Flight
Title: Flight
Author: clear_bell
Rating: T
Verse: Gen V
Characters: N, Zoroark, White, Ghetsis
Summary: Being a hero isn't so easy.
Notes: Sorry it's so long…and if you see any typos, please tell me!
--------------
The boy laughs, spinning in a shower of autumn leaves. Child's hands snatch at them, chubby fingers clumsily fumbling before the brittle leaf cracks in his grip, and he lets it fall, reaching for the next. Suddenly the leaves glow, edged in purple, and float beyond his reach. He jumps fruitlessly, waving his hands higher, for a few times before he stops, pouting.
"No fair!" he cries to the wild woobat, and jumps to pounce on it-only to fall short. "I can't even reach you!"
"Woo, woo," the creature chuckles, fluttering lower. The boy jumps again, fingers barely scraping the woobat's furry underside. "Ba-at!"
"You-"
"Master N," a voice calls, and he turns, blinking and tilting his head to the side towards the woman sitting on a log.
"Mrs. Mira?" he asks, confused. "It's not time to go in already, is it?"
The woman smiles at him gently. "I'm afraid so. Say goodbye to your friend and get ready for dinner. Matthew is preparing your favorite."
"Yes!" N cries, and bobs a goodbye to Woobat. "Buh-bye! You better get something to eat, too!" He races away, up a hill path worn by many months of sneakers moving home or out to play. At the top of the hill is a mansion, and he easily slips in the backdoor into the kitchen where a cacophony of servants work the stoves. Spotting a yummy-looking batter, he quickly sticks his finger in and then into his mouth-chocolate with chocolate chips. He picks a couple of chocolate chips out.
"Master N!!"
N scrambles up a staircase, laughing, and trots down a hall.
He slows, surprised.
A few rooms down from his room, the door is cracked open, and there is a weird footprint-like thing that reminds N of fingerpainting except with your feet; it has that same color of red paint, like the most vivid of autumn leaves. Curious, he is about to step forward, but he hears a voice.
"Hold it still!"
"Shh, keep it down! We're not supposed to be obvious about it!"
He creeps forward, past his room, until his stands in front of the mystery door. He crouches, sticking his finger into the paint and staring at it for a moment. For some reason, his heart begins to pound.
Carefully, carefully, he pushes open the door a little. The slit widens, revealing cream walls smeared with paint, a rich mahogany desk covered with papers, the back of someone-N pushes it open further-someone crouching by a bed, wrists red with paint and the tight tendons of his wrists stand out like ridges in his skin as he fights to hold something down.
"N," a voice says.
He whirls about, startled-Father. He'd been caught snooping by Father. Uh-oh, Mrs. Mira isn't going to be happy-
"Opening that door," Ghetsis says, his voice the deepest, most rumbling voice N has ever heard, "will lead you to your destiny."
N trembles, uncertain.
From behind the door, there is an inhuman howl that seeps over N's skin like when he stuck his finger in boiling water and then under an icy faucet.
Father pushes the door open.
It's not paint, N learns. It is blood-the blood of the enslaved.
(Ghetsis shuts the door behind him.)
--
"This is Anthea and Concordia. Go to them if you require anything," Ghetsis had told him, before leaving and closing the door.
They are nice enough, N supposes, but distant-they look at him like they have veils behind their eyes, and he can't see what they think. He's been noticing that a lot, lately-as he sees people, he realizes uncomfortably how little he knows them, and isn't sure he wants to know them better. What if they are evil? What if they've hurt Pokémon? He stays in his room, avoiding the people of the castle and the ubiquitous dust from construction. Anthea and Concordia bring him lots of books to read, about science and math and equations.
The other thing N likes to do-other than read-is play with his secret friend. Zorua, as he calls himself, is fun to play with-but Ghetsis wouldn't be happy to know N has a Pokémon friend who doesn't leave him, so Zorua has to be secret. Not even Anthea and Concordia know about him, and they're the ones who clean his room.
So N each night waits until Anthea and Concordia have gone to bed before slipping out of his own, padding stockinged-foot across his room to his window. In a swift motion, he yanks the curtains, and Zorua comes tumbling down, ready for a fight. After play-wrestling and snapping their teeth at each other and snarling, they settle down to play with the train set or basketball, N often reaching over to ruffle Zorua's black fur. Sometimes, though, when they think someone's near enough to hear, they retreat to N's bed, Zorua tucked in the shadow between N's arms, safe.
Sometimes, though, Zorua transforms-an illusion, he tells N-into many things. Many Pokémon, most that N has never seen, but usually he transforms into N himself. Though with a tail, which Zorua can't ever seem to rid himself of when disguised as a human.
One night, when N gives those curtains a good yank, Zorua and the curtains come down, and N, Zorua, and the curtains collapse into a pile. Half-suffocating and half-afraid, the other half laughing uncontrollably (which contributes to the suffocating), they thrash about until they lie still, exhausted.
N, Zorua says, and N looks at him. Zorua is looking up, past the windowsill, past the dangling, tattered remains of the curtains, and into the night sky. Don't you ever get tired of this?
N paws at his ear, Zorua's way of admitting he doesn't understand.
This room, he clarifies. This castle. Don't you ever think, "I should be out there, not here"?
N is silent. A hand fists in the curtains, twisted around him like a cocoon. "Ghetsis says I'm not ready," N says, "but sometimes, I…"
He trails off. In the silence, Zorua's eyes somehow seem brighter than ever. N has never seen something that color before, and he doubts he ever could.
But Zorua jumps, spinning tightly, and his image blurs. N finds himself staring into his own gray-green eyes before Zorua collides into him, arms closing around N, face burying next to his ear, bristly green hair prickling N's nose and cheeks.
Come on, Zorua murmurs, and they don't bother to get into bed, merely curling in the puddle of velvet curtains.
That night, instead of N holding Zorua, Zorua holds N.
(It is only Zorua, but somehow, being held in someone's arms feels very strange. It is almost like a hug.)
--
They don't ever speak of that night, nor do they repeat it.
--
N sits at a table, a gleaming crown on his head and a menger sponge between his hands. Zorua lazes on top of the table, claws scratching idly at the fine surface.
So you're the pack leader now, finally, Zorua says. N smiles, lifting a hand to adjust the crown a little. So what happens now?
"Ah…Ghetsis is going to Accumula Town to give a speech. We will be going with. I believe he might want me to say something as well, in my role as Team Plasma's king." N fiddles with his crown again. "After that, Ghetsis wants us to go to Nacrene Museum because they have a dragon's skull on display-"
Zorua snarls. Humans have no respect for the dead.
N nods, lips parting to reveal his teeth tips in anger. "They'll be taken care of, Ghetsis says. If the Nacrene Museum doesn't reveal Zekrom, then Ghetsis will take me to Nimbasa City, where agents have closed off the nearby Relic Castle so that I may search there unimpeded. If the Dark Stone is not there, Ghetsis-"
Ghetsis, Ghetsis, Ghetsis, Zorua cuts in irritably. You know what I think about him. Where do you want to search?
N paws at his ear uncertainly, fingertips brushing the rim of the crown, but before Zorua can speak, says, "Well, I think any of those places would be good. Ghetsis says the Dragonspiral Tower, too, but that's been sealed for centuries, and no one's managed to unseal it yet…"
No one is you, N. I say we ditch Ghetsis and go right for that tower. What's the point of journeying if he's gonna plan your every step?
"Freeing all Pokémon," N says sharply.
You're going to free the Pokémon. Not him.
(They don't have anything to say after that.)
--
N met a paradox today. It had the voice of a teenage girl and had the happiest Pokémon he's ever met.
"Don't think about it," Ghetsis instructs him from one side. "There are always freaks."
Don't listen to him, Zorua tells him, sitting on his other shoulder as a pidove. He's the freak here.
--
N leans against the black railing of the boat, the ocean spray cool against his face. Squatting on the railing, a "ducklett" honks rude words at passing ships. They are on their way to Liberty Garden, where a powerful Pokémon awaits someone to free it: N, of course. If Ghetsis is correct, and this Pokémon is in fact Victini, Victini may be able to lead N to his Dark Stone.
A shoe scuffs politely, warning N of his presence. N nods an acknowledgement, not bothering to take his eyes from the horizon.
"My lord N," the man murmurs, "we are here."
N inhales the salty air, and steps off the boat.
Immediately a grunt runs up to him, in a panic. "Lord N! A girl, she broke in and kidnapped Victini! We have to perform a lockdown on the island!"
Zorua squawks loudly. Stupid humans! You were supposed to protect Victini!
The grunt shows him to the lighthouse basement, and Zorua flutters off his shoulder, sniffing the floor with a flat beak. Zorua says grudgingly, The girl picked Victini up…but fire-types leave such a stink I might be able to track it anyway. Especially since there's a psychic element to Victini, too.
"I trust you," N says confidently, and follows Zorua up the stairs, dismissing the grunt to help his fellows deal with the police. At ground level again, Zorua hesitates, standing still and sniffing for a long time.
I must be crazy, he mumbles. But…it would make sense. Make my kind of sense.
Zorua heads up the next staircase, the one that leads to the top of the lighthouse. Bewildered-why would this kidnapper deliberately corner herself?-N follows Zorua anyway, and is rewarded when they find the door at the top crooked.
Zorua transforms into a volcarona; only intimidating to those trainers experienced enough to recognize it. They crash the door in a flower of illusionary flame, but stop short as they see the room.
Icy water smashes into N's face, and he staggers back, almost propelling him down the staircase. He blinks water out of his eyes, hearing Zorua growl, but-
"Oh, it's you."
