WAAPT: The Forum

--reserved--

[originally posted 2018-08-29 18:45:55]


I suppose this will be where I post random shit once every two years or so. Let's kick it off with a character study kind of thing.


Title: Stormchaser, the night after Ren and Cambria's wedding
Words: 1773
Warnings: Liberal use of second-person, none
Summary: Channah looks at her life and her choices.

The problem wasn't him. It was you. As fucking usual.

The darkness and heavy foreboding atmosphere of your haunted room on the Stormchaser settled around you like a disconcerting blanket that you'd grown used to over the months. Right now, inebriated and gasping lightly for breath after stumbling through the airship's halls while you lay on your back on the bed's covers, it was nearly a welcome comfort for your mood.

You'd never thought, up until earlier tonight, that Tagg was attractive. It was an avenue of thought that didn't and shouldn't pertain to you, so you had simply ignored his rare smiles and the comforting solidity of his tall frame when he walked alongside you. Just a normal, natural reflex from years of self-imposed isolation. One you barely noticed anymore.

But now, after his roundabout confession, it was coloring every memory of him and more. In those confused moments after he spoke, you had a hard time focusing. Your poor drunk brain wasn't really handling the sudden mental sensory assault as your eyes adjusted to the darkness. Getting ahold of yourself felt like trying to remote-control a newborn Ponyta's legs in QWOP.

Images flashed through your mind, each feeling entirely different for the change in perspective despite the familiarity. The way he sometimes turned his head and leaned down a bit to talk to you when you were standing next to each other. The quiet something in his voice when he took you to the Grey Ruins. His pleasantly surprised reaction when you agreed to walk through the human-to-mon portal in Mauville. The faint scent of him lingering in his secret base. His serious, haunted expression and purposeful gait in the chaos of the Pokefutures lab raid. The heartbreaking vulnerability in the hunch of his shoulders in that Mossdeep hotel after the restaurant debacle. The steam rising around his scarred chest in the hot springs.

Godsdammit.

You fought back a wave of revulsion. At yourself, obviously. That you, just another plebian failure on this bitch of an earth, would dare to look at a guy so far above your station and think about him like that. Not as a future opponent, another nuisance, or as a friend, which was already still crazy when you thought about it, but as someone you might be allowed to touch.

You mentally flailed for a second, and then you remembered - He likes you. He said so. Or insinuated it heavily. The thought was like an anchor dropping in the turbulent lake of your mind. You relaxed minutely. It had to be, how else would all of this make sense?

It was still almost impossible to think about. How could he possibly...

But there wasn't just that. The physical. In some ways that was the least important thing. Assuming Tagg wasn't just broadcasting superficial attraction (which was impossible, Tagg was classy and he wouldn't be that shallow even if you were prettier), he apparently had looked at the whole of Channah [Surname] and seen something worth continuing to look at. Not into your soul - or maybe so, who knew how deep he went in that mindscape dive (you know, hinted at in those dreams you forget in the morning) - but just enough to notice something shiny to chase after.

What in the world could it be?

You took a deep breath and tried to picture yourself as a... potential boyfriend - god, the thought felt blasphemous - might do. A tiny, not very feminine female in her mid-twenties, probably a 6/10 at most, and that was being generous. An androgynous, slightly nasal voice, little nervous tics in the extremities that you never grew out of, and an ungainly sweep of too-long hair that you tended to hide behind. No accolades to your name, no interesting heritage, no skills or talents besides a long-neglected penchant for battling. Maybe more knowledge about Wobbuffet biology and behavior than most trainers. That was about it.

And the personality...

What even was there to say about that? Nothing, that was what.

You exhaled hard and forced yourself to think, to process this ridiculous situation. There was absolutely nothing you could bring up, no easily-listed traits. It was impossible. Trying to hit a Ghost-type with a Normal-type move. You could think of a thousand faults and weaknesses.

If you wanted, you supposed you could ask your mons for their opinions on you, but their viewpoints were heavily skewed at the best of times. Montanari, who had assumed a sort of grandfatherly role among the team, thought too much like your brother despite his sophistication. Even the precocious Hale, whose mental voice sounded so much like yours these days that you wondered if his imprisonment in your mind had a permanent effect on his, could be laughably short-sighted in matters of the human heart. More so than you, if that could be believed.

No, that wouldn't do. You would just have to trust Tagg's judgment. As much as the thought disgusted you. It was pretty damn good judgment in general, but in relation to you...

Probably best not to think too hard about that. You might have been making a mountain out of a Diglett hill about all this in the first place, no need to keep piling it up.

Next on the list - Did you even want a relationship? Hale's words from a few hours ago rang in your ears. Of course, the conversation he was referring to happened when you were eleven. You had expressed your rigid dislike of boys at the time and baby!Hale had approved of your single-mindedness on your goal to be the best trainer there ever was. Truthfully, that attitude had persisted into your twenties, strengthened and fleshed out by ideology and the matter-of-fact lessons life taught you.

And fear.

That was new. You held onto that thought and reached for some of the penetrating questions you'd learned from analyzing the way your therapist handled your worse moods. Treat the irrational fears like a training exercise, she'd said, knowing your life's obsession. Attack the weak points with the most logical moves, chain them into combos of positive thought that you could fall back on in a tight corner.

What was causing you to be afraid? Afraid of what? Commitment? Vulnerability? Men in general? All three, probably. You were such a coward.

You zeroed in on that last one. All your life was spent trying to join the boy's club, now that you considered it. Your brother/mentor, your best friend Kyler and his friends, rivals, most of the trainers worth anything... Ending with Tagg. None of them were truly cruel, not the way girls were. They understood and accepted you without reservation. But there were certain expectations of you that they didn't know they had. With your oh-so-eager-to-please and observant nature, you'd picked up on those invisible cues and somehow came out of it with a strong distaste for romance.

Why? Because - you saw the way they treated other girls, talked about them behind their backs. You distanced yourself as soon as possible from other females, helped by your parents' approval of your sensible lack of boy-craziness. You wouldn't be like them. You weren't hanging around male trainers to be their girlfriend or fangirl in the background, you belonged in their ranks, and you had the skills to back it up.

Well. That was a bit fucked, wasn't it? You ran over your conclusions again, testing them for weaknesses. Nope, all bases were covered, it made sense.

You winced and relaxed muscles you didn't know you were tensing. A tension headache, too, wonderful. This was why you hated introspection.

So... With all that hastily cleared up (you took a moment to feel brief pride at having singled out at least one of the issues), were you still so reluctant to give dating a try?

You thought of what would happen if you told Tagg you weren't interested. Probably not much. He would respect your boundaries, be awkward for a bit, continue to occasionally hang out with you, determined to maintain the friendship, and then it would stagnate with the new wedge of distance between you (as it already was starting to do) and he come to his senses and would gradually stop seeking you out - not abruptly like Kyler did, but gently and therefore more painfully - and you would be left to go on as usual and he would fill that gap in his social life with more time spent with Solana or Ever or Salvador or Echo or some other long-time friend and you would be left alone again to dutifully get lost in the herd of strangely-named weirdos you had no interest in making friends with and your world would turn gray again and he would become another vague acquaintance just like everyone else you ever had the impertinence to try holding onto -

An uncomfortable tightness filled up your chest. You rolled on your side into a fetal position and closed your eyes. You grabbed at the comforter like a baby Pokemon, squeezing it between fingers that suddenly felt weak, as though you were having low-sugar shakes.

