Goodness knows how long I've taken getting chapters up, this one's been on the cards since at least October. Enjoy hopefully, I probably won't be able to get many more done if any until August. I have a serious backlog of University work to contend with.
Lateral Ganon
# # # Chapter Specific Notes # # #
Italics are still generally showing a character thinking
This chapter takes fuller advantage of the M-rating,
there is somewhat frequent swearing and adult
themes involved. Even in the chapter title.
Chapter 2 - Hands Off What You Can't Afford
The Cult of Strato, as religions go, is very rigid and formalised despite the anarchic tag that the rest of the populace placed on the heads of divinity believers. Worshipping the Rayquaza, they were one of many which wept forlornly over the loss of the Ages of Gods, but one of the most resolute in their conviction that their patron deity would return one day in glory.
A monk clad in thick green robes was walking up the stone staircase that spiralled along the inside of the church's observatory tower, his hands pressed together inside the sleeves to try to ward off the bitter chill from the snowstorm outside. The Cult had taken over this ruined church at the northernmost point of Sinnoh, dozens of miles north of Snowpoint. They'd renovated it as their headquarters, and it had been home to the Cult's most devoted followers ever since they're been chased out of their ancestral halls in Sinnoh's centre decades ago by the Great Rationality.
As he climbed higher, a few more wisps of snow blew in through the narrow slits which once would have served as archer's lookouts. For all the technology they'd installed in the place somehow they'd managed to neglect the need for windows, stuffing many of the holes with old rags. Of course, that did nothing to deaden the cold. Reaching the top of the stairs, he swiftly flicked open the trapdoor, immediately allowing the full brunt of the snowstorm to assail him. The torrent of mind-numbingly cold sleet was quick to soak his robes through but regardless he pushed onwards onto the roof of the tower, the wind slamming the trap door shut behind him as he let it go. Shivering earnestly, and with no visibility to help, the monk placed a gloved hand on the edge of the tower's parapet, following the border. His other hand was outstretched the opposite way, grasping for the edge of the doorway into the observatory dome. After several swiping misses his hand hit the doorframe, and without a second to waste he swung himself at the door; barging through it and slamming it behind him in one deft movement.
Now the observatory was hardly any better than outside, the only difference really was that a thin layer of aluminium protected them from actually being pelted with snow. The temperature was still low enough to glue your tongue to the wall if for some reason the idea of licking the wall entered your head, and there was no-one to talk to until your shift at the scope was over. The previous shift's operator was still at the telescope's eye, earpieces clearly visible running to a music player in his pocket. The monk could sympathise with the acolyte's boredom at this post - keeping watch for the return of God. Lowering his own hood and brushing some of the snow off himself, he plucked the player from the man's pocket and paused it.
"Your shift is over brother." He said quietly, slipping the player back into the man's robes, "How are the viewing conditions tonight?"
"Besides the snowstorm… good… good."
"And your choice of music?"
"Death Metal today."
The monk nodded, familiar with that genre amongst the acolytes. It was an amalgamation of the death screams of Pokemon hybrids at the hands of sharp metal implements. Quite expensive taste, considering the lengths that had to be taken to acquire it.
"Good… good. May your feasts be red."
"May your feasts be red." The acolyte responded respectfully before gathering up his possessions and relinquishing the bench for the monk. The monk nodded appreciatively, and positioned himself at the eyepiece. The howl of the snowstorm flared up briefly behind him as the acolyte left, before he was left alone again. Taking out a music player of his own he plugged it in and slipped on the headphones, settling in for the night shift.
Anyone that knew Peter would tell you he was too stubborn to drink. It was similarly futile to try and get him to buy the round, the rumour being that he was a tightwad and would only pay for his own drinks. To be fair, he wouldn't let anyone else pay for his drinks if they offered to buy a round, but as team players went, definitely a stick in the mud. A heavy stick in thick mud.
Peter was sat at a table for two, facing the wall. To be fair, table is misleading; it was more of a plank nailed into the wall about a metre and a half up. A ledge would be a more suitable term. A lonely ledge. With two shabby barstools serving it. One arm rested on the ledge, a small glass of cola in his hand. His other hand was surreptitiously held in his lap, holding a scrap of paper he'd written various things on. It was his crib sheet he'd made about the habits of his intriguing girls and having written off Eleanor, he was now trying his luck with one he'd named Sweet Girl, named for her innocent mannerisms. Kevin of course would have commented on her knockout breasts, but Peter wasn't a breast man. More erring towards leg. Topside assets were to be considered more of a bonus.
Glancing at his watch and back at the door again, he smiled as Sweet Girl walked in right on cue. Of course, she'd head to her usual table, and then her other girl friends would join her and they'd gossip as girls do. Of course, in his preoccupation with his list, he hadn't noticed that three boys were already sat at her table, clearly also having been waiting for her.
