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No Gods but Monsters
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The Pallet Sun is out and the morning Pidgey is crowing away as this shindig of a graduation ceremony is happening. You six get to get shake hands with my Gramps, probably play audience to some grandiose speech by some elusive, long-forgotten retired first, second or third ring champion before going off to Tojho Falls and committing yourselves to the first genuine act of water pollution you ever commited in your lives.
It is the 1050th Indigo Seasonal Pokemon League. A year and a half long tourney of fledgling trainers to play the Game. Some veteran trainers romanticise it as a journey of self-exploration. Conservatives call it a celebration of a cherished honored national past-time. Progressives call it a ruthless blood-sport that only serves as a hotspot for tourism and nothing more. Hmph.
You know what I prefer to call it? Paying homage to a god. A ideal known as the Grand Champion. Of course, the Grand Champion isn't just one person. Their faces change every year. Some seem to last for more than a century but you catch my drift. The Grand Champion is the epitome of human nature as a whole. Not the political definition of responsibility, the antiquated sentiment of pure will nor the brunt belief of pure skill. He or she represents our capability to survive as a species, endure through that great Collaspe which shook the world in times I couldn't possibly conceive. The Champion is a representation of the human ability to kill mercilessly and act without remorse for our own ensured survival.
So, what's the purpose of the flock of trainers, then? To be his worshipers.
How do we worship a god such as this? An unorthodox one?
Why, by trying to kill him, that's why. Shatter his image. Defeat him so thoroughly that he could be subjectively considered dead. The Gyms, the multitude of trainers in your way, the wild pokemon, whatever obstacles you encounter are his guards, his castle. By trying to kill him, we raise ourselves in return and better ourselves. We worship his beliefs for monetary gain. We worship to find purpose in life. This worship is the ultimate method of self-improvement.
All of us have the potential to be Champion. And yet, we're not.
Only Champions have the potential to defeat Champions.
You can take the above monologue as me snorting up too much petrified Emolga shit or you can either forge an explanation of your own to why the League exists in the first place.
My explanation is only one interpretation after all.
But, it sounds way fucking cooler than what you can come up with. Am I right or am I right?
- Gary Samuel Oak, Blue, 9 years old
It is the 1050th Indigo Seasonal Pokemon League. A year and a half long tourney of fledgling trainers to play the Game. Some veteran trainers romanticise it as a journey of self-exploration. Conservatives call it a celebration of a cherished honored national past-time. Progressives call it a ruthless blood-sport that only serves as a hotspot for tourism and nothing more. Hmph.
You know what I prefer to call it? Paying homage to a god. A ideal known as the Grand Champion. Of course, the Grand Champion isn't just one person. Their faces change every year. Some seem to last for more than a century but you catch my drift. The Grand Champion is the epitome of human nature as a whole. Not the political definition of responsibility, the antiquated sentiment of pure will nor the brunt belief of pure skill. He or she represents our capability to survive as a species, endure through that great Collaspe which shook the world in times I couldn't possibly conceive. The Champion is a representation of the human ability to kill mercilessly and act without remorse for our own ensured survival.
So, what's the purpose of the flock of trainers, then? To be his worshipers.
How do we worship a god such as this? An unorthodox one?
Why, by trying to kill him, that's why. Shatter his image. Defeat him so thoroughly that he could be subjectively considered dead. The Gyms, the multitude of trainers in your way, the wild pokemon, whatever obstacles you encounter are his guards, his castle. By trying to kill him, we raise ourselves in return and better ourselves. We worship his beliefs for monetary gain. We worship to find purpose in life. This worship is the ultimate method of self-improvement.
All of us have the potential to be Champion. And yet, we're not.
Only Champions have the potential to defeat Champions.
You can take the above monologue as me snorting up too much petrified Emolga shit or you can either forge an explanation of your own to why the League exists in the first place.
My explanation is only one interpretation after all.
But, it sounds way fucking cooler than what you can come up with. Am I right or am I right?
- Gary Samuel Oak, Blue, 9 years old
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Shattered Reflections
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Monsters and Men
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The morning chatot cries out loud in the soft dappled glow of the sunrise as the inhabitants of Pallet Town wake up to another day. Some stay in, workers who've taken a late shift for their vacationing co-workers while others, owners of Weedle and Wurmple silk stores,
berry store sellers, traditional blacksmith workers and the local entourage of shopkeepers in Pallet roll up their blinds to a busy day of catering to customers.
