It is suffocating to find yourself in the without. The corruptive, eldritch space between you and the rest of what is: it makes you an insect, dries out and desiccates your body, and pins your broken wings to a collector’s wall. Sucks every last drop of selfhood from you.

  This dark brought Sun a sudden new awareness of him as his physical self: his muscles, fragile bones, soft brain matter. The struggles accompanying being mortal; or if not truly mortal, at least an imitation of it.

  The darkness stole into the truth, rewrote it, erased it. His embrace was empty. Harmony had disappeared, or perhaps he had never existed at all. He meant companionship and such a lonesome plane could never bear to hold it...

  The more force Sun applied to push the spiny morning-star clusters of leaves out of his way, the more they seemed to gravitate towards him, going slack, then snapping back to pummel and graze his upper arms, his shoulders, his clavicle, his back. The muck underfoot bound to the bottoms of his sneakers, requiring increasing amounts of his energy to escape; and as he traveled, the footprints he left in his wake grew more and more defined. He imagined the others walking here, seeing those imprints (as if this catacomb of a CAVERN didn't render the idea a mere pipe dream) and thinking of him, loathing him, remembering how inadequate as Trainers and adventurers they themselves were in comparison...

  The fully present Harmony wriggled in his grasp, wise to his pigheadedness. He shook his head, cleared it, turned...

  Beady yellow eyes stared back from within the undergrowth. Another knot of mustachioed Rattata, scurrying in fear or excitement, scurrying in their ratta tatta chatta allegretto. Like a great many things on the Alolan islands, the Rattata were invasive. They had stowed away on certain ships two or three hundred years ago and come here to spread their filth and their diseases. Subsequently, the same invasive idiots who had brought them here introduced another species, Yungoos, to reduce their numbers, and in failing that, had cursed the Alolans of today to deal with both species in perpetuity.

  He hadn't wanted to think about it before, but he'd heard they bit. Carried rabies. Their superiors too, who in his mind were the real threats. He had no idea on which level the Raticate operated on: whether it was closer to HUMAN ADVANCEMENT to the primal ratta tatta chatta.

  Because he had no visual cues to know where to step, he didn't realize his foot had slipped under a thick tree root until he felt the intensity of its press. Before it could topple him over, he halted, squinting through his night blindness, and rolled his ankle, thinking, there must have been a way to maneuver it off him somehow... it was squeezing it madly, but if only he -

  Failure. He lost his footing, braced himself, and plummeted face-first into a pile of leaves.

  And the Rattata were upon him.

  Sharp, overgrown nails on each foot pinched into his skin; he choked on his own breath, hacking up a wad of sucked-in saliva. He mumbled an apology to Harmony, but alas the Popplio had struggled out from under him and hopped over to regain his breath, foaming at the mouth.

  Not foam. That was spittle, formed from mere exhaustion. A spray of mist - intentional this time - hit Sun's chest, but did not deter the Rattata from their writhing. He winced as another, sharper pain seared through his calf.

  "Po-ppa-po-ppappa!"

  The Rattata stopped. Clambered upright - Sun's breath hitched - and gaped back at Harmony. Oh, how the tables turned, now, didn't they? Even as the rats’ nails dug into him through his shirt, Sun smiled.

  "Po-ppa-ppa-po-ppa-ppa-paa!"

  The Rattata screamed.

  When Sun's Pokedex buzzed in his shorts pocket, its automated voice blaring, he couldn't discern why exactly it sounded so fuzzy. He closed his eyes, focusing on untangling it from the onslaught of Rattata squeals.

  "If needed, a Popplio can shift its voice into a higher register to disorient its opponents. The maneuver triggers the release of certain chemicals in the brain, leading to wildly different varieties of reaction - "

  The fleet of Rattata leapt off of him, roaring in terror and rushing away to the comparative safety of their tenements. A few stragglers didn't join them: one, its eyes squeezed shut, tumbled down into the gap between Sun's upper arm and chest, nestling safely into his armpit. Disgusted, he gave its distended, Berry-engorged underside a cautious poke with his other hand, but it didn't twitch; however, it did vibrate with the pressure of a slow, defeated taaaaa.

  These few remaining ones weren't like the others. Most of the Rattata were skeletal, but these...

  But the Rattata were meant to share the food in their nests, right? Why would the spoils only go to a select few? Wouldn't it help them all if most of them weren't starving?

  Finally the last few Rattata did shake themselves off and trail after their kin into the underbrush, leaving Sun tingling. With what, exactly, he didn't know. Didn't want to know. He took his face into his hands, rubbing his dirt-encrusted cheeks...

  Narnia. What a joke.

  He craned his neck, wondering if the star-swirled sky he'd seen that one awesome night would meet him once more - but, no, none of it save for a stray beam of moonlight was enough to penetrate the layers and layers of thick canopy. He could only dare dream of it.

  How many times he'd dreamed of it.

  He sighed, bringing his chin back to parallel with the ground, and found another boy staring back at him.

