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Old 12-31-2021, 10:04 PM   #1
ShadowDRGN
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ShadowDRGN's Character Chronicles

Table of Contents

Aleph Null Pt. 1 [CW: Themes of domestic violence]
Aleph Null Pt. 2 [CW: Themes of domestic violence]
Aleph Null Pt. 3 [CW: Blood, graphic violence, firearms]
White Day Pt. 1
White Day Pt. 2
Moonlight
Jettisoned
Initiation
Untouchable
Asset
Contradiction
Knot
Strings
Cut Loose
Reminder

Adventures
Djinn's Library: #1R | #1U | #2R | #2U | #3R | #3U | #4R | #4U | #5R | #5U |#6R | #6U |#7R | #7U | #8R | #8U | #9R |

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New Year's 2022

Last edited by ShadowDRGN; 03-04-2023 at 11:09 PM.
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Old 12-31-2021, 10:26 PM   #2
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Hatchley I: Starlet Resolution

CW: Blood, mild description of injuries.

---

Ever since Hatchley was a little kid, New Year’s always felt like a boring affair. The League was always shut down for the Christmas season, and wouldn’t return until a week into the new year. Most of his new gifts had already lost their lustre; Nothing was open to go spend his gift money on. All that was on TV were the same reruns, recaps and revisits as every year.

He couldn’t even go hang out with his friends, on account of the fact that they were all trapped within the same obligations as he: Packing into the car every few hours to go visit those handful of relatives,whose relevance to the family seemed to phase out of existence entirely once the holidays were over.

He didn’t hate catching up with aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents, of course, but cramming it all into one day is what made him dread it so. Even as a kid, he had a feeling that the strange juice all the adults drank as they went from party-to-party was the reason they seemed to be having fun, while he wasn’t.

Thankfully, his parents were a predictable bunch, and almost without exception, Hatchley had a way of escaping it all for the night: While everyone was preoccupied with counting down to the ball drop, he would always creep out the back door, flashlight in hand and a backpack full of snacks sampled from the day’s festivities.

Behind the house, there was an old trail that snaked through the woods, close enough to the sea that he could hear the crashing waves just barely underneath the usual sounds of the forest. Undella Town rarely saw snow, and even a New Year’s night was just warm enough that he only needed a light coat to go out.

A little ways down the path, there was a fallen log propped up by a large rock. That was his sign to turn east and trudge through the underbrush, avoiding all the little bramble patches that had so painfully interrupted his first couple attempts at getting out here; Where, you might ask? Well, there was an old treehouse that stood all the way out here, left over from a bygone time when there had been a development of new villas further up the coast.

Though those houses had long been abandoned and reclaimed by the forest, a treehouse was already one with nature, and so it remained. Middle school rumours abounded, claiming that the treehouse was haunted, attracting Hatchley’s attention way back when. He thought that if he could go and catch a Ghost Pokemon there, he could become a Trainer even without his father’s permission.

Needless to say, there were no ghosts, but that didn’t stop Hatchley from cleaning it up and using it as his own secret little hideout. Whenever he needed alone time, he would place pillows under his bedsheets and sneak out to spend the night in the woods. Out here, he didn’t have to worry about the disapproving stares of his parents as he read magazines, snacked without impunity, and watched movies he definitely shouldn’t be watching on a portable DVD player. It had been a home away from home, one even his sister didn’t know about, though really only because he didn’t have the time to show her on the occasion that she would fly across the pond to visit.

---

Though he's certainly old enough to go out with friends, this New Year’s is no exception to his tradition of sleeping out under the stars. Sitting on the shelf in the corner of the room, a battery-powered TV plays grainy footage of UNN’s New Year’s movie marathon. The TV’s light flickers like an electrical candle, barely illuminating the rows upon rows of posters tacked to the walls on all three sides. Every single one is a fight promo for the Galar League, but unlike the ones pinned to his bedroom walls, these are all dedicated to his sister’s career, from her debut all the way to her final match. Most prized of them all is the early pre-production print she had mailed to him in secret, promoting her (presumed to be) upcoming Hammerlock challenge, titled “Raihan v. Rhinea: Duel of the Dragon Masters!”

The last wall has been blank for the last five years, but not for much longer. Hatchley finally had a Pokemon, and this shrine to everything his sister accomplished - and soon everything he will accomplish - is the perfect training ground.

Or at least, it should be.

A dummy made out of straw and old clothes hangs from the ceiling but has so far gone completely untouched. The rest of the treehouse, on the other hand, is in shambles. Plushies dismembered; A backpack full of snacks devoured, yet Prince the Tyrunt hasn’t even touched the one thing he was intended to destroy.

Hatchley sits in the corner, dejectedly holding his head in his hands as his Pokemon pillages its way around the room. In his mind he wonders what exactly he’s doing wrong. After all, he read online that Tyrunt were supposed to be more docile during the night, and yet Prince is even more destructive here than he is normally.

“Okay. Okay, let’s try this one more time-” he says, mostly just to himself as his Pokemon is too preoccupied with rummaging through a chest of old magazines to listen.

“Prince!” he calls the dinosaur’s name from the depths of his throat. Tyrunt looks up at his Trainer, teeth currently shredding an issue of both The Virbank Rocker and XnY at the exact same time. Hatchley wants to sigh, but he knows showing any kind of weakness or resignation is going to lead to Prince disobeying him.

“I need you to focus. I know you’re still teething, but there’s something in this room that really deserves getting chomped on,” he explains, pointing out the as-of-yet immaculate dummy waiting to be dummied on.

Tyrunt pivots like a bird hopping on a branch and spits the magazines out onto the floor. The Pokemon lowers his oversized head nearly to the floor, causing his whole body to slump forward. With a primal growl, he starts to scratch his claws against the ground, cutting channels into it with his flesh-rending talons. Prince looks ready to charge at the drop of a hat.

That’s it, he thinks with a relieved smile, just explain it like you would to a toddler, but make sure you’re always in control.

“Okay, Prince! Use Ice Fang!”

“Grrraaawwr!” Prince cries, launching himself off the floor with frankly terrifying lower body strength. As he sails through the air, his jaws open up, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth that were designed to get through even a Rock-type’s hide. Like a heat-seeking missile, his jump places his mouth in perfect contact with the target’s arm, and Hatchley can see his slit-pupils narrow as Tyrunt snaps its jaws shut in barely half a second, filling his bite with frigid energy.

It was a flawless attack, done with the precision of a killing machine... One problem presents itself, however: The arm that Tyrunt has so viciously sunk its teeth into isn’t the dummy’s arm, but Hatchley’s arm!

“GAAAAH!” Hatchley cries out in shock as he tries to shake a 50 pound predator off of his arm, “PAIN! COLD! PAINFULLY COLD!”

Prince digs his teeth in further, holding onto him like a vice grip. There’s a cold, reptilian stare in his eyes, like a hunter trying to snap the neck of its prey. Caught up in the panic, it seems his Trainer is only encouraging him to cause further damage.

“Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck! Let go of me!” he shouts, trying to reach past the Pokemon’s kicking feet to grab his Poke Ball. The moment he has it, he taps the ball to Tyrunt’s belly and draws him inside with a burst of light!

