Ambyssin
Gotta go back. Back to the past.
Author's note is at the end. Small warning for mentions of death.
Today is activation day fifty.
You sit patiently on a cold, white, steel floor, watching your pack of white coat meatbags— no, humans intently. C://PACK/SHORT_BLACK_FUR praises you for not believing the pack is malnourished. It took five overwhelming days, but your C://SYSTEM/MEM_DRIVE successfully incorporated the data on human appearances.
You did not push your food tray toward your packmates and they did not respond with laughter. You dwell on this success, until your bulky tail wags and its studded crystals scrape the metal floor.
The pack stares disapprovingly. You sink onto your belly until they return to talking amongst themselves.
Your surroundings seem no different than the previous forty-nine days: bright monitors with colorful bars and circles — the term "graph" emerges from your MEM_DRIVE as it always does — and various metal and glass doors that house your pack's tools. When your eyes pass over a large, gray wire network vaguely shaped like your head, your fur stands on end. You hope today is not a day where the pack will force the wires on you.
... No. Be confident. Today is not a wireframe day. You are doing great. Your pack is proud of you.
You distract yourself by counting the bristles on the white broom in the corner. It is not always there, but a member of the custodian pack sometimes leaves it out of its den. And you are sure it is always the same broom, because it has exactly 4,219 bristles—
The broom has 4,461 bristles.
This is not the same broom. Why is it here? Did the custodian pack member really visit while you were in SLEEP_MODE? Your packmates always tell you only one custodian pack member can visit your den. Their broom has 4,219 bristles. They keep it behind the tall, slender door. You know that door well because it has a [15x2_centimeter] white scratch on it. The only things in that door are the broom and a [35x10_centimeter] dustpan.
Those are the only things allowed behind the scratched door. This broom is not from behind the scratched door. It is not the custodian's broom. Which means someone else was in your den.
Someone else snuck into your den. Someone invaded your den. Invaded. Invadedinvadedinvadedinvaded.
A strong shock rattles your frame. Bright lights blind you.
You regain your sight just long enough for the room to turn sideways as you slump over on your side. The steel chills your staticky fur. LEADER looms over you, a remote in hand.
... You are no longer doing great.
You are MC-TF-001
Today is activation day sixty-one.
You are finally back in your pack's good graces after your "episode." They have called it many names. A glitch. A bug. A blue screen. A panic attack.
They matter not, for the episode is in the past. You are doing great once more.
And today, great means exercise on the moving walkway. You pull "treadmill" from your MEM_DRIVE with a bit of effort, though the naming scheme does confuse you. This is far too small to represent treads. Or a mill.
Putting aside your mixed opinions on human naming conventions, you step onto the treadmill once it appears from a hole that opens in the steel floor. Simultaneously, your pack reaches for several big circles and wires. For a moment, you worry that means today is a wireframe day.
Your fur stands on end because you know you are doing great. The pack told you so. Yet the wireframe is for when you are not great. You had enough of it the previous week.
Fortunately, it is not the wireframe. Your pack places bits of rubber on your hide. They are tingly. Your MEM_DRIVE informs you that this is what it is like to be ticklish. You chirp a few times. A couple of your packmates smile and they are sincere smiles. Not mocking smiles. That makes you happy.
C://PACK/TALL_PURPLE_FUR instructs you to keep pace with the treadmill. It begins to move and so you walk along with it. Your front left foot goes first. Your back right goes second. Your front right goes third. Your back left goes last.
Though you walk, you do not progress forward thanks to the treadmill. You like the humming the gears make beneath the floor. It reminds you of the whirring of your own cheek bolts, which spin slowly in rhythm with every step.
The treadmill is not alive, but you are willing to consider it an honorary packmate. For today, at least.
TALL_PURPLE_FUR informs you the pace will increase now. The treadmill goes faster. So do you. TALL_PURPLE_FUR repeats the process once more. Then again. Then a third time.
Moving one foot at a time can no longer keep pace. You switch to moving both left feet, then both right feet. This works for a time, but then TALL_PURPLE_FUR switches things up. Instead of making the treadmill go faster, it tilts.
The whole room is now at an angle. Instead of looking into your packmates' eyes, you stare at the top of one of the cabinets on the far side of the room.
It is dusty. The custodian pack member is not doing a very good job keeping your den clean. You make a mental note to lodge a complaint.
... Somehow. You still are not sure how to lodge complaints, but you will learn.
The treadmill moves faster. Tilts steeper. You break into a run. Though you are not moving anywhere, you are... enjoying yourself? Is that what this feeling is? You send a ping to your MEM_DRIVE and it pings you back.
"Fun."
This is fun? You bark mid-stride. You do not see your packmates' faces, but you hear the excited chatter. And the beeps and boops of some of the machines on the wall.
Can beeps and boops be happy? You hope so.
Though you are not in danger of falling off, you wonder how much longer your pack intends to keep doing this. You ping the MEM_DRIVE again. This time it links a timestamp from your processor.
You have been running for twenty-six minutes and forty-three seconds. Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six.
It feels both short and long. You suspect there is a goal time your pack is not telling you, so you bark.
LEADER tells you three more minutes. You dip your head down slightly.
You will go for more than three minutes.
In fact, you go so long that the treadmill stops because it runs out of power and needs a recharge.
You defeat the treadmill!
You are doing better than great!
You are MC-TF-001
Today is activation day eighty-two.
Your world has expanded so much in three short weeks, from the confines of your gray and white den to bigger dens full of dark glass tiles and grated metal floors. These dens are easily 5.387 times bigger than your den, but they do not have cushions for when you turn on SLEEP_MODE, so they cannot replace your den.
Instead, you have dubbed them C://PLACE/FUN_DEN_1 and C://PLACE/FUN_DEN_2, for your pack uses them to engage you in fun challenges like they did with the treadmill. You have spent these three weeks zipping to and fro, jumping over hurdles, climbing walls, and having battles.
You quite like these battles, including the one you are in right now. You trill with joy as you outrun a C://DEX/AL/VIKAVOLT's C://MOVE/THUNDERBOLT. The rhythmic thumping of paws and clicking of talons sends a delighted shiver down your spine.
VIKAVOLT tries to pivot to catch up to you, but you are faster. Because you are better than great. You lunge for your foe, cheek bolts revving in their sockets. Energy pours out of them, ignited by your C://RKS_SYSTEM/ROCK_MEM.exe. You swipe at VIKAVOLT. Brown, dusty talons strike the top of its exoskeleton. The force of the blow hammers your target into the ground. You land on its head and hold your left foreleg over its eyes, claiming victory with a vigorous howl.
The pack offers its applause. A smaller, stouter packmate pulls out a C://OBJ/NEST_BALL. Red light sucks your downed opponent into the device. Your MEM_DRIVE still cannot make sense of how that happens and you decide not to dwell on it to avoid overheating your processor.
Instead, you connect with RKS_SYSTEM and command it to eject ROCK_MEM.exe. Your left cheek bolt opens with a loud whir. LEADER is at your side within seconds, taking the disk from the drive and shutting your cheek bolt.
LEADER expresses his approval. He scratches your chin because that is your weakness and he knows it.
You lean your head into his arm. You must have more scratches. Moremoremore.
He laughs your gesture off and steps away. LEADER lifts up his tinted glasses and, for the first time, you see into his soft brown eyes. There is joy and pride. That joy and pride is for you. Why else would he look at you so sincerely?
His words immediately confirm your hypothesis. You have completed the fun challenges— or, rather, tests. LEADER declares you ready for market and your packmates cheer and whoop and holler.
Market? You run the term through your MEM_DRIVE and it tells you that it is a location where people buy, sell, and exchange goods and services.
Well, you are definitely good. But you are not a service. You are a living creature with a pack! Why would your pack want to sell or exchange you? Are they not proud of you?
You tilt your head and chirp your trepidation. Show your packmates the confusion sprawled on your face.
LEADER stands up and gestures for C://PACK/PINK_PONYTAIL to come over. She clutches a tablet in her arms that she turns to show you.
A number of videos flash by in succession. One shows a human child excitedly rolling a C://OBJ/POKE_BALL over to a tiny C://DEX/GA/SOBBLE. The next has several boys and girls running down a city street, with a handful of C://DEX/GA/ZIGZAGOON and C://DEX/GA/LINOONE following them. The third is a girl in a sports jersey running toward the middle of a field to hug her excited C://DEX/KA/NINETALES while a young man with a straw hat and broad shoulders walks over to hand her a shiny badge and a collectible card.
PINK_PONYTAIL tells you that, as long as you stay with the pack, you cannot do any of these things. Experience the joys of seeing C://PLACE/GALAR's many sights. Take part in pokémon battles, with thousands of people cheering you on.
... Have a warm and loving pack that is always with you, even when SLEEP_MODE is on.
You stare transfixed at the tablet. You have always wondered what lies outside the walls of your den. And now... your pack is offering you the chance to find out. To do that, however, you have to join a new pack.
You rub your chitinous forelegs together. You have been with this pack for eighty-two days. They are not perfect, but they are still your pack.
On the other hand, leaving them would mean no more wireframe days. No pokes, prods, or tickling sensors on your flanks. No more tubes and lights jammed into your beak when you do not want them there.
The pack stares at you in silence. They expect an answer, though no one has asked a question. You bark at PINK_PONYTAIL. She tucks the tablet under her right arm and turns to LEADER, telling him that she believes you are ready.
Ready to leave your den. To join a new pack. To have... an adventure.
Because that is what pokémon are supposed to do. You were not sure at first, but now your MEM_DRIVE is pinging you nonstop.
You will be a great new packmate. Because you are a great— no, excellent pokémon.
You are MC-TF-001.
Today is activation day eighty-five.
Your pack refers to this as "the day." Given they spent the last few days bathing you and grooming your fur — getting you "presentable" for a new pack — you believe that it is time to leave your den.
Many thoughts rush through your head. What will this new pack be like? Will the leader be a large human, like your old pack has, or a small human, like the videos PINK_PONYTAIL keeps showing you? Will they want to battle? How far do they want to travel? Could they, perhaps, take you beyond the borders of GALAR?
