Consistency In Fiction, a pokémon fanfic

WARNING: This is a story in which the author may or may not be human, written for a friend's prompt of "unreliable narrator". It may be of great disdain to some, due to it containing several issues like gender crisis, war, severe delusions, screwed timelines, a different way of addressing people instead of how one normally should, among others that may have been forgotten to be mentioned here.

"- I find contradictions in the facts, but consistency in the fiction."

I'm sure I had a name. I remember being told that it would come in useful should I need it – now, I wonder where I left it? I can't seem to find it anywhere – I guess that the name in itself has escaped my thoughts. It is confusing to refer to someone as "this person" or "that person" all the time, so I should really find one soon...even an unknown in an equation has a letter to address it, after all. Maybe I can work with that.

My name – wait for it, the rising tension – is N.

My favourite colour is black.

I have a love for calculations and theoretical equations. I have a love for mathematics. I like Ferris wheels, with their splashes of paint and thin toothpick-like supports. I like aeroplanes, those white ones with blue-and-red decor that fly around in endless circles attached to a transparent string from the orange sky.

I like puzzles, those things that take the form of a golden cube with eight squares on its six faces, with one square hole in the middle of every one. I've had this since I was a baby, I think – Father calls it a Rubik's cube.

My hair is a shade of forest green that reaches to my waist. I wonder what happens when it reaches the floor – doesn't it get very irritating to prevent hair from touching the ground, via ways of tying or braiding it? I feel for those who were born with such long hair.

I am wearing my favourite plain white tee-shirt, complete with a pair of baggy light brown jeans that reach slightly above my ankles. I sit down and look at the world as I know it – alternating pink and purple tiles for the floor, frames of illegible textures strung around, and childish scribbles that surround me on a background of fuchsia.

I always wonder who put those there. I thought that it was a clean space before.

From what I have been told, there are proper ways to start and end a conversation. First, the talkers must see eye-to-eye, in a bid to acknowledge each other's presence and also to ensure both their attention do not waver at all times. It is followed by a formal handshake, right hand meeting right hand, and it is only after that then the words come.

"Good morning."
"Good afternoon."
"Good evening."
"Good night."

These are the four I do not start a conversation with. The weather at my place is forever neutral, never-changing, remaining radioactive orange, so it is not appropriate to do so. Instead, I do it like this:

"What is the matter?"
"Is there any problem?"
"How may I help you?"

I have noticed that I must speak first, in order to give the other party the okay to talk. I do not engage in idle chatter, as you can see. For I am only consulted when the most pressing of matters demands my opinion; other than that, I am left in my peace and solitude.

As for closing the matter that has been brought forth to me, no words are usually spoken. There will be a brief period of silence, a small nod from the other party before they leave and I am left to my own devices. Sometimes, they speak.

And I listen.

It is never for long, though; their parting words are always "I will take my leave", "take care now", or a simple "goodbye". It is of little care, however, since their actions already foretell what they will say.

There is a hole in my world. I look out of it, and I see a blue background dotted with white plus a patchy green floor, as opposed to a solar system of stars, moons, suns and planets one would expect to see from a rip in space-and-time, according to the books I've read. I suppose you can't trust everything you absorb.

Strange.

I inform a messenger that comes my way. They fix the rip in space-and-time with boards and nails, impressing me for I never knew such a big problem could be corrected with mundane everyday tasks like hammering.

Maybe, one day, I'll go visit outer space, and I will find an area where there are nailed wooden boards instead of milky ways and black holes against a backdrop of stars.

My hobby is drawing. My medium is a box of twelve crayons, and my canvas is the world that encircles me. I wonder why the world in my view is square, though – wasn't it supposed to be spherical, like geographers have claimed?

The flat surface does make drawing a lot easier, however, and I whittle time away like someone carving out a wood sculpture by writing out equations I've learnt, not to mention doing doodles.

I don't know if it's something the world readily accepts as its wallpaper, but it makes no objections.

My name is Nicole.

