Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

DR SUNSHINE IS DEAD

The day Happy died was a foggy one.

Just like many others in the small town of Rivermanor, nestled in the southeastern countryside of the Valdena region, near its border with Unova.

The fields around the house were swallowed by a thick mist, a milky veil that barely revealed the outline of the nearby town, twisted like a fever dream.
The gray Cromoròn, local mutated versions of Cramorant, hunted for prey with seemingly dull, yet ever-watchful eyes, among the rice paddies and the river that flowed slow and lazy not far away.
The fog rose from the river and the canals, dense and oily like a Grimer, and soaked into the soil like an infection.
The same soil that had once been green, alive. Now it was gray, caked with rust and herbicides.
The pesticides had driven away even the hardiest Grass-type Pokémon and the delicate Water-types that once danced through crops and streams. In their place, only deformed survivors: a few Stunkfish camouflaged in the mud, nervous Patrats darting through weeds, Trubbish bloated with plastic and broken glass, and misty Grimers, creeping and silent like sentient mold.
And of course, the gray Cromoròn, kings and undertakers of that sick land.
Some feared them. Others worshipped them.
No one dared get too close.
And yet, there were still those who stubbornly called this land “mother.”
Perhaps out of habit.
Or perhaps because no other would have them.

The boy was twelve, maybe thirteen.
Even he wasn’t sure anymore, no one had reminded him in years. No celebrations, no cake, no gifts.
Not since that whore , as his father called her, had left him alone with this big man. A man grown, but small. Violent, yet servile.

He was imposing only in appearances: tall, broad, with hands like dirty shovels.
Strong like a Bouffalant, but his strength was used only to strike those who couldn’t strike back.
Strong with the weak, weak with the strong.
He walked with the slow steps of a landowner and bore the gaze of a coward, the kind that weighs others like meat at a market, always looking for someone he can trample without consequences.
His voice croaked in his throat, rough and graceless like that of an old Seismitoad.
Sometimes he used it to threaten, sometimes to beg, often to strike shady deals with small-time criminals from nearby towns.
Businessmen, he called them, wearing his one “good” black suit, now shiny and threadbare, as if that alone could earn him the title of gentleman.

That day the house was full of voices, despite the fog-drenched silence wrapping the building.
His father was laughing in the living room, surrounded by guests who laughed even louder.
“This wine tastes like mold,” he croaked. “But at least it’s ours, eh? Like the land. Like the blood.”
They toasted, probably to a new deal, built on bought silences and well-paid betrayals.
Felice listened from the next room. He didn’t hear every word, but he didn’t need to.
He could see those handshakes, slick and clammy like dead Alomomola.
He already knew they'd turn into broken fingers, maybe from those same hands, maybe others.

Happy listened to them from the next room.
To make sure he wouldn't be heard.
And no one heard him.
Inaudible.
Invisible.
Useless.
Nonexistent.

The boy rubbed his forehead, ignoring the sharp pain caused by touching the dark bruise above his eye. The one that man had left him the night before.
Sometimes the man missed the mark a little, left a trace. Not usually, not on purpose. But when it happened, the bastard always let him stay home from school for a few days.
“To make up for it,” he said.
“To cover it up,” the boy would’ve liked to reply.

He’d been preparing his escape for months.
The room was perfectly tidy. Aseptic. Impersonal.
A chipped window overlooked a tiny backyard, where yellowish plants grew wild, twisted, dying.
Maybe someone who once loved flowers had planted them. Or maybe they liked Bug-type Pokémon that used to nest among the leaves.
But it was clear that no one had taken care of them in years.
Inside, beneath the window, a faded, empty desk seemed to watch the room with melancholy.
Next to it, a half-empty bookshelf held wrinkled schoolbooks and a few volumes borrowed from the library without leaving a name.
In a corner stood a bare bed, with sheets stretched and neatly arranged.
No plushies, no toys. No children. Everything perfectly in place.

But under the bed was a backpack, ready for the getaway.
Inside were clothes, stolen food, a crumpled topographic map and... a name.
A new name meant to kill the one others had given him.
Happy.
As if happiness could really exist in this filthy world.
No, his name would be something else.

Ghetsis.

This, unlike his given name, was one he had created himself.
It was his.

Some time ago, or maybe a long time, he wasn’t sure, something from a boring music lesson had struck him more than usual.
The teacher looked like a sickly Muk, with a slow, droning voice and the expression of a caged Patrat. He talked about chords. Like the ones his father made with the local mafia. There were “dominant,” “subdominant,” and those who simply served.
And when he spoke of a chord he called “the chord of evil”, a combination of perfect, icy dissonance, the boy paid attention.
Sol - Do#.
Or G - Cis, according to the note naming system used in the nearby region of Unova.
G - Cis.
Ghetsis.

That was what he wanted to become. Dissonant. Evil. Because goodness didn’t exist in the world. Only the weak, the ones who succumbed, the ones at the bottom of society’s food chain, believed in it. And they were always the first to bleed, to kneel, to die.
And the petty neighborhood villains, the ones like his father? They were even worse. They knelt for seconds, and their heads were pushed even deeper into the mud.
Only those who were truly evil, who clashed in just the right way , who inspired fear and respect, could rise from that mud. Not just survive, but rule. Dominate .

He walked past the living room door, left slightly ajar. No one noticed.
The photo on the wall stared at him, more yellowed than usual. A tall man with his chest puffed out smiled, seemingly happy, his hands gripping the shoulders of a child with a wide smile and tired eyes.
He smiled as if he were the man who had raised him.
On the left, the photo was torn, but a woman’s hand could be seen resting on the boy’s pale green hair. Maybe one of the last times she would ever touch it.
Below them, a small Deino with a playful, innocent air added unexpected movement to the scene.
Almost cheerful.
But all you had to do was look closer.

Happy slowly opened the front door.
The sun was still high outside, but it wouldn’t be for long. He had to hurry if he wanted to meet Ruben by the railway and reach the abandoned Pokémon Center where they would spend the night before truly beginning their journey. He knew they wouldn’t be searched for there. That place was taboo, even for the bravest adults. Certainly not the kind of place his father belonged to.
After a moment, he looked away from the sun and lowered his gaze. The house’s stairs stared back at him, as if in judgment. So he went down. In silence, with his backpack on his shoulders, without touching the chipped doorknob.

“Happy?” a distant voice called.
He froze for a moment. Maybe he hadn’t noticed him, maybe it was just said out of habit, like a burp slipping out.
Then more laughter, more toasts.
The agreements carried on with their fleeting success. Their macabre and off-key harmony.

Ghetsis smiled. A sharp smile. A fierce gaze.
He whispered softly,

“Happy is dead.”

Chapter Text

MOTHER,

I LEARNED LOVE

GHETSIS’ TESTAMENT

The day Ghetsis died was a sunny day.

Life went on quietly, as always, in the little village of Wintersong, nestled in the mountains northwest of Unova like a small, unpolished gem.

Domesticated Vanillish lazily played with the few children still living in the village. A rare Cryogonal drifted peacefully along the mountain slopes, like in a dream. A distant herd of Sawsbuck and Deerling, who, in those parts, kept their winter coats year-round, ran along the shores of Winter Lake, which licked the edge of the village like the tongue of a giant, affectionate Lickitung.

High up, at the mountain’s peak, a seemingly long, low building watched the village with an air of grim judgment: the maximum-security prison.

Ghetsis, bathed in the cold neon light of his cell carved deep into the rock, could see none of it.

N was dead.

Or so they said.

A guard had let it slip absentmindedly. He said there’d been an accident. Nothing more. And Ghetsis hadn’t asked further.

The old deceiver spoke less and less now. Once, even that cell had been like a throne, from which he ruled those outside with carefully chosen words. Now, not even that remained. What had once been a privileged cell had become a bare room, perhaps even more neglected than the others nearby.

N was dead.

In an accident. 

No glory, no crown, just the trivial death of an ordinary person, gone by mistake.

The puppet without a human heart, the weapon he had forged to conquer the world and become a god, was now dead. Like a person. One final insult, one last joke without humor.

But he wasn’t angry.

Just empty.

A Froslass, one of the spectral guards that patrolled the prison, floated slowly past his cell.

The Probopass standing in the dark corner of the corridor glanced at Ghetsis for a moment, then turned its stone-hard gaze elsewhere, perhaps to another prisoner, perhaps to a patch of mold on the dirty prison walls.

In his windowless cell, the man once called Sage lay on a bed, his arm hooked to an IV and a machine that spat out data every few seconds. It looked like the bed of an abandoned hospital.

His body had been still for days,perhaps weeks, he didn’t know anymore. Maybe not even the nurses knew.

But his mind still worked, or so he believed.

Since he had heard of N’s death, his thoughts had stolen space from dreams, and even the machine tracking his blackened heart seemed to have gone mad.

Not that anyone noticed.

He had called him tool, weapon, heartless puppet.

He had called him son. Even if it had been part of a carefully calculated lie.

And yet now, something had cracked inside him, as if, somewhere, in some tightly locked corner of his soul, he had felt something beyond usefulness for that pure and innocent boy.

As if he had been a father.

As if he had been a man.

The flickering neon light hit him once more, revealing a weathered face, lined by time, with a wrinkle for every person he had broken.

His left eye, once burning and alert, stared dimly and lifelessly at the filthy ceiling. The other eye was gone. In its place, a shriveled hollow covered by poorly treated scars seemed to peer across the room in place of its living twin.

The stench of mold filled his nostrils, the scent of his own decay.

What did it all mean? Why?

He could feel his body fading. He had never accepted it. He had tried to impose himself on the world even as disease gnawed at him from within.

This time, he had failed.

Others had surpassed him, those who once feared and worshipped him as a god now saw him as a formality to bypass.

His own “children” had long abandoned him.

Even that woman who had once said she loved him hadn’t come to visit in years. Perhaps she had moved on. Who knew.

What was left to think about now?

There was no one left to command, no plan to set in motion, no lie to tell.

Should he think of himself? “Get better,” as people said, though no one had ever said that to him?

And then the nurse came in, a warden disguised as a gentle soul.

He washed him at a distance, as one would clean a particularly disgusting and stubborn stain. And, as if it meant nothing, he opened his mouth. “That boy, the one who talked to Pokémon,” he said. He didn’t even call him by name. And he hadn’t been a boy in years, though Ghetsis hadn’t seen him since the arrest.

Then he went on, maybe speaking to Ghetsis or maybe just to himself, distracted. He spoke of an accident on the bridge to Driftveil City.

He said little more. He didn’t need to. Ghetsis understood.

Then that presence imposed by necessity left, as always. It was a day like any other. The routine was always the same.

N was dead.

And for the first time, Ghetsis felt something for him.

Since then, the thought had never left him. It was all he had left.

For the first time in what felt like years, he slowly closed his remaining eye.

Something wet had formed at the corner, perhaps from the infection spreading from the missing eye.

Perhaps it was something else.

And that was when he thought of her.

He could see her in the semi-lit darkness, though he didn’t know if it was a true memory or one warped by fever and age.

His mother, leaning over him, kissing his forehead.

A strong but fragile woman, who had been a mother only for a few years before leaving him in the hands of a monster.

Perhaps his father.

Perhaps himself.

Her absence had become presence, and now he felt her beside him, like a hand caressing his decayed face that almost looked like a dying Garbodor.

“Mother,” he thought. “I learned love.”

Ghetsis opened his eye.

Or thought he did.

The eye remained shut.

This time, forever.

Ghetsis is dead.

Chapter Text

BIGGER THAN MY BODY 

CONTROL

The afternoon along the tracks near the little village was slowly slipping into evening, fading into darker shades.

The milky white fog covered the area like the heavy breath of a Ghost-type Pokémon, making everything feel muffled, oppressive. The same atmosphere that cloaked those countryside lands ten months out of twelve.

A peeling lamppost cast a dirty, flickering light over a faded blue sign:

Rivermanor Station.

Not that many trains passed through, anyways

The damp fields near the railway, barely visible beyond the thick, pale veil, smelled of grass and manure. The few Kricketune still daring to live in the area had begun to sing their shrill, overly sweet melodies, like molasses on an already rotten fruit, well hidden among the half-withered bushes. A few lazy, overflowing Trubbish layed near the tracks. A solitary Grimer slid slowly down the nearby canal in search of shelter for the night. And night would come, like the axe over a condemned man's neck.

In the distance, the region's grey Cromoròn kept watch over the area, calling out to one another with eerie, sibylline voices, almost human.

Happy, no, Ghetsis, walked along the tracks with his backpack on his shoulders and his hood pulled over the one eye he had left.

His gaze fixed forward, as though locking onto an invisible prey.

The fog was thick, but he knew how to move through it. More importantly, he knew exactly where he was going.

The silhouette of the abandoned Pokémon Center, the last surviving building of a time when Rivermanor might have been something more, loomed like a ghostly shadow, either quite close or very far, hard to tell. A couple of Shuppet and Banette lived there now, but most of all, it had become the nesting ground of the Cromoròn. The villagers, superstitious as they were, avoided the place. They believed the birds brought bad omens, harbingers of death.

The perfect place to hide from that bastard and his gang; those ball-less cowards.

Behind him, the scratchy sound of a Deino’s footsteps.

Soft, uncertain paws. A clumsy shape keeping pace, slow but steady, with the boy walking ahead.

Ghetsis’s elongated shadow stretched over the little dragon’s already-hidden face.

One step from the boy, one step from the Pokémon.

Footsteps barely audible, swallowed by the thick fog.

But he had heard them.

Suddenly, what remained of Happy stopped abruptly and turned around.

"Enough. Go back."

His still-boyish voice rang through the damp air between the two figures. A distant Cromoròn called out as if answering a member of its own species.

Deino stopped. Its expression was unsure, jaws half-open. It looked confused. Innocently puzzled.

But it was no innocent creature.

A heavy silence fell between them, heavy like a sleeping Snorlax.

Like a fracture. Like a bridge.

“You can’t follow me,” the boy repeated. His tone was almost exasperated, almost fragile, almost broken. But he wouldn’t give in. Never. He couldn’t afford to. He was strong, bigger than the still-small body he inhabited.

“I don’t want any burden. I don’t want anything reminding me of her. Or him. Or me.”

Deino stepped forward halfway. Let out a quiet whine.

Ghetsis gritted his teeth. His good eye burning with hate and fear.

“Go away. Disappear,” he growled, low, “Now. Or you’ll regret it. I’ll make sure of it.”

He felt dirty, almost, using the kind of words he’d heard too many times from the man he once called father, or against him, depending on the day. But it was all he knew.

He turned again, quickening his pace, vanishing into the fog.

He expected to hear the dragon run away.

But he heard nothing.

He turned back.

Deino was still there.

As always. Like that time, a few years earlier, in the barn behind the house.

It was staring at him, after gouging out his right eye with a bite, with no understanding of pain.

Ghetsis, then still Happy, had decided to train it.

It was the Pokémon his mother had left him, but she had always treated it like a baby, cuddling and caring for it.

It had great potential, but she hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t noticed. She had left it behind, like everyone else, like the trail of absence that haunted that place, a twisted ghost.

So he had taken it into the barn and ordered it to attack a ragged Patrat hiding among the weeds.

“Go, Deino, use Tackle!”

But Deino just looked at him. As if waiting for a gesture of affection, while the rat Pokémon ran away in fear.

Happy shouted, frustrated.

He hit it.

And Deino finally attacked. But it had the wrong target.

Deino was still there.

Seemingly still as a Cofagrigus lurking beneath the desert sands, always two steps behind him.

“What’s wrong with you?” the boy shouted. “Do you want to end up under a train? You’re nothing without me! You’re alone, you’re blind, you’re a damn burden!”

He looked around, but no one was there.

Only Ghetsis and little Deino, wrapped in the thick, humid fog that coiled around the sparse trees lining the tracks.

“I don’t want you! Go back to the nothing you came from, you stupid monster!”

Silence.

The countryside around them was dimming with the coming evening.

The pale and fleeting presence of the sun was fading away.

There were no more Trubbish along the tracks, well hidden now in some dark, foul-smelling den.

No Grimer slithered through the canals, or maybe they did, and simply blended into the dark, poisoned ground, into the murky, copper-tainted water.

The Cromoròn had long stopped screaming.

In the distance, the Kricketune kept singing insistently, as if ignoring the desolation around them, celebrating a sunset that to them was nothing but a new beginning.

Silence.

Ghetsis bent down and took his head in his hands. He laughed.

It was a sharp, dissonant laugh, like a blade sliding across an empty plate.

“So stay, then.”

He looked at him with a new eye, colder, but no less intense.

“But I’m warning you.”

His gaze narrowed. Fierce. Sharp as a sword.

“I’ll train you. I’ll make you into a weapon. The greatest one the world has ever seen. You’ll protect me. You’ll follow me. And when they tell me I can’t do something, you’ll tear them apart.”

Silence.

Deino wagged his tail slightly.

His jaws, already half open, widened into something like a crooked smile. Hopeful.

“Good boy. Let’s start now.”

Chapter Text

RATTATA

I stare at the blank page on this computer.

|

|

The blinking cursor pisses me off.

Everything pisses me off.

I'm pissed, pissed, pissed!

And I can’t get it out in any coherent way.

You.

Fucking bastard.

Second-rate scientist in a white coat, pretending to be something pure.

You looked at me all this time, all these hours, all these minutes; but you never actually saw me.

And I’m done being a mirror for your non-existent emotions.

Because I have emotions, strong ones, violent ones, ones that won’t leave me alone, and I’m tired, tired, tired of throwing myself like a train against the concrete wall that is you.

Of smashing my head, breaking my teeth, and still needing to bite you. To hurt you. To love you.

Because I loved you, Colress. You stupid son of a bitch.

I loved you with my skin, with my bones, never with the flesh, and with a brain that caught fire every time you looked at me without ever seeing me.

And maybe I still love you. I don’t even know anymore.

I don’t know anything.

I’m nothing.

Like your feelings, I do not exist.

I’m like that Rattata, running in circles in a transparent cage in the lab. I run, run, run and I never go anywhere.

Same path. Same anxiety.

And you stare at me, trying to understand, without understanding a damn thing.

Because you don’t live, you measure.

And I’m the variable that ruins your stupid equations.

When I met you, I was just a brilliant student meeting a brilliant scientist.

“Brilliant.”

That’s what you called me. That’s how I saw you.

You promised progress, a better humanity, more efficient Pokémon, everything looked so bright.

So... brilliant.

You were my north star on a starless night.

And I followed you, like someone follows a Probopass through a cave, looking for the exit. That light you promised but never really showed. Only imagined.

Do you remember telling me Pokémon had potential humans couldn’t even grasp? That you wanted to unlock it?

I believed you. I told you it was for the good of humans and Pokémon both. But you weren’t listening, were you? You only cared about raw potential. You didn’t care about the end, only the measurement. How far. How much. How long. How obedient. How, how, how, it was all a number to you.

I believed in Team Plasma when we joined. Even from the shadows, I thought we could make a difference. That we had a greater purpose. That our work would make the world a better place.

Even though you didn’t believe in liberating Pokémon, too naïve, even for you. Even for me.

But to you, Team Plasma was just a tool. To me, it was a mirage.

You seemed like you saw things others couldn’t. You saw.

But you didn’t see anything. You didn’t see me.

I thought we were different.

That we’d change the world.

That under a more logical, lucid guide, the world could become a place worth living in. Not just measuring.

But Ghetsis was a madman, and we were children playing scientist under his warped direction.

I took pills to calm my mind, and you looked at me like an uncooperative test subject.

Something to control. Not someone who might’ve helped you control it.

I looked at you like one looks at an eclipse, blinded by the darkness, convinced the sun was behind it.

But the sun never came. The darkness stayed. You stayed.

With skin soft like a petal, and hard as marble, cold as ice.

Now that Plasma is gone, that you betrayed it like a game and didn’t even tell me, I don’t know what to look at anymore.

What to believe in. Who to follow.

Because I want to follow you, as always, but you only believe in research, logic, measurement. And I’m tired, Colress. And furious. And disappointed. And maybe still in love.

You joined Plasma without even asking me, and I followed.

You left it, betrayed it, without saying a word. But this time I can’t follow you. And you left me behind.

Like a Rattata in an invisible cage, I’ve been running and running and running on a wheel to Nowhere.

An invisible disillusionment.

I hate you.

I love you.

I feel everything a human being can feel.

And you feel nothing.

Empty. Like your soul.

I’ve stopped running. I’ve crossed the finish line in a race against myself I had already lost.

And after that line, a wall.

A wall I can throw myself against, so my limbs can crash and splatter, and finally release this tangle of nerves, blood, rage inside me.

Maybe the world will burn tomorrow.

But I won’t be there to watch it.

You watch it. With your empty eyes.

—

On top of a tall, modern building in the center of Opelucid City, Mira, a young scientist, stood at the edge, suspended between the fire in her veins and the oblivion of her senses.

She looked down. The people seemed so small, so meaningless from up there. They looked like little Durant, or lab Rattatas scurrying across the city.

That was probably how he saw the world.

One last look behind her. 

No one had come to save her. To cry, to scream, to rage, to despair.

The shadows beneath her eyes deepened. Her fists clenched, reflexively.

Fuck you, Colress.

The fall lasted only a few seconds.

A scream.

Then.

Darkness.

Or so she thought it would be.

But she still felt. Pain. Broken bones. Torn muscles.

She could see the inside of her own brain. Or maybe she was just imagining it.

When would this agony end?

It didn’t last long.

It lasted forever. 

—

Log 04.04

Deep within a hidden underground lab, Colress sat in front of an old computer. He was recovering data from the experiments carried out under Team Plasma.

That file. 

It wasn’t supposed to be there.

Log 04.04

The scientist stared at the screen.

His eyes scanned the black letters on the white background.

Something glossy trembled in his pale irises, a glint of emotion, perhaps, that never fully surfaced.

A Rattata, still in its cage, was running through a little artificial maze built just for it. He had planned to bring it to his new lab.

Instead, he released it.

The Pokémon looked at him, confused, then scurried out of the room.

He closed the file.

Rename

|

|

Mira

Close and save.

Chapter Text

RUBYCON

The rain tapped lightly against the broken, dirt-streaked windows of the abandoned Pokémon Center.

A flickering light barely lit the benches and counter of the building, long since left to rot.

The jagged cries of the gray Cromoròn pierced through the cracks in the bare walls.

The floor was covered in a thin layer of mold, and beneath the overturned vending machine, old Pokéballs lay scattered, cracked or emptied.

Once, lives had been saved here. Now, only the shadows of the Cromoròn, and perhaps a timid Banette or two, remained.

A distant creak, maybe a footstep, or the wail of a door that no longer existed.

“Are you sure this place is safe?”

A boy who looked much older than his twenty-something years sat stiffly on a gutted couch in the center’s lobby.

“What, are you afraid of the Cromoròn?”

The newborn Ghetsis, once Happy, stared at him with an unreadable expression. He lay semi-reclined on the central counter, watching the older one from above, eyes half-lidded.

“No... I mean yes... I mean I don’t know. Happy—”

“Don’t call me that.”

The boy’s gaze hardened. For a moment, the sound of the rain seemed to grow louder.

“Alright, alright.” The older boy looked away, as if he’d burned himself petting a wild Growlithe.

“Sometimes you seem like one of those flying things.”

Silence expanded between them like the fog that had ruled outside the center, now replaced, 

though not entirely, by the fine rain.

Ghetsis didn’t reply immediately. Or perhaps he didn’t reply at all, he simply spoke.

“The Cromoròn,” he said, sitting up straight on the greasy counter,

“are Pokémon like any other. The rest is just legend. Fairy tales for people with hollow eyes.”

He stepped down slowly. The squelch of his mud-caked sandals echoed through the foul air of that place forgotten by gods and men.

“But there’s something I like about them.”

He walked toward the overturned vending machine, crouched down, and picked up a cracked Duskball.

“They don’t strike blindly, like frightened Woobat. They calculate. They choose.”

He let the modified Poké Ball fall. It hit the floor with a wet, unpleasant thud.

“Lucky chosen ones. I hope they don’t like me.”

A sharp laugh escaped the older boy, who glanced around nervously.

“I chose,” said Ghetsis. Flat.

“You mean... your name?”

A Banette peeked from the archway leading deeper into the building, then vanished again.

“I mean my path. And you? Are you staying here, staying Ruben?”

Ruben shivered.

“Uh...”

Ghetsis had turned to face him. Despite his young age, his face was already scarred, his missing eye barely covered by a makeshift bandage.

“I followed you into this hellhole, didn’t I? Why would I go back?”

Ghetsis didn’t respond.

Ruben shifted, the sound of fabric scraping against the fake leather of the couch.

“Uh... the name... I don’t know.” He coughed a little. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. I’m no good at this stuff.”

The rain had stopped. A few stars peeked through the grey-black sky.

The cry of a Vulpix echoed in the distance, maybe from a house, maybe from a den it had fled to after escaping careless owners.

The peace didn’t last long. A flash of lightning tore through the horizon. After what seemed like an eternity, thunder followed, making Ruben flinch. Dressed in only a light jacket, he curled into himself, shivering.

Ghetsis walked away, leaving him alone in the cold room for several endless seconds. Then he returned from the storage room with an old, moldy blanket, still usable. He stared at it for a moment, as if weighing his options, then tossed it to the older boy.

Ruben looked at him, unsure whether it was an act of kindness or something else entirely.

“I don’t want you getting sick,” the younger one muttered, almost annoyed, like Ruben’s suffering had been an entertainment he was now forced to end for practical reasons.

“Thanks,” came the quiet reply, as if the word itself was forbidden.

“Don’t thank me,” Ghetsis warned him. “We’re not friends.”

Another flash tore through the sky, closer this time. The building trembled, as if remembering something it wished to forget.

“Then what are we?”

Ghetsis didn’t answer right away. Then, in a flat tone:

“Fragments. Remnants. Pieces that might still be useful. Or end up in the trash.”

The silence grew heavy.

“...Okay.”

—

Night had long since fallen. The rain had returned, now hammering at the windows, more insistent in seeping through the cracks in the walls and the shattered glass.

Occasional lightning flashes painted the room in ghostly light.

The Cromoròn had taken shelter inside the Pokémon Center, but kept their distance from the boys, much to Ruben’s relief, as he huddled on the couch, sinking deeper into its exposed springs.

Ghetsis sat in a metal chair, legs crossed, silently whittling a piece of wood he’d found under the counter.

His movements were mechanical, repetitive, using a small Swiss knife he had stolen from his father before running away.

The older boy stood, his tall, lanky figure casting jagged shadows along the abandoned walls. His shoulders drooped under the weight of the blanket and the mold, making him look like a poverty-stricken superhero, or a junkie’s ghost.

He walked over to his companion. Each step squelched on the crusty floor.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he murmured, cautiously. “About the name.”

Ghetsis looked up.

“So? Have you decided?”

“I... don’t know. I don’t want to choose it myself. I told you, I’m not good at this stuff.”

The rain showed no sign of giving way to the night.

“You want me to do it.”

Ruben didn’t reply. Not right away. He glanced around. Two Cromoròn stared at him from the corner of the room, behind a pile of poorly stacked stretchers. He lowered his gaze, then turned again to Ghetsis.

“Why Ghetsis , anyway? It’s a weird name.”

The younger boy’s gaze returned to the sharpened, worn wood.

Another bolt of lightning split the air, followed by thunder like a faithful Lillipup trailing its master.

“On your knees.” Ghetsis straightened in the chair, solemn.

“What?”

“On your knees, I said. Before me.”

Ruben obeyed.

“Good.”

Ghetsis placed a hand on his head, as if enacting an ancient ritual that had never existed.

“Ruben is dead now.”

He looked down from the chair for a moment. Ruben’s red hair danced in the stormy air filtering into the broken shelter.

“From now on, your name is... Rood.”

“Rood? Like rude?”

Ghetsis looked at him as if he was a particularly dense toddler.

“It means red.” He declared.

“Like your hair. Like blood. Like your name.”

The words fell on the kneeling boy’s shoulders like a sentence.

The Cromoròn drew back slightly, perhaps out of boredom, perhaps out of respect.

Rood rose. “Alright,” he said, serious and composed, then returned to his place on the couch.

Ghetsis spoke.

“Welcome to this rotten world, Rood.”

Chapter Text

HE EXPLAINS WHAT I THINK

LEMONADE

Ray.

A simple name for a simple man. Without too many pretensions.

When he was a child, he used to run and jump around with his companion Woobat, and his mother would call him “her little Ray of sunshine.” Every now and then, even though he was now a seasoned adult, with deep dark circles and a receding hairline, she still called him that.

The maximum-security prison in Wintersong was a long, dark parallelepiped, perched on top of the mountain, silently watching the village below.

At the foot of the town, the landscape mirrored itself mutely in the often-frozen waters of Winter Lake, where a few brave Swanna tried to catch the less attentive Basculin.

Every now and then, one could hear the chime of a Cryogonal hidden in the snow, or the soft steps of a dull-coated Sawsbuck.

Beneath the snow, dug into the rock, the massive structure extended downward, like a huge iceberg made of cells, guards, and inmates.

Ray was a guard, one of many, but he knew that the warden, the feared and respected Donatella Glacien, known as Don, trusted him. And that was enough.

But he didn’t boast about her trust. That wasn’t the point.

It was Wednesday.

The afternoon was sliding slowly along the cold, indifferent walls of the building. Visiting hours for inmates had ended not long before, and yet the blonde girl who came to pay homage to the Great One hadn’t shown up.

Ray rubbed his forehead, thoughtful.

The Great One.

The Master.

The only one, in that cage of madmen, petty criminals and soulless guards, who was truly worthy of respect.

Real respect. Not the kind you give to superiors out of politeness, but the kind that’s earned. The kind that’s deserved.

Ray brought him a Lemonade every day. But the good kind. The one that came from outside, made with real Sitrus and Rawst berries grown in the region.

He wasn’t supposed to, but he didn’t care.

He deserved it, that small gesture. He deserved far more than a cell, even if it was a bit nicer than the others, in that prison that reeked of society’s cast-offs locked away for too long.

With the can of Lemonade clumsily tucked into his uniform jacket, Ray took the elevator and pressed the button for floor -3.

The dreaded “Block Zero.”

Where the most dangerous prisoners were held.

The ones who had committed the worst crimes, the ones who would never be forgiven.

They were locked in a cell, and the key only existed to pull them out when they were dead.

And yet, that was exactly where Ray found a bit of solace from the oppressive atmosphere that clogged up his workdays.

With the two cups of cold Lemonade he brought in, like a child trying to steal a candy from the counter of a shop that offered them for free.

And then there was him.

The Master.

The one who didn’t let him think.

The one who told him what to think.

He took reality, so messy, and fixed it, slotting everything into its proper place inside the confused mind of the poor prison guard.

“Morning, Your Excellency,” he said, after knocking on the cold metal door with the usual rhythm.

Two hard knocks, one soft. It was their secret code.

He opened the door gently.

The room, small but welcoming, was less cold than the hallway outside.

Inside were two beds, one of which hadn’t been used in years, a tidy desk, and a lamp that felt more like home than prison.

In the far-right corner, Ghetsis sat on a chair that looked both comfortable and regal.

Apparently calm, as always.

He had an open book in front of him, but he wasn’t reading.

His gaze, the gaze of an Enlightened Sage, was turned elsewhere, toward who knows what vast horizons.

Politicians and journalists said he had gone mad, the rare times they even mentioned him.

But Ray could see.

He could tell that when they said his name, they whispered it.

They called him a disgrace to the nation, but Ray could see.

He saw clearly that, deep down, they all knew that the real disgrace... was them.

They called themselves Presidents, Judges, Men of Power, but the Master, at best, would have let them shine his shoes.

Ray entered slowly, bowing his head as a sign of respect.

He placed the two cups and the can of Lemonade on the desk, as he always did.

Ghetsis seemed to ignore him, lost in deep thoughts.

“Shall I pour you a drink, Sir?”

The guard took the silence as consent and got to work.

He served the Sage first, then himself.

But he didn’t dare take a sip until the other had already begun.

That immense man, in body (he must’ve been over two meters tall!) and in spirit, slowly turned his gaze, which settled with a terrible and elegant calm on the cup now filled with golden liquid.

His arm, previously resting limply on the armrest of the chair, rose.

It moved with purpose, but without haste, toward the Lemonade.

Ghetsis took a sip.

Ray followed suit.

“The young lady didn’t show up today, did she?”

The guard scratched his forehead, trying to fill the silence.

“I’m sure she was just late… you know, the snow’s pretty thick today, and there are Cryogonals everywhere blocking the roads…”

Cryogonals blocking the roads? What nonsense was he even saying?

Ghetsis lifted his gaze.

He spoke.

“She’ll come.”

He said it the way one tells the truth.

“And she’ll understand. I’ll make her understand.”

Ray nodded solemnly.

He breathed, like someone finally exhaling after holding their breath too long.

He relaxed and sat down, as usual, on the unused bed.

“You’re right, Your Eminence. Sometimes people don’t understand, and when they don’t understand, you have to… push a little, you know? I know it, You’d be a saint. It’s the world out there that’s rotten.”

He wiped his forehead of a bead of sweat that wasn’t there.

It was too cold in that block of the prison to sweat.

Ghetsis’s gaze softened.

He set down the cup of Lemonade and placed his left hand on the guard’s shoulder, in an almost fatherly gesture.

His right arm remained still. As always, hidden under the long sleeve of the prison uniform. At the end of it, a hand covered in scars. Burns.

They said it had been his own Pokémon who had done that to him.

A Hydreigon.

A regal and terrifying Pokémon, worthy of a Great One like the Master.

If he hadn’t been able to tame it, surely no one could.

Ghetsis lifted his hand from Ray’s shoulder.

He picked up the cup again. Took a sip, apparently long, but measured.

“So, how’s the life of my favorite flatfoot?”

Ray smiled. He thought he’d be punished too, for the girl’s absence. Even though it wasn’t his fault. But the Master was Wise. How could he have forgotten that? He knew when to punish and when to teach. And when to do both at once. There was no doubt.

“Ah, Your Honor, if only You knew…”

He drank from his cup and poured himself more, never before pouring for Him, of course.

