It is when this man refers to the quickening pace society continues to adopt that Ingo laughs, and fervently so. Marvelous is the day that a troubled passenger is someone as socially aware as he, not to mention, courteous.
“I find that it is only a part of my nature. The human nature.”
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“Mmm yes...it is only those who look deep enough to see that find it.”
As the door swings open under the weight of his push, he stumbles in. He dusts some imagined slights off and sits by the counter, patting the seat beside him, his eyes never leaving the other man.
“Hungry? I sure am.”
He peruses the menu and selects a hearty, greasy meal against his better judgment. His stomach concurs with a gurgle and he laughs.
“I’m paying, so you can order whatever you like.”
There in the diner, are two men, contemplating the very nature of humanity over a hot meal. Isn’t this a lot like smelling the flowers,
“Trouble?” He hardly has the chance to stand upright once more before the other man makes an attempt to stand, and presumably, leave. Much too soon, Ingo tsks in his mind.
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He levels an even gaze with the man and smiles widely, before allowing himself to be helped up by the strange man. Thank you. It’s rare to see people as kind as you these days, now with the burgeoning onslaught of modernity. Everything is so fast-paced, but people seem to forget to, as they say, stop and smell the flowers.
Or help a stranger in need, whichever.
Say, Sycamore begins, gingerly closing the cap of his bottle as his sapped strength is regained somewhat, would you like to join me for lunch? Just think of it as a small thanks for what you did for me. He eyes a small diner a small distance away and points it out to the man, indicating his choice of destination.
My name is Augustine Sycamore, but just call me Gus.
Now able to stand, he totters unsteadily towards the small diner, in hopes of getting a nice warm meal in his belly and perhaps a friend. Yes, a friend would be nice.
Months have passed since that day, the day that every single goal Lysandre once had were blown away, torn apart in a matter of seconds. The memories of that one moment when the ultimate weapon fired the tiny bits of energy it had gathered to destroy not only Team Flare’s secret hideout and part of Geosenge town, but also Lysandre’s ambitions.
Lys - I... He cannot find the words; they settle on his tongue and subsequently leave him before he has the chance to utter them. His knuckles turn white around Ignis’ ball. I thought...you… Please listen to me, Lysandre. I still see you as a friend. I wish...I had the words to tell you how much you meant to me. Instead, he settles for, How could you do this to us? We were all worried! Me especially!
He shakes his head; stops himself. Sorry, he mumbles curtly. I stepped out of line. This is the pill for the sugar. This is what I get for believing in him. Sharp words and an even sharper conscience. Laugh? Are you serious? Don’t kid me, Lysandre. You’re better than that. Still standing, unable to turn around, he laughs, coldly, into the air. There, are you happy now? His hand is starting to turn numb with feeling. Temptation strikes him in the form of releasing his Charizard and flying away with Lysandre.
And that is exactly what he does.
In a swift movement, Ignis is out near some trees and she hisses at the sight of Lysandre as though saying Don’t let this man near me or I’ll tear him to pieces, and Sycamore, wiping away tears, without looking grabs the former Flare leader’s hand, pushes him onto Ignis’ back, to much protest from the Pokémon and boards himself. Allez, he tells her, soothingly.
She snorts flames from her nostrils but takes off all the same, and knows exactly where to land. Soon they are inside his cramped, messy apartment block and Ignis is out of sight and in her ball. Sycamore, still blinking away tears, shouts at the man before him, I TRUSTED YOU! HOW, LYSANDRE, HOW? He is tempted to break something, just to show him - that’ll teach him a lesson. Another cold laugh escapes him.
You think. You really thought this was the solution? What ever possessed you to think of doing such a thing? No matter, I will not report you, nor mock you. I will, however, offer you a warm cup of coffee and a place on my couch. Do not refuse or I will have Ignis char you.
