Chapter 53: Day 19, Part 3 – Promise
In Enigma, Grapploct was considered a delicacy.
Most, if not all Grapploct could be found off the coast of the continent of Blueline. Where the waters were tough and the mons that swam within them were even tougher. Unlike Omanyte or Octillery, the tentacles of Grapploct were firm. They had an almost meaty texture, the inner linings of their cartilage formed similarly to that of muscle. Not to mention, they are often prepared raw.
An acquired taste assuredly, but a taste Larkspur found quite invigorating nonetheless.
This was important, as today Larkspur felt as though all of the pieces were finally falling into place. Or, well, almost all of the pieces. One loose thread would be resolved soon, but for now, two more gems remained and a human was well within his reach. That called for celebration.
For an occasion such as this, the Malamar ordered his meal straight to his chambers: salted Grapploct with a side of Tamato marinara—a favorite of his. It came to him by way of a trusted helper—an Espeon he never cared to learn the name of. All he knew was that Jasmine considered her a loyal teammate, and thus would not squander the Count's secrecy.
With a psychic grip, the Espeon handed the plate and a generous glass of blood red wine through the gap of Larkspur's chamber doors. He reached both tentacles through, quickly applauded the pink thing for following basic instruction, and then slammed the door in her face before she could sing her master's praises. He'd had enough of that recently already.
As soon as he was left to stare at the back of the heavy wooden door, Larkspur immediately scowled in disgust. Was he seriously carrying his own meal? Did he walk among peasants or was he truly that destitute? He nearly threw the plate into the wall, if not for that putrid sensation these animals called hunger. He let his tentacles fall to his side, as he begrudgingly pushed his meal and drink with his mind to an ornate table and set them atop it. This, unfortunately, elicited a comment from the Sableye lounging on the velvety chaise couch surrounding said table.
"Grapploct, huh? Ever heard of a funny little number called 'irony,' Lark?" Crane snickered, his head resting in his palm. The Sableye had propped his elbow on a pillow that had been meticulously sewed together and filled to the brim with plucked Ducklett feathers. It contorted under his weight, forever tainted with his acrid stench.
The Malamar narrowed his eyes, situating himself across from the Sableye, electing to float. "How quaint," Larkspur hissed. "You seem to be under the impression that I care."
At that, the little shit-eating gremlin's grin grew to twice its size and coiled to the sides of his lopsided, crumbling skull. Bits of jewelry jingled irritably with every faint movement; he had been wearing more gold as of late. How ostentatious of him. Flecks of dark, pebble-like residue fell to the cushions as Crane scratched at his chest.
I must remind myself to burn that couch later, just like the carpet, Larkspur thought indignantly.
"I'm just saying," Crane remarked, "irony tends to have a mind of its own."
Larkspur's scowl deepened. "It would be most pleasant if you did not have a mind of your own."
Crane tapped the side of this head with his free claw. Annoyingly, the Sableye doubled down. "But I do," he said. "And irony has a bigger mind than either of us, Lark. Big big big, hehehe!"
"I did not invite you here to insult me, Crane," Larkspur stated firmly. A tentacle slid off the deposited plate and into the air, suspended alongside the small cup of sauce. The tentacle coiled into a thick roll, and within the centered divot was the cup of sauce, soon to be crushed for the sake of its contents to ooze into the spiraled cracks of the appendage.
Larkspur brought the tentacle up to his beak—still coiled into a bun—before wrenching his own mouth open, cleanly unhinged. Then he slowly, deliberately unrolled it straight down his gullet in one fell swoop. Within seconds he had swallowed the entire thing. His beak snapped back into place with an audible pop.
The tentacles atop his head writhed in delight. Delicious.
Crane's grin contorted into that of pure disgust. This pleased Larkspur.
"Then what for?" Crane asked. "To gross me out? How have I never seen you do that?"
His beak twisting with satisfaction, Larkspur hummed a sinister laugh. "We all have our secrets, do we not?"
Crane's gem eyes previously lacked that shine that hinted at some degree of intellect. They had grown dull in recent weeks, hardened by hedonistic desires unbefitting of his accomplishments. Briefly, a hint of trepidation flashed across the Sableye's face. A shine, too, flickered within his eyes. The question made him pause.
Woefully, any trace of fear was sliced in two by the return of Crane's damned cutting teeth a moment later. The shine was gone just as quickly as it arrived. "I guess we do, Lark," he snickered, "I guess we do."
Larkspur's expression stiffened, his tentacles doing much the same. He spoke slow and firmly, as though he were making up for the bites he didn't take. "You talk brash, Crane. So little spared for the faintest of listeners. Do you earnestly not know why I called you in here today?"
Crane shrugged sardonically. "I could take a guess. You think you're onto me and my…what did you call them? 'Schemes?'"
Once, yes. Larkspur called it scheming once, when it was less disruptive. Now, he referred to it by another name: espionage.
Larkspur's beak remained drawn flat. He simply pointed with his tentacle and let the changing atmosphere speak for him. He said, "Regrettably, no, you slime. I am not. But he is."
