There are a lot of things he could blame that on. His mother's disappearance when he was young. His father's creeping madness during his teenage years. And in the present, the general miasma of ill sentiment building as Johto steals more and more power from Kanto under the guise of normal Indigo League operations.
But more than anything else, Hoshi thinks he's just not cut out for happiness. That's just not… the sort of person he is. He's angry. Resentful. Spiteful. A petty man, driven to petty criminality by petty circumstances.
But on an otherwise unremarkable day, in a low-class pub newly opened in Vermilion's Young District, Hoshi meets an orange-haired woman who changes his life, and emblazons a thick red 'R' on his very heart.
This is a fanfiction, set in the Pokémon world ten years after the events of Generation II.
Though I'm primarily basing the setting on the canon of the games, I will also be using the show and manga to bulk out continuity – as well as my own imagination, of course. Honestly, it'll probably be mostly headcanon by volume, if not necessarily weight.
I hope you enjoy this slightly darker-than-average Pokémon adventure.
Hello. I'm FuzzyZergling, and this is my first fanfic, though not my first work of prose.
I'll start off by saying that the contents of this fic are rather darker and more violent than Pokémon's main games and anime – though about parity with some of the manga content – so if you're not into that, this might not be for you.
It will feature a villain protagonist, which might also not be for you.
I waffled on whether to tag the story as romance, because while is features a romance I don't think people searching for the tag would be satisfied. In the end I've decided to leave it off, though I'm open to being convinced otherwise.
Finally, here are some links to read it on other sites, if you prefer those for whatever reason: Royal Road, Space Battles, Questionable Questing (warning: this one is in the NSFW section of the forum, though the link itself is safe)
All that being said, let's start. This first post will act as a space for author's notes; scroll down to the next one for the prologue.
For a city so obsessed with electricity, Vermilion sure does have some shittily lit businesses.
They were probably going for some hokey 'local culture' shtick, with the dugtrio-themed lights and the sea-coloured stone tabletops and the ugly brown-orange walls. She loved orange, it was her second favourite colour, but whoever painted this shitty pub had chosen a tone that made her gorge rise.
And the furniture was obviously cheap, store-bought crap, too. Nothing made custom, nothing with effort put in. None of the many clashing aesthetics really matched; even the employee uniforms failed to stick to a theme, just a generic apron-with-white-shirt ensemble.
The people, at least, were promising enough. There were a few construction workers clustering like exeggcute along the left-side booths, with a smaller number of business-casual suit-and-tie types scattered around nearer the bar.
The rest of the pub's patrons weren't readily sorted into any one category, which was good – it meant she didn't stand out too much. Just enough to get noticed.
And she was noticed, alright. Every time she turned her head, she saw men – and a few women – looking her way appreciatively. She mentally marked out a few, some with potential… and some to ignore.
Those guys in the corner are definitely Weepinbell Riders; better to stay away. That duo of girls are wearing 'Free the League' patches – I'll have to talk to them at some point. But not today. She had only been in Vermilion City for four days, and would prefer to take it slow for a bit. Find her footing with a few easy, solitary, marks.
One in particular caught her eye. Dressed like a construction worker, but sitting alone. He's scrawny, and sort of foreign-looking, too. Big poofy eyebrows that didn't match his face at all – a bit of Fuchsia blood, maybe?
For a moment she hesitated. He almost looks like me – exotic, but safe. He isn't a plant for someone else, right? But then she let the suspicion flow away. Well, so what if he is? Information is information.
There was a trick, a way of angling your body, that they tried to teach at the Rocket academy. She liked to think that she had already known it before hitching her cart to theirs, but wherever it came from, she was good at it. A tilt of the chin, a motion of the eyes and spine, and suddenly the isolated worker's attention snapped right to her. That's right. I'm sitting here, drinking by my lonesome.
Come on, talk to me.
He hesitated, eyeing the other men who were obviously building up their courage to chat up a young, attractive woman… but in the end he stood up before anyone else. He was tall, and though he didn't exactly rush there was only enough time to blink before he was sitting on the shitty, Pokéball-patterned stool next to her own.
"Hey," he said, and she smiled; his voice was more attractive than his face, stronger and deeper than she would have guessed. "I'm Hoshi. You here to meet people, or just to drink?"
They talked for nearly a half-hour. He wasn't charming, or witty, but within the first few minutes she started feeling pretty good about the situation; even if she didn't hook him, she'd at least have someone interesting to spend the night with.
She fed him bits of her story – which was even mostly true, for now – but most of the time she was able to steer him into talking about himself. He was harder to reel in than some men she had gotten on her line – he was obviously carrying a big mass of bullshit on his back, enough daddy issues sloshing around in his head to make a teenage call-girl blush – but the words started to flow easier as he drank.
"Yeah, I've been here in Vermilion since I was… a year old, I think."
He's somewhere in his early twenties, so… "Your family moved because of the dragon attacks?"
His eyes were just the slightest bit unfocused, beginning to fill with liquor. "I don't know. Dad never… That makes sense, but I don't know."
She let her hair fall forward over her face as she leaned in. "You've lived a pretty hard life, haven't you?"
His face went tense, then slack again as he met her eyes, and she knew right that second she had him.
Hoshi Mutsu was twelve years old when his father began to die.
The exact moment it began was etched into his brain in too-vivid colour; the yellow-red-gold floral pattern of the wallpaper set behind his father's imposing features, the deep purple of his hair forming a halo around his head as the shining blue of his eyes reflected the television.
"What."
The word was not loud, but it was intense. As the news lady drawled on, his lips split to reveal white teeth, the enamel somehow duller than his eyes despite the former's mirror sheen. "They have to be joking. Some little Johto punk is Champion? They want us to believe that?"
Years later, Hoshi would begin to put together the context; he had been only nine when Red had become Champion, and he hadn't seen the strangeness of two boys his age taking the title in sequence – it had just been how the world was. Normal.
But that late fall day, with red light streaming in through the windows courtesy of the thick clouds of Cinnabar ash still drifting in the air, his father had seen something he couldn't believe. His arm moved, and empty cans – soda, not beer, that wouldn't come until much later – went flying, dull aluminium coated in electric yellow labels catching the light as they tumbled.
"They think they can-"
He cut himself off. Shenja Mutsu always loomed large in Hoshi's memories, but that day he had been a towering skyscraper – a thing of hard steel and fragile glass. "Lance thinks he can pull something like this? We'll see about that…" The anger in his voice went cold, but his face never changed from a rictus scowl. "I'll call up Surge and some of our war buddies, see if we can't-"
Again, he cut himself off – but this time, it was different. Hoshi watched from the doorway as his father's eyes bugged out, something strange dancing in the black of his pupils.
"…Dad?" That was when he had become afraid; it was normal for his father to yell at the TV, especially the news. It was not normal for him to freeze, still as a statue, his eyes focused on nothing.
The man jerked, his chin snapping to the side in a move that must have been painful, and for a fraction of a second Hoshi saw his father look at him without even a hint of recognition.
Then it was gone. "Hoshi." Shenja blinked, the strange energy in his vacant eyes draining away. "Hoshi," he said again, putting a hand on his forehead.
The anger was softened, cut with embarrassment. He looked at the scattered cans. "Ahh, I really overreacted there, didn't I?" A bit of fumbling with the remote turned off the news, the lady's yellow dress and green hair replaced by dull black-grey. "Did you see that? Nonsense. Like some kid from out west could do what our home-grown Pallet boys did, trained by the Pokémon Professor himself!" His voice had transformed from cold rage to consternated amusement, but an echo of that previous anger still showed itself in the tenseness of his jaw, the angle his fluffy eyebrows made as they met.
He laughed, and despite the lingering weirdness the tension in Hoshi's gut uncoiled.
They had gone out for ice cream, later, after visiting Uncle Bob. His memories of the rest of the day were unclear, the colors washed out, faded like they had been left out too long in the sun.
But years later, he could still remember his father's eyes as he stood, immobile, strange colours dancing somewhere deep inside.
It was far from the last time he would see it.
Hoshi Mutsu was sixteen years old when his father took his last breath.
The hospital was clean, white walls and cream floors almost glowing in the bright fluorescent lights. It wasn't at all like their apartment, dirty and torn-up by his father's intermittent rage.
Shenja lay on the bedding, and for once he seemed small. He wasn't actually small; his arms were still thickly muscled, even in his forties, connected to a torso that more resembled a machamp's than the average human's. His face was stately, carved from hard stone by a harder chisel. He didn't look like he was dying.
But somehow, he was diminished. His candle was guttering, and there was an animal part of Hoshi's brain that could just tell.
"Bob will take care of you," his father said, because he could tell, too. "You still have the land in Viridian. You'll be fine."
Hoshi couldn't open his mouth. His lips may as well have been welded shut for all he could move them, stuck together by dreadful anticipation. Because any second now, it would-
And then it happened, right on cue – he had more than enough practice predicting it, after all. Shenja's limbs seized, his eyes bulging out as his tongue lolled, pink against the white pallor of his skin, completely different from the clean, painted brick of the walls. A thousand years of agony passed in the span of a second before the man's muscles released, returning to normal.
