Chapter Text
It was the sound of a garchomp’s—of Gabby’s—cry that compelled Alan to look over the edge of Prism Tower again.
It was already difficult for him to breathe; every breath came out in strangled, short gasps even as he tried to take in deeper lungfuls of air, tried calm down enough so that he could concentrate, so that he could focus, so that he could think past the roar in his head and every screaming, racing thought that urged him to cover his ears even though that wouldn’t block any of it out. But when he looked down over the edge and saw that Gabby was there—saw that Professor Sycamore was there, saw that Manon was there, and that all of them were fighting two of Team Flare’s scientists—he felt his heart lodge in his throat. They were there—they were all there. Manon was there, Gabby was there, the Professor was there, and he, Alan, was—was—!
He shoved his trembling hand into his pocket, fumbling for Lizardon’s pokéball. He was helping, he was going to help, he was going to send Lizardon to go help them—
He had just pulled Lizardon’s pokéball free from his pocket when the director’s—when Lysandre’s hand snapped over his right wrist, twisting it as he yanked Alan’s arm back and down. Alan grit his teeth, refusing to let even the smallest of sounds escape his throat, and glowered up at Lysandre, who stared coldly back at him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Lysandre asked. Despite his glacial stare, he didn’t raise his voice above the same conversational pitch he had been using since Alan reached the top of the tower. “I don’t remember telling you to release a pokémon.”
“You aren’t going to tell me anything anymore,” Alan snapped. He shifted Lizardon’s pokéball to the tips of his fingers. If he held it like this, and reached around with his other hand—
Lysandre’s eyes narrowed, and in the next second he switched his hold Alan’s wrist to his other hand, which he then used to yank Alan toward him. Alan stumbled (and felt a flash of panic as Lizardon’s pokéball slipped from his fingers, bouncing harmlessly against the steel platform of the tower), but had no time to recover before Lysandre grabbed his left arm and yanked it up behind his back.
Pain, sharp and searing, spiked from Alan’s left shoulder, and this time he couldn’t stop himself from crying out, couldn’t help the spots that exploded in front of his eyes, rendering him momentarily unable to think of much else. Lysandre gave his left arm an extra tug, and another jolt of pain shot through him. Alan squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and doing his best to breathe (just breathe, just focus on breathing—) through his nose.
“Alan!” Ash shouted, but he sounded far off, even allowing for how he was pinned against the side of the tower.
“Hmm,” Lysandre said, sounding for all the world like he was observing the growth of his newest tomato plant, “you never did have your shoulder treated, did you?”
“Why are you asking a question you already know the answer to?” Alan bit out. His vision swam for a moment when he opened his eyes again, and Lysandre chuckled without humor.
“I’m making an attempt at courteous conversation. I’m aware that isn’t one of your strong suits,” he said. He paused for a moment, and when Alan didn’t rise to the bait, the civility dropped from his tone. “You know better than to try fighting me, Alan. This is your last chance. Don’t make me do something you’ll regret.”
Even amidst the police sirens, helicopter blades, and the guttural roars of both Zygarde as they fought, Alan could still hear the cries and shrieks of the pokémon and people battling at the base of Prism Tower. He could still see, even if he wasn’t directly looking at him, Ash above him—could still remember how Manon's chespin, who no doubt hadn’t received an ounce of the mega evolution energy Alan had worked tirelessly to collect, had looked as he lay prone upon his hospital bed, Manon sobbing her heart out beside him. Lizardon’s pokéball was beyond his reach. Restrained as he was, Alan couldn’t call upon one of his other pokémon, either. Ash could die pinned to the tower, Professor Sycamore and Manon could face the same fate down below, the entire city was being destroyed and people were dying and Lysandre—
Lysandre was glad for it. He was proud of it. He wanted—had seemed to want—Alan to enjoy it with him.
Alan looked back over his shoulder, ignoring the new stab of pain in his throbbing shoulder as he did so, and glared at Lysandre with every ounce of loathing he could muster as he spat:
“Go to Hell.”
