Downpour

	There was a reason no one traveled to Renasca. Several, actually. At this point, Maestro collected them. He tossed and turned them in his head incessantly, his paws pounding against the pitch-dark ground, trudging his battered body further into the belly of the beast. 

	Firstly, there were the trees. Though to call them trees was more of a euphemism, since they were so misshapen and gnarled. Taller than the eye could see, and wider than a bedframe, these mammoths dotted the landscape like tumors. And their branches, creeping through the sky like veins, snuffed out every last bit of sunshine. They more than lived up to the moniker the Academy had bestowed upon them: the “Dark Giants.” 

Surely, Maestro thought, anyone left in this place for long enough would go blind.

	Worse yet, straying off the beaten paths meant certain death. Long ago, intrepid Pokémon had laid waste to the waist-high plants and debris, carving thin paths through the wood with only primitive compasses and machetes. Many had perished in their attempt to infiltrate the land; and yet, those who survived had long since established a village deep in the heart of the forest. Soon enough, it became a refuge for the unwanted and criminalized. Renasca.

	Professor Rubrum and his posse entered the village in a huff. After two days of ceaseless hiking along those microscopic paths, cutting down miscellaneous flora and stopping only to collect sparse rainwater from large pitcher-like leaves, they were greeted by a much-needed respite. Their legs were almost fit to give out. 

	Leaning against the gate, the six Pokémon surveyed their surroundings. As they circumspected the village, they were stuck by how alien it all seemed; frankly, they were surprised to still be on the same continent. 

	Those same tumbling giants which filled the forest had been hollowed out, hosting entire businesses and residences inside. Hand-carved doors and windows poked from the bark as if they were naturally formed, giving way to candle-lit pubs and well-stocked shops. The chatter of passing townfolk filled the air, complemented by the swishing of fabric and the rustling of the tree cover. In brief moments, a sparing ray of sunshine would break through the thick layer of leaves, flashing downward onto the forest floor, dissipating as quickly as it arrived.

	The layout of the village, too, was strange. On the side of every street, in the alleys between buildings, were planted endless rows of root vegetables. Evidently, these plants required little to no sun; and swarming around their leaves, endlessly buzzing, were clouds of lesser Bug types. Even from a distance, Maestro heard them chattering and flying, endlessly munching down on the tubers’ tiny, vestigial leaves.

	Obviously, these insects posed a problem for the everyman. Save for those few masochists who’d long since lost feeling in their limbs, everyone was covered head-to-toe in a thick cloak. Heads down, feet shifting in tiny shuffling steps, they busied themselves among the boughs. From the inn, to the tailor, to the market stalls, to the bar. Always to the bar. In such a dark place, the thought of a cold drink kept them going. 

	Maestro was equal measures awestruck and appalled by the village. Moreover, he was being ravaged by insects. Already, little red welts had begun to appear on his his skin, tiny mandibles working their way beneath his mint-green fur… 

	“We need to get inside,” Maestro commanded. He looked over at his comrades – Rubrum, Asher, Fey, Sid, and Grimm – as he brandished a cloak from his pack. As the others followed his lead, he barked: “We can’t just stand around. We need to make sure the Board hasn’t arrived here yet.”

With a coy grin, Rubrum replied: “I very much doubt it, dear. We left with such a big head-start, I doubt they’d arrive before us.” 

“But we took the backroads,” Maestro reminded him. He then hastily fastened the twine within his cloak, pulling the hood taut around his head, pushing his ears back. As much as he hated it, the Meowscarada had to stash his mask to make everything fit. A quick cough jetted from his mouth, instigated by the smoke of the surrounding torches. And he added: “They might be behind us, but not by far. We’ll only have free reign of this place so long as they lag behind.” 

Fey screwed his face, brought himself upright. “That’s right,” he agreed. “And there’s no telling how many people they’ll bring. If it’s anything like Haliford, they might even be planning an assault here. We need to gather information, and quickly.” 

Asher, predictably, was less enthusiastic about the idea. He whined: “We just spent two days walking. I’d really, really prefer to get some rest before we go around harassing townsfolk for information…” He then leaned back against a fencepost, gave a great sigh. “But I guess we have no choice, huh? At least I’ll sleep well tonight. I hope the inn has some good beds.” 

“No,” Grimm replied. He nursed a fat thumb to his lip, ruffling the thin, spectral fur on his chin. His usual grin was replaced by a thoughtful grimace. “We can’t risk staying indoors around here. Imagine what would happen if the Board checked into our inn.” He then upraised a hand, motioned toward his friends. “We can’t risk it. We’ll just have to camp outside.” 

Sid groaned at that, standing loyally by Grimm’s side. He spat: “What, so we can’t even rest here?” He hung his head low. “Ugh. Right after we finished trudging through the woods, too…”

“At least you’re a Grass type,” Grimm quipped. “You should feel right at home here in the forest.” 

The Snivy gave Grimm a look, then spewed: “In a forest without sun? No thanks. I can’t even summon a Solar Beam around here.” 

As those two squabbled, Professor Rubrum fastened his cloak. Looking across the faces of his students, sullen and tired, he was unexpectedly happy to hear them argue. It meant they still had some life in them. For the first time in a while, watching his students bicker, he felt like a real professor.

Maestro then gripped Rubrum’s paw tight; and, raising a thoughtful finger to his lips, he said: “We should split up. Two of us can watch the gate while the rest of us spread out and ask for information.”

Naturally, Sid was elated at the opportunity to rest his weary feet. Even with how fast he was, he’d struggled to keep up with companions twice his size. So he threw his head back and bellowed, “Finally. I get to sit down for a bit. Grimm, would you care to join?” 

The Gengar, too, was happy to rest. A toothy grin spread across his heavy-set cheeks as he bellowed: “I thought you’d never ask. I could do with some people-watching. I used to do it a lot back in Caligen.” 

“Yeah?” Sid asked. “Is this your idea of a romantic date?” 

Grimm snickered, “As romantic as this place can get. Besides, I’ll never complain about getting some time alone with you, Throckmorton.” 

Rolling his eyes at their banter, Maestro shook his head. He then continued: “Asher and Fey, can you two investigate the far side of town? Then Rubrum and I could take the near side.”

“That should work,” Asher affirmed. His flat foot stamped prints onto the loose dirt. “But where should we meet after?” 

Rubrum butted in: “How about there?” 

The group then glanced down the main thoroughfare, following Rubrum’s outstretched finger. And indeed, situated right on the edge of town, lifted up above the horizon by a great mound of cobble and dirt, a dark-plated obelisk pierced the treeline. Thin shreds of scant sunlight sliced through the darkness up there, projecting flickering glints upon the dark-tinged flora below. 

Fey squinted his eyes at the sight, puzzled at its shape. “Is that… a pillar?” he asked. “It looks so weird. And how’s it lighting up like that?” 

Asher held a paw over his eyes, gazed out. “I think it’s piercing the treeline somehow,” he explained. “Those lights are sunbeams breaking through.”

Maestro then nudged Rubrum playfully on the arm, joked: “Hear that, professor? We might be able to catch a tan up there.” 

The Lucario mustered a chuckle at that. He then said: “We’ll meet there, then. Let’s say…. in an hour?” 

The Pokémon then went their separate ways without issue. Meandering through the thin-spread throngs like paupers, heads downturned and hoods raised, Maestro and Rubrum made their way to a nearby pub. Just like the other buildings, it was rooted solidly into the ground, carved into a gigantic trunk. Swirling bark adorned its outside; as their gazes moved around the exterior, it almost looked like the grains were writhing to and fro. 

“I guess the buildings here are just… alive,” Maestro commented. Standing at the foot of the monolith, staring upward at the shadowy tree cover, he was awestruck. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. Have you, professor?” 

Rubrum huffed, hands on his hips. And he admitted: “No, I haven’t. I’ve briefly read about Renasca before, but honestly… I thought things like this were myth. I could never have imagined anything lived here, let alone Pokémon.” And, with a fascinated smile, he turned to his lover and said: “I’d imagine this place is popular for criminals. So let’s be careful, okay?” 

“Of course,” Maestro replied. His puffy green ears poked from his hood. And, with a flourish, he opened the heavy-set oaken doors to the pub, motioned inside. He said: “Ladies first, professor.” 

Rubrum took the opportunity with grace. Looking over his shoulder, he joked: “So I’m the feminine one in our relationship?” 

“With those hips?” Maestro quipped. “Of course you are.” 

The two then entered the grand establishment. The doors swept shut behind them with a mighty bang, yet the bargoers inside showed no surprise. They chatted casually, spread across a couple dozen tables, their hoods hung lazily over their shoulders. The air was stale, filled with the dull notes of a violin; and toward the back, a barkeep polished glasses endlessly, placing them in a neat row along the countertop.

“There are no seats at the bar,” Maestro commented. “So I guess we just order there, then sit wherever.” 

Rubrum hummed. Frankly, he had expected the locals to make a bigger deal of their entrance; in such a tight-knit place, two strangers would surely make a bigger splash. But to his relief, their presence was unremarkable. He gave a warm smile. 

“Let’s go talk to the barkeep, then.” 

And so they swam through the rows of tables, their paws pounding on the worn wooden floor, until they reached the bar. Much like the others, the Electivire behind the bar was unimpressed. And without looking up from his work, he barked: “You two are lucky. You just missed the lunch rush.” 

“Lunch rush?” Rubrum echoed. 

