Author's Notes + Ch1
slamdunkrai
bing.com
- Pronouns
- they/them
- Partners
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IMPORTANT NOTE, DECEMBER 2022 (FOR BLITZ 4 ONWARDS):
THIS VERSION IS OLD AND HAS BEEN DISCONTINUED. I STILL INTEND TO REPLY TO THE OLD UNANSWERED COMMENTS HERE EVENTUALLY AND AM LEAVING THIS THREAD UP FOR POSTERITY'S SAKE, IN CASE YOU WANNA READ AND REVIEW IT, BUT BESIDE IT NOT REFLECTING THE STANDARD I'M CAPABLE OF PRODUCING MY WORK TOWARDS OR THE STORY I WAS TRYING TO TELL HERE, THERE'S NOT REALLY A WAY I CAN CONTINUE IT IN A COHERENT MANNER. IT IS GENERALLY CONSIDERED GOOD PRACTICE TO NOT WRITE YOURSELF INTO A CORNER AFTER SIX CHAPTERS. ESPECIALLY NOT RIGHT BEFORE THERE'S A WHOLE WAD OF CANON THAT COMES OUT THAT MEANS YOU END UP CHANGING ALL THE WORLDBUILDING AND CHARACTERS AND PLOT OF YOUR STORY. THANK YOU, PLA.
STILL, THOSE SIX CHAPTERS ARE PASSABLE ENOUGH THAT I'M LEAVING THEM UP IF YOU WANNA READ THEM. CONSIDER THIS A BETA VERSION OR WHATEVER. THIS PROBABLY DOESN'T WARRANT BOLDED, UNDERLINED ALL CAPS, BUT I'VE COMMITTED TO THIS BIT NOW. I'LL LINK THE NEW VERSION WHEN IT GOES UP. SHOULD BE IN THE NEXT FEW DAYS. CHEERS. :)
(tl;dr: this one's old, new version coming soon, feel free to read it if you want but it might not be the best place to offer feedback)
Summary:
Content warnings: Precise content warnings will be provided with each chapter, but generally speaking: this story will heavily contain strong language, repeated allusions towards depression/self-loathing, derealisation and violence.
Author's notes: Hello! Here's a thing I've been writing. It's based off Platinum, albeit quite loosely. You'll see what I mean, but the gist of it: the main characters are OCs and I've tweaked certain other elements a little. I wanted to write something about the legends of Sinnoh with special focus on the Lunar Duo, and have ended up doing it in the most convoluted way possible. Expect a lot of that eventually, and expect a lot of lore that I just sorta made up, too.
Massive thanks go out to TR's very own Panoramic_Vacuum for helping me out with some beta-reading and ironing things out, and also for just generally being a sound individual. This story would be much, much less coherent without them. :>
As for feedback: feel free to leave whatever thoughts you think are necessary! My process for writing this is that I'll publish a few chapters over the course of a few weeks, let them sit while I work on the next bunch, and repeat. I'll only go back and make major revisions when I'm not working on new ones, and will try to implement notes on what I plan on revising at a structural level (e.g. pacing, plot elements, so on) for the next big update here. Also note that for particularly old batches of chapters, I may be a little less inclined to go back and make fixes — my focus is on completion just as much as it is making this the best story it can be, and avoiding revision hell is part of this. I'll make a note of the chapters that I no longer plan to revise (beyond, like, typos and major grammatical errors you may spot) when I get to the point where it's necessary, but as of my writing this, there are none! Only the opening leg of the story is out. Go wild.
Anyway! Without further ado...
The weather had been unusually good over the past few days, but there was no time to enjoy it now. Something had gone terribly wrong somewhere down the line, and there was no time to speculate on where, but the issue was simple. Right now Connor Murdoch was alone, hundreds of miles away from home, and he was not equipped for this. How could anyone have been?
This was a matryoshka doll of situations he should not have been in, but long story short, he stood in the Valley Windworks, he had someone to look for, and the corridor ahead of him didn’t seem to end. It stretched out as far as he could see, which admittedly wasn’t that far because the lights were out, but it still raised questions. There could’ve been other explanations, like the chance that unbeknownst to him the building was a miracle of architecture that was so much bigger on the inside than out. Connor couldn’t muster anything more reasonable than this. He knew it didn’t make much sense. He went with it anyway.
A quick glance over his shoulder reassured him the door hadn’t vanished and wasn’t planning to do so any time soon. In spite of what he told himself, he could have left at any moment. Doing so would’ve allowed him to go about the rest of his business without thinking about any of this. Floaroma was a nice town full of nice people, like the guy he’d promised to save. Connor had never met him before, but his eight-year-old daughter loved him enough to chase a complete stranger up for help. She was just the sort of person he just couldn’t bring himself to disappoint.
Sometimes, he wished he had a better brain, or at the very least better ideas. Right now he had nothing except the plastic on his belt and the dark corridor before him. The big room behind him had been empty when he checked it, much to his bewilderment. Half-finished work hung over the room, and cold coffee lingered in a mug emblazoned by words: “Best dad in the world.” Out of everything, that stuck with Connor. Good dads don’t leave their children’s gifts behind if they’re going far, and as far as it concerned him, the sort of people who took those gifts away were probably murderers, too. Life was still here, but by process of elimination, it had to be on the other side of shadows.
Connor peered again into the darkness as a bead of sweat trickled down the back of his collar. No foe faced him at the other end of the corridor to be fought with hands or his pokémon. What was he so afraid of then? He was in control here, he would do this on his own terms. After all, the only sensible reason for the hallway to have been dark was that the lights were off, and not because something was actually down there. That was absurd, and thinking so reassured him as much as it could’ve done. It didn’t get rid of the shadows, though, nor did it mean he was absolved of greeting what lay on the other side of them. If things played out the way he expected— and he considered himself an optimist here— this meant intruding on a hostage situation. That was a big if. He was… scared? Scared was just a word. Some feelings can’t be summed up with a word. Like this one, for example; this was more the sort of feeling that Connor had to promise never to feel again. That promise fell on deaf ears. He stood in an industrial complex at the mercy of hands unseen, with no way out that made him feel any better about himself. He was alone. This was scary. He was scared.
But being scared didn’t help anybody. Action did. Every step on laminate floorboards rang sharp in the air, alerting whoever was in the dark to his approach. Except he swore he was still alone, and there was nothing to be afraid of. Darkness only meant that no lights were on. Besides, nothing moved in the shadows. Empty shadows were as good as a friend.
Something moved in the shadows.
He stopped. His heart almost followed suit. Something moved in the shadows.
He didn’t hear it make a sound, though he couldn’t say for sure, because his heartbeat drowned out everything else. But just because he hadn’t heard a thing didn’t mean a thing hadn’t heard him. Faltering breaths squeaked out from his dry, chapped lips, and his fingers thrummed against the pocket of his jeans in an uneven rhythm. It was probably nothing… as if probably guaranteed safety. Most likely just a wild drifloon or something; the poor creature was probably the victim of an offhand breeze and got stuck inside. Still, if it attacked him, he would have to fight back. Connor couldn’t risk causing that scene — nor could he risk facing the cops. He tried to make himself as big as possible to ward off the intruder. Which was kind of silly, because he was the intruder, and there’s not much you can do to make yourself big when you’re all of five feet tall.
Something had crept up on him, though. It was a smell. Not a stench; upon arrival it didn’t knock him dead on his feet. Nor was it a particularly bad smell, either; its presence was neutral. Maybe even nice in different circumstances. But not here. No building that was in use every day — no building that was in use right now — should have reeked of dust. Particles scratched against his throat, and he could’ve sworn he was choking. Breathing should have come naturally, like moving, but he found himself unable to do either. He surely hadn’t gone more than five meters this whole time, but the hallway felt five meters darker, only illuminated by leftover specks of light.
