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The slope Kzye was built along was steep by anyone's definition. At erratic intervals, a icy wind fell from the slopes and tugged at Terry Kiran's attire as if it was trying to catch him off guard and nudge him into a tumble, but so far he'd always held against it, even if the temperature still surprises him each time it passes by. On the one hand, coming down from the mountain peaks, it shouldn't be much of one; on the other, the temperature range for katabatic winds is high and he'd be forgiven his misconceptions about those of Kzye.
His unusual travel companion's crawled into his shirt in the most literal fashion at this point, purring against his chest in what he can only presume to be a light doze. Subconsciously driven, his right hand rises occasionally, touching fingertips against the fabric cocooning the pink furball that's decided to track him for reasons he doesn't comprehend. She's from Taqnateh, he knows that much, but her companionship has been so sporadic that he can't imagine she's keeping an eye on him.
The map in his left hand flutters dangerously for a moment, flapping loudly in protest at the tug of another gale, then settles in innocent denial of any prior issue in his hand. The gym, it says, is just at the top of the slope, inside the mountain. Inside the mountain. Why the hell not, right? It's not any odder than the setup of Pyu Ivvi or Nahla City.
Mew lets out a somewhat louder purr as Terry's fingertips brush against the lump of fabric she's most recently claimed as her perch, and a hint of motion tickles against his chest as she twists slightly - perhaps waking up from her doze, if that's indeed what she was doing. For a few moments, that's the only sign of consciousness from the tiny creature, before there's another bout of motion and a small, pink feline head pops tentatively up from his neckline. She squints, scrunching up her face in the wind, ears flattening against her skull - and then the wind dies down once more, and she's surveying the area ahead.
Ooh! They're almost there! A loud purring sound emanates from the psychic pokémon, vibrating against Terry's chest. Time to visit her new favorite human. Her tail twitches erratically, curling and uncurling on itself, and she briefly nuzzles Terry's neck before retreating back into the warmth of his shirt, curling into a small ball and purring incessantly.
Having a vaguely feline creature curling against his skin is strange - he's never had a pet - but a part of him finds oddly soothing. This is, if he's not entirely losing his marbels, his last stop on this particular trip, and the notion that he's not entirely alone for it is pleasant. One thing is certain: A human travel companion wouldn't have this subtly pleasant side-effect.
There is no door on the corridor carved into the rock of the slope - it's just a dark splotch amongst the landscape that might pass as some boulder's shadow, were it not directly at the end of Kzye's main road. There's a lone house up here, too, but despite the shadow of the mountain currently eclipsing it, there's no light on inside, suggesting that its inhabitant - almost without a doubt the gym leader - is not currently within it.
With a token reverence and caution, Terry steps into the darker slab of shadows, tracing the fingertips of index finger, middle finger and thumb across his lips pensively. He remembers Peruna Hayes, of course, right along with her preference for battle under open skies, but the name on his gym leader 'shopping list' (as he sarcastically calls it) is a different one: “Keith Sirius”. It's not too surprising that out of the eight gyms, one would have changed leadership while he was thinking about what to do with his life, but it does add a nervous tinge to Terry's demeanour.
It takes him a moment to identify the 'torch' that's a way's into the corridor as a mere electronic equivalent of the same, emulating the flicker of fire for novelty's sake, not an actual open flame for pragmatic reasons - there was no need to squander precious oxygen to combustion, after all. This close to the exit it probably made little difference, but if this went on a little further…? It's an understandable decision. He's trying to remember what this place was the last time he was here, but is drawing a blank. Presumably it had always been a gym. He makes a note to ask Keith about the history and steps further in, feeling a little as if he were trespassing, oddly self-conscious.
It takes him a few minutes to reach the end of the corridor, less out of distance and distinctly more out of his own caution not to miss anything on the way - as it is, there are at least two passages off to his left, but one is firmly locked behind a door and the other at such an angle that he can't imagine it the canonical path. Some light is bleeding in from far above, but the majority of the local lighting comes from the same source as the dry heat and sulphurous tang: The Magma Chamber itself.
