A gentle flurry of snow drifted down from the cloudy sky, coming to rest upon a landscape of shattered granite bricks and crumbling buildings.
A Quilava and a Vigoroth dragged the corpse of a slain Sealeo down a cracked street, smearing its blood across the rocky pavement. Soon, they arrived to a severed bridge. Heaving, they tossed the limp body through the break and down into the stream below, letting the heavy current flush it downstream and out of sight. Without pause, they turned and headed back into town to continue with their job.
…Rather, what used to be a town.
Such was the Frozen Spring. Just days ago, a perfect haven for Pokémon who dwelled in freezing temperatures. Now… all that remained was a heap of rubble, strewn with crushed, impaled, and severed corpses... all who had lost their lives in the massacure of powerful attacks which razed the city in a mere hour... and the minions of the Master who swarmed the ruins, busying themselves with cleaning up the incident, unceremoniously discarding the corpses of the innocent into the surrounding wilderness. The Master had no use for burying those who defied him. Their deaths meant nothing. Nothing, perhaps, but progress.
In the midst of this aftermath, a Heracross stood at a street corner, stunned at the tragic scene which surrounded him. He still couldn't believe… couldn't fathom… the Master's heartlessness.
Why does he never ask, the Heracross wondered sadly. Does he even realize… all he must do is ask, and he has whatever he desires… The townsfolk would all do what he asks. Every Pokémon of Ambera fears him. But does he utilize this fear to his benefit? No, he just accumulates more of it with every move he makes… I wonder… I wonder if the Master is so far responsible for halving Ambera's population…
"You! Bug!"
A voice barked at the Heracross, but it made no move to respond. There was nothing more they could do to him than they already have.
"Hey, you! Bug! You're not with us," the voice called again.
The Heracross turned an eye to the curbside. Both the Quilava and the Vigoroth had ceased their work, and before them stood what appeared to be the manager of their task: a particularly heavy-built Arcanine. Quickly, yet cautiously, the furry beast approached to confront him.
"Who are you?" the Arcanine insisted, though not violently. "Can't you see? This city has been removed from the map. What business do you have here?"
"Why?" the Heracross spoke. "Why destroy this city? Such a pretty city you came and destroyed, and for what? What does the Master need from this place that he couldn't get just by asking?"
"Wonder the same myself, from time to time," the Arcanine admitted. "Probably just because it's far enough from his fortress, he's grown paranoid of not keeping a close eye…"
"Then… why not move the Pokémon?" the Heracross griped, stomping the ground with his hind talon, causing a small earthquake to pulse. "Why kill them? What's the point?"
Motioning for his workers to carry on without him, the Arcanine further approached the curbside on which the beetle stood. "Easier, probably," he answered, shrugging as he sat himself down on the curb. "Moving around Pokémon is hard work, lots of politics involved… if there's one thing I've learned about working for the Master, he hates work."
"And I'm guessing the slaughtering is more play than it is work," the Heracross sneered bitterly, shaking a claw at his side. "Sometimes I wonder if he even understands anything he does… Wonder what gives him the right to command half the world… What about you, dog?? Why follow him?"
"Pays well," he answered simply. "Work for the Master, get a free home, and good food, and you're never lonely or without a purpose in life… And the feeling of… I don't know what you would call it… pride, maybe, that you're helping to build something greater than yourself, something that'll live on after you die."
"The lot of you all, you make no sense, none!" the Heracross hissed. "Ten million Pokémon can live in Ambera and be happy. Yet you find your purpose in killing them. You think you're building something? I'll tell you what the Master's doing, he's building a pile of corpses so he can laugh when they get too high and fall down, then build it up again. That's all you're building."
"Ah, I think I get you, bug," the Arcanine spoke, quickly standing himself again, an evil grin of understanding creeping across his face. "I know what you are. You're the resistance, aren't you?"