A dewott lowers his scalchop slightly, still wary, and N recognizes him.
The dewott who…likes…his trainer. His trainer is a little behind him, sitting on the ground with Victini perched on her head. Victini looks ready for battle-has she already caught it? Imprisoned it?
Anger flares in N, and the trainer sees it, drawing in her bare legs to scramble to her feet. Her boots, vest, and cap are tossed to one side, leaving her feet in stockings of sand smeared up to her knees. Victini jumps from her head to the floor, scampering up beside Dewott. There is a dot of sand on its nose.
"We've come to rescue you," Zorua says aloud instead of telepathically, as he normally does to communicate with N.
The trainer is saying something, but N and Zorua ignore her in favor of Victini, who analyzes them with intelligent eyes.
"You're too late," Dewott informs them. "We already have rescued Victini."
"Trading imprisonment in a basement to imprisonment in a pokeball isn't rescue," N says dangerously, and Zorua bristles threateningly.
"I chose to leave with this girl," Victini tells them. "I like her."
N stares at it, falling to his knees. "What?"
Victini focuses its attention on N. He feels as if there is a flame illuminating the corridors of his mind. It is not the first time a psychic Pokémon has examined him, so he tries to remain calm.
This girl cannot understand us as you do, but she does not need to. Look at her.
N looks at her. A black vest much too big is drooped over Dewott's shoulders, and a cap is crooked on Zorua's head. She is laughing-a sound he's rarely heard outside of his own growly chuckles inherited from Zorua's hoarse purr. Her laughter is nothing like it, full of a purity that reminds him of companionable wind chimes. Her eyes are the blue of summer skies, warm and clear.
Disturbed, N looks back at Victini.
Her heart is like a candle, not seeking to consume, but to light the way. You may understand our words, but that is useless if you do not listen or open your heart. Your future is clouded, N, but perhaps she can lead you through.
N glances at her. She has gathered her stuff, pulled on her boots, and is clearly ready to go. She catches his eye and half-smiles, sheepish, and points out at the turbulent ocean and gray sky.
"Looks like there's a storm coming," she says, a crisp breeze tossing the brown billows of her hair. "So we better get going."
(In more ways than one.)
--
"I am the king of Team Plasma," he says. Her curious face goes flat. "Ghetsis asked me to work with him to save Pokémon."
She gives a dry, brittle laugh like autumn leaves underfoot. "More like steal them."
"Free them," N disagrees, "from the control of humans, who cannot understand them."
"But you can," she says.
"I am the Hero," he agrees. "I can save them."
"N," she says as the car slows to a stop, the doors swinging open, "you can't even save yourself."
(Then they battle, and N wonders why it always comes down to this.)
--
You lost to her? Zorua demands, hurrying alongside N as a bisharp. N grunts an affirmative, long legs covering ground faster than Zorua's shorter ones. I should have gone with you!
"No," N says. "What you were doing was more important. Did you find her?"
More important? Zorua swings an angry arm, chopping away a long-hanging branch. What if she'd hurt you?!
"She wouldn't," N says, yanking a branch hanging in his face away. Leaves fall, fluttering to the ground.
She already has, Zorua snaps, and N can't answer. I hate her. I hate her.
"I don't," he whispers raggedly, remembering a hand around his, bobbing balloons, a split bar of chocolate, wind chimes, and her sitting, just looking at him with those blue blue eyes like she would listen.
You should. She's a freak. She's worse than Ghetsis.
The solemn, iron look, the flurry of a battle, and the merciless ease of destruction; maybe N does hate her, a little. But she hates him, a little, too, so it's alright.
They step out of foliage, on the bank of a powerful river-undoubtedly frigid and fatal. A bridge is nearby, but it stands upright. The two ends won't meet.
What's the point of a bridge if it doesn't cross the river? Zorua sneers.
A drawbridge-and you need the permission of a gym leader to raise or lower the bridge.
A dead end.
N sinks to the ground, hunched, cradling his head in his arms. Zorua sits beside him. They breathe in silence.
Less than ten minutes later, a white-haired and black-masked triad appears. Their hands are like ice around his wrists.
("N, you can't even save yourself.")
--
Ghetsis watches him with a crimson eye, the other covered by a rose-tinted lens.
("So that with one eye I can see the devastating reality, and the other-the ideal world.")
"They told me what you tried to do," Ghetsis says, his voice soft-but not soft like chocolate clouds. Soft like the slither of a striking serpent. "What did you do, N?"
N's mouth is very dry. Zorua is not here. They can't chance Ghetsis figuring out the truth behind Zorua.
"What did you do?" He speaks louder now.
"I left Nimbasa City without permission," N says stiffly, "and without a guard."
"And why." Why is a sizzle of air, and not a question.
N hesitates, and then confesses. "There is a girl who has defeated me…repeatedly. We fought again in Nimbasa, and she defeated me. I was…frustrated…and so I acted unwisely." He pauses. "Her name is…White." The word feels foreign, like a label stamped across her face and sky eyes.
His brows drop heavily. "An interesting coincidence…as she has recently found it her business to stick her foot in and trip up Team Plasma everywhere. Even you have fallen to her." He leans back abruptly. "I will let your misdemeanor slide this time, neither forgiven nor forgotten. My Shadow Triad has an interesting report to tell us."
The three of them are like dead men, and their voices crawl across N's skin. They speak of her. Her, and her two friends. It is strange, to hear her reduced to statistics and facts and instead of feelings and memories.
With each word, Ghetsis's face darkens further.
"First we must know exactly what we are dealing with," Ghetsis says, an eye looking at N. "We know that her friends are on opposite sides of the spectrum, leaving her stranded between them, an indefinable shade of gray-which is good."
Indefinable shade of gray. N does not like grays. He wants the world to be black and white, with no confused, muddled things in between.
"We know that she is a four-badge trainer, halfway to the League. But we do not know much a four-badge trainer can actually accomplish." Ghetsis smiles, a thin-lipped, razor-sharp expression with an eye gleaming like blood. "You will get another shot at her, N. A chance to redeem yourself…and perhaps more than only you."
Ghetsis is letting N's thrust for freedom slide, offering the temptation of redemption and-N's heart stutters, understanding. Ghetsis has always been looking for competent leaders.
If he can defeat her, Ghetsis will let her past offenses slide, will offer her redemption as well. She is a good human, a contradiction in itself-and she can help him.
(N will not lose.)
--
Chargestone Cave is filled with energy, crackling through the stone and running through his veins. This place is like an expression of Zekrom's power, and pacing here, hair frizzing with electricity, N feels closer to Zekrom than he ever has. He can feel it-his dream, at his fingertips, and his heart pounding out the seconds until he can grasp the Dark Stone in his hand.
Yes. It has long been delayed, but N will defeat her, here, where he can almost feel Zekrom breathing, almost feel a considering, evaluative gaze.
Yes. N will beat her, and she will join him, not to kneel to him-he cannot imagine her as a grunt, cannot imagine what that face would look like in hopeless surrender-but she will join him to help him. Help him. Not Ghetsis, or the Sages. And they will talk, he will change her-she will listen and learn.
She's here. Pinned between the Shadow Triad members, a joltik-Zorua-on her head, where he can tear out her throat lightning-quick. N feels a thrill shiver through him, fizzing like electricity from the power of her eyes.
He delivers the challenge, as Ghetsis told him, and watches her disappear to the enemy-packed floor below. Left in the white noise of ever-present static, without even Zorua, N wants to follow her down.
(Or drag her up.)
Zekrom, Zekrom, he reminds himself as he waits, because his heart is vanishing in his chest and something like liquid air is rushing through his veins instead of electricity, and he is growing dizzy. Somewhere far off, he can hear a whistle like mournful wind.
Finally Galvantula tenses beneath his hands, and N lifts his head. She looks wild, she is wild, hair frizzing and eyes burning and something sparks in him, a tunnel vision that has her at its focus.
She is an indefinable shade of gray-unforgiveable. He will define her. Black or white. With him or against him. Separate humans and Pokémon-free them! His dream, his dream forever and always and happily ever after.
"Do you have a dream?" he asks her.
She pulls out a pokeball. "You'll have to find out."
(When he sees her face bathed in the light of Dewott's and Zorua's evolutions, he realizes he will never understand her. There is no equation.)
--
His loss to her is devastating.
"Battles don't mean anything," he tells Zoroark, desperate. "Trainers say that they're for understanding each other, but, but, I don't understand her-not at all. I'm never going to understand humans, never never…"
Ghetsis is furious.
"I'm not to see her again," N snaps, pacing back and forth. "I'm not safe when she's around. Ghetsis is going to set her up, somehow."
Zoroark has been strangely quiet.
"You were with her, in Chargestone Cave. What is she like? How, how did she beat me? Why is she so strong-why do her Pokémon like her so much-why wouldn't they? She, she…" N sinks to the ground, doubling over, grinding his face into his knees, hands clawing at his ears, and his breaths coming quick and panicked. "Who is she? What is she?!"
Zoroark gets to his feet. He has a stooped back now, and long, ragged mane that brushes the ground as he walks. N listens to him pace back and forth, the uneven footsteps, the drag of his mane.
N, Zoroark says, eventually. You need to talk to her Pokémon. To her Samurott.
(Because Pokémon never lie.)
--
"You should ring the bell, White. You might be surprised at what you find."
Then Skyla is gone in a flicker of scarlet hair, gone down the stairs and leaving them alone. N focuses on the woobat, double-checking the sling on her wing. Zoroark is not subtle, watching with slitted eyes as the girl adjusts her cap.
