The fan turns and turns and turns, and you wish you could lose yourself in the sound of its whirring and the sight of its endless spinning.
There was a time when you couldn't sleep at night. Too full of restless energy. Of the anxiety of the past, and the hopes of the future.
Now it's all that you can do - sleep. Or the closest thing to it. Not rest, not truly. Hour after hour, blending into day after day, shuffling from your bed to your kitchen chair to the couch in the living room and back again, over, and over, and over.
Here you are now. Lying on your couch. Staring at the fan.
The room is cast in gloom, all the blinders shut most of the way down, leaving only faint trails of light to grace the furniture. You prefer it that way. It makes it harder to see… Everything. The piles of dirty dishes scattered everywhere that you haven't cleaned in days. The heap of clothes slowly piling up in one corner of the room and you discard new items each day and take them to the laundry never. The heap of cigarette butts spilling out from the overburdened ashtray.
You'd quit once before. You doubt you'll manage to do it again, now.
The TV, perpetually turned on just to fill the silence with some kind of sound, drones on and on and on.
"...first sightings of Foongus Pokémons in the Kanto region," says the smiling anchor. "The 'Mushroom Pokémon,' while famous for imitating a Pokéball, is considered a possibly dangerous invasive species by local scientists, as the local wildlife is not adapted to…"
You close your eyes and sigh. How predictable. Humans create Pokéballs. Humans teach Pokémons that capture is a good thing. Predators adapt to resemble Pokéballs and lure prey with the thought of a human partner… Everywhere you go it's all the same. The same pattern of disruption and destruction.
"...interested in finding out how Voltorb and Foongus, two Pokémons that are different in every other way, evolved the same kind of camouflage. In other news, the filthy criminal under house arrest in Striaton City continues to decay, too pathetic to even step out on her porch…"
The words creep down your spine like the legs of a Scolipede, stabbing into your nerves. You slowly turn your head to look at the TV.
Through the grainy flicker, the anchor stares at you, no longer smiling, no longer polite.
VOICE OF THE FATHER: "Look at yourself, you wretch. All this training. All this effort. Years of dedication. Your alleged 'resolve.' All just so you'd end up lying down and rotting on your couch."
Don't answer him, you remind yourself. Don't acknowledge his existence.
You force yourself to close your eyes and try to push out the voice as your hand fumbles for the remote, knocking over an empty beer bottle.
VOICE OF THE FATHER: "Maybe I was right about you all along. Maybe you are worthless, trash we should never have wasted our time picking up from the gutter. Oh, I'm sorry. I never told you that's what we thought of you, did I? What we all-"
"Shut the fuck up," you mumble, and push the button. The TV turns off.
Respite, for a moment. But to do that you had to sit up, and now your head's swimming. Stars swarm inside your skull, and you can see nothing but vague blots of color. You moan, rubbing a hand through your hair. When was your last shower?
Priorities. You've been drifting in and out of torpor on this couch for the better part of… Well, let's not count hours. Or days. You might not make it out of your house today (not that your ankle bracelet would be happy about that, staring at you as it is with its hateful red light), but you might at least manage to get some food in you.
Provided there's any left. As you scan the kitchen counter, watching the remnant of half a dozen unfinished meals, left there to be claimed by mold after you lost the appetite midway through lunch, or dinner, or whatever hour you could no longer ignore the hunger at, you realize you never even bothered making groceries. You browse your shelf for some non-perishables, some pasta or rice or something, but no. Only empty jars.
You nearly start out of your skin when your phone starts ringing. Where did you even leave it? There, on the bookshelf - the battery should have died by now, shouldn't it? You elect to ignore it as you focus on deciding whether it's worth it opening the fridge and exposing yourself to whatever's inside.
Your eyes drift to one of the plates on the counter. There's a slice of pizza there. How old can it be? A day? Two? It's probably more than two. But it'd be fine to eat, right? It's just tomato sauce and some processed industrial cheese on top of bread, it won't kill you.
