You Will be Alone Always and then You Will Die.
zion of arcadia
too much of my own quietness is with me
- Pronouns
- she/her
- Partners
-
author's note: this is the first part of a threeshot I've been working on for a while now. lately, I've been wanting to mess around with different genres in the pokemon world. it works really well given how open-ended pokemon is. also, for once, it isn't pmd. been wanting to dabble with ranger stuff. this is aiming for a mix of noir and magical realism, with some surrealism tacked on because I can't not write surreal scenes lol.
special thanks to DemiurgicPen and MadderJacker for their beta work.
Content Warning:
I Walk through Your Dreams and Invent the Future.
Chapter One: You Will be Alone Always and then You Will Die.
“I can tell already you think I’m the dragon,
that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon.
I’m not the princess either.
Who am I?”
Micah: I quit smoking years ago, you know.
Woman: Oh?
Micah: Nasty habit.
Woman: My Grandpa raised me, you know.
Micah: Do I?
Woman: *giggles* He used to say that he’d go to the donut shop every morning for forty years straight. ‘Heart failure hasn’t gotten me yet, so why worry now?!’
Micah: That right? I used to be able to make smoke rings, you know.
Woman: A man of many talents.
Micah: Damn straight.
*Sounds of laughter, sheets rustling, low moans follow*
Eventually the recording stopped. It always stopped eventually. Tobin pressed down on the rewind button and listened again. Again. And again. A—
Brit took the recorder from her. It looked small cradled in his large hands. A small black box. Pandora’s Box had been small too, probably.
Brit said nothing. (His eyes said: Just bleed glass. They shatter across the carpet and tear your feet to ribbons.)
Sunlight streamed through the cabin deck windows, illuminating the scars illustrating Brit’s rubbery purple skin. They both agreed their favorite was the one on his left knee; a clean white dagger, gained back when he still was a croagunk.
The Ranger School had held its annual capture the flag event. Brit and Tobin participated without much incident. At some point, Tobin had noticed Brit was bleeding. Normally his blood was blue: it had been gold, then. Just the once. The other students mentioned they’d seen splotches of gold splattered on the forest floor, following a trail of breadcrumbs to capture the flag from the witch in the woods.
“You think you know a guy.” Tobin fiddled with her wedding ring, gold band gleaming in the sunlight. Cold hard metal pressed into soft human flesh. She reached for the recorder.
Brit drew back. He shook his head, a minute gesture; the spike jutting out his skull trembled delicately. The recorder wound up stored away in the cabin dresser, a box locked away within a box.
She had nothing to occupy her hands anymore. So Tobin went and made the bed: secured the elastic corner of the fitted sheet around the mattress, straightened the top sheet, ensured the sides hung even in length, tucked the bottom hem underneath the mattress, checked it lay smooth and flat. She could bounce a coin off it. Tobin started mechanically folding the corners of the sheet into diagonal lines.
The movement woke the bronzong seated atop the table. Their painted red eyes flashed. Once, pause. Once, twice, thrice, pause. Then steady, a beacon of light shining out from a hollow shell. Peppermint was all arches and curves despite being made of pure steel. They always seemed frozen on the edge of perpetual motion, always seemed trapped in the silence following the peal of a struck bell.
Peppermint: Because you demand more from yourself, others respect you deeply.
“Oh, fuck off.” That snapped Tobin out of her daze. What the hell was she doing, anyway? She kicked the bed—earning a stubbed toe for her troubles—and hopped away, grumbling more curses while rubbing her sore foot against the carpet. Her mood lightened; a good F-bomb or two often improved her temper.
Tobin loved saying the word fuck. The feel of her bottom lip brushing against her teeth to pronounce the hard F, the way the back of her tongue bucked against the roof of her mouth to form the hard K. It was the ultimate catharsis.
Plus, fuck had such versatility. It could be used as a verb, like: “He fucked up.” Or a noun: “He wanted a hard fuck.” Hell, even an adverb: “He was a fucking waste of space.” Flexible, just like how she liked sex.
Tobin finished dressing. The stiff cotton of her red vest constricted her shoulders, but wearing a uniform helped her feel more in control. People respected sharp lines and crisp shapes.
She combed her short, dark hair into some semblance of order. Brit had turned on the television; The Knights of Castelia danced and sang across the screen. The music was catchy, and Tobin hummed the opening tune under her breath as she headed out on the adjoining balcony for a breath of fresh air.
Ocean blue stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction, the tang of salt on her tongue reminding Tobin of tears. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay Unova. It had been a long time since she’d been home.
The rocking motion of the cruise ship was more noticeable out here. Beneath her feet, the stabilizers fought the waves and currents to remain steady. A constant battle for equilibrium.
A knock on the door startled Tobin out of her reverie. She blinked. Right. It was almost noon. The cleaning staff would be making their rounds, and she had forgotten to put out the Do Not Disturb sign. After a brief pause, Tobin went and answered the door.
Peppermint: Everywhere you choose to go, friendly faces will greet you.
Tobin flipped them the bird.
A somewhat harried audino waited outside, fiddling impatiently beside a bright yellow cart and towering linen stack. Her large, round blue eyes widened when she caught sight of Tobin.
“Oh! Sorry,” she said. The words didn’t match the movements of her mouth. Tobin frowned, head tilted askance.
“You’re not Maria.” Tobin had a habit of getting to know the help in at least some capacity. Before leaving for Almia, she had spent much of her teenage years waitressing at a seedy bar. It put certain matters in perspective.
“No…” The audino fidgeted, feelers curling up toward her ears. Tobin dropped it.
“We’ll get out of your fur. Thanks for everything.” She turned inside. “Oi! Brit, Mint! Move your asses!”
They both took their sweet time, but eventually, everyone stood—or floated—by the door entrance. Brit nodded respectfully. Peppermint paused mid-drift, facing the audino.
Peppermint: Go for the gold today! You’ll be the champion of whatever you put your mind to.
…
The neon lights pulsed the rhythm of the blues.
Casino Royale burned with nightlife. It wasn’t even half past noon, yet. Pokémon and humans brushed shoulders around smoke-laden tables and halo-ringed machines.
Droplets of emotions past lingered in puddles. Every so often someone would cry, struck by inconsolable sorrow, or rage for no reason at all. Rarest of all was the euphoria, like hitting the jackpot, an addiction that kept people coming back in hopes of tasting ambrosia once more. The company that ran the cruise liner had pinned up notices warning them to take heed in convoluted legalese—it was about as effective as most warnings.
OUT OF ORDER
The bold words flashed across the black screen. Tobin rested her forehead against the slot machine. Closed her eyes.
Maybe she should follow Brit’s example and just play pool. This was the third broken slot machine in a row: surely a sign. Games of skill sounded deeply unappealing, however. She would rather hand her money’s fate over to the gambling gods and let come what may.
A few feet away, Peppermint was pretending to divine people’s fortunes. Tobin let it slide, as they were off annoying the general populace instead of her. But if Peppermint got them kicked out, she would not be happy.
“Another one, eh?” asked an unfamiliar voice.