But they are in Celestial Tower, and there is no fighting.
It is now or never.
N gives the woobat a last soothing pat before standing, turning to face the trainer just as she rings the bell. It is a mellow sound that seems more like a breath than a peal; a little too deep and too dark to be wind chimes, he realizes with a pang, and imagines polished silver beginning to rust and age.
He walks up beside her, and she looks up at him with distrust, a hand drifting to her belt.
"I'd like to talk to Samurott," he tells her. "I can't talk with humans. Talking with Pokémon is easier because I've been with them all my life."
She considers him, eyes traveling over his mussed green hair, sallow skin, sleepless shadows, and tense shoulders. Her eyes travel back to his, steady. "Why weren't you with humans?" she asks.
"I am the Hero and a King," he says. "There was no time before that."
She lets Samurott out. Upon seeing N, he snarls, lowering his head sword threateningly, but she reaches out and strokes a hand along his back. He relaxes a little, suspiciously, and asks, "What do you want?"
"What kind of trainer is she, Samurott?" N asks, kneeling down to be more at eye-level with Samurott. "What is she?"
"She is," Samurott says slowly, choosing his words carefully, "a true hero."
N feels as if Samurott has driven a sword through him.
"She is a hero because, ultimately, she is someone who seeks justice. In the wild, the only dream was of survival-but when I joined with White, there were unlimited possibilities, giving me-us, all Pokémon-true freedom: the freedom to choose, not your pathetic caricature."
N opens his mouth, but Samurott cuts across him.
"You're here to listen, not speak." His white whiskers twitch irritably. "Your dream has warped you into your worst nightmare, and you would drag all of us down with you. That is why I-and my friends-choose to oppose you, not because White has asked us to but because we believe you are in the wrong." There is a pause. "I warn you, though, don't tell my friends I said any of this-that I got all philosophical on you. They're already calling me old." His whiskers, which do indeed look like those of the elderly, twitch again. With last baleful look, he turns back to his trainer. She smiles and returns him before looking over at N, smile fading into something serious.
"Ring it with me," she says.
N stares at her; he must have heard her wrong, as he is a little dizzy. "What?"
"Ring the bell with me," she repeats, staring directly at him.
N looks around; Zoroark, standing nearby with unreadable eyes, and Woobat, eyes hidden under fur.
N steps up to the bell, taking the cord hanging beneath it. His fingers brush hers. They ring the bell, emanating powerful tones. His heart slows, each beat a peal of the bell, and wonders if it is the same for her. His eyes squeeze shut, listening to the sound-their sound, the vibration of a gong in your bones and the fluting, wailing, whispering of wind-N thinks he might cry.
They stand still for a moment as the bell fades away.
"Pokémon," N says, "suffer at the hands of humans every day…injured for training, torn from home, pitted against each other while their shared enemy forces them onwards…that is no freedom. There is no choice. When the worth of Pokémon is measured in power…I know that I must do something about it."
He looks at her, but she is looking at the bell. He can see an ear, almost hidden in the nest of her hair.
"Perhaps some relationships between humans and Pokémon are not defined in badges," he says, his voice quiet. "And I know, that those precious few like you and your Pokémon will suffer from separation. And…I suffer, too, thinking about it." A blurry image of her face crosses his mind, and though he cannot make out her features, he knows they are twisted with grief and defeat; he can almost hear the tortured howl of Samurott, fighting to stay with her. "And it does break my heart a little," he confesses. "I don't want to use force. I don't want to hurt anyone. You have to understand that."
She stirs, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes. "Change always hurts. But there are growing pains, and there is ripping out hearts."
"To not accomplish my dream would be worse," N tells her. "To remain mired in this torment is unthinkable."
Her head turns all the way, and he is again caught by her eyes. "The hardest thing is to let go," she says. "If you've only ever been a 'hero' or 'king'…if you've never had any other dreams…I think you just can't understand people who have other dreams, who are different than you. N-there are so many dreams going by, and all you have to do is catch them."
N is shaking. "I understand dreams," he says, voice low, low like Ghetsis. "I know what it's like to have a dream and yearn for it every day, to feel guilty every day because they are depending on you to save them and you haven't yet. Maybe it's you who doesn't understand."
"I don't," she says, frankly. "But at least I won't pretend that I do." She lifts a pale hand to her head, and for a moment, she looks older. Her eyes seem gray with exhaustion, and hooded. "…Someday. When that day comes, I hope you don't shatter along with your rigid beliefs."
She walks away then, but Woobat cries out as she passes by. She hesitates, kneeling, fingers gently examining the crippled wing. She glances up at Zoroark, watching her with dark eyes, and picks Woobat up. Her mouth opens, as if to say something to him, but shuts. She leaves without saying a word.
(When she has left, N reaches out, takes the cord of the bell, and rings it-the peals of the bell sound harsh and dissonant, almost lonely, without her hand beside his.)
--
"I've had one of the Sages working out a way into Dragonspiral Tower," Ghetsis tells N over videophone. "He has had a breakthrough. Literally. For the first time in centuries, the doors of Dragonspiral Tower will open for another hero. Be ready, N-Zekrom is awaiting you. And afterwards, you may have your revenge."
"Yes, Ghetsis," N agrees, and the video screen goes black.
--
N can't sleep that night. Zoroark can't, either, and paces back forth. His jagged hair swings from his stooped back, and claws scrape the ground. N watches him. The moonlight makes Zoroark's fur look gray, as if he has aged decades in the past few months, and something in N's gut clenches.
"What do you think about it?" N asks him, wanting to get that squirming thought out of his stomach. "Celestial Tower."
Zoroark hesitates. She is…different.
"We've known that from the start," N says, remembering years and years ago when he'd never heard wind chimes or felt someone stare right into his eyes. "Can believe what she said?"
Zoroark grunts. Hot air. Humans are full of it.
"I understand dreams," N says. "I have for as long as I remember."
There is something strange about her, Zoroark says. She bothers me. In Chargestone Cave, her Pokémon said to me much of what Samurott said to you.
N doesn't want to think about Samurott. "She is very strange," he says forcefully. "A freak, like you said before."
Apparently, it takes a freak to get along with Pokémon, Zoroark says, a bite in his tone.
N is silent. He is not good with humans, but he can feel Zoroark's implication.
That was uncalled for, Zoroark says wearily, resuming pacing. Sorry. I'm just…on edge. She puts me on edge. She's just…different…from my old trainer.
N stiffens in surprise. Zoroark has never mentioned his previous trainer, aside from obscure allusions in bitter rants on the cruelty of humankind.
Instead of ordering her Pokémon around, she leads them. The difference between obeying out of fear and obeying out of faith… There is a long pause before Zoroark says, Samurott called her a hero.
N jerks up, betrayed that he'd even brought it up. "I'm the hero! I'm Zekrom's hero! She, she's opposing me, so she's the villain! Not a hero!"
I never said she was Zekrom's hero, Zoroark snaps. You are the hero of Zekrom.
N's eyes widen in sudden understanding. "But there are two-two legendary dragons."
The ground has vanished underneath him, the sky yawning above.
"Two," N breathes, because yes, yes, that explains everything. It explains why she is so good, why her bonds with Pokémon are so strong, why her words strike so deep, why she can instill terrifying, crippling doubt in him like a disease, like she is contagious. It even explains her eyes-blue as intense flame-and the cloud-like sweeps of her hair, and her name-White; not a label, but a mark, a badge of honor.
N feels as if he has been purified.
"Yes," he mumbles. "That…"
Zoroark sprawls beside him with a groan. My mind is as full as the night sky, he grumbles.
N's face furrows, and he looks up at the open air. "But the night sky is empty."
But look at all those stars, Zoroark points up. Just because they are out of your reach doesn't mean they aren't there.
"…Yes…" N murmurs, unsure of what else there is to say.
C'mon, he says. Now not only is my head full of thoughts, but my mouth hurts from talking so much.
"You speak telepathically," N reminds him. "There's no mouth movement involved."
You're so literal, Zoroark says irritably, and ruffles N's hair with a careful claw. Let's just dream a little, alright?
"Sounds good," N murmurs, inhaling the smell of grass and ponds and something he can't identify.
(Maybe it is what freedom smells like.)
--
"Lord N, welcome to Iccirus City," the Sage says obsequiously, bowing. "The Dragonspiral Tower is to the north."
N nods briskly, immediately setting off in that direction.
"Lord N!"
N turns back. Zoroark, disguised as a stately sawsbuck, ruffles his winter mane to look bigger and lowers his antlers warningly.
"Sage Ghetsis is not yet here," the Sage says. "We must wait for him."
Irritation sparks in N. This has become an ancient match between heroes; it's not really anyone's place to interfere. "Ghetsis doesn't have to be here," he snaps. "I'm here, aren't I? C'mon, Zo-Sawsbuck, let's go. After you, Sage."
Fluffy eyebrows draw together in a frown, creating deep crevasses of wrinkles drooped across his face like a spiderweb. "I'm afraid that I cannot, Lord. We must wait for Ghetsis."
"I'll get in on my own, then," N says confidently.
"Impossible," the Sage says tightly. "It has taken years of research to develop-"
N doesn't stick around.
(He crosses the rickety bridge and lays a hand on the enduring wall of the tower, and it crumbles before him.)
--
Zekrom's power surging through his veins. A dangerous, dizzy edge-so easily might he fall, if he only gave for a moment. The world through blurred eyes, and he can see what could be instead of what is. A world of ideals unfurls around him, and he can almost reach out and touch them, as if they are fluttering leaves drifting on the winds of time.
