A thread where I post snippets that would otherwise have never seen the light of day.
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Pokemon/Xianxia - The Pride Before 0-1
SolarFall
Totally not a cat in disguise.
Solarium: A room fitted with extensive areas of glass to admit sunlight. Fitting, I suppose, for a thread where I post snippets that would otherwise have never seen the light of day.
It's been a few years. Please take care of me.
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The Pride Before
Pokemon / Xianxia Fusion
If Red had known how momentous the Icy Path would later prove to be, he would have bitched slightly less about the cold.
"Keep watch for anyone out of place, sweetheart," he told Espeon, despite knowing the words were pointless. The voyeur needed to be specifically commanded to keep her psychic eyes out of other people's heads, and even then he was sure she only pretended to obey. "That goes for unusual Pokémon, too. There should be nothing but Ice-types and Zubat for kilometers, maybe a few Diglett or an Onix. See anything that looks out of place, you let me know."
Espeon looked at him with too-intelligent eyes, then nodded and slunk into the shadows with an ease better fitting her Dark-type sister. He could feel her through their Aura bond, ten meters away and counting a hand's breadth from the frost-slick wall, but despite locking his eyes on where he knew she was he couldn't see a thing. If Espeon had picked up the stealth aspect of Faint Attack from her sister she would let him know, right? …Of course she would.
Red put it out of his mind. He was in these frigid, subterranean depths for a reason, and there was no use delaying it. Quicker he's done, quicker he can unfreeze his bones in the sunlight above.
He released Venusaur, his immense bulk only barely fitting in the narrow confines of the tunnel, the pleasantly sweet scent emenating from the tree on his back cloying and unpleasant in these humid, murky depths. There was still a feeling of… not quite surprise, but something similar every team he released him; Venusaur had refused to evolve from Ivysaur for months, and he wasn't yet accustomed to the evolution himself. In the darkness of the underground, lit only by the glow from Pikachu's zigzag tail, Venusaur's sheer mass and unfamiliar shape Pokéd at the back of his mind, set alight instincts from the time before humans had learned to bond with Pokémon.
Venusaur stomped a heavy foot, and through the vibrations in the earth – some powerful enough to make Red stumble – a perfect map of the labyrinth formed in his mind. With a grumble deep enough to feel Venusaur led the way deeper and deeper down.
Red couldn't say how long or how far beneath the surface they traveled, the four of them; his Pokégear had lost connection long before they veered off the Ranger-surveiled 'safe path,' and the clock widget's been broken since September. Two hours, maybe three. The temperature dropped as they did, the Ice power in the heart of Mount Whitegrave drawing near, and Red was eventually left with no choice but to summon Charizard.
The red dragon looked at his surroundings with all the contempt of a Clan Head at peasants, breathing a plume of fire at a wall to melt it and scorch them all with steam. If Red wasn't in the Third Realm himself, his skin would've been flash-cooked. He couldn't chastise Charizard for it, though: to imply that the steam was a problem would be to admit weakness, and Charizard hadn't tolerated weakness since his evolution.
Privately, Red was grateful that these twisting tunnels were too small for the most recent member of his team. Still in the Third Realm as he was, he couldn't yet sustain that many bonds in his Aura, and Charizard wouldn't approve.
Venusaur eventually came to a stop with a deep growl of discontent. They had reached the deepest point of Mount Whitegrave's frozen interior.
Red put a hand on Venusaur's back, knowing he would feel his Aura if not the touch. "Good job, buddy. Your part here is done. Take a quick rest and then you'll be able to lead us out and back up to the sunlight, okay?"
Venusaur nuzzled into his hand with enough force to topple Red to the ground. With a laugh and twin flashes of red, Venusaur was gone, and Blastoise stood in his place. Unlike the rest of his team, the armored tortoise seemed anticipatory, almost eager to be here.
"Let's get started."
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Meditation was rarely fun. Meditation while in the heart of an Ice Nexus kilometers under the ground, damp, dirty, and in the dark?
Deeply unpleasant.
They had succeeded, at least, and so in less than a week (hopefully) they were headed back topside, Venusaur leading the way with considerably less temper. Red now had a tiny patch of Ice in his Aura, Blastoise much, much more, and they were excited to see her new super-effective moves in action against the dragons of Blackthorn.
When Venusaur stopped, turning to look in a shadowy corner and growl, deep and dangerous, Red's only thought was:
I was wondering when it would all go wrong.
He could feel Espeon's alarm in his mind- whoever or whatever this was, Espeon had not noticed them before Venusaur's tremorsense had, which meant Dark-type. There was no saying how long their stalker had been following them; they might have been surveilled for mere minutes, hours, or even days. For all Red knows, it could have began before they entered Mount Whitegrave at all, and it wouldn't have been the first time, either.
It could just be a local wilder… but, no. Wild Dark-type (and, indeed, most trained Dark-types too) shrouded their presence in shadows so effectively that a Psychic like Espeon could sense their absence. Their stalker was able to spoof enough Ice-type presence to blend into the ambient Aura. Skill like that was rarely found in wild Pokémon.
Whatever the reality was, Venusaur had given away that he had noticed their presence – something he would have to train out of the Grass-type, he put it on the list – so he was only left with one real course of action. As he often told his rival during their battles, no amount of skill could surmount overwhelming power.
"Earthquake," Red commanded.
Mount Whitegrave shook. Red himself immediately dropped to his knees, the ground vibrating with enough force to rattle his bones, only avoiding injury by channeling Aura into his body. Pikachu had recalled himself into his Pokéball a moment before Red gave the command, Espeon had the foresight to hide behind a Protect barrier, and Charizard stood strong, adamantly pretending the wings on his back protected him from the force of Venusaur's mastery of the Ground-type.
The mysterious Dark-type enjoyed no such protections, nor the strength to withstand it or agility to flee it. There was a shriek and then a yowl of pain, and where before there had been shadows now lay the twitching body of a small, black-furred Pokémon.
"A Sneasel?" Red wondered aloud, then choked back a laugh. Being Ice-type as well as Dark-type, it must blend into the ambient Aura by shrouding only its Dark nature and merely muffling the Ice part: a technique that would work well in Icy Path or a hailstorm but otherwise be worse than useless. That Espeon had been fooled by it was hilarious, and Red was glad this weakness of her technique had been revealed before it could be used against them in a meaningful battle or, gods forbid, by Team Rocket.
Espeon appeared, then, and Red readied himself for a merciless round of teasing, but to his surprise found a second small, dark figure crumpled on the ground, this one being dragged by Espeon's teeth. The figure was so grimy and wild-looking it took him a second to realize it was a human and not a second Sneasel.
So, it had been a trainer-raised Pokémon after all. Huh.
Red approached the quietly-moaning trainer and nudged them onto their back with the toe of his shoe. All the humor in the situation withered away when he saw the harsh lines and gaunt look to too-young cheeks, and felt an Aura that was barely in the First Realm. Their clothes were torn and dirty, and the stress of far too much time spent trying to survive the harsh climate of Icy Path was engraved onto their body.
No one had ever accused Red of being too sympathetic. Still, it was his duty as a fellow trainer to escort this unfortunate idiot topside, and it cost him nothing to do so, so hero he would be.
"Did you see a Pokéball perchance, sweetheart?" he asked Espeon, who shook her head no. That crossed out several theories as to this trainer's circumstances. Unfortunately, it left only the more problematic theories.
Trainers had to cultivate Aura bonds with Pokémon in order to communicate with and understand them. It was integral to the process. In the ancient days, trainers were limited with the number of Pokémon they could command by the capacity of their soul, but the stasis fields of Pokéballs had changed everything. As a human in the Third Realm, he could manage four bonds at once, five at a stretch – provided none of them were Dragon-type, or something as mighty as his last team member – and that number would double once he finally broke through to the Fourth Realm, which was near the peak of human potential. With Pokéballs, however, even a Trainer in the First Realm could harness the power of six Pokémon, granted they only released one from stasis at a time.
For this trainer to not have a Pokéball meant a few things, and none of them were good. It shouldn't matter to Red, but he was curious, now, and he intended to get to the bottom of this mystery.
If he was lucky, he might get a few enemies out of it.
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The trainer awoke around an hour later.
To their credit, they gave no physical sign of it. The Dark in their Aura hid them from Espeon's gaze and their breathing, slow and laborious, didn't hiccup at all. Red was an old pro, though, and he could feel the faint tremble in their Aura's Ice half, standing less than a meter away as he was.
He didn't let on that he knew. An old adage: knowledge could be shared but not taken. He could always reveal that he knew they were awake later, and for now, he wanted to see how they acted.
The kid didn't act for a long time: thirty, maybe forty-five minutes. Red wondered what this must look like from their perspective. Carried on the hard back of a Venusaur, Psychic, Electric, and Fire-type Aura blazing like suns in a triangle around them, and Red's own amalgam soul two Realms advanced, with their only ally unconscious in the claws of a Charizard- Red had faced direr straits, and he knew well the despair and terror that came hand-in-hand with such ruinous circumstances. The kid's lack of any tells was impressive, as was their patience in waiting for an opportune moment. The Ice in them, perhaps? Every Ice Specialist he had faced had been cold and calculating in the most aggravating of ways.
Then, they sighed, sat up, and said, "What do you want?"
Red smiled in delight. "How about a name, and then we launch straight into story time?"
"Tch. Fine." The kid looked adorably put out. Red decided he rather liked dealing with Ice trainers when their cool logic tells them the solution is 'total and unconditional surrender.' "I'll spill, but I want Razor back. Not like he's a threat to your Charizard, anyways."
Red hummed in thought. He was tempted to deny them just because he could, but it wasn't a bargain, not really. He knew and they knew that Red had all the power, here. Realizing with their Sneasel back in their arms they would feel more comfortable and thus would be more likely to hold nothing back, Red gave his assent.
Charizard's claws drew long scratches on the Sneasel's flesh as he was let go, Red noticed disapprovingly. He had been much kinder as a Charmeleon, but the infusion of Dragon-type power with his evolution had made him into a petty tyrant, cruel and capricious. They would need to work on that. Circumstances had demanded Red focus all their training on power and skill and leave good behavior to the wayside.
They were far enough from the Ice Nexus that the temperature was merely freezing, so he recalled Charizard without warning. The implied chastisement would do for now. There was no exposing vulnerabilities in front of a stranger, even ones as green and weak as these.
Red saw much of the tension in the kid's spine melt away as fingers corded through dark fur. Not all of it, they were still surrounded by Fifth Realm Pokémon, but enough that Red imagined a traumatic backstory was incoming.
"I was born heiress of the Fantasia branch of the Blackthorn Clan," they- she said, and Red listened with interest.
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We Blackthorns are the most powerful clan in Indigo, but we aren't as monolithic as we appear to outsiders. Our strength was not grown or forged, but rather seized through conquest, as the ruling branch – the true Blackthorns – subjugated every clan they did not burn to ashes.
My own clan was no exception. The records were destroyed by the ancient Blackthorns, but enough has been preserved through oral tradition that I know our founder came from distant Unova, and had been exiled from a Dark Specialist clan there. This was a time before international commerce, so this was highly unusual. Even more uncommon was her bonded Pokémon: a Hydreigon, a very powerful Dark and Dragon-type. Within a year of arriving in Johto, our founder bent the knee to Blackthorn.
Seven hundred years of faithful service means little to the tyrants who rule the clan in these modern times. One of our number – a Second Realm trainer of little renown and no place of leadership – attempted to unlawfully sell a Dratini egg to Team Rocket in exchange for favors and influence within the organization. Our only failure was in not discovering the transgression before the Blackthorns did.
My father, Head of the Clan, offered up his life in penance for the misdeeds of our cousin, despite my arguments. In the end, it made no difference. The Council of Elders declared that endangering the Blackthorns' iron grip on the Dragonite line was a crime far in excess of the value our centuries of service had earned. A single Dratini egg was more valuable than the entirety of our clan.
They struck at night. Elder Anders was there, I saw his face, but Lance commanded the assault. It was like a scene out of our histories: a dragonflight breathing fire in a strafing run, and in moments our entire compound was aflame. Most of us perished in the razing. They only descended when our spirit was well and truly broken. To call it a fight would be dishonest praise: what happened was pest control, my clan the scurrying vermin.
My father commanded me to flee, and with my Dragonair in her ball and a Deino egg in my arms, I did. The Blackthorns would call it cowardice and shameful, but my clan has a saying: Pride is in the past. If, by fleeing, I could later return and the histories would declare me the victor, then the pride of the Fantasia clan would be unbroken.
This saying is what I used to comfort myself, up until Lance found me.
I am ashamed to say his presence – and that of his Dragonite – put me on my knees. He defeated my Dragonair with a single move, then took her ball from my belt and the egg from my hands. I awaited certain death.
I'm not sure if it was insult or mercy, but he hesitated. Instead, he shattered my cultivation and left me broken on the mountainside. He urged me to hide, lest the Blackthorns scouts find me and do what Lance thought himself too good to do.
I eventually made my way into Mount Whitegrave, then deeper within, knowing the Blackthorns branch could pass through the Ranger-patrolled areas at any time. My soul had been far into the Second Realm before it was destroyed, cultivating equally the Dragon and Dark-types, so I knew enough theory and was familiar enough with the process that I could begin cultivating Icy Path's Ice and Dark-type Aura.
My survival was tenuous for a long time. I owe my life to a little-known fact of Ice-type cultivation: I can slow my bodily processes enough to go days without food or rest, though my reflexes were shot and my thoughts came sluggish and blunted. Yet, I was able to complete Soul Consolidation for a second time, then force a bond with the only Dark-type Pokémon I could find. A Sneasel makes for a talented sneak thief, and Razor has kept me fed ever since. Water, at least, is never in short supply, here.
… No, I haven't tried to leave Mount Whitegrave. There is an Indigo outpost on every exit, and the Blackthorn clan would know of my survival within hours of the report being made. Where would I even go? I will make no obfuscations: I intend to bring vengeance upon my enemies, and to the last they specialize in Dragon and Flying-types. Within this mountain lies the only Ice Nexus in Indigo. It will take years, but I will eventually reach the Third Realm, and can bond with three more Ice-types. Only then I will consider leaving, and only to search for one of Kanto's elusive Fairies, and then return.
You have my gratitude for offering rescue, but I am not in need of it, nor am I affiliated with your enemies, whoever they may be. If that is all, I will be on my way. Should we ever meet again, consider me in your debt, if you wish.
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Red gave the girl's story his full attention, nodding at all the right times, making little sad noises when she described the razing, and wondered how much of the story was bullshit.
At least twenty five percent, he concluded. If nothing else, the story was certainly slanted to make the girl and her branch clan out to be utterly blameless. He wouldn't be surprised if the Fantasias had a more meaningful connection to Team Rocket than just that, or if this was but one of many such offenses, but there was more to the story, there had to be. He was dying to find out.
He could also see the conclusion she was leading him to make: help her, and the Blackthorn will hurt you. He privately thought the Blackthorn clan wouldn't do more than apply a little legal pressure, make him uncomfortable, but if he bought into the story of an extra-judicial wholesale slaughter of her clan, then knocking off a lone trainer in the Third Realm is nothing.
There was just one problem with that conclusion: Red was, as his rival would put it, a reckless lunatic.
"That's terrible," Red said, voice full of totally real sorrow. "Don't worry, little girl. I'll help you avenge your clan. In fact, I was just headed to Blackthorn City right now!"
Her eyes widened. "You will?" Her voice was heavy with dread.
Red smiled at her, containing the entirely inappropriate giggle when she shuddered. "I was moved to tears by your tale. What kind of trainer – no, what kind of person – would I be if I left you to your quest for justice alone? No! It is my duty – nay, my honor – to help you in your noble fight against the wicked Blackthorn clan."
"Did you just say 'nay…'" the girl said, entirely bewildered.
Red got that reaction a lot. He made sure to look off in the middle distance, one hand clenched in a fist in front of him, as he imagined all the amazing, glorious battles he would get into, as he made himself an enemy of the most powerful clan of Indigo.
Really, Red considered himself to be oh-so-very lucky to meet the wayward Fantasia heiress. It had taken him months of tireless effort to be put on Team Rocket's Most Wanted list, and even now only Admin Archer puts any real effort into attempting to crush him. If antagonizing the Blackthorn clan only requires helping someone he was going to help anyway, then he was just saved a lot of time and effort.
Red has always been a follower of the ancient axiom that a trainer's worth is measured by the worth of his enemies. It's why he sought out the honored grandson of the Indigo Champion and made an honest and concerted effort to make Gary Oak hate him. It's why he stormed Team Rocket's Celadon Base himself instead of reporting it to the League.
If he remembers correctly, Lance is the name of Blackthorn City's Gym Leader. He's being groomed for Elite Four membership.
A most worthy enemy, Red thought, and plotted the best way to antagonize him.
"Hey. Think we can steal your Deino egg back, little girl?"
She sucked in a breath, and like that, Red found himself a conspirator.
It's been a few years. Please take care of me.
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The Pride Before
Pokemon / Xianxia Fusion
If Red had known how momentous the Icy Path would later prove to be, he would have bitched slightly less about the cold.
"Keep watch for anyone out of place, sweetheart," he told Espeon, despite knowing the words were pointless. The voyeur needed to be specifically commanded to keep her psychic eyes out of other people's heads, and even then he was sure she only pretended to obey. "That goes for unusual Pokémon, too. There should be nothing but Ice-types and Zubat for kilometers, maybe a few Diglett or an Onix. See anything that looks out of place, you let me know."
Espeon looked at him with too-intelligent eyes, then nodded and slunk into the shadows with an ease better fitting her Dark-type sister. He could feel her through their Aura bond, ten meters away and counting a hand's breadth from the frost-slick wall, but despite locking his eyes on where he knew she was he couldn't see a thing. If Espeon had picked up the stealth aspect of Faint Attack from her sister she would let him know, right? …Of course she would.
Red put it out of his mind. He was in these frigid, subterranean depths for a reason, and there was no use delaying it. Quicker he's done, quicker he can unfreeze his bones in the sunlight above.
He released Venusaur, his immense bulk only barely fitting in the narrow confines of the tunnel, the pleasantly sweet scent emenating from the tree on his back cloying and unpleasant in these humid, murky depths. There was still a feeling of… not quite surprise, but something similar every team he released him; Venusaur had refused to evolve from Ivysaur for months, and he wasn't yet accustomed to the evolution himself. In the darkness of the underground, lit only by the glow from Pikachu's zigzag tail, Venusaur's sheer mass and unfamiliar shape Pokéd at the back of his mind, set alight instincts from the time before humans had learned to bond with Pokémon.
Venusaur stomped a heavy foot, and through the vibrations in the earth – some powerful enough to make Red stumble – a perfect map of the labyrinth formed in his mind. With a grumble deep enough to feel Venusaur led the way deeper and deeper down.
Red couldn't say how long or how far beneath the surface they traveled, the four of them; his Pokégear had lost connection long before they veered off the Ranger-surveiled 'safe path,' and the clock widget's been broken since September. Two hours, maybe three. The temperature dropped as they did, the Ice power in the heart of Mount Whitegrave drawing near, and Red was eventually left with no choice but to summon Charizard.
The red dragon looked at his surroundings with all the contempt of a Clan Head at peasants, breathing a plume of fire at a wall to melt it and scorch them all with steam. If Red wasn't in the Third Realm himself, his skin would've been flash-cooked. He couldn't chastise Charizard for it, though: to imply that the steam was a problem would be to admit weakness, and Charizard hadn't tolerated weakness since his evolution.
Privately, Red was grateful that these twisting tunnels were too small for the most recent member of his team. Still in the Third Realm as he was, he couldn't yet sustain that many bonds in his Aura, and Charizard wouldn't approve.
Venusaur eventually came to a stop with a deep growl of discontent. They had reached the deepest point of Mount Whitegrave's frozen interior.
Red put a hand on Venusaur's back, knowing he would feel his Aura if not the touch. "Good job, buddy. Your part here is done. Take a quick rest and then you'll be able to lead us out and back up to the sunlight, okay?"
Venusaur nuzzled into his hand with enough force to topple Red to the ground. With a laugh and twin flashes of red, Venusaur was gone, and Blastoise stood in his place. Unlike the rest of his team, the armored tortoise seemed anticipatory, almost eager to be here.
"Let's get started."
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Meditation was rarely fun. Meditation while in the heart of an Ice Nexus kilometers under the ground, damp, dirty, and in the dark?
Deeply unpleasant.
They had succeeded, at least, and so in less than a week (hopefully) they were headed back topside, Venusaur leading the way with considerably less temper. Red now had a tiny patch of Ice in his Aura, Blastoise much, much more, and they were excited to see her new super-effective moves in action against the dragons of Blackthorn.
When Venusaur stopped, turning to look in a shadowy corner and growl, deep and dangerous, Red's only thought was:
I was wondering when it would all go wrong.
He could feel Espeon's alarm in his mind- whoever or whatever this was, Espeon had not noticed them before Venusaur's tremorsense had, which meant Dark-type. There was no saying how long their stalker had been following them; they might have been surveilled for mere minutes, hours, or even days. For all Red knows, it could have began before they entered Mount Whitegrave at all, and it wouldn't have been the first time, either.
It could just be a local wilder… but, no. Wild Dark-type (and, indeed, most trained Dark-types too) shrouded their presence in shadows so effectively that a Psychic like Espeon could sense their absence. Their stalker was able to spoof enough Ice-type presence to blend into the ambient Aura. Skill like that was rarely found in wild Pokémon.
Whatever the reality was, Venusaur had given away that he had noticed their presence – something he would have to train out of the Grass-type, he put it on the list – so he was only left with one real course of action. As he often told his rival during their battles, no amount of skill could surmount overwhelming power.
"Earthquake," Red commanded.
Mount Whitegrave shook. Red himself immediately dropped to his knees, the ground vibrating with enough force to rattle his bones, only avoiding injury by channeling Aura into his body. Pikachu had recalled himself into his Pokéball a moment before Red gave the command, Espeon had the foresight to hide behind a Protect barrier, and Charizard stood strong, adamantly pretending the wings on his back protected him from the force of Venusaur's mastery of the Ground-type.
The mysterious Dark-type enjoyed no such protections, nor the strength to withstand it or agility to flee it. There was a shriek and then a yowl of pain, and where before there had been shadows now lay the twitching body of a small, black-furred Pokémon.
"A Sneasel?" Red wondered aloud, then choked back a laugh. Being Ice-type as well as Dark-type, it must blend into the ambient Aura by shrouding only its Dark nature and merely muffling the Ice part: a technique that would work well in Icy Path or a hailstorm but otherwise be worse than useless. That Espeon had been fooled by it was hilarious, and Red was glad this weakness of her technique had been revealed before it could be used against them in a meaningful battle or, gods forbid, by Team Rocket.
Espeon appeared, then, and Red readied himself for a merciless round of teasing, but to his surprise found a second small, dark figure crumpled on the ground, this one being dragged by Espeon's teeth. The figure was so grimy and wild-looking it took him a second to realize it was a human and not a second Sneasel.
So, it had been a trainer-raised Pokémon after all. Huh.
Red approached the quietly-moaning trainer and nudged them onto their back with the toe of his shoe. All the humor in the situation withered away when he saw the harsh lines and gaunt look to too-young cheeks, and felt an Aura that was barely in the First Realm. Their clothes were torn and dirty, and the stress of far too much time spent trying to survive the harsh climate of Icy Path was engraved onto their body.
No one had ever accused Red of being too sympathetic. Still, it was his duty as a fellow trainer to escort this unfortunate idiot topside, and it cost him nothing to do so, so hero he would be.
"Did you see a Pokéball perchance, sweetheart?" he asked Espeon, who shook her head no. That crossed out several theories as to this trainer's circumstances. Unfortunately, it left only the more problematic theories.
Trainers had to cultivate Aura bonds with Pokémon in order to communicate with and understand them. It was integral to the process. In the ancient days, trainers were limited with the number of Pokémon they could command by the capacity of their soul, but the stasis fields of Pokéballs had changed everything. As a human in the Third Realm, he could manage four bonds at once, five at a stretch – provided none of them were Dragon-type, or something as mighty as his last team member – and that number would double once he finally broke through to the Fourth Realm, which was near the peak of human potential. With Pokéballs, however, even a Trainer in the First Realm could harness the power of six Pokémon, granted they only released one from stasis at a time.
For this trainer to not have a Pokéball meant a few things, and none of them were good. It shouldn't matter to Red, but he was curious, now, and he intended to get to the bottom of this mystery.
If he was lucky, he might get a few enemies out of it.
.
.
.
The trainer awoke around an hour later.
To their credit, they gave no physical sign of it. The Dark in their Aura hid them from Espeon's gaze and their breathing, slow and laborious, didn't hiccup at all. Red was an old pro, though, and he could feel the faint tremble in their Aura's Ice half, standing less than a meter away as he was.
He didn't let on that he knew. An old adage: knowledge could be shared but not taken. He could always reveal that he knew they were awake later, and for now, he wanted to see how they acted.
The kid didn't act for a long time: thirty, maybe forty-five minutes. Red wondered what this must look like from their perspective. Carried on the hard back of a Venusaur, Psychic, Electric, and Fire-type Aura blazing like suns in a triangle around them, and Red's own amalgam soul two Realms advanced, with their only ally unconscious in the claws of a Charizard- Red had faced direr straits, and he knew well the despair and terror that came hand-in-hand with such ruinous circumstances. The kid's lack of any tells was impressive, as was their patience in waiting for an opportune moment. The Ice in them, perhaps? Every Ice Specialist he had faced had been cold and calculating in the most aggravating of ways.
Then, they sighed, sat up, and said, "What do you want?"
Red smiled in delight. "How about a name, and then we launch straight into story time?"
"Tch. Fine." The kid looked adorably put out. Red decided he rather liked dealing with Ice trainers when their cool logic tells them the solution is 'total and unconditional surrender.' "I'll spill, but I want Razor back. Not like he's a threat to your Charizard, anyways."
Red hummed in thought. He was tempted to deny them just because he could, but it wasn't a bargain, not really. He knew and they knew that Red had all the power, here. Realizing with their Sneasel back in their arms they would feel more comfortable and thus would be more likely to hold nothing back, Red gave his assent.
Charizard's claws drew long scratches on the Sneasel's flesh as he was let go, Red noticed disapprovingly. He had been much kinder as a Charmeleon, but the infusion of Dragon-type power with his evolution had made him into a petty tyrant, cruel and capricious. They would need to work on that. Circumstances had demanded Red focus all their training on power and skill and leave good behavior to the wayside.
They were far enough from the Ice Nexus that the temperature was merely freezing, so he recalled Charizard without warning. The implied chastisement would do for now. There was no exposing vulnerabilities in front of a stranger, even ones as green and weak as these.
Red saw much of the tension in the kid's spine melt away as fingers corded through dark fur. Not all of it, they were still surrounded by Fifth Realm Pokémon, but enough that Red imagined a traumatic backstory was incoming.
"I was born heiress of the Fantasia branch of the Blackthorn Clan," they- she said, and Red listened with interest.
.
.
.
We Blackthorns are the most powerful clan in Indigo, but we aren't as monolithic as we appear to outsiders. Our strength was not grown or forged, but rather seized through conquest, as the ruling branch – the true Blackthorns – subjugated every clan they did not burn to ashes.
My own clan was no exception. The records were destroyed by the ancient Blackthorns, but enough has been preserved through oral tradition that I know our founder came from distant Unova, and had been exiled from a Dark Specialist clan there. This was a time before international commerce, so this was highly unusual. Even more uncommon was her bonded Pokémon: a Hydreigon, a very powerful Dark and Dragon-type. Within a year of arriving in Johto, our founder bent the knee to Blackthorn.
Seven hundred years of faithful service means little to the tyrants who rule the clan in these modern times. One of our number – a Second Realm trainer of little renown and no place of leadership – attempted to unlawfully sell a Dratini egg to Team Rocket in exchange for favors and influence within the organization. Our only failure was in not discovering the transgression before the Blackthorns did.
My father, Head of the Clan, offered up his life in penance for the misdeeds of our cousin, despite my arguments. In the end, it made no difference. The Council of Elders declared that endangering the Blackthorns' iron grip on the Dragonite line was a crime far in excess of the value our centuries of service had earned. A single Dratini egg was more valuable than the entirety of our clan.
They struck at night. Elder Anders was there, I saw his face, but Lance commanded the assault. It was like a scene out of our histories: a dragonflight breathing fire in a strafing run, and in moments our entire compound was aflame. Most of us perished in the razing. They only descended when our spirit was well and truly broken. To call it a fight would be dishonest praise: what happened was pest control, my clan the scurrying vermin.
My father commanded me to flee, and with my Dragonair in her ball and a Deino egg in my arms, I did. The Blackthorns would call it cowardice and shameful, but my clan has a saying: Pride is in the past. If, by fleeing, I could later return and the histories would declare me the victor, then the pride of the Fantasia clan would be unbroken.
This saying is what I used to comfort myself, up until Lance found me.
I am ashamed to say his presence – and that of his Dragonite – put me on my knees. He defeated my Dragonair with a single move, then took her ball from my belt and the egg from my hands. I awaited certain death.
I'm not sure if it was insult or mercy, but he hesitated. Instead, he shattered my cultivation and left me broken on the mountainside. He urged me to hide, lest the Blackthorns scouts find me and do what Lance thought himself too good to do.
I eventually made my way into Mount Whitegrave, then deeper within, knowing the Blackthorns branch could pass through the Ranger-patrolled areas at any time. My soul had been far into the Second Realm before it was destroyed, cultivating equally the Dragon and Dark-types, so I knew enough theory and was familiar enough with the process that I could begin cultivating Icy Path's Ice and Dark-type Aura.
My survival was tenuous for a long time. I owe my life to a little-known fact of Ice-type cultivation: I can slow my bodily processes enough to go days without food or rest, though my reflexes were shot and my thoughts came sluggish and blunted. Yet, I was able to complete Soul Consolidation for a second time, then force a bond with the only Dark-type Pokémon I could find. A Sneasel makes for a talented sneak thief, and Razor has kept me fed ever since. Water, at least, is never in short supply, here.
… No, I haven't tried to leave Mount Whitegrave. There is an Indigo outpost on every exit, and the Blackthorn clan would know of my survival within hours of the report being made. Where would I even go? I will make no obfuscations: I intend to bring vengeance upon my enemies, and to the last they specialize in Dragon and Flying-types. Within this mountain lies the only Ice Nexus in Indigo. It will take years, but I will eventually reach the Third Realm, and can bond with three more Ice-types. Only then I will consider leaving, and only to search for one of Kanto's elusive Fairies, and then return.
You have my gratitude for offering rescue, but I am not in need of it, nor am I affiliated with your enemies, whoever they may be. If that is all, I will be on my way. Should we ever meet again, consider me in your debt, if you wish.
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Red gave the girl's story his full attention, nodding at all the right times, making little sad noises when she described the razing, and wondered how much of the story was bullshit.
At least twenty five percent, he concluded. If nothing else, the story was certainly slanted to make the girl and her branch clan out to be utterly blameless. He wouldn't be surprised if the Fantasias had a more meaningful connection to Team Rocket than just that, or if this was but one of many such offenses, but there was more to the story, there had to be. He was dying to find out.
He could also see the conclusion she was leading him to make: help her, and the Blackthorn will hurt you. He privately thought the Blackthorn clan wouldn't do more than apply a little legal pressure, make him uncomfortable, but if he bought into the story of an extra-judicial wholesale slaughter of her clan, then knocking off a lone trainer in the Third Realm is nothing.
There was just one problem with that conclusion: Red was, as his rival would put it, a reckless lunatic.
"That's terrible," Red said, voice full of totally real sorrow. "Don't worry, little girl. I'll help you avenge your clan. In fact, I was just headed to Blackthorn City right now!"
Her eyes widened. "You will?" Her voice was heavy with dread.
Red smiled at her, containing the entirely inappropriate giggle when she shuddered. "I was moved to tears by your tale. What kind of trainer – no, what kind of person – would I be if I left you to your quest for justice alone? No! It is my duty – nay, my honor – to help you in your noble fight against the wicked Blackthorn clan."
"Did you just say 'nay…'" the girl said, entirely bewildered.
Red got that reaction a lot. He made sure to look off in the middle distance, one hand clenched in a fist in front of him, as he imagined all the amazing, glorious battles he would get into, as he made himself an enemy of the most powerful clan of Indigo.
Really, Red considered himself to be oh-so-very lucky to meet the wayward Fantasia heiress. It had taken him months of tireless effort to be put on Team Rocket's Most Wanted list, and even now only Admin Archer puts any real effort into attempting to crush him. If antagonizing the Blackthorn clan only requires helping someone he was going to help anyway, then he was just saved a lot of time and effort.
Red has always been a follower of the ancient axiom that a trainer's worth is measured by the worth of his enemies. It's why he sought out the honored grandson of the Indigo Champion and made an honest and concerted effort to make Gary Oak hate him. It's why he stormed Team Rocket's Celadon Base himself instead of reporting it to the League.
If he remembers correctly, Lance is the name of Blackthorn City's Gym Leader. He's being groomed for Elite Four membership.
A most worthy enemy, Red thought, and plotted the best way to antagonize him.
"Hey. Think we can steal your Deino egg back, little girl?"
She sucked in a breath, and like that, Red found himself a conspirator.
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Pokemon/Xianxia - The Pride Before 0-2
SolarFall
Totally not a cat in disguise.
I have two more after this, then I hit a wall. It's why it's being posted here instead of a dedicated thread, I suppose.
Also: Thank you for your kind words.
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The Pride Before
Blackthorn City
Pokémon / Xianxia
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"If there's League rangers at every exit," Red had said, his trademark infuriating smile on his face, "Then we'll just need to make our own."
Little Girl had seemed dubious, but she hadn't said anything, so Red took that as assent.
As always, Venusaur did much of the heavy lifting. In this case, it was as much physical as it was metaphorical, as Little Girl and her Sneasel were too weak and/or injured to make the multi-hour trek on their tiny feet. Venusaur's tremorsense led the way to the surface, then some precise application of Earth Power knocked holes in a few walls and like that, they were now on the side of Mount Whitegrave, and not stuck within its icy depths.
It was a gorgeous view. They found themselves on the northern side, so they saw a towering mountain range, the Spine of Giratina, untouched by human civilization. This late in October more than the peaks were blanketed in snow, and the sky was thick with heavy clouds threatening a storm. He could see flocks of Fearow and Spearow carving winds, and between two mountains a meandering river flowed.
Red adored scenes such as this. There was a part of him, animal and growing stronger every day, that wanted to ignore his deadlines and promises and vanish into the wilderness for years on end, nothing but him, his Pokémon, and the pursuit of power to take his attention. Nothing and no one would stop him: the Indigo League would eventually mark him as a missing person and move on, he had no family, and his many enemies wouldn't believe him dead anyways. He could return as a Fourth Realm trainer, perhaps even reach the peak of human potential at the Fifth, then return and take a later Conference by storm.
Not for the first time, he let the feelings go. Pure and simple as it would be, even the dangers of the Wild Lands didn't compare to the might of other trainers, and he'd advance faster sharpening his steel against the steel of Team Rocket, Blue, and the Indigo Conference. And the Blackthorn clan if he's lucky.
He chanced a glance at Little Girl. She, like him, was gazing longingly out at the untamed nature. He imagined much different thoughts were in her mind, though.
"Know a route into town where we won't be bothered?" he asked.
She nodded. "We'll have to circle around west, but it's not uncommon for trainers to make the hike from Lake of Rage instead of bothering with the Dark Cave. There's no trail for it, so trainers can arrive anywhere on the northwestern edge of the city. The clan doesn't bother keeping track of them all."
"Then lead the way, Little Guide."
She threw him a dirty look, but did as ordered.
It quickly became clear that she was an old pro at navigating these mountain paths. Her footing was easy and sure, and she never once hesitated when it came time to take a turn or fork. This clearly was no official trail – the hike was too perilous and, at times, nearly vertical, both up and down – but for a clan kid, she was more rugged and, for lack of a better word, wild than her clear diction and snooty vocabulary would imply. She clearly had the local mountain terrain memorized.
Red knew very little about the Blackthorn clan. Oh, he knew as much as the average Indigo citizen: the Blackthorns are indeed the eldest and most powerful clan in Johto, the peer of Kanto's Whitegrave clan, who had been forced to flee Mount Whitegrave hundreds of years before eventually signing the Treaty of Indigo and bringing an end to the Warring Clans Era. The Indigo Plateau was chosen as the site for the Pokémon World League outpost precisely because it was the territory between the Blackthorn and Whitegrave clans, and today, well over fifty years later, Blackthorn was still a name that commanded respect and prestige. To be Blackthorn meant to be at the top of the world.
He didn't know how the Blackthorns raised their kids, though, nor what their duties and responsibilities actually were, besides maintain a Gym and keep a lid on any local problems. Did Little Girl spend all her time in a fancy house, reading books and learning at the knee of the finest tutors around, like how he knows the Whitegraves do it? Or do they let their kids have the run of the place, city and wilds both, learning through trial and error like Red himself had?
And: if the Blackthorn clan was willing to annihilate the Fantasias instead of arrest them in the name of the Indigo League, what else have they done?
Red was getting excited just thinking about it. He couldn't wait.
"How much longer?" he whined, and Little Girl ignored him. Rude.
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They arrived in Blackthorn by nightfall.
The city was built on the side of Mount Blackthorn, every building a single-story, traditional-style house set into the rock face. Even traversing the streets was perilous: the city was harshly vertical, and he had to ascend numerous narrow stairs and cross a half-dozen rope bridges, twice climbing a sheer wall for a shortcut. They passed over the same river three times in the fifteen minutes it took to reach the Pokémon Center. This was all done in near-total darkness, as unlike even Pallet Town the city slept with the sun and there was zero light pollution.
That's not to say they crossed paths with no one. Thrice they saw a resident seated atop their home, staring out southwest at the rest of Johto, arrayed before them like a startlingly lifelike map. Once they saw a trainer leap off the mountain side, releasing a Dragonite midair and vanishing to the west with all of a lightning bolt's speed but none of the thunder.
Blackthorn boasted the highest elevation of every city in Indigo, and beside the thin air, the view made that clear: he could see every badge-holding city save Cianwood from here. To the west, Mahogany built on the ashes of its predecessor, destroyed by the Gyarados of the Lake of Rage to its north, and Ecruteak further west still, the legendary Bell Tower where Ho'oh was said to roost. He could see Goldenrod twinkling like stars, the beating heart of Johtonian commerce, the harbor of Olivine to its west and Violet to its east, dim only in comparison. Azalea did not glow, but he saw the coast and the Ilex Forest it was hidden within. If he lived in Blackthorn, could ever set down roots for more than a scattered few weeks at a time, he, too, would sit on his home's roof and look out upon this every night.
"It's easy to think yourself the Lord of Johto, with a view like this," Little Girl said, voice sour with contempt. Red hummed in response.
The view might play a role, but Red thinks the culprit is both more unobtrusive and more undeniable: there's a Dragon Nexus here. It's not as potent as the Ice Nexus within Mount Whitegrave, but it's also a lot closer to the surface. Its presence makes cultivating Dragon-type Aura much easier, but for the same reason Red himself has all seventeen types in his soul, he thinks an overabundance of Dragon in the souls of the Blackthorn clan explains a lot about their… their everything, really. Red stared through the earth at his feet with narrowed eyes, and wondered if the Blackthorn clan had truly been so arrogant as to build their seat of power in the heart of the Nexus.
"So you can sense the Dragon's Den," Little Girl said, and Red had to laugh. "It's a reservoir of water inside Mount Blackthorn. The Blackthorns have their secret base there. It's where they keep all their treasure: their wealth, their kids, their Dratini. My Deino is in there, whether it's hatched or not. Still want to risk it?"
"More than anything," Red answered, and it was the truth.
By the time they arrived at the Pokémon Center, Red had the skeleton of a plan. The night shift clerk never took her eyes off her book as she gestured at the Trainer ID scanner then tossed a key at him underhand, and Red didn't hesitate to reserve the grandest, most luxurious suite they had, which while spacious was spartan and undecorated compared to the rooms he stayed in for the Saffron Second-Realm Tournament.
Little Girl gave him a suspicious look when she saw there was only one bedroom, but he merely gestured towards it grandly, saying, "If you keep squinting like that, it'll give you wrinkles. See you come morning."
Red never could sleep the night before a good battle.
He left the Center, knowing Little Girl would rest better if he wasn't around, and he had things to do, regardless. Like survey the terrain of tomorrow's battles: both the Rising Gym and the Dragon's Den.
He was down his guide, but the Gym was obvious at a glance. The building was the biggest in the city, built out of thick stone with an open roof, a kind of vaulting structure arrayed diagonally against the cliff face: it could have anywhere between three and seven floors, he estimated, depending on how much flight space they allowed inside the Gym itself. If nothing else, Blackthorn's vertical terrain made the surveillance easier, as he could simply climb towards the peak and look down from on high.
Charizard would make this a breeze, Red thought with longing, but revealing his roster to any Blackthorn trainers would be a poor idea- and Charizard only consented to cross-continental flights, and even then only for the sake of his own impatience. Asking for a ride up would only make Charizard huff disparagingly and recall himself.
He made it eventually, taking one or two more breaks than he really needed to enjoy the panoramic view of all Johto. There were a scattered few buildings even higher up, each one a house with what appeared to be a Pidgeot Courier Service nest highest up, but it was enough.
From up here, even Blackthorn City looked no more grand or majestic than the rest of Johto. The air was thin enough that a hardened Third Realm trainer like himself was left gasping for breath, and the clouds above, dark with stormy intent, looked close enough to touch. He imagined, for a moment, being one of the Blackthorn lords of the Warring Clans Era, commanding flights of Dragonite to raze villages, subjugate rival clans, and burn Unovan ships. It was a heady image- or, no, that was the lack of oxygen.
He saw into the Rising Gym. The battleground was League standard, large, flat, and rectangular, marked with scattered rock pillars and trenches in the dirt like he'd experienced in Pewter City, what seemed like nine years rather than nine months ago. There was a pair of trainers using it, by their matching dress and bright blue hair both Blackthorn scions, and likely Gym Trainers as well.
He sat down to watch, still taking big gulps of air. Blue Side was commanding a Dragonair, serpentine body wrapped around its opponent and blue-white energy spiraling around them both in what appeared to be a Twister – Wrap combo. Red Side looked sure to lose, but their Pokémon – which Red, to his surprise, didn't recognize – was able to topple the Dragonair with sheer, physical force, then bear down on it with a rapid-fire series of savage Dragon-infused bites and claws.
The unfamiliar Pokémon had the bipedal, winged form of a Dragonite, but was a dark blue in shade with a fire-red head and sharp spikes along its tail and arms. Its wings were larger than a Dragonite's, too, scaled instead of Zubat-like, and jagged, coarse-looking. A fearsome, foreign beast, though Red's Aura sense told him it was pure Dragon-type. His anti-Dragonair strategies should, for the most part, work on it, assuming Lance used the same creature.
He also took note of something else: on the south side of the mountain, a small basin of water surrounded an entrance to a cave within the mountain's depths. A torii gate, sunset-red and well cared for, stood imposingly in front of it. As a Kantonian, Red was largely unfamiliar with Johtonian myth, but he knew enough to know a shrine lay beyond. Nothing else could be the entrance to the Dragon's Den.
Espeon was released in a flash of red light, and they got to work. They only had so many hours until daybreak.
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"I'm not going into the Gym, are you insane?" Little Girl asked impolitely.
"Yes."
"That- what? Why? What purpose could it possible serve?"
Red had a few reasons, but he didn't feel like sharing. "I need someone to cheer me on or I'll get nervous."
"That- that's dumb! You're dumb!" Little Girl even stomped her feet.
How amusing. Red wondered if shows of temper like this were more common when she cultivated Dragon-type energy, before Lance shattered her Aura. Did she even realize that her behavior had changed? Even now, though there was anger in her eyes, it wasn't the hot kind of anger Red associated with Dragon Specialists. More like… though she was angry, she was behaving on habit, not on behalf of her anger.
"They're going to recognize me, then our plan is shot," she said, though it sounded less like a warning and more like an ultimatum.
"Have no fear, Little Girl. I brought you a disguise."
Espeon had liberated some cosmetics from the Pokémart while they were closed. Red knew all the tricks to use powders and creams to bespell the contours of someone's face, had used these talents to get into places he didn't belong time and again, and he had acquired some hair bleach and clothing, as well. Little Girl looked every bit the Dark clan princess with her black hair and stormy grey eyes, sharp cheekbones – perhaps a little too sharp, after a few months surviving in Icy Path – and haughty, pursed-lip frown. He could change that.