Keith Sirius, meanwhile, is an anticlimactic footnote to the hellish landscape, broom in hand, a Raichu literally sitting on his head, tail swaying lazily behind him like a stylised, alien ponytail, the human sweeping this side of the unusual playing field, whistling an oblivious tune with utter disregard for a coherent melody.
Once they're inside the tunnels and out of the wind, Mew clambers her way out of Terry's shirt, instead perching on his shoulder, leaning gently against the side of his head, tail curled around his shoulder, occasionally flexing in a light, impatient squeeze as they travel. About halfway down the path, she starts getting antsy and climbs onto his head instead, running her paws through his short hair, tail brushing along the back of his neck. Come on. It's not too far now. Just a few more turns and then…
Ahh, there he is. Mew makes a loud purring sound, and then in a burst of motion hops off Terry's head, flinging herself through the air, tackling Keith's arm. “Mew mew mew mew mew!” she greets excitedly, scurrying around the gymleader's chest to perch on his shoulder, nuzzling his cheek, for the moment ignoring the Raichu on his head. Look Keith! I found us a present!
Terry, unfortunately, misinterprets the pokémon's enthusiasm entirely. His travel companion's a friend of this man - clearly he can't be that bad if a pokémon is quite this happy to see him. Terry's nervousness dissipates slightly, his left hand rising to scratch at the back of his neck.
“Mew!” Keith is greeting the pink-furred creature with some delight. The pokémon on his head gives a low, barely audible growl, slouching its form and coiling its tail in mild agitation. Unlike its human, it doesn't seem all that delighted by the pokémon - or perhaps what its presence implies? A moment later, its twisted around slightly and its gaze has found Terry, lingering on him silently.
“I'm happy to see you, too,” Keith is commenting, right hand on the end of the broom, left hand easing fingertips across the small creature's fragile head. Almost lazily, he drags his attention past the creature and toward the mouth of the cavern, finding Terry with a smile. “And you've brought me a visitor,” he adds. “How thoughtful of you,” he remarks, shooting a saccharine, fond glance at the psychic pokémon.
Terry breathes the softest sigh of relief - judging by first impressions, this ought to be easy. The gym leader's in a good mood, whatever chore he'll think up is bound to be easy, and then this partly self-afflicted trial could find an end. He finds it in himself to smile back at the stranger, nodding as a lead-up to a verbal greeting. “Hi.” It's a little on the meek side, but it's a word, at least? He takes two cautious steps toward the gym leader, then extends his right hand. “Keith Sirius? I'm Terry Kiran,” he introduces himself.
“Oh!” Keith regards the hand with a perplexed expression, not quite sure which of his two hands to reassign to the task, left still quite happy to pet his psychic visitor, right still holding his household implement. For a moment, he presses his lips to a thin line across the tip of his tongue, then throws a glance to the broom. His hand shifts its grip into one with two fingers, then tips the broom over theatrically - it clonks to the ground as it's discarded, and his right hand instead enthusiastically closes around Terry's proffered one. “Jagdish said you were coming,” he comments with a tone of delight. “You're the aspiring gym leader, is that right?”
Mew's tail curls happily around the gymleader's neck, positively beaming at Keith. A soft, adorable “Mew” spills from her at Keith's remark about the visitor, coupled with a knowing, mischievous smile. At least she can always count on Keith for a good time. Her head shifts lightly under his hand, and her paws wrap around his wrist, tongue darting out and playfully licking at his palm.
Terry nods in acknowledgement. “You're my last stop, if you'll pardon my vernacular,” he informs Keith, ever so slight nervous tinge still inherent to his tone. Gym leaders, for the time being, are still authority figures, regardless what Jagdish might have done to take a chunk out of the view he'd grown up with, and it's difficult not to feel like he's imposing at least a little.
