Disclaimer: I do not own Pokemon, or any of its affiliated companies. The characters in this work are all loosely based on those created by Pokemon and its companies, and this story will never by no means be used to make monetary profit or gain.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Blue, Old, Borrowed, New:

They descended.

They rose.

Unbound by the material, the immaterial swarmed from all angles, and at their approach, the torches' light grew dim, their shine close yet far as the stars themselves. Cold they brought with, an unyielding chill which echoed in the hall, bouncing back and forth until my hands still clenched tight at the empty conch turned blue and a terrible tremble took over my body. Like ink spilled on water, a mass of shadows covered stone; the horrid darkness making its way up from the staircase and through the confining walls. The shapeless blotch cornered us, taunted us, drove us closer as our each step of retreat got replaced by the advancing shades; and soon no sanctuary was left - aside from the small patch of stone we occupied tightly.

But we stood.

And so they laughed. More heinous than the mightyena pack claiming the leftover carrion and as sincere as a newborn baby, the horde laughed at our sight, at us cowering and huddling together, weaponless and afraid but still defiant, their brutish hearts found joy in prey unaware of their status, victims unaware they were so. And they laughed, laughed, and laughed at our foolishness.

They would not kill us, as other beasts did, no. First, they would torment us, expose us to our deepest fears, drown us in our worst memories; they would make us beg and cry, feeding off our distress, they would carry our psionic screams with them to their young, and the whole brood would relish in the taste, and then, once everyone had taken their fill of misery, only then would they move on to our flesh. Their sharp teeth would tear at our meat, their red eyes would glow in a frenzy, and at their touch our long dead body would still stiffen from the abyssal cold. Hallow mouths would open wide, and our essence would disappear into the void hidden behind, becoming a trick the spirit could later pull out of its hat; adding to the vast number of faces it could imitate, they would expand on their tools of horror for future use, for the future would surely again bring souls foolish enough to delve deep into the wilds of Lavender.

They were a horde, united in purpose, and they were ghosts: Vicious and cruelest among all monsters. They did not float across that unholy lake basked in moonlight solely to kill us, they did not climb up the tower to our level solely to deal with us invaders.

They also came because they enjoyed the kill.

Lidless eyes emerged first, then the cheshire grins. They smiled for they knew we could not harm them, they smiled because they saw the lifeless vines James had ripped from Callidora, saw her bleeding and injured, and they snickered at the wound on Arsenal's head, giggling at his muscular, powerful physique, for such corporeal prowess meant nothing to those intangible, and the elemental attacks which actually could hurt them were not by nature a wartortle's strength. And having assessed the threat and deemed it insignificant, they were now finally reverting to the shapes they were comfortable with, they could now break free from the combined fluid darkness they had masked themselves under for purposes defense and mobility and resume their individual forms best suited for offense and slaughter.

Shadows accumulated, and like bubbles in boiling water rising, a multitude of bodies were birthed: The short and round gengar were distributed among the taller, silent dusclops observing silently from their single eyes locked on the target, and at their feet, the creeping, crawling child size sableye flashed their teeth hungrily. Their numbers were between twenty and thirty – the maximum number the hall I stood in could allow – but the horde's momentary size mannered not, for I knew the wave of darkness extended from here to the lowest levels of the tower and from there to the bottom of the surrounding lake, bringing the total up to hundreds, maybe even thousands; an unneeded reinforcement of monsters which only expanded on the situation's hopelessness.

Just like you like it, right Red?

And feeling the full, astonished gaze of the horrors upon me, I straightened up from my shriveled position, and smiled.

"Arsenal."

The wartortle's roar and subsequent launch of the hefty shell was welcomed by the ghosts with open laughter. Even though Arsenal's shell burst right through the frontmost dusclops, taking the upper-tops of a few crouched sableye heads with, and hit the opposing wall with a thundering impact, the ghosts' laughter did not cease and turned to open mocking – did us fools not know they were a species immune to physical contact? The cackles continued while they patiently waited for their comrades' shadows to reform, for this illusion of hurt their brethren was casting to end so they could move on with the killing.

Their chuckles froze when gushing ectoplasm sprayed from the holes where their brothers' heads used to reside and painted the corridor in blood.

And the screams came a second later when Arsenal through precise aqua-jetting technique regained his lost momentum and flew from the sides, this time taking more than a half of the sableye and one gengar with him. The whirling shell was both a bludgeoning hammer and sharpened blade to the physically frail ghosts, and they, having no experience with a foe which could actually touch them, hesitated and failed to regroup as Arsenal ricocheted all over the hall; ghost blood spraying marked the blindingly fast aerial path the heavy shell took and fractures on the wall appeared as he crashed against the stones, only to use them as a foothold and again launch his aqua-jet tackle.