Against the wall, where Larkspur had pointed, was a bookcase. He rarely utilized it, as the writing of common pokemon bore no use to him. Even the human scriptures were daft in their view of the world. The bookcase, nonetheless, had been there since Larkspur was granted these chambers. He was told they improved his apparent intelligence, though the reasoning behind that sentiment was completely lost on him. He saw now that it had some use.
"He?" Crane scoffed. "I didn't know you liked to give life to your books, Lark. That sounds like something Canary would do-"
Finally, he noticed, and the paling of his purple face drained it to a dull pink. The books on its shelves were of a particular formation, an outline of red and black crafted a shape all too reminiscent of…
The books faded away. Within an instant, the colors morphed into something coherent, books jutting from the shelves in the third dimension. The illusion was meticulous for as long as it remained, and in its place was a Zoroark at full height. A white hot grin seethed into existence with the black backdrop. Red coiled into a wave of hair, and scarlet claws sharper than midnight blades shimmered at his sides.
"Greetings, Crane, old buddy, old pal," Canary jeered. His piercing eyes stripped Crane for all he was worth, looking straight through him.
The look on Crane's face was about as priceless as the glittering jewels splayed about his arms and neck. Which was to say, the price was prohibitively low. The corners of Crane's mouth fell no further than before. In fact, they might have raised a smidge.
"Canary," Crane recited with nearsighted recollection. "Oh, I've been a bad boy, haven't I?"
"Very, very bad," Canary agreed, licking his chops.
Larkspur saw red. His tentacles cracked the air. "Silence, both of you! Do not test me." His eyes were then directed towards Crane in particular. "Now you know. I have told you once and made no lie: insurgency is punishable by death."
Canary shot Larkspur a playful look over his shoulder and skipped over to the glass of wine upon the table. Picking it up elicited a glare from the Malamar, but Canary assuaged his concerns with a wave of his claws.
He is not taking this seriously, Larkspur thought scornfully, growling at the lackadaisy nature of the Zoroark. I expected better from you, Canary. You cannot possibly care this much for such a repugnant creature.
"More is already on the way, my Count." Carefree, Canary took a long sip, smacked his lips, and turned to Crane. "Now, Crane. We can't all play our games if not everyone is having fun."
Crane was quick to respond: "This is another step in your 'master plan?'" Too quick, even. The Sableye suddenly seemed…bothered.
There was a devilish smirk thrust upon Canary's face once those words were spoken. He twirled strands of his dark red hair in his claws like he was some lovestruck schoolgirl. Clearly, he was enjoying himself. His toes danced across the carpet with feathery grace.
"I could ask you the same thing," Canary said.
Larkspur was beginning to lose his patience.
"Enlighten us on what you have learned, Canary," he snapped.
Crane, once again, was quick to speak up. "No, please," he quipped. "At your leisure. You and I both know we have plenty of time."
To that, Canary downed the rest of the wine glass in one long gulp. He sighed, refreshed. "Ah, those humans. Opulence in spades, goblets of true kings…" He closed his eyes in bliss.
"Canary!" Larkspur shouted. He was not certain what was more infuriating: Crane's comment or Canary's blatant disregard for Larkspur's time. Either way, he despised both of them at that moment.
"My apologies," Canary said, opening his eyes. Both of which were succinctly focused on a particular Sableye. "This will be as stressful for me as it is for you, Crane. You too, Larkspur. I want to take the load off however I can…" As he trailed off, his expression darkened. He sounded almost pained as he continued. "Now then.
"I thought we all agreed that we would pursue the Kingfisher gems together, old friend. 'A true group effort,' like I suggested. But it seems you had…other plans."
It was moments like these where Larkspur truly wished he could read the imp's mind. A shroud of static clouded the connection between them, bisecting any potential for true cooperation. Even still, the gradual drip down of realization falling upon Crane's face was more than Larkspur could have ever read through thoughts alone.
Slowly, Crane began to laugh. First it was quiet, and then it grew and grew.
And grew.
And grew.
Oo-oO
Down south it was dry, with persistent weeds making their homes within the cracks of sunbaked soil. Arid air choked at the lungs just as northern winds were tainted in earnest, only to be betrayed by the blissfully blue sky above. White clouds stretched like grasping hands for mountainous peaks in every direction, furthering the contrast between life—the sky—and death—the dirt.
Somehow, life wriggled its way to the surface, in shades of dull blue drained to grey. Toppled tents faltered in the breeze, stained with dust and lashed into threads. Ropes had been loosened with conclusive swipes leaving them just as abandoned as the rocks and cooking pots once serving as chairs. Only ghosts sat upon them now. A distant buzz chimed as the death knell, the word "cicada" coming to mind.
Packs were left wide open and fat, meals were left cold and half-eaten. A thin trail of smoke billowed up from a smoldering campfire not quite extinguished, until a stray bolt of chill wind kicked all remaining embers into nothing. Along with it, a playing card slid from its winning hand, landing at my feet. It was a king of hearts decorated with the depiction of a regal Nidoking.