“That's fantastic,” Keith comments, only to cast his glance upwards ineffectively toward Raichu. “Raichu, honey,” he addresses the pokémon. “I need my hair now.” The Raichu gives a soft sound that could be interpreted as a displeased snort, but does leap from its perch on its human's scalp, tail lashing through the air like a whip for an instant. With natural grace, it holds itself still at a distance, looking as if coiled, ready for an attack.
“Mister Kiran,” Keith addresses Terry a moment later, letting his attention find his visitor again. Terry interrupts cautiously to offer: “'Terry', please.” Keith closes his eyes briefly, nodding half in dismissal, half in acknowledgement, smile not waning in the least. “Terry,” he echoes. “I do enjoy this place for the unique scenery, but it's hardly a comfortable place to have a conversation or much of anything else.” A pause, free hand gesturing to the corridor. “Would you mind? I practically live around the corner, it's not far, I assure you.”
“Sure,” Terry comments, minimalistically, watching Mew's antics against the gym leader's shoulder and hand, a little perplexed by the degree of friendship between this superficially unrelated characters. A fresh smile creeps onto his face.
“Splendid,” Keith announces, own demeanour practically glowing. With a bright expression, he extends his free hand to pat at Terry's back between his shoulderblades as he might an old friend.
A few minutes of idle chatter later - Keith's explained that the gym, lovely as it may be, is a bit of a maintenance nightmare but has the fantastic benefit of striking fear into the hearts of any circuiter and that he's never fully understood why Hayes hadn't been an enthusiastic proponent of its use - they've reached the house just outside the gym's volcanic interior and Keith's fishing a key from his right pocket. “There we are,” he announces, voice full of glee, nudging the door open. “Come in, find a spot, make yourself comfortable. What would you like to drink?”
Oh, great, social tripwire ahoy. Terry's ideal answer to questions like that was 'nothing, thank you' as any other answer made him feel like he was being a bother, but it's a gym leader that's asking, making it doubly ambiguous. “…I'm terrible with questions like that, I'm sorry. Just water will be fine, thank you,” Terry remarks, raising both hands in a mild defensive and apologetic gesture.
“Mew,” Keith addresses the psychic pokémon. “Do we let him do that? Just water? Or is that breaking some unspoken social protocol? What do you say?” His voice is thickly lathered with a humourous tone.
The walk back up the tunnel to Keith's abode is thankfully a little less mind-numbingly boring than the walk down was - at least this time there's some conversation going on, and they're moving a bit faster, and now she has so much more to look forward to when they reach the top. She drapes herself across the back of Keith's neck, long tail hanging down his chest, tip twitching and curling on occasion.
She perks up a bit when they reach the house, scurrying over to Keith's left shoulder, tail half-wrapping around his arm as she starts floating in mid-air, paws curled up against her body. Her ears perk up at the mention of her name, and she has to fight the urge to grin widely at Keith's question. Instead, she puts on a ridiculously serious expression and shakes her head slowly. “Mew mew mew mewwww,” she intones in a low pitch.
Keith shoots a fake glare at Mew as if daring to question why she would make poor Terry's life this difficult, but the effect is smothered by the overwhelming fondness he feels for her. His right hand brings two fingers around to touch in absent-minded hint of a caress against the curve of her tail and he brings his attention around to Terry, cautiously entering the abode as he is. “I'm afraid your choice does not pass Mew muster,” he informs with exaggerated gravity. “You're going to have to pick something else.”
“Oh,” Terry remarks, seemingly easing up a little from his nervous exterior. “Oh, I see how it is,” he observes. “You two are just this double-pack of tyranny.” He crosses his arms, daring to play indignation, though his true emotion, one of amusement, is hardly subtly knitted into his demeanour. “But two can play this game,” he comments, the tinge of his subservience making the supposed confident statement fractionally jittery, an endearingly human addition to his attempt at slotting himself into the same playful air as his host and psychic travel companion. “What do you have that I actually have a choice about?”