An hour later, she had blonde hair clipped to both sides in the style of his rival Green with black hair accessories that may or may not be real Murkrow feathers. She also wore an all-black outfit of leggings, skirt, and sweater, with gold laces on her ankle boots and gold thread on the sleeves and skirt hem. It was very stylish and also screamed I am a Dark-type trainer, but was sturdy enough fabric that a little traipsing through wilderness wouldn't tear it apart, like he had seen some rookies wear.
After a long rest in a soft bed, a bath, and a change of clothes, Little Girl looked adorable and not like a wild Houndour. Red looked upon his works and felt accomplishment. She hadn't even complained much! Red decided to pretend it's because she trusted in his keen eye for fashion, and not because he was two Realms above her, hadn't ever given his name, and she was entirely dependent on his good will.
He hadn't given his name because she hadn't given hers, even though he asked, but the nuance was probably lost on her. She looked, what, thirteen, fourteen? When he was that age, he was setting fires in the wilderness and getting into fights, not listening to his elders. He was still doing that, but he was doing that back then, too. He didn't expect good manners from her, is what he was saying.
"They're really not going to recognize me?" she asked, in a soft, trembling voice, seeming more vulnerable than when he knocked her around with an Earthquake and interrogated her in the frozen depths of Mount Whitegrave.
"Little Girl, the only one there who doesn't think you're dead is Lance himself, and he must expect you to be on the far side of Kanto by now. The last place he'll expect you is in the stands of his Gym, with blonde hair, a stylish new outfit, and with a Sneasel on your lap. People see what they expect to see: and what they expect to see is my aggravating little sister who tagged along on my Journey and is barely a step in the First Realm. Besides. Even if Lance does recognize you, he'd hardly going to call you on it, is he?"
She thought for a moment, eyes trained on the floor. "…I suppose, if he pointed me out, he'd have to admit to leaving me alive, first. And that'd endanger his place in the Clan. And I was never close to the Gym Trainers."
"Exactly. Now, speaking of your Sneasel…"
He rooted around in his bag until he unearthed the final reward from last night's escapades. She took it from him with trembling hands.
"It'd be strange if they saw you didn't have a ball for your starter, wouldn't they? And strange things invite attention. Go on. I know you know how to use it."
Little Girl looked towards the Sneasel, who was lazing about on the bed and swaddled in his body weight in blankets. She seemed to hesitate for a second- but then she steeled herself, scrunched her face in that scowl he was so used to seeing from her, and threw the thing at her Pokémon with no warning.
He was laughing all the way to the Gym.
Little Girl was showing no shame, head held high and Pokéball clutched in both hands. Red made sure to only tease her a little bit. The more upbeat and confident she acted, the less likely that the Blackthorn scions at the Gym would recognize her. Their gambit wouldn't work if everyone was wondering what she had to be nervous or secretive about.
Blackthorn City looked different in the warm light of dawn. There was a bustle in the air that, while nothing compared to even some rural towns he's visited, gave the city a more innocent, friendly demeanor. At night, it was easy to convince himself that this was the seat of power for that most ancient of clans, regal and reverent, with an ironclad grip on the reigns of power; at dawn, it became clear that the residents of Blackthorn were still just ordinary people. Half of them weren't even Blackthorns.
A few even waved at them, or shouted encouraging words at a trainer so obviously about to challenge the Rising Gym. Red cheerily waved back.
As they entered the open doorway into the Gym, a blue-haired trainer behind a desk stood and offered a shallow bow. "Welcome to the Rising Gym. Are you here to challenge the Dragon Master, Lance?"
"I am," he said with easy confidence. "Will there be seating for my little sister? She wasn't allowed to watch at Cinnabar, and she's still complaining about it."
The trainer laughed. Red peered at her Aura, and saw she was early Third Realm, Dragon primary with Water secondary and weak shades of Flying. A Kingdra trainer, presumably, with a Dragonair. This high up, everyone here probably had Flying in their souls.
Within moments, his ID was scanned and he was ushered towards the battlefield, Little Girl at his heels. Their presence, the upcoming heist, his plans for the future: it all fell away as he felt the overwhelming Aura waiting on the far side of the battlefield.
Fifth Realm. The Dragon-type power was so strong, it blinded his Aura sight to the fine details, like gazing at the sun. There were shades of Flying and Water, what looked like it might be Rock or Ground, maybe a little Fire, but it was hard to tell. Easily ninety percent of it was Dragon, and the quality of power was enough to make him tremble. He had only seen the like of it once before.
Champion Oak had the same kind of soul. Fifth Realm is its own beast, and if there were more trainers at that peak in Indigo than he could count on both hands, he'd jump off Mount Blackthorn.
Red didn't notice the bloodthirsty grin on his face until he saw Little Girl edge away, wary. He paid her no mind.
He was drawn to his side of the battleground like magnetism. Lance stood opposite him, fifty meters away, radiance outmatching the sun.
"Psychic barriers: set!" the blue-haired trainer announced, voice echoing, and his view was tinted pink. "Sonic barriers: set! Aura barriers: set! Master Lance has been challenged for the Rising Badge by Trainer Red. The rules are as follows:
"Both sides are allowed six Pokémon, as registered before the match. Use of additional Pokémon is grounds for disqualification.
"Both sides are allowed one switch. Switch-forcing moves are grounds for disqualification.
"Both sides are allowed one held item per Pokémon. All other item use is grounds for disqualification.
"Both sides are allowed a thirty second period between knockout and summon. Exceeding this limit is grounds for disqualification.
"Trainers acknowledge!"
"I acknowledge!" Lance called.
"Let's get on with it!" Red shouted.
"Battle: begin!"
Twin flashes of red lit the battlefield.
Also: Thank you for your kind words.
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The Pride Before
Blackthorn City
Pokémon / Xianxia
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"If there's League rangers at every exit," Red had said, his trademark infuriating smile on his face, "Then we'll just need to make our own."
Little Girl had seemed dubious, but she hadn't said anything, so Red took that as assent.
As always, Venusaur did much of the heavy lifting. In this case, it was as much physical as it was metaphorical, as Little Girl and her Sneasel were too weak and/or injured to make the multi-hour trek on their tiny feet. Venusaur's tremorsense led the way to the surface, then some precise application of Earth Power knocked holes in a few walls and like that, they were now on the side of Mount Whitegrave, and not stuck within its icy depths.
It was a gorgeous view. They found themselves on the northern side, so they saw a towering mountain range, the Spine of Giratina, untouched by human civilization. This late in October more than the peaks were blanketed in snow, and the sky was thick with heavy clouds threatening a storm. He could see flocks of Fearow and Spearow carving winds, and between two mountains a meandering river flowed.
Red adored scenes such as this. There was a part of him, animal and growing stronger every day, that wanted to ignore his deadlines and promises and vanish into the wilderness for years on end, nothing but him, his Pokémon, and the pursuit of power to take his attention. Nothing and no one would stop him: the Indigo League would eventually mark him as a missing person and move on, he had no family, and his many enemies wouldn't believe him dead anyways. He could return as a Fourth Realm trainer, perhaps even reach the peak of human potential at the Fifth, then return and take a later Conference by storm.
Not for the first time, he let the feelings go. Pure and simple as it would be, even the dangers of the Wild Lands didn't compare to the might of other trainers, and he'd advance faster sharpening his steel against the steel of Team Rocket, Blue, and the Indigo Conference. And the Blackthorn clan if he's lucky.
He chanced a glance at Little Girl. She, like him, was gazing longingly out at the untamed nature. He imagined much different thoughts were in her mind, though.
"Know a route into town where we won't be bothered?" he asked.
She nodded. "We'll have to circle around west, but it's not uncommon for trainers to make the hike from Lake of Rage instead of bothering with the Dark Cave. There's no trail for it, so trainers can arrive anywhere on the northwestern edge of the city. The clan doesn't bother keeping track of them all."
"Then lead the way, Little Guide."
She threw him a dirty look, but did as ordered.
It quickly became clear that she was an old pro at navigating these mountain paths. Her footing was easy and sure, and she never once hesitated when it came time to take a turn or fork. This clearly was no official trail – the hike was too perilous and, at times, nearly vertical, both up and down – but for a clan kid, she was more rugged and, for lack of a better word, wild than her clear diction and snooty vocabulary would imply. She clearly had the local mountain terrain memorized.
Red knew very little about the Blackthorn clan. Oh, he knew as much as the average Indigo citizen: the Blackthorns are indeed the eldest and most powerful clan in Johto, the peer of Kanto's Whitegrave clan, who had been forced to flee Mount Whitegrave hundreds of years before eventually signing the Treaty of Indigo and bringing an end to the Warring Clans Era. The Indigo Plateau was chosen as the site for the Pokémon World League outpost precisely because it was the territory between the Blackthorn and Whitegrave clans, and today, well over fifty years later, Blackthorn was still a name that commanded respect and prestige. To be Blackthorn meant to be at the top of the world.
He didn't know how the Blackthorns raised their kids, though, nor what their duties and responsibilities actually were, besides maintain a Gym and keep a lid on any local problems. Did Little Girl spend all her time in a fancy house, reading books and learning at the knee of the finest tutors around, like how he knows the Whitegraves do it? Or do they let their kids have the run of the place, city and wilds both, learning through trial and error like Red himself had?
And: if the Blackthorn clan was willing to annihilate the Fantasias instead of arrest them in the name of the Indigo League, what else have they done?
Red was getting excited just thinking about it. He couldn't wait.
"How much longer?" he whined, and Little Girl ignored him. Rude.
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They arrived in Blackthorn by nightfall.
The city was built on the side of Mount Blackthorn, every building a single-story, traditional-style house set into the rock face. Even traversing the streets was perilous: the city was harshly vertical, and he had to ascend numerous narrow stairs and cross a half-dozen rope bridges, twice climbing a sheer wall for a shortcut. They passed over the same river three times in the fifteen minutes it took to reach the Pokémon Center. This was all done in near-total darkness, as unlike even Pallet Town the city slept with the sun and there was zero light pollution.
That's not to say they crossed paths with no one. Thrice they saw a resident seated atop their home, staring out southwest at the rest of Johto, arrayed before them like a startlingly lifelike map. Once they saw a trainer leap off the mountain side, releasing a Dragonite midair and vanishing to the west with all of a lightning bolt's speed but none of the thunder.
Blackthorn boasted the highest elevation of every city in Indigo, and beside the thin air, the view made that clear: he could see every badge-holding city save Cianwood from here. To the west, Mahogany built on the ashes of its predecessor, destroyed by the Gyarados of the Lake of Rage to its north, and Ecruteak further west still, the legendary Bell Tower where Ho'oh was said to roost. He could see Goldenrod twinkling like stars, the beating heart of Johtonian commerce, the harbor of Olivine to its west and Violet to its east, dim only in comparison. Azalea did not glow, but he saw the coast and the Ilex Forest it was hidden within. If he lived in Blackthorn, could ever set down roots for more than a scattered few weeks at a time, he, too, would sit on his home's roof and look out upon this every night.
"It's easy to think yourself the Lord of Johto, with a view like this," Little Girl said, voice sour with contempt. Red hummed in response.
The view might play a role, but Red thinks the culprit is both more unobtrusive and more undeniable: there's a Dragon Nexus here. It's not as potent as the Ice Nexus within Mount Whitegrave, but it's also a lot closer to the surface. Its presence makes cultivating Dragon-type Aura much easier, but for the same reason Red himself has all seventeen types in his soul, he thinks an overabundance of Dragon in the souls of the Blackthorn clan explains a lot about their… their everything, really. Red stared through the earth at his feet with narrowed eyes, and wondered if the Blackthorn clan had truly been so arrogant as to build their seat of power in the heart of the Nexus.
"So you can sense the Dragon's Den," Little Girl said, and Red had to laugh. "It's a reservoir of water inside Mount Blackthorn. The Blackthorns have their secret base there. It's where they keep all their treasure: their wealth, their kids, their Dratini. My Deino is in there, whether it's hatched or not. Still want to risk it?"
"More than anything," Red answered, and it was the truth.
By the time they arrived at the Pokémon Center, Red had the skeleton of a plan. The night shift clerk never took her eyes off her book as she gestured at the Trainer ID scanner then tossed a key at him underhand, and Red didn't hesitate to reserve the grandest, most luxurious suite they had, which while spacious was spartan and undecorated compared to the rooms he stayed in for the Saffron Second-Realm Tournament.
Little Girl gave him a suspicious look when she saw there was only one bedroom, but he merely gestured towards it grandly, saying, "If you keep squinting like that, it'll give you wrinkles. See you come morning."
Red never could sleep the night before a good battle.
He left the Center, knowing Little Girl would rest better if he wasn't around, and he had things to do, regardless. Like survey the terrain of tomorrow's battles: both the Rising Gym and the Dragon's Den.
He was down his guide, but the Gym was obvious at a glance. The building was the biggest in the city, built out of thick stone with an open roof, a kind of vaulting structure arrayed diagonally against the cliff face: it could have anywhere between three and seven floors, he estimated, depending on how much flight space they allowed inside the Gym itself. If nothing else, Blackthorn's vertical terrain made the surveillance easier, as he could simply climb towards the peak and look down from on high.
Charizard would make this a breeze, Red thought with longing, but revealing his roster to any Blackthorn trainers would be a poor idea- and Charizard only consented to cross-continental flights, and even then only for the sake of his own impatience. Asking for a ride up would only make Charizard huff disparagingly and recall himself.
He made it eventually, taking one or two more breaks than he really needed to enjoy the panoramic view of all Johto. There were a scattered few buildings even higher up, each one a house with what appeared to be a Pidgeot Courier Service nest highest up, but it was enough.
From up here, even Blackthorn City looked no more grand or majestic than the rest of Johto. The air was thin enough that a hardened Third Realm trainer like himself was left gasping for breath, and the clouds above, dark with stormy intent, looked close enough to touch. He imagined, for a moment, being one of the Blackthorn lords of the Warring Clans Era, commanding flights of Dragonite to raze villages, subjugate rival clans, and burn Unovan ships. It was a heady image- or, no, that was the lack of oxygen.
He saw into the Rising Gym. The battleground was League standard, large, flat, and rectangular, marked with scattered rock pillars and trenches in the dirt like he'd experienced in Pewter City, what seemed like nine years rather than nine months ago. There was a pair of trainers using it, by their matching dress and bright blue hair both Blackthorn scions, and likely Gym Trainers as well.
He sat down to watch, still taking big gulps of air. Blue Side was commanding a Dragonair, serpentine body wrapped around its opponent and blue-white energy spiraling around them both in what appeared to be a Twister – Wrap combo. Red Side looked sure to lose, but their Pokémon – which Red, to his surprise, didn't recognize – was able to topple the Dragonair with sheer, physical force, then bear down on it with a rapid-fire series of savage Dragon-infused bites and claws.
The unfamiliar Pokémon had the bipedal, winged form of a Dragonite, but was a dark blue in shade with a fire-red head and sharp spikes along its tail and arms. Its wings were larger than a Dragonite's, too, scaled instead of Zubat-like, and jagged, coarse-looking. A fearsome, foreign beast, though Red's Aura sense told him it was pure Dragon-type. His anti-Dragonair strategies should, for the most part, work on it, assuming Lance used the same creature.
He also took note of something else: on the south side of the mountain, a small basin of water surrounded an entrance to a cave within the mountain's depths. A torii gate, sunset-red and well cared for, stood imposingly in front of it. As a Kantonian, Red was largely unfamiliar with Johtonian myth, but he knew enough to know a shrine lay beyond. Nothing else could be the entrance to the Dragon's Den.
Espeon was released in a flash of red light, and they got to work. They only had so many hours until daybreak.
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"I'm not going into the Gym, are you insane?" Little Girl asked impolitely.
"Yes."
"That- what? Why? What purpose could it possible serve?"
Red had a few reasons, but he didn't feel like sharing. "I need someone to cheer me on or I'll get nervous."
"That- that's dumb! You're dumb!" Little Girl even stomped her feet.
How amusing. Red wondered if shows of temper like this were more common when she cultivated Dragon-type energy, before Lance shattered her Aura. Did she even realize that her behavior had changed? Even now, though there was anger in her eyes, it wasn't the hot kind of anger Red associated with Dragon Specialists. More like… though she was angry, she was behaving on habit, not on behalf of her anger.
"They're going to recognize me, then our plan is shot," she said, though it sounded less like a warning and more like an ultimatum.
"Have no fear, Little Girl. I brought you a disguise."
Espeon had liberated some cosmetics from the Pokémart while they were closed. Red knew all the tricks to use powders and creams to bespell the contours of someone's face, had used these talents to get into places he didn't belong time and again, and he had acquired some hair bleach and clothing, as well. Little Girl looked every bit the Dark clan princess with her black hair and stormy grey eyes, sharp cheekbones – perhaps a little too sharp, after a few months surviving in Icy Path – and haughty, pursed-lip frown. He could change that.
An hour later, she had blonde hair clipped to both sides in the style of his rival Green with black hair accessories that may or may not be real Murkrow feathers. She also wore an all-black outfit of leggings, skirt, and sweater, with gold laces on her ankle boots and gold thread on the sleeves and skirt hem. It was very stylish and also screamed I am a Dark-type trainer, but was sturdy enough fabric that a little traipsing through wilderness wouldn't tear it apart, like he had seen some rookies wear.
After a long rest in a soft bed, a bath, and a change of clothes, Little Girl looked adorable and not like a wild Houndour. Red looked upon his works and felt accomplishment. She hadn't even complained much! Red decided to pretend it's because she trusted in his keen eye for fashion, and not because he was two Realms above her, hadn't ever given his name, and she was entirely dependent on his good will.
He hadn't given his name because she hadn't given hers, even though he asked, but the nuance was probably lost on her. She looked, what, thirteen, fourteen? When he was that age, he was setting fires in the wilderness and getting into fights, not listening to his elders. He was still doing that, but he was doing that back then, too. He didn't expect good manners from her, is what he was saying.
"They're really not going to recognize me?" she asked, in a soft, trembling voice, seeming more vulnerable than when he knocked her around with an Earthquake and interrogated her in the frozen depths of Mount Whitegrave.
"Little Girl, the only one there who doesn't think you're dead is Lance himself, and he must expect you to be on the far side of Kanto by now. The last place he'll expect you is in the stands of his Gym, with blonde hair, a stylish new outfit, and with a Sneasel on your lap. People see what they expect to see: and what they expect to see is my aggravating little sister who tagged along on my Journey and is barely a step in the First Realm. Besides. Even if Lance does recognize you, he'd hardly going to call you on it, is he?"
She thought for a moment, eyes trained on the floor. "…I suppose, if he pointed me out, he'd have to admit to leaving me alive, first. And that'd endanger his place in the Clan. And I was never close to the Gym Trainers."
"Exactly. Now, speaking of your Sneasel…"
He rooted around in his bag until he unearthed the final reward from last night's escapades. She took it from him with trembling hands.
"It'd be strange if they saw you didn't have a ball for your starter, wouldn't they? And strange things invite attention. Go on. I know you know how to use it."
Little Girl looked towards the Sneasel, who was lazing about on the bed and swaddled in his body weight in blankets. She seemed to hesitate for a second- but then she steeled herself, scrunched her face in that scowl he was so used to seeing from her, and threw the thing at her Pokémon with no warning.
He was laughing all the way to the Gym.
Little Girl was showing no shame, head held high and Pokéball clutched in both hands. Red made sure to only tease her a little bit. The more upbeat and confident she acted, the less likely that the Blackthorn scions at the Gym would recognize her. Their gambit wouldn't work if everyone was wondering what she had to be nervous or secretive about.
Blackthorn City looked different in the warm light of dawn. There was a bustle in the air that, while nothing compared to even some rural towns he's visited, gave the city a more innocent, friendly demeanor. At night, it was easy to convince himself that this was the seat of power for that most ancient of clans, regal and reverent, with an ironclad grip on the reigns of power; at dawn, it became clear that the residents of Blackthorn were still just ordinary people. Half of them weren't even Blackthorns.
A few even waved at them, or shouted encouraging words at a trainer so obviously about to challenge the Rising Gym. Red cheerily waved back.
As they entered the open doorway into the Gym, a blue-haired trainer behind a desk stood and offered a shallow bow. "Welcome to the Rising Gym. Are you here to challenge the Dragon Master, Lance?"
"I am," he said with easy confidence. "Will there be seating for my little sister? She wasn't allowed to watch at Cinnabar, and she's still complaining about it."
The trainer laughed. Red peered at her Aura, and saw she was early Third Realm, Dragon primary with Water secondary and weak shades of Flying. A Kingdra trainer, presumably, with a Dragonair. This high up, everyone here probably had Flying in their souls.
Within moments, his ID was scanned and he was ushered towards the battlefield, Little Girl at his heels. Their presence, the upcoming heist, his plans for the future: it all fell away as he felt the overwhelming Aura waiting on the far side of the battlefield.
Fifth Realm. The Dragon-type power was so strong, it blinded his Aura sight to the fine details, like gazing at the sun. There were shades of Flying and Water, what looked like it might be Rock or Ground, maybe a little Fire, but it was hard to tell. Easily ninety percent of it was Dragon, and the quality of power was enough to make him tremble. He had only seen the like of it once before.
Champion Oak had the same kind of soul. Fifth Realm is its own beast, and if there were more trainers at that peak in Indigo than he could count on both hands, he'd jump off Mount Blackthorn.
Red didn't notice the bloodthirsty grin on his face until he saw Little Girl edge away, wary. He paid her no mind.
He was drawn to his side of the battleground like magnetism. Lance stood opposite him, fifty meters away, radiance outmatching the sun.
"Psychic barriers: set!" the blue-haired trainer announced, voice echoing, and his view was tinted pink. "Sonic barriers: set! Aura barriers: set! Master Lance has been challenged for the Rising Badge by Trainer Red. The rules are as follows:
"Both sides are allowed six Pokémon, as registered before the match. Use of additional Pokémon is grounds for disqualification.
"Both sides are allowed one switch. Switch-forcing moves are grounds for disqualification.
"Both sides are allowed one held item per Pokémon. All other item use is grounds for disqualification.
"Both sides are allowed a thirty second period between knockout and summon. Exceeding this limit is grounds for disqualification.
"Trainers acknowledge!"
"I acknowledge!" Lance called.
"Let's get on with it!" Red shouted.
"Battle: begin!"
Twin flashes of red lit the battlefield.
Pokemon/Xianxia - The Pride Before 0-3
SolarFall
Totally not a cat in disguise.
This story was inspired in part by all the Pokémon Journey stories on RoyalRoad and other sites, like The Type Specialist, so I wanted to write a battle scene of my own. I hope it's half as entertaining to read as it was to write - battle scenes aren't my forte, and when I've written them in the past, they always served as a backdrop for something I found more important. ...Additionally, I used the Pokémon TTRPG rules that a few friends and I made, so there's more variance within a species and Pokémon might know unique moves or abilities that aren't canon to the games or shows. It's more fun for me this way, and I suppose more Xianxia, though that's a justification I made up right now.
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The Pride Before
Rising Gym
Pokémon / Xianxia
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Red's Venusaur hit the field with a roar, one leg stomping on the ground and cratering it, tendrils of Ground power snaking across the field in anticipation of an attack. He immediately began channeling Fire Aura into the sky above them, filtering the dawn sunlight until it was many times more powerful.
Lance's Dragonair had begun its Dragon Dance before the red light had faded and it fully manifested from stasis. The gorgeous blue serpent looked especially stunning as it soared through the air with regal movements, a cooing cry like bells ringing.
Neither trainer shouted a command; micro-managing Pokémon is a trademark of the weak and inexperienced. Venusaur fired off a potent Solar Beam as soon as he had strengthened the sunlight enough with Sunny Day to skip the charge time, and hid a package of Poison Aura within the ray as they had practiced all those months ago, before Saffron. Dragonair was able to dodge, already so much faster thanks to Dragon Dance, but the Solar Beam was never intended to hit: the Poison energies detonated mid-air a meter away from Dragonair's body, and the corrosive poison of Toxic was splattered on its flesh.
To Red's consternation, he saw the Aura in Dragonair's scales suddenly spike in strength. He recognized Marvel Scale when he saw it: he saw Leader Misty's Milotic in action back in Cerulean, though he was too weak to challenge it at the time. His research hadn't revealed that Dragonair could develop that ability, too! Now Dragonair had the defenses to match its increased speed and power, and there was no saying how long the Toxic would last before it could Shed its Skin. He would have had Venusaur open with Worry Seed if he knew.
Actually, I can use this, he realized, and commanded, "Keep applying Leech Seed and Toxic. Its Shed Skin will cure it."
Lance saw no need to interrupt his enemy while he's making a mistake. Dragonair used Dragon Dance twice more, Marvel Scale activating twice more to Leech Seed and a second Toxic, until Lance spoke his first command of the battle: "Outrage."
Dragonair had been in the late Fourth Realm when it was released. Buffed by three Dragon Dances and three applications of Marvel Scale, it had power befitting a Pokémon in the mid Sixth Realm as it flashed across the battlefield with speed and power rarely seen outside the Indigo Plateau. If Red closed his eyes and saw with his Aura, it looked only a Realm shy of Champion Oak's prized Dragonite's Draco Meteor.
Venusaur fainted in a single hit.
His hat's brim covered his face in shadow and he smiled. It was considered disreputable, but he waited out the full thirty seconds he was allotted to let Outrage end and for confusion to set in Dragonair's battle-crazed mind. As soon as he saw the waves of emanating Dragon-type power end, he released Espeon.
Maybe she read his mind, maybe she saw the power before her and drew her own conclusions; it didn't matter. As Dragonair blitzed in for a sudden Dragon Rush and struck the ground in its confusion, shaking the earth like a full-power Magnitude, Espeon used Trick Room.
Psychic power snapped out and thickened into walls, a cube fifty meters wide, and in that space a headache-inducing effect warped time. Dragonair moved faster – Red saw that, Lance did too – but Espeon somehow acted first.
Power Swap stole all of Dragonair's boosted physical might, then Guard Swap, learned from Blue's Umbreon, stole all of Marvel Scale's defenses. The second Dragon Rush hit, and though Espeon was knocked back a handful of meters by the raw kinetic force, she was unharmed. Hardly scuffed, even. And then, to tie a neat little bow on the unfair combo: Stored Power.
The Psychic move drew extra oomph from the stockpiled boosts, and Dragonair, already weakened from Leech Seed and Toxic, let out a shriek of pain as it writhed and fell unconscious.
Lance recalled Dragonair with a nod of acknowledgement, and Espeon took the opportunity to dispel Trick Room, now that she had the Dragon Dance speed boost.
"I usually save Dragonite for last, in battles such as these," Lance said, voice resonating through the psychic barriers on the battlefield. "Consider this a sign of respect. I trained this dragon myself."
Red's adrenaline spiked at those words. He expected every foe he faced today to belong to a Gym Trainer, or perhaps the Blackthorn clan as a whole; to face one of the sixteen Pokémon a Fifth Realm trainer has bonded with is a compliment and threat both.
Dragonite arrived with a roar and a flap of wings that summoned a small Hurricane. The most legendary species in Indigo emenated a potent Pressure that almost put Red on his knees. He still remembered his first encounter with a creature such as this, seeing Champion Oak battle Elite Four Agatha for the throne over ten years ago, and he knew he would remember this just as long.
The dragon was Fifth Realm, like his own team, but he could see with his Aura that it was faster, more powerful, better trained. Some of that was due to birthright as a Dragonite, but not all of it. The realization stung like alcohol on a wound.
"No tricks, go for the throat," Red ordered, and Espeon obeyed.
The might of a twelve-times-boosted Stored Power lashed out like a Psychic whipcrack, and it broke against some kind of barrier on Dragonite's scales, failing to so much as draw blood. An ability he doesn't know about?
Extreme Speed saw Dragonite cross the battlefield in the blink of an eye, then Espeon was crushed between the rock floor and hundreds of pounds of dragon. There was no time to use Protect. She gave a yowl of pain that made Red grit his teeth, then she fled into the earth with a reflexive Dig.
Dragonite took to the skies, already buffing with Dragon Dance.
Red could see the Aura in the air distort, slightly, and slowly untensed. He recognized the flow of Morning Sun in action; better yet, Venusaur's Sunny Day was still active, though fading.
Lance could see it, too. "It's healing. Flush it out."
Once more Dragonite corkscrewed into the earth, a ruinous Bulldoze shaking the ground. Then, it rose- and came down again. And again.
"Espeon is unable to battle," the referee called. She's linked to the Psychics maintaining the barriers, so Red didn't doubt the call.
Focused, Red attempted to peer into the earth with his Aura sight. Was Espeon able to use their contingency? He couldn't tell. If he was wrong, then he'd be making a terrible mistake, and he'd almost certainly throw the whole match.
He'd have to trust.
"Pikachu, Pick Up." A nonsense order, but his starter would understand the in-joke.
The Electric mouse, tiny and adorable and not at all common on the competitive scene, dashed into the Dug warrens with Agility-enhanced speed.
Blue and him had spent weeks exploring the nuances of Power Swap, Guard Swap, Psych Up, and Stored Power. Pokémon have Auras not at all unlike the Aura of humans, and one of the most common expressions of that power is with so-called 'boosting moves.' The mechanics of such moves are, on the surface, simple: Pokémon have large capacity for Aura but only so much throughput, and can thus only call upon a fraction of their power at once. Instead of an offensive move that is a simple, damaging expression of that power, they can shape that spent power into a kind of second Aura, or battery, and then draw upon that power and their own power simultaneously, not unlike harnessing a held item. In theory, this then doubles their throughput at the cost of needing set-up time. In practice, it's a lot easier and more convenient to make specialized boosts that enhance speed, power, or defenses then it is to make a wide-ranging boost, like the prototypical Ancient Power, the move from which all boost moves originate.
But when a Pokémon faints, where do the boosts go? Without a mind and soul to hold onto it, the package of Aura power dissolves into the ambient Aura flow. What if a Pokémon was able to stabilize this boost before letting go, by protecting it in a membrane of sturdier Aura?
Red and Blue called it Baton Pass.
"Whatever it's planning, stop it," Lance commanded, and Dragonite came crashing down for another Bulldoze.
Pikachu leapt from the tunnels with triple his already ludicrous speed, cloaked himself in the Electric cage of Volt Tackle, and struck Dragonite with Dragon Dance-boosted strength. Dragon is resistant to Electric, but Flying isn't.
Lance's beast was flying straight downwards when it was struck; Pikachu's might arrested its momentum entirely, and both mouse and dragon crashed against the eastern wall and the Psychic barriers reinforcing it. An ominous cracking sound reverberated in the air.
"Hold nothing back!" Lance shouted in a rush, voice tight.
Red felt as if he could take a step onto air and fly. To take the premier Dragon Master of Indigo so off guard by a move of his own creation- he was going to ride this high for the rest of his life.
Dragonite grabbed the mouse on its back and began to Outrage. Pikachu was smashed against the wall, the floor, gripped and torn between claws and battered by powerful Dragon-type energies, but half that Baton Pass was Marvel Scale's steel-like defense, and Pikachu held on. More, Pikachu unleashed a long, point-blank Thunder, the infamous booming sound that accompanied the move deafening all commands either he or Lance could have made.
It went on for a long time. In the end, Dragonite gave first.
Vindication! Red had rarely felt such triumph. Going to mock my starter, are you, Blue? Going to doubt our potential again, Old Man? Pikachu is going to sweep the Indigo Conference. All will know our power.
Lance recalled Dragonite, then paused, as if to say something. The moment passed.
The dragon he had seen last night appeared, blue-scaled with a jagged, red head. He still didn't know what it was called and he didn't know what it would do, but that didn't change their strategy at all. Overwhelming power was Red's forte.
Pikachu blitzed across the battlefield in a Volt Tackle, and the dragon stood to receive it, opening its maw wide in a Scary Face. Pikachu slowed to a mere blur as he smashed into it.
Thanks to the tiny opening provided by Scary Face, the dragon softened the rock at its feet with Dig or some other expression of Ground Aura, transforming a solid hit into a glancing blow. Pikachu skid across the battlefield as the dragon fell on its back with a roar of anger.
Pikachu's immense speed worked against him here; he wasn't yet accustomed to maneuvering at such insane speeds, and his agility suffered for it. In the time it took for Pikachu to differentiate up from down, turn, and break out into another run, the dragon was back on its feet and… throwing a tantrum?
It was a Fifth Realm dragon and trained by the Blackthorns, so Red assumed it was a real move, and he could see the Ground-type power rolling off it in waves, but he didn't recognize it.
Pikachu lost his footing, picked up speed again, then leapt in another Volt Tackle. This time, he was wise to the dragon's Ground-type tricks.
To Red's surprise, the unknown Pokémon made no move to dodge or deflect this second Volt Tackle. Shrieking in rage and pain, the dragon grabbed onto Pikachu in a move shockingly reminiscent of Dragonite's Outrage and continued its tantrum.
Between the Outrage earlier, the recoil from the three Volt Tackles, and now this strange Ground-type onslaught, Pikachu was being pushed precariously close to the edge. Only the stolen Marvel Scale toughness kept him in the battle. Worse, the spikes and jagged edges to the unknown Pokémon were doing surprising damage. Rough Skin, maybe?
Pikachu wasn't using Nuzzle, just maintaining his maximum electrical discharge while in the dragon's clawed grip, but his Static should have paralyzed it by now. Did the thing have Mold Breaker, too? Or was it actually Ground-type, and not just specialized in it?
Red hated battling foreign Pokémon. The Pokémon World League was the worst thing ever. If he had known, he would've ordered a Thunder Wave, then a slower strategy of using the enhanced speed from Dragon Dance and Agility to space the thing and wear it down over time with Discharge and Thunderbolts.
It was too late for that, but not too late to switch to a different track.
"Electric Terrain, then take it with you," he shouted. Pikachu was moving too quickly and chaotically earlier for Electric Terrain to be useful, but it was time to look ahead.
Pikachu was too much of a team player to mind making suicide plays. Holding nothing back, he blinded everyone in the Gym with a flash of lightning that knocked out both him and the foreign dragon while electrifying the earth in a ten-meter radius.
Both him and Lance were down three Pokémon, neither using their switch. The good news was that the terrain was in his favor. The bad news is he's pretty sure Lance has a Kingdra, a Gyarados, or both, and he's down his Electric-type.
Red stared Lance down as the thirty seconds trickled by, the only sound the crackling static of the Electric Terrain. Since both Pokémon fainted at the same time and both trainers are allowed thirty seconds before sending out their next team member, the only way for one side not to get an advantage over the other is if both wait out the timer. This fact was in Lance's favor as Pikachu's set-up wouldn't persist forever; already, it was getting weaker.
That didn't matter. He only needed it for a moment.
"Five seconds remaining!"
"Dragonair, the floor is yours."
"Snorlax! Pikachu left you a present!"
Red expected the second Dragonair; Lance wouldn't send out a Kingdra or Gyarados if he thought the Electric Terrain signaled a second Electric-type waiting in the wings. Red wanted the terrain for its second purpose, though.
Snorlax gave a pleased laugh that was so deep, the earth shook. With slow, laborious movements, the gargantuan Pokémon smacked her hands against her stomach in a Belly Drum- once, twice, thrice, the echo like the strike of a gong. The recoil allowed much more power to be channeled much quicker than usual, and Snorlax was soon carrying a boost with twice the offensive might that Espeon and Pikachu had been abusing, though it lacked any speed or defenses.
"Quickly!" Lance shouted, and Dragonair began using what was obviously the Blackthorn clan's favorite move, Outrage. No time was wasted on Dragon Dance or a Thunder Wave or any other kind of set-up; Lance knew the danger he was in.
To its credit, the Fifth Realm dragon was more powerful than the Dragonair he had fought at the beginning of the battle. It must be close to evolution. It didn't make a difference. Red had trained Snorlax on defense above and beyond anything else. Its superior speed let it get in one Outrage strike, then two-
Then Snorlax fell asleep.
Now, Red knows the Electric Terrain plus Rest combo isn't supposed to work. If the Pokémon is prevented from falling asleep, such as from Worry Seed giving it Insomnia or from electrified current, the powerful restorative effect of Rest won't activate.
Snorlax is simply so gargantuan that she can be sitting down, fall asleep, land flat on her face, and lay spread eagled on the Electric Terrain. Then she wakes up, fully healed.
Red let out a childish giggle.
"Sap it," Lance ordered, and a confused Dragonair began firing Thunder Waves every which way. Snorlax's immense size meant it was hit entirely by happenstance.
"Amnesia, then let loose."
Snorlax took a few seconds to create the elemental defense boost, losing the control required due to the current in her body. It was the right call, but it gave Dragonair enough time to snap out of her confusion and use Agility.
Red had honestly expected yet another Dragon Dance. For a battle of attrition, however, Agility made more sense.
Snorlax was well-rested, boasting incredible power, and was sturdy enough to shake off most hits. However, she was painfully, agonizingly slow, and Dragonair could fly.
This next phase of the battle took longer than the entire rest of the battle preceding it. Snorlax stomped around with a playful menace, every swipe a Hammer Arm, every step a Body Slam, every pratfall a Giga Impact, and if Dragonair was struck once that'd be it, one-hit knockout.
Dragonair didn't get hit.
Fire Spin and strafing runs of Dragonbreath slowly whittled away at Snorlax's health, and when she got low, Yawned, popped her Chesto Berry in her mouth, and prepared to Rest, Lance called for a variant Safeguard. Neither Snorlax nor Dragonair fell asleep, and the battle of attrition wore on.
Dragonair exhausted itself of energy before its Fire and Dragon-type attacks exhausted Snorlax of health. It went for a strafing run, was a hair too slow, and Snorlax fell on top of it in a Giga Impact that boomed like thunder.
It took Lance a few seconds to recall Dragonair from underneath her bulk, but when he did, he immediately sent out a Kingdra. From the glow on the referee's face, the blue, man-sized seahorse Pokémon was hers.
Kingdra had the first move as Snorlax was still recovering from Giga Impact. Cloud cover shrouded the battlefield in darkness, grey and heavy with rain that began to fall in thick sheets. Kingdra began to move and harness its power much more quickly – Swift Swim? – and used a bizarre utility move that Red had, again, never seen before. The Aura flow was Normal-dominant and seemed almost like Focus Energy, but much more potent. The power concentrated in its cannon-like mouth.
Snorlax was a clever girl. She knew that move, whatever it was, spelled her doom. She compressed the Belly Drum boost into a sphere of raw power in her mouth, then used Spit Up.
Kingdra's Hydro Pump was far more impressive than anything he'd seen from Blastoise, empowered as it was by that strange move, and Snorlax was knocked cold. So focused was it, though, that it took Snorlax's final surprise right to its center mass.
We have the tempo. He sent out Blastoise immediately, and commanded her own Hydro Pump.
Red had just Charizard left, and Lance had what was almost assuredly a Gyarados. That was a bad matchup for him, but if he sent Charizard out in this rain, he was doomed. With luck, Blastoise's Rain Dish would see her with enough strength left to make the difference in that final fight.
Blastoise must have thought herself in the perfect scenario. Released into a heavy rainstorm, her target flung into a wall and off-balance, and the move she had just learned was the only one in her repertoire that wouldn't be resisted or have a nasty side effect. An Ice Beam was launched as if from a cannon, freezing every rain drop in its path.
Icicles from the Beam's path broke against the floor in a shattering sound drowned out only by Kingdra's cry of pain. The battle was Blastoise's.
Then, a flash of light, and a familiar, echoing boom: Thunder. Kingdra can't learn that move!
Unerringly accurate in the rain, Blastoise writhed in pain. Her only saving grace was her Shell Armor, transforming a one-hit knockout into merely a crippling blow and- yes, paralysis too.
"I'm using my recall," Lance announced, and out came the Gyarados. "Hurricane."
Impossibly, this Gyarados wasn't blue; its scales were a brilliant red like the dawn. Red didn't believe that the Blackthorn clan would have a mutant Gyarados and not have it be raised by the Dragon Master Lance himself. How lucky was he, to face two of Lance's own Pokémon, even if neither were yet past the Fifth Realm?
As the Hurricane buffeted the heavy downpour, its accuracy raised in much the same way as Thunder had been, Red wondered how he could turn this all around.
He had no ideas.
He had rarely felt so alive.
Back on her feet due to her Rain Dish, in her preferred weather, and desperate enough to grasp onto the hysterical strength of Torrent, Blastoise launched the fastest, most powerful Hydro Pump he had ever seen from her. It wounded the red Gyarados but did nothing to stave off the Hurricane. And-
Red saw Gyarados siphon power from Blastoise as she fell unconscious. Moxie. He should have used his recall; the resisted damage of even an empowered Hydro Pump isn't worth giving a Gyarados a power boost.
He tossed Charizard's Pokéball in the air and caught it, once, then twice, three times. He mulled over strategies in his head. Nothing clever came to mind.
Oh, well.
"Charizard! Give it all you've got."
His own dragon roared with all the fury and pride of a tyrant who found his reign contested by another. The Gyarados roared back. Charizard dispelled the rain with a Sunny Day, then Gyarados began its own Rain Dance, the two fighting over control of the skies. The result was something bizarre: patches of black cloud belching rain while spears of hot sunlight slipped between, creating steam in the air.
Red believed that a trainer's purpose was to bring out a Pokémon's inner potential. This meant training a Pokémon how they wanted to be trained. He wanted Charizard to have at least moderately sturdy defenses, but all Charizard cared for was power, speed, and flame, and so that is what he trained.
Charizard burned with a Flare Blitz, his unique Reckless ability supercharging the move. Gyarados flew to meet him, the Waterfall echo trailing behind it. When they clashed in the air, Charizard's flames seared Gyarados' serpentine scales and his claws gouged trenches in its flesh. The water trail hit a moment later. At those speeds, the water was as solid as earth, and where it found fire it created steam that burned them both.
Charizard was a Fire-type, though; he could handle a burn. Gyarados couldn't.
A crackle of lightning, and Charizard's Thunder Punch was countered by a wicked Crunch. Gyarados Flailed wildly, its length lashing against Charizard's wings in an Aqua Tail, and Charizard tore it apart, lightning in one clawed hand and Dragon-type energy in the other.
It was short, and brutal, and inelegant. Red was entranced.
Both Pokémon fell to the floor, unconscious before they hit the ground.
"Both Pokémon are unable to battle! Master Lance is the victor!"
As both Pokémon were recalled, support Pokémon dealt with the weather and cleared the battlefield, and Lance walked over to shake his hand, Red found he didn't mind losing, if it was in a battle like that.
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The Pride Before
Rising Gym
Pokémon / Xianxia
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Red's Venusaur hit the field with a roar, one leg stomping on the ground and cratering it, tendrils of Ground power snaking across the field in anticipation of an attack. He immediately began channeling Fire Aura into the sky above them, filtering the dawn sunlight until it was many times more powerful.
Lance's Dragonair had begun its Dragon Dance before the red light had faded and it fully manifested from stasis. The gorgeous blue serpent looked especially stunning as it soared through the air with regal movements, a cooing cry like bells ringing.
Neither trainer shouted a command; micro-managing Pokémon is a trademark of the weak and inexperienced. Venusaur fired off a potent Solar Beam as soon as he had strengthened the sunlight enough with Sunny Day to skip the charge time, and hid a package of Poison Aura within the ray as they had practiced all those months ago, before Saffron. Dragonair was able to dodge, already so much faster thanks to Dragon Dance, but the Solar Beam was never intended to hit: the Poison energies detonated mid-air a meter away from Dragonair's body, and the corrosive poison of Toxic was splattered on its flesh.
To Red's consternation, he saw the Aura in Dragonair's scales suddenly spike in strength. He recognized Marvel Scale when he saw it: he saw Leader Misty's Milotic in action back in Cerulean, though he was too weak to challenge it at the time. His research hadn't revealed that Dragonair could develop that ability, too! Now Dragonair had the defenses to match its increased speed and power, and there was no saying how long the Toxic would last before it could Shed its Skin. He would have had Venusaur open with Worry Seed if he knew.
Actually, I can use this, he realized, and commanded, "Keep applying Leech Seed and Toxic. Its Shed Skin will cure it."
Lance saw no need to interrupt his enemy while he's making a mistake. Dragonair used Dragon Dance twice more, Marvel Scale activating twice more to Leech Seed and a second Toxic, until Lance spoke his first command of the battle: "Outrage."
Dragonair had been in the late Fourth Realm when it was released. Buffed by three Dragon Dances and three applications of Marvel Scale, it had power befitting a Pokémon in the mid Sixth Realm as it flashed across the battlefield with speed and power rarely seen outside the Indigo Plateau. If Red closed his eyes and saw with his Aura, it looked only a Realm shy of Champion Oak's prized Dragonite's Draco Meteor.
Venusaur fainted in a single hit.
His hat's brim covered his face in shadow and he smiled. It was considered disreputable, but he waited out the full thirty seconds he was allotted to let Outrage end and for confusion to set in Dragonair's battle-crazed mind. As soon as he saw the waves of emanating Dragon-type power end, he released Espeon.
