Dealing with Terry had been excruciatingly functional so far - he went through all the regular motions of a gym leader, offering this and that to weary travellers, but with none of the warm conviction that he was somehow doing the right thing. At least his friend, a lady that was apparently a botanist in this near-wasteland and had roughly a decade on Terry, has proven much friendlier and given Devi a blanket and a spot on her couch, and Batsen a spot on a thin but surprisingly comfortable plastic mattress, along with three layers of bedsheets 'sufficing as a blanket in a pinch'. To make up for it, it's Batsen that has a proper pillow - Devi's having to put up with the skewed armrest.
The couch table's been moved roughly a metre from its usual position, leaving space for the aforementioned mattress, the arrangement filling the small living room almost in the entirety.
At five in the morning, the very first rays of sunlight are poking at the edges of the sky - not that it'd be visible from most of Nahla, but that doesn't stop it for being a point on someone's chronological map. Somewhere at the distant edges of their unconscious perception, Devi and Batsen, in the middle of their slumber born of travel exhaustion, would hear a conversation from the hall (too small to be called anything of the sort, to be fair, but lacking a better descriptor), muffled by the door but no less energetic for it.
And then the door opens with a similar energy, wholly without care for their state of rest, and in emphasis, Terry's voice barks, tone firmly resentful: “Guess who has time for you? Rise and shine.”
Devi's first thought is to ask who let a train run right over their roof, rumbling and clattering obnoxiously as it passes by. Her second thought is 'fuck, no, please just five more minutes', head drawing in under the edge of the blanket and eyes squeezing shut in rejection, soft and further muffled noises of complaint eased into the fabric of her make-shift bed. Her third comes with a bitter scowl, fortunately hidden from sight, and tension in her shoulders: There is no way this isn't on purpose. A brief wire of anger lashes at her gut, prompting her to quietly grit her teeth. At least it wakes her up.
Batsen's somewhere in the middle of a dream about trying to evacuate the entire island while Thorn is getting ready to erupt when suddenly light and sound crash over him. For a few moments, his subconscious decides that means he's run out of time and the volcano's erupting, and then the dream promptly ends, dropping him unceremoniously into consciousness.
He twists in his sheets, squinting out in Terry's general direction, uttering a sound somewhere between an unintelligible grumble and an annoyed whine. A few moments later, he seems to have found his words again: “Gah, what time is it?” he manages to mumble.
“Five,” Terry responds promptly, only to venomously append: “Not that it matters - if you want your chance to battle in my gym, that time is now or not all.”
Yep. Definitely on purpose. Devi heaves her torso up from the couch, glaring down at the fabric to resist the urge to glare at Terry instead. Not a morning person in the least, this is a terrible transgression from her perspective and utterly inexcusable - but it will be pardoned for one reason alone: She's not going to abort the gym circuit just because Terry is doing his damndest to alienate her and Batsen out of it. Maybe if the next gym leader is a similar asshole, she'll reconsider, but right now, she's rather convinced this is Terry's attitude problem, and Terry's alone.
Funnelling her rage into waking up and into energetic motions, she grabs her jacket, tugging it around her shirt - she's slept in her clothes, owing to the crowded space giving her little subjective impression of privacy, but even if she'd changed to pyjamas, she would not give Terry the joy of seeing her try to change into proper clothes with awkward hurry, privacy or not. Her hands dive into her rucksack, rummaging for a brush, surfacing with one to get her hair into some semblance of proud order, and next thing she knows she's fumbling for her shoes - set down beside the couch as they are and tugging them on, all while biting her tongue. Irrationally, she wants to say something like 'clearly we won't be battling in here, so “now” is evidently not the time', but a part of her recognises the useless barb as what it is and keeps it restrained.
She's not sure she can give any verbal reaction at the moment without verbally assaulting Terry, so there's not even a verbal acknowledgement. In a way, it's fitting, with how it's her going through the motions without conviction right now, listening to that implicit order simply to get things over with.
She'd hoped to get in a shower today after waking up, but it looks like morning routine is not going to happen here. Fair enough. Travelling with minimal supplies automatically came with restrictions of that sort. She can try again after the gym battle, assuming their host was so kind to let her, or in Nightclaw. Nightclaw should be easy - chances are they can grab a cheap hotel there, and that comes with all the associated benefits… including, apparently, not having the gym leader barge in and wake you in the middle of the bloody night.