Lysandre’s expression contorted to one of displeasure for only a moment before he sighed. “So be it,” he said, and then called a little more loudly, “Xerosic.”
Xerosic responded immediately, his voice echoing from the same speaker he had used to announce the completion of Ash’s preparations. “Yes, Director?”
“It’s time,” Lysandre said. “Come and get him.”
Xerosic laughed, practically giddy as he crowed, “Yes, sir! Right away!”
Alan could feel his heart thudding against his ribcage, a cold sweat breaking out over his skin despite the heat of the evening. “It’s time for what?” he demanded, and he was grateful for the fact that his voice sounded stronger than he felt.
Lysandre stared evenly back at him, but the smallest of smiles curled his lips.
“You’ll see,” he said.
- - -
The Lumiose Gym—and Prism Tower as a whole, really—was infested with Team Flare grunts.
Augustine and Clemont dispatched the two scientists guarding the entrance, and despite the fact that grunts were still swarming from all sides in an attempt to provide reinforcements, the moment the scientists were out of his way Clemont sprinted for the Gym doors. Augustine had exchanged only one look with Meyer before he followed Clemont inside; one look was all they needed for Meyer to know that Augustine would keep an eye on Meyer’s son, even as Augustine headed for the top of the tower to look for his own.
And so while Meyer worked to prevent more Flare grunts from entering the tower (and Serena and Manon headed off somewhere else—Augustine hadn’t had a chance to catch the reason why before Clemont dashed into the Gym), Augustine and Clemont fought their way to the top. It wasn’t overly difficult; none of the pokémon the grunts threw at Gabrielle were a match for her, and Clemont’s pokémon were as furious about the Gym’s hostile takeover as Clemont himself was. His luxray in particular seemed to take personal offense, and as a result she leaped into the fray with her claws outstretched before Clemont had a chance to give her an order more than once.
They parted ways on the last floor before the top of the tower. Like the other floors, the last was infested with Team Flare grunts; unlike the others, it also contained yet another Team Flare scientist, this time in the form of a larger man with a wisp of crimson hair who seemed to take delight in belittling and riling ten-year-old boys.
“Trust me, I wouldn’t base my operations here if it wasn’t the Director’s orders,” he had sneered. “After all, the technology here is archaic.”
That was all it took for Clemont to sic his luxray on the scientist’s malamar, who swooped forward to take the attack head-on.
“Go!” Clemont shouted at Augustine, causing Gabrielle—who had stepped forward to help—to stop in her attacks. “I’ll take care of him—you go!”
“Are you sure?” Augustine asked, and he frowned as he remembered Meyer down below. “I promised your—Blaziken Mask that I—”
“I’m more than enough for him,” Clemont said. Furious tears had built up in his eyes, but they didn’t fall even as his voice shook. “Team Flare’s boss is on top of the tower, isn’t he? You go take care of him; I’ll meet you up there when I’ve cleaned up down here! Lux, Thunder Fang!”
Clemont’s luxray unleashed a primal yowl before she buried her sparking fangs into the side of the scientist’s malamar, and several grunts yelped as they hastily scrambled out of the way of the ensuing battle. There was no time to argue it. Neither Ash nor Alan were inside the tower, which meant that they were on the top. And if they were up there with Lysandre—
“Be careful,” Augustine said. Clemont didn’t look at him as he nodded and shouted another directive for his luxray. With one glance at Gabrielle (and a warning glare to any of the grunts who looked as if they might interfere), Augustine headed for the top.
At first, he saw nothing upon emerging onto the top of the tower except the vivid red of the evening sunset, and the thrashing of both Zygarde on the other side of the tower. But as his eyes readjusted to the glow of the setting sun (and his lungs readjusted to the acrid smell of smoke on the air) and he made his way onto the platform proper, two things caught Augustine’s attention:
One, Lysandre was standing on the edge of the tower, looking over the city like a monarch surveying his kingdom.
Two, the red glow that blanketed the tower was not entirely from the sun, but was instead partially caused by a current of furious red energy running through Ash and his team, all seven of whom were pinned up against the side of the tower.