Maybe she read his mind, maybe she saw the power before her and drew her own conclusions; it didn't matter. As Dragonair blitzed in for a sudden Dragon Rush and struck the ground in its confusion, shaking the earth like a full-power Magnitude, Espeon used Trick Room.
Psychic power snapped out and thickened into walls, a cube fifty meters wide, and in that space a headache-inducing effect warped time. Dragonair moved faster – Red saw that, Lance did too – but Espeon somehow acted first.
Power Swap stole all of Dragonair's boosted physical might, then Guard Swap, learned from Blue's Umbreon, stole all of Marvel Scale's defenses. The second Dragon Rush hit, and though Espeon was knocked back a handful of meters by the raw kinetic force, she was unharmed. Hardly scuffed, even. And then, to tie a neat little bow on the unfair combo: Stored Power.
The Psychic move drew extra oomph from the stockpiled boosts, and Dragonair, already weakened from Leech Seed and Toxic, let out a shriek of pain as it writhed and fell unconscious.
Lance recalled Dragonair with a nod of acknowledgement, and Espeon took the opportunity to dispel Trick Room, now that she had the Dragon Dance speed boost.
"I usually save Dragonite for last, in battles such as these," Lance said, voice resonating through the psychic barriers on the battlefield. "Consider this a sign of respect. I trained this dragon myself."
Red's adrenaline spiked at those words. He expected every foe he faced today to belong to a Gym Trainer, or perhaps the Blackthorn clan as a whole; to face one of the sixteen Pokémon a Fifth Realm trainer has bonded with is a compliment and threat both.
Dragonite arrived with a roar and a flap of wings that summoned a small Hurricane. The most legendary species in Indigo emenated a potent Pressure that almost put Red on his knees. He still remembered his first encounter with a creature such as this, seeing Champion Oak battle Elite Four Agatha for the throne over ten years ago, and he knew he would remember this just as long.
The dragon was Fifth Realm, like his own team, but he could see with his Aura that it was faster, more powerful, better trained. Some of that was due to birthright as a Dragonite, but not all of it. The realization stung like alcohol on a wound.
"No tricks, go for the throat," Red ordered, and Espeon obeyed.
The might of a twelve-times-boosted Stored Power lashed out like a Psychic whipcrack, and it broke against some kind of barrier on Dragonite's scales, failing to so much as draw blood. An ability he doesn't know about?
Extreme Speed saw Dragonite cross the battlefield in the blink of an eye, then Espeon was crushed between the rock floor and hundreds of pounds of dragon. There was no time to use Protect. She gave a yowl of pain that made Red grit his teeth, then she fled into the earth with a reflexive Dig.
Dragonite took to the skies, already buffing with Dragon Dance.
Red could see the Aura in the air distort, slightly, and slowly untensed. He recognized the flow of Morning Sun in action; better yet, Venusaur's Sunny Day was still active, though fading.
Lance could see it, too. "It's healing. Flush it out."
Once more Dragonite corkscrewed into the earth, a ruinous Bulldoze shaking the ground. Then, it rose- and came down again. And again.
"Espeon is unable to battle," the referee called. She's linked to the Psychics maintaining the barriers, so Red didn't doubt the call.
Focused, Red attempted to peer into the earth with his Aura sight. Was Espeon able to use their contingency? He couldn't tell. If he was wrong, then he'd be making a terrible mistake, and he'd almost certainly throw the whole match.
He'd have to trust.
"Pikachu, Pick Up." A nonsense order, but his starter would understand the in-joke.
The Electric mouse, tiny and adorable and not at all common on the competitive scene, dashed into the Dug warrens with Agility-enhanced speed.
Blue and him had spent weeks exploring the nuances of Power Swap, Guard Swap, Psych Up, and Stored Power. Pokémon have Auras not at all unlike the Aura of humans, and one of the most common expressions of that power is with so-called 'boosting moves.' The mechanics of such moves are, on the surface, simple: Pokémon have large capacity for Aura but only so much throughput, and can thus only call upon a fraction of their power at once. Instead of an offensive move that is a simple, damaging expression of that power, they can shape that spent power into a kind of second Aura, or battery, and then draw upon that power and their own power simultaneously, not unlike harnessing a held item. In theory, this then doubles their throughput at the cost of needing set-up time. In practice, it's a lot easier and more convenient to make specialized boosts that enhance speed, power, or defenses then it is to make a wide-ranging boost, like the prototypical Ancient Power, the move from which all boost moves originate.
But when a Pokémon faints, where do the boosts go? Without a mind and soul to hold onto it, the package of Aura power dissolves into the ambient Aura flow. What if a Pokémon was able to stabilize this boost before letting go, by protecting it in a membrane of sturdier Aura?
Red and Blue called it Baton Pass.
"Whatever it's planning, stop it," Lance commanded, and Dragonite came crashing down for another Bulldoze.
Pikachu leapt from the tunnels with triple his already ludicrous speed, cloaked himself in the Electric cage of Volt Tackle, and struck Dragonite with Dragon Dance-boosted strength. Dragon is resistant to Electric, but Flying isn't.
Lance's beast was flying straight downwards when it was struck; Pikachu's might arrested its momentum entirely, and both mouse and dragon crashed against the eastern wall and the Psychic barriers reinforcing it. An ominous cracking sound reverberated in the air.
"Hold nothing back!" Lance shouted in a rush, voice tight.
Red felt as if he could take a step onto air and fly. To take the premier Dragon Master of Indigo so off guard by a move of his own creation- he was going to ride this high for the rest of his life.
Dragonite grabbed the mouse on its back and began to Outrage. Pikachu was smashed against the wall, the floor, gripped and torn between claws and battered by powerful Dragon-type energies, but half that Baton Pass was Marvel Scale's steel-like defense, and Pikachu held on. More, Pikachu unleashed a long, point-blank Thunder, the infamous booming sound that accompanied the move deafening all commands either he or Lance could have made.
It went on for a long time. In the end, Dragonite gave first.
Vindication! Red had rarely felt such triumph. Going to mock my starter, are you, Blue? Going to doubt our potential again, Old Man? Pikachu is going to sweep the Indigo Conference. All will know our power.
Lance recalled Dragonite, then paused, as if to say something. The moment passed.
The dragon he had seen last night appeared, blue-scaled with a jagged, red head. He still didn't know what it was called and he didn't know what it would do, but that didn't change their strategy at all. Overwhelming power was Red's forte.
Pikachu blitzed across the battlefield in a Volt Tackle, and the dragon stood to receive it, opening its maw wide in a Scary Face. Pikachu slowed to a mere blur as he smashed into it.
Thanks to the tiny opening provided by Scary Face, the dragon softened the rock at its feet with Dig or some other expression of Ground Aura, transforming a solid hit into a glancing blow. Pikachu skid across the battlefield as the dragon fell on its back with a roar of anger.
Pikachu's immense speed worked against him here; he wasn't yet accustomed to maneuvering at such insane speeds, and his agility suffered for it. In the time it took for Pikachu to differentiate up from down, turn, and break out into another run, the dragon was back on its feet and… throwing a tantrum?
It was a Fifth Realm dragon and trained by the Blackthorns, so Red assumed it was a real move, and he could see the Ground-type power rolling off it in waves, but he didn't recognize it.
Pikachu lost his footing, picked up speed again, then leapt in another Volt Tackle. This time, he was wise to the dragon's Ground-type tricks.
To Red's surprise, the unknown Pokémon made no move to dodge or deflect this second Volt Tackle. Shrieking in rage and pain, the dragon grabbed onto Pikachu in a move shockingly reminiscent of Dragonite's Outrage and continued its tantrum.
Between the Outrage earlier, the recoil from the three Volt Tackles, and now this strange Ground-type onslaught, Pikachu was being pushed precariously close to the edge. Only the stolen Marvel Scale toughness kept him in the battle. Worse, the spikes and jagged edges to the unknown Pokémon were doing surprising damage. Rough Skin, maybe?
Pikachu wasn't using Nuzzle, just maintaining his maximum electrical discharge while in the dragon's clawed grip, but his Static should have paralyzed it by now. Did the thing have Mold Breaker, too? Or was it actually Ground-type, and not just specialized in it?
Red hated battling foreign Pokémon. The Pokémon World League was the worst thing ever. If he had known, he would've ordered a Thunder Wave, then a slower strategy of using the enhanced speed from Dragon Dance and Agility to space the thing and wear it down over time with Discharge and Thunderbolts.
It was too late for that, but not too late to switch to a different track.
"Electric Terrain, then take it with you," he shouted. Pikachu was moving too quickly and chaotically earlier for Electric Terrain to be useful, but it was time to look ahead.
Pikachu was too much of a team player to mind making suicide plays. Holding nothing back, he blinded everyone in the Gym with a flash of lightning that knocked out both him and the foreign dragon while electrifying the earth in a ten-meter radius.
Both him and Lance were down three Pokémon, neither using their switch. The good news was that the terrain was in his favor. The bad news is he's pretty sure Lance has a Kingdra, a Gyarados, or both, and he's down his Electric-type.
Red stared Lance down as the thirty seconds trickled by, the only sound the crackling static of the Electric Terrain. Since both Pokémon fainted at the same time and both trainers are allowed thirty seconds before sending out their next team member, the only way for one side not to get an advantage over the other is if both wait out the timer. This fact was in Lance's favor as Pikachu's set-up wouldn't persist forever; already, it was getting weaker.
That didn't matter. He only needed it for a moment.
"Five seconds remaining!"
"Dragonair, the floor is yours."
"Snorlax! Pikachu left you a present!"
Red expected the second Dragonair; Lance wouldn't send out a Kingdra or Gyarados if he thought the Electric Terrain signaled a second Electric-type waiting in the wings. Red wanted the terrain for its second purpose, though.
Snorlax gave a pleased laugh that was so deep, the earth shook. With slow, laborious movements, the gargantuan Pokémon smacked her hands against her stomach in a Belly Drum- once, twice, thrice, the echo like the strike of a gong. The recoil allowed much more power to be channeled much quicker than usual, and Snorlax was soon carrying a boost with twice the offensive might that Espeon and Pikachu had been abusing, though it lacked any speed or defenses.
"Quickly!" Lance shouted, and Dragonair began using what was obviously the Blackthorn clan's favorite move, Outrage. No time was wasted on Dragon Dance or a Thunder Wave or any other kind of set-up; Lance knew the danger he was in.
To its credit, the Fifth Realm dragon was more powerful than the Dragonair he had fought at the beginning of the battle. It must be close to evolution. It didn't make a difference. Red had trained Snorlax on defense above and beyond anything else. Its superior speed let it get in one Outrage strike, then two-
Then Snorlax fell asleep.
Now, Red knows the Electric Terrain plus Rest combo isn't supposed to work. If the Pokémon is prevented from falling asleep, such as from Worry Seed giving it Insomnia or from electrified current, the powerful restorative effect of Rest won't activate.
Snorlax is simply so gargantuan that she can be sitting down, fall asleep, land flat on her face, and lay spread eagled on the Electric Terrain. Then she wakes up, fully healed.
Red let out a childish giggle.
"Sap it," Lance ordered, and a confused Dragonair began firing Thunder Waves every which way. Snorlax's immense size meant it was hit entirely by happenstance.
"Amnesia, then let loose."
Snorlax took a few seconds to create the elemental defense boost, losing the control required due to the current in her body. It was the right call, but it gave Dragonair enough time to snap out of her confusion and use Agility.
Red had honestly expected yet another Dragon Dance. For a battle of attrition, however, Agility made more sense.
Snorlax was well-rested, boasting incredible power, and was sturdy enough to shake off most hits. However, she was painfully, agonizingly slow, and Dragonair could fly.
This next phase of the battle took longer than the entire rest of the battle preceding it. Snorlax stomped around with a playful menace, every swipe a Hammer Arm, every step a Body Slam, every pratfall a Giga Impact, and if Dragonair was struck once that'd be it, one-hit knockout.
Dragonair didn't get hit.
Fire Spin and strafing runs of Dragonbreath slowly whittled away at Snorlax's health, and when she got low, Yawned, popped her Chesto Berry in her mouth, and prepared to Rest, Lance called for a variant Safeguard. Neither Snorlax nor Dragonair fell asleep, and the battle of attrition wore on.
Dragonair exhausted itself of energy before its Fire and Dragon-type attacks exhausted Snorlax of health. It went for a strafing run, was a hair too slow, and Snorlax fell on top of it in a Giga Impact that boomed like thunder.
It took Lance a few seconds to recall Dragonair from underneath her bulk, but when he did, he immediately sent out a Kingdra. From the glow on the referee's face, the blue, man-sized seahorse Pokémon was hers.
Kingdra had the first move as Snorlax was still recovering from Giga Impact. Cloud cover shrouded the battlefield in darkness, grey and heavy with rain that began to fall in thick sheets. Kingdra began to move and harness its power much more quickly – Swift Swim? – and used a bizarre utility move that Red had, again, never seen before. The Aura flow was Normal-dominant and seemed almost like Focus Energy, but much more potent. The power concentrated in its cannon-like mouth.
Snorlax was a clever girl. She knew that move, whatever it was, spelled her doom. She compressed the Belly Drum boost into a sphere of raw power in her mouth, then used Spit Up.
Kingdra's Hydro Pump was far more impressive than anything he'd seen from Blastoise, empowered as it was by that strange move, and Snorlax was knocked cold. So focused was it, though, that it took Snorlax's final surprise right to its center mass.
We have the tempo. He sent out Blastoise immediately, and commanded her own Hydro Pump.
Red had just Charizard left, and Lance had what was almost assuredly a Gyarados. That was a bad matchup for him, but if he sent Charizard out in this rain, he was doomed. With luck, Blastoise's Rain Dish would see her with enough strength left to make the difference in that final fight.
Blastoise must have thought herself in the perfect scenario. Released into a heavy rainstorm, her target flung into a wall and off-balance, and the move she had just learned was the only one in her repertoire that wouldn't be resisted or have a nasty side effect. An Ice Beam was launched as if from a cannon, freezing every rain drop in its path.
Icicles from the Beam's path broke against the floor in a shattering sound drowned out only by Kingdra's cry of pain. The battle was Blastoise's.
Then, a flash of light, and a familiar, echoing boom: Thunder. Kingdra can't learn that move!
Unerringly accurate in the rain, Blastoise writhed in pain. Her only saving grace was her Shell Armor, transforming a one-hit knockout into merely a crippling blow and- yes, paralysis too.
"I'm using my recall," Lance announced, and out came the Gyarados. "Hurricane."
Impossibly, this Gyarados wasn't blue; its scales were a brilliant red like the dawn. Red didn't believe that the Blackthorn clan would have a mutant Gyarados and not have it be raised by the Dragon Master Lance himself. How lucky was he, to face two of Lance's own Pokémon, even if neither were yet past the Fifth Realm?
As the Hurricane buffeted the heavy downpour, its accuracy raised in much the same way as Thunder had been, Red wondered how he could turn this all around.
He had no ideas.
He had rarely felt so alive.
Back on her feet due to her Rain Dish, in her preferred weather, and desperate enough to grasp onto the hysterical strength of Torrent, Blastoise launched the fastest, most powerful Hydro Pump he had ever seen from her. It wounded the red Gyarados but did nothing to stave off the Hurricane. And-
Red saw Gyarados siphon power from Blastoise as she fell unconscious. Moxie. He should have used his recall; the resisted damage of even an empowered Hydro Pump isn't worth giving a Gyarados a power boost.
He tossed Charizard's Pokéball in the air and caught it, once, then twice, three times. He mulled over strategies in his head. Nothing clever came to mind.
Oh, well.
"Charizard! Give it all you've got."
His own dragon roared with all the fury and pride of a tyrant who found his reign contested by another. The Gyarados roared back. Charizard dispelled the rain with a Sunny Day, then Gyarados began its own Rain Dance, the two fighting over control of the skies. The result was something bizarre: patches of black cloud belching rain while spears of hot sunlight slipped between, creating steam in the air.
Red believed that a trainer's purpose was to bring out a Pokémon's inner potential. This meant training a Pokémon how they wanted to be trained. He wanted Charizard to have at least moderately sturdy defenses, but all Charizard cared for was power, speed, and flame, and so that is what he trained.
Charizard burned with a Flare Blitz, his unique Reckless ability supercharging the move. Gyarados flew to meet him, the Waterfall echo trailing behind it. When they clashed in the air, Charizard's flames seared Gyarados' serpentine scales and his claws gouged trenches in its flesh. The water trail hit a moment later. At those speeds, the water was as solid as earth, and where it found fire it created steam that burned them both.
Charizard was a Fire-type, though; he could handle a burn. Gyarados couldn't.
A crackle of lightning, and Charizard's Thunder Punch was countered by a wicked Crunch. Gyarados Flailed wildly, its length lashing against Charizard's wings in an Aqua Tail, and Charizard tore it apart, lightning in one clawed hand and Dragon-type energy in the other.
It was short, and brutal, and inelegant. Red was entranced.
Both Pokémon fell to the floor, unconscious before they hit the ground.
"Both Pokémon are unable to battle! Master Lance is the victor!"
As both Pokémon were recalled, support Pokémon dealt with the weather and cleared the battlefield, and Lance walked over to shake his hand, Red found he didn't mind losing, if it was in a battle like that.
Pokemon/Xianxia - The Pride Before 0-4
SolarFall
Totally not a cat in disguise.
Emotional conversation scenes have always been hit-or-miss, for me. Has it been built up enough? Are the feelings portrayed genuine, and portrayed genuinely? It's hard for me, as the author, to have an unbiased perspective of it.
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The Pride Before
Dragon's Den
Pokemon/Xianxia
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"I don't want it," Red whined.
"No one ever beats the Rising Gym," Little Girl said in a tone like she was explaining something very simple to a particularly stupid child. It was cute. "We intentionally raise the difficulty. They saw you had mid-to-early Fifth Realm Pokémon, so they one-upped you with mid-to-late Fifth Realm Pokémon. That you performed so well is a mark in your favor. If actually winning was a requirement for the Rising Badge, no Johtonian would ever make it to the Indigo Conference- at least, not without dipping into Kanto."
Red gave her a pitifully hopeful look. "You think I did well? Really?"
"Ah… yes?" She seemed uncertain.
"Waaah!" Red cried out melodramatically, falling to his knees next to her and grabbing onto her hand. She reared back in surprise. "My little sister is so nice to me! Whatever did I do to deserve this?!"
"Cut it out, you weirdo," she hissed, drawing her hand back.
Thirty feet away and one ridge up, the Blackthorn trainer shook his head, smiled, and continued on his walk.
Red stood back up, dusting off his pants with a casual air like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Little Girl gave him wary looks.
"Lance offered me a reward, in acknowledgement of my abilities," he lied. "I'm to visit Dragon's Den. Said that meditating on that Dragon Nexus with Charizard would help me break through into the Fourth Realm, and Charizard into the Sixth. He accepted."
"That's nice," Little Girl said. She had the good sense not to look around shiftily. A Dark Aura thing, natural talent, or a relic of her Fantasia education? He wasn't sure.
"We can steal the Deino egg then," Red said with none of her subtlety.
She hissed at him again. "Keep it down! Do you want us to get caught?"
"A little bit," he admitted, and she glowered. So cute! "Relax," he told her, drawing it out in that patronizing way he knew she hated. "Espeon is keeping watch. She always is, the creep."
"Don't say such mean things about your Pokémon," Little Girl said disapprovingly, but did indeed relax.
"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, Espeon is key. I'll bring you along because 'I can't leave her anywhere without her making a mess of the place, you know how it is,' the Blackthorn guide laughs, I laugh, Espeon hypnotizes everyone and you sneak off into Dragon's Den. You already know the layout of the place, so finding wherever they keep the eggs should be a cinch. Once you're back, I'll act like I've had some huge breakthrough with Charizard, and we'll leave in a right hurry. Check out?"
"That… should work," she said slowly, like she doesn't want to believe it but can't deny it, either. "All our anti-theft protections are in the torii gate and in the mountain's earth. We don't have much in the way of Psychic or Ghost-type guards, though we have some, and it was we Fantasia that was historically tasked with protecting it. The reason no one ever steals from the vaults or the nursery is because no one can get in or out without a pass- that, and we have a rather fearsome reputation, I suppose." That was an understatement. "When's our pass for?"
"Right now," Red admitted.
"What!"
"The best time to meditate and break through is after a good battle, when your muscles are sore and your Aura depleted," Red informed her. "It's like putting air in a balloon. It's easier to put air in an empty balloon then a full one. If Charizard and me want to acclimate to a greater level of Dragon-type power, we can't do it when our power stores are full."
"I know how breakthroughs work, I've done it before," she said disparagingly, but she was thinking. Eventually, she nodded. "Okay. You're kind of weird, but I'll trust you. I'm super dead if I get caught, so my life's in your hands, okay? I'll be in your debt forever if this works."
"I know how you can pay off that debt," Red said mysteriously, and when she blanched, his eyes widened and he waved his hands in a panic. "I meant you can become my student! I'll be your mentor! My rival Blue showed off his student last time we met and I was super jealous. He said he's a better mentor than I could ever be, and I took that personally. I want to wipe that smug smile off his stupid face. If I can teach a student that can defeat Blue's, I'll be able to hold that against him for the rest of our lives. Okay? I didn't mean anything bad!"
Slowly, she uncoiled, looking away before hesitantly meeting his eyes. He couldn't decipher the thoughts behind her cool, Ice trainer façade.
The walk to Dragon's Den was slow and awkward.
Eventually, she spoke. "Fine. I believe you. I don't know why you want a student who lost her starter and cultivation, but I'll do my best."
The joy he felt at hearing those words was entirely unlike the joy he felt in the Rising Gym, but he cherished it just as much. He'd try to be a little more straightforward with her. Not quite upright – he was still who he was, and he made no apologies for that – but like a young Pokémon, he needed to cultivate her heart and mind as much as her power.
That was a good way of looking at it, actually. He had taught all his Pokémon not just to improve their power and might, but a variety of strategies and when to use which ones, how to keep their cool in a heated battle, and the right attitude to keep morale up when faced with failure. As entertaining as messing with her was, he needed to build up her confidence, establish a bond of trust, all that jazz. He just… hasn't had to do that, in a while.
He'll work on it.
They arrived at Dragon's Den before long. There was no bridge across the small lake to the strip of land – presumably, Blackthorns landed on it on dragonback – and after looking, he saw no sign of their guard.
Charizard didn't usually consent to short flights like this, but he was eager for the chance to channel a Dragon Nexus, and he was always much more mellow after a good brawl, anyway. He let him out in a flash of red.
The fire dragon raised both arms towards the sky in a triumphant pose, flexing and stretching and breathing small plumes of smoke. He looked satisfied, content. The Blackthorn's Chansey had healed him up, so he showed few physical marks of the battle – a few scratches here, the Crunch mark on his left shoulder there – but Red could feel his Aura exhaustion.
He had the right to be happy, Red supposed. Gyarados is a tough matchup. And a Gyarados like that? Even though they lost in the end, none of his team have anything to be ashamed of. They would have won if Red had intelligently used his switch or not outmaneuvered himself into having to use a Water and Fire/Flying-type against a Kingdra and Gyarados. If he had used Blastoise and Charizard earlier, saved Pikachu for later, they could've won. Of course, he had to use Pikachu because none of his other Pokémon were small enough to pick up the Baton Pass in the Dug tunnels-
"You were amazing out there," Little Girl said with stars in her eyes, looking up at a Charizard that looked increasingly smug. "I've never seen a Charizard contest a Rain Dance while using a complicated move like Flare Blitz to its full potential. And, when you used both Dragon Claw and Thunder Punch- that Gyarados had as much Dragon in it as it did Flying, so it was the right call to make, and neither element flickered at all, despite how difficult it is to channel opposing elements like that-"
"Charizard is wonderfully trained," Red humble-bragged, not even slightly jealous of all the praise going to a prick like Charizard. Honest. "And we're going to break through to the next Realm together as soon as we get across that lake."
A rumbling laugh. Charizard knelt to allow Little Girl onto his back, which was uncharacteristically sweet of him, then he grabbed Red between his claws, which wasn't. Seconds later, they were across.
Red felt the pressure as he passed the torii gate: Ghost, mostly, with a decent amount of Psychic. Either the Dark is in the earth, was too subtle for him to notice – not impossible – or Dragon's Den is vulnerable to Dark, now that the Fantasia are all gone. He was no good at advanced sensory stuff like this.
Their guide was kneeling just beyond the first turn, in near-complete blackness. Dressed in the blue and red traditional garb of the Blackthorn clan, what might have been a kimono before centuries of minor adjustments and warfare made it almost into a tracksuit, the only thing unusual about her was that she's the first Blackthorn he's seen with only a Second Realm soul. It was primary Water, too, which made him wonder if she was from a branch clan like Little Girl. It was hard to tell without any lights save Charizard's burning tail.
"Please follow me, honored guests," she said in a pretty contralto, then rose.
Part of Dragon's Den's defense must come from its labyrinthine structure, because Red was lost in minutes. The tunnels all led deeper into the mountain, but there were numerous forks, twists, and turns, and not a single torch or electric light to be seen. Did they all navigate based on Aura sense? Red could do that in Mt Moon, but they were so close to the Dragon Nexus that all sense of detail in the Rock and Ground was overshadowed. Would he be able to look past that burning light after enough years spent in close proximity to it? How much would it change him, if he could?
There was a power in so completely giving yourself over to a single Type. Red couldn't deny that, not when twenty of the twenty-one strongest trainers in Indigo were Type Masters. He couldn't do it, though. He likes being Red, and doesn't know who'd he be if he specialized in Electric like he so easily could have. It would have made him more impulsive, obsessive, and cruel, would have made him not-Red, and the thought of his cultivation changing who he was on that fundamental level horrified him. It's why he had such a Type-diverse team, why he makes sure to cultivate even Types he doesn't have a bond with like Dragon and Ice, and why he could never understand how casually other trainers devote themselves to a single Type.
Was their guide always so zen and chill, or did she have more passion before creating for herself a soul of Water? If Little Girl still had her Dragon soul, earlier, when she told him to cut it out and called him a weirdo, would there have been real anger? He can get a rise out of her pretty easily, but her scowls and biting words lack any heat; they seem performative, even, like a habit and not an actual emotional response. Like it was her emotional response, before Lance broke her cultivation, and she started anew with Ice.
He made a mental note to make sure she cultivated more than just Ice and Dark. For her own sake. If he ever teased her and she just looked at him blankly, like Lyra Whitegrave does, he's breaking off his mentorship immediately.
With all that being said, it's time to add a twelfth Type to his hybrid soul. The Dragon Nexus awaits, hot like the core of the earth.
"The Nexus lies beyond this door, honored guests," their guide said in a hushed, reverent voice. "Neither I nor the honored trainer's sister are permitted entry. We shall wait for you here."
'Here' being yet another black stone hallway, looking clawed out of the earth rather than cut or carved, entirely lacking in decoration, light, or heat save the Dragon Nexus' ephemeral heat. He gave his 'sister' a dubious look.
"I'll be alright," Little Girl said, looking sick. "Miss Whisperain will look after me."
Their guide – presumably of the Whisperain branch clan – blinked in surprise, and Red thought, Now!
Espeon appeared in a flash of red light, and their guide fell to the floor like a doll, fast asleep. Espeon's red gem glinted ominously, and Whisperain's body contorted unnaturally until she was seated in a stock-standard seiza, back against the wall, appearing for all the world like she was in meditation.
"I thought you were going to modify her memory," Little Girl said, eyes on their guide.
"Never taught Espeon the skill. That kind of thing isn't really my style." The extent of his subterfuge is delaying an alarm being raised for a few hours. Standard Hypnosis is enough for that. "Besides. Memory modification is against the Indigo Legal Code. Tsk, tsk, Little Girl."
"Like you care about the law," she muttered, but her gaze moved back up to him. "I can reach the nursery from here in fifteen minutes. Should be back in forty at the most, if Espeon and I need to wait out any passersby. Miss Whisperain took us on a back path away from most traffic, so that works in our favor."
"I'll see you then," Red said, a promise. Little Girl nodded and ran.
Red took a deep breath, fortifying himself, then pushed open the door.
The Nexus chamber was a grand thing, a vertical shaft three hundred meters tall with tiered steps like an upside-down pyramid. It was hot like a sauna and nearly as humid, a tension in the air like a dragon looking over his shoulder and thick enough to cut, but he knew it was all in his mind. With every step further down, the Dragon Aura grew deeper, more potent, and he felt his pulse race. He was afraid.
Afraid of the chamber. Afraid of the Nexus. Afraid of who awaited him down there, too, and their own Aura, just as fierce and powerful. To inspire fear in others: this is the nature of the Dragon type.
Three quarters of the way down, he could go no further. He fell to a knee then onto his ass, pushed his back up against the step, and, for a minute, just… breathed.
"You never get used to it," Lance said, seated next to him cross-legged. At the deepest point, in the heart of the Nexus, a Dragonite in the Seventh Realm stood, wing beats kicking up a lazy wind.
"I'm sure Charizard… is appreciating it," Red said pointedly.
Lance was quiet for a long moment. Eventually, he said, "It was never my intention to cause Blake such pain. I did what little I could to shelter her from it. It wasn't enough."
"I'm going to be honest, Lance," Red said, voice carefully neutral. "I don't think I'm the right person to be telling this to."
"Yeah. Me neither."
They were quiet for a moment. Charizard was cultivating the Dragon Nexus with vigor, and Red should be, too, but he was too distracted. Less than twenty-four hours since he met the kid and already it's getting in the way of his advancement; if Blue were here, he would laugh himself sick. By all rights, as soon as Lance told him that he's had a Ghost tag the girl since the Fantasia Massacre, and he wants Red to step in as her mentor, he should have cut and ran.
The path to the peak of human potential is a lonely one. You could get there with the help of others, like Lance has, but it came at a cost: the kind of cost that made you watch helplessly as a kid you loved like a sister lost her family and had to scrounge for scraps in a place like Icy Path. Red much prefered the path that he, and Blue, and the Old Man took, where you relied on no one and nothing but yourself, and no one suffered the punishment of failure or earned the rewards of success but you.
He empathized with Lance. He really did. He didn't like empathizing with people, but he's been where Lance is: eager to make a change, powerful where it doesn't matter and weak where it does. And it's entirely because he understands so well that he knows the Dragon Master is betting on the wrong Rapidash.
"I was born to take over the Blackthorn clan, but I had always been exceptional, and I knew I could do so much more," Lance began, and Red sat and listened to the trainer two Realms above him.
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I was ambitious. Arrogant. These traits only made me better suited to the Dragon-type. I wanted to change things; I saw how Blackthorn City and our clan and our nation was ran, and I thought, 'I could do better;' then I thought, 'I will do better.'
My little sister, Claire, was born to helm the Rising Gym. If I were to be Champion of Indigo, though, then she would need to step up and lead the clan in my place. I couldn't do both, after all, not without dropping the ball on one. That left a vacancy in the Gym.
Blake was just Claire's attendant back then. The Fantasia clan were the only Dark specialists under the auspices of the Blackthorn, so children from that clan were raised to be servants of mine; they would protect against thieves, assassins, and spies, manage the wardings around Dragon's Den, and occasionally perform espionage. I never came to trust mine, but Claire trusted Blake. It had been her idea, in the beginning; what would be a better sign of change in Blackthorn then putting a branch clan scion in charge of the Rising Gym?
There was going to be pushback. If we were to pull this off, then Blake's cultivation had to be peerless, her team beyond reproach, and there could be no better aspirant to the position. The Fantasias didn't have the resources to invest in her as we needed, so I began spending more and more time with them. Before long, I began to see Blake as my own sister, as well.
The three of us were going to change the future, change Blackthorn. Change Indigo. I still don't know where it all went wrong.
… Blake's mother is an executive in Team Rocket. Her name is Ariana.
I see you've heard of her. She leads the Johto chapter; ironically, we've been chasing her for years.
She was the leader of the Fantasia clan's external affairs, in charge of protecting Dragon's Den from infiltration among other duties. She had been my mother's personal attendant, in their youth. It was a security breach the likes of which Blackthorn hasn't experienced in six hundred years, when we were almost destroyed by the Whitegraves. It made my mother – the Clan Head – and the Council of Elders… panic.
We mobilized within the hour. It was still enough time for the Fantasia malefactors to realize their treachery was discovered and scatter. Ariana wasn't at the compound when we arrived, and neither was half the clan. I don't know if Blake and her father being left behind was intentional or a mistake, don't know how much her father knew or, really, how much Blake knew. I want to say she was entirely ignorant, told my mother as much when she questioned me, but… in my heart of hearts, I doubted.
The others knew how close I was to Blake, and as heir, when I told them I would go after her myself, they let me. I didn't know what I would do or say as I flew after her on Dragonite. I questioned her, pleaded with her, told her I would believe whatever she had to say, and… when she told me that she knew nothing, I didn't believe her. But I couldn't kill her. Didn't have it in me.
I could sense Elder Anders approach on dragonback. I knew my clan would expect me to return with Blake's Dragonair and Deino egg, so I took those. Anders was close enough to sense her Aura, so if she was to escape alive, she… couldn't have that, either. I told her to run, then had my Drakloak – that's a half-Ghost Dragon, they're foreign – follow her, keep her safe, without her knowing. Had Dragonite blast the earth with Dragonbreath.
When Anders arrived, I told him that I gave her a Blackthorn funeral: cremation by dragonfire. He said she didn't deserve it, but I had her starter and egg, and he couldn't sense her Aura, so it all checked out and he believed me. I was still kept under a close watch all of this past month. I contented myself with the knowledge that Blake got out alive and Drakloak was keeping her safe. Told myself I didn't care if she regrouped with her mother and used what I taught her to live a life of terrorism and parasitic cultivation, so long as she was living at all.
Imagine my surprise when he returned to me yesterday, reporting a mysterious, red-eyed trainer had come across her in Icy Path, and they were plotting to steal back that egg.
I don't consider myself to be especially intelligent. I know where my strengths lie, and they aren't in schemes, or reading people, or predicting fallout. That's always been Blake's thing. Still, I know that if Blake spent this past month in Icy Path, then she couldn't have been a Rocket conspirator. That I doubted her… I'm ashamed of myself. I failed as her brother.
I intend for you to do better.
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"What's in it for me?" Red asked, because it has always been easier to play the role of greedy, self-interested trainer than admit to… anything, really. "You're asking for me to take on a lot of risk for negative gain."
"I gave your description to my secretary at dusk, and by dawn, she gave me a ten-page dossier," Lance said, and the words were a threat even if the tone wasn't. "The trainer who stormed the Rocket Base hidden under the Celadon Game Corner doesn't need an excuse to forge the daughter of an Executive into an anti-Rocket weapon."
Red acknowledged the point. He had also offered to help Blake steal a dragon egg from the Blackthorn clan and he sure as fuck wasn't getting anything out of that. "You'd be okay with that? Letting your precious sister be used like that?"
"I want her to be happy, but I know a fool's quest when I see one. She won't let herself be happy until she feels she's been properly avenged."
That made sense.
"I'm also lacking in options," Lance admitted, and that made more. "All my contacts and resources are Blackthorn, and I can't trust them with this. You were taught Pokémon lore at the knee of Champion Oak, and I witnessed your prowess in battle myself. I can trust in your strength if nothing else."
"Fine, fine, I'll do it," Red said. It had taken months of tireless effort to make Executive Archer hate him and dedicate a small Rocket team to harrassing and attempting to murder him, and though this whole adventure hadn't earned him the enmity of Lance like he hoped it would, eventually getting on Executive Ariana's shitlist makes for a decent consolation prize.
He had also meant what he said to Blake earlier, about showing up Blue and his student. Taking her on in this way may have been Lance's idea, spoken with a toothy grin during the most terrifying handshake of his life, but that made him no less genuine in meaning it.
"I'm still asking for compensation, though," Red added. "Just think of it this way: anything you give to me, you indirectly give to Blake."
Lance gave him a considering look. "It's… uncommon, but not unheard of, for the Blackthorn clan to sponsor trainers. Doing so for a Kantonian would be new, but I'm considered something of a maverick within the clan."
Red's eyes gleamed with greed.
Lance gave a small laugh and stood. "I'll leave you to your cultivation then. It's best I'm gone before Blake returns. And… thank you, Red. We'll be meeting again."
"That we will. If you're going to be Champion, I'll be coming for your throne."
"I'm looking forward to it," the Dragon Master said with an earnest smile.
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Breaking through to the Fourth Realm was easier than he thought it would be.
Charizard roared beside him, breathing dragonfire upwards, blue and sparking. As the trainer bond was meant to be, Charizard broke through the Sixth at the same time.
"Yes," he said through grit teeth, sweet triumph in his veins. "Yes! Finally."
His Aura expanded within his soul- or, rather, decompressed, from where the past few months of cultivation had seen it become tighter and denser. He could now easily release his entire team and maintain their bonds with room to spare for two more Charizards, if he so wished.
He held out a hand and cupped within it, flickered a small dragonflame. As he gazed into the fire, he could maybe, kind of, sort of understand why someone could pursue this strength to the exclusion of all else.
He shook it out, then set his finger to crackling with electric current. The infusion of Dragon-type power hadn't shifted his Aura out of alignment any, which was good.
The Old Man had all seventeen Types balanced in his soul. A worthless achievement, most people would say, but then most people weren't Champion of Indigo.
Red spent the remaining time before Blake's return in a calmer, more quiet meditation. When the tentative knock came at the door, the draconic euphoria had faded and he was left feeling… still pretty good, naturally, but he wasn't going to weird her out more than he usually does.
He looked down the steps of the Nexus chamber and wondered how much deeper he could go, now. Hesitantly, he turned and walked up instead.
Beyond the door stood Blake, looking frazzled with a black-specked egg in her arms, their Whisperain clan guide nowhere to be seen.
"Congratulations on the advancement," Blake said politely, then struggled to say anything else. Eventually, "I would like to leave, now."
Red nodded understandingly and followed her out. Blake's steps were no less sure than Whisperain's had been on the way down, but her demeanor radiated anxiety and uncertainty. Red didn't like it.
He didn't know what to do about it, though. He was never good at this kind of thing, not like Green was. He was good at cultivating, and training, and memorizing obscure Pokémon lore, not at offering comfort to traumatized teen girls. What would Green do, if she were here?
… Give her a hug, and offer to listen without judgment, then physically assault everyone who had hurt her.
Red could do one and a half of those things.
"Did something happen in the nursery?" he asked, voice inquiring but not, like, too curious.
Blake twitched. "Nothing. I handled it."
Red could still assault Ariana, at least. It was bound to happen eventually.
The trek to the surface passed in silence. The route was just as incomprehensible as it had been before, and Red still didn't know if the lack of human presence was Lance's influence or just the nature of Dragon's Den. How deep did it go, really? Blake hadn't described it except in the barest of terms. Her natural shiftiness, or lingering loyalty to Blackthorn?
Did she know her mother was a Rocket Executive?
"Did you know your mother is a Rocket Executive?"
Blake tripped and fell. She shot him a look of shock and disbelief. So, no, she didn't- unless she was surprised that he knew, not at the information itself.
"Lance told me everything," Red continued, voice pitched in a pleasant cadence. He kept walking. "He said he knew who you were, as he shook my hand, and that he was on your side and to come to Dragon's Den. Turns out he had a Ghost tailing you, so he knew all along. Surprise!"
"Why…" She hesitated, shook her head, then glared at him with a hot, Dragon-like fury. "Why are you telling me this? So you can gloat? Take my Pokémon again, leave me here, fuck off to the conference and your own hopes and dreams?"
"It would have been wrong to keep you in the dark," he said honestly. He didn't hold her rage against her; relished seeing it, even. "I'm a simple soul, Blake. I intend to reach the peak of human potential, raise a team of Seventh Realm monsters, and become Indigo Champion. No more, no less. I seek out enemies and rivalries because I believe it is through challenge and adversity that we surpass our limits. I avoid allies and friends because I was raised to think that other people could only ever hold me back.
"A few weeks ago, my oldest rival and I… no, my first friend and I, involved ourselves in a plot to destroy Team Rocket's Kanto chapter. Long story short, we publicly exposed the identity of Team Rocket's leader, Giovanni. Blue ended up taking on his son as a student. Giovanni is also the leader of the Viridian Gym, which is why I had to detour into Johto for my eighth badge.
"Near the end, I battled Giovanni one-on-one. I performed well. Damn well. Giovanni crushed me like a bug beneath his heel, and if Blue hadn't been there, despite me attempting to push him away to keep all the glory and challenge for myself, I'd be dead.
"I'm not going to say it made me reflect on my ways and decide to change. It'd be a lie. I'm… open, though, to the idea that my aversion to other people is born of my own fear, and not a logical certitude that I'd be better off alone. I refuse to be a coward. Blue challenged me to find and raise my own student, and I took him up on it. I intend for you to be that student."
Blake mulled it over. After several minutes of walking, she said, "So, ultimately, this is all about you and not about me at all."
Red laughed. "Yep. Green always said I knew how to make everything be about me."
"She sounds wise." Blake looked at him seriously, and nodded. "You're a Fourth Realm generalist with a Fifth Realm team and eight badges. You don't have any clan ties, you don't seem to have any responsibilities or obligations at all, and you're selfishly motivated to see me succeed as both a cultivator and a trainer. You're also not entirely unbearable in personality. This is probably as good as it gets, for me, so I accept. I'll do you proud, if only because I intend to do myself proud and our goals align."
"Awh, you do like me," Red cooed. He could see beyond her prickly clan-heiress attitude to the gooey feelings within! She looked up to him! She thought he was cool! "First rule of being Red's student: you have to call me big brother."
"I refuse."
"Agree to calling me your big brother and I'll give you a Lapras."
"I… I accept," she said, like the words physically pained her.
Success! "Second rule of being Red's student: you need a color name. How about Black?"
"Like Blackthorn? No."
"So you're willing to accept a color name," Red said, seizing the moment. "Yellow."
Her face scrunched up in distaste. "That's far too bright a color. I'll tolerate Gold."
"But- no, wait, this is perfect," Red realized. Blue's protégé's name was Silver. How better to tell Blue that his student was better than by naming her after the prettier, more precious metal?
Gold gave him a side-eye. "I agree, but why are you so pleased?"
"Hmm. That's a secret."
"You just said it'd be wrong to keep me in the dark-"
They didn't stop bickering once as they left Dragon's Den and Blackthorn behind.
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The Pride Before
Dragon's Den
Pokemon/Xianxia
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"I don't want it," Red whined.
"No one ever beats the Rising Gym," Little Girl said in a tone like she was explaining something very simple to a particularly stupid child. It was cute. "We intentionally raise the difficulty. They saw you had mid-to-early Fifth Realm Pokémon, so they one-upped you with mid-to-late Fifth Realm Pokémon. That you performed so well is a mark in your favor. If actually winning was a requirement for the Rising Badge, no Johtonian would ever make it to the Indigo Conference- at least, not without dipping into Kanto."
Red gave her a pitifully hopeful look. "You think I did well? Really?"
"Ah… yes?" She seemed uncertain.
"Waaah!" Red cried out melodramatically, falling to his knees next to her and grabbing onto her hand. She reared back in surprise. "My little sister is so nice to me! Whatever did I do to deserve this?!"
"Cut it out, you weirdo," she hissed, drawing her hand back.
Thirty feet away and one ridge up, the Blackthorn trainer shook his head, smiled, and continued on his walk.
Red stood back up, dusting off his pants with a casual air like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Little Girl gave him wary looks.
"Lance offered me a reward, in acknowledgement of my abilities," he lied. "I'm to visit Dragon's Den. Said that meditating on that Dragon Nexus with Charizard would help me break through into the Fourth Realm, and Charizard into the Sixth. He accepted."
"That's nice," Little Girl said. She had the good sense not to look around shiftily. A Dark Aura thing, natural talent, or a relic of her Fantasia education? He wasn't sure.
"We can steal the Deino egg then," Red said with none of her subtlety.
She hissed at him again. "Keep it down! Do you want us to get caught?"
"A little bit," he admitted, and she glowered. So cute! "Relax," he told her, drawing it out in that patronizing way he knew she hated. "Espeon is keeping watch. She always is, the creep."
"Don't say such mean things about your Pokémon," Little Girl said disapprovingly, but did indeed relax.
"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, Espeon is key. I'll bring you along because 'I can't leave her anywhere without her making a mess of the place, you know how it is,' the Blackthorn guide laughs, I laugh, Espeon hypnotizes everyone and you sneak off into Dragon's Den. You already know the layout of the place, so finding wherever they keep the eggs should be a cinch. Once you're back, I'll act like I've had some huge breakthrough with Charizard, and we'll leave in a right hurry. Check out?"