The sharp fangs in his arm are gone, but the pain lingers. Blood trails down his arm, not so much pooling on the floor as it does cascade through the gaps between the boards, waterfalling into the darkness. Ice crystals form across his skin, trapping the blood inside to create swirling patterns of red that are as pretty as they are deadly.

This is bad. He needs to get these wounds treated quickly, but the blood loss is making his head spin, and the freezing is slowly overtaking his body. His eyelids feel heavy, nearly coaxing him to lay down and sleep, but he knows that if he even nods off slightly...

Shaking the feeling off, Hatchley runs over to his back, using his good arm to hurriedly dig out his first aid kit. The well-worn zipper glides open, and he practically throws an ice heal, some antiseptic, sutures, a bandage, and himself onto a pile of shredded bedding. Breaking the security seal on the spray, he squeezes the trigger and empties it all over his arm, coating it with a rapidly-warming gel. The heat counteracts not just the freezing, but also some of the pain, allowing him to calm down and apply the antiseptic properly. The worst of it is over... now just to stop the bleeding...

---

With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Hatchley loses track of time as he focuses on tending to his wounds. It could be 1:00 am or 5, and he wouldn’t feel the difference either way. All he knows is that he underestimated how dangerous Prince’s bites could be. He’d gotten nips and scratches that needed disinfecting, sure, but being hit by a fully-fledged Move by his Pokemon?

“I can’t train him out here...” Hatchley remarks to himself as he finishes wrapping his arm in bandages. He leans back against the wall, arm cradled in his lap and his fingers squeezing Prince’s Pokeball tightly. His gaze is unfocused, drifting from the shredded posters on the wall, to the twinkling of the night sky beyond his window. The pain that screamed through his arm has dulled, but the sting of his catastrophic failure as a Trainer is still fresh in his mind. How, exactly, was he supposed to train this... this monster?

His eyes flit back to the posters. Her debut match had been ripped clean in half, erasing both the name and visage of her first opponent. Truthfully, Hatchley was too young to fully remember that battle, and so the poster’s destruction erased the name from ever reaching his mind, as well.

“How did you do it, Rhinea?” he weakly asks himself, “even when you had just a little Bagon... he obeyed you without hesitation. They always listened to you. That’s why I...”

He falls silent, but his thoughts still linger on what he was about to say. Never, for a single moment, did he believe that Salamence would ever disobey his sister. It just wasn’t possible. Her command was perfect in every battle. Even in the training that he had been able to spectate on, her control over her Pokemon was flawless.

The only way that Salamence could’ve attacked those people is if Rhinea was framed. Ever since that day, he’s entertained many theories. Interference from a Psychic-type Pokemon in the crowd, or perhaps even a drug in the water that had been in her training room that day. Whatever happened, it wasn’t Rhinea’s fault. It couldn’t be. It had to be someone who wanted her gone from the scene...

“I want to find out the truth, Rhinea,” he speaks longingly into the moonless sky. The pain throbbing within him slowly transforms into a smouldering anger, “I want everyone to know the truth, because they took the recognition you deserved away from you.”

His chin slumps downwards, turning his gaze toward his bloodstained arm, and to the Pokeball clutched in his faux claws. Anger turns into a burning determination, greater than anything he's felt up until now. No, there’s a deeper reason that he wants to clear Rhinea’s name, and the seed of it is resting right in the palm of his hand.

“Maybe Prince isn’t ready to fight yet, but... No matter how much I get hurt. No matter how difficult dad tries to make this for me. No matter how long it takes, he’s my partner, and I want him to be there when I challenge you...”

As the adrenaline fades, Hatchley feels his eyelids start to droop. As he rubs his fingers over the glossy finish of Prince’s Pokeball, he grins faintly with pride. He’s a destructive little bastard, but if he can get him under control, he’ll be...

“And I want him to be the trump card I use to beat you, sister...”

Last edited by ShadowDRGN; 02-13-2022 at 11:47 AM.
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Old 01-13-2022, 11:27 AM   #3
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The First Dragonite

A tempest whipped and howled against the house, like the clawing and braying of a starving pack of Lycanroc. Spiraled patterns of frost shrouded the windows, depriving the occupants from gauging the situation outside. Not that even a temporary lapse in the storm meant anything to them, when the doors were besieged by a force of snowflakes over a billion strong.

Hatchley let out a lengthy sigh and watched as fog crept across the window pane. It reminded him of the deariness that crept across his own heart, and so he took his elbows off the windowsill and wandered the house some more.

The eight-year-old certainly remembered feeling joy over the announcement of a snow day, but that was before he learned just how dire the storm wracking Galar really was. The telly in the lounge had been droning on about it nonstop: Winter Storm Beartic, set to make snowfall records for the first time in over 50 years. Really, it wasn’t just the schools; Nobody wanted to be out in this monster of a blizzard, and that meant that his plans of going sledding and building snow sculptures with his friends were dashed.

The wind let out a bestial roar as it tore through the narrow lane. The sound coincided with flickered lights all over the house, and silence from the weather report as the telly briefly cut out. It seemed any plans he had for having fun indoors were about to be dashed, too.

The doorknob to the basement was freezing to the touch, so Hatchley withdrew his hand into his sweater to turn it. He heard how the fireplace crackled from the other side, and the shapes that danced across the floor drew him closer inside. If the flames are still going strong, then she must still be in there, he thought.

His hand pushed on the door, and it coasted open with a sound like the croaking of Froakie. He sauntered out onto the balcony, fingers grasping the posts as he peered down into the lounge. The blaze from the hearth lit the room strongly from one side, and left the other wallowing in deep shadow. Just on the fringes lay the sofa, where his father would usually be found seated with a novel, but Hatchley knew that wasn’t who was laying down that night.

“Rhinny?” he called down to her.

The seventeen-year-old stirred, head tossed from one side of the pillow to the other. Strands of her long, black hair were splayed out everywhere, like the inky tendrils of a sea monster had claimed the couch for itself. Both she and her brother always seemed to have the worst cases of bed hair.

“Sis?” Hatchley tried again when he reached the bottom of the stairs.

Rhinea opened her eyes and looked over at him groggily. The teen untangled herself from beneath the blanket and sat up, but her expression was still seemingly lost in whatever dream she was just pulled away from. Her hands pawed at the blanket, feeling around for a Pokeball that she had been clinging onto in her sleep.

“Mm, what’s wrong, Hatchy?” she asked.

“I’m bored,” he whined. Rhinea seemed unimpressed by this answer, yet the way that the boy’s cheeks puffed out like a Croagunk when he pouted was irresistibly endearing.

“Welcome to the club,” she said, ruffling his hair playfully, “did you think I’d be napping if I found something more fun to do?”

“I thought you were texting your boy toy all day,” Hatchley said with a completely innocent smile on his face. Rhinea’s face, on the other hand, looked like she was just about ready to use Outrage on her little brother.

“First of all: It’s boyfriend. Second: You shouldn’t be saying things like that, and three: No, I wasn’t,” she huffed. Hatchley knew this game of hers well, and it was called two truths and a lie.

