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[INCOMPLETE] [Nuzlocke]『 ノクターン : A 』
Topic Started: Jan 27 2018, 11:29 PM (592 Views)
MARION
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Nocturne

A Nuzlocke video series featuring only those Pokémon which are found at night





Nocturne: Part A
『 ノクターン : A 』

Pokémon: Blue Version (1998)

【 I Carry My Father's Blue Heart 】

B:【 ...And Marion Gets His Badge 】




Edited by MARION, Mar 23 2018, 12:20 AM.
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MARION
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『I Carry My Father's Blue Heart』

Credit to John Blair, for the inspiration

What follows are the sole published works of a non-commissioned military officer, entries from a diary first discovered in Cinnabar Mansion, along with several critical documents regarding those genetic experiments which led to the creation of Mewtwo. The present editors agree that the relation of these documents to one another, if any, remains a mystery.

Few facts point to the author's true identity. It is clear that he was quickly promoted to the rank of non-commissioned military officer, as early as his jousts with the daimyō Brock of Pewter City. His wartime resolve was no doubt connected to his admission that he carried a Blue Heart, his father’s, an artifact which exudes the gratitude of the Emperor for outstanding service. Since there are so few of these awards handed out in the last ten years—an even forty recipients, to be exact—one would think it to be no difficult matter to trace the artifact back to a reliable source.

The manuscript paints a sympathetic portrait of a youth beswept by anguish and grief. He speaks continually of loss and sorrow—at times poetically, at others philosophically, yet others still in a fragmented manner that betrays the worsening symptoms of a dyspeptic invalid. While we could devote further analysis to the details of the present volume, the present editors find it sufficient to note that this text has several untenable implications, and does not stand rightfully as a coherent work. In his first entry, the soldier seems exaggeratedly concerned with the philosophical implications of loss. He is particularly concerned regarding the loss and discovery of his diary, stating in one of his earliest entries that "[he] would be found forever an outrage to society" if it were to be found (pg. 4). However, it is not clear what would bring about the public outrage and shame the author so deliriously expects. Once we take away the previously suggested implication that he committed some unknown act of treason, an act that would bring dishonor to his father's legacy and his family line, we are left with pithy trifles of no mattering concern to the benefit of the domain of the Emperor. There is, in fact, no factual evidence of a single loss, military or otherwise, documented in these entries, nothing that would indicate that this young man lost anything at all. There are tremendous challenges, to be sure—but these are always met with near victories, and while his gains are well documented, his losses, if any, are something which forever remain outside the text. It is clear, for one thing, that this man either lost this diary, or left it where it was found in Cinnabar Mansion, or else entrusted it to someone who placed it in Cinnabar Mansion with the Mewtwo papers, either intentionally or unintentionally. Absurdities arise when each potential scenario is considered. If the author did in fact lose this diary, it is likely that he would have lost his life along with it, given the grave manner in which he speaks of such a possibility. If he were to leave it unattended, or in someone else's trust, it is clear that he then wished for it to be read or preserved: but how, then, could he attribute such a heighth of significance to loss, as if he had already foretold that his life's battle would not end well? Was he not to eventually benefit from this loss of the primary text in which he explores the very topic?

The passage under scrutiny was purportedly written while staving off an infection in the barracks of Cerulean City, which the author endures for months, with neither tincture nor home remedy to ease his pain; though this causes us concern for his present well being, it is beside the point now to devote our energies to such worries. His heavy conscience is no doubt connected to the “horrifying impressions” of the sequence of events in his travels which took place between the town of Pallet and Misty's province. This text no doubt provides an interesting subject material to critical theorists who are interested in further exploring the senselessness of a text which only serves to speak of itself.

The entirety of the Cinnabar Papers are contained in a subsequent volume from Silph Co. Printing Press, detailing the discovery of Mew in Guayana and popular theories regarding the M experiments. —





Tuesday, January 30th, 0630. The horrifying impressions of my first days at battle descended upon my childhood as an impasse upon dreams. These wartorn memories I shall carry, with my father's Blue Heart, to the steppes of the Indigo.

After having emerged from a meritorious en passant with the daimyō of Pewter, victorious, I embarked upon an inquiry of the whereabouts in which I found myself situated, a small villa full of boisterous but gentle folk, where I spotted no more than sixty civilians, mostly crowded into the bazaar upon which my troops ravenously descended, after having deigned it acceptable for the purchase of our antidotes and other amenities. We suffered an early disappointment in Viridian, where we had procured no useful tinctures to stall the assail neither of air nor lost time on our bandaged wounds... but here, there were such amenities to be had, carried between the produce stalls, grocers chasing away the rodents making off with their wares, and market shills secretly proffering their trick ropes and small losses. I decided to bide my time by visiting the renowned Museum of Science.

[description of visit to Museum of Science scrawled out and illegible]

After several skirmishes conducted on Route 3 that were not so much lucrative as enticing, I commanded my troops through a muddied breach of the cavernous pass which leads to Cerulean, emerging to a full moon which leeched a distant sun's light onto Route Four. We grinded our way silently throughout the night, no rest, nor bandages, nor signal of oncoming strikes. Upon our arrival at the gates, we attempted to barge the waters under Cerulean Cave, so that we might find a camping ground, which is where we discovered that the waters had been embargoed by the accursed dissidents so loosely affiliated with the daimyō of the province, Misty. We were forbidden entry to the bridge leading out of the city, and a final battle nearly led our battalion to flee, though we prevailed with the use of thrown torches to confront their sand attacks. We have still not recovered from this battle, for as I write, I find my station in the ramparts underneath, with my mind reeling over the dogged question which inspires this entry.