"That… should work," she said slowly, like she doesn't want to believe it but can't deny it, either. "All our anti-theft protections are in the torii gate and in the mountain's earth. We don't have much in the way of Psychic or Ghost-type guards, though we have some, and it was we Fantasia that was historically tasked with protecting it. The reason no one ever steals from the vaults or the nursery is because no one can get in or out without a pass- that, and we have a rather fearsome reputation, I suppose." That was an understatement. "When's our pass for?"
"Right now," Red admitted.
"What!"
"The best time to meditate and break through is after a good battle, when your muscles are sore and your Aura depleted," Red informed her. "It's like putting air in a balloon. It's easier to put air in an empty balloon then a full one. If Charizard and me want to acclimate to a greater level of Dragon-type power, we can't do it when our power stores are full."
"I know how breakthroughs work, I've done it before," she said disparagingly, but she was thinking. Eventually, she nodded. "Okay. You're kind of weird, but I'll trust you. I'm super dead if I get caught, so my life's in your hands, okay? I'll be in your debt forever if this works."
"I know how you can pay off that debt," Red said mysteriously, and when she blanched, his eyes widened and he waved his hands in a panic. "I meant you can become my student! I'll be your mentor! My rival Blue showed off his student last time we met and I was super jealous. He said he's a better mentor than I could ever be, and I took that personally. I want to wipe that smug smile off his stupid face. If I can teach a student that can defeat Blue's, I'll be able to hold that against him for the rest of our lives. Okay? I didn't mean anything bad!"
Slowly, she uncoiled, looking away before hesitantly meeting his eyes. He couldn't decipher the thoughts behind her cool, Ice trainer façade.
The walk to Dragon's Den was slow and awkward.
Eventually, she spoke. "Fine. I believe you. I don't know why you want a student who lost her starter and cultivation, but I'll do my best."
The joy he felt at hearing those words was entirely unlike the joy he felt in the Rising Gym, but he cherished it just as much. He'd try to be a little more straightforward with her. Not quite upright – he was still who he was, and he made no apologies for that – but like a young Pokémon, he needed to cultivate her heart and mind as much as her power.
That was a good way of looking at it, actually. He had taught all his Pokémon not just to improve their power and might, but a variety of strategies and when to use which ones, how to keep their cool in a heated battle, and the right attitude to keep morale up when faced with failure. As entertaining as messing with her was, he needed to build up her confidence, establish a bond of trust, all that jazz. He just… hasn't had to do that, in a while.
He'll work on it.
They arrived at Dragon's Den before long. There was no bridge across the small lake to the strip of land – presumably, Blackthorns landed on it on dragonback – and after looking, he saw no sign of their guard.
Charizard didn't usually consent to short flights like this, but he was eager for the chance to channel a Dragon Nexus, and he was always much more mellow after a good brawl, anyway. He let him out in a flash of red.
The fire dragon raised both arms towards the sky in a triumphant pose, flexing and stretching and breathing small plumes of smoke. He looked satisfied, content. The Blackthorn's Chansey had healed him up, so he showed few physical marks of the battle – a few scratches here, the Crunch mark on his left shoulder there – but Red could feel his Aura exhaustion.
He had the right to be happy, Red supposed. Gyarados is a tough matchup. And a Gyarados like that? Even though they lost in the end, none of his team have anything to be ashamed of. They would have won if Red had intelligently used his switch or not outmaneuvered himself into having to use a Water and Fire/Flying-type against a Kingdra and Gyarados. If he had used Blastoise and Charizard earlier, saved Pikachu for later, they could've won. Of course, he had to use Pikachu because none of his other Pokémon were small enough to pick up the Baton Pass in the Dug tunnels-
"You were amazing out there," Little Girl said with stars in her eyes, looking up at a Charizard that looked increasingly smug. "I've never seen a Charizard contest a Rain Dance while using a complicated move like Flare Blitz to its full potential. And, when you used both Dragon Claw and Thunder Punch- that Gyarados had as much Dragon in it as it did Flying, so it was the right call to make, and neither element flickered at all, despite how difficult it is to channel opposing elements like that-"
"Charizard is wonderfully trained," Red humble-bragged, not even slightly jealous of all the praise going to a prick like Charizard. Honest. "And we're going to break through to the next Realm together as soon as we get across that lake."
A rumbling laugh. Charizard knelt to allow Little Girl onto his back, which was uncharacteristically sweet of him, then he grabbed Red between his claws, which wasn't. Seconds later, they were across.
Red felt the pressure as he passed the torii gate: Ghost, mostly, with a decent amount of Psychic. Either the Dark is in the earth, was too subtle for him to notice – not impossible – or Dragon's Den is vulnerable to Dark, now that the Fantasia are all gone. He was no good at advanced sensory stuff like this.
Their guide was kneeling just beyond the first turn, in near-complete blackness. Dressed in the blue and red traditional garb of the Blackthorn clan, what might have been a kimono before centuries of minor adjustments and warfare made it almost into a tracksuit, the only thing unusual about her was that she's the first Blackthorn he's seen with only a Second Realm soul. It was primary Water, too, which made him wonder if she was from a branch clan like Little Girl. It was hard to tell without any lights save Charizard's burning tail.
"Please follow me, honored guests," she said in a pretty contralto, then rose.
Part of Dragon's Den's defense must come from its labyrinthine structure, because Red was lost in minutes. The tunnels all led deeper into the mountain, but there were numerous forks, twists, and turns, and not a single torch or electric light to be seen. Did they all navigate based on Aura sense? Red could do that in Mt Moon, but they were so close to the Dragon Nexus that all sense of detail in the Rock and Ground was overshadowed. Would he be able to look past that burning light after enough years spent in close proximity to it? How much would it change him, if he could?
There was a power in so completely giving yourself over to a single Type. Red couldn't deny that, not when twenty of the twenty-one strongest trainers in Indigo were Type Masters. He couldn't do it, though. He likes being Red, and doesn't know who'd he be if he specialized in Electric like he so easily could have. It would have made him more impulsive, obsessive, and cruel, would have made him not-Red, and the thought of his cultivation changing who he was on that fundamental level horrified him. It's why he had such a Type-diverse team, why he makes sure to cultivate even Types he doesn't have a bond with like Dragon and Ice, and why he could never understand how casually other trainers devote themselves to a single Type.
Was their guide always so zen and chill, or did she have more passion before creating for herself a soul of Water? If Little Girl still had her Dragon soul, earlier, when she told him to cut it out and called him a weirdo, would there have been real anger? He can get a rise out of her pretty easily, but her scowls and biting words lack any heat; they seem performative, even, like a habit and not an actual emotional response. Like it was her emotional response, before Lance broke her cultivation, and she started anew with Ice.
He made a mental note to make sure she cultivated more than just Ice and Dark. For her own sake. If he ever teased her and she just looked at him blankly, like Lyra Whitegrave does, he's breaking off his mentorship immediately.
With all that being said, it's time to add a twelfth Type to his hybrid soul. The Dragon Nexus awaits, hot like the core of the earth.
"The Nexus lies beyond this door, honored guests," their guide said in a hushed, reverent voice. "Neither I nor the honored trainer's sister are permitted entry. We shall wait for you here."
'Here' being yet another black stone hallway, looking clawed out of the earth rather than cut or carved, entirely lacking in decoration, light, or heat save the Dragon Nexus' ephemeral heat. He gave his 'sister' a dubious look.
"I'll be alright," Little Girl said, looking sick. "Miss Whisperain will look after me."
Their guide – presumably of the Whisperain branch clan – blinked in surprise, and Red thought, Now!
Espeon appeared in a flash of red light, and their guide fell to the floor like a doll, fast asleep. Espeon's red gem glinted ominously, and Whisperain's body contorted unnaturally until she was seated in a stock-standard seiza, back against the wall, appearing for all the world like she was in meditation.
"I thought you were going to modify her memory," Little Girl said, eyes on their guide.
"Never taught Espeon the skill. That kind of thing isn't really my style." The extent of his subterfuge is delaying an alarm being raised for a few hours. Standard Hypnosis is enough for that. "Besides. Memory modification is against the Indigo Legal Code. Tsk, tsk, Little Girl."
"Like you care about the law," she muttered, but her gaze moved back up to him. "I can reach the nursery from here in fifteen minutes. Should be back in forty at the most, if Espeon and I need to wait out any passersby. Miss Whisperain took us on a back path away from most traffic, so that works in our favor."
"I'll see you then," Red said, a promise. Little Girl nodded and ran.
Red took a deep breath, fortifying himself, then pushed open the door.
The Nexus chamber was a grand thing, a vertical shaft three hundred meters tall with tiered steps like an upside-down pyramid. It was hot like a sauna and nearly as humid, a tension in the air like a dragon looking over his shoulder and thick enough to cut, but he knew it was all in his mind. With every step further down, the Dragon Aura grew deeper, more potent, and he felt his pulse race. He was afraid.
Afraid of the chamber. Afraid of the Nexus. Afraid of who awaited him down there, too, and their own Aura, just as fierce and powerful. To inspire fear in others: this is the nature of the Dragon type.
Three quarters of the way down, he could go no further. He fell to a knee then onto his ass, pushed his back up against the step, and, for a minute, just… breathed.
"You never get used to it," Lance said, seated next to him cross-legged. At the deepest point, in the heart of the Nexus, a Dragonite in the Seventh Realm stood, wing beats kicking up a lazy wind.
"I'm sure Charizard… is appreciating it," Red said pointedly.
Lance was quiet for a long moment. Eventually, he said, "It was never my intention to cause Blake such pain. I did what little I could to shelter her from it. It wasn't enough."
"I'm going to be honest, Lance," Red said, voice carefully neutral. "I don't think I'm the right person to be telling this to."
"Yeah. Me neither."
They were quiet for a moment. Charizard was cultivating the Dragon Nexus with vigor, and Red should be, too, but he was too distracted. Less than twenty-four hours since he met the kid and already it's getting in the way of his advancement; if Blue were here, he would laugh himself sick. By all rights, as soon as Lance told him that he's had a Ghost tag the girl since the Fantasia Massacre, and he wants Red to step in as her mentor, he should have cut and ran.
The path to the peak of human potential is a lonely one. You could get there with the help of others, like Lance has, but it came at a cost: the kind of cost that made you watch helplessly as a kid you loved like a sister lost her family and had to scrounge for scraps in a place like Icy Path. Red much prefered the path that he, and Blue, and the Old Man took, where you relied on no one and nothing but yourself, and no one suffered the punishment of failure or earned the rewards of success but you.
He empathized with Lance. He really did. He didn't like empathizing with people, but he's been where Lance is: eager to make a change, powerful where it doesn't matter and weak where it does. And it's entirely because he understands so well that he knows the Dragon Master is betting on the wrong Rapidash.
"I was born to take over the Blackthorn clan, but I had always been exceptional, and I knew I could do so much more," Lance began, and Red sat and listened to the trainer two Realms above him.
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I was ambitious. Arrogant. These traits only made me better suited to the Dragon-type. I wanted to change things; I saw how Blackthorn City and our clan and our nation was ran, and I thought, 'I could do better;' then I thought, 'I will do better.'
My little sister, Claire, was born to helm the Rising Gym. If I were to be Champion of Indigo, though, then she would need to step up and lead the clan in my place. I couldn't do both, after all, not without dropping the ball on one. That left a vacancy in the Gym.
Blake was just Claire's attendant back then. The Fantasia clan were the only Dark specialists under the auspices of the Blackthorn, so children from that clan were raised to be servants of mine; they would protect against thieves, assassins, and spies, manage the wardings around Dragon's Den, and occasionally perform espionage. I never came to trust mine, but Claire trusted Blake. It had been her idea, in the beginning; what would be a better sign of change in Blackthorn then putting a branch clan scion in charge of the Rising Gym?
There was going to be pushback. If we were to pull this off, then Blake's cultivation had to be peerless, her team beyond reproach, and there could be no better aspirant to the position. The Fantasias didn't have the resources to invest in her as we needed, so I began spending more and more time with them. Before long, I began to see Blake as my own sister, as well.
The three of us were going to change the future, change Blackthorn. Change Indigo. I still don't know where it all went wrong.
… Blake's mother is an executive in Team Rocket. Her name is Ariana.
I see you've heard of her. She leads the Johto chapter; ironically, we've been chasing her for years.
She was the leader of the Fantasia clan's external affairs, in charge of protecting Dragon's Den from infiltration among other duties. She had been my mother's personal attendant, in their youth. It was a security breach the likes of which Blackthorn hasn't experienced in six hundred years, when we were almost destroyed by the Whitegraves. It made my mother – the Clan Head – and the Council of Elders… panic.
We mobilized within the hour. It was still enough time for the Fantasia malefactors to realize their treachery was discovered and scatter. Ariana wasn't at the compound when we arrived, and neither was half the clan. I don't know if Blake and her father being left behind was intentional or a mistake, don't know how much her father knew or, really, how much Blake knew. I want to say she was entirely ignorant, told my mother as much when she questioned me, but… in my heart of hearts, I doubted.
The others knew how close I was to Blake, and as heir, when I told them I would go after her myself, they let me. I didn't know what I would do or say as I flew after her on Dragonite. I questioned her, pleaded with her, told her I would believe whatever she had to say, and… when she told me that she knew nothing, I didn't believe her. But I couldn't kill her. Didn't have it in me.
I could sense Elder Anders approach on dragonback. I knew my clan would expect me to return with Blake's Dragonair and Deino egg, so I took those. Anders was close enough to sense her Aura, so if she was to escape alive, she… couldn't have that, either. I told her to run, then had my Drakloak – that's a half-Ghost Dragon, they're foreign – follow her, keep her safe, without her knowing. Had Dragonite blast the earth with Dragonbreath.
When Anders arrived, I told him that I gave her a Blackthorn funeral: cremation by dragonfire. He said she didn't deserve it, but I had her starter and egg, and he couldn't sense her Aura, so it all checked out and he believed me. I was still kept under a close watch all of this past month. I contented myself with the knowledge that Blake got out alive and Drakloak was keeping her safe. Told myself I didn't care if she regrouped with her mother and used what I taught her to live a life of terrorism and parasitic cultivation, so long as she was living at all.
Imagine my surprise when he returned to me yesterday, reporting a mysterious, red-eyed trainer had come across her in Icy Path, and they were plotting to steal back that egg.
I don't consider myself to be especially intelligent. I know where my strengths lie, and they aren't in schemes, or reading people, or predicting fallout. That's always been Blake's thing. Still, I know that if Blake spent this past month in Icy Path, then she couldn't have been a Rocket conspirator. That I doubted her… I'm ashamed of myself. I failed as her brother.
I intend for you to do better.
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"What's in it for me?" Red asked, because it has always been easier to play the role of greedy, self-interested trainer than admit to… anything, really. "You're asking for me to take on a lot of risk for negative gain."
"I gave your description to my secretary at dusk, and by dawn, she gave me a ten-page dossier," Lance said, and the words were a threat even if the tone wasn't. "The trainer who stormed the Rocket Base hidden under the Celadon Game Corner doesn't need an excuse to forge the daughter of an Executive into an anti-Rocket weapon."
Red acknowledged the point. He had also offered to help Blake steal a dragon egg from the Blackthorn clan and he sure as fuck wasn't getting anything out of that. "You'd be okay with that? Letting your precious sister be used like that?"
"I want her to be happy, but I know a fool's quest when I see one. She won't let herself be happy until she feels she's been properly avenged."
That made sense.
"I'm also lacking in options," Lance admitted, and that made more. "All my contacts and resources are Blackthorn, and I can't trust them with this. You were taught Pokémon lore at the knee of Champion Oak, and I witnessed your prowess in battle myself. I can trust in your strength if nothing else."
"Fine, fine, I'll do it," Red said. It had taken months of tireless effort to make Executive Archer hate him and dedicate a small Rocket team to harrassing and attempting to murder him, and though this whole adventure hadn't earned him the enmity of Lance like he hoped it would, eventually getting on Executive Ariana's shitlist makes for a decent consolation prize.
He had also meant what he said to Blake earlier, about showing up Blue and his student. Taking her on in this way may have been Lance's idea, spoken with a toothy grin during the most terrifying handshake of his life, but that made him no less genuine in meaning it.
"I'm still asking for compensation, though," Red added. "Just think of it this way: anything you give to me, you indirectly give to Blake."
Lance gave him a considering look. "It's… uncommon, but not unheard of, for the Blackthorn clan to sponsor trainers. Doing so for a Kantonian would be new, but I'm considered something of a maverick within the clan."
Red's eyes gleamed with greed.
Lance gave a small laugh and stood. "I'll leave you to your cultivation then. It's best I'm gone before Blake returns. And… thank you, Red. We'll be meeting again."
"That we will. If you're going to be Champion, I'll be coming for your throne."
"I'm looking forward to it," the Dragon Master said with an earnest smile.
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Breaking through to the Fourth Realm was easier than he thought it would be.
Charizard roared beside him, breathing dragonfire upwards, blue and sparking. As the trainer bond was meant to be, Charizard broke through the Sixth at the same time.
"Yes," he said through grit teeth, sweet triumph in his veins. "Yes! Finally."
His Aura expanded within his soul- or, rather, decompressed, from where the past few months of cultivation had seen it become tighter and denser. He could now easily release his entire team and maintain their bonds with room to spare for two more Charizards, if he so wished.
He held out a hand and cupped within it, flickered a small dragonflame. As he gazed into the fire, he could maybe, kind of, sort of understand why someone could pursue this strength to the exclusion of all else.
He shook it out, then set his finger to crackling with electric current. The infusion of Dragon-type power hadn't shifted his Aura out of alignment any, which was good.
The Old Man had all seventeen Types balanced in his soul. A worthless achievement, most people would say, but then most people weren't Champion of Indigo.
Red spent the remaining time before Blake's return in a calmer, more quiet meditation. When the tentative knock came at the door, the draconic euphoria had faded and he was left feeling… still pretty good, naturally, but he wasn't going to weird her out more than he usually does.
He looked down the steps of the Nexus chamber and wondered how much deeper he could go, now. Hesitantly, he turned and walked up instead.
Beyond the door stood Blake, looking frazzled with a black-specked egg in her arms, their Whisperain clan guide nowhere to be seen.
"Congratulations on the advancement," Blake said politely, then struggled to say anything else. Eventually, "I would like to leave, now."
Red nodded understandingly and followed her out. Blake's steps were no less sure than Whisperain's had been on the way down, but her demeanor radiated anxiety and uncertainty. Red didn't like it.
He didn't know what to do about it, though. He was never good at this kind of thing, not like Green was. He was good at cultivating, and training, and memorizing obscure Pokémon lore, not at offering comfort to traumatized teen girls. What would Green do, if she were here?
… Give her a hug, and offer to listen without judgment, then physically assault everyone who had hurt her.
Red could do one and a half of those things.
"Did something happen in the nursery?" he asked, voice inquiring but not, like, too curious.
Blake twitched. "Nothing. I handled it."
Red could still assault Ariana, at least. It was bound to happen eventually.
The trek to the surface passed in silence. The route was just as incomprehensible as it had been before, and Red still didn't know if the lack of human presence was Lance's influence or just the nature of Dragon's Den. How deep did it go, really? Blake hadn't described it except in the barest of terms. Her natural shiftiness, or lingering loyalty to Blackthorn?
Did she know her mother was a Rocket Executive?
"Did you know your mother is a Rocket Executive?"
Blake tripped and fell. She shot him a look of shock and disbelief. So, no, she didn't- unless she was surprised that he knew, not at the information itself.
"Lance told me everything," Red continued, voice pitched in a pleasant cadence. He kept walking. "He said he knew who you were, as he shook my hand, and that he was on your side and to come to Dragon's Den. Turns out he had a Ghost tailing you, so he knew all along. Surprise!"
"Why…" She hesitated, shook her head, then glared at him with a hot, Dragon-like fury. "Why are you telling me this? So you can gloat? Take my Pokémon again, leave me here, fuck off to the conference and your own hopes and dreams?"
"It would have been wrong to keep you in the dark," he said honestly. He didn't hold her rage against her; relished seeing it, even. "I'm a simple soul, Blake. I intend to reach the peak of human potential, raise a team of Seventh Realm monsters, and become Indigo Champion. No more, no less. I seek out enemies and rivalries because I believe it is through challenge and adversity that we surpass our limits. I avoid allies and friends because I was raised to think that other people could only ever hold me back.
"A few weeks ago, my oldest rival and I… no, my first friend and I, involved ourselves in a plot to destroy Team Rocket's Kanto chapter. Long story short, we publicly exposed the identity of Team Rocket's leader, Giovanni. Blue ended up taking on his son as a student. Giovanni is also the leader of the Viridian Gym, which is why I had to detour into Johto for my eighth badge.
"Near the end, I battled Giovanni one-on-one. I performed well. Damn well. Giovanni crushed me like a bug beneath his heel, and if Blue hadn't been there, despite me attempting to push him away to keep all the glory and challenge for myself, I'd be dead.
"I'm not going to say it made me reflect on my ways and decide to change. It'd be a lie. I'm… open, though, to the idea that my aversion to other people is born of my own fear, and not a logical certitude that I'd be better off alone. I refuse to be a coward. Blue challenged me to find and raise my own student, and I took him up on it. I intend for you to be that student."
Blake mulled it over. After several minutes of walking, she said, "So, ultimately, this is all about you and not about me at all."
Red laughed. "Yep. Green always said I knew how to make everything be about me."
"She sounds wise." Blake looked at him seriously, and nodded. "You're a Fourth Realm generalist with a Fifth Realm team and eight badges. You don't have any clan ties, you don't seem to have any responsibilities or obligations at all, and you're selfishly motivated to see me succeed as both a cultivator and a trainer. You're also not entirely unbearable in personality. This is probably as good as it gets, for me, so I accept. I'll do you proud, if only because I intend to do myself proud and our goals align."
"Awh, you do like me," Red cooed. He could see beyond her prickly clan-heiress attitude to the gooey feelings within! She looked up to him! She thought he was cool! "First rule of being Red's student: you have to call me big brother."
"I refuse."
"Agree to calling me your big brother and I'll give you a Lapras."
"I… I accept," she said, like the words physically pained her.
Success! "Second rule of being Red's student: you need a color name. How about Black?"
"Like Blackthorn? No."
"So you're willing to accept a color name," Red said, seizing the moment. "Yellow."
Her face scrunched up in distaste. "That's far too bright a color. I'll tolerate Gold."
"But- no, wait, this is perfect," Red realized. Blue's protégé's name was Silver. How better to tell Blue that his student was better than by naming her after the prettier, more precious metal?
Gold gave him a side-eye. "I agree, but why are you so pleased?"
"Hmm. That's a secret."
"You just said it'd be wrong to keep me in the dark-"
They didn't stop bickering once as they left Dragon's Den and Blackthorn behind.
Pokemon - Claw Six Feet Up 0-1
SolarFall
Totally not a cat in disguise.
I wrote this one before The Pride Before, and it's lacking the Xianxia elements or... any plan of where it would go, actually. The sister-brother dynamic, some worldbuilding, and some of the Aura mechanics survived through to The Pride Before, but I ultimately abandoned most of the emotional themes. There's ~2k more after this I probably won't post, seeing as it's just the family saying goodbye in their dysfunctional way, and then I promptly stalled for months.
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Claw Six Feet Up
Pokemon AU
Indigo Plateau
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"Gengar."
There was a flash of red, then a mass of purple shadow appeared on the battlefield. It writhed more like a stormcloud than a thing alive, burning red eyes and too-wide toothy grins appearing here and there on its form. By the time wispy legs and arms stretched out from the mass, two of each and for a flicker of a moment three or even four, the Ghost's challenger was well and truly intimidated- the scarred, spade-tailed Houndoom pressing his belly to the ground and growling. Amelia understood. Even a weak, unmotivated Ghost can birth nightmares with a touch, and Agatha's Gengar reigns supreme over all of its type on the continent.
Amelia couldn't look away as the one-sided slaughter began. Ten thousand people had gathered in the stands to watch the Indigo Conference Champion challenge Agatha of the Elite Four, each attempting to outcheer and outscream the rest, but Amelia felt isolated- all she could hear was the drumbeat of her heart in her ears, feel the scratchy fabric of her dress between her fingers, taste the acrid tang of Ghost power in the air. She had come to witness the ultimate evolution of the Ghost-type, see the peak she had yet to climb, and every move and flex of its power both terrified her and ignited her ambition.
The challenger's Houndoom was a beast, having taken down two of Elite Four Lorelei's Ice-types by itself with vigor to spare. Gengar wasn't impressed; its laughter never abated, echoing and high-pitched and heavy with Ghost power that wrecked havoc on Houndoom's soul and mind. Every time a Dark Pulse or Flamethrower punctured Gengar's form, the Ghost evaporated and left its smile for last, mocking and taunting. To the uninitiated – and, indeed, most who were watching today – Gengar seemed on the backfoot, never launching an attack of its own, but Amelia could recognize the tell-tale signs of a Curse on Houndoom, like a fatal illness on fast-forward.
Houndoom was fighting an enemy that couldn't be touched, could be in multiple places at once or in his shadow or underneath the ground, that could turn his body against itself and that reveled in his suffering. A Gengar was a malevolent demon, a nightmare in the waking world, and there was little even a Dark Specialist like Karen could do. Within two or three minutes, Houndoom collapsed like a ragdoll, bleeding from old scars and wounds it had never gotten.
Karen sent out the rest of her team. Mightyena, Umbreon, Honchkrow, Weavile, Crawdaunt- none could lay so much as a single blow on Agatha's Gengar. For a Conference Champion that had defeated all challengers across the continent and the first of the Elite Four, it was a humiliating defeat.
Amelia watched it all with ambition. Agatha had been a fixture of the Elite Four since it was founded eighty years ago, but exposure to Ghost power could sustain her life for only so long. One day – maybe not this year, or even this decade, but soon – Agatha's time would come. When it did, Amelia intended to be there.
She would become the continent's premier Ghost Master.
Or she would die again trying.
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Amelia, like many Ghosts, had dim memories of her past life.
She remembered growing flowers and watching sunsets and hot chocolate. She remembered warm hugs, genuine love, honest affection. She remembered growing up and getting old and waiting, waiting, waiting. She remembered this is it, one last breath, beep-beep-beeeep.
She remembered the Distortion World. Time didn't flow in the Distortion World, but the longer she lingered, the more her past life faded, became colder. By the time she found her way out, she no longer had any desire to leave. Neither did she have desire to stay, and idle curiosity saw her passing through to the Material Realms once more.
A Ghost and a Pokemon but not a particular Ghost-type Pokemon, she found it difficult to remain cohesive in the Material Realm. There were… grooves, divots, in the slate of reality, and like water flowing downhill she found herself spilling into them. She was halfway to becoming a Misdreavus when she realized what they were- molds, the hollowed-out shape of a Pokemon, skin but no substance. When wet clay is poured into a mold of a pot, when does it stop being clay and start being a pot? As a cloud of deathly energy and psychic impulses she was Louise, though that construction came closer to toppling every day, but if her shape was forced into that of a Misdreavus, a Misdreavus she would become.
It scared her. She, who devoured the emotions of the unwary out of envy for what she could no longer feel; she, who had died already, was afraid of dying again.
… Perhaps that's why, as she consumed the fear, regret, and sorrow of a dying girl, that she did what she did.
(Or, maybe, the dying girl said all the right – or wrong – words. They had conversed, this they remember, but what was said, they don't recall. And no one else was in the room when it happened.)
It was her hope – and what a nostalgic feeling! – that wearing the girl like a cloak would protect her from dissolution. That her heartbeat and vitality and aura would be a cliff's edge for her to hang on to, such that she didn't fall back into the mold of Misdreavus. Instead, Amelia became Louise's new mold- and, before either of them could protest, two had become one.
How much of them was Louise, and how much Amelia Whitegrave? Who knows.
But everyone would know their name, regardless.
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She was grounded for sneaking out of the house.
"I disagree with this punishment," she said pointlessly.
"Your mother and I understand why you disagree," Father said, will like an iron wall, "And your need to escape the house every once in a while is valid. However."
Amelia gave up the argument. When Father says 'however,' there is no convincing him. There is human stubborn, and then there is Steel Specialist stubborn – she'd have greater luck squeezing blood out of his Aggron.
Father saw this and finished his declaration anyway, the tyrant. "You didn't bring any Pokemon guards, and your Dusk Pendant wouldn't stop a powerful or determined enough Psychic-type from whisking you away. You have enemies: monsters who wouldn't hesitate to use you for their own ends. If you were abducted, we'd be lucky if they only ransomed you back, and what do we say about luck?"
"The Blackthorns stole it all," Amelia answered dutifully.
"Exactly. If you wanted to see Agatha, all you had to do was say and we could've reserved a box."
And then Father would've been there, and Mother, and Grayson, and Mouser, and Shazam, and about six men in sunglasses and black outfits, each with a Ghost in their shadow or a Psychic behind a Light Screen. Attending the Elite match with an entourage defeated the entire point. How can she determine if she wants the freedom of becoming a Pokemon trainer if she can't taste that freedom for even a moment? How could a human know the god's ambrosia is worth dying for, if they're not allowed a single sip?
Becoming a trainer had been Amelia's dream, once. That dream had been lost in the possession. She had snuck out to see if the shadow of that dream yet remained- and in so doing, had discovered a burning ambition to become something, someone. Amelia and Louise had both been dreamers, but neither had been ambitious. This- this was something new, something that had not merely survived the possession, but been born from it. It was the first proof she discovered that she was not merely the sum of her shattered parts, but something greater.
She had to pursue it. It would be a betrayal of both Amelia and Louise if she didn't.
Father saw this in her eyes. He sighed. Perhaps he, too, knew the signs of a Whitegrave drawing a line in the sand- and though a Ghost Specialist was less stubborn than a Steel, they were no less tenacious.
She said the words anyway. "I want to participate in the next Circuit."
"Fine," he said, and Amelia could almost taste the ashes that must be on his tongue. "However."
Amelia blinked slowly. "I'll abide… reasonable conditions."
It was better than slipping away in the middle of the night, and they both knew she would. The League didn't require parental permission, and she would be of-age – fourteen – before February. Besides.
A Ghost couldn't be caged for long.
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Clad in pricey athletic wear just the right shade of blue to bring some color out of her slate-gray eyes, her blonde hair in a tail and her Pikachu doll held in both hands, Amelia felt out of place.
It was bright out. Brilliant, even. The sun had risen not half an hour ago, casting warmth and malevolent light across the snowy park behind their manse, and though she wanted to be inside she had promised. Her word meant little to her, but her relationship with her steel wall of a father meant much, and this was a much more reasonable condition than she rightfully expected.
"We'll start with some stretches: they're the most important part of a workout. After, we'll run a lap to warm our blood, and then we'll begin for real. Do try your hardest, darling. If you slack off, Shazam will know."
Amelia gave her mother a dry look. "How much did you bribe him to be awake at this hour?" And was it more or less than it would've cost to hire an actual physical trainer, she didn't ask.
"It is uncouth to pry into the bond between a trainer and her Pokemon."
So, a lot.
Mother ran her hard- whether out of a genuine desire to prepare her for the rigors of a Journey, sadistic amusement, or as petty revenge for the comment, Amelia didn't know and didn't care to figure out. It was likely a mixture of all three and more besides. Psychic Specialists were like that, saying one thing and meaning three other things and that first thing too, sometimes. If Amelia held affinity for the Dark type, she might be able to twist her own mind into a pretzel to induce some kind of comprehension, or just intuit it based off of vibes, but Amelia had long ago given up on understanding how her mother worked.
… That was common among Psychics and their families, Amelia had learned. It had only gotten worse when Amelia's gentle Fairy and Water affinities had been consumed by a near-overwhelming Ghost affinity. While Dark-types could bend and twist themselves to present their minds a certain way, Ghost-types were just static, screaming, and raw emotion. Some Psychics claimed that Ghost Specialists didn't think or reason at all, their higher brain function devoured piecemeal by their own wicked type energies, acting entirely off instinct and animal cunning. If her mother held that belief, Amelia didn't know.
So, as she worked herself into a sprawling mess on the snow an hour later, slick with hot sweat and panting like a dog, she minded the physical exercise a lot less than she had expected. It was time spent with her mother. That had been uncommon for a few years now, and was only liable to become as rare as Milotic once she set off in three months.
She had to do this three times a week? That's thirty-six hours. If Father's other conditions were like this, then she might need to try the emotional honesty thing more often.
"What starter do you want, darling?"
Amelia blinked, but wasn't surprised. Sudden changes in topic were common for Mother. "I don't suppose a Spiritomb is on the shortlist."
"Unlikely, seeing as I don't recognize the species," Mother said through a smile. "We can do rare and we can do foreign, but both is a bit much even on our badget, sweet thing."
Figures. With a little experimentation and a lot more power, she could probably create one, anyway.
"If you need time to think about it, that's fine," Mother continued, "But keep in mind that the sooner you tell us, the sooner we can acquire one, and the sooner we can begin training. The Indigo Conference is only eleven months away!"
Amelia sat up and immediately fell back into her slouch. "I don't need time. Sableye. They're Hoennian."
"I'm familiar. Dark primary- a good choice. Your affinity allows you to fight back against hostile Psychics, but a little Dark stealth… as they say, an ounce of prevention. Gender, age, pedigree?"
"Don't care, an egg, don't care. At least a month away from hatching, please."
"Consider it done, darling. I've always loved Sableye, they have the most gorgeous eyes." Mother paused for a moment, maybe to ask why so long from hatching, maybe something else. "If you have any questions about the Circuit, I'm an open book."
Amelia didn't have any, but she made some up anyway.
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Amelia's brother is the most intolerable fool in Kanto.
"-and that's when Mouser revealed she knew Stored Power. The blast of Psychic energy almost tore the poor Arbok to shreds, for a moment there I was worried she had killed the damn thing! Of course, the League has the best medical care, and in the end, I had the Soul Badge and a new fan in Koga's daughter. She really took a shine to me, and I was quite flattered… of course, I had one more badge to collect off in Cinnabar, and the Conference was only a month out, so it couldn't be. Ah, and here I am rambling on! What were we talking about?"
"A Chandelure in the Safari Zone," Amelia prompted.
"Ah, yes. Unfortunately, it was just a Misdreavus with Will-o-Wisp, I was really quite disappointed, if I brought back a Chandelure for my sweet little sister I would've been the best big brother in Kanto! No, all of Indigo! Not that I already aren't. That swaggering Blackthorn moron doesn't hold a candle to my big-brothering bonfire-"
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Day after day passed in a kind of mind-numbing rhythm. She'd spend the mornings with Mother or Father, either exhausting her body or her mind, until she knew every route and danger-spot in Kanto and the certitude she could run them all faster than an Arcanine. In the afternoons, she studied for the Trainer Licensure Exam, mostly playing catch-up as until this point she had been in tutoring to join the family business. At night, when the manse fell quiet and the only light and sound came from a burning candle and her own breath, she played with her aura.
Trained. She trained her aura. It wasn't easy. Some days, she wished she had caved and let Father hire a Specialist to instruct her in the auric arts. Amelia never let the dangerous thought become more than just that- Steels and Fires and even Psychics like Mother might be able to reach phantasmal tendrils into each other's souls and play guide, but Ghosts like Amelia didn't have it so easy. If ever another Ghost Specialist cupped her soul in their hands, Amelia would be far too terrified of them taking a bite to learn a single thing.
Amelia stared into the candle flame. It had been one of her brother's few good ideas, though she wasn't using it the way he did. She didn't become the fire, or make the shadows it cast dance, but instead kept her eyes on the wax- watched as the fire ate, and ate, and ate, and the candle shortened inch by inch.
She fed herself to the candle flame, and as it grew bigger, brighter, hungrier, she felt cold. Her breath misted in the air, and for a split-second she feared she would fall through the bed and into the kitchens below again. She kept her body in the Material while willing her soul out of it, and as frost crept across her bedsheets and her conscious mind was consumed by the dark desires underneath, Amelia fell to pieces.
To the north-east, Mother made a carnival of dolls dance while in meditation with Shazam. Which limbs each controlled differed between dolls, but the synchronicity was at most a hair off, and as the reenactment of Beauregard's Disaster Foretold progressed towards the final act more dolls joined the fray. On impulse she knocked the Absol doll on its side, and Mother knocked on the side of her soul in a chiding manner.
To the south, Father signed paperwork at his desk, muttering promises of retribution as he once more lamented becoming a businessman and not opening up a Gym. His soul was a pillar of shining steel, unyielding and reflective, and she reared back from her own haunting visage. Father didn't notice, soul as unfeeling and insensitive as the rest of his personality.
To the west, Grayson burned.
Amelia sucked in a breath and with it, the vapor-cloud of her soul and Ghostly energies. The breath quickly became two and three, four, five, rapidfire, before her heart calmed and she reached blindly for the hot chocolate on her bedside. The warmth chased away the Ghostly frost on her inside, and the sweetness cemented her in the here-and-now.
… Grayson was an intolerable fool. His soul, though, was the warmest, brightest thing she had ever felt, and it never failed to jolt her out of a trance. His presence in the manse was the only reason she could practice so brazenly. Without a safeguard like him around, she might become one of the horror stories mothers tell their children about those unlucky few with too strong of a Ghost affinity.
Amelia wanted to be a horror story. She didn't want to be a tragic one, though.
"… I'm scared," she admitted. Voicing it aloud felt like a betrayal and a release, all at once.
Her Pikachu doll had fallen on the floor during her astral projection. She picked it up, dusted it off, then held it in what would have been a bone-creaking hug. It… helped. Her doll wasn't as warm as a real Pikachu would be, but she didn't want a real Pikachu anyway, and her mother had knit it for her when she was a child, frail and infirm and one step closer to death with every hospital stay.
"I'm scared, Cherish," she said again, a little stronger. "Sometimes I wish that I was born healthier, so Louise never came for me and I still had Water and Fairy affinities. Maybe more than sometimes. I'm sure Mother could source me a Popplio, and I would learn to sing along with it when it became a Primarina, and I'd catch a Marill, and Father would hatch me a Mawile and we'd bond over its shared types, and we can afford a Prism Scale for a Milotic, and we'd perform in as many Contests as we fought in Gyms, and bring honor to the Whitegraves in a way my brother couldn't…"
She took another sip of her hot chocolate. Then another, and another, and soon enough it was all gone, and as she looked into the empty mug she wanted to cry.
"This is the part where I say this is unlike a Ghost specialist, but it actually is," she said with an unhappy laugh. "We're the weepy, anxious sort, in our head when we're not out of our bodies, and I never feel more attuned to my affinity then when I'm stewing in regret that it's my affinity at all. A normal girl wouldn't be this miserable and spiteful at fourteen, but a normal girl wouldn't accept a Ghost into her soul, would she?
"Brother offered to help me work through it. Mother offered a more active solution. Father would hire the finest therapists money could buy. None of them get it, of course- not a drop of Ghost in any of their souls. If I worked through my nonsense, learned to let go and move on and all that cheery foolishness, then I'd grow weaker, and I wouldn't achieve my dream. I'm a Ghost. Pain is power, and power is pain… the more twisted my head is, the more in tune with this type I am. Why ever would I fix myself?
"But, Cherish. You love me anyways, don't you? Spite and curses and all."
Cherish didn't nod, or shake her head. Of course she didn't. She's a doll.
Amelia smiled. She pressed a sweet kiss to Cherish's head, right between the cloth Pikachu ears, and sank back into a trance.
It was dangerous, but being weak around a full team of Ghosts was infinitely more so. If she wanted to raise nightmares the rival of Agatha's, then she had to be strong enough they wouldn't eat her, first.
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The Sableye egg arrived on a Friday.
"If you need any advice on caring for an egg, don't hesitate to come ask your big brother!" Grayson said boisterously. He had volunteered to fly out on Regal and pick it up, saving her the frustration of having to wait until Monday for a delivery, so she allowed him a few minutes to talk himself up. Never let it be said she was an ungrateful sister. "Why, I raised Mouser from an egg myself when I was only a little older than you are now, and I picked up a dozen or three tricks to smooth the process along. If you want a Fire-type to curl up around it every now and then to shave a few days off, just say the word, sweet sister, and you'll have your choice of six to do the deed. Except Spitfire, she'll probably eat it."
"Warming up a Sableye egg will kill it," Amelia said matter-of-factly.
Grayson floundered for a bit before making a ludicrous promise to catch an Ice-type. Amelia hid a smile.
True to Mother's word, the egg didn't hatch for almost five weeks. Her whole life had to be structured around the egg, and she knew it would only get worse once it hatched. When she exercised with her mother or sat across from her father, the egg was there, kept in a box for shade and fed ice cubes through a latch in the side every few hours. When she studied in the library or talked to Cherish on her bed or… well, she didn't do anything else, really, the egg was there.
"I hope you don't feel jealous," Amelia told Cherish, one day. "There's no need, really. Sableye will learn to confide in you as I have, and you'll always be my first friend, okay? I'll always love and have time for you, so don't go feeling neglected, now."
With two months and change left until the next League season, she plotted out her Journey. Her family each had different, often conflicting advice for how to go about it, and the many books and journals in the house library offered another thousand perspectives besides.
Father seemed to have his finger on the pulse of popular opinion on the subject: a Journey lived and died on preparation and foreknowledge, and a trainer with a heavy pack, thorough plan, and reasonable limits was a successful trainer. He sat down with her and helped her plot out a route through each of Kanto's eight badge-holding settlements, ignoring the lesser Gyms with all the thoughtless condescension of an ex-Ace. His plan was around seven pages long, detailed enough to include the departure and arrival dates for convoys and transport ships, and with multiple sub-plans should she need to switch direction on a dime seven or so months in the future. Amelia almost felt bad for her intention to utterly disregard it and travel entirely off vibes.
Mother's advice was both more and less practical: "Decide what six Pokemon your Conference team will include," she had said, "And then acquire those Pokemon as quickly as you can." The longer she has the Pokemon in her roster, the more time she has to train them up to a Conference standard, and the less likely she is to be one of those moronic greenhorns who have three or even four competitive Pokemon and two that just aren't up to snuff. There's nothing more humiliating than losing to an inferior Trainer in front of the entire continent because of something so ludicrous as time constraints. (Amelia politely didn't inquire into her own Conference performance.)
Grayson's advice was the simplest, as she had expected, but also well-thought out and philosophical, which she hadn't. His Journey was the cause of his glorious transformation from boy-with-potential to man-of-talent (his words), but it wasn't because of Gym victories, the accumulation of power, or even his admittedly impressive showing on the world stage, but because of the experiences he had and the freedom that had allowed him to have them. He told a long, intricately detailed story about getting lost in Mt. Moon and not being able to find his way out for three months, which had given him only three more to collect six badges if he wanted to complete the Circuit in time for the Conference.
Amelia remembered that time, vaguely. It was before the possession and so fractured, but both of their parents had been sick with worry, and Amelia herself had become increasingly convinced that her brother was dead or worse. It had been a dark time, and the stress had driven her into the hospital more than usual.
"I found Spitfire in those tunnels, back when she was only a Magby," he continued, "And though she's become the powerhouse of my team and I love her dearly- she's not the most valuable thing to happen to me in those months. With my flashlight out of battery, rations long gone, and all attempts to navigate foiled by Ghosts and wicked Clefairy, I fell to despair. In that time, I wasn't the heir of our Whitegrave branch, or a future Fire Specialist, or a Championship competitor: I was just Grayson, a human in a world of beings with real power, and everything else was just so much dross. That experience woke me up, and I emerged a grown man."
Grayson gazed into the middle distance, eyes shadowed over by haunting memories. In that moment, Amelia realized that for all his wacky tales and childish antics, he very rarely mentioned Mt. Moon at all.
Then he grinned. "I looked so cool there, didn't I, Amelia?! Come on! Admit your big brother is cool!"
"Never!"
That night, as she brainstormed with Cherish and wrote notes in her journal by candlelight, she flipped to the page marked JOURNEY PLANS and underlined twice. Underneath it, she wrote:
Go wherever. Try and hit one Gym a month so you're not left floundering like Grayson.
"Spontaneity doesn't come naturally," she admitted to Cherish, "But maybe it's something I could learn? Calculated plans aren't really a Ghostly thing anyway."
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The Sableye egg hatched fifty-one days before the League season.
No one was there but her and Cherish when it happened. This was normal; Pokemon have a rudimentary sense of their surroundings before they hatch, and rare is the Ghost who wants an audience while they're weak. It was also why she was never further than ten yards or so at all times, lest she return to a cracked egg and a missing Darkness Pokemon.
The Sableye punched a purple hand through the side, and huffed and growled in exertion as they tried in vain to tear the hole wider. After about two minutes and numerous failed attempts, the baby gave a cry of frustration and phased through the eggshell; the cry turned to a noise of triumph. The Sableye's first act in life was shoving his egg off the side of her bed and pouncing on its shattered pieces, stuffing yolk in his mouth with violent ferocity.