There’s excitement to be had about today. He’s getting to meet with a professor– Sycamore of all people decides his study on Mega Evolution and TMs. His hope is to produce a result similar to a move known as Dragon Ascent. If a Pokemon can achieve Mega Evolution through a move then it most certainly can learn more moves during Mega Evolution. Moves only available to it during that time. If he could work together to produce such a feat then it would showcase numerous potential between Pokemon who could Mega Evolve and perhaps unlock even more evolutions in the process.
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Bien! It most certainly is; I must apologise for my complete lack of office wear. I was just taking my Blastoise to the Center to be treated. She’s been ill for quite a bit. And merci! I’m glad my work has deepened your insight. He blinks, and realises that they were still rooted to the spot. Ah coffee, oui? Come, this way!
He leads Mathew out into the cold before another thought strikes him, Here, take my coat. I’d imagine what you’re wearing wouldn’t suffice against biting winters like this. Therein, he places his coat upon Mathew’s shoulders and helps him into it, their bodies touching. When Mathew looked a lot warmer, Sycamore smiles and utters, There, better. Now, this way.
As soon as they are seated in the cafe, Sycamore pulling out a chair for his esteemed guest (the least he could do), they are served the menus and the professor rejects his copy with a firm head shake, I know what I want, and that’s you, causing a rise out of the waiter whose flustered arms drop said menu onto the floor.
The professor picks it up and hands it over, My usual Michael. You know what it is. Michael stands there, cheeks flaring red, awaiting Mathew’s order. S-Sir, may I take your order? In the interim, Michael passes Sycamore’s order to another colleague. So Mathew, Sycamore begins, drawing out the syllables of his name, first things first, you look absolutely stunning in my coat. Secondly, your paper on the possibilities of a move during Mega Evolution had such a je ne sais quoi that I spent two whole nights poring over it, despite its length.
Lastly, here he links fingers together and gazes at the man, it would be an absolute pleasure to be working with you, as I’ve said before. Your genius is unparalleled and I’ve never seen anything like it. In fact, I’d like to offer you a part-time position at my laboratory. All costs covered.
Riley found himself smiling at Sycamore’s enthusiasm. More foreign words were thrown, leaving him confused for a few seconds before he explained its meaning. He let loose a few chuckles at that. Fate brought them together, huh? While he wasn’t that big of a believer, he could see where Sycamore was coming from. Two strangers who just so happened to be outside during winter to eat ice-cream. It was definitely one big coincidence, at the very least. He was glad that everything was turning out swimmingly.
“Ah, most fascinating!” Sycamore replies, “What might your friend’s name be?” He thinks back on Rowan and the last they spoke. The Sinnohan seemed well. Sycamore was pleased as through the Holocaster, Rowan spoke fondly of their time together.
I should really call him again...
“Tea it is then,” Sycamore bustles at the back, grabbing a teabag and placing it in a cup before letting steep in the warm water. As he hands the cup to the young man, he swigs from his own cup, some coffee. Chuckling at the young man’s flush, ah the youth!, “Likewise, Riley.”
“Ah,” the professor exhales, and draws a long, deep breath. “Mega Evolution is still rather new here in Kalos but,” here, he draws a diagram of a Scizor and its Evolution, before scribbling a few notes and pointers, “it can be said to be the temporary process of a Pokemon evolving to a much stronger form of itself in battle. Also,”
He pauses, sips his coffee. “it is only, and this has just recently been discovered, that it is strong bonds between master and creature that allow for this to happen, if at all. You should also know that Pokemon have to hold a Mega Stone corresponding to its species, which will then be activated via a Keystone that the trainer possesses.”
Slumping back into the couch opposite Riley, he grins. “That’s all the basics, I suppose. But,” he slurps some coffee, “these stones are not easy to find the wild. In fact, I have only seen two to three during my searches. Key Stones are even more so.” Finishing the coffee, he looks over at Riley and asks, “Refill?”
As he waited for Riley to respond, he decides and takes it upon himself to find out more about this no-longer-a-stranger that he’d invited into his home. “What are you doing so far away from home, Riley? Apart from coming here to speak to me, that is.”
