PURCHASING/REDEEMING

welcome to the poké mart!

1X Shadow Move (From Dream Drop Distance, Shadow Shed on Gholdengo (Replacing Thief)) (0 PD)

TOTAL

do come again!

0 PD

Even in this dream world, tragedy followed Grigori like his own shadow. Furthermore, tragedy struck once again during the winter months. So far, all these moments had been wonderfully beautiful in their alterations and change of pace. But this had to stay the same?

But in the darkest recesses of his mind, he thanks Arceus that it was not him that caused this grim fortune to befall his closest friend and his only daughter. It makes the process of walking up to June’s new apartment much less painful, even though that dagger of grief still feels freshly plunged into his heart.

A freak accident. Either in his growing age, or desire to be home with his daughter, or just faulty equipment, Sleigh hadn’t properly secured an engine block as he lay underneath the heavy metal motor. All it had taken was the briefest moment of oversight to end his life. Grigori did not see the awful state of his body before it had been removed from the garage, yet he was glad all the same. It must’ve been fast and relatively painless for him, at least.

Now, it is the second day of February. Snow blanketed Mauville the night prior, which hurt his eyes as he made the trek on over. Cold seeped into his older bones like mold and no amount of movement shook its frigid grip. The brightness hurt his eyes, and each breath threatened to strangle him on the spot. Winter always brought out the worst of everything, he noticed. Even the human condition.

The apartment complex is warm, though. By the time he reaches the top floor, warmth returns to his hands. It lets him knock on the door with pinpoint precision, the rapping barely louder than the distant hum of a heater. In fear of rousing the dead. “Miss June? Are you home?”

No response. Maybe she didn’t hear him? A lie as white as the outside, but it lets him knock a touch louder with little remorse. He presses his ear against the door like he does with the Pokémon he examines with meticulous rigor. Yet those had moving parts, things that beat and made noise when pressed upon.

June’s apartment remains as still as a dead… nothing. Never mind.

“I’m coming in,” he calls to the door. He fishes the key from his pocket, unlocks the door, and carefully enters the small apartment.

Sorrow rushes up to greet him at the flat brown door mat, which tells him ‘HEY, WHERE YOU THINK YOU’RE WALKIN’?’ Funnier at the moment, when June opened up the wrapped gift, but now feels comically out of place. Two pairs of shoes are against the wall on the side, a thin layer of dust accumulating on the leather. Grigori’s wet shoes join them.

Right after the front entrance is the living room, but its barren walls and measly couch tell another story. Sad and as far into the corner of the room as it can go. To the right is the kitchen, just as dark and empty. A few plates still rest in the sink, leftover from last time. He’d need to wash them before he left, if only to prevent the smell of mildew from building up. That’d just make it depressing.

But for now, he ventures into the kitchen. “Miss June, I’m going to make some coffee. If that’s alright with you.”

Nothing. Grigori fills the coffee pot with water and pours it into the top of the machine. The filter follows shortly after, and a healthy portion of coffee grounds are shoveled on. All he has left to do is put the top back on, hit the button, and wait. It quietly comes to life and begins the process of making coffee.

While he waits, Grigori quickly washes the small stack of plates in the sink and puts them onto the drying rack. Those that are now dry are put back in their respective cupboards. While the pleasant aroma of coffee fills the small space, he begins to dust every nook and cranny with diligence. By the time the entire pot is filled with brown liquid, the entire kitchen is free from any dust or errant particles that’d bring ruin.

For him, an unhealthy amount of sugar, a copious amount of creamer, and a nice, and picture-perfect topping of whipped cream. For June, the coffee steams as it pours into the large brown mug, free from any outside influences. He takes both mugs by their handles and carries them out of the kitchen, past the living room, and down the hall on the left from the entrance. This is where the rest of the rooms reside. Bathroom, laundry room (two machines shoved on top of each other with minimal effort), and a single bedroom. Here is where the awful mood emanates.

Grigori softly pushes open the door, going into the room. It, too, is threadbare, save for the bed, the desk, the massive Talonflame that rests atop the bed, and the pile of gifts that are piled in the corner. Sleigh had told everyone he knew about the move before he’d actually told June. Even Grigori. His gift, a premier coffee maker, still remains unopened at the very top. A better version of his father's gift, which had brewed their respective mugs just a few minutes before.

Things worked funny like that, even in dreamland.

The Talonflame watches him with caring eyes as he walks over to the bed, sets the barren coffee mug onto a coaster, and reaches over to shake the person in the bed. “June, are you awake?”

He gets an answer, but it’s a weak groan. The figure tries to shuffle away, but Grigori follows. Not exactly hard, given he stands while she is still in bed.

“Good morning, June,” he says. “How are you doing?”

“Go away,” she pulls the pillow over her head.Grigori presses his lips together and takes a sip from his sweetened concoction. Just the right amount of everything.

“Can't do that right now.”

“Don’t care.”

“Unfortunately, I do,” he walks to the foot of the bed and reaches for the curtains. The dark black parts to reveal the white light that pours into and dominates the room colors. Matchstick squints hard, eyes too used to the darkness of the room. Just how long had they been in the gloom-and-doom? Must’ve been a couple weeks by this point.