*
The next time Saccharine's consciousness hooks into reality, everything's changed. In the past, the landscape had stayed mostly the same around those deterministic blips of amnesia, induced by his storage in the pokéball. Now? All the invariants have changed. His trainer might as well no longer be Devi, even if she looks like Devi, and he's sure that maybe with a bit of effort, he can get her back. His chores have gotten increasingly dangerous and the scolding for failing them has become painful. And now, they're not even in Togi.
It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness - the dawn-tinged sky looks strange above them, neither spattered with the silhouettes of leaves, nor stretching wide. Instead, a hard but irregular black outline frames a sliver of sky. The last three weak pinpricks of stars are visible. The ground is some mixture of sandy and gravelly - he has it mostly for himself, as far as his grass-instincts go, with only a few handful of tiny shrubs lining the edges, fed with too little scattered light to possess much volume.
Some stranger is ahead of them, practically backed against the dead-end that this small canyon forms. A Donphan and a Kabutops stand beside him, the outlines of the Kabutops' left shoulder twitching slightly, as if it was waiting for the first instruction with impatience. Next to Saccharine, Viracocha gives her head a light shake, though the casual motion gives little indicator of her attention; proud fighter that she is, she knows better than to let herself be anything but alert.
The first few moments are more confusing than usual - nothing's the same as it used to be. The air is different, drier, and the ground is raw and delicious. In the blur of gaining consciousness, there's a soft, satisfied purr. Have they found some place new to play? He could get used to this place. It might take time to set down roots, but it could be nice. The sky is dark right now, but it looks like the sun is starting to rise… or maybe it's almost finished setting? Being unfamiliar with this area, it's hard to tell.
Reality snaps into focus. He's not here to enjoy the scenery, there are unfamiliar pokémon over there and Viracocha is next to him and she looks ready to pounce and this must be a battle! A delighted chirp spills from him, proud at having figured that out so quickly. ~Devi smiles down at him, gives him a berry as a prize. It's juicy and sticky and has the wonderful taste of iron to it.~ He looks up to Devi, half hoping the fantasy would play out, but she's not looking at him, instead focused across on the enemy. His gaze turns ahead, eyeing the two opposite him. That Kabutops looks delicious. He can picture it vividly: Vines wrapped around it, struggling to get free, drinking up all the lovely nutrients in its body. The sundew-like tendrils quiver as he awaits the order to attack.
The partly natural architecture of the 'gym' offers little opportunity to conceal ones instructions - the walls of the canyon are good at reflecting any sound, no matter how soft, back onto the playing field. With freeform rules in play, that allowed changes on short-notice, of course, but normally, all you could do against a brutal move was brace, anyway, so it was - almost - moot.
At least Saccharine's vision has rapidly adjusted to the relative darkness.
Terry's eyes narrow, lingering on Saccharine with a venom the grass-type pokémon is probably not used to seeing in human beings, though perhaps he might not interpret it as something directed at him. Humans didn't usually hold strong emotions against individual pokémon in trainer battles that he'd witnessed, after all. “Vergeltung: Sandstorm,” Terry instructs, taking a step back from the battlefield in the same moment. “Schicksal, Curse!” The words of both statements are rapidly spoken, but the volume of his voice is soft, even while the Donphan raises itself off the ground slightly, then drops back down, its trunk seemingly batting at the sand. It's slowly retreating a little, itself, attention on Viracocha.
Across the dual instructions, Devi's spoken her own commands - Vine Whip for Saccharine, directed, for now, at the Kabutops; with Viracocha instructed to Faint Attack the retreating Donphan, even as the air begins to stir and draw wisps of sand from the ground, for now merely rising like the tendrils of a fog not of liquid but of the tiniest fragments and shards of stone. The action of the Kabutops is invisible, change of inner state as it is, but it does crouch itself down a little in autonomous brace, presumably against what it anticipated was about to follow.
The Sundisquama's gaze reluctantly pulls itself off the Kabutops, eyeing the other pokémon and the human across the battlefield. The Donphan looks tough, though if necessary he could probably manage it. But Viracocha almost certainly could too. Still, it's possible he'll have to go after it, either now or sometime later, depending on what Devi tells him to do. The human's expression is confusing - is he angry at him? That would be strange, but then, humans were also strange sometimes, and did things for confusing reasons, like get angry about victory hugs. Or maybe this human in particular just liked scowling.