You had to reciprocate. There was no other option, radical freedom be damned. You already took so much emotionally from him, too much over your allowance as a casual friend. The least you could do was give it a good college try, do this experiment for him.

And would it be a hardship? Being his girlfriend? Going on dates? Holding his hand? There was the whole polyamory thing, a distant thundercloud of more doubt and fear, but that was another matter entirely. Telling people he was your boyfriend instead of some guy you knew? Another feeling was rising in your chest alongside the stifling panic, something that seemed to fill your head with static, buzzing and not entirely unpleasant. It felt like a threshold was fast-approaching and threatening to show up on your doorstep any minute now.

How am I supposed to feel? you almost asked Tagg tonight. You sort of did. No matter how frustratingly stilted he could be at times, he was the one with actual experience in this area. But he didn't answer that. As much as you almost begged him to, he couldn't, that wasn't his place or his job. You were a fucking adult. This was your problem to fix, your turn to attack.

Whatever. Might as well. From here, at least, it was miles better than the alternative. You didn't think you were ready, but would you ever be?

Now you just had to wait until sunrise.

Fuck.

[originally posted 2019-05-14 03:25:07]



Title: Real Gone (1/?)
Words: 609 (so far)
Warnings: None
Summary: Channah and her mons go road-tripping. Why? Wynaut?
Note: This may or may not be finished, I just had to start something. I don't know when this takes place. Also it's way too immersion-ruining to put brackets around everything, so hold your horses.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

What with America being too massive for its own good and all, trainers didn't have as much of a free-range pedestrian reputation there as they did in Japan. Or at least the ones who really liked collecting badges didn't. Trainers crossing the country over very long distances in SUVs were a more common sight in the States.

And when in Rome, do visitors not do as the Romans do, said Hale.

Given the Espeon-cum-Gallade's affinity for doing everything the hard way, one might have been surprised at his eagerness to ride in a vehicle. Channah figured it was either that he wanted to test his ability to operate heavy machinery under the influence of humanoid arms, or he just wanted to ride shotgun and look cool, like he used to when she put him in her bicycle basket.

Channah herself wasn't fond of cars. One of her fondest childhood memories was dry-heaving in the back of her parents' old Honda at night when they had to drive to Celadon City for some reason. But a rich friend had given Garrett a new-ish Corvette, more or less for free. A silvery sleek beast that he had become instantly smitten with. Problem was, said rich friend lived out in Chicago, and Garrett refused to leave Angela's weather for anything this time of year. Translation, he was lazy.

So, he asked his sister to take it to him. He didn't trust anyone else to transport it without fucking it up, he claimed. To which she'd scoffed, but she was already in the area anyway, and it would save him a trip back and forth. Plus then he'd owe her something.

She figured it wouldn't take too long.

"Spoken like someone who's never driven a Ford Focus through flyover country with a family member," Garrett had joked grimly over the phone. She'd shuddered; they both knew that sharing a car for more than an hour at a time would end in broken bones and tears. "Be safe. Don't pick up hitchhikers, don't give money to homeless veterans, don't use El Cheapo gas stations, and run anyone who harasses you off the road. I'll pay your tickets."

With that sage advice, he'd hung up, leaving her standing there besides the Corvette clutching a dormant Silph Co GPS in one hand and her PokéNav in the other.

She looked over at the car. The hood was down in deference to the midday breeze. Hale reclined in the passenger seat wearing totally unnecessary red sunglasses, and sharing the squeaky backseat were Basil and Big Savings. The three were some of the more sanguine party members, at least without access to the internet. She'd like to say the configuration would ensure a smooth beginning, but long experience made her hold that thought for now.

"Welp," Channah said, tossing the GPS at Hale (who caught it like an afterthought while looking the other way) and opening the driver's side door, "Get that plugged in. Let's see. There's 2,026 miles to Angela, we've got a full tank of gas, 36 Lava Cookies, it's nice out, and why are you wearing sunglasses, I don't think Gallades get cataracts."

Hale had merely turned his - nose analogue - up as he telepathically assembled the GPS, evidently getting into character as Norma Desmond or something. Behind them, Big Savings was mumbling the Combee Movie script to a dozing Basil. It sounded too much like a worried litany for Channah's peace of mind.

Right. Okay.

Channah strapped in, adjusted to the uncommon feeling of a car seatbelt, and put her hands on the wheel.

"Okay. Let's. Let's, just fucking get this over with."

(((The following is part of what was going to be a long fanfic section of Apotheosis when I just gave up and decided to write it normally irp. But I didn’t feel like converting this whole thing to RP format, so here it is.)))
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Ludovic awoke to furious [Italian] mumbling, which was a very strange thing for him to wake up to. Last he knew, he was nowhere near that region, and he didn’t know anyone who spoke it since his aunt Marcella passed away eight years ago. He had cried a lot at that funeral, requiring a lot of hugs from Idris and Cayenne and definitely not all the eye-rolling from his siblings. Another weird occurrence, since Marcella wasn’t very kind to him as a child. Almost cruel, really. He supposed it was the last direct connection to his father leaving this world that did it, since –

<Shut UP, chiacchierone! He’s wakin up.>

<Oh, we’re speakin Monese now? We startin the routine already?>

His train of thought came to a stop in the middle of a dark tunnel.

<There ain’t no – Just shut up and let Mirror do his thing or I’m pullin yer tail out.>

<No need to be harsh, Ralphie. We’re all friends here.>

Ralphie?

<We’re all something here, that’s fer sure. Goddamn.>

Unfortunately, Ludovic missed the rest of the routine because he passed out again.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When he came to for the second time, it was with a splitting headache, a persistent sharp ache in his left shoulder, tight bindings around his arms, middle, and legs, and no sight at all. For a second, he panicked, but then he shook his head and felt the cloth wrappings around it.

At least his kidnappers were considerate and wrapped soft silk around his eyes. As opposed to, he didn’t know, Sharpedo skin?

This was deeply unthinkable otherwise, however. For one, a furious Cayenne was truly a weapon in herself. Whoever was stupid enough to threaten a Macraul had better have damn good reason, he thought muzzily.

<As a matter of fact, we do,> said a pleasantly deep voice behind him. He jerked in the uncomfortable chair and heard its feet scrape against cement.

“W-Who’s – there? What are you doing?” he asked, after coughing a few times. His throat was so dry.

<I am Mirror,> said the Pokémon. <Firstly, please do not pretend to misunderstand me. I would like this to be a quick operation for us all, and the combination of your open, friendly nature and being fluent in Monese for approximately thirteen years are almost certain to make you slip up sooner rather than later. Embarrassing, yes?>

That headache was really a bother. It was hard to focus on the words. “How… How d’you know…?” he slurred.

<Excellent, you are following. This is always harder when my subordinates bear too much enthusiasm for their job,> continued the mysterious Mirror. It sounded as though he had turned by the way his voice went ever so slightly muffled for a moment, with a cooler touch that hadn’t been there before.