“Come on, Miss June, you can’t stay in bed forever. Tempting as it might seem,” he retraces his steps and returns to the nightstand. “And I remembered to use your favorite grounds this time. Don’t want to let that good coffee go to waste now, right?”

Silence. Grigori sighs. This can’t end like the last time he was here. So, he sets his own mug down and clears a spot for himself to sit. The soft comforter eases his body into the mattress and soaks up all his aches and twinges of pain. No wonder she didn’t want to get out of bed. Hell, Grigori wants to lay down right next to her and let the days drift by until they’re nothing but a blur of hours upon hours.

But he doesn’t.

“Miss June, please,” he whispers. “You must get up. Even if not out of bed, there are matters that still need to be attended to. Things that only you can decide.”

It’s like talking to a brick wall, or a pile of dirt. She’s shoved herself into a rabbit hole and stubbornly refuses to let anyone else come in. Like she lives in denial. Grigori wants to pull her back into the land of the living desperately. But she refuses his hand.

His heart hurts more than the day right after Sleigh’s passing.

Grigori sighs, “Miss June, I know it's hard. You and your father were incredibly close. He helped shape you into who you are today, and helped you figure out what your next steps are. But… just because he’s gone doesn’t mean that these opportunities are there forever. Life keeps going forward, and none of us want to see you left behind.”

“...Go away.” She presses the pillow harder into her head.

“Well, I just might have to, at this point.”

Grigori puts his hands together and taps them against his legs, “My work only gives me so long for these situations to grieve. To get things figured out. And I’m about out of time for pushing off my responsibilities. This week is my last before I must return to Kanto. I know this is sudden, but…”

“I can’t wait around for you anymore. I’m sorry, June.”

Anything at all. A kick, a slap in the face, a grunt, a murmur, anything. Please.

All Grigori hears is the call of the void, the cosmic radiation of nothing against his ears. Perhaps if he tries harder in the future, he might be able to amplify the sound of his soul being ground to dust.

Totalic resignation. ‘Lost cause’ came to mind. How does one help a person that doesn’t want it?

“When you’re ready, June, we’ll be there.”

Grigori pushes himself off the bed.

Movement. Matchstick yelps in surprise as its stable ground isn’t so stable anymore. A hand grabs his wrist. Now, his arm shakes slightly via osmosis. He doesn’t need to look back to see the sullen, desolate face that currently pleads with the back of his own head.

“How can you just turn your back on Dad like this!?”

“How can you just forget like that?!”

“How can you move on?”

Why are you leaving me?

How can I make this not drown out everything else?

Why can’t I move on?

“I haven’t, June.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sleigh being gone isn’t something I’ll ever get past,” Grigori croaks out. “Not here, not there. It hurts.”

“It’ll always hurt, June. But that’s what it means to love. To hold on as tight as you can, whenever you can. And never let go, even when you’re grasping at air. Even when the act of loving hurts more than anything else in the world. It’ll never go away.”

“But we can’t shut out the love from those still around. Those that also feel the pain of it. The only thing that can fix a broken heart is the grief of those that know what you feel.”

We don’t exist as ourselves.

“Yet I can’t. You’ve buried yourself in your own grief, June, and I can’t reach you. It hurts watching it happen in real time, but I’m powerless. I desperately want to grieve alongside you. To share this.”

“Please.”

Can you do this one little knee bend for me?

Grigori hears the first painful inhale. “It hurts so much, Grigori.”

“I know.”

Grigori finally turns to June. Tears run down her face like rain down a window. A mirror reflection into his own face. “But you don't have to hurt alone.”

Before he knows what’s going on, they're hugging as tight as they can. It hurts his arms to hold that hard. It hurts to be held so hard, as well. It’s hot, and his shoulder now feels awkwardly wet. He can’t even hear himself think over the sounds of their sobs.

But something clicks inside. There was nothing else to make this more perfect. Only now does he never want this to end. To have friends, family. People who care.

Grigori wants this life instead.

---

Prompt - Love

Word count - I have reached almost 2000 words (hlep)

They’d just barely survived the attack from those awful Glimmora, and Howard’s first priority was this dead figure and their tools? The way he worded his future plans put a touch of worry into his older heart as he and Scizor walked up to the archeologist.

“This bowl is not going anywhere,” Grigori bent down and scooped the heavy mallet up before anyone else could get their hands on it. Unless it was made of something like lead or tungsten, he’d pick it up with only a slight grunt to show its true weight. What was someone like this doing with such a large bowl? And that magenta chain, the kind they’ve seen numerous times, didn’t bode well either.

“Mr. howard slayte , Ms. Aurelie Lefevre , everyone else, I don’t think we should get that close to this corpse,” he said cautiously. He and Scizor went around the chair and behind the individual, hammer hung on his shoulder as they did so. “Best not tempt fate or chance without the proper equipment or people. Or when we’re in this weird cave, with weirder plants, and even weirder people. Don't try to touch it, either.”

