling the lies she had so carefully woven over the whole thing... no, best just to leave them in the dark, celebrating in innocent, beguiled joy.
The lab the 'specimens' were first taken to was relatively small. It was atop one of the cliffs painfully near their home, and from the outside looked as if it was one of the hides set up, to watch pokémon, and which sometimes had healing facilities to help rangers who brought in injured pokémon. Regularly, trucks would drive along and over to the lab, unloading their cargo of chemicals, drugs and other things the 'specimens' were injected with, fed, or had mixed up with their food and water. At first, being away from home, some of the younger 'specimens' were throwing up a racket; shouting and screaming, bawling for their parents, and thrashing about. Some of the older ones, too, wept for the lives they had once known, but they did it quietly, so as to set a good example. Tranquilising drugs were soon administered, and the screaming children gradually calmed down. Tests were run on them; their lung capacity was measured, and the strength of their bones tested; their heart strength, blood pressure, and muscle structure were all tested. All small, technical details, but these would be important later on; splicing genes was a delicate process. One wrong gene splice, or an overdose of some drug, could quite easily result in the death of the experiment.
Soon, some of the experiments were siphoned off and moved to another lab, and she went with them. The ones that were chosen depended on the results of their tests, and only about three or four of the original group of twelve were moved on. The ones left behind... well, best not to think about them, really. Harsher tests were run on them, and, alarmingly, the majority of the remaining group died within days of separation.
The second lab was much larger than the first; there were easily over a hundred specimens there. Some were suspended in fluid-filled capsules, linked with tubes and wires to life-support systems while tests were run on them. Many were simply caged up, awaiting their fate. The group, Arley included, were put on a new course of drugs, designed to pacify them and ready their body for the gene-splicing. In some cases, that meant erasing their memories; slowly, their minds were purged of all memories of parents, homes, wants. Even their names were, over time, slowly erased. They meant nothing anymore; the experiment numbers were their titles now, their old names simply a meaningless collection of syllables. It was pathetic to see them, living out their days in silent monotony, not making a sound if they could help it, and all plagued with the same, terrible thought that hounded them, day in and day out: some time soon, it's going to be me pulled apart on that splicing table.
It was an unavoidable fact; as such, most of them were willing to accept that dreadful fate. There was nothing they could do about it, and those still with the power of independent consciousness for the most part decided that they may as well make the most of life while they were there. Oh, there was still the odd suicide attempt here and there, by individuals who had become so traumatized that they couldn't bear living, but mostly they were ignored, drowned under the sheer weight of compliance.
Slowly, the experiments in the lab began to thin out. New ones were brought in less often, as the doctors refined splicing techniques and she began to glean a greater understanding of the finer points of the splicing procedure. The number of experiments was brought down to as little as twenty, and for every two failed experiments, there was one better-engineered, working morph, their features disfigured and usually unrecognisable. She kept the experiments she felt turned out well; they were seen around the lab in staff uniform, shuffling with hunched backs to their tasks and grunting when spoken to. The remaining subjects were put on a new course of drugs; these were mixed with a dye that coloured their skin and the lining of their stomachs. The drugs themselves were to prepare the body for the long and hazardous morphing process; the dye would, allegedly, make it easier for the doctors to do their gruesome work. This could only mean that their time was soon.
Arley always remembered that night, when they came for him. The moon was full outside, and casting its pallid glow on the snow outside, tainting it silver. He was taken out of his cage, but he didn't struggle. What conscious thought he had left reasoned, told him that it would be no use. So he went in resigned silence. He was given stronger versions of the dugs they had been on for a month or so. His clothes were stripped off, and he was wired up into a life-support system. Suspended in a vat of amber fluid, and kept alive by the oxygen mask clamped to his face and countless tubes wired into his flesh, he was totally helpless. There was no chance of escape now; realistically, there never had been. He would have to accept that what was going to happen next was unavoidable, and cling on to the fragile but substantial hope that he would survive the process.
His body went into a coma-like state. For the most part, he was blissfully unaware of what was happening to him. He was routinely given injections of some sort or another DNA; whether it was on his chest, legs, or the new tail that had been painfully stretched out from the base of his spine. His body began to change; he was resembling less a young boy of no more than eight, and more some grotesque, werewolf-like creature, feral and inconsiderate. Sometimes, when he was more in a light sleep than a coma, his sense of hearing would come back to him, and he would catch glimpses of conversations.
"...96 is doing well, ma'am. Better than we would have thought. We shall hopefully be able to move onto the next stage of testing soon, and a new gene splice shall be introduced."
He dimly recognised the new voice. It was her.
"Very good. Make sure you are careful with this one, I wouldn't want to lose him after all this..."
There was a brief silence, then:
"Do you have records of his name, doctor?"
There was the sound of heavy boots clumping on the tiled floor, then somebody rustling through a document.
"Arley, ma'am. Just Arley. We don't have a surname."
"Arley..." her voice sounded quiet, almost thoughtful. ”Very well. Proceed with the next stage of testing as soon as possible."
"Very well, ma'am..."
As intended, they went ahead with the second gene splice. A syringe of a clear, whitish liquid was injected into his thigh. Where the genes spread along bare skin, ginger-gold fur sprang up, spreading across his leg like wildfire. Where it met muscle, it tightened. On his legs, they began to swell, painfully stretching the bones along his ankle. It seemed to battle against the previous host DNA, as red and black seemed to struggle for predominance. The fur coiled along his back, reaching around his chest and up his spine with long, snaking tendrils...
Suddenly, there was a loud thud , followed by some muffled shouts and the sound of hobnailed boots being bashed against the reinforced steel doors of the lab. A gruff voice cried,
"Open up! We know you're in there!"
