Chapter 122: SF2: Gwen VS Patricia
The roar that had swallowed the arena after Dariana's victory was still echoing through the crystal rafters when the lights shifted again.
Not dimming this time—strobing. A rapid-fire pulse of white and gold that sent shadows dancing across the obsidian platforms, the crystalline formations, the thousands of faces packed into the tiered seats. The crowd's energy hadn't dropped; it had mutated, transforming from the raw catharsis of one battle's end into the hungry anticipation of another's beginning.
Dariana had left the field.
Niklaus had vanished into the tunnels.
The cleanup crews—small teams of Pokémon and handlers working with practiced efficiency—had already restored the battlefield. The shattered crystals had been swept away. The scorch marks from Toxicroak's Gunk Shot had been polished from the white stone dais.
It looked pristine. Untouched. As if nothing violent had ever happened there.
Patricia Crownleaf stood at the edge of the trainer's tunnel, her back pressed against cool stone, her eyes closed.
She could hear the crowd beyond the wall. She could feel the vibration of their stomping feet through her boots. She could taste the electricity in the air and the copper tang of her own nervousness rising in her throat.
"Hey."
She opened her eyes.
stood beside her, his broad shoulders blocking the harsh light from the corridor, his face half in shadow. He didn't touch her—not here, not with the cameras everywhere—but his presence was a warmth against her side, steady and solid and real.
"You good?"
Patricia exhaled. Slow. Controlled. "I'm good."
"You're lying."
"I'm good-ish."
lips curved. Not a smile—something smaller, more private. "That's better."
She looked at him—really looked—and saw the tension in his jaw, the way his hands kept curling and uncurling at his sides. He was nervous for her. More nervous than he'd been for his own League battles, more nervous than he'd been when he'd watched Nicola get eliminated in the quarterfinals, more nervous than she'd ever seen him.
"You don't have to worry," she said.
"I know."
"I'm going to win."
"I know."
"I'm going to crush her."
"I know."
She punched his arm, light and playful, and the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly.
"Go out there and show them," he said. "Show them why you're the best trainer in this tournament."
"I'm not—"
"You are."
He said it with such certainty that she almost believed him.
The tunnel lights flickered—the signal. Patricia pushed herself off the wall, rolled her shoulders, and walked toward the field.
The crowd's roar hit her like a physical force.
"AND NOW—INTRODUCING THE SECOND SEMIFINAL MATCH OF THE AETHELBURG POKÉMON LEAGUE!"
The announcer's voice was a thunderclap, amplified by the crystal architecture, resonating through the very bones of the city.
"REPRESENTING TEAM BEAVERS—THE ECLIPSE SLAYER HERSELF—GWEN!"
The eastern tunnel blazed with turquoise light.
And there she was.
Gwen emerged from the tunnel like a knife being drawn from a sheath—small and sharp and dangerous. Her short black hair with its electric turquoise streaks was pulled back from her face, revealing the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the dark liner rimming her eyes, the smirk that curved her lips. She wore her usual uniform—striped sleeves, black boots, the choker at her throat—but everything about her seemed sharper tonight, more deliberate, more dangerous.
She walked to the white dais without ceremony.
The crowd's cheers were mixed—some whooping, some skeptical. Gwen was the underdog here. The gothic outsider from Team Beavers, the one who'd clawed her way through the qualifiers and the early rounds with grit and guile and a Pokémon team that nobody had expected to be this good.
She'd beaten Samuel Moodsway in the round of sixteen. She'd beaten in the quarterfinals in a match that had gone down to the wire, a match that had left silent and thoughtful for hours afterward.
She was not to be underestimated.
"AND HER OPPONENT—REPRESENTING THE AETHELBURG ELITE—THE GOLDEN GIRL HERSELF—PATRICIA CROWNLEAF!"
The western tunnel blazed gold.
Patricia walked into the light.
The crowd erupted.
She wore white tonight—a fitted dress that hugged her narrow waist and flared over her hips, the fabric shimmering with subtle gold thread that caught the arena lights and threw them back in prismatic sparks. Her blonde hair was loose, falling in waves past her shoulders. Her blue eyes were bright and sharp and focused.
