Nothing beats a morning stroll through Petalburg Woods. Strata cursed herself for ever thinking that.
They sprang out of nowhere and took her by surprise! Now, arms bound and leashed like an animal, she was led along an unknown path deep into the woods behind a Sylveon and a Granbull. The former led the group while the latter pulled her leash. More followed behind.
“I’m sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding. I was just– Ah!”
A zap! Her feathers stood on end.
“The dragon-type speaks when spoken to,” squeaked a mousy voice behind her. A quick glance back revealed it belonged to a small Dedenne. Heart racing, she kept quiet for the rest of the trek.
They stopped at a wide clearing nestled among tall trees.
Why did we stop? There’s nothing here.
All the other Pokémon stood still, looking at the same empty space. A fruity scent tickled her nose and something caught her eye: faint streaks appeared in mid-air! All at once, they solidified into houses, lamp posts, benches and stony paths the color of Spring leaves, sprawling far beyond the clearing itself. And berry trees! Berry trees everywhere! Oran, Cherri, Persim, Razz… A plethora of Pokémon appeared alongside the buildings and the trees. Togepi, Floette, Cottonee… It was like an invisible curtain had been drawn to reveal an ethereal village hidden among the wilderness!
Strata had to wonder if this was all some crazy dream. Another zap from the Dedenne assured her it wasn’t.
“Start walking, dragon-type!”
The villagers looked on and jeered as the Granbull guided her along a stone path.
“Get her good!”
“Yeah! Find out what that evil dragon-type is after!”
By now she had gotten the hint about her typing. Strata was a Latias, only half dragon-type with the other half being psychic. Though, that didn’t lessen their apparent dislike of her type.
Everything’s fine. We’ll talk things out. Just gotta hang on until they let me speak and apologize for whatever they think I did wrong. Then I’ll leave.
They arrived at a small windowless stone building with a lopsided roof. Inside was a single chamber with an object that made Strata’s stomach churn.
A wooden chair. With straps. A lot of straps.
Oh Arceus.
This seemed unnecessary, yet she offered no resistance as they sat her down and began wordlessly fastening the straps. One for the waist, another for the chest. Four around the arms and four more for the legs propped up on a footrest. Her wings uselessly tucked between her back and the chair. Strap by strap, her freedom was taken away, replaced with looming dread. A final strap secured her head to the headrest and it was done. The Sylveon glared at her and she noticed he had a gnarly scratch under his left eye.
“Alright, birdy,” he began. “Start singing.”
“W-What’s all this?”
“Interrogation. And that’s the first and last question you get to ask. We’ll ask the questions from now on, understood?… Good. Now, who are you?”
“My name is Strata,” she answered, trying to keep her cool. “I live just outside the woods, near Rustboro City.”
“Right. Next you’ll tell me you didn’t know you were trespassing on Berry Fairy territory.”
“I– What? Berry Fairy? I– I don’t–”
“Heard it all before. You dragon-types have the gall to come here and steal our berries which we’ve worked so hard to grow!” he snarled.
“I swear I was just taking a walk through–!”
“Enough!” He turned to the Granbull. “Pecha, make her sing.”
“Ya got it, chief Mago!” barked the dog-like Pokémon.
Strata shut her eyes and vainly hoped once more to wake up. It was no use to try to reason with these Pokémon. They were going to torture her, not because they had to but because they wanted to, merely because of her type. Her eyes shot open when she felt a finger swipe down her bare foot. Did one of the torturers graze her sole by accident, perhaps? Another swipe. No, this was intentional. More fingers on both feet this time.
“Gah– hahahaha! It tickles!!” she laughed.
“Does, doesn’t it?” sneered Mago the Sylveon. “Never fails to make you dragons spill the beans. Now let’s try this again, who are you?”
“I– I swehehar gahaha!”
“That’s alright. We’ve got the whole day to loosen your tongue.” He leaned closer towards her. ”And tomorrow. And the day after that.”
