Where do ghost Pokemon go when they disappear into the gaps of reality? Do they slip into the next world, the place they're meant to be? She's heard tales of distorted otherworlds and impossible skies-- perhaps they cross over into these strange planes, and they return because they cannot linger in such a hostile place. She supposes the answer is not one for the living to know. That's fair enough, she thinks. The dead deserve a secret place just for them, beyond all these cruel reminders of the world that was, the life that's now lost to them. She doesn't think she'd want to linger overlong in an existence like that.


"Hm. That's fair, I suppose. There's a pleasing simplicity to breaking something that's upset you. But, well-- take a look at yourself, maybe. Violence for the sake of self-gratification is the sort of thing I expect of Rocket's lowliest dogs, after all. I'd like to think you're a little above that, at least."


The draconic Pokémon emerges from that dismal land already attacking, wreathed in ephemera like some shrouded horror from a child's tale, and it's only down to their first move and the hardiness of the coffin that Cofagrigus takes for a body that it withstands that blow. It's a powerful Pokémon, to be sure, but she won't allow such a simple fact to determine her choices. There's no use in panicking in battle, after all-- the outcome is set from the moment you throw your first ball. You simply have to reach that result, for good or ill.

"Shadow Ball."

Her order is given quickly and sharply, without any pause to question herself or her Pokémon in the face of such an onslaught, and Cofagrigus does not hesitate even as it's still recoiling from the attack. Countless phantasmal limbs erupt from its body, like some profane mockery of the thousand-handed titan that supposedly built this world, and push it high into the air, the sarcophagus-bound spectre cackling madly as it grins down at it's foe before that lid opens wide once more and disgorges a black orb down at it, the sphere little more than a congealed mass of resentment and necrotic energy, a curse upon the living and the dead alike.

What will her foe do next? She has a suspicion, and an intention to follow through with should that suspicion be proved right.

MAISIE MAUDLIN

☉

The fan sweeps open with a crack at the moment the smaller Pokemon surges forwards like the waves it has so impossibly conjured, and even amongst the chaos, the sounds of rushing water and the jeering of the grunts, Typhlosion does not hesitate. The folded Pokemon's aqueaous blade severs the smoke, and enters a world of hellfire.

Rather than the attack Yotsukura had orginally planned, Typhlosion reacts to the sudden appearance of water she knows will severely damage her by unleashing every last droplet of shadow-cursed flame still smouldering away inside her, burning up her fire so entirely that it can no longer be called until she's had time to rest-- and eliminating her vulnerability to the Water type entirely. It's amongst the strongest attacks a Fire-type can produce, the overwhelming inferno that erupts from her enough to set the building ablaze and a few grunts along with it, one last piece of Petalberg lost to the flames long after the final shot was fired. The fire smells of sandalwood and sodden charcoal, like a paradox, like the ghost of a fire already gone dead and cold even as it burns away this place bit by bit-- all of it shot through by the incense-scented memory of that tower, and those that died within it.

But, it isn't enough. The wave of liquid energy crashes into Typhlosion like a tsunami, and even having momentarily expunged her weakness to that water, her foe's power is too much, inured enough to the flames by its sudden transformation that it was able to push through without falling itself. She wavers on her feet for a moment before crashing to the ground unconscious-- spared any worse injuries by her choice of attack, at least.

That this piece of folded paper and forged steel in the shape of a Pokemon could produce water as pure as any Politoed is not something she had accounted for. She supposes she should be upset, but she has already found that peace, the gnarled and wretched twin of the feeling that's settled into the victor's heart. How can she prepare for a phenomenon she's never heard of in her life? She can only accept her loss, and what comes after.

--But, what does come after? She thinks she'd rather like to decide that for herself.

Without a moment's hesitation, she recalls Typhlosion, and first inclines her head to her Poke Ball.

"Thank you, Typhlosion. You fought well."

Then, to her opponent. She bows deep and low, first to his Pokemon and then to him, a wry smile playing across her face.

"You are the victor. Congratulations. Your Pokemon was a fine dancer, though I've entirely no idea how it was able to change it's typing so suddenly."