Loss? —

This simplicity of the question betrays a myriad of investigative shades. I might ask myself whether I am even worthy of speaking of it, whether to carry this Heart of mine to the Plateau or break from the ranks as a wounded soldier, — whether, even, I might honor or dishonor my father's legacy as the sole soldier responsible for the fate of battalion no. 58698 if I were to speak of such a thing. He would never speak of it; that much I know for certain. But my present circumstances lead me to inquire as to the nature of loss — what is it, mainly? It cannot be a thing, for then one could say you 'had' it, precisely, and not the thing which was lost. But loss is not something that is gained. Loss is a relation to the past, a past which somehow both 'is' and 'cannot be.' That is perhaps too simple, loss itself can be very complex: one can lose a battle, for instance. There, it is not merely those men who are claimed by the opposition, but the willed esprit's cohesion as a unit, which is lost. It is just as good as a loss if an entire rank were to flee in battle as if they were to all die valiantly. When you lose something, it is not that the thing itself ceases to exist, but instead that the relation which compounds your presentness with that of the thing is itself impossible to actualize. These reflections, though perhaps saccharine, are primarily to keep me from losing consciousness, as I feel myself slipping further into slumber. Instead, they serve but to bring clarity to my current situation, which is perhaps as good as lost, if one were to describe it any further. And even when you are completely lost, there is still yet more to lose.

What if I were to lose this diary? Then I would be more than simply lost, for even in my death the diary would be found, and I would be found forever an outrage to society, for its secrets, though they have not yet been written, exude from each empty page within. Even in these few sentences, there is enough to wring out the facticity of a desire for interiority, which itself is carries the potential of a betrayal of the Emperor's wishes. I must never lose, nor turn over to anyone, what is more valuable to me than my father's Blue Heart, and I am willing to place a value on it higher than that of my own life (given that the stray eruptive refuse of an intelligence agent's gas bomb unexpectedly left an aching in my sides, one that makes it quite difficult to breathe or to lay horizontally, one which feels as if it is shortening my vitality with every step). For now it still lays in the clutches of my possession, along with a fossil marked with the imprint of some ancient domelike creature... as for my present condition, I carry a single antidote, but since it is clear that I will survive, I shall not use this item for myself: it remains for my squadron's benefit, in the case that another such strike could occur, and I would much rather spittle and cough through the remainder of the day than neglect the sure possibility of their demise, which so gloweringly stares me in the face.

It pains me to write of that unnameable name, Loss, the only one that only one can know... I will not speak of the subject any further, for there is far too much of it. It would do better to speak of our present gain, and the safe resolution of the night's events, before I can begin to revel with the injured in an exultant slumber. After the Golden Gate proved to be of no use to us, we pressed on and proceeded through an alternate route to the city. Still before the sun returned to its station of glory, we found the shelter and medical treatment that had been sorely lacking the night previous. At the onset of my expectorations, I had insisted that they were nothing of concern… I had even given up water, rations, basic needs, not merely out of a willing sacrifice of all to the purview of the Emperor, but for my squadron's morale, which was enough to satiate my desire. After all, their survival and peace-keeping is paramount if I am to complete my missions.

If the reader might excuse me for but a moment of droll humor, I am at a loss to explain further. For now, I must ruminate, and bathe, for my garments have soiled in grime and blood, and I must tend to the gashes in my Forlorn, near-fallen ally. This morning I saw his eyes heave such tears, and as this poor thing calls out to me, whipping still, I see that I possess more resolve than he, I hear nothing but the drowning cries of a dormouse captured and carried away in a vale of indolence.

Thus I, too, find myself, in a land no less wondrous than it is desperate.

Edited by MARION, Feb 7 2018, 01:02 AM.
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Saturday, February 3rd, 2000. My fate, alas, beckons me to remain with Despair, for all time. Let me attempt to explain the circumstances thus personified, without revealing too much of a Downer or of a Loss.

Upon the completion of a special task assigned by the O.P.R.I., we had passed through the Viridian Forest into the Pewter province. There, I was assigned one further task, a thorough exploration of the Cerulean Cape. Our ensemble traversed the dreaded Route 3, full of trainers that beckoned and taunted us for our unseemly apparel. One sympathetic youngster took heed, but also chided us into battle, for which we made no condolences as we defiantly crippled his small militia. After eight or nine of these encounters (memory does not serve me well here), we made entry into the cavernous depths of Moon, where we picked up a soldier that had broken from his ranks. We made him provisional supervisor of our haul, despite the warning signs that we all noticed, and it appears now that he made off with a single potion, one which would have aided us crucially in the night to come.

There is not much to speak of with regards to that cave, though, it pains me to say, we were separated from two of our own ranks upon arrival at Route 4. These details have been released to the Bureaucratic Office of the Imperial Embassy, but lest I speak of any matters which would cause them grief, I will not write of anything further. The next night, I left my Sorrow and Despair there in Cerulean, free to pursue employment as they pleased, and I told myself I would return to my Penance as I bundled my leggings to the knee in order to swim through the bog under the Gate to the Cerulean Cave. There I was admitted; and it is in the dank passages of this cave which I write this second, and perhaps final entry, by the light of a small candle. This thought of death brings me closer to my father, in a sense, knowing that our fates are intertwined, with no transcendent force with which to intervene. Now, with no aides to guide me, I bemoan my misfortunes and wish that some such unseemly power take my life at this very
Edited by MARION, Feb 3 2018, 11:42 PM.
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Edited by MARION, Feb 3 2018, 11:44 PM.
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xerx gon give it to ya
[AUTOMATED] This topic has been moved to Incomplete Video Runs, as requested by the original poster.
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