<As much as I do appreciate their assistance. They are, after all, family. And we overlook the shortcomings of our family because we would have nothing without them – Don’t we, Signore Macraul?>

Ludovic was starting to hyperventilate. This was all so – scary, and unfair, and humiliating, but mostly scary. He had never in his life been in such a situation before. And –

“Where are my Pokemon? A-Are they hurt? If you do anything to them, do it to me instead! They’re not -” Gods, if something happened to them…

<Ah. The first client we’ve had in a while to express worry for their team. You have more compassion than I would expect from a member of your illustrious clan.> There was a pause. <That was a compliment to your family, by the way. Their modus operandi is admirable to us. Anyhow. Never mind about them. You - >

“Have something you want?” Ludovic asked sharply. He was feeling very much aggrieved and not in the mood for this polite faceless creature. He had the sense that he was being stared at like a Bug-type on a pin, but whoever was in the room with him was skilled at not betraying a millimeter of movement except to speak.

Dead, vaguely horrified silence filled the room.

There was so much of it, in fact, that Ludovic began to sweat. The awareness of how terribly exposed he was, sitting blindfolded in a chair in the center of an unknown room with unknown occupant(s?) intensified.

“…Er,” he ventured, this time like a cowed nine-year-old faced with his furious father again, “Er. Do continue. Sorry.”

Did he just apologize to his captor?

Another lengthy pause.

Then Mirror carried on as if nothing had happened. <I will skip straight to our itinerary, if that is alright with you. It is a short one today, I am pleased to note. I will ask a couple of questions, which hopefully, you will grace with answers, and then we will send you on your way. Capiche?>

Ludovic didn’t dare speak.

<Let us begin, then. How close are you to Paul Macraul?>

Ludovic concentrated on breathing quietly through his nose.

<Signore Macraul?>

He closed his eyes behind the blindfold. Time to see whether the subtle edge in Mirror’s cultured tones belied a promise or a bluff.

Mirror hummed. <Very well.>

The blow he was waiting for didn’t come. Instead, a ghostly breath blew gently into his left ear. He cringed and jerked away instinctively. Someone – Somemon – was whispering. Human voices didn’t sound like that. It was a young creature’s voice, lisping quietly just to him. He shuddered. The words were just on the edge of his understanding. Morbid, awful things that he really should have been able to bear, even coming from the innocent voice of a child, but they still sapped at his will, his ability to think clearly. He leaned away as far as he could. The whispering continued as though the speaker’s invisible lips were glued to the side of his head. A whining drone like tinnitus started to plague his hearing, drowning out everything in the world but the whispers.

The child said:


