Chapter Text
Parallax
Cynthia Carolina has a new obsession.
It begins, as obsessions do, with a loss. A shocking, private humiliation at the hands of a theatrical masked vigilante who vanishes into the night. The Watcher leaves behind only a trail of defeated Galactic grunts, a burning warehouse, and a Champion whose duty has ignited into something far more personal.
She will find him.
Her investigation points to a red-haired rookie named Cedric Cabal: bumbling but brilliant, obsessed with ancient history, and frustratingly present whenever trouble strikes. To the world, he is the Luckiest Trainer in Sinnoh, a masterpiece of incompetence whose clumsy, logic-defying wins have become television spectacle.
Yet, as a darker threat stirs—Team Galactic's ambition escalating from theft to a plot that would rewrite reality itself—Cynthia finds herself relying on this infuriating rookie. His luck proves strangely convenient against their schemes, and his company is... compelling.
For Cedric, it's a dangerous game. The closer Cynthia gets, the tighter he must cling to his stuttering, anxious disguise, terrified that the cosmic forces he fears will notice him if he steps into the light.
Two puzzles now consume Cynthia: the ruins they explore together, and the maddening man at her side. One could rewrite the world. The other has already rewritten her own.
Cynthia I
Cynthia Carolina had been Champion for four years and thought she'd seen everything.
Wrong.
She'd never met anyone who could push her this hard.
An hour ago, an anonymous tip sent her scrambling to the outskirts of Hearthome City. Team Galactic—another organisation bent on using pokemon as instruments—supposedly held a weapon powerful enough to flatten the city. A bomb. Being Champion meant she couldn't dismiss it, and she'd been bored sitting in her office all day.
She had to take this one herself. With her as the Champion, what was the worst that could happen?
When Cynthia arrived at the warehouse, it was on fire, and Team Galactic's enforcers lay dazed and bruised on the sand-encrusted tiles.
Amidst the heat and broken equipment, Mars met Cynthia's gaze. The commander was fleeing, boots ringing against the catwalks, her Bronzong battered and dented. Mars' eyes were wide and darting—the look of an animal that had blundered into a predator's territory and found the predator already fed.
Before Cynthia could pursue, Mars' Bronzong swayed its arms, and they vanished in a bright light.
Left behind were six pokemon, arrayed in a half-circle around a masked man shrouded in a sleek, inky black cape.
"Champion Cynthia," the figure said, cape billowing in ash and wind. "You are late."
His voice—at least Cynthia assumed it was a man—came out garbled, as if he had a Weezing lodged in his pitch-black, featureless mask.
"Who are you?" Cynthia asked, hand on Empress' pokeball.
Strong. Those pokemon...
She looked at them—quickly—and then made an assessment just as swiftly.
Elite Four at the minimum. Maybe Champion-level at most.
"I am the Watcher," the man said. "I am he who brings light to the shadows."
The moon shone on his mask as he spun on his heels.
"Hold on," Cynthia said. "You're coming with me."
The Watcher stilled. A twist of his hip. His head quirked.
Cynthia's grip tightened, metal cool on her palm. "You'll tell the League what happened here tonight," she said, "and why you sent that tip."
The Watcher glanced between his clenched palm and her. His fingers dug into his black gloves, and he quivered in place, body pulled in two directions at once.
What could he be agonising so much about?
"No."
In the end, the Watcher refused and made to leave, his pokemon recalled in a flurry of red light.
Cynthia couldn't have that.
"Empress! Battle dance!"
She lobbed her Garchomp's pokeball at the gap between them, fifty feet or so. Muscle memory, years of practice, ensured she caught the pokeball as it spun back. Empress roared and rattled the loose beams on the roof.
"Battle me! Here and now!" Cynthia couldn't help it—she grinned. "Winner walks the loser!"
She didn't relish being rejected, but that didn't mean she wasn't sporting about it.
Her blood pumped in her ears and up her temples when the Watcher turned to face her, a dark Luxury Ball in hand. Finally. A fresh challenger. Too many months had passed since someone made it through the Elite Four and challenged her for Champion.
A caged bird drummed against her chest.
"Scutum." The Watcher chucked the ball into the field. "Be the steel that breaks a thousand blades."
How very theatrical.
The Watcher's Sandslash—Scutum—spun into a single challenging slash, claws gleaming under the moonlight as the Watcher caught its ball. A cut above any Sandslash Cynthia had seen at the Lily of the Valley, or the rare few who clawed their way to the Elite Four. Its arms sprouted razor-sharp blades, muscles rippling under a tall, proud bipedal frame.
Cynthia touched her earring. Scutum dwarfed its cousins, too.
Well-bred and well-raised. Her eyes narrowed. That stance... It's a fighter.
"Empress, Dragon Rush, then Brick Break!"
Draconic flames blazed blue around Empress. She pressed her legs into the tiles and lunged, shattering them, kicking up dust. Half a second and she arced above Scutum, roaring as she brought the full weight of her blades down.
It was the type of attack that swept through her challengers.
"Stormquake," the Watcher rattled off as if bored.
Cynthia licked her lips.
What?
Empress struck nothing but a dust devil as a sandstorm enveloped the Watcher's end of the field. Cynthia squinted, the cuff of her coat pressed to her mouth and nose. A swift, silvery light flanked Empress' silhouette, and the ground rumbled.
Stormquake. Cynthia fought to peer through the raging sands, her eyes gritty. Sandstorm and Earthquake. Clever.
And that speed—Scutum must have had Sand Rush for its ability. Empress had Sand Veil instead, but it was useless when both of them were ground-types inside a sandstorm. It only favoured her foe. She needed to get rid of it.
"Blow it all away! Swords Dance—"
"Swords, too. Dragon Claw."
