~~~ Chapter 50 - Cathexis ~~~
Cathexis [noun]: the concentration of energy on one particular idea, object, person, or pokemon.
The term cathexis has classically been used in dubious psychoanalytical settings. Due to its dubious history, the term should be considered outdated. For some, it has shifted to becoming a reference to an exclusive bond between a human and a pokemon, to refer in particular to the resemblance a trainer begins to exhibit aspects of pokemon on their teams. See: Synchronization and Bond, for a more updated definition. In modern academic contexts, this phenomenon is known as synchronization.
For a trainer to reach "cathexis" with a pokemon implies that their minds and bodies have adapted, in some form, to be reflective of that pokemon. Myths of trainers swimming hundreds of miles in cold weather, of those who can use aura to compete with mythical pokemon of old, of those who have gained ability to ascend to gods, are, of course suspect in nature—no human has been shown outperforming even the most basic evolutions of a pokemon in their primary (or base) elements.
A "fighting" human cannot compare to any but the sickest or youngest pokemon in their native environment or element. Despite this disparity, it is known that minor changes are granted to humans who train and bond with their pokemon.
This manifests in many ways—slight aura use, resistance to reading minds, additional proprioception, somewhat better reaction times. Potentially dramatic weight gain and weight loss. The mechanisms and reasons for this are not known. Individuals who reach full cathexis with a single pokemon may have a hard time generalizing and caring for pokemon of other body styles. Cathexis is not known to extend lifespan or grant all but the most subtle of changes.
In actual practice, Cathexis is often prioritized by trainers looking for some specific, if particular benefit— For example, a fisherman would generally trend toward training and building a cathetic bond with a water-type pokemon. Unfortunately for such people, simply owning and caring for a pokemon is generally not enough to reach cathexis. It requires a deeper relationship than one that is generally considered from cold calculation of cost/benefit ratios.
Building on the fisherman scenario, a kid who grew up fishing and working with and living with pokemon that commonly end up fishing will be far more likely to build a relationship that builds into cathexis than baseline, ie an adult who fishes a lot who adopts a pokemon useful for fishing because it is convenient.
[...]
Despite being a noun, cathexis is not a binary state of being.
The effects of cathexis fade when pokemon are given away or the trainer ceases their training activity. Reaching "full" cathexis with bird, levitating or other pokemon does not, has not, and will not grant flight. Ghost trainers do not gain the ability to pass through walls, invisibility, and cannot commune with dead humans. There is no evidence that cathexis alters DNA. Cathexis, though causing some physical changes, does not decrease mortality rates, though it has been postulated this is because trainers reaching cathexis tend to overestimate their own physical abilities in the wild or while managing mass outbreaks.
Once again, see: Synchronization and Bond, for full definition and discussion.
~~~
The portal opened. The nothingness beyond beckoned. Her hand twitched over the pokeball with the M labeled, the moment she saw the micro pokemon on the other side. Her guide, as it were. It took all her thought-streams all their self-control not to to use the M-labeled pokeball right there. No, she would not, could not allow the pokeball to dictate the target now.
The distortion silently spewed forward. It would distort reality, it would throw clocks off, it would cause intricate, unprotected, yet extremely sensitive experiments to fail. The effects of the distortion would roll through the world until it was either nullified by dark and psychic pokemon or consumed by the ghosts and spectres of the past. Unwitting protectors of reality.
Dawn pressed down her skirt, looked at her hand, as if to double check that yes, in fact, she was still human. She took a deep breath in with her nose then pulled her jacket tight. Exhaling slowly, she shoved her hands inside the ends of her jacket, stretching it taut. It was a silly look to anyone who might be observing, but she didn't care.
She stepped forward, taking her last breaths of pure, relatively-organized-in-comparison oxygen. The creature in front of her—Mini-tina, Looker's notes had labeled the little fucker—followed in behind her, as she stepped in, leaving the moonlit world behind. Around her, the land was gray.
It was not dark, it was not bright. She let a short huff out through her nose.
The portal closed, the light of the world disappearing behind her. The feather she'd been given shimmered, warped by the distortion and yet itself holding strong against the forces which instilled chaos and disorder along every axis choosing not to react. Her hair floated up, pushing up against the band she'd worn to keep it out of her eyes.
