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Check out my newest fic, Pictures of You: A Black Nuzlocke. It's a dystopian take on the world of Pokemon, with a fiery, cynical protagonist I hope you'll enjoy! (If you review I'll love you ; A ;)
Question: What do you think of Team Plasma?
My Answer: I agree with their intention, but not how they execute their ideas.
Characters: N X White.
Summary: I'll do the newrival vs. hoennship one soon, I promise ; w ;
Broken Fairytales
Tell me a fairytale before I'm too young to enjoy them anymore,
And speak a rhyme before I'm too old to understand it.
.
.
.
.
"Humans did this."
A five-year-old N cradles the dying darumaka to his chest, and tries to breathe as the tears flood his lungs. Ghetsis stands above him, his shawl brushing the floor. "Why would they?" he asks, each word marred with a sob. "Why would they hurt him?"
"Because it is human nature." Blood seeps into the carpet, darkening the pattern of blue sky and clouds to a hellish combination of gray and red. "And unless you succeed in becoming the hero of legend, this will continue on." And with that, he leaves the room.
N is dripping with the pokemon's blood, but he doesn't acknowledge it: instead he clutches the tiny darumaka tighter, and whispers, "I will become the hero of legend. I will."
Behind him, zorua watches as the life leaves darumaka. He and N use the toy box as a grave, and hold their twenty seventh funeral that week.
Five hours later, the two goddesses come to remove the body.
No one comes to clean the blood and tears from N's face.
.
.
.
.
"People did this."
A seven-year-old White cradles the baby pansear to her chest, and laughs long and loud. "Why would they?" she asks, each word marred by a giggle. "It's wonderful, but why would they?"
"Because it's human nature." Her father ruffles her hair, and the two watch as pokemon frolic in the newly-built national park. "This way, these endangered species will be protected. No apartments will ever be built on this land."
Behind him, White's mother watches fondly as father and daughter stand hand-in-hand, the pansear jumping from shoulder to shoulder.
Five minutes later, she finally rouses herself enough to usher them home.
They walk on the sidewalk together, with Touko being swung between them.
.
.
.
.
Starlight,
Starbright,
You're the first star I've seen tonight.
.
.
.
.
Truth shines through her pokemon's eyes like light.
That's why N approaches her: he's never, not once in his fifteen years, seen pokemon with eyes that light, with eyes that free from pain.
"What's your name?" he asks once he has confirmed that that light is sincere.
"White," she says.
White. She has that light too- even her name is pure. Her smile is just as her namesake describes, even after he has expressed to her his feelings about battling: she nods, agrees, but says that she doesn't agree with Team Plasma.
Walking away, he says goodbye to his purrloin friend, and takes shelter underneath a tree as the sky opens up. Rain falls around him like glass, and he fiddles with his Rubix cube.
White. White.
White, he thinks.
.
.
.
.
His eyes are bright with ideals.
That's why she battles him: she's never, not once in her seventeen years, seen eyes that passionate, eyes that free from reality.
"I'm N," he tells her.
N. His name is idealistic, too- mysterious and quizzical, just like him. He grows even more quizzical after she explains what she thinks of Team Plasma, and she begins to have some of that feeling take root in her heart, too.
Walking away, she says goodbye to Cheren, and takes shelter in the Pokecenter as the sky opens up. Rain falls outside like tears, and she strokes her starter's head.
N. N.
N, she thinks.
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.
.
.
Tears, tears,
{go away}
come back again another day.
.
.
.
.
"Maybe I can't solve the equation that will save the world."
"Maybe you don't have to."
Her words worm their way inside his heart, resounding with each beat of it. She smiles that white smile of hers, but he has to be the hero, he has to be, and he can't let an anomaly like her stand in his way.
"I will become the hero of legend," he murmurs, "and then… and then you and I can be friends."
The light in her eyes dims with something akin to sadness, and she smiles once more before entering the gym, her long hair streaming behind her.
He goes to sleep in Pinwheel Forest, curling up in the grass as if he was back at home, sleeping in his tire.
