Pokémon Memories of Spirits

[Shiny Phantump]

Litwik	Hisuian Zoroark	Banette
Greavard	Spiritomb	Mismagius
Frillish	Yamask	Annihilape

Three minifics (700-1100 words each) about the postmortem lives of ghosts, written for Drabble Bingo 2025. The only content warning of note is that we are, of course, dealing with death. The three prompt fills are:

Blood Runs Thick: Life in Hisui can, at its worst, be hard and short. Though they don't recognize each other anymore, perhaps a zoroark can set aside her disdain for humankind in order to reconcile with a part of her life she thought closed off to her forever.

The Dead And The Undying: Wraith is a spiritomb named for their worst impulses by partner who shared the feeling, the pair have been fated to watch the course of history for hundreds of years without the chance to change it. When everything comes to a head for the second time, the end is finally in sight.

Hero of Another Story: A deathless knight awakens, ready to fight the War of Truth. Only, instead of the proper clay body they were promised, they've awoken far too late as a spectre bound to a golden mask. But perhaps they can still find some purpose in this life as a yamask.

 

[Shiny Phantump]

Blood Runs Thick:

A pair of humans is straying dangerously close to the den on the clifftop. A zoroark cannot allow them to come any closer. Humans are callous creatures with no regard for children, she knows. And so she cannot allow them near hers.

She approaches without concealing her form. They have come too close already, and her goal is no longer to pass unnoticed. The older human locks eyes with her. The smaller human, not much more than a child himself, takes his mother’s hand.

The older woman bows respectfully, then speaks in a gentle tone. “I’m sorry, is this your territory? We’re just passing this way. We’re not going to disturb you.”

In return, the woman receives only snarling. This is not a risk the zoroark is willing to consider. The young boy’s hand shoots to his satchel, pulling out an ornately carved wooden ball. He sends out a luxio, in hopes his partner can protect them. The zoroark locks eyes with her challenger. Both recognize the superior fighter, she smells the luxio’s fear, but he refuses to give in to her yet. Once he’s beaten, she thinks, his will will break and he will flee.

The mother whispers to her child. “I think you should go home, dear. Let me handle this.”

The zoroark cocks her head. She believes that the human mother does not expect to survive this. This is a familiar instinct: She would make the same sacrifice, for her child. But she did not expect it of a human. She decides that she will allow it.

“I’m not leaving you here with a zoroark! You’ll get eaten or something!”

She cannot fault him for his understanding of her species. It is true that many zoroark would unrepentantly feast on their victims. Yet this particular one would not have partaken in human flesh. Even in death, some taboos still hold strong.

Or, perhaps she should fault him for his understanding, after all. He is still here. Does he not realize that he should be afraid? Does he not understand her to be a monster, as all zoroark are? That fear is supposed to keep her and her den safe.

She knows she should kill them both. It’s the most logical, safest option. Yet, there is something to be said for watching the mother and child both fight for the chance to protect one another. She has no voice with which to say it herself, not any longer, but she considers it most inhuman behaviour. They don’t usually act like this.

“Have you ever been to the cliff just north of here, overlooking Lake Acuity?” the woman asks her, as if there’s some way she could answer.

She has, of course. She lives there. Nestled in a den under a tree is a zorua, one that should be ready to strike out on his own any day now.

“There’s a grave on the hill there.”

There is. She is quite familiar with it.

“We were just going to visit it. That is all. But we’ll turn around, if you really cannot allow it.”

Against her instinct, knowing better, she allows them. Worse, practically leads them there, to her den at the tree by the grave. The older woman kneels there and places her left hand to her heart. They all wait in silence for a moment, as she decides what to say.

“One of the strangers was able to cure scabpox.”

(The zoroark recoils. Salt, rubbed in wounds she didn’t know she still had.)

“We kept the sick outside the village so it wouldn’t spread, but we didn’t have to exile them.”

(They never had to do it. They made that choice.)

“I’m sorry it didn’t happen sooner. I wish we had gotten to spend more time together.”

(...So does she.)

“I have a kid now. I imagine you two would’ve gotten along. Hellions, the both of you.”

Perhaps, in another life, that would have come to pass. But that is not what happened in this one. Instead, when the adults completed their observation, a customary offering left at the grave-marker, the young boy was playing with a zorua.

And so, when that zorua struck out from the den, it was not to live in the wild, but with a human. They were cousins, after all.

 

[Shiny Phantump]

The Dead and The Undying:

We do not get to see Akari confront the broken man at the Temple of Sinnoh. Cynthia considers this wise. We do not disagree. That does not change the amusement we would have derived from witnessing it. We have yet to see history truly repeat itself, but tonight it rhymes most deliciously.

The sky bleeds shadow from the wound he tore in its flesh in his desire to shape it. He has done much to get here. That man would once have made for a perfect heart for one such as myself, if soul-binding was still practiced. We are Wraith, after all.