But this could not last long, and the ghosts knew it. Though they could not fathom the reason, they understood somehow this foe was able to touch them, so they listened to their instincts. They retreated and left a wide room open for Arsenal to bounce back and forth and tire himself, and instead slimmed their way in through the sides and sought reaching Callidora and me – the weaker targets.

To say I did not feel murderous glee when I suddenly swung Paul's shell at the jumping sableye and watched the gem-like eyes widen in terror when first the spikes at the exterior tore and drew blood, then the impact of the blow twisted the side of its overgrown head at an unnatural angle, and finally splattered the mass into a dissolving shadow outlined by the traces of ectoplasm left on the walls would grow my nose a size equal to a nosepass'.

Of course, I was one human wielding one makeshift weapon; Callidora was more, much more. She tackled the larger sableye and dusclops, biting down, ripping unprotected flesh and limbs, headbutting against enemies flanking us, she held the rear position perfectly even without her vines; never giving the ghosts which escaped Arsenal's frontal assault a chance to recover or get close, she kept the many foes surrounding us at distance.

But this won't last, Red.

"I know," I muttered then yelled to make myself heard over the chorus of wails and whimpers, "ARSENAL! STAIRS!"

A grunt proved I had been heard. The shell's trajectory changed from random to purposed, and the wrecking ball of death took a more straightforward, linear path, leading to the stairs. The newly arriving ghosts weren't prepared for the rampage that was Arsenal and were dealt with swiftly as the shell ripped right through them; and those which were only injured met Paul's tail-end when I swung the shell mercilessly chasing after Arsenal, while Callidora at our back made sure to keep any pursuers at bay.

The horde however was endless, and ours was an uphill battle. We were swimming against a tide of specters, we didn't waste time to kill all – we couldn't – but only to clear a path and keep ourselves safe. We reached the circular staircase and took the first few steps down against the unsuspecting new arrivals of ghosts easily, surprising them by actually contacting them, but those we had missed were now regrouping behind us, bellowing in frustration and hurt, angrier than ever. Callidora couldn't keep them all away from our rear forever, and I only prayed we could buy us enough time until we reached the submerged levels and lake.

Five floors left, Reddy boy, doing very good.

Arsenal was having an easier time conserving his momentum in the narrow staircase, his shell-tackles were more impactful and pushed multitudes of enemies aside, but I knew the water in his tank would not last – what would happen once it emptied and couldn't use that pressurized burst?

Then he'll stand his ground and fight on his two feet until we reach those waters. Don't go weak on me, Red, four floors left!

Splat.

I smashed Paul's shell against another sableye.

And another.

And another, another, another.

Splat. Splat. Splat.

My breath grew tired and panting; chasing after Arsenal while swinging at the smaller ghosts I could handle was showing. Callidora's breathing behind me also grew short: Ivysaur were not made for sprinting, and quadrupeds generally experienced more difficulty than bipeds on stairs.

Three. You got this, Red, you got this!

If, I allowed myself to think in the brief pauses I had between running and swinging. If the ghosts behind still remain in shock, if they don't catch up on our tactic, we might make it, we just might make it-

With a deafening crash, Arsenal's shell in front of me descended and hit the stairs. The spinning slowed down until it came to a stop; and a bulk of the monsters seized the opportunity as they jumped up on the shell.

"NO-"

My cry was cut short by Arsenal's roar. The snapping jaw reemerged from the shell first, biting the legs off a dusclops, then meaty claws and strong legs followed, pushing the wartortle back on his two feat. His tank empty of water, the wartortle couldn't aqua-jet and burst his shell forward anymore, but those huge fists and short but sharp claws would still do the deed.

Only slower.

He's a fighter, he'll make do, The Rival tried reassuring me. Last two-

My chase came to an abrupt stop when I crashed against Arsenal, and behind me Callidora pushed against me, growling, urging us to keep running, but it was useless: Arsenal would not budge.

Laughter began to build up around us again; maniacal cackles and sinister giggles echoed from the pursuers catching up at our backs to the enemies still waiting at front, and the final end would approach inevitably unless Arsenal moved.

"Move!" Unable to hide the sense of urgency in my voice, I pushed against his shell with my shoulder; his width made it impossible for us to squeeze through in this narrow staircase. "Don't fail us now, you overgrown lug, move!"

But he did not, and now in near full contact with him, my bare skin against the shell, I noticed he was trembling, paralyzed in fear.

What the-

Fire.

Flames as bright as the sun greeted me when I peeked under his shoulders, their sudden brightness blinding my to the dark accustomed eyes. The flames licked against the walls, the stone steps melted like ice at their touch, and rock crumbled to ashen dust – unstoppable was the inferno, impossible.

And at its center stood the culprit: A living fireball shaped to anthropoid proportions; a mixture of red, orange, and yellow defined the main body, the sun's colors at dawn and dusk, together as one. Errant flames rose from the shoulders and head – blazing eyes fixed on an ash-black face.

