Luphinid Silnaek
MAGNEMITE.
- 100
- Posts
- 17
- Years
- Amano-Iwato.
- Seen Oct 1, 2013
Legal complexities of training were things I had expected to tackle in the fiction, but I was planning a much more intensive explanation. The bloated plot (which shall appear soon) swallowed everything up, though.
What alternative word would you suggest? "That's" and "which's" are hardly acceptable.
I thank for showing me those errors and commenting.
Your speed appears to be overtaking my updating, which is why I'll post the next chapter. If I'm moving objectionably quickly, please do object. The heavy alliteration was entirely unintentional. I don't know how or why my prose became a Dashboard Confessional song. Also, my banner is (superficially) explained. A certain portion makes me think of bobandbill's fiction, in fact; I'll see if anyone can find it.
Amaren hunched over the injured pokémon as they lay back against the cool of a dark cypress, rifling through his already-swollen backpack. An expression of great sympathetic pain tightened his face, stirred by the weariness passing through the telepathic link; and an identical emotion animated Ruki, passing over their many hurts (though to a less vivid degree). Akale lingered behind her leg, looking at the scene with alert interest.
"Hang on a second," she reached for her bag, styled into unnecessary attractiveness—"I'm sure I had something for leech seeds, must be somewhere here."
An aerosol can of some unknown liquid was produced from its simple confines, one with a most vibrant and disconcertingly detailed logo of a single, gelatinous leech seed. It illustrated the efficiency at which the spray could wither the painful growths, with such patient detail as to elicit a wave of nausea from all but the grass-types themselves.
With extreme caution, she opened the cap vacuum-sealing the nozzle, inadvertently releasing a trapped drop of wayward leech-seed-spray. It dropped like a shooting star, triggering a tremendous spark and reducing several blades of grass to ashes. Immediately, Ytarrik attempted feebly to push the spray out of living influence, seeing great good for the future of humanity in the destruction of this supposed "hellfire".
"Oh," Ruki said placidly, "oh. I don't think I should have shaken it so badly. Oh, well," and the can flew out into the surrounding woods, off to terrorize another hapless patch of grass.
It was the farewell clunk of the noxious spray which raised Amaren from his excursion into his voluminous bag, clutching five potions victoriously. He swiftly opened the extravagant sealing mechanism and proceeded to force-feed both pokémon the clear blue liquid, as Ytarrik attempted to feign allergy and Angin writhed under its searing taste.
"Pokémon don't have allergies, idiot," Amaren growled.
"I know it's bad, Angin, but you really need the energy right now," Ruki soothed.
[Why did I try to trick you with an allergy when I've never even had one?] Ytarrik mused. [Oh, Light, I think I'm turning more and more human every moment! I am… merging with your uncouth mind. Geh!]
"Shut up, Zyt."
[Shut up, uncouth mind.]
"If you'll stop insulting me every few seconds, I will shut up, Blackhead."
[Blackhead!]
"Stop arguing, guys,"—Ruki, though with a dispelling grin.
[Our vitality,] Ytarrik explained, once sanity had once again reluctantly set in, [was getting lower and lower by the second, because of our leech seeds. You completely overlooked that when you set us on Pidgeotto, there. One unavoidable Quick Attack, and we were gone.]
"Hey, you were battling your heart out without my orders. It's not my fault you forgot everything for a second."
[But—]
"Though, Ruki," Amaren continued, drowning out Ytarrik's protest, "What about you? Where did you come from?" He was surprised, near astonished, that he had never thought to ask her this simple question
"Oh, I grew up in Saffron, didn't I tell you?" Ruki stopped, unwilling to say any more.
"And…?"
"And?" She seemed uncertain as to whether Amaren would require anything else.
"And, what's your full name, how's your family, do you remember any story worth telling me? I thought this sort of things were supposed to be said between friends."
"Er, well… My name is Ruki Ferena. I was an only child, I suppose, and, well, nothing really happened in my block of Saffron."
"Have you really got nothing worth memory?" Amaren exclaimed.
"…No."
"Ytarrik?" Amaren turned to him for assistance.
[…No. Don't even think about it.]
"I don't see any point in living in the past. Not, at least, after I found…" trailed off Ruki.
"Found what?" Amaren turned to Ytarrik, but he was likewise clueless.
Instantly, she found some point of extreme interest immediately beyond Amaren's shoulder, and focused all her ocular attention there. "Found… training, of course. I have had the best moments of my life here.
"Where's the professor, though?" she suddenly changed the subject, looking around as her delicate personal extravagances attempted to keep up with her sudden reminder. She jogged off aimlessly, her ponytail swinging disregarded behind her, and was immediately met with the old scientist, emerging out of a nearby patch of obscurity.
"Oh, merely examining what I took to be a rare specimen," he waved off airily. It did not seem, despite his civilized appearance, as if he spent all his time examining bacteria under microscopes or poring over dusty textbooks with no possible information of any consequence—he took all the air of one crawling out an authentic, fieldwork hotspot for rare pokémon. "Were you aware that not all wurmple are red-backed?"
"Really?" a considerable portion of the gathering chorused, Amaren at the forefront.
"No, indeed. Every so often one will find a most peculiar purple variety, shaded a pale lilac. Rumour has it that such discoloured, or 'shiny', specimens, are more receptive to growth than their usual counterparts. However, because of their flashiness, they lose the natural purpose of the colours of common pokémon—and such methods as camouflage or intimidation are impossible, having entirely the, erm, wrong colour of skin. Or hide, or scale, or fur, according to taste."
[That's why they're so rare, then?] Ytarrik hazarded, though he carried the hint of telepathic fishing for information. It was indubitable that he was well-taken with the professor, though he was loath to admit it.
A wave of feeling, remarkably akin to his meanderings around the digital halls of the Trainer card's informational database, took over Amaren as the six mismatched components of his party began moving as one, retiring to the safety of the city. Professor Oak radiated an air of learnedness, of refined science, but it did not seem like to the manner of the monotonous study books Amaren had dabbled in, long before in his village. Instead, he carried a hint of Uncle Artir in his veins, an illustrious gentleman, grown in mind, but in an infinitely more colourful manner.
"You see, Amaren," Oak was soon explaining, "a trainer's journey requires an amount of sacrifice, or rather some pain and subsequent strength. It is essential that one possess few inner demons and such complications at such an early part of the career, for it must be given space to grow. In your position, I would suggest that you do not shirk from such species, but indeed attempt to coexist with your fears…"
"What? How could I do that, Professor?"
"Ah, just wait a time," he sighed, "you shall find that necessity soon overrides any incompetence you may claim to have."
"Does that mean," Ruki worried, "that I'll have to get a Dark-type too?"
Their new-found mentor regarded them for a moment. "Ah… no. Not, specifically, if you very strongly desire not to." Before Ruki could finish her impromptu celebration, however, he added, cautioning, "You will have to mimic Amaren eventually, remember. A pokémon master is one at the very end of his journeys, one who has experienced, understood, and stowed away near every facet of his or her life.
"But why are we looking so forward yet? Enjoy, I bid you, while you're all still young!"
