Steel (Poke)Ball Run

Chapter 20 – VS THE DUTY OF A ZEPPELI

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Hailing from the region that is the prestigious and beautiful Kalos, Gyro began to explain his story. He was from a small, traditional town with strong ties to the royal family as this 'small' town was known for two of some of the most important chateaus and palaces belonging to the aristocratic families. Gyro assured his listeners that he had no blood ties there; only ties of duty.

Although Kalos is traditionally politically neutral on the grand scale, it is known for its inside conflict however. After something of a drought of internal conflict, rebellion has once against reared its ugly head in the form of a public desire to become a republic due to the economic crisis that is slowly bubbling to the top of public conscious as well.

Considered one of the main hubs of monotheism in the world, Kalos is ruled by divine right. With most of the population practicing said religion, there has been little issue until as of late. With development of science, there has been a turning away from what was once considered fact and now becoming myth. Knowing this, it becomes easier to understand the circumstances that surround this which is not Gyro's personal story but rather something that he read up on.

This is a story that made the newspapers, dated April twenty-third, 1890.

In the Kalosian countryside, there was a little boy called Marco. He was nine years old. He was just like any other child his age: sweet-faced, a touch playful, and enjoyed the companionship of his family pet, a Linoone that was getting on years. The boy's family was that of servitude.

His father and the fathers before him were all servants to the same aristocratic family. Marco was to be the same as all those before him. He was to become a servant to a Baron Rippi and his job would be of cleaning hats and shoes. When he was to embark upon this life of servitude, at the mere age of nine years, his father said to him:

"This job will bring you happiness, as long as you remain humble and earnest."

Crying, Marco hugged his father dearly as he bestowed such advice unto him.

Every morning, Marco got up earlier than the rest and would begin his chores. He would sit down with a rag and in silence, he would shine the shoes and brush the hats that belonged to the Baron and his guests. Every day, he would do as such and not once did a complain slip past his lips. He understood his role well despite his age.

However, one morning that was weeks after beginning his service, the country's military police broke into the estate. And Marco was arrested.

Wide-eyed and more awed than anything, Marco allowed himself to be taken away by these strange, faceless men in identical uniforms.

Unbeknownst to Marco, the man he worked for: Baron Rippi, had been plotting a revolution against the king of that country. The king's assassination was prevented. But treason remained in its wake; treason: a most heinous and serious crime.

The Baron's family and partners were put on trial. They were also sentenced to execution. From the evidence, assassination was planned in the estate and therefore all involved with the estate became conspirators. Young Marco was seen as part of the Baron's family and partners because he had been shining shoes for them every morning inside their estate.

"There is no doubt about it…" they decided.

The decision was absolute. Beheading would be the execution method.

Or at least such a decision would be absolute if this was not where the cross-section of lives had not bisected. However, beginning at this cross-section, would not fully capture the nuances of why such an absolute decision would be contested.

"Every man needs a map… a map in his heart to ride across the wilderness" is a quote that Gyro Zeppeli's father would often use around the house. His family's home was a simple home; to a child's eyes, to an outsider's set of eyes. There were certain simplicities to it that would lead to larger intricacies.

Beginning with the complexities of his father, Gregorio Zeppeli, he is a peculiar yet honourable man. He had a strict philosophy. He is a man who lives set apart from sentimentality. He never makes personal friends and treats his partner Pokemon with a somewhat clinical manner. He even avoids visiting people and allowing visitors; not even his relatives are exempt to such a belief of simplicity and anti-sentimentality. He only ever spends his time with his family at dinner. He does not allow photography nor does he keep a journal or the like. Even when Gyro graduated from his school, his father did not make an appearance at that graduation. He neither receives nor gives presents; outside of that which is mandated by Zeppeli tradition, anyway.

It is because he believed that memories of human relationship would lead to the sentimentality which he detests. It was all part of his strict regulation of his life and emotional state. In order to stay clear and sharp, he could not allow his judgement to be cracked and he believed that it would be sentimentality which would lead to such ill tidings.

