Volkner's Journal.
October 12th, 1985.:
Houndour carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst... well... everything. Sinnoh is afraid of me. I have seen its true face.
The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of hax and ubers, and when the drain finally spills over, all the cheaters will drown.
The accumulated filth of all their pokeSAVing and ARing will foam up about their waists and all the trainers and coordinaters will look up and shout "save us!"...
... and I'll look down and whisper "No."
They had a choice, all of them. They could have followed in the footsteps of good men like Marilland, or Kite.
Decent men, who believed in a day's win for a day's battle.
Instead they followed the droppings of Cyrus and Team Rocket and didn't realize that the trail led over a Ban until it was too late.
Don't tell me they didn't have a choice.
Now the whole metagame stands on the brink, staring down into bloody hax, all those garchomps and palkias and Arceus'...
... and all of a sudden, nobody can think of anything to say.
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Volkner's Journal. October 13th 1985.:
Slepted all day. Awoken at 4:37. Noob is complaining about cheating. He has five arceus by five different hacker's. I am sure he cheats on everything else.
Soon it will be dark.
Beneath me, this awful country, it screams like an abattoir full of retarded bidoofs.
On Friday night, a Mr. Mime died in Veilstone.
Somebody knows why.
Down there.
Somebody knows.
The day care reek of fornication and bad egg moves.
I believe I shall take my exercise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
First visit of the evening fruitless. Nobody knew anything. Well, this was a disappointment.
This city is dying of iPKRS. Is the best I can do to let random newcomers get heart Scales?
Never despair.
Never surrender.
I leave the human caterpiesto discuss their Tournaments and youtube vids. I have buisness elsewhere, with a better battle format.
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Volkners's Journal. October 13th 1985. 8.30 P.M.:
Meeting with the Cyrus left bad taste in mouth. He is pampered and decadent, betraying even his own Pokemon.
Possibly homosexual? Remember to investigate further.
Rowan as bad. A flabby failure who sits whimpering in his labrotory.
Why are so few of us left active, healthy, and without hacked pokemon?
The first the Champion runs a Gym in kanto.
The first Red is a bloated, aging failure, rotting at the top of a mountain.
Giovanni was ran off in a gym back in '96'.
Your rival is a hyperactive juvenile traine
The first Elite 4 retired in disgrace, defeated 6 times by a boy form Pallet seeking revenge.
Mr. Fuji got kidnapped
Lance is gone.
Only two names remain on my list.
Both share private quarters at the Power Plant.
I shall go to them.
I shall go and tell the indestructible pokemon that someone plans to murder him.
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Volkners's Journal, October 13th, 1985. 11.30 P.M.:
On Friday night, a Mr. Mime died in Veilstone.
Someone threw him down a Fissure and when he hit the ground his head was driven into his stomach.
Nobody cares.
Nobody cares but me.
Are they right? Is it futile?
Soon it will be down to the wire. Millions will Faint. Millions will not be revived.
Why does one clumsy, painful KO matter against so many?
Because there is Galactics, and Galactice must be punished. Even in the face of ax, I shall not compromise in this.
But there are so many deserving of hax...
... and there is so little time.
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Volkners's Journal. October 16th, 1985:
Pokemon center, lower floor: wi-fi's logo draped across every wall, every display littering the floor.
Was offered hacked movesets and hacked species...
... but not legit Legends.
Normal pokemon; like Salamence, Staraptor, Foretress...
They just don't exist anymore.
Thought about Cynthia's story on the way to the Soleceon.
Could it all be lies. Could all be part of some revenge scheme, planned during her decade during this game's developement.
But if true, then what? Puzzling reference to Fight Area. Also to Prof. Oak. might be at risk in some way? So many questions.
Never mind. Answers soon. Nothing is insoluble.
Nothing is hopeless.
Not while there's life.
In the underground all the secret base enterences stood in a line on the wall, neat chalk marks on a giant scoreboard.
Paid last respects quietly without fuss.
Mr Mime, born in 1924, route 210, egg hatched, a Mr. Mime, died 1985, Fainted in the sun.
Is that what happens to us? A life of conflict with no time for real friends...
...so that when it's done, only our enemies still use splash.
Violent lives, ending violently. OU, BL, UU.. we never died in bed.
Not allowed.
Something in our personalities, perhaps? Some pokemon urge to fight and struggle, making the breed we are?
Unimportant we do what we have to do.
Others bury their heads between the swollen teats of indulgence and gratification, metapod squirming beneath torterra for shelter...
...But there are no tortera...
...And future is bearing down like an Agiligross.
Mr. Mime understood. treated it like a joke, but he? understood. He saw the hax in the teams, saw the noobs in diapers trying to hold it together...
It saw the true face of the metagame and chose to become a reflection, a parody of it.
No one saw the joke. That's why it was lonely.
Heard joke once:
Jynx goes to Blissey. Says she's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel.
Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain.
Blissey says "treatment is simple. Funny racial stereotype in thie generation tonight. Go and see it. That should pick you up."
Jynx burst into tears.
Says "But, Blissey..."
"I am that racial stereotype."
Good joke.
Everybody laugh.
Roll on snare drum.
nextmap.
FullmetalOni Community Member 
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