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Picture this as the prelude: you are 14 years of age and after an arduous journey, huffing and puffing with the effort of it, you are standing over the Great Crater of Paldea for the first time.
An electrifying energy fills the air, buzzing and sparkling with life. There doesn’t exist a word for the effect of it yet; it’s like the coolness of the sea and the warmth of the smiling sun are washing over you at the same time. It seeps into you through your skin and to your bones, makes the tips of your fingers numb with its intensity.
You have no doubt all the world’s secrets lay dormant down there, waiting for you to set a light to their mystical darkness. If you stretch a hand out over the endless void, you can almost feel a faint resistance of an ancient power not meant to be understood.
You peer inside the crater with fascination, longing to catch a glimpse of the mystery under the heavy veil of mist. The money you saved up for binoculars prove their worth; you are able to spy the faintest sight of rainbows and stone.
You move to stand as close as you can to the edge of the summit, old backpack weighing heavy on your shoulders. Your feet balance dangerously at the rocky lip of the crater; one wrong move, one slight misstep and you’ll plummet down to your death.
You are not as disturbed by that thought as you probably ought to be, you think.
You release some of your companions to observe them closely. As your research promised, they appear differently affected by the energy in the air than you are. You must spend hours there studying them, scribbling down your notes in your journal and sketching what your binoculars catch from every angle. In a manner only invisible to children, you try and imitate the stories you’ve grown up with, create a great historian’s relic from your time.
The Zero Gate stands tall and unmoving above you; a remnant from a different time as well. It sits abandoned, promising an entry to a world unlike any other, tempting you with its silence.
You are smarter than heading into Area Zero without permission; you are smarter than most people, in fact. It is a truth you are constantly reminded of: at class, at the library and all the places in between them. The topics that interest you, you devour, and anything less than that you still excel at.
You may not be the shining star of the Academy –you are far too reclusive for that— but you have been taken note of, regardless.
No one thinks to look for you; you have no family to fret over you or close friends to wonder about your absence. You will never complain at being left unbothered; as much as learning in the academy fulfills you, their close eye feels suffocating at times.
When talk is of adventure or treasure, there this no other place your heart sings for; there could never exist a different place for you.
Perhaps it is the surge of that foreign energy, the feather touch of a mystical power too complex to be experienced in anything but the senses. When the time eventually comes that you must leave, something inside of you has forever changed.
Consider this is where they’ll say you blossomed: you are a newly appointed researcher, and the whole world seems to be simultaneously at your fingertips and yet still out of reach.
The worn-out book that has fascinated you since childhood guides you; you have gathered any scraps that ever speak of strange phenomena or Pokémon that should not be, through the years. You keep them in heavy binders, in the messy space you call your office, itching for the day you are to take them out into the location they all speak of.
Regrettably, you have not ventured down and into the Crater yet; the Director never budged during your studies, despite your continued attempts to convince them otherwise. Still, once it became unignorable that you had outgrown what the Academy could teach you– your numerous accolades only proving it further–, they allowed you to graduate early, an honour rarely bestowed in the school’s long history. It was a hushed and rushed ordeal; you were sent directly from the Academy to the University and few, in an occasional moment of courtesy, ever asked after you.
After your formal education was concluded with, you set your mind onto different things. Like every aspiring researcher, you begin by assisting other experts in their own projects. Few of them scratch the itch at your core that longs to tame that untamable energy. Even so, soon enough, you have made yourself indispensable, a truth that not even the most envious of you can deny.
You meet people, good people, competent people and all that ranges inbetween. The day your current mentor introduces you to a circle that once worked inside the Crater -though they do not say it outright- you take as confirmation you are on the right track after all.
It’s not hard to impress them; even amongst the elite, you are exceptional. To be more precise, you are an Exception.
Something intangible sets you apart, an essence you could never hope to shed if you wanted to blend in. Your focus, your zeal and determination are unrivaled; no one is as devoted to see their goals through as you are. If with their brand of dedication, you could achieve great things, then with yours you are set up to change History.
