There once lived a school of Tynamo. Individually they were weak, but together mighty. Unfortunately, not mighty enough to fend off the swarm of Basculin that invaded their waters one day. Countless Tynamo were eaten without much resistance, and soon their home became the new yearly feeding grounds for the insatiable fish. One day a Tynamo noted how they were practically feeding the enemy and making it stronger. The others knew this fact but argued that they were helpless to change it.
The single Tynamo begged to differ. "Why don't we use our flesh to feed our own?" He suggested. The others shared looks of shock and confusion. "This is happening to us because too many are weak, yet they carry on their filth to their children just to get eaten. If we don't begin eating the inferior members of our species, we will only birth more weaklings and attract more enemies. If we don't begin eating the feeble and carry on our superior genes, those Basculin will eventually be capable of wiping out even the strongest of us. This is for the survival of our species."
The others universally rejected the idea with disgust, some threatening to offer the individual as a sacrifice in protest.
"Then...let me give you all an example of how your crippling helplessness leaves your threats empty."
A nearby Tynamo spoke up. "Crippling helplessness? Isn't crippling a verb only? And don't those words mean the same thing? Then why use both of--" The rogue, in a white blur, swooped and collided with the grammatical smartass and a second later he was slicing and dicing on the soft flesh of its neck with his efficient mandibles, his eyes as still and lifeless as those of the head which was being slowly decapitated. The fact that no blood spilled from the floating corpse made the scene all the more graphic. Horrified, the crowd fled in all directions, but not all would get away.
Throughout the days, weeks and then months, the cannibalistic electric-type hunted his own kind. Perhaps within the first week he could have been ganged up on and stopped. However, having evolved into an Eelektrik after a year, he had become unstoppable. Of course, it was impossible to kill all the Tynamo alone, but that was never his intention. The few that managed to flee were either fast or strong enough to tangle with him for a time. They would mate and produce powerful offspring, the maniac thought to himself, satisfied at his valiant deed. He had realized that it was survival of the fittest and always would be. He had found hope when it was lost in all others. He had formed a brilliant idea and defended it honorably. He had saved his species. Yet he received no praise in return.
He was too good for this world.
~~~~~~~~
That moment of Deo's rugged black finger pressing against the cold pokéball freed not only the Serpent, but himself of all responsibility. He felt lighter as warm relief cloaked his body, as if the blanket of a bed that would accept his retreat and return him to his other existence. He slowly sunk his head, his orange curtains shutting away the world while his eyes headed way upstairs, into the depths of his consciousness.
Where he ended up next could be roughly compared to a beach. The shore was of not sand but of maroon ash, light and flaky, constantly rising in streams before dissipating, as if carried by a sluggish yet powerful gust that only travelled up. These were the remains of his hopes, goals, and loves long lost--forgotten, rejected, or outright destroyed. Occasionally, two or more streams would merge in a circular dance and form a small twister, all in a futile attempt to be flinged closer to the wild, silver sea, which composed of all his active dreams and mares not yet washed up. Blurry images animated under the thick liquid’s surface, not quite recognizable unless one dipped his or her head, just as a dream is often only recalled in sleep. Above it all, a black sky somehow illuminated everything. Well, it wasn't really black--it was the colors of closed eyes, colors existing only in darkness. Like lightning, they slashed across the sky before swerving into it, forking over and over and over until the now distant streaks became countless. If a storm could be simply defined as a cluster of disruption and chaos. Then, this was one. Lightspeed nearly froze in this storm of infinite size and complexity, yet after veering away for mere seconds, one would return to an entirely different shape when looking back. Yet, the original was still there.
Every shape was there, really. Every image. Everything.
Truly what one were to find with closed eyes.
Arms dangling at his sides as if unresponsive, he unevenly dragged his bare feet through the rusty dust, toward the shoreline.
He leaned in and met his reflection.
But it didn't mirror his body.
It mirrored his heart.
Old. So old. A balding head tired of thinking of a long life wasted, a sagging face tired of holding up a label, a bloated stomach tired of consuming regret, and the legs of sticks tired of carrying it. The man weakly raised his arms, revealing that it wasn't just a reflection--bony hands of wrinkles and sores, sick of reaching for what they could never grasp. The only thing that hadn't changed were his olive eyes (Arceus, he loathed olives), tired of viewing what he was and what he wasn't, what existed and what didn't. Yet they were too tired to express tiredness, abandoning conveying emotions altogether. Shot wide open, they devoted what was left of their ever-dwindling focus toward scanning across the shoreline.
