WE KILL THE LIGHTS AND PUT ON A SHOW

[proton]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,10,true][atrb=style, width:400px,bTable] The winter's howling. Proton's lips are bleeding and chapped. His frost-bitten fingers aren't moving any more, and Bowser is near him, so warm, but not warm enough. This winter's worse than any of the ones before, because he's sick now and he hasn't eaten in so long and the pain from Goldenrod hasn't quite faded. People told him then it was a miracle he was alive, but he doesn't see miracles. He sees sick fate and the fact that his body refuses to shut down. The Umbreon has stopped moving. It's starting to go stiff, pressed up against him, and he wonders just how passed out it really is. He realizes he's never named it, and he just refers to it as "it", not as a living being. He'd stroke the Umbreon's ears, but he's tired. So tired. He just needs to sleep for a while. When he opens his eyes, Celia and Bowser are gone. But the Umbreon is still there, looking back at him with bright red eyes. He winces from the light; the forest has changed, and no longer seems to be the frigid woods that they were when he shut his eyes. There is no forest anymore. Instead he is in a swamp which smells so rank that he almost throws up. He seems to be on an island, stranded in the middle of the swamp. For miles and miles, as far as the eye can see, he sees nothing but bog water. To leave, he'll have to cross it. Proton's fingers are no longer frost-bitten. The Umbreon is not faring much better than it had when he fell asleep, though. It is too skinny, too mangy, and its clouded eyes don't blink quite right. Its legs are also broken. He doesn't quite remember that, but the Umbreon lays in such a matter that the legs are bent all wrong and the paws don't seem to move right. It's not a settling sight, so Proton averts his eyes. Proton stands, stretching his legs, and suddenly he's filled with wanderlust. He needs to walk. It's a common urge, really. Just keep moving. If he stays still for too long, they'll catch him, and then where will he be? He steps towards the edge of the island, but before he can step into th water, the Umbreon speaks, and in words, not trills. "Please." Proton freezes and turns back to the Umbreon with its broken legs and pitiful shivering. He almost laughs at it, but he hasn't heard a Pokemon speak since Goldenrod. Cautiously, he staggers towards it. "What did you say?" The Umbreon opens its mouth and gives a long trill and a yawn. Its mouth isn't made for speaking and its mind will not cooperate, but with a great effort, he says, "Me too, take me too." Proton almost lets it stay, but the Umbreon looks up at him and whines and tries to scuttle after him on its broken forelimbs. Mouth pressed into an irritated line, he stoops down and scoops the Umbreon up. It fits perfectly in his arms, almost like a child. With his precious cargo in hold, he edges towards the end of the island. The muck sucks in his ankle within an instant. Proton winces, then puts his entire weight onto his leg. He only falls in up to the knee. Trusting the foothold, he sets the other foot into the swamp. It's difficult to walk by lifting his legs, so he drags them along, not quite breaking the surface. For another hour he walks on. The sun rises and beats down on his neck; the relentless heat makes him sweat. Then the bog gets deeper-- up to his thigh instead. He's so caught off-guard that he topples over, dropping both himself and Umbreon. Umbreon, not capable of swimming, screams in pain and fear, but Proton's quick to regain his footing and pulls Umbreon back into his arms. As he walks, he thinks only of how nice a shower would feel. He smells of swamp and sweat and waste. He usually hates showers, but his nervousness abates the more he walks, the more the taste of the bog water gets in his mouth. He would give anything to be clean. At least food is plentiful in this swamp. When he comes to another island, it's not hard to catch fish and dig up tubers for them both. None of them are poison; Proton's been living out in the wild for long enough to know (or so he thinks). He and Umbreon eat well and then sleep for the night. When morning comes, the mud has dried and Proton feels it cake up and crumble away as he finds breakfast. He eats light, because the taste of swamp is strong and he's too tired to catch much. The majority of breakfast goes to Umbreon. He travels this way for three more days. By the time the trees come into view, the swamp-water is up to his neck. His arms have gone numb from holding Umbreon over his head. The last night, he had the opportunity to neither eat nor sleep, and so he moves in a dream-like state, eyes glassing over as the last day fades into night. When he's out, he thinks of doing nothing but sleeping. With the moon shining overhead, he passes out on the ground and sleeps so deeply that nothing could wake him. The next morning, Proton sees the first