Aftershock
Chapter 6: The Peak
Part 2
[Ruki Ferena, the Leader of the Gym said quietly[rookie trainer, equal to the level of your closest ally, Master Kelanis. Ah, interesting.
[Perhaps his omniscience is getting a bit on the nerves, Amaren suggested privately to Ytarrik.
[And shall you be using Akale to begin this match? said the nameless leader. [Correct. Enter Venonat. An unfortunate chance, the type-matching, but such is life.
A shapeless ball of purple fuzz peered out with massive, bulbous scarlet eyes, its underdeveloped forepaws resembling cracked eggshell-halves. Tipped white antennae bent back from its top, shaped in an entirely unassuming manner.
"Still," Ruki whispered to her Bellsprout, "be on your guard, Akale."
The grass-type begun with his signature Growth, as his opponent stepped two toddling steps forward, stopping abruptly. He merely stood there, waiting for some invisible cue.
Akale broke the siege first, extending large, slithering vines forward into the naïve curiosity of the Venonat. They approached him with increasing caution, the snake after the hapless mouse…
And suddenly a mad glint entered those gigantic eyes, and the forepaw reached out to touch the vines, which instantly withered before Akale's eyes.
"Disable!" Ruki cursed. She changed tack upon a dime: "You know what Bug-types hate, Akale!"
With a sound of obedience, the Bellsprout aimed his pitcher head and released a fine spurt of noxious green liquid, sizzling painfully into the Venonat's shaggy fur, who retaliated instantly in insect fury.
The fine hairs bristled as though with static, as a great wind was whipped up all around the stadium, slamming concentrated into Akale, his rootlike appendages insufficient to hold to the ground. With a great protest, he ripped off the concrete floor and slammed painfully into the ground several feet away, to a sympathetic groan from his trainer.
"Is this war?" Ruki asked her Pokèmon. "Exactly. Sleep Powder!"
The remnants of the Gust still whirligiging around the stadium, Akale released a storm of white mist, which streamed out to follow the contours of the wind and engulfed the Venonat whole. Within seconds, its peacefully heaving body was lying prone on the floor.
Akale strode over to his exposed opponent, and began attacking indignantly in whichever manner he could contrive. A flurry of Acid followed a thorough beating with Slam, and preceded a few good cracks of the Vine Whip, and through all the exercise the Bug-type did not but stir in slight discomfort, as Ruki cheered on and Amaren gave his turn at laughing madly. At last, with a groggy start, it awoke.
The Venonat squared itself, and directed a paltry Psybeam into Akale's mind: rings of purple thought streaming out of each eye to hit the Bellsprout painfully, diluted into the Poison element. Yet, to an untrained mind, even this mockery was overwhelming – Akale sat back heavily, beady eyes rolling, as he shot out attacks at random.
[Have I forgotten something? the leader suddenly asked, as though picking up a thought from Ruki's mind.
She blinked in surprise. "Uh, yeah, you have. This Bellsprout also knows Stun Spore."
And, as the trainer's smile widened, a fine neon-yellow dust began streaming out into the atmosphere, snaking its way into the Venonat's lungs. At the first influence, its body seized up, muscles petrifying into coma; and the Psybeam was no longer deathly effective: with a well-placed Slam, Akale incapacitated the insect.
A moment of disbelief.
'I did it?" Ruki muttered. "I did it!" she suddenly yelled, "bring on the next round!"
Angin stared challengingly into her opponent's eyes, her flames flaring out in controlled bursts of intimidation. A rotund, humanoid figure, its ridiculous smile belied the tenacity of irritation it was capable of causing. A strange shirt-like covering protected its spherical torso and capped the pale, spindly legs, and dark blue horns flopped out from either end.
"Mr. Mime, is it…?" Amaren murmured.
The Pokèmon held out his gloved hands, clutching imaginary walls, and began moving in a tight circle, his body pressed against the supposed glass with astonishing realism. Angin faltered for a moment, disconcerted, but plowed on.
