ヒカリ☆ 知る者

Donning one of her more elaborate coordinator fits, a custom piece designed by one of Kalos’ very own, Dawn ducks and dives between the hanging, bare branches of the route. The trek towards this location of interest is a bit more harrowing than anticipated, what with everything between the lingering haunts and the oncoming storm quickening her pace substantially. Through forming puddles, her heels kick up rainwater, each slippery step up the cobbled staircase leading her towards manor of the evening: a foreboding, dusky residence, with a faint glow of candlelight illuminating beyond the curtained windows. 

She almost can’t slip through the front doors fast enough, the feeling of eyes digging into the back of her neck unwavering, unrelenting...

—sooo, this is the place? Cool shit.” Door closing behind her with a drawling ‘creeeeak’, her voice finds every acoustic within the open foyer, ricocheting from corner to corner and back again. The luminous ambiance almost betrays an underlying sense of... dread? Already, her intuition’s acting up. Curiously, she eyes the decor though her masquerade mask, a mix of the preexisting gothic interior hodgepodged along festive, frivolous items one would craft from simple elements. She smirks, not in jest of the spirit of the season—after all, she’s as obsessed with the holidays as any other. No—the smirk is reserved for the simple reality that, even with all this to-do, she can’t spot not one other guest, nor host for that matter.

All of these tassels and displays, for an audience of none. She hums to herself, ascending a central staircase—one of many, were she to guess—towards the overlooking floor. Candle holsters dot along the corridor walls, flickering in rhythm with the swaying of the mansion, winds beginning to batter the windows with vigorous force. The rattling reverberates through walls, as if the house is breathing. Deep, long, haggard breaths, it lurches more between every incoming gust.

Then... the tiny tap of footsteps, rising from the floor beneath. Dawn feels a shiver creep along her spine, descending the ornate staircase and toward a previously unexplored hall, a crouched silhouette before her rising and turning with a swiftness she's not anticipating.

She’s reason to be proud, as it wasn’t easy work! “I took off as soon as I took down the Battle Frontier, and have only visited since, but when I’m back in town, everybody knows it!”

A wink and another sip. Her jubilant smile fades a bit, upon remembering quite a few of the more harrowing experiences. Villainous crime syndicates, a venture into a realm of distorted reality, facing the very gods of space and time: the victories were as common as the outlandish, unbelievable encounters. Not to mention the Distortion World’s effects on her. To this day, she’s plagued with nightmares, often only roused from the dreamlike delirium by the appearance of three lights.

They seem, to this day, to still follow her about. Her sunken lips soon turn upward, just thinking about that reprieve of light, the warmth of her guardians’ watchful eyes.

“...Well, there is one place in particular that I’ve not yet been able to find,” she settles her glass again atop the bar, turning to Emmet with a taunting, spooky expression. “It’s north of Canalave... a hidden island, in the rough oceans off the coast to the west. I’ve never been, as every time I’ve tried, I get lost in the fog or the waves are too high.”

And, what better timing. Lunging forth with the combined ferocity of every  pokémon present, the beast aims for the two trainers, eyes not locked on anything other than a specific point of focus. “He’s gone berserk!” Her observations are arbitrary, at this point—she isn’t certain Red can even hear her. But he’s sure to feel her grip, every ounce of her upper body strength flinging them off to the side, and not a moment too soon.

Colliding with the wall behind where they’d stayed situated just beyond the battlegrounds, the monstrosity’s horns sink into the cavern’s edge, a howl of indigence sending shivers down the spines of each steelix still present. One by one, they slither off, weaving through the crumbling pillars and cascading stalactites and burrowing into the softened earth courtesy of Red’s blastoise, as quickly as they’d come to the aid of the tunnel’s guardian. Red’s party scampers, stomps, and swoops toward the tussling demigod, each surrounding its thrashing to break free, ready at the drop of a hat to deliver that final blow.

Scrambling to stand, Dawn watches the creature struggling to unsheathe its antlers from within the rock-bed. It’s a struggle that comes to closure within moments, those moments supplying her ample time to brandish a few capsules between her fingers, ready for launch at a second’s notice. Stumbling back, the creature’s breath is haggered, worn. Weary. Gaping wounds appearing over its once-pristine body. Eyeing Red’s squad, it notes the ferocity in their eyes, their willingness to go to war for their human and his newest companion. Their eagerness to defend the very species the cobalt brute has detested for as long as time could tell. It backtracks even further, almost as if gearing for another round, all while it’s earthen hollow disintegrates before them. 

And yet, Dawn’s breath is stolen upon the bow of the weakened god’s horned-head, it’s reluctant admittance of defeat. 

“It hasn’t been used in forever, so my mom might’ve unplugged it.” Lackadaisically, she checks behind the dresser. Nope: plugs all in place, everything checking out to as it should. Above the smell of eucalyptus, she can catch a hint of something... burning. Dawn ignores it for the time being, her frustration growing as she rapidly presses several buttons, just to see if the television will react in any way. “Dang, if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the beginning theme. I swear, I know every wor—??”