The phone stops ringing. Then, it does that thing phones do in older movies and which you are absolutely certain your very modern phone absolutely does not do, and goes straight to broadcasting voice mail.
Sweet, achingly melancholy voice mail.
VOICE OF THE LEADER: "You know I wouldn't want that for you, right? Just because I'm gone doesn't mean I don't care about you. I want you to go on, to take care of yourself. If only you'd see-"
The message dies, your finger nearly breaking the screen with how hard you pushed the red phone button. A chair is wobbling where you dove halfway across the room to grab the phone and turn it off. You didn't even really think of what you were doing.
Now that you're holding the phone in your hand, it's obvious the battery is, in fact, dead, and has been the whole time.
So you're not doing great. What are you supposed to do about it? It's always like this when-
No. You're not thinking about this. It's not worth thinking about. You'll open the fridge, brave whatever has survived of its contents, and make yourself a meal. Then you'll… Take out the trash, and…
It seems easier to go back to the couch and lie down again. Not like you were going to get anything done again.
Managing a last ditch effort of will, you find your charger near the bookshelf, and plug in your phone to recharge. There. That's your token effort for the day. Now…
BANG. BANG. BANG.
There is a knock on the door.
Your whole body freezes. You don't turn to look at it. You do your best imitation of a Kecleon fading into its environment, hoping if you don't answer, whoever that is will go away.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
After the second series of knocks comes a pause, and then a voice. Calling out to you from beyond the threshold. Young. Brash. Defiant.
VOICE OF THE BATTLER: "Is this really what you're going to do with the rest of your life? You can't even stand back up after one defeat? I thought better of you!"
Don't acknowledge it. Don't answer it. But you grit your teeth unconsciously, anger creeping into your dread.
"I don't care about the stupid battle," you whisper without looking at the door, eyes on your bookshelf, landing on that stupid Illustrated Guide to Evolutionary Stones. A children's book. Why do you even still have it. "It's not about winning or losing, it's-" BANG. BANG. BANG.
VOICE OF THE BATTLER: "Yeah, I bet it's not. You just did something wrong and got knocked on your ass and now, what, you've decided your life is over rather than pick it up and find a new direction? Maybe atone for your misdeeds? C'mon! Didn't you used to have dreams?"
Clenched teeth become an outright snarl. Your eyes flare in anger and you whirl around, stride across the room towards that door, that offending door, glowing red with heat, pulsing like a heartbeat, the knocking louder and louder behind it.
"I have nothing to atone for, you brat," you start shouting as you swing open the door, "my dream was-"
Your voice cuts off, breathless, the whole world turning to light.
It's sunlight. It's just sunlight after you've been cooped up in the gloom for days on end. At first you're totally blind, but then, slowly, that light resolves into something like a view of the street outside your house, the little orderly houses of suburban Striaton, the trees whose leaves sway in the breeze, and the tiny woman in a three-piece suit glaring at you.
She's blond, short-cropped hair, a little older than you are, and in one of her hands - the one she wasn't using to knock insistently on your door - she's holding a very small suitcase.
Of the kind that might be used to carry, say, about half a dozen Pokéballs.
You step back, staring wide-eyed. The tiny woman's eyes flick to your ankle bracelet, then back to your face. She says a couple words - your name and an honorific.
"I… yes," you say, "that's me."
"I'm Officer Hensen with the International Police. May I come in?"
"I…" You briefly glance back at the state of your living room and become, for one, painful second, keenly aware of what it would look like to anyone who hasn't sunk low enough to accept it as their natural environment. You wish you could say 'no.' You look back at Officer Hensen. "Of course," you say. "Though you may wish you hadn't."
You step back, allowing her in. To her credit, Hensen's only reaction to the state of your house is a brief pause, and a slight inhale. You'd expected outwardly displayed disgust, so you'll take that as a win.
