The Mission

The Swampert walks beneath the Hidden Lands; an abandoned labyrinth of blistered granite, empty cells and iron bars that stretched to no end, decorated with nothing, and lit only by a little light he wears around his neck and partly ashes of Luminous dust. It isn’t known how and why it was built… but that question is to leave for their unwilling guests, not him.

He searches for anything that moves; a wave of the paw, movement of the feet, wag of a tail; he imagines a blur that would cross his vision, eyes instinctively following a floating speck of dust. Had he a sense of belonging? He had little to no purpose here, let alone a summoning. But whether it was desperation or not… he hides it. They won’t know as well as he does.

“Here you are~”

The voice of the Ralts. Finally, he stops.

“Direct orders from Master Dialga, dear Swampert. Do heed~”

“Please read.” The Swampert replies.

“Confirm the death of agent Scyther, it read! You have at most the end of His patience to fulfill the mission.”

The Swampert pauses before continuing, “What had happened?”

The Raltz chirped a more playful tone, “The agent had disappeared for too long, Swampert… We could not verify his location, but we suspect it near the inactive Luminous Spring within the confines of Mystifying Forest. It was the location of his last order, if I recall!”

The Swampert thought for a while. He remains still. The request was unusual for a Pokémon his rank, and his voice would reflect that.

“And… if he’s alive?”

“Then he is to die. By your hands.”

The Swampert does not speak for a moment.

“Mind you, a disappearance of this gravity is a rarity and highly curious!” She opens with yet more personality, a deliberate stress in tone, almost scolding. “You were merely chosen, but I believe you have what it takes, truly!”

After a short pause, the Raltz falls back to a sweeter tone, almost tempting, “Might we even… reconsider your position, should you come back with his corpse in tow?”

“… And you have the power to do that?”

“We talk often, together,” then she begs, “but please, no more questions! You exhaust me. Accept the mission at once and make Master proud, Swampert. That is all He asks of you.”

The voice disappeared. And the conversation effectively ended.

Each second was a second too long. He was overstaying his welcome, so he left at once. The walls echoed his footsteps before coming to a halting silence, leaving the prison hall back in the rot of its empty void…

… And though he was born from the waters he failed to recognize it. Restless, yet unmoving. Frictionless, yet bone dry. Pristinely tainted. Contradictions which came all too quick, all too sudden.

The Swampert has arrived at the Luminous Spring, feet retreating from the water. His eyes scout the surroundings; there are nothing more than a few scattered rocks and an encircling line of trees. He had not seen the Scyther, and he did not anticipate his presence either, but he figured this was a better place to start than most, judging by what the Raltz had given him.

The spring itself is an odd place anyway. It is dead. The streams had stopped flowing down and the light had stopped shining. The message of evolution had long stopped delivering, if it ever could again. There is no purpose to be found here, but if suspicious activity—or in this case, disappearances—were to be found, it would make sense that the spring had something to do with it. They wouldn’t give a baseless clue out of the blue.

And if it was true that Scyther had been here, then there would be traces. Such would be easy to find, in twisted luck—the planet had given him a blank slate to base his findings on.

He doesn’t need footsteps or markings of any kind; such would be impossible to leave behind anyway. All he needs is a speck of color, dust or skin. In fact, even a single scale would be enough. Even—

Sound?

The Swampert prepares a Protect just as a blade of condensed air makes contact with the barely formed barrier, instantly shattering it. Adrenaline kicked in, the Swampert meets his ambush with—

a blade to the face.

Flung out of the water and onto the nearby grass, his vision blurs with blood, but he immediately picks himself up. The Swampert grits his teeth. He can barely make him out from the dark. Scyther.

He makes a gamble—by lowering his head, converging water, whilst drawing more from the ground, the Swampert can link his Muddy Water with a Water Pulse. If he is able to strike that Scyther, the imbued water would surely be able to slow him down, putting the Swampert in a significant advantage.

A loud burst sends ripples of water flying through the air and collides with Scyther, provoking a pained response and yet… his speed showed no sign of letting up.

Bursts of air overwhelm the atmosphere. Scyther is repeatedly using Agility, weaving through the trees. The Swampert attempts Rock Slide—hurling small boulders at his opponent and predicting his movement, but he dodges all of them with ease. He kept hurling rocks until

he disappeared, just as sudden as he had appeared, and yet, the wailing winds continued, if not growing even louder.