Making rounds and hopping platforms is a routine meant only for those that parade the station on a nearly daily basis. Without the experience or complete focus, it is impossible to do so without becoming tangled up in someone else, or even getting lost.
But on this day in particular, Ingo comes equipped with very little of the focus his work desired.
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He remembers, quite clearly before the spell hit him, that the apology he had uttered was heeded and met with concern and now, as he lay there, unconscious, he perhaps had created some form of inconvenience.
He feels nothing as he swims in the blackness.
Something in him stirs him and he startles back into the conscious realm to find himself cradled in the arms of the same person he had stumbled into. He lies there, briefly, breathing shallow, before sitting up and turning to the person, Apologies, my dear friend, it seems I have caused you trouble.
He attempts to stand, but his knees falter and he almost stumbles head-first into a nearby pillar before catching himself.
Tsk, he mumbles, frustration seething from him. He did not like disturbing this busy man, whom to him, clearly looked as though he had better things to do.
Or not. Sycamore couldn’t tell with the haze clouding his mind.
The professor instead settles for keeling where he is and swigging copious amounts of water where needed. Somewhere, an ache settles into his frame. Despite this pain, he utters to the man, giving him the best smile possible,
Here he is, standing upon the breaches of a new world, a new dawn. It is early, he peers out the window and gazes where the rays of dawning light shine the brightest; it does not blind him. He removes himself from his room, heads to the kitchen and pours a dark roast down his throat.
Ignis greets him from the living room, where she is curled up in a fancy wicker basket he bought a long time ago; reminiscent of the one he found her in. He tosses her a treat and she appreciatively takes it in. The coffee is hot. Steam rises. He drinks, this time a little more carefully.
The dying embers still crackle quietly in the hearth. He gets dressed. Puts on something different (well, almost) today - grey slacks, a white polo, a simple cream scarf and his trademark coat. He heads out, and the first that hits him is the wind. He pulls the scarf tighter together; it threatens squeeze the life out of him before the chill does.
Today, work is but a distant memory. The laboratory is closed for refurbishment. Silence pervades as he wanders the crowds passing in Kalos. This city, on a grey, cloudy day, is a beautiful as it were if the skies were clear as crystals. The dawn has yet to fully awaken. He pauses, blinks away the rainwater.
Rain.
He has forgotten his umbrella and home is too far away to make a mad dash for. So instead the artist settles for hiding under the eaves of a nearby shop - it is an antique bookshop, much like ones that he used to peruse in his days abroad in Sinnoh. He pushes the door lightly, and it easily gives way to the scent of musk and dust.
The interior hums with a quiet retrospect. He likes the feeling, as all feelings are. There is a lady at the counter, bored and playing with her Holocaster. There is a young couple, huddled over a tattered vellum-bound volume. There is a young girl, looking bemused, and it is this confusion that utterly fascinates him. He glides forward.
The recollections of the past come so easy to him; they flow into and fill every cavity, each one longing for something more than the ghost of a memory. What he does instead with these minute beings is to discard them, simply. There is no need for sentiment.
The alarm goes off but he is already standing by the balcony with a cup of coffee. The man allows for it to ring incessantly, at the profound risk of being a nuisance to his neighbours. He does not care, despite his conscience barking at him. Today, he will let the alarm ring until he awakens the entire block.
He finishes the coffee, washes the cup, gets dressed. The weather is soothing today, caressing him like the ghosts of memories long past. He heaves, tears threatening their exposure. When was the last time he experienced something like this? A hand grips tightly around the Holocaster and unclenches, wistfulness dissipating into the air.
Sycamore reaches for the scarf lying by him; wraps it around his neck, leaves. Today, he will take a jaunt down to the cafe in Lumiose, one marked in gaudy red and wisps of passion and fire. So he arrives there and finds the ghosts lingering.
He feels a person approaching, his fist balls around Ignis’ ball. By the steady light that is cast from the outside, he recognises the shock of hair. He is silent, yet his mind is screaming at him to turn around.
He can’t.
The man waits instead for the shadow to approach him.