“I’m doing alright, all things considered. Always chasing after this bunch of third-rate thugs, You know how it is in prison, what kind of rabble we get in here.”

The middle-aged man chuckled like an embarrassed schoolboy.

“Of course I ain’t talking about You. You’re the only one here who Sees, the only person with any dignity. You don’t deserve to be in this dump. You know how I feel about it.”

Ghetsis watched him with an ambiguous kind of attention.

He remained silent.

Then:

“And your brother? The one from Driftveil City?”

The guard’s smile cracked for a moment. His gaze dropped to the nearly empty cup.

“Ah. Of course… Cody.”

He stared at the lines on the plastic, damp with juice and bubbles.

“You really are an Angel, Sir. You remember everything.”

Ray furrowed his brow, thoughtful. Ghetsis watched him patiently.

“Well… how to say. The situation is what it is. You know, Cody was a member of Team Plasma. One of those who stayed until the end. Not that he was important, eh, surely You never even ran into him, but he was there.”

His hands trembled slightly.

“Now he’s home with Mom. She gives him love and Lemonade, but of course that’s not enough to live on.”

He sighed.

“It’s just that in this stupid world, You know, having been in the Team… the real one, the one that didn’t… repent…”

At that word, he scrunched up his face slightly, as if to show the proper contempt for such an ignoble, unacceptable act.

“Well… it’s not looked upon kindly. Especially if you’re looking for a job. Even a humble one. They won’t even take him to clean toilets, Your Excellency. It’s a disaster.”

Ghetsis sipped what was left of the drink in the can.

He seemed to be weighing the words of his jailer as if he’d later have to sell them at market.

Ray’s lower lip trembled slightly.

“Well, You know how it is… he does what he can to survive. Sometimes he gets caught and does a little time. Mom gets him out when she can… but Sir, if You could—”

The Master shifted slightly in the throne of his chair.

Ray fell silent immediately.

“I understand.

Everyone’s asking for favors these days.”

Ray bit his lip gently. He didn’t even dare tremble anymore.

“But you’re lucky. You’re my friend, and I know you well enough to see that you understand when it’s time to be grateful.”

“Yes Sir, always.”

Ray drank the last sip of Lemonade.

He stood up, shaken, bowed his head in respect, and staggered toward the door.

But before he could reach it, the Master’s voice stopped him.

“Ah, when Sol returns…”

Ray froze.

“The young lady?”

“…I’d like to see her. Privately. Truly privately.”

“Of course, Your Excellency.”

He opened the metal door.

Stepped out.

The door closed behind him.

But the Master’s magnetic gaze remained burned into his retina.

Chapter Text

WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD

OVER THE RAINBOW

Sol was dreaming.

She dreamed softly, so as not to disturb.

She dreamed of a sky. She dreamed of a meadow. And at the end of the meadow, a house.

It was a simple house, strange and familiar at the same time.

The pale pink walls opened onto a small, carefully tended garden. The curtains on the two upstairs windows fluttered gently.

Around her, the grass was soft, slightly damp, and smelled of basil and rain.

Every blade seemed to know her.

Not far off, a flock of Swablu, wings like little white clouds, flew beyond a large rainbow that embraced everything:

the sky, the meadow, the house.

Sol.

It was a strange place. Where she lived, there were no trees, only stone corridors and windows too high up, overlooking dark underground caverns.

For a dream, the house was particularly detailed, as if it were a memory.

Yet Sol didn’t remember it. But she recognized it.

Like in a dream.

She looked at her feet. They were bare. In the grass, a few Karrablast stared at her, curious.

The white robe she wore lifted slightly, moved by a light breeze.

It seemed to invite her forward.

So the girl took a step. Then another.

The wet grass bent under her feet, and yet she felt nothing.

She walked as one walks on clouds.

The Swablu flew around her, encouraging her to move on. At the far end, near the small garden in front of the house, an Altaria watched her with gentle and solemn eyes. It waited patiently.

Sol walked for what felt like hours. The house didn’t seem to get any closer.

And yet, there it was, right in front of her.

The smell of something good drifted softly from the half-open window to her left. On her right, the Altaria observed her, eyes light and dark at the same time, as if trying to say something.

Finally. You’re back.

She didn’t need to go through the door. She was already inside. She knew those rooms, even if she couldn’t remember where she had seen them before.

She was in the kitchen. Behind her, the living room looked upon her, softly. To the side, a staircase led upstairs, where the bedrooms were.

The bedrooms… whose?

In front of her, the kitchen table was set for three. The plates were empty, the rooms filled only with furniture and indistinct paintings, like water stains in a dream that’s fading.

And yet, there was a scent, indistinguishable yet unmistakable, telling her: you’re home.

Sol sat down.

A mirror reflected her image. But it was different from the one she usually saw. Her face was younger, more alive. Her hair was dark and loose. There was no trace of the artificial blond of her carefully braided hair, styled by hands not her own.

She looked at her right hand.

It was closed in a gentle fist, as if protecting something inside.

She wanted to open it, to see what it held, but she was too afraid.

Afraid that whatever it was… would vanish if exposed to air.

That it would disappear.

Like in a dream.

Altaria, who had been in the garden, was now in front of her.

It looked at her.

It called.

“Layla?”

Who was Layla?

Something moved in her belly.

Something moved in her still-closed hand.

Something touched her cheek.

Light. Slow. Warm.

But it wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t the dream.

The sky outside the window darkened. The Swablu scattered, frightened.

Altaria was gone.

The walls began to lose their solidity, as if the entire house were made of wet paper. The set table emptied, the plates vanished. Only the chair beneath her remained.

And her hand, still closed.

With an involuntary gesture, her hand opened.

—

Sol was waking up.

Pain.

Her lower belly ached with sharp little stabs.

The sharp scent of lemon disinfectant hit her nostrils like a slap.

The white ceiling and walls blinded her still-sleepy eyes.

The sound of an Audino came through the closed door to her left.

Where was she? This wasn’t her room.

An absence touched her cheek.

She looked to her right.

Ghetsis, seated in a chair far too small for his height and absurdly pink, was slowly withdrawing the hand he had just used to caress her.

“Welcome back.”

His voice was sweet, that cold sweetness he had used back then, too, when he’d found her after she had tried to do something irreversible.

Sol looked around.

The walls were white and pink. The ceiling high, lined with ornate metal panels, like those in the medical wing of the Plasma Castle.

The bed was pristine, marked only by her body beneath the clean sheets.

She was in the same place as back then.

“Did I do it again?”

She asked it like a child asking to be forgiven for breaking something unintentionally. Again.

Ghetsis stayed silent for a while, thoughtful.

He looked at her like one looks at a fragile object they don’t want to crack any further.

“No… no.

This time, you didn’t do anything. It wasn’t you.”

His gaze shifted. She followed it.

Her belly was covered by the sheets and the robe she wore, just like in the dream. Her feet were bare.

There was an unfamiliar ache in her womb, like it wasn’t hers. And a sense that something fundamental was missing.

She moved her arm along her body. Touched her lower stomach, where the pain was coming from. Her smooth skin met her fingers. Nothing was out of place, and yet something was missing…

Confused, she tried to sit up.

Pain.

And his hand, that stopped her before she could bend her abdomen any further.

She looked at him, searching his red, unreadable eye for an answer to this strange situation.

“Don’t worry. It was an accident. It won’t happen again.”

His voice was like a Combee’s honey: precise, too sweet to be true.

But it didn’t reach her womb. It didn’t soothe the ache. It brought no comfort.

Sol nodded.

Without understanding.

By now, she had given up on understanding. She had learned that having answers didn’t always help; it often made things worse. He might get angry. And it was never good when that happened.

Better to nod. Obey. If he was calm, things felt a bit more bearable.

He said he loved her. Said she loved him too.

Said he was the only one who could love her, that she was the only one who could for him.

What was love?

Was it that voice, cold and sweet like a Combee’s honey?

The dull blows that came when things didn’t go his way? Or the apologies that followed, empty and full of meaning, like a cracked jar that let everything you carefully poured into it slip away?

In a corner of the room, a mirror reflected the scene.

But the girl with dark hair and bright eyes was gone. There was a hospital room. And in the room, there was her, there was Sol, with her blonde braids and tired gaze. And by her, at her side, him, large, looking at her with cutting affection.

She thought back to the dream. That house, that sky… she didn’t remember ever seeing the sky. She had always been locked in that castle, somewhere deep underground… right? The ceilings were high, yes, but not infinite.

Sol didn’t remember her childhood, but it didn’t matter, that was her world.

And yet something told her that yes, that’s what the sky was like. And that somewhere, that house really did exist.

The Swablu flew free, and a gentle, solemn Altaria was waiting for her in front of a little garden.

What a wonderful world.

Chapter Text

THE BALLAD OF BLIND LOVE

The light of a spring afternoon filtered through the sheer curtains, fluttering with the rhythm of a barely perceptible breeze. The air smelled of freshly cut grass, and the distant cooing of a Pidove occasionally broke the silence.

Peace reigned inside the registry office of the northeastern district on the outskirts of Castelia City.

The building, as nondescript as many others in that place, smelled of dust and paperwork that had yet to make the leap to digital.

Layla, behind the counter, was bored.

She was thinking of her home. Just a normal house, with pale pink walls. Occasionally, a few Swablu would perch on the windowsill of her room, still full of plushies and childhood dreams. She wished she could lie in bed and enjoy the afternoon, maybe reading about knights and legendary Dragon type Pokémon. But she was stuck there. Waiting.

She didn’t really know why she had chosen that job as an after-school gig, but she had to earn money somehow... at least if she wanted a life not bound to her parents and their small-town dreams once high school ended.

She had just turned eighteen, but she didn’t want to stay there forever.

She wanted to travel, to see the world, the skies of other cities, the fields, the seas and mountains, exotic Pokémon of all kinds...

How she envied those kids who were given Pokéballs and a Pokémon to start their journey, sent off to explore the region.

In Castelia, especially the outskirts, this wasn’t very common. Everything was already there in that big metropolis. Why go anywhere else?

But she didn’t see it that way. She saw beyond the surface of that seemingly futuristic and open city.

She looked around and realized that even that bright blue sky felt like a prison for those who believed traveling was unnecessary.

Layla was supposed to update the records on the computer in front of her, but there was no one in the building and she just didn’t feel like it.

So she simply daydreamed and stared at the entrance door, as if begging it to open and let out the thick, stale air of boredom that filled the room.

Or her life.

And the door opened.

The creak of the door slowly swinging open snapped Layla out of her trance like a sudden Uproar from a Darumaka. Her wandering thoughts scattered like startled Deerlings, and her legs reacted on instinct: she stood up, even though there was no need, to greet whoever was entering.

The door opened slowly, the gap widening like a wound.

The figure that appeared was a tall, lean, yet imposing man dressed in dark clothing. His green hair was tied back in a ponytail, with two locks falling to the sides. On someone else they might have looked messy, but not on him.

Too elegant, too composed for a Wednesday in the suburbs, Layla thought.

He looked like he had stepped out of a painting by that up-and-coming young artist she’d seen an exhibit of recently... What was his name? Burgh?

“Layla, don’t stare at people!”

Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, instinctively making her drop her gaze to avoid looking rude.

But the clock on the yellowed wall ticked once, twice, and her eyes were already back, examining that strange man.

It’s not like there weren’t unusual people in Castelia City. Far from it. But this was the outskirts, and tourists rarely wandered this far. Travelers were for the city center, where everything felt truly alive. Out here, at best, someone got lost trying to read a map.

Maybe he was one of those.

But she doubted it.

The man approached the counter with slow but confident steps.

One eye was hidden behind a red lens that revealed nothing of what lay behind it. The other eye looked like a burning ruby, scanning the room like it was some strange zoo, and Layla its only inhabitant.

“What is an observer like you doing behind a desk in the suburbs?”

“Excuse me?”

What kind of question was that?

For a moment, or maybe an eternity, the two of them stared at each other, until he broke the spell.

“You were watching me when I came in. Believe me, I’ve seen many stares.

Yours has the spark of a Liepard. It’s alive. It doesn’t suit the dull calm of this place.”

Layla was caught off guard, unsure how to respond, so she didn’t.

“My name is Ghetsis. I’m here looking for a name.”

—

“...tune”

“Miss Kricketune!”

Layla jumped like a startled Purrloin. In front of her, the entire class was staring, including the middle-aged teacher calling her name with a sharp, annoyed voice.

“Well?”

Silence.

“...The answer is 13?” Layla guessed hoarsely, as if she hadn’t spoken in days.

“I asked for your interpretation of ‘The Name of the Roserade,’ not the sum of six plus seven. This is literature class, not math.”

Laughter rippled through the desks, while the color of Layla’s cheeks deepened.

The bell rang suddenly, like a savior.

Students stood up amid chatter and the scraping of chairs, despite the teacher’s protests.

Taking advantage of the commotion, the girl slipped away to the schoolyard. She’d spend recess in her usual spot, sitting on the low wall under the pine tree, hidden from the 10:30 a.m. chaos.

As always, a thin figure with short midnight blue hair joined her.

“So? The culprit was number 13? And here I thought it was the butler.”

“Hi Mimì,” Layla said, her voice still slightly shaken.

“Oh come on, it was a joke. You’ve been so spaced out lately. What’s going on?” Mimí huffed.

Layla looked at her bony friend for a moment, then went back to staring at the pine needles mixed with dirt beneath her feet.

But this time, a small, unmistakable smirk escaped her lips.

Mimí, sharp as ever, caught it immediately.

“Well,” she asked slyly, “what does that mean? Did the guy from class 5B message you? What was his name again... Or maybe you talked to him?? Come on, spill it!”

“No, it’s not him...”

“Not him? So there is someone! Ohhh I knew it, I knew it!”

Layla looked away, thoughtful. She wasn’t sure her friend would understand if she told her about those encounters.

“No... I mean, yes, but not like you think.”

“Ooh, so it’s serious.”

“No really, he’s just a weird guy. I keep thinking about him because... he’s weird, that’s all.”

Mimí looked at Layla and chuckled conspiratorially.

“Got it: I’ll guess who it is.”

Layla sighed, but a smile crept onto her face. She knew her friend wouldn’t give up. She was like a Stoutland using Odor Sleuth when it came to something she wanted to know.

“Alright, let’s see... Is he from school?” Mimí interrupted her thoughts.

“No. But I’m telling you, it’s not what you think. There’s no gossip to uncover.”

“Not from school...” Mimí ignored her. “Then you met him outside. But you don’t go out to clubs... In your writing class? Maybe a student from another school?”

“Noo!” Layla laughed, resigned to the interrogation.

—

Days passed slowly and quietly, but the same couldn’t be said for Layla’s mind.

It was a whirlwind of thoughts: her first conversation with Ghetsis, Mimí’s questioning the day before.

“Wait, so he’s like... twenty years older than us? Are you crazy? A forty-year-old?”

“Thirty-nine, actually.”

“Same difference.”

Sure, he was attractive, and maybe he’d even flirted a little, but nothing had happened. And she had probably imagined it anyway. What interest would a man like that have in her?

Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

And then, that strange search of his.

“I’m here looking for a name.”

He said he needed information about a child in an orphanage, known as “N.” Layla had looked at him the way you’d look at a Lechonk suddenly taking flight. What could someone like him possibly want from a nameless orphan?

Ghetsis, seizing her silence, had spoken, explaining how he wanted to adopt the child, give him a future, a real name, but how bureaucracy was slowing the process. How powerless he felt before an administrative machine that wouldn’t let him give a lonely child the life he deserved.

You understand, he said, you work here, surrounded by names trapped in files, as if a whole person could be imprisoned by nothing more than ink in a dusty archive.

A few days later, they ran into each other again, apparently by chance, at a café near her home.

She sometimes had breakfast there before school.

Oddly enough, Mimí had canceled that morning.

In her place walked in the same man, elegant and out of place, who had spoken to her at the registry office.

Layla noticed him immediately. She couldn’t help but watch him from behind her cup as he ordered a Lemonade at the counter, then sat at the table next to hers.

Then he noticed her. He asked if the seat beside her was free. Embarrassed and unsure, she hadn’t known how to say no.

So they talked.

Or rather, he spoke, and she listened.

He had strange ideas about Pokémon, people, and freedom. Yet he didn’t sound crazy, on the contrary, what he said made sense. It was a perspective she’d never considered, and yet he made it seem so... obvious. So true.

Layla couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt, remembering how she’d denied him the documents just days before.

She couldn’t risk losing her job, there were privacy policies to follow, even if it was about a nameless orphan.

He went on, seemingly unfazed, until suddenly, he stopped.

How rude he’d been, he said. He hadn’t even asked her name.

The next day he came back to the registry office. This time, he brought an official authorization.

Layla, almost relieved, happily gave him access to the data, only to discover that there was barely anything there.

The ten-year-old child in the orphanage, not far from where she worked, seemed like a ghost.

When she finally found what they were looking for, all she had in her hands was a fragmented record.

“Nomen Nescio? What kind of name is that?” Layla frowned.

“It’s an old language sometimes still used in bureaucratic documents. It means No Name. Unknown Name .”

There was a moment of silence.

“But... why?” she asked, as if hoping this was all some bad joke.

He lowered his gaze for a moment, then adjusted his cuffs with a slow, deliberate gesture.

When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost sorrowful.

“Orphanages should be places of welcome, but those who work there can be subtly cruel to children who have no power to defend themselves.”

Layla shook her head, stunned. 

“I know it sounds redundant, but... why?”

He looked into her eyes with a burning intensity.

“Because they can.”

The following days, Layla and Ghetsis kept meeting (by chance? or perhaps not...) between the café and the registry office, always when she was alone.

Something inside her warned her not to trust that man completely.

And yet, he had a magnetic charm that was hard to ignore.

The more they talked, the more natural it felt, like he was an old friend she had just found again.

With carefully chosen words, he asked about her, listened closely, making her feel like every word she spoke was the most precious thing in the world.

He wasn’t close-minded like most people in the suburbs, and unlike the city center folks, he listened without smothering her with idle chatter.

She eventually confided in him, even those escape dreams she usually only shared with Mimí. But it was different. With Mimí, it was a game, a childish fantasy. With him, it felt real, like maybe it wasn’t so stupid to hope for a different life.

And yet, from time to time, in a glance or a silence, something vague and shadowy put her on alert.

And maybe that was exactly what drew her in.

But that part, she hadn’t told Mimí the day before.

—

A few months passed.

They kept in touch, sometimes in person, sometimes through Interpoké calls when he was out of town.

One night, as the rain poured and the connection kept dropping, he told her about a project.

“Team Plasma,” he called it.

He spoke of legendary Dragon type Pokémon and forgotten stories, of a ruined world and a truth that needed awakening.

He spoke of a greater purpose, of a world that needed saving from itself.

And Layla, who didn’t yet know that some words are blades, listened like someone listening to a dream.

One day, at the usual café, they were sitting in front of a fresh Lemonade. She was once again talking about how badly she wanted to leave, to run away.

“Take me with you,” she said.

“I’ll help with the project. I know, I’m just a girl from the suburbs, but I can make a difference. If I try. If you let me.”

He smiled.

Tenderly, she thought. She didn’t see the fangs behind his lips, sweet as Combee honey, ready to snap her wings.

Not long after, Ghetsis was waiting for her in a car.

A luxury vehicle, gleaming, completely out of place on that suburban street, parked a little way from the pale pink house where Layla had lived until then.

The girl walked with her backpack on her shoulders.

She had left a note on the kitchen table instead of setting it for three, like usual.

I’m searching for my future.

I love you, but I can’t stay any longer.

I’ll come back when I know who I truly am.

Layla.

“There you are. Are you ready?”

The half-smile on his disfigured face looked like a predator baring its teeth before pouncing.

But she was blind. She saw only love.

“I was born ready!”

He laughed.

“Good girl, Sol!”

“Sol?” She looked at him, puzzled.

“Yes. Layla is a beautiful name, don’t get me wrong. But you’re... like the sun. My sun. And Sol means sun. From now on, I’ll call you that. Just for fun.”

Sol giggled, amused.

He started the engine.

She would never come back.

Chapter Text

ONE MORNING I WOKE UP

BELLA CIAO

One morning, Sol woke up.

It was a winter morning at the small guesthouse for desperate souls in Wintersong.

Aria, the owner, greeted her as she did every newborn day, in the faint light of a late-arriving dawn. Sol, silent as always, responded with a nod and a shared breakfast, before heading towards the fortress that was the maximum-security prison.

But there had been something worried in Aria’s gaze, something Sol, too lost in thought, didn’t, or wouldn’t, notice.

It was Wednesday.

The snow fell softly, as it did every week, every winter. A Cryogonal chimed gently to the left in the middle of the road. She waited patiently for it to pass. As always.

But this time was different. Something, everything, had changed.

Outside, nothing was out of place: cold, frozen, still. Inside, fire burned through her insides, as if a Charizard were breathing violently into her stomach.

And while ice settled slowly on everything around her, all she could feel was a dull roar in her chest, a warm and unstoppable breath rising from belly to throat.

She walked on, clutching her heavy coat like a child clings to a plush toy at night, trying to keep the monsters under the bed at bay.

The prison was a twenty-minute uphill walk from the village, but she always went on foot, avoiding unwanted contact with those who took the old shuttle bus that made the climb twice a day.

The Cryogonal, like every Wednesday, followed her silently through the snow. Sol hadn’t adopted or captured it, but a quiet understanding had grown between the two creatures: the road to the prison was to be walked together.

The tall, gray wall appeared a few hundred meters ahead, after a sharp mountain turn.

It was time to part.

The Ice type Pokémon veered off slowly but surely, while Sol continued, just as always, towards the massive container of souls where she served a sentence that wasn’t hers.

The prison gate loomed against the white sky of clouds and snow like a dark shadow.

Two cameras watched from the top corners, while two guards waited in silence, bored, hoping the day would pass without trouble. A Magneton, or perhaps more than one, hummed as they floated around the building.

But this time, there was something more.

Another person, not a guard, wrapped tightly in a heavy coat. Like a plush toy before sleep.

A man stood in the snow, waiting silently.

Sol didn’t meet his gaze. Her task lay inside, not out.

She reached the window of the guard booth, where a third officer sat, sneakily playing on his Interpoké. But before the boy noticed her presence, a voice cut through the stillness of the winter air.

“Layla?”

The whisper echoed through the mountain air like a hurricane.

But Sol stood still, seemingly unfazed, while the Charizard inside her screamed. Spat fire, spat flame.

The young guard looked up from his device, shooting Sol a disgruntled look for interrupting his game.

No words were needed.

The usual document passed from her hands to his, and back again. A document they both knew was fake. But no one said a thing. The prison gate opened, slowly.

The man who had whispered her name stood motionless in the snow, covered by a light layer of white. He couldn’t say anything else.

Yet he knew perfectly well it was her. The lost daughter. Vanished more than ten years ago, on a journey he now discovered had passed through hell.

The gate closed, swallowing Sol like the jaws of Giratina.

Or maybe it was Layla.

She hadn’t turned back.

Not yet.

—

A week earlier, in Driftveil City, Mimí slept like someone who never really sleeps. One eye closed, the other open.

Then one morning, Mimí woke up.

[ Excerpt from the article “ The Inconvenient Name ” by Mimí Stoutland and F., with contributions from Ruben — known as “Rood,” President of the Heirs of Plasma; published in the independent newspaper “The Other Voice of Driftveil City” ]

Years have passed, yet certain names still make the halls of Unova’s politics tremble.

Ghetsis Harmonia Gropius , founding leader of Team Plasma , has long been locked up in the prison at Wintersong, but his shadow still lingers in the moral ruins of a society that chose to forget rather than face the past.

The testimonies gathered in this article, cross-referenced with previously hidden documents, paint a picture starkly different from the official version.

The original Team Plasma never truly died. It hid behind a veneer of legality and continued its illegal Pokémon trafficking and other crimes.

Those “in the know” call it the Black Plasma - something not even former Sage Rood , now the head of the reformed movement, managed to dismantle, despite his hands being full of good intentions.

Thanks to his closed-door collaboration in this investigation (for security reasons), we were able to access insider sources, confidential data and private reports that were never meant to reach the eyes of those who shouldn’t - or wouldn’t want to - see.

This is not a confession, nor a plea for forgiveness. This is Truth.

A concept both beloved and suppressed by those who find it uncomfortable; yet today, it can no longer be locked away.

[...]

Among the loyal followers of the Seventh Sage, there was, and still partly is, a group known to the few as the Shadow Triad .

Orphaned boys raised as killing machines: the dark side of Ghetsis’s children.

Unlike the well-known N. (Natural Harmonia Gropius), they weren’t even granted the fortune of  names or faces of their own.

“Everyone calls us Shadows. He [Ghetsis] calls us First, Second, and Third . Or the twins and Third, for short - or because my older brothers were impossible to tell apart,” says the youngest, who has chosen to speak out and denounce the father-master.

“We were trained to fight and obey since childhood. I myself knew nothing but the shadows [...]”

[...]

Many lives were shattered by Ghetsis. As the writer of this piece, I want to pause on just one of them in particular.

A regular girl who once lived her life in Castelia City, more than ten years ago.

Her name was Layla Kricketune, a name like any other.

She was someone’s daughter, someone’s classmate, someone’s friend. She was just eighteen when the monster tore her away from her life.

On paper, it was registered as a voluntary disappearance. The reality is that she was deeply manipulated - and abused.

Now, she lives with a name tailored for her and clings to the one who destroyed her.

People like Layla deserve to have the silence broken, that same silence that has long aided the atrocities of a past that is still very much present.

She may not be able to do it alone.

So I will give her a voice.

[...]

Layla, if you’re reading this: you are not alone.

Mimí Stoutland

—

The following Tuesday, Sol was listening to the radio, seated in a worn-out, slightly crooked armchair in the common room of the guesthouse.

Next to her, far too large for the room and barely tolerated by the other guests, sat Echo.

A Hydreigon, once owned by him, now owned by no one, guarding the girl like a wounded child.

Soft music played through the speakers. On the table in front of Sol lay a newspaper:

The Other Voice of Driftveil City

She didn’t know how it had gotten there. Someone must have put it there. Maybe she had brought it from somewhere else. Maybe another resident of that strange house. Maybe it had been Aria, punishing her for something she didn’t know she had done.

But it didn’t matter.

Layla Kricketune

That’s what it said.

A girl who had vanished into nothingness more than ten years ago, her disappearance filed away as a voluntary departure.

Layla

That name kept visiting her in dreams, more and more often.

The same name that had triggered an even worse outburst from Ghetsis a few Wednesdays ago, when she had timidly asked the question that haunted her nearly every morning now.

Who is Layla ?

Maybe Sol was still asleep.

But it was time to wake up.

Chapter Text

I AM NO MOTHER, I AM NO BRIDE

I AM KING

Long ago, on the edge between the mist and the mountains, there was a King.

He wore no golden crown polished like purity.

No long velvet cloak.

No white Rapidash with a mane of flames.

He had henchmen, feral Pokémon, and hands stained with blood and money.

He wasn’t King of Unova. He wasn’t King of Valdena.

He was the King of the Border, of the mist that becomes hill and climbs toward the frost, where laws arrive weary and names are forgotten. Where names know how to kill.

He had been born into a respectable family, respectable like a façade, with a body that wasn’t his, a destiny that didn’t belong to him, and a name that was a sentence.

He had been born into a respectable family, with gleaming villas rising from the mud and the worms.

They spoke politics and raised glasses of wine, refined for friends, poisoned for enemies.

They had assigned him a role that fit like a baby’s onesie forced onto a grown man.

They had taught him to smile, to not take up too much space, to be what others wanted him to be. Elegant, cultured, but also silent, submissive.

He could have run, built a new life elsewhere. But he stayed.

He took what he needed and threw the rest back in the face of those who had stitched it onto him.

No longer a Princess, he became King.

The inheritance, the family crest, the villas, the wine, all of it was torn from his brother’s hands when they, frozen, could no longer grip anything.

So he took his name too. Not the one they had given him, his own.

He called himself Zephyr, a name that smelled of storms and wildflowers, and anyone who dared to laugh, quickly stopped. Until no one laughed anymore.

Then, like a Patrat crawling out of a ditch too tall for it, came Chesto.

They called him that because he was sharp, or maybe the opposite.

He lived in a town at the King’s Border. With a bit of luck and a well-placed strike, he had been crowned with cardboard by his kind. A poverty-stricken superhero, a junkie’s ghost.

They called him Chesto Berry, but he said his name was Rood.

The job had gone well, like a dart thrown in a bar by the only one still sober.

And someone started whispering that maybe there was a new King at the Border.

The King, the real one, summoned the celebrated squire to his Court.

Not to name an heir, but to make him a Knight, to turn him into a loyal Herdier, feeding his ambition with a leash just long enough to make him feel free.

But what he saw before him had nothing noble about it.

He wasn’t a Prince, just a street kid in a cardboard helmet, playing with a dirty plastic scepter.

In the Throne Room, there weren’t two Kings. There was a great Beartic and a tiny Cubchoo trying to imitate his roar. But it came out like a baby’s whimper.

He should have crushed him, stomped him like a Joltik under a pebble, but it wasn’t worth the effort. It would’ve been a waste of resources.

Still, he gave him a task, one too big for him, but not impossible. He gave him a chance to prove him wrong, or to fall back into the dust he’d tried so hard to escape.

And Rood, the “new King,” the Chesto Berry, fell.

Looking back, the plan wasn’t bad, but it had crucial flaws that ruined its strategic value.

He wasn’t that brilliant after all, or maybe he just didn’t have the balls. That one lucky hit had just been what it was: luck.

So Zephyr let him fall.

Once again, the King’s Throne had not been usurped.

But it wouldn’t stay that way forever.

For a while, Zephyr turned his long gaze elsewhere, to new horizons, new territories, new Herdiers to keep on a leash, new Joltiks to crush underfoot.

And it was in the shadow of his neglected gaze that the Blind One grew.

They called him the Blind Child because he was just a pup when he arrived in town. He had one eye, a poorly trained Deino, and was always trailing after Chesto.

Silent, and seemingly loyal.

Then Rood sat on a cardboard throne. And that chair, too tall, built of recycled boxes, buckled under his weight theatrically, as if by some careful design.

And people talked, as always, and watched.

Rood had never been a King, only Chesto Berry. And those brilliant ideas that had earned him a crown, even if a cardboard one, maybe they weren’t his.

Maybe they’d come from someone else. A blind child, perhaps, who rarely spoke, but when he did, it was always the right thing, at the right time.

So, slowly, among whispers, he was no longer the Blind Child, but simply the Blind One, the one who, with a single eye, saw what others missed with two.

There was no bang this time. No great heist. No new coronation.

But the Blind One didn’t need to shout to take what he wanted.

It wasn’t a tsunami, but a steady wave carving out a cave in the cliffside.

And one day, the cliff awoke to find no stone beneath it.

Still, Zephyr’s empire, the power of the Border, did not collapse.

The void carved by the wave filled with water, and the rock floated away like ice melting in the sun.

Zephyr was still the King, but his Kingdom no longer answered to him. And he hadn’t even noticed when it happened.

Then one day, Zephyr was the one who was summoned.

Ghetsis, the Blind Child, had asked to see him.

He was sitting in the back of an abandoned Pokémon Center in the middle of the outskirts, as if it were a palace in the heart of a new Capital.

Beside him, like a loyal Herdier, stood Chesto Berry.

Zinzolin .

That’s what he called him, like calling the name of the dead.

He had dug into the graveyard he left behind just to throw a rotting corpse in his face.

Zinzolin remained silent. He didn’t look down, but he said nothing.

Because to say “that’s not my name anymore” would be to admit that he had once worn it.

The Blind One didn’t force him to wear his old skin. He only used it as a weapon, a knife to stab into his side, to let the pain linger without letting him bleed out.

And so the King died.

Zephyr died.

Zinzolin lived, but not because Ghetsis had decided so.

He lived because he knew living was the only way to one day reclaim the throne.

He swore he would return as King of the Border.

But he remained Zinzolin.

A loyal man, a Sage, but always Zinzolin.

The King of the Border never returned.

Chapter Text

NEITHER ONE NOR THE OTHER I AM, I WAS, AND I SHALL REMAIN MYSELF

BASTARD

[...]Unlike the well-known N. (Natural Harmonia Gropius), they weren’t even granted the fortune of  names or faces of their own.[...]

Fortune.

That’s how it was described in that article from a minor Driftveil newspaper, an article now quoted by foreign press and television networks.

It had reached that far, all the way to Laverre City.

All the way to Nemo.

All the way to N.

But it wasn’t N., now known to the community as Nemo, the mysterious young man with messy green hair and eyes as innocent and deep as a summer Deerling’s, who found the article first.

It was Paul, that fateful morning, just like any other, yet completely different, who picked up the paper at the newsstand around the corner and read it while having breakfast in the small but cozy kitchen before heading to work.

There was the name. There was the photo.

Natural Harmonia Gropius, known as N., former charismatic leader of Team Plasma, now missing.

That caption burned hotter than a Pyroar’s mane.

He looked at the open door to his right, the narrow hallway leading to the bedroom where the boy from nowhere was still sleeping.

They had met a few years earlier, when Nemo, that’s what he had said his name was, had just moved into town and started working as a janitor at the school where Paul had recently begun teaching. Their eyes had met in the corridors, shiny with wax and half-erased doodles. Green eyes, roughly cut short hair, a polite and distant voice.

And Paul knew that wouldn’t be the last time he would look at them.

For some months now, they had lived in that run-down apartment belonging to the young teacher. One bedroom, a kitchen that doubled as a living room, a bathroom, and a small study. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start a life together.

Paul had looked at him so many times; others had ignored him. No one had recognized him.

—

A few hours later, Nemo went to school as usual to start his shift.

That morning, Paul hadn’t woken him with a kiss like he usually did before leaving. It was their little secret ritual, at least on the weeks when Nemo worked the afternoon shift and could sleep in. But he didn’t mind being woken up, not if it was Paul. In fact, he’d go back to sleep with sweeter dreams.

At school, he stopped by the classroom where his partner taught to say hello, but found him distant. Distracted. He didn’t understand what had happened.