"Yeah, and what of it?" the Heracross yelled back at the canine, glaring hatefully at it. "Want to kill me? Huh? Scent of blood on the concrete not strong enough for you yet? Huh?"
For a second, only a burning glare separated the two enemies. The wind picked up, shrouding the broken city streets in streams of white mist.
"I don't blame you," the Arcanine finally said, averting his gaze and glancing back down the street. "You're the ones doing the right thing, you know. You're the good guys. I respect anyone who can stand up to the one of power… pah… It's more than any of us could do…"
"You make it sound like it's not a choice," the Heracross challenged. "Don't try to justify the-"
"Hah! Hah, hah. You speak of choice," the canine interrupted with a malicious growl, refusing to look the beetle in the eye once again. "The things I would do with that… No, bug. All the choices I ever thought I had… they've already been made. They bind me... I can't turn and make them over again."
The wind intensified, a powerful howl arising from a nearby window. The Arcanine stared across the street at the ruins in which his team labored, his thick fur coat rippling across his back. The Heracross followed the direction of his gaze, clenching his claws in useless fury as another lifeless Sealeo was brought from the house over the shoulder of a Hitmonchan like a sack of dried meat.
"I must be going," the Arcanine finally growled. "It's about time to start a fire for my workers. Keep up the good work, bug. As for the city… better luck next time, I suppose."
Without another glance to the beetle, the Master's faithful servant parted and began the return to his workforce. The Heracross eyed it absently as it crossed the street, disappearing into the thickening winds of snow that whipped past. He felt his instincts burn with rage, a desire to tear down the Arcanine and all who worked for him, but he knew it was no longer the time or the place. Frozen Spring wasn't a battlefield. Not anymore.
We had our chance, the Heracross told himself. A chance survives a moment. And the moment's over…
It's over…
There's nothing more we can do… we're done here…
He turned, glancing into the shadows of the alleyways he would take on his return home. Sighing bitterly, he stepped forward.
A shrill battle cry rang out.
The sound of buzzing. Scuffling. A yelp of surprise.
Before he knew it, the Heracross found himself across the street, pinning the Arcanine by the neck to the house's doorstep. The canine panted in fear and growled violently, ready to launch a terrible bout of flames at the drop of a hair, and a low hum emanated from the beetle's still-vibrating wings.
The Heracross winced. He barely knew how he'd managed to end up in such a dangerous position, but it wasn't the first time; his burning intolerance of such injustice often overcame his reason, even when it could cost him his life. But the thing which sometimes made him a reckless fool also made him a hero at others: he was a combat strategist, able to catch the pinhole opening in any situation and exploit his enemy's tiniest mistakes, turning the tide of a fight before the foes would know they were losing. It was in his nature to obey his temper, as it lit the way when situations became overwhelming or confusing…
However, without allies to support him, he had no place challenging Pokémon more powerful or numerous than he. But little did he care; his temper was so swollen, so offended, that it could simply not be ignored.
As he held his captive, pressing his talon forcefully against the canine's neck, he locked gazes with it. Threatening it. Demanding it account for itself. Aside from the reeling shock and terror, the expression which the Arcanine returned had a clear meaning: "You have seconds before my servants investigate the noise and rescue me. You have my attention. What you do you want?"
"It's no excuse. No excuse," the beetle seethed, pressing hard enough to cause the canine to struggle for air. "Dead! They're all dead! All the Lapras, the Seel, the Marill... every one of them, laying in a pool of their own blood at your feet! DEAD! Yet you turn up your nose and walk away. You pretend nothing happened here. You pretend... You pretend you committed no crime. So, tell me, dog, if not you, who's going to pay the price for this crime, huh?! Who's going to be held accountable for these deaths?! Tell me, dog, whose shoulders do expect them to rest on?!"