"Hey, Jess!" Called out a burly ginger one, one of the sports jocks judging by the team sweater he was wearing, "How are you man, we were hoping you'd drop by."
Sweet Girl gave the boys a cursory look over, and then smiled kindly.
"How nice of you. Have you been waiting long?" She asked, all the while Peter jotted down the new pieces of information, namely her name, and the odds that she may already be attached. The guy to the ginger jocks left shrugged indifferently.
"Nah, not long. You want a drink? It's my round."
"Oh sure, does the barman do Butterscotch Delight?" She asked. The boys nodded, and she clapped her hands in glee, "Can I have that? Thank you so much!"
The boy who'd offered to buy the round stood up, and slyly winked at his companions. The rugby jock just swatted his flank to tell him to get a move on, whilst the final boy, who hadn't said a word yet, made a small frowning gesture and pointed up at the girls face.
"Hey, Jess. Is that a smudge of eyeliner?" He asked. Now, even by student standards, it was a very rude thing to comment on a girl's make-up so blatantly. For a night out like this, they'd typically take the best part of an hour preening themselves in the hope that it would look natural, so any comment at all even insinuating they were wearing make-up was essentially an insult.
Jess reflexively brought her hand up to her eye, actually smudging it, before immediately diving into her handbag for a small mirror. Scrutinising herself for less than a second (the time it takes for a typical girl to convince herself that she has something wrong with her), she gasped, before flinging the mirror back into her bag.
"Back in a minute." She whimpered, before bolting out of the bar; probably to the bathrooms. The two remaining boys looked at each other, and gave each other a high-five. Less than ten seconds later, the third boy came back with a tray carrying three typical beers and one Butterscotch Delight. The sports jock took the drinks off the tray one by one and, with a speed born from regular practice, he added a few drops from a small bottle to her cocktail as he set it down. Taking his own beer in hand, he held it up for the other two to toast. The boys were muttering something Peter couldn't hear but, judging from the unfortunately obvious bulge growing in the trousers of the boy that had brought the tray, it was of a perverse nature. Apparently also noticing it the jock swiftly rapped the boy's thigh, informing him of his predicament, and ushering him to sit down quickly.
Peter was the witness of a crime in the making.
The university library could be considered to be very well equipped, with e-subscriptions to every piece of regular academic press, and physical deliveries of many of the most respectable in their fields. Whilst its opening hours were limited, and its librarians pushy to the point of arrogance, given long enough, anything anyone wanted to know was hidden in its depths.
Eleanor had left for that library as it turned out, and was trying to put in a request for access to the special collections; the Universities rare and generally irreplaceable books, a request that was being repeatedly denied by the librarian on duty.
"Please. I only need to see the Legends Codices." She requested again. The Librarian shook his head again, and drummed his fingers on the desk.
"You need to make an application in advance and get it authorised by the faculty dean." He stated, pulling out a form from under the desk with his other hand, "Here, if you get that submitted in the morning, it should be authorised by next Wednesday. But without that, you're not getting in."
"Look," Eleanor brushed back a lock of hair which her fury had knocked loose, "If what I think is happening, pretty much every intellectual institution in the world is about to rendered obsolete. Tonight."
"So you need to see this book to save the world of academia then." The librarian sarcastically stated, rolling his eyes and fidgeting with the form. Eleanor scowled at him, since the way he'd worded it, whilst pretty much summarising exactly what she said, had completely belittled her point.
"How about a wager then. You've heard of the Strato Cult. If they start putting out a message that their 'god' has returned, with proof, by tomorrow, you owe me access to the special collections. Under my terms."
The librarian raised his eyebrows in shock, before an insidious grin crept across his face.
"That's a pretty hefty request. What do I get if they don't?"
"Name it. But they will."
The librarian thought for a few minutes, eying the girl as he did so. An assistant in the libraries would be useful, particularly one which didn't have to be paid. And then the idea of a personal slave began to appeal to him for other reasons.
"I could lose my job if I said." He said, making it clear what he had in mind. Eleanor nodded.
"Only if you lost. So then, deal?"
"That's fi-"
"In writing." She said, now with a triumphant grin of her own. The Librarian blanched a little, but if it was in writing, she couldn't back down, and he thought he couldn't lose his job if she'd agreed. Turning the form over, he wrote up a summary of their agreement, including the terms of victory and the prizes each had been allocated.
"Access to the special collections under her terms… There, signature now."
Eleanor took the form, and still smirking throughout signed it without a pause. Passing it back over the counter to him, she jeered.
"Last chance to back out. You could still save face by just letting me in the collections now. No-one would be any the wiser."
