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Deep black waves cascaded atop a seabed of cool, dark sand. It scrunched between the Lucario's toes, filling in the gaps between his spirit and self, leeching the heat. He was nervous; his eyes fixed ahead, gazing into the floor-length mirror, watching as his reflection swayed and bobbed amidst the nothingness. Grey-black atmosphere swirling.

“What was your name,” the reflection asked, “before you were born?”

Rubrum’s brow narrowed. The question was obvious, lodged deep within him from his inception, and yet he could think of no answer. It danced on the tip of his tongue.

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“You don’t know?” the reflection probed. Visible disappointment flashed across his face, a tightened fist along his side. Deep-seated angst palpable upon his bespectacled eyes. A conversation between ego and subconscious. “You must know.”

But only silence remained. Rubrum wasn’t lying. The reflection knew this. And yet, the impostor asked anyway: “What about your typing? What is your typing, professor? Surely you can remember that.”

Rubrum’s eyes were moist and unblinking, his mouth puppeted only by impulse. This answer, however, was evident. He replied: “I am a Steel type.”

More staring. The reflection was again displeased to hear such a reply. Indeed, it didn’t expect for Rubrum to be so scared; a shepherd of young souls, blinded to his own heart? It would be comical, if it weren’t so tragic.

“Are you forgetting something?” the reflection asked. He tipped his head forward, his ears perked, awaiting a response. “Surely you can tell me the truth, professor. Don’t hide it. What is your typing?”

Rubrum, offended at the query, replied: “I am telling the truth. I’m a Steel type.”

Another furtive sigh fell from the reflection’s lips. Then, as if plucking a flower from soil, the reflection reached out beyond the mirror’s veneer, stretched his fingers out. He said: “Take my hand, professor.”

The Lucario did as he was told. Two steel-hard palms pressing against one another. fingers intertwining, and the professor gingerly stepped over the mirror’s edge. The surface rippled like water, briefly catching and beading upon Rubrum’s snout as his body submerged. In only a moment, he was face-to-face with himself; one unimpressed, the other inquisitive.

“You’ve let your guard down,” the reflection said. It wasn’t a judgment; only an observation. “Do you think that’s safe?”

Rubrum shook his head, chuckling nervously, suddenly embarrassed at the notion, and replied: “I don’t really know what you’re talking about.”

The reflection mirrored Rubrum’s movements, blinking and breathing in perfect time, and said: “Of course you do.” And then: “Rubrum, be honest with me… when is the last time you fought for yourself?”

To which Rubrum replied, a glimmer in his eye: “I fight only for my students. I’m fighting for a better world. That’s it.”

More disappointment. The reflection, his eyes now downturned, pursed his lips and said: “I’m serious. Level with me. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What happens when your students cannot protect you?”

A profound sadness curdled in Rubrum’s gut. Indeed, the possibility had occurred to him before; but he had always delegated it to the realm of abstraction. So he shook off the uncertainty and fired back: “They’ll always be there for me. We’re there for each other.”

Waves lapped gently against Rubrum’s ankles. Glancing down, he realized that the waters were rendered crimson. Sticky maroon residue blanketed his calves and stuck to his fur. The sight was not surprising to him; as if, somehow, he’d been steeped in blood for a long time.

“You have chosen to walk a path of violence, and yet you refuse to protect yourself,” the reflection said. He pointed an accusatory finger toward Rubrum’s chest, dangling it in front of his heart, his face screwed with frustration, and asked: “Why?”

Rubrum thought about it for a moment, then replied: “I am not strong enough.”

“So, would you rather die?”

“Of course not.”

The doppelganger then raised his paw in the air, near-mimicking a salute, before bringing it down upon Rubrum’s cheek. The impact stung, his glasses jolting from his snout. But nonetheless, the Lucario did not fight back. He simply stood, unwavering, and turned his other cheek, beckoning for the reflection to strike once more.

Naturally, the reflection reacted with palpable disgust. And he spat: “You are weaker than I expected.”

Another strike rattled Rubrum’s skull; then another. Both met the professor’s cheek with a soft thud, a flick of spittle amidst the void, landing peacefully into the bloody ocean. Rubrum touched on his jaw, begrudgingly stretching the thing with a little click. All without so much as a modicum of defensive maneuvering. Completely open.

The reflection pondered him for a moment, looked him up and down. His arm raised once more, hovering there in the still air; and then, with a devilish grin, the doppelganger taunted: “If I did this to Maestro, would you fight back?”

His paw was promptly received by a vicegrip. Rubrum’s paw shot from his side, catching the reflection’s arm in midair; and having observed what he needed, the reflection then shook himself free, lowered his arm. A frown stretched across his mien, his back slouching.

“You need to remember who you are.”

The reflection spoke those words, then began to contort and shift. A mass of flowing black sludge-smoke piled out from his ears and mouth and nose, overtaking the puny body like a puppet, stretching and contorting, until it’d formed into the shape of a Gallade, covered in a thick layer of mud-like shade.

Rubrum was met with a sense of recognition. As if he spoke now to an old friend. Vestigial brain cells firing in rapid succession, asking: “Tell me… did Maestro attend class today?”

The Gallade’s arm slowly drifted upward to his face, his hand extending until it covered one eye. The other, unmoving, stared past Rubrum and into the abyss. Pained moaning sounded from somewhere out there, an echo from another time.

Seemingly nonplussed by the synchronicity of it all, the Gallade then admitted: “No, he didn’t. Maestro slept past the bell.”

The Gallade then uncovered his eye, each movement deliberate and gentle, and reached out, held Rubrum’s hands in his own, leaned close. There mounted an ineffable connection between them, a remnant of something larger, brought to the surface. Like an iceberg breaking still waters.

The Gallade’s mouth, an endless pit, warped itself into a grimace. And as if he were remiss to admit it, the spectre said: “You’ve failed the test, professor. I’m sorry.”

With retracted blades, the Gallade then bridged the shadowy gap between them, pulled the unwitting Lucario into an embrace. Warmth burgeoned from the shadow’s fluid core, like amniotic fluid in an egg; with it came profound sadness, worming itself into Rubrum’s tear ducts, a horrible loneliness, something he’d only felt in dreams.

“I don’t want to pass your test,” Rubrum said. “I… I just want to live. I want my friends to be happy.”

The heartfelt notion meant nothing to the shadow. Speaking over the Lucario’s shoulder, nuzzling the man’s warm nape, the Gallade replied: “Rubrum… if you refuse the call, there is nothing to be done. It’ll all return to nothing. Listen to me, please.”

Suddenly, Rubrum was struck by fear. Loneliness piercing him like a glass shard in the stomach. He wrenched himself away from the Gallade, looked him in the eyes, and asked: “Will I see you again?”

The Gallade met the petty man with a calm, adoring smile. Despite Rubrum’s cowardice, despite his delusion, love remained. Inefficeable.

“In the next world,” the reflection spoke. He meant it.

The dream dissolved.

— — —

Thousands of Pokémon, all shape and hue, scattered throughout the entirety of Augusta proper, heard the cry:

TO ALL THOSE WHO HAVE LOST FAITH

TO ALL THOSE WHO WILL JOIN ME IN THE NEXT WORLD

I LOVE YOU

No one knew quite what to make of it. Least of all a group of ragtag soldiers, camped out upon the roof of a run-down apartment building near the Plenum, overlooking the barricade.

“In the next world…” Rubrum echoed. The words fell effortlessly from his lips. He knew those words – and upon searching himself, he remembered them. Those same words were uttered to him within Darkrai’s dream; a “test,” the Darkrai had called it, to see whether he was apt enough to save this world. A test Rubrum had failed.

Asher turned, and with an inscrutable expression, asked: “Did… did you all hear that?”

“Yeah,” Sid replied. “I did. What, um… was that a hybrid?”

Fey, of course, was jubilant to have received the message. Jumping joyfully upon his little legs, he beamed: “It’s Akiva! It’s Akiva!” A little laugh escaped him as relief melted from his shoulders. “Guys, she’s alive! I–it could only have been her!” He looked around, gauging the others’ responses, and added: “She’s calling out to us! She wants us to save her!”

Indeed, the rest could think of no better explanation; only a Pokémon of her prowess could’ve sent out such a strong Psychic signal, after all. But this confirmation didn’t put Rubrum’s mind at-ease.

“If it was Akiva… then where is she?” Asher asked. He put a gnarled hand above his eyes, surveying the streets. “Do any of you see her?”

The rest peered over the roof, but saw nothing new. A few scattered hybrids and soldiers bustled around the streets, rhythmically battering and then rebuilding the Plenum’s barricade. A war of attrition with no clear end.

Then, they heard it; a deep rumbling, like the bowels of the city themselves growled. Down the street there, just barely within view, a siren sounded; red lights danced within the barred windows of the capital building. And like a grand belch, the front doors burst open, flesh spilling out. Emaciated and pale individuals, hunched and smiling, ran right into the street and piled into the alleys. Following right behind, hot in their tails, tumbled a wave of hybrids, piling over themselves and shambling out. Blood coated their mouths and fingertips, waving in the air and dragging along the pavement alike, a veritable cacophony of sirens and screaming and joyous cries.

Maestro slowly slipped his mask up over his face, eyes wide, and breathed: “What the fuck is happening?”

Chaos quickly broke into the streets. Hybrids, squished against one another as they fitted through the doors, turned on one another and attacked. Prisoners slipped by and sprinted away, little bony knees carrying them over the cobble and corpses. The smell of rot and unwashed flesh pervaded the abandoned storefronts. And a petite Clefairy, her face contorted with perverted joy, clamored from the darkness and cried: “It’s happening! It’s happening! It’s happening!”

Sid looked around at the others, expecting some kind of response, and gingerly asked: “Um… what exactly is happening?”

Hermes, of course, knew exactly what happened. Hanging himself over the rooftops lip, his jaw dropped, and he spewed: “She freed the entire Repository.” A chill ran down his spine as he then hung back and said: “Arceus, we’re fucked.”

“The repository?” Rubrum pushed. He loomed over the tiny primate, his apprehensive gaze demanding a reply. “As in, beneath the library? The lab?”

Hermes nodded, replied: “Y–yes. The lab. There’s a dungeon down there…” Suddenly aware of the disdainful gazes of his captors, he shrank back. “N–not that I’ve ever visited! But, uh, that must be where they’re coming from. I—I mean, look at them, they’re criminals, they’re, uh, crazy…”

Below, the chaos quickly morphed into a full-on melee. A gang of three Simisage cornered a tiny hybrid Charizard, the tiny thing spewing a pithy stream of steam from his throat. He was soon unseen, piled onto, and driven face-first into the stone. A little cloud of vapor erupted from the mass of writhing, kicking bodies.

Fey’s face contorted into horror, his flank hugged close by Asher. “Wh–what are they doing?” he asked. He looked toward the others for reassurance. “Did Akiva set them free? Is that why she sent the message?”

“Almost assuredly,” Maestro said. He lowered his mask, turned to the others. “This must be her way of helping us… it’s a distraction.”

And indeed, they’d never seen such a devastating distraction. A life lost every moment as desperate Pokémon fled and fought. Rubrum’s heart nearly broke free from his ribcage; his stomach churned with fear and hatred. Is this the world he was fighting for? The world he was ushering in? Hell, was there any way to save this?

His thoughts were dispelled only by the squeeze of Maestro’s paw. The two locked eyes then, exchanging a compassionate glance; mutual fear, mutual adoration.

“You okay?” Maestro asked, even though he knew the answer. “We’re going to have to go soon. This might be our only chance to infiltrate the barricade.”

Rubrum nodded, and lied: “Yeah, I’m fine.” He then paused and added: “I–I guess I’m just thinking about my dream from before, the one Penumbra gave me.”

“Yeah?”

“He said I wasn’t fighting for the right reasons.” A weak smile, a shuffle of his foot. And with a cloying expression, Rubrum asked: “Don’t you think that’s funny?”

Maestro scratched the nape of Rubrum’s neck, pulled him close. And with a knowing grin, the feline whispered: “Professor… if anyone here is fighting for the right reasons, it’s you. I mean, come on.”

Rubrum tried his best to believe it. He accepted the embrace with due gratitude, pressing his snout into the crook of Maestro’s neck for only a moment, breathing in the scent of musk and sweat. He was the reason for fighting. His love, his students, his life at the Academy. A life he desired so desperately to return to.

“Alright,” Rubrum ordered, and pulled himself away. “Let’s go.”

The five of them bounded off, with Hermes begrudgingly piling behind. Piling down the rickety fire escape, the whole thing bouncing and creaking with their steps, they descended hastily toward the street. By the time they’d reached the crowd, battle cries permeated the air in a thick haze. Frightened prisoners burst past the rebels, running away from the Plenum, holding onto one another for dear life.

The rebels navigated the thick-run crowd with grace. To their left, brainwashed soldiers thrust their palms out in tandem, fired projectiles through holes in their meager wall. Tens of bobbing heads all dancing and fighting and even blinking in unison, hardly screaming as their entrails were drawn out from gaping bellies. Just one cell down in a greater organism; hitting, clawing, slicing.

The hybrids responded en masse. A few Flying types, utterly unfettered by the barricade, flew over and gnawed upon prone skulls. A Pidgeot shot overhead like a bullet, dropping in its wake a flurry of small white eggs; careening toward the ground, each exploded into a pile of red-grey smoke. Entire portions of the barricade were destroyed.

Coming right behind, an Aerodactyl, easily twice the size of a caravan, its belly distended and full of churning bloody meat, landed down and began to feast on the soldiers’ viscera. Ripping right through spinal cords like they were taffy, plunging his maw deep, deep down into piles of guts and clenching hands until his nose blew bubbles in the thick, oozing blood.

“Go!” Rubrum screamed. “Fucking go! Go, go, go!”

The others hardly needed to be told. They pushed past the undulating, moribund crowds, deftly dodging projectiles and side swipes alike. Asher swept Fey up in his arms, schlepping the boy in a bridal carry, their pads clapping against the stone amidst the cacophony. Blood splattered upon their shins, stuck to the bottoms of their soles.

To their right, an Annihilape plunged a mighty Rage Fist into the barricade, pulled out a lithe soldier by the neck, and crushed it between his meaty fingers. Three more of them piled out from the hole, like skin plugging a wound, and threw themselves against the rampaging monster, only to be flung off onto their backs.

“Through there!” Sid pointed, and yelled for the others. “There! There! See?”

And indeed, the gap had yet to be filled. The six of them muscled their way through the shoulder-to-shoulder melee. A stray fist would plunge into their arms, a kick against their knees, and yet they surged forth. These other Pokémon would die in the streets; some of them were innocent; but nothing could be done about it. Not anymore.

The rebels breached the barricade, and then kept going. Hybrids and prisoners were already beginning to pile into the Plenum’s perimeter. Big stretches of rickety plywood falling into the ground, kicking up piles of sawdust, Pokémon struggling underneath.

Hot, red blood scattered on white marble steps. The rebels sprinted up the grand staircase, making a beeline for the ornate double doors, while the world collapsed behind them. Explosions rang out in the street, no doubt the work of some superpowered hybrid; a crowd of humans, delirious and shocked, slipped into the sewer grates for cover.

“This is crazy!” Hermes cried out, covering his ears. His face was plastered with terror and sweat as he witnessed the world he’d wrought. “Can we please find somewhere quiet?!”

Alas, nowhere remained untouched. Even as the rebels opened the doors and entered the Plenum proper, the noises rang out. Sounds of destruction and death.

Upon entering the Plenum’s entrance hall, a crowd of diplomats and socialites watched from above. Lined up upon the upper floors, hiding behind desks and potted plants. In silence, they witnessed the ragtag boys panting over themselves, catching their breath. Fey fell from Asher’s arms and gently patted the boy’s back, steam broiling off the Cinderace’s flesh.

“Looks like we’re early to the party,” Maestro breathed. He then surveyed the room, a hall he’d only seen during awards ceremonies, and commented: “Everyone’s staring at us. You see them?”

The group took a moment to observe – and indeed, they were being watched. With bated breath, tens of Pokémon who’d never once known conflict watched their world go up in flames. Silently, and with due poise.

“Fuck them,” Asher replied. A disdainful frown colored his mien. He stretched, then approached Hermes, shook the little man by the shoulders, and barked: “Hey, Hermes. Tell me… where do we go?”

Fey, however, was not content to move yet. Wagging his little tail, he said: “Wait! Shouldn’t we wait for Akiva? She’s out there somewhere… we might need her.”

And for a moment, the bunch of them were lost in thought. Indeed, Akiva would prove a formidable ally in their fight against Maximus; but then, that posed the question…

Where was Akiva?

— — —

Akiva lifted her sore cheek from the cold linoleum. Shattered glass perforated the ground like little mountains, glistening in the sterile red lighting, flashing red-black-red-black overhead. The alarm had long since gone out, no doubt destroyed, and she was left only with the shuffling of feet, hushed voices, the sloshing of meat.

The Gardevoir pushed herself upright, crawling out from under the control panel, and steadied herself against the metal. Her head swam. How long had she been asleep?

