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Aftershock

Praxiteles

Friendly POKéMON.
Oh, dear. It seems to have been a while, in my mind. Ah, whatever. Commence Chapter 6, my longest chapter yet for any fiction, at 14 pages on Word (not the record of Serebii or anything close, but it is unique for me). It has given me great grief, but I hope it doesn't disappoint?

PAGE 2! REJOICE!






Aftershock
Chapter 6: The Peak
Part 1​



Amaren hunched over the injured pokèmon as they lay back against the cool of a dark cypress, rifling through his already-swollen backpack. An expression of great sympathetic pain tightened his face as the weariness spread into him through Ytarrik’s telepathic connection; and an identical emotion, though to a less vivid degree, animated Ruki, passing over their many hurts. Akale lingered behind her leg, looking at the scene with alert interest.

“Hang on a second,” she reached for her bag, styled into unnecessary attractiveness – “I’m sure I had something for leech seeds, must be somewhere here.”

A can of some unknown liquid was produced from its simple confines, one with a most vibrant and disconcertingly detailed logo of a single, gelatinous leech seed. It illustrated the efficiency at which it could wither the painful growths, with such patient detail as to elicit a wave of nausea from all but the Grass-types which generated such growths as a daily habit.

With extreme caution, she opened the cap vacuum-sealing the aerosol nozzle, inadvertently releasing a trapped drop of wayward leech-seed-spray – which fell to the grassy floor and elicited an extravagant electric spark between two separate twigs, reducing them to ashes. Immediately, Ytarrik attempted feebly to push the spray out of living influence, seeing great good for the future of humanity in the destruction of this supposed “hellfire”.

“Oh,” Ruki said placidly, “oh. I don’t think I should have shaken it so badly. Oh, well,” and the can flew out into the surrounding woods, off to terrorize another hapless patch of grass.

It was the farewell clunk of the noxious spray which rose Amaren from his excursion into his voluminous bag, clutching five potions victoriously. He swiftly opened the extravagant sealing mechanism on the simple metal bottle, and proceeded to force-feed both Pokèmon the clear blue liquid as Ytarrik attempted to feign allergy to the substance and Angin writhed under its searing taste.

“Pokèmon don’t have allergies, idiot,” Amaren reminded.

“I know it’s bad, Angin, but you really need the energy right now,” Ruki soothed.

[Why did I try to trick you with an allergy when I’ve never even had one?] Ytarrik mused. [Oh, Light, I think I’m turning more and more human every moment! I am… merging with your uncouth mind. Geh!]

“Shut up, Zyt.”

[Shut up, uncouth mind.]

“If you’ll stop insulting me every few seconds, I will shut up, Blackhead.”

[Blackhead!]

“Stop arguing, guys,” – Ruki, though with a dispelling grin.


[Our vitality,] Ytarrik explained, once sanity had once again reluctantly set in, [was getting lower and lower by the second, because of our leech seeds. You completely overlooked that when you set us on Pidgeotto, there. One unavoidable Quick Attack, and we were gone.]

“Hey, you were battling your heart out without my orders. It’s not my fault you forgot everything for a second.”

[But – ]

“Though, Ruki,” Amaren continued, drowning out Ytarrik’s protest, “What about you? Where did you come from?” He was surprised, near astonished, that he had never thought to ask her this simple question

“Oh, I grew up in Saffron, didn’t I tell you?” Ruki stopped, unwilling to say any more.

“And…?”

“And?” She seemed uncertain as to whether Amaren would require any more.

“And, what’s your full name, how’s your family, do you remember any story worth telling me? I thought this sort of things were supposed to be said between friends.”

“Er, well… My name is Ruki Ferena. I was an only child, I suppose, and, well, nothing really happened in my block of Saffron.”

“Have you really got nothing worth memory?” Amaren exclaimed.

“…No.”

“Ytarrik?” Amaren turned to him for assistance.

[…No. Don’t even think about it.]

“I don’t see any point in living in the past. Not, at least, after I found…” trailed off Ruki.

“Found what?” Amaren turned to Ytarrik, but he was likewise clueless.

Instantly, she found some point of extreme interest immediately beyond Amaren’s shoulder, and focused all her ocular attention there. “Found… training, of course. I have had the best moments of my life here.

“Where’s the professor, though?” she suddenly changed the subject, looking around as her delicate personal extravagances attempted to keep up with her sudden reminder. She jogged off aimlessly, her ponytail swinging, disregarded, behind her, and was immediately met with the old scientist, emerging out of a nearby patch of obscurity.

“Oh, merely examining what I took to be a rare specimen,” he waved off airily. It did not seem, despite his civilized appearance, as if he spent all his time examining bacteria under microscopes or poring over dusty textbooks with no possible information of any consequence – he took all the air of one crawling out an authentic, fieldwork hotspot for rare pokèmon. “Were you aware that not all Wurmple are red-backed?”

“Really?” a considerable portion of the gathering chorused, Amaren at the forefront.

“No, indeed. Every so often one will find a most peculiar purple variety, shaded a pale lilac. Rumour has it that such discoloured, or ‘shiny’, specimens, are more receptive to growth than their usual counterparts. However, because of their flashiness, they lose the natural purpose of the colours of common pokèmon – and such methods as camouflage or intimidation are impossible, having entirely the, erm, wrong colour of skin. Or hide, or scale, or fur, according to taste.”

[That’s why they’re so rare, then?] Ytarrik hazarded, though he carried the hint of telepathic fishing for information. It was indubitable that he was well-taken with the professor, though he was loath to admit it.

A wave of feeling, remarkably akin to his meanderings around the digital halls of the Trainer card’s informational database, took over Amaren as the six mismatched components of his party began moving as one, retiring to the safety of the city. Professor Oak radiated an air of learnedness, of refined science, but it did not seem like to the manner of the monotonous study books Amaren had dabbled in, long before in his village. Instead, he carried a hint of Uncle Artir in his veins, an illustrious gentleman, grown in mind, but in an infinitely more colourful manner.

“You see, Amaren,” Oak was soon explaining, “a trainer’s journey requires an amount of sacrifice, or rather some pain and subsequent strength. It is essential that one possess few inner demons and such complications at such an early part of the career, for it must be given space to grow. In your position, I would suggest that you do not shirk from such species, but indeed attempt to coexist with your fears…”

“What? How could I do that, Professor?”

“Ah, just wait a time,” he sighed, “you shall find that necessity soon overrides any incompetence you may claim to have.”

“Does that mean,” Ruki worried, “that I’ll have to get a Dark-type too?”

Their newfound mentor regarded them for a moment. “Ah… no. Not, specifically, if you very strongly desire not to.” Before, however, Ruki could finish her impromptu celebration, he added cautioningly, “You will have to mimic Amaren eventually, remember. A pokèmon master is one at the very end of his journeys, one who has experienced, understood, and stowed away near every facet of his or her life.

“But why are we looking so forward yet? Enjoy, I bid you, while you’re all still young!”

Amaren and Ruki looked at each other questioningly, as the professor’s mood lifted very abruptly. [There are certain groups of people,] Ytarrik mused between them, [who I will never understand, as long as I live.] He seemed to find a strange irony in his statement, but Amaren could not gain any more from his closed mind.

“I think,” the professor beamed, as Saffron came within hailing distance, “that I will make my exit around now. This is indeed where our paths fork, for I must enter the city through an entirely different route. Farewell, then… not at all, of course. I shall be very glad to see you two once again, in your next venture from this hub of yours; simply find me in the encircling forest, northwest quarter.” And, at that, he parted ways, still cheerful beyond belief.

As they entered the now-familiar outskirts of Saffron City, it seemed most visibly to Amaren as though the proud pillars of the metropolis before them had lost some of their brilliance. The gleam of technology, to Amaren’s eyes, was dimmer now than it had first been, and its every miniscule quirk was subconsciously acknowledged by his mind, seeming no more to be new and unexplored. He felt a strong urge for the open country, as to the manner of old times, where he would walk through a blizzard of new experiences, leaving no time for accustomed monotony.

[I suppose,] Ytarrik added, [they call that feeling the spirit of a trainer or something. Maybe you should start, uh, doing something.]

“Doing what?” though Amaren knew already what the Abra would lead to. “Maybe we should start fighting against trainers, now. See how we fare.”

“That’s a great idea!” Ruki agreed. And then, with an accidental chorus of thoughts, Amaren, Ruki, and Ytarrik simultaneously offered: “We shouldn’t delay the Gym for too long, though.”

They looked among each other, and promptly stowed this strange coincidence in the farthest cupboards of their minds. Some quirks of the universe, they could no longer doubt, were best left unexplored. They could not, additionally, doubt their inner thoughts, which ran entirely contrary to their previous mental statement.

[Oh, well.]



[{//\/\/\/\/\//\\//\\//\/\/\|/|\|/\/\/\\//\\//\\/\/\/\/\/\//}]​



Already the first gleam of gold was touching the viridian of the lush forest, already the first Caterpie were beginning to prepare for the coming hardship: but there was a determination about the sun and its warm breezes, seeing no harm in a parting flare of summer intensity before fall took their place. In many ways the weather could be said to be unseasonal, such that the living beings it governed seemed uncertain, expecting winter but seeing none in sight; but Amaren felt that if warmth and brightness could be prolonged, if it could (and wished to) deliver a surprise burst of life yet, what greater good truly lay across its path?

The trainers, adaptive as they ever were, did not hesitate to make the best of this unexpected reward. Ytarrik, Angin and Akale flourished in the light like never before, surpassing expectations day after day as they jumped to greater heights of splendour. Confusion fell into Psybeam, Ember into stunning displays of pyrotechnics, and Vine Whip into showers of razor-sharp leaves, each rising in crescendos of improvement with no decline in sight. Stunningly, though Amaren had noticed it before, the peak of one day of training for a Pokèmon became indeed the standard for the next day; and each new move the Pokèmon managed with great labour seemed to become conditioned into their bodies, turning into near second nature on a second try. And every test of their strength served to detail them more and more exactly the limits of their strength, so that they learnt to regulate their energies into strategy.

It was an instance within the peak of this final light, into Amaren and Ruki’s occasional sojourns into the forest, that the sun shone so broadly into the fastnesses of the dark reaches that fear was but banished entirely. For the second time yet, a Dark-type came across their path – an exceptionally skilled Poochyena – and reason, Professor Oak’s counsel, won over: Amaren and Ytarrik turned to the creature, purposing to capture him, as the golden sunlight of support flooded from every side.

Surpassing all expectations, Ytarrik wrestled telekinetically with the pokèmon, his spirit a fire as steady and strong as the sun itself, and beat the wild within inches of his consciousness. A long struggle ensued within the Concentrated Storage Device, but experience won over the fierce fortitude of the pokèmon – and Lepena was caught.

Ytarrik was unique in himself, and Angin lit with the fire of her species; Akale protectively close to his beloved trainer, but Lepena was none too accustomed to revealing his inner thoughts, papering over them with a near-vicious offense. Amaren soon won his alliance, but nothing more than an alliance: he would fight entirely for his trainer, often sinking even to obeying his every command, but he seemed to see this as no more than a momentary parallel of their paths. Ytarrik was entirely unwilling to telepathically divine Lepena’s thoughts, leaving Amaren with no opportunity to know him. For the moment, however, training deigned to move according to schedule.

At last, after a half-season of training, the party streamed out of their final meeting with the northeastern forest, seeing themselves ready to challenge the Gym.

