GOD
He/Him
41
December 25th
Spikemunth
Northeast
Monster
Rocket Beast
I survived because the fire inside me burned brighter than the fire around me.
TAG WITH @shredzeppelin
Shred
GOODBYE GALAR: RUSTED SWORD
POSTED ON May 19, 2023 16:29:31 GMT
Every second, the madness just seems to keep on escalating. More attacks fired off, more defenses thrown up to protect the attacks, more tricks and traps set up across the battlefield, and more maneuvers meant to disable said hazards. Trying to pay attention to it all would make your head spin, so you mostly just try to block it all out. Focus on the Tomb. Focus on running. Focus on getting there before anyone else.
Course, that's easier said than done. Your best efforts are hindered by Hyakkaryōran Tsubaki and her Ariados, who attempts to barricade your path with a Sticky Web. Not very polite of her, is it? Didn't her parents ever teach her manners? That forces you to pump the brakes, your heels skidding across the ground as you try to slow down. Fortunately, Cain Toman and his Cinderace's Court Change clear the blockage, which is polite, but alas, the damage is already done - Your momentum is already hindered. You try to pick up the pace again, but by the time you're even close to the cave's entrance, FERNANDO SILPH and his Gyarados have already shut the path forward.
Wanker. Who the hell does this guy think he is? This little scrub? This nerd? He's a proper arsehole, that's what he is. You have half a mind to smack him one for getting in your way. In fact, your hand is already moving towards Toxtricity's Pokeball, ready to pick this fight...
...For better or for worse, you never get the chance. No, the ground beneath your feet bursts out, jagged stones slamming into your legs as you're sent flying upwards. Needless to say, it hurts quite badly, but that's a pittance compared to the gaping chasm it leaves behind, an earthen prison meant to bury you alive. Panic and adrenaline both kick in, and you quickly scramble to avoid a grisly end.
It never comes. But, that doesn't mean you've escaped.
THUMP!
As soon as you hit the ground, you immediately jerk upright. This isn't that chaotic battlefield, nor is it a tomb buried deep within the earth. No, the floor beneath you is grimy concrete, and you're surrounded by cheap plastic chairs that are warped and cracked. No, this is a different kind of battlefield entirely - A stadium. It's weird to say, but this is giving you an eerie sense of deja vu.
You try to pull yourself up to your feet, but that's easier said than done. Your legs are thrashed - Your left has it much worse than the right, but the right isn't exactly doing great, either. You can maybe manage an enthusastic limp, but that's hardly ideal, given the circumstances. If that bastard of a moose comes back, you're practically a sitting duck. Still, you won't be much better just sitting around here, will you? No, a limp is better than nothing. It'll have to do.
As you drag yourself up to your knees, you get a better view of your surroundings, and you almost can't believe it: This is Wyndon Stadium! You would know it anywhere. The League Finals always happened here, along with the other big matches. Sitting in front of the TV and watching the battles that took place here is practically a core memory to you. Except, well, this isn't really how you remember it looking. If you were trying to be nice, you'd say it had seen better days. If you weren't, you'd call it a shithole. What the hell is even going on here? How'd you get from Hoenn to here in the first place? And how are you supposed to get back?
But ultimately, that's secondary, because there's bigger fish to fry. The League dogs are coalescing in the middle, and you know for a fact they won't take kindly to a Rocket strolling up to join them. That's a problem for obvious reasons. Strength in numbers is going to be necessary to get out of here, but they'd sooner play their stupid faction games than work for the common good. How very typical of them.
Still, better with them than alone. You'll have to get creative, but you'll make it work. Time for a little bit of acting.
First off, you rip the mask off your face and throw it away. That's the most obvious indicator that you're a Rocket, after all. Then, you make up your backstory - Your name is Jack Sabbath, you're an aspiring reporter, and you came here to get the big scoop, which is how you got caught up in this mess. Finally, you tie your jacket around your waist, and hastily put up your hair into a ponytail. Why? Honestly, just felt right, y'know? Felt like a Jack Sabbath thing to do. Gotta look the part, and that part isn't similar to Shred Zeppelin in the slightest. Really, you feel like you need a flannel and a beanie to fit the part, but you've got to work with what you have.
And, well, that's that. Nothing left to do but commit. So, standing up, you proceed to nonchalantly march-limp out of the stands, down the many steps, and clamber down the barricades to the pitch. This'll be an uphill battle, but you'll get through it. You're slick. You're smooth. You're charismatic, in a certain sense of the word. You'll talk your way through this. You approach the shrine and the group in the middle--
--Fuck, that's Navy . Why the hell is he here? Just your luck. Of all the people you could've met here, it's the one guy who might be able to see through your admittedly flimsy disguise. Tch... No, it's fine. You'll still make it work. He might have a hunch, but surely, he's not stupid enough to call you out at a time like this. You're kindred spirits, and you're stuck in this shithole together. He's not going to fuck you over if it's not going to benefit him.
"Evening, fellas." You greet the group, your voice settling on some terrible mixture of a passable Wyndon accent and the worst Castelian accent known to man. As you walk, you're seemingly unbothered by the threat posed by the Octillery, nor the Iron Valiant, nor the Umbreon. Of course, that's just more pantomime - If any of them, Trainer or Pokemon, are a little too trigger-happy, then you're up the creek without a paddle. So, here's hoping cooler heads prevail, eh? "Quite the pickle we've got ourselves in, huh? Anyone mind catching me up to speed on the deets?"
...You don't think you like Jack Sabbath very much, but alas, he's all you've got right now.
TL;DR - Shred Zeppelin gets wrecked, gets isekai'd to his home country, dons the stunning disguise of Jack Sabbath, amateur reporter, and attempts to act like he belongs with the League group.
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