Amelia hid a smile behind her doll. The Sableye was nine inches tall and maybe ten pounds at most, a roughly-humanoid purple blob with eyes of infinite darkness. He was adorable.
She held out a hand, palm up and full of synthetic gems. The Sableye – her Sableye – cocked its head curiously, hearing the clink of precious gems and doubtless experiencing the happy-feelings his instincts pair with that sound. He turned to her fully, gaze switching between her face and the gems in her hand and back again. She could almost hear the cogs in his brain grind.
He wasn't going to ask for the stones. They're valuable, and someone else has them; ergo, he won't be given them. Such is the reasoning of a Dark- and Ghost-type Pokemon. No, two minutes old and he's planning his first heist.
She could give them to him. It'd be a bad idea, but it would make him stick around long enough for a bond to form, maybe. She doesn't want to earn her Pokémon's attention by being an easy mark, though. Other trainers might be able to earn their Pokemon's loyalty through kindness and charm, but that wasn't going to work on a Sableye.
The Sableye made his move. He leapt, Dark energies propelling his body more than his physical strength, cutting through the air towards her gem-filled hand with speed. Amelia was disappointed; then he fell through the bed's shadow and emerged from her's, stubby hand streaking for the treasures at an angle.
"Good attempt," she praised honestly. It wasn't quite a Shadow Sneak, but the precursor to the Ghost-type staple move and a good omen. She was excited to train the little guy and take him all the way to the Conference and beyond.
It wasn't enough to let the gems be stolen, though; if they were, then the Sableye would never respect her. When his purple hand was inches away from hers, she called on her own Ghostly energies to turn her hand phantasmal. The gems fell right through her flesh and were caught by her other hand before they could land in her lap.
The Sableye clasped her hand and stopped, surprised. He inspected her hand with a squinty look, increasingly frustrated and confused, as if expecting to find a ruby inbetween her fingers.
She waved the gems in the air with her off hand, smug smile on her face. "If you want them, you'll have to earn them," she taunted.
Thus began a game of keep-away she knew would only be the first of many. It ended several minutes later with her cute little Sableye spread-eagled on her bedsheets, panting for breath and glaring at her and the gems still in her hand. She smiled, more kind this time.
"Let's make a deal, okay? I'll give you a list of things you must do, and in exchange, you'll get these gems, and many more in the future. Okay?"
Eagerly, the Sableye nodded.
"I'm what's called a Pokemon Trainer. I raise Pokemon – like you, dear! – into powerful battlers. I'll teach you to be strong, will feed you, provide direction, and, yes, give you lots of gems to keep, polish, and eat. In exchange, you protect me from harm and listen to my every command. Sound like a good deal?"
The Sableye thought for a long few seconds, but she knew he was just playacting. He already decided. Before long, he was making grabbing motions towards the gems.
"Ah, ah! To seal the deal, we both need to touch the Sacred Ball, okay?"
Amelia took a Premier Ball from her nightstand drawer and set it between them, keeping her face as solemn as she could. She angled it just so, then pressed her finger on the side. Impatiently, her Sableye reached out-
And pressed the button.
He disappeared in a flash of red light.
She giggled. It would have been cruel to do this to an Eevee like her brother hatched, but a Dark type? A little deception would only foster respect.
She pressed a kiss to the top of the Pokéball. Through a smile, she whispered, "You're very sweet, and maybe a little dumb, but you're mine now, okay, sweetie? Your name will be Toffee. Let's conquer the world together."
The next months passed in a breeze.
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Claw Six Feet Up
Pokemon AU
Indigo Plateau
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"Gengar."
There was a flash of red, then a mass of purple shadow appeared on the battlefield. It writhed more like a stormcloud than a thing alive, burning red eyes and too-wide toothy grins appearing here and there on its form. By the time wispy legs and arms stretched out from the mass, two of each and for a flicker of a moment three or even four, the Ghost's challenger was well and truly intimidated- the scarred, spade-tailed Houndoom pressing his belly to the ground and growling. Amelia understood. Even a weak, unmotivated Ghost can birth nightmares with a touch, and Agatha's Gengar reigns supreme over all of its type on the continent.
Amelia couldn't look away as the one-sided slaughter began. Ten thousand people had gathered in the stands to watch the Indigo Conference Champion challenge Agatha of the Elite Four, each attempting to outcheer and outscream the rest, but Amelia felt isolated- all she could hear was the drumbeat of her heart in her ears, feel the scratchy fabric of her dress between her fingers, taste the acrid tang of Ghost power in the air. She had come to witness the ultimate evolution of the Ghost-type, see the peak she had yet to climb, and every move and flex of its power both terrified her and ignited her ambition.
The challenger's Houndoom was a beast, having taken down two of Elite Four Lorelei's Ice-types by itself with vigor to spare. Gengar wasn't impressed; its laughter never abated, echoing and high-pitched and heavy with Ghost power that wrecked havoc on Houndoom's soul and mind. Every time a Dark Pulse or Flamethrower punctured Gengar's form, the Ghost evaporated and left its smile for last, mocking and taunting. To the uninitiated – and, indeed, most who were watching today – Gengar seemed on the backfoot, never launching an attack of its own, but Amelia could recognize the tell-tale signs of a Curse on Houndoom, like a fatal illness on fast-forward.
Houndoom was fighting an enemy that couldn't be touched, could be in multiple places at once or in his shadow or underneath the ground, that could turn his body against itself and that reveled in his suffering. A Gengar was a malevolent demon, a nightmare in the waking world, and there was little even a Dark Specialist like Karen could do. Within two or three minutes, Houndoom collapsed like a ragdoll, bleeding from old scars and wounds it had never gotten.
Karen sent out the rest of her team. Mightyena, Umbreon, Honchkrow, Weavile, Crawdaunt- none could lay so much as a single blow on Agatha's Gengar. For a Conference Champion that had defeated all challengers across the continent and the first of the Elite Four, it was a humiliating defeat.
Amelia watched it all with ambition. Agatha had been a fixture of the Elite Four since it was founded eighty years ago, but exposure to Ghost power could sustain her life for only so long. One day – maybe not this year, or even this decade, but soon – Agatha's time would come. When it did, Amelia intended to be there.
She would become the continent's premier Ghost Master.
Or she would die again trying.
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Amelia, like many Ghosts, had dim memories of her past life.
She remembered growing flowers and watching sunsets and hot chocolate. She remembered warm hugs, genuine love, honest affection. She remembered growing up and getting old and waiting, waiting, waiting. She remembered this is it, one last breath, beep-beep-beeeep.
She remembered the Distortion World. Time didn't flow in the Distortion World, but the longer she lingered, the more her past life faded, became colder. By the time she found her way out, she no longer had any desire to leave. Neither did she have desire to stay, and idle curiosity saw her passing through to the Material Realms once more.
A Ghost and a Pokemon but not a particular Ghost-type Pokemon, she found it difficult to remain cohesive in the Material Realm. There were… grooves, divots, in the slate of reality, and like water flowing downhill she found herself spilling into them. She was halfway to becoming a Misdreavus when she realized what they were- molds, the hollowed-out shape of a Pokemon, skin but no substance. When wet clay is poured into a mold of a pot, when does it stop being clay and start being a pot? As a cloud of deathly energy and psychic impulses she was Louise, though that construction came closer to toppling every day, but if her shape was forced into that of a Misdreavus, a Misdreavus she would become.
It scared her. She, who devoured the emotions of the unwary out of envy for what she could no longer feel; she, who had died already, was afraid of dying again.
… Perhaps that's why, as she consumed the fear, regret, and sorrow of a dying girl, that she did what she did.
(Or, maybe, the dying girl said all the right – or wrong – words. They had conversed, this they remember, but what was said, they don't recall. And no one else was in the room when it happened.)
It was her hope – and what a nostalgic feeling! – that wearing the girl like a cloak would protect her from dissolution. That her heartbeat and vitality and aura would be a cliff's edge for her to hang on to, such that she didn't fall back into the mold of Misdreavus. Instead, Amelia became Louise's new mold- and, before either of them could protest, two had become one.
How much of them was Louise, and how much Amelia Whitegrave? Who knows.
But everyone would know their name, regardless.
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She was grounded for sneaking out of the house.
"I disagree with this punishment," she said pointlessly.
"Your mother and I understand why you disagree," Father said, will like an iron wall, "And your need to escape the house every once in a while is valid. However."
Amelia gave up the argument. When Father says 'however,' there is no convincing him. There is human stubborn, and then there is Steel Specialist stubborn – she'd have greater luck squeezing blood out of his Aggron.
Father saw this and finished his declaration anyway, the tyrant. "You didn't bring any Pokemon guards, and your Dusk Pendant wouldn't stop a powerful or determined enough Psychic-type from whisking you away. You have enemies: monsters who wouldn't hesitate to use you for their own ends. If you were abducted, we'd be lucky if they only ransomed you back, and what do we say about luck?"
"The Blackthorns stole it all," Amelia answered dutifully.
"Exactly. If you wanted to see Agatha, all you had to do was say and we could've reserved a box."
And then Father would've been there, and Mother, and Grayson, and Mouser, and Shazam, and about six men in sunglasses and black outfits, each with a Ghost in their shadow or a Psychic behind a Light Screen. Attending the Elite match with an entourage defeated the entire point. How can she determine if she wants the freedom of becoming a Pokemon trainer if she can't taste that freedom for even a moment? How could a human know the god's ambrosia is worth dying for, if they're not allowed a single sip?
Becoming a trainer had been Amelia's dream, once. That dream had been lost in the possession. She had snuck out to see if the shadow of that dream yet remained- and in so doing, had discovered a burning ambition to become something, someone. Amelia and Louise had both been dreamers, but neither had been ambitious. This- this was something new, something that had not merely survived the possession, but been born from it. It was the first proof she discovered that she was not merely the sum of her shattered parts, but something greater.
She had to pursue it. It would be a betrayal of both Amelia and Louise if she didn't.
Father saw this in her eyes. He sighed. Perhaps he, too, knew the signs of a Whitegrave drawing a line in the sand- and though a Ghost Specialist was less stubborn than a Steel, they were no less tenacious.
She said the words anyway. "I want to participate in the next Circuit."
"Fine," he said, and Amelia could almost taste the ashes that must be on his tongue. "However."
Amelia blinked slowly. "I'll abide… reasonable conditions."
It was better than slipping away in the middle of the night, and they both knew she would. The League didn't require parental permission, and she would be of-age – fourteen – before February. Besides.
A Ghost couldn't be caged for long.
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Clad in pricey athletic wear just the right shade of blue to bring some color out of her slate-gray eyes, her blonde hair in a tail and her Pikachu doll held in both hands, Amelia felt out of place.
It was bright out. Brilliant, even. The sun had risen not half an hour ago, casting warmth and malevolent light across the snowy park behind their manse, and though she wanted to be inside she had promised. Her word meant little to her, but her relationship with her steel wall of a father meant much, and this was a much more reasonable condition than she rightfully expected.
"We'll start with some stretches: they're the most important part of a workout. After, we'll run a lap to warm our blood, and then we'll begin for real. Do try your hardest, darling. If you slack off, Shazam will know."
Amelia gave her mother a dry look. "How much did you bribe him to be awake at this hour?" And was it more or less than it would've cost to hire an actual physical trainer, she didn't ask.
"It is uncouth to pry into the bond between a trainer and her Pokemon."
So, a lot.
Mother ran her hard- whether out of a genuine desire to prepare her for the rigors of a Journey, sadistic amusement, or as petty revenge for the comment, Amelia didn't know and didn't care to figure out. It was likely a mixture of all three and more besides. Psychic Specialists were like that, saying one thing and meaning three other things and that first thing too, sometimes. If Amelia held affinity for the Dark type, she might be able to twist her own mind into a pretzel to induce some kind of comprehension, or just intuit it based off of vibes, but Amelia had long ago given up on understanding how her mother worked.
… That was common among Psychics and their families, Amelia had learned. It had only gotten worse when Amelia's gentle Fairy and Water affinities had been consumed by a near-overwhelming Ghost affinity. While Dark-types could bend and twist themselves to present their minds a certain way, Ghost-types were just static, screaming, and raw emotion. Some Psychics claimed that Ghost Specialists didn't think or reason at all, their higher brain function devoured piecemeal by their own wicked type energies, acting entirely off instinct and animal cunning. If her mother held that belief, Amelia didn't know.
So, as she worked herself into a sprawling mess on the snow an hour later, slick with hot sweat and panting like a dog, she minded the physical exercise a lot less than she had expected. It was time spent with her mother. That had been uncommon for a few years now, and was only liable to become as rare as Milotic once she set off in three months.
She had to do this three times a week? That's thirty-six hours. If Father's other conditions were like this, then she might need to try the emotional honesty thing more often.
"What starter do you want, darling?"
Amelia blinked, but wasn't surprised. Sudden changes in topic were common for Mother. "I don't suppose a Spiritomb is on the shortlist."
"Unlikely, seeing as I don't recognize the species," Mother said through a smile. "We can do rare and we can do foreign, but both is a bit much even on our badget, sweet thing."
Figures. With a little experimentation and a lot more power, she could probably create one, anyway.
"If you need time to think about it, that's fine," Mother continued, "But keep in mind that the sooner you tell us, the sooner we can acquire one, and the sooner we can begin training. The Indigo Conference is only eleven months away!"
Amelia sat up and immediately fell back into her slouch. "I don't need time. Sableye. They're Hoennian."
"I'm familiar. Dark primary- a good choice. Your affinity allows you to fight back against hostile Psychics, but a little Dark stealth… as they say, an ounce of prevention. Gender, age, pedigree?"
"Don't care, an egg, don't care. At least a month away from hatching, please."
"Consider it done, darling. I've always loved Sableye, they have the most gorgeous eyes." Mother paused for a moment, maybe to ask why so long from hatching, maybe something else. "If you have any questions about the Circuit, I'm an open book."
Amelia didn't have any, but she made some up anyway.
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Amelia's brother is the most intolerable fool in Kanto.
"-and that's when Mouser revealed she knew Stored Power. The blast of Psychic energy almost tore the poor Arbok to shreds, for a moment there I was worried she had killed the damn thing! Of course, the League has the best medical care, and in the end, I had the Soul Badge and a new fan in Koga's daughter. She really took a shine to me, and I was quite flattered… of course, I had one more badge to collect off in Cinnabar, and the Conference was only a month out, so it couldn't be. Ah, and here I am rambling on! What were we talking about?"
"A Chandelure in the Safari Zone," Amelia prompted.
"Ah, yes. Unfortunately, it was just a Misdreavus with Will-o-Wisp, I was really quite disappointed, if I brought back a Chandelure for my sweet little sister I would've been the best big brother in Kanto! No, all of Indigo! Not that I already aren't. That swaggering Blackthorn moron doesn't hold a candle to my big-brothering bonfire-"
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Day after day passed in a kind of mind-numbing rhythm. She'd spend the mornings with Mother or Father, either exhausting her body or her mind, until she knew every route and danger-spot in Kanto and the certitude she could run them all faster than an Arcanine. In the afternoons, she studied for the Trainer Licensure Exam, mostly playing catch-up as until this point she had been in tutoring to join the family business. At night, when the manse fell quiet and the only light and sound came from a burning candle and her own breath, she played with her aura.
Trained. She trained her aura. It wasn't easy. Some days, she wished she had caved and let Father hire a Specialist to instruct her in the auric arts. Amelia never let the dangerous thought become more than just that- Steels and Fires and even Psychics like Mother might be able to reach phantasmal tendrils into each other's souls and play guide, but Ghosts like Amelia didn't have it so easy. If ever another Ghost Specialist cupped her soul in their hands, Amelia would be far too terrified of them taking a bite to learn a single thing.
Amelia stared into the candle flame. It had been one of her brother's few good ideas, though she wasn't using it the way he did. She didn't become the fire, or make the shadows it cast dance, but instead kept her eyes on the wax- watched as the fire ate, and ate, and ate, and the candle shortened inch by inch.
She fed herself to the candle flame, and as it grew bigger, brighter, hungrier, she felt cold. Her breath misted in the air, and for a split-second she feared she would fall through the bed and into the kitchens below again. She kept her body in the Material while willing her soul out of it, and as frost crept across her bedsheets and her conscious mind was consumed by the dark desires underneath, Amelia fell to pieces.
To the north-east, Mother made a carnival of dolls dance while in meditation with Shazam. Which limbs each controlled differed between dolls, but the synchronicity was at most a hair off, and as the reenactment of Beauregard's Disaster Foretold progressed towards the final act more dolls joined the fray. On impulse she knocked the Absol doll on its side, and Mother knocked on the side of her soul in a chiding manner.
To the south, Father signed paperwork at his desk, muttering promises of retribution as he once more lamented becoming a businessman and not opening up a Gym. His soul was a pillar of shining steel, unyielding and reflective, and she reared back from her own haunting visage. Father didn't notice, soul as unfeeling and insensitive as the rest of his personality.
To the west, Grayson burned.
Amelia sucked in a breath and with it, the vapor-cloud of her soul and Ghostly energies. The breath quickly became two and three, four, five, rapidfire, before her heart calmed and she reached blindly for the hot chocolate on her bedside. The warmth chased away the Ghostly frost on her inside, and the sweetness cemented her in the here-and-now.
… Grayson was an intolerable fool. His soul, though, was the warmest, brightest thing she had ever felt, and it never failed to jolt her out of a trance. His presence in the manse was the only reason she could practice so brazenly. Without a safeguard like him around, she might become one of the horror stories mothers tell their children about those unlucky few with too strong of a Ghost affinity.
Amelia wanted to be a horror story. She didn't want to be a tragic one, though.
"… I'm scared," she admitted. Voicing it aloud felt like a betrayal and a release, all at once.
Her Pikachu doll had fallen on the floor during her astral projection. She picked it up, dusted it off, then held it in what would have been a bone-creaking hug. It… helped. Her doll wasn't as warm as a real Pikachu would be, but she didn't want a real Pikachu anyway, and her mother had knit it for her when she was a child, frail and infirm and one step closer to death with every hospital stay.
"I'm scared, Cherish," she said again, a little stronger. "Sometimes I wish that I was born healthier, so Louise never came for me and I still had Water and Fairy affinities. Maybe more than sometimes. I'm sure Mother could source me a Popplio, and I would learn to sing along with it when it became a Primarina, and I'd catch a Marill, and Father would hatch me a Mawile and we'd bond over its shared types, and we can afford a Prism Scale for a Milotic, and we'd perform in as many Contests as we fought in Gyms, and bring honor to the Whitegraves in a way my brother couldn't…"
She took another sip of her hot chocolate. Then another, and another, and soon enough it was all gone, and as she looked into the empty mug she wanted to cry.
"This is the part where I say this is unlike a Ghost specialist, but it actually is," she said with an unhappy laugh. "We're the weepy, anxious sort, in our head when we're not out of our bodies, and I never feel more attuned to my affinity then when I'm stewing in regret that it's my affinity at all. A normal girl wouldn't be this miserable and spiteful at fourteen, but a normal girl wouldn't accept a Ghost into her soul, would she?
"Brother offered to help me work through it. Mother offered a more active solution. Father would hire the finest therapists money could buy. None of them get it, of course- not a drop of Ghost in any of their souls. If I worked through my nonsense, learned to let go and move on and all that cheery foolishness, then I'd grow weaker, and I wouldn't achieve my dream. I'm a Ghost. Pain is power, and power is pain… the more twisted my head is, the more in tune with this type I am. Why ever would I fix myself?
"But, Cherish. You love me anyways, don't you? Spite and curses and all."
Cherish didn't nod, or shake her head. Of course she didn't. She's a doll.
Amelia smiled. She pressed a sweet kiss to Cherish's head, right between the cloth Pikachu ears, and sank back into a trance.
It was dangerous, but being weak around a full team of Ghosts was infinitely more so. If she wanted to raise nightmares the rival of Agatha's, then she had to be strong enough they wouldn't eat her, first.
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The Sableye egg arrived on a Friday.
"If you need any advice on caring for an egg, don't hesitate to come ask your big brother!" Grayson said boisterously. He had volunteered to fly out on Regal and pick it up, saving her the frustration of having to wait until Monday for a delivery, so she allowed him a few minutes to talk himself up. Never let it be said she was an ungrateful sister. "Why, I raised Mouser from an egg myself when I was only a little older than you are now, and I picked up a dozen or three tricks to smooth the process along. If you want a Fire-type to curl up around it every now and then to shave a few days off, just say the word, sweet sister, and you'll have your choice of six to do the deed. Except Spitfire, she'll probably eat it."
"Warming up a Sableye egg will kill it," Amelia said matter-of-factly.
Grayson floundered for a bit before making a ludicrous promise to catch an Ice-type. Amelia hid a smile.
True to Mother's word, the egg didn't hatch for almost five weeks. Her whole life had to be structured around the egg, and she knew it would only get worse once it hatched. When she exercised with her mother or sat across from her father, the egg was there, kept in a box for shade and fed ice cubes through a latch in the side every few hours. When she studied in the library or talked to Cherish on her bed or… well, she didn't do anything else, really, the egg was there.
"I hope you don't feel jealous," Amelia told Cherish, one day. "There's no need, really. Sableye will learn to confide in you as I have, and you'll always be my first friend, okay? I'll always love and have time for you, so don't go feeling neglected, now."
With two months and change left until the next League season, she plotted out her Journey. Her family each had different, often conflicting advice for how to go about it, and the many books and journals in the house library offered another thousand perspectives besides.
Father seemed to have his finger on the pulse of popular opinion on the subject: a Journey lived and died on preparation and foreknowledge, and a trainer with a heavy pack, thorough plan, and reasonable limits was a successful trainer. He sat down with her and helped her plot out a route through each of Kanto's eight badge-holding settlements, ignoring the lesser Gyms with all the thoughtless condescension of an ex-Ace. His plan was around seven pages long, detailed enough to include the departure and arrival dates for convoys and transport ships, and with multiple sub-plans should she need to switch direction on a dime seven or so months in the future. Amelia almost felt bad for her intention to utterly disregard it and travel entirely off vibes.
Mother's advice was both more and less practical: "Decide what six Pokemon your Conference team will include," she had said, "And then acquire those Pokemon as quickly as you can." The longer she has the Pokemon in her roster, the more time she has to train them up to a Conference standard, and the less likely she is to be one of those moronic greenhorns who have three or even four competitive Pokemon and two that just aren't up to snuff. There's nothing more humiliating than losing to an inferior Trainer in front of the entire continent because of something so ludicrous as time constraints. (Amelia politely didn't inquire into her own Conference performance.)
Grayson's advice was the simplest, as she had expected, but also well-thought out and philosophical, which she hadn't. His Journey was the cause of his glorious transformation from boy-with-potential to man-of-talent (his words), but it wasn't because of Gym victories, the accumulation of power, or even his admittedly impressive showing on the world stage, but because of the experiences he had and the freedom that had allowed him to have them. He told a long, intricately detailed story about getting lost in Mt. Moon and not being able to find his way out for three months, which had given him only three more to collect six badges if he wanted to complete the Circuit in time for the Conference.
Amelia remembered that time, vaguely. It was before the possession and so fractured, but both of their parents had been sick with worry, and Amelia herself had become increasingly convinced that her brother was dead or worse. It had been a dark time, and the stress had driven her into the hospital more than usual.
"I found Spitfire in those tunnels, back when she was only a Magby," he continued, "And though she's become the powerhouse of my team and I love her dearly- she's not the most valuable thing to happen to me in those months. With my flashlight out of battery, rations long gone, and all attempts to navigate foiled by Ghosts and wicked Clefairy, I fell to despair. In that time, I wasn't the heir of our Whitegrave branch, or a future Fire Specialist, or a Championship competitor: I was just Grayson, a human in a world of beings with real power, and everything else was just so much dross. That experience woke me up, and I emerged a grown man."
Grayson gazed into the middle distance, eyes shadowed over by haunting memories. In that moment, Amelia realized that for all his wacky tales and childish antics, he very rarely mentioned Mt. Moon at all.
Then he grinned. "I looked so cool there, didn't I, Amelia?! Come on! Admit your big brother is cool!"
"Never!"
That night, as she brainstormed with Cherish and wrote notes in her journal by candlelight, she flipped to the page marked JOURNEY PLANS and underlined twice. Underneath it, she wrote:
Go wherever. Try and hit one Gym a month so you're not left floundering like Grayson.
"Spontaneity doesn't come naturally," she admitted to Cherish, "But maybe it's something I could learn? Calculated plans aren't really a Ghostly thing anyway."
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The Sableye egg hatched fifty-one days before the League season.
No one was there but her and Cherish when it happened. This was normal; Pokemon have a rudimentary sense of their surroundings before they hatch, and rare is the Ghost who wants an audience while they're weak. It was also why she was never further than ten yards or so at all times, lest she return to a cracked egg and a missing Darkness Pokemon.
The Sableye punched a purple hand through the side, and huffed and growled in exertion as they tried in vain to tear the hole wider. After about two minutes and numerous failed attempts, the baby gave a cry of frustration and phased through the eggshell; the cry turned to a noise of triumph. The Sableye's first act in life was shoving his egg off the side of her bed and pouncing on its shattered pieces, stuffing yolk in his mouth with violent ferocity.
Amelia hid a smile behind her doll. The Sableye was nine inches tall and maybe ten pounds at most, a roughly-humanoid purple blob with eyes of infinite darkness. He was adorable.
She held out a hand, palm up and full of synthetic gems. The Sableye – her Sableye – cocked its head curiously, hearing the clink of precious gems and doubtless experiencing the happy-feelings his instincts pair with that sound. He turned to her fully, gaze switching between her face and the gems in her hand and back again. She could almost hear the cogs in his brain grind.
He wasn't going to ask for the stones. They're valuable, and someone else has them; ergo, he won't be given them. Such is the reasoning of a Dark- and Ghost-type Pokemon. No, two minutes old and he's planning his first heist.
She could give them to him. It'd be a bad idea, but it would make him stick around long enough for a bond to form, maybe. She doesn't want to earn her Pokémon's attention by being an easy mark, though. Other trainers might be able to earn their Pokemon's loyalty through kindness and charm, but that wasn't going to work on a Sableye.
The Sableye made his move. He leapt, Dark energies propelling his body more than his physical strength, cutting through the air towards her gem-filled hand with speed. Amelia was disappointed; then he fell through the bed's shadow and emerged from her's, stubby hand streaking for the treasures at an angle.
"Good attempt," she praised honestly. It wasn't quite a Shadow Sneak, but the precursor to the Ghost-type staple move and a good omen. She was excited to train the little guy and take him all the way to the Conference and beyond.
It wasn't enough to let the gems be stolen, though; if they were, then the Sableye would never respect her. When his purple hand was inches away from hers, she called on her own Ghostly energies to turn her hand phantasmal. The gems fell right through her flesh and were caught by her other hand before they could land in her lap.
The Sableye clasped her hand and stopped, surprised. He inspected her hand with a squinty look, increasingly frustrated and confused, as if expecting to find a ruby inbetween her fingers.
She waved the gems in the air with her off hand, smug smile on her face. "If you want them, you'll have to earn them," she taunted.
Thus began a game of keep-away she knew would only be the first of many. It ended several minutes later with her cute little Sableye spread-eagled on her bedsheets, panting for breath and glaring at her and the gems still in her hand. She smiled, more kind this time.
"Let's make a deal, okay? I'll give you a list of things you must do, and in exchange, you'll get these gems, and many more in the future. Okay?"
Eagerly, the Sableye nodded.
"I'm what's called a Pokemon Trainer. I raise Pokemon – like you, dear! – into powerful battlers. I'll teach you to be strong, will feed you, provide direction, and, yes, give you lots of gems to keep, polish, and eat. In exchange, you protect me from harm and listen to my every command. Sound like a good deal?"
The Sableye thought for a long few seconds, but she knew he was just playacting. He already decided. Before long, he was making grabbing motions towards the gems.
"Ah, ah! To seal the deal, we both need to touch the Sacred Ball, okay?"
Amelia took a Premier Ball from her nightstand drawer and set it between them, keeping her face as solemn as she could. She angled it just so, then pressed her finger on the side. Impatiently, her Sableye reached out-
And pressed the button.
He disappeared in a flash of red light.
She giggled. It would have been cruel to do this to an Eevee like her brother hatched, but a Dark type? A little deception would only foster respect.
She pressed a kiss to the top of the Pokéball. Through a smile, she whispered, "You're very sweet, and maybe a little dumb, but you're mine now, okay, sweetie? Your name will be Toffee. Let's conquer the world together."
The next months passed in a breeze.
Bleach - Chained Lady 1-1
SolarFall
Totally not a cat in disguise.
Part one of four. Meant to be more of a slice-of-life with a lot of long, philosophical conversations over tea and a prominent mystery subplot about the truly very strange behavior of the Kuchiki clan. (The cutoff is at a bit of an awkward point, but I want to keep my chapters to the 3-5k mark, and this one was an awkward 7.)
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Chained Lady
Tranquil Lake
Bleach
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So, this is my Inner World, huh?
Madoka was both disappointed and intrigued. She'd harbored hopes it would be something fantastical, having heard of Inner Worlds where rivers of lava flow uphill, gravity turns like a wheel, or celestial dragons fly through kaleidoscopic galaxies - and the tranquil lake she discovered was... not, that. Still, the lake had its own kind of charm, and the fantastical would be much too exciting for her heart, anyway. Most of all she wanted a World where she could relax and think, and in that regard her Sword Spirit had knocked it out of the park.
She had walked through a thick forest for ten, perhaps fifteen minutes, and though it was dark and eerily silent, she had felt no fear: instinctively, she knew there was nothing here that could hurt her. Instead, the shadows and heavy scent of pine promised to hide her from the lights and noise of the Soul Society. Better, when she arrived at the small lake she could finally see beyond the canopy, and the stars glittering in the night sky near enough took her breath away.
It meant something to her, to be able to stargaze in her Inner World. Her fondest memories from before her death had involved the stars, and she had missed them something fierce. The Soul Society had stars - constellations, too - but they were different, alien even after all these years. She was a poor Soul Reaper for bearing such an attachment to her old life, but should be able to keep this little failure a secret.
That task shouldn't prove too difficult. The only one who would know would never be able to spill.
Where was her Sword Spirit, anyway? She'd journeyed through the forest and arrived at the lake, and though that was hardly a proper search, just like she knew nothing could harm her in the forest she knew she would find nothing else in it. Direction meant nothing here; if she turned back into the forest and walked a straight line, she just knew she would arrive back at the lake in short order.
I wonder. Is my Spirit hiding in the forest, the lake, or the stars? Any of the three was possible, though privately Madoka hoped for the stars. Of course, it was possible her Spirit had yet to manifest bodily here. This whole process was really quite unclear; her instructors had coached their lesson on Inner Worlds in metaphor, and the whole experience had been more reminiscent of bible study then academia. A dragon might soar down on wings of stellar light, or she'll wander in nth dimensional loops until class ends and an instructor rouses her from meditation. Both are equally likely.
As she approached the lake for a better vantage point from which to stargaze, something caught her eye: her own reflection in the water's surface. The lake was tranquil, nary a ripple in sight, but her image on the surface was so clear she wondered if the lake were blown glass. Both photorealistic and undistorted, her visage was captured flawlessly in all its blonde-haired, bespectacled glory.
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, and when the reflection's narrowed a moment out of synch Madoka leapt back- but it was much too late.
There was a sound like shattering glass, and an iron chain punched through the lake's surface from within, scattering shards of what appeared to be crystallized moonlight across the grove. The chain lunged for her like a serpent, and between one moment and the next it had coiled around her leg and pulled. Madoka hit the ground with a shriek, and soon enough was dragged into the lake through the jagged hole it had punctured.
She fell for a full ten, fifteen seconds: a terrifyingly long time to be dragged into hell for. The pit beneath the glass lake wasn't pitch-black, a few rays of moonlight streaming through the lake's surface and casting prisms on the earthen walls, but there was no end revealed and that made it all the more frightening.
Thirty frantic heartbeats into her fall she remembered her lessons, and made a platform of condensed spiritual energy beneath her. For a single, glorious moment she was certain she was saved - then the chain pulled again, and her platform splintered and broke as easily as the glass lake.
Every passing second was spent in dread that this would be the moment she hit the ground.
When it finally happened, it still caught her by surprise.
She sunk yards deep into filthy mud, and barely a second passed before she was clawing her way to the surface like a woman possessed. She had spent all her breath on screaming; if she didn't rise to the surface and quick, she would suffocate to death in her Inner World.
And if you are lucky enough to discover your Inner World, you must remember caution, her instructors would tell next year's class. For if you don't, you'll die a stupid death like Hashira Madoka, who drowned on dry land while kneeling on a tatami mat in this very classroom.
When she broke free and tasted sweet, sweet freedom, she found herself giggling like a loon, lying on her back in the cold mud. She had just had the most harrowing minute of her afterlife, but it was over now and she wasn't even injured. Really, it could've gone much worse.
"...It is over, right, Sword Spirit? The hazing is over for now?"
Her response was the metallic screeching of chains dragging against chains.
"Would I be too presumptuous to take that for a 'yes?'"
After one last moment to catch her breath and calm her racing heart, Madoka sat up, uncaring of the filth staining her Academy uniform. That, at least, wouldn't come with her when her meditation ends, unlike any injuries she might still receive if her Spirit proves more inhospitable than they already have.
When she had been falling, the light of the stars hadn't reached the pit's floor; that hadn't changed, but the ten thousand chains sharing the pit with her began glowing with their own light. It was a soft illumination, faintly blueish, and the effect meant no shadows were cast, giving the pit a flat, alien look.
As if waiting for her notice - perhaps they were? - the chains began to writhe and lash out like a thing alive, a metal beast with ten thousand limbs. The mud she had fallen in was the only part of the pit not ten layers deep in living iron chains, and within seconds that was no longer the case.
Faster than ever before she jumped to her feet and condensed spiritual platforms beneath her, rising ten, twenty, then thirty feet into the air. Madoka had no delusions - she was completely at the mercy of her Sword Spirit, even with this distance put between them. If a chain could reach beyond the fake lake far above, then it could reach a fraction of that length and ensnare her again.
"You don't intend me harm, only a good scare, I suspect," she said aloud. Despite herself, there was a tremor of fear in her soft voice. "If I had landed on the chains, I'd be nursing a broken limb or two at best. More, that chain had a vice grip on my leg and I didn't notice when it let me go. You've made your point, Spirit: this is your domain, and any arrogance I harbored on my arrival has been crushed. If we could, might we begin a proper dialogue now?"
Madoka feared the Spirit wouldn't be able to hear her over the rattling of the chains, but within seconds they had settled into something more reminiscent of sleep then stillness. In those last moments, however, they had revealed a form buried underneath: a young woman, blonde hair in a braid and small scar on her cheek, with iron spheres for eyes.
Madoka inhaled sharply. "Okay. I imagine there's some philosophical reason for why you look like me."
"There is indeed, Wielder," the Sword Spirit spoke at last, with a voice exactly like hers, but poisoned with spite and bitterness. "Consider it a test of wit. This Inner World: what do you think each aspect represents? Surprise me."
Madoka took a moment to think. There are a few obvious guesses; a few less obvious ones, too. She had the sense that the Spirit wouldn't be impressed with guesswork, however, and truthfully neither would she. Sword Spirits are self-aware fragments of a Reaper's soul, and Inner Worlds are built from the same material; by their very nature, both are intrinsically linked with the Reaper's self-concept. They wouldn't be random.
She knew from her studies that Sword Spirits are born with a lesson to impart. This lesson is integral to the Soul Reaper's growth as a person and as a warrior, and understanding it is crucial to unlocking the power within. Because the Spirit and World are born from a soul, this lesson is always personalized to the Reaper. She would never forget the story one of her instructors told, of how his Spirit had tricked him into moving past the guilt he had felt for being unable to find any of his family in Soul Society.
"I'm not sure what the forest represents," Madoka admitted without shame, "But the lake and pit I think I am. The lake looked pretty and calm, but wasn't really a lake at all, and underneath was a long, dark hole with a lot of baggage and filth and sharp edges in it. I put up an act pretending to be demure and sweet, reflecting at people what they want to see, when inside I'm superior and spiteful and jaded. I'm not honest with other people, and indeed I'm not sure I know how to. I struggled with being emotionally vulnerable with other people before my murder.
"As for the stars..." She sighed wistfully. "They represent my desires, right? Bittersweet childhood memories, old passions, freedom. All of it, unattainable. I'm just a gremlin in a dark hole in the earth, looking up at the stars through a mask of elegance and poise. I'm guessing I need to set more realistic ambitions, yes? That, and climb out of this pit and shatter that glass ceiling."
The Sword Spirit bared her teeth in an unfriendly smile. "Well reasoned. And the chains?"
"All the dark thoughts that are keeping me from climbing out."
"Close." The Sword Spirit leaned in, and for all that she was thirty feet beneath her and bound in thousands of pounds of iron chain, she looked dangerous. "You were wrong about the rest of it, but the chains are all that and more. Every moral justification, every doublethink and self-recrimination, every hopeless thought and moment of doubt and lie ground so deep it scratched bone. You didn't dig this pit and you didn't make half these chains, but you bound yourself in them and threw yourself down and didn't hesitate at all. Even being murdered didn't wake you up to what you've done to yourself."
"And what have I done to myself?" Madoka asked, voice careful.
"You became your own jailor!" the Sword Spirit shouted. "You had barely begun to live when you all-but killed yourself. When you were a child, and your father or your teachers or your country told you who you were meant to be and what your place in the world was, that was understandable. But the painful thing about growing up is acknowledging those chains wrapped around you for what they are and slipping free. Except, you didn't do that! You grew used to the weight, started making your own chains and adding to the burden! Became so immersed in your role, there became no functional difference between the mask and the face underneath." The Sword Spirit sighed, suddenly seeming defeated. "In the end, it was no wonder your brother didn't hesitate to have you killed. How could he love someone who wasn't a real person?"
Madoka forced herself not to look away. The Spirit's face was twisted in an expression of resignation and old grief, a look Madoka doesn't think she's ever worn. Upsetting as the words were, it almost didn't compare to seeing her own face gripped by such powerful emotions.
She's been at the Academy for four years now, and would be surprised to hear she's ever shown a classmate an expression besides patient curiosity or amused tolerance. The anger, the bitterness, the spite and grief and exhaustion- Madoka doesn't know the last time she showed any of that on her face.
Before her death, certainly. Before her marriage? Before her mother's death? She doesn't know.
"There has to be, what, thousands of chains in here, yes?" Madoka said eventually. "Destroying all of them is going to take decades."
A faint smile crossed the Spirit's face. "Better get started soon, then."
"I intend to. However - and do forgive me - there was another matter I wanted to talk about." Madoka bit her lip in thought. "Four years ago, when I received my Empty Blade and began meditating with it, you didn't exist. It's only after it soaked up my spiritual energy over the course of years, taking on its unique appearance, that you were born, right?"
"Aye. Get on with it."
"It's just- that was three weeks ago." It took effort, but Madoka let the apprehension and empathy she felt show on her face. "You've been stuck down here, in this filthy pit, bound in iron chains for three weeks? And might suffer it for decades more?"
The Sword Spirit looked surprised, like this angle of conversation had never occurred to her. "Don't be foolish. I'm not a person, Wielder. I'm a fragment of your soul, granted self-awareness to facilitate your growth as a Soul Reaper. Don't get it twisted."
"Not being a whole soul makes you no less a person," Madoka insisted. "I can see it in your face, and my instructors were very clear: a Sword Spirit has a mind and emotions of their own, and is no less deserving of dignity than their Soul Reaper. I was prepared to look past it if my Inner World were homey and warm, but I wouldn't leave my worst enemy in squalor like this, let alone my forever-partner!"
"The only thing you can do about it is get rid of these chains, then."
"That's true... or is it?"
As for as Madoka was aware, the relationship between Spirit and Reaper was a rather one-sided affair. The Spirit may act as gatekeeper for the power of the first and final releases, but ultimately all their energy went towards testing and bettering their Reaper. On a surface level, this was to be expected; after all, it's as the Spirit said. She is but a fragment of Madoka's own soul, given form and awareness by the power of the Empty Blade given to her on her first day at the Academy.
On a deeper reading, however, it looks a lot like Madoka has become a mother. Perhaps this is her ignorance talking; if she were a better student, with a more focused understanding of the flow of souls and the nature of Sword Spirits, maybe this wouldn't strike her as so uncomfortable. Spirits, presumably, don't have the same psychology as humans, so staying isolated in one place for centuries might not bother them the way it would Madoka.
As it is, though, Madoka can't in good conscience allow a thinking, feeling being to languish in this pit of filth and chains for a single moment longer. It would be unconscionable.
"Just to double check: you don't secretly enjoy being stuck like this, do you?"
"The fuck?" The Spirit looked both confused and aggravated. "No, I don't enjoy being pressed into the earth by the crushing weight of all your self delusions."
"As I thought," Madoka said, and with a shrug and a thought the platform she was seated on disappeared, and she fell into the pit of chains.
No use getting her Spirit's hopes up if it didn't work, after all.
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Kusarihime's first reflex was to draw her sword.
It was a good reflex. One moment, she had been in the Inner World, meeting her stupid Wielder for the first time; the next, she was in an enclosed room with three dozen unknown Soul Reapers. Whatever power could manifest her in Soul Society likely wasn't friendly, or it would have asked first.
...Though, on further inspection, these Soul Reapers aren't unknown. She recognized everyone here, from the instructors to the students to the weapons each one carried, having enjoyed the Academy vicariously through her Wielder. From there, it didn't take her long to realize class was in session, and all thirty-odd students were meditating on their Empty or Spirit Blades... or, at least, had been before her reflex.
"Please sheathe your sword, Miss Hashira," Instructor Iguro said gently. His hands weren't anywhere close to the hilt of his wakizashi; if he trusted her or just dismissed her as a threat, she didn't know. "Whatever happened, it was in your Inner World. You're back in Soul Society, now."
Embarrassingly, Kusarihime looked behind her. She didn't see her Wielder, and it was only then that she realized she was Hashira Madoka.
This is kind of interesting, Madoka said. Kusarihime could feel her, somehow, now bound in chains in their Inner World like she had been not two minutes ago. Oh, you should probably act like me, or they might realize you've taken over and panic. That would be unfortunate.
"What," Kusarihime said.
"I believe congratulations are in order," Instructor Iguro continued in that same infuriating, gentle voice. "It's not often that a Soul Reaper achieves the First Release while still in the Academy. You have a bright future ahead of you, Miss Hashira."
It was then that Kusarihime realized that when she drew her sword, she had also unconsciously spawned a dozen rattling, iron chains out of her skin, peeking out from her sleeves and wrapping around her torso like armor. Such a thing is as easy as breathing, for a Sword Spirit, or for Madoka if she knew Kusarihime's name, which she doesn't.
Kusarihime is starting to get a nasty idea of what has happened here.
Repeat after me, okay?
"My apologies, Instructor Iguro," Kusarihime said, tone coming out flat instead of Madoka's lady-like. It would have to do. "My meditation was a little more exciting than planned."
Oh, and sheathe yourself, okay? ...Sheathe me? Sheathe us? Hmm.
Kusarihime sheathed the sword.
Instructor Iguro smiled faintly. "It's quite alright, Miss Hashira. You're not the first to spring from meditation into a martial stance and you won't be the last. Why don't you take the rest of the day off? I dare say you won't have much to learn from this class, anymore."
Kusarihime has never been so grateful in her entire three weeks of life. Sketching a small bow after a reminder from Madoka, she grabbed a satchel of books - also on reminder from Madoka - and fled the room entirely too quickly to be elegant.
I think attaining First Release is excuse enough for a little uncharacteristic behavior, so we should be fine, Madoka mused. Still. Thirty-five jealous pairs of eyes on our back is mighty uncomfortable.
"What did you do," Kusarihime accused, startling an underclassman she was stalking past.
Take a left here- oh, straight ahead is fine, we'll take the scenic route, Madoka said. And I figured that should be obvious. We switched places.
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Chained Lady
Tranquil Lake
Bleach
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So, this is my Inner World, huh?
Madoka was both disappointed and intrigued. She'd harbored hopes it would be something fantastical, having heard of Inner Worlds where rivers of lava flow uphill, gravity turns like a wheel, or celestial dragons fly through kaleidoscopic galaxies - and the tranquil lake she discovered was... not, that. Still, the lake had its own kind of charm, and the fantastical would be much too exciting for her heart, anyway. Most of all she wanted a World where she could relax and think, and in that regard her Sword Spirit had knocked it out of the park.
She had walked through a thick forest for ten, perhaps fifteen minutes, and though it was dark and eerily silent, she had felt no fear: instinctively, she knew there was nothing here that could hurt her. Instead, the shadows and heavy scent of pine promised to hide her from the lights and noise of the Soul Society. Better, when she arrived at the small lake she could finally see beyond the canopy, and the stars glittering in the night sky near enough took her breath away.