That is, if it were any normal day in Pallet. Pallet was a valley town, in the country-side and far away from the benefits, disadvantages and the package that urbanization brought to most cities in Kanto. There was a regular ordained schedule for most people. The tall emerald grass vibrated gently in the gusts of the wind. Of course, there were the Pokemon. There was an old paradox saying that no city could be considered civilized if there was still wild pokemon roaming about but yet, pokemon was a necessity in today's society. Carrier birds of all sizes and species, wingulls, pidgies and taillows, travelling distances of merely a block to trans-continental routes, flow across the skies of Pallet incessantly. Guard growlithes and arcanines stood on guard in the stables and on the lawns of their owners, scratching the back of their oversized ears with their hind legs once in a while. There were gaggles of children playing and prodding at the odd mundane wild pokemon such as an Caterpie that seemed more chubby than the 256th one they saw yesterday or playing at dreams of grandeur, imagining they had some unique, legendary, one in a million mon contained in an primitively carved apricorn husk that resembled a poke-ball.
Pallet was a frozen painting, each color serving to provide a view that would have gone old real fast. An annual fresh coat of paint was needed to keep up the allure. The Pallet Pokemon Graduation Ceremony. It wasn't clearly a bout of public hedonism like the Goldenrod Festivals nor was it a ravaging foaming display of national patrioism like the Vermillion Parades but it was traditional, respectful and a under-rated event. Adhering to the strictest of traditions that had been practiced since the begining of the Neo-Collaspe Era and the expenditure of money monitored by the Professor himself. While the economic and social benefits of the graduation ceremony to Pallet Town were stated innumerable times in geopolitic essays and rag-tag fifth grade geography posters, the Pallet Graduation Ceremony celebrated over 25 trainers who had passed their exams successfully, 15 endemic to the population of Pallet and 10 non-endemic trainers or wildcards to be precise. Strangers. The point of the ceremony was the same as any. To give one a feeling of worth-while achievement and the allure of celebration was a drug that was under-estimated in its potency. Especially in a sleepy valley town.
Bottles of champagne were being cracked open as families watch the event from their TV. A pixellated video of the Pallet Town Amphitheatre, connected to Route 1, open-air, crowded to the brim as every seat was densely packed to the brim with Pallet natives, tourists, eager sponsership companies, food stand operators and security guards looking to quell any signs of rowdy behavior. Bated breath, as they waited for the main attraction of the day event.
The trainers, of course. And you, my good friend, are one of those trainers.
berry store sellers, traditional blacksmith workers and the local entourage of shopkeepers in Pallet roll up their blinds to a busy day of catering to customers.
That is, if it were any normal day in Pallet. Pallet was a valley town, in the country-side and far away from the benefits, disadvantages and the package that urbanization brought to most cities in Kanto. There was a regular ordained schedule for most people. The tall emerald grass vibrated gently in the gusts of the wind. Of course, there were the Pokemon. There was an old paradox saying that no city could be considered civilized if there was still wild pokemon roaming about but yet, pokemon was a necessity in today's society. Carrier birds of all sizes and species, wingulls, pidgies and taillows, travelling distances of merely a block to trans-continental routes, flow across the skies of Pallet incessantly. Guard growlithes and arcanines stood on guard in the stables and on the lawns of their owners, scratching the back of their oversized ears with their hind legs once in a while. There were gaggles of children playing and prodding at the odd mundane wild pokemon such as an Caterpie that seemed more chubby than the 256th one they saw yesterday or playing at dreams of grandeur, imagining they had some unique, legendary, one in a million mon contained in an primitively carved apricorn husk that resembled a poke-ball.
Pallet was a frozen painting, each color serving to provide a view that would have gone old real fast. An annual fresh coat of paint was needed to keep up the allure. The Pallet Pokemon Graduation Ceremony. It wasn't clearly a bout of public hedonism like the Goldenrod Festivals nor was it a ravaging foaming display of national patrioism like the Vermillion Parades but it was traditional, respectful and a under-rated event. Adhering to the strictest of traditions that had been practiced since the begining of the Neo-Collaspe Era and the expenditure of money monitored by the Professor himself. While the economic and social benefits of the graduation ceremony to Pallet Town were stated innumerable times in geopolitic essays and rag-tag fifth grade geography posters, the Pallet Graduation Ceremony celebrated over 25 trainers who had passed their exams successfully, 15 endemic to the population of Pallet and 10 non-endemic trainers or wildcards to be precise. Strangers. The point of the ceremony was the same as any. To give one a feeling of worth-while achievement and the allure of celebration was a drug that was under-estimated in its potency. Especially in a sleepy valley town.