We weren't the first ones here.
I shouldn't have been surprised. According to Finch we came here looking for some guy. A guy who, after some thought, I realized I never learned the name of. We were working with even worse odds compared to when we were looking for Turaco, though surely, we'd have an easier time combing the desert compared to a populated city.
Consider me dead wrong. We were so late to the party that everybody had already left.
"W-were they in a hurry…?" Fenn wondered worriedly. "Why…were they in a hurry?" Embers popped out from his forehead, falling to the dirt and setting blades of dilapidated grass ablaze for but a moment, crying out for their smoldering brothers. He rubbed his arm. I could tell it was more out of confusion than actual concern. The heat emanating off the Quilava was much too prescient of what was to come.
Instead of responding—not that any of us had an answer—Finch kneeled to the ground and took what looked to be a discarded strand of cloth into his claws. It was yellow, plain, and torn. Much like the scarves we wore, only variable in their color and state of repair. He scowled, spitting out a furious "Son of a bitch…!" under his breath.
Cosmo was oblivious to the implications. A broken hand mirror had been dropped in the middle of the campsite, but Cosmo was more interested in what it offered rather than what it meant. His good spirits were undeterred, unwavering even at the sight of glass laid in waste. He telekinetically picked up a shard and peered through it, marveling at the way his eye grew in its reflection.
"Cosmo knows…" he said, an exhilarated trill to his voice. "Giratina did this! It had to be him! The ruler of the underworld leaped through this mirror and made a huge mess!"
Fenn gasped at the audacity of the person who had taught the little guy about such a heinous devil, Finch scoffed at the absurdity of the statement, and I…
I wasn't listening.
I felt a pressure in my mind. There were no words to describe it, no origin to speak of, just the uncomfortable sensation of something pushing me, shoving me, pressing against me. Pushing. Pushing. Pushing.
The fur on the back of my neck rose in alarm, the scarf I wore becoming so damn tight all of a sudden. I pulled at it and I swore my neck creaked like an old rusty cabinet door. I shuddered.
Wrong. Something about this place was wrong. All of these people disappearing into thin air was spooky, but nothing that couldn't be explained. Not yet. This damned push was nothing that my hands could grasp, though. All I knew was that it pushed, and shoved, and pressed until my skull was constricting my own brain at my refusal to turn my head.
Because I lied. I knew where it was coming from. I caught a slight peak earlier on our way here and hadn't looked again since. I didn't want to.
Even still, the edges of my vision blurred as I locked my eyes on Cosmo and his Giratina pet theory display. There was a silent howling, an infinite blackness seeped in dark green struggling to get my attention. It poked and pushed, and prodded and heaved, and jabbed and pressed. It was trying so, so hard to cut it all out.
No, I'm not going to look.
I stepped towards Cosmo and reached down for one of the shards of glass. Peering into it, I saw a Dewott with pale blue fur, horrendously messy hair, and a grumpy frown ruined by the presence of a squishy pink nose. I stared wordlessly into the eyes of this pokemon, its expression shifting with my own.
My eyes were green. Obviously, I knew that. I also now knew that green was a surprisingly uncommon color among other mons I had met during my time in Pamtre. Nothing to put any additional thought into, though. No, what shocked me the most was how…unhuman they were. They lacked the whites that made other creatures easier to identify with. The round pupils that communicated a docile disposition. Fenn's eyes weren't like that; I wondered if that was why I fell in love with him in the first place.
"Do you see him?"
I looked up to see Cosmo patiently awaiting an answer. Whatever I said would likely change his life, based on how engrossed he was in hearing it. His bubble shimmered with his bated breath.
Tossing the glass to the side, I pointed at myself with two fingers. "If by him you mean this ugly otter, then yes," I said.
Cosmo's whole body tilted to the side. "Ugly? Cosmo does not think Oswald looks ugly."
"G-good," Fenn added with a smile directed at me. I almost forgot he was there for a moment; his voice made me flinch. "That's because h-he's not."
I chuckled, letting my arms flop down to my sides. "You're just saying that."
When Fenn got closer, I reached out to stroke his arm. His fur was soft to the touch and wonderful. I had to keep myself from taking more than he was willing to give at that moment. He gingerly held my paw, squeezing just a tad.
I asked, jerking my head to the side to nothing in particular, "What do you think happened here?"
Fenn's smile fell from his face, turning pensive. "I-I don't know. Maybe a fight, b-but the damage is pretty small, all things considered. B-barely any traces of fur…or any scents. Or a-anything."
Right. Pokemon left more traces than humans. I should have been looking out for that.
"Could've run off," I suggested, itching under my scarf. Now if only this scratchy thing would lighten up so I could contribute more.
Cosmo surprised me and spoke up, "Where to? Cosmo did not see any running when we were in the bird basket."
I was not expecting him to be paying this much attention. And clearly Fenn wasn't either. He blinked at me, probably thinking the same thing: Cosmo had a good point.
