FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

A cold, metal canteen ascended to Sid’s lips; low at first, water trickling along his neck, where his old mouth used to be, then shifted upward to his chin, wetting his thin tongue. The liquid sloshed lazily around his cheeks, newly stretched skin, and tumbled down his throat. Contentedly, he hummed.

“Drinking is weird,” Sid said.

He stood. Covering his eyes with his hand, he gazed up at the tree cover, at the lukewarm sun above. Spring still settled in the air. The loneliest and most nascent buds pressed themselves against the thawing mulch, poking their little heads above the soil. Soon, a new world would be born.

Carefully, Sid walked. It’d been a few days since his evolution, and his body still didn’t feel quite his. Gripping Iris’s pendant like it’d hold him up, he half-stumbled over to a burlap sack, removed a not-so-fresh apple from its insides, and gnawed into it. It’s amazing, he thought, just how much food I can fit in my mouth now.

_ _ On the other side of camp, not too far away, Maestro spoke. Tent poles clanged together between his nimble fingers as he said: “There are, uh, grain shipments coming in. Big ones, from everywhere. I was watching a caravan the other day… they were from Peace of Mind.” He chuckled. “Can you believe it? Arceus, I think they might even be ordering from Renasca.”

Rubrum, too, was busy. Shooting worried glances over at Sid, idly spooling twine upon a wooden dowel, he replied: “Well, you heard the radio. Maybe the capital is stockpiling because of lockdown.”

“No way,” Maestro replied. His voice betrayed a sort of effeminate, insistent confidence. His mask just barely hid an inquisitive smile. “According to the guards, this amount of grain is just ridiculous. Regular Pokémon could never eat so much… especially since it’s all perishable, right?”

Rubrum huffed and puffed. Having spooled the entirety of the twine, he handed off the dowel to Fey, who dutifully stuffed it into his pack.

And as the Sylveon licked between his sharp incisors, he butted in: “Maybe they’re expanding their army, you know? They were looking for recruits on the radio."

“Could be,” Maestro said. “But I can’t imagine enrollment numbers are that big… this much grain could feed several armies.”

Rubrum nodded, unstuck a stake from the ground. Dirt clung to the sharp edge, which he cleaned off with his knuckles; then, he stuck the thing into a long burlap sack. Still, his eyes kept wandering to Sid. The Servine was dutifully packing away his bedroll, his fingers struggling to bend and grasp. Those movements stiff and unrefined, like a hatchling’s.

Without being asked, from across the snuffed bonfire, Asher belted: “I think they might be forcing civilians to fight.” He huffed as he struggled to buckle his bedroll. “I’ve heard that, in Grand City, they have compulsory military service. You know, like conscription. So something like that isn’t unheard of.”

Rubrum greeted the interjection with a furtive grin and replied: “You’d think we have an army ourselves with how many Pokémon Maximus is throwing at us!” A sad chuckle then flew from his lips, his glasses sliding down his snout. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s utterly obsessed with us.”

Maestro joked: “Maybe he has a crush on you, professor!”

“Terrible way to ask me out, if you ask me,” Rubrum quipped back.

Asher then finally managed to buckle his bedroll, fell onto his back. Glancing up at the blue sky, holding his paws above his head, he stared at their scarified, settling skin. After so many days of travel, his terrible inflammation had finally begun to settle down. His fingers bent smoothly, their joints slightly off-set; his once-painful limp had subsided to a lopsided jaunt. And plainly, he asked: “How are we getting past the Augustan borders?”

In response, Sid cocked his head and said: “I got a plan. Don’t worry.”

“Does it involve you sacrificing yourself again?” Rubrum said. He tied the burlap shut, shot a worried glance. “You’re my student now, Sid. And I’m not going to entertain you hurting yourself.”

“Oh, come on,” Sid pushed back. He was amicable, carefree, as if the lethal uncertainty rolled right off his shoulders. He prodded: “You trusted me before, right? And I got the job done. Handily. So trust me again.”

“But–”

“Frankly, it’d be an insult if you didn’t trust me,” Sid said. “Wasn’t I good last time? I saved our lives.”

Maestro frowned and said: “You almost died last time, Sid. Seriously. You came really, really close.” And with a petty sneer, he added: “And you looked like a child soldier in that dumb army uniform.”

“It was a deliberate fashion statement!” Sid shot back. He flashed a playful smile. “And plus, I’m good at blending in. The best of all of us, dare I say. So please, don’t doubt me.”

Asher scowled, enduring the pain in his joints as he sat up, then asked: “Well Sid, if you’re so good at your job, then tell us.

What’ve you got planned this time?”

— — —

“One-oh-seven,” Maximus announced. His gravelly voice echoed through the telephone static, met with nothing but an affirming nod, and was ended by the receiver’s click. In the giant’s hand he swirled a small glass, filled up with violet. He brought it to his nose, as if he’d never smelled it before, and took a tender sip.

To his left, a record player hummed. A chorus of long-disappeared girls bursting from radio fuzz, serenading the Alakazam’s ears with sweet nothings. Songs about petty infidelity; breaking up for the first time; falling in love at first sight. Dulcet, young, innocent voices. “I’m gonna walk on back to my old shack in Caligen, Caligen… Gonna hang my hat up on the rack in Caligen, Caligen…”

_ _ For just a moment, Maximus closed his eyes. Sitting back in his office chair, face parallel with the ceiling, he dreamed. He envisioned himself in front of a bed of flowers; red, white, yellow, and violet, spreading across the grandest avenue in Augusta, right before the courthouse; blooming all the way down the main thoroughfare, petals of all types of shape and hue, countless gathered and traded from beyond the Great Divide, no, collected before it even existed, meticulously arranged like the stars of a constellation, and some fledgling with greasy feathers asks, ‘Where have the flowers gone?’ Maximus only rolls his eyes. Picked and paved over, then re-planted and re-mulched, beneath it all, still there, waiting. Same as all the young girls, all the soldiers, and their graves, long-demolished, covered in beautiful blooms and unlearned hatchlings playing football. Wearing tacky shirts and reading bad pulp fiction. Terrible, just terrible.

A knock interrupted his absence. Maximus’s eyes, now flying open, darted to the antique inlaid door, lightly shaken by some little thing’s closed fist.

“Come in,” he said, wearily.

And so the visitor entered – a tall, slender Breloom. A mushroom budded from his tiny skull and weighed it down, pulling him forward, a big meek grin adorning those pale cheeks. His beady eyes betrayed unwitting excitement. And he said, in a high-pitched, nasal tone: “Chairman. You wished to see me?”

“Yes,” Maximus replied, and motioned to the seat opposite him. The Breloom took it with palpable hesitation.

Taking no time for pleasantries, before the Breloom had really settled in, Maximus asked: “What’s your name?”

“B–Brandon.”

“Full name?”

“Brandon Zulick.” Another meek smile. “You know, I’m really, um, grateful you’d call me here. I never imagined I would speak directly to you, sir.”

The Alakazam nodded, fingers pressed against his lips, watching. And with no emotion, he asked: “Platoon?”

“Platoon?” Brandon repeated, as if he hadn’t expected the query. He then answered: “Seven-B.”

Maximus huffed, weighing his selection. He then asked, still deadpan: “Brandon… would you give everything for your station?”

To which the young boy responded, of course, “Yes. I’d give my life to defend this country, sir.”

“I wanna be loved by you, just you, nobody else but you,” the music rang.

And in a more chipper tone, cutting through the chorus, the boy then added: “Although I hope I won’t have to, haha.”

He was met with a tranquil nod, a chair’s creak. Maximus eyed the boy intensely, looking him up and down; and then, happy with his choice, he stood from his chair, craned himself over the desk, and reached his finger outward, gracing Brandon’s forehead. The recruit replied with an anxious chuckle.

“S–sir? What are you…?”

It only took one little zap. A small ripple in the air, connecting Maximus’s mind and the Breloom’s, before the connection stabilized into a rhythmic lockstep. One-two-one-two, the thumping of a giant’s heart. Brandon’s eyes unfocused, glazed over, before returning, staring forward, his chin subtly nodding along to the invisible beat.

“You’re just too good to be true… Can’t take my eyes off of you…”

“Reinforce the outer perimeter,” Maximus ordered. “Join the rest of your platoon on the east side.” And with a flick of his untrimmed finger, a downward inflection, he said: “Go.”

The Breloom didn’t speak, didn’t emote. He quietly arose from the chair, turned at an angle, and marched away, arms swinging at his sides. Not once did he glance backward. Just walking, walking, walking, down the stairs, precisely where Maximus ordered, his head bobbing to and fro, his hands gripping at dust-caked sandbags, lining them one upon another, unspeaking, while hundreds did the same at his sides, all around the plenum.

Maximus sat back once more, rubbed his eyes. A small sigh escaped his parched lips, eternally wetted with sloshing bitter liquid. He could feel a headache coming on. Those gnarled fingers opened his desk drawer, removed some aspirin, and popped them in his mouth, washed down with another gulp of wine.

The Alakazam then picked up the receiver, dialed in the number and spoke:

“One-oh-eight.”

— — —

A few dozen meters up the path, a dinky little grain convoy tumbled along the detritus-ridden forest path. Inside, a primitive engine pumped acrid, black smoke, spilling out the back and clinging to dew-kissed leaves. And on the front of it, driving the thing like a barely-tamed beast, were three bipedal Pokémon, fitted specially to operate the levers, the brakes, the gas. Occasionally, one would get out and pour gasoline into a rusted hole in the side. Hundreds of pounds of raw grain bounced in the truck bed.

Off to the side, amidst weeds, wearing an army uniform with just a little bit of blood on it, was a very, very confident Servine. He hurriedly untucked half the shirt, pulling his collar loose; and then, just for good measure, he slapped a little dry dirt on his face. As the caravan drew near, he practiced his pout – one little mint-colored lip poking out, practically begging to be spat upon.

And then, as soon as the machine drew close, he struck. Sid rushed out in front, falling over himself, staining his palms brown. In the most sheepish voice he could muster, he spouted: “W–wait! Stop, please!”

Naturally, the caravan came to a screeching halt; not to say it was traveling quickly, though, since it had all the verve of an elderly Copperajah. And with begrudged amusement, the drivers craned their necks over the steering wheel, rubbernecking down at the most pathetic sight they’d ever had the displeasure of encountering.