Shivers. Or was that from the tickling or the threat? She didn’t know, but the reality of her predicament was starting to set in. Pecha’s claws felt weird on her soles. They tickled, sure, but there was more to it. A tingly phantom-touch that lingered on even after the fingertips had moved on. Fairy-types. Of course! Fairy-type is super effective against dragon-type. That’s why it tickled so bad! A part of her was thankful that her captors didn’t choose a more painful approach to her interrogation. She was much less thankful when Mago joined in and focused on her left foot while her previous torturer favored the right. They worked in tandem to trace Strata’s tenderest spots, raking their claws along her smooth soles from heel to toes. Whenever they found an area that seemed more reactive than the rest, they seemed to linger on it for a while before moving on, as if to confirm that it was indeed a hot spot. Strata had no resistance to tickling whatsoever, much less to super-effective tickling. In that moment, she was their plaything.
“Hot spots are toes n’ arches, chief,” said Pecha.
“Yeah, same as always,” replied Mago, holding back the Latias’ toes and scratching under them. “You dragon-types are real tenderfoots, aren’t you?”
Tenderfeet, Strata thought, in a fruitless attempt to think about something other than the tickling. She truly didn’t know how to handle it, unable to recall the last time anyone had tickled her. “Plehehease! Not– Nohot the feet! Hahahaha!”
The straps enforced stillness, ensuring maximum vulnerability throughout her torture. Soles tingling with a fairy-type aura, she could do nothing but laugh and plead.
“Had enough?” asked the Sylveon.
“Yehehehes, plehease!”
The tickling stopped.
“Then talk. What were you doing in Berry Fairy territory?”
“I… was just… on a walk… passing through…” she panted. “I– I swear.”
“Still not gonna tell us, eh? More fun for me!”
Mago paced behind the torture chair and fiddled with an unseen mechanism, causing the armrests to rotate upwards and snap in place parallel to the backrest. With her arms now held up above her head, Strata didn’t have to guess where the next attack would be. White and pink furred arms crept from behind the chair, hands hovering over the Latias’ armpits poised to attack. At the same time, Pecha prepared to administer another round of intense foot tickling, merely waiting for Mago to strike first. Sometimes the anticipation is worse than the main event.
But not this time.
“BAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!!”
There was no warmup. No mercy. There was only torture. Tickle torture. Having her feet tickled was bad enough, but adding her pits to the mix was overkill. The ticklers’ type advantage sent whimsical shocks across her skin, soothing it in a cruel warmth that only served to sensitize it farther. How were they so good at this? How much ‘practice’ did they have? And on who? She didn’t want to know the answers to those questions.
“Ticklish feet, ticklish pits. Classic dragon,” mused Mago. “How about here?” He lowered his hands to her sides.
“AH! Ah! Hahaha!”
“Hmm. Not as ticklish, I see. Maybe here?” He poked her tummy.
“KYAAHAHAHA!”
“Ah, there we go!” The Sylveon doubled down, alternating between spider-tickling with all ten fingers and using his indexes to poke around selective areas. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten your pitty-pits.” One hand stayed at her belly while the other jumped between one armpit and the other. Add to that the Granbull wriggling his nubby fingers between her toes and Strata’s reactions doubled in intensity.
“AHAHAH AAAH!! PLEEHEHEASE!”
This wasn’t fair and these Pokémon knew that, but they didn’t care. They poked and scratched her ticklish spots in a manner that betrayed years of experience as well as thinly veiled delight. Pecha’s claws traced invisible lines along her pronounced arches whenever they weren’t wedged between her toes. Mago’s manicured fingers parted her thin feathers to prod the skin underneath. Nervous system lit up like a Christmas tree, Strata laughed and laughed and laughed until they finally showed mercy.
“Three straight days.”
“Three… d-days?”
“That’s the longest I’ve tickled a dragon for.” Strata’s heart sank as the Sylveon whispered into her ear. “Wanna help me beat that record?”
She panicked. “No! Please! I’ll talk, I’ll talk! It’s true, I came to steal the berries!” That was a lie, of course, but she didn’t give a damn. Anything to make the tickling stop.
“Ha! She admits it!” barked Pecha. “Which tribe sent you!?”
Tribe? Strata’s throat dried.
“Uh… T-The Woods… tribe?”
