[attr="class","spiral"] "..."

Fernando has no words for her. Anything without purpose feels aimless. Awkward.

The fun fact about Stone's involvement, personal involvement, into Morningstar business is of no concern. Interesting, admittedly, but Fernando is not here to become a mirror image of the man he despises. The copycat only goes one way. He is here for Freya and her alone. Everything else is secondary and will be addresses as needed—he could care less about the insignificant.

She is given a respite to return to her isolation. Whether she uses it wisely or simply regresses into wasting away, he cares not. She is but a piece on the board that encompasses the whole region. Fernando does not concern himself with singular pieces.

Until he needs her.

His Type:Null, Silvy now, proves too much a liability. Having turned on him in the heat of the moment, the Pokemon deserves nothing less than being put down. Only its unique genetic makeup and species pardon's its crime. That alone is why Fernando allows it to continue drawing breath.

It must be trained. Reeducated so that this may never happen again. What he needs is a villain to help mold its aggression and hatred into a bond that breaks through the Pokemon's innate personality.

What he needs is Freya.

[attr="class","spiral"] "..."

Freya brings him freedom.

How he reads her is indomitably wrong. He keeps his assumptions low but with subject matter that he doesn't keep on top of, the man is left to make conjectures where experience lacks.

Her time away, the solitude, allowing Stone to mold her, for better or worse; the year has not been kind of Freya. Even in his own position, her sudden absence, strangulated by a single instance of pleading with him, he can only interpret it as nothing short of self-loathing. Despair wins and she gives up.

If she has nothing to live for then why should he care about how she feels? About what she thinks?

If her life is disposable then he shall treat her as such.

And in embracing the core tenet that make Fernando a Silph, there is freedom.

There is a cold glimmer in the way his eyes narrow in. They lack the sympathy should blossom from her touch. The warmth that comes from having an abled body next to him, the tugging feeling of his heart strings as she addresses him in both form and name, means little when he no longer has to fake concern.

"It already has."

A man of riddles never provides a satisfactory answer.

When can it stop?

When you give up. When the fire dies from your eyes.

When I no longer have a use for you.

[attr="class","spiral"]“Indeed.”

The cut of her question sours the taste of the food. Blood spills from the rare cooked meat and it pools, resting. Fernando considers, for the faintest moment, on whether or not to indulge her. For someone so well kept it becomes increasingly alarming when others doubt his intentions. There’s no reason to, from his perspective, and it makes him reconsider how much he truly understands them.

Freya is an exception.

To him, she is no longer a person. He no longer has to worry about her opinion or her stake in the grand scheme of things. Her spirit meanders what is left of her husk, once brilliant with the unbridled ambition of a woman scorned.

Sometimes, he wonders if she is no different than the spirits that bend to Tapu Fini’s will.

That freedom, that lack of concern or fear, opens him up like a tome lost to time.

“I fight—” he pauses, as if contemplating. The answer comes from the heart but giving himself to her is fraught with hesitance. “—for myself.”

“And in it, the world. Being born into wealth, power, and influence means nothing when it’s reduced to nothing.” A hand wraps around her hips, struggling against the self imposed restraint that warns him not to reel her in. He wants her close, as if to whisper a secret no one else is ever meant to hear. “My aspirations aren’t so lofty to be anything more than what I am now. If I could, I would retire from it all and waste my life away in years of decadence.”

Selfish.

Truly, truly selfish.

Which means one thing: “But I cannot have that cut short. So I fight to make sure the world is orderly. When it stabilizes, when I can cut myself off without worry of it imploding on itself, I shall rest. But until I know it will last, I will continue to fight for the sake of my tomorrow.”

[attr="class","spiral"]"No."

He lets the answer simmer as his hands flirt with the door handle. The mechanisms of the car lurch open with a solid clunk that proves both satisfying and a segue into further explanation.

"Strength derived from others, from something that can be tarnished or taken away, is like inspiration or muse. It can encourage, spur others to greatness, but prove just as fleeting. Consistency is what makes me 'strong'."