It meant something to her, to be able to stargaze in her Inner World. Her fondest memories from before her death had involved the stars, and she had missed them something fierce. The Soul Society had stars - constellations, too - but they were different, alien even after all these years. She was a poor Soul Reaper for bearing such an attachment to her old life, but should be able to keep this little failure a secret.
That task shouldn't prove too difficult. The only one who would know would never be able to spill.
Where was her Sword Spirit, anyway? She'd journeyed through the forest and arrived at the lake, and though that was hardly a proper search, just like she knew nothing could harm her in the forest she knew she would find nothing else in it. Direction meant nothing here; if she turned back into the forest and walked a straight line, she just knew she would arrive back at the lake in short order.
I wonder. Is my Spirit hiding in the forest, the lake, or the stars? Any of the three was possible, though privately Madoka hoped for the stars. Of course, it was possible her Spirit had yet to manifest bodily here. This whole process was really quite unclear; her instructors had coached their lesson on Inner Worlds in metaphor, and the whole experience had been more reminiscent of bible study then academia. A dragon might soar down on wings of stellar light, or she'll wander in nth dimensional loops until class ends and an instructor rouses her from meditation. Both are equally likely.
As she approached the lake for a better vantage point from which to stargaze, something caught her eye: her own reflection in the water's surface. The lake was tranquil, nary a ripple in sight, but her image on the surface was so clear she wondered if the lake were blown glass. Both photorealistic and undistorted, her visage was captured flawlessly in all its blonde-haired, bespectacled glory.
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, and when the reflection's narrowed a moment out of synch Madoka leapt back- but it was much too late.
There was a sound like shattering glass, and an iron chain punched through the lake's surface from within, scattering shards of what appeared to be crystallized moonlight across the grove. The chain lunged for her like a serpent, and between one moment and the next it had coiled around her leg and pulled. Madoka hit the ground with a shriek, and soon enough was dragged into the lake through the jagged hole it had punctured.
She fell for a full ten, fifteen seconds: a terrifyingly long time to be dragged into hell for. The pit beneath the glass lake wasn't pitch-black, a few rays of moonlight streaming through the lake's surface and casting prisms on the earthen walls, but there was no end revealed and that made it all the more frightening.
Thirty frantic heartbeats into her fall she remembered her lessons, and made a platform of condensed spiritual energy beneath her. For a single, glorious moment she was certain she was saved - then the chain pulled again, and her platform splintered and broke as easily as the glass lake.
Every passing second was spent in dread that this would be the moment she hit the ground.
When it finally happened, it still caught her by surprise.
She sunk yards deep into filthy mud, and barely a second passed before she was clawing her way to the surface like a woman possessed. She had spent all her breath on screaming; if she didn't rise to the surface and quick, she would suffocate to death in her Inner World.
And if you are lucky enough to discover your Inner World, you must remember caution, her instructors would tell next year's class. For if you don't, you'll die a stupid death like Hashira Madoka, who drowned on dry land while kneeling on a tatami mat in this very classroom.
When she broke free and tasted sweet, sweet freedom, she found herself giggling like a loon, lying on her back in the cold mud. She had just had the most harrowing minute of her afterlife, but it was over now and she wasn't even injured. Really, it could've gone much worse.
"...It is over, right, Sword Spirit? The hazing is over for now?"
Her response was the metallic screeching of chains dragging against chains.
"Would I be too presumptuous to take that for a 'yes?'"
After one last moment to catch her breath and calm her racing heart, Madoka sat up, uncaring of the filth staining her Academy uniform. That, at least, wouldn't come with her when her meditation ends, unlike any injuries she might still receive if her Spirit proves more inhospitable than they already have.
When she had been falling, the light of the stars hadn't reached the pit's floor; that hadn't changed, but the ten thousand chains sharing the pit with her began glowing with their own light. It was a soft illumination, faintly blueish, and the effect meant no shadows were cast, giving the pit a flat, alien look.
As if waiting for her notice - perhaps they were? - the chains began to writhe and lash out like a thing alive, a metal beast with ten thousand limbs. The mud she had fallen in was the only part of the pit not ten layers deep in living iron chains, and within seconds that was no longer the case.
Faster than ever before she jumped to her feet and condensed spiritual platforms beneath her, rising ten, twenty, then thirty feet into the air. Madoka had no delusions - she was completely at the mercy of her Sword Spirit, even with this distance put between them. If a chain could reach beyond the fake lake far above, then it could reach a fraction of that length and ensnare her again.
"You don't intend me harm, only a good scare, I suspect," she said aloud. Despite herself, there was a tremor of fear in her soft voice. "If I had landed on the chains, I'd be nursing a broken limb or two at best. More, that chain had a vice grip on my leg and I didn't notice when it let me go. You've made your point, Spirit: this is your domain, and any arrogance I harbored on my arrival has been crushed. If we could, might we begin a proper dialogue now?"
Madoka feared the Spirit wouldn't be able to hear her over the rattling of the chains, but within seconds they had settled into something more reminiscent of sleep then stillness. In those last moments, however, they had revealed a form buried underneath: a young woman, blonde hair in a braid and small scar on her cheek, with iron spheres for eyes.
Madoka inhaled sharply. "Okay. I imagine there's some philosophical reason for why you look like me."
"There is indeed, Wielder," the Sword Spirit spoke at last, with a voice exactly like hers, but poisoned with spite and bitterness. "Consider it a test of wit. This Inner World: what do you think each aspect represents? Surprise me."
Madoka took a moment to think. There are a few obvious guesses; a few less obvious ones, too. She had the sense that the Spirit wouldn't be impressed with guesswork, however, and truthfully neither would she. Sword Spirits are self-aware fragments of a Reaper's soul, and Inner Worlds are built from the same material; by their very nature, both are intrinsically linked with the Reaper's self-concept. They wouldn't be random.
She knew from her studies that Sword Spirits are born with a lesson to impart. This lesson is integral to the Soul Reaper's growth as a person and as a warrior, and understanding it is crucial to unlocking the power within. Because the Spirit and World are born from a soul, this lesson is always personalized to the Reaper. She would never forget the story one of her instructors told, of how his Spirit had tricked him into moving past the guilt he had felt for being unable to find any of his family in Soul Society.
"I'm not sure what the forest represents," Madoka admitted without shame, "But the lake and pit I think I am. The lake looked pretty and calm, but wasn't really a lake at all, and underneath was a long, dark hole with a lot of baggage and filth and sharp edges in it. I put up an act pretending to be demure and sweet, reflecting at people what they want to see, when inside I'm superior and spiteful and jaded. I'm not honest with other people, and indeed I'm not sure I know how to. I struggled with being emotionally vulnerable with other people before my murder.
"As for the stars..." She sighed wistfully. "They represent my desires, right? Bittersweet childhood memories, old passions, freedom. All of it, unattainable. I'm just a gremlin in a dark hole in the earth, looking up at the stars through a mask of elegance and poise. I'm guessing I need to set more realistic ambitions, yes? That, and climb out of this pit and shatter that glass ceiling."
The Sword Spirit bared her teeth in an unfriendly smile. "Well reasoned. And the chains?"
"All the dark thoughts that are keeping me from climbing out."
"Close." The Sword Spirit leaned in, and for all that she was thirty feet beneath her and bound in thousands of pounds of iron chain, she looked dangerous. "You were wrong about the rest of it, but the chains are all that and more. Every moral justification, every doublethink and self-recrimination, every hopeless thought and moment of doubt and lie ground so deep it scratched bone. You didn't dig this pit and you didn't make half these chains, but you bound yourself in them and threw yourself down and didn't hesitate at all. Even being murdered didn't wake you up to what you've done to yourself."
"And what have I done to myself?" Madoka asked, voice careful.
"You became your own jailor!" the Sword Spirit shouted. "You had barely begun to live when you all-but killed yourself. When you were a child, and your father or your teachers or your country told you who you were meant to be and what your place in the world was, that was understandable. But the painful thing about growing up is acknowledging those chains wrapped around you for what they are and slipping free. Except, you didn't do that! You grew used to the weight, started making your own chains and adding to the burden! Became so immersed in your role, there became no functional difference between the mask and the face underneath." The Sword Spirit sighed, suddenly seeming defeated. "In the end, it was no wonder your brother didn't hesitate to have you killed. How could he love someone who wasn't a real person?"
Madoka forced herself not to look away. The Spirit's face was twisted in an expression of resignation and old grief, a look Madoka doesn't think she's ever worn. Upsetting as the words were, it almost didn't compare to seeing her own face gripped by such powerful emotions.
She's been at the Academy for four years now, and would be surprised to hear she's ever shown a classmate an expression besides patient curiosity or amused tolerance. The anger, the bitterness, the spite and grief and exhaustion- Madoka doesn't know the last time she showed any of that on her face.
Before her death, certainly. Before her marriage? Before her mother's death? She doesn't know.
"There has to be, what, thousands of chains in here, yes?" Madoka said eventually. "Destroying all of them is going to take decades."
A faint smile crossed the Spirit's face. "Better get started soon, then."
"I intend to. However - and do forgive me - there was another matter I wanted to talk about." Madoka bit her lip in thought. "Four years ago, when I received my Empty Blade and began meditating with it, you didn't exist. It's only after it soaked up my spiritual energy over the course of years, taking on its unique appearance, that you were born, right?"
"Aye. Get on with it."
"It's just- that was three weeks ago." It took effort, but Madoka let the apprehension and empathy she felt show on her face. "You've been stuck down here, in this filthy pit, bound in iron chains for three weeks? And might suffer it for decades more?"
The Sword Spirit looked surprised, like this angle of conversation had never occurred to her. "Don't be foolish. I'm not a person, Wielder. I'm a fragment of your soul, granted self-awareness to facilitate your growth as a Soul Reaper. Don't get it twisted."
"Not being a whole soul makes you no less a person," Madoka insisted. "I can see it in your face, and my instructors were very clear: a Sword Spirit has a mind and emotions of their own, and is no less deserving of dignity than their Soul Reaper. I was prepared to look past it if my Inner World were homey and warm, but I wouldn't leave my worst enemy in squalor like this, let alone my forever-partner!"
"The only thing you can do about it is get rid of these chains, then."
"That's true... or is it?"
As for as Madoka was aware, the relationship between Spirit and Reaper was a rather one-sided affair. The Spirit may act as gatekeeper for the power of the first and final releases, but ultimately all their energy went towards testing and bettering their Reaper. On a surface level, this was to be expected; after all, it's as the Spirit said. She is but a fragment of Madoka's own soul, given form and awareness by the power of the Empty Blade given to her on her first day at the Academy.
On a deeper reading, however, it looks a lot like Madoka has become a mother. Perhaps this is her ignorance talking; if she were a better student, with a more focused understanding of the flow of souls and the nature of Sword Spirits, maybe this wouldn't strike her as so uncomfortable. Spirits, presumably, don't have the same psychology as humans, so staying isolated in one place for centuries might not bother them the way it would Madoka.
As it is, though, Madoka can't in good conscience allow a thinking, feeling being to languish in this pit of filth and chains for a single moment longer. It would be unconscionable.
"Just to double check: you don't secretly enjoy being stuck like this, do you?"
"The fuck?" The Spirit looked both confused and aggravated. "No, I don't enjoy being pressed into the earth by the crushing weight of all your self delusions."
"As I thought," Madoka said, and with a shrug and a thought the platform she was seated on disappeared, and she fell into the pit of chains.
No use getting her Spirit's hopes up if it didn't work, after all.
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Kusarihime's first reflex was to draw her sword.
It was a good reflex. One moment, she had been in the Inner World, meeting her stupid Wielder for the first time; the next, she was in an enclosed room with three dozen unknown Soul Reapers. Whatever power could manifest her in Soul Society likely wasn't friendly, or it would have asked first.
...Though, on further inspection, these Soul Reapers aren't unknown. She recognized everyone here, from the instructors to the students to the weapons each one carried, having enjoyed the Academy vicariously through her Wielder. From there, it didn't take her long to realize class was in session, and all thirty-odd students were meditating on their Empty or Spirit Blades... or, at least, had been before her reflex.
"Please sheathe your sword, Miss Hashira," Instructor Iguro said gently. His hands weren't anywhere close to the hilt of his wakizashi; if he trusted her or just dismissed her as a threat, she didn't know. "Whatever happened, it was in your Inner World. You're back in Soul Society, now."
Embarrassingly, Kusarihime looked behind her. She didn't see her Wielder, and it was only then that she realized she was Hashira Madoka.
This is kind of interesting, Madoka said. Kusarihime could feel her, somehow, now bound in chains in their Inner World like she had been not two minutes ago. Oh, you should probably act like me, or they might realize you've taken over and panic. That would be unfortunate.
"What," Kusarihime said.
"I believe congratulations are in order," Instructor Iguro continued in that same infuriating, gentle voice. "It's not often that a Soul Reaper achieves the First Release while still in the Academy. You have a bright future ahead of you, Miss Hashira."
It was then that Kusarihime realized that when she drew her sword, she had also unconsciously spawned a dozen rattling, iron chains out of her skin, peeking out from her sleeves and wrapping around her torso like armor. Such a thing is as easy as breathing, for a Sword Spirit, or for Madoka if she knew Kusarihime's name, which she doesn't.
Kusarihime is starting to get a nasty idea of what has happened here.
Repeat after me, okay?
"My apologies, Instructor Iguro," Kusarihime said, tone coming out flat instead of Madoka's lady-like. It would have to do. "My meditation was a little more exciting than planned."
Oh, and sheathe yourself, okay? ...Sheathe me? Sheathe us? Hmm.
Kusarihime sheathed the sword.
Instructor Iguro smiled faintly. "It's quite alright, Miss Hashira. You're not the first to spring from meditation into a martial stance and you won't be the last. Why don't you take the rest of the day off? I dare say you won't have much to learn from this class, anymore."
Kusarihime has never been so grateful in her entire three weeks of life. Sketching a small bow after a reminder from Madoka, she grabbed a satchel of books - also on reminder from Madoka - and fled the room entirely too quickly to be elegant.
I think attaining First Release is excuse enough for a little uncharacteristic behavior, so we should be fine, Madoka mused. Still. Thirty-five jealous pairs of eyes on our back is mighty uncomfortable.
"What did you do," Kusarihime accused, startling an underclassman she was stalking past.
Take a left here- oh, straight ahead is fine, we'll take the scenic route, Madoka said. And I figured that should be obvious. We switched places.
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Bleach - Chained Lady 1-2
SolarFall
Totally not a cat in disguise.
Part two of four. Telepathic communication - or, however the Zanpakuto thing can be described - is fun to write, especially while other things are going on. Things that would otherwise be internal monologue or prose can become dialogue. Anyway, the first of, presumably, far too many conversations over tea is next chapter.
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Chained Lady
Spiritual Arts Academy
Bleach
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Take a left here- oh, straight ahead is fine, we'll take the scenic route, Madoka said. And I figured that should be obvious. We switched places.
Kusarihime was already thoroughly lost and didn't care. "How? No- why? That's not how any of this works."
Isn't it? We're one soul with two minds. All that changed is which mind controls the body. It wasn't too difficult to do; I just let the chains grab me, essentially stepping away from the helm, and pushed you in front.
She got the sense that Madoka was smiling at her. As for the why... didn't I already say? Not being a whole soul makes you no less a person deserving of dignity. I couldn't very well leave you in that condition.
Kusarihime didn't know how to react, to that. Fortunately, she didn't need to- her random path had led her outside the Academy building at last, and into the great outdoors.
The sky was blue.
A stupid thing to think. Of course Kusarihime knew the sky was blue: she'd known when her fragment of Madoka's soul broke off, just as she'd known how to speak Japanese and English and add numbers and walk on two legs. There was a difference, though, between the intellectual understanding of a Sword Spirit and the visceral understanding of a Soul. These may not be her eyes and she may not have been born under this sky, but as she looked up and watched a cloud inch its way across the horizon of the Pure Court, none of that mattered to her.
It was shameful, but weeks before her meeting with Madoka she had imagined what it would be like, to be manifested here in Soul Society. She knew that manifesting and then defeating her is a requirement for the Final Release, just like she knew this sky would be blue and how to conjure her chains, and had allowed her mind to wander: the important thing would be Madoka's growth, but wouldn't it be nice to stretch her legs, see the sights, gaze upon real stars? She'd had nothing to do these past three weeks, save watch through Madoka's eyes, try and ignore her banal thoughts, and dream.
Up ahead, on the left, there's an alley, Madoka said, voice kind. Let me show you my favorite place, yes?
This time, Kusarihime followed her directions.
It proved a lengthy trip, though perhaps her sense for distance was underdeveloped; it couldn't be more than half an hour, even with her stopping to stare at new sights. More interestingly, she had genuinely no idea where she was headed. Madoka's directions were quick and confident, so the destination was a place she was familiar with, but it was nowhere she's been since Kusarihime's genesis three weeks ago.
Those directions eventually led her to a stairwell, one that went higher than the bulk of the buildings she went past and took considerable time to scale. When she reached the top, she didn't need Madoka's declaration to know they had arrived; one look had taken her breath away.
The Court of Pure Souls was gorgeous. It had clearly grown organically from the centerpoint, but the meandering layout and asymmetry only enhanced its beauty. What gripped her attention most wasn't the tens of thousands of yellow-roofed buildings, or the heady spiritual pressure quite unlike anything she'd felt in their Inner World, or even the many moving dots that represented more life than she'd ever thought she'd be able to see: it was the noise. She had heard the hustle and bustle of the Capital of the Afterlife while walking its streets, but from this vantage point, she was struck mute by the realization of its sheer quantity of people.
Unlike the World of the Living we come from, Soul Society is flat, Madoka mused from within. That, the Afterlife's theoretically infinite size, and Japanese architectural sensibilities means you can see quite a ways. Were it not for the density of spiritual power in the air creating that white haze affect you see in the distance, we might be able to see all the way to the edges of District Eighty. Quite the sight, no?
"There's so many…"
She could feel Madoka's empathy. A far cry from our little Inner World.
Two weeks ago, one of her classmates had asked Madoka why she joined the Spiritual Arts Academy when she held little interest in pursuing martial skill. The classmate, who was the rough-and-tumble type by the look in his eyes and the way he held himself, had looked down on Madoka for being an academic who was a shoe-in for the Spell Force or Division Four. Like always, Madoka hadn't shown any discomfort or anxiety at the provocation: she had only smiled, saying, "When I realized what noble purpose the Soul Reapers had, how could I watch from the sidelines?"
Kusarihime, spectating from her pit of filth and chains, had been disgusted by that response. She could hear all manner of razor reprimands in Madoka's thoughts, and had been disappointed that her Wielder had chosen to spare a thug's feelings and not cause a scene instead of properly defending herself. She knew from her moment of genesis what ambitions burned in her soul and what desires she truly harbored, and had dearly wished that Madoka wouldn't hem and haw about her decision to join the Academy with something so feeble as moral platitudes.
Perhaps she hadn't given her Wielder enough credit. It took seeing the sprawl of the Court of Pure Souls herself to understand in that visceral and not academic way, but now that she had… perhaps the nobility of the Reapers' cause is reason enough to sign one's afterlife away. It was far from Madoka's only reason, or even her most important, but Souls can have multiple reasons for the decisions they make. It's a privilege that Sword Spirits don't have.
Speaking of…
"What you did back there, in the pit," Kusarihime began. "That was very stupid."
I was going more for 'noble.' I wasn't expecting a tearful expression of gratitude, but calling me out like that isn't nice.
Kusarihime's lips – Madoka's lips – twisted in a grim smile. "This switch you made, it's not a mutual thing. While you're bound in chains, I have all the power, and I could easily never let you free again. I could truly become Hashira Madoka, wielding the power of my First Release in my own name, and take your place in the Academy and, ultimately, the Thirteen Court Guard Divisions; you would live in that pit until my demise, which might be millennia away. Idiot."
I know.
"You know? That's all that you have to say?"
Yes.
That simple answer knocked down all the superior disgust that Kusarihime was so ardently working up. She thought her Wielder had done this frivolously, or at least without giving it all the thought and contemplation the decision would deserve; how could she have, when she'd only been in the pit for a bare handful of minutes? But even now, after having spent most of an hour bound in chains while watching her Sword Spirit traverse the Soul Society in her place, her voice hadn't so much as wavered. Kusarihime had no choice but to acknowledge that resolve.
But it only made her angrier. Kusarihime's raison d'être, the one and only purpose for which she had been born from the depths of Madoka's soul, was to challenge and foster the growth of her Wielder. She isn't bigger than that; no Sword Spirit is. To witness her Wielder throwing away her future as a Soul Reaper, sacrifice her growth, consign herself to wasting away in a pit in her Inner World… and all for her? A Spirit whose purpose is to lift her Wielder up, not be the reason she has fallen down?
Kusarihime's challenge to Madoka was one of self-awareness, of acknowledging the chains that life, her environment, and her family had put around her soul, and break them. As such, Kusarihime isn't given to self-denial. She knows why she's angry: her purpose is to make Madoka better than she is, but the nature of their Inner World and Kusarihime's form had done the opposite. Madoka had woken up this morning a student with a promising future, and now she had thrown her life away in a worthless attempt at heroism – and it's not even noon.
"You said you did this because I'm a person, and didn't deserve to be in that pit," Kusarihime said eventually, "But there were other options than trying to take my place. If you had pursued the First Release, breaking the chains that bind your soul, eventually I would have been able to climb out and reach the surface. There, I would have been free to explore the forest, gaze into the glass lake, and watch the stars; that might seem like a pitiful existence to a Soul, but I'm a Spirit, and we're much simpler beings. I would have been happy with that. Could have been happy with that."
You act like that's off the table, Madoka said, sounding tolerant. But I can break these chains just as well from within here. Better, even, without the distractions of daily life and other people. While you were distracted gazing upon the Court of Pure Souls and insulting me in your thoughts, I already broke one.
Kusarihime sucked in a breath. "What? Which one? How did I not notice-" She bit herself off. She knew why she didn't notice.
It was a small chain, only a dozen links or so. It represented the 'proper way' one must act as a Soul Reaper. Giving control of my body to my Sword Spirit is really quite blasphemous, and once I acknowledged that and that I found no fault in my actions, it wasn't too difficult to wonder what other social mores the Academy had taught me. To hold myself apart from other Souls, to respect the institutional hierarchy, to maintain the traditions of the Court Guard… I decided that a Soul Reaper is just like any other Soul, albeit one with greater spiritual power and a duty to maintaining the Heavenly Coil, the flow of souls from one world to the next. Everything else is either in aid of that purpose, and thus useful, or dross to be disposed of. And like that, the chain broke.
"I…" Kusarihime was at a loss. She was overjoyed – to bear witness to Madoka breaking her chains is why she exists – but she was also sorrowful, even grieving, because this is not how she wanted it to happen. "Congratulations, Wielder. Or, good job, rather."
She could feel the smile on Madoka's face, hear it in her voice. Thank you. So, you don't need to worry: I'll figure this whole chain thing out, give me time. And then, I will be ready to hear your name.
"You sound so confident. Have you such certainty that I will act in the way you expect? Even if you learn my name, I don't need to let you out, you understand."
Give me some credit, here. I think I have a grasp on your values. Should I be wrong, though, and you leave me here to languish… I acknowledged that as a possibility, and have no regrets. Just as I imagine I would give my life to save a Soul from a Hollow, so too am I willing to give my freedom to save a Spirit from this uncomfortable pit.
"You only think this way because of the moral values instilled in you during your past life," Kusarihime pointed out desperately. "Ideals of self-sacrifice, protecting innocence, heroism- these, too, are chains down in that pit, some of the longest and hardiest of them all. There is no virtue in allowing them to pull and enforce your behavior."
Some chains shouldn't be broken.
Kusarihime wanted to cry.
She had dedicated herself to challenging and helping Madoka become the best Soul Reaper she could be. It was a noble purpose, and indeed the very core of her fraction of a soul. She saw no tragedy in living only for this one reason; just as it was righteous for a whole Soul to live and experience the whole gamut of highs, lows, callings, and duties that existence has to offer, it was righteous for a small fraction of a Soul to have a small fraction of that experience. The nature of the challenge she offered her Wielder meant her environment was less comfortable than most Sword Spirits were afforded, but comfort paled in the face of purpose.
She thought Madoka hadn't understood this; or, if she had, that she had disregarded it. In granting freedom to Kusarihime in exchange for her own, she thought Madoka was moving further away from the end that Kusarihime desired for her. That wasn't true at all.
When Kusarihime told Madoka that she needed to divest herself of every chain to achieve the First Release, it had been a lie. A moment of complete and total freedom is required to manifest Kusarihime outside their Inner World, which is the first stage of achieving the Final Release. The First Release is much easier, though paradoxically more complicated to attain:
Madoka needed to acknowledge that some chains are good.
Complete freedom is not something Madoka should ever achieve. Her duty as a Soul Reaper to maintaining the flow of souls is a chain, but one Madoka should bear willingly. The trick is in recognizing every chain that weighs her down, destroying the ones that are unwanted while bearing with pride those that are. The purpose of a chain is not only to imprison, but to tie down to the earth. By deceiving Madoka into believing that ultimate power required destroying every chain, Kusarihime set Madoka up for the cruel, but necessary final test: power, or duty? If she had chosen to divest herself of every chain, then by definition she would become a flighty creature, subject only to her whims, with no regard for the lives or welfare of others.
If Madoka was aware of the nature of this test, then it wouldn't work. To be granted the First Release, she would first have to turn her back on ever attaining it. She would have to believe that attaining the First Release meant sacrificing her duty as a Soul Reaper to maintaining the flow of souls, to protecting her comrades, to loving whatever family she would build for herself in the coming centuries; that it meant killing her heart, and all of her moral values. When she chose to keep those chains, even if it meant remaining a Release-less, weak Soul Reaper forever, then would she be ready to hear Kusarihime's name.
Unlocking the Final Release, then, would require taking off all those chains anyway. Completely unbound by duty, social mores, or any sense of justice, Madoka could then manifest Kusarihime outside their Inner World, and do battle. If she won, she could then look upon all those chains with an objective eye… and either leave them on the ground, or pick them back up again. It would be her decision.
She thought both Releases would be decades, if not centuries away. The Final Release might still be. The First, though…
"My name is Kusarihime," she said aloud, with Madoka's voice. "Let your duties to the Heavenly Coil become the power you need to safeguard it. I will be in your care."
And I in yours, my darling Kusarihime, Madoka replied.
For a Sword Spirit, falling into a state of meditation was trivial. In moments the radiant view of the Court of Pure Souls had fallen away, replaced by the silent forest of their Inner World, and soon after the shattered glass lake. She gave the stars above a smile, and fell into the Pit.
Fifteen seconds later, the chains took her.
________________
Between one moment and the next, Madoka transitioned from the prison of chains to the top of one of the guard towers neighboring the Academy in the Pure Court. The change was so sudden and shocking that she almost fell right off the edge.
What a stupid death that would have been, Madoka thought, feeling some amusement once the surge of adrenaline died down. How you're able to meditate while standing up is beyond me.
Most things are beyond you, came Kusarihime's reply, acerbic but without any real bite. And you would not have perished. You may not have been able to create a platform while in Soul Society, but the fall would not kill you and, assuming none of those Soul Reapers caught you, one would have surely ferried your mangled body to Division Four.
True enough.
Madoka let the moment lie. She was more than content to soak in the false sun's rays and breathe that spiritually-dense Soul Society air. For a few minutes there, she had been convinced that she would never be able to again. Even having been released by Kusarihime – and how amazing is it that she has learned her Sword Spirit's name! – she knew it was only a matter of time before she was down in that pit again, giving her partner use of her legs for a bit.
They hadn't talked about it yet, what with having only met an hour ago, but Madoka was hoping to hash out a fifty-fifty split on use of her body. The thought of ceding control again, with the lingering uncertainty of being given it back was a little scary, but Madoka was more relieved than anything. She had no family in Soul Society and had been unable to make meaningful connections in the years since her death, both during her short-lived stay in District Twenty-One and her four years at the Spiritual Arts Academy. She had been looking forward to meeting and befriending her Sword Spirit ever since she had learned what they are.
She would especially need that bond, considering she is almost certainly getting booted from the Academy in the next few days.
Do you think so little of my ability to imitate your behavior? Kusarihime said, sounding offended. Then, Ah, I understand. When that instructor said he had little left to teach us… an early graduation.
Madoka nodded. In truth, I hope not, but they told us on the first day that awakening to the First Release is the only way to skip out on the Graduation Exams. I would prefer to stick out the rest of the curriculum – I have so much to learn, still, and I'm far from top of my class – but the most valuable trait of any Soul Reaper is power, and at most only a thousand Soul Reapers know their Spirit's names. If I'm not given a seated position in one of the Court Guard Divisions by the week's end, I'll be very surprised.
As far as Madoka understood it, the Soul Society was perpetually understaffed. Their duty was to all of Creation, and though their remit was only to a small portion of that – roughly a fifth of the World she came from, as well as six other, thankfully much smaller Worlds she had only heard about – the qualification required to become a Soul Reaper was stringent. The applicant needed power.
A very, very small percentage of Souls had enough spiritual power to become a Soul Reaper. That power could grow, but a certain, minimum baseline was required to be able to undergo the training required for that growth. To its credit, the Soul Society was really quite good at turning those with the minimum potential into valuable soldiers for the cause, she herself was beneficiary and proof of this both, but it was only barely enough.
Like the bulk majority of Souls, she had not required food nor water upon waking up in the Afterlife. It wasn't until two weeks later that she had realized the growing ache in her stomach was hunger. Within an hour of realizing this, the roommate she had in District Twenty-One's public housing had already helped her pack her meager belongings for the journey to the Court of Pure Souls. The social pressure for spiritually powerful Souls was, to put it in a word, overwhelming. If she had chosen to put her heels down and stay, she had no doubt that the friendly reception she received by all her neighbors would have turned frosty in a heartbeat.
Upon arrival in the Pure Court, an unseated Soul Reaper had immediately picked her out of the crowd and given her a grand tour. He painted a gorgeous picture of afterlife as a Soul Reaper, complete with romance and friendship with comrades, glory on the battlefield, and noble duty to the Heavenly Coil, all while stroking her ego and telling her what a great fit she would doubtless be for his own Division, the Eighth. He helped her get fitted for her Academy uniform, settled into the dormitories, and even bought her a pretty silk ribbon, 'to personalize her new sword's sheathe.' That ribbon was still there, sparkly and wine-red.
He played it up like he was just passing by, but she suspected, and later had it confirmed, that this is a standard duty for the more charismatic Soul Reapers. It also set a precedent for the effort the Court Guard puts in wooing potential members. Her dormitory was large and shared with no one, her stipend is considerable, and the respect she is given on her days off by the citizenry borders on adoring. Just as the social pressure for those with the power to become a Soul Reaper is immense, so too is the love held for the Court Guard – and everyone in it.
All that, and the Soul Society is perpetually understaffed. The dangers of being a Soul Reaper are immense, and the turnover rate is high. Even in the Academy, the culture of power is a heavy thing, and students are encouraged to pursue greater heights with every passing day. One of her instructors had this to say, during his very first lecture: "If ever a day should come where you go to sleep no more powerful than you were when you awoke, kneel on the floor and apologize to your sword. You will have failed Soul Society and yourself."
So, no. Madoka doesn't expect to be allowed to finish her term in the Academy, despite how much she has left to learn. She'll have to ask a superior officer for a tutor, once she's made to join one of the Court Guard Divisions, and hope the gaps in her knowledge doesn't cause her trouble down the line.
Certainly our future Division's library has the relevant coursebooks, Kusarihime offered quietly.
Madoka is sure every division has a substantial library.
Do you have other favored spots? Kusarihime asked, and Madoka perked up.
There's a dango shop in West One that I stopped at before joining the Academy; I swear they have a new flavor every week, come, let me show you…
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Chained Lady
Spiritual Arts Academy
Bleach
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Take a left here- oh, straight ahead is fine, we'll take the scenic route, Madoka said. And I figured that should be obvious. We switched places.
Kusarihime was already thoroughly lost and didn't care. "How? No- why? That's not how any of this works."
Isn't it? We're one soul with two minds. All that changed is which mind controls the body. It wasn't too difficult to do; I just let the chains grab me, essentially stepping away from the helm, and pushed you in front.
She got the sense that Madoka was smiling at her. As for the why... didn't I already say? Not being a whole soul makes you no less a person deserving of dignity. I couldn't very well leave you in that condition.
Kusarihime didn't know how to react, to that. Fortunately, she didn't need to- her random path had led her outside the Academy building at last, and into the great outdoors.
The sky was blue.
A stupid thing to think. Of course Kusarihime knew the sky was blue: she'd known when her fragment of Madoka's soul broke off, just as she'd known how to speak Japanese and English and add numbers and walk on two legs. There was a difference, though, between the intellectual understanding of a Sword Spirit and the visceral understanding of a Soul. These may not be her eyes and she may not have been born under this sky, but as she looked up and watched a cloud inch its way across the horizon of the Pure Court, none of that mattered to her.
It was shameful, but weeks before her meeting with Madoka she had imagined what it would be like, to be manifested here in Soul Society. She knew that manifesting and then defeating her is a requirement for the Final Release, just like she knew this sky would be blue and how to conjure her chains, and had allowed her mind to wander: the important thing would be Madoka's growth, but wouldn't it be nice to stretch her legs, see the sights, gaze upon real stars? She'd had nothing to do these past three weeks, save watch through Madoka's eyes, try and ignore her banal thoughts, and dream.
Up ahead, on the left, there's an alley, Madoka said, voice kind. Let me show you my favorite place, yes?
This time, Kusarihime followed her directions.
It proved a lengthy trip, though perhaps her sense for distance was underdeveloped; it couldn't be more than half an hour, even with her stopping to stare at new sights. More interestingly, she had genuinely no idea where she was headed. Madoka's directions were quick and confident, so the destination was a place she was familiar with, but it was nowhere she's been since Kusarihime's genesis three weeks ago.
Those directions eventually led her to a stairwell, one that went higher than the bulk of the buildings she went past and took considerable time to scale. When she reached the top, she didn't need Madoka's declaration to know they had arrived; one look had taken her breath away.
The Court of Pure Souls was gorgeous. It had clearly grown organically from the centerpoint, but the meandering layout and asymmetry only enhanced its beauty. What gripped her attention most wasn't the tens of thousands of yellow-roofed buildings, or the heady spiritual pressure quite unlike anything she'd felt in their Inner World, or even the many moving dots that represented more life than she'd ever thought she'd be able to see: it was the noise. She had heard the hustle and bustle of the Capital of the Afterlife while walking its streets, but from this vantage point, she was struck mute by the realization of its sheer quantity of people.
Unlike the World of the Living we come from, Soul Society is flat, Madoka mused from within. That, the Afterlife's theoretically infinite size, and Japanese architectural sensibilities means you can see quite a ways. Were it not for the density of spiritual power in the air creating that white haze affect you see in the distance, we might be able to see all the way to the edges of District Eighty. Quite the sight, no?
"There's so many…"
She could feel Madoka's empathy. A far cry from our little Inner World.
Two weeks ago, one of her classmates had asked Madoka why she joined the Spiritual Arts Academy when she held little interest in pursuing martial skill. The classmate, who was the rough-and-tumble type by the look in his eyes and the way he held himself, had looked down on Madoka for being an academic who was a shoe-in for the Spell Force or Division Four. Like always, Madoka hadn't shown any discomfort or anxiety at the provocation: she had only smiled, saying, "When I realized what noble purpose the Soul Reapers had, how could I watch from the sidelines?"
Kusarihime, spectating from her pit of filth and chains, had been disgusted by that response. She could hear all manner of razor reprimands in Madoka's thoughts, and had been disappointed that her Wielder had chosen to spare a thug's feelings and not cause a scene instead of properly defending herself. She knew from her moment of genesis what ambitions burned in her soul and what desires she truly harbored, and had dearly wished that Madoka wouldn't hem and haw about her decision to join the Academy with something so feeble as moral platitudes.
Perhaps she hadn't given her Wielder enough credit. It took seeing the sprawl of the Court of Pure Souls herself to understand in that visceral and not academic way, but now that she had… perhaps the nobility of the Reapers' cause is reason enough to sign one's afterlife away. It was far from Madoka's only reason, or even her most important, but Souls can have multiple reasons for the decisions they make. It's a privilege that Sword Spirits don't have.
Speaking of…
"What you did back there, in the pit," Kusarihime began. "That was very stupid."
I was going more for 'noble.' I wasn't expecting a tearful expression of gratitude, but calling me out like that isn't nice.
Kusarihime's lips – Madoka's lips – twisted in a grim smile. "This switch you made, it's not a mutual thing. While you're bound in chains, I have all the power, and I could easily never let you free again. I could truly become Hashira Madoka, wielding the power of my First Release in my own name, and take your place in the Academy and, ultimately, the Thirteen Court Guard Divisions; you would live in that pit until my demise, which might be millennia away. Idiot."
I know.
"You know? That's all that you have to say?"
Yes.
That simple answer knocked down all the superior disgust that Kusarihime was so ardently working up. She thought her Wielder had done this frivolously, or at least without giving it all the thought and contemplation the decision would deserve; how could she have, when she'd only been in the pit for a bare handful of minutes? But even now, after having spent most of an hour bound in chains while watching her Sword Spirit traverse the Soul Society in her place, her voice hadn't so much as wavered. Kusarihime had no choice but to acknowledge that resolve.
But it only made her angrier. Kusarihime's raison d'être, the one and only purpose for which she had been born from the depths of Madoka's soul, was to challenge and foster the growth of her Wielder. She isn't bigger than that; no Sword Spirit is. To witness her Wielder throwing away her future as a Soul Reaper, sacrifice her growth, consign herself to wasting away in a pit in her Inner World… and all for her? A Spirit whose purpose is to lift her Wielder up, not be the reason she has fallen down?
Kusarihime's challenge to Madoka was one of self-awareness, of acknowledging the chains that life, her environment, and her family had put around her soul, and break them. As such, Kusarihime isn't given to self-denial. She knows why she's angry: her purpose is to make Madoka better than she is, but the nature of their Inner World and Kusarihime's form had done the opposite. Madoka had woken up this morning a student with a promising future, and now she had thrown her life away in a worthless attempt at heroism – and it's not even noon.
"You said you did this because I'm a person, and didn't deserve to be in that pit," Kusarihime said eventually, "But there were other options than trying to take my place. If you had pursued the First Release, breaking the chains that bind your soul, eventually I would have been able to climb out and reach the surface. There, I would have been free to explore the forest, gaze into the glass lake, and watch the stars; that might seem like a pitiful existence to a Soul, but I'm a Spirit, and we're much simpler beings. I would have been happy with that. Could have been happy with that."
You act like that's off the table, Madoka said, sounding tolerant. But I can break these chains just as well from within here. Better, even, without the distractions of daily life and other people. While you were distracted gazing upon the Court of Pure Souls and insulting me in your thoughts, I already broke one.
Kusarihime sucked in a breath. "What? Which one? How did I not notice-" She bit herself off. She knew why she didn't notice.
It was a small chain, only a dozen links or so. It represented the 'proper way' one must act as a Soul Reaper. Giving control of my body to my Sword Spirit is really quite blasphemous, and once I acknowledged that and that I found no fault in my actions, it wasn't too difficult to wonder what other social mores the Academy had taught me. To hold myself apart from other Souls, to respect the institutional hierarchy, to maintain the traditions of the Court Guard… I decided that a Soul Reaper is just like any other Soul, albeit one with greater spiritual power and a duty to maintaining the Heavenly Coil, the flow of souls from one world to the next. Everything else is either in aid of that purpose, and thus useful, or dross to be disposed of. And like that, the chain broke.
"I…" Kusarihime was at a loss. She was overjoyed – to bear witness to Madoka breaking her chains is why she exists – but she was also sorrowful, even grieving, because this is not how she wanted it to happen. "Congratulations, Wielder. Or, good job, rather."
She could feel the smile on Madoka's face, hear it in her voice. Thank you. So, you don't need to worry: I'll figure this whole chain thing out, give me time. And then, I will be ready to hear your name.
"You sound so confident. Have you such certainty that I will act in the way you expect? Even if you learn my name, I don't need to let you out, you understand."
Give me some credit, here. I think I have a grasp on your values. Should I be wrong, though, and you leave me here to languish… I acknowledged that as a possibility, and have no regrets. Just as I imagine I would give my life to save a Soul from a Hollow, so too am I willing to give my freedom to save a Spirit from this uncomfortable pit.
"You only think this way because of the moral values instilled in you during your past life," Kusarihime pointed out desperately. "Ideals of self-sacrifice, protecting innocence, heroism- these, too, are chains down in that pit, some of the longest and hardiest of them all. There is no virtue in allowing them to pull and enforce your behavior."
Some chains shouldn't be broken.
Kusarihime wanted to cry.
She had dedicated herself to challenging and helping Madoka become the best Soul Reaper she could be. It was a noble purpose, and indeed the very core of her fraction of a soul. She saw no tragedy in living only for this one reason; just as it was righteous for a whole Soul to live and experience the whole gamut of highs, lows, callings, and duties that existence has to offer, it was righteous for a small fraction of a Soul to have a small fraction of that experience. The nature of the challenge she offered her Wielder meant her environment was less comfortable than most Sword Spirits were afforded, but comfort paled in the face of purpose.
She thought Madoka hadn't understood this; or, if she had, that she had disregarded it. In granting freedom to Kusarihime in exchange for her own, she thought Madoka was moving further away from the end that Kusarihime desired for her. That wasn't true at all.
When Kusarihime told Madoka that she needed to divest herself of every chain to achieve the First Release, it had been a lie. A moment of complete and total freedom is required to manifest Kusarihime outside their Inner World, which is the first stage of achieving the Final Release. The First Release is much easier, though paradoxically more complicated to attain:
Madoka needed to acknowledge that some chains are good.
Complete freedom is not something Madoka should ever achieve. Her duty as a Soul Reaper to maintaining the flow of souls is a chain, but one Madoka should bear willingly. The trick is in recognizing every chain that weighs her down, destroying the ones that are unwanted while bearing with pride those that are. The purpose of a chain is not only to imprison, but to tie down to the earth. By deceiving Madoka into believing that ultimate power required destroying every chain, Kusarihime set Madoka up for the cruel, but necessary final test: power, or duty? If she had chosen to divest herself of every chain, then by definition she would become a flighty creature, subject only to her whims, with no regard for the lives or welfare of others.
If Madoka was aware of the nature of this test, then it wouldn't work. To be granted the First Release, she would first have to turn her back on ever attaining it. She would have to believe that attaining the First Release meant sacrificing her duty as a Soul Reaper to maintaining the flow of souls, to protecting her comrades, to loving whatever family she would build for herself in the coming centuries; that it meant killing her heart, and all of her moral values. When she chose to keep those chains, even if it meant remaining a Release-less, weak Soul Reaper forever, then would she be ready to hear Kusarihime's name.
Unlocking the Final Release, then, would require taking off all those chains anyway. Completely unbound by duty, social mores, or any sense of justice, Madoka could then manifest Kusarihime outside their Inner World, and do battle. If she won, she could then look upon all those chains with an objective eye… and either leave them on the ground, or pick them back up again. It would be her decision.
She thought both Releases would be decades, if not centuries away. The Final Release might still be. The First, though…
"My name is Kusarihime," she said aloud, with Madoka's voice. "Let your duties to the Heavenly Coil become the power you need to safeguard it. I will be in your care."
And I in yours, my darling Kusarihime, Madoka replied.
For a Sword Spirit, falling into a state of meditation was trivial. In moments the radiant view of the Court of Pure Souls had fallen away, replaced by the silent forest of their Inner World, and soon after the shattered glass lake. She gave the stars above a smile, and fell into the Pit.
Fifteen seconds later, the chains took her.
________________
Between one moment and the next, Madoka transitioned from the prison of chains to the top of one of the guard towers neighboring the Academy in the Pure Court. The change was so sudden and shocking that she almost fell right off the edge.
What a stupid death that would have been, Madoka thought, feeling some amusement once the surge of adrenaline died down. How you're able to meditate while standing up is beyond me.
Most things are beyond you, came Kusarihime's reply, acerbic but without any real bite. And you would not have perished. You may not have been able to create a platform while in Soul Society, but the fall would not kill you and, assuming none of those Soul Reapers caught you, one would have surely ferried your mangled body to Division Four.
True enough.
Madoka let the moment lie. She was more than content to soak in the false sun's rays and breathe that spiritually-dense Soul Society air. For a few minutes there, she had been convinced that she would never be able to again. Even having been released by Kusarihime – and how amazing is it that she has learned her Sword Spirit's name! – she knew it was only a matter of time before she was down in that pit again, giving her partner use of her legs for a bit.