Tobin started, whirling around, before relaxing just as suddenly. A small, older lady with large, owlish eyes blinked at her. Deep lines weathered a long face, and the lady licked her cracked lips, adjusting her grip on the massive trash can full of garbage. She held it out in front of herself almost like a shield. Her name tag read Mabel.
“I guess, yeah.”
“Probably the ghost. Been causing nothing but trouble ever since he snuck onboard our poor missus.” Mabel looked as tired as Tobin felt. “You a ranger?”
“Yeah.”
“My granddaddy was a ranger.” Pride sparked energy in Mabel’s dark brown eyes.
“Yeah?”
Mabel launched into a rambling anecdote. Tobin tried to concentrate, she truly did, but her gaze was drawn to the casino pit, to the blackjack tables just over Mabel’s shoulder. Blackjack. Tobin could work with that.
“Well, uh, I should…” Tobin gestured ambiguously when a lull in the one-sided conversation presented itself. Mabel seemed to understand right away, edging aside, the wheels of her trash can grumbling in protest.
“Thanks for your service. And thanks for obliging an old lady, ma’am.”
“You too,” Tobin said, and then winced. Foot meet mouth. How was the weather up there? Oh, a little crusty, but not as crusty as the floor. Just brilliant.
She hurried away before the social faux pas could settle into awkward silence.
Three men in their early twenties were huddled around the nearest blackjack table. They looked like new money, their clothes gaudy, wearing white tuxes that stood out like sore thumbs in the dark casino. Old money knew better, usually.
The dealer was a muk. Globs of poison burbled around the holographic chips and cards, melting and reforming and melting again. Anything that dribbled onto the table vanished with a soft hiss. When he spoke, golden grillz flashed in his mouth.
A jynx clung to his side. She twirled long locks of silvery blonde hair, lounging about with calculated indifference, smiling coquettishly at the young men. Her smile never quite reached her eyes.
The muk watched Tobin approach, rolling an unlit cigar from one corner of his gaping maw to the other.
“Deal me in next hand?” Tobin asked.
The muk stared. After a long, torturous moment he nodded, the rest of his gelatinous mass following the movement in a slow wave.
One of the young men whistled, looking her up and down. He could not have been older than twenty-five, reddish-blond hair carefully gelled, full mouth naturally curving into a smirk. It reminded Tobin that she would be thirty in a few months.
Her mood soured. As she went to purchase chips at the cage, Tobin already felt the bitter tang of regret tickle the back of her throat. Still, she scribbled her name and table number down for the floorman.
She had last visited a casino over her honeymoon. They went to Goldenrod City—planning on taking the magnet train to Saffron for the second week—eager to enjoy urban life after years spent in the more rural Almia. Micah had always been good with numbers, and they cleaned up at voltorb flip, to the point where the staff politely kicked them out. They told that story as an ice breaker at many a party, although it had morphed and exaggerated itself until they were somehow banned from half the casinos in Johto.
It had been even funnier because Micah was terrible at gambling, cheating with reckless and obvious abandon at home whenever they broke out the cards or dice. He would constantly sneak peeks at her hand, reaching over and fiddling with the dice if he was even a little buzzed. Tobin often got annoyed by how seriously he didn’t take it (dammit, I play to win) until eventually, she would give in, laughing as she tossed her cards at him. Micah would then declare himself the winner in a supreme delusion of grandeur.
When the muk called Tobin’s name, voice a low rumble like gravel scraping against the grain, she absently laid her money on the table. The yen disappeared in a slither of liquid movement.
“You’re from the north?” asked one of the young men. He looked eerily similar to his smirking friend, only with dark brown hair and a more sincere smile. The third and final member of the trio was bald, eyes a striking shade of grey, mouth a thin, flat line as he studied his hand.
“Mhm. Vientown.” Tobin upped the ante. The brunette’s expression went blank with lack of recognition.
Brit stood just beyond the threshold of the pit, beyond the touch of the neon lights. She could see him seeing her, the red of his throat sack stark in a world dulled by shadows. Tobin directed a two-fingered salute his way. Brit returned to his pool game.
“Darling,” interjected the jynx. Her affected drawl crept like ice down Tobin’s neck. “You wouldn’t happen to be attending that fancy convention in Castelia?”
Tobin grunted noncommittally. There had been a fire, and she had helped put it out. Apparently, that was a big deal to the Ranger Union. Sometimes Tobin dreamt about being burned alive at the stake. The medal of valor they gave her would melt a hole in her breast, right over her heart.
The brunette looked intrigued. He said, “Name’s Darren. That”—a gesture toward Blondie McSmirker—“is Trevor. And last but not least”—the bald guy glanced at her, briefly—“we have Miguel.”
Trevor gestured sardonically, a mocking imitation of a half-bow.
“Tobin.”
When she stayed silent, Darren frowned, rifling through his pockets. He pulled out a cigarette pack.
“Smoke?”
“Quit a long time ago.”
Darren shrugged, visibly giving up, bringing a cigarette to his lips. He slapped away Trevor’s questing hand before punching him in the shoulder. They both started laughing, Darren smugly lighting the cigarette and shifting out of Trevor’s reach. Some of the tension eased.
At last, the blackjack game began. Others came and went, joining and leaving in a never-ending flow of bodies. Time passed. People randomly burst into tears or raged for no reason at all.
The lights from the slot machines twinkled and flashed like shooting stars. (Make a wish, they said, and maybe one day all your dreams will come true.) The casino was its own particular universe, each person a planet, each table a sun they orbited around. Micah had once told Tobin that the earth was in a constant state of free-fall.
Blackjack was a game of probability management, of juggling odds. A large helping of luck was needed to beat the system, but it could be done if the cards fell just right. Take a hit, take a stand, never surrender.
Tobin won some and lost some. The three young men lost some and won some. The muk and the jynx took home the vast majority of the spoils.
…
Tobin eased into the hot tub. Heat soaked her flesh, straight through to bone and marrow. Tobin released a sigh, relaxing muscles she hadn’t even realized she’d clenched. Goosebumps rose on exposed flesh.
Beside her, already half-submerged, Brit’s throat sac expanded and collapsed rhythmically, his eyes drowsy and tranquil. Peppermint rested on a beach chair several feet away, supposedly working on their “tan”. Such a strange creature, Tobin didn’t understand them at all.
A swimming pool separated the hot tub from the rest of the water park. Joyful screams and shouts could be heard echoing clear across the ship. The water slide—pride and joy of the cruise, featured on many brochures—was a tangled network of brightly colored tubes. How precarious it seemed, boldly looping beyond the deck boundary, flirting above the churning ocean depths below before nipping back within the ship’s safe confines.
Tobin had a vision, briefly, of the slide collapsing, falling apart, dragging the silhouettes flashing within down, down, down to the bottom of the sea, where they’d sleep with Lugia. (This is the hubris of man.) Then she blinked and reality restored itself. All was well, all was right.
Someone joined her in the hot tub. It took Tobin a moment to recognize him: Darren. One of the boys from the blackjack game. A dewott hovered over his shoulder, experimentally dipping a paw into the water.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Darren grinned. A line of water glistened along the lines of his sternum. “Small world.”
“No wingmen this time?”
Tobin could feel his eyes running over her bare shoulders. It was flattering, frankly, made her feel younger. Desirable.
