[event #1] `this isn't how the story goes // gold & mario

[lyra]

He isn't moving.

“Gold?”

He isn't moving.

This can't be happening.

This isn't how the story goes.

Lyra's wrists strain against the metal, pull and twist, pull and twist, pull and twist. They're small things, the sort that most people can stretch their thumb and pinky around, bringing them together with ease, the sort that kept her from wearing bracelets back when they seemed like the most fashionable things in the whole world. She used to hate them for it. It had never occurred to that they might come in handy one day. Of course, it had never occurred to her that she'd be handcuffed to a pipe in...wherever they were either. Thoughts of handcuffs are best left to stories and dares, the kind that would make any one of her friend flush and stammer as she giggled at their expense.

The bit about pipes is guesswork. A conclusion that Lyra had come to after forcing herself to pay attention to anything but the panic rising in her throat as the figure beside her remained motionless and silent. The trickle of running water - a hiss in the darkness interrupted by the occasional creak and groan. The feeling of metal beneath her fingers when she stretched them out - cold and unyielding. A basement? A warehouse? Some kind of maintenance facility? It's too dark to be sure. It's too dark, and he isn't moving.

The darkness doesn't allow her to make out much beyond the all too familiar figure at her side. He hasn't said a word since Lyra came to, and she wants nothing more than to reach out to him, to make sure he's okay, but she can't...

Pull and twist, pull and twist, pull and twist.

...yet.

The familiar weight of her belt is gone, some of her best friends taken from her. Are they scared and alone somewhere? The thought brings anger with it, a white hot rush that makes her shake and pull at her bonds even harder, to pull and twist and pull again, to clench her fingers tight to one another until they feel like they're going to break with the force of all her tugging and twisting, until the metal scrapes her flesh raw as it presses against flesh and bone, tearing at it. Lyra doesn't even notice the blood until the wetness worms it's way under the metal of her cuffs, until it gives them that extra push and they slip and scrape their way over her knuckles and strike the pipe behind her with a sharp ting that makes her blood run cold.

What if someone heard it?

Lyra grits her teeth in the darkness and waits. She wait and waits and waits for what feels like eternity. She waits until every creak, and groan, and hiss starts to make her jump. She's always hated waiting, but this is even worse. It takes everything she has not to reach out for Gold, to wait until she's sure that whoever put them here isn't coming back just yet.

Once she's mostly sure that nobody is going to leap out of the shadows to do away with them, she reaches over and gives Gold's shoulder a gentle shake.

He isn't moving. Why isn't he moving?

Lyra shakes him again, a bit too hard this time, a bit too desperate, even though she knows he can't be dead. He's the king of the world, after all, and the king of the world doesn't die in a place like this.

word count: 580 | tags: gold & mario alfero | other: gold first then mario?

[gold]

[attr="class","bobnweave"]TAG(S)
mario alfero

NOTES
i'd like to think gold's more hurt bc he did more things to piss mario off, but up to you.

When he was young - young, younger than he currently is, war can make even a child feel old beyond his years - his mother would tell him stories. A pauper embarks with nothing but some bronze coins and his mother's blessing, claws his way past disasters and hardships and people to become king, returns with a hero's welcome. On normal days, he's asleep before the part where the pauper charms his way into the princess's heart - other days(rare and inconsequential) result in stomping feet, clapping hands to the rhythm of a chant for another, more. And his mother smiles, stifles a yawn behind the palm of her hand before launching into another tale about peasants who become rulers(change a few words, replace a few names and no one will notice, certainly not a child).

What comes after the happy ending is of no consequence. Endings are often like that - they aren't meant to be questioned because no one cares what happens after. He dreams of climbing a tower that keeps growing until it pierces the sky, and the dream itself covers the crumbling base that threatens to give way and crash down to earth. Up, up, grasping blindly at the stars that litter the heavens -

Stories only stay stories until they become reality.

