Hoshi had never put much thought into religion-

  Actually no, that was a complete lie. Hoshi didn’t think about religion in terms of himself, but as a cog in the machine that was Kanto? That, he’d thought about a whole Arc-damned lot.

  So when the vehicle rolled to a gentle stop and the back of the semi-trailer opened, he could immediately put together a slew of details that hadn’t been available from the library’s map of Fuchsia, things he hadn't had semi-memorised before the trip.

  It was a lot smaller than he’d been picturing; Vermillion’s churches were bulky things, with tall roofs and sturdy walls built to house masses during… mass. The church near the Fuchsia City Pokémon Gym was… He wouldn’t say quaint, it still looked like it could hold a couple hundred people, but there was an enforced humility that Hoshi’s home lacked. They both take after the local Gym, actually – though this building was probably already standing way back in the first Shogunate, so I guess it’s the other way around. Paper walls, arcanine statues on the path up, little gardens to the side…

  Again, the morning light hit his eye strangely. Everything was too bright, too vivid, hyperawareness and numbing depression complimenting each other in the worst fucking way. Hoshi blinked, adjusted his kimono where it rubbed awkwardly against his bandages, and then hopped down to the ground. “C’mon Puce.”

  “Okay.”

  For once, the woman didn’t clumsily smash into anything; she hopped off the truck almost daintily, only the sudden lack of her weight causing its wheels to squeak softly. “Do I need to say anything?”

  “Just look bland and soulless,” he half-joked, and started up the path.

  When he’d suggested this plan to the others, they’d been sceptical; why Puce of all people? The instructors had both insisted on coming, Ryan had suggested himself, and Casca had been anxious about letting him out of her sight.

  But he’d put his foot down. The instructors were good actors, but unsuited for the role – and he wanted time away from them, besides. The same went for the others; ninja were stoic. Bluntness hiding edge. Cliff and maybe Lilian could have fit, but he hadn’t – didn’t – trust them to let him do what he wanted.

  Puce, whose present face may as well have been carved from wax, was perfect. She was exactly what they were pretending to be: emotionally dead inside. The lack of acting ability didn’t matter when she just needed to stand in his shadow and be menacing. That, and… she looks the part. The Mutsu clan was large-boned, even moreso when held up against the slender Doksu, and while he had the hair, Hoshi was unfortunately blessed with his mother’s build.

  But together, the illusion was in place.

  The path from road to door was short, and he didn’t bother to knock before entering; it was a public space, and he was in the Gym trainer uniform. That was a key for almost any lock.

  As he’d been hoping, there was a single priest inside. He let out an interrogative “Hm?” and turned, tall hat bobbing above a sharp face with a straw broom in his hands. Emblazoned on the stark-white headgear was a symbol; a circle with four diagonal spokes coming off, two not-quite-half-circles joining each side's spokes to form two crescents.

  The symbol of Arceanism, shared near-universally amongst the many different sects spanning the globe. If Hoshi were to flee Kanto, no matter which city on which continent he settled down on there would always be a building sporting Arcus’s halo. The details would be different – he was pretty sure only Kanto and Johto used white and red for their ceremonial garb, rather than white and gold or black and gold, and the hat wasn’t even universal amongst locals – but it would be Arceanism.

  There was something comforting in that, even if he didn’t necessarily believe, and he clung to that comfort as a tense moment passed. The priest looked at him, then the large woman who followed him, and was silent – but then he bowed, and Hoshi knew right then that his plan would work.

  “Masters Mutsu,” the man said before straightening. “How may the House of Arcus be of service?”

  “Apologies for intruding,” Hoshi sent back with a bow of his own. It might seem like the priest was subordinate based on his words, but that was an illusion; whether it was a beggar or the Champion herself, the man in his tall white hat would speak exactly the same. No, they were equals – or they would be equals, if Hoshi were who the priest assumed he was. “I have come here as a representative of Clan Mutsu, and must unfortunately beg your assistance; have you any clothes, fit to be worn by a number of builds, or food for travelling? We are not picky.” The formal language sat heavily on his tongue… but all of him was heavy, so it was almost another comfort. Like a thick blanket.