It was late afternoon, in that amber-lit time of day when the shadowless noon met the glory of the setting sun, when the outskirts of the forest met, once again, their eyes and ears. A grand peace had followed the thrill of battle, a sublimity befitting the colour blushing the meanest particle of the forest with golden fire, and this feeling enveloped all the forest creatures as they set about lazily on their tasks. How golden it would have been to simply watch the Pidgey glide slowly down their final flight before the twilight, how peaceful the sight of the occasional Shroomish lying in the patches of sunlight, their eyes peacefully close, drinking in the warmth – if this very feeling had not occupied the trainers and their Pokèmon themselves, closing them to the life around them. And yet, as the last enclosing canopy of emerald leaves petered out, the light of the westering sun (so scattered, so shattered into a million greenish shards, purposeless and yet all so effective in their cluttered aim) coalesced into one single, blinding point of light, forceful enough to break walls of steel. And yet, the rasping grey of the monotone winter was already brushing the eastern horizon with near-insubstantial fingers – but Amaren and Ruki, and Ytarrik and Angin and Akale, all their heads were turned towards the west.

“It feels like an eternity since I came out of that burning forest, so long ago,” Amaren mused, with a nudge of unexpectedly sober agreement from Ytarrik.

“But we’re finally going to challenge the Saffron Gym, I can’t believe it!” Ruki uttered breathlessly. “Are we strong enough, shouldn’t we have done some more training?”

“Angin and Akale are plenty strong enough, Ruki,” Amaren consoled, attempting to force a likewise burst of excitement within his own chest into submission. “As long as everyone keeps cool, we should be perfectly fine.”

“But how can we be sure?” she cried irrationally, huddling closer to her companion. Ignoring Ytarrik’s mean-spirited suggestions, Amaren put an arm around Ruki and spoke peacefully. “Calm down, Ruki, I’m here, aren’t I? As long as we go in there as a team, there’s no chance anyone could defeat us.”

It was undetectable, but did Amaren sense a hint of pride deep in Ytarrik’s labyrinthine mind? In any case, Ruki settled considerably at his ministrations.


The Saffron City Psychic-type Pokèmon Gym was no great establishment in external appearance. A blue-shingles, slate-gray, rectangular building, it lay mismatched in the midst of the city’s arrays of grandeur, seeming to an outsider rather unbecoming of its promise. However, as Ytarrik assured, physical appearance was meaningless to a dwelling of Psychic-types. Indeed, the only mark separating it from any other nondescript building in the city was the title, imprinted in formal text above the massive double doors.

Forbidding as it seemed, the doors, at the least, were thrown wide open; but whether in a gesture of welcome or malicious beckoning, Amaren could not decide, and his attempts at this were met with a small Confusion from the disgruntled Ytarrik. As they entered the wide hall within, lined with rows upon rows of cots resembling hospital beds, the Abra seemed to take some inexplicable satisfaction in all the gloom.

The windowless, whitewashed walls of the cavernous room were lit with the flames of gigantic candles, burning steadily at intermittent intervals along the rows of beds. An inner room reclined at the back, presumably the stadium, closed to all mortal ways of entry. Most of the strange cots were occupied with inexperienced trainers, sleeping fitfully as a nearby Psychic-type extended some uneasy mesmeric influence upon their dreams, and their Pokèmon sat ranged all around them, staring with vacant eyes. And yet, beneath all the murky silence brooded a sense of arcane age, to which Ytarrik (and all his influences upon those around him) reacted positively. The half-articulated sounds of distant, disciplined action reverberated from some indistinct source.

A tall man disengaged himself noiselessly from a nearby corner and strode visibly toward these new arrivals ([Infidels,] Ytarrik corrected, only half-jokingly) with a brisk telepathic greeting. His physical appearance was plain, almost shabby, his eyes expressionlessly dreamy, but he conveyed the sense of impressiveness well on his own level.

He then began to relay a series of thoughts into the party’s minds, but they were even more abstract than Ytarrik’s standard telepathic messages, such that their full meaning could not be translated into any human language. It seemed as though he had not spoken in articulate tongue for so long that his thoughts never strayed into the realm of words; but, instead of the subconscious urges of instinct which one would naturally revert to in such a situation, he spoke in a strange thought-speech: more concentrated than simple thought, but freer of half-truths and contradictions than any language Amaren had ever heard. When asked to recall his words at a later time, Amaren would revert to a less abstract form of speech and take it as truth.

[Ah, you are also a trainer of the Song,] he relayed to Amaren, adding unnecessarily that the Song was a truer word for the Psychic type. [Workable promise lies in you, Ytarrik, if you were one to remain in Saffron and train with us.]

[Is it so?] Ytarrik replied enthusiastically.

The two psychics lapsed suddenly into conversation, thinking with such instantaneous speed that the humans had scarce time to interpret the meaning of one thought before another was uttered.

[Yes, indeed, I do not – ]
[If only I could meet – ]
[Yet, you have your own – ]
[…I didn’t know that.]
[Such is the course – ]
[Really? The things I could – ]
[Ah, do not be so – ]
[I guess not…]

Amaren and Ruki waited patiently, and the man eventually interrupted the conversation with a start. [Dear me, I seem to have forgotten. New trainers, and this is all I give you for hospitality!

[Let me proceed to the challenge. You shall be put into a sort of… dreamscape, as it were, and left to fend for yourself along with your Pokèmon. You have already read of it. If you survive this psychic plane of thought, you will be led into the stadium, and the Gym leader will use Pokèmon according to the skill at which you fared to battle you. If you are victorious, of course, you will receive the usual prizes. Here, follow me.]

He led the trainers to a couple of beds suitably close to the centre of the room, and summoned a large, heavy Hypno with a dusty steel pendulum. At the nameless man’s instructions, Amaren and Ruki lay uncomfortably on their respective beds, and the Psychic-type stretched its hands out to radiate waves of some heavy, impalpable substance into their minds. Instantly, Amaren fell into a deep, trancelike sleep.

Infinite particles ranged around Amaren, bobbing and curling in airy spirals, arrayed into blocky slates, but they were suddenly one, cohering into a single concept, and then they branched again, flowering out into usual complexity –

And yet this was no usual avatar of their form, like but entirely unlike the cavernous Gym to which Amaren was so blissfully closed. It seemed closer towards the universal form, but not completely; and yet was the twilight forest surrounding his indistinct spirit anything more than a solid block of concept, broken only occasionally with the odd blurring detail? And surely the shapeless shadows rising out of the dark places were no distinct Mightyena, with every distinct strand of unkempt fur painfully clear: surely they were mere apparitions of thought, darkening the forest shades with their terror alone. No, but the formless mesh of golden light was his own, the power which animated Ytarrik [Amaren] as he turned to face the challenge around him.

On a plane entirely outside his own, Ytarrik watched him with nonexistent eyes; but was he here, fending off the outlawed spirits of the twisted woods, or hovering next to a hospital bed in the midst of a concrete cavern? Did this truly matter, here, now, in this rage of instinct?

Two identical ellipses of startling silver rose before his eyes, supported on thin stalks; and out of them resounded an intoxicating energy, blasting back the surrounding threads of thought with their shockwaves. A pokèball flashed before him, and an elderly gentleman with a Gardevoir by his side, and then a pure, bright spot of blue (or was it gold?), ancient thought surged into his form, filling him with brilliance, and the phantoms around him shook in terror –

– they were nearly defeated –

– and then a single, panicked jerk of dread: a dirty silver wolf, towering over the single indigo candle, threatening to burn it out – but his golden fire was already burning out, its fuel was being stolen before its outstretched hands as the cold embrace of the darkness smothered it,

We are eternal, all this pain is an illusion



Kalens Oak, under the warm wood of his private study. “ – one at the very end of his journey, his internal demons all tamed and put away. You see, when fear is understood, it ceases to exist entirely. Equilibrium resumes when the chaotic element is analyzed, assimilated, unable to cause any more disorder.”

[Life is all too dreadfully mortal, but many are protected by things eternal, omnipotent. They are fit receptacles for the thought, and thus exist for long to serve this purpose. Death is not as frequent a guest as you claim it to be.]

“Your deed is done, Amaren. Open your eyes.”



And the light of the candle Gym flooded into his mind again.


[Finely done, finely done,] the strange man was commending in his usual telepathy, with an air of average impression. [And I believe your young friend is still battling on?]

Ytarrik and Lepena shook their heads, attempting to clear their minds, as Amaren rose woozily from his post. He realized he had been shouting. “YES!” a victory cry.

Behind him, the girl and her Pokèmon began to show signs of stirring, and soon they, too, were awake, their reactions visibly more subdued than Amaren’s.

That,” Ruki emphasized, “was an experience I don’t want to have again.”

“But did you get through?” Amaren asked.

“…I think I did.” And they had already begun their celebrations, when the man interrupted their cheering.

[Ah, but that is only half the journey. Follow me.]



[{//\/\/\/\/\//\\//\\//\/\/\|/|\|/\/\/\\//\\//\\/\/\/\/\/\//}]​



The stadium of the Saffron Gym was a most moody, dramatic affair: a concrete rectangle, painted in the usual manner of battling courts (a grand Pokèball in the center – still a pokèball – and rectangular stages for the trainers on either end, each connected by a single line running through the central Pokèball), with spotlights allowing only the platforms within visibility. A circular, rising staircase of seats surrounding the stadium afforded the audience a fair view of the battle.

Ruki went to sit by the sidelines, as Amaren was called first to battle. He stepped uncertainly on the platform closer to him, and gave a start as he was lifted high up, supported by the air itself – or, more accurately, telekinetic force.

The trainer looked around with distinct unease. However he may have seemed to those watching him, flying effortlessly up into the ‘top’ of affairs, it felt extremely unnerving to be raised to such a height at such a speed.

Suddenly, a near-palpable telepathic message rebounded across the acoustic stadium.

[Welcome, Amaren Kelanis, to the Saffron City Pokèmon Gym. I am, as you expect, the leader of our institution.]

“Where are you?” Amaren shouted. “Why can’t I see you?”

[My physical form is immaterial, and my name doubly so. But you shall most easily wrench whatever information strikes your fancy from your trainer card, of course.]

“Er… all right…”

[Let us begin, then! I choose Espeon…]

As if from thin air, a figure materialized on the opposing side of the stadium, an extravagantly lavender feline. Its long, slender tail was split at the end in a tiny, jointed fork, and a bright red gem, no greater than a ring diamond, glittered on its expansive forehead. Amaren could only assume it was an exceptionally young specimen.

With a cry, he launched his own pokèball out into the field, and the spotlights turned upon it in such a manner that, for a moment, it seemed as if the dimly glinting sphere was the source of the light around it, warding off the encircling shadows.

The illusion quickly passed.

[You’re my opponent, then?] Ytarrik mused.

[It seems so…] the pokèmon replied.

[Ah, this should be a lovely night.] And, at a command from Amaren, he rose from his seat and fell into coma, concentrating visibly.

Instantly, the Espeon charged the hovering creature, brandishing his tail [like some sordid barbed whip,] in Ytarrik’s private words. The Abra did not flinch in the slightest, diluting his concentration by a millimeter alone as the tail caught his side painfully, scratching a long, curved gash. It seemed the Espeon was determined to leave a mark, however, and he repeated this many times, until blood began to flow…

[What are you doing, Ytarrik?] Amaren urged.

In a painful jerk, the tail came within an inch of Ytarrik’s face and stopped.

With a physical grin, Ytarrik gave a mental flick, and the sheen of a transparent bubble of matter glinted in the spotlight, protecting him vigilantly. The Espeon’s tail was caught firmly within its voluminous expanses, and the creature could only labour in vain to release itself.

Ytarrik’s grin broadened, as he concentrated upon the lump of tail caught inside his Barrier; to little effect, at first, but then…

[What are you doing?] the Espeon yelled. [No, that doesn’t go there – stop, stop – ah! Why, thank you, Mother, I almost forgot my lunchbox. Here, let you hit me over the haaaaeeed with it…]

And he began beating his own cranium against the closest surface he could see, thoroughly Confused – but the Gym Leader merely laughed.