In response, the Electivire jammed a thumb backward. He explained: “They’re harvesting tubers now, but they come here for lunch and liquor.” 

Maestro was struck by how casually the bartender spoke. Narrowing his eyes, he asked: “Liquor? But it’s the middle of the day.” 

The Electivire gave a wide grin at that. His gaze still unmoving, his hands busily swabbing spotted glasses with a dirty dish towel, he mumbled: “Just how it is. They pick at the ground all morning, come here, then return to the fields.” He coughed, inadvertently wiping his spittle into the glass. “And generally, they’re happy customers. Until they’re not. But once they come back, they’ll be happy again.” 

Cutting in with a puzzled expression, Rubrum said: “Sorry, we’re not from around here.” 

And, for the first time, the bartender threw them a glance. That same smirk on his face, he admitted: “I know.” 

“So… the people here are farmers?” the Lucario asked. He scratched at his head. “Without sunlight, how do you grow food? How do you get water?” 

“Rainwater. And the tubers grow by torchlight.” The barkeep scratched at his side, seemingly annoyed by his robe. His knuckle then lifted it up, revealing a rash on his hip. “Torches attract insects, but we find a way. We always find a way.”

Having said that, the hulking Pokémon’s face drooped. Seemingly lost in thought, he swirled his rag around his mug; and, in a quiet voice, he muttered: “You’d best talk to the fieldmaster if you’re looking for work. Beer isn’t free.” 

Rubrum nodded, replied: “Thank you, but… we’re not going to be here for long. We’re actually sociologists. From the Academy.”

“Sociologists?” the barkeep echoed. Finally, surprise shone through his voice. “Haven’t seen those before.” He stifled another cough; clearly, he was suffering. “Do yourself a favor and don’t tell that to anyone else. It’ll make them suspicious.” 

Maestro let out an disquieted huff. He asked: “Why’s that?” 

“Because half the people here are on the run from the Academy.” The Electivire had finally finished polishing his glasses; and, looping his fingers through five handles at a time, he stacked them upon a high shelf. He continued: “You two seem like nice folks, so I figure you ought to know. Don’t ask questions around here. You might end up buried in the fields.” 

That visual put Rubrum on-edge. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, then said: “Th–thank you. For the advice.” 

Rubrum and Maestro then shared a nervous glance. Wordlessly, they debated whether or not to question the giant further. He was clearly sympathetic to foreigners; and yet, apprehension underscored his words. If they pushed too far, he might take offense. 

Between them, Maestro was most apt to take the risk. So he turned toward the bar and said: “If you don’t mind, we just have one more question.” He cleared his throat, squeezed Rubrum’s paw, then asked: “Does anyone named Penumbra live around here?”

The barkeep froze at his mention. Even from beneath his robes, the pair saw his muscles ripple and tense; and, having organized his shelf, the massive man turned back toward them and remarked: “Didn’t I just tell you to stop asking questions?” 

“It’s important that we find him,” Maestro pushed. Refusing to back down, he mustered his resolve and stood straight. “If you can’t tell us anything, that’s fine. But unless we talk to him, we…” 

Then, Maestro trailed off. After all, what could he possibly say? If he revealed the true stakes, the barkeep would never believe him; furthermore, any imperative could come across as a threat. 

“We just need to find him,” Maestro repeated unconvincingly. “Please.” 

For a moment, the barkeep looked the pair up and down; and with clear disdain, he muttered: “You two don’t talk like sociologists.” His hand then meandered below his robe again, clearly itching at that same rash. A grimace twitched at his lips. “I think it’d be best if you either bought something or left.” 

With only a flick of his eyes, the Electivire signaled beyond them; following his gaze, the two outsiders noticed where his attention was placed. Across the bar, next to the crooning violin, a few drunkards had lifted their heads to listen in on their conversation. Evidently, the presence of outsiders had finally caught their attention. 

“I see,” Maestro said. His mouth was dry; suddenly, he was aware of being watched. “We’ll have a drink, then. We can have a drink, can’t we, professor?” 

And indeed, Rubrum agreed. As clumsy as he was, Rubrum knew that fleeing the establishment would only rouse further suspicion. It’d be better, he thought, to have a drink, then leave once tempers had cooled. 

“Of course,” Rubrum answered. Attempting to appear natural, he asked: “What’s the selection?” 

Deadpan, the bartender said: “Dark or light.” 

“Dark,” Rubrum replied, even though he had no clue what that meant. “And for my student, a light.” 

Without hesitation, the Electivire then set about procuring the drinks. Wielding two gigantic levers, he pulled each downward, then placed tankards beneath. A sizable rumble rang throughout the hall, enough to be mistaken for an earthquake; and just as the noise reached its apex, the spigots shook and spouted, thick frothing liquid emerging from each. They only ran for a few seconds before the barkeep righted those levers, then slid the bubbling drinks across the bar. In return, Rubrum brandished four Augustan silver. The barkeep collected them in silence; the lovers were relieved that their currency was accepted.

Soon afterward, Rubrum and Maestro were astonished by the viscosity of the beer. At least, they thought it was beer. It resembled nothing they’d ever seen, alcoholic or otherwise. For a moment, Maestro considered abstaining. 

A brief glance backward, however, revealed that the pair were still being watched. And while it might seem like a superfluous gesture, both Maestro and Rubrum were paranoid of being singled out; evidently, it seemed, they would have to partake. 

With a trembling hand, Rubrum then gripped the tankard; and, having lifted the heavy vessel, he brought the glass to his lips. Discordant harmonies droned in his ears, summoned by that infernal violin; and in the midst of it all, that dark liquid trudged down his gullet. A strange hum sounded from his lips. Maestro looked on in both disgust and amusement. 

“So… is it good?” the boy asked. 

And in reply, Rubrum lowered the cup, raised his eyebrows in a show of exasperation and surprise. “Wow,” he breathed. “That was… interesting.” 

Maestro asked: “What does it taste like?” 

“Salted licorice.” 

The feline’s smile fell. “Salted what?” he echoed. “That’s not even a real flavor. Gimme that.” 

But alas, Rubrum’s assessment was accurate. As soon as the liquid graced Maestro’s tongue, he was sent into a spasm of gags and sputters. An acrid, salty overtone conquered his tongue with all the grace of a sledgehammer, followed by a bitter aftertaste. That robust froth, too, accompanied the drink the whole way down. It made Maestro want to vomit. 

“Arceus,” Maestro breathed. He struggled to contain his disgust. “Fuck, that’s strong.” 

Rubrum shrugged, took another sip. He said: “Personally, I find the taste interesting.” 

“You would,” Maestro teased. He hung his tongue from his mouth, trying to air it out, then said: “I once saw you eat potato crisps with oran berry jelly. You’ll eat anything.” 

Rubrum raised an eyebrow, quipped: “And is that a bad thing?” 

“It just means you’re my personal garbage disposal.” 

The professor smiled. “For you? I’d do anything.” 

Asher marched through the rocky streets with a tight-lipped frown. By his side, a limping Sylveon struggled to keep pace. Fey’s tail swished impatiently as his calloused paws were prodded again and again by sharp gravel. He didn’t mention it. 

“I suppose we could start anywhere,” Fey said. He swiveled his gaze around, counted no less than four taverns on the same stretch of road, and commented: “Lots of bars here. Isn’t that weird?” 

The Cinderace shrugged. He said: “If I lived in a place like this, I’d drink, too.” 

“Yeah, but…” The Sylveon’s gaze lingered on a crowd of hooded figures, all huddled around the tavern’s entrance. Like a swarm of Ledyba, they clamored over one another, piling in as soon as the owner unlocked its grand entrance. The wood swallowed them. 

He shook his head, then continued: “This whole place is surreal. Isn’t it weird that we never heard about it?” 

Once again, Asher shrugged. Apathy made his shoulders permanently slouch, his neck craned forward like a hound on a hunt. “We never were told about human-Pokémon hybrids, either,” he argued. “At this point, not much surprises me.” 

The two then walked in silence for a while. Neither had a destination in mind; neither had the energy to make small talk, either. They put one foot in front of another, suffering in the suffocating damp air, surrounded by the incessant buzzing of lesser Bug types. The insects pelted their robes like hail, vying for a bite of their flesh. 

On their left, a wooden hut grew nearer and nearer. Like the rest, it was carved into the trunk of a grand oak. And like open wounds, glass windows had been surgically inserted into the trunk, a purple carpet spilling from the front door like a fetid tongue. The sign outside indicated a tailor.

Fey tugged at Asher’s satchel, asked: “Why don’t we ask the tailor for information?” 

“Seems as good a place as any,” Asher agreed. “We might as well pick up some extra robes, too. I don’t want to be bitten up tonight.” 

The thought made Fey grimace. “Oh, Arceus, right,” he muttered. “We’re going to be sleeping outside tonight.” He then sighed and added: “Oh, what I’d give for a nice, warm bed…” 

Fey then paused, waited for Asher’s assurances. But they didn’t come. Asher wordlessly mounted the small staircase, knocked on the tailor’s door, and waited. His gaze remained straightforward, his posture crooked. 

The silence made Fey frown. In the past, Asher would’ve been the first to reassure his beloved of the future. Things were different now, though. Fey wondered whether Asher thought they even deserved to be happy. 

As the Cinderace then opened the door, the caustic odor of synthetic dye wafted outward. Caught off-guard, the two coughed a bit, then headed inside. 