“Oh, thank Arceus you’re here!” Sid blathered. He scooted forward on his knees, opening his hands in supplication, mustering his most cloying smile. “My name is Ty, I’m from Platoon Seven, it’s been days since I’ve seen another Pokémon…”

At his performance, the drivers could only laugh. Turning to one another – a Jynx to a Hitmonlee to a Volbeat – they expressed complete astonishment at his sudden appearance. Great, big, uncomfortable smiles.

“What the fuck is this guy…?”

And then the Hitmonlee turned, barked: “Dude… what the hell happened to you?”

With his foot in the door, Sid let loose a wide grin, stood on his feet. He began: “Okay, so I was out on a routine patrol on the outer border. Nothing dangerous, you know? And then… bam! A crowd of fucking ferals came out of nowhere!” He waved his arms around, attracting as much attention as possible. His voice booming unnecessarily over the treetops as his comrades threw themselves into the truck bed, sinking into the grain, wriggling between the wooden bed and the woven tarp.

Sid chuckled exhaustedly, cradled his forehead. He continued: “And then – my whole platoon abandoned me! Left me to the Mightyena and everything! Can you believe it? Can you believe it? I barely escaped with my life!”

The drivers barely stifled laughter. Putting their hands to their mouths, trying not to make fun of the poor guy, the Jynx asked in disbelief: “They abandoned you? Really?”

Not trying quite as hard to hide his disgust, the Volbeat mused: “I mean, weakest link, right?”

The Jynx gave him a punch on the shoulder, breaking out into unabashed laughter. Sid pretended not to notice. That same clueless, innocent expression adorning his face. It was surprisingly difficult to maintain.

“What’d you say your name was?” the Jynx asked.

“Ty.”

“Which platoon?”

Sid thought for a moment, then replied: “Seven?”

“A or B?”

The Servine sucked in air through his teeth, then said: “...B.”

More laughter. Somehow, Sid had keyed into an in-joke he had no knowledge of. The realization made his chest flutter with excitement. And the Volbeat beamed: “That explains it. That explains it!”

“I can’t believe they lost another one!”

The Servine waited in patient silence for the drivers to stop making jokes at his expense; wringing his hands, biting his lip. Despite it being just a role for him, Sid couldn’t help but feel his ego wilt. Perhaps, he thought, I’ve oversold this a little.

Interrupting their petty banter, trying to get this ruse back on track, Sid asked: “You all are headed to Inner Augusta, right? You think you can give me a ride, maybe?” He then removed his wallet, pithy and small, and added: “I can pay you, if you’d like. Whatever you’d like.”

More gut-busting. The Hitmonlee’s legs kicked up onto the steering wheel, his hands clasped over his eyes. The Volbeat pressed his face into the Jynx’s bosom, both of them reveling in the absurdity of the moment. In the back, Maestro’s leg stuck awkwardly from the tarp, raised in the air like a fuzzy green flagpole. Rubrum’s paw grabbed it and pulled it back in.

“Sure,” the Volbeat said. Clearly, this was the funniest thing he’d seen in ages. “You know what? Sure. That’s fine, right guys? We can give him a lift?”

The others glanced over in bemused assent, nodded their heads. Truthfully, Sid had already prepared a lie in case they asked for his papers. He was relieved to realize they wouldn’t be demanding such things; no, no… he appeared far too pathetic.

“Just hop on the back,” the Jynx said, and pointed to the tarp behind herself. Upon closer inspection, the three drivers shared two uncomfortable wooden seats already. “Don’t worry about sitting on the product,” the Jynx reassured. “It’s all shit harvests anyway.”

Sid nodded, hurried over, and began to climb up the caravan’s backside, his face aligned with the exhaust pipe. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so mu–”

Alas, he spoke too soon. Black, putrid exhaust sprayed in his face from the thing’s undercarriage as the engine revved to life. His eyed clouded with ash, Sid then made his way carefully across the bed’s top, somehow managing to step upon his friends’ barely submerged limbs with each footfall, before accidentally sitting upon Asher’s face, separated from Sid’s bottom by only a tiny layer of burlap. The Cinderace coughed in exasperation, turned away, before quieting himself. The Servine hung his legs off of the bed’s front lip.

“So,” Sid asked, covered in filth, trying and failing to be casual, “What’s all the grain for, anyway?”

The Hitmonlee looked back at him like he was stupid, and replied: “Feeding a lot of Pokémon, pal.”

“R–right,” Sid said. He then quietly wiped his face, not daring to ask anything more.

Luckily, the Volbeat remained oblivious of Sid’s awkwardness. Desperate for any form of stimulation, he wrenched his neck back, said: “Tell me, uh, Ty… I hear your commander is a real hardass. The Bug-type, right? Is that true?”

“Yup,” Sid replied, still feeling Asher shift under his butt. The caravan moved once more, and Sid said: “He’s the worst.”

— — —

Their trip through the Greater Augustan border proved uneventful. Border guards passed the caravan through without a thought, basking in the fledgling spring air, eager to get the day over with. Sid and his new comrades then rode along cobblestone streets lined with mud and beggars; political campaigners and Arcean fanatics, those who saw fit to harass the poorest of travelers for coin; then northward through the sparse woods, like blood cells along a vein, until they reached the Innermost Augustan Border.

A massive stone wall surrounded the city proper, rising tens of meters above the ground, covered on its lowest levels by petty graffiti and the scratches of passersby. A giant hole arose in the wall there, facing the south, like an eager mouth. Even the bars hanging loosely from its top, suspended now and lowered during the night, gave the impression of teeth.

Normally, the entrance would be crowded with all kinds of comings-and-goings. Merchants, soldiers, travelers, citizens, medics, businesspeople, guards, more guards, diplomats, cartographers – and yet, today, none gathered. Not even the guards who were normally assigned to the entrance, stringently checking each and every passport. Sid had never witnessed the air fall so silent here.

“Something’s weird,” he said, and turned to the drivers. “It’s really quiet, right? Usually there’s a line.”

The Jynx, surprised, craning her neck over the wheel, replied: “There’s no one by the gate.”

“Good,” the Hitmonlee breathed. “Less of a line. Maybe we can get some lunch.”

The Jynx narrowed her eyes, said: “No… no, there’s no one by the gate.”

“No one? No one, no one?”

They were all looking now. Nearing the huge divider in their terrible jalopy, moving at a geriatric pace over stray sticks and stones. When they neared the scene, they saw little protrusions from the grass that looked like stones from a distance, but as the drivers got closer, they noticed it – backpacks and clothing hanging from them. A bunch of Pokémon, at least five of them, face-down in front of the city’s maw. Sid could hardly believe his eyes. The most tightly kept border in Augusta laid wide open, surrounded by bodies.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the Volbeat said. He cranked on the brakes, stopped the caravan. With a tiny nub of a finger, he pointed toward the scene, and said: “What the fuck?”

_ _ The Hitmonlee, holding a hand over his mouth, said: “It’s like a crime scene.”

Sid remained silent. He eyed the other drivers, watching as they discussed the matter amongst each other. Whispering fervently, pointing at the bodies, driving a little closer and then braking again.

“They’re probably asleep,” the Jynx said, but her voice didn’t sound too certain. “It’s a common tactic – ferals, you know, they dart in, use Hypnosis, and then get out. Before you know it, they’ve stolen everything.”

Then, the Hitmonlee popped his legs out from the metal coffin, hooked himself over the side, and descended. He said: “I’m gonna go check if they’re still breathing.”

Subtly, Sid tapped his hidden comrades, still suffocating under the tarp near his butt. He felt them wriggle in response, relieved to finally move around. Rubrum then kneeled messily there, his knees sinking into loose grain, poking his snout out from under the tarp, as he quietly watched. The others, curious as to the holdup, did much the same. Maestro quietly emerged from the bed, slipping out the back, while Asher and Fey followed alongside.

The drivers didn’t even notice. Rubbernecking shamelessly over the wheel, those two cowards held their breath, watching as the Hitmonlee approached the first body.

Sid, hopping off the side of the vehicle, rounding the back, said: “I’m gonna get out.”

Of course, the drivers didn’t care. The rebels were all dismounted from the caravan now, peeking from the back in a poorly hidden display of intrigue. They watched, they watched; it felt like hours until the Hitmonlee finally reached the first lump, stared at it it for a moment, then flipped it over. His recoil was immediate.

With wide eyes, cupping his hands over his mouth, the Fighting-type shouted: “He’s dead!” Another glance, and then: “I think he’s melted!”

Sid gritted his teeth. The rebels, not-so-concerned about being caught anymore, came into plain view. They edged around the caravan, peering toward the scene, and waited. The Hitmonlee casually sauntered over to two more bodies – same as the first, face-down – and flipped them over. Having done so and inspected them to his satisfaction, he shrugged, threw his hands in the air, and bellowed: “They’re all dead!”

Then, seemingly out from the wall itself, stumbled a pale-looking figure. Their footfalls were uncertain and shambling, their arms outstretched, like they were liable to fall over any moment. The Hitmonlee noticed them soon enough, walked warily toward them. The others could see them clearly now; emerging out from the shadows, covered in dark, dried-out blood, was a lone Smeargle.

Not knowing what to do, the Hitmonlee turned and yelled: “Someone’s still here! I think he’s hurt! I’m gonna go talk to him!” To which the other drivers responded by awkwardly upholding their thumbs, unblinking, as they watched the scene unfold.

Rubrum, noticing something deeply wrong, turned to the others and whispered: “We should keep our distance. Something isn’t right.”

Maestro nodded. He said: “Yeah, it’s way too convenient. This is definitely some sort of trap.”

But the Hitmonlee was undeterred. He came within arm’s length of the Smeargle, only to realize the damage was far worse than anticipated. Scratches and blows made the Smeargle’s face distorted and bloated; like someone had clubbed in his cheek, tried to claw at his eyes.

And yet, despite all of it, he still walked. Shambolic stretches of his calves, little incomprehensible mutterings falling from his malformed lips. A still-wet tail, trailing paint along the dirt. His eyes – green and beautiful and whole – stared at the ground beneath.

Naturally, the Hitmonlee was stunned. Creeping closer, he asked: “Hey, are you okay?” He tried not to panic, averting his eyes from the bodies. “W–what happened here? Do you want to come back to…?”