He can only stare in wonder, suddenly so young.
And then her-face set in grim determination, the open horror upon sighting Zekrom, the intensity as he says if you want to stop me, you must become a Hero as well, and then the taste of lightning as he takes off on Zekrom.
(He knows next time she will come to him.)
--
It is easy to find a party of Pokémon willing to take on the League with him. They flock to him, his power a beacon across Unova calling to the strongest. He sees the very strongest-Victini, perched carefully on a pair of antlers, and eyes of steel, rock, and forest gaze unwaveringly-but those four do not approach. They only watch.
Keep watching, N wants to shout, because the world is going to change.
His team gathered, N is ready.
He wonders if she is.
--
He ascends the sun-beaten steps, great pillars of weathered stone standing proudly.
N reaches the last step.
Defeating the Elite Four and Champion is as easy as breathing, his new friends faster, stronger, smarter, more experienced, and more determined than any team of partners he has ever had.
The last Pokémon of the Champion falls, and the Champion topples, his fragile spirit, already cracked with grief, easily smashed under Zoroark's claw.
(Finally Zoroark can stand undisguised at N's side.)
It is not over, far from it. She is here, the Light Stone a sun pulsing in her pocket, and he feels more than hears Zekrom's rumbling growl.
Soon, he promises, and goes back to where it all began, the rich carpet of crimson and familiar stones, fit together to build something greater.
(He passes by train tracks and basketball hoops with a lingering glance.)
To face him, she will have to wander the halls of his past. If she still opposes him then…and if she can awaken Reshiram…
There is a crown on this throne, laid out and waiting. N cannot help but laugh, lifting it and hurling it aside. It is nothing but a circlet of metal, meaningless compared to the power of his dream and his bond with Zekrom. He hears Zekrom's approving snarl before Zekrom takes off to wing far overhead; N can feel the rhythm of Zekrom's power as a storm builds, obscuring the sky with thick black clouds of turmoil.
The door to his throne room opens. He sees Ghetsis, smirking, standing behind her, reaching to shut the door-but she stops. Turns, says something to him, and steps in, pulling the door shut behind her. She has come.
Zekrom comes, in an explosion of superheated glass fused together from writhing ice-hued lightning.
Reshiram comes, in a billow of dancing flame, scorching wind, and the mellow cry of Celestial Tower's bell.
The wind howls, lightning flashes, and thunder crashes as if the sky is collapsing. Rain lashing against him, incoherent cries, years of bitter anticipation passing in instants, and flames so hot the rain steams before the wind tears the little clouds apart; pulses of dragon energy slamming into him, dragging glowing claws against a pale flank, slivers of ice mixed in the rain sliding across his skin, down his shirt, in his eyes, in her eyes-gravity flipping as they fly higher and higher into the gray clouds, blurring together, lightning crisscrossing in raw bands and swelling flames, screaming defiance against the storm as it bursts out in a great, raw blast-that for a moment, everything holds still for.
(In that moment, something changes.)
Then the fall. Spiraling down, down, the static and crackle of electricity, the ache and pain, the heat he leaves behind, ice cold against his face, and a glimpse of castle turrets and shattered glass before impact. He flies off Zekrom's back, tumbling to hit stone floor with a crack.
He lies there for a moment, glass embedded in skin, scarlet tears bleeding out. It is over, everything is over, everything is lost, never to be found. Something is crushing him, a glacier, or eighteen years that have lasted over thousands. Eyes slide open, seeing battered Reshiram in a controlled fall, gliding down, and a lithe form half-falling, half-jumping from her back, stumbling. A flash of light-not lightning, but softer, a pokeball-and Reshiram is gone, replaced by a determined face and fierce cry.
(This isn't just a fight of legends, N realizes dazedly, but a fight between trainers.)
Leaning heavily against Zekrom's side, N throws out a Pokémon. His ears are ringing, louder and louder, and something cannot quite fit in his head. Something as been peeled away. An equation has collapsed. There is Zoroark, nimble and full of unexpected slashes and flips and sneaky tricks, but Zoroark is taken down by a glowing sword.
N has lost. He feels…
Ghetsis comes in. N feels as if more and more is being peeled away, more and more is crumbling, more and more equations are wrong, leaving him standing on the ashes of destruction-because he is the freak, he is the anomaly, the flaw, the blemish in every equation. There are no two heroes-he is no hero; he is the villain of this tale, and she is the hero he has always wanted to be.
(The true hero.)
Something has broken in him, and something is expanding. He feels too big for his body and too small. He feels too quiet and too loud, he feels too weak and too strong, he feels too old and too young, and he feels as if he has been split apart and put together.
(Is there an ideal hero?)
He feels as if he is many, many paradoxes.
They are squeezing themselves into his brain, into his heart.
And then they are alone. There is white noise, Ghetsis and the Champion and the black-haired boy, but the two of them are alone.
The silence is a yawning chasm between them.
"N…" she says eventually, eyes intent on him. "Ghetsis is a liar. And a criminal. And who knows what else. But he is definitely the bad guy."
"And what am I?" N asks, heart thudding in his too-small chest.
(I'm yours now.)
She hesitates. "You were…a villain. A misguided hero. A means to an end…a victim. A victim not just of Ghetsis-but you are your own victim, too. And…it's okay." She smiles tentatively, the slow smile spreading across her face, lighting her eyes, stretching the long, bloody scratch across one cheek, and crinkling the exhausted shadows of her face. "It's okay. You're not a freak for being different. You're not a freak for not knowing who you are-far from it! You have room to grow…and change…and learn."
"I…" N says, "I have no idea who I am now, or what I should do…"
Something in her eyes soften, but is not tender, or happy. "You know what you need, N," she says. "You know what you've always needed."
N glances nervously at the broken window-the window Zekrom had broken for him. "I," he says, "need to decide for myself. But not here." Not surrounded by stone walls. "Out there." Up, up in the sky, where forests and fields and oceans stretch beneath him.
He expects her to protest, to shake her windswept head and tell him NO. Leaving without guards or provisions or even a plan? It is insanity, Ghetsis never would have stood for it. He expects her to shout, or maybe even cry, little raindrops of grief dripping from her sky eyes-
But she nods, face solemn. "Take care of yourself. Don't get killed."
Something jolts in him.
"You're letting me go?" N demands. "Just like that? You're not going to make me stay?"
Her mouth twitches, unamused. "History always repeats itself, apparently." She sighs, shoulders slumping, and it is as close to defeat as he has ever seen her. Something twangs in his chest. "No, N, I'm not. Your life is your life, and I…" Her fist flexes. "I can't just catch you if you don't want to be caught, you know? You taught me that. So no matter what you want to do-I've got your back."
(You've never been mine.)
N starts to cry. He doesn't really know why. It's really embarrassing, because boys aren't supposed to cry, especially not heroes or villains or kings, and especially not in front of girls, but he does cry anyway.
"H-hey, don't be sad!" she yelps, eyes wide. She looks more alarmed now than she did when Zekrom smashed through the window. "It's alright, don't be sad. Ghetsis is going to jail! You're free! And…you know, you can come home whenever you want!"
He gestures around, meaning the castle he's lived in all his life. "I don't want to come back to this," he says.
Her alarm fades into annoyance. "Don't be so literal," she says, and N's breath catches in surprise. "You can always come home, alright? That's what it's for. I, I'll talk with Alder or something…" She reaches up to rub her scratched cheek self-consciously. She winces and drops the hand, not noticing the blood she has smeared across her face and hand. "…And you won't ever be a criminal in Unova. Well, unless you kill someone or something, but-you'll get amnesty for everything you've done in Team Plasma. Okay?"
Amnesty…for everything he's done…
"I'm sorry," he croaks, and takes her bloody hand. "Sorry. Sorry." Her hand leaves bloody fingerprints on his. He fumbles to wipe it on his sleeve, but she pulls away.
"H-hey, it's fine." She tucks the hand behind her back guiltily. "So, um…"
N steps forward, reaching around her to slip his hand around the wrist behind her back. She stiffens, and he can feel singed hair brushing the underside of his chin. He tugs gently on her hand, feeling his arm brush hers.
She loosens a little, and her arms twine lightly around him, as if afraid to hold too tightly. Her forehead meets his shoulder, and her face buries into his shirt. Her touch is so delicate N is afraid to wrap his arms around her; he thinks if he does, he will cling so tightly he won't ever let go.
She exhales, pulling back a little, her hands trailing from his back to her sides, fingertips leaving paths of fire through his shirt.
She steps away, face tilting up. "You fell in that glass pretty hard," she murmurs, and clears her throat, taking another step back. "You should get it checked out."
"I will," N says. There is something very peculiar in his chest.
There is a brief silence.
"What're you waiting for?" she demands, breath huffing and chin jerking to one side. "Leave already!"
"White," he says. "You have a dream…that dream…make it come true."
"I have many dreams," she says quietly. "Some of them I have to let go."
N reaches out impulsively, fingers skimming her face, his eyes meeting hers in something-a promise. "Maybe they'll come back."
"Just fly already, N."
(He and Zekrom take off into the sky, and N inhales, the air fresh like after a spring storm. Zekrom soars higher; N raises a hand into the air, and closes it. When he opens it, he smiles at his empty palm. He can reach the sky.)
--
(“Long time no see, Victini. I guess you really like this lighthouse, huh?” White laughs, reaching over to ruffle its fur. “Just don’t short out the electricity or anything, okay? People need this light to find their way back.”)