My hair cascades down to my shoulders, a mix of green and pink. I am wearing a long shirt, with sleeves that reach my wrists and a hem that barely covers my knees. I waltz across the pure white stage in a pair of saffron shoes, and I feel like a star that's glittering and shining for all its worth to impress the awed audience.

Father walks in. I stop, wait for him to talk because I am ladylike; and ladylike people only speak when they are spoken to. Father gives me some look that resembles – strangely enough – disgust, and the entrance of my world is slammed shut when he goes.

A bizarre creature enters my place. It is purple in colour, has triangles for what I think are ears, a weird moving stick protruding from its back, four legs (no hands), three thin sticks poking out from both of its cheeks. It looks and reminds me of descriptions of how aliens are supposed to look like, except that it has two eyes like me and it isn't coloured in traditional slime green. It has red patches over it and scratches me as soon as I try to touch it. It moves away and curls up beside me.

I let it stay.

I look at the book. Its cover is a bright blend of sapphire blue and celadon green – I think that someone should invent another word that means "bright blue and green", so I can better describe the pretty hue.

Saffron sounds like a good name for it.

My hair no longer reaches my waist. Instead, it's grown shorter, somewhere near my shoulders. It doesn't really resemble green, not anymore.

My nails are clipped and neat, with a sheen of glossy red painted across them. I don't think it fits my image too well, of a young person who will surpass champions and break the sky into places beyond everywhere else.

When I inquire Father about how to remove them, he doesn't say anything about it.

I learn names. A collection of paper with binding is called a book. Something that fulfils the dry feeling in a throat is a liquid, called water. Having an abhorrent fear of something, anything, is a phobia, or alternatively known as a weakness.

Today, I meet a person in a long cloth that reaches the knees, so I can't see what else the person is wearing underneath it. This person has hair slightly shorter than mine, a few centimetres away from the waist. The person calls herself Anthea. We have an amiable conversation, and midway she mentions she doesn't like Father.

The word "fear" enters my mind. "You have a weakness for Father, then?"

Then Anthea looks at me, mouth curled up like the bottom half of a circle except that there is no line connecting the curve, and I can hear some strange sound emanating from Anthea.

We speak no more of Father that day.

A person decked out in light blue looks at me with a near-empty gaze. The person looks almost like everyone else, and that person is –

a soldier, a warrior of light that fights for the unjust cruelty of creatures not like them (us), creatures that did not have two legs one nose one mouth the capability to talk and feel

- just a person, a subject of the kingdom who comes by every day as a bearer of news. For some reason, the person's voice always changes, along with a slight twist of the facial features.

The person tells me that there is no news to report of. But I know that the person must be lying, for we are edging closer and closer to war every day. Books tell me so. There will be an uprising, and a bloody battle will be fought for near six years, and come with an even gorier end. There will be an empire breakdown after poor decisions are passed, bringing an end to some frigid warfare. There are many more. I do not know of which time we are situated in, but these books are my crystal balls since they all agree with each other (except for maybe some minor trifle) and that they foretell of these happenings.

I suspect the person to be the one that starts the fire, for such vital facts have been skipped over. I have the person taken away, though for some reason I still have a messenger the next day.

I drift away.

I am somehow in a different place, where it isn't pink-purple-fuchsia or a whirl of white-blue-red-orange for a ceiling. There's an ethereal mist that surrounds me – what does it signify, I wonder? The purple alien is chasing a butterfly, free of its red spots. It almost looks like it is smiling. Then suddenly there's a waterfall of colours, which crashes to the ground and turns into a glowing rainbow amidst the clouds.

I think I'm letting loose suppressed desires.

When I drift back for what seems like the final time, I find myself back in the fuchsia-pink-purple place, where a purple alien covered in red patches regards me with curious, golden eyes.

"But – "

"Don't disparage my name in the presence of Father," I say, giving her a look people dub as the "evil eye". She opens her mouth as if she wants to retort, or accept what I have said, but she falls silent.