The belly of the beast was draped with cloth of all kinds. From the walls hung rows upon rows upon rows of stylish cloaks. Trims and adornments swayed from the intricate weaves, flowed into each other like water, amalgamating into a vortex of color along every surface. Even the ceiling was plaid with multicolor tiles. And in the back, a tiny Bannette worked away at a mill, deftly threading strings through pegs like arteries. In a region devoid of color, someone had created an oasis. 

“Hello?” Fey called. Like an eager pup, he bounded forward, ogled at the excessive decoration. “Excuse me, is this the tailor?” 

Still plugging away at her mill, the Bannette laughed to herself. Clearly amused, she asked: “Did the sign tip you off?” 

Fey blushed, admitted: “Sorry, we’re not from around here.” 

“Clearly.” The Bannette then stopped her work, stepped off, and approached the strange pair. And with a quick up-and-down, she sniped: “Your clothes are terrible. Luckily, you’ve come to the right place.” 

And despite his best efforts, Asher took offense to that. “We’ve just come all the way from Augusta,” he snapped. “You’ll have to forgive us if we aren’t dressed the best.” 

The Bannette accepted his words with a solemn nod. She wasn’t in the habit of teasing a Pokémon twice her size, after all. And yet, she sensed something off about these two. That curiosity gnawed at her insides until finally, she asked: “Why come all this way?” 

“We’re prospectors,” Fey lied. His answer was much too quick to be believable. “We’ve come to mark out the edges of the village. For… legal reasons.” 

The Ghost type nodded. “Right,” she agreed. A crooked smirk never left her paper-thin lips. “And you’re here to… what, buy a new poncho?”

Unsurprisingly, Fey was not prepared to withstand further questioning. Even the most basic of pretenses evaded him; he shot a worried glance toward Asher, but the rabbit was busy staring into space, waiting for the pleasantries to conclude. Fey felt alone. 

“W–well,” Fey began, “we’re actually here to ask about, um… a certain Pokémon.” He gave a disingenuous smile. “We need to contact him about some official business. So… do you know anyone named Penumbra?” 

The tailor gave an exhausted chuckle at that. Her posture drooping in relief, her voice low, she replied: “So, did the local kids tell you to say that? Because if so, they’re pranking you.” 

 Fey shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “I’m being genuine. We need to find Penumbra because…” He smacked his lips. “We just need to find him. Now, we’ve heard he doesn’t live in town. But does he have a cabin somewhere? Or a camp?” 

The Bannette’s eyes narrowed once more. She breathed: “Oh, you’re serious.” 

“Y–yeah.” 

A deep inhale. And then: “Well, you boys are out of luck. Penumbra doesn’t live here.” The Bannette pointed toward her head, then admitted: “He lives in your dreams, I’m sorry to say. No one has ever seen him in person.” 

Now, it was Fey’s turn to be taken aback. With Asher at his heels, he asked: “I’m sorry… you said he lives in our dreams?” 

“Well, nightmares, more specifically.” The Bannette took a deep huff, picking and choosing what to reveal, then continued: “Penumbra is a legend around these parts. Not a god, mind you, since most everyone here is Arcean. But…” She tossed her head around. “Ever since he came here a century ago, this place has been peaceful. He’s like… our guardian angel.”

Asher’s curiosity was piqued now. So he pushed past Fey and asked: “You don’t talk like you’re from here, though. Are you from Augusta, too?” 

“Haliford, actually,” the Bannette replied. “You’ve probably never heard of it. It’s a mining village north-east of Caligen.” She sucked in air, thinking on her words, then asked: “You ever been?” 

A spike of ice pierced Fey’s heart. It took all his strength to lie. And he mumbled: “I never heard of it. I’m sorry.” 

“Fair.” The tailor shook her head, then continued: “I moved here around a decade ago. And a few nights after I arrived, Penumbra spoke to me.” She tapped her head, her eyes wild. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. I was completely paralyzed, stuck in bed. And then, I saw him.” 

Asher raised an eyebrow. Gritting his teeth, glancing away, he asked: “Uh huh. And what did he tell you?” 

She replied: “Only that it was my destiny to stay here and protect the land.” She seemed to struggle with the thought, balancing awkwardly on her stubby legs. A strange smile flickered on her lips. “Other people might be unhappy with that. But I like the life I’ve made here.” 

The Cinderace glowered: “I don’t understand. Did he threaten you?” 

“Oh, Arceus no,” the tailor said. Pride emanated from her eerie grin. “I’m staying here by choice. Same as the other Chosen.”

Fey and Asher exchanged a worried glance. Until this moment, the pair had assumed Penumbra was a living, breathing Pokémon; and yet, they were stunned now to learn he might not be a Pokémon at all.

Asher asked: “But how do we know this… Penumbra… isn’t just a hallucination? Or a shared dream?” 

The tailor took great offense to that accusation. Her smile wrenched downward, replaced by a frightening grimace, and she sniped: “If you saw him, you wouldn’t doubt it.” 

“R–right,” Fey stumbled. He slithered between Asher’s legs, attempting desperately to salvage the conversation. He struggled not to show his limp. “And does Penumbra tell you to do anything in particular? Does he issue orders?” 

The Bannette huffed. “Of course not. He visits once, then never again,” she explained. And, with trembling lip, she commented: “Look, you two clearly aren’t prospectors. And so long as you don’t bring harm to this village, I don’t care who you are. But you should really avoid asking too many questions.” She pursed her lips, like a teacher chastising a child. “Frankly, you’re lucky you came to me first. Other folks would’ve run you out.” 

Having received his tongue-lashing with grace, Fey dipped his head in deference. “Of course,” he said. “I’m… I’m sorry for being so rude. And I don’t have the time to explain, but… it’s important we contact Penumbra. That’s why we’re asking about him.” 

The tailor laughed. “Oh, honey,” she bellowed. “You don’t talk to Penumbra. He talks to you.” 

Like an almighty spire, above the trees and fields and Pokémon, above the pubs and bug bites and misery, Penumbra’s monument towered. Several hundred ragged stone steps paved the path upward from the main thoroughfare, no doubt established a century prior and seldom maintained. On some parts, pitch-black vines slid along the path like tentacles, tripping passersby and interlocking with twisted roots; and on other parts, flecks of stray sunlight shone upon light-starved skin, licking along flesh like the forest itself was hungry. 

The six refugees met atop the hill, each having perilously climbed along its steep edges. And there, they were met with an unexpected sight: a wall of black obsidian, upon which were inlaid hundreds of names. Maestro stared at his own reflection in the black mirror, his face perforated by letters inlaid with gold; he traced his fingertip wordlessly along the indents. 

Behind him, Rubrum readied a charcoal crayon and a sheet of paper. Excitement shone upon his maw as he barked: “I can’t believe such a magnificent artifact has survived here for so long! I never heard anything about this back at the Academy.” 

Maestro didn’t look back. He replied: “It’s really beautiful, isn’t it? To think Penumbra’s chosen so many…” 

“And we might be next!” Sid exclaimed. Leaned up against Grimm like a big pillow, he casually laid his arms behind his head. “To think… we might be chosen as heroes of legend. That’s pretty badass, isn’t it?” 

Fey whimpered at the suggestion. “W–wait, that’s not what I said!” he exclaimed. “Penumbra only chooses Pokémon to protect Renasca. It’s not a legend or anything. That’s what the tailor said.” 

Sid shot back: “But we are protecting Renasca, right? We’re fighting to protect all of Illumina.” 

The Sylveon replied: “I don’t think Penumbra is that pedantic.”  

Off to the side, Asher clipped angrily at his nails. Each clamp of his scissors rang across the grass. And inspecting his fingers, he said: “We don’t even have a guarantee Penumbra is real. For all we know, he’s a product of mass hysteria, and Hermes lied.” 

Fey frowned, said: “Asher…” 

“What’s more likely, that our enemy lied to us? Or that there exists a magical omnipotent force which only appears to Renascans in their dreams?” He shook his head in apathy. “We need to entertain the possibility that we came here for nothing.” 

Rubrum hummed. He raised his paper to the wall, then gently traced the charcoal along the wall’s contours. And he said: “I think it’s good to remain skeptical of all this, Asher. But… I don’t think so many people could carry on a lie like this. Not for over a century.” 

“This is our best lead, too,” Maestro chimed. His tone was ardent. “I think it’s worth investigating, anyway. It’s not like we can confront the Board anymore. We don’t have anywhere else to go.”

 Asher huffed and puffed. His warm hands fidgeted anxiously. “It’s just terrible, is all,” he complained. “Providing Penumbra is even real, we’re at his whims. What’re we supposed to do, wait until he decides to visit one of us in our dreams? It doesn’t sound very promising.” 

Lounged against the grass, Grimm piped in: “Maybe there’s a ritual we can use to summon him. I doubt that Penumbra’s selection is completely random.” 

Fey shook his head, mustered a frown. He rested his injured leg on the soft grass, flopped idly onto his side. And he explained: “The tailor said Penumbra chooses. The people here don’t have a choice in it.” 

“Believe me,” Rubrum said, “if we had better options, I’d be jumping at them. For now, the only thing we can do is investigate the surrounding area and rest.” He then pulled his paper from the monument, marveling at the charcoal imprint. He smiled, then said: “We’ll all pull shifts sleeping, of course. If we’re lucky, Penumbra will visit one of us and we can ask them about the Spear.” 