“They’re running interference like the good little wingmen they are.” Darren jerked a thumb.
She followed the direction he pointed toward, and saw them. The bald one—Miguel, that was his name—sat with his legs crossed on the foam-rubber floor. He had his phone out, tapping a response to someone, skin bleached white from an overabundance of sunscreen visible even at a distance. A servine slept coiled in his lap.
Trevor lay sprawled out on a beach chair, already turning an awkward shade of orange. Large black sunglasses occupied half his face, although he lifted them up to wink at her, rubbing a hand down his chest. He revealed the depths of his farmer’s tan in the process, bearing striking resemblance to a monferno.
Tobin rolled her eyes.
“Good help is hard to find,” Darren said, smiling.
“You know I’m married, right?” Tobin held up her hand. The metal band glinted gold in the sunlight.
Darren blinked, shifting, before his smile returned. “Well, hey, sure, but no harm in talking, is there?”
Tobin didn’t respond at first. Her hand fell, resting on the boiling surface of the hot tub water. It tickled. She clenched her fingers as though to grasp the water, lifting her hand, watching it dribble through her fist. Darren watched too, somewhat mesmerized.
“So what brought you here?” Tobin asked.
“Huh? Oh. Oh! We graduated college.”
“Congrats.”
“Thanks. University of Driftveil. We made a promise years ago, when we first got pledged and, uh, hazed, that once we made it out the other side, we’d celebrate by going on a cruise.”
“When I was in Ranger School, there was this one thing the seniors had us do, you remember, Brit? With the mattresses?”
Brit opened one eye. After a moment of thought, he smiled, red middle finger touching his thumb in an OK sign. Tobin grinned back.
“Mattresses?” Darren asked.
“Yeah. They stacked a bunch of mattresses on top of each other, then placed either a marble, a pea, or a cue ball underneath. You slept on one of ‘em and the next morning you had to guess what it was. If you got it right, you were golden, likely to pass school with flying colors. If you got it wrong, you’d have to do the seniors’ chores for them for a month.”
“And here we just had the good ol’ fashioned, tie people up half-naked to a flag pole routine. Amateurs,” Darren said. Tobin snorted. “Did you get it right?”
“Nah. I said marble; I got pea.” The tower of mattresses had leaned and swayed throughout the night. She hadn’t slept at all, afraid she’d roll off. The mattresses would follow and Tobin would surely be buried alive.
“Unlucky. You had a one in three chance. Good odds.”
“Better than blackjack, that’s for damn sure.”
Darren laughed easily. He had a silver crown in his left molar. “What’s it like, being a ranger? I tried the whole trainer song and dance as a kid, but quickly realized nature and I aren’t too simpatico. Unless it’s, um, a picture of nature framed on an office wall. But, y’know, now that I’m pretty much all set, that sort of adventurous job—it’s romantic to think about, almost.”
“Has its ups and downs, like most jobs.” Tobin bit her lip. Twisting smoothly, she gestured at Peppermint. “Hey, could you pass me my capture styler?”
She always kept it nearby. Just to be safe.
Peppermint: Courtesy begins in the home.
“Please?” Tobin maintained a straight face with slight difficulty.
The bag lifted into the air, begrudgingly dragging itself toward her. She leaned over the hot tub, one arm resting on the warm concrete while the other reached for the dangling loop of leather. The bag stuttered and almost dipped back, beyond her grasp, but Tobin was too quick; she snagged it out of the air with a grunt, overheated skin flushing an even darker shade of red.
Peppermint: Emulate what you respect in your friends.
Tobin scoffed, turning and facing Darren, who’d watched the entire proceedings with obvious amusement. He had a dimple in his right cheek. His dewott companion finally eased both feet into the hot tub, humming a soft little sea shanty under her breath:
“So we’ll ro-o-oll the old chariot along!
And we’ll roll the golden chariot along!
So we’ll ro-o-oll the old chariot along!
And we’ll all hang on behind!”
The capture stylus was waterproof. To many it was the ultimate utility device. To Tobin it was the fairest invention in all the land.
Tobin pressed the release trigger underneath the stylus; the capture disc dropped away with a quiet, delicate whir. A miniature cyclone stirred, circling around the disc, which became the eye of the storm. It hovered within the seething water, emitting a series of chirps, mimicking the tune Darren’s dewott hummed.
Red, green, and blue lights sparked to life around the disc. They danced to the beat, an energetic balboa, blip blip beep beep; the figure eight was improvised, a shimmer of circles striving toward infinity.
The dewott stopped singing. Brit opened his eyes fully. Both followed the disc’s movements, their heads bobbing in time with the rhythm of the music.
Brit twirled his claw. Purple laced the lights, and the pitch shifted into a minor key. Tobin remembered their conversation once upon a time (My, my, what great red middle fingers you have, my dear. The better to flip me off with?) and bit back a smile.
Darren looked equally entranced, one hand breaching the water and sliding toward it. His hand was so large—or, perhaps, the disc was so small—that it could nestle comfortably in the dip of his palm. Tobin pulled the trigger again and the disc flitted coyly back home. The rapid beat of its mechanical heartbeat thrummed briefly before falling silent. It was a little death.
“You can look but you can’t touch,” she said.
Darren blinked a slow blink as though waking from a deep slumber.
“Sorry. Forgot.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.” Tobin tapped the stylus tip against her temple. There was a hint of a knowing smirk to her smile.
The dewott yawned, slumping onto her back, sharp white fangs gleaming under the clear blue sky as she folded her arms behind her head. The joyful cries of people enjoying the water park drifted toward them on salt sprayed wings. Oh, what a beautiful day.
…
Tobin clicked the plastic buckles of the corduroy vest into place. Cinching the strap tight across her waist, the clasps made a satisfying sound as they interlocked. Snick. Snick. Snick. She then fiddled with the shoulder pads. They were just a shade too large for her slim frame.
Brit wandered over, prodding the flashing LED lights decorating her harness. Tobin batted him away with a grin, saying, “None of that now. Back to your battle station, soldier.”
Brit held himself at attention, sucking his throat sack flat against the underside of his jaw. Tobin laughed. The sound resembled her appearance: short and sharp. Except for the shoulder pads, which were still too big.
“Okay, but try to remember that it’s not real, yeah?” Trevor was leaning against a sign, absently fiddling with his laser gun. He pushed himself upright, movement smooth and languid, head cocked like a curious meowth. His farmer’s tan had faded, no longer quite so egregious, although he still looked ridiculous.
Tobin could make out the sign behind him. It read:
Might as well have written NO FUN and saved some space.
Several other people and pokémon milled about in the blue quarter. A simple black partition divided them from their opponent. Darren was on the red team. Tobin looked forward to kicking his ass.
“Try not to slow us down,” Tobin said at last. It wasn’t the most amazing of comebacks, but Trevor didn’t seem particularly worthy of an amazing comeback anyway.
His pignite grunted in response, ears standing on end. The stocky, muscular beast stood by the entrance to the laser tag arena, where pounding synths and neon lights beckoned from within. Trevor smirked.
“It’s kinda funny how these places always use vaporwave. One day I’d like to shoot people to the strumming of a banjo, know what I mean?”
