Sonia
She would always try to escape into the glade. There, dappled sunlight filtered gently through the foliage, pale and unobtrusive.
She could pretend, for minutes at a time, for perhaps a shade of her life, that the light framed her. That its touch on her shoulders meant poise. That spilling across the hollow of her neck were the vestiges of moonlight, grace given form.
Because it was the only time she could be. She wasn't graceful, or elegant. That was Nessa.
She wasn't strong. Leon, of course.
Intelligent, resourceful, an influence that Galar could not be without-
Her grandmother, not her.
Thoughts of the great Professor Magnolia pervaded her breath like shrouds of darkness, and suddenly she wasn't bathed in subtle moonbeams but shadow, cast over her endlessly, ceaselessly, irrevocably. Black fingers crept upon the dark corridors of her mind, spidering across its hallways.
And then, of course, came a matter-of-fact, ten year old prodigy, well on her way to becoming the Champion, quick as you please.
Geniuses, crawling out of the woodwork like ants to an apple's skeleton, flesh diminished beyond sharing.
It left her here.
A professor's grandaughter. Hardly an assistant.
Her Rotom Phone wiggled from her back pocket.
Sighing, she let it hover to eye level.
"Sonia, where have you been? You're well behind on the research I've assigned. At this rate, you won't finish until you're stark in your twenties-"
"I-I know, Grandma. I just needed some fresh air."
"Honestly," a disappointed click of the tongue. "For a while I've expected more of you. Look to those children as an example. About half your size but already accomplishing so much. When will-"
"Yeah, I got it," she responded through clenched teeth. "I'll be right there, Grandma, I swear."
She couldn't see past their shoulders. Broad, framed against scalding, columns of sun, casting their shadows, drenching her in them.
Left blind, left to follow, left stagnant in her own pool of complacency.
The Gym Leader.
The Champion.
The greatest mind.
But where did that leave her?
Hop
It was so painfully simple at first. So black, so white that he saw nothing else.
His brother was the Champion. So it only saw to fit that he would follow in his footsteps. That he would overcome, overtake, and grasp the mantle being passed on.
He would and could do nothing but win. It was in his blood. It wasn't just destiny, but the path he would choose beyond reproach, no measure too challenging, no opponent too significant.
He was good. He knew he was.
It was only when he tried his hand, when the Gym Challenge loomed directly overhead, the phantom claws of competition clutching greedily at his feet, and he was sinking, sinking-
It was only when he fought for himself that he came to the torturous, sobering realization that…
That he was good. But they were better.
When push gave way to shove, when what he underestimated was the tempting allure of prestige, when he didn't quite grasp until now that the best truly means the best, something in him collapsed.
His ambitions toppled like an ephemeral mountain of dreams.
Like a trail of dominoes stacked vertically - wrongly - that clatter to the floor with an incessant click-click-click.
His path wasn't storied, or layered in hallways and marble.
They wanted this. They wanted this to the point of their own worn flesh, of bone being pitted against bone.
He wanted it too. Truly, desperately, he did.
His hand, chafed from handling Pokeballs. His mind, having run through a million possibilities and then some.
It was at the end of the day, when the sun bled surreptitiously into the horizon, that he discovered there was no shortcut. Not even a route.
The elite were few, and there was no easy answer.
No answer at all but to lose. And lose. Again, and again until palms were bleeding, until sweat was indiscernible from rain.
Listlessly. Arduously.
And even standing up from the failure for the umpteenth time, happy in his triumph that he's markedly and finally improved, he knew, from somewhere small and deep within, somewhere that squirmed in a way he chose to ignore:
They have something he doesn't.
Oleana
Ugly.
She dragged slender fingers through locks of gold; a gleaming waterfall spilling over her shoulder.
Grotesque.
She pried her eyelid gently further as she peered into the mirror. The surface reflected light enough so her face was obscured.
Not fit to shine his boots.
Before the chairman had picked up her up, she was filth.
Filth, filth, filth-
Her nails bit angrily into her scalp as she turned away from the mirror in disgust.