Life continues the same, for a little while. Inching closer and closer to projects relevant to the crater is what keeps you motivated. You begin to recognize familiar faces across projects; it is either fate or an overlap of goals that makes your paths cross so often.
As you begin to get along with them, you decide it makes little difference, either way.
A handful of them in due time, you might even come to call friends.
Imagine this is where everything should have been born anew: you have just become a parent and your son is wonderful.
In his eyes you see all the world’s potential. He is what will survive you; you are his past and he is your future and the thought makes your chest swell with an entirely new emotion.
Parenting doesn’t come easy to you, you discover. You have no frame of reference for it; you’ve never delved into that particular absence of your childhood. Things were simply the way they were because that is how they were meant to be.
You know little of what to say, how to act. You’ve barely learnt to look after yourself; it has always been an afterthought, as you spend your days and nights ruminating over concepts far above you. Taking care of a fragile life must take priority of course, but how?
You do try, you try, you give it as much of yourself as you have got, in the vague hope of finding in the task the same fulfilment you find in paper scraps depicting crystals and beings beyond this world.
It doesn’t work.
You’ve always connected more easily with ideas than you did with people.
When your spouse abandons you both, you find it too easy to convince yourself it was your fault.
Imagine this is the start of it: your dream is coming to fruition.
You entrust your son to the closest thing you have to a family; the Crater is an unpredictable environment if the records are anything to go by. Besides, he would serve no purpose but get in the way. Your focus has already been split between raising a child and your research and despite what well-intentioned people like Clavell might say, your work has undeniably suffered for it.
You don’t blame the child, you could never blame the child. Simply put, domesticity does not suit you. It is a plain fact no one wants to acknowledge; you are wasting your potential away. Your entire being aches for the thrill of discovery. You cannot shake the feeling that you have been sliced in two, forced to never achieve the greatness you know yourself capable of as you lose more and more time failing to find a point of connection with your son.
You feel like a caged bird, wings atrophied from lack of use and at the same time, a man drowning at clear waters, struggling to stay afloat while the sun shines above, mocking you.
When this opportunity arises, the thought of refusing doesn’t even cross your mind.
You lend Arven your most precious treasure, the book of stories few but you ever believed. In return, with an odd sense of grandeur, he hands you a stuffed toy; you assume it is his favourite. Your attempts to refuse bounce back at you; he is too young, cannot yet comprehend the true length of your absence.
The stuffed toy ends up crushed between the zipper of your suitcase and your collection of binders, an unspoken promise of a future trade.
You promise him you’ll uncover all the world’s treasures in your absence, though he’s too young to picture anything but gold and jewels, you’re told. You try to explain anyway. It is in vain; he doesn’t understand.
When he finally falls asleep, head resting peacefully on a pillow that’s not his own, you are overcome by the feeling that you’ve let him down somehow.
You allow thoughts of Arven to swim in your mind for the rest of that night only.
For, the next morning, chest swelling and heart drumming with anticipation, you at last descend to the depths visions of which have haunted your dreams for decades.
The otherworldly beauty of the place disarms you; you devour everything with wide eyes. The air sparkles and crackles inside your lungs, you breathe it in greedily, lest you ever forget the terrifying, awe-inspiring energy that rushes to your veins and flows with every beat of your soaring heart.
It occurs to you abruptly that you are walking those same paths, that your feet are stepping on the exact same grounds Heath and his companions did during the Expedition. An overjoyed laugh escapes you, almost like a child's giggle, startling all those in the team who know you well enough.
It feels as though you have been waiting your entire life to meet the creatures that reside in the Crater; where your team takes shelter away from them, they feel like old friends to you. You do not fear what you do not quite fully understand, instead you are drawn to them. They are beautiful to you in their fierceness; you wish only to reach out to get a taste of nature’s true potential that has thrived in this oasis, hidden from the world.