But the most prominent feature were the arms. Tubular, almost cannonlike, they pointed downwards, and out these weapons poured the raging fires confronting us, growing in intensity, rising and climbing, flames fighting over each other to reach us first, the firestorm brought our escape to its full halt.

This can't be- How can THAT be here? I forced myself to swallow the fear and analyze the monster in front; this defied logic, how could a non-ghost alpha level species reside here, where was it hidden when we first came, why did it work with the ghosts, this didn't make sens-

The magmortar took a step forward, and I fell when Arsenal took a panicked step back. The twin arms rose slowly, and the sound of ghosts guffawing at Arsenal surrounded the staircase. The magmortar's lips parted, humongous they stood on the blast pokemon face, and it coughed a patch of smoke, the mouth twisting itself to an unmistakable grin. Venomous smog filled the chamber, rising slowly, catching up to us-

Unless, I thought, finally clueing in at why Arsenal of all pokemon would cower at the sight of a magmortar.

Unless… This isn't real.

I threw Paul's shell.

It wasn't a good throw – stuck in the middle of Arsenal and Callidora I didn't have much room and the target area was too narrow between the walls and the wartortle's humongous body anyway, but it did the job. The shell passed harmlessly through the flames which had melted stone earlier and hit the magmortar on its head, and for one tiny teeny split second, the normal imagery of the staircase returned. The stone walls, steps, and circular downwards curling path; all were in place, except now, in the middle of it all stood a duo of grinning haunter, their concentration just barely broken by the shell grazing them.

Barely was enough.

With a deafening roar, meaty claws teared at the illusion, ripping the haunter in half, and Arsenal continued his warpath, albeit angrier and meaner before. I chased up after him, grabbing Paul's shell on the way, and Callidora pursued; so resumed our desperate escape attempt.

With one difference.

The laughter and giggling, the chuckles and cackles: They all ceased.

Red...

"It's here." I finished the thought grimly. "It is here…"

The number of torches had seemed to double, the water flooding this final chamber reflecting their numbers and shine, and yet, somehow the light was even dimmer than those halls we had passed. The cracked wall, the connecting gate to the lake outside, our ticket to escape stood at the other end of the room, below the surface, and was at a distance and depth even a child would have no trouble with diving, but the notion of hope, no, even the attempt for hope was scraped clear by the presence surrounding us, by… it.

Dared I put it to words? Dared I, could I describe the suffocating pressure I felt? Perhaps had I any talent equal to the legendary harpers of the lost Alph Kingdom I could begin to scratch the surface, begin to tell tales and equate it's gaze to raging volcanoes from primordial times spurting molten flames so intense they froze with their touch, or could compare it to the void of deep space, in the center of nothing, far from any other occupying heavenly bodies, a singular point so absent of any heat source it burned. Perhaps the final Khan of the great Fuchsian empire in his supposedly infinite wisdom had the words I sought; had he, when Leonal Oak's armies had rampaged through his palace, and when he had bared witness to the end of his line's eight hundred years old reign, only for a new empire and king to take its place, one which would prove even more resistant to the ravages of time, found the words accurate enough to express the terrifying beauty, the alluring horror of witnessing power crushing ways accustomed, undeniable and undefiable power breaking one's own limits of self at the expense of self, had he understood what I felt now?

I did not know, and no poet was I either. All I knew, could comprehend was, I stood at the nexus of a paradox, stood on the answer to the question could a god create a stone he could not lift? – for even if all scriptures told me it was an exact opposite of god, I knew for sure, he was a god.

And I had threaded on sacred ground.

Punishment is due, Red. It wants your life.

Had I been a brave man, I would whimper and cower at the visage. Had I been a romantic, I would sacrifice my loved ones for mercy; had I been strong I would be unable to lift a feather at the sight of those spiked wings.

Had I been a Champion, I would kneel and bow.

Lucky for me, I was not.

I take it you're not ready to repent yet? The Rival grinned. No? Good. Then allow me…

A weight lifted, my first step into the water cleared the obscurities and monstrosities clouding my mind, and I noticed for the first time Callidora and Arsenal had been unaffected by the hauntings; they had stood confused behind and wondered why I hadn't lead them forwards, stood still at the most critical moment of our escape, and their worries let place for relief on their face when I finally moved.

My second step brought recognition. Yes, there was power, there was rage and fury, bloodlust, all of them brought to extremities my feeble human mind could never comprehend, to godly proportions so terrifying it would have bent my will easily; had I not now also recognized a duo I was most familiar with: Fear and urgency,they oozed from the monster like blood out a gushing wound, and they were not the most respectable of sights for a holy deity, no, they were not.

