Chapter XIII: Apprentice
A muddy, pastel blue sky loomed outside Celeste and Steven's patio glass doors. Winds howled with intermittent rage. A storm was coming, so thought the boy. He sat on fluffy, sand-colored carpet in front of the glass, waiting for it to come, wishing something could relate to the bruised layers around his heart.
But the storm never came. Soon the Moon bloomed with brilliant light. He felt alone once more. He fell silent for nearly an hour. The others shared counsel and gifts of affection. They sought the root of this evil which had devoured his aura. He knew not what to say; he knew not what to feel – besides loneliness. Even hatred had lost its appeal. Somewhere between love and hate lay a gray of meaninglessness. There he found solace. It numbed his existence by creating a new one – one where he did not lose his loved ones, but rather his sense of desire. For he knew that without desire there were no obstacles; and without obstacles there was no suffering.
Life, he learned, had no purpose without suffering. Just like the girl had said to him earlier. Taking the stairs instead of an elevator proved to her that she had moved from one place to another by a rush of blood, movement of muscles, and heavier breaths, thus making the act worthwhile. Yet most people preferred to take the elevator, perhaps to dissolve any reminder of reality or, more basically, because it was convenient to do so.
In similar fashion it was convenient to live without purpose. He liked this space of purposelessness. In this moment, he knew not what he wanted out of life anymore. If he desired nothing, then pain would not know how to reach him, so he assumed. But nothing was still something, like a zero on a number line; it too required focus.
These and other seemingly pointless notions shuffled throughout his mind, until he came to this conclusion: He needed to let go; let go of his past; let go of his hurt; even let go of his current goals. Instead of allowing his mind to run blank he expanded his consciousness to embrace any thought and every feeling.
As he calmed into an ethereal state of being he feared nothing. The thought of death began to soothe him. He imagined peace inside its perpetual, inevitable grasp. Steel rings resurfaced atop his shoulder. Faint smiles mirrored.
"Can I get you anything?" the former Champion asked with caution. He stood to face the host. Puzzled and numb, the boy replied.
"Where did everyone go?"
"I sent them over to Skylar's condo," said Steven.
"Why'd you do that?"
"Please, follow me in here."
Steven shut the guest bedroom door behind them. It had been transformed into a miniature museum. Countless rare artifacts from every corner of the globe rested behind shields of glass.
"They are memories," explained Steven, "tokens of true life experience."
No engraved medal or commemorative plaque stirred Steven's soul quite like the Earth's natural treasures. Gemstones were his passion, as well as his family's heritage. His father, Mr. Stone, sat as President and Founder of the Devon Corporation.
The Stone family amassed great wealth mining, carving and selling fabulous jewelry. It was not until Steven's father's interest in technology became fascination that any Stone wished for a bigger slice of liberty pie. Mr. Stone's ambition led him to found the Devon Corporation – with it he hoped to one day change the world for the better.
For many years his dream came true. At first, his company turned rocks to gems; then sand to iron; and then water to wine. The corporation rivaled Kanto's Silph Co. as the world's most technologically advanced company. In addition to Hoenn-exclusive Poké Balls and Pokémon training equipment, Devon developed a process to revive Pokémon Fossils.
The first of such resurrections was given to Steven by his father. DNA of the Old Shrimp Pokémon, named Anorith, dwelled within Claw Fossils buried underground in various caves. Its evolved form, Armaldo, played a vital role on Steven's championship Pokémon team.
Damion searched for the Rock/Bug dual-type's data in his miniature PokéDex. Hoenn's rightful Champion suggested its data would be brief at best. Before he could reach it, however, the Dex returned to his pocket. He had come across number 147: Dratini. Those regal eyes flashed pain back into his mind.
Steven felt it also. He consoled the grieving Trainer. "I'll do whatever I can to assist you," he assured. He, Damion, placed faith in him. Champions kept their word, so the boy imagined.
Although he trusted Steven, he did not trust Devon. The name rang a bell. Thus he probed.
"So," Damion said, "does that mean you're on the Board?"
"Which board?" Steven asked.
"The Board of Trustees, at Devon," he answered. Steven shook his head. He had not spoken to his father in over three years. He drew the line at utter greed. His father had given up hope in his fellow man. Profits ruled him now. They clouded his judgment.