They hadn't talked about it yet, what with having only met an hour ago, but Madoka was hoping to hash out a fifty-fifty split on use of her body. The thought of ceding control again, with the lingering uncertainty of being given it back was a little scary, but Madoka was more relieved than anything. She had no family in Soul Society and had been unable to make meaningful connections in the years since her death, both during her short-lived stay in District Twenty-One and her four years at the Spiritual Arts Academy. She had been looking forward to meeting and befriending her Sword Spirit ever since she had learned what they are.
She would especially need that bond, considering she is almost certainly getting booted from the Academy in the next few days.
Do you think so little of my ability to imitate your behavior? Kusarihime said, sounding offended. Then, Ah, I understand. When that instructor said he had little left to teach us… an early graduation.
Madoka nodded. In truth, I hope not, but they told us on the first day that awakening to the First Release is the only way to skip out on the Graduation Exams. I would prefer to stick out the rest of the curriculum – I have so much to learn, still, and I'm far from top of my class – but the most valuable trait of any Soul Reaper is power, and at most only a thousand Soul Reapers know their Spirit's names. If I'm not given a seated position in one of the Court Guard Divisions by the week's end, I'll be very surprised.
As far as Madoka understood it, the Soul Society was perpetually understaffed. Their duty was to all of Creation, and though their remit was only to a small portion of that – roughly a fifth of the World she came from, as well as six other, thankfully much smaller Worlds she had only heard about – the qualification required to become a Soul Reaper was stringent. The applicant needed power.
A very, very small percentage of Souls had enough spiritual power to become a Soul Reaper. That power could grow, but a certain, minimum baseline was required to be able to undergo the training required for that growth. To its credit, the Soul Society was really quite good at turning those with the minimum potential into valuable soldiers for the cause, she herself was beneficiary and proof of this both, but it was only barely enough.
Like the bulk majority of Souls, she had not required food nor water upon waking up in the Afterlife. It wasn't until two weeks later that she had realized the growing ache in her stomach was hunger. Within an hour of realizing this, the roommate she had in District Twenty-One's public housing had already helped her pack her meager belongings for the journey to the Court of Pure Souls. The social pressure for spiritually powerful Souls was, to put it in a word, overwhelming. If she had chosen to put her heels down and stay, she had no doubt that the friendly reception she received by all her neighbors would have turned frosty in a heartbeat.
Upon arrival in the Pure Court, an unseated Soul Reaper had immediately picked her out of the crowd and given her a grand tour. He painted a gorgeous picture of afterlife as a Soul Reaper, complete with romance and friendship with comrades, glory on the battlefield, and noble duty to the Heavenly Coil, all while stroking her ego and telling her what a great fit she would doubtless be for his own Division, the Eighth. He helped her get fitted for her Academy uniform, settled into the dormitories, and even bought her a pretty silk ribbon, 'to personalize her new sword's sheathe.' That ribbon was still there, sparkly and wine-red.
He played it up like he was just passing by, but she suspected, and later had it confirmed, that this is a standard duty for the more charismatic Soul Reapers. It also set a precedent for the effort the Court Guard puts in wooing potential members. Her dormitory was large and shared with no one, her stipend is considerable, and the respect she is given on her days off by the citizenry borders on adoring. Just as the social pressure for those with the power to become a Soul Reaper is immense, so too is the love held for the Court Guard – and everyone in it.
All that, and the Soul Society is perpetually understaffed. The dangers of being a Soul Reaper are immense, and the turnover rate is high. Even in the Academy, the culture of power is a heavy thing, and students are encouraged to pursue greater heights with every passing day. One of her instructors had this to say, during his very first lecture: "If ever a day should come where you go to sleep no more powerful than you were when you awoke, kneel on the floor and apologize to your sword. You will have failed Soul Society and yourself."
So, no. Madoka doesn't expect to be allowed to finish her term in the Academy, despite how much she has left to learn. She'll have to ask a superior officer for a tutor, once she's made to join one of the Court Guard Divisions, and hope the gaps in her knowledge doesn't cause her trouble down the line.
Certainly our future Division's library has the relevant coursebooks, Kusarihime offered quietly.
Madoka is sure every division has a substantial library.
Do you have other favored spots? Kusarihime asked, and Madoka perked up.
There's a dango shop in West One that I stopped at before joining the Academy; I swear they have a new flavor every week, come, let me show you…
Bleach - Chained Lady 1-3
SolarFall
Totally not a cat in disguise.
Part 3 of 4. Wherein much tea was sipped as the main character over-analyzes a stack of letters. (I have around 7k~ for The Pride Before's second arc, following Blake/Gold. The issue I'm facing is that, though Blake is as easy to write in the head of as Red, I can't tell if the prose quality is as good, or if it's as entertaining to read- she's a little bit of a Young Master type, with some fascinatingly wrong opinions, and a lot more introspective besides. All this aside I'm still 3k~ away from even reaching the location of where the first arc's conflict will take place, so... I'm unsure if I should wait to have the arc completed before I start a dedicated thread, because the arc might be 40-50k~ long. We'll see.)
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Chained Lady
Chancellor's Office
Bleach
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She rung the bell with all the trepidation and fear she didn't feel when she leapt into a pit of mud and chains.
It's the Chancellor's office, not the Gates of Hell, Kusarihime said, somehow managing to sound both disapproving and supportive at once. To make a good impression, show more steel in your spine.
Who said I wanted to make a good impression? Madoka countered, but took a deep breath and did as asked.
"Come in."
The Chancellor's office was more modest than she expected. There was a hanging scroll with Unyielding Diligence In One's Studies written on it as well as a half-dozen plants in dark, ceramic vases, but little else in the way of decoration. The Chancellor himself was not seated at his desk, which she was surprised he owned, but standing beside a window with a stunning view of the Academy green and the nearest Eastern districts. The vantage was higher even than the guard tower where she and Kusarihime had their heart-to-heart, and for a moment Madoka allowed herself to wonder if she would ever have an office with such a commanding view.
Unlikely. Few buildings in the Court of Pure Souls were more than three or four stories tall, if that, and only Division One had the advantage of being built on a tall enough hill. The Chancellor's view was likely rivalled only by the Head Captain and the Great Noble Houses.
The man himself turned and gave her a gracious nod. He had the look of a man who did most things graciously: the kind of banally pleasant face that excelled in bureaucracy, as well as the obviously noble lineage that meant he lived a charmed life. Presumptuous of her, perhaps, but he looked like a composite of every Kuchiki to ever have their form immortalized in statue on the Academy grounds, all traces of individuality or flaws sanded off by erosion. From what she had heard through the grapevine, the man was as much of an institution as the Academy itself was, having helmed it for almost a millennium, and in all that time neither he nor the Academy had changed at all.
"Miss Hashira Madoka, it is my pleasure to meet you," he began, his voice deep and smooth and pitched to carry, even in this small room. "I am Chancellor Kuchiki. Would you like some tea?"
"That would be lovely, thank you."
The Chancellor was an excellent host. He prepared and served the tea himself, and though the mug in her hands was likely more expensive than any three of her possessions, his charm and pleasant demeanor had her forgetting that in short order. She could almost pretend she was seated across a low table from her grandfather – but then she would sip the tea and it would be too bitter, or touch the cushion and it would be too soft, and the weight of Kusarihime on her lap was hardest to ignore. A dangerous man, the Chancellor, to walk past her guard with a sword of etiquette and hilarious stories.
I wonder if he could tell his nobility made you wary, Kusarihime mused. Telling that story about his great nephew and the koi pond dispelled the prestige of his name mighty quick.
Perhaps, Madoka responded, and raised her estimation of the Chancellor another notch.
"Ah, but I'm taking up so much of your time," the Chancellor said eventually, and she knew the charming small talk phase was over. "You've made quite the stir, Miss Hashira, and become the talk of the Court Guard in so short a time. As well you should- awakening your First Release mere weeks after forming your Spirit Blade? This is how legends are made. The Court Guard recognizes that potential within you, and a number of Captains have made you an offer."
He rose and grabbed a handful of envelopes from a drawer in his desk. When he set them on the table in front of her, she took them with shaking hands.
These letters are so obnoxiously pretty, Kusarihime noted, and Madoka stifled a giggle. They were; each latter was made from the good paper, the kind that she couldn't afford even on her generous Academy stipend, dyed rich colors and with wax seals embossed with Division crests. Division Six's even had a faint, lavender scent.
The Chancellor politely looked out the window as she opened each one up and examined the fancy words within. She at first expected form letters, complete with the purple prose she'd come to expect of the Court Guard, perhaps with a personalized afterword if the Division in question was low on manpower; to her surprise, if any kind of form was followed she couldn't tell. Each was unique, charming in their own ways, handwritten and signed by seated officers. She found herself strangely disappointed she'd have to turn all but one of them down.
The first was Division Two's. The envelope was dyed a dark orange, a richer tone than gold, with a pulsatilla flower crest. The letter was short, sweet, and endearingly awkward, and she wondered if the writer – Thirteenth Seat Kanzaki Maremi – was new to writing them. When he wrote about the automatic doors and heated floors of the barracks, she believed that he genuinely enjoyed them, and the way he talked up Captain Shihōin's warmth and reliability seemed genuine. The lack of grace made her more inclined to take the words of praise at face value, and the Thirteenth Seat made a good point: conjuring and controlling chains would be excellent for nonlethal takedowns, and no division in the Court Guard had need of nonlethal takedowns like Division Two. Their close working relationship with the Stealth Force meant they were dispatched against human opponents more than any other, and Maremi Kanzaki told her that her First Release would be highly valued by the Detention Unit. To this end, they offered her a place as an Eighteenth Seat and her pick of the Stealth Force, Executive Militia, and Detention Unit to begin in.
A seated position is not something to take lightly, Kusarihime noted, trying and failing to seem unfazed by Kanzaki's earnest praise of her Release abilities.
I think it is, actually, Madoka countered, though not harshly. It's never been spelled out to me before, but from what I gathered a position as Twentieth Seat is entirely ceremonial, and is given to every Reaper who achieves First Release without yet proving themselves worthy of the responsibility and duties of an actual officer position. That is to say, awakening to a Release entitles you to a seat, but the Court Guard doesn't want to give institutional power to someone with spiritual power but no recognized leadership capabilities. Granted, Eighteenth Seat is higher than Twentieth, but there's no mention of what my responsibilities would be or where my authority would begin and end, which makes me wonder if it's because I would have neither. More attention is given to the Detention Unit, but for all the talk of how useful your abilities would be he made no tangible promises.
Madoka imagined herself in Division Two. Over the past four years, she had already imagined herself in each Division and the Division-adjacent Corps, like the Spell Force or Stealth Force, but joining Division Two had never occupied her dreams for long. The Academy consensus was that Division Two was comprised of scary people and ninjas, and Madoka had never thought of herself as either. For all her words to Kusarihime, though, she had to admit that using her chains for nonlethal takedowns was enticing, and the thought of learning to stalk and sleuth like the Stealth Force was empowering.
There were more letters to read, however, and she didn't want to keep the Chancellor waiting.
The next letter was a pale turquoise and was sent by Division Five. The lily of the valley on the seal had always been her favorite of the division insignias, but she had to admit: Division Five kept a lower profile than most of the others, and she had a comparably smaller impression of it. The letter, written by Twelfth Seat Shinazugawa Yushiro, only enforced this impression: it was almost entirely about what Division Five could do for Madoka, and very little was written about the Division's own creeds, methods, jurisdiction, or atmosphere. If she were the egotistical sort, she surely would have been taken in by Shinazugawa's promise that Captain Hirako Shinji excelled at nurturing soldiers of immense talent 'like herself,' and believe the empty promise that she wouldn't be a Nineteenth Seat for long.
I'm sure Division Five is great, Kusarihime said in a tone of immense doubt, But it would be irresponsible to choose a division we know so little about.
I wish we could graduate the normal way. It wasn't the first time Madoka had expressed that thought in the twenty hours or so since she learned her Sword Spirit's name, but this time she said it with feeling. The Graduation Exams were followed by a Recruitment Festival in the Academy fairgrounds, and along with all the free sweets, drinks, and trinkets that she would never get to enjoy are booths and seated members of each Division, ready and waiting to answer questions, offer advice, and talk at length about their division and what living in it was like.
A student didn't need to be a graduate to attend, and truthfully she should have been attending these past four years. Every time she had made plans to go, and every time she had let it pass her by, though rarely without longing looks out the window at all the sweets and free things she was missing out on. But, well. Crowds. Madoka didn't like crowds.
The third was Division Six's, dyed a cobalt blue and with a camellia flower crest, and smelling faintly of lavender. She knew from her lectures it was led by Ginrei Kuchiki, but the letter itself was written to her by – she looked twice, shocked – Lieutenant Sōjun Kuchiki. The letter was lengthy, its calligraphy pristine, extolling the virtues of the Division and expressing confidence that she would rise to its challenge. Law, duty, honor: these words were a common refrain. At the midway point, after a paragraph expressing praise of her First Release and the Lieutenant's belief in her potential, was the offer:
"…Twelfth seat?"
"It's a generous offer," the Chancellor said.
It's a ludicrous offer, Kusarihime countered, and Madoka agreed. Twelfth Seat was obscene. Unlike the more realistic Eighteenth and Nineteenth Seat positions that Divisions Two and Five offered, there was very little about a Twelfth Seat's duties that was ceremonial. While a Division could have any number of seated officers between Twentieth and Sixteenth, Fifteenth and up were unique positions, which meant she would be twelfth on Division Six's chain of command. Everyone in the Division would know her name, and the name of her Sword Spirit, and how she liked her tea, because the position was a big deal.
Division Six would have dozens of Soul Reapers awakened to the First Release and ranked below her. Each and every one of them would be more knowledgeable than her, more skilled in the four spiritual arts, and possess more battlefield and leadership experience. She wondered, then, if awakening the First Release while in the Academy had given the Court Guard an inflated opinion of her abilities. She wasn't a prodigal student, who learned the spiritual arts as quickly as her sword's name. If she became Twelfth Seat of the division helmed by the First of the Great Noble Families, she would crash and burn and become the laughingstock of the Court Guard inside a month. This perfumed letter was a bomb in her hands, primed to explode.
Read the rest of the letter, Kusarihime ordered, and Madoka obeyed. Slowly, her heart rate stabilized and she gathered her equilibrium.
The letter was long, long enough the envelope it had been in was noticeably heavier than the others. A fourth of it was dedicated to a thorough explanation of what her duties would be to the Division, and what actionable promises the Division was making in turn. She would be expected to give the Division the entirety of her being, sparing no effort and working long hours, and would spend multiple hours a day in education with a Kuchiki clan tutor. Not a tutor hired by the Kuchiki: an actual Kuchiki. She would have no direct subordinates, but would be made responsible for the welfare of a portion of the Division within two years, should she prove herself worthy of it. She would be expected to engage in the Division's bureaucracy, which meant paperwork, but wouldn't be thrown in the deep end, and instead assigned as an aid to various seated members of the Division.
She would eventually be expected to lead teams in the field. Lieutenant Kuchiki wrote that he would personally lead her first field missions, and she wouldn't be expected to take over for a minimum two years. Division Six excelled in sentinel missions, which meant they often spent considerable time in the Worlds of the Living protecting spiritually active settlements, and so she would be expected to learn the culture and history of the seven worlds under Soul Society's remit. It wasn't uncommon for even seated officers to spend years at a time without returning to Soul Society.
With the heavy part out of the way, the next part detailed what the Division and Kuchiki Clan would do for her. The first promise was the aforementioned noble-level tutoring, worded as if it were as much reward as duty, which spoke greatly to their values and worldview. The second was twice-monthly individual spiritual arts practice with either the Lieutenant or Captain himself, which was… a lot. The pay is good: easily forty times her Academy stipend, though she had a poor idea of the value of money in the Afterlife, and tried to add up how many dango sticks that was in a week and failed. She would be granted her own four-bedroom house in the center of Division Six, which she gathered was standard for seated officers of any rank, as well as two weeks paid vacation per year, which was less than the average.
It's a ludicrous offer, Madoka repeated, then repeated again. Absolutely ludicrous.
I think the Chancellor is waiting for you to ask. He has an air of anticipation about him.
Madoka looked up. Chancellor Kuchiki was reading over paperwork of his own, looking for all the world completely immersed in his reports. She couldn't put her finger on how, but she noticed the same thing Kusarihime did: he seemed patiently amused, which was supposed to be her thing, damn it.
Madoka sighed. She looked out the window in a soul-searching manner, then breathed in the blue envelope's scent in as obvious a way as she could. She sighed again. A moment later, she whispered, "I wonder…" Then she sighed again.
"Heavy thoughts?" Chancellor Kuchiki probed, voice idle.
Madoka hid her smile behind the letter. "It's the letter from Division Six, Chancellor. The offer is so genuine, the trust invested in me so inspiring, I can't help but admit that I want to live up to the Lieutenant's words of praise. Only… am I truly worthy of Twelfth Seat, and of such a well-reputed Division? If I fail, not only will I suffer the consequences, but so could many of the valiant Soul Reapers under my command. If it were only my own life and reputation on the line, I would accept in a heartbeat, but I can't bear the thought of dragging others down with me, should I fail to meet such exacting standards."
"You would not have been made an offer that the leadership of Division Six didn't think you were capable of meeting," the Chancellor said kindly, though he certainly knew what she was doing. "Every Division has their eyes on the Academy, and it's not uncommon for students to catch the eye of a Captain or two long before they graduate. While some Divisions only noticed you after word of your First Release spread across the Court Guard, and their leadership wrote their offers in haste, Division Six has been ready to welcome you into the fold for years. A little sooner than they had planned, surely, but plans rarely account for the truly unexpected; and you, Miss Hashira, were unexpected indeed."
Do you know what you could have done to earn Division Six's attention? Kusarihime asked.
I don't have the slightest clue. She was a talented student, sure, diligent and keen, but she was far from the top of her class. She had very little contact with the two Kuchiki in the Academy, and she had scarcely been in Soul Society for a month before attending her first lecture. Her most standout skill was binding spellcraft, but even in that domain she was barely in the top ten percent. Until this very moment, she thought she had been truly unremarkable. To hear that Kuchiki clan leadership had been watching her growth- it was scary.
She struggled to give the next letter her full attention. The Eighth Division enjoyed a special kind of prestige only shared by the Fourth and Thirteenth, those three being Captained by founding members of the Court Guard. Captain Kyōraku had a reputation as a drunk, a womanizer, and as one of the most respected and valuable Captains in the history of the Court Guard, which had always struck Madoka as strange. The letter was really very sweet, but also seemed rather perfunctory, though perhaps she would have given it more honest thought had it not come on the tail of Division Six's offer.
Three letters remained, from Divisions Ten, Twelve, and Thirteen. Ten's offer held the least effort of the bunch, and though the writer clearly meant well it just didn't compare. Twelve was the Division she had been most enamored with before yesterday; they were the archivists and researchers of the Court Guard, with the least focus on martial combat. Madoka adored learning and her time in the Academy, and millennia of afterlife spent in Division Twelve's grand libraries, learning from the past and developing the techniques of the future, was the cheeriest afterlife she could imagine. Thirteen's letter was the warmest and most supportive, but she was only halfway through it when she realized she had already made her decision.
I wanted to join Division Twelve! Madoka whined.
Kusarihime had little patience for her. Twelve will not allow you to grow. You will stagnate for millennia, until you become yet another fossil locked away in their vaults.
Madoka wish she could fall into meditation as quickly as Kusarihime could. She wanted nothing more than to stick her tongue out at her.
"I can tell you've made your decision," the Chancellor said, and when Madoka nodded, he set his paperwork to the side and gave her his full attention.
"I wish to join Division Six."
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Chained Lady
Chancellor's Office
Bleach
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She rung the bell with all the trepidation and fear she didn't feel when she leapt into a pit of mud and chains.
It's the Chancellor's office, not the Gates of Hell, Kusarihime said, somehow managing to sound both disapproving and supportive at once. To make a good impression, show more steel in your spine.
Who said I wanted to make a good impression? Madoka countered, but took a deep breath and did as asked.
"Come in."
The Chancellor's office was more modest than she expected. There was a hanging scroll with Unyielding Diligence In One's Studies written on it as well as a half-dozen plants in dark, ceramic vases, but little else in the way of decoration. The Chancellor himself was not seated at his desk, which she was surprised he owned, but standing beside a window with a stunning view of the Academy green and the nearest Eastern districts. The vantage was higher even than the guard tower where she and Kusarihime had their heart-to-heart, and for a moment Madoka allowed herself to wonder if she would ever have an office with such a commanding view.
Unlikely. Few buildings in the Court of Pure Souls were more than three or four stories tall, if that, and only Division One had the advantage of being built on a tall enough hill. The Chancellor's view was likely rivalled only by the Head Captain and the Great Noble Houses.
The man himself turned and gave her a gracious nod. He had the look of a man who did most things graciously: the kind of banally pleasant face that excelled in bureaucracy, as well as the obviously noble lineage that meant he lived a charmed life. Presumptuous of her, perhaps, but he looked like a composite of every Kuchiki to ever have their form immortalized in statue on the Academy grounds, all traces of individuality or flaws sanded off by erosion. From what she had heard through the grapevine, the man was as much of an institution as the Academy itself was, having helmed it for almost a millennium, and in all that time neither he nor the Academy had changed at all.
"Miss Hashira Madoka, it is my pleasure to meet you," he began, his voice deep and smooth and pitched to carry, even in this small room. "I am Chancellor Kuchiki. Would you like some tea?"
"That would be lovely, thank you."
The Chancellor was an excellent host. He prepared and served the tea himself, and though the mug in her hands was likely more expensive than any three of her possessions, his charm and pleasant demeanor had her forgetting that in short order. She could almost pretend she was seated across a low table from her grandfather – but then she would sip the tea and it would be too bitter, or touch the cushion and it would be too soft, and the weight of Kusarihime on her lap was hardest to ignore. A dangerous man, the Chancellor, to walk past her guard with a sword of etiquette and hilarious stories.
I wonder if he could tell his nobility made you wary, Kusarihime mused. Telling that story about his great nephew and the koi pond dispelled the prestige of his name mighty quick.
Perhaps, Madoka responded, and raised her estimation of the Chancellor another notch.
"Ah, but I'm taking up so much of your time," the Chancellor said eventually, and she knew the charming small talk phase was over. "You've made quite the stir, Miss Hashira, and become the talk of the Court Guard in so short a time. As well you should- awakening your First Release mere weeks after forming your Spirit Blade? This is how legends are made. The Court Guard recognizes that potential within you, and a number of Captains have made you an offer."
He rose and grabbed a handful of envelopes from a drawer in his desk. When he set them on the table in front of her, she took them with shaking hands.
These letters are so obnoxiously pretty, Kusarihime noted, and Madoka stifled a giggle. They were; each latter was made from the good paper, the kind that she couldn't afford even on her generous Academy stipend, dyed rich colors and with wax seals embossed with Division crests. Division Six's even had a faint, lavender scent.
The Chancellor politely looked out the window as she opened each one up and examined the fancy words within. She at first expected form letters, complete with the purple prose she'd come to expect of the Court Guard, perhaps with a personalized afterword if the Division in question was low on manpower; to her surprise, if any kind of form was followed she couldn't tell. Each was unique, charming in their own ways, handwritten and signed by seated officers. She found herself strangely disappointed she'd have to turn all but one of them down.
The first was Division Two's. The envelope was dyed a dark orange, a richer tone than gold, with a pulsatilla flower crest. The letter was short, sweet, and endearingly awkward, and she wondered if the writer – Thirteenth Seat Kanzaki Maremi – was new to writing them. When he wrote about the automatic doors and heated floors of the barracks, she believed that he genuinely enjoyed them, and the way he talked up Captain Shihōin's warmth and reliability seemed genuine. The lack of grace made her more inclined to take the words of praise at face value, and the Thirteenth Seat made a good point: conjuring and controlling chains would be excellent for nonlethal takedowns, and no division in the Court Guard had need of nonlethal takedowns like Division Two. Their close working relationship with the Stealth Force meant they were dispatched against human opponents more than any other, and Maremi Kanzaki told her that her First Release would be highly valued by the Detention Unit. To this end, they offered her a place as an Eighteenth Seat and her pick of the Stealth Force, Executive Militia, and Detention Unit to begin in.
A seated position is not something to take lightly, Kusarihime noted, trying and failing to seem unfazed by Kanzaki's earnest praise of her Release abilities.
I think it is, actually, Madoka countered, though not harshly. It's never been spelled out to me before, but from what I gathered a position as Twentieth Seat is entirely ceremonial, and is given to every Reaper who achieves First Release without yet proving themselves worthy of the responsibility and duties of an actual officer position. That is to say, awakening to a Release entitles you to a seat, but the Court Guard doesn't want to give institutional power to someone with spiritual power but no recognized leadership capabilities. Granted, Eighteenth Seat is higher than Twentieth, but there's no mention of what my responsibilities would be or where my authority would begin and end, which makes me wonder if it's because I would have neither. More attention is given to the Detention Unit, but for all the talk of how useful your abilities would be he made no tangible promises.
Madoka imagined herself in Division Two. Over the past four years, she had already imagined herself in each Division and the Division-adjacent Corps, like the Spell Force or Stealth Force, but joining Division Two had never occupied her dreams for long. The Academy consensus was that Division Two was comprised of scary people and ninjas, and Madoka had never thought of herself as either. For all her words to Kusarihime, though, she had to admit that using her chains for nonlethal takedowns was enticing, and the thought of learning to stalk and sleuth like the Stealth Force was empowering.
There were more letters to read, however, and she didn't want to keep the Chancellor waiting.
The next letter was a pale turquoise and was sent by Division Five. The lily of the valley on the seal had always been her favorite of the division insignias, but she had to admit: Division Five kept a lower profile than most of the others, and she had a comparably smaller impression of it. The letter, written by Twelfth Seat Shinazugawa Yushiro, only enforced this impression: it was almost entirely about what Division Five could do for Madoka, and very little was written about the Division's own creeds, methods, jurisdiction, or atmosphere. If she were the egotistical sort, she surely would have been taken in by Shinazugawa's promise that Captain Hirako Shinji excelled at nurturing soldiers of immense talent 'like herself,' and believe the empty promise that she wouldn't be a Nineteenth Seat for long.
I'm sure Division Five is great, Kusarihime said in a tone of immense doubt, But it would be irresponsible to choose a division we know so little about.
I wish we could graduate the normal way. It wasn't the first time Madoka had expressed that thought in the twenty hours or so since she learned her Sword Spirit's name, but this time she said it with feeling. The Graduation Exams were followed by a Recruitment Festival in the Academy fairgrounds, and along with all the free sweets, drinks, and trinkets that she would never get to enjoy are booths and seated members of each Division, ready and waiting to answer questions, offer advice, and talk at length about their division and what living in it was like.
A student didn't need to be a graduate to attend, and truthfully she should have been attending these past four years. Every time she had made plans to go, and every time she had let it pass her by, though rarely without longing looks out the window at all the sweets and free things she was missing out on. But, well. Crowds. Madoka didn't like crowds.
The third was Division Six's, dyed a cobalt blue and with a camellia flower crest, and smelling faintly of lavender. She knew from her lectures it was led by Ginrei Kuchiki, but the letter itself was written to her by – she looked twice, shocked – Lieutenant Sōjun Kuchiki. The letter was lengthy, its calligraphy pristine, extolling the virtues of the Division and expressing confidence that she would rise to its challenge. Law, duty, honor: these words were a common refrain. At the midway point, after a paragraph expressing praise of her First Release and the Lieutenant's belief in her potential, was the offer:
"…Twelfth seat?"
"It's a generous offer," the Chancellor said.
It's a ludicrous offer, Kusarihime countered, and Madoka agreed. Twelfth Seat was obscene. Unlike the more realistic Eighteenth and Nineteenth Seat positions that Divisions Two and Five offered, there was very little about a Twelfth Seat's duties that was ceremonial. While a Division could have any number of seated officers between Twentieth and Sixteenth, Fifteenth and up were unique positions, which meant she would be twelfth on Division Six's chain of command. Everyone in the Division would know her name, and the name of her Sword Spirit, and how she liked her tea, because the position was a big deal.
Division Six would have dozens of Soul Reapers awakened to the First Release and ranked below her. Each and every one of them would be more knowledgeable than her, more skilled in the four spiritual arts, and possess more battlefield and leadership experience. She wondered, then, if awakening the First Release while in the Academy had given the Court Guard an inflated opinion of her abilities. She wasn't a prodigal student, who learned the spiritual arts as quickly as her sword's name. If she became Twelfth Seat of the division helmed by the First of the Great Noble Families, she would crash and burn and become the laughingstock of the Court Guard inside a month. This perfumed letter was a bomb in her hands, primed to explode.
Read the rest of the letter, Kusarihime ordered, and Madoka obeyed. Slowly, her heart rate stabilized and she gathered her equilibrium.
The letter was long, long enough the envelope it had been in was noticeably heavier than the others. A fourth of it was dedicated to a thorough explanation of what her duties would be to the Division, and what actionable promises the Division was making in turn. She would be expected to give the Division the entirety of her being, sparing no effort and working long hours, and would spend multiple hours a day in education with a Kuchiki clan tutor. Not a tutor hired by the Kuchiki: an actual Kuchiki. She would have no direct subordinates, but would be made responsible for the welfare of a portion of the Division within two years, should she prove herself worthy of it. She would be expected to engage in the Division's bureaucracy, which meant paperwork, but wouldn't be thrown in the deep end, and instead assigned as an aid to various seated members of the Division.
She would eventually be expected to lead teams in the field. Lieutenant Kuchiki wrote that he would personally lead her first field missions, and she wouldn't be expected to take over for a minimum two years. Division Six excelled in sentinel missions, which meant they often spent considerable time in the Worlds of the Living protecting spiritually active settlements, and so she would be expected to learn the culture and history of the seven worlds under Soul Society's remit. It wasn't uncommon for even seated officers to spend years at a time without returning to Soul Society.
With the heavy part out of the way, the next part detailed what the Division and Kuchiki Clan would do for her. The first promise was the aforementioned noble-level tutoring, worded as if it were as much reward as duty, which spoke greatly to their values and worldview. The second was twice-monthly individual spiritual arts practice with either the Lieutenant or Captain himself, which was… a lot. The pay is good: easily forty times her Academy stipend, though she had a poor idea of the value of money in the Afterlife, and tried to add up how many dango sticks that was in a week and failed. She would be granted her own four-bedroom house in the center of Division Six, which she gathered was standard for seated officers of any rank, as well as two weeks paid vacation per year, which was less than the average.
It's a ludicrous offer, Madoka repeated, then repeated again. Absolutely ludicrous.
I think the Chancellor is waiting for you to ask. He has an air of anticipation about him.
Madoka looked up. Chancellor Kuchiki was reading over paperwork of his own, looking for all the world completely immersed in his reports. She couldn't put her finger on how, but she noticed the same thing Kusarihime did: he seemed patiently amused, which was supposed to be her thing, damn it.
Madoka sighed. She looked out the window in a soul-searching manner, then breathed in the blue envelope's scent in as obvious a way as she could. She sighed again. A moment later, she whispered, "I wonder…" Then she sighed again.
"Heavy thoughts?" Chancellor Kuchiki probed, voice idle.
Madoka hid her smile behind the letter. "It's the letter from Division Six, Chancellor. The offer is so genuine, the trust invested in me so inspiring, I can't help but admit that I want to live up to the Lieutenant's words of praise. Only… am I truly worthy of Twelfth Seat, and of such a well-reputed Division? If I fail, not only will I suffer the consequences, but so could many of the valiant Soul Reapers under my command. If it were only my own life and reputation on the line, I would accept in a heartbeat, but I can't bear the thought of dragging others down with me, should I fail to meet such exacting standards."
"You would not have been made an offer that the leadership of Division Six didn't think you were capable of meeting," the Chancellor said kindly, though he certainly knew what she was doing. "Every Division has their eyes on the Academy, and it's not uncommon for students to catch the eye of a Captain or two long before they graduate. While some Divisions only noticed you after word of your First Release spread across the Court Guard, and their leadership wrote their offers in haste, Division Six has been ready to welcome you into the fold for years. A little sooner than they had planned, surely, but plans rarely account for the truly unexpected; and you, Miss Hashira, were unexpected indeed."
Do you know what you could have done to earn Division Six's attention? Kusarihime asked.
I don't have the slightest clue. She was a talented student, sure, diligent and keen, but she was far from the top of her class. She had very little contact with the two Kuchiki in the Academy, and she had scarcely been in Soul Society for a month before attending her first lecture. Her most standout skill was binding spellcraft, but even in that domain she was barely in the top ten percent. Until this very moment, she thought she had been truly unremarkable. To hear that Kuchiki clan leadership had been watching her growth- it was scary.
She struggled to give the next letter her full attention. The Eighth Division enjoyed a special kind of prestige only shared by the Fourth and Thirteenth, those three being Captained by founding members of the Court Guard. Captain Kyōraku had a reputation as a drunk, a womanizer, and as one of the most respected and valuable Captains in the history of the Court Guard, which had always struck Madoka as strange. The letter was really very sweet, but also seemed rather perfunctory, though perhaps she would have given it more honest thought had it not come on the tail of Division Six's offer.
Three letters remained, from Divisions Ten, Twelve, and Thirteen. Ten's offer held the least effort of the bunch, and though the writer clearly meant well it just didn't compare. Twelve was the Division she had been most enamored with before yesterday; they were the archivists and researchers of the Court Guard, with the least focus on martial combat. Madoka adored learning and her time in the Academy, and millennia of afterlife spent in Division Twelve's grand libraries, learning from the past and developing the techniques of the future, was the cheeriest afterlife she could imagine. Thirteen's letter was the warmest and most supportive, but she was only halfway through it when she realized she had already made her decision.
I wanted to join Division Twelve! Madoka whined.
Kusarihime had little patience for her. Twelve will not allow you to grow. You will stagnate for millennia, until you become yet another fossil locked away in their vaults.
Madoka wish she could fall into meditation as quickly as Kusarihime could. She wanted nothing more than to stick her tongue out at her.
"I can tell you've made your decision," the Chancellor said, and when Madoka nodded, he set his paperwork to the side and gave her his full attention.
"I wish to join Division Six."
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Bleach - Chained Lady 1-4
SolarFall
Totally not a cat in disguise.
Part 4 of 4. The mystery deepens... editing and posting these snippets gave me inspiration for part 5, but I've been writing for The Pride Before, so who knows when or if it'll come.
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Chained Lady
Division 6
Bleach
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Things moved very quickly, after that.
Are you sure you don't want control?
You aren't getting out of this, Kusarihime countered. Besides. Your attitude will be better appreciated by the likes of the Kuchiki than mine.
That was true enough. Madoka knew well how to be banally pleasant, and could maintain the attitude for years. Her partner had much less patience. If she was asked for a spar, though, she was ceding control to Kusarihime, and wouldn't listen to her objections.
Madoka had little in the way of possessions, and had already put them all in a single, lonely box last night. Most of her room's decorations belonged to the Academy, as did the coursebooks which she had already returned to the library, and the uniforms which would be tailored for another student within a few months. Truthfully, all she had to bring with her to Division Six were the generic robes on her back, her Spirit Blade, a few romance novels she had purchased out-of-pocket, a tea set, a cute white bag for her money and badge, a sketchbook and charcoal, and some momentos from her time at the Academy. She probably didn't need the box.
She would miss her room. It was much smaller than her new house would be – and what a wild thought that still was, she was being given a house in a valuable location and wouldn't need to pay at all – but it was the first place she had to herself, since… ever, actually. In life, she had lived first with her parents and then with her husband, and since dying, she spent two weeks in District Twenty-One's public housing, then four years here. That mattered, to her. She could spend a millennium in service to Division Six, and she didn't think she would ever look back on this room and her four years at the Academy without fondness.
Less than two hours after giving her response to the Chancellor, however, Division Six came to take her away. She recognized the man as a Kuchiki immediately; he had the same look as the Chancellor, all dark hair and high cheekbones, though with a noticeably less healthy pallor. If he were still recovering from an illness, it's unlikely he would have made the walk from Division Six, so she wondered if he were naturally sickly. The woman had a similarly gentle look, with brown hair in a braid and warm chocolate eyes, and Madoka was mostly certain that she didn't belong to one of the Four Great Noble Families. Neither had a more powerful spiritual presence than her, though as it was polite for seated Soul Reapers to restrain their spiritual pressure – a skill she had yet to learn, and likely would soon, seeing as her own pressure multiplied ten times over yesterday – that meant little.
"You must be Twelfth Seat Hashira," the Kuchiki said, and wow it was something else to be called that. "I am Lieutenant Kuchiki Sōjin, and this is Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri Miyako. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"The pleasure is all mine," Madoka demurred, giving a small bow. "Please, come in. I'd offer tea, but my kettle's been packed away."
The Lieutenant came to personally escort you, Kusarihime stated, disbelieving. Are you certain you did nothing to attract Division Six's attention? Did you save the Kuchiki heir from a hollow? Catch lightning in a bottle and leave it on their doorstep?
I told you! I don't know!
Perhaps a Kuchiki caught a glimpse of you on one of your rare outings, and fell in love, her Spirit theorized, seeming to give the nonsense idea honest thought. They went to their Clan Head for permission to court you, but was told you first had to prove yourself worthy of joining the Kuchiki clan through service. Ever since, they've been watching from the shadows, admiring, and pulling strings with other Kuchiki to welcome you into the Division.
Madoka would have shuddered were she alone.
"I understand you have only awakened to the First Release yesterday, and likely had been expecting to stay another two years in the Academy," Lieutenant Kuchiki began. "Are you prepared for the move to Division Six? If you require more time, you will have it."
Madoka smiled behind her hand. "I'm already packed and ready to go. Thank you for your consideration, Lieutenant."
It was kind of sad, but Madoka had no one to say goodbye to, here in the Academy. She was friendly with everyone and enjoyed some of her classmates' presence more than others, but there's a reason she had expected her Inner World to reflect her lacking social ability; true friendship required honesty, shared emotional vulnerability, and neither of those had ever come easy to her. She expected her classmates would have forgotten her entirely within a month of graduation, had Kusarihime not conjured chains in the middle of class.
If you had given me warning, I wouldn't have reacted so viscerally, Kusarihime said judgingly. Madoka ignored her.
She was hoping that joining the Court Guard would allow her to make meaningful connections. She was emotionally distant and prone to long bouts of silence, but the battlefield is where Soul Reapers forged unlikely bonds of family and romance, right? All her books were in agreement on that, the paperbacks in her box and the coursebooks alike. She could only hope that her random and meteoric rise to Twelfth Seat didn't set her too far apart.
"In that case, we'll show you to your home," the Lieutenant said. He nodded to Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri, who still had not spoken, and she picked up Madoka's box of worldly possessions and flashed her a quick smile. "Division Six borders the Academy grounds, but it's still quite the walk. Are you familiar with the Flash Step?"
Like you don't know, Madoka thought. "I'm familiar, but haven't used it since before yesterday. I might be a little unsteady."
"No worries! We'll follow your pace," Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri said. She had a warm voice and a warmer smile. Lieutenant Kuchiki nodded in agreement.
They both seem so gentle and genuine, Madoka told her partner. I hope this first impression sets a trend. More, I hope I don't humiliate myself by Flash Stepping into a wall or something.
We probably should have practiced the Spiritual Arts yesterday, instead of exploring. Adapt to your increased spiritual power. Definitely a mistake.
Madoka wanted to pout. Her partner was supposed to give her support, not confirm her fears! If she did make such a whoopsie, she was switching with Kusarihime to make her deal with the embarrassment, for sure.
For sure, Kusarihime said drolly.
Madoka was reluctant to leave her dorm, let alone the Academy. This was all moving so fast; twenty-four hours ago, she had been meditating on her Spirit Blade, wondering if this was the day she would catch a glimpse of her Inner World. Now, she was one of the Court Guard's most powerful Soul Reapers, and was being escorted to her new house by a Lieutenant and Great Noble so she could begin her duties as a Twelfth Seat. For a simple soul like her, it was all a little much.
If there was one thing she excelled at, however, it was keeping a cool demeanor. If failure meant being embarrassed, then she would work tirelessly to succeed. This went doubly so if the embarrassment was in front of a fancy rich type like a Kuchiki. She wouldn't look back at the familiarity of the Academy, wouldn't show even a moment of weakness before the Division Six pair, and her Flash Steps wouldn't just take her all the way to the heart of Division Six – they wouldn't disturb a single hair from her elegant braid. She'd show the Kuchiki noblesse oblige! Or something.
Or something, Kusarihime agreed.
With that riotous pep talk, the three seated officers of Division Six left the Academy behind. Lieutenant Kuchiki led the way, but effortlessly matched her pace from the onset, which was quicker than she could manage before learning Kusarihime's name but not so quick that it tarnished her appearance. Her future in the Court Guard rested on making a good impression, here.
It supposedly took ten days to traverse the Court of Pure Souls from one of the Four Gates to another. Division Six was southwest of the Academy and adjacent to it, which should have still demanded a three or four day walk. The Flash Step cut that down to an hour, and without her slowing them down could have been four or five minutes. She wondered: if she didn't know Flash Step, would they have politely walked with her, or would the Lieutenant have carried her?
If you couldn't Flash Step this far, you would not have been made such an offer, Release or not, Kusarihime pointed out. Madoka agreed; the point was moot.
Most of the short journey was through the Academy green, the only signs of human life being the occasional student practicing the spiritual arts. The majority of them didn't notice the passage of three seated officers, and those that did politely ignored them, as was custom when catching somebody Flash Stepping. Madoka enjoyed it while she could. As hopeful as she was for genuine companionship, she was equally dreading the endless social contact of the Court Guard. She would have to talk to a lot of people very often for a long time, and even her training wouldn't be alone. She expected she would speak more words in the coming week then the past four years, and the thought drained more energy from her limbs then the straight hour of Flash Stepping.
Before long they passed over from the Academy green and into the Division sprawl. The peerless maintenance of each blue-roofed building, the numerous gardens, and the calm ambiance gave the Division an elegant feel, but the urban planning was as random as the rest of the Pure Court; a house, storefront, training ground, and office might be neighbors, bracketed by a long wall. Madoka knew it would take her years before she stopped getting lost in her own Division. With luck, Kusarihime had a better memory for this kind of thing and could act the guide.
They switched to walking as they passed the first row of buildings. Was this to give her a tour, introduce her to the various Reapers they would pass, or because of some etiquette she didn't know? It was hard to tell. Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri happily welcomed her to the Division and eagerly began telling her what various buildings and parks were for, but that seemed more like Tsuyuri making the best of the moment and not the plan from the beginning. Most of the Soul Reapers they passed gave her looks of curiosity, not recognizing her as their new Twelfth Seat, but not one of them engaged her in conversation or asked either of her superiors what she was here for.
Several waved at Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri. Everyone gave the Lieutenant a small bow. A few asked after his health, or had questions about the spiritual arts or past missions or gossip. The atmosphere was very formal and reserved, but no one was intimidated by Lieutenant Kuchiki, or tried to avoid his attention. It was a good omen.
There, on your ten o' clock, with the white hair, Kusarihime murmured in her mind. Do you see what I see?
Madoka looked as subtly as she could. There was a small crowd of exhausted-looking Soul Reapers, their robes drenched in sweat and dirt, clearly returning from a mission or training exercise. Two had white hair, but only one of them was looking at her. He looked on the older side of middle age, with a sharp beard and a face lined by smiles, but in Soul Society that meant little; he could have died at fifty and been here a decade or died at thirty and been here a millennium, there was no way to know.
Madoka didn't really want to know. The way he was looking at her- his eyes were wide and his attention was obvious, and when she turned slightly to observe him, he nearly stumbled. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.
Funny, Kusarihime said, voice dry. Think this old man's reaction has something to do with Division Six's interest in you?
It was possible. Neither the Chancellor nor either of her guides today had treated her in any way out of the ordinary, but they're all experienced Soul Reapers. It's possible they and this man all know something she doesn't, something that three out of four were able to hide. Madoka had few guesses and little evidence to base them on.
Lieutenant Kuchiki's spiritual pressure spiked, powerful and frigid and gone in the space between heartbeats. The white-haired man snapped a textbook bow and Flash Stepped away.
You should ask Sōjun why Division Six gave you such a sweet offer, Kusarihime said.
I will. Need to wait for the right moment, though.
Neither of her guides made any mention of the incident, and so neither did Madoka. Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri's tour didn't hitch at all.
Before long, they arrived at the grandest building she'd seen thus far. The Division Six Barracks was imposing, ringed by sakura blossom trees and high walls, and crawling with Soul Reapers. The insignias of Clan Kuchiki and the Division were emblazoned on the walls, and the cobalt blue they were known for was everywhere. It was a good look, and she could imagine herself working here for centuries to come; the dark blue and rich pink on a white background was gorgeous, and like the rest of the Division the grounds were impeccably clean.