"Ah, ah heh, heh, yours, of course!" the Arcanine gagged out, the claw at his neck stifling his laugh. "They lie... on your shoulders... because... that's what you chose... When you decided to resist... counteract everything we do... you chose to pay the price... Heh... heh heh... not such an easy role you've chosen for yourself, eh, bug?"
"Eh? Mag? Everything alright out there? Mag?"
A Sneasel peered around the corner to check on his master, but by that time, the intruder was gone. All that remained was the Arcanine, still sprawled on the ground and trying to catch its breath.
---
"Nothing more left?"
"Nothing," the Heracross reported, bowing its head in shame. "It's done. They've infested it to the core. If… there once were any more survivors… "
He let the statement hang, the Smeargle which he spoke to nodding in understanding. A painful, brokenhearted silence hung within the tiny cabin room, the Smeargle momentarily ignoring the piles of hard-bound journals and records upon his workdesk.
"Well," the Smeargle sighed, scraping an ink-pen across the page of an opened record book sitting before him. "Twenty-nine is something, I suppose."
"Kabir, tell me something," the Heracross muttered, approaching him. "Do you remember when Team Remorse lost the Basin Canyon? How do you think they managed to escape with over half the population… and then now, even when we knew ahead of time we were lost, we only saved… twenty-nine?"
"Because Team Remorse is talented," Kabir replied passively, sarcastically singing his words as he continued writing figures into his journal. "Scythe can read minds and see the future, Daemon corrects him whenever he's wrong, and the whole team is composed of a variety of Pokémon with different strengths and weaknesses which complement one another. And we, by contrast, are lead by an arrogant, closed-minded snob who thinks fire can solve all his problems… "
"Yeah, sure, go ahead, insult Prince behind his back, see if that makes you feel any better," the Heracross sneered back. "I'm not in the greatest of moods myself, but it's no excuse to start making--"
"Excuse me, Tangrind, if I failed to answer the question that you posed to me, to your liking," the Smeargle interrupted. "As far as I'm concerned, this team is a farce. And it's been one since we stepped out from under the plateau. Countlessly, I've tried to tell him, it's all been a fluke, especially that… barricade… But he never listens. He's blind. Doesn't want to see where the victory really came from. Doesn't want to believe… We did nothing. The others at the divison made us what we were. Because, tell me, how can a team without talent accomplish anything useful? I don't know. I don't know what Prince was even thinking. It's a mystery to Arceus himself."
With a huff, Tangrind turned and decided to ignore Kabir's rambling. It was typical of the Smeargle to act like an eccentric pessimist when times were unfortunate, viewing the world with a defeatist attitude and saying things he truly didn't believe, complete with the whining, nasally voice that was hard for anyone to stand. Tangrind had put up with Kabir since the days as Prince's best student at Aronwood; he one day found that Prince had hired the Smeargle as his assistant. Though serious when he needed to be, the Smeargle was a painfully arrogant and obsessive figure; he spoke down to every other Pokémon he met with little exception, and rarely liked to admit a complement or an apology. But, despite the harsh words, Tangrind knew that Kabir had somewhat of a good heart inside of him, and that he and Prince were companions not easily separated—not even after such a tragic loss.
Though, in such tough times, he never seemed to show it.
"What now?" Tangrind asked, gazing out the window at the thickening snowstorm.
"What now?" Kabir repeated mockingly. "Now, with any luck, Prince will come to his senses and take us all back home where we belong. Though, it wouldn't surprise me if Alakazam won't accept us back after he hears of this!"
"Please, I've had enough of the attitude," Tangrind said sternly. "You're not helping—"
"DO YOU REALIZE WHAT WE'VE DONE?!" Kabir blasted, pounding his fists on the desk and sending papers flying. "I went today and tried to finish the Damage Control process. I told the survivors we were relocating them to the harbor. And you know what happened? A little Snover from the clan came up to me, and you know what he told me? He told me he had trusted us. Trusted us. With his being. And now, as a reward, guess what? He's never going to see his friends or family again. He asked me how we could have let him down. And you know what? I had nothing to say to him! Nearly cracked my heart in two! WHAT ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO SAY TO SOMETHING LIKE THAT, Tangrind? WHAT?!"