I smiled with my third step. The water was at my chest, and Arsenal and Callidora were at my flanks, but my eyes were fixed on the surface, on the same figure I had seen when Paul had plummeted to his death, and non-surprisingly, compared to then when it had covered the entirety of the lake for a brief second, the dragon of nightmares was now only a worm scaled to the size of this room, an eel wiggling harmlessly between the reflected torch-fires.

And The Rival, oh, he could be so cruel.

"What good is a god if he can only act through minions, right?" I mocked the visage openly. Callidora and Arsenal shook their heads in surprise, and perhaps worry, seeking the invisible to them enemy I addressed, but came up with nothing. I paid their antics no mind however, I knew what was there.

"For all that power, you can't really do anything to us, can you?" I asked, delighted in how it shook and twisted to no avail. "Because if you could, you would have hurt us before we reached the tower, when we were swimming here. You could have killed us then and there, but you didn't. You can't now either. Are you even actually somewhere in the lake? I'm guessing not; it's just the full moon amplifying ghostly strength enough to project an image…"

I stared directly into its eyes. "You are fake."

The illusion roared back, but I ignored its ramblings and instead focused on Arsenal's ears twitching and Callidora's nostrils flaring. A looming dread was nearing, palpable in the air, and coupled with the cold water it made the hairs on my arms rise, yet compared to the presence from before, it was quite feeble.

But this one was real and could actually hurt us: The horde was returning.

"Maybe I stumbled into a secret not meant for men, and maybe you are its guardian or prisoner," I hurried the words. "Maybe you are the renegade monster from the Book of Alpha, or maybe you are just an undiscovered species waiting. It matters not."

"What matters is the timing – it couldn't be worse for you," I continued. "Had I met you yesterday, or ten days before, or any other time in my life, I would have crumbled before you. Begged you. Groveled. But… you met me today."

I snarled the last words from my mouth. "And today, I am not the delusional dreamer. I am not the egoist who believed luck his mistress and destiny his bitch. Today, I am a motherfucking trainer. Today, stronger and smarter you seem, you are the leader, this tower and lake the battlefield, and the specters your monsters and team. Today, this whole event has been nothing but a match for me."

The cackles and giggles, the wails and cries, the shadows and shades all drew nearer and nearer; and I felt Callidora nudging me forwards, saw in Arsenal's eyes a debate to abandon us, but I cared not.

I was not done.

"And every-fucking-body knows," I spat into the water, right onto the monster's would-be face, "Pokemon Trainer Red does not lose. Good luck guessing how I did it."

The red light hit Callidora the same time Arsenal dove. I had purposefully delayed recalling her until the last minute to limit the overheating time the ball would suffer – the memory of the explosion leading to Paul's end was too fresh – and hoped the cold waters would provide cooling enough until I let her out again on shore.

If we make it to shore.

You said it yourself, I thought, clinging to Arsenal's shell with all my might. I don't lose.

Just wanted to hear it from you, The Rival purred content.

The foe was many, and underwater, the tactic I had utilized to physically touch them would not work. What's more, our rear was now unprotected with one monster short, and an added sense of alert was added to the horde; as if an otherworldly hand was urging them to finish the job, quickly. Possessed corpses rose from the depths; shadow bonds replaced the bones missing muscle and sinew with skeletal hands holding cursed blades, an army of the ancients, the scouts and warriors of the Fuchsian cavalry and Saffronian knights once again marched, or rather, swam to war under the control of the honedge and doublade which had felled them in the first place. Dusclops simply stood still and opened their hallow mouths, and the currents flowed to embrace the void behind, pulling a rather large number of the smaller sableye unable to fight against the stream with as prey, but so many were their numbers the torches' light was masked from the surface; their brethren fallen victim meant nothing. And the gengar held the cracked wall fortified, drawing the heat, they were attempting to freeze our escape route shut.

But all their tricks, all their weapons meant nothing.

Not when I had an Arsenal of my own; and no matter the strength or numbers, water could never be the domain of those who dwelt in the shadows.

The strong currents could have pulled Arsenal back; had he not already swam outside their pull-zone. The sheer number of sableye dropping left and right from above could have finally broken through his thick shell; had his perfectly designed ears and eyes able to detect prey even in the darkest of waters not warned him ahead. And the sharp ends of the sword pokemon could have cut his limbs; had he not dodged all their strikes with the elegance of a kimono-girl on stage.

The best part was: This was not even his forte. A wartortle was not the best of swimmers among other water types, and it was obvious from his wide motions and pauses between turns Trainer Lotus had not trained him for underwater combat – a suspicion further strengthened when instead of sending a water-pulse to break the thin layer of ice the gengar were forming ,he crashed right into it, breaking through with his bulk and exposing himself to counter-attacks. But it mattered not to him, and the ghosts were too slow anyway; out of their caverns and forests, hills and burrows, out of the fog and mist, within an element in purest form, they struggled to maintain shape in the lake's waters, and their unchallenged rule over Lavender fields was now backfiring: So greedily had they held these lands, driving any competitors away, they had no experience in dealing with a water type in its own element.