A rare type of seizure, the doctors said. Caused by an allergic reaction to the barely-refined gasses used as plane fuel in the later years of the war, they said.
Easily treatable if it was caught in the first few years, they said. If you didn't scoff at the notion of visiting a doctor, if you didn't write it off as stress, then an old injury, then a Johtonian conspiracy…
Hoshi watched his father gather himself back together. It didn't hurt – even now, in the end, his father said it didn't hurt – and yet the flame guttered, finding the end of its wick. They looked at each other, and suddenly every emotion in Hoshi's body turned red.
His body vibrated with it, and it was all he could do to avoid lashing out, hold back from beating his fists against his father, or the stupid infantile clefairy-branded bedsheets, or his own body. Shenju eyed him with tired understanding – Hoshi hadn't inherited his father's build, or his skill with his hands, but when it came to anger, they were exactly the same.
That was the last time Hoshi saw his father as himself, his eyes clear, full of understanding and regret, the madness finally gone for one last, clear moment.
Shenja Mutsu died December sixth, 2004, in the early hours of the morning. He was forty-one years old.
Hoshi watched as the doctors moved in their eggshell coats and vibrant candy-blue gloves, their hands swift and dextrous as they attempted to restart a corpse's heart. They brought in a raichu, the Pokemon's movements, too, swift and self-assured, like it had gone to college to learn medicine the same as the doctors.
Hoshi left the room. It wouldn't work; even then, he had known it wouldn't work. The fire was gone. He leaned his forehead against the smooth, clean bricks as a crackle of lightning accompanied by a resounding "Chuuu!" echoed through the painted stone.
"Chuu! Chuu! Chuu!"
And then, silence.
Hoshi's fist met the wall, producing only the softest sound of impact despite the immediate pain he felt cutting up his arm. It felt good, so he did it again, and again. His anger, his frustration at the sheer tragic stupidity of the world travelled down his arm, returning as cathartic suffering like copper turned to gold in an alchemist's alembic.
But no magic or alchemy would appear to return his father – or his smashed fist, for that matter. He spent the next week in the hospital as they put his bones back together, then went back home to his dirty, empty apartment.
Hoshi Mutsu was eighteen years old when he killed for the first time.
…Well, maybe killed was a bit dramatic. It was only a Pokémon. But the incident stood out all the same.
He had a job as a cook in a burger joint, back then. It wasn't the worst job, or the best, but it was money. He could feed himself, cloth himself, and keep the apartment himself.
He had proved that he didn't need Bob Surge's charity, no matter what the old veteran wanted.
"Number two, extra mustard," came an order from the front, and he flipped the disks of frozen meat like he had been taught.
Orders, and orders, and orders, grey and pointless in the painting of his memory. The morning passed, the lunch rush ended, and then he was off for the day.
It had been a completely normal afternoon, from what he could recall; the sun shone down, reflecting off the waters of Vermilion Bay like scattered jewels, beachgoers frolicking in their preferred habitat even as the heavy rhythm of construction sounded out from the northeast. The Young District had been just starting to go from idea to skeletal foundation, and the city was booming.
Hoshi had walked along, not thinking much, just taking in the city – and eventually he reached the point where civilisation turned to wilderness. The transition was immediate; his foot left concrete to set down in grass that reached his ankles, green dotted with the red-blue-yellow of coloured wildflowers like drops of paint.
Travelling outside the city was dangerous, doubly so when he didn't have a Pokémon of his own, but Route Eleven had been – still was – safer than most.
Safe, and full of gamblers. TauroBurger had paid well for the hours, and on a lucky day his paycheck could double in the span of an afternoon.
Or at least, that had been his plan; he never reached the gaggle of old men, who wore their rags with an odd sort of pride.
"Hey you!" The voice was an obnoxious screech in Hoshi's memory, tones only a young child's immature vocal cords could produce. Time was probably exaggerating it – or maybe not. It was impossible to know.
What he did know was that the following sequence was burned into his brain just as vividly as that day six years before:
Hoshi turned to see a boy dressed in denim shorts, a sky-blue t-shirt, and a red trainer's cap – branded with the League symbol, an L stylized to form most of a triangle, because of course he would be wearing a rare collector's item. He brandished a Pokéball, one of the newer ones that Silph had been sending out. Hoshi had seen them now and then, displayed front-and-centre in the neighbourhood Pokémart's display window, easily five times the price as an upgraded Great Ball.
Unlike the smooth red-top standard Poké Ball that he remembered drooling over as a ten-year-old, the one the boy held was textured with small bumps, its top jet black while the bottom remained white. "When trainers' eyes meet, they have to battle! Send out your Pokémon!" With a warbling whoosh-oosh-oosh, the ball popped open, unleashing a torrent of red light that resolved into a lavender rat the size of a medium housecat. "Go, Rattata!"
Fucking really? That's what he had thought. He looked back up to the kid, who couldn't have been more than six, and irritation spiked up and down his face. Those balls cost an arm and a leg. Who's shelling out that kind of cash so their brat can play around pretending to be a trainer? A fucking rattata. What a waste; at least get a magnemite or drowzee or something. He isn't even old enough for a license! He scowled. "Sorry kid, I'm not a trainer. Go bother someone else, 'kay?"
He turned, but the kid failed to do as he was told. "Not a trainer?" He sounded so confused, Hoshi just had to turn back to give him a look. "What're you doing out here? Only trainers are allowed to go in the tall grass!"
That's just something your mom told you so you wouldn't get eaten by an ekans before she got you a four-figure birthday present, you snot machine. "None of your business. Piss off." He was officially done talking to kindergarteners for the day; he had money to make. Dirk probably has a poker game going on right about now. I don't know why he keeps it up, he must be the worst poker player in Kanto, but as long as he does…
But again, the kid was undeterred. He pointed, still holding the nonsensically expensive prototype ball. "If you refuse to send out your Pokémon, that means I win!" His stupid voice combined with his smug grin to make Hoshi's vision tint red. "And that means you've gotta pay up! It's the Pokémon law!" His other hand made a grabbing motion.
At the mention of paying, the red filter over Hoshi's vision doubled. His teeth clenched as muscles stood out along his arms and back, rational thought being washed out by a torrent of fury. "The fuck did you just say?"
He took a step, and the kid, now sporting a worried look, retreated – but his legs were short, and Hoshi grew closer. "You think you can push me around? Because you have a fucking rat? Fuck off."
He hadn't actually meant to hit the kid. Even in the privacy of his own head, he swore he didn't. He was just going to scare him.
But when the little shit with his blue rat and his expensive fucking merch stepped back, he must have turned his foot over a rock or something – because he reversed, stumbling forward, and Hoshi's soft backhanded swipe caught him right in the eye.
"Oh, fuck." The kid stumbled away and fell on his ass, holding his free hand over his face. Then, expression filled with real fear, the stupid fucking child said the words that would turn this into one of the worst days of both their lives.
He pointed again, choking out a command. "Rattata, help! Use B-bite!"
The memory stopped at that point, or maybe it would be more accurate to say it skipped ahead, his brain simply lacking any coherent information to dredge up. There was nothing but a sea of pain and fury, red of a dozen different tones mixing together, and when whatever had happened was over, Hoshi was standing over a pile of crushed meat. Hints of lavender mixed up with red and brown and sharp bits of white.
The kid was still on his ass, his expression horrified, his mouth open, brandishing the now-useless Pokéball. No words came out; maybe he had been screaming and had run out of air, or maybe he was too scared to breathe.
Hoshi ran, then, and kept running all the way through Vermilion until he hit water, only stopping when his socks were soaked through with salty ocean suds. His clothes were ruined, soaked through with blood – mostly his own – and his arm felt like it was hanging by a thread.
Later, in the hospital, he would tell Surge he had been bitten by a wild Pokémon. Whatever happened to the kid, he never found out.
He stared at the woman, his eyes tracing from her sky-blue eyes to the sapphires dotting her nose and ears, down her bust to the curve of her stomach. I must be drunk, he thought. I'd never tell anyone this, otherwise.
He obviously hadn't told the whole story – he was trying to get laid, not be put in a psych ward – but he had told this woman more about himself than anyone he had ever met. He wasn't even sure why; something about her just made him… talk.
"Sorry," he sputtered. "What was your name?"
A strand of fluorescent orange hair moved, tucked behind her ear by the motions of her fingers. "Cascade," she reminded him. "But call me Casca."
Hoshi woke up with a girl in his bed, and being honest with himself, he kind of freaked the fuck out for a minute – at least until he found the used condoms in his wastebasket, put his scattered memories in order, and verified that he probably hadn't set down the path to becoming an unmarried father at the age of twenty-two the previous night.
Actually, now that he had calmed down, the situation seemed pretty good. He had only the lightest buzz of a hangover, and an attractive woman in his bed – Casca, that was her name – wasn't exactly a problem… Though it looked like she probably wouldn't wake up before he left.
