1 – The Invocation

"Come."

For a moment, they thought the voice was calling for them. They had hoped for a moment that someone was thinking of them.

But, no, in the end, it was not ever for them. It was for the good children, or the squabbling children, as they liked to think of those two.

It was always them, even though every time there tended to be an incident, it was the two of them. Dialga and Palkia caused so much trouble and yet Creator looked upon them fondly. No, they corrected in their mind. Somewhat fondly. They were locked up as well. Someone needed chains and toys to reach them, the fools. They could still go where they wished, which was an envious ability to be sure. However, they were under lock and key by three spirits, three who left Giratina themselves alone. They gave Giratina no quarrel.

Until now.

They heard the small ones scream. The sprites let out cries of resonating agony, long and loud enough to destroy any eardrums that they might have had and tug at their heart.

Well, if they weren't dead.

Giratina, as a matter of fact, was very dead. Dual types with the word ghost in their typing tended to be. In fact, they were more of a wraith. But even those specifics were irrelevant. They had been thought about thousands of times in wandering this endless reversed hellscape.

"Come."

The voice was ice hit with a hammer. It was also weighted in self-importance, in that human-fuelled clarity of belief in their own dragged down ideas. These could certainly not be faulted, but they were wrong.

"Create a new galaxy!" Like drumbeats, poorly paced and stuttering for their worth. "A new world!"

Voices were behind this man, but they were petty. They were so heavy and wrong in their tiny, feeble endearments, in that word master.

But then, like all mortals do, they don't understand. You can not create a world with time and space alone. You cannot create a world with concepts that already exist. All you can do is doom what is born and made. And Giratina, infinite and wise and bitter, find fault in that.

The dragon flapped their wings, each sharp point glowing red. Another flap and a thudding of hearts. Giratina threw back their head and howled, the darkness of his home, his universe coming at his call and swelling into power. It swirled into being into a massive cluster and then, without hesitation, he threw it up and shattered a portion of the sky. The sweet smell of wind, real wind brushed into golden skeletal nostrils.

They were quite lucky their tear ducts had long since shriveled into uselessness.

Unfortunately, their sight of the old world, of home, was ugly, marred by viscous purple clouds and unnatural lightning. Also the screaming. That was starting to get horribly distracting. It needed to stop at some point, though that was likely to happen only when the two idiots were brought to heel.

That thought settled things in their mind. They threw themselves upward. They wanted to find the voice. They wanted to see their face, to make them know, understand… true fear. Whatever that would be for them.

As the hole grew closer, dread washed into their intestinal remains. What would it be like to touch that world again, even for this brief moment? Would their scales rot off? Would their eyes finally go well and truly out like candles? Or would they be able to experience the beauty of their former home at last?

The thought almost gave their heart the ability to beat. So without hesitation now, they shoved their head out. They met resistance, as predicted. The world still rejected them. It was almost comforting to know the old human saying was still applicable. It hurt, crashing through reality. It crashed over the remaining flesh and scales and their form rotted grey and dripping from one dimension to the other as he rose up. Only the eyes remained unchanged, visible, cat-red and seeing clear even in this murky air.

Murky is the wrong word. The air was charred, slick with the soot and ash of another stupid human making another stupid mistake. But this time, they would get to wreak retribution on someone who truly deserved it.

They don't have to look very hard to find their mark either. The eyes of a dying finneon give it away. The self-imposed disgust within a present era. In the past, they would have called it rebellion. Giratina knew better: it's called elitism.

So, with that thought, they lunged forward.


A/N: Hello! So while I'm backlogging Yellow Adoption, please enjoy this! It's supposed to be fairly quick and will help me have some fun getting into Giratina's head. He's one of those legends I really like, but don't write. Whoops!

Challenges: PFC Ficlet Competition and Novella Masterclass (Specials) 8.