Push. Prod. Press.
I tugged at my whiskers as I let out a low, exasperated growl. "Well they had to have gone somewhere."
And no, not there. Definitely not there. Stop thinking they went there.
"Hey!" Finch shouted from afar, catching our attention. He was waving an arm past one of the mangled tents, next to a decently sized overhang of rock. "Enough sitting around, get over here!"
Cosmo floated towards Finch's voice without question. Fenn and I stood there exchanging glances.
"I-I guess we should go see what he found," Fenn suggested.
I groaned in a half-joking manner. "Do we have to?"
Fenn rolled his eyes exaggeratingly. His ears twitched, and instead of a cute little witty retort like I was expecting, Fenn reached behind me. Then I felt a pinch near the base of my tail.
"Ow!" I yelped, jolting hard enough for my tail to smack the back of my legs. "Did you just…?" I swung my glance over my shoulder and back to Fenn in quick succession, my paws flying to my tail instinctually. "Did you just pinch my butt?"
Only muffled sounds escaped the giggly Quilava. His paw was over his mouth, which told me everything I needed to know.
"S-sorry," he whispered through his fingers. "It was to get you moving, h-hehe." The giggles could hardly be contained, much like the embers sprouting out from his forehead in short bursts.
The ensuing frown I gave him was deep, but very obviously fake. Paws still behind me, I hissed, "I'll get you back for this."
Never once before had Fenn been as bold as he was right then when he responded with a cheeky, "Promise?"
It annoyed me how warm that made my cheeks. So naturally, I got close enough to his face for my breath to be felt, our lips mere inches apart. I growled in as husky a voice as I could manage, "It's not just a promise if we both know it'll happen…"
We looked into each other's eyes for a moment, taking in each other's wordless intent, our breaths hot and yearning…
And then Fenn darted his lips forward to give me a quick peck before dashing away, playful licks of flames being left in the upturned dust. He disappeared around the tent, out of sight.
Oh, you adorable little…
The stun only lasted a second, after which I dashed after him, a dumb grin plastered on my face. I kept thinking of the ways that I would tackle that fluffy badger to the ground, pinning him in place as punishment for making a fool of me. It was the only thing on my mind, and it was everything.
My path was clear. I didn't need any guidance for my legs to move. That push from earlier was either numbed or gone entirely, because I didn't feel it anymore.
It was only when I rounded the corner that I had the sickening realization that its purpose had been satisfied.
As soon as I saw it, it was as though a bear trap snapped its jaws around my mind. Its teeth dug in deep, blood seeping across my vision. My chest throbbed with a pounding, hammering, rapturous beat of a drum. I felt cold. So, so cold.
Fenn, Cosmo, Finch—they were all there, but their forms melted into the rock like watercolor paint, mixing into shapes only present in nightmares. The outcrop was a shroud, the shadow it produced only thinly veiling the complete darkness underneath. A black hole swirled, light died, guillotines fell. And then the whispering—oh god the whispering. Fanatic gibberish spearing through my eardrums with edges so jagged that they screamed for the sickly-sweet release of death. Endless static stacked on overwhelming noise stacked on thundering drums upon drums upon drums upon-
I smelled ozone. Bitter and burning in my nostrils. My nose was burning. My face was burning. My body was burning. Everything was burning.
I heard a voice call out to me, but it held no weight. The sound carried no impact that mortal creatures could comprehend—a flicker in the sea of cosmic agony with nowhere to go. I ignored it.
My breath hitched, yet somehow I found the strength to grapple onto an emotion hanging from the rafters: rage. I tugged, and a siren blared.
"What the fuck, Finch!? You never said that there would be a mystery dungeon out here!"
Gradually, perhaps too quickly, color was dispatched to their corresponding figures, shapes shifting from geometrical to complex in the blink of an eye. Three sets of eyes were on me, only to shrink at the sudden sound of my voice.
Feeling, too, rushed back to me. With it came the push. That persistent, violent shove. It was stronger than ever; my vision still bled a vicious red.
PushpressprodpushpressprodPUSPUSHPUSHPUSHPUSH-
"Ozzy, calm down!" howled Finch, his claws raised in alarm, his beady black eyes large at the sight of me.
"Calm down?" I fumed. "Calm down!? How am I supposed to do that, huh!? Enlighten me, dickhead, because I am real close to just…to just….AAAHH!"
It was like witnessing a powerpoint presentation of my own actions. I had a scalchop in my paw, then it was on the ground, then I was stomping at the dirt trying to bury it, then I was cursing and screaming some more…
What was I doing? Why was I acting like this? I wanted to reach in through the screen and stop myself but I just…couldn't. I wasn't me anymore. I wasn't in control.
But I'm Oswald, right?
'Nah.'
'Clearly fucking not.'
"O-Oswald, stop!" Fenn threw himself at me, his arms holding mine in place with a constrictive hug. I flailed in place, whimpering, blabbering, but ultimately could not fight back. My energy was being drained fast.
