What is beauty? Is it the high-pitched cooing of a newborn's first laugh, or the lilting melodies of the avian creatures soaring freely in the sky?

...Or is it beauty only when compared to the repulsive?


There really was no expectation she had held when she first killed a Pokemon on her journey throughout the region, striving to prove herself champion and gather the people's support. There was something...detached about the whole notion, as if even if she had harbored the idea, there was almost no concept of regret. Sure, she had thought she would be a bit afraid of herself; after all, killing cold-blooded was not an average task, and she was still average.

When she found herself prodding at the rip in a Trubbish's body, marveling at how its black ooze swirled around on her fingertips, she had found herself startled at the faint conclusion that she indeed was not affected by it.

Not at all.

In fact it seemed a bit boring.

But beautiful.

In fact, Hilda would've completely disregarded the feeling of nothingness on her hands, if it were not for the sudden substitution occurring in her mind.

If he had been introduced as the subject in any other matter, Hilda would've surely ripped something apart, hating how he's taken over her life and thoughts, and vowing to never keep him on her mind again; but the notion, the idea that Hilbert would be the one gutted out in front of her, his limbs dangling from dark carmine fluid gushing out through wounds, was too tantalizing to resist.

Hilda had stopped to check herself, just then.

A murderer. That's really what she was, if she could kill Pokemon without regret and dream of killing someone without any bit of moral insecurity.

But if so, it was for the greater good.

Team Plasma, with their false holier-than-thou attitudes would be enraged at this blatant mistreatment of the very beings they were supposed to protect; and while Pokemon would die by her hands, more would die from the tyranny that ran this region.

A carmine red draped with truth is what she wanted, because it was so different from that royal blue Hilbert had always adored.

And so, racing through the middle of a newly collapsed castle, she found herself delighted with all the new paint splattered all over the walls.

It would be her new favourite colour, because it was so unlike Hilbert's that surely it would cancel it all out.


The rebellion had started.

She licked her lips.

"We will free ourselves from this oppression!" she said, gaze shifting throughout the seemingly faceless crowds, noticing how some seemed to be more wary than most.

Cheers erupted through Nacrene City, the once historical town now reduced to mere trade, and the discomfort and displeasure of all citizens could be seen.

But nearby, the people she trusted the least timidly walked up to her, almost cringing when she turned her eyes onto them.

"...Hilda? Are you really going to do this?" Bianca, with her frightened doe eyes, had scanned her face, probably searching for anything left of pity and empathy. Cheren was adjusting his glasses out of discomfort; rubbing the bridge of his nose often, he diverted his gaze when her eyes swiveled onto him.

"Hilda, there's a good chance you'll die," said the non-believers, and never had she disproved of them more than right here, at this moment. There was a reason why they were not the heroes. And they would never understand.

If it was anyone else, she might have done something to them.

They were lucky they used to be her friends.

"Used to" being the key words. Her current status left her no time or regard for such titles.

Just let the insanity consume you.

Up above, she could feel the scowls of Team Plasma emanating in waves, and to them, she silently bit her thumb.


A/N (Edit November 3rd 2014)

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