The librarian took the pen, and with only a glimmer of hesitation signed his own name. It didn't help his attempts to resist by the fact that in leaning over, Eleanor had deliberately given him the very faintest glimpse of her cleavage.
"And photocopy." She said, watching as he photocopied it, before swiping the original off the machine, "Since I'm the one the odds are clearly so stacked against, it's fair if I take the original. I'll be coming to collect my keys tonight so make sure you stay in."
And with that, she left the flustered librarian at his desk, grinning to herself at her manipulative prowess.
Peter was watching the doorway restlessly. By now Jess's other friends should have come in to join her. Amongst the throng of about ten girls, she should have been protected from an attempted date rape by the safety of her friends… unless there was enough in that bottle to drug all of them, which would have been a veritable travesty to try and arrange. Certainly beyond the capabilities of a sports jock to orchestrate.
The door opened again to admit a couple of giggling girls, and Peter sighed in relief when he recognised them as some of Jess's crowd of friends. The boys were less pleased to see them judging by the scowls of annoyance that flashed over their faces, although by the time the girls had sat down with them, they were acting nothing less than the epitome of popular. Immediately, the jock's two accomplices moved around to chat up the new girls, although they'd positioned themselves in such a manner to ensure that the space left for Jess to sit was in the corner of their vision. Peter tutted… to figure out something that cunning one of the boys had to be a secret nerd. That wouldn't help his 'street cred'.
"If you're looking to pick up a girl, I wouldn't sit at the Loners Locker." A familiar feminine voice said from behind him. Spinning around in his seat, he looked at the girl who had taken the other seat with him. Melinda he recalled, a girl who'd dyed her hair a frankly ghastly shade of pink and whose acquaintance was generally associated with those luckless in love. Naturally, she'd paid him visits like this in the past. Peter hissed in annoyance, looking around quickly to see if anyone had noticed he'd attracted the attention of 'The Girl Guide'. Fortunately for him, no-one seemed to be interested in that fact.
"Fuck off." He hissed again at her, his fingers clenching around his glass in annoyance as though he'd find the strength to shatter it and then throttle her. Melinda settled an elbow on the ledge, resting the side of her head on the hand.
"If I was you I'd be more grateful than that, considering."
"Well I'm sorry," he started, with blatant sarcasm, "but I'm a bit preoccupied."
"Not with a girl of course."
"Fuck off! I'm not gay!"
"Well if you'd followed the advice, you'd have a girl by now."
"If I followed your advice, I'd never get a girl in my life. I was-"
"Checking out Jessica. Don't bother. She's too innocent to know if anyone has intentions. Even if Carl over there-" She tilted her head across to the jock, "Tried saying anything, he wouldn't be able to date her."
"He's not after a date, he's after a shag. He's rohypnoled her."
Melinda gave Peter her full attention, rather than her more languid half-look he'd been receiving before. Her full face in his was not a pretty sight but after recognising he wasn't joking she stared at Carl intently. The small bulge from the bottle up his left sleeve was further confirmation, and a glance later confirmed the fears of any girl. Jessica had the glass to her lips.
Jumping up fast enough to send the barstool flying Melinda ran at her, screaming Jessica's name. Barely three strides later for the large girl Melinda swatted the glass out of Jessica's hands, shattering the glass on the table which, if Mel's screaming hadn't been noticed, gained the full attention of the bar. Silence quickly fell, interrupted only by the drips from the ruined cocktail off the side of the table, and quiet sobbing on Jessica's part. Peter recoiled as he saw that Mel's actions shattering the glass had lacerated Jessica's small hands, streaking the white skin with red. Throughout the instance, Mel had remained at Jess's table, breathing heavily in a manner that would remind anyone of a Tauros just before it would charge. She was glaring at Carl and his two assistants lividly.
"You tried to date-rape her." She told them, earning shocked gasps from the bars onlookers. Carl opened his mouth to say something, but she pounded her fist against the remaining clean area of the table.
"You wretch! Can't find a willing hole so you decided to coerce one? That what you were thinking?"
"We didn't do anything to her drink." Carl said. A few of the onlookers sniggered, to which Mel looked up and smiled around the room. She dropped one hand into her jeans pocket.
"It seems there are people here who know what I'm about to do." She said smugly, drawing out a small matchbox from the pocket. Holding it up for everyone to see, she opened it, and pulled out a small yellow strip of paper, "I think even you know what this is."
She brought the strip down to the table, dipping an end of it into the remaining puddle of the cocktail. The nerd assistant held his breath as he watched the paper turn red.
"Shit" The boy whispered, barely audible. A chemical test strip which had just proved the presence of rohypnol in solution. Carl shot the boy a fierce look, before returning his attention to Mel.