Construction work required him to get up before dawn, which wasn't exactly conducive to other people's schedules. Well, whatever. It isn't like I have anything worth stealing. The most expensive thing in the apartment was his boots, and he would be taking those with him; if she wanted to nick his salvaged, two-generations-old CD player, or his tiny television, she was welcome to them.
Shame I won't be here when she wakes up, though. He drew his eyes down the curves her body made under the covers, recalling the previous night. Or would she be embarrassed to see me in the light of day? She was probably drunker than I was…
He took his time in the bathroom, shaking off the last dregs of sleep as he shaved what little stubble had grown in and wrestled with his short but frizzy hair. The mirror showed him what it always did: a man of narrow figure with an equally narrow face, thin lips and a flat nose beneath small purple eyes. Short hair of the same colour, with a crinkled texture that made it puff out at the slightest touch of humidity.
Bob said he took after his mother, but Hoshi didn't see it; dad's old pictures showed a woman whose face was short and wide, not narrow, with a small pointed nose and large eyes. Maybe he just means that I'm thin like she was.
He was dressed and ready for work before the time his alarm would have gone off, if he had bothered to set the thing last night. But before he stepped out the door, he turned back and spent a minute fishing around for a pen and paper.
'Sorry to leave you hanging,' he wrote, 'but I've got to get to work. Feel free to help yourself to something from the fridge.'
Vermilion was, in his personal opinion, the most beautiful city in Kanto.
When he expressed that opinion verbally, some people tried to argue. They'd bring up Cerulean's tourist-trap waterparks, or Viridian Forest's unspoiled nature, or even Saffron's big-city energy. Fuchsia's Safari Zone and traditional architecture, Cinnabar's active volcano, Mount Moon's desolate atmosphere…
Sure, they were pretty. But to Hoshi, it wasn't even close. Vermilion was strong, in a way that even the deep mountains of Pewter and Lavender couldn't match. It remembered everything, in a way the rest of the country seemed to have forgotten.
On his way to the work site, he passed along the coastline, and the dark blue of the pre-dawn horizon blending into the sea, separated only by the lighter cream of the concrete pier and wooden docks beyond, caught his eyes. He nodded to himself as the perfect illustration of his musing was silhouetted against the gradually brightening sky.
Along the shore stood huge emplacements, giant cannons that could fire on both ships and aircraft – disarmed, obviously, but it wouldn't take more than ten minutes for a trained professional to grab the parts from the nearby Vermilion Military Museum, and just slot them in.
A shiver went down his spine as Hoshi just stood for a long second, drinking in the steel machines, the weapons that hundreds walked past every single day without a second thought. The curve at the bottom where a voltorb would sit, ready to explode. The smooth, segmented barrels, kept polished despite the multiple years since they had seen action.
No, Vermilion wasn't like other cities.
The rest of his trip to work was less profound, and it wasn't long before he was once again in the Young District – the northeastern section of the city, newly built and bustling with life.
His boss spotted him as he came in – which made sense, since he was easily twenty minutes early, the first person besides the supervisor to arrive. The hefty man stood up as Hoshi approached, already sweating despite the morning chill.
"Early day today, Mutsu?"
"Eh," he grunted. "Woke up before my alarm. Nice enough day to just sit for a while."
His boss, Dedwin Everheart, fit the term 'construction worker' like he had been moulded for it. He was tall and more than a bit fat, a yellow hardhat crowning his bologna slab of a face. His overalls were worn over his lower half, yellow highlights gleaming over heavy blue fabric as the sun rose, but tied at the waist to leave his upper body covered by only a thin grey wifebeater.
The man had been a supervisor since before Hoshi started, and in those three years he hadn't seemed to age a day; his thinning brown hair was combed over exactly the same, his chin sported stubble of exactly the same length each day, and his skin remained exactly the same shade of processed-meat pink regardless of the season.
Hoshi and his co-workers had a nickname for the man, which they kept well away from his meaty ears: Ditto.
"Well then sid'down. Won't be long before the sun rises and things heat up." He said the last few words with a grumble; Everheart was the sort of man who started overheating the moment the temperature ticked up past fifteen degrees, and it was liable to get closer to twice that as the day wore on.
The overweight man took his own advice, plopping down heavily as Hoshi manhandled the cooler containing his lunch and water down into a nook, where hopefully the summer sun wouldn't get it too bad. A second later he sat down as well, and they watched the sun rise from their perch of evenly cut lumber.
Weirdly good day today. I feel like something bad almost has to happen, just to even things out a bit.
Despite his pessimism, the worst thing that happened to Hoshi was being needled a bit for taking a woman home the night before. Vermilion's newest shopping mall took another step towards completion under the careful eyes of Everheart, men operating power tools as little blue-grey machop and their older machoke parents hefted the heavy loads in place of fragile human hands.
Lunch came and went – sandwiches of canned magikarp, flavoured with hot peppers and mayo – and as the radio tolled four o'clock, things started to wrap up. But as the equipment went back under lock and key, a grumbling bellow went up.
"Oi! Anybody seen a stray Pokéball floating around?!"
The Ditto's yell spread over the shopping-mall-to-be, catching the ears of every man and woman. Over the course of the next minute people set their own end-of-day tasks aside and rummaged around; a missing ball was serious.
After examining his own section thoroughly enough to avoid a dressing-down, Hoshi went over with a shake of his head. "Nothing on my end, boss."
Said boss grumbled, eliciting a flinch from his side. Beside the obelisk of sweat stood a smaller man, one whose figure fit his profession perhaps even less than Hoshi himself: Dabi Mokusen.
Mokusen looked like he would have been more at home in a classroom or laboratory than a worksite, even decked out in overalls and hard yellow helmet as he was. He was small, hitting four feet only with the aid of his steel-toed boots, and had glasses so thick it was hard to see his eyes through the lenses.
His voice was fit for his frame: nervous and small. "I swear I put it away with the rest of them, supervisor! Exactly the same place every day- it isn't like I could forget!" He fidgeted as he spoke, his hands and feet constantly moving with anxious energy.
"Sure," Everheart responded in an even-gruffer-than-usual tone. "But then where is it?"
More fidgeting. "I tried asking Benny, but…" He looked over to a machoke – Benny, probably; Hoshi didn't know them well enough to have their names down.
The machoke blinked and tilted its head. The extremely muscular humanoid lizards were pretty smart as far as Pokémon went, but it wasn't like they could understand more than a few simple commands – if you wanted a conversation, pretty much your only option was a kadabra, at least in Kanto.
Benny wouldn't be telling them where his ball was, even if he had seen where it went.
Everheart huffed, visibly annoyed, and little Dabi Mokusen cowered. Come on, man. It's not like he's going to hit you; show some spine.
The other workers filtered in, and their answers were universal: none of them had found the missing ball. The Ditto sighed, his meaty chin wobbling.
"Alright. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. Everybody turn out your pockets." The collective groan at his words only steeled his resolve. "Not a request, people! Those things aren't cheap; nobody goes home until we find what's missing!"
They were each frisked, then their bags and other containers got the same treatment. The supervisor even made people unscrew their water thermoses so he could look inside – but no matter how thoroughly he searched, or how red and sweaty he became, the missing ball failed to appear.
In the end, Everheart was made a liar; they were sent off without anything being found, aggrieved workers grumbling all the way. Hoshi thought a little grumbling was more than fair; the useless search had taken nearly a full hour. He followed his usual crowd for a bit, heading north, but as they turned east to search for a bar or restaurant, he just kept going.
Mikan, one of his friendlier co-workers, turned. "Not drinking today, Hoshi?"
"No." He adjusted the strap hanging off his shoulder, the weight of his cooler drawing a depression in the fabric of his overalls – and the meat underneath. "Sorry, I've got something to do – probably be late for it, now."
Mikan gave him an upwards nod, but as they headed off Hoshi caught a little last-minute gossip. "Who drinks on Thursday but not Friday?" "Think he's got that fat chick waiting for him at home?"
A feminine chuckle. "No way. I've seen the inside of that apartment; once was enough."
Hoshi went on his own way – and found that, strangely, the banter hadn't dampened his spirits at all. Do I have someone waiting..? No, there's no way she'll still be there. It was just a one-night stand; by now Casca's at some other bar, probably picking up some other guy.
I only mostly remember our conversation last night, but I know she isn't local. Given the hair… probably a tourist coming down from Cerulean. I'll be just a memory to her.
The thought wasn't sad; today really had been a good day. At least so far. Let's see how that keeps up.
He adjusted the lay of his strap again, and headed off.
To the north of Vermilion City stood a power plant, similar in structure to its abandoned twin over on the east coast, its bright red paint dominating the coastline like a hundred-year gyarados. Then, even further north, was something a bit less majestic: a junkyard, hugging the invisible line where Vermilion turned to Route Six, just large and close enough to qualify for grants as a city service.
The owner was a man who went by Danny Houndoom – and in addition to being a literal garbage-tier human being, he was also, quite possibly, Hoshi's closest friend.
