Exquisite Corpse 2024: Grimdark II
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icomeanon6
That's "I come anon 6"
There is no vanquishing the evil. It will ever resurface. There is no escape.
The evil in question is, of course, the Grimdark Exquisite Corpse, of which this is the second of 2024. We know little of how such a dread thing came to be, but we do know it was @Meridian who sourced the contributions of five doomed authors. The organizer kept the participants in the dark, telling them nothing of the ill-progressing story save the last two sentences written by the previous author. Eventually, the five chapters arrived on my doorstep in a bloodstained envelope (I hope it was just from a papercut...) along with the instruction to post it on the Thousand Roads fanfiction forum, lest the curse reside with me for eternity. Forgive me, and read on if you dare.
The array of the setting sun casts itself upon the reflection of the river. George has always been fond of this specific channel, a liberty only he has: buried within the plentiful mountains and forestry which characterized these parts of Kanto. He’s very familiar with the terrain here.
Kanto’s administration has withered over the past decades- apparently, having the basis of your military junta, the might of the Champion, crushed by a ten-year old boy didn’t bode well with the image of the devout nationalists and shook the already sizable group of disbelieving protesters against the Military-dominated administration.
Of course, that spurred forward an almost dystopian chain of events, and said ten-year old boy couldn’t govern for shit- the administrative power of Kanto crumbled to bits, and eventually that boy fled to the mountains. Great. The region’s fucked now.
George sighs, hunching over to splash his face with water. A deep frustration nestles- since the age of five, he has fend for himself in the woods. Of course, he’s made occasional visits to the urban cities: only when it’s necessary, though. And it’d be a struggle to call them cities anymore.
Celadon’s in ruins right now, the after effects of that civil conflict continuing to last. The unrest still plagues this ‘country’, fifty years later. Heh.
George huffs. He picks some berries in a nearby garden, examining it closely- ah. It’s inedible. He frowns. The berry had a deep purple to it, and appeared like a normal Rawst berry- but not to be fooled. In these horrific conditions, even the most plainest of appearing berries could have issues- and in the case of this Rawst berry, it had faint- barely visible- lines of murkiness to it, and the stem at the point feels a bit too soft.
George tosses it to the side. If one berry’s rotten, that entire bundle probably all is- his gaze falls beside him, on the other side of the river. A lucrative garden of fruit bore itself there, and he smiles.
Crossing the river directly isn’t safe- the water is too murky, contaminated and he can see the sludge of leftover toxins of what be presumes to be the ejections of dying tentacool. Horrific.
This is the world he lives in now- he scavenges through the weeks and months, barely living. He has eyebags, making him appear unsettling. His hair is long and messy, entirely uncared for- and he is all skin and bones, feeling an eternal tug of hunger at his abdomen.
Now he is faced with an issue- how is he to parse the issue of crossing this river, hm? George presses a bright smile again, raising his hand. He could do it the old-fashioned away and walk around, but he’s hungry.
He blows a whistle. The sharp pierce of the sound resonates for a moment. He blows it a second time, raising the pitch even higher- a simple signal. In the distance, a blast of wind launches leaves through the air, the squawking of pidgey and spearow ringing. A shit-eating grin crosses George as he sees a mighty, looming figure propel itself into the air- with a dashing second passing, he sees a Tropius of enormous size descend in front of him.
No words needed to be exchanged- George climbs atop the beast, feeling the silky texture of the dragon of the leaves. Then, he ushers a simple command forward: across the river.
And with a rush, a gust of wind forces him to crouch down and cling for dear life- in one instance, he hovers across familiar grass thorns. The next, he sees a pearly reflection of his disheveled self from the river’s glint- and finally, at last, Tropius descends upon the new destination a second after.
No other words are exchanged- Goerge climbs off, patting Tropius’ head as he stumbles forward. He feasts upon the berries, making sure to analyze them carefully.
