--How could someone so small be such a problem?

The woman sits cross-legged in the entranceway, eyes closed as if lost in some distant dream. Perhaps it's something like the inferno the hound saw. Perhaps it's something different, or something worse. That's okay. It's only natural for dogs to fear fire. It's the one foe a loyal beast cannot protect his master from-- it can only cringe away from the heat, or crumble to ash alongside them. 

There's a plate of mochi and a cup of cooling tea in front of her, and a cigarette in her hand. Strawberry, mango and blueberry. They do come up with some curious things out here in Hoenn, don't they? They're bland and plasticky, like most mochi that isn't made by hand, but they still remind her of home, just a little, and nostalgia is a easy foe to let past your guard.

--more immediately relevant to anyone looking to challenge her are the Pokémon. A Dragonair curls around her body like poison ivy, choking out all else that might think to touch her, slick scales still shimmering with the remnants of draconic energy freshly channeled. She thinks of when she first met him. She sat just like this, in the the somber shrine nestled in the depths of that dismal cave, and spoke with the elders long into the night. How did they judge her? It doesn't matter to her. All that matters is that Dragonair accepted her. She has no need of anything else.

A Typhlosion of unusual character stands beside her, the flames escaping her back a sickly shade of purple, as if polluted by the ephemeral animus that gives shape to ghost Pokémon. The scorchmarks and patches of necrotized matter that surround the entrance suggest that her affliction does not particular impede her battling capabilities.

And finally, a Eevee, sleeping peacefully atop her knees, her trainer's free hand idly stroking through the creature's fur. She dreams of gentler things, of blue skies and happy memories. She knows nothing of fire, and for that Yotsukura Yotsugami is quietly thankful.

--Oh? A dog is barking.

"Hm. I don't think you've the right to call me that, whelp. Are you anyone of any note, or must I send a few more dead-enders packing?"

Her voice is soft and measured but clear, like the ringing of some distant bell. Whatever he recognizes in her is not something she recognizes in him.

Yotsukura Yotsugami

☉

--Quietly, she takes stock. One of the armour-clad Pokemon she saw at Mount Pyre, ablaze with soul-stained fire just as Typhlosion is. The blades remind her of a Scyther-- one of the nastier specimens that'd send some overeager bug catcher into an early retirement if they got too close, maybe. Natural weaponry means a physical powerhouse more often than not, and armour like that is an obvious sign of stellar defence. It also means extra weight, though-- it's hard to tell with Ghost-types, but she's confident Typhlosion can outmaneuver it if it comes down to it.

Some people think of Pikachu as a fad Pokemon, its battling prowess imagined by those overly enamored by its social charms, but she has seen it excel in serious competition before, taking out Pokemon that something of its size has no business matching blow for blow. It's not to be underestimated, though she expects Dragonair could deal with it well enough. She's not seen one with this colouration before, though. Interesting.

The smaller one is very strange, though, strange enough that she actually tilts her head to look at it, ignoring the man's questions words at first.

"...That's an interesting Pokemon. So many curious new species I'm unfamiliar with. Like origami... If you mean to threaten me with it, I suppose its size belies its true power, no?"

A pause, a small smile. A sword is a sword, after all.

"Yes, I can tell. That's a Pokemon that's keen to dance."

So is she, a little. But, if the man's team is a cut above the rest, then that's a positive sign that he's exactly what she needs out of this rabble. Though, his words do sour the victory of it a little. She realizes how he knows her, now, and the memories he drudges up so carelessly with his casual reminiscing are not pleasant ones.

"...Umbreon. But, I'm no longer in possession of that Pokemon. You're from Johto, then? Good. Maybe that means there's a brain somewhere in there."

She recalls Eevee so that she can stand up, Dragonair hissing viciously at the assembled Rockets as she does so, still coiled around her protectively, the serpent's ordinarily gentle face twisted in a vindictive snarl. He knows they are not pure of heart, she supposes, whilst for her, that's a conversation they've already had a long time ago.

--A pause, before she lowers herself into a small, careful bow. Dragonair's eyes do not once leave the other trainer's.

"My name is Yotsukura Yotsugami. I was educated in battling at the Ecruteak Theater. If my home is your home, then you are aware of what that means. I have come here to join Team Rocket. "


If not, then I can send you running for the next up the chain, she doesn't say. She imagines her meaning is taken well enough. Even surrounded as she is, confidence oozes from her like a curse. The surety of someone with little left to lose.