Amaren and Ruki looked at each other questioningly, as the Professor's mood lifted very abruptly. [There are certain groups of people,] Ytarrik mused between them, [whom I will never understand, as long as I live.] He seemed to find a strange irony in his statement, but Amaren could not gain any more from his closed mind.
"I think that I will make my exit around now," the professor sang, as Saffron came within hailing distance. "This is indeed where our paths fork, for I must enter the city through an entirely different route. Farewell, then… not at all, of course. I shall be very glad to see you two once again in your next venture from this hub of yours; simply find me in the encircling forest, Northwest quarter." And, at that, he parted ways, still cheerful beyond belief.
As they entered the now-familiar outskirts of Saffron City, it seemed most visibly to Amaren as though the proud pillars of the metropolis before them had lost some of their brilliance. The gleam of technology, to Amaren's eyes, was dimmer now than it had first been, and its every minuscule quirk was subconsciously acknowledged by his mind, seeming no more to be new and unexplored. He felt a strong urge for the open country, as to the manner of old times, where he would walk through a blizzard of new experiences leaving no time for accustomed monotony.
[I suppose,] Ytarrik added, [they call that feeling the spirit of a trainer or something. Maybe you should start, uh, doing something.]
"Doing what?" though Amaren knew already what the abra would lead to. "Maybe we should start fighting against trainers, now. See how we fare."
"That's a great idea!" Ruki agreed. And then, with an accidental chorus of thoughts, Amaren, Ruki, and Ytarrik simultaneously offered: "We shouldn't delay the Gym for too long, though."
They looked among each other, and promptly stowed this strange coincidence in the farthest cupboards of their minds. Some quirks of the universe, they could no longer doubt, were best left unexplored. They could not, additionally, doubt their inner thoughts, which ran entirely contrary to their previous mental statement.
[Oh, well.]
Already the first gleam of gold was touching the viridian of the lush forest, already the first caterpie were beginning to prepare for the coming hardship; but there was a determination about the sun and its warm breezes, seeing no harm in a parting flare of summer intensity before fall took their place. In many ways the weather could be said to be unseasonal, such that the living beings it governed seemed uncertain, expecting winter but seeing none in sight; but Amaren felt that if warmth and brightness could be prolonged, if it could (and wished to) deliver a surprise burst of life yet, what greater good truly blockaded its path?
The trainers, adaptive as they ever were, did not hesitate to make the best of this unexpected reward. Ytarrik, Angin and Akale flourished in the light like never before, surpassing expectations day after day as they jumped to greater heights of splendour. Confusion fell into Psybeam, Ember into stunning displays of pyrotechnics, and Vine Whip into showers of razor-sharp leaves, each rising in crescendos of improvement with no decline in sight. Stunningly, though Amaren had noticed it before, the peak of one day of training for a pokémon became indeed the standard for the next day; and each new move the pokémon managed with great labour seemed to become conditioned into their bodies, turning into second nature on a second try. And every test of their strength served to detail them more and more exactly the limits of their strength, so that they learnt to regulate their energies into strategy.
It was an instance within the peak of this final light, into Amaren and Ruki's occasional sojourns into the forest, that the sun shone so broadly into the fastnesses of the dark reaches that fear was but banished entirely. For the second time yet, a Dark-type came across their path – an exceptionally skilled—poochyena—and reason, Professor Oak's counsel, won over: Amaren and Ytarrik turned to the creature, purposing to capture him, as the golden sunlight of support flooded from every side.
Surpassing all expectations, Ytarrik wrestled telekinetically with the pokémon, his spirit a fire as steady and strong as the sun itself, and beat the wild within inches of his consciousness. A long struggle ensued within the concentrated storage device, but experience won over the fierce fortitude of the pokémon—and Lepena was caught.
Ytarrik was unique in himself, and Angin lit with the fire of her species; Akale protectively close to his beloved trainer, but Lepena was none too accustomed to revealing his inner thoughts, papering over them with a near-vicious offence. Amaren soon won his alliance, but nothing more than an alliance: he would fight entirely for his trainer, often sinking even to obeying his every command, but he seemed to see this as no more than a momentary parallel of their paths. Ytarrik was entirely unwilling to telepathically divine Lepena's thoughts, leaving Amaren with no opportunity to know him. For the moment, however, training deigned to move according to schedule.
At last, after a half-season of training, the party streamed out of their final meeting with the north-eastern forest, seeing themselves ready to challenge the Gym.
It was late afternoon, in that amber-lit time of day when the shadowless noon met the glory of the setting sun, when the outskirts of the forest met once again their eyes and ears. A grand peace had followed the thrill of battle, a sublimity befitting the colour blushing the meanest particle of the forest with golden fire, and this feeling enveloped all the forest creatures as they set about lazily on their tasks. How golden it would have been to simply watch the pidgey glide slowly down their final flight before the twilight, how peaceful the sight of the occasional shroomish lying in the patches of sunlight, its eyes peacefully closed, drinking in the warmth—if this very feeling had not occupied the trainers and their pokémon themselves. And yet, as the last enclosing canopy of emerald leaves petered out, the light of the westering sun (so scattered, so shattered into a million greenish shards, purposeless and yet all so effective in their cluttered aim) coalesced into one single, blinding point of light, forceful enough to break walls of steel. The rasping grey of the monotone winter was already brushing the eastern horizon with near-insubstantial fingers—but Amaren and Ruki, and Ytarrik and Angin and Akale, all their heads were turned towards the west.
"It feels like an eternity since I came out of that burning forest, so long ago," Amaren mused, with a nudge of unexpectedly sober agreement from Ytarrik.
"But we're finally going to challenge the Saffron Gym, I can't believe it!" Ruki uttered breathlessly. "Are we strong enough, shouldn't we have done some more training?"
"Angin and Akale are plenty strong enough, Ruki," Amaren consoled, attempting to force a likewise burst of excitement within his own chest into submission. "As long as everyone keeps cool, we should be perfectly fine."
"But how can we be sure?" she cried irrationally. Ignoring Ytarrik's mean-spirited suggestions, Amaren put an arm around Ruki and spoke peacefully. "Calm down, Ruki, I'm here, aren't I? As long as we go in there as a team, there's no chance anyone could defeat us."
It was undetectable, but did Amaren sense a hint of pride deep in Ytarrik's labyrinthine mind? In any case, Ruki settled considerably at his ministrations—how, he would never know, for his speech had been utter rubbish.
The Saffron City Psychic-Type Gym was no great establishment in external appearance. A blue-shingled, slate-grey, rectangular building, it lay mismatched in the midst of the city's arrays of grandeur, seeming to an outsider rather unbecoming of its promise. However, as Ytarrik assured, physical appearance was meaningless to a dwelling of psychic-types. The only mark separating it from any other nondescript building in the city was the title, imprinted in formal text above the massive double doors.
Forbidding as it seemed, the doors, at the least, were thrown wide open; but whether in a gesture of welcome or malicious beckoning, Amaren could not decide, and his attempts at this were met with a small Confusion from the disgruntled Ytarrik. As they entered the wide hall within, lined with rows upon rows of cots resembling hospital beds, the abra seemed to take some inexplicable satisfaction in all the gloom.