But they were smart. They were learning.

And I was barely holding on anyway.

Like the ghosts, like Arsenal who only obeyed his base instincts, I too was inexperienced with underwater combat. In theory I knew everything needed of course, and in practice I had taken some classes by Pallet's calm shore with a training school lecturer and one friendly lanturn, but the reality of it was: It hurt.

A lot.

With every unexpected turn, the waterbody hit me harder than a machamp. At the speed Arsenal was going friction burns were unavoidable and Paul's conch tucked between my body and Arsenal's was biting deep into my skin; I could already feel where the bruises and blisters would later appear. And the wartortle's body gave no comfortable handle for me to grip: My fingernails were bleeding from having dug deep between the plates on the shell, and my thighs were burning because of the uncomfortable angle my legs had spread to clasp at the wartortle's armor.

All of this I had to manage, while also holding my breath.

Any time now, Arsenal, I thought. Long had I lost my sense of up and down, bubbles were everywhere, and I barely held back my vomit. If I drown here, I swear to Mew I will let a gengar possess my body and get back at you, any time now-

"Haaaaaa!"

I gasped hard and long, starved I was for air, and my eyes rejoiced at the full moon staring back as I tilted my head backwards. "Good job-" I began once I had fulfilled my need for aid, but I cut it short – dizzy though I was, not enough to fail noticing we weren't in the clear yet.

He had flung me ashore from his back, and he must have emerged further than where we had first entered the lake, for the shore here was not sand but rock and dirt. A single tree leaned dangerously close to the lake's surface, white flowers briefly catching my eyes before I turned and faced the lake again.

And even facing the dangers confronting us, I couldn't help but sigh at Arsenal's moronic fear the ghosts had taken shape of.

The bulk of the horde had been left behind, but a smaller pack had apparently stalked the shores patiently in case we slipped through their brethren's claws, and now they were confronting us in the shapes of canine monsters, an arcanine and ninetales. Alpha level species which reduced their prey to dust on sight, they would be slightly more believable if the ghosts hadn't pulled the exact same trick with the magmortar; yet the effect was the same, Arsenal was once again paralyzed with fear.

Can't deal with this now…

I set Callidora free – luckily the ball had held. She wasted no time on the sight of the whimpering Arsenal, she too had understood the situation and planted her feet protectively in front of me as I assessed the situation.

She doesn't have vines, but spores and leaves should be enough, their numbers are less and if we break the illusion maybe Arsenal will join-

A gust blew from the lake, bringing waves with.

And apparently an unseen more, since the illusion dissolved, and the ghosts revealed themselves.

What the-

Arsenal's furious roar was met unchallenged, once again he had been tricked, but the ghosts did not care. I hardly believed it; but the duskull, ghastly, and banette building this small pack didn't just retreat, they ran away, as if a houndoom was chasing them, they floated as fast as they could and turned invisible in mere seconds.

Seconds turned to minutes as I stood there shocked, unbelieving my luck.

That was… weird.

"Yeah…" I muttered. Callidora too growled at my feet, a surprised tone in her voice.

We both conveniently ignored Arsenal's unending roars though.

"Think they're gone?" I asked my ivysaur, eyebrow raised.

She sniffed the air once, then growled affirmatively.

"Okay… Then I guess we just survived a horde. Not a lot can say the same…" I stood there for another couple minutes, dumbfounded, still expecting more from the night, but nothing emerged. Shrugging my shoulders, I headed towards Arsenal and waited for his complaints to end.

"So… you're afraid of fire?" I managed asking between roars and heard Callidora behind me guffaw.

It was Arsenal's turn to ignore us.

"Wait, no, that can't be it," I said, suddenly enlightened. "Magmortar, arcanine, ninetales… That's Blaine's team, that's…"

Oh.

Understanding came upon me as I recalled Trainer Danielle's bio Bill had sent me, and pity swelled my heart, but the mind too tired for comforting words and the body too exhausted for anything else, instead I just collapsed under the tree, and waited for Arsenal's tantrum to end.

Callidora nuzzled close, and I rested my arm between her neck and bud, gently scratching the top of her head. "You think you can find your way through the Blindspot to the city again?" I asked her thoughtfully.

She growled another approval.

"Good," I muttered, "good…"

We'll walk along shore till we reach our belongings, The Rival poked in, and Callidora will lead us to Lavender. But there, Red…

"I know," I muttered, feeling the edges of my dex in my back pocket clearly. "Believe me, I know."

))(())((

Objectively speaking, he played us beautifully…

"As expected from the smartest man in Indigo," I replied, glancing at my dex.