A Cinccino's body swept gently against her toes. Still knocked out, his breathing shallow, his flesh speckled with debris. Akiva stepped gingerly over him, intent not to plunge her feet into the glass. The walls seemed to sway and bend with every flash of the lights, one moment rigid and another careening toward her. Little bits of blood drip-dripped from her forehead onto her white robe, trailing down the collar.

Akiva reached for the melted doorway, fingering the sharp metal, and shakily lifted herself through the hole in its middle. She was in the main plex now, where only half an hour before a plethora of Pokémon had crowded and surged for their escape. Some still remained, mostly the hybrids, ghoulishly hunting through the myriad corridors, or hiding in prison cells with doors shut tight. A small crowd of Pokémon stood unwavering and unspeaking there in the plex, crowded around a single battered body, hidden from Akiva’s sight. The Gardevoir didn’t dare approach, watching for only a moment as the lot of them glanced in her direction, as if to invite her closer, before intently turning their gazes back.

The Gardevoir eyed the nearby stairwell, long-since broken open, its door cast aside. She walked toward it, her fingers tracing the wall, and looked inside, only to be met with inky darkness, occasionally flashed with faint red light. Dark, sticky liquid splashed the walls and covered the steps, catching upon Akiva’s feet as she ascended. Little bits of meat were kicked aside and plunged down the steps.

One turn to the right, then another to the left. Soon enough Akiva was greeted by sterile white light – a laboratory. Machines of all shapes and hues lined the walls and surrounded a central operating table, upon which some poor Pokémon had been splayed and vivisected. Akiva could hardly tell the species, it’d been so far gone; her eyes lingered only on its little pink feet, untouched and unbloodied, hanging off the table’s edge like a ballerina’s slippers.

Above the scene hung a chalkboard, stained and swiped, but still showing the faintest signs of datalogging. A diagram shone there, a body splayed, of a Pokémon with human organs. Thymus gland uplifted and pumped full of adrenaline, appendix transferred, while the heart remained, albeit quite a bit larger than usual.

The sight filled Akiva with dread. Here were the fruits of her labor, a project begun far before her birth, and yet brought to fruition only by her support. She’d never hoped to see the results. Guilt made her stomach churn, her breaths shallow, as she tore her eyes away and trudged toward the central vault door, still flung open from the previous occupants.

She traveled through a hallway, then another stairway, then the Grand Library, surprisingly well-kept despite the waves of fugitive Pokémon barreling through. Evidently, the bookkeeper didn’t care enough to stick around; just as always, the library was quiet, the only sounds coming from the melee outside. A stack of returned books still sat neatly upon the receptionist’s table, one splayed, a stamp fallen haphazardly at its side.

Akiva was gaining speed now. Her legs reached their stride, her mind clearing; already, she could feel the city’s thoughts returning. The hybrids presented themselves a writhing mass of entangled voices, a tumor upon an otherwise intelligible fountain of information. She did her best to push it all aside, ignoring the wounded Pokémon who sat around the interior’s periphery.

Soon enough, she’d reached daylight. The street was gruesome. Countless heads bobbed amidst an ocean of violence and desperation. Crowds of Pokémon would strike at passersby, seemingly at random, and pull them in, plunging sharp claws into their guts and throwing their corpses to the gutter. Others, the lucky ones, would charge right through, disappearing into exploded storefronts, back alleys, running as far as their legs would take them, until they reached the Augustan gates and eloped.

The sight of Akiva drew frightened silence from the crowd. They all turned to see the once-pure woman, for once not hidden behind a pulpit, walking among the masses. With each step, sticky blood remained on the stone. It trickled from her head, too, spilled out along her shoulder, dark and drying. No doubt, many in the crowd had attended her sermons. Seen her face on posters, postcards, and picture books. The spitting image of moral hygiene.

What should I say, Akiva thought, to a people who’ve lost everything?

The Gardevoir looked out over them all, then outward, down the street, toward the Plenum. The soldiers were yelling, their barricade having been penetrated, retreating back toward the grand staircase. Hands, paws, and feet beat upon the wooden monolith, beckoning for its destruction.

There remained no time for a sermon. Akiva abruptly walked, then sprinted, into the sea of heads, pushing them to the side, charging headfirst toward the fight. A few Pokémon tried to lay hands on her, grabbing at her robe, but they were effortlessly flung away, their minds scrambled as they laid flat against the cobblestone.

By the time she’d arrived, only a small wooden vestige remained. War cries rang out, a Machamp with six arms rippling his gigantic muscles, ripping apart the wood while a bloodthirsty gurgle shot from his mouth. Punching right through the two-inch thick ply, shaking out the splinters, and then plunging right back in. Projectiles flew and ripped apart his flesh, which was then deftly repaired, vines rippling and maneuvering under his flesh, patching up the bloody bits just as quickly as he was cut open.

Standing behind him, Akiva quietly outstretched her hand, as if brandishing a weapon. Her robe flitted in the wind. The crowd around her quickly noticed; backing away, as if parting the sea, they watched in disbelief as the former Chairwoman of Faith began to ripple and flow with pink-violet energy. The Moonblast coalesced around her palm, a supercharged orb forming there, sucking dust from the cobble below, until it flew out, flashing past onlookers, and collided squarely with the Machamp’s backside, ripping through meat and tendons, emerging from the front, and erupting the barricade in multicolor flames. Splinters and nails flew.

For a moment, Akiva spied the Plenum’s steps through the hole in the Machamp’s groin; the giant then toppled forwards, landing on his face amidst the rubble. Fearless – or perhaps with nothing to lose – Akiva climbed over his still-warm body and breached the periphery. The remaining soldiers regarded her with a mix of reverence and shock, but did not intervene.

“Breach!” the herald called. A great bell rang out over the gorey square. “_Breach, breach! The perimeter has been breached!” _

It might as well have been a rally cry. Hot on Akiva’s heels, monsters plunged through the puncture wound and spilled onto the steps, throwing themselves toward the dwindling guards. Screams and shouts and the ripping of flesh. The Gardevoir ignored it all; she didn’t have time to entertain suffering. Not anymore.

The front doors flew open with an anticlimactic creak. Akiva was greeted with the stares of various congressmen, lobbyists, lawyers, and oligarchs, all staring eagerly from the upper floor, biting their nails and waiting for the violence to reach them.

She stopped for a moment, met them with a scowl; and then, throwing her hands up in the air, frustrated with their lack of movement, silhouetted by the screams of the damned, she shouted: “Are you all stupid? Get the fuck out of here!”

It threw them into a panic. The most wealthy members of society clamoring over one another, unsure of where to go, traveling deeper into the Plenum, spilling out onto the front steps, congregating on the roof. Akiva hardly watched where they went. It didn’t matter.

The Gardevoir’s feet then pounded upon the carpet as she sprinted toward the Radiant Hall. All that laid between herself and her objective was an ornate, open hallway; chandeliers hung from the ceiling in perfect intervals, the entire thing lit by several meters-high windows, all facing the chaos, displaying perfect rounded impressions of light upon the floor.

These sunbeams, however, were soon eclipsed; shadows flickering over Akiva’s feet mid-stride, a window suddenly collapsed inward, glass spilling out over the floor in a razor-sharp rainbow. Head-fist, an Aerodactyl swept through the barrier, wings flapping like a madman, his claws fervently gripping some beaten soldier’s shoulders. The poor sap was swept along the floor like a landing strip, his head disintegrating into a mush upon the carpet like a bloody eraser, until the Aerodactyl was tentatively perched, shifting his body weight upon the gorey mass, circumspecting, looking right at Akiva, dead in her tracks.

A moment of mutual recognition; two monsters, sizing each other up, the Aerodactyl’s jaw yammering and twitching, covered in a thin lipstick of hot red blood.

The Flying type then leaned forward, releasing the corpse from his grip, flashing his eyes at the dirt-spattered woman. And then, dipping his head low, flashing a flirtatious grin, his voice bellowing through the air like a war siren, sweet and low, he growled: “I… love you.”

The Gardevoir didn’t move. Looking right, then left, she realized there was no way to avoid a fight. She’d have to blast right through.

The Aerodactyl then began to crawl, distended massive arms pounding the ground like mortars. His mouth contorting and spewing, gore bursting from behind his sharp teeth, he tilted his head and asked: “You… where have you been all my life?”

Akiva narrowed her eyes, arms upraised, and replied: “Breaking promises.”

Combat began without fanfare. The hybrid’s tendons tensed under its thin flesh as it charged at her, smiling wide, and raised a claw in the air, intending to bring it down; but Akiva was faster. She let off a Protect, parrying the monster’s claw, watching as the sunlight glinted off its edge. An opening.

Reflexively, the Gardevoir’s mind reached out, intending to pierce the Aerodactyl’s; but like a sword clashing with concrete, the attack bounced off. Horror dawned upon her mien as she realized her mistake; the monster hardly had a mind to invade, after all. Her Psychic powers were useless.

The Gardevoir was on the defensive now. Dodging blow after blow, upraised claw after snapping jaw, jumping back and back and to the side, she fired Moonblasts toward the monster’s center of mass, aiming with her non-dominant hand, wearing a furious grimace. Watching as the projectiles careened toward the monster’s distended, gaseous stomach.

Hit.

With a mighty wail, the Aerodactyl was knocked off-balance, cried out in pain, his wings thrown up into the air. Seeing her chance, Akiva then sprinted toward it, arm outstretched, rippling with energy, praying that the monster didn’t regain its footing.

Much to her relief, the Thunder Punch landed squarely. The Aerodactyl convulsed and spread his wings wide like a crucifixion, screaming in pain; and like a balloon, the monster’s bulbous flesh swelled and gurgled, rippling with purifying lightning, then burst open. A rain of red-hot blood and viscera burst from the monster’s paper-thin flesh, covering the Gardevoir from head to toe.

Yelping in pain and fear, the Aerodactyl then began to frantically flap its wings. Jumping into the air, still spilling out its insides, it crashed face-first into a nearby wall, then turned, still flapping, still flying, and headed for the nearest unbroken window. Crashing head-first into it, somersaulting over the broken frame, headfirst, it careened toward the steps below, screaming and yelping in moribund confusion. Splat.

Akiva spat blood from her mouth, relieved that it wasn’t her own, and swiped uselessly at her once-white robe. Soaking wet. In that moment, she realized she had never once done her own laundry. Cries echoed from outside as soldiers, bureaucrats, and hybrids crowded around the Aerodactyl’s twitching body.

“Akiva!”

The voice called from behind her, but she recognized it immediately – Fey. The little Sylveon stood excitedly in the hallway’s mouth, paws pitter-pattering on the carpet. To his sides, the rest of the rebels stood, Maestro, Rubrum, Sid, Asher, and Hermes, awkwardly meandering as they processed the sight.

Akiva then raised a single red hand, smiling strangely, waving slowly, and replied: “H–hey, Fey.”

The awkwardness and embarrassment soon rolled off the rebels’ shoulders. Fey charged eagerly across the hallway, barely avoiding Asher’s outstretched hands, while the rest followed close behind, greeting the blood-soaked saint with hesitant joy.

“Where have you been?” Fey asked. Then, not waiting for an answer, he added: “We heard your message. Are you okay? What did that mean?”

Flicking bits of coagulated blood from her eyes, giving a coy smile, Akiva admitted: “Fey… I’ve been in prison. Beneath the Royal Repository. I sent that message when I was trying to escape.”

“Beneath the…?” Rubrum echoed. Images of Invi’s crazed grin flashed before his eyes. It made his fists clench. “You mean, the prison?”

Akiva casually replied: “Yes, the holding cells.” Pause. “Invi was, uh, the warden. It’s where we – the Board – kept hybrids. But they’re all out on the street now.”

More silence. Akiva calmly patted excess fluid from her robe. No one quite knew what to say, or where to begin. The end of the world had just happened, and there was no proper way to address it. What place was there for social decorum now?

Not knowing what to do, Hermes then tentatively crept forward, arms outstretched like a beggar, and muttered: “H–hey, Akiva.”

The Gardevoir hardly spared the man a glance. Scowling, she condescended: “Hermes?” Then to the others, she addressed: “Why did you bring him? Where did you find him?”

“In his apartment,” Maestro answered. “He promised to show us the way to the Radiant Hall… in case you couldn’t, I suppose.” An exhausted chuckle. “We’re lucky to have found you. We weren’t sure if you’d meet us.”

Akiva frowned at that, replied: “Of course I would.” She then snapped toward the little Simipour and barked: “Shouldn’t you be in the bunker with Maximus? Or did he abandon you, too?”

With a downturned head, shuffling his feet, Hermes admitted: “I–I was late for morning role call.”

And, taking no time at all, Akiva sniped: “I am astounded by your stupidity.” Her voice betrayed no emotion. Then, turning back toward Fey, she asked: “Where have you been? How did you enter the city?”

But before Fey could reply, Asher stepped forward and explained: “We entered this morning by hiding ourselves in a grain shipment. We ran into a bunch of hybrids, too, but we laid low. And we ran into an, um, agent…” He then unveiled the shoddy map Aoi had given them a few hours before, and added: “He told us to head for the Radiant Hall. Said the Panic Room was in there.”

Akiva nodded, breathed: “I see. Well, he gave you the right information. The Radiant Hall is right through there.” And with a limp finger, she pointed toward the ornate double doors at the hallway’s end. A resolute scowl adorned her cheeks. “But before we go, I think we ought to talk. You – all of you – deserve to know the truth. The full truth.”

Maestro raised an eyebrow, said: “I thought we already knew the full truth.”

“There’s more,” Akiva replied. She pointed toward her head. “Believe it or not, Maximus and I mind-linked. And I now know his real goal. He wants… he…” She then paused, struggled to find the correct words. Truthfully, ruminating on her father’s perversion made her deeply uncomfortable.

Finally, she admitted: “The Spear isn’t just a bomb. It’s the bomb to end all bombs. It won’t just decimate Grand City; it’ll leave half the continent dead. You, me, everyone. Aurum will make all of our consciousnesses one, just long enough to do the deed. It runs on our lifeforce – all the Aurum gears on the continent, siphoning it out.” She swallowed bitter spit. “But I know where it is. I–I saw… I know where Maximus is keeping it. It’s on an island. Far away, somewhere on the Southern Coast.”

Maestro shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. And he asked: “Lookout Island, right?”

“Yes,” Akiva affirmed. Darkness tinged her eyes. “I don’t know what you heard, but… humanity will be utterly wiped out. Thousands of Pokémon will die, too.”

Silence pervaded the hallway, only perforated by screams and cries outside.

“The Spear will fire in one week,” Akiva said. “We need to get to Lookout Island before then. If we don’t, then…”

The realization whipped the rebels into a quiet fervor. Asher and Fey glanced worriedly at one another, Maestro and Rubrum doing the same. Sid fiddled anxiously with his vines. Hermes hung his head low.

“One more thing,” Akiva continued. “Maximus used to have a wife.”

“We heard about that too,” Asher sniped. “I believe her name was… ‘Ceres,’ right? Frankly, I didn’t believe a guy like that could feel love.”

Akiva took a deep breath in, then out. “Well…” she began, then paused. “Ceres was… a good woman.” A gulp of fetid air. “She kept him in-check. She opposed all of this. But now, she’s… gone. Maximus killed her, a long time ago. He ate her mind.”

No one quite knew how to respond. The rebels shot lost glances at one another, trying to parse all of it.

Breaking the quiet, shooting a distressed glance, Maestro asked: “Hermes… did you know about all this?”

“Arceus, no,” the Simipour replied. “I–I knew the Spear would be used against humanity, sure, but Pokémon? No, no…” He then pursed his lips, withheld tears, stared at the ceiling. “I just didn’t think… I didn’t think it’d be so, um…”

He didn’t need to say any more. The rest regarded him with utmost disdain. And Asher, perhaps the most irate out of them, stepped forth and bellowed: “You little shit. You knew.”

“No, no, I didn’t–”

“How are we supposed to trust you?”

“I never asked you to trust me! Y–you’re the ones that dragged me here!” Hermes’s palms were upraised in surrender. “I never wanted to be here! I–I just wanted to die alone!”

For a moment, the two of them, the Cinderace and the Simipour, shared a terse glance; but, goaded by Fey’s soft ribbons, Asher stood down. Hermes was far too pathetic to waste their effort upon, anyway.

Rubrum, adjusting his glasses, looking right at Akiva, said: “So… we somehow need to stop Maximus, then run to this ‘Lookout Island,’ all within a week. Do I have that right?”

“I’m afraid so,” Akiva admitted. “Now, I don’t know where Lookout Island is, exactly… but there should be documents around here somewhere.” She bit her lip, a finger laid upon it. “...But that doesn’t matter right now. If we don’t capture Maximus, this will all be for nothing.”

Sid, hitherto quiet, stepped forward, gently stroking his vines, and asked: “But… what about the capital? The hybrids? Are we just gonna let them run free? They’re…” He swallowed. “They’re destroying the city. We can’t just let them go.”

The Gardevoir addressed the point with due grace. “If we don’t make a break for Lookout Island,” she explained, “there will be no city to save.” Remorse flashed in her eyes. “We have to stop the Spear. Everything else will come later. I’m sorry.” She then pointed toward Rubrum, asked: “Do you have the Key?”