The windowless, whitewashed walls of the cavernous room were lit with the flames of gigantic candles, burning steadily at intermittent intervals along the rows of beds. An inner room leaned against the back wall, presumably the stadium, closed to all mortal ways of entry. Most of the strange cots were occupied with inexperienced trainers, sleeping fitfully as a nearby psychic-type extended some uneasy mesmeric influence upon their dreams, and their pokémon sat ranged all around them, staring with vacant eyes. And yet, beneath all the murky silence brooded a sense of arcane age, to which Ytarrik (and all his influences upon those around him) reacted positively. The half-articulated sounds of distant, disciplined action reverberated from some indistinct source.
A tall man disengaged himself noiselessly from a nearby corner and strode toward these new arrivals ([Infidels,] Ytarrik corrected) with a brisk telepathic greeting. His physical appearance was plain, almost shabby, his eyes expressionlessly dreamy, but he conveyed the sense of impressiveness well on his own level.
He then began to relay a series of thoughts into the party's minds, but they were even more abstract than Ytarrik's standard telepathic messages, such that their full meaning could not be translated into any human language. It seemed as though he had not spoken in articulate tongue for so long that his thoughts never strayed into the realm of words; but, instead of the subconscious urges of instinct which one would naturally revert to in such a situation, he spoke in a strange thought-speech: more concentrated than simple thought, but freer of half-truths and contradictions than any language Amaren had ever heard. When asked to recall his words at a later time, Amaren would revert to a less abstract form of speech and take it as truth.
[Ah, you are also a trainer of the song,] he relayed to Amaren, adding unnecessarily that the song was a truer word for the psychic type. [Workable promise lies in you, Ytarrik, if you were one to remain in Saffron and train with us.]
[Is it so?] Ytarrik replied enthusiastically.
The two psychics lapsed suddenly into conversation, thinking with such instantaneous speed that the humans had scarce time to interpret the meaning of one thought before another was uttered.
[Yes, indeed, I do not – ]
[If only I could meet – ]
[Yet, you have your own – ]
[…I didn't know that.]
[Such is the course – ]
[Really? The things I could – ]
[Ah, do not be so – ]
[I guess not…]
Amaren and Ruki waited patiently, and the man eventually interrupted the conversation with a start. [Dear me, I seem to have forgotten. New trainers, and this is all I give you for hospitality!
[Let me proceed to the challenge. You shall be put into a sort of… dreamscape, as it were, and left to fend for yourself along with your pokémon. You have already read of it. If you survive this psychic plane of thought, you will be led into the stadium, and the Gym leader will use pokémon according to the skill at which you fared to battle you. If you are victorious, of course, you will receive the usual prizes. Here, follow me.]
He led the trainers to a couple of beds suitably close to the centre of the room, and summoned a large, heavy hypno with a dusty steel pendulum. At the nameless man's instructions, Amaren and Ruki lay uncomfortably on their respective beds, and the psychic-type stretched its hands out to radiate waves of some heavy, impalpable substance into their minds. Instantly, Amaren fell into a deep, trance-like sleep.
Infinite particles ranged around Amaren, bobbing and curling in airy spirals, arrayed into blocky slates, but they were suddenly one, cohering into a single concept, and then they branched again, flowering out into usual complexity –
And yet this was no usual avatar of their form, like but entirely unlike the cavernous Gym to which Amaren was so blissfully closed. It seemed closer towards the universal form, but not completely; and yet was the twilight forest surrounding his indistinct spirit anything more than a solid block of concept, broken only occasionally with the odd blurring detail? And surely the shapeless shadows rising out of the dark places were no distinct mightyena, with every strand of unkempt fur painfully clear: surely they were mere apparitions of thought, darkening the forest shades with their terror alone. No, but the formless mesh of golden light was his own, the power which animated Ytarrik [Amaren] as he turned to face the challenge around him.
On a plane entirely outside his own, Ytarrik watched him with nonexistent eyes; but was he here, fending off the outlawed spirits of the twisted woods, or hovering next to a hospital bed in the midst of a concrete cavern? Did this truly matter, here, now, in this rage of instinct?
Two identical ellipses of startling silver rose before his eyes, supported on thin stalks; and out of them resounded an intoxicating energy, blasting back the surrounding threads of thought with their shockwaves. A pokéball flashed before him, and an elderly gentleman with a gardevoir by his side, and then a pure, bright spot of blue (or was it gold?); ancient thought surged into his form, filling him with brilliance, and the phantoms around him shook in terror—
—they were nearly defeated—
—and then a single, panicked jerk of dread: a dirty silver wolf, towering over the single indigo candle, threatening to burn it out – but his golden fire was already burning out, its fuel was being stolen before its outstretched hands as the cold embrace of the darkness smothered it,
We are eternal, all this pain is an illusion
Kalens Oak, under the warm wood of his private study. "—one at the very end of his journey, his internal demons all tamed and put away. You see, when fear is understood, it ceases to exist entirely. Equilibrium resumes when the chaotic element is analysed, assimilated, unable to cause any more disorder."
[Life is all too dreadfully mortal, but many are protected by things eternal, omnipotent. They are fit receptacles for the thought, and thus exist for long to serve this purpose. Death is not as frequent a guest as you claim it to be.]
"Your deed is done, Amaren. Open your eyes."
And the light of the candle Gym flooded into his mind again.
[Finely done, finely done,] the strange man was commending in his usual telepathy, with am air of average impression. [And I believe your young friend is still battling on?]
Ytarrik and Lepena shook their heads, attempting to clear their minds, as Amaren rose woozily from his post. He realized he had been shouting. "YES!" a victory cry.
Behind him, the girl and her pokémon began to show signs of stirring, and soon they, too, were awake, their reactions visibly more subdued than Amaren's.
"That," Ruki emphasized, "was an experience I don't want to have again."
"But did you get through?" Amaren asked.
"…I think I did." And they had already begun their celebrations, when the man interrupted their cheering.
[Ah, but that is only half the journey. Follow me.]
The stadium of the Saffron Gym was a most moody, dramatic affair: a concrete rectangle, painted in the usual manner of battling courts (a grand Pokèball in the center – still a Pokèball – and rectangular stages for the trainers on either end, each connected by a single line running through the central Pokèball), with spotlights allowing only the platforms within visibility. A circular, rising staircase of seats surrounding the stadium afforded the audience a fair view of the battle. There were no visible signs of entry for anything as solid as air; they had entered through Teleportation.
Ruki went to sit by the sidelines, as Amaren was called first to battle. He stepped uncertainly on the platform closer to him, and gave a start as he was lifted high up, supported by the air itself—or, more accurately, telekinetic force.
The trainer looked around with distinct unease. However he may have seemed to those watching him, flying effortlessly up into the 'top' of affairs, it felt extremely unnerving to be raised to such a height at such a speed.
Suddenly, a near-palpable telepathic message rebounded across the acoustic stadium.
[Welcome, Amaren Kelanis, to the Saffron City Pokémon Gym. I am, as you expect, the Leader of our institution.]