"I don't know how it got in."
"Left sleeve, 50ml bottle, clear as day. Thicker people than you have figured out to put a drop in the end of a straw instead."
The two assistants looked at each other as though the idea was a stroke of genius, and Mel noticed their exchange, shook her head warningly.
"If you do that I will personally tear off any virility you have with my bare hands." She rasped at them, causing them both to shield their crotches with their hands. She looked at the nerdy one, scrutinizing his face.
"Just a minute… I know you; I gave you advice about three weeks ago."
"Can I just die now?" He said, resenting being identified as one of her luckless lads. Mel shook her head.
"How did you get involved?" She asked. The boy continued to avert eye-contact.
"He said we could get in second and thi-" The boy was cut off by a loud thud underneath him and he scrunched up his face in pain, a strangled noise escaping his throat. Everyone in hearing range winced oohed in empathy, including Peter who'd seen what the injury actually was. The sort of thing that would make any grown man shed tears of agony. Safe to say, she'd only have to 'dis-member' one of them in future. Melinda turned back to Carl, each staring daggers at each other.
"You're a nosy bitch." He growled, balling his hands into fists.
"And you're a failed excuse for a man, having to get his sex-fix by drugging up girls that are trusting you. Oh yeah, and failing at that too. Failed student, failed rapist, failed human being. Best word to describe you? Let's call you FuckTard. I bet you fail in bed too if it wasn't for half a bottle Viagra propping you up."
"Say that again. I dare you." Carl warned, cracking his knuckles ominously. So apparently you shouldn't hit a girl, but this one was built like him. Big and burly. He wouldn't have been surprised if she'd been born male. Even Peter had sometimes considered the possibility. Placing both hands flat on the table and leaning forwards to goad him, she responded.
"Failed… fucker."
"Again."
"You really like being told how low you are. You… are… a filthy… failed… fucker."
At that, Carl leapt up, knocking the table over, and made an ill-conceived attempt to throttle Mel. Anticipating of course, she'd reached out to grab his arms, before the whole affair became a brutal wrestling match, smashing any furniture which got in the way of the brawl to splinters.
Some immature members of the crowd began whooping and chanting 'fight', whilst others backed away to give the combatants a makeshift ring. Peter could see that those who'd originally been seated at the table had gathered to one side of the area, where the two friends were giving Carl's assistants pieces of their minds, one battering them with handbags, the other relying on nails. Both conspirators of course were howling, hemmed in by the crowd. Jessica on the other hand, was notably absent, her prior location only being marked with a few drips of blood escaped from her hands. Further from the melee, a few more drips had splattered, and following them further, led a trail out the doorway.
Far in the north, high above the surface of the world, the Rayquaza was corkscrewing through the air lazily; reacquainting itself with its muscles. It would take some practice before it would be able to fly at its full speed and agility again, but even in the millennium as a rock it still knew how to be the top predator. It was concerned though about how the Eon species had handled the ages as, even though the dragon could smell the familiar odour from escaping its prison, the scent was weak and conflicting. Not yet had a single Eon been encountered. And it was hungry.
Far below, on the top of a tower, no longer hindered by a snowstorm, a telescope was pointing directly at the Rayquaza, following every twist and turn. And behind the eyepiece, an overjoyed monk.
Eleanor shivered slightly in the cold night air on campus, her scarf wrapped as tight around her neck as it could before she'd have difficulty breathing. Winter was probably her fourth favourite season. As far as she was concerned, low temperatures could go to hell. And melt. She'd sometimes wished that she'd applied for a university in the warmer region of Hoenn, but Alamos University offered the most comprehensive course on history; a subject her family had always obsessed over. At some point in her youth she'd developed the habit as well, much to the joy of her parents who had awarded her with nearly a dozen historical text-books.
The University was quite dull building-wise, even though the campus was listed Grade II for its national importance in showing archaic building styles. Plenty of grey concrete, dark-tinted glass, and metals. Considering the comparative beauty of Old Alamos City on the plateau below, it was a shame that the architects a mere century or two ago didn't decide to try and mimic that design to make the University blend in better.
Of course, in her ponderings she'd continued walking, and with all the buildings looking like each other, she'd found herself lost on a courtyard overlooking a fountain on the level below. After a brief attempt to find her bearings, she swore in annoyance.
"For fucks sake!" She yelled to the night, reluctantly pulling out her phone for the sat-nav. Sweeping her fingertip over the screen several times, the program opened, displaying her a vague map of the Sinnoh region. A few verbal commands for it later brought out a crude pixelated Pidgey-eye view of the university, various markers displaying where people she'd added, or at least their com chips, currently were. However, one such tag was unnervingly close, distracting her from trying to find her way back to her flat. Apparently Peter was barely 20 metres away from her. Glancing over at where the courtyard overlooked the fountain she slowly walked to the edge, looking over to see what he was doing being so close, and to yell at him to stop following her.
