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Lucario's Legacy part 8Lucario made his way to into town. Everywhere he looked, Pokemon stared at him with angry, judging eyes. They whispered to each other.
''Some leader. Just ran off and did nothing.''
''He left us to die.''
''Leader? All he did was win a contest!''
Lucario closed his eyes and kept walking, ignoring the hurtful comments that he heard all too well. He stepped onto the stone dais. Surprisingly it was still standing after the horrific inferno last night. The Pokemon stared at him, grumbling.
''Everyone!'' Lucario yelled.
They went quiet. He struggled to find the right words.
''I...wasn't living up to the town's standards. To my standards. I put those closest to me first, without thinking about the pain and the suffering of o-others and their families.''
The crowd muttered, a mixture of emotions, mostly understanding, grief and anger.
''So...I'm... I'm resigning from being leader,'' Lucario announced.
As if to prove this, he snatched off his red scarf and threw it to the f
1420 MHzHe keeps a list wadded in the depths of his front, left pocket: where he holds his keys, and the forgotten/abandoned shell of a lone pistachio. The list is his biography, written in the shape of Argentine Spanish:
Me gustan los tomates en verano.
Yo amo a mi novio.
Nos besamos. (Mi novio chupa mis dedos de los pies.)
Las estrellas cantan sus canciones.
Mi nombre no es Eduardo.
Vivo con Jacobi ahora.
His pants are wadded, now, on summer-warmed hardwood; his shirt is draped over the back of a cane-back chair, the most incongruous of antiques in Jacobi’s tech-nerd lair. Headphones clamp his ears, and fill his head with the lisping whisper of interstellar hydrogen, broadcasting itself at a neat 1420 MHz. Bedroom is the wrong word for a place like this, despite the sorts of furnishings one might expect. There is a bed, a dresser, a bookshelf and two nightstands cramped with magazines, graphic novels. An alarm clock
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