Chapter 1: Worlds Apart

Fabian wasn’t too sure why, but he got a couple of strange looks when he limped through the tavern doors. Sure, he was somewhat of a minor celebrity, and being a Croconaw made him stick out, but it wasn’t like this was the first time he had gotten dinner at the Sweet Kiss Tavern. He paid no mind to it.

“This table open?” Fabian asked, pulling a stool over to a table occupied by a lone Pokémon, who was engrossed in her newspaper. She didn’t answer, so Fabian took it as a yes.

She set down her newspaper. She was a bird Pokémon who had a red, scaly beak and a mix of blue and yellow feathers, and Fabian couldn’t recognize her species for the life of him. As soon as she laid eyes on Fabian, she gasped. “I- Oh my- Are you okay?” she squawked.

“Maybe she’s some kind of disfigured Pidgey?” Fabian thought to himself. “No, her beak is too big. Definitely some kind of flying type.” Fabian tilted his head, her question suddenly registering in his head. “What do you mean?” he asked absentmindedly. “Maybe there’s an Oricorio form I’m forgetting about?”

“Y-You’re bleeding everywhere! Do- I- Should I call a medic?”

Now that she mentioned it, Fabian was bleeding a bit, so much so that he had left a noticeable red trail along the floor on his way in. “Nah, don’t worry about it,” Fabian said. “Pom-Pom, Baile, Sensu… what was that last one?” he wondered. “Right, Pa’u! But she’s definitely not any of those!” He decided to throw in the towel and ask. “Hey, what kind of Pokémon are you?”

“M-Me?” she asked, holding her newspaper back up to her face. “Oh… uh, a Sp-Spearow?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you sure? I’m pretty sure Spearows don’t usually look like that.”

She audibly gulped. “I- well, no, not usually, but, um, that’s because I’m… a regional variant? Yeah, you know, like how Meowths have!”

Fabian knew about how Pokémon could take on different appearances depending on their region, but he was pretty sure that Spearows looked the same everywhere. After all, he had read through the entire Encyclopedia of Pokémon Biology front-to-back precisely one hundred and twenty-seven times. “You’re sure?” he asked, making direct eye contact with her.

Sweat was dripping down her beak, another feat that Fabian was pretty sure that Spearows were incapable of. “Y-Yep!” she stammered.

Fabian must’ve missed a page. “Wow, that’s so cool!” Fabian said. “Where’re you from?”

She froze up for a full, uninterrupted fifteen seconds. “…The North?” she answered, as if it were a question.

The Northern Continent comprised around sixty percent of the world’s landmass, so that didn’t really narrow it down much. But Fabian wasn’t an expert on geography, so he didn’t really care. “Cool! What’s your name?”

“Uh- it’s Sofia, I guess,” she said, staring at Fabian’s wounds. “What happened to you? I mean- not be rude, it’s just, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood in my life.” Before Fabian had the chance to open his mouth, she cut him off. “Nevermind, you don’t have to answer, I’m being rude-”

“Nonsense!” Fabian interrupted her. “I just got assigned my quota for the month, and I wanted to knock it all out as soon as possible. Dad went and raised it up to seventy missions this time, but I still got it done!” He puffed out his chest, trying not to recoil from the pain of sudden movement.

“Oh, so you’re a Guild member?” Sofia asked. “I’ve never heard of Guild members having to meet a quota before. And why is your dad setting it for you?”

He chuckled lightly. “Eh, well, Dad’s the Guildmaster, so I don’t really get to slack off like everyone else. It’s kinda annoying, but what can you do?”

Her eyes shot wide open. “W-What?” she squeaked, covering her beak with her wings. “D-Did you just say your dad is… he’s the…?”

“He’s the Guildmaster, yep!” Fabian affirmed. “To be honest, I kinda wish I had hatched a couple months later sometimes. Then it’d be my younger brother spilling his guts all over the floor every month!” He laughed at himself. “Kidding, I love that little guy! His name’s Costan, you’re friends with him, right?”

She squinted at him. “N-No? I- uh, I don’t really know him.”

“Of course you do! That’s why he sent me to come over and chat with you for a bit!”

“That didn’t-” Sofia’s entire body was shaking. “I- Uh- That’s, uh-” She stood up from her stool. “Right! I’ve gotta go now!”