"Start with Smoke Screen, Angin," Ruki ordered. "Whatever this Pokèmon can do, he can't blow smoke away!"
A gigantic ball of concentrated powder shot out at the Mr. Mime, making straight towards his chest; but it suddenly cracked inches before impact, crumbling into a fine mist which spread out in every direction. The psychic-type was encased in a persistent cloud of black smoke, and muffled sounds of protest were resounding from within the mess.
"All right, blast him with all you've got!"
Angin charged into the center of the fray and released a great stream of impassioned fire which singed a gaping hole in the smokescreen, passing entirely through the diligent Barrier to swallow the blinded Mr. Mime within. He raged out of the great deathtrap constructed all around him, coming in his frenzy within feet of Angin; but she did not flinch, confident in her opponent's reasonlessness. Merely, the Cyndaquil lay back and surveyed the scene.
Mr. Mime suddenly held up one hand, and stared directly into Angin's eyes, a bloodshot, manic twinkle in his own. A long, invisible struggle of wills, but then, out of the thin air over the psychic's glove materialized a metal disk attached to a stalk. He held it vertically upwards, and then began dipping it from side to side, as Angin came back to her senses with a start.
"Nice trick," Amaren murmured, and then called to Ruki telepathically, with Ytarrik's medium. [Mr. Mime have the ability to convince people to believe in the existence of imagined objects, if I recall correctly. If the target begins believing it, I guess the object becomes real.
[But what on earth can he possibly hope to do with this stupid toy? Ytarrik exclaimed.
A double wall of Light Screen and Barrier rose shakily into place all around the creature, as the pendulum began dipping in measured intervals, seeming almost to sound noiselessly at every turn. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock…
And a spurt of water burst out from inches before the Metronome, slamming into Angin with all the force of its element.
The Cyndaquil spluttered in naked shock, attempting to flare her flames and shake herself dry simultaneously. An explosion of steam and water blew out from her drenched fur, but more water stuck inextricably to the spikes, dampening their fire. A convulsive shudder of cold instantaneously followed – but days of training had never wasted upon her skill.
Instinctively, the opponents retreated into their respective positions, preparing for their next clash: Mr. Mime purposed merely towards the familiar Psychic meditations, but Angin sat back and began staring directly into the spotlight, precisely following her erratic movements.
An abrupt jerk preceded a small burst of flame, directly skywards; but instead of dissipating into the atmosphere, it fell apart into a thousand glowing droplets of golden-red mist which spread quickly across the roof of the building. They clung to every lit surface, congregating around the spotlights like heat-seeking fireflies, and all existing light in the room seemed to intensify hundredfold, heating the atmosphere visibly.
"Exactly, Angin," Ruki called out, "Sunny Day! Show them how a telepathic link isn't the only way to communicate in a battle."
The Psychic-type opened his eyes irritably, distracted by the pulsating lights. He looked straight up, blinded (to his dismay) by the glare, and ran forward in a sightless rage of Psychic attack.
Mr. Mime was racing directly toward Angin, impossible to sidestep (for all his psychic substitute for vision), and a sabre of forceful thought pointed out from before him, hungry for a subject to assault. As Angin and Ruki looked calculatingly towards the offender, Amaren's cautions and preachings wormed their way into their thought.
Angin shot out a globule of steaming purple liquid, and the Psychic attack latched on hungrily to this Toxic, working its inherent effects into the poison. Suddenly the tables had turned: Mr. Mime was the one in imminent danger, the noxious venom threatening to breach his skin if left unopposed with sufficient Psychic cleansing. He dug into the ball heading directly for him with all the energy he still possessed, burning it away with searing gold; but one infinitesimal drop splashed into his leg.