Out of instinct, his hand cupped the warm plastic home of his closest friend. The pokéball was still there — why wouldn’t it have been? Of course, he was unable to do anything with it; hurling it at shadows was at best a waste of energy and at worst certain death.
What path was he to take, then? Plan A had been to pass through without incident, which was such a basic task that he hadn’t considered a plan B necessary. But he stood on the precipice of an incident anyway. It wasn’t like this made leaving any more a noble option, though, because he hadn’t accomplished anything here yet. Here he was, at a crossroads: leave with no dignity, or stay for the sliver of hope that things would turn out alright. He took one step forward… and then another…
…and in no time at all, fatigue had nearly overcome him. Moving had become an act of dragging his body around like a dead weight, while every part of him pulled together into a yawn that he could not contain despite his clenched jaw. His eyelids only grew heavier, until keeping them open was a great exertion. Everything was exhausting, and there was no escape; he was bound by an obligation to the child he'd met… when was this? Couldn't have been more than half an hour ago, but he wasn't keeping track. He barely felt like he existed. He wanted to dissolve into a puddle until his head stopped aching. He wanted to sleep. He had to sleep.
But his moment of weakness left him vulnerable, and he realised this too late to go unnoticed. It was the shadows themselves that moved, as if getting into formation. Whatever lurked here spoke to him, and he heard it not through his brain, but through carvings that flashed across his mind.
“You will not find your truth here, child.”
Connor tried to respond, but found himself dazed and without the strength to stand. Turning back wasn't an option, he reminded himself. Vague colours started to swirl off in the far edge of his vision, though they were merely formless blobs against the oblivion that lay ahead. Perhaps this wasn't necessary. Perhaps he could give in. What strength did he have to go on? All he had to do was go to sleep. Then everything would be alright. He closed his eyes…
The thought of abandoning the girl outside, leaving her too without a father, jolted him back. He couldn't turn back, could he? He reached a hand out, his arm stretching and locking before him. But he made contact with nothing in the blank space ahead — the shadows retreated from his touch. For a brief moment, there was a glowing light. It left him.
Why was he here?
“I can't leave,” he mumbled. “I-I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't… there's someone who needs me. I need to help her. I can't have her… I'm sorry. Please let me through.”
Where was he? Could he even stand? He'd intended to say that, but in his state, he wasn't sure how much was intelligible. How much longer would this last? A rising tide of bile formed in him and rose, but he resisted the urge to puke; what impression would this have made to the one that spoke to him? He was pathetic, but he wasn't an idiot. There was no way he would pass. But the key was that he had to try.
The voice did not respond, but that didn't matter all that much. It hadn't gone away. Everything was the same, and Connor felt numb. Nothing felt quite real; he turned back, but the rest of the hallway had been reduced to a smear that swayed in his vision alongside his head. He turned back to meet nothingness once more, and tried to speak. His words came out as fragments, interspersed by yawns.
“…I shouldn't have done this. I don't want to hurt you, but… I had to try… who are you?”
“I understand. Forgive me.”
An inky tendril reached out and wrapped around him, constricting him for just a few moments. This stole the air from his body, it ripped the last bit of resistance out of him, and then it disappeared to leave Connor alone. Then, the drifting off began.
Sleep did not come immediately. It was more of a falling sensation; he was a ragdoll with nothing underneath him. There was no energy in him for mustering resistance, and he was pretty sure that the corridor got further away with every passing moment. He was falling, and he tried to muster concern.
The one thing he had to cling onto was that he didn’t feel dead. There was no way of knowing, but he was certain that dying was supposed to feel more natural than this. His body and soul were supposed to peacefully part ways, and he'd just stop being there. This hadn't happened. He was still here, still intact, just falling into a comfortable nothing. Maybe it was a good thing he was still around. It wasn’t like dying did anything for the people of Snowpoint, or the man he was trying to find, or anyone, except for making Mum very upset.
His last thought before everything faded was a question: was he really only here to keep others happy?
At some point, he eased his eyes open. When had he closed them? When had he landed? Before his answers came, light crept in from all corners of his vision so brightly that it stung his retinas. He squinted as the world came back into view, much less familiar than it had been.
It was immediately obvious why it was so bright; there were no walls. The hallway he’d come to know was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the entire Windworks building was gone and he was left sprawled out on his back under the open sky. Except it was nothing like any sky he’d ever seen. A crimson pool had replaced the usual cheery blue, and bits of sludge oozed by, passing themselves off as clouds. Through all the oddity, he spotted something familiar. The rocky spire of Mt. Coronet sliced through the gloom, a burning white halo threatening to swallow it from above. It had an equal chance of being the sun or the moon, but that didn’t matter much; it didn’t resemble either so much as it was an indiscernible white hole around which paint coalesced. Silhouettes pierced the distant sky, their forms closer to decommissioned space shuttles than buildings.
It was all a bit much, really. Looking on at all this, he found himself unable to do anything except blink in disbelief. None of what he saw could’ve been real; not so soon after he’d been in the hallway on what had otherwise been a fairly normal day. Yet he was there. He felt it as he laid his hands across the ground. They hurt where he had scraped them earlier. He was in this world, touching something in it, and if he wasn’t to trust his sense of touch… what was there to trust?
His fingers curled in frustration, digging his nails into the ground to try to drag himself back to reality, only to find a cold hill had become his unloving mattress. Frost covered every blade of grass, forming one white mass that bit at his tender palms. March was never particularly warm in Sinnoh — no month was, really — but it was never this cold, especially not lately. He sat up, hugging his chest to try and stay warm.
Shivering, he squinted into the distance. It was as if the world changed under closer scrutiny. The silhouettes towering over the nearby city morphed into cathedral spires, spawning a whole city around them. Houses sprung up all around, but every one was devoid of life. As Connor’s eyes followed the roads he noticed they were empty, too. Every single inhabitant of the city took refuge in a great big stadium, painted with oddly muted colours. Only so many people could fit inside. More people straggled along outside it, trying to push and shove their way in.
A part of him wanted to go and join them to see what the fuss was about. But he found himself having second thoughts as he rose to his feet: he loathed crowds. So focused on swallowing down his rising panic, Connor nearly jumped out of his skin as broken church bells rang across the sky. But it didn’t stop at one chime. One more rang out, then another, then another. The resultant cacophony was a patchwork of noises that fit together like a glove to a foot, loud enough to cleave the sky in half. He watched as the crack spiderwebbed, splitting the sky into many pieces, each drained of any colour.
He wanted to count them. It was the first thing he thought to do. First to calm his racing heart, and second to try to inject some reason into what he was witnessing. It made more sense if he operated under the impression that this was a riddle he had the means to solve. Connor liked riddles; they actively discouraged panic. They were logical devices. They could be explained away. But as he scrambled to explain this one, the noise only digging further into his ears, something horrible dawned on him: there was no explanation. So he started running.
Connor was never the most athletic person, and he was never more acutely aware of this than now. Every sensation that coursed through his body was unpleasant. Carbon dioxide ran like sandpaper against his throat, the grating sensation of which bled down into his lungs. His shins were splintered wood connected to his feet by nothing more than tissue and hope. It didn’t help that the air was as thick as molasses either. In the end all of his efforts to run amounted to very little movement at all. The world moved around him, if anything. It was nothing more than a strange slush of colours now. But though he was alone, he couldn’t shake the feeling something guided him through it.