The next part is more involved. She returns Dragonair, as well, sheds her last layer of defence from the depredations of these Houndour in human clothes. Before another word can be said, she advances forward, the flowing shapes of her kimono and the hardness of her eyes silhouetted against the burning building, the embers and the ashes anointing her like some half-remembered ritual of a religion long lost to the flames. She does not stop until she is front of him, invading his personal space just a little-- all so that he might render his judgement all the more effectively, of course.

Then, softly, delicately, she reveals her wrists to him from out of her sleeves to him, fragile bones and blue veins cloaked behind pale skin and trapped in thin flesh. There is so little left of her, compared to the radiance that blinded him for just a moment, all those years ago. They hold shared court over the ruin of her.

"You've a sword, don't you? You've got nothing but swords, I should think. The judgement is yours to make, dear. My fate is under your will only."

Kill the past and lose the future, or embrace them both. The choice is clear to her, but she will accept either outcome.

Hitoshi Inoue

☉

--The attack is almost meaningless. Golurk has no chance of getting up, its scrambled thought patterns causing his arms to buckle and seize with every attempt. Still, they finally render it unconscious, and she recalls her defeated Pokemon accordingly. She holds the Poke Ball carefully for a moment, peering into her reflection in the polished casing.

"Thank you for your efforts." 

with a small incline of her head, the ball vanishes into her sleeve, and a second ball rolls out into her open palm. She takes a moment to consider it before her hand closes around it, fingers wrapped tightly around the sphere as if it might escape her entirely should she let it fly. She looks at her opponent through the small gaps between her pale fingers and the surface of the ball, and there is something cold and contemptuous in her eyes. There is no anger in the older woman, not really. They are not alike in that manner. For all her high-minded tradition, she considers her foe barely human for the vulnerability of her rage, for a a passion she judges misplaced-- barely capable of higher thought at all. It's a disdain she's worn before.

"Do you suppose you might correct every injustice done to you, if you only defeat me? Do you suppose i am an avatar of all Team Rocket's sin? I would hate for you to labour so fully under such delusion. I am merely a person, and we are merely in each other's way. That's war for you." 


This phantasmal dragon isn't of a species she's familiar with, but she can imagine its capabilities from its sleek form and the openings in its horns-- it reminds her a little of the cannons on a Blastoise's back. Fast and strong, she supposes. In which case, she might as well take a little of that strength for herself. She tosses the Poke Ball  with a single flick of her wrist and no greater flourish, her hands retreating into her sleeves almost the moment her Pokemon is release. She gives her first order the moment the ominous shape of a many-handed sarcophagus emerges from the twisting red light. 

"Power Split, Cofagrigus." 

The Coffin Pokemon swings open at her command, revealing only pitch-black nothingness within. That alone is enough to execute the attack-- the theft of Dragapult's power to fuel its own is a curse, transmitted merely by the sight of that squirming, writhing void at the Ghost-type's core. It's a nauseating sight even to trainer, never mind Pokemon, and yet--

--There's nothing at all within. Only the emptiness, and the fear of what ought to be there instead. 

MAISIE MAUDLIN

☉

She can't see his face, but it's a familiar sort of slump to his strangely changed form that overtakes her superior, all his erstwhile divinity scattered like so much ash in the face of something so mundane as a bad impression made to a woman. She's seen it in a few faces turned her way, and she's sure she's worn it once or twice. It's fine, though. Isn't that part of being human?

--Well. She imagines he isn't too keen on that. Small things we sacrifice on the altar of our future selves, she supposes.

"Tch. Were you never taught manners? Rather than biting my head off, you should complement a lady on their choice of attire in these sorts of situations. A lovely choice of mask, incidentally, miss no-one."

She doesn't know why he's putting on the accent, but it doesn't dull her criticism. It's insubordination of a short, but she takes the view that matters of the heart should be dealt with directly and honestly, no matter how brutal it might be.

