Of his early life little can be concretely established. Some historians, notably Vale in his excellent book on the subject, have argued convincingly that the boy must have originally come from a wealthy family, citing his later knowledge of society and the presence of his most famous servant, the creature called Persephone. Such a powerful pokemon under such extraordinarily personal control speaks to the likelihood of a long-existing bond, and indeed, it is difficult to imagine that Persephone could have been easily captured in the wild by such a young and inexperienced trainer. Accounts of the creature's power are numerous and often fanciful, but there are some reasonably trustworthy studies at the time that speak of its energy as entirely remarkable, making it unlikely to be the acquisition of a child. If we accept the hypothesis regarding a wealthy family, it seems we must look for one that had fallen on hard times. These were in no short supply during the era, but this family in particular seems to have left its son a miserable pauper. – The Rise of Shadowcrown, Professor Joshua Rose.
The boy sat silently in the dingy room with his eyes downcast, his hands in his lap. He was not a particularly remarkable child. He was small and scrawny and barely into his teens, with exceptionally pale hair that badly needed a trim and harsh, almost hawkish features that might have looked impressive on an older man but only made the youth's face appear slightly clownish and forgettable.
He sat apart from his peers. There were other children, some younger, most older, all of them better dressed. The room was little more than a whitewashed box with a lot of chairs and a carpet that seemed mostly held together by filth at this point. The chairs were filled by children who talked and laughed and traded stories, and others who nervously listened to a crackling speaker in the corner. Most of them had drawn together in clumps. This boy had not. He made eye contact with no one and took care not to draw attention to himself. In this he had failed: several of the larger boys had already been eyeing him as a potential victim. They might have acted, if not for his companion.
Beside him, sitting bolt-upright, was a young woman. She appeared about seventeen, and was thus rather a conundrum for the children, as both rather too young to be the boy's guardian and far too old to be his girlfriend. She might have been his sister or cousin, but there was no family resemblance whatsoever. Her hair was black as midnight, and though it was hard to call her thin, almost waifish face beautiful, it was undeniably pretty in its way. Her skin was pale as chalk, while the thin, gauzy dress that hung over her dainty build was dark as sin. Her eyes were violet. Not a mere dark blue in the way that eyes called purple sometimes are. True violet, dark and rich and more than a little eerie. No one met her gaze as she stared around at them.
The boy appeared as unaware of her presence as he was of everyone else's. He might have seemed lost in some daydream, if not for his hands. The fingers tapped together in agitation, and at moments of uncertainty over the speaker, they tapped faster.
The announcer's voice was relayed imperfectly, but most of the room could still hear what was being said, through sheer volume if nothing else. It seemed that a Sandslash was being trounced. Some of the trainers against the walls were debating the choice of a Sandslash in the first place, but without knowing what else was available, the discussion wasn't getting much further than posturing.
The announcement came suddenly. The Sandslash was down. There was a scattered bit of cheering and clapping from different people around the room, but most of the children just kept waiting with hungry looks on their faces.
The woman flinched a little, her lip twisting.
The boy looked up for the first time, focusing on his companion. "You're with me, aren't you?" he said. His voice was small and brittle, that of someone holding his courage together with tape, gum, and sheer will.
The woman turned her violet eyes on the boy and nodded a little. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and returned to his previous posture.
Time passed. Trainers left one at a time, called out for their chances to prove themselves in the arena. Those they left behind listened to them fail. Over and over, they listened, until the talk died away and grim silence fell. Many began to fidget and look at the floor. It was as if the light-haired boy had infected the others.
Finally, the door opened, and a man with mousy hair and glasses leaned in. He cast his eyes over the remaining trainers, and gave a little twist of his mouth before consulting a clipboard. "Uh…Daven Landry?"
The boy looked as though he wanted to bolt, but he climbed to his feet and slowly crossed the room. The woman rose as well, following him. They went through the door together, and along a dark, splintery corridor lit by greasy bulbs set into the floor. It smelled strongly of paint. A door was ahead, and issuing forth from it was bright light and a roar of sound, of a crowd.
"You'll have to find a seat now," said the man to the young woman, half-apologetically but with firmness.
The woman waited for the boy's nod, then turned sharply away and strode into the dark. She seemed to vanish very quickly.
"Ready?" said the spectacled man as the announcer finished calling the name Landry.
"Yes," said the boy, so faintly no one could have heard. He took a step forward, then another. His face was like milk as he went through the door and out onto the arena floor. He was met by a rather dutiful, lackluster bit of cheering from the audience.
"And here he is, here he is," boomed the disembodied voice over the speakers. "Mister Landry hails from…" There was a barely perceptible pause before the voice continued, forced joviality intact. "…unspecified, and my, are these kids getting younger?"
