[♖] The help comes slowly and she’s almost hysterical with anxiety when the sirens come into hearing; the paramedics clad in white and urgency laced in a foreign language undecipherable were almost too much to bear. Outside, their steps are urgent against dampened cobblestone, and Selphy catches sight of the large timepiece in the central city that clocks midnight. It feels, almost like an omen about the limited time she and the stranger shared – a kind of disgusting, ironic poetry that gnaws like a constant dull ache.
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[௹] — Nothing is seen, with darkness being the only exception.
Her ears seem blocked by water where words become muffled and non-distinct. Quite pleasantly so, yet she loathes the suffocation of the mutter that fails to breach the surface of her ears. They sound like a song, not a good one, though. If this was a painting, she’d have slashed the canvas with her paintbrush over and over and over again until the fabric gives in. Even if it tatters and frays at the edges — she can’t hold back the aggression.
She’s never felt this, not in a long time.
A song of a steady tempo plays, with the same deafening note repeating each time it beats. It’s her heart, apparently, for when her eyes are closed she pictures a flatline. It isn’t though. She can’t decide whether she’s grateful or not, yet she should be and she finds herself indecisive. Eyelids stay heavy, with burden weighing upon them — yet they flutter open easily, to a view of fluorescent rings above her head: casting a halo in her vision that she can’t dismiss.
The room is one she’s not so used to: a public healthcare service with common folk, when she usually resides in private hospitals and often relies on machinery in her own bedroom. Though she doesn’t exactly mind, she can hear the chatter of people around her and their voices reverberating in her mind. She doesn’t know who brought her here, and she’d like to thank them — but it seems quite impossible to seek a person; a stranger.
Hopefully the stranger has Lina’s paintings in her possession, too.
Bug Buzz. Signal Beam. Silver Wind. String Shot. Quiver Dance. Powder. It seemed as though the potential displays of art were plentiful in the Bug type Pokemon. An aspiring showman would be daft not to take advantage of their natural beauty.
Penn Dragon, soon to become the Phantom Magician of Contests, saw fit to add one to his growing collection of show Pokemon. And he had his eyes set one one Pokemon in particular: Scyther.
[௹] — The Battle Chateau is always generous in terms of payment.
They’d been her loyal customers for a long while now, since she was thirteen maybe, but she hasn’t been to the site to see her paintings or sculptures displayed. It’s her first time here, in the presence of riches and wealthy people. Atmospheric is what she could call this place, but the ambience is something she’s used to. With a cloak of disguise over everybody’s faces — only being ‘kind’ to hide their true selves. But she doesn’t really mind. They respect her, and that’s all she really wants.
Her stature is perched by the window. The glass is coloured in certain places with certain shades, staining the ground and herself with the sunlight that turns colourful. It’s something she’d like to paint, too, if she isn’t spacing out at the view before her. The outside is somewhere she’d like to go to. There’s trees, a lot, and a long flowing river that glisters beneath the shine of the sun. Summer is catching on and she already feels cold within the indoors of the Chateau.
And when she stares outside, at the perfect weather, she sees a flash of lightning, which is odd and shouldn’t be happening. But there’s a swarm of flying creatures, bugs, that seem to chase after something (or someone). For a moment she’s concerned (over nothing, it seems) and so she escapes the glances of clients new and old. She feels guilty, as if she’s trying to slide out of the gazes of her paintings as she slips past them.
The door creaks almost intentionally, with her weight pushing it when she leans on the mahogany. By now the swarm seems to be coming her way at full force as she steps on the dirt road. She’s caught, like a Deerling in the headlights.
“Oh! Miss Homura, of course I’ll go and see him, but Iook forward to seeing you first!” Isabelle was on the phone with one Homura Aoi, mother of one of her good friends. “Of course, I hope you don’t mind if I stop by and see some of the sights.” A pause, before a smile grew across the redhead’s face. “Thank you~! Okay, I’ll see you later. Okay, bye.” On that note, she pressed the ‘end call’ button and gathered her things.
