Between (v1.1)

STORY DATA

Spoiler

Double capture:
Smeargle (HARD 20000-30000)
Skitty (SIMPLE 5000-10000)
Limit: 25000-40000
My total: 26126
A quick and dirty story for a story deal with ~Near.

Story withdrawn. I went and misread the very grading standards I was supposed to work with. Thanks for telling me about this, ~Near.
I'll have it back up in a bit, hopefully longer.

Okay, it's longer and now actually qualifies for grading. Here we go:

Between

It was a widespread yet unpublicized problem: any Pokemon-breeding operation, once it grew large enough, had increasing difficulty with collecting and tracking the eggs laid by the Pokemon in its care. Every so often, even with the most meticulous record-keeping, an egg would slip between the metaphorical cracks. Since breeders weren't even entirely sure how Pokemon eggs were formed, predicting when they would appear was more art than science.

This was especially true for Day Care Centers. With Pokemon and Trainers constantly coming in and out, it was hard enough to just keep track of the adults. Eggs might be left out in abandoned structures, tall stands of grass, or in a hole in the ground with no one the wiser. It was particularly easy to lose track in the case of breeder Ditto; all of their offspring appeared in identical eggs regardless of the identity of the other parent. The parents and breeders did their best, but lost eggs were inevitable. Lost eggs led to lost babies led to feral Pokemon.

Some feral Pokemon were rescued shortly after birth. Newborn Lapras from the captive breeding programs were hard to miss even when their eggs had been lost, since they were large and very clumsy on dry land. Small Pokemon, however, had little to no chance of being noticed.

Unsurprisingly, there was a small but significant feral Eevee population around any major breeding facility. With seven possible evolutions currently known to science, it was a perennially popular species for breeders. Individuals of other species also showed up depending on what species of Pokemon the Trainers nearby thought were particularly useful or powerful.

Feral, unfortunately, did not mean wild. As Pokemon professors knew, wild Pokemon could form complicated structures and societies out in the wild. Flying-type Pokemon tended to travel in flocks; Bug-types in swarms. Some lived in packs with rigid pecking orders. Others roamed alone in precisely-defined territories. Feral Pokemon, however, had nobody to teach them how to live this way, and the intelligence of Pokemon was too high for them to simply run on instinct. They wandered miserably between the wild and civilized worlds, not really a part of either. It was rare for groups of them to integrate into a society on their own terms, such as a certain squad of fire-fighting Squirtle had. They mostly hid from wild Pokemon and humans alike, and tried to scavenge their way from day to day.

Into this environment, on a rainy afternoon, was born a Smeargle. Some Trainer had wanted to customize his or her Pokemon's movesets, and the second egg born to the Smeargle mother and a Ditto was received with gratitude and anticipation. The first egg, however, had been lost out in a neglected corner of the Day Care Center's field.

The newborn Smeargle fumbled his way out of the barely-opened eggshell with hopeful whines. They changed to cries of distress as fat raindrops started to pelt him on the head. Within seconds, all the fur on his head was matted with water, covering his eyes. He did his best to look around. Something in the back of his mind, the fragments of a Smeargle pack instinct, suggested that there were supposed to be others. He tumbled out of the cracked egg to look for them, falling into a patch of cold wet grass. It wasn't long before all the rest of his body was wet, and some of it covered in mud as well.

The rain and fur in his eyes made it difficult to see, but the Smeargle latched on to an area that seemed darker than the others. Dark, perhaps, meant safe. He got onto his hindpaws and staggered towards the darkness. His tail dragged along him on the ground, the colored fluid for which Smeargle were famous being washed away by the rain. He never even noticed. For all he knew, his tail was supposed to trail on the ground.

The darkness turned out to be the edge of a forest adjoining the Day Care Center. The trees kept the ground reasonably dry, which cheered up the Smeargle somewhat. He began to dry out himself, which made him even happier. He walked through the trees, walking more smoothly and with more confidence, and suddenly smelled something good. Following his nose, he saw a small Berry plant growing in a clearing. Although it would mean walking back into the rain for a few seconds, that smell was so sweet, and his stomach was starting to ache...