Why were people eating the leaves?! These people made Shred look like a saint. Although, if he had joined them on this path, he surely would’ve been the first to devour the plants in the hope it’d make him high.

Back to the point though– the fact that they were seemingly capable of playing dead and ambushing gave Grigori enough cause for concern to keep the mallet at the ready. Scizor, too, held its claws directly towards the ‘corpse’. If it so much as twitched, it’d have to then dodge the impossibly sharp pincers or a heavy hammer to the head.

---

Tl;dr
 - Grigori joins the people at the person doing a ritual, but makes sure to take the hammer before anyone else (or at least try, in case Shiv has it made of the impossible to lift metal)
 - He also says that they should maybe back up and not be so close to the corpse. Or touch the bowl
 - Goes behind the body and is ready to loony toons the bastard the second it moves

itsJ7O|h

"Mr. Howard," Grigori called from his position above the gym clothes. His voice sounded nasally and sick, and his hand firmly clamped on his nose made him look like a total nerd. "Please come over here and give me a hand. I'm sure it's no big deal that you did... whatever you are apologizing for."

Seriously, these clothes stunk hard. It felt awful to even look at the pile, much less touch it with his bare hands. Maybe he should've looked around for a pair of gloves before shoving his hands into the sweaty attire. It was too smelly to be normal, in his eyes. He's sure that there were visible stink lines too.

"Well well well, what do we have in here..."

---

Ugh, a pile of sweaty gym clothes! 3/5 (Might be 4 idr)

Grigori hands can’t stop shaking. Arceus, why did he agree to this? His stomach churns nonstop, like a hundred tops had been unleashed in his bowels. A bead of sweat drips down the side of his face, another drop down the river. Even if it’s autumn, it feels stiflingly hot in there. Doesn’t help that he’s one of three present.

Sleigh sits in the passenger seat. “Alright, Grigori, take it easy, yea? No need to stress, you’re in park.”

In the back seat sits a kid somehow shoved into a car seat twice her size. She must’ve been a Chatot in a previous life. “Yea Gregory, you’re in park!”

“Junebug, don't be more excited than Grigori, okay?” Her father warns. ‘Junebug’ crosses her arms and pouts. “But it's true.”

“I know it’s true, Junebug, you’re absolutely right. But that isn’t the issue here.”

“I don’t get it.”

“That’s alright, Junebug, you don’t need to right now.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Grigori cuts in, “But did you really need to bring Miss June along for this? And why is she in a car seat? Didn’t she grow out of it years ago?”

“Why am I in the car seat, Dad? It hurts,” she pulls at the straps, to which Sleigh immediately turns around and puts them back into position.

“Because, we can never be too safe with a new driver. If you got hurt, Mom would be very upset. And we don’t want an upset Mom, now do we?”

“My question remains unanswered, Mr. Sleigh,” Grigori once again interrupts.

Sleigh sighs, “Because Mom is at work right now, I took time out of my busy schedule to do this, and Junebug here got sent home from school. Again.”

“That’s not my fault! Matchstick was–”

“I know, Junebug, I know,” Sleigh grates through his clenched teeth, “but they won’t allow you back for another day or two. So you get to hang out with Dad and Uncle Grigori! Isn’t that so much more fun?”

“But I wanna play tag!”

“Later, if you’re good.”

“Okay!” June chirps as she dawns a bright smile. Grigori shakes his head slightly. Took after her Father, it seems. That does not bode well for her future, which May insisted would be as bright as the sun. Must've been permanently night.

But he did not say that, but instead grips the black steering wheel tighter than before. “Let’s get back on track, please. So, what, do I shift the lever? Anything special to it?”

“Yes, shifting, so, you’re gonna want to press on the brake.”

Grigori shoves his shoe into the pedal on the left. The engine revs with the roar of a thousand Pyroars. Sleigh slaps his shoulder as soon as he realizes the issue, “Other one, other one!”

“Oh, sorry,” he slams his foot quickly into the right pedal. The loud whir slowly calms down, still abuzz and furious with Grigori’s misplaced foot. “It doesn’t always do that, right? That loud noise?”

“Only when you slam on the gas,” Sleigh says. “So, when that whirring gets quieter, I’m gonna want you to pull on the shift until you get to D. That’s drive. You will, well, drive.”

“But not when I have my foot on the brake?”

“Not when you have your foot on the brake.”

Grigori follows the instructions to a T, making sure to keep his foot on the brake and carefully shift the stick into drive. The car buckles a touch from the movement of dastardly machinations inside the machine. He didn’t know cars. He knew about Scizor, he knew how to write a research paper. He knew how to operate his own small lab with all the equipment he’d ever need.

This is well beyond his limits. Even worse, they’re in public. Sure, no one watches from the edges of the garage parking lot as they sit at one end. Sleigh had said it was the best they were going to get; no way in hell they went on roads, and no way in hell they practiced in a public parking lot. He was supposed to get a feel for the act, maybe even practice parking if he was comfortable.

But, while Grigori stares down the path, his leg cramping already from the rigid, locked position of his bones and muscles, he thinks that maybe he will be lucky to not crash into the side of the shop.