Now it was true that Peter was by that fountain on the level below, however her reasoning had let her down. Peter had been following Jessica's trail, intent on making sure she was okay. Simply by virtue of there being a trail still, she clearly wasn't, so his priority had switched from find and comfort to find and get to the hospital.
Jessica, for some reason, had stopped at the fountain. When Peter arrived, he spotted that she was curled up on one of the benches with her hands held in front of her, sobbing at them. He shivered, both from the cold, and seeing her so vulnerable. Well… her demeanour usually made her look vulnerable anyway, but now was more of a vulnerability that you couldn't turn a blind eye to.
"Jessica…" He called out to her quietly, hoping not to startle her. He failed, and he winced as she jumped up off the bench and tried to back away from him.
"Don't come near me!" She cried hysterically, her eyeliner streaked (again) down her cheeks from her tears. He held up his hands to gesture he was unarmed, obviously, and not intending to hurt her.
Wait, what if she thinks I'm making fun of her for having intact hands? Put them down.
He put his hands back down quickly.
No! No! She might think you're going to strangle her! Put them back up!
He put the hands back up again.
What are you doing? That was a 'I'm going to throttle you' sign! Hands down!
He put them down again. In all the flurry of his arms, she'd become confused about his intentions.
"What are you doing? Are you trying to wave at me?" She asked, her tears stalling. Peter sweatdropped and put both hands on his head.
"I'm trying to say I want to help you."
"Oh." She slowly nodded her head in understanding, but not with conviction. As Peter took a step forwards though, she took two more steps back, forcing him to stop still again as her tears returned.
"What do you want?"
Rather than give a verbal answer, he quickly mimed putting his hands up, down, up again, down again, then back on his head. She smiled slightly, but still remained cautious.
"You want to help me."
"Yes."
She nodded slowly again, before taking a step towards him. He remained in place, with his hands on his head. She paused a few metres away from him, looking at him studiously.
"Take your hands off your head." She said, to which he obliged rather faster than she'd expected and she took another step back in alarm. He put his hands back on his head.
"Jessica, you need to get to a hospital. You're bleeding a lot."
"I'm a girl, I can bleed."
"TOO MUCH INFORMATION!" Peter yelled, pushing his palms over his eyes. She snorted out a laugh, and looked back down at her hands. Whilst they looked pretty bad to her, she also thought that since they were only stinging a little now like a graze would, that they were fine. What she wasn't aware of was that she was beginning to go into shock.
Peter looked down as he felt his pocket rumble. His phone was ringing. Plucking it out, and flicking it open, he gave the caller ID a brief glance before snapping it back shut again; ending the call. Jessica gave him a curious look.
"Insistent mother?"
"Wrong number." He said quickly, pocketing his phone again, "May I look at your hands?"
She nodded slowly again, and held both her hands up for him. He stepped forwards, causing her to tense up again as he took hold of her hands. Careful to avoid touching any blood, he turned them over to inspect both sides, with her watching carefully throughout.
"You don't talk like a student."
"Oh?"
"With the 'May I'. Too polite." She said again, pulling her hand back slightly, "It's not realistic."
"Hey. I like having manners. And if you don't like them then fuck you." He replied, although the anger was clearly absent. She shrugged slightly.
"A bit of a contradiction there."
"I know, I'm sorry."
Holding her smaller slender hands in his, the romancer in him was sorely tempted to kiss them, but he held himself together. Now was not the time, particularly since her hands had been lacerated quite thoroughly. Her palms bore the brunt of the injury, one large slash across the palm and several almost parallel cuts alongside. Fortunately there didn't appear to be any glass trapped in them, but he couldn't tell for certain.
"These are quite nasty. They'll need washing out and bandaging up by a professional." He said, releasing her hands slowly, and opening his bag, digging around for a first-aid kit.
"A doctor?"
"Yep."
"The hospital is just over the road from where I live, so I'll stop by. My mum thought it would be a good idea." She said matter-of-factly. Peter nodded knowingly, trying to pull out the box from where it was wedged in.
No kidding…
"So you know the way back?"
"Yeah its…" As she looked around the square, she seemed to notice an inconvenience, "The opposite side of campus."
"Ah… Why were you going this way?" He asked as he unwound a bandage from its roll.
"I don't know!" She cried out, laughing, "I'm just daft."
"Well, I wouldn't say daft." He countered slowly, giving her hands a brief wrapping each, "Just… unusual."
"Yeah!" She responded jubilantly, "Aren't we all."