The Smeargle sat on the gnarled roots of an old tree a minute later, fur once again dripping wet. He was now, however, clutching a Sitrus Berry in his paws. He had noticed that the plant looked as if other Berries had been picked recently, but he didn't know what to make of that. In any case, the Berry's smell wafted into his nose and overwhelmed any other thought in his young mind. He wolfed down the Berry remarkably quickly for a Pokemon his size. It was the best thing he had ever tasted... it was the only thing he had ever tasted. His stomach full and his fur drying off again, he quickly found himself feeling the urge to sleep. He succumbed without complaint.

The Smeargle awoke the next morning to find a feral Eevee with a gaunt face and ragged fur peering down at his face.

Months passed. The Smeargle joined the loose group of wandering Pokemon, mostly Eevee, that had found him after he'd eaten from one of the Berry plants they frequented. The quality and quantity of forage was good enough that they had no reason to chase him away. The Smeargle grew and learned about the world. It wasn't much of a world: a cluster of berry bushes here, a human-frequented road over there, a pack of wild Growlithe that was to be avoided at all costs, dumpsters behind buildings over in town, and such things and places. This was all he knew, but he was smart enough to thrive in it along with the loose group of Eevee, Riolu, and various starter Pokemon he followed around. He noticed that many of them seemed to have special abilities, as all of them were products of human-directed breeding, and wondered sometimes if he had any of his own. However, he happened to have been born in a particularly rainy area. The temperate rainforests of Kanto received some amount of precipitation almost daily. The rain and mud ensured that he never saw enough color around his tail to realize that it served as a paintbrush. It dragged along behind him except when it would have been painful to let it do so.

His daily life was simple. He'd follow all the other Pokemon through the trees and dangling curtains of moss to wherever they were going that day. Due to the near-total lack of social organization, this consisted of whoever got the first idea. It was usually one of the older ones, since they'd had more experience in what a feral Pokemon could do. Unsurprisingly, none of the older Pokemon were actually particularly old. Even though they had the most ideas, though, they held no other authority. No Pokemon in the group had names, and they barely had a common language, so apathetic anarchy was the best they could manage. Sometimes a feral Pokemon would break off from the rest of the group to do his, her, or its own thing. Sometimes such a Pokemon who left never returned, and sometimes the rest of them came across the corpse a few days later. Occasionally they'd come across other lost newly-hatched Pokemon or produce a few eggs of their own. A few of the newborns were even alive like the Smeargle had been. They were almost always Eevee.

It was an aimless existence and promised to be a short one. Nothing ever seemed to happen, and if anything did happen, they did their best to hide from it until it went away. The mud helped.

One rainy evening, a Bulbasaur decided to head into town. The small human village nearby, the home of the Day Care Center that had spawned so many of them, was usually off-limits to the group by general consensus. On particularly rainy days like this, though, visibility was bad enough that they could make an attempt on the Poke Mart dumpster. All of them followed the Bulbasaur, as nobody had a better idea. It was a pretty good idea anyway, the Smeargle thought.

It was always nice to go dumpster-diving. Although none of them knew how to use Potions or even what they were, this particular Poke Mart sold Berries and Poffins for the breeders' convenience. Old or damaged merchandise would end up in the dumpster, and eventually in the stomachs of passerby feral Pokemon.

They crept into town, some of them speculating as to how much of a haul they could manage this time. Caked mud and falling rain made them almost invisible as they skulked along side streets and narrow alleys. It took only a few blocks for them to reach the glowing blue sign of the Poke Mart; they weren't stupid enough to go too far into the village, so it was fortunate that the store wasn't far from the forest.

Out back was the motherlode. The Bulbasaur who had decided to come reminded them not to touch any of the strange red-and-white spheres that sometimes showed up in the dumpster. Some of them were old enough to remember when an Eevee had played with one last year. She had disappeared in a flash of light and they had never seen her again, even after pressing the button on the front like she had. Even though most of the balls were broken in two halves by the time they ended up in the dumpster, better safe than sorry.

The dumpster hadn't been emptied for several days, and so inside were bruised Berries and burnt Poffins aplenty. The Smeargle managed to fish out an expired plastic-wrapped Poffin and a Rawst Berry and sat down against the wall to unwrap his bounty. An Eevee next to him mumbled contentedly as she feasted on several Berries of her own.

Another Eevee exclaimed that there was a box of candies in the bottom of the dumpster, prompting a sudden rush. The Smeargle stayed put; he had enough food, and besides, he was still one of the youngest Pokemon in the group. He couldn't hope to compete.