But he can't sleep. He never sleeps anymore. How can he, when all he dreams about is holding toy box funerals in a room with a bloodstained carpet instead of windows?
"Go to sleep," Ghetsis would always say. "A king has no need for bedtime stories."
But he does. Oh, he needs one badly. He needs one like he needs air.
So he closes his eyes, and whispers an unwritten story of a prince to the Earth.
He would sketch it in the grass, but he was never taught how to shape letters.
.
.
.
.
When he tells her how he's the king of Team Plasma, it's not the ideals in his eyes that keeps her from yelling at him, but the truth. He knows deep down that what Team Plasma is doing is wrong. He doesn't want to separate pokemon from people.
But he's been convinced that he has to.
"Do you understand, White?" he asks, and she has to say yes: she has to admit to feeling her heart ache in sympathy for his desperation, his drive.
Because even though he claims he loves formulas, she can see broken fairytales simmering behind his eyes.
.
.
.
.
Lord N fell
d
o
w
n
and broke his
crown,
{and}
White came
t
u
m
b
l
i
n
g
after.
.
.
.
.
She confounds him to know end.
They meet again and again, like two variables that keep being forced together, and everything is so imperfectly perfect when she's around that he knows that she's one friend that he will never let die. She introduces him to things like music, and he shows her how to better communicate with pokemon, and he thinks that there are some things that are better than fairytales.
She is one of them: he can feel it in his heart, even when she comes to his castle to oppose him.
.
.
.
.
It's not easy.
They are on opposing sides, but seem to be caught in the crossfire: her whole journey seems to revolve around him, just like his seems to revolve around hers.
They meet again and again: in a cave; outside of Mistralton's gym; on top of Dragonspiral Tower.
And each time, she finds herself falling more and more in love with him.
She knows he's damaged: she knows he's not her classical prince, romantic and daring and ready to sweep her off her feet. He is misguided and he is genuine and he is N, and he is everything she wishes she could be.
Even if she is forced to go to his castle to oppose him.
.
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.
.
Ashes, ashes,
We
all
fall
down.
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.
.
"There is nothing more beautiful or terrifying than innocence."
The voice comes from behind her as she cries in N's room, clutching the remnants of his childhood to her chest. She cries for a long while, unable to speak. Then:
"No. There is nothing more beautiful or heartbreaking than innocence."
.
.
.
.
He sits in his throne, his heart devoid of everything and nothing.
"Father, do you believe that truth and ideals can rule together? Would those two variables fit in the equation of pokemon liberation?"
"No."
"What about a fairytale?"
"What about a fairytale?"
"Would truth and ideals ruling together fit into a fairytale?"
"Fairytales are impractical. Kings shouldn't bother thinking about them."
"Really? Because at times, I find that fairytales are more useful than formulas."
"How so?"
"Because formulas only appeal to the head, while fairytales appeal to the heart."
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.
.
Twinkle, twinkle, darling star,
How I wonder where you are.
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.
.
"Make that dream a reality, White." After all is said and done, the tears on his face mirror hers, and though he doesn't understand this emotion he lets it guide his head downward. He presses his lips to her forehead: a gesture she taught him expresses comfort. "Fare-"
"No."
He is taken aback. "No?"
"Don't say farewell; we'll meet each other again." Her eyes search his, wet with sorrow. "No matter what Ghetsis says, you are perfect just the way you are, N."
His tears fall onto her face, and for a long moment he is silent. "I'm not going to try to solve the equation that will save the world," he finally whispers. "I'm going to solve the equation that will fix it."
She lets him go, and he steps back, allowing his dragon to whisk him away. She stands there for the longest time, on the precipice of black tile and white sky.
Then she scrubs the blood from the carpet in his room, buys a bed to put in its center, and purchases a bookcase to make up for the lack of windows.
And every summer, she comes to fill it up with yet more fairytales.
.
.
.
.
Because no matter what, you'll always grow old enough to enjoy fairytales again,
And no matter what, you'll always find yourself fluent in the language of rhymes.