RUSTED SWORD

Goodbye, Galar.

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He had gone for the neck, but the moose hadn't been as defenseless as he had hoped. A slight shift, and Galatine crashed into the bowl instead. It rung through him, the reverberations rattling through his arms.

He was dragged back to the darkest day without any warning. Then as now, an irresistible something that could not be ignored or compartmentalized assaulted him.

But while it had paralyzed him then, now... it galvanized him.

A rush of energy welled up in him as the goosebumps spread over his skin, his legs pushing off to leap back as the earth shattered underneath his heel, the ruinous beast unleashing its power upon them.

His heart beat loud over the cacophony of conflict around him as an eldritch grip descended upon all of them and brought his leap to a halt, bringing him to his knees upon the soil. Gravity seemed to double and triple and quadruple, whatever was needed to keep them all in the ruinous beast's death trap.

This feeling... the feeling which had been beaten and overexposed out of him throughout his younger years... Ah.

This was fear. Real fear— primal fear. Of death, of the unknown, of ruin.

It was gut wrenching. paralyzing. Mindnumbing... All that, yes.

But. Most of all—

It was thrilling.

Every single muscle in his body roared to life as the earth upturned upon them, becoming a tomb of dirt around them.

"Galatine." He breathed softly to his Aegislash, its eye glowering a glimmering blue as the tomb slowly enclosed around him, darkness swallowing him whole.

And promptly spitting him out as hair cracks of dark black spread over the rock, a blade tinted in shadows pulling out of the cracks with the large knight in tow.

Just in time for Zacian to come flying at the Bowl creature—

Everything went white after that.

---

"What a wretched creature." Gwyar said as he slowly lowered his sword, before dropping it and letting it disappear into his shadow. Despite his words and the loud beating in his chest, despite the heightened awareness of his mortality that was slowly fading away— his smile stretched ever so slightly. "It could've simply ended us then and there."

Instead, it chose to try and bury them. A slow, terrifying and agonizing death. Bloody psycho moose.

He wanted to fight it again. It wasn't around, however. Neither was Zacian, for that matter. Last he saw of the sword hero, she had been forced into the same form he had fought her as back in the Cloud, her sword corroded and shattered.

His eyes narrowed. Thrills aside— Zacian and Zamacenta were too important to Galar and its people to allow them to be lost.

Speaking of which, however...

"Wyndon...?" He realized briefly. Except... not. This was not Wyndon. Wyndon was the crown jewel of Galar. Its capital, its economic center and largest metropolis, and the home to its greatest, most beloved stadium. "Not quite."

It would never fall without the whole world knowing about it.

A construct? An alternate reality, perhaps? Hopefully nothing that proved impossible to get out of.

Either way, such explanations might explain the statue at the center of the stadium. That had never been there during the 10 years he spent in the Major Circuit.

There were messages over the comms. Leaguers reaching out, seeking others. The knight paid it no heed for the moment, more interested in the statue at the center.

The closer he got, the more familiar it became.

A horse and a rider. A Spectrier,

And...

"Is that...?" He muttered, slowly tilting his head. It felt... familiar, though he had never seen anything quite like it.

A rider atop a Spectrier... His mind was telling him he should know this.

...

"Spectrier." He muttered softly as he grabbed a pokeball, before gently letting it fall. His own phantom equine appeared before him, and the statue.

Pokemon were wiser than most gave them credit for. Gwyar knew this well— he had been raised with two of them as siblings and 'play'mates.

Perhaps the Spectrier knew something that he didn't.

"Know anything about this... being?" He asked softly even as he approached the trough, kneeling before it.

He dragged a digit over the inside surface, humming to himself.

Was he overthinking things...? It didn't matter, he supposed. He felt reverence for the statue before him. And nothing in Hoenn— or wherever this was— ever happened for no reason.

He sighed, before unhooking his furred coat. He stared at it pensively for a moment, before finally sighing and rolling his eyes. He could buy another one.

Gently, he pressed the fur against the inside of the wooden trough, and began to drag it across its surface, absorbing the soot and ash into it as he worked to clean it up.

He saw Ettie's offering for a moment, and smiled approvingly at her.

"Most kind, young Lady." He said. "Might I be so bold as to burden you further? I'm afraid I lacked the foresight to bring any water type pokemon with me. Did you happen to bring any? I would like to fill this with water."

He threw the now black and dirty coat onto his shoulder. He would find somewhere to properly discard of it later.

Fortunately, they didn't need to wait for such— one DEREK HOFFMAN filled it up for them!

"Oh! Good show, young man! Very apprecia—"

Splash.

"... Fair enough!" He said with a laugh.

---

YiBXwPDC

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 Michael Navidson . 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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