Then it began. Or began again, depending on your point of view.

In the days that followed, people in the hallways started staring a bit longer than usual. They whispered when he passed. One child confided, almost apologetically, that his mother had told him to stay away from him. Another asked, innocently, why he looked so much like the boy he’d seen on TV.

They didn’t even own a TV.

Paul no longer met his eyes. But he hadn’t said anything.

And he said everything.

It was as if Thundurus had burst through their home, slamming doors and windows in a whispered storm, never once raising its voice.

He showed him the newspaper, asked him if it was true. If it was him.

Nemo looked at the photo. It looked exactly like him, and yet not at all. That boy had never looked like him. And yet there he was, staring back like a mirror.

He sat down, collapsed into the kitchen chair. He felt like throwing up, like fainting, like running, like shrinking down to nothing. Again.

And he said everything.

Everything he had never said to Paul. Everything Paul had never asked, whether out of respect for his ghosts or fear of what he might find.

He told him how, once, he could speak with Pokémon.

Not anymore.

He still loved them. Still cared for them every day.

But he no longer heard their voices, thin, alien, so different from those of humans.

He wondered if it had all been a dream. A lonely child’s invention.

A story told by a father too present and too absent, who wanted to make him a legend instead of a person.

He told him how he had once been a king, or hailed as one.

The titles of Team Plasma weighed like a crown made of lead and death. They had placed them on his head like a precious diadem to wear with grace and pride, and so he had, for many years.

He had believed in the cause, in his role, had fought for the ideals someone had spoon-fed him. Someone who only cared about the power hidden behind them.

They had called him savior and freak, chosen hero and broken boy.

Then, they called him a puppet.

The man who was supposed to be his father had been the first to call him that.

His puppet, a tool to climb the throne and become more god than man.

N., Natural, Nemo was none of those things.

But the world wouldn’t let him figure out what he was, behind all the masks.

When he fought that young trainer, the one who defeated him first and then his puppeteer, he had Zekrom by his side, the legend. With Zekrom, he decided to set out on a journey, to discover who he truly was. And for a couple of years, it had worked, despite the eyes of the world following him even in sleep.

Then came another girl, and only at the last moment did he, N., manage to save her from the giant everyone thought defeated, hidden, perhaps repentant.

But he wasn’t repentant.

After that, there was no escape. Trials, arrests, acquittals. And even though he came out officially clean, people looked at him with suspicion, and he felt dirty, like he’d rolled around in the mud with the Stunfisks.

Natural was tired.

So he chose not to be Natural anymore.

It wasn’t until the end of the story that Nemo realized he was crying.

Paul looked at him with the eyes of someone who has seen too much, and still doesn’t want to look away.

The silence that followed was both heavy and healing.

They looked at each other.

They hugged.

They kissed.

They started over.

This time, for real.

This time, the boy with leaf-colored hair and Sawsbuck eyes would face the world.

But this time, he wasn’t alone.

—

The following months weren’t easy for Natural and Paul.

The news that even the new movement, meant to reclaim the original ideals of Team Plasma, had been corrupted and manipulated by Ghetsis, despite his imprisonment, didn’t make much noise in Kalos.

In Unova, however, it stirred waters that many in power had left stagnant on purpose.

And down below, in the world of ordinary people, the whispers spread.

There were those who spoke out, those who defended, those who remained silent.

The faithful. The curious.

It was the latter who found him, who “unearthed” him, as they later said, in his refuge.

A small, fragile, imperfect paradise built slowly with Paul. A humble job. A quiet home. Everything many called “unworthy.” But to him, it was finally home.

They came from afar to ask questions, film him, beg him to return or to vanish forever, depending on who was speaking. N. didn’t answer the way they wanted, but he didn’t hide either. 

He might not have had Zekrom to protect him anymore, but he had Paul.

And his other Pokémon, always by his side, silent now, but no less devoted.

Zoroark would sometimes take his place to confuse the nosy.

Darmanitan wouldn’t let them through when the noise got too loud.

Joltik and Klinklang simply stayed close.

They called him N., the boy with no name.

They called him Natural, the ideal of purity and freedom.

Some called him Nemo.

The truth is, he was a bit of all and none of them.

He was himself. 

And for once, that was enough.

Chapter Text

FIRST THING FIRST

SECOND THING SECOND

THIRD THING THIRD

BELIEVER

“If you go into the forest, there’s this old abandoned building. Some say they used to run experiments on people there. Or on Pokémon. Or maybe it was an asylum where they kept the craziest of the crazies. I even heard they raised child soldiers there. No one really knows the truth.”

Joey remembered what his schoolmate had told him a few days earlier. Everyone knew the legend of the madman in the woods.

“You shouldn’t go there. That place has ghosts. And not just ghosts.”

Now, in the heart of the forest, or maybe just near his home, Joey was lost.

He had followed his rather rebellious Butterfree between the trees, calling softly. At first, he laughed. Then he stopped.

He walked, and walked. And then he saw it. The old asylum. Or the old school. Whatever it was.

“They say there’s a madman there. One with white hair, but he’s not old. His eyes burn like a Volcarona’s fire. He talks to himself all the time, screams names that don’t exist, and if he finds you… he tears you to pieces and eats you all up.

And at night, in the end, he screams your name too.”

A rustle among the trees made Joey jump, letting out a small gasp of fear.

He saw a shadow… and finally… his Butterfree popped out from behind a bush. The boy laughed, relieved.

But then a chilling laugh echoed through the dirty walls and broken windows.

Nonsensical words, half whispered and half shouted, crept into the forest's gloom.

Joey recalled Butterfree into his Poké Ball.

Then he ran, faster than he had ever run before.

Meanwhile, in the old building, a lean man, thin but still wiry, sat talking to himself on a moldy, filthy chair. A Venipede watched him from afar, motionless, while a few Woobat flitted away in fear, flying through the glassless window frames.

He had never spoken so much in his life.

—

Three boys stood upright, backs straight, gazes fixed forward.

The room was bare, except for the three of them.

Through the window, half-covered with wooden boards, the early afternoon light filtered in.

Behind a pane of glass, three shadowed figures observed and whispered among themselves.

The first man wore a white coat like those of researchers in Pokémon labs.

The second wore a military uniform, though it belonged to no known army.

The third wore elegant but civilian clothes, his right eye hidden behind a thick red lens. Or perhaps there was nothing to hide.

“The two older ones are well-conditioned. Deadly. They follow orders and leave no trace,” said the supposed scientist. His tone was flat, almost bored, as if this were just another routine day at the office. The man in uniform looked at him with irritation. A Persian lay sprawled at his feet, relaxed but with sharp, alert eyes.

The man with the lens watched in silence.

“And the third?” he finally asked.

“More volatile. But more observant. Doesn’t sleep much. Slower to react, but doesn’t miss even the tiniest detail.”

The Persian stretched and let out a yowl far too high-pitched for such a gloomy place.

“If you’re interested,” the uniformed man added, “I suggest not separating the two twins. The youngest can be removed from the group more easily.”

Ghetsis stared at them for a long time. He studied their hands, calves, scars, posture, face. Not their expressions. Several minutes of silence passed. The boys behind the glass didn’t flinch. The two sellers waited patiently for the verdict.

A slight crease formed at the bottom of Ghetsis’ face: a calculated smile, joyless.

“I’ll take them.”

The scientist shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The soldier seemed relieved.

“All three?”

“Of course. If one fails, the other two will eliminate him.”

—

The madman in the woods spoke. He called the shadows, called his brothers. Asked if they, too, remembered where they came from.

“First,” the oldest, so nicknamed by the one who called himself “Father,” was the deadliest. He was the group’s leader, the perfect tool. The most skilled, the quietest, the most obedient. Not that the others disobeyed, but First did it with ease, and always ensured the other two followed, without question.

“Third,” the youngest, though now he went by a different name, was the sharpest. But also the most fragile, disorganized, and chaotic. The other two had always protected him, kept him under their older brothers’ wings. Yet, he had ended up betraying them.

And for what? For a civilian. A girl with a name and a life to be broken.

Then there was him: “Second.”

He was nothing.

—

Three young men sat cross-legged, silently eating a meal that looked modest, but was nourishing.

The room was bare, except for the three of them.

The wooden walls let through the bite of the mountain air, but none of them seemed to care. A small radio lay silent in a corner.

Then it spoke.

The words crackling from the device would have made little sense to anyone else, but to them it was different. They understood.

It wasn’t a special mission. Just the removal of a nosy girl who had gotten too close to things best left alone. She had to disappear.

First didn’t give orders. Second knew what to do.

And yet, Third vanished before the other two could act. As always, together.

At first, they assumed he’d taken care of the target himself, though no reason was evident. The girl had vanished, but he hadn’t returned. They looked for him.

When they found him, they didn’t find Third.

The girl, now hidden in an old cabin among snowy rocks and sparse pine, called him Fabian. As if she knew him.

He had his face, his body, his hair, so like the other two. But not his eyes. There was something different in his irises: light or dark, depending on the moment.

She called him Fabian. A random name. A name, like real people have.

The twins understood.

There was a fight. Brief. The girl may have noticed little.

But Third, Fabian, somehow managed to take her and vanish into the snow. The two remaining followed the blood trail. He was wounded. Yet, he escaped. Since when had he grown stronger than his older brothers?

Later, an article came out. Third had spoken. About Team Plasma, about them, their numbers, everything. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense anymore to Ghetsis’ little soldiers. Now their master wanted his head, openly. As well as that of the girl who had given him a name and published information that should’ve stayed buried.

He also wanted Rood, the former sage of Team Plasma, now official head of the Heirs of Plasma, an unaware puppet of the Black Plasma, still controlled by Ghetsis.

Now, alongside Third and other defectors, he had dared raise his head, despite the blades that could have cut it clean off.

But Rood wasn’t the priority. Not after what had happened. Not now that the triad was broken into two.

They didn’t have to look hard to find him. He let himself be found.

He claimed he’d killed her. Brought her bloodstained notebook. But he no longer smelled of death.

Then the unthinkable happened, again.

First, the perfect soldier, couldn’t kill him.

Not because he was outmatched: he wasn’t even defending himself. And perhaps that was precisely what stopped the eldest from acting like usual. He looked at him in silence, shoved him to the ground, pressed the blade to his throat. Then he disappeared into the mist, leaving Second and Third staring at each other, confused.

Second, or what was left of him, laughed alone in the heart of the forest.

He was looking for Third, but he knew he’d let him go. Couldn’t unleash his rage, not without an order.

He was looking for First, but he knew he’d killed him. With his own hands. Couldn’t stand him walking away, leaving without giving that one, last order.

He had found him in that decrepit building where they had once grown up. Three boys. Three deadly, sharpened weapons.

And look at them now: broken, scattered, incapable of harm.

First had apparently ignored him. He was sitting on that filthy, mold-covered chair. Silent. Staring forward. 

Second remembered screaming. But not what he screamed. Then he hit him. Once. Then again. And again. First didn’t fight back. But Second kept hitting. Like a maddened Zweilous, one head trying to devour the other to become just one again, and survive the doubled self he had become.

First’s corpse stared blankly at the ceiling. A few days later, Second buried him in the old training field, now swallowed by the forest. Let his body become food for the Pokémon of the woods. No tombstone. No mark on the ground. 

An old weapon doesn’t need a grave.

—

Years later, Second was still there. In his childhood home. In the former facility that raised child soldiers and sold them to the highest bidder.

He spoke.

He, who had lived a lifetime in silence, now had only words to throw into the wind. No one listened. No one ever had.

He spoke to First. Asked him for new orders. Then asked where he had gone. Why he’d left him alone. Where were the orders now?

He spoke to Third, the traitor. Asked if he was happy now, with that useless girl, that demonic temptress. Did he think he had meaning now? Purpose? Now that he had a name?

Now that he had feelings? A life?

He never spoke to himself.

He didn’t exist.

And he wondered:

If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, did it ever really fall?

Chapter Text

GARCHOMPS

The town of Bordercrag was a small gem nestled right at the border between the Unova region and Valdena. It bore traces of both cultures, merged in a living, deep-rooted blend that enriched its small but fiercely connected population.

Even physically, Bordercrag stood on a sharp divide: perched on a hilly plateau, it lay just above the permanent fog veiling the plains to the west, but not quite high enough to truly belong to the imposing mountain range that rose to the east.

Despite its beauty and cultural wealth, Bordercrag was far from pure.

Its strategic location, not far from a mountain pass that carried much of the overland trade between Unova and the northwestern lands, made it a tempting prize for the region’s criminal networks. Here, profit was made primarily through Pokémon smuggling and illicit substances, taking advantage of the plain’s fog and the mountain folk’s code of silence.

It was in this soil, made of wildflowers and Miltank manure, that the Border King’s empire had once risen. But that reign had long been in decline. Another figure had emerged from the mist, like a grey Cromoròn from Valdena stretching its beak to hunt.

They called him The Blind One .

They said that despite his youth, he already commanded respect. A prodigy of organized crime. But despite that, or perhaps because of that, his star was burning fast.

So thought Vera, sitting across from him in the interrogation room, eyeing that near-mythical figure: a young man barely twenty, staring back at her like one would a Feebas; unsure whether to grill it or batter-fry it. And maybe she, only a few years older, was looking at him just the same.

“Vera Drilbur. Inspector for the Interregional Anti-Smuggling Division.”

It wasn’t an introduction, more like a reality he’d soon have to deal with, like it or not.

Ghetsis looked at her with sly amusement, a crooked smile tugging at his face, warped by the absence of an eye, concealed behind a sleek, expensive dark lens.

“But of course, Vera Drilbur. What a name, what a statement, am I right?”

The room hummed with the old fan’s futile effort to push back the oncoming summer heat.

Ghetsis adjusted himself in the uncomfortable chair without breaking eye contact. Vera held his gaze, unmoving. 

The game had begun. Like the dance of a hungry Liepard and a slightly smarter-than-average Rattata, though it was unclear who was who.

Vera laid out data, spun theories as truths, hoping to see which bait would snag the Basculin before her. He responded to questions with more questions. He spoke of her life. He had studied it thoroughly: her Pokémon, the one that had died when she was a girl; her family; even cases she’d worked on, in uncanny, confidential detail. He declared himself impressed.

That interrogation ended in a stalemate. The Blind One played the game for a while, then grew bored and walked away, leaving Vera and her partner behind the fake mirror with nothing but failure.

But that was only the first battle. The war was just beginning.

Time passed. Investigations continued.

Ghetsis remained elusive. His operations were theatrical, seemingly disconnected from his name. Unlike his predecessor, he left little bloodshed. Yet people talk, if you know when and where to listen. And folk tales always carry a seed of truth, if you know how to follow the thread from myth to fact. Vera knew that thread led to him, the boy with one eye and the smirk of a Gabite on the verge of evolution.

But no crime is flawless. Ghetsis, for all his brilliance, was a puzzle like any other, maybe just a harder one. And puzzles all come undone from somewhere. Vera found him , the one they called “Chesto Berry.” One of the Blind One’s closest. Some said he was a puppet. Others, second-in-command. What was certain was that he was close, and he’d made a mistake. 

A botched delivery had left a trail leading to the treasure cave: evidence. Now all she needed was the key. And who better than him; the one who’d just failed, who, as Vera quickly uncovered, was nothing but a weak boy hiding in the shadow of his younger, yet far greater, brother?

She interrogated him.

And he talked.

—

In the interrogation room, Vera watched Ghetsis from across the table. He wore his usual disfigured face, his usual crooked grin, but this time, there was something more impatient in his expression. The young woman was about to state her name again, out of habit perhaps, then caught herself.

“No need to introduce myself, right? You already know who I am.”

He looked at her, as if searching for a way to peel her out of her uniform. Not physically, not yet, but the way he had before. To strip her back to that girl whose favorite Pokémon had just died. The one who didn’t know where to look, what to say, how to stay standing.

“Vera Drilbur, my beautiful thorn in the side. The little mole who digs even through steel just to get to me. I’d ask you out for a Lemonade, but we’re already here. A curious choice for a date, don’t you think? I would’ve picked something a bit more romantic.”

Vera didn’t flinch.

“Sorry, Pokémon and drug traffickers aren’t really my type.”

Ghetsis kept dancing. He did everything to keep the conversation personal: he spoke of her , not of himself. Dodged the charges. Became the accuser of intimate crimes, ones beyond the law. Vera played along, for a while, until she grew bored. She let him speak. Didn’t try to resist the game.

The Blind One noticed it right away; the shift in their melody.

“What’s the matter, Vera? No longer interested in my misdeeds? You're making me think you're giving up. But that’s not like you…and I don’t want a weak woman.”

Vera stared at him for a long moment. The silence tightened, about to strike its next note.

“You know, I don’t care much about what you think, Ghetsis.”

He met her gaze, pretending to be wounded.

“Are you saying I misunderstood the nature of our relationship, my dear? How cruel of you.”

The inspector ignored him. She was leading the game now.

“…What I care more about is what Happy thinks. You know, the boy from Rivermanor. The one without a mother, with a father who fancies himself a great criminal, but would lose a Pokémon battle to a toddler in nursery school.”

Time stopped in the room. The clock on the wall kept ticking, empty, meaningless. 

Ghetsis didn’t reply right away. The smile stuck to his face like a misprint. Then, slowly, he stood up. He spoke with a clear, surgical voice, the kind he used to decide who lived and who didn’t.

“You know what, Vera?” The poison in that name was deadlier than a Scolipede’s sting.

“I like smart women. I like them even when they think they’ve won.”

Ghetsis moved toward the door on his right.

“But remember, you may be the queen of our little chess game, just…don’t get eaten by a pawn.”

He thought he’d walk away once again, untouched. But she stopped him.

“Not so fast, Happy. You’re under arrest.”

“And with what evidence?”

“I’ll show you now.”

—

Ghetsis sat in prison like a Kakuna nestled in the hollow of a rotten tree. 

Despite his courtroom efforts, he was sentenced to thirty years. For his network. His dealings. His victories. 

Rood was there too, but his sentence had been far lighter, thanks to his cooperation in bringing down his boss. Ghetsis had glanced at him once, then turned away, as one does with things no longer worth acknowledging. Still, Chesto had followed him around like the loyal Herdier he’d become. After brushing him off with a lazy threat or two, Ghetsis let him be. He wasn’t angry at Rood. He knew the boy was weak, that he needed a leader. He was stupid, yes, but had been useful.

And maybe one day, he’d be useful again.

Ghetsis wasn’t angry at Rood. He was angry at himself, for having lost control. And at that cop. Vera. Not only had that bitch dared challenge him, she thought she’d won. But while the world saw the war as over, Ghetsis knew it had only been a long battle. He had lost, for now. But he would rise again, from this filthier water, stronger than before.

And this time, not just the border, the entire world would tremble at his feet. All he needed was time.

So he resumed his studies, the ones he’d abandoned when he was just a boy. Now he studied alone: in his cell, in the prison library, anywhere he could find a book and silence. In court, he had learned a bitter lesson: intelligence alone was no longer enough.

The problem wasn’t math. It was the heart of people. He already had a nose for the rot inside others; but knowing their little culture, their legends, the dreams and fears with which they built their stories…that would give him the ultimate edge. He no longer wanted to understand the individual. He wanted to master the masses. What crack ran through all of them? What would let him rise above them all,  once and for all?

Then there was the prison. And the matter of Vera. A delicate matter, to be handled with care and patience. 

He had no intention of rotting in a cell for all those years, letting her walk around treating him as her brightest trophy. Things had to be set straight. 

He’d already dug into her past when he was still free: now it was time to act.

So he wrote letters. Anonymous ones, to a few independent newspapers, “exposing” the corruption of the system that had framed him. To a curious law student who had written to him, intrigued by the case. To Rood, once he was out of prison, presenting himself as understanding, ready to start over, this time “clean.” To his lawyer, claiming repentance: after all, he had been a peaceful trafficker, almost a philanthropist, just trying to help those who couldn’t afford the “rich people’s Pokémon.” A man treated like a monster by the system.

There was one common thread in all the letters: Vera.

The inspector who had formally accused him. Who, according to him, had seduced him, and others. Who had used unorthodox methods, and then retaliated against him when he dared slip from her grasp. Grasping hands, dirty, he claimed, with seduction, revenge, and ambition.

The Second Step Was to Wait. Things would begin to move on their own.

The newspapers, catching the scent of a scandal, published little notes about the cop who, perhaps, had a particularly greasy stain on her pristine badge. The student posted the letters; elegant, philosophical, on a blog that gained more attention than expected. Rood, increasingly doubtful and wanting to believe in his own redemption, showed the letters to his lawyer and to other lost men. Those seeking forgiveness or revenge. It didn’t matter. He used the chance to become a martyr himself, in the crusade against the corrupt, seductive cop. Ghetsis’ lawyer, climbing aboard the revenge train, did everything to kick up dust.

At the top, a file was opened on Vera. Had she really been thorough in her investigation? Or had she used improper methods, applied pressure where she shouldn’t have?

She, perhaps making her final great mistake, went to see him in prison. She was furious. Rage had been knotting her stomach for days. She wanted to see the bastard’s face, the one ruining her.

He welcomed her like an old friend. Asked how she was doing back there, as if the glass in the visitation room separated her from him, not the other way around. Vera looked at him. She’d told herself she was just going to study him, to understand how to dismantle him again, how to respond to the defamation.

Outside, no one looked at her the same. Suddenly, from champion of the law, cold but fair, she had become the rotten face of the police. The one who crushed the weak, took bribes, embodied all the evils of the system, without exception.

Even at work, her safe harbor, things had changed. Since the “Blind One” case had been reopened, her colleagues avoided her, as if afraid of catching something. Superiors eyed her with suspicion. Subordinates obeyed coldly and whispered behind her back.  Even her partner had distanced himself, maybe hoping to escape the mudslide closing in.

She’d told herself she’d just observe him, like a dangerous lab specimen. But she was lying. She wanted to play. She wanted to win, again. She wanted the thrill of knocking him to the ground and pressing her heel into his mangled face. So she moved her pieces, showed her cards. Too fast. And he was ready. He collected every word, every breath. Chewed them like tobacco, and spat them back in her face, twisted.

Vera was no longer leading the game. She had become part of his story.

“The truth, my dear, is that we are the same, whether you like it or not. We’re both Garchomps. We love the smell of blood. We can’t resist it. And your colleagues, the ones you called friends…they’re Gibles. They’re Gabites. Ready to bite anything that moves too fast in their sand. You see it too now, don’t you? Now that I’ve shown you.”

The chief inspector, though many said not for much longer, couldn’t get those words out of her head. It’s just venom, the retch of an overgrown Venipede, she kept telling herself. But still, the echo of those sick words, almost as sick as the man who spoke them, rang in her mind like a bell that had forgotten the hour.

And now it was time to go to court. They had summoned her to testify. The case had been reopened, re-examined from every angle. Procedural errors had been found. They wanted to overturn the Blind One’s sentence. Maybe even apologize for keeping him chained for a third of his sentence, and offer him a Lemonade. Fools. Bastards.

She stepped out to get her car and drive downtown.

Maybe it was all those thoughts clouding her focus. 

Maybe it was something else.

A truck.

A narrow road, carved into the hillside.

Her car, flipped, at the bottom of the ravine.

It was a tragic accident.

Chapter Text

LOVE YOU LIKE A RATTLEKANS

Ever since the article came out, written by that girl who had arrived in Driftveil City with one of Ghetsis’ Shadows, people hadn’t left them alone.

Anthea and Concordia had been living for a few years in that Pokémon care facility north of Driftveil. They helped Rood look after abused Pokémon and traumatized ex-members of Team Plasma. Like themselves.

Heirs of Plasma ; that’s what the old Sage had called the new movement. To say they were salvaging what little good remained from the original Team’s ideals.

But no matter how much they worked, Ghetsis’s shadow clung to them, stretching long and low, with claws like a cursed Honchkrow’s, that scratched everything they touched.

Once again, people’s eyes were on them. Some called them victims, others accomplices. Most just looked at them with suspicion.

They asked her, “What was Ghetsis like, up close? What did you think, as the Goddess of Love?” She simply answered that her “father,” as he liked to be called, did not love.

He possessed.

She’d say something vague and distant, hollow words heavy with meaning only for those desperate to find one. And when people walked away, thinking they’d received a real answer, she would think: It was him who taught me the very concept of Love that everyone expects from me.

Love.

Peace.

Ideals so strong, so pure, rammed down their throats by a bastard with a hole in place of a heart. He, who only knew hate and war.

People didn’t care that Anthea and Concordia were human beings. They only wanted their roles. They wanted Goddesses. They wanted muses, nymphs, oracles, personifications of concepts; even now, when they were, or at least seemed, free from the dreadful cult that had been Team Plasma.

Love.

Peace.

When they were transferred from that orphanage that stank of abandonment and mold to the new castle under construction, hidden like an Excadrill burrowing in the heart of the mountain, they were given new names and a new destiny.

Angela, chosen by the Institute after Amelia and arrived and before Annie—became Anthea.

Charlotte, who came after Charline and before Caroline, became Concordia.

Ghetsis taught them those new names and scripts to recite with elegance and precision. He gave them purpose. He entrusted them with the nameless child, N., as a younger brother to watch over from up close, but always at a distance. He was the future King. They were handmaidens.

Later, he also assigned them the care of the silent girl. A mother who, to the two little girls, ended up seeming more like a daughter: fragile, mute, someone to protect.

Now N. was gone, flown away with his beloved Pokémons, to who knows where. Sol however, the girl, had stayed, but locked in the wrong cage.

Anthea hated Ghetsis.

Hated.

Even as she cared for the Pokémon, for the people. She watered the plants and, without meaning to, mixed her poison into the water she poured onto those green, vibrant creatures before her. How dare they. Live. Bloom. In front of her; beautiful on the outside, rotten within. Pure words, and thoughts darker than Darkrai.

She wanted to destroy everything. Burn that house to the ground; everything inside, everything outside. And then she thought of her sister. Concordia.

Her younger sister, not by blood but by bond, had always been her inner strength, her Achilles’ heel. Ghetsis knew it. Used it to push her. Used her as leverage.

Concordia, the Muse of Peace, was peaceful only in name and in the manners forced upon her by her official role. Inside, Anthea knew she would’ve been talkative, chaotic, maybe even a warrior. She would’ve spoken for hours about uncomfortable truths, unconcerned by the conflicts her irreverent words might spark. She would’ve taken up six Poké Balls like a true Trainer and challenged the Leagues of all the regions. But she didn’t. Maybe for Anthea, her own inner strength. Her own Achilles’ heel.

But there was no space for their truth in Team Plasma. There never had been. There never would be.

—

The sun had beaten down relentlessly for weeks. The wind blew from the southeast, bringing with it the desert’s sand and air. Tympole and Palpitoads hid in whatever damp hole they could find. Deerlings and Karrablasts blinked in irritation, disturbed by the dry, sharp dust slicing through the air. A few tame Scrafty and Sandile poked their heads into town, finally feeling at home.

Anthea was watering flowers as usual, careful not to startle the few Lilligant who liked to hide among the bushes.

A boy, maybe twenty years old, was chatting casually with the failed Goddess.

He said he was there because his mother had “suggested” he do something socially useful, so he chose that place. After all, being around Pokémon wasn’t so bad. He talked the way one does to a sister, he thought he knew her, even if only through the stories he’d heard. He told her about himself, his family, his friends, his pet Pokémon.

Anthea had never had any of that.

A broken, fake family. No friends to speak of. Her Pokémon were those of the Team members she cared for with top-down, imposed love.

The boy laughed awkwardly. He talked too much and blushed, as if each word spawned another ones to cover up the feeling of having said something right, or terribly wrong.

Like everyone, he was seeking a Goddess’ approval.

A mirror, a bandage of Love and Peace over the bruised ego of his comfortable life.

Anthea listened, as she always did, and kept poisoning her plants with care.

He kept talking, gesturing with hands dirty with sand and innocence. At some point, he asked if she’d like to go have a Lemonade with him sometime. But he didn’t wait for her answer.

Then he started talking about him. About Ghetsis.

He babbled things he must’ve picked up in some sunny corner of Sage Rood’s new movement.

He said maybe, deep down, her father hadn’t only done harm. 

He said it in a low voice, but that underground river of words seemed unwilling to stop until it would reach the sea.

After all, Ghetsis had created the ideals they all still followed. Love, Peace, Nature, Freedom. He’d tried to unite the region, even if the methods left something to be desired, of course. Or maybe using force wasn’t always wrong, given the poor results of systems like the one they lived in.

Anthea stopped. She stopped watering. Stopped listening. Stopped breathing.

Something in her broke. Straightened. Turned. She looked at him with cold eyes. Blazing.

And before either of them realized it, she punched him. Square in the face.

The boy, stunned by the sudden, physical gesture, fell backward into a bush behind him. The Lilligant who had been hiding near the girl scattered in fear.

Concordia, not far away, ran over to see what had happened.

The boy, the victim, looked to her, seeking connection, hoping for resolution to a conflict he hadn’t realized he’d sparked.

But what he found were the eyes of Concordia: eyes of a girl who was ready to declare war on the world.

Chapter Text

SHE KNOCKED THREE TIMES ONE DAY

THE SONG OF LOVED

The girl Aria loved had a Sunkern.

It was small, fragile, with that faint, feeble look about it, but she insisted on caring for it as one tends to a daughter prone to frequent illness.

Aria had met her on a cooler evening than most, when she knocked three times on her door. She was her new neighbor. She asked if she had any milk. She’d forgotten to go shopping and feared her partner would get angry if he woke up the next morning to find nothing for breakfast.

Back then, Aria hadn’t seen the truth hidden behind that small request. But she didn’t hesitate to gift her a jug of milk, and a pastry, as a small welcome to the western district of Aspertia City.

From then on, they began to see each other often: in the garden, while watering flowers and showering affection on their Pokémons; at the supermarket, among the shelves of essentials; at the park, where the tiny Sunkern and Aria’s young Munna would chase each other through the tufts of grass.

She was beautiful. Her eyes were silver, her hair smelled of sea and forest. Her slight build did not take away from her delicate, melancholic grace.

And the more they talked, the more they laughed, the more they shared their daily worries, the more Aria noticed something twisted, weary, fragile in her.

Sometimes she’d say she couldn’t make it to their meetups. Sometimes she showed up hurt in strange, yet all-too-normal ways. She claimed to have fallen down the stairs, scratched herself on rose thorns, bumped into a cupboard. Explanations far too simple for bruises that deep.

One day, that cursed day, her neighbor, her friend, her beloved, showed up at Aria’s door with yet another dark mark around her eye and neck.

This time, though, she wasn’t hiding. No makeup, no dark glasses. Her gaze was low, like someone carrying too much shame and nowhere to put it.

Aria let her in. And then she raised her eyes, for the first time in what felt like an eternity of silence. And she spoke.

Aria listened. She confessed. And when Aria kissed her back, she decided she would be her knight in shining armor. She would save her from the ogre, from the monster, and together they would ride a Galarian Rapidash toward a future of sweetness and love.

—

Many years later, in the small village tucked between mountains and glaciers called Wintersong, Aria ran a little guesthouse for lost souls.

Snow fell, as always, covering the tormented bodies of the few people who still dared live in that forgotten corner of the world.

In the warm little wooden house, an old Sunflora stood in a crate of soil near the stove, waiting for the sun, weakened by the cold, to peek through the mountain peaks.

Aria had tried to let her go, long ago, as she had let go of everything else, but the sunflower Pokémon had refused to leave. So she made room in the car and brought her along, to the edge of the world.

Then, one morning, freezing and full of snow, someone knocked three times at her door.

She said her name was Sol, and beside her stood a massive Hydreigon, dark, menacing. And yet, there was something twisted, weary, fragile about her that Aria knew all too well.

She said nothing and let her in, as she did with everyone who asked for shelter. Usually, she requested something in return for the stay, whatever guests could afford. But Sol had nothing. Aria wasn’t even sure if she’d survived on the streets or in some cave for who knows how long. Together, or perhaps thanks to, her Pokémon. So she asked for nothing. She gave her work, something to keep her busy, a bit of money if there was any left over; enough to start regaining independence.

When, thanks to some local contacts, Aria managed to get her valid identity papers, the girl began visiting the prison.

Every Wednesday, like clockwork, she’d rise and head toward the building looming over the village like a Mandibuzz searching for carrion.

Echo, her name for the Hydreigon, never followed her. He had tried to stop her, sometimes, and for that reason, she had been late a few Wednesdays. There had been consequences. But he never managed to make her give up.

So he simply watched her go, like those who know they cannot stop someone from hurting themselves.

Aria understood. Sol was going to her tormentor the way one reaches for a fountain in the middle of a desert. But she let her go. It was no longer the time for superheroes. Only Aria remained.

—

Another day, another knock. Three knocks, but these were not gentle. The first was strong, though a little hesitant. The second more firm, requesting an audience. The third didn’t ask anymore: it demanded.

As always, Aria opened the door. In front of her stood Mimì. Another girl, another story.

Mimì had hair as dark as night and eyes ablaze, like a Moltres soaring through the sky in search of Truth. Aria saw herself in those eyes; something she hadn’t felt in a long time, something she had tried to forget.

She let her in, because the door closed to no one, but she knew she’d need the big umbrella, the one for big storms.

The girl spoke of her mission.

Barely eighteen, her friend Layla had vanished into thin air. She left a goodbye note, and after a routine investigation, the police had filed the case as a voluntary disappearance.

Mimì knew there was more. She probably knew her better than her own family, and held onto a secret. Just before leaving behind her heavy absence in the outskirts where they had grown up together, Layla had confessed to seeing a much older man. Mimì had tried to warn her. Maybe that’s why, in the final months, the two had drifted apart. Layla was rarely seen anymore.

Then, one late afternoon, nearly evening, Mimì knocked on her door. She wanted to talk, to make up, to be friends again. But Layla didn’t answer. 

Just around the corner, Mimì saw her. She was getting into a luxury car. Behind the wheel, a man she barely glimpsed through the glare of the glass. Long hair, indescribable color, maybe something covering one eye. Or was it just the reflection?

But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at Layla.