After the candies had been dug out and claimed, the next few minutes were spent in contented scavenging and eating. The Smeargle was just slipping his trash back into the dumpster when an Eevee perked his ears up and ran. Humans were coming! It was time to run; every Pokemon for itself.

Smeargle followed the rest of the group at a dash as they fled for the trees a few blocks away. Some of the more experienced feral Pokemon recommended that they simply retrace their steps so as to not get lost.

The flashlight-toting shopkeeper came upon the dumpster to find that whatever had been raiding it was now gone. With a grunt of annoyance, he went back to tend the store.

The Smeargle had taken the route from store to forest many times before. He ran with the rest of them, slippery wet ground not a problem. Within minutes, they were back in the trees.

There were sudden cries of alarm all around him. A rain-blinded Charmander had run headlong into a Beedrill hive as they entered the forest. Angry buzzing filled the air as the wasp Pokemon swarmed out to sting everything in range. Unlike the group of feral Pokemon, they moved as one and knew not to get scattered in the trees. The feral Pokemon fled in all directions, some of them not surviving the relentless assault of stingers and drills.

The Smeargle was driven out of the forest entirely and back into town. He tried several times to get back into the shelter of the trees, but each time that angry buzzing was still very much audible. One Beedrill even spotted him, forcing him to dash madly deeper into the town to shake it. He was almost run over by a pickup truck by the time it decided to leave. In the end, he bowed to the inevitable: he'd probably have to spend the night in town. It went against every instinct that he had, and he didn't have very many instincts at all, but it was that or face twin-needled death.

He searched around for a good hiding place to wait out the night. Humans were dangerous and unpredictable and always to be avoided. While he was in human territory, it was essential to be completely hidden. There: an empty lot filled with trash. He found a large cardboard box and flipped it over him to serve as shelter, then fell into a doze.

Nothing substantial disturbed him throughout the night. An occasional passing vehicle or pedestrian momentarily roused him from his sleep, causing him to peer out through a rip in the box, but they invariably passed him by without investigating the lot.

The morning dawned, dim and misty. It was foggy and humid, and the perfect environment for escape. He made to push the box off of him, and his eyes widened. Something was on top of the box.

He couldn't see anything through the tear in the side, so he had only one option: try to heave the box off him despite the fact that it was weighted down. He managed to do this on the first try, but heard a yowl of complaint as he did so. That something had actually been a someone.

He whirled around to see a Pokemon lying on the ground, having been knocked off the box by his efforts.

He looked at it curiously as it squealed in protest. This Pokemon was a female of a species he hadn't seen before. She was like an Eevee... but pinker. Probably. The Smeargle wasn't sure, as perhaps Eevee looked brown to him only because of the mud. This Pokemon, on the other hand, was clean. Perhaps she wasn't an Eevee, though; her tail had little things coming off it, and there was a collar around her neck.

The maybe-not-an-Eevee got back onto four paws and charged. He hastily stepped back and tripped over his tail, ending up flat on the ground. Satisfied that he was no threat, the other Pokemon came closer and looked him over as well.

She tilted her head at him and asked who he was. From the sounds she made when she talked, the Smeargle could figure out that her species was "Skitty." Definitely not an Eevee, then.

However, he didn't understand the question. He knew what he was, and which one he was, but what was this "who" business? She could tell from the moment he opened his mouth that he was a "Smeargle," so why bother asking a redundant question like that?

The Skitty squinted at him. She asked him slowly and carefully what his name was.

He had never encountered the concept of "name" before. He squinted back.

The Skitty decided that his name was "Box."

The Smeargle pointed out that he was not a box, and that a box, in fact, was right next to them if she really wanted to talk about boxes.

In response, she amended the name to "Boxy." She also informed him that her name was "Mittens."

He was now thoroughly confused. When she told him to follow her he did so, as much to figure out what was going on as for any other reason.

She led him through the fog, the shadows of buildings looming to their left and right. It took only a block and a half to reach their destination. The Skitty told him that this was where she lived. The reason she had been in the empty lot when he woke up was that she often went there in search of shiny things. She liked shiny things. They were shiny and wonderful and pretty and shiny. Shiny, the Smeargle reflected, was not a word he often encountered.

