《The greatest sin (A fairy specialist pokemon fic)》


 First encounter

    The city of Lumiose was always alive. The lights never flickered off, the streets never emptied, and the people¡ªalways in a hurry¡ªwalked past without a second glance at the shadows lurking in the alleyways. Those shadows, though, had a name.


    Sylvie.


    She wasn¡¯t sure how long she¡¯d been here, living in this cold, unforgiving world. The only thing she could remember clearly was the ache in her stomach, the constant gnawing hunger that never seemed to disappear. Every day was a fight to survive, and every night was just another test of how long she could endure before her body gave out.


    The alley she called home was small, tucked away between two towering buildings, where the noise of the city was muffled by the concrete and metal. The dumpster at the end of the alley was overflowing with refuse, its contents often picked through by others like her¡ªorphans, street kids, and the occasional lost traveler. To most, it was a symbol of decay. To her, it was a lifeline.


    Sylvie¡¯s hands, small and calloused from years of hard living, dug into the trash. She had learned early that the best way to survive was to take whatever you could. And she was good at it. Good at being unnoticed. Good at squeezing through cracks and finding what others overlooked. Sometimes it was a half-eaten sandwich, sometimes just scraps of vegetables or bruised fruit. Anything.


    The hunger inside her was the same hunger she had lived with since she was small. She could barely remember the days before she had been abandoned, but the hunger was always there, pushing her to take what she could. People often told her that she didn¡¯t belong. That she was worthless. She had heard it all her life, after all. No parents. No home. Just a girl with nothing but a name¡ªSylvie¡ªand even that had been stolen from her once.


    She didn¡¯t care anymore. Names, people, they were all the same. Weakness was a sin. And if you showed weakness, the world would crush you underfoot. She had learned that lesson far too well.


    Sylvie had once been sent to an orphanage¡ªa place where children like her were meant to find shelter, warmth, and care. But what she found there wasn¡¯t warmth. It was cold. And worse, it was filled with people who were cruel, who treated them as less than animals.


    The memories of the orphanage still burned, even now.


    She was just six when she was taken in. The building loomed over her, a cold, gray structure, full of children who never spoke and caregivers who never smiled. She had been hopeful at first. She had thought, perhaps, this was the place where she could finally belong. Where someone would love her. But she was wrong.


    The adults in charge were nothing like the kindly figures she had imagined in stories. They were strict, cruel, and often violent. The matron, a woman with sharp eyes and a harder heart, was the worst of them. She often picked favorites, and Sylvie was never one of them. If she did something wrong, even if it was just the smallest mistake, she was punished. Sometimes it was just a slap to the face. Sometimes it was worse¡ªlocking her in the dark closet for hours, the only sound being her own breathing, the silence pressing in on her until it suffocated.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    There were others, too. Older children who took advantage of their position. They learned quickly that survival in the orphanage was a matter of power. The weak were picked on, bullied, and forced to do things¡ªthings Sylvie had never thought possible for children. She had been one of them once, until she realized the only way to survive was to become stronger than everyone else. To fight back. To never show weakness.


    But the punishment for showing strength was severe. The adults watched with cruel eyes, and they had the power to make her life miserable if she didn¡¯t comply.


    Sylvie could still remember the last straw. It had been an afternoon like any other¡ªgray, dreary, with the rain slapping against the windows. She had been trying to clean the floor when one of the older girls, a bully named Mirabelle, had shoved her aside.


    ¡°You think you¡¯re better than me, little girl?¡± Mirabelle had sneered. ¡°You think you¡¯re special?¡±


    Sylvie, angry and desperate, had pushed back. She had been so tired of being pushed around, so tired of being nobody. But instead of standing up for herself, Mirabelle had screamed for the matron, and within minutes, Sylvie had been locked in the dark closet again.


    That night, as she lay curled up in the damp, cold space, something inside her snapped. She had finally realized something¡ªliving here, in this place of supposed safety, was worse than dying on the streets. The orphanage was no place for a child who had any sense of pride. It was a cage. And she would rather starve than live like this.


    By the time she was eight, Sylvie had made the decision to run away. It wasn¡¯t easy. The streets were a jungle, a place where only the strong survived. But at least, on the streets, she had the freedom to choose her own path.


    And so, with nothing but the clothes on her back and a will to survive, Sylvie had walked out of the orphanage and into the chaos of Lumiose City.