After the long, long walk back to Lavender, I had half-expected Spike's gang waiting for me, but the sun had been rising, and their hour was the night. A quick stop to the pokecenter had confirmed Pikachu's and Dante's treatments were not finished, and the nurse had not been happy when I had also dropped Arsenal and Callidora. The trainer's store next-door had accepted to mend my pokeballs for a relatively affordable price and had also provided me with a vial of kasib gel – apparently, a bestselling product in Lavender. After I had finally returned to my room, all left waiting were a well-deserved shower and treatment for the minor wounds I had suffered. Paul's shell I had taken with me of course, no way was I leaving his last memoir behind, and now it stood like a holiday souvenir on the small table my room offered; a sight disrespectful for a pokemon who had sacrificed so much, but the truth was I didn't have it in me to bury him here. His grave deserved sunlight, perhaps a spot close to the ocean or a river, not the grey clouds ever looming over Lavender fields.

But this demanded later attention, for there was a much more pressing issue to be dealt with.

My pokedex.

I twisted and turned it in my hand for the hundredth time, examining the outside casing, pondering whether or not to screw it open and check the delicate inner mechanisms, only to give up but then come back to the idea again and again. Mixed feelings rose within every time I passed the device from one hand to another. This trusty gadget had literally saved my life before, and aside from one small malfunction it had suffered from north of Cerulean, it had run perfectly until now. A pokedex was every trainer's ultimate helper, but this one meant far more to me than the standard item distributed to every chump of a trainer, no, this one was special, for it had been created by the two brightest minds Indigo could offer; a symbol of the expectations my own talent had brought.

Both of you are gifted in more ways than one, I recalled Professor Oak's speech. The league was distressed when they heard I was handing these valuable prototypes to two novice trainers,but I convinced Lance that both of you were more capable than your age.

I closed my eyes; this device I held in my hands, it represented the acknowledgement the smartest man I ever knew had shown in my skills – granted, I had not been the sole recipient of his approval, but Blue was hardly a novice trainer himself. Professor Oak had made it seem as if he had pulled some strings just to arrange this gift, he had made it seem as such an advanced device was our right because we were special, and that he wouldn't allow something trifling like the law or league regulations get in the way.

Except he lied, The Rival sharply cut in. He knew exactly how to appeal to both of your egos.

It was true – the one thing neither me nor Blue would question was our own greatness. But looking back now, I was forced to admit something was fishy. Over six months had passed since we were given this "latest software version of the Indigo pokedex" – shouldn't there have been a press conference marketing this new technological wonder by now? Shouldn't the preparations for mass production, the distribution of the device to all new trainers have begun, shouldn't the media have at least caught a clue and run a few articles over this new brainchild of Samuel Oak and William Stein? According to Professor Oak, only me, Blue, Bill, himself, league members, and, oh well, Champion Lance knew of this. Everyone on the list, aside myself, were too high profile, the media had coverage over these people daily - there was absolutely no way a new update to such an integral part of the training system wouldn't be leaked by now, it defied common sense.

But suppose it didn't, I extended Professor Oak a branch of doubt in my mind, suppose I'm just paranoid, and this really is for some reason a too well-kept secret, then-

Then it still doesn't explain what happened in the Blindspot, The Rival interrupted once again. That shit back there – that wasn't natural.

And that underlined the main reason of my unease. Last night, when I was lost in the Blindspot, my pokedex had definitely tracked something – on that there now existed no doubt. It was the dex's tracking function which had first led me to the lake, then the tower, then to the rockets themselves. Furthermore, the app had shut down the exact moment of the rockets' escape and… the beast's initial appearance.

Did anything else happen? I tried racking my brain, reliving the memories. I guess Paul's fall also counts, and there was also the hostage, Jifu, I think, but…

That's not the point, The Rival argued. The point is: This dex is more than it seems and has its own agenda. Let's face it, Red, last night was no mere coincidence, the dex fulfilled – or is still fulfilling? – its designed purpose, because it's pretty much certain now Granddaddy Oak did not give us these toys out of the kindness of his heart: He planned something with these, something not even the league knew, and he's not the kind of guy to shy away from using his own flesh and blood grandson as a pawn, let alone some neighbor's kid.

The words… hurt. Even I was surprised they did, but they did. Hurt. Hurt, because there was truth embedded in them, and having passed the denial phase, I was promptly moving over to anger.

I've been used. I couldn't shake myself free from the thought; it bounced around in my head from one corner to another, a song mocking my very self. I've been reduced to a pawn, ME, a pawn!

What's done is done, Red. The question is, what will you do now?

The idea came abruptly, inspired half from frustration and half from last night's exercise; I stood up and grabbed Paul's by now well worn out shell, placed the dex on the table, and-

Bam.

