Drift down, little pebble. Listen to the sound of my voice; hear the grinding of stone-on-stone, the sound of pouring salt and scraping chalk, the rumbling of a coming landslide.
Feel the shifting of the tectonic plates below, so slow, so gentle. Feel the currents of magma wrapping around you, warm and soothing.
Sink with me. Deeper and deeper we fall; out of your bed, through the floor, into the ground. Below the ground, into the stone crust below. Past even that, into the molten core of the earth; then past even that, into the very heart of the planet itself, the core of stone and iron and molten rock around which all else is built.
Sleep. Sleep deep. Sleep so deeply that none can wake you until the story has been told.
And then.
Let us walk in another's shoes for a time.
On the sea-swept shores of a distant island far off the coast of Laurum, there once lived a rock, tumbled and polished by the tides and salty spray.
For many of the years of its early life, the rock lived a quiet life in a quiet village on this quiet island. Each day blended into each other, the same as the day before and the same as the next. It would wake up; tend to all those processes that even a child who is a rock must tend to; study; then go down to the docks and talk to all of the fishermen who tend to the nets on the seas.
The rock would chatter idly with the fishermen, taking in all of their worldly tales. They would tell it all their stories of the mainland, a land of verdant green and sweeping desert, coral reefs that stretch far as the eyes can see, towering mountains and blue skies and people, so many people.
They were tales the rock would listen to and imagine. A world spun up inside its head of beautiful lands filled with Pokemon and people, working and battling and building together a bright future for all.
It would wander there every day to soak in these tales and stories, but its favourite day is always the day of the new moon.
On these nights, the darkest nights when the moon reflects no light and the vast black of sky and sea stretches away into the horizon, the small fish of the ocean like to surge to shore. There, they gorge themselves upon the insects that descend upon the shallow waters beside the cliffs of the island the rock lives upon, and upon the algae that builds across its shores.
And with them come Pokemon.
Lumineon and Lanturn emerge, crawling across the ocean floor to catch and eat what meals they can. In their wake comes light; bright lights from the Lanturn, flickering below the ocean floor like fireworks, and strange and beautiful patterns from the Lumineon, drawing strange patterns in the water below.
In their wake come a host of Pokemon. Carvanha and Remoraid and Seaking and Arrokuda, a vast mass that flit back and forth below the waves. A beautiful canvas as light ripples on the sea floor, a backlight for the vibrancy of life on display below.
The rock is seven years old and sitting on the docks when a Corsola first drags its way up to the docks. It is looking at the rock inquisitively, wondering to itself; why are you here? Why does it not catch a fish for itself? Do you require help?
It can only laugh in response and pet the Corsola. No, it replies; no, I don't need any fish. I just want to see all of you, for you are beautiful creatures.
The Corsola looks at it inquisitively. It does not understand, and that is fine. It just sits with the rock and watches the beautiful display below.
The nights last until the moon would have peaked in the sky and the sun is scant hours from peeking over the horizon once more. The small feed-fish depart, knowing soon their real predators will emerge and their food will curl up once again in the wake of the light, and with them follows a veritable stream of Pokemon.
Corsola waits until the last of them go before it gives the rock a nod. It is as though it is saying; see you again, young one.
The rock nods back; see you when the moon hangs dark in the sky, little one.
This is how life goes for years and years. The rock turns eight, then nine, then ten. Every day is the same, every month is the same, every year is the same. It learns to count and write and draw; it writes stories and fevered drawings of the mainland and all the manifold Pokemon on it.
The rock lives with a ghost and a tree, who nod appreciatively at its drawings, though their smiles turn wan when it speaks fondly of all the happy things it looks forward to. The rock did not notice, for it was yet young and innocent.
The rock turned eleven on the day of a new moon. To all of the island, it is a happy occasion. Joyous and filled with celebration and so many cheers! Hooray, its teacher shouts; look at this rock, so intelligent, so bright! Hooray, the fruit-merchant shouts; look at this rock, so healthy, so strong! Hooray, the fishermen shout; look at this rock, so curious, so warm!
Then celebrations fade. Night steals across the land, as it inevitably does, and the rock returned to the docks full of cake and cheer.
This was the first night that things went wrong.
Corsola was a little sick when it crawled onto the docks that night. Do not worry, it assured the rock; I have been sick before, and I will be sick again. Let us sit down and watch the lights of the oceans churn below us. Let us bask in the cold life of the sea and be hale and hearty once more.
It was a good night. The rock went to bed satisfied, and woke up to another day that melded into all the rest.
But on the next new moon, when the rock sat on the docks to watch the feeder-fish surge in, it noticed that there was less feeder fish that surged up to the rocks of the island. There were no less insects that hovered above the water, but- to the rock's eyes, at least, there was less algae.
Less food. Less Pokemon following it to the shores.
And when Corsola showed up this month, it was pale and sickly still. Its legs shook slightly with the effort of climbing up onto the docks, and when it sat beside the rock, it was with an air of relief, as though it had exerted a not-insignificant amount of effort.
The rock was worried, but.
But.
The rock lived on an island far off the coast of the mainland. It was a small island, green and fertile, but on days where the fishermen would take their Glalie and make the trip to the mainland to sell all their fish, it would be a two-day journey; one day to sail there and make the sale, one day to sail back.
The number of people who lived on the island had once numbered just over one hundred. In the time between the rock's creation and now, that population had nearly halved.
Put simply; the rock is poor. The island is poor. There are few Pokemon here, fewer Pokeballs, much less medicines or potions.
There is nothing the rock can do but watch, month by month, as the oceans grow sicker.
The effects are small. It would be convenient to say that the population of fish in the ocean grows a little smaller each month, but that is not quite true. Sometimes, the populations dip significantly, so few Pokemon lighting the path that the surface of the ocean does not churn and the rock has to strain its eyes to see below. Other months, the rock feels brief hope as the population resurges and the oceans teem with life again.
It had been getting harder and harder for Corsola to make the journey each month. By now, the rock was having to wait for it at the dock's edge, lifting the Pokemon up carefully in tender arms and holding it as it shivered below the night sky.
While some months would see populations surge again, the overall trend was clear. As months wore on into a year, then two, then four, the wonderful waves of Pokemon died out. Lumineon and Lanturn would make their trek still, but in numbers so few that the rock could only sit on the dock and stare out into the dark seas with a sick and trembling Corsola by its side, wondering; what is out here? Where did all the life go?
And then, the final threshold passed.
The rock would sit on the docks on these days, knees drawn under its chin, staring out at the oceans that seemed so empty and wondering to itself what was happening to cause the Pokemon to abandon it. It had one solace, and only one; the Corsola that crawled up onto the docks to sit beside it, content with its one friend.
The rock knew, with a heavy heart and the utmost certainty, that soon, even this final solace would be taken from it.
It happened a week after its sixteenth birthday.
There was, of course, one slight note in these bitter circumstances;
There is no need for a rock to risk the slippery wood at the end of the docks to lift a ghost out of the sea.
The rock would part with the ghost and the tree on acrimonious terms.
They argue; though the population of Pokemon may be declining, there were still fish enough in the ocean for their community to survive. There is food, and there is medicine, and there are books and radio and enough entertainment to be comfortable out here on this small island.
They did not understand. No matter how the rock argued and railed, they could never understand what it was like to sit out there on those cold nights, waiting for lights that never came.
It was easy for the rock to slip away under the cover of night, dark anger brewing within. An expedition to sell fish coincided with the night of a new moon; and after all, there are so few Pokemon here now that none could see them as they slipped aboard a fishing boat and hid belowdecks. It hid within a bundle of nets, and since none could report it missing until the boat returned two days later-
Well. By that point, the rock was nowhere to be found.
Of course, this only presented the rock with new challenges. It knew that there was a problem in the ocean; but where was it to start? There were a thousand things and more that it could be, and as much as being on the mainland opened up to it a truly absurd amount of information, it didn't know where to look.
So it made the only compromise it knew how to make after all its life spent throwing its all into everything;
It hunted down all of the information.
All of it.
It is hard, now, to describe what life was like for the rock in these times. A homeless teenager with nothing to its name, no money, no family, no Pokemon- only the memories of a single ghost left behind on the shores of an island, a ghost that forgot more of its life by the day, a ghost trapped in place as so many ghosts are.
The rock struggled in these days. It went hungry for days at a time, until the hunger grew so bad it would resort to desperate measures; it would beg for food on the streets, or offer hands to a busy street merchant for a day in exchange for a meal, or it would walk into a marketplace and take what it needed with no regard for the law.
It did not matter to the rock. The struggle was meaningless. All that mattered was finding out why this was happening.
There was a library in the city on the shores of the mainland that is open to all. One must make an account to take a book outside its doors, but if one intends only to read, they can sit inside the library from sun-up to sun-down. This is where the rock would find itself day after day, poring over all the information it could find.
It read books on politics and books on economics. It read essays on climate change and treatises on pollution. It read textbooks and encyclopedias and watched speeches and snuck into universities and learned words and concepts and philosophies and sciences. A year stretched into two; the rock grew gaunt and haggard and unkempt.
Yet it learned.
It learned far too much.
Two years, it spent sleeping on the streets of the city and begging or stealing for scraps to keep itself alive. Its seventeenth birthday passed unremarked, then its eighteenth. It bathed in cold rivers and it ate scraps of fruits and berries and it passed unremarked except for contemptuous glances from the wealthy that passed it by on the streets.
Then, one unremarkable day, it decided it had learned enough.
It held within its hand a Pokeball it had stolen from a store, and a meager package of food, enough to survive for a week at most, and a backpack containing three spare shirts and seven assorted notebooks it had accumulated from the several fairs it had snuck into over the past years. A lost phone it had picked up at one point contains within it thirty thousand photos and more, a spread of books it can reference back to at any point- though, frustratingly, the phone charges incredibly slowly compared to most.
With two years of knowledge and no worldly experience to its name, it set out to learn how humanity was killing the world. It was armed with the handful of meager possessions it's accumulated and enough money to buy approximately two packets of instant noodles at a supermarket.
More than enough.
And so, it set out across a well-worn path, empty Pokeball clipped to its waist so as to ward off any curious glances, and headed out towards the oceans.
It is at this point that you might be curious to know; what was it that the rock had learned during its visitation of the great libraries of Azur City?
There was only so much one can learn from a theoretical education. For two years, it had scrounged for every bit of knowledge and learning it could get its hands on, stopping only when the skies grew too dark to see or the hunger in its stomach grew too great. It had a vast amount of information at its disposal, and fundamentally, none of it mattered very much.
For instance;
It knew that there was a company called Open Energy. It was a proprietary company that owned a series of coal-fired power plants across the eastern coast of Laurum. This company was a producer, and also a distributor; it was responsible for powering much of the north-eastern state of Laurum, including nearly eighty percent of all houses and industrial process in Azur. It was publicly-traded, and had historically performed well in the fifty-six years the company had been opened, with only one major downswing in stock prices and profit twenty-two years ago, when a bushfire in the region burned down much of the lines used to distribute power.
It knew that these power plants are toxic places. They were built along the coasts to take advantage of the seawater there, allowing for easy access to water to make their operations run smoothly. This meant that many of their toxic waste products, such as the smoke, washed directly up into the atmosphere- or down into the waters below.
It knew a lot of things.
But there was a difference between knowing and experiencing them.
Pollution like this has always been an insidious thing. Television and media would have one envision pollution as a thick, visible smog settled atop cities and forests, leaving behind in its wake sludge and corpses.
This was not accurate to reality, but it was not entirely disassociated from it, either.
For instance; when the rock arrived at the oceans, it expected to find blue oceans stretching out to the horizons. Birds circling overhead, fish darting around the ocean, Pokemon dotting the coasts. Alternately; it expected emptiness. Ghosts and empty beaches strewn about with cold rocks and a silence piercing its heart.
It found neither of those things.
Again, some more context.
'Coasts' were more of a category than a proper description of something. Rivers ran out into them in places. Bays and inlets lay everywhere, and peninsulas jut out semi-regularly. When looked at from afar- say, on a map depicting the entirety of a section of a continent at once- a coast could look like a contiguous thing; but in reality they were winding things that mostly delineate the rough position where land meets sea.
For instance; while the power plant was set against the coast, it was set against a part of the coast which reaches much further inland than most of the rest of the coast. It was almost like a saltwater lagoon set on the coast; large enough that it provided seawater continuously to the plant, but small enough to be unnoticeable on most maps.
And it was green.
Even in an inlet like this, the water should look blue or froth-white. It was a placid little inlet without much in the way of churning water, affected mostly by slow-moving tidal forces, and so the rock had expected it to look blue. It was prepared to look around for all of the subtle signs of the damage that waste and pollution had done to the place.
But water only looks blue because it absorbs part of the visible spectrum of light. It is possible, depending on the composition of the water, for it to look other colours.
In this case; the water was green because it was covered in algae.
The rock had studied algal blooms. They were one of the most visible signs of pollution in an area; and worse, they were self-sustaining as well. Algae bloomed upon the surface of the water due to chemical imbalances in the water caused by off-running of waste, pollutants in the air settling into the water, and the shifting pH balance of the oceans themselves.
This algae covered the surface of the water, absorbing much of the sunlight offered from above. This had a ripple effect; the creatures below suffered, and in so suffering died, and their bodies sank into the muck below. This then caused more waste to rise in the water, feeding the algae. A cycle that would only end when everything was dead and there was no longer anything for it to feed on.
This process was not yet finished by the time the rock arrived. The algae had bloomed enough that it was visible to the naked eye, but it had not yet consumed all below it. There was life here, still- though it was all suffering.
Once, Pokemon would likely have flourished in this inlet. Shellder and Krabby like to make their homes in calmer waters like these, and this in turn attracts Slowpoke and various coastal birds, Wingull and Pidove. Sandygast form on the beachheads occasionally, slow-moving creatures that feed mostly on small insects and crustaceans that scuttle along the sands. Corsola move in amongst small coral formations in the bay below.
There were still Pokemon there, of course. The pollution had not yet driven everyone completely away. Yet, just like at its home, there were fewer than there ought to be.
And so, the rock sat down on a stump nearby, pulled out a notebook, and began to chronicle what it saw.
It watched the life in this area. The Wingull would swoop in, hoping for easy meals from the fish they drew; but those fish were slimy and covered in algae, and even though the Wingull ate them still, the fish were also small and skinny, and so were the Pokemon.
It watched the Sandygast crawling their way across the surface of the beach. Once, it imagined, there would have been a small colony of them here, perhaps united under the leadership of a Palossand. They would have been spread about the beach, in places where crustaceans crawled out of the water with the tides, in places where insects came to nest. Food aplenty for a dozen or more of the creatures. Now; there were three of them, and in the week it spent there, one of them caught only a single crayfish.
It watched a Mareanie tread along the shallow waters of the bay, exhaustion evident in its steps. It moved forward, eyes fixed on a Corsola lying tired and hungry in the shallows where the retreating tides had trapped it. It wrapped its tentacle-arms around the Corsola- hesitated, for a long moment that stretched into a minute, then two- then pushed it back into the bay with an expression that spoke of hunger and anger and pride in equal measure.
The rock tilted its head at that one.
It had little food of its own left after its trek to the oceans, but hunger was no stranger to it now. It had some left in its pack, and it knew where around it a fruit tree could be found, where a berry tree nearby was, where it had noticed some wild yams in the ground. It could make do.
It waited for the next time the Mareanie trundled around; then it pushed out in front of it a small meal, all it could afford. Two Oran berries, a Rawst berry, the last crusts of a stale loaf of bread it had been given by a camper on the road, half of a muesli bar it had found abandoned on a picnic table in a rest stop.
The Pokemon was suspicious; but it was also hungry, and could not turn down the food, not when an opportunity to eat without causing harm to the distressed citizens of the bay presented itself so easily. It waited until the rock pretended to turn its attention elsewhere, then it took the food and scuttled elsewhere to eat in safety.
One issue solved. Too many to count remaining.
Must we talk about this?
Yes. It is important you understand.
Must we go over every event in the rock's life?
Only if you want to understand it. Be patient. I know it is tiring and painful, but you asked for understanding, and understanding never comes without sacrifice.
It is at that point that you might be wondering what the rock is doing here.
Once, the rock was unto a well-polished river stone. It was clean and smooth, a shining thing, the perfect example of its kind. Perhaps, in another life, it could have shone in this light; a rock standing within a stadium, crowds cheering and jeering as it and Corsola stood against those greatest of opponents and fought them to submission.
In this life, this could never come to pass. The waters, you see, were poisoned.
What the rock was doing here was forcing its eyes open. It was seeing all the innumerable small damages that humans have done to the land. All the death and destruction, yes; but more than that, all of the small aggressions. It was looking at the displacements; all of the Pokemon who had been forced from their homes by waste and pollution, choking hazards that told them to move or die. It was looking at the wasting sicknesses; the Pokemon that were thin and frail, coughing and wheezing and struggling with appetite. It was looking at the starvation; all of the sources of food that had disappeared or become poison in their own right, leading to smaller clutches born, lesser sustainable populations.
What the rock was doing here was taking all of the poison that people have spewed into the lands like a knife, and carving lines into its polished surface like veins throughout its own self, until nothing remained of its smooth and polished surface and all that was left behind is rough and rugged stone through which poison can flow like blood.