The professor almost seemed offended, but replied: “Yes. Of course.” He patted his bag, the weighty aurum plate weighing it down. “It’s always here.”

A pit once more coagulated in Rubrum’s stomach. Just the cold surface of the aurum was enough to bring him back there – to the ethereal nothingness of Penumbra’s nightmare. Responsibility made his palms heavy. Instinctively, as if to make sure they were all there, he turned and counted heads – one, two, three, four, five Pokémon, all of which he was responsible for now. His students. The Pokémon he’d always fought to protect. Family.

Resolutely, Rubrum muttered: “I’ll never let you down.”

Noticing his trepidation, Maestro gently squeezed the Lucario’s palm. Their gazes met, wet and glossy and adoring.

“You know,” Maestro whispered, “you have to protect yourself, too. We all will protect you.”

Rubrum was affronted by the assertion. With Penumbra’s words still ringing in his ears, he defensively replied: “I–I know.”

There was hardly anything more to say. The Pokémon glanced around in tentative silence, all waiting for someone to speak, until Fey finally stepped forward, his ribbons flitting excitedly, and said: “Akiva… it’s so nice to see you again.”

The Gardevoir flashed a gentle smile, replied: “It’s nice to see you too, Fey. I’ve been thinking about you.” She spat the last little bit of blood from her lips, feeling it crust onto her flesh, and added: “I just want to make a world you can live in.”

“We will,” Fey affirmed. “We’re gonna make it alright again, okay?”

Akiva frowned. She sensed the naïveté behind the Sylveon’s words, and it wounded her. So she simply replied: “I–it’s never been alright, Fey. But… thank you.”

Crashes rang out from the Plenum’s front. Evidently, someone was on the verge of breaching the front doors; if there was ever a time to go, it was now.

“Let’s move,” Akiva said.

And off they ran. Seven doomed Pokémon, all sprinting across a battlefield of gore and plush microfibers. Hermes’s feet were sticky with blood, tracking along the soles, splattering with every little step. Hit toes sunk into the carpet, stuck, and lifted once more.

“So, how do we get into the Panic Room?” Sid asked. He was nearly tripping over his little feet. “Aoi said it was hidden somehow…”

Breathing hard, the Gardevoir replied: “It’s locked behind a Psybeam mechanism.”

“And what about Maximus?” Sid pushed. “How do we, um… beat him?” He was reticent to even ask, but said anyway: “Once we get in there… do we have enough manpower?”

Maestro, perking up at the mention, replied: “We have to. We have to win.”

“And if we don’t?” Asher pushed.

Maestro affirmed: “We’ll find a way.”

Soon enough, the Radiant Hall stood before them. Creaking open the doors and glancing inside, the rebels were relieved to notice it was empty. An entire grand meeting hall, adorned with miles of red-stained wallpaper, chandeliers, stained glass windows, ornate brickwork and the like; a big red carpet leading into the place like a tongue, zipping between rows and rows of seating and tables, all staring upward at one almighty pulpit, a small stage upon which countless politicians had stepped over the centuries, scuffed and worn.

Closing the door behind themselves, the rebels were subsumed by eerie silence. The death and screams from outside melted into calm, dust-filled sunbeams. Long-aged hardwood and varnish permeated the still air, glossing the wood and reflecting Rubrum’s bifocals. His reflection warped and bobbed.

Turning toward the podium, still clutching the Key, he asked: “Okay… what now?”

All eyes were on Akiva now. She turned toward the podium, said: “Just a minute.” Bloodstained slippers left little crimson imprints on the stage’s steps. Calm and collected, just as she appeared during her sermons; but she wouldn’t preach today. Instead, she looked toward the wall, just above the curtains and portraits and pulpit, and spotted it – the Augustan emblem, untouched for ages, still marked by the inner border’s circular shape.

She then lifted her hands to her forehead, closed her eyes; and out it went, a beam of magenta-colored psychic energy, colliding squarely with the emblem’s center. One, two, three seconds, then it stopped, her efforts interrupted by the sliding of metal on concrete. And there, nestled behind the now-drawn curtains, laid their entrance. A metal panel crunched and squeaked as it receded into the woodwork, revealing a small mouth in the floor, dark and dank, leading down.

“This is it,” Akiva announced. “Down there is the Panic Room.”

The rest crowded around – Rubrum with a serious expression, Maestro with a cocky smile, Hermes with a horrified grimace.

“W–we’re actually gonna go down there?” the Simipour whined. Looking backward, he said: “You know, it’s not actually too late to turn back. I’m sure if, uh, we explain to Maximus–”

The cowardly ape’s blathering was interrupted by a well-timed smack against the back of his head; Rubrum then lowered his hand, looked the man in the eyes, and said: “You’re coming with us, or we’re leaving you to the hybrids. Choose.”

Of course, the choice was actually an ultimatum. Swallowing spit, Hermes hung his head and muttered: “R–right. Yeah, okay.”

With that, the rest turned their attention back to the hole. Cold air drifted out and tickled their feet, beckoning them forth. Only inky black darkness awaited them. No light, no warmth.

“Do you hear that?” Fey asked. His ears perked, wafted toward the hall’s entrance. “It’s like a drum beat…? Like…”

Alas, his question was soon answered. Like a heartbeat, steady in-tune footfalls echoed through the Radiant Hall. The rest regarded it with trepidation and confusion, frozen in their tracks; and lo, the double doors flung open. In marched a veritable parade of Pokémon of all shape, age and hue, each dressed in the same drab, brown uniform.

First came the footsoldiers; their chins dipping and rising in silent unison, their feet stepping in long, calm strides, lining up toward the Radiant Hall’s backside in a neat row, then quickly covered by another, and another, and another. Tens of Pokémon, more and more, at least two hundred, marching confidently and happily and taking their appropriate place, their bangles and aurum gears jingling. After the footsoldiers came the Flying types; they walked in, then sprung upward, flying over to the chandeliers, the windowsills, the edifices, and hung there, staring, hordes of them, crowding the hall like an inaugural address.

“Wh–what the fuck…?” Maestro breathed. His eyes darted from the crowd to the staircase, then back. He nudged Rubrum, intending to flee; but the others were transfixed, watching in awe as an entire army piled themselves into the stuffy air.

Akiva glanced at the others, said: “He’s controlling their minds.” A deep inhale, and then: “They’ve been wiped clean… I don’t think there’s anything left there, anymore.”

And indeed, the soldiers acted as such. The last of them piled in with grace and patience, entire hordes in neat lines, before a final messenger piled in – a stout, chubby Jigglypuff, a radio precariously balanced upon its head – and placed the thing down centrally, standing silently behind. Three hundred empty-headed monsters, smiling warmly.

Polishing his glasses, Rubrum said: “I was foolish to assume we’d enter without a fight.”

As if in response, the Jigglypuff then turned the radio’s knobs, unleashing a torrent of static throughout the hall, soon sublimated by the crackle of Maximus’s voice.

“Hello,” the baritone spoke, piercing the waves of radio fuzz. His voice beckoned no response from the crowd, deep and sweet. “It is an honor beyond honors to host such distinguished scholars in this hall. I trust that you’ll accept this honor with due grace, all of you.”

Maestro, his eyes glued to the crowd, let out a nervous snicker and replied: “How about you stick that due grace up your ass, Maximus.”

“A lot of confidence for someone so outnumbered.” Maximus hummed into the microphone, the dulcet tones of his voice right at home amongst the friezes and pomp. “Truthfully, I didn’t anticipate that such a ragtag group would infiltrate our capital. Like a virus, you poison the minds of our people, of our institutions…” He hung on that word, like it clung to his tongue. “Centuries of history, sullied by your childish actions. And obviously, you have no recourse.”

Pause. The rebels exchanged glances, anticipating a sudden attack. But Maximus was enjoying this game too much to cut it short.

“Akiva,” Maximus addressed. “Your stint in prison was your final chance to come around. I hope you realize that.”

The Gardevoir swallowed bitter spit, then replied: “I know.”

“So your escape, your flagrant disobedience… it speaks to your character. Do you understand?”

With a furrowed brow, Akiva shot back: “And the thousands of Pokémon you’ve killed speak to yours.”

The Alakazam’s voice nearly faltered at that. Long-nailed fingers tapped upon pristine hardwood, barely audible upon the radio, that Jigglypuff’s little arms still holding it upright, smiling.

“I’ve always treated you like an adult,” Maximus said. “I’ve given you power and influence, the likes most would only dream of. But you erred. You always erred. And for the longest time, I wondered if I had done something wrong. Something to drive you away from the path of righteousness.” He paused. “Now, I finally realized… the only mistake I made was choosing you in the first place. You were never good enough.”

The saint shook her head, her lips pursed. Rage boiled in her gut, flew into her clenched hands, pressed deeply against her sides.

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” she spat.

“Always too soft,” Maximus replied. Shifting in his seat, coldly, he then called out: “I’d like to speak to the professor now.”

Rubrum, hitherto holding Maestro’s paw, stepped forward, as if giving an address. He laid his paws on the podium, anxious and fidgeting, then said: “I’m here.”

Maximus breathed deep, his shoulders relaxed, leaning close to the microphone, and asked: “Why don’t you call this off?”

Rubrum shook his head, his eyes flittering, and said: “We still have a mission to complete.”

“Your mission is about to go up in flames,” Maximus insisted. “Sometimes, professor, it is graceful to admit you’ve lost. Respectful, even.”

The Lucario chuckled, said: “And you think you deserve respect?”

“I think you hardly respect yourself,” Maximus pushed. “Ever since I met you, you’ve always put the good of others first. You have no self-respect. No self-preservation. None. You’d kill yourself if it meant protecting even one innocent civilian. What’s the use of that? Where’s the honor?”

“Don’t–”

“Great men must live if they wish to elicit change. Obviously, this is a lesson you haven’t learned.” He laughed. “At this point, it’s hardly my lesson to teach you. I doubt the voice of Arceus Himself could convince you of anything.”

Rubrum didn’t speak. He stood straight, his chest puffed, and stared at the quaint radio. A beautiful wooden inlay surrounded its speaker, thumping in-time to a monster’s final address.

“Hermes,” the voice called. “Hermes, I know you’re there. Don’t bother hiding.”

Naturally, the little man was horrified to have been addressed. Pointing a finger at himself in surprise, he sputtered: “M–me?”

“Yes, you,” Maximus said. “You utter piece of trash. Was the life I’ve given you not enough?”

The ape smiled nervously, replied: “Th–they threatened me to come here! I wasn’t even going to–”

“Stop.” Maximus raised a silent hand. “Just shut up. Your presence has been nothing but a continual annoyance for me. If I could’ve found someone as blindly obedient and foolish as you, I’d have replaced you decades ago.”

Hermes sank into himself, edging closer to the open staircase. With a quiver in his voice, he said: “I–I always did my best for you. You know that.”

The monster sighed, his voice carried through the apathetic sea of radio waves. “I know you’ve been embezzling funds,” he said, plainly. “It was obvious from the beginning. And if you’d been better at your job, I might’ve never noticed. But you… you’re a failure, through and through.”

Hermes donned an incredulous expression, his brows arched, his mouth pulled into a horrified grimace. “Maximus,” he called, “I–”

“Enough,” the Alakazam said, annoyance tinging his words. “You’re hardly worth my breath. You’re invited to die with the rest of them.”

With that, the drumbeat roused. Coming from down the hallway first, feet stamping in unison, then spreading outward in a wave. The crowd’s heads perked, nodding up and down, up and down, their eyes upturned and fidgeting against the insides of their skulls. An awesome psychic wave, overtaking their faculties one lobe at a time.

Akiva turned to the others, pushing Rubrum back from the podium, and barked: “You need to go. Now.”

“What?” Fey asked. Innocence and fear made him quiver. “There’s no way we leave you here.”

The Gardevoir, glassy-eyed and stoic, said: “I can close the stairwell behind you. You’ll be safe.”

“And leave you to deal with this entire army?” Maestro asked. He readjusted his mask, instinctively gripped Rubrum’s shoulder, as his eyes widened. “Are you sure you could handle that?”

Akiva shook her head and replied: “If I go with you, they’ll just follow us. Someone has to hold them back.”

“Th–then let me!” Fey interjected. He stepped forth, his limp barely noticeable, and said: “If anyone should stay behind, let it be me. I’ll–”

“No.” Akiva flashed a tight-lipped frown. “None of you could go toe-to-toe with them. I’m the only one who can fend them off.” She tapped her head. “This mind ought to still be good for something.”

Fey turned his head, pleading with teary eyes, and said: “Akiva, please. At least let me fight with you. We’ve just been reunited. I…” He looked away, churned his lips. “I don’t want you to fight alone anymore. You deserve to have someone by your side. Please.”

Pressure mounted in Akiva’s chest. Looking into the Sylveon’s eyes, she sensed something she’d hardly ever seen – compassion. Real, genuine care. No ulterior motives, no artifice.

“Fey…” she breathed. Her eyes flicked toward the rapidly awakening crowd. “Fey, we don’t have time for this. You’re going to need as much help as you can with Maximus.”

The others could only look on. Sid gently cradled his vines, awkwardly glancing between Akiva and Fey. Asher gently patted upon Fey’s back, Maestro and Rubrum backing away from the podium, putting distance between themselves and the crowd. Hermes already ducked into the stairwell, cowering, staring out with shaking limbs.

“I’m not leaving you behind!” Fey barked. “I–I refuse to lose you again. You can’t handle these Pokémon alone!”

Without knowing why, Akiva smiled. In that moment, all that anger faded from her mien, replaced with tenderness. She looked the boy up and down – his little satchel dangling from his hip, his scarred ribbons, his misshapen back leg. All the injuries he’d accrued trying to protect his friends. And yet, despite his fear, he still volunteered to die.

“Fey… you’ve given my life meaning,” Akiva spoke. “You’re too good for this. You… you deserve to live. I couldn’t ask you to stay.”

Fey yelled: “Well, you don’t have to ask!”

“That’s not the point!” Akiva bellowed. In her peripheral vision, the army began to stir. She swept her arm outward, pointing toward the stairwell, and said: “Get in the fucking stairwell! Now!”

“No!” Fey surged forth, standing stalwart by Akiva’s side, trampling upon her tattered red-white robe. “I’m not letting you fight alone! Y–you have us now. Isn’t that the point of all this? To survive? Together?”

In reply, Akiva then bent low, raising her hands to hold Fey’s cheeks. Their eyes locked – one pair resolute, the other terrified – and gravely, she said: “Fey, you’re the best friend anyone could ever ask for.” Her lips then rose to his forehead, planted a gentle kiss there, ruffled his fur. The last embrace they’d ever share.

“You’re going to live,” Akiva whispered, her cheek pressed against his cheek. “You’re going to get the hell out of this place, and you’re going to save us. Okay?”

The Sylveon’s mouth quivered. He sputtered: “Akiva…”

Akiva then stood up once more, motioned toward Asher. Such a simple gesture communicated all he needed to know. The Cinderace silently stepped forward, approaching Fey from behind.

“Please,” Fey begged. “Please, Akiva. Don’t–”

Before he could finish, Asher had already scooped the canine into his arms. Fey struggled and strained against his lover’s embrace, his ribbons flying, attempting to free himself. Tearful screams flew from his aching throat, his paws kicking uselessly at the empty air.

“Please!” Fey cried. “_Let me go! Let me go! Sh–she’s gonna die!” _

Asher strained, his teeth grinding, as he corralled the tearful Sylveon beyond the stairwell’s entrance. Sid followed in tow, holding Sylveon’s limbs taut with his vines.

Only Rubrum and Maestro lingered. The two of them shared a sorrowful glance with the white-clad woman, unsure of what to say. Gratitude and sadness mingled with the drumbeat. The moment seemed to last an eternity. A silent goodbye.

“Thank you, Akiva,” Rubrum said.

Akiva replied: “Get out.”

The two of them obeyed. They quickly retreated into the pitch-dark stairwell, their heads disappearing into the inky blackness; as soon as they’d gone, Akiva swung backward, shot a Psybeam toward the Augustan seal, and the staircase creaked closed. Fey’s pleas were abruptly cut short by the systematic sliding of stone.

“My final test of ‘faith,’” Akiva muttered. She turned to face her enemy, utter fury coloring her mien. Her fists outstretched, Psychic energy rippling from her fingers. Hundreds of former adherents, familiar and unfamiliar faces, corralled in lockstep.

The Jigglypuff then calmly reached above herself, turning the radio’s dial. One stations, two, until it landed upon a station suitable to Maximus’s tastes – crackling sitar and piano, overlaid upon a chorus of cheerful voices.

“One, two, three o’clock, four o’clock rock, five-six-seven o’clock, eight o’clock rock… nine-ten-eleven o-clock, twelve o’clock rock…

We’re gonna rock! Around! The clock, tonight!”

“I’m sorry,” Akiva breathed. “I’m sorry, Fey.”