... Will they give you a name?
As you sit obediently in front of the entrance to your den, you imagine yourself in some of PINK_PONYTAIL's videos.
First, you stand in the middle of C://PLACES/GALAR/WYNDON_STADIUM, crisp grass tickling your paw pads and talons, while the crowd cheers for you because you have shown them your greatness and they love how great you are. Next, you run across the warm sand of C://PLACES/GALAR/ISLE_ARMOR/CHALLENGE_BEACH, skidding to a halt to let cold ocean water brush against your talons. You squawk in surprise as you sink into the silt.
But what if your new pack prefers colder weather?
That is no problem. You can adjust. You imagine turning your FIRE_MEM.exe on and spitting a tiny fireball onto a pile of wood to light a campfire.
Yes, with your RKS_SYSTEM, you are adaptable. Flexible. The ideal packmate.
You stare blankly at the large white door in front of you. The large, unmoving white door.
Something is wrong. The door should have opened by now. You awaken from SLEEP_MODE at the exact same time every day. Your internal clock tells you that you have been awake four hours, sixteen minutes, and twenty-five seconds. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.
Your pack never leaves you alone in your den this long after you exit SLEEP_MODE. No one brought you breakfast, either.
Deep breath. You tense up and squeeze your eyes shut. Another deep breath.
This is all in your head. Everything is fine. This is all in your head. Everything is fine.
... But what if your pack lied to you? What if they tricked you into thinking you were doing great? Then, with your guard lowered, they left you behind to go somewhere else?
You scrape your talons against the steel floor, then get to your feet. Everything is not fine.
How can you make things fine again? There has to be a way to gather more information. You scan the den, trying to remember what each monitor and big, white machine does.
A smaller monitor in the back corner of the room draws your attention. You do not recall it connecting to you. In fact, you are confident PINK_PONYTAIL has put videos of trainers and their pokémon on that monitor for you to watch.
You approach the monitor, looking for a way to turn it on. There are small, black buttons on the side. The bottom button is the largest, so you lean over and bump it with your beak. A click rings out.
Two white, overlapping hexagons appear on the screen. You think you have seen this somewhere before, so you ping your MEM_DRIVE. It responds with snapshots of the tablets your packmates sometimes hold. The same hexagons are on them. It must be a logo.
Several icons replace the logo. They are tiny and look vaguely like cameras, but they do have words under them. One of which immediately draws your attention: television.
MEM_DRIVE informs you humans watch television for entertainment, but that it also has sporting events and news.
You hold your breath. A pack disappearance is certainly newsworthy. You must find a way to activate television mode. How can you select the television icon?
Pressing the screen does nothing but make your beak tingle... and leave a smudge.
Huffing your annoyance, you try pressing some other buttons on the side of the monitor. The first one messes with all the colors on screen. You do not like the sudden color change, so you keep pressing it until the colors return to normal. The next button makes a green bar appear next to "VOLUME." You know that means sound, so that does you no good. This holds true for the third button you try, which raises the volume bar back to where it was before.
You shift your weight nervously. The entrance door still has not budged. You quickly try the next button. A white outline appears around the television icon.
Finally, progress!
But television mode is still not activated. So, you have to press more buttons.
Trying the same one as before moves the white outline to the paintbrush icon next to the television one. Growling, you press the button repeatedly. The white outline returns to the television icon.
You click the next button. The screen goes dark. You fear you broke the monitor.
Then loud music blares up and blocky letters that spell out GBC fly across the screen. Squawking in fright, you lunge for the volume buttons and turn them down until the music no longer frightens you with its loudness.
The damage is done, however. Your groomed fur is all puffed out from the shock. If your pack somehow shows up now, they will not deem you ready anymore.
Heart still pounding, you step back so you can better watch the monitor. There is a man with jet black fur and matching falsefur — or, rather, clothes — sitting at some sort of fancy desk with neon lights, some of which also spell out GBC. He invites you to listen to this morning's top stories.
Before he even begins discussing the first story, you stiffen. The overlapping hexagons logo is on the side of the screen along with written bullet points.
Rosegate: What We Know So Far
Tackysuit does not resemble any of your packmates. But the same hexagon logos are on display on the television that your pack has on all their tablets. Is Tackysuit the leader for a more important pack? Does trouble for Tackysuit's pack mean your pack is gone?
You look over your shoulder. The door remains still, save for some streaks of light from the television.
Deep breath in. Hold it.
Someone will come. They have to.
You turn back to the television... and immediately freeze up.
That is you on the screen. The same black-furred body with chitinous forelegs and a big, blue and white fish tail. And the same white-furred face with pointed ears and a gray, metal beak.
How can you be on television when you are in your den right now? You look around for signs of cameras, but nothing catches your eye.
The shot on screen pulls back and you realize this other you is standing beside a smaller human with misshapen blonde fur. His black clothing is torn in places and he looks uncomfortable in front of the camera. You do not know this small human. Nor the larger woman with glasses and big, poofy, black fur who stands beside him.
She is speaking, though. Talking about something called the Aether Foundation and how it strongly condemns Macro Cosmos' actions and intends to use every legal means to hold the company and any related parties responsible for such egregious crimes.
Your breathing gets faster. Your heart pounds heavily in your chest. You cannot tear your eyes away from the other you. They nudge the small human, licking his cheek. The small human rubs his cheek bolt.
This is not right. Your pack told you that you are one of a kind. That you are special. But that is another you standing there, with a trainer no less! Something you still do not have. Does that make the other you older?
Anchorman's voice returns, accompanied by pictures of paper with typed out text that slowly scroll across the screen. And with each line, your breath hitches. Talons dig into the steel floor.
You are what Tackysuit's company stole.
Or, at least, the result of it.
Anchorman explains Tackysuit's plan, to create battle-ready, synthetic pokémon that can act on their own, without the need for a strong bond with a trainer. Tackysuit could sell them to anyone willing to pay the steep costs, giving them a strong pokémon.
Another paper appears on screen. Anchorman calls it a transcript and you recognize one of the names. It is LEADER. A recording of him and Tackysuit begins to play.
TACKYSUIT: As soon as you've sold the prototype, I want the factory ready to mass-produce these things.
LEADER: I'm sure I can arrange that, Mr. Chairman. But do you really think the demand will be that strong for them? People want cute or cool pokémon. This synthetic beast is neither of those. I was hoping we could at least iterate on Aether's design first.
Your MEM_DRIVE is pinging you repeatedly. Though you lack built-in vitality sensors — your pack would hook you up to them during your treadmill jaunts — you are sure your heart is beating faster with every word of this conversation.
TACKYSUIT: The beauty of pokémon is that there's something to love about every species. Look at Oleanna. She had every opportunity to ditch that trubbish of hers as she climbed my company's ranks. Instead, it remains her closest partner. Even evolved and learned to Gigantamax.
LEADER: I see...
TACKYSUIT: Besides, you underestimate the market for these things. Galar is full of wealthy families. With parents who are too busy and kids who expect success served to them on a silver platter when, let's face it, most of them lack the talent or work ethic to make for successful trainers. But give them a synthetic pokémon that can do everything on its own, and they'll get that success they so desperately want. Perhaps enough to send them running back from more. Isn't it genius?
LEADER: Of course, sir.
Your claws curl against the metal floor. You wince from the awful scraping noise that assaults your ears.
TACKYSUIT: And think of the narratives we can craft for future Pokémon League series! Leon is great, but viewership numbers are plateauing for his battles. I was hoping they would stay strong, as there's an important project I have in mind specifically for someone like him. But the writing's on the wall. People want something fresh. Something new. Something... unexpected! And strong, to boot! So, hurry up and get that prototype out there. I'll send you a list of interested buyers right away.
Ears ringing, you stare at the television in abject horror.
Your pack lied to you... from activation day one.
You are not special. They had no intention of finding you a loving pack to live with.
They do not even see you as a real pokémon! You are just a machine. Something to be used, then copied over and over again.
Snarling, you lash out at the monitor. It is not its fault you learned the ugly truth, but you do not care. Smashing the metal and glass with your talons does not bring you any satisfaction, but it does end the news broadcast.
Someone shouts from across the room. You turn around and find four of your packmates at the door. LEADER shoves PINK_PONYTAIL away.
There are four large syringes in his hand. The pack stuck you with needles before, but none as large as those. Nor filled with such strangely-colored fluids.
PINK_PONYTAIL begs LEADER not to do this. That there has to be another way. She grabs the back of his white coat. He turns and smacks her, then orders the two packmates with him to get their pokémon out and put you to sleep.
Your heart races even faster. The pack forced you into SLEEP_MODE before, but never like this. The wireframe is what they used, not a pair of C://DEX/GA/ORBEETLE.
Barking in protest, you run left. There is little room, but you are fast enough that the C://MOVE/HYPNOSIS waves strike the broken remains of the monitor instead.
LEADER reaches for his belt, but PINK_PONYTAIL tackles him. Tells him he cannot do this. That you are alive.
The ORBEETLE attempt to wrap you up in telekinetic grips, but you jump onto the wall, digging your claws in and poking holes in the glass. You jump off and fire a C://MOVE/TRI_ATTACK at the closest ORBEETLE. All three parts strike its giant head and knock it into its partner.
LEADER throws PINK_PONYTAIL off her, screaming that they have to get rid of you. That when they do, they can claim they only stole materials and never did anything with them. They have a day or two at most, so they must euthanize you now and erase all evidence they ever built you.
Though your head is ringing in pain, your MEM_DRIVE manages to ping you and tell you that euthanizing means putting you into SLEEP_MODE forever.
A loud, enraged screech escapes your beak. You go airborne once again, dodging pink blasts from each ORBEETLE. Rage blinds you enough to where you cannot even identify what attacks they tried using. You do not care anymore.
You are meaningless to them. They planned for you to be meaningless. You do not want to have a meaningless end. You cannot compute the thought of never waking up again. Of never lapping water with your tongue or running on a treadmill or having fun battling against another pokémon.
Another screech. You whip your head back and forth, flinging C://MOVE/AIR_SLASH crescents around with reckless abandon.
The ORBEETLE chitter their distress. You do not care.