p̵̨̹̠̹̜̺͎͍̙̽̊̈́̋͛ẹ̸̩̞̗̭̫͉̪̦̝̻́̉̎̈́̾̂͆͛̌͐̈́͠ȩ̴̧̦̳̤̮̯̪͉͚̤̘̭̘͇̅̉̓̓̀̈̃̽͝ļ̸͙͖͔̺̘̤͓̓͐̌́́̈́̎̌̒̽̋̀̔͗ͅͅỉ̷̡̞͕͉̲̘̲̥̙͔̙̜͑͛̅͊̅̆̉͂͜͜ǹ̶̛̰̖̀͊͌̓̾̕̚g̴̦͎̀̈͆̒̈́̌̽͂̚̕͠ ̵̡̨̧̙̯̹̥͚̤̘̝͍̿̊́̄͋͂͒́ș̸̨̢̡̘͓̼̗̤͔̬̤̿̏́̋̄͛̈́͐͑͆̚h̶̡̢̢̲̹͖̾̀̓͆̓̑͌͠͝r̵͓̳̳͕͍͉̼͍͎̗͉̺̽ờ̵̢̛̳͖̹͓͓͖̻̬̩̭͍̟͕͂͑̅̂̎͗̌̚̕̚ỏ̷̟̥̬̤̥̘̤̥̼͖̹̑̂̑́̀̔̆͊͠m̸̨̢̗̣͙̙̱̙̰̳͒̄͗͆́̆̒̃͂͌̓̌̉͘̚i̵̩̼̽̐̇͗͆̊̀̔́̑͋̂̆s̷̢̨͕̣̤̱̬̝̅͗̿ḩ̸̠͇̙̪̰̅̀̀̏̅̏̕͘̕͝ͅë̴̛̱̙̣̩́̚͜͠s̶̢̡̛͕̤͈̜̤̪̀̽́̅̕͜ͅͅ ̵̫̦͈͔̗̠̤͍̦̜̬̱̣̙̓̈́͑̃͂̋͗̒̆̍̏̀̌̋̂i̵̛̺͈̼͖͇̱̠̇̒̇͗͗ņ̵̮̝͚̤̼̝̜͒͜ ̶̞̗̲̗̭̌͑͒͒̓͌́̈͆͝ȁ̴̪̾ ̵̱͎̺̖̤̬̭͑̈́̋l̵̤̦̏̏̚ủ̶̡͈͛͋̈̿͘̚͝k̷̢͙̤̂͑̆͋̆̽̀͌̄́̓͆͝ę̴̧̠̪̬͋̎̇̌͂̐̓̈́͊̀͌̈́̉͜ͅw̵̛̘̦͔̌̑a̶̡̧̛̰͚̤̪̦̮̔̂̑͗͘͝͠r̶̛̟̪̳͎̙̪̘̱̲͙͎̂͗̉͊̓̈́̅͑͘͝ͅḿ̴̡̛̱͕̗̰̞͖̲͚̺̌̒̀͋̿́͗̊̕̕͜͝͠͝ͅ ̵̜͙̱̱͉̽̑̐͑̆͑͠h̷̩͉̦̣͈̐̀̍̀̑̐̐̅̋͋o̸̢͇͚̜̪͐͌t̸̨̢̠̮͎̬́͒͆͛͆͝ ̷̭̇̀͆̌̅t̶̻̮̠͖̯̞̮̺͉̼̘̥̲̏̀̿̈́̀̊ṷ̸̡̯̭̪̠̟̭̝̝̺͇͛̈́͛̀̃̓͝b̷̢͈͕̭̜͔̞͈̺̫̳̈̉ ̷̧̝̊̾̕ͅf̷̡͚̗͎̲̟́̏́̍̔̀̀̕͝i̸̢̹̘̣̗̜̪͇͓̺͌̎̄͛͑̔̉͊̀͌̓̀͘ļ̷͙̺͋͑̋͌̔͋l̶̲̽͊̏̈́͛̏͌̋̌͋͒̑̓ͅe̷̢͕̙̰̮̟͑͘d̵̖̓̓̀̀̏͊͗ ̵̢̛̛̗̣͔̘̠͉͎̖̝̤̼̮̀͗̾͑̿͆̌̚͝͝͝͝͠ẁ̸̢͛͊̈́̀̚͝͠ḯ̵̙̭̂̈͌̓̿̽̋̀̚ţ̸̛̜̯͙̙̫͍̫̭̤̪̰͖h̷̛̛̦̄̀̓̇̐̂̾̂̕͘͠͝͠ ̵̮̗̯̠̳̝͍̤̱̫̯̰͔̲̙̔̀̽͋͑ļ̴͈̲̦̯̗̮̼̟̀̓͂̿̒ͅͅe̴͕̲̮̝̋̈͗̆̚f̷̼̣̳͈͕͈͇̀̒́̄̈̉̔͒̒́̃t̴̥͖̓̇̅̀̏͝͝͝͝ͅo̵̧̩̙̯̫͕͉̖͒̌v̷̨̫̥̬̮̮̦͎̲̇͐ͅe̴̠̖̅̊̒͌̏̍́̐̿͑͝ŗ̷̜͖̣̟̖̺̫̦̎ ̴̭̜̐̉c̸̗̰̮̣̟̰͈̩̤̫̰͖̼̺̎ͅư̸̺͚͎̩̞͚͇̎̓̓̐̉͌͗̃̋̌́ͅř̴̨̭̖̻͎̱̱̊̈̄̂ṙ̵͍̩̜͒̒̃͛̐̋̈̄̉̿͑̕̕͠ỳ̸̙̯͙̼̹̼̀̎̈́̂ ̷͚̬̺̥̹̥͚̣̔͑̾͑͋̃͆̾͌͘̚ś̵̛̼̪͈̖̬͌̍̀̊͐͗̓͛͑͘̕ŭ̵͎̟̮͈̀̈́̊̄́̑͂̀̀͘͠ŕ̵̖͎̞̹̙̖̭̣̻̕ͅŗ̸̦̝̘̯͇̺̃́o̸̭̞̙͈̺̖̣̊͊́̋̎u̷̧͓̽͑̑̓̀̅̑̿͒̄͐̇͝n̵̨͍̮͖̥̠͓̲̓͒ḑ̴͚̟̳̟̃̊͑̇̂̓̏̓ȩ̵̢̬̣̳̮̠̠͔̠͈̖̊̅̐ͅḑ̵͇̠̣̞̪̗̤̗̏̓̓ ̴̲̳̻̈͂̑͝b̶̘̗͈̻͎͙̻̤͂͘ý̶̢̥̣̦͕̅̌̅̔̋̑̏̀͘ ̵̘̚ȅ̷͕͊̀̋x̸̧͙̲̺̝̫̳̘̰̙̳̣̥̲̤̂̀̾̏̈́͂̈́͐̎͒͂̅͛͠a̴̡̛̖̟͉̦͓̰̪̲̫͇͂͐́̈̋̿̌̋̍̚c̷̞̥̮͙̩̫̗͕̩̼̻̚t̷̨̖̤̟̯͛̓̆̆̊͐̇̓̕̚͝͝l̸̦̼̪͊͊͋́͑͑̊͌͝y̴̨̻̪̩̲͎͕͇̪̐͋͒̌̓̐̋̉̏͝ ̸̡̡̛͚̤͎͎̟͈͈̫̼̼̿̏͑̑́̇̕͘ͅͅs̵̹͉̼͓͎̹̮̓̈́̅̽̍̑̈́̊͌̐̉̆͝͝e̵̢͖̠̼͎̱̹̣͛̽̑̾͌͛̽̇̀̈̈́͋͘͜͝͝v̵̱̞̻̂̏̍e̵̦͕͎̝͎͌͐́̂̾̇̊̇́̒̉͘̚͘̕n̶̺̮͖̲̺̙̄͊̾̆͜ ̴̻̺͔̙̟͙̝͇͋͐̂̈́̾̂̓̐̋̈́̀̄͋̚͘o̵̡̠̻̱͖͖̤̪͖̭̤̖̖̻̿͂̀̏̓̏͆̏͆̀͘v̶͖̠̺̒͋͘͠e̴̡̤͉̥̺͍͉͔̰̠̓̓̐͠r̴̞̺̗̠͕̟̔͐̈̃͑̃̀̾̔̇͑̎͋w̶̪̝̝̼̭̺̱̹͚̳̬͓̹͋͊̾̄̉̏͆̍̅̎̕͘͜͜͠e̸̛̠̙̖͙̯͖̩͎͔̋͆̐̽͆͑͆͜ͅį̴̢̪̙̭͔̻̭̤͐͂̂͆̒̓͊̀g̸̢̘͖͓̬̙̫͚͕̤͙͗̂̄͑̌͐̈͘͜͝h̸̼̻̩͚̙̳̲̘͗͗͗͒͑̐̾̀͆̈́͂̅͠͝t̸̨͍̬͈̹̻̪͇̞̗͚͚̭̔̏̽͛̌̅͋̔̃̄͋̂̂͝ ̵̢̼̘͉̪̣̣̏͋̔̆͗́̏̈́̉͛͛̕͘r̶̥͕͛͆͗͊́͠ō̴̡̢͈̭̝̦̗͈͓͔̭̲̅̍̀́̂̇͗̄̆̔͋̀̕̕͜ã̴̧̑̓͌r̷̨̘̥̺̙͓͔̳̾̔̑̈́̈̓k̴͈̰̱͇̲͖̩͔̂̃̃͒̌ ̶̨̝̺̙̝̰̩̤̤̂̂̅͌́͗̾͐̓̆̾̋̂̚͠i̷̳͔̟̲̝̺̣̩̋̅̍̐͛̌́̇͊̈́͌̐͑͑̈m̸̪̙͍̞̫͉̫͙͕͇̜̩̜̲̖̐p̷̛̛̬̩̠̝͗́͐͂̃̐̍͝ͅę̴̦̳̦͓̩̺̻̻̃͋̅͐͑̉͒̽̀̚͝͠ŗ̷̨̡̡̗̞͓̯͓͙̥̓̈̃͛͒͊̓͐͌̈́̚͝ͅs̵̳̰̝̊̅̈̊́͗͜o̸̢̻͎̱̩̫̯̮͌̌̊̋̂͊̓̐̇́͘͠͝n̸͚̳͙̒ą̵̼̰̰̞͖͉̘̥͉̱͍̒́͌t̸̮͒̓͛̍̅̾̈́͌̓͗͌̚͘ō̶̡̧̢̪̙͎̤͎͇̻̭̫̝̄̃̔͗̍̐͝r̴̛̙̜̱̰̘̻̀̃́͒̓̃́̈́͒͊́͝͠͠s̴̗̮̻̼̱̼̆̌̊̈́̋̓͐̌͋̇̚ ̷̨̜̭͍͔̪͔͚̪̣̑̽̐̆͋̂̍̅̐̄̂̎̈́̚͘͜g̴̢̠̒͒́̍͋̀͝͝ȩ̶̡͙͕̥͙͇̹͈̟̤̥̤̈́̋͛̒͒̐͒͜t̸̢̜̻́̀̂̌̇̇̍̄̅̋̀̀̚s̵̢̞͕̘̫͈͚̎͂̾͛̈́̎̐̍͑͗͠͝͝ ̴̛͍͈͚͔̆͐̀̂̚ṁ̶̰̱̻̬͚͎̳͆̀́͒͗̆̈́̀̚͠e̷̢̧̥͕͖̺̲͒̀̀͊͌͆̈́̍̏̀͠͠ ̴͕͉̙̯͓͙̳̽͊̽͋̍͜h̴̢̧̨̼̟̭̻̱̝̺̙̺̲̦̮̄̃͝o̸̦̦͍͗ẗ̸̢̟̥̞͕̳͚̬̗͕͎̺̦̞́̇͌̆͒̏̀̔͌́̏͗̔


He gritted his teeth. “Stop.”

Of course it didn’t. Mirror spoke, however. He could barely hear it. <Could you repeat that, Signore? Were you about to say something?>

His world had narrowed down to the child creature’s voice. Somehow, he clawed his way out and took a gasping breath. “Yes, yes. Stop. Yes.”

