Breaking the Ice- Chapter 1

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Action and Adventure  |  House: Booksie Classic

It takes more than friction to melt the ice. Have a read at this story based on a much beloved franchise.

Submitted: September 04, 2017

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Submitted: September 04, 2017







The lower level of the ship smelled of rancid sea life and oil from the kitchens.

Breccia curbed her appetite on the stench of decomposition and burnt coffee, trying to keep quiet so not to disturb the sailors above her.

Even with the money she saved and the bit Vanessa sent, it wasn't much. She was forced to scheme her way onto a merchant boat. (Much to the disdain of everyone on board.)

“Here.” The portly cook, one of the only other women on board, put a Styrofoam plate on the crate before Breccia. Her broken English was about as intelligible as the food was edible. “Hot mash, warms the bones. Birtan wind's will cut through such scrawny thing.” Not wanting to be rude, the guest gulped the last of her coffee, swallowing a thin layer of grounds at the bottom. Seizing the plate: the milky, watery mash congealed. A mixture of flour and chopped orans floated to the top. “Well?”

“I-it's...” Breccia swallowed, coughing when a lump lodged in her throat. “Good....”

Her lie must've been convincing, as the cook clapped gleefully. “Swinub makes great portage, no?”

Hearing this, Breccia gagged, pausing with the plate to her lips. “Excuse me?”

The cook clicked her tongue, summoning a tiny striped ball of brown fur to come crawling up. She took it in her arms, squeezing and kissing it's snout. “It's Swinub first time as cook. Such good Mash!” The creature snorted, wiggling with delight as it climbed the woman's back. “We should be in Birtan within the hour. Keep ear out for captain to call.”

Setting her cup down and blowing into her palms, Breccia sniffled, her nose reddened and her breath hovering in clouds above her head.

On the deck, the sailors glared past her. Some gave a degrading sneer, others were nice enough to ignore her.

The captain, an aging man of fifty with matted gray hair, called at the first site of Isador, which looked like nothing more than a frail, white strip. He whistled up to the lone Chatot on the mast, receiving a similar call back before it flew and perched upon his shoulder.

“The wife said you were scrawny.” The captain commented as he called for the sails to be drawn. “Seen a lot of mainlanders on this ship, they last a few days before begging me to take 'em back.”

Considering all that had occurred, the last thing Breccia wanted (or needed) was any more negative attention. It wasn't her first choice to travel with strangers who questioned everything from her sandpaper complexion to her thin build. Had she had her way, she'd be on the S.S Anne. Though, the cruise liner hardly made trips beyond Unova, and the crew didn't want her kind aboard. (As if the overcooked food, fake French accents had a reputation to uphold.)

One hell of an adventure, huh dad?

Granted, her idea of a fun time always differed from her father's. Any attempts she made to wander off always ended with his trusty Ninetails dragging her back. Not that she wanted to leave, her helping him at the clinic got her through the boring slog of school and the weekends spent at her mother's.

 It was always a point of contention between her parents. Her mother responded as she usually did, ranting about the importance of women in OTHER area's, saying it was Breccia's decision in the end. Ironically enough, she filed for sole custody and fled with her daughter to Alola when her ex asked that their daughter spend more time at the clinic. They stayed in a hotel for a few weeks before the judge was able to track them down and Breccia was sent to live with her father.

As they docked, the port town of Isador came further into view. Pale natives went about their business, wrapped in heavy furs. Some stood behind their market stands,  their children playing in the allies created by stone cabins with black smog billowing from the chimneys.

The street-sweepers were in the process of cleaning the walkway on the main drag. A team of Machokes rolled the snow into massive piles while an out of place Growlithe seared away the mounds of ice with the flames dancing on his breath.

Dodging the masses, Breccia found that, even in a crowd, body heat did little to protect her bones from the razor winds.  





© Copyright 2018 Richard Mapes. All rights reserved.

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