Torinoko Hall of Games

[Meryck]

I APOLOGIZE SO FLIPPIN' MUCH. But after so much research of a thing called "Glitchy Red"- a name I find totally sick and wrong, considering the content- and after much being sucker punched by nostalgia, I gave in to my cynical little muse. Forgive me, when I say I was raised on Pokemon, I'm not kidding. And I miss Red. The real Red. The one with the Pikachu that followed him until death.

ER ANYWAY, inane babble aside, this is to be used to gather the spirits of all the 'forgotten' Pokemon Trainers and Gym Leaders. The originals, not the remade/remastered/replacements. As you can guess, I already called dibs on Red and Gold, but feel free to grab anyone from Red/Yellow/Green/Blue to Diamond/Pearl/Platinum. Someone needs to drag my muse out of his funk, after all.

The set up is simple- after being 'forgotten' by the populace and left to rot, the originals more-or-less go to their own corner of VG Limbo to watch events unfold in their old world or see if anyone remembers them in ours. Considering Torinoko Hall is more-or-less a Pokeworld onto itself, it is possible to go on an adventure here, I'm sure. Being Forgotten also means that they are now aware they were a character in a game and never really had control. Take that as you will and see how the Muse reacts. In Torinoko Hall, however, they are free to do as they wish.

Just try not to blow anything up.

[Meryck]

((OOC: Oh yeah, did I mention that other than No Sex On Screen, pretty much anything is fair game in both Back-story and Here? They can't die anymore, anyway. >>;))





He had been mortified when he found out. It had been too soon, he had still been a child, and yet the Puppet Masters- that was his name for them, they didn't deserve the word 'human', even if he didn't either- had decided it would be fun to toy around with some glitches of the World when it had been new.

Horrors upon horrors screeched across the landscape. Even now, they had to lie and say that Cinnabar had simply exploded instead of Glitched into an unidentifiable mess. No Casualties? That's because nothing on the island could be considered alive anymore.

That was how he found out he was a game. He had no control. He never did. Everything he had accomplished, everything around him, down to the adorable, loyal Pikachu who always followed him....

Everything had been a fucking lie.

At first, he struck back at the Puppet Masters, toying with them, refusing to let them play his world right, showing them every little thing they had done wrong and chastising them for it before forcibly deleting himself, causing a technical suicide.

"Go ahead and forget me now," he had said. But they didn't listen. He was stuck in a limbo quite different from the one he was in now, forced to wait and watch amongst the eldritch abominations that had given him his awareness as the new Puppet was taken out and ran through the gauntlet, stealing away everything that had once been his, along with new things made to keep their little Game interesting. He had been furious and, while his voice was stripped from him yet again, he had brought his furry down upon the boy when the Puppet Masters brought him out for one final dance.

He had lost, of course.

Then, locked away once more, he had attempted to glitch out all successive Games, deciding if he couldn't have his vengeance, the Puppet Masters couldn't have their World. But eventually, the code became too complex for the poor, outdated hero.

And then they had fucking replaced him. His body, his memories, his thoughts, his goals, all shoved into a brown-haired, brown-eye clone without any mind or soul of it's own. Just a robot that, when it's time came, vanished without a trace.

Others came to Torinoko, but he kept away from them. At first it was out of spite, but as the vengeance in his heart cooled into a black pit, he realized nothing they had done was in their control either and, more to the point, he had lost his ability to socially interact. His vehement hatred of what had been done to him had rendered him an Outcast, even among those who had suffered too.

He spent his days sitting under a tree, arms wrapped around his legs and head resting on his knees, staring blankly into the pool of water before him. He watched as Generations rose and fell, according to the whim of the Puppet Masters cruelty.

They became such a legend that there was nothing left of Red to be proud of himself.

[Glyph]

He'd been here a long time. Not as long as some, the vague part of him that pretended to give a damn supposed, but long enough to take the edge off... Or perhaps it had just honed it sharper, sharper, so sharp he could hardly feel it anymore.

If he'd even been able to feel in the first place. That had been a lie, too, apparently--an elaborate lie that had spanned what had felt like a decade, a lie that had encompassed his childhood and filled his dreams... But a lie nonetheless. He was so sick of lies.