The creature—the one who would guide her to her target, turned in the air, swirling around her, practically giddy with joy. On her belt, were her three pokemon, as well as the empty master ball. She could feel the pull. The desire to use it—it called to another her, whispered of the possibilities—of the control, of the security, of the hope of the future. She had her hand on the ball.
Her fingers brushed around it, circling.
She had met Darkrai in the flesh, and refused the call then. She had her sights set on a larger, more powerful target. She took a step forward, towards the escort, the god's child. Her hand had twitched on her pokebelt, but once again, she resisted. The nightmare had kept his own word, and given her passage into giratina's realm. But what were promises to the gods? Still, she could keep hers.
The path before her had warped, split, shifted, faded and at one point, cracked. But, as she had before, she continued her progress, moving through the shifting, silent void. She'd taken many steps. She could see footprints in the ground. A metal, aluminum case sat before her feet, fallen to the ground, turned on its side. A pack of masks and oxygen containers were strewn about. The escort was clearly aware that she had not enough time. The second time she'd been flung into a situation and been given gifts to guide her through.
And yet, given the challenges she had to overcome, just to reach this point, she was wry. She could feel the boiling subthreads within, nascent though they were, spawning, threatening to incapacitate her in a land of nightmares and dreams more imaginary than the lands of distortion upon which she walked. She shoved them down. They could wait. Drops of black liquid formed into the air, before her, before rising up and boiling off.
The girl would—and had— trimmed all she could. The creature who had opened the portal looked at her, its form shifting between that of a bug, and that of a miniature giratina. One finger, her right hand held the ball, not pulling it hard enough to detach. Her guide's body shifting, imitating Leah. Her body knelt down, her left hand sifting through the equipment strewn across the ground.
Breathing through the mask, she did not look up which was fastened to her face, she picked up a small pair of oxygen masks, which were still full. She crossed onto many new landmasses, rotating at strange angles, and yet, as she walked, down was down and up was left. And right was behind. This latest mass, she brushed through boiling gobs of pink rising through the void, disappearing, running off into nothing, burning.
The sound of a stream trickled, from the ceilingless void, she stood, a stream of water trickled down, stopping, then starting, then starting again. It would pool up, a little line would form to the edge, and some would fall off into the abyss. Other times, the stream would rise, water from the right side, fell to the left. She took a breath, in through her nose, her eyes closed. Her right hand and fingers moved, tapping over the four pokeballs on her belt.
The escort's form imitated Leah's, the form of the bug, further mocking the one comfort from her dreams and nightmares. Her hand had twitched over the ball. She'd plucked it off her belt. She felt the call. She wanted to, it had practically called to her, as if she was empty, lesser without filling the center. One does not catch pokemon, unless you wish to use them. Her hand did not move. This was not giratina. And to falter here? A mocker to herself, and all the sacrifices she'd made on the journey to this point.
Her hand twirled the ball around, before reattaching it to her belt. She could feel another pull, an anticipation, an eternal hunger of her own. She was closing in on her target. And this time, they would not escape. A foot stepped forward, then another. And as she walked, following the escort, the girl knew her destination. She would not stop, she could not. Not with the light of the feather reminding her of what she'd done, what path she'd taken. She paused. She checked the time left in the mask.
Two and a half hours were the time limit. Watch had already set, at least one part of her had explicitly prepared for this, and gotten the priority to do so while not entering her own long-term memory. Most people, including her, could not carry masks of oxygen and appropriate protection against the forces of Distortion which at at the fabric of reality itself, that would last for days.
Worse for humans and pokemon, running and doing general physical activities would only burn through the masks that did manage to keep even faster. Regardless, in thirty minutes, she would rest.
And she did. Risking her body, mind, and all else, in the middle of the blind distortion, she took the mask off, and put it into her bag. Three total masks. Cyrus was near.
She followed the guide, who was standing staring at her from above, the wall had appeared from nowhere. She pulled out a shoe and stepped up, and walked up what had been a wall. The ground shifted, as if what was once the floor, became the new wall. The land of grass, as if following the new gravity, the remaining masks themselves fell off their container, onto the ground below her feet. It was not rock she stood, but nor was it metal or dirt.
The only thing to do was to follow the fake leavanny, who stepped further ahead, standing in the void, watching her progress.
The watch beeped. Seven hours had passed. Had it really been that long?
