[attr="class","bisc"]In its element, the Tyranitar forgot entirely about its trainer. It wanted to smash all these ants to smithereens. These biting gnats that had peppered the dragon’s green hide with dozens of scars. Again and again, its feet stomped the earth beneath it into spires. When poison struck it, the ground type responded with even greater ferocity. By battle’s end, its mouth streamed blood and corrosive smoke.

Before he could call her back, Rawr vanished into a sea of toxins. Her sandstorm veiled even her bulky silhouette from the jester king’s eyesight. But it wasn’t like he had time to worry about that. A thousand things were going on around him, but his whole world boiled down to the six feet of his spear and its blade. “Nnngh.” With a grunt, Biscotti fought to pull his spear from his last casualty—victim.Biscotti. The Toxtricity flopped to the ground, its eyes staring over a battlefield of nothing. “Sorry about that, bud.” Even years later, the feeling of life being snuffed out—by his hands, no less—made tears spring to his eyes. Even if these creatures were tortured.

Blood dripped from a deep gash in his arm. One that he didn’t notice.

“Scotti! Move!” A woman’s voice called to him—banishing the ringing in his ears. Not your highness. Not a king. Just Scotti.

He turned to see a poisoned Scyther lifting its blades above its head. She body-checked him to the side, her small form somehow enough to make him stumble. His savior was a familiar face. The woman who came by every Tuesday for two bran muffins. She munched away at them like a bird. With a wink, she always asked him how his love life was. Even though their obligations had ended with Stella’s death, her sister was a welcome bit of routine.

“Susan!” He didn’t look very kingly. Sitting ass-deep in a pile of fetid sludge and boot-worn mud. “Look—”

And, then, she was gone. The Scyther’s blades struck true, somehow managing to find chinks in her chest armor. As the best hissed and fought to pull free, Biscotti stumbled to his knees. His spear—now dyed purple—sank into its eyes with his throw. “I—I—” Tears pricked at his face as he crawled toward her. His hand shook as he rolled her over. Not caring about the battle, he did his best to close her eyes. A bitter laugh escaped as his hand crushed the bran muffin in her bag.

With shaking hands, he placed it in her hands. "Thanks for visiting Kingsley's Confections. This one's on me."

Poisoned blood struck his face as a bellowing Ursaring was cut down. The Gigantamax Pokemon fell next. Huffing and puffing, Biscotti rose to his feet.

In the distance, the earth shook as one of the Titans crashed into the earth. As he stared upon the poison dragon’s cold, star-like eyes, Biscotti felt himself fill with an unfamiliar feeling. It rose in him like an all-consuming wildfire. He remembered the nights spent scrubbing poison from his home. The number of half-eaten faces he’d seen in the streets.

The last touch of his wife’s hand as her lifeblood bled into the sickened earth.

The jester’s laughter was a twisted roar. It was a broken, wounded noise. With a snarl, he raised his spear toward the red dragon. All two-dozen stars streamed toward its empty, hateful eyes. Rawr was currently splashing in the remnants of her enemies. But there was a hint of exhaustion in her rampage. With a surprising level of decisiveness, Biscotti recalled the Tyranitar.

In her place, he sent out the Pokemon that started it all—Jangle the Incineroar. She’d been the one there when Stella fell. It’d been her that pulled him away from his wife’s corpse, ignoring the clawing and screeching. Amber eyes met those of the cat. “Let’s KILL that son of a bitch.” The normally placid cat growled in assent as her trainer swiped a hand over his Dynamax Band.

The Incineroar swelled in size. The flame on her belt grew into a beacon as she raced toward the toxic bastard that caused this mess—Eternatus. The beast that had plunged their original homeland into darkness.

Once she drew within striking distance, the feline unleashed her Max Knuckle. Every nearby combatant would then feel power rushing through their veins—an attack-boosting after-effect.

NOTES

• His Tyranitar runs off to continue its destructive spree
• Watches his former sister-in-law fall to a Scyther's blades
• Aims a full range of Swift at Eternatus's hateful eyes
• DMAX Incineroar uses MAX KNUCKLE on Eternatus

[attr="class","bisc"]

The wolf’s howl reverberates down the streets of Hammerlocke. It sounds like chapel bells. As the other citizens move to follow their guiding star, the brunette hesitates. His Incineroar turns to follow his gaze. “I just…I want to say goodbye.” Even if he did it earlier this morning. He wanted to say goodbye to his boyfriend a few dozen more times. But, maybe, that was just his cowardice talking.

A sigh passes his lips as he watches the aerial team take to the skies. “Hey, Jangle—” The cat’s nostrils leak smoke. Her refusal is curt and final. A single shake of the head that says everything it needs to. “A king without a mount isn’t very regal, huh?” Striped red shoulders lift in a shrug. “I could find a donkey and act like Don Quixote.” His grin falters as he reaches the gates.

