The Second Void War

Buizel,

A rather confusing storm has brewed in the Water Continent, led by an infamous criminal organization. This group has given itself the name Castle’s Six.

This group’s criminal behaviors have existed in a state of perpetual ‘manageability’ for over a year and a half at writing. No independent guild or group has convincingly managed this manageable issue. In fact, it is worse than ever: the organization has recently heralded in what they’re referring to as  The Second Void War.

P.S: I implore you to reserve your personal judgments until after our debrief. I feel it is important we go over the information at-hand first. I feel, and Ampharos has already agreed, that we should be using this problem as a chance to revisit our policies.

I am remiss to interrupt your current assignments. However, such a provocation cannot be ignored by us–it is time to take action against this strange movement. I am asking you, Archen, and Alant to lead the de-escalation effort.

Best,
Mawile

The Expedition Society hall–a breath of fresh air, even when a film of dust glistened on its sunlit windows. Nowadays, it was a blessing if most of its original charter stopped by for anything besides the bathroom. There was plenty of purpose still possible for these side rooms, if not for the oppressive history that hung over them. It felt best to simply leave them be, memories too thick to cut through.

Buizel swished the paper left and right across the grit, wiping away his own nostalgic thoughts.

“That’s what’s in my letter. You get about the same thing?”

The Archen ran his talon-tip across the dust. He spotted the peeling blue paint in the nearby corner, and clandestinely shoved his travel bags over to hide it.

“She said she likes me more,” he joked. “Other than that, yes. It was falteringly vague for one of Mawile’s diligence. I have to wonder if we were chosen at random to take care of this… it all feels rather haphazard thus far.”

“Nah, she chose me for a reason. Apparently, one of the problem-causer’s someone I pursued before the war. Never imagine he’d get into this much trouble after I lo… I let him escape. Out of mercy. You might be a short straw, though.”

“Mawile likely feels my cool head will help us prevail,” Archen answered.

Buizel snickered. “Overly big, blocky and cool, like an Eiscue protecting itself in the Summer.”

The insult stung the bird, who instantly used both talons to take a circumference of his face. Finding it still within the average for beak shapes, he narrowed his eyes.

“Humphrey,” he shot back.

“Don’t you start,” Buizel–Humphrey–snarled. “It’s really, that’s not even a good comeback. You’re literally just saying my real name to upset me.”

The bird made a show of bowing low. “Such is the gravitas of your parents’ farce, that it requires no preface or garnish. The mere utterance suffices.”

“Use my Society name, or I’ll sacri-suffice you to a volcano.”

“You really ought to work on your insecurities. Hm. Do you likewise think it’s preposterous how this brewed in our very backyard?” He asked, switching gears.

There was no real point starting a row. The two hadn’t seen each other in well over six months. Buizel relaxed in his seat, humming to himself. “It feels like we somehow allowed this to happen. I suppose everything’s ‘not an issue’ until it suddenly is.”

“Until it’s suddenly the Second Void War,” his friend agreed. “What a disrespectful name to give a squabble.”

He nodded. The devastation of the first war made any implication of a second foreboding, regardless of authenticity. They–the Expedition Society and the many organizations and cities they supported–had prepared religiously for the Void’s potential resurgence. The plan was to move on from preparation into preventionary efforts after year two. Here they were, six and a half years later, still trying to convince the world that its need for paranoid fear was no longer necessary.

Never necessary, even. Dark Matter was never coming back. There couldn’t ever be a Second Void War, no matter what some insane crooksclaimed.

“But maybe everything’s an issue forever and ever,” Buizel amended. “Why did we ever think we’d make it past this crap in 720 days?” The Badlands, the stained, dark flax, these consequences had buried them up to their necks. The more they fought to move on, the deeper the muck pulled them in. There was this horrible feeling Buizel had from time to time… that all their work had only made things worse.

As was the expeditionary way, Archen volunteered an encouraging smile for the both of them. “I posit it’s because two precocious recruits deluded us into thinking anything is possible. Or maybe… you did. For me.”

Buizel tried to play it cool, swishing a paw over his puffed-out chest. “Oh. I’m more inspiring to you than Alant and Staff?” He liked to fantasize about being the one who leaped into the Tree of Life and kicked major ass. Wouldn’t need a sappy speech, too.

