Written Story Legacy: A Pokémon Shield Surpriselocke[MATURE, SPOILERS]

[RagstheMimikyu]

Rules:
1: Only catch the verrry first Pokémon caught on each route! No take-backs or redos! If the catch fails, too bad! You get nothing.

2: Every Pokémon caught must be immediately surprise-traded away. It’ll be so much fun that way! Every trade is a gamble!

3: Pokémon who faint are considered dead and must be permanently boxed. Don’t worry, being digitized doesn’t hurt! It’s a-okay! Their corpses remain as a promise, a reminder, a threat to their careless trainer. You must never disclose what actually happens to the Pokémon on this journey.

4: You must be aware that the camera is rolling. Even when it is not, you must never break character. This is all a game, after all.

 

[RagstheMimikyu]

Chapter One​

This was a mistake, he realizes. A horrible gamble, a dreadful lapse in judgement on his part. It could make a lesser man weep.

It really is quite sad that he doesn’t care anymore. His team-once so powerful and on-brand for such an elegant man-had been taken, confiscated for his crimes. Crimes that barely even scratched the surface of what the former chairman had done. Crimes that were-in blunt truth-sloppy and inelegant. Surely, a man of his caliber could have done so much fucking more-

He shakes his head, and tries to stave off the ache in his temples with a sigh. Allows himself to rise. It’s so pitiful of him, to be reduced to such a state. Slumped over on a threadbare bed in a prison cell, ugly orange jumpsuit tight around what muscle he’s had to put on. He stares at himself in the mirror and a scarred, sneering stranger with dark circles under his eyes stares back, blond hair askew. It turned out that he was unpopular in prison.

His stringy, defenseless body and shell of pompous “elegance” had made him a very easy target. He was more bark than bite and every other prisoner knew this the moment he’d been marched into his cell. It was either fight back and bare his fangs like a common dog, or allow himself to be trampled underfoot.

Shielbert chose the former and was shocked at how well it took. How much he..relished in it. The violence should have been uncouth and revolting to him. He should have kept a level head and remained civil, but beating the snot out of a stubborn bastard who wouldn’t keep his goddamn mouth shut? Getting to relish the taste of iron and curses on his lips he didn’t usually ever allow to slip, to let himself be vulgar and angry and wild?

It had made prison bearable, and he..found himself enjoying it too much. The thrill of a good fight. Now, he was scarred in body but not in mind. Unbroken by this place, because he saw what it meant to do and refused.

“You have become vulgar, Shielbert.” His own brother-his flesh and blood-said this to him. He had remained thin and beautiful, despite his bruising and hobbling limp. Still full of royal elegance. A primal part of his mind screamed to take advantage of this vulnerability, so he did.

He snarled deep in his throat, and took no satisfaction in watching Sordward flinch back from the bars of his cell. Pressed himself against them, fists balled at his sides, new cords of muscle rippling. “I’ll show you vulgar. Come at me, coward.” Shielbert growled, mouth twisting into a sneer, scar tissue pulling up his cheek. Sharper teeth glinted behind chapped lips and his brother’s legs trembled and all he could think was, Good. He should be scared of me. “I’ll make you swallow your fuckin’ teeth. Talk to me like that again, I dare you.”

They were identical, and yet he had deviated. He had eschewed their forged identity like it meant nothing because he couldn’t handle the idea of breaking, shattering, being weak. His new vocabulary, his new cage-rattling violence and volatile rage..it was all a product of this hellhole. Of the constant mockery, the shame he felt. The bruising that the guards turned a blind eye to, their sneers as he hobbled away from another beating, “Pokémon-abusing trash like you deserves worse than a few bruises.”

He wanted to correct them and say he’d never abused anything. That his Pokémon had been treated perfectly well and he’d even been so kind as to admit his mistake and turn himself in. He’d tried to, once, but all that got him was another black eye and an admonishment to “Never lie to me again, trash.” And so he never did.