"Your office is on the third floor, next to mine," the Eleventh Seat said. "The Twelfth Seat house won't be ready for you to move in for a few days, but there's temporary housing in the Barracks you can stay in until then. I'll show you!"
"I'll leave you to it, then," the Lieutenant said. He looked paler, more tired, and she wondered if his illness was reacting to the exercise. "Twelfth Seat Hashira, your duties won't begin until next week. Take this time to settle in, meet your comrades, and learn the layout of the Division. I have an open door policy; Miyako knows my hours."
Madoka gave a deep bow. "Thank you for this opportunity, Lieutenant. I'll endeavor to meet your expectations."
The Kuchiki smiled at her, eyes crinkling. "I trust you will exceed them."
A lot of faith, Kusarihime noted. And did Miyako say the Twelfth Seat house isn't livable? Did they kick out the last Twelfth Seat for you?
Madoka wasn't certain how to respond to that, so she didn't. The Eleventh Seat lead her up a stairwell while the Lieutenant headed deeper into the Barracks. Once they were out of earshot, she turned to Madoka and gave her a wink. "I haven't seen the Lieutenant warm up to someone this fast before! You must be quite the talent, huh? I'm glad we were able to snag you, and not some other Division!"
"Thank you for the kind words, Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri," Madoka said with a polite smile.
"You can call me Miyako. I would've said so earlier, but the Lieutenant is a stickler for proper address, y'know? He's the sweet sort, but still a Kuchiki."
Oh, thank the King. "Miyako, then. I actually had a question…"
"Go for it."
"What happened to the previous Twelfth Seat?"
She's going to say he got kicked out of his position yesterday, I guarantee it, Kusarihime said.
No bet.
"Gyomei got offered a position as Division Thirteen's Ninth Seat," Miyako said brightly. "It was all very sudden, but he's been looking to climb the ranks for a few decades now. Our Division's Top Ten hasn't changed at all in two hundred years, so he looked elsewhere."
Madoka affected a look of anxiety. "He just left recently? That sounds like big shoes to fill."
"Yes, he accepted the promotion just last night. Oh, you don't have to worry though; it's expected for a new officer to take a few years settling into their role. If anyone gives you a hard time about not knowing something or being Gyomei's replacement or something silly like that, you let the Lieutenant know if they're above you, or you knock them around yourself if they're beneath you. We don't tolerate that kind of disrespect here at Division Six."
Called it.
I'm more worried about that last part, Madoka said. Using a Release against a subordinate is a big no-no, but even with my awakened power I don't have the skills to defeat an experienced Soul Reaper. I could brute force a win, but if I need to do that against an unseated subordinate, it'll look hardly better than a defeat.
Kusarihime hummed. We'll have to train, then.
That goes without saying.
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.
.
The first challenge came not even two hours later.
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Chained Lady
Division 6
Bleach
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Things moved very quickly, after that.
Are you sure you don't want control?
You aren't getting out of this, Kusarihime countered. Besides. Your attitude will be better appreciated by the likes of the Kuchiki than mine.
That was true enough. Madoka knew well how to be banally pleasant, and could maintain the attitude for years. Her partner had much less patience. If she was asked for a spar, though, she was ceding control to Kusarihime, and wouldn't listen to her objections.
Madoka had little in the way of possessions, and had already put them all in a single, lonely box last night. Most of her room's decorations belonged to the Academy, as did the coursebooks which she had already returned to the library, and the uniforms which would be tailored for another student within a few months. Truthfully, all she had to bring with her to Division Six were the generic robes on her back, her Spirit Blade, a few romance novels she had purchased out-of-pocket, a tea set, a cute white bag for her money and badge, a sketchbook and charcoal, and some momentos from her time at the Academy. She probably didn't need the box.
She would miss her room. It was much smaller than her new house would be – and what a wild thought that still was, she was being given a house in a valuable location and wouldn't need to pay at all – but it was the first place she had to herself, since… ever, actually. In life, she had lived first with her parents and then with her husband, and since dying, she spent two weeks in District Twenty-One's public housing, then four years here. That mattered, to her. She could spend a millennium in service to Division Six, and she didn't think she would ever look back on this room and her four years at the Academy without fondness.
Less than two hours after giving her response to the Chancellor, however, Division Six came to take her away. She recognized the man as a Kuchiki immediately; he had the same look as the Chancellor, all dark hair and high cheekbones, though with a noticeably less healthy pallor. If he were still recovering from an illness, it's unlikely he would have made the walk from Division Six, so she wondered if he were naturally sickly. The woman had a similarly gentle look, with brown hair in a braid and warm chocolate eyes, and Madoka was mostly certain that she didn't belong to one of the Four Great Noble Families. Neither had a more powerful spiritual presence than her, though as it was polite for seated Soul Reapers to restrain their spiritual pressure – a skill she had yet to learn, and likely would soon, seeing as her own pressure multiplied ten times over yesterday – that meant little.
"You must be Twelfth Seat Hashira," the Kuchiki said, and wow it was something else to be called that. "I am Lieutenant Kuchiki Sōjin, and this is Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri Miyako. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"The pleasure is all mine," Madoka demurred, giving a small bow. "Please, come in. I'd offer tea, but my kettle's been packed away."
The Lieutenant came to personally escort you, Kusarihime stated, disbelieving. Are you certain you did nothing to attract Division Six's attention? Did you save the Kuchiki heir from a hollow? Catch lightning in a bottle and leave it on their doorstep?
I told you! I don't know!
Perhaps a Kuchiki caught a glimpse of you on one of your rare outings, and fell in love, her Spirit theorized, seeming to give the nonsense idea honest thought. They went to their Clan Head for permission to court you, but was told you first had to prove yourself worthy of joining the Kuchiki clan through service. Ever since, they've been watching from the shadows, admiring, and pulling strings with other Kuchiki to welcome you into the Division.
Madoka would have shuddered were she alone.
"I understand you have only awakened to the First Release yesterday, and likely had been expecting to stay another two years in the Academy," Lieutenant Kuchiki began. "Are you prepared for the move to Division Six? If you require more time, you will have it."
Madoka smiled behind her hand. "I'm already packed and ready to go. Thank you for your consideration, Lieutenant."
It was kind of sad, but Madoka had no one to say goodbye to, here in the Academy. She was friendly with everyone and enjoyed some of her classmates' presence more than others, but there's a reason she had expected her Inner World to reflect her lacking social ability; true friendship required honesty, shared emotional vulnerability, and neither of those had ever come easy to her. She expected her classmates would have forgotten her entirely within a month of graduation, had Kusarihime not conjured chains in the middle of class.
If you had given me warning, I wouldn't have reacted so viscerally, Kusarihime said judgingly. Madoka ignored her.
She was hoping that joining the Court Guard would allow her to make meaningful connections. She was emotionally distant and prone to long bouts of silence, but the battlefield is where Soul Reapers forged unlikely bonds of family and romance, right? All her books were in agreement on that, the paperbacks in her box and the coursebooks alike. She could only hope that her random and meteoric rise to Twelfth Seat didn't set her too far apart.
"In that case, we'll show you to your home," the Lieutenant said. He nodded to Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri, who still had not spoken, and she picked up Madoka's box of worldly possessions and flashed her a quick smile. "Division Six borders the Academy grounds, but it's still quite the walk. Are you familiar with the Flash Step?"
Like you don't know, Madoka thought. "I'm familiar, but haven't used it since before yesterday. I might be a little unsteady."
"No worries! We'll follow your pace," Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri said. She had a warm voice and a warmer smile. Lieutenant Kuchiki nodded in agreement.
They both seem so gentle and genuine, Madoka told her partner. I hope this first impression sets a trend. More, I hope I don't humiliate myself by Flash Stepping into a wall or something.
We probably should have practiced the Spiritual Arts yesterday, instead of exploring. Adapt to your increased spiritual power. Definitely a mistake.
Madoka wanted to pout. Her partner was supposed to give her support, not confirm her fears! If she did make such a whoopsie, she was switching with Kusarihime to make her deal with the embarrassment, for sure.
For sure, Kusarihime said drolly.
Madoka was reluctant to leave her dorm, let alone the Academy. This was all moving so fast; twenty-four hours ago, she had been meditating on her Spirit Blade, wondering if this was the day she would catch a glimpse of her Inner World. Now, she was one of the Court Guard's most powerful Soul Reapers, and was being escorted to her new house by a Lieutenant and Great Noble so she could begin her duties as a Twelfth Seat. For a simple soul like her, it was all a little much.
If there was one thing she excelled at, however, it was keeping a cool demeanor. If failure meant being embarrassed, then she would work tirelessly to succeed. This went doubly so if the embarrassment was in front of a fancy rich type like a Kuchiki. She wouldn't look back at the familiarity of the Academy, wouldn't show even a moment of weakness before the Division Six pair, and her Flash Steps wouldn't just take her all the way to the heart of Division Six – they wouldn't disturb a single hair from her elegant braid. She'd show the Kuchiki noblesse oblige! Or something.
Or something, Kusarihime agreed.
With that riotous pep talk, the three seated officers of Division Six left the Academy behind. Lieutenant Kuchiki led the way, but effortlessly matched her pace from the onset, which was quicker than she could manage before learning Kusarihime's name but not so quick that it tarnished her appearance. Her future in the Court Guard rested on making a good impression, here.
It supposedly took ten days to traverse the Court of Pure Souls from one of the Four Gates to another. Division Six was southwest of the Academy and adjacent to it, which should have still demanded a three or four day walk. The Flash Step cut that down to an hour, and without her slowing them down could have been four or five minutes. She wondered: if she didn't know Flash Step, would they have politely walked with her, or would the Lieutenant have carried her?
If you couldn't Flash Step this far, you would not have been made such an offer, Release or not, Kusarihime pointed out. Madoka agreed; the point was moot.
Most of the short journey was through the Academy green, the only signs of human life being the occasional student practicing the spiritual arts. The majority of them didn't notice the passage of three seated officers, and those that did politely ignored them, as was custom when catching somebody Flash Stepping. Madoka enjoyed it while she could. As hopeful as she was for genuine companionship, she was equally dreading the endless social contact of the Court Guard. She would have to talk to a lot of people very often for a long time, and even her training wouldn't be alone. She expected she would speak more words in the coming week then the past four years, and the thought drained more energy from her limbs then the straight hour of Flash Stepping.
Before long they passed over from the Academy green and into the Division sprawl. The peerless maintenance of each blue-roofed building, the numerous gardens, and the calm ambiance gave the Division an elegant feel, but the urban planning was as random as the rest of the Pure Court; a house, storefront, training ground, and office might be neighbors, bracketed by a long wall. Madoka knew it would take her years before she stopped getting lost in her own Division. With luck, Kusarihime had a better memory for this kind of thing and could act the guide.
They switched to walking as they passed the first row of buildings. Was this to give her a tour, introduce her to the various Reapers they would pass, or because of some etiquette she didn't know? It was hard to tell. Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri happily welcomed her to the Division and eagerly began telling her what various buildings and parks were for, but that seemed more like Tsuyuri making the best of the moment and not the plan from the beginning. Most of the Soul Reapers they passed gave her looks of curiosity, not recognizing her as their new Twelfth Seat, but not one of them engaged her in conversation or asked either of her superiors what she was here for.
Several waved at Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri. Everyone gave the Lieutenant a small bow. A few asked after his health, or had questions about the spiritual arts or past missions or gossip. The atmosphere was very formal and reserved, but no one was intimidated by Lieutenant Kuchiki, or tried to avoid his attention. It was a good omen.
There, on your ten o' clock, with the white hair, Kusarihime murmured in her mind. Do you see what I see?
Madoka looked as subtly as she could. There was a small crowd of exhausted-looking Soul Reapers, their robes drenched in sweat and dirt, clearly returning from a mission or training exercise. Two had white hair, but only one of them was looking at her. He looked on the older side of middle age, with a sharp beard and a face lined by smiles, but in Soul Society that meant little; he could have died at fifty and been here a decade or died at thirty and been here a millennium, there was no way to know.
Madoka didn't really want to know. The way he was looking at her- his eyes were wide and his attention was obvious, and when she turned slightly to observe him, he nearly stumbled. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.
Funny, Kusarihime said, voice dry. Think this old man's reaction has something to do with Division Six's interest in you?
It was possible. Neither the Chancellor nor either of her guides today had treated her in any way out of the ordinary, but they're all experienced Soul Reapers. It's possible they and this man all know something she doesn't, something that three out of four were able to hide. Madoka had few guesses and little evidence to base them on.
Lieutenant Kuchiki's spiritual pressure spiked, powerful and frigid and gone in the space between heartbeats. The white-haired man snapped a textbook bow and Flash Stepped away.
You should ask Sōjun why Division Six gave you such a sweet offer, Kusarihime said.
I will. Need to wait for the right moment, though.
Neither of her guides made any mention of the incident, and so neither did Madoka. Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri's tour didn't hitch at all.
Before long, they arrived at the grandest building she'd seen thus far. The Division Six Barracks was imposing, ringed by sakura blossom trees and high walls, and crawling with Soul Reapers. The insignias of Clan Kuchiki and the Division were emblazoned on the walls, and the cobalt blue they were known for was everywhere. It was a good look, and she could imagine herself working here for centuries to come; the dark blue and rich pink on a white background was gorgeous, and like the rest of the Division the grounds were impeccably clean.
"Your office is on the third floor, next to mine," the Eleventh Seat said. "The Twelfth Seat house won't be ready for you to move in for a few days, but there's temporary housing in the Barracks you can stay in until then. I'll show you!"
"I'll leave you to it, then," the Lieutenant said. He looked paler, more tired, and she wondered if his illness was reacting to the exercise. "Twelfth Seat Hashira, your duties won't begin until next week. Take this time to settle in, meet your comrades, and learn the layout of the Division. I have an open door policy; Miyako knows my hours."
Madoka gave a deep bow. "Thank you for this opportunity, Lieutenant. I'll endeavor to meet your expectations."
The Kuchiki smiled at her, eyes crinkling. "I trust you will exceed them."
A lot of faith, Kusarihime noted. And did Miyako say the Twelfth Seat house isn't livable? Did they kick out the last Twelfth Seat for you?
Madoka wasn't certain how to respond to that, so she didn't. The Eleventh Seat lead her up a stairwell while the Lieutenant headed deeper into the Barracks. Once they were out of earshot, she turned to Madoka and gave her a wink. "I haven't seen the Lieutenant warm up to someone this fast before! You must be quite the talent, huh? I'm glad we were able to snag you, and not some other Division!"
"Thank you for the kind words, Eleventh Seat Tsuyuri," Madoka said with a polite smile.
"You can call me Miyako. I would've said so earlier, but the Lieutenant is a stickler for proper address, y'know? He's the sweet sort, but still a Kuchiki."
Oh, thank the King. "Miyako, then. I actually had a question…"
"Go for it."
"What happened to the previous Twelfth Seat?"
She's going to say he got kicked out of his position yesterday, I guarantee it, Kusarihime said.
No bet.
"Gyomei got offered a position as Division Thirteen's Ninth Seat," Miyako said brightly. "It was all very sudden, but he's been looking to climb the ranks for a few decades now. Our Division's Top Ten hasn't changed at all in two hundred years, so he looked elsewhere."
Madoka affected a look of anxiety. "He just left recently? That sounds like big shoes to fill."
"Yes, he accepted the promotion just last night. Oh, you don't have to worry though; it's expected for a new officer to take a few years settling into their role. If anyone gives you a hard time about not knowing something or being Gyomei's replacement or something silly like that, you let the Lieutenant know if they're above you, or you knock them around yourself if they're beneath you. We don't tolerate that kind of disrespect here at Division Six."
Called it.
I'm more worried about that last part, Madoka said. Using a Release against a subordinate is a big no-no, but even with my awakened power I don't have the skills to defeat an experienced Soul Reaper. I could brute force a win, but if I need to do that against an unseated subordinate, it'll look hardly better than a defeat.
Kusarihime hummed. We'll have to train, then.
That goes without saying.
.
.
.
The first challenge came not even two hours later.
Original - Dream of a New Dawn 1-1
SolarFall
Totally not a cat in disguise.
New city, new apartment, new job. I've been a busy little bee. ...First time posting something original ever (unless the heavy AU of my old quest counts?), but this is something I've been knocking around for years.
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Dream of a New Dawn
Johannes' Field
Original
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It was a gorgeous day to die.
Thank the Thirteen for small mercies, I think, a smile on my lips despite myself, for they don't show big ones. It was a spare few minutes until night, and though I couldn't watch my last sunset through the rock I was chained to I was at least offered a premium ocean view. The waves were slow and painted red-violet by the dying light, each crash on the cliffside thick with the scent of salt and wild nature, and I remembered fondly long days surfing with Mother and kicking over Coral's sand-castles. It was a shame those days would never come again, but shame is something I'm well-acquainted with.
I twisted awkwardly, failing to find a comfortable position against the sharp-edged rock and – not for the first time – bemoaning that Viktor hadn't chained me six inches to the left. There was a smooth curve there and a natural head-rest, just low enough I could reach it if I sat on my knees. I'd still be able to see my approaching doom, and surely mortal terror and the evening's biting cold would keep me awake. Viktor had been apologetic, at least, though entirely unwilling to take the risk.
Fortunately, the Leviathan of Loch-Terrez didn't keep me waiting much longer.
Like a horseman of the end, it was heralded by a terrible natural force. The sea-birds and chirping insects went silent as the – hah! – dead, and the waves, once slow and calm, kicked up in the prelude to a tsunami. Each rose higher than the next and crashed into the cliff with ever-more force, shaking the earth beneath me and dousing me in seafoam, until finally they broke a hundred feet and the waves hit me directly with no small amount of force. I would have been grievously wounded if not for my enchanted skin, or so I could only imagine, as my skull was dashed against the rock and time and thoughts alike went real fuzzy.
The Leviathan rose from the deep and then higher and higher still, the fins on its bone-ridged head fifty feet above me and a hundred more above sea level, its pale white scales glittering prettily in the warm sunlight. Its body was long and serpentine, as wide around as my childhood house, rippling with muscles and marred by a thousand scars. It opened its eyes, then, all sixteen of them, asymmetrically placed on its head, and then its maw, revealing two rows of fangs, each half as long as I was tall. I found myself giggling. What use were the fangs or the muscles or the immense size, when all the legends spoke of its power to invoke crippling fear with a glance of its yellow eyes, or break a man's spine with the gravitational field emanating from its horns?
Overkill. Such overkill. Overdesigned, overpowered, overwhelming monster. What could be more powerful than the Leviathan that ended an empire three thousand years ago? And who could be more powerful than the man who commanded it to destroy his enemies?
"You're planning something," that man said, and though I couldn't see his scowl from this side of the rock I knew exactly how narrowed his pretty grey eyes are. "Know this, Katarina: whatever contingencies you have planned, they won't be enough to save you this time. This is the end. A real end."
I laughed harder. After all, for once Viktor had said something correct: I had no contingencies that could save me from the Leviathan, or even from the man who commanded it. My forces were routed, my stronghold stormed, my treasures looted and all that remained – my own power – had been overcome and bound in planar chains. I would die today, either by the Leviathan's fangs or Viktor's blade or the wrathful sea. The only question was what would become of my soul in the aftermath.
The Leviathan approached, and with it an aura of crippling dread. A toxic miasma filled the air, thick and disgusting, and between one breath and the next the rock I was chained to became a pillar of slick bone. A torrential downpour fell not from the skies above but the Plane of Raging Water, and each drop was a needle pressing into my skin. It was a special kind of agony, mere proximity to the Planes Beyond, not a one friendly to humans and our shells of flesh.
It was a cunning plan. Viktor had outdone himself this time; I would be helpless before the Leviathan's wrath, dead before it ate me whole.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry it had to come to this," Viktor said, almost unintelligible under the rain and crashing waves. "This isn't the ending I wanted for you."
No, I think, and something cruel bubbled up from my throat, rested on my tongue and demanded to be spoken. But it is what I wanted for you.
The Leviathan approached, and its maw opened wide.
.
.
.
"…two, three, hold. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, hold. One, two, three, four… Are you with me, tabby cat?"
Awareness came like a bucket of cold water. I gasped in a breath, then gagged on the sweet scent of spring flowers and fresh honey and strawberry-vanilla perfume. I was soaked through with sweat, made clammy and warm from the heat of the sun. Grass tickled my legs where they were not covered by my dress, and when I clenched my hand Charlotte squeezed back.
That left sight and hearing. My sister was still murmuring sweet nonsense, but distantly I could hear the whistling of wind through tall trees and the waterfall-
I shuddered, and for a moment all I could feel are sharp teeth and ice-cold seawater and that bone-chilling aura of death. I rode the memories out, head on my sister's lap.
The… the whistling of wind, and the chirping of birds. Yellow-feathered robins and northern tailglows and a single, mournful blackbeak.
The glow of the sun lit Charlotte's blonde hair like a halo, radiant and pure. Her smile was a sweet thing, gentle and unconcerned and a lie, and in that moment I appreciated it more than anything.
"How long was I out?"
Charlotte hummed. "No more than three or four minutes."
"Progress."
We lay there together, basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun and enjoying this gift of tranquility. Charlotte asked no questions and I volunteered no answers. Ours was an event that had played out a thousand times before, and there was no longer any reason to attempt to persuade the other. I could not deceive her as to the nature of my dreams, or convince her to deceive our lord father; in turn, she could not draw any detail or emotion from my lips. An attempt would spark only a fruitless argument and hurt feelings and ruin any rest I might attain in the aftermath.
I rose first, as was often the case. A handful of minutes to laze and recover were useful, but any more and my thoughts would return to the dreams as easily as a stone rolling downhill. The only succor lay in my sister's arms and fruitful labor, and I would not, could not, monopolize the former for long.
"I wonder if there were any early bloomers in Garrett's orchard this year," Charlotte mused. "Think he has some for sale? We could bake a get-well-soon pie for Anderson."
I jumped on the excuse. "Pie holds life magic well. He must be sick of father's potions by now."
The basket felt strange in my hands. Woven myself from sicklewood bark and filled with healing herbs gathered from the Inkwood this morning, it has been a constant in my life for eight years, and I knew every groove, every flaw, every nick and scratch like I knew my own voice – or, at least, I should have. I could not get a good grip on the handle, and its weight felt off.
I ignored it. The feeling would pass in time.
Charlotte kept up a steady chatter as we made our way through the trees, myself a step behind her. With the roar of the waterfall to our west and Lovers' Glade half an hour to to the north, I should have been able to navigate just fine myself, but the forest felt as alien as the basket in my hands and twice as hostile. Every sudden noise or unexpected rustling of the canopy had me tensing for a fight. It was a stupid impulse; Frederick and Maple kept the Inkwood cleared of planar beasts, and we were much too far from the lake to fall victim to a convergence.
Every kilometer put between us and the lake took ten pounds off my shoulders, and by the time we reached Johanne's Field I was talking as much as Charlotte, the visceral memory already fading like fog at dawn. It truly was a gorgeous day. Charlotte's stories, the heat of the setting sun, even the buzzing and prodding of summertime insects only served to immerse me more in the here and now. I ate up each and every sensation with the hunger of the desperate, until I had both boots in the mossy Inkwood and not the rock and shoals of Gloria.
The first sign of civilization was the enormous painted statue of the Victorious Hero, thirty meters tall if not more, book in one hand and thorny vines in the other. I knew from memory he had a kind, fatherly look on his handsome face, all artfully tousled hair and high Lucian cheekbones, but I kept my eyes averted. The earth mage who built it had clearly seen the Hero in the flesh; it was distressingly accurate.
Johannes' Field was close enough to the treeline that we didn't catch so much as a glimpse of anything but the Hero until we were right on top of it. Its shingled roofs were still dark from last night's rainfall, and its streets were bustling an unusually high number of people for the evening market. There was a cheer in the air, an almost tangible thing, the emotional pressure of ten thousand mages making goosebumps crawl across my arms. Returning home after plucking flowers and herbs in the Inkwood always soothed me. The cobbled streets, densely packed wooden houses painted bright colors, and hustle and bustle of people… it's where I belonged.
"Look, there's a caravan!" Charlotte noticed before I did, pointing down a narrow alley to a carriage painted ruby-red. It was of a design I had never seen in this life, sleek metal and rounded edges, and most importantly lacking a horse harness. Before I could say anything, Charlotte grabbed my other hand and we were running to take a closer look.
The caravan was sixteen long, taking up almost all of Lord's Street, each and every one a marvel of Glorian manaforging. I could see the fire and metal mana within even through the thick frames, and knew they would be so much brighter once stoked by the owner's magic. It was an uncomfortably nostalgic sight. Charlotte, of course, shared none of my trepidation.
She raced towards the line of tents to browse the no-doubt fantastical wares from every corner of the continent, and I slipped free from her grasp. Instead, I put my back to one of the carriages, affecting a casual slouch, and hoped the furnace of mana within would hide the minor chant I would cast.
"Black truths, white eyes | Pierce thy foe's guise | Reveal my prize."
Two drops of power trickled from my soul and covered my eyes in a film. It left a freezing chill in its wake, and my next breath fogged like winter. Necessary, though: the lies of the mundane world fell away, and the power of the Twelve Planes became as bright and obvious as the noonday sun.
Ten thousand souls almost blinded me; it had, when I first voiced this chant ten years ago. Most were the minty green or deep blue of the Planes of Blooming Life or Raging Water, many both, with a smattering of Dreaming Dark's pitch black. There were a few rare souls drawing power from the Planes of Devouring Fire, Grasping Earth, or Binding Metal, as well as a single one the telltale blue-violet of Twisting Fate, which I recognized as that lunatic Grace. Every trace of enchantment or artifice also glowed, though to my relief there were no Twisting Fate artifacts of significant power.
I let the working expire, shivering as the drops of power fell from eyes like tears and dispersed back to the Planes Beyond. The fire and metal souls were mostly unfamiliar to me, and were common in Imperial Gloria, as was water. The only soul I saw that was powerful enough to be an Inquisitor or a Paladin I thankfully recognized; Frederick was one of Johannes' Field's twin protectors, a life mage that hadn't left the Inkwood in three hundred years and whom my family trusted implicitly. This truly was nothing more than a merchant caravan.
"Thank the Thirteen," I said under my breath, a smile settling on my lips. I could explore.
The Glorian caravaneers had set up a market of tents and flash-molded metal tables twice the size of Johannes' Field's own. Every other stall had more glass in their cabinets than could be found in the rest of the town combined, set gently on artful quilts woven from foreign material, each displaying exotic wares. I saw more puremetal coins pass hands in ten minutes than all of last year. From Anselkan spices to Myrrhian mendicat pelts to Mystrelian tomes, I saw antiques and valuables from every corner of this world and a few from worlds beyond.
I recognized everything I saw. It was at once satisfying and haunting; few were tied to memories as crystal-clear as the Victorious Hero's face, but I was left feeling ajar, almost, like I was half Tabitha, half someone else. I remembered sharing a stew by a campfire with trusted friends, teasing someone for not being able to handle Ansel's spice. I remembered wearing a mendicat jacket and watching as its tears stitched themselves closed. I remembered being hunched over a table in a tranquil library, books worth millions stacked haphazardly by my chair.
Most of my memories were of agonizing death, bloodshed, or tragedy. The things that stick. Calmer, kinder moments get eaten by the Void Between. Looking at all these mementos of past lives, remembering the little things, it was… nice.
I wondered who else was feeling the same things I was. For some, it was easy: I saw Yarrow showing off a flintscale necklace to his boyfriend, scintillating and green, saying he used to have one just like it when he was Velya Maroneth of the City of the Drowned. Others were more difficult. Did little Bernadette have a valestone brooch in the shape of a wyvern because it was heavy with earth mana and would empower her channeling, or did the obvious Ascaian craftsmanship tickle her memory? I would never ask. She'd be in the right to slap me if I did.
I didn't expect to buy anything today. A single piece or narrow selection could strengthen my cover, but, honestly, I didn't want the reminder. I put in a lot of work forgetting my past lives, and I didn't need that sabotaged by a pretty bauble.
Naturally, that's when I saw something I had to buy.
"How much for the gemstone?" I asked, voice light and breezy. It's just a casual question, sir, don't think too hard about it.
The merchant smiled, looked me up and down. "Three hundred pure, though I'm down to barter, young miss. You have a discerning eye."
"Three hundred, huh? I don't know. Let me see what I have…"
I did have that much purecoin – nobility obliges, or however that saying goes – but not on me, and if another of Johanne's Field's dark mages bought it before me I would tear them apart. The herbs in my basket were valuable but also common, at least in the area, and even to a merchant who traversed the continent they wouldn't be worth more than ten or fifteen purecoin. Father had spent eight hundred on the dark and metal ring artifact I wore, but if I took it off I'd cause a riot. The obsidian hairstick I wore was itself a potent dark artifact, but obviously less powerful than the gemstone. My locket could conjure a barrier of solid air for defense, but that was a standard design, and could be bought in any settlement Roaring Wind mages called home.
I gave the merchant a considering look. He had a solid air about him, hardy and strong, as was common in earth mages; his tanned skin, curly hair, and wide lips were likewise common in Gloria's isles. From his looks to his bearing he seemed like a perfectly ordinary Glorian merchant, not some kind of Inquisitor agent in disguise, though I suppose that would be the point if he were. More, he didn't look like he could appreciate even a fraction of the artifact's true value.
The Gadrian Jewel was an artifact of peerless design. Almost too large to comfortably hold in one hand, the black sapphire was mined from a convergence to the Plane of Dreaming Dark hidden in a secret city, and was valuable enough to trade for all two hundred thousand square kilometers of the Inkwood and every settlement within. It refracted shadow like a diamond did light, and was a potent enough reservoir of dark mana that the Dark Lord Akesh once used it as a channeling aid. He later enchanted it to refract truth like it did shadow, giving it the power to pierce any illusion; he then used it to break the Secret City of Thorns' fate wards and storm it with his army. Shulak Ven fell in three days.
I absolutely could not allow it into the wrong hands.
"If Callie gets it, she'll be insufferable," I complained. "How about I give you fifty coin to hold it in reserve for me, and I'll be back in an hour with my purse and another three hundred? This is exactly what I need to get a lead on her."
"I can understand a rivalry! Don't you worry, young miss, it'll be waiting for you. My father would have my head if I dishonored his caravan by selling a reserved item."
I gave him a sweet smile. "I'll hold you to it!"
With that, I slipped away, mind already whirling with excuses should Father ask what I needed so much coin for.
.
.
.
Dream of a New Dawn
Johannes' Field
Original
.
.
.
It was a gorgeous day to die.
Thank the Thirteen for small mercies, I think, a smile on my lips despite myself, for they don't show big ones. It was a spare few minutes until night, and though I couldn't watch my last sunset through the rock I was chained to I was at least offered a premium ocean view. The waves were slow and painted red-violet by the dying light, each crash on the cliffside thick with the scent of salt and wild nature, and I remembered fondly long days surfing with Mother and kicking over Coral's sand-castles. It was a shame those days would never come again, but shame is something I'm well-acquainted with.
I twisted awkwardly, failing to find a comfortable position against the sharp-edged rock and – not for the first time – bemoaning that Viktor hadn't chained me six inches to the left. There was a smooth curve there and a natural head-rest, just low enough I could reach it if I sat on my knees. I'd still be able to see my approaching doom, and surely mortal terror and the evening's biting cold would keep me awake. Viktor had been apologetic, at least, though entirely unwilling to take the risk.
Fortunately, the Leviathan of Loch-Terrez didn't keep me waiting much longer.
Like a horseman of the end, it was heralded by a terrible natural force. The sea-birds and chirping insects went silent as the – hah! – dead, and the waves, once slow and calm, kicked up in the prelude to a tsunami. Each rose higher than the next and crashed into the cliff with ever-more force, shaking the earth beneath me and dousing me in seafoam, until finally they broke a hundred feet and the waves hit me directly with no small amount of force. I would have been grievously wounded if not for my enchanted skin, or so I could only imagine, as my skull was dashed against the rock and time and thoughts alike went real fuzzy.
The Leviathan rose from the deep and then higher and higher still, the fins on its bone-ridged head fifty feet above me and a hundred more above sea level, its pale white scales glittering prettily in the warm sunlight. Its body was long and serpentine, as wide around as my childhood house, rippling with muscles and marred by a thousand scars. It opened its eyes, then, all sixteen of them, asymmetrically placed on its head, and then its maw, revealing two rows of fangs, each half as long as I was tall. I found myself giggling. What use were the fangs or the muscles or the immense size, when all the legends spoke of its power to invoke crippling fear with a glance of its yellow eyes, or break a man's spine with the gravitational field emanating from its horns?
Overkill. Such overkill. Overdesigned, overpowered, overwhelming monster. What could be more powerful than the Leviathan that ended an empire three thousand years ago? And who could be more powerful than the man who commanded it to destroy his enemies?
"You're planning something," that man said, and though I couldn't see his scowl from this side of the rock I knew exactly how narrowed his pretty grey eyes are. "Know this, Katarina: whatever contingencies you have planned, they won't be enough to save you this time. This is the end. A real end."
I laughed harder. After all, for once Viktor had said something correct: I had no contingencies that could save me from the Leviathan, or even from the man who commanded it. My forces were routed, my stronghold stormed, my treasures looted and all that remained – my own power – had been overcome and bound in planar chains. I would die today, either by the Leviathan's fangs or Viktor's blade or the wrathful sea. The only question was what would become of my soul in the aftermath.
The Leviathan approached, and with it an aura of crippling dread. A toxic miasma filled the air, thick and disgusting, and between one breath and the next the rock I was chained to became a pillar of slick bone. A torrential downpour fell not from the skies above but the Plane of Raging Water, and each drop was a needle pressing into my skin. It was a special kind of agony, mere proximity to the Planes Beyond, not a one friendly to humans and our shells of flesh.
It was a cunning plan. Viktor had outdone himself this time; I would be helpless before the Leviathan's wrath, dead before it ate me whole.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry it had to come to this," Viktor said, almost unintelligible under the rain and crashing waves. "This isn't the ending I wanted for you."
No, I think, and something cruel bubbled up from my throat, rested on my tongue and demanded to be spoken. But it is what I wanted for you.
The Leviathan approached, and its maw opened wide.
.
.
.
"…two, three, hold. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, hold. One, two, three, four… Are you with me, tabby cat?"
Awareness came like a bucket of cold water. I gasped in a breath, then gagged on the sweet scent of spring flowers and fresh honey and strawberry-vanilla perfume. I was soaked through with sweat, made clammy and warm from the heat of the sun. Grass tickled my legs where they were not covered by my dress, and when I clenched my hand Charlotte squeezed back.
That left sight and hearing. My sister was still murmuring sweet nonsense, but distantly I could hear the whistling of wind through tall trees and the waterfall-
I shuddered, and for a moment all I could feel are sharp teeth and ice-cold seawater and that bone-chilling aura of death. I rode the memories out, head on my sister's lap.
The… the whistling of wind, and the chirping of birds. Yellow-feathered robins and northern tailglows and a single, mournful blackbeak.
The glow of the sun lit Charlotte's blonde hair like a halo, radiant and pure. Her smile was a sweet thing, gentle and unconcerned and a lie, and in that moment I appreciated it more than anything.
"How long was I out?"
Charlotte hummed. "No more than three or four minutes."
"Progress."
We lay there together, basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun and enjoying this gift of tranquility. Charlotte asked no questions and I volunteered no answers. Ours was an event that had played out a thousand times before, and there was no longer any reason to attempt to persuade the other. I could not deceive her as to the nature of my dreams, or convince her to deceive our lord father; in turn, she could not draw any detail or emotion from my lips. An attempt would spark only a fruitless argument and hurt feelings and ruin any rest I might attain in the aftermath.
I rose first, as was often the case. A handful of minutes to laze and recover were useful, but any more and my thoughts would return to the dreams as easily as a stone rolling downhill. The only succor lay in my sister's arms and fruitful labor, and I would not, could not, monopolize the former for long.
"I wonder if there were any early bloomers in Garrett's orchard this year," Charlotte mused. "Think he has some for sale? We could bake a get-well-soon pie for Anderson."
I jumped on the excuse. "Pie holds life magic well. He must be sick of father's potions by now."
The basket felt strange in my hands. Woven myself from sicklewood bark and filled with healing herbs gathered from the Inkwood this morning, it has been a constant in my life for eight years, and I knew every groove, every flaw, every nick and scratch like I knew my own voice – or, at least, I should have. I could not get a good grip on the handle, and its weight felt off.
I ignored it. The feeling would pass in time.
Charlotte kept up a steady chatter as we made our way through the trees, myself a step behind her. With the roar of the waterfall to our west and Lovers' Glade half an hour to to the north, I should have been able to navigate just fine myself, but the forest felt as alien as the basket in my hands and twice as hostile. Every sudden noise or unexpected rustling of the canopy had me tensing for a fight. It was a stupid impulse; Frederick and Maple kept the Inkwood cleared of planar beasts, and we were much too far from the lake to fall victim to a convergence.
Every kilometer put between us and the lake took ten pounds off my shoulders, and by the time we reached Johanne's Field I was talking as much as Charlotte, the visceral memory already fading like fog at dawn. It truly was a gorgeous day. Charlotte's stories, the heat of the setting sun, even the buzzing and prodding of summertime insects only served to immerse me more in the here and now. I ate up each and every sensation with the hunger of the desperate, until I had both boots in the mossy Inkwood and not the rock and shoals of Gloria.
The first sign of civilization was the enormous painted statue of the Victorious Hero, thirty meters tall if not more, book in one hand and thorny vines in the other. I knew from memory he had a kind, fatherly look on his handsome face, all artfully tousled hair and high Lucian cheekbones, but I kept my eyes averted. The earth mage who built it had clearly seen the Hero in the flesh; it was distressingly accurate.
Johannes' Field was close enough to the treeline that we didn't catch so much as a glimpse of anything but the Hero until we were right on top of it. Its shingled roofs were still dark from last night's rainfall, and its streets were bustling an unusually high number of people for the evening market. There was a cheer in the air, an almost tangible thing, the emotional pressure of ten thousand mages making goosebumps crawl across my arms. Returning home after plucking flowers and herbs in the Inkwood always soothed me. The cobbled streets, densely packed wooden houses painted bright colors, and hustle and bustle of people… it's where I belonged.
"Look, there's a caravan!" Charlotte noticed before I did, pointing down a narrow alley to a carriage painted ruby-red. It was of a design I had never seen in this life, sleek metal and rounded edges, and most importantly lacking a horse harness. Before I could say anything, Charlotte grabbed my other hand and we were running to take a closer look.
The caravan was sixteen long, taking up almost all of Lord's Street, each and every one a marvel of Glorian manaforging. I could see the fire and metal mana within even through the thick frames, and knew they would be so much brighter once stoked by the owner's magic. It was an uncomfortably nostalgic sight. Charlotte, of course, shared none of my trepidation.
She raced towards the line of tents to browse the no-doubt fantastical wares from every corner of the continent, and I slipped free from her grasp. Instead, I put my back to one of the carriages, affecting a casual slouch, and hoped the furnace of mana within would hide the minor chant I would cast.
"Black truths, white eyes | Pierce thy foe's guise | Reveal my prize."
Two drops of power trickled from my soul and covered my eyes in a film. It left a freezing chill in its wake, and my next breath fogged like winter. Necessary, though: the lies of the mundane world fell away, and the power of the Twelve Planes became as bright and obvious as the noonday sun.
Ten thousand souls almost blinded me; it had, when I first voiced this chant ten years ago. Most were the minty green or deep blue of the Planes of Blooming Life or Raging Water, many both, with a smattering of Dreaming Dark's pitch black. There were a few rare souls drawing power from the Planes of Devouring Fire, Grasping Earth, or Binding Metal, as well as a single one the telltale blue-violet of Twisting Fate, which I recognized as that lunatic Grace. Every trace of enchantment or artifice also glowed, though to my relief there were no Twisting Fate artifacts of significant power.
I let the working expire, shivering as the drops of power fell from eyes like tears and dispersed back to the Planes Beyond. The fire and metal souls were mostly unfamiliar to me, and were common in Imperial Gloria, as was water. The only soul I saw that was powerful enough to be an Inquisitor or a Paladin I thankfully recognized; Frederick was one of Johannes' Field's twin protectors, a life mage that hadn't left the Inkwood in three hundred years and whom my family trusted implicitly. This truly was nothing more than a merchant caravan.
"Thank the Thirteen," I said under my breath, a smile settling on my lips. I could explore.
The Glorian caravaneers had set up a market of tents and flash-molded metal tables twice the size of Johannes' Field's own. Every other stall had more glass in their cabinets than could be found in the rest of the town combined, set gently on artful quilts woven from foreign material, each displaying exotic wares. I saw more puremetal coins pass hands in ten minutes than all of last year. From Anselkan spices to Myrrhian mendicat pelts to Mystrelian tomes, I saw antiques and valuables from every corner of this world and a few from worlds beyond.
I recognized everything I saw. It was at once satisfying and haunting; few were tied to memories as crystal-clear as the Victorious Hero's face, but I was left feeling ajar, almost, like I was half Tabitha, half someone else. I remembered sharing a stew by a campfire with trusted friends, teasing someone for not being able to handle Ansel's spice. I remembered wearing a mendicat jacket and watching as its tears stitched themselves closed. I remembered being hunched over a table in a tranquil library, books worth millions stacked haphazardly by my chair.
Most of my memories were of agonizing death, bloodshed, or tragedy. The things that stick. Calmer, kinder moments get eaten by the Void Between. Looking at all these mementos of past lives, remembering the little things, it was… nice.
I wondered who else was feeling the same things I was. For some, it was easy: I saw Yarrow showing off a flintscale necklace to his boyfriend, scintillating and green, saying he used to have one just like it when he was Velya Maroneth of the City of the Drowned. Others were more difficult. Did little Bernadette have a valestone brooch in the shape of a wyvern because it was heavy with earth mana and would empower her channeling, or did the obvious Ascaian craftsmanship tickle her memory? I would never ask. She'd be in the right to slap me if I did.
I didn't expect to buy anything today. A single piece or narrow selection could strengthen my cover, but, honestly, I didn't want the reminder. I put in a lot of work forgetting my past lives, and I didn't need that sabotaged by a pretty bauble.
Naturally, that's when I saw something I had to buy.
"How much for the gemstone?" I asked, voice light and breezy. It's just a casual question, sir, don't think too hard about it.
The merchant smiled, looked me up and down. "Three hundred pure, though I'm down to barter, young miss. You have a discerning eye."
"Three hundred, huh? I don't know. Let me see what I have…"
I did have that much purecoin – nobility obliges, or however that saying goes – but not on me, and if another of Johanne's Field's dark mages bought it before me I would tear them apart. The herbs in my basket were valuable but also common, at least in the area, and even to a merchant who traversed the continent they wouldn't be worth more than ten or fifteen purecoin. Father had spent eight hundred on the dark and metal ring artifact I wore, but if I took it off I'd cause a riot. The obsidian hairstick I wore was itself a potent dark artifact, but obviously less powerful than the gemstone. My locket could conjure a barrier of solid air for defense, but that was a standard design, and could be bought in any settlement Roaring Wind mages called home.
I gave the merchant a considering look. He had a solid air about him, hardy and strong, as was common in earth mages; his tanned skin, curly hair, and wide lips were likewise common in Gloria's isles. From his looks to his bearing he seemed like a perfectly ordinary Glorian merchant, not some kind of Inquisitor agent in disguise, though I suppose that would be the point if he were. More, he didn't look like he could appreciate even a fraction of the artifact's true value.
The Gadrian Jewel was an artifact of peerless design. Almost too large to comfortably hold in one hand, the black sapphire was mined from a convergence to the Plane of Dreaming Dark hidden in a secret city, and was valuable enough to trade for all two hundred thousand square kilometers of the Inkwood and every settlement within. It refracted shadow like a diamond did light, and was a potent enough reservoir of dark mana that the Dark Lord Akesh once used it as a channeling aid. He later enchanted it to refract truth like it did shadow, giving it the power to pierce any illusion; he then used it to break the Secret City of Thorns' fate wards and storm it with his army. Shulak Ven fell in three days.
I absolutely could not allow it into the wrong hands.
"If Callie gets it, she'll be insufferable," I complained. "How about I give you fifty coin to hold it in reserve for me, and I'll be back in an hour with my purse and another three hundred? This is exactly what I need to get a lead on her."
"I can understand a rivalry! Don't you worry, young miss, it'll be waiting for you. My father would have my head if I dishonored his caravan by selling a reserved item."
I gave him a sweet smile. "I'll hold you to it!"
With that, I slipped away, mind already whirling with excuses should Father ask what I needed so much coin for.