Mercy's figuring herself out

So a few days ago I noticed a fox friend running through my yard. I was able to snap this photo.

I called him Milo.

I thought he was a lone wolf who chose my neighborhood as his domain.

But Milo is not alone.

Milo is a papa.

He and his lady fox have three little foxes!

I went from never having seen a fox to FIVE foxes playing in my backyard.

The three kiddos were wrestling. Their opening move is to do this cat-like superjump and then dive bomb into their sibling. Then they roll around. And then a high speed chase ensues.

One of the little foxes came near the house and I got a few closer photos.

I love the little black socks.

Papa Milo and Mama Mia.

And for the kits... Marian, McCloud, and Michael J.

You can’t hear anything but your own heavy breathing, and the sound of your heartbeat, so loud that it feels like it’s reverberating off of the trees around you. The moonlight is barely trickling through the leaves, leaving only little wisps of light to keep you on the right track. Leering red eyes glare at you from the trees and underbrush, Hoothoot and Patrat all silent as they watch, judgingly.

They’re not the ones in danger.

Your foot catches on a vine and you scream despite yourself. You hit the ground hard, tasting blood in your mouth, but pick yourself up as quickly as you can – you know you don’t have time to sit around. Your knees and elbows are skinned, and you hope it won’t matter. Even as you think the words, far behind you, you hear a loud, sharp howl.

Fuck. Fuck.

You know you’ve got to be getting close, unless you’ve been running in circles the whole time. It’s hard to tell time in the dimly lit forest, but running in a single direction should bring you to the edge of town before your legs give out, shouldn’t it?

The woods start to brighten, and the volume of silent, observing wildlife starts to fade away. You’re close. You’re really really close, you can feel it, you can hear the hum of generators and the distant drone of cars. You’ve got to be close to town now.

You can’t slow down. You know what’s behind you, and even with a head-start…. You push yourself harder, faster, moving through the trees, winding around foliage and pushing past vines and Spinarak webs and moving faster, faster, before-

You made it.

You actually make it.

You laugh so hard and suddenly it startles you, tears welling up in your eyes. You break through the treeline, the dim neon of the Pokémon Center more inviting than it’s ever been. There are people inside, milling about at the counter, talking and laughing. You could get a warm shower. You could go home, you could-

You take a step and feel something crunch underfoot. A snare whips up around your ankle, the tension breaking and pulling you back toward the treeline. You try to scream, your fingers scraping against the dirt as you’re pulled away, but the fall knocks the wind out of you. As quickly as you’re pulled beyond the light of the town, an enormous, heavy paw collides with your chest, keeping you still.

Snarling, wide-eyed, fire glowing behind its fangs, the Houndoom is illuminated by its own inner flame as her master steps up beside her, smiling broadly.

“Gosh, you really did almost make it,” she sighs, kneeling beside you, clamping a hand over your mouth. “Look how close you were. Go on. Look.” With the hand over your mouth, she guides your face toward the town. The nurse behind the counter is smiling at a young woman, about your age. They’re chatting about nothing, probably. Safe and warm. She grinds your head into the cold dirt, and every wound on your body twinges.

“That could be you,” she points. “If you were a little faster. If you looked where you stepped. Pretty stupid of you. It’s like you wanted to be caught.” You sob, shaking your head as hard as you can in her grasp, tears starting to stream down your face now. “Aww. Stop, you know how hard it gets me when you cry.” She stands, snapping her fingers, and the Houndoom puts more pressure on your sternum, keeping you firmly from crying out. “Well, you failed test number one,” she sighed, reaching into her pocket. The small sphere she pulls from there telescopes out to fill her palm. “Now I suppose it’s just to figure out how much willpower you have left.”

“Please, please,” you beg, voice hoarse and whispery. “Y-you don’t have to, I promise, I’ll do anything you-?”

“Anything I want?” she laughs harshly. “This is what I want, stupid. Now hold still. We’ll go one at a time.”

The basic Poké Ball is simple, and the way it envelops you is… harsh. It’s utilitarian, built for simple travel, and not very strong. Your mind is reeling, the feeling of being turned into data is grating, and you push hard, feeling the jailbroken ball’s lock snap at your push.

“Ooh, very good,” she smiles. You’re out of the snare now, and the Houndoom isn’t on your chest, but even the act of breaking out of a single Poké Ball was taxing enough that you’re dizzy. “I’m glad that one didn’t break you. I don’t want a pet who gives in so easily.”

“W-wait, please-!” you try, before the Great Ball is pushed against your collarbone. This one is… more difficult. Designed to disorient, scattering your data and making it harder to focus. Harder to breathe, harder to find yourself in the claustrophobic mire of the contraption. But there’s a single point of light, and if you focus your entire will on it, all at once-

“Wow,” she whistles. “Genuinely didn’t think you’d make it out of that.”

“Please,” you whine, your voice a sob now. The Houndoom is watching you with something close to hunger, head bowed, eyes aglow. “Please just let me go home…”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she sighs, stroking your face softly, thumb brushing over your thumb. “That’s what I’m trying to do.” She levels the Ultra Ball in her hand before pausing. “Mm. No.” She pockets it and for a moment you think you’re going to be allowed to leave. A tiny, fleeting moment.

Luxury Balls are beautiful. Sleek black exterior, inlaid with gold and crimson banding, sourced from apricorns growing all the way in Johto and made to an exacting design. It’s as weak as a regular Poké Ball, but from what you’ve heard… that doesn’t make much of a difference.

“You deserve this, don’t you?” she whispers. “For running. For being such a good, strong pet.”

“Please…” you shudder, trying to pull yourself away, back toward town. “Please…!”

“You’ll be happier like this,” she promises, and you can tell she means it. “You wanted to go home, didn’t you?”

The warm light envelops you and, like everything you’d heard, it’s different. If a simple Poké Ball is utilitarian, this is… luxury. It’s like slipping into a warm hot tub of just the right temperature. Like warm sheets on your bed, like a kiss on your forehead goodnight. It’s not as strong as a Great Ball in terms of obfuscation and data processing, but… Fuck. You don’t want to leave.

And that’s the scariest part. You feel your data slowly integrating into the ball and you don’t want to leave. It’s terrifying realizing how much easier it is to give up, to let yourself go, all of your personality, your thoughts, your emotions, your love and fears, digitized. And as they are, the Luxury Ball does its work, worming into every crack in your psyche and filling it with love. Love for being here, love for being owned.

Love for your new owner.

Why would you ever try to run away again?