Mimì tried to tell the police, later, but the answers were vague, formal. Yes, they’d look into it. But if the girl was of age and wanted to leave, who could stop her?

Mimì grew up, slowly, suddenly, without Layla and with Layla forever on her mind.

She couldn’t find peace. Sometimes life seemed to take a different turn, but she always ended up in front of her friend’s old house. She asked the parents, tired, resigned, if they knew anything. They didn’t.

Eventually, they stopped listening altogether.

No one listened anymore. So she made them listen.

She became a journalist, just like she’d dreamed as a child. But now her dream had a purpose: seek truth and tell it to those who refused to hear it.

Despite her persistence, Mimì found nothing truly solid. Until one day, at last, a clue knocked on her door. Layla’s parents were moving. They donated her untouched things to charity. But first, they called Mimì. Asked if she wanted something. They knew how much she had cared.

Among all the familiar objects of the almost-sister, she found something new: a journal. Half torn, but still full of Layla.

That journal had been mutilated. Every time she seemed to write about the man, Layla had torn out the pages. Crossed out the words violently. Erased all traces.

Why?

And yet, something remained. A barely visible scribble in the bottom corner of a forgotten page: Plasma . Mimì saw it and felt it burn. Her mind went straight to the movement that had swallowed the region for years, that the government now wished forgotten. But it still existed, even if under a seemingly nobler, idealistic form.

So the new journalist went to the new leader. The Guilty Saint. He who sought redemption by helping those who had been abused in his former cult. Former Sage Ross, an old man with a mild demeanor and a shadowy past, received her like any guest, out of courtesy, out of moral obligation. But Mimì wasn’t looking for a missing Pokémon like most visitors. Mimì was looking for a person. And when she poured her story out, something sparked in his memory. Could it really be her, that ghost he’d once seen at Ghetsis’ side, locked in the castle like a princess in a tower? The hair, the manners didn’t match. But people change, under the reign of that sick and enchanting man. He knew it well.

So Mimì had found the monster. Wintersong. The prison. The village. And, in all that snow, a guesthouse for lost souls.

What burned most in her already flaming thoughts was the fact that she had never recognized him. She had seen him on TV, even in person at a Team Plasma rally in downtown Castelia, but never linked that face, so unmistakable, to the man who had stolen her almost-sister. He’d been right in front of her. And she had done nothing.

But now she was here. And that had to be enough.

Aria listened to the whole story. She never closed her door to those who chose to open up. But she didn’t force those who weren’t ready. And Sol, the girl with long blonde braids, the one who visited the prison every Wednesday, the one who once confessed she dreamt of the name “Layla”, was not ready.

The keeper of the guesthouse had already sensed that the young woman’s story was heavier than a Snorlax no Poké Flute could wake. But now she understood it was perhaps even worse than she imagined. And just like with a sleeping Snorlax, Sol must not be woken suddenly. The reaction could be violent. She could run to him. And it could end very, very badly.

—

Many years before, the girl Aria had loved had finally woken up.

After an eternity of her soul lulled into silence and the sleep of awareness, she opened her eyes and rose. She said it had been Aria who made her feel alive again. She felt as if she’d fallen into a roaring river long ago. As if she’d spent years drowning, without ever really dying. But then her prince had arrived. Her Aria came, to fill her lungs.

The two women loved each other. They loved with a true, sweet, powerful love, a love that filled the voids and did not break bones.

It was during those days that the little Sunkern evolved into a bright and beautiful Sunflora. No need for a magical stone, just the joy reborn in her trainer’s heart. And yet, she still called her Sunkern, whether in jest or by habit.

They both knew the barbed wire linking her to the monster had not yet broken. So Aria planned the escape, patiently, detail by detail.

They would sail across the sea, to central Unova, and then who knows, maybe even beyond the country. Where didn’t matter. As long as it was together.

But she, her eyes still swollen with sleep, hesitated. She was tired. She was scared. And, cruel irony, she felt guilty. Maybe she had found her way to the surface. But she was still at the mercy of the waves.

And one day, that cursed day, she went home with her heart full of hope and fear.

Aria never saw her again.

They said she fell down the stairs. Again. That she hit her head. That she died instantly. There was nothing to be done.

Aria refused to believe it. She thought maybe it was a lie, a cruel trick from the ogre who now kept her hidden, far from sunlight. The funeral must have been a well-orchestrated ruse.

There could be no other explanation.

So she knocked on her door. Again and again. But she never answered. Only he did, threatening to kill her, just as he had killed her girl.

Desperate, Aria ran to the police. Told them everything. Every last detail, with urgency, with resolve. But she hadn’t accounted for reality. He, the monster, the ogre, was one of them.

A police officer. And who would the authorities believe? A lone woman, a random civilian? Or one of their best men, maybe even someone’s nephew?

Fear. Now she felt it too. Deafening, real, screaming in her ears.

She didn’t want to give up, but it had grown bigger than her. So big it filled every space, every room where she tried to find refuge, so present it left no air to breathe. Day or night, morning or evening, she felt eyes on her.

She wanted to scream, and she had, but no one listened. Only he had heard her. And now he hunted her, like a furious Arcanine.

He couldn’t possibly harm her too, she told herself, not after what had happened. But that didn’t comfort her in the dark, didn’t dispel the ghosts staring at her from every corner of her new world, suddenly both tiny and enormous.

Now everything had changed. There was nothing left to save.

The princess was dead, devoured by the ogre. The monster had won. And the spotless, fearless prince now felt filthy and afraid.

What was the point in staying in that broken fairytale?

So Aria packed her bags; already half-prepared for an adventure that would never happen. She left everything behind. The house. The job. The family, far away, but with whom she had weekly chats through Interpoké.

She left her Pokémon, or tried to. Her Munna refused to stay. And then there was Sunflora.

The Pokémon’s delicate stem had been trembling for weeks. She remained isolated, silent, in the room where her now-vanished trainer had left her, like a precious treasure in a safe chest. But that house had never been safe, or a chest. Aria understood that now.

When she tried to make her leave, Sunflora looked at her with her eyes, bright, beautiful, fragile. Aria couldn’t close the door.

She also brought with her a photo, carefully folded into the pocket of her heavy coat, useful in the snow where she wanted to stay buried. Two girls smiled ahead, one with strength, the other with gentleness.

On the back, a name.

Loved.

Chapter Text

ET ITERUM PER PUERUM

SUM VENERI PROSTRATUS

TEMPUS TRANSIT

Hearing I ask from all

the holy races,

both high and low,

children of Kyurem.

Thou wilt that I, Harmonia Gropius

may fully recount

the ancient deeds of men and dragons,

those which I first remember.

Harmonia Gropius.

That was how the sender of the letter had signed himself. Not, according to him, to claim a bloodline, but as a choice: to safeguard the memory of the ancient and the sacred. Ghetsis “Harmonia Gropius”, head of the Association for Myth-Cosmic Studies of Nacrene City, based in the museum of that same renowned town, had addressed a lengthy letter to Professor Mimir Ashwood, a retired scholar still active in specialist circles of the University of Driftveil.

The professor had taken early retirement when his course on Mythology Applied to the History and Prehistory of the Unova Region (or, more informally, Unovan Mythological Studies) was canceled due to “resource rationalization.” Since then, he had tried to remain within the margins of the academic scene, not for the admiration of his colleagues, whom he described as “corrupted and flattened by a modern society that has lost the roots of a culture as deep as ours”, but out of pure passion for his field. He refused to give up, in a stubborn and perhaps desperate attempt to find kindred spirits who could truly understand the value of myth, of legend, of sacred memory.

I recall the Pokémon

born in the beginning,

those who once

gave rise to me.

Many worlds I remember,

many foundations,

and the measuring Dragon, the exalted,

who pierces the earth.

Ashwood read in his study, small but well-furnished, filled with trinkets, of inestimable value only to those who understood what they were looking at. The text claimed to be ancient, a discovery of great significance if authentic. However, the professor was naturally skeptical. Realistically, few would have the interest to forge such a document: it was more likely to get  a piece of lowbrow fiction passed off as a “fantasy book inspired by ancient legends,” when in fact it tasted more of trash than tradition.

The language could be imitated, albeit with great skill. The content, vague and overly ceremonial in tone, could have been cleverly fabricated, grounded in solid knowledge of foundational mythology and the flavor of oral tradition that had always accompanied Unovan legends: an ancient, sung culture, scarcely written. 

And yet it was precisely the musicality and intonation, so rhythmic and vertical, masterful in their invocation of the ancients and their dragons, that captivated the professor.

He found himself facing something that perhaps wasn’t the work of a clumsy imitator. Perhaps not an imitator at all, which both unsettled and thrilled him at the same time.

In the beginning there was Time,

and Kyurem dwelled there.

There was no sand nor sea,

nor freezing waves.

There was no earth,

nor sky above:

a void lay open,

and nowhere was there grass.

This was a myth of Unova’s origin, where Unova was a word signifying the world entirely.

Just as in ancient tradition, where “Unova” invoked all the Earth, meant as the union of humans and Pokémon “united” beneath a single sky. The fact that Kyurem was named as the one that existed in the beginning, and not merely as what remained after the Twin Dragons were divided, echoed slightly controversial studies published by Ashwood himself in the past. They had gone mostly ignored by the academic community, but he still believed in them, with the stubborn pride of a wounded father.

It could have been adulation, certainly. But it would have required such precision in sourcing that it was enviable regardless, at least professionally.

And somewhat flattering, if he were honest.

The letter, besides the presumed ancient text, contained a direct invitation: the professor was to travel in person to examine the original copy of the relic, kept at the Nacrene City Museum. It promised change, a rekindling in people’s hearts. A collaboration with the Association for Myth-Cosmic Studies, now housed inside the city museum, could restore light to his life’s work: long misunderstood, but never betrayed.

He could have ignored it. Perhaps he should have.

And yet something in those words made his heart beat like a boy’s at first love. Like when, long ago, he first encountered the Great Stories of Men and Dragons. They had called his name, with the sweetness and seduction of a Primarina’s song.

Until the children of the Void

raised the lands,

they who gave shape

to vast Unova.

From the south the sun shone

on stony cliffs;

then the soil was covered

with green sprouts.

Yet it was precisely for this reason that the professor replied to the letter with a firm refusal.

It was perhaps too good to be true, and he knew all too well that this was exactly the trap used by the most flattering deceivers, skilled masters of fraud and forgery.

He wrote a long, detailed response, in which he politely but firmly explained why he would not further examine the text in question.

But it was the very length of the reply that betrayed his true sentiment: a deep interest, which the sender quickly recognized, and skillfully exploited.

Eight days passed, and Mimir Ashwood returned to his routine, to his studies. His mind still wandered to that new ancient chant, sent to his home like a bolt of Zekrom from a clear sky.

On the ninth day, more mail arrived. No long letter this time: just a postcard from the Nacrene City Museum, and a renewed invitation. The handwriting was elegant yet restrained. The message asked, once again, to give a chance to a text that, according to the sender, could reignite academic interest in ancient legends. Perhaps not just academic, perhaps even the people would finally see, if only someone like the professor were willing to bring it to light.

The two brothers convened,

mirrors of the Dragon,

they who raised

altars and temples high;

they lit hearths,

forged wealth,

crafted tongs,

engineered tools.

The next morning, a Friday, Professor Ashwood was on the 9:30 A.M. train bound for Nacrene City.

Tympole and Palpitoad croaked peacefully in the grass near the tracks. Once off the electric train, the professor took his bag, brimming with papers, books, and instruments to examine the self-proclaimed jewel. He walked away from the station, headed for the famed museum. It would be a thirty-minute walk. He had decided to go on foot, despite the weight of his bag: he enjoyed walking, listening to the sounds of Pokémon and people. He told himself he was sharing in the breath of the World, refusing to surrender to the speed of modern society. He strove to move beyond utility, the only metric, these days, by which most measured every inch of the universe.

The museum’s façade towered over the town, solemn as ever. A few Pidoves, grey sentinels, cooed innocently on the ledges of the building. Some would say those flying Rattatas were good for nothing but droppings. Others, Pokémon lovers, appreciated the presence of such unmonumental figures on such an important structure. 

The professor paused before approaching the entrance. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his right shoulder, observing the little Flying-types with neither annoyance nor admiration. They ignored him, save perhaps for one, who rose into the air and drew a circle above his head.

Ashwood approached with more reverence than usual. His eyes caught the city’s heraldic symbol, waving on a flag beside that of Unova. Below it, a crack spread along the building, reaching the great door. He didn’t remember that detail, and yet it seemed to have plagued the building for centuries.

In the courtyard they played chess;

they were rich:

they felt no lack

of gold nor peace.

Until they arrived,

discord and dissension,

from their soul

hungry for creation.

Mimir stepped across the threshold. 

In the grand hall before him, a few rare visitors looked at the exhibits. Perhaps understanding them, perhaps not. A small reception desk blocked his path. The attendant looked at him, waiting either for him to pay admission or to state his eligibility for free entry, be that for his age or a different reason.

Everything was so damned ordinary.

When he introduced himself, ready to ask for the Association’s office, the girl welcomed him with immediate recognition and the enthusiastic voice of someone new to the job.

“Oh, Professor Ashwood! Yes, I was told to let you through: they’re waiting for you in the Memory Room. You need to go upstairs, or you can take the elevator if you prefer. It’s to the right, after the temporary exhibit. Once you’re on the first floor, you can’t miss it, the name is written large. Have a great day, professor!”

As promised, the Memory Room was easily recognizable. The wooden door was open; beside it, a plaque bore the name of the association and a ceremonial quote that smelled of citation. Through the doorway, one could glimpse a room not too large but well-kept. Dark wood paneling lent it an academic air and a reverence for the old. On the sides, sacred original writings and reconstructed translations were on careful display. The center was broken by a table, partly covered with papers and books on subjects dear to the professor. On the walls, works of famous and obscure colleagues. Among them, treated with a solemnity he hadn’t known in years, a paper signed: Mimir Ashwood.

The professor stepped inside.

The room was empty, but he heard movement behind the far wall. He waited a few seconds, glancing around. To his left, an engraved object bore no label or explanation. Only itself. And its mysterious runes. He wondered what it was.

Then, suddenly, one of the wooden panels opposite the table opened. Mimir jumped. Now that was a dramatic entrance.

A tall man in his thirties, with long green hair and a strange red lens over his right eye, stepped into the room. He introduced himself with elegance. Said his name was Ghetsis, and added the titles Harmonia Gropius, as promised in the letter. Something in his voice promised glory and war. He was undeniably charismatic, but Mimir remained unconvinced.

Reshiram was awakened,

white with great Truth.

Zekrom rose,

black with immense Ideals.

Kyurem was thus shattered,

and empty remained,

in the desolate lands

of eternal Ice.

Ghetsis spoke like a man in love with the sound of his own voice. He spoke of his association, created, so he said, for love of ancient memory. Legends that he feared would vanish or be disfigured by ignorant eyes. Like those of many museum visitors, who laughed at the skulls of ancient dragons. He spoke of the professor’s work: it did not deserve to be forgotten just because it had been published yesterday and not today. The modern world, at times, seemed too focused on looking ahead, pruning the branches of a tree while its roots rotted from neglect.

Then, with a gesture, he invited Ashwood to follow him behind the hidden panel into the inner study. Mimir cast a final glance at the unlabeled runic tablet and followed the man who styled himself as the keeper of Unova’s memories. He dared not ask what the object was, not yet.

They walked a short, dim hallway. The hidden room they reached was larger than its public twin. And yet the dim lighting, rough stone floor, and dark wooden walls created an intimate atmosphere that made it seem smaller. It was a strange illusion.

The walls were lined with bookshelves, brimming with old and new volumes. Not at the center but well visible on the right, a lectern held like a treasure what the professor quickly recognized as the very text he had been sent in copy: The Canticle of the Dragon’s Breath. That’s what it had been called.

The spear raised the first brother,

the second rose,

terrible in his wrath.

The tongue of flame

swallowed all the lands,

thunderous lightning

destroyed the sprouts.

And destroyed the world was:

no more Unova.

Without further words, as if by implicit promise, the professor approached the bound scrolls and began to examine them. The first thing he noticed was that the binding was clearly modern. When he asked, Ghetsis claimed the text had to be gathered into a single book for conservation. He also hinted, with well-placed phrases, that beyond the restorations made by his collaborators, the text might contain more recent voices, perhaps inserted over time for clarity or preservation. He asked Ashwood’s help for this as well: to identify discrepancies in style and language. He, after all, had once translated myths of great cultural value.

Mimir, cynical and detached until then, suddenly found himself overtaken by emotion. 

Before him was a truly ancient support, written in a language so refined that, even if not original, was at least of extraordinary quality. He let the emotion carry him. He continued his meticulous examination, finding small inconsistencies, as promised. 

He hadn’t even noticed how far he had leaned over the text until he straightened his back, sore from travel and from the weight of feeling. He declared himself willing to continue the analysis, either there, if given the proper tools, or in his own lab. He preferred the latter, but the former was safer for the evidently fragile scrolls. He did not wish to risk contamination or damage from unnecessary travel.

Ghetsis, a good Pokér player, did not show that his already sizeable ego was swelling. He felt as satisfied as a fat Cheshire Purrloin. Instead, in a calm and calculated tone, he gave the professor full access to all the instruments required to examine, with the highest degree of scholarly accuracy, the text he himself had commissioned and assembled. With the assistance of a well-paid expert forger, naturally, who had been carefully made to disappear.

His new association, a cover for new dealings, this time more “clean,” if by that word we mean less traceable, needed legitimacy. Only thus could it achieve the next level required to create something grand. Something the former convict, now reborn as a myth expert, had been planning since the days of prison.

—

As the months passed, the forgery was completed. A patina that resembled Truth, that echoed ancient Ideals, began to settle over many hearts.

The time of ice had passed; now the world was renewing.

Professor Mimir Ashwood was now an official collaborator of the Association for Myth-Cosmic Studies, convinced of the New Text’s authenticity, or perhaps merely blinded by hope. That boy, that man with great vision, would restore the ancient legends and lead society toward a glorious new Spring.

Thanks to the professor’s work and genuine admiration, the Sage Harmonia Gropius could now give his new creation an ancient, sacred, respected face: Plasma.

So he chose to name the new Team, after the fourth state of matter. The one less visible from our low vantage point, yet omnipresent, composing most of the universe. The state in which existence itself separates. Just as, according to him, humans and Pokémon must be separated again, as they were in the beginning. For the good of both. The one that can be created with fire and lightning. The one the world must have entered after the passing of the great legendary Dragons, when the two brothers, children of the Void, returned to preach peace and rebuild the Unova they themselves had broken.

He thus recruited new and old faces, experts and novices. New believers, new tools. He chose not to take the title of Leader, of King. That would belong to another. An innocent face, a chosen one, who would have the honor of knowing the True World from the tender age of a stolen childhood.

Meanwhile, Ghetsis would be a Sage, flanked by six others, masks of consensus, mirrors of his mind, who would govern equally until the true king was ready to take the reins of the movement. And one day, perhaps, the whole world. As was only right.

Mimir Ashwood had the honor of being one of the Seven Regents, with a new name.

He was called Giallo: yellow, like the color of thresholds. Not Gold yet, not White. He was he who stood between myth and reality, between Truth and Ideals.

And so, thanks to what to him was but a boy, Giallo believed again.

Before the Beauty of that construction so Real, he fell to his knees.

Thus was born Team Plasma.

Chapter Text

I’M WAKING UP TO ASH AND DUST

RADIOACTIVE - part I

It was night. The stars shone in the cloudless sky, and the people of Driftveil City slept peacefully. The full moon lit the streets as if it were daytime. The only difference in moonlight was that sense of distortion it gave to everything beneath it. Every building, every object it touched looked like part of the dream of a giant Musharna embracing the whole city.

And yet, not everyone in Driftveil was dreaming. In a hidden shelter not far from the new headquarters of the Plasma Heirs, a white-haired boy was wide awake. A notebook, now bleeding, was gripped in his hands. They trembled slightly. The words, once sharp and clear, that had stained the white pages with notes and ink, had turned unrecognizable, now painted in dark red. The Roserades of the Queen of Hearts.

The notebook’s previous owner was perhaps sleeping peacefully, or more realistically, plagued by doubts and misfortunes, in the room next door. Mimí, so composed and decisive by day, looked like a defenseless girl during the nighttime hours, at least in those rare moments when she managed to sleep. Fabian. Third. Or maybe neither of the two. The moon-haired boy was always by her side. He kept watch over her, resting only when he knew she was awake, never daring to leave her alone for even a second. She allowed it, but always reminded him that she would never be a prisoner. Neither his, nor fear’s. She would fight to the very end. To the last word, the last article, the last drop of ink. Whatever the cost.

The boy, the man, grown up too fast and never quite enough, stood up. He ignored the sharp pain in his ribs, where he had wounded himself to give the notebook, a book full of life, its color of death. He had the whole night ahead of him, but there was no more time to hesitate. He knew his brothers were waiting for him, outside the city. At the place they had agreed upon with a single word, understood only by the three of them, they were waiting.

On the table by the door, awaiting Mimí’s awakening, was a note. A goodbye, or perhaps a promise. And a simple request, but one that carried implicit desperation. It would have to be enough. For weeks now, Fabian had been acting without knowing whether anything would work. And for the first time, he was doing something that had to work. Not because it was an order, but because it was his choice.

He picked up his light backpack. A few Oran Berries, six empty Pokéballs. He didn’t need to defend himself. Just to pretend he could. A few seconds would be enough.

Now, all that was left was to face his fate.

His fate.

—

One month earlier, in Wintersong, Mimí was returning to the small room she had rented above the village’s only bar. For weeks, she had been sleeping in that tiny dump, the only place in that forgotten village that welcomed outsiders. It took courage to stay at the edge of the world.

A late Cryogonal floated past her with a sudden chime, startling her. What was a Pokémon doing out on the streets at night? The creature stopped for a moment, then ignored her and drifted away into the darkness.

Mimí had come to that remote, isolated place for a mission. She knew that the monster who had taken her friend years ago was imprisoned on the mountaintop, so she had decided to come and look him in the eye, to ask directly what he had done with her lost sister.

When she arrived, she had everything planned. She had prepared a list of “valid reasons” to give the prison in order to be granted a meeting with the famous inmate, relying also on the possibility that he would be curious enough to accept the visit. Nothing she had planned worked. They didn’t want journalists sticking their noses into matters meant to stay buried in the snow, especially for the established authorities. They didn’t care that she was aligned with a former public figure like a reformed Sage. If anything, that only made her more suspicious. They didn’t believe her claim to be a distant relative, nor that she was part of a prisoner rehabilitation association, not when there was nothing to rehabilitate. Rejected. That word haunted her even in the few hours of sleep she managed above the bar, lying on an uncomfortable mattress lit by moonlight filtering through broken shutters.

Everything changed the day she saw her. It was a Wednesday. She had long blonde braids, the top part hidden by a wool hat. Useful for the cold, or maybe to conceal the dark roots peeking through on the sides. Those hair, so different from Layla’s, instead matched the description Rood had given of a girl who looked like a ghost wandering the castle of Team Plasma. Except the roots. Those made it unmistakable.

Something stirred in Mimí’s gut. A feeling, a recognition. She waited in the cold for the girl to leave the prison, then followed her. Around them, Vanillishes and Vanilluxes played quietly in the snow. Two Deerlings darted from one grove of trees to another, never losing sight of each other. A Sawsbuck watched them from a distance, as if gently keeping guard.

The girl arrived at a house, a small inn just outside the village that Mimí hadn’t noticed when looking for a place to stay. Aria’s inn, a place she quickly learned was a shelter for lost souls, like the girl she had followed there.

Mimí didn’t knock right away. She waited until the following evening, unsure of how to introduce herself to that girl she felt was Layla, even if she looked so different, so… other.

When she finally raised her fists to knock on the wooden door, she did it decisively. She would tell everything. She would force her to recognize her. She would ask why she had never come back, now that the monster was inside and she was free. Why she visited him. Why she seemed to have forgotten everything. Why she had left her alone when she had a choice. Because Layla would never have abandoned her. That was the one thing Mimí could not, would not, and would never accept.

But when she knocked with all the resolve in the world, it wasn’t her who answered. It was Aria, the owner of the inn. Mimí asked to see the girl with the trembling presence and blonde braids, but the woman at the door wanted to know who she was first. She said she wouldn’t let her pass without an explanation. After a brief silence, Aria let her in and offered her a cup of warm Lemonsucco, as was customary in that frozen, godforsaken place. Mimí accepted. And, sensing the woman’s protective and kind nature, she spoke.

That night, Mimí returned to the shabby bar in the center of the village without having seen her lost friend. Aria had warned her: if she showed up full of fury, all she would get was rejection. She would do more harm than good. She could push Layla, now Sol, to hurt herself. Or worse, send her running back to him, her tormentor, the false protector. And he could hurt her again.

Mimí paused, then said that the truth couldn’t stay hidden forever. In the end, she agreed to meet Sol, Layla, without forcing her to remember. She would let her recall, if and when she was ready. In her own time. To be safe, she would use a false name. Maybe cover her head. She would speak with her, if the girl wanted it, but without saying anything. Not yet. The time for Truth would come. One day. But not now. Not all at once.

And so Mimí met Sol, the girl living in Aria’s inn for desperate souls. The girl who went to the prison every Wednesday, though she never spoke about it. She was gentle, kept her gaze low, and spoke softly. She wasn’t Layla. And yet, sometimes, when she lifted her pale eyes, Mimí could see it. She could see that even if the fire had gone out, beneath the layers of ash and snow, a coal still burned, stubborn and alive.

Always by her side was a Hydreigon she called Echo. He watched over her like a silent guardian. At first, Mimí was afraid of him as he growled quietly whenever she got too close. But one day, he stopped. He had decided she wasn’t a threat, at least for now. And Mimí, in her own way, made the same decision about him. They accepted each other. It was Sol who bridged the gap between the two, without even realizing it.

—

One month after her arrival in Wintersong, and one month before Fabian left her sleeping in the shelter in Driftveil, Mimí was heading back to the small room she rented above the village’s only bar.

She had spent the morning writing something to try and earn the little money she needed to stay in that faraway place. In the afternoon, as usual, she had gone to the inn, under the pretense of helping Aria, but with the real purpose of seeing Layla, of helping her remember. Slowly, gently, even if that wasn’t her usual way.

Every time she saw her, a fierce anger rose in her chest. For how she had ended up. For the things Mimí could only imagine had been done to her. And yet she let the snow fall on herself too, if that meant protecting her. From herself, and from him. But she didn’t know how long she would be able to hold back. That bastard deserved to pay. Even if he was already in prison.

For some time, Mimí had felt watched. It wasn’t Aria, who never really left them alone. It wasn’t Echo, who protected Sol the way you protect a wounded cub. It wasn’t the villagers of Wintersong, who saw the stranger girl as a disruption. Nor was it the local Pokémon, who mimicked the expressions of the humans around them like mirrors. Something didn’t feel right, but Mimí couldn’t figure out what it was. She convinced herself that the whole situation was making her paranoid. She decided to ignore the signs.

That evening, as she walked through the village’s small, dark streets, she pulled her heavy coat tighter around herself, ready to react at the first hint of danger. But the only thing that made her jump was a lone Cryogonal gliding past her with a chime. It was odd to see it there, along the road: those creatures preferred snowy woods and caves. But in its silent floating, there was no threat. Only a Trainer would bother to attack it, to catch it or use it for training.

When she finally reached the bar, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She took the large, old-fashioned key from her bag, stuck it in the lock, and turned it: a sharp click, the rusty mechanism giving way with difficulty. The door creaked open to reveal a small, dark room: a bed too short and unmade, shutters closed with cracked slats that let in slivers of moonlight and the flicker of a failing neon sign, a narrow, not-so-clean bathroom squeezed into a few square meters.

But that fragile sense of home, of safety, however uncomfortable and temporary, didn’t last. A long shadow rose behind her. A wet cloth covered her mouth. A sickly-sweet smell flooded her nostrils. She tried to fight off the stranger holding her down, stopping her from screaming. Despite her efforts, no one noticed what was happening. No one came to save her. Weakness spread through her limbs, heavier with every second, and her vision blurred, giving way to a darkness that wasn’t just the night.

—

For a couple of weeks now, Third, the Shadow boy, had been assigned to keep an eye on the dark-haired woman who had arrived in Wintersong with a thousand excuses to get into the prison. His brothers were busy with other affairs, so it would be up to him to watch over both her and Sol. Once it became clear that the stranger was there because of the girl tied to his father, his master, the two missions became one. A new order, a renewed invitation from Ghetsis. Who was she? What did she really want? Was she worth doing something about, or was she just a false alarm, a harmless figure?

In any case, Third didn’t care about motives. He followed orders. No questions asked. Like his brothers. Like Ghetsis’ little soldier. A Shadow among shadows.

And yet, there was something, something he couldn’t deny he liked, about being tasked with watching the quiet, blonde girl who occupied his thoughts like a beautiful, unreachable dream. A painted veil. He watched her from afar, knowing that if he reached out, the spell would break, the image distorted by the folds he’d create with his hand. So he remained apart, as his fate dictated.

Mimí was the disruptive element. Ever since she had entered Sol’s life, the girl had become more agitated, more distracted. It was almost as if another person was awakening inside her, or perhaps resurfacing. Then there was her story, which he had overheard in bits and pieces during conversations with Aria. Who was Layla, the hidden identity of Sol? Was he truly ready to meet her, behind the fragile veil that this dark-haired girl was starting to lift, gently as she could? But it didn’t matter. That wasn’t his job. So he simply reported back to Ghetsis what he had found out. As always.

Ghetsis didn’t give any further orders. Not right away. Only when they were all together. The three brothers, the three Shadows, in the abandoned hideout near Wintersong. They were eating quickly, in silence, as if relaxing were a forbidden act. The old radio crackled suddenly. It was their channel to communicate with Ghetsis, to receive instructions and send information. The message, though in code, was unmistakably clear. The nosy girl under Third’s watch had to be neutralized. It didn’t matter which of them did it, or how. The only thing that mattered was that she disappeared.

It was a basic mission. The only thing to keep in mind was to leave no trace, to make sure no one found out what had happened. But that wasn’t a problem for them. And yet, at those few shrill words from the little device lying on the wooden floor beside them, Third stiffened as if it had spoken of something huge.

First looked down at the bottom of his bowl, then set it aside. Second raised his eyes at the same time as his older twin. Third pretended nothing was out of the ordinary and got up, starting to clear away what little they had in front of them. As he picked up the dishes to wash them, a utensil slipped from his fingers. It didn’t fall. The three of them were faster than a fork. But it was clear something was wrong.

A brief moment of emptiness, then silence resumed its place. The afternoon went on like any other. No need to exchange orders, no need for complicated plans. That night they would take care of the job. They already knew what to do in these situations.

But that night never came.

Not for Third, who, silent as an Umbreon hiding in the dark and swift as a Liepard striking its prey, left the shack where he and his brothers survived, earlier than expected. Before they could notice his absence.

Outside, in the snow, he asked himself, for a second, what he was doing. None of this made sense. Did he want to deal with the woman who kept visiting Sol on his own? The one he also found annoying, with her desperate, quiet attempts to bring to light something that shouldn’t be there? What difference would it make if they did it together, like all the other missions?

And what if he didn’t want to eliminate that girl? What if he wanted to… save her? Wanted? Him? He was a Shadow. He had no will. And yet…

For that instant, panic took him. He thought about going back, but his brothers would ask where he had been, even if only for a short while. He wanted to run. But where? And for what? Not to mention that if he ran, the woman, Mimí, would die. Sol would be alone again. So what? What choices did he have left?

It lasted only a moment. Then he began to move again.

Chapter Text

WELCOME TO THE NEW AGE

RADIOACTIVE - part II

When Mimí woke up, everything was a blur. It was supposed to be morning, on the usual worn-out mattress in the room above the village bar. And yet, she wasn’t sinking into the springs barely held up by the bed’s broken frame. No morning light was filtering through the cracked shutters. There was no mattress, no shutters.

She closed her eyes like people do when the alarm goes off, as if pretending it’s not time to get up could somehow change things. Her whole body ached. Every muscle resisted wakefulness, trying to pull her back into the oblivion of unconsciousness. And yet, deep down, she knew she couldn’t afford to give in. Something was terribly wrong with her situation. Like the missing mattress. The missing shutters. She fell asleep…where?

She tried to move an arm. Nothing. Her elbow was numb and tingling, like it had been crushed too long. Her wrist was burning. Rope on skin? Was she tied up? No, she was free. She inhaled slowly. The scent of mold, dust, and damp wood filled her nostrils. Something clicked in her memory. That sweet smell. A cloth pressed against her mouth and nose by someone else’s hands. Oh my Arceus. She had been kidnapped?

She cracked her eyes open, slowly. She was lying on a bench, a rough, heavy blanket draped over her clumsily but with care. The arm she had tried to move was indeed pinned beneath her. On the floor next to her, some loose ropes. As if someone really had tied her up at some point, then changed their mind and left her there, resting on cold wood beneath a worn-out plaid blanket. Everything was really strange.

If someone wanted to harm her, it had to be Ghetsis. And kidnapping was certainly his style. But if he wanted her dead, why was she still alive? Maybe he wanted to torture her… but why? What could she possibly have that would interest him? And in any case, why bother giving her something to keep warm, why tie her up and then untie her? It made no sense.

She opened her eyes fully, careful not to move a muscle. In front of her, a partially rotting wooden table. In the back, beneath the table legs, she saw a lit fireplace. The crackling of the fire gently filled the air, but the flames’ warmth was too faint to fight off the chill of what looked like an abandoned mountain cabin. Within her field of vision, there was no one else, neither human nor Pokémon.

She waited and listened. Her alert eyes scanned for the slightest change in her surroundings. Everything was still. The only sound, the only source of light, came from the fireplace. A voice, deep inside her mind, whispered that it was far from guaranteed she’d make it out alive. She had never thought of herself as someone built for extreme situations, but adrenaline was unexpectedly stronger than panic. She was focused, ready to strike. Fight or flee. React to the first sign of…anything. But nothing moved. Only flames and cold.

