For a trained assassin from a secret sect lost to Galarain history, Thomas’d had fewer run-ins with the supernatural than he’d have liked, in his life. Considering he’d made quite a few ghosts, it was unsurprising that his vision of Yveltal, beautiful and hallowing in the night sky, had marked him, and put him directly on a path that intersected with higher levels of phantasmagoria.

He was ecstatic. Life as a nonbeliever was ever so dull.

A nervous, electric tension dances down his skin as he opens the door for those following him and shuts it again, moving to check that the door has latched and there will be no devious interlopers to set their evening askew.

No sooner had the door handle knocked against the lock, wiggling only slightly up and down, did a loud, almost nails-on-chalkboard screech-- an old chair grating against the ground.

But everyone present-- Locke Jamison , Eris Halla , and luka chêne -- stand in a semicircle around him, and they are the only physical beings in the museum.

The fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “It begins,” he says, voice deepened and accent thick for dramatic effect. He rolls a Pokeball down the length of his palm and summons Kilbourne, his Palpitoad, whom he’s hoping will be slightly more sensitive to any otherworldly ghostly vibrations, given the nodes on his head.

“And here I was hoping to sneak a peek at the exhibits,” Thomas says, the lilt in his voice hinting at his good humor. He pointed his cane in the direction he imagined the sound came from. “I would like to investigate the employee lounge, see if we can find our mischievous chair.” He laughs a little, breath huffing in the cold air. “Do be careful, everyone. We don’t want to create any more ghosts.”

Despite his flippancy, he’s not totally unaffected by the absurdity of the situation-- he keeps catching glimpses of shadows moving out of the corners of his eyes, things easily explained by clouds passing over the moon, light from a flashlight refracting off a glass display case. He is spooked, but it’s more… fun.

For now.

He pushes into the employee lounge, peering around the room.

“Kilbourne, use mist, please. We’ll check for any wisps, at the very least.”

etBVhqvs

Locke Jamison luka chêne Eris Halla
hope this is okay they won't all be this long i prommy
thomas has his palpitoad out. goes to investigate the break room.
palpitoad uses mist to check for wisps.
(edit bc i forgot to roll)

☉

Thomas angled his head back to look at Locke, a small smile playing across his features. The young man did seem rather frightened, which Thomas found saddening and endearing in equal measure. He was worldly enough to understand that many of those he met in Hoenn were not summarily untouched by hardships or trauma, though he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if, perhaps, this was not the best sort of activity to be undertaking with such heavy skeletons to bear.

Then he thought back to all the times he engaged in various affairs generally thought inappropriate for someone of his stature and history and decided Locke was just fine, actually.

Kilbourne dutifully bathed the area in mist, wobbling a little back and forth as he did a small loop.

The other adult in the party makes an indignified squeak and Thomas has to hide a chuckle under a sudden cough-- which is easy, given how used to the practice he is. It was not malicious, or mocking; it was just an adorable sound.

She was certainly quite into it, wasn't she?

He was just about to ask if anyone had found anything when a strange noise barks out of the voicebox, oddly discordant in the quiet room. Kilbourne jumps, creating ripples in the fog, and Thomas feels the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up; his smile widens, and then he is taken by a real cough, one he has to fish his handkerchief out for and cover his mouth, turning away in politeness.

Once the jag has subsided, he turns back to the party, folding his handkerchief up and stuffing it back in his vest pocket.

“Apologies,” he says, voice slightly hoarse, “that startled me.” He could hear the voicebox message bleeding dissonantly throughout the rest of the museum, an echo getting gradually smaller and smaller.

He looks at Eris, smiling once more. “How thrilling! They really spared no expense, did they?” He points with his cane back towards the museum proper. “Shall we do a bit more poking around? Perhaps by the rocket?” His voice is heavy on the sarcastic intonation.

Kilbourne kept putting out mist as they trawled back into the entry and up the stairs towards the aerospace exhibit, too afraid to turn it off.

lRQqIt09

Locke Jamison luka chêne Eris Halla
thomas has his palpitoad out. goes to investigate the aerospace exhibit.
palpitoad uses mist to check for wisps.
i am Useless gomenasorry

☉

The unfortunate fact of the matter was his toolset was rather limited and he was the very picture of the proverbial lame duck. What he lacked in useful associates, however, he hoped he more than made up for in charisma and confidence, insofar as he cared. Which wasn’t much. But no one likes to feel useless.

luka chêne protests that they doth be moving too quickly, and it raises a fair point. He has been approaching this more like an escape room than a true investigation, as though there was a time limit, or a record to beat. But it only makes sense given that he still thinks this is a game and the clues have been set there for them to find.

“I believe the complications come when you consider what a ghost truly is,” he answers Luka’s question with his practiced and gentle professor’s voice, the kind oft employed to lead confused students to their own conclusions-- a weapon well-honed and trained for his deep cover. “Ghost-type Pokemon have their own rules. But a ghost in another sense may not be quite so bound.”

Or maybe they are-- bound, literally, to this spot in this realm in this plane of existence. But to think that a lifetime of service to the flesh is all that is to be looked forward to in the afterlife, simply reflected through a cold, intangible mirror? Boring.

Follies, dear narrator, certainly.

Contrary to all popular belief, Locke proves the most useful, presenting an odd keystone that begins to shift and take on a peculiar hue. In a blink, Thomas’ eyes are drawn from the slowly pulsating light to bring surrounded by a flurry of black shades. Drawers and display cases rattle and shake; carpets and rugs flip up at their edges.

“Perhaps the ghost has lost its car keys?” he suggests, though the lilting mirth once prevalent in his tone has since faded.

The discordant notes of the music box trilling through the intercom do finally cause his breath to catch. He is a practiced professional, though, so it simply continues shortly thereafter.

A chill does, however, run down his spine.

Kilbourne makes a strangled cry of fright, mist still pouring from him in uncontrolled waves.

“I believe I shall help the spirits look,” he says, as though it is the most commonplace thing, the most helpful suggestion, and strikes out towards the meteorite displays. “Anyone care to join me?”

twKx2NZE

Locke Jamison luka chêne Eris Halla
thomas has his palpitoad out. going to check the meteorite collection
palpitoad uses mist to check for wisps
i am Useless gomenasorry

☉