[attr="class","mittag"]

@ gauntlet

[attr="class","mitmain"]
Sootopolis was a world of bone-colored stone and salty sea. The idea of sprawling forests and greenery seemed… strange. But when Kepler looked up, he was met with shifting shadows of dappled leaves, moving in an unfelt breeze… and then would promptly trip, a little, because the ground was uneven and this whole place was built to be a deathtrap.
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Beware, underlanders, time hangs by a thread, he thought, trying really hard to control his pulse and not freak out. He felt very, very small here, outside-- sort of kind of-- for the first time in a thousand years, surrounded by strangers whose very programming was going to be going for his throat. As far as exposure therapy went, this was about as naked as he could get. The hunters are hunted, white water runs red.
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It was an old rhyme from an old book he’d read as a child, and, surprisingly, it brought him comfort, if just allowing him to structure his racing thoughts, a little. Ten minutes was not enough time. He knew he wasn’t going to ally himself with any of the others-- he didn’t trust like that. Which meant it was up to him.
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The gnawers will strike to extinguish the rest, the hope of the hopeless resides in a quest.
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He looked around at the ground, at the rocks and the stone. He needed to get somewhere defendable, that was for sure. Somewhere high up, ideally with something at his back? Pulse racing, he scrabbled up a small incline, grip trembling with each overhand pull. This way, no one could sneak up behind him, and he could see people coming from a ways off. It was a little recessed, too, so he could always just Peeta his way out of this if needed.
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The last who will die must decide where he stands.
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The thought of a weapon seemed silly, considering he had a dragon-fish in a ball at his waist that could spit fire. He didn’t relish the thought of Ahamkara coming out at close quarters, though; she’d probably crush him into a pulp with all her thrashing and that would be it for ol’ Keppo.
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The fate of the eight is contained in his hands.
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He exhaled, long and low, and let Pluto’s Pokeball roll from his hands, and the Beheeyem appears in a flash. She nods, the sound of her head swiveling on her stony body loud in the quiet.
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So bid him take care, bid him look where he leaps…
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Kepler found himself reverting, a little. Back to his old parasite days, a stranger in his own body, an unwelcome guest in a larger host. But after it all, the tiny parasite survives, even if the host body dies. He could do this. He could do this.
[break][break]
As life becomes death and death life again reaps.

[attr="class","mitpoke"]

[attr="class","mittag"]

DANE FAIRCHILD

[attr="class","mitmain"]
His eyes go a bit wide because as it stands he can’t believe he won. He’s not a battler-- he’s a turtler.
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He refuses to get his hopes up, though, because this was just one instance. It could be a fluke. One was not a significantly consequential number, in any case.
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“Yeah, good scrap. Nice to meet you.” He lifts a hand in… greeting? Affirmation? Farewell? “Catch you, uh, around?”

[attr="class","mitpoke"]

[attr="class","mittag"]

Naomi Sato

[attr="class","mitmain"]
He slides along the metallic corridors like the horseman of pestilence, pale visage reflected in hammered steel walls. The bags under his eyes are more akin to the endless void one stares into, though his are only accessible via mirror.
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He pauses outside her door, head lolling to the side. Some sort of feverish panic crawls across his skin, breaking him out in slight sweat, but whether it’s the face he’s once again made uncomfortable by socialization, or the constant threat of impending doom, he doesn’t really know.
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How quickly we unlearn two years of progress when the other half of your heart is ripped out and cast away.
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Before, he would have come bearing coffee and treats, and piles of research to be offered, sanctified script to be torn asunder on whatever alter he was beseeching. But now, after so long being run into the ground of his own anxieties and failures and singular loneliness, all he has is his own skin and bone. And barely much of that.
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His footsteps are quiet, hidden under the squeaking of hinges needing oiling.
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“Knock, knock, Batman,” he calls, almost jumping at the sound of his own voice. “I have a riddle for you.”
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They would know each other, of course, as contemporaries of Rocket science, though working, previously, on different projects. They would have spoken in passing, and been on a first-name basis, if by the skin of their teeth. They aren't, certainly, familiar enough for such a callous greeting, especially after whatever hell Dr. Sato has just gone through.
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But if she wants a superhero moniker she's going to get the superhero greeting from the villain.

[attr="class","mitpoke"]

[attr="class","mittag"]

DANE FAIRCHILD

[attr="class","mitmain"]
“Yeah, I’ve read Dune.”
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Sparkling water hits fire and creates hissing steam. Mars blinks her eyes shut against the superheated air, stumbling; when she opens them again, her opponent is gone.
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Kepler opens his mouth to start talking a blue streak about his opinions on Dune when his propriety filter decides to kick in for its allotted one time this month and he closes his mouth again.
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“Nice. It’s a good story.”
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Mars’ ears perk towards the alluring voice, allowing herself to be drawn in to close range to set off another fire blast.

[attr="class","mitpoke"]

[attr="class","mittag"]

DANE FAIRCHILD

[attr="class","mitmain"]
The rosey-hued fire swirls and twists, twirling around Mars like a tunnel. A few motes catch her ankles, the line of her spine, shooting pink sparkles and filling the arena with the scent of burnt fur.
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“Why lady?” he asks. “What is she the lady of?”
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Mars bounces off the pads of her feet, bullheading through more mystical fire, teeth flashing as a fire blast escapes her maw.

[attr="class","mitpoke"]

[attr="class","mittag"]

DANE FAIRCHILD

[attr="class","mitmain"]
It's funny, he's been reclused for so long, it's amazing he's still capable of meeting people on the same brain wavelengths.
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“Like the planet,” he says, after a beat, holding up an um, actually finger.
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The Kirlia’s giggling slides away from him. He can feel it, briefly, on the skin of his cheeks, cold prickles that leave empty, hollowed silence.
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Mars pads forward on gentle feet, coaxed in; then her head dips, her eyes flash, and she throws up a bright sunny day, launching into a run to circle the Kirlia.

[attr="class","mitpoke"]

[attr="class","mittag"]

DANE FAIRCHILD

[attr="class","mitmain"]
The giggle makes him squeeze his eyes shut. It reminds him too much of childlike ghosts. And memories. Too many memories.
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“Yes.”
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Mars wags her tail from side to side, soft swishing melding with quiet crooning as she sends up a lucky chant.
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“My name’s Kepler. This is Mars.”
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Like the planet. His first 9 Pokemon went in order.

[attr="class","mitpoke"]

[attr="class","mittag"]

DANE FAIRCHILD

[attr="class","mitmain"]
It was an open invite training, and not something Kepler usually did.
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But things change. Entropy and enthalpy in equal measures.
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Mars twisted around in his arms, soft fur rubbing against his chin, before slipping free and landing on quiet paws.
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“Hey.” He hadn’t seen this guy around. Or, if he had, he hadn’t been paying attention. “Shiny. Nice.”

[attr="class","mitpoke"]

[attr="class","mittag"]

solo wild

[attr="class","mitmain"]
Last time he was here he scooped up a Shellos. Now Verglas descends on a Gastrodon, zipping around the thing, winding it up with confuse ray so that it smashes its own head against the sand.
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“Maybe this is a sign from god,” Kepler muses, throwing a Pokeball. “Maybe I should’ve been a marine biologist.”

[attr="class","mitpoke"]

[attr="class","mittag"]

solo wild

[attr="class","mitmain"]
He’s got… feelings, about this beach. Muddy ones. Like the wet sand that sucks at his bare feet.
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It’s a gray day and the salty wind is burning his cheeks. Verglas’ x-shaped shadow slices across him in the muted sunlight.
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The expanse of sand is empty. Kind of like him.

[attr="class","mitpoke"]