“Oh, so you weren’t texting your boyfriend at all?” Hatchley asked. An impish smirk creased the corner of his mouth, and he swayed from side-to-side as he delivered his retort, “that’s pretty mean of you.”

Rhinea let out a distinctly oh, brother sigh and slumped back, clearly lacking the energy or resolve to debate the point any further. She soaked in the fuzzy image of the weather broadcast for a moment, before she turned her attention back to a snickering Hatchley.

“Did mum and your dad call while I was asleep?” she asked. In a stroke of terrible timing, the sibling’s parents had been in Unova on a business trip, and came back just when the storm hit. Of course, Rhinea knew how to take care of both of them, but the boy had separation anxiety at his age, and the thought of literally being kept away from his parents was obviously triggering it.

“Mhm. Dad said they’ve booked the hotel at the airport.”

“Good. They shouldn’t be trying to plow through the snow in that old banger, anyways,” Rhinea agreed. A rarity it was, to see the teenage Dragon Tamer agreeing with her father.

Before Hatchley could really dwell on that thought, however, his sister scooted over in her seat and smiled at him sweetly, “so, Bored. What do you want to do? Movie? Cards?”

Hatchley mounted the sofa like it was a ledge, and plopped down next to his sister with his hood drawn up over his ears. The indigo sweater had a checkered pattern where every square was imprinted with a tiny image of a Dragon-type Pokemon. Pretty much all of Hatchley’s clothing had something to do with dragons, while the actual Dragon Tamer between them only openly displayed her affinity for the type with her cape and uniform. Honestly, it astonished the girl sometimes that he managed to have a diverse wardrobe despite his fixation.

“Uhm... We can’t really watch a movie if the power goes out, and you always beat me at cards when we play, so...” Hatchley answered. He squirmed around as he draped the blanket over himself like a cloak, seeming to have something on his mind, but being apprehensive to ask.

“Fair enough,” Rhinea sighed. She could already guess what he was aiming for, based on his answer, “I guess I could give you my DS, but if you mess with anything I will send Shelgon after you.”

Hatchley shook his head, and glanced nervously between Rhinea’s Pokeball and her fierce gaze, “t-that’s okay. I actually, uhm... wanted you to read me a story,” he slowly trailed off into nothing.

“Oh. Does mum still read you stories?” she asked in surprise. His face was plum red with embarrassment. He figured that it was a weird thing to ask at his age, and now his sister was never, ever going to let him live it down.

“S-sometimes... maybe like... twice a week...

“And what’s wrong with that?” Rhinea giggled lightly, a sound which quelled the storm of despair that raged in Hatchley’s head. She leaned in to pat the boy’s head lightly, and smiled just like she did on TV whenever she gave interviews to adoring fans, “bedtime stories are rad.”

“You think so?” Hatchley beamed brightly enough to light up the room all by himself. He brushed his disheveled bangs out of his eyes and looked back at her with eyes full of excitement, “okay, know any good ones? Oh, oh, got any good stories from last season?”

“Heh. Sorry, but I don’t have any new Trainer Tales this time, Hatchy,” Rhinea said with a shake of her head, but a pep in her voice, “buuut. Do you remember the trip abroad I made last year, to go study in Blackthorn City?”

Hatchley nodded profusely in response, “that’s where you caught your Dratini, right?”

“Yup! While I was there, I learned a lot about the legends of Dragon-type Pokemon, and wrote it all into a journal. I thought maybe you’d like to hear it, but I wasn’t sure if you still liked bedtime stories anymore.”

“Of course I do!” Hatchley exclaimed. Just a few seconds ago, he was deathly afraid of his sister even knowing, and now he was proclaiming his love for it to the neighbors. One look at that determined face, and Rhinea already knew what was being repeated in that head of his: tellmetellmetellmetellmetellme!

Another giggle escaped her lips as she watched her precious little brother nearly unravel at the seams with anticipation. She could only imagine how wound-up he got when watching one of her matches live.

“Okay, then!”

Rhinea leapt off the couch and toward the stairs. Thankfully, she remembered to put her slippers back on before her feet ended up freezing to the floor up there.

“You wait right here. I’m gonna make hot cocoa. You want some?”

“Yes, please!”

---

Thankfully, the power held out just long enough for Rhinea to whip up a mug of hot chocolate for the both of them. The lights in the house went dark, but she simply had Shelgon light the way with a continuous stream of Embers. The storm was only just beginning to show its true face, but she knew it would be alright. Nothing would hurt her little brother while she was here, not even the forces of nature themselves.

“You’re lucky my bag isn’t too cluttered, or else you’d be having lukewarm cocoa, instead,” she said as she came down the stairs.

Hatchley was laying over the foot of the sofa nearly dying of boredom, but seeing Rhinea come back renewed his spirits, “welcome back!”

He made grabby hands for his Reshiram mug, only for Rhinea to pull it out of his reach. Feeling mocked, he changed course toward her Zekrom mug, only for her to raise both of them above her head with an annoyed glare.

“Sheesh. I haven’t even said ‘careful, it’s hot’ yet,” she scoffed. She slowly set both mugs down on the table before plopping onto the sofa. Shelgon curled up next to the fire, a yawn reverberating inside his shell as it slowly rocked itself to sleep.

Hatchley raised the cup to his nose and took a whiff. The rich and bitter aroma of dark chocolate tickled at his brain, while hints of salted caramel helped keep the flavor profile from being too overwhelming. Rhinea never understood why he liked it so, but then again, Hatchley never knew why she liked flavors that were practically drowning in sugar, either.

“It’s delicious. Thank you, Rhinny~” Hatchley cooed as he cradled the mug in his hands. His lips were stained a dark brown from taking a big gulp right away, while Rhinea slowly whittled down the waterline on hers with small, frequent sips.

“You’re welcome, Hatchy~” she replied, using her spoon to stir the Badge-shaped marshmallows around in her cup. Any that weren’t dissolved became a snack for the sweet-toothed teen, who clearly hadn’t enjoyed this kind of treat in a while, if her contented sighs were any indication.

“So... Story time?”

Rhinea paused. She had very nearly forgotten about that. The girl reached into her pocket, and produced a small, leather-bound journal. It was the exact same one that Hatchley had bought for her, a few days before she left for Johto on her trip. Of course, when he last saw it, it didn’t quite look so raggedy and water-damaged.

“Yup. Why don’t you finish your hot cocoa and get comfortable while I find what page it’s on.”

Hatchley was already halfway-through chugging his bitter brew when he heard that. He cocked his head curiously, “hm? What... page it’s on?”

Rhinea nodded, “yup. It’s my favorite story, so I wanted to share it first.”

“Alright,” he replied. With his belly full of delicious drink, and the taste of dark chocolate still lingering on his breath, he laid down with his head resting comfortably on Rhinea’s lap. He looked up at her with wonder sparkling in his mahogany eyes, and laughed as she tried awkwardly to take another sip from her mug and leaf through pages at the same time, “don’t burn my face off.”

“Shut it, you,” she clapped back. Finally, her eyes lit up in recognition, and she quickly set the half-finished mug down to prop open her journal with her finger, “ah, here we go. Arceus, my handwriting is shitty,” she mutters to herself.

Hatchley smirked, “potty mouth,” he said in feigned indignation.