Then, the Smeargle looked up from the dirt. His gaze met the Hitmonlee’s, and there it was – a moment of recognition. Living, breathing flesh. Right there.

The Smeargle’s jaw began to gush and grind. “Errrrrrrrrrrrrr,” he slurred, and took a step closer. Breathing heavily through his half-collapsed nose, his shambling morphed into a lopsided lurch. His hands then outstretched, as if to bring the Hitmonlee into a hug. Frantic words shot from his mouth: “You! You!” he yelled, swiping with his paws, blood-tinged lips flapping below bloodshot eyes. “You… and… me! I… I love you!”

Before the Hitmonlee could react, the Smeargle had already latched onto his arm. His grip left a red indent in the flesh. Creeping on him, white-knuckling the Hitmonlee’s other shoulder, looking him right in the face with manic, quivering eyes.

The Fighting-type thrashed backward, instinctually ripping himself away from the Smeargle’s grasp; but just as soon as he’d escaped, the monster lurched forth again, gripping for dear life. Anger boiled on his mien, contorted it into a feverish grimace, as he tackled the man onto the ground. The other drivers watched in unmitigated horror, that Volbeat propping himself up on the steering wheel, jaw agape.

Then, it came. The Smeargle clawed his way up the Hitmonlee’s abdomen, crawling atop him, almost as if he were going in for a kiss, nice and close. Breathing vile hot air into the Hitmonlee’s face, suffering a deluge of erratic punches and shoves, while confused grunts sounded from beneath.

The Smeargle opened his mouth, and kept opening it. It opened up until it was unhinged, hanging off his face at an impossible angle, and spewed. A torrent of green-brown liquid shot out there, vomited from within the monster’s stomach, and poured sloppily over his victim’s face, where it was met with a hellish, anticlimactic gurgle and the sound of sizzling meat.

Sid’s eyes widened, his frame shook. And, not sparing even a moment, he turned to the others and barked: “Run! He’s a hybrid!”

The Hitmonlee died without so much as a scream. An unending tsunami of hot acid rendered his skull into white-peppered mush. His comrades breathed heavy, their eyes hopelessly fixated on the abhorrent violence, unable to grasp the reality of it. Meanwhile the rebels scrambled, stowed themselves away in the brush.

Having had his fill, the Smeargle then turned his neck, stared out; and there it was, more flesh. Hiding behind the wheel of a big metal monster. The Smeargle yelled out, extended his hand. And in a voice that wasn’t his own – distended and warbling, just barely recognizable as his victim’s — he screamed: “Don’t! Touch! Me!”

“Go!” the Volbeat commanded. He hyperventilated as the Smeargle stood, shoving on the Jynx’s arm, begging: “Fucking drive! Drive!”

They didn’t waste any time. The grain shipment which had taken so many painstaking days to arrive was turned on a dime. The wheels carved deep gashes in the dirt, spraying it around in a circle, as the vehicle punched sloppily forward, bumbling down the path from whence it came, with its drivers watching warily in the side mirrors.

The beast didn’t chase it; with hatchling-like curiosity, he observed the vehicle’s retreat, eyeing the black-dark smoke which billowed from its backside. Disappearing over the hill.

The Smeargle was left again with silence. This, evidently, didn’t sit well with him; turning on a heel, he decided to kick the Hitmonlee’s corpse, pathetically knocking his leg against the twitching thing’s stomach. His form wasn’t very good at all.

“You saw one of those already?” Asher whispered. His little rabbit nose poked from the bush as he observed the monster’s strange behavior. Sharp branches poked against the Cinderace’s scarred, sensitive skin. “Like, you saw one in the asylum, right?”

All eyes then turned toward Sid, who replied: “Yeah. But the one I met was kind of… friendly? Not like this.” He let loose a sigh. Memories of that innocent Raichu’s face flashed behind his eyelids. Sid explained: “I don’t know very much about the hybrids, but… they don’t seem inherently dangerous. Some of them are just scared.”

Meanwhile, the Smeargle steadily occupied himself. He attempted to grip the Hitmonlee’s legs, pulling at him like a wheelbarrow, before giving up, rounding him, coming to his melted face, and slapping it. In a strange, high-pitched register, a voice no one recognized, he spoke:

“Rufus. Rufus…?” Pause. Wind blew and leaves fell across the trodden expanse. And he spoke again: “Ruuuufus.”

Fey narrowed his eyes, whispered: “Who’s Rufus?” He looked around for an answer. The rest only shrugged in confusion.

The Smeargle then leaned close to the body, near the melted-off ear, and whispered something. Somehow, it brought a smile to the monster’s lips; and then, in a celebratory tone, he belted: “It’s coming along! Don’t mess with it! The game is almost ready!”

He scrunched up his bloody face, a visage of perverted, unfettered joy, and announced: “Blood. For. Seeeeeeeeex!”

Crack. Crack. Crack. The Smeargle then happily jumped onto the Hitmonlee’s ribs, snapping them beneath his feet one by one, until he fell over himself, his ass planted on the dirt, panting and breathing. A grotesque and confusing display.

With a lump in his throat, sweat pouring from his forehead, Sid explained: “The other one – Madeline – she didn’t do anything like this.”

Humming, Maestro said: “This still makes no sense. Why is there a hybrid here at all?”

Rubrum replied: “Maybe they’re using them to supplement the guard. Their original intent was to be soldiers, after all.”

“But this one attacked indiscriminately,” Maestro contended. “That’s insane, right? You see it, right there – dead soldiers.” And he pointed at them; bodies, wearing the same uniform as Sid. “I mean, this one completely compromised the border. And I don’t think it’s the only one out there. So… why let the hybrids out if you can’t control them?”

The Smeargle idly stood, brushed himself off. After that little display, he seemed disinterested in the corpses by his feet. He instead turned his attention to the border wall, gripping his tail outward like a brush, and began to wander toward it.

“They’re here to kill us,” Asher said. As if to comfort himself, he ran his fingers along Fey’s flank. “It’s the only explanation. Maximus knew we were coming, and he can’t risk any interruption with the Spear. So… he spared no expense.”

“Even if that expense is civilian lives?” Rubrum echoed. The words soured on his tongue, and yet he could find no other explanation. “That thing is here just to… kill us? That’s it?”

Maestro interjected: “And anything else it can get its paws on.” He snickered at the brutality of it. “Anything to make sure the Spear gets completed on-time, I guess.” He paused. “Although, there are usually more guards manning this gate; there are only a few corpses here. I’m guessing the majority of them have been pulled into the city proper. Maybe near the central plenum?”

In silence, the rebels then watched. The Smeargle stumbled over to the wall, gazed upon it longingly, and began to paint. He dragged his tail’s dangling tip in haphazard strokes, seemingly reticent to put himself to stone, until he’d created a sloppy semicircle, then stepped back, admiring his work.

Seeing their opportunity to sneak by, the rebels suddenly dashed from their hiding place. They hauled themselves close to the ground, snaking through the dirt, their hearts thumping. A little ways away from the gate, upon a rickety wooden table, strewn with abandoned visas and weapons and handbags, remained a little radio, still eagerly chirping reports.

“...advised to remain inside… foreseeable future…”

They recognized that voice – Maximus’s voice. Toward the city’s big gaping maw they crept, those discordant words pounding through the air.

“...and to allow our resident soldiers and protectors to prevent all insurgence. I repeat, all Augustan citizens are advised to remain inside, stay away from windows…”

The Smeargle was moving again. Thoughtfully, he added a dash to the semicircle, turning it into a ‘G,’ before mouthing something, breathing out the word: “Rufus…”

Then, the rebels came upon the bodies. Each and every one of them, surrounded by a shallow pool of acid. Still bubbling and frothing, eating away at residual flesh and fabric. That Hitmonlee, still fresh and red, showing his insides to the wide blue sky. Fey scampered skittishly around him, his nose upheld. Asher stepped right over.

And then, there it was. The gate, just above them, the city breathed fresh, cool air. Working through the stone like a wind tunnel. They’d almost made it, almost, almost –

Until, of course, a spike of static shot from the radio. The sound pierced the air like a war cry, lasting only a moment, before lapsing back into Maximus’s dull, droning voice. But it was enough. The Smeargle’s face snapped over, looked straight into poor Maestro’s wide eyes, stooped over and creeping.

Flesh.

_ _ There was a brief moment of mutual recognition there, like neither party was quite sure of what they were doing. Awkwardly, the rebels took a step away, crossing under the wall’s shadow; then, the Smeargle did, too.

“Run,” Rubrum said.

The rag-tag group them made an unabashed dash for the city’s interior. Nearly falling over themselves in panic, they shot right through the wide gate, entered onto the cobblestone proper, and were faced with utter destruction. Entire streets and storefronts abandoned, fires abound, broken glass and building alarms blaring in the distance, and behind them – one freshly aggravated monster, gurgling and sprinting.

Maestro led the charge. Darting gallantly ahead, he glanced down one alley, then the next, then down the street, and pointed, bellowing: “Here!” before delving into the damp. Furred feet in leather shoes clapping between puddles of oil-mixed debris and cold water, pawtips grazing the dark-laden brick. Grunting and panting, single-file. The Smeargle followed with incredible tenacity.

“Shit!” Asher hissed. He glanced back in horror, saw as the beast rounded the corner with unreasonable finesse. “He’s catching up! What the fuck is he?!”

Rubrum, still running, breathed: “Come on!”

The five men then emerged ragged into an open street, none the better for having weaved through the dark. Their frightened eyes turned back toward the gap, and there he stood – a stout, shambolic Normal-type. Still holding his tail in his palm, letting its tip drip, drip onto the cement below. The acidic paint sizzled and settled.

Asher instinctively turned to Rubrum, asked: “Professor, what do we do?”

Despite not being asked, Maestro replied: “I’ll handle this.” He then stepped eagerly forward, brandishing his claws. “No more running; he’ll just catch up to us. It’s time I show this guy a little hat-trick.”

“Not alone, you aren’t,” Rubrum hummed. Stepping forward to be with his lover, he rested a paw upon the Meowscarada’s shoulder. “I’m still your professor, you know. And it’s bad form for a teacher to make a student fight his battles.” He smiled. “Plus, someone really ought to keep you in line.”

