POV: Houndour
In the beginning, there was no light. For the small, dark ball of fur born in a deep, dark cave, the world did not consist of colors, but of warmth and scents.
His first certainty was the rich scent of his mother and her delicious milk. The second scent was his brothers and sisters—hungry mouths pushing forward just to reach their mother's teats. Along with them, he also sensed their bitter smell of fear whenever their mother stepped away. From birth, Houndour felt that he was bigger and stronger. He never had trouble getting to the wonderful milk; he always shoved his way through his siblings without mercy.
When he first caught the heavy, raw scent of his father, the pack leader, he instinctively cowered. He automatically sensed danger and immense power. He could feel the hot flame escaping his father's maw with every single breath. But at the same time, deep down, he knew that one day he, too, would be a powerful Houndoom.
Houndour and his siblings grew very quickly thanks to the nutritious milk. They felt powerful and strong, and ordinary games soon stopped being enough. While their mother guarded the pups, their father hunted and brought prey back to the cave. Most of the time it was already dead, but when he brought something alive, it was the best experience for the pups—even though they didn't get a single bite of it yet.
The desperate pleas of a Rattata or Sentret for their lives, their screams of pain, and the cracking of bones as his mother tore them to pieces were the most beautiful music to Houndour. He couldn't wait for the day he would finally follow his father on a hunt and sink his teeth into bloody, juicy meat for the first time instead of mother's milk.
However, the old Houndoom was relentless in this regard. Until the pups opened their eyes and could see at least the outlines of the world, they were not allowed to hunt. And until they went on a hunt, they didn't get a single scrap of meat—because in the pack, everyone had to earn their share.
When Houndour finally glimpsed the first outlines in the darkness, he was disappointed. While his sense of smell told a complex, rich story, his vision was so dull and limited. But disappointment was quickly replaced by pure joy—he could finally join the pack leader and start hunting. He couldn't wait for his first hunt, and he made this known immediately with a loud battle howl that echoed through the cave. His mother, of course, promptly swatted him to the ground for it, but not even this pain could dampen his joy. The next day, he finally followed his father outside.
He was reasonably proud of himself. When he first stepped out of the cave, he felt that the world couldn't be more beautiful. So many unfamiliar scents hit his nose that he became completely lost in them, losing all awareness of his surroundings. Fascinated by this flood of sensory input, he completely ignored the leader. But his father immediately pinned him to the ground with a furious growl, sharp teeth clamping down on his neck.
From the old Houndoom's deep throat came a dark, irritated growl that his son instinctively understood perfectly: "You've earned your first hunt, little one. Either you follow me, or I will tear your throat out right now."
Only the sharp teeth snapped Houndour out of the flood of scents. Whimpering, he submitted and began to obediently follow the leader. Even during this first hunt, his father taught him how to track and recognize various stimuli—which scents meant danger, which were safe, where to find food, and how to approach it unnoticed. He taught him how to hunt without letting the prey escape, and how to mask his own scent so the wind wouldn't give away their presence.
That very same day, he tasted his first Rattata, which had failed to escape his lightning-fast jaws. He completely ignored the prey's desperate pleas; he incredibly enjoyed tearing into the delicious, juicy meat and the cracking of tiny bones. Pure pride radiated from the old Houndoom's scent at that moment, so he let his son enjoy the catch to the very end.
Over time, other siblings joined Houndour and his father. Houndour saw them as weak and slow. He didn't understand why he should teach them anything when he would have preferred to hunt alone. After all, the entire forest hid nests of Rattatas, Sentrets, and occasionally even juicy Mareep. Yet, he didn't dare defy the leader. Reluctantly, he passed on what his father had taught him to the others. He did it with displeasure, but his father's truth constantly echoed in his mind, its deeper meaning only just beginning to make sense to him: "A pack is only as strong as its weakest member."
His brothers and sisters felt his reluctance, yet they willingly and lovingly shared their warmth with him in their home. Gradually, Houndour began to soften and understand that every pack member had their place. Strong or weak—the shared warmth and loyalty were suddenly more important than his original selfish and greedy instincts. And at the exact moment he began to care more about his siblings than his own stomach, his beautiful world of scents, warmth, and food shattered into a thousand pieces.
Their day began exactly like any other. Running through the forest, tracking, hunting, and feeding. The collective scent of the pack told a story of a bloody massacre. Pure primal joy hung in the air, and it was no wonder. For the first time, they had run into a small herd of Stantlers, and their leader had boldly ordered the attack. The entire pack was stuffed to bursting, contentedly returning to the cave. Only the old Houndoom remained alert enough to catch an approaching threat on the wind.
The old leader caught the scent of the world's most dangerous predators, but he had no intention of giving up his cave without a fight. He was sure his pack was strong enough to tear the intruders to shreds. Whipping his tail aggressively, he let out a menacing order from his throat: "Prepare for battle!"
The young Houndour immediately began to wag their tails in excitement. Though stuffed to bursting, a fight was a fight. With predatory joy and zero fear, they followed their leader forward.