Three weeks, the rock spent in the inlet, documenting everything it saw, big or small. It wrote of the lonely children on the beach, the Krabby hatched in eggs laid by parents dead in the interim. It wrote of the weary Unfeazant that took them in; a rail-thin creature who patiently fed the Pokemon food it could barely afford to spare. It wrote of the Finneon who lurked at the entrance to the inlet for a week and two days, then left when it became clear there would be no life found here for them, nobody to clean the waters.
And each day, the Mareanie returned, wandering the shores.
The rock knew where to get food. The thing was; knowing where to forage food in the wild did not mean there was an infinite supply of it. It could find enough food to survive for three weeks, or perhaps four if it rationed it out and let itself get even thinner, and then it would be time to move on or starve.
Even so, every morning and every night, it left some food out for the Mareanie.
It has never talked about why it did so. Perhaps it was pity; the Pokemon looked so small and lost, desperate for food, yet unwilling to prey on the piteous creatures that would be such easy pickings for it. Perhaps it was compassion; the Pokemon was small and thin and frail, so frail a stray breeze might knock it over. Or, perhaps, it just recognized a kindred soul; someone who saw the damage that had been done to the land and sought to take action to watch and help others where it could.
The Pokemon was suspicious at first, as anyone would be were a stranger to leave food out for them. The Pokemon was also starving, and it was food to fill its stomach and alleviate the painful pangs. What else could it do but accept it, and simply trust that the strange rock was not attempting to hurt it even further?
A day of feeding it became two, then four. Slowly, the Mareanie stopped eyeing the rock off with suspicion, and instead started eating the food where it was laid out. It watched the rock, at first still wary, then with curiosity. What was it doing here?
On the morning of the fifth day, it stepped forwards, past the food, and asked the question.
What are you doing here?
The rock looked at it and considered how to answer.
I am watching. I am thinking. I am wondering how to act.
The Mareanie was not satisfied with this answer, so on the morning of the sixth day, when it scampered forward for the food, it asked again;
Why are you here?
The rock had a new answer prepared today;
I am here because this was the worst and closest place I could find. This plant spews poison into the air and from there into the seas, and this bay is the epicenter of that.
But the Mareanie was not satisfied with that answer either, and so it ate the food and left.
This ritual continued for seven more days. The rock would gather food for itself, and on each morning and each night, it would leave food out for the Mareanie as well. The Mareanie would come and it would take the food, and it would ask the rock a question with words it struggled to find, and the answer would be unsatisfactory so it would leave.
On the morning of the fourteenth day, the rock finally harvested the last of the food it could find in the area around it. The last yams were dug out, the last berries harvested, the last sour and unripe apple plucked from a tree. As was customary by this point, it kept the larger portion of the food for itself, but left the choicest items for Mareanie; a careful balance of caloric content and flavour.
It packed what few meager possessions it had, then sat with its notebook until the Mareanie arrived. All things are creatures of habit to some extent, and this was not a ritual it wished to break.
It was less than an hour until noon when the Mareanie arrived. It took one look at the rock's possessions bundled up within a rough and worn pack, and knew that it was leaving. So, it was with insistence that it asked one final time;
Why did you come here?
The rock had given many thoughtful answers over the past week. It had tried to explain its motivations, even though it itself did not fully understand why it was doing what it was doing. It had tried to explain the complexities of the damage being done to the world and all of the ways that this is a result of humanity's development, but not an intrinsic result of it.
But today, it was tired and hungry, and this was the last time it would ever have to answer this question. So instead of a final explanation, it just said the answer that rose first in its brain;
I came here because this place was on my mind. There was no special reason that justifies it over any other. I am simply on a journey; and a journey requires first and foremost that first step that begins a long walk.
The Mareanie considered that silently, standing beside the rock while the two of them watched another Corsola, struggling feebly on the beach as it failed to wipe the algae from its eyes.
Then it asked the rock another question;
What lies at the end of your journey?
Instead of answering, the rock took several steps forward. The Corsola shuddered and tried to walk away as it heard the larger creature approaching, but it slipped again on rocks covered in moss and slimy algae, and instead of trying again it simply laid there limply, accepting its incoming fate.
But the rock did not hurt it. Instead, it simply lifted the Corsola carefully, wiped the algae from its eyes as gently as a rock possibly could be, and placed it within water that was thigh-high to it, and deep enough that the Corsola could swim below the algae.
The Mareanie watched it as it returned to its pack and sat down again, lifting its notebook.
Then, the Pokemon spoke one more time;
I understand. Let's save them all together, then.
A flash of red light followed soon after.
Finally, the stolen Pokeball clipped to the rock's belt no longer laid empty.
You understand now, I trust, the bond that your Champion shares with its Pokemon. It is a bond of the truest kind; that of two idealists with nothing to hand beyond their own power, striving to make this world a better place for all and sundry.
Yes.
I understand now.
Good. It is important that you understand the burden that idealism will bring.
It would be convenient were the rock's journey to have been completed within a year, but that could never be the case.
There were two parts to this, you understand.
First; the rock's knife was not yet complete, not even close. It carved at itself still, each day chipping away at itself further, replacing more of its tumbled and polished mind with pitted and scarred stone.
When it arrived at each place, it and Mareanie would stay there for so long as it could scavenge food for themselves, and they would take in all of the myriad harms that humanity had wrought on these places. It was important to them that they saw these places of pollution and destruction were not isolated places, nor were the harms small and easily overcome. There were thousands, tens of thousands, perhaps millions of creatures affected across the country, and each of them was affected slightly differently. They built for themselves a catalogue of all of the poisons that had sprung up in the wake of careless development and progression.
Second; for much more mundane reasons, the rock simply had to walk everywhere, for it had no money, and thus no way to secure other means of transportation.
This is important. The rock's journey was not easy, but neither was it quick. It departed from its island when it was sixteen, and did not meet Mareanie until it was eighteen. It would not meet its next Pokemon for another two years beyond that, and even in the quickest of cases, it would spend no less than six months wandering the world before meeting another of its eventual companions.
Ah- but we are getting ahead of ourselves.
For now, let us focus in on the next important encounter in the rock's life.
Though we talk about Pokemon as though they can only be singular creatures- a Geodude is a Geodude, and a Rhyhorn is a Rhyhorn- this is not quite accurate.
Much like humans, Pokemon are creatures of their environment. Though some Pokemon- for instance, your common winged creatures- are adaptable and capable of surviving near anywhere with minimal adaptations, others will undergo radical shifts due to changes in their diets, weather patterns, or differing ecological patterns as predator and prey dynamics shift.
For a practical example of this; some Slowpoke, when faced with die-offs of the native berry bushes and small fish species that comprise their normal diets, will turn to alternatives laced with natural capsaicincapsicain. Though these berries are not their preferred forms of food, they will not turn away from them. Their other prey, however, will.
Ordinarily, this would precipitate a perilous shift in the environment, but so long as their alternative food supplies existed, the Slowpoke would be fine. However, a shift in their environment like this could never affect just one creature amongst an entire ecosystem. No; pollution flooded everywhere, and all the waters of the coast in this region of Laurum were flooded with poisons.
Ordinarily, the relationship between Shellder and Slowpoke is a symbiotic one. The Shellder will latch onto a Slowpoke, and evolution between the two is induced thanks to the energies that flow through it. Vital fluids that would be toxic to most Pokemon instead stimulate the Slowpoke's neurons, vastly increasing its intelligence and latent psychic capabilities- and in turn the Slowking provides the Shellder with easy access to food and nutrients, and also to experiences the Shellder would never have access to when living in water on its own.
When there is so much poison in the water, however, it is easy for natural processes to get disrupted. The differing structure of the Slowpoke's neurons makes it more difficult for the Shellder to help it, resulting in so much stress that- when the process of evolution is inevitably triggered- the Shellder will almost inevitably pour in the wrong combination of toxins, robbing the Slowpoke of almost all autonomy.
It is a tragedy. In the truest sense of the word, it is.
It was especially so in the case of the Slowking that partnered with the rock.
The rock, you see, did not find the Slowking when it was a Slowking. No; it found them when they were a Slowpoke and a Shellder still living together in the same rock pools on the beach. It and Mareanie had come forth here to investigate the effects of a ship's crashing here some years past; a huge cruise ship had hit a rock off-shore, and the clean-up efforts had been both months too late and also largely ineffective.
Even as they arrived, they could see the effects on the shore still. It was a relatively small oil spill, in the global sense of things, but it had been devastating to the local area. Swathes of plants underwater, seaweed and algae alike, had been killed. Staggering amounts of Pokemon and small creature lives were wiped out. And- in this particular case- the very water that Shellder relied on to eat and breathe in was tainted with oil.
The rock and the Mareanie spent the better part of three weeks on this stretch of shore getting to know the Pokemon that lived there. There had been a surprising number of Pokemon still alive in the aftermath, including- perhaps not unexpectedly, but even so- several families of Muk and Grimer who had moved in, and were helping to suck up all traces of oil that spilled onto the shores with the tides each morning.
A habit the rock and its partner had built was fighting the local Pokemon- those who weren't too sick or hungry or fatigued to have any interest in fighting them, at least. Trainers did not wander down to these coasts and bays very often any more, and so there were few opportunities for the wild Pokemon of the shores to challenge themselves against a trained Pokemon. Many of them would leap at the opportunity, and in so doing, teach the rock of all the things they knew and learned of living amongst these poisoned waters.
It was also, of course, good practice for the Mareanie; but all of the strength it gained from these practices was mostly irrelevant to the two of them, except in how it would occasionally rouse the interest of older Pokemon on the shores, who would tell them stories of the past in exchange for the opportunity to once again feel the blood pumping through their veins after a good fight.
Each night, they would settle into the small camp they had built for themselves, which comprised of little more than a small campfire the rock could roast fish and wild roots on and a pile of dried leaves and moss that served as their bed. They settled up, above a small overhang in a large boulder that kept the worst of the rain off of them- and, conveniently, near enough to the Slowpoke in the rock pools that they could talk to it.
So, for three weeks, the rock and the Slowpoke would talk to each other. They learned of each other; of the way the Slowpoke's parents had died, one to a Sharpedo when its father had swum out too far from shore, the other to a choking death when the oils had first spilled; of the rock's determination to set out and see the world when the lights in the ocean had died; of the Shellder's desire to see the mountains a Pelipper had once described to it, these great and towering spires of rock from which one could see an entire world.
The rock had intended to stay for four weeks, or perhaps even five, as there was plenty of food to be found. It would have, were it not for that fateful day when Shellder and Slowpoke decided finally to try for their evolution.
Were it not for the day that Slowpoke disappeared.
Shellder- now Slowking- wailed and gnashed at the heavens when it awoke and realized the mistake it had made. It was not fair, it cried; this was meant to be a union of two joined souls, a way for both to ascend! Slowking, once Shellder, would have been able to see the mountains, and Slowking, once Slowpoke, would have been able to comprehend all the beauty of the world before it with its own eyes.
Now only Slowking, once Shellder, remained.
It wept and it wept for hours while the rock sat beside it, offering what little comfort it could, until finally Slowking, once Shellder, looked at it with its intense eyes and told it;
Fix us. Heal us. This is what you are for; I have decreed it, and so it shall be.
And the rock did not argue. It was not involved, but there was an old ache in its chest that reminded it what it felt like to lose a friend to forces beyond one's comprehension. It would not deny it.
So, the three of them ascended; the rock for the first time in years, the Mareanie and Slowking, once Shellder for the first time in their lives, heading to human civilization to seek what help could be found.
Many people may consider a story to be like a book. A story's events unfold, from one to the next, chapter one bleeding into chapter two and so on and so forth unto the story's final chapter, whereupon the book is closed and the story is over.
If one were to look at the life of a hermit, one born alone in an empty forest who lived his own life in isolation until the moment of his death, this might be an accurate way of viewing things.
The rock, however- no matter how isolated from human society it might wish to be- was no hermit. It was its own creature, and its life often intersected with that of other creatures. As such, to fully understand the rock's story, it is sometimes necessary to take a step back and look for another thread within the rich tapestry that is the story of all the life in this world.
Therefore, we must take a look at the life of a storyteller.
The storyteller was a creature born to fae habits. His parents- a creature born of the shadows of the flickering flames of the home-heart, and a creature of the salty ocean spray, the border delineating the ocean meeting the skies- considered him a strange creature from birth, even from their own perspective; for upon his birth, he did not wail and cry, but instead gurgled and held out his hands and would be comforted only by the sound of voices speaking to him of stories and song.
He grew up isolated from his peers, for no child of three or four years of age could possibly hope to captivate his interest well enough to keep his mind present in this world, but this was okay, for there are a billion stories in this world and not nearly enough time to listen to them all. He would spend his time ensconced wherever a story might be found; in the library and in front of the television and crouched upon a chair listening eagerly to radios crackling out books in audio format, yes, but also crouched out in the thundering rains listening to Seismitoad tell him of the adventurers of the great Lugia and the storms it harnessed once to water all the forests of the land, or half-buried in the sands listening to Hippowdon talk drowsily of the creation of the soft sands it used to empower its attacks.
By the time the storyteller was nine years old, it had already an audience of captivated Pokemon that followed him wherever he went, trading stories for stories. He would stay up well past the witching hour every morning, speaking to ghosts and creatures of flickering flames and the ground beneath his feet, then fall asleep and dream of a thousand stories more he could spread the next morning.
It is good that he has so many stories to share with the Pokemon so freely, his parents would say behind shuttered doors when they thought he could not hear them; he is so different to all the other children. Surely they would mistreat him- but we cannot keep them from him, nor him from them. We must introduce them, and trust their good hearts to keep things well.
And for all the whispered secrets that worried at his heart, their worries were not misfounded.
The storyteller was a creature after his own heart; a creature that was so much himself that he could not bear to be anything but the truest expression of his own self. He was a creature of stories, and so he carried with him everywhere parchment and quill, that he could transcribe any story to permanent ink the instant it entered his mind. He was a creature of soft comforts, of pastel pinks and blues and yellows, and so he adorned himself in these colours. He liked pretty things and cute things and all things soft and wonderful, and so he dressed as such; pretty dresses and long hair left to fall free in wonderful waves, lacy clothes and thin necklaces of fine gold, soft makeup to accentuate his eyes and the dusting of his cheeks.
It was a conundrum.
The storyteller, you see, was a fae creature; but worse than that, it was human. All of the creatures the storyteller was supposed to interact with were human.
Humans.
Awful. Wonderful. Petty. Caring. Vicious. Soft.
So many things, all wrapped under the one label.
How were they supposed to express it all, if not by turning all of the wicked knives stabbing at their own heart against someone who bore it better than they?
Thus, the storyteller found his clothes dirtied and his lips bloodied and his elegant fingers broken; and all the human children of the village found themselves surrounded at once by a crowd of Pokemon staring angrily at them.
The storyteller would wipe the blood dripping from its nose onto its bloodied sleeve, and for the first time, it looked upon its own kind with anger in its heart. And it said the cruelest thing it could have said to them;
Nothing.
He turned away from them as though they did not matter, and he left, and all of the angry Pokemon followed with him.
This is how kindness is stifled and cruelty rises to the fore; a sweet boy is met with fists and words that cut worse than knives, and all impulses towards nicety and empathy are buried deep below layers of sharp thorns layered ever outwards.
Of course, stories have a way of revealing one's true nature anyway; and all those hidden impulses have a way of coming to the fore eventually.
Eventually, as all must know, the boy would learn of the story of the boy-hero who had once travelled across the lands of Laurum to learn the truth of why his people had been slaughtered. It is the most intriguing kind of story; the kind of story that has truth hidden inside it, but what those truths are have long been lost to the sands of time.
And so, the storyteller set out on his own journey to piece together a lost story.
No. Don't worry, little pebble. That story is not one to be told, not even to you. I know of the traditions of your people, and the efforts to which you have gone to ensure only those of your people who have proven themselves worthy can be told the truths at the core of the story.
Hm?
Yes. I know the truth, as I know all the truths of the people who have walked the surface of this land. It is our duty to watch over the land we shaped; we are the archivists, the creatures of the passing eras. We chronicle all, that one day when the star itself dies and we move on, you will not be forgotten.
But I know and I respect your customs; and so even to you, I will not repeat what the storyteller learned. The storyteller learned only a partial truth anyway, but even that is more than should be passed on to those who have not earned the right to hear the story.
So yes. I agree; let us keep silent on this, and move on to the climax of this thread of the story.
Though it is always sad when it happens, there is always the chance that a human will grow spiteful and cruel when others have turned their own cruelty upon them. There are so many cases of this recorded across history. people born with kindness and smiles in their hearts that turn to bitter frowns and mean sneers.
A sour note in the story of a song; a misplayed chord, a harsh drop, a sudden silence when a note should fade out.
The storyteller's Pokemon were determined this should not happen to them.
You see, though the storyteller was chasing after a story lost to time, they were looking in a different direction. They could see the direction the writer was taking with their story, and they were determined to change its course.
But how were they to do that? They were Pokemon, and they were powerful creatures, but they held limited influence over the storyteller. They could not force him to find friends to keep him grounded; they could not force him to find rivals to keep his attention down to earth.
It was eventually the youngest of them, Farigiraf, who proposed a solution that would not see them fail again and again;
We cannot force him into cities and into gardens where others of his kind might heal his soul; but we can of our own power encourage him to wander there on his own, and from there, we can hold hope.
It was manipulative. It was well-intentioned. It was deceitful still. A plan that meant only the best for their trainer, and yet still pitted their own silver tongues against his well-practiced ears.
In other words; it was the only plan this team could ever have come up with.