A peculiar person stands before me. The person has an ugly shade of green for a hair colour, a dead-eyed stare and some rumpled-looking clothes. I see that the person also likes puzzles, even having one attached to a chain by their hip. I want to ask if we could perhaps have a game, but the person makes no reply, simply scratching their cheek in response.

The person moves away a few days afterwards. I wonder if I should have been more hospitable.

I think that there is a very strong distinction between love and like.

Loving means harbouring a near obsession with whatever has captured your attention, and liking means to merely regard certain things with a mild interest, something that has come to be reckoned as a bit of an afterthought, once someone's loves are out of the way.

I like thinking about these things.

There is a blur of yellow, green and orange, accompanied by that strange sound Anthea made whilst we had our chat. It comes into focus, and I think it is the silhouette of a person – I see a hand waving, as if the owner is beckoning me to go over. I do so, only to bump into Father when he opens the entrance, presumably to tell me something. He raises an eyebrow and I quickly stand to attention.

"What were you doing?"

"I saw someone," I reply. "A person. I was chasing that person."

He peers into my place, and the furrows in his eyebrows seem to become even deeper.

"I assume you're playing hide-and-seek now, then?"

"No," I answer honestly. "I was – am – chasing that person."

I think he seems to have shifted in his emotions, but it's something I cannot place a finger on. He cracks that bottom-half-of-a-circle-with-no-connecting-line expression, and tells me good luck.

Then he says good-bye.

My shoes brush against the floor.

Today, I will slide down from the sky to the earth. It is a short trip, one that takes almost four minutes to do with a small distance of around three metres.

It's a wonderful feeling of bliss.

I think I am stepping on glass.

It is painful to move and I find myself half-sprawled over a strange ramp of sorts. Seeing it makes me want to practice Pythagoras' theorem.

I conclude that I need more rest.

I hear a voice talking to me. My head is dizzy and a blinding white sears my eyes.

"...up. Wake up."

What does 'wake up' mean?

"What...is the matter?" I croak out, striving to find the other person's eyes and hands. I sound absurdly exhausted and I feel blind, being unable to actually open my eyes. "Is there...any problem?"

I feel arms shaking my shoulders. "Yes. Wake up."

I'm tempted to ask for the meaning of that phrase. It is then the white turns to black.

I guess I won't be asking, in the end.

An alien comes into my room. It resembles a green ball and it can move. I leave it alone, in fear ('weakness' briefly flashes in my mind) that it might mutate me.

I wonder about why I am so short.

It isn't just the height, but also the face. I've been told I keep a straight face, befitting my stature, though when I look at Father's I see an expression full of lines and wrinkles that I certainly can't feel on my own.

They're probably just flattering me.

Details and reasons are things that catch my fancy. I can never comprehend why people would do things, like invading a place without first being aware of how many people they are up against, or just mindlessly listen to orders that command them to "finish the guards" or "surround the area".

I don't entirely understand how their disputes ever happen, either.

I like mathematics very much.

Someone comes along and asks me to calculate the approximate area that would be needed to cover a table, till it nicely touches the floor. I have figured that it is best to go with the flow rather than ask, so I do as I am expected.

The person praises me for my knowledge and calls me smart. I feel a surge of – of something. I don't know what it is, but it's there.

I like mathematics very, very much.

The green ball alien has been still for a few days now. I touch it, and it's hard. It's also very, very cold. I guess that means I probably was thinking too much – it is simply a harmless toy sent to me by Father.

I practice throwing hoops with it. It's difficult to manage, and it feels rather heavy – not very ideal for use, so I give it to the next person that enters my haven, another guard, saying it's not suited for my purposes.

I am greeted with a loud shriek.

A nice man comes in. He asks me questions about Father, about whether he's doing things the way I like it and comments about how lucky I am when I nod my head in agreement with his questions.

Now that he mentions it, I actually think so.

Someone called Concordia gives me a downcast look. The person asks me for my name, though I say I am not entirely sure in the most honest fashion I can pull off. The downcast look stays.

That person always looks unhappy. I know that something will probably happen, maybe about the wars I've been thinking of, if that person is to be thought of as an oracle.