... Not that the truth was any better. It sickened him. It repulsed him. For the first time in his life--not-life--he felt like curling up, giving up, and crumbling where he stood. It was only that lingering pride, that flaming stubbornness from a past, failed existence that kept the anger going and the fire kindled. He hadn't given up when his mother had disappeared. He hadn't crumbled when he'd been faced with the truth, or when all of his sins were laid bare.

He was Silver. He'd spat in the face of adversity, hungered for the thrill of a challenge; he, Silver, had denounced his father and stolen his key to success, in the form of a tiny, red-and-white ball, right out from under a renowned professor's nose, and more; he, Silver, who'd reached out from the shadows to pluck triumph from those who least deserved it, who'd swayed on the edge of light and dark and fallen, made humble, and had rebuilt himself piece by agonizing, humiliating piece...

Except, it turns out, he really hadn't. And perhaps that was why, of all the things he'd survived, this tore him up inside the most. He hadn't survived it. He hadn't changed. He'd never change, and he was a fool to believe he'd still be able to.

Because none of it had ever happened.

[Meryck]

Red's rust colored eyes barely batted as he heard the soft steps of a Wanderer. Child, Normal Denizen, or Ancient like he, he wondered.

Ah, but so much empty time had given him plenty of names for everything and every one. He could've made a map of Torinoko, from the cities of crystal and steel to the forests made of something that almost seemed to be glowing holy to the hellishly dark pools of water. But he never bothered. What was the point? Why accept the reality now given to him?

It was probably just another trap.

Still, out of morbid curiosity, his eyes flickered under his burgundy-dusted black bangs. He soon wished he hadn't looked. It was one of Them. Of the first generation to come after Blue and himself, this time. What was his name....Silver, wasn't it?

The Ancient trainer suddenly wondered why he cared. His empty rust orbs slid back over to the placid lake before him.

[Glyph]

Silver stopped in front of the lake, too deep in thought to realize he was being watched, his hands thrust deep into his pockets for lack of anything better to do with them. Usually they'd be busy--they'd used to be busy--sliding a Pokeball from his belt or shifting through his pack or resting against the reassuringly cool scales of--

He felt a pang then, deep in his core, an emptiness that gaped at him like an open wound--but it was pain he shouldn't have been able to feel, because none of it had been real, none of it had mattered. And yet he felt it, and it infuriated him, choked him, because as tantalizing as the hope that the change had been real was, he could never forget that it had still been just a lie.

Feraligatr had been a lie.

For a split second, Silver's eyes closed, and his careful, cool mask slipped. For a split second, for one terrible moment of weakness, Silver's face betrayed the agony of his soul.

Then he opened his eyes, and it was gone. In its place came a burning, curled expression that he'd once sworn would never again see the light of day. It had reminded him too much of his father, but now he was inclined to wonder, with a haunting, crocodilian sneer, What father?

None of it had been real, after all.

[Meryck]

Red felt an odd aura coming from the Other. His rust eyes glanced over again.

Suddenly, inexplicably, he couldn't help but imagine the redheaded boy in a tacky, orange suit.

[Glyph]

Slowly, the sneer shrank from Silver's face, until the reflection in the still pool was blank and listless as it'd ever been. This wasn't right, the boy thought vaguely. This wasn't fair. He didn't want to be angry. He'd left that behind. He'd changed.

Hadn't he?

It wasn't fair. He'd worked so hard--he'd felt different then, and he still did. But did it matter? Did the fact that it had all been just... just a game undo everything he'd worked so hard for? Was all of that hardwork meaningless because it had been predetermined by something he couldn't control, and hadn't even known had existed?

Silver wasn't sure, and he would have continued brooding over it had not a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Immediately he bristled, falling back on an old habit as he hunched his shoulders and shot a glare the other boy's way.

"What are you staring at?" He snapped, irritably, angry that he couldn't ever seem to find a single moment to think without someone sneaking up on him. Probably a trainer--former trainer--by the looks of him, and very likely a Protagonist. An Old one. Silver'd seen him around a few times before, but he'd never bothered to ask. It didn't matter, anyway. He had no Pokemon--they'd all vanished the moment he'd arrived here, and he hadn't seen them since. It was infuriating--no matter what he did, he couldn't win. Turning away, the red-haired boy clenched his fists and bristled some more, projecting his rage out across the lake.

