"The good news is, now I'm furious." a garchomp gijinka affiliated with isola radiale.
housed in her penthouse in archimedes.
rank: hypergiant. icon credit. || sidebar credit.
rosa cervantes
original character (pokemon gijinka)
age: 39
pronouns: she/her
height: 6'4"
a garchomp! will tell you she’s a dragon to simplify matters in the event you don’t already know better. communes with pokemon naturally because of this
rosa’s key emotions are rampant alcoholism and drained car battery
moral alignment is somewhere between true neutral and chaotic stupid
cuttingly intelligent when it comes to several subjects despite being a personification of dumb bitch disease
can be honest to the point of sounding callous. hates beating around the bush and won’t hesitate to tell you off even if you can kill her with a blink (it’s the ‘tism)
plagued with an explosive temper, absurdist beliefs and a hefty dose of cynicism
falls back to threats and violence a little too easily in order to solve her problems but she’s trying her best
it’s not that she’s evil, she just goes into a dissociative state and commits atrocities. has committed manslaughter over a brain fart and probably will again
has a big soft spot in her heart for pokemon and other animals (particularly dogs). likes them a lot more than she does most people
an experienced, powerful battler and stubborn. will fight to the death for the people she loves (and has).
He went through painstaking ordeals to ensure that this message arrived at her lodgings. By which he means, he walked all the way there, dropped it off and then ran away before they could actually encounter each other. It was, admittedly, a very grueling walk, though! As for the message, it was a simple sheet of paper. One with a very lengthy and thought provoking bit of writing on it. The letter itself read as such:
“『Dear Shark Breath.』”
And beneath it a crudely drawn picture of an emoji sticking it's tongue out mockingly. If it could even be interpreted that way. And finally, his initials. Truly captivating stuff.
You can only stare at this paper like it's written in tongues. All the more confirmation that the people here are more familiar with you than you are with them— not that you needed it.
K.M. What's that stand for? Kill me?
"Gotta be the shittiest artist I've ever seen." You simply pocket what you can only interpret as some very goofy, contrarian fan mail and go back inside. In a way it just means someone cares enough to needle you however halfassedly. "On the fridge with you."
She's right, it's too loud in here anyway. Once they shuffle past the bouncing crowds and into the hallway alley, they give a sigh of relief (and remove their earplugs.)
("Yeah, that's a lot better.")
But more importantly!
"Anyway, I was saying it's good to see you again, Rosa. You just get back? Wanna go raid a food truck or something?"
"I, uh, yeah. Just, getting settled back in. It's rough going. I'm not sure how long it's been."
None of that is a lie either. You're just stumbling catastrophically over your path to the heart of the problem and if this stranger hasn't picked up on that nervousness yet then you're a way better actor than you ever thought you were.
Food? "Sounds good to me, I'll let you pick." Might help your jitters a little, actually. You've been forgetting to eat again. Before that, though—
"Something I gotta ask first, I, uh." The sweat's getting worse.
"I don't. Know who you are."
"If you could fill that blank for me real quick I'd be mighty grateful."
For the life of him he can't remember the last time he saw her, or even the last time they spoke for that matter. All he can recall vividly is the day she vanished. The day where her name was removed from his list of contacts, and how he would sit there—in complete and utter silence—wondering just what to make of this constant push and pull of people coming and going from this island. It could drive anyone crazy.
Rosa was a friend to him, that he could finally acknowledge. A very good one in fact. One of the only people that Django felt comfortable enough with to be himself—vulnerabilities and all. So to say he was shocked, no, overjoyed by her sudden reappearance at this bar in the Underside, was possibly the greatest understatement of the year.
" Holy shit! " he would cry out, loud enough to where it would cut through the bar's chatter. Not that he cared. " Rosa, I can't believe you're back! "
The sound of your name hits you over the ears like a series of left and right hooks and the sudden urge to bust your way through the wall like a wrecking ball and roll the fuck out is nearly all-consuming. But that would mean owing more money to the owner than you already do. Given that, all you can do is sit there feeling sick as a dog.
Who is it now. Who do I have to talk down this time.
You can't bring yourself to look at the guy, but maybe the way you wave him over in one swift motion seems confident enough— good thing no one can see the nervous repetitive bounce of your leg beneath the booth's tabletop.
Once the guy's finally seated across from you, all joyful shock beside the strange air of tiredness about him (you can relate to that, at least), the hurdle ahead of you seems so much higher than it already was.