He left Hoenn months ago to detach from the shame his father had bequeathed him. This he told to Damion in confidence, for none had heard it prior. When it was necessary, Celeste would know the truth, he shared. Until then it rotted inside the Champion's brain, resembling the boy's struggle. Honesty reciprocated. Damion listed the details of his mission. His meeting with Giovanni revealed Mr. Stone's motives.
Devon Corporation traded guilty lives for guilty pleasures. Demand for the latest PokéNav (Hoenn's PokéDex and digital GPS mapping device), Fossil Revival machines, hi-tech Go-Goggles (which were originally designed to see in a raging sandstorm, then upgraded with virtual reality capabilities) and other gadgets reached heights like never before. Mr. Stone signed on with the two Senates to position himself to become the world's richest man.
As a result, temptation spread its seed. Steven could not endure the fruit of his father's labor. Yet neither could he find the strength to turn him in. So, he searched for the only cure he knew for a broken heart.
"Which was what, exactly?" the boy asked.
"A second chance," Steven said. "I followed my heart and it led me here."
"To… this room?"
"In a way, yes. But what matters are these precious stones. They are gifts from the Earth herself."
"Yes, I understand you like stones a great deal."
"No, young man; I love them. When I stare into their brilliance I feel their soul. They are alive and they speak to me. Not through words, but through vibrations. When I'm in need of comfort, this is the one I choose."
He showcased a stellar slab of emerald, handing it to the young Trainer. The day he found the slab was the day he found love, so he told. Damion ignored the metaphor.
Patience ran thin beneath his tongue. He wished to derail any talk of romance. He was not looking for love. Moreover, he wanted nothing to do with it. But he felt things – joyous things –when he was with Skylar. She brought color into the black-and-white tribe of society. Her smile was like striking oil in the ghetto.
Or so he thought. Perhaps she was an illusion. Perhaps everything was. Rampant thoughts devoured his presence.
Then something strange happened. A sharp tingle shot up the boy's spine. 'Twas unnerving yet familiar. A new aura entered the room, bearing a fiery presence, hiding behind the shadows.
Steven continued. He spoke more of vibrations. They are the fabric of reality, he told. If one were to match the frequency from which the stones emitted, a hidden message lay in store.
A buzz came from his pocket. Love beckoned. He answered swiftly. As the Champion left the room, the aura grew stronger near the boy. An alien whisper planted inside his head. This was what it said:
"Hello, old friend.
No, no, no.
Say nothing. Do you understand?
Do you understand?!
Good. Now listen,
You will leave this place tonight.
Alone.
You must trust me.
At three past three, come find me.
On the eastern route."
A fierce wind howled. The Champion returned. He beamed with delight. The phantom dissolved out of sight. Confusion took its stead.
"Are you alright?" Steven asked. "You look as though you saw a ghost." He waited for a reply. Silence held long enough to wonder. "Wait, did you see a ghost?" He collected his thoughts – his sick, loveless thoughts – before giving an answer.
"No," he stated, "to both questions. If I were alright, I would not be standing in your room full of your things in your apartment."
"It's a condomin—"
"It's whatever. And if I had seen a ghost, it would have been my ghost, Haunter, and we'd probably be laughing right now – about nothing in particular; just the fact that we could laugh, together, would be enough of a muse."
"I know how you feel," suggested Steven.
"Hm? Tell me, then, when was the last time someone humiliated you, stole your Pokémon, and left you for dead? . . . Yeah. Do not confuse distance with courage, Mr. Steven Stone. You're the same child I am – I was. What you are doing is not love. You do not love. You resist, resist the urge to show your father how you feel. You hide the truth from her. Therefore she is your excuse. That's a shame. She is not worthy of such gross intentions."
"W-W-Well, I would nev—"
"Did your father coddle you? Did he teach you how to be a man? Mine never got the chance. But he loved discipline, not money. He would be shocked to hear me now. Yet this is true: Only he who chooses truth before love can bear the shadow of his inner being. For truth is not love, but merely the gateway to it. He who chooses truth before love sacrifices perfection for the chance to teach, which is, to be great. I am greater now than I have ever been. Love can wait.
The more I struggle, the greater I will become. For greatness awaits struggle, on the other side of peace. Therefore I don't want love; I want peace. And I will make peace my struggle, so that greatness may bleed my blood and taste my scent. Love had its chance. However sweet its nectar, I cannot make it my north. It wants to make me perfect, which is something I could never earn, something I do not deserve.