His lover’s smile is forlorn. “Good eve, your highness.” There’s jest in the man’s tone, one made less apparent by the scar twisting his lips. “The kids wanted you to take a piece of us with you.” A familiar Wyrdeer stands beside the shorter man. Its warm chocolate eyes are doleful and a bit dopey, not exactly a battle mount. “Hey, uh, thanks. But you didn’t have—” Again, a single head shake stops him dead. “Yes, we did.”

The pair share a single kiss. It tastes of salt and regret. “I’ll see you later—” His voice isn’t confident. After so many years away from home, it’s hard to believe the last battle of come. That his only dream—leaving this D&D match behind—was now the last thing he wanted. “--Krookodile.” The pair squeeze one another’s hands. They both know it’s a lie. “Yeah. Be seeing you soon, Scotti.”

Before his reluctance freezes him entirely, the ‘king’ clambers onto the Wyrdeer’s back. With a hyah! they set out to follow the army to their destination. But, the whole time, his labrador eyes stay fixated on the wall fading from view. Jangle is returned.

His heart pounds as he stares out at the horde before him. It reminds him of The Mummy. The Pokemon before him make noises that are horribly wrong. Gurgles instead of howls. Gods, that’s fucked up. Beneath him, the pampered deer prances nervously. “Thank you, Crema.” A gentle hand is placed on the Wyrdeer’s head as the man dismounts. “Take care of them, okay?”

Gripping Stella tightly, the King of Smile slides from the cervine’s saddle. The deer vanishes in a pounding of dust and flying hooves. Around him, the sounds of war are deafening. The air above is a maelstrom. Giant tornadoes of fire rip at the distant figures of giant starters.


That seems to be under control. The army surges forward with shambling, single-minded determination. Scarred hands tighten on the now-faded ribbons wrapped around the haft of the spear. From his waist, a Tyrannitar emerges.

He offers a single wave at the familiar faces in the sky. After a quick survey of the field, he decides to focus on the Toxitricity. As he lifts the weapon, Biscotti reminds himself why he’s here. It’s not to get home. Nor is it any kind of glory. It’s because everything he holds dear is in the warpath.

And, real or not, he’d protect it.

“Hyah!” A flurry of two-dozen stars erupts from the tip of the spear. Eight of them head toward each poison-electric type. The physics of their trajectory makes no sense—resembling drunken drones—but each one remains on target.

“Rawr—” The Tyranitar grins. A sandstorm blossoms from its body, whipping at the poison husks in front of it. It’s ready to reenact Godzilla. But—seeing all the monsters around him—Biscotti is reluctant to join rank. Every gamer knows big battles are never what they seem. And, besides, the lizard was plenty big enough.

“Stomping Tantrum!” With a roar, the ground-type dives into the crowd of cannon fodder. Its attack shook the very earth beneath them.

NOTES

• His boyfriend loans him his Wyrdeer to reach the battlefield
• Uses Swift from his spear on all the Toxtricity generals
• Tyranitar rushes into the army and unleashes Stomping Tantrum

bUDB2OyO

[attr="class","bisc"]


One Year Later

When push came to shove in Hammerlocke’s monarchy, Biscotti was just a tool to ease the tension. He threw himself at the other ruler’s feet—playing the part of door mat—in order to get poisoned daggers back in sleeves. When tug-of-war erupted, it was his antics that cut the rope.


He was the pacifist king.


But, if he’d heard what @shred thought, Biscotti might have murdered a man. Fortunately, his ability was Swift, not Mind Reader.


In the year after Stella’s death, smiles never reached Biscotti’s eyes. Though he forced grins for visitors, especially fellow royalty like Ashley Shepard , his heart felt empty. For three months after the woman’s death, the bakery remained shuttered. No warmth flowed from the oven at its center, his diet slipping to scrounged canned goods and hard tack. Only occasional visits from Elise Calcifet and Vanilla Kingsley broke the monotony.


The loss of @thomas’s beloved gave him a purpose for a while. A place to channel his energy into something that mattered.


When he left his home, it was with a mask in place. He attended to his little monuments of distraction. Those smiles and sounds of laughter the only thing that kept him going. When the bakery reopened, the decorations lost much of their charm.


When the poison receded, he tried his best to seem ecstatic. But this victory felt hollow. What was the point of winning when you lost what mattered most?

Two Years Later

But his act didn’t fool the people that mattered. Not @thomas, not Elise Calcifet , and not Vanilla Kingsley . Vanilla grew tired of his moping. When the roads between towns opened, his sister demanded they survey them together. Diplomacy was something kings did. So, not really up for a fight, the brunette followed.

Going with the flow? That he could manage.

In those towns, he saw the effect the transplants were having. Many of them had constructed orphanages. The sound of radio communications now buzzed throughout the streets. Demand for the family’s baked goods spread among the communities. Things got too busy for self pity.


