Chapter Text
The first time Naveen ran away from home, he forgot his toothbrush. It wasn’t like he’d spent his whole life planning this. Things were fine when it was just him and his parents, before his grandma started trying to replace his mom and he became the least favorite kid. One day when he was gaming in his room, his grandma busted in with a page of his homework that had more doodles than answers, threatening to throw away his art supplies—so he took them, along with the sweets she thought he ate too much of, and left.
He was barely eleven years old, and he hadn’t stormed down many blocks before the rest of the city crashed into his bubble. A man in a suit breezed past him, talking loudly into a Rotom Phone that was soaring to keep pace. A blurry teenager skated toward him and forced him to duck out of the way. Though those people didn’t pay him any mind, the thought of someone seeing him and dragging him home, or maybe to some kind of jail for fugitive children, had him power walking in a slouch, trying to look like he had someplace to be.
He made it as far as the park, where he sat on a bench to draw and eat a galette, because his grandma wasn’t there and couldn’t stop him. He licked the crumbs off his fingers while he sketched strangers’ outfits. One woman wore a headband printed with stars to match her Furfrou. A few kids wore Naveen’s favorite brand of sneakers. No one gave him trouble, not even the Purrloin that wandered up to sniff his galette-scented hand.
The Purrloin bounded off, his only warning before a raindrop splattered on his notebook. He shoved it in his bag and headed off to find shelter. At the edge of the park, the sky spilled down on him. He couldn’t just go home. If he went into a store, they’d expect him to buy something. He wound up under a bridge, sitting on the cold ground while the rain drummed overhead.
It was okay. The graffiti was more inspiring than Furfrou-based jogging outfits. He got out his art supplies as if setting up a studio, as if he was more in control than the Magikarp flopping around in the canal.
The illusion lasted until he reached for a package of colored pencils that wasn’t there. He felt around for it, his heart rate spiking at the thought that his grandma had followed through on her threat when he wasn’t looking. Off to the side, he spotted the box. It was dented, with the pencils all dumped out—all except for one, held in the claws of a Scraggy.
He froze as if there was anything to hide behind. He was no Pokémon trainer, but he knew Scraggies were tough. At least, that’s what he’d heard, but this one was even smaller than him, sitting on the ground with its legs out like a baby, its twiggy arms struggling to draw in the dirt. Though its efforts were only succeeding in messing up Naveen’s pencil, its wide eyes looked more confused than frustrated.
That, and it was alone.
Naveen chewed his lip. He’d paid attention the day his class learned about Scraggies because they made their own clothes out of their skin. When his desire to not waste this Scraggy’s latent creativity (not to mention his poor pencils) won out over his apprehension, he scooted toward it.
“You’re not going to get anywhere like that,” he said.
It jerked its oversized head up, clutching the pencil close. That’s mine, he wanted to insist, except…except the Scraggy wasn’t running off with it or throwing it away like it didn’t matter, just because all it did was make the world look better.
Naveen hesitated. It wasn’t like the Scraggy could understand him, but…
He pointed at the graffiti. “Is that what you’re trying to do?”
The Scraggy waved the pencil in the same direction with a sound like a hiccup.
“You can’t do that with colored pencils and dirt.” It stared at him. With a sigh, he pulled his bag closer and found a loose scrap of paper. “Here. Like this.”
Carefully, in case a sudden movement made the Scraggy attack, he reached for the colored pencil farthest from the Scraggy’s reach. He moved the paper onto the concrete wall and demonstrated how to make a mark on it. The Scraggy got up and waddled over, all but stabbing its pencil into the paper.
“No, no. You have to be gentle.”
It was like trying to teach his baby sister before she’d learned to use her words. Still, the Scraggy managed to draw a few lines, and Naveen felt strangely proud.
The Scraggy squeaked in alarm, drawing Naveen’s attention to the side. Another Scraggy, this one practically a head taller, stalked under the bridge with rainwater dripping off it. Naveen scrambled backward. The larger Scraggy cornered the smaller one, squawking something that made it drop the paper.
Naveen’s anger from earlier that day resurged. Maybe it was only a scribble, but that Scraggy was just trying to make something. Just trying to express itself.
“Are you going to just let it boss you around? Go! Defend yourself!”
He pointed at the larger Scraggy, fishing for a real command. He’d stopped paying attention in class when the teacher rattled off Scraggy’s moves. This Scraggy seemed to be inventing a new move called Hold Pencil, jabbing it forward like a rapier. It only attacked the air, a warning the other Scraggy ignored, headbutting the pencil. It broke with a snap.
“Hey, that’s mine!”
The larger Scraggy ignored him. Scraggy—Naveen’s Scraggy—grabbed the only other thing nearby, the scrap of paper. It held it out like a Taurus fighter, though it was unclear if it was trying to wave the paper around or if it was just trembling. The larger Scraggy charged.
At the last second, Scraggy pulled the paper aside, and its bully rammed head-first into the wall.
It fell back with a cry, its arms—still twiggy even at its larger size—clutching its head. It scurried out from under the bridge.
“Scraggy! Are you okay?”
It had fallen, too, when it dodged. It whined in response. He scooped it up, trying to feel around its head for a bruise but unable to gauge anything through its rubbery skin. Balancing it in his arms, he grabbed his bag.
It was only once he was running through the rain that he realized he’d left the colored pencils behind.
The rain ran off the roof of the Pokémon Center in sheets, curtaining the alcove where Naveen sat. That galette sat sticky in his stomach, and he hadn’t packed much in the way of dinner. No longer in the mood to draw, he watched the nurse examine Scraggy until she called him over to the counter.
“Scraggy was only startled. It was kind of you to bring it here,” she said. Naveen had told a rambling story about how he’d found it, leaving out the part where he’d run away. “You’re welcome to stay until the weather clears up.”
Scraggy stood on the counter, still wide-eyed, though maybe it always looked like that. It reached out to Naveen, who picked it up. It was about as heavy and wriggly as his sister. He’d only just sat down when the nurse approached with a meal for Scraggy alongside a sandwich, which Naveen gratefully took.
“I’ll leave these here, too. Let me know if you have any questions,” she said, and placed a Poké Ball—at least, it looked like one, though it was mostly white—and a Potion beside him before retreating. While Scraggy dug into its meal, Naveen stared at the items. He barely knew the first thing about being a Pokémon trainer, let alone how he’d find food and shelter for both himself and Scraggy.
There was nothing for it. He’d have to go home and find a safe place to store his art supplies, one only Scraggy knew about. The thought of his new friend learning to draw for real perked him up. As long as he was there, nobody would ever stop Scraggy from making art again.