“What did they do to you? You never used to be like this.” Sordward spoke softly one day after seeing the new sharpness of his teeth and the slink in his walk and the way he didn’t ever turn his back and kept looking-looking-looking over his shoulder. He didn’t respond. Saw the batons rising, knew the implication, ”Stay quiet, boy, if you know what’s good for you-“

His brother had kept coming back. Never abandoned him for being so obstinate. Just..returned, day after day, and didn’t waver. He wanted to cry, to say he wasn’t worth it anymore. He didn’t because tears meant vulnerability and vulnerability had long since been beaten out of him. He’s never safe, he wants to say, he’s never once been safe here and he’s become so paranoid that every shadow is a new threat-

Shielbert swallows what is left of his pride and forces himself to smile. It’s hollow. He shouldn’t be doing this to his own brother, making him so sad. What a horrible sibling he’s become, but the truth spills out like kerosene to a fire,

“They made me stronger.”

And that is the day he is finally given a second chance.

 

[RagstheMimikyu]

Chapter Two
​

Shielbert has relearned to chafe under corrupt authority at this prison. To never trust their smiles, because their words don’t match them and they never reach their eyes. To bite a hand reaching to feed because the food could be laced with poison(he’s been sick too many times after being “offered” a good meal to trust it, to avoid searching-watching-waiting). He’s lied before, he’s stolen before, but never without help. Never without an obvious smile and an elegant facade and money to bribe under the table(never without being fast and frantic and feeling his lungs scream-), never without poise. Now poise and elegance no longer matter. The facade he’s built up no longer matters, he no longer matters(it’s like he’s back there aga-no, no, that line of thought leads only to disaster).

He has learned to never accept what seems to be kindness, because it could very well stab him in the back. Some would say-most, he realizes, would say-that he deserves it, and he’s not going to disagree. Shielbert learned to be paranoid when a fellow prisoner stabbed him in the back, pretended to help him find his way around only to frame him for “disturbing the peace”. Naturally, nobody bought the truth or wanted to believe the truth, because he’s already told so many lies. That is why he’s here. Why not one more?

So he went to his cell that night bleeding and cursing his own stupidity. He crumpled up that idiotic, foolish, blind man who once looked down on everyone without looking over his shoulder. Shielbert realized then that he truly did not have a royal lineage to be traced anymore, no money to spend, and no silver-tongued attempts at lying would work. His usual trappings were unneeded at best, mocked at worst.

As such, they’ve been discarded and left to rot.

He stares blankly at the man who’s just approached him through the glass he’s been dropped behind, hands securely cuffed. A familiar face. Dark circles under calm blue eyes, artfully mussed black and white hair, and horrid posture. Piers. Former Spikemuth gym leader, one of the people who wrought a confession from them. A man who was meant to be spending time away in retirement. Why was he here? Wasting his time in prison, of all places?

“How’s prison been treating you?” He has the gall to ask, and Shielbert wants to choke him. His body tenses. This could be a trap. The guards are listening, there’s already warning hands on battered batons waiting for an excuse to drop, they’ll hear him if he fesses up, just-act-natural-

He tries desperately to slap on that worn-out mask he’s discarded. It feels too large and too small all at once. His old smile does not reach his eyes and it feels blank and dead but he doesn’t dare let it slip.

Lie, lie, lie and maybe they won’t find out and they won’t have an excuse. Lie and make sure nobody steps on any toes, because if he doesn’t lie it’ll just make things worse. “Never been better.” Piers’ eyes scan him like they already know what to look for, and he can feel himself shrinking away.

“I know you’re lyin’, Shielbert, but I’ll let that slide fer now. Let’s cut t’ the chase; I’m offerin’ ya a way outta this place.” His voice is low, measured, and unexpectedly calm. It sends a chill down his spine. Shielbert clenches his hands into fists and grits his teeth when his bruising wrists ache against cold iron. “You wouldn’t actually do that for me. There’s a catch.”