As for Gyro's mother there was not much to be said. She was a local woman of muted beauty; she was a diligent wife. In pair with her cold husband but Gyro had firm memories of the understanding they had. Once or twice a month, Gyro's Father would be summoned by the King's Servant. On those mornings, his mother would prepare a meal. It was a small, silent meal; a meal of simplicity. It would consist of fish, a loaf bread, and wine. It was always the same. He would eat in silence, in peace, before heading to the King's court.

At that time, the King's Servant - a strange, robed man - would appear before Gyro in those mornings and as the same thing of him:

"How old are you now, Gyro?"

That was all he would ever say to Gyro.

Gyro's Father was a doctor. He examined both the rich and the poor from the clinic that he ran beside his seemingly simple home. There were afternoons in which he would invite a young Gyro, a nine-year-old Gyro, into his study and Gyro would be in awe of the all the books. But, one afternoon, he invited Gyro into his study with a purpose.

"Gyro come here, a little closer."

Gyro was hesitant at first as his father had looked so steeped in study previously, he didn't want to interrupt. He had thought this afternoon to have been another day of quiet study. Apparently not as his father extended a warm, rough hand to him and placed in his palm was a green, Steel Ball.

"This is a PokeBall that contains your first Pokemon, should you be able to claim it from me, of course. Our family has bred a prized line of Aggron, inside this PokeBall is an Aron. Much like you, it has a lot to learn."

"Wait, really, for me?!"

"Yes, you are beginning to come of age, soon you will be grown and the years will have flown. It is fine to take interest in Pokemon, I know you enjoy watching those races but first, you must master the art of the Spin."

"Thank you so much, Father!"

Gyro had reached out for it but his father had averted his reach.

"Hey, I thought you were giving me this Aron."

"Think my son, how will you take this PokeBall from me?"

Excited by the prospect of owning his own Pokemon, it took Gyro less than a moment to devise a plan. He jabbed at the books lining the shelf above his father's desk where he sat even now. Then, he grabbed onto his father's arm; even bit down on it.

"Whoa, Gyro, that's not right!" he yelled as he yanked his son off of his arm and books spilt off his lap.

Gyro pulled back, he pouted.

"Not by dirty tricks or cheating!" his father roused. "Consider this your first lesson on how to be an honourable man: in both battle and life. You will take this PokeBall through rotation. How will you take it by rotation?"

"But it's impossible, Dad." Gyro replied, petulant.

"If you are to progress in this world, you must learn about the power we have contained in the steel PokeBalls. You need to be able to do everything by the time you are may embark on your journey by twelve and return as heir, as a man, by thirteen. As is the way of our house. I was taught by your grandfather; your grandfather was taught by his father."

"But why, Father? What does the steel PokeBall have to do with Grandfather and Great-Grandfather… the other families use Apricorns…"

"Because the men of the Zeppeli have always done this. And you can surely do it too. You may leave now."

Gyro was dismayed. He turned towards the door, upset that he had failed in securing his first Pokemon; and the legacy of the Spin that it represented. His fist clenched by his side as the door opened slightly as he pushed on it.

"Besides," his father said as he began to rearrange his desk, "it is much easier to place it in a hand than to take it away."

"Huh?"

Gyro lifted his hand and uncurled his fingers from his palm. His eyes widened. He didn't even realise that he was holding onto it but, in his palm, he had been holding onto a green steel PokeBall. It was both heavier and lighter than he expected. How strange. His eyes widened. Without even having to do anything, it began to rock.

"Whoa? When did you…? Thanks, Father! I promise to take great care of my Aron!" he promised.

Gyro grinned. He was already thinking up 'cool' nicknames for this little Aron of his tucked away safe inside of its PokeBall.

His father smiled, wistful but proud.