Then the battle's begun, and those distracting thoughts vanish. He turns back to the Kabutops with singular focus: He's going to win this battle. He's going to show Devi how good he is at this and then she's going to be happy with him again. The order is processed, and he's rushing forward, beelining for Schicksal. Vine whip. Simple but effective. There's a momentary worrisome glance to the side at the forming sandstorm, but he's pretty confident he can handle it.
As he comes into reach, the tendrils rippling in the air behind him snap forward, finding their mark with relative ease, cracking against the Kabutops's hard skin. This was going to be easy.
The Kabutops' instinct is to retreat while bringing its blade-like forelimbs around to cut at the sticky vines, of course, but that won't do - that's hardly an effective way to deal with the threat of having the life plucked right out of him, of vines sneaking in under that carapace to steal everything of relevance and leave a brittle statue of crumbs behind. But it's a warrior, simply strengthening its grip on the ground, tensely waiting for the right moment to strike - and advice of how to do so.
The advice that does come is sage indeed. Terry's “Ice Beam,” command is softly delivered but no less heavensent for it. Of course. This creature Schicksal is dealing with is probably plant enough for frost to bite worse than any blade that evolution might have grafted into his body. The blades snap up, driving themselves up between Saccharine's form and that of Schicksal's, dragging outward to keep the space between them free of the lashing tendrils. The sense of nausea and weakness travelling through its body is stubbornly dispelled, despite its alarming progression - he's got to hold on just a little longer, and then-
“Saccharine! Razor Leaf!” Switching to powerful Blood-moves would be more effective as far as raw strength went, but at cost of accuracy, and it's important that this actually hits, providing Saccharine is conscious to execute it.
A bright white glow appears between the two battling pokémon. It doesn't last long enough to serve as a visceral warning - like an abruptly dislodged electric charge, it leaps forward, a cold that register less as temperature and more as a lance driven through Saccharine's ribcage, returning the favour of the application of a brittle consistency. At its edges, it flows as a chill across Saccharine's body, feeling more like an viscous, acidic syrup than the simple uncomfortable caress of cold air.
Devi's command catches Saccharine at a bad moment, as he's trying to manoeuvre himself past Schicksal's guard, possibly lash a tendril across its midsection, with the hopes of exposing the pokémon's innards. It takes him a moment to process it, and by the time he's managed to adjust his motions in preparation for a RAZOR LEAF, the ball of white forms between them.
An instant later, a spike of freezing death has embedded itself in his bones, winter deciding to come and drink all warmth from his body. Saccharine lets out a raspy cry, tendrils starting to curl up on themselves in an effort to preserve heat. Eyes squeeze shut, and he collapses partially, slumping onto his right side. He's going to die. The ice is going to claim him, and even if it doesn't, the sandstorm raging in the background likely will.
Saccharine's face scrunches up. No, no he can't do this. He's not going to fall now, he's not going to let Devi down. The ice may be stealing his life, but he can always steal more back. Struggling against his own instincts to curl up, he forces his tendrils to unravel again and lunge towards Schicksal, hoping to grab at one of its legs and ABSORB whatever life he can through the hard exoskeleton.
The Kabutops' left leg buckles, bringing both pokémon lurching down a few inches. A thin hiss escapes it, a quiver travelling along its form, eyes narrowing both in resentment of its opponent and a certain amount of primal fear that no amount of battling was going to rid it of. It pants but holds itself still. Struggling was not going to conserve energy - the better tactic was staying still and letting it happen. An almost overwhelming tiredness descends on it, but it stays as alert as possible, no matter how appealing a fall into the dusty ground sounded right now.
It can tell that its opponent is badly struck - it can tell that it's not listening to its trainer, both from the mismatch of the command it received and its execution, and from the sound of panicked frustration from its trainer. So when Terry advises to repeat the move, it has no objection.
Something slams into it from the side. The ground comes up to meet it side-on, weight crashing against the ground. For a moment, Schicksal is holding onto lucidity, still - then, just as its Ice Beam forms and lances outward and forward, it slips away, out of its grasp. The potent chill cuts across Saccharine's shoulder, but doesn't strike him squarely enough to knock him out. Viracocha stands panting over the Kabutops' fallen form after its FAINT ATTACK, snarling down at its prey. Blood drips from its neck, major artery fortunately missed by the Donphan's earlier HORN ATTACK, but it's vulnerable now, not having focussed on its target previously intended for its sole focus.