[What on earth?] Ytarrik offered on Amaren’s behalf, but then began offering something his trainer would certainly not wish to convey. [Oh, earth. Synch – sink, is it? I like sinks. Especially the bathroom sinks, they own the kitchen ten times over. Here, let me sing a song about it…]

The Espeon was most determined to provide his poetic ideals for the cause of the general public, but he was entirely drowned by the heart-rending vocals his opponent delivered, and immediately proceeded to sing along. Amaren thought his accompaniment, especially the impromptu twist of being unable to keep up with Ytarrik’s ever-twisting lyrics, was rather masterfully harmonious.

[Synchronize,] resounded the Leader’s voice; [as your Abra attempted to say before he was drowned by the fruits of his own labour.]

[Why, of course,] Ytarrik attempted to add. [Any… status… condition-thingy I do to that pesky Espeon comes around to afflict me, don’t it? Wheee!

Amaren looked over his shoulder, and the quiet laughter that was tinkling from the sideline rapidly quelled, as Ruki glanced up to display her most sincerely concerned and supporting expression.

In any other situation it would have been entirely comical, Amaren could not but concede. The Pokèmon’s struggle towards sanity was one of the longest waits he had ever had in the heat of a Pokèmon battle: but, eventually, it was the Espeon who uttered the first coherent sentence, to a cheer from the sadly befuddled Ytarrik.

The feline pressed forward, backing away, as a faint telepathic link set up, the receiver Ytarrik. It sagged mentally, then tightened without warning as the first raging thought ripped across it; more emotions followed, torrents of distracting concepts, piling over each other until the very air distorted around it, revealing a braided stream of immaterial water. Thankfully, the first blow was sufficient to bring Ytarrik out of the “garden shower” he was probing with such zeal in his mind.

He exploded mentally, shoving out a bubble of yellow glitter which filtered marginally the Psybeam assailing his mind. More matter began streaming out from him, rallying to hold the assault of the beam, concentrating on one single patch of bubble…

[Would I not see through that?] the Espeon smirked.

And the beam forked at a point directly before the bubble, streaming out to breach the transparent back of his Light Screen; and Ytarrik yelled:

[No, you – are – FLESH! This is the Gym we’re standing in! There is no point in – run. Everywhere! Are you hearing me? I’m here, lying beneath the tree, burning!]

[Weak,] the Leader boomed, and then the monotone softened. [Your journey has only begun, I should not have forgotten.]

The Espeon relented, stricken, and Ytarrik snapped back into reality. At last, this had become a challenge for all his heart.

He flicked his opponent’s offense off with a massive effort, and locked horns with the Espeon, sending a stream of solid thought into the lavender arm of startled defense.

A split braid of pure concept spanned between the battlers, gold and purple, clashing at its median point of conflict. It was an outward explosion of offense, a mutual separation, but the single threaded mind connected them in the manner only warriors could conceive, brothers in the aggression of thought. Rather than estranging the human watchers in their wonder, it brought them into the heart of the war, each other, the single glowing point where Ytarrik’s Psybeam met the Espeon’s.

In a sudden flash, the balance was broken. The scales tipped in Ytarrik’s favour, the point of meeting spiraling down, no longer a glittering keystone to their unity, but a rapidly-approaching deathtrap: and it was over.

Ytarrik looked down at the fainted Espeon, heaving with exhaustion and victory.

[Marvelous,] said the Gym leader, with a vague hint of impression. [Round one has been won by Amaren; but you still possess one more Pokèmon, and so do I.]

“Then let round two begin!” Amaren challenged, recalling Ytarrik gratefully.


[Round two: Kadabra versus Poochyena.]

“Howl, Lepena,” Amaren ordered, as the grander form of Ytarrik before him closed his eyes in the familiarly silent psychic coma. The Dark-type threw back his head and let out a startling lamentation of viciousness, the perceived shadows surrounding his form growing deeper; but his silver fangs glinted all the more intensely. Ytarrik, nestled inside the stasis of his Pokèball, managed to convey his absolute hatred of the creature.

[Strangely,] he tried to convey, [my battle was the gist of this match. We just need to wait for Lepena to finish off this Kadabra, and we’re done!]

The Dark-type leapt instantly into the fray, running towards the prone Kadabra to deliver a poison-tipped Bite, tackling him to the ground. An instant retaliation, but no psychic was a practitioner of brute force, and Dark would ever wipe out its influence.

The Kadabra raised a silver spoon, but Lepena beat down the assault; he attempted to overthrow the steady weight on his chest, to no avail. A long, silent struggle ensued, the Poochyena digging his shadows ever deeper into the psychic, resistance insufficient –

And finally the battle was won.

[The battle is won!] roared Ytarrik, all weariness forgotten.

[Ah, yes, it does seem to be so,] the leader said emotionlessly. [Shall I battle your friend before the awards are given?]

Amaren hurried back to the wooden sidelines, as Ruki walked uncertainly the other way. A quick exchange of smiles was all the common anticipation could allow…
 
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porygon181

Master of the Riddle
I never thought in all my life I would witness such a beautiful description of Psybeam. You can't just say "a beam of psychic energy," now can you?

I really liked just about everything about their gym challenge. I was mildly disappointed that instead of a bug, he had to face his fears and catch a Poochyena and all that jazz, but I got over it fairly quickly. I liked the idea of the test before challenging the leader, and you wrote it in such an efficiently abstract manner that I felt like I was undergoing some telepathic trial as well.

[Why did I try to trick you with an allergy when I’ve never even had one?] Ytarrik mused. [Oh, Light, I think I’m turning more and more human every moment! I am… merging with your uncouth mind. Geh!]

“Shut up, Zyt.”

[Shut up, uncouth mind.]

“If you’ll stop insulting me every few seconds, I will shut up, Blackhead.”

[Blackhead!]

Some of the best dialogue ever. I laughed. I'm gonna have to start calling people "uncouth mind."

So yeah, good chapter. Nice time warp, too. I was glad I didn't have to read about two months going by while they trained or whatever. ^^

And a final note. You're slacking on your PM list, man. Even as I finish this reply, I still haven't gotten a notice that this chapter is up yet. *scold*
 

Praxiteles

Friendly POKéMON.
Oh, dear. God. I did forget to PM everyone. Oh, well; porygon, I didn't Private Message you because you already replied and everything.

Regarding Psybeam, I have a personal score to even out with the word "psychic energy". What on earth is it? Surely we don't whip out a laser beam from our minds and throw it at an opponent, now, do we? And then there are other reasons, which I won't divulge with the general public. I decided something like an advanced form of Confuse Ray would effectively disorient the Pokèmon to fainting.

I was indeed somewhat anxious about the anticlimactic ending to Amaren's match; not only was the match between Lepena and the Kadabra scantly described, it was no dramatic duel of grand wills as any Gym battle should have the right to be. Indeed, the first round was better suited for the place of the second.

I had only scarce seen one certain flaw in the system of trainers exploited to its end: a starting trainer of Pallet would have his course of progressively strengthening Gyms as he followed a simple trek through the region, but what about trainers from other towns? Surely an Elite Four hopeful from, say, Cinnabar or Lavender wouldn't have to come all the way to Pallet to begin, eh? And thus I developed the concept of trials for the level of the trainer, according to which the leader can give the trainer fair challenge. Think of Ytarrik going against Sabrina's level 50 Kadabra!

Yours derisively,
Pyroken Serafoculus
 

Praxiteles

Friendly POKéMON.
Aftershock
Chapter 6: The Peak
Part 2​



[Ruki Ferena,] the leader of the Gym said quietly, [rookie trainer, equal to the level of your closest ally, Master Kelanis. Ah, interesting.]

[Perhaps his omniscience is getting a bit on the nerves,] Amaren suggested privately to Ytarrik.

[And shall you be using Akale to begin this match?] said the nameless leader. [Correct. Enter Venonat. An unfortunate chance, the type-matching, but such is life.]

A shapeless ball of purple fuzz peered out with massive, bulbous scarlet eyes, its underdeveloped forepaws resembling cracked eggshell-halves. Tipped white antennae bent back from its top, shaped in an entirely unassuming manner.

“Still,” Ruki whispered to her Bellsprout, “be on your guard, Akale.”

The grass-type begun with his signature Growth, as his opponent stepped two toddling steps forward, stopping abruptly. He merely stood there, waiting for some invisible cue.

Akale broke the siege first, extending large, slithering vines forward into the naïve curiosity of the Venonat. They approached him with increasing caution, the snake after the hapless mouse…

And suddenly a mad glint entered those gigantic eyes, and the forepaw reached out to touch the vines, which instantly withered before Akale’s eyes.

“Disable!” Ruki cursed. She changed tack upon a dime: “You know what Bug-types hate, Akale!”

With a sound of obedience, the Bellsprout aimed his pitcher head and released a fine spurt of noxious green liquid, sizzling painfully into the Venonat’s shaggy fur, who retaliated instantly in insect fury.

The fine hairs bristled as though with static, as a great wind was whipped up all around the stadium, slamming concentrated into Akale, his rootlike appendages insufficient to hold to the ground. With a great protest, he ripped off the concrete floor and slammed painfully into the ground several feet away, to a sympathetic groan from his trainer.

“Is this war?” Ruki asked her pokèmon. “Exactly. Sleep Powder!”

The remnants of the Gust still whirligiging around the stadium, Akale released a storm of white mist, which streamed out to follow the contours of the wind and engulfed the Venonat whole. Within seconds, its peacefully heaving body was lying prone on the floor.

Akale strode over to his exposed opponent, and began attacking indignantly in whichever manner he could contrive. A flurry of Acid followed a thorough beating with Slam, and preceded a few good cracks of the Vine Whip, and through all the exercise the Bug-type did not but stir in slight discomfort, as Ruki cheered on and Amaren gave his turn at laughing madly. At last, with a groggy start, it awoke.

The Venonat squared itself, and directed a paltry Psybeam into Akale’s mind: rings of purple thought streaming out of each eye to hit the Bellsprout painfully, diluted into the Poison element. Yet, to an untrained mind, even this mockery was overwhelming – Akale sat back heavily, beady eyes rolling, as he shot out attacks at random.

[Have I forgotten something?] the leader suddenly asked, as though picking up a thought from Ruki’s mind.

She blinked in surprise. “Uh, yeah, you have. This Bellsprout also knows Stun Spore.”

And, as the trainer’s smile widened, a fine neon-yellow dust began streaming out into the atmosphere, snaking its way into the Venonat’s lungs. At the first influence, its body seized up, muscles petrifying into coma; and the Psybeam was no longer deathly effective: with a well-placed Slam, Akale incapacitated the insect.

A moment of disbelief.

‘I did it?” Ruki muttered. “I did it!” she suddenly yelled, “bring on the next round!”


Angin stared challengingly into her opponent’s eyes, her flames flaring out in controlled bursts of intimidation. A rotund, humanoid figure, its ridiculous smile belied the tenacity of irritation it was capable of causing. A strange shirt-like covering protected its spherical torso and capped the pale, spindly legs, and dark blue horns flopped out from either end.

“Mr. Mime, is it…?” Amaren murmured.

The Pokèmon held out his gloved hands, clutching imaginary walls, and began moving in a tight circle, his body pressed against the supposed glass with astonishing realism. Angin faltered for a moment, disconcerted, but plowed on.

“Start with Smoke Screen, Angin,” Ruki ordered. “Whatever this Pokèmon can do, he can’t blow smoke away!”

A gigantic ball of concentrated powder shot out at the Mr. Mime, making straight towards his chest; but it suddenly cracked inches before impact, crumbling into a fine mist which spread out in every direction. The Psychic-type was encased in a persistent cloud of black smoke, and muffled sounds of protest were resounding from within the mess.

“All right, blast him with all you’ve got!”

Angin charged into the center of the fray and released a great stream of impassioned fire which singed a gaping hole in the smokescreen, passing entirely through the diligent Barrier to swallow the blinded Mr. Mime within. He raged out of the great deathtrap constructed all around him, coming in his frenzy within feet of Angin; but she did not flinch, confident in her opponent’s reasonlessness. Merely, the Cyndaquil lay back and surveyed the scene.

