Welcome to Gaia! ::

Our story begins on a warm spring day in Kalos. The sun is shining, the fletchlings are singing, and the faint wisps of clouds overhead frame the ruins of a long forgotten and crumbling castle, nearly retaken by the vines and trees which have worked their way through the ancient stone, in an almost picturesque manner. The protagonist of this tale, insomuch as one can be a protagonist, is a young man in his early twenties. He is not a native of Kalos, nor is he is a tourist of any sort – these ruins have been deemed to be far too dangerous for visitation. He is not supposed to be here. He does not know this.

This young man is no trainer, no archeologist or tomb raiding thief. He is a drifter, one of those strange and lonely souls who have been overtaken by an inexorable need to travel – wanderlust. Soon, he plans to dismantle his makeshift encampment. The leaf tent, gifted to him by a breeder of Leavanny he had befriended in the forests of Unova, will be carefully and gently (doubly so for it is already beginning to tear) rolled into his pack. The sleeping bag, now worn to thin strands which only provide the semblance of warmth and comfort, will be strapped to that same pack. He will listen to the calls of the native bird pokemon, and follow it to whatever berries or other foodstuff might aid his travels. He will wait for the wind to blow, and when it is strong enough he will follow it until he tires.
This is his plan. It has been his plan every day, every week, every year since he first left Kanto, stowed away on a ship very much like the SS Anne.
Unfortunately for this young wanderer, plans have a tendency to go awry.

Today, after ensuring his fire has been put out and the ashes scattered so as to leave no trace, he moves to explore those aforementioned ruins. He begins by circling the crumbling walls – the entrance itself, as near as he could tell, had long since collapsed into an impassable barrier. As he attempts to ascertain the easiest way to scale the ruined ramparts, he listens to the cries of the surrounding wildlife. Occasionally he might whistle back a birdsong or call, he tells himself this is for his own amusement, but today he does not. Especially so near to these ruins, the wildlife is agitated. They call out danger to one another, the presence of some predator. He supposes he is the predator they worry about, though he poses no threat, and presses on.

Eventually, the young man settles on a particularly large tree. From a middling branch, a short hop will bring him over the battlements. Getting back out will be a different story, and a problem which he will deal with later.
I will spare you the details of that climb, dear reader. It was quite simple, though his foot caught on a crumbling brick at the end of the jump. He was sent sprawling across the crumbling stone, scraping elbows and knees, only barely, luckily, coming to a stop just before falling into the courtyard below.

Here, atop those battlements, as an unseen figure roughly places their carefully shined dress shoe onto the nape of his neck, is where our story begins in earnest:

“I guess that fool wasn't alone, after all. We almost underestimated them,” the figure, a male, states with a hint of the dry amusement native to Kalos, pressing down all the harder to stifle our protagonist's brief attempt at a struggle. For the young man's part, he simply falls still – he knows when he has been beaten, and in this instance he never had the chance to put up a fight. From his vantage, face down, chin pressed to the grimy stone, he can only see the courtyard below – the dizzying drop that might await him.
Behind him, a dainty chuckle fills the air before a woman replies, “Ah, the durant come marching two-by-two, eh? C'est la vie. We may as well be quick about--”

The speaker pauses, and then: “But, oh?! Do you see? The boy is lacking that quaint little arm device they all wear. It seems we have a different sort of visitor. We have been most impolite. Would you mind?”
“Ah, certainly,” comes her companion's reply. In a moment, the foot has been removed from the wanderer's neck. He is seized by the shoulders, lifted and thrown bodily towards the battlements. A wince of pain crosses the drifter's features as his back, and then his head, connect with the stones. At least now, however, he is sitting up. At least now he can see the people who are assaulting him.
He can formulate a plan to escape.

A man, and a woman. Red hair, carefully styled to appear as small flames, red sunglasses. Immaculately pressed red suits, damp, the drifter notices immediately, with some red liquid, darker in hue. He hopes it is not blood. He knows better than to hope.

“Ah, mon cher,” the woman begins, tilting those red sunglasses down to favor with him brilliantly blue eyes, batting perfectly maintained lashes, “Just who might you be?”
The young man forces the closest thing he can muster to a smile in these circumstances, and reaching up to brush chestnut hair from his steely eyes, replies with a confidence that surprises even himself. “Morgan. Morgan Dulac.” His voice is a deep baritone which surprises even himself, and for a moment the three humans atop the crumbling castle walls – Morgan and the red-clad brigands all – pause to reassess the youth.

Finally, just as Morgan notes that the birdsong has given way to an eery silence, the red-clad male speaks with a hint of laughter: “Well, Monsieur Dulac, I am afraid that you are trespassing. You see, this land is now property of Team Flare. As you know, trespassing is quite illegal. So it would seem we must deliver some sort of justice, hm?”
“No need,” came Morgan's quiet reply, unsteadily rising to a kneel. “I'll just be on my way, sir.”
“I'm afraid not, mon cher. You have seen far too much.”
This last response was accompanied by a swift kick.