Was he the center of this universe now? Did everything orbit around him? All these questions swirled around his head, with no immediate hope of an answer in sight. But as he scrambled to unlock whatever puzzle he’d been given, he found something in lieu of a key. It wasn’t so much a thought as it was an instinct, in all honesty. Something he wasn’t consciously telling himself and could not justify. Praying had never really been a part of his routine, and he’d never grown particularly acquainted with any form of scripture. But he knew where his legs were carrying him. The unseen hand that guided him was taking him to the house of the gods.
It felt as though the motion of his body existed in tandem with the world outside him, and he couldn’t stop either from moving; the only thing that could was the white hole gaping in the sky. So when several fingers sprouted from it, each touching horizons in every direction, Connor didn’t know how to process it except to keep running. He watched as the tendrils took a form that lay just outside his grasp. They didn’t seem to have any single colour, shape or set of rules that defined them, and staring at them expecting them to justify their presence felt like a futile gesture. They were flatly-prismed-rectangles, black and red and gold and blue at the same time if perceived in different ways. They were holes whose specifics were made up by the brain, it felt; a placeholder perceivable in so many ways but genuine in just one.
Connor was still trying to figure out which one, exactly, when everything jerked in one spasmodic motion, and for a moment he was separated from what he knew. It was the strangest moment he’d ever existed in. No buffer separated him from the rest of the world for a second: the silent filter between his eyes and what they saw vanished, and everything screamed. The sensation was as though sharp metal edges sprouted right into his pink fleshy brain. He found himself looking in all directions but totally unsure what to make of any of it. Everything changed depending on how he looked at it, but no way could’ve been right because everything hung in perpetual change. Beams of light bounced around his head, and the eyes he trusted to decipher this world had failed him. Every sense worked overtime the moment those things sprouted into the sky, yet their efforts amounted to little; found all of them dimmed by a mental fog that he could not clear.
Finding himself overwhelmed, he blinked. Just for a second. To stop the onslaught.
When his eyes re-opened, there was nothing. He stood alone in the void, save for the object his heart desired. Above him rose the spires of the cathedral. As his eyes swept across the ancient stone, a solid pool settled at the bottom of his chest. It weighed him down, threatening to plunge into his stomach and tangle everything up inside. He took deep breaths, focusing on keeping himself together as though it was all he could do anymore. His gaze swept from the foot of the staircase to the idols perched atop its eaves. He found himself quaking.
Connor had grown up in the ever-looming shadow of the great forbidden temple at the heart of Snowpoint, which survived because people wanted it to survive. They wanted it so hard that basically everyone in town knew someone who worked there. It wasn’t easy, but it was a living, and it kept the temple up. It kept whatever lurked inside it, too. Not that anyone knew what that was, exactly, because they were rarely allowed to disturb it. Entire ecosystems flourished inside those halls, in part because it was too much work to comb over every minute detail of the damn thing and in part because the wild had a right to live there. Nobody knew where it came from, exactly; they just let it be, because it was just as much their home as Snowpoint was Connor’s, or Mum’s, or anyone else’s.
This, on the other hand, was Hearthome Cathedral. This was a monument, a house built for Arceus. Bigger buildings probably existed, but more intimidating ones… seemed out of the question. Even when the sky was something else, those spires still touched it, not ending but instead becoming part of an unpierced rubber ceiling. It had finally merged with a god, yes, but not that one. Against the empty world, those polished marble bricks were the brightest thing he had ever seen; they were so pure and glistened so hard, their light sterile enough to sear pink blotches into his retinas that stayed whenever he blinked. Nothing suggested this was made for living, and nothing had lived there. It stood unblemished without effort, because defiling the houses of the holy was basically heresy. Some people were perfectly happy shoving a middle finger in the faces of the gods. But not here. Not in this place.
As if drawn by a magnet’s pull, Connor trudged forward, footfalls heavier and heavier the closer he came to the foot of the stairs. Traversing the stairway required him to haul his carcass as far as he could know, which the moment dictated was both too far and nothing at all. At the end lay a vanishing point that, as he approached, slowly revealed itself as a doorway. Its doors were made of cross-stitched oakwood and at least three times his size. Like many things, they changed under increasing scrutiny; the oakwood extended and collapsed into an open maw by its own free will.
Every step rang out across the marble floor, reaching an empty world where no sound was heard because nobody was there to hear sound. He was totally alone, like he was the only thing that really existed. The thought made him… content, somehow, as selfish as it was. It was his house now. So into it he went.
The cathedral was hollow, sparse and cavernous; Connor could not shake the feeling that the earth itself had swallowed him. No light crawled in through any window, though the echo of every footstep gave life to the candles that flanked him; they weren’t much, but they allowed Connor more sight the further in he went. No matter how polished the marble walls were, they devoured the light, giving the impression that the building was held up by rock in its natural form. At the altar, a pair of sharpened pillars jutted out from the walls, crimson chains snaking down their length like veins pumping diluted blood. Before them lay rows of empty pews that could’ve seated thousands. Each was marked with an insignia: a wheel centered on nothing, punctuated by four outward-facing spears with jewels encrusted in each. Connor hadn’t seen such a symbol before, and it stuck with him as he walked further down. It had to mean something, at least.
But this felt wrong. Hearthome Cathedral’s greatest pride was the stained glass window at the altar. It was so steeped in splendid imagery with so many colours, crafted out of such a deep love for Sinnese lore and all its deities. None of it meant a thing if Connor couldn’t see it. The spectacle had gone, an amorphous blob taking its place in the unlit void. There should’ve been someone there. Was this world devoid of Arceus? Of the rest? Did he somehow supplant the entire pantheon in this realm of nothingness?
It felt weird thinking about all this, because in case that this was actually happening and wasn’t just in his head (which was not, he reminded himself, his fault), there was a real chance this was the last thing that would ever happen, anywhere.
The walk had to end at the altar. The path he had been carried down did not immediately extend beyond this point. Standing before his destination, Connor was faced with the discordant trumpet tones at the end of the universe. A plate lay before him, engraved with the same wheel insignia. Two things sat in its center. One was an entire star distilled into a milky white globe complete with particles locked in an uneven waltz around it. The other was a rock with countless hexagonal faces, so dense that specks of dust seemed to slow as they inevitably fell near it.
An open book sprawled upon the table offered him an explanation. Unfortunately, its contents were written in a vaguely familiar script: ancient Sinnese runes, copied over from carvings on rock face. As recently as last year he studied history, and he hadn’t planned to go any further because his B grade was enough, frankly. This disqualified him from being even close to an expert on runes, or understand any of this outside of maybe a few key words; he leaned in ever closer to the page, hoping that, maybe, he’d be lucky enough—
It was over in an instant, and he was helpless to stop it. A loud crack shattered his eardrums and his spine ignited in pain, searing every one of his nerves; suddenly he wasn’t quite Connor anymore. A streak of bright blue blinded him, and when his eyes re-opened he found all he could do was see. Signals from his brain congested at its stem before they could reach his fingertips. For the second time, he was locked in his own body and unable to reach out for help… but then, who was there to give it? There was no helping the fact that the world had entirely melted away. All that remained was the altar, the strange orbs, and the open book, the information from which began gushing through an open door and into his head:
“All that you have ever known is owed to the hatching of the egg, which was the beginning. Arceus emerged as all matter spewed forth into the ether, and all that remained of the egg was the seventeen shards of its tectonic shell, each having meaning carved into it in utero by the thousand hands of Arceus. But the universe they spawned into, beyond the deep pool of matter, was empty. Arceus looked as far as they could see in any direction, and though it stretched out forever, it had no meaning. It only stayed the same, neither living or ever dying. So, they decided, they would create life for death to trail onto. And thus, Palkia and Dialga emerged from nothing; space began to move outwards, matter began to take form, and the march of time began.”