The whispering ceased and instantly he felt less claustrophobic. He shivered, trying to get the terrible high, lilting tone out of his mind. He felt strangely drained, even though he remained whole. Mirror seemed to be waiting patiently, but he didn’t want to give them another excuse to start the psychological torture again.

“I… I don’t know him well,” he said, with effort. “He’s. My father’s cousin. I see him only at family gatherings. Events.”

<Would you happen to know much about his vaunted collection? Such as, its whereabouts?>

What in the world? Was he dealing with thieves here? “I wouldn’t. He wouldn’t tell a distant cousin that kind of thing. Security concerns, you see. Maybe my father. But he’s dead.”

<Are you sure about your answer? Think carefully.>

He fought the urge to roll his eyes even as the fear coursed through him. “Yes, I am! You’ve the wrong Macraul, I’m dreadfully sorry about that, but our branch of the family isn't very close with him anymore. I'd tell you more if I could. But honestly, I can’t. You must know we are… jealous of our collections.”

Another silence. This time it was the thoughtful kind. Odd how one could begin to differentiate between types of silences after just a prolonged period of sensory deprivation.

Mirror cleared his throat with a dignified little cough. <I know this very well. Fine, we shall let that go. For now. Secondly, are you aware of the whereabouts of your departed sister Charlotte?>

His spine stiffened. Charlotte. His childhood tormentor and protector. Both the golden child and black sheep of Cyril and Michelle Macraul’s brood. Possibly the one person more dear to him than even Cayenne. She died at seventeen, and Ludovic -

< - grieved so hideously that you tried to have your Malamar excise the memories of her, your father threatened to cut you out of the will for carrying on and on, and you channeled your anger at yourself for falling in line with your siblings’ disrespectful attitudes toward her into competitive battling, yes. Quite a tragic business,> Mirror interrupted his thoughts, and Ludovic thought a nasty word in Kalosian. Mirror let out an elegant snort that would rival that of Anna Macraul after you gracelessly brought up the topic of a disgraced cousin in the first hour of a manor gala.

<Oh, and no one ever found her head. At least, you did not, after all these years. I can’t imagine Paula, Donatien, or Anthony ever bothered to contribute more than a half-hearted phone call to la polizia di Lumiosa, if that. I also understand that Cyril washed his hands of the matter, and Michelle was in such anguish about her oldest daughter’s death that she did absolutely nothing except die herself. Yes. You are indeed a caring specimen, Signore.>

There was a mutter from somewhere to his right. <Not carin enough to give a crap about murderin sixty-five unhatched Wynauts - >

That one was shushed by several other voices plus what sounded like a rubbery slap.

Mirror continued. <Truly a shame about Charlotte’s remains. I sympathize. Especially when the manner of death is so unseemly. It feels like further insult.>

“...You know where she is.” The words scraped themselves out of his throat.

<You anticipate my conclusion. You place your prehensile appendage firmly on the point. As a favor, I will do you one better, as the [Anglophones] say - >

The blindfold disappeared. In its place, a plain burgundy box, just big enough to hold a football, perhaps. Everything else was still shrouded in darkness. It wouldn’t have mattered; Ludovic’s universe narrowed to that box.

“Let me see. Then give me your price.”

<And a reasonable man, as well. Ralphie? Thank you. Might I suggest a certain part of your collection - >

The air changed and footsteps interrupted them. Unlike the Pokémon, the newcomer was clearly a human unused to stealth. She stalked over and stopped several feet away. The darkness receded and revealed an Ace Trainer with long black tresses that bled into the shadows. She wore a Wobbuffet face mask. It was silly-looking, and added to the malevolence of her presence.

Mirror’s tone changed. <Is everything – >

“Don’t bother. I got it.”

A woman? A trainer, clearly, but... Ludovic tore his eyes away from the box and started to become even more confused. If they were trying to wear him down with bizarre shifts in the scenario, they might have been onto something.

“So I hear you don’t know anything about Blazikens,” she said in fluent Galarian. She had a dry, nasal voice and a strange sloping accent that he couldn’t place. “That kinda sucks. I always meant to do something about that.”

“Who are you?”

“Great question. But I went all this way to do something for my Family and now you want to play nice,” she said. Her voice trembled slightly; not with fear, but as though she was just barely keeping something under wraps. Anger? Excitement? “After breaking, entering, trespassing, stealing, killing, and desecrating, of course you wanna pretend to be a proper businessman now. Maybe that’s cool with my team, but not me. I’m gonna show you a thing, okay?”

She held out five pokéballs.

Three in one hand, two in the other. The middle ball on the right rose into the air. More Psychic-type shenanigans, must be. It rested there until Ludovic’s eyes met hers. As one they looked back at the pokéball. There was a metallic crunch. It sounded loud in the quiet. Two parts of the pokéball deformed inward. Another crunch. Another dent. This one was larger, and deeper. Another -
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ludovic could not generally be described as someone on the Auric Spectrum. His siblings used to scoff that he was on another spectrum entirely. A descendant of Sylvestra he might be, but by the time her genes got to him, they were quite diluted. His grandmother had supposedly spit on him as a babe. He knew quite well that his father had a non-zero amount of their ancestor’s talent. All of Cyril Macraul’s children, regardless of favoritism, were subject to it if they were caught behaving badly. Ludovic was a quiet if not model son, so he was, thank Xerneas, a more frequent spectator than victim of the odd Aura Pulse.

He was also a quick study at times.

And, despite everything, he was still Sylvestra’s great-to-the-nth-degree grandson.

During the woman’s speech, he had gathered enough energy back to subtly finagle the bindings on his wrists with a tiny Auric flick. They came loose ever so slightly, just enough so that he could stretch his hand out. It twitched, and the badly-damaged pokéball burst open.

Several things happened at once.

First, out came Enzo, sparking in surprise and uncharacteristic fury behind his chair. <Ludovic!> he cried, elytra rising with the beginnings of a Bug Buzz, sensing the hostility dripping off the walls. Luckily he wasn’t hurt from the crushing of his pokéball. A warbling noise like voices through radio static filled the air, as did dozens of shocked voices.

“Hide!” Ludovic commanded. Immediately Enzo sprang up in an arc - not before nabbing the box, good mon - and dove into the ground behind him, disappearing in a cloud of concrete dust and dirt, but not before neatly slashing the remains of his bindings into ribbons with a hind claw.

Blue. Second was a blurry sea of plastic blue coming alive under the abruptly-lessened darkness and dismayed grins that greeted Ludovic’s uncovered eyes, and he groaned. Wobbuffet. Of course. All searching for their underground Vikavolt prey. Too many of them to take on at once. Blinking against the sterile fluorescent ceiling lights, he almost didn’t notice the white, red, and black blur standing rock-steady amidst the eerie sentinels. Part of the mask had broken, revealing one eye with a black pit of a pupil.

The woman said nothing, but her visible eye hardened. Her hand twitched.

Ludovic was faster. He snapped his fingers and another pokéball flew from her hand to his. He pressed it. Florian materialized with a roar in front of him, causing the Wobbuffets not searching for Enzo to sway backwards like the tide going out despite themselves.

“Hurricane,” Ludovic muttered. And braced himself, dropping to the floor and gripping the chair over his head.