Mr. Mime suddenly held up one hand, and stared directly into Angin’s eyes, a bloodshot, manic twinkle in his own. A long, invisible struggle of wills, but then, out of the thin air over the psychic’s glove materialized a metal disk attached to a stalk. He held it vertically upwards, and then began dipping it from side to side, as Angin came back to her senses with a start.

“Nice trick,” Amaren murmured, and then called to Ruki telepathically, with Ytarrik’s medium. [Mr. Mime have the ability to convince people to believe in the existence of imagined objects, if I recall correctly. If the target begins believing it, I guess the object becomes real.]

[But what on earth can he possibly hope to do with this stupid toy?] Ytarrik exclaimed.

A double wall of Light Screen and Barrier rose shakily into place all around the creature, as the pendulum began dipping in measured intervals, seeming almost to sound noiselessly at every turn. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock…

And a spurt of water burst out from inches before the Metronome, slamming into Angin with all the force of its element.

The Cyndaquil spluttered in naked shock, attempting to flare her flames and shake herself dry simultaneously. An explosion of steam and water blew out from her drenched fur, but more water stuck inextricably to the spikes, dampening their fire. A convulsive shudder of cold instantaneously followed – but days of training had never wasted upon her skill.

Instinctively, the opponents retreated into their respective positions, preparing for their next clash: Mr. Mime purposed merely towards the familiar psychic meditations, but Angin sat back and began staring directly into the spotlight which precisely followed her erratic movements.

An abrupt jerk preceded a small burst of flame, directly skywards; but instead of dissipating into the atmosphere, it fell apart into a thousand glowing droplets of golden-red mist which spread quickly across the roof of the building. They clung to every lit surface, congregating around the spotlights like heat-seeking fireflies, and all existing light in the room seemed to intensify hundredfold, heating the atmosphere visibly.

“Exactly, Angin,” Ruki called out, “Sunny Day! Show them how a telepathic link isn’t the only way to communicate in a battle.”

The Psychic-type opened his eyes irritably, distracted by the pulsating lights. He looked straight up, blinded (to his dismay) by the glare, and ran forward in a sightless rage of psychic attack.

Mr. Mime was racing directly toward Angin, impossible to sidestep (for all his psychic substitute for vision), and a lance of forceful thought pointed out from before him, hungry for a subject to assault. As Angin and Ruki looked calculatingly towards the offender, Amaren’s cautions and preachings wormed their way into their thought.

Angin shot out a globule of steaming purple liquid, and the psychic attack latched on hungrily to this Toxic, working its inherent effects into the poison. Suddenly the tables had turned: Mr. Mime was the one in imminent danger, the noxious venom threatening to breach his skin if left unopposed with sufficient psychic cleansing. He dug into the ball heading directly for him with all the energy he still possessed, burning it away with searing gold; but one infinitesimal drop splashed into his leg.

With a triumphant cry, Angin gathered her Sunny Day all around her and blasted him with the full force of all her power, the separate droplets falling one by one to feed her makeshift flamethrower. The light from the heavenly roof of the building was steadily deteriorating, replaced by the insane glow of the vertical bonfire pumping into the defenses of the Mr. Mime – until all was spent, and the opponents stood face to face, inches away, haggard beyond description.

The last remnant of a twinkle returned to Mr. Mime’s eyes; he slammed Angin into defeat with a flick of a thought.

The watchers roared in separate voice of victory and disappointment; the quiet acknowledgement of the Gym Leader, the twin lamentation of Ruki and Amaren, the clamour of the anticipating crowd of a hundred different thoughts – but suddenly Ruki fell silent, bringing the celebrations to an abrupt pause.

“Did you forget?” she said. “I still have Akale, don’t I?”

For the Psychic-type merely stood there in the chaos, his bloodshot, contracted eyes showing not the slightest fraction of life; and a swift blow to the head by the still-surviving Akale incapacitated him entirely.



[{//\/\/\/\/\//\\//\\//\/\/\|/|\|/\/\/\\//\\//\\/\/\/\/\/\//}]​



A moment of dignified silence alone did Amaren and Ruki allow as they walked out of the smoking remains of the Pokèmon Gym, clutching their trophies (twin compact discs of some unknown TM, prize money, and, of course, the Marshbadge in all its glinting glory). The moment they were clear of eavesdroppers, they sunk into a frenzy of celebration, dancing, hugging each other and their groggily-released Pokèmon; reacting generally in a manner only those in their position could. This was, indeed, the reason for the chain of their thoughts when Prof. Oak appeared suddenly from a nearby street to congratulate them.

“I foresaw it from the beginning,” the biologist called, “you emerge victorious. Spectacular match, I must say.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Amaren said, stymied. “What do you think we should do next? On to the next Gym?”

“Already?” Prof. Oak replied.

“Well, why not?” chimed Ruki, still influenced by the effects of battle. “As soon as our Pokèmon recharge, we should be ready to leave.”

“Ah, all right,” was a sigh and a reply. “Given your position, I would suggest Cerulean City next. Angin will be at a severe disadvantage, Ruki, but I think you will sufficiently handle it.”

“Cerulean?” Ruki murmured, doubt in her voice. “M-Maybe we should wait awhile. A day or two.”

Amaren saw no opposition in this: “Or three.”

“Even half a week,” Ruki persisted. “Enough to consolidate our position.”

And it was decided.



[{//\/\/\/\/\//\\//\\//\/\/\|/|\|/\/\/\\//\\//\\/\/\/\/\/\//}]​



Fall had hastily taken up its shirked responsibilities after the last flare of summer warmth, blowing silver breezes of chilly wind which painted the trees inevitable autumn. Within the space of a week and a half, the winged vanguard of winter had signaled its commands into every branch of every proud, oaken pillar; bidding them forsake their extravagancies in preparation of the coming frost; matting the unruly pelts of the proud earth into a single, uniform black; and empowering ironclad rain clouds to boldly lead the former fringes of winter grey into monopoly of the sky. Every creature had reacted prudently to the cautioning signs of coming hardship, but Ruki and Amaren stuck stubbornly to their old, summertime pursuits, ignoring the coming wind and rain.

At last, the time of Saffron was coming to a close, its bright steel dimmed of light-deprivation, and the trainers and their mentor stood at the gates of their city, looking out towards Route 5 framed with naked forest.

“You must realize,” Prof. Oak said, “this is goodbye for me. I should very well like to accompany you, but this is my place.”

Amaren felt a sudden blow of dread; he had never foreseen that far. “But… why can’t you just come along?” he asked feebly.

“Ah, it’s not my place to follow all your wanderings. I’m sorry, but you will have to learn to go on your own.”

And his resolve would not be shaken, despite all protest. He was not, however, coldly unyielding in his determination, attempting desperately for compensation; but, at last, matters were decided grudgingly.

“Farewell, then… not at all. I shall meet you someday, when our paths cross once again.”

With solemn farewells, they moved off into the forest-path, deserted at this dark hour by every sign of life, still clinging to hope and life beyond all reason: their laughter sang all across the gaunt shades of verdant, transforming it (for this moment) into a receptacle for their still-pervasive spring. Amaren still could not help glancing up into the darkening stripe of visible sky every now and then. How long before it was too dark to see?

At last, with the sudden throwing of a switch, the forest ended to let back the remnants of winter light. Pewter City and Mt. Moon reclined on the shoulders of a wide, inland mountain of a hill; and its arms spread out even to support the majority of Cerulean, to which the road from Saffron was a steady rise of ledges. Only two roads cut the entirety of the way with relative straightness.

At winter, overtaken with a half-frosted wilderness of waterlogged grass, this gentle slope seemed a mountain with the displeased heavens at its crown.

They stepped uncertainly into the frigid sea of trees at the foot of the rising land, moving with measured steps deeper into the gloom. Suddenly, Ruki gave a faint yell and flinched.

“Something brushed against my leg!”

Amaren picked up a nearby stick and began to poke cautiously through the grass, flinching as he, too, felt the fast-moving creature rip cleanly through the murk. He jerked the grass soundlessly away off an invisible patch, to reveal a green quadruped growling faintly up at them.

A small, streamlined creature, it most resembled a canine in appearance, with its four gleaming fangs bared in warning on a short snout. Spikes of fur stuck out from the joints of its low legs and from the yellow-tipped tail, raised in vigilance; and a large, ovoid formation grew vertically from the back of its head.

“Is that an… Electrike?” Amaren said reverently.

They backed rapidly away, as tiny blue sparks began jumping with increasing frequency between separate points on the Electric-type’s fur; and Ruki hastily sent out Akale to battle.

The Bellsprout began the match, extending his vines out beckoningly towards the Electrike, as his opponent began to positively sparkle with static electricity, and abruptly stop in a silent Charge. The moment the traditional Vine Whip made contact with the charged fur, which no longer wasted its potential difference on wayward sparks of light, a silent battle of pain ensued; and attention was so intent upon the match as to ignore an imperceptible stiffening of Amaren’s limbs.

Looking down from the crow’s nest of the crystal ship –

“Akale, Slash!”

– the infinite moment before the fall, the infinitesimal peak before the waning –

The Electrike jumped away with supernal speed –

– the cloaked figure, in his final moment of triumph and despair and malice – no, never malice, something –

It circled its offender in dizzying spirals, shooting out irritated bolts of electricity.

– Tinged ever so slightly with the ghostly light of its past, the dark walker along his vast path comes finally to a lightless explosion of light –

The pokèmon was inside its Storage Device, fighting still for release as the pressure pulsed at regular intervals of struggle

s ill-decided x f old e deluge

The display of its Storage froze
ungodly
and a single message scrolled across its metal –

ERROR: INTERFERENCE





Ruki’s eyes are blank, vacant, her rapid breathing slowing infinitely

The cloaked hero sees unseeingly the scene around him, his eyes revealing nothing

She rises upon a tower of a pedestal, a shockwave emanating from her position on the ground, blowing away her possessions, her Pokèmon, Amaren, into the distance of watchers

He falls up out of the sea of stormy fire, rising up through the smoke and the destruction

She is stripped, uninhibited; the gleaming sapphire of her form; her simple, pure, beauty, unveiled by physical influences, naked

and how naked the malice, how unearthly the cackling laughter of the phantoms all around him, all too real

but the wraiths of dark intent are surrounding her, emerging from nothing, their evil so material, their danger so real to her tender, uncovered form

formless, shapeless, the unmanifest manifestations of violence and illness, impossible to attempt to attack

She is attacked! her delicate beauty, a sculpture of silver glass, crumbling within their brute destruction

Amaren looked up with helpless eyes into the dying light, extinguished by the wraiths which Luphinid Remana Silnaek looked down into with cold, emotionless eyes.

He had delved into his memories for too long.

The inevitable end had finally arrived.









Ah... The turning chapter. This, indeed, is the first scene ever created of this fiction, a mutation of a dream I had long in the past. In fact, the original dream was rather more gruesome, involving as it did a slow, systematic stripping of Ruki's physical form; first the clothes, then skin, then, muscle, and so on and so forth. I will clarify (unnecessarily, since it will be confirmed) that Ruki is most certainly dead at this moment, and the point-of-view has switched from Amaren to Luphinid. Additinally, I will release a one-page 'Bridge', as it were, to signal the end of this part of the fiction and make way for the next; this piece will be released Wednesday, and the next chapter Sunday, according to schedule.

Yes, that seems to conclude the formalities.
 
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porygon181

Master of the Riddle
*sob*

It's just... so... beautiful...


"Did you forget?” she said. “I still have Akale, don’t I?”

For the Psychic-type merely stood there in the chaos, his bloodshot, contracted eyes showing not the slightest fraction of life; and a swift blow to the head by the still-surviving Akale incapacitated him entirely.

I'd give her points for badass-ness, but she had to go and die on us.

Her death was hard to read, partly because I just didn't want to believe she was dying, but mostly because all the shifting made my brain start twirling around inside my skull. Quite distracting, a twirling brain is.

