The sun spilled
lazily over the red painted roofs in
The force of the blow slammed the flying-type headfirst into the dusty ground. As it stood up, shaking from the blow, it lifted its head and prepared to do what all birds do when threatened; to shriek and flap. As it raised its head however it was met with a pair of malevolent red eyes. It squawked and backed away, suddenly extremely nervous.
“Beat it.” The voice was low, but even those two words told a promise of a lifetime of pain should the command not be heeded. The Pidgeotto found it best to obey. Quickly.