He was apprehensive about getting closer to humans, but couldn't make himself heard in her constant babble of inconsequential things, only half of which he understood. They crept through a hole at the bottom of a cinder-block wall, emerging into a small backyard. It had short grass, a few potted plants, and a patio with outdoor furniture. A set of wind chimes hung above a sliding door, glinting dully in the diffuse light of the foggy morning. Perhaps it was those that had led to the Skitty's obsession with shininess. She made to continue through a swinging pet door into the house itself, but the Smeargle balked. She didn't notice and disappeared into the building.

He was left alone in a human's backyard, disoriented and near tears. Everything around him was alien and foreboding. The fog seemed to close in around him, squeezing the hope and life out of him...

The Skitty popped back out the door and asked him which flavor of Poffin he wanted.

He ended up staying the entire day.

After breakfast they talked a lot, learning from each other. The Skitty was intensely curious about anything having to do with life out in the wild. As a rather pampered pet, she didn't know much about the outside world, and thus romanticized it. Even though the Smeargle wasn't really wild himself, he did his best to tell her about what forest life was like. She was disappointed to hear that there were no shiny objects in the forest and that it really did rain there almost every day. She also felt sorry for the plight of the feral Pokemon, and promised that she would try to explain things to her owner, even across the language gap. Surely the humans would go find and rescue them once they knew.

The Smeargle wasn't sure about that. He'd gotten very good at hiding from humans, and he got the feeling that the Eevee would try their hardest to evade their self-proclaimed rescuers. He wasn't so sure he wanted to be rescued himself.

After hearing about his life, the Skitty decided to tell him about hers. As before, he didn't understand half of what she said. A domesticated Pokemon's world was a world of humans and their strange machines, and the words she used reflected that. After seeing his confusion, she taught him many things, mostly having to do with basic vocabulary that any civilized Pokemon would know. They went back and forth for an hour just going over the concept of names alone, although perhaps a third of this time was spent watching the Skitty chase her own tail in endless circles. She tried to chase his tail once, but he wasn't used to moving it, so she immediately lost interest. Despite all these interruptions, she managed to make him understand the concept of personal identities. In the end, he decided to keep the name Boxy. He wouldn't have been able to think of any other name for himself, anyway.

When Boxy learned that he was just one of any number of Smeargle in the world, he was curious as to what the rest were like. He'd thought that he was the only one in the world, having never seen another. Mittens entered the house and trotted back out with a red rectangle in her mouth.

She told him that it was a talking guide to Pokemon derived from something called a "Pokedex." Her owner, a schoolteacher, had used it in front of her often enough that she had partially figured out how to use it herself. At the very least, she told him confidently, she knew which buttons to press to make it do interesting things. They turned it on and flipped through the entries, recognizing each species by the image that appeared on the little screen. Boxy was astonished to see little Pokemon trapped in the little red box, and had to be reassured by Mittens that they were only pictures.

They found the Skitty entry first; since one lived in the house, the owner had moved the entry closer to the front. A press of a button caused a collection of strange symbols to appear next to the image of Mittens' doppelganger. Neither of them knew what they stood for, although Mittens said she'd heard from others that it was supposed to be some sort of written language. The very idea was hard to grasp, she said. She pressed another button and the guide started to babble in bizarre syllables. Mittens told him that this was the language spoken by humans; most domesticated Pokemon could understand it, including her. She translated.

Boxy listened to what the guide had to say. Skitty liked to chase their own tails- he knew that was definitely true. However, the guide also said that it was difficult to earn one's trust. That surprised him. Hadn't Mittens befriended him? He'd certainly spent more time with her at a stretch than with any of the feral Pokemon he had run with until last night.

She explained that she was the smallest Pokemon on the block and was usually let out to roam the neighborhood when her owner was at work. All of the other Pokemon nearby belonged to families with children, allowing them to form social cliques based on those of the children they lived with. As a result, they never left home without already knowing which neighborhood Pokemon they were going to fight or play with, and it was never her. She'd never fought in a battle between Pokemon League trainers, which made her a nonentity in the others' eyes. In other words, she was lonely.

Add to this the fact that she had never seen a Smeargle before, she said, and it was evident why she'd immediately taken a liking to him. The two of them, she hoped, would be good friends.

That made him feel rather tingly inside. He wasn't sure why.

By this point, the sun had burned the fog and mist out of the air. The wind chimes shined brightly, and Mittens broke off to jump up and down at it with eager squeals. When, as happened every day, she failed to reach it, she came back to Boxy, slightly subdued. It wasn't long before she was her usual cheerful self again, though. They went back to the field guide.

