POV: Cyrus / LOCATION: Galactic Veilstone HQ


Some minutes later, the pain from Mars's blows pierce the thin film of consciousness laid out to suppress it. It hits me so suddenly that I temporarily lose the ability to see.

Staggering into the nearest washroom, I tip my head forward so blood drips out of my nostrils and into the sink. When the blood runs dry, I ingest a sizable portion of acetaminophen tablets to numb the pain. It doesn't go away completely, but it does reduce the noise to a bearable static around my left ear.

"You're going to kill yourself someday," Saturn had muttered under his breath. How wrong he is. I have lost interest in dying seven years ago.

Jupiter is there when I leave the washroom. She must've been following me.

"The hospital is a few blocks down," she says.

"Nice to know."

"They might have a cutting-edge drug to cure whatever's going on up there."

"Hilarious."

Rudely brushing her aside, I make way to the secret elevator, which, like my personal quarters on the twenty-eighth storey, requires a special card.

The music does not play on the way down to the basement. It never did.


Fascinated by the concept of space from an early age, I designed Galactic HQ and our satellite offices to reflect humanity's boundless potential. For when there is a will, there is a way. If we want something bad enough, we will claw for the stars and puncture the very fabric of the universe to attain our goal.

Down here, however, the light of innovation glints differently. What lurks beneath our eccentric business front (we are a legitimate corporate entity, I assure you) is the uglier face of human aspiration.

To preserve the nature of our experiments, the laboratory is kept perpetually cold and dim. I suppose you can liken it to a dungeon. This work environment is not healthy for the average psyche. Those who are chosen to work down here must be properly screened by me.

They must be willing to forsake their hearts for science. At no cost too great.

Past the Galactic bombs are tanks of green preservation fluids containing Pokemon we have captured. Rest assured I am not the cold-hearted villain that steals Pokemon for sadistic pleasure.

No, I aim to understand them. The energy each Pokemon is capable of possessing. How they expend it. For instance, what fueled the intensity behind the Draco Meteor attack? Her Garchomp had not yet mastered the Move, yet its scope of destruction was… terrifying.

Is it possible for those meteors to be the physical manifestation of a Pokemon's rage? Delving deeper into that hypothesis, can emotion qualify as a unit of energy, like a joule or kilowatt? If so, will an organism sustained by loathing outlive its counterpart motivated by love?

What about fear?

Enough rambling for the day. I check on her Pokemon. They glare at me from behind capsule walls. I flash my signature smirk. If they do escape, I will no doubt be mauled to a state of half-death, after which I will be delivered to their master to decide my fate.

Oh, how I yearn to study them. The concept of friendship being a criterion for evolution is, although bizarre, fascinating indeed…

Moving on.

Within the depths of our laboratory is an item of great value. A tool capable of changing the world.

They said I was crazy. That I lost sight of the distinct line which separates reality from fiction. Only someone with nothing left to lose would chase a myth.

And that fool returned with the secret of Mystifying Forest.

My breath shallow, I trace a tentative hand against its ancient surface. Though I rarely experience anything deserving of the word happiness, I feel my heart tremble with desire. My world narrows inwards. I see nothing but the path before before me.

Deeply moved, I nurse the Time Gear in my bosom. It pulsates with energy like a living heart. Like it is alive. My own heart speeds up as well… or it might be the palpitations resulting from inadvertently holding my breath.

I hold in my hands the key to my dream. To a future free of strife and suffering.

But… this is only the first of many…