“Grigori,” Sleigh interrupts his deep thought, “you with me? You need to focus behind the wheel. Now, gently pull your foot off the brake. You’ll start going forward.”

He nods, and once again follows instructions. The car creeps forward, lulled out of hibernation by some ungodly force. Grigori pushes back down on the brakes, and everyone lurches forward suddenly.

“Oh–Grigori, it’ll be fine! Listen, you got the reigns for this thing. It’ll only do what you tell it to do. Just need to, you know. Do that.”

“You’re right,” he agrees. One dry, audible gulp later, they resume their decimeter-by-decimeter drive. He’s doing it! The car isn't going to do anything he doesn't tell it–

At the very edge of the parking lot, to their right, disaster strikes. A Rattata presses itself as low to the ground as humanly possible, but its small purple body against the gray concrete is clear as day. Fear jolts through his nerves, and his hands strain further against the wheel.

“Oooh, a Rattata! Dad, can I catch him?” June asks while her face is fully pressed to the smudge-filled glass.

“What Ratta–oh, that? Maybe later, if it’s still around. And if your Mom says it’s ok,” Sleighs says. He glances over to Grigori and sees the looming disaster in front of them. “Hey, don’t focus on the Pokémon. Eyes on the road, man.”

“B-but–”

The small rodent, hell-bent on whatever grabs its interest at the moment, continues its inevitable war path forward. Now the researcher’s breaths get heavier. “Wha-what do I do, Sleigh?! It’s getting closer!”

“I don’t know, just stop or go around it? It’ll get spooked sooner or later. Keep calm, Grigori, we’ll be fine.”

Nothing is fine. Their paths get closer and closer, until the point of no return is nearly upon them. Grigori only gets more agitated. All is forgotten in those key moments. Moments he spends trying to jam his lock of a foot back onto the brakes. Damn it if all the stuff strewn around the vehicle gets thrown around hazardously, at least he wouldn’t be responsible for the death of this oblivious Rattata.

However, muscle memory takes over. Instead of that unfun but consistent stopping motion, the world gets faster. Sleigh and June jump in their seats, but for opposing reasons.

“WOOOOOOOOO, THAT’S IT GREGORY!”

“FUCK, FUCK, THE BRAKES, THE BRAKES!”

Grigori is not looking forward. He is looking off to the right as the purple body, rightfully spooked, now runs with its tail between its legs. "Thank goodness, we missed the–"

Deafening loudness follows as they plunge right into the side of the garage.

—----

“I’m so sorry, Sleigh.”

“It’s okay, Grigori. Just a car. We can fix those.”

“But the wall–”

“I know, Grigori. We’ll get someone to fix it.”

“But June–”

“Can we do that again, Gregory? Dad never lets us do stuff like that!”

“Junebug, you were never in the car. You hear?”

“But–”

“No buts, Junebug. Mom will be very mad if she knew you were in the car. And you won’t see me for a whole month. You don’t want that, right?”

“No…”

“I’ll pay for it all, Mr. Sleigh. I’m so sorry. Maybe… next time, I’ll not make the same mistake.”

“Grigori, with all due respect, you’re on your own for this one. Sign up for a driving class, or renew your bus pass.”

“Oh… but–”

“Grigori, I’m sorry, but it’s over my dead body that you learn to drive from me.”

---

Prompt - Recreation

Word Count - Lol, lmao

Thank him? They’d barely just started the look. And there was no way it was ‘sleeping on a pillow’. But Grigori liked the positive thinking. “Yes. Fast asleep in a bed of Swanna feathers, with a pleasant dream on its mind.”

Castform stuck with Eleanor, dead set on keeping her relatively happy. Its little Rain Dance caused its own heart to flutter with joy. It tried to venture deep in the bush she looked in, but did not see the Skitty anywhere in the thicket. “Castform…” cried softly. Where could it be?

As Eleanor pulled the treats from her pocket, Grigori straightened back up from his painful position and carefully trod over. He takes half the treats and bounces them in the palm of his hand. “Hmm… how to best do this…”

“I guess we should split up a bit,” he decided on. “If you could continue your search over here, Ms. Eleanor, and I’ll venture off to the left again. And Castform… can do whatever it so pleases.”

“Guwhawhawhawha!”

So, the grunt went back to the general area he just left and continued his search. Now armed with treats, he tried to bait out the Skitty with the piece of food. Yet as the first and second minutes passed, not a single trace of existence showed itself. Odd. Usually, food got most Pokémon out of any hiding spot. Worked with the Mawile that loved to hide in plain sight.

“Ms. Eleanor, any luck on your end? I’m not seeing– not seeing any, uh… not seeing a…” he stumbled on his tongue. Didn’t want to upset her with dismal results. “Anyway, how is Castform over there?”

Castform hovered above the girl, constant with its chimes and whistles as they investigated.