    The first few days had been the hardest. She had no money, no food, and no place to sleep. She spent those nights hiding in alleyways, praying no one would find her. But soon, the streets became her home. She learned how to survive.


    Rummaging through trash was an art, and Sylvie was a master at it. The best places were behind restaurants, where the garbage was fresh. She quickly learned to avoid the more dangerous parts of the city, those areas where people didn¡¯t care if a child disappeared. It wasn¡¯t just the food that kept her alive¡ªit was the knowledge of where to hide, when to stay still, and how to avoid notice.


    She learned how to steal. At first, it was just small things¡ªan apple from a vendor, a loaf of bread from a bakery. But the more she stole, the better she got at it. She knew how to blend in with the crowd, how to pick the right moment to snatch something without anyone noticing. It wasn¡¯t glamorous, and it wasn¡¯t easy, but it was survival. And Sylvie would do anything to survive.


    There were nights when she had to sleep in the cold, curled up against the bricks of the city¡¯s walls. There were times when she had no food for days, her stomach gnawing at her from the inside. But she never complained. Weakness was a sin. And to complain would mean admitting that she wasn¡¯t strong enough to keep going.


    Sylvie had learned to trust no one. People didn¡¯t care about the weak. She had seen enough to know that when you showed any sign of weakness, people would use it against you. She had seen it with the other children in the orphanage, and she had seen it in the streets as well. People would step over you if you were in their way, and if you weren¡¯t careful, they¡¯d take everything you had.


    So she kept her distance. She never made friends. She never let anyone close enough to hurt her. The only thing she cared about was surviving¡ªand that meant staying strong, staying independent.


    And yet, as Sylvie rifled through the garbage in the alley today, she couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that she had changed. That something in her had shifted.


    The Eevee that had appeared from the trash¡ªweak, small, and hungry¡ªreminded her too much of herself. Sylvie had always thought that if she could just get stronger, then she would be able to make the world notice her. She would leave a mark. But how could she leave a mark if she didn¡¯t even have anyone to care about? How could she make a difference if she was alone?


    Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a soft whimper, and Sylvie looked down to find the Eevee, now sitting beside her, its fur matted with dirt but its eyes wide with trust.


    Weakness isn¡¯t a sin, she thought, as her hand brushed through the Eevee¡¯s fur, gently for the first time in years. Maybe¡­ maybe it wasn¡¯t.


    But she couldn¡¯t afford to let herself believe that. Not yet.


    Still, she held the Eevee close as she whispered, ¡°You¡¯re not weak. You¡¯re just¡­ lost, like me.¡±


    For the first time in years, she didn¡¯t feel quite as alone.

 First

    (Eevee¡¯s POV)


    The world is loud.


    It roars with the rumble of passing cars, the chatter of people who do not see me, and the ever-present hum of a city that never sleeps. The world is big, overwhelming, and cruel.


    I learned that quickly.


    I wasn¡¯t born on the streets. I used to have a home¡ªa warm place with food that came every day, hands that reached out to pet me, and a voice that once called my name. But I was small, and small things are often discarded when they are no longer wanted.


    I still remember the day my world changed.


    The hands that once petted me became rough, impatient. The voice that once praised me turned sharp, filled with anger. I wasn¡¯t strong enough, wasn¡¯t fast enough, wasn¡¯t obedient enough. And so, one day, I was taken far from home and left on the edge of a busy road.


    I waited. At first, I believed they would come back. That this was a mistake. But as the sky darkened and the air grew cold, I understood.


    I had been abandoned.


    The first days were the hardest. Hunger gnawed at my belly, a sharp, endless pain that never faded. I learned to dig through garbage bins, to wait until people weren¡¯t looking before snatching scraps off the ground. But food was never guaranteed, and the other Pok¨¦mon that lived on the streets¡ªrattata, purrloin, even the occasional liepard¡ªweren¡¯t kind. They fought for every crumb.


    I had never fought before. I lost, again and again.


    After a while, I stopped trying to take food from others. I learned to be patient, to wait until the stronger ones had eaten their fill before I approached what little remained.


    I became invisible.


    The humans that walked by never noticed me. Some looked at me with pity, but none stopped. None reached out. I was small and weak. I was nothing.


    Then came the rain.


    Cold. Bitter. Unforgiving.