"Hey, uh, so. I didn't wanna go shouting this across the bar for everyone to hear 'cause it's gonna sound bad but uh." You grimace. "Who are you?"
Well, would you—… oh my, that's not a Pokémon from my laboratory! I'll be, it seems the legendary Pokémon Type: Null wants to be your partner! Type: Null, also called the Synthetic Pokémon, was made in Arceus' image for a particular mission but went berserk and was restrained by the helmet on its head. Like most normal Pokémon, Type: Null is drawn to people who are adaptable and determined, though it is also known to be an exceptionally loyal and temperamental Pokémon. It makes the perfect partner for a trainer who is very adaptable and devoted to what's right, and surely one who will make a difference in the world. My friend, this marks the beginning of your and Type: Null's journey together. Welcome to the world of Pokémon!
"Hey you! Yeah you! Bold, brave, brick of meat, you there! Horns and eye! Arm and tail! You seem like someone willing to take a punch. Willing to risk it all!"
The small crowd that was around the little clown had turned in different directions, trying to find which person Webeta had called out to. Some of them guessed correctly, and looked at the garchomp with an eager excitement. They hopped off their box, and started walking in her direction before turning slightly and getting their dukes up.
"You and me, boss. First to fall, loses. Winner gets to walk away with their life, a great prize, and the final trick for my performance today. Are you ready?"
Wait, what did they just call you. Meat brick? That's a new one.
"Uh..."
You're not big on being stared at by crowds. You know you cut an imposing figure and to a certain extent that's purposeful, but otherwise it's all a consequence of biological factors and pure happenstance. You prefer to wallflower your way through most things, truth be told— but being called out by a performance you weren't even spectating won't let you keep doing that.
"Hm. Okay. Can't say I see what your aim is here, but I'll play." You crack your knuckles, carefully sizing up your playful aggressor. You can't tell if they're fully serious about this, and they don't seem terribly intimidating (quite the opposite with that getup) but you know better than to underestimate the short ones. Some often have a magic trick or two, not to mention they have the best shots at destroying your kneecaps.
Step one: compromise their balance.
"But if that's what you want—"
You drive a firm heel into the earth between the two of you, causing it to violently crack and fragment— you won't know what their reflexes are like without an appropriate test.
Most had been content to steer clear of him. His motionless, seated posture made clear that he had no intention of engaging with a single soul around him. Quiet and still, with an unreadable expression hidden beneath his cowl. The few that did were met with complete disregard at best. And an annoyed glare at worst.
Perhaps one glare proved too effective; having sent an inquisitive youngster off crying as a result. Not that that would move him to remorse in the slightest, but it drew more eyes on him than he cared to have.
You can barely recall how it started, but it's been one of those days when your nerves are grated raw and all you want is an uneventful walk home where you can let the steam out of the kettle in peace.
A child crying is the last thing you want to hear— it stabs its way out of the relative quiet and right through your eardrums. You feel something starting to crack, and before you can stop yourself you're slowly closing in and slinging venom.
You can't say you care about avenging the kid. Something about this stranger who seems determined to be a walking nebula of atrophy and ill will and the fact of his looming presence not far from your place of residence is pissing you off the more you think about it.
You're not big on the close proximity.
"Y'know. If you really want to hang around looking like the haunted house drapery of centuries past I can point out better places for you to do it. But not here. Are you listening to me?"
You don't know any of the names sprayed across these shirts on offer but one does sort of catch your eye and challenges you to a brief staring contest. After a moment you reach for it and then shrug it on over your head, being careful so as not to tear anything. The text across the chest is flashy and buttressed by batlike wings.
FULL NAME. rosaline freira cervantes
TITLE. Impossible Bitch
NICKNAME. rosa
GENDER. bigender (barely realizes this if at all)
PRONOUNS. she/her
HEIGHT. 6'4" (193 cm)
AGE. 39
ZODIAC. cancer to the point that it hurts
SPOKEN LANGUAGES. sinnoh common, some english, some spanish
physical characteristics !
HAIR COLOR. chestnut brown
EYE COLOR. gold iris, black sclera
SKIN TONE. tan
BODY TYPE. athletic, curvy, muscular in roughly equal measure
VOICE. deep and raspy, you can tell she still smokes occasionally
DOMINANT HAND. right (the one she lost, ironically)
POSTURE. often terrible. straightens very effectively when alert
SCARS. her right eye, her spine, everywhere else
TATTOOS. a single rose in full bloom on her right buttcheek
BIRTHMARKS. none
MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S). horns and tail, long hair, patched right eye
childhood !
