Chapter 8: R16 | Who Won IPL 51?

A screaming ate the air. The weight of it and you knew in an instant it wasn't the same screaming. Then you looked at the stands. The bodies were like a split lip of skin yanked back: bare metal shone underneath, but the texture and the creasing and the rippling of the skin made you think you saw blood. "Oh my god," you heard someone shout. Only then did you see what the hundreds crawling over themselves to escape saw: the veil of mist like nightshade, sweeping across the corrugation of the stands, swallowing people, turning them necrotic.

You back away from the vision; it becomes clear you're on the opposite end of the stadium, safe, an observer. Two people run past, then a third appears, filling your lens. "We have to. We have to," is all she says, and somehow you have to, and somehow you're moving along the ridge of the stadium toward the disaster.

That part is oddest of all. It's not odd for anyone else. But it's odd for you, because you in that moment are both the eye observing and the face in the frame: thirteen years younger, but still you. It's odd because you do not remember any of this. You only remember watching it afterward, on the recording they salvaged, and so the you who is watching is more authentic to you than the you being watched. But it's you, and you did this: you ran toward that nightshade gas, and only because of you is there a recording at all.

"We're witnessing an attack on IPL 51," the you that you don't remember reports. Your voice remains clear, even as purple haze tints the air, and your eyes water, and you cover your mouth with your coat.

"Fiorella, we gotta go back. The smell—I can't breathe—"

"There!" Your finger jabs. The camera zooms down the small upper-deck staff concourse you decided to take, almost certainly because every other path was clogged by fleeing spectators. By luck, or fate, or because they had the same idea as you, the terrorists are using the concourse as their escape route. The camera captures them. They are followers of Gregory Sissel, known to his cult as Ghetsis Harmonia Gropius; their goal is to dismantle the system of Pokémon battling foundational to this world. They wear gas masks, they look like aliens, invaders, others, the haunting image of them half-emerged out a violet mist—piecemeal, limbless, coming apart—will become the most famous image of the year. Beholding this image, you collapse, and then so does your eye beholding yourself as the man drops it to drag you to safety.

When you awoke from the coma they gave you an award. In your home it sits, centerpiece of an impeccable living room. Gold body streaming skyward. The plaque reads:

PRESENTED FOR JOURNALISTIC BRAVERY

TO FIORELLA SOSA

It's no longer even your name.

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Though she didn't remember the tragedy at IPL 51 consciously, some residual trace was imprinted on her soul, because as Fiorella Fiorina emerged into the cold night air under a crowd enraptured by the most unlikely of underdog victories, she heard their scream change into that other screaming, and the writhing of thousands seemed the start of a growing gash, and until she blinked she thought she noticed a swell of purple amid them.

During group stage, when more matches were played per day and there was less time for the groundsmen to clear the arena, interviews were held indoors. This was the bracket, though, Top 16, and time permitted the drama of a ringside chat in the immediate aftermath of victory. Tonight the phantom memory manifested strongest of all. As she led her cameraman toward the trainer descending the platform her lungs tightened, and breath came constrained, and a sweet-rotten scent invaded her nostrils.

But her heart also beat with a thrill that lent imagined purpose to this meaningless job. She held it together. It was her job, and she would do it better than anyone.

"Aracely! How does it feel to pull off one of the biggest upsets in IPL history?"

Under the floodlights a halo emerged around Aracely's head. She beamed. Perfect teeth. Nothing in her makeup askew. Of course, beautiful. Some might say a born star.

"First off, call me Cely, all my friends do. Second, to be completely honest Fiorella, it feels bittersweet."

"Bittersweet? Is there something about your performance you're not happy about?"

"Of course not. I just keep thinking: it's not over yet."

"An interesting mindset. Most trainers would consider a win like this the highlight of their career."

"No-o, silly. I've got three rounds to go. October 12, that's when it'll be over. Save the date!"

She turned from the microphone to the crowd, whose roar settled into a perceptible chant: CE-LY. CE-LY. CE-LY.