In plain view, a universe was born, centered on the two unnameable artifacts held on the altar. It progressed in the same vein universes do; stars began to form, obtained gravitational pulls, eventually had planets orbiting them thanks to collisions caused by their gravitational pulls — all for Connor to watch without the ability to interfere. Eventually, the projection changed focus, centering on the one planet he knew: the one orbiting his star, in the middle of his galaxy, floating on the little speck in the cosmos that he called home. Earth was not really home when he saw it, at least not yet. It was more of a nondescript blue-and-green orb that looked a bit silly compared to the rest of the solar system. This was all very cool, and a spectacle if ever there was one, but he couldn’t help but ask: what was the point of this? This didn’t answer any of his questions.
Except something strange happened that moment. Right above his home, the fabric of space seemed to stretch too far and, like a cheap plastic bag, tore open; from it emerged an impossibly shaped meteor. He only saw it for a moment or two, but it didn’t really seem the sort of thing that could be perceived in just three dimensions, nor did it refract the sun’s light as it should have. It was either gold, gray, or not there at all. Then it burst open like a fist above the world, with crimson tendrils on the tips of its countless wings, ready to consume. It was, in a sense, alive.
“But what is taken from the ether must eventually be returned. In the image of those that ruled space and time came their antithesis: Giratina, lord of worlds beyond comprehension, emerged to strike the gods. Though it was outnumbered, its hundred wings, unbound by the laws of physics, allowed it the upper hand. It landed an endless flurry of crushing blows upon those who denied it repayment, and their retribution fell on deaf ears, all while the mouth through which it emerged swallowed entire solar systems. Time and space hung on the same loose thread as their kings when they fell through our atmosphere, their impact so mighty it split the seas. There they landed, prone and helpless. Had Arceus not intervened, they would have surely died, taking the world with them.”
Amidst the all-consuming darkness, a halo formed from seventeen divine slabs of rock. Each took a different form, the text on each glowing violently in the same golden hue as the finally materialised holy wheel that plagued these visions. The glow faded into fireflies, lighting up the dark while coalescing into a form that seemed to defy observation, with more arms than could be counted and eyes who sliced the ether like a sword through skin.
“’O Plates of my own flesh, lend me your strength just once more. Allow the universe to fight as one, and purge this darkness for all of time.’ Those were the words they spoke as the hands that created everything seized Giratina, bending it into an unfamiliar form long enough for Judgement to be cast. Infinite supernovas scorched the universe, casting forth all of the energy Arceus could muster in one tremendous burst. Giratina was vanquished, sealed in a dimension of its own as punishment. Yet it was Arceus who repaid a debt that day: their body had ruptured in all places, their blood spewed out in wisps of smoke, and they could do no more. Unable to stand, they let out one final cry before their resting place became a shrine out of reach. There they rest forever, to return one day when the final trumpets are blown.”
In the dying embers of light, there was Sinnoh. Entirely unpopulated, but that was undoubtedly the land he knew: Mount Coronet, a blanket of white bordering it from the north and a sea of green from its south.
But what of the Plates?
“In time, life blossomed across the land. It was the pixies born of the lake first, whose powers combined to form the first species capable of reproduction — the root of all mortal beings— Mew. After the First Child, other creatures manifested from day and night, the sun and sea, the land, sky, and stars. However, none were blessed with knowledge of where the final fragments of Arceus’s egg lie. When the light cast forth, all were forced into different nooks and crannies of the world, their power never to be reclaimed by mortals.”
The tone took a pause before returning, poisoned and bitter like ink dripping through his head. The words from the page blurred and vanished, replaced by the voice he'd heard back in the shadowed hallway nearly a lifetime ago: “But here you are and here I am, bound together in an altar at the end of your world. We are not really here, but the logical path of our shared history leads us to a painful, bitter end. It is all thanks to you, and your horrible, insatiable desire to leave something behind after you exit the mortal plane.”
One Plate hung in the air, the same colour as excavated brain matter and thicker than any encyclopedia. As hard as he focused, Connor was confused by the words carved upon it:
“What good is knowing without making the decisions? Will reason keep you safe at night when the killer comes to the door?”
As if by direction he glanced back from the altar to the doors he’d come through. There was still nobody there. For now, the cathedral was safe from killers, and he couldn’t help but feel he’d just read something entirely irrelevant. Just as soon as the thought hit his mind, the Plate’s sheer radiance burned his eyes, and his agony found no mouth to escape through. He could only look for a second before he had to blink to stop himself from going blind.
When his eyes reopened, he found that a creature had spawned in front of him. It was tiny, feline and pink, soaring through the air with no baggage to weigh it down. He marveled at the creature where it bobbed, only to recoil in shock as it was seized by a colossal three-pronged hand, crushing it within its grasp. The hand belonged to… something akin to what it had just erased, but something entirely divorced from it. For a start, its skin seemed to have lost most of its pigment. Its body was slender, bordering on emaciated were it not for its muscle mass — though, he had to admit, for something with such tremendous arm strength, almost all of that mass went to its legs, chest and neck — and with such a mighty head on thin shoulders that it required what resembled… a second neck? But what stood out most to Connor as it tore the sky asunder was the look behind its eyes.
Its manner was monstrous and intense, so much so that he could not bring himself to look for more than a few seconds. But he sensed that the titan knew it should not be there. Some grand mistake had been made, as though the pen that recorded destiny had exploded and its ink contaminated the page. Its presence here could not have been a part of the master plan, but here it was, cleaving open the universe and ripping the finely-interwoven threads it was built upon like a sword through yarn.
Innocence. It wanted to claim innocence, but knew it could not. All its life had been hesitation, and its punishment was to face this crimson sky and these final church bells… It was the same scene Connor had just lived through, and was doomed to repeat again. But this time, there was no cathedral to run to; there were no fragments of this reality left to cling on to. There were, instead, one thousand shadowy hands clinging to Connor’s back, dragging him away from the empty stage, all while the same voice that had accompanied him through this apocalypse unlatched itself from him.
In spite of everything they had seen, the tone it took as it spoke to him one more time was not one rooted in anger. Both parties seemed to know that anger would fail to persuade either of them. While still unfaltering and firm as it always was, there was a real air of desperation in its voice that it seemed eager to hide. But Connor knew how desperation sounded. He would go to the same lengths to hide his own. Maybe, just maybe, the voice really was him; maybe it would finally lead him to a love of himself. But not now. Not in this world. Maybe in another.
Because there was no friendship in its message:
“I am sorry we had to meet like this, but for your sake, leave this alone. The road ahead will endanger you. I have plied this toil myself: it will not lead you to satisfaction, nor will it grant you control of your destiny. Learn from my mistakes. Leave.”
The message was a warning.
THIS VERSION IS OLD AND HAS BEEN DISCONTINUED. I STILL INTEND TO REPLY TO THE OLD UNANSWERED COMMENTS HERE EVENTUALLY AND AM LEAVING THIS THREAD UP FOR POSTERITY'S SAKE, IN CASE YOU WANNA READ AND REVIEW IT, BUT BESIDE IT NOT REFLECTING THE STANDARD I'M CAPABLE OF PRODUCING MY WORK TOWARDS OR THE STORY I WAS TRYING TO TELL HERE, THERE'S NOT REALLY A WAY I CAN CONTINUE IT IN A COHERENT MANNER. IT IS GENERALLY CONSIDERED GOOD PRACTICE TO NOT WRITE YOURSELF INTO A CORNER AFTER SIX CHAPTERS. ESPECIALLY NOT RIGHT BEFORE THERE'S A WHOLE WAD OF CANON THAT COMES OUT THAT MEANS YOU END UP CHANGING ALL THE WORLDBUILDING AND CHARACTERS AND PLOT OF YOUR STORY. THANK YOU, PLA.