Where was that bed? Ah, there it was.
Several feet away lay more of a crib or cot, suited for a infant or young child. The old man shuffled over to his ride, but pushing it in the silver sea proved quite challenging. The liquid resembling metal was thick and viscous like syrup, but once he hoisted his naked form aboard, the crib floated atop the surface effortlessly. He lowered himself into a sitting position with his arms around his knees (That's all he had room to do without pressing against the cage) and it even began moving on its own.
A crib was, after all, the most powerful vessel in such a place due to its profound connection with the 'before', a time where a youth spends the most of which in a crib--before taking for granted every corner of a room, before bearing the restraints of society and culture and bias...and not long after another before, the eternal mystery of unbirth. Did it feel like death?--Because he swore he could almost seize the memory of the feeling...Yes! It was a vibrating, tingly sensation of infinite intensity! So powerful as to fill the void of everything that didn't yet exist: thought, consciousness, time, a body.
Nevertheless, that feeling did exist! Limitless pleasure and limitless pain! And it was the colors of closed eyes!
He spotted a white light on the horizon of "black" and silver--the gateway to his other existence, one where things happened the way he wanted (or didn't want, in a sense). He waited for the babbling boy's cry to grant him access.
"Shit has to happen to become the shit!"
Wait...that couldn't be right. The echoing voice babbled, all right, but from back the way he had come, opposite the gate. Suddenly, the crib had shifted direction, or rather, the entire ocean. The silver syrup oozed toward the shore at increasing speeds, but it was also sinking. The geezer placed his hands on the cage rims and pushed himself to his knees before twisting around, bewildered by what he saw. On that maroon beach, another ashen whirlwind had formed, but this one flurried with unforeseen fury, an ever-growing whirlpool as it sucked up the sea. Even the wind became a gale from the storm, powerless to escape like light from a black hole. This violent chemical merging of lost and remembered memories dragged the crib ever-so closer to it and away from the light on the horizon, which soon faded into nothing.
It felt as if his remaining hair would be torn off all at once. As he carefully brought himself to his feet, he wouldn't have been surprised if the tornado snatched him up that instant. Staring it down, he protested in shock and anger, his hysterical but weak tone echoing over everything as if alone in a cave.
"Wh...why're da dead dreams comin' back? Why is mah...other me calling from the present world? Why is the other place gone?"
Then it struck him. Did this mean they were coming together?! His perfect, unattainable existence by a child's twisted faith somehow correlated to his life? How? Why now? Too soon, not enough shit! Too soon, not enough shit! Then he saw the glowing yellow dots, and the twister came alive. It stretched as if shedding skin and shook its hips back and forth, its gaping maw descending to devour him. He decided to make a swift escape from that plain and shoot open his eyes.
...But they were already open, and had already caught the light from the lamp-lit battlefield. It was just now slowly sinking into his consciousness. The creature already there was the Eelektross straight ahead, back to him and paying no mind to his existence. Deo scowled at the allusion of his vision, which now seemed like a mere dream--a film in his mind being replayed in fast-forward whilst burning away.
So Cruor's the key to my salvation, huh? He questioned, unsatisfied. This source of much of his angst was now present; like a shadow, he had always been, but now, visible and unignorable, Cruor had been released by Deo's own hand--the very last action over which Deo had any control. Now he was the shadow, but he had always been--bound to the creature and could not tear away. Against his will, he was forced into this event, and had likely committed an unforgivable crime ignorant to him; his actions were not his own. He was a puppet, and Cruor yanked his strings. Sure, Deo enjoyed the tournament--who doesn't upon learning he/she had climbed to the semifinals? However, those past victories were bittersweet because they were not his own. They were Cruor's--essential to satisfy his lust for violence and war. It could be said most Pokemon shared this trait, but to the serpent this was both an addiction and a fear, a fear of being weak or on the side of the weak and one day losing out to natural selection. This survivalist paranoia has pushed the creature so far as to not only threaten his trainer's life to participate in an empowering contest but practically take over his role, to steal his clothes and trainer card and role in society, if there ever was one. Might as well rip off his own skin and wear it as his own. It would suit him better, anyway.