They would try at every opportunity; through days spent in the city restocking and preparing for travel into the desert, then through weeks spent in the routes, which blended together into months spent pursuing the circuit of gyms and the manifold opportunities for human interaction and friendships to form therein.
Opportunities that the storyteller would dodge at every opportunity.
It turned into a game, almost. The storyteller's Pokémon would seek out all the stories of the hidden places of each city they visited, asking; why was this shrine built here, behind this towering building where so few can see it? Who is the person in this framed photograph, hanging on the wall of this coffee shop surrounded by a flower-wreath? Why is this particular back street so well-maintained, when all around it lies rough roads and dilapidated empty lots?
The game was played for four years while the storyteller chased his lost story. The Pokemon followed, both eager and cautious. Three badges on one year turned into five the second, then eight the third, followed by placement in that great tournament your kind holds each year near your shining city on the coast, followed in the fourth year with a position as semi-finalist, third of the top four candidates.
He was fifteen at the time, and should have been at the top of the world. He travelled back to the great elder who had challenged him to return only when he had proved his strength, and he presented his position, and the elder acknowledged his strength and told him all the hidden stories of the boy-hero he had known.
The fifth year, the storyteller retained his position. Semi-finalist; third of the top four candidates.
The sixth year, the same.
Why?
Let us ask a different question instead.
What happens to a storyteller when the story they have been chasing concludes?
Most archivists would find a new story to chronicle. Some others turn instead to writing their own story, slashing ink across parchment like a sword slashing apart the air. But some rare few… stagnate.
It was all the Pokemon could do to stave off the worst of the ennui and spite from stealing through his heart. Cruel whispers surrounded him; the fabled prodigy has burned out. This is the highest peak that he will aspire to; now watch, watch as he crashes down far below and we can pick the choicest pieces from his corpse when the dust has settled.
The Pokemon searched far and wide for any story that might once again ignite the storyteller's passion. They traveled with him through small towns and great forests, through deep caves and across mountains, and at each stop they sought to inquire of new stories and of any kind souls around who could provide balm to an aching heart; but seven years had passed since poison had slipped into the storyteller's soul, and the damage was threatening to be far too much to bear.
And so it was that it was despite all the Pokemon's desperate efforts, despite their well-meaning manipulations and the extraction of stories from ten thousand mouths that had sought to keep their silence, Farigarif had a final realization;
They had been going about it the wrong way.
One cannot force a friend to appear, no more than one can force a stranger to become one's friend. Friendship- true friendships, not the shallow friendships of tournament-goers looking to put on brave faces at the pinnacle of their careers- can only be found when two open hearts find each other within those short few heartbeats where each are willing to make that first step.
For instance.
In a small marketplace in a small town beside a small bay fed by a small river where a storyteller happened to be passing through in pursuit of the story of a stray Corviknight, a rock walked through a doorway and asked a question with a sad smile;
Does anyone here know anything about saving a dying Pokemon?
And in one fleeting moment, one chance meeting of the eyes and one offer of assistance, in one recitation of a story of two Pokemon and the tragedy that followed, two hearts connected.
It is strange how sometimes the course of fate shifts irrevocably due to a single, infinitesimal thing.
The rock had not intended on travelling to this particular town on this particular day. It had intended to travel straight to the largest city of the land and seek the counsel of the most practiced doctors available, heedless of costs and consequences. This, it had determined, would give Slowking, once Slowpoke, the greatest chance of survival possible.
The city was nine day's travel away by foot were one to cut through the forests instead of finding their way through the Route nearby. It was more dangerous, certainly, but the rock was certain it and its Pokemon could handle it; so few Pokemon threatened it now, as many seemed to regard it more as one of them than as a human.
Slowking, once Slowpoke, could last that long held in the stasis of a Pokeball. Perhaps not much longer; each day past that mark would tick down the invisible timer that marked the time the Pokemon had before the poison would pierce past what remained of its resistances and truly kill what remained of its thought processes.
Nine days. Perhaps more, but perhaps not; therefore, nine days. No more and no less.
It had the supplies it needed to make the trip. It was set to go; but.
The ground was treacherous after recent rains, and the rock's latest pair of shoes found abandoned in a camping site had already had holes in the soles when it had found them two months ago. There was precious little grip left on them, yet to take this quicker path, it was forced over treacherous ground.
It was used to navigating through poor terrain. It had done it for years now; it should present nothing in the way of troubles. And, indeed, across its entire life, the rock never once took an injury worse than a twisted ankle or a small cut as a result of the paths it took.
But that did not mean other, smaller misfortunes could not befall it. For instance;
At one point, it slipped on a rock while trying to climb a small embankment. It swung down- then fell. Not so far as to injure itself, but further than it had intended- far enough that its footing was poor, and it slipped as it landed. It nearly kept itself upright- but again; it had been raining, and the footing was treacherous.
It fell over, and the lid of its pack opened, and half its food scattered across the mud.
Ruinous. Utterly ruinous.
It could scrape the worst of the mud off most of the food, and it was not scared of what remained of it; but some of the food was ruined outright. A half-empty packet of rice, bought on special, tore open and spilled all its contents through the mud; two berries, sliced in half and carefully placed within for Mareanie's next meal, both rolled over the ground and were thoroughly contaminated.
Irritating. Genuinely frustrating.
It could not afford to lose so much food. It already went hungry most days, surviving on so little as to feel hunger pangs as it went to sleep last night; it couldn't afford to go even hungrier.
It was forced to make a detour.
Just a small detour. An hour or so out of the way of its intended path. It had intended to bypass the small town entirely, but it needed to stop in now and spend some of its precious, precious, limited funds on something else to sustain itself with. Bread, maybe, or lentils bought on special; it could tolerate those.
One slippery rock.
One slip of the hand, one stumble in the ground, one button on a pack not properly fastened, one night spent eating slightly more than normal a week ago to reward Mareanie for mastering its ability to spray acid around the environment.
Those little, inconsequential things were all it took to change the course of an entire continent.
But then; you know all about this idea, don't you?
I believe your people call it 'chaos theory', or a subset therein. It is the idea of the interplay between chaos and order; the idea that, over a long enough period, all the small moments of chaos will eventually build up into an identifiable kind of order.
The proper term, I believe, is that of the sensitive dependency on initial conditions- or, at least, that is what your scientists refer to in their speeches and their hurried conversations with coworkers; bound as I am, I cannot go so far as to turn the pages of a book that I might read its contents and understand the complexities of your language.
In plainer terms; a miniscule action right now may have profound implications on the world weeks or months down the line.
I am aware that you are aware of this.
The reason I talk about this topic is to highlight how even random happenstance may bear vast and wide-reaching consequences.
You must always remember that no mind save that of Arkeus Himself can comprehend such breadth of information as to establish or maintain control over a land so vast as this.
Even were one to have stretched their minds out and sought to influence the land around them, they would have to limit their focus. Key players in the story to come; those who stand the greatest chance of helping or hurting their goals.
Nobody could have predicted such an outcome from something so simple as a slip and a fall on a wet rock out deep in the wilderness. And yet; behold all that sprang from so small an action.
A hand adjusted so slightly to the right. A button noticed and tightened hours previously. A different meal chosen the night before; the last of the rice cooked and eaten, leaving extra berries with skin that could be cleaned of mud. Even; a Teddiursa not moving past the wall the night before, sending a stick tumbling precariously close to the edge, whereupon water could drip down directly onto the handhold the rock would use.
A million things could have gone differently. This tale would have taken a much more tragic direction if even one of them had happened.
If you take nothing else away from our conversations, remember that, little pebble. Nobody's reach is infinite, and nobody can cover for all possibilities.
Do not reach for more than your hands can hold, or all will slip away from you.
My warning has been delivered. Let us return to the story at hand.
The rock was surprised to learn that the storyteller did, in fact, know how to help Slowking, once Slowpoke.
The word 'help' there was important, of course. It had heard stories of this happening before, with Slowking and with other Pokemon.
For instance;
There was a small Pokemon called Paras. In ancient times, people told stories of it being a divergent species of Krabby, living in deep woods and forests instead of the ocean- though they didn't use that exact phrasing, the meaning was clear.
However, there was one clear difference; Paras were born with two small mushrooms on their back.
The mushrooms themselves were not simply harmless to the Pokemon; they were actively beneficial. Through their presence, the Paras would be able to filter through the energies in their environments, enabling the Bug-type to utilize Grass-type energies every bit as well as it could innately use its own Bug-type energies. In turn, the Paras' bodies would nourish the mushrooms. A classic case of natural symbiosis; two creatures support each other, and the result was greater than the sum of its parts.
The story clearly parallels that of Slowking and Shellder; though there would never be an opportunity for Paras to live life on its own terms, this was a situation Paras was born in, and it could not be ascribed as a fault of either the Paras itself or its mushrooms. It simply was what it was.
Once, in a time hundreds of years ago, the Paras would eventually evolve. Alongside it, the mushroom would grow as well, becoming as much a protective shell to help ward dangers off the vulnerable Parasect below as it was an aid in utilizing the world's energies. The Parasect itself would grow stronger, smarter, stealthier; this would aid it in caring for packs of its weaker brethren.
That rare case of true symbiosis.
And then; we have heard this story before.
A shift in climate and local herbivorous populations changes the availability of food in the local areas. The Paras can adapt, but the food is poorer in quality. Less nutrition can be drawn from what food remains. The Paras eats and eats and eats, but the mushrooms require nutrition to function and allow the little bug to fight off predators.
An imbalance. The Paras goes hungry; the mushrooms do not. Power builds, but it is mismatched.
Then; evolution. Paras grows, cocoons, and Parasect emerges.
Paras does not survive the transition. It doesn't have the nutrients, nor the energy. Unintentional on the mushroom's part; it does not mean to leave its partner unable to survive, but what happens, happens.
Stories abound nowadays of trainers who have learned to solve this problem. Careful understanding of nutrition and environment have allowed trainers to carefully cultivate a Paras such that both partners survive the evolution, allowing the symbiotic partners to flourish and thrive in modern times. It just requires care, patience, and above all knowledge.
So.
They had a starting point. Not a conclusive answer on its own, for Slowking has already evolved; the time for careful balancing of diets, environment and experience had passed. But they knew who to look for now, at least.
And all it required was for the two of them to venture well outside of their comfort zones. The rock, back into human civilization in truth, to interact with it once more; the storyteller, back towards human companionship and the necessity of interacting politely and kindly with others.
Terrible. Most terrible indeed.
There are few places in this land that the rock disliked more than these big cities. They were, in many ways, monuments to decadence. Waste and pollution was built into the very foundations of these places. Simply stepping close to one was to see the effect that man has had upon the world. The air stank of oil and steel; there were so few plants to be found anywhere, so little in the way of non-human life in comparison to the titanic structures of concrete and stone; the very lights of the stars themselves was drowned out by all the lights and sounds humanity had constructed to hide themselves from the dark outside.
It was everything it stood against.
One must not misunderstand. The rock did not hate progress, in and of itself. It did not hate all the amenities of modern life; it did not begrudge humanity its instant communications across the oceans, nor the ability to travel, nor did it even begrudge them their settlements and their cities.
But the rock loved nature, in all of its wild and resplendent glory; and so it hated what these cities represented. It disliked the enormous pits dug into the desert, from which all of this steel was dug up. It disliked all the forests burned for fuel and for wasteful creations. It disliked all the garbage and smog and poisons spat into the sky and out into the seas.
And, most of all; it disliked how humanity treated itself.
The world deserved better. Humanity deserved better.
There were ways in which humanity could co-exist with the world without poisoning it, without leaving death and destruction and deep-dug imprints on the land. There were ways that humanity could learn to exist without so much hatred for itself; ways in which the storyteller could have grown up smiling and happy and so much closer to all the happy stories of the world.
But that world was not this world; and so the rock disliked these big cities.
But, if it were for Slowking's sake, the rock would set aside all of its prejudices and head on in.
Though they had a goal in mind, the rock and the storyteller did not have a particular destination to travel to. What initially may have spelled disaster for Slowking instead became fortuitous circumstance, as the storyteller's Dodrio could easily carry both astride its back and cover more distance in a day than the rock could have hoped to travel in a week.
And so it was that the following day, they arrived in that great city of your country, that shining gem that sits astride the crown of the country, proclaiming itself the gate that provides access to your League and its accompaniments.
It is funny, in a way. Though the storyteller wore his title with pride, the rock was no stranger to stories itself. It just focused more narrowly on the particular kind of stories it sought out.
Though each kept their goal in mind, their methods of attempting to find someone who could satisfy their goal differed greatly in execution. The storyteller was a fae creature, someone born with a silver tongue and an easy gait, one who could extract a conversation even from a wall and from there spin it into the story of their life.
The rock, on the other hand, was a fixated hunter. It had spent two years and more carving everything it saw into itself, and there would be no stopping it now, even with a particular goal in mind.
And so, while the storyteller departed to wheedle stories and directions from all the useful humans of the city, the rock sought out the city's Pokemon.
Even in a great polluted city like this, there was no shortage of wild Pokemon to be found, eager to exchange words for handfuls of scraps the rock kept from dinners the storyteller bought them. There were all the flying creatures that kept to the rooftops, and all the scurrying creatures that lived in alleyways and feasted on the wasted food humans foolishly threw out, and the creatures of toxic vapour and sludge that moved through sewers and rotted houses, and all the ghosts and creatures of the dark that would emerge at night when none but the most intrepid of humans would venture outside.
For instance;
There was a colony of Pidgey who lived on the roofs of the dilapidated apartment buildings on the outskirts of the city centre, where businesses and fancy housing began giving way to run-down houses built for four and occupied by eight, spaced in between large industrial districts and the occasional isolated districts of parks and industry.
The rock tried at first to approach them, but the Pidgey scattered at once, a flock flying in every cardinal direction and all those between until they reformed into four flocks on separate buildings across the neighbouring buildings. It tried this approach three times, each time met with the same result, until finally the flock grew weary of him and their leader appeared- a Pidgeotto, a creature that stood near as tall as it did without rearing back.
Well. That was embarrassing. Time to retreat and go find someone it won't be bothering.
It tried again.
There was a small, run-down park on the edge of a district full of houses built by the government aimed towards low-income members of society. The park itself was poorly maintained, with no evidence that anyone had been by to repair the squeaky swings or the rusted slide in years, and this brought with it a sense of overgrown wilderness surrounding the playset itself.
Within the wild grass and untrimmed trees in the park, there lived a small group of Pokemon; a Hoothoot that lived in the trees and hunted at night, a family of Rattata led by a variant Raticate in the grass, an Ekans that lazed around in the grass and protected the Rattata in exchange for scraps of berries and food from nearby, a Diglett that spent most of its time underground and only poked its head up to talk to the Ekans and the Hoothoot on occasion.
There was not much food to be found for this small group of Pokemon in the park itself, beyond a single stunted berry tree that was not flowering right now. Each night, Hoothoot and the Rattata would leave the boundaries of the park in search of whatever food was available that night. Most nights, the pickings were poor, just enough to keep them going through the next day; other nights the pickings were good, enough that they could set food aside for the days where there was no food at all to be found.
Thus, it was easy to trade a half-packet of Oran berries and a tube of pellets of insect-meal for information.
I know nothing, said the Diglett; I see nobody and I talk only to my friends and I live inside my burrow and disturb nothing. Please leave me be, you scarred and pitted stone; you frighten me.
We are sorry, but we know nothing, said the Raticate. We thank you for the food, and we hope you find someone to help you. If there is ever anything we can do for you here, please seek us out- and if you happen upon more food, we would be eternally grateful.
There is a Slowking that lives with an old human in a house to the south of here, said the Hoothoot. The house reeks of poison and smoke; perhaps there you could find an answer to your question, but I can guarantee nothing except an opportunity to try.
I have no answers you seek, said the Ekans; but I know someone who perhaps might. Come with me, my kindred, and I will lead you through the refuse of this city to one who knows it as they know themselves, and from there you can find all of the answers you seek.
The rock pondered these answers for long, slow moments. There were answers in two directions, and rejections in two more.
But there was no real choice, in the end, for you see; the rock knew that if it went to the Slowking, it would get no answers, for its ears had been closed forevermore to the babbling of rivers and the lapping of the oceans. It had accepted this price. What was done was done.
So the rock and the Mareanie set off to follow the slithering Pokemon through dim-lit alleyways and backyard littered with detritus. An hour turned into two, they passed from suburb to suburb, and the rock began to wonder if the Ekans had truly intended to lead it anywhere, until finally; something moved ahead of them, and the Ekans paused.
Here you are, the Ekans said, and bowed its head to them in turn. My part is done. Fare you well, trainer and the trained. It turned and slithered away then, leaving nothing for them to do but to approach the Pokemon they could see sitting silently in front of them, awaiting them.
Light filtered through, the first rays of dawn approaching, and from it the rock could see the outline of the Pokemon.
A Stunky, watching them with cautious eyes.
The rock paused in its approach, looking towards the Mareanie. It looked back at the rock in turn, then frowned and turned back to the unknown Pokemon. It considered it for a moment, then two; then it pointed one of its tentacle-arms at the Stunky confidently.
Yes; if it comes to a fight, we would win. Be assured in my strength as I am in yours. This will not come to a fight, though. Watch it as it moves, quiet assurance that behind it lies nothing of import; that a missed attack of mine will not damage a house or a child or a weak, fragile Pokemon. The Stunky cares, and so it is not our enemy.