“Oh please. I’ve heard what you and your friends talk about when they’re over,” she hissed, and that seemed to shut him up.

Content with this new, less troublesome Hatchely, Rhinea took one last sip of her chocolate and began to read aloud the legend passed down through the Dragon Clan for generations.

---

A long time ago, when the world was newly-wrought by the hands of the Original One, there was a great lake that lay at the foot of the divine Mt. Silver. It was a sacred place, untouched by the humans that wandered the land in their hunt for food and shelter, and so it was that it became a haven for Pokemon.

The Pokemon of the lake lived in harmony with nature, growing and evolving at each their own paces. The Caterpie that fed on the trees encased themselves into Metapod, waiting until the spring to emerge as majestic Butterfree. The shells of the Krabby that scuttled along the beach molted in the summer, giving birth to the regal Kingler, while the Slowpoke that fished atop the rocks caught their first Cloyster and became a Slowbro late into autumn. Even in the cold of winter, the Rhyhorn that came down from the mountain to drink were tempered into the mighty Rhydon.

By the end of the year, all of the Pokemon living in the lake had fully-realized themselves through evolution - all except one. Living within the very depths of the water was the serpent Pokemon, Dratini. Elusive and shy, Dratini always felt different from the other Pokemon of the lake. They were smaller and weaker even than some of its friends, so surely they were destined to evolve early in the year, Dratini thought.

Yet, spring brought no change, and summer, too, was spent watching as more and more of their friends blossomed into their final forms. When autumn first started to color the leaves, Dratini finally shed their skin to become Dragonair, but this change only brought dissatisfaction upon the Pokemon. After so much waiting, they still felt as though something was missing.

As the leaves fell from the trees, Dragonair pondered the meaning of their unfulfillment. They had grown larger and more elegant, and much more powerful, yet when they looked at the Ponyta and the Rhyhorn coming and going from the lake, they realized that this world it inhabited was much too small. They wanted to follow their friends, and explore the world beyond this little spring. Perhaps one day, they would even be able to see what a human looked like.

Before winter came, Dragonair went to their friend Gyarados, and asked what they should do if they wanted to leave the lake. Gyarados was powerful and wise, and so Dragonair thought they knew the best answer, but Gyarados just shook their head and answered, “I don’t understand. You have everything you could ever need here, why bother leaving? Just grow bigger and get stronger like me, and you'll feel better.”

Disappointed, Dragonair swam over to the Arbok that was sunbathing on the rocks, and asked if they could teach Dragonair how to move on land. The serpent fearsomely hissed, and replied, “why should I? You get to fish in the lake, and I get to hunt on the land. It only seems fair that we keep separate.”

Discouraged, Dragonair drifted through the water as the first snow began to fall. They gazed up into the empty, cloudy sky, wondering why no-one else understood this feeling they had. After all, they each wanted to grow up and evolve once, too, didn’t they?

Suddenly, Dragonair saw a Pidgeot soar over the lake, on their way to migrate to warmer lands. Seeing their wings spread wide and full of wind, Dragonair felt compelled to yell their name into the sky. Pidgeot landed at the edge of the lake, wondering what was so important to interrupt his flight. Dragonair asked Pidgeot if it could learn how to fly, too.

“Sure,” the Pidgeot snickered, waving their wing at the serpent as they turned around, “just jump out of the water ten-thousand times, and you’ll get the hang of it,” they said before flying away. Though it had been said as a joke, Dragonair took it seriously. If they could learn how to fly, then Dragonair could go anywhere they wanted.

And so, Dragonair trained. They jumped in and out of the water all day, never giving up, no matter how many times they fell back into the water. Even as the winter froze over the surface of the lake, Dragonair cut a hole in the ice and jumped through it. The other Pokemon complained, saying that the splashing was keeping them from hibernating, but Dragonair ignored them. If no-one was going to help them but themselves, then they weren’t going to listen to anyone but their own heart.

Eventually, spring came once more, and Dragonair remained dedicated to their training. They were starting to jump into the air higher, and higher, rivaling even the Splashing the newly-spawned Magikarp. Each time Dragonair jumped, they felt the hold of gravity loosen upon themselves, growing ever weaker and weaker, until the ten-thousandth jump finally came to pass.

Dragonair shone brightly like a star in the sky, high above the lake. Pokemon from all over the land came to see Dragonair evolve, growing from a sea serpent into a fully-fledged dragon! No-one had ever seen a Pokemon like it before; One so elegant and powerful, able to take to the skies in a single bound, and dive deep beneath the waves to touch the forgotten bottom of the lake.

Though it had to say goodbye to its friends in the lake, Dragonite wasn’t sad. Now they could truly go everywhere, and see everything to their heart’s content. They could make friends with the Pokemon of the skies and mountains, and even with the humans! And if they ever missed home, they could always fly back to this little lake, and bathe in the waters that they once thought of as their entire world.


---

Rhinea closed the journal softly, and exchanged it with her Zekrom mug. The Dragon Tamer took a sip, feeling the cooled chocolate soothe the roughness in her throat. Keeping that voice up was growing harder and harder, it seemed.

She looked down, and saw that Hatchley was already fast asleep. She wondered if he had heard the entire story, or if he dozed off in the middle of it. Not that she minded, either way. Being home always seemed to make her yearn for the seasonal hiatus to end, but this... She could trade her whole career away to just be in this moment forever. If only she had the choice.

She brushed her fingers through the boy’s hair, just gently enough as to not disturb him. Even if the power came back by now, she didn’t dare turn on the telly to check. No, she would rather sit and watch over him as the wind howled outside, and sleet scraped against the windows.

After all, once their parents came back, it was soon time for her to celebrate her birthday, and time for her to say goodbye.

“Sleep tight, little brother. I promise you’ll understand someday, so please come and find me again.”

---

Happy Appreciate a Dragon Day~!

Last edited by ShadowDRGN; 01-24-2022 at 10:03 AM.
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Old 09-29-2022, 05:24 PM   #4
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Stormwracked

The scars that time made were quite odd, for they never truly healed, nor did they linger. The very nature of the concept defies continuity—in order for the rift to have appeared over Springtide Isle in the present day, the crisis that gripped the land of Hisui a century ago, in some sense, must have happened alongside it.

When the frenzy of the twins Sinnoh was quelled, so too did the distortions covering the island cease to be—and yet, the Pokemon borne from the chaos remained, as though the bond between Trainer and Pokemon swayed the heart of a higher being. One with the power to spare its creations from the sorrow of parting.

Though all seemed to return to normal in the present time, that was but the calm before an even greater storm. Ancient things were stirring—beneath the earth, beneath the waves, even beyond the sky. If the flap of a Butterfree’s wings can influence a hurricane... just what would the wingbeat of a legend set in motion?

---

Hatchley peered through the blinds, his eyes struggling to discern one shade of pitch-black from another. As the sea battered against the pier, the winds tore across the harbor, howling as though they were summoned through the gates of hell itself.

Lightning arced through the clouds, briefly illuminating the cityscape around them. High rises almost seemed to sway like trees, while a hail of trash, twisted metal and chunks of concrete sailed through the urban canyons like kites. There wasn’t a single window that was glowing through the night—all that mattered now was whether the roof over one’s head remained there.

