//------------------------------//
// (22) - Feel the Burn 
// Story: A Pokemon Problem 
// by Solecism 
//------------------------------//

A Pokemon Problem

(22) - Feel the Burn




How freaking bad was our luck that, of all the trains, we end up climbing aboard the one that was carrying apple cider and dynamite?

Pretty bad, if I say so myself.

To add insult and probably death by explosion, a small amount of dust came out of the box and drifted menacingly towards Miranda's agape beak. Never before have I been so afraid of tiny, suspended particles. It seemed that everyone, even the people who had didn't need to breathe, held their breaths while they waited. To sneeze or not to sneeze; that was the question that everyone was wondering.

"Ah!"

Everyone pre-emptively winced.

"Ah!"

I heard several prayers being whispered.

"Achoo—"

Quick as I could, I put my arm in front of Miranda just as she sneezed a torrent of fire. With a rare fling of masochism, I watched with mild interest as my arm started smoking and some of the metal melted and dripped down onto the steel carriage floor, only to burn a hole straight through. The whole time I observed my arm melting like a popsicle on a hot summer day, I didn't feel any pain.

"Ohmygod! Ohmygod! I didn't mean—I tried to—I can't—!"

With a metaphorical click, I was no longer a distant observer of someone else's problem: I was the one who had the half-melted arm, and it hurt. My vision tunnelled, I could see stars, and everything else was blotted out by pain.

I once fell down a flight of concrete stairs, and broke an arm, leg, and my collarbone. That hurt, but compared to having your arm melted by sixteen hundred degree (Fahrenheit) flames, it was akin to scraping your knee on the playground.

Thankfully, Seth had a brilliant idea. He took a deep breath and breathed a stream of icy wind onto my raised appendage, cooling it and making the rivulets of molten metal cool and harden. I wasn't sure if it was because the cold numbed my limb, but the pain dropped from feeling like it was being charbroiled to a dull throb, with occasional spikes of ache.

I felt ripped off. I was a freakin' floating (most of the time), psychic heap of metal. Why in the hell could I feel pain? I could understand the head pains from using my mental abilities: that was fine. But having nerve endings in my metal body? I call bullshit on that.

"Th-Thanks, Seth," I said, gently laying my arm back onto the floor, where it was nice and safe. "That helped a lot more than I thought it would."

"I-uh—yeah, you're welcome," the big, furry pig-thing replied. "Uh... are you going to be okay? That—" he motioned with his head towards my mangled hand, "—doesn't look very good."

I twisted my arm this way and that. "No, it doesn't look very good, but there's no sense crying over melted flesh, is there?" I looked back at my arm and winced. "What's done is done, and I'd rather sport an injury than have everyone blown to smithereens."

Gingerly, I picked up the lid with my good hand and placed it back on top of the crate that contained roughly enough dynamite to level a building—or three. Everyone's eyes were on me while I did it, and by the time I was done, I was feeling mighty uncomfortable.

"I'd appreciate it you turned your sympathy into moving in that direction," I said, pointing towards the set of doors that were casually knocked down by who I assumed was Seth when they first entered my carriage. "If I was the conductor of this train, I'd be awfully curious as to why it mysteriously slowed down—"

My thought-speech was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream that set the hairs on Seth's back straight up. Even Philomena was disturbed: the plume of feathers on her chest rose before she nervously began preening and flattening them again.

"That doesn't sound like someone's having a good time," Ryder said.

"Seconded. Everyone, let's get the hell out of here. Ryder, you take point: I doubt that whatever got a response like that can hurt a Ghost. I'll bring up the rear, 'cause... well..." I motioned towards my arm, and nothing more was said about it.

With Ryder floating in front and Seth, along with Philomena, trailing just behind, I waited for Miranda to go ahead of me. When she didn't, I awkwardly turned myself around, and saw her sitting on the floor, crying.

"Hey, hey, there's no need to cry—"

Without a warning, Miranda flung herself toward me and wrapped her arms around me in a semi-crushing vice, spouting, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry!"

Despite myself, I gently brought my good arm and returned the hug, albeit softer.

"It's all my fault that you—your—"

"It's not your fault."

"Yes it is! I was the one who—"

"It's not your fault."

"But—"

"It's not your fault," I said for the third and final time. "I could just as easily argue that it's my fault for asking you to open up that godforsaken box in the first place. I know you had no intention of hurting me, or anyone, for that matter, and I don't want you to beat yourself up over something that was out of your control."

I felt her wracking sobs lessen in both power and frequency. "I'm still sorry," she sniffed. "You can't make me not feel sorry."

"That's fine by me, just as long as you're sorry for me, not sorry based on guilt. I'm not going to disregard pity or sympathy like some overly-macho, self-hating jerk."

I felt Miranda's sobs lessen even more until they could be masquerading hiccups. "You're a good person, James," she whispered.

I froze. I hadn't heard my name spoken in what felt like years. Recovering from my initial shock, I said, "Good person? No, I'm just a person who doesn't like to see someone else beat themselves up over something that they didn't—"

I froze again, this time because a white light was blossoming from Miranda's chest. She hugged me tighter and whispered, "I love you," before being fully engulfed in the blindingly brilliant, white light.