> The Author has probably written a happy ending where Orthodox kills that horned Narrator.
Your faith in the Author is touching, but he never writes a word of this in advance. Nothing is set in stone, or even in the comparatively short-lived medium of a word processor.
> I suggest, start a war of words with it Orthodox! Use beautiful words and adjectives and try to become the Narrator. Start ordering what would happen next while staying determined, clam and confident. Think like Dickens! This will infuriate the Narrator, and he will lose control, giving you control.
You're awfully sure of yourself, aren't you? 'Will infuriate', 'will lose control'; are you really saying that you know me, when you haven't even seen more than a glimpse of this world?
Besides, you can't really do much in the way of pontificating right now. Not even Dickens could write well when running away from a gigantic flaming death weasel.
> Run over and re-grab that masterball if possible
It isn't. You don't get a Poké Ball back once it's thrown. Everyone knows that.
> Other than Mewtwo being the narrator, isn't it at least a bit odd he has control over Typhlosion? It's Othodox's starter, should he not have some form of control over the thing?
You're thinking in terms of the old world. Starters in this world are not as they once were. As you may have noticed already. All I need to do to control the Typhlosion is to nudge it; its blazing hatred will do the rest.
> Taunt him! Make Mewtwo writhe at the name Giovanni! Question his existence, insult his nonexistent mother! I doubt he can narrate properly in a rage. Use that to make a run for it, and HATCH THAT EGG!
Once again, Eggs don't hatch on command. Are things different out there, on the other side of the screen, or are you all just ignorant?
Well, I digress.
“What are you, anyway?” you ask me, pushing Elm out of the Typhlosion's path and following on after him. “A nothing! You—”
I hold up my hand for silence.
You're going to need your breath to run, I tell you as the Typhlosion coils around on itself again, its teeth striking sparks against each other. Othodox, you don't have a mother either – in fact, you don't have any genetic predecessor at all, whereas at least I have Blaine and Mew. Not that that matters, of course: we can all be our own beings in this world; family and blood are not everything. We can live for ourselves – or at least, I can. The rest of you can do what you like, as long as yo don't get in my way.
You didn't hear that much of the speech. You spent most of your time trying to dodge the Typhlosion; you're getting the horrible feeling that it's gradually herding you into a corner. It's playing with you.
> Overly powered beings generally have superiority complexes and/or extreme belief in their infallibility. Try to take advantage of that. Tell the Narrator hes just using the Typhlosion to attack you because hes afraid he cant take you on his own. Make him seem little and weak.
You need to get around the Typhlosion: could you make me call it off?
“Why don't you fight us yourself?” you suggest, as the Typhlosion circles warily. “Don't you think you can take us on your own?”
I give you an odd look.
Of course I can't take you on my own, I say. That's the entire point of using the Typhlosion. Didn't you notice that it ran straight through me? I can't interact with the physical world.
I shake my head.
The youth of today is growing dim and unobservant, I remark sadly.
> Orthodox, just stay calm and run away.
Calm is a bit more than you can do right now, but running? That's right up your street. You wait until the Typhlosion is as far away from you as it's ever going to be and then, grabbing Vesta's hand, you sprint for the nearest exit.
Do you think running will save anything? My voice floats along the tunnel behind you, echoing over the grating yarrh of the Typhlosion as it shoots down the hole after you. The air is hot, and you and Elm are flagging; your breath burns in your lungs, and every next step makes your muscles shriek in agony. Vesta and Jasmine do not tire, but Vesta won't let go of your hand, and Jasmine is slow, and little by little you can feel the heat and the thumping paws coming closer.
What do you accomplish by this? I ask. When you came down here, you heard there was no going back. You can't get out of here. You can only postpone the inevitable – unless, of course, you give up that egg, and then a convenient cave-in will separate you from the Typhlosion, and that will give you enough time to escape by means of a tunnel that no one knew existed until that very moment.
You can't reply. You're choking with every breath you take. There is brimstone in the air, and smoke, and suddenly your legs don't work any more but you're still going on, Vesta dragging you and screaming and crying from somewhere very far away; and Jasmine is dragging Elm too, and when you glance at him you can see his face has gone ash-white from whatever is in that Typhlosion's smoke, and you realise slowly that your face is the same, and as everything starts to fade you hear my voice, as close as if I were in your ear, murmuring a few last words.
Hey, I say. Don't feel bad about it, kid. I chose Cyndaquil for you for a reason. You were never meant to win, you realise that? It was rigged. Not everything can drown, Othodox, but if it's hot enough, pretty much everything burns.
> Offer a prayer to Arceus, and the Scythian god thing.
What's that, sorry?
You have no breath left, but with whatever there is in your lungs – heat, and sulphur – you gasp out a few brief words in supplication to Tabiti. (Not Arceus. You aren't one of those Sinnish heretics, nor do you want to break your run of good luck with Tabiti.)
Goddess of fire, and animals.
The smoke recedes from your lungs, and your sight clears. It all happens remarkably quickly – far too quickly to be natural – and you sit up to the sight of a huge, smoke-blackened mustelid skeleton, stretched out across the tunnel floor. Of the smoke and fire, there is no sign.
Oh, you had to drag a bloody god into all this, didn't you? I ask, annoyed. She won't kill it, you know. She doesn't do that – she likes animals. It's going to be back soon. Yes, go on, run! I cry after you, as you scramble to your feet, suddenly reinvigorated, and start sprinting away down the tunnel. Run if you want, but you have a minute at best before it's back!
The Bad Egg twitches.
Just a few more minutes, Othodox.
Thanks. Glad you're enjoying it! We're very close to the end now, but I hope you enjoy what remains.