Before she could move another inch, a Feraligatr crashed through the wall, tackling her to the floor. He scowled at her wordlessly, and although she struggled against him, it was entirely in vain. All of the restaurant-goers save for Fabian fled on the spot.

“Hi, Costan!” Fabian said, grinning widely and waving at him. “How come you’re attacking that woman?”

“Oh, Fabi-” he cut himself off with a gasp as soon as he got a look at Fabian. “Sweet Arceus, Fabian! What happened to you?”

“Well, I got all the burns from a gang of feral Litleos,” he explained, “and this bruise happened because I fell off a cliff on accident, and I got this gash along my tail when a Scizor outlaw tried to kill me, and-”

“Nevermind,” Costan said. “Thanks for keeping her distracted.”

“What do you mean?” Fabian asked. “Is she an outlaw? But then why’d you say she’s your friend?”

Costan shook his head. “I just needed someone to distract her while I was running over here. And if I told you the truth, you’d probably let it slip.”

He crossed his arms. “You could’ve just asked me to catch her. What did she even do, anyway?”

“It’s complicated, okay?” Costan said, throwing his hands up. “Knowing you, you’d get all sentimental about it, and you’d mess it all up. Just get going, alright? You should get your wounds treated before you die of blood loss.”

Fabian didn’t appreciate the sentiment at all, and he was almost certain that the blood loss wasn’t going to kill him. “I’m fine, Costan. I’m seventeen years old, you don’t have to keep treating me like I’m a kid.”

Sofia momentarily slipped out of Costan’s grasp, but he tackled her down again in no time, this time applying enough pressure to look painful. “Maybe if you’d stop almost killing yourself just to avoid spending any time on your job, I’d treat you like a mature adult,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m getting sick of seeing you treat your future like it’s an obligation.”

“But, the guildmaster stuff is just an obligation-”

“No, it’s a blessing, and you’re wasting it!” Costan yelled, grimacing once he realized how loud he was. “Look, now’s not the time for this. I’m busy, and I’m tired from all the running around. I’m sorry, okay? Just go home and I’ll bring you a smoothie when I get back.”

As much as Fabian wanted to ask what was going on with Costan today, he was woefully susceptible to smoothie-based bribes. Besides, his ears were hurting and he didn’t want to get yelled at anymore. “Alright, but you better get me a Salac smoothie this time, okay? No Pamtre berries, that stuff is gross!” He ran off before Costan could accuse him of having bad taste.

---

The Vanadis Branch Guild Headquarters was several dozen stories tall and wide enough to cover a lake, built from the finest marble mined from the deepest depths of the local mines. It put the surrounding mountain range to shame.

It had gotten dark out, so the traffic was relatively low and Fabian didn’t have any trouble getting inside. He dropped a bag of balled-up wrinkled paperwork at a defeated-looking Rhydon’s desk and headed for the stairs, hoping to go straight to bed.

Unfortunately, Fabian wasn’t that lucky. “Wha- Fabian! What happened to you?” cried his mom, a stout, scar-covered Feraligatr who had been pacing around the main stairwell.

“What do you mean?” Fabian asked.

She knelt down to get a better look at Fabian. “You’re covered in injuries! How’re you even walking?”

He forced a comforting smile. “Mom, it’s not a big deal, you don’t have to worry about me-”

“Of course I do!” she said, producing a first-aid kit out of nowhere and bandaging Fabian up until he barely had any skin showing at all. “I know you like having your free time, but you have to pace yourself! You aren’t supposed to fill the entire quota on your first day!”

The bandages rubbed up against Fabian’s skin like sandpaper, and he pledged to tear them off as soon as his mom couldn’t see him. “I just wanna get all the boring stuff out of the way, okay?”

She sighed. “Try not to think of it as ‘boring stuff.’ Once you’re in charge of the Guild, this is going to be what every day of your life looks like, so you really should try to adopt a better attitude about it.”

As much as Fabian wanted to argue back, he was pretty sure that he was going to die if he didn’t get those bandages off. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m sorry!” Fabian said as he scrambled towards the stairs.

“Wait,” she commanded. Fabian stopped moving so fast that he had to grab onto the railing to avoid falling backwards. She hesitated for a moment, unable to meet Fabian’s gaze. “Just- nevermind. Could you please let your dad know that the Successor’s deportation is being postponed to tomorrow night?”