For all that he had prepared himself to expect the worst—for all that he had known that Ash was likely to be in danger—he hadn’t expected this. It took a moment for him to regain his composure, but when he did he ran the rest of the way out to the center of the platform, staring up at Ash with a gaping mouth and nausea swirling in the pit of his stomach.
“Ash!”
The energy charge stopped suddenly, and while Ash had been rigid under it before, he (and his pokémon too, Augustine noticed—they all looked beyond exhausted) slumped in his restraints the second it let up. But while Augustine could see him shaking even from where he stood, it took Ash only a second before he lifted his head and gave Augustine a (mercifully) lucid stare.
“Professor Sycamore?” he said, and he thankfully didn’t sound much worse for the wear either. He blinked, and then his eyes widened. “Professor, you’ve got to—”
“Hold on,” Augustine said, “We’ll get you down from there. Gabrielle—!”
“No! Never mind me, I’m fine!” Ash said, and as Augustine opened his mouth to protest (he was clearly anything but fine), Ash cut across him. “It’s not me you should worry about! Lysandre—”
“He isn’t exaggerating, you know. Ash has proven himself to be rather resilient. But then, such hardiness is no less than what I’d expect from a Chosen One.”
Augustine had known Lysandre was at the top of the tower. Even setting aside how he had expected it, he had spotted him upon first making it to the top. But somehow, the shock of seeing Ash bound as he was had driven Lysandre from Augustine’s mind; it had caused him to forget, however briefly, that they weren’t the only two on the tower top.
But Lysandre’s voice, even more than Ash’s warning, was all the reminder Augustine needed. As a low snarl built in Gabrielle’s throat, Augustine felt an icy sort of rage begin pumping adrenaline through his own veins, and he didn’t make even a passing attempt at civility as he turned to glare in the face of Lysandre’s smirk.
“This is part of your plan, is it?” Augustine asked quietly, and he raised one hand to gesture at the crumbling city sprawled around the tower. “All of this is your design?”
“Of course. To build a peaceful world, one must start from the ground up,” Lysandre said. “Removing clutter to have a smooth foundation to build from is a crucial first step.”
Augustine’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “People are dying, Lysandre.”
“Yes. I know.” Lysandre turned back to look out over the city again. In one hand he held a maximized pokéball, and he tossed it casually in the air before he caught it again. “Their bodies will form the foundation that those chosen to remain will build from. If you think about it, they should be honored to form the bedrock of a peaceful new world.”
Blood was pounding in Augustine’s ears as he said, “Gabrielle.” He still didn’t know where Alan was. He didn’t seem to be anywhere on the top of the tower. But if he defeated Lysandre, that would be enough. Alan would be safe. Wherever he was, so long as Lysandre was out of the picture—
But as Gabrielle stepped forward, poised and ready to strike, Lysandre merely glanced at Augustine out of the corner of his eye before he scoffed and looked back out over the city. He tossed the pokéball up and caught it again. “There’s no need for that,” he said. “I have no intention of battling you, Professor Sycamore.”
“That pokéball in your hand would say otherwise,” Augustine said.
“This isn’t mine.” Lysandre tossed it up and caught it again. “I’m only holding onto it for now.”
It wasn’t relevant, really, but— “For what purpose?”
“Professor, that’s what I was trying to tell you,” Ash said. Augustine glanced back at him to see that Ash was once again pulling at the restraints, Pikachu struggling to wriggle out of his own. “He’s got—!”
“Insurance, mostly,” Lysandre said. He now had a steady rhythm going with the pokéball, leisurely rolling it into the air off his fingers before catching it again. “But even outside of that it’s nice to have. A debt collector might keep a luxury car as collateral, but that doesn’t mean they don’t enjoy having it while they do.”
Lysandre may as well have been speaking gibberish for all the sense he made, but it didn’t matter. There were more pressing things to worry about than the riddles of a madman. “Whether that’s your pokémon or not—whether you want to battle me or not—I’m still challenging you. This ends now.”