The closest city around here is Viridian City- right now, he estimates that he’s in the outskirts of Viridian Forest. Last he recalls, both the forest and the city has been radically changed within the past decades, and now Viridian City is nothing more of an empty shell of itself, and many thinks that this will be the grim future of Kanto. The region will forever reside within a state of turmoil, of wartime and gangs and insurgencies.
George smiles again. He pulls himself up weakly, his skinny figure casting a small shadow over his mighty Tropius. The dragon of the leaves’ eyes narrow, recognizing his intent. George points at the sky.
That’s going to change soon, though- Kanto, since the failure of Champion Red’s reign- has been in a perpetuating cycle of suffering. That’ll change with him, though. George Smith will reform the wallows of Kanto, and he’ll do it with Tropius by his side.
II.
But the road is long. There is much to achieve before he’ll hold any meaningful power, let alone the resources to breach the hellscape that the nuke turned Johto into and reach the Burned Tower.
The first step is to clear the circuit. There is no way to become elected without proving your mettle the traditional way. Then again, there are numerous others that want to try the same. Most, certainly, simply want out of their helpless squalor and into the ivory halls of the fat cats in charge, but some have a vision. Some grand plan to fix it all. They are all fools, of course - fools and heathens. Nothing short of the Phoenix’s divine fire can purify the region.
A hoarse trill snaps George out of his thoughts. He turns to Tropius.
“You’re right,” George says to the wilted sauropod. “We should get going.”
George brings his gaze back to the road, leaving the view of the valley alone, and presses on. The yellowed trees of Viridian Forest pass the two by at a glacial pace while the mountains beyond Pewter loom in the distance. This continues for an hour, perhaps two, until the outskirts of the city come into view. Lots of tents and shoddy shacks set up in the ruins of brick houses. Must be the aftermath of a nido outbreak. Few people are outside, mostly children and their mothers, the black of shadowrot on their skin and resentment in their eyes as they watch George pass by. They must think he’s either one of the elite for looking so healthy, or they correctly guess that he’s immune. Why him and not me? My children? they think. The answer is simple - they worship the wrong gods, or worse yet, no gods at all. But George will change that. He’ll make it clear that if they want the rot and the mutations gone, they’ll have to accept the Phoenix. And when they accept Her, they will be rewarded, given new life.
The two travellers continue on, entering the city proper. The buildings change into the brick houses that the outskirts used to have, but they’re still a far cry from the elite’s residences. The elite actually have glass on their windows.
As street signs appear, George pulls out his map. He uses it and the signs to navigate to his goal: Pewter Gym. The gym sticks out like a sore thumb among the buildings around it, cleanly painted white and with all its roof tiles in place. It stinks of elite money.
“You ready?” George asks Tropius, who trills in response. With Tropius’ grass attacks and Machoke’s punches, the battle should be easy, but George knows not to get too confident. Brock may still have an ace up his sleeve.
George recalls Tropius in his pokéball and enters the gym. He walks up to the tired-looking receptionist, who only has a little bit of rot on her forehead.
“I’m here to challenge Brock,” George says.
The receptionist looks at George, then sighs. “Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Brock was murdered.”
George blinks. “Murdered?”
“Yeah, real nasty. His body was found tied to a pole, naked and all cut up. With the words ‘elite scum’ carved to his chest. I guess they think they’re gonna have a revolution now that Red is gone.”
“I… see.” George pauses. He’ll really have to watch his back once he’s made it big. “Is there someone else covering for him?”
The receptionist sighs again. “You want Craig. But he didn’t show up to work today. I think he’s drinking at the Thirsty Tauros again. You can try to go and get him, but there’s no guarantees he’ll listen to you. Maybe if you have something on you to persuade him.”
George takes a deep breath. He only has enough on him for the regular gym fee and some food, water and potions. He’ll have to come up with some other way to win Craig over.
“What’s the address for the Thirsty Tauros?” he asks. “And what does Craig look like?”