At least that's what it seemed until he recalled the serpent's words four nights prior.
~“Y'all didn't have to come back. I'm not really a-"
"INCORRECT".~
~"If I didn't I'd be good as dead, right?"
"ALSO INCORRECT."~
Come to think of it, why was he being personally urged to win the tournament at all considering he contributed nothing to his victories? If Cruor was simply playing mind games to stir him up, then it sure as hell worked; Yet, if so, why even bother to do that? It just made no doggone sense. All he could do is look on like a crowd member towards his own match, a fact that made his position in the trainer box uncomfortable.
His thoughts were broken by the energized commands of his opponent. "Alright. Puff, Double Team! June, Flamethrower the green one."
The short man had made two assessments as the bipedal rabbit spawned multiple clones and the Braixen released her stream of fire. The first was that the entirety his vision had apparently only encompassed a few seconds in real time despite feeling like several minutes within it. The second was, of course, how Gerald had addressed Cyta, for Deo was admittedly shocked that such a skillful trainer couldn't identify the Unova Pokemon. It was a reminder of how rare being able to memorize most species actually was and was by no means a measure of intelligence, especially in his case. Deo couldn't brag, however. Although he had attended the prestigious Rustburo Trainer School, he had performed horrendously (for some reasons more convoluted than others), and the one he had learned the most from since had been...he glanced to the Eelektross, still where he was before, likely contemplating the series of events with depth far beyond his comprehensibility.
Now regarding the battle as a whole, save for a few initial rules and guidelines with certain matchups, the man was clueless of his team's battle tactics. Lately he's been better at understanding the logic of his pokemon while they fight, but the decision of Cruor and Cyta to remain in place and hand their presumably faster opponents the initiative seemed risky. Then again, if slower, there would be little point in chasing down those they couldn't catch, and should instead lie in wait? Yet June and Puff kept their distance whilst still able to be productive, with June launching a ranged attack to interrupt Cyta's move as quickly as possible while Puff spawned clones and was returning Cruor's favor with his own "Come at me!" Did that mean their bait had failed miserably?--Or was there more to this?
In the back, Sorex cracked a smirk at the way his trainer's hand twisted dramatically back and forth whilst in strategy mode, as if the teenager had arthritis. Yet sadness immediately followed, coupled with a hint of guilt. How desperately this human pressed against the glass dividing the scent of battle yet could never push through, while he ambled in and out as if taking it for granted. He supposed he was a bit odd, being a Pokemon not thrilled from battle. He deemed this an insult to his trainer and any others who had never relished the flavors of conflict: to attack, to defend, to follow, to lead, to fight.
The spiked shrew couldn't afford to pity the man, though, as he had to remain emotionally cold and distant to maintain a clear lense involving things important to him. Besides, aware of it or not, Deo WAS fighting...with himself, with his identity, in particular. And quite frankly, Sorex wanted to see how that battle would play out in the long run more sorely than the battle out on the field.
~~~~~~~~
It was finally his turn.
As he materialized from the red light of the pokeball, the Serpent uncoiled violently, as if breaking a hold. Even once free, he swung and twisted, not one part of his body remaining still as he analyzed his enemies before him and Cyta. With his biological will to survive perhaps the cause, Cruor was a truly massive Eelektross, capable of towering over most people with plenty of tail to spare. Practically Serperior-sized: not as long, but heavier, more compact, and bearing a far-reaching pair of arms nearly half the length of his entire body. He dwarfed his partner, a Reuniclus three feet in diameter, although this measurement excluded her arms, also disproportionately large to her body.