Between learning the Spin, training his Aron, and catching other Pokemon, the days quickly turned to months and in turn, to years. Before Gyro knew it, he was twelve and it was time for him to embark on a journey. At the tender age of twelve, it was terrifying, the prospect of leaving his simple, childhood home. It was only for a year and he would have what his Pokemon and his Spin technique to protect him but still, it was beyond daunting.

However, it was in that year of travel that Gyro saw many things. He caught and raised Pokemon and grew up. He became independent and free. It was beautiful as it was petrifying. But that was the way of his House; and a few more, he encountered others his age whose parents had let them travel through Kalos in hopes that they would grow.

He could recall a pair of brothers; they were good battlers, or at least the younger of the two were. The younger of the two had been battling and had won against some other boy his own age in Dendemille Town, up north. Gyro recalled that memory fondly; though the Pokemon that small boy had used was currently escaping his memory.

He said that the reason he had such fondness for that memory was that it was the sweet reverie that came before the change as though Gyro had seen many things in that year he had spent alone with his trustworthy comrades, there had been one thing he had never witnessed.

Something that he would never witness until his thirteenth birth. He had returned to his dear home of Camphrier Town two days prior to his thirteenth birthday. His mother had celebrated his safe return. He had grown so much taller and stockier. He was truly a changed youth. His father had not been so jubilant. He had looked over Gyro once and concluded that he had indeed become a "man" but he didn't treat it as anything celebratory. He treated it with the same mundanity as keeping a record of heights on the door frame in the kitchen.

It was two mornings later when Gyro met the King's Servant and once more, he asked:

"How old are you now, Gyro?"

To which, Gyro did reply: "Thirteen, sir."

The King's Servant could hardly believe Gyro's growth. As a child, he had been plucky and small but now, he was thirteen and as such, he was beginning to show hairs upon his lips, a stocky build, and a rising attitude that came with the idea that child had become something akin to adult.

At thirteen, Gyro's Aron had become a Lairon.

And, it was at thirteen, that his father delivered grave news. He had stated it in a simple voice. As was the way with the Zeppeli household.

"Today you will come with me."

That morning, his mother had prepared a simple meal for him. Upon a plate, just for him, was a seared fish paired with fragrant wine and a loaf of thickly crusted bread. As she placed it before him at his place at the dinner table, his mother kissed him in on his cheek in silence. Gyro then ate his small, simple meal.

Gyro's father was given the same meal. Together, they ate and no words were exchanged between them or the family. It had been like this many more mornings before but somehow, today it was different. It was hallowed. After their meal, Gyro and his father boarded a carriage.

The carriage that the two of them rode, took them to a building with tall walls on the north-west side of the castle. It was there, upon entering, that Gyro's Father spoke to him in a firm but soft voice.

"Every man needs a map… a map in his heart to ride across the wilderness. Listen carefully, you are the eldest son of the Zeppeli House. You need to protect your family. True happiness is found in family. Protecting your family relates to protecting your country. For your family to fall apart is to scorn your descendants and your future descendants. Never forget that, my son."

Gyro had listened intently but he didn't understand.

They exited the carriage and his father put on a beautiful robe. It was luxuriant purple with gold decorations. He looked regal in it. It was almost as though this was the moment that many children had fantasised about because it was featured in many fairy tales. It was almost as though Gyro was about to learn he was descended from royalty or something. That was the type of aura his father exuded as he donned that gorgeous gown.

He strode forward and Gyro's reverie was about to be killed.

"From now on, you will be my assistant. This is the job that has been placed upon us by the King three hundred and eighty years ago. It has been the Zeppeli Family's duty throughout the years… Continuing through entire generations of Kings. You must approach this duty with honour."

This duty his father was about to thrust upon young Gyro was nothing as beautiful as a child's fantasy.

"Job…? Assistant…?" Gyro murmured. "What is this place?"

Behind a door made up of steel bars, a ruckus began. It was loud and noisy: many screams.

"Officer!" one man screamed. "Please come into the courtyard! He won't stop kicking and screaming!"