So Amaren's going to adopt Ruki's pokemon, right? I think I'l have to cry myself to sleep at night if they just get lost in oblivion.

Anyways, I'm positive their plots in no way align, but I noticed that the Ruki/Luphinid thing resembled Fred/Illyria from Angel. Do you know what I'm talking about?

Well, I'm pretty pumped about getting an early update in the form of a bridge. Happy happy.
 
I liked the description of leech seed, first time I've seen it in a fic. And faking an allergy was amusing. Though I'm sure it is possible for a Pokemon to be allergic to something. Nice shiny reference. I like how you described their differences.

You said 'the 'snapping out of confusion''. I think it flows better without the the.

Ruki's death was sudden. It was also a bit confusing but oh well.
 

Praxiteles

Friendly POKéMON.
Reviews, reviews...

prygon181:

Her death was hard to read, partly because I just didn't want to believe she was dying, but mostly because all the shifting made my brain start twirling around inside my skull. Quite distracting, a twirling brain is.

Yes, an eternal flaw of mine: there are so many distracting abstractisms flying around in any important turn of the storyline that the actual storyline is lost on a reader.

So Amaren's going to adopt Ruki's pokemon, right? I think I'l have to cry myself to sleep at night if they just get lost in oblivion.

I'll say that neither possibilities are probable. *claps hand over mouth* Ah, that was revealing...

Anyways, I'm positive their plots in no way align, but I noticed that the Ruki/Luphinid thing resembled Fred/Illyria from Angel. Do you know what I'm talking about?

I once paid some vestige of attention to the show, but it hasn't come over at my place for at least two years, and I don't think I remember who those two are. Still, perhaps it was a subconscious touch. That is always possible.

MondoTR: I rather thought Leech Seed was a common move in fictions, myself; I only just read of one in Pokèmon Revelations: CoF. And the factoid concerning allergies is no canon law, of course; I merely thought it logical at the point. As for the actual credibility of Pokèmon to be immune to such, that is a different story.

By "the 'snapping out of confusion'", I was meaning to label snapping out of confusion as an official term. Though, in fact, I think life would flow visibly smoother if I merely used a suitable synonym. Grateful for catching that, in any case.

Kyohime: New reviewer - and an honouring one, at that.

When I started reading this, it felt a lot like the Village. Have you seen that movie, by any chance?

Indeed, I have; and indeed, I felt the same impression. Faintly, but I believe it was there.

Well, good to know I have readers, whichever closet the may hide in. :p

Yours truly,
Pyroken Serafoculus
 

Act

Let's Go Rangers!
Look, first of all, I’m going to politely request that you don’t use white font. Not all of us use the hideous green default skin, and my background is pale blue right now. So basically I scrolled down and saw the letters “P N L” and was like… wtf?

That said, I don’t even know why fancy colored fonts are necessary. It doesn’t make me more interested in the story. If anything, it makes me less interested, because it’s usually a sign of an inexperienced writer who uses a lot of fangirl lingo.

And heh, I haven’t even started this and I can *taste* the purple prose. I’m excited.

flame licking at his heels.

I’m a lunatic, I know, but I feel like ‘flame’ should be plural. I’ve never really seen any attempt to make the word ‘flame’ a collective noun, and it just sounds weird.

Memories flashed before his eyes in a daze of instinct.

Questionable use of the word instinct. By definition, ‘instinct’ is something innate, and hardly something you would associate with such an unnatural word as ‘daze.’ A ‘fit’ of instinct, maybe, but definitively not a ‘daze.’ Instinct is something quick and abrupt; a daze is something slow and confusing. And furthermore, I don’t really like memories qualify as ‘instinct…’ Now that I think about it, certain types of memory could be argued very distinctly human.

The clamor of amazement, admiration.

Try to avoid sentence fragments. Particular ones that use the word ‘clamor’ in a questionable manner.

A note of mock concern darkened his face as a large majority shouted back their ignorance of the trade, and he quickly remedied the fact with another speech, largely meaningless to Amaren, though he appreciated the wonder of the situation.

This is quite a spectacle of comma abuse. Whenever you have to use this many commas, whether correctly or incorrectly, a signal should go up that the sentence is probably a run-on.

Also, I’m having to spend too much time focusing in on exactly what you mean. Aim for clearer prose. When I have to reread a sentence five times to get it, it lessens my overall enjoyment of the story. This is looking very, very generic SPPf and that’s not a good thing.

ball from his breast pocket “And just because

You forgot the punctuation here.

Also… are they actually thrilled by him being a pokemon trainer or just being sarcastic? I honestly can’t tell.

This was my very first Pokèball. The one item, bestowed to me by a Professor himself, which made me an official Trainer.

Some interesting capitalization in this sentence. First of all, the words ‘pokeball’ and ‘trainer’ are *not* proper nouns and should not be capitalized. Same with ‘pokemon’ and all species of pokemon. You don’t capitalize hockey puck, gymnast, animal, or fish, you don’t capitalize any of those words. And… what would possess you to capitalize ‘professor?’ It’s not a proper noun… it’s not being used as a name. You even use the article ‘a’ in front of it which only drives home the point that it’s *not* a specific professor. So why the caps?

At least you didn’t capitalize ‘journey.’

and then realized the sheer privilege he

Sheer is a very wrong word to use here. ‘Sheer’ means complete, total, or utter. You were looking for a word that meant something more like… great, special, or distinguished.

Please, remember: just because words are synonymous doesn’t make them interchangeable.

synonym =/= exact same meaning

an unnecessary task, by the raptness of his sheer joy, and the present Amaren felt his consciousness of the memory slipping.

More comma abuse. Prepositional phrases can’t be set off appositives. As appositive further describes what it modifies. ‘by the raptness of his sheer joy’ in no way describes ‘an unnecessary task.’ And… you used ‘raptness’ wrong. Raptness means ‘fascinated.’ So the boy was fascinated by his own joy? What?

I lied. I do not enjoy purple prose.

You’re trying to do this flashing of memories kind of opening, which is a very good way to do an opening. However, your prose is so overly wordy and convoluted that the effect is being lost, and the device is failing pretty miserably.

They dared a heavy sprint,

What? There was nothing in the narration to indicate that a heavy sprint was ‘daring.’ What a weird usage of that word. >.>

and came to rest at a promising clearing, temporary base for their operations.

Yet again, comma misuse. Commas… they’re not substitutes for transition words. You still need to say something like, “…clearing, which was to be used as a temporary base…”

A great deal of branches had shed from a great deal of trees around them

Watch your word repetition. I noticed it twice above two, but I was typing something else and now realize that I forgot to point it out. But watch it.

“Did you hear that?’ Amaren suddenly shot

He suddenly… shot? If this is a by-product of someone telling you not to use the word ‘said…’ that person was an idiot, ignore them. And further… what? Or, if you prefer, that makes no sense. Or the more shapely, ah, sweet word misusage. Or something. I don’t know.

many Pokèmon were driven into desperation in preparation for the frost, otherwise tame and peaceful.

This is the weirdest syntax I have ever seen. This is the fourth time you have glaringly, horribly misused the concept of an appositive. When you set off something with commas… it modifies the word right before you set it off. So what you set in this sentence was that the frost was, ‘otherwise tame and peaceful.’ What confuses me so much is a) no one has pointed this out to you before and b) your writing isn’t that bad (and, in my experience, you don’t think it’s bad at all)… how could someone who seems to have a handle on the language make so many frequent important errors like this and not realize the sentences don’t make sense in proofing? And *why has no one pointed this out?*

A full-grown Mightyena burst out from the gloom in a roar of desperation and lunged for Amarin’s brother, who dodged out of the way nimbly, pushing his paralyzed brother away from the fray.

Again: massive run-on sentence with questionable comma use and some misplaced modifying. And word repetition.

On flashed his knife, zooming into the monster’s side

His knife has a switch that turns it on? Because, although that’s not what you meant, it’s what you’re saying. There’s a lot of disconnect between what you mean and what you say in this.

And furthermore… why all the sentence fragments?

the offended human tore away from the Mightyena’s rough embrace

I… look. Obviously your thesaurus and you are very close. But really… this is what a thesaurus breeds. Bad word usage, and a loss of the nuances of the English language. Offended is just plain flat-out used *wrong,* but embrace… it’s just not the right word to use there, and after a few years of doing this I can tell how you came up with that word.

and this cry alone could jar Amaren into motion

You used the word ‘could’ wrong. You don’t need a helping verb there. Just say ‘jarred [him] into motion.’

I’m going to ask a serious question right now: is English your first language?

Not for long, however; Garten pushed him back away

Common problem: semicolon misuse. A semicolon can only be used to connect two complete clauses. Not-meant-to-be-sarcastic-advice: first get a handle on how commas are used, and then graduate to semicolons.

and the monster fell at last with a great report.

A great ‘report?’ I’m not really even sure what word you meant to use here. Could this have been some kind of typo, or did he really write a dissertation as he fell?

The two minutemen staggered together, out of the battleground.

I like this sentence. (Scared you, huh?)

What had transpired to cause the forest fire, and how the Water Sport proofing yet allowed its devastating tongues to envelop the land whole, no living observer could say; and these secrets are lost forever with the forest itself.

Run-on sentence, questionable comma and semicolon use.

With a flash of light, the tiny form was hidden safe within its sphere, and a feeble twitch and a ping, though startling, served only to convince the human of the complete intersection between the Pokèmon’s path and his.

Again: Too. Many. Commas.

----

Alright. I usually do prologues and first chapters together, but you have bigger fish to fry than me not doing my job. And honestly, I can only imagine how much of what I found above exists in a full *chapter.*

Just in case you missed it, here were the problems: Poor word usage, poor syntax, poor comma usage, poor grammar in general, convoluted prose, very strange usage of very common words… and this stuff occurred *a lot.* More, I feel, than it should have, because the sentences where there were no problems were good sentences. It’s just that the ratio of good to bad wasn’t in your favor.

So here is my advice to you:

Just put the thesaurus away and write a piece with the words that you know. Write it in as simple terms as you can. Write a simple story, a one-shot. I guarantee you—money-back if it doesn’t work—most of your problems will go away.

I strongly, strongly suspect that the horrific grammar and poor syntax and weird word usage are a by-product of you trying to write in this flowery, wordy style. So don’t. There’s plenty of good technique out there, and, frankly, this usually isn’t one of them, yet it’s very popular on SPPf. This almost doesn’t surprise me.

Why not one of the reviewers have pointed any of this out is beyond me, but that’s another story. God forbid they pull out a dictionary and check out a word they don't understand as opposed to deeming it 'beautiful' I guess.

It’s funny, because whenever I define purple prose to people I say three things: comma abuse, word misuse, and convolution. And you fit the bill perfectly. This is why you need to write in a way that you’re comfortable. I could feel the strain in this, and it makes it hard to read.

This all sounds horrible, I know, but… the reason I’m sort of contemplating it so much is because I can still see that you’re not a bad writer. You’re young and with a lot of potential. I don’t understand why you don’t just use what you have. You’re trying this technique, and what it’s done is turn good writing into quintessential SPPf writing. You could be very, very good. The idea here… it was interesting. When, for a few lines, there were no errors, I got into the story and I enjoyed it. Just… I don’t understand this addicting to purple writing. I don’t.

Oh, and there are some brilliant grammar tutorials that I’ve used that you can Google. I’d very highly recommend it. There’s no shame in admitting you need to learn a bit more about the intricacies of your craft.

Above all, though, good luck. I wish you the best.
 
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porygon181

Master of the Riddle
Ouch.

Not mine to defend, but whatever.

What are you talking about with the white font? He doesn't ever use different fonts or coloring... are sure it's not just your setting?

I don't care enough to go through your critique point-by-point, and that would probably be bordering spam anyways. But for the most part, I think you generalized horribly. PyroSera's word use boasts one of the things that makes the English language beautiful and complicated - put into different contexts, words can mean a large variety of things. Sure, some of his diction pushes a line, but its meaning is always clear.