It's a stealth mission, he tells his troops - they, as a whole, would make too much noise for there to be any chance of success, and the consequences of getting caught are too high a risk to take. Higher ups, as they're expected to, question him - some of them advise seeking help from an overseer, while others attempt to sway the decision towards a more strategical advance, as opposed to a one-man charge. Gold shakes his head at their suggestions, smirks at their concern while the red lights in his brain begin to light up, one by one. Deep down, his gut clenches with the knowledge that he's doing this only for himself - it's an opportunity to make reckless decisions without the burden of another hundred lives, and the cold reality of that truth makes bile rise up in his throat to the point of suffocation.

Consciousness comes to him in waves - bleary and unclear at first, but rapidly focusing into clear, acute sounds that makes the thought of sight seem almost appealing. What was once a haze of shadows thins out into shapes, looming and barely visible; a welt that's begun to form under his eye pushes half of this limited vision further, a half-sliver that laps greedily at any light source available. To his right, a chain rattles on the ground, movement following the sound of his name(his real name) that rolls off the tongue like oil on water. And he twists, wrists grating on handcuffs as his brain screams Who gave you permission to call me that, private?, tongue twisting in his mouth like a dying fish gasping for air. It's when the first syllable leaves his lips that he remembers and breaks off, the sound dying off in a whistle through short intervals of air that echo in the enclosed space.

"..You okay?" Safety has never been one of his top priorities, but this is different, something that ranks above even the welfare of his troops. To say that Lyra's safety has always been on his mind is a lie, but to say that he hasn't once thought of her is one far more grievous. "Didn't do anything to you...did they." There's not a lot of space to move. Gold rolls over and shakes the hand shaking him off, swallowing. The walls of his throat crack in tune with the rattle of chains, metallic flecks of saliva and blood coating the inside of his mouth. In the darkness, he closes his eyes and breathes in, out, in again.

(What happens to the peasant after he becomes king?)

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[mario alfero]

Fortune had come. He licked his lips behind his cliche, but durable mask. His breathing was labored. This was his chance for revenge now. His. No one else's. Just him and these two little 'winners' against his former job. He could not be more elated, having two Pokemon out already. He was crying on the inside, maybe even laughing. Just like a clown. He had one a very awful, scary looking clown mask. It had purple streaks of makeup on it. Two white dots for eyes, no nose, a big, scary smile. He'd even taken the time to change his appearance. It was wonderful, he looked like he was two feet taller due to an odd choice of footwear over his regular boots. A bit difficult to run in, but he'd manage if he needed to chase anyone down. He wore a fully black leotard. It was perfect, discern nothing about him or his Pokemon. Make it seem like you don't even exist to these kids. That's why he's also painted his face black too.

King, queen, how about the joker? The wild card, the happenstance, the true card of scares? The card that can make or break any situation imaginable? He stepped into the room, the clangs and whistles of steam feeling just like his home. He was a janitor after all. This felt just like his old room back in Rocket, the valves turning, the pipes churning, Arceus, SUCH A RUSH! Ah, but he had heard the clang. The beautiful clang of someone in deeper dung than former thieves that couldn't run away. The two would be overwhelmed by a smell most foul. It was a smell of both garbage and possibly even waste of all kinds. Ah, but he would wait, there's no need to rush just yet. Not when he has every opportunity to lock these bastards down again. He moves backwards from the duo, being as silent as he could be. What of that stench though. What was that about? The two could hear some light taps in sequence on the wall repeatedly. It echoed. Someone knew you were here from that clang. They would not be happy if you were to just up and disappear. The clangs were probably a command. Only available to the right ears... If any of you were familiar with Morse, it'd be known as 'Acid Armor'. But you probably wouldn't.

Some kind of substance dripped from the ceiling. It was a very murky, disgusting looking stew, probably even a tooth inside one of the drops. Did someone die up there? It sure smelled like it. Mario would have to be absolutely quick. He had his hand on his second ball already, turning on his voice modifier. The man took absolutely no chances in this state. If his identity was leaked to these children... The results for him would be bad indeed. Oh yes... I said, second ball. Mario would begin to try and study a perimeter where they could possibly run.

gold and lyra

[lyra]

When a king is made, he is struck down and born anew. In that moment, when the weight of his crown settles upon his brow for the first time, he becomes the soul of his kingdom. His queen becomes it's heart. 