He narrows his eyes and bares his sharpened teeth, and Piers-to his credit-doesn’t even bat an eyelash. He feels himself getting angrier, doesn’t bother suppressing a snarl. “Why are you actually here, then, to laugh at how far I’ve fallen? To gloat? Is that it?!”

Piers remains completely stoic. He sets something down on the table on his side of the glass. A Pokéball with a strange symbol etched into the release button. A leaf, covered in symbols he can’t identify, so small he can barely make them out. It’s strangely elaborate. Even Luxary-brand Pokéballs don’t have this level of craftsmanship put into such a small part of the design. “If I were, I wouldn’t have gotten ya this. This-“ He rolls the ball over to his side, and Shielbert catches it in his lap. “-bein’ your ticket outta here.”

Shielbert doesn’t dare to hope there isn’t a catch, but he can feel his hands shake. It’s been ages since he’s had a Pokéball, a Pokémon. Ages since he’s had anyone to trust or even think of trusting, and..he’s scared, because he damn well knows there’s another shoe waiting to drop. Nobody would give a known criminal-a rumored Pokémon abuser, at that-a Pokémon without some kind of contingency.

“What’s the catch?” Piers’ lips twist into a smirk. “Ya caught on quick. Good t’ know this little prison stint smartened you up some.” He wants to punch the smug bastard for that comment alone, but his wrists are bound and he’d rather not risk solitary over a chance at freedom. Shielbert doesn’t dare let go of the ball.

“You’ve been chosen, an’ that ball is Locked to your aura. Ya know what that means, don’tcha?”

A chill runs up Shielbert’s spine. Every human has some form of aura-tangible or not-and any person can “see” that signature with enough technological know-how. Some lucky individuals are strong enough to pull off amazing feats-telekinesis and telepathy, primarily utilized by Psychics and their stronger gym-leader counterparts in unregulated battles-or even “sense” their fellows from miles off. He is one of the commoners in this regard. Born with aura that he cannot feel, but knows is there.

Aura-Locking, also known as “Nuzlocking” from the unfortunate Nuzleaf-owner who first experienced this sensation is now a common punishment. One used for entertainment and heavily popularized since its origin in Hoenn, for the masses to lap up by the bucketful. Challenges of that sort are broadcast around the world.

Unlike typical Pokémon training, it requires a license, a sponsorship, a minimum age of twenty-five years, and a written recommendation from a gym leader willing to supervise said challenger-which is like pulling water from a stubborn Geodude if the participant is willing, because most gym leaders are not crazed sadists-and the leader in question are expected to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

With such a high bar for entry, no wonder that most takers are convicts who have no other option if they ever want to own Pokémon again, or convicts who are “chosen” to be given the generous opportunity. Children very, very rarely go on journeys oblivious to this darker side of life. They lap up the broadcasts with eager anticipation that only children can justify, believing it all a willing game.

When this tedium of paperwork and sponsoring is complete, the broadcasting begins in earnest. The responsible adult is set out on their quest with specialized Pokéballs, each tied to their aura. If the Pokémon within is injured or afflicted with a status concoction such as paralysis, so is the trainer(“temporarily”, they say). This is meant to encourage attachment to the Pokémon. If the Pokémon “faints”(supposedly, they never die; it always cuts to black when their bodies go limp) its connection is painfully severed and the trainer will feel what has been described by ex-convicts as “emotional overload”. The more connections are severed, the more the convict suffers emotionally and physically.

And the masses usually love it. They lap it up like dogs. They see it as a game to be catalogued, start up entire communities that critique the convicts’ performances or detailing how pathetic they are for “letting a Pokémon die”. Some kind souls do actually offer help, but they are few and far between. Most are just there to pile on further abuse, or rally for or against them, to bet on the easily-discarded lives of Pokémon as one would bet on a race-horse. Convicts have nearly died during this “challenge” and people have watched and laughed. It’s sick and depraved and it’s entertaining.