---

eleanor blair teska (WE'RE BACK IN BUSINESS AND BUSINESS IS BOOOOOOOOOOMMMIIINNNGGGG)

Grigori kept his calm regardless of the circumstances. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Mr. Howard. I can’t imagine your… Pokémon? Has much in the way of utilities. Probably best to think of it as an upgraded tent or cabin.”

“But congratulations! Now you shan’t walk out of here empty handed,” he said. As soon as they got out of here, they could truly put their newfound power to the test!

But… how to get out? Shred noticed first and asked them both. The grunt considered the proposition for a brief moment before the memory returned to him. They came down that long flight of stairs, right? All they had to do was climb them back up. And if there was a problem or two along the way, then Cable or Howard’s new creature could help out.

“I hope you both like stairs,” he said as he turned to them. This could be his exercise for today and tomorrow. Howard? For the weekend.

Shred? Too much debt in that regard. He’d have to do it a dozen times to hope to catch up.

---

Shred howard slayte
pyRJsRnz

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Calcifet,” Grigori nodded back. How proper. Curiously so. He had absolutely no basis for the claim, but it’s what he imagined a fancy, proper person acting like. It’s what they did in all those movies he watched for hours on end as a young adult. Harmless enough.

But Mrs. Peacock seemed anything but. Fairy? People always assumed those downright passive and nice, but they were anything but. He’d like to see some people get on the wrong side of a Granbull, or Azumarill. They’d kill you without a moment’s hesitation, if the need arose. It was pure bias talking, but things felt off.

Especially after that scream from the hallway. He followed Elise Calcifet into the hall soon after that shriek sounded out, only to find at least half the people stuck in the mansion present. No one was injured, at least. This did include one Howard Slayte. How convenient. And inconvenient. There’s no way he’d get anything done with so little people.

“Mr. Howard,” he quickly approached him as soon as he saw his hat sticking out from the new crowd. “I won’t stay long; there’s enough people here as is. I was in the Tea Room, and I think Ms. Peacock has a fancy for Fairy types. Take that for what you will.”

Best not to inform him on the terrors of Grimmsnarl, either. Tricky little things. So, he left the general area to explore. Yes, not the best idea in the middle of a MURDER INVESTIGATION, but when said MURDER INVESTIGATION was being overwatched by DECLAN WALSH, it was hard to take things seriously. That or this was some random test and he’d been shoved into a Darkrai nightmare.

But at that point, he’d be the murderer and he’d have killed half the people here by now.

Eventually, he found himself in the gym. There were a few others that currently poked and prodded at a Technical Machine case, but otherwise it looked relatively barren.

All except for a pile of gym clothes that immediately intruded his nostrils with their acrid odor. Ugh. Had no one bothered to look at this? Maybe the heightened storm had also disrupted their sense of smell. Grigori plugged his nose with one hand and started to sift through the clothes with the other.

---

Ugh, a pile of sweaty gym clothes! (1/5)

Grigori paces the spacious room with an incessant fervor, his robes swishing around his legs like he's wading through water. Each step of his heel echos in the back of the auditorium with precision. A metronome for the band that didn’t need one, but one that gives him the briefest of respites. People around the campus had pointed out his staccato footsteps as a signature trait. Not something he ever paid mind to until this moment.

“‘Greetings, fellow classmates! I’m sure you’ve seen me–’ no, no,” he mutters to the void. Terrible opener. Atrocious. Just because he was the oldest did not mean he had to lean into it. “How about, ‘Good afternoon, everyone! Wonderful weather we’re–’ Arceus, why didn’t I plan this out?!”

Granted, the decision to make him the class representative had come at the worst possible moment: as he scrambled to finish his thesis before the deadline. Caffeine and cold water splashes had been the only thing that got him through the writing portion of the project, and in his daze he completely forgot about the speech. Up until this week, where the deadline drew closer but the words didn’t materialize.

He was still impressed he managed to get most of it down on the e-document as is. But the introduction eluded him then, and it continues to evade his mind now. Five minutes before the big speech. There had been plenty of mistakes during his research, and that misspelling of ‘Scizzor’ still haunts him. But this?

Doomed from the start. No pun intended. Or something.

“Think, think!” he pounds one fist into the other. There has to be that hook! That one thing that bridges it all together into one neat, cohesive speech. What was the first paragraph again, his start that one day at the Poke Mart sign? Maybe bring up masonry?

And get laughed off the stage? Forget it. This wasn’t a fancy-schmancy university, but masonry was well off the map for most of these folk. Not that he blames them– that had been the worst investment of his life so far. Something he brings up in the second paragraph.

Maybe he should fake illness. That sounds better than whatever he’s cooked up so far. His attention diverts to sudden illnesses, much like the ones that infected the wild Scizor he studied. Let’s see, there was the iron-weakening bacteria, the virus that penetrated steel via acidic metabolism, that one prion disease that almost single-handedly killed his sample population--
“Grigori!”

He turns to the sound of the noise. His father, back as stiff as the wall. His gray hairs catches the light as he storms over to his son. “Grigori, you’re almost up! You need to look perfect for this speech, yes?”