Tobin laughed despite herself.
The light above the entrance flashed green. Go time. People began moving, trundling through into the room beyond.
“Let’s dosey doe, partner,” Tobin said.
Trevor’s smirk deepened.
They followed the rest of the group. A tall, dark maze of glowing panels rose up to meet them. In unison, Trevor and Tobin split, sprinting in opposite directions.
A volbeat staff member droned on about the no running rule. He was ignored. Tobin remembered how she’d once played a round of paintball with Micah, a long time ago. He’d hated it, hated the sting of the paint pellets even through their vests, hated the bruises left behind in their wake. Maybe he would’ve liked this better.
She cradled her laser gun closer to her chest, rounding the corner only to run directly into a flash of red light. Her vest beeped: meep, meep, meep!
Tobin swore under her breath. Darren’s face swam into view, long shadows granting his features a sunken, skull-like cast. He grinned, ghoulish, before dashing away.
“Coward!” Tobin called out.
There would be no tactical retreats on her watch. She took off in pursuit, chasing his elusive figure. Her face hurt from smiling, adrenaline thrumming through her veins.
The pulsing synthetic music faded to the background. Muffled shouts and snort, the pitter-patter of feet on tarmac, took prominence. Tobin ducked, weaving through the arena, smoothly running through the checklist in her head: always stick to the off-angles, never approaching head-on; strafe from side to side, becoming a harder target to hit.
The laser gun ran out of ‘ammo’, so Tobin went to refill it at one of the stations. They lurked in the corners of the arena, hulking machines with a scanner resembling an eye, like the cyclops of myth. But the cyclops was sleeping, and she was No One.
A tingle shivered up her arm, the first clue something was wrong. Tobin ignored it, nipping past a young makuhita. She caught sight of a vaguely Darren-shaped silhouette. She fired; their vest glowed yellow.
Another tingle, sharper, more painful, sparked at her hand. Tobin dropped the gun with a curse, instinctively sucking on her thumb. She’d burned herself, somehow.
The acrid scent of electrical fire filled the air. The entire arena gleamed shades of gold. People’s shouts turned to screams.
The cyclops had woken up.
They shut down the entire arena, plunging everyone into true darkness. Tobin couldn’t see. Her hand was in front of her face and she couldn’t see it. She stood still, nails digging into thighs, and thought about circles. Suddenly the volbeat reappeared, surrounded by an ethereal glow. He touched her shoulder and told her everything would be okay. She didn’t believe him.
More staff members rushed in, most carrying flashlights, and ushered everyone out. Some muttered under their breath about ghosts. Tobin recalled, dimly, someone else somewhere else mentioning something similar.
Much of the next half-hour passed in a blur. The cruise’s medical staff came and checked up on them all, fussing like overprotective mothers. Darren, Trevor, and Miguel were fine if a little shaken, as were their pokémon.
Brit watched Tobin carefully; he was no doubt waiting on her signal. They knew each other too well.
Security eventually arrived, standing around the perimeter the laser tag staff had marked off, harrumphing over nothing. In Tobin’s experience, security guards were some of the most useless people around, bar none. She marched up to them, Brit skulking in her wake.
“I’m a ranger. Let me check it out,” Tobin said, flashing her capture stylus. “Lowers chance of property damage that way.”
They hemmed and hawed before circling around to some more harrumphing, although they clearly found the second portion of her argument compelling. At last, they agreed to let Tobin try first; if she failed or took too long, they’d call for some ace trainers.
“Hey, uh, be careful,” Darren called out. Tobin responded with a nonchalant wave.
The arena was still pitch black. They’d cut the music too, and beneath the silence, Tobin heard the ship breathing. Inhale, exhale. Her capture disc hummed, flitting about a few feet ahead, illuminating everything in a rich purple glow. It would occasionally dart back, twirling around them, then carelessly skip ahead once more. Brit’s slick skin shimmered iridescent beside her.
The eye of the cyclops flashed. Then another, further down. Tobin prowled after them, her tread silent.
They guided her to a television hanging just beyond the arena. Normally it would display scores as people exited. Now, however, only static played across the screen. As Tobin and Brit approached, drawn like moths to a flame, it turned orange. Characters appeared of their own accord:
:)
Tobin frowned, flicking her stylus. The disc glided upward on smooth, concentric energy rings, dancing over the frame of the television set. Nothing happened. After a moment, new words appeared:
Ooooh, pretty!
“Hey, get out of there.” Tobin frowned, folding her arms. “Just want to talk.”
You could always come inside instead.
A strange current crackled through the air. Tobin rubbed her arms, the hair there standing on end. She said, “That might be difficult. Don't be difficult.”
But we’re talking right now. :D
Tobin exchanged an uneasy glance with Brit. He stepped several paces closer to the television before jumping back, grimacing. A faint acrid scent, similar to earlier but closer to burnt rubber, hit her nose. Tobin touched his shoulder; Brit nodded back at her.
“I prefer talking face-to-face.”
Two huge eyes blinked into existence.
Better?
“Not really, no.”
Let’s play a game then! :D :D :D
“What, hide and seek?” Tobin asked, more than a little sourly.
Noooo. Well, kinda. I know part of a secret. Let’s race to see who figures out the rest first.
The screen flickered. Music blared from nowhere, a steadily rising fanfare. Both Tobin and Brit jumped back, clamping their hands over their ears. The acronym RES flashed as two orange spotlights hopped into view on the screen. They bared their fangs at Tobin, before directing their blinding lights toward the acronym. The fanfare faded away.
Images of a woman sleeping in a tower appeared. A masked figure appeared, sneaking inside. After he left, thorns curled around the tower, strangling it. They were thick, knotted, an ugly dark green, covered in jagged spikes.
fin.
CAST
Tower… ROTOM
Thorns… ROTOM
Prince… ???
Princess… ???????????????????????????????
DIRECTOR
ROTOM!!!
He thought she would wake up, but she didn’t. Now thorns are growing out of her skin. Isn’t that sad? :(
“What are you saying?” Tobin asked, unnerved. Her knuckles whitened.
The ship has many eyes. We share sometimes, and sometimes I see things. But not everything. But I want to know! And I bet you do, too. Don’t you just love planting seeds?
Brit was shaking his head, thick red lips pursed in thought. Tobin’s own thoughts took the form of shapes: circles and squares. They were too similar.
“Why?”
Because it’s fun!
“Nope. Nice try, but nope.”
… Because it’s wrong?
Tobin kneaded her temples. She had a throbbing headache.
“Get out of that fucking TV and maybe we can talk about this some more.”
Only if you let me stay in your stylus.
Tobin glowered. She had the sneaking suspicion she’d been set up. “Deal.”
Brit’s expression harbored clear discontent. She’d be hearing about this later, that was for sure. Too bad Peppermint decided to stay behind in the room, they were useful when it came to dealing with ghosts.
The disc withdrew to the stylus. Another little death. The television was the only light remaining, now. She set her device on the floor and stepped back.
Lighting arced from the television to the stylus. Tobin had to shield her gaze from the bright light. When she could look again, the television had gone dark. The stylus changed color from red to gold, shining like a volbeat at night. She picked it up gingerly, half-expecting a shock, and two large blue eyes reappeared on the touch screen.