This must be paradise, the thought ambushes you like it didn’t quite belong as you inhale that sacred air and let it breathe life into you.
Much later, Clavell will comment he has never seen you this happy; it is a simple truth spoken plainly.
Imagine this is how things were always meant to go: you are standing victorious over the fruit of your labour.
Your undeniable triumph with researching what you called Terastalisation has awarded you universal adulation. Not merely comprehending but harnessing such an ill-understood power, and so quickly as well; your research papers are oft read and little understood. You are in line to receive awards, you write to your son, hoping some of your elation reaches him. There is not a single person that doesn’t speak of the Great Professor’s grand achievements down in the deepest caves of Area Zero.
The Tera Orb is insignificant in the grand scheme of things, of course. It is in truth, merely a by-product of your extensive research, of long efforts to contain and control such an unpredictable energy. You have far more profound insights on the nature of it in your published papers, even more so in the parts you were forbidden from publicizing.
Still, the Tera Orb is the thing your investors as well as the media have latched onto, so you learn to play along.
It is as though an invisible dam has suddenly been broken: everyone wants your insight, your participation, your seal of approval. You are contacted from all over the world: the League and the Academy first and foremost, emails from Galar are especially insistent.
You find it hard to believe you have caused this explosion of interest. You must be careful still; the potential of terastial energy is as unending as the danger of it. If the nature of the strange beasts proves as you hypothesize, controlling it could allow for things no sane person would otherwise even entertain.
As your team makes preparations to disband, you settle on an offer that will gain you a personal laboratory not far outside town; you will have to remain up on the region for a while, your contract states. That is a sacrifice you are willing to make, a compromise well worth the reward.
Clavell congratulates you heartily on your success before announcing he will be retiring temporarily; a change of pace is exactly what he needs, he says.
You are unsure of what that means, so you smile politely and shake his offered hand.
The final days are lax and celebratory in nature; buzzing conversations talk of plans and dreams of a joyful return. Some are directly headed to different adventures, others make plans to settle down and start a family after a period of such intense research. There is one connecting thread joining their stories, you notice: everyone seems happy to leave behind a work well-done.
You struggle to understand the sentiment. Isolation must be a factor, you think.
Loneliness has never affected you to the extent it seems to affect most; while you are no hermit, you have always treasured solitude over loud companionship. Other than the chance to see what your son is growing into, there is very little waiting for you outside the Crater.
The reality is, you have never felt more alive, more at place than in these dazzling depths. More and more, it feels like you are becoming part of it, as inseparable from it as the crystals that splinter the ground in their wake.
The ancient deity that lies dormant in Paldea’s Core has never before been this close to being understood, and that has to mean something.
You will be back, you know. You have been touched by a power you had the privilege to name.
The crystals call to you and you will answer, in time.
Consider this is the beginning of the end: you have been gifted with life once again.
The explosion of sentimentality is not unlike the first time, your chest swelling with awe, pride and astonishment at the wonder before you. This is an achievement beyond comprehension; a being that has arrived at this place in time only because you sought after it.
What a privilege, what a gift! to welcome it to your world.
When it slowly opens its eyes, it breathes new life into what would have otherwise remained a hazy dream.
Paradise now seems just out of reach.
The beast is odd looking and hesitant. It is beautiful, in an otherworldly way, and immense power emanates from it. You reach out to touch it, to feel life, your life blossom under your fingers.
It responds well to you.
This is a triumph.
The team that previously doubted you must now pretend to revere you. You try not to let bitterness spoil the exhilaration of your victory but the matter of the fact is, you are being held back more than propelled by them.
Caught up in the possibility of recreating the world of your dreams, you make plans to pull more creatures across time. As your fervour only increases, the team politely pulls you aside to ‘talk over some of their concerns.'
The Paradox Pokémon, as you lovingly named them, are foreign species to Paldea’s ecosystem, and much more vicious in their nature. They could wreak havoc on Pokémon whose defences have not evolved alongside them, they say.