The walls that sheltered them rattled and groaned, threatening to scatter themselves to the winds at any moment. Still, it held fast. It had to.

“You shouldn’t stay so close to the window,” Goto’s voice cautioned him. Hatchley glanced back, but he could only barely discern some vague outline of the tailor sitting on his bed. Not that he could complain—the dragon tamer was already sick of looking at the nautical hotel decor long before the blackout kicked in.

“Sorry, I just... haven’t seen anything like this before,” he said. His fingers withdrew, and the blinds racked back into place. The coarse, cheaply-installed carpet hardly muffled his footsteps as he drew closer to the other bed, and simply let the excessive layers of sheets consume him.

Goto remained still, his slender legs crossed neatly beneath him. Hatchley could hear his breathing from across the room. It was deep, and steady. Meditiative. It was enough to convince him that the older man had at least some control over the situation—even if in truth, all either of them could do was sit and hope that luck kept a stray piece of debris from striking the building.

“Where I’m from, you get used to typhoons like this. You learn better than to gawk, and take stock of your chances,” he said with a hint of amusement in his voice, “if a decrepit old storefront could weather similar, this little shanty will fare just fine.”

Hatchley sighed. It’s not like he could argue with the person who saved him from a blizzard, but still. From the moment that the storm began to catch up to their boat, he felt completely lost. Back home, his parents or his sister would’ve handled all the preparations—and as the baby brother, his only task was to distract himself, and help when asked.

He was coddled by his family and this stranger both. It felt humiliating, especially given how much trouble he got himself into by rushing out into the tundra so recklessly. He’s had enough of it.

“Look, I get it. You don’t have to talk to me like I’m a child.”

“Ah, my mistake. How would you prefer I address you, then?”

Frustration welled up in Hatchley’s body. Perhaps it’s fitting that such a needling man would be a tailor. Wasn’t it just enough to feel the sting of needing to be saved, at all? He felt his fists clench, and he shot upright to challenge the man’s posture.

“I dunno, like an adult?” Hatchley snapped back, “I’m grateful for your help and all, but I feel like you’ve been talking down to me since we met. I can take care of myself. It’s what I’ve been doing every day of my journey until now.”

“The key phrase there being ‘until now’,” said Goto, his voice belying his hidden sneer, “if you wish to be treated like an adult, perhaps don’t raise your voice like a child not getting their way. I am perfectly willing to help you, Hatchley Fisher, but you demand so much from me, only to give back so very little. I’m growing tired of it.”

Hatchley fell silent, sinking back into the covers like a deflating balloon. He felt like he just took a baseball bat straight to his ego. Goto was right; all the dragon tamer amounted to was dead weight—in this case literally, had he not been rescued.

After a moment of blearily staring up at the ceiling, he heard Goto shift atop the bed, and caught his hand reaching down into the well of blackness beneath the bed. The sound of a pouch latch clicking open filled the small room, and the dragon tamer could see his silhouette reaching towards him, holding something round.

“You know, you don’t have to stay here. Mercury can teleport you to the Pokemon Center. I’m sure you’ll find the accommodations much more pleasant,” he offered. He sounded genuine, like this was his idea of making amends for inflicting such a grievous wound to the young man’s pride.

“... wouldn’t your Clefairy be stuck with me, then?” Hatchley asked.

Goto shook his head, “he’s resourceful. He’ll find his way back to me before long.”

Hatchley sat up again slowly, his eyes affixed to the shape hovering in front of him. A click of a button, and he’d be free from this irritating man. No risks, no further hastles. All he needed to do was give Mercury one simple command.

His hand crept closer to the ball’s matte surface, yet at the last moment he withdrew. He could feel Goto’s quizzical stare piercing through the dark, and he decided to answer before the obvious question arose.

“I guess I just feel like... if I’m going to be safe either way... I’d rather have company I can talk to,” said the young man. He rubbed his shoulder soothingly before adding, “even if it’s just someone to bicker with.”

“Hmm, alright then,” the tailor said coolly. He quickly put Clefairy’s ball away, and reached for the lantern that had been resting on the nightstand. With the flick of a switch, an amber glow lit up the room. The light was dusty and anemic, giving the already unflattering room a hideous smothering of pumpkin-tinge.

It even managed to make Goto look like a seven, at worst. He was half-reclining on the margins of the bed with a navy-striped shirt hanging loosely from his chest, and the cotton long johns he wore as pajamas lay half-tucked beneath the thinnest layer of blanket. The man’s sleeves were bunched-up around his hands—where Hatchley’s eyes caught snow-soiled fingernails subtly worrying themselves into the padded creases of his palm—and there were ghostly circles under his eyes, but he seemed well put together despite the double feature of harrowing weather.

“Let’s talk.”

Those two words were, naturally, a step farther than Hatchley thought he’d get. He clammed up, awkwardly meeting the man’s amber gaze with a Deerling-in-headlights stare. What the hell could he possibly talk about? Oh man, how about that weather? You see the game last night? What phase of the Brycen Man Cinematic Universe is your favorite?

Of course none of his ‘forced into conversation with a regular person’ options would work. Just look at him. He’s cultured. He’d be making the outfits that the stars of the BMCU wear to the premiere, why would he give a shit about the storyline?

“You know, you’re not very good at this,” said Goto with feigned impatience. Hatchley caught his lip between his teeth before it could fly open again. He knew damn well the man was looking for every opportunity to get a rise out of him. To try him. He wouldn’t let the man win.

“I know,” he sighed, “I’m just trying to come up with something good.”

“It doesn’t need to be good. It just needs to be something,” Goto pointedly corrected him. More humming and hawing from the dragon tamer followed, until he finally just decided to go with whatever was at the top of his head.

“How long have you been a tailor?” he eventually asked. The young man’s voice was unsteady, placing no confidence in his icebreaker being any good at all.

Much to his surprise, Goto seemed to crack a smile at the question, “almost twenty years, now. I remember being very little, and my mother guiding my hand as I helped her sew buttons onto coats. Before I learned how to make my own clothes, I was making stuffed Pokemon so I could earn what spending money I could.”

“Damn. That sounds... nice,” Hatchley softly remarked. Goto nodded in accord, though he didn’t seem to have his whole heart in it. He felt best not to pry about it.

“Do you still make plushies?” he said, adding with a smirk, “think I could uh, commission you for two?”

The man’s eyebrow lifted a notch, “not often, but perhaps you could inspire me to shake off the rust. What do you have in mind?”

Once again, Hatchley found himself unprepared for Goto’s reply. Was he really so insecure that the idea of not immediately being shot down surprised him? Or was he more just saying shit without any regard for the follow-up? Both? It was probably both.

“I was thinking I could get something for me and my sister. Ever since I was little, we got matching gifts from our relatives. Y’know, phone cases and clothes and all that. We both like Dragon-types, so they’d almost always be whatever dragon-themed stuff they could find,” he said, exemplifying the point as he held up his arms to display the Dragonite hoodie he was wearing as a bedrobe.

“My favorite gift was always the pair of mugs we got from our aunt. They had Reshiram and Zekrom printed on them—I remember us fighting over who would get which one,” he chuckled wistfully, “even though we already knew which one was our favorite.”