Bile rose in her throat.
The chairman was everything. If only she could help him further his designs, then she wasn't worthless.
Squandering away her life no longer.
A street urchin no longer.
But then why, when she looked into the cheering crowds, why, when Galar roared with approval in the stadium and the sponsorships sprouted like weeds and trainers of repute soared back and forth over the sleek slate of competition-
Why had she felt no different?
Mr. Rose's high, pristine tower, floors so clean, the walls so starkly bleached, the stench of polish wafting across her eyes like acrid smoke-
Her life given purpose by this wonderful man. Her presence afforded weight by his generosity.
She didn't deserve a sliver of it, because
pressed suits, dress folds, grime smeared on the sidewalk, eyes unfocused glassy charred corners of trash filth scum lower lower lower than he who gave her everything power order she wielded it an ugly scar dirt dirt dirt
"I have never belonged in your world," she whispered.
But fight on, he did.
Sneakers, worn and frayed from weeks of routine, strapped dutifully to his feet as he tested their weight.
He allowed himself a moment's grimace, inspecting the white of his uniform as he walked into the floodlights of the stadium.
A plastered smile, not entirely false, as he waved to the crowd and faced his opponent.
There was nothing else for it but the road ahead.
And she fixed her hair, fit her arms through sleeves freshly laundered and pleasantly cool.
One hand clutching pencil to paper, the other poising furious fingers over her rotomphone, flicking aside tab after tab of research.
Her grandmother's words dug, echoed, pervaded her sharp and coarse. She nearly winced.
But the coat was now hers. White and heavy - so unendurably heavy - and hung on her like manacles and the silver taste of triumph and harsh pride all at once.
Graphite smeared her fingers as her nails carved imprints into their sides from the continuous pressure.
Bitter, but cathartic. Burdensome, but hers.
On the television in the corner, dimly lighting the darkening dusk of the room, was an interview with Galar's Champion, her polite and humble answers regarding her unparalleled success serving as soft background chatter.
Papers crumpled. The squeal of marker on whiteboard. Documents and graphs and particles of ancient history emblazoned into practicality. Her frustration. Her legacy.
Hers.
Nails sighed through her knotted tendrils, golden in the fractured light through slotted window shutters.
Well.
Her Garbodor nudged her, and she smiled. Strained, small, unimpressive - a smile nonetheless.
She languidly picked up Mr. Rose's lunch from the table, meaning to visit him between her shifts at the volunteer center.
He meant well, she knew.
He, in all his wisdoms, his passions, his vehemence against the untoward, the very life he breathed into Galar itself.
She checked herself in the mirror a final time. Clothes, unruffled, posture unbroken, the clack of heels against hardwood, and she exuded power.
The door creaked to a close behind her, a sort of finality in her motions as she left.
Power, power, a vague sort of cruelty festering in her heart for herself that she had to constantly dash, eternally keep at bay.
But that was okay.
She ventured outside and the air smelled of crisp apples.
And just a little, the cobwebs cleared.
The steps to take were irrefutably their own. No end could ever be in sight.
Mired in black. Manacled behind rusted cells of their own making.
What else could they do, but take it. Their first.
No light, for it was no tunnel. No saving grace, for desire is by nature warped.
Their next, echoing long, long behind them, heady like a scent, a droning that was at once faint and deafening.
And they walk.
Author's Note: I struggled with this ending for god knows how long. It's been a while since I first started writing this, probably actually right after I finished Shield itself. Controversies of the national dex and models and whatever aside, I loved it. It was my first Pokemon game in a while, certainly my first one since like, oh gosh, I think Heartgold, that I actually finished in its entirety.
I've heard that they've stepped up the writing of Pokemon a little since I last played one - apparently Sun and Moon is even better - but I was pleasantly surprised at how much there was to unearth; so many characters actually had weights on their shoulders and it seemed pretty delicious for me to unpack ngl.
I dunno, I kinda like some of how I wrote this, but I feel it's definitely still a far cry from how I used to be. Baby steps.
Feedback is love!