"Where are you?" Amaren shouted. "Why can't I see you?"
[My physical form is immaterial, and my name doubly so. But you shall most easily wrench whatever information strikes your fancy from your trainer card, of course.]
"Er… all right…"
[Let us begin, then! I choose Espeon…]
As if from thin air, a figure materialized on the opposing side of the stadium, an extravagantly lavender feline. Its long, slender tail was split at the end in a tiny, jointed fork, and a bright red gem, no greater than a ring diamond, glittered on its expansive forehead. Amaren could only assume it was an exceptionally young specimen.
With a cry, he launched his own pokéball out into the field, and the spotlights turned upon it in such a manner that (for a moment) it seemed as if the dimly glinting sphere was the source of the light around it, warding off the encircling shadows.
The illusion quickly passed.
[You're my opponent, then?] Ytarrik mused.
[It seems so…] the pokémon replied.
[Ah, this should be a lovely night.] And, at a command from Amaren, he rose from his seat and fell into coma, concentrating visibly.
Instantly, the espeon charged the hovering creature, brandishing his tail [like some sordid barbed whip,] in Ytarrik's private words. As the tail caught his side painfully, scratching a long, curved gash, the abra did not flinch in the slightest, diluting his concentration by a millimetre alone. It seemed the espeon was determined to leave a mark, however, and he repeated this many times, until blood began to flow…
[What are you doing, Ytarrik?] Amaren urged.
In a painful jerk, the tail came within an inch of Ytarrik's face and stopped.
With a physical grin, Ytarrik gave a mental flick, and the sheen of a transparent bubble of matter glinted in the spotlight, protecting him vigilantly. The espeon's tail was caught firmly within its voluminous expanses, and the creature could only labour in vain to release itself.
Ytarrik's grin broadened as he concentrated upon the lump of tail caught inside his Barrier: to little effect, at first, but then…
[What are you doing?] the espeon yelled. [No, that doesn't go there—stop, stop—ah! Why, thank you, Mother, I almost forgot my lunchbox. Here, let you hit me over the haaaaeeed with it…]
And he began beating his own cranium against the closest surface he could see, thoroughly Confused—but the Gym Leader merely laughed.
[What on earth?] Ytarrik offered on Amaren's behalf, but then began offering something his trainer would certainly not wish to convey. [Oh, earth. Synch – sink, is it? I like sinks. Especially the bathroom sinks, they own the kitchen ten times over. Here, let me sing a song about it…]
The espeon was most determined to provide his poetic ideals for the cause of the general public, but he was entirely drowned by the heart-rending vocals his opponent delivered, and immediately proceeded to sing along. Amaren thought his accompaniment, especially the impromptu twist of being unable to keep up with Ytarrik's ever-twisting lyrics, was rather masterfully harmonious.
[Synchronize,] resounded the Leader's voice, [as your abra attempted to say before he was drowned by the fruits of his own labour.]
[Why, of course,] Ytarrik attempted to add. [Any… status… condition-thingy I do to that pesky espeon comes around to afflict me, don't it? Wheee!
Amaren looked over his shoulder, and the quiet laughing that was tinkling from the sideline rapidly quelled, as Ruki glanced up to display her most sincerely concerned and supporting expression.
In any other situation it would have been entirely comical, Amaren could not but concede. The pokémon's struggle towards sanity, towards 'snapping out of confusion', was one of the longest waits he had ever suffered in the heat of a pokémon battle. Eventually, however, it was the espeon who uttered the first coherent sentence, to a cheer from the sadly befuddled Ytarrik.
The feline pressed forward, backing away, as a faint telepathic link set up with the receiver Ytarrik. It sagged mentally, then tightened without warning as the first raging thought ripped across it; more emotions followed, torrents of distracting concepts, piling over each other until the very air distorted around it, revealing a braided stream of immaterial water. Thankfully, the first blow was sufficient to bring Ytarrik out of the "garden shower" he was probing with such zeal in his mind.
He exploded mentally, shoving out a bubble of yellow glitter which filtered marginally the Psybeam assailing his mind. More matter began streaming out from him, rallying to hold the assault of the beam, concentrating on one single patch of bubble…
[Would I not see through that?] the espeon smirked.
And the beam forked at a point directly before the bubble, streaming out to breach the transparent back of his Light Screen; and Ytarrik yelled:
[No, you—are—FLESH! This is the Gym we're standing in! There is no point in – run. Everywhere! Are you hearing me? I'm here, lying beneath the tree, burning!]
[Weak,] the Leader boomed, and then the monotone softened. [Your journey has only begun, I should not have forgotten.]
The espeon relented, stricken, and Ytarrik snapped back into reality. At last, this had become a challenge for all his heart.
He flicked his opponent's offence off with a massive effort, and locked horns with the espeon, sending a stream of solid thought into the lavender arm of startled defence.
A split braid of pure concept spanned between the battlers, gold and purple, clashing at its median point of conflict. It was an outward explosion of offence, a mutual separation, but the single threaded mind connected them in the manner only warriors could conceive, brothers in the aggression of thought. Rather than estranging the human watchers in their wonder, it brought them into the heart of the war, each other, the single glowing point where Ytarrik's Psybeam met the espeon's.
In a sudden flash, the balance was broken. The scales tipped in Ytarrik's favour, the point of meeting spiralling down, no longer a glittering keystone to their unity, but a rapidly-approaching death-trap: and it was over.
Ytarrik looked down at the fainted espeon, heaving with exhaustion and victory.
[Marvellous,] said the Gym leader, with a vague hint of impression. [Round One has been won by Amaren; but you still possess one more pokémon, and so do I.]
"Then let Round Two begin!" Amaren challenged, recalling Ytarrik gratefully.
[Round two: Kadabra versus Poochyena.]
"Howl, Lepena," Amaren ordered, as the grander form of Ytarrik before him closed his eyes in the familiarly silent psychic coma. The dark-type threw back his head and let out a startling lamentation of viciousness, the perceived shadows surrounding his form growing deeper; but his silver fangs glinted all the more intensely. Ytarrik, nestled inside the stasis of his pokéball, managed to convey his absolute hatred of the creature.
[Strangely,] he tried to say, [my battle was the gist of this match. We just need to wait for Lepena to finish off this kadabra, and we're done!]
The dark-type leapt instantly into the fray, running towards the prone kadabra to deliver a poison-tipped Bite, tackling him to the ground. An instant retaliation, but no psychic was a practitioner of brute force, and dark would ever wipe out its influence.
The kadabra raised a silver spoon, but Lepena beat down the assault; he attempted to overthrow the steady weight on his chest, to no avail. A long, silent struggle ensued, the poochyena digging his shadows ever deeper into the psychic, resistance insufficient –
And finally the battle was won.
[The battle is won!] roared Ytarrik, all weariness forgotten.
[Ah, yes, it does seem to be so,] the leader droned. [Shall I battle your friend before the awards are given?]
Amaren hurried back to the wooden sidelines, as Ruki walked uncertainly the other way. A quick exchange of smiles was all the common anticipation could allow…
What alternative word would you suggest? "That's" and "which's" are hardly acceptable.