With bruises blooming across her ribs and blood running down her hands, Lyra doesn't feel like much of a Queen. Though, she hasn't felt that way for a while now. She used to, back when she and Gold had nothing but adventures, and laughter, and belief between them. Back when he made her think that, together, they could conquer the world, but things had changed.

Back then, Lyra used to dream that she was running through tall grass, her hair whipping wildly in the wind, arms outstretched as if to say “come and get me, world!” She would run and run and run until her found herself at the edge of a cliff and then she would leap. There would be no moment's hesitation, no consideration, no looking down, only the childlike belief that she could do anything and that, if she fell, Gold would be her wings. And Gold is still there, isn't he? Still above it all where he belongs, the wings that Lyra no longer needs. No, not that she no longer needs, that she can no longer accept.

Lyra has cast off her crown, set it aside in the grass and tried to forget about it. It's easier that way, distancing herself from all of the adventures that she can no longer have, from Gold the champion, and Gold the general, and Gold the hero. 

The only one that she hasn't been able to extricate herself is Gold the boy – the man, now – all wolfish smiles and easy confidence, bravado and concern. He has taught her that sometimes, the more things change, the more they stay the same. She wishes that things had stayed the same.

Lyra doesn't have enough fingers to count out the number of times she's dreamed of adventure, of what was rather than what is – the day to day: fold the laundry, cook dinner for grandpa, check on the pokemon – it isn't that she minds exactly, it's just that she was once destined for greatness and there's a hollow something that's been left in it's wake. That's how she ended up here, bound beside Gold and, even now, when things have gone so far south they're hard to comprehend, Lyra isn't entirely sorry that she came to help. After all, what would the King of the world do without his Queen?

“Are you okay?”

You're alive!

Lyra grins, a thing that lights up her whole face, and reclaims her crown. I am now she wants say but, instead, the king receives a brief nod and the (no doubt) expected “yeah, 'course I am.”

Lyra's always okay. That's the rule.

She was okay when they'd set out together, okay when he'd left her alone in the woods that one time she'd really gotten on his nerves (she was all tears and smiles when he returned to collect her, but not mad, not really, even if she had yelled at him a lot), okay when grandma passed and she had to lie to his face and tell him that she was tired of adventuring ('with you' settling unsaid between them, unmeant, but heard nonetheless). That's how the story went. Or rather, that's how Lyra wanted it to go. Thankfully, Gold had remembered all the times that she'd openly sobbed into his shirt over nothing at all, turning it into a mess of tears and snot and wet, and never pried. That, too, was for the best. She doesn't want to worry him. And she really is fine – if she ignores the part of herself that feels alive right now.

Knuckles raw and bleeding, danger lurking in the darkness, and Gold at her side: Lyra feels alive in a way that she hasn't in months – a dangerous thing. Dangerous, but she has to be here. 

(after all, what point is there in a heart without a soul?)

Steam hisses through the pipes and Lyra falls silent to listen.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

...Clink. Clink. Clink. Hiss.
Clink. Clink. Clink. Hiss.
Drip. Drip. Drip...

That's new.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

What the---?

Lyra scrunches up her nose. “Eww, what's that smell?” No, really. She didn't notice it before but it's awful. “Ugh, it like an exeggcute died in here. ” She's about halfway through her complaint when she sees it, shadow on shadow, the briefest flicker of movement in the corner of her eye.

“Hey, Gold.” Her fingers reach out to squeeze his arm in the darkness.

There's someone else in the room.

“We're gonna get out of here, right?”

There's someone else in the room.

Lyra tries not to sound as uncertain as she has begun to feel.

There's someone else in the room.

word count: 812 | tags: gold & mario alfero | other: I don't even know, guys xP

[gold]

[attr="class","bobnweave"]TAG(S)
mario alfero

NOTES
aaaaa i don't like this post, sorry about the wait.