She raises a single eyebrow beneath her mask as the deep scarlet drips down the walls, writing a story with all but the ending torn from the pages. Typical horror movie pageantry, certainly, but that doesn't mean there isn't something sinister behind it. She's glad to see her superior is taking it seriously at least, even if she'll mourn the loss to the field of accidental comedy that is the unceremonious gang-style execution of his accent. Eevee seems a little scared, burrowing into her shoulder with a worried hiss, and so she moves to release
Typhlosion from her Poké Ball as a safety measure, the cursed Fire Mouse Pokémon's presence ordinarily a reassurance to the younger Pokémon-- but the Ball doesn't answer her input, and a breath later Eevee vanishes into her own ball involuntarily in a burst of red light. She imagines the same has happened to Banette. Hm. That's a little more disconcerting. She can imagine very few good reasons for a place like this to have a Poké Ball dampening field.

"Hm. Well, sir. It appears our host is a die-hard fan of the kinds of horror staples that were scary when I was a child. Either that, or the ghost Pokémon are actually going to try to kill us all at the behest of some unseen mastermind. Broadly disappointing, either way."

At once a little concerned and yet contemptuous of this entire situation, she sighs a little before returning Typhlosion's ball to the depths of her kimono, straightening it out a little before turning to Lulu Flint , offering the other woman a arm-- her true expression inscrutable beneath the mask, but the baneful fox's visage still blithely grinning in the face of danger, real or imagined.

"Well. Shall we take the field, so to speak, miss no-one? I'm sure our mutual friend can take care of himself, but if there is real danger behind this facade, it may be wise to remain together."

Is she deliberately undermining the Beast's tragic attempts at flirtation, or simply offering her services to her allies? Her voice betrays a little amusement at the situation, at least.

Shred Lulu Flint

☉

It's a worthwhile exercise, even for all the weakness it betrays in him. She doesn't begrudge him that, hidden behind smoke and small smiles as it is. He may crumble in private all he likes, like some long-forgotten idol, the eroded visage of the golems that once built this region. So like as he is strong when her goal requires it.

--Ah, and she's already thinking of using him. How cruel of her, and far too presumptuous besides. A mere grunt shouldn't yet harbour such grand delusions, she half-heartedly chides herself.

Still, she thinks. Understanding the arc of this rocket they all share as it tears across the firmament isn't something to be ashamed of. A king who does not understand the hearts of the people he claims to rule holds only the illusion of power, liable to wash away in the last summer rains, when the shadow of autumn leaves begins to hang heavy overhead.

"Oh, ideals aren't such a bad thing. After all, conviction is born from idealogy, and conviction is the only thing that separates us from the dogs."

Does she refer to the League, or their fellow Rockets? The answer is in the sneer in her voice.

Her own conviction is not built from anything so hopeful, but if that's the hidden place from which he draws out the deepest dregs of his strength, she has no right to criticize it. If any of these thugs and thieves have something to offer her, it is only because they have something to believe in. She does not care what it is, only that it exists. Conviction is what she really needs from Team Rocket.

He stands to leave, but she stays seated, eyes lingering on the women debasing themselves on this grimy, ill-lit stage, as if insulting that very same conviction that she possesses. But, she doesn't blame them, not really. It's just as she said before--they don't know any better. Strangely, she finds himself considering his idle proposition, though she doesn't respond. Perhaps one day, in a warmer world. One day, when she's done what she came here to do. One day, when she's finally met that Pokemon, it seems a shame to let such a thing go uncelebrated in song.

"I appreciate your kindness, but hope has nothing to do with it. It's merely a place I have yet to reach."

That is the only way that the person called Yotsukura Yotsugami can live. Her words own no weakness or fault, no gap in her armor that might yet bring her short of her goal. In that way, they are not alike.

howard slayte

☉

--The scream startles Eevee some, and she frowns as she runs a soothing hand through her fur. Idiots. She gets it's the theme of the party, but she doesn't incredibly appreciate loud noises bothering her Pokémon. Still, she settles down soon enough. She watches as the first of her superiors to make an appearances wanders off accompanied into the twisting halls of the manor, and considers if she should observe.

Curiosity is a powerful thing, but rationality wins out this time, as it often does. Trust between the powers that be and her is a more valuable commodity than information right this moment-- after all, one naturally follows on from the other. Although...

"Banette."

She discreetly sends out the doll Pokemon from within the folds of her kimono, the shadowy figure blinking for a moment at the throngs of ghost Pokemon starting to herd the other guests present into another room. She has a bad feeling about this place-- better to have an idea of where he is if things go south. Imagining for a moment that the whole thing is a sting operation, she nods before leaning down to whisper in the haunted marionnette's ear.

