Harmonia | Pokémon Fanfiction

38 | A Matter of Time

Music in media: A Matter of Time by The Killers

Arc 2 | Shadows of Tomorrow
(by Madvillain ft. Quasimoto)

18 March, Friday, 1:15 p.m. | Spring

It would be too much of a hyperbole to say that Rae, Cheren and Lenora were wracked with confusion and anxiety the extent of Tornadus's wreckage on Mistralton City. Insensitive. Invalidating. Lacking—empathy.

But that's probably what Icosa would say if he saw the state they were in. Could he even bear to acknowledge his mentor, the one who seeks the right path, who was at the moment jittery and fidgeting with his tie and staring at the clock, trying to make sense of it all? Cheren sat cross-legged with a cup of triple shot espresso beside him, surrounded by the blue soundproof walls of the Mistralton City Pokémon Centre's Calm Room, a space Skyla had constructed since the music perversion began so her citizens could meditate or distress in private. The bonsai by the locked door wiggled every once in a while but it was, thankfully, no Sudowoodo. Cheren had let his Pokémon roam about as they please, far away from him. When was the last time he let them out anyway? Was it even possible to pinpoint when such a time was?

"Darn it..." With a scowl, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. His attire was stifling him despite the air-conditioning as much as he hated admitting it. Being right most of the time was difficult enough but it was manageable. Somewhat. Though now it was more delusion than truth.

He had thought long and hard about it. Many, many times, really. Doing the right thing meant everyone would be happy, or at least most people and Pokémon would be. Which was to say, Cheren was living up to utilitarian standards of his choosing. If he could minimise harm and maximise happiness, then that thought, word, deed could not be anything far from right.

But nothing was right. The time wasn't right. His belief that Icosa would spew such a statement wasn't right. Perhaps Icosa had more empathy than Cheren credited him for. Perhaps Cheren was projecting his insecurities. Denial was the first step to leading a life that could do no wrong—this he believed to a tiny degree, but beliefs and actions were hardly coherent things.

Absent-mindedly, he dropped the tip of his tie into his espresso. Absent-mindedly, he tucked his legs out and heaved a long sigh worthy—well, it had to be—of eternal damnation and knocked the cup over. Absent-mindedly, he ruffled his hair and laid on the floor. Absent-mindedly, he thought it was sweat that his shirt was soaking up. Absent-mindedly, he reached out, gaze fixed on the ceiling, for his espresso, only to touch the emptied cup.

Then Cheren was present, struck full-force into his present dread and lack of self-control and order and awareness. It was as Skyla said. Like he had jetlag upon stepping into Mistralton City, like he wasn't really in Unova or he had been in Unova and now wasn't or he thought he was in Unova before Chargestone Cave but perhaps not and this place wasn't quite like Unova either or what was Unova supposed to look like, smell like, sound like, taste like and feel like?

Worst of all, he had no inkling to where Icosa might be. Where else could he have run to if not Mistralton City? Was there a place he didn't know existed? His head spun with half-baked theories, one after another after another, creating and denying and creating and denying till he found himself creating denial and denying each and every creation, the master and servant to his guilt. He could have done better taking care of Icosa.