I thank for showing me those errors and commenting.
Your speed appears to be overtaking my updating, which is why I'll post the next chapter. If I'm moving objectionably quickly, please do object. The heavy alliteration was entirely unintentional. I don't know how or why my prose became a Dashboard Confessional song. Also, my banner is (superficially) explained. A certain portion makes me think of bobandbill's fiction, in fact; I'll see if anyone can find it.
Aftershock
Chapter 6: The Peak
Part 1
Part 1
Amaren hunched over the injured pokémon as they lay back against the cool of a dark cypress, rifling through his already-swollen backpack. An expression of great sympathetic pain tightened his face, stirred by the weariness passing through the telepathic link; and an identical emotion animated Ruki, passing over their many hurts (though to a less vivid degree). Akale lingered behind her leg, looking at the scene with alert interest.
"Hang on a second," she reached for her bag, styled into unnecessary attractiveness—"I'm sure I had something for leech seeds, must be somewhere here."
An aerosol can of some unknown liquid was produced from its simple confines, one with a most vibrant and disconcertingly detailed logo of a single, gelatinous leech seed. It illustrated the efficiency at which the spray could wither the painful growths, with such patient detail as to elicit a wave of nausea from all but the grass-types themselves.
With extreme caution, she opened the cap vacuum-sealing the nozzle, inadvertently releasing a trapped drop of wayward leech-seed-spray. It dropped like a shooting star, triggering a tremendous spark and reducing several blades of grass to ashes. Immediately, Ytarrik attempted feebly to push the spray out of living influence, seeing great good for the future of humanity in the destruction of this supposed "hellfire".
"Oh," Ruki said placidly, "oh. I don't think I should have shaken it so badly. Oh, well," and the can flew out into the surrounding woods, off to terrorize another hapless patch of grass.
It was the farewell clunk of the noxious spray which raised Amaren from his excursion into his voluminous bag, clutching five potions victoriously. He swiftly opened the extravagant sealing mechanism and proceeded to force-feed both pokémon the clear blue liquid, as Ytarrik attempted to feign allergy and Angin writhed under its searing taste.
"Pokémon don't have allergies, idiot," Amaren growled.
"I know it's bad, Angin, but you really need the energy right now," Ruki soothed.
[Why did I try to trick you with an allergy when I've never even had one?] Ytarrik mused. [Oh, Light, I think I'm turning more and more human every moment! I am… merging with your uncouth mind. Geh!]
"Shut up, Zyt."
[Shut up, uncouth mind.]
"If you'll stop insulting me every few seconds, I will shut up, Blackhead."
[Blackhead!]
"Stop arguing, guys,"—Ruki, though with a dispelling grin.
[Our vitality,] Ytarrik explained, once sanity had once again reluctantly set in, [was getting lower and lower by the second, because of our leech seeds. You completely overlooked that when you set us on Pidgeotto, there. One unavoidable Quick Attack, and we were gone.]
"Hey, you were battling your heart out without my orders. It's not my fault you forgot everything for a second."
[But—]
"Though, Ruki," Amaren continued, drowning out Ytarrik's protest, "What about you? Where did you come from?" He was surprised, near astonished, that he had never thought to ask her this simple question
"Oh, I grew up in Saffron, didn't I tell you?" Ruki stopped, unwilling to say any more.
"And…?"
"And?" She seemed uncertain as to whether Amaren would require anything else.
"And, what's your full name, how's your family, do you remember any story worth telling me? I thought this sort of things were supposed to be said between friends."
"Er, well… My name is Ruki Ferena. I was an only child, I suppose, and, well, nothing really happened in my block of Saffron."
"Have you really got nothing worth memory?" Amaren exclaimed.
"…No."
"Ytarrik?" Amaren turned to him for assistance.
[…No. Don't even think about it.]
"I don't see any point in living in the past. Not, at least, after I found…" trailed off Ruki.
"Found what?" Amaren turned to Ytarrik, but he was likewise clueless.
Instantly, she found some point of extreme interest immediately beyond Amaren's shoulder, and focused all her ocular attention there. "Found… training, of course. I have had the best moments of my life here.
"Where's the professor, though?" she suddenly changed the subject, looking around as her delicate personal extravagances attempted to keep up with her sudden reminder. She jogged off aimlessly, her ponytail swinging disregarded behind her, and was immediately met with the old scientist, emerging out of a nearby patch of obscurity.
"Oh, merely examining what I took to be a rare specimen," he waved off airily. It did not seem, despite his civilized appearance, as if he spent all his time examining bacteria under microscopes or poring over dusty textbooks with no possible information of any consequence—he took all the air of one crawling out an authentic, fieldwork hotspot for rare pokémon. "Were you aware that not all wurmple are red-backed?"
"Really?" a considerable portion of the gathering chorused, Amaren at the forefront.
"No, indeed. Every so often one will find a most peculiar purple variety, shaded a pale lilac. Rumour has it that such discoloured, or 'shiny', specimens, are more receptive to growth than their usual counterparts. However, because of their flashiness, they lose the natural purpose of the colours of common pokémon—and such methods as camouflage or intimidation are impossible, having entirely the, erm, wrong colour of skin. Or hide, or scale, or fur, according to taste."
[That's why they're so rare, then?] Ytarrik hazarded, though he carried the hint of telepathic fishing for information. It was indubitable that he was well-taken with the professor, though he was loath to admit it.
A wave of feeling, remarkably akin to his meanderings around the digital halls of the Trainer card's informational database, took over Amaren as the six mismatched components of his party began moving as one, retiring to the safety of the city. Professor Oak radiated an air of learnedness, of refined science, but it did not seem like to the manner of the monotonous study books Amaren had dabbled in, long before in his village. Instead, he carried a hint of Uncle Artir in his veins, an illustrious gentleman, grown in mind, but in an infinitely more colourful manner.
"You see, Amaren," Oak was soon explaining, "a trainer's journey requires an amount of sacrifice, or rather some pain and subsequent strength. It is essential that one possess few inner demons and such complications at such an early part of the career, for it must be given space to grow. In your position, I would suggest that you do not shirk from such species, but indeed attempt to coexist with your fears…"
"What? How could I do that, Professor?"
"Ah, just wait a time," he sighed, "you shall find that necessity soon overrides any incompetence you may claim to have."
"Does that mean," Ruki worried, "that I'll have to get a Dark-type too?"
Their new-found mentor regarded them for a moment. "Ah… no. Not, specifically, if you very strongly desire not to." Before Ruki could finish her impromptu celebration, however, he added, cautioning, "You will have to mimic Amaren eventually, remember. A pokémon master is one at the very end of his journeys, one who has experienced, understood, and stowed away near every facet of his or her life.
"But why are we looking so forward yet? Enjoy, I bid you, while you're all still young!"
Amaren and Ruki looked at each other questioningly, as the Professor's mood lifted very abruptly. [There are certain groups of people,] Ytarrik mused between them, [whom I will never understand, as long as I live.] He seemed to find a strange irony in his statement, but Amaren could not gain any more from his closed mind.