The receptionist types on her computer for a bit, then looks back. “Granite Street 4. And he’s lost one eye to the rot. You can’t mistake him.”
George nods. “Thank you,” he says and exits the building. He takes out his map again, which fortunately shows him where Granite Street is. He spends about fifteen minutes finding and reaching the place, and he’s rewarded with the sight of the sign of the Thirsty Tauros - a tauros holding a pint of beer, as one would expect. George thanks his luck that he turned eighteen just a few days ago and enters the bar.
The first thing to notice is the thick smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke. After that, the rock music from the speakers. After that, the screech of some mon. George looks over to see an arena in the corner of the bar, where a bloody ekans has just bitten a vulpix in the neck. Some drunken men around them cheer, their fists grasping dollar bills.
George ignores them, puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles. The people of the bar turn to look at him briefly, and that’s enough for him to spot one of them at
the counter with a black void in place of his eye. The man turns around before George can say anything, so George walks up to him instead.
Knowing first impressions matter, George takes out his knife and stabs it down on the counter in front of Craig. Once the one-eyed man looks at him, George speaks loudly and clearly. “Mr. Craig,” he begins, “I want to challenge you for the Boulder Badge. Quit your boozing and come with me to the gym, or I will wound you in such a way that even Ho-Oh’s flames could not heal you.” He hopes the Phoenix will forgive him for such a blasphemous statement. He said it for the greater good, after all.
III.
Charmander hops up and down outside the phoenix’s giant nest, piled high with rocks and ash like the peak of a mountain.
“YOU STUPID BIRD!” he shouts and taunts, throwing sticks and pebbles up into the nest. “SMALL-FLAME EMBER CHICKEN! I BET A TORCHIC SHOOTS MORE FIRE THAN YOU!”
But no matter how he heckles the large bird, he simply cannot raise Moltres. Charmander redoubles his efforts, throwing sticks and stones and even pieces of iron, and soon, gold from his bag.
Soon, he throws the whole bag up into the nest, blowing out a stream of fire in frustration.
“CAN’T I PAY YOU?!”
Thrown with powerful force, the bag soars up into the sky and over the jagged ridge of the nest, then disappears with a small ‘splash’ that soars down over the whistling wind of the mountain.
Charmander stares up and waits with bated breath. He waits for anything.
He waits.
And waits.
But no sound comes.
He collapses against the wall of the mountainous nest with a sob, his flame wavering with despair. This was… Moltres is his last chance. After traveling for three days and nights, and scaling a dangerous volcano to get here… it couldn’t all be for nothing!
But the nest atop Moltres’ Peak stays silent. A plume of craggy smoke and ash rises from the top, as if to signify Moltres’ displeasure with the Pokemon of Fire Island. It has not done this in centuries. With only the faint whistling of the wind, the smoky sky of ash, and the silent flowing of liquid fire to comfort him, Charmander curls up into a ball and silently wonders what will happen to his village now. Three settlements a day sacked by Water warriors… without the power of Moltres, there will be nothing they can do.
And yet Moltres stays silent.
Charmander gets up from his resting spot and dusts his orange scales of ash. He wipes the tears from his eyes and looks at the large, flaming, smoking peak above him. He knows what he has to do. Legend says that no pokemon has entered Moltres’ nest and lived to tell the tale… but Charmander must. For his family. For his village. For all of Fire Island, even if it kills him.
IV.
With shaking claws, Charmander takes the first step up the craggy, flaming peak, his resolve strengthened. The vortex of swirling ash and a legendary sea of liquid flame lie ahead of him.
He knew, the only way he could be saved – the world could be saved – was to climb up the mountain, where the one who had been causing all of this stood. For he was the chosen one. The one to defeat the Master who was causing all of this. And he had to do it alone.
And so, he climbed.