  Again, a moment of silent tension – then the man set his broom aside, leaning it against a low table. “Certainly, honoured defender of the cherry tree. Please give me a moment; I will send my brother out to entertain you while I gather a donation – how many must be clothed?”

  “If you have enough for a dozen, that would be ideal. Adults only,” he appended, and something in the priest’s eyes shifted towards relief. Ah, I guess that isn’t always the case.

  “I will look. Please, rest for a moment.”

  Doshin looked up towards the roof of the altar room with trepidation. Maybe… no one will notice? No, that was impossible; the great halo hung nearly touching the ceiling was quite visibly askew, and refused to return to its intended state no matter how he prodded it with his broom.

  All I wanted to do was dust without climbing up all the way… Ah, we might have to take it down and re-hang it…

  Not exactly a lot of work, but he was dreading telling Kisuke that he’d tried to take a shortcut while cleaning Arcus’s halo. The older man had eyes like a sharpedo, and his withering gaze was grim legend among his junior brothers. Or maybe, I can just re-do the whole thing while he’s sweeping? No, it’s made to be handled by at least three people, if I were to drop it..!

  Doshin slumped, sighing. “I suppose I’ll just have to face the music…” he muttered, clutching the broom like a teddy bear.

  Only for it to nearly fall from his hands as an aged voice appeared from behind him. “Doshin,” Kisuke said loudly as he entered the room, and the named man whirled in place. There was a beat of silence as the senior priest stared at his junior, who was holding a broom behind his back as though hiding something incriminating. Then he continued, writing it off. “We have guests; two shinobi of the Mutsu. Please keep them occupied while I gather some things – and please be more accommodating than last time.”

  “Yes sir,” Doshin squeaked, and though he resisted mightily he couldn't help but glance upwards before dashing off. Ah, salvation- no, wait! This is even worse than being given the Evil Eye! Punishment, then. The moment he was out of sight he slumped even more vehemently, defeated. “Oh Creator, your hand is heavy…” But still, he couldn’t very well shirk his duty, and so he made his way to the entrance room despite his heavy feet.

  As he entered, Doshin schooled his face. It was difficult; the two shinobi sitting at a table looked fearsome, bearing wounds and a battlesome aura. It made his breath heavy, like the blood on their hands had risen up to choke him – how many people had they killed? Ten? A hundred?

  He blinked away the thought. Stop being silly. It’s probably just… one or two. Somehow, the more realistic answer was even more unsettling. The male Mutsu’s head turned as Doshin berated himself, and the priest recaptured his poise – outwardly, at least. “Hello,” he called, muscle memory bidding him to approach despite the reluctance of his heart. “I am Doshin. Please, while my brother attends to your request, why not speak to me for a moment, and hear the wisdom of the Creator?”

  Or you could send me away… Please?

  The thin-boned man failed to hear his internal plea – or perhaps he heard it and deliberately tossed it aside, for the slight smile he gave was as sharp-edged and malicious as any poisoned blade. “Just call me Mutsu. I suppose I’ll take you up on that offer.”

  Arcus damn it. “Of course. And you, ma’am?”

  “Call her… Green,” Mutsu answered for her, the woman not even looking at either of them. “If you feel the need for a name. I doubt it will be relevant; she isn’t much for conversation at the moment.”

  “Of course,” the young priest repeated, then again. “Of course, honoured protector. So, uh, what would you like to talk about, sir?”

  Mutsu shifted, lightly touching his side – and like two magnemite drawn together, Doshin’s eyes naturally dipped to follow. The shinobi’s fingers were callused, because of course they were, but Doshin was startled by the scars he bore. They were subtle, yes – but Fuchsia was the medicinal capital of the country, boasting a hospital larger than any in Kanto’s Dueling Capitals. Those faint ripples of damaged skin were no doubt the result of countless bloody wounds overlapping each other, rend after rend piling up like bodies across a bloodthirsty field.

  He swallowed. And the bulge in his kimono, he must be wearing thicker bandages directly across his chest… a wound so close to the heart? No, stop thinking about it. He wet his suddenly-dry lips.