Mago sighed, disappointed. “Just when I start to think you’re being reasonable you start making things up. Mago, the tools if you please?”
“Yes, chief!” The Granbull dragged a wooden chest near the chair and opened it, its contents out of view from the head-bound Latias. From it, the interrogators drew long black feathers and held them up.
“You know what these are? Murkrow feathers.”
Murkrow. Dark-type. Crap!
They got to work, Pecha at her feet and Mago at her torso. The feathers exuded a somber aura as they tickled her, as if each swipe pushed her a little closer to despair. Her supple soles were treated to teasing swipes from the plumes while her upper body, protected by her own plumage, required the harsher treatment of the quills.
“NO! NOHO! I’LL DO ANYTHIHING!” she begged, swinging side-to-side within the snug restraints. Soon enough, even her feet felt the pointy end of the feathers drag itself across the smooth skin and poke the seldom-touched fleshed between her curled toes. Meanwhile, the featherless hollows under her arms received a thorough feathering. Every synapse in Strata’s brain fired with the sole intent to lower her arms but no amount of strength would break the tight straps holding them up. So far, she had managed to keep some semblance of hope that this would all be over soon but the Murkrow feathers, with their dark aura, tainted her mind as much as they tickled her body. The light at the end of the tunnel got farther and farther away.
“She’s sweatin’, chief.”
“Oh? Then let’s help her cool off, Pecha.”
“Hahaha– AAH!!” Cold! She splayed her toes and pulled her legs hard. Pecha had swapped out the Murkrow feathers for brushes capped with azure fur. Each swipe of the soft tips sent an icy chill through her legs, adding yet another layer of discomfort to the torment. “AAAH HAHAHA I– I CAN’T TAHAKE IT!!”
“Then you better talk. Tribes, which one sent you?” teased Mago, dragging the quills in circles over Strata’s quivering tummy.
“NOHO TRIHIBE!”
“No tribe? Why would you want to steal our berries if you weren’t sent by a tribe?”
“I–I DOHON’T WAHANT TO!!” She cried tears of laughter.
“A bit too late to deny it.”
She said nothing, for nothing she could’ve said would satisfy her captors. At least it was preferable to spinning another lie just for it to come bite her in the ass later. Was this her fate? To be a tickle toy for a pair of deranged Pokémon hell-bent on making her admit to a crime she didn’t commit? Gentle, harmless Strata? Painful as it was to admit, she saw no way out.
Pecha dusted the icy brushes over the entire surface of her soles, bathing them in chilly air. Strata had always assumed that lower temperatures dulled the nerves, like holding a bag of ice to a bruise. The freezy aura from the brushes defied that notion.
“Glaceon fur,” stated the Granbull.
The next break came just before she was about to pass out. A phantom tingling still lingered on her armpits, tummy and all over her feet.
“You’re tougher than you look, I’ll give you that. I’m starting to think you’re actually innocent.”
“I am innocent!” she yelled.
“So you keep saying.” Mago shot a glance at Pecha. Wordlessly, the Granbull nodded and left the interrogation room. She was alone with the Sylveon. “Most dragon-types don’t make it this far into the interrogation. Tell you what, if you still don’t confess after this next… ‘treatment’, I’ll consider you to be innocent.”
Her ears perked up. Yes! Finally, hope! All she needed to do was endure another few minutes of torture without completely losing it. What would they throw at her next? More Murkrow feathers? Or maybe another icy torment? Whatever it was, she steeled herself for it. Strata was ready for anything.
Anything, with the one exception of what came through the door. A Dragonite. Leashed and guided by the comically smaller Pecha.
“Here he is, chief Mago,” he woofed, handing the end of the leash to the Sylveon.
Oh. Oh shit. The mighty dragon was devoid of any and all defiance. Everything from his sluggish, melancholic movements to his hollow expression told Strata one thing and one thing only: He was broken. They broke him.
“Say hi to Number Twenty-Four, birdy. We captured this fellow sometime ago and let me tell you, he was far tougher than you are. See this?” Mago pointed at the old scratch on his left cheek. “His fate was sealed when he decided to do this to me. A lowly dragon like him! To me! The village chief!” Twenty-Four winced a little as Mago raised his voice. “Took weeks to tickle him into submission. But that’s all in the past, let’s focus on the present.”