"Aracely, no seed 15 has ever reached finals before. Are you saying you think you'll win the entire tournament?"

"I'm saying I know I will. It's ordained, k? Either root for me now or root for me at the end, but either way, you'll believe. Might as well seek salvation sooner than later, right?"

CE-LY. CE-LY. CE-LY.

"You've certainly won over this crowd at least." That screaming—the nightshade veil. "But tell me, don't you think you're being overconfident? You seemed confounded by Jinjiao's Lopunny. It wasn't exactly perfect play."

Aracely's winsome smile never faded. She never stooped for the microphone, but always waited for Fiorella to lift it to her lips. "Go ahead, doubt me. I can already hear Bill Masaki saying I played sloppy. Hii-i Bill!" Her fingers wiggled as she waved. "I hope to see real juicy comments online tonight too. You guys at home better be dropping your hottest takes. I'll be so disappointed if you've gone quiet already!"

"Thank you Aracely. I'm Fiorella Fiorina and this has been your Post-Match Interview, brought to you by Silph Co., the world leader in Pokémon battling products. Let's turn it over to the Bud Light Analyst Desk to break down that incredible upset. Take it from here, Iono."

Aracely swung away from the camera and lifted her arms to her audience. The chant continued: CE-LY. CE-LY. CE-LY. Their adoration bathed her. Fiorella felt sick to her stomach.

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For security, IPL battlers lodged in a private hotel outside the access of fans and paparazzi, connected to the stadium via underground tunnel. It was close enough that the bombastic crowd noise filtered into the rooms. The night's first match, Jinjiao Zhang versus Aracely Sosa, concluded an hour ago; the second, Gladion Mohn versus Adrian da Cunha, still raged.

The room that belonged to Aracely Sosa was otherwise silent. Not a single sound. No creak, scrape, or shift. It sat in darkness rendered incomplete by only a shaft of light that snuck between the curtains and shined on an empty, unmade bed.

On the other side of the door, footsteps approached. They stopped outside, then slight shuffling, and lastly the rattle of a keycard in its slot. The lock disengaged, the door swung open, and Aracely Sosa stepped inside.

She flipped the light switch and revealed fifteen figures in white robes.

"Oh," she said.

"Turn off the light," said Nilufer, at the head of the congregation.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Aracely turned off the light. Her smile remained a vague afterimage in the dark.

"You have refused too many summons."

"Fi-ine. You made your point." Aracely yawned. "I'll go to headquarters tomorrow. By-y-ye."

"MOTHER will speak to you now."

"Sure. I'll give her a call."

"She's here."

Heads and shoulders floated like ghosts. All presence, once known, remained felt. Hence why into the arrangement of the scene entered a new weight, the unseen edges of a form, unclear in placement or position but there.

Aracely's tone changed. "Okay. The rest of you get out."

No motion.

[Out,] the new voice spoke. The voice that superseded all others, immense and worn like a statue.

Though Aracely remained standing by the door, the forms pushed past her, slipping into the crack of light from the corridor one after another in orderly and soundless fashion.

"You too, Nilufer."

The final form departed. The door shut.

No image of Aracely's smile remained. Cold silence. The exact location of her opposite, the counterbalance of character that made composition possible, slowly identified itself. Traces of fragmentary white line to sculpt the slopes of shoulders: a figure seated on the extreme corner of Aracely's bed, just beyond the light.

The silence broke when Aracely blurted: "The flash drive—" She cut off as though interrupted.

"Continue."

"The flash drive—you understand why I—offered that to you."

"I do. Do you?"

"It's—useful to you, right?"

The form in darkness lay dormant, unsmeared with blood at the base. But a voice, a voice amid the tumult of the distant arena: [No more toys.]

Fear, perhaps, or self-preservation plucked a string of nerve. "Look, I'm not—stupid. Over and over you say this world will end on October 12. You've never said how. What am I supposed to think? A meteor will pop out of the sky? I can figure it out. You plan to make it end."

Silence.