He didn’t really know what some of those words meant, but he nodded and sprinted up the stairs anyway.

Fabian never really got to see his dad, so he was excited for any excuse to say hello. The Guildmaster Office was near the very top of a flight of fifty staircases, and by the time he reached the top, Fabian was really starting to hit the limit of his endurance. He tore off his bandages and opened the imposingly large doors.

Guildmaster Dorinel Vanadis was a weary Haxorus with a broken right tusk and a constant defeated look in his eye. “Ah, Fabian,” he said, raising his head up, towering over his son even while sitting down. “What brings you here?”

Fabian cleared his throat and recited his line. “Mom says that the Successor’s deportation is being postponed to tomorrow night.” Dorinel furrowed his brow, but nodded. “Can I ask you what any of that stuff I just said means?” Fabian asked.

Dorinel thought about it for a minute. “I… suppose. It’s only a matter of months until you inherit my title, after all. But you mustn’t speak of anything I say to any of your friends, alright?”

Fabian nodded enthusiastically. “That’s easy! I don’t even have any friends!”

Dorinel heaved a heavy sigh. “Right. To grossly oversimplify things, a Successor is essentially a mortal Pokémon who stole a Legend’s powers.”

Fabian tilted his head. “How does that work? Are you saying I could just walk up to Rayquaza and steal his ability to fly from him?” An admittedly blasphemous mental image of Rayquaza being forced to slither around like a worm formed in Fabian’s mind, and he giggled at it.

He folded his hands and placed them onto the desk. “No, not exactly. If a Legendary Pokémon dies, its divine energy still has to exist somewhere, so it transfers itself to the nearest mortal Pokémon, usually being the one who killed them. That Pokémon ‘succeeds’ the Legend, and inherits some of their abilities, albeit with less power.”

“That’s so cool!” Fabian gushed. This completely changed everything about his understanding of the Pokémon body! “What happens when someone kills a Successor? Do they become a Successor?”

“Correct,” Dorinel said, “but doing so is strictly forbidden under any circumstance. To wield the powers of a Legend is to position yourself as an equal to one, which is nothing short of heresy. The Head Guildmaster has stated in no uncertain terms that any Successors are to be brought directly to him so that he may dispose of them himself.”

Fabian’s head was now swimming with questions regarding the nuances of Succession, but if the process was illegal, there probably wasn’t a lot of experimentation done with it. “So does that mean we caught one of them? When did that happen?”

“Yes, we caught one two days ago, a Cacturne who wields Dialga’s powers. He’ll be shipped off to Renegade’s Edge tomorrow night, where he’ll be executed on the Winter Solstice along with the rest of the past year’s condemned criminals. Did your mother give any explanation as to why the schedule had to be pushed back?” Fabian shook his head, and Dorinel sighed. “Oh well, I’m sure it’s nothing to be worried about. The transport ship is probably just running late again. You’re free to leave, Fabian.”

And so, Fabian did just that. He headed for his room on the first basement floor, silently tiptoeing his way through the main hall, making sure that his mom didn’t see him without his bandages. She was probably going to try and make him go to the medic, but Fabian didn’t see any reason to waste the doctor’s time with some trivial injuries.

Fabian’s room was always too cold for his liking, but not cold enough to be a health hazard and therefore not cold enough to warrant bothering someone to add in some climate control. After all, he was going to be the Guildmaster someday, and it was his job to help people, not to need helping.

He had rows upon rows of well-used textbooks on countless fields of Pokémon biology, and from “The Fundamental Principles and Applications of Moves” to “Evolution: The Science of Growth,” he had read every single one of them, cover to cover, at least twice. He was currently on his fourth re-read of “Advanced Implications of the Experimental Study of Base Statistics,” but when he tried to bring it into his bed, he found that his muscles were too sore to lift it. He moaned with frustration and flopped backfirst onto his mattress, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the cushion.

The very next thing he could remember was the sound of blaring alarms, an overwhelming amount of panicked footsteps, and a psychic message playing in his mind.

“ATTENTION ALL GUILD MEMBERS. VANADIS GUILD IS UNDER ATTACK. PLEASE PROVIDE BACKUP TO BASEMENT FLOOR SIX AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.”