  Not one he recognized. All he could make out through the curtain of dark were his eyes: those deep piercing gray eyes, glinting in the moonlight. The remainder of his face was cloaked in a black bandana accented over the nose by a thick highlight of white, and he wore a cap with the appearance of a skull stripped of flesh.

  They stared. Made equals in their bewilderment.

  Had Sun not been under the effect of Disarming Voice, he would have easily identified this boy for what he was: the enemy.

  Had B not been under the effect of Disarming Voice, he would have easily identified this boy for what he was: a kindred spirit.

  Instead, Sun reached out his hand as if to caress the other boy’s cheek. His fingers curled around the mask's thin fabric, inching ever so slowly down to reveal the rest of his features.

  'If I let you roll down my bandana, you will see my human face. And if you see my human face, I will begin to be human again.'

  Hatred surged through B, and he slapped the other boy's hand away, shucking the top trim of his mask almost up to his eyebrows. His voice had yet to mature, so he modeled it on the boss', rumbling with a faux-baritone.

  "The hell's wrong with you?"

  Sun didn't know. He receded back, sitting on his knees, hands folded in his lap. Harmony scooted to his side, and blinked at the stranger... the suggestion of a bubble formed at his snout, then dissipated. Sun looked at him, and without speaking, without thinking, took out his Poke Ball to call him back.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  It wasn't that he'd never laid eyes upon a Team Skull grunt before: of course he had. But only from afar. The gang might have worked its way deep into the weavings of Akala and Ula'ula, but Melemele would not be so easily overtaken. The operation was meant to be covert, or so he had heard... stick to the shadows. Stick to tourists, they're easy targets. Alola had incentive to protect its tourists - its main stream of income - but tourists often found themselves alone and isolated, especially if they didn't speak the language.

  Really, the true easiest targets were little kids, but harassing local kids would earn the grunts both the attention of and retaliation from adults, and kids rarely carried the money or valuables to make such endeavors worth the risk. So, much to Sun's relief, they stuck to tourists on Melemele.

  Still, among those in his class there were those who romanticized or even idolized the delinquents. They didn't take nothin' from no one. Too cool for school. Didn't put up with parents' nonsense. They could stay up late into the night playing video games and smoking joints and chugging shots of poison and getting chicks pregnant and dying young.

  "I don't know what your problem is, man," he murmured. "I'm just trying to find my way back..."

  "What did you just say to me?"

  "I said, I don't know what your problem is..."

  The grunt's hands curled around his throat - daintier than he'd expected. His fingernails sank into his flesh, and he felt the impulse to wince, but instead, disarmed, simply stared into his eyes like a pinned Deerling.

  "You want the Z-Crystal too, don'tcha? Well, you ain't gonna get it. Sucker."

  "And why not?"

  "'Cause we want it. The boss wants it." B parroted Plumeria's rationale: "You're only one person, and we're tons and tons o’ them. Ain't you ever heard the needs of the many're more important than the needs of the few?"

  Sun smiled cordially, slipping into a daydream. His eyelids sagged.

  "Well," he said, deaf to the condescension in his voice, "if you really want to get the Z-Crystal, you have to beat the Totem Pokémon. That's how the island challenge works. If you’ve been living here for any real stretch of time, you must have heard that already..."

  Knuckles bludgeoned the side of his face. He reeled, blinking heavily, but his short-circuiting brain did not have the capacity to instruct his muscles to defend him, and instead he continued smiling like an idiot. A grin overtook him, as if to tempt the grunt into knocking out his pearly whites. He rubbed his finger over his wet upper lip: where did this water come from? Ah, no, not water... something darker. If the grunt hadn't been there to inspect his every move he would have tasted it to verify his suspicion.

  "Hey... hey, maaaan... I don't mean any bad will against you... calm doooown..."

  Another strike. Avoided his mouth, thankfully, but the blow noshed his head back, and if the grunt still hadn't been holding the back of his neck he would have toppled over.

  Having successfully displaced him, the grunt struck his collarbone next. A spasm passed through Sun, but this blow lacked the force of the other two, and he was able to retain his grin.

  Finally, the grunt leaned in to whisper:

  "I'll give you one last reason to be scared of me."

  A snap came from behind Sun's ear. He angled his head to the side, catching it in his peripheral vision -

  a switchblade, ready to saw off this idiot's ear or slit his throat at a moment's twitch.

  The most vital repositories of blood, the arteries - ah, their location all lay on the tip of his tongue. Mizuki would know this. On the wrist... on the neck... tucked into the armpit... just above the eye. All places very much exposed and accessible to the grunt.

  Something drove Sun to ask:

  "Ha... have you, heh, ever killed anyone before?"

  "Not yet," answered B.

  Before he could stop himself, Sun said, "well, I don't think you could. I don't think you have it in you to kill me."

  "Well," B said, "there's anudder thing, too. There's been rumors 'bout this Litten, you hear? With fur so white, it's almost shiny..."