She lifts a hand to her mouth to cover a gentle chuckle, her eyes sly with amusement. If she's threatened by the array of swords he's displayed for her, she does not show it.

"I had hoped that If i beat enough of these graveyard stuffers, someone who would be able to help me with that would show up sooner or later. Lo and behold."

She inclines her head a little, inviting him to make the next move, accept or aggrieve. A dog faces a choice.

"Shall we?"

She leaves it to him to decide what exactly she means.

Hitoshi Inoue

☉

"...Hm. Is that so? Well, the ideals of Pokémon are not the ideals of humanity. It's only to be expected that they choose their allies by their own logic." 

--How easily he talks of myth made real, as if it's commonplace here, an everyday thing rather than a live-altering event. She supposes it must be, if half the stories she's heard are true. That sets a strange feeling in her stomach, but it isn't necessarily something she disagrees with. The Pokemon of myth should be revered, yes, but if they choose to walk freely amongst the people of this region, then she cannot fault them for accepting that companionship as a fact of life. 

A human can only understand what's in front of it. To a Pokémon that lives on more than one axis of reality, that must seem a quaint thing, like the affection that a trainer possesses for a Pokémon of a short-lived species. The beauty of something that fades away is how brightly it burns beforehand. 

--Hah. Of course he chooses the Pokémon she's entirely unfamiliar with, and once again she regrets not having secured a Pokédex at some point in her journey here. She should've expected that when she complemented it, she supposes. But, she doesn't mind. She's curious to see how this creature dances, and if its trainer can follow along with the motions. 

"Very well. I accept your challenge." 

She raises her hand to issue the command, and Typhlosion takes up position in front of her. Dragonair stays wrapped around her, primarily to deter any grunts from getting  any big ideas about trying to attack her directly whilst she's focused on this battle. She won't be distracted from something so interesting.

It's curious. Even something like this Pokémon dances in a way that's familiar to her. Its movements are graceful and yet esoteric, as if it's a single note out of tune with reality, and yet there are steps that she recognizes all the same. She thinks she understands what it will try to do in battle, now. 

"--Typhlosion, Smokescreen." 

The Ghost Flame Pokémon's purplish flames flare up for less than half a second in response to the command, as if thrumming with barely contained power, before a eruption of black smoke bursts forth from her mane like a grenade going off. It takes only a moment for the cloud to consume both trainer and Pokémon entirely, the thick fumes impenetrable enough that even the light of Typhlosion's fire is hidden from the world.

--Small means fast, and precise. Whatever blade it might bring to bear, its size will limit how wide an area it can strike in a single attack. Typhlosion isn't slow by any means, but she wouldn't bet on it outmaneuvering a Pokémon like that. So, she minimizes the chances of it landing that attack, and prepares her attack for when it's committed.   

Hitoshi Inoue

☉

Even with her vision obscured by the smoke, she hears the burst of electricity, and the gurgling death rattle that follows. Her expression doesn't change, but she does nod a little. Just so. She takes no pleasure in unnecessary violence, but she will not abide those who cannot control themselves. She's glad that her prospective employer feels the same way.

The smoke is momentarily parted by the folded Pokemon's sword, her cigarette extinguished by the sheer force released by the swing, and she can't help but admire the measurement of its movements, even in a situation as tense as this. Or, is it really tense at all? It's funny. She feels entirely at peace in this moment. Perhaps it's because she's thinking of this almost like an interview. If it's a question of a successful application, then she'll take this over her auditions at the Theater any day of the week. She flicks the slain cigarette aside without a second thought, her attention entirely on her surroundings and the battle taking place in it. This is something worth experiencing, she thinks.

--She could order a full-on counterattack, but something bothers her. The cut was too clean. The Pokemon had chosen its target before it ever swung. In the suspended moments where the smoke begins to coalesce again, as if imbued by some fragment of the cavorting spirits that taint Typhlosion's flame, she sees the arc of the battle to come, and acts accordingly.

"--Typhlosion, use Swift. Create distance."

Her Pokémon lets out a proud roar in response, disappearing back into the smoke, only for a swarm of glowing stars to careen out of the amniotic mass towards the smaller Pokémon a moment later, black wisps still clinging to the edges. Perhaps not the explosive attack she would've liked, but there's a reasoning to it. The projectiles created by Swift home in on their target with unerring, unrelenting accuracy-- something to be parried rather than dodged, and each star parried is a instant the Pokemon is not on the attack. They also do not need to be aimed, meaning Typhlosion can focus on losing its foe in the smoke.