I leap into the air. It holds me up, and I see a perfect view from where I am. I am somewhere below my ceiling, but above my ground. Wind caresses my face –

– and I take flight.

I come across some cryptic-looking contraption. It looks like a bunch of rectangles stacked on top of each other that people can step on and walk up.

Puzzling indeed. Why do people bother with these things when they can stand on the space between the ceiling and the ground?

They probably prefer things in their physical form.

I become acutely aware of genders and the sexes. There are two – boy and girl. He and she. Him and her. Male and female. The former refers to people with short hair and the latter is in regards to those who have long hair.

I deduce that therefore, I must be a female.

Shes must be becoming of one. They need to look pretty and behave in a demure manner. I think that is how it goes.

I see Concordia again. Long hair – a she.

I then notice that there are odd things poking out from her chest – I never saw them before. I start to contemplate why people stuff spheres in their chests. The 'why' nags my head non-stop, so I find it in myself to ask. She blinks and tells me that they're meant to be there – signs of being a female, in fact.

I instinctively reach to my own chest. I don't feel the sphere things. Concordia sees my actions and tells me that I'm a boy, so rightfully I shouldn't have them.

What exactly makes a person a boy or a girl, besides spheres? It sounds important.

I find the difference between the sexes silly. It doesn't dictate how I should normally act.

I live in the era where silence reigns. It is tranquil in here for the most part, so I know that for every moment of peace I keep, there is a war being fought. I guess it must be over my kingdom.

It is my world, after all, and people want the world to set new rules for it.

I reflect on why I'm never the one confronted.

Melodious tunes start playing. They're like people talking in a rhythmic manner, except that there are no voices to accompany the figurative background.

I think back to myself. This sort of thing sounds like the sort that those of shorter height than me would enjoy. I quite like the tune, however.

I probably am as short as those people.

The short people visit me in the land where I am surrounded in ethereal mist. They have wings and are around the size of my palm. I count the number of times I've met them – forty-seven – and I am sure that I am stuck in a time loop, because they always look the same and ask me the same things. I imagine what hobbies and music they like – would their loves and likes still remain the same?

"How are you?"

This is the same start, so it should be the same conversation.

"Fine."

It's nice to stay young forever.

I keep hearing noises. There are people talking very loudly. About what, it is a foreign matter to me.

1 + 1 = 2.

It's what some consider to be the simplest equation of all, given how often it is used as an example for a basic introduction to arithmetic. It begs for many questions to be asked, however.

Why do two sticks make a curve and a stick? That could work if it was flexible, but mathematics has only a linear way of thinking. The logic people think with is flawed. Two sticks should make two sticks.

No one ever wonders where the curve comes from.

This thing is a strange black box that shows me moving images in black and white. I was of the mentality that these things weren't supposed to exist yet.

This must be the future.

I speculate over how many beings like me exist. Father has told me that there are quite a lot, though none can match up to the superiority I was born for.

He is a very smart person. I wonder how he can tell these things. History books never mention a thing about this information, so he must have obtained it somewhere else.

The world I own is very small. If I strolled around it, I could cover the ground in...I don't know. Sixty hours? Twenty-nine minutes? Was it one second?

It does not matter. I like the world I live in – small, compact, comfortable.

Ruling over something much bigger would be a hassle.

I develop an attachment to the purple alien. It likes me a lot and comes up to me often. I touch its back lightly and move my hand back and forth. It makes a sound that comes out as a "nyaa".

It is incredibly fascinating. I want to make it like me more, though, so I start to think about how I could get it to communicate with me in my terms, or either find a way to understand what it means. "Nyaa" must mean that it is still not ready to talk to me in articulate sentences.

I stare at a toy train driving in an endless loop in my own place, until both the novelty of the situation and the batteries die.

I stare at the tracks instead.

Nothing of importance happened today.

I see a person who looks familiar, but I'm fairly sure we've never met. She greatly resembles the yellow-haired female I think I came across once upon a time, but other than that I know nothing. The female smiles readily and tells me her name is Concordia. She asks for mine and I say that I'm not certain of it.