You dismiss their ridiculous claims. Nature has mechanisms to ensure equilibrium remains; it is only natural for those that are more suitable to thrive. Time will tell as time has told; whatever the outcome is, that is what was always meant to happen.
They don’t voice many more doubts out loud as you begin to take more and more risks with your experiments but you are no fool; this remains a point of friction.
Your distrust for them grows. Things begin to sour, then things fall apart. Once the first of them leaves, the rest soon follow. They raise concerns with your higher-ups; you are forced to suspend your operations while they prepare to send a governmental committee to investigate.
This is a frustrating development, you cannot deny. Resentment festers inside of you that they, so soon after what may well be the breakthrough of the century, would seek to hold you back.
You, who has tamed the untamable! You, who has done the impossible! You, who reached across the endless Veil of Time and brought back Life.
Who else in all the world's history has ever achieved anything comparable? The discoveries of several lifetimes you have made in less than a decade. It is arrogance and envy that makes them think they could ever surpass you like this.
You have always been smarter than most, you remind yourself, and that has never ceased to be an obstacle. So regrettably, you grit your teeth, lock the Time Machine away where no one can harm it and make your temporary retreat.
When you emerge from the Crater, it is with far less fanfare than usually. You are unsurprised; it doesn’t sting, it doesn't matter to you. The proof of your triumph is far greater even if it must remain hidden; a life you carry away with you more precious than any empty words of admiration from people who could never understand. They could never begin to appreciate the magnitude of all you have achieved.
At night you imagine a world beyond the veil, a Paradise where the three of you can be happy. A world that, for as long as the Time Machine remains, will never be out of your reach again.
Consider this is the moment nothing changed: you are back where you’ve always belonged.
You are completely alone this time: on no one’s behalf but your own. Progress is slow, but your steady determination carries you forward.
Perhaps it was for the best that you had to leave your son behind; at his age you wouldn’t have faltered, but Arven is not like you, you always seem to forget.
Caring for the beast proved almost as time-consuming as taking care of the baby had been. It was too mighty and curious to remain within the crammed walls of the tiny lighthouse laboratory, but you could not afford any time away from your work since your right of passage to Area Zero was being withheld.
All the while you pondered how to bridge the gap that seems to separate you from your son, to connect over something you can both treasure; the solution presented itself.
There is little that brings you more joy than the beast, you explained to him as you gave him your most cherished companion to look after; somehow, you feel that was a misstep.
There was no choice to be made once the beast was in danger of being exposed. In his ignorance, the boy disagreed; you suppose you cannot fault him for it.
One day he’ll see, and one day he’ll understand.
The Time Machine stands still, untouched, just as you left it. No amount of internal investigation was able to pull it from the slumber you put it in. It is as though it exists in a space beyond time and that thought excites you in a primal way you cannot bring to words.
The emails you receive warning you not to activate it without explicit approval continue to be ignored.
What business does anyone have to tell you what to do with your creation? It is your life’s efforts realized; it exists solely because you willed it so and because you're the only one who could will it so.
No one understands it except for you, no one deserves it more than you do. It should follow that no one has the right to touch it unless that is you.
The security measures in place don’t feel enough, suddenly. You were never sloppy in your work, never left no room for oversight; the machine is certainly well-protected, layers of cybernetic systems armed and ready to deter any potential saboteurs.
Even so, you are overtaken by the need to shield it. It is too precious to leave even the slightest possibility open. You cannot allow anything to happen to your Time Machine, a wonder beyond words, not when you're this close to Paradise, your life’s dream dead, dead, dead.
No.
As weeks turn to months, alone in the Crater, your fatigue begins to catch up to you. Progress slows even more, a simple equation that nonetheless makes your frustration grow.
It is an email from Clavell of all people, that makes you falter.
It is a fairly standard correspondence all things considered; he inquires after your wellbeing before going into detail about his new responsibilities as the Academy’s new Director. He even closes off by asking for your opinion on one of his musings.