As the stink of trash – and the even more potent fumes of semi-wild grimer – grew stronger, Hoshi's thin smile became increasingly wooden. He didn't mind the dump, not really…
But something about the mere thought of poison gas always put him on edge. It's stupid. They tested me for the allergy way back, and I came back clean.
Putting aside his paranoia, he entered the fenced-in area through the open gate. Despite the stink the air retained some of the freshness of the surrounding countryside, and as his eyes scanned around he beheld a salvager's paradise: mounds of garbage, almost entirely discarded electronics, plastic and silicon piled up like mountains.
The owner himself was nearly hidden, camouflaged by his stained jacket against the background of refuse – Hoshi only saw him because of the weird, multicoloured cap thing the older man always wore.
"Danny," he hollered as he approached. "Sorry to drop in unannounced, hope I'm not interrupting." His smile gained an edge as he hefted his cooler.
But as he stepped closer, the old man failed to reply. He was kneeling, working on something that might have once been a car engine, seemingly completely absorbed in the task. To his side one of the tamer grimer – Hoshi recognised it by its brighter green sheen, just slightly different from its more desaturated brethren – leaned close, making bubbling sounds like the mass of slime it was.
"Danny." He stepped right up to the man's side – still no response. He was wedging a screwdriver into a crack in the metal jumble. "Danny!"
Hoshi snapped his fingers directly in front of the salvager's face, and he finally jolted to attention, recoiling.
"Damnit!" he cried, his voice overly loud in the nearly silent junkyard. "Whazz- Hoshi? Damn kid, don't do that when I'm working!"
Though he had known the man for years, Danny Houndoom's origins were mysterious; his skin was weathered enough it could have started as any of a dozen colours, his facial structure was just plain aberrant, and his accent wasn't anything Hoshi had ever heard before, a slurred-together river where each word bled into the next – his sentence had actually sounded more like 'Damkid, dundoo tha'wenay mworkin.'
But while the length of time they had known each other did little for Hoshi's knowledge of the man himself, it was really useful in determining what the fuck he was saying.
"Yeah, yeah," Hoshi replied. "But I thought you'd want to see what I've got right away. Check this out…"
He plopped down his cooler and bent to pop open the top. Inside were a few wrappers, an orange he should really eat before it went off, and, most importantly, a few bags of slightly-melted ice.
Or at least, that was what they appeared to be. With a grin, Hoshi opened one of the bags, then reached in and drew out a second plastic bag hidden inside. While the outer bag was clear, this one was white-blue, nearly invisible inside the tube of ice.
Danny abandoned his mystery machine, standing up to look as the second bag opened to reveal a standard-issue Poké Ball, the classic red-top white-bottom an increasing rarity as newer models came into fashion. Hoshi rolled the ball around in his palm; it was in its storage mode, half the size of the orange it had been sharing the cooler with since lunch break. Dabi was lying; he didn't put the ball in with the others at all. Dumbass left it out in the open while he was eating his overpriced fast food.
Well, his loss was Hoshi's gain – or the company's loss was his gain, at least.
Danny eyed the ball with speculation behind his dark glasses. "Used?"
"Yeah, sorry."
The junk dealer shrugged. "No skin off my nose. But I'll need to reset it before selling – that'll lower what I can pay."
Hoshi continued to roll the ball around in his palm. "Obviously. A hundred even?"
Danny's tongue peeked out, clenched in his remaining teeth like he had swallowed a lemon. "Fuck no. Fifty."
"You owe me for that speaker, still. Eighty."
The sixty-something man in his stained jacket and weird hat made a noise like he was watching his family be dissolved in acid, but Hoshi was familiar with this song and dance. He held steady with a raised eyebrow.
"Fine," Danny finally gave, "Eighty. Half now, half when I sell the thing."
Hoshi tossed him the ball underhanded, and the old man caught it with a sharp motion, obviously familiar with the tool's use. "Deal."
As the scrap – and contraband – seller went to stow the merchandise and collect his pay, Hoshi's eyes went down to the mechanical heap, and the grimer still leaning in, seemingly as curious as he was about what the thing did.
A minute passed, but no matter what angle he looked at it from, Hoshi couldn't determine what the machine was. It's definitely made from mostly engine parts, but… No, I've got no idea. "Hey Danny, what the fuck is this thing?"
The man emerged from behind a pile of computer bits and rusted turbines – clutching a few wrinkled bills in his hand, to Hoshi's satisfaction.
"Hm? Oh, right. The thing." He drew close, his lips pursed. "Sorry, can't say. Gang shit, you know how it is."
Gang shit? Hoshi's brows rose. "Fuck off. That ain't a bike or a weapon or anything. It's a modern art piece at best."
The old man snorted. "I wish I could sell it for that kinda cash. Naw it's- it's not anything like that. Don't worry about it."
For a moment Hoshi's curiosity burned blue like a torch behind his ears, but it was snuffed out as he reached for the bills. "Well, whatever. Pleasure doing business with you, Danny-"
As his fingers grasped for the cash, Danny angled them away. "Wait," he broke in. "I had an idea. Instead of me voiding the thing, scrounging up a buyer, and then paying you… Why don't you just keep the thing?" He smiled, surprisingly well-cared-for teeth peeking out from the crescent of his dark lips. "I'll just take a little fee for my technical expertise, and you get a whole-ass Pokéball for a fraction the going price. Savvy?"
Hoshi frowned. "No, Danny. A few years ago, maybe, but…" With the league cracking down after all those accidents, if I get caught owning a Pokémon without a license…
That's jail time. A fucking lot of jail time, maybe.
The good mood he had been basking in since he woke up began to curdle slightly. "That's not gonna work. Just give me the money."
With a reluctant face, the old man relinquished the pair of twenties.
In an effort to rekindle his previous emotion, Hoshi spent a while shooting the shit with the older man. They left work to the side, just talking about the summer weather, their lives, and a little bit of politics near the end – luckily, they were birds of a feather when it came to those opinions.
Hoshi kicked around a worn soccer ball for the grimer to chase, and after about an hour he made his way home, money in his pocket, some edge of good feeling regained.
In the waning light before sunset, the city seemed to be tinted gold. No, he thought, not gold. It looks more like vermilion.
If a child were to draw a map of Kanto's booming port city, the largest building would be the Pokémon Gym. It wasn't actually the largest, not even close, but in terms of cultural impact it towered, leaving the rest of the city in its shadow.
Hoshi's apartment was well into that shadow, both figuratively and literally. Standing all the way to the southwestern edge of the city, right near the water, the nondescript block of concrete rested behind the gym, a red roof and white walls blocking the tenant's view of both the ocean, and the sun. Again, literally in the gym's shadow.
It was a supremely shitty place to have built an apartment building – but that was fine with Hoshi. It meant his rent was cheap.
Other than its location, the building was actually fine. He had never had problems with the heat or water, and his neighbours kept to themselves. As he ascended the stairs, he was struck with the thought that things could actually be a lot worse.
Got a roof over my head. Food. A job I don't hate. Yeah, he was doing pretty okay.
And as he unlocked his front door and swung it open, the thought repeated itself. Holy shit. Yeah, I'm doing pretty okay.
Against all his expectations, Casca seemed to have stuck around. She looked over from where she was perched on his couch, watching his shitty junkyard TV, and raised her brow.
When she spoke, her voice was a playful drawl, perfectly taking the edge off of what otherwise might have been a statement of annoyance. "Wow, you like to leave a girl waiting, don't you?"
Well now this is certainly interesting. Kind of surprised the mc could beat a rattata to death though; I take it that the human-pokemon power disparity is rather reduced in this story?
It was Friday, June 18th, in the year 2010, and for the first time in recorded history, a woman had decided to stay with Hoshi Mutsu two days in a row.
Well, I suppose she hasn't exactly decided to stay yet – but spiritually, it feels that way. She waited all day just to talk with me, so I'm counting it.
"Casca. Sorry, I- I didn't think you would be here. When I got back."
Seeing her on his couch, dressed up in her tight little black dress, was eliciting two reactions from his hindbrain: bright lime-green joy, and the red-black of warning bells.
Actually, why did she..? She isn't homeless, is she? His eyes went to her earrings, where small but definitely-real sapphires were held in cages of silver wire. No, bad explanation. Maybe she actually has a thing for me?
The idea was foreign; Hoshi knew he looked weird, and not in an exotic way. He was unattractive, poor, and had a foul temper; the opposite of a winning combination. Not impossible I suppose, but-
His inner monologue was cut off as Casca answered. "Thought I'd bolt?" She giggled, and where the sound touched his synapses, it cut through the suspicion like a saw through rotten wood. "Nah. You're interesting, Mister Mutsu." She leaned back. "I like interesting. So unless you'd rather I go…" A raised eyebrow, the fluorescent orange crescent more vivid against her pale skin than the full moon against the midnight sky. "I feel like crashing here for a few days. What do you say?"
Hoshi's mouth was dry. In the light of the setting sun, it was almost like he was looking at a mythical siren, seeing the woman for the first time.