"Follow the one with the bag on his head. Stay within the walls, blend in with the ghost Pokemon attending if you must. Alert me if any trouble occurs."

Her Banette nods and slides smoothly into the shadows with a single movement, being imperceptible from any other flickering shape cast by the dim lights illuminating the hall. He has a mischievous personality, but all of her Pokemon are well-disciplined when they're given direct commands. He won't fail her. It's curious, though. Her understanding is that Banette are Pokemon born directly out of grudges and curses, and thus are given to sullen, hateful views on the world. She wonders why hers has found peace so easily.

That little manner addressed, she eventually drifts into the dining room with the rest of them, Eevee's eyes practically lighting up as she gives an enthusiastic chirp at the leaden plates of food. Hm. She still does not trust it, and if the decorations are anything to go by it won't be to Eevee's tastes anyway.

"No, dear. You won't like it anyway, it's all bitter."


She fishes out a Pecha Berry from a pouch hidden in her sleeves instead and feeds it to the Evolution Pokémon, the small Normal-type purring happily as she wolfs down the sweet fruit in two bites. Her fingers linger just long enough to scratch her chin fondly before she scans the room once more-- she isn't entirely unbound from her curiosity, after all.

--Ahah. There's another of her superiors. She thinks, at least. She's relatively new to the ranks, after all, but Shred 's frame is a hard one to miss-- even if it's... different. In small, subtle ways. Well, she supposes. She's heard rumors.

And talking to a lady, too. She's yet to met this one, probably. All her colleagues have her minds elsewhere, it seems. A soft voice emanates from behind the Rocket Beast, last heard in a place that could not be further from this one. Beneath the paper of her seven-coloured parasol, the baneful fox offers a blank smile.

"How tragic. It seems I must reassess my understanding of many of my colleagues."

Another quiet chuckle, not too different from what she offered Howard earlier. It's the right of the old to torment the young, at least a little. The beast is closer to her than most, but still.

"What an enriching experience. I don't believe we've been introduced yet, miss."

She bows a little, Eevee offering a friendly yip and a wave. Her formalities have not escaped her even in a setting like this.

---

Behind howard slayte , a pair of eyes glint in the dark.

howard slayte Shred Lulu Flint

☉

A Pokémon born from a dream. Sure, why not? It isn't any more absurd than the virtual world, not really. She thinks of a Drowzee she saw once out on Route 34, drawing the dreams out from a sleeping Hoothoot as if they were sugar spun into cotton candy in the dull golden haze of the late afternoon. She thinks of the myths of ancient Sinnoh, transplanted onto her people in a momentary meeting, an exchange at a cold and lonely place-- made warm and alive for just a few seconds in the blind march of eternity by the meeting of people and Pokémon.

She thinks of a new moon, and a endless sleep. She thinks of a crescent feather, and of how refreshing it feels to finally wake up.

--The mysteries of Pokemon are often like that. As it is with the myths of Sinnoh, so too it is with the fables of Johto. The Pokémon of legend exist on a different axis to this limited species called mankind. And-- if one Pokémon can exist in worlds beyond our world, why should be it be so impossible for another to do the same?

"I see. Curious creatures, aren't they? I often wonder how much we truly understand about these things we've decided to call Pokémon."


Not just the deities and devils of story, but the friends and companions of everyday life. Every species of Pokémon contains secrets far beyond humans can muster. No, that's unfair. Humans have one miracle to their name-- they are capable of bending all the rest to their will. That alone is proof they aren't entirely without value of their own. She wonders if they shouldn't have an entry of their own in this Pokédex she's after.

--Speaking of Pokédexes, the scientist she's seen fit to collar for this particular task seems rather taken aback by her request. She's taken aback too, of course, though it's at the date he quotes to her more than anything else to her. Seven years? She's only bitten the bullet and got rid of her old flip-phone for a phone with the processing power to run the Pokédex app a year or two ago.

"Tch. Honestly. Useless. You take the phones out of the average trainer's hands today and they won't be able to find their way from the Gym to the Pokémon Center. I used to take notes by hand when I first left on my journey, you know?"