Dragon Claw? Sandslash learned Dragon Claw?
"Dragon Claw, too, Empress!"
Empress grunted. She swept her fins against the storm, a vicious gale pushing sand across the warehouse. The grains quenched the fires around the two combatants, whose claws clashed over and over, the crimson tint of Swords Dance casting a halo of blood around them.
Empress was winning—more nicks showing on Scutum than on her. Of course. She was a Garchomp, bred by Lance's clan in Kanto, the starter Cynthia's grandmother got her.
She couldn't have found a better friend.
"Finish it off! Mega Kick, then Dragon Rush!"
"Royal Guard."
Royal Guard?
Scutum curled into a ball—Defense Curl—and exposed the wicked spines on its back. They glowed an ominous red and seemed to swell. Bulk Up. Empress didn't hesitate. She kicked Scutum, flinging it high into the air.
Done.
Once Empress began tearing through the teams of her challengers, it was hard to put a stop to her.
Cynthia glanced at the Watcher. He was staring at her, impassive. As if Scutum wasn't about to lose. She smirked.
What's the play here, Watcher?
At the apex of Scutum's descent, Empress leapt into Dragon Rush, claws blazing with blue draconic energy. Then, moments before she connected—
Ah.
One syllable rang like a knell in Cynthia's mind as the red hue of Counter sent the blow of a Swords Dance-frenzied Empress right back at her. The Counter exploded. Empress shrieked, her body crashing into the floor. Smoke covered the fall. When it cleared, she lay unmoving.
Empress.
Cynthia's lips felt chapped. She glanced at Scutum and found it no worse for wear.
Sorry...
She winced.
I should've called for mega. I underestimated them.
A perfect Counter. Timed to the fraction of a second. Theoretically, it was possible. She'd seen it done before—by one of the Elite Four's calibre. Maybe Bruno of Kanto, maybe Lance and his Dragonite, maybe her Prince at his finest, maybe Champion Wallace on a good day. Against a rookie challenger, and never against one of their cohort.
Sweat clammed Cynthia's palm as she withdrew Empress to her ball.
"Has the Champion had enough of this farce of a challenge?" the Watcher said.
Farce of a challenge?
Cynthia chuckled.
Oh, you've done it.
The caged bird drummed harder against her chest.
Gloat while you can, Watcher.
"Lady! Battle dance!"
Her Milotic slithered onto the field, dousing the last of the flames in a shower of sparkling water. It tasted salty on Cynthia's lips. Lady trilled as she faced down Scutum, who merely held his blades forward.
From the beginning of the battle, that Sandslash never made a sound.
"Foolishness, Champion, foolishness," the Watcher said, gloved hand spread across his face. "But if you desire the truth of this world so much, then come and claim it."
Very theatrical, indeed.
Cynthia didn't need another invitation. She called for an attack first. Lady growled, spitting out a Hydro Pump that swept over the battlefield.
"Become... Sonic."
Scutum sparkled and vanished.
Only years of instinct saved Lady then.
"Protect!"
Lady clamped her mouth shut and scrunched her eyes, green light manifesting around her serpentine form. Scutum smashed into the Protect—a ball of whirling, crimson vengeance. The spiked ball spun against it, emitting a cacophony of clashing blades.
Cynthia touched her other earring, a quiver on her palm.
That Sandslash... is a monster.
"Aqua Ring!"
Protect shattered like glass. Water streamed around Lady, forming a moat against the ball of mass destruction. It pressed onwards, tearing through the moat like a torpedo.
Cynthia smirked. "Ice Beam on the Aqua Ring!"
Experience said Lady's Ice Beam froze the moat and won the battle. Scutum said otherwise. The ball crunched through the frost like paper, then hit Lady right between the eyes. Her second companion careened past Cynthia, all the Milotic's awesome weight carried by a single spinning blow.
Cynthia whipped her arm back, recalling Lady before she could fly off into the distance.
Two to zero.
She was losing.
Wasn't she Champion?
The thought settled cold in her chest—until it lit the caged bird ablaze.
Yes.
But she'd already lost.
Scutum rolled between them and the Watcher, uncurled, and preened under its trainer's gaze. Cynthia couldn't help but smile. The Watcher simply nodded.
"I forfeit," Cynthia said, finding the strength to look the Watcher through the tiny slits on his mask. "That was the best battle I've had in years."
The Watcher regarded her. She couldn't tell what was going on behind that mask.
"Empress and Lady fought well," the Watcher said. Slowly. Hesitant. "The blade of Scutum awaits your challenge."
"Slash," Scutum spoke for the first time, his voice curt and raspy.
"You won't be so lucky next time," Cynthia said. Half-bluster, half-truth.
"The outcome will be the same," the Watcher said, and lightning seemed to leaf through the hairs on her skin. "I have foreseen it."
Cynthia stared at him as he recalled Scutum, trying to etch the outline of his silhouette and the sting of defeat in her mind. The Watcher tilted his head, and for a moment, she thought he might say something else.
Something real.
She swallowed.
Then he turned away.
Cynthia made no move to stop the Watcher when he summoned a Claydol—whom he called Panopticon. A spoken word, and they disappeared with the crack of thunder.
That man... the Watcher. He'd defeat her in a serious battle. No, had defeated her. The thought raced through her head like a demon on wheels.
Two to zero.
Cynthia licked her lips, dry and parched from the heat. Her eyes scanned the warehouse—the scuff marks from Scutum's Rollout, the horde of defeated Galactic grunts strewn across the floor. No identifying trace. A forensics kit wouldn't capture what she needed. This required a different kind of digging.
"How very interesting," she whispered to the warehouse.
I'm going to find you.