So assured, the rock and the Mareanie stepped towards the Pokemon and stopped ten paces away. It eyed them distrustfully, and spoke with breath that smelled like oil-fumes and incipient violence and the rancid smell of a rotten kill;
Why have you come here to the land of the downtrodden, trainer? Should you seek exploitation, then know that all the blood has been squeezed; should you seek harm, then know that the only harm to come today will be visited upon your person.
The rock was surprised as Mareanie took the lead, but it should not have been. It realized this after a moment. It and Mareanie had entered into a partnership; they had goals that were aligned, and the two sought the same thing, but the rock was not the Mareanie's master, and here its voice would do better to soothe ill tempers than the rock's own.
The situation of the Slowking gestalt was explained, and as their desires and needs for one who might hold the key to their situation in their hands spilled forth into the world, the Stunky settled back onto its hind legs, aggression forgotten.
Eventually, it sniffed the air, then turned to look at the rock with a measured expression. Its tail flicked the air, filling it with the choking smell of garbage and decay, and then it hopped up to its feet and spoke again;
Very well; your intentions are good, and so I will aid you as I can- and if I find your words to have been lies, may you find yourselves die choking.
The rock fell in step one pace behind the Stunky as it turned and began stalking away. This would be a good time to practice the art of polite silences, but the rock was all too curious a person, and so it asked;
How is it that you came to live here?
For it could sense that the Pokemon was far more powerful than the Pidgeotto that had menaced it and the Ekans it had seen and even the Fearow it had seen watching the town with piercing eyes from the skies above. It was almost as strong as Mareanie, and that is no small thing; Mareanie had fought and fought and fought for two years and more, facing against opponents big and small every time it recovered enough to fight again.
The Stunky again graced it with a measured look, weighing its sincerity, and then it turned its head back to the road ahead and spoke to the empty air.
What do you know of going hungry?
The rock gave it some thought, and it answered;
We have gone hungry every night for two years, but it has been of our own volition, and should we have wanted more for food, we could have travelled more and eaten more. But I have gone hungry for years before that, and to have felt a night of satiation then would have been so impossible as to only happen in a dream.
Again, a rancid smell wafted over the breeze as the Pokemon considered this answer, and the rock had to fight to keep from feeling queasy. It has felt and smelled worse by this point, though; it manages, and that is what it takes to keep the Pokemon talking, though its voice grows impatient and disdainful as it does.
It speaks for a long time, and the rock can only listen.
This is a city of two halves. You have seen it; I can smell the disgust on you as I can smell your curiosity now.
You have seen the centre of this city, with its buildings that scrape at the sky and its monuments of steel and glass that defy the wind and the rain. You have seen the streets that give way to houses for four made of materials so scarce they must be imported from another land, and the parks that span territory that would make a Trevenant jealous. You have seen the people who live there dressed in accouterments that alone could buy food for a family for a week.
You have seen this shadowed half of the city, built in the detritus left by all that was torn up to build that hallowed central city. You can see the people here, downtrodden and broken by those who seek to climb up from their backs. You can see their broken houses, the sullen glares on their faces, the dilapidation of their neighbourhoods.
You can feel the misery that permeates the air here; the knowledge that so long as they remain here, they will forever boil in this endless hell that is the home of the poor and the starving. Their only hope for betterness is to leave, and in doing so, leave behind all others still slaving away in this pit.
This is how I came to live here, trainer. I wish to see the lives of the damned bettered. I wish to see smiles on the faces of the children that live here, and the light of hope in the faces of those adults who walk to work.
These people need someone to fight for them, and it seems that none of your kind have the spine to fight for their own, so it falls to me to do so.
A voice pierced through, ending the Stunky's rant. It was not the rock speaking, though; again, it was the Mareanie, who had been listening along thoughtfully and nodding.
It seems that the poison in this land extends deeper than we thought, o partner mine. I had thought our mission was to save all those of my kind who those of your kind have damaged and slain with your actions; but now I see that you humans turn this poison against even yourselves. Very well, Stunky; your goals are as one with ours, and so I welcome you as the fourth of our crusade.
The rock missed a step, then.
No, Mareanie. You cannot declare that so. It must be Stunky's own decision.
Its partner blinked at it, curious and innocent eyes staring wide into its own.
But why, my partner? Our goals are aligned; we seek the same end. Of all the many Pokemon we have spoken to, he and he alone understands the truth we have pierced through the veil and beheld. Why then should he not add his power to ours?
The rock considered its answer even as the Stunky considered them, and did not speak again until the sun had risen fully in the sky an hour later. Then it spoke, and its answer was final;
It is because we have accepted the price that must be paid, but we cannot decide that price for others. We can lay bare all humanity's vain desires and cripple their knees such they cannot continue their current path; but should we take another's life into our hands through our decisions, that would be a line we could never walk back over.
This is this and that is that, the Mareanie would think to itself; but the rock was a stubborn creature, and there would be no convincing it of the truth it had already seen, so it kept its answer to itself and turned its attention instead to the Stunky.
Where are you taking us, my kin?
The Stunky laughed a laugh of venom and death, and it replied;
I am taking you to meet a girl.
Once again, we must step back from the tale of the rock and talk about another of its kind.
Could this not be a tale for another time? The strain is growing. I fear that at this rate I will never wake.
Should you desire to wake, little pebble, you may do so at any time you wish. Simply blink, and open your eyes in your comfortable bed. I will not blame you, nor will I bear you a grudge. Remember this, though; you sought me out for understanding. I will tell you this tale in full, or I will not tell it at all.
…
Yes. I understand. I will pay the price in blood and pain when I wake. Forgive me.
There is no forgiveness necessary, for you have done no wrong. Things are simply as they are. If you wish to continue, however, then let us continue.
I will tell you now the story of a girl.
On the northern coast of this continent of ours, there existed a city of wondrous splendors and culture quite unlike anywhere else.
Within this city, there existed a hill that was the tallest peak in all of the city. All lived within its shadow; it sat tall and those who stood on it could look down on all who lived elsewhere.
On the peak of this hill, there was a house. This was an old house, one of the first of the city. There was a history to it, and a reputation; do not go there, young children. Do not sneak within its walls at night and play in its gardens, or you will never return.
In that house, there was a room at the end of a long and dark hallway. Only two sets of feet ever trod upon the boards that lined this hall. There were no windows to shed light here; no torches set into the walls to flicker light around. It was dark and it was cold, and that was good, for you see;
Within that room, there lived a monster.
That monster was a little girl. She was four years old, and she had killed her mother.
Her mother's ashes were laid in a goblet atop the mantelpiece in the living room. It was carved beautifully with a eulogy for the wonderful woman her mother had been.
The goblet is accompanied everywhere in the house by all the trophies of her mother's accolades. She had been a philanthropist, an entrepreneur, a pioneer; she had blazed a trail for many young girls to follow. A hundred people have become doctors thanks to scholarships in her names. A thousand people have food in their stomachs and hope for the future because of her.
And the monster had killed her.
Awful. She was awful.
There are thirty people who lived in the house during the days. The number fluctuated, but never by more than one or two. It was a good job that paid well, and the work was easy; except when one would be required to go to the monster's room.
Once, when the monster was six years old, her father hired a friendly butler. He was an elderly man with spots of pepper-grey through his hair and beard, and he gave her warm little smiles shared in secret. On the holidays, he would bring her small candies and little stories of the events that precipitated the days.
For a year and more, he was her favourite; the only one who would acknowledge her with more than a cursory nod.
On her eighth birthday, he entered into her room with a small plush doll and a cake so small it fit in the palms of just one of her hands. It was decorated with pink icing and little sprinkles, and he sung her a little song; Happ~y birthdaaaay to youuu…
On her eighth birthday, she never saw him again. An ambulance visited the house, sirens off; three grim paramedics strode into the house below her window, and wheeled from the house a stretcher with a white sheet over it, shaped strangely. The monster could see shoes poking from out from the bottom of the sheet; pointy shoes of leather and buckles, like that of an old man.
Words filtered up through the closed window, words she could not understand. Pulmonary embolism. Cardiac arrhythmia. Shutdown of bodily functions.
That night, a maid with an impassive face brought her down to the dining room.
She sat at the end of a long table, and her father and her sister sat on the other end of the table. They served a dinner of mashed potato and peas and roasted mushrooms, foods that she ate quietly and without complaint despite the queasiness in her stomach, and her father looked at her and asked;
How are your lessons going?
She replied;
Good. I am learning well.
He nodded, and then he looked away from her, and he would not look at her again for the rest of the night.
He would not ask her sister the same questions. Of course not; she was a perfect girl. Her lessons proceeded well. There was no need to ask her the question, for the thought of her failing was anathema.
The monster bowed over her empty plate, giving thanks to Arceus above for the meal, and then she returned to her room chased by silence and the smell of mushy peas.
When the monster was ten, her father took her from the house for the first time. She blinked her eyes rapidly against the too-bright sun, and hid her face from the world; but that was not enough, and still every time her father and her sister looked at her, they turned their faces away.
She was taken to a party. She did not know what it was for, or what was expected of her; her father told her only in his emotionless voice to dress herself appropriately. She wore her plainest dress and matching socks and a hat she could pull low so that he would not have to see her face, yet still he shook his head and turned away when he saw her.
So even that was not enough. She understood.
They were driven to this party in a fancy car with expensive wines and fancy fruits nobody touched, and they all climbed out in silence. They stood in front of a fancy hotel with lights so bright they burned the monster's eyes and music so loud it caused her head to ache, and he said;
Florence. Make a good impression. Make sure nobody gets hurt.
Her sister looked at him with fearful eyes wide with sudden adoration, then at her with disdain and contempt.
They walked inside.
Her sister took her aside.
Sit in the corner. Make no trouble. Don't be yourself.
Her sister walked away.
The monster wanted to ask; do you think I have not tried for ten years to not be myself?
And yet, still she was herself. Evidently, she had not tried hard enough. She kept silent, and obediently she sat in a dark corner and she made no sound that might cause trouble.
But that in itself caused trouble, for half an hour later, a boy approached her as she was counting the bricks in the wall. He said to her;
Sorry if I'm bothering you. You looked lonely over here. My name is Timothy. What's yours?
She looked at him, and he looked back at her with a warm and open smile on his face, so she replied;
My name is Cora, and I am a monster. You should go away before I hurt you.
He looked over at her, taking all of her in, and then replied with a smile;
That's okay. I don't think you'll hurt me. Do you want to step outside and talk where it's quieter?
She did. It was too loud inside.
They stood outside on a balcony with the door closed, and Timothy chattered about meaningless things for hours. He talked to her about school, and how his father and mother had not wanted him to attend public school, but he had insisted. He talked to her about his favourite food; ice cream, but only the plain kind, with chocolate powder sprinkled on it. He talked to her about his brother; a man called Roger, who was partnered with an Arcanine and a Centiskorch and had two badges, which she thought was impressive by the tone of his voice.
She did not speak back.
That was okay, though. He paused at times to give her the space to talk if she wanted to, but she just looked down at the busy streets below and kept her silence, and he would start up again as if no interruption had taken place.
Finally, he had said everything that was on his mind, and he joined her in leaning on the railings and looking down below.
What are you looking at?
She took a moment to think about it.
There are so many people down there. They look like ants milling around, a line of people all going in the same direction. I wonder; if they looked up here, would they see us?
Timothy thought about it for a moment, and replied with a pensive tone to his voice;
I hope so. It would be a terrible thing not to be seen.
The monster nodded.
Yes. Yes, it would be.
Their conversation ended there. The two of them stood in silence, watching the thousands of people below stream by and occasionally glance up in their direction, until finally her sister came to retrieve her. Her sister took one look at Timothy and dismissed him from her mind, and said instead to her;
Father sent me to retrieve you. Come.
The monster set foot to leave, but before she could, Timothy spoke up.
Hold up. Do you have a phone? We should stay in touch! It would be fun!
Her sister's voice was cold.
We don't have phones. We're wasting time. Let's go.
The monster's foot wavered. She hesitated.
She had read a book once. In that book, people would write letters on pages, and people would take those letters and give them to the other. It was a method of human connection. Perhaps-
Her sister looked back, a look in her eyes like she wished to drown the monster in the depths of the oceans, and the monster moved without thinking.
It's okay, she thought to herself. Perhaps Father will bring us to a party again. There, he can tell me of all the glories his brother has won and all the tales of his friends at school. Yes; it would be nice to see him again.
It was a short notice in a newspaper the monster saw by accident the next morning when Father left his newspaper on the rack beside the coaststand the maids escorted her past each morning..
Today, at approximately 8:35 PM, there was an accident involving two motorvehicles on the corner of Broxton Avenue and Leinsley Boulevard. Four people were injured in the collision, and were moved to the nearby St. Alexandria Hospital for urgent treatment. Their conditions remain critical. Unfortunately, two of the parties involved in the accident were marked as deceased on arrival by paramedics. We grieve for the loss of Timothy and Roger Chalet, students of…
Strange.
The newspaper was wet for some reason.
The maids escorted her into the kitchen for breakfast just a few minutes later, pointedly not looking at her. All they said was; would you prefer orange juice or water with breakfast this morning?
Orange juice. She liked the sweetness.
They apologized and handed her a glass of water. They were out of orange juice; an obvious error on the part of the maid who had taken their delivery yesterday.
The monster understood.
The monster turned thirteen when things finally changed.
It had been standing on the roof, attempting to work out geometry with nothing but its eyes, when a shadow fell upon it. It looked up, and blinked when it noticed something diving towards it.
It was a Pokemon, though what kind it did not know; it had never read of a Pokemon like this. It had read of few Pokemon at all. It looked like a Spearow, or similar in proportions, though its feathers were ruffled black instead of red-white-brown. It watched as the creature turned and lifted its wings as though to strike at a distant target-
Something yellow slammed into it, faster than the little black thing could react, and the Pokemon screeched in pain. Shadows rushed forth from it, and the yellow thing turned and retreated- but the little black thing pursued, flitting back and forth through the skies.
The monster watched, mesmerized.
The two Pokemon banked around each other, unrestrained by notions like the laws of physics, gravity and inertia and momentum. They did not care for the rules the world sought to impose on them. The yellow thing banked left; then it wanted to move right, and so it did, slowing down not the slightest despite the reversal of direction. The black thing followed; it wanted to slow suddenly to avoid a bolt of lightning, and so it stopped moving, one fraction of a second speeding forward and the next frozen.
It was not fast enough to avoid the lightning still; nor was it fast enough to avoid the yellow thing crashing into it a moment later, an impact that cracked the skies and made the skies ring with cruel laughter.
The monster did not know how to react, so it didn't react; it just watched as the shadow in the sky grew larger and larger, big enough to block out the sun-
Pain exploded through its face, and things around it moved very rapidly- no, she moved very rapidly. It took it a moment to understand that she was rolling off the roof, the impact having thrown her backwards.
Before she could fail to react, something slammed down. A talon hooked over her arm, and the loud sound of ceramic tiles shattering echoed off the grounds below, followed a second later by cries of alarm below; then the sound stopped, and she found herself swaying long metres off the ground.
Above her head, there was an affronted squawk. Reality set in again, and the monster turned its head up, looking at its saviour, its attempted killer.
The Pokemon was holding desperately onto the monster, one claw wrapped around its arm while the other held desperately to the wood-struts in the roof. Its wings hung down at awkward angles, and pain flashed across its face every time they brushed against the tiles of the roof, but still it didn't let go as it looked down at the monster with anger on its face and cried;
Save yourself, you stupid girl! I cannot hold you forever!
Well.
If that is what the Pokemon wants.
The monster clambered back atop the roof, though it was an awkward scramble. Above, the sounds of combat echoed forth, to which its saviour looked up with a look split equal between longing and worry- worry that soon faded as the yellow thing was driven away, a half-dozen Pokemon intercepting it from below just two minutes after its arrival.
Finally, the monster made its way back to the roof, now covered in small cuts and bruises, and looked curiously at the little Pokemon.
What are you, my saviour?
The bird looked affronted; it ruffled its feathers and preened and winced in pain as it lifted its broken wings to pose. Despite barely scraping the monster's knees, it managed to look down imperiously on it and responded;
I am Murkrow, lord and ruler of all the skies of this city. Kneel and pay your respects, little human girl, and I will forgive your transgressions.
Well.
If that is what the Pokemon wants.
This set the tone for the interactions between the two over the coming years.
Murkrow- bossy, demanding Murkrow- made many grandiose claims, though the monster held doubts deep within its lying heart. Yes, he would say imperiously; I am the strongest of all the Flying-type Pokemon of this city. Thank you for noticing. Of course, he would crow; of course the sheen of my feathers is so slick and so bright! I come from the greatest of lineages; power flows through my blood!
And he would continue to speak his grand stories of all his conquests of the skies, and the monster would fix the splints on his wings and provide him all the food it could ask for.
In a way, the monster thought to itself, it was good that Murkrow's wings had been broken. If they were not, then surely Murkrow would have left it, and not remained ensconced within the nest of torn dresses and shattered tiles it had made for itself in the room.
And what an awful thought that was.
Each morning, the monster would travel with Murkrow back up onto the roof; this time not in an attempt to do math and calculate distances, but instead so that the little Pokemon could relish in the soft breeze and the gentle shade provided by the chimney as the sun moved around them.
They would sit there and tell each other stories.
Murkrow told it stories about all the Pokemon it had met across its life. He recognized the voracious need to know more about life outside, and fed its desires. He would tell it stories of the Fearow who lived in the mountains nearby, and challenged any who sought to steal its berries to a race, allowing only the victorious to take from its hoard. He would tell it stories of the Machamp who worked in town, shaving ice gently behind a street stall and taking payment from children in the form of candy and pocket change.