It was a strange feeling, because there weren't any indications that she'd been in it for that long. She feel any different. Hands were still steady, grip still strong on the pokeballs on her belt. Maybe a bit dizzier? There wasn't any real way to be one hundred percent sure. It wasn't the same feeling as being drunk. At least, she didn't think so.
Distortion was supposed to be weaker in the synapses and while in the presence of relatively-sapient-beings. Its poison and effects only affected things in that negative space of observation. Cross-referencing and reaching out to various professors to try and understand its effects before coming there had taught her that.
Though her studies had also taught her not to rely as much on her human perception of time or orientation. It was, apparently, so easy to lose one's own observations in the distortion that you succumb and dissolve under its "loving" embrace.
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It was incredibly easy for distortion to affect those who were not pokemon. Dawn's own gut wrenched, the little number of contents threatening to eject themselves as though she'd had too much whiskey. But the mask was already on her head, and she was breathing. To let it all out here would be an admission of defeat and also death. The latter of which she didnt' care about, the pokeball on her belt and her own desire for the future of Sinnoh egging her onward, ever forward into an abyss which she did not know.
The others—Cyrus and her so-called guide, were already gone. Left in the abyss. Around her, she was on a small island, a pool of water before her. Her bottle of water was empty. It was a good idea to do it while the resources presented themselves from within the distortion world. So she did. She refilled her bottle of water with the water that trickled and pooled aimlessly within the world of distortion, a shadow lurking at the bottom of the pool and the streams.
Dawn ignored all those distractions, and decided to continue her own journey despite the demons that threatened from every unseen corner, unseen, unknown, or even rejected depth that she crossed.
All things were an eternity, all passed in the blink of an eye, but standing in the midst of a nameless, unkempt dark yet somehow-lit void of knowledge, Dawn remembered the pond that was in front of her. She'd once prayed at a lake just like this one, once she'd forgotten. As if her goal had been written into her soul. She'd question the decision another time. Like all other decisions she'd made over the last many years. She'd commit to this path. She would see it through.
She continued following her escort. She pulled off her mask, and pulled another out of her bag. She paused. She'd just thrown them out. She checked her watch. It was counting down from thirty already. She breathed deep and took another step, deep into the abyss. Again, she felt the pull, her hand brushed up against her pokebelt, eying the fake leavanny in front of her. Once again, she resisted.
Before her was a path. She stepped on it, and her vision expanded. Cyrus was standing there, on a pedestal, Giratina before him, Cyrus was confident. The man was talking. Before shaking his head. Shaking his fist at the god. Giratina had refused the man's request? She stepped forward. Cyrus pulled out a pokeball like hers. The beast had known. He threw his pokeball at the god of distortion, the pokeball spinning impotently in the air at the exact spot. The beast did know. The god had already disappeared before his fingers had let go of the ball. Would know.
Had judged Cyrus to be unworthy?
She was gasping for air. Her own muscles and diaphragm was burning in the presence of the god of distortion itself. Cyrus was also panting, trying to breathe. The Pressure of a god pressed down on them, squeezing them, threatening to push the humans flat. This hadn't been like it was at the top of the mount at all. They'd all have been crushed flat if Dialga and Palkia had let out their pressure there on the top of the mountain.
And even then it had been enough to knock the older and the weaker onto the floor. And yet. And yet, had the god saw fit to preserve the man's life? It took a second as she approached the Team Galactic leader. She would have smiled, if she too wasn't spending all of her own energy trying to approach, but Cyrus had fallen to his knees before her right as she approached. Here in the distortion, Cyrus was dead.
Here in the distortion, he was alive.
And yet, the man was anchored to the ground.
Hundreds of Cyruses have thrown the ball, had bargained, time and again with the lord of gravity, the third force, the one that underpinned space and time. The one that ran the world of distortion. The man was dim. He should have been dead long, long ago. And yet, time had not yet passed for the man. As if—as if Giratina had held him there, frozen in his realm. Frozen in time, for one purpose.
She smiled as she stood over the man. Cyrus was lying on the ground, as she took a deep breath into her mask. The beast had known. Her hair was longer. It was shorter. It was green. She wore a beanie in one, she wore a hat in another. In this one, she wore just a headband, she had given her beanie to another.