  “Let's start with something easy,” Mutsu continued, speaking distressingly lightly in his deep, soulful voice. “I’d like some guidance. Do you think it is wrong to kill for the sake of vengeance, priest Doshin?”

  The cadence was almost teasing. Why? Why me? Was a moment of sloth really worth this torture? “Of course not, sir. When the Dexus, may his sins be washed clean, intruded on the earth, the Rayquaza slew him without mercy – and though the great green dragon’s actions were righteous, still did Arcus punish the earth for the death of one His hands. If Arcus, the Creator, punished us for the slaying of His blood, how could it be unrighteous?”

  Mutsu nodded, thoughtful. “I suppose you’re right. A silly question.” Again he reached across his side, tenderly placing his hand beneath his armpit. At his left the massive Green managed to loom while being seated. She was silent, and slightly hunched, as though her weight were that of a mountain. Her kimono did not appear to hide bandages, but the little skin that showed through at her wrists and collar proved that appearance a lie – because she wasn’t showing any skin, only swaths of bandages across her arms and chest and face.

  The priest was shocked away from staring as the shinobi spoke again. “What about… a mere idea? What is the wisdom of Arcus, when it comes to fighting for an ideal? Something that exists only in one’s head?”

  Doshin wet his lips a second time. “Ah, that is… a more complicated question?” Silence, into which the young priest sent a curse for the inquisitive inflection he’d allowed into his voice. Shinobi or not, these two were guests, and his duty was to provide answers, not questions. He fanned the flame of his pride, and let the words come forth. “After the slaying of His wayward hand, the Creator did not leave us to wallow; He sent His generals, the Heavenly Birds, to watch over us, and to correct us when we err.”

  A grunt, and so Doshin continued. “Ice, Storm, and Fire are harsh, but only because they punish our wickedness. In this, there is the answer you seek: to live virtuously, one must suppress sin. And sin lives in the heart and mind; to fight for one’s ideals is perhaps even more… more virtuous than a more materialistic concern.”

  He’d fumbled the end a bit, bit even so the priest allowed himself a moment of internal congratulation. This is going much better than last time. But then Mutsu’s thin but wide lips curved down; evidently he disagreed. “Do you really believe that?” the shinobi said, so softly it was almost a whisper. “That men are born evil?”

  Doshin would have liked very badly to squirm, pinned by the question like a caterpillar in a bird’s hard beak – but the requirements of his profession demanded dignity, so he only stood awkwardly for a moment. “I do, honoured defender.”

  “Why?”

  His innards squirmed harder. I- I’m not a good speaker. Please don’t ask me to rearrange the scriptures in real time. “How could we not be?” Again, that damnable question mark. “Pardon, what I mean is… The world was not made for us. We chafe against it, creating conflict, creating suffering – our spirits were born for another place, the homeland that Dexus left fallow when he decided to sully the earth with his seed. That is why when we are freed from our flesh, when our immortal souls are given a pure form, they are monstrous and malevolent. That is why we are tormented, and why peace only comes with purification.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Whew. It didn’t seem like a lot of words when he looked back, but in the moment each one had been a horse forced to leap through the eye of a needle. Doshin watched the shinobi's face change with something he only recognised as anticipation after a moment of reflection.

  “Pokémon fight each other,” Mutsu eventually said. “They suffer. Arguably more when there aren’t people around.”

  Doshin put his utmost effort into a smile. “Our curse has taken root in the world – for the sin of a father is also the sin of his son, carried in the spirit. It is our duty to atone for that sin, lest we remain cursed – for of course, the opposite is true as well; the virtue of the father is passed to his child, and so we might redeem our descendants in the eyes of almighty Arcus.” Yes, that was better; the rote answers passed through his lips easily, conveying wisdom. Perhaps one day he would be able to speak his thoughts with such propriety, but that was not today.

  Mutsu was silent, as was Green, and some of Doshin’s contentment slipped away as the quiet became awkward – only for it to be broken by a laugh.

  It was not a happy sound, nor a sad one. The quiet giggles issuing from the man’s chest were nothing more than a release of tension… and yet a moment later Green joined him. The priest was shocked to find her voice light and airy like a young girl’s, as high and bright as her companion’s was low and dark. Even he was drawn in, letting loose a soft laugh of his own.