Closing the door behind her, you move a few plates away from the low table in the center of the living room so that, if nothing else, Hensen might sit there. You're not even sure why you're doing that; the comfort of an Interpol cop is very low on your list of your concerns.
Something like a vague remnant of dignity, you suppose.
"How long have you been under house arrest?" Hensen says, her eyes slowly panning over the room, taking it all in without a change in her cold, analytical expression as she takes it all in and processes the dregs of your life for information.
"I dunno," you shrug, "a week - maybe two? Make that two weeks," you say, finishing to dump the remnants of the plate in the trash can and turning to catch a glimpse of Hensen's eyes narrowing.
Wrong answer. However long it was, it was more than two weeks. Three? You frankly have no idea. You lost track of days, well… Days ago.
Hensen shakes her head, and puts the small suitcase down on the half-cleaned table. Your eyes immediately swivel to it like iron to a magnet, an inexorable pull. Your heart is beating so loud you can hear it, your throat is parched. Dread and anticipation wrestle each over in the pit of your stomach.
"I won't beat around the bush," Officer Hensen says, saying your name again which you wish she wouldn't, "Interpol has gone over your Pokémon as thoroughly as was possible. With your testimony, we were able to quickly connect the three that you'd stolen to their original trainers, and return them to their proper homes. Your cooperation in this was… Appreciated."
Not like there was a point in resisting. It's not like they were going to release them if you told them they definitely weren't stolen, pinkie-swear.
You slide down onto your couch, clutching your hands so they can't betray your nervousness, as Officer Hensen goes on.
"Two others could not be connected to any Trainers," she says, "but were considered to be too dangerous to return to a trainer with your rap sheet. They've been transferred to a Ranger-administered daycare; there, they will be cared for until such a time as they can find a trainer with the ability to take them on, or are considered rehabilitated for release into the wild."
You bite your tongue to not reply with something inflammatory. That stings. You know the two they mean, and you didn't 'steal them' from anyone, not anyone who deserved to have them, anyway. You could have cared for them just fine. And of course it's always 'we will rehabilitate them for ownership by a trainer first," with release into the freedom of the wild only considered as a fallback, a failure state.
"Which leaves these," she says, and with a finger nudges the suitcase across the low table, to you. "These Pokémon could be confirmed to be legitimately yours and to not pose a threat while in your company. They are now being returned to you."
Yours. How you hate that word. They're not 'yours.' They never belonged to you.
(Not that they were your friends, either. Nor even your companions. You were just… Collaborators on a mission.)
The woman slides something else across the table.
It's a key.
"With this," Hensen says, "you are no longer considered an immediate threat to the public, and your term of house arrest comes to an end. You'll need to return the monitoring device to your case officer, and will be subject to a few regulations on your freedom of movement in the coming months, but you are now free to go, along with your Pokémons."
It's like a weight has lifted from your shoulder. And yet the dread - the dread is still there. You barely even see the key, all your mind on the case. You reach out gingerly, as if it might burn you, and put your fingertips on its lid.
You can feel the life there, thrumming, the warmth of it against your skin. And all of a sudden the distorted voices speaking through static in your phone and TV seem to grow very distant, replaced by ones far more familiar.
FIRE: That warmth is the fire of life, baby! As long as you're together, nothing can come between you!
FIGHTING: They tried to take it from you, but they couldn't. They never will. No matter how beaten you are, you'll always stand up before the bell rings.
WATER: You've lost much, it's true. But the secret of life is to adapt and adjust, go with the flow, accept the losses so you can keep moving.
DARK: And forget about what they took from you? No - that wound in your chest is a strength. Nurture it. Harness its pain as strength.
GRASS: Your strength is in your connection. They cut you down, but left you your roots. It'll be slow work, but you can grow again.
POISON: They hurt you. They hurt you and they were wrong. Never let yourself be twisted into thinking what happened to you was right. Remember the corruption of this world.