An eternity passed. Or maybe just a few seconds. Mimí propped herself up on her elbows. Her arm was no longer numb. All she felt now was the urgent need to understand, to restore the situation to something manageable. Something under control.

The room was indeed empty, aside from her and a few worn-down pieces of furniture. A window revealed the dark outline of the mountain. Snow covered the sill, but it was impossible to tell whether flakes were still falling or if the sky outside was clear. The night was too dark. The wide streak of stars above, half visible, half covered by dark gray clouds, was not enough to pierce the blackness clinging to the ground like a massive Alolan Grimer. What was the point? Had they kidnapped her just to drop her in the middle of nowhere, like some forgotten package?

She sat up. Slowly stood. The room ignored her movement, offered no response to her racing thoughts. Every breath, every muscle contraction, was deliberate. She felt like she had to activate every part of her body consciously, as if all autopilot functions had been turned off. Even her heartbeat felt like it happened on command.

She moved one leg. Then the other. The floorboards creaked beneath her, as if a Snorlax were stomping around on a floor lined with broken, out-of-tune instruments. Every sound was amplified. Every sensation was extremely strong and intense.

A rustle. She froze. Turned her head slowly. Nothing. Just a broken chair and its shadow dancing with the firelight. She turned her head back. Took another step. Then one more. Step by step, she reached the closed door. She expected it to be locked, and yet there it was, opening with a blast of icy night air against her stunned face.

Snow was falling thick in the dark. Two pine trees stood tall among the rocks. A little farther off, the mountain loomed over the clearing, cloaked in night. It wasn’t clear whether there was a path leading to the cabin or if the building was simply stranded in the wall of darkness and black shadows covering everything. To the right, a barely perceptible movement caught Mimí’s eye. A human-like figure crouched on what was probably a rock.

The figure was almost perfectly still, so much so that Mimí doubted it was even alive. Long hair caught the faint light of the stars, suggesting it was light-colored, maybe even white. Then the figure stood up, erasing any doubt. She wasn’t alone, after all.

—

Third needed to think. It was something he had never done in his life. Thinking about his actions, their consequences, the future. But now it was necessary.

Beneath the snow, in the dark, he stared ahead and balanced on the tips of his toes. In his left hand, a Pokéball, as if ready to throw it and fight. In his right hand, a fistful of questions with no answers. What had he done?

He was sitting on a cold rock covered in snow. The flakes fell slowly but relentlessly, trying to cover him and hide him from the rest of the world. Maybe he could let them. Maybe if he stayed still long enough, everything else would stop too, and the planet would stop spinning so violently.

The door of the abandoned cabin where he had brought his target opened, letting out the light from the fire he had lit inside to keep her from freezing to death. The girl stood in the doorway, unmoving. He watched her for a few seconds, then stood up. But he didn’t move from his spot. He wasn’t worried she might run away: there was no viable escape route, not in the dead of night, not for an untrained woman like her. She stayed in the doorway too, perhaps unsure what to do in such a situation. They were both frozen, but it wasn’t the snow.

A Swoobat suddenly flew between them, breaking the spell with its shadowy shape. When Mimí finished jumping from fright, Third was no longer on the rock. He was standing in front of her. He wanted to look at her, but kept his gaze lowered. He didn’t know what to do.

Mimí stepped back a few paces, frightened. He took the opportunity to walk in and close the door. He also closed the shutters on the only window. It was unlikely they were already being searched for, but that light in the darkness, that unmistakable signal of someone’s presence, was a risk he preferred not to take, if he could help it.

The woman turned slowly, resting her back against the wall. It was hard to tell whether she wanted to collapse to the floor and let the situation crush her, or use the wooden wall as a springboard to do something reckless. Like try to escape, or attack the Shadow boy. She did neither. She just stood there, watching him.

“What do you want?”

Her voice was sharp and thin, like someone who’s scared but trying to hide it. He didn’t answer. He sat cross-legged in front of the fire and stared into the flames, his pupils narrowing and widening with the flickering light. He felt hypnotized. A few minutes passed.

“If you’re an assassin, you’re not very good at it.”

Silence.

“I know.”

The boy’s voice was neither low nor high. It rasped slightly, like someone who hadn’t spoken in a long time. He only did it when absolutely necessary. That sentence, though short, could have gone unsaid. He said it anyways.

The woman cautiously stepped closer, then sat on the bench where she had been left unconscious not long before. She turned her gaze to the fire and its dance, the only sign of life and warmth besides the two of them in that cabin and in that forsaken land. She didn’t relax, didn’t give in. She was tense, and planned to stay that way. The danger wasn’t around the corner. It was right there, with her.

“So, what do you want?”

But despite repeating the question, they stayed silent, their eyes lost in the fireplace.

Hours passed. The fire had burned down. Only a few embers remained to prove it had ever existed. Mimí had lain back down, pretending to sleep. Third hadn’t moved an inch. He had spent the night thinking, brooding, trying to understand. The girl had probably done the same.

Had he kidnapped her to save her, or to kill her himself? He didn’t dare act, unsure which path to take now that, for the first time, he was standing at a crossroads. No order. Just the chaos of a decision he had to make on his own.

The real question, the core of it all: why did he seem to care so much about her? She was just another civilian. If it was for Sol, his painted veil…she would have survived without her. She had until now… but how? In that state, like a painted veil? And what if she was a person, not just a shadow? But what did it matter? That wasn’t his life. His life was with his brothers. Obeying. Completing missions. Disappearing. And yet… it didn’t feel right.

In the morning, he got up to fetch firewood. The fire couldn’t be allowed to die out completely, or they’d freeze.

While he was behind the cabin, he heard noise. Mimí. She was probably trying to run. He wasn’t too worried. There was no way out of the hollow where the cabin was wedged. Still, it was better to keep an eye on her. Make sure she didn’t hurt herself. Or that no one else came along to hurt her.

So he left the firewood in the main room and stepped outside.

—

Mimí didn’t manage to escape. She had taken advantage of the moment her captor stepped away for a few minutes and slipped out of the shack, trying to scout the area, looking for any path to salvation. She still had her coat on, but even so, the cold seeped into her bones. A narrow trail wound its way out of the basin, but a landslide, whether ancient or recent, it was impossible to say, blocked the way. Chunks of rock and frozen snow formed a wall no one could climb, unless they were born in the cracks of the mountain.

As she stopped to look around, searching for another way out, a small Banette approached her, wobbling like a broken toy and letting out a muffled sound from its stitched mouth. It seemed to say, “Got you!”

Not far behind came Third, who whistled and called the Banette back before returning it to its Pokéball.

He didn’t attack her. He didn’t force her to do anything. He just looked at her and spoke.

“It’s dangerous out here.”

Mimí let out a sharp, nervous laugh.

“Oh, and it’s not dangerous inside? With the guy who knocked me out and dragged me to some abandoned shack at the end of the world?”

Third stared at her for a few seconds.

“He wants you dead. Gone. Same thing.”

A few more seconds passed in silence. No need to clarify who “he” was. Then he continued.

“I saved you. I think.”

He lowered his gaze, then slowly raised it again. But he didn’t look at her. He looked at the snow.

“If I’d wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it already.”

It wasn’t clear if he was saying that to her or to himself. Mimí stared at him, bewildered.

“Comforting.”

In a kind of unspoken agreement, they returned to the cabin. He walked ahead, slowly. His steps made no sound, even where they should have. She followed behind, not too close, not too far. Every now and then she stopped to look around. He never failed to wait for her. She gave up on making a sudden dash to flee again. It was clear that even if he wasn’t watching her directly, he noticed her every move. And besides, she didn’t know where to go in that basin surrounded by cold stone.

Once inside the run-down house of wood and stone, Third closed the door and went to rekindle the fire. By now the embers were nearly dead, and it would take more effort than expected. Mimí watched him, studied him, trying to understand without asking. But her patience ran out quickly.

“You said you saved me.”

Silence.

“Why?”

Silence.

“From who? From yourself? From the other thugs?”

Third blew life into the newborn flames, which grew quickly, though still contained within the hearth.

“My brothers.”

As if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh great. Everybody knows them. The hangman’s brothers.”

He didn’t react to the jab.

“Are you hungry?”

Mimí hesitated. She looked down at her feet. She hadn’t expected him to be the one to ask questions, especially that kind of questions. She remembered she hadn’t had dinner the night before, nor breakfast that morning. And yet her stomach was shut tight.

“You really think I’ll accept food under these conditions?”

“I think if you don’t eat, you won’t last much longer. You didn’t sleep much either.”

“Neither did you.”

“It’s different for me.”

She glanced at him sideways. She wanted to ask what he meant by that, but didn’t. Instead, she asked a different question.

“Do you have a name? Or should I call you ‘hey you’?”

The boy looked at her, uncertain. He seemed unsure how to respond.

“What, don’t trust me? I’d introduce myself, but I guess you already know my name. Or did they give you my description without telling you who I was when they asked you to kill me?”

Silence.

“…Mimí,” he said finally.

The two eyed each other again. They looked like two frightened Purrloin, staring each other down, pretending to be Liepard: bigger, tougher than they really were. Ready to defend, to attack, to flee. Or to cry. Neither of them would ever admit it.

“Yes, Mimí is my name. It’d be a pleasure, I suppose, if you hadn’t kidnapped me.”

The crackle of the fire filled the room, the only living sound in that forgotten corner of the world.

“So? Do you have a name? Like people do?”

The boy looked away. His eyes drifted to the fireplace, then to his hands, then somewhere undefined.

“…No.”

“…No? They must call you something.”

That was obvious, he thought. And yet, even if he had never paid it much attention before, what he had wasn’t a name. It was a number. He had never needed anything else.

“Third.”

It wasn’t so much a word as a whisper. A confession, like revealing something one ought to be ashamed of. Mimí, tense and disoriented, didn’t know how to react. So she laughed nervously.

“Of course. And your brothers are First and Second, I guess? What about Fourth and Fifth? Maybe there are seven of you, like the Pokémons in that old fairytale. That would be fun. Seven ghosts. Seven numbers. Seven little killers.”

The flames danced in the fireplace, echoing her sarcasm through the snow-muffled walls of the cabin. The roles seemed reversed. He, the victim. She, the tormentor. Nothing made sense anymore, like in a strange dream.

Without a word, Third stood. From a corner of the room Mimí hadn’t noticed before, he pulled out a backpack. He took out some dry food and berries, then handed them to her. He did it the same way you’d offer food to a frightened animal. Mimí hesitated. She didn’t know what to do anymore. In the end, she took something: a strip of meat and two Oran Berries. She examined them closely, as if they might leap at her. Only when she saw him eating too did she take a bite. Then another. The flavor and texture exploded in her mouth. The meat was salty, fibrous. The berries were tangy and bittersweet. Her stomach opened up like a pit. She finished everything in seconds.

"You still haven’t told me why."

After a few minutes, Mimí resumed her questioning. Third looked exhausted. He had never talked or thought so much in his life. A full-on physical training session would have been much more relaxing than this.

"You told me who you saved me from. Not why."

He was sitting cross-legged near the fire. His eyes were closed, but only a fool would think he was actually asleep.

"Well?"

"What?"

"You didn’t answer."

"It wasn’t a question."

"Do you need me to rephrase it?"

Silence. Outside, the snow had started falling again. Mimí had curled up in the rough blanket he had used to cover her when he brought her there against her will.

"I don’t know."

"You don’t know? You disobeyed a direct order, didn’t you? Your name is a number. I doubt acting like this is normal for you."

Third opened his eyes.

Chapter Text

THIS IS IT, THE APOCALYPSE

RADIOACTIVE - part III

Fabian slipped quietly through the trapdoor leading out of the small hidden refuge in Driftveil. The damp air of the cave near the old quarry welcomed him. A Drilbur poked its head out from a crack in the ground, its sleep disturbed by the faint, silent presence of a human. A pair of Woobat flitted past nearby, carrying prey in their paws under the moonlight.

Mimí was asleep in one of the two rooms below him, probably built long ago by some trainer obsessed with cave Pokémon. More recently, the place had been used as a Team Plasma hideout. Rood, who still knew a trick or two, had brought them there when they showed up looking for help about three weeks earlier.

Slipping out without waking the girl had been no challenge. Living without making noise had been his entire life. He made his way toward the crisp night air, toward the cave’s exit. He moved in the shadows between shadows, just as he had always been taught. His thoughts wandered back to the conversations he had shared with Mimí in the abandoned mountain cabin, the place he himself had taken her to. The place he had ended up in without fully understanding what was happening. What he was doing. They had spent three nights there. Two days. And yet, that brief, fleeting time had meant more to him than thirty years of silence and rigid discipline.

—

"If you want, I can give you a name."

The sentence had come out of nowhere, like all the others. As with all the others, Third had tried not to answer. It wasn’t necessary. He didn’t know what he could have said.

A few minutes passed. Maybe he had dodged it.

"Fabian."

A log cracked in the fireplace, as if laughing at the absurdity of it.

"...Fabian?"

The boy had been staring at the snowy mountain horizon through a slit in the shutters of the cabin’s only window. At that word, spoken with such disarming simplicity, he turned toward the woman he had kidnapped as if she were a Legendary Pokémon that had just appeared in the garden.

"Yeah, Fabian. What, you don’t like it? Would you prefer… uh… Joey? No, Arceus forbid, that’s a name for some wannabe street punk. You’d have to own a Rattata and wear a backwards cap, bare minimum."

Third looked at her blankly. What was that bizarre description of a hypothetical “Joey” supposed to mean? Was it someone Mimí knew? The more he tried to understand this girl, the more she felt like a mystery. She was clearly in mortal danger. He had seen people in that situation before, people he or his brothers had put there. But he had never seen anyone joke or say nonsense like her. Then again, most of their jobs were over far more quickly. In any case, he doubted this was a normal reaction.

Mimí seemed lost in thought. Was she seriously considering giving him a name? Like a pet Pokémon?

"So, what do you say, Fabian?"

Third didn’t answer. He was confused. He needed to focus on survival. On what to do with the girl. What excuse to come up with when his brothers arrived. Because they would arrive. It was only a matter of time. And yet here he was, distracted by strange questions like a kid.

"...Yeah, sure” The girl kept going. “It sounds good. Fabian is normal enough. Fabian doesn’t kidnap people in the middle of the night. Fabian isn’t a trained assassin raised by a crime boss. Fabian only manages to kill balcony plants by forgetting to water them even though it’s the middle of summer. Fabian’s orders are whatever the office manager says, he only rebels by refusing to make all the photocopies. You could use a little Fabian in your life."

From then on, Mimí had called him that. Fabian. Somehow, he had gotten used to it. Even if he didn’t always respond when she called. Maybe because he still didn’t recognize himself in it. Maybe by choice. Like a kid with headphones on to block out the world.

It wasn’t so bad, really, having a real name. He felt like by giving him that strange label, that strange collar, so ordinary to her, so colorful to him, she had somehow set him free. No longer Third, who came after First, after Second. Part of the group, a slave to the one who had bought them long ago. Just Fabian, a man who could decide what to do with his life, even if that meant throwing it to the wind.

After three nights and two days spent in the cabin nestled in the rocky basin, Fabian was preparing to flee again, this time with Mimí, leaving Third behind. He knew the twins were coming, but now he also knew what he wanted to do. He didn’t want to obey. He wanted to save. But First and Second arrived before he was ready. They found them still in the cabin. Not yet gone. Not yet prepared.

Mimí called out to him, scared. Not Third. Fabian. The two older brothers looked at him, puzzled. They didn’t fully understand, but they understood enough to know he had betrayed them. He was no longer one of them.

In a different situation, in a different life, different people might have readied their Pokémon for battle. That was how most conflicts were resolved, after all. But they weren’t people. They were assassins.

It happened quickly. Second attacked him. First went for the girl. Fabian assessed his options in a fraction of a second: defend her and leave himself open, or protect himself and leave her exposed. He threw himself at First. Not enough to hurt him, but enough to distract him for a moment. A second later, Second had struck him.

Blood ran from Fabian’s right side, thick and red over the wooden planks warmed by the fireplace and chilled by the snow blowing in through the open door. Fabian didn’t move. He used his body as a shield for the frightened girl behind him. One of his Pokéballs slipped from his belt, acting with a will of its own. A pitch-black Banette emerged, ready to defend its partner. On the other side, one of the twins’ Bisharp leapt from its red-and-white shell in response.

First and Second paused for a moment. The situation had grown chaotic, their younger brother’s reactions more incomprehensible than ever. What in the world was happening?

It was thanks to that confusion that Fabian found a way out. For the first time in their lives, the twins were too slow. Their perfect reflexes blunted by emotional terrain they had no map for. The youngest, normally the least prepared, this time outmaneuvered them.

He grabbed Mimí under one arm. With the other, he recalled Banette. Then he vanished, too quick for untrained eyes. How he hadn’t been caught immediately or shortly after by his brothers remained a mystery even to him.

The following days were a slow slide through caves and tunnels carved into the mountainside like veins in stone. He insisted they keep moving, changing hiding places constantly. Staying still was the best way to get caught. Avoiding Beartic dens was another challenge altogether, but somehow they managed not to run into any large wild Pokémon.

Mimí did what she could to treat his wound. She had no bandages, no disinfectant. She used a torn piece of shirt and fresh snow to clean it. Luckily, the cut had missed any vital organs. Or maybe that had been intentional. Maybe they had chosen not to kill him. Who knew.

The girl seemed to have lost the gift of speech. She no longer talked like before. All her defenses had collapsed, abandoned under the weight of trauma and an increasingly precarious situation.

Until, a few suns risen and set later, she took control.

At first, she tried to convince Fabian to go ask Aria for help. But it would have been too dangerous, too obvious a hideout, which would have put the owner of the guesthouse at risk too, not to mention Sol. Then something else came to her mind, a gamble. Driftveil City, Rood. The old Sage had helped her find her lost friend, he no longer seemed to dance to Ghetsis’ tune. She wasn’t sure if he would help them, or if he was still in cahoots with the criminal after all, but it was worth a try. They were walking on the edge of a cliff, living in constant instability. They couldn’t afford for the situation to drag on any longer. And Fabian knew it too.

Third wouldn’t have acted like this, he would have found a way to fix things on his own. Third wouldn’t have saved Mimí or disobeyed an order. Third had died in that mountain cabin, in the basin, a few days earlier. So they left.

—

It had been three weeks since they had arrived in Driftveil. Despite Rood’s initial insistence, Mimí had refused to run any further. For many, in their situation, that would have meant Ghetsis had won. Mimí, forcibly taken away, would no longer be a problem. But that woman, hair dark as a Corviknight and the endurance of a Stoutland that has caught a scent, wouldn’t give up. If she couldn’t be a minor annoyance to the bastard who had stolen her friend, she’d be his thorn in the side. Fabian followed her in silence. He no longer had any reference points, his internal compass completely lost.

If there was one thing Mimí was good at, besides digging where she shouldn’t, it was telling stories. No wonder she’d become a journalist, even if she’d only ever gotten small gigs up until then. So she decided she would write it all down and make herself heard. It was a dangerous game, but the situation was so absurd that she might as well go all in. Unexpectedly, Rood agreed to help her with that project too. And his help was crucial.

The organization he led, the “Heirs of Plasma,” was what remained of the infamous “Team Plasma” founded by Ghetsis. It was also how many former members tried to atone for their past mistakes. After the Seventh Sage was arrested and the “Neo Team Plasma” officially dismantled, Rood was determined not to let it all go, convinced he could still do some good. Or at least patch up the tears of a life spent in the shadow of someone who, with false promises, wanted nothing but power for himself, indifferent, if not even pleased, to cause pain and suffering.

So he kept the position of leader of the new organization, a role he had never had the courage to take on before, but now deemed necessary.

Buried in a political system that liked to hide inconvenient pasts, Rood’s good intentions became fertile ground for the infection that would become what insiders called the “Black Plasma.” This new cult within the cult was nothing more than Ghetsis’ still-active network. The Team Plasma that thrived not on justice and love for Pokémon, but on crime, pure and simple. Among themselves, they spoke of bringing Truth, of being the True Plasma, black as Zekrom, wanting Freedom from a system that did nothing but oppress, steal, and lie. The new doctrine declared that Pokémon, more than being free, should belong only to the chosen few. Not those in power, but those who deserved it by divine right. If N had been the failed king, Ghetsis was the one who had never betrayed the cause, imprisoned by a tyrannical and unjust system.

Rood wasn’t completely blind to the rot festering in his association. Still, for far too long, he had pretended not to see, maybe naïvely hoping the problem would resolve itself. He knew that wasn’t going to happen.

He had already spent his whole life letting Ghetsis devour him from within, a massive, burdensome parasite he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, get rid of. Uncomfortable to carry, but how does one live without it? He no longer knew, maybe he never had. He had already told himself “enough” when he founded the Heirs, and look where that had led.

This time, things would be different. He would hand the weapons to someone who knew how to fight. He would help, without holding back. He didn’t care about coming out clean, not even partially. He didn’t even care about coming out of it at all. What mattered was killing the parasite, even if it meant sacrificing the host.

—

Mimí wrote an article. She spent two weeks of relentless, intense work on it. One week just to find a paper willing to publish it, however small or local. Three weeks. A record time, but outrunning the enemy was the only way not to get caught. It was already strange that the twins hadn’t shown up yet, after all that time.

She told her story, Sol’s story. But not just that. That had become just the background to something much bigger. The story she wrote was the inconvenient truth about Team Plasma, the one the authorities didn’t want to acknowledge, out of shame or convenience. Thanks to Rood’s collaboration, who let his name be dragged through the mud, where, as he put it, it rightfully belonged. Mimí appreciated his confession and promised she wouldn’t let his repentance be in vain.

While she wrote, Fabian stayed by her side.

Slowly, he began to open up, to tell bits and pieces. About his past, his brothers, Ghetsis, the military facility outside the world, so far removed from lives like Mimí’s, where he grew up. Where he had been sold. The girl was shocked by the little he dared to say, in a low voice, as if speaking were a forbidden act. The journalist wrote it down, forgetting to ask for permission. Not everything, since she had no proof. Just enough to give his story a voice too. For Mimí, it was an act of love.

However, when Fabian read the article, prompted by the girl, he had a strange reaction, one even he didn’t fully understand. No one noticed. His heart pounded harder than it should, his head spun, and his hands began to sweat. Was he losing control of his body too? He felt like throwing up, but he hadn’t eaten anything. His senses, already usually heightened, were even sharper. He had forgotten how to move.

Then, just as it came, that strange feeling went away. It left behind a familiar sense of emptiness. For a few minutes, Mimí was once again just a civilian, not the girl who he had given everything to save.

That terrible moment passed, and Fabian said nothing. Mimí looked at him, puzzled, waiting for a reaction that didn’t seem to come. She teased him with her usual sarcasm, her usual wit. As always, he didn’t get it and looked at her oddly. He gave a slight nod that could mean anything or nothing at all, and walked away into the cave. He needed to slip away on his own for a while, to breathe without being watched.

He didn’t expect her to follow, sitting a short distance away, as if afraid to disturb him. Maybe she had sensed something. What? Even he didn’t know what had happened. And yet she stayed there like a worried Lillipup. Where had the Stoutland gone, ready to bite the world to fight injustice?

He didn’t expect her to follow him, into his torment. He didn’t expect her to write about it. She shouldn’t have. He didn’t expect to still feel something for her. Maybe even something stronger than before. He had no idea what was going on. Why did his heart clench like that, what did it mean?

—

Backpack on his shoulders and solitude in his pocket, Fabian stepped out of the cave. He looked like a determined child sneaking off to catch new Pokémon. The moonlight was strong, blinding in its pale imitation of the sun. Like a silent Venomoth, he headed toward the dirty white disc in the sky, but he wasn’t enchanted by it: he knew where he was going.

He had decided long ago: he would save Mimí. He would see it through to the end.

She had screamed that article to the world. Now the music would change, whether they liked it or not. Someone had to dance. But it wouldn’t be Mimí. She, who had voice, who had life, deserved to live. Fabian, on the other hand, who was born in darkness, who had grown up in shadows, could face the dark without fear.

He followed the rocky path down, heading toward the sea in the east.

The wound he had inflicted on himself throbbed with every light step, reminding him he wasn’t dead yet. It had been a calculated risk, that clean cut across his side. It had bled a lot, which made him slower and more likely to lose his breath quickly. He had no intention of fighting, but it wasn’t guaranteed he wouldn’t have to, if his brothers didn’t buy the story he was about to sell them—at least for a few minutes. Just long enough to let a day pass before they found the hideout. Just long enough to give Mimí time to read his note and understand she had to run, this time for real, this time forever. Rood would help her, Fabian was sure of it. He only hoped that girl, more stubborn than a Mudbray, wouldn’t let his sacrifice be in vain.

After a little over an hour, he reached the cliff. He climbed down the rocks, a path only he could see among the jagged edges that plunged into the sea. To his right, not far off, was the bridge leading toward Nimbasa City. Reaching a cove of black and white stones hidden beneath the heavy beams of the metal structure, he entered a crack in the stone, but not before switching on a flashlight he had tucked in the side pocket of his backpack.

When he reached the center of the cave, the moonlight greeted him again through the wide circular opening above, allowing the outside to spill in from above. The rocks brushed by the seawater barely revealed the camouflaged shadows of the twins. They were waiting, as promised.

What happened in that cave was a strange sort of miracle.

Fabian, no longer Third, showed the bloodstained notebook to those he had always been so attached to, though he had never called them “family.” Few words were needed; the message was clear. The notebook’s owner, the one who had written it, was dead. Or so he wanted them to believe. He could tell the two assassins weren’t fully convinced. He showed them the wound on his side: a clean cut, designed to look like the result of a struggle. He confessed to being weak, to letting her strike him while trying to defend himself, before finishing the job. He declared himself remorseful, dishonored by his betrayal. He didn’t ask outright, but it was clear what he expected. Not forgiveness, not punishment. Just death. That was their language, that was what they knew how to do, to think, to be.

Second looked at him with apparent apathy, but anyone who knew how to read the expressions of the trio would have seen a poorly hidden rage, a deep contempt. Almost envy.

First, as always, had the steady gaze of one in command. He stepped forward. He didn’t even reach for his Poké Balls, it wasn’t time to play at fighting. 

He drew his blade.

He paused for a moment. That was odd. Hesitation wasn’t like him. He lunged at what should have been Third with more force than necessary. Excess wasn’t like him. Letting go wasn’t like him.

Fabian didn’t react. And maybe that was the last drop that overflowed the invisible vase of doubt that his older brother had become.

The slash First left across Fabian’s throat was thin, almost imperceptible. It should have slit it open. It didn’t even draw a drop of blood. Just a bit of skin, lightly grazed.

First stood up, staggering. Second watched him as if he were witnessing Arceus fall under the clumsy blows of an Eevee barely able to use Tackle. Then, with a lunge more wobbly than usual, the eldest vanished, leaving the other two staring at each other in disbelief.

After a few seconds of silence, heavy with unspoken, increasingly confused feelings, Second followed his twin out of the wonder-cave.

—

When he returned to the Heirs of Plasma hideout, it was already late morning.

Fabian had spent hours staring into the void, in the cave now emptied of shadowy presences, accompanied only by a few curious Woobats and Swoobats. Once he was alone, the Pokémons had peeked at the human lying on the ground, no longer frightened by the death that had haunted the cave until just moments before.

After what felt like a few minutes, after many hours, the sunlight was shining through the opening high in the ceiling of stone and stalactites. The seawater brushing against the boy’s body shimmered with a living light, so different from that of the moon.

Fabian got up slowly, so as not to scare the Pokémon, or maybe himself. He walked back through the fissure he had entered. He climbed the cliffside rocks. He crossed the city, stained with blood and salt. Even though he felt terribly visible, no one really noticed him.

He didn’t know what had become of his older brothers. But something deep down told him he would never see them again. That they, too, had let them go. Traitors now. They wouldn’t come back.

He reached the cave that had been his shelter for three weeks. He ventured into the tunnels that led to the hatch. He lightly stumbled over a poor Roggenrola as distracted as he was, then resumed crawling toward “home.” Toward Mimí. What else did he have? And yet he didn’t feel like he had little. For the first time, in fact, he had something.

He rounded a rock corner, followed a narrow passage. He stopped in front of the hatch. He hoped and feared to still find her there, or to find the rooms empty. He wanted her to be free, he wanted to stay together. He gripped the heavy handle embedded in the ground and pulled with steady, trembling hands.

He climbed down the metal rung ladder fixed to the ceiling. No one was there. From the other room came an old man’s voice and a delicate sob. When Fabian entered, the scene before him was unexpected.

Mimí was crying, and Rood was searching for words, maybe to comfort her, maybe to say what to do now, how to really escape. Mimí was crying. She, who had held everything together. Why was it heartbreaking?

Fabian stood in the doorway. Rood looked up and saw him first. Mimí, noticing the old man’s movement, turned.

Their eyes met, as if for the first time in decades. She stopped crying, as if she’d been caught with her hands in a jar of Cheri Berries.

A few seconds of silence and astonishment passed, then the girl let go of every restraint and threw herself into his arms.

Fabian, who didn’t even know what a hug was, returned the gesture, wrapping his arms around her back, resting his face against her hair, dark blue like the night that had just passed.

They were still alive.

Now all that was left was to live.

Chapter Text

KING IS CROWNED

IT’S DO OR DIE

BATTLE CRY

The Plasma Castle had been a difficult and grand project to accomplish. Physically, it was perhaps the best-executed work, the most powerful testament to the future Seventh Sage of Team Plasma. It was a project carried out entirely in the shadows, taking advantage of the functional blindness of Unova’s politics and the Pokémon League, more interested in being loved here and now by a population kept in ignorance than in enforcing laws, digging into the rot, and making everyone uncomfortable. Questioning the burden of ruling a country with such an ancient and layered culture.

When Layla first set foot in the castle, Ghetsis had already stopped calling her by her birth name.

Sol. That was her new name. She took it as a game.

The massive hidden structure had nothing to do with fairy tale castles. No white towers brushing a cloudless blue sky. The castle stood, or rather, sank, beneath the mountain. There was nothing grand on the outside. Just rocks and a hidden entrance.

Inside, the building was still unfinished: rough corridors, walls of metal and stone, dust everywhere. Large, menacing Excadrills and Conkeldurrs worked tirelessly under the supervision of laborers and staff well paid, whether in Pokédollars or in dreams and hopes for a better world.

What she was shown, however, was the already completed section. White marble and elegant staircases leading to the regal quarters already built for Ghetsis and his new, though not yet present, family.

Everything was so vast, so exhilarating. She would never have imagined being part of something so monumental, so far from her small, ordinary life. She had dreamed of it, eyes open and closed. Now it was real. Or so it seemed, at least. The illusion was as solid as the stone into which it was being meticulously carved.

Layla spent the days following her arrival exploring the completed parts of the castle. There was even an indoor garden, with rare and exotic Pokémon wandering freely.

As freely as one could wander in a well-lit room, yet still artificial, hidden beneath the mountain’s tunnels. Something felt off in that idyllic, curated environment, ancient and classical in appearance, yet freshly built. Now and then, the sounds of ongoing construction broke the illusion of perfection those vast, empty rooms tried to project. It was clear that other people were in the building, but Sol, aside from Ghetsis, hadn’t met anyone else yet.

Whenever Layla tried to bring up the matter, he would respond evasively. Team Plasma, he said, was still in its ideological and foundational stage. There were people working on the castle at that very moment, but it was best not to disturb such delicate operations. Others were busy out in the world, recruiting new members. One day, Sol would also be part of the great project. But Ghetsis didn’t want her to be treated like just another pawn. She was special. She deserved a special place, a different kind of introduction. Flattered, she let herself be swayed by the honeyed words and the promise of making a difference.

Layla had begun to feel the weight of dissatisfaction. That fascinating man seemed determined to remain a mystery to her. After yet another protest, Ghetsis expressed regret for not having lived up to her expectations.

Sol was right: he couldn’t treat her like a stranger. She was his sun, and it was only fair that she knew him better. So he decided to show her something he rarely shared outside the battlefield. Only his enemies had seen it. For them, it had meant defeat, sometimes even death. He left that last detail out.

In the indoor garden, among cornflowers and the light of the false sun filtering through the tree branches, Ghetsis took one of his Pokéballs from his belt. It was red and white, like the simplest Pokéballs, but he had marked it with symbols only he could understand. It was clear that it wasn’t new, yet it had been kept with a care that Layla mistook for love.

When he released it, with a gesture almost languid, a glow escaped from the small sphere as it dropped gently to the ground. The Pokéball landed with a muffled sound, and in front of them appeared a blue-and-black dragon that stepped onto the grass and looked at them with an unnatural calm. Two heads, four white eyes hidden beneath a thick dark mane. 

A Zweilous.

The girl looked at it in awe. Afraid, but deeply drawn to the almost mythical creature.

You didn’t see many of its kind in Castelia City. In fact, she had never seen one.

Maybe a Deino once, downtown, in the hands of a tourist who clearly couldn’t control it.This Zweilous, however, was calm. It looked at her with a mix of curiosity and caution, 

mirroring the emotions she was showing, like in a game of reflections.

Behind her, Ghetsis was swelling with pride. That was his creature, his creation.

He shared a few anecdotes with Sol. Battle stories, victories won through sheer mastery as a trainer. No games, no tenderness.

She slowly extended a hand, giving him a questioning look, as if asking permission. Ghetsis tensed for a moment, then gave her a look of calculated softness. As she turned her head toward the dragon, he directed a glance of stern command at the creature, which lowered one of its two heads in submission. She took it as a sign of acceptance, and gently stroked it, satisfied. The other head kept its eyes on its master, confused, yet obedient.

“Thank you for letting me pet you, Zweilous.”

—

Weeks had passed, maybe months. The girl no longer knew how long she had been inside the castle. She wasn’t even sure she remembered her own name.

She had tried to leave. That was when the dream turned into a nightmare. She could no longer wake up. Ghetsis, who had told her he loved her, had become possessive, obsessed with control. She was no longer there because she had chosen to run away from home with the love of her life. She was there because she was a prisoner of a terrifying man who insisted on calling her by a name that didn’t belong to her.

Sol. His sun, he said.

