Poisoned skies above, ruined cities below, and an apocalypse in the making, looming above it all. Something about standing here tickles your brain in an unpleasant way. Like watching a movie you've never seen before, but you remember all the scenes. Still, you shake your head and push ahead.

"Neither. I only got to Hoenn last year, and I left Galar... Well, a while ago, that's for sure. Darkest Day? Would've been... Around Sinnoh, for me. Maybe Paldea. Maybe Unova."

Hard to remember. The Darkest Day, and where you were when it happened.

As you come across the strange weapons, Barnaby reaches for the shield, and you let him take it. Evidently, he knows more about what's going on here than you. So, you'll let him solve this particular mystery.

"Either way, I haven't been back in Galar for years, going on decades. It's really none of my business anymore, y'know?"

---

BARNABY FINCH

Raikou? Suicine? Does he really think...? Fucking hell. Okay. Nevermind. Devlin isn't stupid. "Stupid" is too kind a word. He's a dumbfuck, and even then, that's probably still too kind! But he's a half-decent battler, and it seems that's given him two things: Delusions of mastery, and a big mouth.

And you intend to break both.

Dragon Hammer and Dragon Pulse clash, and the ensuing explosion of draconic energy sends your Raging Bolt skidding back. Tch. There's something about watching his Pokemon fight that's deeply infuriating. He's driving a pickup truck like its a luxury sports car, and acting like he's correct. And yet, that's just it, isn't it? He might well have mastered this style of battling. Hell, when it comes to these Paradox Pokemon, he might even be better than you! But his tunnel vision has damned him. He thinks he's reached the pinnacle, but all he's found is a dead end.

He thinks Thunderclap is Extreme Speed? Ridiculous. Thunderclap is Sucker Punch. Case in point...

"THUNDERCLAP!"

As the last specks of purple energy begin to fade, your Raging Bolt pushes its neck forth like a cannon extending. It takes barely a split second to ready, and only another to aim. And then, with a third, it fires, and a blast of sheer lightning launches forth from its stomach, through its throat, out of its mouth, and towards Josh's Walking Wake.

---

Josh Devlin

Big speeches, petty jabs, sexual tension... Yep, this seems like your average Team Rocket gathering. All that's missing is some yelling and some crying, and things'll really be in full swing. So, fifteen minutes or so? Sounds about right.

Arceus, you wish you could drink right now. But that cigarette at Velmos' funeral had you coughing up bile for days, and you'll be damned if you're going through that again. So, snoozing it is.

Snoozing in a busy room full of loud people while this Lycanroc won't stop bothering you.

"C'mon, dude... Fuck off..." You attempt to shoo Luna away, and when that fails, you simply turn over and refuse to acknowledge her entirely. "Trying to sleep here..."

But among those gathered, there's one set of tiny hands whose more than willing to give this wolf a snack.

"oh my gosh a DOGGY (U・ᴥ・U) here mrs doggy have a treat!"

Eager to please his very big and very toothy new friend, Meltan scampered over and claimed a half-eaten cocktail sausage, before offering it up to the Lycanroc. Predictably, this ended as well as you'd expect.

CRUNCH.

Immediately, you jerk upright, and turn to see a squirming little blob of lithium flailing around in Luna's mouth.

"Hey, HEY!" You suddenly find yourself much more animated than before, lurching over to try and force open the frightfully powerful jaws of the beast. "Let him go! Drop him! I SAID DROP HIM!"

---

Zev Harcourt @couchers? ANY COUCHERS IN CHAT???

The turnout is better than you expected. Two Underbosses, a Head Scientist, two Admins, three Beasts (yourself included), and a handful of "grunts". All and all, not bad. The absences are about what you expected, though. Elisabeth Fiorelli was never going to bother showing up, and Zev Harcourt... Well, probably for the best he didn't rear his head. Wouldn't end well, would it?

The mood, on the other hand, is far more tense than you'd thought. It's clear that you peers had rather mixed views of the General. Though, while some are content to simply bite their tongue and feign sympathy, it seems THEO BECKETT thinks now, of all times, is a good time for a lecture.

"When it's done on my money, and my time, and my effort? Then I will have as many funerals as I damn well please, Underboss." You reply, a civil facade barely concealing the snarl of disdain underneath. "And there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

You won't let yourself be desensitized to loss like all the others. You'll mourn everyone who dies on your watch. Alone, if you have to.

A hush falls over the murmuring Megalopolans, and you glance back to the crowd. A few figures stand and approach a podium, a little more decorated than their peers. Friends of the general, no doubt, here to eulogize their comrade. You might've been content to listen, had Beckett not gone and poisoned the mood. Instead, you find your solemnity is replaced with irritation.