other person in this wasteland. The old woman is immaculate, despite living in the swamp. She leans over her cane, hunched down to stare at Proton with her beady, sunken eyes. "You're a mess, ain'tcha?" she says, showing off her three corn-yellow teeth. Proton's too tired to react or even speak. Dumbly, he nods. The crone laughs. "Then follow me. I've got a nice cool shower, room for just one!" Dazed, Proton scrambles to his feet and goes to follow after her. But at the lats minute he remembers Umbreon. The poor creature is lying on its side, muck in its eyes and fur so coated that its rings don't even show. Proton picks it up gently and follows after the marsh-hag. It's a short walk to the woman's hut. She whirls around, the smile still on her face. "Here we are!" But when Proton steps forward, she raises her cane, the smile gone. "Only one." At first he doesn't understand what she means. But her gaze falls upon the Umbreon in his arms and Proton gets it perfectly. He wants nothing more than to wash away the grime of the swamp, but Umbreon can barely open its eyes. And Proton can do without a shower; he'd rather not remove his clothes with another human in the area anyway, or so he tells himself. Ignoring his discomfort and smell, he hands Umbreon to the woman. "Be gentle," he says. The woman doesn't speak. She takes Umbreon and silently steps into her hut. Proton's legs give out and he sits there until the sun reaches high noon. Only then does the woman come out with Umbreon, his coat now clean. "Here you go, dearie," she says, putting the Umbreon in his arms. "You've got a long journey ahead of you. I wonder how you'll fare with the sacrifices?" He's about to speak back to her, but when he blinks, she vanishes. All that's left is the forest. Even the swamp is gone. Proton sleeps for some time more, keeping Umbreon cradled close to his chest until just before dawn. When he cannot sleep any more, he ignores the growling in his stomach and starts his trek through the woods. Unlike the swamp, which was alive with sound, the forest is as still as death. The forest is petrified, the ground is ash, and even the sunlight seems to be gray. Proton decides he hates this place, where nothing can live and nothing can grow. He hurries his step, trying his hardest to get through the forest in good time. But the days pass and after a week it seems that there's no end in sight. By now he is starving, and he's not sure how much longer he will be able to hold on. And then he sees it: a small amount of bread. It's not a feast, but it's enough to fill his stomach for now. Proton looks down at it and he feels the ravenous hunger rise up in him. He feels the need to devour this piece of bread. But in order to pick up the bread, he must set down the bundle in his arms. And he has to admit, the bundle has gotten lighter. Umbreon is still, and Proton can't deny that the creature needs the food. He sets Umbreon down and breaks the bread into half, offering Umbreon its half first. The Pokemon, which seemed so dead at first, suddenly springs to life, devouring the ration so fast that Proton barely has time to blink. Guilt settles in the pit of his stomach; losing his appetite, Proton lets Umbreon eat the other half. Exhausted, he lies down to sleep. Umbreon purrs against him. The next morning, he moves with a zombie-like trance. He barely registers as the forest gives way to a desert, where the suns are so hot and scorching that his blood seems to boil. He only notices when he almost passes out from the heat and exertion. To save his life, he chooses to travel by night. But night comes and the sky has neither a moon nor stars, and he fears that he will not be able to see. "It's a risk I'll have to take," he says to Umbreon, who has yet to speak a word since the Swamp. As he starts up a sand dune that could potentially scrape the sky, he expects his world to stay dark. But Umbreon's fur is still clean from the swamp muck. It glows bright, its moonlight illuminating the world around him. It is because of Umbreon that he manages to cross the desert, for the dark is the worst enemy. In the darkness, he imagines the things that are chasing him. He wonders if they're still following, with all their hounds and horses. The thought pushes Proton faster, even as a nagging thirst begins in his mouth. It spreads to his throat and lips within a day. By the third night, his lips are so dry that they're cracking, and yet he cannot wet them, for his mouth is incredibly dry. Finally, he can bear it no longer. He passes out. Alex removes his hands from the typewriter, staring down at the pages he had written. One of his cats, Bowser, has taken up residence on the first page. The big orange tabby has a habit of doing that. But it's the skinny black stray that he's just brought in that catches his eye. In this room there are no fantastical elements. There are just piles of cat toys, failed manuscripts, and to-do lists. Alex grabs the