She looked like a queen ascending her throne.
She reached the dais and stopped, facing Gwen across the white stone.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Gwen laughed—a short, sharp sound. "You look fancy."
"You look ready," Patricia replied.
"I am." Gwen's smirk widened. "Question is—are you?"
Patricia didn't answer with words. She simply raised her first Poké Ball and held it up, letting the light catch the crimson surface.
The crowd screamed.
The referee raised his hand.
"THIS IS A FULL SIX-ON-SIX BATTLE! THE TRAINER WHO DEFEATS ALL SIX OF THE OPPONENT'S POKÉMON WINS AND QUALIFIES FOR THE FINALS!"
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"TRAINERS—ARE YOU READY?"
Gwen's hand moved to her first Poké Ball. "Born ready."
Patricia's lips curved. "Let's find out."
"BEGIN!"
The word echoed through the arena like a gunshot.
Both Poké Balls opened at the same time.
"Lopunny!"
"Honchkrow!"
The Graceful Pokémon materialized in a blur of brown fur and cream fluff—tall and elegant, its long powerful ears already twitching, its brown eyes scanning the field, its posture alert and ready. It landed on the obsidian platform with the grace of a dancer, its feet finding the cracks and crevices without hesitation.
Across the field, Gwen's Honchkrow appeared with a screech—a large bird with dark blue-black feathers, a magnificent crest that swept back from its head like a mob boss's fedora, and eyes that gleamed with cunning intelligence. It landed on a crystalline formation, its talons gripping the slick surface, its wings folding against its body.
The crowd murmured.
Honchkrow. Dark and Flying. Patricia had expected this—she'd studied Gwen's team, analyzed her battles, prepared counter-strategies. Honchkrow was Gwen's opener in almost every match, her scout, her harasser, her disruption unit.
"Honchkrow—Tailwind," Gwen said.
The bird beat its wings, and a sudden gust swept across the arena, accelerating the air currents around Honchkrow's side of the field. The Dark-type's speed doubled in an instant.
Patricia's eyes narrowed. Tailwind. That meant Gwen was planning a fast offensive—hit hard, hit first, hit before Patricia could set up.
"Lopunny—Thunder Wave," Patricia said.
Lopunny's ears crackled with electric energy. It jumped—high, impossibly high—and released a wave of paralysis-inducing electricity that spread across the arena like ripples on a pond.
Honchkrow tried to dodge—but the wave was too wide, too fast, too everywhere. The electricity caught it in the wing, and the bird screeched as its muscles seized, its speed halved, its Tailwind advantage neutralized.
Gwen's smirk didn't waver. "Taunt."
Honchkrow's eyes flashed with dark energy, and a wave of malicious intent washed over Lopunny.
The Normal-type stiffened. The Taunt had landed—Lopunny could no longer use status moves. No Thunder Wave, no healing, no defensive options. Only attacks.
"Mirror Coat," Patricia said.
Lopunny's body shimmered with psychic energy, a reflective barrier forming around its fur.
Gwen's eyes widened. "What—"
"Now. Jump Kick."
Lopunny lunged—fast, impossibly fast, its powerful legs propelling it across the arena in a single bound. Its foot connected with Honchkrow's chest before the Dark-type could react.
The bird flew backward, tumbling across the crystalline formations, its feathers scattering like black petals.
"Night Slash!" Gwen shouted.
Honchkrow recovered—barely—and lunged, its talons glowing with dark energy.
But Lopunny was already moving—dodging, weaving, dancing around the attack with the grace of a ribbon gymnast.
"Jump Kick again," Patricia said.
Another kick. Another hit.
Honchkrow screeched.
"Follow it up—Dizzy Punch."
Lopunny's fist connected with Honchkrow's beak, and the Dark-type's eyes swirled with confusion.
"Night Slash," Gwen said.
Honchkrow tried to attack—but its movements were sluggish, its aim was off, and Lopunny dodged easily.
"Jump Kick."
The kick caught Honchkrow square in the chest.
The bird fell.
"Honchkrow is unable to battle! The winner is Lopunny!"