The Swampert stands his ground. He knew another one was coming his way. The energy in his palm grows until the familiar barrier of Protect emerges slowly from within. Scyther can strike from anywhere, and so he has to focus. If he fails to predict his movement, to protect himself in this one decisive moment, then all would—

Another Air Slash! To his left! The Swampert strengthens his stance, raises his shield while simultaneously focusing water to prepare a counter attack and… nothing happens?

A False Swipe. He has been tricked.

Scyther has gone right behind him, blades ready. One swipe and he’d be split in half—

But he missed! The Muddy Water had worked—slowed down his blades just enough for him to react. He hops high enough to hover just above the impending slash, before tackling Scyther with a Take Down in midair, pinnung down his wings, crushing him with deadly weight, restricting his struggles with his own and

“Stop, stop, stop. Stop. STOP!”

pummeled directly into his body and blades and jabbed shards of stone,

“STOP, SABBIE, STOP! PLEASE! STOP! I CAN EXPLAIN! I—”

The Swampert slams Scyther’s limping body against the stone.

“You better give me a good reason, Jagger.”

… Heavy breaths. Wordless mutters. The Swampert slowly backs off, pupils narrowed on Scyther who is gasping for dear life in the middle of the spring. They stay in silence. Motionless.

But at last… he speaks. Scyther has calmed down a bit. He starts to stutter over his own words.

“It was the rebels.”

The Swampert presses his feet slightly. “… That’s it?”

“N-No, of course! They sent me to investigate suspicious activity. Here.”

Scyther waited for the Swampert to say something, but all he was met with was silence. So he continues,

“They had numbers. I-I couldn’t tell for sure. And then I was caught. Um…” He grunts, eyes darting around.

“What were they doing…?”

“Ah! Yes. Something about ‘revival’. They were trying to revive the spring. I-I had to intervene—”

“Despite orders?”

“N-No! Definitely not! There was no direct contact. I merely followed them.”

There was another period of silence.

“What happened then?”

“Ah… I…” Scyther’s eyes start to twitch, but he restrains himself, clearing his throat. “An ambush. They spotted me, and… I was ambushed.”

“By who?”

“Three— No. Two! A Pincir, and an Ursaring. It was a deadly fight, but I barely scraped by with my life!”

Scyther lowers his shoulder and raises his wings. Indeed, aside from the many bruises the Swampert had given him earlier, there lies beneath… a fresh scar. “This is recent. It had just healed—”

“And you’ve disposed of them?”

“Barely… but yes!”

Again, the Swampert does not say anything.

“Sabbie, believe me. They’re planning something. They’re planning to evolve, and that means they’re getting stronger. If I— no. If we don’t stop them now, they might cause more problems for us, Sabbie. Hear me. Let me—

“That’s all?”

Scyther felt unsure, but that is everything he could give. “Yes…” Something is off. Too many questions. “Sabbie?”

A hiss of wind.

“AGH!”

Something jabs his right wing with blinking speed and deadly force. He tries to move it but pain bites back at him. And then he hears it.

Rubble, colliding. Dirt whistling and coalescing into tiny grains, then rocks, then floating little boulders. The newly formed barrage kept droning and crackling like a storm; organic particles drowning the air in a miasma of death. He had realized too late; he was going to die from the start, no matter what he did.

“SABBIE, NO!”

“Dialga’s orders.” The Swampert presses on. His blood mixes with the swirling stones and drips onto the ground, forming a gnarly trail of reddish mud as he approaches Scyther; each step a heavy thud, unflinching. “I don’t have a say in this, Jagger.”

“But I gave you everything I know!”

“And your efforts shall be remembered.” The Swampert replies, heart-wrenchingly stoic.

“What?! Sabbie—” Another stone projectile tears a hole in his wing membrane, prying an ached yelp from his throat. “S-Sabbie. We’re friends. Don’t do this.”

Yet another silent response. The Rock Slide continued closing in—The Swampert’s footsteps somehow growing even louder.

“What did I even do wrong, Sabbie?!”

“Dialga had deemed you too slow.”

“Then what—” A rock collides with the stone behind him, barely missing his head. “What was I even supposed to do?!”

“Simply carry out your mission.”

“And let them go free?”

“Dialga already has plans to deal with the rebels. There is no need—”

“No need?! So I just leave them to whatever they’re… scheming? Whatever consequences it could bring? Isn’t that an act of disloyalty?”