Even though he was a fire type, the Charmander could feel the powerful heat radiating from the inside of the peak, the heat from the flame that lay within the mountain. The fire would never go out – it was powered by the mere _breath_ of the beast who lay inside the mountain, the one that commanded those soldiers, the one that took all he had away from him.
But he was stronger than the Master, he thought to himself. Even as he climbed up the mountain, the Master’s pawns tried to stop him. The ones with glowing eyes, spears, sharp claws, lunging toward the Charmander, trying to finish him off before he could get to their master. But the Charmander was strong. For he was blessed by the power of the Ancients, the strength he has gotten from his own training, and, above all, the wills of those who perished for him, the ones who used their lives to pave a way for the Charmander, for the future, for the lives of the children, of those who have yet to be born. The second the Charmander was to so much as touch those soldiers, be it with his fire or his claws, they would slump over, lifeless.
The journey to the top was still treacherous, though. More powerful than any soldier that the Master could throw at him was the Master himself. The mountain was constructed by him, to protect him, to allow him to safely command. As he climbed higher and higher, he could feel the rocky, flaming ground turn into pure, hot lava. It is said that the mountain had part of the Master’s soul and could feel what the Master was feeling. If that was true, Master had probably already known about him, the Charmander thought to himself. He knows I’m here to defeat him.
As the Charmander began approaching the peak of the mountain, it had already turned to nighttime. The only thing that lit up the night was the lava beneath his feet, burning bright as long as the Master – and his cruelty, burned. And then suddenly, it seemed no longer like nighttime. Within one or two seconds, the dark night sky became bright, brighter than the sun.
The Charmander was momentarily blinded. But as he regained vision, he could see the form of his worst enemy, towering above him.
The Master.
V.
The Master was the one who had tortured Crow, made him who he was. Starved him in the filthiest dungeon, where vicious Rattata had gnawed on his flesh, every day, day in, day out. Never a wink of sleep or a moment of reprieve. Every week, the Master had brought in photographs of his family members dead and mutilated, just to taunt him - first his mother and father, his brother, his aunt, his uncles, his grandmother, his first cousins, his second cousins, third cousins he'd never even met. He'd gained a whole new perspective on how many goddamn cousins people had.
"You," Crow spat.
"You," the Master said silkily. He brought his boot down upon Crow's neck. "Long time, no see."
"You killed my-- You killed everyone!"
"I did," the Master confirmed, pressing his boot down, grinding Crow's cheek into the pavement. "And with it I crushed the rebellion. Did you know, even after you escaped, I only kept going? While you were off training in your mountains, with your worthless decaying mentor, I killed all of your relatives, pored over genealogical records until I could find no more. Your village's population is a fraction of what it was. I killed them and ate the flesh of their unborn children and poisoned their pet Pokémon. And I told them all before they went that I was only doing this because of you."
Crow suppressed a whimper. He wouldn't let him get to him. He wouldn't.
"Because, you see, I have already won. All your little friends are gone, too. You thought all that training would help you defeat me? Ha! I used the time well. Without you, they suffered. They died too, pointlessly, because of you. But you never had a chance anyway. Maybe in your fantasies there's a world where a scrappy group of rebels can defeat the might of the world's true Pokémon Master. But that's not the real world. Reality is a cold, harsh place. One where the silly dreams of little underdogs are crushed."
"So does that mean... Raven...?"
"Oh, yes, she's gone too. She went slowly. Refused to scream for a while, but I didn't let her die until I got a good one."
Crow slumped. The boot pressed into his jaw.
"This is what reality looks like, after all. A boot stamping on a human face, forever. Accept it! Discard your defiance and maybe I will let you go quickly."
Crow sniffed. He had nothing left. No one. Nothing to fighting for. What was the point? What was the point of anything, in a world where nothing would ever change?
He said nothing.
"Goodbye, Crow. I had fun. Sadly I don't think anyone else did, in all this."
The Master lifted his foot. For a fleeting second Crow thought he was letting him go. Then the boot came smashing down.