STILL, THOSE SIX CHAPTERS ARE PASSABLE ENOUGH THAT I'M LEAVING THEM UP IF YOU WANNA READ THEM. CONSIDER THIS A BETA VERSION OR WHATEVER. THIS PROBABLY DOESN'T WARRANT BOLDED, UNDERLINED ALL CAPS, BUT I'VE COMMITTED TO THIS BIT NOW. I'LL LINK THE NEW VERSION WHEN IT GOES UP. SHOULD BE IN THE NEXT FEW DAYS. CHEERS. :)
(tl;dr: this one's old, new version coming soon, feel free to read it if you want but it might not be the best place to offer feedback)
Summary:
Connor Murdoch is fresh out of Snowpoint's trainer school and embarking on the gym circuit along with his childhood friend and friendly rival, as young trainers do on most years. This year is slightly different. His hometown is at risk of losing its gym and academy funding after years upon years of diminishing trainer output. The strength of the Sinnoh Regional Association and its Pokémon League is under greater scrutiny, almost twenty years after its golden age ended in sheer catastrophe. And there is, of course, Team Galactic, the developing rebel faction with unknown goals, who will cast a great shadow over the coming months.
All of this is too much for Connor and his one friend. Maybe someone will fix it before it blows over, and maybe it'll be him. But that's unlikely. Right now, his focus is on the gyms, and solely on the gyms. And maybe figuring out the visions he's been having lately. Don't worry, he knows who's responsible for them, and he swears they're not all bad...
All of this is too much for Connor and his one friend. Maybe someone will fix it before it blows over, and maybe it'll be him. But that's unlikely. Right now, his focus is on the gyms, and solely on the gyms. And maybe figuring out the visions he's been having lately. Don't worry, he knows who's responsible for them, and he swears they're not all bad...
Content warnings: Precise content warnings will be provided with each chapter, but generally speaking: this story will heavily contain strong language, repeated allusions towards depression/self-loathing, derealisation and violence.
Author's notes: Hello! Here's a thing I've been writing. It's based off Platinum, albeit quite loosely. You'll see what I mean, but the gist of it: the main characters are OCs and I've tweaked certain other elements a little. I wanted to write something about the legends of Sinnoh with special focus on the Lunar Duo, and have ended up doing it in the most convoluted way possible. Expect a lot of that eventually, and expect a lot of lore that I just sorta made up, too.
Massive thanks go out to TR's very own Panoramic_Vacuum for helping me out with some beta-reading and ironing things out, and also for just generally being a sound individual. This story would be much, much less coherent without them. :>
As for feedback: feel free to leave whatever thoughts you think are necessary! My process for writing this is that I'll publish a few chapters over the course of a few weeks, let them sit while I work on the next bunch, and repeat. I'll only go back and make major revisions when I'm not working on new ones, and will try to implement notes on what I plan on revising at a structural level (e.g. pacing, plot elements, so on) for the next big update here. Also note that for particularly old batches of chapters, I may be a little less inclined to go back and make fixes — my focus is on completion just as much as it is making this the best story it can be, and avoiding revision hell is part of this. I'll make a note of the chapters that I no longer plan to revise (beyond, like, typos and major grammatical errors you may spot) when I get to the point where it's necessary, but as of my writing this, there are none! Only the opening leg of the story is out. Go wild.
Anyway! Without further ado...
CHAPTER ONE: Go to Sleep. Everything is Alright.
Nov. 23, 2021
- Shortened the first half of the chapter to make it move faster. And also to hopefully make the identity of Connor's attacker a little clearer.
- Certain parts amended slightly to read a bit smoother
- Renamed the chapter. I thought the Roy Orbison quote was fitting. There's another paraphrase from the same song slipped in here!
Jan. 7, 2022
- Minor adjustments made as per line-by-line comments
- TO FIX: amend the first half of the chapter some more so that Connor doesn't feel like he's just frozen in space and time for hundreds of words; revise some bits in that first part (e.g. the mug bit)
- Shortened the first half of the chapter to make it move faster. And also to hopefully make the identity of Connor's attacker a little clearer.
- Certain parts amended slightly to read a bit smoother
- Renamed the chapter. I thought the Roy Orbison quote was fitting. There's another paraphrase from the same song slipped in here!
Jan. 7, 2022
- Minor adjustments made as per line-by-line comments
- TO FIX: amend the first half of the chapter some more so that Connor doesn't feel like he's just frozen in space and time for hundreds of words; revise some bits in that first part (e.g. the mug bit)
The weather had been unusually good over the past few days, but there was no time to enjoy it now. Something had gone terribly wrong somewhere down the line, and there was no time to speculate on where, but the issue was simple. Right now Connor Murdoch was alone, hundreds of miles away from home, and he was not equipped for this. How could anyone have been?
This was a matryoshka doll of situations he should not have been in, but long story short, he stood in the Valley Windworks, he had someone to look for, and the corridor ahead of him didn’t seem to end. It stretched out as far as he could see, which admittedly wasn’t that far because the lights were out, but it still raised questions. There could’ve been other explanations, like the chance that unbeknownst to him the building was a miracle of architecture that was so much bigger on the inside than out. Connor couldn’t muster anything more reasonable than this. He knew it didn’t make much sense. He went with it anyway.
A quick glance over his shoulder reassured him the door hadn’t vanished and wasn’t planning to do so any time soon. In spite of what he told himself, he could have left at any moment. Doing so would’ve allowed him to go about the rest of his business without thinking about any of this. Floaroma was a nice town full of nice people, like the guy he’d promised to save. Connor had never met him before, but his eight-year-old daughter loved him enough to chase a complete stranger up for help. She was just the sort of person he just couldn’t bring himself to disappoint.
Sometimes, he wished he had a better brain, or at the very least better ideas. Right now he had nothing except the plastic on his belt and the dark corridor before him. The big room behind him had been empty when he checked it, much to his bewilderment. Half-finished work hung over the room, and cold coffee lingered in a mug emblazoned by words: “Best dad in the world.” Out of everything, that stuck with Connor. Good dads don’t leave their children’s gifts behind if they’re going far, and as far as it concerned him, the sort of people who took those gifts away were probably murderers, too. Life was still here, but by process of elimination, it had to be on the other side of shadows.
Connor peered again into the darkness as a bead of sweat trickled down the back of his collar. No foe faced him at the other end of the corridor to be fought with hands or his pokémon. What was he so afraid of then? He was in control here, he would do this on his own terms. After all, the only sensible reason for the hallway to have been dark was that the lights were off, and not because something was actually down there. That was absurd, and thinking so reassured him as much as it could’ve done. It didn’t get rid of the shadows, though, nor did it mean he was absolved of greeting what lay on the other side of them. If things played out the way he expected— and he considered himself an optimist here— this meant intruding on a hostage situation. That was a big if. He was… scared? Scared was just a word. Some feelings can’t be summed up with a word. Like this one, for example; this was more the sort of feeling that Connor had to promise never to feel again. That promise fell on deaf ears. He stood in an industrial complex at the mercy of hands unseen, with no way out that made him feel any better about himself. He was alone. This was scary. He was scared.
But being scared didn’t help anybody. Action did. Every step on laminate floorboards rang sharp in the air, alerting whoever was in the dark to his approach. Except he swore he was still alone, and there was nothing to be afraid of. Darkness only meant that no lights were on. Besides, nothing moved in the shadows. Empty shadows were as good as a friend.
Something moved in the shadows.
He stopped. His heart almost followed suit. Something moved in the shadows.