Pulling a pack of cigarettes out of your pocket, you fish one out. Back in Galar, when you were too poor to afford proper sendoffs for dead friends, you and the boys would gather round and light one up in honour of the fallen. While you're no longer a broke little burnout wasting away in Galar, it still just feels... Right, somehow. Granted, the doctors warned you off smoking, but fuck those pricks. It's a special occasion, and you've more than earned it.

Pulling on a loose bandage, you manage to slip the cig into your mouth, before holding out the pack to offer to whoever else wishes to indulge.

"But if it's any consolation, TB, then I'll say this: I intend to dig more graves for the League than I do for Rocket."

---

@mourners in chat???

It just won't quit, will it? No matter what you do to this Claydol, it just keeps on going. It'd be admirable, if you weren't on opposite sides. Still, as laser beams rip through the desert, it's clear that this'll only get worse for you as time goes on. So, time to put it down while you still can.

Reaching into your pocket, you pull out your Tera Orb and throw it towards your Drednaw.

"HEAD SMASH, NOW!"

As an otherworldly glow overtakes its body, the monstrous turtle lets out a roar. Then, bolstered by the raging sandstorm and the Terastal Phenomenon, it launches itself forward, smashing its skull straight into the head of the false idol.

---

howard slayte walter delmar Grigori Sokolov
DREDNAW MOVES: Stone Edge/Rock Tomb/Head Smash/Sandstorm/Rock Polish/Protect, TERA ROCK
CRUSH - Moves that deal damage and have 100 base power or higher and one-hit knockout moves receive a +20 modifier.
AmJjOcvo + 20 from Crush + 10 from Tera + 10 from Sandstorm

And so, you step from a distant future into a not-so-distant past. Within a battle-scarred Verdanturf, as plumes of black smoke rise high in the sky and blazing fires scorch the horizon.

You weren't here for it, of course. No, by the time you first set foot in Hoenn, Silas Blackwell was little more than a name. Whatever power he once held now belongs to Declan Walsh, be it stolen or inherited. You're sure the rise and fall and rise of Hoenn's Team Rocket is an interesting little story, but frankly, you don't much care for a history lesson. You get enough of those from howard slayte already.

Whatever the case, you're content to let Beckett live out his fantasies of murdering this virtual stranger. But of course, it isn't that easy. A hulking Metagross emerges to defend its master, and thus, you obligated to chip in.

With a sigh, you toss forth a Pokeball, and your Gouging Fire charges forth to join the fray.

---

THEO BECKETT

Alright! Drednaw is all nice and polished, and the sandstorm is in full effect. It's time.

Or at least, it would be, if the Claydol didn't get on its bullshit. In addition to all its spinning, it begins to rev up its psychic energy, too. You can only imagine how fucked things will get if it's allowed to get into gear. So, you suppose going all out will have to wait. First, you need to slap a brick on this thing's brakes.

"Damn it... Rock Tomb!"

Opening its mouth wide, the Drednaw spat out a barrage of boulders, catapulting through the air and crashing down onto the Claydol in an attempt to burden it, to weight it down, and to drag it back to earth.

---

howard slayte walter delmar Grigori Sokolov
DREDNAW MOVES: Stone Edge/Rock Tomb/Head Smash/Sandstorm/Rock Polish/Protect, TERA ROCK
HINDER - Moves that cause or have a chance to lower a target's stats reduce the boss's total roll by 10 for the next round. Multiple players can use these moves in the same round, but the reduction only applies to the following round.
XXQDaw9J + 10 from Shift + 20 from Rock Polish

Amidst the chitting and the chatting, the belittling and the betting, the conversation and the critique, one single eye watches the ongoing battle royale intently.

"hmmmm (￣ヘ￣) miss ameena and mister oscar have very strong teams, so theyll probably win (￢_￢;) but so do mister dorian and mr hitoshi (＃＞＜) but i really like the miss parker and i think she's very strong too (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞ but theres so many people and they could all win aaaaaaa! its so hard to decide!! i cant figure it out!!!"

You, meanwhile, feel like death.

"Meltan, buddy... Please stop yelling."

Freshly bandaged hands rub your aching head as you lay slumped on a sofa. This? Was a mistake. You're a dumbass. Seriously, what kind of idiot gets out of surgery and decides to go watch "grunts" beat the shit out of each other for a few hours?

An idiot with a Meltan who said pleeeeeeaaaaasssseeeee (*_ _)人, that's who.

"oh (°ロ°) sorry" The blob apologised, quieting down for exactly four seconds before they piped up again. "ooo, but you're a good smart fightman, right? who do you think will win>"

With some effort, you glance up at the many, many screens. Who's going to win? Fuck if you know. This is like a barfight, where there's too many people doing too many things. Strength doesn't matter. Inevitably, the last man standing is some random fuckwit who just got lucky enough to stay out of trouble. You imagine that same idea will apply here, but a satisfying answer that does not make, so...