“And what happens when we fail?” Asher asked. “What’s our contingency?” 

Maestro, his gaze downtrodden, replied: “Then we interrogate the village elders. By force, if necessary. If Penumbra has told anyone about the Spear, it’s likely to be the eldest and most powerful Chosen.” 

“Won’t they be hostile to us, though?” Sid asked. He picked at his teeth with his overgrown nails. “We can’t force them to provide information.” 

Asher grimaced. “Yes, we can,” he argued. “This is a village full of deadbeat farmers and drunks. If we need to convince them by force, then so be it.” 

The Sylveon’s face turned distraught. In the past, Asher would never have suggested such a violent solution. Hearing such vitriol from his mouth frightened Fey, made him feel like he was losing the man he loved most. 

“W–we’ll find a way around that,” Fey interjected. “We’re not here to hurt anyone. And the villagers are suspicious enough around us as-is. We’ll solve this peacefully. We have to.” 

Asher shot an annoyed glance toward him. A mixture of frustration and sadness danced across the Cinderace’s face; and with crossed arms, he said: “Fine. We’ll wait for three days. But if Penumbra doesn’t approach us during that time, we’ll need to rethink our approach.” 

The pair then lapsed into silence. Fey didn’t attempt to touch Asher. During moments like these, their alienation was most stark. The rest of them felt it. The tension was palpable, and no one knew quite how to broach it.  

Alas, just as their plan had been agreed, Sid’s eyes went wide. Sitting up from Grimm’s round tummy, surveilling across the rooftops and roads, he barked: “Everyone! Get down! The Board’s here!” 

Rubrum snapped his head, stooped down to his knee. “What?” he asked. “Where? Where are they?” 

And wordlessly, Sid pointed toward the village gates. Huddled like Durants, the heroes slowly coalesced toward the hill’s edge, then peered toward the main road. And indeed, Sid was right. Even from a distance, Akiva’s frame was readily distinguishable. That red spike protruded from the front of her cloak, her face illuminated by the gate’s torches. Rubrum inspected her through his binoculars. 

“Arceus, there’s over ten of them,” the Lucario breathed. Hurriedly, he adjusted the glass, then took a quick count. He continued: “About fifteen. Akiva is here. Iris, too.”

Maestro grimaced. “They must be here to intercept us before we talk to Penumbra,” he said. “Asher, is there a chance your informant told them we’d be here?” 

And much to his chagrin, Asher admitted: “Must be.” Fury made his breath hot, the grass smolder under his body. “I can’t fucking believe I trusted that piece of shit.” He pounded a fist on the ground. “Fuck, he might’ve lied to us about everything.”

No one had the courage to shut him down. Indeed, it appeared that they’d been sold out. Rubrum watched with bated breath as Iris and Akiva calmly meandered through the street, affixing their cloaks, chatting with passersby. 

“Fuck,” Rubrum breathed. “Looks like they’re asking about us. I really hoped they wouldn’t come so soon…” He then sighed, continued: “It looks like we’ll have to hole up in our camp for now. They’re going to have free rein of the town.” 

Naturally, Grimm was troubled by this development. He asked: “Why did they bring so many Pokémon? They brought a whole guerrilla group.”  

“Probably because we just killed two of their leaders,” Maestro replied sardonically. Shaking his head, he then added: “I agree with the professor. We can’t afford to stick around here. We’ll need to exit this place through the back, and fast. From there, we’ll sequester in our camp–” 

Asher gritted his teeth, barked: “Or we could launch a surprise attack. Right now, they’re spread out and uncoordinated; if there was ever a time to pick them off, it’d be now.” 

Very rarely did Rubrum allow anger to overcome his faculties; now, however, was one of those times. “Are you insane?” he sniped. “Asher, there are children in the streets. You think it’d be okay for them to be caught in the crossfire?” 

“For the sake of saving all Pokémon?” Asher answered. “I’ll let you answer that for yourself.”

Coming between the two of them, Fey piped up: “Of course it’s not okay.” 

Asher shook his head, began: “Fey–”

“We don't weigh lives against each other! This is non-negotiable,” the Sylveon barked. His eyes glared angrily at Asher, bored deep inside his skull. Asher weathered the boy’s anger with detached sadness. And Fey continued: “I can’t believe you’d even suggest that. We are not risking any civilian lives, and that is final.” 

No one was quite used to Fey using such an authoritative tone; and yet, no one spoke up. They simply let those words marinate in the air, catching on the sunlight, tossing and turning in their guts. Until finally, Maestro announced:

“Come on. We need to go.” 

Sleep came uneasily for Akiva. The hostel was uncomfortably humid, and terribly hot; after enduring such a long and arduous journey, she yearned for her comfortable bed back home. She wished for conditioned air, for greasy food. Instead, she received a familiar cacophony of disembodied voices. Renasca spoke to her in half-uttered snippets. She listened intently as the voices then faded, replaced by the solemn affair of sleep. 

Akiva was expecting a visitor tonight, after all, and it wouldn’t do to make him wait. So she laid on her straw-filled mattress, sandwiched between century-old paper-thin walls, marinating in the continuous buzz of insects against the window; until eventually, she sensed his presence. A dark smoke, crawling in from underneath the door, between the window panes, under the floorboards. It seeped, it seeped, it seeped. 

The Gardevoir’s eyes then flew open, the wrinkles underneath folding in deference. As expected, her limbs were rendered immobile. A quick glance betrayed the same for Iris; tucked into her bed like a tired pup, only her tails gave a tepid twitch. For better or for worse, the two committed themselves to Penumbra’s mercy. Akiva prayed.

	The smoke then coagulated, flowed like blood, centrally tossed and turned, then rose into a pillar and took shape. Two limbs sprouted from the sides like boughs, hung freely and dripped down. Eyes shone from within the churning mass, looked the victims up and down. Penumbra’s motions were calm and deliberate. He made no sound. Even that familiar cacophony of voices was banished from Akiva’s mind; for once, she experienced true quiet.

	Then, the spirit bellowed: “Chairwoman Iris. It’s been so long. Why have you returned?”

	Akiva was awestruck by the casual nature of Penumbra’s questioning. Surely, she had expected a primordial spirit to be a bit more threatening; and yet, the monster spoke like a politician. Perhaps it was because, in his own way, he was.

	Iris’s words then filled the air. With her jaw unmoving, she said: “Darkrai. I’d like to apologize on behalf of the Board for our sudden intrusion. I am aware that our presence constitutes a violation of our agreement. But you must trust that we are here by necessity.” She paused, and then: “The Capital is experiencing a period of great unrest.” 

	“Is your domain my responsibility?” Penumbra replied. His voice betrayed utter incredulity; in his eyes, this excuse was the greatest insult. “Your mind must have faltered after so long in office.”

	Iris took the blow with grace, then explained: “We have confirmation that a small group of insurgents has infiltrated Renasca. It is likely they will attempt to make contact with you. We are here to advise you against entertaining them.” 

	Penumbra huffed. His body ebbed and flowed in amusement. He said: “This land was granted to me. Indefinitely, and without bounds, I remain this land’s shepherd. And yet, you now intend to make decisions on my behalf?” 

	“We would never impose such a request without due reason,” Iris replied. She fought with all her might to stay calm, but her utter helplessness made her squirm. She postured: “Truthfully, I am only a messenger. We come bearing a message from the Beginning Himself. It’s on the bedside table.” 

	Penumbra was silent for a moment. His gaseous body churned uncomfortably, his eyes shifting to the red-stamped envelope, and he replied: “I see. These insurgents must be quite the handful for you.” 

	“Yes, we–” 

	“And yet, you’ve made clear they’re small in number.” Penumbra’s voice was equal measures irritated and grave. “Has the power of the Board waned so severely? Was my faith in your governance misplaced?” 

	Iris sputtered: “Of course not, Darkrai. Please, I urge you to read the letter. It will explain everything.” 

	Once again, Penumbra was silent. His gaseous form enveloped the whole room now; it crept along the walls, blacked out the window, plugged each and every orifice. Even the ceiling dripped with his essence, round black droplets coalescing and falling into the thick pool below. 

	A spindling tendril of smoke then arose from Penumbra’s torso, stretched its way over to the bedside table. As it wrapped itself around the letter, coiling around and around and around, Penumbra asked: “You’ve brought someone new. Who is this woman?” 

	Iris replied immediately. She began: “This is Akiva, the Chairwoman of Welfare, and she will–” 

	“Silence,” Penumbra commanded. “Even one hundred years later, you talk too much. Can she not introduce herself?”

Hastily, Iris then quieted. In her place, Akiva stepped; and in as confident a voice as she could muster, the Gardevoir announced: “My name is Akiva. I look forward to serving Arceus with you, Darkrai.”

The fog regarded her with cold indifference; no warm words, no welcome. He simply said: “Your fear is unbecoming of a member of the Board. You reek of it.”

Akiva was awestruck by the sudden insult. She was unsure of how to respond; and after a few seconds of stunned silence, she whispered: “I am scared, yes. But this fear keeps me safe. In a sense, this caution is my greatest asset.” 

Without skipping a beat, Darkrai then sniped: “There is a difference between fear and caution. I say this in good faith, child. If you value your life, I urge you to reconsider your position.” 

Then, silence. Complete and utter quiet. Akiva marinated in her own embarrassment. Shooting a pointed glance toward Iris, she worried that Penumbra’s words had damaged her already precarious reputation. 