Gyro swallowed. His skin prickled, he trembled. He sweated bullets. What was happening?

"F-Father?" he murmured.

His Father strode forward. He approached the guard at the door and began to converse with him.

"What about the Priest? Was he not able to calm his heart?"

"He's uncontrollable. There is no peace for him."

His Father turned to him.

"Gyro." he said, patiently. "You wait here. You wait for my orders."

His father pulled down a white hood over his face. Only his eyes were visible. That was the moment in which Gyro fully understood the situation. He was terrified. Shocked to the core. This was not the simple life he had always lived with his family; the family of doctors… not murderers.

Gyro stood as still as a statue. He watched through the bars of that door as his father fulfilled the honourable duty of the House of Zeppeli.

His Father drew out a sword from the armoury. Three other hooded men restrained a man who had his head in wooden gallow. The man was on his knees and wound tightly in metal links and yet he struggled anyway.

"Stop! Nooo! I'll curse you all! I don't want to die!"

"Be still. Silence your heart."

And that was the moment in which Gyro understood why the other families used PokeBalls crafted from Apricorn shells rather than steel. It was also the first moment in which he saw the very PokeBalls he carried, that his family carried, as a weapon.

His father pounded the man's back and embedded the steel PokeBall in the centre. The man's back rippled like a disrupted pond but he settled. He was soothed There was a moment of tranquillity before a gush of blood. The sword cleaved through the man's neck and his head rolled. It was over in an instant but it had felt so much longer.

The steel PokeBall bounced back and his father collected it. He stowed it away in his robes then turned around. He walked towards Gyro. His blade was loose in his hand and left a blood trail. He shoved it uncaringly towards his son. Gyro's stomach wretched and he'd never seen so much blood before. He was petrified.

"Your job begins here. You will sanitise the sword." his father instructed.

There was no warmth or compassion to his voice. He had no sympathy for his son. In his eyes, in the eyes of tradition, his son was a man. He was an adult. And he would be treated as such. The detachment was unnatural, it frightened Gyro but he resolved to inherit the legacy of his family, as blood-drenched as it was.

It was seconds after that moment, that Gyro understood though as to why his father was so repulsed by sentimentality.

"This has been the duty of the Zeppeli family for three hundred and eighty years."

As long as there is a system of execution in the constitution, there needs to be someone to fulfil the command. In pre-twentieth century Kalos, the position of the executioner was a strict occupation controlled by the government. It was passed down through heritage, therefore the ones who were ordered to carry out the executions received a high position and a high wage, but from father to son… and son to grandson, the technique of execution was passed solely down the family line.

Humans can die from one wound but the will to live is surprisingly strong. It requires a good amount of technique to bring about certain death. Even criminals deserve a death without suffering. A second blow will never be acceptable. An expert is required to execute as swiftly as the blink of an eye.

Where are the vital spots in the body? What areas can be cut easily without bones interfering?

The executioner must know everything there is about the human body for the sake of a smooth execution. So, they studied everything there was: medicinal sciences to martial arts. To bring bodies to stillness and peace, the Zeppeli family developed the rotation of the Steel Ball.

PokeBalls contained innumerable power and the Zeppeli executioners saw that. They saw that their faithful partner Pokemon, the mighty Aggron line, contained unknowable potential. So, they studied that also and developed a new PokeBall: the steel PokeBall. From that knowledge applied to the body, they developed a new power, a peculiar power.

The steel Ball - the steel PokeBall - is not a weapon. It was not developed for pain but rather for peace. The technique was developed over centuries and small alterations were made throughout the generations as needed, as an understanding of the applications grew.

To carry out executions, that was the duty of the Zeppeli family.

There had been instances in the past where the will to live had pulsed strong in those whose executions were scheduled to be minutes away that semi successful attempts to flee were made. There had been an instance wherein a man had a missing bone in his neck. Where the average person had seven, this particular criminal only had six. So, this criminal's vital area had been changed but Gyro's Father was ever perceptive and had noticed this abnormality. Thanks to that, he had altered his execution style and it proceeded as per normal.