:)
special thanks to DemiurgicPen and MadderJacker for their beta work.
Content Warning:
story is a hard M. it deals with matters of infidelity, sexual assault, and addiction. there won't be any specific details, however (for one I'm not that type of writer, for another it wouldn't be allowed on tr if I did lol). there's also vulgarity, gambling, alcohol and drug abuse, violence, and sexual innuendo.
I Walk through Your Dreams and Invent the Future.
Chapter One: You Will be Alone Always and then You Will Die.
that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon.
I’m not the princess either.
Who am I?”
Micah: I quit smoking years ago, you know.
Woman: Oh?
Micah: Nasty habit.
Woman: My Grandpa raised me, you know.
Micah: Do I?
Woman: *giggles* He used to say that he’d go to the donut shop every morning for forty years straight. ‘Heart failure hasn’t gotten me yet, so why worry now?!’
Micah: That right? I used to be able to make smoke rings, you know.
Woman: A man of many talents.
Micah: Damn straight.
*Sounds of laughter, sheets rustling, low moans follow*
Eventually the recording stopped. It always stopped eventually. Tobin pressed down on the rewind button and listened again. Again. And again. A—
Brit took the recorder from her. It looked small cradled in his large hands. A small black box. Pandora’s Box had been small too, probably.
Brit said nothing. (His eyes said: Just bleed glass. They shatter across the carpet and tear your feet to ribbons.)
Sunlight streamed through the cabin deck windows, illuminating the scars illustrating Brit’s rubbery purple skin. They both agreed their favorite was the one on his left knee; a clean white dagger, gained back when he still was a croagunk.
The Ranger School had held its annual capture the flag event. Brit and Tobin participated without much incident. At some point, Tobin had noticed Brit was bleeding. Normally his blood was blue: it had been gold, then. Just the once. The other students mentioned they’d seen splotches of gold splattered on the forest floor, following a trail of breadcrumbs to capture the flag from the witch in the woods.
“You think you know a guy.” Tobin fiddled with her wedding ring, gold band gleaming in the sunlight. Cold hard metal pressed into soft human flesh. She reached for the recorder.
Brit drew back. He shook his head, a minute gesture; the spike jutting out his skull trembled delicately. The recorder wound up stored away in the cabin dresser, a box locked away within a box.
She had nothing to occupy her hands anymore. So Tobin went and made the bed: secured the elastic corner of the fitted sheet around the mattress, straightened the top sheet, ensured the sides hung even in length, tucked the bottom hem underneath the mattress, checked it lay smooth and flat. She could bounce a coin off it. Tobin started mechanically folding the corners of the sheet into diagonal lines.
The movement woke the bronzong seated atop the table. Their painted red eyes flashed. Once, pause. Once, twice, thrice, pause. Then steady, a beacon of light shining out from a hollow shell. Peppermint was all arches and curves despite being made of pure steel. They always seemed frozen on the edge of perpetual motion, always seemed trapped in the silence following the peal of a struck bell.
Peppermint: Because you demand more from yourself, others respect you deeply.
“Oh, fuck off.” That snapped Tobin out of her daze. What the hell was she doing, anyway? She kicked the bed—earning a stubbed toe for her troubles—and hopped away, grumbling more curses while rubbing her sore foot against the carpet. Her mood lightened; a good F-bomb or two often improved her temper.
Tobin loved saying the word fuck. The feel of her bottom lip brushing against her teeth to pronounce the hard F, the way the back of her tongue bucked against the roof of her mouth to form the hard K. It was the ultimate catharsis.
Plus, fuck had such versatility. It could be used as a verb, like: “He fucked up.” Or a noun: “He wanted a hard fuck.” Hell, even an adverb: “He was a fucking waste of space.” Flexible, just like how she liked sex.
Tobin finished dressing. The stiff cotton of her red vest constricted her shoulders, but wearing a uniform helped her feel more in control. People respected sharp lines and crisp shapes.
She combed her short, dark hair into some semblance of order. Brit had turned on the television; The Knights of Castelia danced and sang across the screen. The music was catchy, and Tobin hummed the opening tune under her breath as she headed out on the adjoining balcony for a breath of fresh air.
Ocean blue stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction, the tang of salt on her tongue reminding Tobin of tears. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay Unova. It had been a long time since she’d been home.
The rocking motion of the cruise ship was more noticeable out here. Beneath her feet, the stabilizers fought the waves and currents to remain steady. A constant battle for equilibrium.
A knock on the door startled Tobin out of her reverie. She blinked. Right. It was almost noon. The cleaning staff would be making their rounds, and she had forgotten to put out the Do Not Disturb sign. After a brief pause, Tobin went and answered the door.
Peppermint: Everywhere you choose to go, friendly faces will greet you.
Tobin flipped them the bird.
A somewhat harried audino waited outside, fiddling impatiently beside a bright yellow cart and towering linen stack. Her large, round blue eyes widened when she caught sight of Tobin.
“Oh! Sorry,” she said. The words didn’t match the movements of her mouth. Tobin frowned, head tilted askance.
“You’re not Maria.” Tobin had a habit of getting to know the help in at least some capacity. Before leaving for Almia, she had spent much of her teenage years waitressing at a seedy bar. It put certain matters in perspective.
“No…” The audino fidgeted, feelers curling up toward her ears. Tobin dropped it.
“We’ll get out of your fur. Thanks for everything.” She turned inside. “Oi! Brit, Mint! Move your asses!”
They both took their sweet time, but eventually, everyone stood—or floated—by the door entrance. Brit nodded respectfully. Peppermint paused mid-drift, facing the audino.
Peppermint: Go for the gold today! You’ll be the champion of whatever you put your mind to.
…
The neon lights pulsed the rhythm of the blues.
Casino Royale burned with nightlife. It wasn’t even half past noon, yet. Pokémon and humans brushed shoulders around smoke-laden tables and halo-ringed machines.
Droplets of emotions past lingered in puddles. Every so often someone would cry, struck by inconsolable sorrow, or rage for no reason at all. Rarest of all was the euphoria, like hitting the jackpot, an addiction that kept people coming back in hopes of tasting ambrosia once more. The company that ran the cruise liner had pinned up notices warning them to take heed in convoluted legalese—it was about as effective as most warnings.
OUT OF ORDER
The bold words flashed across the black screen. Tobin rested her forehead against the slot machine. Closed her eyes.
Maybe she should follow Brit’s example and just play pool. This was the third broken slot machine in a row: surely a sign. Games of skill sounded deeply unappealing, however. She would rather hand her money’s fate over to the gambling gods and let come what may.
A few feet away, Peppermint was pretending to divine people’s fortunes. Tobin let it slide, as they were off annoying the general populace instead of her. But if Peppermint got them kicked out, she would not be happy.
“Another one, eh?” asked an unfamiliar voice.
Tobin started, whirling around, before relaxing just as suddenly. A small, older lady with large, owlish eyes blinked at her. Deep lines weathered a long face, and the lady licked her cracked lips, adjusting her grip on the massive trash can full of garbage. She held it out in front of herself almost like a shield. Her name tag read Mabel.