You sling more crescents around. Now your packmates are shouting.
You land on one of the downed ORBEETLE. A horrified LEADER tries to reach for his belt once more, but you hear that damned word play on loop in your head.
Euthanize. Euthanize. Euthanizeeuthanizeeuthanize.
He will not put you in SLEEP_MODE forever. Because you are leaving.
You whip your head left, shooting a few more wind blades. They slice up LEADER's arm. His pained screams fill the room, but you ignore them.
Sickly shadows gather around your beak. You lunge for the entrance door and C://MOVE/CRUNCH down on it with as much force as you can muster. To your surprise, you break through and get a mouthful of steel. You jerk your head down, tearing a hole in the door while the sounds of metal grating metal echo all around you.
Head ringing and heart hammering, you force your way out with a roar. Your story will not end here. It cannot end here!
You are not just stolen data. You are not some machine unworthy of a loving pack. You are alive! And you will—
Something strikes your right flank. The ground vanishes from beneath your feet, along with the rest of the brightly-lit, gray hallway. Is everything... shrinking?
Panic sets in. Is this the euthanasia? You still see the hallway but it is dimmer. You feel as though you are floating in emptiness.
Your beak opens, but produces no sound. You flail your limbs about in a panic, but this does nothing. You are not even sure if you can feel your limbs anymore.
Finally, you hear a single click. The hallway moves on its own. A white-sleeved arm passes back and forth. Back and forth.
It is PINK_PONYTAIL's arm.
You try to make sense of what is happening, but it is too fuzzy. A wave of fatigue crashes over you.
The only thing you can manage is an unheard whimper.
You are... Nobody.
Today is... today's... just another day.
You lost count of the days a while ago.
Since the last of your old pack forced you into a heavy, painful stone helmet that restricts your vision and makes it impossible to move your beak no matter how much you try.
Since your Memory Drive and RKS System went quiet, leaving you alone, struggling to remember the most basic things.
Since Pink Ponytail told you that you would not be allowed to leave the tower you tried to escape from. Something about ongoing litigation. It's a big word and you aren't sure what it means, but Pink's grave tone painted a grave enough picture back then.
You don't even remember how many days it's been since Pink Ponytail handed you off to Sweatsuit, her cousin who also works in the tower you're trapped in. But isn't in trouble with the police like Pink Ponytail was when she abandoned you.
There are other employees in this tower wearing the same outfits, but she's Sweatsuit because she's the only one who talks to you. Or even looks at you. Because you are an uncontrollable monster. A hideous failure who should never have existed.
You can't say these to Sweatsuit, but you're sure she thinks it, too. There's always a strain in her voice when she talks to you. Or about you. Sweatsuit keeps you tucked away in the ball most of the time. Except when she puts you on display in Wyndon Tower's lobby.
... She claims that name is temporary. Like your mask. Both you and the tower will be reborn, with new names and everything.
The mask muffles your annoyed growls. Sweatsuit's said the same thing the last few days. And yet, you're still sitting in the lobby, gazing at your blurry reflection in the onyx floor tiles. Of the reminder that the mask is so suffocating your white neck and chest fur faded to a dull gray, as if to symbolize how hopeless your situation is.
Sweatsuit reaches into her bag and pulls out rope and a piece of cardboard. You growl again.
It's the sign.
The stupid, crudely drawn sign Sweatsuit always hangs around your neck. The one you once thought made no sense. After all, if you're dangerous, why should Sweatsuit give you to just anyone? But back then she told you the visitors to Wyndon Tower are mainly strong trainers who could totally handle taking care of you.
You try to back away from her, but the helmet makes it too hard. Sweatsuit easily drapes the rope over your broad shoulders so the sign dangles in front of your chest.
💖FREE TO A LOVING HOME!💖
Humans are supposed to like free things. When this awful routine started, Sweatsuit told you about how humans will practically knock each other over to get free pokémon.
But you're not a pokémon. You're a machine. A freak. Someone who shouldn't exist in the first place.
You see it written on passerby's faces. Today's no different. The League staff that are used to seeing you simply look away. Visitors to Wyndon Tower recoil, even when Sweatsuit tries to wave them down or point to the sign.
Some of them give you dirty looks, because they understand what you are. They want to make sure you know that you don't belong.
The joke's on them, though. You already know that.
And so, the day goes by. People stream in and out of the big glass doors, avoiding you or shooting you nasty looks. You gaze outside at the concrete and the green grass and the channel in the distance with colorful boats petering by.
That familiar longing tugs at your heart. To know what it's like when grass tickles your paw pads or a breeze runs through your fur. Things you can't experience because you can't leave the tower until you have a new pack. And you'll never get a new pack.
The tugs get stronger whenever packs pass by Wyndon Tower's entrance. Sometimes it's a human family, with or without pokémon partners. Other times it's a human with a whole team of pokémon... or multiple humans and their teams.
You imagine yourself out there, walking with them. Then you stop doing that because it quickly pivots to the pokémon outside attacking you out of fear and a pit forms in your stomach.
Afternoon rolls around and Sweatsuit pivots to making calls on the phone at the reception desk. She's done this for a little while. Always trying to reach specific people that she says are the kinds of trainers she thinks will give you a chance.
Her fake cheerfulness and "uh-huhs" make you tired. The fact that the lobby faces the sun in the afternoon doesn't help. Sunlight seeps into your mask. You shake your head, annoyed at how warm your face is, but it doesn't do anything. Eventually the heat exhausts you and you nod off into a dreamless slumber.
Like every other day, you then jolt awake. Your sign flips up and smacks against your mask before falling back against your chest.
The lobby and the small park outside are bathed in orange hues from the setting sun. All visitors have left and only a few staff are still around. One guy with brown hair inputs the codes to lock the front doors. An older woman with graying hair shuts down the computers at the reception counters.
Once again, no one expressed interest. Another day of standing around, waiting for a miracle that will never happen.
Sweatsuit sighs and footsteps quickly follow. She tucks a notepad into a pocket.
Apparently, the last of Galar's vaunted gym leaders isn't interested in adopting you. Even the minor leaguers balked, calling you bad for business.
This isn't surprising. Nobody wants to care for a machine.
She also says the Aether Foundation continues ignoring her calls. Sweatsuit wonders if they can't simply fly you to Alola, drop you off there, and hope for the best.
You lower your head as Sweatsuit then raises her right hand and pantomimes one of her bosses saying they'd all go to prison if they tried.
Your headache intensifies. The helmet hurts. You shake your head back and forth, silently willing the blasted mix of stone and clay to break apart. It holds steady, though. As it always does.
Sighing, Sweatsuit takes the sign off your neck. She tells you tomorrow is a new day.
You snarl at her because you're sick of hearing her say that.
Tomorrow will not be a new day. It will be the same as today. And yesterday. And the day before that and the day before that and the day before that and—
Sweatsuit smiles, but it's a somber smile. She says tomorrow is different. Wyndon Tower has a new owner who will be coming to visit. She hasn't ever talked with him about you because apparently he is new to his job and she didn't want to overwhelm him. But Sweatsuit claims he's a kind soul. A friend to all pokémon.
If anyone will be willing to take you, it's him.
She reaches out and rests her left hand on your mask. Sweatsuit asks you to have hope, even if it's just a little bit.
Your fur prickles. This seemingly endless routine has drained all the hope out of you.
Except that Sweatsuit sounds different when talking about this man. She isn't disguising her tone. There's no strain to her voice. She's sincere.
Does she really believe he's the one, then? The one to give you a new pack? A loving home?
... Maybe you can squeeze out a few last drops of hope.
You are still Nobody.
Today is the different day.
Sweatsuit summons you from your ball early. You are not in the lobby, but a washroom that staff can use for cleaning their pokémon.
Before you can get acclimated to all the white porcelain and cartoonish pictures of water-types like sobble and cramorant, Sweatsuit blasts you with jets of hot water. The mask stifles your protesting barks, turning them into nothing more than low-pitched groans. Sweatsuit says you have to try and hold still so she can make you nice and pretty.
You find that notion laughable. Even without the mask you're a freak.
But the water's nice on your fur, so you follow Sweatsuit's direction as she lathers you in soap using sudsy eevee washcloths. You resist the urge to growl at the washcloth. It's not really an eevee, but you are jealous of it all the same. Everyone adores those cuddly little furballs. Why else would they make washcloths that look like them?
If only you were an eevee and not a freak, maybe you would already have a new pack.
You shove the thought aside and silently allow Sweatsuit to finish grooming you. Dirty water spirals around the silver drain. You pretend it's sucking up all the pain from your helmet. It's a hollow comfort.
As she dries you off, Sweatsuit tells you the tower's new owner is Leon. The name is familiar, yet you can't remember why. Something lost with your severed Memory Drive connection, you figure.
The towels give way to a blow dryer. Hot air ripples your fur. It's actually kind of nice, though it turns bittersweet when you realize it's just a machine and a real outside breeze has to feel different.
You sigh. Your mask again disguises it as a groan.
Sweatsuit cheerfully proclaims you're all done. Instead of putting you back in your ball, she immediately puts the sign on and says today you bid the sign and the lobby farewell.
She guides you down hallways with black, onyx tiles that match the lobby's. Places where the overlapping hexagons you despise now bear logos with circles and poké balls. You think it's supposed to represent the Pokémon League, but you don't really care. As long as this is the last time you have to see them.
You and Sweatsuit arrive in the lobby and she positions you in your usual spot. It's early, because the lobby is as empty as it is when you wake up from your dreamless afternoon naps. Except the outside is a soft blue instead of orange and yellow. There aren't many people around. Instead, some wild rookidee hop around, pecking at the concrete.
What you wouldn't give to be in their places, even if your beak is far too large to try and pick up breadcrumbs. At least it would be something different. At least you'd have the freedom to be silly.
Staffers unlock the tower's big, glass doors. Visitors trickle in. Each time, you wonder if the visitor is Leon. Each time, the visitor glances at you and walks faster.
After a few hours of this, you shift in place uneasily and growl. Sweatsuit tells you he should be here any minute now. A strong urge to headbutt her bubbles up, but instantly grapples with guilt over such thoughts.