edge of the desk, trying to ground himself in this reality. He doesn't like to think about his dreams; they're almost surreal and yet as he writes this, he's starting to shake. "It's just a story," Alex says, more to himself than anything. The black cat continues to stare. "...I don't need to finish it." And he reaches for the paper in the type writer, but the cat places its paw on his hand. Alex freezes and he remembers biting winters and that gnawing fear and he pulls his hand back and messes more with his wedding ring. Nervously, in part because the story is cutting too close to home and in part because he's been having a conversation with a cat all day, Alex says, "It's not the truth, though." The cat paws at the typewriter, and Alex swears he hears a voice in the back of his mind, a voice far too much like his own. Write it anyway. The woman from the swamp is back when Proton opens his eyes. She stands over him with a glass of water and Proton stares up at enviously. "Thirsty?" she laughs, her face full of scorn. "I'm sure you'd love a drink of this." And Proton nods and reaches up for the glass, but Umbreon sits near him, splayed out on the ground and panting heavily. Umbreon, whose light got him through the desert. Umbreon, who is just as thirsty. He looks back up at the woman. His voice is just barely a whisper, because he's forgotten how to speak. "Only one?" Her smile doesn't waver. "You learn fast." Umbreon drinks every last drop. With the last of the water, the cup and the woman both vanish. Proton senses that the last leg of his journey is ahead. Determined to keep moving, he picks up Umbreon and moves ahead. By now he is little more than skin and bones, dry as parchment and thin as a rail. The wind threatens to knock him over. His clothing doesn't fit right and his teeth are falling out, one by one. Yet he keeps walking, because to stop the journey now, after he's come so far, is to let Umbreon down. He won't do that, not until he's found the place he needs to be. There'll be a person there that will fix Umbreon's legs. And then Proton will finally be able to rest. The last trial will be the hardest. The last trial is always the hardest. But he's not sure what else they can take from him. He has nothing but the flesh on him, and even that is fading. And that's when he sees it: the last place he has to cross. For all that his eye can see, there are thorn-bushes. They rise up to his waist, and he sees now that he's going to have to walk through them. Their barbs are long, hooked, and nasty, and each is the size of his finger. As far as he's concerned, there's no way around. He's going to have to walk forward. He sleeps that night by the thorns, wondering if it's going to be worth it. He's not sure where he's headed, but it has to be worth it. Why else would he give his entire body away? Why else would he sacrifice it all to protect Umbreon? But what if it isn't? Proton doesn't know the answer to that. When he awakens the next morning, he steels his resolve. He picks up Umbreon and takes his first step into the bush. The agony is instant. The flesh rends back from the bone, sending blood down into his shoes. Proton screams, a deathly wail that rattles his ribcage and gives such volume to his voice that he swore the desert had taken away. But he cannot stop. Tears stinging his eyes, he takes the next step, still screaming in pain as the barbs dig into him. His legs are the first to be stripped down to the bone, and by that time he's screamed so loud that he cannot scream anymore. Like the swamp, the thorn bushes go on endlessly. And like the swamp, the thorns crawl higher and higher. But unlike the swamp, Proton cannot afford to stop, for if he stops, he will never start again. He will crumble down into the bush and die and lie there for all eternity, having never made it through to the other side. The days are long and gruesome and the pain never ends, even when his lower half is nothing but bones. The nights are dark, for Umbreon is too scared to glow, and in the darkness Proton sees hands reaching for him, trying to feel him and hold him down and break through the bones to the organs beneath his ribcage. And that's when he realizes that his ribs are exposed and that his lungs are now gone. His still-beating heart pounds in his chest, but that is all that is left of his body, safe for his face and hands. He wants to scream again, but he cannot find the breath. His lungs are gone. He will never speak again. He has become a monster on the outside, and Umbreon looks at him horrified. But Proton cannot stop. He is no longer human; he cannot let it stop him. Step by step. Inch by inch. He comes closer and closer to the end of the thorns with every step. And he expects it to be dramatic, but when he reaches the end, the thorn bushes merely stop. He too stops, and collapses again, because his bones can no longer hold him up. And so he lies, unable to sleep and unable to speak and unable