The boy had raised an arm to shield his eyes from the glare of the large fluorescent lights dangling overhead. The arena was ovoid and rather dingy, ringed in a cage of smudged plexiglass that stretched some twenty feet above the floor to guard the audience. The floor was bare concrete, scorched and chipped in so many places that the boy had to watch his footing as he walked to the center of the arena. The lights were very hot overhead, but the glow they gave off was bluish and stark, accentuating the grime and shadows.
A man of perhaps twenty-two was waiting in a painted circle in the middle of the arena. He was tall, olive-complected, a little weak-chinned, and from his expression rather weary and bored. When the boy entered the circle, the man walked forward and shook his hand in a brisk, businesslike manner. He didn't look at the boy's face while he did it, and turned away immediately afterward.
The boy turned on his heel. He could feel sweat starting to trickle down the small of his back as he walked back the way he had come toward another circle. His eyes scanned the stands, finding this face and that. Most of them were watching him with scant interest. He couldn't find the one face he wanted to see.
"It looks like Mister Landry does not have a long career in the arena," a commentator's voice said from the speakers overhead. "In fact, I can't find a mention in the database. This may be his inaugural match…just give us the thumb's up if we're right, Daven…"
The boy kept his head down and kept walking.
"…okay, guess he's a little shy. But if that's the case, Daven, welcome to the pocket monster world!"
There was a smattering of applause.
"…and don't take it too hard today," the commentator slyly continued, garnering a rather more enthusiastic reaction from the audience.
The boy came to a halt in his circle and turned. The champion was waiting at the other end, his longer stride having carried him to his circle faster. He already had a glint of silver in his hand. The boy became very aware of his own sweaty palms, but dared not wipe them in view of the entire crowd. Instead, he tried to keep his hand from shaking too badly as he reached beneath his coat and drew out a ball of his own.
"As you can see," the original announcer said, "both entrants are using the new Trap Balls out of Johto. And these really are becoming ubiquitous among the younger generation, aren't they, Trip?"
"Well, I was talking to an older trainer yesterday, and you know, I get the impression that a lot of the old guard really feel that the monsters deserve stabling, they think it leads to a better bond, and, you know, ultimately more control over the creature. But I do think a lot of newer trainers find them convenient. I mean, that's where we're getting the new name, the pocket monster, it's the idea of a monster you can carry around in your pocket. No worries about transportation or even so much feeding…"
"Or shoveling the, uh, leavings."
"Right," laughed Trip. "Or the leavings, right."
"And folks, we are just waiting for the signal from…yes, all right, everything sealed up and ready to go. All right. As always, this match will be decided on the basis of two monsters: if either contestant defeats two of his enemy's beasts, he will be declared the winner. And this is really the exciting part now, the opening gambit."
"And you know, it's really an opportunity to get into the trainers' heads, see what mindset they're in based on what they choose, and – assuming they have more than the required two options – that can give us an indication of, well, of where the match might go."
"That's right, Trip, and…"
The chatter continued unabated. The boy was watching a succession of digital bars vanishing one after another on a screen above the arena. Five bars…then four. He was gritting his teeth so hard they ached, but couldn't seem to stop. Three bars. He took a firmer hold on the ball. Two…one…
He had half-feared that when the moment came, he wouldn't be able to throw. A bolt of panic went through him as the final bar vanished, but his arm was arching back of its own accord, and his fingers had released the ball in a glittering arc, and all he could do was pray that…
"And Trip, am I wrong, or is that a Haunter?"
"That is definitely a Haunter, fantastic choice coming out of the gate – if you have one, of course."
"Mm, and the champ goes with his Hitmonlee…bet he wishes he could take that back now."
The boy began to breathe easier. No one seemed to have noticed anything strange. But of course, they weren't looking for it. He was just a combatant to them, fresh meat.
Now he just had to win.
"Hitmonlee, high jump kick," said the champion.
"Confusion!" said the boy, so fast the syllables tripped over each other on the way out.
The Hitmonlee coiled its legs and leapt the intervening space between itself and the Haunter in one bound, twisting into a kick even as the Haunter raised a clawed hand, fingers trailing with ethereal slowness through the air…fascinating slowness…
"And Riley's obviously keen to close the distance fast, take advantage of Hitmonlee's speed…" said Trip.
"Right…confusion was maybe not the best choice he…what the…?"
A foot slammed onto the cement as the Hitmonlee reeled drunkenly sideways. The Haunter had slipped neatly out of the way, ragged wisps trailing. Now it closed in, shadow leaking from its ghastly grin.
"Hitmonlee, tornado kick," called the champion, a bit more urgency coming into his voice.