“Jagger, stop.”

An unexpected interruption by the Swampert, Scyther thought. He now towers over him, but the droning grows weaker. Has he finally—

“I know you’re lying, Jagger. I’m just carrying out my mission.”

Swampert used Rock Slide.

---

“What does hail feel like, Sabbie?”

Sabbie turned to see Jagger in a little raincoat, his curiosity and eagerness barely masked by the subtle flapping of his wings. “I want to know! Really!”

The Marshtomp thought it was funny. “You’re a Bug-type? Isn’t that supposed to be really painful?”

“First of all, it’s ice. And second of all…” His shout somehow managed to drown out the rain for just a moment, “That’s exactly why I want to know!”

“Okay. Well, tear off your raincoat then. It’s like this but ten times worse.” Sabbie giggled.

“No! Dude, you’re a Water-type. Tell me something.”

“Um… So…” The Marshtomp scratched his head, pouting. “It’s like rain, but hard.”

“That is… an embarrassing description of hail for a Water-type.”

“Okay! Look! It’s like rocks? Like falling rocks, yeah. And then it just kept pelting on you. Your face, your body, everything. And you can feel how hard it is? Like if you were on a stage and they kept throwing eggs at you—”

“Really?” Jagger pressed down on the ‘y’.

“Cheri! Dude, it’s just a quick comparison.” Marshtomp shouted back, realizing what he had just said.

“Cheri?”

“Berries, yeah. And also,” Sabbie added, “I can’t feel the hail, let alone rain, clearly like the others. It just feels natural to me. Hail is more like a weird massage. The little ones at least. Don’t expect anything else other than that, I guess.”

Jagger didn’t say anything for a moment, which Sabbie thought was weird. “… What’s wrong.”

“Oh… they’re the ones with the little twigs! And like, red!”

“What?” Jagger laughed at Sabbie’s visible confusion and disappointment. “Don’t you have berries where you came from?!”

“Haha, no! We have Aspear. They taste way better.”

“Ew, no. That’s disgusting.”

“Huh?! You’re disgusting!”

“What does that even mean??” Sabbie jumped at Jagger and pulled down his coat, drawing a panicked ‘eek!’ from the Scyther.

The two messed around some more; their voices somehow drowning out the rain for just a moment. Their laughs echo throughout the misty air, bouncing off the empty streets of a downcast village in the downpour seasons and despite everything, forming a tiny little bubble of joy. Sabbie reaches for a nearby puddle and flings water at Jagger, ruining his raincoat, before getting flung at in return but to no effect. Then they kept going back and forth, just like that. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

---

A slow, steady gray mist washes over the colorless spring.

Part of it sinks, part of it doesn’t. It calmly moves over the colorless water, weaving in between the restful grass and leaving behind more residue than it picks up, pushing away the tranquil air that once occupied the spaces. And then, at the very end, when the little particles have finally lost their wind and start to fall down gently like tiny snowflakes, they rest on the same motionless water surface, dirtying the floating puddles of blood.

Scyther’s body rests at the base of the boulder, just on the edge of the spring. And from the dissipating cloud of dust reveals a figure beaten and flayed; a tangled mess of torn up scales and exposed flesh. Eyes twitching. Life blinking… but barely, and still,

moving.

“… You’ll go with them?”

The Swampert stops in his tracks, but promptly continues walking on.

“And then what…? What will they give you…?”

The Swampert stops again. He won’t answer this question.

“Don’t walk away… Sabbie…!”

“They’ll let me live.”

… The sudden answer surprised both of them.

“Sabbie?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Sabbie, don’t lie…” Scyther nudges his body against the stone, weakly pushing himself up. “… You still want to—”

Swampert picks up his pace.

“Go back, Sabbie.”

“And how would I do that? You stop talking—”

“Tell me— ugh.” Scyther sat up properly. “What does Dialga give you…”

“He protects me.”

“He’s the one… that caused it!”

“And he didn’t kill me. What’s so hard to figure out?”

“You act like everyone’s trying to harm you.”

“What even is that question? What’s to expect from this messed up world…?”

“The ones you call ‘rebels’. Tell me, Sabbie. Why are you so afraid of them?”

“I’m not…” Swampert keeps trying to find excuses. Scyther can see that. A sniffle crept its way through the short silence that followed. “Are you not afraid of death?”