The closer they got to the cave, the more intensely he perceived the unfamiliar scents, smelled for the first time in his life. He couldn't wait for his jaws to crush the bones of these intruders. Suddenly, a multitude of other sensory cues joined their tracks, appearing as if out of nowhere—earthy, watery, poisonous odors, and also a dark one that felt slightly familiar. Houndour wanted to howl with excitement, but instead, he simply accelerated his run. He didn't understand why the leader suddenly began to smell of uncertainty, or why their mother slowed down slightly. After all, nothing could match their pack. They successfully completed every single hunt.
His father and mother were faster than the young pups, so Houndour, as always, expected to arrive and find the prey already helplessly begging for mercy on the ground.
When he finally burst from behind the trees to claim his share, he was met with a sight and smells he would never forget for the rest of his life. The pack leader lay flat on his back, his throat ripped out. Standing over him was a grey-and-black Pokémon—Houndour instantly sensed it was their ancient, genetic enemy. A Mightyena. The most powerful leader he had ever known was dead so quickly that he hadn't managed to make a single sound to warn his sons and daughters.
His mother hung motionless, skewered through the chest by a sharp stone spike that had burst from the ground. Nearby stood a massive, round stone Pokémon—a Golem.
And behind them stood strange, tall, white creatures with bizarre, multi-colored fur and a symbol the color of a Houndoom's eyes on their chests.
Houndour tried to howl for a retreat to save the rest of the pack, but in his horrific, panic-stricken shock, he couldn't make a sound. Thus, his siblings charged from behind the trees with loud, barking battle cries, straight into the trap.
"Golem, get rid of them," ordered one of those strange Pokémon in a cold, foreign voice. "We need to move."
"Wait, Josh, I want that big one," a second voice spoke. "Mightyena, bring me the largest one. Alive!"
Houndour growled furiously, and the first sparks sputtered from his nostrils. It should have been a happy occasion, the birth of his first flame, but now he had only one duty—to defend his brothers and sisters. Instinctively, he began to pool thick, dark energy in his maw.
"Retreat!" he growled desperately at his siblings, throwing himself forward with determination.
He didn't even have time to bite the mocking Golem before Mightyena's sharp jaws suddenly clamped down on him. With a triumphant, cruel growl, she grabbed him by the throat and, disregarding his painful whimpers, dragged him roughly away from his siblings.
Houndour did not see their cruel end, but he heard and felt it all the more intensely. The cracking of bones under crushing rocks, the painful screams, and the agony of his brothers and sisters reverberated in his ears. Mixed into this was Golem's amused, rumbling laughter, clearly enjoying its absolute power.
In that moment, Houndour knew he would carry the scent of helpless horror and omnipresent death within him for the rest of his life.
The last thing he heard before darkness finally consumed him were the cold words of the intruders.
"Golem, that's enough, they're already dead," a cold voice stopped him. "Go into the cave and find the fossils."
And so Houndour lost everything. His pack, their shared warmth, and his sense of security. What would he have given not to have been so foolish and naive back then? The only place he still felt safe and comfortable was in his dreams. There, he would return to their warm cave and once again share warmth with his siblings.
Instead of safety, however, reality was filled only with hunger, cold, fear, and pain.
He discovered that those strange creatures were not Pokémon, but humans. Evil and cruel, just like the Mightyena that accompanied them. Houndour refused to listen to the killers of his pack. He would rather die than submit to them. He ignored every single command, and each time, a cruel punishment from Mightyena followed.
He was beaten, abused, and starved. His "trainer" laughed whenever he kicked him while he lay defenseless on the ground, and the other members of this artificial "pack" did not even dare to speak up. Meowth and Golbat had gone through the same, but unlike him, they had submitted and obeyed. To avoid suffering and to be fed, they had preferred to surrender their pride.
But Houndour could not do it. Whenever he closed his eyes, the painful screams of his brothers and sisters echoed in his ears. Whenever he closed his eyes, the horrific smell of death from the day he lost absolutely everything burned in his nose. He no longer had the strength to attack, so he simply endured the pain in silence and occasionally, humiliated, ate Mightyena's leftovers. He had to survive. He hoped that one day he would be able to take his revenge. One day, power would be on his side so that no one would ever hurt him again. Only now did he fully understand his father and his talk about the importance of the pack. He deeply regretted his former selfish behavior toward his siblings. Thus, dreams remained his only escape from the cold, hunger, and endless pain.
Until one day, his world changed again.
When his trainer summoned him out once more, he instinctively expected only more pain. But upon being released from the white light, he sensed something he had only dreamed of until now. Although fresh traces of Mightyena hung in the air, he no longer felt her presence—she was gone. Likewise, he caught the scent of the artificial pack fading away. With another deep, sharp breath, he inhaled the smell of death. A lifeless human body lay a short distance away. It was from that direction that the smell of Mightyena, mixed with the blood of other Pokémon, drifted. But most importantly—a little further away lay the dead body of the human he feared so much. His tormentor was dead.