I struck with all my might, again and again, until the protective metal was shred open, bashed inwards, and broken to pieces, until the circuitry hidden within was spilled out from its casing like blood from a wound, until part of the table chipped away and broke under the repeated strikes and the shell flew away from my hand, hit the wall across with a thud, and fell harmlessly on the bed; but I was not done. I stomped on the remaining pieces of the same device which I owed my life to under Mt. Moon, and only exhaustion finally halted me from my task as I threw myself to the bed, tears from my eyes I could not explain staining the sheets.

That… was excessive. But otherwise, quite necessary, The Rival whispered into my ear. We'll apply for a new one at a league burro, one untainted by the machinations of a manipulative old bastard. We never needed the privilege, Red, I don't see us starting now.

I quietly internalized his words; the rush of adrenaline passing, the full fatigue of last night's adventures was beginning to overwhelm me, and the comfort of the bed was blurring my thoughts.

Still, I managed a few last words before drifting off completely. "I should have warned Blue," I muttered, tired. "He's also a pawn in this, he is…"

No, Red, The Rival sighed. No. Have you learned nothing yet, Red? All the troubles we've encountered so far, from the rockets to Paul's death, all our problems have stemmed from one thing: You beginning to care.

"That's not-" Before the words left my mouth, The Rival began anew.

You cared for the fairies, and got tortured by the rockets for it, Red. You cared for Melanie and lost against your rival. You cared for Nolan, and the rockets nearly killed you. You cared for the souls aboard the S.S. Anne enough to crash the party, and we almost drowned in it. You cared enough to pursue questions about your father, and it got Paul killed. All of this, it's no one else's fault but yours, Red, The Rival whispered sadly.

You've forgotten your roots. You've forgotten what has brought us success. You've forgotten the cold calculations behind each match and believed victory a given. You've forgotten how we were a manipulative bastard for whom no cost was above the win. You've forgotten the single-minded years of hard work and effort put in our studies and lost focus in worldly desires like petty vengeance.

You've forgotten our promise to conquer the summit.

I wished to argue back. I wished to explain how he was excluding the circumstances leading to each situation he had described, but-

Excuses are for the weak, Red. You've been so misdirected from your goal lately, you probably haven't even realized we qualify for a flying license.

My jaw dropped open – he was, right, this had never occurred to me at all.

That's what I'm saying, Red. You've lost the fire – remember the guy so angry in Viridian Forest because his bike got trashed and his journey got delayed for what, four, five days? That was when we had three years, Red, now we have less than two and a half, and we still need to win five more badges on a ladder where the difficulty exponentially increases with each badge. Three-badgers are qualified for a flying license - Can you imagine how much time we would have saved by flying instead of strutting on foot or bike?

"But… I don't have a monster that can fly," I argued back.

Exactly my point. You've forgotten your responsibilities as a trainer, Red, you're using your battlers for day to day tasks and aren't allowing them time to rest – you think Arsenal could have ambushed us that first night so easily had Callidora and Pikachu not been dead tired? You think forcing Dante to act as a flashlight was the right thing to do in Rock Tunnel – had he not collapsed from fatigue we could have used him last night, and maybe with an added mon, Paul would still be alive. Have you ever thought of that?

"I-I, no, I-" I could only stammer: How could anyone fight against such rationally crafted arguments?

Enough, Red, The Rival said gently. No more excuses. I myself am at fault too and confess there was a time I gave up on you, but last night you showed me the real Red, the toughest son of a bitch I know. You faced foes superior in distressful times, but you pushed away your emotionality and focused on the battle, exploiting the weakness your enemies shared – that tactic was brilliant.

So, let's rest now, Red, it was a harsh night, and we need it. But when we wake up, let's regroup the team. Let's add some new numbers to give the main battlers some rest time, let's find some sparring partners, swimmers, flyers, teleporters, shadowers, surfers and all that shit. Let's determine our next course since our original plan is shattered; should we aim for Saffron, or skip Kanto and head to Johto? Let's forget the rockets and finally refocus our attention on the only thing that matters, Red: The Championship. What do you say partner, ready for this challenge once again?

"Yes," I promised myself, and felt the newfound strength filling me; a mental one rather than physical, for physically, sleep was beginning to take hold. "Yes. Let's do this."

New day, old horizons, Reddy boy, The Rival finally smiled. Let's go fuck'em all up.

))(())((

"I understand, Mr. Red, but I'm afraid league rules are quite clear on this matter: Pokecenters offer free care to trainers only in cases of wild attacks or after official matches," Nurse Erin Wells exclaimed in an exasperated manner. "And our doctor's report has determined your wartortle the cause behind your pikachu's injuries-"

"But as I keep trying to explain you," I said, frustrated at the stubbornness of Lavender Pokecenter's staff, "I caught Arsenal only after he had attacked Pikachu, by the time of the injuries he was a wild pokemon!"