Penumbra opened the envelope with the delicacy of a surgeon, then scanned his eyes across the page. His demeanor did not change. His voice did not change. He then closed the paper with grim finality, folded it inside himself. The smoke began to dissipate. Like the tide turning out into the ocean, it ebbed and sank.

“You have given me much to think about,” Penumbra bellowed. “I will return tomorrow night with my answer.” 

Akiva could already feel her consciousness lapsing. “Th–thank you, Darkrai,” she whispered. “I appreciate your…” 

But before she could finish, she’d lapsed into a deep sleep. 

	The next morning was uneventful. First, Maestro awoke; and soon afterward, he’d stirred the others, shaking their shoulders, banging their heads awkwardly against the forest floor. Unfortunately, none had met Penumbra the night prior. And they were all quite annoyed by their rude awakening. 

	Nonetheless, the day’s work began. Being the smallest and most easily hidden, it was decided that Fey and Sid would venture into town that afternoon in order to procure extra bedding. The tailor was bound to have some blankets in stock, after all, and the six of them had spent the night shivering in a half-lucid haze. None of them wanted to revisit the experience. 

	Fey and Sid pulled down their hoods and set off. Their path lit only by a petrol-soaked torch, they stumbled along the twisting roots and vines until they once more approached the village gates. Surprisingly, the Board had neglected to position a watchman nearby. Although, Fey supposed, it would cause unrest if a group of foreigners decided to disrobe every Pokémon trudging to and fro from the fields…

	And so, the two entered without issue. Swiveling their heads eagerly, they watched for Board emissaries, slipping through the tiny backroads and alleyways until they reached the tailor. No one stood outside; no one made a sound. 

	That is, until Fey caught sight of something beautiful. Stumbling out of a nearby bar, swaying on her long legs like a newborn Deerling, emerged Chairwoman Akiva. The same woman who had tried to kill him less than a month prior was within striking distance. Moreover, she was obviously inebriated; every few steps, she’d look around, as if having heard something; and then, she’d move on, white pills jingling in her palm.

	Fey was awestruck by the sight; and then, he was calm. Attempting not to betray the sight to Sid, he asked: “Is it alright if you go in for me? I shouldn’t be climbing those steps with my leg the way it is.” 

	Naturally, Sid was suspicious of the sudden shift. He crossed his arms and asked: “What? But you’re the one who knows the tailor. If I go in, she might just turn me away.”

	“We’re just asking for a few blankets,” Fey replied. Keeping Akiva in the corner of his eye, watching as she walked away, he pressed a small burlap sack into Sid’s hands. He  continued: “Mention you know me, if you really need. But I doubt she’s going to turn you away.” 

	The Snivy was silent for a moment. Clearly, he was annoyed with such a sudden responsibility being foisted upon him; but nonetheless, he relented. Without another word, he accepted the bullion, then hastily climbed the tailor’s front steps. Fey watched him enter; and as soon as he did, the crafty Sylveon got to work.

	Manipulating his ribbons like prehensile tentacles, the boy hurriedly removed a scrap of paper from his notebook, then scrawled a simple message upon it. Folding it into neat quarters, then placing his pack down, he set about his business. 

	First, he pulled his hood tight, obscuring every bit of his face; and then, hanging himself low, he scampered across the street, trailing behind the swaying Gardevoir. Her lithe frame loomed over him like a monolith.

	Despite the pain in his leg, the Sylveon managed to speed-walk to the Gardevoir’s pace. Before long, he walked behind her, within ribbon’s reach. He listened to her labored breaths. She reeked of booze. 

	In the back of his mind, Fey heard Asher urging him on. One good Moonblast is all it takes, Asher would’ve said. One less genocidal maniac on the loose. One less enemy. 

	Those thoughts wracked Fey. Because indeed, Asher was right; if Akiva were assassinated here and now, half the Board would be dead. They’d have a definite advantage. Fey could take revenge for his leg, for his cannibalized memories… 

	And yet, he didn’t. Fey trailed behind Akiva for a moment more, trotting confidently, as his ribbon carefully slipped the folded message into her pouch. The bag hung open like an ulcerated stomach, spilling the occasional white pill onto the dirty ground. Fey nestled his missive deep. 

	Then, having accomplished his mission, the intrepid Sylveon turned and walked back to the tailor. Sid met him outside with a bundle of fresh-washed sheets. 

“I just don’t see the purpose in staying here another night,” Asher whined. He ripped at a thick branch with a knife, fashioning it into a fine-tipped stake. Wood shavings covered his lap. The crackles of the fire perforated his words as he continued: “I hold we should consult the elders. The longer we wait, the more likely the Board will find us. Or worse yet, they’ll kill the elders before they can tell us anything.” 

Professor Rubrum was, of course, tired of the constant discourse. He unrolled his sleeping pack, rubbed his violet-ringed eyes with a nonplussed expression, then admitted: “Asher, we’re not endangering civilians unnecessarily. We’re just not.” 

“You know, I’m not just some mindless killing machine,” Asher argued. “I’m not a monster.” 

Rubrum replied: “I never said you were.” 

“I’m just thinking of our safety. I’m always thinking of our safety,” Asher insisted. “I really wish you all would see that.” 

He spoke to the entire camp, and yet the camp didn’t respond. They simply went about their business, brushing their teeth with makeshift tools, eating nuts and berries, laying out sleep sacks. No one had the strength to combat Asher’s suggestions. No one had the strength to comfort him. 

That is, except for Fey. Wordlessly, the Sylveon cuddled himself against the burning giant’s side, his flank rising and falling in the still night air. He didn’t defend Asher’s words. No one could. And yet, Fey still trusted in him. Somehow, he needed to believe that there remained a kind, caring man underneath.

Just across camp, Maestro and Rubrum whispered within their tent. No one heard them. The Meowscarada hissed: “I’m worried. Is he going to go off on his own, you think?” 

And Rubrum replied: “No. No, that’s not the Asher I know. He wouldn’t try something so reckless.” 

“But Kane changed him,” Maestro argued. His voice was breathy, tinged with hunger. “Aren’t you a little bit worried? If he goes AWOL, he could sabotage our entire mission. Or at the very least kill innocent people. Can we afford that?” 

Rubrum shook his head. “No one can afford that. But if we leave him, then he’ll definitely go off on his own. And then… well, the worst-case scenario would be unavoidable.” 

The two marinated in that thought for a while. Truly, neither situation was desirable. If Asher absconded from the group, he’d get himself killed. And knowing his mental state, he might kill innocent people in his wake. But if they kept him around, they’d risk Asher sabotaging their plans. Not to mention the constant arguing…

Tensions were rising. Quickly. No one had a solution, though. Everybody was far too tired. Tired of starving, and camping, and marching. Tired of fighting. Always fighting. 

But Fey remained by Asher’s side. Even as Asher laid down and closed his eyes, imagining Kane’s head bursting apart between his paws, imagining that bloodcurdling scream he’d imagined hundred of times before, Fey remained. 

“I love you,” Fey whispered. He could think of no other words of consolation. 

Asher couldn’t bring himself to return those words. Soon thereafter, the pair fell into an uneasy respite.

	Fey was reborn that night. Rain dripped from the treetops above, filtered through tens of hundreds of leaves and branches, then dripped to the ground in thick, sparse globs. It pitter-pattered on the tent, each little impact leaving the fabric pock-marked with moisture. 

	The Sylveon awoke with a start, his torso gently cradled by Asher’s warm paws; and like a worm, he wiggled himself free, careful not to wake his friends. His fluffy green tail swayed. His paws fumbled in the dark. He grabbed his pack. He grabbed a torch. He left. 

	Once lit, the Sylveon could just barely navigate the winding, maze-like paths of the Renascan forest. Every bit looked just the same as the last. Entwined brambles covered the path in a grand arch, overhanging every inch of it, occasionally swinging down and gracing the top of Fey’s head. Rotten leaves crunched beneath his paws, leaving churned detritus in his wake. Every once in a while, he’d come across a decaying torch, a tarnished coin. He left them all behind. 

	Until finally, Fey came across his destination. A clearing, shrouded in that thick inky darkness, save for the very middle. Brown, decayed grass stretched the length of it, giving the impression of a boundless field; and standing squarely in it, surveying the perimeter, was Fey’s guest. The Sylveon’s heart nearly leapt into his throat. She was here. 

	Fey took a moment to look around, ensuring that no one had followed them. There was no light amidst the darkness, no shifting figures. And so, with a deep breath, the boy placed his trust in Akiva. He stepped into the torchlight, flickering in the sparse rain.

	“Akiva,” he called. “I’m glad you got my message.” 

	Instantly, Akiva’s head snapped to face him. Just as with Penumbra, the Gardevoir was struck by his casual tone. Despite their disastrous meeting a month prior, Fey seemed to be in good spirits. Even as he limped, even as he winced in pain, his paw pads calloused by thorns and sticks, he decided to greet her with a smile.

	Akiva replied: “I found it back at the hostel. You must’ve slipped it in my pocket.” 

	Fey nodded, replied: “I thought you’d be most likely to listen.” 

	The two then stood in silence for a moment. Tension filled the air between them; and yet, neither felt endangered. It was more like two old friends meeting for the first time in a while, each puzzled as to where to begin. What questions were right to ask? Should they smile? Should they joke? Or should they have never met at all? 