With a triumphant cry, Angin gathered her Sunny Day all around her and blasted him with the full force of all her power, the separate droplets falling one by one to feed her makeshift flamethrower. The light from the heavenly roof of the building was steadily deteriorating, replaced by the insane glow of the vertical bonfire pumping into the defenses of the Mr. Mime – until all was spent, and the opponents stood face to face, inches away, haggard beyond description.
The last remnant of a twinkle returned to Mr. Mime's eyes; he slammed Angin into defeat with a flick of a thought.
The watchers roared in separate voice of victory and disappointment; the quiet acknowledgement of the Gym Leader, the twin lamentation of Ruki and Amaren, the clamour of the anticipating crowd of a hundred different thoughts – but suddenly Ruki fell silent, bringing the celebrations to an abrupt pause.
"Did you forget?" she said. "I still have Akale, don't I?"
For the Psychic-type merely stood there in the chaos, his bloodshot, contracted eyes showing not the slightest fraction of life; and a swift blow to the head by the still-surviving Akale incapacitated him entirely.
[//\/\/\/\/\//\\//\\//\/\/\/\/\/\/\\//\\//\\/\/\/\/\/\//
A moment of dignified silence alone did Amaren and Ruki allow as they walked out of the smoking remains of the Pokèmon Gym, clutching their trophies (twin compact discs of some unknown TM, prize money, and, of course, the Marshbadge in all its glinting glory). The moment they were clear of eavesdroppers, they sunk into a frenzy of celebration, dancing, hugging each other and their groggily-released Pokèmon; reacting generally in a manner only those in their position could. This was, indeed, the reason for the chain of their thoughts when Prof. Oak appeared suddenly from a nearby street to congratulate them.
"I foresaw it from the beginning," the biologist called, "you emerge victorious. Spectacular match, I must say."
"Thanks, Professor," Amaren said, stymied. "What do you think we should do next? On to the next Gym?"
"Already?" Prof. Oak replied.
"Well, why not?" chimed Ruki, still influenced by the effects of battle. "As soon as our Pokèmon recharge, we should be ready to leave."
"Ah, all right," was a sigh and a reply. "Given your position, I would suggest Cerulean City next. Angin will be at a severe disadvantage, Ruki, but I think you will sufficiently handle it."
"Cerulean?" Ruki murmured, doubt in her voice. "M-Maybe we should wait awhile. A day or two."
Amaren saw no opposition in this: "Or three."
"Even half a week," Ruki persisted. "Enough to consolidate our position."
And it was decided.
[//\/\/\/\/\//\\//\\//\/\/\/\/\/\/\\//\\//\\/\/\/\/\/\//
Fall had hastily taken up its shirked responsibilities after the last flare of summer warmth, blowing silver breezes of chilly wind which painted the trees inevitable autumn. Within the space of a week and a half, the winged vanguard of winter had signaled its commands into every branch of every proud, oaken pillar, bidding them forsake their extravagancies in preparation of the coming frost, matting the unruly pelts of the proud earth into a single, uniform black, empowering ironclad rain clouds to boldly lead the former fringes of winter grey into monopoly of the sky. Every creature had reacted prudently to the cautioning signs of coming hardship, but Ruki and Amaren stuck stubbornly to their old, summertime pursuits, ignoring the coming wind and rain.
At last, the time of Saffron was coming to a close, its bright steel dimmed of light-deprivation, and the trainers and their mentor stood at the gates of their city, looking out towards Route 5 framed with naked forest.
"You must realize," Prof. Oak said, "this is goodbye for me. I should very well like to accompany you, but this is my place."
Amaren felt a sudden blow of dread; he had never foreseen that far. "But… why can't you just come along?" he asked feebly.
"Ah, it's not my place to follow all your wanderings. I'm sorry, but you will have to learn to go on your own."
And his resolve would not be shaken, despite all protest. He was not, however, coldly unyielding in his determination, attempting desperately for compensation; but, at last, matters were decided grudgingly.
"Farewell, then… not at all. I shall meet you someday, when our paths cross once again."