“Attention passengers! The ship has just docked in Castelia city, and you may now begin unloading.” A voice in the intercom bellowed across the deck of the cruiser.
Isabelle quickly put on her backpack and her suitcase. Oh, the wonderful things that would happen once she got into the city! She already had a plentiful list of things to do before she met with Homura. Castelia Cones! Oh, how she missed the little desserts! She would definitely have to make time to get one later.
A smile still on the redhead’s face, Isabelle went down the ramp off the side of the boat and onto the docks of the city. What wondrous things would she encounter as she began to walk the streets? She knew not, but this was a new start for her! So she was prepared for anything!
Anything except the thing that had bumped into her side.
[௹] — Regret hits her like a full-fledged train on the track.
A decision is what it is: an individual choice that Lina succumbs to once she is offered a chance of freedom beyond the walls of her so-called ‘home’. Of course she accepts the offer; she is a sucker for the unknown and her curiosities constantly burden her with a load of thirst dabbed somewhere in the middle. Unova welcomes her with probable wide arms — yet she is already regretting the basking of the sun, especially with skin beneath her thick jersey.
She’s cold, most of the time, but summer is crawling from under the covers and the sun makes her sweat even the slightest — soaking her brow and causing her discomfort. The heat makes her gulp and swallow her pride, even after her parents’ warnings. Illness cannot be fooled, Lina, not ever; do not forget, not ever. Artists are naturally drawn to exhibits and she is intrigued by an invitation.
With a “yes” and struggle with her luggage, she stumbles with a suitcase lodged over and under her shoulder. Thoughts are present in her mind: perhaps she should have sent her pieces beforehand — as she carries two large paintings: both thoroughly wrapped in bubblewrap for safekeeping — between her fingers and ready to topple over at any moment. She holds the thought, and is unfortunate just as it rolls out of her control and towards a stranger.
If there was only one thing that Selphy was afraid of in the entire world, it would be the intentions of people.
It was one thing to be helpless and alone, clutching some stranger’s rolled up canvasses and belonging whilst juggling her own branded bags; but to be caught in an unfamiliar place with looming shadows of men and thugs and even women who looked toward her aristocratic appearance unkindly, it had made the Lady feel very unsafe and extremely unwelcome. She thinks, that maybe perhaps this was what the real world was really about, and that the walls her mother had so painstakingly put up around her was never to keep her inside for her own selfish whims, but really, to protect her from the tainting of the world. Her pigtails move with the moment of her eyes, scanning the near-empty station for the sign of the previous passenger; can anyone help? Selphy’s voice is small, and desperate and betrays her fear even as she tries to hide it—
She regrets the stranger’s belongings in her hand;
[௹] — For a long while she doesn't really see anything. It's the bridge she often finds herself on when her body can't decide whether it's finally time to go, or whether she's holding onto the railings for dear life — but there's something / someone pouring oil all over the steel and it gets harder and harder to hang onto the slippery surface. Her fingers begin to peel off the metal and she can feel the paint chip off too. The colours from the bars fade and get replaced by the brown rust layer beneath. She doesn't really know why she's trying to hold on so hard; a human instinct, perhaps, or to treasure life.
Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy.
A heart condition, a bad one, where the heart is too big and has arteries that want more of her lifeblood. It beats irregularly, at a pace of a blues song with syncopation constantly thrown in inter-verse. Only the sound isn't sweet; the rhythm is sad like in the swing songs of golden ages. If it bore lyrics it would have been those asking of freedom; to be set free is a privilege — even to the rich and wealthy. It always comes at a price, something most expensive. But she doesn't have that kind of privilege. She can count on one hand the things she waits for: a new heart (one), freedom (two). Death (three).
She hopes that her fingers can touch her palm before more spring up. Often times she is strung to machinery to live, and even if she isn’t — she has to accept that she might die at any given time. So it’s something she tries ( / pretends) to forget. It isn’t easy to forget, not with the coldness that bites her skin and the blood that gnaws on her organs. Something that chews on her abnormally large heart. Which she can actually make up for by being kind maybe, polite and pleasant; friendly and charismatic.