An amused puff of air left the tailor’s chest. Goto tilted his head, jostling his rose earring as it proceeded to swing and twirl like a pendulum, inset Mega Stone glinting faintly in the lamplight. His lightly-painted lips broke into a faint smile as he spoke, “so, you want me to make you a pair of twin dragons, then? Will I have to make them extra-durable in case a struggle ensues?”

“Sure. I’m not really worried about me or Rhinea breaking them, though. If you could make them Prince-proof, I’d appreciate that.”

“A compelling pitch, to be sure...” Goto said. Whatever deliberation he held, he came to an answer swiftly, and with playful assuredness, “why not? I’ll start as soon as I get back.”

“Really?” replied the dragon tamer with a mixture of elation and surprise, “I would’ve thought that was gonna be a deal-breaker.”

The man gave him a gentle shake of the head, “on the contrary. I was only half-interested before that, but now you’ve given me a challenge.”

That needling, condescending persona hadn’t completely vanished, but it did seem like Goto softened when he talked about his work. It didn’t matter whether the source of that passion was from joy or pride. Hatchley just found himself enjoying speaking like this.

“Huh. So, is that why you like tailoring? Because it’s like a puzzle, just with a needle and thread?”

“One reason among many,” said Goto, restlessly. His legs rustled beneath the covers, and he slowly rose to his feet. A pencil-thin flashlight flickered to life, sweeping across the opposite wall. There were chairs that probably spent their entire tenure here holding only suitcases and discarded clothes, and a TV that could give them no answers as to the situation unfolding outside this little room.

The tailor shuffled forward, briefly disappearing behind a drywall pillar into the bar kitchen. When he emerged again, he was slicking his finger across the offensively inoffensive stone countertop, finding a disappointing amount of dust sticking to his fingertip. Then he crouched down, and the sound of clinking bottles piqued the dragon tamer’s interest.

“Don’t they charge you just for moving those?” he asked, “father always said they had motion sensors in there.”

Goto popped up like a Diglett from its burrow, hand coiled around the neck of a jade-colored bottle. He inspected the label carefully, shrugging as he replied, “usually, but these are terribly trying times. I’m certain they’ll keep it ‘on the house’.”

A sharp pop drowned out the sound of Hatchley’s giggling. A pale, oily liquid flowed out into a waiting wine glass, the rising surface dotted with foam-less bubbles. Goto hovered the partly-quaffed bottle over the counter, his eyes meeting with his roommate. Give him an apron, and he’d pass for a certified mixologist.

“Care for a glass?”

Hatchley shook his head, “nah. I don’t really like the stuff.”

“Fair enough,” Goto said, leaving the bottle next to the sink. He picked up the glass by its stem and held it close to his breast, letting the aroma waft up to his nose as he returned to bed. He had no desire to imbibe it, but even so, Hatchley didn’t find the smell unpleasant—not like the stench of beer that he’d grown to detest.

“Sooo. What are those other reasons you mentioned?” he asked, eager to pick up where they had left off. Goto took a sip of wine, and the swirl of his glass seemed to mirror the scattered thoughts he was collecting into an answer.

“Hm. Beyond the challenge, I find the process of creation to be fulfilling, itself. I enjoy sketching out a design, and then seeing that design take shape with my own hands. I enjoy finding sources of inspiration in unlikely places, like from an unpleasant experience, or a piece of art I would have otherwise overlooked. I savor the sleepless nights, and enjoy the crash that comes when my work is finished.”

“Anything else?” Hatchley said. The man’s words were captivating in their evocativness. He craved to hear more of them.

“Well, normally that would have been the extent of it. As of late, I’ve been realizing something...” the tailor said, nursing himself on wine until his cheeks began to glow brighter than the lantern, “I enjoy creating for other people’s sake. The art of a tailor isn’t too far off from that of a chef. We each create necessities, and yet the effort and expertise we put into our craft transforms it into a luxury.”

“Even so, there is one key difference; Food is ephemeral. You may feel nostalgic when you eat something from your youth, but you can never eat exactly the same dish again. Clothes may one day tatter and rot, but they’re perennial. Each time you wear them, you are accruing ever more memories. The weave becomes a tapestry of disparate experiences, and when they pass on to family, friends—even the used bin of a thrift shop—that history is inherited with it, or it begins anew.”

Hatchley ran his hands gently over the coarse fabric of the cape folded against his lap. He pictured in sepia the image of Rhinea striding out into the cross-shadowed lights of Motostoke Stadium, the tattered edges of this very cloak billowing around her League uniform like a banner to her foregone victory. At the apex of her meteoric rise, she earned a nickname from her number: 283—the Wings of Wyndon.

“But I’ve rambled enough about myself—” said Goto. He clicked the almost-empty glass against the nightstand with a flimsy air of temperance, “—I’d like to know a little more about you. Your family comes from a long line of dragon tamers, yes? How long have you been honing your skills?”

This caught Hatchley entirely off-guard. He’d already become secure in just listening to the man speak, and plying him with questions. Talking about himself? What even is there to say?

“Oh, uh. Yeah, that’s the family lineage on my father’s side. Though he disagreed with it, and became a pharmacist instead. My sister decided around the time I was born that she was going to take up the cloak, and started training Dragon-types,” he answered, “she told me father was furious with her, but she talked him into convincing the company he and mother worked for to sponsor her entry into the League.”

Goto stayed silent and attentive as he leaned forward, cupping his glass off its coaster. Hatchley paused for a moment, as if expecting a response, but when it was clear he wasn’t getting one, he simply rubbed the back of his head and continued:

“Honestly, she’s incredible. It didn’t matter how mean and tough her Pokemon were, after a bit of training they were always at their best behavior when she came to visit. We used to have trivia fights, and she always kicked my ass at it. She was a badass on the field, too, but—”

He stopped abruptly upon noticing the tailor was scowling cooly and knocking back the rest of his drink. The man exuded dissatisfaction, and it was clear he was debating just getting up and refilling his glass.

“Sorry. I know I’m being pretty boring compared to everything you just said,” he apologized, sinking his head low.

“You misunderstand. I asked you to talk about yourself. So far, all you’ve talked about is your parents, briefly, and the rest is you lavishing praise on your sister. Tell me which I would rather speak to—Hatchley, or a mouthpiece for Hatchley’s sister?”

Something white-hot came over him, searing his cheeks and compelling his body to shoot up to his feet so fast that he felt faint. This wasn’t like his usual response to an insult. This was him being cut deep.

“I’m just trying to answer as best I can!” he blurted out, like the yowling of a wounded dog, “sorry I’m not sophisticated enough for you! Is there something wrong with wanting to be more like someone I look up to?”

Goto met his aggression with... nothing. There was no sneering, no hint of amusement anywhere on his face. Merely an grim stare meeting his, and words delivered with the sharpness of a rapier:

“I think there’s something very wrong with fearing to be yourself.”

The young man furrowed his brow. His nostrils flared so hard smoke ought to come out of them, “oh, and I’m sure you know all about that, Mr. ‘I’m so dark and mysterious’! You haven’t spoken your mind this entire time! I’m not a fucking idiot, I know what it looks like when someone is putting everything they say through a filter. You don’t want anyone to see you slip-up, or notice what you’re feeling!”