Maestro groaned, said: “You never let me take the spotlight, love.”

“As if you ever let that stop you, attention hog.”

Sid, Fey, and Asher then took a step back, allowing the two of them to take the stage. The wind blew gently and ruffled their fur, prickling up as the Smeargle neared. Now within range, the monster was stumbling again. As if he could hardly balance himself unless running. The others noticed this.

“Don’t let him find his footing,” Rubrum commanded.

Then, they charged. One on the left, one on the right, closing in on the poor sap in a pincer motion. Just short of touching him, noticing the Smeargle’s upraised forearm, Maestro shot an Energy Ball at his exposed tummy. The impact pushed the monster back on his heels, digging onto the concrete, before a deluge of acid shot from his throat.

Maestro, expecting something like this, backed away just in time. Spurts of it landed just beyond his feet, the monster’s face shooting it about like a firehose, turning in a semi-circle from one soldier to another; but Rubrum struck just in time. Aiming right at the neck, he raked his claws along the thing’s flesh, a Metal Claw to the carotid, and there it spilled, all out, a big shot of black liquid bursting from the wound.

The two of them then backed away, sweating and breathing, as they watched the monster garble and grasp at himself. Dropping his tail onto the ground, he seemed to feel around the cut, biting at his lip and feeling it tenderly, before dipping his fingers within, feeling them around. Little digits, maneuvering under his skin.

“Ew,” Fey said. His tail whipped in disgust. “What’s he doing? Why isn’t he dead?”

Sid just shook his head and said: “These hybrids… they’re more resilient than us.” He paused, then: “Madeline did the same thing. She was…”

Before he could find the words, the Smeargle had fixed himself. He grasped strongly within his own flesh, then pulled out vines from the wound, wrangling them out. They connected his flesh together like a sloppy bandage, snapping his flesh back into place with a looming scowl.

“I didn’t know they could heal,” said Maestro. His tongue lolled from his mouth in disgust. “They’re not really playing fair, are they?”

Rubrum quipped: “My love… when has the Board ever played fair?”

With only a nod, the pair of them closed in once more. In a column, brown-green acid sprayed from the Smeargle’s lips. Rubrum dodged to the side, running in a curve around the beast, but the Smeargle didn’t stop. An endless supply of vomit pummeled past his disintegrated teeth and burned the gravel below.

Maestro’s Flower Trick would’ve been enough to bring down any other foe; but today, his efforts failed. One quick slice of his claws, right across the Smeargle’s face, tearing open his cheek, and the monster hardly reacted; he simply shifted his gaze, glancing backward, and let the last drops fall from his lips, his tongue writhing from within the slit.

With unnatural force, the Smeargle’s bulbous tail then whipped toward Maestro, knocked right against his hip. The Meowscarada was knocked off-balance and fell back, his paws grazing the road, as he tried to right himself; the beast then reared back, letting out a hacking cough, as he readied another deluge of acid.

Rubrum’s feet pounded frantically as he flung himself toward the beast. An Aura Sphere coalesced between his palms, awkwardly swaying as he sprinted full-force, just about to be deployed when – seemingly from nowhere – a flash of blue light cut through the air and plunged right through the demented Smeargle’s neck. The thing stopped Rubrum in his tracks, cutting through the monster’s flesh and bone like butter and sticking in the ground. It took a moment for the professor to identify it — a shuriken.

Maestro gazed upward at his would-be killer, the Smeargle’s frame cloaked in bloody shadow. The hybrid then let out a wet cough, tilted his head to the side, like an inquisitive glance, before fumbling backward, his arms swinging, and a spurt of black liquid shot from the wound. His head eclipsed the sun and then split from his body, one clean horizontal line along the nape. Little vines poked from the wound, grasping fruitlessly at the skull, before retracting and wriggling amongst themselves. The distended mass collided with the ground with a wet thump.

The Meowscarada, dumbfounded, shielded his eyes and swiveled his head. There, perched upon a flat roof, stood a solitary figure, silhouetted. The rest spotted him straight away, then adapted battle stances; Asher with his arms outstretched, his legs squared, Fey with his ribbons raised, and Sid with vines at-ready. But the figure seemed wholly unconcerned with this little show of ferocity, instead choosing to scale deftly down the building’s side, his lithe body slithering down the brick with terrifying ease.

Rubrum scrunched his nose, squinted, and said: “Ready up! Enemy incoming.”

“No way,” Maestro said, still laid out on the ground. “They killed the hybrid. An enemy wouldn’t have saved us like that.”

The figure, now identifiable as a Greninja, wearing the Augustan emblem and all accompanying military adornments, calmly approached. His hands were empty, his face hidden behind a thick shroud, an ominous man in black. With arms outstretched, as if bringing the group into a giant hug, he crossed the street and announced: “Professor, students… don’t be afraid. I mean you no harm.”

“Very likely,” Asher spat. He refused to lower his hands, burning with anticipation. “Anyone wearing that uniform is an enemy.”

The Greninja let out a sigh, pointed toward Sid, and casually said: “That guy’s wearing a uniform, too, you know.” The Servine seemed to catch his eye; indeed, he didn’t know the rebels counted a fifth member. He then continued: “To be clear, I used to be employed by the Academy, hence the suit. But as of today, I’ve resigned.” Apathy cooled upon his mien as he added: “Besides… if I wanted to attack you, I would’ve done it already.”

Maestro listened intently to the man’s voice; something about it seemed familiar. A smooth, deep baritone. So the Meowscarada stood, brushed himself off, and moved forward; completely disarmed by the familiarity of it all, until he got a good look at the man’s face and said: “Oh my… you and I hooked up two years ago, right? Is your name… Aoi?”

Truthfully, Aoi was taken aback by Maestro’s bluntness, but figured niceties were forgone anyway. Tipping his shroud at the rebels, he admitted: “Correct on both counts. It’s very nice to see you again, Maestro.” Pause. “Although, I do wish it were under better circumstances.”

Fey could hardly believe his ears. Perking up and dropping his jaw, looking between the two of them, he sputtered: “Y–you two actually know each other? Really?”

“Hardly,” Maestro said. He had his hand on his hip now, scandalized to remember such a distant time in his life. Before war, before death. Just a boy studying and slutting, eating greasy food and lusting after his professor…

Rubrum, having sufficiently checked the Smeargle’s body for signs of life, joined the group. He was equal measures surprised and amused to hear about Aoi and Maestro’s history. Clapping a paw on his student’s back, he joked: “Maestro… you sure got around, huh?”

Maestro, blushing behind his mask, chose not to acknowledge the comment. He instead maintained eye contact and asked: “Aoi, why did you save us? We could’ve handled that monster ourselves.”

“Could you have?” Aoi replied. He pointed limply at the body. “Those things are tenacious, you know. They’ve invaded the entire city now. Nowhere is safe.” He smacked his lips. “Honestly, you’re lucky to have run into a weaker one. Some of them are… well. Maybe ‘unstoppable’ is the right word.”

“Unstoppable?” Rubrum prodded.

“The entire city?” Sid echoed.

“Yes,” Aoi replied, to both counts. He seemed resigned to the state of things. “Truthfully, I hadn’t intended to run into any of you… I was just on my way out of here.” And with a sigh, he said: “If I were you, I’d flee while I still could. There’s no saving this place, really.”

Maestro shook his head, beamed: “There’s no way we’re running away now.” Then, awkwardly, pointing at Aoi’s uniform, he asked: “So, what? You’re a… soldier? Were you always a soldier?”

“Spy, actually,” Aoi revealed. He didn’t seem to feel very much about it. “And a jailor, you know. Part-time. I worked primarily under Chairman Kane. But now…” He chuckled. “But now, there’s no one to pay me. And Arceus knows I’m not setting foot in Maximus’s office.” Even from beneath the cowl, the rest sensed Aoi’s self-righteous amusement. “He’s been calling entire platoons into there today, one-by-one. And when they come out, they’re different. They don’t talk, they don’t do anything but work. They’re building a giant barricade around the plenum right now.” Another scoff. ”I think some citizens might be trying to break inside, though. I saw some Annihilape on the way here going berserk.”

Rubrum was enraged. With a scowl, he barked: “So Maximus is destroying the city now? Just hiding away while the rest of the world burns? What ever happened to protecting Pokémon, hm?”

Aoi upraised his hands, said: “Look, it’s not my decision. This is clearly a sinking ship.” With a scoff, he added: “And yet, despite all this, I still think I prefer working with Maximus over Kane… or that other little freak.” He then motioned toward Asher, perhaps too casually, and beamed: “Good work with Kane, by the way. That idiot had it coming.”

The Cinderace was none too pleased to be reminded of his failure. Stepping forward, his hands held by Fey’s ribbons, he said: “Don’t be so flippant.”

“I’m not trying to be,” Aoi reassured. His stance was solid, unwavering. His words were cold. “The truth is, the life of a tyrant is worth very little. He proved that himself. What, with that half-baked ambush… just a little, stupid man.”

Asher was taken aback by those words. Narrowing his brow, leaning forward, he asked: “You knew about the ambush?”

“I helped set it up,” Aoi admitted. “Maybe that’s a surprise to you. I didn’t stick around, after all.”

Maestro looked from Aoi to Asher, then back. One-sided tension made Asher’s muscles tight, his toes curling reflexively against the gravel. The Meowscarada worried that Asher would lunge at him; but instead, through gritted teeth, Asher simply asked: “How did you know Kane?”

“Same as I knew all the other Board members. Odd jobs, that sort of thing.”

Asher took a step forward. Despite everything, despite the rage curdling in his gut, this was his one chance at getting some answers. So after a sizable pause, he pressed: “Do you know if Kane was… mistreated at all? By Maximus?”

Aoi smiled at the assertion. Looking away, he admitted: “Who isn’t? He’s a madman.”

“But Kane, specifically?”

Now, the Greninja was intrigued. Putting his weight onto one leg, donning a playful expression, he prodded: “Why? Did that buffoon say something to you?”

Asher wasn’t sure how to reply. His lips quivered a little, his hackles lowering, before he said: “Yeah, he said that Maximus was screwing him out of… something.” His head bobbed a little, his feet shifting. “And he said that Cassius was brought back to the capital after the incident in Haliford. Is that true?”