Author: clear_bell
Rating: T
Verse: Gen V
Characters: N, Zoroark, White, Ghetsis
Summary: Being a hero isn't so easy.
Notes: Sorry it's so long…and if you see any typos, please tell me!
--------------
The boy laughs, spinning in a shower of autumn leaves. Child's hands snatch at them, chubby fingers clumsily fumbling before the brittle leaf cracks in his grip, and he lets it fall, reaching for the next. Suddenly the leaves glow, edged in purple, and float beyond his reach. He jumps fruitlessly, waving his hands higher, for a few times before he stops, pouting.
"No fair!" he cries to the wild woobat, and jumps to pounce on it-only to fall short. "I can't even reach you!"
"Woo, woo," the creature chuckles, fluttering lower. The boy jumps again, fingers barely scraping the woobat's furry underside. "Ba-at!"
"You-"
"Master N," a voice calls, and he turns, blinking and tilting his head to the side towards the woman sitting on a log.
"Mrs. Mira?" he asks, confused. "It's not time to go in already, is it?"
The woman smiles at him gently. "I'm afraid so. Say goodbye to your friend and get ready for dinner. Matthew is preparing your favorite."
"Yes!" N cries, and bobs a goodbye to Woobat. "Buh-bye! You better get something to eat, too!" He races away, up a hill path worn by many months of sneakers moving home or out to play. At the top of the hill is a mansion, and he easily slips in the backdoor into the kitchen where a cacophony of servants work the stoves. Spotting a yummy-looking batter, he quickly sticks his finger in and then into his mouth-chocolate with chocolate chips. He picks a couple of chocolate chips out.
"Master N!!"
N scrambles up a staircase, laughing, and trots down a hall.
He slows, surprised.
A few rooms down from his room, the door is cracked open, and there is a weird footprint-like thing that reminds N of fingerpainting except with your feet; it has that same color of red paint, like the most vivid of autumn leaves. Curious, he is about to step forward, but he hears a voice.
"Hold it still!"
"Shh, keep it down! We're not supposed to be obvious about it!"
He creeps forward, past his room, until his stands in front of the mystery door. He crouches, sticking his finger into the paint and staring at it for a moment. For some reason, his heart begins to pound.
Carefully, carefully, he pushes open the door a little. The slit widens, revealing cream walls smeared with paint, a rich mahogany desk covered with papers, the back of someone-N pushes it open further-someone crouching by a bed, wrists red with paint and the tight tendons of his wrists stand out like ridges in his skin as he fights to hold something down.
"N," a voice says.
He whirls about, startled-Father. He'd been caught snooping by Father. Uh-oh, Mrs. Mira isn't going to be happy-
"Opening that door," Ghetsis says, his voice the deepest, most rumbling voice N has ever heard, "will lead you to your destiny."
N trembles, uncertain.
From behind the door, there is an inhuman howl that seeps over N's skin like when he stuck his finger in boiling water and then under an icy faucet.
Father pushes the door open.
It's not paint, N learns. It is blood-the blood of the enslaved.
(Ghetsis shuts the door behind him.)
--
"This is Anthea and Concordia. Go to them if you require anything," Ghetsis had told him, before leaving and closing the door.
They are nice enough, N supposes, but distant-they look at him like they have veils behind their eyes, and he can't see what they think. He's been noticing that a lot, lately-as he sees people, he realizes uncomfortably how little he knows them, and isn't sure he wants to know them better. What if they are evil? What if they've hurt Pokémon? He stays in his room, avoiding the people of the castle and the ubiquitous dust from construction. Anthea and Concordia bring him lots of books to read, about science and math and equations.
The other thing N likes to do-other than read-is play with his secret friend. Zorua, as he calls himself, is fun to play with-but Ghetsis wouldn't be happy to know N has a Pokémon friend who doesn't leave him, so Zorua has to be secret. Not even Anthea and Concordia know about him, and they're the ones who clean his room.
So N each night waits until Anthea and Concordia have gone to bed before slipping out of his own, padding stockinged-foot across his room to his window. In a swift motion, he yanks the curtains, and Zorua comes tumbling down, ready for a fight. After play-wrestling and snapping their teeth at each other and snarling, they settle down to play with the train set or basketball, N often reaching over to ruffle Zorua's black fur. Sometimes, though, when they think someone's near enough to hear, they retreat to N's bed, Zorua tucked in the shadow between N's arms, safe.
Sometimes, though, Zorua transforms-an illusion, he tells N-into many things. Many Pokémon, most that N has never seen, but usually he transforms into N himself. Though with a tail, which Zorua can't ever seem to rid himself of when disguised as a human.
One night, when N gives those curtains a good yank, Zorua and the curtains come down, and N, Zorua, and the curtains collapse into a pile. Half-suffocating and half-afraid, the other half laughing uncontrollably (which contributes to the suffocating), they thrash about until they lie still, exhausted.
N, Zorua says, and N looks at him. Zorua is looking up, past the windowsill, past the dangling, tattered remains of the curtains, and into the night sky. Don't you ever get tired of this?
N paws at his ear, Zorua's way of admitting he doesn't understand.
This room, he clarifies. This castle. Don't you ever think, "I should be out there, not here"?
N is silent. A hand fists in the curtains, twisted around him like a cocoon. "Ghetsis says I'm not ready," N says, "but sometimes, I…"
He trails off. In the silence, Zorua's eyes somehow seem brighter than ever. N has never seen something that color before, and he doubts he ever could.
But Zorua jumps, spinning tightly, and his image blurs. N finds himself staring into his own gray-green eyes before Zorua collides into him, arms closing around N, face burying next to his ear, bristly green hair prickling N's nose and cheeks.
Come on, Zorua murmurs, and they don't bother to get into bed, merely curling in the puddle of velvet curtains.
That night, instead of N holding Zorua, Zorua holds N.
(It is only Zorua, but somehow, being held in someone's arms feels very strange. It is almost like a hug.)
--
They don't ever speak of that night, nor do they repeat it.
--
N sits at a table, a gleaming crown on his head and a menger sponge between his hands. Zorua lazes on top of the table, claws scratching idly at the fine surface.
So you're the pack leader now, finally, Zorua says. N smiles, lifting a hand to adjust the crown a little. So what happens now?
"Ah…Ghetsis is going to Accumula Town to give a speech. We will be going with. I believe he might want me to say something as well, in my role as Team Plasma's king." N fiddles with his crown again. "After that, Ghetsis wants us to go to Nacrene Museum because they have a dragon's skull on display-"
Zorua snarls. Humans have no respect for the dead.
N nods, lips parting to reveal his teeth tips in anger. "They'll be taken care of, Ghetsis says. If the Nacrene Museum doesn't reveal Zekrom, then Ghetsis will take me to Nimbasa City, where agents have closed off the nearby Relic Castle so that I may search there unimpeded. If the Dark Stone is not there, Ghetsis-"
Ghetsis, Ghetsis, Ghetsis, Zorua cuts in irritably. You know what I think about him. Where do you want to search?
N paws at his ear uncertainly, fingertips brushing the rim of the crown, but before Zorua can speak, says, "Well, I think any of those places would be good. Ghetsis says the Dragonspiral Tower, too, but that's been sealed for centuries, and no one's managed to unseal it yet…"
No one is you, N. I say we ditch Ghetsis and go right for that tower. What's the point of journeying if he's gonna plan your every step?
"Freeing all Pokémon," N says sharply.
You're going to free the Pokémon. Not him.
(They don't have anything to say after that.)
--
N met a paradox today. It had the voice of a teenage girl and had the happiest Pokémon he's ever met.
"Don't think about it," Ghetsis instructs him from one side. "There are always freaks."
Don't listen to him, Zorua tells him, sitting on his other shoulder as a pidove. He's the freak here.
--
N leans against the black railing of the boat, the ocean spray cool against his face. Squatting on the railing, a "ducklett" honks rude words at passing ships. They are on their way to Liberty Garden, where a powerful Pokémon awaits someone to free it: N, of course. If Ghetsis is correct, and this Pokémon is in fact Victini, Victini may be able to lead N to his Dark Stone.
A shoe scuffs politely, warning N of his presence. N nods an acknowledgement, not bothering to take his eyes from the horizon.
"My lord N," the man murmurs, "we are here."
N inhales the salty air, and steps off the boat.
Immediately a grunt runs up to him, in a panic. "Lord N! A girl, she broke in and kidnapped Victini! We have to perform a lockdown on the island!"
Zorua squawks loudly. Stupid humans! You were supposed to protect Victini!
The grunt shows him to the lighthouse basement, and Zorua flutters off his shoulder, sniffing the floor with a flat beak. Zorua says grudgingly, The girl picked Victini up…but fire-types leave such a stink I might be able to track it anyway. Especially since there's a psychic element to Victini, too.
"I trust you," N says confidently, and follows Zorua up the stairs, dismissing the grunt to help his fellows deal with the police. At ground level again, Zorua hesitates, standing still and sniffing for a long time.
I must be crazy, he mumbles. But…it would make sense. Make my kind of sense.
Zorua heads up the next staircase, the one that leads to the top of the lighthouse. Bewildered-why would this kidnapper deliberately corner herself?-N follows Zorua anyway, and is rewarded when they find the door at the top crooked.
Zorua transforms into a volcarona; only intimidating to those trainers experienced enough to recognize it. They crash the door in a flower of illusionary flame, but stop short as they see the room.
Icy water smashes into N's face, and he staggers back, almost propelling him down the staircase. He blinks water out of his eyes, hearing Zorua growl, but-
"Oh, it's you."