But there had also been an instance of a criminal having a bodily abnormality that no one noticed. This man's fingers had joints that could bend the opposite way and has used that secret to slip from his handcuffs. From that, he was able to escape and he quickly took a guard hostage.

He used an impromptu weapon and its sharpened edge nibbled at his hostage's neck.

"Ha, fools!" the prisoner yelled. He reeked of desperation and perspiration. "Don't come near me! If I'm gonna get executed anyways, I'm gonna take as many of youse as I can! Bring your keys; keys for this prison!"

At first, the executioners relented. They didn't want to risk the loss of one of their comrades nor their own lives so they obeyed the nonsensical demands of the man. They bunched together but from this, one grew bold: Gyro.

He took a steady breath as he strode forward. He unclipped a PokeBall from his waist but he did not have the intent to call forth the creature it contained; his mighty Aggron.

"Hey, hey, y-you… what're you doing?" the prisoner yelped.

Gyro made no reply. He was calm and certain of himself. He exerted his presence without doing anything and it was because he was so seamlessly projecting, he intimidated the prisoner.

The prisoner began to shake, tremble. His knife hand turned unsteady. Gyro remained firm. He gave his PokeBall an almost careless wind-up before releasing it straight into the chest of the hostage. The hostage shivered, braced himself, and was fine. Not a wrinkle to be spotted on his garments. However, the prisoner was completely constricted by his own clothes. They wrenched around his body and sealed his movements. The hostage limped forward and the others were able to subdue the prisoner.

He was shortly executed thereafter.

Gyro's popularity grew among the others. He was growing to be a fine heir to the Zeppeli legacy. He was well-liked and trustworthy but, upon the decision of Marco's execution, his seriousness towards his family's legacy and honour was questioned thanks to his actions; his simple actions.

Gyro was to receive the mantle of his father's position at the age of twenty-five. He had approached this heavy legacy with the utmost care in his studies and practices. Gyro had taken his duty seriously and as such, he was due to be the successor come his time; come the thirty-first of December given that that would mark his twenty-fifth birthday, after all. His studies and his practices had all gone smoothly until the execution of Marco had been decided; he was the boy who scrubbed shoes at the aristocrat's mansion which had held plots of treason which made him a traitor to the crown by association.

However, even though Gyro was popular and his time to reign in his father's stead drew in ever closer, he was still young. He was still prone to mistakes. There was a little more to it than just hearing about this unfair execution. It was seeing Marco's eyes - seeing Marco's helplessness - in this situation which had caused Gyro's heart to falter. His own sentimentality peeked through the guise of professionalism that he had done well to don like his executioner's hood these past few years.

At that moment, Gyro and his father were in a separate part of the halls and were considering how to properly execute a frail old man. He was wrinkled as aged leather. He laid on his back and twisted his head slightly. He coughed and sputtered; his mouth seemed more like a maw since it was practically toothless.

However, further down the hall, a commotion began. A commotion in which one of their fellow prison guard's had two fingers severed.

A woman was being escorted through. She was heavily chained and guarded. She was small and fragile looking; beautiful even, with silky hair and luscious eyelashes upon demure eyes. However, that woman was a ruthless prisoner condemned to death. To her name, she had quite the gruesome history. She had killed many people, families and children, with vile poisons.

While she was being escorted, she began to jerk and move about like a wild Pokemon. In the frenzy, she bit off two of her guard's fingers with the power of a pump. In the chaos, with blood dripping from her delicately shaped mouth, she rammed at the closest guard, who happened to be Gyro.

She clamped her hand around his neck. People yelled at him; to do something, they demanded. She tore off the fanciful, white neckerchief from around his neck and discarded it. Her bondage embedded on his throat. He unclipped one of his steel PokeBalls but he had no intent to call upon any of his partner Pokemon. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the ball at her but he succumbed. There was just a slight hesitation; a slight moment of weakness. And, as a result, the ball was thrown off course.