The way his own usage of the word 'strong' comes with a twinge that belies just how introspective Fernando views himself. To him, his strength is there, realized behind the validation from others as well as his own acknowledgement. But the gap between him and others is not one of talent or merit. It is from their own incompetences.

"I am strong because I strive to become stronger—to be better than yesterday, to be the best version of me. I am strong because I do it for myself."

He is not some God King who conquers because he is built different.

The rest of them just lack principle and discipline.

And that bastardized view on the world, on those he surrounds himself with, is why he both hates them and reeks mistrust.

Despite knowing Freya, or at least inferring his actions from what he knows, Fernando still combs through the gesture of meeting her at her door to prostate it open for her. Undoubtedly, such a menial, demeaning courtesy means nothing to someone so proud and powerful, but old habits die hard. The grooming of 'proper' etiquette is as entrenched as his world views.

[attr="class","spiral"]“I am a simple man.”

Such a plain-faced lie couldn’t be farther from the truth if he tried. But, deep down, Fernando truly believes that. His own ideology is deep rooted in the lacking aspects of those around him. Although others hold him to a higher standard, even revere him, in some regards, he still holds himself accountable as being the baseline. Nothing he does is extraordinary because he can simplify it down to basic steps.

Privileges, while acknowledged, grants him a luxury that taints his view of the lower class. They’re so filled with trivialities that he can hardly see eye-to-eye with them. That’s where his fascination with other powerful players come from. It’s what her little display back at the concession did to spark his interest.

Eyes deviate from the wine menu to the main menu laid out dutifully in front of them. It’s sectioned into three folds, each one going over a set of select course meals that cover what the kitchen has for today’s unique selection. Rather than take the opulent route of whatever proves most expensive or grand through description, Fernando opts for the specialty, asking for a personal recommendation to help guide his decision. No matter what he picks, he has no doubt it will be delightful, so any mind given to making a choice will be inconsequential and therefore a waste.

He looks to her.

“And what would you be, if you were a simpler woman?”

[attr="class","spiral"]Champion.

How quaint.

Such lofty goals seem to be the final destination of all trainer—no exceptions. In this case, he considers himself a cut against the grain, a man dead set on reaching the top but never quite grabbing hold. Beyond the title of Champion, where else is there to climb?

Self-improvement is eternal.

And that’s why someone else sits in that seat. “Kyle Lopez,” he answers, smiling in brevity. “A simple man by all means, but certainly strong.”

His glass sits, filled but never touched, a vice that waits for dinner to be served before partaking himself. “Do you think such a thing will ever be possible. Retirement—a quietness in the countryside, untouched?”

[attr="class","spiral"]“Freya.”

A ghost escapes his lips.

It’s how he should’ve recanted Stone’s name. How he should have handled the procession if they were truly friends. But they weren’t. And neither are him and Freya.

He values her for her fortitude. Someone so strong that seeing her spitefulness well up behind her ambition allows him to keep his own pillar sturdy. She had been something else back then.

Commendable.

“This is never done.” The fight is eternal. Betterment of the self is a pursuit that lasts a lifetime. Even when his body is feeble and frail, Fernando will steady what’s left of his mind. Until it ends.

“What will be done is you.” Only in death will they be freed from the neverending battle. But he can let her go with that. He’ll respect her wish; bury her in the countryside. “When you lack the will to fight, you may go.”

A fork punctures the fibers of his steak. Oil and juice spurts from the wound, only slightly, but enough to show just how succulent the meat is. “But you still have it.” Unlike her, the meat shows no protest when he cuts into it. It separates like butter, clean, perfect, divided at the guidance of his fingers.

“We do what we do for ourselves. Even under noble causes, it’s still for ourselves.” He pauses, picking the piece up to his mouth. “And if you don’t then it would do well to remind you that you should.”

He savors the taste of self-satisfaction.