Cyrus, lying on the ground, each variant coalescing into one, each afterimage fading into one, the visual vibrations of each alternative timeline fading into one. The dying one in front of her now. Body succumbing to the effects of distortion, eyes black and yellow, the unused pokeballs still on his belt.
An unused Master ball adorned the belt. It took all of her self control not to grab it. To have two was an immense amount of power to wield. One was enough for her though, she didn't need any more of that kind of influence. For her, there was one truth, in a distorted, comical world where the air itself makes a mockery of those who breathed it.
Cyrus wasn't just a megalomaniac. He was a loser that dragged others down to his level in order to defeat.
"I see you have come for me, child." The man said, breathing into a mask he'd pull from his pocket. He was alive. He was dead, he was poisoned. He was clean, in the world of gravity and distortion, he was successful, he was a failure, he was everything all at once. And yet.
And yet. The woman was silent.
Cyrus pulled up his wrist, his smile wry. "I knew you would. We had the best analysts, the best predictions. And now what? All my money. All my wealth. Everything I did. And for what?" he asked, placing his hand into his pocket.
She remained silent. Her escort remained silent, fading into the background.
"I suppose I am supposed to be dead soon. And yet," he said, "and yet here you are, standing above me." He coughed. "Pathetic. Betrayed by the god I'd thought understood me." He sat up. He put his hand to his belt. He did not expand his pokeballs as he pulled off his belt, no. He set his pokebelt on the ground. There would be no battle here. On the insane businessman's vest was a black and yellow pokeball, the iconic, emblazoned M drawing her attention.
"You win, Dawn," Cyrus said. "I don't know what you did. I don't know what price you paid—" he said, staring into her eyes. "But it was not me, the god wanted. It never was me they called for." The man frowned, the white and blue of his eyes betraying their dismay. "Was I checkmated in the games of the gods?" the man asked.
The girl smiled. "I win, Cyrus."
"I suppose you do, Dawn," he spat, "I suppose you do. You always won, you know," he said, staring at the feathers tied around her many necks, the visions of the various versions of her all expanded out as his body and mind began to give up. She picked up his belt, putting it into her pack. Another version of her threw them off in rage, screaming off into the abyss.
"I know," she said. He pulled off his mask, before crossing his legs, throwing it off into the abyss, as his final admission of defeat. The pressure over her was bearing down. Her own legs wobbled, turning to jelly under the weight. He let out a puff of air, seemingly running out of things to say.
"I've had a long wait for you to come, Dawn. A lot longer than normal," he said.
"Sorry", she said, unapologetic. It had been shorter than normal, at least for her. She spoke through the oxygen mask, "where are the other master balls, Cyrus? You didn't just leave your plans up to some ancient red chains. You're not that dumb, are you? You paid Mars and Jupiter because they made contingencies after contingencies. Where are they?" she asked.
"You always were clever," he said. "But even so. Team Galactic is not a wartime enterprise. We do not enable individuals to go to war. We have no other master balls, Dawn." He said. She dropped to the ground, not out of despair. Not because she believed him. But because her own legs could not stand.
The man wheezed. "I wanted to craft a world without pain or hurt. Our efforts for clean energy, and conflict-free resources were, in fact, honest. I had only ever kept one master ball. Perhaps Mars or Jupiter have acquired another in my absence? Time does seem to flow differently here," he said.
"You're a lying bastard," she said, the fury in her eyes, as she sent Pip out, who took a moment to reorient himself in the space. She pointed at Cyrus, who smirked.
"I know," Cyrus said.
"Ice Beam!" the girl cried, barely avoiding the desire to strangle the man herself, she let her pokemon finish the job. As her empoleon lit their little outcropping into frost. She picked up Cyrus' pokebelt, covered in ice. It was a good thing they didn't end it in one final battle. She'd have won of course, because that was who she was.
But his pokemon would have lost. She held it up before setting it up and stuffing it into her bag. Her arms wobbled. She wobbled, even on the ground, Cyrus' masterball still floated in the air, before falling to the ground. That was it. The life she'd lived up to the last three years. It was over. The man was gone. She knelt down on an outcropping of grass, Pip running to her side as she planted her face into the logic-defying greenery, and sobbed, her own mind rippled, nearly tearing itself apart at the seams as the dams she'd built, boons she'd received slipped away.