A dewott lowers his scalchop slightly, still wary, and N recognizes him.
The dewott who…likes…his trainer. His trainer is a little behind him, sitting on the ground with Victini perched on her head. Victini looks ready for battle-has she already caught it? Imprisoned it?
Anger flares in N, and the trainer sees it, drawing in her bare legs to scramble to her feet. Her boots, vest, and cap are tossed to one side, leaving her feet in stockings of sand smeared up to her knees. Victini jumps from her head to the floor, scampering up beside Dewott. There is a dot of sand on its nose.
"We've come to rescue you," Zorua says aloud instead of telepathically, as he normally does to communicate with N.
The trainer is saying something, but N and Zorua ignore her in favor of Victini, who analyzes them with intelligent eyes.
"You're too late," Dewott informs them. "We already have rescued Victini."
"Trading imprisonment in a basement to imprisonment in a pokeball isn't rescue," N says dangerously, and Zorua bristles threateningly.
"I chose to leave with this girl," Victini tells them. "I like her."
N stares at it, falling to his knees. "What?"
Victini focuses its attention on N. He feels as if there is a flame illuminating the corridors of his mind. It is not the first time a psychic Pokémon has examined him, so he tries to remain calm.
This girl cannot understand us as you do, but she does not need to. Look at her.
N looks at her. A black vest much too big is drooped over Dewott's shoulders, and a cap is crooked on Zorua's head. She is laughing-a sound he's rarely heard outside of his own growly chuckles inherited from Zorua's hoarse purr. Her laughter is nothing like it, full of a purity that reminds him of companionable wind chimes. Her eyes are the blue of summer skies, warm and clear.
Disturbed, N looks back at Victini.
Her heart is like a candle, not seeking to consume, but to light the way. You may understand our words, but that is useless if you do not listen or open your heart. Your future is clouded, N, but perhaps she can lead you through.
N glances at her. She has gathered her stuff, pulled on her boots, and is clearly ready to go. She catches his eye and half-smiles, sheepish, and points out at the turbulent ocean and gray sky.
"Looks like there's a storm coming," she says, a crisp breeze tossing the brown billows of her hair. "So we better get going."
(In more ways than one.)
--
"I am the king of Team Plasma," he says. Her curious face goes flat. "Ghetsis asked me to work with him to save Pokémon."
She gives a dry, brittle laugh like autumn leaves underfoot. "More like steal them."
"Free them," N disagrees, "from the control of humans, who cannot understand them."
"But you can," she says.
"I am the Hero," he agrees. "I can save them."
"N," she says as the car slows to a stop, the doors swinging open, "you can't even save yourself."
(Then they battle, and N wonders why it always comes down to this.)
--
You lost to her? Zorua demands, hurrying alongside N as a bisharp. N grunts an affirmative, long legs covering ground faster than Zorua's shorter ones. I should have gone with you!
"No," N says. "What you were doing was more important. Did you find her?"
More important? Zorua swings an angry arm, chopping away a long-hanging branch. What if she'd hurt you?!
"She wouldn't," N says, yanking a branch hanging in his face away. Leaves fall, fluttering to the ground.
She already has, Zorua snaps, and N can't answer. I hate her. I hate her.
"I don't," he whispers raggedly, remembering a hand around his, bobbing balloons, a split bar of chocolate, wind chimes, and her sitting, just looking at him with those blue blue eyes like she would listen.
You should. She's a freak. She's worse than Ghetsis.
The solemn, iron look, the flurry of a battle, and the merciless ease of destruction; maybe N does hate her, a little. But she hates him, a little, too, so it's alright.
They step out of foliage, on the bank of a powerful river-undoubtedly frigid and fatal. A bridge is nearby, but it stands upright. The two ends won't meet.
What's the point of a bridge if it doesn't cross the river? Zorua sneers.
A drawbridge-and you need the permission of a gym leader to raise or lower the bridge.
A dead end.
N sinks to the ground, hunched, cradling his head in his arms. Zorua sits beside him. They breathe in silence.
Less than ten minutes later, a white-haired and black-masked triad appears. Their hands are like ice around his wrists.
("N, you can't even save yourself.")
--
Ghetsis watches him with a crimson eye, the other covered by a rose-tinted lens.
("So that with one eye I can see the devastating reality, and the other-the ideal world.")
"They told me what you tried to do," Ghetsis says, his voice soft-but not soft like chocolate clouds. Soft like the slither of a striking serpent. "What did you do, N?"
N's mouth is very dry. Zorua is not here. They can't chance Ghetsis figuring out the truth behind Zorua.
"What did you do?" He speaks louder now.
"I left Nimbasa City without permission," N says stiffly, "and without a guard."
"And why." Why is a sizzle of air, and not a question.
N hesitates, and then confesses. "There is a girl who has defeated me…repeatedly. We fought again in Nimbasa, and she defeated me. I was…frustrated…and so I acted unwisely." He pauses. "Her name is…White." The word feels foreign, like a label stamped across her face and sky eyes.
His brows drop heavily. "An interesting coincidence…as she has recently found it her business to stick her foot in and trip up Team Plasma everywhere. Even you have fallen to her." He leans back abruptly. "I will let your misdemeanor slide this time, neither forgiven nor forgotten. My Shadow Triad has an interesting report to tell us."
The three of them are like dead men, and their voices crawl across N's skin. They speak of her. Her, and her two friends. It is strange, to hear her reduced to statistics and facts and instead of feelings and memories.
With each word, Ghetsis's face darkens further.
"First we must know exactly what we are dealing with," Ghetsis says, an eye looking at N. "We know that her friends are on opposite sides of the spectrum, leaving her stranded between them, an indefinable shade of gray-which is good."
Indefinable shade of gray. N does not like grays. He wants the world to be black and white, with no confused, muddled things in between.
"We know that she is a four-badge trainer, halfway to the League. But we do not know much a four-badge trainer can actually accomplish." Ghetsis smiles, a thin-lipped, razor-sharp expression with an eye gleaming like blood. "You will get another shot at her, N. A chance to redeem yourself…and perhaps more than only you."
Ghetsis is letting N's thrust for freedom slide, offering the temptation of redemption and-N's heart stutters, understanding. Ghetsis has always been looking for competent leaders.
If he can defeat her, Ghetsis will let her past offenses slide, will offer her redemption as well. She is a good human, a contradiction in itself-and she can help him.
(N will not lose.)
--
Chargestone Cave is filled with energy, crackling through the stone and running through his veins. This place is like an expression of Zekrom's power, and pacing here, hair frizzing with electricity, N feels closer to Zekrom than he ever has. He can feel it-his dream, at his fingertips, and his heart pounding out the seconds until he can grasp the Dark Stone in his hand.
Yes. It has long been delayed, but N will defeat her, here, where he can almost feel Zekrom breathing, almost feel a considering, evaluative gaze.
Yes. N will beat her, and she will join him, not to kneel to him-he cannot imagine her as a grunt, cannot imagine what that face would look like in hopeless surrender-but she will join him to help him. Help him. Not Ghetsis, or the Sages. And they will talk, he will change her-she will listen and learn.
She's here. Pinned between the Shadow Triad members, a joltik-Zorua-on her head, where he can tear out her throat lightning-quick. N feels a thrill shiver through him, fizzing like electricity from the power of her eyes.
He delivers the challenge, as Ghetsis told him, and watches her disappear to the enemy-packed floor below. Left in the white noise of ever-present static, without even Zorua, N wants to follow her down.
(Or drag her up.)
Zekrom, Zekrom, he reminds himself as he waits, because his heart is vanishing in his chest and something like liquid air is rushing through his veins instead of electricity, and he is growing dizzy. Somewhere far off, he can hear a whistle like mournful wind.
Finally Galvantula tenses beneath his hands, and N lifts his head. She looks wild, she is wild, hair frizzing and eyes burning and something sparks in him, a tunnel vision that has her at its focus.
She is an indefinable shade of gray-unforgiveable. He will define her. Black or white. With him or against him. Separate humans and Pokémon-free them! His dream, his dream forever and always and happily ever after.
"Do you have a dream?" he asks her.
She pulls out a pokeball. "You'll have to find out."
(When he sees her face bathed in the light of Dewott's and Zorua's evolutions, he realizes he will never understand her. There is no equation.)
--
His loss to her is devastating.
"Battles don't mean anything," he tells Zoroark, desperate. "Trainers say that they're for understanding each other, but, but, I don't understand her-not at all. I'm never going to understand humans, never never…"
Ghetsis is furious.
"I'm not to see her again," N snaps, pacing back and forth. "I'm not safe when she's around. Ghetsis is going to set her up, somehow."
Zoroark has been strangely quiet.
"You were with her, in Chargestone Cave. What is she like? How, how did she beat me? Why is she so strong-why do her Pokémon like her so much-why wouldn't they? She, she…" N sinks to the ground, doubling over, grinding his face into his knees, hands clawing at his ears, and his breaths coming quick and panicked. "Who is she? What is she?!"
Zoroark gets to his feet. He has a stooped back now, and long, ragged mane that brushes the ground as he walks. N listens to him pace back and forth, the uneven footsteps, the drag of his mane.
N, Zoroark says, eventually. You need to talk to her Pokémon. To her Samurott.
(Because Pokémon never lie.)
--
"You should ring the bell, White. You might be surprised at what you find."
Then Skyla is gone in a flicker of scarlet hair, gone down the stairs and leaving them alone. N focuses on the woobat, double-checking the sling on her wing. Zoroark is not subtle, watching with slitted eyes as the girl adjusts her cap.
