[attr="class","char-main"]

[attr="class","char-pkmn"]

[attr="class","snub-greyson"]From one of the upper floors of a barely in-tact penthouse, Greyson surveys what's left of slateport with a neutral gaze. In his hand is a glass is something brown and bitter, stock from Kalos in a language he doesn't care to translate. Visible, even from here, is the preserved head of the world serpent. It's a trophy — a warning — to the League's many enemies.

He thought it looked tasteless. Greyson wasn't the only voice of dissention, but in the end, the world wasn't as free-spirited as it once was and the man had even less energy to put into these little fights.

His phone vibrates on the nearby table, pulling him from his useless thoughts. Another strategy meeting; another war party. There was no spike of fear, or anger, or sadness, or anything of the sort. Apathy was an old friend.

Downing what remains, he suits up and gets to work.

[attr="class","snub-greyson"]"Report."

A voice comes over the intercome - Caleb Harcourt 's? - giving a generalized run-down of the situation. Greyson grimaces. The illusion of peace from Eva's death had shattered as quickly as it'd come, Rocket agents and League dissenters wasted no time in throwing their weight behind a new scheme. This one? Invading League headquarters.

Blood trickles from the tip of his blade as another corpse lies still at his feet. The squelching thud of their body hitting the floor isn't enough to pull his attention from the task that is moving forward. His brain stutters, hesitating for but a step, before they carry him onwards.

How used to death, and to war, had he gotten, that ending a human's life was so... trivial? Just how much of the man from before this war, was left, if any at all.

Introspection wasn't enough to keep him from completing his mission, but something lingers there. Something he promises to inspect further.

If he has the chance, that is.

[attr="class","snub-greyson"]He wasn't quick enough.

Alone, in her destroyed office, PENELOPE LIVY stares vacantly at the remains of her desk. A large chunk of the building had been torn out in the chaos, and the bodies or dozens of others litter the rubble.

He looks past her, lamenting on the death and destruction. She seemed smaller in death somehow; like her commanding presence had made her seem... more. A trick of the light, or a play on the mind, most likely.

He clutches the sword in his grip, knuckles flaring white, before that energy simply... disappears. His shoulders sag as a weight falls upon him. A weight he's held back for so long it'd become part of him.

All at once it catches up to him. Hopelessness. Despair. Grief. Anger. Pain. He collapses onto his knees and, for the first time in years, he cries. His body shudders as the sobs take him, wails echoing on what remained of the walls.

Sometime later, when he had nothing left to give, he stood once more. He finds his blade in a nearby stack and sheathes her as he approaches the desk. In-front of a woman he'd respected greatly, he places his League identification, ear-piece, and service weapon.

For the last time, he leaves League headquarters.

[attr="class","snub-greyson"]Greyson abandons the war.

He leaves behind those who are left, those that fight even when hope is lost.

He envied them. He pitied them.

He hated them.

More than anything, he hated himself.

Greyson approached the dilapidated form of his childhood home, fingers lingering on the rusted knob. He takes a moment to himself, a singular breathe, before he twists and enters. It's familiar, yet it holds none of the warmth he'd come to associate with it. Looking through the kitchen window he sees the plot of dirt his mother had used as a personal garden.

Life had not grown there in many years.

He moves on, finding the living room exactly as his family had left it. He sits in the center of the couch, mind whirling back to the day the two evacuated. A plane to Kalos, one of the last that would leave the region before the war picked up. He watched them board, eyes tracing the plane as it left the airport. Just as it lifted above the clouds a massive black serpent — Rayquaza — met the plane, sheathed in green flame.

From thousands of feet below, Greyson watched his parents die.

His hand traces a line in the dust of his couch, and he leans back, absorbing a deep breathe. One-by-one he releases his Pokemon. Out of his team of dozens, only six remained.

Gnarled and scarred, his Blastoise stood resolute.

Still clinging onto vibrancy, though it was more muted than ever before, Ellie his comfey wraps around his wrist. She mews softly, resolutley.

Missing a wing and with a chipped and muddled carapace, Viv his Vespiquen chitters passively.

Lacking her normal excitement, fur faded and patchy, Jesster his Lopunny hops from foot-to-foot.

Brooding and irritable, his Zoroark leans cross-armed against the wall.

Lastly, standing tall and exuding power, his Delphox looked at him expectantly.

He gave them all a smile, thumbing the Comfey around his wrist, eyes lingering on each of them. The light shining through the windows gives away the shadowy forms that assemble outside of his home.

"One last time, huh?"

Greyson had abandoned the war. But, the war didn't abandon him.

A snort of amusement escapes his Delphox, while the others give their own grunts, hisses, mews, and more. He nods, resigned, and his smile feels genuine for the first time in forever.

He pushes himself to his feet, repeating his previous statement like a mantra.

"One last time."

One-by-one the Pokemon assemble behind him, and one-by-one, they resign themselves to go down swinging.

As the door explodes inwards, and the battle truly starts, his mind goes to his last words to freya morningstar.

It was his time to rest now.

After he gave them hell, of course.

[attr="class","snub-greyson"]Greyson awoke in a rush. His bed was soaked with sweat, his emotions in a flux so twisted that exhaustion had no room.

Pushing himself up further, he leans his back against the wooden frame of his bed. These dreams had been strange, contemplative in a way that he couldn't explain.

Despite the fleetingness that normally accompanied his dreams, these were still as clear as crystal to him.

His chest ached with the thoughts. The pain. The grief. The loss.

Yet.. There was something else.

Satisfaction. Pride.

The person in his dreams had died on his feet, accepting what was to come. That, even after all those years, all those fights, he accepted that he'd made a difference. Even if it was small, he'd done what he knew was right. No matter the cost.

Greyson reflects on this feeling.

He carried his hatred of Rocket like he was Atlas holding up the world. It seeped into his very being at times, controlled his emotions and his actions. This version of him had full control of himself, up until the end that was. He hated Rocket as much as he did, but... That hate didn't linger. Even when he'd gotten revenge against his parent's killer, the alternate version of himself had let that hatred go far quicker than he probably would've.

So, was he wrong?

Did his hatred, his grudges, linger?

The thought of Felix Gallagher shooting annalise henderson triggered a near-spasm of rage, his fists clenching and muscles tensing. That was over, and done. his mind knew that. So, why couldn't he let it go? Why couldn't he stop letting it consume him?

He picked himself up from his bed and made his way into the kitchen in search of a glass of water.

His mind was a mess. He was a mess.

Greyson sighs.

He wasn't getting back to sleep tonight.