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Trapped within a "toy box", the first thing ##### thought was "Seriously?"
They had been obedient.
They had been following Her commands.
Every sharp order, every reprimand. Every second of the battle against the blue-horned beast, of an imaginary blade driven through their chest and that virus rummaging through their brain.
Every tug and sensation of It deciding their every step and every command in battle.
And now.
They waited.
And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.
They hadn't had to wait before. Always something to do. Complete the cycle.
They had never left their mind to idle before. So, their thoughts turned back to what had brought them here: a single sentence. They had said one single sentence to Her, and now they were a discarded doll within her toy box, left to rot until She wished to play with it again.
Of course She was evil. They had known this from the moment they had been born. What She did was evil, and by extension, so was ##### themself. There was no use denying it.
Before this, however, ##### had not been afraid of oblivion. It was simply their cross to bear, and they had told "M2" as much – this world was marked for death, and ##### too would be erased in the end, to be thrown away at Her whim. They had been created for this very purpose.
But now they were waiting.
She had not simply locked their body away, but their very essence. "Essence", because surely they had no soul of their own, like Pokemon. Only something more nebulous.
They had no body. Not even the weight of debris pressing down on them, or the howling of the storm outside, or the heat of the flames, or the sight of the choking city.
Simply, nothing. A black box.
Blind, deaf, mute, numb, paralyzed –
and so, they waited.
An idle mind breeds idle thoughts.
They strained to think of anything that might fill and occupy their mind. At first, they thought of the part of the plan that laid ahead, back in the present day. The Xenpurgis, wasn't it? It was fated to occur, though most who'd die wouldn't matter at all. It had to go off, and then be stopped in due time. After that, the Archetype.
Such thoughts could not occupy them for long, though. It could have been mere minutes, or hours, or days. For a longer while still, they simply thought of nothing at all. Already losing track.
Perhaps this place was like Zeight. If they were lucky, three minutes within where three months without. If they were unlucky, the inverse. But was there such a thing as luck in a predetermined world, dancing along the ink of Her pen?
...What of their Pokemon? Where those innocent creatures conscious, too? Was this what it felt like to be stored in a ball, left in the PC? Those beings were, perhaps, their only allies in this senseless world.
They tried to recall the sound of their Primarina's singing. Switching between Hyper Voice and Sparkling Aria, always a gallant sound. ##### had had eccentric taste – they had only caught bugs. When faced with the starter selection in the East Gearen Lab, they had scarcely accepted a Popplio because it would grow to be a Fairy type, like those used by #####'s mother.
Which meant ##### had to follow suit in #####'s footsteps and do much the same. If only the Interceptor changed fate, then if ##### acted exactly as ##### had done, the world would act the same as well. The Popplio had been golden instead of blue, by chance first and by fate later.
They thought of all their Pokemon, one after another, and hoped they slept well. The buzzing of Masquerain's wings. Sylveon's soft fur. Beautifly's pollen. The thrill of Guardevoir's mega evolution.
As before, such thoughts could not occupy their mind forever. But they were soon running out of topics to think about. They did not wish to recall the people around them. They did not wish to think of their mission. They did not wish to concern themself with their Pokemon any further.
All that left them with was darkness, and nothing, and oblivion. A void without stars, the deepest night. The shade of grey found lurking beneath one's eyelids stretched out into every sensation of their body. What had it felt like to feel anything? What was the shape of a hand? The beating of a heart? The rustling of leaves, or another's voice?
...Had they spent longer like this than they had ever spent being alive?
Had they ever been alive to begin with?
##### began to wonder. If not people or Pokemon, perhaps characters? What kind of story could be spun to pass time?
Once upon a time, there was a...
And already, they were stumped. Boy? Girl? Neither? All? Dark skin and light skin, hair in shades of black and brown and white and red and pink, and clothing? Casual or formal or new or ripped or... Six different faces reflected in others' eyes as fractals, all shards of the same funhouse mirror.