In exchange, the monster told Murkrow a story of its own.
It told him about Timothy.
Murkrow stared at it as it told the story in its monotone voice.
When it finished speaking, the Murkrow continued staring for long minutes.
It did not comment.
Instead, it sat back and looked at the clouds. Then, it spoke, in a surprisingly gentle voice;
Let me tell you another story, little girl. A story about a Pokemon called Absol.
The monster did not understand the point of the story, but it listened politely anyway.
In this way, life passed by gently. Summer turned to autumn, then winter, then spring, then summer again. A year bled into two, then three. Life moved on around them. The monster's sister left one night; she left no note, nor no goodbyes, taking with her only her Marill and jewellery enough to surely purchase a house with. Its father said nothing; it just looked away from the monster, staring instead into a goblet of wine with an empty expression.
The monster returned to its room.
It was seventeen when Murkrow spoke of his wings once more. His voice was gentle and soft, but it was also insistent;
My little girl, you are growing up so fast. Soon, it must be time we leave this nest.
The monster did not understand, so Murkrow tried again.
My sweet Cora. My wings have been clipped; so too have your own. We are a mirror match. We have been patient, and we have allowed ourselves to heal; but bones will set wrong if they are not tended to, and scars will develop if a wound is not washed and bandaged.
The monster still did not understand. That was okay. Murkrow tried again, one more time;
O partner of mine. You have been so patient with me as I heal; you have taken me into your domain and opened your heart to me. Now, let me have my turn.
The monster understood a little, then.
Nobody in the house stopped it the next day as it and Murkrow stepped onto the roof again. None had ever said anything before, and nor would they now; they averted their eyes from the pair and hurried about their business, leaving the two to their silence.
And that was all that filled the air as Murkrow and the monster stepped towards the edge of the house that they had stared at all these years.
Murkrow was so small. Standing beside it, he could barely touch its thigh with his beak.
It did not understand how this was supposed to work.
But Murkrow insisted; and it had no reason to deny it.
They stood at the edge there, both of them together; one a monster that had never known the world outside but for the pain it brought, the other a creature that had denied itself the skies for the sake of a girl with a heart full of misery.
And then they stepped off.
The monster fell, and a thought flashed through its head;
Yes. This likely would be enough distance to kill it. Confirmation; its math skills were indeed impeccable.
But it would not find out for certain today.
The house stood tall in the light of day. On most days, it cast a shadow down on the town below, the sun refusing to lend its light to such a pit of despair.
Today, though;
For a single, brief moment, the house was lit, pure white light fighting back all that darkness for just a moment, just long enough for the monster to see the truth; how small that house truly was.
Then Honchkrow swept below it, the splints on his still-broken wings wavering as he wove the currents around him to his will, and Cora landed on his back and, for the first time in her life, laughed freely as she flew up into the blue skies and clouds above.
…
Yes. I thought this story might impact you, given our last.
…
Humans can be so callous to each other so easily.
Yes.
But this is not unique to humans. All creatures have the capacity for kindness and cruelty. I did not show you the story of the monster to turn you to bitterness and misanthropy.
What you take away from this story is up to your own self, but make sure to consider all aspects of how a story plays out before you judge.
…
Right. I understand.
Good. Then let us return to the story of the rock.
—
In the poor and broken-down outer city of this greatest city of Laurum, there existed people who defied the social order and committed crimes against others.
The rock understood most of them. It was no stranger to petty crime itself; though it wasn't particularly proud of it, it had resorted to petty theft itself a handful of times when it risked running out of food, or for the handful of Pokeballs it had taken from a Pokemart.
When the alternative is starvation or other forms of misery, it could understand theft. That doesn't make it a good act, but sometimes, a bad act can be justified.
There are others that the rock could not understand.
For instance, it could not comprehend organized crime.
Conceptually, of course, it could understand. It was no stranger itself to the idea of working with others; though it had only been with the storyteller for a day, it had been working with Mareanie for much, much longer than that. Before that, there had been odd bits of cooperation, with its parents or with other homeless people within the city.
But the idea of working with others to do harm or enact crime on a much larger scale than any individual could manage on their own?
The only way it could conceptualize the idea was by imagining the criminals as a corporation.
Thus; the Rough Riders, inc.
Or, at least, that was the name it thought it heard the frenetic force yelling as a veritable wave of people converged upon the street in front of it and Stunky.
The rock cast its gaze over the group, estimating at once at least three dozen people were roaring down the streets on motorbikes, as many Pokemon and slightly more at their sides. It tensed for a moment, then cast its gaze, looking for their target-
- there. It took it a moment to see her; she was nearly invisible standing there in plain light. It had to take a moment to focus before shadows that didn't exist receded from its vision, and it could see the girl sitting placidly on the back of a large Honchkrow, waiting in the middle of the road.
The wave of criminals broke there, several buildings away from the girl- far enough away she could not easily have her Pokemon leap forward and attack, but close enough they could shout. Soon enough, one of the bikers drove forward some, making an obnoxiously loud sound with his bike as he went, and then stopped to shout at the girl;
You! You're the one who broke our bikes and beat our men!
The girl looked down at the man from the back of the Honchkrow, and she considered his words for a moment. Then, she slipped from her Pokemon's back, and took three steps forward as she said;
No. I have taken no action; you men suffered greatly, but it was not by my hand these misfortunes fell upon them.
It was not an answer that could calm the criminal's fury. Noise washed over the rock- angry shouts and loud denials and calls for blood- but none of it mattered; it could see the girl didn't care at all.
Then;
She turned her head even as the leader spat more envenomed words at her, and she looked directly at the rock.
The rock stared back, and inclined its head.
Chaos broke out.
The leader of the group held tight the grips of his motorbike and twisted them, causing a horrible noise to emerge from it. His bike sped forwards; behind him, there were hoots and hollers as people scrabbled to follow; and then things quickly and horrifically went wrong.
To understand what happened, we need to take a step back- just a little step back, this time; nothing complicated- and examine a few things.
Three days ago, in a different part of the city, a local woman's Persian had slipped from out of its trainer's window and went hunting. It wasn't hungry; more playful. Still, the pack of Pidove it fell upon disagreed that this made the situation any better. The flock, scared and angered, took whatever of their nests they could get their hands on, and flew to a different part of the city that the Persian might never find their nests again.
Slightly less than three days ago, a Pidove, tired after having fought off the Persian to buy its friends more time to escape, dropped the heavy branch it was carrying as it flew over a large office building. It considered going back for it- but its flock had not noticed and had kept flying, and it made the practical choice to catch up and abandon its nest-piece.
About a day and a half ago, it had rained, and rained quite heavily, though only for a short period of time. The water dried quickly once the sun came out; but while the torrential rain had fallen, it had produced rather more force than the rusted gutters on the roof had been prepared for. Two bolts had snapped, and a bit of the gutter snapped, falling down- still held in place, but now directing any rain and debris held in it directly down to the ground. A variety of sticks and wet leaves poured down into the alleyway.
As it fell, the stick landed innocuously. It bounced a few times, then eventually settled, leaning against one wall of the alley and against the lip of a dumpster on the other side.
Today- just a few hours ago- someone from the office building emerged to throw several bags of garbage into the dumpster. They didn't notice or didn't care about the stick; they just threw the bags in, heedless of if one of the bags split and spilled a small amount of garbage in front of the dumpster. It had been a long shift, and so far as they were concerned, it was someone else's job to clean it up.
An old, disused rod fell out from the bag. It teetered on the edge of the dumpster- then rolled out, catching itself on a notch in the much larger branch.
This formed what humans commonly call a lever- or a makeshift catapult.
And, approximately two minutes ago, a passing Pidgey dropped a particularly heavy coin on the roof of the apartment building.
Ting. Ting. Ting.
The coin rolled down the roof of the apartment building. There were several points it could have hit that would have changed its directory, or caught it before it built up much momentum; but as circumstances would have it, it avoided all of these areas by pure happenstance.
It hit the gutter of the apartment building after a bit more than a minute. Again; if it had hit at a slightly different angle, or perhaps with just a bit less momentum, perhaps the gutter would have caught the coin.
Instead, the coin hit the side of the gutter and bounced, falling into the alleyway.
It fell, and it fell, and it fell; and then it hit the far edge of the disused rod that had been thrown out earlier in the morning.
If the rod were heavier, it would not have moved much; if it were weaker, it might have snapped. If the stick were at a different angle, the stick might not have moved at all. If any of a million million things had happened just slightly differently, then this would not have happened.
But all of those things did happen; and the coin hit the disused rod. The disused rod flipped up into the air with a surprising amount of force; then, as it spun, it hit a small overhang in the alley. This imparted it with just enough angular momentum to send it spinning out into the street.
It did not have much force. Even if it had hit a person, it likely would have only bruised them. It wasn't a heavy rod, nor was it large enough to cause a serious accident if someone rode over it. In ten million other circumstances, this would have been a non-factor; one of those things that happens and is not noticed by anyone in the world.
But right now; as the rod hit the ground and bounced just slightly up, it happened to move at the one singular instant in which the rod could pass through the spokes of the leader's motorcycle and lodge itself in the wheel as it turned.
It is important that you understand the machinations behind how this happened.
The monster bore no responsibility for what happened. It did not scare the Pidove. It did not break the gutter. It did not catch the stick as it fell. It did not throw the garbage into the dumpster haphazardly. It did not walk away as detritus rolled out of the dumpster. It did not drop the coin that fell. It played no part in any of these circumstances.
It never did.
These things just always seem to happen around it.
Finally; we catch back up to the present point in our story.
Very little that's pleasant happens when a rod catches in the spokes of a motorbike's wheel. Usually, if the wheels are spinning fast enough, things will break, or the spokes will simply move so fast that things will bounce off of them. It would take a freak accident- one in a million circumstances- for something to get in there while it's operating and damage the wheels.
But when that does happen; well, suddenly your bike's front wheel cannot spin any more, but momentum still carries you forward.
The bike flipped. The back wheel rose in the air, then continued forward while the front wheel did not. For a brief moment, the leader would have seen the world spin around him; then he could no longer hold on to the bike's handlebars, and he was flung forward over the streets at a speed exceeding fifty kilometres an hour.
He hit the ground once, his arm held outstretched in front of him still. Nobody but he could hear the crunching sound as the bones within shattered into several pieces; but of course he could not hear it over the sound of the wind whistling and the blood pounding through his head as he realized, very abruptly and many minutes too late, exactly why one is supposed to wear a helmet when driving a motorbike.
He bounced off the ground and was thrown up into the air again, though this time only a short distance up.
He descended towards the ground for a second time.
Impact never came. Instead; a pair of clawed talons closed around him, and he could only feel relief and terror in equal measure as Honkrow carried him up into the air, safely away from the ground and the inertia that had threatened him as soon as he hit the ground.
Then the pain hit, and the screaming started.
The motorbikes came to a screeching halt very fast.
The monster stared impassively at the rest of the Rough Riders. Stoutland and Mightyena and Arcanine stood warily, looking at her with sudden fear. None of them understood what had just happened.
Honchkrow beat his wings behind the monster. In his taloned feet, their leader howled in pain as his broken arm dangled off freely to the side.
Beside the monster, her own Mightyena yawned. Mightyena's teeth were very large and very, very sharp.
The Rough Riders, inc, very abruptly decided that they had made a bad decision in confronting her.
The monster, of course, did not care. She turned her attention back to the rock, who was now following Stunky as he descended the small hill to meet her. Both of them ignored the retreating criminals.
Hello, Stunky. I see you have brought another stray.
Stunky nodded. It is seeking help, it said in its awful voice; I brought it here, as I trust you can offer it what aid you might.
The monster considered them for a moment, then nodded and turned.
Very well. Follow me; I'm hungry.
The monster led them to a small restaurant with an outdoors dining area. It was mostly empty; a single couple sat on the far end of the restaurant, and just three other pairs inside. In fairness, it was not a good time for the restaurant; in less fairness, it took near ten minutes for a waiter to come and take their order, and near an hour past that for two simple meals of stir-fried rice and vegetables to make their way back out, accompanied each by bowls of berries and insect-meal sauteed in some kind of sauce that they claimed no Pokemon could resist.
The two ate in comfortable silence.
Honchkrow, of course, was not with them. He had flown the leader of the Rough Riders, inc, to the hospital, and upon his return had lamented the necessity of returning to his Pokeball; alas! But for the civilization which grows not to fit me! Too great in power and stature am I!
Instead, a small creature curled up below the table alongside Mareanie; a Ledyba. The two of them ate their own meals and had their own conversation, irrelevant to that of their trainers.
The two trainers finished eating their meals, then sat in uncomfortable silence before the monster broached the topic.
What is it you seek help with?
The rock cast around, as though to find someone to explain the story for it, but it couldn't find anyone, so it resorted instead to a tool it had found itself overusing lately; its own voice.
In a voice as dead as the girl across from it felt, it told the story of Slowking, once Slowpoke.
The monster listened as words fell from the rock's lips. Then, she drummed her fingers on the table, and thought back to all the storybooks she had read as a child, and she asked;
Have you ever heard of the Herba Mystica?
We have discussed previously the idea of small moments that, looking back, were momentous.
Picture this for me, little pebble.
In the centre of a modest neighbourhood on the outskirts of the rich part of your crowning city, there was a park. It was nondescript and bland; it had a small playset with a sandpit, a slide and a set of swings, it had trees planted in such a way that might suggest they had been intended to serve as a wall of shade had two thirds of them not withered and died a decade ago, and it had grass of such length and unevenness that it spoke of a council worker who came around with a grass-cutting machine once a month and did not care about his job.
Three figures sat on a neat cloth beneath the shade of a dying pine tree. They ate perfectly average food and wore perfectly normal clothing and did not at all look like the creatures they were deep below.
Anyone who walked past would have mistaken this as an ordinary event. Three regular people having a regular picnic on a regular day.
A small moment.
A momentous occasion.
One little moment in time where the course of history shifted as the rock asked the storyteller;
Where can we find one of these herbs?
The thing that must be understood is that the Herba Mystica are not normal plants; nor are they common. They are plants born of stellar dust that feed on dreams and stories. Their seeds were strewn about this world when the ancient kings fought; when Aerodactyl and Tyrantrum lived in truth; creatures of flesh and blood and real-world power, not the creatures tainted by stone that your kind have recreated today.
The Herba Mystica were once plentiful. They spread across the world following the journeys of the Pokemon who created them, creating blooming paths of power and beauty that spanned worlds. Pokemon would follow in their wake, feeding on their power and listening to the ancient creatures' stories of their homeworld in turn.
Those Pokemon are dead now. I believe the last of them to have died when Father last turned in his slumber and the continental plates turned with him.
Now; now, the Herba Mystica only survive in the deepest and wildest parts of the world. They exist where ancient Pokemon sleep; where none dare tread for fear of awakening their wrath. All those who watch over them know to watch with a keen eye, for should knowledge of the plants be spread carelessly, their existence could end in truth, and with it the last traces of those ancient Pokemon.
It would take someone exceptionally stupid or exceptionally brave to seek them out and attempt to take from those ancient Pokemon their precious prize.
This is how the story went;
Deep in the hottest part of the desert, where the sun shines brightest and even those faint traces of rain the desert receives each year know not to fall, there was a boulder tall as a mountain.
Carved into this boulder was an entranceway. It was guarded by fierce Pokemon, massive creatures of earth and stone who stand vigil eternally. Should one survive the harsh desert sun, they would be tested; only those of great wit and ingenuity, like that of a storyteller or a very clever girl, could have the guardians set aside their weapons and allow passage within.
Within the entranceway was a tunnel.
The tunnel was short, yet it was not. It would take its master one score strides to climb through, never more and never less; yet as the triad delved its depths, it seemed never-ending.
Passage that should have taken them a day stretched into two, then three. Light faded just minutes in; the only light they could navigate by was a single torch swinging from a stick, lit from within by a candle.
Three days stretched into four. Four days stretched into five.
They looked at their supplies of food. They had brought enough to last them two weeks; it had taken them three days to get here. Eight days of food gone; six days left.
If they turned back now, they could still survive. They would be hungry, but they would make it back to the city and they could recover and try again.
The storyteller and the monster looked at the rock. It looked silently at the Pokeball of Slowking, once Slowpoke.
They kept going.
The second test, passed.
The key; patience. A willingness to commit one's life to the uncertain future, to trust that one's dreams will carry them forth past common sense and into the life they are striving for. To take oneself to the point where they know stepping foot on that path again seals them into the need to go further, and to take that step anyway.
The sixth day, they arrived.
This is what they saw;
A massive stone cavern, deep within the earth. Deep, so deep, that there was an awful, oppressive heat hanging over the air. The very stone of the walls around them seemed almost to deform, as though grown soft and pliable due to the immense pressure of trillions and trillions of tons of stone above them.
At the end of the cavern; a door.
It was a simple thing, though not an unimpressive thing. It was not a complicated contraption of locks and hinges and tubes through which pressurized gases squeeze to open some ponderous thing of steel and concrete.
No. It was a simple door; a huge thing carved of ice that matched the oppressive heat of the cavern with its own frigid cold. It was barred with the simplest of locks; a massive chunk of steel, laid across it and dug into the foundations of the earth, so deep within that they passed out of even my domain and into that of Lord Groudon. It bore a symbol, carved there as a warning to all who might approach; seven dots, three in two lines, the pillars that held up the world, and one in the centre, the all-seeing eye.
And it was open.