“Yeah,” Aoi replied, and cocked his head. “I thought you would’ve heard about it through the papers. Cassius was recovering here for a while, in the plenum’s infirmary.”

Now it was Maestro’s turn to probe for answers. He stepped toward Aoi, his breath caught, and asked: “Recovering?”

“For a little less than a month,” Aoi said. “But then… you know, his condition took a turn for the worse. His picture was in the papers – he was using a, um… ‘respirator.’” He shrugged. “Some kind of new technology. Maybe it failed, I dunno.”

Maestro was reticent to share the information Kane provided; but indeed, this was his only opportunity to inquire about it. Before him was an insider, someone who knew the Board better than any layman. So, with visible trepidation, the Meowscarada asked: “This might sound crazy, but is there a chance Cassius’s death wasn’t… natural?”

“What are you implying?”

“…Could Maximus have killed Cassius? Maybe?”

Another surprise. Aoi cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the notion, and replied: “That’s a weird question.”

“It is,” Maestro said. “But apparently, Kane believed it.”

The Greninja nodded pensively. He then looked around, reflexively checking to see who was listening, and confided: “Look, I never heard anything definitive. Just rumors, you know. But here’s what I do know…” And the others leaned in, eagerly listening. “The last person to visit him was Maximus. And a few hours later, his death was publicly announced. That’s all I know.”

“S–so Kane was telling the truth?” Asher sputtered. The weight of that frivolous man’s blathering came down on him like a boulder. “That night, when he was trying to stop me… he wasn’t lying?” He shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

The resultant silence was all-encompassing. Fey gently rubbed along Asher’s back. Maestro and Rubrum shared horrified glances. It shouldn’t have surprised them, but it did anyhow; Maximus, the man who’d ripped their lives away, the man who’d sacrificed the entire city in order to complete the Spear, was not above killing his own kin. The raw cruelty of it left them stupefied.

“Thank you for the information,” Rubrum eventually said. His voice was low and solemn. Having no more questions to ask, and not wanting to dwell in the street any longer, he thought to leave; but surely, Aoi deserved something for his information.

Rubrum calmly reached inside his satchel, fished around for his wallet; and having found it, he peeled the thing open, fished out all the coins therein, and held them out in his palm. “Here,” he said, and shook the little mound. “For telling us everything.”

Aoi, giving a wide grin, took the cash without a second thought. But Sid, over to the side, was none too happy to see their last reserves disappear. “Professor, what are you doing?” he hissed. “That’s the last of our cash!”

“And where are we going to spend it?” Rubrum shot back. He then motioned around the darkened shopfronts, the abandoned streets, filled with rubble. “This money is useless to us now.”

No one had a response. Sid simply shrunk back, crossing his arms, as Aoi counted the coins upon his moist palm. Then, stuffing them into his pack, he spoke: “Much obliged.” The spy then shifted a little on his feet, like he intended to leave; but before doing so, he asked: “Do you know how to actually get to the plenum? I’m guessing that’s where you’re headed.”

The rebels looked amongst each other, all of them drawing a blank expression; and then Rubrum spoke: “Oh, from here? Vaguely.”

“Here.” Aoi deftly removed a scrap of paper from his pack, scrawled a hasty map upon it. Just a few scattered rectangles with arrows going every which way. He handed it off with a flourish; and then he said, “By the time you get there, odds are Maximus is going to be locked up in a place they call the panic room. It’s hidden somewhere near the Radiant Hall. Good luck.”

Maestro took the scrap with a tight-lipped smile, said: “Thanks.”

“Just try not to die immediately,” the Greninja breathed. “And… don’t take this the wrong way, but… I hope we never meet again.” With that, he turned and darted away. Moist skin slapping against the gravel road, sunlight reflecting in beautiful glimmers along his smooth head. His hands stuck effortlessly to the mortar and scaled their way up until he stood atop the edifice, looking over the city, then flung themselves across the rooftops until he was out of sight.

“He’s so fast,” Fey said.

Asher, finally breathing easy, patted the boy’s flank and replied: “That was… terrifying. He could’ve killed us. Easily.” He shook his head. “But… I’m glad the Board is losing support. It seems like Maximus’s Pidgey are finally coming home to roost.”

Then, the rebels walked. They stuck to the side of the road, one Pokémon watching the back with another at the front, trudging through the silence. The once-busy marketplace was covered in trash and debris – paper wrappers, plates, splintered wood burst into a million pieces, spilled produce and faded signage. Like one day, the world just failed to wake up.

“It’s eerie,” Sid said. “When I was living outside the wall, I never imagined I’d come back here… now, I almost wish I’d stayed out.”

On the right, Maestro passed by his favorite stationery store. Looking past the dust-caked glass into the absent aisles, he imagined throngs of students arranged in a neat line at the register. Bustling eagerly about.

“I used to go to this store a lot,” the Meowscarada said. It was all so dreamy. He said to the professor: “Remember the, uh… the fountain pens with the special nib? The ones you were always jealous of? I bought them here.”

The Professor had a terse laugh at that. He said: “I hope when I return to teaching, I can buy some of my own. Make my own collection, or something. Start up all my old hobbies again... doesn’t that sound nice?”

Innocently, Fey asked: “Do you think we’ll be rich enough?” And with a sadness in his voice, he added: “What happens after we save the world? Is someone going to pay us? …Who’s even gonna be left?”

The rebels pondered the thought. Maestro would crane his neck around the back of an alleyway, checking it for Pokémon, before signaling for the rest to follow. Darting across each of the openings like a clump of newly hatched Starly.

“I think I wanna become a writer,” Sid said, interrupting the silence. There was some hope in his voice, much-needed. “I’m gonna have so much to say once this is all done. Maybe I’ll go to the Academy and major in literature or something."

Rubrum smiled at the thought. He said: “Sid, I didn’t know you wanted to return to the Academy.”

Sid simply replied: “Well… for me, what else is there?” He was embarrassed to admit it. “I’ve spent so much time with you all. I don’t think I could ever return to living in the Intermediary Zone.” Pause. “Not… not without Grimm, you know.”

“Well, I’d certainly love to have you in class,” Rubrum cooed. He gave the boy a tender glance. “I can hardly say I’ve spent so much time with a student before. It’ll make for a glowing recommendation – I’ll make sure of it.”

Excitedly, breaking between the two of them and dispersing the tension, Fey beamed: “After the war, I think I wanna be an ambassador. Maybe to the humans.”

Maestro laughed a little at that. Fey’s comment reminded him of their long-ago run-in with a certain curious human. He said: “That makes a lot of sense for you, Fey. Leave it to the canine to kiss ass for a living.”

Then, wagging his finger, Rubrum admitted: “There is –”

He stopped, then began again.

“There was… and hopefully will be… a major in international diplomacy at the Academy. It’s not very popular, but I think you might thrive in that program, Fey.”

A big intersection laid at their feet now. Maestro upheld the map, tilted it toward the sun, and attempted to decode the hastily scrawled letters. Like Combee, the rest crowded around and buzzed, until Maestro said: “We turn right here.”

But alas, an obstacle awaited. Peering beyond the corner, all five of them fumbling over each other for a glance, they saw it – a massive, terrible mound of black-furred flesh, stretching upwards to the rooftops. Breaths made the mighty mass quake, a demented snore ringing out and above. The thing stretched across the street in its entirety, utterly blocking it, the gravel covered in upturned carriages, each filled with fresh produce.

“What is that?” Asher asked.

Rubrum adjusted his glasses, said: “I think it’s a Snorlax. See the arms?”

Indeed, tiny nubby arms extended from the massive torso. They flopped a little with each breath, utterly unable to support the rest. There was no head to be seen. Rubrum supposed it was around there somewhere, eating.

“I never knew a hybrid could get so big,” Fey said. “Is this what Aoi meant by ‘unstoppable’…?”

Then, the rebels cautiously approached. Moving quietly toward the undulating flesh, the little mountain seemed not to care at all about them. Somewhere on the other side of the street, its face gorged itself on cabbages and sweet corn. Groaning in ecstatic pleasure. Muscles rippled under the surface, a sickly sweet scent emanating from the ever-expanding gullet.

“I guess we should just go around it,” Rubrum said. He pointed to a nearby alley, said: “We can cut across here and come around to the other side.”

Alas, there was nothing else to be done. The rest dutifully followed Rubrum down the alley; save for Fey, who lingered for only a moment, gently reaching out his ribbon to meet the Snorlax’s flesh. Thinly furred, and soft, yet stories high and belching. Fey pressed just enough to sink the tip of his ribbon into the fur; and from inside, unexpectedly, something gripped back. A hand, beneath it all.

Fey bolted to join the others, and said nothing.

There was shouting from up ahead. The sound reverberated against the dirty-red walls, frantic screeching mixed with the whoosh of hot air. Just around the corner, someone struggled for their life. Like a line of eager Durant, the rebels crept forward, bumping into each other with each stop, their shoulders dragging against the wall.

“Way too many voices,” Maestro whispered.

Just then, a fireball shot down the street like a comet. Someone screamed, their voices reduced to a bloody gurgle. No one wanted to risk getting closer.

Wordlessly, Fey, all the way in the back, prodded Sid’s shoulder, pointed upward; and so the signal went down the line, Sid prodding Asher, Asher prodding Maestro, Maestro prodding Rubrum, who then turned to stare at a low-hanging window, just ajar. Right above Fey’s head, the canine’s ribbons now reaching upward and opening it up.

They all piled in. Sid went first, prying his lithe body through the opening, before turning back and leveraging his vines for the rest. The bunch of them all emerged into a cold grey stairwell, candles still burning on the sides, with a small view of the lobby.

“It’s an apartment building,” the Servine said. Dust stung his nostrils. “And it’s not a very nice one.”

Asher coughed, took a quick look around. Stooping down, creeping down the stairwell enough to peer out the front windows, he caught sight of the scene outside – a deadly battle between a few battered Augustan soldiers and the hybrids. There on the left, a Vileplume crept down the street on nubby legs, its flower grown to disgusting proportions, spewing a viscous purple gas. It drifted down the thoroughfare there, met a soldier’s nostrils like a gut punch – some poor Scyther, swiping frantically through the fog – and he stood straight, giving some sort of demented salute as he brought his bladed arm to his head, then shifted it down to his neck, sliced it clean across the carapace. Blood spurted in a straight line, pumped in time with his heart’s last contractions.