The evil in question is, of course, the Grimdark Exquisite Corpse, of which this is the second of 2024. We know little of how such a dread thing came to be, but we do know it was @Meridian who sourced the contributions of five doomed authors. The organizer kept the participants in the dark, telling them nothing of the ill-progressing story save the last two sentences written by the previous author. Eventually, the five chapters arrived on my doorstep in a bloodstained envelope (I hope it was just from a papercut...) along with the instruction to post it on the Thousand Roads fanfiction forum, lest the curse reside with me for eternity. Forgive me, and read on if you dare.
Thousand Roads Exquisite Corpse 2024
Grimdark II
I.Grimdark II
The array of the setting sun casts itself upon the reflection of the river. George has always been fond of this specific channel, a liberty only he has: buried within the plentiful mountains and forestry which characterized these parts of Kanto. He’s very familiar with the terrain here.
Kanto’s administration has withered over the past decades- apparently, having the basis of your military junta, the might of the Champion, crushed by a ten-year old boy didn’t bode well with the image of the devout nationalists and shook the already sizable group of disbelieving protesters against the Military-dominated administration.
Of course, that spurred forward an almost dystopian chain of events, and said ten-year old boy couldn’t govern for shit- the administrative power of Kanto crumbled to bits, and eventually that boy fled to the mountains. Great. The region’s fucked now.
George sighs, hunching over to splash his face with water. A deep frustration nestles- since the age of five, he has fend for himself in the woods. Of course, he’s made occasional visits to the urban cities: only when it’s necessary, though. And it’d be a struggle to call them cities anymore.
Celadon’s in ruins right now, the after effects of that civil conflict continuing to last. The unrest still plagues this ‘country’, fifty years later. Heh.
George huffs. He picks some berries in a nearby garden, examining it closely- ah. It’s inedible. He frowns. The berry had a deep purple to it, and appeared like a normal Rawst berry- but not to be fooled. In these horrific conditions, even the most plainest of appearing berries could have issues- and in the case of this Rawst berry, it had faint- barely visible- lines of murkiness to it, and the stem at the point feels a bit too soft.
George tosses it to the side. If one berry’s rotten, that entire bundle probably all is- his gaze falls beside him, on the other side of the river. A lucrative garden of fruit bore itself there, and he smiles.
Crossing the river directly isn’t safe- the water is too murky, contaminated and he can see the sludge of leftover toxins of what be presumes to be the ejections of dying tentacool. Horrific.
This is the world he lives in now- he scavenges through the weeks and months, barely living. He has eyebags, making him appear unsettling. His hair is long and messy, entirely uncared for- and he is all skin and bones, feeling an eternal tug of hunger at his abdomen.
Now he is faced with an issue- how is he to parse the issue of crossing this river, hm? George presses a bright smile again, raising his hand. He could do it the old-fashioned away and walk around, but he’s hungry.
He blows a whistle. The sharp pierce of the sound resonates for a moment. He blows it a second time, raising the pitch even higher- a simple signal. In the distance, a blast of wind launches leaves through the air, the squawking of pidgey and spearow ringing. A shit-eating grin crosses George as he sees a mighty, looming figure propel itself into the air- with a dashing second passing, he sees a Tropius of enormous size descend in front of him.
No words needed to be exchanged- George climbs atop the beast, feeling the silky texture of the dragon of the leaves. Then, he ushers a simple command forward: across the river.
And with a rush, a gust of wind forces him to crouch down and cling for dear life- in one instance, he hovers across familiar grass thorns. The next, he sees a pearly reflection of his disheveled self from the river’s glint- and finally, at last, Tropius descends upon the new destination a second after.
No other words are exchanged- Goerge climbs off, patting Tropius’ head as he stumbles forward. He feasts upon the berries, making sure to analyze them carefully.