She understands that this cannot continue. She has nothing to gain from prolonging this battle by keeping Typhlosion dodging in and out, hoping the swordsman does not land its lucky hit. Typhlosion will tire eventually, and more to the point, it will do her no favours with Rocket. Better to throw everything they have into a final explosive gambit, something worth remembering, rather than a slow war of attrition. Do or die.

--It's better than to burn than to fade away, or so they say.

Still, she finds that peace in her heart. Perhaps it's simply an appreciation for witnessing this Pokemon's dance. Young and foolish as they are, this foe has proven themselves as a foe worth fighting in just a few moves, a cut above all the cutthroats and petty thugs she's busied herself with dispatching beforehand. She thinks she can accept the outcome, no matter what, if it's against a foe who knows how to dance.

"On my mark."

She produces a closed fan from the sleeves of her kimono in a single flourish. If Typhlosion understands her command, she does not respond, unwilling to offer a sound that might give away her location. Attacking after the folded Pokemon's swing will not suffice. The best way to deal with a headstrong foe is to strike them head-on.

A moment's silence. She has already resolved that the battle will be decided in the next exchange. The only step remaining is to reach the reality she intends to grasp.

Hitoshi Inoue

☉

The fan sweeps open with a crack at the moment the smaller Pokemon surges forwards like the waves it has so impossibly conjured, and even amongst the chaos, the sounds of rushing water and the jeering of the grunts, Typhlosion does not hesitate. The folded Pokemon's aqueaous blade severs the smoke, and enters a world of hellfire.

Rather than the attack Yotsukura had orginally planned, Typhlosion reacts to the sudden appearance of water she knows will severely damage her by unleashing every last droplet of shadow-cursed flame still smouldering away inside her, burning up her fire so entirely that it can no longer be called until she's had time to rest-- and eliminating her vulnerability to the Water type entirely. It's amongst the strongest attacks a Fire-type can produce, the overwhelming inferno that erupts from her enough to set the building ablaze and a few grunts along with it, one last piece of Petalberg lost to the flames long after the final shot was fired. The fire smells of sandalwood and sodden charcoal, like a paradox, like the ghost of a fire already gone dead and cold even as it burns away this place bit by bit-- all of it shot through by the incense-scented memory of that tower, and those that died within it.

But, it isn't enough. The wave of liquid energy crashes into Typhlosion like a tsunami, and even having momentarily expunged her weakness to that water, her foe's power is too much, inured enough to the flames by its sudden transformation that it was able to push through without falling itself. She wavers on her feet for a moment before crashing to the ground unconscious-- spared any worse injuries by her choice of attack, at least.

That this piece of folded paper and forged steel in the shape of a Pokemon could produce water as pure as any Politoed is not something she had accounted for. She supposes she should be upset, but she has already found that peace, the gnarled and wretched twin of the feeling that's settled into the victor's heart. How can she prepare for a phenomenon she's never heard of in her life? She can only accept her loss, and what comes after.

--But, what does come after? She thinks she'd rather like to decide that for herself.

Without a moment's hesitation, she recalls Typhlosion, and first inclines her head to her Poke Ball.

"Thank you, Typhlosion. You fought well."

Then, to her opponent. She bows deep and low, first to his Pokemon and then to him, a wry smile playing across her face.

"You are the victor. Congratulations. Your Pokemon was a fine dancer, though I've entirely no idea how it was able to change it's typing so suddenly."

The next part is more involved. She returns Dragonair, as well, sheds her last layer of defence from the depredations of these Houndour in human clothes. Before another word can be said, she advances forward, the flowing shapes of her kimono and the hardness of her eyes silhouetted against the burning building, the embers and the ashes anointing her like some half-remembered ritual of a religion long lost to the flames. She does not stop until she is front of him, invading his personal space just a little-- all so that he might render his judgement all the more effectively, of course.

Then, softly, delicately, she reveals her wrists to him from out of her sleeves to him, fragile bones and blue veins cloaked behind pale skin and trapped in thin flesh. There is so little left of her, compared to the radiance that blinded him for just a moment, all those years ago. They hold shared court over the ruin of her.

"You've a sword, don't you? You've got nothing but swords, I should think. The judgement is yours to make, dear. My fate is under your will only."

Kill the past and lose the future, or embrace them both. The choice is clear to her, but she will accept either outcome.

Hitoshi Inoue

☉