"Indeed." He replied awkwardly, admiring his handiwork, "Those should stop you losing any more blood on the way. Are you sure you can get to the hospital on your own?"
"I didn't say that." She said quickly, "But I can manage if you're busy."
"I'm not busy." He interjected hurriedly, "I'll take you if you want."
It became apparent that his choice of wording wasn't ideal, as she became slightly less at ease at being reminded what had almost took place.
"I don't want to waste your time." She said quietly, now looking for the path out of the fountain area, "I'll be fine on my own."
Damnit.
Peter closed his eyes and nodded. He recognised the blow off, and any disagreement would just make things worse.
"Okay then. Goodnight, and get well soon."
"Goodnight." She mirrored. Before rushing away in the direction of the hospital. Peter started wandering around the fountain slowly, hanging his head in front of him in thought.
That failed… One part of his mind commented.
Yeah, but it also could have gone a lot worse. Another part argued defensively, she's not terrified, she won't remember us as a monster.
Yeah, but she won't remember us as-
"Hey." Jessica's voice called from behind him, startling him out of his arguing mind. She'd stopped just by the edge of the space, next to the path, "I never got your name."
"Oh. It's Peter."
"Peter… Okay, how about your number?"
"My number?"
"Coms chip or whatever?" She asked cautiously. Peter's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he pulled his chip out.
"Erm, sure. Should I come over there or am I still too scary?"
Jessica laughed and shook her head at the ground, before walking up with her own chip. After a small beep, they put the chips away again.
"Thanks. I'd better get going then now. I'll call you some time."
Peter watched her run back up the path until she vanished around a corner, before punching the air triumphantly, and silently mouthing 'oh yeah'.
You were saying?
Oh go to hell you bleeding optimist.
Eleanor was still watching Peter of the edge of the courtyard, fuming lividly, her knuckles turning white from the mobile grasped tightly in her hand.
How dare you hang up on me! And how dare she distract my minion from my work?
She wasn't particularly keen on her little researcher getting carried away with other girls. After all, as she saw it, it was an honour to be given such a job from her. She wouldn't just get some person involved in it on just a whim… well maybe a bit of a whim, but he said he had an interest and she could tell he was being modest about his knowledge on Eonic matters, so he was a better candidate than anyone else she could be bothered to think of. But the point still stood. HE'D hung up on HER. And that was something no-one got away with. Picking up a small pebble and turning it over in her hands, she contemplated. She was going to make him pay. Taking a few seconds to calculate, she threw the stone at his head. With a reassuring clunk, it bounced off his crown and into the fountain, and barely a second later the light crunch of gravel as he fell confirmed her objective. So maybe she did have a slightly sadistic streak… no-one got hurt. Well, she didn't, so it was alright.
Skipping down the path to her target, she fingered a pokeball on her belt lightly. Whilst there was no doubt that her dragging him across campus herself would attract a lot of undesirable attention, the Pokemon she had borrowed from her mother had grown… dubious tendencies under her mothers care about this sort of situation. Eleanor would describe her sexual behaviour as fairly vanilla, generally very little which would discourage a potential partner; probably her oddest aspect was she liked to have the bottom of her feet kissed, which wouldn't really be a stretch for most. Her mother on the other hand was a lot more hardball. Leather and chains were frequently involved, and that was just when she didn't feel like putting an effort into it. Until she'd settled down with her father, she would take who she wanted, whether they liked it or not. Acts which would not have passed without the help of…
Eleanor flicked the ball up into her hand, then released the Pokemon onto the ground.
The Hypno stood up squarely, shaking its mane as though it had just woken up before yawning loudly and letting his tongue loll out. He blinked slowly, before glancing up at Eleanor with a somewhat dozy smile on his face. Eleanor tilted her head in the direction of her unconscious captive, to which the Hypno's smile broadened into a more lewd manner.
"I need help bringing him to my room." She said quietly, not so much in fear of being overheard, more in the hope that Hypno could tell by her tone that she wasn't looking for hanky-panky. He didn't notice - the Pokemon brought his finger and thumb together on his left hand and motioned his index finger of the other into the circle; still sporting that lewd grin and now showing his teeth. She scowled fiercely and cuffed him over the head.
"No." She hissed at him, "I need to talk to him in private."
The Hypno looked distraught for a moment, before blowing through his lips in a very 'pfffft' manner and waving her request off. But despite his apparent disappointment he reluctantly obeyed and kneeled besides Peter. It had been quite a few years since her mother had had use for his species ability to animate the unconscious, but he still had a good knack for it. Holding his paws above the boy's chest he crooked his fingers as though he was holding marionette controls. Jerking them up he brought the boy into a sitting position and, after a moment of clambering, up into a standing position. His posture looked fairly natural, although his eyes being shut probably wouldn't go too unnoticed if he walked a long distance unaided like that.