"I think that I will make my exit around now," the professor sang, as Saffron came within hailing distance. "This is indeed where our paths fork, for I must enter the city through an entirely different route. Farewell, then… not at all, of course. I shall be very glad to see you two once again in your next venture from this hub of yours; simply find me in the encircling forest, Northwest quarter." And, at that, he parted ways, still cheerful beyond belief.
As they entered the now-familiar outskirts of Saffron City, it seemed most visibly to Amaren as though the proud pillars of the metropolis before them had lost some of their brilliance. The gleam of technology, to Amaren's eyes, was dimmer now than it had first been, and its every minuscule quirk was subconsciously acknowledged by his mind, seeming no more to be new and unexplored. He felt a strong urge for the open country, as to the manner of old times, where he would walk through a blizzard of new experiences leaving no time for accustomed monotony.
[I suppose,] Ytarrik added, [they call that feeling the spirit of a trainer or something. Maybe you should start, uh, doing something.]
"Doing what?" though Amaren knew already what the abra would lead to. "Maybe we should start fighting against trainers, now. See how we fare."
"That's a great idea!" Ruki agreed. And then, with an accidental chorus of thoughts, Amaren, Ruki, and Ytarrik simultaneously offered: "We shouldn't delay the Gym for too long, though."
They looked among each other, and promptly stowed this strange coincidence in the farthest cupboards of their minds. Some quirks of the universe, they could no longer doubt, were best left unexplored. They could not, additionally, doubt their inner thoughts, which ran entirely contrary to their previous mental statement.
[Oh, well.]
[{//\/\/\/\/\//\\//\\//\/\/\|/|\|/\/\/\\//\\//\\/\/\/\/\/\//}]
Already the first gleam of gold was touching the viridian of the lush forest, already the first caterpie were beginning to prepare for the coming hardship; but there was a determination about the sun and its warm breezes, seeing no harm in a parting flare of summer intensity before fall took their place. In many ways the weather could be said to be unseasonal, such that the living beings it governed seemed uncertain, expecting winter but seeing none in sight; but Amaren felt that if warmth and brightness could be prolonged, if it could (and wished to) deliver a surprise burst of life yet, what greater good truly blockaded its path?
The trainers, adaptive as they ever were, did not hesitate to make the best of this unexpected reward. Ytarrik, Angin and Akale flourished in the light like never before, surpassing expectations day after day as they jumped to greater heights of splendour. Confusion fell into Psybeam, Ember into stunning displays of pyrotechnics, and Vine Whip into showers of razor-sharp leaves, each rising in crescendos of improvement with no decline in sight. Stunningly, though Amaren had noticed it before, the peak of one day of training for a pokémon became indeed the standard for the next day; and each new move the pokémon managed with great labour seemed to become conditioned into their bodies, turning into second nature on a second try. And every test of their strength served to detail them more and more exactly the limits of their strength, so that they learnt to regulate their energies into strategy.
It was an instance within the peak of this final light, into Amaren and Ruki's occasional sojourns into the forest, that the sun shone so broadly into the fastnesses of the dark reaches that fear was but banished entirely. For the second time yet, a Dark-type came across their path – an exceptionally skilled—poochyena—and reason, Professor Oak's counsel, won over: Amaren and Ytarrik turned to the creature, purposing to capture him, as the golden sunlight of support flooded from every side.
Surpassing all expectations, Ytarrik wrestled telekinetically with the pokémon, his spirit a fire as steady and strong as the sun itself, and beat the wild within inches of his consciousness. A long struggle ensued within the concentrated storage device, but experience won over the fierce fortitude of the pokémon—and Lepena was caught.
Ytarrik was unique in himself, and Angin lit with the fire of her species; Akale protectively close to his beloved trainer, but Lepena was none too accustomed to revealing his inner thoughts, papering over them with a near-vicious offence. Amaren soon won his alliance, but nothing more than an alliance: he would fight entirely for his trainer, often sinking even to obeying his every command, but he seemed to see this as no more than a momentary parallel of their paths. Ytarrik was entirely unwilling to telepathically divine Lepena's thoughts, leaving Amaren with no opportunity to know him. For the moment, however, training deigned to move according to schedule.
At last, after a half-season of training, the party streamed out of their final meeting with the north-eastern forest, seeing themselves ready to challenge the Gym.
It was late afternoon, in that amber-lit time of day when the shadowless noon met the glory of the setting sun, when the outskirts of the forest met once again their eyes and ears. A grand peace had followed the thrill of battle, a sublimity befitting the colour blushing the meanest particle of the forest with golden fire, and this feeling enveloped all the forest creatures as they set about lazily on their tasks. How golden it would have been to simply watch the pidgey glide slowly down their final flight before the twilight, how peaceful the sight of the occasional shroomish lying in the patches of sunlight, its eyes peacefully closed, drinking in the warmth—if this very feeling had not occupied the trainers and their pokémon themselves. And yet, as the last enclosing canopy of emerald leaves petered out, the light of the westering sun (so scattered, so shattered into a million greenish shards, purposeless and yet all so effective in their cluttered aim) coalesced into one single, blinding point of light, forceful enough to break walls of steel. The rasping grey of the monotone winter was already brushing the eastern horizon with near-insubstantial fingers—but Amaren and Ruki, and Ytarrik and Angin and Akale, all their heads were turned towards the west.
"It feels like an eternity since I came out of that burning forest, so long ago," Amaren mused, with a nudge of unexpectedly sober agreement from Ytarrik.
"But we're finally going to challenge the Saffron Gym, I can't believe it!" Ruki uttered breathlessly. "Are we strong enough, shouldn't we have done some more training?"
"Angin and Akale are plenty strong enough, Ruki," Amaren consoled, attempting to force a likewise burst of excitement within his own chest into submission. "As long as everyone keeps cool, we should be perfectly fine."
"But how can we be sure?" she cried irrationally. Ignoring Ytarrik's mean-spirited suggestions, Amaren put an arm around Ruki and spoke peacefully. "Calm down, Ruki, I'm here, aren't I? As long as we go in there as a team, there's no chance anyone could defeat us."
It was undetectable, but did Amaren sense a hint of pride deep in Ytarrik's labyrinthine mind? In any case, Ruki settled considerably at his ministrations—how, he would never know, for his speech had been utter rubbish.
The Saffron City Psychic-Type Gym was no great establishment in external appearance. A blue-shingled, slate-grey, rectangular building, it lay mismatched in the midst of the city's arrays of grandeur, seeming to an outsider rather unbecoming of its promise. However, as Ytarrik assured, physical appearance was meaningless to a dwelling of psychic-types. The only mark separating it from any other nondescript building in the city was the title, imprinted in formal text above the massive double doors.
Forbidding as it seemed, the doors, at the least, were thrown wide open; but whether in a gesture of welcome or malicious beckoning, Amaren could not decide, and his attempts at this were met with a small Confusion from the disgruntled Ytarrik. As they entered the wide hall within, lined with rows upon rows of cots resembling hospital beds, the abra seemed to take some inexplicable satisfaction in all the gloom.