Thinking has never been his forte. Silver, on the other hand, happens to excel at it - with their relationship always on the brink of friendly and not, his jibes will sometimes take on a different tone, mold into the barest hint of concern that struggles with the idea of being seen. Back when he was the pauper chasing a throne, thinking meant nothing but wasted time, tedious effort better spent honing strength and forging bonds. These days, he's learned that thinking can mean the difference between saving a life and unnecessary casualties. Other generals - veterans, they call themselves - spew romanticized tales of sacrifice and heroism, claiming these lives, the expandability of these existences are only what's necessary for the war effort. Lives can be taken for granted, they say. There are always more willing to fight for their chosen, glorious cause.

They are kings for now, sitting atop their thrones with power on the tips of their tongues. Gold rejects the crown and tucks robes of conquest and victory underneath the carpet - those days have long passed, and reality has no choice but to fade into stories as time moves forward. People may forget now, but they will remember one day - he's an ex-champion, not a fallen king. And one day, he'll rise back up and take what's rightfully his without fail.

Bright flickers of light dance across his vision. Gold blinks once - a king is human too, and for a moment, he forgets where he is - before shaking his head vigorously, teeth grinding in the back of his mouth to the point of pain. This isn't like before - back then, a child's mistakes meant only the humiliation of loss, second chances he never got the opportunity to appreciate before they were snatched away for good. Back then, he was responsible for himself and nobody else - no extra lives to account for, none of the anxiety that he's never been able to completely quell, no matter how hard he tries. A child sets out with nothing but a pokemon and his mother's blessings, battles his way through trainers and gym leaders and the league to become champion -

That's how it's supposed to go, at least. He's supposed to be conquering the world with Lyra, having adventures and meeting new people. Instead, she shuts herself off and he returns from every battle with a list of addresses to visit. My condolences, I'm sorry - sometimes all he has to do is look at the parents for them to know. The gaze of a murderer is unmistakable.

Reading people has also never been his forte. Years of traveling with Lyra has allowed him a better grasp on her, but the fact that he still spends his free time imagining scenarios that could have possibly forced their separation means that grasp is still weak, fragile like shards of glass. Perhaps that's why he doesn't understand why she pulls the rescue stunt that she did - how she got word of it doesn't matter, but why now, of all times? Why try to protect him when it's supposed to be the other way around? In the red haze of darkness that surrounds them, light-headed and teetering on the line of sanity, he suddenly becomes furious. Furious at Lyra for intervening at the worst of times, furious at himself for failing to protect her at the most crucial of times - most of all, he's furious at the swirling pit of emotions in his gut, a mix of nervous anxiety and disappointment instead of the expected relief. That anger boils until it spills over, injecting a burst of energy so strong it makes him jerk up, head grazing one of the pipes overhead. He's not escaping for himself anymore; Lyra's presence changes everything. Stakes are higher, time is of the essence and freedom seems farther away than it's ever been before. When he closes his eyes, his heartbeat rushes into his ears - in the distance, another sound rushes by and encompasses him like a protective cloak, eventually molding into one. In the distance, tapping sounds can be heard, and when the smell hits, Gold smirks with the side of his lip that isn't swollen purple.

"...Yeah." It takes him a moment to answer - his tongue's swollen too, he realizes this when the last syllable catches in his throat, forcing him to end the sentence prematurely. "It'll be a challenge, though. We'll need to work together." An adventure, like old times. The rusty chains that bind his hand to the pipe are old and rusted - he can tell by the way they flake when his fingers run over them, it won't take long to break free. Vaguely, he's aware of the fact that they took his pokemon, that there's a figure hiding in the grimy darkness of the room. The iron taste has yet to fade from his mouth. Gold mutters a swear under his breath and spits blindly, the sound echoing off the walls.

This isn't how it's supposed to be, but it'll do, he supposes.