His heat was a wave of comfort in a dry desert of pain. Warm droplets of pull drag heave tugged gently at my brain, slowly bringing me back from the brink. My heartbeat slowed, my breathing steadied, my arms went limp. Eventually, even my legs gave out, and I collapsed to my knees. Fenn still held me through it all.
"Please b-be okay," he whined. "Please…s-stop crying…"
Crying? I wasn't crying.
'Then why is everything so blurry?'
I blinked.
Tears fell into Fenn's fur.
Shame washed over me.
I started sobbing. It all came crashing down hard on my back.
All the while, Fenn never let me go, his nose buried in my neck. Finch and Cosmo were watching warily, or so I assumed. I couldn't bring myself to look up.
The push was silent.
The whispers were gone.
Oo-oO
And here Finch was thinking this was going to go smoothly. Of course Ozzy and his freakouts were going to slow them down. He was already on edge after this morning, but Finch figured that they could at least find the Zangoose before things got out of control.
Dickhead, Finch thought ruefully. He always comes up with the wackiest insults. I gotta ask about that later.
Finch watched with his arms crossed as Oswald was led by his boyfriend to an overturned pot lid, far away from the entrance of the mine. Their movements were sluggish, rehearsed, as the Dewott was sat down. Finch should have noticed something was off sooner. It slipped his mind that Oswald didn't like dungeons. If Finch learned anything during his time with these dorks, it was that anything and everything would get blown out of proportion in one form or another eventually. The fault was his for being too hasty.
Fenn asked Oswald a few quiet questions. "Are you okay?" and "Just relax, alright?" as well as some other simple platitudes—small things Finch could barely hear. All just to make sure he was lucid, really. Oswald answered them all in the affirmative.
Finch was glad the two of them were finally comforting each other. Darkrai knows Finch couldn't do it properly himself. It hadn't escaped his gaze how tender the two of them were now, how often they touched paws and stroked the other's fur. They figured it out, good for them. It was nice if only for the fact that Finch didn't have to throw out empty encouragements anymore. He could focus on what was right in front of him instead.
Though it looked like that would have to wait a bit longer.
While the two loverboys licked their emotional wounds, Finch's eyes drifted towards the Solosis floating just over his shoulder. Cosmo was whimpering softly, his tiny eyes as wide as dinner plates, his bottom lip visibly trembling. He kept his distance.
Finch turned his snout and jerked it towards the descreated campsite, saying, "Hey, why don't you go play around over there for a bit? We'll get you when we're ready."
To his surprise, Comso's expression hardened. "Why?" he asked in a small, indignant voice.
It was such a simple response, but it caught the Krokorok off guard. Cosmo was usually more compliant than that. Finch supposed that seeing his two father figures losing their shit so often lent itself to a bit of unwanted early independence. Still, that was no excuse for speaking out.
Finch jerked his head again, harder this time. "Cosmo, don't sass me," he said sternly. "Leave the grownups alone for a bit."
There was a flash of conflict in the Solosis' eyes, like he wanted to argue for his spot in this sensitive moment. He wanted to yell out in defiance, Finch could tell. Once the command sunk in, though, any resilience was dashed. His bubble straightened up and smoothed out.
"Okay," Comso said before drifting off to go be by himself for a bit.
And there he went. That was maybe a bit too sudden. It left Finch feeling uncomfortable in regards to how the kid had been conditioned to act around adults up until now. If he wasn't itching to get on Oswald's case here he might have followed and left these two alone.
But he didn't, and it was about time he got some answers.
When his gaze turned back to Oswald, he was bewildered to find the Dewott sitting up straight far sooner than he was expecting. He was just slouching a moment ago; Fenn must have cheered him up somehow.
Or not. Fenn sat on his belly next to the Dewott, his red eyes full of worry. They never once looked away from the source of his concern, not even attempting to acknowledge Finch's presence. Fenn clutched Oswald's paw so tightly that Finch could see his arm shaking. They were both serious about this, and about each other.
Oswald looked up at Finch, his whiskers wilting with guilt, his eyes still swollen and puffy from crying.
"…Sorry," he uttered. Couldn't have sounded more pitiful if he tried.
Finch exhaled sharply through his nostrils, his tail thrashing idly behind him. He was not going to be gentle here.
"That breakdown came quick," he said harshly.
"I know."
"You said some nasty things. Cosmo heard all of it."
"I know."
"Something's wrong with you, Ozzy."
"I know…"
"And you're going to explain what that is right here and right now."
"...Yeah. I know."
The sun trailed across the sky in a steady streak, brushing past clouds that visited earth in the form of cooling kisses. The afternoon waxed and waned between heat that split the dirt and breezes reflected in abstract shapes on Finch's unmoving toes. The wind was kind to them today. Quiet, but far from still. Any residual heat was washed out by the sweet smell of dirt.
"Do you guys know what movies are?" Oswald asked suddenly, his tone level. "You know, sitting down and watching moving pictures? Movies?"
…The fuck? That question finally pushed Fenn to exchange glances with Finch, as if he expected him to know what Oswald was talking about. Well, Finch didn't, and clearly neither did Fenn, so he shrugged his shoulders.