"Okay, drape him over my shoulders, so it looks like he's drunk too much."
He obliged, walking Peter over next to Eleanor and placing one of his arms over her shoulder. As she took hold of that wrist to secure his arm in place, Hypno took the opportunity to attempt to fondle one of her breasts with the free hand but she snapped her other arm around Peter's waist and grasped the forearm firmly before it could get anywhere near. Peter slumped as the Hypno clicked his fingers in annoyance, absentmindedly losing half the control, and inadvertently his face brushed against her breast instead. She flushed in embarrassment and shook him back upright as Hypno regained control of his body.
"Okay, stay out of sight, follow behind closely. And if you touch me badly again I'm going to kick you in the face."
A hoard of snow-going vehicles was clustered outside the Cult's headquarters, and inside the main hall of the church had never seen so much jubilation. Rows of tables laden high with various meats and dishes, and every seat had an excited monk atop it babbling excitedly about the news that God had returned. The monk who had made the observation had become the centre of attention, his cheeks rosy with the cumulative effects of the Red Ales his peers had been offering him. The higher ranking members had already given him their warmest blessings, in the form of a Delibird so fresh it had yet to undergo rigour mortis. Naturally he was currently eating it alongside his closest friends.
The clinking of a spoon on the side of a brass goblet at the head table could be heard by anyone with their ear about a millimetre away from it. If it wasn't for the raucous bellow that accompanied it, no-one would have noticed the gesture as the abbot called for quiet.
"Friends! Pastors! Acolytes!" He shouted out, "May your feasts be red!"
"MAY YOUR FEASTS BE RED!" Called back the hoard in unison, followed by a cacophony of cutlery being banged against the table top. The abbot raised his hand aloft once more, regaining what could pass as a respectful silence.
"The Lord has returned in His tangible might! Tonight, and every night after, we will not need to fear the non believers, for there shall be no non believers!"
Again a roar of celebration rose from the assembled cultists, and after a minute the abbot rose a hand again for quiet.
"As I speak, our brothers among the unbelievers are working to spread the good news. Radio and Television will blare the message of His return. There will be a new Rationality, the Rationality of God, and He will be doted upon by all. Mere hours from now my brothers… we will receive the bounty for keeping our faith whilst others turned from His path. We… will… own!"
At that, the crowd burst into another fit of elation, and the Cult's festivities began for the evening.
Further afield, people who you would never have recognised as Cultists were mobilising in secret, infiltrating television studios and radio towers alike with freshly burnt CDs in their pockets. No region was exempt from impending broadcast.
Eleanor pushed Peter off her shoulder, sprawling him onto her bed. Rapidly recalling the Hypno before he made any sudden movements was her first priority, getting settled down secondary. She replaced the ball in a clip which would prevent it from opening accidentally and pulled her chair from under her desk, sitting on it backwards and resting her forearms on the back. Now was just a matter of waiting for him to wake up.
Within five minutes she'd got bored of waiting for him and took one of many books off her shelves. It was a little notebook she'd written scraps of information about various religions in; Religions of Mew, Celebi, and Rayquaza were fairly easy to find since they were the most vocal and fairly persistent, Jirachi, the Wishful Thinkers, had little data but similarly little influence. Sinnoh had too many minor deities and she'd given up on trying to disentangle them from each other.
Flipping the page over, she started thinking aloud.
"How does a religion with hundreds of thousands of followers suddenly disappear?" She asked to no-one in particular. Her interest was in the pantheon of Eonic Gods and she was particularly fond of conspiracy theories around them. The Rayquaza cults had recorded putting a lot of effort into hunting down its followers mercilessly but in retaliation, their own God was imprisoned. Something the cultists had pined over and vowed revenge over since.
But she'd figured that even in an orchestrated elimination plan, cultists simply wouldn't have the efficiency needed to capture, convert or kill every follower and eradicate every record. They would have needed the power of their god, or at least as much from other sources.
Her eureka moment was learning about the Gilded Land in secondary school. A stellar cataclysm which had shrouded the entire continent in metal in an instant would qualify as a power rivalling that of a God. She figured if that continent was the exclusive believer of the Eonic Pantheon, that instant had been responsible for such a sudden extinction. She'd mentioned that theory in her application letter for this university, and it was revealed in her acceptance letter that that had been a pivotal asset in her acceptance, changing the universities stance from 'We'll have you' to 'We need you'.
Eleanor jumped in alarm as Peter made a sudden and prolonged pained groaning sound and in panic as he stretched into a sitting position, she rabbit-punched him on the forehead. Unconsciousness was immediately resumed whilst Eleanor took a few moments to let her breathing rate subside again.