Casca was chubby, maybe some would say fat, but the way she held herself with absolute confidence dispelled any notion that she was uncomfortable in her skin. Black fabric hugged her generous curves, the strapless dress showing not only her shoulders, but her belly and a dangerous amount of cleavage. It ended well above her knees, and although Hoshi knew from the previous night that she wore a pair of tiny shorts underneath, the idea that she would move her legs just right and reveal something was impossible to ignore.
Her face entranced him no less than her body; round in shape, with eyes of softest blue and peach-painted lips; she looked somehow both youthful and mature at the same time. Piercings on her ears and nose held delicate pieces of jewelry, sparkling sapphires like teardrops – and he was aware of other piercings as well, lower down, hidden under fabric.
She probably wasn't the most sexually-charged woman Hoshi had ever seen – the strip of city next to the docks had a staggering number of prostitutes, whose careers were sex – but she was easily two steps above his wildest fantasies.
But of course, sirens were a myth; in reality the only things enticing seamen were carnivorous jynx, singing away to lure them into the rocks.
He managed to swallow. "Yeah, sure. Stay as long as you like." There's a catch, there has to be a catch. She can't like me for me, that's… That wasn't reasonable. He wasn't the least successful pickup artist, but the moment women got a whiff of his personality, they disappeared.
Unable to hear his thoughts, Casca smiled. "Glad to hear it. So…" She lounged, putting her hands behind her head to cradle it in place of a nonexistent pillow. "I know you're a construction worker, but what do you do? Work with your hands? Drive a big machine?" The curve of her lips drew his eye like a conductor's baton. "Command a Pokémon, maybe?"
His mouth continually failed to produce enough moisture, and he took a moment to bend down, untying his boots before he answered. "No, no Pokémon for me. Don't have a licence."
"Right. Because of your father."
He paused. She remembered that? "...Yeah. I couldn't get my certification, not while… Well, you know." Most kids who went on to be trainers started when they were ten. Hoshi – or maybe his father, it was far enough back that his memory wasn't reliable – had decided, instead, to wait a little bit.
And then the seizures, and then the downwards spiral, and then, and then, and then…
He had never gotten around to taking the tests. And now, with the new, more restrictive requirements… Basically impossible. Johto is strangling us in our sleep, and our own government is helping them adjust their grip.
Casca's lips went straight in a not-quite-frown. "Damn, that was my best guess. It's easy to picture you with a Pokéball in your hand – not really sure why. So, no Pokémon… Handiwork, then? That's my runner-up."
They talked, long into the night – long for Hoshi, anyway, who usually went to bed with the sun.
Then they did other things, and finally they slept. Hoshi's bed was just large enough for two people to sleep without touching, but Casca clung to him despite the summer heat, pressing her body against his.
It was sexual, but also not; the warmth that Hoshi felt had a different flavour from what the other things they had done in this bed left, something… Not better, exactly, but different. More spread out, dull where the other was sharp.
Fuck, he said over and over in his head, the curse gaining extra mental weight with every repetition. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm not in love. That's stupid. I've known her for two days – for less than that. Fuck.
At some point he must have managed to drift off, because between one blink and the next, it was suddenly morning. Not light, Hoshi had woken up before the sunrise, as he always did, but still morning.
For the second day in a row he had failed to set his alarm – but this time it was deliberate; it was Saturday. He had the weekend off, as mandated by Machamp and Sons, LLC.
And also for the second day in a row, he had a girl in his bed. This time, he did not freak out – but she must have slept poorly as well, because even moving with care it seemed that his stirring had forced her awake, too.
Casca rubbed her eyes, the motion doing interesting things to her chest. Fuck, no. Don't notice that; you had sex all night. You aren't even close to recharged, which means you shouldn't feel anything, because you aren't in love.
"Morning," she slipped out with a yawn. "Damn, you wake up early. Any plans for today?"
His feet touched the floor, the carpet pleasantly cooled overnight. "No, not really. You have something in mind?"
After a late-night shower, Hoshi had seen the woman without makeup for the first time. He had liked it, and as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes he found he still liked it. Her soft smile was bare, the colour of her lips less striking, but they made his heart jump in his chest nonetheless. No. I can't. Even if I wanted it, I can't afford a serious relationship. It's not gonna happen, so stop dreaming.
"How about a date? My treat."
Casca was good at her job.
That wasn't just her ego talking; the big-wigs out in Viridian like to keep score – metrics, to use their term – and while she wasn't top of the list, she was close.
She liked to think it was because when she talked to a guy, she meant it. All the acting skills in the world couldn't beat a little earnestness – and it just so happened that she had both. Some might accuse her of having no standards, but Casca had never met a man without something to like, something to dig into.
For example, consider her current mark: Hoshi Mutsu. When a pretty girl asked a man to take them on a date, most would choose a restaurant, or a club, or maybe an amusement park or something like that. Vermilion had more than enough variety to cater to any combination of activity and taste.
But Hoshi had decided to take her to the Vermilion Military Museum.
"Really? That seems dangerous."
Hoshi replied to her statement with a thin smile, his eyes far-away as he looked up at the tiny, one-person airplane, the vehicle hanging from the ceiling by a collection of nearly-invisible wires. "Not as much as you'd think. Voltorb are actually pretty docile; you need to train them up, if you want them to explode on command." His tone was wistful. "Uncle Bob says you need to work with one for at least a month before sending it into battle, or its first instinct will be to run away. That's what they do in the wild – they only blow up as a last resort, if they get cornered."
It was fascinating. She loved the subdued energy, the undercurrent of giddiness that had been flowing beneath his skin since the moment he walked in the door. It was childish, but in a good way; she could tell that Hoshi really, truly felt a connection to this place, to these dusty relics and the dry plaques describing them. I've met a lot of war orphans, and a lot of veterans, too, and each of them has a unique way of looking at the war.
Some of them get sad, some of them get angry, some of them get proud… and some of them try to ignore that part of their past, act like it never happened. I thought Hoshi would be the angry sort, or maybe sad and angry together, but this might be the most at peace I've ever seen him. Even asleep, the man had sported an irritated expression.
It turned what might have been a boring slog into a genuinely interesting day. "But in a plane, though?"
He chuckled, his deep voice resonating. "Is it that weird? If they can power a city, why not a plane? One turbine is the same as another." His eyes slid to her, caught her expression, and brightened even further. "Oh, I remember one of Dad's stories. Him and Bob were deep in dragon territory, way north past Blackthorn, looking to drop a load of drugs into the water. They were flying low-"
"Sorry," she interrupted. "Drugs? Like, poison?"
Hoshi's face was narrow in a way that made his smile seem wider than it was, like at any moment it would extend past the confines of his head and break into the open air. "No, the kind that get you high. The Johtonian bastards were really hammering us with gyarados, and stress would just make the magikarp more likely to evolve, so…" He left the rest for her to put together.
A pregnant moment, then she failed to contain her giggles. "Ah, that's so silly! Getting them high, so they weren't stressed out?" Another fit of giggles, Hoshi joining in. "Arcus, that's a military plan all right. What happened? They were flying low, and…"
"Right, they were flying low, to avoid the dragonite patrolling the mountains. Dad was in a Model 22, Bob was in a 20 – that's the one they've got up there – and Dad's engine just goes, dead stop, hundred to zero in a second. He signals Bob and starts going in for a landing – usually those things can glide pretty far, but they were hugging the mountains already, so…
The southwest of the city was called the Old District, a name that fittingly pre-dated the Young District by over five decades, and most of it was centred around trainers. The Pokécentre, Pokémart, and a bunch of other specialty shops were all clustered around the Gym, as one would assume.
But there were a few businesses that had nothing to do with Pokémon, and one that Hoshi frequented semi-regularly was a little tucked-away ice cream shop near the docks.
"Raspberry," he ordered, passing the owner a fiver.
"Island Special," came his companion's order a few seconds later, Casca handing her own money to the man.
He was mildly embarrassed to not be paying for her food, but she had insisted.
They walked the docks, their treats gradually disappearing, passing sailors and fishermen as they watched the ocean shimmer in the noon sun.
"So…" he started, and Casca turned her head, her lips stained with artificial orange colouring. "I've been debating in my head where you're from, and I've narrowed it down to either Cerulean, or the islands."
"Oh?" Her tongue flicked out, a flash of pink disappearing the melted cream. "Are you going to ask?" Her face told him she already knew the answer. Am I predictable, or has she really been paying that much attention to me?
"No, I want to guess."
They leaned against the railing, and Hoshi broke off a piece of soggy cone to toss to the pidgey below. The tiny birds fought for it lazily, flinging the sugar-soaked wafer around until one of them managed to swallow it down, puffing its feathers in triumph.
"Cerulean. I'm ninety percent sure." He turned, and his companion shot him a raised brow. "It was the sapphires. The Orange Archipelago has only the one mine, and it exports mostly fossils, not gems. Kanto's exports are taxed to Orre and back; that many stones would cost as much as a house, over there."
"I could have bought them after coming here," she replied, her tone playful.