You are taught to have a big heart,
and when you do, it can kill you.
Albeit unconscious, the painter can sense the vibration and resonance of the ground beside her. And the smell of paint, her paint, is nearby. More importantly — and hopefully — , the stranger who carries it. Anyone who could bother is enough help to Lina immediately, to call for help at the very least. But the midnight bustle might not be kind to the artist.
i’ve decided that every month, i will change lina’s theme to a certain colour / artistic style for my own amusement and for artistic development. last month was blue, now it’s pink!
i’m kinda bored, so i’ll do url graphics for anyone who wants one! it’ll be in this style, for now i’ll make one for emma maybe.
She isn't sure. Not in the slightest. She's heard of a beautiful world: a world with skies that you can touch and sunshine you can taste. These are only from tales, though, from folklore and fantasies that the fables spill with their overly-dense details and subtexted intentions. Albeit not knowing, she wants to. Perhaps knowing that she is never to leave the premises only piques her curiosities even more. Always wanting what you can't have, yet again, Lina. Although she hates the rules they implement on her, she has to abide by them. They're there for a reason — her “safety”.
It's almost cruel, keeping her from seeing the world. If it really is as beautiful as stories say it is, then her eyes and fingers are sore. There is a beautiful world, and she won't be able to paint it. Not even a single stroke of the brush, or the swipe of a sponge. When she realises this her breath begins to cave in further. She wheezes at the thought, gasping for air when she realises that there are things to paint. There is more to life than still bowls of fruit and daffodils that poke their heads out of grass. There is more to life than things that sway slowly. And she wants to find it. Find it, see it, paint it.
Feel it.
Maybe it's finally time for her to feel it. It's the window of a perfect opportunity, with her parents having been invited to a royal conference with other highborns and rich prats. Surely it's merely an annual party of gambling and drinking, for a few days, hidden beneath the fancy title of grandeur. Something like ‘Royal Panel Retreat’. This year it's faraway, in the good way, in a region she isn't really sure how to spell: Younova, Unovah, Unova. Spelling has never really been her strong suit but she doesn't really find it all that useful, especially not in the world she is locked in.
They call it safety and precaution, she thinks otherwise. Is it not cruelty to confine someone? It's stripping away one's freedom and feeding it to the hungry people. She, too, is hungry (craving for adventure). Her soul is solely fated for the bad and along with her freedom is stripped many years of life. Doctors, or anyone experienced in the medical field, despite never agreeing mostly — finally come to a mutual conclusion to Lina's condition. That whatever it was, there was no cure; and that it was terminal. For how long? She has no idea. They have no idea.
She lacks knowledge in those aspects but she is certain of one thing.
If she's going to die, this is her time to explore the world. The world of scarily simultaneous bad and good beneath layers of blinding beauty. There are colours she has yet to see somewhere in the world and she decides that those are the places she shall go. It is a perfect ploy, with her parents away to keep her chained to the stone walls — in the castle just like the book she had read about a girl with really, really long hair. Except the painter has short hair and is afraid of heights so she'd probably die of fear before her thoughts dare even be provoked.
Her feet are bare and the soles press against the stone floor — cold and slightly sensational. She roams the Eastern wing of the castle (of which she never usually even steps foot in, seeing as she lives in the Northwest wing) in search of someone in particular. Gulping down saliva, she nervously drums her fingers on the walls as she lines them with her humming. She'd be lying had she said she isn't lost, it's easy to get lost, in the corridors that only run straight and forward. There is one way she can stay safe in the big bad world.
And she has to take care of just that.
Knuckles click on the wooden door, asking unspoken questions — a ‘anybody in there?’ with mere silence and understanding. She prays that the room is the correct one, although she is pretty sure when she checks that the sigil on the door says so.