Lysandre was quiet for a moment, repeating the toss-catch motion with the pokéball twice more, before he laughed softly. “If you truly want to battle, I won’t stop you,” he said. “But I’m not going to be your opponent.”
“Yes, you are. I—!”
Lysandre clicked the fingers of his free hand, the sound somehow sounding loud and clear amidst the chaos of the city, right along with his voice as he said: “Alan.”
Augustine’s heart stilled in his chest.
The light of the sitting sun, combined with the blaze of radiation that had been channeled into Ash before, had cast such a shadow against part of the tower that Augustine hadn’t noticed him standing there before. But the moment Lysandre snapped his fingers—a second before Lysandre even said his name, something which Augustine had a sick feeling was more for his benefit than Alan’s—Alan stepped out from the shadows along the side of the building and walked calmly to stand behind Lysandre. Lysandre didn’t turn, but Augustine could still see his smirk from his profile.
“Here is your opponent,” Lysandre said. “I trust you’ll find him suitable.”
Part of Augustine—a strong part, a part that thrashed against his throat and begged to get off his tongue—wanted to retort and tell Lysandre exactly what he found suitable and what Lysandre could do with that information. But a stronger part—a more urgent part—of Augustine had eyes only for Alan.
At first glance, Alan looked no different than he had at the League. He was still wearing his black travel jacket, and the scarf that Augustine had sent him for his thirteenth birthday. His hair was still in a windswept disarray that brought into question whether or not it had been combed recently, and even from his distance Augustine could still see the telltale signs of sleep deprivation in the shadows beneath Alan’s eyes.
But that was where the problem started.
Even with how guarded he had been at the League—even with how tired, how depressed he had looked—Alan had still looked alert. His eyes had been bright, wary; he had always been observant, even as a small child, with the type of rapt attention that made it difficult for anything to escape his notice. But the stare he gave Augustine now was blank—empty. He was looking straight at him, yet Augustine had the feeling that Alan didn’t see him at all.
“Alan?” he said. When he received no response, even in the form of a blink, he made his voice a little louder. “Alan! Hey, Alan!”
Nothing. Alan remained perfectly still, his only movement coming from the way the wind ruffled his hair.
Augustine turned back to Lysandre, who was openly smiling as he surveyed the city. “What did you do to him?” he demanded, the words this time poised just behind his teeth.
“Nothing,” Lysandre said, and it was a little appalling at how easily the obvious lie fell from his lips. “I’ve been here the whole time. Ash can confirm that for you, if you’d like.”
“That Xerosic guy took Alan into the tower a little while ago,” Ash said. “I don’t know what he did, but—!”
Ash’s voice choked off in a strangled yelp as the radiation was blasted into him again, and as Augustine whipped around to star eat him in alarm, Lysandre heaved an affected sigh.
“If you would synchronize with Greninja, this would stop happening,” he said. “You only need to do it once, Ash. Just once, and the whole world will be saved.”
“Like I’d believe that!” Ash spat, his voice taut with pain. “Professor Sycamore, you’ve got to—!”
“Professor Sycamore is going to battle, isn’t he?” Lysandre asked, and he finally turned to face him. “You have your opponent now. I know he’s more than enough to keep you busy.”
“I won’t battle him,” Augustine said, and beside him Gabrielle growled in agreement. “Battle me—battle us yourself, Lysandre.”
“I don’t have time for that. I have to oversee the creation of a new world,” Lysandre said. “Besides, he wants to battle you. Don’t you, Alan?”
Two seconds passed, almost as if Alan hadn’t heard the question despite how Lysandre was standing right beside him, but then—in a voice somehow less lively than Clembot—Alan replied, “Yes.”
It wasn’t Alan. It wasn’t him, not really. Whatever Lysandre had done to him had rendered him empty, not himself. But all the same, that cold stare—that response, even if it wasn’t immediate, even if it was toneless and almost artificial—still hurt.