Then the glass door swings open and all the staff members at the reception desks look up in unison. A couple of visitors seated on black couches across the room point, one of them squealing in excitement.
This newcomer, with a fancy red suit, long blue fur, and a baseball cap is Leon. You have no hard evidence to back it up, only a gut feeling.
That and Sweatsuit running him down, waving energetically. She's surprisingly fast for a scrawny human.
Sweatsuit reaches Leon. She hops in place excitedly. They're too far for you to hear, but Sweatsuit gestures repeatedly to you.
Leon meets your gaze and, unlike everyone else, there isn't scorn or contempt in his eyes.
Instead, they brim with curiosity.
Panic and anticipation twist around your insides. Sweatsuit... was right about him?
This may actually be your chance. Your one, true chance.
... Quick, you need to do something. Look friendly!
You sit, hold your head up proudly, and wag your tail. The gems scrape against the onyx floor. You keep it up even though internally you scream at how demeaning it is, especially with the sign dangling around your neck.
Leon's gaze doesn't falter. Perhaps he's studying you? Or maybe this is a staring contest to test your resolve?
Well, you're resolved, all right. Resolved to get out of this awful place.
Sweatsuit continues talking. Gesturing. Leon nods along slowly. Sweatsuit makes a joke about trying to turn you electric-type to help recharge her phone. You tense. Thinking about your lost Memory Drive brings an awful throbbing pain to your head.
You have no idea how long the two talk for. Eventually, however, Leon tips the brim of his cap down. He looks at Sweatsuit. His lips move. Though you can't hear it, you see Sweatsuit's lively expression melt away.
Your heart sinks.
He doesn't want you.
He paid more attention to you than anyone to cross through those doors except for Sweatsuit, but in the end it didn't matter. You can't join his pack.
Leon was your last hope. And now those tiny embers have burnt out.
Ears ringing and head pounding, you barely register Leon abruptly heading out the glass doors, waving to other humans who have gathered around the entrance.
You slide onto your belly. Your masked head slumps against the floor. The blurry floor.
You blink. The blurriness returns. And now the inside of your mask is damp.
Damp with tears.
You're crying.
You never considered the possibility you could cry.
But the tears are flowing. And they won't stop. The mask squeezes your face tighter. Muffles your whimpers.
You don't fight it.
Maybe the mask will squeeze you tight enough to put you to sleep for good. You didn't want that before, but now you're not sure what else is left for you.
Nobody wants you. You have no home. No pack. Only a sign and a humiliating routine with no end in sight.
You keep crying until you run out of tears. Then you simply lie on the floor, numb from all of it.
You watch tiny dust mites drift over the onyx tiles. Even they have more freedom than you ever will.
This is your fate. The fate of a fre—
An unfamiliar voice calls out to you. But you are tired and heartbroken. You lack the strength to lift your head.
The voice calls you again. It's male.
Groaning, you lift your head up... and abruptly stiffen.
Leon's back. He's right in front of you. You look around for Sweatsuit, but do not see her.
Your heart skips a beat. Has Leon reconsidered?
His face is soft. Gentle. There's a warm smile. You can't remember the last time you've seen a smile like that. It puts butterfree in your stomach.
Leon then steps to the side. There's a girl behind him.
Short brown fur matching her eyes. Her pink dress has a gray coat over it and her hat is a funny brown circle with a white pom-pom on top. It reminds you of jumpluff. Sort of.
Before Leon can say anything else, the girl hops toward you and holds her arms out. She cheerfully introduces herself as Gloria... and then calls you a big fuzzball.
For once, you're thankful to have the mask around to muffle your sputtering. Gloria tells you that she wonders if you're even fuzzier than Zacian.
Now you're really confused. You glance at Leon, who puts a hand on Gloria's shoulder and, chuckling, explains Gloria is Galar's new champion. She won the title from him.
Gloria doesn't care about the praise, instead asking if she can pet you.
You're still stunned, but manage to dumbly nod your head. She runs her fingers along your shoulder and sighs in content. Apparently you have soft fur. The morning bath proves worth the trouble after all.
Your headache is entirely gone and you wonder if that's because your head is stuffed with so many racing thoughts it's pushing the mask away.
This is Galar's champion.
She's petting you and saying nice things about you, even though you two just met.
A small part of you wonders if this is a hoax, but then Sweatsuit appears from one of the staff doors behind the reception desk. You spot your ball immediately and, to your shock, a stack of disks in a clear carrying case.
Those are your disks. You were sure someone destroyed them, yet here they are. Repeating the same joke from earlier about making you electric-type to charge her phone, Sweatsuit hands your disks to Gloria along with your ball. She places both in a brown backpack.
Sweatsuit says her cousin told her that, supposedly, she designed the mask to fall off as you and Gloria get to understand one another better. And once it does, the disks will work just as you remember them. Gloria finds that really cool, then turns to you and says we're going to become fast friends.
We. As in, you and her.
Your heart beats faster. Stronger than it has in a while.
It's happening. Someone's adopting you.
Yet a small part of you still refuses to acknowledge it. Tells you this is happening to fast. It must be a dream!
Leon nods approvingly. He says to leave the legal stuff to him and his team. Then Gloria pats the side of your mask and tells you it's time to blow this popsicle stand.
This place doesn't even sell popsicles, but you don't care!
She's walking you up to the glass doors. The barrier you thought you'd never break.
Sweatsuit calls out. Asks if Gloria might want to put you in your ball.
Gloria waves her off. She says walking with you will help you two bond.
Your heart flutters as Gloria shoves the glass door open. Warm sunlight and crisp Wyndon air immediately greet you.
You take your first steps out of the tower. The concrete's warm beneath your paw pads.
The mask muffles an excited chirp. You don't care.
You're outside. For the very first time.
Gloria guides you across the concrete toward the grass. You gingerly put your talons on it, followed by your hind legs. The grass tickles you exactly as you always dreamed it would. Another chirp escapes your beak.
Gloria laughs. It's not a mocking laugh, though. It's a fun one. You turn and nudge her side. You want to know how she's taking all of this in stride.
And even though she hasn't known you for very long, Gloria picks up on your thoughts. Reaching for her belt, she says she has some experience with people like you.
Gloria grabs a poké ball and opens it. Blue light splashes on the ground opposite you and produces... something you can hardly even describe.
A tiny, yellow head. An equally tiny and yellow neck, torso, and arms with little lightning-bolt shaped fins. All connected to an oversized green and red backside and spiked tail. It gives your backside a run for its money, if you're being honest.
Gloria tells you this is a dracozolt. That a scientist made them. And that even though Zippy looks a bit goofy, Gloria still loves them.
She wraps her arms around Zippy's waist and Zippy chirps happily.
They open their tiny beady eyes and look at you. You aren't sure how to greet them, so you bend down slightly, stick up your rear, and wag your tail slightly.
Zippy acknowledges this, mimicking the gesture and waddling toward you, squawking excitedly.
They speak kind of fast, but you think Zippy's calling you a new friend. Repeatedly. The dracozolt nudges the edge of your mask . A bit of static electricity makes your fur prickle, but you don't mind.
You wonder how Zippy can call you a friend when you've only just met. Perhaps if your Memory Drive was still connected, it would protest this logical fallacy. But it's offline. And hearing Zippy call you a new friend sends fresh butterfree fluttering around your stomach.
You brush your hide against Zippy's side. They hop around and chirp at Gloria, asking if they can have a picnic to play with their new friend. Which means you.
Gloria smiles and claps her hands. It's a great idea, but you'll need to get out of Wyndon first. Zippy pouts a bit, but nods their understanding. Gloria puts them back in their ball for now, then looks at you.
No, she looks past you. Toward that last little ripple of doubt in your heart.
Do you believe me now?
And the answer is yes. Yes. A thousand times yes!
You hear a few voices from behind Gloria. People who recognize her as the champion, apparently. Many stare at both of you in confusion. A few ask, hesitantly, what your deal is.
That rush of euphoria freezes for a moment.
But then Gloria confidently strolls to your side and puts her hand on your shoulder.
She proudly declares that you are Buddy, her new teammate. And that they can expect to see you in action at Wyndon Stadium soon enough.
A fresh wave of elation washes over you, for you know now with absolute certainty that you've reached the light at the end of the tunnel.
You have a new pack. You'll get to battle with someone who loves you for who you are. Someone who's finally giving you a proper name.
You are Buddy... and you found your loving home.
XxX
You are MC-TF-001.
Today is activation day fifty.
You sit patiently on a cold, white, steel floor, watching your pack of white coat meatbags— no, humans intently. C://PACK/SHORT_BLACK_FUR praises you for not believing the pack is malnourished. It took five overwhelming days, but your C://SYSTEM/MEM_DRIVE successfully incorporated the data on human appearances.
You did not push your food tray toward your packmates and they did not respond with laughter. You dwell on this success, until your bulky tail wags and its studded crystals scrape the metal floor.
The pack stares disapprovingly. You sink onto your belly until they return to talking amongst themselves.
Your surroundings seem no different than the previous forty-nine days: bright monitors with colorful bars and circles — the term "graph" emerges from your MEM_DRIVE as it always does — and various metal and glass doors that house your pack's tools. When your eyes pass over a large, gray wire network vaguely shaped like your head, your fur stands on end. You hope today is not a day where the pack will force the wires on you.
... No. Be confident. Today is not a wireframe day. You are doing great. Your pack is proud of you.
You distract yourself by counting the bristles on the white broom in the corner. It is not always there, but a member of the custodian pack sometimes leaves it out of its den. And you are sure it is always the same broom, because it has exactly 4,219 bristles—
The broom has 4,461 bristles.
This is not the same broom. Why is it here? Did the custodian pack member really visit while you were in SLEEP_MODE? Your packmates always tell you only one custodian pack member can visit your den. Their broom has 4,219 bristles. They keep it behind the tall, slender door. You know that door well because it has a [15x2_centimeter] white scratch on it. The only things in that door are the broom and a [35x10_centimeter] dustpan.
Those are the only things allowed behind the scratched door. This broom is not from behind the scratched door. It is not the custodian's broom. Which means someone else was in your den.
