The legendary being’s voice reverberates in your bones. Your heart leaps to your throat, and you swallow hard before collapsing painfully to your knees.
Better to be quick, you think, a bruised knee is much preferable to a powdered skull.
You look up. You’ve never bowed to someone before, not like this. This only happens in movies. You hope for some kind of feedback but the Mewtwo just stares down at you expectantly, somehow conveying dissatisfaction without ever changing his expression. Dissatisfaction and something else: An unsettling eagerness. To see you groveling at his feet? Or to Kill you?
Before you have time to ponder the question, Mewtwo lifts his foot. You feel his excitement peak. This is the end, you think, certain now that this creature wants to kill you, but you know you can not stop him. The Mewtwo’s shadow eclipses the light coming from overhead. Before you adjust to the sudden lack of light, you hear a rush of wind, then you feel it on your skin, tossing your hair. You reflexively turn your eyes downward, and press your nose to the floor, cowering from a pitiful end— a transformation to paste on some pokemon’s sole.
It doesn’t come.
You see the shadow of his foot still looming overhead. You can make out the silhouette of all three toes as he wriggles them impatiently, expectantly. You wonder if he wants something more, but you know each one of those toes is bigger than your head, so you don’t dare to ask. You remain still, with your face pressed to the floor.
You have no concept of the amount of time you spent frozen, but your muscles begin to ache from their forced posture of reverence, and the bruises on your knees have become something more. They’re swelling now, a blessing in disguise, perhaps; a cushion of flesh and pain for the weary bone underneath. Unused to being in line with your heart, your head throbs in time to your pulse. Your mind busies itself pondering your circumstance. You reason that there must be something that will satisfy your would-be executioner. After all, if the point was to kill you, it would be done already. He must have some sort of plan for you, or some sort of point to make.
As the thought crosses your mind, an angry roar erupts from the being looming over you. The shadow of Mewtwo’s foot becomes larger and darker. Your muscles tighten reflexively out of fear and you once again expect the worst.
You open your eyes, surprised again to be alive, but you feel a moist heat radiating onto your back. The heat and moisture combine with a thick, cheesy musk. Mewtwo’s foot, you realize, shuddering at how close to death you were. Something you did angered him.
The adrenaline has left your body after sustaining you for what must have been hours. You feel like you are trying to breathe through a heavy blanket, and each breath is rewarded not with clean oxygen, but the taint of your captor’s foot odor. You push your body lower, flattening your chest out against the hard ground, trying in vain to pull the cold out of the floor and into your tired and sweating body. You can no longer see anything but the shadow of your death and the spots beginning to swim through that darkness as your body continues to toil in Mewtwo’s body heat without water. You close your eyes tight to drown out the darting lights and flecks.
On the verge of collapse, you pray, internally, to any god that may save you.
Luckily, your new god is a psychic type. You do not speak, but he hears you yell.
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