Much like his mother used to, his father attempts to fix every minutia of his outfit. His tassel shifts seven micrometers to the left and dangles helplessly, his medals jingle in place. Grigori tries to pry him off, but his father keeps going. Grigori looks at his father's stressed expression with a hint of recognition. They surely share the same face at this moment.

Unfortunately, his father notices too. “What’s with that look, Grigori? Look, I know I can’t make you look as perfect as mom would’ve, but–”

“I-I can’t do it.”

“...What did you just say?” His father whispers quieter than night. Grigori’s blood runs cold.

“This is too much, they picked the wrong person,” he explains. “I can’t go out there and give a speech!”

“But you said you had it all written out,” he says. “All but–”

“The introduction,” Grigori fills in the blank. He pushes his father's worn hands away and tries to find the words. “I haven’t figured it out. I can’t figure it out. I won’t figure it out. I’ll be the laughingstock of the community! No one will hire me after I fuck it up.”

“Grigori, Grigori,” his father reaches out again, “it’ll be ok. Listen, you got this far, and it's just a speech! If you mess it up, no one will think worse of you. So what if you fumble the start? Just finish strong!”

“But it won’t finish strong," he insists harshly. "The start is the most important thing! If that gets fucked up, then who knows what else I’ll fuck up.

"I- have to go, father, Right now,” he tries to push past the man, but his Father does not relent. This push and pull goes on for a few more seconds, where a terrified student attempts to run through a solid brick wall.

Suddenly, his father forces him back. He barely manages to not stumble into the wall as they collide. Now, they’re centimeters apart, face to face. A look in his eyes paralyzes Grigori. This look has been dormant for years, unitl now. Seldom seen since his childhood. But this sparks something unique. Something awful.

It’d never been so intense before this.

“Grigori,” his father starts out, “Enough. What is this actually about? Tell me the truth. Now.”

Millions of sentences spring to mind, but none fit the requirement. Try as he might, Grigori can not think up an excuse or a statement that perfectly encapsulates his feelings. They either fall short, or are blatant lies, or both. But where his mind fails in reason, his heart prevails in subjectivity. It hurts to think, hurts to consider. But it is his reason, and it is his truth.

“I… I…”

“I?”

“I’m a fraud.”

His father remains silent, and gives no visible tells. But those eyes urge him forward. To keep going. “I’m not a class representative. I’m thousands in debt. I don’t come from anything noteworthy. I got here through dumb luck and knowing the right people. Hell, May’s mother gave me a month extension on my thesis! That’s never happened before! How can I go up on that stage, behind that podium, and try to connect with students that got further on less?”

“I don’t deserve this, Father. I just... don't.”

Silence smothers the pair.

And promptly shatters into thousands of pieces. The roar of applause cuts through the backstage like a Sharpedo through water. Panic fills Grigori again, and he struggles against the vice grip of flesh. The grip tightens harder, until it feels like he’s trying to break a bone. Yet he still pushes forward, desperate to escape fate.

A young lady comes back from around the curtain, clipboard in her hands. “Okay Mr. Sokolov, are you ready to…”

His father looks back enough to show one eye, and one eye is enough. “Give us three minutes.”

“B-but we’re on a tight–”

“I did not ask. I told.”

Confusion mixes with apprehension on her face, but she reluctantly retraces her steps back to the front. Grigori’s Father turns back to his son at a glacial pace. Why did he not say anything? Now is the time to disown him, shun him, bully him, anything for what he just said.

Instead, he lets out an ancient breath, raspy and tired. “I will not lie to you Grigori: that feeling never fades.”

His father looks directly at Grigori, but they both know he looks to somewhere else. In the past, or future, is impossible to say. But he tries to look at him anyway.

“It’s something I’ve struggled with all my life as well. Reluctance, the fear of failure, this feeling that I’m not the one. It haunted me when I first met your mother, it haunted me when you were born, it haunted me at rehab, and it sure as hell haunts me right now. I won’t tell you it gets easier, either. We are our own worse critics, and the only things that can kill that voice is alcohol and ego.”

“But it’s not true, Grigori,” he whispers out. Wetness escapes his eyes, but he pushes on, “When I first went to rehab, those first few days were some of the hardest in my life. I was a mess, I felt ashamed for what I had done. I didn’t feel like I deserved the help they offered. And those feelings only got worse as the week went on, until I couldn’t do it anymore. I lied, and said I was going to the restroom.”

“But our group leader caught me in the nick of time, just before my door left the frame. He’d seen it happen a million times before. Knew the signs. He pulls me back in and tells me to be honest with him, and I am. I tell him almost the exact same thing you just said. He sat silently for ten minutes, eyes fixated on the clock. Finally, I ask him what his deal was. What’s going on in that head of his.”

“And he tells me this, he says, ‘Who said that clock could keep on going?’”

Grigori eyes his father with an eyebrow raised. His father bobs his head, “Yea, I thought the same thing. I ask him what he means, it's the batteries or the outlet or whatever. And he immediately responds, ‘Maybe now, but it broke a few months ago. We could’ve tossed it really easily. And just our luck, it broke on Wednesday! That’s trash day, it would’ve been gone and no one would’ve noticed after a few days. But someone took it upon themselves to fix it. This five poke-dollar clock, just about worthless, and someone fixed it. And its still going strong to this day, even if it would’ve been easier to get a new one.’”

