"O! For a muse of fire,"
.
.
.
"Colin!" I was so out of breath. "Get back here!"
"Hey, Gardy, what happened to floating?"
"Come back here, now!" And he drew the moonlight from his pocket.
"I'm not kidding, Gardy, get the fuck back."
It all ended right there. What I saved for the Hospitals, I mean. So I stood there in the street lamp's glow, staring down that black hole and wondering to myself: He wouldn't shoot, would he? After everything we've been through? We only eyed each other as he backed out of the sickly yellow light and into the viridian forest. And I almost went to punch the lamppost until I stopped myself. I'd probably have broken my fist.
I lived in a shitty part of Rustborough. I know that it had some gym upstart a long time ago but nobody really cared anymore. I guess it suited me, or rather I ended up suiting it. It looked like it belonged in that one scene in a movie of a poor, gangbanging neighborhood. You know, grey skies, boarded-up windows, even the fucking barrels of fire. You'd really wonder how I got stuck in that place when a rarity like me could've been some rich boy's doll easily. The truth is, and I don't lie, that I trusted Colin too much.
Do you want to know what I used to be? I was an assassin. A real black-clad, knife-throwing, backstabbing killer. You might think that such a profession would be far outdated, but you'd be surprised.
I met him working in the scummy underworld with me. He was a match-fixer, making sure things were going his way when I saw him at the 2016 World Championships. Not the League's though, of course. This was the 2016 World Championships of Liiga.
He wasn't who I was after; no, it was some rich fart. My handler's guys needed something this or something that; I've done too much to care or remember. The best thing about Liiga though is that the rich boys always sit in these suites they call the "Black Boxes". They turn the tint up all the way and you would never be able to tell the difference between the windows and the black walls of Liiga Stadiums. So, and don't tell anybody this, all you need to do is dress up all sexy, slip a poison pellet in their drinks, and then call it a day. Plus, if you're squeamish like me, you never have to watch them die.
That is unless you were that rich fart. I like to think I'm empathetic, even if it's a given for my species, I guess. But when I walked in there, it was just… awful. Like it was almost out of a cartoon, or a really bad book. He was definitely the kingpin of some thuggy organization: one look at his massive diamond rings told you more than any words could. That's not why I nearly threw up when I walked into the suite, though. I could only stare at the brilliant red heartpieces; one pair affixed to a shining golden scepter between his greasy hands, and the other hanging as a pendant: A gross mockery of life.
It was time to go. As I thought, he didn't leave anything behind for me in our apartment, besides the pings of water droplets. By some miracle or curse, the companies never turned our water off for us. At night, I would end up laying on the couch looking up at our cracked plaster ceiling. If I forgot to duct tape the faucet, the relentless dripping against our rust-covered sink would accompany me. And I stopped trying to tape it soon after we moved in because the water would always leak through. Always dripping and leaking into our lives.
I decided to head North. No particular reason, just that I knew the trains from a friend. I looked up at the moon and it judged me back, illuminating a hole in the chain-link fence which I weaseled through. Some skinny kid sat in the booth, asleep. George, that was what glinted off the bare bulb and shiny nametag. I'm not sure why I remember that; maybe it was the fact that his skin was just as pale as mine. But as I stole a glance at the timetables and teetered trying to read past the moonlight's glare in the towering analog clock, someone spotted me. It always came as a surprise whenever I got noticed without noticing. Some deeply primal organ of my brain expected a Dark Type, but it was just another human yelling at me. As I turned around, he must have noticed my eyes because he stepped back in anticipation. I took it as my opportunity to run. Behind me, a red boxcar started up, like a missile.
Gardevoir were never meant for the physical excitations of life. Our bodies are skinny and lithe, only our hands having considerable muscle, and only then were they just for shaping psychic energies.
I could feel the pulse of the iron within my chest: never enough when I didn't need it, and definitely unwilling to change its pace for me now.
Well, here went.
And I lept onto the rusty handles of the red boxcar speeding through the night. Climbing into the open doors and sitting among the iron bars, I looked down at the nubs of my feet. They were full of blood.