Work Text:
Is this the meaning of ‘freedom’?
Mewtwo shoots through the skies like a jet, the wind a deafening snap against its ears; a whip against its skin. Perhaps a normal Pokémon might be buffeted by the speed — lightheaded from the height — but not Mewtwo.
Flocks of bird Pokémon flap lazily miles beneath it — a v-shape of migratory Swanna — yet when they sense the presence above, craning their necks upwards to see the monster overhead, they disperse with frightened squawks. Mewtwo isn’t close, and it certainly isn’t enraged, yet even so they fear it.
In this way, Mewtwo doesn’t think it can ever know true freedom.
Psychic energy dissipates in the sky behind it, leaving a trail of glimmering light in a thin, straight line across the morning blue. It has not wavered from its course in hours, flying in a straight arc through the aether, with no obstacles, no distractions, nothing in its way.
Mewtwo gazes down at the world beneath; the ocean stretches, calm and vast, into the distance, but as endless as it seems, Mewtwo knows it will soon end. Already it can see the grey haze of the next continent on the horizon, and suddenly, Mewtwo wants to change course. It dreads seeing land again. Land means life: bustling herds of wild Pokémon and worst of all, humans. The last time it had been on land, it had done unspeakable things.
The memories come back to it like a blow to the back of the head. Rage. Landing on the outskirts of a village and seeing humans again — hearing their screams, seeing their frightened, accusing eyes. Humans were the ones who’d created Mewtwo, but only for themselves: to pat themselves on the backs for their scientific feats, their amazing brains — their ability to create a killing machine and have it do their bidding. All the tests, surgeries, pain they’d inflicted upon it, celebrating their own successes and punishing Mewtwo for its failures—
Seeing the villagers with disgust in their eyes, Mewtwo had fought to distinguish them from those scientists: those humans it hated with a burning, violent passion. Mewtwo hadn’t thought — hadn’t stopped to consider. The fury had consumed it, swelling in its mind and spilling from its eyes. Blue psychic energy leaked from its pores, flurrying around it like a storm, and when it had next regained consciousness, the village was no more.
Mewtwo closes its eyes, pouring more speed into its flight. It doesn’t want to remember those days — the horrors of its past. It’s free now, that’s what it keeps telling itself.
Yet somehow, it still feels lonely.
It flies across the land now, and keeps its eyes closed. It can’t risk seeing other settlements — other humans to spark its rage, other innocent people to hurt and maim.
Do other Pokémon fight this inner battle? Do they struggle to contain their emotions, and lash out with all their strength against the humans of the world? No. Wild Pokémon may attack, but only if their territories are stumbled across — only if the humans send out their own partners to engage in battle. And as for the domesticated Pokémon… Mewtwo doesn’t doubt that some creatures, if treated poorly, might turn on their Trainers. But such cases are rare. Most Trainers care for their Pokémon with kindness, respect, even love. Mewtwo has seen the fluffy beds and delectable food piled up in bowls. The toys and accessories, vast open fields in which they play together — the towering department stores dedicated solely to partner Pokémon wares.
Against all better judgment, Mewtwo allows itself to imagine being domesticated. What if the scientists who made it had done so out of love? What if they’d taken baby Mewtwo in their arms, cradled it, laid it down in a bed of Altaria-feather cushions? What if they’d fed it homemade Poffins, let it run around the gardens of Pokémon Mansion, given it snacks of Protein and Carbos fed from their fingertips? What if their touch had offered warmth and kindness and love, even once, just once?
At the thought, Mewtwo’s chest fills with warmth. The feeling is unfamiliar, but it recognises the emotion immediately: happiness. A light elation in the pit of its stomach, and the twitches of a smile at the corners of its mouth. This is what it means to feel love.
But the emotion isn’t just inside Mewtwo’s head — isn’t just conjured from its imagination. This feeling is real.
Mewtwo is sensing something.
It pries open its eyes. Hours have passed — the midday sun burns bright overhead, and beneath Mewtwo lie miles upon miles of land. Long gone is the ocean behind it; it now sees brown and grey mountain faces, a frosty settlement nestled within them, but most interestingly, a glow in the centre of a forest. A butter-yellow warmth, emanating from the gaps in the canopy.
What is this? An aura of happiness rises from this little area. As Mewtwo attunes its psychic senses, it becomes flooded with knowledge — sensations pulsating from below. There are Pokémon, but no humans. They are happy, safe, and most of all, free. Nothing bad will happen here.
Stopping suddenly in its flight, staring down at the glow beneath, Mewtwo swallows hard. There are no humans down there. Could this be the place — the freedom — it has been looking for?
Circling in a small arc, Mewtwo descends, through the skies, into the treeline, down to the forest floor. The air is cool and musty, the underbrush damp beneath its feet. Settling all around it is a calm like Mewtwo has never experienced. Two grand oaks stand sentinel to an opening through which the buttery glow floods. Mewtwo’s feet take it forward, beneath the arching arms of the sentinel oaks, into this little haven of warmth.
