With a prologue of such melodrama and bombastic iambics, the hunger of the AUDIENCE takes root. They ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ as the opening performance is garnished with the movements of the pokemon—pumpkaboo, zubat, and the enchanting espeon—and fall obediently to hush as Blackthorne cedes the stage to the second lead.

Tap, tap, tap. Little clomping steps reveal the competitor. The audience, already silent, somehow become even quieter as they’re faced with a costumed Pignite. The pokemon tugs at his ruffled collar and takes a stand, looking so much tinier on the large stage, alone.

But he wasn’t really alone, was he?

Tap tap tap! comes a little past the stage, confident taps of a baton on the metal edge of a music rack. A pansear has perched on the rack, and despite his small stature, looks anything but meek. He’s wearing a little fitted suit, prim and pressed. His hands are outstretched with the wand on his left, forcing the NPC-POWERED ORCHESTRA under his command. He bows with a flourish, but not to the audience—his eyes are to his teammate, as if saying, I’ve got you.

Pignite swallows his nerves, and speaks as loudly, as bravely as he can.

<Behold, our Lord, how could we fault him thus?> His prose doesn’t come anywhere close to Blackthorne’s, shorter and more punctual, his movements stiffer, his expression limited by what he’s born with. <For he sings only of humble pleasures. Who has not yearned for love, for warmest light?> Yet the audience watches, captured by the novelty of a pokemon’s serenade, of his genuine melancholy and the gentle music that cradles it.

<But as Icarus and his waxen wings,> Pignite turns, arm outstretched to point to Blackthorne behind the curtains. <Our Lord, blind to the stars he was given,> the music drops into a dire melody, <Is fated to burn for seeking the sun.>

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

High above, something is scurrying across the catwalk. They are heavy steps, masked only by the orchestra below, and have to pause every so often to avoid notice.

The thing is, the game was already set the moment the curtains were drawn. Kazuki had signed up for a duel, had been all too eager for it, but what he’d gotten instead was a Broadway performance. Blackthorne had gone through one line before Kazuki decided ’Fuck this’ and switched out his team, knowing full damn well that he had no talent and certainly no stage experience. No prose either, as evidenced by the abysmal haiku that had earned Blackthorne’s ire (next to the assault). If he were to charge in as he usually did in the arena, the battle would be won in the first second, as if by divine karma—

—that is, if this wasn’t a Pokémon game.

He can hear his team working their asses off downstairs. He’d chosen Pansear for the monkey’s cunning and intelligence; he could trust him with supporting their actor. He didn't even come up with the orchestra idea. Pignite, he knew, has been secretly reading human poetry since finding out about his original trainer—perhaps in an effort to connect with him. Perhaps out of pettiness.

Regardless, he’s out of the limelight right now, assigning himself as a stagehand. The worst stagehand this theater would ever see.

Chuckling evilly, like the rat he is, Kazuki reaches out with burning fingertips.

A heavy sandbag comes falling down above Blackthorne’s head.

SPOILER: Click to show

{Prompts}
Kazuki (Black Belt)
- attempt to crush your opponent

Pignite
- make yourself the center of attention

Pansear
- act without orders