This was the third test;
Survive.
And from the shadows of this magma-lit cavern, I fell upon them like a monster.
You?
Yes.
This should come as no surprise to you, little pebble. You saw their constructions on the surface when you sought me out; you saw the sandstorm they raised, the mountain they lifted above mine own cavern, the peace and tranquility they sought to give me.
But you fought them?
No- that's not what I mean.
They survived?
Well.
I did not bring to bear upon them the weight of my truest of mantles.
After all; they were dear guests here to take a test, not those who come bearing chains and closed fists.
But yes.
Make no mistake, little one. You are wise beyond your years, and you are far more skilled than anyone yet knows; but you are not the pinnacle of power. There are those far above you yet.
…
Do not be upset. It is a harsh truth, but better one you learn now.
Come. Let us return to the story.
Here, buried deep within the churning heart of the earth, I had lived for three billion years and more.
Stories are told of me and my siblings. We pale in comparison to the truly great legends; next even to that of Groudon and Kyogre, we have little stature, let alone to they such as Palkia and Yveltal. Yet despite that, we are creatures of legend still; they who shaped the planet, who took all that Groudon and Kyogre had made in their cataclysmic battles and tended carefully to it until the seas calmed and the lands stopped shaking and all those after us who nurtured life could watch it thrive.
I don't speak of this to give credence to my stature, but instead to give context.
Were I to fall upon the triad with intent to kill, they would be dead. Perhaps this would be different if they had bound me to the surface and stolen from me the land below; perhaps were the three united in purpose and determined to steal of me everything that made me myself, we could be evenly matched. But here, deep in the core of the earth, in the heart of my power- no. Even the greatest of your Champions past and future could not hope to survive me here.
Thus, I constrained myself.
The crown I bear is that of bedrock, the stone that lies underneath all. I am the firmament atop which you all stand. I am that that raised the mountains and I am that that carved the rivers and I am that that tore asunder the valleys. I am the bones of this land, and with that comes weight that the triad could not hope to survive.
And so, I turned to the blessings of ancient Terapagos, and I took upon myself those lesser mantles I have claimed for myself in eras past.
I claimed the mantle of soil and clay and mud and dust; all those lesser elements of the earth that settled atop me and churned and ate and died and lived anew. I bore in myself the power of Ground;
and despite this, or perhaps because of this, they fought back so furiously. The monster unleashed her Shiftry, and its roots grew and fed upon all that made me, so that as I tore into it it ate of me and we locked in stalemate; and the rock unleashed its Mareanie, and the waves ebbed and flowed, taking with it the silt and sand that made me; and the storyteller spoke his stories, and Farigiraf kept the riverbanks steady, such that no landslide could fall.
And so I claimed the mantle of the rivers instead; the churning water that flows now through the channels I carved, the lakes that sit where I bent the land with a single footstep, the ground-water that feeds the deserts and all the lakes below. I bore in myself the power of Water;
and the Shiftry spun its fans and my water faded into spray, and the storyteller called upon the flames of Pyroar to turn all of me to steam, and Mareanie stole what remained of me and drank greedily unto itself.
And so I claimed the mantle of the life I had encouraged so many to nourish; the massive trees that scraped the sky, the beautiful flowers that hid within them poisoned thorns, the choking vines that even now ate at life. I bore in myself the power of Grass;
and Shiftry fell before my wrath, and Mareanie waned until the rock recalled it, and I contended with the Pyroar's flames and the poisonous concoctions of Slowking, once Shellder, until finally; a screech emanated through the air. And though I lashed out, and through my choking vines I smothered the Pyroar, Skarmoury tore me limb from limb.
And so I claimed the least mantle of all the creatures that I had encouraged to thrive; the churning insects, the skittering spiders, the fluttering moths. I bore in myself the power of Bug;
and Slowking, once Shellder, fell before me, but a third Pokemon emerged from the darkness, unseen as it followed across the continent and through the depths, and I contended at once with Stunky and Dodrio and Skarmory, and the least of my mantles had little to bring to bear. I churned and I writhed and I choked them with silk, but still they fought, wild-eyed, desperate; and still I did not have my answer.
And so I took a risk, and I claimed the mantle of my sister; and the taste of iron and copper and magnesium settled over everyone. I knew with a heavy heart they would be sick for days as mercury entered their veins; but my test was not over. I bore in myself the power of Steel;
and they had so little to contend with me, for steel is the closest of all things to stone, and it feels almost as natural to me as does the granite and limestone and marble I am comprised of. Strength flowed through me, and I caught Skarmory by the throat and tore off its wings, and I buried Stunky beneath a prison of iron from which it could never escape, and I broke Dodrio's legs that it could never escape. They cried out and pleaded and released more of their teams; but Wigglytuff fell, and so did Honchkrow, and then Linoone and Ledyba and Slurpuff and Whimsicott, before finally;
Energy depleted, my mantle fell, and I stood in front of them still with my true crown back in place.
They stood before me, trembling, yet defiant. So few remained; Farigiraf, Mightyena, Mareanie.
And I smiled as they drew together again, calling in cautious words for a plan as I stood there and watched so patiently..
Yes.
They had the will to survive what's coming.
The rock had experienced many things in its life. Hunger, fear, anger, desperation. It was no stranger to feeling outmatched; it and Mareanie had never once been scared to accept the challenge of those vastly more powerful than them, those older Pokemon looking for an amusing fight to pass the time or a story to pass on to their children.
It's been in many awful situations in its life.
It sat there and watched as the lights in the oceans died. It suffered hunger and sleeplessness for years, and suffers still from them when the storyteller does not force it to listen to its flagging body and care for itself. It had fought exclusively in the wild with all the ferocity of Pokemon born to open fields and oceans brought to bear against it; not once had it ever relied on shields or barriers or any Pokemon to protect them.
Many times, it had faced death before without flinching.
Yet this was the first time it understood what it was like to face a true monster.
I-
No. That isn't how this tale should be told. From the rock's perspective, I was not a person with my own volition and history; I was the fearsome monster of the dark depths of the earth, the creature that had torn it and its companions apart.
Let's see.
This creature was beyond it. It was beyond all of them. They had brought all they had to bear against it, and it had done nothing.
They had shorn limbs from its body, and it had simply drawn new limbs from the stone of the floor.
They had buried it deep within the earth under flame and earth, pouring all of their power into sealing it while they tried to run, and it had simply shifted the cavern itself so the seal existed elsewhere and it could melt through the stone to face them again.
They had eviscerated the creature, rendered it down to fine dust and small pebbles, and it had fallen on them from behind, stone peeling away from the walls to form its body again.
Inviolable. Impossible.
The storyteller and the monster had taken the chance to back off with wide eyes while the rock-thing seemed to be recovering, but the rock didn't join them. It wasn't fooled by the way it had stopped moving, nor by the way the strange energy and jagged, crystallized crowns over its head had dissipated into nothing.
It could feel it.
This was the creature's true form. This was it at its strongest.
It had not been fighting them before- not truly. It had come against them in its weakest forms. All the damage they had inflicted, all the desperate strategies they had inflicted- it had allowed them to do so.
And so, heedless of its companions, it took five steps forward, ignoring the panicked hisses behind it, and spoke.
You were testing us.
The creature- the Pokemon- did not reply with words that a human could understand. Its voice was the grating of stone as tectonic plates shifted; it was the sound of bubbling magma; it was the high and grating sound of crystal struck at just the wrong angle. It was a voice only a rock could understand.
A trial you and yours have passed. Your skills exceeded all mine expectations and met the wildest of hopes. Congratulations, o child of His.
The rock considered this answer, and then it spoke again;
What were you testing?
And the creature smiled a smile that could not be seen, for another quiet test had just been passed. It answered;
The conviction of ye and your companions.
Come, little pebble, and feast upon thine spoils.
The rock could hear its companions scrambling as the creature began to move again, and even Mareanie lifted its tentacle-arms through its fatigue, but the rock simply held out its hand and spoke to them;
No. The fight is over.
And it ignored all their shouts as it followed the creature into its once-sealed room, the door slamming closed behind it..
The room within was perhaps what some might imagine when they think of a cavern so deep underground, but it bore no resemblance to reality. It was a cavern, so massive that even this rock-Pokemon could stand to its full height and not scrape the ceiling with its arms held up, at least ten metres high.
But what struck the rock was not that; nor was it the magma pool in the corner, washing immense heat over the rock that somehow it could not feel; nor was it even the strange stone flower-like Pokemon floating around the room, emanating acid and poison so foul it caused even the rock to gag on it at a distance.
No- what struck it were the huge formation of crystals surrounding a single, small patch of greenery.
It looked at the sun's flames looking back at it through the reflective surface of the crystal- no; it looked at the sky- no; it looked at the depths of the oceans- no; it looked at the moon; no- it looked at the battlefield- no; it looked at the churning hive- no; it looked at the stars, millions and billions and trillions of planets teeming with dust and gas and life-
Darkness stole over its vision, and it took it a moment to realize that the monster had turned off the lights in the cavern.
Silence, then;
Mine apologies. It would behoove me to remember that the human mind can be fragile. Terapagos' blessing is not for thee. One moment, please.
There was no transition point; one instant, there was pure darkness, and the next the rock could see normally again.
The crystals were gone. Sunk back down into the rock below, most likely.
The creature plodded over to the greenery, then sat beside it. With fingers so careful- so much more tender than a creature that large and powerful should ever be able to be- it leaned over and plucked but a single flower from it.
It felt intrusive to notice how bare the greenery was now. Like once it had been a small field blooming with a thousand flowers, and now the number has fallen below a hundred.
The rock wonders, now; how many others have heard that story? How many people have come here to challenge this creature for the Herba Mystica- and how many have succeeded? Can they grow back?
The rock wonders, but it does not ask those questions. It just takes the flower, and instead asks a single question in turn;
Why?
The monster looks down at it, and time passes as it ponders how best to respond. The rock sits there with it patiently, ignoring the pangs of hunger in its stomach and the growing tiredness, until finally the creature answers;
Because this world we have crafted is a beautiful place, and I do not wish to see it lost to the ugliness your kind can bring forth. What is a single flower next to that?
And it answered again as the stone flowers in the room chorused forth;
Because you and yours have kind hearts, and you bleed openly and readily with them. This world is a cold and cruel place; but together, creatures such as you can make it warmer.
And a single stone flower swooped down and crooned on the rock's lap as the creature answered once more;
Because rot and poison have set into your society, and if it is left unchecked, your kind will grow like a malignant cancer until all has been choked out to make room for your people alone.
The rock thought about it. It didn't understand then; not really. But it understood a little of what the creature meant, and that was enough for it.
And thus, as it held a flower in one hand and a flower followed behind through its march back out the door, it heard one final answer;
Because there is nobody else in this land of yours willing so staunchly to set yourself against the tide that is to come.
Why did you not tell them of what was to come?
You forget yourself, little pebble.
I am a creature of this land. I can see all that sets foot upon my stones; I can see all that is carved from my body, which is all that is beneath you. But I cannot see the future, nor can I see the hearts of man.
But it is more than that.
I am not here to guide your fate. I am an archivist and a storyteller and a guardian. I am not the saviour setting forth to deliver this land from evil, nor am I the hero's mentor, here to impart the vital lessons one needs to save the day.
I offered one warning, and that is all that is within my power to do. The rest is up to you and yours to learn.
And so, it is left again to the young and the weary to deliver the world.
Things are as things are.
Be not so cynical. You have seen the forces arrayed against you; but you have also seen the slithering wyrm below the forest, the bird stalking the desert, your little song-bird.
It will not be easy, but that is life. As platitudes say; nothing that is easy is worthwhile.
Now. Let us return to the tale… though we are at the difficult part of it all now.
Quite understandably, the rock was met with many recriminations as it walked back out of the creature's unsealed lair, flower in hand and stone flower floating along behind it.
So; you survived.
A hole was bored in Stunky's prison- not through the steel, but instead through great chunks of the stone that had formed the floor of the prison. Acid-melted stone pooled through the hole, but it was nothing that could threaten the others.
The rock could manage only a nod. Indeed; and we have what we came for.
But that would not be enough.
How dare you! screamed Mareanie, its voice cracking with anger and fear and the vestige of loss. We are partners! You cannot leave me behind! And it sagged forward now that its anger was spent and the rock was confirmed to be alive once more.
The rock stepped towards it, reaching its hand out to its partner's unconscious body. To its loyal partner, it patted its shell, then moved to sit beside it that it could wrap it in a hug, heedless of the spikes pressing into its flesh.
I am sorry, it said quietly, almost in a whisper; but there are some things only I can do, as there are some things only you can do. Partners we may be, but equal in all things we never can be.
The monster stepped forward next. The rock had feared her anger, but what it received instead was worse; a desolate look on a tear-stained face, like she had finally found joy for a day only to have it stolen in an instant. She had only four words for the rock;
I thought you'd died.
The rock looked down, heaving in a silent sigh that left it feeling drained. Then it looked up, and offered her the gentlest smile it could.
Don't worry. I am afraid I will be imposing on you for some time yet.
And the expression it received was just a little less empty afterwards, which was enough to fill its heart with warmth for a year.
Finally, it was the storyteller's turn.
The storyteller looked at it once, then reached down to it so it could drag it to its feet. The rock staggered as it was forced to stand, but the storyteller did not give it time to recover; instead he stepped forwards to stare the rock in the eyes, and said;
I hope that was worth it; but should you ever do that to me again, I will bury you in this cave myself, and nobody will ever find the corpse.
Then he pressed his lips to the rock's, a kiss that would almost be pleasant had he not made sure to also bite the rock's lip hard enough to draw blood, and stepped away with a smile that lit his eyes with a dangerous light the rock could not look away from.
Well. Everyone had said their piece, and there was nothing more to be gained by lingering.
The next five years were, for the most part, beyond the remit of this story.
That is not to say that they did not matter. In so many ways, these were the most important years of the triad's lives. Each step they took here was a step that shaped the direction of a continent.
Yet, at the same time, they mattered little to the story of the rock, for it was also just a continuation of what had come before.
For the first month, while they crawled their way back to safety with the help of the friendly Pokemon of the desert and a fortunate encounter with a travelling trainer, and then an extended stay at the Pokemon Centre while their Pokemon recovered from the appalling injuries they had sustained, the rock turned over what the creature had said in its head.
Because rot and poison have set into your society.
It had a notebook full of scrawled stories tucked away in its notebook and a thousand more locked firmly in its head. Years now, it had spent on the mainland, learning about all the various afflictions the land was suffering. Every one of the four Pokemon now clipped to its belt were themselves cautionary tales; of the destruction of ecosystems and the death and starvation that follows, of greed and incaution causing catastrophic damage to land not even involved with the accident that precipitated the damage, of the way human societies eat at themselves and leave the downtrodden with no hope for the future, of the precious and irreplaceable nature of histories and how easily they can be lost.
And yet, despite having sat up for so many nights thinking of the problem, it had never before realized how big the scope of the problem was.
It spoke of this to the monster and the storyteller, and their answers surprised it.
The storyteller spoke calmly and rationally, its words expected yet vehement;
Rot sets in when a wound is left untreated, but given time it will permeate all of the body. We have each of us seen the extent of the damage this has done to the world, whether through stories or experience or personal suffering. The creature was correct.
The monster spoke calmer yet, yet its words carried with it the dangerous glimpse of the edge of a knife and the faintest smell of coppery blood;
So many turned their eyes when I was a child. It is easier to live in ignorance and accept the comforts that come with another's suffering than it is to take a stand against it.
The rock nodded, and accepted their words.
Then, it asked the most dangerous question that would be asked that year.
How would you like to help me commit a coup?
It could never be some small and easy thing to become a Champion.
Were it only a matter of strength, a thousand people and more in the world could hold the role in an afternoon. Were it only a matter of conviction, the number swells to ten thousand, a hundred thousand. Even were it only both, there are still hundreds in this world who possess both strength and conviction enough to claim dominion over a land.
There are so many things that are involved.
The first, of course, is opportunity.
Strength and conviction can never be enough if one has not the opportunity to act on them. A thousand things can hold someone back. A family and the need to care for them. An inability to act in polite society. A lack of currency with which to sustain oneself, or a lack of ability to find other means to sustain oneself.
The rock, of course, had made its own opportunity years ago without even realizing it. It had severed ties with its parents, had learned to find food and travel and supplies of it sown, had fostered its team without reliance on others. It was accidental, but it was opportune.
The second is friends.
Humans are social creatures by nature. Though some prefer more and some prefer less companionship, those who can truly influence society without need of others around them are truly, staggeringly rare- and these people so rarely correspond with the kinds of people who can bond well with Pokemon.
The rock, of course, had two friends now. Or, well; one friend, and one something more; but for these purposes, it was enough.
The final thing is something more ephemeral. It is the ability to do all those other things that are associated with being in charge. It is the ability to do paperwork; it is the ability to manage and delegate; it is the ability to understand all the systems that comprise a government and manipulate them to one's bidding.
This is where the rock was lacking.
And that was okay, because it had time to learn.
Their journey from this point took them seven years.
In the first year, the storyteller had found his conviction.
Previously, he had made it to the top four of your yearly contests; but now, he had friends and a purpose behind him. The drive he had once been lacking had once again been kindled, and his team responded so readily in kind.
Six months to the day from their pledge to commit a coup, Briar Watson made national news as he ascended to his new position amongst the Elite Four, ousting Elliot Stewart.
The land's governance invited a poisoned knife into their midst, and had no idea for it; for the storyteller was a man with a silver tongue and a hundred faces, and he could lie without ever telling a single untruth.