He’s heard about it, of course, but never imagined he’d be on the receiving end of such a thing. Any man who comes out in the other end is free of their shackles and given a fresh start, but at what cost? Their dignity? Their pride? Their very souls, their sanity, their battered and strained aura? Their twisted views of Pokémon tainted forever because they-are-one and they’ve had to be connected and feel them die again-again-again?

He steels himself. Knows this is his only chance at redemption, as repulsive as it sounds, and knows he doesn’t even really have a choice. His aura is already twisting, adhering against whatever is in ball.

They are connected already. He has no choice. If someone else were to use this Pokémon, he’d be feeling phantom pains and already he can hear his aura sing in tandem with another, We are one now, you and I.

“I…” His hand clenches around the ball and whatever is inside brushes its aura around his, tangles them together in a knot. He has no choice but to say it like this now,

“No. We accept.”

 

[RagstheMimikyu]

Chapter Three
​

His aura-bound companion is one he didn’t expect. Well, he didn’t expect anything at all-least of all to be offered this sort of chance-but what he’s obtained is pink and dainty, wearing a hat. It sits, looking up at him expectantly, feet thumping gently against his lap. “It’s-” What can he possibly say? “Thanks for the type I’ve ever used before, Piers, you’ve been a spectacular help”? “-cute.” Shielbert elects to say something nice about the tiny Pokémon so it won’t be angry, only for it to turn up its head! Like it’s looking down on him!

Irritation springs to the surface and he grumbles, “I was trying to be nice, you little shi-“ but before he can finish his sentence, it smacks him right in the stomach three times in quick succession with its long, pink braids, sending him flying back against his chair. Shielbert gets up and shoots it a glare, which it very calmly returns from under its as though it wants to do that again. He moves closer until their noses touch. Its gaze remains unwavering. He growls, and the tiny creature does nothing but angrily gesticulate back with the ends of its hair.

They’re at a standstill. It is tiny and likely more agile than him, but much weaker, and he is cuffed and unable to move his hands properly, but has more muscle and-perhaps-more brains. Hopefully. Unless he’s needlessly flattering himself again, just like old times. Shielbert doesn’t dare take his eyes off the stubborn little twit as it chitters and tries-again-to strike him in the gut. This time, he manages to twist out of the way and it is sent careening into a wall. The Pokémon begins to trill noisily as though in complaint as it springs to its feet completely unscathed, and he scowls, “Oh, come off it, mate! You were the one who tried to hit me first!”

Piers looks like he’s about to laugh at them both while he’s getting him uncuffed and is trying to hold it in, the absolute prat. His shoulders are even shaking the longer he watches, he even fumbles a touch with the keys as he gets his wrists free. “Thanks.” Shielbert grumbles, heaving a sigh and reaching for the Pokémon with now-freed hands. It already looks poised to strike him again, this time in a more vulnerable spot.
Shielbert reaches out with his aura to see what’s wrong and feels a spike of offended anger that isn’t his. The word “cute” is something this Pokémon doesn’t take kindly to hearing, and the level of irritation it gives off his similar to when he is called a “Pokémon abuser”. No wonder it was ready to hit him.

He puts his hands up in the universal sign of surrender before scooting closer, “I regret that I called you cute.” Shielbert can’t quite bring himself to say “sorry”. Not yet, not to this. He hopes it can’t feel the sharp pangs of his regret, the bruising it’s unintentionally aggravated. “I didn’t know you’d be insulted, and it’s fine that you’re pissed off. Just..know that I didn’t mean any harm, okay?”

The Pokémon stares at him again and doesn’t turn up its nose, instead nodding and patting his stomach through the jumpsuit with the ends of its floppy hat. When he winces and sucks air through his teeth, it begins looking around his sore abdomen and tugging loose threads away. “Hey, what are you-“ Finally, it stops in its psychic meddling to point to the now-exposed bruises already dotting his skin. Shielbert’s stomach drops. “They look worse than they feel.” I’ve had worse, he wants to say, I’ve seen worse, this is nothing. It gives him a flat look. Something grazes the bruises and he lets out another hiss through his teeth, shuddering. They’re deeper than he thought. It shudders too, face taut with pain under its hat, and he knows it can also feel the bruising just as intimately, if not more so.