That stare turned ice-cold. Struck a nerve, has he? Well, the dragon tamer won’t let that go to waste:

“You know what I noticed? You’re scared of lightning, aren’t you?” he said, smugly, “that’s why you kept the light off before we started talking. You didn’t want me to see you flinch.”

As if to put too fine a dot on the point, the howling outside was interrupted by tearing thunder! A strobe of blue light coursed through the room, and in those crucial moments Hatchley saw Goto trying to sheath his hands beneath the covers.

It wasn’t even a question of what to do. The dragon tamer snapped him up by the wrists, his fake talons digging into the tailor’s supple skin. He grinned widely, like he’d just caught his first prey, but that expression quickly faded once he noticed it.

“Y-you’re trembling,” he uttered faintly. The man’s hands were drenched in a cold sweat, and the way they quivered felt beyond control. Like he would have the flesh shaken from his bones before he could get Goto to stop.

Goto hid his eyes behind his raven hair. His lips were thin—anemic, even, with the way all color was drained from his face. Even so, he remained stern and composed, as though not even the storm could shatter his facade.

“Truthfully, it’s not the lightning that I fear—it’s the flash,” he said in a disturbingly hollow tone, “Arceus above can smite me all He wishes. I’ve survived worse. All I ask is that He turn off the damn flash.”

“Shit, man... I-I’m sorry,” was all Hatchley could offer. The teen’s anger was doused in an instant, and all that remained were the smoldering embers of guilt. All that seemed right to do was to ease off—not quite removing his grip, but making it gentler. Comforting.

“It’s not your fault. I simply am this way,” Goto replied quietly. He caressed the young man’s palms like a worry stone, and the latter crouched down to meet his gaze. There was no fire in his eyes—they simply stared out into a space beyond the floor. To a place and time beyond Hatchley’s understanding.

“You’ve a lot of scars,” he muttered, “I can feel them all over your hands.”

“Prince is rowdy. Until recently, he’d scratch and bite at me whenever I tried to train him.”

“I see. And that’s how you got all of them?”

Hatchley’s grip tightened, stopping the man’s advance up his wrists. Goto had come back to the present, however faintly, and in that moment they exchanged a tense, knowing gaze.

“All—of—them,” he replied forcefully enough to deter any more questions.

The next couple hours were spent in silence, both of them laying in their beds, yet not resting their eyes for a moment. The storm had only gotten worse as the night dragged on, and banging sounds were harassing the building from all directions. Any stronger wind, and the boat they came in on would come flying through the hotel wall.

Goto had his sketchbook in his lap, and was dutifully working away at making a concept for Hatchley’s request. He didn’t want to peek and ruin the surprise, but at the same time, what the hell else could he do? He hadn’t brought any games with him on his trip, and his phone was basically just a fancy paperweight at this point.

“I don’t like people hovering over my shoulder while I work—” Goto said after far too much time enduring just that. He snapped the leather booklet shut, and slid it atop the nightstand as he turned to face his roommate’s disheartened frown.

“Sorry,” Hatchley uttered, skittishly turning around to face the other way. He tucked his knees up to his chin, wrapping his arms securely around his naked legs.

The tailor sighed drearily, “there’s something you want to ask me, isn’t there?”

“I’ve just been thinking about what happened on the island. About the other man I saw.”

“The one who carried a sword?” Goto asked. Of course, there was still some tinge of skepticism in his voice, considering he denied ever seeing the man, himself.

Hatchley nodded, “yeah. He’s... your great-great grandfather, isn’t he? I heard him say he made that cloak for me—well, not me, but whoever he saw me for.”

The tailor paused for a moment, as if caught off-guard by that fact, “hm. I suppose he could’ve been. You want to ask me about him?”

He nodded again, “yeah. What kind of person was he? Was he also a tailor?” As he said this, Hatchley flipped over, giving the tailor a determined, yet puzzled glance, “and... why would a cape he made be passed down in my family?”

Goto shifted, as well, sitting up to reveal that his hair was basically a ragged mop from all his tossing and turning. Even so, he sported that impish grin yet again as he replied, “you want a bedtime story, is that it?”

Hatchley huffed, burying his face in his hoodie. He was done protesting—at this point, he just accepted his fate being tease-able, “C’mon... what’s wrong with that?”

“Absolutely nothing, Hatchley,” Goto said, chuckling disarmingly.

“My great-great grandfather was many things; a tailor, and a traitor. Warrior, and wanderer. I know bits and pieces, excerpts from his poems, and stories of his exploits. In fact—” he crossed his arms, and stared up at the ceiling as thunder rattled, “the best place to start would be on a night just like this...”

Last edited by ShadowDRGN; 09-29-2022 at 09:52 PM.
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Old 03-04-2023, 11:10 PM   #5
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Reunion

Goto stands in the midst of his office, phone still clutched tightly within his fist. The text didn’t say much of anything, but he knew what it meant.

The rustic bulb that hangs overhead pulses weakly, unable to touch the corners of the room with its waning light. It’s a switch he seldom touched, seeing as the window beside his desk gave him ample light by day, while he worked under the electric glow of a jade desk lamp by night.

Indeed, the amber light cast upon this room only comes about when he has company—wanted or not. The tailor stares at the aforementioned window, its silk curtains flapping in the breeze as a cloaked Knoll lays crouched before it, peering through his Zoom Lens at the street below. The same window he’d closed the last time he was in this room.

“Everything’s still here,” Goto notes, sliding the wooden drawer by his chair to a close. Circling around the desk, he quickly double-checks the rest of his office furnishings—nothing else out of place, except for that damn window.

“Keep your eye on the buildings,” he says, glancing at the shimmering outline to his back, “they could be watching to see if we’d take the bait.”

Making sure to hide himself from any surveillance, Goto reaches into his jacket for another Pokeball. Whoever was here left a scent trail behind—a repugnant cocktail of saccharine, heady brimstone—and Yamper’s nose is needed to sleuth out where it leads. The quicker and quieter he can deal with this, the better—he has no doubt anyone wanting to find him wouldn’t hesitate just because he has customers in the store...

Uncloaking his hand for a brief moment, Knoll made a circle with his fingers. Nothing, not even a single curtain out of place. If Inteleon’s eye can’t spot anything with that scope, then there’s no doubt that the street is completely cold.

What should be a relieving outcome is instead all the more tense. It’s entirely possible that whoever the culprit is has long since fled; that this entire thing was a distraction from something else, or simply an intimidation tactic. The danger has in all likelihood passed—and yet there is one final, far more concerning possibility.

Despite all of the nerves in his body screaming at him to look up, Goto dares not let his neck tilt even an inch. If the enemy is indeed up there, they would’ve stuck him dead ages ago. They must either be a fool who can’t see an opening... or know exactly who they’re dealing with.

The tailor raises Raiden’s Pokeball calmly, showing neither suspicion or deliberation in his movements. He takes a deep breath, and as the scent of burning roses fills his lungs, he feels a memory bubble to the surface of his mind. This smothering stench could only belong to one person...