“I guess, yeah.”
“Probably the ghost. Been causing nothing but trouble ever since he snuck onboard our poor missus.” Mabel looked as tired as Tobin felt. “You a ranger?”
“Yeah.”
“My granddaddy was a ranger.” Pride sparked energy in Mabel’s dark brown eyes.
“Yeah?”
Mabel launched into a rambling anecdote. Tobin tried to concentrate, she truly did, but her gaze was drawn to the casino pit, to the blackjack tables just over Mabel’s shoulder. Blackjack. Tobin could work with that.
“Well, uh, I should…” Tobin gestured ambiguously when a lull in the one-sided conversation presented itself. Mabel seemed to understand right away, edging aside, the wheels of her trash can grumbling in protest.
“Thanks for your service. And thanks for obliging an old lady, ma’am.”
“You too,” Tobin said, and then winced. Foot meet mouth. How was the weather up there? Oh, a little crusty, but not as crusty as the floor. Just brilliant.
She hurried away before the social faux pas could settle into awkward silence.
Three men in their early twenties were huddled around the nearest blackjack table. They looked like new money, their clothes gaudy, wearing white tuxes that stood out like sore thumbs in the dark casino. Old money knew better, usually.
The dealer was a muk. Globs of poison burbled around the holographic chips and cards, melting and reforming and melting again. Anything that dribbled onto the table vanished with a soft hiss. When he spoke, golden grillz flashed in his mouth.
A jynx clung to his side. She twirled long locks of silvery blonde hair, lounging about with calculated indifference, smiling coquettishly at the young men. Her smile never quite reached her eyes.
The muk watched Tobin approach, rolling an unlit cigar from one corner of his gaping maw to the other.
“Deal me in next hand?” Tobin asked.
The muk stared. After a long, torturous moment he nodded, the rest of his gelatinous mass following the movement in a slow wave.
One of the young men whistled, looking her up and down. He could not have been older than twenty-five, reddish-blond hair carefully gelled, full mouth naturally curving into a smirk. It reminded Tobin that she would be thirty in a few months.
Her mood soured. As she went to purchase chips at the cage, Tobin already felt the bitter tang of regret tickle the back of her throat. Still, she scribbled her name and table number down for the floorman.
She had last visited a casino over her honeymoon. They went to Goldenrod City—planning on taking the magnet train to Saffron for the second week—eager to enjoy urban life after years spent in the more rural Almia. Micah had always been good with numbers, and they cleaned up at voltorb flip, to the point where the staff politely kicked them out. They told that story as an ice breaker at many a party, although it had morphed and exaggerated itself until they were somehow banned from half the casinos in Johto.
It had been even funnier because Micah was terrible at gambling, cheating with reckless and obvious abandon at home whenever they broke out the cards or dice. He would constantly sneak peeks at her hand, reaching over and fiddling with the dice if he was even a little buzzed. Tobin often got annoyed by how seriously he didn’t take it (dammit, I play to win) until eventually, she would give in, laughing as she tossed her cards at him. Micah would then declare himself the winner in a supreme delusion of grandeur.
When the muk called Tobin’s name, voice a low rumble like gravel scraping against the grain, she absently laid her money on the table. The yen disappeared in a slither of liquid movement.
“You’re from the north?” asked one of the young men. He looked eerily similar to his smirking friend, only with dark brown hair and a more sincere smile. The third and final member of the trio was bald, eyes a striking shade of grey, mouth a thin, flat line as he studied his hand.
“Mhm. Vientown.” Tobin upped the ante. The brunette’s expression went blank with lack of recognition.
Brit stood just beyond the threshold of the pit, beyond the touch of the neon lights. She could see him seeing her, the red of his throat sack stark in a world dulled by shadows. Tobin directed a two-fingered salute his way. Brit returned to his pool game.
“Darling,” interjected the jynx. Her affected drawl crept like ice down Tobin’s neck. “You wouldn’t happen to be attending that fancy convention in Castelia?”
Tobin grunted noncommittally. There had been a fire, and she had helped put it out. Apparently, that was a big deal to the Ranger Union. Sometimes Tobin dreamt about being burned alive at the stake. The medal of valor they gave her would melt a hole in her breast, right over her heart.
The brunette looked intrigued. He said, “Name’s Darren. That”—a gesture toward Blondie McSmirker—“is Trevor. And last but not least”—the bald guy glanced at her, briefly—“we have Miguel.”
Trevor gestured sardonically, a mocking imitation of a half-bow.
“Tobin.”
When she stayed silent, Darren frowned, rifling through his pockets. He pulled out a cigarette pack.
“Smoke?”
“Quit a long time ago.”
Darren shrugged, visibly giving up, bringing a cigarette to his lips. He slapped away Trevor’s questing hand before punching him in the shoulder. They both started laughing, Darren smugly lighting the cigarette and shifting out of Trevor’s reach. Some of the tension eased.
At last, the blackjack game began. Others came and went, joining and leaving in a never-ending flow of bodies. Time passed. People randomly burst into tears or raged for no reason at all.
The lights from the slot machines twinkled and flashed like shooting stars. (Make a wish, they said, and maybe one day all your dreams will come true.) The casino was its own particular universe, each person a planet, each table a sun they orbited around. Micah had once told Tobin that the earth was in a constant state of free-fall.
Blackjack was a game of probability management, of juggling odds. A large helping of luck was needed to beat the system, but it could be done if the cards fell just right. Take a hit, take a stand, never surrender.
Tobin won some and lost some. The three young men lost some and won some. The muk and the jynx took home the vast majority of the spoils.
…
Tobin eased into the hot tub. Heat soaked her flesh, straight through to bone and marrow. Tobin released a sigh, relaxing muscles she hadn’t even realized she’d clenched. Goosebumps rose on exposed flesh.
Beside her, already half-submerged, Brit’s throat sac expanded and collapsed rhythmically, his eyes drowsy and tranquil. Peppermint rested on a beach chair several feet away, supposedly working on their “tan”. Such a strange creature, Tobin didn’t understand them at all.
A swimming pool separated the hot tub from the rest of the water park. Joyful screams and shouts could be heard echoing clear across the ship. The water slide—pride and joy of the cruise, featured on many brochures—was a tangled network of brightly colored tubes. How precarious it seemed, boldly looping beyond the deck boundary, flirting above the churning ocean depths below before nipping back within the ship’s safe confines.
Tobin had a vision, briefly, of the slide collapsing, falling apart, dragging the silhouettes flashing within down, down, down to the bottom of the sea, where they’d sleep with Lugia. (This is the hubris of man.) Then she blinked and reality restored itself. All was well, all was right.
Someone joined her in the hot tub. It took Tobin a moment to recognize him: Darren. One of the boys from the blackjack game. A dewott hovered over his shoulder, experimentally dipping a paw into the water.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Darren grinned. A line of water glistened along the lines of his sternum. “Small world.”
“No wingmen this time?”
Tobin could feel his eyes running over her bare shoulders. It was flattering, frankly, made her feel younger. Desirable.
“They’re running interference like the good little wingmen they are.” Darren jerked a thumb.