    I curled up in an alleyway, tail wrapped tightly around myself, shivering as the water soaked my fur. My body ached from hunger, from exhaustion. I wanted warmth. I wanted comfort. But there was no one.


    I was alone.


    And then¡ª


    The scent of food.


    I forced my aching body to move, following the scent to where the garbage bins lined the alley. The smell was stronger than usual. Someone must have just thrown something away. I scrambled toward it, paws slipping on the wet pavement, heart pounding with desperate hope.


    But as I reached the bin, I wasn¡¯t alone.


    A human was there.


    She was small¡ªsmaller than most humans I had seen. Her clothes were ragged, her face partially hidden behind tangled hair. She wasn¡¯t like the others who passed by without a glance. She wasn¡¯t clean, wasn¡¯t well-fed.


    She was like me.


    She didn¡¯t hesitate as she dug through the trash, hands moving with practiced speed, searching. I hesitated, ears flattened, torn between my hunger and the fear of being chased away.


    Then she looked at me.


    Her eyes¡ªsharp, wary¡ªnarrowed as she took me in. I tensed, ready to run. Humans weren¡¯t kind. I had learned that.


    But she didn¡¯t yell. She didn¡¯t chase me away.


    Instead, she reached into the bin, pulled out something¡ªa piece of stale bread¡ªand held it out.


    I froze.


    No one had ever done that before.


    I stared at her, ears twitching, expecting some kind of trick. But her arm didn¡¯t waver. She didn¡¯t say anything, just waited.


    Cautiously, I stepped forward. My nose twitched as I sniffed the bread. It wasn¡¯t fresh, wasn¡¯t good, but it was food. Carefully, I took it from her hand, biting into it slowly, my eyes never leaving hers.


    She watched me, silent. Not with pity. Not with cruelty. Just¡­ watching.


    For the first time in forever, I wasn¡¯t invisible.


    For the first time, a human saw me.


    And somehow, I knew¡ª


    She was like me. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn¡¯t leave me behind.


    The world is still cruel.


    But now, I am not alone.


    Sylvie and I survive together. It¡¯s different from being alone, but not in the way I expected. She doesn¡¯t coddle me, doesn¡¯t whisper empty words of comfort. She simply accepts that I am here, and in return, I learn to keep up with her pace.


    The first thing we learn together is that our old ways aren¡¯t enough.


    One mouth to feed was hard. Two is impossible.


    Rummaging through garbage cans only gives us scraps¡ªbarely enough to last a day. Sylvie eats the worst parts and gives me the best, but I know she needs food as much as I do. I can see it in the way she moves, the way she clenches her jaw when she thinks I¡¯m not looking.


    I don¡¯t want to be a burden. I don¡¯t want to be weak.


    So I show her what I can do.


    One night, after another failed attempt at finding food, Sylvie stares at me, arms crossed, eyes thoughtful. ¡°You¡¯re a Pok¨¦mon,¡± she mutters. ¡°You should be able to do something, right?¡±


    I blink up at her. I don¡¯t know what she means.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    She frowns, then crouches beside me. ¡°Attack me.¡±


    I flinch. Memories of harsh voices, of punishment for failing to obey, flood my mind. I shake my head, ears flattening.


    Her eyes narrow, but she doesn¡¯t get angry. ¡°Not to hurt me,¡± she says slowly. ¡°I just need to know what you can do.¡±


    I hesitate, unsure. Then, I take a breath, close my eyes, and let instinct guide me.


    I lash out, my tail glowing as I sweep it toward her. She barely moves, watching intently as my tail slices through the air.


    ¡°Tail Whip,¡± she murmurs. ¡°Useless.¡±


    I wince.


    She sighs. ¡°Again. Something else.¡±


    I brace myself, paws digging into the ground, and lunge forward, baring my small fangs. They barely graze her arm before she jerks back.


    ¡°Tackle,¡± she mutters. ¡°That¡¯s something, at least.¡±


    She taps a finger against her lips, thinking. Then she nods, decisive. ¡°Alright. We can work with this.¡±


    We change our routine.


    Instead of digging through trash, we find places where food is left unattended¡ªmarket stalls, back alley deliveries, distracted shop owners. I distract. Sylvie takes.