“Elle. I know you’re up there,” Goto dryly says. A sultry trill fills the room, and violet haze falls around the tailor like a curtain drawing. Water splashes down the windowsill as Knoll whips around, hand pinching his nose as the other points toward the ceiling. His sclera goes dark, struggling to get a bead on the shadow crawling through the heavy smoke.

“Sharp as ever, Master Giuseppe,” the figure says, her breathy voice finally eliciting some reaction out of the tailor. He turns around, curiously eyeing the Salazzle as she appears before him wearing a woolen scarf.

“So, you talk now,” he remarks wryly.

Elle’s lips curl in furious amusement, “I thought you’d be more shocked,” she sneers. The two stare at each-other for a moment, trading each-other snake like gazes that fail to convey any emotion warmer than bitterness.

The tailor shakes his head, “if you wanted to be the first, then I’m afraid you’re about a year late.”

“Hmph. You’re no fun~” Elle says, putting on a pout as she indignantly paces about the room, “I finally figure out where your rat ass has been hiding a decade after you abandoned me, and that’s the first thing you say to me?”

“Yep.”

“Fuck you,” she snaps back, scales flooding the room with toxic pheromones. Goto takes a cautious step back, hands fishing Knoll’s ball out of his pocket as he notices drool start to trail down his bodyguard’s mouth. He raises the ball, and withdraws his bewitched bodyguard from the room. Disarming himself like this isn’t ideal, but he’d rather keep this from spilling over into the downstairs.

“Surely, you didn’t come all this way just to tell me that,” Goto says. Walking carefully around the wrathful Salazzle, he sits down at his desk and leans forward, fingers tented together, “so, now that we have the chance—let’s talk.”

Elle’s scales shimmer with quiet rage, turning the air around her into a blur of heat and haze. Doubtless, the tailor’s stone-faced demeanor only serves to strengthen the smoldering animosity filling the room. A snake relies on its venom in order to deter and control its enemies, yet against Goto, she feels uniquely and ashamedly defanged.

“Fine,” she sighs, letting her scales cool down and settle. Pulling a chair out from the corner, she climbs over the arm and sits down, legs crossed side-saddle. Her graceful form slouches against the plush cushions, staring at Goto all the while, “you first.”

“How did you find me?”

“With difficulty, asshole,” Elle hisses, putting her hand beneath her chin, “I heard you’d been hiding out in Alola, but by the time I arrived, the address I had belonged to someone else.”

Goto nods, “I assume you asked them about the previous owner, and went from there?”

“I kept following wherever the information led me, but I was always a couple months too late,” she says, grinning as her tail whips against the armrest, “they all called you a weirdo, just so you know.”

A scowl creeps across the tailor’s face. He hadn’t realized that someone had been tracking him for that long through all of the fake names and generous gifts to ensure any memory of him would fade. Though, if anyone can circumvent the latter, it’s certainly Elle.

“Before you ask,” Salazzle adds, “nobody was following me, and I wasn’t ordered to find you.”

Elle tilts her head as she watches Goto’s shoulders sink a solid inch or two. A relieved sigh leaves his vermillion lips. For as much enmity as she has for him, her word is one that he can still trust. Even so...

“Why seek me out on your own volition, then? Surely, you’ve already realized that I broke your Pokeball when I left. I am no longer your master, and you are under no obligation to return to me, Elle,”

Indignation flares in Elle’s eyes, and she snaps upright to deliver a venomous reply, “you think I give a shit about whether I have a ball? We were partners in crime! When you sent me on that mission, you didn’t tell me you were going to fucking vanish!”

While Elle’s blood is running hotter by the moment, all Goto feels is a creeping chill in his veins. She doesn’t know—or if she does, she’s not letting on about it. She is truly a remnant of his past given flesh. They very thing he’s spent all his days hiding away from.

“I’m sorry, Elle. I had to,” Goto says, his voice growing quiet and strained. His directed posture breaks, his hands catching his head as he leans forward and puts his weight on the sturdy desk. He needs this anchor, when the whole room feels like it’s slowly churning sidewards.

“I—” Elle starts, her fury dampened by the strangeness of the sight before her. Goto’s composure never breaks. Not ever. Unsure of what to do, her hand reflexively reaches out for the man’s shoulder, only for her eyes to narrow, and she balls her claws into a fist once more.

“Why couldn’t you wait for me? You took everyone else with you, didn’t you?” she asks. Goto silently shakes his head in reply, and her brows furrow. Panic catches her chest alight as she shoots out of her seat, hands slamming the desk hard enough to instill a dull throb in them.

“Then where is everyone else!?” she shouts down at the crumpling man, “don’t bullshit me, Goto! Knoll was with you, and I know Merc, Nephila and Derringer are here, too! So, where’s Sicily and Haori?”

“Both of them... parted ways with me before I left Kanto. I don’t know where either went after that,” Goto says, his voice growing deathly cold, “I’ve been raising Haori’s daughter, Hanten, since then.”

Elle’s eyes widen, “wait, if Sicily’s gone, then... you left the Kai?” she asks. The tailor simply nods, standing up wearily as he watches Salazzle’s expression dance falteringly between confusion, realization, panic, and rage.

“I don’t get it,” she utters hollowly, shaking her head, “when I came back, the boss was—I... I thought you were in hiding for your safety! I thought you were going to come back to fix things once the heat was off!”

“I wasn’t. I went into hiding because I made a vow to myself. No one else, not after that night,” Goto says, walking past Elle towards the door. Dull ambers meet with burning amethyst, unblinking. Analyzing, waiting for the inevitable descent into denial. She couldn’t know yet. She couldn’t accept it now.

The bronze door handle is warmer to the touch than his skin, and he hangs in place for a long moment, collecting himself. Opening his jacket, Elle’s eyes flit down to the white holster hanging off Goto’s shoulder—empty, and beside it, in the pocket where he normally kept his cigs is a small bouquet of lollipops.

“Sorry to cut this talk short, but I have clients waiting for me,” Goto says, his fingers tearing the candy free of the paper. He leans his head back as he feels artificial cherry wash over his tongue, and he inhales deeply through his nose. It isn’t a real drag, but it could hit that spot in his brain that associated this series of actions with calming smoke.

All the while, that insensible stare is trained on him, until suddenly the room is filled with uproarious laughter and the devilishly sweet, sulfurous odor. Her voice breaks and wheezes as she chokes through her own mad cackling, “oh my god! You’re actually trying to go legit! After all the shit we’ve done for the clan—for the boss—you decided to fuck off to go play house?”

“You’re so goddamn cute, you know that?” Elle drones as Goto walks away, “go ahead, then. I won’t stop you from indulging in your little roleplay, since you’ve always been so good at it.”

And to that, there could be no response more damning than silence. Goto turns away from her twisted countenance—away from the devil that had come back to perch on his shoulder, yet he cannot abandon her again. His past had yet to be fully burned, and this is to be his trial-by-fire—but not now.

No, for now he has work to do, and the two down there aren’t like him. Their bashful smiles are genuine and untarnished, and he wishes for nothing more than to let them blossom into something beautiful.

Last edited by ShadowDRGN; 03-04-2023 at 11:38 PM.
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