You're bordering on flaming with this critique, especially when it come to the readers. I daresay most of us are more familiar with a dictionary than you might think. Your nitpicks at his knowledge of synonyms is fairly debatable, especially when it comes to things like your complaint of capitalizing "Trainer." In the context of this story, it may very well be a proper noun, so how does that go against proper grammar?

I don't know - I suppose the only that really got me about your review was implying that we'd rather insist something is beautiful than question its correctness. We know what we're reading, or else we wouldn't bother reviewing it once a week. Don't knock our intelligence.

Okay, bowing out now. I'll go mind my own business elsewhere.
 

Praxiteles

Friendly POKéMON.
Kyohime: Well, I do think I was very unclear on that regard. The bridge and the next chapter, in any case, shall be sufficient explanation (as far as I can see). Killing off Ruki, indeed, was a very important plot point as you shall see. Even so, I occasionally think of the possibilities of the duo having a normal (well, as normal as can be) journey and break down.

Act: Ah, the long-awaited destruction of my ego.

The colours are a valid complaint, and I shall eliminate them. *eliminates* Concerning flame, I was considering it as a sort of uncountable material, such as water. However, I realize that also to be a mistake.

I will accept the grammatical errors you pointed out, but point out myself certain points I felt debatable.

Questionable use of the word instinct. By definition, ‘instinct’ is something innate, and hardly something you would associate with such an unnatural word as ‘daze.’ A ‘fit’ of instinct, maybe, but definitively not a ‘daze.’ Instinct is something quick and abrupt; a daze is something slow and confusing. And furthermore, I don’t really like memories qualify as ‘instinct…’ Now that I think about it, certain types of memory could be argued very distinctly human.

I think the general meaning of the sentence was misunderstood. From within a daze of involuntary, subconscious thought, certain memories arose in his mind. Perhaps I should clarify... "Out of a subconscious daze, memories arose to flash before his eyes." Which, unfortunately, defeats the purpose of short, snappy sentences, but sacrifices must be made.

Try to avoid sentence fragments. Particular ones that use the word ‘clamor’ in a questionable manner.

I think I have to disagree with that certain aspect. While sentence fragments are (in the most technical terms) ungrammatical, from my view they can be used for the sake of mood. In this case I wished to convey the sense of disconnectedness and vagueness, and straightforward sentences would detract from the effect. I am somewhat certain the next chapters will be clearer.

you used ‘raptness’ wrong. Raptness means ‘fascinated.’ So the boy was fascinated by his own joy? What?

I was rather aware 'rapt' meant 'fascinated', and 'raptness' meant 'fascination'. Amaren was so fascinated and attentive in his fit of joy that it was unnecessary to make any effort to drive the point home.

Watch your word repetition. I noticed it twice above two, but I was typing something else and now realize that I forgot to point it out. But watch it.

Surely word repetition can be used as effect? There was a lot of firewood around the clearing.

His knife has a switch that turns it on? Because, although that’s not what you meant, it’s what you’re saying. There’s a lot of disconnect between what you mean and what you say in this.

On is another word for onward. His knife flashed onward into battle.

You used the word ‘could’ wrong. You don’t need a helping verb there. Just say ‘jarred [him] into motion.’

This cry alone was sufficient to stir his empathy and jar him into motion, despite all his fear.

A great ‘report?’ I’m not really even sure what word you meant to use here. Could this have been some kind of typo, or did he really write a dissertation as he fell?

A report is also a loud noise. And no, I didn't find this in the thesaurus.

Expanding upon that, I think you have assumed quite too much about the creation of the fiction. I very rarely use a thesaurus, and in any case I know the appropriate meanings of the words I may find there. I have not been "struggling" through my writing, changing every other word into some obscurer, larger synonym; I may stretch the meaning of words at certain points, but the general aura (for lack of a better term) of a word may be different according to the reader, and the effect which those words give to another with different experiences with the term will certainly vary. For example, the 'rough embrace' which seems to be so oxymoronic to you makes perfect sense to me, given my thoughts and memories on the subject of embraces. While this cannot be termed as an outright justification of my word usage, it equally does not condemn it (a tendency of relative perceptions).

If you wish to, read a few more chapters. If the condition remains the same, I'll do something about the convolutions and confusing prose. This is, after all, only the prologue; perhaps my style improves with time or change of literary mood.

Your review was, in any case, very helpful; it shed light on grammatical mistakes which I had been steadily ignoring for a while.

Yours gratefully (for your time and effort),
Pyroken Serafoculus
 
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Act

Let's Go Rangers!
@ porygon 181

I could take the bait, but I won't. Please don't troll.

put into different contexts, words can mean a large variety of things.

Or, put into diffeernt contexts, words could mean the entirely wrong thing and drastically confuse the reader. Definitions don't 'vary.'

I had to... couldn't resist. Sorry.

Also, something importamnt: Flame =/= any review that says negative things. This is a common misconception. >.>

@ PS

I think the general meaning of the sentence was misunderstood. From within a daze of involuntary, subconscious thought, certain memories arose in his mind. Perhaps I should clarify... "Out of a subconscious daze, memories arose to flash before his eyes." Which, unfortunately, defeats the purpose of short, snappy sentences, but sacrifices must be made.

That one I'm willing to relent on... it didn't bother me that much, I just found it weird. Of course, though, clarity is paramount.

In this case I wished to convey the sense of disconnectedness and vagueness, and straightforward sentences would detract from the effect. I am somewhat certain the next chapters will be clearer.

Sentence fragments work in moderation for effect. I think you used them way, way too often and the novelty/effect of them sort of gave way to a weird voice.

I was rather aware 'rapt' meant 'fascinated', and 'raptness' meant 'fascination'. Amaren was so fascinated and attentive in his fit of joy that it was unnecessary to make any effort to drive the point home.

Then you have to make this clearer. The syntax was very strange, and the way it was, the word was being used incorrectly. Restructure the sentence to say what you just told me, and it would be fine.

On is another word for onward. His knife flashed onward into battle.

Again: very, very strange syntax could lead to confusion/multiple interpretations.

This cry alone was sufficient to stir his empathy and jar him into motion, despite all his fear.

And again: Just say this in the first place.

A report is also a loud noise.

This I apologize for. It was my oversight. But, again... clarity is paramount. You're using a an obscure meaning for a common word, and, odds are, at one point a reader will become confused. Like me.

The assumption about the thesaurus was my fault, but was from experience. I stand by the assertion that if you toned it down a bit, the problems would go away as well.

They key thing to remeber is that your job as a writer is to communicate as clearly to the reader is possible. It's not up to the reader to wade through your muck and figure things out (as far as writing itself goes, that is).

In any case, I went into it so much because it was very confusing to see. Again, I can tell you're a good writer. It was very paradoxical.

Again, though, bon voyage. Good luck!
 
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Praxiteles

Friendly POKéMON.
Ah... All right, perhaps the Bridge doesn't so much clear things up as make way to further complications, but the next chapter is only four days away. Commence:





Bridge: an Introduction​



I feel the need to introduce myself.

My name is LUPHINID REMANA SILNAEK, formerly AMAREN KELANIS. I am recording my thoughts remotely from within the elusive TIME LOOP of the 6th rendition of anomaly 0A1, moments before I attempt to RIGHT it. There, that concludes the formalities.

The preceding chapters were my most complete narrative yet of the life of Amaren from the beginning of his trainer career to his virtual death. After Chapter 7, I take the reign of the story.

To elucidate, dear reader, Amaren is literally merely my past form. However, his experiences and my own are so separate (in my mind) that I refer to him eternally in third person. Ah, well, that life has died out now, and it’s my twisted existence we will explore from now on, referring to him only in fleeting memories.

I’ve delved as often into the art of writing as any other practice I might have taken it in my head to learn in my vast life, but this autobiography is entirely impromptu, being written in an indefinitely long, frozen time period, during which I can spend as much time to finish my work as I require. Even so, it is all being done is one sitting (or should we say standing) and events in my life will not be depicted as vividly, as continuously, as correctly, as they might have been. This is something a sufficiently dedicated reader will merely have to cope with.


A great waste of time lies between the literal death of Ruki Ferena, and the dark, desperate tower I now stand upon, in which the condition of events is no happy one. And if the smallest tinge of a smile has crossed my face since then, it’s the twisted grin of obsession and dark fanaticism. I give no disclaimer or warning to the gloom of the events to follow in my depiction of my life, because I know a reader who has stuck this far will merely harden his conviction at such a caution. Additionally, given the state of my mind at this moment, I cannot bring myself to care about the moment’s depression I may drown a reader in, as he skims through this tale.

There is much ground to cover, and a lot to explain still before the end. Therefore, driven by will or curiosity or some stronger, stranger force, let us begin the narration of this untitled biography!
 
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porygon181

Master of the Riddle
Whoa.

So Amaren is Luphinid? I thought it was Ruki that died and became Luphinid. I guess the wonky structure of the last chapter's ending threw me for an even bigger loop than I thought.

It also explains why the Angel reference didn't ring a bell.

I like how Luphinid's middle and last names are just Amaren's scrambled.

Which brings up a question: is Luphinid a male or a female? I haven't seen anything explaining that. Does he/she just take the gender of his/her host body?

Anyways. I find it interesting and horribly depressing that this is all an autobiography of Luphinid. It's sad that there's no more of out previously beloved protagonists (and I recall making a threat to you earlier about killing off these characters. Beware! The delusion of being a five-year-old girl is coming.), but at the same time, if the "prologue" was this good, I can only imagine how good the rest will be.

A great waste of time lies between the literal death of Ruki Ferena, and the dark, desperate tower I now stand upon, in which the condition of events is no happy one. And if the smallest tinge of a smile has crossed my face since then, it’s the twisted grin of obsession and dark fanaticism. I give no disclaimer or warning to the gloom of the events to follow in my depiction of my life, because I know a reader who has stuck this far will merely harden his conviction at such a caution. Additionally, given the state of my mind at this moment, I cannot bring myself to care about the moment’s depression I may drown a reader in, as he skims through this tale.

All right! Let's dive into angst!!

EDIT: The beginning of chapter four makes a lot more sense now. And I now realize that I missed the horribly giant clue of the whole "Amaren's-name-mixed-up" deal. I feel inadequate now.
 

Praxiteles

Friendly POKéMON.
MondoTR: If your taste is as mine, it shall be entertainingly bleak and godforsaken. In fact, I would reply with the next chapter, but that's a ew days away.

porygon181:

Whoa.

So Amaren is Luphinid? I thought it was Ruki that died and became Luphinid. I guess the wonky structure of the last chapter's ending threw me for an even bigger loop than I thought.

As another esteemed author has said, I find it intensely amusing to take hold of the steering wheels of my fiction and *makes wrenching motion*. And I have to say I found your percieved version of the truth to be rather disturbing. Ruki is Luphinid...

I like how Luphinid's middle and last names are just Amaren's scrambled.

Which brings up a question: is Luphinid a male or a female? I haven't seen anything explaining that. Does he/she just take the gender of his/her host body?

I was wondering how many readers would spot the anagram; it took me a while to manuacture right. Ah, and I haven't referred to his gender almost at all, have I? In the beginning of Chapter 4, Luphinid is referred to as a 'he', however.

Anyways. I find it interesting and horribly depressing that this is all an autobiography of Luphinid. It's sad that there's no more of out previously beloved protagonists (and I recall making a threat to you earlier about killing off these characters. Beware! The delusion of being a five-year-old girl is coming.), but at the same time, if the "prologue" was this good, I can only imagine how good the rest will be.

Yes, I distinctly remember your threat. I also recall shifting feet in a very distressed manner soon afterwards. Before this, I had been keeping the large-noises-bright-lights effect to a minimum; now I shall have no such reservations.