Keith's slid into his home, gestured to the couch a way's in as a reminder of his earlier prompt for his guest to make himself comfortable, and closed the door by the time the question surfaces. There's a pregnant pause as Keith regards Mew for a moment, drumming index and middle finger of his right hand lightly and soundlessly against the palm of his left hand, looking part pained, part contemplative.
Mew blinks, and tilts her head slightly in curiosity. Is he… giving her the opportunity to do the honors herself? The possibility's certainly interesting, isn't it? After a long moment of tense contemplation, she nudges her nose against Keith's hand. No, she thinks she'd rather let him do it. It's his game, after all, she merely wishes to watch it all unfold. A moment later, she's unwound her tail from Keith's arm and is drifting over towards Terry, touching down on his shoulder and leaning against his cheek, purring incessantly. She can stay here and make sure he doesn't run off. Not that he's likely to, the poor, misunderstanding fool.
“Well,” Keith remarks, as if there hadn't been a pause to their conversation at all, casually intoning his words: “We have grapefruit juice, lychee juice, cranberry juice, and of course the timeless classics that are apple and orange juice. I can probably also find a tea somewhere in the depths of my kitchen, but I may not necessarily resurface from that particular quest into the unknown.” He nods a little at the end of the reel, smiling at Terry.
Terry stares at his host, evidently beginning to question the man's sanity a little, if unfortunately not on the right track. With a lightly bemused expression, he tries to twist his gaze around to look at the psychic pokémon nuzzling his cheek and brings up one hand to stroke a few fingers gently across her head. A moment later he's finally seen himself into a sit at one end of the couch, practically balancing on the edge, and is glancing back at Keith with some indecision. Beer is not in the list, or he'd pick that. “Oh what the hell,” he exhales the phrase. “I've never had lychee, might as well try that.” A pause, glancing at Mew as best he can. “That all right with you?”
Mew's purring grows substantially louder for a moment, then she's clambering atop Terry's head, paws running through his short hair, idly watching the patterns they make, tail twitching happily against his neck. Evidently that's a 'yes'.
Terry exhales lightly, then nods toward Keith, who seems to be momentarily occupied with a gnaw on the nail of his left hand's index finger. Then he thaws out of it quite abruptly and announces: “Sure thing, give me a moment,” using his previously nibbled digit to gesture attentiveness. That said, he vanishes past a door into his kitchen.
The house itself seems almost uninspired in comparison with the gym battlegrounds, set up in a sleek monochrome with white walls and chiefly black furniture, with a splash of orange, red or magenta sprinkled into the overall appearance. The light from the ceiling, emitted by a milky orb, adds a warm tinge to everything.
“Comfortable up there?” Terry asks the psychic pokémon, holding fairly still, trace of humour still strong in his tone. For a moment, he seems uncertain what to do with his hands, raising them off his lap slightly only to set them back down - there's no way he can really reach up to the psychic pokémon and pet it without it resulting in a completely awkward posture once Keith returns.
After enough time's passed for the initial tension of the extended introduction between him and the Kzye gym leader to have dissipated, Terry gives another light exhale and finally shrugs his bag off his shoulder, cautiously leaning forward to rummage through it. He'd shoved his map into the bag a little uncaringly earlier, maybe he can fold it into some semblance of neatness again.
He's about half done with that when the sound of a glass setting down on the low table infront of him announces Keith's presence, causing a light instinctive jolt to pass through his visitor, only to glance up and store his bag beside the couch self-consciously, as if he'd been caught with his hands in the cookie jar. Keith's still smiling. “So, forgive me for being wholly uninformed, but where are you from?” He's standing, right hand's fingers wrapped about his own drink - it looks like it's the same milky, fruity swirl as what he's set down infront of Terry. “And where are you going?”
“Oh,” Terry comments, softly, picking up the glass. “Well, I'm a Nightclaw brat,” he reveals with a light shrug and a deprecating smile. “Southern Nightclaw, in particular.”