There's no point in getting annoyed about it. She just finds it a shame. What use is a child going on that journey if they're not going to learn anything from it? She never earnt all her Badges when she was young, but the experience shaped her just as much as her training at the Theater did-- she learnt to live alongside Pokémon, and that's worth far more than a few shiny pins in a case. She learnt who she was. Or, the first part of herself, at least.

"I would've thought Team Rocket might be able to see the value in a separate, discrete device. This region is positively crawling with Pokémon previously thought of as little more than legend, no? Being able to share information remotely on newly discovered Pokémon like this one through a private network the League can't access seems a valuable intelligence asset to me."

But, what would she know? She's just a washed up old dancer, after all.

Alba Evovae

☉

He's young. They're all so young. It's a thought that's filled her alternatively with contempt and with melancholy every time it's struck her, and it meanders somewhere between the two with this one, the shades of electronic green playing off his face in a way that she thinks makes him look almost haunted. As if there's something living in him he can't quite claw out. 

She supposes everyone in Team Rocket has something like that. It isn't a organization for the rational and the successful, the ones who still have it in them to function in a world like this. They all fall through the cracks, and land in the same sewer. 

There's a comfort in that, she supposes. The camaraderie of those who can't live in any other way than this. 

--A thousand hands, reaching for the same thing. Souls that will eventually be equal. 

"...Try to upsell yourself, at least. It really is a simple request."


Her eyes find the metallic insect as she takes her run of the room-- more proof of the importance of her request if any was needed. It reminds her of another species she's seen brought into the theater a few times, a Bug-type with excellent capabilities in both battle and dance. The embers it scattered like moth dust made for an excellent echo of the flames that consumed the Tower that night, she remembers.  But, it's... different.


"Curious. An artificial Pokémon, like Porygon? Is that the sort of thing they've got you cooped up in here working on?"

She's seen a few of them, mostly in Goldenrod, though the sleek, compact variant is more popular nowadays than the crude blocky thing she's more familiar with. Existing in both the physical world and the virtual, and thus belonging to neither, a neat little paradox of the modern day. It seems a cruel thing to create life that did not exist beforehand, for an imperfect being to imbue another with fundamental purpose that can only be flawed.  

Humans create life so casually, and yet agonize over the circumstances of their own creation. There's another paradox for you. Then again, maybe it isn't so surprising. An imperfect people will produce an imperfect psyche. 

She shrugs a little, perhaps recognizing that those are questions with security implications, inquiries he likely can't answer even if he wants to.  No matter. On to the topic at hand.

"I need a Pokédex. A proper Pokédex, before you say anything about apps." 

Perhaps it's stereotypical of her, but she hates the tactile sensation of swiping and prodding at a tiny screen. Give her something with weight, something with physicality. The world of the future that the Paradox Pokémon unknowingly promises her is not one she's interested in.  

She supposes that makes her the original Porygon in this equation. But, that isn't so bad. She thinks they've more charm about them. An imperfect Pokémon suits an imperfect people. 

Alba Evovae

☉

"That is a perspective you could take, I suppose. I wasn't aware you had such a thorough understanding of my life to make that judgement for me."

A short-sided one, as far she's concerned. It is a kind of self-righteousness she cannot abide, a certainty in one's own goodness that lights a spark of cold contempt within her. It is a grotesque luxury to imagine yourself the only one with a pure heart. She thinks of what she said to howard slayte, not so long ago. Even the clearest water, if deep enough, can drown.

Just how clear is the lake of this girl's heart? Just how far does the light reach before it finds the silt and the mud, the accumulated sediment of a human life?

"I will not be so impolite. In battle, I will treat you as an equal. No matter your past, or your future."

--Golurk is not agile enough to dodge, and complicated maneuvers will only exacerbate the chance it injures itself in its confusion. And, with an attack like that coming on, every scrap of vitality it has in it is a precious research, not to be squandered. So, she trusts in the strength of its body.


The attack strikes the Automaton Pokemon, and she shouts her command at the same moment.

"Heavy Slam, again."

It's a powerful assault, but Golurk does not flinch. It's not out of any stoicism-- rather, it's as if the confusion has lessened Golurk's cognitive capabilities, the artificial intelligence that animates the hulk receding to minimize any further strain on processing capabilities already strained by the bird's weaponized dance. Without it, stone doesn't know it should flinch from harm.

