A quick one-shot about Spiritombs. Because they're almost like the stuff of nightmares. Inspired by the pokedex entry.
108
At first the trainer is ecstatic that he has caught another pokemon, especially one that was so rare and hard to find originally. It was by a stroke of luck that the Odd Keystone had fallen into his hands, and that, when he stumbled across the Hallowed Tower, it had come to life. But it's by destiny that he and the pokemon met, he's sure of it!
But then weird things start happening. He keeps feeling as though many pairs of eyes are watching him when there are none, keeps thinking that there is something sinister lurking around the campfire at night. He keeps dreaming, and in his dreams, he remembers names and places that do not exist, remembers people and words that he does not know, remembers the feel of fresh blood on his hands. He wakes up screaming at night, startling all of his pokemon but one. And the image of a green vortex haunts his thoughts for the rest of the night.
He thinks, there must be something wrong with this one. It has never spoken or played like the rest of his pokemon. He dismisses it as being anti-social and aloof, nothing to worry about. Yet the feeling keeps nagging him; the way that its one open eye watches his every move, the way that there is a chill down his spine whenever he looks at it, and he remembers the tales his mother told him as a boy in his bed to scare him.
A hundred and eight souls fight by his side unwillingly, a hundred and eight malevelont spirits eat at his table. A hundred and eight evil thoughts that should not have been given life once more to exist, a hundred and eight separate destinies that have collided with him. He knows the myths- who hasn't heard of them?- but he brushes them off aside for the most part, thinking that myths are just myths and that it is a strong pokemon that has proven its worth time and time again.
But his pokemon bare their fangs angrily at the newcomer whenever they are let out, and sometimes he does not know what is real or what is a nightmare; they blend all into one. He hears voices- dozens of voices- that whisper in his ear, saying nothing but saying something that calls at his soul, tugs at his heart. He finds himself dizzy after these episodes, uncertain as to what just occured.
He becomes a shadow of his former self as the weeks pass. The pokemon's unwavering gaze holds his attention for the most part, and in the green vortex, he sees resentment and anger and hatred and so many other emotions that assault his senses as if they had physical form, rocking his already weakened body- inexplicably deteriorating from his usual form- from side to side in coughing fits. His pokemon seem to blame it for his illness, but he calls them off and restrains them, explains to them that he has probably spent too many days out in the open, training for his dreams- except that the dream he talks about and the dream he had the night before are two different things entirely.
And then one day he can't take it any more- the voices, the nightmares, the tug on his soul, the continuous feeling of dread that hangs over his shoulder- and he faces the pokemon, secluded alone in a shadow, the Odd Keystone which contains it broken in half to reveal a purple, ghostly form.
"Who are you?" he asks, demands in a mixture of desperation and fear. Too late, he realizes that he has already recalled his other pokemon, that if something goes wrong he is left entirely on his own. But surely that won't happen, will it? This is his pokemon he's thinking about, one that he freed and raised and trained and feared.
Give us your soul.
He doesn't have the time to scream as the purple smoke reaches out and drags him close- closer- until the green vortex that is its eyes consumes him entirely and overwhelms his sense of self. Who is he? What is he?
You are nothing. We are all.
He realizes he does not exist anymore. He barely stays alive in the swirling vortex of green and purple, and he is surrounded by constant chatter and constant silence. He barely recalls what or who he is- after all, who he was pales in comparison to the rest of the spirits locked within it.
He tries to scream. And a hundred and eight voices drown out his thoughts around him.