He didn’t hear it make a sound, though he couldn’t say for sure, because his heartbeat drowned out everything else. But just because he hadn’t heard a thing didn’t mean a thing hadn’t heard him. Faltering breaths squeaked out from his dry, chapped lips, and his fingers thrummed against the pocket of his jeans in an uneven rhythm. It was probably nothing… as if probably guaranteed safety. Most likely just a wild drifloon or something; the poor creature was probably the victim of an offhand breeze and got stuck inside. Still, if it attacked him, he would have to fight back. Connor couldn’t risk causing that scene — nor could he risk facing the cops. He tried to make himself as big as possible to ward off the intruder. Which was kind of silly, because he was the intruder, and there’s not much you can do to make yourself big when you’re all of five feet tall.
Something had crept up on him, though. It was a smell. Not a stench; upon arrival it didn’t knock him dead on his feet. Nor was it a particularly bad smell, either; its presence was neutral. Maybe even nice in different circumstances. But not here. No building that was in use every day — no building that was in use right now — should have reeked of dust. Particles scratched against his throat, and he could’ve sworn he was choking. Breathing should have come naturally, like moving, but he found himself unable to do either. He surely hadn’t gone more than five meters this whole time, but the hallway felt five meters darker, only illuminated by leftover specks of light.
Out of instinct, his hand cupped the warm plastic home of his closest friend. The pokéball was still there — why wouldn’t it have been? Of course, he was unable to do anything with it; hurling it at shadows was at best a waste of energy and at worst certain death.
What path was he to take, then? Plan A had been to pass through without incident, which was such a basic task that he hadn’t considered a plan B necessary. But he stood on the precipice of an incident anyway. It wasn’t like this made leaving any more a noble option, though, because he hadn’t accomplished anything here yet. Here he was, at a crossroads: leave with no dignity, or stay for the sliver of hope that things would turn out alright. He took one step forward… and then another…
…and in no time at all, fatigue had nearly overcome him. Moving had become an act of dragging his body around like a dead weight, while every part of him pulled together into a yawn that he could not contain despite his clenched jaw. His eyelids only grew heavier, until keeping them open was a great exertion. Everything was exhausting, and there was no escape; he was bound by an obligation to the child he'd met… when was this? Couldn't have been more than half an hour ago, but he wasn't keeping track. He barely felt like he existed. He wanted to dissolve into a puddle until his head stopped aching. He wanted to sleep. He had to sleep.
But his moment of weakness left him vulnerable, and he realised this too late to go unnoticed. It was the shadows themselves that moved, as if getting into formation. Whatever lurked here spoke to him, and he heard it not through his brain, but through carvings that flashed across his mind.
“You will not find your truth here, child.”
Connor tried to respond, but found himself dazed and without the strength to stand. Turning back wasn't an option, he reminded himself. Vague colours started to swirl off in the far edge of his vision, though they were merely formless blobs against the oblivion that lay ahead. Perhaps this wasn't necessary. Perhaps he could give in. What strength did he have to go on? All he had to do was go to sleep. Then everything would be alright. He closed his eyes…
The thought of abandoning the girl outside, leaving her too without a father, jolted him back. He couldn't turn back, could he? He reached a hand out, his arm stretching and locking before him. But he made contact with nothing in the blank space ahead — the shadows retreated from his touch. For a brief moment, there was a glowing light. It left him.
Why was he here?
“I can't leave,” he mumbled. “I-I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't… there's someone who needs me. I need to help her. I can't have her… I'm sorry. Please let me through.”
Where was he? Could he even stand? He'd intended to say that, but in his state, he wasn't sure how much was intelligible. How much longer would this last? A rising tide of bile formed in him and rose, but he resisted the urge to puke; what impression would this have made to the one that spoke to him? He was pathetic, but he wasn't an idiot. There was no way he would pass. But the key was that he had to try.
The voice did not respond, but that didn't matter all that much. It hadn't gone away. Everything was the same, and Connor felt numb. Nothing felt quite real; he turned back, but the rest of the hallway had been reduced to a smear that swayed in his vision alongside his head. He turned back to meet nothingness once more, and tried to speak. His words came out as fragments, interspersed by yawns.
“…I shouldn't have done this. I don't want to hurt you, but… I had to try… who are you?”
“I understand. Forgive me.”
An inky tendril reached out and wrapped around him, constricting him for just a few moments. This stole the air from his body, it ripped the last bit of resistance out of him, and then it disappeared to leave Connor alone. Then, the drifting off began.
Sleep did not come immediately. It was more of a falling sensation; he was a ragdoll with nothing underneath him. There was no energy in him for mustering resistance, and he was pretty sure that the corridor got further away with every passing moment. He was falling, and he tried to muster concern.
The one thing he had to cling onto was that he didn’t feel dead. There was no way of knowing, but he was certain that dying was supposed to feel more natural than this. His body and soul were supposed to peacefully part ways, and he'd just stop being there. This hadn't happened. He was still here, still intact, just falling into a comfortable nothing. Maybe it was a good thing he was still around. It wasn’t like dying did anything for the people of Snowpoint, or the man he was trying to find, or anyone, except for making Mum very upset.
His last thought before everything faded was a question: was he really only here to keep others happy?
At some point, he eased his eyes open. When had he closed them? When had he landed? Before his answers came, light crept in from all corners of his vision so brightly that it stung his retinas. He squinted as the world came back into view, much less familiar than it had been.
It was immediately obvious why it was so bright; there were no walls. The hallway he’d come to know was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the entire Windworks building was gone and he was left sprawled out on his back under the open sky. Except it was nothing like any sky he’d ever seen. A crimson pool had replaced the usual cheery blue, and bits of sludge oozed by, passing themselves off as clouds. Through all the oddity, he spotted something familiar. The rocky spire of Mt. Coronet sliced through the gloom, a burning white halo threatening to swallow it from above. It had an equal chance of being the sun or the moon, but that didn’t matter much; it didn’t resemble either so much as it was an indiscernible white hole around which paint coalesced. Silhouettes pierced the distant sky, their forms closer to decommissioned space shuttles than buildings.
It was all a bit much, really. Looking on at all this, he found himself unable to do anything except blink in disbelief. None of what he saw could’ve been real; not so soon after he’d been in the hallway on what had otherwise been a fairly normal day. Yet he was there. He felt it as he laid his hands across the ground. They hurt where he had scraped them earlier. He was in this world, touching something in it, and if he wasn’t to trust his sense of touch… what was there to trust?
His fingers curled in frustration, digging his nails into the ground to try to drag himself back to reality, only to find a cold hill had become his unloving mattress. Frost covered every blade of grass, forming one white mass that bit at his tender palms. March was never particularly warm in Sinnoh — no month was, really — but it was never this cold, especially not lately. He sat up, hugging his chest to try and stay warm.
Shivering, he squinted into the distance. It was as if the world changed under closer scrutiny. The silhouettes towering over the nearby city morphed into cathedral spires, spawning a whole city around them. Houses sprung up all around, but every one was devoid of life. As Connor’s eyes followed the roads he noticed they were empty, too. Every single inhabitant of the city took refuge in a great big stadium, painted with oddly muted colours. Only so many people could fit inside. More people straggled along outside it, trying to push and shove their way in.
A part of him wanted to go and join them to see what the fuss was about. But he found himself having second thoughts as he rose to his feet: he loathed crowds. So focused on swallowing down his rising panic, Connor nearly jumped out of his skin as broken church bells rang across the sky. But it didn’t stop at one chime. One more rang out, then another, then another. The resultant cacophony was a patchwork of noises that fit together like a glove to a foot, loud enough to cleave the sky in half. He watched as the crack spiderwebbed, splitting the sky into many pieces, each drained of any colour.