The Hitmonlee spun into the air with a vicious kick that covered nearly three hundred sixty degrees. The boy cried out, but the Haunter raised its hands to shield itself and was only rocked backward a foot or two. The dark eyes narrowed as it lowered the claws.
On landing, the Hitmonlee faltered and fell to one knee, clearly off balance.
"And still confused, but fighting on," went on the announcer. "I've said it before, the loyalty in that Hitmonlee to its master's voice…"
"Very impressive, it really is," said Trip. "But I'll tell you what else is impressive…that Haunter."
"Yes indeed…yes, folks, if you're not so familiar with the ghost pokemon, they are not known for being quite this…well, scrappy, if you will, but there's an exception to every rule…Trip, have you heard of a Haunter actually blocking something before?"
"Well, you know, a psychic attack, obviously, I'd say a Haunter…but against a fighting type, no, I'd have to say I have not."
"Lullaby," said the boy.
"Hitmonlee, kick it!" snapped the champion, losing his practiced cool. "Axe kick, axe kick!"
The Hitmonlee staggered upright, but the Haunter was already upon it, and the clawed hands fixed over its eyes. The mouth opened…but nothing issued forth but spectral stillness.
"Well, that's interesting…folks, usually at this time a Haunter would be speaking its name, but this one seems to have been trained a little differently…"
"Hitmonlee!" snapped the champion. "Get up!" His words seemed to fall on deaf ears. The Hitmonlee was slipping to the ground, and the Haunter looming above seemed to grow darker and larger as its opponent fell.
The boy's heart was beating rapidly. He couldn't tell if he was terrified, exultant, or a mixture of both. He licked his lips before he spoke.
"Now. Eat its dreams."
The Haunter slipped closer, jaws gaping wide…
It was seen by onlookers only as a spasm of Hitmonlee's limbs as the monster flailed, twitched, and fell still.
"Oh!" Trip gushed. "Brutal! Oh, that was just butchery, and yes, look at Riley's face, he is not happy. John, are we, ah, looking at an upset here?"
"Well, I'd say that's too early to call. That is a strong Haunter, I'll grant you, but we should remember…opponent's a fighting type. I mean…well, just not good luck for the champ coming into the first round, but this is where things get interesting."
A beam of white light summoned Hitmonlee back to his ball. Riley the champion seemed to consider for a moment, and then reached for another ball. He flung it into the air…
The boy took a quick, ragged breath as the monster's shape grew more distinct.
"And yes, there it is, Riley's Arcanine has taken the field!"
"Signature creature in the bigger fights. Obviously the champ is taking our Mister Landry seriously…or at least he's taking the Haunter seriously."
"And it's not that surprising, given what we just saw."
"Right, but folks, we cannot emphasize this enough, fighting type against a Haunter was a huge disadvantage, and our challenger should not have things so much his way this time."
"Arcanine," snapped the champion, "fire blast."
The boy felt the heat from where he stood, hot enough to bring sweat to his brow. Flames, bright enough to leave afterimages in his vision, burst from the Arcanine's mouth as it barreled forward.
"Haunter!" he shouted. "Shadow Force!"
Gloom immediately grew around Haunter. The last thing to vanish was its hideous grin. The flames struck the cloud of shadow a moment later, ripping through it and bursting into more diffused fire on the far side. Arcanine skidded to a halt in the swirling remnants of the fog, looking right and left.
"Arcanine!" said the champion, "hold."
"And that was slickly done, John," said Trip into the silence that followed.
"Yes, indeed. I'd have sworn you couldn't pull a Shadow Force off that fast, but if there's one thing we're learning about this Haunter in particular, it's that it has reflexes a bit beyond the usual range…"
Reality rippled suddenly behind Arcanine, and Haunter burst forth, maw gaping…
"Now, Arcanine! Flame wheel!"
The Arcanine's tail, and indeed its entire coat, seemed to kindle, and abruptly erupt as the Haunter came down upon it. The dark claws struck home…for an instant. Then they lost their hold on the Arcanine's fur as the inferno carried it back, enveloping it…
"Aha!" cried John the announcer. "And you see, that's why Riley's our champion. It's not just Haunter that has some reflexes…well, that should have been devastating close on…"
The boy had raised his arm again, and now he lowered it. Sweat was wrung from his brow by the heat, and his eyes frantically searched the smoke. "Haunter?" he said.
Arcanine sniffed, and suddenly went rigid. Ahead of it, the smoke abruptly parted like a set of curtains.
"Wha…oh, you've got to be kidding me…" crackled over the speakers.
Darkness congealed into the ragged figure of Haunter, apparently none the worse for wear. The shadowy eyes were slits, and the smile was manic, ghoulish.
"H-Haunter," said the boy, relief making him so light-headed he had to take a step back to regain his balance. "Finish. I mean. Finish it. Now, finish it."