“You're joking,” Keith comments brightly, arching a brow. As Terry looks bewildered, his grin broadens a touch. “Same general area - and just as bratty,” he assures, briefly adopting a mischievous expression, only to sober up - relatively speaking - a moment later.
“Seriously?” Terry asks, evidently mildly surprised, but - given Nightclaw's size - not enough to think it an impossibility. “Sehto's smaller than I thought,” he remarks, tapping the tip of a finger of his free hand against the rim of his glass, staring down at it. “I'm getting shackled to Nahla City in future, though,” he comments. “Just around the corner, I guess,” he smiles lightly, then takes a sip of his drink.
Terry's question is met with a definitive “Mew,” in reply, idly watching him unfold-and-refold the map from her perch on his head. There's a delighted “Mew!” from her when Keith arrives with the drinks, and she slowly slides backwards off of Terry's head, perching on his shoulder once more, watching him attentively. A purr of delight spills from her as he takes a sip, before she has a chance to hide it. Not that it matters much, he's still completely clueless as to what's about to happen. In an attempt to burn off some of her excess energy, she darts down into Terry's lap, stretches, and makes herself comfortable there.
One of Terry's hands finds itself rather magnetically attracted to his psychic lapwarmer, gently tracing fingertips along her currently so elongated form. The glass is held a little limply in his hand, wrist devoid of tension, fingers making up for it.
“Nahla, is that so? That should shape up to a unique experience - it doesn't really compare to the other settlements, after all,” Keith comments, conversationally, an expression that could so easily be mistaken as warm lingering on his visitor's face. In two soundless steps he bridges the distance between himself and the other end of the couch, sitting down on it and palming his drink for a moment, before shrugging lightly as if to punctuate his statement about Nahla and having about half his glass.
Terry chuckles softly. “Oh, great, thanks for the reassurance,” he comments, lowly. Something's wound its way into the whereabouts of his right temple, and with the lightest allusion to a frown, he brings his right hand up from its caress of his temporary pet to touch against the side of his head instead.
“I'm sure you'll do fine,” Keith adds with an apologetic chuckle, unwrapping one hand from his glass and giving Terry a friendly pat on one shoulder, gentle in the motion as his guest has another sip, a little more generous this time. It's at that point that Keith's gaze lingers on the glass, not quite managing to free itself from its self-imposed anchor, assessing the amount and a slew of other variables, frankly simply trying to figure out how quickly he's going to have to react if he doesn't want the rest of it spilling all over his carpet.
Terry, about to utter another unenthusiastic chuckle about the prospect of trying to govern something as much in constant flux as Nahla stops short as his proprioception lazily erodes at the edges. For an instant rendered as a subjective eternity, he's disoriented, not sure what's prompted the change in him, it having crept into him just slowly enough to be ambiguous. Then context snaps into place like a rubber band, thrumming lightly amongst an incredulous frame.
Frozen for the moment more by caution than any other influence, Terry brings his right hand down with some effort of coordination, clasping it against the edge of the seat, gaze resting nowhere in particular.
“It's dawning on you now, isn't it?” Keith comments, voice just a fraction elevated above a whisper, thick with an alien, predatory flavour of concern, gaze having swept back up to find Terry's face, trying to catch his gaze, the Kzye gym leader's posture angling itself slightly. As if in afterthought, he sets his own glass on the table, only to ease both hands forward to his not yet altogether artificially paralysed victim, wrapping his left hand oh so gently around Terry's, tip of his right hand's fingers touching against the bottom of the glass in additional support, ensuring it doesn't simply drop quite suddenly. “Careful with that,” he adds, sunny smile morphed into one of mischief.
The dissonance keeps Terry still a while longer, a slow terror festering in his gut as he tries to grapple with the bizarre circumstances. Even if Keith weren't a gym leader… they'd been getting along, hadn't they? Did he do something wrong on his tour? Something unforgivable? He couldn't think of a reason other than murder that he'd be treated like this, and it was so at odds with what he'd observed so far that he could simply not… think. The fact it's getting increasingly difficult to keep his position is certainly not helping, an animal panic constricting his spine tightly, but not yet lashing out at him, surreality providing a shock that was keeping it awkwardly contained.