The closest city around here is Viridian City- right now, he estimates that he’s in the outskirts of Viridian Forest. Last he recalls, both the forest and the city has been radically changed within the past decades, and now Viridian City is nothing more of an empty shell of itself, and many thinks that this will be the grim future of Kanto. The region will forever reside within a state of turmoil, of wartime and gangs and insurgencies.
George smiles again. He pulls himself up weakly, his skinny figure casting a small shadow over his mighty Tropius. The dragon of the leaves’ eyes narrow, recognizing his intent. George points at the sky.
That’s going to change soon, though- Kanto, since the failure of Champion Red’s reign- has been in a perpetuating cycle of suffering. That’ll change with him, though. George Smith will reform the wallows of Kanto, and he’ll do it with Tropius by his side.
Shizzza
II.
But the road is long. There is much to achieve before he’ll hold any meaningful power, let alone the resources to breach the hellscape that the nuke turned Johto into and reach the Burned Tower.
The first step is to clear the circuit. There is no way to become elected without proving your mettle the traditional way. Then again, there are numerous others that want to try the same. Most, certainly, simply want out of their helpless squalor and into the ivory halls of the fat cats in charge, but some have a vision. Some grand plan to fix it all. They are all fools, of course - fools and heathens. Nothing short of the Phoenix’s divine fire can purify the region.
A hoarse trill snaps George out of his thoughts. He turns to Tropius.
“You’re right,” George says to the wilted sauropod. “We should get going.”
George brings his gaze back to the road, leaving the view of the valley alone, and presses on. The yellowed trees of Viridian Forest pass the two by at a glacial pace while the mountains beyond Pewter loom in the distance. This continues for an hour, perhaps two, until the outskirts of the city come into view. Lots of tents and shoddy shacks set up in the ruins of brick houses. Must be the aftermath of a nido outbreak. Few people are outside, mostly children and their mothers, the black of shadowrot on their skin and resentment in their eyes as they watch George pass by. They must think he’s either one of the elite for looking so healthy, or they correctly guess that he’s immune. Why him and not me? My children? they think. The answer is simple - they worship the wrong gods, or worse yet, no gods at all. But George will change that. He’ll make it clear that if they want the rot and the mutations gone, they’ll have to accept the Phoenix. And when they accept Her, they will be rewarded, given new life.
The two travellers continue on, entering the city proper. The buildings change into the brick houses that the outskirts used to have, but they’re still a far cry from the elite’s residences. The elite actually have glass on their windows.
As street signs appear, George pulls out his map. He uses it and the signs to navigate to his goal: Pewter Gym. The gym sticks out like a sore thumb among the buildings around it, cleanly painted white and with all its roof tiles in place. It stinks of elite money.
“You ready?” George asks Tropius, who trills in response. With Tropius’ grass attacks and Machoke’s punches, the battle should be easy, but George knows not to get too confident. Brock may still have an ace up his sleeve.
George recalls Tropius in his pokéball and enters the gym. He walks up to the tired-looking receptionist, who only has a little bit of rot on her forehead.
“I’m here to challenge Brock,” George says.
The receptionist looks at George, then sighs. “Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Brock was murdered.”
George blinks. “Murdered?”
“Yeah, real nasty. His body was found tied to a pole, naked and all cut up. With the words ‘elite scum’ carved to his chest. I guess they think they’re gonna have a revolution now that Red is gone.”
“I… see.” George pauses. He’ll really have to watch his back once he’s made it big. “Is there someone else covering for him?”
The receptionist sighs again. “You want Craig. But he didn’t show up to work today. I think he’s drinking at the Thirsty Tauros again. You can try to go and get him, but there’s no guarantees he’ll listen to you. Maybe if you have something on you to persuade him.”
George takes a deep breath. He only has enough on him for the regular gym fee and some food, water and potions. He’ll have to come up with some other way to win Craig over.
“What’s the address for the Thirsty Tauros?” he asks. “And what does Craig look like?”