It was nothing like a real command, but the creature seemed to understand, hurtling forward with claws opening.
"Arcanine!" barked the champion. "Fire fang!"
Arcanine leapt, teeth glowing red-hot, jaws wide…and the Haunter raised a hand to meet it. For a moment of dreamy unreality, Arcanine seemed to slow in the air as a terrible pressure built in the arena. Then a wave of invisible force carried the monster backward, flung it like a rag doll. The shock wave shuddered the plexiglass in its frames. The champion dove out of the way, and his monster streaked overhead to strike the back wall with a sickening crunch. It slid to the floor, whimpered once, and lay still.
"Arcanine," rasped the champion. "Get up."
The monster gave no response.
"What the hell was that?" said the announcer.
"That was a telekinetic attack," said Trip. "That or a damn strong Ominous Wind…"
"Right," said John. "You're right, yeah, definitely an Ominous Wind there. Folks, as you can tell from our, um, our consternation up here, this kind of ability is nearly unprecedented in a Haunter…that is a very special monster down there, and it seems our Mister Landry is due a prize."
The applause started a little faint and ragged. Most of the faces the boy could see looked a little shellshocked. Gradually, however, the clapping grew louder, then to a few whistles and cheers. It wasn't adulation, but it was something. His heart seemed to swell in his chest.
"Folks, Mister Landry now has the option of selecting any of the champion's secondary monsters to add to his own team, including the monsters already won today from previous challengers. And Mister Landry's decision is…?"
The boy swallowed, cleared his throat, and spoke up loudly. "I…the Vulpix."
"And he chooses the Vulpix won from Angeline Masters in round five," said Trip. "Interesting choice…definitely not the most powerful."
"Right, but from what we've seen, it seems he likes teaching his monsters unusual moves…or at least he knows someone who does…better to start them young…"
The champion was crossing the field. His mouth was in a hard, angry line. His grip as he shook the boy's hand was hard enough to hurt. When he pulled the ball out from beneath his coat, the boy thought for a wild moment that he was about to have it flung in his face. Instead, the champion shoved it into the boy's recently crushed hand and turned to leave without a word. The boy held the ball in his hands, weighing it, running his fingers over it. His. His own.
"Once again, folks, let's hear it for today's first victor, Mister Daven Landry…and of course his undefeated Haunter!"
Applause followed him from the arena, and more commentary, but the boy was unconcerned with any of it. He passed the stares of the other waiting competitors without a word, Haunter wafting silently behind him. He didn't stop until he had reached the door out and closed it behind him. Then he sagged against the wall and took great gasps of the night air. After the heat of the arena, the wind was cold, and goose pimples rose on his flesh. Setting his shoulders, he peeled away from the wall and began walking into the dark, following the sidewalk away from the large, unprepossessing warehouse he had just vacated. A few automobiles rumbled by, but not many. The town was not large or small or prosperous or poor. It could claim fairly few superlatives, in fact. For the most part, it simply was, and the boy walked through the dark still cradling his prize to his chest as though he expected someone to take it away from him.
The Haunter followed him, wraithlike, for a block or two. Then, somewhere in the dark place between two streetlamps, it vanished, and what followed him forward into the light was the dark-haired young woman with the violet eyes. She looked pensive.
At length, the boy paused beside a dumpster. He looked right and left and then drew Haunter's Trap Ball from under his coat. He clicked it open, revealing a damaged and somewhat rusty interior: the device was clearly crippled beyond repair. A faint smile crossed the boy's lips, and then he tossed the broken keepsake into the dumpster. It clanked against the steel. Where it had sat on his belt, he secured the ball containing his new acquisition. Then he turned, and in the shadow he smiled at his companion.
"We did it," he murmured. "You were fantastic, Persephone."
The young woman nodded silently. She gestured vaguely at the night, raising her eyebrows to indicate a question.
"Yes, we're leaving," he said. "We'll get the bags at the room first, then…I don't know. Wherever the train's going, I suppose." He looked a last time at the ball on his waist. "Things'll be…easier now. Now I really do have two." He glanced back up, and for a fleeting moment, happiness made his craggy features charming. "This is the start of it. I told you. This is the start."
The boy called Daven Landry walked into the waiting night. The creature called Persephone walked a pace behind him, silent as no living woman could ever be.
I have heard half a thousand theories on his true identity. I must say that I find discussing the matter self-indulgent, even pointless. It doesn't matter what he was. Only what he became, the mark he left on this world. That he never revealed his original name is proof enough that he had left his past behind when he embarked on his mission. He was Shadowcrown. That is all we shall ever know of the man. If you have heard even one story about him, you know that it is probably all the identity anyone could ever need. – Anne Routh, researcher