Then a red-orange shadow burst past, sprinting past the now-decapitated figure. It was a Blaziken, red-eyed, sprinting as quickly as it could. Big, feathered feet patting the ground with each frantic step. Two frightened soldiers – both Bug-types – had turned tail on the great beast. And yet, the hybrid didn’t give chase; instead, it bent down, wrapped its fingers around a solid mancover, and held it to its chest; then, holding it casually like a frisbee, bending it back, he flung the hunk of metal away, careening it toward the fleeing Butterfree. It met the bug’s torso with a wet smack, knocking it into its companion, and they both fell to the ground. The Blaziken then closed in. No hesitation, no mercy.

“We need to go,” Asher said.

So the rebels climbed the stairwell. “We can probably skirt along the rooftops,” Sid said in-between breaths. “I can help propel us along the sides, if we need. So we can avoid the fighting on the streets…”

Five flights of stairs flew by below. Stairs and stairs and stairs until they all bent over themselves, struggling for air, hanging onto the railing and panting.

Asher said: “Wait, wait… guys, I’ve been up these stairs before.”

“When?”

“When we went to visit Chairman Hermes,” the Cinderace explained. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure he lives in this building.” Pause. “No, no… make that one hundred. He definitely lives here.”

Fey looked around, screwed himself up, and commented: “It seems a little crummy for a chairman though, right?”

Rubrum simply replied: “Well, I don’t think he’s paid very much.”

Then they were running again, but not far – one more flight of stairs, and there they met it. A big cloud of impenetrable black fog, neatly emanating from the final flight of stairs. It tumbled down and stopped there on the second-to-last step above the final landing, like an invisible wall was holding the entire thing back.

Maestro took one look, leaning on the railing, and asked, exhaustedly: “What the fuck?”

They all just looked at it for a minute, confused. At the fog, then at each other.

For just a moment, Fey wandered closer, attempted to stick his ribbon within it; but Asher caught him by his tail, pulled him back, and begrudgingly said: “Fey, no.”

Then he pointed toward the landing’s door, and they piled within. They traveled through the residential hallway now, doors passing by on either side, near-identical in their bland hue, the faintest of wood grains adorning their outsides, perforated only by numbered placards.

“Don’t tell me we’re going to Hermes’s room,” Rubrum said, and he genuinely meant it.

But Asher replied: “We might be able to scale the fire escape from there.” They reached the door, lingered for a moment outside of it. The Cinderace continued: “If we can’t use the stairs, it’s worth a try, right?”

Taking no time at all, Asher then reared his foot back, arcing it with a tangible flame, and then crashed his heel into the Simipour’s front door. The whole thing splintered apart into hundreds of bland little splinters, the knob still awkwardly hanging off the side like a vestigial limb, and revealed a sight which none of them had ever expected: the saddest man in the world, nursing a beer with arthritis-ridden fingers, slouched in his dirty plush chair, uncomfortable and yet unwilling to move, still listening to the radio.

Glancing over the chair’s arm with utmost displeasure – no, not displeasure, merely apathy – the little Simipour lazily asked: “Are you here to kill me?”

The five home invaders simply froze in the doorway, stunned at their discovery. They all craned their heads around the destroyed frame, shamelessly peering in at perhaps the worst-decorated apartment of all time, until Maestro sheepishly admitted: “No?”

Rubrum, however, was the most surprised of them all. Pushing past the rest of them and storming into the living room, he took the Simipour by the arm and shouted: “Hermes! What the hell are you doing?!”

Hermes simply shrugged, not looking the professor in the eyes, and admitted: “Not much, really.”

“No, I mean, what are you doing here?” Rubrum was positively flabbergasted to lay eyes upon his old friend-turned-enemy. “Why are you just sitting here in your apartment?”

Hermes huffed, then admitted: “The world has ended. What else should I be doing?”

“Anything?” Rubrum asked. “Like, anything at all?”

“Yeah, well.” Hermes then took a sip of his drink. “I’m just waiting for the Spear to fire at this point.”

Stunned at his cowardice, the rest of them stood there for a moment. Then, bursting forth, Asher grabbed the Simipour by his shoulders, shook him, and bellowed: “You! Did! This!” Hands off, giving him the stare-down. “You’re the one who destroyed this entire city! Don’t you feel any shame?”

Hermes tilted his head, nonplussed, and replied: “I just did the paperwork.”

“This is useless,” Maestro perforated. He glanced toward the window. “And the fire escape–”

Rubrum spread his arms wide and interrupted: “There are hybrids in the streets. They’re killing people, right now, right outside your apartment. Look out the window, Hermes.”

“The fire escape–”

“You think I haven’t seen?” Hermes prodded. “I know exactly what’s going on. I was outside just this morning. I’m not stupid.”

Behind them, the doorknob fell from the frame, landing on a pile of wood chips. Everyone awkwardly looked at it, like it’d purposefully interrupted the conversation, then looked back.

“Um, the fire escape is…”

Rubrum said: “We heard Maximus is building a barricade around the Radiant Hall. His soldiers are being brainwashed. Why aren’t you there?”

At that, Hermes seemed embarrassed. He looked away, glancing at the big blue sky beyond his window, and admitted: “Okay, so the barricade closed at nine sharp. That’s what Maximus said, all the diplomats have to be inside by nine.” He gulped. “But I overslept, so I arrived at nine-oh-five. So… there you go.”

More dumbfounded blinking. The rebels all sort of looked at each other, amazed at the man’s stupidity, before turning to condescend in tandem. Even Asher, usually burning with rage, just gave an inquisitive scowl.

Hermes was none too pleased to notice this. Wafting his hand away, brushing it against his chair’s arm, he said: “Why don’t you all just… go, huh? I have nothing more to give you. Nothing at all. So just let me die in peace.”

Of course, Rubrum was far too compassionate to just leave. Stooping down, mustering an empathetic expression amidst the chaos, he touched the Simipours’s arm and cooed: “Hermes… what happened to you?”

Hermes had a good chuckle and replied: “Aside from you blackmailing me twice, I don’t know. Maybe Maximus breathing down my neck every fucking minute? Oh, or maybe every other Board member being horrifically assassinated in the last six months? By you?” Another chuckle, he wiped his eyes. “Honestly, I wish you were here to kill me. Then at least it’d be over. What a fucking mess.”

Asher, not one to take such an insult lying down, shot back: “Arceus… how pathetic can you be? You took how many lives, and for what?” His eyes then widened as he remembered something. “And Renasca – you told Iris and Akiva we’d be there, right? Right? Lying little–”

Suddenly, Hermes was indignant. “No,” he contested. “No, I didn’t tell anyone anything.”

Maestro ignored the whole scene. He walked over to Hermes’s window, tugged it open, and stuck his head out. The fresh air felt amazing – Hermes’s apartment positively reeked.

“This is such shit,” Asher said. He laughed, too. “We’re ambushed in one of the most remote parts of Illumina, and you don’t know anything about it? I mean, Arceus… do you really think we’re that stupid?”

With genuine offense, Hermes replied: “I kept your stupid deal! I didn’t tell anyone about where you went. And if you don’t believe me, then throw me to the hybrids. I don’t care anymore.”

“Guys!” Maestro yelled. He was standing to the side, over bags of trash, screwing his head out the window. Then he pointed at the scaffolding, and said: “Look.”

The rebels all then crowded around, only to see that the fire escape had been completely destroyed. A little rusted platform jutted out from the brick siding, long-since eroded, the steps to the rooftop seemingly hanging from nothing.

“It’s completely gone,” Maestro announced, and shook his head. “We’ll have to find another way to the roof.”

Asher turned away, swore: “Shit.” Another moment of despair, and then: “Shit!”

Hermes narrowed his eyes, still sitting motionless in his chair, and asked: “You’re trying to get to the roof?”

“Yeah,” Maestro replied. His mask slipped off a bit, then he pushed it back on with the tip of his thumb. “You know a way?”

Hermes nodded lazily, not bothering to ask why these boys were all clamoring for the roof, and raised himself from his plush chair. A deep, soft indent remained from where his ass had squished the fabric. He then raised his arms above his head in a depressive stretch – Arceus, his armpits smelled horrible – and wandered over to his now-burst door, motioning for the others to follow. With more than a little hesitation, the rest trudged after him.

Rubrum caught up to him, sauntering by his side, and said: “You know, Hermes, there’s something weird happening in the stairwell.”

“I know,” Hermes replied. “But frankly… I’ll do anything to get you out of my apartment.”

Sadness burgeoned within Rubrum’s gut. Before him walked a once-great man, an intellectual powerhouse, dulled by years and years of drudgery. Washed down into his gut by waves of cheap beer.

Rubrum said: “You know, I never wanted to see you like this.”

“Oh yeah?” Hermes chuckled. “You don’t like what you see, hm? Probably should’ve thought about that before all this.”

The professor continued: “You act like you had no role in this pointless war, Hermes. But you do. I mean, don’t you feel responsibility? Just a little?”

Hermes’s face soured at that. With just the littlest bit of sadness, he muttered: “Shut the fuck up, Rubrum.”

Breathing in deeply, the Lucario then pushed: “You at least know where the panic room is, don’t you? The room Maximus is hiding in?”

“Probably,” Hermes replied, with no enthusiasm at all.

“Probably?”

“Okay, yes,” Hermes admitted. “I know where the panic room is. All the Board members do. We’re supposed to flee there in case–”

“Then lead me to it,” Rubrum said. The others listened eagerly behind. “Tell me where it is, and we’ll end this pointless war once and for all. I promise.”

Hermes chuckled and pushed back: “Even if I told you, it’s hopeless. It’s all hopeless. You’ll just get yourselves killed.”

They then reached the stairwell, crowded onto the landing. That same darkness still wafted there between the railings, square-shaped and strange. Hermes seemed to stare at the mass for a moment, as if considering his options; and just as Maestro opened his mouth to ask, Hermes confidently walked right inside. Like disappearing beneath the surface of muddy water, he was utterly subsumed, not even a ripple left behind.

Rubrum’s eyes widened, and he choked: “H–Hermes!”

But within only a moment – perhaps expectedly – Hermes poked his big head out and replied: “What?”