When he looked up again, the gaping wound in his chest had faded to a scar. Her name made him turn toward the stars for inspiration. He conferred with others about the constellations. Then, one day, the sound of Mareep no longer made him cry

Five Years Later

With war gone for the time being, Biscotti tried to repurpose the artificats of war. The trebuchet was covered in vines, repurposed into a playscape for the town’s children. Old bows were distributed. But, instead of real arrows, the accompanying shafts were tipped with a soft rubber.

The miniature golf course was expanded, devouring the most damaged parts of town. Ice rinks were switched for roller rinks throughout the year. In winter, he whittled little dolls from scrap wood and bricks. Somehow, he became a tale of good will and gift giving.

The Other Years

When Dynamax was discovered, Biscotti was over the moon. Sure, he might be into his 30s, but every little boy dreamed of playing Godzilla. Or, at least, training something that could be Godzilla. Eventually, it’s Rawr and Jangle that prove the most adept at playing giants.

During that time, a friend convinces him to give love another chance. But people aren’t as forgiving as Stella. It’s only after he suffers a broken leg on the battlefield that someone else weasels their way in. The nurse is nice and super-duper cute. His smile is enough to light up Biscotti’s day.

“What is with all the scars?”
“Oh, I can’t, you know, feel certain things.”
“You can definitely feel happy though.”

Yeah. Looking into those eyes, he thinks that he can. The guy’s two kids—from his very short masquerade as a straight man—help make it possible.

Not wanting to jinx it, Biscotti avoids taking it to the next step. Love wasn’t about rings, after all.

The Final Day

Suddenly, the day of the solstice is upon them. From its dusty perch above the mantelpiece, Stella is brought down. Scotti straps it across his shoulders as he turns his attention to the city’s walls.

A testing wave sends a dozen stars bouncing around his boyfriend’s kitchen. A window shatters with a loud clash. Biscotti winces, hiding the stick behind his back. He’d have to apologize later.

But he did make a wish on every one.

NOTES

• Really struggles without his wife
• Helps his sister get used to being down an arm
• Develops a habit of laying on the roof, studying the stars
• Drug outside by his sister when travel reopens, slowly gaining interest in the other towns
• Repurposes a lot of old war equipment into playground equipment
• 
  Works with his Incineroar and Tyranitar to master Dynamax energy
• Breaks his leg and falls for his NPC nurse
• Sends out his Swift attack as a test before the battle, makes a wish on every star
  
  
  

_HL2jogl

[attr="class","blbqimg"]

[attr="class","bisc"]His cheeks showed pink in the dim light. Why in Arceus’s name had he used the word hoohah? It took everything in him not to apologize, knowing that’d just draw attention to the gaffe. Instead, he clung to her very embarrassing response like a life raft in a shipwreck.

“Does he? I’m guessing making those is a pain in the ass. I mean Rhyhorn’s are literally rock knives.” Biscotti’s voice cracked, a little too excited about saddles. “I can’t imagine making something that stands up to that.” Okay. Good job, Scotti. Smooth sailing past the vagina reference. He tucked an errant strand of hair behind his ear. The talk of gym trainers made him nod. “Maybe I’ll stop by one day. See you in action.” Hopefully, that didn’t make him sound like a stalker. He just liked battling too.

“A—a—a princess!?” Just like that, any composure he had shattered. With a stammer, he forced himself to bow. The gesture was a sloppy, sweeping thing that made him look like one of those drinking-bird contraptions. His Incineroar, meanwhile, didn’t seem all that impressed. Her only response came in the way of a smoke puff and a grumble. Biscotti took a minute to catch his breath. “I—uh—wouldn’t expect a princess to be, yanno, here.” This dim and dirty place wasn’t exactly the kind of place Cinderella would take a pumpkin carriage, right?

The Camerupt gave his mind time to pause its cycle of ‘omg a princess’ and ‘wtf am I doing with a princess?’ But her words of concern drew him up. “Eh, it’s no biggie.” Biscotti shrugged. His condition let him look like a total tough guy. “I didn’t even feel it.” Which wasn’t quite accurate. He felt the pressure and the impact, just not the alarm bells that typically came with it.

“Uh, let me look.” Biscotti dropped his eyes to his legs, noticing a tear in his jeans just below the knee. “Hey, Jangle, can you—” Before he finished asking, the Incineroar tore the pants in twain, the blood-covered portion dropping to the floor. “It looks like my leg.” He craned his head around, trying to make out the gash in the light.

Even in the dark, you could see the mess of old scars that surrounded it. There were a few surgical wounds as well, looking like the aftermath of staples.

Before Elise could take a look, however, the tunnel itself started to rumble. The light was snuffed out as something grey and bulky came down the tunnel. All of the sudden, the randomness of the place made sense. It’d been dug by a snake. And, judging by the configuration, it definitely lacked a permit.
Notes

• Skipping

☉