It became embroiled in her gorgeous, black hair. Her jaw slackened and eyes widened. She was more startled than anything.

Fortunately, this case did not come to disaster. It merely teetered around it. As such, Gyro was brought to a lovingly furnished parlour room by his father and the two began a discussion. Because of the incident, Gyro had to be scolded but his father was not a man for harsh tones or the similar. Instead, it was done firmly and calmly with polite wording, even, but in a very strict manner. In his own way, his father was outraged and it did show.

"My son, this incident is an accident caused entirely by you. You are the one to be responsible for it."

Gyro paused a moment, so he may begin to find a way to defend himself. Such a claim seemed utterly unfair. He was by no means the only factor at play here so why should he account for the entire situation gone askew?

He then spoke up quietly. "Only me? I was the one who calmed her, Father. I think I was of some help."

"Is that so? That woman, what did you think of her? Did you not think to yourself, perhaps, 'The woman is beautiful, she is small'."

Gyro became nervous. It would be a blatant lie to deny that. Those were true facts about her appearance, after all. And they were facts that he had registered in his mind about her.

"Or, did you not think to yourself when you looked at the cell at the end hall, 'That prisoner is old and sick'."

Gyro swallowed. Again, true facts about a prisoner. Those were thoughts he had had.

"This is not about failure or carelessness, I'm talking about the sentimentality of the heart. You must not bring that into your duty as a Zeppeli, my son. No matter if a small woman or a man two metres tall, a condemned criminal or a pickpocket: it is all the same. Without that, you could have stopped the woman before she bit off our fellow guard's fingers. Shame on you! You could have avoided losing your collar, too. The one that bears our honourable crest." his father lectured.

Gyro stroked the fabric where his collar should have been. He was harrowed, truth be told that was the tranquil fury of his father. He was right in every sense of the word.

"A heart full of sentimentality is dangerous… It can set your future to eternal misery. Do not forget, my son."

With that, the conversation was over. But, little did Gregorio Zeppeli know, this would be the prelude to an actual disaster. This was but the mere sweet tidings of what could tease at going wrong.

A few days passed, morning came and Gyro was called to duty once more. When he arrived at the cells, yet another disturbance at erupted.

"We'll make you speak!" a guard yelled.

His meaty fist pounded in front of the bars of a door. He held a strange, white stick in his hand. Gyro was unsure of what it was as it was so odd in colour and shape. He drew in a little closer.

Behind the bars was a small child. He was wide-eyed and calmed despite the racket he appeared to be at the centre of.

"This is a needle, is it not? Since when did you have a needle? Where did you get it?"

There was a pause. There was no reaction from the child. Gyro grew nervous. His father's most recent lecture echoed in his head.

"We don't know why a kid like you were put in here… we haven't asked you of your crime yet, but if you don't speak, we'll show no mercy!"

The door cell was opened and the guard who had been speaking grabbed the boy by his collar. He breathed heavily over the boy's face.

"What were you trying to do with it? Is this needle supposed to be a weapon? Or as a lock-pick? We'll add jailbreak to your list of crimes, kid! Do you have any companions? What were you planning on doing with this?"

The boy opened his mouth. A second guard entered his cell and began ransacking his room. Before the boy could explain, the second guard found something of interest. After tearing up his bed, he found something beneath it. It was a white collar with pale gold embellishments in the shape of a fleur-de-lis.

Gyro recognised it immediately as the collar he had lost the other day.

"Look what he was hiding under his bed!"

"This crest… It's our collar hanger, where did you steal this from? Now, you've done it! This is an insult to our country!"

The boy fell to his knees and began to explain.

"I… The needle… Out of a fish's bone. And that was ripped off two days ago by a woman; it had fallen into the drainage. I was able to pick it up through the narrow drain with my hands. But, I'm sure I fixed it. Is that important? Could you please return it to its owner then? I hope that he will like it."

