To be a true hero, kid, is a dying art

[clunk. white noise distorts this transmission for several seconds-- the feed cuts in, cuts out... almost blips out entirely for a split second there before the pokégear practically roars back to life and the feed returns to its normal clarity. someone really ought to tell Sora to stop dropping his 'gear.]

[it appears to be any normal evening on the ground here in Goldenrod: warm-colored, freshly lit buildings to replace the setting sun somewhere in the distance, two Girafarigs galloping down the street and away from the feed... someone in the middle of an intense fight.]

[the 'gear is fixed on some spot down the road, so the combatants are mostly heard-- well, Sora, anyway; he's doing a lot of yelling-- and only seen in occasional red and yellow and black blurs. after a few minutes of heavy footsteps and the wooshes of someone swinging something heavy pass, Sora skids to a stop in the 'gear's view, trying to catch his breath, gripping a wooden Keyblade Ven carved for him months ago tightly in his hands. he is sweaty, his hair is disheveled and there's a streak of soot across his face-- he probably smells, too. for a kid caught up in what looks like a pretty violent brawl, he actually seems pretty calm. in fact, the 'gear is close enough to catch a sly grin on his face.]

When are you gonna stop going easy on me, huh Dapper? C'mon, I dare you to sting me!

[oh, it is on now, Trainer-- the Beedrill buzzes from offscreen, and Sora's expression briefly flickers to one of surprise. well, he did ask for it. the pokégear finally craps out right as Sora's moving to dodge a well-aimed Twinneedle.]