The crowd roared.
Patricia didn't celebrate. She watched Gwen recall her fallen Pokémon, watched the gothic trainer's expression shift from smirk to something sharper, more focused, more dangerous.
"You're good," Gwen said.
"I know," Patricia replied.
"But you haven't seen anything yet."
Gwen's second Poké Ball opened.
"Skuntank!"
The Skunk Pokémon materialized with a noxious hiss—dark purple fur bristling, its white stripe gleaming, its tail already raised, its red eyes gleaming with malice. It looked at Lopunny and grinned.
Patricia's nose wrinkled. Even from the trainer's dais, she could smell it—the faint musk of Skuntank's natural defenses, the promise of poison and filth and decay.
"Skuntank—Toxic," Gwen said.
The glob of poison shot across the arena.
Lopunny tried to dodge—but the Toxic was fast, too fast, and it caught the Normal-type on the leg, seeping into its fur, into its skin, into its bloodstream.
Patricia's jaw tightened. Toxic. That meant poison damage over time—a ticking clock, counting down to Lopunny's collapse.
"Jump Kick," she said.
Lopunny lunged.
"Flamethrower," Gwen countered.
The stream of fire caught Lopunny mid-air, and the Normal-type screamed as the flames licked across its fur.
But it didn't stop.
Its kick connected with Skuntank's side, and the Poison-type grunted, stumbling backward.
"Jump Kick again," Patricia said.
Another kick.
Another hit.
Skuntank staggered.
But the poison was still working—Patricia could see Lopunny's breathing becoming ragged, its movements becoming slower, its strength draining away.
"Flamethrower," Gwen said.
The fire came again.
Lopunny dodged—barely—and counterattacked with another Jump Kick.
Skuntank fell.
"Skuntank is unable to battle! The winner is Lopunny!"
The crowd cheered.
But Patricia didn't.
She watched Lopunny stagger, watched the Normal-type's legs tremble, watched the poison spread through its veins. The Graceful Pokémon had won—but it was dying.
"I'm sorry," Patricia whispered.
She recalled Lopunny before the poison could finish it.
"It's okay," she said to the Poké Ball in her hand. "You did amazing. Rest now."
She reached for her second Poké Ball.
"Roserade," she said.
The Bouquet Pokémon materialized with the elegance of a ballroom dancer—slender and graceful, its white rose-like head gleaming, its green cape-like body swaying, its red and blue bouquet hands already raised. It looked at Gwen and tilted its head, almost curious.
Gwen's expression sharpened. "Toxicroak."
Her third Pokémon appeared—lean and dangerous, its dark blue body gleaming with moisture, its red throat sac pulsing, its claws extended.
Patricia's eyes narrowed. Toxicroak. Poison and Fighting. That meant Dark moves would be neutral, but Psychic moves would be useless—and Roserade was weak to Poison.
"Toxicroak—Sludge Bomb," Gwen said.
The glob of toxic sludge shot across the arena.
Roserade dodged—barely—and countered with a wave of its bouquet.
"Extrasensory," Patricia said.
The wave of psychic energy caught Toxicroak and sent it tumbling backward, its claws scraping against the obsidian stone.
"Sludge Bomb again," Gwen said.
"Energy Ball," Patricia countered.
The sphere of green energy collided with the glob of sludge, and both attacks exploded in mutual annihilation.
"Sludge Bomb."
"Energy Ball."
They traded blows—Poison against Grass, sludge against petals—until both Pokémon were battered and breathless. But Roserade was faster, more precise, more elegant in its movements. It danced around Toxicroak's attacks, never quite where the Fighting-type expected it to be.
"Shadow Ball," Gwen said.
Patricia blinked. Shadow Ball? On Toxicroak?
The sphere of ghostly energy shot toward Roserade—and the Grass-type tried to dodge, but the move was unexpected, unfamiliar, and it caught Roserade on the shoulder.
The Bouquet Pokémon hissed.
"Extrasensory," Patricia said.
The psychic wave caught Toxicroak.
The Fighting-type staggered.
"Energy Ball," Patricia added.
The sphere of green energy hit Toxicroak square in the chest.