She followed the direction he pointed toward, and saw them. The bald one—Miguel, that was his name—sat with his legs crossed on the foam-rubber floor. He had his phone out, tapping a response to someone, skin bleached white from an overabundance of sunscreen visible even at a distance. A servine slept coiled in his lap.
Trevor lay sprawled out on a beach chair, already turning an awkward shade of orange. Large black sunglasses occupied half his face, although he lifted them up to wink at her, rubbing a hand down his chest. He revealed the depths of his farmer’s tan in the process, bearing striking resemblance to a monferno.
Tobin rolled her eyes.
“Good help is hard to find,” Darren said, smiling.
“You know I’m married, right?” Tobin held up her hand. The metal band glinted gold in the sunlight.
Darren blinked, shifting, before his smile returned. “Well, hey, sure, but no harm in talking, is there?”
Tobin didn’t respond at first. Her hand fell, resting on the boiling surface of the hot tub water. It tickled. She clenched her fingers as though to grasp the water, lifting her hand, watching it dribble through her fist. Darren watched too, somewhat mesmerized.
“So what brought you here?” Tobin asked.
“Huh? Oh. Oh! We graduated college.”
“Congrats.”
“Thanks. University of Driftveil. We made a promise years ago, when we first got pledged and, uh, hazed, that once we made it out the other side, we’d celebrate by going on a cruise.”
“When I was in Ranger School, there was this one thing the seniors had us do, you remember, Brit? With the mattresses?”
Brit opened one eye. After a moment of thought, he smiled, red middle finger touching his thumb in an OK sign. Tobin grinned back.
“Mattresses?” Darren asked.
“Yeah. They stacked a bunch of mattresses on top of each other, then placed either a marble, a pea, or a cue ball underneath. You slept on one of ‘em and the next morning you had to guess what it was. If you got it right, you were golden, likely to pass school with flying colors. If you got it wrong, you’d have to do the seniors’ chores for them for a month.”
“And here we just had the good ol’ fashioned, tie people up half-naked to a flag pole routine. Amateurs,” Darren said. Tobin snorted. “Did you get it right?”
“Nah. I said marble; I got pea.” The tower of mattresses had leaned and swayed throughout the night. She hadn’t slept at all, afraid she’d roll off. The mattresses would follow and Tobin would surely be buried alive.
“Unlucky. You had a one in three chance. Good odds.”
“Better than blackjack, that’s for damn sure.”
Darren laughed easily. He had a silver crown in his left molar. “What’s it like, being a ranger? I tried the whole trainer song and dance as a kid, but quickly realized nature and I aren’t too simpatico. Unless it’s, um, a picture of nature framed on an office wall. But, y’know, now that I’m pretty much all set, that sort of adventurous job—it’s romantic to think about, almost.”
“Has its ups and downs, like most jobs.” Tobin bit her lip. Twisting smoothly, she gestured at Peppermint. “Hey, could you pass me my capture styler?”
She always kept it nearby. Just to be safe.
Peppermint: Courtesy begins in the home.
“Please?” Tobin maintained a straight face with slight difficulty.
The bag lifted into the air, begrudgingly dragging itself toward her. She leaned over the hot tub, one arm resting on the warm concrete while the other reached for the dangling loop of leather. The bag stuttered and almost dipped back, beyond her grasp, but Tobin was too quick; she snagged it out of the air with a grunt, overheated skin flushing an even darker shade of red.
Peppermint: Emulate what you respect in your friends.
Tobin scoffed, turning and facing Darren, who’d watched the entire proceedings with obvious amusement. He had a dimple in his right cheek. His dewott companion finally eased both feet into the hot tub, humming a soft little sea shanty under her breath:
“So we’ll ro-o-oll the old chariot along!
And we’ll roll the golden chariot along!
So we’ll ro-o-oll the old chariot along!
And we’ll all hang on behind!”
The capture stylus was waterproof. To many it was the ultimate utility device. To Tobin it was the fairest invention in all the land.
Tobin pressed the release trigger underneath the stylus; the capture disc dropped away with a quiet, delicate whir. A miniature cyclone stirred, circling around the disc, which became the eye of the storm. It hovered within the seething water, emitting a series of chirps, mimicking the tune Darren’s dewott hummed.
Red, green, and blue lights sparked to life around the disc. They danced to the beat, an energetic balboa, blip blip beep beep; the figure eight was improvised, a shimmer of circles striving toward infinity.
The dewott stopped singing. Brit opened his eyes fully. Both followed the disc’s movements, their heads bobbing in time with the rhythm of the music.
Brit twirled his claw. Purple laced the lights, and the pitch shifted into a minor key. Tobin remembered their conversation once upon a time (My, my, what great red middle fingers you have, my dear. The better to flip me off with?) and bit back a smile.
Darren looked equally entranced, one hand breaching the water and sliding toward it. His hand was so large—or, perhaps, the disc was so small—that it could nestle comfortably in the dip of his palm. Tobin pulled the trigger again and the disc flitted coyly back home. The rapid beat of its mechanical heartbeat thrummed briefly before falling silent. It was a little death.
“You can look but you can’t touch,” she said.
Darren blinked a slow blink as though waking from a deep slumber.
“Sorry. Forgot.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.” Tobin tapped the stylus tip against her temple. There was a hint of a knowing smirk to her smile.
The dewott yawned, slumping onto her back, sharp white fangs gleaming under the clear blue sky as she folded her arms behind her head. The joyful cries of people enjoying the water park drifted toward them on salt sprayed wings. Oh, what a beautiful day.
…
Tobin clicked the plastic buckles of the corduroy vest into place. Cinching the strap tight across her waist, the clasps made a satisfying sound as they interlocked. Snick. Snick. Snick. She then fiddled with the shoulder pads. They were just a shade too large for her slim frame.
Brit wandered over, prodding the flashing LED lights decorating her harness. Tobin batted him away with a grin, saying, “None of that now. Back to your battle station, soldier.”
Brit held himself at attention, sucking his throat sack flat against the underside of his jaw. Tobin laughed. The sound resembled her appearance: short and sharp. Except for the shoulder pads, which were still too big.
“Okay, but try to remember that it’s not real, yeah?” Trevor was leaning against a sign, absently fiddling with his laser gun. He pushed himself upright, movement smooth and languid, head cocked like a curious meowth. His farmer’s tan had faded, no longer quite so egregious, although he still looked ridiculous.
Tobin could make out the sign behind him. It read:
- NO RUNNING
- NO JUMPING
- NO SHOUTING
Might as well have written NO FUN and saved some space.
Several other people and pokémon milled about in the blue quarter. A simple black partition divided them from their opponent. Darren was on the red team. Tobin looked forward to kicking his ass.
“Try not to slow us down,” Tobin said at last. It wasn’t the most amazing of comebacks, but Trevor didn’t seem particularly worthy of an amazing comeback anyway.
His pignite grunted in response, ears standing on end. The stocky, muscular beast stood by the entrance to the laser tag arena, where pounding synths and neon lights beckoned from within. Trevor smirked.
“It’s kinda funny how these places always use vaporwave. One day I’d like to shoot people to the strumming of a banjo, know what I mean?”
Tobin laughed despite herself.