It’s a relief when she realises the other girl is nothing of concern — another quiet commuter; a forgettable face that would never rise to her memory ever again should this (pray Arceus,) prove to be an uneventful night. Selphy struggles to stay awake despite of the crawl of unease beneath her skin, yet the rhythmic lull of the bullet train proved to be likened to a lullaby; the one-jerk-two forcing her lids to atone to its beat. Sleepiness seeps in like an unwanted guest and she yawns, her eyes fluttering open slightly in response to the announcer’s static sound over the system. Lumiose — the voice had said, and it’s her station.
[௹] — The pain doesn't seem to subside, not yet, even when she hums her sister's song beneath the buzzing of the midnight silence. Therapeutic, almost, the melody — or at least it's meant to be. It usually is. But she thinks the spur of the late nighttime intakes fatigue within her stinging pain. Gulp. She swallows hard on her saliva in hope that someone will see her even struggling the slightest. Maybe she'd admit that it's embarrassing but she knows how it ends if she can't accept the help others offer. In a way, it's selfish; in others, it's bold and selfless.
There is one thing she's sure of, though, is that it's stupid and too risky to decline assistance.
And so she does just that — wobbling her way to the closest counter with a human (and not machine) behind it. But the closest person is beyond the barricade of machinery that longs to scan tickets. Which is absent in Lina's possession. It really shouldn't be, but distractions drew her away from remembering to bring along her bag, and with it: her ID and artwork. Thankfully she left her companions at home. Though she lacks her mobile phone and Holo Caster too, disallowing her from contacting anyone.
She cusses in her head, multiple times, not able to say a single thing with all the air that she chokes on. Maybe she can make sounds or any noise that might draw attention to her. She is smart, she's resourceful and she can get around. Though there's nothing in reach and she thinks that the world really isn't on her side today. Wincing, she gasps for air. The painter isn't gasping for the sake of breathing, just to distract herself from the pain, and she falls to the ground. Her limbs go weak and she feels as light as a Swanna's dainty feather.
Volkner eyed the girl in front of him, she was different from most rookies. She hardly fidgeted and gave off an air of aloofness instead of unease or eagerness. The chief handed Volkner a small briefing of her, with a final glance at the newbie he began to read the scoop on her.
[௹] — The man almost looks surprised to see her. In the flesh, she isn't very impressive. In the records, she holds top student in every course. But her small stature proves to be rather frail and fragile. She's come to ignore her illness(es) and brush them aside when she can — attempting to live life to the fullest and save as many lives as she hope she can. He looks like he knows all there is to know around the precinct, with his movements flowing effortlessly to find everything right where he knows it to be. Lina thinks that he finds her a bit of a nuisance, maybe that she isn't paying attention — she really actually is — but this is his job and whether he likes it or not:
—he's stuck with her.
The blond leads her to a room with firearms pinned and hooked to walls, sitting in shelves even. Lina has always admired guns, with the tenacity of a Tyranitar and precision of Magical Leaf. It ultimately depends on the user how it's used, but she sees that there are some PokéBalls stored there too, if ever they find the use of guns unnecessary. He leaves her be for a moment (thankfully) to select her own gun. Blue eyes hover over the gun labels, absorbing any and all information she can to choose a trusted partner.
Immediately she is drawn to a 1976 revolver. She's a sucker for the old. The gun itself is a piece of art — carvings of flowers and the vintage authenticity leaking from its cartridge. It may not be a convenient magazine, but she figures the recoil should be good for someone rather frail like her. She also spots an alluring 8 mm caliber poking at the corner of her eye, just asking for her to pick it right up. It's more modern than the revolver, and its technology is more developed too.
And she really is a sucker for the old when she decides to pick up the slightly-rusted weapon.
“Lady,” she whispers.
She knows of tales of powerful people and great warriors. No sword of a warrior bears no name, so she names hers Lady in regards to the beauty and grandeur of her sidearm. It's a befitting name for a bringer of danger, yet still somehow elegant in the way it clicks after a shot or the engravings in its steel. Having no idea of whatever the older policeman is doing, she remains occupied — engrossed in the beauty of Lady.
“Get your kit and let's go, kid, we got a hothead on our hands!” he exclaims, which almost starts off as an annoyed grumble.