"If you're looking for a battle or some such malarkey, you're out of luck."

[Meryck]

Red responded with nothing but silence. He hadn't wanted a battle at all- he, too, had lost his Pokemon, and he didn't have the heart to find them again (they were better off free anyway). He simply continued to stare with his empty eyes at the boy who had been the Rival to his first replacement.

He still couldn't get the image of the redhead in an orange suit out of his head.

[Glyph]

Silver waited for an answer, but wasn't all that surprised when none came. Stupid silent protagonists. It almost made him glad he'd been the bad guy. Almost.

No, what surprised him was the disappointment that prickled at the base of his spine, making his skin crawl. A part of him, however distant, wanted an answer--or, if he felt like being truthful with himself--wanted to hear a voice other than his own.

Turning, Silver eyed the other boy over a half-sneer, disguising the pitiful weakness in the only way he'd once known how.

"What do you want?"

[Meryck]

Red continued to say a profound amount of nothing. His voice had finally been returned once he had entered this state, but what was there to say? He wanted nothing. He merely continued to trace over the features of the redhead, bored.

He then turned back to the lake, still unspeaking. Once again, he had the feeling his inability to socialize with these ghosts of the simultaneous future and past was coming to bite him, but, really, what else was there to do?

[Glyph]

Silver could feel his hackles rising under the other boy's scrutinizing stare, but he was surprised to find that the need to knock some manners into the Trainer was oddly vague, as if the thought didn't quite belong to him anymore.

"Forget it," he finally muttered, turning away, "It doesn't matter who you are or what you want." You're a has-been just like the rest of us. He hunched his shoulders and scowling across the shoreline.

He'd never needed anyone, he reminded himself, or anything from anyone. At least, he hadn't. As coldly as he could still muster, Silver shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and tried to close his eyes on the memories of a life that hadn't existed.

"I'll be fine, all by myself."

[Meryck]

Red listened to the words of the boy. He thought he was alone? He thought he was utterly alone? In this world? A world filled to the brim with others that were Forgotten by the Puppet Masters, Pokemon and Human alike?

"Pathetic..."

The word was as soft and fleeting as a whisper; Red hadn't spoken in years. And in another odd turn of events, for the first time in decades, the rust-dusted boy stood, joints almost audibly creaking as he unbent and turned to leave. Around him, a bit of glitching static flickered into existence sporadically, sometimes with a simple move of a joint, sometimes not even there.

He had given up alot of things when he waged war on the Puppet Masters. Some humanity was one of them.

[Glyph]

He might have been down. He might have been doubtful, and frustrated and self absorbed. Self absorbed, he could tolerate--had learned to tolerate as he'd learned to temper his anger.

But he would not tolerate pathetic--never, NEVER would he tolerate being called pathetic.

Gray eyes flaming with a spark that had long been absent, Silver rounded on the Trainer who'd dared speak such blasphemy, hands removed from pockets and curled into fists.

"What was that?" Maybe he didn't have any Pokemon, and maybe this guy had some freaky light show going on... But when had that ever stopped him? "Turn around and say that to my face, you damn coward!"

[Meryck]

Red didn't acknowledge the redhead. He simply continued his slow trudging, dusting the rust off his body with slow, dejected moves, as if they were only an artifact of his former self. The static eventually began to calm as it got used to him moving again, although a gigantic cackle went off when he paused by the shoreline to shake the rust off his hat, leaving himself open.

[Glyph]

Now, Silver knew better. He knew he knew better. Normally, he'd ignore the temptation to fall back on his old, thuggish habits, especially when the opposition was crackling sketchier than a Pokegear at the Ruins of Alph.

To hell with common sense.

The red-headed boy stormed after, ill-intent scrawling across his face like a neon sign. It was a pointless conflict, something that could easily be ignored. If that made what he was going to attempt immature, then, dammit, he'd was the biggest baby in Torinoko.

Silver stepped right up behind the kid, braced his shoulders, and dug his heels into the shore in one violent motion.

He was too classy to throw punches.

But he wasn't above shoving someone in the lake.