Golbatt
Legacy Name: Golbatt

Darkness is what I'm accustomed to. Eerie shadows on the cave walls, the slight but deafening sound of water dripping from the stalactites, it's what I know. But it isn't what COULD have been.

I could have been great.

Cerulean Cave was my home. It was dark, damp, and filled with hustler Golducks, prostitute Dittos, and druggie Kababras. When I was young I looked up to these creatures (minus the dittos). They always seemed to have their shit together. They knew who to talk to and how to make money. Growing up in a crappy part of the cave, money was in important but sparse commodity. Pokémon like mentioned above were idolized by the younger population, especially by those like me who had no parents.

When I was about ten years old, two years after my parents were killed in a gang-related accident, a hustler Golduck took me under his blue arm and began to teach me, albeit harshly, the ways of the Cave scene. Hustling was his game, and he had all the fame. Everyone knew Killa. He was the biggest, baddest, and most clever Pokémon in the region. And he chose me. I didn't have anything special about me, sure I knew some street stuff that I wouldn't have if I hadn't been flying through the streets for two years, but I wasn't special. There were plenty of snot-nosed orphans in the cave that needed someone to teach them. But for some reason Killa snapped his fingers at me, motioning me to follow him, as he walked by the tiny corner of the cave I lived in. I scrambled to get my wings out and nearly fell to the floor but I was able to keep a safe distance from him and his cronies. Soon, he wanted me flying next to him, instead of behind him, letting me watch as he made his deals, rolled his dice, and sold his wares. Closer and closer I got to him, while still remaining emotionally removed from all around me. I was in it for me. I was soaking up all I could from this Golduck. I would not be some tattered, poor, stupid Golbat when I grew up. No, I would be great.

Four years later, I was fourteen. Killa had just been shot by a rival hustler, a Steelix. The only reason I was upset at this was because that fuckin' steelix took away my role model, the Pokémon who had saved me from the streets and guided me to become more sly and even, dare I say it, happy. At least, I thought I was happy. Either way, the Steelix had to die because of what he did to my future. With one gunshot, he seemingly destroyed it. I felt as though I was still unable to take the reins of Killa's businesses. I hadn't learned enough. I hadn't grown up enough. I still needed Killa. How dare this Steelix take him away from me. But I swore I would make the most of it. Even though I was only fourteen years old, I would be great.

Of course I wasn't going to go rushing after this obviously strong Pokémon all willy-nilly. It was going to take time, planning, and deceit to get close enough to him. Would I ask him to take me on as an assistant? Would I do a fly-by one night and take him out? I couldn't figure it out. I started drinking. To drink was to make my problems and insecurities go away. I didn't have to worry about where I was going to sleep if I got drunk enough to black out and not even care. I didn't have to worry about where I was going to eat if I got drunk enough to go dumpster diving at the bar down the path. But, I needed money for my new hobby. I started gambling. Utilizing the bit that Killa had taught me I started counting cards at Blackjack. I traveled around from cave to cave in the region, so as not to rouse too much suspicion when I won.

By the time I was 15, I was the opposite of greatness. I was a drunkard and a failure. I had given up. Card counting had only gotten me so far. Even though I was fairly successful with it, I quickly ran out of places to play. Instead, I started getting high and then stealing petty items from Pokémarts and selling the wares cheap at the Cave. That only got me so far as well. Days came and went where, after smoking and drinking what little money I had accumulated, I slouched on my corner of the cave floor and literally counted the drips of water that dropped from the stalactite to stalagmite. I was living the life of a failure at only fifteen years old. Then one day, a fucking Clefable of all Pokemon danced past me. She stopped when she saw me, I had glared at her for having the confidence to be so fucking annoying while I was sitting here, urine not more than two feet away from me, hunched against the wall, looking like shit.

She said four words to me. The simplest, stupidest words that I’m sure people have said to me before but it just didn’t connect with me like it did right now. All she said was, “What are you doing here?” That was it. She waited for a reply for a minute or two, but it just took me completely off-guard and I couldn’t formulate a response. “What AM I doing here?” I thought to myself as she skipped away, just as annoying as before. Many replies came through my mind such as “Well, this was my home,” “I don’t have anywhere else to go,” and of course “I’m getting revenge.” But what good was all that? I had promised myself I would be great. I looked around; I was an unknown asshole teenager that was just a blip on the radar. That epiphany guided my thoughts into getting out of the Cave. I could go south, to Celadon City and work in the department store, perhaps stocking the TMs. I’d have to stay away from the Game Corner though since it is like a casino and I already knew I had gambling problems. I thought about moving and making a name for myself more and more. Even better, I heard there were people called Team Rocket that were hiring Pokémon to fight for them. I could do that, but I don’t know if I want to fight for the rest of my life. But could I still be great if I gave up on revenge and the Cave? That was the last thing I needed to figure out. I decided that I would go ahead and move, make some money at the store, and hopefully learn even more about the world and then I could figure out how I could be great.