“Grigori,” his voice shakes, “We do not exist as ourselves. We exist in a world filled with so many people. Those who don’t know us, those who despise us, who think we’re nothing, who think we’re just wastes of space. But there are also people who care. Want us to succeed. Even if they think we’re no good and need to be thrown out, they keep fixing us. They help us out when even if we don’t think we deserve it. And I know this is gotten off the rails a bit, but what’s important is that you got a lot of people out there that probably don’t know about you that much. I’m sure there’s a couple that hate your guts for taking their spot. But there’s going to be at least ten people out there that know you got where you are through your own work, even if they had to change your wires. Because they did it specifically because you needed the help. And guess what? If you didn’t need the help, this wouldn’t even be a conversation. You’d be leagues above them. Not even a question.”

“Father…”

“I’m proud of you, Grigori, even if you don't think you’ve done anything to be proud of. That won’t change, even if you don’t change either.”

“Mr. Sokolov,” the girl speaks up from behind them both. She impatiently clicks her pen against the clipboard, “You need to get out there.”

Grigori expectantly looks towards his Father, who keeps his eyes firmly on him. “I can’t be there with you on the stage. But you can bet your ass I’m taking the stairs right there and going to the front row, even if people give me dirty looks for doing it. And I’ll be there with you. So will Mom.”

With that, he turns and shuffles towards the hidden flight of stairs. Grigori only watches him go for a moment, before the click of a pen brings him back to reality. He could not push it off any longer. Ready or not, here he comes.

—----------------------------------------

"Now, please give a warm welcome for your elected Class Representative, and, coincidently, the oldest of the class as well: Grigori Sokolov!"

Stage lights blind him as he starts his walk across the stage. As oppressive as the gaze of the crowd of… best not think about it. A lot of people watch him cross the stage awkwardly with a ‘stantler in the headlights’ expression. It doesn’t go away like the thunderous applause of the audience, which echoes in the room for seconds after it finishes.

Arceus, what was he going to say? His weird pep-talk with his father was heartfelt, but if only it helped him figure out what to say now, to a monstrous crowd that watches him with a mix of uninterested to fully invested eyes.

But the only gaze that matters is his Fathers, who he finds after a solid ten seconds of silence and stage fright. He watches with a faint smile on his face, ready to see what he has in store. And he can’t keep standing up here forever.

So, Grigori clears his throat into the microphone. “Thank you again, President of this honestly wonderful institution, for the introduction. And I must thank everyone here, for their decision to elect me as the Class President for the graduating students this year.”

“But for the future, you don’t need to elect the oldest available, you know?” He says. This earns him a few giggles from both the audience and those who sit in chairs next to him. His confidence grows if only an inch.

“But, in all seriousness, what a year this has been. It was hard, it was long, but in the end, we pulled through. And honestly, I can’t help but think of a connection, between this school year and a…”

“Kind of like a Scizor.”

The crowd laughs again, but much more reservedly. Scizor? Oh boy, didn’t he do his senior-year thesis on that? This is a graduation ceremony, not a research symposium! Looks like Mr. Smarty-pants is about to splurge all his data on them like a clueless shut-in. Who voted for this guy again?

But his eyes are firmly locked on his Father, who shows complete interest in whatever he’s about to say. And so is Sleigh, who sits right next to him with a stupid sign that says ‘THAT’S MY CLASS REPRESENTATIVE’ despite him dropping out of high school. And May, as polite and as reserved as ever. And her parents, who give him a silent cheer and vigorous fist shake.

“I know, I know, sounds a little strange. But hear me out: They go by really fast. I mean, really fast. And they’re obviously hard. The obvious is obvious, and you don’t need someone like me to make a comparison like that.”

“But there’s a little something you don't know: they rely a hell of a lot on its group members. Because they don’t always start out as Scizors. They start out as Scythers. And those aren’t as strong. They’re frail. Easily broken down. One stiff blow, and they’re set back so far it’s hard to tell if they’ll ever get to become like those it looks up to.”

“And… that’s where its group members come in. Whether that be it's parents, friends, or even a trainer to get them back on their feet. Without that network, it can be hard to catch back up to the rest of its kind. Something I’m sure we’ve all dealt with more than we’d like to admit.”

“But another thing they’re good for? Telling you not to invest in terrible businesses. Like masonry. I wish mine had done so twelve years ago.”

By the time his speech finishes, and he thanks the restless crowd, everyone stands up and claps their hearts out. From those behind him, to those in the nosebleeds, and even those who’re doing it just because everyone else is.

Yet Grigori can only hear the front row of around ten people. Their claps ring out the loudest and hardest of them all.

---

Prompt - Stepping Up (I guess)
Word count - Please help it's only getting longer D:

Howard’s passion always infected Grigori like a cold: without warning, without intention (hopefully), and without terrible side effects. But all those traits were positive, in his eyes. Even if his interest lay more in its current state than what brought it to its current state. Difference in passions, he presumed.