To another trainer, the male Flare grunt's blow might have been unexpected. It may have sent a common trainer, so used to the relatively honorable tactics of pokemon battles, reeling back. For Morgan, who had no pokemon of his own to protect him, such maneuvers were not unthinkable. Though he tried to avoid fighting in any way, it is a sad fact of life that it is violence, not good intentions, which can ultimately settle even the worst of situations. Beneath Morgan's lithe frame were the muscles of an outdoors-man, backed by the skills of an at least adequate-enough-to-survive brawler.

The male grunt's kick was met with a cracking rib and a bear hug. Taken off balance just as the wind was taken from Morgan's lungs, he toppled – falling into a wild and desperate series of punches and knees from his would-be victim. A quick kick to the female grunt's shins soon followed and, gasping for breath, Morgan scrambled to his feet and made for the stairs into the courtyard. His opponents were stunned just enough to give him a small head start and, seeing nowhere else to go, the wanderer soon staggered into the castle itself, clutching at his side.

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Dust filled the air within that ruined castle. Dust, the dank scent of old stone and...was that the coppery scent of blood in the air? Morgan tried not to think about it as he staggered down the entry hall, inwardly cursing himself for every decision he had ever made. Most egregious of these decisions, he quickly decided, was running into the castle. No fires or lights were available to light his way, and though that might dissuade pursuit it would hinder any escape efforts as well.
Was he going to die here?
“Mon cher,” the woman's voice echoed through the halls behind him. The floor was slanting downward, now, as Morgan ran. How far into the castle had he gone? Surely it couldn't be this large. “Do come back, mon cher, it is much more dangerous here than outside.”

Morgan pressed his back to...something wooden, something rotten (a door?) and blindly peered up and down the darkened halls. Far up the tunnel-like hallway, Morgan could make out the faint beams of a flashlight. The man's voice, now, echoing but closer – angry, dripping with venom: “Do you believe in ghosts, Monsieur Dulac? I will be much more gentle than they will.”

Swallowing a lump in his throat, cracked ribs and scratched limbs throbbing, Morgan considered his options. He was likely cornered, opening the door behind him, if it was a door at all, would surely make enough noise to alert them to his position. Perhaps...perhaps there were zubats down here? He knew how to whistle the cry their young made when in need of help, and though the flock would descend upon him just as quickly as his pursuers it might give him a chance.
It might. But if there were no zubat down here, he'd just give himself away. So far, the flashlights hadn't beamed directly down the tunnel.

Closing his eyes, fighting back fearful tears, Morgan pressed his fingers to his lips and blew. The whistle echoed up and down the hallway, all throughout the castle. “The f--- was that?!” came the male grunt's shout. No flock of zubat answered, no –

Instead, a moment later, came the screech of metal. Of steel upon steel. Of battles fought in a time long forgotten. Somewhere, deep in the bowels of the castle, someone or something loosed a war cry. “This way!” the woman shouted, and the flashlights shot down the corridor. The door behind Morgan opened of its own accord, and he was pitched backwards.

With nothing to support him, Morgan was pitched backwards. He stumbled several steps, his boots clinging to some sticky substance which covered the ground. His heel caught on something...something small, round, hard. A gauntlet? The skeletal remains of a human hand? Morgan bit his tongue to cover his cry of surprise as he fell.

In the darkness of the castle's throne room, whatever Morgan had tripped over skittered across the floor, rolling with metallic clinks till it came to a stop some distance away. Whatever it was, it let out a quiet beep before turning on a small light. Hardly enough to illuminate the chamber, but enough to draw Morgan's attention away from the perils of the hallway from which he had come.

Somewhere in the room, metal scraped metal. Somewhere in that chamber, something began to stir.

Scrambling on hands and knees, Morgan reached for the device. Was it a pokegear? Perhaps he could call for help. But-- no. Whatever it was, it was simply labeled with four letters, an acronym he didn't recognize: SNAG.
Squinting at the – blinding, given the darkness he had come from – display, Morgan flipped the device over in his hands once, searching for some way to ascertain its function. Then, again. Now, the display simply stated: LOADING GRAY.

Not a moment later, the tinny and robotic, if sarcastic, voice of an AI came through the speakers. “Always a pleasure to be of assistance Ro--...Ah, wait. Who in Arceus' name are you?”

“Uh...S-Siri? Call the Kalos Rangers,” stammered Morgan in reply.
“...How rude. I suppose I'll call you Dave, then. I'm afraid I can't do that, Dave.”
“...W-what?”
“I'm afraid I can't do that, Dave.”
“My name's...My name's not Dave.” Morgan licked his lips, sucked in a breath. He could see the beam of the flashlights out from the corner of his eyes. He could hear his pursuers, quietly discussing which door he could have gone through. They were guessing correctly. Then, looking back to the device: “Can...can you help me?”
“I can help you, Dave. Will I help you? Hmmm.”
A metallic screech from behind Morgan, close by. The scrape of rusted metal on stone. Splintering wood. He winced. Somewhere, the male grunt shouted out a curse too vile to be written down. “Please?”
“I--...Oh.” GRAY began to respond, and Morgan imagined a tone of alarm. Almost immediately the screen flickered to a series of graphs – calculations, momentarily. A moment later, a diagram of a pokeball, small arrows pointing to the button on the front. “Yes, I suppose I will help you. Blood ruins the circuitry, you see. There is a pokeball directly to the left of your knee. Let's begin by activating it as shown, and throwing it over your right shoulder. Gently, Dave.”
“I know how pokeballs work,” came Morgan's sullen reply, slowly feeling about before his fingers closed on the indicated device. Sniffing, he carefully complied with the request even as the AI began to run another series of calculations.