to die, because he stopped living so very long ago. He lies now on the grass, which he could eat if he weren't just bones. There's a low hill in front of him, and at the top he can see it: his destination. He tells himself he'll go in the morning, because right now his bones ache and he refuses to budge. The next sun rise comes and the swamp-woman returns with it. "You're all messed up, aren't you?" She laughs. "I like you better this way. Unable to speak. Unable to whine, too." (And he winces, because he knows she's right.) "So, dear boy," she leans against her cane, "I can fix your body. I can make you whole again, and you will be just like new. Would you like that?" He stares up at her for the longest time. Finally she says, "Just one." Umbreon's legs are still broken, and Proton can no longer carry it. If Umbreon could talk and walk with him, perhaps Proton can make it up the hill. There'll be someone at his destination to save him, won't there? He points to the Umbreon and the woman puts her hand to the Umbreon's head. The Umbreon, shakily, stands. Its legs are healed, and Proton closes his eyes, resting them for a moment. When he opens his eyes, the woman is gone again and Umbreon is licking his face. It's only a ways away now. Proton drags himself along with his hands, pulling himself up with the grass. His legs end up staying behind. That's fine, he doesn't need them. He only needs to make it up this hill. Umbreon runs ahead of him, tail wagging and yipping encouragement. And Proton smiles, because it's so close that he can taste it. When he reaches the top of the hill, he can see heaven before him. It's the safest place in the world, and he's almost giddy as he tries to crawl towards it. But a cane blocks his path, and he reaches for Umbreon out of fear. The swamp-woman is back. "Just one," she says. It's his last trial. His last test. Can he give this paradise to Umbreon and live in heaven forever? Or will he take paradise for himself, leaving Umbreon out here to be devoured? "Come on, then," she snaps, "choose!" Proton stares down at paradise. There are warm beds and plenty of food and fresh bodies and hot showers with locks on the door that can't be picked-- And yet he refuses to let Umbreon leave him, because Umbreon is his. "What's your choice, boy?!" the woman snarls. Proton reaches for Umbreon and pulls Umbreon close. And in any happy story, this would have ended well. But instead the woman lets out a shriek of laughter. "Selfish! Selfish until the end!" And in an instant his body is flesh again and he can speak and all he can do is scream, "No! No, please, I take it back!" But it's too late. The witch can see right through him, and there's no denying that his motivations for every sacrifice were only because he thought he'd be rewarded at the end. He holds Umbreon tighter and sucks in his breath. The sky above them turns black. The grass vanishes and fades away into water. Trembling in fear, the two are swallowed by the sea. Alex stares at the type writer, hands trembling. Celia, the tortoiseshell, is dozing in his lap now, rubbing her head against his elbow. Bowser is still asleep on the earlier pages. And the black stray is still staring him down. "...It's done." The cat flicks his tail. "No," he says, "no. I'm not writing any more of this. I need to let it rest, I need to get past it. It's not real and it never happened." And the voice is back in his head: Then why do you live with the memories? Alex can't answer that question. But not every question is meant to be answered. Like why Umbreon and Proton met, like why Psuche exists, like who Persephone is. What he suspects is that there are levels to every story, truth to every fiction and frankly, he's starting to think that perhaps his reality isn't quite so real. It's proof as he's sat down and typed out several thousand words of rough-written parable, telling the story of a man who's dying but in the most elaborate fashion. In the end, Proton and Stalkereon die, and it's Proton's selfishness that causes it. In the end, nothing else truly matters. You could write the truth. But Alex doesn't want to write the truth. The truth is that he calls himself an actor but he can't get a job, the truth is that he's barely a writer, the truth is that he's lucky his wife has a nice inheritance under her belt or he'd be starving just like he used to be-- No, like a fictional character that has lived in his head ever since he was small was. And was. Because across the room are littered manuscripts with tales of Proton, a figure who may or may not be real and shares his same face and name. Proton, a figure whose tales have never quite left him, and he's sure never will. But now that the end is written, he can write in peace. Now that the end is written, he can go on with his life and pretend like this was the only life he's ever led, that there's no such thing as magic and monsters and technology that's capable of fitting thirty-foot