Size was an important thing in survival, both physically and mentally, Cruor thought as he tried to measure the Lopunny and Braixen on the other side of the field, concluding that they were roughly Echthra's height, perhaps smaller. Being big, in the most general cases, resulted in high strength and toughness but lower speed and evasiveness, while the reverse was true for smaller beings. Of course, regarding Pokemon, this was hardly a reliable baseline. After all, Cyta's smallish frame could fly yet had abysmal speed, while he--essentially a giant fish out of water with no legs--could catch a sprinting human. Still slow for the standards of magical beasts, but his point stood. Unfortunately, it was a race against time until the ref initiates the match, so assumptions have to be made in order to form a gameplan; thankfully, based on Cruor's knowledge of the nature of their opponents' species, he could safely assume that both he and Cyta were outsped. This was likely more so the case for Puff: Lopunny were gifted with a powerful lower body built for agility and jumping ability, and their experience in close combat practically made them fighting-types, with quick reflexes for dodging and countering attacks at point-blank. As for June, Braixen had light, fragile builds, usually preferring ranged special moves to physical ones. However, the thin foxes were known for being quick and difficult to hit. Even given the low possibility that his top speed was comparable with June's, Cruor was a much bigger target who couldn't shift directions as quickly.
He moved on to a far more important factor in battle: the movesets, of course. With what Sorex and Deo had informed him about Gerald's previous battles, the boy's team utilized several status moves, from ailments to buffs to specific tech options. They often cripple their opponents to win; this was extremely useful information, but not enough. There haven't been enough battles, and each of Gerald's pokemon had distinct moves which made it difficult to increase one's predictability simply from comparing it to another. Additionally, Puff had only then made his debut in the tournament, so it was unknown what had in store.
Alright...Cruor was going off of what he did know, being all he could do. He sent mental messages to his partner, who was thankfully listening. See, as a psychic-type, Cyta could relay and receive telepathic messages. However, she didn't simply hear the thoughts of all who were nearby, nor could she read minds. This kind of communication was more difficult than audible speech because it required extreme focus on both sides, meaning that such a conversation would be very risky to attempt in battle. It was essential that Cruor and Cyta reach the same page as soon as possible, while they had the opportunity. This was one of the disadvantages of never receiving orders from a single source, the Eelektross reminded himself. You had to think for yourself, and in double battles you weren't sure exactly what actions your partner would take next, nor them yours. Each battle they share is, obviously, a testament to their ability to work together, arguably truer for Cruor and Cyta than pokemon of traditional teams--whose synergies are determined by the trainer. Brainstorming for the logic in the trainer's decisions meant little, as it didn't affect what the pokemon did, and to disobey would be considered unwise. Although, Cruor prefered the way things were, as he trusted his own judgement more than all else's, and Deo was blatantly incapable as a trainer.
The Reuniclus nodded in response to her ally’s plan, also trusting his judgement. This was how their experience as teammates typically played out at first, and she was okay with it. When Cruor had an idea, it usually worked, and even when it didn't still revealed useful information. She might have had negative feelings towards his cruel actions towards Deo, but this was battle, when such feelings must be swept aside, when she and him were for once comrades against a common enemy, when she could whole-heartedly refer to him as a talented tactician.
Suddenly, it happened: the referee's call, initiating the match at last. As planned, neither of Deo's pokemon forwarded toward their enemies. Going "first", they had a sliver of extra time to work with, but it made little difference. Cyta's raised her arms, causing bubbles to grow within the gelatin-mimicking substance of her torso, each filling with a mix of pink and turquoise energy. Meanwhile, Cruor, doing nothing else, ran through the logic of this opener once more: Traditionally among the team, even the slower members, they would act as aggressively as possible, charging straight for the opponent before unleashing an attack when near. This was due to their ever-present element of surprise. The opposing trainer can't prepare nearly as effectively for an enemy attack not instructed and thus has to draw out any signs as they presented themselves, but by then it might be too late to order a countermeasure before their pokemon is struck. Unfortunately, such a reckless action was too dangerous against trainers of Gerald's calibur, and the nature of double battles provided more backup eyes. Additionally, one of the core rules Cruor had set in place was that the clearly slower pokemon should not be the initial aggressor under most circumstances, which was the case for both Cyta and himself. Thus, part of the reasoning for staying put is to hope their smaller, faster opponents would come to them. Of course, the serpent wasn't relying on them being that dumb. There was another layer to the plan, one that would hopefully play out any second now...
"Alright, Puff. Double Team! June, Flamethrower the green one."