Someone else snuck into your den. Someone invaded your den. Invaded. Invadedinvadedinvadedinvaded.
A strong shock rattles your frame. Bright lights blind you.
You regain your sight just long enough for the room to turn sideways as you slump over on your side. The steel chills your staticky fur. LEADER looms over you, a remote in hand.
... You are no longer doing great.
XxX
You are MC-TF-001
Today is activation day sixty-one.
You are finally back in your pack's good graces after your "episode." They have called it many names. A glitch. A bug. A blue screen. A panic attack.
They matter not, for the episode is in the past. You are doing great once more.
And today, great means exercise on the moving walkway. You pull "treadmill" from your MEM_DRIVE with a bit of effort, though the naming scheme does confuse you. This is far too small to represent treads. Or a mill.
Putting aside your mixed opinions on human naming conventions, you step onto the treadmill once it appears from a hole that opens in the steel floor. Simultaneously, your pack reaches for several big circles and wires. For a moment, you worry that means today is a wireframe day.
Your fur stands on end because you know you are doing great. The pack told you so. Yet the wireframe is for when you are not great. You had enough of it the previous week.
Fortunately, it is not the wireframe. Your pack places bits of rubber on your hide. They are tingly. Your MEM_DRIVE informs you that this is what it is like to be ticklish. You chirp a few times. A couple of your packmates smile and they are sincere smiles. Not mocking smiles. That makes you happy.
C://PACK/TALL_PURPLE_FUR instructs you to keep pace with the treadmill. It begins to move and so you walk along with it. Your front left foot goes first. Your back right goes second. Your front right goes third. Your back left goes last.
Though you walk, you do not progress forward thanks to the treadmill. You like the humming the gears make beneath the floor. It reminds you of the whirring of your own cheek bolts, which spin slowly in rhythm with every step.
The treadmill is not alive, but you are willing to consider it an honorary packmate. For today, at least.
TALL_PURPLE_FUR informs you the pace will increase now. The treadmill goes faster. So do you. TALL_PURPLE_FUR repeats the process once more. Then again. Then a third time.
Moving one foot at a time can no longer keep pace. You switch to moving both left feet, then both right feet. This works for a time, but then TALL_PURPLE_FUR switches things up. Instead of making the treadmill go faster, it tilts.
The whole room is now at an angle. Instead of looking into your packmates' eyes, you stare at the top of one of the cabinets on the far side of the room.
It is dusty. The custodian pack member is not doing a very good job keeping your den clean. You make a mental note to lodge a complaint.
... Somehow. You still are not sure how to lodge complaints, but you will learn.
The treadmill moves faster. Tilts steeper. You break into a run. Though you are not moving anywhere, you are... enjoying yourself? Is that what this feeling is? You send a ping to your MEM_DRIVE and it pings you back.
"Fun."
This is fun? You bark mid-stride. You do not see your packmates' faces, but you hear the excited chatter. And the beeps and boops of some of the machines on the wall.
Can beeps and boops be happy? You hope so.
Though you are not in danger of falling off, you wonder how much longer your pack intends to keep doing this. You ping the MEM_DRIVE again. This time it links a timestamp from your processor.
You have been running for twenty-six minutes and forty-three seconds. Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six.
It feels both short and long. You suspect there is a goal time your pack is not telling you, so you bark.
LEADER tells you three more minutes. You dip your head down slightly.
You will go for more than three minutes.
In fact, you go so long that the treadmill stops because it runs out of power and needs a recharge.
You defeat the treadmill!
You are doing better than great!
XxX
You are MC-TF-001
Today is activation day eighty-two.
Your world has expanded so much in three short weeks, from the confines of your gray and white den to bigger dens full of dark glass tiles and grated metal floors. These dens are easily 5.387 times bigger than your den, but they do not have cushions for when you turn on SLEEP_MODE, so they cannot replace your den.
Instead, you have dubbed them C://PLACE/FUN_DEN_1 and C://PLACE/FUN_DEN_2, for your pack uses them to engage you in fun challenges like they did with the treadmill. You have spent these three weeks zipping to and fro, jumping over hurdles, climbing walls, and having battles.
You quite like these battles, including the one you are in right now. You trill with joy as you outrun a C://DEX/AL/VIKAVOLT's C://MOVE/THUNDERBOLT. The rhythmic thumping of paws and clicking of talons sends a delighted shiver down your spine.
VIKAVOLT tries to pivot to catch up to you, but you are faster. Because you are better than great. You lunge for your foe, cheek bolts revving in their sockets. Energy pours out of them, ignited by your C://RKS_SYSTEM/ROCK_MEM.exe. You swipe at VIKAVOLT. Brown, dusty talons strike the top of its exoskeleton. The force of the blow hammers your target into the ground. You land on its head and hold your left foreleg over its eyes, claiming victory with a vigorous howl.
The pack offers its applause. A smaller, stouter packmate pulls out a C://OBJ/NEST_BALL. Red light sucks your downed opponent into the device. Your MEM_DRIVE still cannot make sense of how that happens and you decide not to dwell on it to avoid overheating your processor.
Instead, you connect with RKS_SYSTEM and command it to eject ROCK_MEM.exe. Your left cheek bolt opens with a loud whir. LEADER is at your side within seconds, taking the disk from the drive and shutting your cheek bolt.
LEADER expresses his approval. He scratches your chin because that is your weakness and he knows it.
You lean your head into his arm. You must have more scratches. Moremoremore.
He laughs your gesture off and steps away. LEADER lifts up his tinted glasses and, for the first time, you see into his soft brown eyes. There is joy and pride. That joy and pride is for you. Why else would he look at you so sincerely?
His words immediately confirm your hypothesis. You have completed the fun challenges— or, rather, tests. LEADER declares you ready for market and your packmates cheer and whoop and holler.
Market? You run the term through your MEM_DRIVE and it tells you that it is a location where people buy, sell, and exchange goods and services.
Well, you are definitely good. But you are not a service. You are a living creature with a pack! Why would your pack want to sell or exchange you? Are they not proud of you?
You tilt your head and chirp your trepidation. Show your packmates the confusion sprawled on your face.
LEADER stands up and gestures for C://PACK/PINK_PONYTAIL to come over. She clutches a tablet in her arms that she turns to show you.
A number of videos flash by in succession. One shows a human child excitedly rolling a C://OBJ/POKE_BALL over to a tiny C://DEX/GA/SOBBLE. The next has several boys and girls running down a city street, with a handful of C://DEX/GA/ZIGZAGOON and C://DEX/GA/LINOONE following them. The third is a girl in a sports jersey running toward the middle of a field to hug her excited C://DEX/KA/NINETALES while a young man with a straw hat and broad shoulders walks over to hand her a shiny badge and a collectible card.
PINK_PONYTAIL tells you that, as long as you stay with the pack, you cannot do any of these things. Experience the joys of seeing C://PLACE/GALAR's many sights. Take part in pokémon battles, with thousands of people cheering you on.
... Have a warm and loving pack that is always with you, even when SLEEP_MODE is on.
You stare transfixed at the tablet. You have always wondered what lies outside the walls of your den. And now... your pack is offering you the chance to find out. To do that, however, you have to join a new pack.
You rub your chitinous forelegs together. You have been with this pack for eighty-two days. They are not perfect, but they are still your pack.
On the other hand, leaving them would mean no more wireframe days. No pokes, prods, or tickling sensors on your flanks. No more tubes and lights jammed into your beak when you do not want them there.
The pack stares at you in silence. They expect an answer, though no one has asked a question. You bark at PINK_PONYTAIL. She tucks the tablet under her right arm and turns to LEADER, telling him that she believes you are ready.
Ready to leave your den. To join a new pack. To have... an adventure.
Because that is what pokémon are supposed to do. You were not sure at first, but now your MEM_DRIVE is pinging you nonstop.
You will be a great new packmate. Because you are a great— no, excellent pokémon.
XxX
You are MC-TF-001.
Today is activation day eighty-five.
Your pack refers to this as "the day." Given they spent the last few days bathing you and grooming your fur — getting you "presentable" for a new pack — you believe that it is time to leave your den.
Many thoughts rush through your head. What will this new pack be like? Will the leader be a large human, like your old pack has, or a small human, like the videos PINK_PONYTAIL keeps showing you? Will they want to battle? How far do they want to travel? Could they, perhaps, take you beyond the borders of GALAR?
... Will they give you a name?
As you sit obediently in front of the entrance to your den, you imagine yourself in some of PINK_PONYTAIL's videos.
First, you stand in the middle of C://PLACES/GALAR/WYNDON_STADIUM, crisp grass tickling your paw pads and talons, while the crowd cheers for you because you have shown them your greatness and they love how great you are. Next, you run across the warm sand of C://PLACES/GALAR/ISLE_ARMOR/CHALLENGE_BEACH, skidding to a halt to let cold ocean water brush against your talons. You squawk in surprise as you sink into the silt.
But what if your new pack prefers colder weather?
That is no problem. You can adjust. You imagine turning your FIRE_MEM.exe on and spitting a tiny fireball onto a pile of wood to light a campfire.
Yes, with your RKS_SYSTEM, you are adaptable. Flexible. The ideal packmate.
You stare blankly at the large white door in front of you. The large, unmoving white door.
Something is wrong. The door should have opened by now. You awaken from SLEEP_MODE at the exact same time every day. Your internal clock tells you that you have been awake four hours, sixteen minutes, and twenty-five seconds. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.
Your pack never leaves you alone in your den this long after you exit SLEEP_MODE. No one brought you breakfast, either.
Deep breath. You tense up and squeeze your eyes shut. Another deep breath.
This is all in your head. Everything is fine. This is all in your head. Everything is fine.
... But what if your pack lied to you? What if they tricked you into thinking you were doing great? Then, with your guard lowered, they left you behind to go somewhere else?
You scrape your talons against the steel floor, then get to your feet. Everything is not fine.
How can you make things fine again? There has to be a way to gather more information. You scan the den, trying to remember what each monitor and big, white machine does.
A smaller monitor in the back corner of the room draws your attention. You do not recall it connecting to you. In fact, you are confident PINK_PONYTAIL has put videos of trainers and their pokémon on that monitor for you to watch.