“Oh,” the Lucario breathed, suddenly embarrassed at his loss of composure. “I–I thought you might’ve, erm…”

In reply, Hermes simply rolled his eyes. A disembodied hand emerged from the darkness, beckoning forth, and he said: “It’s fine. Come with me. The roof is right up here.”

Rubrum took the monkey’s hand with palpable hesitation; the rest then linked up in an awkward chain, one hand stretched out in front, another clutching behind. They then traveled up, up, one measly flight and then two, drenched in moist, cold darkness. It laid palpably upon their fur like dew, sloshed around in their lungs.

“It’s so weird,” Fey said, his mouth full. “It tastes a little like iron.”

As they rounded the final corner, a pair of diamond-shaped eyes stared motionlessly from the concrete ground. Crouched down, like the little thing didn’t want to be noticed. It watched, unblinking, peacefully, as the parade of Pokémon crossed by.

“Don’t worry,” Hermes said, as if he knew the hybrid personally. “He won’t attack. He’s a coward.”

Their transition into daylight was abrupt and violent. The wall of darkness suddenly fell away from them and melted from their flesh, sliding onto the cracked concrete and fizzling away. Rooftops big and small then stretched onto the horizon in all directions, sucking up the sun and spitting it out in a fantastic array of beige, grey, and blue. Glass windows, once accustomed to the bustle of city life, now empty and forlorn. Boarded-up, or broken, or abandoned.

Silently, the six of them piled out, hovering hands over their eyes. Below, six or so floors beneath, hybrids still fought aimlessly in the streets. Since slaughtering those unfortunate soldiers, the Blaziken had taken to punching storefronts and tipping over trash cans. The Vileplume now gestated beneath a thick violet smog, releasing intermittent groans and creaks.

Desperate not to be noticed, Maestro shrunk from the roof’s lip; and then, turning back to his friends, he asked: “So, what now? We’re roof-hopping?” He looked askance at the adjacent building, just about the same height. With a running start, it’d be easy to cross.

Sid eyed the gap and announced: “Looks reasonable. And if we run across any big gaps, I can help us out with my vines.” He was embarrassed to admit: “They’re actually, um, bigger now that I’m a Servine, so.”

They all then meandered to the gap, gazed over. The fall was enough to make their stomachs drop; a six-floor drop, cushioned only by concrete. Hermes, however, didn’t even bother to look; he simply patted his beer belly, turned right around, and said: “Okay, well… there you go. The Radiant Hall is due west, pretty much a straight line. So I guess I’ll just, uh…”

The rest shot a judgmental glance backward, so sharp it could pierce Hermes’s skin. Rubrum, especially so; he then started toward the little primate, hands on his hips, like an angry father. Hermes shrunk from his frame.

“W–wait!” the little man cried. He upraised his hands, backing away. “I–I’ll tell you where the panic room is. Right now. I–I think I remember; no, I’m pretty sure I remember–”

Hermes didn’t get to finish. In one fluent motion, Rubrum swept him off his feet, cradling the pathetic figure in a bridal carry, one hand fitted snugly under his butt. Naturally, Hermes was absolutely irate.

“H-hey! Put me down!” the Simipour yelled. He struggled against Rubrum, but was held solidly by the Lucario’s steel grip. “Let me go! Let me go!”

The chorus of rebels was silent as Rubrum then neared the building’s edge, not a single one of them lifting a finger. For the first time, Hermes gazed over the edge, that depressive funk lifting from his eyes, supplanted by pure terror. And he sputtered: “R–Rubrum. Woah! Hey. Hey, hey. Everything’s okay, right? We’re friends! Y–you’re not gonna drop me, right?”

The professor shook his head, replied: “No, Hermes. I would never.”

And with a cloying smile, his eyes squinted against the sun, the Simipour blathered: “Good, good. Because, you know, I can just tell you where the panic room is…”

“Maestro?” Rubrum asked, seemingly ignorant of Hermes’s talking. “Would you be a dear and take my glasses?” And his lover did so, just as he was asked, folding the bifocals neatly against his palm.

“Wait,” Hermes said. “Wait, wait, wait…!”

But before the boy could finish, Rubrum had already begun to spin. Tensing his muscles, he began to spin the Simipour round and round, a screaming blur of blue and black and beige. A subtle glow emanated from Rubrum’s arms, a concentration of his aura, as the two grown men spun like a carousel under the sun; and then, like a missile, the primate flew from Rubrum’s arms, a blue speck against the cerulean sky, screaming and cursing, before flopping down – thwump! – safely upon the distant ledge, a distance Hermes certainly couldn’t cross by himself with his stubby useless legs.

Brushing himself off and breathing heavily, the little man hastily stood and yelled: “What. The. Fuck!”

Rubrum, more than strong enough to jump the gap himself, joined him on the other side. A little plume of brick-laden dust rose around his ankles. And standing tall, he announced: “You’re coming with us, Hermes. You’re going to show us to the panic room personally. Consider it recompense. For everything.”

“R–recompense?!” Hermes spat. He hardly paid attention as the rest of the group caught up. “You’re insane! You’re going to get us all killed!”

The professor raised an eyebrow, shot back: “I have no intention of allowing my students to come to harm.”

Hermes then jerked his head forward, plastered with fear, and bellowed: “And what about me?”

The Lucario simply clicked his tongue and replied: “Well, you I can’t guarantee.”

“Why not!”

A raised paw was enough to beckon the little man into silence; same as when Maximus had done so, countless times before. A parade of pitter-patter then trickled past the rooftop’s lip, each of them bounding gracefully over the gap. Servine, Sylveon, Cinderace, and Meowscarada alike.

Maestro meandered to the opposite edge, one foot planted solidly upon the roof’s border, and held a paw over his mask. His eyes shone as the horizon grazed his retina, those white fluted columns piercing the arteries running between red-bricked buildings.

“I can see it from here,” he announced. “The Radiant Hall – you see it? The big window sticking out from the top?”

They all walked closer, looked out. Maestro was right – it rose above the stout buildings surrounding it, making everything else look small. And there, just barely visible, surrounding the entire plenum like a protective bubble, was a tight wooden barricade. Little holes perforated the thing, quickly patched by a sea of hands and paws. Even from a distance, they noticed it – swathes of soldiers moving in lockstep, one behind another, bobbing their heads to an inaudible rhythm.

“Are they… dancing?” Fey asked. He looked around for affirmation. “It looks like they’re dancing, right?”

Sid squinted, replied: “Kind of?”

“Well, they’re terrible at it,” Asher huffed. “And who are they even protecting, hm? All the fucking legislators who made this happen?” He frowned, spat: “It makes me sick.”

Rubrum laid a soft hand upon the boy’s fiery shoulder. They then gazed out over the concrete jungle, in awe at its destruction. Billows of smoke arose from rooftops, broken open and spewing like volcanoes. Faint screams and yells, indistinguishable in the cacophony, rose from shattered windows and broken cobblestone. The sky, once a calm baby blue, was tainted greyish with pollutive smoke, the whole world coming together in one repulsive show of hellish violence. Somewhere, an alarm bell tripped and screeched through the air. Somewhere else, perhaps beneath the sewer grates, ripping through the wide and dark waterways, hybrids slithered with meat in their bellies.

Rubrum took the first step, launching himself over the next gap. The others had no choice but to follow.

— — —

Beneath the Grand Library, past the defunct laboratory, through two dark staircases, and nestled within the bowels of Augusta, a lithe woman, still dressed in white, sat calmly upon a concrete floor. Her psychic dampeners long since flushed down the toilet. Shutting her eyes tightly, those pale knuckles clenched and digging into her palms, she unleashed it – another wave of psychic energy, split from her skull, shot like a bullet, bouncing around the lead-steel enclosure, before slowly dissipating in the still, stale air. An echo of an echo of an echo.

“Come on, come on,” she muttered. Sweat rolled from her boiling forehead. A grand machine, firing on all cylinders, pumping gargantuan psychic signals from a cranium only a few millimeters thick. And just as her jaw unclenched, there it went – another burst of energy, beamed out like a missile. That burst would’ve cut a hole clean through a Turtonator’s chest; instead, it left the tiniest of dents in the leaden wall.

Akiva could only hang her head. Dejected, cold dry air passing through her lips, she rubbed her temples and squeezed her eyes shut. If she could just get one message through the walls – just one – she could transmit a psychic message to the whole city. Thousands of Pokémon, all hearing the same desperate message:

FEY. MY ONE TRUE FRIEND. BENEATH THE LIBRARY. URGENT.

Much to her trepidation, the Gardevoir’s focus was then broken by the steady click-clack of hard-soled shoes. It approached from the right, accompanied by the wheeling of a dinner cart. There was a rhythm to it; the guard would stop, open the next cell’s meal slot, push it through, shut it tight, and resume onward.

Akiva hurriedly crawled forward on her hands and knees. Like a beast waiting for prey, she positioned herself just below the feeding slot, her ear pressed against the floor. Her breaths quietly cascaded against the concrete floor.

Click-clack. Click-clack.

Another slot opened, then shut. The whole affair took only a few seconds – most prisoners wouldn’t pay attention to it at all. Just a little metal tray, slid wordlessly through the door. Today, the prisoners received creamed corn and roasted vegetables. Akiva could already smell the thin, cheap balsamic sauce.

Click-clack. Click-clack.

Akiva tensed up, hovering there on her knees. She awkwardly pressed herself against the door just beside the slot, intent not to be spotted; and then, the slot opened. For a moment, there was nothing; and then, the tray slid through. The Gardevoir watched as the barest bits of the guard’s fingers lingered in the gap, grazing on the smooth metal.

Her only chance.

Akiva’s hand then darted out like a Kecleon’s tongue, swiftly wrapping itself around the guard’s fingers, holding on for dear life, as the frightened man – it was a Croagunk, she could tell by the hand shape – writhed and pulled. A little yelp sounded from his throat, an indistinct quivering sound, as he instinctually backed his chunky body against the meal cart. The silverware clattered onto the floor there, a tiny pool of creamed-corn-sludge coalescing under his feet.

“What the — let go!” he yelled.

But Akiva kept on. White-knuckling the poor man’s hand with one arm, she awkwardly shoved her other arm through, wrenching toward the Croagunk’s elbow – and there, in just a few moments she had a solid grip around it. Muscle and bone twisted frantically beneath the Poison-type’s skin, stretching this angle and that, pulling his head back in exasperation – until, there, he glanced down into the meal slot, only for his gaze to be met by Akiva’s. Two beautiful hooded eyes, screwed up with rage and hunger.