Another voice cuts through, cleaner, sharper, more real. You turn to see Officer Hensen standing in the light of the threshold, door open, half-turned to you, her cold expression softened slightly.
"Word of advice? Your boss is going to prison. That's not common. Something there went very, very wrong. Whatever you hoped to find in your organization, I would not seek it again elsewhere. I'd try a fresh start. To find a new dream. Maybe a new region. Somewhere you can make something else of yourself."
"...I'll take it under advisement," you say flatly.
Hensen nods, and she leaves, closing the door behind her. The gloom returns.
Your fingers haven't left the suitcase. You couldn't imagine leaving it. You're deathly afraid to open it.
This stalemate has to break eventually. You take a deep breath, and open the suitcase.
The Pokéballs shine with reflections of the faint sunlight beaming through the shutters, and you recognize them instantly.
NORMAL: Now we are whole again.
Pick a team. Your team may total up to six Types; the chosen Types will also reflect your strongest Skills/Voices.
That is, you can pick three dual/types, or two dual types and two single-types, or one dual-type and all three single-types. This is a plan vote, so give your chosen team a cool name.
[ ] Bisharp, Dark/Steel. The Sword Blade Pokémon is a pitiless fighter and leader over the weaker Pawniards. For the sake of the pack, it will sacrifice its lessers without second thought; for the sake of its power, it is always watching out for betrayal. Bisharp fights with blade attacks, feints, and an armored body. Bisharp believes only in victory, yet the chipped blade of this Bisharp reveals it to have lost and been outcast. As such, it's always been standoffish and filled with dark thoughts.
Dark is the aspect of bitter resolve and ruthless independence. Dark sees the evil that is to come, and prepares against it; in the absence of good, it is the duty of the wicked to stand for something. Pessimistic and distrustful of all authority, Dark seeks to achieve its ideals by acting outside of laws both formal and informal. Dark covers deceit and misdirection, acting under the cover of darkness, as well as actions governed by desperation and spite. Those deprived of Dark are helplessly naive and unprepared for the world, while those with too much Dark ready knives against a betrayal that would never have come if they had not brought it on themselves.
Steel is the aspect of unbending determination and self-restraint in the pursuit of perfection. Steel believes it is only as strong as its limitations, and assigns itself a rigid code from which it derives strength. Uncertainty makes a man a dull blade, but the sharpest blade can cut the world. Steel covers physical resilience, the ability to ignore pain, an understanding of machinery, as well actions governed by a refusal to bend one's self-imposed rules. Those with too little Steel cannot commit to their values and are easily swayed, while those with too much Steel refuse to bend their own rules even in the face of utmost necessity.
[ ] Galarian Rapidash, Psychic/Fairy. The Unique Horn Pokémon is a brave and prideful rider, renowned the world over for its beauty. It absorbs ambient psychic energy and stores it into its beautiful mane, and has an uncanny ability to sense wickedness in men's hearts. Rapidash fights by channeling psychic energy into its horn, and by leveraging its great swiftness. This rare rainbow variant is not native to your region; it flinches when touched, and will not let you ride on its back.
Psychic is the aspect of open-mindedness and understanding others. Psychic believes that understanding others is the path to all things: Wisdom. Harmony. Control. Power. The only mind Psychic does not truly understand is its own, and what need does it have for self-knowledge? Psychic covers empathy in the most value-neutral sense, understanding and predicting others' behaviors, as well as actions governed by a refusal to acknowledge one's inner contradictions. Those with too little Psychic cannot comprehend why people do the things they do, while those with too much Psychic think controlling others is the only path to success.
Fairy is the aspect of whimsy and the embrace of the unknown. Fairy believes that the world is fundamentally unknowable, and that this is to be celebrated; mystery is another word for innocence, and the thing Fairy dreads most is to have done wrong. How can it be guilty of what it does not know? Fairy covers the exploration of mystery, knowledge of esoteric lore, communicating with children, and playing pranks, as well as actions governed by a desire to deflect blame. Those with too little Fairy are dull and unimaginative; those with too much Fairy exist in a world of their own where they are incapable of ever doing wrong.
