Judgment was harsh and swift, said in a language of sentiment rather than words.
A shame the subject of their jurisdiction was not a sentimental man. He connected to his world with the concrete. Where they said words like travesty and crime he simply saw a room, black smeared the wall, or perhaps it was best to say that the walls smeared the walls. Layers have been vaporized in the violence post the thing’s birth. Still, there was something to nature to this unnatural gathering. The cement had charred, energies released had caused friction, and friction had taken to fuel. The results left a peculiar scent that almost like burning, and set pseudo singe across the varied organs involved in breathing.
Still he drew breath as all about him they judged and perhaps indulged the spiteful thought that he really really should not be breathing.
Judgment wasn’t new. These things who thought them so above humanity certainly acted human enough in their little past time. He’d stood against magistrate and military, civilian powers and corporate. The components were much the same; the thinned eyes the scathing regard, the surety that they were better.
In most cases he’d have stood stiff and proud and with that damning grin thrown their expectations to the dirt, proving he to be their better.
If he were feeling merciful he might have absorbed them into his on organization as an asset. Had he not, (most common, more common) he’d have simply minded the blood from their crumpled form on the way out.
Those about him could not speak, thus his first weapons of words, was not his to use. They could declare judgment, indicate ire, but he would not understand the roars and twisted screams of this gathering.
About around, illuminated from their own light rather than the failing illumination of a flickering fixture, were legends made flesh but were beyond his touch. He’d tried once, to touch the impossibilities paraded about him, but had only had his knees buckle and found that the soot sheathed floors matched the crack crazed wall before him.
Not able to stand he lingered in a pseudo sort of worshipful repose, and perhaps appeased they slowed fom nauseating rotation to a more sedate twirl. Before him, about him, the dance slowed and stalled until at last it stilled. The most familiar (part bogeymen and wholly the things in place of explanation of idle childish wonders of the most base basic things) stood before him. Wings of fire swirled about the originator of storms, switching between seeking to scar heaven scarlet and falling amongst the debris of his own rise. Of those three the man in the dark understood the flame winged beast best. Above the warring brothers, keeping the skies from burning by sacrificing the frosty artistry of her own extremities, a falcon of ice resided over all. Still above her was steam. It twined into a fearful corona, where inner illumination met florescent and to that light and ascent he was all but blind. Still there were hints, hints of shape, and awareness that was both the breath of death yet not dead, and that there was light in that dark and both glowered fiercely at him. Malice beat down on him, like sun sans nutrient, sans burn, save breathing burned.
Will you speak?
He’d of laughed, finally finally words after eternity of mad whirling. Now they wished to speak? Save they weren’t. Not aloud, not spoken, still to this call of sorts he stood. Using wall and minding blood, his, and though his legs shook sheer pride got him up and the wall kept him steady and his fingers assured he was awake because his grip was so tight it hurt.
You have committed crimes
And here they were again, where they’d stood before. He’d been here so many times, accused, listening to accusation.
They tried to guilt him, so juvenile, acting as if his actions would ever hurt him. They never had, not once, not since…
Well simply put it never did now, and since time seemed tight he’d live with simple.
This place, it’s impossibilities aside, had once been a room. This place with its flickering light, not fortunes and resources unimaginable were reduced to metal scrapings and rubble. Some seam had surly sprung, because the one step he’d taken to the dark (their light burned bad enough, he’d not have that failing florescence bother him as well) had let a soft splash in its wake. Unable to decide what was worse (sound and implication, or the fact he couldn’t feel the leg he made work) he took to dark for one last but of comfort, a respite for his eyes. In this ruble of failed ambition he was dying, surly. After all impossibilities and voices in the head and the like. Still he’d face death standing, unlike the other sacrifice, for now, so long as he could let it, it would be him and the carrion.
He was not ready to die.
Death is a force
“And I’ve used it, inflicted lethal means to my enemies, another crime is it? Will we be tallying the numbers then? Tell me, what’s the catch? Where should we start? Am I responsible for those I’ve personally arranged, indirectly caused, or is it simply those who’ve committed murder while claiming to be my proxy by wearing the uniform I’ve gifted them? Define murder you bastards.”
Words will not avail you Leonardo Giovanni.
So spoke the dark and light, a curious comingling of opposites he could not see much less comprehend.
Because he couldn’t (or perhaps they wouldn’t, become visible or cross that boundary so he could comprehend) he didn’t. Simply ignoring them and after a few staggering steps found himself by grey tinged corpse, it was a curious coagulation of man and monster, steel colored save without the gloss, the upper torso was crushed, beyond it was a stair a rise and perhaps out. Though the debris was steel plates with stone piled atop them he worked, worrying one rock the size of both his hands, his tugging caused it to clatter free and he stepped aside for the modest rock fall that resulted.