Perhaps we should learn his name, to have a label to remember his feats by. But there are so many fleeting mortals, and so little incentive to remember them. Unlike Cynthia, he will rot and die within a few decades. And unlike Akari, he has not defeated me. We would crush him, if he tried. Perhaps we will, if Cynthia has not made Akari as strong as she believes she has, and he defeats her. I suspect this will not be the case.

We can feel the shadows watching us. If Giratina bears Akari some grudge, they do not show it. Perhaps they have reconciled, in her future and everyone else’s past. We know they have not forgotten their defeat at her hands. We certainly have not, and even one such as us is unfortunately weaker than divinity, our defeat less memorable.

“You have come to me again,” the shadows whisper in a voice only my ilk can hear.

“We ask nothing of you, this time. We are here simply as observers,” we whisper back.

The shadows creep longer. “I do not wish to see you again. Volo’s presence here brings magic of the Tyranny of Endless Creation’s weave into my domain. This will not stand.”

It is important not to show fear when dealing with Giratina. Or rather, it is important not to feel it at all, as there is no fooling them. We are well suited to this. We have not felt fear since we died, some of us not even while facing it.

“Her name is Cynthia now. It is one worth remembering. We cannot remove Sinnoh’s claim on her. We are here to ensure Akari’s safe passage through this plane. It is Cynthia’s duty and we will not waver on this. However, we shall make no further impositions on your domain and any influence of Theirs over Their champion will be taken with her when she leaves.”

The shadows recede to their normal lengths. “I find these terms acceptable.”

That is unexpected. We were prepared to have to bargain passage. One might suspect that Giratina has developed more than simply a tolerance of Akari.

It’s hard not to be amused as Akari surgically dissects the team of a man whose five chosen partners include three flying types and three dark types while calling upon the assistance of only her lucario and luxray teammates. He ordered his weavile to use fake out on a lucario. A humiliating blunder. His name is beneath remembering after all.

And yet. And yet. We can not help but wonder, were our keystone restored some centuries later, if we would have been there at the edge of reality, staring down Akari’s team. We would certainly have performed better, at least. We know this from experience, having previously stared down a lucario she will raise.

Giratina coalesces before Akari, but this time does not attack her. She shifts nervously as she is inspected.

“I understand now, something I sensed back then. That I had touched this champion of Tyranny’s before.”

Every shadow in the distortion realm is pulled in towards Giratina, only two the image burning red eyes escaping the event horizon. A scream rings out so loudly that even the humans hear it and, even in incomprehension, both flinch.

“She was mine! She was my champion first!”

The eyes look through Akari, at us. She doesn’t seem to appreciate the distinction, and reaches to her belt for a partner’s ball.

“And They sent you to take her from me!”

There are very few out there with the ability to unravel a bound soul. Fewer still with the power to unravel one hundred and eight of them. Likewise, only two beings can nullify what Sinnoh bestowed upon Cynthia and allow her life to end.

The sole intersection of these categories stands before us, and we understand that we are about to truly die. Giratina will spare Akari, therefore her future and our past will remain undisturbed, therefore it is finally possible for us both to die. I am certain that Cynthia understands this, too.

It will be an honour, to go down fighting the End of All Things. We do not intend to win. We are internally conflicted on whether or not victory would even be desirable. We have, after all, endured unfathomable years and some of us are so very tired. Others still find purpose, in certain facets of existence. Most of us at least hoped to battle Akari again, at the league’s peak.

But given that we are now faced with the end, we all agree on the finale. Cynthia snaps her fingers twice, her call for dark pulse, her own signal of agreement with us.

Unfortunately, Akari has not gotten the memorandum. Her lucario channels his soul into a ball of spectral energy and fires it into the abyss Giratina lurks inside of as she reaches for an empty ball.

I wonder. Does she recognize that Giratina has claimed her yet? Or does she simply intend to throw it as a disruption? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. We know what the outcome will be well before she so much as throws the ball.

“Wraith. I will be back for you and your human, one day. But not today.”

And we would have it no other way.

 

[Shiny Phantump]

Hero of Another Story:

I awaken as a small thing bathed in absolute darkness. I am surrounded by bone. This is not what I was promised. Someone should have come to awaken me shortly after my body went cold. There was to be ceremony for me and those others who became deathless knights. But here I am, trapped inside my own ribcage. Awoken by, what, my body growing so decrepit that no amount of magic could force it to hold my soul any longer?

Fear must not have any command over me, but I am… worried. Worried how this could be possible. The mask-makers would not forget us here. But then what could force them to leave us? Did we lose the War of Truth? That cannot be. Our oracles asked the future, and were promised that we would be able to destroy the usurpers.