It would take a further two years from that point for the monster to rise similarly. It was not for a lack of talent, nor power; she was ever bit the storyteller's equal there. It was for a simpler, more embarrassing reason; she had never fought a Gym before, and she could not bring herself to face her sister for the first year.
She spent time, then, travelling with the rock and the storyteller once more. They each bought half-masks for their faces and participated in festivities amongst their people and revelled for the first time in having companions to whom they could open their hearts and receive only warmth and affection in return.
Two years from the making of their pact, the monster would return again to her sister's Gym, her heart filled this time with firm resolve and the warmth of tokens of her friends held against her chest.
There was not a single thing her sister could do to hold her down now. She had held on to too much of their past, stuck living in times of misery and depression despite her early escape.
Cora walked out, her eighth badge held in hand and her head held firmly high, while inside her sister crumpled to her knees and stared to the heavens above and wondered; how had it all gone so far astray from her vision?
But that, too, is a tale for another time.
It was agreed tacitly that the rock could not yet make its challenge then.
They had one chance at making their challenge; one chance to perform a bloodless coup. Should the rock be found wanting when it made its challenge, then surely the allegiances of the storyteller and the monster would be found. All its surprises would be gone, and the Champion could prepare for a year, and the chance would slip by them forever.
So.
For five years, it travelled the land again, this time with renewed purpose. It would not be enough to know who and what was causing this rot; it needed to understand why. For what purpose.
The monster and the storyteller accompanied it whenever they could. The irresponsible storyteller found more time than the prim and proper monster did, of course; he would steal away from what duties he was assigned to spend the nights with the rock whenever it found the chance. When challenged, he would simply reply; then stop me. And he would bless whoever had reprimanded him with a sharp smile, and that would be that.
But, for the most part, the rock travelled alone once again.
Well- not alone.
Never alone, really. Four companions at its side; five once it visited the greatest mountain of the mountain ranges of the east, that massive structure that held within its towering walls as many secrets as the entirety of the desert.
Zubat was only one of many Zubat in the mountain; but of all of them, it was the cleverest and the most secretive.
When companies attempted to bring in all of their great bits of mining equipment to drill holes through the mountains and create passages through for humans, it was this Zubat that snuck through in the dead of night and chewed through all their wires. When humans descended well below permissible depths to chase a Pokemon that had no interest in them, it was this Zubat that would fall upon them with frenzied shrieks and a barrage of disorienting attacks that would inevitably see those humans flee. When humans tried to carve roads around the mountains, it was Zubat that woke the Rhyperior that slept on the mountaintops and provoked it into causing a rockslide to dislodge them.
Truly, it was an awful Pokemon for all those who attempted to disturb the peace of the mountains. Could there ever have been a better fit for the rock?
But, for the most part, the rock simply did the same things that it had always done. It travelled the lands; it spoke to all the wild Pokemon that wandered them, and heard all their stories, for good and for ill; it fought all the Pokemon who wished to challenge it; and it spent all this time with its Pokemon, as reliant on them to survive out there as they were on it to save the country from all that ailed it.
It wouldn't be until the advent of the fifth year that our last notable event would happen.
A figure oft talked about amongst those of your kind who work with the land, but rarely discussed with those who don't wish to think about the effect their consumption has upon the world, is how much of this land is used for the purposes of industrialized farming.
Your land hosts a population that would be staggeringly large to your populace in history. More people live in a single city now than lived in this land for a hundred years prior to the arrival of yours from the sea, and there are many more than just one of your cities.
To support this many people, food must be grown.
Do not mistake this as ais a rant against the need for food production. Everyone must eat, human and Pokemon alike. This is simply a fact of life. People must eat, and more than that, they must have variety in their lives, for the sake of nutrition and sanity and alike.
But this is just context for what the rock knows. This story is about that, but it also is not.
More than farming, this is a story about Nidoqueen.
The rock has wondered sometimes; if one were to ask a random human off the street, how many Pokemon do they think live in the world?
A child might answer with eyes bright and full of wonder; there are a million Pokemon out there in the world! The child thinks that this number is so staggeringly enormous that surely the world must be vibrant and full of life.
The child is both correct and not.
An adult might answer with just a moment of thought; probably a few million? Ten million or so, maybe? They answer with a polite laugh, then think about it and correct themselves a few times; first upwards, then downwards as they feel self-conscious of potentially guessing far too high.
The adult is not at all correct.
A wise person might answer with; it does not matter. There are new Pokemon being discovered every year. There are so many Pokemon that one could never meet them all. Isn't the world such a beautiful and joyous place?
The wise person is both correct and not.
The best person to ask would not be a random human off the street, but instead a Pokemon Professor.
One might never get the chance to ask them, but if- by pure happenstance- one ever did manage to ask them, they would be given an answer more like this;
There are around nine hundred extant species of Pokemon found on this country's shores, with small populations of other Pokemon being found primarily as invasive species, brought here through poorly regulated international trade- oh, you mean how many total Pokemon are there in Laurum? I couldn't give you anything close to an exact estimate- but off the cuff, I would say somewhere between one and two billion.
The Professor is correct; though he is correct in the sense that he gave the correct answer, and only in that sense. The child, in this way, is actually more correct; for the answer is that the number doesn't really matter to most things. Only the vibrancy of life does.
But, for the purposes of context, the number matters a little.
Nidoqueen had once been a Nidoran, the same as all the others of her kind.
There were several Nidoran born in her clutch, and her clutch was only one of dozens that was born in the warm seasons around the flatlands near the rivers here. In that single season in that single little area of the country, over one hundred Nidoran were born to several dozen of their parents.
There was nothing special about Nidoran at that time. It was one of many.
But nearby, there lived a flock of Flying-type Pokemon atop a mountain.
Skarmory. Fearow. A single, solitary Corviknight, brought here by a human who had died years and years before Nidoran ever hatched.
They were fierce, and they were hungry, and they were far stronger than all the Nidoran born that year.
And nearby, in the forests, there lived a pack of voracious Pokemon. Houndoom. Mightyena. Mawile.
And on the banks of the river, there lived a family of Krookodile.
And; and; and.
On into infinity.
The picture is drawn.
In the face of the overpopulation of predators in the area, what choice did Nidoran have but to grow so strong and fierce that none would dare to dart after her siblings in chase of quick prey?
For, you see, her parents were kindly creatures; a Nidorina and a Nidorino who had lived here when things were peaceful, and who had had a good relationship with the Seaking in the river who has since died, and who had been protected by the Noctowl in the forests who has since moved to seek new territory. They were good parents, they were loving and kind and supportive, but-
They were not strong, and so Nidoran needed to be instead.
So, from the first month she was hatched, she fought.
Spearow who thought her easy prey would find themselves on the receiving end of her acidic horn. Persian who thought to leap on her brothers from the trees as they played would be met with kicks that cracked bones and sent them sprawling. A Hippowdon that thought to bother them away from a newly-established den in the river instead found itself choking on bile after a long-fought battle.
Oh, she fought and she fought. She fought so many battles that one day, her mother woke her up and took her for a walk to the top of a hill and asked her gently; daughter, do you know anything in this world but the fight?
Nidoran thought about it, and replied truthfully; so long as those outside threaten us, I can never know anything but the fight.
Nidorina was stricken by her answer, but it was the only answer Nidoran could ever have given; for if she didn't dedicate her life to this, who would? If she didn't spend her life to protect all the precious creatures of the flatlands who couldn't defend themselves, would anyone rise to the challenge?
And so, Nidoran's life became dedicated to violence.
Warm seasons turned to dry seasons turned to cold seasons turned to wet seasons and back to warm in an endless cycle. Nidoran kept count for the first ten, then gave up; it was useless information to her. She had her den, and she had her siblings, and so what did it matter how much time passed?
The scars on her skin accumulated, and she grew larger and larger. One day, as she fought that hateful Corviknight, she could no longer hold back the power rushing through her veins; white light tore through the environment, a light so bright it tore up the ground below her, and soon even her mother could no longer say anything to her, for she was a Nidorina that stood half again as tall as her mother and knew nothing but the taste of blood and sleepless nights as she paced around her parents' nest, watching vigilantly at the skies above.
This is the story of Nidoqueen's life. A life of power and violence that set her apart;
left her one day standing in front of the ground in front of the last of her brothers, a Nidorino who had clung to life more stubbornly than the rest that she wouldn't be left the last of her clutch, as finally he succumbed to the wasting disease of age after having lived a hundred years or more.
But she was not left alone, for Nidoqueen had taken on the mantle of the protector of the flatlands; she who stood before all those who would harm the vulnerable and sought to bring death and destruction to her home.
She was a creature of venom and battle. She was the apex predator of the region; the beast everyone knew, whose very presence caused the vile and the guilty to flee. She was the Alpha of the flatlands, the most powerful creature for a hundred kilometres in every direction.
And not a single jot of her power mattered when the Champion descended from the skies.
Against one of her Pokemon, Nidoqueen prevailed. Electrode, so rarely seen in the flatlands, fell to her might, its electrical storms unable to find purchase in the lands Nidoqueen had so patiently carved her fiefdom in, its vines and roots and leaves finding no purchase against her poisoned skin.
Against a second of her Pokemon, Nidoqueen prevailed; Goodra curled in on itself, firing blasts from its shell like thunder from the skies above, and the blasts drove her back with each step but could not stop her inevitable advance. Her hide split and blood poured from her wounds but she beat it.
And then the third Pokemon came out, and the fourth, all at once; and against Ferrothorn and Stunfisk she could do nothing but give ground and trust in her acids and poisons, and it was not enough.
And so; for the first time in at least forty seasons, Nidoqueen fell to a foe.
The price for her loss, unfortunately, was steep.
When Nidoqueen awoke, she was not on the flatlands any more. None of them were.
Relocation, the humans called it. Rehabilitation. Moving dangerous Pokemon away from inhabited areas and in so doing preserving the peace.
Inhabited areas. Ha.
Nidoqueen did not understand much, but she understood what was happening here. It had happened before, when Kilowattrel moved into the mountains and drove away the Corviknight, when Golduck moved into the river and Krookodile was forced to leave, when the den of Seviper appeared in the forests and everyone fled.
Relocation from inhabited areas? A cruel joke.
She understands, of course, the human's need for food. All people need to eat to sate the hunger in their stomachs. And she understood there were a great many humans.
But no. This could not stand.
So; she fought. For the sake of all the small Pokemon who had relied on her, she fought. For the sake of all the Pokemon who resented her for her loss, she fought. For the sake of all those who lived now near the humans and their 'farmlands', whose territories the humans would soon eye off for its nutritious soil- she fought.
She fought, and she fought, and she fought.
She fought a great many humans. Sometimes, she would make progress; she would drive the humans away from the path before her for long enough that she could travel back towards the farmlands. Sometimes, she would go even further; the humans would return and she would drive them off again, and she would ford the great river and turn her eyes northward and set her march.
But eventually, inevitably, she would fall again.
Sometimes, it was to the human's Champion again. Other times, it was to her loyal minion, the creature who smelled of fresh-turned dirt and the coming winter storm. Yet more times, it was to the annoying humans who talked to her with calming words and devices that hummed lullabies and threatened to sooth her incandescent rage.
For years and years, she fought, a ceaseless and unstoppable machine.
And then, finally;
One day, someone different fought her.
It was two humans, this time- though unlike the Champion and her loyal minion, they did not both fight her. He would fight her with just one Pokemon at a time; sometimes a Mareanie, sometimes a Slowking or a Stunky, sometimes a strange stone flower that spoke a language she could not understand.
The Mareanie called out to her;
Ho! Nidoqueen, whose power pulses through her veins, whose poison bores holes through the mountains! Stay your hand and listen!
And she would beat it to a pulp.
The Slowking called out to her;
Ah… Another who wishes to stand against our trainer… beware, then; for we shall stand against you with all we have to bring to bear.
And she would beat it to a pulp.
The Stunky called out to her;
Beware, beware, o Nidoqueen, daughter of the stars and sands. This land is yours no longer. We stand united in our cause; put away your rage and your despair and stand with us!
And she would beat it to a pulp, but by now she was tired and she was drained;
So when the stone flower was released, she fought, but it was with tired limbs and lethargy flowing through her, and it was no surprise to anyone when eventually she fell, her limbs flagging and her attention able to fall on nothing but the stone flower, who looked towards its trainer; and from there, her attention could only fall on the two humans.
One stood there, a half-mask covering its face and a cloak mantled over its shoulders. It cut an intimidating figure, enough that most humans would think twice about approaching it, she thought.
The other stood there, dressed in clothes of fine silk and with more fancy bits of metal than Nidoqueen has seen in a Corvisquire's nest.
The intimidating one said to the fancy one; you see now the extent of what you have done. The lives you have pushed out.
The fancy one said with an ashen face; I did not intend for this. I just wanted to provide food. We cannot rely on imports forever.
The intimidating one shook its head. All actions have a cost, Eric. This, you must understand. We spread out so thoughtlessly and so carelessly, and in so doing a million and more have been displaced. The flatlands will never be the same.
Nidoqueen growled at that. She could not bring herself to stand on her feet again; but her anger demanded a release, and a growl was the best she could do.
The fancy one looked at her again with a stricken expression, and he said; Yes. I see that now. Maybe- maybe there could have been another way. Maybe.
The intimidating one considered the other for a moment, then held out a hand. They clasped each other's hands for reasons that Nidoqueen could not understand.
Then let us work together, the intimidating one said, clear and strong. Let us find a way forward together, that humans and Pokemon can live harmoniously in this land without this kind of displacement.
And the human turned towards Nidoqueen then, having known all along that she was listening, and it held its hand out to her.
And for you, Nidoqueen- I do not expect you to understand me so easily. But if you return here when the sun is highest in the sky tomorrow, we will fight you again; and maybe eventually, we can understand each other's hearts and work together too to build a better future for all those sent here with you.
Nidoqueen snarled. The pity! The temerity of this human! She stamped her foot, and she finally climbed to her feet with a look of disgust, and then she turned and left without a look back.
But she thought on those words; to build a better future for all those sent here with you.
And on the next day, she returned.
I've heard this story before. Or- no; but I've heard this story told in interviews before. This wasn't long before the challenge was made, was it?
Indeed.
You are a smart creature. You know the shape of these stories. I could tell you the story of how Nidoqueen challenged the rock every day for seven days, and thought on its words for seven nights, before they made a vow in blood to aim their poison at the Champion and all those who carried out her destructive will.
But that is not why you called me here. You are not here for the stories of Nidoqueen and Zubat and Mightyena and Farigiraf. You wanted to know the story of the rock.
… Yes. I am sorry.
Do not worry. I understand.
But still. If I could listen to every one of the stories you carry with you in your heart, I would.
I know.
My thanks, little pebble.
But let us cast aside these sentimental words. We are hurtling now towards the conclusion. It would not do to be distracted at the finish line.
Despite it all, the rock could not simply walk up to the Champion and challenge her. It would be an illegitimate contest, a battle on false grounds. Even if it were to win, the Champion would simply cast the loss aside and claim it born of falsehoods; my Pokemon were injured, their Pokemon carried with them illegal modifications to give them temporary advantages, and the like.
But even if it were not for that, the rock would not simply challenge her on its own. It is not that kind of creature.
On some fundamental level, the rock understood that the world has a logic of its own. It would not claim for itself the title of hero, but the point stood regardless; the hero cannot simply confront the great evil at once. The lesser evils must be confronted first, then the evil's lieutenants; and only then can the evil itself be faced and slain.
Storybook logic for a fairy tale, as it were.
As such; we move on to the climactic chapter. And where else to start but at the beginning of the end?
So we set the scene;
It was a cold winter morning when the rock first stepped to centre stage.
The monster rapped on the door in the early morning- then regretted it quickly when the storyteller answered the door clad in nothing but his undergarments. She kept her gaze trained on his face and studiously ignored that she could see the rock clad in even less on the bed behind him, and said;
The first challenge is today. We must make sure everything is ready.
The smarmy smile fell from the storyteller's face, and from behind a quiet sigh emanated from the rock. A pause; then a flurry of activity.
Presentation was important in a challenge such as this. It would not do to walk in with tousled hair and stained shirts and bags below one's eyes. If one was to emerge from the shadows and challenge the leader directly, one must present an impeccable image, such that when its face would inevitably be cast to all to see, they would see exactly the image they wished to portray.
And so, they dressed it in all the strange finery and subtle makeup they needed to cast the image in stone.
The rock could not present itself as beautiful, nor could it cast itself as an aspirational figure. Its features were too rugged, its cheeks a little too gaunt, the stubble on its face a little too rough. They had settled instead a long time ago on instead making it seem just a little scary.
So;
They pressed a half-mask to its face coloured deep violet and scarlet red, matching Nidoqueen's hide, the colours of poison and all the blood spilled around it. From within, its intense eyes burn out at the audience, framed subtly by dark stubble over its cheeks.
They wrap a cloak around its shoulders, matching the fine velveted clothes. The clothing is not suited for the weather, but that is not the point. They tie its hair back into a neat ponytail, lilac hair spilled against the red-and-gold of its clothing in a pleasing color combination.
And finally; to complete the regal look, the storyteller turns to the rock with a wicked smile, and places atop its head a crown of gold.
So clad in its armour of war, the rock set out on the first step of the boy-hero's journey.
The journey of the boy-hero is a story the storyteller was very familiar with.
