Entry 1, with the prompt "The First Goodbye".
Left for Another Time
“Are you
sure I can’t be of help?”
Celebi looks back at Grovyle and his question with a knowing stare, perhaps a daring one? If Celebi knew what Grovyle had suspected for a while, the sprite guardian has kept mum on that. The only response Celebi has for Grovyle is raising a finger past the floating map of energy strands and weird glyphs it had spawned... and a reminder of how dire the situation was.
“Final time travel calculations. Very delicate.”
Grovyle nods back, he shuffles in place, and averts his gaze from Celebi and its workings. Celebi wouldn’t
lie, certainly. But the sprite is usually more effusive and… inviting, when it comes to Grovyle.
The sound of zippers closing and machinery shuffling lingers in the background. Grovyle turns around to see his human Partner readying the mission bags. There might still be enough to do, so Grovyle goes over there, to see if he can be of help with the preparations.
But he fidgets still, weighing countless questions in his mind. Of the expedition into Celebi’s world, Partner and Grovyle were the only ones left... They had to be, If anyone else had been successful, they could have learned of the details and journeyed back in time and fix things… right?
Yet Grovyle is still here. Helping his partner.
Over the week, Grovyle had helped his Partner check-in the mission bags. Protein bars, packed solutions for crafting antidotes and burn heals, a tokiscope for the Gears, needles and leather straps for quick repairs, a towel, two epinephrine shots, a bag of mint leaves for making tea, a taser. That kind of stuff.
Still, over that week, Partner had taken to undoing and redoing the packaging every day, sometimes even three times a day.
Grovyle did not question it before, and does not mind this time either. He would inch closer and give a (even if he would later not admit it) sheepish look up at his companion. Grovyle never has needed to ask, however; his Partner knew. Like before, Partner shuffles to the side and invites Grovyle to sit by and help pack the bags. Again. And again.
They would idly talk about stuff. Never questions. Never answers. Only desires and guesses of what the world of the past would be like.
Every once in a while, Grovyle had wondered if he should voice his doubts out loud. The expedition handlers had been scientists. They instructed the humans on the basics of time travel, for what was needed of them to do. Treecko, back then, barely understood any of that. But over time, over more lessons, he began to understand the stakes, to suspect the logistics.
Eventually Grovyle understood enough, just
enough, to fear. Fear, in part, that his Partner would also fear.
Several minutes pass, and Celebi produces the required passageway. Pulsating, mesmerizing lights and a booming rumble just strong enough that shakes Grovyle’s arm blades, all that coming from nowhere and leading to nowhere. The sprite doesn’t say much. The overall details of what needs to be done have been discussed long enough.
“A straight trip to the Continent of back then. You’ll arrive with three hours of sunlight left... Once you return the Gears to the summit of Alatoĥ, the time fractures in our world should begin to heal.”
Celebi floats aside, prods them onwards. Partner obligues first, no hesitation. Grovyle stays behind for just a moment, and his eyes meet Celebi’s gaze. Almost immediately, the sprite’s pupils shrink and the creature breaks contact, flutters closer to the passageway, calling Grovyle to it as well. Never a need, Grovyle fears, to ask the question nor to spell the answer.
Right after Grovyle put one of the mission bags over his shoulder, Grovyle and Partner grabbed each other’s hands. In that simple motion, in the firmness of the grasp, Grovyle understood that both he and his Partner knew to jump in.
After that… came disaster.
Suddenly everything became a swarm of lights, piercing shrieks, pulsing pains. Darkness and fear pouring into everything that was the passageway, that Grovyle could not understand. All the connection he has to the world he knew is Partner’s grasp, and his yells to not let go of the bag. Until the twisting passageway amps up the torture and suddenly they are lost too.
Grovyle had not understood at first what happened after. He had found himself at the edge of a forest, with only one of the bags, the contents scattered, broken. He recognized nothing of the place, he cried and yelled for Partner, afraid, for a few minutes, until it had dawned upon him that lost as he was he could not know to distinguish friend from foe.
But still, Grovyle has hope, and he scouts the place up to a few meters around him, and he calls for help, calls for family. Then he falls back to a thick tree and breathes hard, and weeps, and wonders what to do, as the shadows tilt and shade around him, revealing the truth.
That he is
all that’s left of the mission now.
“Are you
sure I can’t be of help?”
This doubt, not in his voice, pulls Grovyle out of the frozen time in his mind, back to reality. He looks up to the Mudbray towering besides him, her figure and the canopy above blocking the Sun, then to the Lycanroc picking up Grovyle’s stuff.
When he looks at them, they don’t avert their gazes. There is some concern in their voices, in their expressions. Grovyle simply waves an acknnowledgement and stands up. Something cracks in his back, he winces. Hopefully it’s only he’s getting old already and not something like an injury.
“I could use a bed,” is all he answers.
“Well you are in luck. We were just departing from Sunnyspot for some farming past Treeshroud Forest, but we can take you back to town right away.”
Treeshroud Forest… Grovyle feels his eyebrow raise just a bit. He knows the name, he counts his blessings. When Lycanroc hands Grovyle his bag – misshapen, dirty, but usable still – Grovyle nods and follows the pair back to what he presumes is a main road.
He does not look behind his shoulder. He only lets out a low whine, steeling himself for tomorrow. He has lost his Partner, he has lost his plan.
He can cry later. First he has to get back on his feet.
He has time, and the gears turn in his mind, and in due time, he will catch them all.