Her overhead light begins to gleam in and out, a static noise filling her entire room. One by one, her table lamps blink, the sound of circuitry growing in volume and drowning out any sound from beyond the confines of her bedroom. Bewilderment now decorating her soft features, she turns to Antonio. “What in the hell is going on?” Right as the words leave her mouth, the television cuts on, static filling up the screen. The only defining characteristic among the monochrome pixels are two oval eyes, staring at Dawn and her guest.

“...!”

Every source of light within the room becomes blinding, Dawn standing beside Antonio while her eyes stay focused on the erratic television set. A form begins to emerge, one that flickers in and out of sight, a body made of a substance Dawn can’t immediately identify. Quickly, she pulls from her satchel on the bedside table her Pokedex, to better assess what in the world it is that’s appeared before them:

『Rotom, The Plasma Pokemon. Research continues on this Pokémon, which could be the power source of a unique motor. Its body is composed of plasma. It is known to infiltrate electronic devices and wreak havoc. 』

It bolts around the room, whirring sounds emitting from every electronic device in sight. But, fast as the chaos began, it subsides, as soon as the Rotom phases through the wall toward Arceus-knows-where. Dawn, without a moment to lose, jumps into action. “Damn, I can’t ever catch a break,” she tugs at Antonio’s arm gently, her grip soft yet firm. “We gotta catch that thing! Who knows what it’s capable of...!” Almost as if on cue, Lopunny opens the bedroom door, pointing a paw toward the end of the corridor towards the library. 

But when confronted with her own absence from the Sinnoh scene, beyond the occasional guest-judging gig or shampoo commercial, Dawn’s taken aback: where hasn’t she gone? In an honest assessment, far less places than one might believe. 

“Sounds kinda lame, but I’ve been... back-packing, mostly,” she shuffles her feet in place, trying to recount anything of note. Naturally, there were encounters of legendary proportions, accidental discoveries, tales of miraculous phenomena—all far removed from the battlefield. In truth, she’s conquered much less than she’s witnessed, becoming more spectator than active participant. 

Were these her reasons for returning to that final goal-post in her homeland? To speculate some touchstone to measure her actual progress by? To reinstate that equilibrium within her that thirsts for both challenge and triumph? To prove to herself that she hadn’t in fact peaked, those several years ago...?

“I visited Kanto for a bit. Alola, too. Been staying in Unova, mostly, though. The cities there are unbelievable...” her words trail, betraying her desire to appear steadfast in her accomplishments. Dawn can feel herself shrink, much to her disdain. “I got a badge or two, won a contest here and there. Nothing exciting though—I mostly stay busy with League nonsense. The endorsements, appearances, all that junk.” Junk, it is, especially when compared to the hollowness she’s come to realize.

“It isn’t entirely coincidence that we met here today,” her wit now effervescently lacing her tone, eyes hanging low, Dawn comes clean. “I was tipped that you might be around these parts. Guess I had to see for myself if what’s been going on was a Galactic thing, or something else...”

She’s glad, in a way, to assume Cyrus has no part in the workings north of Floaroma. Another heavy sigh, and she continues, cut and dry: “There’s been some trouble up at Fuego Ironworks. Reports of Pokémon acting strangely. Hostile, even.” Dawn tilts her head toward the meadow beyond the forests, noting the bellowing smoke beyond the treeline that blackens the violet skies. “Several workers have been transported to Hearthome, placed in urgent care... Far as I know, Mr. Fuego is keeping it hush-hush, but...”

Dawn can’t expect the man to sympathize; knowing the history between himself and society at large, Cyrus always struck her as being somewhat nihilistic. Still, intel is intel. She can only hope she’s bypassed his defenses well enough to get an honest answer.

With haste, Dawn tosses two other fighters into the arena, tightening her signature scarf beneath the artificial lights in preparation for the moves she’s to make. A ghostly whir accompanies her froslass, who phases in an out of view like a sort of mirage found on the tundra’s horizon. Following behind before breaking off is mamoswine, who, with each step, brings a bit of the ceiling down with him. 

The roar that rattles the cavern to near dust continues, the cobalt enigma switching their gaze from snorlax and pikachu, and onto the frostbitten haunt that hovers only closer. Within a matter of moments, several other froslass appear to surround the enraged demigod, creating quite the hallucination while Dawn’s mamoswine closes in on the stray steelix not being doused beneath flame and spray. They barrel forth to be met with the offense, shrieking cries both pained and maddening, Dawn’s mamoswine holding steady it’s massive weight against the onslaught.

Tusk to neck, the clash yields no immediate victor in a standstill that lasts but a few seconds. Mamoswine, feet firmly planted beneath, summons every bit of bodily strength up through his shoulders and manages to throw a first snake into submission, fending off the others with a frigid gust that instantly freezes among their metallic joints, rendering them slowed and subdued. Beneath icicles they squirm, attempting to outmaneuver the mammoth, all while froslass closes in on the target of the hour. 

Manifesting herself directly above the legend of the cavern she’s done well to trick, froslass blasts a subzero barrage of frost and snow that soon encompasses the entire hollow in a freezing luster. Encased within ice, the beast is, for the first time, both still and silent; Dawn takes the opportunity to retrieve froslass from the fray, turning towards her other comrade to bark a few last-minute orders through chilly breaths: “Do ‘em in, Mammoo!”