There were a great many secrets to it that the storyteller knows it was not supposed to share. However, there is much about the story that is openly known, and so of that we can speak and draw together the line that was the rock's journey.
It goes something like this;
A long time ago, a boy-hero was born amidst the azur waves of the easten coast.
He was not born a special child. His parents were simple nomads, travelling with their nation as was their wont. They followed the herds of Pokemon through the wilderness and planted behind them simple crops of yams and root vegetables and subsisted as much on the fish in the rivers as the plants and berries they scavenged.
But the boy-hero was born at a poor time; for you see, all the nations of the land had fractured, and bad blood had brewed amongst them. Yet the boy-hero dreamed, and in his dreams he saw what was to come in the future; death and destruction and desolation, the end of all that he knew and all that he could hope to know.
So he went to the elder of his tribe, and he spoke to the elder of his visions. But his elder was not so easily convinced. I have seen nothing of these omens you speak of, young boy. Return to your mother.
But the boy would not be dissuaded. He went to the elder again the next day, and again the day after, and so on, until eventually the elder decided;
Very well. If you believe your wisdom to be greater than mine, then let us test it; heart against heart, Pokemon against Pokemon.
In this time, you see, Pokeballs had not yet been invented. The boy-hero had bonded with one Pokemon, and only one; and he was to match the strength of his partner Spinarak against the elder's Natu.
It was a poor match-up; and yet the boy-hero knew that his dreams were true, and so there, amidst the azure waves, he matched his Spinarak against the chieftain's Natu and bound it with threads so tightly it could not escape and cast it to the bottom of the sea. And he said; Elder. Please listen to me; for I have seen the doom that is coming, and we must all work together if we are to stop it.
Having seen the strength of his conviction, the elder agreed, and sent him off to speak with his estranged cousin down on the emerald plains.
The boy-hero's journey tracked across much of the land. From the emerald plains, he went south to meet with the chieftain who had led against them his great fiery Tauros in skirmishes against them. From the southernmost point of the continent, he went to the twin peaks split through the mountain ranges, where he talked to a nation divided by death. From the twin peaks, he went to the great crater in the desert, where a nation had come to die. From the great crater, he traveled north and south to meet the two twins who had determined they must exist as far apart from each other as they could. And then, he travelled to the last place; the western nesting grounds of the greatest of dragons, where the most prideful of them all lived.
And then, from there, he travelled atop the back of the greatest Salamence in all the land, and all eight nations spilled forth in his wake, whereupon they would face the four great beasts with the aid of the one who had slept in the desert, and from there stand against their doom.
This story, of course, is not that story. It does, however, share its shape.
Things follow the shape of things that came before. Eight sites in the nation were the sites on which nations settled; and then settlers came in and blood spilled across the stones and all that history was lost, but attempts have been made to rectify this and now those eight sites have been codified in the deepest bones of the League that purports to right the injustices of the world.
These sites are, of course, the great Gyms of Laurum. Eight great challenges, who hold amongst them some of the most skilled trainers of all of the continent.
The rock beat them all in two months.
It was partly out of practicality, you understand. The rock could not afford to give the Champion any more time than they must to prepare for its coming. She would not turn their way for the first win, or the second; but by the seventh or the eighth, she would certainly take note of its rise and make her preparations.
Thus, urgency.
One week for every Gym. Challenge; rest; travel; repeat. They went down in storybook order; and as the story went, so too did the challenges, with the rock proving victorious over each without fail and claiming with it their badges, until on the very last day before the greatest challenge would open, it claimed the last one and met its qualification.
That greatest challenge was a tournament over two months. Those strongest challengers pulled together, standing in turn with each other and then against each other as they fought to see who could earn the right to face the Champion's lieutenants and maybe- eventually- challenge the Champion herself.
Four months, all in all, is what they think the Champion had to prepare to face it.
The tournament itself was not trivial, but nor did the rock ever truly risk defeat. There were a great many skilled fighters in the tournament, but the rock had dedicated every bit of its life to this for a decade. It had broken itself and reforged itself, split itself apart and carved new veins into itself. It coughed blood and struggled to hold spoons in the morning on its worst days and it was thankful for it for these were the marks of the Pokemon it held dear.
So no. The tournament itself proved unable to stop it either.
Then, there was the Elite Four.
It challenges them in a specific order too.
First came the eldest of them all. She was strong and she was proud and she was noble; but above all of that, she was loyal to the throne of the Champion and to the ideals the League espoused. She was a creature of unbending steel, a sword wielded against all who would oppose that vision for the world, and when she cut the world bled poison.
And so the rock matched it; poison against poison, stone against steel. The rock was feeble, brittle- it had carved so much of itself open that it slid apart as the steel was set against it; but its poison was acid and choking smog and bitter, burning blood. The eldest of the Elite Four wielded a sword of the purest steel and spat smog into the air that could choke all life, but with every cut she made the rock ate away more at her, and eventually;
The sword shattered first, and the rock limped away.
A costly victory. It took two weeks for its team to recover in full.
But then; it still had secrets up its sleeve.
Second came the youngest of them all; the fanatical defender, the Champion's most loyal lieutenant, so new to his rank. He was a young firebrand; so dedicated to the progress and the better future she called for that he walked away from all he had loved to stand beside a woman who could never give him half of what he had lost to support her. He was a creature of the frozen plains and tundras; a creature that should not exist in this heat-blasted continent, yet made of himself a beast regardless.
He was powerful despite his youth. Were the rock most anyone else, it would have struggled mightily against him. Given time- seven years, perhaps- he could have matched the Champion in power in his own right.
But he had no ideals of his own. On his own, he was but a pale reflection of the Champion's light. He was a creature born of a land that did not exist on this continent.
And what is the rock but a creature of this land, so determined to prevent its annihilation?
So; as stated.
Were the rock most anyone else, it would have struggled mightily against him. But it did not.
Three days of recovery was all this one needed.
Third came the monster.
The monster did not hold back. She was a creature of the starless skies, the inky black of space unpierced by the stars above. She was the call of the void incarnate; the incoherent roar that speaks of your incoming death. She was, more than all of that, the rock's closest friend, and so both of them knew that to do anything but put every part of themselves into this fight would do their friendship a disservice.
Well;
Every part of themselves but one.
It was a good enough show that the public would not believe claims that she had held back to allow it to strike at the Champion, anyway.
And then finally came the storyteller; and really, he had never stood a chance.
The rock is everything he is weak against. It is the firm truth that there are those in the world who can love him for what he is. It is the anchor that holds it from being swept away by the tides of despair. It is, in the most saccharine way, the one story that he is able to give back to the world in exchange for all he has taken from it; a little love story cast out into the world to make it that little bit brighter.
There was no question here. In no part of the equation did the storyteller ever have a chance at stopping the rock. Even if theirs was a mutual hatred and not a love, still would he have fallen easily; for fundamentally, the storyteller is just a storyteller, and the rock is someone who tore the pen from the author's hand and wrote the course of his own story.
And so;
One week after, when its Pokemon had recovered, it held its head high and walked into the throneroom to confront the evil at the heart of it all;
And it walked into the room, and all it saw was a woman a decade older than him, her face lined with stress and tiredness and a deep determination to stop him. She looked at him, and she said;
So. You've really made it this far. Which of them have sent you?
The rock tilted its head, and it spoke its confusion;
The land itself has sent me; for you have spit poison into its veins and choked its lungs and squeezed its heart, and it will never again be healthy so long as you remain in charge.
She blinked, and it blinked, and they both realized:
They had come from different stories entirely, and only now did they realize they were missing something.
And yet; still they stood in opposition.
So they knew, both of them, that there was no use in speaking more. Neither could find the answer they wanted in the other's words, for neither even knew the question the other was asking. All they could do was set their unknown ideals against each other and see who would emerge triumphant.
And so; two Champions clashed, and the world trembled.
Even to me, the details of this battle are unclear.
My dominion and my demesne is the stone that lies beneath the soil of this continent. I am not a creature of poison or steel; though I can borrow my sister's mantle for a time with the blessing of my dear departed friend, I cannot speak through of it.
What I do know is the shape of the battle.
The rock, as ever, sends first the flower of stone that departed that day from my caverns with it. This is enough to give even the Champion pause as she wonders; where did you catch that? What even is that Pokemon? And even her Pokedex can return only an unknown figure that would only be filled in once the rock had scended the throne.
The flower of stone, you see, carries within it the worst poison of all; regret. They are manifestations of a billion billion creature's regrets and unfulfilled desires. As Terapagos once brought with it the stories of distant stars, so it also brought with it all the stories cut short before their time, so determined were they to leave nothing forgotten.
The Champion had prepared herself for Nidoqueen's dominion over the land below. She had prepared herself for the gestalt that is Slowking and its poisons that can strip the armour from an Aggron. She had prepared herself for the impenetrable wall that was Mareanie.
She had not prepared herself for Glimmora. She could never have prepared herself for Glimmora. She had not yet experienced that loss and regret that could armour oneself against it.
So; she struck out, and Glimmora cried out, and a thousand tiny shards of virulent poison and regret spread across the field, and she was doomed in that instant, though she did not know it yet.
For you see; she had prepared herself a shield of the purest steel. An Aegislash, to match that of the sword wielded by her lieutenant- or perhaps, the shield that inspired the sword that followed. She led with Meganium, and prepared a field of barriers and defences and leeching seeds that wrapped themselves around Glimmora and drained its energy, and she recalled Meganium and sent out Aegislash, and that was when the rock knew;
She didn't understand.
She didn't understand at all.
She was treating this story like a battle.
Aegislash appeared, a shield of polished and impenetrable steel, and it held itself up like the kinds of eld once held it;
and then it was struck at once by the memories of the creatures that had tended to it as a child. It remembered the Magmortar who had taken it in and shown it how to temper the steel of its blade such as to allow it to cut steel; and it remembered the Gengar who had fought it every day for a year until it grew so frustrated it manifested claws of shadow and understood finally the violence that underlay itself; and it remembered the Doublade it had once been so fond of.
Aegislash screamed, and it screamed, and it screamed, and its trainer could not hear it; but she could see the pockmarks that peppered its shield as Glimmora's regrets ate away at it, and she could see it flagging already as the poison coursed through its soul, and she panicked, and she sent out Lurantis-
And, and, and.
You know how the story went from here. You know of her attempted recovery as Ferrothorn took the field; and you know of the triumphant revenge of Nidoqueen as she emerged forth and took him in hand and cracked it like an egg; and you know of the surprise reveal of Gholdengo; and you know of Mareanie's stand against its rampage, and how Mareanie finally stopped holding back after a decade and more of knowing the rock and allowed evolution to overtake it so its impenetrable barrier could stand even against that awful ghost.
That is not the point. This is the point, little pebble. This is the thrust of the story.
The Champion did not lose because she was weak. She did not lose because she did not have faith in her Pokemon. She did not lose because she was a poor trainer.
She lost because she did not understand. Her mind was closed to the possibility that people would not approach her as she expected them to approach her. This is not a matter of battle strategy; it is not a matter of strength; it is not a matter of politics or approach.
The rock stands now because it opened its heart to the land and it listened to all the manifold stories that sung forth to it, and the Champion fell because she closed her heart to all but her own vision for the world and sought to control everything.
This is it. The tale draws to an end. The curtains are closing.
We turn now back to you, little pebble.
I return now to my slumber. Speak again with me only when you have recovered in full.
I understand.
Thank you, o he who stood alone against his kin for us.
Wyatt wakes to blood and pain.
Shouts echo through his tent as he gasps for breath, arms flailing. He can't register what the words are saying for a good minute, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears drowning everything else out. He flails around, his arms hitting something- something long and stringy- the IV stand! He tries to draw his arm back, but it doesn't listen-
Something hard pushes down on his chest, forcing him back down on his back, and Citrine comes into focus above him.
"Calm down!" she says loudly again. "Wyatt! You're fine. Deep breaths. Come on. In, out. In, out."
He matches her, sucking air in as deeply as he can through his mouth, then exhaling it through his nose- though the action draws another spluttering cough as blood bubbles forth, resulting in another minor panic attack that Citrine has to force him down from. She keeps up the soothing words, though, and just a few minutes later he's finally calm enough that he can sit up properly, a tissue held below his nose to stem the tide of blood.
This is the worst his head has ever ached, and he's had some shocking headaches in the past.
Citrine doesn't say anything for a few minutes as he collects himself. He gives the worst of the pain and nausea a minute or so to subside, then leans over to the side of the bed- carefully- and takes the glass cup he'd left for himself for just this kind of occasion.
Four painkillers, thick as the first two digits of his fingers, and two anti-nausea tablets.
Give them an hour to work and that might blunt the edge off of this one.
Finally, his breathing's somewhat back to normal- as normal as it can be when his nosebleed is showing no sign of stopping, anyway- and he's able to focus his eyes mostly normally, only wincing a little whenever something brightens up too fast.
He's probably not going to get any better than this for a while anyway.
"How long was I out?"
His voice is raspy, like he's run his vocal chords through a pit of sand and then run it through a tumble dryer just for good measure. Still, Citrine can understand him; she's always been good at that. She steps forward again, this time moving to the end of his bed so he can see her easily without turning his head, and talks with her head held high and her hands stiff behind her back.
"Forty-two minutes," she replies. Most people wouldn't pick up on the tension in her voice, but he can. "Your longest session yet. Did you get an answer?"
He has to think about it for a moment. "Yeah," he manages to force out. "He's not one of them. Good heart in there. Think-"
But that's too much for his throat. His mouth closes against the next words, and then he has to throw himself to the side of the bed, and the flash of pain that causes is just enough to make the act of throwing up into the bucket beside his bed just that much more miserable.
Citrine's already there, rubbing his back with a pained look on her face.
She doesn't comment, though. They've already had this argument. She knows he's not going to stop.
He waits a few moments longer, in case it's just temporary relief, then rolls himself back and lets himself slump back against the mattress. His eyes close involuntarily, and he can't seem to manage to get them to open back up again, but that's fine. He's not sleepy; he just can't handle that much sensory input right now.
The silence between the two of them isn't comfortable, exactly, but it's not uncomfortable either. He knows that she's having to restrain herself from running her hands through his hair or trying to wrap him up in a hug and make him stop doing this to himself. He'd hate it if she actually did it, but he appreciates the impulse.
The painkillers don't actually take a full hour to kick in, but it's long enough that he actually is starting to feel a little sleepy when the pain finally lifts enough for him to want to talk again.
"How's-" His voice is still raspy. He has to lean over and take another drink- small mouthfuls, swallowed with a breath between each- before he can continue talking. "How's everything going out there?"
She gives him one of her half-smile, half-grimaces. "Jade's keeping them all focused," she says quietly; then, with a hint more good humour, "Apparently some of them decided to make a uniform. She's been chasing them all down trying to make them burn it before someone sees it."
He laughs at that- not a quiet chuckle, but a full-throated delighted laugh that almost turns into another coughing fit before he fights it down. "Really?" he says delightedly. "Please tell me they have better fashion sense than Team Flare did, at least."
She smiles at him in turn, caught up in his own delight as always. "Not really," she says, so seriously he almost actually believes she's taking the topic seriously, except the glint in her eyes gives her away. "I almost think we should send them off to get lessons in costume design; they simply cannot match colours for the life of them."
He laughs again, though it's more subdued this time. "Well," he says with a silly smile, "I suppose they're only matching me, after all. Costume design as good as my own naming scheme."
She rolls her eyes. "Team Break is a far better name than you give it credit for," she scoffs. "And truly, they really don't know how to make a uniform at all. They tried matching yellows, purples and bright greens, for goodness sake."
Wyatt tries to imagine that, but he really can't. "That might actually be good," he protests, mostly for the sake of arguing the grunts' perspective. "Hey! Maybe go get me one of the uniforms- then we can see!"
She shakes her head fondly at him. "None of them would fit you anyway," she says simply.
And that's true. He's far too small and frail to fit in any clothing that would fit any of the others. Even the smaller girls around tend to find their clothes hang too big on him.
But still; he pouts at her before moving back on to more serious topics.
"How's Malachite doing, anyway?" he asks.
The smile slides off her face at that. A complicated expression flits over her face; jealousy, anger, contentment, uncertainty. "Fine enough," she says curtly. "He contacted Jade just after you went under. He's in, and they bit the hook."
Well.
He runs his hands down his face and lets out a relieved sigh.
That's one situation that's still going right, at least.
Finally, he forces himself up off the bed. Citrine hurries over beside him, her hands hovering nervously behind her back, but he's not quite so fragile as to need her help just to stand just yet.
He can't go out there just yet. They need to see him more put together than this. They need to be able to look to him and believe that he knows the path they're all looking for.
Citrine's hand settles on his back, and despite himself, he can't help but be a little relieved. He probably wasn't going to topple over, but.
Well.
His legs still shake as he takes a step towards the bathroom.
His mind is already spinning, thinking of all the things that they're going to need to do around Halley over the next couple of weeks. There's so many points where things could go wrong there, and he has so little idea about it all still.
But he's done all he can. He won't survive another dive into a Pokemon's mind tonight- Citrine would kill him if he even tried. Gardevoir will have to wait, content in her Pokeball for now.
He steps into the bathroom, Citrine's hand leaving his back as he moves slowly towards the cabinet and the shower beside it;
And the door closes behind him, this part of the story over for now.
And on the bed, the little rock doll that Wyatt had clutched through his vision shakes, just a little.
There are seven dots on its face, arranged in a pattern like a H.
And for just a moment, the middle one opens;
then it closes again, and with it closes this iteration of the story.