We all owe debts to one person or another. Some are smaller and some, much larger. What happens, however, when you owe them nothing?
Or everything?
He takes a train ride abroad in Unova, after being told by countless people that it was not an experience to be missed. Certainly, the opportune moments of study presented themselves when he watched the various Trainers battle on board but soon, fatigue, combined with a lack of sleep, had him wondering as to when this train would finally reach.
Sycamore finds himself dozing off as the train pulls into the station (at last!), and as he steps out, he bumps directly into another. The bump leads to him bowing apologetically and stumbling off but not before he gets a good look at the man’s face.
He has very odd garments and silver hair, despite his youth. Interesting, Sycamore thinks and this is when his head is beginning to feel a little light. He stumbles forward, makes his way a couple of feet before stopping to catch his bearings.
Where? sings his hazy mind.
He stumbles a few feet more, takes a swig of water, but the lightheadedness refuses to lift.
He hears only the crackle of wood and flame as he places the pen down onto the blank paper. Hesitation, before Cheren begins to scribble the date down. The pen glides over the paper with impressive ease and he smiles wide.
The blanket draped around his shoulders begins to fall. He reaches over and re-adjusts it.
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He receives the young man’s hand well, shaking it with vigour, Ah, pleasure, Mr. Cheren Park. Once again, things take an interesting turn, for the young man knows of him, most likely from reading research of his. He’s modest about his work and is amazed that his works have travelled far into the Unova region, where Cheren notes he is from.
Merci, he adds, slipping into native Kalosian tongue. I hope my writing is not too dry or boring! With that, he bursts out with hearty laughter and Ignis gazes at her master worriedly. When it does die down and his eyes are lined with tears, he turns back the Cheren and asks of him, As to what purpose is your stay out here in this remote inn?
Ignis shifts her view from Sycamore to Cheren and finally to the fireplace. With a nod from the professor, she exhumes more flames into the dying fire and it bursts back into life. There, better, Sycamore quips, moving towards the hearth and placing both hands out to warm by the fire.
The cold wind from the windows chills him, despite his attempts at the hearth. He gets up, and cocking his head towards Cheren, asks, I hope you don’t mind me shutting it. It’s getting awfully chilly.
As he awaits Cheren’s answer, he slowly wedges the window so that less air can enter and when he is done, surveys the room. It is simply decorated, with wooden furniture and a single attached bathroom. Two single beds lie on the opposite end of where they are sitting. Cheren’s seems to be neatly made whilst Sycamore’s was an absolute mess.
I’m stealing this from notallbees and sonickitty, because it looks fun! Reply or send me an ask and you can hear me talk transplanted Californian at you!
1) Give an introduction!
Put specifics in the ask
2) Read a poem!
Feel free to specify a poem in the ask, or if you want I’ll read one of my own :D
3) Read a passage from your favorite book or fanfiction. Alternatively, do a one-person-show of a scene from a movie or play.
Feel free to suggest a passage or scene in the ask.
4) Tell a joke. (Preferably a really bad one - I do actually have a brilliant bad joke)
5) Tell a story from your childhood.
Feel free to suggest a story in the ask, like asking me about the first time I did x, y, or z!
6) Tell me about the most exciting thing you’ve ever done or would like to do.
7) Tell two truths and a lie, so that people have to guess which is true.
8) Give an instructions on how to perform a task of the asker’s choosing.
Example: If the ask says “teach me how to dougie,” you must give vocal instructions on how to dougie.
9) Can you record yourself speaking in different languages/accents?
10) Sing a song, if you dare!
Feel free to suggest a song in the ask! (If I don’t know the song, I might sing you something else instead, but I promise it will still be worth your while.)
ok so recently I lost my job (long story; PM on Discord if you wanna hear) so I’m really out of it now but this RP group is keeping me going. anyways, I’m here not to espouse about my woes but instead have a thread tracker:
Sycamore:
Owe: Cheren
Waiting On: Mathew, Riley
Plotting with: -
Fontaine:
Owe: -
Waiting On: Petrel, Mathew
Plotting with: -
Grant (hopefully he’ll be in soon)
That being said I’m looking for threads on my two current boys, please HMU on Discord (Silver #2339) or via PM here/@lux-vitae.