*walks out, proclaiming that he brings the bump to the grind, but doesn't mind, since he's on top*
 
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Praxiteles

Friendly POKéMON.
However it may be, onward commences chapter 8! *hide from rotten tomatoes and sundry*





Aftershock
Chapter 8: Aftermath
(AKA Aftershock)​



I still marvel at how young I once was, running all the way back to Saffron with fear alone driving at my heels; no demons, no threat to my life, no glittering obsession dangling before me. But I suppose grief played its own part in my maddened rush, deep down beneath the denial and the dread. Old, withered sadness had already become the father of my emotions, since that very moment – though the thought of Ferena’s death had not yet impressed itself entirely upon me.

And I had burst like a train through the crowds of startled city-creatures, diving instinctually into my last pillar left unshattered, feeling, perhaps for the last time in my life, alone. For a great waste of chaos lay behind me, a thousand thoughts and memories I never knew I possessed (and indeed had never done), and I wished, more than the reversal of this event, drunk as I still was upon confusion and bewilderment, a voice of reason to pull me back into bearing. Why, oblivious ignorance itself had seemed unbearable to me at that moment, though I know now that the alternative is far bitterer.

Kalens Oak, the old gentleman biologist, had steadied my ramblings as I had hoped, directing me into a narrative (if not analyzation) of the events preceding. Ah, reason, lucidity, the draught of cold water before the inevitable illness.

I watched, then, as he heard the full expanses of what I insensibly uttered, taking the sudden grief with his characteristic, subtle pain, and working soundlessly into an organization of the tragedy. Certain laws of the universe, he began, and then trailed off in his struggle to articulate the concept to follow.

Then had the first stroke of the separation rang out, second only to the very incident from which I ran breathlessly. For the professor had replied with what I can still clearly see to be a half-truth, a veiling of the full course of events. From his suddenly brusque explanations, what had afflicted Ruki was a very anomaly in the laws of the universe. As to why it had come, the extent of the damage, further explanation, he moved completely from attention, responding fully to no remark; and there I suddenly felt the sharp blow of all I had been holding off, sinking me into a dark depression.

The wooden boat can only sail so long in the merciless waters, its prow still tasting air and sunlight, before it goes entirely under.

Indeed, the length and intensity of the fits of self-pity which soon came over me conquered the records of all other endeavors made by man, swinging violently as I did between intense, rebellious anger and overwhelming apathy, before springing up out of my room into the snow outside. I still trained, my Pokèmon (their indubitable telepathic links) reflecting the grim, hollow dedication I took to my dearest obsessions, after all desire or joy from their execution was leached out. But this was no distraction from my main matter of thought, as it had been so long ago when I registered the death of my village. The utter absence of my old light, Ruki’s enthusiasm, served only to plunge me deeper into my depression: where, in the first case, training had been entirely apart from my mourning (or lack thereof) of the village, now it was connected intimately with death in all its matters.

Which is not to say I did badly in my pursuits. Those were the days of my peak of glory, dark as it may seem to you, reader, and I soon took to traveling far and wide, the dark young man with the godly Kadabra and Mightyena who ripped wordlessly through each Gym he encountered. Ah, don’t misunderstand me; where I say a dark young man, I mean merely a man – brooding, joyless, but still human in all respects. Folly to think I couldn’t have still turned back then, though I understand now the course of thoughts which ravaged my mind.

After all, without the young girl at my side, eternally cheering all within her vicinity, I was but Amaren of the village, the primeval sea-creature awkwardly stumbling onto land. And then, later, Luphinid (whose full extents no analogy can encompass!).

There was, believe it or not, a twisted meaning to all my wanderings. I no longer wished for the Indigo Plateau, but I was near certain that somewhere, deep in the world’s corners, I could learn more of these “anomalies”, for the reason which has become my trademark over time: absolutely none. No reason, I mean to say. I can only suppose the twofold grief of Ruki’s death, and the razing of the village (held off for so long), overcame the occupying distraction training had once given me, and I wished some more novel task. And so I found, after five badges came under my name, this entry hidden within classified folders of my trainer card alone:

“A little-known (though extremely important) fact of the universe is that the physical world in which all existent beings interact is not the only plane of existence. Every particle of matter is a branch from a single, common point of origin, and different universes with different properties and laws can theoretically arise if the level of complexity (i.e. the degree to which the point of origin separates to form separate objects) differs from our own.

“While attempting to interact with this possibility by physical means is virtually impossible, certain advanced Psychic-type Pokèmon possess the ability to deepen their perception into levels below our own in complexity. Thus, from our primitive understanding of this field, we have found that very few planes of existence exist below our own, though our level of complexity is far above zero. (One can analogize this to a radio tuning device: our plane of existence can be (somewhat roughly) said to be in the middle frequencies, and though there are many frequencies between ours and the lowest setting, there are very few stations which our radio can attune to.)

“Planes of existence higher than ours are impossible to detect using earthly measurements, and should not contain any value other than that of scientific interest. However, at a certain point above the point of origin, one encounters what has been termed the theoretic plane.

I delved deeper into records of this plane, deprived of the familiar sense of full understanding, and discovered a vein of gold (or lead, depending on perception – read on).

“The theoretic plane is a level of complexity of the universe which seems to serve as a base for the laws of our own. On this plane, energy is shaped in various ways and purposes to create a consciousness (more accurately, an existence). Blocks of energy are shaped into different concepts and assembled into roundabout, symmetrical units, which, when amplified into our level of complexity, form objects. It is essential that each block of energy – each attribute of the object – interact with at least one other, to form a stable object. If this is not fulfilled, the independent energy is discarded as soon as the object is formed, or otherwise the object forms an abnormality in the physical plane.”

I read only as far as this sentence, though there was much more still; I had seen the word abnormality. Anomaly.

Why, I realized, these were hardly the sole types of anomaly. Anomalies appeared at contradictions in the laws of the universe, at certain mental illnesses, at points of indefiniteness. There were as many anomalies as stars to the sky, and enough taxonomists, enthusiasts, hunters of these “wrongs” to rival astronomers. All eternally damned, of course, often for the mere heresy of thinking upon the topic for too long. Such was the sheer corruption of this game, and the fledgling corruption of my heart rang alongside it, attracting me like a moth to the lethal candle. Within a matter of weeks, I had become enraptured with the art of righting.

Righters, for various personal reasons, took to hunting down such wrongs by varied means and attempting to ‘debug’, for lack of a better term, the contradiction in laws which arose to its existence. If any nobility can be construed by this simple definition, it is a misnomer. The level of power and strength required for such a task is impossible to gain through any means but entirely ignoble, and these personal causes were also exceptionlessly so, usually the aftermath of a severe nervous breakdown and a maddened spiral into their own grudging demise. Such as mine.

But for a while progress art ran most sluggishly. While I was entirely certain I was destined for this beautiful vocation, I understood not the rudiments of information or strength required for my graduation into the art; and the majority of the world felt (most rightly) that such information, being unfit for living ears, was best kept hidden deep in the confines of the earth. Not more than a single mention of Righting did the trainer card allow, even when, in my delirious obsession, I gained the clearance of seven badges, and ancient texts upon the subject were likewise banned from such public libraries as I perused in my early days. Of course, I had merely to look in the correct places and I would have discovered all I required – but, had I known this then, I would be deprived of an anecdote to add to this merry narration of my life.

For I once sought conversation with a certain man while in my wanderings, a seedy king among beggars living in the Saffron Underground. (Yes, indeed, even a city as Saffron contained its fair share of back-alleys.) Countless ancient buildings had never been renovated during the transformation of the concrete city into steel, and vermin, generating spontaneously from sources unknown, seemed to flood these decrepit relics, driving out whatever light still remained.

His paltry abode was an abandoned warehouse, the joy of all objectionable practitioners; a stone hangar of a building resembling a hypothetical soiled remnant of the Saffron Gym. Unrecognizable letters marched over its rain-stained walls, obscured by a series of badly-impressed graffiti records announcing the current ‘owner’ of the warehouse at their time. Their quality was such that not only did a later inscription cover an earlier at its place, the earlier sign bled slowly into the later, to the effect of an indistinct, continuous scrawl of shaky lines.

[Colourful,] I remarked to Ytarrik.

We stepped inside, Lepena in his pokèball, to meet a most surprisingly vacant sight: a single, ancient rug at the very center, orbited by a circle of seating arrangements and covered by a metal table (and a flickering light bulb above it). The man himself stood behind the front chair, a medium-built, scrawny affair in an oversized trench coat. His dogged faced glinted hungrily out of a mess of black razors which served as his hair.

“You’re that trainer, eh?” he shot out in an unrecognizable accent.

I replied that indeed, I was a trainer.

“Yeah, but you’re not just a trainer, are you? You’ve got, ehh, nine badges or whatever?”

I soundlessly corrected this to seven badges.

“Why not. Look, what’d you come here for?”

“I heard you knew something about anomaly hunting,” I droned. I rather recall losing all hope in this endeavor from that early a moment; this man was nothing close to a typical righter.

“Uh, sure. I know a lot about righting. ‘Righting is the systematic discovery and repairing of natural anomalies’ and all that jazz.”

“I think I also know that already,” I said impatiently.

“Fine, I’ll tell you something you can’t possibly know. Stop getting into this business. You probably think you’ve got nothing left to you in this world and everything, but you don’t ever get that bad till you start Righting. You’re doing pretty good, I think” – and he shot a furtive glance of lust at my physique – “compared to a righter. Or a freeler. Trust me, I’ve done both.”

Later investigation afforded me this: “’Freeling’ (slang), or assimilation heightening, is the deliberate consumption of raw Pokèmon flesh for various purposes: most often a momentary burst of pleasure, but also sometimes for the heightening of that skill in the human which the Pokèmon possessed during its life. For example, an assimilation heightener of Fighting-types gains superhuman strength. This practice is so unhealthy and immoral as to be illegal in all regions of the world except Orre.”

I had only to glance at him and see the truth of his words.

The need for a ‘getting down to business’, as it were, was becoming increasingly obvious, and so: “Will you teach me to Right?”

He cackled here, his cracked throat convulsing from strain. “Do I look like a righter?” and he spread his arms wide, indicating his prized possessions.

I didn’t bother to slam the door shut on my way out.


My brief encounter with him was not entirely profitless, however. I returned to his warehouse the very night, ransacking each hidden compartment I had noticed on my time there, and found a storehouse of books upon the subject, many smuggled from libraries full of Righting texts alone. It had seemed to me, at first, as though my new storehouse was sufficient to understand the basics of the art: but, indeed, if any analogy can be attached to it, this information was only the tip of the topmost peak of the iceberg. Here, the countless libraries mentioned within the books sufficiently filled my lack (or so I then thought).

Twenty-one years of age melted eventlessly into my thirtieth, and through all the time I neglected training entirely, drowning myself almost day and night into a complete memorization of theory. Whatever health I had inadvertently kept up during pokèmon training balked in the face of my dogged obsession, such that the hospitals of the cities I frequented received several emergency visits by myself – until, at last, I discovered the secret to a righter’s path: assimilation heightening.

Indeed, for a time, the cluelessly desperate Amaren (I had not yet changed my name, though this conflicted young man was most certainly me) deigned to eat the repulsive meat, procuring blocks of Jolteon flesh by objectionable means and consuming large quantities at intervals as prescribed. And, for a time, the explosive speed and energy of the Electric type spurred me on as a piece of sharp metal to a dying horse. Ah, but that would soon stop.

No, of course, I would never quit assimilation heightening. I would merely find more effective spurs to jar this downtrodden horse into forced motion. If you suspected the former for a moment, reader, you have spent too little a time with my life.

At last, however (preventing all further sidetracking and slips of chronological order), I deemed myself worthy to take on the rather paltry force of a minor wrong, anomaly 3S1: an abomination of Decay.

How wrong I was, with my inexperienced assumptions and hideously rough estimations.

But isn’t that the story of a righter’s life?
 
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porygon181

Master of the Riddle
Holy Jeebus.