  “You are a poor speaker,” Mutsu said after the moment of… not levity, but something similar, and Doshin frowned.

  “Very… sorry sir. Most of the speaking priests only come in on the weekend, when we receive most of our visitors. I’m afraid it’s just me and Kisuke present today.”

  A slow nod. “Sorry, that was rude. One more question, and then I’ll get out of your hair, alright?”

  Please. ”Entertaining a guest is no trouble. Please, speak as much as you wish.” I’ll clean the building a thousand times with my bare hands, just let this be over.

  “When is it…” the shinobi began, before stopping and starting over. “When do you stop fighting? It seems like there’s no end to it – when can I say that’s enough, I want to rest now?”

  Doshin chewed his tongue as subtly as he could manage. Oh. That’s a bad question. Because the rote answer, the correct answer, was when it was done. Struggle was the result of an impure world, something to be fought over one’s entire life.

  But sometimes a priest had to bend the truth a little, to fit the person they were speaking with.

  “You will know,” Doshin lied, the words spilling from his tongue like water. “Arcus does not intend for us to suffer forever – as sin comes from within, so too does salvation.” Virtue will be rewarded when you return to the Creator, was what the scripture said, but instead what he spoke was: “It may look for now as though the battle is endless, but… You will find peace. The enemies of the cherry tree are not infinite, not unconquerable, and one day you will beat your sword into a plough as your ancestors beat their ploughs into swords. Kanto is more peaceful now than it has ever been – perhaps true peace is only a day away.”

  “Only a day…” the man repeated, his vibrant kimono pooling around his seated form like fallen petals. He laughed again, a sharp bark closer to actual amusement, and then stood. “Always tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry if my words-”

  “No. No, I feel better – better than when I walked in, at least. I’m glad I came.” Mutsu looked up, then with a sudden motion cracked his neck one way then the other, producing sharp pops as his joints loosened. “How long does it take to bag up some clothes, anyway? Not that I’m complaining, but perhaps a second set of hands would work faster?”

  Doshin blinked. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly leave you-”

  But again he was interrupted, this time by the shinobi walking away. “Uh, sir? Where are you..?”

  “I would like to pray,” Mutsu explained as the priest hurried to follow. “Show me to the altar room, if you would – and then I would prefer some privacy.”

  “Oh. Um, yes. I was actually in the middle of cleaning it, so perhaps-” Green – who was even more imposing in motion – belatedly moved after them, causing the priest to jump slightly as she expressed her displeasure: a table went flying as she kneed it, the motion theoretically accidental but the message clear.

  “Sorry.”

  “N-no trouble, no trouble. The altar is this way, if you’d just follow me,,,”

  “Here you are, sir,” said the soft-spoken priest, voice and posture broadcasting his unease more clearly than any radio or television. Hoshi turned away from the statue as a second passed, and sent the man a raised brow.

  “Oh. Yes, privacy, very sorry.” Doshin’s face was reminiscent of a mouse, with buck teeth, large ears, and dark irises that took up much of his eyes, and the synchronisation between his appearance and demeanour was actually really fucking funny. Hoshi usually hated cringers with a passion, but something about the man was endearing. Hah, or maybe I’m in such a black mood that normal annoyance feels like fondness.

  Whatever the reason, when he jumped at the realisation that he’d just been standing there and began exiting the room, it was hard for Hoshi to keep a smile off his face. “I’ll… Go see if Kisuke needs help. Good day.”

  “Good day,” Hoshi returned, and then went back to looking at the altar. Hah, he laughed again inside his head. I guess I’ve found out why the rest of the place is so humble – this room stole all the decoration for itself.

  It would have been out of place, if the great statue of Mew slaying the Dexus weren’t so damn artful. The mythical Pokémon was rendered in the form of a nude woman, slightly larger than life-size, but there was nothing erotic about the situation despite the swell of her breasts being as immaculately carved and painted as everything else. She held a spear, thrusting downward to impale a faceless man – the Dexus, also nude – through the chest. Her left leg was planted beside the weapon, holding him down, and a green serpent was coiled tightly around the limb.