The crowd surged. Low-laying quadrupeds bent their joints and leapt, baring claws and fangs alike. Akiva’s upraised hand emitted razor-sharp Psychic waves into a barrage of magenta-red filth, slicing clean through ten bundles of cartilage at once, their headless bodies collapsing into heaps. From behind clamored another wave, their paws slipping and sliding around nascent puddles of wet crimson. A Jigglypuff undulated to the symphony of death.

A Cacturne shot myriad spikes from pits in his arm. Akiva rapidly mounted a Reflect, stopping the dart-like projectiles in their tracks, fallen uselessly to the floor, stuck into the roaring footfalls. Balls of elemental energy soared overhead and burnt pockmarks into the bookcases and friezes. Chandeliers swung overhead as the Flying types descended in an arrow formation, all ducking low and careening beak-first toward the white-clad figure.

“We’re gonna rock, rock, rock, until the broad daylight!”

No sooner had they descended, Akiva spread forth her hands, let out a Moonblast to pierce the heavens. An overwhelming white glow emanated there, eviscerating the birds’ throats before they even had a chance to scream. Blackened feathers and distended talons fell upon the crowd in a demented rain. Nonplussed footsoldiers piled over fallen bodies like they were nothing at all, crowding close to the podium, hooking their legs over the stage, their heads bobbing to the tune, and threw themselves forward claws-first. Akiva deftly dodged this way and that, one slice of her slender fingers flashing pink ebbs across the hall, across rows of ducking heads and severed necks and wailing throats.

Pressure made Akiva’s head pound. Every expulsion of energy wracked her body and heated her core, that terrible heat emanating from every fingertip and fiber, pulsed outward in rhythmic pulse of blinding plasma. She felt her tongue lick the peripheral thoughts of those poor victims, fragments of memories and feelings mingling within her skull as their progenitors fell to their knees, dismembered.

Her joints ached. Every burst of energy ripped and pulsed through her fingers and arms, recoil from the massive explosions threatening to knock her back, her feet planted steadfast on the ancient hardwood. A Heracross would claw at her legs, sticking his horn into her shin, only for its carapace to crack open and reveal white stringy ligaments. His exoskeleton burst back like shrapnel, peppering the eyes of an incoming wave just long enough to fire another blast of superheated energy.

“When the clock strikes one, two, three and four…”

With gritted teeth, Akiva quelled the second coming. Feathered limbs swept over her ducked head, flying right into the Augustan emblem and cracking fragile beaks upon the wall. A battlecry-turned-massacre singing from the lips of the injured, trampled underfoot by vulnerable minds clad in the same dirt-colored uniform. Aurum gears alight in unison as emotions surged and asphyxiated under the crushing weight of the assault.

More were piling in now. Soldiers marching into the hall two-by-two and patiently awaiting their turn, lining up once more along the hall’s sides and back like Mareep to the slaughter. With glassy eyes, they watched as their compatriots were mowed down in neat rows one after the other, each surge growing closer and closer to the podium, pressing Akiva’s back against the wall.

A Rhyhorn, having hooked himself onto the stage, charged right for the saint's core, caught only by outstretched fists. Her knee flew upward and nailed the iron golem in its gonads, sending him reeling backward, then blasted clear across the room by an eruption of plasmatic force. His skull left an indent in the conference table, then tumbled to the carpeted floor, lifeless and still. And yet still more soldiers used his backside as a stepstool, running head-first across the meters-long conference desk, jumping the short gap between the table and the stage, storming right for Akiva.

Thinking quickly, she raised her hand in a gun motion, clicked her pointer shut, and shot a blast toward the table’s underside. Splinters flew into the air in frenetic glee, the Pokémon atop thrust outward toward the walls and the ceiling, one of them pierced upon the candelabras of the chandelier, bringing the entire affair crashing down – an explosion of blood and glass.

“Keep going,” Akiva muttered. “Keep going.”

Her fingers were beginning to bruise. Her head swam and overheated. She could hear it now – the countless hopeless voices of Augusta, wishing for salvation. Helpless civilians in cheap apartments ripped apart by monstrous hybrid limbs and chewed upon by cannibalistic molars, their hopes and dreams snuffed as haphazardly as they were born. A monstrous and terrible display of trash and violence. Flowers blooming atop long-lost graves then trampled underfoot once more, as if they never existed at all, centuries of continuous violence rendered concrete.

_“...the band slows down, we’ll yell for more! We’re gonna rock around the clock tonight!” _

There remained no difference between others’ thoughts and her own. Heaps of sadness and desperation filled her mind, an antenna between worlds, receiving the spirits of helpless Pokémon. Moribund hands reaching toward the stained glass window, momentarily knocked from their stupor, finding themselves once more in death. A Breloom groaned.

She couldn’t keep going like this. Her palms were growing purple, the bruised skin obscured only by blood. A Shelgon knocked headfirst against her chest, sending her flying against the bookcase, her dainty slippers mushing around in blood and feathers. The dragon then leapt forth, crushing the woman against cold wood, until her palm slithered within the monster’s shell, superheating it until the whole thing exploded outward in a grotesque rain. Limbs and shell fragments gained flight for the briefest moments, covering the bobbing crowd and pelting the unfortunate in their glassy eyes, squeezed shut as the blast sent a shockwave over the crowd.

More were already coming. A steady pile of corpses and splintered wood had accumulated around the stage, upon which the soldiers stepped, their arms outstretched and grasping. A Throh charged from the left, one arm sliced clean off by a Psychic, then the rest punted backward by a well-placed kick. From the right shambled a Mimikyu, its cloth and flesh burned one and all by a Mystical Fire, transformed into a pile of smoldering ash.

“There’s too many,” Akiva said.

Every soldier she killed was rapidly replaced, their corpses creating a slope leading straight to her. Each upraised hand, each pulsating eye heralding her death. Her breaths stymied, her eyes wide, as her body moved of its own accord, in-time with the wishes of the city.

_“When the chimes ring five, six, and seven… we’ll be right in seventh heaven…” _

Another decapitating wave. It flowed over the mob like a ripple on a pond, bisecting neck from torso, catching a poor biped’s feet and leaving him collapsed on the floor. Blood flowed thin and fast, soaking into the ornate carpet and rendering it a monotonous maroon, spongy and wet against the soldiers’ soles.

“I–I’m dying,” Akiva choked. Words lost in a symphony.

Her eyes bulged from their sockets. Silver hair stood on-end, possessed by supernatural energy, the same that had coursed through her veins from birth. Unrestrained, a motor swirling as quickly as it could, smoke leaking from the fragile joints and spinning out of control. Sweat peeked through her clothes and mingled with dried blood, emulsifying.

“Save me,” the world screamed. “Please, someone, anyone save me.”

The Gardevoir’s arms shook with exhaustion. A scream erupted from her throat as a pink-white flash filled the hall, a massive expulsion of accumulated rage. The front row, waving their arms and covering their heads, eviscerated from the waist upward; and no sooner had their bodies hit the floor, joining the anonymous pile of meat, had their successors stepped right over, their jaws yammering and shaking at the thought of Akiva’s flesh.

Akiva raised her arm once more, but was wracked with pain. A quick glance revealed that her hands, once pristine and pure, were covered in deep bruising. Her index finger bent toward her body in a grotesque salute, her wrist puffy and dislocated.

“Fuck,” she breathed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The other arm soon shot into the air, fired off cursory blasts, enough to repel the immediate wave. But soon enough that, too, was gone. Her left wrist, limp, falling downward like autumn leaves, swaying, broken and bent.

More. More Pokémon, running full-speed into the hall, turning a hard left, and jumping upon the stage. Utterly fearless. Overwhelming the lone defender.

Blood dripped from Akiva’s lip. With every exhausted breath a little cough escaped her, the world rendering in slow motion. One turn of her head, right, left, watching as her impending doom approached. All wearing wide smiles, happy to see that sweet ichor leaking from her skin. Starving for it.

“I won’t let you kill them!”

Those words shot from her sore throat, accompanied by the deafening swoosh-swoosh of air ripping through itself. Situated there on the tip of her chest, barely contained by two broken hands, heat gathered and coalesced into a sphere, larger, larger, shamelessly eating the world’s hopes and dreams, every bit of love and hatred the city had ever shared. An Aurum gear hung just below, flitting and floating in the waves.

Corpses floated into the air. Broken, half-slewn skulls and decapitated thoraxes floated alongside live soldiers, swiping helplessly at the air, thick as molasses, suddenly enveloping them, sticking in their lungs, choking them out, big red faces dotting the air like stars in the sky.

Akiva screamed as the orb disconnected from her chest, floated out, and situated centrally, hung there in the middle like the sun. Around it swirled debris and bodies and white-hot plasma, slowly around the edges, then quickening as they neared the center, sucked in, like water in a drain. The radio, the carpet, the books flying off the shelves, swinging past Akiva’s head and caught into the vortex. A cascade of screams and fear ringing within her ears, blood splattering across the walls in messy streaks, centuries-old tapestries and picture frames converging on a singularity, throbbing and growing as it ate.

Some Pokémon clung to the stage; others to each other, dragging their friends into the black hole like Krabby in a bucket.

“Please!” Akiva cried.

The world was ending. The ceiling rocked like a rumbling belly, dust freed from the cracks, the entire thing undulating and collapsing into itself. Glass windows broken, chairs swept up and away, mounds of meat haphazardly flung onto the brickwork and portraitures.

Outside, the world froze. Hybrids and citizens, large and small, watched in awe as the Radiant Hall rocked to and fro. An entire wing of the Plenum, emitting the cries of a dying animal as Pokémon below fled into the alleys.

A supernova was born. The vortex shifted from dark to light, rays of it shining out from the gaping windowholes and blinding the environs. No more soldiers, no more death. A girl and the world she’d created, finally imploding in a grand spectacle.

Alone in the Radiant Hall, Akiva stood, watching as the force devoured everything in its path. A beast unleashed upon the world, its avaricious appetite eating up whatever it touched, pulling the bricks out from their meticulous arrangements, the constellations from the sky, all the joy and sadness from each and every Pokémon.

Light shone upon Akiva’s face, filling her mouth, turning her robe white one final time. Her robe swung in the wind, the sphere’s surface just barely grazing her outstretched hands.

_“Arceus, let this world be saved.” _

A pillar of light then erupted from the Radiant Hall. The dome blew clean off the top, walls rocking to and fro, before collapsing inward and being greedily devoured. Gravity fluctuated along the Plenum’s periphery, innocent Pokémon lifted clear off the ground, before being slammed down once more, blasted away in an explosion of unseen proportion.

Five blocks over, windows broke. Every edifice scraped and swaying under their own weight, Pokémon stumbling over each other in boarded-in apartments, decades-old corpses arisen from the ground and scattered over the city like ashen rain. Bits of burnt paper and wood and brick rising clear over the city and raining down like javelins, striking the cobblestone, caving unsuspecting skulls. A storm of fire and death.

Cement walls rumbled and groaned under the weight of debris. Maestro braced his hands against the cold stone, loosening his grip across Fey’s flank, and rode the wave. The impact shook his knees against each other like buckling pillars, sending ripples into his gut, his feet fumbling backwards onto the lower steps, lost in the dark.

“Light!” Maestro yelled. “Get me some fucking light!”

Stooping low, bracing against the wall, Rubrum pressed his palms together. The warm glow of an Aura Sphere soon lit between his flesh, exposing six swaying faces, pressed skin-to-skin in the shadows.

“We’re gonna die in here!” Hermes shouted. He swung his head back, as if to look at something, then repeated: “We’re gonna die! We’re gonna die!”

With annoyance in his eyes, Asher barked: “Shut the fuck up, we’re not gonna – Fey, stop moving!”

Fey squirmed against the embrace, pawing his ribbons at the slab, said: “W–we need to help her! Akiva’s all alone up there!”

“Akiva’s gone, Fey.”

“She’s not–”

Another crash. The ceiling of the Plenum caved against the blood-soaked floor, shaking the concrete. Steel hatches bent inward, just narrowly missing Sid’s head, and the lot of them tumbled down, down, catching each other with flailing limbs. A lone Aura Sphere, happily tumbling down the steps, followed by a herd of somersaulting misfits.

“Damn it!”

“The light–”

“Stop grabbing me!”

Until a click sounded overhead. Rows of sequential lights, electronically fueled, popped on overhead, heading up the staircase in neat intervals. Racing past the gravity-challenged.

Hermes was the first to stop. Slipping his sweat-soaked fingers against the stone, he halted his fall, scraping his knees against the rough cement, facing upward, watching as a Cinderace fell ass-first toward his face.

“Asher!”

They collided bottom-first, Fey tumbling atop in a confused pile. Maestro and Rubrum followed, carefully edging along the stairwell’s side, holding each other for support; and Sid, not far behind, hung nonchalantly from a light fixture, his little vines swinging him to and fro in the cold breeze.

“Fuck,” Rubrum called. “Alright… alright, are we okay?”

The professor’s words echoed through the empty stair, met with discomforted groans and aches. Fey daintily peeled himself from Asher’s chest, climbing atop the nearest stair, while Asher stood, clutching his aching bottom. Hermes hastily scrambled out from below it, gasping for sweet, mildew-tainted air.

“Ack!” he cried. “I–I almost died! You people are crazy!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Asher taunted. “Thanks for being a nice landing pad, Hermes.”

Rubrum’s brow furrowed; as he passed by Sid, he scooped the little Servine into his arms, set him down, and asked: “Again, are we okay? Fey, you good?”

The Sylveon’s eyes swam for a moment, reorienting himself to a rightside-up world; but as soon as his gaze focused, he was popped back onto his feet, staring upward at the cave-in. Gnarled and distended metal mixed with dark-colored rubble, streaming through the stairwell’s top.

“A–Akiva,” he breathed. “She…”

The rest followed his glance, recognizing the aftermath of the tragedy. Trickles of blood ran down the boulders’ sides in neat little rows. No more yelling, or screams, or sounds of war; only the eerie silence of a battle since ended.

Maestro parted his lips, muttered: “She, uh…” He shook his head, began again. “She must’ve brought it all down.”

Tentatively, Rubrum approached the wreckage, ran his fingers over the hard-edged stone. Little bits tumbled onto his feet, his other paw instinctively running themselves over the Key in his satchel, still glowing.

“There’s no way we’re getting back out this way,” Rubrum spoke. “It’s completely caved in… probably tons of rubble, even if we clear this part out.”

Asher smacked his lips, rested exhaustedly against the wall. He said: “Okay, so… we have no choice, right? We’re headed down.”

The awkward silence was only interrupted by Fey’s tears. Through clouded eyes, the Sylveon watched as the final trickles of red tumbled down the sides of the stone, pooling shallowly at the staircase’s head.

“She gave her life for us,” Fey said. “She… she’s…”

He could hardly catch his breath. Every sob made his tiny lungs hack and cough, his legs collapsing under him in a heap, his chin resting upon a step. Asher hurriedly climbed to his side, the rest watching in awed silence, as the Cinderace rested a gentle hand upon the Sylveon’s back.

“Hey, hey,” Asher whispered. “Fey, I’m here. I’m here.”

“B–but Akiva isn’t,” Fey sputtered. “She’s… oh, Arceus…”

His stifled sobs permeated the metallic hum of the electronic lights. A momentary silence stretched long and deep. Little bits of rock trickled between the boulders and accumulated on the top steps. The rest of them held onto the walls, pawing at the stone as they caught their breath. Mildew and must hung in the air, beading on the inside of Maestro’s mask, wiped hastily clean.

“We don’t have time to wait,” Maestro said. He looked to Rubrum. “Maximus is still down here with us. We’re sitting Psyducks.”

Rubrum bit his lip, cleaned off his glasses with a light-colored rag. His foot tapped anxiously below. “Right,” he said. “Right, I suppose we don’t have time to waste.” Then he stuttered: “M–maybe you’d like to stay behind, Fey.”

“No,” the Sylveon said, perhaps a bit too quickly. Tears still burgeoned from his eyes, but he wiped them away. “No, you’re right. We… we don’t have time for this.”

He then unsteadily rose to his feet, turned around, and began his trudge down the uneven steps. His tail dragged on the stone.

Asher threw a final glance backward, then continued by Fey’s side. The pair of them brought up the front while the rest hung back – Hermes, of course, in the far back. The air became colder and colder, wetter. The smell of dust gave way to the warm scent of finished wood and plaster. A small landing sat below.

“We’re almost there,” Asher whispered.

The landing was carpeted with red and yellow fabric. Faded pink wallpaper hung neatly from the walls, completely undisturbed, as a cuckoo clock ticked thoughtfully at the hall’s end. To the left, a row of doors, seven of them, laid out in even intervals. Plain, gray doors, with a plaque on each. To their right, a bend.

The rebels cautiously gravitated toward the doors; walking close, they realized their intent.

“It’s a doomsday bunker,” Sid whispered. “Look. They’re for all the Board members.”

Indeed, the plaques showed it. Iris, Cassius, Kane, all the down the line, with Hermes’s room at the back, notably smaller than the others.

“Th–this is my room?” the Simipour sputtered, edging closer. His disappointment was palpable as he laid his paw upon the doorway. “It’s a fucking janitor’s closet… couldn’t I get anything better?”