"No," Finch said. "What does this have to do with your little freakout?"
"A-are movies like…plays?" Fenn asked timidly on top of that.
"Kinda," Oswald replied, notably not answering Finch's question. "I don't remember any of the ones I watched. What they're called, or whatever. Just individual scenes. But it's possible my memory melded with what I saw on screen and what I actually experienced. Some things just don't add up."
Finch humored him for a second. "What doesn't add up?"
Oswald was slow to respond. His claws dug into his knees, pulling up on the fur of his skirt into dark blue balls in his fists. After a particularly long pause, he stated bluntly, "Sometimes I imagine that I'm a samurai."
"A samurai?" Finch raised an eyebrow. "Never heard of anything like that."
Fenn nudged Oswald a tiny bit. "D-did you mean Samurott?" he wondered. "Your e-evolution?"
"No, not that," said Oswald. "And I figured you wouldn't know. I think it's a human thing."
Human.
That word stabbed into Finch's skull like a damn needle. It all kept coming back to that same word each time. A word that had become increasingly associated with Oswald every passing day. Humans in general were becoming the hot button topic of Enigma as a whole recently. Finch had noticed it—heck, he had a feeling that Oswald was wrapped up in something much bigger than he realized—and he was certain that Fenn knew something, too.
Speak of the devil, Fenn's ears perked up. There was an undeniable knowing look in his eyes that Finch could sparsely deny. Finch shifted uncomfortably on his feet—Fenn here clearly knew more than he did.
Oswald kept going, explaining that, "Samurai are a lot like knights. Well- okay, you might not know what those are either. Uh, they fight with swords and protect the innocent…though more often than not they have a master they protect. It's a feudalism thing, I think."
Uh huh…
"I remember watching a really tense staredown between two of them, with one samurai claiming that only one would leave the battle alive—which was clearly the good guy because he had the better hair."
Hair, huh…
"And there's a small crowd of other samurai watching, but the good guy tells them to stay out of it. A whole minute of silence…and then the good guy slashes the bad guy so masterfully that blood splatters out like crazy."
Fenn noticeably winced, his ears flattening against his head. But otherwise, he said nothing. Finch, in contrast, merely narrowed his eyes. Where was Ozzy going with this?
"The thing is," Oswald continued, "I keep thinking that I'm the good guy, with the cool sword and the skill to kill a guy in one slice. I put myself in his shoes without knowing it sometimes. I've tried emulating the technique…I guess instinctually?"
"Is that why you cut the Pangoro's hand off?" Finch asked gruffly. "Because you wanted to be cool?"
The look Oswald gave him was so unfamiliar that Finch briefly wondered if he was still talking to the same Dewott. His nose scrunched up in a way that screamed feral, almost grotesque in its disgust. It was any wonder why he didn't flash his fangs right then. Must have been holding back.
Oswald frowned, glaring down at his claws. "No, you asshole," he grumbled. "That was an accident. I'm not cool. I keep wanting to be, but I'm not."
Fenn opened his mouth to say something, letting out a near silent squeak. Ultimately, though, he kept to himself, letting it close without a word. He rested his chin on Oswald's thigh as a comforting gesture.
Hesitantly, Oswald raised his claw to Fenn's forehead. He ran his claws over the Quilava's flame vents, over his ears, then back again, stopping in the middle to rub his fingers on the inner linings of his ears and circle around the red spots of heat. Fenn shivered contendly, comfortably.
The sight was a weird one, Finch had to admit. Even as lovers that kind of touch was a tad too intimate to be done so in public. It was brazen, even. Not even lovey-dovey teenagers would go out of their way to do that if they could help it. Especially not if they were gay. Finch's tail twitched awkwardly.
"So, what," Finch spoke up, "this 'mov-y' thing overlapped in your mind and now you want to cut pokemon in half? Or was that an accident, too? What are you trying to say, Ozzy?"
Oswald's gaze turned distant, his eyes turning glossy in the sunlight. Once again Finch had to wonder if he was speaking to the same Dewott because this was not normal whatsoever. Not even close.
"...You're not getting it, Finch," Oswald remarked, a slight bit of annoyance coating his voice. "I didn't remember that movie scene until just now. You know, when I stepped close to the cave."
"Mine," Finch corrected. "It's a mine. Ganlon Mine, to be exact. This is where your- our next lead is. We have to head inside to find it. That's pretty obvious."
Oswald glanced away, his whiskers sagging. A variety of emotions swam across his face, mainly annoyance, denial, and some dreglings of sarcastic ambivalence. So, in other words, Oswald was starting to act like Oswald again.
He deadpanned, "I figured that part out, thanks. Can't wait."
And then when he met Finch's gaze, Oswald was gone again, replaced with some belligerent, sluggish junky who talked in strange riddles. Finch didn't like it.
"I stopped wanting to go into these places a bit back-"
"A-after we got separated in Kelpsy Fields," Fenn blurted out. Though he immediately looked like he regretted it, his ears drooping so low that Finch thought that they might have been close to falling off.