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[mario alfero]

In cards, sometimes it all depends on luck. Sometimes it all depends on skill. Sometimes it all depends on how well you can bluff and intimidate the opponent before they slink into an alleyway, penniless and about to die alone as a street urchin. Mario had rubbed his gloved hands, covered by the leotard itself. He flexed his fingers slowly and thought up a plan. He would make sure he was out of the room and far enough away from it, and made a few more clinks for intimidation. The two precocious little kings could hear the clunking and deep grumbling of the peasants. Mario pulled out a radio. It was one not used for communication, but for music. He had adjusted some dials and set it down as it began to play 'Toreador March' in a cutesy, mocking fashion. It echoed so loudly through the boiler room, you'd swear that you had just stumbled into someone's improv horror movie.

Maybe that's exactly it. The joker wanted blood. The joker wanted penance for the best years of his life being taken away from him because some kids got uppity and ruined his chances at a decent life in Rocket. The joker wanted them to sit in this place and realize what they've done. Unlucky for both of them, that's exactly what he'd be going to do. He had outright banged on the surrounding pipes, causing massive resonance throughout the area that kind of shook your ears. The smell near Lyra would seem to intensify as something dripped onto the ground near her feet. It was purple sludge. Could it have been...a Muk? They would both hear Mario whisper very, very quietly over the radio, disguised of course. It wasn't hard to make out words that didn't belong in a wordless song. "Infestation."

Mario had a little history with this move, and it's imperative to learn why. Back in the day, Mario would use this move quite effectively to con people out of their money as an exterminator and a janitor. A bunch of non-descript bugs? Perfect money to make, wouldn't you agree? He would set them up around and in the house, and then collect money once he 'got rid' of them. Of course, now he couldn't do so without fear of hurting Zemina's overall stature. Less money is more than a fair trade off for keeping your life.

Why is this important now? Bugs had started to come from the walls. They started to pool around Lyra and Gold's feet and legs to try and keep them in one place. Of course, that's up to how fast they can react... They were bitey, after all. Mario began to run further down the corridors of pipes and valves to a big, open room. It was sort of like a place for a spare boiler and its parts, intended for lazy storage. The parts were even still there. Perfect. This was where he'd lie in wait. Something came from the scrap near Mario with a quizzical moan. It was his Garbodor.

He began to whisper, "They escaped... Help me out here." He held out some kind of squirt gun that had some kind of odd residue covering the inside and outside a little. Mario made sure to position his hands just right... "Acid Spray into this, will ya?" The Garbodor nodded with a groan, as Lyra and Gold could hear that moan resonating, but not the whispering. The Garbodor stuck one of its metal fingers near the place where you load water into the squirt gun, and filled it up with acid that sloshed about inside. Mario put the thing together, and started pumping it. Each pump thudded and made distinguishable noises. To Gold and Lyra, it sounds like someone's being murdered. To Mario, it was just him filling a squirt gun with acid.

Mario would lie in wait. If they had escaped the bugs, good for them, they would have to stumble into phase two of his little plan eventually... Unluckily for them, Mario had two Pokemon out already, and that was most likely going to be all he needed.

Mario whispered, "Let's see how they dance..."

 gold and lyra

[lyra]

If Lyra is a twig getting swept down river, then Gold is a rock, catching her, steadying her against the rush and sheltering her from the spray.

"Yeah. It'll be a challenge, though. We'll need to work together.” He speaks with such easy confidence and, as per usual, Lyra misses the doubt, trusts him far too much for her own good. Is that how his men feel?

He speaks of teamwork. Lyra has heard these words before, heard them half a dozen times. They used to herald the coming of an adventure, or particularly difficult gym battle, or a climb. Gold had been the one to teach her how to climb the treacherous peaks scattered throughout the region and he'd always been surprisingly supportive about the whole lack of confidence thing. Each time, they'd worked as a team. Gold would lead and Lyra would follow, until she caught up and they were moving side by side.

Even now, when she'd all but abandoned him, he was looking to put things to rights. A team...when was the last time she'd been part of a team with her friends, with anyone? Not just longed for it, but actually been involved in something other than the day to day drudgeries that came with the raising of baby pokemon (not that she didn't love those cute little lumps to pieces but, still, it wasn't exactly the same either)? When was the last time she'd called Silver stubborn and thrown something at his stupid handsome face, or whittled away the night talking with Plat or Crys on her Pokegear, or lain in the grass with Gold staring up at the sky until it turned dark and their parents called them in for dinner?