Saccharine shivers and whimpers as the blast of cold whizzes by him, but the beneficial effects of his cling to Schicksal's leg are already starting to worm their way into him. Warmth is starting to flow through him again, and he's slowly starting to feel invigorated once more. The fear of death is no longer breathing down his throat, even if the cold lingering in his veins and the sting of sand against his skin are constant reminders that he's not in the clear yet.
Past the shivering in his limbs, the warm flow of nutrients in his tendrils, and the adrenaline of the battle, though, something else calls to his attention: There's the unmistakable, intoxicating smell of blood in the air, nearby, spilling out from Viracocha. Impulsively, the tendrils wrapped around Schicksal's leg tighten. He's not sure what Devi's telling him to do right now; he's not even sure she's speaking, but he knows quite well what he wants to do. A reddish glow spills from the vines, and they shift, searching for a decent place to insert themselves and draw out the delicious elixir of life that is the Kabutops' blood. Soon enough, they wrap tightly around the jointed segments around his knee, desperately trying to worm their way inside.
Another sound of frustration leaves Devi - a moment later, she's barking: “Saccharine! Use Razor Leaf on the Donphan!” The mentioned pokémon slams into Viracocha, twisting to SLASH at the creature with a mangled hiss, body mass lurching around and displacing Saccharine and Schicksal, pushing both across the dusty ground. The SANDSTORM bites at her skin as her claws rake across the leathery skin of her primary opponent as it tries to TAKE her DOWN; a disturbing sound much like the snap of a rib or two is audible through the whip of the wind. She might look fine, but she won't be able to take much more of a beating. Forcing Saccharine into lucid focus is Schicksal's recall - just as his tendrils find the flesh beneath the tough shell, just as he can lap at the fallen creature's blood, feel the sweet pulse in his arteries and veins, his meal is simply gone.
A crestfallen whine escapes Saccharine as his meal is whisked out of existence just as he's managed to locate the fallen Kabutops' main blood vessels. Just enough for a taste, enough for him to immediately long for more. Viracocha's bleeding, but even in his mildly euphoric state, he's too self-conscious to lap at Viracocha's blood, even if it would be so delicious, and so easy, and it's not like she'd be expecting it at all… - no. No, Viracocha is a friend, and he doesn't drink blood from his friends. The enemy Donphan, on the other hand, he couldn't care less about. Maybe if he takes it down, he'll get to drink some of its blood as a prize. Or maybe Devi will give him a reward for fighting.
Saccharine shifts his attention to the Donphan, energized with the thought of his potential reward. The tendrils quiver, raise behind him, and then each whips forward in sequence, loosing a barrage of razor-sharp leaves towards the Donphan with each motion, choreographed so that the first vine is back in position just as the last fires, and the cycle can repeat. A number of the individual leaves miss their mark entirely, but the sheer number of them virtually guarantees at least some will hit.
Even through the Sandstorm biting at Saccharine's skin and Viracocha's short fur, some of the conjured, green blades strike against the Donphan, embedding themselves between the folds of its thick, hardy skin. In Virococha's predatory embrace, the Donphan FLAILs, trunk coiling itself tightly around her neck, one horn driving itself in under her jaw, puncturing skin and muscle fibre and tearing a hideous gash into it. Its full weight comes down against her ribcage, prompting a distressed, panicked mewl, ribs cracking dangerously - and then it's cut off, both by constricted airflow and by sheer magnitude of abuse heaped upon a fragile body.
Both pokémon, tangle of beige and grey limbs as they are, slump into a limp heap.
For a moment, Saccharine is alone within the sandstorm sapping at his energy, Terry not yet aware of the battle's conclusion, blocking the worst of the sand-grain ladden gusts from his face - and Devi unwilling to withdraw Saccharine in case there was still a shred of conscious thought in the Donphan that had to be dealt with before formal victory can be granted to her team, and uncertain of Viracocha's state through the artificial weather.
Bones still aching from the earlier blast of ice, skin still stinging from the sandstorm raging around him, still running primarily on adrenaline, Saccharine watches as the Donphan and the Persian fall. He squints and coughs, dislodging a few grains of sand that he'd accidentally inhaled. Is it over? He's not sure. Neither of them are moving, and both of them are bleeding. The scent is overwhelming, promise of life and euphoria caressing the edges of his conscious mind. The battle's over, he's hurt, and Devi doesn't like victory hugs any more. What better way to celebrate, then? And besides, the Donphan might still be conscious, it's hard to tell with this sandstorm.