Bottles of champagne were being cracked open as families watch the event from their TV. A pixellated video of the Pallet Town Amphitheatre, connected to Route 1, open-air, crowded to the brim as every seat was densely packed to the brim with Pallet natives, tourists, eager sponsership companies, food stand operators and security guards looking to quell any signs of rowdy behavior. Bated breath, as they waited for the main attraction of the day event.
The trainers, of course. And you, my good friend, are one of those trainers.
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Slate
The underground chambers of the Pallet Cobblestone Amphitheater were clammy and less claustrophobic than Willis imagined. Smooth chiseled marble covered the walls, archways lining throughout the waiting room as the entire alabaster room was illuminated visibly with the assistance of the ceiling lights above. Paper cups, crumpled and soaked blue with Oran berry juice, were scattered on the floor below, kicked around or flattened by the foots of the trainers in the underground chamber. He had secured himself a safe little corner, tucked away behind a pillar, away from the prattle of other trainers socializing among themselves. In a large space with nothing to do, it seemed that people always gravitated towards each other. Humans were social animals, plain and simple. It didn't take a PhD in applied poke-sciences to figure that one out.
Besides, he was concentrated on something else more important than talking about the new League regulation of the month, the current Orre Refugee Crisis that was occurring or the latest slew of insults towards Pokemon Coordination.
His stump. The shabby dilapidated remains of his left fore-arm. Fresh skin, akin to that of a new-born baby, had grown over and his left arm bleeded no more. He could still remember that day in the ER, when he tried to believe that the river of blood running red from his arm was just a adrenaline-fueled hallucination and that he wasn't a cripple. If only reality was more grateful to him. If only. Then again, reality was a cruel mistress that could take and give at any time.
His fingers gently grazed across his amputated limb, dancing over the freshly healed skin as he mulled over the most shittiest development in the history of shitty developments that was his entire life in general. He was still trying to get used to it, forgetting that he was even missing his left arm at all. Reaching for the phone in his shower. Dropping items on the ground accidentally due to lack of balance.
The doctors said he would get used to it. The therepeutic process would take time and soon, all would be right as rain. That was what he was hoping for. He squinted his eyes as a wayward errant physical feeling reverberated through his right arm. The feeling of the polished wood table in his face. The solid composition of a poke-ball in his grasp. The yielding texture of a wheat bun during a morning breakfast routine in his barracks. All of those past sensations mocked him as he kept feeling each and every one of them.
He could still feel it. That otherworldly, ghostly sensation that mimicked his left arm. The electrical feeling of reaching out for the air. Clenching. Squeezing. A semblance of what could have been. His mind knew that it was gone but even the human body had limits to how it reacted to a integral part of it being lopped off and tossed into a sterilized medical trash can. Phantom limbs were the medical term for them. Official medical report considered him lucky. He wasn't suffering from the constant burning or agonizing pain that plagued most people with his condition. A mild tingle. The physical history of past sensations was his only punishment for his gumption of applying for the Rangers Spec Ops Training.
Enough of remniscing about the past. Bitter memories could turn into a disease if he didn't take care of them properly. Breath. In and out. He closed his eyes for a second, his heart-rate slowing down as days of regimented drill training in Viridian's Fort Barrow took over. After his final exhalation, he opened his eyes, the most sedate he'd ever been since...Well....the days on the farm. Not that he liked to admit it. He absent-mindedly tugged on the collar of the outfit he'd chosen to wear to the Ceremony today. The Ranger Corps had been lucky to allow him to keep his G.I mon, despite the fact it was loaded with Waterloo's genetic modified whackery that would be considered morally reprehensible for Novice competition. His former BDU uniform, no beret included, was just the ticker. Just the pants, though. Former military and a crippled condition, when combined together, tended to attract attention. And uncomfortable questions. He combined it with a side of Milotic's Beauty very own tanned Miltank leather jacket that his G.I bill could afford safely. He was a wallflower. Unappealing. Unattractive. Out of notice. Just what he wanted. He rarely had any time to enjoy the benefits of the income he earned from being a Ranger due to the frequent rotations he had between the numerous Ranger Squads in the Viridian Sector.