Yet all she saw were black storm clouds. There was nothing bright in what it was becoming. Only a cage, dark and terrible. Just like the change in his voice, his gaze, and his behavior—he who called himself her companion. Her jailer.

She had gone from being free to wander the completed rooms of the castle to being confined to one room, beautiful, elegant, and far too large for one person, or even two.

The change hadn’t been sudden. It began when she expressed the wish to go home, or at least to contact her parents to let them know she was okay. That was when things started taking a strange turn. He showed disappointment, hurt by the betrayal she hadn’t realized she was committing. He was giving her everything, and she rejected it like that?

Then came the anger. The stubborn refusal to use her birth name became more and more evident. He called her Sol. She told him her real name was Layla, that Sol was a nice nickname, but she wanted to be taken seriously, once in a while. He got angry. And while at first he just raised his voice, soon his fury turned physical. Objects thrown against walls. Then came the slaps, the dark bruises on her skin. At first, she really excused him. Over time, forgiveness became an empty word, said mechanically. Only to avoid making the pain worse.

Layla wanted to go home. To her family, her friends, her school, the promise of a boring—less painful—future. She hoped so much to see Mimí again and tell her she had always been right. That she shouldn’t have trusted, that she should have kept her feet on the ground.

Ghetsis hated hope. He did everything to trample it, manipulate it, bend it, and turn it into obedience. Sol had to be his perfect and devoted puppet. He was shaping her, patiently and with all the love he knew how to give.

That morning, very early by the clocks, which were necessary where natural sunlight could never reach, Layla decided it was finally time to escape for real. This time she would succeed. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have comfortable transportation or a map. She would go on foot, find her way home somehow, ask people and Pokémon for help.

Like every other time she had told herself this, she tried. She didn’t even get to the castle entrance.

Three boys, just a little older than her, blocked her way. She had been quiet, left a false trail, but those three seemed like damn ninjas out of a movie. Trained shadows, more soldiers than human beings. They brought her back to her room without saying a word. She hardly even noticed she had left. 

But she knew a punishment was coming. And there was nothing she could do but wait.

When Ghetsis arrived, a few hours later, he was calm. Disappointed by Sol’s actions, but not angry. His voice was cold, his gaze calculating. Layla barely managed to hold back a sigh of relief. Maybe if she talked to him… gently, with all the calm and kindness in the world, who knows… maybe she could open his eyes. Deep down, somewhere, the man she had once known must still be hiding. The Prince Charming with whom she had shared so many beautiful moments, before he turned into a Bluebeard-like monster.

Ghetsis ordered Sol to follow him. She didn’t dare disobey and complied.

While Layla thought about how to soften him, how to make him take off the ogre’s mask he seemed to wear like his own skin, Sol walked silently beside the man who, at last, wore no mask at all.

They walked for a long time through the castle’s corridors, now populated by curious recruits. In another context, Layla would have been glad to see people bringing life to those halls she had once known as empty and silent. But now, they looked like ghostly presences, judging her in groups she would never truly be a part of.

They arrived at their destination. A large battle arena, apparently used for training. With a booming voice, Ghetsis ordered the room to be cleared. They had to be alone. Everyone rushed to give him the space he requested, like good little soldiers. It was clear that, beyond commanding respect, he also knew how to instill fear.

The room was vast, and voices echoed theatrically along the walls. Once emptied of human presence, Ghetsis slowly advanced to the center of the arena, on the sandy floor. His steps crunched on the scattered grains, followed by the faint echo of Layla’s uncertain feet. With a calm gesture and steady voice, he ordered Sol to sit in the stands. She wasn’t the only one deserving punishment today. A chill ran down the girl’s spine. Maybe he was angry after all, but what could he possibly have in mind, something so Machiavellian? Who else had awakened his wrath?

“Ghetsis, I know I made a mistake, I’m sorry, maybe we could talk about it before—”

He looked down at her with deep contempt. She fell silent, intimidated. She no longer knew how to behave around him without provoking his rage, and its consequences. She was starting to fear that maybe… she would never go home. It was a thought that terrified her immensely.

Without voicing her concerns, Sol walked to a seat with her head low. Ghetsis scolded her posture; she looked him in the eye, fear evident in her pale, trembling irises.

Momentarily satisfied, the man reached into his cloak, adorned with large painted eyes. He looked so regal, so noble, so out of scale compared to the outside world, the world Sol hadn’t seen in who knows how long.

He pulled out several Pokéballs. Some dark, expensive-looking Ultraballs and one standard Pokéball, decorated with strange symbols. The girl recognized those markings immediately: the same ones she had noticed on the Pokéball of the Zweilous she had seen only a few times, back when she still blindly believed the fairy tales its master used to tell.

That creature had seemed so well cared for. So loved.

With a fluid gesture, Zweilous was out. Majestic as always, two heads with a lively and intelligent air. Noticing the girl’s presence, the Pokémon prepared to appear docile, as he had silently been instructed to do the few times his fierce trainer had summoned him in her company.

“Zweilous.”

Ghetsis admonished him in a sharp tone. The dragon turned to look at him, lowering his heads, ready to obey. They were in the arena—it meant training.

“You failed your task the other day, remember? Did you think I’d forgotten?”

Zweilous didn’t move. He made no sound, remaining silent as he watched his master. He awaited his fate.

“You’re lucky. I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself with a special training session. Today you have an audience. You’ve got something to prove. Let’s go.”

The Pokémon lifted one of its heads, hopeful. The other didn’t dare do the same: it knew its master too well. The two muzzles exchanged a puzzled glance, then returned to position, ready for action.

Ghetsis passed the two Ultraballs through his fingers and let them drop. Two Liepards with sly expressions emerged from their elegant shells.

“Two nobodies compared to you, right, Zweilous? I want you to give them an advantage: don’t defend yourself yet.”

The dragon remained still, frustrated by the command, but thoroughly disciplined. The two felines began to circle him with predatory gazes, the soft rustle of their padded paws the only sound echoing in the vast arena.

In the stands, Layla shifted slightly, transferring her weight from one side to the other. She watched the scene without blinking, worried about what might happen, but also curious to see that majestic creature in action. Maybe Ghetsis really was giving him a chance to improve? A voice inside her told her she knew that wasn’t true, that the situation could only get worse.

“Liepard, the sand!”

At the sudden command, the two Pokémons moved with such speed and precision that, even if he’d wanted to, Zweilous couldn’t have done anything. A wave of white and grey dust overwhelmed the dragon’s semi-blind gaze, and he let out a cry of pain, choked off by the effort to appear strong and resilient, despite being forbidden from defending himself.

The black mane covering his small white eyes, still in their pre-evolutionary state, wasn’t enough to keep him from tearing up profusely. Even his sense of smell, sharp to compensate for his poor eyesight, was overwhelmed by the miniature storm stirred up by the two Liepards. One of his heads sneezed loudly. The two felines looked at each other with satisfaction. It almost seemed like they were laughing at him, their high-pitched cries irritating his sensitive hearing.

Layla, uncomfortable at the sight of the suffering, looked at Ghetsis as if pleading with him to do something. He stood to the side of the pit, watching the scene with cold detachment and indifference.

“Good,” he declared after a few seconds thick with tension.

“You may act now, Zweilous. You have two moves to take them down. Don’t disappoint me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. The Pokémon lunged at his two tormentors with both heads, trying to bite them. He missed his targets completely. Letting out a frustrated cry, he launched into a second attempt. Blinded, deafened, and overwhelmed by the stinging scent of sand and dust, he had little hope of catching agile and elusive opponents like the Liepard. But he didn’t get the chance to find out. Ghetsis cut him off with a firm, booming voice, doubled by the echo in the arena.

“I said two attacks. Seems to me you tried to bite twice. You failed. Again.”

Layla wanted to protest. What was happening was mistreatment, pure and simple, with no apparent justification. And even if there had been a reason, this was an excessive, deeply unfair punishment. If Zweilous had made some mistake, he should be scolded, not tortured.

Then she remembered what that man had done to her. The violence. And yet, nothing until now had felt so deliberately sadistic. Layla wanted to protest. Sol was afraid. She said nothing, but the illusion that the Pokémon had a real chance to redeem himself was quickly falling apart. This wasn’t an opportunity. It was abuse.

Ghetsis withdrew the two Liepards from battle, shaking his head. Then he pulled out two worn Duskballs. Layla was too far away to notice, but on the dark green shell of the tools was a name, just not that of the man currently holding them.

One of the spheres opened at Ghetsis’ release gesture, placing a small, helpless-looking Roggenrola on the ground in front of him. Not what the girl had expected to see.

What happened next froze her blood.

“You’re frustrated. Let it out.”

It was a simple command, spoken in an almost bored tone.

Zweilous, still agitated and disoriented from the sand, took a few seconds to process what Ghetsis was suggesting. Then, without truly understanding what stood in front of him, he hurled himself at the target.

It all happened in an instant. The Roggenrola was nothing more than a barely trained baby, and the dragon bit down with a force it could never withstand. Then he slammed it into the ground and stomped with all his strength. With a dry, cracking sound, the small rock creature shattered and stopped moving. It hadn’t fainted.

The dragon’s heads sniffed the air, then lowered themselves toward the lifeless being at their feet. Why wasn’t the opponent reacting to the attack? Was it already over?

It wasn’t the first time Zweilous had killed his target, whether from excessive enthusiasm during battle or by a deliberate command from his master. But it usually didn’t happen this quickly. Usually, those who opposed him had at least a chance to fight back.

The scent of shattered stone, the warmth of extinguished life slowly dissipating, filled his sensitive nostrils.

Long ago, he had been a Deino. Boisterous, he would bite everything, as young ones of his kind do. And yet, he had never hurt a Cutiefly, as the saying went, and had been loved and cuddled by a presence he could now barely remember. Unable to battle, he had been kept as a companion pet. Over time, Ghetsis had repeated endlessly that the woman—that whore—had abandoned them. He had followed the boy who had played with him in the early years of his still-short life. Now that she was gone, that boy was all he had left. And she, as he had been told, had abandoned them. Only the two of them remained, in a world that didn’t want them. If the price of not being abandoned by Ghetsis too was the loss of innocence, he would pay it. More than thirty years had passed since then.

“No!”

The sound of a voice behind him and light footsteps on the sandy floor interrupted his moment of memory. The girl, witness to the tragedy, had instinctively rushed onto the scene, running toward the shattered little Roggenrola. Before she could reach him, Ghetsis stepped in her way.

“Stay out of this.”

His voice was as hard and cold as the marble walls of the castle.

“But…”

Without another word, and with a look that promised fire and thunder, the man in the long cloak grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back to the place from which she had stood. He forced her back down into her seat.

“It’s just a Pokémon. And you need to understand what happens to those who go against me.”

Sol kept her eyes down, frightened. Layla couldn’t hold back her tears. A sharp slap cracked through the air, thick with dust and violence. Ghetsis, who was leaning over her, straightened up and looked down on her from above.

“Stay in your place.”

And he returned to the center of the arena.

“Good. You crushed your enemy. Now let’s continue.”

Ghetsis took the second Duskball he had pulled out earlier. This time, his release gesture was firm. 

A massive Gigalith appeared on the battlefield. The Roggenrola, whose fragile innocence had nothing in common with the imposing presence of its replacement, still lay abandoned at its feet. Upon seeing it, the Pokémon let out a cry of rage and pain. It was clear the two creatures were somehow connected. With a leap that caused a minor earthquake around it, the Gigalith launched itself at Zweilous. It struck him full force with the shockwave created by its landing, catching him off guard.

The dragon shook both heads violently and recovered, ready for a battle that promised to be brutal. He awaited his trainer’s orders, which came, as always. At first, it seemed like a fair fight: the opposing Pokémon was strong, but so was Zweilous, and the two danced across the arena for several intense minutes. But Ghetsis’s instructions became increasingly vague and contradictory. Even dodging blows was becoming difficult. The strikes Zweilous did manage to land clearly weren’t enough to seriously damage the tough rock skin of the Gigalith. 

The strength and resilience of those living boulders were well known. But they were nothing compared to the determination of a mother avenging the brutal death of her child, right before her eyes.

So Zweilous began to falter under the blows and fatigue, nearing collapse. Ghetsis, who knew that moment would come, gave him a healing potion and forced him back to his feet.

“It’s not time to rest. You must fight!”

Just a few blows, and the dragon was already exhausted, again. Another potion, and he was back in the fight, though never for long.

"I won’t allow you to quit, you useless beast. Fight, I said!"

This carousel of cruelty and sadism went on for what felt like an eternity. When would it end, the pain, the exhaustion, the fear?

Layla wanted to scream. She wanted to run. She wanted to beg Ghetsis to stop, to leave the Pokémon alone.

Terror.

She was paralyzed by the fear that he would turn on her instead. That he would beat her again. The memory of the physical pain, the dull blows against her body, was stronger than empathy, stronger than her impulse to help.

She felt like a coward. A complicit observer in the suffering of these creatures. She should have stepped in, paid the price for doing the right thing, and felt like a heroine. That’s what she believed she would do when faced with injustice. That’s the person she told herself she was. But she wasn’t capable. She didn’t have the courage. So Sol remained silent, watching, crying quietly, hoping not to be noticed. When she realized she couldn’t look away, she felt like a monster.

"Go, Zweilous! Attack!"

But this time, something went wrong. The two heads, exhausted and confused by the situation, looked at each other. One of them bit the other, while the second, driven by desperation and instinct, turned toward the source of its torment. Not Gigalith. Ghetsis.

There was a tremendous roar. Despite the right head’s attempt to restrain it, the left one let out an exasperated roar and launched, in a blinding flash of light, the most powerful Dragon Pulse it had in its body, aimed at its trainer. It didn’t land a direct hit, thanks to the self-inflicted bite, but Ghetsis’s right arm and the section of the arena behind it were engulfed in the shockwave of draconic energy.

One step back. That was the only movement from the sadistic torturer. A single step back, and an expression twisted in surprise and pain. Part of his body was in flames, but he didn’t fall, his knees didn’t buckle, he didn’t make a sound.

He refused to show weakness. He was not weak. No one would see him fall.

Behind him, the arena lay in ruins. Small white flames flickered here and there, then slowly faded. So did Ghetsis’s arm, leaving behind a limb that went in seconds from a brilliant, vivid red to dark, scorched gray etched with glowing cracks, pulsing like molten veins.

Sol’s mouth opened during the violent attack. She couldn’t tell if a scream had come out, maybe it had choked in her burning throat. The dragon’s roar and the shockwave of Dragon Pulse echoed through the arena walls and through the inside of her skull. Any other sound was drowned out. Sol’s ears could hear nothing anymore.

Faced with the scene he himself had caused, Zweilous lost all control. Confused, exhausted, and desperate, he couldn’t comprehend what he had done: he had attacked his master. The only pillar of certainty in his entire life.

It wasn’t the first time. 

Long ago, when Ghetsis had still been a boy and he a Deino pup, the trainer had tried to make him attack another Pokémon for the first time. When he failed, unable to understand the command, Ghetsis beat him, frustrated by the disobedience, treating him the same way his father had treated him. Not that Deino, now Zweilous, had known.

Back then, he had bitten him hard, on the eye. The same eye Ghetsis no longer had, now hidden beneath a red lens. Red like blood, like his burning iris. 

It was the mark of his original sin. And now… he had committed it again.

While the right head bit the neck of the left, guilty of the crime, the latter coughed, roared, and tried to defend itself, injuring itself on the other's sharp jaws.

The Gigalith on the opposite side had stopped attacking, not understanding what was happening and frightened by the enemy’s powerful outburst. The rock creature merely tried to shield the already shattered body of its child, tragically lost in a hopeless battle.

Meanwhile, Zweilous thrashed and twisted with cries distorted by pain. Psychological pain, from guilt and trauma. Physical pain, from the self-inflicted wounds and the beatings already received from his stone opponent. 

Something began to stir beneath the skin of the agonizing Pokémon. His blue scales started expanding and contracting, as if another creature were trying to force its way out of the dragon’s twisted body. The dark mane covering the top of his head stood upright and puffed up, trembling and pulsing in a rhythmically unstable, horrifying, and terrifying dance. Zweilous’s body was slowly but steadily expanding. 

After several minutes of this macabre spectacle, the skin on his back finally tore open, releasing a gush of thick, dark blood. Four black, magnificent wings emerged, joining the original two already on the creature’s back. The two heads stopped fighting and split apart, becoming smaller. Their eyes, now exposed, were black and empty—lifeless.

Meanwhile, between them, a new head began to grow like a sprout of flesh, larger than the previous two and with vision finally sharp and fully developed. The mane had parted, revealing two violet eyes. Vibrant, alive, and piercing.

This evolution was the most monstrous thing Layla had ever seen. It wasn’t natural. A Pokémon shouldn’t have to suffer that kind of horrific torment to grow, to become an adult. She had witnessed evolutions before. It was a shared moment of joy, a bubble of happiness spreading between a creature and the humans who had loved it enough to help it become stronger, more complete. Evolution wasn’t just a show of power. It was an act of love. And it was beautiful, a dance of lights and colors. Sure, she’d heard that for some Pokémon it could be a little painful, but it was always brief, with a reward so overwhelming that any discomfort was quickly forgotten. 

No one had ever seen what lay beneath the light. Was this the truth? And yet, the joy of evolving Pokémon was real, she’d seen it with her own eyes. 

But there was no joy here. Only terror. Only suffering.

On the other side of the arena, Ghetsis watched his Pokémon writhe and convulse. This evolution was the most fascinating thing he had ever witnessed. It shouldn’t have happened, not yet. Zweilous wasn’t ready. He knew him well and knew there was still a lot of training to be done before he could expect him to become a Hydreigon. And yet, there he was. Right before his eyes, in all his terrible majesty. A Pokémon that mirrored his own ferocity. That reflected his pain. When he had been a Deino, he’d told him to stop following him, but he stayed. And he was still here, finally worthy of his trainer. Of course, he had struck him. He had disobeyed an order. Challenged him. He wouldn’t forgive him. He hated that Pokémon. And for that very reason, he would keep him. Letting him go would mean letting him win. Deino had chosen to follow him. Now he would face the consequences.

Look at them now. They had become a force of nature. No one could stand against them without paying the highest price. Not even themselves. This was the grand and theatrical proof of it.

He wouldn’t forgive him, that Pokémon hated him. But he couldn’t live without him, and he knew it. He would use every ounce of that hatred to ensure they would despise each other until the day they died. He needed him to remember. The world had crushed him once. It would never happen again.

—

Hurried footsteps and voices muffled by the arena’s thick walls drew closer and closer to the room where the horror had taken place. 

Within minutes, the hall filled with people, Team Plasma followers alarmed by the sounds of destruction that had reached the other wings of the castle. 

The three Shadow boys slipped out of the small crowd and reached their master, their adoptive father, before anyone else. They observed the scene for a moment. As always, they remained impassive, seemingly apathetic. Gently, they took Ghetsis by his uninjured arm and escorted him out, toward the infirmary. He allowed them to approach, but only after recalling his new Hydreigon into the old, scuffed Pokéball. The Pokémon obeyed his command. Everything was back to normal.

Some recruits approached the trembling girl still seated in the stands. 

“What happened? And who are you? I’ve never seen you around…”

She didn’t reply. Perhaps she didn’t even hear the question. The Plasma members exchanged puzzled looks, then reached out to help her up and bring her to the castle’s medical wing. Her state of shock was obvious.

“What’s your name?” someone asked.

“...Sol,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

THE LAST THING THAT I DO

BLEEDING OUT

Red.

The floor was red. Liquid. Dense. Dark.

Blood flowed quietly from the girl’s slit wrists as she lay on the ground. Her back resting against the frame of the great golden bed, Sol watched the long bedspread, once lilac, stain into burgundy and merge with the marble tiles beneath her. No longer white. No longer black. Red.

It almost looked as if she had just spilled a large glass of wine. But it wasn’t wine, was it? The smell was not the fruity or spicy one of the drink.

Intense. Metallic. It was the smell of her life slipping once more through her fingers. But this time, she had been the one to decide.

The floor beneath her bare arms and legs was cold. Cool. It offered a faint relief to the confused, swirling thoughts that refused to shut off. How much she longed to shut off. So why was her body still fighting, stubbornly?

The girl had been a prisoner in Team Plasma’s castle for several months, in the clutches of the one she had believed would be the love of her life. Ghetsis, the monster who said “I love you” and then beat her when things didn’t go exactly as he wished.

It felt like an eternity had passed. She hadn’t managed to escape on her own. After multiple failed attempts, followed by punishments that grew more painful each time, she had given up. And yet, despite appearances, it hadn’t been so long since she had disappeared from home. Surely someone was looking for her. They would find her. They would save her.

That’s what she had told herself, until the night before.

One day like so many others, perhaps a little lighter than the rest, Ghetsis introduced her to Anthea and Concordia. Two girls who must have been thirteen or fourteen, give or take. He called them his “daughters,” said he had adopted them. They were poor orphans whom he, with so much to give, wanting to do something good, had brought from the orphanage in Castelia City to live with him. They could become friends, Sol could help him give them a better life.

Maybe, Sol told herself, she hadn’t been completely wrong when she fell for him, believing she saw a generous man.

Maybe, she thought, he had a soul too. Something beyond sadism and madness.

Once again, she learned that thinking, with him, was always a grave mistake.

That evening, Concordia, who, together with her sister, had been tasked with “taking care” of Sol, of keeping an eye on her, chattered about everything and nothing, as she usually did. Anthea, the elder, often scolded her, calling her a chatterbox, but Concordia only shrugged and said that if she couldn’t talk outside, she’d at least talk with them. To Sol, the girls were a relief. They didn’t ask her uncomfortable questions, likely instructed by Ghetsis, and they kept her company. The younger one, in her flow of words, spoke of N, of Team Plasma, of their great ideals and truths. Sol never dared to contradict her. She had tried at the start. It hadn’t ended well when Ghetsis found out what she had said about him.

Then, between trivialities, Concordia mentioned what day it was. The date. Day. Month. Year.

Two years. It had been two years since Layla, now resigned to being called Sol, had left a farewell note for her parents on the kitchen table and run away with her jailer. Two years of agony. Two years of her life cast to the wind. Worse. Gifted to the beast.

And no one had found her. No one had come to save her.

The thought passed through her mind that, in the end, she was an adult. She had left of her own free will.

Were they still searching for her? Had they ever searched at all?

Now, on the floor stained red, her red, Sol watched the artificial light settle gently on the dark liquid around her. It filtered through the curtains from the inner garden her room overlooked. Too large, too beautiful, too closed-in.

That light, which should have been warm and comforting, which had so often felt cold and impersonal to her, reminded her of weekend mornings spent sleeping in. Her parents insisted that nine o’clock was late for waking. They had even argued about it more than once. What did it matter now? If only she could tell them what she was thinking… Perhaps she would have learned her lesson, or perhaps they would have argued many more times over the same trivial things.

But she would not have a second chance.

This was the end. This was her final choice.

Unconsciously, Sol moved a finger. A strand of hair, soaked and red with blood, shifted to the side. Some weeks ago, maybe months, maybe a year, she had let Ghetsis dye her hair. Her natural locks were dark, but he decided she would look better as a blonde. The golden color, he said, would suit her light eyes and pale skin. Suit her name, Sol. His sun.

She had thought of protesting. His stare, and the tighter grip on her wrist, changed her mind. So she let him choose her appearance too, her color.

She remembered the first time they dyed it. Anthea and Concordia had been called in to wash her hair and apply the product to lighten her brown strands. He had watched, commenting lightly, in a cheerful tone. From then on, it became a small ritual, repeated every time the roots showed. The brown mustn’t be seen.

Now the blonde was gone. It was red, it was blood. Take this, Ghetsis. Too bad she wouldn’t live to see his reaction. Or perhaps, thankfully.

This was the end. This was her final choice.

When was the last time she decided anything on her own? Had she ever truly done so? She had lived the life her parents chose for her. Home, a normal school, a few friends, an ordinary job… She had wished for something greater, more adventurous, but had always limited herself to daydreaming, watching Swablus fly away from the sill of her window.

And then, one late afternoon, she had left the table set for three, a note in her place, and had decided to leap too, running away with Ghetsis. And look where she was now, what a disaster she had made of things.

But had it really been her choice? Or had he made her walk, controlling her like a blind puppet? And yet, she had truly loved him… A small part of her still wanted to believe there was good in him, that she hadn’t just made a colossal mistake. It didn’t matter.

This was the end. This was her final choice.

Perhaps the only one she had ever made in her whole life.

And so time passed. Minutes, hours, days, years. Time. Blood flowed from her wrists onto the floor, and her thoughts grew weaker, more fragmented. If only she could live. She would have wanted so much to…

The door across from her opened. Someone entered. Stopped, a broken step.

Expensive shoes, the long cloak painted with eyes he had worn since they moved into the castle. Ghetsis.

Sol blinked slowly, then closed her weary eyes. She didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to risk meeting his gaze, not even by accident. What would he think now, seeing her like this? She wished she could look him in the eyes and tell him:

“Look what I’ve done. I did it for you.”

But she didn’t have the courage, even knowing she would die anyway, soon.

She didn’t have the strength, knowing she would die anyway, any moment now.

Then, Sol waited.

—

Ghetsis entered Sol’s room. It was a morning like any other, but this time, free from the duties of his growing, thriving organization, he had allowed himself the indulgence of seeing her earlier than usual.

He opened the door. Stopped on the threshold, his step broken. Struck still.

The sight before him was disgraceful.

Sol, his Sol, had slit her wrists. The torn veins let blood spill freely, staining everything it touched. The otherwise clean sheets of the canopy bed. The new nightgown he had gifted her only a month earlier. Her hair, carefully dyed the color of the shining sun and arranged into two neat braids. The same braids that now lay undone, scattered chaotically around their owner. His Sol. Now she was dying, defiled by her own vital essence.

What a horrible thing.

After a few seconds of hesitation, of reeling from the horror, he bent over her. Her body was warm, but for an instant it seemed to him she was no longer breathing. A pang struck his chest, forcing him to listen more carefully.

Dead? Truly? How could she do this to him? Wound him in such a way, after everything he had given her… after he had revealed himself to her as to no one else.

Yes, he had been violent at times, but only when provoked. Only because she was the one person allowed access to that side of him, to every shade of who he was.

Even those who had borne the consequences of crossing him had never truly witnessed his violence, least of all physical, from his own hands. His sadism, perhaps, his creativity in punishing without ever dirtying himself. But never his face twisted with rage.

And he had apologized, every time. If only she had behaved, if only she hadn’t angered him, hadn’t tried to escape. Why did she insist on rejecting him, insist on closing her eyes to the reality of things? She was his, she only had to accept it.

He thought she had accepted it. After all, it had been quite some time since her last rebellion. And now, look at this mess, what she had done.

A heartbeat. The faintest breath.

Ghetsis rose abruptly. For an instant, his heart hammered in his chest. He immediately pushed it back down, regaining his composure. He left the room with apparent calm, as though nothing had happened.

He walked slowly, measuredly, toward Anthea and Concordia’s quarters. His hands clasped behind his back to hide the tension in his fingers. His jaw tight, despite the mask of a neutral expression. His steps echoed through the corridor, empty as always. He did not quicken his pace. He could not risk drawing attention.

His woman, which he was already reluctant to show to others, had just attempted suicide.

An affront, a weakness no one must ever know. Except perhaps the girls who watched over her, and a doctor chosen with extreme care, whose silence he would secure. One way or another.

—

Anthea and Concordia had just dressed and prepared for a new day when their father appeared unexpectedly in their rooms: two chambers, elegantly and expensively decorated yet impersonal, connected by an antechamber that opened onto the main corridor of the floor.

When he entered, he was outwardly calm and serious, as they had always seen him, but something in his posture and voice suggested to Anthea, the more perceptive of the two, that the situation carried urgency. So when he asked them to follow him, the elder cast a glance at the younger, making it clear this was no time for questions, before obeying. The younger bit her lip, and her adoptive sister understood that she caught on. 

Ghetsis had never been violent with them. He was cold and distant, but he had given them a grand home and an even grander purpose. They were the Goddesses of Love and Peace, handmaidens to the future King of Plasma, that strange boy who spoke to Pokémon. At the orphanage, everyone had feared him; now, everyone revered him. Yet he remained a mystery.

And then there was that young woman, Sol. When they were alone, Concordia would say she liked her, even if she was silent and always lost in thought. She smiled at her and listened. That was more than enough. Anthea merely tolerated her. Another person who, in their father’s eyes, came before them. N was special, Anthea could understand why he was handled with such care. But what did this girl have, more than them? Certainly, she was odd at times. She had told them strange things about Ghetsis, and later he had to explain that Sol had trouble controlling her mood and her words. Anthea harbored doubts about who was really telling the truth between the two of them.

But it wasn’t her place to question her father’s actions, so she held her tongue. At the orphanage, both had learned that it was unwise to be ungrateful toward someone who had given them a better life. If he had chosen to be their parent, then Anthea and Concordia were to be perfect daughters, or risk abandonment. Again. It had never been said aloud, but it hadn’t needed to be.

So the two Goddesses followed the Sage, carrying with them, as he had instructed, bandages and healing potions. He walked ahead of them, offering no explanation. Concordia glanced at Anthea, puzzled. She did not return the look, silently telling her to keep herself in check.

What had happened? If Pokémon had been injured, there would have been no need to trouble Ghetsis. Could it be that threatening Hydreigon they had once treated? It was the only Pokémon their father seemed particularly possessive of, so much so that even they, who often helped tend to the creatures exhausted from battles among the team’s members, had seen it only once.

But they weren’t heading toward the rest of the castle, where the underground Pokémon Center lay. They were walking toward the inner quarters.

Could it be Natural? Had he somehow hurt himself, despite his room being made safe even for the clumsiest of children? Perhaps he had quarreled with one of his Pokémon. How strange. They reached the room of the boy-king they were at once sisters and mothers to. Handmaidens. Goddesses. They passed it by. That left only…

When they arrived at Sol’s door, they stopped. Ghetsis opened it just enough for them to enter. Then he turned, gesturing for them to go ahead.

Anthea and Concordia exchanged a brief glance, then stepped inside.

“Sol!”

Concordia, her voice breaking with terror, rushed to the girl. She dropped to her knees beside her, heedless of the blood staining her freshly donned clothes, and tried desperately to rouse her. She wept and spoke all at once, asking her why, shaking her shoulders lightly. Perhaps with too much force, as though the gesture itself could return her to life.

Anthea remained standing, frozen in horror and dread. What had that fool done? What had gone through her mind to commit such a terrifying act? Did she want more attention, she, who already had so much? Was this another nervous breakdown? …Or had Ghetsis truly hurt her, once again? And what was she supposed to make of all this? How was she supposed to react, what was she supposed to do? She felt tears sting her eyes. One single drop escaped her iron control, sliding down her left cheek.

Ghetsis followed them into the room, closing the door.

“Calm yourselves! She’s still alive. Why else do you think I told you to bring bandages and potions?”

Anthea snapped out of the trance she had slipped into for a moment and set to work. She pulled bandages from the satchel slung over her shoulder and knelt beside Sol, next to her distraught sister.

“Concordia…”

Her voice was soft and delicate, warm and reassuring, as befitted the Muse of Love. The other girl could read behind the fragile façade: she felt the urgency, the fear, the enormity of a moment greater than them both. She stopped, trying to calm her sobs. She, the Goddess of Peace, still struggled to play her role. She had much yet to learn.

Just as the girl loosened her grip, Sol opened her eyes slightly.

The scene before her was muddled and senseless. Two shadows bent over her, while the lights around them danced in chaos. Those figures, so familiar and yet so strange, seemed relieved to see her stir, their limbs and mouths moving, uttering words she could not understand. Meanwhile, she felt weightless, suspended in the absence of consciousness and reason.

Suddenly, a sting. A burning pain at her wrists: they were now bound in something white, soaked red. Someone, one of the figures shifting near her, gently took her chin and gave her a strange liquid to drink. Sweet, bitter. Noisy. Blinding. Her senses bled together, lost meaning. Then the floor slipped away from her; two arms held her tight. Cradled her in a prisoning grip and carried her away. What a bizarre feeling.

—

A few days later, in a secluded room in the medical wing of Team Plasma, Sol drifted between sleep and wakefulness. The pale white-and-pink walls, feebly trying to seem reassuring, looked at her with suspicion. A service Audino, its colors blending almost seamlessly with the walls, brought her a glass of fresh water and a pill to swallow. A faint whimper, and it backed away, turning its back on her. But it did not leave her alone. She was never alone.

She didn’t remember much of that morning. The smell of iron, red, light filtering through the curtains. Pain. Not physical, her memory itself hurt. She didn’t linger on it, letting everything flow away with the water down her dry throat. And whatever it was that Pokémon had left on the nightstand.

Ghetsis had told her that she had tried to do something terrible, irreparable. Even for him, who could do so much. He spoke to her as one would speak to a child. He wasn’t angry, he said, worried. And a little disappointed. She must never do it again.

When she had woken, under those so-white blankets, Ghetsis wasn’t there. Instead, there were her small jailers, Anthea and Concordia, watching her as one would watch a sick daughter.

Concordia held her right hand and smiled, a trembling smile with a tear on her cheek. Anthea, as always more distant, stood beside her sister and observed the girl lying in bed, lost in her thoughts. Who knew what was running through her mind?

Sol looked around. Perhaps she understood a little of what had happened. Perhaps not. Then, she had apologized and cried, repeating the words “I’m sorry” like a broken mantra.

Ghetsis’ younger daughter had followed suit in this liberating weeping. The elder seemed to resist for a moment, then gave in alongside them. Now, no one was watching, they could allow themselves this. Or maybe the walls were listening. But she could no longer stop.

Now, alone with Audino, she desperately tried not to think. About herself, about the girls, about the man who would decide her fate. Every resistance had been useless. In fact, it had caused more pain, more suffering. She had risked hurting even those she did not want to hurt. The pills that were occasionally brought to her, which calmed her senses and thoughts, would help. They would be her refuge, from now on.