  It was violent, awesome in the archaic meaning of the word, a scene out of legend. The snake clinging to Mew’s leg looked real, like the fangs it had embedded into the Dexus’s breast would drip actual venom if he slid them from their prison. The stone man had not a single facial feature, and yet Hoshi could feel his pain, his spite, communicated with sprawling posture alone. It was all real – hyper-real, an exaggeration without parody, and despite not really believing in the story it represented, Hoshi’s heart was moved.

  The only thing marring it was the large golden halo behind Mew’s head and shoulders being slightly askew, but even that made a statement – Hoshi felt askew himself.

  “Amazing statue. The ones in Vermilion aren’t nearly as good.”

  “Yeah,” Puce replied, and actually began fidgeting. “Do you want me to go while you pray? If you’d prefer it to be… personal.”

  “Do you believe?”

  She stopped fidgeting. “Um. Maybe?” Hoshi waited patiently, and eventually more words came. “I don’t- my family doesn’t go to church? But I think there’s something. Dying and just… being gone, that’s too sad.”

  “What about being a ghost?”

  Puce frowned, and Hoshi’s heart continued to beat; he was still stuck in the depths of the ocean, but he wasn’t dead. Puce showing more emotion was good, a step back towards normality, and he leeched off that warmth while it lasted. “I don’t… think that ghosts are people? The- the actual ghosts of people, I mean. I think they’re just a kind of Pokémon that… can be born when a person dies?” It was nice, hearing the stutter, hearing her sound like she was afraid of raising her voice even a little. Puce was alive too.

  “What about you?” she continued as he looked up as the statue with his mouth closed. “Do you think ghosts are… evil people?”

  “I have no idea,” Hoshi answered. “Not the slightest clue. It’s fucked up, right? The idea that people are evil by default.”

  “Yeah…”

  But unlike you, Hoshi didn’t say, I don’t think that’s a good reason to disbelieve. The world is cruel, and amazing, and beautiful, and horrifying. They really fit the whole of it into this scene – fuck, I might actually start to believe these shitty myths. How can it be so real if it didn’t happen? Fuck.

  Maybe he really was cursed. Maybe being psychic was a punishment from Arcus. But even if it was…

  I’ll live with it. Until the fight is fucking done, I’ll bite and I’ll tear and I’ll fucking live.

  “I don’t know when – next year, the one after, a decade from how – but I will fight your real team. When I’ve done my circuit around Kanto, gotten all seven other badges… I’ll come back here for my eighth. Be ready!”

  The memory was painful. It cut into him way deeper than his aunt’s shittily-aimed knife had… but pain was fine. Damage was fine. It didn’t matter how hard you were hit, only that you hit back harder. Hoshi stepped forward, laid his hands on the base of the statue, and prayed in the only way he knew how.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, voice echoing in the high-roofed room. “Bob, if you’re up there, I’m so fucking sorry.”

  A soft shuffling as Puce left the room, which he talked over. “I don’t even know what to say other than that. Maybe I’m just talking to myself here, but… Fuck, Bob, I’m probably just going to piss you off. Because I… I can’t stop. Not now, not with you gone. It’s stupid, I know it’s stupid, but it has to mean something, right? Do you get it?” His eyes opened, and he looked up at the halo, hanging just slightly wrong. “It- it has to be a sacrifice for something, right? Instead of just- instead of the world being shitty in a random way. It’s selfish, it’s so fucking selfish, but…”

  A gross sob started, and didn’t stop. “I am selfish. I can't help but make it about me. My fault, instead of- instead of you making a decision. I have to turn it into a fight, ‘cause that’s the only way I know how to deal with this. There has to be someone to blame. Someone to get revenge on – even if it’s just me.” But it wouldn’t be him – no, he’d find something else. The instructors, the League, Johto, Dexus, a ghost invented in the emptiness of his head… “I’m a shitty person. I can’t help it; even when I try to play nice, it just backfires. When I finally get off my ass and start fighting the good fight, I got you killed. I’m…”

  His head went down, slowly, to rest on the altar. It was smooth, almost soft, worn down.