You approach the monitor, looking for a way to turn it on. There are small, black buttons on the side. The bottom button is the largest, so you lean over and bump it with your beak. A click rings out.
Two white, overlapping hexagons appear on the screen. You think you have seen this somewhere before, so you ping your MEM_DRIVE. It responds with snapshots of the tablets your packmates sometimes hold. The same hexagons are on them. It must be a logo.
Several icons replace the logo. They are tiny and look vaguely like cameras, but they do have words under them. One of which immediately draws your attention: television.
MEM_DRIVE informs you humans watch television for entertainment, but that it also has sporting events and news.
You hold your breath. A pack disappearance is certainly newsworthy. You must find a way to activate television mode. How can you select the television icon?
Pressing the screen does nothing but make your beak tingle... and leave a smudge.
Huffing your annoyance, you try pressing some other buttons on the side of the monitor. The first one messes with all the colors on screen. You do not like the sudden color change, so you keep pressing it until the colors return to normal. The next button makes a green bar appear next to "VOLUME." You know that means sound, so that does you no good. This holds true for the third button you try, which raises the volume bar back to where it was before.
You shift your weight nervously. The entrance door still has not budged. You quickly try the next button. A white outline appears around the television icon.
Finally, progress!
But television mode is still not activated. So, you have to press more buttons.
Trying the same one as before moves the white outline to the paintbrush icon next to the television one. Growling, you press the button repeatedly. The white outline returns to the television icon.
You click the next button. The screen goes dark. You fear you broke the monitor.
Then loud music blares up and blocky letters that spell out GBC fly across the screen. Squawking in fright, you lunge for the volume buttons and turn them down until the music no longer frightens you with its loudness.
The damage is done, however. Your groomed fur is all puffed out from the shock. If your pack somehow shows up now, they will not deem you ready anymore.
Heart still pounding, you step back so you can better watch the monitor. There is a man with jet black fur and matching falsefur — or, rather, clothes — sitting at some sort of fancy desk with neon lights, some of which also spell out GBC. He invites you to listen to this morning's top stories.
Before he even begins discussing the first story, you stiffen. The overlapping hexagons logo is on the side of the screen along with written bullet points.
Rosegate: What We Know So Far
- Macro Cosmos CEO and Pokémon League chair arrested for unleashing Eternatus on Galar.
- Police raids found evidence of stolen and plagiarized patented intellectual material from foreign companies.
Tackysuit does not resemble any of your packmates. But the same hexagon logos are on display on the television that your pack has on all their tablets. Is Tackysuit the leader for a more important pack? Does trouble for Tackysuit's pack mean your pack is gone?
You look over your shoulder. The door remains still, save for some streaks of light from the television.
Deep breath in. Hold it.
Someone will come. They have to.
You turn back to the television... and immediately freeze up.
That is you on the screen. The same black-furred body with chitinous forelegs and a big, blue and white fish tail. And the same white-furred face with pointed ears and a gray, metal beak.
How can you be on television when you are in your den right now? You look around for signs of cameras, but nothing catches your eye.
The shot on screen pulls back and you realize this other you is standing beside a smaller human with misshapen blonde fur. His black clothing is torn in places and he looks uncomfortable in front of the camera. You do not know this small human. Nor the larger woman with glasses and big, poofy, black fur who stands beside him.
She is speaking, though. Talking about something called the Aether Foundation and how it strongly condemns Macro Cosmos' actions and intends to use every legal means to hold the company and any related parties responsible for such egregious crimes.
Your breathing gets faster. Your heart pounds heavily in your chest. You cannot tear your eyes away from the other you. They nudge the small human, licking his cheek. The small human rubs his cheek bolt.
This is not right. Your pack told you that you are one of a kind. That you are special. But that is another you standing there, with a trainer no less! Something you still do not have. Does that make the other you older?
Anchorman's voice returns, accompanied by pictures of paper with typed out text that slowly scroll across the screen. And with each line, your breath hitches. Talons dig into the steel floor.
You are what Tackysuit's company stole.
Or, at least, the result of it.
Anchorman explains Tackysuit's plan, to create battle-ready, synthetic pokémon that can act on their own, without the need for a strong bond with a trainer. Tackysuit could sell them to anyone willing to pay the steep costs, giving them a strong pokémon.
Another paper appears on screen. Anchorman calls it a transcript and you recognize one of the names. It is LEADER. A recording of him and Tackysuit begins to play.
TACKYSUIT: As soon as you've sold the prototype, I want the factory ready to mass-produce these things.
LEADER: I'm sure I can arrange that, Mr. Chairman. But do you really think the demand will be that strong for them? People want cute or cool pokémon. This synthetic beast is neither of those. I was hoping we could at least iterate on Aether's design first.
Your MEM_DRIVE is pinging you repeatedly. Though you lack built-in vitality sensors — your pack would hook you up to them during your treadmill jaunts — you are sure your heart is beating faster with every word of this conversation.
TACKYSUIT: The beauty of pokémon is that there's something to love about every species. Look at Oleanna. She had every opportunity to ditch that trubbish of hers as she climbed my company's ranks. Instead, it remains her closest partner. Even evolved and learned to Gigantamax.
LEADER: I see...
TACKYSUIT: Besides, you underestimate the market for these things. Galar is full of wealthy families. With parents who are too busy and kids who expect success served to them on a silver platter when, let's face it, most of them lack the talent or work ethic to make for successful trainers. But give them a synthetic pokémon that can do everything on its own, and they'll get that success they so desperately want. Perhaps enough to send them running back from more. Isn't it genius?
LEADER: Of course, sir.
Your claws curl against the metal floor. You wince from the awful scraping noise that assaults your ears.
TACKYSUIT: And think of the narratives we can craft for future Pokémon League series! Leon is great, but viewership numbers are plateauing for his battles. I was hoping they would stay strong, as there's an important project I have in mind specifically for someone like him. But the writing's on the wall. People want something fresh. Something new. Something... unexpected! And strong, to boot! So, hurry up and get that prototype out there. I'll send you a list of interested buyers right away.
Ears ringing, you stare at the television in abject horror.
Your pack lied to you... from activation day one.
You are not special. They had no intention of finding you a loving pack to live with.
They do not even see you as a real pokémon! You are just a machine. Something to be used, then copied over and over again.
Snarling, you lash out at the monitor. It is not its fault you learned the ugly truth, but you do not care. Smashing the metal and glass with your talons does not bring you any satisfaction, but it does end the news broadcast.
Someone shouts from across the room. You turn around and find four of your packmates at the door. LEADER shoves PINK_PONYTAIL away.
There are four large syringes in his hand. The pack stuck you with needles before, but none as large as those. Nor filled with such strangely-colored fluids.
PINK_PONYTAIL begs LEADER not to do this. That there has to be another way. She grabs the back of his white coat. He turns and smacks her, then orders the two packmates with him to get their pokémon out and put you to sleep.
Your heart races even faster. The pack forced you into SLEEP_MODE before, but never like this. The wireframe is what they used, not a pair of C://DEX/GA/ORBEETLE.
Barking in protest, you run left. There is little room, but you are fast enough that the C://MOVE/HYPNOSIS waves strike the broken remains of the monitor instead.
LEADER reaches for his belt, but PINK_PONYTAIL tackles him. Tells him he cannot do this. That you are alive.
The ORBEETLE attempt to wrap you up in telekinetic grips, but you jump onto the wall, digging your claws in and poking holes in the glass. You jump off and fire a C://MOVE/TRI_ATTACK at the closest ORBEETLE. All three parts strike its giant head and knock it into its partner.
LEADER throws PINK_PONYTAIL off her, screaming that they have to get rid of you. That when they do, they can claim they only stole materials and never did anything with them. They have a day or two at most, so they must euthanize you now and erase all evidence they ever built you.
Though your head is ringing in pain, your MEM_DRIVE manages to ping you and tell you that euthanizing means putting you into SLEEP_MODE forever.
A loud, enraged screech escapes your beak. You go airborne once again, dodging pink blasts from each ORBEETLE. Rage blinds you enough to where you cannot even identify what attacks they tried using. You do not care anymore.
You are meaningless to them. They planned for you to be meaningless. You do not want to have a meaningless end. You cannot compute the thought of never waking up again. Of never lapping water with your tongue or running on a treadmill or having fun battling against another pokémon.
Another screech. You whip your head back and forth, flinging C://MOVE/AIR_SLASH crescents around with reckless abandon.
The ORBEETLE chitter their distress. You do not care.
You sling more crescents around. Now your packmates are shouting.
You land on one of the downed ORBEETLE. A horrified LEADER tries to reach for his belt once more, but you hear that damned word play on loop in your head.
Euthanize. Euthanize. Euthanizeeuthanizeeuthanize.
He will not put you in SLEEP_MODE forever. Because you are leaving.
You whip your head left, shooting a few more wind blades. They slice up LEADER's arm. His pained screams fill the room, but you ignore them.
Sickly shadows gather around your beak. You lunge for the entrance door and C://MOVE/CRUNCH down on it with as much force as you can muster. To your surprise, you break through and get a mouthful of steel. You jerk your head down, tearing a hole in the door while the sounds of metal grating metal echo all around you.
Head ringing and heart hammering, you force your way out with a roar. Your story will not end here. It cannot end here!
You are not just stolen data. You are not some machine unworthy of a loving pack. You are alive! And you will—
Something strikes your right flank. The ground vanishes from beneath your feet, along with the rest of the brightly-lit, gray hallway. Is everything... shrinking?
Panic sets in. Is this the euthanasia? You still see the hallway but it is dimmer. You feel as though you are floating in emptiness.
Your beak opens, but produces no sound. You flail your limbs about in a panic, but this does nothing. You are not even sure if you can feel your limbs anymore.
Finally, you hear a single click. The hallway moves on its own. A white-sleeved arm passes back and forth. Back and forth.
It is PINK_PONYTAIL's arm.
You try to make sense of what is happening, but it is too fuzzy. A wave of fatigue crashes over you.
The only thing you can manage is an unheard whimper.
XxX
You are... Nobody.