That one glance was all she needed. A manic smile rose to her lips.

The truth is this: most Pokémon will never experience their mind being carved open, splayed like the top of a tin can; even fewer live to tell the tale. This Croagunk, however, would accomplish both.

First, the protective layer was stripped away – like a candy wrapper, that’s the best way Akiva could describe it. Stringy and thin and illusory. Without it, the mind feels naked, like it could succumb to a stiff breeze; and indeed, that’s how the Croagunk felt right about now. A sort of coldness seeped into his skull, a feeling he didn’t know he could feel, perforated by subtle whispers, ushering: Open the door. Open the door. Open the door.

The guard hammered away at Akiva’s hand with his fists, but to no avail; he even tried prying his fingers underneath hers, peeling them away, but she was steadfast. No amount of yanking, pulling, or dislocating would do it. She couldn’t fail. Not now.

Open the door, Akiva whispered. Her lips didn’t move, and yet the Croagunk heard those words, clear as day. Open the door now.

“No!” the guard yelped, and, looking around, spotted a fork spilled out onto the cart’s top; thinking fast, he snatched the little thing, rose it up, and brought it down into Akiva’s pale, porcelain flesh. Red-hot blood poured from the wound in little spurts, but the woman didn’t relent. She didn’t move – she couldn’t.

Shoving herself lower, aiming her eyesight through the meal slot and the blazing pain of a puncture wound, she spotted him again – those big, yellow, frightened eyes through the steel.

And with that, the psychic knife moved once more. A sort of hazy, dissociative feeling made the guard’s head feel light; he swayed uncontrollably upon his feet, bracing himself against the meal cart. The fork stuck out from Akiva’s arm like an extra limb, wiggling like a flagpole during a thunderstorm.

“No,” the Croagunk breathed. “No, no, no…”

Open the door, Akiva shot. Those narrowed eyes pierced the man’s flesh unabashedly. Digging beyond the outer layer, reaching the meat now. She could taste it, that familiar sensation of vestigial memories. Foods, little kisses, stray glances toward an elementary school crush. And with horror, the guard realized it – he could no longer remember where he was. Stolen out from within him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” the Croagunk cried, suddenly aware that his mind was being eaten. “Let go, let go!” He then shot his head toward the empty hallway, looking out toward the nexus, and screamed: “Help me!”

But no one heard him. And he could already feel his strength weakening; that control he once felt over his arms, his legs, was morphing into sludge. His knees, swaying and unkempt, struggled to keep straight. It felt like his teeth were going to fall out, the way his jaw yammered and fell upon itself.

Open the door. His attention was laser-focused now, driven only by those words. All those other memories, his fears, his everything, suddenly fallen away, replaced by the words of that prisoner whose name he never knew. No, no… they weren’t her words. They were his. He was saying it.

“Open the door,” the guard muttered. “Open… the… door.”

His right hand outstretched, grasped the cold metal, and tugged. The lock seemed to sigh in relief as it disengaged, swung out. A big open mouth, exhaling stale cool air into a hallway pockmarked by little dusty dents and cracks.

Akiva stepped out from her cell daintily, as if the ground itself would eat her up, and planted a single finger upon the Croagunk’s forehead. She applied the slightest bit of pressure; and down he went, his legs falling like timbers, his back swinging and colliding with the cold stone floor – but not before Akiva caught his head, lowering it slowly until it laid still and silent.

“Goodbye,” Akiva said.

She then stepped over him, over the piles of creamed corn, carrying her robe in her hands so as to not stain it, and then bounded down the hall. No shoes, bare feet slapping there and accruing dust. Running with saintly intent through a grid-maze of sad grey stone and suffering. Past the myriad lockdown cells, past solitary confinement, past open rattling bars of iron and steel and agony, voices screaming to be freed and killed alike. Arms reaching out along both sides of the corridor, grazing her pure white fabric, grabbing and ripping. Big handfuls of beautiful snow-colored cotton.

“You did this! You did this! You did this!” they yelled. Dissipated and separate, then rising to a chorus. Chanting in unison. Banging on the doors and the floors. Jumping up and down and screaming through a hundred choked throats.

Tears beaded along Akiva’s eyes. A prison she’d never seen, never wanted to see. A world she’d willingly ignored. All the minds and dreams she’d eaten could fill this prison twice over. How many lives had she destroyed? How many sermons had she given?

“We are but a tiny speck in the eternal timeline. Our eternal existence after this life will depend on our choices in this life,” Akiva called from the pulpit. “Arceus will bestow eternal life upon us, if we only trust in His word!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she cried. She wiped her face, smearing mascara along her pale cheek, sniveling; as she rounded a corner, a Treecko nearly slammed into her stomach – she recoiled just in time, holding her palms out, as the little guard stared upward in awe.

No time to speak. Down he went, hypnotized into a deep sleep. Akiva lowered him to the ground and ran once more. More guards were coming now, attracted to the racket. She fired a stray Hypnosis this way and that, not stopping, not anymore. A Drowzee, down, some quadruped fallen and splayed onto their legs, and the alarm rang – someone noticed her, and she was still running over to the prison’s thorax, weaving and bobbing, projectiles firing overhead from behind, so she hid around a corner and fired a Moonblast back, scorching the entire hallway in bright white light. They screamed.

And there it was – so close, the control interface, housed in a concrete box surrounded by reinforced glass, barred by a thick iron door. A Mystical Fire spewed from her weary palms, scorching her wrists and melting the thick bars. The lights suddenly dropped, replaced by a terrible red light, alarms blaring, the world rendered monochrome.

“Come on!” she called. “Come the fuck on!”

One Moonblast, two, pressed directly against the glass. She could see it – it was sparking and splintering on the edges. The condensed force of a firebomb spreading from her fingers, psychic energy ripping apart the superheated iron bars and dismantling the lock until it was a stub of iron mush.

A projectile struck her from behind, flung her face against the glass, before she spun, pointing her index toward everything and letting loose an array of frantic Psychic blasts. She could feel their minds upon impact – little fragile things ripped apart, oh Arceus she felt it. Her head aching, her vision spinning, and she shot anyway, until the guards were forced back beyond the concrete corners and she returned once more to ripping apart the door, flinging the molten metal scrap outward toward her aggressors.

Inside the nexus sat a lonely Cinccino, just barely tall enough to reach the controls. His eyes wide, his arms upraised, he sat in a swiveling office chair, gazing with absolute terror toward the giant who’d cracked her way inside. The Gardevoir sloppily shoved herself through the top half of the disintegrated door, her robe catching and ripping on the rough metal, before scrambling to her hands and knees and putting the poor boy to sleep, flinging the office chair away, and hunkering down in front of the controls.

Flick. Flick. Flick. Flick. Flick.

Switches and switches and switches flipped. Entire wings of the prison disengaged in tandem, solitary and co-ed and hybrids and political dissidents alike, some not having seen the sun for two decades, free, emerging into the red-lit halls with raucous laughter, wracked sobs.

Flick. Flick. Flick.

A hybrid Malamar slammed bloody bodies into hard walls with tender slime-covered tentacles. Exploud screaming with terrible, eardrum-rupturing ferocity, a chorus of blame transitioning into chaos, swarms of desperate Pokémon young and old flooding the thorax, banging and melting the doors, running right past Akiva and into derelict hallways, guard lounges, up the stairs and careening through Invi’s old laboratory, the library, painting the walls with blood. Screams combining with the siren’s blare.

“Please,” Akiva whispered, only to herself. “Please, all of you… forgive me. Forgive me for everything.”

One final switch, and below the control panel she shrunk, holing up there beyond sight, bodies being flung against the glass above her head and cracking along the seams. A Noivern crawled along the ceiling and snatched guards from above, bringing their heads right into her jaws, before crunching down on gushing red necks.

“It’s happening!” someone yelled. Never had Akiva heard such unabashed joy. Thoughts and feelings continued flooding her mind uncontrollably, narratives fusing and ripping apart. Every bit of violence and anger and fear trapped within her psyche like a lightning rod, her body uncontrollably rocking to and fro.

“It’s happening! It’s happening! It’s happening!”

“It huuuuuuuuurts!”

A Dragonair hid in her cell, shaking and afraid, curling her sensitive tail around herself just like she did as a hatchling. Old men crowded around a young guard and took turns beating him, paying extra attention to his ribs. Two lovers, kept apart for five years, embraced again for the first time. A child, born into captivity, gazes out of his cell for the first time. Humans are cowering in their cells and crying and hiding under thin dirt-stained cots.

Hybrid minds, too, reaching out and grazing hers, years of suffering and anger and confusion, years of confinement and pent-up desires flooding out in one big wave. Memories of esoteric surgery and skin flaps splayed open, Invi’s little cock hovering in front of an open mouth, and the addled minds screamed: “Blood! For! Sex! Blood! For! Sex!” in complete and utter unison, an ocean of souls bursting at the seams.

“Please!” Akiva begged, her eyes squeezed shut, her mind obscured by memories of the damned and lonely. The same people she had worked to imprison for twenty years. And she said: “Forgive me! I–I didn’t know! I didn’t know!”

Every thought and sensation interrupted. No focus, no perspective. Open blue skies and all the love to last a lifetime. One pithy ego, spread across hundreds of flaming souls.

The glass shattered inward, sprinkling across the console like a million glistening snowflakes. A sound wave shouted from a hybrid throat, loud enough to intoxicate, right into the middle of the melee – and down all the bodies dropped, like puppets with strings cut, Akiva’s head careening toward the cheap tile, down, down.

No boundaries between people. She stared outward at that little Cinccino’s eyes, splayed across the room beneath the office chair, little trickles of blood emerging from the fluffy ears, and Akiva was struck with a sudden and unexpected euphoria. Everything is beautiful, she thought, her consciousness exploding, and for some reason it felt like the most true feeling she’d ever experienced. Everything is so, so, so beautiful.

And in that moment, the entire city, thousands of innocent minds, were struck with a singular thought:

TO ALL THOSE WHO HAVE LOST FAITH

_ TO ALL THOSE WHO WILL JOIN ME IN THE NEXT WORLD_

_ I LOVE YOU_