Florian’s Hurricane was monstrous, and in an enclosed space, it was unleaded chaos. The wind whipped up Ludovic’s suit jacket and tossed his hair as Florian beat his wings to generate gale-force winds in the small grimy room. It also tossed Wobbuffets left and right, flat-out uprooting up a few unfortunate lightweights and smacking the others over their domed heads with them. Those that remained on the ground either scrambled away from their flying brethren, accidentally Countered them back, or sat in a confused daze. Florian himself couldn’t escape a Counter, but he bit down on the offender with a sound like a knife piercing a particularly fatty steak. Enzo rocketed up from the ground at intervals, grabbing Wobbuffets too surprised to move and dragging them back down with him into the earth.

Order: More or less destroyed. Time to go after the main troublemakers.

Or not. A staticky noise split the air, at first barely audible over the [Italian] screaming and Florian’s basso roars, but it grew louder as Ludovic searched for the source, sticking under the cover of Florian’s wings. He desperately rubbed the circulation back into his hands and arms. The trainer must have released her Pokémon at some point. It sounded like –

Manectric, he thought, watching Florian’s entire body go rigid with paralysis and a stiffly jerking neck.

“Outrage!” he shouted, hoping to thin their numbers as much as possible before he could launch the next part of his plan.

He thought he heard Mirror’s voice in the fray, but he wasn’t sure. There were too many that sounded like him. Probably related, came the inane afterthought in his mind as he caught the pokéballs that Enzo flipped his way and dodged a Phantump that somehow got flung at his head. He slammed the first down and released, thank Xerneas, Idris.

<Idris is not even going to ask,> said the Malamar, gazing at the scene.

“Find the girl and subdue her,” Ludovic ordered.

Idris nodded gravely and swanned off, Swaggering those Wobbuffets that somehow evaded the madness so far.

Next came Corentin, who jingled his keys at him. “I bet she’ll be near the Manectric. Corentin, make sure they don’t get away.”

<Aye aye!> Corentin jangled and the atmosphere went soft and pink. The Fairy Lock swiftly held everyone in place – well, everyone who wasn’t already stuck by Shadow Tag.

There was a yelp from Ludovic’s left and he followed the sound, taking out a Hyper Potion and spraying Florian with it haphazardly as he ran past. It wouldn’t help the paralysis, but he mainly needed him to be a distraction anyway.

When his opponent’s Pokémon came into view, it was pinned on the ground by Enzo’s claws, writhing silently as a Night Slash cut into its fur. It clamped onto Idris with its jaws, which failed to elicit anything from the stoic Malamar.

Next to them lay a crumpled human figure.

<Your prey, dear master,> Idris announced, as though introducing guests at the manor. <It is very impolite, to say nothing of its mistress. What next?>

Ludovic was about to answer when a vibrating thud stopped him. Florian let out a strangled growl and whimper.

He turned to see an unlikely sight – A Gallade, of all things, was perched on an unmoving heap of Charizard limbs, Klefki keys, and Vikavolt wings in a three-point position. He barely got a good look at it when it leapt again, grabbed him by the collar, and drove them both forward to pin him to the wall within a second.

They were instantly surrounded by a protective ring of Wobbuffet, one of them wearing a suit with a red tie. Ludovic didn’t have time to gasp.

The Gallade’s eyes were a livid, hypnotic purple. Its words appeared directly in his mind, along with a dose of controlled fury. <(Releasethem.)> His Aurorus’ ball floated behind them, spinning lazily in a firm Psychic grip. If he squinted, he could see poor Charlotte straining to escape inside.

“N-No,” he hissed. “Idris.”

Idris, tentacles waving gently, leveled a severe look at the Gallade. Without breaking eye contact, he summoned a dark ball of energy. It floated over the woman and then sank into her body, causing her limbs to spasm unnaturally.

<(Forget!)> the Gallade snarled, and Ludovic whited out.

Does anybody really know what time it is?

---

Contrary to common opinion, Dolabella the Cinccino was not entirely without merit.

And he knew it. His moral fiber was completely intact, thank you, no matter what that shrew Thierry squeaked at him about the < dangerously unbalanced nature of his soul >. Unlike some mons – no naming names – he did think about the consequences of his actions now and then. If he didn’t know right from wrong, he wouldn’t be capable of coming out on top of half the shit he pulled.

For example, years ago he had raised Gage from an egg into a well-adjusted, happy, and productive (some might say over-productive, given the worryingly vague letters Dolabella received from him monthly) member of the Pokémon (under)world. Granted, this only happened because his adoptive trainer and her fecund gang of suited blue maniacs had pressed him into service. She had deemed warming the Wobbuffet eggs to be a comparable punishment for the most minor spot of arson.

Dolabella still held a grudge. How did being put in charge of the vulnerable eggs of another species – A highly insular, passive-aggressive species who existed because Arceus sat down one day and thought what the world needed was the living embodiment of disproportionate retribution – equal the karma of burning down a single measly PokéMart?

PokéMarts were everywhere! Humans weren’t exactly hurting for them!

He still had lingering post-traumatic stress over accidentally touching anything black, white, and vaguely tail-shaped.

But even that was okay, because Gage-o paid him back in so many ways. Not only in disturbing funko pops and the odd commissioned portraits of domestic terrorists Dolabella admired, but also nifty high-tech gadgets that the Family would occasionally get their rubbery little paws on.

Such as: Silph Co.’s extremely untested prototype of a device meant to activate the Pokémon move Mind Reader on humans, among other things. Supposedly it was the fruit of a generous grant to Silph from a medical association meant to help neurologists understand psychological disorders that Pokémon who knew the move couldn’t help with, because most of humanity didn’t realize Monese was a thing. Dolabella didn’t get it, nor did he care. The important thing was that it sounded dubiously legal, which was a plus.

He wasn’t even sure how Gage got a hold of it considering how low he still was on the Wobbs’ totem pole. Maybe having had a spot on their precious Little Sister’s traveling party gave him some leverage. But the main thing was that requesting Gage to send him something useful had shut Lo up for a long while after she had complained about Dolabella not pulling his weight in the whole constantly-monitor-Herself-for-loony-bin-activity plan. It didn’t matter that the sorry mess of millions of pokéyens’ worth of cutting-edge biomedical equipment was probably about as useful as a sack of Everstones, especially knowing what they now knew about Mindscapes thanks to the J-Team (the perks of belonging to an overachieving vigilante outfit). What mattered was that he gave the appearance of giving a shit with minimal effort.

What Dolabella was doing now was pondering it in the relative privacy of Channah’s haunted quarters aboard the docked Stormchaser.

He wasn’t alone, unfortunately. The ‘relative’ was thanks to that fast-talking linguine zombie sitting with his legs crossed on the coffee table like a fashion model marveling at his own elbows. Hale didn’t do that so much anymore now that the shock of being bipedal had worn off, but the team still caught him doing it now and then.

If Dolabella kept his thoughts quiet and didn’t fidget much, then Hale wouldn’t bother him. Hopefully.

Not that anything needed doing in the first place. The device, which resembled a small metallic Porygon missing some parts, was a little more ragged than it had come to them as, thanks to certain parties’ over-eager handling of their new toy. Some wires loose, stuff like that. It had also taken a beating after it became clear that it had zero function at all, and the team’s hopes had been dashed yet again.

<Whatareyoudoing.Rodent.>

Dammit.

<Piss off,> Dolabella muttered half-heartedly. He held the device away from Hale’s questing reach. Not that it worked too well, given the sizes of their limbs.