Asher simply sniped: “Goes to show how much he cares about you.”

Just then, a new sound. Old-timey music, played faintly from the hallway’s bend. Crackling and weaving, just loud enough to notice.

The group glanced at one another, nodded in affirmation.

“He’s here,” Rubrum said.

Single-file, the six of them slid along the hallway’s wall. Maestro then peered around the corner. His face quickly contorted in confusion, his jaw dropped.

“Come see this.”

The rest then rounded the corner and emerged into a grandiose sight. A room laden with Arcean symbology, draped in red and violet fabrics and sequins and banners. The deep, fluffy carpet gave way to a crimson-colored couch, a coffee table, and a full-stocked bar, complete with hanging glasses and dark-stained wood. A gramophone crooned next to a plush velvet chair, upon which Maximus himself sat. Unmoving, unimpressed.

The boys cautiously approached, the air awkward and terse. Rubrum and Maestro puffed out in front.

“Maximus,” Rubrum greeted.

The Alakazam said, “Professor.” A glass of maroon wine swirled thoughtfully in his hand, his back casually reclined against the plush. His gaze was ironclad.

“I suppose you don’t want to sit down,” Maximus said.

Maestro shook his head; in his periphery, he spotted Fey come forth. The Sylveon’s hackles were raised in quiet rage; and through gritted teeth, he said: “Your daughter’s dead.”

Maximus was nonplussed. He asked: “Is this supposed to be news to me?”

The Meowscarada scoffed at the flippancy. He spat: “You’re really something, huh?”

“Most prophets are doubted before their time,” Maximus reassured. He motioned toward the opposite chairs. “Come, sit.”

But Fey couldn’t keep quiet. He stepped forth, his eyes wide with grief, and repeated: “Your daughter is dead.”

“Well, she refused to live.” The words fell heavy from Maximus’s lips, accompanied by the batting of his wet eyes. Every barb from Fey’s throat was effortlessly deflected. He motioned once more, repeated: “Sit.”

Rubrum narrowed his eyes, spoke for all of them: “We’re not here to sit down with you.”

“But you really should,” the Alakazam ushered. Then, as if losing any care about it, he said: “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. I was just hoping you and I could talk.”

The Lucario stepped forward. He asked: “Talk?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to solve this peacefully?” the giant goaded. “That’s always the impression I’ve gotten from you, anyhow. With all your pillaging and killing.”

It took ever fiber of Rubrum’s willpower to still his lips. His fists clenched at his sides as he leaned forward and asked: “What did you really want to talk about?”

Maximus made no sudden movements. Every flick of his thin joints was distinct and deliberate. A long, bony finger curled around his glass as he said: “You know, you’re not the first to do this.”

“Yeah,” Asher spat. A stressed chuckle escaped his lips. “Probably not.”

“I’ve met Pokémon just like you before. In this same room.” Maximus motioned around. “That was decades ago. And they had the same ambitions you do.” He paused. “Can you guess what happened to them?”

No one replied. The question hung uncomfortably in the air, as if no one dared answer it.

“The Spear will fire in a matter of days,” Maximus continued. “You’ll never make it in time. That much is assured.”

Rubrum sucked in air, exhaled, and replied: “We have to try.”

“Of course you do,” Maximus breathed. His tone was unapologetically disappointed. “That’s what they said, too. The other ones. Why even remember their names? It doesn’t matter.”

He then sat upward in his chair, leaned forward, still cradling the glass. He said: “What if I told you I could cease all suffering in this world? Would you believe me?”

Maestro shook his head, replied: “No. We wouldn’t.”

To which Maximus snapped: “I’m talking to the professor.” And then, looking back at Rubrum, he asked again: “Well? Would you?”

The Lucario shifted his feet, scoffed: “Of course not.”

“But it’s true,” Maximus insisted. “A world full of happy Pokémon, going about their usual business, without the threat of another species forcing them to extinction.” He smiled. “That’s the world I’m creating.”

The Lucario sternly replied: “The humans have never been a threat to us. You know that.”

“But it’s about more than the humans.” Maximus was starry-eyed. “It’s about us. Our happiness. Sharing our hopes and dreams.”

Rubrum shook his head, said: “You’re speaking nonsense.”

“Look at your aurum gears,” Maximus commanded. “All of you. Take a good look. The power of Arceus resides in them. And yet, you treat them like trinkets.” He let out a scoff. “Have you ever thought about their true purpose?”

“Yeah,” Rubrum replied. “They activate machinery in the laboratory.”

“Not the fucking lab, you dunce,” Maximus barked. “Aurum conducts emotions, much in the same way copper conducts electricity.” The words dripped from his lips with self-congratulatory glee. “The Spear draws on it. It feeds on you.” He smiled. “And then… we’ll all be one.”

The words struck fear in Rubrum’s heart. He took a heady step backward, his eyes wide, and said: “You’re insane.”

“I’m not insane!” The words flew from Maximus’s lips with unanticipated fervor. The wine glass swayed in his grasp. “Damn it, what do you think causes violence in Pokémon? Why do we fight each other? Why is anyone unhappy?” He laughed. “It’s because we’re separate. We are utterly and totally isolated from each other. There’s sadness between us, all of us.” He motioned around, as if drawing upon it. “The Spear is going to unite all Pokémon. All people. Our minds, our hearts, will be utterly changed.”

He then tapped upon his own head, his head hung low, and hissed: “I’ve only experienced a taste. Just a little bit of what this world has to offer. And even now, I can feel eternal peace swelling inside me.”

“P–peace?” Rubrum sputtered.

Maximus grinned. “A person like me,” he said, “can never be lonely again.”

The giant then stood. He towered over the rest of them, looking down upon their silly little heads, his front teeth stained magenta.

“I’m going to make you an offer,” he said. “And I’d advise you take it. Because otherwise, this little tantrum of yours will have been for nothing.”

A pause heralded his decree. His eyes looked around the room, met with every other pair, before returning to Rubrum.

“Stop now, and you live. I’ll even allow you leeway in government. Any position you’d like as we reconstruct the city. Take your pick.”

“The city?” Rubrum spoke. “You mean, the city you destroyed?”

The giant simply replied: “Anything that resists change must be destroyed. You believe this, too. You believe I deserve to die. There is no difference.”

The Lucario spat: “The fact you see no difference speaks to your character.”

“And your inability to prioritize the good of our species speaks to yours.” Maximus then motioned outward again, said: “I’m being lenient right now. If you want power, congratulations. You’ve got it. You can rule this city alongside me; your bravery deserves that much. But I will allow you no more.”

Rubrum had hardly ever felt such rage. His fists curled, his jaw grinding. He spat: “Fuck you, and fuck your peace.”

“You obviously have never seen the bigger picture,” Maximus growled. He pinched his fingers together, looking through the little gap. “You’re an insect. I’m giving you an opportunity to rule, here. Why don’t you people ever take good things when they’re handed to you?”

The professor adjusted his glasses, his gaze suddenly falling to the floor. A deep breath in, then out. And the words fell from his lips: “You know Ceres wouldn’t want this.”

The next moment, the wine glass had vaulted from the Alakazam’s hand. It flew across the room, whizzing past the Lucario’s ducked head, and shattered against the wall, an explosion of violet fluid against the pristine wallpaper.

“And what would you know about her? Hm?” Maximus bellowed. “Nothing. You know nothing of what she wanted – of what she wants,” he insisted. “Her spirit resides in me. She’s blessed every damn thing I’ve done to rid this continent of scum like you.”

For only a moment, tears welled within Maximus’s eyes. He wiped them away with a swipe of his claws, sadness supplanted by grief and anger. “Ungrateful pieces of shit. No wonder you gave up on the Academy.”

“I left the Academy of my own accord,” Rubrum said.

“You quit because you’re braindead,” Maximus sniped. “Disgraced fucking knuckle-dragging morons, pretending to be heroes. To think I used to think of you as prodigies, huh?” He laughed, perhaps a bit too much. “How stupid I was. And now… I’ll show you exactly what happens when you bite the hand that feeds you.”

No more words could be exchanged. Maximus took a step forward, his feet sinking into the plush, simmering with decades-bottled rage. The rest, in turn, stepped forward too; but Rubrum waved his hand, motioned backward.

“No,” he commanded. “No one come forward. He could rip apart your minds with a touch.”

But Maestro refused. Sauntering to Rubrum’s side, clapping a hand against the professor’s back, he said: “As if I’d ever let you fight alone.”

Rubrum shot him a worried glance, muttered: “My love…”

“We live together, or we die together,” Maestro reassured. “And between you and me, I plan to keep on living.”

The two then turned their glance toward the monster, stared upon his imposing frame. The Alakazam’s neck was strained, popping with quivering tendons; his arms flexing in anticipation, Psychic energy rippling from their surface, claws at-ready, chest heaving. Crackling guitar still played through the gramophone, filling the confined space, bouncing off the gaudy furniture.

“Die here like the others,” Maximus breathed. “And by Arceus, let this matter be done.”

With a flick of his wrist, the monster was gone, teleported across the room. Six feet from the imprints in the carpet he rematerialized, his hands wrapped around Rubrum’s neck from behind, ready to snap. The professor couldn’t react quick enough.

Maestro’s eyes widened, his claws instinctively emerging from their sheaths. Without thinking, he flung a Night Slash toward Maximus’s illusory figure, his paws whiffing through the air. Just as soon as the giant had appeared, he faded; the Meowscarada was knocked off-balance, his body toppling forward, arms outstretched.

The impact met Maestro’s back like a sucker punch. A deft, bony elbow, driven straight into the feline’s spine. Another effortless Teleport, so quick that the others hardly noticed the apparition. Maestro’s lithe body was driven against the floor, the wind knocked from his lungs, fallen on his hands and knees. An upraised knee then connected squarely with the boy’s mask, cracking it down the middle, the impact rattling Maestro’s brain. By the time Rubrum noticed, Maximus was already gone.

The professor then hurried to Maestro’s side, lifted the dazed boy to his feet. Blood coagulated behind the Meowscarada’s gums, his head spinning.

“P–professor…”

“On your feet!” Rubrum barked. “He’s teleporting. He could be anywhere. Eyes peeled!”

Within their minds, the rebels heard it – a distant laughter, uproarious. Coming from every direction at once, toying with them.

“You’re outmatched,” Maximus’s voice echoed. “Hopeless little animals, scurrying within their cage…”

“Battle positions!” Rubrum yelled. He hooked one arm under Maestro’s armpit, held the boy steady. “Watch each others’ backs! There’s no telling where he’ll appear next!”

The rebels obeyed, adrenaline pumping through their veins. Fey, Asher, and Sid pressed their backs against each other in a tripartite formation, watching out at the walls. Maestro struggled to his feet, allowing the remnants of his mask to fall from his face, clattering softly onto the carpet; he then turned, beleaguered, and pressed his back against Rubrum’s. Five pairs of eyes on high alert, watching every square inch, while Hermes dove behind the nearby sofa, cowering in shame and fear.

“How long will you last?” Maximus asked. “How long until your journey proves futile?”

In only a blink, the monster had reappeared. His imposing body shone behind the bar, his arm held out, as latent energies pulsed from his fingers.

“Duck!”

A killer Psybeam shot from Maximus’s palm, that steady stream of superheated plasma ripping length-wise across the room, trailing black scorch marks against the wall, one continuous blast as it attempted to decapitate all of them in one fell swoop. Fey grabbed Asher’s head with his ribbons, ducked it low, while Sid did the same; Maestro and Rubrum rolled out onto the carpet, somersaulting forward, the tip of Maestro’s ear singed by the vicious energy. The smell of burnt fur wafted from the boy’s head.

Maximus wasn’t done. Standing his ground, he upraised his other arm, lifted two fingers, and slammed them down upon the air. Near-unseen Psychic blades shot from their tips, cut across the air at blinding speed, landing where Asher’s knees had been just one moment before. The Cinderace hopped blindly from one foot to the next, cycling backwards, as grunts and yelps ejected from his lips. Scarified skin still peeled from his soles.

“What is it, boy?” Maximus taunted. “Can’t move as quick as you used to? What a shame.” A wry smile. “And yet, such a fiery mind… your memories will be delectable.”

Fey’s face was contorted with rage. Before Maximus could shoot another wave, a Moonblast had already summoned between the Sylveon’s ribbons; it shot out toward the bar, ripping a hole right in the middle, sending splinters and broken glass glittering in the air like snow. Maximus deftly sidestepped the impact.

“I recognize you,” he spoke. “You’re… Fey, right? I recognize you from her memories.”

Another Moonblast. It careened through rows of neatly laid bottles, cracking each in succession, spilling dark, bitter alcohol along every inch. Maximus once more sidestepped the attack, utterly unimpressed.

“You poisoned my daughter’s mind,” Maximus bellowed. His eyes bubbled with barely contained rage. “It’s disgusting what you’ve done to her.”

Fey replied: “She’s only dead because of you.”

And with a scowl, Maximus barked: “Idealistic fool. You die first_._”

Maximus mounted the bartop, then hopped over its wreckage. Seeing their opportunity, Maestro and Rubrum immediately charged; elemental energies eagerly coalesced between their palms, shooting out and closing the gap. With only a lift of his finger, Maximus upheld a Light Screen, trivializing the projectiles before they had a chance to land.

The two of them were close now. Rubrum punched first, his fist raging and plunging toward Maximus’s chest like a meteor. Another upheld finger, though, and the blow was interrupted, his fist blown away by unseen force. The Lucario was then suddenly shot backward, flying through the air, until his backside crashed unceremoniously into the wall, knocking over a neatly laid row of novelty shot glasses.

Maestro was next. Two Night Slashes, dodged back-to-back. Maximus’s footwork would never allow such an insect to land a blow. Their legs flitted in an intricate dance, Maestro pushing the beast back, back, until Maximus’s back rested against the splintered bar.

The Meowscarada’s paw still hovered in the air as he suffered the blast. The air bent and warped, broiling like sunrays upon pavement, before the shockwave sent Maestro backward. His face knocked against the gramophone’s brass horn, crumpling into a twitching heap, as the record skipped.

Toward the room’s back, Sid helped Asher to his feet, steadied him upon uneasy soles. Fey was left vulnerable; standing upon shaking legs, he watched helplessly as Maximus turned his attention toward him, calmly stepping over the wreckage.

“You’re mine,” Maximus cooed.

The Sylveon’s eyes widened in horror as the monster neared. The Alakazam cupped his hands, then splayed them out; and up Fey was brought, hovering in the air precariously from his ribbons, yelping in pain.

“Still hurting, are we? Weakling.”

Fey swung like a pendulum, gently at first, then violently, his puny body flung in circles before being slammed onto the floor. An audible crack echoed through the walls, leaving the boy completely prone, his legs sticking upward, his belly showing, his little lungs gasping for breath.

Maximus approached with a devilish grin. One finger outheld, he loomed over the boy’s frame, edging across a tiny forest of fuzz and splinters. Uncut, dirty toenails caught on the rough fibers, his outstretched fingertip pulsating with faint pink-violet energy, rippling off like sunrays.

The Sylveon’s eyes lazily focused on that hand, coming close. His head pounded, his brain sloshing like water against his skull, the urge to cry out stifled only by the utter terror of his impending annihilation. The lights faded behind Maximus, masking him in shadow, only the whites of his eyes shining a sickly yellow.

“Please,” Fey sputtered. “N–no…”

Fey blinked, and the finger edged closer. Closer. Closer. But just as it was about to touch, a shield of light flashed across Fey’s vision; through it, the Sylveon could barely spy Maximus’s annoyed grimace.

“Go!”

Before he could recognize what was happening, Fey had already been plucked from the ground, carried swiftly away by his beloved. Asher wrapped his fingers around the boy’s tired haunches, lifted him into a bridal carry, and sprinted toward the room’s corner. In Fey’s place stood Sid, a lone Servine against a monster of abominable proportion, his arms held outward as they summoned a flimsy Protect.

A stray sweep of Maximus’s limb was enough to dispel the barrier. Faced with a Pokémon half his size, the Alakazam could only laugh.

With a flick of his wrist, a flurry of Psycho Cuts flew from his forehead, razor-thin, curving through the air like boomerangs and flying erratically toward Sid’s feet. The Servine, however, was accustomed to such projectiles; pressing his palms together, he initiated a Double Team, his body rendered an apparition in three parts. Between the illusory bodies landed each projectile, stuck worthlessly into the rug, deftly danced over by the Servine’s tiny feet.

“Fucking twerp!”

That moment of anger was all Sid required. Stopping dead in his tracks, the snake leveraged his body and threw himself forward, his vines slashing like blades across Maximus’s flesh. The Alakazam just barely dodged the slash, bending backward, throwing himself off-balance, balancing precariously on his heels.

Maximus knew he couldn’t withstand such an onslaught. Luckily, he had anticipated such a rush; with only a lift of his index, a small electric charge shot from its nail. Like lightning, it arched and zig-zagged through the air, landing squarely upon Sid’s snout. The Servine’s limbs immediately froze mid-lunge, his body falling with a meaty thwump upon the floor, paralyzed.