	Fey began: “You tried to kill me a month ago.” He shook out his back leg, winced as it stretched. “I can’t begin to tell you how painful that felt. My memories are still fuzzy.” 

	“Only some,” Akiva replied. She wasn’t proud of it. The Gardevoir wore a tight-lipped frown as she recounted the affair. And she said: “At the time, I saw you as nothing more than an insect.” 

Fey raised an eyebrow, then asked: “And that’s changed?” 

“I think we’ve all had to change,” Akiva replied. She was quiet for a moment, then shook her head. Her face drooped, and she admitted: “I don’t know why I came here. I don’t know why I’m obliging you, or what we even have to talk about.” 

The Sylveon tilted his head, looked askance. He admitted: “I don’t know, either. But it felt right, to invite you here.” He cleared his throat, still not daring to look Akiva in the eyes. “We’ve never had a proper chat. Not really.” 

“So do you still think I’m a monster?” Akiva asked. “Do you think I’m a killer?” 

That question hung in the air for a while. Fey couldn’t bring himself to deny it; and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to confirm it, either. The truth was, he didn’t know Akiva. Until now, she had only been his enemy. 

So Fey replied: “No. I don’t know what you are. But…” He smacked his lips. “Maybe I’d like to know. Maybe I could listen.” 

Akiva huffed. Suddenly, she could feel tears welling in her eyes; the familiar wracking of her ribcage heralded a stifled cry. And yet, she stood straight, looked at Fey, and asked: “What would you like to know?” 

“How many Pokémon have you killed?” 

The Gardevoir shook her head. She frowned, squinted her eyes, then admitted: “I stopped counting.” She swallowed, disgusted with her own callousness. In that moment, she wished to sink into the earth and never return. 

“They were mostly failed hybrids. Or political prisoners,” Akiva continued. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Fey now. Shame rendered her downtrodden. “I didn’t know their names, but I still have their memories. I ate them. I carry them with me.” 

Fey said: “You ate their dreams, just like you ate mine.” 

Akiva nodded. “Sometimes, it feels like they’re still alive,” she sputtered. The words vomited from her mouth, feelings she’d been holding onto for decades, trapped helplessly inside. “I’ve seen entire lifetimes through their eyes. Lives spent in prison cells, hostels, starving and dying and wishing for it all to end. Their voices…” Akiva then pointed at her head, her finger poking her temple. “I still hear them. I hear their voices, like they’re alive.”

The Sylveon shifted on his paws, his voice breathy. Her words made his fur stand on-edge. But despite his fear, he asked: “How much do you remember from them?” 

Akiva’s eyes were glassy. Her chin twitched with a barely-contained sob, like a beast was knocking against her teeth, begging for freedom. And she whispered: “Everything. I remember all of it.” She sniffled, then breathed: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Fey, too, had begun to cry. Against his will, he felt tears well in his eyes, his voice holding back the spasms of his diaphragm, and he asked: “Akiva… do you remember where I had my first kiss?” 

“Yes,” Akiva replied. “It was under the cherry tree in the Academy courtyard.” 

And Fey asked: “Who was it? I can’t remember anymore.”

“It was a tall, handsome Cinderace,” the Gardevoir said. A hint of a smile crossed her lips as she added: “It was one of the happiest moments of your life. I’m so sorry that I stole it from you.” 

Fey nodded. He thought for a moment, then replied: “It’s okay.”

Akiva grinned, asked: “Is it?” 

“Of course not,” Fey chuckled. His voice was exhausted, tinged with bitter amusement. “I can’t believe everything has gone so fucking terribly.”

For that fleeting moment, the two shared a passing camaraderie. Despite being so fundamentally opposed, despite everything, the two shared something ineffable. Something inexplicable.

The Gardevoir struggled to think of what to say next. The words danced on her tongue, her jaw eagerly churning, until she said: “Do you even know who you’re fighting?” 

“No,” Fey admitted. The prospect of new information made his chest flutter. “No, we don’t. Not really.”

Akiva nodded, licked her lips, and said: “I’ll tell you, if you’d like.” She cleared her throat, teetered uneasily on her long legs. Leaves crunched underneath. “I can tell you about the Beginning.”

Fey smiled. Like a cancer, that innocent grin spread across his face, metastasized onto his cheeks; but as suddenly as it’d arrived, it’d been replaced by an expression of abject horror. 

Something happened. 

Fey’s face was cast in a bright orange light, like the glow of a campfire. That tint grew stronger and stronger, until it lit him up in its entirety; and finally, it made impact. A Fire Blast hit Fey squarely on his flank, completely undefended, and blew him away. Like a ragdoll, the Sylveon flapped in the air, his legs splayed, until he landed with an unceremonious crunch. His hind leg had been completely bent backward, sticking up into the air like a flagpole; his face was buried in the dirt. Stray embers sizzled on his charred fur. 

Akiva took a short, panicked breath as she processed what’d just happened; another, and another, until she had fled to Fey’s side. Hurriedly, she felt for his pulse; and all the while, the forest lit up behind her. Waves of torches suddenly alit. Long shadows cast upon the grass, accompanied by clandestine whispers. Akiva’s mien burned with fury.

“How dare you!” she shouted. The Gardevoir flung her gaze backward, squarely upon the attackers, their bodies coalescing on the tree line. “How dare you follow me! Do you even know what you’ve done?” 

And like an angry god, Chairwoman Iris loomed. Behind her stood a line of lesser Pokémon, wielding torches and makeshift weapons alike. The Nintetails was rendered a silhouette against the forest, flames burning behind her in perfect unison; and the monster said, “I’ve killed an insurgent. And discovered a traitor in our midst, no less.” 

Akiva sputtered: “I–I wasn’t going to tell him anything.” 

“Of course,” Iris mocked. Her voice was grave, her posture straight, her eyes aglow with rage. And, in as calm a tone as she could muster, she admitted: “I take full responsibility for your conduct. I always knew I’d been too lenient with you. But I never imagined…” She shook her head, snarled in frustration. “I never, never imagined you’d cooperate with the enemy.” She frowned. “I failed you.” 

“No!” Akiva snapped. “You… you’re killing innocent Pokémon. Pokémon who want nothing more than to live their lives. Can’t you see that?” She let loose a panicked breath, her eyes wild. “Can’t you see Maximus is manipulating you? He’s using us!” 

In response, Iris only shook her head. In a methodical cadence, she replied: “All I see before me is a lost child.” 

And for a moment, the forest stood still. Iris’s eyes glowered endlessly, watching as Akiva’s fists balled into tiny blotches of rippling-hot rage. The air around Akiva warped with latent psychic energy, boiling as it seeped from Akiva’s overheated mind. The voices of Renasca urged her to run. 

“You’re not my mother,” Akiva spat. Her voice shook with fear, her arms quivering. “You’ve never loved me. Maximus has never loved me. Cassius is gone, and he…” Tears welled in her eyes. “He died. He died for nothing.”

Iris sniped: “He died to protect all Pokémon.” 

“He died because Maximus made him into a monster!” Akiva exclaimed. She choked on her own words. “I can’t let it happen again. I can’t let anyone else–!” 

Alas, Akiva couldn’t finish her thought. Suddenly, she felt a searing heat against her lower back; like a flaming brick, something flew into her, knocked the breath from her lungs. And like a rabid animal, she stumbled clumsily forward, her tongue lolling, her foot catching on an errant root. And down, down, she fell, her mouth contorted in confusion and rage, until her head collided with a smooth, white stone. Blood splattered on the dry grass. Her life glistened in the torchlight.

Iris’s maw clenched. With consummate disdain, she eyed the attacker. He’d dashed forward from the tree line, taken Akiva by surprise, and Iris had done nothing to stop it. With her eyes aglow, the Ninetales then bellowed: “Asher. I expected you’d be foolish enough to come.” 

Flashing a devilish grin, the Cinderace replied: “And I thought the same of you.” He cracked his neck, whipping it to the side, and stared down at the bloodied body at his feet. A large gash spread across Akiva’s temple like a crooked smile, oozing dark blood. Asher glowered at the sight, muttered: “Just a few more, and this will be over.”

Behind Iris, her platoon readied their weapons. Shaking at the sight of the ashen giant, struggling to keep still, they waited for their commander’s signal. Alas, Iris was not ready to give it. Not often did she herself engage in any physical altercations, but when she did, oh... she had always enjoyed toying with her prey. Especially when they were so easily inflamed. 

“You’re vermin,” Iris shot. Her voice was calm, professional. Like nothing was wrong in the world. Only her wide, wild eyes betrayed the hatred in her heart. “It’s time that I taught you how children ought to be disciplined.”  

Asher smirked. “Gladly,” he replied. 

	Then, the Cinderace began to run. Like a meteor, he hurdled himself head-first toward Iris’s entourage; and with a simple raise of her paw, Iris signalled for them to stand down. She was more than powerful enough to handle Asher on her own. 

	Asher leapt forward with a scissor kick, his legs burning arcs in the air; but alack, Iris had already moved herself out of the way. Raindrops fell onto his burning legs with a mighty sizzle, evaporating into the air in tiny spindles. Iris huffed. 

	“You’re hungry,” she barked. Her head low, as if stalking prey, she circled the Cinderace with due gravity. “You’re skinny, too. Haven’t had enough to eat, have you? Must be exhausting.” 