"Don't interrupt me whilst I'm thinking." She told his unconscious form, who was no doubt oblivious to the advice.
Anyway, resuming the Pantheon, another theory she had been cooking up was that the imprisonment of Rayquaza and the stellar cataclysm were one and the same but she planned to save research in that direction for getting her professorship.
As she looked across at the radio playing quiet evening music, she inwardly whimpered to herself that she wouldn't be able to live that dream. That screech was Rayquaza, back from limbo, and proof to the unthinking masses that the Cultists view of the world was the right one. Certainly with the power of a God at their back, it wouldn't take long for their order to override civilisation. And with that, there would be no need for historians, all the records a Cultist would want were readily at hand, maintained by their few archivists. Looking into Eonic culture as favourably as she did would result in a rapid execution.
Eleanor looked back over at Peter, and watched him for a few more minutes until he started to stir again. She smirked sadistically as one of his hands made a beeline for his forehead, but she made sure she was straight-faced again before he opened his eyes.
"Gruuuuuu… you punched me in the face." He grumbled, massaging his forehead and brow with his palm. Eleanor's eyebrow made a telltale twitch briefly but she shook her head.
"No I didn't."
"It was only a few minutes ago."
"Nope, first time you've woken up since I got you back here." She lied innocently again. She met his gaze and stared him down, daring him to argue more, but he conceded and rubbed his face in his hands.
"You're in my room by the way." She told him to pre-emptively answer his question.
"I know." He said, not stopping pawing at his face.
"You don't know, I've just told you."
He took his face out of his hands, and looked around her room.
"This room is smaller than mine so its not mine. There's no-one else in here so it's probably your room."
"Your room is bigger than mine?" She asked. Peter opened his mouth awkwardly but couldn't think of any retort to that. She shook her head, "You rich fucker."
"75%"
Eleanor aahed at the statement, nodding appreciatively. Academic excellence had warranted students from poorer areas being awarded a percentage discount on their tuition. She was on the same tariff.
"So you're sharp. Good. Eons."
"What?"
"Why you're here rather than drowning in a toilet. I need-"
"Wait."
"Shut up." She demanded, silencing him, "You're on my team. There's-"
"Team?"
"Zip it! There's no time for the details. Knowing about Strato Cult is a given. Their god broke loose at the café, within a few hours they'll be broadcasting to let the world know maths is wrong and they were right. They'll be in charge."
"And?" Peter snipped in when she took a long pause for breath. She took a deep breath again, exhaling slowly as she scrutinised him, as though she could learn everything he knew by glaring at him.
"Tell me your fairy tales. I want to put their god back."
Peter raised his hands submissively, before cupping his face in them.
"I don't know much about imprisonment."
"I don't want telling what you don't know, I want what you do know."
He sighed into his palms, and slid them down palm to palm with his nose between his fingers.
"The gods took Heaven and used it to create Hell." He said quietly, "That's all I know."
"And the Beast was trapped in Hell?" She proffered. He nodded, and she smirked, jotting it into her notebook.
"So it was imprisoned through a stellar cataclysm. So that means it was imprisoned in the Gilded Land."
"Can I go now?" Peter asked, sliding himself off her bed. She shot him a menacing glare and motioned for him to sit back down.
"No. I'm bouncing ideas off you. Be honoured."
"Okay…"
"Be more honoured than that."
"Um… thanks."
"Shut up. The prison will still be there, just open. If it was fixed, Rayquaza could be lured back in and sealed back up again." She narrated.
Peter nodded absently at her, barely understanding the plan. Eleanor watched him expectantly for a few moments waiting for him to realise he was now allowed, in fact required, to speak.
Oh shit. He finally noticed.
"Err, How?" He asked her. She looked at the roof for a second, before bowing her head in thought.
Nice save.
"The prison was probably the wind temple." She said, "I'll need a mechanic."
The sudden burst of static from the radio attracted their attention, white noise filling the room for ten seconds. They shared a nervous glance with each other as the static died down and a new voice spoke from the speaker.
"For the people of the world and mongrels that pretend to be. Do not turn off your set. I would apologise for interrupting your daily viewing, but your kind never apologised to us. We represent the Cult of Strato, and God has returned. Six hours ago, every mongrel of you heard the roar of our Lord awakening. His hunting call, to purge the unfit from the world. Our vigilance and faith was rewarded as we saw Him fly overhead and now we offer you the tape to show you the truth. Your governments have twenty four hours to submit to our authority, otherwise the wrath of God will be wrought upon them. Look at the Gilded Land. That's the future of those whose resist. May your feasts be red."
The abbot's voice ended, and the sound of the Rayquaza's roaring continued from the speakers.