“Care… -ful…” Keith repeats, cautiously manipulating Terry's fingers against the glass to free it from its somewhat stiff but increasingly weak embrace, easing the item from Terry's digits and then leaning across to the table to set it down.
A low, satisfied purr spills from the tiny legendary in Terry's lap, and for a long moment, she simply closes her eyes, smile tugging at her feline features, savoring the human's terror. Keith knows all the best ways to entertain her, and unlike Jagdish actually seems to enjoy doing so, rather than taking it as some kind of necessary evil. Of course, being around Jagdish has its benefits as well, otherwise she'd probably just stay here in Kzye instead.
Mew shifts slightly in Terry's lap, and then rolls over onto her back, gaze lazily swerving between Terry's face and Keith's, looking like she couldn't possibly imagine being in a better place right now.
The transition of his breath from quiet and steady to a jittery, erratic pant is quite abrupt, coming with a motion that's half a lean away from Keith and have a measly attempt at standing, prompting him to slide off the edge of the seat, right leg folding under him, and somewhat mercifully collapsing with most of his weight on his right arm, torso still caught against the couch. His left arm manages to come around to join his right, clutching at the fabric of the seat to anchor himself, eyes wide.
It's too late for anything of the sort, but that doesn't put a damper on it: He has to get out of here. There's an abrupt tunnel vision gripping him - it doesn't even matter that Keith is right behind him. It doesn't matter that he's sunk into half of a paralysis by now and any thoughts of escape are ludicrous, instincts have seized full control of his volition. He gives a single, soft, high-pitched note of distress past lightly clenched teeth, quivering as he tugs himself toward and over the armrest - or attempts to.
Instead, fingers in much better control of their motion seize a hold of the folds of his shirt at his right shoulder, half tugging him up and back, half serving to anchor him. “Terry,” Keith addresses him, softly. “Don't panic,” he coos. “Don't- don't overdo it,” he purrs hollowly, leaning across the quivering shape and bringing his head down near Terry's to ensure he's being heard. “Think for a moment- no, think,” Keith prompts in a light scold, bringing up his free hand to grasp at Terry's left wrist with two digits circling the same as it tries ineffectively to rise and push at the assailant. “Whatever's on your mind right now, remember to breathe… remember, Terry. I'm not going to kill you, do you understand that? Are you listening?” he asks.
Terry's certainly listening. His heart is hammering mutely in his chest. His body's only taking half of his instructions seriously, it feels - like only half the muscle fibres of his arm are responding to his command rather than the full bundle, resulting in a slow, sluggish, weak motion. He pants past the edge of the couch, staring at the ground as if it might suddenly yield some fresh insight, even as a distinct pang of nausea knots itself into his gut. The words register. Their intended meaning falls flat. How could it possibly matter where Keith drew his line? Terry's completely helpless at his whim, whether announced intention matched his actions was nothing more than useless trivia.
Keith lingers in silence across the trapped, shivering human, trying to make out a communicative sliver amongst his body language, something acknowledging his words, but there's nothing there, really. He breathes an 'oh' suspended between disappointment and sadistic triumph, only to let a fresh grin blossom on his face. “All right,” he whispers, leaning down a few more inches to place a light kiss against the lobe of Terry's left ear for no reason other than that it's within his ability to, unsurprisingly prompting his gradually dissolving victim to flinch away from the gesture, squeezing his eyes shut and trying a fresh twist out from under Keith, to no avail.
The sudden lurch of motion from beneath her prompts a sharp squeal of surprise from Mew. A moment later, she abandons ship, propelling herself into the air, coming to rest just over halfway between floor and ceiling, twirling gently in mid-air, tail winding around her in excitement. For now, she simply hangs there, loosing a light giggle, content to watch the scene unfold from this new vantage point.
✘ IN PROGRESS