That and the upkeep for Thrush's nutritional requirements was horrendous. Quality Celadon fertilizer that was approved by Erika Vajhallen, the Thorn Gardener, didn't come cheap at the price of one Idol.
Speaking of which, his little partner in this self-appointed mad quest of his was currently dozing off in a ceramic pot full of down by his feet. A handle grip connected to the pot allowed him to barely support Thrush's obese weight with his right arm. A green crown of leaves poked out from the pot as it could have been mistaken for a potted plant, some sort of rooted vegetable like a carrot or a radish. The leaves swayed unnaturally, bobbing up and down, as if there was some inhabitant inside there. The hustle and bustle of the room didn't appear to wake Thrush up from his slumber. Why did he even bother worrying? He'd trained Thrush for public situations multiple times. It wasn't like he was going to do a designated pollen dispersal in a heavily crowded area to the mere sound of footsteps. Now, that would earn him a court martial, decommissioned officer or not.
Willis leaned back against the marble wall as he relaxed himself, sagging his shoulders as he waited for the go signal from the underground speakers that would put all of the 25 trainers currently inside the room in the spotlight of every news channel and sports channel in the borders of the Indigo Provincial Government. He wondered for a brief moment if he knew what he was doing. If he was out of his depth in the League just as he was in the Ranger Corps.
Eh, fuck it.
He'd come too far to doubt himself now.
Besides, he was concentrated on something else more important than talking about the new League regulation of the month, the current Orre Refugee Crisis that was occurring or the latest slew of insults towards Pokemon Coordination.
His stump. The shabby dilapidated remains of his left fore-arm. Fresh skin, akin to that of a new-born baby, had grown over and his left arm bleeded no more. He could still remember that day in the ER, when he tried to believe that the river of blood running red from his arm was just a adrenaline-fueled hallucination and that he wasn't a cripple. If only reality was more grateful to him. If only. Then again, reality was a cruel mistress that could take and give at any time.
His fingers gently grazed across his amputated limb, dancing over the freshly healed skin as he mulled over the most shittiest development in the history of shitty developments that was his entire life in general. He was still trying to get used to it, forgetting that he was even missing his left arm at all. Reaching for the phone in his shower. Dropping items on the ground accidentally due to lack of balance.
The doctors said he would get used to it. The therepeutic process would take time and soon, all would be right as rain. That was what he was hoping for. He squinted his eyes as a wayward errant physical feeling reverberated through his right arm. The feeling of the polished wood table in his face. The solid composition of a poke-ball in his grasp. The yielding texture of a wheat bun during a morning breakfast routine in his barracks. All of those past sensations mocked him as he kept feeling each and every one of them.
He could still feel it. That otherworldly, ghostly sensation that mimicked his left arm. The electrical feeling of reaching out for the air. Clenching. Squeezing. A semblance of what could have been. His mind knew that it was gone but even the human body had limits to how it reacted to a integral part of it being lopped off and tossed into a sterilized medical trash can. Phantom limbs were the medical term for them. Official medical report considered him lucky. He wasn't suffering from the constant burning or agonizing pain that plagued most people with his condition. A mild tingle. The physical history of past sensations was his only punishment for his gumption of applying for the Rangers Spec Ops Training.
Enough of remniscing about the past. Bitter memories could turn into a disease if he didn't take care of them properly. Breath. In and out. He closed his eyes for a second, his heart-rate slowing down as days of regimented drill training in Viridian's Fort Barrow took over. After his final exhalation, he opened his eyes, the most sedate he'd ever been since...Well....the days on the farm. Not that he liked to admit it. He absent-mindedly tugged on the collar of the outfit he'd chosen to wear to the Ceremony today. The Ranger Corps had been lucky to allow him to keep his G.I mon, despite the fact it was loaded with Waterloo's genetic modified whackery that would be considered morally reprehensible for Novice competition. His former BDU uniform, no beret included, was just the ticker. Just the pants, though. Former military and a crippled condition, when combined together, tended to attract attention. And uncomfortable questions. He combined it with a side of Milotic's Beauty very own tanned Miltank leather jacket that his G.I bill could afford safely. He was a wallflower. Unappealing. Unattractive. Out of notice. Just what he wanted. He rarely had any time to enjoy the benefits of the income he earned from being a Ranger due to the frequent rotations he had between the numerous Ranger Squads in the Viridian Sector.
That and the upkeep for Thrush's nutritional requirements was horrendous. Quality Celadon fertilizer that was approved by Erika Vajhallen, the Thorn Gardener, didn't come cheap at the price of one Idol.