<Hey! I was looking at that!> Hale had nabbed the thing from him and held it up to his face, examining it with those feline violet eyes. <Maybe you’ve forgotten in the decade or so that you were dead, mister, but private property is still a thing.>

Dolabella didn’t grab for it, despite the venom in his tone. For all their disjointedness, there was a definite hierarchy of authority in the team, and Hale had curled up comfortably back at the top upon his starchy resurrection as though he had never died and the entire party hadn’t changed in his absence.

Without, of course, any consideration at all for the latter. Dick.

<Itisnotyoursanymore.Publius.> said Hale calmly. Condescendingly. <Youyourselfdonatedittotheteam.Duringyourgrandexhibitionofthedevicetheotherday.Didyounot.>

Dolabella dashed up the television and perched on it, glaring daggers at Hale. When in doubt, find higher ground. It doesn’t make you look taller, but it does show the offending party that you are now in range for a well-aimed Bullet Seed in the eye. <Uh, “the team” still includes me, asshole,> he chittered. <Unless I’m no longer included in your Dubiously-Elite-and-Ass-Licking-Mons-Only Squad, in which case it still actually belongs to me because we’re not talking about the same group of mons thanks to your deluded psycho brain.>

<Ihavelostthethreadofthisconversation.> Hale replied amiably, still fondly contemplating the device. Maybe not so fondly. More like how, well, how an unfairly strong Psychic-type would regard a human’s childish attempt at recreating Auric abilities in clumsy dead machinery. He prodded an exposed coaxial cable with a disinterested appendage.

<WhileIentirelyunderstandthedesiretoavoidtheInterloper’sassistanceinthismatter.Doyouthinkthatwearegoingaboutthisthewrongway.>

There was a pause for comprehension. Such things were not uncommon in Hale’s presence. Gods, was he talking about that shit Dolabella had brought up to him months ago? Apparently.

<Damn, you actually remembered other mons have opinions of their own. What gives?>

Pokémon Eminem sighed. <Thisappearstobeamoreofamatteroftheheart.Notofthemind.BythisImean.Relationshipproblems.>

Dolabella shrugged. <Whatever, dude. You were the one in her head for all those years. You’re the one who made Lo and the others all hot and bothered about her going off the deep end again. Your problem, your solution.>

Once Channah had somehow snared a bona fide, more-or-less-permanent human companion through what Dolabella could only conclude was occult magics, the team had basically cooled down on the group therapy efforts. The effect was maybe less noticeable than in other humans, but she smiled more often, actually laughed out loud once rather than that wheezing disdainful chuckle she usually did (a development which unnerved the crap out of everyone present, even Don Montanari). Went out and did things with Tagg rather than stay in her room and mope. Was more physically affectionate with every member of the team, not just Thierry and Basil. Hung around with an enchanted look in her eyes at J-Team meetings, barely listening to a word of whatever new grand plan they were working on.

But the first thing Hale did when he got out of her head (besides accidentally blow his own teammates away) was round up the gang for a simultaneous inspection and come-to-Jirachi. In addition to telling them that most of the team was nowhere near top-percentage and that he would be recommending her to replace half the group by <breedingforIVs>, he insisted that they were not yet out of the woods regarding Herself’s bizarre mental issues. They were, in fact, still in the middle, where the trees grew thick and solid and the canopy blocked out the sunlight. Everyone but Dolabella was so alarmed that they promptly forgot about the breathtaking insults he’d bestowed upon them just minutes ago.

The problem was, Hale didn’t explain much of his thought processes that led to this statement at all. Probably because of the whole inadequate-teammates thing. The Brothers knew he didn’t have any problems finding words.

<TheInterlopershouldnotlearnwhatIsawinsidehermind.> Hale said, forlorn. It was the first time Dolabella had ever heard him talk in something other than an arrogant monotone, and his ears pricked up in response. <ButIwonderifweshouldnottellhim.Thatsomethingis…different…>

Damn, ellipses were more like commas in his parlance. Dolabella scampered down from the television. <Oh no no. There’s no need for the big guy to know anything. Like, the Macraul Incident? Would not go over well.>

A while ago, Herself and some of the team returned from an impromptu absence looking frazzled and - off, somehow. But none of them seemed to realize that. Dolabella had chalked it up to the usual results of visiting her brother, but then Hale had pulled him - him, what the hell - aside and told him everything.

That they’d gone to Kalos instead. Found and kidnapped the rich soyboy who stole the Family’s recent batch of eggs. From what he could derive from the mostly incomprehensible rant, they’d only meant to scare him badly before getting the eggshells back, but Herself broke the script at the last second and ruined everything, with loyal little Hale’s help. Somehow. It turned out that Mon Trafficker McGee had a little surprise up his expensive pant leg. And the fucker’s Malamar had done something to her, to boot. Hale took advantage of a lull in the fight to knock everyone out and serve up a little retcon soup to the whole sorry party. The Macraul had been sent back home with Hale’s hastily-invented story about getting roughed up in the sketchier part of Lumiose, and Channah now thought she actually had gone to her brother’s.

And Hale was furious and guilty, thinking about telling Lo too. Which was what made Dolabella think something really had gotten fucked up, because one, Hale T. Nolastname did not feel sorry for anything he did, and two, that pair wasn’t on the friendliest terms despite being distaff counterparts of each other. Maybe because.

<Libby told you how T reacted to Garrett’s little show when they met that one time, and all he fuckin did was mouth off,> he added. <If I learned anything from the Fam, you don’t bring outsiders into your own issues, you solve em yourself. Keeps everything nice and tidy.> Shame they didn’t see Himself more often, speaking of. Dolabella looked to him as an underclassman admires a trouble-making senior.

A quiet sigh. <Ofcourse.No.Imustsimplytryharder.>

Hale levitated the device between what passed as his hands. He stared at it with such intensity that Dolabella briefly thought he was about to crush it with his psychics. Instead, the device went flying smoothly upwards and suddenly Dolabella had to extend his tail to catch it safely.

<Whooaaaaat the fuck,> he said, juggling the unwieldy thing.

<Thankyouforyourcounsel.Rodent.Keepyourtoysafe.Itmaybeusefulyet.> Hale told him and strode out of the room. <Iwillhassletheothers.Callyoursonandtellhimhemayneedtosendabackupifthisdoesnotsucceed.>

Dolabella stared, then spluttered. <If what doesn’t succeed? Hey! Hey! You need to learn how to elaborate, asshole! And what son?!>

Galar, centuries ago

Tonight he walks the streets of the cursed city in an endless loop, his booted footfalls echoing off intricate stonework. He glides over warped, uneven cobblestones and rooftops delicately, precisely, with knife-thrust movements. Pavers and bricks slick with rain; or more commonly, darker, more sinister fluids. The everlasting moonlight glints off the fresh blood on his coat, the crude metals embedded in his dark, sodden clothes. Just like the pleading statues that litter the alcoves of the city, begging monsters for help from under layers of caked blood. He blends in seamlessly now. He is a fixture.

The city breathes raggedly all around him, in beastly howls, wet gasps, and faint screams, punctuated by the odd bit of rubble collapsing under extreme force. He has learned to pay these parcels of mystery no attention. It is instead the nearest sounds that matter to the keen hunter. A matter of crude survival. No pondering and imagining here, in this stinking, bloodstained trash heap.