PLACE OF BIRTH. some very small town in the sinnoh region. rosa doesn't know the name, doesn't wish to
HOMETOWN. none. constant travel though childhood and teens
SIBLINGS. one older half-brother, evol (haxorus)
PARENTS. odin (charizard), elspeth (garchomp). both deceased
adult life !
OCCUPATION. bodyguard (back home. here, n/a)
CURRENT RESIDENCE. archimedes penthouse
CLOSE FRIENDS. *laugh track*
RELATIONSHIP STATUS. single
FINANCIAL STATUS. moderate. previous stays and earnings keep her fairly comfortable
DRIVER’S LICENSE. lol (lost it). doesn't keep her from her motorcycle though, plus she has her horse-sized dog
CRIMINAL RECORD. D.U.I., murder, mass murder, manslaughter, arson, assault and battery
VICES. materially: alcohol, cigarettes. personality-wise: irritable, antisocial, vindictive and cruel
sex & romance !
SEXUAL ORIENTATION. demisexual
LOVE LANGUAGE. gift giving, words of affirmation, physical touch
RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES. not much of a verbal communicator but quite careful and deliberate when she is. very catlike when it comes to affection. if you actively demand her attention out of habit, she'll be infinitely more likely to avoid you and may even lash out if she feels pressed. be respectful of her boundaries and her time and she'd practically live under your skin if she could.
miscellaneous !
CHARACTER’S THEME SONG. creatures — shinedown
HOBBIES TO PASS TIME. working out/training, hiking, camping, drinking/eating, napping
PHOBIAS. nothing quite extreme enough to be considered a phobia.
SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL. mixed— confident in her abilities, not so much in the quality of her personhood.
VULNERABILITIES. despite her overall growth, rosa's emotional instability is her greatest weak point. she's constantly at war with herself over her conflicting wants and needs and it tires her out, accounting for her lack of energy— when her feelings bubble up past that barrier of fatigue, that's when it's easiest for her to wind up doing something stupid.
The potion was a mint concoction that was meant to be sampled into the future as a halloween project. One that rejuvinated the spirit and made short work of bad breathe, in order words it was a drinkable solution to your bad breath.
"Licenced? no. But your breath would smell like mints for a few hours. Possibly more since you drank the whole thing. What do you think?"
He brings out a note pad and pencil to take in notes, open to criticisms on something as useless as this.
"Also can you describe your internal organs in producing fire. I would love to know more of it."
Well, what do you know. Your sinuses are definitely cleared due to the strong scent, but it's not unpleasant— plus now your mouth kind of feels like a spaceship.
"Huh. No complaints here, I think you just invented a way better mouthwash. Most ones I try only make your breath better for half an hour, tops. You could make a killing." Not that this guy seems to be in it for the money or he'd be charging a fee.
That last bit, though? Kind of... alarming.
"Uh. I can't really tell you the science behind it if that's what you're asking. Haven't dissected myself recently." You clear your throat before pressing a fist to your chest where your sternum rests. "But there's a kind of heat right about here— I just sort of draw on that in order to do it. Mostly intuitive." You ask your own burning question in response. "Why do you ask?"
Sometimes it was just nice to get lost in the crowd of people all feeling the same thundering music. It's the exception to the 'no crowds' philosophy Anda has. There's a mind-numbing sort of effect in concerts like this, where everything and everyone was too loud to think or feel. Just existing, having a good time.
What pulled them out from that comfortable lull was a familiar face--one they haven't seen in quite a while! So they shimmy through the sea of bouncing bodies and the lights and the... glitter? Who threw glitter around, that stuff gets everywhere.
You understood them that time. You freeze up a bit like a Deerling in headlights.
Oh no. You're getting the sinking feeling you're about to ruin someone's day. Granted you do that a lot and to a lot of different people, but it's an entirely different horse when you're not doing it on purpose. Worse still, you don't know to just what extent it's about to happen again.
"I'M DOING OKAY, I GUESS." Not a lie or anything. You're rarely good, never great.
"Yeah well it wasn't exactly my choice." You don't dare mention the fact that compared to the handful of your remaining relatives you're the runt of the litter.
"And it's not all sunshine and rainbows. Lots of door frames to walk into and I was a fucking gangly teenager."
