1.1 NUVEMA TOWN
The music fades to a heartbeat, yours, when you pass through those doors. It's magic every time, watching the landscape transform. The walls shoot up until they're bleachers which touch the sky; picture frames turn into the faceless audience whose words slowly start to replace the thump, thump of a heart. Skin 'em alive, we're rooting for you, fuck 'em in the asshole with no lube—fuck me in the asshole until I bleed your babies, Champion! — these are their cheers, but they're not for you.
Stand, the floor demands of you as it pushes you heavenwards. Grab the railing in front of you, for the arena has dared to come alive, and this is your platform. Above you, the ceiling is psychic pink, a barrier forming which wishes to separate challengers and crowd; beneath you is an expanse of ground—a battlefield broken only by jagged rocks and white paint. Companions at your side—literally; in the balls that contain them, hitched onto the belt around your waist—you are ready. Welcome to the League.
A sharp dagger of a thought strikes the back of your mind: you'll beat him this time.
You'll beat him this time and, like clockwork, your heart becomes a drum abused—he appears, a picture frame like the lot of them: faceless, a distant memory at least. A resounding gong which refuses to still, still—still, my heart: a plea, because you've gotten this far before only to stop—
this isn't where you want this to end.
You'll beat him this time, but your pleas turn into bated breath, into bated breath, into bated breath, into I can't breathe —stop, because his shoes have yet to kiss the metal of the platform. He steps, and ascends to your level—but Arceus, God, this is so slow that your body has found you a mistress in anxiety who holds you the way a proper lover would. She traces the length of your spine and sends tremors down to your knees—shaking. Breathe, and you'll beat him this time.
He lifts his hat and he's not so faceless anymore—hazel eyes that hold a promise to kill you before you kill him, you kill him—you killed him—you shout, but there are no words. The same dagger strikes, but it pains you more than before: you'll beat him this time. The tremors still caress your legs but today, that doesn't matter because you find yourself standing, as the floor demanded of you. Your palms are crying tears of sweat, but there he goes—throws: the first of his Pokémon, and you remember it. Espeon. You've made it this far but this is not where you falter. This time, you will beat him, and so you throw—white.
You almost hear him—see him, the beloved Charizard you raised from infancy. Almost, but you don't—the light settles on your platform corroding. Steady yourself, but your mistress has decided to bless the pillar with her touch. Concrete, metal, machinery—succumb to gravity. The pink of the barrier is eroding into the crowd—the crowd, bubbles rushing into needles. Their heads pop, pop, popping, one by one they smile their goodbyes: and I paid so much just to watch this match. What a shame, what a shame — and those are all for you.
Fall into me, your floor demands of you as it turns into a bed of thorns—but look! The ball, his Pokéball, remains suspended in air, and for a moment, gravity abandons you as well. Reach—
if you could just—
reach—
brush even your pinky—
reach.
you almost saw him aga—
it collapses into a rain of dust. Dust, red dust, clings onto your fingers as you begin your descent into the hell you've made for yourself. Red dust, crawling into your palms, coagulating into blood—crimson, his. It doesn't stop—it never stops—and you feel it: slithering up your arms, your shoulders, binding your neck. Your neck—you are coated in their blood, but that's no surprise. So do tell, why are you running away, Twyla?
Stop running away—
the handheld hits something—
"Ah, mom," you murmur, but you aren't here. Carpet, carpet—thunk, and your hand hits the wood of your bed, your bed. That you could call anything yours slows the beating of your heart to a staccato. It begins to fade, the crimson you see on your hands. Or perhaps it was never there, and your eyesight was merely playing tricks on you. Calloused fingertips onto sweaty palms—a routine at this point, and the results never differ: no trace of dust, of blood, of Red, of him. You breathe as you figure out you've returned. You sigh as you realize you never left.
A NOTE TO THE READER
Hello all!
If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! I hope I didn't bore any of you, or disappoint you with my writing. The Lunacy series is one I've been wanting to write since I was what—twelve-years-old? I'm far older now, so finally being able to actually present this to you is somewhat of a dream come true! I'm really excited to get into the actual Nuzlocke of this piece, and I hope you all are too!
I apologize if this part doesn't go with what usually begins the Nuzlocke—you know, the Pokémon and stuff—but as this is the final installation of the series, it does carry its baggage. What I posted today isn't the entirety of the first chapter. But, as I've stated in the very beginning, Lunacy is rather demanding—not just of me, but of you all as well. Reading an entire chapter which is so emotionally-charged, so to speak, as the part above would be incredibly draining—especially if there are no lighthearted spells in between. And so, I've decided to work on Lunacy piece-by-piece. Hopefully, you will all be patient with me!
Please, feel free to share your thoughts, or ask any questions! Thanks again for your time!
Rese
P.S. This Nuzlocke is also posted on the Nuzlocke forums at: s7 dot zetaboards dot com slash Nuzlocke_Forum/topic/11051140/1/?x=0#post11122814 (where the words "dot" and "slash" do translate to actual symbols) — this link is also (conveniently) posted on my profile! The rules of the 'locke, as well as updates that may not be available on this site, are available here!