But besides the scents of ruin, Houndour detected something else. A strange, unnatural aftertaste of another Pokémon hung in the air, along with the presence of its master. Anger and the smell of blood radiated from this human.
However, the first pure spark of hope after long months of suffering was abruptly cut short by a red beam, and Houndour found himself back in the darkness of the Poké Ball.
Before Houndour could even blink, a flash of white light released him back into reality. Though he could barely stand on his battered, malnourished legs, his ears pressed fearfully against his head, he immediately assumed a defensive stance.
But his sense of smell worked flawlessly. The scent of fear and blood was gone. In its place, he smelled the new human. A bitter stench of anger still radiated from him, but Houndour sensed right away that this predatory wrath was not directed at him. The human was sitting by a fire. Floating beside him was that unnatural, chilling Pokémon—Haunter. Houndour was terrified of it, but he waited stubbornly, prepared for the worst.
Suddenly, the delicious, intense aroma of roasted meat hit his nose. His stomach let out a desperate, loud rumble. He watched as the human handled a hot pan, mixing the meat with some unfamiliar dry kibble, and walked slowly toward him. Houndour froze.
But the human did not attack. He placed the bowl a meter in front of him, made some noises that Houndour ignored completely, and stepped back.
The scent of the juicy steak instantly made Houndour's mouth water. He struggled for a moment, but after long months of abuse, the wild, burning hunger definitively triumphed over fear. He lunged at the bowl and devoured it completely without mercy. For the first time in a long while, his stomach was full, though pain and fatigue still weighed heavily on him.
When the human slowly approached him again, Houndour heavily took a step back. His heart hammered wildly. But he did not start growling—instinct told him that this one did not want to hurt him.
Instead of a blow, the human placed a bowl full of clean, cold water in front of him. Houndour didn't wait; he eagerly began to lap it up, splashing water everywhere. When he emptied the bowl, the human poured him another portion without any commands or punishments. Houndour quenched his worst thirst and looked up at him, almost gratefully.
Then the human slowly reached out his hand. Houndour tensed, bracing for a strike. But the hand remained motionless in the air. The human was giving him a choice—he could run, or come closer. Haunter watched them warily from above. Houndour stretched his neck and tentatively sniffed the hand. It smelled of smoke, the wilderness, and something peaceful that felt pleasant to him. He yielded to instinct and gently pressed his forehead against it.
As fingers began to gently scratch behind his ears, an unfamiliar, warm sensation rushed through Houndour. On its own, for the first time since the cave massacre, his tail gave a weak wag. His eyes began to close from exhaustion, and he let out a deep, tired yawn. Yet, he was still filthy, covered in wounds and dried blood.
The human spoke to him again in that strange, soothing voice. Houndour did not understand the words, but he sensed safety in the tone. He understood that this human did not want to break him. He wanted to help him. Heavy eyelids pulled him down relentlessly, but he still slowly cracked open one eye. He looked at the human, and a soft, accepting growl rumbled in his throat: "Houndour..."
A moment later, he closed his eye again and completely surrendered to exhaustion. The human understood. Houndour felt the stranger pulling something from his backpack, and then the wet, rough surface of a cloth touched his body. The human proceeded slowly and carefully. Houndour felt the pressure of fingers running through his dirty fur, beneath which lay a muscular but starved body. He was checking his muscles and bones.
Every time the fingers brushed against a deep wound or bruise, Houndour instinctively hissed in sharp pain and tensed. But immediately after, the human sprayed something cool onto the sore spot. The strange liquid hissed sharply against his hot skin and immediately soaked deep beneath his fur. Under this coldness, the pain that had plagued him for months began to miraculously recede.
All that was left was to rid him of the layers of dirt. But when the human pressed the water-soaked cloth to his coat, Houndour growled softly and unhappily in the darkness. Water was an enemy to his fiery nature; he clearly did not like the dampness on his skin at all, and it instinctively aroused a deep resistance in him.
However, the slow, rhythmic strokes of the wet cloth gradually calmed him. The feeling of the human patiently washing away the dried blood and dirt suddenly began to remind him of something. After a while, Houndour felt as though his own mother was grooming him with her rough, warm tongue.
In his mind, he suddenly returned to the times when he couldn't even see the first outlines of the world in the deep cave. To the times when he knew no fear, pain, or loss, and his life was completely contented, safe, and simple. He yielded to that warm touch and let the human successfully clean him to the very end.
Over the following days, Houndour felt as though he had awakened from a nightmare. Though nothing could ever bring back his brothers and sisters, he once again felt like he belonged somewhere, that his life had purpose. He had become part of a new pack. Their leader took exemplary care of him, helped him, and his presence and warmth brought him back to safe memories.
Houndour was sure of only one thing now. Watching the crackling fire, he swore deep within himself that he would mercilessly kill anyone who tried to strip him of his new pack.
***
Author's note:
This chapter was tough to write! Houndour saw Mightyena as cruel for destroying his pack, but realistically, his own pack was just as merciless to other Pokémon when hunting. They were just as "evil" until he was caught.
***
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