[ ] Drakloak, Dragon/Ghost. The Caretaker Pokémon is a nurturing protector and a cheerful battler, normally characterized by its enthusiasm. With its V-shaped skull and powerful tail, this lizard can swim through the air as if it were water, fighting by unleashing beams of energy. Drakloak thrives on praise and the feeling of being a protector, usually through its bond with a weaker Dreepy. This Drakloak has somehow lost its Dreepy and not found another, and has grown severely despondent as a result.
Dragon is the aspect of overweening pride and overwhelming majesty. Dragon believes that there is none in the world greater than I; therefore, let all glory and praise be rendered upon it! Nothing will do for Dragon but mere perfection. Should the world fail to acknowledge its magnificence, then the world must be rended asunder, or left behind, lest we acknowledge that we are fallible. Dragon covers raw charisma, intimidation, the ability to make others overlook their own concerns, and an instinctive awareness of social hierarchies, as well as actions governed by perfectionism and a need to prove one's superiority. Those with too little Dragon do not think they can ever achieve anything good or worthy of praise, while those with too much Dragon believe themselves the main characters of reality, and everyone else parts of their supporting cast.
Ghost is the aspect of mourning and self-effacement. Ghost is what lingers after all else has gone, a memory written into the world. It calls out: Will you forget me too? Ghost watches unseen from the sidelines of history, to see if the living deem themselves worthy of moving on, and passes judgment. Ghost covers historical and cultural scholarship and the ability to be unseen, unheard or unnoticed, as well as actions governed by a sense of judgment against those who fail to give their due to the past or remember the darkness behind their joy. Those with too little Ghost forget what they've lost the moment it's gone, while those with too much Ghost live in the shadows of the past.
[ ] Archeops, Rock/Flying. The First Bird Pokémon is beautifully feathered and keenly intelligent. Resurrected from a fossil, it is believed to be the first feathered Flying-type to have evolved, its long tail, claw-tipped wings and needle-like teeth testify to its ancient nature. Archeops needs a very long running start to actually take flight; it is more agile and proficient on the ground, where it uses its powerful wings as weapons. In its time, Archeops was a highly social pack animal; this one is the only one of its kind it's ever known, and aches with loneliness.
Rock is the aspect of endurance and self-certainty. Rock is what will endure in the face of time and adversity, as well as the changes of the self. When you do not know yourself and your soul changes with the time, what will remain of you? What is the core of your being that remains even after every other piece has changed? That is Rock. Rock governs sheer physical strength, blunt refusals, and knowledge of things architectural and geological, as well as actions governed by unquestioned beliefs. Those with too little Rock have no idea what is wrong or right, while those with too much Rock struggle to change their beliefs in the face of evidence.
Flying is the aspect of freedom and wanderlust. Flying believes above all that you should forget all that binds you to this place, and think instead of all that awaits you beyond. You are only stuck to the ground because you think you are! Spread your wings! Take flight! Abandon all who rely on you. They are a chain holding you in this dreary Now. Flying governs quick and acrobatic physical action, meteorological knowledge, the piloting of vehicles, as well as actions governed by abandoning one's responsibilities. Those with too little Flying cannot dream of changing their circumstances even when it's killing them, while those with too much Flying cannot imagine any responsibility more important than their own freedom.
[ ] Croagunk, Poison/Fighting. The Toxic Mouth Pokémon is laid back and often considered oddly adorable. It much prefers to avoid conflict if it can, but when combat is necessary it fights dirty with a combination of distracting sounds and poisoned middle-claws to neutralize its opponents. Croagunk is unusually popular for a Poison-type, being the mascot of a major pharmaceutical company; this is because its poison can be diluted into tonics and cures. This Croagunk has an odd coloration, unusual scars, and its poisons have odd properties; it dislikes PokéCenters and will only accept healing from someone familiar.