But they are in Celestial Tower, and there is no fighting.
It is now or never.
N gives the woobat a last soothing pat before standing, turning to face the trainer just as she rings the bell. It is a mellow sound that seems more like a breath than a peal; a little too deep and too dark to be wind chimes, he realizes with a pang, and imagines polished silver beginning to rust and age.
He walks up beside her, and she looks up at him with distrust, a hand drifting to her belt.
"I'd like to talk to Samurott," he tells her. "I can't talk with humans. Talking with Pokémon is easier because I've been with them all my life."
She considers him, eyes traveling over his mussed green hair, sallow skin, sleepless shadows, and tense shoulders. Her eyes travel back to his, steady. "Why weren't you with humans?" she asks.
"I am the Hero and a King," he says. "There was no time before that."
She lets Samurott out. Upon seeing N, he snarls, lowering his head sword threateningly, but she reaches out and strokes a hand along his back. He relaxes a little, suspiciously, and asks, "What do you want?"
"What kind of trainer is she, Samurott?" N asks, kneeling down to be more at eye-level with Samurott. "What is she?"
"She is," Samurott says slowly, choosing his words carefully, "a true hero."
N feels as if Samurott has driven a sword through him.
"She is a hero because, ultimately, she is someone who seeks justice. In the wild, the only dream was of survival-but when I joined with White, there were unlimited possibilities, giving me-us, all Pokémon-true freedom: the freedom to choose, not your pathetic caricature."
N opens his mouth, but Samurott cuts across him.
"You're here to listen, not speak." His white whiskers twitch irritably. "Your dream has warped you into your worst nightmare, and you would drag all of us down with you. That is why I-and my friends-choose to oppose you, not because White has asked us to but because we believe you are in the wrong." There is a pause. "I warn you, though, don't tell my friends I said any of this-that I got all philosophical on you. They're already calling me old." His whiskers, which do indeed look like those of the elderly, twitch again. With last baleful look, he turns back to his trainer. She smiles and returns him before looking over at N, smile fading into something serious.
"Ring it with me," she says.
N stares at her; he must have heard her wrong, as he is a little dizzy. "What?"
"Ring the bell with me," she repeats, staring directly at him.
N looks around; Zoroark, standing nearby with unreadable eyes, and Woobat, eyes hidden under fur.
N steps up to the bell, taking the cord hanging beneath it. His fingers brush hers. They ring the bell, emanating powerful tones. His heart slows, each beat a peal of the bell, and wonders if it is the same for her. His eyes squeeze shut, listening to the sound-their sound, the vibration of a gong in your bones and the fluting, wailing, whispering of wind-N thinks he might cry.
They stand still for a moment as the bell fades away.
"Pokémon," N says, "suffer at the hands of humans every day…injured for training, torn from home, pitted against each other while their shared enemy forces them onwards…that is no freedom. There is no choice. When the worth of Pokémon is measured in power…I know that I must do something about it."
He looks at her, but she is looking at the bell. He can see an ear, almost hidden in the nest of her hair.
"Perhaps some relationships between humans and Pokémon are not defined in badges," he says, his voice quiet. "And I know, that those precious few like you and your Pokémon will suffer from separation. And…I suffer, too, thinking about it." A blurry image of her face crosses his mind, and though he cannot make out her features, he knows they are twisted with grief and defeat; he can almost hear the tortured howl of Samurott, fighting to stay with her. "And it does break my heart a little," he confesses. "I don't want to use force. I don't want to hurt anyone. You have to understand that."
She stirs, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes. "Change always hurts. But there are growing pains, and there is ripping out hearts."
"To not accomplish my dream would be worse," N tells her. "To remain mired in this torment is unthinkable."
Her head turns all the way, and he is again caught by her eyes. "The hardest thing is to let go," she says. "If you've only ever been a 'hero' or 'king'…if you've never had any other dreams…I think you just can't understand people who have other dreams, who are different than you. N-there are so many dreams going by, and all you have to do is catch them."
N is shaking. "I understand dreams," he says, voice low, low like Ghetsis. "I know what it's like to have a dream and yearn for it every day, to feel guilty every day because they are depending on you to save them and you haven't yet. Maybe it's you who doesn't understand."
"I don't," she says, frankly. "But at least I won't pretend that I do." She lifts a pale hand to her head, and for a moment, she looks older. Her eyes seem gray with exhaustion, and hooded. "…Someday. When that day comes, I hope you don't shatter along with your rigid beliefs."
She walks away then, but Woobat cries out as she passes by. She hesitates, kneeling, fingers gently examining the crippled wing. She glances up at Zoroark, watching her with dark eyes, and picks Woobat up. Her mouth opens, as if to say something to him, but shuts. She leaves without saying a word.
(When she has left, N reaches out, takes the cord of the bell, and rings it-the peals of the bell sound harsh and dissonant, almost lonely, without her hand beside his.)
--
"I've had one of the Sages working out a way into Dragonspiral Tower," Ghetsis tells N over videophone. "He has had a breakthrough. Literally. For the first time in centuries, the doors of Dragonspiral Tower will open for another hero. Be ready, N-Zekrom is awaiting you. And afterwards, you may have your revenge."
"Yes, Ghetsis," N agrees, and the video screen goes black.
--
N can't sleep that night. Zoroark can't, either, and paces back forth. His jagged hair swings from his stooped back, and claws scrape the ground. N watches him. The moonlight makes Zoroark's fur look gray, as if he has aged decades in the past few months, and something in N's gut clenches.
"What do you think about it?" N asks him, wanting to get that squirming thought out of his stomach. "Celestial Tower."
Zoroark hesitates. She is…different.
"We've known that from the start," N says, remembering years and years ago when he'd never heard wind chimes or felt someone stare right into his eyes. "Can believe what she said?"
Zoroark grunts. Hot air. Humans are full of it.
"I understand dreams," N says. "I have for as long as I remember."
There is something strange about her, Zoroark says. She bothers me. In Chargestone Cave, her Pokémon said to me much of what Samurott said to you.
N doesn't want to think about Samurott. "She is very strange," he says forcefully. "A freak, like you said before."
Apparently, it takes a freak to get along with Pokémon, Zoroark says, a bite in his tone.
N is silent. He is not good with humans, but he can feel Zoroark's implication.
That was uncalled for, Zoroark says wearily, resuming pacing. Sorry. I'm just…on edge. She puts me on edge. She's just…different…from my old trainer.
N stiffens in surprise. Zoroark has never mentioned his previous trainer, aside from obscure allusions in bitter rants on the cruelty of humankind.
Instead of ordering her Pokémon around, she leads them. The difference between obeying out of fear and obeying out of faith… There is a long pause before Zoroark says, Samurott called her a hero.
N jerks up, betrayed that he'd even brought it up. "I'm the hero! I'm Zekrom's hero! She, she's opposing me, so she's the villain! Not a hero!"
I never said she was Zekrom's hero, Zoroark snaps. You are the hero of Zekrom.
N's eyes widen in sudden understanding. "But there are two-two legendary dragons."
The ground has vanished underneath him, the sky yawning above.
"Two," N breathes, because yes, yes, that explains everything. It explains why she is so good, why her bonds with Pokémon are so strong, why her words strike so deep, why she can instill terrifying, crippling doubt in him like a disease, like she is contagious. It even explains her eyes-blue as intense flame-and the cloud-like sweeps of her hair, and her name-White; not a label, but a mark, a badge of honor.
N feels as if he has been purified.
"Yes," he mumbles. "That…"
Zoroark sprawls beside him with a groan. My mind is as full as the night sky, he grumbles.
N's face furrows, and he looks up at the open air. "But the night sky is empty."
But look at all those stars, Zoroark points up. Just because they are out of your reach doesn't mean they aren't there.
"…Yes…" N murmurs, unsure of what else there is to say.
C'mon, he says. Now not only is my head full of thoughts, but my mouth hurts from talking so much.
"You speak telepathically," N reminds him. "There's no mouth movement involved."
You're so literal, Zoroark says irritably, and ruffles N's hair with a careful claw. Let's just dream a little, alright?
"Sounds good," N murmurs, inhaling the smell of grass and ponds and something he can't identify.
(Maybe it is what freedom smells like.)
--
"Lord N, welcome to Iccirus City," the Sage says obsequiously, bowing. "The Dragonspiral Tower is to the north."
N nods briskly, immediately setting off in that direction.
"Lord N!"
N turns back. Zoroark, disguised as a stately sawsbuck, ruffles his winter mane to look bigger and lowers his antlers warningly.
"Sage Ghetsis is not yet here," the Sage says. "We must wait for him."
Irritation sparks in N. This has become an ancient match between heroes; it's not really anyone's place to interfere. "Ghetsis doesn't have to be here," he snaps. "I'm here, aren't I? C'mon, Zo-Sawsbuck, let's go. After you, Sage."
Fluffy eyebrows draw together in a frown, creating deep crevasses of wrinkles drooped across his face like a spiderweb. "I'm afraid that I cannot, Lord. We must wait for Ghetsis."
"I'll get in on my own, then," N says confidently.
"Impossible," the Sage says tightly. "It has taken years of research to develop-"
N doesn't stick around.
(He crosses the rickety bridge and lays a hand on the enduring wall of the tower, and it crumbles before him.)
--
Zekrom's power surging through his veins. A dangerous, dizzy edge-so easily might he fall, if he only gave for a moment. The world through blurred eyes, and he can see what could be instead of what is. A world of ideals unfurls around him, and he can almost reach out and touch them, as if they are fluttering leaves drifting on the winds of time.