For a moment, Riley wondered if he made the right decision upon seeing the flicker of surprise in the man’s aura. Then he received a warm smile in return as well as an answer. Ah, he could see what he meant. Most people would be inside with weather this cold and Riley’s appearance would differ from Kalosian folk. That added comment about his looks brought forth a small rush of embarrassment that colored his cheeks slightly. Oh wow, are locals usually this forward. Riley wasn’t offended though. Just caught off guard is all.
“Ah… thank you for the compliment?” he replied somewhat hesitantly. That was a polite response, right?
Sycamore chuckles and thumps Riley gently upon his back after he had finished his own treat. Non, I meant it as joke. You are quite handsome but please, don’t take this as me coming on to you...Or is it? he adds that last bit as an afterthought, grinning. Ah, Sinnoh! Would you happen to be acquainted with a Professor Rowan? He was my mentor when I was studying in that region.
Ignis notices the man’s small smile and loosens a little, but still wary, she never takes her eyes off of him as Sycamore clambered upon her broad back. She snorts an acknowledgement at the strange man. Fantastique! As they say here in Kalos: le monde est petit; perhaps it is fate that brought us together. Also, yes, I would be more than happy to answer any and all queries you may have!
With a cock of his head, Ignis wraps her tail gently around the strange man and places him upon her back, where Sycamore helps him on board. In a single wingbeat, she rises from the air, circles once, twice and shoots off in the direction of the professor’s apartment, a small nook near the city outskirts. As she lands, she gives a loud, resounding cry and is soon in her ball.
Sycamore tucks it away and leads the Sinnohan into his apartment. Think French chic meets homely British. A small fire crackles in the hearth. Pictures of Sycamore and his friends and some family hang haphazardly on the walls. The rest of the place is painted in an off-white and modernist furniture adorns the space in an even manner. Despite this, there is clutter everywhere - mostly research papers strewn about.
Ah, apologies! he exclaims, hastily proceeding to clean up the mess by stuffing all the papers in the nearest drawer. That’ll do for now, he mumbles. Would you like a drink? Coffee? Tea? He prepares for himself a strong dark roast and set it upon the kitchen counter. Please, make yourself at home. And, he glances over his shoulder at the man, your name is?
The length of the soft pink gown covered the bruises and scrapes, that littered her legs. Elbow length gloves to hide the stitches, to show everyone that she was okay. Though under the surface, still damaged.
But healing.
He hears her voice, breathless and worried, and he wonders what really happened that day. Hearing a lot about Calem saving the day was good, he guessed. Therein he fathomed it was her choice - solely hers - that made the outcome what it was.
When her hand rests upon his, and that same troubled tone ringing in an overture, he swigs the drink and a single stray tear leaks and is gone.
Ce n’est rien, he mumbles, but his hand squeezes hers under the table. Letting go, he feels yet more tears leaking and he stands abruptly, catches the eye of Diantha. She gazes at him, a portent, worried face. Go, she mouths.
He takes Serena’s hand.
The others have soon noticed his leaving and the questions they pose stir him more. He replies in that same friendly manner, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Shouting the final answer back with a affable wave, he brings Serena to the outside courtyard.
He finds a bench, sits, sobs.
He hasn’t let go.
I’m sorry, he chokes out, I’m sorry that I couldn’t see who he really was. I’m sorry that I’ve made so many mistakes in my life. I’m sorry…for everything.
The tears flow through his wet hands and they pitter patter on the courtyard floor like raindrops.
He forgets, forgets that she is there, forgets that he is holding her hand still.
Forgets that she still cares, forgets that she made a choice to be comfort him.
It comes to him, slowly over the cloudless winter moon, and he can now feel the breadth of warmth of her palm and the redness of his cheeks and he lets go abruptly, drops the hand as though it were hot coals.