Too long.

Lyra tries to pretend that the realization doesn't hurt. Smiles her brightest smile, and hopes that it reaches her eyes. It doesn't, but Gold has always known her well enough to know when to ask questions and when not to – that's how they ended up getting into this whole mess, isn't it? Not the kidnapping,but the tension hovering between them, the unspoken, the unasked, resentment on both sides all hastily covered over with the familiar – familiar phrases and forced cheer. Why was the one time she needed him to ask her what was wrong the one time he hadn't?

Part of her still wants to ask. She nearly does, but the music starts and the words never come. The eerie melody echoes off pipes and cement in time with the clanging and dripping . Lyra shudders. It isn't from the cold.

Something is touching her.

“A-alright. Yeah. We can do this.” She curses herself for letting her vice waver, struggles to pull herself together. She has to, she knows that. Gold needs her, and it's a heady feeling...just like old times (even if it was usually the other way around). Lyra takes a breath to steady herself as she feels something, no, many somethings, against her legs, crawling up her socks, scampering across the bits of bared flesh just beneath the hem of her shorts.

Another shudder runs through her. Something's not right.

“Gold, do you feel that?” And then the biting starts.

Lyra is off the floor in an instant, no longer pretending that she's still chained. Her hands slap at her legs and sides, scattering creepy crawlies in every direction. Lyra doesn't notice where they land. She doesn't care. She just wants them off.

The pipes around her moan. It sounds like laughter, and Lyra stomps angrily on whatever bugs might remain in the darkness, anxious to keep them from climbing her again, to stop the laughter, even though she knows better, know that the pipes aren't really laughing at their misfortune.

Stupid bugs. Stupid smell. Stupid Gold. Not that this is his fault, but Lyra can't help but lump him in with everything else. If he hadn't mentioned the attack. If he wasn't going to be there...If, if if.

You didn't have to come, you know. And she does, she knows that. Hell, Gold had told her as much when she'd arrived, told her to go home where she belonged, but it hadn't done a lick of good. Lyra was nothing if not stubborn and she had been determined to help in any way that she could, determined to relive what they'd once had. But things weren't the same, they couldn't be, and the stink of the room persisted, and the bugs just kept coming, and Gold spat blood in the darkness, and everything was all wrong.

I hate this place. I hate it. I hate it. I hate.

[mario alfero]

Mario smirked. He knew that girls think bugs would be so icky and disgusting. But this wasn't your average playground song and dance. He would have had a plan for this at least. He gave a loud chuckle, one that sounded like it came from a skeevy, shady freak of nature. Probably a Pokemaniac or something along those lines. Were you captured by some sicko? Oh yes. Mario was sick. Sick of losing his damn jobs to children. Now he was able to redeem himself. He was going to make the most of it...

Mario gave a deep, whisper among the still-going melody, "Gunk Shot." The Garbodor looked over at Mario, sticking a hand into its chest. Mario immediately looked at the Garbodor and shook his head in a 'no' fashion. The Garbodor would relent and sit on the floor like a curious child. Mario gave a quiet whisper. "Don't worry, Enrique, you'll probably get your chance if this keeps up. Just relax, yeah...? We got 'em, no question." Mario situated himself into a good corner of shadow, among some junk too. He lightly moved some useless boiler parts, giving him a good view of the larger room should Lyra come here. Of course...

Back in Lyra's position, something had pooled at her feet more. It was purple goop. A lot of it. A very, very low guttural growl come from behind her as something scraped across the floor. Ah, but that wasn't all. That sludge from the ceiling and floor most likely belonged to something... That Muk was a dastardly sort of dude. Now, it was wielding a mess of parts and a mess of filthy garbage it pulled from itself. It threw it at her no matter what action she'd take, and it was intent on trying to damage her enough to get her to fall and make friends with Mr. Floor.

                                                                     tag: lyra