Immediately, Maximus conjured another round of Psycho Cuts. Just as before, they flew from his forehead, curving up into the air, before coming back down, aimed squarely for Sid’s spine.

A flash of light heralded Sid’s survival. The tiny lizard was suddenly blasted aside, nailed in the ribs by a Dark Pulse, his body flung against the wall haphazardly. Psycho Cuts once more embedded themselves in the floor, nicking the tips of Sid’s vines as he flew, dismembered and bloody, writhing like worms and bleeding profusely upon the expensive carpet, absolutely ruining it, something that did not go unnoticed.

Annoyance took root in Maximus’s heart. Each of his killing blows, just barely foiled. A drop of fear stirred in him, quickly dispelled, as he snapped his neck around to see the origin of the shot – Maestro, only a meter or so away, his arm upraised in preparation of a Night Slash.

Got you.

Maximus’s hand flew to the air, clenched tight, as Maestro’s claws stopped right before Maximus’s face. Maskless, Maximus sensed the feline’s fear, relished in it. Maestro’s jaw hung slack, suddenly aware of his critical failure, as his other arm attempted the same – but it, too, was halted.

Sharp claws then curled effortlessly around the Meowscarada’s neck, wrapped tightly around the helpless boy’s windpipe. Already, Maestro could feel his strength weakening, oxygen deprivation and dread driving his body into panic. He ripped his arms free from the psychic hold, unleashing puny Fury Scratches upon Maximus’s mien, but to no avail. His attacks only incensed the monster’s grip, a pathetic gasp escaping the prone Meowscarada’s throat. His paws then grasped at Maximus’s wrists, attempting to pull them away, but failed.

“Stop!” Maximus barked. “It’s over. Lay down your arms.”

A quick glance betrayed the rebels’ defeat. Asher nursed a disoriented and aching Fey, leaning and heaving against the wall, his arms burning from exhaustion. Sid clutched uselessly at his severed vines, holding them against his chest, writhing and moaning in pain as he desperately attempted to slow the bleeding. And Rubrum, their leader and professor, just barely on his feet, lifting himself from a pile of broken glass, staring with terrible rage as the love of his life was choked.

“No,” Rubrum breathed. His eyes were wide, his heart beating out of his chest, as his fingers clenched into deathly hot fists.

“Put him down,” Rubrum begged. “Please, let him go.”

Maximus only smiled. Already, Maestro’s hands grew weak. With retracted claws, the boy’s hands weakly grasped at Maximus’s wrists, his eyes bulging, little croaks and gasps escaping his jaw. His arms then weakly fell to his sides, swaying, as his gaze swam.

“How does it feel?” Maximus asked. “Tell me. How does it feel to lose someone you love, hm?”

Rubrum shook his head, began again: “Please–”

“This is exactly what I felt when you took them away from me,” Maximus growled. His grip tightened, sending a cry of pain shooting from Maestro’s throat. A horrific grimace settled on Maximus’s face, remembrances of days bygone. “I watched as the Board – my Board – grew smaller and smaller. My friends. My family. Gone. Eaten up by your silly ambitions.”

The professor stumbled forth, his breaths unsteady. Little trickles of blood tumbled over his bruised flesh. Asher and Fey, battered, rose upon unsteady legs and closed in.

“Don’t come any closer,” Maximus ordered. His feet shuffled slowly backward, his heels resting upon the couch’s scratchy upholstery. “One more step, and I snap his neck. Do not test me.”

Rubrum opened his palms, splayed them wide. Panicked, he breathed: “P–please. Don’t. I’m the one responsible. If you have to do this to anyone, let it be me.”

Maximus eyed the Lucario with reproach. “And yet,” he said, “if I did so, you’d never learn.” A disdainful chuckle. “You may be a professor, but you are woefully stupid in the ways of this world. There is more to life than your students. There are ideals we must strive for. Achieving those ideals… that is our purpose.”

The Lucario choked: “I work to keep them safe.”

“Safe?” Maximus replied. “Don’t make me laugh. You use your students to bolster your disgusting, swollen ego.” He then looked into Maestro’s eyes, shivering and red. “If you truly cared for the safety of your students, you would never have led them here. This malignant pride you keep, the thing you call ‘friendship,’ is but a distraction from a greater goal.”

The Lucario screwed up his face, yelled: “You destroyed this world! We’re only trying to fix the mess you made!”

“This world was broken the moment one Pokémon rose to be above another,” the Alakazam insisted. “Inequality is in our blood. We are built to organize ourselves into castes. We kill each other in endless wars. We pillage and rape each other. There is no rest, no catharsis. History is only a continuous struggle for power. That is the ultimate fault of sentient life – its complete and utter incapability to sustain itself.” A wistful look coalesced in Maximus’s eye, affixed upon Maestro’s face, red and swollen. “For millennia, our ancestors have done nothing but kill each other. No meaningful technological progress has been made. The arts have fallen aside, replaced by meaningless echoes of true purpose. All the greatest minds of my generation, cut down like animals.”

“Please–”

“You will listen,” Maximus barked. “For the first time in history, we have the power to put petty squabbles behind us. The endless cycle of power struggle, eviscerated. We will live as one being, under Arceus, forever. Happily. Without strife. Without war, without famine. The final evolution of our sentience. Humans and Pokémon alike… whatever remains. Not destroyed – rebuilt.”

Rubrum’s eyes flickered between his beloved, pale and still, and his aggressor. His voice cracking with desperation, his eyes watering, Rubrum begged: “Please. Please, let him go. I–I’ll do anything you want.”

Maximus shot a disdainful glance toward the professor, replied: “No. It’s not enough. You need to witness the consequences of your actions.”

One gnarled nail rose, loomed close to Maestro’s face. The Alakazam brushed the remnants of his mask aside, letting them clatter to the floor, revealing the terrified boy beneath. All the cocky bravado, all the witty quips, cast aside in a final moment of reckoning.

Rubrum’s breath caught in his throat. Maximus’s finger trailed from Maestro’s forehead down to his cheek, then upward to his eye. The nail gently traced along his socket’s rim, Maestro’s pupil eagerly following the fine point, his lips parting in a silent yelp.

The nail then eagerly slid itself below the Meowscarada’s eye. Gummy sclera yielding to the fine knife-tip of keratin. Rubrum shouted.

But before he could react, the action had already been done. One fine flex of Maximus’s index heralded a torrent of white-hot pain. Vitreous gel gushed like magma from Maestro’s eye, freshly pierced, the remnants of it plucked cleanly from its socket, that optical nerve unceremoniously ripped from the anchor, as the trophy hung from Maximus’s upturned nail. A scream choked from the Meowscarada’s constricted windpipe, his once-still hands clawing at the wrist that held him limp. The cry echoed off the walls, a terrified sob that rocked their guts, tears mixing with fresh blood down the boy’s mint-colored fur.

Maximus gently cradled the distended eye between his index and thumb, edging it between his fingertips like a toy.

“You’ve always been blind,” Maximus hissed. “Now, you can finally feel it.”

Rubrum could take it no longer. Letting out a guttural scream, the Lucario charged forth, his palms at-ready, as he hurled himself across the carpet.

The man couldn’t even get close. A deft Psychic wave swept Rubrum’s legs out from under him, throwing him once more against a pile of debris and filth. The wind was knocked out of his lungs, escaping into the dust-laden air, as his body tumbled to the mound’s bottom, skewered with glass shards and splinters.

Maximus then downturned his finger, flicked the eyeball onto the ground. A soulless squelch sounded from underneath his heel, the thing pressed into a thin paste, gummy and wet.

Maestro sobbed. A crackling wail sounded from his throat, staring into the face of his imminent demise. No one else dared step forth. Sid, still nursing his wounds, barely upheld himself against the wall, staring intently at the horrific scene, pinching his vines. Fey and Asher didn’t breathe. The air went still, save for the wails of the moribund, the last cries of feeble resistance.

“This message is for all of you,” Maximus announced, his words drowning out the futile weeping. Phlegm and alcohol stained his breath, his voice gravelly and chastising. “If you stand in the way of progress, your lives are forfeit. Let this young man’s folly teach you.”

Rubrum could only watch. The next few moments progressed with decadent patience. That blood-stained nail rose once more, pulsating with magenta energy, pumping in-time with Maximus’s heart.

“Just one touch, Maestro,” Maximus whispered, “and all your pain goes away.” A benevolent smile, genuinely sympathetic. “Don’t worry… it doesn’t hurt.”

Maestro struggled. He kicked his legs in the air, pulling his face away, but it was no use. The last of his oxygen rapidly fled. His remaining eye opened wide, awaiting Maximus’s touch. Closer, closer. It hovered just above Maestro’s forehead now. The Meowscarada could feel its warmth, Psychic waves electrifying his fur, bringing the strands upright, as if yearning for release.

“Goodbye,” Maximus whispered.

One last blink. Maestro and Maximus locking gazes, predator and prey. Rubrum reaching out from the pile of rubble. Breaths emptying from him like poison.

Salvation was heralded by a glint of light.

From behind Maximus’s frame, a flash caught Maestro’s eye. The warm light of the electronic lights, reflected off the curved, dark base of an upraised wine bottle. Stood tall like a flagpole, it lingered there for only a moment before tumbling down, swung like a pendulum, and exploded upon the top of Maximus’s skull.

Crack.

The Alakazam’s neck was forcibly snapped forward. He could feel his brain fly against the front of his skull, bruised and malleable. A torrent of violet flew from his skull, waterfalling over his vision, pieces of viridian glass sprinkling upon Maestro’s face. Wet, dark wine wetting Maximus’s lips, that acrid-sweet taste mingling with blood gushing from his scalp.

Thwump. As Maximus’s grip loosened, Maestro’s body limply fell to the floor, his knees buckling, face-up. Fresh air invaded his lungs, coughing and sputtering, as his vision blurred and swam. And above him still loomed that giant, eerily still, arms awkwardly outheld, as if gripping a steering wheel. Just a silhouette now, lit only by the sodium lights above, a lamp surrounding his head like a halo, the Alakazam’s mouth agape in a mixture of surprise and pain, his eyes staring mindlessly ahead.

A breathy croak escaped Maximus’s throat. Searing pain afflicted the back of his head, his neck, fluid gushing from the wound. A tentative hand brushed the impact site, then hovered before his quivering eyes – red. A deep, beautiful red, perforated with glass.

Maximus could hardly balance. He took one hesitant step forward, fumbling over Maestro’s unmoving body, his arms held out front, like a hatchling taking its first steps. Those same fingers which had once deliberately flexed and folded were now clutched mindlessly in front, curling into boxer’s fists, like the final curl of an insect.

“F–fuck you, you fucking monster,” Hermes spat. Wine coated his hands and wrists, staining his once-blue fur. The Simipour, still clutching the wine bottle’s neck, stood atop the couch’s backside, a terrified frown plastered upon his mien. Despite his shaking legs, he stood tall, gazing down at his bloody work, his breaths shallow.

Maximus’s face contorted in horror as he felt his consciousness sway. His legs were leaden, and yet he took another hurried step forward, another, another. The room spun around him, those warm lights melding with the plush fibers, neat, untouched glasses still hanging from the bar’s periphery. Blood-soaked carpet squished under his gnarled toenails, still dripping from his wound, breaths falling from his lips like a death rattle, stunted and small.

For the last time, the Alakazam stood; and then, with a sigh, he fell. Face-first, the giant plunged onto the coffee table, the weight of his body breaking the thing clean in two. Maximus’s snout laid bent and broken in the newfound fissure, his wound on full display, gushing hot, red blood in eerie silence.

A moment passed, then two, each longer than the last. Maximus was still, save for the minute twitches of his distended limbs. The handle then fell from Hermes’s grasp, tumbled onto the ground.

“Oh Arceus,” Hermes breathed. “Oh my… what did I… oh, oh, oh…”

Rubrum’s legs shook as he then rose atop the pile of splintered wood. His knees cracked as he clamored forth over wreckage, his palms falling to the floor, his satchel dragging along the ground as he threw himself over the blood-sponged carpet and glass shards and scorched fabrics, to kneel at Maestro’s side.

“My love,” he whispered. “My love, Maestro…”

The Lucario’s palms gently rested under the Meowscarada’s head, lifted it to meet his gaze. Fresh blood still gushed from the feline’s ocular cavity, trailing down his cheeks in deep crimson tears. Maestro’s words were rendered stifled sobs, his eye squeezed shut.

“I can’t see,” Maestro choked. “I–I can’t see. I can’t see, I can’t see…”

Rubrum’s breath quivered, his arms wrapping around the small of Maestro’s back, stooped over his body, holding him close. The professor cooed: “It’s okay. It’s okay. Hey, you’re okay.”

Maestro could speak no more. His words rendered unintelligible blubbering, his tear-stained face smeared blood against Rubrum’s breast. Saliva and snot stuck between them, muffling the sounds of suffering.

“I’m so sorry,” Rubrum breathed. He struggled to hold back the torrent of shame, his voice breaking awkwardly, the fur moist with sweat and blood. “Maestro, I’m sorry. I never should’ve… oh, Arceus…”

They wailed. Two bodies, pressed against the inevitable. Maestro’s hands weakly grasped along Rubrum’s shoulders, his bruised throat taking in little gasps of iron-smelling air and loose sawdust.

Sid watched the scene from across the room, his back slumped against the wall, as his hands clenched tight. Ichor pumped weakly from his vines’ severed ends, pooling upon his thighs. A short while away, their tips had long since gone still. Glassy eyes shifted from one thing to another, heartbeats ringing in his ears, a blank expression upon his face. No movement.

Asher and Fey crouched only a few feet away. Fey’s ribbons sore and bruised, retracted like an insect’s wings, pressed close against his body while Asher loomed above. For a while, they listened to Maestro’s panicked sobs; breaths stuck in their throats, adrenaline still pumping its way through battered limbs.

Rage then shone upon the Cinderace’s face. His fists curled around Fey’s haunches, then suddenly launched off, his body moving like a bullet through the tattered lounge. He stopped for only for a moment, just short of Maximus’s wheezing body, grabbed a table’s leg, and surged forth.

“Asher,” Fey called. He followed in the Cinderace’s blazing wake. “Asher!”

The rabbit hovered over the giant’s trodden body. Face-down in the wreckage, Maximus hardly moved. Thin hairs along his scalp still soaked in maroon-violet, little pumps of blood emerging from the fractured skull. His fingers twitched, his eyes flickering, unseen, as his doom loomed above.

“Piece of shit,” Asher spat. Self-righteous venom dripped from his lips. He then rounded the wreckage, lifted Maximus’s head by the ears, and met his eyes there – glassy, moribund. His snout bent upward at a horrific angle; and yet, Asher wasn’t satisfied. Rage made every muscle curdle.

“He’s still alive,” Asher announced. A manic chuckle sounded from his lips, belted upward toward the ceiling, before his gaze shifted back. He taunted: “Still alive after all that, huh? You don’t have the balls to die? Huh?”

Maximus could not reply. Not even a sigh fell from him; only the breathy rasps of a dying old man, the vestigial twitching of curled limbs.

“Imagine how many people died just like this,” Asher spat. His grasp seared the flesh on Maximus’s ears, the smell of burnt hair wafting outward. “How many Pokémon died in your arms? How many Pokémon did you eat?”

Fey edged closer, wincing as his ribbons trailed along the ground, whispered: “Asher…”

“Tell me!” Asher bellowed. His gaze didn’t move from Maximus’s face. “Such a fucking big guy, huh? Big bad monster on the hill?” He then flashed his eyes toward Rubrum and Maestro, those two still holding each other amidst the din. Tears welled in Asher’s eyes, burnt away into steam by white-hot fury.

Fey began: “Asher–”

But, his voice crackling, the Cinderace pushed forward.

“Don’t you see what you did to them? Do you even know what you did to all of us?” Asher showed his arm, addled with burnt, scarred, hairless flesh, hovering before Maximus’s broken snout. And he spewed: “I look like a monster. And I am, I am.” Mucus flowed from his little pink nose, flinging with every breath. “I never wanted to hurt anyone! You made me do this! You made me!”

But Maximus’s face remained blank. His eyes drifted upward toward the ceiling, the idle motions of a dying man. There remained no hatred there, no remembrance or solace. Just absence, a mind emptying itself of endorphins and drifting into sleep.

Asher received no relief. Sucking in air through his teeth, stifling the urge to cry, he dropped the man’s head back onto the splinters. He then grasped Maximus’s shoulder, letting loose a grunt, and turned the man over onto his back. The ancient thing’s limbs were stiff, his fists bobbing in the stale light as his eyes grazed the ceiling.

The Cinderace stood there a moment above him, his chest heaving. That table leg smoldered in his grip, hanging like a sword of Damocles. One swift strike to the skull, and it’d all be over. He could envision it now – the brains spilling out over the carpet, one last gasp echoing from an absent jaw…

“Asher,” Fey called. His fur was matted and wild, his eyes beaded, and yet his voice was resolute. “Asher, look at me.”

And, taking in a few frantic breaths, Asher obeyed. He moved his gaze to the Sylveon, still white-knuckling the table leg, and barked: “What?”