Oswald nodded at Fenn, his voice catching hoarsely in his throat. "...Yeah, that happened. I got stabbed with my own Corsola Twig."
…Finch was just going to ask about all of this later. The Krokorok crossed his arms tighter, waiting for more information.
"Anyway," Oswald added, "the reason why I didn't want to go back isn't because I got hurt." He chuckled darkly. "I mean, who cares about that, right?"
No one laughed with him.
Oswald shook his head. "No…no, the reason why is because I kept hearing things."
And that was where Finch lost track of what was happening. His little human code theory diverged straight off a cliff and into the ocean.
Finch balked. "What? Hearing what?"
Although it was slight, Fenn's head rose in alarm. "O-Oswald?" he said in a deathly quiet voice. "What do you…w-what do you mean?"
Oswald took a long, deep breath, his body shuddering in turn. Either this was going to be big or Oswald was delusional enough to think it was.
Oswald's paw, concernedly, made its way to one of his scalchops on his hip. Finch tensed, but thankfully the Dewott did little else but rest his paw on top of it.
"I think it started back in Grepa Lake," Oswald explained gravely, "but honestly I've felt it since the first time I entered a dungeon."
Finch narrowed his eyes. "Felt it?" he wondered aloud, only to ask himself internally what in distortion he was doing entertaining this. His jaw snapped shut, eliciting a flinch from both Oswald and Fenn. He hissed, "Ozzy, start making sense."
He half expected Fenn to stand up for his boyfriend there, like he usually did, but Fenn looked to be just as shell shocked as Finch was, his brow furrowed in thought.
The tinge of annoyance entered Oswald's voice again as he said, "I am making sense, Finch. To me. I'm noticing a pattern."
This was ridiculous. "What pattern?" Finch growled.
"Every time I enter a dungeon, it's like there's someone behind the curtain trying to direct me. I don't know how, I don't know why, but they're always there." Finally, Oswald unhooked his scalchop, holding it up just to point it at Finch. There was an uncharacteristically frank look in his eyes. A glimmer of genuine courage fragmented by pure terror. His tone was clear and undeniably Oswald: more serious than necessary yet simultaneously phrased like a bad joke. The scalchop shook in his paw.
"It wants something from me," Oswald said.
Even Fenn blinked at that. Tiny embers fell to the ground, sizzling there in dry, pathetic bouts of incredulousness. That simple, straightforward sentence obliterated the air in an instant, leaving the trio cold and still.
Finch had had enough.
"Mystery Dungeons aren't people, Ozzy," Finch guffawed.
Oswald just frowned, letting his arm fall back into his lap. "I never said they were, Finch. I was talking about-"
"If this is your way of talking yourself out of this, you're a little late on that." Finch took a step forward, thoroughly looming over the Dewott. The gravel in his voice scratched at his throat, low and deep to intimidate deftly, succinctly.
"Listen, Ozzy," Finch snarled, "I didn't come all this way and risk the scales on my back just for you to make excuses. We are so close. You are so close. Are you really going to let this stop you?"
Not once did the two of them look away from each other. The trembling pupils of Oswald's eyes betrayed his stone hard glare. Gradually, Oswald's eyes widened.
"You don't believe me…" Oswald whispered in disbelief.
On the contrary, Finch did believe him. He was not denying that someone, somewhere was trying to get something out of this valuable idiot. Calling Oswald reliable, though? No, that wasn't happening. Not after the sheer number of times he'd lost his cool. This Dewott's worst enemy was himself, plain and simple.
Finch straightened up, rubbing the bridge of his snout in exasperation. "Whether or not I believe you," he grumbled, "doesn't matter." He pointed a claw in the direction of the mine. "There's someone that needs to see you, and that isn't going to happen unless we go into that Mystery Dungeon."
Oswald opened his mouth to speak, only for the words to die in his throat. He groaned softly, resigned to stare at the ground as opposed to the truth.
"Hmph," Finch huffed. "That all you got?"
Oswald said nothing.
When it was clear that they had reached an impasse, Fenn rose to all fours. Flickers of orange rage bounced between his ears, yet never caught a spark. It was painful to look at on its own without the Quilava's expression being even more painful.
Sweet Darkrai, that kid had it bad. Finch could tell. Unlike with Oswald, who absolutely knew better, Fenn seemed to be functioning purely off of fumes and bad ideals. Throughout the whole conversation he was visibly split between exploding where he sat and bursting into tears. Just like his twink boyfriend (they really were made for each other) but more volatile.
Finch knew how Fenn had felt about him since the moment they met. It was a change for him at the time, well before he and Ozzy finally tied the knot, so of course the poor guy would feel threatened. Might have even been feeling threatened now. Even still, the glare Fenn was giving him barely cut skin deep. Without saying a word, Finch knew Fenn had doubts of his own.
"F-Finch," Fenn stammered, "how do we…know th-that your contact is still here?"
