Epilogue: The Deserted Island
As per cut-scene convention, the chamber and everything else around you fade gradually to black before you are abruptly teleported through a swirling void. You hit the ground, gradually open your eyes and find yourself in an oddly deserted theme park, with exploded fireworks littering the ground. You’re back on 80F.
As per video game toughness convention, you of course still have a long, long walk awaiting you. But at least you don’t have to go through any more pillars of lava or supernatural quizzes.
Just as you’re preparing to leave, you’re distracted by an enormous, digitized cry, echoing to all corners of the theme park. And it sounds very familiar, too. You turn and look up at the immense neon signs that once flashed messages to the crowds. Every single one of them now contains the same pixelated image, lit up accurately in matrices of lights. It’s an image of Flygon.
The Digital Arconaut lets out another cry, and then a voice (Bernie’s?) begins to speak.
“Yes… what you just heard was the cry of victory, the cry of he/she/it who shall rule the Arcology’s domain for two hundred years to come. All hail Flygon, the Supreme Arconaut! All hail our Desert Spirit! Whatever he/she/it wishes will be granted immediately.” Digi-Flygon then turns toward the camera and, judging from those three white pixels, you can tell that it’s flashing a gloating smile.
Your urge to get out of this place increases; you find and approach the elevator. Miraculously, it’s here and already open. Of course, it still stops on every floor, and you catch minor blurbs of the goings-on as you begin to travel downward. All traces of the Glitches’ regime have been wiped away, allowing you to see floors in an intact condition that was previously only a pipe dream. You’re intrigued by what you’ll find on 77F, and are disappointed when it turns out to be too – how you say – normal. But 68F has a candy machine on it. A big candy machine. Who would have thought so? The barren ground of 63F, Flygon’s home floor, is now packed with partying Pokémon celebrating the victory of their homeboy/homegirl/homespecies of unspecified gender. (How they got back in here from the forest is anyone’s guess.)
Wow, they take their leader seriously in here. Even from the short glances you catch before the elevator door slides shut again, tributes to the King/Queen/Monarch are popping up left and right. The giant stone dragon flanking 42F’s Grand Colosseum entrance has suddenly become bug-eyed. In the ever-so-geeky Renaissance Faire store in the Neo Mall is suddenly selling limited-edition figurines of dragons that actually shake their tails. And the massive “GO ARCEI!” banner decorating Arcology High School’s gym has been conspicuously replaced with a “GO FLYGA!” one. (Is that plural correct?)
You’ve gotten pretty low down – somewhere in the 20s range, most likely – before you realize that something might be out of the ordinary. The elevator stops and a warm draft of wind blows into it; although unable to see the ground, you realize the floor must be open to the outside. And you hear mysterious sounds out there. You hold the “Doors Open <|>” button for a couple extra seconds to figure out what’s going on.
The sounds are voices, and they’re coming from the dozens and dozens of eliminated Pokémon.
“What has he done to us?!”
“Our environment!”
“It’s… gone!”
“Nice one, King! Or Queen! Or…”
You drift steadily downward through the last few floors of the tower, picking up a few more of the classic signals of civil unrest as you go. And then, finally, you walk through the lobby and back out the Arcology’s iron doors and see it.
You are surrounded by a bleak, sandy wasteland. Hundreds of Pokémon scramble aimlessly and desperately over blowing dunes, and the heat is intense as the sun beats down upon all. Every tree in the forest has vanished. No sign of water can be detected anywhere on the horizon. Someone, somewhere, has completely desertified this fabled land.
Well, this’ll save you the trouble of buying that boat ticket. Now you just have to walk home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The call comes six weeks later, just as your electricity bill is once again threatening to run out in your slightly-less-squalid-than-before apartment (which now, might I add, is peppered with Arco Nuggets, Basalts and other similar souvenirs). You answer the telephone and hear nothing at all, to the point that you are genuinely. Then, finally, a staticky, recorded voice breaks the solid silence.
“Heave ho, landlubbers!” it announces. “Pack your bags and set sail, matey! You’re invited on a CRUISE AROUND THE WORLD!!!”
Great. Not another one of these telemarketers.
The End...?