She put on her fakest smile before replying, "I'm sure a trainer of your prominence can understand, Mr. Red, if pokecenters were to believe every trainer who has made this claim before, our budget would not last one week and we would be forced to shut. I'm sorry, but it's league procedure to take the doctor's word over the trainer's and treat these cases as 'infighting within trainer's team' rather than 'wild attack'. If you'd like to make an official complaint, however," She kindly offered, "please be aware you will need to submit carefully documented evidence of the wild attack's timing – I would suggest against this action though, Mr. Red, for if your evidence does not hold in court, the penalty will most likely exceed the pokecenter's fee greatly."

"Would a psychicer's report backing my claim as true count as proof?" I asked.

"Ah, under Lance's management such reports are no longer valid for trainer's above two-badges – something about capable trainers being able to deceive the psychic pokemon, I'm sure as a trainer you would know better than me." She continued that fake smile.

"…Fine." I glared. "How much do I need to pay again?"

"Well, there's also the expenses of your charmeleon." She checked the dex screen in front of her. "His wounds fall under 'trainer mismanagement and abuse', which clearly cannot be expected to be treated for free, making the total sum…"

Now this is something we haven't confronted for a while, The Rival chuckled once I had exited the pokecenter relieved of an incredible amount of credits, but my belt fully equipped with the four pokeballs I owned. We're broke.

I nodded, a perpetual frown on my face. Between paying for the luxury king sized suite I had rented and the broken table and mirror there, the mended pokeballs, applying for a pokedex, and new support items I needed for the road, and now these pokecenter expenses, I was faced with a reality I hadn't encountered since defeating Brock - poverty. Since I was a freelance trainer, not tied to the military, police force, ranger's organization, or any other private establishment, naturally I had no steady income and lived from gym prize to gym prize. This hadn't been a problem until now because the prize money increased exponentially with each badge – after Surge I basically had a small fortune, and the winning I had made on the Trainer's Haven was icing to the cake - and I had always spent carefully, but now my last ten days' attitude towards life was biting me in the ass.

We still have enough for one gym match fee, I thought, getting on my bike. We'll have to make our winnings there, or we could backtrack to the Trainer's Haven and earn some easy money.

Pass. The Rival yawned when he heard my offer. We'd lose too much time for too little gain – and besides, it's not like we lose gym matches, this money problem is only temporary. Let's just decide the next city, Red.

"Well, we could head south to Fuchsia," I muttered. "Except on bike, that journey would take forever. We can't afford teleporting, not that we can port anyway out of Lavender. We already came from north, and there's only the wild and eventually the ocean towards the east, so… West?"

Saffron it is then, The Rival said. Let's add Sabrina to the list of leaders defeated.

"That's probably not wise," I argued.

Why? Don't tell me we can't take her, Red!

"No, it's not that," I explained. "Saffron's the most crowded city in Kanto and a central hub for trainers – do you know how long we'll have to wait until Sabrina's schedule is free for a battle? More than our money would last, I'm telling you, and there's a limit to how much we can hunt and gather from the wild."

So… where to then?

"Celadon," I answered.

Urgh…

"It's the most logical choice," I tried convincing myself. Already was Lavender's western gate in sight, so I pushed on the Aggronator's pedals harder. "Erika's the easiest leader in Indigo, and Celadon's only busy in the summer. The Underground will take us right to its eastern gate – we'll avoid Saffron's traffic and also have a nice, clear space to train. It took twenty days from Cerulean to Vermilion on foot last time we were there, this route is shorter and we're on bike, at worst it will take ten days."

And we don't need too much extra time to train since Erika's a cakewalk, The Rival added, finally convinced. Yeah, I can see this working, Red. Good plan.

"Thanks," I muttered, flashing the town guards my license. A few pedals later, Lavender Town was officially behind me. "Now, let's catch some new recruits…"

Aren't you forgetting something though?

"No." I answered curtly. "I can't release Pikachu now – I have no idea how he'll react, he's never been so seriously injured and trapped in the ball for so long. I'd prefer releasing him once I'm done with everything else, and with Callidora and Dante also out in case he reacts violently. Dante will be fine either way – it's not his nature to complain, and I still have to renew my arrangement with Arsenal: He'll need some convincing to drop the rocket hunt, and for that particular debate, I'd much rather have my full team at my side."

Perfectly rationalized, The Rival said, gleeful. It's nice to see you back, Red.

"Thanks," I said, pushing against the wind blowing towards me. "It does feel great to be back."

))(())((

Author's Note:

Sorry for the late update – this last month life hit me like a truck.

About the chapter: The tactic Red used in the tower to contact the ghosts was deliberately not explained and will be left for the next chapter. Other than that, everything's pretty much self-explanatory, I guess.

Next update: Two chapters will be posted until the 21st, which marks the one year mark for this fic. I can't give exact dates, but I'm thinking one next week and another on the twentieth – this time for reals, lol, I know I've promised a few chapter dumps in the past and failed, but I've got my shit together now.