How in the world did you think of something as twisted as "freeling?" It's so sick... but so cool! You should probably put a disclaimer at the beginning of the chapter: "Don't try this at home, kids."

'Nother time jump! My favorite. Did his long hermit stage make his pokemon weaker too, or do pokeballs protect them?

I feel really bad for Amaren. You wrote his confused grief at the beginning really well, in my uneducated opinion.

However!

The level of power and strength required for such a task is impossible to gain through any means but entirely ignoble, and these personal causes were also exceptionlessly entirely ignoble, usually the aftermath of a severe nervous breakdown and a maddened spiral into their own grudging demise. Such as mine.

I found the repetition of "entirely ignoble" annoying.

Of course, I had merely to look in the correct places and I would have discovered all I required – but, had I known this then, I would be deprived of an anecdote to add to this merry narration of my lie.

Is that last word supposed to be "life" or "lie?" It makes sense either way to me, but it just bothers me that I'm not sure which one you really meant.

"Uh, sure. I know a lot about Righting. ‘Righting is the systematic discovery and repairing of natural anomalies’ and all that jazz.”

Way to totally steal my line. I patented "and all that jazz" for use in everyday conversations. Way to go.

I'm really interested in seeing where this "Righter" business takes him. Amaren/Luphinid is excitingly crazy nowadays... pity he never talks - I bet he'd say cool things. XD
 

Praxiteles

Friendly POKéMON.
Well, thank you... *blinks at the touch of this unfamiliar phrase*

Holy Jeebus.

How in the world did you think of something as twisted as "freeling?" It's so sick... but so cool! You should probably put a disclaimer at the beginning of the chapter: "Don't try this at home, kids."

Ah, so my struggles were not in vain... the fiction shall consist mainly of these sort of things and possibilities from now on, and it brings my heart joy to know they are considered 'sick... and cool!' Entirely as planned.

'Nother time jump! My favorite. Did his long hermit stage make his pokemon weaker too, or do pokeballs protect them?

I thought I'd explained that... Ah, yes. The next chapter mentions it, but I'll tell you anyway since it's such a small detail: Concentrated Storage Devices can't keep a pokèmon in stasis forever, and they mainly remained outside, 'growing old and fat' according to Luphinid in a later note.

I found the repetition of "entirely ignoble" annoying.

Hm, those deliberate repetions never do work out in the end, do they? I'll get onto that!

Is that last word supposed to be "life" or "lie?" It makes sense either way to me, but it just bothers me that I'm not sure which one you really meant.

Idiot 'f' key... it is indeed 'life', but my keyboard is most uncooperative under the chronic effects of a year's worth of food.

Way to totally steal my line. I patented "and all that jazz" for use in everyday conversations. Way to go.

I'm really interested in seeing where this "Righter" business takes him. Amaren/Luphinid is excitingly crazy nowadays... pity he never talks - I bet he'd say cool things. XD

Sorry, porygon, couldn't resist. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, indeed. Luphinid does say exactly where the business leads him - 'a maddened spiral into (his) own grudging demise' - but I expect you want a bit more detail. Ah, and he does talk, quite a lot. As I said, more of that later. *exits on a bridge of paper inscribed with a hundred names of God*
 
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Praxiteles

Friendly POKéMON.
Page 3! Even though the intervals between chapter updates are exactly a week, it seems at least a decade since I last updated.

Here: my shortest chapter ever done, at something of four pages. Seeing as other writers become anxious if their chapters dip down the lower end of twenty pages, perhaps this is a very bad thing. Ah, well, it was impossible to beef this up any further. This is the beginning of the gorefest, so to speak. If, for some inexplicable reason, the idea of exploding Rattata carcase actually makes you uncomfortable, approach this with caution. You'll have fair warning of the events to come before they do, I think.

Ah, and I almost forgot: I seem to be having something of the dreaded Writers Block lately. *dramatic music* Since I'm halfway through Chapter 12 at this point, I think I have enough time to overcome this obstacle, but even so my speed currently is a quarter of a page daily. If the block doesn't give up soon enough (very unlikely), I may have to postpone updating. I doubt it, however.





Aftershock
Chapter 9: 3S1​



I discovered this particular gem of an anomaly glittering horribly off the pages of a contemporary wrong encyclopedia. It was a most obvious and simple jerk of the rules, such that I was most surprised no other Righter had already tackled it, but – as I thought – all the better to myself. (In fact, the anomaly was much too difficult for a first-timer, and much too easy for an experienced hunter, and so it was largely overlooked.).

Within all living organisms, the highest extreme of emotion possible was a fraction of a degree greater than the least amount of life required to term the being alive. (Where I say term, I mean a label which gives information about the being to outside processes. In truth, this label is not necessarily accurate to the actual state of events in the being, but is still taken to be so, since inaccuracies are negligibly rare.) While this asymmetry meant nothing alone, it could be used to a wrong’s advantage under certain circumstances: a certain universal construct, a law of the world, ensured that a spike of emotion was inevitably countered by an equal depression of such feeling. Thus, if the creature attained the maximum possible height of emotion at any point, a countering lack of feeling would ensue, dipping the creature well below the ‘official’ maximum for life - at which point it would be inaccurately labeled non-living. While most living functions including consciousness would still continue for a time, nearby laws of the universe would be misinformed as to the creature’s death, and a variety of abominations would ensue, the main being an accelerated decomposition of the body while the soul was still trapped inside (and the flesh was still alive), and therefore an agonizingly painful death.

The lucky subject of the anomaly’s affection was a young runt of a Rattata I procured from the wild, one seeming most suitable to my experiment. I sat there, then, in an old cavern of an abandoned building, secluded in my corner of the world with Ytarrik at my side and the protesting rodent in a cage before me. All empathic connection had been severed with the unfortunate individual, but I could still sense a vague hint of pity radiating from my Kadabra, a concept entirely alien to me at that point. Of course, no one, not even my Pokèmon, could ever hope to outdo my grimness and apathy.

In the past years, Lepena had grown old and fat along with Ytarrik, waiting for me to finish my studies, and had finally determined to leave my side for increasing periods of time, going into unmentionable tangents of training to keep up his old skill. As for Ytarrik, he had never left my side through all the boredom and trial, though his patience would soon run dry.

I recall that by this period I had also captured a Noctowl. However, exposed to the horror that (even then) was my mind, she lost all sanity and became somewhat of a robot to my whims. She was currently in her storage device, far away. Ruki’s Pokèmon had long parted ways, shortly after her death.

Back to the present (or the past, from my point of view). I began with a one-way telepathic connection, drawing the Rattata’s mind closer to mine and Ytarrik’s without allowing its influence to affect us; and the Kadabra joined his mind with mine, bolstering the link to the required magnitude.

I picked gingerly up a hypodermic needle, roiling with the black isolation of Mightyena blood, phantomlike in its wispy fluid, and injected it into my bared arm. For a moment, pain coursed through my veins as they stiffened, black disease spreading through them – but then they reached the heart, and a dizzying sense of power spread to my every extremity. This was true assimilation heightening, and I had never felt anything to its like before.

With a telepathic nod of the head, we simultaneously collected our emotions, and the quick-to-kindle fire of anger raged down the link into the helpless Rattata. For a second it paused, fighting off the overpowering waves, but soon it was thrashing wildly with unnatural hatred, banging with all its strength hard into the unyielding bars of its cage until lines of bruised, broken skin collected on its fur. Our sanity stretched, tensing before the infinite feeling raging through us, but it was only a while longer, no more than a minute more, before it would be physically impossible for the Pokèmon to feel any greater hatred…

At last, with a faint seeming click, its body was entirely saturated. A moment of tense wait – and a wave of cold unfeeling spread abruptly across the Rattata, causing it to seem as though the cage was drowned in liquid nitrogen, as though a frozen block of steel looked numbly up at its anticipative perpetrators –

Several decomposition processes jarred into motion, oblivious to the laboured heart still pounding within the rodent’s living body.

There was protest, of course, in the beginning. The young muscles exploded for release, the creature shoving itself at the walls of its prison as though freedom would take it from the shadow of its doom. The throat burst out in symphonies of discordant sound, but the lungs were already beginning autolysis, unnecessary cells self-destructing, filling the creature with a jerk of nauseating helplessness. Ah, it was time for me to dive into the rip this anomaly inevitably created, into the very laws which (mis)governed it.

The warehouse was a container, it was but a reservoir for liquid, substance, concept,

[Emotion doesn’t really rule you, does it.]

but no container is infinite, the bottom of this particular ends all too Soon,

the adrenaline-flooded muscles were shutting down, the legs giving out under the lump of agony

couldn’t it end a second sooner

[Impatient as always. Ah, but you have a long life of twisted wandering before you, this is no time for]

DEATH

so much greater than life, its web tighter than the wings of the struggling fly, awaiting slowly the spider’s scythe in the corner of the warehouse

So quickly, the work of a thousand moments, the entrails of the creature dissolving into digested mulch, its form slipping into formlessness as its eyes still gazed on helplessly in all its glutinous agony

struggle, right the imbalance, shorten the capacities of the living as with the dead, and I was nearly done

gases building beneath its paper skin, bloating it beyond all questions of capacity, stirring the internal mush with pressure, and how long would the decomposing skin hold its expanding contents

[Done? Have you been listening to me?]

but the effort was so much, my energy much too little, and wasn’t it so much easier, so much soothing, to simply close my –

eyes [light up with a single shard of silver terror. Of course, now you see the fullness of your position]

I didn’t want to die! I didn’t care why, I didn’t care how thoughtless, how rebellious I was being, but I DID NOT WANT TO DIE

death still lingered outside the cage of the Rattata, laughing at its agony, as a single rip appeared on its bruised skin, and the insides gushed out, creamy-red with blood and flesh

The door of the warehouse, the end of the tunnel, opened, and out streamed a glimpse of the sweet light of the outside sun [death]! I felt my soul dissolving, unforming, assimilating into this azure light

dissolved in my blood, the dark blood recoiled in disgust

SHATTERED, HALF-DECOMPOSED, MY SOUL JERKED BACK INTO THE REALM OF THE LIVING

LIFE

[Don’t live in your pathetic illusions. This is no life, and no death.]

De c a y th







I stood there, in the darkness of the abandoned warehouse, heart pounding with not terror, not revulsion, not hatred, but adrenaline.

The Rattata was finally dead, nothing more than a pile of ash, though streaks of its insides still stained portions of the floor and walls (and me). I wiped my still-bare arm with my black velvet jacket, to see that the flesh had wasted away marginally, and replaced with a faint black, vaporous substance which clung to the skin with remarkable ferocity. It seemed to bolster its strength, simultaneously warding off the last remnants of light which still attempted to fall on the flesh beneath. I was most weakly revolted to find this was me, this dark illness but another part of my form, but I would do nothing about it.

The door had been opened to my warehouse by a curious passerby, it seemed. However, he had instantly pulled it shut, and forced himself to forget this incident forever.

I looked to my left to see the still-amber eyes of Ytarrik, gazing at me with repugnance in their streaks. With but another flash, he was gone, leaving the shattered pieces of my soul to myself in this dark tale of my life. They were held together by only the weakest of force, but it would not let me forsake them for a long time yet.


In its dark corner, the fly had ripped out of its chains of spider-silk after all. However, its wings and limbs were fractured irreparably, and it lay there in its death-throes, writhing on the floor.

Two hundred years, it seemed, passed by before its final breath.
 
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porygon181

Master of the Riddle
Your plan is still working. The utter morbid freakiness of these new installments scares me, yet it just keeps drawing me in. The shortness of this chapter was rather saddening, because it made it hard to connect it to a plot, but the imagery made up for a lot of it.

From the start of Rattata's emotional overload to its explosion, my toes and fingers cringed, my eyes just kept getting closer and closer to the screen, and my brain just kept repeating, "What drugs was he on when he thought of this?"

I suppose you should feel accomplished or something. ^^

I wish you good luck with defeating the dreaded writer's block. I know it's a total *****.
 
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