"Nope. You wouldn't have come over for a vacation without jewelry, and those piercings aren't recent." He paused. "And besides, we get sailors from the islands all the time; they have a particular accent, even after living here for years. You were born in Kanto."
She tilted her head back and forth, letting the moment draw out, but eventually she raised her cone in a salute. "You caught me. Cerulean, born and raised."
He nodded, satisfied. I knew it. "Related to the Katsumi clan, by any chance?" While there were other families prone to the distinctive orange hair, the five-generations-strong holders of the Cerulean Gym were the largest and most famous.
"No," she rejected with a shake of her head. "Well, maybe real far back. My family name is Kichi."
He nodded. Down below, the pidgey were jostling for position, just in case he decided to throw some more dessert their way. Sorry, birds. He finished off his cone as Casca did the same.
"You seem to know a lot about a whole pile of topics, Hoshi. You sure you've never gone to university?"
He laughed softly. "No, I think I'd have mentioned that by now if I had. You?"
"Yeah, actually."
Her words made him turn, surprise flickering briefly across his features. "Oh?" Really? I was so sure she was younger than me…
"Yeah, a local one actually. Ever heard of Electric Academy?"
The surprise made a return, stronger. "The rich kid's school, out east? You're pulling my leg."
She shook her head, reaching up to lick at sticky fingers. "Nope. It was only a three-month course, but you're dating an official graduate of Vermilion's most exclusive academy." She raised a finger, waving it like a flag. "Go, Electivires!"
He shook his head slowly, but he was smiling. "I can hardly believe it. I've heard they let in ten, maybe twenty people a year – are you secretly a rich princess? Got a fancy estate up north?"
Her smile dimmed, and a spark of terribly cold panic shot through Hoshi's spine. Wha-? What did I say? What Did I say?!
"Let's… not talk about my family situation, okay? I know it's unfair with how much I've asked you about yourself, but…" She gazed out over the waters, which sparkled even brighter than the jewels adorning her body. "Not today. I'll have to build up to it."
"Of course. Sorry – I get it. Family's personal."" Not her fault I talked her ears off about all my own shit. Quickly, Hoshi scrambled to change the subject. "So… What was the school like? I've heard the doorknobs are carved from solid lightning stones, but there's no way that's true."
To his delight, Casca's face brightened once again. "Ha! No, nothing like that. There's money, but it's actually pretty understated – I guess when you're really rich, you're secure enough to not flash it around." Her elbows resting on the guard rail, she cupped her cheeks. "You know, I still know a few guys who know a few guys, if you catch my meaning. I'm sure I could get my boyfriend in on a night class, or something."
For a third time, surprise welled up, not only on his face, but deeper inside – why did that make me feel..?
He grappled with it, tried to shove it down, but a blush rose steadily up to his forehead. Idiot, you got her in your bed the night you met. Why are you blushing? Stop acting like a teenager.
"...Uh, maybe. My schedule is pretty full. I'll think about it?"
She turned, and he could pinpoint the exact moment she saw how flustered he was. You bitch, you said that on purpose, to fuck with me! But any irritation he felt was tiny compared to the rush of warmth circulating through his body, completely unrelated to the summer heat.
I know the correct spelling is Arceus, it's different on purpose.
Well now this is certainly interesting. Kind of surprised the mc could beat a rattata to death though; I take it that the human-pokemon power disparity is rather reduced in this story?
Depends on the Pokemon. A wild rattata or pidgey is about a durable as a real-life animal of similar size and weight; a trained Pokemon might be ten times stronger, and evolved Pokemon would be stronger still.
As a loose rule, I'm going to treat Pokemon like they're still made of meat, just weirdly durable meat – standard shonen nonsense, really. (Please ignore that a lot of Pokemon aren't made of meat, thank you.)
As a loose rule, I'm going to treat Pokemon like they're still made of meat, just weirdly durable meat – standard shonen nonsense, really. (Please ignore that a lot of Pokemon aren't made of meat, thank you.)
Even PokéHumans are weirdly durable (and strong as well, although Ash's examples are probably far-end outliers). Ruby in Adventures is honestly the only guy in the series with even a scar, from a Salamence as a young child, so things are probably ironically less durable than the official manga with the most graphic violence shown related to the property.
Now, the famous Rocket Trio? Even ignoring the "Blasting off again!" antics, just the things James survives the affections of that do still hurt him. Giant carnivorous plants and living cacti?
Although I'd figure a grown(ish) man could 1v1 a Youngster's low-level Rattata. Doubly so when his Fight Or Flight instinct was "Reduce to Mulch".
Pokédex Height entries honestly don't help much for determining sizes, like quardrupeds are often measured to the either the withers (horses & dogs) or the hips (cattle) based on the highest point of the body but not the neck or head. I bring this up, because a rat that's a foot long from snout to rump? Sure, that's nasty but ultimately believable.
A rat that's a foot tall from claw to... hip, based on most pictures of Rattata? Sure, it's a superpowered rodent the size of a small dog, but most of that goes towards speed and physical scrappiness, not enduring many hits.
An 18 year old returning to caveman and curbstomping in response to being attacked by something in the weight class of a Pomeranian? Honestly, the fact that Hoshi was hospitalized still establishes it was a close fight, with the Rattata probably having more training even if a human's base stat total is likely higher outside of speed.
Training and getting more durability with the rest of the growth just fits the Standard Shonen Nonsense, but it also applies to eveyone (that absolute unit Bruno, for example), so everything so far seems reasonable.
Hoshi thought about it for a half-second, then snorted. "No way. Cloyster's the shittiest ice type in Kanto."
Casca stopped packing clothes into her suitcase to shoot him a pout. "No way! Cloyster's cool." He kept his face still, not reacting to her pun, and eventually she gave up in favour of actually doing what they had come for. "Besides, dewgong exists. That's a way worse Pokémon."
It turned out that the Cerulean girl was, indeed, not homeless – by all but the broadest possible definition of the word, anyway. She had been staying in a hotel for the past few months, but now that she had somewhere else to sleep, she didn't want to keep paying for it.
Which was why Hoshi was using his Sunday afternoon to pack a seemingly bottomless dresser's worth of clothes into a few equally large suitcases.
"Is dewgong ice type? I thought it was water."
"It's both, same as cloyster. And lapras."
He grunted in acknowledgment. All three? That doesn't sound right… But I suppose she would know better than me. "Lapras! That's a much better pick. I'm choosing that one."
At some point he couldn't quite remember, the monotony of the task had driven their conversation towards the current League lineup, and then to how a prospective challenger might beat said lineup.
It was an overdone topic, almost more common than commenting on the weather, but it served well enough to pass the time.
The first member of the Elite Four was Koichi Tatsujin, Saffron's own Karate Master. With a solid team of fighting types, the 'weakest' member of the Four was actually the biggest filter to reaching the Champion. You absolutely needed a psychic Pokémon, or you would suffer too many losses to beat the next three…
Only for the next Elite, Heavenly Medium Jiei Enoki of Ecruteak City, to render that psychic Pokémon completely worthless with his ghosts. After that came a second one-two punch: Will Zelcovia, the mysterious Masked Magician, and Dark Mistress Karen Rosewood.
To survive, you'd need to beat the Four at their own game – each was weak to one of the others, so the obvious answer was to have four Pokémon, each matching a Master's type, of your own.
"Lapras are so rare, though." Casca held up an oversized polka-dot shirt, her expression radiating confusion. Hoshi could imagine her exact thoughts: 'Why do I have this? I don't even remember buying it!' "I still think starmie is the best; it learns ice and psychic moves, so it could beat both the Champion, and Jiei."
Well, the 'beat them at their own game' strategy was obvious to Hoshi, at least. Casca had been sceptical, reasoning that as the Elite of the elite, they would obviously be able to cover their most blatant weaknesses. She thought the best thing to do was build your own specialist team, one not strong or weak to any of theirs, and use a varied spread of moves to grind through the four-against-one gauntlet.
And of course, she fulfilled the Cerulean stereotype by suggesting a water-based offensive. "Bah, spoken like a rich girl. Move disks aren't cheap, you know!" And the Karate Master's Lightning Punch would take out your whole team, anyway,
The packing went on, the lovers bantering back and forth, and just as the topic started to turn stale Hoshi reached down to find his fingers brushing along a bare wooden drawer, rather than an endlessly replenishing pile of feminine-cut fabric.
He looked down suspiciously, not quite trusting his senses, but it seemed the monster was truly slain. "I'm done over here. You close to finishing?"
"Just some jewellry to go." She held up a small box, shaking it to produce a colourful jangle. "I don't want to just dump it in, or it'll tangle. But I don't need another pair of hands; you can start with the suitcases. Or wait around – this'll take, like, ten minutes, tops."
She fished out a necklace, but to her consternation it seemed that the entire contents of the box had fused together into a tangela of gold and silver. "How did this even..? It was all fine a week ago!" She huffed, sour, before returning the mass to its box and just tossing the whole thing in her final case. "Nevermind, I guess I'm done."
"Good. Let's get out of here before they sneak another week onto your bill."