The throne room was momentarily illuminated by a bright red light, causing Morgan to tightly close his eyes. A moment later, his eyes still adjusting to the dimmer luminance provided by the SNAG machine, a small sound came to his ears. Something rolling, the gentle 'ping' of a pokeball rocking on old stone. Once.
Twice.
A third time.

And then a click.
“Very well done, Dave, you will be a pokemon master in no time, I'm certain,” GRAY enthused, with the tone of an adult humoring a small child. “Now collect that, you are going to fight your way out. After wards, perhaps, we will discuss how you came across a SNAG machine. Do wear the machine on your arm, in the meantime, though.”
“Yes, just strap it on, like that. Strange, it nearly suits you, Dave.”

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Adele, Peon of Team Flare, snarled as she broke away from the fighting. Ricardo could handle the honedge and pawniards that had been awoken on his own, easily enough, but she had to catch up to that damned Morgan before he could cause any more trouble. They hadn't explored past the throne room, yet – disposing of the Snag'em operative who had been snooping about their research had been of a higher priority. If the kid ran further into catacombs...Well, she didn't want to think about how difficult it would be track him down. Much less to explain things to her Admin.

It seemed, however, that she was in luck. As she approached, the kid staggered into the doorway, slumped against the frame. He was clutching his side where Ricardo had kicked him, his other arm fell like dead weight. Had he been injured? No.
He was wearing the SNAG Machine they'd taken from the spy, now, though. And he had a pokeball in his hand, by the looks of it.

Adele paused, staring at the young man before her. Slowly, he lifted his gaze from the floor to just beyond her flashlight's beam – till his steely eyes locked directly on her own through the red-tint of her sunglasses.
“I have no idea what I'm doing,” Morgan called to her, as a thin red beam shot from the pokeball in his hand. “But you're going down, anyways.”
Adele smirked, and then shrugged, sending forth a pokeball of her own. “If that's how you wanna do things, kid. Bell, it's time to meet your new whipping boy!”

What could he possibly have, after all? A caterpie? A pidgey?
Whatever it was, Adele was more than confident that her bellsprout could handle it.
When she saw the trailing blue ribbon, the glint of a bronzed blade, she couldn't help but gasp.

“Might I suggest an opening of fury cutter, Dave?” a tinny voice echoed up the hall, emanating from the machine on the young man's arm.
Morgan – or was it Dave? – grinned like a madman as he watched her reaction. “Sounds good, Siri. Whatever-you-are? Let's go with a fury cutter.”

The floating blade shifted, and Adele grit her teeth. “Bell, vine whip!”

The bellsprout's vines shot forward, tangling themselves in the Honedge's blue ribbons even as the ghostly weapon cut a thin line through the plant's leaf-like arms.
“Keep going!” Morgan called out...was that a hint of enjoyment?
“Wrap it up, Bell!” Adele called – realizing her mistake a moment too late.

Bell's vines shot forward, attempting to wrap about the Honedge. Her opponent simply passed through the grip, slicing once more. This time faster, this time cutting deeper. One of Bell's leaves was nearly shorn from her stem-like body.

“Well,” the kid, Morgan, stated, slowly advancing up the hallway. “Let's finish this.”

Behind her, Adele could hear Ricardo calling for a general retreat. Apparently they hadn't cleared out the rooms in these halls as well as they had thought. Biting her lower lip, the Flare grunt recalled her bellsprout and turned to do the same.

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A warm, spring Kalosian day. High above, the sun is shining, fletchlings are singing. The faint wisps of clouds overhead create an almost picturesque scene for the makeshift campsite below. Seated on a log, a dirty young man with chestnut hair smiles for the first time in years as a floating sword dances before him, weaving the blue ribbon that hangs from its pommel in and around his fingers without ever quite making contact.
“I think...I think I'll call you--” Morgan begins to say, before the machine on his arm buzzes, interrupting him.
“Have you made a decision yet, Dave?”
The wanderer sighs, glances down to where his arm rests across the makeshift bandaging he has applied to his bruised and broken ribs. He still smiles, but the expression grows apprehensive. The Honedge before him lets out a metallic chirp – an encouragement. “Well, I mean...I guess, after you listed all the benefits like that,” Morgan states, musing -- “Free supplies, easier traveling...somewhere to go when I'm in trouble...”
Then, lifting his gaze back to the Honedge, he concludes, distantly: “Hope.”

“Splendid, Morgan Dulac. I will file your application to Team Snagem immediately.”