Speaking of which, his little partner in this self-appointed mad quest of his was currently dozing off in a ceramic pot full of down by his feet. A handle grip connected to the pot allowed him to barely support Thrush's obese weight with his right arm. A green crown of leaves poked out from the pot as it could have been mistaken for a potted plant, some sort of rooted vegetable like a carrot or a radish. The leaves swayed unnaturally, bobbing up and down, as if there was some inhabitant inside there. The hustle and bustle of the room didn't appear to wake Thrush up from his slumber. Why did he even bother worrying? He'd trained Thrush for public situations multiple times. It wasn't like he was going to do a designated pollen dispersal in a heavily crowded area to the mere sound of footsteps. Now, that would earn him a court martial, decommissioned officer or not.
Willis leaned back against the marble wall as he relaxed himself, sagging his shoulders as he waited for the go signal from the underground speakers that would put all of the 25 trainers currently inside the room in the spotlight of every news channel and sports channel in the borders of the Indigo Provincial Government. He wondered for a brief moment if he knew what he was doing. If he was out of his depth in the League just as he was in the Ranger Corps.
Eh, fuck it.
He'd come too far to doubt himself now.
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Celadon Fertilizer - Several grades of League-approved experimental fertilizer are used and supported in competition for healthy growth of grass-type pokemon and to decrease the waiting period for the evolution period. Quality of the fertilizer is determined by the League Competition Approved Chemical Grading System, Indigo being the highest tier while Lavender is the lowest tier.
Waterloo - Waterloo is the military division of Chimera Industries, a legal government-sanctioned company specializing in the genetic modification of pokemon for uses in the public and private sector. Waterloo currently hold stock in the Ranger Corps, A.C.E and the Kantonese Military.
Neo-Collaspe- The terminology referred to the modern period after the Great Collapse, an age where wild pokemon roamed the lands and humanity was on the verge of extinction with all past technology being wiped out from existence. There exists a invaluable library of pre-Collaspe records, secretly kept by most governments of the world.
Idol - Official currency of the Indigo League Provincial Government. The dollar is printed with the face of the Grand Champion of Kanto. The penny is inscribed with the face-work of Governer Takashi of Kanto and Governer Hayama of Johto who forged the Indigo Alliance. The five, ten, twenty and fifty show the current Elite Four and the hundred is a mural to the numerous governers of the Indigo Parliament. The nickle and dime feature the Kanto Professors.
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Indigo Regional Government Para-Kingdom Encyclopedia: (-043-): Oddish
Basic Characteristic: Grass Type, Poison Type, Fairy-Type subtraits, Chloroplism Category, bisexual, Bipedal with large head of poisonous leaves for photosynthesis, blue colouration, mainly subsists off minerals and water found in the enviroment, Avg height: 0.5 m, World Record Height: 1.5 m, avg mass: 5.4 kg, world record mass: 20.6 kg.
Description: One of the most abundant Grass-Types in the Viridian Forest, Oddish's operate in a hive-like fashion similar to terran indigenous ant species. Vileplumes act as the queen, Glooms acting as the guards and Oddish's acting as the work force of the colony. An average Oddish colony ranges from about 100 specimens to over 500 specimens. Oddish behaviour also includes mostly hibernating during daytime, their large leafy heads being often confused for other plants. Other than this, Oddish's are mostly used as a common survival tool for Trainers and Rangers alike in most hostile enviroments due to being simple to engender behaviours into and their wide range of plant-based capabilities based on the absorption of different organic materials. There have been over 143 recorded uses along with many unconfirmed ones for a Oddish including tinder, food, purifying water, fending off wild Beedrill, acting as a potent stun-bomb among many other uses.
Nickname: The Weed Pokemon, The Plant Pokemon, fern-heads, chloroplants, radish-mon
".......You never know how many times a G.I Oddish saved our asses out there in the field. I mean, they might look small, unintimidating, cute, endearing and useless at first but there's more than meets the eye. If I were to list all of their uses, it would take a professional Alakazam mind-reader to psycho-analyse the entire list from my mind. Hell, I don't understand why High Command doesn't give every Ranger a Oddish. You can grow them in your own house as a matter of fact...."
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{G.M Note: Too long? Too short? Let me know what you think. Keep in mind the following world-building I do above is just a habit for these types of role-plays. You don't have to follow the format. Also, phooey. That was a whammy of a post}