--Still, the damage is severe. It won't take another attack. But, it doesn't need to. It doesn't even need to strain its thought patterns. After all, executing her command is as simple as toppling over-- directly on top of the grounded Mandibuzz.

MAISIE MAUDLIN

☉

"Oh, I've no doubt it listened. It simply chose not to act."

It's a cold assessment. What sort of god is that, who would allow such monstrosity to fall upon their most ardent believers in their hour of greatest need? But, she doesn't find any fault in that choice, if a thing as conscious a choice ever happened here. God is a sheer cliff face, a blank slate of perfect marble. No ordinary human could ever hope to scratch that surface, to affect a change in the firmament. No matter how desperately they claw at the stone, no matter how many of them are crushed to a pulp against that wall.

"--No prayer will ever reach a true God. Reach Heaven with your own two hands, or not at all."

That was never a delusion she labored under, anyway. From the moment she chose that path, she understood there was no point in empty words. She'll shatter that blank slate, or she'll die trying.

--Still, it's regrettable. She sees no need for this slaughter, and meaningless violence is only the act of a animal, some atavistic beast from before the coagulation of life into the shape called 'humanity', marching along to the doom-drum of their own heartbeat and nothing more. Dogs like that can't be trusted to serve this organization, she thinks. Beasts like that can't be entrusted with her dream.

She regards her superior with an idle curiosity, in the same way one might a car crash on the news. So this is the shape of one chosen by God, she thinks. It's a ragged form, no doubt, and she isn't familiar with the lord his sword is pledged to. Nothing more than rumors and murmurs. But, a knight in rags is still a knight. Even if he weren't her superior, she'd respect the strength that lead him to his light, all the same.

Maybe that's why she speaks freely. Maybe she just doesn't care. If he does take offence, at least she'll be in good company.


"...What is the point of this? Devouring the people of this region is not a substitute for their approval."

Shred

☉

"Hm."

The bemused voice that makes itself known to the right of howard slayte is a familiar one to him, as is the broad strokes of the outfit-- the flowing black kimono, stiflingly formal in the strict discipline of each of its folds and ties, though accompanied by an additional layer of intricately patterned white worn over the shoulders this time. Speaking of shoulders, an Eevee is perched atop them, observing the events around her with innocent curiosity, and held in one hand is a oil-paper umbrella, each section a different color of the rainbow-- just like her fan.  Her visage, though, is hidden, lost behind the mocking grin of a baneful fox.

--Not the first to trouble him tonight, it seems.

"It seems I misjudged you. I must apologize."

She bows a little, careful to avoid dislodging Eevee from her spot, and offers him a laugh that's just a little mean-spirited, before leaving him to his admirers. She is certainly interested to know why he's spending his time at a place like this, of course, but she doubts the direction of that conversation is one for prying ears to hear. It's curious, isn't it? That so many soldiers of two sides at war can gather in a place like this, with only flimsy barriers of wood and plastic to keep them from each other's throats.

--In her view, it's proof that this is barely a war. If you truly hate your enemy, then there's no value to be gained in a holiday truce.

So, why is she here? Well, she's not yet come to hate her enemy, she supposes. She's never been one for such an excessive display of emotion, in the first place. Actions taken in the grip of passion, be it for love or hate, are rarely the wisest choice. Better to act with a clear mind and an unclouded heart, in her humble opinion. Passion is best spent on dancing.

She has little interest in the festivities, admittedly-- not her kind of dance. But, she's a fondness for Ghost Pokemon, and they certainly seem to favour this place, don't they? If anything, it's more for Eevee's enrichment than anything else. It's a little past her bedtime, but that's fine every now and then for a growing Pokemon.

She doesn't think she'll partake of the refreshments, though. Call it paranoid, but she knows what she'd do with an opportunity like this.  Instead, she leans against a wall, and decides she might just people-watch for a little while. In particular, her eyes find themselves following her fellow fox-- she's curious as to what kind of a person her erstwhile superior has decided to attach himself to.

--A little gossipy of her, maybe, but she's allowed to indulge in these kinds of things at her age. 

@tag

☉