Inheritors

Part 3

Cinnabar was nice.

By any outward standard, at least. It was the least altered of any of the original cities, and the most closely maintained. Most of the industry of the place had been simply shut down without replacement, and the buildings left as they were, the strain of high population itself ended, and by now the last remnants of past pollution had long faded away entirely. The place left was pristine. The waters glittered with pure blue clarity and the beaches were long unbroken expanses of light sand. The whole of the island was something like an extended historical site, or something like a shrine. To him the image of what it was was overlaid with all it had been, and he could scarcely see the place without the weight of history, of meanings attached and importance imbued.

All trainers went to Cinnabar before making their journeys throughout the rest of the region.

He landed at the beach, on the edge of the dry sand, just beyond where the highest of the waves could reach, and continued the rest of the way more slowly, and walking. Not, as before, because of adults present and a desire to behave similarly mature under their attention, but of honest awe, the meaning of the place he stood in rendering him humble and reverent at even the smallest of things.

He traveled through the side streets a bit, thinking of history and legend, until he noticed that the other children had begun to cluster and made his way to where the new trainers were collecting before the formal speech began.

They eyed each other a bit shyly, minds inexpertly shielded and bodies fidgeting from nervousness and excitement despite their best efforts at adult composure. One boy's tail even thumped the ground once, like a baby's.

It was an unfamiliar thing, being around so many other children and without the twin presences of their damas and madas, even with the reassuring solidity of so many adult minds around them. It lent additional weight to their surroundings as well, or perhaps their surroundings lent additional weight to the gathering. Deus was not sure who among them first thought Imagine, being the first. Your mind alone amid the empty world but it spread through the group in a quick ripple, responses rising up in its wake like muted thunder after lightning -
not alone, truly, she'd have been too
none of them, no adults, alone
both, the other way too, too, nothing sending
alone
no adults, no order, imagine just the chaos of your own first thoughts
she'd have been too, but not like an adult, not above
alone
only like a clever hypno, her, not an adult, not the same
imagine doing that
alone
not alone

The stabilizing focus of the adult swept over them, and they quieted, pulling back to only their own thoughts. Deus focused on the adult as he began to speak.

It was nothing new, really, but in the excitement of what it meant and the place around him the importance of it swept him up and he hung on every word.

"Here," the adult said, "was the beginning, and here too was the genesis of the end." And he spoke of history and legend. Of the place, of the first. Of the meaning of their journeys and the task before them. "We are the ones who were worthy to inherit. The world is yours and there is no higher calling than to have mastery over it." And he spoke of past and future, the familiar words made new to Deus by the surroundings and the undertaking before him. And they listened, spellbound, as he wove meaning into the world.

When the speech over, the children split apart again. This was in part because they had different ideas of where they wished to go next, and in part because, much as some pokemon young would naturally gravitate together, they sought a minimum of distance, like repelling magnets.

For Deus' part, he decided to seek his next pokemon then, wanting one from Cinnabar. Others spread out to explore the city or in the direction of the gym, with one or two going to the beaches to look for water types, and Deus headed toward the mountain.

The mansion was at the base of the volcano, near the outskirts of the city. Nowhere was the museumlike preservation that pervaded the town so evident as at the blasted shell of the building, kept in a state of perpetually half-collapsed ruin. Weeds grew up around it but were kept in check from progressing further than a few pushing between the cracks in the ground and form transitioning from the fast growing soft greenery to older woody saplings. The roof had collapsed in places but all deterioration had been halted at some unknown point, and closer examination by more experienced eyes would have shown subtle but extensive work to keep the badly supported overhangs at the edge of the holes in place. Deus, though, was too intimidated to do more than stare up at it from the street. The idea of such destruction was alien to his own life, and subconsciously he stilled to almost a statue in response. Old legend and imposing present merged to something awe-filling, impressive and frightening.

Before he left it he reached out impulsively to touch one of the wooden posts that made up the outer fence. It was splitting from water and heat and age, and under his focus it knit back together until it was whole and smooth.

It was a common response to the place. The fenceposts were dotted with pristine new-looking beams and others just starting to show signs of wear, no two showing the same apparent age though they were all part of the same original structure.

To destroy destruction he thought quietly, the words somewhere between a familiar prayer and comforting lullaby to him.