---

Nero the Zigzagoon was taking a delightful stroll through the grimy alleyways of Dallar City, minding his own business, when an irate Empoleon gentlewoman blocked his path.

“Excuse me, are you Niall?” she demanded as Nero unsuccessfully tried to step past her. “I’d like to have a word with you!”

“What did I use that pseudonym for, again?” Nero wondered to himself. “Quite sorry, ma’am, but I’m afraid I’ve never met a man called Niall,” he answered, technically not lying.

“Then explain to me why my darling son told me that a Zigzagoon with a weird limp called named Niall scammed him out of fifty thousand Poké!”

“I’m far from the only Zigzagoon in Rumas, and with how shoddy the roads are in this region, it would be stranger if I didn’t have a limp,” Nero said. “…But, I have a feeling that this ‘Niall’ character followed every commerce regulation as outlined in the Rumasian Regulation of Sales Handbook, so I can’t imagine you’ll be getting any money back any time soon. Best of luck anyways, of course.”

“You told him he was buying a star!” she protested, beginning to stir up a crowd. “You can’t own that! There’s no way that deal can go through!”

“Your son didn’t buy a deed to a star, he bought a sheet of paper,” Nero calmly explained. “A sheet that just so happened to have the phrase ‘Deed To A Star’ written on top. In fact, I believe the contract your son signed explicitly stated that the deed in question wasn’t legally binding.”

“He’s nine years old! He wouldn’t even know half the words on the page!”

Although Nero knew that he was thorough enough to win a settlement, there was a crowd gathering, and the last thing he needed was to be recognized. Fleeing through either entrance of the alleyway was unlikely, so he opted to go with his infallible backup plan.

There were few things in this world that Nero was more fond of than the humble Blast Seed. They had a simple elegance to them: in one moment, they flash brighter than anyone could imagine, and in the next, they’re gone, leaving no trace of their surroundings behind. Judging by the Empoleon’s widening eyes as Nero pulled one from his satchel, she likely didn’t share his appreciation for them.

He lobbed a Blast Seed at a nearby wall, the blowback sending the Empoleon flying. He sprinted through the opening in the wall and past the front door, paying no mind to the concerned family of Roggenrola taking cover underneath the table. It was only a matter of time until his presence was reported, so he elected to make his way home before the authorities could catch up with him.

After double-checking that nobody was watching him, he slipped into a building with a sign reading “REST URANT” in big letters on its roof. He had hidden the “A” letter sign behind a dumpster several years ago, and it seemed like the proprietor still had yet to find it.

The owner of the rest urant, a surly Onix whose body encircled the entire perimeter of the interior, grunted at Nero’s presence. “Password,” he mumbled, not even trying to keep the pretense up.

Nero tutted and shook his head. “You’d think you’d make more of an effort to appear competent whenever the Commander’s son is around, Officer Bertie.”

“I’m gonna work as hard as he’s gonna pay me,” Bertie grumbled, not even batting an eye at Nero.

“And that attitude is exactly why you’re the only respectable officer in the Branch,” Nero said. “The password’s ‘I’ll have seven orders of devilled eggs to go, please,’ by the way.” In theory, the password was a particular menu order that changed depending on several convoluted variables, but in practice, nobody wanted to keep up with it, least of all Bertie. Nero found that he could make any unnatural-sounding order and Bertie would still let him through.

Bertie bent his tail to push a lever, and an oven in the kitchen slid over, revealing a vertical drop so deep that it appeared bottomless. Nero jumped straight down, the light fading away as the oven slid back into place behind him.

There was a time when Nero found the drop exhilarating, but by this point, it was no more exciting to him than crossing a bridge. After around ten seconds of falling, he began to see a familiar purple glow of the Trick Room. Once he passed through it, the terminal-velocity speed he was traveling at was instantly inverted into a pace so slow that Nero was hardly moving at all. After checking to make sure that he had come to a near-complete stop, the Xatu in charge of the checkpoint momentarily released the Trick Room, allowing Nero to fall.

No matter how much he tried to prepare himself, Nero was never ready for the overwhelming noise of blowing fans that assaulted his ears whenever he entered the premises of Branch 15. The roads were built out of grates that were placed above countless industrial fans in order to ventilate the underground space, which came at the price of making it the loudest place in the world.