The boy paused. Gyro stiffened. The boy then continued with drooping eyes and a voice most sincere.

"My father taught me that if I do my best, then I will be accepted, someday. It's the job that my father had and my grandfather before him and even his grandfather. I can sew anything! I'll beat anyone at shining shoes! And I can make silverware bright and shiny! I can memorise the names of all the finest wines and meals!"

Gyro barged in and cut through the boy's impassioned explanation of his talents.

"Enough, stop!" he yelled. He snatched the collar from the boy. "It's just a fishbone. Nothing else. Back to your posts, all of you! There's no problem here so leave the boy alone!"

The boy lifted himself slightly from the floor upon noticing that Gyro's guard uniform did not match the others.

"Is it your collar hanger, sir? I can fix it better if you like."

Gyro was overcome with a conflict of instinct versus teaching. He knew the boy was doing the best he could in this situation to preserve himself. After all, he likely saw Gyro as something as hero since he had somewhat protected the boy from the other guards' badgering. However, he could not allow the sentimentality the boy invoked to persuade him of anything. Even though he saw so much of himself in the boy and the boy's duty as a craftsman.

"Stop. Don't speak to me.. Ever again." Gyro replied between hot breaths.

It was that morning that Gyro had heard of that boy's - Marco's - crimes. He had also heard of the boy's sentence as a result. More importantly, he also knew who was to be the one to handle the execution. That man who would strike Marco's neck was to be him and it was to be his first official duty instead of his father's retirement.

Rife with internal conflict of his own, Gyro waded through the actions he could take. He chose the most simple one but it came with the price of repulsive sentimentality. Gyro's simple yet disgustingly sentimental action was that he would bring up a complaint against the court regarding Marco's execution.

Once more, he and his father met together in his study. His father was deeply disappointed and angered by Gyro's actions. His hair had turned grey but Gyro didn't remember when that had happened. In his memories as this man's bratty first born, it was hard to diffuse when the sandy blonde had faded; when his father had aged at all, really. But the fact of the matter was that he had and with that elder age, he had made up his mind. He had decided that this would be the year in which he would retire from this burdensome duty and Gyro would take-over.

With an exhausted look on his face, he turned to meet Gyro who was quaking in his boots. His father had never raised his voice to scold his son and he wasn't going to start now either. And so, that silent fury was enough to set Gyro's nerves on edge. When his father finally spoke, Gyro couldn't help but shiver.

"What you did was useless, Gyro… It will only cause our country trouble. Our family's duty is to not decide whether they are guilty or innocent."

"Father." Gyro brought his words to his voice but he was nervous. "I just want to comply with the duty of consent."

"There is no 'consent', Gyro. Even towards the worst criminals. The duty of our family is carrying out the orders of the King. That is all. The law is the law. Don't get involved in the details. This is beyond 'consent'; it is all divine will."

"I will be turning twenty-five this year which means I will have to carry out the execution in your place, correct?"

"The boy will be executed. This is the end of the discussion. We will not speak any more on this."

His father turned back to his reading. He did not appear interested in listening to Gyro as he continued, almost under his breath; like he hadn't meant to speak at all.

"They say that names have power… And for that Aron I gave you some fifteen years ago, you named it 'Jailbreak'... perhaps, I should have seen this coming, in all honesty."

To that, Gyro did not know what to say. After all, he had picked that name for it had sound 'cool' but a slight part of him couldn't help but wonder if that superstition had any bearing over his Aggron and himself after all. His father seemed to believe the theory.

An assassination plot discovered just in time. Treason bodes as the worst crime against the governance. It mattered not if one had heard of the plot whilst shining shoes as Marco had done. If they had kept silent about the plot, they would be guilty; even women and children. It was this sort of era; it was the law of the state.

Annoyed and overloaded with too any thoughts and opinions and kindness in a line of duty where unflinching, unquestioning faith in the law was of the utmost importance, Gyro attempted to cool his head. He skulked around the courtyard attached to his house. It was there, by the hedges and a statue, that he encountered the King's Servant once more.