You know nothing of my pain. No one does. So don't pretend as if you do. I accept this lesson from above, and now recognize that my true journey is seasoned to bloom. I know exactly what I am."
"So then, what are you?" the Champion asked.
He held his ground and replied, "A lost soul."
Silence took over. He heard earnestness in his speech. Though his words cut deep, at least they were sober. He cleared a path for him.
"I want to show you something," said Steven. Past rows of ancient texts, hunks of jewels and autographed Poké Balls they went, stopping at a bookcase filled from top to bottom. "Language," he resumed; "is just as much art as it is communication. It shapes how we think and behave. It advances civilizations and severs relations. A silver tongue can alter history; a golden heart can alter time. Which do you find more important?"
Damion scanned the literature collection. Champions were known to test young Trainers. This had to be one of those tests.
He reached to the center of the bookcase. He pulled The Language of Time, by Will Williams, from its socket.
"Excellent choice," he responded. "After you." It locked out of place, unveiling a secret inner chamber. It was a workshop of sorts. Tables made of Honey tree posted on either side of the room. Sewing machines surrounded by pins, dark-colored fabric and an elaborate blueprint rested atop the left one. Notebooks, educational texts and writing utensils aligned neatly atop the right. Steven flipped a switch.
A radiant figure covered the crown of a thin steel rod; one might say it was a hat rack in a previous life. Even under dim hue the figure sparkled.
"What is that?" the boy asked, drawing closer to its luster.
"That is my most precious possession," answered Steven. "It is a mask I made by hand while I was alone, and only while I was alone. Before Celeste and I engaged, I was desperate for answers. It was like nothing made sense to me anymore. The rage I felt against my father was unlike anything I had ever felt. It boiled in my blood like lava. It seeped from beneath my pores."
"How did you overcome this rage?"
"I thought of the only thing that ever saves me. Work. I poured every drop of anger and hatred into this," he gestured to the figure and continued; "a passion project to which I would dedicate my life, but never quite finish."
"It looks finished to me," Damion replied.
"No, no. This was merely the beginning of my plot. Alas, love stole my rage and left me a reminder of the ego trip that could have been. You see, young man, this mask was to be the end of Steven Stone. This marked the dawning of a new identity, a new purpose for my life. I planned to fake my own death and emerge as a vigilante.
When all 16 of these sequenced gemstones receive a proper polish, they become a reflective surface. They were meant to serve as mirrors to those who brought injustice into innocent homes and communities, reminding them who remained responsible for the fate I would deliver."
"Now we're talking. . ."
"I designed an advanced carbon fiber suit, impenetrable from extreme temperatures, sharp weapons and most Pokémon attacks. The black ring you see below is indeed a magnet shelled in tinted glass. When you apply the mask the ring opens and prompts you to place it around your neck. Once in place," he demonstrated, "the fabric ends of the mask suck into the ring." His voice suddenly plunged into a digital growl. "Results… may vary."
He unlocked his contraption. Dust floated off upon its removal. Their eyes met anew.
"Why are you showing this to me?" asked Damion.
". . ."
". . ."
"About what you said earlier: I didn't like it. You have no business talking to me in such a manner in my own home. What Celeste and I share has a power that in your entire life you may never experience. I will not tolerate those types of comments. So, I must ask you to leave. But before you go, I want you to have this as a token of our parallel. I need to let go of my pain, all the way. If what you say is true – that there is nothing I or anyone can do to keep you from your mission – if you insist on destroying the face your parents gave you, then at least I can give you a new one. Perhaps love will find its way to you, as it did to me."
Jewel light glistened off one side of the boy's face. Quartz, emerald, diamond, opal and more: their brilliance took hold of his mind. Soundless thunder brewed in his reflection. The pain of his past collided with the fate of his future. He envisioned Siegfried, that grinning, sinful demon, inside the darkest splotches of his memory. This darkness would become his primary weapon.
The next day was to be his last in the free world. His storm was coming whether or not he knew precisely what it was. That sharp, invasive feeling would be his signal. Whenever it struck again destiny would ring. Destiny waited for no man however. Time spilled more with each thought. And so he clenched his mask of jewels and faced his host.
"Love already found me," he finally responded; "But soon it will wish it never had."