	Asher didn’t bother to answer. Without hesitation, he charged toward her again, unleashing a Pyro Ball point-blank. Iris deftly stepped out of the way, hardly jerking her body at all; and, in a fit of rage, Asher fired off another. And another. None hit their targets. Like comets, they trailed into the peripheral wood, then sloughed off into the wet underbrush. They were useless. 

	The Cinderace was breathing hard now. His body sizzled and smoked with every bit of rain which landed on his fur. His buck teeth shone through his bitter grimace, orange by the faint torchlight, as he stared dead-on at his enemy. His chest heaved, and he yelled: “Stop running away! Come and face me!”

	“I could demand the same thing of you,” Iris snapped. Her eyes narrowed, her tails whipped. “Do you think you’re doing the right thing? By turning on all Pokémon? By slaughtering the people who’ve kept you safe your entire life?” 

	Asher stomped his foot like a child, yelled: “You took my entire life! You took it all away from me!” 

	“You took it from yourself,” Iris snapped. Raising her maw in the air, she looked down on the petty giant. “All the suffering which you’ve gone through… all the pain you’ve caused. You’ve brought it on yourself.” 

	Those words roused a blaze within Asher’s stomach. Like he was about to vomit, he felt those unquenchable flames bursting from his core, spreading through his body, evaporating each and every tear which fell onto his cheeks. His fits clenched. His back arched. And, with a bloodcurdling cry, he closed in on Iris. A flurry of punches flew from his white-hot fists, but they only met the night air. Even his Quick Attack was rebuked by an unexpected Body Slam. And like a ragdoll, the rabbit was flung backward. He hit the ground with a dull thud. 

Laughter erupted from the periphery. Clearly, the crowd enjoyed watching Asher have his spirit crushed. And yet, Iris quieted them with only a glance. In an instant, the only sound remaining was the pitter-patter of raindrops. 

“Get up,” Iris commanded. “Get up. You can’t be done yet.” She then paused, added: “And stop using Fire moves during a rainstorm. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

And, much to his chagrin, Asher obeyed. He planted a weary elbow on the ground, then propped himself up. His feet swayed as he stood, his head tilting to cast a wayward glance toward Fey. And he said: “You have to die. Y–you’re torturing them.” 

Iris gave a screwy frown. The condescension in her voice was palpable as she shot back: “You killed Chairman Cassius. You killed Chairman Kane. And yet, you accuse us of violence. What’s your excuse?” 

Asher fumed. A welt had begun to bruise on his stomach. “Do you even know what they did in Haliford?” he yelled. “Do you know what Invi does in the basement? The experiments? The Spear? How the fuck do you justify that?” 

And for just a moment, Iris was silent. Indeed, she did not expect Asher to know so much; she was completely unaware he’d met with Invi at all. And yet, she didn’t let that surprise falter her voice. With a stiff upper lip, she replied: “We’re making a future for all Pokémon. It’s something beyond your comprehension.”

The Cinderace gave a solemn nod. He then took a fighting stance, readied himself for another onslaught. And, giving one final glance at Fey, he said: “Then I have to stop you.”

Asher then led in with a Focus Blast, his body engulfed in a thin veneer of embers; but once again, Iris dodged. Catching her on her back foot, Asher then unleashed a flurry of Low Kicks. Aiming straight for Iris’s throat, each attempted to crush the Ninetales’s thin trachea; and yet, none landed. In just the nick of time, Iris avoided the blows, patiently biding her time until Asher’s energy ran out. 

But Asher wasn’t done. Pulling one punch back, he launched an unexpected Headbutt, attempting to catch his opponent off-guard; but she’d predicted this, too. She jumped over his hunched back, fired off a Confuse Ray, and hit Asher’s torso with a thud. Instantly, his view began to warp and distort. The torchlights multiplied as he sun around, Iris’s body split into three perfect images. The ground swayed underneath; and yet, he didn’t relent.

“I’ll kill you!” the giant roared. And from his mouth sprung a fountain of flames, decimating the grass by his feet. Aiming his breath at each afterimage, he attempted in vain to catch Iris in the flames. The cloud obscured his vision; desperately, he hoped he’d warded her off. 

But Iris had already won. She deftly situated herself behind Asher once more, then began summoning a mighty Inferno from her mouth; with her tails dancing in the hot air, she laid waste upon his quivering body. Red-orange flames swarmed him, enveloping him, turning his once-white fur a charred black. His already-overheated frame dropped to the grass, as if showing supplication, as his arms upraised. In the face of Iris’s centuries-old flames, even his Fire typing was no match. He screamed as he felt himself begin to melt. 

	“Please! No!” Asher wailed. He attempted to shed tears, but each was instantly ripped away by the purifying flames. A pillar of fire reached toward the sky now, ripped through the tree cover, and lit up the night. Even as the rain poured down, even as Asher begged to stop, the Inferno continued. The fire was in his lungs now, burning up every last bit of him. He gagged. 

And silently, Asher fell to the ground. Face-first, he fell upon the charred grass, then rolled onto his side. His shape was barely visible through the flame. Just a smudge now. 

And yet, Iris hadn’t had enough. For someone like Asher, death just wasn’t enough. Iris needed something more. She needed retribution.

Within only a few moments, that once-mighty Inferno had been rendered an ember. Hot air flowed through the forest like a bomb, dispelling itself over the clearing, blades of grass ebbing like waves. And in the middle of it was Asher. Taking in raspy breaths, tossing and turning on his charred flesh, he attempted to rise to his feet. He couldn’t. He simply laid on his back, staring up at the night sky. The stars were beautiful.

The fire then fled from Iris’s eyes. She took one deep breath, then another, then another, as she calmed herself. And then, looking down at Asher’s desecrated body, in as resolute a voice as she could muster, she said: “I’m sorry you had to die here.” 

The only response Asher could muster was a weak-willed cough. His head attempted to raise upright once, twice, but he failed. A pained groan then emitted from his lips, a sob to rock the heavens. Thoughts of his beloved filled his mind. Fey’s smile. Fey’s laugh. Fey’s wagging tail. It hurt too much. 

“Please,” Asher cried. “Please, let him live.” 

Iris raised an eyebrow. Her chest heaved, still exhausted from summoning such mighty flames. And she asked: “The boy?” 

“Y–yes,” Asher choked. “Please let Fey l–live. Please.” 

The Ninetales frowned. She asked: “And what would I gain from that?” 

“Please,” Asher pleaded. His eyes had finally begun to focus; he stared his killer in the face, echoed: “Please. Please, let him live. Please.” 

Then, silence. Stray embers crackled in the periphery, no doubt caught on some dry grass, soon stamped out by the rain. The onlookers didn’t dare interrupt. Internally, Iris weighed the boy’s dying wish. 

For just a moment, she mustered scant empathy for Asher. A dying man, his blood boiled, laying flush on the grass. He, too, had experienced love. It’d given him meaning. It was the only thing giving him meaning. 

Her gaze then flicked toward Fey, still unconscious on the ground. That tiny boy, so effeminate, so weak, so terribly naive. He epitomized everything which she must excise. Everything Augusta stood against. And yet… 

In the distance, voices then rang out. From the east, two doomed Pokémon fumbled over themselves, flinging themselves through the underbrush. Leaves twitched in their wake, just barely visible by torchlight, until they finally burst into the grove. Instantly, the sight of battle left them slack-jawed. Their best comrades, unconscious on the ground. Maestro’s stomach dropped. 

“Oh no,” Maestro breathed. His voice was hoarse as he stared down at Asher’s body. And he croaked: “We’re… we’re too late.” 

Rubrum shook his head in defiance. Against all odds, he gritted his teeth, and said: “We’ll do what we can. Maestro, grab those two and get out.” 

The Meowscarada recoiled at the suggestion. He barked: “You’re not serious.” 

“Deathly,” Rubrum replied. His tone was resolute, his eyes aflame. “I’ll buy us some time. Just get those two out of here. Now.”  

Maestro laughed. In the face of so much despair, he somehow managed to muster a smirk. “As if I’d ever leave you behind,” he cooed. “Wherever you go, I go. Always.” 

Such a saccharine display nearly made Iris vomit. Shaking her head, she belted: “I take it you’re Professor Rubrum?” Her voice was surprisingly calm, her eyes narrowed. Despite her position, she dared not underestimate the professor. She didn’t move. 

And Rubrum replied: “And you must be Chairwoman Iris.” He cleared his throat, his eyes flickering rapidly between his fallen comrades. Akiva’s unmoving body made his heart skip a beat. And he said: “I don’t suppose we can talk this out peacefully, could we?” 

Iris chuckled, replied: “No. Of course not.” 

Maestro nodded, patted Rubrum’s back. And with a doomed grin, he pouted: “Well, it was worth a try.” 

Then, the couple began their assault. Maestro bolted toward Iris with his paws upraised, nascent Energy Balls coalescing in his palms; and then out they went, careening toward the Ninetales’s legs with unconscionable speed. Iris, of course, was used to dodging much faster. As if performing an intricate dance, her paws danced across the grass. Not a single bolt touched her. 

Taking advantage of her movement, Rubrum unleashed a flurry of Force Palms. One, two, three, four, until a single impact landed upon Iris’s exposed shoulder. Alas, the force wasn’t enough to stun her; forced backward into the dirt, the Ninetales unleashed a red-hot Flamethrower. Its periphery singed the Lucario’s cheek, forcing him to stumble.