The light above the entrance flashed green. Go time. People began moving, trundling through into the room beyond.
“Let’s dosey doe, partner,” Tobin said.
Trevor’s smirk deepened.
They followed the rest of the group. A tall, dark maze of glowing panels rose up to meet them. In unison, Trevor and Tobin split, sprinting in opposite directions.
A volbeat staff member droned on about the no running rule. He was ignored. Tobin remembered how she’d once played a round of paintball with Micah, a long time ago. He’d hated it, hated the sting of the paint pellets even through their vests, hated the bruises left behind in their wake. Maybe he would’ve liked this better.
She cradled her laser gun closer to her chest, rounding the corner only to run directly into a flash of red light. Her vest beeped: meep, meep, meep!
Tobin swore under her breath. Darren’s face swam into view, long shadows granting his features a sunken, skull-like cast. He grinned, ghoulish, before dashing away.
“Coward!” Tobin called out.
There would be no tactical retreats on her watch. She took off in pursuit, chasing his elusive figure. Her face hurt from smiling, adrenaline thrumming through her veins.
The pulsing synthetic music faded to the background. Muffled shouts and snort, the pitter-patter of feet on tarmac, took prominence. Tobin ducked, weaving through the arena, smoothly running through the checklist in her head: always stick to the off-angles, never approaching head-on; strafe from side to side, becoming a harder target to hit.
The laser gun ran out of ‘ammo’, so Tobin went to refill it at one of the stations. They lurked in the corners of the arena, hulking machines with a scanner resembling an eye, like the cyclops of myth. But the cyclops was sleeping, and she was No One.
A tingle shivered up her arm, the first clue something was wrong. Tobin ignored it, nipping past a young makuhita. She caught sight of a vaguely Darren-shaped silhouette. She fired; their vest glowed yellow.
Another tingle, sharper, more painful, sparked at her hand. Tobin dropped the gun with a curse, instinctively sucking on her thumb. She’d burned herself, somehow.
The acrid scent of electrical fire filled the air. The entire arena gleamed shades of gold. People’s shouts turned to screams.
The cyclops had woken up.
They shut down the entire arena, plunging everyone into true darkness. Tobin couldn’t see. Her hand was in front of her face and she couldn’t see it. She stood still, nails digging into thighs, and thought about circles. Suddenly the volbeat reappeared, surrounded by an ethereal glow. He touched her shoulder and told her everything would be okay. She didn’t believe him.
More staff members rushed in, most carrying flashlights, and ushered everyone out. Some muttered under their breath about ghosts. Tobin recalled, dimly, someone else somewhere else mentioning something similar.
Much of the next half-hour passed in a blur. The cruise’s medical staff came and checked up on them all, fussing like overprotective mothers. Darren, Trevor, and Miguel were fine if a little shaken, as were their pokémon.
Brit watched Tobin carefully; he was no doubt waiting on her signal. They knew each other too well.
Security eventually arrived, standing around the perimeter the laser tag staff had marked off, harrumphing over nothing. In Tobin’s experience, security guards were some of the most useless people around, bar none. She marched up to them, Brit skulking in her wake.
“I’m a ranger. Let me check it out,” Tobin said, flashing her capture stylus. “Lowers chance of property damage that way.”
They hemmed and hawed before circling around to some more harrumphing, although they clearly found the second portion of her argument compelling. At last, they agreed to let Tobin try first; if she failed or took too long, they’d call for some ace trainers.
“Hey, uh, be careful,” Darren called out. Tobin responded with a nonchalant wave.
The arena was still pitch black. They’d cut the music too, and beneath the silence, Tobin heard the ship breathing. Inhale, exhale. Her capture disc hummed, flitting about a few feet ahead, illuminating everything in a rich purple glow. It would occasionally dart back, twirling around them, then carelessly skip ahead once more. Brit’s slick skin shimmered iridescent beside her.
The eye of the cyclops flashed. Then another, further down. Tobin prowled after them, her tread silent.
They guided her to a television hanging just beyond the arena. Normally it would display scores as people exited. Now, however, only static played across the screen. As Tobin and Brit approached, drawn like moths to a flame, it turned orange. Characters appeared of their own accord:
:)
Tobin frowned, flicking her stylus. The disc glided upward on smooth, concentric energy rings, dancing over the frame of the television set. Nothing happened. After a moment, new words appeared:
Ooooh, pretty!
“Hey, get out of there.” Tobin frowned, folding her arms. “Just want to talk.”
You could always come inside instead.
A strange current crackled through the air. Tobin rubbed her arms, the hair there standing on end. She said, “That might be difficult. Don't be difficult.”
But we’re talking right now. :D
Tobin exchanged an uneasy glance with Brit. He stepped several paces closer to the television before jumping back, grimacing. A faint acrid scent, similar to earlier but closer to burnt rubber, hit her nose. Tobin touched his shoulder; Brit nodded back at her.
“I prefer talking face-to-face.”
Two huge eyes blinked into existence.
Better?
“Not really, no.”
Let’s play a game then! :D :D :D
“What, hide and seek?” Tobin asked, more than a little sourly.
Noooo. Well, kinda. I know part of a secret. Let’s race to see who figures out the rest first.
The screen flickered. Music blared from nowhere, a steadily rising fanfare. Both Tobin and Brit jumped back, clamping their hands over their ears. The acronym RES flashed as two orange spotlights hopped into view on the screen. They bared their fangs at Tobin, before directing their blinding lights toward the acronym. The fanfare faded away.
Images of a woman sleeping in a tower appeared. A masked figure appeared, sneaking inside. After he left, thorns curled around the tower, strangling it. They were thick, knotted, an ugly dark green, covered in jagged spikes.
fin.
CAST
Tower… ROTOM
Thorns… ROTOM
Prince… ???
Princess… ???????????????????????????????
DIRECTOR
ROTOM!!!
He thought she would wake up, but she didn’t. Now thorns are growing out of her skin. Isn’t that sad? :(
“What are you saying?” Tobin asked, unnerved. Her knuckles whitened.
The ship has many eyes. We share sometimes, and sometimes I see things. But not everything. But I want to know! And I bet you do, too. Don’t you just love planting seeds?
Brit was shaking his head, thick red lips pursed in thought. Tobin’s own thoughts took the form of shapes: circles and squares. They were too similar.
“Why?”
Because it’s fun!
“Nope. Nice try, but nope.”
… Because it’s wrong?
Tobin kneaded her temples. She had a throbbing headache.
“Get out of that fucking TV and maybe we can talk about this some more.”
Only if you let me stay in your stylus.
Tobin glowered. She had the sneaking suspicion she’d been set up. “Deal.”
Brit’s expression harbored clear discontent. She’d be hearing about this later, that was for sure. Too bad Peppermint decided to stay behind in the room, they were useful when it came to dealing with ghosts.
The disc withdrew to the stylus. Another little death. The television was the only light remaining, now. She set her device on the floor and stepped back.
Lighting arced from the television to the stylus. Tobin had to shield her gaze from the bright light. When she could look again, the television had gone dark. The stylus changed color from red to gold, shining like a volbeat at night. She picked it up gingerly, half-expecting a shock, and two large blue eyes reappeared on the touch screen.
:)
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