As much as he hated to admit it, Fenn asked a good question. Finch sighed. "Only one place he could really be," Finch pointed out.
"What if y-you're wrong?"
As much as he didn't want to feed those doubts, there was something about the way Fenn's voice wavered that softened Finch's approach. Fenn wasn't asking these questions for his own sake—he probably didn't even give a shit. It was all for Oswald.
Finch grumbled half-heartedly, "Could be. But in that case we'd just be wasting our time, huh?"
Fenn was very obviously not happy with that answer. His response was to whine deep in his throat and blow out a puff of stale flames. It just barely petered out before nipping Finch's claws. "C-can I be honest?" Fenn ventured.
Finch nodded. "Do what you gotta."
"I-I just…" Fenn started, biting his lip. "I don't c-care as much about…about whatever this is as much as I care a-about keeping Oswald safe."
Wow, Finch was right. Not exactly a big surprise there.
"Even if that means losing his lead?" Finch countered.
Fenn's flames finally grew in size with his confidence, spiking out and doubling his apparent size, "W-we'll find another. Tusk can fly us."
The truth behind that was much more dire than either Fenn or Oswald really knew. Tusk was a friend, sure, but he was just as much a target as the rest of them. With how many fliers they had in Kebia Castle, traveling in the air more than needed was an unwanted risk.
It hadn't left Finch's mind how disturbingly easy it was to get here, either. Aerial ambushes were easier to execute when the victims were grounded. The sooner they were out of view, the better.
But sure, why didn't he humor that idea for a second? What if they inexplicably found a new lead without exposing themselves? What then?
Simple, actually: they won't. Not even in his sappiest of daydreams. They had to take this one.
Finch couldn't help but tap his foot to some invisible rhythm. He growled a question, not caring how glaringly candid it was, "Do you like being on the run, Hot Stuff?"
Fenn's confidence didn't falter, but it was close. "N-no, I don't," he said. "I'm…" Tiny fangs poked out of his lips to poke at the fur around his mouth. One of his arms twitched as his eyes darted to Oswald, who still hadn't moved.
"You're worried," Finch stated the obvious.
Fenn hesitated.
Oswald cut through the tension, thankfully, blurting it out as dully as possible, "Alright, I get it."
Both Finch and Fenn turned to look at the Dewott now rising to his feet, resolutely and with a grumpy frown. He still held his scalchop in one paw.
"G-get what?" Fenn wondered, his flames sputtering out gradually.
"This is my fault," Oswald remarked. "All of it is. The least I can do now is make things easier for you guys."
Finch wanted to say 'about time' to that (he very nearly did), stopping short to ask "Are you sure?" instead.
"Unfortunately…" And thank Darkrai, he sounded like Oswald again. Skinny shoulders slumping and everything. "I'll try not to get overwhelmed again."
Fenn stood on two paws, as well, placing one free paw on Oswald's chest, stepping closer. "O-Oswald, you can't promise that!" he fretted.
"Yeah," Finch added, idly digging his foot into the ground. "Doesn't seem like something you can just turn off, Ozzy. I appreciate the sentiment-"
"I'll be fine." Oswald cut him off sharply. "I got through the other dungeons in one piece, mostly. What's one more adventure?"
Before either of them had the time to argue, Oswald cupped his paws over his mouth and shouted out, "Cosmo! We're leaving!" Then he stepped past them, heading right back to the mine entrance. A howling, ghostly wind accompanied his resentful footsteps.
Just like that, huh? Finch thought, stifling a chuckle. Well, Oswald was just that kind of guy. He'd probably throw himself into war if it meant staving off the guilt. Sometimes, that was a good thing. After this little detour, he'd need to work on it. There was a time and place for jumping into danger. In this case, they had no other choice, even if Fenn wanted to act like they did.
Finch glanced at Fenn wordlessly, jerking his head in the direction of the mine. In different circumstances, he would have smiled with all his teeth.
But he knew better than to poke and prod a smoldering fire type. Fenn looked placated, albeit distraught in his own way, sparks still dancing like Bellossom between his eyes. It wouldn't take much to relight that fire.
With a shuddering sigh, Fenn took the lead, and Finch followed behind.
Author's Note - 2/16/2025
Another transition chapter, but a necessary one. I actually planned on including one more scene, but ultimately decided to save it for the start of chapter 54. The spot I ended up in here was too fitting to add on more.
Small note, I made a retcon to chapter 3. Or, well, I added a scene that changes how Oswald and Fenn first properly met. I had it on my mind for a while and I was really sad that I couldn't go back and outright change it without causing issues, but then I realized that I could add it on and still keep things mostly consistent.
I won't make big changes like this often, but if I do you'll likely see me mention them on my bluesky, which I'll be using for updates now. You can find that here: snapdragooooon . bsky . social. Look for the toed, you can't miss it.
Anyway, thanks to Bonehead, Dust_Scout, and Timelocke for being wonderful and amazing and awesome betas. And thank you for reading like the wonderful and amazing and awesome person you are.
Until next time!