Iris could feel Maestro approaching from behind. Anticipating the blow, a Fire Spin then burgeoned from the Ninetales’s figure. Her prediction was correct; Maestro, having prepared a point-blank Razor Leaf, was forced to fall back. Still in a fighting stance, wiping his sweat-coated brow, he sputtered: “F–fuck, we’re no match.” 

Rubrum rose to his feet, scurried a good distance away. “Don’t say that,” he barked. “We need to keep fighting.” 

Alas, Iris had other ideas. A battle cry bellowed from her lips; and, protected within her cocoon of flames, paw upraised, she screamed: “Fire!”

And from within the bushes, thirteen lights flickered. Like stars, they twinkled and ebbed; and then, they grew. Thirteen perfect orbs of destructive energy, a volley of Energy Balls and Dark Pulses and Fire Blasts, all exploded from the periphery. They soared across the field like bullets, forcing Rubrum and Maestro to bob and weave between them. 

The first clipped Maestro’s arm, setting it aflame; and the second landed upon his chest, flinging him onto his back. Acid rose in his throat, spilled onto his stomach, as the air fled his chest. Balls of condensed energy trailed above his head like comets. 

“Maestro!” Rubrum yelped. Weaving between the active fire, he abandoned the assault, instead sprinting over to the fallen Meowscarada. He then ducked his head low, awkwardly hopping over the scorched grass, until he came to his beloved’s side. His breaths raced. 

“No, no, no!” Rubrum breathed. He then scooped his paw under Maestro’s neck, tilting the poor boy upwards. The feline’s eyes wandered to and fro, dazed by the impact. His hands were upraised, grasping for the professor’s shoulders, as he muttered something incomprehensible. Rubrum squeezed his paw.

Seeing this, Iris upraised her paw; and shortly thereafter, the fire ceased. Only the crackling of smoldering detritus remained. Branches above blew in the breeze, newly singed; and somewhere else within the forest, far away, a Hoothoot howled. Iris regarded the scene with disdain. 

“Maestro,” Rubrum called. “Maestro, look at me. Look at me. Hey. Hey!” 

The Meowscarada’s eyes fluttered, his mouth agape, as he attempted to form the right words. Even in his dazed state, he wanted to scream at Rubrum to turn around, to keep fighting;  but even so, he knew Rubrum could never stand up to Iris on his own. Not anymore. 

“Just stay with us,” Rubrum cooed. His eyes were wet with frenzied tears. From behind him, death approached. “Just keep breathing, okay? Just keep breathing.” 

Deep breaths permeated Maestro’s lungs. Greedily, he gulped breath after breath of hot air; and, having mustered the strength, he said: “Professor. N–no.” Another gasp, and then: “Run. We need to run.” 

A frown tugged at the corners of Rubrum’s face. He shook his head, replied: “Maestro, it’s okay.” A beat, and then: “They have Pokémon aimed at us. It’s too late. I’m sorry.” 

Rubrum then caressed the contour of Maestro’s chin, his cheeks. The boy’s beautiful mint-colored fur swayed under his paw, his chest heaving as it struggled to regain the breath he’d lost. Maestro shook his head in disbelief. 

“We came so far,” Maestro choked. The light in his eyes fought frantically to stay alive. His fists clenched, pressed up against the ground, as he attempted to right himself. He said: “We can’t lose now. We can’t. We need to keep going.” 

Rubrum shook his head, looked into Maestro’s eyes. His voice choked in his throat. Tears welled in his eyes. And he whispered: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I… I love you.” 

That was the first time Maestro had ever seen Rubrum’s spirit break. Never once had that man faltered; even in the face of unavoidable danger, he’d always been an unshakable leader. It was his most admirable quality. But in the face of losing his beloved, he backed down. He couldn’t bear it. 

In silence, Iris neared the two; calmly, her little paws stepped across the grass. Heat emanated from her body. Her maw remained upraised, as if chastising a child. And she said: “I sorely overestimated you two.” 

Rubrum turned, stared back with palpable hatred. His maw curled into a anguished snarl, his grip on Maestro’s shoulders tight, as he barked: “Look at what you’ve done. Y–you’re killing us!” 

“Oh, please,” Iris shot back. “I tire of having to say it, but… you killed yourself.” 

Denial burgeoned in Maestro’s chest. Staring into his killer’s eyes, overwhelmed with despair, he scrambled to think of something. Anything. He could already see the flames forming on her lips; in just a few seconds, he’d be burned to ash. He prayed for a miracle. 

“I love you,” Maestro said. It was the only thing he could think to say. Sharing a glance with Rubrum – his last glance – he repeated it again and again. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” 

And then, something happened. Something that could only be described as a miracle.

As Iris stared down at her victims, those pathetic, wallowing, naive, idealistic fools, something struck her. No, no – nothing struck her, per se. No object had come flying, no Pokémon had landed a blow. And yet, she suddenly felt unsteady on her feet. Like her mind was being scrambled, turned on itself, cannibalized. 

“What?” she breathed. Her limbs began to grow numb, a persistent tingling sensation traveling upward from her paws. Her lungs suddenly felt as if they were made of stone, each breath a herculean feat. Her eyelids, too, began to uncontrollably droop and twitch. 

“No,” the monster breathed. Her voice, once booming and confident, was reduced to a panicked whimper. “No, no! Akiva!”

By the time her gaze had flickered to face Akiva, it was too late. With a weary smile, still laid prone on the ground, the Gardevoir had upraised a single hand; and from it rippled a torrent of Psychic energy, a frightening display of unfettered power. In Akiva’s head, voices chanted in an endless chorus. No more. No more. No more. 

“No more!” Akiva wailed. Despite her bleeding head, despite her waning strength, she intensified her efforts. A pink glow emanated from her half-lidded eyes, strained with desperation. “You won’t hurt anyone any more!” 

Iris regarded her with cold fury. Enraged words came to her lips, but were stymied by the onslaught. And in disbelief, Rubrum and Maestro watched; their jaws agape, their eyes shifting between two unbelievable sights, hope set their hearts aflame. 

Rubrum nodded toward Maestro; and, still dazed, Maestro nodded back. Standing on weary feet, the Lucario raised Maestro upward, stood him steady. Behind him, Iris’s soldiers were mesmerized by the scene; frozen, they deliberated amongst themselves whether to open fire on Akiva. 

Maestro smiled. Now was their chance. 

Rubrum and Maestro shared a simple nod; then, off they ran. Rubrum sprinted to Asher, the barely-conscious rabbit still staring up at the night sky; and, propping him up on his shoulder, the two began to limp toward the pitch-dark forest. 

“Come on!” Rubrum bellowed. Hobbling forth, jerking back and forth, the Lucario struggled to coax the burnt Cinderace forward. “Asher, we need to move! Move! Move!” 

Hanging onto the barest thread of consciousness, staring out through muddled eyes, Asher pounded the grass. One foot before the other, he somehow convinced his body to lurch through the darkness. Burnt skin sloughed from the bottoms of his feet. Confused sobs poured from his lips. The sounds of war faded behind him. 

“Insolent child!” Iris wailed. Like a moribund insect, she splayed on her back, her limbs contorting and curling. Her neck strained against her body, craned at an awkward angle, threatened to break free; and her tongue, helpless and wet, uncontrollably lapped at the night air. Akiva clenched her fist, opened it, then clenched it once more, vindictively massaging each and every impulse out of Iris’s brain. 

Akiva didn’t even notice as Maestro ran. Hobbling over to Fey’s body, wiping vomit from his chest, he hurriedly scooped the prone boy into his arms. By then, the artillery had caught onto their disappearing act; and just as before, they’d begun firing. A Thunderbolt flashed inches from Maestro’s face, contorted with panicked desperation. The wounded animal chanted the same words again and again in his head. One more step. One more step. One more step. Please, please…

“Fey!” Maestro called. The tiny canine bounced in his arms as he ran, his gaze caught between the pitch-black darkness and the boy’s bloodied torso. “Fey, come on! Talk to me!” 

	Akiva lost control just as Maestro passed the tree line. Like a guitar string’s snap, her mind suddenly warped, lost its footing in Iris’s consciousness; and surging forth, the Ninetales eagerly reasserted herself. Her teeth gnashed, her tails whipped. And, coming to her feet, she frantically looked around for her enemies. They were nowhere to be found. 

Fury burned within her chest, leaked from her mouth in erratic embers. She turned to the artillery and barked: “Why the fuck did you stop firing?! Who told you to cease fire?!” 

	But not one of them dared reply. Cradling their warm paws, staring awkwardly at the ground, the insolent subordinates bit their tongues and braced themselves. But alas, Iris was too livid to even punish them. She then snapped herself toward Akiva, still splayed on the ground, and said: “You.”

The Gardevoir wished to move her jaw, but even the slightest movement was beyond her grasp. Straining herself for so long had drained her. Her eyes wandered aimlessly, just barely managing to coalesce on Iris’s imposing figure. The edges of her figure blended with the sky, stood overhead, her white teeth glinting by the torchlight. 

“You’re done,” Iris said. Her tone carried grim finality. “Enough. You’re fucking done.” 

Her paw then descended upon Akiva’s face. One solid impact was all it took. Her consciousness lapsed; and yet, the voices continued. Coalescing into a chorus, they sang. Years and years of agony, pieces of consciousness spread across tiny fragments. For the first time in Akiva’s life, the voices sang in her favor. 

“No more. No more. No more…”