"Next time will be better," the Heracross muttered solemnly. "Next time…"
"THAT'S NO EXCUSE!!" the Smeargle cried at the top of his lungs, leaping from his seat and nearly toppling the desk in his fury. "This isn't something we can just walk away from, Tangrind. Nearly two hundred are dead, and they're on our shoulders! How do you expect to sleep at night knowing you let them die?? How do you answer to that?? You can't! Yes, certainly! Next time will be better, you say! Sure it will be! You say that now! Try, just try to put this behind you so quickly. I dare you!"
"Are you quite done?" Tangrind shot. "You've made your point a ways enough back."
Grumbling incessantly, Kabir slumped back into his chair and occupied himself with collecting the scattered papers back into order.
"They lie on our shoulders, yes," Tangrind muttered quietly, crossing the room for the berry stash in the corner. "A shame they do. But that's the path we chose in life. Not much we can do about it but win it over the next time."
After that, neither Pokémon spoke a word for nearly a half hour. Kabir strove to finish his paperwork, all the while seething with anger and constantly poking holes in the thin sheets from pressing too hard. The Heracross sat in the corner, absentmindedly popping Honeypears into his mouth, occasionally whispering quiet prayers to the dragons in peaceful reflection. The wind howled outside. The chamber hatch creaked from the storm's shifting pressure. Evening began to settle, the rushing snowflakes becoming like a giant impermeable dust-cloud as the world outside lost its color…
"So, that's it, then?" Tangrind finally spoke. "We're done?"
"Aye, we're done," Kabir responded, occupied with scribbling another line of cursive across the journal book. "The 'morrow morning, soon as Azel comes back, we leave… Was hoping she'd be back earlier, but with this weather, it's not going to happen."
Tangrind glanced at the little chamber-like cabin which they'd called home for the past couple of weeks. It was a cozy place, though a bit cramped; The whole structure was crammed halfway into the face of a rock wall, serving to keep it hidden from the prying eyes of explorers or enemies. The team was down to their last portion of supplies, the rest packed up in bags and ready to be hauled home. A weird twinge of false nostalgia fluttered in his heart as he looked about the now-barren shelves and floors of the commode. He thought oddly to himself that he liked the place a little, and would have harbored fond memories of it, had there actually been any fond memories to be had from the Frozen Spring mission…
Figuring it would be best to retire for the night, the Heracross paced toward the resting room... when a couple thoughts suddenly connected in his mind.
"You say you met a Snover?" Tangrind asked interestedly, glancing back at Kabir.
"Yes," Kabir answered, though a bit irritably, as if the memory was not something he wished to dwell on. "Young one. Even told me his name at one point. Don't remember it, though. Was a human name in origin."
"I think I know the one you mean," Tangrind said. "Met him on the first day we were at the Spring. Some kid. Got some guts."
"Oh?" Kabir responded curiously.
"Seemed distant from all his training-mates," Tangrind said oddly. "Practically chased away anyone who got within ten feet of him. Though… when I told him what we were doing in the city, he said... that we were his heroes."
Without another word, Tangrind crossed into the other room, leaving his teammate alone to complete his work.
---
Magma the Arcanine was created by NightlyRains.
Kabir the Smeargle was created by rabidcatking.
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Author's Notes:
Yeah, it's one of these stories, with perspective flipping. I found that Legend couldn't narrate the whole thing—if he did, it'd probably take three years to finish the story! He'll have his turn again, but not for a few more parts.
I'm going to try for faster, smaller updates in the near future. Maybe once a week, even? Or faster?
Also, do not worry: all the submitted characters so far included (as well as those mentioned but not yet used) are not done, and will get much more than just one scene. They're going to be proper characters.