Branch 15 was supposedly a base of operations for the insurrectionist group known as the Ash Syndicate, but in practice, it had mostly turned into a safe haven for small-time outlaws. With there being less than a dozen actual combatants who called it home, it was such a worthless Branch that Vanadis Guild never even noticed them.

After checking at a nearby Deposit Box to ensure that the business transaction with that kid went through, Nero made his way to his home. With its broken windows and rusted walls, it wasn’t an especially impressive building, and it was home to an equally unimpressive man. “Good evening, Cato,” Nero said to a distracted Tangela who held a newspaper in his vines.

“N-Nero?! You’re actually home?” Cato set the paper aside. “What for?”

“Father’s supposed to be visiting our Branch tonight,” Nero said, falling onto a beanbag chair. “Hopefully, he gets whatever he’s planning over with quickly. I don’t want to spend any more time here than I have to.”

“R-Right,” Cato said, “I… I suppose that means you still won’t be attending school?”

“Why would I?”

Cato stammered for a moment. “I-I mean- Look, I know how much you value your free time, but there’s really a lot you could gain from an education!”

Nero rolled his eyes. “That’s an interesting point. How about, instead of that, you mind your own business and I’ll mind mine?”

“I- well, your business is my business! I mean, I care about you, Nero! I’m practically your parent-”

“No,” Nero countered, being careful to maintain an uncaring tone, “you’re an employee of my father’s. Our relationship is strictly transactional, and it’s easier for the both of us if you keep your head down and stop pretending that we’re a family.”

The front door crashed to the ground before Cato could come up with more platitudes to regurgitate. “How’s it going, Cato?” roared the door’s assailant.

Cato reflexively ducked behind Nero. “G-Good m-m-m-morning, C-C-Commander Moreno!” he squeaked, his vines quivering so much that Nero was starting to get tangled up in them. “I mean- evening, good evening! Sorry, so so sorry!”

Claudius Moreno was a tall, bulky Krookodile who had a near-constant malicious grin on his face. He wore a gold-chain necklace that had a piece of a Haxorus’s tusk hanging from it like a pendant, like he always did whenever he was about to make a public appearance, no doubt to rub his victory in its former owner’s face. “Tell me, how’s the runt doing?”

Nero clenched his jaw. He was already well aware that he was on the smaller side for his species, and it wasn’t necessary to remind him constantly with a demeaning nickname. “Just great,” he spat.

“Hey, you’re here already?” Claudius boomed. His voice was a bit gravelly, and always way too loud. “And here I was, planning my whole day around you being at least an hour late!”

“You’re welcome,” Nero said. “What are you doing here?”

“What, is a dad not allowed to drop by and visit his son?” Claudius asked.

An unbearably long silence hung in the air, and the fans did nothing to break it.

Claudius cleared his throat. “Er- Anyways! I’ve found some interesting news! I’ve got it on good authority that ol’ Dorrie got his hands on Dialga’s Successor!”

“I thought you were only interested in Palkia’s,” Nero said, picking at the beans in his chair.

“Yeah, but get this! My little informant also made sure to let me know that the Palkia kid’s gonna try to pull a prison break tonight! This is the first time we’ve ever known her location for certain! And if we can snatch up Dialga’s power while we’re at it, that’s all the better! All I need you to do is sneak in through into the holding cells in the basement and seal it off with this thing as soon as you see a Typhlosion pass through.” He tossed a Fill-In Orb at Nero.

Nero heaved a resigned sigh. “Is it absolutely necessary for me to be involved?”

“Course it is!” Claudius said. “Your infiltration skills aren’t half bad, and I don’t have to pay you!” he said. Then, his whimsical mood vanished suddenly and completely as he leaned in towards Nero, so close that his snout was almost poking Nero’s. “Unless you’d like to try your hand at disobeying me, again,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

Nero shook his head vigorously, his right hind paw aching at the thought.

“Attaboy!” Claudius said, ruffling the fur on top of Nero’s head. “You should get going now. We’re just under a mile below the Guild right now, and the climb ain’t gonna be fast! I’ll be digging a tunnel up there myself in the meantime.”

Nero stifled a groan and followed his father as he left, as Cato stared silently from an alcove.