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Infinite
His silhouette was a mere shadow, colored an eerie hue of blinding blue. It reflected serenely against the charred window, as the figure watched the scenario with discomfort. In his palm laid a sphere object, rusted with the faintest shade of violet. The sirens and the alarmed shouts of people did not daunt him, as he stood quietly in front of the falling window. Smoke wafted slowly into the air, sending a burning scent throughout the creaking room. Why was he not escaping? He was but a swift young man, taking precaution into staying inconspicuous in sight.
His breaths came out heavy, fingers clutching the round object tightly. It burned to the palm of his hand, sending pain shivering up his arm. But for now, he would remain emotionless and void of feelings. This was his prize, and he reaped the rewards. The sirens did not cease, more voices yelling and echoing through the darkness. They could not see him, but they had already figured out chaos had struck earth. Dark clouds would be gathering up, the air a very mystical shroud of cobalt light.
Brock Stone rasped out words, words that came from the inner self. It was haunted with the fog of pity and questions, but it told the truth of his dire concept of success. His eyes trembled at the inferno sight of the item he was holding tightly, sucking in his breath as he finally scraped up the courage to say the three words, slowly and delicately with a choked voice.
I did it.
His expression was delirious, with ecstasy sending mountainous sparks of joy pulsing through his body. Worn out and tanned fingers carefully rubbed the object he had been keeping for a while, revealing a pale shade of magenta with a letter etched upon it. The bottom was a hue of white that had been toned down with gray, the button circling it around the center. If he had captured some other creature rather than this one, it would not have mattered like so. But Brock Stone had done it; he had managed to enclose the phoenix and her flames inside this simple lightweight ball.
He had gained access to the mythical Ho-oh when thousands before him could not, and the fiery strength dug deep inside his ambitious and prideful heart. It had not happened nonchalantly; the great creature had put up such a temper and a fight. But he had something that even the strongest ones could not withstand, for it was the only one remaining on earth. And yet, he was holding it with great simplicity with the care of a precocious child.
The blinding lights flashed in and out during the midst of the covering fog, smoke and sirens filling the empty dark air. They were looking for him, this he knew. Letting out a steady breath, he took precise movements into inching across the creaking floorboards, before another vague smoke of transparent blue stopped him.
The smoke took the distinctive figure of a human. Brock Stone was wary, eyeing the illusion deceiving his squinting eyes. They were brimful of acid like tears from all the smoke, but just vaguely, he saw him.
Him.
What are you doing here? he rasped, panic seizing him. Youre not supposed to be here.
The translucent man looked up with somber eyes. They were blurred from the hazy shroud lingering slowly from the open window, and he took his first step. Brock Stone, the one who had captured Ho-oh, the one who had ventured here in the first place, was scared. He watched unsteadily and swayed on his feet precariously as the figure advanced closer. Yes, it was truly him.
His father.
Y-you arent s-supposed
He could not finish the sentence, gaping at the man. Flint Stone was pulsing with a blue aura, eyes nothing but a shadow of darkness. Brock Stone felt delirious; he knew he probably was delirious, for this could not have happened. His one success had to be ruined. He firmly convinced himself that this was a dream, as in a bad nightmare. The scary thing was how it seemed so real.
Youre dead, he said flatly, trembling hands shaking with the ball. The creature inside wanted to break loose. It struggled hard. It really did.
He noticed Flint Stone did not say a word. Instead, he walked, limped more likely, towards Brock, feeble hands reaching out towards his son.
Is it worth it?
The question lingered there questionably. He gave his supposed father a steely glare.
They, you, are all dead. So yes, he grinned widely, leering. It is worth it. Ho-oh is mine. Did you hear that? He let out a maniacal laugh, unnoticeable tears streaming down his eyes. Ho-oh is mine!
Sirens reached him. They bellowed louder than ever through the pasty night. Flint stone shook his head, almost sadly.
Is it really worth it?
Brock Stone heaved with tears and laughter, oblivious to his fingers squeezing pressure into the ball. Such rhetorical questions the foolish old man asked! Of course it had been worth it. He soaked in every droplet of pride, quavering with uncontrollable desire for something more. His eyes narrowed.
Its worth it. You wouldnt know, he whispered huskily. They all left me, they all abandoned me, and I trusted them. I thought there were my god**** friends.
Blood.
Brock Stone felt the crimson liquid seeping into his weathered skin. He was practically digging his palm near the metallic surface, but his other fists shook with the tormented memories flooding back. Oh, yes, he had thought it was for the benefit. He had thought it would turn out to be a happy ending, despite the dead kids he had abandoned long before. The ball dug painfully and mercilessly, creating more liquid freshly flowing out.
Think about it. If its worth it.
Flint Stone had gazed sadly, almost contemplatively, at his son for the last time, before turning around and fading into mistthen no more.
Pain erupted then.
What Brock Stone saw was beautiful.
Pieces of violet and pearl shattered through mid air, sparkling like crystal enclosed stars vibrating with extraordinary light. They pulsed with unknown power, beams of infrared rays scattering across the dark sky, creating more commotion as it was. People screamed, yelled, sirens grew increasingly loud. Unless he was losing sanity, Brock Stone heard the unmistakable piercing shriek of a bird dying, wilting like a flower, before gradually softening and disappearing altogether.
He had killed it.
The light subsided into a dull, aching red, blackening out. The sky was gathering in amorphous clutters of dark gray clouds, a single crack of lightning erupting into more screams of terror and anticipation.
Brock Stone merely stood there in the darkness, blood dripping from his hand. The Master ball. He choked a laugh.
It had broke.
Just vaguely, he heard three deafening roars coming closer. The three beasts, he realized. They would be furious. They would spare no mercy on him.
Smiling at the very idea, Brock Stone leaned out the window, staring at the chaotic black sky. They should be coming soon. Then this nightmare would be over. Flint Stone was dead, not a ghost, but buried pitifully among his old home town. He had not visited him, nor would he ever.
The Ecruteak tower shook with three large creatures scrambling up, leaving Brock contemplating on his fathers words bitterly.
Is it worth it?
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