He can only stare in wonder, suddenly so young.
And then her-face set in grim determination, the open horror upon sighting Zekrom, the intensity as he says if you want to stop me, you must become a Hero as well, and then the taste of lightning as he takes off on Zekrom.
(He knows next time she will come to him.)
--
It is easy to find a party of Pokémon willing to take on the League with him. They flock to him, his power a beacon across Unova calling to the strongest. He sees the very strongest-Victini, perched carefully on a pair of antlers, and eyes of steel, rock, and forest gaze unwaveringly-but those four do not approach. They only watch.
Keep watching, N wants to shout, because the world is going to change.
His team gathered, N is ready.
He wonders if she is.
--
He ascends the sun-beaten steps, great pillars of weathered stone standing proudly.
N reaches the last step.
Defeating the Elite Four and Champion is as easy as breathing, his new friends faster, stronger, smarter, more experienced, and more determined than any team of partners he has ever had.
The last Pokémon of the Champion falls, and the Champion topples, his fragile spirit, already cracked with grief, easily smashed under Zoroark's claw.
(Finally Zoroark can stand undisguised at N's side.)
It is not over, far from it. She is here, the Light Stone a sun pulsing in her pocket, and he feels more than hears Zekrom's rumbling growl.
Soon, he promises, and goes back to where it all began, the rich carpet of crimson and familiar stones, fit together to build something greater.
(He passes by train tracks and basketball hoops with a lingering glance.)
To face him, she will have to wander the halls of his past. If she still opposes him then…and if she can awaken Reshiram…
There is a crown on this throne, laid out and waiting. N cannot help but laugh, lifting it and hurling it aside. It is nothing but a circlet of metal, meaningless compared to the power of his dream and his bond with Zekrom. He hears Zekrom's approving snarl before Zekrom takes off to wing far overhead; N can feel the rhythm of Zekrom's power as a storm builds, obscuring the sky with thick black clouds of turmoil.
The door to his throne room opens. He sees Ghetsis, smirking, standing behind her, reaching to shut the door-but she stops. Turns, says something to him, and steps in, pulling the door shut behind her. She has come.
Zekrom comes, in an explosion of superheated glass fused together from writhing ice-hued lightning.
Reshiram comes, in a billow of dancing flame, scorching wind, and the mellow cry of Celestial Tower's bell.
The wind howls, lightning flashes, and thunder crashes as if the sky is collapsing. Rain lashing against him, incoherent cries, years of bitter anticipation passing in instants, and flames so hot the rain steams before the wind tears the little clouds apart; pulses of dragon energy slamming into him, dragging glowing claws against a pale flank, slivers of ice mixed in the rain sliding across his skin, down his shirt, in his eyes, in her eyes-gravity flipping as they fly higher and higher into the gray clouds, blurring together, lightning crisscrossing in raw bands and swelling flames, screaming defiance against the storm as it bursts out in a great, raw blast-that for a moment, everything holds still for.
(In that moment, something changes.)
Then the fall. Spiraling down, down, the static and crackle of electricity, the ache and pain, the heat he leaves behind, ice cold against his face, and a glimpse of castle turrets and shattered glass before impact. He flies off Zekrom's back, tumbling to hit stone floor with a crack.
He lies there for a moment, glass embedded in skin, scarlet tears bleeding out. It is over, everything is over, everything is lost, never to be found. Something is crushing him, a glacier, or eighteen years that have lasted over thousands. Eyes slide open, seeing battered Reshiram in a controlled fall, gliding down, and a lithe form half-falling, half-jumping from her back, stumbling. A flash of light-not lightning, but softer, a pokeball-and Reshiram is gone, replaced by a determined face and fierce cry.
(This isn't just a fight of legends, N realizes dazedly, but a fight between trainers.)
Leaning heavily against Zekrom's side, N throws out a Pokémon. His ears are ringing, louder and louder, and something cannot quite fit in his head. Something as been peeled away. An equation has collapsed. There is Zoroark, nimble and full of unexpected slashes and flips and sneaky tricks, but Zoroark is taken down by a glowing sword.
N has lost. He feels…
Ghetsis comes in. N feels as if more and more is being peeled away, more and more is crumbling, more and more equations are wrong, leaving him standing on the ashes of destruction-because he is the freak, he is the anomaly, the flaw, the blemish in every equation. There are no two heroes-he is no hero; he is the villain of this tale, and she is the hero he has always wanted to be.
(The true hero.)
Something has broken in him, and something is expanding. He feels too big for his body and too small. He feels too quiet and too loud, he feels too weak and too strong, he feels too old and too young, and he feels as if he has been split apart and put together.
(Is there an ideal hero?)
He feels as if he is many, many paradoxes.
They are squeezing themselves into his brain, into his heart.
And then they are alone. There is white noise, Ghetsis and the Champion and the black-haired boy, but the two of them are alone.
The silence is a yawning chasm between them.
"N…" she says eventually, eyes intent on him. "Ghetsis is a liar. And a criminal. And who knows what else. But he is definitely the bad guy."
"And what am I?" N asks, heart thudding in his too-small chest.
(I'm yours now.)
She hesitates. "You were…a villain. A misguided hero. A means to an end…a victim. A victim not just of Ghetsis-but you are your own victim, too. And…it's okay." She smiles tentatively, the slow smile spreading across her face, lighting her eyes, stretching the long, bloody scratch across one cheek, and crinkling the exhausted shadows of her face. "It's okay. You're not a freak for being different. You're not a freak for not knowing who you are-far from it! You have room to grow…and change…and learn."
"I…" N says, "I have no idea who I am now, or what I should do…"
Something in her eyes soften, but is not tender, or happy. "You know what you need, N," she says. "You know what you've always needed."
N glances nervously at the broken window-the window Zekrom had broken for him. "I," he says, "need to decide for myself. But not here." Not surrounded by stone walls. "Out there." Up, up in the sky, where forests and fields and oceans stretch beneath him.
He expects her to protest, to shake her windswept head and tell him NO. Leaving without guards or provisions or even a plan? It is insanity, Ghetsis never would have stood for it. He expects her to shout, or maybe even cry, little raindrops of grief dripping from her sky eyes-
But she nods, face solemn. "Take care of yourself. Don't get killed."
Something jolts in him.
"You're letting me go?" N demands. "Just like that? You're not going to make me stay?"
Her mouth twitches, unamused. "History always repeats itself, apparently." She sighs, shoulders slumping, and it is as close to defeat as he has ever seen her. Something twangs in his chest. "No, N, I'm not. Your life is your life, and I…" Her fist flexes. "I can't just catch you if you don't want to be caught, you know? You taught me that. So no matter what you want to do-I've got your back."
(You've never been mine.)
N starts to cry. He doesn't really know why. It's really embarrassing, because boys aren't supposed to cry, especially not heroes or villains or kings, and especially not in front of girls, but he does cry anyway.
"H-hey, don't be sad!" she yelps, eyes wide. She looks more alarmed now than she did when Zekrom smashed through the window. "It's alright, don't be sad. Ghetsis is going to jail! You're free! And…you know, you can come home whenever you want!"
He gestures around, meaning the castle he's lived in all his life. "I don't want to come back to this," he says.
Her alarm fades into annoyance. "Don't be so literal," she says, and N's breath catches in surprise. "You can always come home, alright? That's what it's for. I, I'll talk with Alder or something…" She reaches up to rub her scratched cheek self-consciously. She winces and drops the hand, not noticing the blood she has smeared across her face and hand. "…And you won't ever be a criminal in Unova. Well, unless you kill someone or something, but-you'll get amnesty for everything you've done in Team Plasma. Okay?"
Amnesty…for everything he's done…
"I'm sorry," he croaks, and takes her bloody hand. "Sorry. Sorry." Her hand leaves bloody fingerprints on his. He fumbles to wipe it on his sleeve, but she pulls away.
"H-hey, it's fine." She tucks the hand behind her back guiltily. "So, um…"
N steps forward, reaching around her to slip his hand around the wrist behind her back. She stiffens, and he can feel singed hair brushing the underside of his chin. He tugs gently on her hand, feeling his arm brush hers.
She loosens a little, and her arms twine lightly around him, as if afraid to hold too tightly. Her forehead meets his shoulder, and her face buries into his shirt. Her touch is so delicate N is afraid to wrap his arms around her; he thinks if he does, he will cling so tightly he won't ever let go.
She exhales, pulling back a little, her hands trailing from his back to her sides, fingertips leaving paths of fire through his shirt.
She steps away, face tilting up. "You fell in that glass pretty hard," she murmurs, and clears her throat, taking another step back. "You should get it checked out."
"I will," N says. There is something very peculiar in his chest.
There is a brief silence.
"What're you waiting for?" she demands, breath huffing and chin jerking to one side. "Leave already!"
"White," he says. "You have a dream…that dream…make it come true."
"I have many dreams," she says quietly. "Some of them I have to let go."
N reaches out impulsively, fingers skimming her face, his eyes meeting hers in something-a promise. "Maybe they'll come back."
"Just fly already, N."
(He and Zekrom take off into the sky, and N inhales, the air fresh like after a spring storm. Zekrom soars higher; N raises a hand into the air, and closes it. When he opens it, he smiles at his empty palm. He can reach the sky.)
--
(“Long time no see, Victini. I guess you really like this lighthouse, huh?” White laughs, reaching over to ruffle its fur. “Just don’t short out the electricity or anything, okay? People need this light to find their way back.”)