And once more, with that face as old as time, he opened his weary lips and asked a simple question of Gyro: "How old are you now, Gyro?"

It was such an easy question. One that Gyro had answered all throughout his life but today, today he just exploded.

"You always ask me that question; surely by now you know the answer!"

The King's Servant was unfazed. Gyro, however, remained argumentative. Like he was itching for some sort of a fight to break out; adrenaline, perhaps.

"Aren't you the one who was concerned about the boy?" he asked, serene.

"That boy…" Gyro's anger faltered briefly, turned to pity and despair but then it rose once more and a sincerity of dreaming bloomed from his words. "I will take the place of my father who has put his pride in the family line. This is my job, my duty! And that will never change… It hasn't changed in the past and it won't change from here on. But I want consent!"

His emotions got the better of Gyro and he struck a column in the courtyard. His knuckles reddened and roughened. He breathed heavily but he had no regret over his actions. It was better to express them than to let them fester and become pent up.

"My father said not to mention it. I want to make this duty the pride of my heart! Guilty or innocent! There needs to be consent! Pride and honour cannot exist without consent!"

Gyro tore himself away from the column and grabbed the King's Servant by the front. He drilled holes into those seemingly uncaring, impartial eyes that were grey as steel. The King's servant knew Gyro meant no harm with his tantrum; his dramatics but his interest was thoroughly piqued by the earnest passion and conflict of Gyro's emotions.

"I will put my life on the line for pride and honour! Isn't there a way? Not all laws are justice! I cannot agree with putting this boy to death! He had nothing to do with the assassination plot! I need consent no matter what!" Gyro roared.

At first, the King's Servant was quiet. Like he was processing what Gyro had yelled at him. Gyro's fingers let slip from the man's robes and he drew back. His breathing was off and some of that anger he had appeared to have died off. Then, a cruel epiphany flashed in the King's servant's eyes and he spoke up.

"You would put your life on the line for that boy? Is that what you said, I'm just checking?"

"What?"

"I'm making sure that you would, indeed, risk your life if the boy could be innocent."

"What the hell are you saying?" Gyro was suspicious. "Can you do it?

Gyro took a heavy breath.

"Yes. I want to save him." Gyro replied, calmly, rationally. "He was only scrubbing shoes…. Is it wrong for a person from my family to object?"

"There is one way to reverse the decision." A bloodthirsty grin split across the man's tranquil face; Gyro had never seen any emotion on this man's face before, let alone something as sadistic as that. "Say a war breaks out, and a country is declared victorious. The king must release amnesty that everyone can agree with. An amnesty is an exception wherein a criminal's penalty is lightened!"

"The King's amnesty?" Gyro echoed.

"Yes, the King would release one without a doubt because of that event."

"No, what're you saying? What event? There isn't any war going on in the world right now?"

"An old colony of Kalos, proud to be independent for twenty-three presidencies now, has now decided it wants to play with the same strengths as us and the Oriental superpowers; something that grandiose would attract much attention worldwide. Unova desires a Champion. In such a case, the King would gift amnesty to the crown Champion if such a man were to be Kalosian in origin."

Gyro's breath hitched in his breath as the realisation unfolded.

"You have the skill of the Spin and three hundred and eighty years of loyalty backing you. For you, it's possible, that's why I'm suggesting it. The entire world will be watching! Victory in this race will bring great dignity to a nation - as well as plenty of political influence since you are not of Unovan origin but rather pure Kalos, that'll keep Unova under the King's thumb despite its current state as a republic; so long as you keep that title, of course. Not to mention, the people of Kalos will unite once more under the King's rule and that will stamp out… unpatriotic actions and ideas!" the King's Servant explained.

Gyro could almost feel a noose tightening around his neck. Such a win would bring unforeseeable grandeur. A loss could be devastating. And yet, he accepted nonetheless.

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