"...Whoever has a Meltan will win."

"wow (￣ω￣) WOW youre right!!! theyll definitely win this one for the meltan village (★ω★) your eye for strategy is astute as always mr shred!"

"Yeah, sure, thanks, now keep it down, 'kay?."

"(￣^￣)ゞ yessir!"

---

SHRED IS A SICKLY VICTORIAN HOUSEWIFE AND MELTAN IS HIS SON WHO LOVES SPORTS

"Oh, fuck me... Look, dude, the nurse told me to 'take my pants off'. How was I supposed to know she meant my trouser-pants and not my pants-pants? Besides, it wasn't like there was much to se--"

"BORED NOW. hmmmm i think i will play this audio at 10000% speed so that we might verily maximize the usage of our precious time, that we might better spend it MEETING HOT SINGLES IN YOUR AREA!!!"

Before you even have a chance to react, your Porygon-Z has already fucked up the delicate settings of this operation in ways that shouldn't even be physically possible. The calming text-to-speech descrption of Bloodmoon Ursaluna's dietary habits has become a cacophony. Migration habits of Skarmory bleed into the history of Goldenrod bleed into the complicated legislation behind using pesticides on berries. It's madness. The wires are vibrating. How the fuck was that even possible?

In the time it takes you to hit the red X and cancel the protocol, twenty hours of information has played in a little under two seconds. Yet still, the Light Stone remains dormant.

"...SHIT."

Having thoroughly failed in your shortsighted endeavour, you take a step away from the computer. Immediately, two web pages open up - One, the gacha games section of 4Tree message boards, and the other, the homepage for a dodgy looking plug-in called a "Bonsly Buddy".

"Well, that didn't work." You state the obvious. "But, y'know, we really tried, didn't we? We did our best, and... Well, okay, we did. BUT, hey, that still counts, right?"

---

howard slayte

"Tired."

You look it, too. Beneath shoddily-wrapped bandages, the bags under your eyes run deep. Between what happened with the Toxic Chain, the Prismatic Penitentiary, and everything thereafter, you've been burning too hot for too long with too little rest. You're like... You're like, uh... A candle, or an engine, or, or a wildfire, or... Or, something like that.

You breathe a sigh as you close your eyes. Is this how she feels all the time? Because you feel like complete shit.

"But I'll live."

Can't die yet. Too much left to do. Too many people to kill. Too many people to avenge. Too many people to liberate from their chains. Too many people left to cast down from their thrones. Too many, too, too too many.

In that sense, this trip to the Ultra Plant is a welcome diversion. You reach down and tap a Pokeball, allowing your Xurkitree to emerge. For a moment, you glance over to it, as though trying to gauge reaction. Is it happy to return home? Or does it dread coming back after being away for so long? No matter how long you stare, you can't make out any emotion upon its faceless face. So, with a shrug of your shoulders and a shake of your head, you follow along behind Lulu, and it follows behind you.

"How about you? Are you holding up alright?"

---

Lulu Flint

[googlefont=Rubik Burned]"Wait, what--"

But there's no time to wait, nor to elaborate. Instead, the iron maiden closes around what little remains of your arm. Dozens of daggers and knives stab into your arm, tunnelling through burnt flesh like wriggling worms in graveyard dirt. And as they feasted on your remains, it didn't take long for them to reach the most succulent part of your broken body - the nerves.

Damaged though they might be, numbed though they might be, they still feel. And as fang after fang bites down upon your very sense of feeling, there's nothing you can do but scream.

And scream. And scream. And scream and scream and scream until your voice gives out and all you're left with is a rasp of suffering.

You hadn't grown used to missing your arm, but you had gotten used to no longer feeling it. Now, though? You can. For the first time in months, you feel sensation within that lost part of you, returned after so long away. And it hurts. It hurts so goddamn bad that it makes you want to rip it off and throw it away.

But eventually, the maggots eat their fill. The blades entangled with your nervous system sink into place. And slowly but surely, the shock fades and your body grows used to the pain. That doesn't meant it feels good. But it feels. And that has to be better than nothing, right?

Through haggard breaths, you reach out, but not for Oscar. Instead, you grab something off a nearby countertop. Some piece of scientific equipment, probably, but you neither know nor care what. And with your newfound arm, you squeeze. Fingers wrap around a solid metal body and constrict and constrict, like a Seviper swirling a Zigzagoon, constricting and constricting and constricting and constricting until--

SNAP!

--It breaks. Two pieces fall to the ground, and what remains shatters on the floor. As you raise up the cybernetic, awe mixing with agony, you can think of only one thing to say:

"GROOVY."

---

oscar clayton