...They could work with this, perhaps even more so than initially thought. Cyta's bubble-growing caught Gerald's attention, and now June was using a ranged attack in attempt to interrupt it, just as planned. Predicting such a specific scenario may seem miraculous, but Cruor had found a way to narrow down the possibilities. People fear what they cannot understand, and it was unlikely Gerald could identify the Reuniclus’s activity. He would want to cease it in the case it was a stat-raising move or charged attack--cease it quickly before the opponent gained the advantage. Given the great starting distance of the competitors, a ranged move would be the most effective at reaching a target in the shortest timespan, and the fire fox was more likely to own one. Additionally, Cruor hadn't even considered the off-chance that Gerald hadn't recognized the Cell Pokemon's species, potentially driving him further to prevent whatever she was doing. Could it be that he couldn't identify Cruor himself, either? If so, his aquatic appearance only further explained Gerald's decision.
It was fortunate, then, that Cyta had prepared specifically for the Braixen, as her bubbles contained more practical uses than just distracting. The instant upon overhearing Gerald's commands, she did something odd. Similar to the process of exocytosis in a cell, the pink-blue orbs left Cyta's body like vacuoles from a cell membrane, even turning inside out in the process. There must have been a dozen of them floating around from what she was able to conjure in that time, likely more than enough for how she planned to deal with the oncoming attack. However, she wasn’t going to risk observing the flame expand as it approached just to help estimate how many she needed. No, as June's stick ignited and blasted a stream of fire straight towards her (It seemed that poor aim would not factor in this battle), Cyta, with a powerful psychic thrust from the swing of her arms, hurled a cluster of about half of the blobs to meet the flame. Stretching into ellipsoids from their speed, they weren't launched all at once but rather rapid succession, one not far behind the other. This attack, labeled as Psyshock, was handy for bypassing physically frail opponents who would otherwise resist her special moves. On top of this, the Reuniclus had made the technique her own. Storing the orbs within her body over time allowed for later use, and sacrificing bits of her body accelerated their formation and arguably increased their power from the additional weight. Now, severe downsides were evident from this, but Cyta could ignore these incremental losses of mass...for now.
Considering the impressive speed of both attacks, in was unclear to the Reuniclus where exactly on the field they collided. She was just relieved that it was a considerable distance away from her, especially after catching a glimpse of the rapidly swelling blaze moments before impact (Cyta expected no less from the fox who had become quite a favorite in this tournament). An explosion half the field's width of smoke, heat, and excess psychic energy ensued, blocking June's and Cyta's view of each other. but the action was far from over. Cyta had merely stalled, for Flamethrower was a continuous move, only its face negated. However, the fire stream's mass and density were practically non-existent, and it was thus easily forced back by the blast temporarily. On top of this, the explosion was not one but several caused by each orb one after the other, increasing the longevity of Cyta's attack and further delaying June's by up to several seconds. This was a considerable time frame in a battle, but she had to act quickly. The moment she believed she was out sight of the fox, the floating psychic type drifted a few meters to her right before charging as swiftly as she could toward the wall of smog and debris, beginning to create more orbs inside her for another Psyshock. All this was her method of dodging the fire attack; it approached from far enough and with enough warning that she could have evaded it without requiring further action...except she did require it. If Cyta hadn't concealed her location before moving, June would have simply tweaked her aim and the sluggish cell would have been engulfed. Additionally, she had shifted right instead of left to more quickly escape Puff's field of view as well, in the precaution that he had the opportunity to ignore Cruor long enough to reveal her whereabouts to his partner.
Granted, she didn't possess X-ray vision either, leaving her as blind as her opponent. The good news: She had a compass. As she neared the cloud, the Flamethrower had regained its momentum--emerging from it and heading to where Cyta once was. The stream hurtled past her, its intense heat felt on her core through her gelatin exoskeleton. The damage such high temperatures could cause...but she didn't have time to be impressed, and she traced the stream's angle back the other direction to obtain a rough estimate of June's location. Next, she stretched out her arms and fingers once again, several blobs erecting from her body to join the ranks of those already present--such quantities unattainable without sacrificing parts of one's own body. Realizing that performing the attack in heavy concentration would reveal her own location as well as make it easier for the already-existing Flamethrower to cut them short, the Reuniclus spread them apart from her and from each other before unleashing the Psyshock through the cloud, around the horizontal column of fire and hopefully in the direction of the small target.