  Generations of people had stood where he was standing, had put their hands where his lay, had rested their head on this smooth stone, over and over until there was a slight depression that his forehead fit into like a puzzle piece finding its home. There was a comfort in that, in the idea that he was just a man. A fuckup. A useless wad of congealed failures, the same as every other useless fuck that had come into this room and begged a lifeless statue to forgive them.

  Maybe Auntie Tsuyu had done this. Maybe Dad had.

  An indeterminable amount of time later, Hoshi again opened his eyes. That part of the altar, the base, was left free of paint; it was just raw stone, a slightly crystalline grey like sand compacted into glass, shot through with slightly more translucent bits. “Mom… Dad…” His voice was too low to echo back, the empty air eating his words before they could reach his ears.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing. Was it this hard, for you? You seemed happy when I was little, happier than I think I am…” A flash of orange from deep within, painted lips and blue eyes, and he laughed. It, too, was small and quiet. “It must’ve been, right? As hard as this? There was a whole war going on… Am I weak? For wanting to give up?”

  His head rose, but the statue of Mew gave no answer. Her face was regal, lifelike, and immobile. The Dexus writhed in imaginary agony, his skin painted blood-red and his wound grotesquely realistic, locked in stasis, mere stone. The Rayquaza bit with all the wrath of a guardian deity, either unknowing or uncaring for the consequences of its actions.

  “I was happier these last few months than I’ve ever been since you died…” The halo was tilted, just enough to be obvious, just enough to reveal it as a construct held up by wires. “But now it feels like a nightmare. Was it the same for you, Dad? When you had to leave Viridian… was it anger, that made you join the air force with Uncle Bob? Guilt? Fear? I don’t… I’ll never be able to really ask you, really know what Mom would think about me being born with-” He waved his arm, dissipating the thin black smoke issuing from his eyes. “-This. I’ll never know if I could’ve convinced Bob to help me do it the right way, if he’d have forgiven me for- for lying so much, over and over…”

  Hoshi turned and dropped in a single motion, slumping to the floor. From inside his kimono came a ratty, overfull wallet, and from the wallet came a token. A red circle with eight yellow petals; the sun setting over the bay. The Thunder Badge felt light, like a child’s replica of the real thing.

  He wanted to smash it. He wanted to give it back. He wanted to climb up and tuck it into a crevice on the altar, where ectoplasmic hands might accept its return one day. He wanted to tear his chest open and swap it out for his defective heart, so that he’d never forget it for even a second.

  Hoshi did none of those things. He only put the badge back in his wallet, put the wallet back in his stolen clothes, and looked up at the dangling halo.

  “I’m an angry, prideful jackass. You knew that, didn’t you? But you loved me anyway.” There were no tears left; the altar had drank them all. “Even though I tried so fucking hard to push you away, to prove I didn’t need shit from anyone.” The badge felt like it was bleeding through the leather, sharp glassy angles cutting his chest. “It seems so stupid in hindsight… But how could it have been any different? I am prideful, and stubborn, and angry. If I throw that away – if I even could – what would be left? If I was different, would you have loved me, you old bloodthirsty maniac?”

  Hoshi raised his hand – and slowly, so slowly he was afraid it was just his eyes seeing what was in his imagination, the halo moved. A wire that had slipped out of place among the rafters up above went back where it belonged, and the mistake was corrected. Black smoke pooled in places as it ascended, casting Mew’s face in a funeral veil.

  “Stupid,” he muttered. “Ruined the metaphor.” But still a brittle smile appeared as he heaved himself up, and soon Hoshi Mutsu was dragging himself back through the door he’d entered, his steps growing more natural as he went.

  “This is what I could find,” the sharp-featured older priest said as he brandished a black bag. The same kind Meowth and the instructors had… Hah, I guess they’re standard issue in a ninja town.

  Hoshi bowed as he accepted the startlingly heavy thing. “Thank you. Please convey my thanks for the generosity to whomever is responsible.”

  “I will do so. Will you be requiring anything else, honoured defender?”

  “No, this is more than enough. Green?”

  Puce blinked slowly at the name, but after a moment she nodded and took up her own sack. “Got it.”

  “Again,” Hoshi said as he turned away. “Thank you for the assistance.”