“Asher, please…”

“Please what?” the rabbit replied. “What, are you gonna tell me he doesn’t deserve to die? Huh, is that it?”

Fey shook his head, replied: “This isn’t what we came here for.”

“Then what the hell did we come here for?” Asher shouted. He waved his arms in the air, looking askance as sadness settled on his face. His voice emerged as a desperate plea. “Why else are we here? We have to stop him.”

The Sylveon shuffled uneasily. Fey said: “Asher, look at him. He’s… he’s done.”

Foam dribbled from the corners of Maximus’s lips, settled upon his mustache. Little bubbles of red-white spit. The sight of it made Asher’s stomach churn.

“So he gets to die? Peacefully?” The Cinderace’s lips pursed into a grimace, just barely holding back sobs. Tearfully, he argued: “He destroyed us. He destroyed our lives.”

Fey stepped forward, replied: “No, he didn’t. He didn’t. Look at us. We’re here. We’re okay.”

“Easy for you to say,” Asher shot back. “Just look at me. Look at me!” He spread his arms wide, gawked at his own flesh. Pits and boils, scarred skin leaking into sparsely furred biceps. Atrophied muscles laying beneath pitted, pale, hairless flesh. Blood leaking from below his tender soles, mingling in a pool. The aches and pains of a disfigured beast.

“I–I can’t even lift my arms above my head anymore,” Asher said. He shook his head, his eyes twitching with despair and fury. “This… this man took away everything. Look at them!” He pointed toward Rubrum and Maestro, now silent amidst the raised voices, the subtle humming of electric lights. “Look what he did! Look what he did!”

Fey spoke: “Asher, it’s already done. Please.”

“He killed our friends!” Shaking his fists. “He killed Grimm! He killed women! He killed children! There’s not enough hatred in this fucking world that could describe it! A fucking endless tar pit of murder, all the way down to this country’s founding! And I’m supposed to be the bigger man? Me? Me? Fuck that! Fuck that!”

Fey was crying now. Little tears streamed down his ruffled cheeks. And he said: “Asher, you’re not like him.”

“And what if I am, huh?” Asher sniped. “I’m not the person you think I am, Fey. None of us are innocent! At all! We’ve… I’ve killed people. I’ve taken their lives like it was nothing.” He sniffled, coughed, looked the Sylveon in those beautiful blue eyes. “And I did it all for you. So you wouldn’t have to. I kept you clean, because I… I love you so much.” Looking around, he motioned at the rest. “After all this time, all this fighting, why are you pretending we have a choice? Turning back at the last minute? It’s insane!”

“Because I know you don’t want to do this,” Fey replied.

“So what?” Asher yelled. “I didn’t want to kill Kane. I did it anyway! I didn’t want to fight Iris. I did it anyway!” Quivering with anger, he choked: “You get all the benefits, Fey, but you whine every step of the way! If I hadn’t killed them, you’d be dead! We’d both be dead!”

Silence followed. Asher’s shoulders rose and fell, his eyes watery and desperate. Only Maestro’s whimpers perforated the air, nose pressed into Rubrum’s chest, while the Cinderace and Sylveon stared each other down. Two unwavering faces.

Resolute, Fey spoke: “You know I’ve always trusted you, right?”

Asher flitted his hands, looked askance, and replied, sullenly: “Yes.”

“Do you trust me?” Fey asked. He stepped forth, coming close to the body, head held high. Akiva’s voice, singing through him. “We have a chance to end all this right now. No more killing. No more blood.”

The Cinderace’s face morphed with pain. One deep breath, then another. He said: “If that man were conscious right now, he’d kill us in a second. You know that, right? He’d fucking kill us.”

“I know he would,” the Sylveon replied.

“He’s a monster, Fey!”

“And?” Fey prodded. His jaw shook. “You’re better than him. I’ve always known that about you. You’re not meant for this, I know that.”

At that, Asher’s face softened. That anger and endless fury, the thing that’d been fueling him for months, melting uncontrollably. His lip quivered, quickly hidden by an upraised paw, clawing at his brow. He couldn’t bring himself to look down at those eyes, the eyes he’d spent half his lifetime worshiping. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Just the crackling of a small, terrified animal.

“This… this is such bullshit,” Asher croaked. His lips were dry, his eyes trailing with furious tears. “I just can’t… I can’t take it anymore. He deserves to die.” He sniffled, locked his gaze onto the blood-splattered ceiling, a panorama of loss and filth.

Asher paused, allowed the tears to run down his face, tickling his lip. One deep breath, then another, until he said: “I–I don’t fucking get it. Why did this have to h–happen? I never wanted this, I–I never wanted any of it…” A cry escaped Asher, breathy and rasped, as he cried: “Oh Arceus, please…”

The table’s leg then clattered from the Cinderace’s grasp, fell silently onto the carpet. Rusted nails dug into the floor and ripped at the fibers by Maximus’s head. Sid and Hermes stared.

“Oh, Arceus,” Asher breathed. Grief made his limbs heavy. “Oh, Arceus, Fey…”

The beast collapsed into a heap. His knees sunk into the carpet as his hands flew to cover his face. Pain wracked his fragile body, a fit of sobs making him shiver and spit. Fey approached, laid a sore ribbon around his shoulder, hugging him close, feeling that pent-up heat flow and dissipate. The Cinderace cried harder. They said nothing.

Seeing this, Rubrum’s face scrunched into a grimace. Maestro’s grip had grown weak around his waist, exhaustion having taken its toll on the poor Meowscarada’s ravaged body. Both eyes still squeezed shut, his claws grazed the Lucario’s flesh, whimpers falling from his jaw. Rubrum shot a remiss glance toward him, then to Maximus, then Asher, then back.

“We should restrain Maximus before he comes to,” Rubrum said, and he gently removed his lover’s claws from his flesh. He then waved toward the Simipour, said: “Hermes, stay with Maestro. This’ll only take a minute.”

The ape was over in a flash. Adrenaline still coursed through him, his eyes paranoid and darting, his fingers curling and feet tapping. And he breathed: “Yeah. Yeah, do it,” before taking Maestro in his arms, hugging the poor boy to his chest.

Rubrum then stood, carefully avoiding the glass-laden fibers, and walked to the coffee table. Maximus still laid there, moribund, the blood halting to a trickle. Only the slightest breaths betrayed the great beast’s life.

“Just fucking kill him,” Hermes sniped. He didn’t look at anyone, his words fading into the still air, as if he hardly had bravery to say it. “Just… get it over with.”

Rubrum ignored the ape’s instruction. He calmly fingered his satchel, removing a coil of rope, and unfurled the mass, holding it between his fists, outstretched. He then squatted down, hesitantly moving himself over to Maximus’s arms, and coiled rope around his bony wrist. The Lucario was surprised to notice his flesh; it was paper-thin, just hardly stretching over the masses of dilapidated muscle and bone. Even now, Rubrum could smell the alcohol on his breath.

The professor gently placed Maximus’s fist onto his stomach, then got to work. Looping the rope around one wrist, then the other.

Then, he paused. He’d never seen Maximus so peaceful before. Even on those horrid posters, he always looked indomitable, confident. But what laid before him was a husk – all those fleshy blemishes uncovered, liver spots on his scalp, arthritis-ridden joints awkwardly cracking as his limbs shifted. A sight few had ever seen.

“It’s sad,” Rubrum echoed, and pulled the ropes taut. “He’s… just an old man.”

Flick.

Just then, down there, settled on his stomach, Maximus’s finger spasmed. Lifted up, then down, tapping on his stomach, thump, thump, thump. The sight made Rubrum freeze, his heart suddenly pumping hard; he gritted his teeth, watching in anticipation as the twitching then slowed and stopped, just as abruptly as it’d began.

Rubrum took a deep breath, lowered his hackles. And with relief, turning his head toward the others, he said: “Hey, I think he’s–”

Unforeseen, the finger then jolted forth, far quicker than the professor could react. Like a corpse from a casket, Maximus suddenly shot upward, his eyes wide, red-tinged with rage and blood. A deathly grimace squared upon his face.

Fey watched helplessly from over Asher’s shoulder. He reached out his ribbon, his mouth agape, swatting at the air, screaming: “_Professor!” _

But Maximus had already made contact. That decrepit fingertip barreled up, up, until it’d poked Rubrum squarely on the forehead, snapped forward in anticipation. The Lucario’s eyes were shot up into his skull, his jaw twitching as he felt the outer layers of his psyche violently stripped like a fruit’s rind, falling away in rotten bits.

Rubrum’s vision rapidly plunged within Maximus’s jaws, an unfamiliar warmth enveloping him and undulating against his flesh. As if his mind were scooped up along that unkempt fingernail, shot down the Alakazam’s throat, and enveloped in that all-consuming darkness which had devoured countless prior.

The Lucario screamed, but none heard. His voice was enveloped in that inky sludgy smoke, infiltrating his lungs and mouth, filling him up. Maximus’s tongue tingled against the man’s grey matter, licking along its periphery, tasting all the beautiful memories Rubrum had shared. Fully enveloped in the mindscape now, Rubrum thrashed in vain against the forceful embrace.

“Y–your memories,” Maximus breathed. His voice was haggard, coming from all directions at once, speaking to the core of Rubrum’s being. “Beautiful memories… I–I’m so happy to see…”

The terrified Lucario choked. With his body forcibly held, his mind racing and panic settling in, he awaited the piercing pain of Maximus’s teeth. That sinking of his incisors into the cerebrum, the pillaging of emotion, the absence of his memories as they were eagerly gobbled up.

But nothing came. The giant’s warm breath simply lingered there, grazing the edges of Rubrum’s mind, smelling it. A predator, playing with its victim before swallowing him whole.

“Kill me,” Rubrum spat, but his mouth did not move. Terror made his voice quake, his eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to gaze out into Maximus’s mind, unwilling to greet his demise. “If you’re going to do this, don’t make me wait. Just… just do it. Get it over with. Please.” Pause. “I don’t want to feel any pain.”

And still, nothing came. Only a few stifled breaths, which soon wheezed and sputtered and coughed. Those usual barbs which flung so effortlessly from Maximus’s lips were stifled by a death rattle; even in his own mind, where his power was most prevalent, he had yet to strike. He idled.

And then, without a word, the predator had retracted his incisors, let out a breathy sigh. Footsteps echoed in the mindspace as the monster seemed to pull away, walk a short distance. The professor trembled, confusion making his voice catch.

“Wh–where are you going?” Rubrum asked.

No reply. The shuffling seemed to fade, disinterested and aimless. Just as suddenly as Rubrum had been brought within Maximus’s brain, he was abandoned. As if the Alakazam had dropped all the malice which he’d displayed moments before.

Then, the space was silent. No movement, nothing. As Rubrum reluctantly opened his eyes, he was met with the same void-expanse he’d grown accustomed to. Smog and violet-grey clouds whooshed around him as he stood upright, gazing into nothingness. The smell of burnt meat made his nose perk.

“Hello?” Rubrum called, and looked around. The same clouds crowded him in every direction, flowing this way and that, as if pulled by the tides of the moon. One infinite ocean, lapping at his feet.

Rubrum’s face scrunched. The air was hot and sticky, the smoke semi-solid against his ankles and shins. He took a few steps forward, called once more: “Hello?”

A voice then emerged from the pitch-dark heavens. All-encompassing and familiar, it delved through the clouds and bellowed: “You.”

And from nothing, the man appeared once more, materialized from the ever-shifting waves. Long, beautiful eyelashes batted from his eyes, his head cocked inquisitively. Still, Rubrum could feel his breaths cascading down the back of his neck, booze and grapes.

“Me,” Rubrum repeated. He swallowed nervously, his chest puffed. Awkwardly, he shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and said: “Get it over with, if you’re going to do it. I… I don’t want to prolong this.”

Maximus was amused by the remark. Innocently, leaning forward, walking toward Rubrum with a lanky gait, he said: “I can’t believe it’s you.”

Rubrum cocked his chin, replied: “You brought me here.”

“So you’re my guest,” Maximus said. He grinned, nodded. “I’m sorry for the mess. It’s been… well, it’s been a hell of a time.”

The professor’s eyes widened, an anxious smile hung on his lips. One moment, he was threatened with death; the next, he was welcomed. It made no sense.

The Lucario stuttered: “I–I’m your guest.”

And with narrowed eyes, a playful mien, the Alakazam admitted: “I’ve always admired you, Crest. You remind me of myself.” He then motioned toward the darkness, cutting through the smog with his claws, motioned inward. A light burgeoned from the cloud there, sunrays peeking through the dark.

“I would bring you further,” Maximus said, “but…” He then looked down at his limbs, dejectedly inspecting his hands. They shook in the swirling hot air, trembling like a hatchling’s. “My hands just aren’t working right. They’re um…” He flitted them around a little, watching as they flapped. Intrigue colored his eyes. “Something is happening today, I guess.”

Rubrum could only stare. The Maximus he once knew, the calculated despot, was utterly supplanted. Someone else had taken his place.

“Come to my house instead,” Maximus said. His tone was warm. “We have some tea brewing.”

Rubrum eyed the giant incredulously, his frame narrowed. He asked: “You want me… to come to your house?”

Maximus nodded. And with a jolt of his finger, a wooden door coalesced within the light. Paint curled from its edges, like the frame had rotted long ago, and it swung open with a deafening squeal. Whiteness shone from inside; Maximus motioned to follow.

The Alakazam then turned toward the light, sunshine making his face bright and pure; he stepped forward once, twice, then swayed, his body catching on nothing, tumbling forward and back, before falling onto his backside. For a moment, he stared out.

Rubrum timidly approached, asked: “Are you okay?”

“My legs,” Maximus replied. He seemed surprised to have fallen. He gently rubbed his nails upward on his shin, caressing his knobby knees, and he spoke: “My legs just don’t work right today.”

Still reeling in disbelief, staring down at the man who’d nearly slaughtered him, Rubrum offered: “Do you want me to… help you?”

“Please,” Maximus said. He then lifted his bony arm upward, extended his fingers. They shook. Rubrum stared at them a moment, astonished at the old man’s weakness, then accepted the embrace. He pulled Maximus up onto his feet, situating himself under the giant’s shoulder, and stepped forth. The old man stumbled along.

“You’re heavy,” Rubrum coughed.

And with genuine sadness in his voice, the man replied: “I know. I’m sorry.”

The pair then limped through the blinding light. Rubrum’s eyes squeezed shut against its majesty, grunting as he plunged himself into the unknown, footfalls finding themselves against hardwood.

“We’re here,” Maximus called.

Midday sunlight peeked through half-drawn windows. A blanket of soft white expanded over the horizon beyond, coating the conifers and gardens and rolling hills within a blizzard’s worth of ice. Sunbeams reflected off the storm-capped grass in a rainbow, illuminating the cabin therein, big multicolor streaks along the log-made walls.

Maximus then broke from Rubrum’s grasp, calmly sauntered into the warm air. Embers roared within an intricately laid fireplace, a big fluffy rug in front, knick-knacks adorning the mantle. Books piled high upon bookshelves, spilling out onto the floor and the coffee table and wooden planks. One still sat upon on the kitchen counter, streaked with coffee stains and dark splashes, leaned against the wall, while Maximus leaned close and eyed its contents.

“I’m making a souffle,” Maximus explained. A laugh lingered on his lips. “Never thought I’d make something so haughty, but…”

From the cabin’s opposite side, a voice replied. A dark-skinned woman, clothed in loose-hanging white, her hair intricately braided and set. She sat calmly at a short breakfast table, nestled against the wall, her palms clutching a mug of steaming tea. And in dulcet tones, she spoke: “You’ll make it rise this time, honey.”

“It’s just so finicky,” Maximus said. Annoyance tinged him as he flipped through the cookbook’s pages, front and back. “One minute, it rises. The next, it’s burnt, or it’s not risen enough.” A frustrated giggle. “Arceus, I think I need to find a new book.”

Rubrum was frozen in astonishment. The scene before him was near-unbelievable – Maximus, living a quiet life in the snowy woods. And Augusta, that giant city, the grand wall and arches and pavement, were nowhere to be seen.

The woman then turned toward Rubrum, patted the table, and sipped her tea. With adoration in her gaze, she said: “Professor. I’m honored to host you. Come, sit.”

Rubrum followed her instruction. Gliding below the beautiful low-hung ceilings, his soles squeaking upon the wood, he made his way opposite to the human, awkwardly scooted his chair inward. A moment later, Maximus limped forth, unsteadily carrying a small cup of tea, setting it down on the table between them.

“For you,” Maximus said, and smiled. “You don’t take milk or sugar, do you?”

Rubrum shook his head, replied: “No, thank you.” He then tentatively brought the mug to his lips, tasted the bitter herbs. The liquid rolled down his throat and soothed the worn muscles, plunging down into his stomach and heating him from the inside.

“My name is Ceres,” the woman spoke. She watched intently as Rubrum swallowed the mug. And she teased: “You must be thirsty.”

The professor laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said, “my manners aren’t all there right now.” He then motioned outward, flicking his wrist toward Maximus, walking back toward the messy countertop, and spoke: “You can imagine this is all a little awkward.”