The Fighting-type fell.
"Toxicroak is unable to battle! The winner is Roserade!"
The crowd screamed.
Gwen recalled her fallen partner. Her expression was harder now—the smirk gone, replaced by something colder, more calculating.
"You're really good," she said.
"I know," Patricia replied.
"But I'm not done yet."
Her fourth Poké Ball opened.
"Crobat."
The Poison-and-Flying-type materialized with a screech that pierced the arena—large and menacing, its purple body gleaming, its wings spread wide, its fangs bared. It looked at Roserade and smiled.
Patricia's heart sank.
Crobat. Poison and Flying. Fast. Deadly. And Roserade was already weakened, already tired, already struggling to stand.
"Crobat—Cross Poison," Gwen said.
The bat lunged—fast, impossibly fast—and its fangs caught Roserade across the chest.
The Grass-type screamed.
"Energy Ball!" Patricia shouted.
Roserade tried to attack—but its movements were sluggish, its energy depleted, its attacks predictable.
Crobat dodged easily.
"Cross Poison again."
Another hit.
Roserade fell.
"Roserade is unable to battle! The winner is Crobat!"
The crowd's roar was deafening.
Patricia recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was steady—but inside, something was screaming.
Two down. Four to go.
Gwen had five Pokémon left. Five chances to claw her way to victory.
Patricia had four Pokémon left. Four chances to hold the line.
She reached for her third Poké Ball.
"Gliscor," she said.
The Fang Scorp Pokémon materialized with a sound like leather wings unfurling—large and imposing, its purple body gleaming, its bat-like wings spread wide, its pincers already extended, its long segmented tail raised. It looked at Crobat and grinned.
Crobat hissed.
"Gliscor—Stone Edge," Patricia said.
The pillars of stone erupted from the arena floor, catching Crobat and sending it spinning through the air.
The Poison-type screeched.
"Air Slash," Gwen said.
The blade of wind caught Gliscor across the wing.
The Ground-and-Flying-type grunted—but held.
"Stone Edge again," Patricia said.
Another pillar.
Another hit.
Crobat staggered.
"Cross Poison!" Gwen shouted.
The bat lunged—but Gliscor was already moving, already dodging, already countering.
"Night Slash," Patricia said.
Gliscor's claws glowed with dark energy, and the attack caught Crobat across the back.
The Poison-type screamed.
It fell.
"Crobat is unable to battle! The winner is Gliscor!"
The crowd erupted.
Gwen recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was trembling now—not from fear, but from something else. Something colder.
"You're really, really good," she said.
"I know," Patricia replied.
"But you're not going to win."
"I know that too."
Gwen's fifth Poké Ball opened.
"Seismitoad."
The Water-and-Ground-type materialized with a croak—large and bulbous, its blue body gleaming with moisture, its warts pulsing, its eyes fixed on Gliscor. It looked at the Ground-and-Flying-type and burbled.
Patricia's heart sank.
Seismitoad. Water and Ground. That meant Gliscor's Ground-type attacks would be useless—and worse, Seismitoad's Water-type moves would tear through Gliscor's defenses.
"Seismitoad—Ice Beam," Gwen said.
The beam of cold light shot across the arena.
Gliscor tried to dodge—but the beam was fast, too fast, and it caught the Flying-type on the wing, spreading frost across its purple skin.
"Stone Edge," Patricia said.
Gliscor tried to attack—but the ice was slowing it down, numbing its wings, dulling its reflexes.
Seismitoad dodged easily.
"Ice Beam again."
Another hit.
Gliscor staggered.
"Earthquake," Gwen added.
The ground shook.
Gliscor tried to take flight—but its wings were too frozen, too numb, too useless. The tremor caught it square in the chest, and the Flying-type screamed as the ground-type energy tore through its body.
"Stone Edge!" Patricia shouted.
Gliscor tried to rise—but its legs wouldn't cooperate, its wings wouldn't spread, its body wouldn't move.
"Ice Beam," Gwen said.
The beam caught Gliscor square in the chest.
The Flying-type fell.
"Gliscor is unable to battle! The winner is Seismitoad!"