Well, not exactly. If all the blobs were released towards the same area at the same moment, there was a high risk that area was the wrong one, so Cyta developed a system: Like before, they'd be released in succession, this time about three per second. Coming from random directions, some orbs would hone in on June's estimated position, while the rest would gradually scatter outward from that point. In this manner, If the fox avoids the first few, whichever direction she dodges, the hope is that more will be headed her way.
Taking into account the lack of the traditional forewarning of the Psyshock from a trainer command, the fact that the globs appeared from a debris cloud halfway across the field, and that June had just initiated an offensive maneuver instead of a defensive one, she had considerably less time and opportunity to react to Cyta's attack than she had her's, and the pure psychic-type couldn't help but feel a hint of confidence from this. Of course, only time could tell what would actually transpire. Hearing the sounds of orbs repeatedly crashing into the ground with bursts of psychic energy on the other side of the stadium, she stopped conjuring them, noting how dumb it would be to invest too much in striking an invisible target and concluding that if June had evaded all of them at this point, she would continue to do so. As she waited for the cloud to dissipate so she may engage with the fire-fox once again, she took advantage of her last few seconds of cover and placed her large hands on her torso. Her beady eyes and palms glowed a bright green, and she commenced to regrow pieces of her missing shell, a cell in self-repair. This was Recover, a technique requiring extensive amounts time and focus when heavily damaged or when forcing her body to its limits during an all-in Psyshock barrage. Fortunately, this was just a checkup, and Cyta would regain full mass in a matter of moments. Regardless of how safe she may feel, however, she could pray the price if she doesn't pay attention. Thus, even if not fully healed, the Reuniclus was ready to stop at a moment's notice and react to whatever comes if possible.
Gerald's order to Puff instantly triggered Cruor to shift all his focus onto the rabbit. Double Team was frustrating to deal with if not prepared, and its users all performed the technique in their own fashion. The Eelektross observed closely as duplicates emerged.
"Jumps to the side...another is born from dust. Heh, how poetic. Also obvious...Hm? Only two? I've faced worse."
He was surprised at the Lopunny's method of using the move, as well as the fact that there were only two fakes to deal with. By hopping sideways, and by the clones being so distinctly created, the original Puff hadn't even mixed with them yet and was thus plain to see from Cruor's perspective. Just to be safe, he glimpsed at their feet--all owning shadows as expected. It wasn't going to be that easy. As the triplets taunted him in unison, the Serpent's blood sparked to life. Ah, yes, this was a reminder of war--where such gestures drove him to rip his foes limb from limb, not to qualm anger nor retain pride but to prove gloriously wrong the enemy! Oh, how satisfying it was to witness the devastated, horrified faces of prey defeated! Oh, how overrated it was to fight for something! It meant nothing for the side that loses, for the side whose values and beliefs are erased from dying minds and dying hearts. It mattered little why Puff had provoked him; he would regret it, and what a treat that would be!
"Alright...I'll play your little game of Chase the Lopunny."
The giant eel began slithering towards Puff, dampening the ground below and sinking it from his weight. Aware that his opponent was much faster, however, Cruor did not approach his top speed, as there was no need. Moreover, if he kept it a secret, he could risk trying to catching the Lopunny with a surprise burst of aggression if given the opportunity. His eyes locked on to what he believed to be the original Puff, determined to follow him if he began switching around with his duplicates. As he advanced, Cruor shut his toothed, round maw, reeled back his head, fired a large glob of foul-smelling, purple liquid toward what he believed to be one of the duplicates (He was almost convinced into using another ranged attack, but if countered it would explode and potentially form a dust cloud similar to the one on Cyta’s end of the field, allowing the Lopunny to mix and the real one to be lost). If it was struck by the poison attack and disappeared, he'd shoot another Acid Spray at the other clone. If the first clone dodged, then his second attack would again be aimed at it. The latter of the possibilities actually favored Cruor in this case, as investing two attacks in one duplicate would make it seem as if he believed that one to be the original Puff potentially persuading Gerald to have the actual original “take advantage” of the distraction. Regardless of whether or not one or both of the duplicates survive, the Eelektross was playing minds game of his own, and he would be ready for the Puff that mattered as he continued to charge in. Even in the scenario where he is incorrect in his initial assumption, it would mean that the true Puff was the one in danger of being scorched by boiling acid. It was theoretically a win-win situation for Cruor, but hence, theoretically.
And maybe he was the fool all along.