"I went down there. I saw what Bill keeps in that basement. What I gave you is useful. I know it is. I know—"

Her voice caught on the unheard ripple of a black aura. A brief choke gurgled in her throat.

"Come closer," the other said.

At first, there was nothing but slow breathing. Then—a step, another, proof of Aracely's continued existence, until her form drew before the one on the bed.

"Closer."

Another step.

"Lower."

On wisps of knees trembling in the dark, Aracely did as demanded.

In the arena, a fireball flared. The shaft of light streaming through the curtains intensified, briefly rendering the shape of the flowing and endless figure before which Aracely stooped.

"I would," MOTHER said, "rather be loved than feared."

Her arms emerged from herself and entangled around Aracely's bent head.

"Especially by you. Especially by you."

Aracely's head was pulled into MOTHER's body. In the renewed dark their forms mingled, merged, became indistinguishable. One felt the heartbeat of the other, blood pulsing within veins. A remembrance of shared humanity.

A remembrance of shared past, the moment of their first meeting, two broken bodies, abandoned into a pit where their families might forget them. Grasping through dark much like this until they found each other and in each other found purpose. Perhaps even a facsimile of love. But that was the problem. These were not people well suited for love, no matter how they craved it.

"You want to abandon me," MOTHER said.

"You want to use me," Aracely said.

"No. I want you with me. By my side. When this world ends and we ascend together into the next. I need you."

MOTHER was a smell; fine perfume. Her clothes silken. Warmth.

"The flash drive was useful, wasn't it?" Aracely said.

"It was. I have no idea how you knew it would be, but it was."

"I didn't know. I didn't even plan to take it. Ziggy just—everything just happened."

"It's the way you have of things. Your power."

"Serendipity."

"Hands that mold fate. That's why I need you, Cely. My sweet Cely. Let me hold you a while longer."

Both in that moment were willing, against their natures otherwise so cold. They held and imagined the love of a mother and daughter in replacement of what they knew was real. Somewhere a crowd pitched high in excitement for the culmination of a battle.

Finally, MOTHER's arms slipped away, and relinquished Aracely, and their forms disentangled and became separate.

"But I asked you for something else, Aracely."

"Yes, MOTHER."

"The mission I gave you was quite clear, Aracely."

"I know, MOTHER."

"Can you tell me your mission, Aracely?"

"I'm to become a powerful battler. I'm to work with my father to assemble an unbeatable team, so that I might fulfill the tasks you require of me. And I did it! Look at me. Did you watch? I beat Jinjiao. I can beat anyone. Anyone."

"I know. You're strong. I've seen you," MOTHER said. "But that's the issue. Why, having fulfilled my mission, have you not returned to me?"

"It's not like I could tell Dad the real reason I suddenly wanted to battle. So I had to enter his tournaments, and I kept winning, and—"

The cheers of the audience beyond the window were the buzz of an endless horde of insects.

[And you realized you enjoyed it,] MOTHER said.

"No. No, I just—you wanted me to be unbeatable—"

[You became enticed by their games. Toys and games.]

"I had to prove—I really was—"

[You began to believe their narrative. The narrative keeping this world at a standstill. The narrative of endless repetition, annual cycles of pointless entertainment, winners crowned, winners to replace history.]

"I listen to your tapes every day. I still believe—"

[You will believe anything as long as it exalts you!]

"No. No. Don't you see? Even this helps you, MOTHER."

The oracle in the darkness went quiet once more. The sound from the arena quieted in kind, an invitation for Aracely to continue.

"Soon enough they'll realize my connection to you. I know—I know that sounds bad, but listen. After IPL 51, they're paranoid about another attack. If I keep climbing the bracket, their attention will go to me like a lightning rod. They'll expect you to make a move—but at the stadium, where I am. They won't be looking at what you actually plan to do."

"You assume you know what I plan to do."

"I have to assume, since you don't trust me enough to tell me—"

"Trust has no factor in it."

The faint lines of shoulders slumped to the barest extent of perceptibility. A human breath once more possessed the statuesque voice, imbued it with weariness.