The crowd screamed.
Patricia recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was steady. Her breathing was controlled. But inside, something was burning.
Three down. Three to go.
Gwen had four Pokémon left. Four chances to finish this.
Patricia had three Pokémon left. Three chances to survive.
She reached for her fourth Poké Ball.
"Floatzel," she said.
The Sea Weasel Pokémon materialized with a splash—sleek and athletic, its orange fur gleaming, its twin tails swaying, its yellow flotation sac already inflated. It looked at Seismitoad and grinned.
Seismitoad burbled.
"Floatzel—Aqua Jet," Patricia said.
The Water-type disappeared in a blur of motion, slamming into Seismitoad before the Ground-type could react.
Seismitoad staggered.
"Ice Beam," Gwen said.
The beam shot toward Floatzel—but the Water-type was already moving, already dodging, already countering.
"Waterfall," Patricia said.
The cascade of water caught Seismitoad square in the chest.
The Ground-type stumbled.
"Aqua Jet again," Patricia said.
Another hit.
Another.
Seismitoad tried to counter—but Floatzel was too fast, too relentless, too determined.
"Earthquake!" Gwen shouted.
The ground shook.
Floatzel jumped—high, impossibly high—and dodged the tremor entirely.
"Waterfall," Patricia said.
The cascade caught Seismitoad before it could recover.
The Ground-type fell.
"Seismitoad is unable to battle! The winner is Floatzel!"
The crowd roared.
Gwen recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was steady now—steady and calm and ready. She had three Pokémon left. Patricia had three. One of them was about to lose.
"Not bad," Gwen said.
"I know," Patricia replied.
"Let's see how you handle this."
Her final three Poké Balls rose into the air at once.
"Bisharp! Krookodile! Zoroark!"
The three Dark-types materialized in a triangle around the field—Bisharp with its blade-like body and commanding presence, Krookodile with its crimson scales and massive jaws, Zoroark with its dark fur and illusory mane. They looked at Floatzel and grinned as one.
Patricia's heart stopped.
Three Dark-types. Three of them. And her remaining Pokémon—Floatzel, Magby, Rampardos—were all vulnerable to Dark-type attacks.
Gwen had been saving them. Saving her best for last. Saving her strongest for this exact moment.
"Zoroark—Dark Pulse," Gwen said.
The wave of dark energy shot across the arena.
Floatzel tried to dodge—but the pulse was too wide, too fast, too everywhere. It caught the Water-type square in the chest, and Floatzel screamed as the dark energy tore through its body.
"Aqua Jet!" Patricia shouted.
Floatzel tried to attack—but its movements were sluggish, its energy depleted, its attacks predictable.
Zoroark dodged easily.
"Dark Pulse again."
Another hit.
Floatzel fell.
"Floatzel is unable to battle! The winner is Zoroark!"
The crowd screamed.
Patricia recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was trembling now—trembling with something that wasn't fear, wasn't exhaustion, wasn't anything she could name.
Four down. Two to go.
Gwen had five Pokémon left. Five chances to win.
Patricia had two Pokémon left. Two chances to survive.
She reached for her fifth Poké Ball.
"Magby," she said.
The Live Coal Pokémon materialized with a burst of flame—small and energetic, its bright red body gleaming, its yellow markings glowing, its flame-like features flickering with barely contained fire. It looked at Bisharp and didn't flinch.
Bisharp laughed.
"Magby—Flamethrower," Patricia said.
The stream of fire caught Bisharp square in the chest.
The Dark-type grunted—but held.
"Night Slash," Gwen said.
Bisharp lunged—fast, impossibly fast—and its blade-like arms caught Magby across the side.
The Fire-type screamed.
"Flamethrower again!" Patricia shouted.
Another stream of fire.
Bisharp staggered.
"Night Slash again," Gwen said.
Another hit.
Magby fell.
"Magby is unable to battle! The winner is Bisharp!"
The crowd's roar was deafening.
Patricia recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was steady now—steady and calm and ready. She had one Pokémon left. One chance to win. One chance to survive.
She reached for her final Poké Ball.