Vines coated in sticky dewdrops wind themselves carefully around the Donphan's fallen bulk, carrying with them an odd, acidic tingling sensation. They locate the wounds caused by Viracocha's claws and Saccharine's razor leaves, the deepest ones they can find. For a moment they limit themselves to simply absorbing the excess blood spilling from the wounds, but that's not remotely satisfying, and instead they worm their way under Vergeltung's skin, seeking out arteries and veins to draw the life-sustaining substance from. Saccharine, meanwhile, has drawn closer to the massive beast, resting against its back in hopes of evading the worst of the sandstorm, cooing in euphoric affection.
A twitch touches Vergeltung's left foreleg, ripple from the motion running along its leathery hide as it tries to drag the limb back and away from Viracocha. It's barely lucid of its surroundings - but when the light acidic sting of the Sundisquama's vines becomes apparent, it knows. For a moment of barely lucid stupor, that's all there is to it - it simply knows a Blood-type pokémon is approaching. Then a panic wells up within it, with no strength to go with the terrified realisation and urge to writhe out of its grip, not even the energy to make a sound of distress. Instead, its breath simply huffs out of it with slightly more force as the gentle sting of those organic straws registers at several distinct points on its body, another twitch travelling up its right forelimb, struggling for a grip against the Persian's ribcage to push himself away from the cat and its battle-companion, both, a futile gesture. An alien sensation of pins and needles bites at the inside of Vergeltung's blood vessels, distress growing with every passing second, useless adrenalin coming to lace the precious substance, a sweet spice to the Sundisquama's perception.
Then, finally, the intensity of the sandstorm dies down, swirling in lazy, half-hearted whirlwinds across the dusty ground, and Terry snaps his gaze up. A subvocal curse later, Vergeltung's form is mercifully engulfed by a crimson glow, one more leaving Saccharine unprepared for the disappearance of his meal, the searching tips of his tendrils encountering only air.
The vines impulsively cling tighter to Vergeltung's form as the taste of adrenaline mingles with the rich blood. The Sundisquama shuts his eyes, a contented purr spilling from him. Then, without warning, there's a crimson glow from next to him, and the source of blood is once more whisked away from him. There's a disappointed whine, and he opens his eyes, tendrils prodding morosely around the air where the Donphan used to be, as if hoping that it had merely been rendered invisible. No such luck, of course.
Saccharine's eyes drag lazily over to Viracocha, lying unconscious in a slowly growing pool of blood as she is. For a long moment, he's torn between opposing instincts, before thankfully a more rational one prevails; he turns to look at Devi, hopefully, expectantly, vines gesturing to the fallen Persian as a soft coo spills from him. Shouldn't she be recalling her, or helping her, or something? Is she expecting Saccharine to heal her instead? He probably could, even if it would require battling his current instincts, but he's not sure if that's what Devi wants him to do.
The question's answered itself before Saccharine has even fully communicated it - Viracocha, too, disappears in a crimson glow. For a moment, Saccharine is still free of his own enclosure, though, with the last of the sandstorm dying down, tugging his tendrils lightly to and fro.
Devi does not look pleased. He's seen that expression before, not yet ever directed at him, but it's never been good when she's had it. It's unclear to Saccharine what she'd be angry about - he won, after all, didn't he? - but it's unmistakable. There's a subtle motion to her shoulder as if she was considering withdrawing that weapon to lash at him… but instead fingers grasp his pokéball, and a moment later, the world blinks out of existence for him.
There's visible relief in Saccharine's form when Viracocha vanishes, followed by a curious, hopeful chirp. He won the battle! And against much more difficult opponents than he's ever played with before. Surely Devi must be happy about that. Surely she'd appreciate him again after that? …except that she's angry at him. She's not smiling, she's not proud of him, she's not even casually neutral, she's outright upset. A cringe touches Saccharine's vines; did he mess up? Did he do something wrong? He can't imagine what; he won the battle, didn't he? But he must have done something wrong because he upset his master and that was bad. A soft whimper spills from him, and then she grasps his pokéball and depresses the button.
Crimson light washes over him, and his perceptions of the world dissolve.