ANGEL OF DEATH.

      “Tian, what do you MEAN you forgot about me celebrating 2/22/22?!”

Wilhelm isn’t Richard Wagner. That much is clear. But he and other characters refer to Wagner’s music as “his” music and the concept of the gesamtkunstwerk as his concept because Meloetta gave him the rights to it. She basically did what some Harry Potter fans did to JKR and said “the original creator never made this, we’re giving it to someone better.” And oh, he gloats about it a LOT when he’s a kid. My music dramas this and my characters that. But when he grows older, he goes through the same crisis that every other classical musician has gone through with regards to Wagner’s work: Can we separate the art from the artist so easily? Will Meloetta giving the works to someone else to alter and fix as he pleases erase the original stain that Wagner possibly left on it?

——— NO!

The fiery blast knocked the avian right out of the sky, sending it plummeting to the ground. It was terribly burned, and unable to fly and make it’s own escape, let alone carry Frederic back to the Conplus with it. The poor thing cried and squawked for mercy, and Frederic was moved to tears by the sound….

He tried to move. The pain surged, and he screamed. With no other option…. he turned to Wilhelm.

“I surrender. You may enter the phase of capture, I shall be your prisoner of war if that is what you desire: For you have earned such. If you have any honor for the sanctity of the battlefield you’ll get us to treatment…. and after that, do with us as you please.”

Surrender! Surrender! Just what he wants--what he thinks he deserves! He’s positively shaking in his ecstasy, with the one he so detests practically writhing for mercy at his feet! 

(But of course, in his excitement, he completely misses the fact that Dvorak is nowhere to be seen…)

      “Oh, I’ll give you a treatment, all right,” he says, with a grin as crazed as the frenzied phase of Meloetta that he channels. “The kind of treatment that Fáfnir and I think is most appropriate for religious zealots such as yourself--”

      “WILHELM VON BLUMENTHAL!”

He jumps at the sound of that thunderous baritone shout. Fáfnir whirls around, his eyes going wide like a guilty cat caught chewing up its owner’s socks. It’s Dad Liszt, coming to Frederic’s rescue (and Wilhelm’s doom!) And who should come trotting up by his side, having long gone to fetch him, other than…

      “DVORAK! YOU BETRAYED ME!”

The pygmy Hippowdon gives a self-satisfied snort. You’ve gone too far, Wilhelm. You’ve gone too far.

      “Now just what do you think you’re doing?”

      “What do you mean what am I doing, Dad? This is the guy who was insulting your religion!” 

      “Yes, but--look at what you’ve done to him! I don’t think a few tasteless words comes anywhere near close to justifying this…this…”

      “A few ? Just a few?” Wilhelm cries. “You said it yourself, Dad! He’s an extremist!”

Franz narrows his eyes.

      “You may be able to use adult words, my boy, but by no means do you have an adult’s judgment!” he snaps, but his gaze softens as he turns to Frederic. 

      “You and your Pokémon look quite hurt, Doctor. Where should you like me to take you?”

——— “Don’t you call me a—” BAM.

He’d be nothing short of a corpse right now if he wasn’t part fae. As much as he hated it, it intertwined him with extra endurance, so he could survive even a devastating attack as such. He’s certianly not a fun toy to play with. He doesn’t scream, he doesn’t cry— the closest thing Willhelm would get would be a wail or groan when the poison seeped into Frederic’s flesh. He would’ve normally been weak to it, had he not built up tolerance by experimenting on himself. 

His Scizor, still brutally injured from the battle, watches on in horror. His Naganadel was not consious to see his master be beaten… and that was likely for the best. Scizor limped over to his master, who was somehow still conscious, thought the poison was seeping through him…. his legs throbbed. He knew he’d need to get himself back to the Conplus immediately.

With the last of his strength, he put two fingers to his mouth to whistle, and his Corviknight descends, wings outstretched intimidatingly. 

      “How’d you like that, old man?” he crows. “Bet that’s the last time you’ll ever think about giving someone your brand of disrespect--”

That’s when the shadow falls over him. And that’s when he knows.

SHIT! Here comes another one! Are there more? Damnit, he only has the three of his Pokémon with him…

      “Incoming, Fáfnir!” 

But the dragon doesn’t even need to hear his master’s cry. He’s already alert to the sound of steel-plated wings whisking through the air, and he’s already prepared. Three of his heads tilt toward the new threat, letting loose great blasts of bright blue Flamethrower toward the iron bird. 

——— A crushing defeat. Keep in mind, he only had his work duo on him, the rest of his team were safe at home…. He would’ve won with his Corviknight at his side. 

“A coward flees, and lives to one day die alone. A martyr stays, and dies with a legacy.” He stay, laying there, bloodied and tending to his wounded team.