Manrahy is cast in eternal dusk, and its stolid gloom encourages one to discard Time at its gates. But that is a fatal presumption. It is the present, the now, that one must heed. Time is forever young in this ancient place. For Manrahy has become a feral beast. And like all beasts, the city exists only in the moment.

He is no beast himself. He is barely more than nothing. A faint whisper, a hint of sentience, a bland thing that takes up exactly the space it needs and quietly displaces an unremarkable volume of air. Others try to shape him into what they see. The blind beggar calls him friend, savior. The nun - worshiper of no deity he knows, and he knows them all - hisses *abomination* at him. Mary simply says that he is hers, in that hushed cool voice that commands his lifeless heart.

Every poor soul in this town calls him the Pale Hunter. His people from Before - insofar as he might consider them his - called him things as well. Distant. Strange. Deficient.

The Hunter lets them. It does him no harm and he cares not for grumbling chatter. But none of these roles will ever become him. Because despite Mary's cherished, temporary companionship, solitude itself is his soul.

He is only Maxim. He is alone. Removed essentially from the whole of creation by the vast white gaping dry empty twilight desert that has always surrounded his perfect oasis. It is comfortable and peaceful, and in his head it is always quiet. There is no need to leave, and he never will.

The city now is calm for once, in this district of Old Manrahy. He dispassionately cleared it of beasts on his last go-round, and their brethren have not yet repopulated the narrow alleys and crumbling townhouses. It makes for a serene constitutional, almost. He kicks the grossly bloated avian form of a mutated Corvisquire out of his way, and moves onward round a corner toward a plaza, peering into shadows and windows.

A prouder creature might mourn themselves in this state, scouring a dying human city for scraps of life. How the mighty fell. He merely slides from one empty alcove to the next.

Intent, patient Hunter.

No survivors here, or indeed anywhere. He has not seen or smelled any all night. Mary wants him to look for them, to bring them to their safe haven in the Chapel, but he fears he will return to her empty-handed. Not for the sake of the would-be refugees, but for her peace of mind. If tonight's Hunt claimed every innocent in the city, Maxim would not grieve their deaths.

It is simple. Others may deserve sympathy, but he has none to give. The total eradication of his people garnered only his faint regret at the loss of the dubious protective barrier between him and the Universe, once he found himself unfortunately alive again. The Universe sees the lacking in those like him, and works to excise them like the tumors they are.

But Mary - lithe, vicious, dedicated Mary - cares not for the rightness or wrongness of a soul. To her, he is whole. She owns a part of Maxim now, and so she is him in some mystic way. So he owes her this, to put her soft heart at ease. Making her happy makes him feel - not happy, but bizarrely light. It was at first a quandary, feeling the permanent calm in his head give way to something stronger for the first time. He felt like a Drifloon, unmoored and floating away into parts unknown. Now, he chases the sensation.

He straightens from looking into a basement window and a shape greets him.

It stands across the cobblestone road. It is tall and aristocratic in both bearing and garb. Elegant silk and hints of brocade frame the figure, stained ruby all over with splashes of blood. Some of it must be theirs; it stands stiffly, as though keeping pain at bay. An equally-luxurious rifle with a bayonet graces one long-fingered hand and in the other, a delicate engraved pistol that looks more like an expensive toy than a death-bringer. The stranger looks at Maxim, tilting its top-hatted head.

"Hail, fellow Hunter," it says. It has a man's voice. Quite sane. A lazy, expansive, and posh accent. Add the foreign garb, and the sum must equal one of the metropolitan northerners of this miserable rainy island. An outsider turned Hunter, like him. "Pardon me, sir. I almost missed you, kneeling in the dark like that."

Maxim nods.

The nobleman - for it has to be, he has the look and act not dissimilar to Manrahy's degenerate nobility - pads closer. He doesn't raise either weapon, merely leans forward. Dirty bandages and wrapped cloth obscure his face.

"You are a Hunter, yes? I am - "

The man startles and recoils, darting back. Still does not raise his weapon. A very fresh outsider.

"Y-Your eyes..." he mutters. "So red." He does not flee despite the trembles. Possibly a promising sign for his future, or the complete opposite.

Maxim lifts a shoulder, drops it in the newfangled way he has seen younger humans do. "They have always been so." His eyes were the only thing the Lady Death permitted him to keep from the ashes of his old self, when he was reborn in the sea. Even then they are not the brilliant piercing carmine of his kin, but an insipid vermillion. No great loss.

This seems to placate the Hunter, who huffs through his masking, but keeps his distance. Smart. "Truly? Ah. Then I sincerely apologize, sir. I have not chanced across a proper Galarian soul all night, you see, and..."

The words wash over Maxim in a wave of extended vowels and misplaced grandiosity. He does not bother to correct the man's estimation of him as a proper anything. This human, the well-educated scion of a noble northern family, thinks himself a gentleman adventurer of sorts. He seeks a long-lost relation - blood relatives from the accursed castle outside the city. Even in the waking world, no one has traveled there in ages.

Maxim does not fully understand, nor care. But he has learned to be a Ditto over the years since donning human skin, pretending at emotion to better be ignored. He is good at most things he sets his mind to. This, as well as the man's obliviousness disguise Maxim's eerie lack of extraneous movement, something he never was able to overcome. He nods sympathetically to the story, which brings to mind that the trapped vampiric queen is the only living thing left in that castle after he was done with it. He thinks about mentioning the Chapel. He thinks about warning the Hunter about the false clinic. He does none of these things.

Because he can tell that the man, with his guileless and overconfident nature, will not last much longer. He is a fool for coming here on his grand whim. Everything in Manrahy, sooner or later, is subsumed in blood. Whether it is the Old Blood or the Violet Blood that Maxim seeks.

The nobleman bids him a jolly farewell that falls flat in the gloomy atmosphere and offers him a few silver bullets. Maxim refuses them, and gives him a grave bow in return. A formal gesture of a Hunter's last respects, in case he comes upon the man later, wild-eyed and slavering for blood. He is not a Hunter of Hunters, but he does their work all the same when the opportunity arises. Monsters are monsters, no matter how far along they are in their madness.

He continues on his rounds, kills a few beasts, slays a nightmare, finds nothing, then returns to the Hunter's Dream and the Workshop.

Mary is inside the little building, repairing her Rakuyo. Her silver-blond ponytail swings back and forth under her tricorn hat as she reaches for something on a shelf. He hesitates at the threshold, then turns away. Better not to disturb her now. She likes to think deeply about things when performing routine tasks, and distracting her with a kiss would only grace him with a curt snarl instead.

He decides to pay a visit to the fishing hamlet. He is now almost certain that the Gray Church performed experiments there, based on his investigations in the Research Hall. Mary expresses reluctance whenever he brings up the topic. But something unspeakable was elevated to greatness in that hamlet, just like in the Moonside Lake.

Maxim will discover what it is, and bring it to her. She will approve.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He lies, helpless, in the dark.

He cannot move his arms. Something covers his eyes. But his eyes are on the inside. Why -

Mary reaches his face. Her mouth opens to reveal bloodied, purple gums and something visceral and tentacled and wriggling in the back of her throat. Her reddened eyes are lumpy and soft in their sockets, as though they just started to collapse from decay.

"You must remember that you will always live in my heart, my own," she whispers, and cups his cheek.

He opens his mouth to scream.