“I am… Sabbie, but you know what?” Scyther pushes himself to stand; blade etched into the ground. “… You also could’ve let me go. Lie to them.”

“And then what, let them kill me, you moron?” Swampert shouts back. “Bring me into this gamble, and don’t act like—”

“I brought you here, I-I know. But—” Scyther’s pain was accentuated through heavy grunts. His feet could just barely hold. “… But that too was a gamble. I am sorry, but I just couldn’t follow them anymore. Not with what they are doing to those survivors. To us.”

“So, what about me?” Swampert mouths. “You’ll just leave me behind?”

Scyther looks down, as if looking away from something. Something that pulls his stomach—a pinch of regret—but he is willing to let go.

“It’s more like you stayed.”

Swampert charges at him… and slips near the edge of the spring.

“You damned hypocrite!” He digs into the earth and flings mud at Scyther. Growling, “For how long have you stayed?! And now you’re coming back just to accuse me? Are you serious?!

“I was dragged into this mess. Forced to adapt. Forced to stay with them, because of you, Jagger! If we hadn’t entered the dungeon that day, I might’ve been able to rest with the lot of them in stone!

“I don’t want to be here. Never did. Never wanted to! But you forced me to. And now that you want to escape all of a sudden you’re the one to talk about morality? Do you hear what you’re saying?!

“That Raltz and that Honchkrow. All of them. Even that broken husk of a Dialga. I don’t believe in it. Did you really think I enjoyed what I was doing? No, and yes, I stayed. I-I stayed because I believed you would stay, Jagger. B-But you didn’t…”

The Scyther looks down on the kneeling Swampert. No less a mess as he is—covered in mud and with tears pouring. But, ignoring the pain of the mud rubbing onto his injuries… he has heard each word all too clearly. A confession.

“I just want to get out…” Cries Swampert, unaware of the shadow now casting over him, which was abruptly interfered by a few falling drops of tears.

“I’m sorry, Sabbie.”

Swampert felt the blade weakly but sharply pushing down on his neck, stopping midway. He screams but chokes on his own blood, coughs, legs desperately wrangling against the Scyther now also desperately pushing down on him with his body weight. The Scyther slips, scrapes the sore leg, struggles to get up and slips again, but the blade never left—it only went deeper. Their blood mixed with each other as they danced wildly in the spring.

“IN THE NAME OF DIALGA SABBIE, PLEASE.” He begs as he starts sawing the blade through Swampert’s neck. “It’ll be o-over soon, Sabbie, p-please.” Blood oozes out as the sharp edges tears and bites the flesh, skin and bone.

A decisive cut. Swampert’s head fell into the water.

Blood gushes out onto the ground with terrible speed, painting and spoiling the water and surrounding gray with thick red and velvet, bulbous blacks. The Swampert’s lifeless body limped, then collapses, splattering the pool of his own, spewing its droplets across the trees, the rocks, the sky and the Scyther’s eyes and mouth and blade. He stands in the bloodied water, unable to blink, unable to move. His body slacked. His head slightly dipped. Eyes staring wide and at the lifeless eyes of the Pokémon he’s killed.

The Scyther has heard enough.

Swampert has abandoned the mission.

A swift execution. A display of deep gratification, in the eyes of Dialga. A display of loyalty.

… But at what cost?

“I sincerely hope your words were… disingenuous, Scyther.”

The Scyther tilts his head, eyeing the direction of the voice. Somewhere among the trees. A tiny figure of a Ralts.

He couldn’t say anything back.

“… But, I must admit, quite the splendid role you’ve played!”

The Scyther glances back at the decapitated Swampert.

“He has shown weakness, and you’ve set a great example. Actions speak more than words, do they truly not? You’ve contributed greatly to the purity of our cause! Be proud of what you’ve achieved, dear Scyther! You are part of a gifted few who have managed to lure such false believers out. Your actions shall be praised high within our circle!”

The Scyther has practically left the conversation to her own.

“Now, please. Make haste in your return, agent. We have so, so much more to discuss~” The figure retreats into the dark, causing faint shuffles of the leaves that faded and faded further until it could no longer be heard.

The Scyther stayed with the Swampert for a while longer yet… for he could cry no longer.

Summary of Sensitive Content: Jagger messily decapitates Sabbie, and the aftermath.