      “Oh, so you’re STAYING to get your ass beat!” The boy laughs even more. “That’ll make this even easier. Hm…I wonder what I should throw at you…Something from Götterdämmerung, maybe? Or something I’ve written on my own? Oh, I know. I’ll hit you with one of my mom’s pieces. Give you the real Franz Liszt ass-whooping experience! But first, Fáfnir? I’ll let you have your turn, as I promised.” 

      “Quite so,” says the dragon, speaking for the first time. “Neither my Master Wilhelm nor my Lady Liszt are to be trifled with. My Master owes his mother everything with regards to his music, past and present…And that is not something I’ll ever take lightly. Her word, to me, is as good as his. And if she says you’re a threat, you’re a threat.” He takes a closer sniff at Frederic. “Isn’t that so, you so cleverly hidden fae man, you?”

Never mind the fact that these two are acting without her orders, and quite against her will as well…

A low musical hum resounds through the air as a baton--Wilhelm’s symbol of Meloettan magical music--appears in his hand.

      “Eat shit, fairy boy!”

Just as Frederic is about to bend to give his fainted Pokémon treatment, Hydreigon picks him up by the back of his shirt and throws him twenty feet in the air. His many heads writhe to catch Frederic, one of them finally seizing upon his pant leg and throwing him even higher still. The great hydra’s poisonous spittle sizzles on his clothes and his flesh, the venom of the spite toward enemies that so often accompanies great loyalty. Then on the third throw, the humming grows louder. The sound of piano keys begins to ring out, each key pounding as though knocking on a great door-- 

--And the music releases! Wilhelm used his Variations on Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz--Mephisto Waltz turned into Teeter Dance! He whirls about once, twice, three times to the waltz as daintily as can be…but as Frederic falls to the ground, he gives one well-placed Psychic-boosted kick that sends the poor man slamming right into a brick wall.

Cue Wilhelm--the little bastard--striking a pose reminiscent of Champion Leon’s Charizard pose. 

——— the doctor is unamused. “First off, I haven’t forgotten her. I just don’t happen to magically know who the parents are of every random child that crosses my path. I didn’t forget, I just didn’t see a resemblance… likely because she at least could speak to me with civility, despite our disagreements. And because she was above stooping to a threat.”

(See the battle here!)

      “Ha! HA! Oh my fucking gods! Fáfnir didn’t even have to fight!” He’s slapping his knee and cackling at the effectiveness of his strategy! 

      “Oh, Dvořák. What would I ever do without you?” he says, nuzzling his head against his Hippowdon’s forehead before turning back to Frederic. When he opens his eyes again, one of them is a terribly bright pink--the mark of the frenzied Meloetta he’s overfond of channeling, the Meloetta of the lost, the Meloetta of the mad. The dragon at his side leans forward and lets out a menacing growl from all nine of his throats.

——— the doctor is unamused. “First off, I haven’t forgotten her. I just don’t happen to magically know who the parents are of every random child that crosses my path. I didn’t forget, I just didn’t see a resemblance… likely because she at least could speak to me with civility, despite our disagreements. And because she was above stooping to a threat.”

       “See, there’s the thing about Momma Liszt. She’s the nice one. Sometimes too nice. Even to people like you who really need an ass-kicking. That’s why it’s MY job to protect her from all the jerks who think they can do anything to her and she won’t do anything back. Isn’t that right, Fáfnir?”

The great dragon nods assent. 

——— “Come again? I’m not sure I know what you speak of. Or who she is. Or who you are.”

      “MY MOM, Bootleg Spiderman. Franzi Liszt? Herald of Yveltal? I guess now would be a convenient time to forget you’ve ever met her, but you can’t trick me so easily. All I got is this to say. You better watch your mouth when you’re around her and stop being a dick to her about religion…”

He takes out a Poké Ball, from which his nine-headed Hydreigon companion emerges.

Sooooo. This guy. After he gets past his mentally unstable angsty teen/young adult phase he actually grows into a really good person. Kind and sweet to his students, the beloved founder of a new region dedicated solely to the performing arts, the greatest composer of the 21st century…He’s got a wonderful reputation, right?

Wrong.

You see, his reputation would actually be pretty solid as he goes on in life except for one thing: He HATES authority. He’s a die-hard anarcho-socialist and save for the folks in Unova and Unima, he really doesn’t trust any authority figure as far as he could throw them. If you put him in a room next to someone who is even remotely in a position of financial or political power, he’ll start smoking like hydrochloric acid when it comes into contact with air and it won’t be long before he goes off. And they say history is written by the victors. But you know who else history is written by? People in power. Thus, it stands to reason that the various authority figures he came into quite unpleasant contact with did as much shit-flinging at him as they could……And to some degree, it worked.