free, to live and die by our own rules. / free, despite the fact that men are fools.
- half alive, secondhand serenade.
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There is a slender silhouette standing on the jutting out wood, hand grasping a red and white pokeball.
A laugh echos, twisted and haunting. "So this is what happens when you're champion," the silhouette yells, "you go insane." The voice would be young if you looked past the malice in the words.
There is a flash of red
-red like blood, blood spilled on crystal floor-
and then Reshiram is out, giant wings stretching skyward, blue eyes mirroring the girl's. The white head comes down to greet her, but she shies away from the touch.
"They're all like that," she mutters, "always trying to get close to me so they can break me down."
-break me down like Cheren did, like Bel tried to, just like the way N almost did-
"And so," she shouts to the legendary, decisively, who watches her with all-knowing eyes, "I'm going to leave."
She climbs up on the white-fire pokemon's back, body crouched over fur so thin, so loose, and they fly.
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.
The flight is stopped in the middle of the giant chasm, huge, snow-white wings still beating, and time freezes for a moment, as hundreds of eyes
-wild pokemon, she knows, but they still could be N and Ghestis and all of those Plasma grunts-
watch her stand up, posture tall and refined, the posture of a champion, and as she falls backwards into air, the silhouette is suspended in the fog.
.
.
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a thousand years later, people still tell the story of the girl-champion who lost her mind.