Archen’s smile twisted into a smirk. “Yes. Who would’ve thought someone named Humphrey would eventually go claw-and-tooth with Legendaries–”

“That’s it, I’m sculpting your beak!”

The two broke into a chase. While there was authentic violence awaiting the bird if he were caught, he nor his pursuer broke the rules of tag. No leaping across or crawling under the table, no moves, no throwing things. It was a good old, classic round of catch me if you can, both pivoting and trying to trick the other into a mistake. They had done this for hours back before travel and intrigue consumed their lives.

“You asked for a better comeback,” the bird cawed, “and I delivered!”

“Deliver my foot to your face!”

He mockingly cried as he sprinted around the table. “Help, help! I’m being attacked by some beast called Humphrey–“

A fit of laughter interrupted the chase. It was as familiar as their own voices, no matter how much time had passed since they last heard it. Hearing it cleaned the dust, un-peeled the paint, returning the put-aside room to the dining room it once was.

“Was that Alant’s laugh?” Archen breathed.

“I don’t know. Digging up and identifying old relics is Mawile’s thing.” The Buizel lifted his head. He strained to hear more–just an iota of a giggle, something to convince him that this noise wasn’t their collective hallucination.

Another bout of cackling rang in the hall. Real, unadulterated joy from the Pokemon who saved countless lives.

It was enough to force a warm smile on Buizel’s face. “Haven’t heard that noise from him since, you know–”

“Since Staff went away.”

“Yeah.”

The news that Alant would be joining their mission weighed heavily on the Buizel’s heart. On the liner… he had a moment, looking out over the water, where he quietly wished Alant wasn’t invited. And he hated himself for admitting that, like he hated problems that he didn’t know how to fight. Ever since Staff disappeared, Alant had receded into a darkness no one could pull him free from. He attended meetings, did things, always with the same hollowness.

For the first couple years, Langstaff was around. And for the next few, at least, Alant was still riding on the hope of his return. That search was as abandoned as these walls.

Their friend’s Laughter took precedence over the game of tag. Over the mission that brought them to the Grass Continent, even. This aberrance was the mission. Both instantly knew to trot over to the Grovyle’s old room.

Alant was there at his old desk, entire body hunched over a dense packet of papers–as a Treeko, he needed a thick book or two just to properly hand-write or read at his desk. The hero had pleaded with Arceus to not evolve, to stay the same for a little bit longer, so a friend would recognize him. Now, able to lean back and cast a glance at his fellow society members eye-to-eye, he seemed finally comfortable in his new body.

“Have either of you glanced at the report yet?” He asked.

That had to be the packet. Mawile had compiled a full history on the problem-causers, the Castle’s Six. She apparently went through the full effort: eyewitness accounts, rediscovered journals, guild documents–and documents no one else knew she had access to, let alone how. The thick stack of paper represented everything having to do with this disaster.

Buizel smiled lopsidedly. “Ampharos and Mawile said they would debrief us this evening. You’re lau… you’re really hitting the books.”

Alant stifled another chuckle. “This is… magical. Makes me wonder what Lang and I’s story would’ve looked like if you followed it step by step.” He ran his hand over the pages, sighing. “I hope it sounded a little like this.”

Buizel and Archen exchanged looks. The idea of going through this paper monstrosity twice was harrowing. And for the lives of some criminals to be what finally earned Alant’s awe and envy? A teensy bit insulting. Still… it fell on Buizel to make a move, awkwardly plodding over to a seat.

“She never lets us crack jokes when we work through these things,” he said. “You wanna–I don’t know, start from the top?”

The Grovyle’s eyes instantly lit up; that was clearly the question he wanted to hear. “Yes! I can sum up the start. It’ll be better if we skip some details.” He flipped back through the pages. The one he landed upon was a few dozen pages from the start, and had its corner folded to mark its place. The way he dove right into it, it was obvious he had been quietly preparing to share it.

“Castle’s Six has, surprise, six members. The first two–this Floragato and the Boltund? They’d known each other beforehand, from during the war.” Alant gestured to the skipped pages, where those adventures likely lived. “Their exploits were random–but always consistently short, always ending on a disastrous note. They would often dabble in pseudonyms, disguises, hideaways. Before everything kicked off, they had accomplished becoming total enigmas. They never came up on one of our censuses.”