The receptionist types on her computer for a bit, then looks back. “Granite Street 4. And he’s lost one eye to the rot. You can’t mistake him.”
George nods. “Thank you,” he says and exits the building. He takes out his map again, which fortunately shows him where Granite Street is. He spends about fifteen minutes finding and reaching the place, and he’s rewarded with the sight of the sign of the Thirsty Tauros - a tauros holding a pint of beer, as one would expect. George thanks his luck that he turned eighteen just a few days ago and enters the bar.
The first thing to notice is the thick smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke. After that, the rock music from the speakers. After that, the screech of some mon. George looks over to see an arena in the corner of the bar, where a bloody ekans has just bitten a vulpix in the neck. Some drunken men around them cheer, their fists grasping dollar bills.
George ignores them, puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles. The people of the bar turn to look at him briefly, and that’s enough for him to spot one of them at
the counter with a black void in place of his eye. The man turns around before George can say anything, so George walks up to him instead.
Knowing first impressions matter, George takes out his knife and stabs it down on the counter in front of Craig. Once the one-eyed man looks at him, George speaks loudly and clearly. “Mr. Craig,” he begins, “I want to challenge you for the Boulder Badge. Quit your boozing and come with me to the gym, or I will wound you in such a way that even Ho-Oh’s flames could not heal you.” He hopes the Phoenix will forgive him for such a blasphemous statement. He said it for the greater good, after all.
canisaries
III.
Charmander hops up and down outside the phoenix’s giant nest, piled high with rocks and ash like the peak of a mountain.
“YOU STUPID BIRD!” he shouts and taunts, throwing sticks and pebbles up into the nest. “SMALL-FLAME EMBER CHICKEN! I BET A TORCHIC SHOOTS MORE FIRE THAN YOU!”
But no matter how he heckles the large bird, he simply cannot raise Moltres. Charmander redoubles his efforts, throwing sticks and stones and even pieces of iron, and soon, gold from his bag.
Soon, he throws the whole bag up into the nest, blowing out a stream of fire in frustration.
“CAN’T I PAY YOU?!”
Thrown with powerful force, the bag soars up into the sky and over the jagged ridge of the nest, then disappears with a small ‘splash’ that soars down over the whistling wind of the mountain.
Charmander stares up and waits with bated breath. He waits for anything.
He waits.
And waits.
But no sound comes.
He collapses against the wall of the mountainous nest with a sob, his flame wavering with despair. This was… Moltres is his last chance. After traveling for three days and nights, and scaling a dangerous volcano to get here… it couldn’t all be for nothing!
But the nest atop Moltres’ Peak stays silent. A plume of craggy smoke and ash rises from the top, as if to signify Moltres’ displeasure with the Pokemon of Fire Island. It has not done this in centuries. With only the faint whistling of the wind, the smoky sky of ash, and the silent flowing of liquid fire to comfort him, Charmander curls up into a ball and silently wonders what will happen to his village now. Three settlements a day sacked by Water warriors… without the power of Moltres, there will be nothing they can do.
And yet Moltres stays silent.
Charmander gets up from his resting spot and dusts his orange scales of ash. He wipes the tears from his eyes and looks at the large, flaming, smoking peak above him. He knows what he has to do. Legend says that no pokemon has entered Moltres’ nest and lived to tell the tale… but Charmander must. For his family. For his village. For all of Fire Island, even if it kills him.
SparklingEspeon
IV.
With shaking claws, Charmander takes the first step up the craggy, flaming peak, his resolve strengthened. The vortex of swirling ash and a legendary sea of liquid flame lie ahead of him.
He knew, the only way he could be saved – the world could be saved – was to climb up the mountain, where the one who had been causing all of this stood. For he was the chosen one. The one to defeat the Master who was causing all of this. And he had to do it alone.
And so, he climbed.
Even though he was a fire type, the Charmander could feel the powerful heat radiating from the inside of the peak, the heat from the flame that lay within the mountain. The fire would never go out – it was powered by the mere _breath_ of the beast who lay inside the mountain, the one that commanded those soldiers, the one that took all he had away from him.