After detours to hear about Eevee and Squirtle, they found the Smeargle entry. The image of the Smeargle had it grasping its tail in its hand, which Boxy didn't understand. Other Pokemon hadn't done that when they'd seen their pictures. Mittens translated what the field guide had to say, obvious fascination in her voice.

Boxy wondered what a "paintbrush" was. Could his tail really spread colors? He'd never seen anything special come from it. Then again, it was always covered in mud, just like the rest of him. Mud kept him invisible, and invisibility meant safety. He'd never considered what that mud might have hidden from him himself.

Mittens suggested, rather imperiously, that he take a bath. That, she told him, would take the mud off for sure.

What, he asked her, was a "bath?"

She ambled back into the building and came out a few minutes later with a plastic bucket full of warm water gripped in her mouth. She set it on the patio, the water slopping over slightly. Being left to her own devices during the day had taught her some practical skills. Hopping up onto a chair, she beckoned Boxy over to get on next to her, a strange smile on her face. Once he got on the chair, he could see much more of the backyard, including the bucket below them. Mittens' smile grew. He wondered what was going on.

He found out when she shoved him off the chair.

There was a great splash. There was a series of undignified squeals. There was a brief but vehement argument. Boxy lost.

He stayed in that bucket and rubbed at his fur with his forepaws on Mittens' orders. The mud came off, bit by hardened bit, until he was reasonably clean. It was the first time he'd seen his fur in quite some time. It was a nice color. He climbed out of the bucket, supporting himself on the chair so he wouldn't tip it over. Mittens had been fairly quiet for the past few minutes for some reason. When he looked back at the bucket, he found out why.

The water inside had turned to mud, which wasn't surprising since the mud had come off of him. However, mud wasn't usually orange.

Mittens, wide-eyed, kept turning to look from the bucket to him and back. He looked down.

His body had turned orange as well.

Mittens weakly opined that he had just painted himself. He had to agree. Lifting up the end of his tail, he saw that an orange fluid was still dripping off it. By soaking himself in water and getting the mud off his tail, the orange fluid had gotten into the water and then coated him.

Mittens, recovering from the shock, quipped that while she thought she had never seen a Smeargle before, she had definitely never seen a bright orange Pokemon in her entire life.

He flicked his tail at her, dying her ear orange.

After that, there was nothing for it. Boxy with his tail and Mittens with the pail conducted a battle of colors in her owner's backyard. By the time they were finished, all of the ground and of Mittens were orange as well, and there were quite a few orange streaks and blotches on the house's wall.

Mittens surveyed the damage. A good day's work, she decided. She hadn't had that much fun in weeks.

They had to do something about the mess, though. She popped back into the house and emerged with washcloths in her mouth. Since Boxy stood on two feet, she figured, he should be able to wipe things as well as a human could.

As he attended to the wall, Mittens went in and out of the house, carrying bucketloads of water to wash the orange stains off the patio and the grass. It took some effort, but by the time the sun was low in the sky nearly all of the orange was gone, though it was replaced by the orange of sunset.

Both Pokemon sat against the wall and took a breather. The sunset really made it look as though he'd painted the entire town. Perhaps, he thought, someday he would. This first wild bout of artistic expression had definitely agreed with him. He looked forward to more explorations in the world of art.

Mittens, leaning back, asked Boxy if he wanted to stay and meet her owner. With the day over, he would be back soon. Perhaps he would take a poor lost Pokemon in.

Boxy froze. Such a request basically meant joining human society. Did he want to do something like that? His current life wasn't sunshine and rainbows, stuck between the world of Pokemon and that of humans as it was, but at least it was something he understood. Humans were a frightening unknown. Still, Mittens had named him and taught him how to paint.

He had to make a decision. Mittens was starting to stare.

The decision was abruptly made for him. There was the sound of opening and closing doors. Mittens jumped up. It was her master.

The back door opened before Boxy could do more than shoot a panicked glance at the hole in the wall by which they'd come. He wondered if he could still escape. The human caught sight of him immediately, though.

He turned to Skitty and said something in human language. Skitty jumped up and down and enthusiastically tried to pantomime that Boxy was a friend of hers. Boxy shot another glance at his potential escape route. Should he take it?

The human crouched down in front of him and reached out a hand.