    It¡¯s a game, almost. I dash forward, small paws silent against the pavement, and Tackle an empty box, sending it crashing to the ground. The sound startles people, makes them look. In the chaos, Sylvie slips in, fast and unseen. By the time they notice her, she¡¯s already gone, and I¡¯m already running after her.


    It works.


    Most days.


    Some people are smarter than others. Some chase us. Some yell. Once, someone throws a rock. It misses, but it makes Sylvie furious.


    ¡°Cowards,¡± she mutters that night as we curl up in our usual hiding place. Her hands clench into fists. ¡°They have everything, and they won¡¯t even let us have scraps.¡±


    I don¡¯t say anything. I just press closer to her side.


    We learn. We adapt. We survive.


    But Sylvie wants more.


    One evening, as the city begins to quiet, she pulls me toward a large, open area. The concrete is cracked and worn, surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence. I smell sweat, dirt, and something electric in the air.


    People stand in a circle, eyes locked on the center. I squirm up Sylvie¡¯s shoulder, just high enough to see.


    Pok¨¦mon battles.


    Trainers stand on either side, barking orders. Their Pok¨¦mon move like blurs, striking, dodging, countering. I don¡¯t understand all of it, but I feel it¡ªthe way the energy crackles, the way the tension builds before an attack lands.


    Sylvie watches, unmoving.


    I know that look.


    She¡¯s studying them.


    We return night after night. She doesn¡¯t speak much, only mutters under her breath, repeating commands she hears, nodding when something works, scoffing when something doesn¡¯t.


    I start to understand, too.


    Moves aren¡¯t just random attacks. They have purpose, strategy. Strength isn¡¯t enough. You have to be smart.


    And Sylvie is smart.


    One night, as we huddle in an alleyway, she looks at me and says, ¡°We¡¯re going to battle.¡±


    I blink.


    She smirks. ¡°Not yet. Not until we know what we¡¯re doing. But soon.¡±


    I don¡¯t know how to feel about that.


    Battles remind me of before. Of failure. Of punishment.


    But when I look at Sylvie, I see something different.


    She doesn¡¯t want me to fight to prove myself. She doesn¡¯t want me to fight because I¡¯m expected to.


    She wants me to fight because she believes I can.


    And for the first time, I think¡­ maybe she¡¯s right.


    The world hasn¡¯t changed.


    It is still cruel, still unforgiving. But now, there is warmth.


    It comes in small ways¡ªSylvie¡¯s fingers scratching behind my ears when she thinks I¡¯m asleep, the way she grumbles under her breath when my fur gets dirty, how she always, always makes sure I eat before she does.


    Sometimes, she watches me with a strange look in her eyes. Not pity. Not disappointment. Something else.


    She never says what it is. But I think I know.


    She sees herself in me.


    We are the same.


    And because we are the same, she will never let me go hungry, never leave me behind, never let me be weak.


    Sylvie is not kind. But she is mine.


    And I am hers.


    Training begins at night, away from the eyes of those who would chase us off. Sylvie has watched enough battles. She understands the rhythm, the flow, the importance of movement and instinct. Now, she needs me to understand it, too.


    At first, it¡¯s simple. She makes me dodge¡ªagain and again, until my paws ache, until I move without thinking, until her sudden shouts of ¡°Left! Right! Back!¡± don¡¯t even make me flinch. It¡¯s tiring, and my legs burn, but she doesn¡¯t let me stop. Not until she¡¯s satisfied.


    Then, the attacks.


    She makes me use Tackle over and over until my body feels heavier than it should. She doesn¡¯t let me rest until I get it right¡ªuntil I know exactly how to shift my weight, how to drive my power into my opponent instead of wasting it.


    ¡°Good,¡± she mutters one night, rubbing a thumb over my ear. ¡°But not enough.¡±


    She teaches me Bite next. She holds out a piece of cloth, urging me to sink my teeth into it. My jaws ache after hours of training, but when I finally get it right¡ªwhen I clamp down and refuse to let go¡ªher lips twitch into something close to a smile.


    ¡°That¡¯s better.¡±


    When I manage Swift for the first time¡ªsmall, glowing stars spinning from my tail and shattering against the wall¡ªSylvie exhales sharply, eyes burning.


    ¡°Perfect.¡±


    She never gives empty praise.


    She never lies to make me feel better.


    So when she says I¡¯ve done well, I believe her.


    The new skills change everything.