Your face twists in disgust when you are finished with it. There is nothing of value written in it, just the ramblings of an old man that has relinquished any semblance ambition; tedious, trifling happenings in a conventional, comfortable life.
It is intellectual suicide, what Clavell has decided to do and inexplicably, it feels like a betrayal. It feels like you have been spat in the face, a man you once held in high respect giving into, no, embracing the comforts of domesticity.
It is a stark reminder of what you’ve always known: you are an Exception and that has always been a path marked with pain and isolation.
It is a vice you've paid heavily for, a part of you you've tried desperately to change; yet it always persists.
It is what allows you to carry on when the cost would deter any other in your place; it is what has cost you everything you've lost.
And even though you never stopped trying, you realize at last, that not once in your life, did anyone try to understand you.
Picture this is where it ends: you are spread on the ground gasping for air that won’t come with your ruined lungs.
You cannot explain what took over you to stand in the way of the vicious attack; only that you did. Perhaps it was an echo of memories of things you once regarded as gifts, the desire to see Life flourish under your hands. You cannot begin to explain the complicated web of sentiment you hold for the beast that binds itself to the adoration you feel for your son; only that it matters as long as your son matters still and it hurts that this is what has brought your end.
Physical agony unlike any other wraps its tight coils around you. The beautiful energy that once gave you life and purpose now seems to amplify every part of your suffering. It is as though you are being devoured by it, paying your due for all the gifts, all the treasures it bestowed upon you.
When the wheezing dies down and you can finally take a semblance of a breath, you shatter.
This cannot be happening. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Regret flows into your veins as blood spills from your wounds; there’s simply too much to be done for this to be the end.
You long to reach out, to feel, to touch something that will convince you it was all worth it.
You hate everything that you are in those brief moments, that broken shell of a person destined from the beginning, from that first time a child‘s curious eyes peered down the Crater, to be alone.
Despair threatens to steal your final breath; you thought you had time, you thought it wouldn’t matter once you made it, you thought Arven would get the chance to see—
You howl in mourning as the reality of all the things you are never going to see crashes down on your psyche.
It is then that the second beast walks forward, revealing itself from the shadows. You hadn’t noticed it chose to linger behind, not pursuing the first one after it made its escape.
It stalks you from afar; you cannot read its expression. It remains there, still, daring not to approach you.
“I’m sorry.” you try to choke out, reaching out to it, to no one, to everyone.
It stumbles backwards, momentarily recoiling from your touch and for a second you fear, you hope this will be it. It lunges upwards with astounding power, lets out a harrowing cry and finally, vanishes in a flash.
It must realize it as well, that you will die.
Its sorrowful cries continue as it rampages outside the research station. You shut your eyes for the last time to listen to its beautiful song; what a blessing to be mourned, indeed.
The Crater has seen millions of days; it has stood beautiful and unchanged far longer than humanity could ever comprehend. Tomorrow will come without you as will every day after that and that is as terrifying as it is comforting.
Tomorrow, your fading mind latches onto that word. Tomorrow will come and go and everything will be alright in the end because the Crater has forever been changed by you.
The entrance to Lab Zero will lock itself automatically in 12 hours; a Dead Man Switch living up to its name. Let it never be said you were unprepared.
There is a capable person to take over in your stead; you modelled them after yourself, after all. They will understand what has happened and they will understand what needs to be done.
You have a son to inherit your dream.
You hold onto that last thought, place it near your heart as your life slowly drains from the mangled ruins of your body. It soothes some of the loneliness and regret, the despair of knowing you are leaving far too soon, the anguish of never getting the chance to say goodbye and all those things you never could find the words for.
You are not ready to go, not yet, not ever. But even still, you were prepared.
The only tears you shed are in mourning that you won’t be there when Arven sees, and when he understands.
Consider this: You, the Greatest Professor the world will ever know, die too soon to see Paradise.
Let this be your Legacy, a Feat for the ages: your Paradise will forever live on, nonetheless.