One more step forward. Though, given how senseless it all is, you can't help but feel like it's one step back. Just a constant waltz between scenes, taking it sights and sounds, and trying to figure out what they're supposed to mean. It's a right headfuck, and it's all supposed to help you find God? You could get the same experience from dropping acid, and you'd probably end up closer to Arceus, too.

The chill of the breeze becoming all-encompassing, as you suddenly find yourself atop a tower that scrapes the skies. Not that it's a skyscraper, mind, as it's far too primitive for that. No, it's less like a modern Mauville office building and more akin to an extension of the ruins you were in earlier. Though, again, that was all just your ape brain slamming disconnected puzzle pieces together, wasn't it? No, you weren't going to solve this puzzle, because it wasn't meant to be solved. Not without liberal use of scissors and glue.

But that's enough bitching for now. Two dragons bear down upon you, and their keepers ask such lofty questions. Truth or ideals? Truth or ideals...

"Gee, I really don't give a fuck."

Yeah, the novelty of this little venture has worn off. You already feel a migraine coming on, and you don't need a discussion of philosophy making that worst. Fuck truth, and fuck ideals. Instead, you reach for a Pokeball. It seems Barnaby is siding with the big black dragon, so you'll hurry this along and pick a fight with the big white one.

"Better say your prayer, bud - You're going straight to hell."

---

BARNABY FINCH

Here it goes. All or nothing. One last exchange, one last clash, one last shot to decide it all. It’s just like a Paldean standoff of the old west, two gunslingers staring each other down, waiting to see who moves first. Nothing to gain and everything to lose. Or, is it the other way around? Hard to say. You’re not even sure you care either way.

Toxtricity stares at the machine in front of him with unearned confidence, but you can’t rightly call it arrogance. His body is relaxed, not a single muscle in his body tense. At a glance, you might say he wasn’t even taking this seriously, but looks can be deceiving. He’s a loaded revolver, an armed bomb, a primal force of nature with a talon on the trigger, and ready to let loose a roar of thunder. There are billions of Pokemon in the world, an uncountable number of uncountable species, but at this moment, wreathed in electricity and riding high off the thrill of battle, he might as well be the king of them all.

Just two combatants, staring each other down. That’s all that matters in this world. Nothing else could ever come close.

The moment feels like it could last forever, but nothing good ever does. So, better to relish it, both as it comes and as it goes. High noon is here. The bell tower is ringing, and the sirens are screaming in the distance. It’s time to draw.

Toxtricity lunges forward, a wild beast let off its leash. Venom and lightning pour forth from his claws in equal measure, overflowing with lethality. His is not a path charted by ironclad strategy or cold hard logic, but pure instinct. The pounding of his heart, the chill running up his spine, the twinge at the back of his skull. Those are what drive him. Those are what define him. Those are what he is banking on to bring him to victory.

With one last howl, a shout of glee and glory, he braves the blades of the Iron Valiant and thrusts his arm forward.

---

Navy

"WHAT THE--"

Luigi doesn't have the chance to get another word out, as Grigori proceeds to crash directly into him. That just leaves you to hold up your end of the bargain, and that means keeping the pressure on the Pokemon. As long as you can keep Appletun and Fidough distracted, then the big lad over there will have plenty of time to pummel that bastard. Granted, you've already been on the wrong end of that rabid mutt once, and you have no idea how you'd even begin to grapple with that oversized fruit.

But you don't need "ideas" or "thinking", because you're absolutely furious. You don't even wait for the three count before lunging for the dragon, taking it off-guard as you grab it from behind. Then, weaving between wooden shrapnel and toxic bullets, you drag the struggling beast over to the still-recovering Fidough, before hoisting the Appletun up high.

"GO TO HELL AND DIE!"

SMASH! Apple is slammed into dough at high speed, and the world's first and worst living apple pie is formed. It's cathartic, it's effective, but it doesn't make your face hurt any less, so it's a pyrrhic victory. This might be revenge, but you've served it lukewarm. Tch, you're going to need to get rabies shots after this, aren't you? What a pain in your ass...

---

Grigori Sokolov

It's astounding how quickly the mystery and wonder of simulated universes can lose their lustre. You've only taken a few trips on the RKS carousel, but you've already started to notice the groan of the overworked motors, the crackle of the gaudy music, and the chipped paintwork on the galloping Rapidash. Then again, the whimsy only lasts so long as you buy into it, right? Much like sinking into saltwater, you can only be immersed if you allow yourself to be immersed.

And you haven't, won't, and will believe in this wonderland. Maybe that's because you're too stupid to understand it, or maybe you're too smart to buy into this bullshit. It's just a constant stream of riddles without answers and puzzles missing pieces getting injected into your brain like poison. This just isn't what you're about. You're not a wiseman. You're a cretin. You should be out there shaking down drug addicts for petty change, not trying to solve the enigma of your primordial maker. Why are the Mankeys writing tragedies on typewriters when there's plenty of fruit to eat and trees to climb?

You're not a Mankey, mind. That's just a metaphor. If you had to say, your Spirit Pokemon probably something cooler than an ape. But not too cool, like a Salamence or a Dragonite or a Milotic or whatever. That's poser shit for overcompensating losers. You're like, a Lokix, or a Dusclops, or an Aggron, or a Seviper, or something.