This feeling lasted for only a short while. Up until the walls grew eyes and every hair on his body stood at attention. Most people thought these to be made of grass, but they couldn’t be further from the truth. Their poisonous nature was never in question, but they were actually composed of rock. Most likely due to their natural habitat of caves and other damp areas–

“Scizor!” His metallic friend popped out of the Poke Ball without so much as a warning. Grigori shook his head. Right. Not the time. Scizor wouldn’t be happy, and then no one would be happy.

“Mr. Howard, Mr. Howard?! Where did you go?!” he frantically scanned the dim cave. Even with the gas that slowly brought his lungs to a standstill, that wide hat was impossible to miss. He had hidden behind someone else. Thank goodness! That meant he could worry about everyone else without needing to worry about ‘Howard and everyone else’.

“Scizor, Bullet Punch! Get us an out, please!”

As the bug, itself not impervious to the toxic vapors, proceeded to ruthlessly tear through the rock flowers with the weird chain, Grigori helped make sure no one got left behind in the cave. Including the Ursaluna.

---

Tl;dr
 - Howard you're so cool and smart and handsome how do you do it
 - I mean oh no, that's a whole lot of Glimmora!
 - Scizor wants to smack Grigori, but instead listens to him and Bullet Punches any Glimmora in their way further
 - Grigori makes sure no one gets left behind in the very dangerous chemicals
 - I LOVE GAMBLING I WANT TO USE ALL OF MY MONEY TO GAMBLE AND HIT IT BIG I WILL WIN I WANT IT SO BAD

5KsPJN_G

After all that just happened, Howard’s thought process was not incredibly hard to predict. Grigori does as requested and releases his own alien back outside its ball. Unlike Shred’s spool of cables, his doesn’t seem to mind its predicament. Hopefully.

“Alright… uh. Cable. Cable, please help Mr. Shred and Mr. Howard with your electricity,” he asked the creature. Unfortunately, it either didn’t fully understand the order or want to as it simply milled off to the side. Grigori frowned. This felt anti-climactic.

Yet all it took was the other creature to be ‘plugged’ into the inactive stack of blocks for a switch to be activated inside Cables. Its head perked up immediately at the passive transfer of current, and curiously crept up to the other one. And just like before, it attached itself and tried to suck the energy from it.

Cable was ‘food’ motivated, at least. But its own energy was sucked from it instead, channeled into the blocks. They shuddered from the raw transfer of electricity. “Mr. Howard, unrelated question--how much do generators go for these days?”

---

howard slayte Shred

“Into them?” Grigori chuckled quietly. “Let’s say I might’ve made them my personality for a year or two. Black and white face paint, walls covered in their merch, the whole nine yards.”

Fun and carefree days, but he was extremely glad no one had taken too many photos back then. He’d die of embarrassment if he ever had to see himself in those days ever again. He crept up onto the wall and used it as a support.

It was coming back to him– not those horrid, cringe moments– but this song. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t pry it off the muscle. That voice was iconic, how could he forget? He jutted his head high at the ceiling, as if the answer had been written there earlier.

“Ok, I give up,” he faced Steven again, “I can’t remember this song’s name. Do you know it, Mr…”

---

Steven Campbell

Shred… caught the alien? Grigori closed the distance between them fast and looked at the poke ball in barely disguised curiosity. Oh, how he wanted to poke and and let it out and see what it felt now being under the control of a human. Did it even know? Did it even care? It must have, for how it tried to murder them only a minute prior.

“Congratulations on your newfound acquaintance, Mr. Shred,” Grigori said. “Hopefully you two get along well. And don’t try to bring each other down into the dirt.”

Meanwhile, the other Xurkitree slowly approached Grigori. Its movement told him it wasn’t scared. Or angry. Or happy. Or sad? As smooth as water, yet as uninterested as Arceus. For the best, he decided. Better to have no emotion than a negative one.

However, it snaked out an errant cord right towards his back pocket. Try as he might, the grunt could not react fast enough or dodge far enough out of the way to stop it. He felt its cold appendage grope around his pocket until it latched on and pulled out yet another poke ball. Huh?

“Mr. Howard, do you have any idea on what this means?” he asked. Perhaps it had its own curiosity to the new creatures in front of it. Did this mean they held the intelligence of humans? If not that, then of the smarter Pokémon? It rotated the sphere in its grasp, like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Another cable joined the frisk. Together, it pulled on both sides of the ball with great force. With a little elbow grease it–

Disappeared inside. “Well. Uh. Hmm. I’m… stumped. Looks like Mr. Shred and I now possess these things.”

“Do you think Team Rocket will want to experiment on it?” He asked fearfully. They better not. This was a creature to be examined with care and caution, not drills and scalpels.

Oh, but Howard was now the only one amongst them without one. “Sorry, Mr. Howard. I’m sure, if you really want, we can find you an alien to take home. Although, the best– and perhaps only– candidate is, you know. Dead.”

---

howard slayte Shred
Grigori caught the Chill Xurkitree!