She froze, as did her doctors, as suddenly the door burst inwards, jolted off its hinges with a screeching noise. A regiment of police streamed in, clad in black uniform, with their visors pulled low. Many of them had shields, and the majority of them had sleek black rifles in one hand. She screamed at her doctors to run, and they turned their backs, grabbed a handful of precious documents, and scattered for cover. The police shot after them; bullets tore through sheets, ricocheted off walls, and punctured the glass of life-support capsules. Arley narrowly missed being impaled with a shard of glass as a bullet tore through the outside of his life-support system, the new weight of his body tugging out all the wires linking him to the vital instrument, so he lay sprawled out unconscious on the floor. Elsewhere, havoc reigned. Some over-eager officer had decided it would be a good idea to burn some of the papery research documents, and now flames licked over a good half of the building. Many of the remaining experiments perished in the fire; those that didn't were mostly killed by bullet wounds. In the havoc, nobody noticed the roar of a helicopter engine, or the sound of its twin blades slicing the air as it flew off into the night, gold insignia winking in the feeble glow of the moon.
Later, the police had cleared out. The foolish fire had destroyed much of the lab, but a team of reconnaissance units were coming to salvage what they could from the wreckage. Arley's body had gone unnoticed in the catastrophe. His heart was still beating, but the warmth was draining from his body, and it was hard to tell how long it would keep the valiant effort up.
Something, a dark shape, stalked over to Arley. It made no sound; it was obviously skilled at moving in darkness, and its paws may as well have been made of velvet fro all the sound it made. A slanting beam of moonlight briefly illuminated the gold-grey fur that covered the beast's canine body, and its prominent ribs, covered by a thin layer of skin. It looked over Arley with hungry eyes, the blue irises winking in the faint light. Nosing him over, it placed one paw upon his chest for a moment, as if to verify a heartbeat, before seeming to nod. A grin seemed to curve along its snout - there's a lot of teeth to be considered with Mightyena and facial expressions - and it bent down, jaws poised above Arley's neck.
A white shape hurled itself out of the darkness, bounding with long strides towards the gold and grey-furred Pokémon. It turned its head, blue eyes wide with terror, and was bowled over by the sudden attack. Growling and getting to its feet, it was about to attack again when the white shape warningly fired a Shadow Ball at the Mightyena, who promptly turned tail and fled. The Absol watched as the Pokémon vanished into the darkness, giving a satisfied snort, then turned to Arley.
The body seemed to strike him by surprise. It was one of the subjects from the recently burned lab, that much was obvious. But it seemed to be alive; Absol could sense a heartbeat. The body was warm with life, and, nudging its snout against Arley’s chest, Absol could tell he was breathing steadily, albeit slowly. The cold would hopefully wake him out of unconsciousness soon. Absol tilted his head at the strange experiment. It was human – but, it was also Pokémon, and Absol found himself taking pity on the strange creature.
Arley woke slowly, rising steadily out of his sleep like a swimmer would rise to the surface of the water to breathe. Blearily opening bloodshot, amber eyes, the world around him seemed to be entirely composed of a grey mist, fog that swirled around him. His first thought was that he had died, and gone to some sort of heaven. There was also this strange, repetitive, slow drumming noise.
It took Arley a few moments to realise that the sound was his heart. He was alive, then. That was something. His next thought was that the morphing process was complete: he had become what he had become, and there was nothing he could do about it. As he tilted his head to look about him, however, and his brain, still sleepy from the drugs and the coma he had been in for the past few months, struggled to take in the burnt lab around him, he realised something had happened. One glance at his smashed life-support system was enough to tell him that the morphing process hadn’t been completed; he was an unfinished work and, by the looks of things, would always be.
The thought was depressing, but he didn’t have time to think on it much longer, as the Absol came bounding into view. In its mouth was tenderly held a bunch of clothes, most likely stolen from the wreckage of the lab. Arley realised, embarrassed, that he was naked, but then also realised that he was for the most part covered in thick ginger or black fur. Gingerly taking the clothes from the Absol, he looked up for a second into its blue-red eyes.
”Why are you doing this for me?” he asked, his voice trembling with unused rustiness, and coming out as more a collection of squeaks and yips than recognisable English. The Absol seemed to understand, though. It looked away for a few seconds, and then looked back, regarding him solemnly for a few seconds with its sapphire eyes.
<You are partly Pokémon now. That means you are kin. How could I not help you?>
Arley considered the Absol’s words. The Pokémon was right; he was partly a Pokémon now, whether he liked it or not.
Pulling on the clothes, they were rough and scratchy against his skin, but he was grateful for their warmth.
”I only wish… there was some way I could repay you – for saving me, I mean.” His voice still trembled and squeaked, but no longer cracked from disuse. The Absol turned to leave, then remembered something suddenly and turned back.
<As a matter of fact, there is.> he said, a hint of amusement seeming to creep into his rough voice. <I only ask that you take this.> Nosing an amulet towards Arley, he noted the twin poke ball pendants that hung from it. Looking at the Absol questioningly, he slipped the pendant around his neck.
<There. Now we are even.> said the Absol, satisfied. Turning to leave, he leapt off over a snow-covered spur and was gone.
Arley stared after him as his bladed tail disappeared, then shrugged, fingering the charm around his neck. The two pokéballs hung there, set in a piece of metal almost like a yin-yang system, in gold and silver. His rough pads traced the lines on it curiously. Why had the Absol wanted him to take it? He would work that out later. Shivering despite himself, Arley set off down the slope. There had to be a town nearby – hopefully, they could give him shelter and directions.
Anything Else?
His experiment number, K-396, is tattooed on his left thigh, but it is all but concealed by a layer of thick fur. When he transforms, the Riolu genes become more dominant, but a patch of red fur is visible around his legs and chest.
Chosen Path
Trainer