Today is... today's... just another day.
You lost count of the days a while ago.
Since the last of your old pack forced you into a heavy, painful stone helmet that restricts your vision and makes it impossible to move your beak no matter how much you try.
Since your Memory Drive and RKS System went quiet, leaving you alone, struggling to remember the most basic things.
Since Pink Ponytail told you that you would not be allowed to leave the tower you tried to escape from. Something about ongoing litigation. It's a big word and you aren't sure what it means, but Pink's grave tone painted a grave enough picture back then.
You don't even remember how many days it's been since Pink Ponytail handed you off to Sweatsuit, her cousin who also works in the tower you're trapped in. But isn't in trouble with the police like Pink Ponytail was when she abandoned you.
There are other employees in this tower wearing the same outfits, but she's Sweatsuit because she's the only one who talks to you. Or even looks at you. Because you are an uncontrollable monster. A hideous failure who should never have existed.
You can't say these to Sweatsuit, but you're sure she thinks it, too. There's always a strain in her voice when she talks to you. Or about you. Sweatsuit keeps you tucked away in the ball most of the time. Except when she puts you on display in Wyndon Tower's lobby.
... She claims that name is temporary. Like your mask. Both you and the tower will be reborn, with new names and everything.
The mask muffles your annoyed growls. Sweatsuit's said the same thing the last few days. And yet, you're still sitting in the lobby, gazing at your blurry reflection in the onyx floor tiles. Of the reminder that the mask is so suffocating your white neck and chest fur faded to a dull gray, as if to symbolize how hopeless your situation is.
Sweatsuit reaches into her bag and pulls out rope and a piece of cardboard. You growl again.
It's the sign.
The stupid, crudely drawn sign Sweatsuit always hangs around your neck. The one you once thought made no sense. After all, if you're dangerous, why should Sweatsuit give you to just anyone? But back then she told you the visitors to Wyndon Tower are mainly strong trainers who could totally handle taking care of you.
You try to back away from her, but the helmet makes it too hard. Sweatsuit easily drapes the rope over your broad shoulders so the sign dangles in front of your chest.
💖FREE TO A LOVING HOME!💖
Humans are supposed to like free things. When this awful routine started, Sweatsuit told you about how humans will practically knock each other over to get free pokémon.
But you're not a pokémon. You're a machine. A freak. Someone who shouldn't exist in the first place.
You see it written on passerby's faces. Today's no different. The League staff that are used to seeing you simply look away. Visitors to Wyndon Tower recoil, even when Sweatsuit tries to wave them down or point to the sign.
Some of them give you dirty looks, because they understand what you are. They want to make sure you know that you don't belong.
The joke's on them, though. You already know that.
And so, the day goes by. People stream in and out of the big glass doors, avoiding you or shooting you nasty looks. You gaze outside at the concrete and the green grass and the channel in the distance with colorful boats petering by.
That familiar longing tugs at your heart. To know what it's like when grass tickles your paw pads or a breeze runs through your fur. Things you can't experience because you can't leave the tower until you have a new pack. And you'll never get a new pack.
The tugs get stronger whenever packs pass by Wyndon Tower's entrance. Sometimes it's a human family, with or without pokémon partners. Other times it's a human with a whole team of pokémon... or multiple humans and their teams.
You imagine yourself out there, walking with them. Then you stop doing that because it quickly pivots to the pokémon outside attacking you out of fear and a pit forms in your stomach.
Afternoon rolls around and Sweatsuit pivots to making calls on the phone at the reception desk. She's done this for a little while. Always trying to reach specific people that she says are the kinds of trainers she thinks will give you a chance.
Her fake cheerfulness and "uh-huhs" make you tired. The fact that the lobby faces the sun in the afternoon doesn't help. Sunlight seeps into your mask. You shake your head, annoyed at how warm your face is, but it doesn't do anything. Eventually the heat exhausts you and you nod off into a dreamless slumber.
Like every other day, you then jolt awake. Your sign flips up and smacks against your mask before falling back against your chest.
The lobby and the small park outside are bathed in orange hues from the setting sun. All visitors have left and only a few staff are still around. One guy with brown hair inputs the codes to lock the front doors. An older woman with graying hair shuts down the computers at the reception counters.
Once again, no one expressed interest. Another day of standing around, waiting for a miracle that will never happen.
Sweatsuit sighs and footsteps quickly follow. She tucks a notepad into a pocket.
Apparently, the last of Galar's vaunted gym leaders isn't interested in adopting you. Even the minor leaguers balked, calling you bad for business.
This isn't surprising. Nobody wants to care for a machine.
She also says the Aether Foundation continues ignoring her calls. Sweatsuit wonders if they can't simply fly you to Alola, drop you off there, and hope for the best.
You lower your head as Sweatsuit then raises her right hand and pantomimes one of her bosses saying they'd all go to prison if they tried.
Your headache intensifies. The helmet hurts. You shake your head back and forth, silently willing the blasted mix of stone and clay to break apart. It holds steady, though. As it always does.
Sighing, Sweatsuit takes the sign off your neck. She tells you tomorrow is a new day.
You snarl at her because you're sick of hearing her say that.
Tomorrow will not be a new day. It will be the same as today. And yesterday. And the day before that and the day before that and the day before that and—
Sweatsuit smiles, but it's a somber smile. She says tomorrow is different. Wyndon Tower has a new owner who will be coming to visit. She hasn't ever talked with him about you because apparently he is new to his job and she didn't want to overwhelm him. But Sweatsuit claims he's a kind soul. A friend to all pokémon.
If anyone will be willing to take you, it's him.
She reaches out and rests her left hand on your mask. Sweatsuit asks you to have hope, even if it's just a little bit.
Your fur prickles. This seemingly endless routine has drained all the hope out of you.
Except that Sweatsuit sounds different when talking about this man. She isn't disguising her tone. There's no strain to her voice. She's sincere.
Does she really believe he's the one, then? The one to give you a new pack? A loving home?
... Maybe you can squeeze out a few last drops of hope.
XxX
You are still Nobody.
Today is the different day.
Sweatsuit summons you from your ball early. You are not in the lobby, but a washroom that staff can use for cleaning their pokémon.
Before you can get acclimated to all the white porcelain and cartoonish pictures of water-types like sobble and cramorant, Sweatsuit blasts you with jets of hot water. The mask stifles your protesting barks, turning them into nothing more than low-pitched groans. Sweatsuit says you have to try and hold still so she can make you nice and pretty.
You find that notion laughable. Even without the mask you're a freak.
But the water's nice on your fur, so you follow Sweatsuit's direction as she lathers you in soap using sudsy eevee washcloths. You resist the urge to growl at the washcloth. It's not really an eevee, but you are jealous of it all the same. Everyone adores those cuddly little furballs. Why else would they make washcloths that look like them?
If only you were an eevee and not a freak, maybe you would already have a new pack.
You shove the thought aside and silently allow Sweatsuit to finish grooming you. Dirty water spirals around the silver drain. You pretend it's sucking up all the pain from your helmet. It's a hollow comfort.
As she dries you off, Sweatsuit tells you the tower's new owner is Leon. The name is familiar, yet you can't remember why. Something lost with your severed Memory Drive connection, you figure.
The towels give way to a blow dryer. Hot air ripples your fur. It's actually kind of nice, though it turns bittersweet when you realize it's just a machine and a real outside breeze has to feel different.
You sigh. Your mask again disguises it as a groan.
Sweatsuit cheerfully proclaims you're all done. Instead of putting you back in your ball, she immediately puts the sign on and says today you bid the sign and the lobby farewell.
She guides you down hallways with black, onyx tiles that match the lobby's. Places where the overlapping hexagons you despise now bear logos with circles and poké balls. You think it's supposed to represent the Pokémon League, but you don't really care. As long as this is the last time you have to see them.
You and Sweatsuit arrive in the lobby and she positions you in your usual spot. It's early, because the lobby is as empty as it is when you wake up from your dreamless afternoon naps. Except the outside is a soft blue instead of orange and yellow. There aren't many people around. Instead, some wild rookidee hop around, pecking at the concrete.
What you wouldn't give to be in their places, even if your beak is far too large to try and pick up breadcrumbs. At least it would be something different. At least you'd have the freedom to be silly.
Staffers unlock the tower's big, glass doors. Visitors trickle in. Each time, you wonder if the visitor is Leon. Each time, the visitor glances at you and walks faster.
After a few hours of this, you shift in place uneasily and growl. Sweatsuit tells you he should be here any minute now. A strong urge to headbutt her bubbles up, but instantly grapples with guilt over such thoughts.
Then the glass door swings open and all the staff members at the reception desks look up in unison. A couple of visitors seated on black couches across the room point, one of them squealing in excitement.
This newcomer, with a fancy red suit, long blue fur, and a baseball cap is Leon. You have no hard evidence to back it up, only a gut feeling.
That and Sweatsuit running him down, waving energetically. She's surprisingly fast for a scrawny human.
Sweatsuit reaches Leon. She hops in place excitedly. They're too far for you to hear, but Sweatsuit gestures repeatedly to you.
Leon meets your gaze and, unlike everyone else, there isn't scorn or contempt in his eyes.
Instead, they brim with curiosity.
Panic and anticipation twist around your insides. Sweatsuit... was right about him?
This may actually be your chance. Your one, true chance.
... Quick, you need to do something. Look friendly!
You sit, hold your head up proudly, and wag your tail. The gems scrape against the onyx floor. You keep it up even though internally you scream at how demeaning it is, especially with the sign dangling around your neck.
Leon's gaze doesn't falter. Perhaps he's studying you? Or maybe this is a staring contest to test your resolve?
Well, you're resolved, all right. Resolved to get out of this awful place.
Sweatsuit continues talking. Gesturing. Leon nods along slowly. Sweatsuit makes a joke about trying to turn you electric-type to help recharge her phone. You tense. Thinking about your lost Memory Drive brings an awful throbbing pain to your head.
You have no idea how long the two talk for. Eventually, however, Leon tips the brim of his cap down. He looks at Sweatsuit. His lips move. Though you can't hear it, you see Sweatsuit's lively expression melt away.
Your heart sinks.