She stood, brushing off her knees, as Hoshi hefted three of the four suitcases. "Oh?" she asked, her eyes trailing up and down his body. "You sure you've got that?"
"I've got it." He demonstrated by hoisting the cases above his head for a moment – they were mostly clothes, and he was used to moving wood and stone. "I'll be able to carry them the whole way, easy."
His… girlfriend continued to eye him with a hint of worry, and for what must be the thousandth time he cursed his scrawny figure. "Hey, I've got plenty of muscles. Even if it doesn't look like it."
The trip back to his apartment wasn't very eventful. Hoshi had exhausted his capacity for smalltalk, and Casca seemed to have picked up on his mood; they walked through the streets silently, listening to the city.
Though a nagging thought did tug at Hoshi's brain.
Koichi. Jiei. Will. Karen.
And of course… Indigo League Pokémon Champion, Dragon Empress Clair Blackthorn.
Of the five Elites of the League, only one was Kantonian – and that lone Kantonian was considered the weakest, forced to live in the shadow of his predecessor, Bruno, who had held the title uncontested for nearly four decades.
The last time the Elite Four had seen a Kantonian majority had been when he was ten years old… and even then, the Champion was a Johtonian. A far cry from his father's time, where the Pallet League had smashed the Silver League, Samuel Oak crushing Burgh Blackthorn so decisively the latter had retired in shame.
But as he ascended the steps up to his little apartment, Hoshi put those dark thoughts aside.
"Oh, lemme get the door for you…"
He smiled as Casca rushed ahead. Yeah, I guess it doesn't matter. There isn't anything I can do about it – I'm not even a trainer. And even if I was, where would I get the kinds of rare, powerful Pokémon you need to beat the League?
No point speculating. I've got my own life to worry about.
As always, Hoshi woke long before the sun. He quietly slid out of bed, turning a curious eye towards his partner, but it seemed that her early awakening on Saturday had been a solitary miracle; she didn't stir even slightly as he dressed, cleaned himself, and prepared for the day.
Before leaving he ghosted a kiss along her forehead, but even that contact failed to wake her. The front door opened with a soft click – but he lingered in the doorway a moment, looking back.
Can this last? Casca came to the city for a few months of school, and if I understand the bits I've caught, she's just been loitering around since the end of spring. Is she planning to stick around and find a job, or..?
He could ask her. She probably wouldn't make a big deal out of it – Casca Kichi was, he was learning, casual to a fault.
…No. Not yet. If it's going to end, I'd rather not know until it happens.
A week passed, then another as June became July. Hoshi went to work in the morning, came home in the afternoon, and spent almost the entirety of his free time either with his girlfriend, or doing odd jobs for Danny Houndoom.
The old man was stingy, but he paid. Hoshi wanted to eventually be able to afford to pay for her meals too, after all – and that meant he needed to increase his income beyond what a common labourer made.
His life had entered a new routine, similar but distinct from his old one, and it was almost entirely better no matter how he was measuring – but still, sometimes annoyances reared their ugly heads.
"Hoshi!" bellowed Everheart, his voice hoarse as always. "Get over here!"
Hoshi put down his electric handsaw, already beginning to feel a headache reaching dark fingers around the edges of his temples. "One sec, boss!"
The tool went back in its proper place, unplugged – the Ditto would berate him twice as hard for a lack of safety compared to just making him wait, though of course there wasn't an option where he didn't get yelled at – and after no more than thirty seconds he stepped away from his section, towards where Everheart was waiting.
In a moment of deja vu, Hoshi suddenly realised that Dabi Mokusen, the short, nervous worker with thick glasses, was standing just behind the larger man. Wait. Did they figure it out? But I didn't leave any- no, don't panic. "What'd you need, boss?" Act natural. There's no way they could have tracked that ball to you.
The fat, middle-aged supervisor gestured impatiently, and Dabi stepped forward. He lined up to Hoshi's side, and the sack of lard eyed them both sourly. "Took you long enough, Mutsu. The blue suits finally got back to us about that ball – it's gone. Wiped from the registry; Silph can't find the radio signal."
Hoshi relaxed, hoping the relief wasn't showing on his face. Good job, Danny.
Everheart continued, "The replacement's over at the nearest Pokémart. You two go there with the 'mon and capture it right there – I don't want you to take your eyes off that ball for a second, hear me?" He zeroed in on Dabi. "You're lucky we've got insurance, but if you lose another one, it's coming out'a your paycheck! Now, get going!"
The final exclamation was accompanied by a meaty finger-point, causing flecks of sweat to spring off the digit onto the fresh, once-spotless concrete. Hoshi, still relieved, managed to suspend his disgust. "On my way, boss," he said with a salute.
"R-right…" stuttered Dabi. "Come along, Benny – yes, this way, we're going on a little trip."
The machoke – Hoshi honestly had no idea how the tiny man was picking it out from the rest – took a few tentative steps, followed by a more confident strut as they exited the worksite.
Okay, this vibe is weird.
Hoshi didn't think he was an antisocial guy, exactly. Sure, he got in fights all the time, didn't have many friends, preferred to keep to himself…
Actually, some of those aren't true anymore. I haven't punched anyone's teeth in for… about two weeks. Hm.
The thought passed as he was drawn back to the present almost against his will – because walking just behind Dabi and his machoke was fucking weird.
Most of the time, Hoshi didn't give the big blue lizards – reptiles? They lose the tail when they evolve, so… whatever, not important – any thought. They were roughly human-shaped, yeah, but in terms of intellect they weren't much smarter than a pidgey or rattata. Treating them like people would just get someone hurt as they misunderstood a phrase they hadn't heard before; he had seen it a few times over the last three years, and the results of super-strength construction accidents weren't pretty.
But there was something about the way this machoke moved that was… odd. Too human. He isn't following Dabi, he's walking beside him. As he watched, the Pokémon subtly looked both ways before crossing the street.
Okay, I've gotta say something. "Hey, Dabi."
The man did a full-body flinch like a haunter had passed through him, nearly tripping over his own feet as he looked back. "Huh? Yeah?" His glasses, thicker than the bottom of a glass bottle, made it nearly impossible to tell what his eyes were doing – but Hoshi knew, instinctively, that the man's eyes were wide with fear.
Dude, come on. You have to know that just makes you look pathetic, right? "You seem real friendly with Benny there. You work together a lot?"
Hoshi passed the tiny man, who continued to stand stock-still for a moment before scrambling to catch up. "O-oh, yes. Benny. I've been…" For a moment his stance seemed to firm up, before devolving right back to the level of a spineless worm. "Well, I suppose you could say we're friends. My mother used to work in… well, th-that's not important." Arcus fuck, talk like a human being. "She raised machop, and when her work ran dry she donated them to the city. A-and Benny is the child of one of those machop… So I guess I feel a connection to him."
Hoshi grunted. "Got it. But does he seem… smarter than the other ones, maybe? Look'it him, he's obeying traffic lights."
He gestured to the 'mon, who was patiently waiting for the crosswalk's light to go from red to green. Dabi paused again, his jaw working.
"That's… Well, maybe a little. They're very well trained, you know, to w-work around dangerous machines all day…" He looked away.
Hoshi was silent as the light turned, and the strange trio crossed the street without any incidents save a few odd looks from passer-by. "Sure." Bullshit. I've been doing this three years, I know how machoke act. "I guess he's just a bit smarter. Some people are geniuses, so why can't there by machoke geniuses, hm?"
Dabi's posture exuded a strained sort of relief, as in the distance the Young District's tiny, unpopular Pokémart became visible against the surrounding buildings. "O-of course. Let's get this done, shall we?"
His tiny legs worked to move him forward, the hunched posture reminding Hoshi of a cockroach scrabbling on hard tile.
…Ugh, my head hurts too much to think about this. I just know there's something weird going on – I'll be staying far away from that mutant machoke from now on. Dabi, too.
A Pokémart was, theoretically, the one-stop-shop of choice for every Pokémon trainer, from bug catcher to Route Ranger. Each was stocked with balls, health items, virtual training regimens packed into compact disks to near-instantly teach new attacks, and, of course, food for the wide assortment of different critters any random customer might be carrying in their pocket when they walk in.
But in reality, some were better than others.
Hoshi had been in his local Pokémart a few times – they sold human-centric goods too, like hiking gear. That one was a paragon of its kind; aisles and aisles of carefully-sorted top-of-the-line equipment, Pokémon accessories, and nutritional supplements. The steel-toed boots he was currently wearing had been bought from that mart.
The Pokémart near the work site was not like the one near the Gym. It was small, with only four aisles, and from what Hoshi could see while walking to the counter, sold mostly the Pokémon equivalent of snack food. I see skim milk in that cooler over there. Did they refit an out-of-business grocery store, or something?
The mediocre store had equally mediocre service; only a single half-asleep man behind the counter. He hadn't even looked over when they entered. Actually, I think- yeah, he's looking at his 'gear under the counter. A flash of jealousy burned hot and green through Hoshi's stomach for a moment; a Pokégear wasn't just a wireless phone – which was valuable enough on its own – but a smart map, radio, television, and emergency signal all in a device that was more durable than a solid steel slab.