It was Pip that had nudged her in worry that let her get back up. Dawn wasn't sure how long it had been when she'd realized she was still alive in the distortion. That red feather and pip and her psychic training probably keeping her alive. She rolled onto her back, looked up into the void, the fractal, disparate little floating islands, some with infinite streams of water drifting up, others with curious little streams of black went back up.
In the distance, a little stream of pink dripped off another island not far off. Something about those two streams were a kind of comfort in the void of an uncaring, ontological deity. Dawn got, let herself cry, then in rage, kicked the frozen body. Then, she took it, grabbed an arm, and with a heave, under the crackling ice, tore the arm free with a few yanks.
The tossed out a pokeball and let her Alakazam out, and pointed at the dead body. Alakazam knew what to do, and used a series of psychic blasts to dislodge Cyrus' frozen body from the ice. She grabbed a leg, not wanting her pokemon to do it for her, and threw the body off the side of their little floating island, the corpse to decompose into the void until it separated out into its disparate pieces of matter as the distortion ate at the organization of cells.
Part of her was numb, and yet, her face was wet.
Her fourth pokeball was gone. She cried into the dirt. She'd thrown her own master ball? She cried for minutes, into the air and sky. She was before giratina. And yet, he was gone. She'd moved, she'd walked, her escort gone, she floated into the mist. She stumbled upon a ball with an "M" on it. It was hers. Or Cyrus had just seen the god and threw his own ball and yet had lost his own vision of success.
Had Dawn herself, in her own rage, forgotten?
Dawn had forgotten. What had she forgotten? She asked. Her own hair had shifted black, her own skin turning gray as the cursed item did its work, the feather she wore glowing, as if to counteract her own death sentence. He offered her a wish. She had asked for his help. He'd accepted. She'd asked to prevent this from ever being able to happen in the first place. And he gave her the path. She screamed, a gnawing hunger, and the gnawing loneliness of an eternity and life alone ate away.
The visions of a man in a tan coat, approaching her after she'd left the pokecenter, pulling her aside for the first time. And yet, the feather on her had glowed, as her skin and face and body rippled, as by all means the weight of a god killed her, and yet, the girl lived. Giratina had offered to give her a chance, the ball in her hand held not the entity's spawn. Not the prince who would ascend, but the king who had no throne.
Her skin had shifted gray, the oxygen lost its favor, Dawn's mask fell off. She dropped it to the ground. She breathed in the air, felt the ripples, she sucked in the distortion, as if it was her food. Her heart had stuttered, the feather glowed, having consumed her body in a one-time fire. She stood up. She picked up the pokeball off the ground, her face turned to a grin. She felt inside where she needed to go. She was excited, because for once, she could stop a disease before it could spread.
Her escort had returned, and had followed her to her destination. She stood up, she checked her body—she seemed fine. She sipped the nectar of the world for one last time, knowing it could be years before she partook of it again. A rend, a crack below glowed, the distortion world spewed forth, her limbs were strong now. She flexed, stood back, and jumped into the open chasm in the sky, the sheer pressure of the distortion of the world pushing her out, leaving giratina's child behind, the portal itself began to close.
Dawn fell to the ground of an old temple atop mount Coronet, the contents of her pack spilling to the ground, to the tune of a surprised shout of a pair of humans. The girl stood up. The air was thin here. Both were breathing heavy. She knew this place, but the memory was distant. The blonde man shouted, stomping his foot on the ground.
"Who are you!?! Where is Giratina? What have yo—" he asked in anger as she stood up, her muscles no longer wobbling as she took a step forward. His face was wiped of all disdain as he stared into her eyes. The pair were supposedly in the middle of a battle? A pokemon was out, as she stepped forward. Drinking in deep the fading distortion that had spilled forward.
Dawn flexed her muscles. She felt strong. She wanted to roar, but a cough came out instead. A boy with blue hair and traditional sinnohan wear stood across, recalling his ghostly typhlosion as she fell to her knees, coughing, hacking her lungs out. The feather around her neck was gone, only a silver chain. She did not know why, but the last word she felt on her lips, fading memories, she remembered.
She was Dawn. She had a god on her belt, and calamities to prevent. And with the power of a god, she would prevent them. Because that was who she was. What she would do. And reality itself would quake under her will.