He wanted to count them. It was the first thing he thought to do. First to calm his racing heart, and second to try to inject some reason into what he was witnessing. It made more sense if he operated under the impression that this was a riddle he had the means to solve. Connor liked riddles; they actively discouraged panic. They were logical devices. They could be explained away. But as he scrambled to explain this one, the noise only digging further into his ears, something horrible dawned on him: there was no explanation. So he started running.
Connor was never the most athletic person, and he was never more acutely aware of this than now. Every sensation that coursed through his body was unpleasant. Carbon dioxide ran like sandpaper against his throat, the grating sensation of which bled down into his lungs. His shins were splintered wood connected to his feet by nothing more than tissue and hope. It didn’t help that the air was as thick as molasses either. In the end all of his efforts to run amounted to very little movement at all. The world moved around him, if anything. It was nothing more than a strange slush of colours now. But though he was alone, he couldn’t shake the feeling something guided him through it.
Was he the center of this universe now? Did everything orbit around him? All these questions swirled around his head, with no immediate hope of an answer in sight. But as he scrambled to unlock whatever puzzle he’d been given, he found something in lieu of a key. It wasn’t so much a thought as it was an instinct, in all honesty. Something he wasn’t consciously telling himself and could not justify. Praying had never really been a part of his routine, and he’d never grown particularly acquainted with any form of scripture. But he knew where his legs were carrying him. The unseen hand that guided him was taking him to the house of the gods.
It felt as though the motion of his body existed in tandem with the world outside him, and he couldn’t stop either from moving; the only thing that could was the white hole gaping in the sky. So when several fingers sprouted from it, each touching horizons in every direction, Connor didn’t know how to process it except to keep running. He watched as the tendrils took a form that lay just outside his grasp. They didn’t seem to have any single colour, shape or set of rules that defined them, and staring at them expecting them to justify their presence felt like a futile gesture. They were flatly-prismed-rectangles, black and red and gold and blue at the same time if perceived in different ways. They were holes whose specifics were made up by the brain, it felt; a placeholder perceivable in so many ways but genuine in just one.
Connor was still trying to figure out which one, exactly, when everything jerked in one spasmodic motion, and for a moment he was separated from what he knew. It was the strangest moment he’d ever existed in. No buffer separated him from the rest of the world for a second: the silent filter between his eyes and what they saw vanished, and everything screamed. The sensation was as though sharp metal edges sprouted right into his pink fleshy brain. He found himself looking in all directions but totally unsure what to make of any of it. Everything changed depending on how he looked at it, but no way could’ve been right because everything hung in perpetual change. Beams of light bounced around his head, and the eyes he trusted to decipher this world had failed him. Every sense worked overtime the moment those things sprouted into the sky, yet their efforts amounted to little; found all of them dimmed by a mental fog that he could not clear.
Finding himself overwhelmed, he blinked. Just for a second. To stop the onslaught.
When his eyes re-opened, there was nothing. He stood alone in the void, save for the object his heart desired. Above him rose the spires of the cathedral. As his eyes swept across the ancient stone, a solid pool settled at the bottom of his chest. It weighed him down, threatening to plunge into his stomach and tangle everything up inside. He took deep breaths, focusing on keeping himself together as though it was all he could do anymore. His gaze swept from the foot of the staircase to the idols perched atop its eaves. He found himself quaking.
Connor had grown up in the ever-looming shadow of the great forbidden temple at the heart of Snowpoint, which survived because people wanted it to survive. They wanted it so hard that basically everyone in town knew someone who worked there. It wasn’t easy, but it was a living, and it kept the temple up. It kept whatever lurked inside it, too. Not that anyone knew what that was, exactly, because they were rarely allowed to disturb it. Entire ecosystems flourished inside those halls, in part because it was too much work to comb over every minute detail of the damn thing and in part because the wild had a right to live there. Nobody knew where it came from, exactly; they just let it be, because it was just as much their home as Snowpoint was Connor’s, or Mum’s, or anyone else’s.
This, on the other hand, was Hearthome Cathedral. This was a monument, a house built for Arceus. Bigger buildings probably existed, but more intimidating ones… seemed out of the question. Even when the sky was something else, those spires still touched it, not ending but instead becoming part of an unpierced rubber ceiling. It had finally merged with a god, yes, but not that one. Against the empty world, those polished marble bricks were the brightest thing he had ever seen; they were so pure and glistened so hard, their light sterile enough to sear pink blotches into his retinas that stayed whenever he blinked. Nothing suggested this was made for living, and nothing had lived there. It stood unblemished without effort, because defiling the houses of the holy was basically heresy. Some people were perfectly happy shoving a middle finger in the faces of the gods. But not here. Not in this place.
As if drawn by a magnet’s pull, Connor trudged forward, footfalls heavier and heavier the closer he came to the foot of the stairs. Traversing the stairway required him to haul his carcass as far as he could know, which the moment dictated was both too far and nothing at all. At the end lay a vanishing point that, as he approached, slowly revealed itself as a doorway. Its doors were made of cross-stitched oakwood and at least three times his size. Like many things, they changed under increasing scrutiny; the oakwood extended and collapsed into an open maw by its own free will.
Every step rang out across the marble floor, reaching an empty world where no sound was heard because nobody was there to hear sound. He was totally alone, like he was the only thing that really existed. The thought made him… content, somehow, as selfish as it was. It was his house now. So into it he went.
The cathedral was hollow, sparse and cavernous; Connor could not shake the feeling that the earth itself had swallowed him. No light crawled in through any window, though the echo of every footstep gave life to the candles that flanked him; they weren’t much, but they allowed Connor more sight the further in he went. No matter how polished the marble walls were, they devoured the light, giving the impression that the building was held up by rock in its natural form. At the altar, a pair of sharpened pillars jutted out from the walls, crimson chains snaking down their length like veins pumping diluted blood. Before them lay rows of empty pews that could’ve seated thousands. Each was marked with an insignia: a wheel centered on nothing, punctuated by four outward-facing spears with jewels encrusted in each. Connor hadn’t seen such a symbol before, and it stuck with him as he walked further down. It had to mean something, at least.
But this felt wrong. Hearthome Cathedral’s greatest pride was the stained glass window at the altar. It was so steeped in splendid imagery with so many colours, crafted out of such a deep love for Sinnese lore and all its deities. None of it meant a thing if Connor couldn’t see it. The spectacle had gone, an amorphous blob taking its place in the unlit void. There should’ve been someone there. Was this world devoid of Arceus? Of the rest? Did he somehow supplant the entire pantheon in this realm of nothingness?
It felt weird thinking about all this, because in case that this was actually happening and wasn’t just in his head (which was not, he reminded himself, his fault), there was a real chance this was the last thing that would ever happen, anywhere.
The walk had to end at the altar. The path he had been carried down did not immediately extend beyond this point. Standing before his destination, Connor was faced with the discordant trumpet tones at the end of the universe. A plate lay before him, engraved with the same wheel insignia. Two things sat in its center. One was an entire star distilled into a milky white globe complete with particles locked in an uneven waltz around it. The other was a rock with countless hexagonal faces, so dense that specks of dust seemed to slow as they inevitably fell near it.