I cannot consider myself fortunate to be a bodiless wraith, but if nothing else my incorporeality means I will not be trapped inside my own ribcage in a sarcophagus until the last dregs of my soul ebbs away. The Temple of Glorious Eternity has fallen into disarray. The halls have filled with sand from places where the ceiling has buckled under the weight of sand on the floor above and crumbled. How long must it have taken for all this sand to reach me?

My sarcophagus bears the mask made for me as we prepared for my passage. Without the mask-makers to place my soul inside the proper earthen vessel, my soul must still be using it to support itself. Now, I’ll be soulbound to it until… I have to hope that someone above will understand the arts well enough to save me.

I stare into my own eternally-closed eyes, frozen in gold. This is not what I was promised, but I must not cry, cannot let heretical emotionality pull me off the path of truth. I am a deathless knight and I am strong. If I’m to remain bound to the mask, I’ll just have to carry it with me. I lift the mask off the sarcophagus, leaving it with only a carving of my headless body.

I can hear sand shifting quietly. A sign that wild sandile have come to occupy the castle in its abandonment. A sign that any misstep could be dangerous, when I have many floors to ascend. Fortunately, sandile are not particularly intelligent. Unlike myself. I do not allow any to get the jump on me. Until the shifting sands are drowned out by the footsteps of something larger. I enter high alert, knowing I won’t be able to hear anything else coming.

“Look, it’s a wild yamask!”

A small child wearing clothes of incredibly fine fabric dyed rich colour points his finger at me, calling out to a floating, pink companion whose species I do not recognize. He runs recklessly towards me, ignoring the ever-present danger of–

“Ow! Ow, ow, Munna, help me! That hurts, stop it!”

–sandile lurking beneath the surface. If nothing else, I am now certain that I am nearing the exit. This child would not have gotten far behaving like this.

“Munna, use Psybeam!”

Why does he give such foolish orders? Sandile is a dark type.

“Oh no… Munna, I think it’s a dark type.”

Yes. It is a dark type.

His voice is tinged with fear now. “Well, psywave ignores type matchups, right? Use that!”

That’s not how that… No. You’re still trying to use psionics on a dark type. Based on the child’s growing desperation, I suspect that this Munna does not know any other types of attack. Wandering into a desert with a psychic that has no coverage for dark types.

In absolute terms, I do not have much greater odds in fighting a sandile, but in relative terms any number greater than zero is infinitely greater than zero. We must simply hope I pick up the practical component of spectromancy as quickly as I did the theoretical. Soul can be manipulated to sublimate into light, that light into heat. I let a point of spectral energy loose from my body, and the will-o-wisp sticks to the sandile. I will require the attrition damage of the burn as well as the reduction in physical force.

It hisses, releasing the child’s ankle and whipping around to face me. There’s no turning back now.

”Woah! Thank you, yamask.”

(You are welcome, child. Even without my vessel, it remains my duty to protect those who cannot protect themselves.)

It is currently beyond me to focus on my casting and evasion at the same time. When the sandile lashes out, its jaws connect with my apparition. If I were more skilled, perhaps, then I could do this. But as it stands, I do not see a path towards victory.

I hex the sandile, latching into its soul with my influence and drawing its life force out through the burn wounds in its hide. It bites me again. The air fills with the smell of ozone. Ghost decoherence.

It’s over, then. I was lucky to ensure two bites from a sandile, but all it got me was one good hit. If I wanted to win, I’d certainly need at least three, perhaps four.

“Yamask, pull back! Munna, take front!”

What? What is this child’s plan? Has he not yet accepted that his munna cannot do anything? Has he deluded himself into thinking a psychic can outlast the sandile’s ability to endure its burn? Is he simply trying to buy me a few more moments? I had no choice but to fall back regardless, unless I wish to be torn apart. That doesn’t mean I trust the kid’s tactics.

The kid reaches into his bag. “Here, just let me just—” Then up at the munna. “Use moonlight!” Then he retrieves a flask filled with an unfamiliar orange liquid. “—spray this on you. It’s a potion.”

He squeezes a lever on the flask’s head, causing it to spray the potion onto me. Through some feat of alchemy, my strength is restored. I feel whole again. The smell of decoherence ebbs.

“There you go! Feeling better?”

I nod. Admittedly, I am surprised the child had a plan after all.

“Munna, come back. Yamask, your foe’s weak!”

He’s correct. The sandile has further aggravated its burns trying to break through his munna partner. Two hexes. I can do this.

My first hex strikes true. Its breathing is growing heavy. Not much longer now. Its bite comes out weak, halfhearted. My final hex does not, and it slinks away into the sand.

The child pumps his fist in the air. “Yeah! You got it, Yamask! Thanks a million for the help.”

He is going to return to where he came from now, correct? That ankle needs to be inspected, possibly dressed. But he’s just looking at me.

“Do… Do you wanna come with me? Munna and I are gonna beat all the gym leaders! I bet you would be good at it!”

Yes. Yes, I imagine I would be. I shall watch over you, child, and keep you safe. As any good knight should.