  A rush of satisfaction coursed through him as the kid's eyes went wide.

  "Who told you that?"

  "Nunya business," B said, bringing the blade to the base of the boy's neck. "Heard 'bout what its Trainer looks like, too. A little queer with long, flowing black hair... sure sounds familiar, don't it."

  "Sounds to me like you've got the wrong guy," Sun said. True, his hair had grown more unruly without his mother around to shear it every other month, but he'd never classify it as 'flowing'. Not when the tips only tickled his shoulders. Silken tresses these were not. "My hair's never been like that. And I don't even know what that other word means, so..."

  B had only been repeating what he’d heard the older grunts say, and didn't know, either. But he'd never admit that. Instead he swung his blade around to the other side of the kid's head, and chuckled as his eyes shot wide open - one centimeter closer, and he'd have grazed his neck and severed the artery.

  Here it was: all the world had forbidden him. Control. Power. Since the ratty purple-haired bitch had denied him success, the memory of it had nearly faded from his mind. And now look at him: one slash, and he'd spill the kid's blood. One slash, and he'd be a god. His wrists trembled too much, and he took his other hand off the kid's nape to still himself.

  Took his hand off, and the kid snapped to attention, scrambling back like one of the Rattata. B made a grab for the hem of his shirt, but the move was futile: the kid sprung to his feet and bolted off into the darkness.

  "Coward," he growled. "Coward! Get your ass back here!"

  Yet to fully come down from the high of his perceived control, he actually sat there waiting for the kid to obey. As if he would actually return, lie back down, and let B slash his neck. But he didn't, and finally, B accepted his failure and flipped the switchblade down, stowing it back inside his pocket beside his smashed Z-Ring. He ran his finger along the bracelet's serrated edge, knowing if he pressed down any harder it would puncture him, open him up.

  Once, the boss had hounded him for it - said, you give it or I break it. As if he didn't already have a dozen others lifted from premature screw-ups like B. But sometimes B did wish he had given it up. It had no use for him now.

  I understand now it was a terrible mistake ever to grant you that amulet in the first place.

  That was useless, too, inscribed with a name no one called him by. It lay somewhere out at the bottom of the sea on Route 15. Because if there was anything he'd learned over the years, it was that no one who ever wanted anything would be permitted to have it. If you ever wanted anything in this world, you would have to jump through as many hoops as possible to exhaust you until you gave up the fight. If it was meant to be easy, victory wouldn't be worth a thing - HAH! Like he hadn't practiced. Like he hadn't bled himself dry. And all for nothing.

  But nobody is ever wanting - there is no such thing as boredom - boredom is your mind's way of telling you GIVE UP - nothing possessed is nothing to give - the Berry harvest is shared - well, shared, perhaps, in that none of the little ones will taste of it - too busy working, too busy skittering -

  The Totem.

  The Totem Raticate.

  The Totem Raticate, and its cabal of similarly oligarchic Raticate, served as the arbiters of justice in the City. No one, they resolved, would pass through their Heart uninvited and steal of their wonders without immense retribution. No foreign Rattata, no Yungoos or Gumshoos, and, no, not even those at the very top of the food chain: the demons.

  On this night a few of the Raticate bored of the City's ratta tatta monotony had decided to toy with a few noisy demon-children they had found loitering around the entrance of the Cavern. One had split off, running deeper into the City; the other two had found a side path back to the main atrium of the Cavern, and exited swiftly and remorsefully.

  So when the city council saw and scented evidence of someone else traipsing through their beloved gardens, putting grubby paws all over the pure flesh of their precious Berries, they concluded these intruders would also soon descend upon the pedestal where their crystal sat and gleamed innocently. Thieves had few original thoughts in their heads.

  Thieves failed more often than they succeeded.

  And sure, even when they did succeed, the magic crystal always found its way back to the pedestal. Who or what placed it there, the Raticate did not know; but they did not care, either. The crystal belonged to the City, and to purloin it was a blatant attack against the City.

  So the guardian of the crystal moved into position, planning its defense. In the meantime, the other Raticate trampled through the City, shouting orders to the weaker subjects, and delegating more complex tasks to the stronger, muscular ones. Each Rattata in this City knew its place. If the City thrived, they would - well, perhaps not thrive themselves, but the Raticate would be content. If the Raticate suffered, they would make the Rattata know their suffering a thousandfold. Ever since that bitter winter thousands of moons ago when the Raticate had first decided to consolidate their nests, this had been the way things were.

  The demons razed the smaller nests without mercy; the Raticate had come to ensure the City would know no such destruction. These trees had been seedlings when the guardian deity was born and over the course of their lives, had withstood cyclones and tsunamis. They possessed a magic known only to what is ancient.

  So too did the guardian. The hearts of Rattata sang in his presence. Out-of-nesters trembled; Yungoos turned inside out in terror; demons shriveled up and died on the spot. The swirling aura knew no bounds.

  And tonight, the Totem sought blood.