Escaping the flood of bureaucracy that came after the war was, admittedly, a feat Archen could respect. “Before… so why were they hiding?”

Alant tilted his head. “It’s more fun if you don’t know a few things. Why spoil the–”

“Why spoil the intelligence report?” The bird rustled his feathers, irritated.

“Come on,” Buizel said softly. “Just let our pal enjoy himself for a change.”

Archen eventually took Alant’s other side. “I loathe surprises. But fine, let’s allow this report to shock and trick us. Because those are such good emotions.” A little place called Revelation Mountain had lowered the society member’s opinion towards surprises considerably.

Regardless, they huddled in and observed the artist’s renditions of the two criminals. The Floragato was on the fluffier side, the tufts of his collar overtaking his poncho. He wore an ornate cape, which came all the way down to his ankles. This was a sketch, yet the artist nonetheless took the effort to bring out their purple pen for The Floragato’s eyes.

“This Boltund looks tough,” Buizel said, pointing to the other page.

This next, colored depiction was far sharper than the last, depicting a Pokemon who had clearly built up more muscle than normal; he was larger than his species’ average, instantly recognizable as an experienced soldier of the Void War. His side-bag concealed a holster–the leather pommel poking free from under the burlap said enough on what was inside it.

“That smile on his face is dopier than Archen’s, though.”

“That’s your observation?” The bird spat. “Not that the artist colored him green instead of yellow? Are they stupid?”

Alant chuckled. “You’ll see. Essentially, these two had fallen into a predictable pattern. Then they tried becoming Void Knights–”

“Ew,” the two Society members grunted in unison.

“Zip it. Void Knights are fine. And it was just another gig for them, anyway. Yet… Despite being vastly untested, the pair became advisor and frontliner–respectively–to a mercenary group’s heir of sorts. Pate. She’s this leader-looking one, here.”

The Houndour on the next page looked utterly overwhelmed. She would be stately if she wasn’t pretending to carry the world on her shrugged shoulders, and she would be fierce if not for the look of complete bewilderment the artist inserted into her expression. Archen and Buizel sagged back in their seats and shook their heads at each other: Alant was off his gourd calling her leader-looking.

“It’ll make more sense later,” Alant promised, picking up on their disapproval. “In their squad there’s also this medic, Pawn. He’s one of the six.”

This Raboot, Pawn, was disheveled to the last strand of fur. He stood at his full height, less posture and more motion, like the artist had captured the exact moment someone shoved him backward. His eyes were sleepless and sad.

“This group managed a lot of chaos,” Buizel said, “considering an entire one of their six looks like a total benchwarmer. Hm…”

There was something within the lines of this sketch, besides the fact the Raboot had his ears uncharacteristically raised, that made Buizel reconsider. Something… problematic. As if this art on paper had figured out an awesomely terrible secret.

He dismissed the odd feeling as him reading too much into a mugshot. “So the Floragato and Boltund get paired up with the Houndour and Raboot. Another gaggle of Void Knights on mercenary work, big whoop. Every Continent’s infested with them. How did this group become such a disaster?”

Alant smiled. “Their squad had reached a breaking point. Threats of mutiny, lack of nutrition and morale, stress levels high enough to inflict insanity. According to their other squadmates at the time: every second in camp carried the overbearing omen of a devastating and agonizing mental breakdown… the four had thoroughly disrespected the rank and file, sowed unfixable divides, and roused the veteran knights’ latent rage towards their company into an uproar.”

Archen sighed. “I see. Several long months away from base on missions… It can be mentally detrimental. Brain fatigue is a dangerous and hard thing to manage, even for experienced leaders.”

“Several long months?” Alant repeated back to the bird. Another bout of wonderful laughter came from him. “No, no! My friend. Don’t underestimate them.” He turned the page and pointed at Mawile’s handwriting:

BEGINNING OF THE INCIDENTS

Fourteen days into their first mission as a squad, the Boltund suffered food poisoning. This could be considered the inciting incident behind the  Castle’s Six Disaster and subsequent “Second Void War.”

Buizel slumped over in his chair.

“Ah, okay. This whole report’s gonna be a big-ass heap of nonsense, ain’t it? We’re really going to subject ourselves to this?”

Alant grinned ear to ear.

“Hang in there, Humphrey. You won’t regret it.”

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HANG IN THERE!