#patiencethin

Welcome back to Isola Radiale, Jacket!

You’ll be staying in HOUSE 150.

You will retain everything you were given in your previous stay.

Enjoy your stay!

Striped bathing suit stained from several close encounter with shambling abomination of insect and mammal, Pale King now padded with more sure footing through a nearby building. Dust clung to his thin wings and he had long given up on flapping them to clear their membranes. 

Like it or not, he was in this for the long journey.

While he had not been here quite long enough to consider eating the slain monsters, Pale King did stop and study a beetle overturned on its back. ...No, he was not that hungry. Yet. Perhaps nonperishable food could be found. There were surely other structures on this isl—

The rebar catching between his horns is all that keeps him from unconsciousness. He still toppled from sheer momentum, knocking the wind straight out of him as the sharp corners of his clutched crowbar dug in but otherwise, remained unharmed. 

A weapon? The possibility of armed assailants had not occurred to Pale King. Head still swimming, he rolled over to get a better look. What awaited him, the sight of a bloodied rubber chicken mask and familiar letterman jacket, surprised him even more then the expected twisted visage of mandibles protruding from flesh ever could.

Humans are all different. Some rise early, some stay up with the night. She has known immortals who look warily or contemptuously onto them, but no matter what face humanity turns to her, she has never found it in her to resent them. Foolish, cruel, petty- gods and spirits have been the same, no matter how they claim to the contrary.

She has always been a sort that does not speak, unusual among her shining kin. But she thinks- privately- that there is an awful lot some spirits miss out on by talking too much- or demanding their words fall only on the shining bastions of shrines and holy places. She does not resent them either. But she finds it imperative to venture out of one’s comfort zone. Particularly if one has not done so for centuries.

It is the scent of blood that leads her here, old and new, mixed and intermingled. Deep in the body of this city, in the sections of Fibonacci ward where the sun is blotted out by the platforms and cities above it. Here, wilted plants barely are able to lift their heads at her passage; it is not a place for a god, perhaps, but it is these sorts of places a god is needed, even if it is the strangest place to find a wolf. She acts, as always, as if she has every right to be here; pads with untroubled certainty among the streets. The white of her coat throws back the electrical lighting, and she seems (ha. seems) to glow.

Out of all the festivities going on across the island, one that sounded especially appealing to Chara involved, what else, but violence. The chance to beat up some humans in a safe, foam-filled environment sounded like a good bit of childish fun.

So Chara geared up, taking a foam sword (the closest thing they had to a foam dagger, they supposed) and a foam shield and approaching the nearest, scariest-looking human to challenge them to a match.

The scary-looking human they chose was a six foot tall, scarred, human adult in what was clearly a mask. They looked like they had some battle experience, so this should be fun. There was no sport in fighting someone weak, after all.

...Hopefully this human wouldn’t think they were weak, just because they were a child.

It’s so surreal. The setting, the people, the clear view of a sunset. He’s not sure if this is all a dream, or maybe even a returning memory. His stunted emotions would leave him blank on it regardless. 

There wasn’t much to understand in the first place. It can’t be real. 

There seemed to be a festival going on, though in celebration of what Gyomei couldn’t quite be sure. The return of residents to their rightful (or at least initial) states? Perhaps, but that seemed a poor sort of reparation to be paid. He wouldn’t comment, though; he hadn’t undergone any actual changes during that span of time.

It was night, maybe a bit later than he ought to have been out, but the difference between light and dark had no bearing on how he navigated. The streets were far less crowded at this hour, and with a short shower having just swept through and driven most other pedestrians into buildings this seemed an opportune time for his walk.

‘Jacket’ is the only moniker police have for the violent and enigmatic man behind the Mandibuzz mask. 

Unlike many other trouble makers, Jacket seems to be a loner instead of operating with a group. His letterman jacket points to the Pokemon Trainer’s School in Rustoboro City in Hoenn, however, this information has not provided any leads on Jacket’s identity. 

Additionally, little has come from attempting to connect his victims to one another. 

Attempts to apprehend him have all ended in failure, even when providing police Pokemon teams with type advantages against Jacket’s own. 

Warning: When fleeing a scene, Jacket has a tendency to have at least one Pokemon running along with him out of its Pokeball. All are rather good at stealth, so when pursuing him make sure none have gotten behind you. 

Additionally, he tends to keep his Espurr close, typically sitting tucked in his letterman jacket. So do not assume you have the upperhand if you’ve somehow relieved him of his Pokeballs; the intense psychic power that Espurr’s can emit are exceptionally dangerous, especially at close range.