This wasn’t right. How could such a fair, beautiful Pokémon be capable of such evil. The mere sight of the broken dragon in front of her was enough to demolish any hope. The tunnel she saw light at the end of had just sealed shut, leaving her in darkness.
She was pulled from her metaphorical doom into a very real one when two sharp jabs poked her soft sides. Dragonite claws.
“Ack! P-please! Nohoho!”
The creature looked at her apologetically and she almost understood him, no doubt he’d be punished if he didn’t comply. The thick, bony claws of her fellow dragon-type offered a different but no less intense form of tickling as it raked through her feathery sides and tummy, occasionally drilling into her belly button and soft underarms. Each touch felt more intense than it looked, she cursed her dragon-type for being weak to itself.
“Harder, Number Twenty-Four! Make her cry!” ordered Mago.
At once, the Dragonite upped the ante, tickling harder and faster.
“ACK! NOHOHO, STAHAP!”
“Confess!”
“I CAHAHAN’T!!”
She wasn’t kidding. The brutal tickling really didn’t allow her to form cohesive sentences that weren’t drowned in a sea of hysterical laughter. Then came the waterworks. One could attribute her tears either to the tickling or the cruel humiliation and be right on both counts.
And then came the tongue. That wide, rough, unexpected Dragonite tongue. Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
“GAAAHAHAHA MAHAHAKE IT STAHAHAHP!!”
“You have the power to make it stop. Confess!”
Unsurprisingly, her exasperated begging fell on deaf ears. Or at least ears that didn’t care. Her entire torso, from waist to pits, experienced a thorough tongue-bath from Twenty-Four, and to say it wrecked her was an understatement. She was a bawling, spasming mess on the interrogation chair. Every single muscle hurt from fighting the unyielding restraints. She could not fathom how it could get any worse.
“Do her feet. Twenty-Four. We’ll take over her torso.”
It got worse. Mago at her pits, Pecha at her belly, Twenty-Four at her paws. Glaceon fur brushes, Murkrow feathers, Dragonite tongue.
“AAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!!”
The guttural sounds that spilled out from Strata’s throat could hardly be called laughter anymore. They were screams. Tortured shouts of pure overstimulation. Her mind was null. Neurons re-wired themselves to process the wicked torture. But they couldn’t take it. She couldn’t take it.
The leafy roof rustled in Petalburg Woods’ gentle breeze. Wooden bars jutted out from the floor, encircling her. A cage. She woke on a simple cot laid over the grass, still sore from the cruel torture session, having to suppress a giggle as she stood up and her bare soles made contact with the blades of grass. The tickling had sensitized them greatly. The sun hid behind the tall trees around the clearing.
“Ah, you’re awake.”
Startled, she turned around to meet Mago, standing outside of her cage. Her neck feathers stood on end.
“W-What do you want from me?”
“Just here to deliver the good news. We believe you, birdy. You’re innocent.”
Those words were sweeter than honey.
“So… You’re letting me go?”
“Well, not quite yet.”
Of course not, why did I even ask?
“I said we believe you’re innocent but not of everything. We know you weren’t trying to steal our berries but you did trespass and lie to us. In my village, that warrants punishment.”
She didn’t need to ask what type of punishment Mago was talking about. Instead, she asked:
“…When?”
“As soon as you woke up. Everything’s ready.”
It was a shameful march to the center of the village. Dozens of fairy-type Pokémon gathered around an elevated platform, jeering and flinging unintelligible insults at her. On the platform, two Dracozolt, every bit as broken as the Dragonite, sat with their large paws locked in stocks and metallic rings wrapped around their thick tails. Wires connected these rings to the central piece of the display, a wooden x-frame with rollers mounted on crude wooden arms all around where a victim’s sensitive spots would be. It was slightly tilted off the floor to ensure a good view for the audience.
“You people are sick…” she spat.
“Zip it, birdy. Up you go,” ordered the chief.