The windowless, whitewashed walls of the cavernous room were lit with the flames of gigantic candles, burning steadily at intermittent intervals along the rows of beds. An inner room leaned against the back wall, presumably the stadium, closed to all mortal ways of entry. Most of the strange cots were occupied with inexperienced trainers, sleeping fitfully as a nearby psychic-type extended some uneasy mesmeric influence upon their dreams, and their pokémon sat ranged all around them, staring with vacant eyes. And yet, beneath all the murky silence brooded a sense of arcane age, to which Ytarrik (and all his influences upon those around him) reacted positively. The half-articulated sounds of distant, disciplined action reverberated from some indistinct source.
A tall man disengaged himself noiselessly from a nearby corner and strode toward these new arrivals ([Infidels,] Ytarrik corrected) with a brisk telepathic greeting. His physical appearance was plain, almost shabby, his eyes expressionlessly dreamy, but he conveyed the sense of impressiveness well on his own level.
He then began to relay a series of thoughts into the party's minds, but they were even more abstract than Ytarrik's standard telepathic messages, such that their full meaning could not be translated into any human language. It seemed as though he had not spoken in articulate tongue for so long that his thoughts never strayed into the realm of words; but, instead of the subconscious urges of instinct which one would naturally revert to in such a situation, he spoke in a strange thought-speech: more concentrated than simple thought, but freer of half-truths and contradictions than any language Amaren had ever heard. When asked to recall his words at a later time, Amaren would revert to a less abstract form of speech and take it as truth.
[Ah, you are also a trainer of the song,] he relayed to Amaren, adding unnecessarily that the song was a truer word for the psychic type. [Workable promise lies in you, Ytarrik, if you were one to remain in Saffron and train with us.]
[Is it so?] Ytarrik replied enthusiastically.
The two psychics lapsed suddenly into conversation, thinking with such instantaneous speed that the humans had scarce time to interpret the meaning of one thought before another was uttered.
[Yes, indeed, I do not – ]
[If only I could meet – ]
[Yet, you have your own – ]
[…I didn't know that.]
[Such is the course – ]
[Really? The things I could – ]
[Ah, do not be so – ]
[I guess not…]
Amaren and Ruki waited patiently, and the man eventually interrupted the conversation with a start. [Dear me, I seem to have forgotten. New trainers, and this is all I give you for hospitality!
[Let me proceed to the challenge. You shall be put into a sort of… dreamscape, as it were, and left to fend for yourself along with your pokémon. You have already read of it. If you survive this psychic plane of thought, you will be led into the stadium, and the Gym leader will use pokémon according to the skill at which you fared to battle you. If you are victorious, of course, you will receive the usual prizes. Here, follow me.]
He led the trainers to a couple of beds suitably close to the centre of the room, and summoned a large, heavy hypno with a dusty steel pendulum. At the nameless man's instructions, Amaren and Ruki lay uncomfortably on their respective beds, and the psychic-type stretched its hands out to radiate waves of some heavy, impalpable substance into their minds. Instantly, Amaren fell into a deep, trance-like sleep.
Infinite particles ranged around Amaren, bobbing and curling in airy spirals, arrayed into blocky slates, but they were suddenly one, cohering into a single concept, and then they branched again, flowering out into usual complexity –
And yet this was no usual avatar of their form, like but entirely unlike the cavernous Gym to which Amaren was so blissfully closed. It seemed closer towards the universal form, but not completely; and yet was the twilight forest surrounding his indistinct spirit anything more than a solid block of concept, broken only occasionally with the odd blurring detail? And surely the shapeless shadows rising out of the dark places were no distinct mightyena, with every strand of unkempt fur painfully clear: surely they were mere apparitions of thought, darkening the forest shades with their terror alone. No, but the formless mesh of golden light was his own, the power which animated Ytarrik [Amaren] as he turned to face the challenge around him.
On a plane entirely outside his own, Ytarrik watched him with nonexistent eyes; but was he here, fending off the outlawed spirits of the twisted woods, or hovering next to a hospital bed in the midst of a concrete cavern? Did this truly matter, here, now, in this rage of instinct?
Two identical ellipses of startling silver rose before his eyes, supported on thin stalks; and out of them resounded an intoxicating energy, blasting back the surrounding threads of thought with their shockwaves. A pokéball flashed before him, and an elderly gentleman with a gardevoir by his side, and then a pure, bright spot of blue (or was it gold?); ancient thought surged into his form, filling him with brilliance, and the phantoms around him shook in terror—
—they were nearly defeated—
—and then a single, panicked jerk of dread: a dirty silver wolf, towering over the single indigo candle, threatening to burn it out – but his golden fire was already burning out, its fuel was being stolen before its outstretched hands as the cold embrace of the darkness smothered it,
We are eternal, all this pain is an illusion
Kalens Oak, under the warm wood of his private study. "—one at the very end of his journey, his internal demons all tamed and put away. You see, when fear is understood, it ceases to exist entirely. Equilibrium resumes when the chaotic element is analysed, assimilated, unable to cause any more disorder."
[Life is all too dreadfully mortal, but many are protected by things eternal, omnipotent. They are fit receptacles for the thought, and thus exist for long to serve this purpose. Death is not as frequent a guest as you claim it to be.]
"Your deed is done, Amaren. Open your eyes."
And the light of the candle Gym flooded into his mind again.
[Finely done, finely done,] the strange man was commending in his usual telepathy, with am air of average impression. [And I believe your young friend is still battling on?]
Ytarrik and Lepena shook their heads, attempting to clear their minds, as Amaren rose woozily from his post. He realized he had been shouting. "YES!" a victory cry.
Behind him, the girl and her pokémon began to show signs of stirring, and soon they, too, were awake, their reactions visibly more subdued than Amaren's.
"That," Ruki emphasized, "was an experience I don't want to have again."
"But did you get through?" Amaren asked.
"…I think I did." And they had already begun their celebrations, when the man interrupted their cheering.
[Ah, but that is only half the journey. Follow me.]
[{//\/\/\/\/\//\\//\\//\/\/\|/|\|/\/\/\\//\\//\\/\/\/\/\/\//}]
The stadium of the Saffron Gym was a most moody, dramatic affair: a concrete rectangle, painted in the usual manner of battling courts (a grand Pokèball in the center – still a Pokèball – and rectangular stages for the trainers on either end, each connected by a single line running through the central Pokèball), with spotlights allowing only the platforms within visibility. A circular, rising staircase of seats surrounding the stadium afforded the audience a fair view of the battle. There were no visible signs of entry for anything as solid as air; they had entered through Teleportation.
Ruki went to sit by the sidelines, as Amaren was called first to battle. He stepped uncertainly on the platform closer to him, and gave a start as he was lifted high up, supported by the air itself—or, more accurately, telekinetic force.
The trainer looked around with distinct unease. However he may have seemed to those watching him, flying effortlessly up into the 'top' of affairs, it felt extremely unnerving to be raised to such a height at such a speed.
Suddenly, a near-palpable telepathic message rebounded across the acoustic stadium.
[Welcome, Amaren Kelanis, to the Saffron City Pokémon Gym. I am, as you expect, the Leader of our institution.]