He doesn't want you.
He paid more attention to you than anyone to cross through those doors except for Sweatsuit, but in the end it didn't matter. You can't join his pack.
Leon was your last hope. And now those tiny embers have burnt out.
Ears ringing and head pounding, you barely register Leon abruptly heading out the glass doors, waving to other humans who have gathered around the entrance.
You slide onto your belly. Your masked head slumps against the floor. The blurry floor.
You blink. The blurriness returns. And now the inside of your mask is damp.
Damp with tears.
You're crying.
You never considered the possibility you could cry.
But the tears are flowing. And they won't stop. The mask squeezes your face tighter. Muffles your whimpers.
You don't fight it.
Maybe the mask will squeeze you tight enough to put you to sleep for good. You didn't want that before, but now you're not sure what else is left for you.
Nobody wants you. You have no home. No pack. Only a sign and a humiliating routine with no end in sight.
You keep crying until you run out of tears. Then you simply lie on the floor, numb from all of it.
You watch tiny dust mites drift over the onyx tiles. Even they have more freedom than you ever will.
This is your fate. The fate of a fre—
An unfamiliar voice calls out to you. But you are tired and heartbroken. You lack the strength to lift your head.
The voice calls you again. It's male.
Groaning, you lift your head up... and abruptly stiffen.
Leon's back. He's right in front of you. You look around for Sweatsuit, but do not see her.
Your heart skips a beat. Has Leon reconsidered?
His face is soft. Gentle. There's a warm smile. You can't remember the last time you've seen a smile like that. It puts butterfree in your stomach.
Leon then steps to the side. There's a girl behind him.
Short brown fur matching her eyes. Her pink dress has a gray coat over it and her hat is a funny brown circle with a white pom-pom on top. It reminds you of jumpluff. Sort of.
Before Leon can say anything else, the girl hops toward you and holds her arms out. She cheerfully introduces herself as Gloria... and then calls you a big fuzzball.
For once, you're thankful to have the mask around to muffle your sputtering. Gloria tells you that she wonders if you're even fuzzier than Zacian.
Now you're really confused. You glance at Leon, who puts a hand on Gloria's shoulder and, chuckling, explains Gloria is Galar's new champion. She won the title from him.
Gloria doesn't care about the praise, instead asking if she can pet you.
You're still stunned, but manage to dumbly nod your head. She runs her fingers along your shoulder and sighs in content. Apparently you have soft fur. The morning bath proves worth the trouble after all.
Your headache is entirely gone and you wonder if that's because your head is stuffed with so many racing thoughts it's pushing the mask away.
This is Galar's champion.
She's petting you and saying nice things about you, even though you two just met.
A small part of you wonders if this is a hoax, but then Sweatsuit appears from one of the staff doors behind the reception desk. You spot your ball immediately and, to your shock, a stack of disks in a clear carrying case.
Those are your disks. You were sure someone destroyed them, yet here they are. Repeating the same joke from earlier about making you electric-type to charge her phone, Sweatsuit hands your disks to Gloria along with your ball. She places both in a brown backpack.
Sweatsuit says her cousin told her that, supposedly, she designed the mask to fall off as you and Gloria get to understand one another better. And once it does, the disks will work just as you remember them. Gloria finds that really cool, then turns to you and says we're going to become fast friends.
We. As in, you and her.
Your heart beats faster. Stronger than it has in a while.
It's happening. Someone's adopting you.
Yet a small part of you still refuses to acknowledge it. Tells you this is happening to fast. It must be a dream!
Leon nods approvingly. He says to leave the legal stuff to him and his team. Then Gloria pats the side of your mask and tells you it's time to blow this popsicle stand.
This place doesn't even sell popsicles, but you don't care!
She's walking you up to the glass doors. The barrier you thought you'd never break.
Sweatsuit calls out. Asks if Gloria might want to put you in your ball.
Gloria waves her off. She says walking with you will help you two bond.
Your heart flutters as Gloria shoves the glass door open. Warm sunlight and crisp Wyndon air immediately greet you.
You take your first steps out of the tower. The concrete's warm beneath your paw pads.
The mask muffles an excited chirp. You don't care.
You're outside. For the very first time.
Gloria guides you across the concrete toward the grass. You gingerly put your talons on it, followed by your hind legs. The grass tickles you exactly as you always dreamed it would. Another chirp escapes your beak.
Gloria laughs. It's not a mocking laugh, though. It's a fun one. You turn and nudge her side. You want to know how she's taking all of this in stride.
And even though she hasn't known you for very long, Gloria picks up on your thoughts. Reaching for her belt, she says she has some experience with people like you.
Gloria grabs a poké ball and opens it. Blue light splashes on the ground opposite you and produces... something you can hardly even describe.
A tiny, yellow head. An equally tiny and yellow neck, torso, and arms with little lightning-bolt shaped fins. All connected to an oversized green and red backside and spiked tail. It gives your backside a run for its money, if you're being honest.
Gloria tells you this is a dracozolt. That a scientist made them. And that even though Zippy looks a bit goofy, Gloria still loves them.
She wraps her arms around Zippy's waist and Zippy chirps happily.
They open their tiny beady eyes and look at you. You aren't sure how to greet them, so you bend down slightly, stick up your rear, and wag your tail slightly.
Zippy acknowledges this, mimicking the gesture and waddling toward you, squawking excitedly.
They speak kind of fast, but you think Zippy's calling you a new friend. Repeatedly. The dracozolt nudges the edge of your mask . A bit of static electricity makes your fur prickle, but you don't mind.
You wonder how Zippy can call you a friend when you've only just met. Perhaps if your Memory Drive was still connected, it would protest this logical fallacy. But it's offline. And hearing Zippy call you a new friend sends fresh butterfree fluttering around your stomach.
You brush your hide against Zippy's side. They hop around and chirp at Gloria, asking if they can have a picnic to play with their new friend. Which means you.
Gloria smiles and claps her hands. It's a great idea, but you'll need to get out of Wyndon first. Zippy pouts a bit, but nods their understanding. Gloria puts them back in their ball for now, then looks at you.
No, she looks past you. Toward that last little ripple of doubt in your heart.
Do you believe me now?
And the answer is yes. Yes. A thousand times yes!
You hear a few voices from behind Gloria. People who recognize her as the champion, apparently. Many stare at both of you in confusion. A few ask, hesitantly, what your deal is.
That rush of euphoria freezes for a moment.
But then Gloria confidently strolls to your side and puts her hand on your shoulder.
She proudly declares that you are Buddy, her new teammate. And that they can expect to see you in action at Wyndon Stadium soon enough.
A fresh wave of elation washes over you, for you know now with absolute certainty that you've reached the light at the end of the tunnel.
You have a new pack. You'll get to battle with someone who loves you for who you are. Someone who's finally giving you a proper name.
You are Buddy... and you found your loving home.
XxX
So, this was a contest one-shot. The theme was myths and legends. I write a lot of legends in my long fics... and almost always downplay any sort of godly nature fans might associate with them. After all, you can feed them poké puffs, take them camping, and go on picnics with them. And they'll all love it just as much as any partner pokémon or pikachu or eevee would. So, likely as a result of that, I interpreted "What makes them legendary" to mean "What makes them different?" Which, if you read the judges' comments for this, was off the mark.
I am a bit disappointed in this one, which I don't tend to admit about anything other than early chapters of my first fic. Back in June, I figured that, given an unpredictable work schedule, this would be the one year I could actually take part in one of these. And it was a theme I liked. After spending so long focusing on my PMD fic, I thought I might try to experiment with a different writing style. I used to do that in Guiding Light as a way to circumvent getting burnt out; releasing experimental little bonus parts, often to mixed reception.
But I focused too hard on the voice. At the expense of A) questionable pacing, B) questionable narrative decisions, and, of course, C) producing a piece that didn't really align with the theme. That'd be okay as a standalone one-shot, but I submitted it for the TR contest. In the weeks that followed the submission deadline I had this nagging feeling like I slipped up somewhere. Which ended up aligning with some of the judges' comments. It's basically the surprised pikachu meme. The joke's on me there. XD
Maybe I'm being hard on myself. But I work in medicine. So, misunderstanding the contest theme does sting. Sure, this was for fun, but if I made a similar error at work, there'd be really bad consequences.
I could make revisions for the pacing and narrative choices, but I would rather focus my efforts on continuing my PMD fic. The big takeaway for me was that, while an interesting exercise, I don't think I can tackle this writing style again. I focused too hard on the prose and let other fundamentals fall by the wayside. Lesson learned. This is up for posterity's sake, I suppose. If you enjoyed it, great! If you didn't, that's fine, too. It was experimental from the beginning, which I suppose fits the subject matter. ;P
I am a bit disappointed in this one, which I don't tend to admit about anything other than early chapters of my first fic. Back in June, I figured that, given an unpredictable work schedule, this would be the one year I could actually take part in one of these. And it was a theme I liked. After spending so long focusing on my PMD fic, I thought I might try to experiment with a different writing style. I used to do that in Guiding Light as a way to circumvent getting burnt out; releasing experimental little bonus parts, often to mixed reception.
But I focused too hard on the voice. At the expense of A) questionable pacing, B) questionable narrative decisions, and, of course, C) producing a piece that didn't really align with the theme. That'd be okay as a standalone one-shot, but I submitted it for the TR contest. In the weeks that followed the submission deadline I had this nagging feeling like I slipped up somewhere. Which ended up aligning with some of the judges' comments. It's basically the surprised pikachu meme. The joke's on me there. XD
Maybe I'm being hard on myself. But I work in medicine. So, misunderstanding the contest theme does sting. Sure, this was for fun, but if I made a similar error at work, there'd be really bad consequences.
I could make revisions for the pacing and narrative choices, but I would rather focus my efforts on continuing my PMD fic. The big takeaway for me was that, while an interesting exercise, I don't think I can tackle this writing style again. I focused too hard on the prose and let other fundamentals fall by the wayside. Lesson learned. This is up for posterity's sake, I suppose. If you enjoyed it, great! If you didn't, that's fine, too. It was experimental from the beginning, which I suppose fits the subject matter. ;P
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