Ceres flashed a clandestine smile. “Yeah,” she said. “It is, isn’t it? I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Rubrum said. “I mean, it’s not fine, but it’s fine. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

The professor then motioned around, from the fireplace to the door, smacking his lips, and asked: “I’m inside of Maximus’s mind, right?”

“Yeah,” Ceres admitted. She seemed remorseful. “But, as far as mindscapes go… this might be the best one. Count yourself lucky.”

Rubrum shifted his gaze, frowned. And despondently, he asked: “You’re not the real Ceres, are you?”

“I’m as real as the memories she held,” the figure replied, unbothered by the question. “But you may consider me whatever you’d like. All I ask is that you listen to me.”

Rubrum chuckled at the futility of it all, then said: “Of course I will. What else can I do, right?”

Idly, the fireplace crackled and popped. Maximus hummed to himself by the counter, cracking eggs into a wooden bowl and steadily whisking away. A quiet hum fell from his throat, his movements lively, jubilant, and swaying.

“He’s having trouble walking,” Rubrum remarked.

To which Ceres replied: “He’s having a seizure.” She then rubbed the back of her head, as if touching the wound, bringing her palm away clean. “Right now, his brain is eating itself.”

Rubrum replied, nervously: “With me inside?”

Ceres solemnly nodded, sipped gently from her tea. She gazed deeply into its swirling middle, a whirlpool pulling everything down, cream and bubbles sucked below.

“I want you to know,” Ceres said, “that I’m very proud of you.” Pause. “I know how much you’ve sacrificed to be here.”

The Lucario then took a deep breath, looked askance. He muttered: “Thanks.”

“I’m being genuine,” Ceres insisted. Her eyes pierced his, her hand suddenly creeping across the table, laying gently upon Rubrum’s. “The qualities I see in you… they are the same which once drew me to Maximus.”

The professor scrunched his maw, ripped his hand away, and spat: “Him and I are nothing alike.”

Sadness flashed upon Ceres’s face. She said, “I’m not trying to insult you. I really mean it.” She then paused, a pensive finger laid on her chin. “Your leadership capabilities are undeniable. And despite working as a teacher, you seem to have a natural grasp of combat…”

“Don’t–”

“...and I want you to know that I noticed you. Not Maximus – me.” She then swallowed, sucked in air, and meditated on her next words. Silence made Rubrum squirm in his seat. He tapped his foot.

“Why me?” Rubrum asked. “Why notice me? Why not my students?”

The human sighed; and, having found the right words, she said: “You’re drowning, professor. Even if you can’t see it.” She cleared her throat. “I’m telling you this because… I want to help you, if I can.”

Rubrum leaned back, arms crossed. He probed: “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to…” She then trailed off, glanced at Maximus, still happily going about his business. He set down the whisk, shook the bowl, and began to pour the mixture into a baking tray. It settled in a yellowish gelatinous mess. He scraped the remainder from the bowl with his fingernail.

Ceres then looked back, said: “You see?”

Rubrum laughed, shot: “You don’t want me to become like him, right?”

“Would it be so hard to believe that he once fought for his friends?” Ceres asked.

Rubrum’s face screwed up at that, and he said: “Yeah, actually. It is hard to believe.”

“You’ve only seen what he became, professor. Not who he once was.” Ceres tilted her head, a warm smile gracing her lips, looking right through the Pokémon before her. “He fought for the future he thought was right. He… he did it for me. Even when he didn’t want to.”

The professor shrugged. Ripples formed upon the surface of his tea, rhythmically emanating from the inside out.

“What are you trying to say?” Rubrum asked. “All this crap about how selfless I am… you can’t be saying all this just to flatter me.”

A small quake worked its way through the hardwood. Gas lamps shook overhead, blackened logs tumbling in the fireplace. The flames flickered and warped, distended, and then settled once more. Snow began to fall.

Ceres said: “I’m not trying to flatter you. I’m trying to make you see the truth.”

To which Rubrum replied: “I’m the one who needs to see clearly? Not Maximus? Not this entire damn country?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

The human then took a deep breath, hung back in her chair. A bright light flashed outside the window, as if the sun had dipped and risen again, shining onto the walls in a brilliant burst. Off in the distance, a pillar of souls rose into the heavens.

Gravely, Ceres spoke: “The point is that, when you forsake yourself, you’re leaving others behind, too.”

“That’s not how that works,” Rubrum snapped.

“Isn’t it?” the woman pushed. “Maximus fought to uplift his friends at every opportunity. He never once fought for his own salvation. Never. Even as he readied the Spear, it was always… it was always for his family. He fought for their happiness, in his own way.”

The Lucario was affronted by the accusation. He spat: “The family he intimidated into going along with his war? The Pokémon he let die? Please. He never cared about them.”

“You will listen,” Ceres barked. She then leaned forth over the table, stared the professor in the eyes. Hot air plunged from her nostrils, breaths fervent. And she spoke: “You think your goals are altruistic, but they’re not. You’re escaping responsibility by framing yourself as a savior. Have you ever thought about what will happen when your friends pass away? When they inevitably live their own lives? When they have children, have families, and live in the world you created?” She scoffed. “Here’s the truth you fail to accept, Rubrum. Even after your victory, the work never ends. Even once Maximus built this empire, instituted the change he wished to see, he was carried forth by cancerous responsibility. It gnawed at him, it ate him. He thought he knew others better than they knew themselves. Even as they screamed and cried, fought and died, he never stopped fighting. And in his soul, he did all of it for them. Never for himself.”

Ceres then paused, shook her head. Her mouth contorted into despair. And she said: “You’re the change you wish to see in this world, Rubrum. That’s fine. I accept that. But your acts of self-sacrifice reveal only one thing; that you hate yourself. At what point does this hatred reflect itself upon the world? What happens when you finally claim the reins of power? Do you think you’ll act more responsibly just because you have friends?”

Rubrum choked on his own words, sat back, fiddled his paws. Ceres’s gaze froze his blathering tongue, stilled his anger, and he sat back, quenched, stunned, and saddened.

“What, so you’re saying I should be… selfish?” Rubrum asked. His voice was weak. “That… that doesn’t fit at all. I’m supposed to save the world. Heroes aren’t selfish.”

And with a tender gaze, Ceres simply replied: “Rubrum… that’s just the thing. You’re not a hero.”

Silence pervaded the cabin. Outside, snow began to melt and warp. It shot upwards from the ground, falling into the sky, gently flowing from each blade of grass and coagulating into the clouds above.

“If I’m not a hero,” Rubrum asked, “then what am I?”

Ceres sighed. She looked past him, at the glitching and tendril-like flames. And she said: “You’re a Lucario, professor. You’re a Fighting type. Why don’t you act like it?”

Tears began to bead along Rubrum’s eyes. With his gaze downturned, away from the chaos outside those thin glass windows, he wiped his cheeks and croaked: “Y–you’re asking me to forget about my friends? To fight for myself? That’s… that’s insane.” He breathed in, deep and quick. “This entire time, I’ve held the world on my shoulders. Am I supposed to just give that up now?”

“I’m only asking for you to share the responsibility,” Ceres cooed. “This world does not hinge on you. You fight for a better future, yes, but for whom? If you think of yourself only as a sacrifice, you will inevitably come to expect the same of others.” She waved her hand toward the kitchen, Maximus still vigorously whisking away. “He considered his friends’ lives a worthy price to pay, even though he loved them. That is the logical endpoint of your philosophy.”

The woman then bent forth once more, her shoulders haunched, her eyes empathetic and kind, and pleaded: “If you take anything away from this conversation, make it this: To think of yourself so highly that you’d impose your will upon this world, give every bit of yourself away just to convince yourself of your worth… is that not selfish?”

Rubrum said nothing. His dry tongue lapped against a prison of sharp teeth. Incisors hitherto hidden and repressed, an aura unseen and small, suddenly alight with sadness and rage.

“Before this, I never wanted to be special,” Rubrum admitted. His eyes were wide, his movements small. “Living a normal life, raising a family, that was enough for me. But once all this began, I… I thought I had to be special. Special enough to live. Special enough to be worth dying for.”

“You’re already all of those things,” Ceres assured. “You always were.”

Suddenly, the lands outside faded away. The once-rolling hills of white snow, the beautiful grasses and flowers underneath, the blood-soaked grounds which heralded such a bounteous future, gone in an instant, replaced with inky nothingness, miles-high, miles-wide.

Rubrum asked: “He’s not going to live much longer, is he?”

Ceres shook her head, said: “No. He’s not.”

The professor then shot a glance at the gentle old man, his back turned. He slipped the souffle in the oven, still humming, happy and free.

“You have to live,” Ceres said. “You must. For yourself.”

The Lucario shook his head, replied: “I don’t know if I can.”

“You must.” The human’s face shone with compassion and love, a nail driven deep into Rubrum’s heart, and she spoke: “We love you. We all love you. For yourself, for the future Maximus could never build… you must end this.”

Flames escaped the fireplace like serpents, crept along the walls. Black, eerie smoke tumbled along the roof there, spread out and thick, tainting the well-worn wood with char and soot. Paneling shook and bent, the windows suddenly shaking and pushed inward by great winds.

“It’s over,” Ceres said. “Go.”

Rubrum replied with a solemn nod. He then stood from his chair, pushed the thing inward, his head submerged in a thick blanket of ashen smoke. Even as he walked the short distance, he felt the floorboards creak and give way. One after another, they fell into the abyss beneath his soles.

Maximus slowly straightened himself, closing the oven tight, and removed his mitt. Hanging the thing gently upon a little aluminum hook, he then closed his recipe book, oblivious to the smoke and fire, and began to pile dishes upon one another. An old man, living through his happiest moments for one last time.

Rubrum then raised his hands outward, shaking with fear, hovering them before Maximus’s nape. One little centimeter away, his eyes twitching and teeth bared in a horrific grimace, his legs planted taut.

The man’s fingertips then gently grazed the Alakazam’s flesh, alerting the giant to his presence; and so Maximus turned to face his aggressor, eyes wide with surprise, naive and pleading, paws wrapped loosely around his neck as the smoke rose and billowed.

“Crest…” Maximus whispered.

Rubrum’s eyes were wet and red. A remorseful frown withheld his shame, his sadness, his desperation, as his fingers then closed in, wrapped themselves tightly around the old man’s windpipe. Maximus raised his hands to break Rubrum’s grip, his face screwed up with effort, his eyes bulging from his skull in big, wet crimson-tainted spheres.

“I’m sorry,” Rubrum said. Stifled cries made his breaths shake, unsteady, smoke working its way deep into his lungs. Tears streamed from his eyes, wetted his cheeks, stained his bifocals, dripped down onto his snarling lips, from which an unwilling growl fell.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

Maximus could not reply. His legs, withered and worn, buckled quickly under the assault, his backside pushed against the countertop, his frame upheld by Rubrum’s steel-clad grasp. A single clawed hand, gentle and weak, snaked along the Lucario’s arm, as the Alakazam’s breaths slowed to a shallow croak.

“I’m sorry,” Rubrum cried. His palms squeezed tighter, his biceps bulging, his wrists tensing. Around his feet the floor broke and fell, the smoke escaping in all directions, devouring every little bit of air and space, until only the two Pokémon remained, one strangling the other, while Rubrum wailed: “I–I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

With wide eyes, Maximus weakly struggled. Every jerk of his moribund body was easily foiled, his grasp weak, his writhing subsumed by Rubrum’s superior strength. That vicegrip only tightened further, pressing against the thin-ran fascia in the giant’s neck, bending them inward, that thing bruising and purple and strained. Rubrum’s thumb dug in there, between the trachea and tendons, holding it shut, starving the monster of life.

Maximus still moved. His hand slowly crept along Rubrum’s arm, moved upward, along the man’s shoulder and throat, then to his face. A gentle touch laid there along the Lucario’s tear-soaked cheek, brushing the liquid aside, cupping Rubrum’s jaw, as he gazed into his eyes. Tender, loving, happy.

With the last of his breath, Maximus whispered: “C–Crest…”

“Shut up!” the professor screamed. His arms jerked the old man to and fro, his head banging unceremoniously against the cabinet, porcelain within spilling out onto the counter. “_My name is Rubrum! Rubrum! That’s my name! Say my name!” _

And for just a moment, recognition flashed in Maximus’s eyes. One last moment of tenderness and hatred intermixed, darkness beyond the figure above, Rubrum’s blue fur blending into the black smoke and empty void and all of creation. All the cabin going up in flames and burning up as the last of Maximus’s neurons fired and fried, axons drying up and curling against one another, thousands of thousands of memories lost, entire empires of life and experience rendered little mounds of homogeneous dust and filth.

“Say it!” Rubrum shouted. “Say it!”

But Maximus refused. Saliva gurgled from his bruised throat, a mighty growl reduced to nothing. All the sadness he’d ever felt, condensed into those little oxygen-starved pearls, spittle flying from his clenched lips. Beside them, the souffle overheated and spilled from its little pan, molten egg flowing out over the hot coals.

“I’m a Fighting type!” Rubrum wailed. “I won’t pretend anymore! I’m sick of laying down and taking it! I won’t do it anymore! I won’t!”

Crack.

Maximus’s head shot forward, his jaw hung open. The smallest breath sighed from his broken neck, subsumed by the aether.

Crack.

Rubrum clenched the man’s throat for only a moment longer; he watched as the monster’s eyes, once wide with rage, settled into themselves, unblinking and glassy. Maximus’s body slumped forth.

And with quivering breath, Rubrum unhanded him. The monster’s body then fell, face-first, awkwardly and limply plunging past the burnt-up floorboards. Down into the abyss, a tiny dot of yellow fur amidst the black tar of ages past, eaten up and made nothing, same as before he was born.

Rubrum stood in victory, alone. There was no celebration, no catharsis. Just the tragedy of a great man, reduced to nothing.

The professor didn’t feel it until it left him. A grief-ridden scream, straight from his gut, shouted out into the inky heavens. Steel, aura-laden fists beat upon his chest, his knees sunken onto the floor, his face upheld. It seemed to rip itself free from his vocal cords, singing for an eternity amongst the crumbling interior, chanting with the rising smoke and falling snow and everything in between, all of creation joined in desperate mourning.

Then, the floor below disappeared. Crumbling out from beneath Rubrum’s feet, the man was plunged beneath, free-falling, sunken. Tears flew from his face and hung there in the abyss in crystalline droplets, hung like chandeliers, tracking his descent, until he froze there, arms outstretched, facing the little hole of light above, until that, too, faded. Alone in darkness. Alone in death.

“Thank you,” Ceres said. Her voice was deep, peaceful, tinged with the sadness which Maximus had always sought to destroy. Filling her, filling him, the spaces between them saturated with loss. One little speck, desperate to change the world.

Lowly and repentant, Rubrum breathed: “Did… did I do the right thing?”

A laugh then fell from the human’s lips. The final laugh she would ever share. And she said:

“Rubrum… you’re a guiding light in a broken world. Something beautiful and fleeting… and for as long as I’ve lived, I’ve yearned to witness you.

I wish you only the best.

_I love you.” _

Darkness subsumed it all.

*— — — *

The professor shakily stood from the wreckage. Below him laid a still-warm corpse; his eyes rolled back, his mustache bloodied and unkempt. Death-grip claws outheld, sticking up in the air, still with index stretched.

“Professor!” Fey exclaimed. The boy bounded to Rubrum’s side, his face alit, his tail wagging with unabashed joy, still stumbling over the wreckage and splinters. “Professor, you’re alive! You’re…”

A glance was enough to stifle the boy’s excitement. Resolution and grief etched itself across Rubrum’s lips, his eyes sullen, his lips unmoving. And the professor looked at the destruction he’d wrought; the champagne glasses smashed upon the wall, ornate furniture ripped and torn, light fixtures smashed, while Asher pressed down on Sid’s wounds, trying to hold the blood within, cooing softly as the Servine flitted in and out of consciousness.

“Professor?” Fey asked. “Are you…?”

Rubrum then cast his gaze down upon the boy, gave a tired smile. He reached forth a blood-soaked paw, patted the boy’s head.

“It’s okay,” Rubrum said, and meant it. He was calm. “Everything is okay.”

The adrenaline had long since worn off. Every movement of Rubrum’s joints sent aches and pains up his spine, his bloodied feet haphazardly plunging through mounds of wreckage as he turned and trudged through.

Hermes’s gaze shifted upward. Fear shone upon him. And without a word, he scurried back, unhanding Maestro’s limp body, allowing Rubrum to take his place. The professor then knelt there, Maestro’s maskless face resting upon his lap, one eye swimming to meet his savior’s loving gaze.

“Professor…” Maestro mouthed.

Rubrum’s mouth contorted into a broken grin. And with utmost tenderness, he said: “Don’t talk.”

Maestro’s bloody tears had already dried. He exhaustedly turned his battered face inward, nuzzling against his beloved’s stomach, intaking that familiar scent, while Rubrum gently stroked along his head, his battle-singed ears, and cooed:

“It’s okay.

Everything is going to be okay.”