With solemn farewells, they moved off into the forest-path, deserted at this dark hour by every sign of life, still clinging to hope and life beyond all reason: their laughter sang all across the gaunt shades of verdant, transforming it (for this moment) into a receptacle for their still-pervasive spring. Amaren still could not help glancing up into the darkening stripe of visible sky every now and then. How long before it was too dark to see?
At last, with the sudden throwing of a switch, the forest ended to let back the remnants of winter light. Pewter City and Mt. Moon reclined on the shoulders of a wide, inland mountain of a hill; and its arms spread out even to support the majority of Cerulean, to which the road from Saffron was a steady rise of ledges. Only two roads cut the entirety of the way with relative straightness.
At winter, overtaken with a half-frosted wilderness of waterlogged grass, this gentle slope seemed a mountain with the displeased heavens at its crown.
They stepped uncertainly into the frigid sea of trees at the foot of the rising land, moving with measured steps deeper into the gloom. Suddenly, Ruki gave a faint yell and flinched.
"Something brushed against my leg!"
Amaren picked up a nearby stick and began to poke cautiously through the grass, flinching as he, too, felt the fast-moving creature rip cleanly through the murk. He jerked the grass soundlessly away off an invisible patch, to reveal a green quadruped growling faintly up at them.
A small, streamlined creature, it most resembled a canine in appearance, with its four gleaming fangs bared in warning on a short snout. Spikes of fur stuck out from the joints of its low legs and from the yellow-tipped tail, raised in vigilance; and a large, ovoid formation grew vertically from the back of its head.
"Is that an… Electrike?" Amaren said reverently.
They backed rapidly away, as tiny blue sparks began jumping with increasing frequency between separate points on the Electric-type's fur; and Ruki hastily sent out Akale to battle.
The Bellsprout began the match, extending his vines out beckoningly towards the Electrike, as his opponent began to positively sparkle with static electricity, and abruptly stop in a silent Charge. The moment the traditional Vine Whip made contact with the charged fur, no longer wasting its potential difference on wayward sparks of light, a silent battle of pain ensued; and attention was so intent upon the match as to ignore an imperceptible stiffening of Amaren's limbs.
Looking down from the crow's nest of the crystal ship –
"Akale, Slash!"
– the infinite moment before the fall, the infinitesimal peak before the waning –
The Electrike jumped away with supernal speed –
– the cloaked figure, in his final moment of triumph and despair and malice – no, never malice, something –
It circled its offender in dizzying spirals, shooting out irritated bolts of electricity.
– Tinged ever so slightly with the ghostly light of its past, the dark walker along his vast path comes finally to a lightless explosion of light –
The Pokèmon was inside its Storage Device, fighting still for release as the pressure pulsed at regular intervals of struggle
s ill-decided x f old e d elu ge
The display of its Storage froze
ungodly
and a single message scrolled across its metal –
Ruki's eyes are blank, vacant, her rapid breathing slowing infinitely
The cloaked hero sees unseeingly the scene around him, his eyes revealing nothing
She rises upon a tower of a pedestal, a shockwave emanating from her position on the ground, blowing away her possessions, her Pokèmon, Amaren, into the distance of watchers
He falls up out of the sea of stormy fire, rising up through the smoke and the destruction
She is stripped, uninhibited; the gleaming sapphire of her form; her simple, pure, beauty, unveiled by physical influences, naked
and how naked the malice, how unearthly the cackling laughter of the phantoms all around him, all too real
but the wraiths of dark intent are surrounding her, emerging from nothing, their evil so material, their danger so real to her tender, uncovered form
formless, shapeless, the unmanifest manifestations of violence and illness, impossible to attempt to attack
She is attacked! her delicate beauty, a sculpture of silver glass, crumbling within their brute destruction
Amaren looked up with helpless eyes into the dying light, extinguished by the wraiths which Luphinid Remana Silnaek looked down into with cold, emotionless eyes.
He had delved into his memories for too long.
The inevitable end had finally arrived.