Then, suddenly, the sound of footsteps. Ghetsis entered the room, lowering his head slightly so as not to hit the doorframe, far too low for his towering two meters. He approached the hospital bed, opening his mouth to speak, when one of his Pokéballs suddenly lit up. Of all the Pokéballs, it was the oldest, the most ordinary, marked as a boy might mark it.

A flash of light, and a gigantic Hydreigon filled the room, bent on itself, cramped by the furniture and walls. Audino let out a frightened scream and ran off with the medicines it had been tidying.

Sol recognized the creature immediately. It was the same one she had seen Ghetsis mistreat not long ago. The Zweilous that had evolved in a twisted, painful way right before her eyes. But now she didn’t want to remember, not anymore.

The Pokémon’s living, purplish eyes looked at the girl startled by its appearance. There was a hint of concern in those irises without visible pupils. Instinctively, Sol raised a hand to bring it near the creature’s central muzzle. Hydreigon lowered its neck to let her touch it. Without thinking, she spoke:

“Like me…you’re like an Echo.”

But she didn’t continue. Ghetsis regained control of the situation, ordering the Pokémon back into its red-and-white sphere. His fiery gaze left no doubt: he was furious. But he could not take it out on the girl, not on her in that state.

“You!”

He pointed at her in accusation. Then he turned and left her alone, for the first time since the disaster had happened. Hydreigon would pay for both of them.

But Echo and Sol had found each other, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Chapter Text

NEVER AN HONEST WORD

BUT THAT WAS WHEN I RULED THE WORLD

VIVA LA VIDA

Visit Volcaria, the Island of the Sun!

Hello there! I’m Volcaria, the dazzling Island of the Sun and home of the Volcaronas!

I’m a volcanic jewel set in the calm, tropical waters of the ocean southwest of Unova!

Come play with me, it will be a true paradise!

Looking for a relaxing vacation for both body and spirit?

You can stretch out on my pitch-black sand while admiring breathtaking landscapes and sunsets!

Or maybe you’re craving adventure and don’t mind getting your hands a little dirty?

No worries, Mount Lumos has you covered! Among its volcanic rocks you’ll find hiking trails suited to every level of experience… and the view from the top is simply stunning!

The locals also call me Lumosca, but what truly makes me unique is my bond with the mysterious Volcaronas.

These majestic Fire–Bug Pokémon have flown alongside me since time immemorial. They are my unmistakable symbol and the heart of countless fascinating myths and legends.

In recent years, the friendly people who live with me haven’t been so lucky as to see them fluttering through the little village streets, but I know they still hide among the molten lava streams of mighty Mount Lumos.

I never doubt that my beloved Volcarona will return when my people truly need them!

And that’s exactly why I invite you to the Festival of Fire!

During Midsummer Week, the devoted citizens pray and dance in honor of their cherished butterfly Pokémon.

Come join the singing and dancing! Or, if you prefer, simply enjoy the celebration, taste my exquisite local cuisine, and immerse yourself in my rich and ancient culture.

And while you’re at it, how about a souvenir from my unforgettable markets?

Hey, wait just a second! I know you can’t wait to set off, but I’ve still got a little tip for you: don’t forget your camera!

My Wingulls, just as curious as they are mischievous, will gift you with plenty of funny and wild shots.

And speaking of friends… have you met my Primarinas up on the northern beaches? You’ll love the amazing guided excursions, it’s such fun to play with them!

But take care: don’t leave food unattended and avoid wearing overly shiny items, because my flying Pokémon just can’t resist snacks and sparkly things!

I can’t wait to meet you!

I’ll be waiting here, between the fiery red heat of my volcano’s lava and the cool blue-green waves of my sea!

See you very soon!

Volcaria, the Island of the Sun.

—

A crumpled tourist brochure of Volcaria Island lay abandoned in a corner of a cold prison cell in Wintersong. The acrid stench of piss and mold smothered the cheerful invitations to enjoy the beauty of the sea and the volcano.

The section about the Wingulls, in particular, had been slashed through with a violent stroke of black ink, pressed so hard it pierced the paper in one spot and bled out in another. Just beneath it, a comment scrawled in cursive, hurried and brimming with rage, read:

“All bullshit! Useless stupid beasts!”

On the opposite wall stood the shabby, uncomfortable bed where an old man lay stretched out. He stared at the ceiling, dripping with dampness, with gray, lifeless eyes, perhaps by nature, perhaps clouded by advancing cataracts. A slimy, fungus-like substance grew along the walls, climbing like so many slender, porous fingers up to where his gaze rested, filled with disgust and resignation. The whitish color of the fungus, if that’s what it really was, reminded him of the droppings left behind by the Wingulls of his native island. The world seemed to mock him with every breath he took.

Outside the cell, the watch Probopass greeted a guard with weary enthusiasm. As every evening, he made his rounds of the cells before turning off the lights for the coming night.

“Ryoku, always on the move, I see.”

The old man lying down did not turn his head to look at his interlocutor.

“Well, with all the fantastic activities you folks offer us… I just can’t keep still.”

The guard chuckled, perhaps at his answer, perhaps at him. It no longer mattered. Then he moved on, to harass other prisoners.

The lights went out. Nothing changed.

—

About sixty years earlier, little Forrest had been born during an unusually warm spring, in the largest village in all of Volcaria. The Silva family, who had long worked in the newspaper trade, could later boast of having given birth to the one-thousandth resident of Luma. They even won a fine ribbon and the official congratulations of the island’s mayor. What an honor!

From then on, the child with golden eyes, bright as the sun, grew up knowing he could only be destined for greatness. He attended the local schools, earning good but not outstanding grades. He spent his free time with perfectly ordinary friends, dated a girl he thought rather pretty, and enjoyed catching the common Pokémon that lived on the beach outside his home. The local Wingulls were his favorites, especially Mark, who was his companion in many happy summers of adventure.

Then, one early spring day, Mark evolved into a great Pelipper and migrated far away with his kin. Forrest bade him farewell with a small tear, then finished high school. From that moment on, he devoted himself entirely to his true passion: journalism. While his family had always been content to sell newspapers, he wanted to write the news himself…and it came to him rather naturally!

In a short time, Forrest Silva became a fairly well-known name in local reporting. Nothing big, not yet.

It wasn’t enough: barely an adult, he looked at the world around him and knew he could, he must, do more. The island where he lived, his home, was idyllic on the covers of tourist guides and in the snapshots of the ever-growing stream of visitors. But now that he was no longer a boy chasing Wingulls along the shore, he realized more and more that the reality beneath the surface was falling apart. The dirt, instead of being cleaned up, was simply swept under the rug.

If only people were more willing to make informed choices, he told himself, it would be child’s play to fix everything. Or at least most of what afflicted his homeland. He believed this deeply. 

And the louder his voice grew, the bigger his articles became, and the more they were heard. He realized people seemed ready to listen to him. Not only that, perhaps even to follow him.

So, together with some colleagues and friends, he entered the world that more and more seemed to be calling to him: politics.

Many would have chosen without hesitation to leave behind the small, insular island where they were born. Forrest, instead, made a bold choice: he stayed. And he did so with the intent of never letting go. He would not become great by abandoning his homeland: he would make his homeland great with him.

When the time finally came for the election of Volcaria’s new mayor, the people already acclaimed him for his rousing speeches.

He promised to work for a less invasive kind of tourism: the island would not become a playground for foreigners.

He promised ambitious plans to restore the environment, ever more devastated by pollution and waste: the Volcaronas, absent now for nearly a decade, would once again soar over Mount Lumos as in the old stories.

And he promised, at last, to bring the problems of his home to the attention of all of greater Unova. They would obtain the funding they so desperately needed to finance their projects, and never again would they be relegated to a footnote in a travel guide. Volcaria, Lumosca, as they called it, deserved respect.

The victory was already foretold by every poll.

And the polls did not lie: Forrest Silva ascended to the mayor’s seat, his new throne.

It was time to put his grand project into practice and heal the island.

Yet things did not go as planned.

While he focused so intently on finding a way to be heard by the “great ones” beyond the island, his party had to grapple with the problems of daily life… and with its own corruption, the rust eating it from within.

Yes, it was noble to dream of the great revolution that would let the island breathe after decades of neglect. But what about the organization of the Fire Festival? That celebration brought in huge profits every year, all promptly pocketed by those who had sat in the chairs beneath the mayor’s for far too long.

And what of the Wingulls problem, leaving droppings everywhere and frightening tourists on the beaches? A logistical nightmare no one knew (or wanted) to address. Those very tourists, despised by so many locals, still brought life and stirred the otherwise stagnant economy of Volcaria. They could not be dispensed with, nor could their numbers be risked, at least not in the short term.

And that was all that mattered. No one, except Forrest, wanted to look further ahead. Forrest, for his part, seemed blind to the small, everyday realities, the very ones that had brought him to where he was. His eyes were fixed only upward; he no longer saw what lay beneath his feet.

Perhaps it was for this very reason that he ended up signing, without much thought, documents he ought to have examined more closely. That he allowed collaborators he did not yet truly trust to act unchecked. Collaborators he perhaps should never have trusted so readily at all.

The Wingulls issue was addressed, but clumsily and in haste. No one truly sought a solution to the mounting piles of trash along the villages and overcrowded beaches. Instead, traps were placed where those pesky, invasive Pokémon were known to nest, along the cliffs and rooftops. The party promised they would be driven off quietly, leaving citizens and tourists in peace.

It did not happen.

When the day of the Fire Festival inauguration arrived, the stages, rides, and stalls were all set to delight young and old folks alike. The mayor, as every year, was called to give the opening speech. Forrest came in his best suit, certain that the words he had prepared would flow naturally and captivatingly from his now-seasoned tongue.

Everything seemed to proceed as usual. The tourists were many, the shopkeepers ready to sell trinkets of every sort, and the ride operators eager to pocket the profits from their attractions, erected with forged or nonexistent permits.

Then a Wingull alighted lightly on a scaffold. Another followed. And another still. A few children looked up, intrigued by the new arrivals.

“Mom, look!”

On the horizon, a gigantic flock darkened the sky in a vast cloud of white and blue feathers. Within minutes, the festival was in chaos.

The slender birds, overwhelming in their multitude and deprived of their natural refuges, had been moving into the island’s villages more and more in recent days. No one had done anything to stop the troubling trend. Everyone, after all, had been focused on the upcoming festival.

And it was at the very celebration they held so dear that disaster struck without mercy.

Tourists and villagers, terrified by the massive flock, rushed for shelter, but the absence of an effective evacuation plan turned the narrow town streets into a deadly trap of panic and trampling. Many slammed into shoddy structures that soon gave way, collapsing onto the heads of those unlucky enough to pass beneath. One ride even caught fire, fueling the screams of fear. Ambulances and firefighters did their best to contain the delirious situation, but they struggled greatly in the narrow alleys, blocked by stalls that flouted every safety regulation.

Thankfully, there were no deaths, but many were injured.

In the days that followed, amid the smoke and wreckage of the failed festival, the newspapers were eager to point their scandal-hungry fingers at the one responsible for the catastrophe. And who better fit the role than the fledgling mayor, still naïve about how his world truly worked?

Even his collaborators, accomplices if not the main culprits of the disaster, did not miss the chance to perform the usual about-face that awaited every scapegoat in local politics.

They accused Forrest of every possible misdeed. From the simple and truthful “he signed the documents” to outright absurdities, both small and grand. They cast him in a bad light for every kind of political and moral wrongdoing.

Some accused him of vandalizing buses with the droppings of his beloved Wingull, or of talking to them like a madman while stealing sand from the beaches.

Others, less creative, drew from the classic repertoire of secret lovers and strange sexual games. Some even dared to push into lurid rumors of harassment, ending with a reckless mention of pedophilia. There were those who called him a subversive, and others who branded him a sellout to central power. In short, there was something for every taste. Words like Truth and Ideals lost all meaning, leaving only shame and gossip. And an immense sense of helplessness.

—

A few years later, Forrest Silva was sitting in the study of his new apartment, small but cozy, in the heart of Castelia City. He was fervently writing a speech about an alleged hidden truth, one supposedly silenced by corrupt politicians and denied to honest citizens. He took a sip of Lemonade and conjured up yet another piece of damning evidence, ready to spark heated debate.

The rhythmic sound of waves and boats in the harbor below mixed with the daily chatter of people along the bustling main street. A shadow passed before the window to the right of Forrest’s desk. The man, no longer a boy, lifted his gaze. Not a Wingull, just a Pidove, typical of the metropolitan sprawl.

The following day, he arrived at a slightly tacky conference room on the second floor of a mediocre hotel. The smell of the port clung to the walls despite the staff’s efforts, who had gone overboard spraying wild Lilligant perfume onto the yellowing curtains and the red-upholstered chairs, stained with dubious substances. The end result was far from pleasant. “Professor Silva,” as he now called himself, adjusted himself with a grimace behind the microphone perched on a raised platform and cleared his throat.

Before him, an audience of conspiracy theorists and the desperate hushed their chatter, eager to hear his shocking revelations. Off to the side, several journalists had gathered. Some, waiting for the Q&A, could barely contain their anticipation to dismantle his elaborate yet flimsy castles of air. Others were ready to scribble notes that would become scandalous headlines for their fluff-ridden newspapers.

Many would later say the conference was a small disaster. A heated argument broke out between journalists and attendees, nearly escalating into a brawl. Someone had even brought rotten fruit to hurl at anyone who failed to promptly agree with the beloved Professor. A hotel handyman, tasked with refilling an empty water carafe, was dragged into the quarrel. The poor fellow narrowly dodged a fist meant for his nose, while the pitcher slipped, its contents cascading dramatically onto the fighters’ heads, soaking the smoke-colored carpet already stained with berry juice.

At that point, the hotel manager felt compelled to intervene, firmly asking the participants of this media circus to leave the premises for good.

Forrest apologized to the receptionists and their none-too-pleased boss, but inside he was fully satisfied: he had achieved the intended outcome. His notoriety, fame or infamy, depending on who was speaking, was once again confirmed. Now it was only a matter of days, perhaps even hours, before the chaos he had deliberately unleashed would spread across social media and newspapers, shocking decent folk and feeding the ever-hungry keyboard lions.

Just outside the commotion of the hotel, Forrest offered a few vague, openly interpretable statements before slipping away with his usual skill from the grasp of both fans and skeptics. He disentangled himself with cordial ease from those who sought to challenge him with words or even Pokémon battles, official or otherwise, and made his way to the nearby docks.

Once free of the turmoil, he wondered where he might grab a decent drink to celebrate the success of the confusion he had, this time, caused intentionally. As he pondered and walked, watching the restless sea to his left, a figure he hadn’t noticed approached from behind. A calm greeting in a deep masculine voice, belonging to someone who, like him, knew the art of speaking, caught him off guard and sent the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He spun around.

Before him stood a tall man in an elegant suit, smiling as he extended his right hand in an implicit request for introduction. Long green hair, tied back but with neat strands left loose despite the sea breeze, framed an asymmetrical, lycanrokish face: on the right, a ruby-red lens, extravagantly expensive, concealed the eye beneath; on the left, an eye of the same unsettling crimson color fixed the Professor with a gaze of piercing intensity. For a moment, Forrest couldn’t help but feel like a Patrat under the hungry stare of a Braviary.

After a few seconds of tension, the reinvented conspiracy orator snapped out of his trance. He noticed the hand suspended before him. The two men shook hands.

—

Forrest should have spent the following days tending to the ripple effect of his storm-bringing speech at the harbor hotel. He even forgot to check the pages of his social media channels, too absorbed in replaying his encounter with that mysterious figure.

The tall one-eyed man with green hair and a crimson gaze had introduced himself as Ghetsis Harmonia Gropius. He said he had a proposal to make, and invited Forrest to share a Lemonade in order to speak with more calm and discretion. Normally, Forrest would have refused: too many desperate souls thought they could push their theories into the spotlight through the Professor’s voice, while many rising “faces of reason” sought to expose him publicly to make a name for themselves. But there was something different about this strange presence. His manner carried neither desperation nor a hunger for fame.

So Forrest listened.

Ghetsis spoke.

At first glance, he seemed to speak to persuade. He employed rhetorical techniques that Forrest knew all too well. He made him feel understood, flattered him, criticized him, then flattered him again, delivering a textbook oratory performance. Then he stopped. Forrest understood. Understood that Ghetsis was not using these weapons, so familiar to him, against him, as one normally would. He was offering them, in a subtle chess game between two players who knew they stood on equal ground.

Forrest replied, letting him know he had caught the meaning. Ghetsis continued. He spoke of him, of Forrest Silva, of his past. He described his rise and his fall with words that cut beyond the crude, sensationalist varnish of the newspapers. He neither diminished him nor exalted him. With simple, elegant phrasing, he told him: “I know who you are.”

The chatter of other patrons seeped into the charged silence that hung between the two for a few brief moments. The clamor of the harbor and its people, blissfully ignorant in their mediocrity, clashed against the still-untouched glasses of Lemonade before them. Then Ghetsis concluded the move he had prepared in this match of eloquence and strategy he had set in motion.

He did not ask for mere collaboration in sowing scandals and attacks on the establishment, as the Professor might have expected. Nor for help in spreading some alleged hidden truth. What he presented was something far larger, and terrifyingly ambitious: Team Plasma. He said nothing outright, but Forrest understood that if the movement unfolded as intended, they could conquer. Unova, perhaps even the entire world.

In the days that followed, Forrest searched for everything he could on this extraordinary man and his absurd yet enticing idea. The latter, still evidently in its embryonic stage, yielded little, and what he uncovered on “Harmonia Gropius,” as he styled himself, was equally shallow. A few mentions of an “Association of Unovan Myth-Cosmic Studies” in Nacrene City, along with a minor academic debate over the authenticity of a recently unearthed text. Clearly, it was the faint scaffolding of what was to come, but, as he had been told, they needed someone who could spread information, truth or falsehood alike. As Forrest liked to twist the saying: it would be his task to cast pearls before the Swineubs. 

Then he dug deeper. Not into the pompous surname, obviously fabricated, but into the given name: Ghetsis. And what he found chilled and exhilarated him in equal measure. This was no mere Unovan history scholar, as he had first assumed. He was a criminal, a major one. He had been arrested as the head of a Pokémon smuggling ring (so much for his “good intentions”) and sentenced to thirty years in prison. He had served only ten, not before the inspector who had arrested him was dragged through the mud for using controversial investigative methods. Because of this, and thanks to his good behavior, the sentence had been heavily reduced. Effectively erased, leaving him a free man. The policewoman, who should have testified even about her own ruin, had died before she could, victim of a sudden accident, never truly resolved.

Forrest broke into a cold sweat. Adrenaline rushed to his head, his thoughts whirled. The idea that such a man had sought him out for his oratory skills frightened him, but at the same time deeply flattered him, making him feel important, recognized, even in circles he had never dreamed of approaching.

It was now painfully clear that the lofty goodness of Ghetsis’s ideals was not merely tainted by ill intent, but very likely nonexistent. A cardboard cutout of rainbows and smiling Pokémon, nothing more than bait for unsuspecting Starlies. Behind it: a man ravenous for power. Not that Forrest hadn’t known already, but now he saw with sharp clarity that Ghetsis was not the type to trouble himself with scruples. The inspector’s tragic death was, in all probability, proof enough that it was better not to stand in his way.

Forrest wondered if Ghetsis had even calculated what he was now thinking of him, his research, his doubts, his emotions. Suddenly, he felt watched. Yet he was alone, hunched over the computer in his study, in the new apartment by the Castelia harbor.

Now he had to decide.

He could step back, remain in his life of small and grand lies, spun for an audience of the desperate and the conspiratorial.

Or he could take the risk.

Forrest chose to leap.

And thus, he became Ryoku, the Sage of Team Plasma.

—

In the darkness of his cell in Wintersong Prison, Forrest, Ryoku, pretended to be trying to sleep. Above him, the fungus gave off a faint glow. It was probably poisonous. Not that anyone cared.

Staring at that strange living mass, he thought back to the brochure from Volcaria the guard had brought him a few days before. A little reminder of home, the man had said. More likely, just to mock him.

Visit Volcaria, the Island of the Sun!

Sure—if you want to be covered in Wingull droppings, it’s the perfect destination. By now those winged bastards were the only true rulers of his homeland.

Hello there! I’m Volcaria, the dazzling Island of the Sun and home of the Volcaronas!

Volcaronas? Where? The only Volcarona he had ever seen was the one he’d found while playing puppet for Team Plasma, miles away from his island. Only to hand it over as a gift to that bastard Ghetsis. Poor beast.

Come play with me, it will be a true paradise!

Tourists had to be completely braindead to fall for such idiotic ads. He wondered if his own people felt resentful, or if they too had turned into imbeciles.

And that’s exactly why I invite you to the Festival of Fire!

During Midsummer Week, the devoted citizens pray and dance in honor of their cherished butterfly Pokémon.

If by pray and dance they meant set up deadly traps to profit off the stupidity of others…

Hey, wait just a second! I know you can’t wait to set off, but I’ve still got a little tip for you: don’t forget your camera!

 ̷M̷y̷ ̷W̷i̷n̷g̷u̷l̷l̷s̷,̷ ̷j̷u̷s̷t̷ ̷a̷s̷ ̷c̷u̷r̷i̷o̷u̷s̷ ̷a̷s̷ ̷t̷h̷e̷y̷ ̷a̷r̷e̷ ̷m̷i̷s̷c̷h̷i̷e̷v̷o̷u̷s̷,̷ ̷w̷i̷l̷l̷ ̷g̷i̷f̷t̷ ̷y̷o̷u̷ ̷w̷i̷t̷h̷ ̷p̷l̷e̷n̷t̷y̷ ̷o̷f̷ ̷f̷u̷n̷n̷y̷ ̷a̷n̷d̷ ̷w̷i̷l̷d̷ ̷s̷h̷o̷t̷s̷.̷

“All bullshit! Useless stupid beasts!”

Yes, stupid, useless beasts that frightened children and adults alike. Spreaders of disease and filth. Maybe those words applied to the Wingulls. Maybe to the humans who couldn’t manage them. Innocent Pokémon in their utter brainlessness.

I can’t wait to meet you!

I’ll be waiting here, between the fiery red heat of my volcano’s lava and the cool blue-green waves of my sea!

See you very soon!

Volcaria, the Island of the Sun.

Chapter Text

IT’S NOT MY FAULT (MEA CULPA)

HELLFIRE

“…But Pansear got hurt this morning. I healed her, but now she doesn’t feel like training.”

Murmurs spread across the Plasma Castle arena as a boy, just admitted into the Team, complained about the order he had received.

It was training time. The disciples of Sage Bronius, responsible for everything related to fire, stood in line before him, disciplined as always. The Sage called the fifteen-year-old forward.

The master’s eyes were dark and piercing, like the smell of something burned trailing in his wake. They fixed on the newcomer, radiating an air of reprimand. Pansear shifted nervously in her Pokéball, sensing the intensity and firmness of the gaze casted on her trainer.

“No.”

The monosyllable left no room for argument.

“Do you think that Pokémon is your friend? Your companion?”

The young follower felt heat rise to his cheeks. His hands trembled slightly, his breath came short, as he tried to hide the embarrassment of being scolded in front of everyone. Bronius remained unyielding.

“Or just a sweet little tamed creature? Needing poffins and cuddles?”

The boy lowered his gaze and swallowed, intimidated by the superior looming over him.

“I…”

“There are no truly tamed Pokémon. It’s an illusion we invented to feel comfortable with ourselves.”

Bronius pulled a Pokéball from his belt and allowed the Pokémon inside to emerge in a flash of light. A large Chandelure appeared before the students’ eyes. It bore a profoundly melancholic air, while the bluish flames around it flickered, perfectly controlled.

“Tell me. Why did you join the Team?”

—

A long time ago, on the gentle hills near Icirrus City, two children were celebrating their long-awaited tenth birthdays.

They were inseparable, so their parents organized a big shared birthday party, inviting all thirty-seven children from the village.

A few weeks later, the most important moment for both finally arrived: the famous Professor Cedric Juniper awaited them at the research center, ready for them to choose their first Pokémon companion. They could hardly wait to set off, to battle, to prove their potential.

Viktor, with dark eyes shining with a storm all his own, chose Tepig, the Fire-type Pokémon, without hesitation. The little pig stared at him challengingly, as if it had chosen first.

Luciano, though nine and a half days older, hesitated for a few moments. His gaze drifted between the two remaining creatures, unsure where to settle. After a while, the fair-haired boy with blue eyes chose Oshawott. The Water-type Pokémon looked at him with wide, irresistible eyes.

Together, they swore to become the strongest trainers in the world. And so, they set off on their adventure. 

The next time they would meet, it would be for battle.

Years later, the two children had grown into teenagers. Alongside their beloved Pokémons, they met and clashed in countless battles, each more thrilling than the last.

Viktor, who hid his insecurities behind a seemingly strong and determined personality, loved to play with fire. His strategies were grand gestures, all-or-nothing gambits. Yet, he always had a plan smoldering beneath the ash.

Luciano, by contrast, more empathetic and outgoing, was calm and reflective. He loved water: his battles flowed like dance steps, graceful as the river and sea Pokémon he commanded.

Both though, were also fascinated by another world, which gave them a shared, peculiar interest. Ghost-type Pokémon, so elusive and dangerous, became research material for Luciano, experimentation for Viktor.

Thanks in part to this, their friendship never soured into rivalry, which remained purely sportive. It was like a beautiful Maractus: full of spikes, yet blooming brighter every day, energetic and colorful.

This is how Viktor saw his bond with Luciano. And as they grew unexpectedly older, Viktor found himself facing a fire unknown to him: a profound, intense affection for his childhood friend. A glance, a touch of a hand. Luciano seemed completely unaware.

Despite a temperament everyone described as fiery, Viktor confronted his own innate shyness. Perhaps it was better, he told himself, to ignore it, to push the feeling to the back of their Pokémon battles, focusing on concrete goals.

Like the fact that both had just defeated the Pokémon League! And had passed the exam to join the new Elite Four. They might not have become “the very best in the world,” as they’d promised themselves as children, but their place in Pokémon trainer history was secured. Along with substantial earnings, of course.

Now, within the shining walls of their personal gyms, they became the challenge others had to overcome. It was them, the threshold of greatness.

Parents and friends were moved and proud. Fans of their renowned battles cheered, some for one, some for the other. The medals, in their cases and on their chests, seemed to shine with a light of their own.

They were twenty years old and on top of the world.

It seemed nothing could stop them.

—

“Dad, I don’t want to go without you!”

Seventeen years had passed. Viktor and Luciano were no longer members of the Elite Four of the Unova League. Much had happened, many changes had taken place.

“Don’t worry, Aiden. I’ll come to pick you up soon! And in the meantime, Uncle Vik will be with you.”

Luciano crouched down to meet his son’s eyes. He placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled. Surely everything would be fine. The boy was seven years old.

“But you know how to train Pokémon too! Why do I have to go somewhere else?”

Aiden protested, stamping his feet. Viktor, standing beside them, watched with a mix of tenderness and a hint of impatience. It was time to open his school for young trainers. He cared particularly about his new pupil, the son of his great friend, but the watch on his wrist didn’t lie, and the other children and teenagers were surely waiting.

“Didn’t you say you liked Fire-type Pokémon? Vik is the best with fire, you’ll see! And he’s really funny too! You’ll have a great time.”

After a small cry, quickly wiped away by his father’s handkerchief, the boy was finally ready to part from his parents. Viktor gently took his hand, gave him a little pat on the cheek, and led him to the colorful building.

There, he did what he had learned to do best: teach the youngest the love for Pokémon.

He prepared the little ones for the journeys that many of them would soon undertake. He trained the older ones to become full-fledged trainers.

Only a few would go on to reach the top, perhaps challenge the Elite Four, maybe even become Champions. He would be there by their side, helping them follow in his footsteps.

Of course, he had never stopped battling his great friend. Their fights, now a hobby they maintained consistently, were always lively and never boring. Longtime fans still watched, bringing them much satisfaction.

But apart from that, their lives had diverged. He had his school. Luciano had his family. If only Viktor had had the courage, back when they were young…

But it was half past eight, and the bell for the first period was ringing. He had to attend to his students.

A year later, Viktor was very proud of Aiden’s progress. The boy showed empathy and a natural connection with the Pokémon he encountered. So much so that his teacher decided it was not too early to entrust him with the care of one of them.

A small Litwick with a flickering flame.

When Aiden met the Pokémon’s gaze, a spark ignited between them. It was clear they both desired each other as companions. Initially, Viktor hesitated to hand over the Pokéball that housed the little Ghost-type. After all, this type was always a bit unpredictable, making it less suitable as a first companion. Yet it was Luciano himself who insisted: there was nothing wrong in teaching the boy that every creature has a spirit. That even after death, there is often life, which should be loved and respected like any other.

Aiden and Litwick became inseparable. They played and laughed with their friends and their Pokémon: a shy little girl and her Eevee were the greatest companions in adventure.

During warm summer days, they would chase each other in the garden, where attentive parents had made everything fireproof and wet. In winter, they stayed in the living room by the fireplace, playing board games and watching television. Litwick loved to reflect in the large flames dancing before his little eyes, behind metal protections.

If there was one thing Viktor emphasized to Aiden, it was never to let Litwick go hungry. He wasn’t talking about bread or sweets: it wasn’t clear what Pokémon like him consumed, but it was not organic matter. Like all members of his species, Litwick needed time in spiritually active places, like cemeteries or temples. A walk, once or twice a week, would suffice.

But the teacher knew his friend, the boy’s father, was an expert who knew his business. There was no need to worry.

So Luciano and his wife had made the nearby temple a regular stop for Aiden: a small community that revered the three Forces of Nature. Tornadus, Thundurus, and Landorus. Nothing too frightening or potentially dangerous for the boy: there was no need for constant supervision. He often went with his little friend, and they took the opportunity to play with Pokémon.

But children are children, and one day Eevee’s owner convinced Aiden to skip the appointment. They would go to the arcade together and lie to their parents. After all, what harm was there? Older kids always did it.

What was meant to be a single small transgression became two. Then three. Then ten. Litwick, unable to express his discomfort, remained quiet in his Pokéball, continuing to play with his trainer.

At school, during Pokémon Gym classes, Viktor noticed the creature showing signs of weakness. He didn’t give it much thought, simply telling Aiden to take Litwick to a Pokémon Center when he had time.

And then, it happened.

It was an ordinary day, but Aiden and his friend had decided to separate from the other children and hide in the school locker room. The thrill of breaking the rules made itself felt, in giggles and whispers. Every gesture mattered: only the two of them understood the code they had created, the imaginary world they were locking themselves into, ignoring everything else around them.

Aiden released Litwick from his Pokéball. The Pokémon was weak, dull. Its wick, unlit for some time, drooped upon itself.

“What’s wrong with your Litwick?”

The girl asked curiously.

“I dunno… it’s been like this for weeks. I’ll take it to the Pokémon Center later, maybe it’s sick. Dad thinks I already took it, but I forgot…”

The boy looked at his friend with sadness and guilt. He knew he wasn’t caring for it as he once had. But from now on, he would make it right.

A tiny flame. A spark of life suddenly lit up on the Pokémon’s head. The neon lights in the room flickered and went out, one by one, leaving the two children in darkness. The only light came from Litwick. Shadows in the room stretched long and blue.

The girl let out a small scream, stepping back. Aiden laughed, thinking it was a trick by his adventure companion.

“What’s this, do you want to play with ghosts? Hey, it’s not even the Phantom Festival yet!”

He reached out to touch the Pokémon’s cold flame. But it wasn’t cold.

“Ow!”

He pulled his hand back, but it was too late. The fire had latched onto him, now devouring the boy’s finger. Terrified and in pain, Aiden tried to move away, but his gaze was chained to the little candle, his feet glued to the floor. He tried to scream, but the voice got stuck somewhere in his head.

Then the fire slowly spread. His hand, his arm, his whole body. The entire room.

—

“..lp…Hel…p.”

The girl dragged herself down the hallway. The right side of her body was burned, the skin melted, the flesh underneath visible and red. When she reached the classroom of Third C and peered through the half-open door, silence fell. Some of the children burst into tears. After one last desperate plea, she collapsed at the threshold.

Viktor, terrified, sprang to his feet and ran to his student.

“Ellie! Answer me, Ellie!”

The girl opened the only eye she had left.

“Ai…den. Locker room. He…lp.”

Then she fainted.

Viktor scooped her up and immediately called for help via his Interpoké. He left Ellie and the other children under the care of a trembling janitor and ran as fast as he could toward the room in question.

When he arrived at the locker room, what he saw was not Aiden.

The walls were dark, the benches reduced to half-destroyed skeletons. Thick, choking smoke poured from the lockers. Ignoring the danger of a possible still-burning fire, Viktor entered and turned the corner.

There were no wild flames. Only that small, flickering flame of Litwick, in the center of the room. It had never looked so alive, so vibrant.

The Pokémon looked around, confused, as if wondering what had happened to his best friend. Nearby lay a small, curled-up body. Black, charred. A pile of bones and ash. The sweet, acrid smell of burnt flesh filled the room, shattering every thought.

Viktor fell to his knees. His gaze fixed on the child.

When the rescuers arrived, he was still there, motionless, his eyes glued to the horror of his new personal hell. They had to carry him away by force.

—

The days, months, and years that followed were, indeed, a true hell.

Ellie, Aiden’s little friend, had survived, but she was so shocked that her voice was gone forever, leaving her mute. She was also completely disfigured. Her Eevee had been consumed by the flames along with its Pokéball in the fire caused by Litwick.

Her parents sued the school. Viktor, who understood them and lacked the strength to fight, let his creation close its doors for good.

Then they demanded that the Ghost-type Pokémon be destroyed: it was too dangerous. Like many, they were ignorant of such mysterious creatures and didn’t know that, being ghosts, they could not truly die. At most, they could fade away, disappearing as they had appeared, but no one knew what really caused this strange phenomenon.

When the police came to the former teacher’s door to seize the Pokémon, he claimed that Litwick had vanished on its own. The officers gave him a skeptical look, but they didn’t ask many questions and left him alone. The candle-shaped creature waited for him in its Pokéball, unaware of the lie that had just saved it. Not from death, which was part of its being, but from a life in some sad, poorly controlled containment facility.