Boxy had a decision to make: the hand or the hole. Would he step out of a life between two worlds?

 

Introduction, Characters, Backstory: Your story starts out strongly by setting the stage with some information: first, you tell the reader about a problem that comes with the practice of Pokémon breeding, specifically the occasional misplacement of eggs. This is followed by an explanation of 'feral Pokémon,' the name given to Pokémon born into the wild but not raised by their own kind. These are both important details that need to be explained, but they also constitute a very nice use of foreshadowing, since it's almost immediately clear that the story is going to revolve around a feral Pokémon born from one of these lost eggs.
Only then do you move from a documentary-style explanation of facts to a storytelling mode. Despite the sudden change, the shift isn't jarring because your transition is very well done. The introduction of your main character, a yet nameless baby Smeargle, is... pretty darn adorable, actually. Full marks as far as background introduction is concerned.


Plot Content, Plot Flow: The plotline is clear and well explained, without any obvious logic holes, though time seems to pass at a very changeable pace. A baby Smeargle hatches in an abandoned corner of a daycare center, and goes off into the forest, where he finds food and meets a feral Eevee. FLASHFORWARD. A short description of what his day-to-day life is like with the feral Pokémon. FLASHFORWARD. The group going into town to scavenge, and getting chased off into the forest, where they have an unfortunate encounter with some Beedrill. FLASHFORWARD. The Smeargle meets a domesticated Skitty called Mittens, who invites him to visit her house and names him Boxy. They play, and Boxy learns some things about himself. Her owner comes home, and Boxy must choose between the life of a feral Pokémon and that of a Trainer's companion. Fade to black.
What I find myself noticing the most are these points of 'flashforward' in your story, wherein you switch from a moment-by-moment account (such as your main character hatching from his egg and having a little adventure in the forest) to a sudden fast-forwarding timeskip. While the timeskip itself is evidently intentional, the abruptness of the change of pace is often a bit jarring. For example, at the point where Boxy is running from a Beedrill that spotted him, I think your story would have benifited from a chase scene and a description of the streets he runs through; as it was, all the reader gets is a couple of brief sentences explaining that Boxy heads 'into town.' More on that later, in the Detail/Description and Battles/Climax sections. ^_^


Grammar, Sentence Flow: Overall, your grammar is great, and your sentences are almost poetic in the way they flow from one to the other. While the plot itself may have moved in slightly jarring jerks, the writing is a complete contrast, smooth and steady... which is perhaps the reason why I noticed the problem with the plot's pace. All I can really do here is nitpick, but there are a few sentences that made me raise an eyebrow.

... This is where your writing got a bit too poetic. I see what you were trying to do here, with the parallel structure... but it just doesn't sound right, and I'm pretty sure it isn't grammatically correct. I would replace this with, "Lost eggs led to lost babies, which in turn led to feral Pokémon."

I think that this was more of a mental slip/typo than anything else. This should be "He began to dry himself out."

Missed word, "His tail dragged along behind him on the ground..."


Detail, Description: There were one or two parts of your story that were extra striking, entirely due to being described with detail and good imagery words. An example:

Unfortunately, I'm sorry to say, the rest of the story fell far short of that mark. From the very beginning, there weren't many details that didn't refer to something specifically related to the advancement of the plot. For example, in the moment that Boxy stumbles into the trees, the forest is referred to, but once he's actually in the forest his surroundings aren't described in any detail. What does the night-time forest look like? The berry plant he finds isn't given any attributes whatsoever, even to mention the bluish colour of the berries (Sitrus) or the shape and colour of the leaves.
To give an example of something you could improve on, one section of your story I would really enjoy seeing fleshed out in detail is Boxy's escape from the angry Beedrill. So far in your story, all movement is defined by 'towards (insert noun here)' or 'away from (insert noun here.)' A description of the streets and/or alleyways Boxy runs through as he flees towards the center of town would do a great deal for your story. If at all possible, a few 'verbal acrobatics' to make the chase exciting wouldn't go amiss. Having Boxy duck under, around, over and through a few obstacles while the Beedrill buzzes ominously along behind him would be a very acceptable action-based climax for your story, even if it's not all that important plotline-wise. See the 'battle/climax' section below for a bit more info. ^_^
To summarize, what you need to make sure you realize is that, while you likely have a clear mental picture of what everything in your story looks like, the reader doesn't have that same picture. So you have to show it to us, using your words to paint a picture in the same way Boxy would use his tail. Ideally, at any point in your story, your readers should have a vivid picture in their minds, one that you supply, rather than having to make one for themselves and possibly imagining something very different than you intended. It breaks the mood when one has to stop and reread because one imagined a character rushing through an alleyway, and then heard a car screech by and realized they're actually on a large street.