As she positioned herself on the x-frame, she took in the contemptful stares of the villagers. By now, she came to expect those. What she didn’t expect was the disproportionate amount of dragon-type Pokémon among them, leashed and owned by some villager or another. None dared to look away from her, as if it was their masters’ will. Lightless eyes all sharing the same emotion. Fear.
Straps bound her legs, arms, torso and head. Much in the way as the chair in the interrogation room, not even afforded the simple luxury of turning her head.
“My friends,” began Mago, “we are here tonight to right the wrongs done to us by the dragon-types, one Pokémon at a time!” The crowd erupted in cheers. “May this punishment serve as a lesson to teach this Latias to steer clear of our humble village. Begin!”
A small stampede of villagers bolted onto the platform, each fighting for a spot near a Dracozolt before tickling whichever bit of skin they could get their hands on. In addition to squawking laughter, the bound dragons responded to the tickling by sparking bolts of electricity from their tails which were promptly used to power the torture machine that held Strata. The rollers sprang to life, whirring to maximum speed and making contact with her oversensitive skin all at once.
“HAHAHAHAHA!” She didn’t bother to beg. The rollers near her armpits dug into those hollows and spun their tickly bristles there, with more wrecking havoc under her neck, on her sides and belly as well as behind her knees. Mago had tied back her toes so that the pair of rollers at her paws had unobstructed access to the entirety of her soles. Any semblance of dignity had left Strata as soon as the torture started and she did nothing to contain her bawling laughter which mixed with that of the Dracozolts.
“Take that, dragon!”
“That’s what you get for stomping around in our turf!”
“Tell your tribe the Berry Fairies say ‘hi’!”
These were just some of the nonsensical insults she could make out amidst the echoing laughter. She had done nothing to these people, and yet they slandered her. It didn’t matter if she was innocent if they hated her anyway. The ever-staring dragon-types among the audience did nothing to lighten her shame and sadness.
With a series of wooden thunks, the rollers retracted and were replaced by a series of pinwheels that immediately got to work running along her ticklish spots. New, painful laughter was wrung out of poor Strata.
“Shouldn’ta come here, fire breather!”
I don’t even breathe fire.
“You break our homes, we’ll break you!”
I didn’t break anything!
Amidst the tickling, the bondage, the laughter, the jeers and the insults, a new feeling bubbled inside Strata’s heart. A feeling of anger. Of resentment. Of revenge. Some of it stemmed from seeing her typekin enslaved and used, some of it from their unfair treatment of herself. She did nothing. Nothing! They even admitted it!
‘You’re innocent’, my ass. My very existence is a crime to you.
The pinwheels left, and spinning discs with soft fur replaced them. Glaceon fur again. The previous harsh tools had done a good job of tenderizing her body so the soft, chilly fur was truly super effective.
“Harder!” shouted Mago. “Tickle them harder! Punish the dragon!”
Electrified by their chief, the villagers redoubled their efforts in tickling the Dracozolts. Some even ordered their own dragons to join in. The machine went into overdrive as a result, spinning its fluffy discs at supersonic speeds. Strata was bawling, screaming in ticklish agony. She didn’t wish this torture on her worst enemy, but for the Berry Fairies she’d make an exception.
Step after wobbly step, the village of the Berry Fairies got farther and farther away. Strata could barely stand on her own, completely drained of all of her energy. Regardless, she pressed on, eager to put as much distance between herself and that wretched place.
The tickling had done a number on her muscles, which all felt like jelly at the moment, but seeing other dragon-type Pokémon in such a thoroughly broken and subservient state marked itself as the experience’s most harrowing truth. And the ravenous villagers who took so much pleasure in seeing her typekin suffer such cruel torment.
As the smell of berries became fainter and the tree branches opened up to reveal moonlight, a new strength formed inside the Latias, invigorating her tired muscles. Her steps became firmer and her back straightened. Determined, she spread her wings and took flight.
She made up her mind.
They will pay.
Maybe she’d try to sneak in alone and free the enslaved dragons, or maybe try to contact these dragon tribes that the Berry Fairies spoke about. Regardless, one thing was certain. Gentle Strata wasn’t feeling so gentle anymore.