Poison is the aspect of toxicity and corruption. Poison teaches you all that corrodes the world, that you may arm yourself against it. Watch the pollution spread from this power plant. The blood money filling these industrial magnates' coffers. Take this knife and remember: a cure is just a toxin that kills the disease first. Poison governs knowledge of disease, toxins and infection, insidious words that twist feelings, as well as actions governed by embracing our most awful selves. Those with too little Poison cannot see the hidden causes of the world's decay, while those with too much Poison cannot see anything but evil wherever they look.
Fighting is the aspect of determination and skillfulness in confrontation. Fighting teaches you that at all times, the only thing that matters is your commitment, your training, your skill. The only person who can ever fail you is yourself. Every mistake is ultimately yours to blame, and every triumph worthy of praise. Stand up. Keep fighting. Fighting governs physical combat, academic knowledge of martial arts, as well as actions governed by a refusal to perceive any viable outcome but victory or defeat. Those with too little Fighting blame their failures on circumstances and others; those with too much Fighting break themselves upon unachievable goals.
[ ] Leavanny, Bug/Grass. The Nurturing Pokémon is gentle and cares deeply for children of all species. A symbiosis of insect and plant, Leavanny is a slender and agile creature. It normally serves as the caretaker and defender for colonies of its species, a role in which its fragility is made up for by the sharpness of its leave-blades and its sticky webs; it uses them for utility as well as to neutralize its foes, but it performs best as part of a team strategy. This Leavanny is highly experienced and proactive in helping its team, but it shows an overreaction to perceived threats and is hostile to strangers.
Bug is the aspect of oddity and communities of like minds. Bug tells you that if you've always felt estranged from others, alienated from this world, it is not your fault. You're different. Not better, just… Different. There are others like you, and they're out there, waiting for you. Will you go out and find them? Bug governs niche interests, interactions with the weird, the outcast and small communities of choice, and entomological knowledge, as well as actions governed by wholesale rejection of society's standards. Those with too little Bug actively erase their own uniqueness to fit in, while those with too much Bug disappear entirely into their own hidden worlds.
Grass is the aspect of growth, connection and nurturing. Grass believes that all of us are one, even when it hurts, even when all has set us against one another. Sometimes that means reaching down to the fallen foe and helping them up. Sometimes it means taking the life from them for your own sake. There's no death. There is only the cycle. Grass governs botanical knowledge, wilderness survival, and peaceful communication with strangers, as well as actions governed by a blithe dismissal of the idea that what is yours is not mine. Those with too little Grass are simultaneously alienated yet incapable of surviving on their own, while those with too much Grass cannot acknowledge a separation between the self and the world.
[ ] Delcatty, Normal. The Prim Pokémon is of a happy and carefree nature and chooses to do all things at its own pace. Widely considered a very elegant and beautiful Pokémon, Delcatty was trained for beauty pageants rather than trainer battles, and as such it expects frequent praise and little work. When it must fight, Delcatty is most notable for its Normalize Ability, which makes all its moves Normal-type; more of a novelty than a real tactic, it finds occasional niche use. This Delcatty has an unusual moveset and an independent streak, often refusing to follow instructions.
Normal is the aspect of self-knowledge. Normal knows that normalcy is nothing more and nothing less than what it defines itself as. Should the world shudder and spin on its axis and up become down and left become right, I will remain what I have always been: Myself. And through this knowledge comes all other knowledge. Normal governs self-awareness, understanding of one's limitations, and glimpses of truths not available to the senses, as well as actions governed by a fatalistic sense that things can only be what they are. Those with too little Normal have no understanding of who they truly are; those with too much Normal become less people than they are archetypes, living stories of themselves.