An open book sprawled upon the table offered him an explanation. Unfortunately, its contents were written in a vaguely familiar script: ancient Sinnese runes, copied over from carvings on rock face. As recently as last year he studied history, and he hadn’t planned to go any further because his B grade was enough, frankly. This disqualified him from being even close to an expert on runes, or understand any of this outside of maybe a few key words; he leaned in ever closer to the page, hoping that, maybe, he’d be lucky enough—
It was over in an instant, and he was helpless to stop it. A loud crack shattered his eardrums and his spine ignited in pain, searing every one of his nerves; suddenly he wasn’t quite Connor anymore. A streak of bright blue blinded him, and when his eyes re-opened he found all he could do was see. Signals from his brain congested at its stem before they could reach his fingertips. For the second time, he was locked in his own body and unable to reach out for help… but then, who was there to give it? There was no helping the fact that the world had entirely melted away. All that remained was the altar, the strange orbs, and the open book, the information from which began gushing through an open door and into his head:
“All that you have ever known is owed to the hatching of the egg, which was the beginning. Arceus emerged as all matter spewed forth into the ether, and all that remained of the egg was the seventeen shards of its tectonic shell, each having meaning carved into it in utero by the thousand hands of Arceus. But the universe they spawned into, beyond the deep pool of matter, was empty. Arceus looked as far as they could see in any direction, and though it stretched out forever, it had no meaning. It only stayed the same, neither living or ever dying. So, they decided, they would create life for death to trail onto. And thus, Palkia and Dialga emerged from nothing; space began to move outwards, matter began to take form, and the march of time began.”
In plain view, a universe was born, centered on the two unnameable artifacts held on the altar. It progressed in the same vein universes do; stars began to form, obtained gravitational pulls, eventually had planets orbiting them thanks to collisions caused by their gravitational pulls — all for Connor to watch without the ability to interfere. Eventually, the projection changed focus, centering on the one planet he knew: the one orbiting his star, in the middle of his galaxy, floating on the little speck in the cosmos that he called home. Earth was not really home when he saw it, at least not yet. It was more of a nondescript blue-and-green orb that looked a bit silly compared to the rest of the solar system. This was all very cool, and a spectacle if ever there was one, but he couldn’t help but ask: what was the point of this? This didn’t answer any of his questions.
Except something strange happened that moment. Right above his home, the fabric of space seemed to stretch too far and, like a cheap plastic bag, tore open; from it emerged an impossibly shaped meteor. He only saw it for a moment or two, but it didn’t really seem the sort of thing that could be perceived in just three dimensions, nor did it refract the sun’s light as it should have. It was either gold, gray, or not there at all. Then it burst open like a fist above the world, with crimson tendrils on the tips of its countless wings, ready to consume. It was, in a sense, alive.
“But what is taken from the ether must eventually be returned. In the image of those that ruled space and time came their antithesis: Giratina, lord of worlds beyond comprehension, emerged to strike the gods. Though it was outnumbered, its hundred wings, unbound by the laws of physics, allowed it the upper hand. It landed an endless flurry of crushing blows upon those who denied it repayment, and their retribution fell on deaf ears, all while the mouth through which it emerged swallowed entire solar systems. Time and space hung on the same loose thread as their kings when they fell through our atmosphere, their impact so mighty it split the seas. There they landed, prone and helpless. Had Arceus not intervened, they would have surely died, taking the world with them.”
Amidst the all-consuming darkness, a halo formed from seventeen divine slabs of rock. Each took a different form, the text on each glowing violently in the same golden hue as the finally materialised holy wheel that plagued these visions. The glow faded into fireflies, lighting up the dark while coalescing into a form that seemed to defy observation, with more arms than could be counted and eyes who sliced the ether like a sword through skin.
“’O Plates of my own flesh, lend me your strength just once more. Allow the universe to fight as one, and purge this darkness for all of time.’ Those were the words they spoke as the hands that created everything seized Giratina, bending it into an unfamiliar form long enough for Judgement to be cast. Infinite supernovas scorched the universe, casting forth all of the energy Arceus could muster in one tremendous burst. Giratina was vanquished, sealed in a dimension of its own as punishment. Yet it was Arceus who repaid a debt that day: their body had ruptured in all places, their blood spewed out in wisps of smoke, and they could do no more. Unable to stand, they let out one final cry before their resting place became a shrine out of reach. There they rest forever, to return one day when the final trumpets are blown.”
In the dying embers of light, there was Sinnoh. Entirely unpopulated, but that was undoubtedly the land he knew: Mount Coronet, a blanket of white bordering it from the north and a sea of green from its south.
But what of the Plates?
“In time, life blossomed across the land. It was the pixies born of the lake first, whose powers combined to form the first species capable of reproduction — the root of all mortal beings— Mew. After the First Child, other creatures manifested from day and night, the sun and sea, the land, sky, and stars. However, none were blessed with knowledge of where the final fragments of Arceus’s egg lie. When the light cast forth, all were forced into different nooks and crannies of the world, their power never to be reclaimed by mortals.”
The tone took a pause before returning, poisoned and bitter like ink dripping through his head. The words from the page blurred and vanished, replaced by the voice he'd heard back in the shadowed hallway nearly a lifetime ago: “But here you are and here I am, bound together in an altar at the end of your world. We are not really here, but the logical path of our shared history leads us to a painful, bitter end. It is all thanks to you, and your horrible, insatiable desire to leave something behind after you exit the mortal plane.”
One Plate hung in the air, the same colour as excavated brain matter and thicker than any encyclopedia. As hard as he focused, Connor was confused by the words carved upon it:
“What good is knowing without making the decisions? Will reason keep you safe at night when the killer comes to the door?”
As if by direction he glanced back from the altar to the doors he’d come through. There was still nobody there. For now, the cathedral was safe from killers, and he couldn’t help but feel he’d just read something entirely irrelevant. Just as soon as the thought hit his mind, the Plate’s sheer radiance burned his eyes, and his agony found no mouth to escape through. He could only look for a second before he had to blink to stop himself from going blind.
When his eyes reopened, he found that a creature had spawned in front of him. It was tiny, feline and pink, soaring through the air with no baggage to weigh it down. He marveled at the creature where it bobbed, only to recoil in shock as it was seized by a colossal three-pronged hand, crushing it within its grasp. The hand belonged to… something akin to what it had just erased, but something entirely divorced from it. For a start, its skin seemed to have lost most of its pigment. Its body was slender, bordering on emaciated were it not for its muscle mass — though, he had to admit, for something with such tremendous arm strength, almost all of that mass went to its legs, chest and neck — and with such a mighty head on thin shoulders that it required what resembled… a second neck? But what stood out most to Connor as it tore the sky asunder was the look behind its eyes.
Its manner was monstrous and intense, so much so that he could not bring himself to look for more than a few seconds. But he sensed that the titan knew it should not be there. Some grand mistake had been made, as though the pen that recorded destiny had exploded and its ink contaminated the page. Its presence here could not have been a part of the master plan, but here it was, cleaving open the universe and ripping the finely-interwoven threads it was built upon like a sword through yarn.
Innocence. It wanted to claim innocence, but knew it could not. All its life had been hesitation, and its punishment was to face this crimson sky and these final church bells… It was the same scene Connor had just lived through, and was doomed to repeat again. But this time, there was no cathedral to run to; there were no fragments of this reality left to cling on to. There were, instead, one thousand shadowy hands clinging to Connor’s back, dragging him away from the empty stage, all while the same voice that had accompanied him through this apocalypse unlatched itself from him.
In spite of everything they had seen, the tone it took as it spoke to him one more time was not one rooted in anger. Both parties seemed to know that anger would fail to persuade either of them. While still unfaltering and firm as it always was, there was a real air of desperation in its voice that it seemed eager to hide. But Connor knew how desperation sounded. He would go to the same lengths to hide his own. Maybe, just maybe, the voice really was him; maybe it would finally lead him to a love of himself. But not now. Not in this world. Maybe in another.
Because there was no friendship in its message:
“I am sorry we had to meet like this, but for your sake, leave this alone. The road ahead will endanger you. I have plied this toil myself: it will not lead you to satisfaction, nor will it grant you control of your destiny. Learn from my mistakes. Leave.”
The message was a warning.
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Damn, I say, looking at my Ghastly that likes to garden but kills all of Hana's plants with its toxic gas.