Dialogue: Very well done; While there are no actual quotes (which is a nice touch,) the messages themselves are what you wrote, and the addition of various descriptive cues makes Boxy's and Mittens's personalities much clearer. Among others, I especially liked the following sentences, since they're basically examples of everything you did right:

Descriptive clauses like 'rather imperiously' completely change the way a line sounds to a reader. This was great. xD

Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!
No, seriously. The final two words are just perfect for emphasis. This is one of the other few places where the story doesn't need additional description.


Battles/Climax: This was lacking. As far as drama is concerned, the whole story leads up to the final decision: Life as a feral Pokémon, or as a Trainer's companion? But action-wise, there... isn't much. Leafing through a Pokédex and playing with paint. Cute, yes. Funny, yes. Exciting... no.
True, the rules have been updated to say that a battle isn't a 100% necessary component of a story, and I completely agree. However, there has to be some kind of excitement, otherwise the story comes across as, if not bland, then at least a little homogeneous. I find myself wishing that you could have made the Beedrill scene much, much more exciting. Maybe one or two extra paragraphs wherein Boxy flees the one angry Beedrill as it chases him into town? Descriptions of the streets and alleys flashing by on either side? I realize that your story doesn't revolve around fighting or action, so no, it doesn't need the scene to do more than advance the plot... but the tale would benefit immensely from just that extra bit of excitement. This is something I think you should keep in mind-- inflating and embellishing a small section can be rewarding... especially when that section holds something the rest of your story lacks.


Overall: Your intro paints a beautiful picture, and the main character's personality is a work of art-- pun intended. Your portrayal of the world through his eyes is emotionally very evocative... but considerably lacking in visual detail, especially given the latent artistic talent hidden within Boxy. Wouldn't his mind latch on to the bright colors of berries, the warm glow of the Poké Mart sign, since they're beacons of bright colour in his otherwise muddy and earth-toned world? Or perhaps you'd rather emphasize how his struggle for survival dulls his awareness of these things, in which case describe the washed-out, grimy ugliness of everything, the drab grey of the buildings in the city, the ugly black clouds overhead cloaking everything in a dim twilight...
Basically, your problem is that except for in one or two places, you lack descriptions. For a final example, I don't even know what color Boxy's eyes are. Even if the description is minimalistic and drab, that's something, and evocative of the general atmosphere I got from the first half of the story (in my mental image it was overcast and raining the whole time.)
The real problem is that your readers have to work hard at imagining what each new scene actually looks like; if one can surmount that obstacle, the story is truly a joy to read, what with its believable characterization of Boxy and Mittens, and the well-thought-out world the whole tale takes place in. So, while I have to say this story teetered on the brink, I will let you off with a warning: in future stories, bring Boxy with you so he can help you paint the picture for your readers!

IMPORTANT: Your homework is to read through this story and take note of every time four nouns in a row lack an adjective. I don't want you to make your prose purple, just avoid going to the other extreme: one or two in four nouns is a good goal.


Result:
Smeargle (Boxy): Caught.
Skitty (Mittens): Caught.

P.S. Skittypet!! ^_^ The entire atmosphere of this story reminded me of the Warriors series, even though I only read a few of the books. Did you perhaps base this story on that series?

 

It is good, if sometimes painful, to view one's work through another's eyes.

Seeing what you have made of it, I can't help but agree. I really have gone light on the descriptions, haven't I? I guess it's a personal thing- I try to avoid purple prose and I have a bit of a fill-in-the-blanks sort of mind, so that kind of bled through into this story. I must strike a better balance in how many adjectives there are. I probably should have used section dividers, too. Also, what I thought would be a gentle slice-of-life story might seem a bit dull to someone expecting an action scene. A little bit more of something-for-everybody would help, yeah.

I'll definitely keep this kind of stuff in mind for the stories I write in the future. Especially for my SWC story, if I ever finish the stupid thing.

...Warriors? I know of the series, but I've never read it. Does it compare well to Watership Down?