Piers’ expression goes from amused to stone-cold pissed within two seconds. The former Spikemuth gym leader takes Shielbert by the hand and hails him up on his feet. “Can ya walk?” He nods curtly, before trying to call the Pokémon back to its ball. It doesn’t need to feel this anymore. Instead, it dances aside, avoiding every single attempt to recall it. Its stubborn, unseen gaze remains fixed on him, and he can feel a surge of determination to make this better. Of regret for hurting him more.

Shielbert can’t remember the last time anyone besides Sordward has cared to this extent, and it scares him. It scares him, because if he gets too attached it could hurt.

A soft, high-pitched voice breaks into the conversation. He can’t tell who is speaking, because it certainly isn’t Piers. Maybe a guard? His head is aching.

“-feelings-wrong-“

He tries to remain calm and just keep walking. It doesn’t matter.

 

[RagstheMimikyu]

Chapter 4​

There are many talk-shows and gossipy tabloids that have tried wringing their mysterious past out of them. They always rehearsed the things they enjoyed-regulated Pokémon battles, going to the beach, staying at the lavish corporate-owned hotel in Windon-but never let anything else slip. It was his idea. Sordward wanted to tell the truth out of a twisted sort of pragmatism, “They deserve to know, and wouldn’t the details make them more sympathetic to our cause? The public would eat out of our hands, think about it!” But in the end, they never did.

So why? Why is it that after so long, seeing the streets of Spikemuth makes his senses sharpen, makes him slouch rather than swagger? His usual clothing is gone(incinerated, most likely. god, he hopes so.), his usual facade now beaten to a pulp and cast aside in a ditch to die(how ironic, part of him sneers, that you’d use that turn of phrase) but..he didn’t think he’d be back here. Didn’t think he’d feel so at home after all these years.

Piers’ gaze is heavy on his back as he moves forward, moving purely on long-remembered instinct. The other man is the former head of the gym, so he likely knows it well enough, but..he’s not exactly the type. He was a child prodigy sponsored for the gym challenge at age ten and became a leader and a famous musician, for crying out loud; he couldn’t be more comfortable if he tried.

For all the man wears his own facade like a sort of armor(Shielbert can’t judge and knows the struggle of balancing two selves intimately), Piers isn’t a kid who had to grow up too fast. He probably never had to struggle like they did, and it hurts. It stings, knowing that his stupid pompous, spoiled rich-prince facade is what defines him. Sordward is much more comfortable with it than him and discarded their past like the trash it was, but now he doesn’t know if he ever has.

He wishes his brother were here. Wishes the Pokémon at his side didn’t seem to know what he was thinking as intimately as he did, that Piers didn’t look so damn confused and curious when he turned down a well-worn alleyway full of rubbish and said, “This way’s faster.” He ignored his flabbergasted expression-though it was pretty priceless to see the man’s mouth agape-and kept moving forward.

The Hatterene stares at him before tugging Piers along, and he feels a pulse of intrigue-confusion-curiosity(how do you know all this-where are we even going-do you honestly know the way) inside his aura. He sends back a pulsing of impatience-confidence-denial(yes, I know where we’re going-I’m not telling you how-just follow me already) and keeps moving. Doesn’t stop to check if Piers is following because he’s fallen into his old habit. Walk like you own the place and you get beat up, so don’t even try. Slouch like you’re sloppy or bored, jump over this dumpster, duck behind a corner, check every single shadow when it moves because you never know who or what could be waiting, don’t stop to breathe because if you do you’re just asking to get shanked or robbed-

And then come out the other side. Muss up the hair more so it’s sticking out everywhere, paint dirt into your cheeks and your jumpsuit, and ignore the stares from Obstagoon-wannabe as you do.

“Don’t speak. Follow me.”

If Piers wants to get stabbed in his own neck of the woods, that’s his business, but Shielbert isn’t dying today.