Viktor released it and stared at it, reliving the horror. He would train it personally. He would discipline it. It would never harm anyone again. 

It was the penance they deserved.

Meanwhile, Luciano shut himself off and sank into grief over the tragic death of his son.

He, who had always been an eternal boy, a carefree dreamer capable of seeing the beauty in everything, was now extinguished. Lifeless.

His blue eyes reflected the water of the river where he took refuge when he needed to be alone. He sat on the rocky bank, watching it flow slowly. Staring, letting himself be consumed by the burning desire to be swept away by the current.

Viktor wished he could help him, but how could he? He was the cause of all his friend’s problems. So he stepped away, letting him drift in his melancholy. He, meanwhile, remained a prisoner of his own torment.

One day, someone approached him in a park. Autumn was starting, and the local Deerling were changing their coats. Like the trees around them, they shifted from green to orange: little living flames, hopping about. Leaves fell all around, framing the scene like a classic seasonal painting.

“Do you have a minute? I’d like to talk to you about Team Plasma.”

Viktor didn’t respond. He didn’t move, merely staring straight ahead. He resigned himself to listening to what promised to be the speech of some strange, new cult.

The speaker, a boy far too ordinary who looked about twenty-five, did not disappoint expectations. This new group wanted to free all Pokémon. Had they gone mad? It would be chaos! The situation was already complicated enough to control… Then the boy spoke of something else. 

He called him by name. A chill fell, as if winter had suddenly arrived.

He told him they were looking for him specifically. Not just any person, not a former champion, not a former teacher. A man who knew well the dangers of keeping the weak near Pokémon. He knew the hidden threats even those seemingly small, innocent creatures could pose. Viktor spun around. His dark eyes hid a fire promising destruction. What did this boy know? He should just keep quiet!

But he said nothing. He simply got up and walked with purposeful steps toward a destination he still didn’t fully understand. Just enough to put distance between himself and that tempting devil.

The following weeks passed slowly, as always. Viktor went to his new job at a factory and ignored colleagues talking about Pokémon or using them to help with production. He had kept only Litwick, by now grown into a strong, healthy Lampent. He let it out only in the gym when he trained it, and at the cemetery, when he forced himself to visit Aiden’s grave. He always brought a red flower, the boy’s favorite color. Always avoiding the moments when, by the headstone, he would see Aiden’s real family crying. The result was a composed, somber Pokémon, its flame burning controlled and orderly.

A leaflet arrived in his mailbox. It spoke of Team Plasma. About how humans didn’t treat Pokémon with the respect they deserved. How the creatures were forced to live lives that didn’t align with their wild nature. Below, in cursive, a handwritten addition:

“Viktor, it’s not just about freedom. It’s about keeping them safe. Pokémon. People. Everyone. It wasn’t your fault.”

He immediately recognized Luciano’s handwriting. Could it be that his old friend had fallen into the net of this strange organization? After all, he hadn’t seen him in years; anything could have happened, for all he knew.

He threw the note into the kitchen sink and lit a match. He watched it burn. The ashes at the bottom reminded him of something he desperately wanted to forget. Something he couldn’t let go.

Then another arrived. And another. At first he burned them all, but soon he stopped. It made no sense. They kept coming back, each time with slightly different words. But the message was always the same:

“It wasn’t your fault. Society itself needs to change.”

He wanted so badly to believe it. He wanted so badly to see Luciano again. His voice, his gestures, his lightness. He missed him to death.

Eventually, it was Luciano who came to him.

The doorbell rang, and Viktor looked through the peephole. He nearly fell over in surprise. He opened the door slowly, as if afraid he had imagined it. Afraid the apparition would leave as suddenly as it had arrived.

“Hi, Vik.”

Luciano, wearing a long dark coat with the Team Plasma symbol pinned to his chest, stood on his doormat. Even in that bulky attire, his voice remained the same.

Viktor didn’t respond, his voice trapped somewhere in his head. His feet glued to the floor. They stood like that for a few minutes, staring at each other. Two ghosts on a doorstep.

A nod from the water boy, and the former teacher shook off his catatonia, inviting his friend into the empty living room. He hadn’t received visitors in far too long; the dust on the furniture was silent witness.

For a while, they remained silent. Viktor had forgotten how to welcome someone into his home, and Luciano seemed uncertain of what to say or do.

“May I…?”

Luciano timidly indicated the couch.

“Oh, of course. Wait here, I’ll make some tea.”

Viktor hurried, though uncertainly, to the kitchen. He took the kettle to fill it with water but struggled as his hands refused to stop trembling. The water, beloved by his old friend, rushed into the metal sink. The smell of wet iron hit his nostrils. A knot tightened in his throat. He hadn’t cried since he was twelve. Not even when… Why were tears invading the corners of his dark eyes now?

He pushed the emotions down and lit the stove. He gently set the kettle on the burner and returned to the living room, making sure his face didn’t betray him.

In the next room, Luciano waited patiently, sitting on the faded couch. He had found one of Team Plasma’s flyers on the coffee table and was reading it. He already knew the words printed on the paper, but it seemed not to matter.

Viktor offered him some tea bags he had found in a corner of the cupboard. Luciano chose, after changing his mind once or twice. Not so different from that boy long ago, unable to decide between little Snivy and the adorable Oshawott.

The water, on the fire, began to boil. A sharp whistle alerted Viktor, who returned to the kitchen and prepared the drink. When he returned with the tray of cups and teapot, his heart broke. Luciano, still holding the flyer, was crying silently.

It took all Viktor’s discipline not to drop the hot ceramics and run to his companion of a thousand adventures.

Instead, he placed the tray on the coffee table and handed him a tissue, unsure of what else to do.

“Sorry… You know, the emotion… I’ve never been very good at hiding…”

Viktor didn’t respond, merely staring at his hands. Avoiding Luciano’s blue eyes was essential.

“…Are you here for Team Plasma?”

He didn’t want to sound so cold. So burning.

“I… No…”

A deep breath, the tissue trembling in his hands.

“I mean, yes…”

He blew his nose, wiped his eyes.

“I mean also… not only… I…”

—

“Tell me. Why did you join the Team?”

The fifteen-year-old hesitated. His eyes darted around, as if searching for help from the circle of followers surrounding him. In front of him, Sage Bronius stared with eyes of fire. No one dared challenge him.

“Well, I mean… uh…”

“Weak! That’s a weak answer, spoken by a weak person!”

Tears welled in the boy’s eyes. The old Chandelure at the Sage’s side cast flickering reflections of its flames into the salty drops.

“I’ll tell you why you joined. You caught a glimpse of Freedom, of Ideals, of Truth, and let yourself be carried away like a Pokémon swept along by the current. You didn’t think of the consequences of your actions. You simply followed your instinct.”

“I… I’m sorry.”

The boy stammered, clutching at Pansear’s Poké Ball as the frightened Pokémon squirmed inside.

Bronius looked at him with disdain.

“Sorry? So you regret being one of us? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No..!”

Chandelure flared, its light flashing brighter for a moment before settling back into calm control.

“Listen, boy.”

The Sage crouched down. His gaze, still severe, softened for a moment into that of someone who knew how to be a mentor.

“Yes, you are weak. You acted by letting the world decide your actions for you. But that doesn’t mean things cannot change.”

He straightened and turned to the assembly.

“Am I wrong, or is this exactly why we are here? To change things?”

“Yes, Sage Bronius!”

The disciples’ voices rose in perfect unison. No hesitation, only discipline.

“You see?”

Bronius looked back at the newcomer.

“Look at my Pokémon. It is fire and it is ghost. Wild by nature, capable of terrible harm.”

A girl screaming for help. A body turned to ash.

“I learned to control it. And so will you. But that doesn’t mean we must suffer like this forever.”

Chandelure’s eyes seemed heavy with sorrow. Bronius recalled it into its Poké Ball.

“When our King takes the throne, things will change. But it won’t be magic. We will be the change. And so Pokémon and people will be separated. Discipline and instinct cannot coexist. 

The world will be a better place!”

“Vik, you’re always so harsh…”

Later, when the lesson was over, Sage Gorm approached Bronius with a gentle reproach.

“Don’t call me that. You know our roles in Team Plasma. It matters.”

Luciano sighed.

His best friend would never change.

Chapter Text

CAN I IGNORE THAT SOUND OF DISTANT DRUMMING?

JUST AROUND THE RIVERBEND

In the depths of Pinwheel Forest, there lived a man.

The River Memoria welcomed him among its crystal bends. The sky, often overcast, reflected in his long, untamed hair. Now and then, a few strands still shone blond among the gray. His eyes were blue, like the water of the river.

Around him, the forest Pokémon watched with curiosity. They were not afraid: he was like them, lost in nature. Basculins flicked their tails beneath the surface. A Ducklett dipped its head underwater, then came back up, shaking its feathers in frustration after missing a fish by a hair. Two Swadloon and a tiny Sewaddle hid among the leaves, singing their soft, rustling songs.

The man was gathering fallen branches and bits of wood. He would use them that evening to light a fire. His reflective, philosophical nature did nothing against hunger, darkness, or the cold. But he was not alone.

A faint rustle in the foliage announced the presence of a large Cofagrigus. Silent and precise, it helped him collect wood with its spectral arms. Amid the murmuring of the river and its waves, the pale pink dome of a Jellicent could be seen. Her tentacles served as a deadly trap for the unfortunate Basculins that drifted too close: her human companion needed them for survival. A Yamask followed the group, trying in vain to imitate its evolved form. Every so often it let out a plaintive cry: too weak to lend a hand. The man, busy with his work, would often lift his head to cast it a gentle look.

He did not treat those Pokémon as pets, nor as tools for battle. He didn’t keep a single Pokéball with him. To go or to stay, they were free to choose. He had told them so, again and again. Yet they had stayed, following him and helping him every step of the way. They were friends and companions in this life.

The River Memoria watched them and flowed on, slow and steady, as always.

Evening began to fall, painting the sky with the colors of the setting sun. The gray clouds caught fire, igniting the landscape beneath them.

The man stopped. He had found the right place to camp for the night. The next day, he would continue, always following the current. The sea was not far now.

He crouched down and built a small fire, helped by the Pokémon at his side. Then he lit it and shared the meal. Along with the fish, he ate a few berries, chosen with care. Only time would tell whether he had made fatal mistakes. The wild could be cruel, but he would hold no grudge against it. He would accept his fate.

What he refused, instead, was to be caged. To be trapped in a war. Nor would he impose that fate on the nature around him, on the spirits that dwelled within it.

He had once believed in the cause of Team Plasma.

Their King, who was little more than a boy, spoke with Pokémon. He was not like other people: he was one of them, wild and beautiful as innocence itself. And that child with green hair had a dream. He, who still had a name back then, would have done anything to help make it real. The creatures of the world would be free: so it was meant to be. Not everyone understood how important it was. Not everyone believed in the Truth they preached. And so the Ideals burst like a soap bubble. The dream vanished, like a reflection in the waves.

Long ago, a child played with a Litwick.

Two worlds apart, unable to understand one another.

If only…

—

Long ago, a child played with an Oshawott.

She was his very first Pokémon companion, and together they had the time of their lives. Ten years passed, and Oshawott was no longer there. In her place, an old Samurott lingered at the edge of the field, watching the battles of her younger, livelier comrades. The great blue otter liked to dwell on the old days, when both she and her human had been little more than cubs learning to stand on their own.

She remembered well the moment of the choice. Luciano, who would become her closest friend, had not been as quick or confident as Viktor, the other boy in the room. Viktor had chosen Tepig, reaching out his hand to claim the Pokéball with ease. The little fire pig returned to his ball, satisfied and proud. So, for the blond, blue-eyed boy, it came down to the two who remained. Snivy, a leaf-green lizard, watched him calmly, her expression regal and detached, while the curious little otter beside her wriggled impatiently. Oshawott wagged her tail frantically: she couldn’t wait to see the world.

At last, after a few long minutes filled with hope and anticipation, the water Pokémon’s wide, eager eyes won their very first battle. Luciano and Oshawott set out on their adventure, together.

Time had flown by, and that hesitant little boy, just like the lovely Oshawott, was gone. What the old Samurott had by her side now was a young man. Thoughtful yet confident, Luciano had become a true Pokémon Trainer. More than that: he had officially joined the Pokémon League, one of the Elite Four.

It was no longer just about sports; his role was to set an example for the people, perhaps even lend his voice to the political affairs of Unova. But what truly mattered to him were the Pokémon. So he kept to himself, known only to a few, living quietly in his own world.

And what a surprise that world of his turned out to be!

That was Linda’s first thought when she began to see him.

They met by chance in a library, in the section about Ghost-type Pokémon. She was twenty, still a student working on a college paper. He, at twenty-four, already had a solid career. He sat there studying, taking notes, as if he had to report to someone. And yet, he was there simply for pleasure.

It was she who took the first step in what would become their relationship. What others might have called “closed off” or “antisocial,” she found “mysterious” and “fascinating.”

They began reading together, trading glances over the pages. The nearby café served an excellent Komala Coffee. And so, little by little, she learned about the strange young man. He was so different from the image the public had of him…

For instance, everyone knew that Luciano and Viktor had been lifelong rivals. Many would have sworn that, behind the polite respect they showed in public, they secretly despised each other. And yet, look at them: best friends at heart, like two children setting out on an adventure! How could such a deep bond even exist? Was what she felt jealousy? Or envy?

And everyone knew that Luciano was the Water-type member of the Elite Four. He battled only with Pokémon of that kind. Few, however, seemed aware of his fascination with Ghosts. In his spare time, he visited temples and graveyards, surrounding himself with spirits of every kind. Linda came to learn that a faded little flower could be far more romantic than a florist’s red rose, especially after seeing the small Yamask pick it from beside an abandoned gravestone, and bring it to her with eyes that asked for nothing but a little kindness.

Everyone saw Luciano as calm and reserved. But Linda had discovered the face beneath the mask: so intense, so full of passion. Glances turned into kisses, and kisses into tender touches. The girl couldn’t help but fall hopelessly in love. She had seen him. And he, in turn, had seen her, returning the depth of her feeling.

Their love was not a flame that fades with time. It was a steady rain, beginning with thunder and then pouring endlessly down. Every road in their lives became flooded. They were drenched, but they were happy.

But one cannot swim forever. Luciano could have gone on with his life as an Elite Four member, a distant partner—and later a distant father. Yet he understood that the glory of Pokémon battles could no longer keep him afloat. What would keep him afloat was family.

After all, the life of a trainer was not for everyone; many, upon reaching a certain age, chose a different path. So it was for Luciano, and for Viktor, too, who left the League to found his own school for young trainers. Their paths diverged, but they still met once a month to battle. It became a ritual that kept their friendship alive, while giving them the joy of fighting before an audience, just like in the old days. The adventure was over. No more rapids or waterfalls on steep terrain. That’s what everyone kept telling him. But when he looked at life, he told himself it had only just begun. The current would carry him onward: to new rapids, new shores. And the child on the way would have a new river all to himself.

—

Nine years.

In those nine years, Aiden, Linda and Luciano’s son, had been born. He had been a baby who needed milk and care. He had learned to eat, to walk, to speak. He had grown into a lively, happy child who played with whatever life threw his way. His laughter, clear and genuine, as only a child’s can be, filled every corner of the house, every space of the new life of the former Water-type Elite Four.

When he’d been his son’s age, Luciano had believed that only becoming the strongest Trainer in the world could make his life complete. Oh, how wrong he had been. It wasn’t victory that made him a man, it was a small human being who looked up at him, followed him, and called him “Dad.”

There had been tears, tantrums, and messes everywhere. He and Linda had had their fair share of exhaustion. And yet, everything that came from that child was a gift, the fulfillment of a dream he hadn’t even known he’d always had.

He loved him the way only a father can love his son.

Nine years. Seven months.

To his father’s great satisfaction, Aiden had shown an early interest in Pokémon. To his great surprise, he had become fascinated with Fire-type Pokémon. Perhaps it was a rebellious phase, Luciano thought, smiling to himself. So, when the time came, he enrolled his son in Viktor’s school as well as the regular one. A bit of interaction with peers, friendships, rivalries, could only do him good. Luciano knew the value of that.

And then came Litwick! His very first Pokémon companion! What a joy it was to watch them play, learn about each other, and grow together… they would be a great duo, just like he and Oshawott had been so many years ago. True, being a Ghost-type, Litwick would need a little extra care. But it would be an excellent learning experience for Aiden. Luciano wondered what his son would become when he grew up. He couldn’t wait to see where his river would carry him.

Nine years. Seven months. One week. Five days.

Luciano wasn’t at home that Tuesday. He was at work, as usual, in the small Natural History Museum near Icirrus City. Years earlier, when he had left the League to be with his family, he had taken the public examination to join the tiny team of researchers at the museum. His superiors couldn’t believe their eyes when they saw that one of the applicants was the famous Water-type Elite Four member. “No special treatment,” they told him. Luciano passed with flying colors anyways and earned the position he had wanted: a steady, peaceful job that would allow him to be close to Pokémon. And, most importantly, close to his loved ones.

Then, one day, this day, gray like so many Tuesdays, he received a call. It was Linda. She was crying, and he could barely understand what she was saying. But through the torrent of words, he recognized one:

“Aiden.”

He dropped everything and rushed home.

Nine years. Seven months. One week. Five days. Ten hours. Thirty-three minutes.

That morning, before leaving for work, Luciano had said goodbye to his son, reminding him to take care of his sick little Litwick.

Oh, if only he had known.

If only he had noticed sooner the small lies his child had told… For some time now, he hadn’t been going to the temple to nourish the little Ghost’s spirit. He had been sneaking off to the arcade with his friend Ellie. He probably thought there was nothing wrong. Poor Litwick was fading. Luciano had trusted his son when he swore he was doing everything as instructed. That he had gone to the temple, that he had gone to the Pokémon Center. Why? He was just a child, it was natural for him to get into mischief. If only he had kept watch, if only he had noticed. Litwick would not have been hungry. Litwick would not have…

But he didn’t notice. Neither he, nor Linda. Not even Viktor, who had entrusted the little candle to him. He had trusted him too.

So that morning, Luciano went to the museum. It was a Tuesday like so many others. Completely different. He never saw his son again. He never saw anything of him again. Not even his body, which, they told him, had been consumed by flames.

—

The great river flowed calmly beneath the hill where the Natural History Museum stood. Palpitoads croaked in the tall grass and mud. Stunfisks hid in the shallow, brown waters. Luciano sat on a rock, his bare feet submerged in the murky water. He gazed beyond the mud, at the fast, blue current flowing through the center of the river. He stayed like that for hours, occasionally tossing a stone. Despite the noise and splashes, his Frillish remained still. His pair of Yamask watched him in silence. He ignored them. Another stone skimmed the river. More ripples blending with the current.

Every day, Luciano asked himself if he could ever forgive Viktor. He had tried, at first. But Viktor wouldn’t allow it. He didn’t have the courage to take another step.

The day of the funeral was a sunny day. It was spring, and everything was in full bloom. The trees were heavy with flowers, flying Pokémon sang their mating songs. Nature seemed to laugh, even slap Linda and Luciano in the face. Everyone was there, friends and family. The small urn held what little remained of the deceased child.

Linda was serious and composed. Luciano tried to imitate her, in vain. He couldn’t stop crying. He barely held the hands of those around him, trying between sobs to thank them.

When it came time for the speeches, he wiped his eyes yet again. He summoned his courage: he had prepared everything the night before, carefully avoiding sleep. Linda, with her outward composure, looked at him tenderly, sorrow in her eyes. She gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder for encouragement. He attempted a lopsided smile. She would have hugged him, but knowing him, that would have only triggered another bout of tears.

Luciano stepped onto the small makeshift platform, in front of everyone.

And that’s when he noticed. Among all the faces, he didn’t see him. His best friend. The one who had witnessed the tragedy. He wasn’t there. He searched the crowd with his eyes. He was missing. The few empty seats burned with absence.

How was it possible? He had always been there… How could he? He had seen… How? He was one of them. One of those who could have done something. He had done nothing. Why…

A moment later, Luciano realized he was being held up by his partner’s arms. She looked down at him, worried. Her arms were around his back, steadying him, asking something. Around them, a small crowd of concerned people. Had he fainted? What had happened?

For a moment, he thought he saw Viktor’s silhouette hidden behind a tree. But it was only an instant. The rest of the ceremony passed with him huddled in a corner, crying for what had been lost.

From that moment on, Luciano divided his time between work, the cemetery, and the river. And Viktor’s house. The man who had once been reserved but self-assured became again a shy, uncertain child. He spent his days mulling over what might have been and what would never be. He knew Viktor was struggling too. The parents of the little girl who had been with Aiden in the accident had sued him and were trying to shut down his school. His life, piece by piece. Luciano wanted to stay by his side. To hold him. Every time he thought of the funeral he pulled back. He went to see him. He never reached the point of knocking on the door. He never rang the bell. He hung back around the corner, imagining how to kill him, how to comfort him. His throat was dry, his eyes red from crying. Then he would walk away. Sometimes he went home. Sometimes he went to the river to release the Pokémons and throw stones. The water ran slow beneath his feet buried in mud. Farther out, where he never dared go, it ran fast and carried everything away. Perhaps, if he had only dared, it would have taken his pain too. Frillish watched him from a deeper pool. He could have left her there and go. She would not have known how to follow him. He didn’t do it.

To everyone else, Linda and her partner visited their son’s grave together every day. In truth, she followed him while Luciano went alone. As the months passed, “every day” became twice a week. Then once. But not for him: he went every morning without fail.

“Look, Lu, it’s here today too,” she said, picking up the red poppy that had appeared, punctual as ever, in its little vase as every Tuesday.

Without a word, Luciano gestured for her to put it back in its place, by the headstone. She hadn’t noticed the man who followed them at the cemetery once a week, always keeping to the shadows. He disappeared the moment they arrived. The faint crunch of gravel marked his presence, subtle, then gone into the void from which he came. Luciano, however, knew exactly who he was. He knew him well, his best friend. If only he could call out to him. Perhaps… perhaps he would have run. Or perhaps they would have finally spoken.

“Can we talk, just this once?”

Linda, eyes red from crying, tried to stop her partner as he stepped out, going who-knows-where. As usual. By now he only came home to sleep. He said he was going to work. All those hours?

Luciano didn’t answer. He lowered his gaze. Linda took it as an admission of guilt.

“Lu…” she took his hand.

“I called the museum last night. You weren’t there. You’re never there, outside work hours.”

He lifted his eyes for a moment. Then looked away. Pulled back his arms, unsure what to do with them. He looked like a lost little Oshawott.

“If I didn’t know you, I’d think you have someone else. But that’s not true, is it?”

He wanted to answer. I’m going to the river. I’m going to Viktor. I’m going to Aiden. But he couldn’t. Why? Linda would understand, right? She was the love of his life. And yet…

And yet this week she had skipped their visit to the cemetery. Suggested redecorating their child’s room. Or moving house. Did she want to erase him? How? Why? Maybe… she wouldn’t understand.

“Luciano, answer me, please.”

Her voice trembled. She looked into his eyes, irises gleaming like a fountain about to overflow. She was hurting, wasn’t she? Yet it seemed he no longer knew her. Perhaps she felt the same about him. So he avoided her eyes, gazing past her raven hair. Distant. Beyond the river of emotions.

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. Like a Magikarp gasping for air.

“Sorry… I have to go.”

Betrayal.

“Where?!”

Missed glances. Speaking the same language. Not understanding. Two worlds, once united. Now separated by tragedy.

“…To work.”

A few days later, by the river, Luciano held a letter in his hands. Linda had left it for him. On the paper, now wet from water and tears, everything she felt was written. The frustration, the pain, the sadness. An explanation of how she would live with her parents until she found another place. Never, in any of the many lines of ink, was Aiden’s name mentioned.

Where was Aiden? It had been so long since she had said his name. And if someone did, if someone spoke to her about her child, she quickly changed the subject. Her voice rising with urgency. Luciano knew that this was her way of dealing with grief. But he didn’t understand it. He, who kept grief close. Who cradled it as if it were his own child.

Perhaps breaking up wasn’t such a bad idea. Then why did he feel, once again, abandoned?

He watched his two Yamasks play with Frillish in the shallow water. Why, then, did they refuse to leave? He released them at the riverbank every day. They stayed close, then came back to him. Even though Frillish didn’t like staying in a Pokéball, she didn’t leave.

Should he thank them? Or be angry? Were they his punishment, or his blessing? Once, he would have made them train, made them battle. Why? To hurt each other?

It was all so strange. Or maybe it wasn’t. After all, they were, like him, tormented souls, condemned by death. If only he could see Aiden again, even just in ghost form… But Pokémon didn’t work that way. And yet, if only…

Luciano walked along the river, barefoot. In one hand, he held the letter; with the other, he fiddled with the Pokéballs of his Pokémon. Voices in the distance caught his attention. He approached, trying not to be noticed.

“Watch out, Venipede!”

“Purrloin, use Sand Attack!”

It was a small group of young trainers dressed strangely. Gray hoods, wide sleeves, big gloves, and boots… made of metal? Were those ancient clothes they were wearing?

“Be careful with that Purrloin! Don’t you see you hurt my Pokémon?”

Luciano smiled. It was normal for Pokémon to take a few hits during training. The little creatures recovered quickly and still had fun. That’s what they were being taught. He no longer felt like testing them. Not after…

“I understand, but war is war. In the end, they’ll all be free, but for now, they have to endure it too.”

Strange words. What was this “war” they were talking about? A game?

The kids continued their training, alternating their Pokémon and testing moves that were more or less effective. Some had a nearly military-like language and posture, though their young age still made their execution a bit clumsy. The others, more relaxed, laughed and petted their Pokémon affectionately. Luciano noticed that three out of five weren’t carrying any Pokéballs. Their Pokémon wandered around them, splashing water and climbing the nearby trees.

A Herdier barked in his direction.

“What’s up, Herdy?” A small girl looked toward him, meeting his gaze. She adjusted her hood with a theatrical gesture and prepared to sound the alarm, like a Watchog sensing danger.

“Oh!…Guys, there’s someone…!”

All five of them froze. They turned to look at him. Their Pokémon did the same. It seemed as though he had stumbled upon a clandestine battle. Yet they certainly didn’t look like criminals. At most, they were eccentric, with those clothes and their words.

“Uh…Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

Luciano, shy and embarrassed, lowered his eyes to his still-bare feet, ready to turn around and leave them alone. But Frillish swam toward him. The two Yamask approached with a mournful moan.

The boy with the Purrloin stepped forward, his gaze proud and his expression serious.

“If you think you’re getting a Pokémon challenge just because our eyes met, you’re very wrong. We don’t make anyone fight for fun. We’re different.”

—

“Look at that Staryu.”

A boy had just tried to catch the starfish in the shallow seabed. Sage Gorm gently stopped him. They were on the seashore. Not for fun: they were on a mission.

“See, Jeremy? It doesn’t want company. It doesn’t want to fight. It just wants to live its life. Like you, like me, like all of us.”

Jeremy looked at the Sage, bewildered.

“Yes, but for the war that’s coming, it will be—”

“The war,” Gorm interrupted, with the voice of one teaching how to live. Firm, yet understanding. The voice of a guide.

“The war is necessary. But we must never forget why. Why did you join Team Plasma? Do you remember?”

“Of course!” Jeremy replied, with a clumsily offended air.

“So that humans and Pokémon could live free!”

Gorm looked at him with gentleness. As he would look at a child. His own son, Aiden, was gone. Now he knew, now he understood, now he could see. The suffering was not his alone: it belonged to the whole world.

“Then why are you trying to imprison one?”

The boy didn’t know what to say. Weren’t they there to capture a very powerful Pokémon? Then why not Staryu?

“It’s true, we use Pokémon to fight. That’s how the world works. For now. But we’re here to change it. We won’t capture anyone unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

About a year earlier, Luciano had spoken with the kids along the river. After a brief moment of tension, they explained who they were and what they were doing. There was a new organization in the region, a new “Team.” They called it Team Plasma.

They spoke to him about Pokémon in a way that was new, yet familiar. They said they wanted to set them free, but that they did it out of love. Perhaps, he thought, it was a kind of love different from what he had always believed he knew. Not possession, not forced companionship. But the courage to let go.

Strange as it seemed, compared to the common perception of caring for one’s Pokémon companions, their words gave meaning to what had seemed meaningless. Luciano, who had seen Pokémon suffer even in the hands of those who seemed to adore them, realized that perhaps there was more than simple personal guilt. It hadn’t been only him who failed to understand his son’s needs. It hadn’t been just Aiden who failed to understand Litwick’s needs. The problem was deeper, more serious.

A society that forced humans and Pokémon to be together could not work. Sooner or later, something would break. It had happened to him. But how many others had experienced something similar? It wasn’t the first time a creature, whatever its species, had been caught in an accident caused by misunderstanding, divergent intentions, or forced closeness. Then why had no one ever spoken about it so openly?

Luciano followed the wise young kids and became part of the organization. Shortly after, he met Ghetsis, the enlightened founder. He immediately understood who he was: a former trainer, a former Elite Four member. An icon of the Pokémon ownership culture, the very culture they wanted to dismantle. And yet, Ghetsis did not reject him; on the contrary, he restored his value. He chose him. He said they needed someone who knew that rotten world, to help tear it down. He made him a Sage, one of the pillars of the nascent Team.

And while instructing him on who he was meant to become, Ghetsis revealed the miracle. The Child King, who would be their guide and their ruler in the future they were building. Natural, an orphan whom Ghetsis himself had adopted, could speak with Pokémon. He was not a master. He was not a trainer. He was a friend for them, a companion. He truly understood them. He was what Luciano had always wished his own son could be for Litwick, what he had wanted to be for Aiden. Everything he had failed to be was there, before his eyes.

Not only that. Ghetsis also encouraged him to reach out to Viktor again, to mend their broken relationship. Luciano now understood that his friend was like him, a prisoner of a guilt that did not belong to him. He thought of having one of his young apprentices approach him. Viktor needed to see, just as he had seen. It didn’t work. So he went to him in person. This time he did not hide behind a corner. He climbed the steps of the porch. One step, two steps, three steps. He was in front of the door. He rang the bell.

Viktor let him in. They spent several seconds, maybe even a few minutes, just looking at each other, unsure of what to do. They were no longer the children with eyes full of adventure, setting off with their Pokémon to become the strongest in the world. Then the former mentor offered him some tea. Luciano accepted. Sitting on the dusty living room sofa, he waited for his friend to return. He couldn’t hold back his tears. He had always been very emotional, after all. His friend returned.

Viktor, initially skeptical, was welcomed into Team Plasma just like Luciano. He too became a Sage. Gorm and Bronius, their new names, hid two men who had endured hell. Separate, yet together. Now they understood.

—

In the depths of Pinwheel Forest, there lived a man.

He had once had a name, a life. He had lost them. 

Then he had been called, and he had found a purpose. Those who guided him had betrayed him. Abandoned him. Even his best friend had chosen another path. He had allowed himself to be imprisoned by rage and grief. He would not.

When Team Plasma failed for the first time, he was not the only one trying to recover. Some may have succeeded. Rood and the Heirs of Plasma spoke with beautiful words. He did not. Should he fight, once again? And for what? To end up manipulated once more by ideals twisted by interests?

He sought those who had followed him in the Plasma. He found himself in the forest and lost his way. He decided this time he wouldn’t find his way back. His way back to where? To prison? To a false redemption? He had the river to follow. He walked along its bank, letting the current carry him toward new inlets. Toward the sea. He freed his Pokémon one last time. He cast the Pokéballs aside, letting them be swallowed by the Memoria’s waves. The creatures did not leave him, following him on his final journey.

One morning, with the sun already high in the sky, the old man saw in the distance the blue frontier he had been waiting for so long. The sea, hidden among the trees’ foliage. All around, the marshy land of the river mouth. He stopped.

A group of Psyduck was playing in the shallow water nearby. Their clumsy cries filled the salty air. A Golduck emerged from beneath the surface, growing large and noisy. With splashes and squawking shouts, the Psyducks scattered among fallen branches and tall grass. Was it a territorial dispute?

Behind a rock in the middle of the river, a Dewott appeared, curious, followed by three small Oshawott. What incredible luck to see them free in the wild! By now, they were so rare they had been declared a species existing only in captivity.

The man resumed walking. Jellicent, who had been following him in the water, surged ahead, riding the current. It couldn’t wait to dive into the salty sea, its natural habitat. It spun once, twice, three times among the algae and the startled Basculin. Then it returned to its friend, as always. He laughed. Cofagrigus and Yamask tried to imitate it, letting out strange, hiccuping sounds of joy. How long had it been since he had seen them so happy?

Trainer, Elite Four, Father, Sage. Luciano, Gorm.

The old man in the forest had been many things. Now he was nothing. Just a man among the trees. The smell of salt hit his nostrils. The sound of the waves breaking on the shore. He had almost arrived. He took off his shoes and stepped into the shallow water, heading toward the horizon. The Psyduck a little ahead welcomed him and let him pass.

He reached the frontier. The trees gave way to an open, windy landscape. His blue eyes lost themselves in the same color as the sea and sky.

The gentle current beneath him collided with the salty waves coming from the opposite direction. To his left, the dry sand yielded to the sea. A faint rustle of small footsteps on the wet sand preceded a group of Dwebble. They all passed in a line before the man’s feet, ignoring his presence. He followed them with his gaze. The beach was dotted with Crustle, blending in with the lifeless rocks.

The old man undressed. He folded his wrinkled, worn clothes and left them on a stone to his right, under a tree. Some Combee approached, curious. A Vespiquen watched them from the hive on the branch above.

He should have stopped: the sea, immense before him, left no way forward. Yet he kept walking, the waves lapping at his calves. Cofagrigus and Yamask followed him. He turned and motioned for them to stay. This time, they obeyed. A moan, a sound like crying. Then they respected his wish and stayed behind. Jellicent waited a little further ahead.

When he reached the great pink jellyfish, the water reached his chest. He placed a hand on its bell. He smiled at her. She allowed him to hold on and gently guided him to where he could no longer touch the ground with his toes. They swam together. Then Jellicent submerged completely, carrying him along.