“Alan,” Augustine tried again. “Don’t listen to him. Come here, I can help you—”
“Help him? How do you plan to do that?” Lysandre asked. If it had been anyone else, his curiosity might have sounded genuine. “You haven’t spoken to him in years. You don’t have the faintest idea of what he needs help with, much less how to provide it. And even if you did have an idea of what you needed to ‘help him’ with, he doesn’t have any idea of who you are.”
“That’s a lie,” Augustine snapped.
Lysandre smiled. “Is it? Look at him for yourself, Professor Sycamore; does this look like the face of a boy who recognizes you?”
Alan’s stare was as devoid of emotion—of recognition—as it had been before, but Augustine wasn’t about to admit that. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, and Lysandre seemed to take that as all the confirmation he needed.
“He isn’t yours anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time. I understand that may be difficult for you to accept, but this is a new world; there are many changes coming your way.” Lysandre put his hand on Alan’s shoulder. “This is only the beginning.”
Gabrielle’s snarl echoed across the rooftop, and white-hot rage lashed inside Augustine. “Get your hands off him!”
Lysandre’s smirked at Augustine a second more, his hand remaining where it was, before he turned to Alan with a more serious expression. “Take care of him, Alan. Don’t stop until you’ve finished the job. I will not tolerate failure. Understood?”
Like before, a second or two passed before Alan answered. “Yes.”
Lysandre smiled again, and he gave Alan’s shoulder an affectionate pat before releasing him at last. “Good. I’ll leave him to you. I trust you’ll make me proud.”
A brief delay, and then— “Yes, sir.”
Lysandre stepped back, then—creating space for the battle—and as Augustine and Gabrielle started forward, Alan showed the barest traces of life at last. He lifted his head up, his eyes falling on Gabrielle, and for a second—for a brief, hopeful moment—Augustine thought Alan might recognize her. He knew Gabrielle—he loved Gabrielle, had been the one to bring her home. But that moment of consideration passed, and with it Augustine’s hope as Alan reached into his pocket, selected a pokéball, and tossed it forward with a lethargic flick of his wrist.
In contrast to Alan’s apathy, his weavile appeared with her claws at the ready, her fangs bared in a wild grin. Gabrielle hissed and took a step back, immediately defensive, and given her typing, Augustine couldn’t say he blamed her. If anything, he could say he agreed with the unpleasant shock he knew she was feeling. Augustine himself had, however subconsciously, been expecting Lizardon. He had known Alan had other pokémon, had seen this weavile in action during the League, but he had thought—he had hoped—for Lizardon. But Lizardon would never battle Gabrielle, and if there was a part of Alan still awake enough to recognize that . . .
“Alan,” he said again, and he took another step forward, standing level with Gabrielle. “We don’t have to do this. Listen to me, whatever this is, you can fight it—”
“Weavile,” Alan interrupted, his voice as monotonous as before, “Ice Beam.”
Lizardon would have never battled Gabrielle, but Alan’s weavile would. Without hesitating for a second his weavile leaped into the air, a chill sweeping over the tower seconds before a harsh beam of ice blasted straight at Gabrielle’s face.
“Gabrielle, dodge!” Augustine shouted.
She didn’t need to be told twice. Gabrielle threw herself out of the way, pivoting around Augustine. The Ice Beam slammed into the tower platform instead, causing the tower to shake, and pinned up against the side of the tower, several of Ash’s pokémon (Noivern and Goodra especially) cried out in alarm. Augustine looked back at Alan.
“Alan—!”
“Again.”
In response to Alan’s dispassionate command, his weavile pursued Gabrielle around the platform, shards of ice forming around her snout as she readied another ice beam. Gabrielle’s lips pulled back in a snarl, and because he had to—because he couldn’t stand there and let Gabrielle be attacked like this, because Alan wasn’t listening and Augustine didn’t know how else to get through to him—he shouted, “Gabrielle, Hyper Beam!”
Gabrielle leaped back to create more distance between herself and the weavile, golden light building in the back of her throat, and from his position standing behind Alan across the tower, Lysandre smiled.