You will hear our voice.
Multiplicity and singularity all at once, rolling his eyes he gripped an edge, was bloodied for his efforts, but still pulled. The air that gushed out was less than clean but fresher than what he partook. Using his own blood to slick stones he worked one, than another, small things but as he dropped them on the body Mewtwo so coaxed a memory… well it didn’t matter. Creator killed creation, thus sparing himself the trite of mob and torches and other silliness that was supposed to fall upon both creature and maker when the world caught on.
“Is irrelevant.” So huffed the condemned to his judges, while working. “You play god. Arceus says he is god, notice how I’m not bowing.” More digging ensued, little progress but it was something. And because it was something Giovanni took what heart he could. “You want my Mew damned opinion.” Giovanni rambled, still digging, and wishing feverishly that he’d though to bring Onix or Ryhdon… or hell that Diglar they were still experimenting on back at headquarters… well the still standing not ravaged by physic summoned earthquake and inferno headquarters. “Well want it or not, if power made a pokemon god I’d be a god of men, same rules, equal economic opportunities and all that.”
That… made less sense than it meant too, but was plausible.. firm… maybe. Considering he was talking to fragmentations of a surly splintering psych Giovanni didn’t really care for coherence. He wanted out, now. Thus resolved he dug quicker and more carelessly.
I really wish people wouldn’t say that. A chime sweet voice resounded, save no mouth opened and sweet voices weren’t really meant to whine. Feline ears slicked back against its pink skull, Mew flicked its furless flowing tail. I don’t do that.
Busy swearing at the rocks that bashed his toes Giovanni resolutely did not care.
And I don’t think I should do that with Articuno, it sounds unsanitary. Mew noted.
“Then the lot of you do humanity a favor and throw yourselves into Cinnibar volcano. Except the fire types, find an icy ocean.” Giovanni snarled, feet freed, corpse all but buried (the rocks about it oozing blackly about the base) the head of Team Rocket sank to his knees, panting but not quite able to catch his breath no matter how he strained.
I believe it’s dying
Though in his head there was a definite rumble about his feet when whatever impossibility that was but wasn’t spoke. The arm of his creature flopped lifelessly in response to the rise and fall of the “speakers” words.
Dialga, time please. Thus entreated the dead thing that he could sort of see through the encroaching darkness.
“You.. you aren’t…” They stared at him, lines and frames swimming and swirling awfully now. Their eyes had teeth and their regard nipped and nibbled. “No…Go ‘way.”
Time slowed as they went back to nattering, sweetness meeting roars and chirps, he smelled char and ozone and rot and earth and ocean and hot bitter exhale as they circled close now, so close he might be able to touch if his hand would lift.
Finally, he was recalled again, between pants that seemed too slow and thoughts that were too incoherent to be anything save primal.
Leonardo Giovanni. So murmured a voice that was both memory and starlight, hellishly familiar, yet frustratingly vague. You have done both good and evil, we have given you a gift and you’ve tainted it, but in redemption all accidental you have in turn destroyed that which was flawed before others could suffer due to its madness. You have ended madness inconsolable, yet left us with the grief of never knowing our youngest brother and left a void of our order. Such complexities are unknown to us, so as you are not one of our own how in human laws would you stand?
To that Giovanni grinned, finding something like coherence, and humor, he rasped one word.
Because he was. Of murder, by proxy and directly and in all the shades in between. If they thought themselves gods than add diety-cide to homicide to poke-cide, because he’d done all that and worse and would do all that and worse.
All because Ghestis has chained to him a dragon of air and light, a king of storms.
They’d not catch one their own, chasing mew had been folly, a quest epitomizing his predecessors foolish vanity, so he’d quit that and legends and tales of gods that might be caught and carried.
They’d make their own.
And they had, hadn’t they, a mad wretched thing, perfect apex of humanities vices and corruption coagulated into the form of a man-cat demon with the wiles of a thieving child and a mind that could wreck buildings. It certainly had done so to this one whilst in the midst of a temper tantrum.
And what does one do, when one is guilty? So murmured the chime, the voiceless query of the thing he’d seen his father send man after man after only for them to never return. And in that moment, that eternal moment between his first and last breath, wondered of murder by proxy.
“Don’t get caught.”
Then just weary, of eyes and regard and bickering bestial voices he shut his eyes, letting the dark behind his eyes sweep him away.