"To an extent, you're right. I don't trust. I can't. I can only believe in myself. You understand. It's something we share." She sighed. "No, trust isn't the reason. You're not the only one who's special, Cely. The IPL has its own psychic powers. It knows ways to split open your skull and unspool your thoughts."

"That's all the more reason for me to work independently."

"No, it's reason for you to return to me now. To stay where I can keep you safe. Their own regulations bind them. They can't enter my sanctum without a warrant. Their eyes will never reach you there."

"It's too late. Everyone's already looking at me."

"Their attention spans are fleeting. By design, blooming and dying. Leave now and they'll forget you by October 12."

"Forfeiting this late—"

"You don't understand."

The human element reshaped once more into stone. Solid, unmoving, unmoved:

[You have no choice. You will come with me.]

"MOTHER..."

[You're willful. Rebellious. Like the other children were. I can't have that. They undid me, in the end. I can't have that, not with you. You will come with me.]

Like the best foretellers, her most undeniable fates were those within her power to effect. She came with an entourage, after all. Outside the door fifteen forms waited. Aracely left her Pokémon at the stadium, for her father to pick up. She possessed no power to resist.

So it seemed. But the black form where Aracely stood betrayed no discomposure. As though she, too, were shaping into a more solid figure, one with a will immobile enough to make time's river flow around it. The fear that once commanded her voice vanished in a softly repeated "MOTHER..." whose dwindle hung in the eerie black emptiness. What tone was that? Acquiescence? Melancholy? Or pity? Did Aracely Sosa know what would happen next?

A knock on the door.

"We have a problem," Nilufer said. "Her father's en route."

"We anticipated that," MOTHER said. "Handle him as planned. We need her Pokémon off him anyway."

Nilufer hesitated. "He's not alone. Raj Viswambaran and Yui Matsui are with him. Both armed."

"What? Why them?"

The question was directed at Aracely, but her shapeless self only shrugged. "I had no idea he knew them."

"If it was only him," Nilufer said, "even if it was him and only one—I could do it. But both—"

"You planned this. You knew I would be here. You designed it so they would come."

"I had no idea," Aracely said. "It's only as I said: serendipity."

The form on the bed twinged, and the light from the window illuminated a flicker of face, the point of a chin and twisted lips under a veil, and her voice became frantic, like it was melting: "From the start you intended to betray me. Like them. Like everyone!"

"No need to be melodramatic, MOTHER. Just trust me, k? What I'm doing will help you—"

"Please. Come with me, Cely. I need you. You need me. Remember? We only have each other."

"I've been learning to stand again."

In the brief pause that followed they only stared at one another in a dark grown less omnipresent now that their eyes adjusted. Their forms took shape. Unspoken communication passed between them. The break Aracely intended with this woman who so painstakingly nursed her back to health after her little accident was total. But if you leave me, then on October 12, when this world ends, you'll—be left behind. I know, MOTHER. But you'll disappear like all the rest of them. I know, MOTHER. But why, why? Because I plan to find peace before the end.

"They're in the elevator," Nilufer said. "We need to leave. Now."

The connection severed. MOTHER rose. Folds of silk and lace shuffled and her body became lost within them once more so that as she stepped silently across the carpet Aracely didn't realize until she passed and whispered:

"I love you, Cely."

"I know."

Then the door opened. Aracely watched, within the rectangle of light, the woman in flowing mourning open the parasol she used to shield herself from view. Nilufer took her by the arm to guide her, peered into the senseless dark where Aracely was lost, and the door shut.

For an interval the room was empty.

Then pounding footsteps, a pounding fist, a call: "Cely! Get this door open, we're celebrating!" And the light turned on, the door opened, Cely threw her arms wide and shared Dad's cheer, hugged him as he and Brittany and Raj and Yui stumbled in, Raj saying, "Where's the beer you promised old man," Yui saying, "Underaged drinking woo," and all Cely could think was, why wasn't Toril with them?