The grass underfoot soon gives way to the source of the glow — countless flowers, hundreds upon thousands, all with petals of vibrant yellow. Mewtwo gazes out at the clearing that opens up around it: a valley is nestled inside the walls of rocky crags, its western side cradled by the arm of a clear-water stream. For a place so hidden, so tucked away from civilisation, Mewtwo is surprised at the bustle. Huge, thick-trunked trees provide shelter from the sun, and beneath them sleep the giant creatures known as Snorlax. Jigglypuff scamper through the flowers, and in the distance Mewtwo can even see the hulking mass of a Garbodor.
A Fletchling flutters down from a nearby branch, landing in the flowers by Mewtwo’s feet. She blinks up with big, black eyes — curious, perhaps. Inquisitive.
What is this place? Mewtwo thinks towards the Fletchling.
She titters back, a singsong trill: We call it the Pokémon Village.
A caw from the closest tree catches both of their attention — the mother Talonflame, crying out, startled to see her baby with this stranger. Fletchling flies back to her, and Mewtwo is left alone once more.
This place, the Pokémon Village, is a refuge for Pokémon. Not just any Pokémon, not wild ones, but ones with a past. Each of them has been rejected before — hurt, torn open by pain or rejection until their other, darker side had no choice but to spill forth and rage against humans. But they do not rampage. Inside them lives no fury. Instead, they have come here to heal, knowing that they’re safe and that they have each other. Together, they’ve found a life of happiness and a fresh beginning.
Infuriating.
As Mewtwo walks through the flowers, it still feels estranged. All it knows is rage, but now such rage is rendered impotent. Pointless. Directionless. The fury coils inside Mewtwo’s chest, tempered with something strange that it cannot describe. Playing amongst the flowers here are Pokémon that Mewtwo knows are its kin: gelatinous purple blobs, colloquially named Ditto, that are also clones of Mew. Just as Mewtwo is. But Ditto are failures. Unwanted, and released into the wild to die. Even despite their fate, they thrive; they’re happy. And Mewtwo is not.
The words for its emotions come forth. Jealousy. Longing. Shame.
Up on the rock face, beside a tumbling waterfall, Mewtwo sees an opening. A cave. Just like the one near Cerulean. It shoots up through the air once more, careening through the clearing, into the damp darkness of the cavern within. There are too many feelings inside of its head, burning in its chest, coursing through its veins, threatening to spill. Mewtwo curls up in one corner, as far from the cave opening as it can find, squeezing its eyes shut and focusing on the echoey silence of the rock walls enveloping it. Somehow, after hours of tamping down every rising feeling, it drifts off to sleep.
Once it wakes, it does not leave. Days pass, turning to weeks and eventually months, but Mewtwo cannot bear to step outside the cavern again. It’s better off in here. Away from the other Pokémon — from the Fletchling whose mother fears it, and from the Ditto with whom it shares its DNA but will never share freedom. Mewtwo has no place in this village, amongst the happiness and healing, but where else could it go? Back to Cerulean Cave, where explorers would delve and disturb it? Back to flying across the world, attempting, desperately and fruitlessly, to flee its past?
Mewtwo has no place in this village, nor any place in this world. It was never supposed to exist.
After almost a year of solitude, Mewtwo is awoken. There’s a disturbance: the bird Pokémon in the village have stopped chattering — the Jigglypuff have stopped singing. No. Not again. Mewtwo focuses energy at its horns, sending out pulses, and sure enough, a few hundred feet away, senses a human.
Heat rises in its blood. More damned humans. When it lived in Cerulean Cave, the explorers always came with cocky, raucous laughter; the humans from the towns it decimated were judgmental and scared; and of course, those who created it were evil incarnate. Now, another is here to disturb its peace. Can Mewtwo not know peace? Is it doomed? Destined to kill humans until the world knows no more?
Mewtwo senses the Trainer growing closer. It rises, standing firm in the centre of the cavern, hands curled into fists and prepared to fight.
Yet when the Trainer steps into the cave, Mewtwo’s muscles slack. Its brow unfurrows. The boy enters with genuine curiosity and quiet footsteps, hoping not to disturb any nesting Pokémon. When he sees the tall, foreboding form of Mewtwo before him, his heart skips a beat, but not out of fear. Out of wonder. His lips part and his eyes widen, and he starts to take a step backwards. “Sorry to disturb you,” he whispers, but trails off. Mewtwo’s eyes lock onto his.
The energy this Trainer effuses is overwhelming. There’s not a single scintilla of greed, nor any malignance inside him. The aura he emits is good — considerate, compassionate. The partner Pokémon inside the Balls on his belt are happy, even honoured, to call this boy their Trainer.
The boy stills his footsteps, and instead Mewtwo is the one to take a step forward. Towards him. Cautiously, he takes an empty Poké Ball from his belt, raising it so Mewtwo can see. With his other hand, he reaches out, fingers outstretched. An offering. An understanding.
Mewtwo takes a moment to name the emotion that rises inside it now. A calm heart, a serenity in the presence of this human, and a flicker inside its chest. With his Poké Ball and outstretched hand, the Trainer offers for Mewtwo to join him. With that, it sees the promise of a new beginning, a better life. With him — perhaps Mewtwo can find its purpose.
It knows the name for this emotion.
It’s hope.
It’s freedom.