She figures it's a bit quick (and unexpected) to suddenly be lunged a case already. Sure, she's good — but she thought it'd have been a lot longer than within an hour for the police to even trust her with something so important. Perhaps she could impress the man if she really wanted to, but she's modest and would rather keep quiet about things that don't need to be said. Though there are some things she wants to know; partially because she's worried, and partially because she wants to know just how much shit goes down.
“Are they armed? Or you know… do they have a Pokémon?”
She would have very much rather have hailed a taxi than public commute — but Santalune was much less populated with people, and private transport was a commodity rare. It was just her luck to have her cellphone run flat at the moment too — knowing that (whether selfish or not,) her regional chauffeur would have been willing to ferry the young miss to and fro at her wishes and qualms no matter the time. Still, he was an ageing man with a family he had to attend to, and a quick glance at her watch informs Selphy that it was bed hour for most of the children of the world — and that it was a time that he should be home and tucking his kids into bed and pulling a blanket up to their necks with a kiss before he missed their growing years altogether.
[௹] — Lina deems herself lucky when the stranger is someone who isn’t consumed by alcohol as typical midnights would be ridden with. She doesn’t mean to base her assumptions on prejudice, but the girl looks decent with her intentions — and perhaps a little annoyed. The painter recalls seeing her somewhere before, perhaps a relative of a friend or daughter of a client. Her hands do often find themselves painting to please the wealthy. She, like most of her clients, is upper-class by old money.
The young woman (not Lina) is dressed nicely, with clothes that would be considered fashionable, practical and expensive. She hops onto the train and mutters something beneath the hum of the train and her breath when the train lunges. Whatever she mutters isn’t something the artist heard, though she doesn’t think it’d be important as she kept it to herself. Lina observes and begins to avert her gaze when the stranger stumbles about in conjunction with the recoil.
Gryhart definitely knows now that this redhead isn’t just annoyed. She’s pissed off. Not at Lina, nor the much-too-fast train, but just the world itself. It seems she hasn’t realised or felt the slightest bit of Celina’s presence, which isn’t really rare. She’s easy to miss and would be missable if she didn’t have wide eyes. The prodigy tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, pulling her paint-stained sleeves over her fingers. It’s beginning to grow cold again.
She can feel the pain coming.
Her hues fly across the cabin in search of something that could distract her from the surge within her. It’s a familiar twinge that numbs and stings. By now she’s convinced her vision is completely red. She needs to leave at the closest station. Her conscience can feel the shifting of everything, from the dangling of the handles to the fidgeting of the stranger who sits on the other end of the capsule.
The silence is something she tries to distract herself with until she can no longer feel the stab in her lower abdomen. Her face scrunches in a wince and she hopes for dear Arceus that the other woman doesn’t notice this. “Approaching: Lumiose City.” speaks the voice over the speakers. Her feet ready her to leave as fast as she can when the doors slide open, so she wriggles her way out of the narrow opening as nimbly and quick as she can without falling face first.
Little does she know, her paintings and rolled-up canvases had been left behind on the train when she decided to distract herself and forget everything around her.
[௹] — Lina is excited. She's been wanting to create something like this for a long while, and she can finally do so. Her condition always prevented her from being outside for too long, but Nacrene City is perfect for her. With warehouses that block the sun from attacking her, murals would be perfect.
And with her supplies piling atop each other so mercilessly, her excitement only grows.
Her stencil is something she made when she was thirteen, and refined just yesterday before her train ride. A political statement, and a slight metaphor-cross-visual piece. The colours vary drastically, from the calmest of blues to blinding yellow hues. The wall is plastered tight and has grey coated over the entire exterior of an old, run-down, historical building.
She plans out the image on the wall before her, sprawling the design in her head and twirling a roll of masking tape on her index finger. Her feet step on the ladder, and her physical weakness begins to cave in as she sticks the four corners of the stencil to the wall.
And as she clicks on the nozzle that releases the paint, she doesn't realise at all that the “building” she paints on is indeed a gym.