    Stealing becomes easier, smoother. We don¡¯t have to rely on distractions anymore. Now, we create them.


    A burst of Baby-Doll Eyes makes people hesitate, their minds clouded by instinctive softness toward the small, helpless creature before them. By the time they realize the trick, Sylvie is already gone.


    A well-aimed Swift knocks over crates, scatters objects across the ground, sends people stumbling¡ªlong enough for Sylvie¡¯s quick fingers to snatch what we need.


    And Bite?


    Bite is for when we are caught.


    It is not often. But when it happens, Sylvie does not hesitate to say, ¡°Bite.¡±


    And I obey.


    I have no guilt. No remorse.


    Weakness is a sin.


    We cannot afford to be weak.


    The night we get too close to the sun, I know something is wrong before Sylvie does.


    The air is different. Heavier.


    Sylvie doesn¡¯t notice. Her eyes are locked on the prize¡ªan open crate of food left outside a small warehouse. She has been getting bolder lately, daring. Ambitious.


    This is the biggest haul we¡¯ve ever attempted.


    She doesn¡¯t see the figures in the shadows.


    But I do.


    My fur bristles. I let out a low warning growl, but Sylvie doesn¡¯t stop. ¡°Not now,¡± she mutters. ¡°Just a little closer¡ª¡±


    A voice sneers from the darkness.


    ¡°Well, well. Look what we have here.¡±


    The trap springs shut.


    Figures step forward, three of them. Young¡ªolder than Sylvie but not quite adults. Their clothes are worn, their eyes sharp with cruelty.


    Each one holds a Pok¨¦ball.


    My blood turns cold.


    Sylvie exhales slowly, carefully setting down the food she hadn¡¯t yet grabbed. She doesn¡¯t look scared. She looks calculating.


    ¡°We don¡¯t want trouble,¡± she says evenly.


    The tallest one laughs. ¡°That¡¯s too bad. Because you just walked into it.¡±


    Three Pok¨¦balls snap open.


    A purrloin. A scraggy. A trubbish.


    Sylvie¡¯s fingers twitch. Her other hand drifts toward her pocket.


    I smell rust.


    The dagger.


    She found it in the trash days ago. She kept it because you never know.


    She knows now.


    ¡°Three against one,¡± she mutters under her breath. Then, louder: ¡°Eevee, stay close.¡±


    I lower myself into a stance.


    Sylvie makes the first move.


    She lunges forward¡ªnot away, but toward them, dagger flashing in the dim light.


    The gang members weren¡¯t expecting that.


    Neither were their Pok¨¦mon.


    Sylvie is small, but she is fast.


    She slams into the closest one, the dagger slicing across his arm before he can react. He screams, stumbling back, clutching the wound.


    I don¡¯t wait for a command.


    I attack.


    I launch at the trubbish, teeth sinking into its rubbery body. It thrashes, but I don¡¯t let go. I bite harder.


    Pain floods my mouth¡ªit tastes vile, poisoned. But I don¡¯t let go.


    Sylvie fights too.


    She moves like a street rat¡ªlike a survivor. No wasted movements, no hesitation. She ducks under swings, drives the dagger deep into soft flesh, twists.


    She does not flinch at the screams.


    But there are three of them.


    And there is only one of her.


    The scraggy lunges at her side, fist glowing with a Brick Break. She barely dodges, the attack skimming her ribs. Her body jerks, breath coming out in a sharp hiss.


    I see red.


    I break free from trubbish, slam into scraggy¡¯s exposed back with all my strength.


    It stumbles. Sylvie does not waste the opening.


    The dagger flashes.


    Scraggy chokes¡ªstumbles¡ªfalls.


    A gurgling sound fills the alley.


    Sylvie watches, dagger dripping, chest rising and falling.


    No hesitation.


    No regret.


    The others freeze. One of them curses.


    They run.


    Cowards.


    I don¡¯t chase them. Neither does Sylvie.


    The only sounds left are our ragged breaths¡ªand the dying gurgles of the boy on the ground.


    I turn to Sylvie.


    Her hand is shaking. Just slightly. Just enough for me to see.


    Her eyes meet mine.


    For the first time, I see something other than cold certainty in them.


    Something new.


    Something I don¡¯t have a word for.


    We don¡¯t speak.


    We don¡¯t need to.


    We survive.


    And that is enough.