Slowly, deliciously slowly, they carved an ideal protagonist out of everything they had ever known, and everyone they had ever been. Their hair should be dark, ##### decided. Their eyes should be aglow, something to fear... The skin a median shade... And they would be... Fierce. Feared. Strong, and powerful, able to stand up to anything and anyone. A proper protagonist for a story of freedom.
Once upon a time, they started over inside their head, there was a person who wasn't quite anything, but a bit of everything. This person was... the heir of a kingdom. A true prince, or princess, depending on their fancy. But the heir was the child to a cruel queen. The queen ruled the land with an iron fist, and bade her child to do the same.
The people clamored for mercy from their wicked queen, yet she spared none. A hero set to kill her had been captured and chained before the queen and her heir.
"Kill her," the queen said.
The heir raised their blade and looked down upon the hero. For a hero she was, protecting the weak and defying the unjust.
The heir's blade fell. With one fell stroke, the heir had torn the queen's head from her shoulders before she could make a sound of protest. Her blood spilled golden upon the ground, squelching beneath the heir's boots.
When the heir undid the hero's chains, she thanked them profusely. They weren't like their mother at all, she'd said. The heir had to be on the side of righteousness.
But the heir had killed the queen because her voice had grated them.
With one story over, they struggled for another.
Once upon a time, there was... a fighter in a tournament. But only they knew the tournament was actually a trap to gather energy for a weapon of mass destruction. So, the day before the weapon could launch, they... used their skills honed through the tournament to kill the engineer.
Once upon a time, there was a rebel who killed the leader of a rival gang. Once upon a time, there was a bounty hunter who killed their employer. Once upon a time, there was...
They stopped thinking about stories. Everything returned to a vision of Her in pain and agony. Her stuffed inside a black box. Her bleeding. Her dying.
Hatred.
This, too, was necessary.
Even as their mind jolted, they could not thrash or squirm or protest their bounds, only continue as a formless nothing. Decades, years, months, hours, seconds it had taken, to think one single thing.
They wanted out. They wanted to be alive.
And still, they waited.
Because their words did not matter.
Because their actions did not matter.
Because their life did not matter.
After all, they were merely a copy.
And if they were a copy, She would not need any guilt.
Their story did not matter.
Zenos dreamed of a headless queen.
One day, they woke up, simple as that.
The greyness of their mind giving way to the darkness of ruins, from buried within to buried beneath. Even the low echo of their own shallow breathing was too loud to their ears, already too full from the rush of their own blood pumping through their veins again. Shallow breaths grew faster as they remembered to breathe, dust in and fumes out. On their hands and knees, the Interceptor's armor clinked against torn brick road.
Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive.
Too long was it nothing but their thoughts and now they could no longer think at all. It all kept coming back to their sweat-soaked hair plastered to their forehead underneath their helmet or the lurch in their stomach or the wetness of their breaths and their other slushing insides. It all kept coming back, in fits and in starts that they curled up right there at the ruined harbor, the waters surrounding them perfectly still.
Alive. Alive. They're alive. They're here.
She'd taken a knife to their mind and scooped out their grey matter. Their limbs were like a burlap doll, bereft of any bones to support movement of its own, only contorted into the shapes a playing child desired of them.
It all kept coming back. Their mission, Her decree. What day was it? When would they dance upon Her strings again?
No.
They took off their helmet, and savored.
No more.
Shaking hands grasped at their belt for a pokeball. The first, most weathered one, its button well-worn.
They collapsed into Primarina's soft yellow mane. Their armor dematerialized so they could better run their fingers through his short fur.
Never in their life had they cried, but Primarina's reaction of confusion, that he and all the others had slept a blink instead of suffering with them, came close to it. Primarina hugged his trainer back, placing his long flippers on their back. He hummed an all-too familiar melody, the only piece of music they'd ever cared about, solely because it wasn't contained within #####'s memories.
Masquerain, Volcarona, Guardevoir, Sylveon even Genesect – all who'd steadfastly remained by Zenos' side without complaint, snuggled as close to their beloved trainer as their bodies allowed.
They were alive, but not yet free, no.
Still, still, still, they would have to wait, for their overdue dawn.