"Rampardos," she said.
The Head Butt Pokémon materialized with a roar that shook the arena—large and powerful, its dark blue body gleaming, its thick skull already lowered, its strong limbs planted firmly on the obsidian platform. It looked at Bisharp and grinned.
Bisharp didn't laugh this time.
"Rampardos—Head Smash," Patricia said.
The Rock-type lunged—fast, impossibly fast for something so large—and its skull connected with Bisharp's chest before the Dark-type could react.
The impact sent shockwaves through the arena.
Bisharp flew backward, tumbling across the crystal formations, its blade-like body spinning end over end.
It fell.
"Bisharp is unable to battle! The winner is Rampardos!"
The crowd erupted.
Gwen recalled her fallen partner. Her expression was harder now—the smirk gone, replaced by something colder, more desperate.
"Krookodile—Earthquake," Gwen said.
The ground shook.
Rampardos staggered—but held.
"Head Smash," Patricia said.
Another hit.
Krookodile stumbled.
"Earthquake again!"
"Head Smash!"
They traded blows—Ground against Rock, force against force—until both Pokémon were battered and bleeding and barely standing. But Rampardos was relentless. Rampardos was unstoppable. Rampardos was winning.
"Head Smash!" Patricia shouted one final time.
The Rock-type lunged—fast, impossibly fast, its skull already lowered, its momentum already building.
Krookodile tried to dodge.
It couldn't.
The attack caught the Ground-type square in the chest, and the force of the impact sent Krookodile flying across the arena, tumbling across the obsidian platforms, slamming into a crystalline formation with a crack that echoed through the silence.
Krookodile fell.
And didn't rise.
"Krookodile is unable to battle! The winner is Rampardos!"
The crowd screamed.
Gwen recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was trembling now—trembling with something that wasn't fear, wasn't exhaustion, wasn't anything she could name.
She had one Pokémon left. One chance to win. One chance to survive.
"Zoroark," she said.
The Illusion Fox Pokémon materialized with a snarl—dark and deadly, its fur bristling, its mane flowing, its eyes fixed on Rampardos with something that might have been hunger.
Rampardos didn't flinch.
"Zoroark—Dark Pulse," Gwen said.
The wave of dark energy shot across the arena.
Rampardos took the hit—and kept coming.
"Head Smash," Patricia said.
The Rock-type lunged.
Zoroark tried to dodge—but the attack was too fast, too wide, too everywhere.
The hit connected.
Zoroark screamed.
"Dark Pulse again!" Gwen shouted.
Another hit.
Rampardos staggered.
But it didn't fall.
"Head Smash!" Patricia shouted.
Another hit.
Zoroark fell.
And didn't rise.
"Zoroark is unable to battle! Rampardos is the winner! The match goes to Patricia Crownleaf!"
The crowd erupted.
Patricia didn't hear them.
She was already running—across the obsidian platform, across the narrow bridges, across the void that separated her from her Pokémon. She reached Rampardos just as the Rock-type's legs gave out, just as it began to fall, and she caught it in her arms, held it against her chest, felt its heart beating against hers.
"You did it," she whispered. "You did it, you did it, you did it."
Rampardos's claw found her hand.
It squeezed.
Patricia closed her eyes.
Across the arena, Gwen stood motionless. Her expression hadn't changed—still cold, still composed, still unreadable. But her hand was clenched at her side, and her knuckles were white.
She recalled Zoroark without a word.
Then she turned and walked off the field.
The crowd was still screaming.
Patricia didn't care.
She held Rampardos close and let the tears fall, and for a moment—just a moment—the entire world shrank to the size of a single heartbeat.
Then she rose.
She rose, and the crowd rose with her, and the cameras captured every moment—the tears on her cheeks, the smile on her lips, the way she raised Rampardos's claw above her head like a trophy.
She had won.
She was going to the finals.
And somewhere in the stands, Dariana Brightone was watching.
Waiting.
The final match would be Dariana versus Patricia. The dancer versus the champion. The desert rose versus the golden girl.
But that was tomorrow.
Tonight, Patricia Crownleaf just held her Rampardos and let herself feel alive.