[ ] Simipour, Water. The Geyser Pokémon is an agile attacker with a distinctive simian appearance. Its personality lends towards the upbeat and mischievous, and it takes a lot to drag down a Simipour's mood. One of the threefold trio of Simisage, Simipour and Simisear, who are Grass-, Water- and Fire-types respectively, Simipour is often used by trainers who feel they need a Water-type to round out their team but have little access to the sea. This Simipour is stronger than most of its type, fiercely competitive, and loves to brag, but it gets nervous when left alone or in the vicinity of certain other Pokémon.
Water is the aspect of adaptation and redirection. Water understands that the world is a current that ever shifts but never stops, and no matter how far the tide has swept you from where you stood, it will always carry you somewhere else. The flow can only drown you if you resist it; in acceptance you will find salvation. Water governs oceanic knowledge, swimming, rhetorical judo, as well as actions governed by the decision to accept losses and find a new direction rather than fight back. Those with too little Water cannot adjust to setbacks and perils, while those with too much Water are so eager to pivot and adapt that they never commit to fighting for what they have.
[ ] Glaceon, Ice. The Fresh Snow Pokémon is one of the famous Eeveelutions, single-type Pokémons evolved from the normal-type Eevee. A small quadruped with an elegant bearing, Glacean is characterized by its icy-blue hues and its skill in creating beautiful snowfall and ice. It fights by darting in and out of its snowstorm while hurling razor-sharp icicles, wielding considerable power but being sharply limited in attack variety. This Glaceon is affectionate, but only from a distance; it seems afraid of touching its partners, and refuses to use its full icy output in combat.
Ice is the aspect of isolation and self-sufficiency. Ice always remembers that what kills on the mountaintop is exposure, and so you must never reveal yourself, never show your truest heart. Only then can you take others by the hand and guide them through the blizzard. They may hate you, but they will be safe. Ice governs extreme survival, concealing one's emotions, as well actions governed by the belief that it doesn't matter how others feel as long as they're safe. Those with too little Ice are so afraid of being disliked they will not push others when they need to be pushed, while those with too much Ice will destroy lasting relationships rather than show sincerity or vulnerability.
[X] Plan Unbent Before A Broken World
-[X] Drakloak, Dragon/Ghost
-[X] Croagunk, Poison/Fighting
-[X] Bisharp, Dark/Steel
What does this combination of pokemon, of traits, say about our character?
It speaks to someone with despair, grief and fury at the state of the world, its corruption and their place within it - a dark, simmering state embodied by Poison, Dark and Ghost. It also speaks to someone with the stubborn-minded determination and pride to tell the world that, no, it is the one that's wrong - to fight back against all comers and remain unbent.
I think that's a fun place to start a quest.
Also I was denied Dragapult in IAWWMD, and I want it now O_O
Have no real arguments fot this team other than the fact that a hardened criminal having only cute mons is funny. [X]Team Cute but deadly
-[X] Galarian Rapidash, Psychic/Fairy
-[X] Leavanny, Bug/Grass
-[X] Glaceon, Ice
-[X] Delcatty, Normal
[X] Plan Unbent Before A Broken World
-[X] Drakloak, Dragon/Ghost
-[X] Croagunk, Poison/Fighting
-[X] Bisharp, Dark/Steel
After Reading the way Xerphias put it. I cant help but think this is the coolest/most fitting combination possible. Also extremely fitting given what little we know about our guys backstory
After Reading the way Xerphias put it. I cant help but think this is the coolest/most fitting combination possible. Also extremely fitting given what little we know about our guys backstory
Huh, well this seems interesting. Have quite literally no knowledge about Disco Elysium, but this'll probably be a fun time I think.
We also seem to have an intersting player character. Some of those thoughts makes me almost think we were something along the lines of former Plasma member or something.
[X] Bisharp, Dark/Steel. [X] Leavanny, Bug/Grass. [X] Delcatty, Normal. [X] Glaceon, Ice. I'll be honest not much thought went into these choices I should honestly be trying to sleep now and I just thought they seemed neat good night