But he was stronger than the Master, he thought to himself. Even as he climbed up the mountain, the Master’s pawns tried to stop him. The ones with glowing eyes, spears, sharp claws, lunging toward the Charmander, trying to finish him off before he could get to their master. But the Charmander was strong. For he was blessed by the power of the Ancients, the strength he has gotten from his own training, and, above all, the wills of those who perished for him, the ones who used their lives to pave a way for the Charmander, for the future, for the lives of the children, of those who have yet to be born. The second the Charmander was to so much as touch those soldiers, be it with his fire or his claws, they would slump over, lifeless.
The journey to the top was still treacherous, though. More powerful than any soldier that the Master could throw at him was the Master himself. The mountain was constructed by him, to protect him, to allow him to safely command. As he climbed higher and higher, he could feel the rocky, flaming ground turn into pure, hot lava. It is said that the mountain had part of the Master’s soul and could feel what the Master was feeling. If that was true, Master had probably already known about him, the Charmander thought to himself. He knows I’m here to defeat him.
As the Charmander began approaching the peak of the mountain, it had already turned to nighttime. The only thing that lit up the night was the lava beneath his feet, burning bright as long as the Master – and his cruelty, burned. And then suddenly, it seemed no longer like nighttime. Within one or two seconds, the dark night sky became bright, brighter than the sun.
The Charmander was momentarily blinded. But as he regained vision, he could see the form of his worst enemy, towering above him.
The Master.
EonDuoLatios
V.
The Master was the one who had tortured Crow, made him who he was. Starved him in the filthiest dungeon, where vicious Rattata had gnawed on his flesh, every day, day in, day out. Never a wink of sleep or a moment of reprieve. Every week, the Master had brought in photographs of his family members dead and mutilated, just to taunt him - first his mother and father, his brother, his aunt, his uncles, his grandmother, his first cousins, his second cousins, third cousins he'd never even met. He'd gained a whole new perspective on how many goddamn cousins people had.
"You," Crow spat.
"You," the Master said silkily. He brought his boot down upon Crow's neck. "Long time, no see."
"You killed my-- You killed everyone!"
"I did," the Master confirmed, pressing his boot down, grinding Crow's cheek into the pavement. "And with it I crushed the rebellion. Did you know, even after you escaped, I only kept going? While you were off training in your mountains, with your worthless decaying mentor, I killed all of your relatives, pored over genealogical records until I could find no more. Your village's population is a fraction of what it was. I killed them and ate the flesh of their unborn children and poisoned their pet Pokémon. And I told them all before they went that I was only doing this because of you."
Crow suppressed a whimper. He wouldn't let him get to him. He wouldn't.
"Because, you see, I have already won. All your little friends are gone, too. You thought all that training would help you defeat me? Ha! I used the time well. Without you, they suffered. They died too, pointlessly, because of you. But you never had a chance anyway. Maybe in your fantasies there's a world where a scrappy group of rebels can defeat the might of the world's true Pokémon Master. But that's not the real world. Reality is a cold, harsh place. One where the silly dreams of little underdogs are crushed."
"So does that mean... Raven...?"
"Oh, yes, she's gone too. She went slowly. Refused to scream for a while, but I didn't let her die until I got a good one."
Crow slumped. The boot pressed into his jaw.
"This is what reality looks like, after all. A boot stamping on a human face, forever. Accept it! Discard your defiance and maybe I will let you go quickly."
Crow sniffed. He had nothing left. No one. Nothing to fighting for. What was the point? What was the point of anything, in a world where nothing would ever change?
He said nothing.
"Goodbye, Crow. I had fun. Sadly I don't think anyone else did, in all this."
The Master lifted his foot. For a fleeting second Crow thought he was letting him go. Then the boot came smashing down.
Dragonfree