"Where are you?" Amaren shouted. "Why can't I see you?"
[My physical form is immaterial, and my name doubly so. But you shall most easily wrench whatever information strikes your fancy from your trainer card, of course.]
"Er… all right…"
[Let us begin, then! I choose Espeon…]
As if from thin air, a figure materialized on the opposing side of the stadium, an extravagantly lavender feline. Its long, slender tail was split at the end in a tiny, jointed fork, and a bright red gem, no greater than a ring diamond, glittered on its expansive forehead. Amaren could only assume it was an exceptionally young specimen.
With a cry, he launched his own pokéball out into the field, and the spotlights turned upon it in such a manner that (for a moment) it seemed as if the dimly glinting sphere was the source of the light around it, warding off the encircling shadows.
The illusion quickly passed.
[You're my opponent, then?] Ytarrik mused.
[It seems so…] the pokémon replied.
[Ah, this should be a lovely night.] And, at a command from Amaren, he rose from his seat and fell into coma, concentrating visibly.
Instantly, the espeon charged the hovering creature, brandishing his tail [like some sordid barbed whip,] in Ytarrik's private words. As the tail caught his side painfully, scratching a long, curved gash, the abra did not flinch in the slightest, diluting his concentration by a millimetre alone. It seemed the espeon was determined to leave a mark, however, and he repeated this many times, until blood began to flow…
[What are you doing, Ytarrik?] Amaren urged.
In a painful jerk, the tail came within an inch of Ytarrik's face and stopped.
With a physical grin, Ytarrik gave a mental flick, and the sheen of a transparent bubble of matter glinted in the spotlight, protecting him vigilantly. The espeon's tail was caught firmly within its voluminous expanses, and the creature could only labour in vain to release itself.
Ytarrik's grin broadened as he concentrated upon the lump of tail caught inside his Barrier: to little effect, at first, but then…
[What are you doing?] the espeon yelled. [No, that doesn't go there—stop, stop—ah! Why, thank you, Mother, I almost forgot my lunchbox. Here, let you hit me over the haaaaeeed with it…]
And he began beating his own cranium against the closest surface he could see, thoroughly Confused—but the Gym Leader merely laughed.
[What on earth?] Ytarrik offered on Amaren's behalf, but then began offering something his trainer would certainly not wish to convey. [Oh, earth. Synch – sink, is it? I like sinks. Especially the bathroom sinks, they own the kitchen ten times over. Here, let me sing a song about it…]
The espeon was most determined to provide his poetic ideals for the cause of the general public, but he was entirely drowned by the heart-rending vocals his opponent delivered, and immediately proceeded to sing along. Amaren thought his accompaniment, especially the impromptu twist of being unable to keep up with Ytarrik's ever-twisting lyrics, was rather masterfully harmonious.
[Synchronize,] resounded the Leader's voice, [as your abra attempted to say before he was drowned by the fruits of his own labour.]
[Why, of course,] Ytarrik attempted to add. [Any… status… condition-thingy I do to that pesky espeon comes around to afflict me, don't it? Wheee!
Amaren looked over his shoulder, and the quiet laughing that was tinkling from the sideline rapidly quelled, as Ruki glanced up to display her most sincerely concerned and supporting expression.
In any other situation it would have been entirely comical, Amaren could not but concede. The pokémon's struggle towards sanity, towards 'snapping out of confusion', was one of the longest waits he had ever suffered in the heat of a pokémon battle. Eventually, however, it was the espeon who uttered the first coherent sentence, to a cheer from the sadly befuddled Ytarrik.
The feline pressed forward, backing away, as a faint telepathic link set up with the receiver Ytarrik. It sagged mentally, then tightened without warning as the first raging thought ripped across it; more emotions followed, torrents of distracting concepts, piling over each other until the very air distorted around it, revealing a braided stream of immaterial water. Thankfully, the first blow was sufficient to bring Ytarrik out of the "garden shower" he was probing with such zeal in his mind.
He exploded mentally, shoving out a bubble of yellow glitter which filtered marginally the Psybeam assailing his mind. More matter began streaming out from him, rallying to hold the assault of the beam, concentrating on one single patch of bubble…
[Would I not see through that?] the espeon smirked.
And the beam forked at a point directly before the bubble, streaming out to breach the transparent back of his Light Screen; and Ytarrik yelled:
[No, you—are—FLESH! This is the Gym we're standing in! There is no point in – run. Everywhere! Are you hearing me? I'm here, lying beneath the tree, burning!]
[Weak,] the Leader boomed, and then the monotone softened. [Your journey has only begun, I should not have forgotten.]
The espeon relented, stricken, and Ytarrik snapped back into reality. At last, this had become a challenge for all his heart.
He flicked his opponent's offence off with a massive effort, and locked horns with the espeon, sending a stream of solid thought into the lavender arm of startled defence.
A split braid of pure concept spanned between the battlers, gold and purple, clashing at its median point of conflict. It was an outward explosion of offence, a mutual separation, but the single threaded mind connected them in the manner only warriors could conceive, brothers in the aggression of thought. Rather than estranging the human watchers in their wonder, it brought them into the heart of the war, each other, the single glowing point where Ytarrik's Psybeam met the espeon's.
In a sudden flash, the balance was broken. The scales tipped in Ytarrik's favour, the point of meeting spiralling down, no longer a glittering keystone to their unity, but a rapidly-approaching death-trap: and it was over.
Ytarrik looked down at the fainted espeon, heaving with exhaustion and victory.
[Marvellous,] said the Gym leader, with a vague hint of impression. [Round One has been won by Amaren; but you still possess one more pokémon, and so do I.]
"Then let Round Two begin!" Amaren challenged, recalling Ytarrik gratefully.
[Round two: Kadabra versus Poochyena.]
"Howl, Lepena," Amaren ordered, as the grander form of Ytarrik before him closed his eyes in the familiarly silent psychic coma. The dark-type threw back his head and let out a startling lamentation of viciousness, the perceived shadows surrounding his form growing deeper; but his silver fangs glinted all the more intensely. Ytarrik, nestled inside the stasis of his pokéball, managed to convey his absolute hatred of the creature.
[Strangely,] he tried to say, [my battle was the gist of this match. We just need to wait for Lepena to finish off this kadabra, and we're done!]
The dark-type leapt instantly into the fray, running towards the prone kadabra to deliver a poison-tipped Bite, tackling him to the ground. An instant retaliation, but no psychic was a practitioner of brute force, and dark would ever wipe out its influence.
The kadabra raised a silver spoon, but Lepena beat down the assault; he attempted to overthrow the steady weight on his chest, to no avail. A long, silent struggle ensued, the poochyena digging his shadows ever deeper into the psychic, resistance insufficient –
And finally the battle was won.
[The battle is won!] roared Ytarrik, all weariness forgotten.
[Ah, yes, it does seem to be so,] the leader droned. [Shall I battle your friend before the awards are given?]
Amaren hurried back to the wooden sidelines, as Ruki walked uncertainly the other way. A quick exchange of smiles was all the common anticipation could allow…