We have a friendly talk over brown liquid in tiny bowls. She drinks hers very elegantly and tells me a little about what kinds of phobias exist. I nod politely and listen. After she's finished with her liquid, she tells me she has to leave and departs.

I am left to ponder over why I never left first when I had already finished all of my liquid. I never knew it worked as an hourglass.

Does that mean my time is up, too?

I shouldn't be here.

I feel a pressing need to relieve myself. There's something that keeps telling me that it wants to come out, and my instincts tell me that it isn't something I can do in this world. Or my place in the world.

I confuse those two terms a lot.

I inform someone, and I am rushed into a place where I stand in front of a white thing hung upon a wall. I am then told to do my business, something I pull off with relative ease. Somehow, I knew what to do.

I must be a real prodigy.

My make-up is all over my face. There are black stains that stream out from under my eyes and some faint red smeared over my cheeks. My flamingo-pink lipstick has found its way on my nose in the form of three horizontal lines.

I look like a riot.

I'm told to hurry up and change, so I can prepare myself in time to start my presentation. I nod dumbly – then the curtains draw back, shining the spotlight on me – someone with too much facial cosmetics, still frozen in the process of transformation.

I am fifty-five days old.

In those fifty-five days, I think about the glowing land in more clarity. The place hasn't developed a bit since I made what I think was my first landing there. It's still beautiful and I'm perpetually amazed that the short people can stay in an empty world with nothing and still live. Come to think of it, sometimes I see them.

Sometimes I don't.

It's probably symbolic for something, like everything else, though I'm not sure what.

More aliens come into my world. They are of a whole plethora of colours, and for some reason all of them are covered in red patches. I shrug off the thought.

I feel oddly obliged to take care of them.

I'm told that I should never leave my world. I don't question it, for the reason is glaringly obvious – I cannot enter outer space in my attire, and seeing as people are the ones that pay me visits, there is simply no need to.

I've been making friends with the aliens. They're really nice, once one gets past their initial jumpiness and the bruises. They seem to like me more now.

Making friends is an integral part of daily life. So this, like everything else, is normal.

This is nothing.

I am alone.

This is something I have come to accept. I stare at the maroon confines of my world, and it keeps silent, as if it was common knowledge all along.

Something red with a curious shape sits in front of me. I do not know what to do with it – it is then I am told to pick it up and take a bite. "With your mouth," it says belatedly.

I obey. I never knew that thing served a purpose other than talking.

I think I've solved yet another equation. I can understand the aliens' languages in perfect clarity now – I hear them talk, I can feel what they feel. I hear them pining for freedom, I hear them wanting to see a brighter sky, I hear them wanting so much – with me by their side.

I think about all the time I've spent with them, and them with me.

I will make their dreams realised.

I learn that humans are the cause of all trouble. They start wars, they harm things, they have zero morals and I must strive to get them away from the aliens if I want to see the aliens safe. I know that this is true. Father's words ring true in my mind.

This is another equation I will find the solution to.

I stare very hard at the telly. There's a face that looks back at me from inside it – one of a young child, with naïve eyes and short green hair.

I know – and I recognise – that it is me.

It is my day, where celebrating and joy is warranted. I saw faces decorated with cheery expressions, and someone ushered me to a table.

I think it was something I had forgotten in a long time. Today, I received a golden cube, called a menger sponge.

I tell Father that I want to save the aliens.

He smiles and says that is the right way to think.

I step out into the land of green ground and bluish-white ceilings, where day is characterised by blinding lights and cerulean skies; night acts as a backdrop for stars that shine very prettily.

I assess a few things. My name is N, and I am entering a whole new planet in a white shirt, a pair of brown jeans and a trucker cap. My favourite colour is viridian, and I love puzzles dubbed as menger sponges. I hold a strong dislike for dreams and small spaces, and I love the circular motion of Ferris wheels. I like mathematics and logic.

I am me, and I will reach new heights no one else can achieve.