sentient steel into a pocket-sized enclosure. There's a knock on the door to his study and it breaks him from his thoughts. "Alex?" Alex turns his chair around, waking the cat on his lap. Bad mistake, as Celia still has her claws. "Ow-- yeah?" The door opens and in walks Agnes, her hair up in a messy ponytail. "Just got done feeding the tarantulas. Do you want something to eat as well?" Alex glances at the window. It's a nice afternoon. The sun's out and he could honestly use a walk at this point. "...Yeah, actually, let's go get a bite." "Oh, but I could cook--" "Nah, I need some fresh air." He smiles haggardly. Agnes gets the look on her face that suggests she's going to go with it but she's definitely going to ask questions as soon as she gets the chance. "Very well." Alex removes Celia from his lap with great difficulty, pushes Bowser off the short story, grabs the last page off the typewriter, staples the pages together, and shoves it in his drawer. The black cat is still staring. Before he leaves, Alex glances back at it. "...You be good, Lunos." SPOILER: Click to show tw: suicide It is true that no matter how you tell it, in the end, Proton and Stalkereon die. But it is also true that a story is not built on the merit of its ending but on the merit of its journey. Stories that hinge on the ending are rarely the best to hear, again and again. The best of stories live in the detail. But you don't want to hear the better story. You want to hear the truth. And so, I will tell it. Proton doesn't die in the cold. Eventually, the cold's enough to break him. Wheezing, he walks into the Rocket Base in Cianwood City, hair and boots wet from the snow. A Rocket Grunt is the first to greet him. "You know," she says, "everyone's been looking for you. You haven't delivered a report in weeks, and the entire base is in disarray." He stares at her listlessly. "Whatever." "You're an executive, and one of the only ones left! It's hard to fill in the necessary gaps if you're constantly out and about, playing in the snow and not even bothering to report back to Archer--" "Archer can fuck himself." The Grunt scowls. "Would you say the same thing about Giovanni?" Proton gives her one last blank look before turning away. "Giovanni can go fuck himself, too." The Grunt sputters angrily as he saunters off. The Umbreon is still on his heels, and Proton almost wants to yell at it. However, there are Grunts around, darting out of his way, and his fever makes it hard for him to concentrate on anything but a general anger. When he reaches his room, he finds that nothing has been changed. Archer's been taking his disappearances well. With a sigh, he grabs a bag and a notecard and writes, neatly, Racing Stripes- Don't know where you are, but this is yours. He puts the Pokeballs on his belt inside, as well as a few books. Some of his favorites. He trusts Thanatos will understand. Umbreon still circles his legs, purring. Proton picks it up, nuzzling into its fur as he stares out the window. Time to leave again. He sets down Stalkereon and picks up a pillowcase, wrapping it around his hand. Then he breaks the window. The noise no-doubt gets attention, but Proton has enough time to spare. He slips through the window pane and almost leaves the Umbreon behind, but the creature jumps through as well and follows after him. Umbreon's not so lucky; it cut its paws on the broken glass, and now limps after Proton, meowing piteously. Proton picks him up and carries him down towards the entrance to the cave near the waterfall. He plans on running so far that no one will ever find him. He plans on changing his name. He plans on living in Almia, where the war won't touch him and no one will ever know his face. But the waterfall nearby sounds so soothing. And then he hears it, the voice in the back of his head. "Come on, Alex," it whispers. "You really think we'll be able to find a new place? We've gone too far to turn back." He steps closer to the edge of the cliff, then pauses near the end. He can feel the wind in his face, smell the salt beneath him. Stalkereon has a rare moment of clarity. The Umbreon begins to squirm, crying out in hopes that someone will hear him. His bites have no effect on Proton, who is beyond hearing. "Too far," he murmurs. His mind whispers back, "It won't take long. You'll be free, forever. I promise you that." "You mean it?" "I do." He steps forward. Stalkereon screams.

We kill the lights
And put on a show
It's all a lie
But you'd never know
The star will shine
And then it will fall
And you will forget it all

Now you know it's so much better to pretend
There's something waiting for you here
Every letter that you wrote
Has found its way to me my dear
You can make believe that what you say
Is what I want to hear
I'll keep dancing through this beautiful, delusional career
Faking every tear
Looking like a compromise suicide
Keeping all my dreams alive

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