But, to cut a long and terribly derailed story short, they want you in here, so you're in here. The bad news is, you've got partnered with Screamy Bitch, which makes you certain this'll be a headache and a half. The good news is, you got partnered with the Second-Hottest Shredette, so you're content to let her bluster ahead while you spend the time slacking off and staring at her ass. In that sense, this should be nothing but an absolute win, but somehow, you're sure this'll backfire terribly on you. Until then...

"Alright, I'm taking five." You stifle a yawn, falling backwards onto a dusty chair as you tilt your head back and cross your arms. "Let me know when you're done, yeah? And, y'know, keep up the good work and all that shit..."

---

Xenon Antheil

Having faith in you? Frankly, a terrible decision. If you were the one on that zipline, you sure as shit aren't trusting your life to yourself. You'd probably half-ass it and send yourself careening to your death. Knowing your look, you wouldn't die on impact, either. You'd be lying there in a broken heap for a few hours before a stray Orthworm squirmed over your body and smothered you to death. No, you absolutely can't be trusted with this kind of task. So, it's time to delegate.

"Golurk, c'mon out."

With a murmur, you release your muscle from its Pokeball. The first thing the gigantic construct does upon being freed is bonk their head on the top of the cave. Given how the big fucker is about as tall as the cavern is, that's to be expected. Nevertheless, they quickly adjusts their posture, before turning to face you.

"Do me a solid and pound this spike into the rock, yeah?"

CONFIRMATION: Affirmative.

The titan has no neck to nod with, but you like to imagine that if they did have one, they would be nodding. Then again, they don't exactly seem like the expressive type either way. Whatever the case may be, they take the metal stake into their hand, and with a few taps of their heavy fingers, they effortlessly drive it deeper into the stone than you ever could, and in a fraction of the time, too. It really does pay to have good help, doesn't it?

But to change the subject away from good help, you lazily turn to Howard and give him a thumbs up. You've done all you can, but the rest is up to him. You've done your "stuff", now it's his turn to do his "stuff".

---

howard slayte

"...The fuck was that about?"

You're not sure what just happened, but one moment he was there, and the next, he was gone, replaced by a rift in reality. Tch. What a pain in your ass. It feels like you're missing a lot of critical context here. Could the Rocket higher-ups not afford to slap together a quick and dirty cheat sheet for you to cross-reference? Because Barnaby is acting like this was important, but as far as you're concerned, that guy was just a homeless bum with a gambling addiction. Father Winter? DRK Triad? C'mon now. Give a guy a chance.

Your own lack of paying attention aside, there doesn't seem like much else to do here. No point loitering about a fake version of Mauville City unless you want to get a fake fine for your fake misdemeanour. So, you either have to get out of dodge, or jump into this dubious portal, and really, that isn't much of a choice for someone like you.

You breathe a tiny sigh, regretting some, if not all, of your life choices up to this point, before stepping deeper into this mess.

---

BARNABY FINCH

As Gallade hits the ground, the crowd erupts into a raccuous combination of cheers and boos, all of it coming together into an indistinct roar of excitement. It's so loud that you can barely even hear yourself think. Lucky for you, you don't have to think, because you're the one with a Pokemon left standing tall.

...Or, well, standing. He's a quadruped. Doesn't really stand that tall when he's on four legs, does he? If he was standing on his hind legs, maybe, but normally? Well, this is neither here nor there nor anywhere. You discard such pointless thoughts and take a moment to simply bathe in the adoration, the hatred, and everything inbetween. It's not often you're going to get to experience this in your line of work, so you'd better not waste it, because Arceus knows that nothing this nice lasts forever.

And while you're at it, you might as well punch down while you've got the chance.

"Well, well, well!" You smirk, looking across at your opposing trainer. "Seems you couldn't quite cut it, could ya, bud? Maybe try a little harder next time, amd you might even make me sweat a little."

Fuck yeah. This is the good stuff. There's nothing quite like kicking them while they're down to really give you that rush of ego.

---

onyx straub

After what felt like an eternity of grappling with the pooch, you finally manage to get it off your face with the assistance of Grigori. The first thing you do is take a deep breath. The second thing you do is immediately hurl the dog away from you and into the nearest wall. Finally, the third thing you do is feel your face, and boy, does it not feel good. Very wet, and you're certain that's not because of saliva. There's definitely holes, too, and they're messy ones to boot. Oh, and it all fucking hurts.

"TOXTRICITY! FUCKING ICE THAT MUTT!"

You slam your hand onto one of the six Pokeballs hanging off your belt, calling forth your ace. Or, at least, that's the intention. But it seems that you must've misremembered which Pokemon was in which Pokeball, because the creature that emerges from the flash of red light isn't Toxtricity. Instead, what emerges is...

"Don't worry, boss...! I'll gettem...!"

Before you can even begin to process the mistake you've made, Slowbro raises up its Shell Side Arm, and unleashes a barrage of poorly-aimed bullets in just about any and every direction, aiming be damned. Blasts of poisonous energy pierce walls, shatter glass, and send loosely-hung decor tumbling to the ground. And despite the sheer quantity of shots being fired, this relentless assault seems to be hitting everything except the Fidough.

Well, at least he's wrecking the shop, right? That counts for something.

---

Grigori Sokolov