Silph had been promising a cheaper, non-trainer version since the original release, but those promises always turned out to be smoke, as the price remained locked in place year after year.
"H-hello?" Dabi stuttered at a criminally low volume. "We're here from Machamp & Sons? About a..? Pokéball..?"
The man, who was maybe eighteen at most, didn't even look up.
Arcus. "Hey," Hoshi snapped, and the cashier jolted – at maybe a tenth the level Dabi had jolted on the way over, if that. He turned his head, caught sight of the pair of humans and a machoke, and nearly dropped his 'gear.
"Ah! I mean- welcome to Pokémart! How can I help you today?"
Again, Dabi spoke with all the assertiveness of a piece of litter stuck between two paving stones. "A Pokéball? For Machamp & Sons, LLC?"
The man blinked, then seemed to remember he was a person with a fucking job who was being paid to do that fucking job. "Of course. One sec, I need to get it from the back."
Hoshi watched the cashier go, a sneer threatening to overpower his composure. Fuck. My head hurts. It was possible he was getting the first symptoms of heat exhaustion – the temperature had hit forty degrees just before noon, and it probably wouldn't drop until after the sun went down. Fucking July. I swear it never got this hot when I was a kid…
The heinously overpriced sugar water displayed near the counter beckoned like shining gold. Should've brought some water from my cooler. Arcus, how long does it take to grab a single Pokéball?
Hoshi would have sworn a full quarter-hour had passed since the slow-ass fuck had retreated into the back rooms. Questing black roots dug into his brain as red began to fog his vision, and-
Tap.
Like an exploding electrode, a persistent sound completely obliterated his waning patience. Tap, tap, tap.
He rounded on the tiny man, tapping his tiny foot on the tile floor. "Will you fucking cut it out already?!"
For once, Dabi did not flinch. He turned, mouth half-open in an expression of confusion. "P-pardon? Were you talking t-to m-m-"
"Yes, I was talking to fucking you, who else is in here?" And there it was, the man curling in on himself like a sad little bug. "Stop tapping your foot, and stop acting like a fucking weedle. Seriously, how do you function? Are you like this at home? Why are you so fucking weird?"
Dabi stood, half-crouched, his mouth continuing to hang open. A smidgen of the red receded, paint draining out the bottom of a leaking bucket. Fuck. I was doing good – I literally thought about how I haven't been getting into stupid fights on the way over.
Fuck. Fuck! If I lose my fucking job..! His hand reached for the counter to steady himself.
Dabi opened his mouth even wider, then closed it with a snap. "You don't- you d-don't get to talk to me that-" He paused, his breathing heavy, and for a moment the red surged as Hoshi's body prepared for a fight. "If you knew who I was-"
In the middle of his sentence, the Pokémart employee returned, cradling a black Pokéball in both hands. Conflicting emotions of rage and relief flooded Hoshi's system, a rainbow of sensations allowing him to break through his flight-or-fight reflex for a moment and take two large steps away from his diminutive co-worker.
"Finally. How long does it take to fetch a damn ball? Why the fuck doesn't this place have any fucking air conditioning?!"
The young man stopped, and for a moment the room was absolutely still, absolutely silent.
"...Sorry for the wait, sirs. With all the new regulations, we need to authenticate every single Pokéball before selling them." Everything was swirling, light of too many colours diffracting through crystal spheres, the stupid slow cashier turning his head, his eyes squinting in blue and black. "Sir? Are you..?"
Hoshi grabbed something, some expensive potion of salt and sugar and slammed it on the counter. "This," he said, or at least he thought he said. The man opened his mouth but Hoshi couldn't wait any more, he scrambled to twist the cap and-
He gulped it down. Flavour, too much to understand, colour bleeding into texture bleeding into sound. Oh, Arcus, is this it? Is this what he saw, when his eyes shone? I don't want to go. I'm in love. I don't want her to leave, to leave back north and marry some rich fuck with a hundred dragonite in his back yard. I don't want them to find me glued to my bed, back arching until it breaks, eyes glowing with distant spots.
What are they seeing, right now?
What colour am I?
Hoshi woke up. His eyes opened to see blue and white – the sky, clouds drifting high above.
"Mutsu? You awake?"
The voice was familiar. He smacked his lips, wetting them as a face like processed pork came into view.
"Boss." I'm awake. "What happened?"
Dedwin Everheart was sweating, which was normal. What wasn't normal was the lack of annoyance on his face – in fact, he had an expression Hoshi had never seen his features make before.
What's he afraid of?
"You passed out, Mutsu. I…" His own tongue rolled in his mouth as he chose his words. "I've been working you guys a bit hard. I get that, alright? Why don't you take some time off. Say, two weeks? Paid leave?"
Hoshi did absolutely nothing for a moment, confused beyond the ability to move. Then, over the course of about two seconds, epiphany came rushing in to fill the void.
I passed out from the fucking heat. That counts as an on-the-job injury. The urge to laugh came and went, a second of giddiness before a wave of oh fuck my head hurts drowned the emotion like… like a metaphor he didn't have the brainpower to come up with.
"Ugh," he choked out. "Help me stand."
Dedwin reached out a sweat-soaked hand, and together they managed to hoist Hoshi's body up into something that could be called standing.
He was back at the worksite, the nearly-completed shopping mall. It was just the two of them in the empty-
Actually, no. Camouflaged by Hoshi's disorientation and his own smallness was Dabi Mokusen, jumping into visibility only because of what he was holding: the man was toying with a Jet Ball, its distinctive matte-black top visible even from across the room.
"How'd I get back?" You didn't call an ambulance, or I'd have woken up in the hospital.
"Mokusen carried you." At Hoshi's incredulous look, he clarified. "Had the machoke carry you, I mean." His arm came up to – very lightly – slap Hoshi on the back. "So, whaddya say? No reason we have to get the blues involved, right?"
"You're bribing me." The words came out without any input from his consciousness, but after a moment's thought he decided he probably would have said it the same anyway.
Everheart's face twisted. "...Yes. What do you want more, a wad of cash from a one-time settlement, or to still have a job tomorrow?"
Hoshi looked at the man. His head was clearing, and as his vision focused he simply stared, his brow fixed, pupils steady.
Sweat continued to pour down the man's face, but for whatever reason Hoshi was convinced that, just this once, it wasn't the heat. "What? You asking for more? Don't think you can extort me, Mutsu."
"Obviously, it'll cost you more to fire me than pay me off. You wouldn't be doing this otherwise. A whole month."
The man's nose flared, his nostrils deep black pits. For a moment Hoshi thought he saw dancing lights in those endless pits, but then he blinked and they were gone. I'm not crazy. It was heat stroke. My brain overheating. Temporary – it's already gone.
"...Four business weeks. You come back on the second, and this didn't happen."
Hoshi's arm flashed out with a speed that surprised him. "Deal."
On his way out, Hoshi passed close to Dabi, the man still cradling the specialty Pokéball. He turned it this way and that, inspecting it like a jeweller checking a diamond for flaws.
Hoshi slowed, and their eyes met – but Dabi didn't seem interested in talking. His eyes went back to Silph Co's crowning glory, and Hoshi kept walking.
Hoshi got home somewhere between six and seven, according to where the sun hung in the sky. In another moment of deja vu Casca was there, lounging on his couch, watching the news.
"Hey Hoshi. Late day today- hm?" He must have looked like shit warmed over, because when her eyes caught him she turned, her face contorting in concern. "Hoshi? What's happened? You look like a wild machop used you as a punching bag." Despite the playful overtones, real worry lay under each word. "Seriously. Do you need me to call an ambulance?"
"No," he said. "No, I…" I love you, was what he wanted to say. "Are you going to leave?" were the sounds his mouth made.
Casca inhaled. She looked up to his face, then down to his boots. Her head raised, their eyes meeting and connecting.
"...Can you wait ten minutes?"
His heart resumed beating. "Why? So you can pack your bags?"
"So I can go grab some smokes."
Wearily, he stepped through the door of his apartment, not bothering to close it behind him. He collapsed on the couch next to his maybe-girlfriend, and if his limbs had been even slightly less attached he was sure he'd have fallen to pieces right there.
"I didn't know you smoked."
She smiled, and if this was the last time he saw her he was glad it was a smile that would live on, peach paint engraved in his memories.
"Only sometimes." The smile thinned, but did not disappear. "Only for the really hard conversations."
Sometimes, she wondered if maybe there was something a little bit off about that part of her. She worked for a dangerous criminal organization, after all; she was near scary people all the time. Wouldn't it be normal to be afraid?
She stood outside the door, an oversized pack of smokes in hand, psyching herself up – but even now, she wouldn't say she was afraid, exactly. Isn't that weird? Hoshi's a fighter; I noticed the scars on his knuckles that first night in the pub, the faded bruises. He gets angry easy.
If he doesn't like what I say, he might actually kill me. It wouldn't even need to be on purpose – he's a hard man who's had a shitty day. This could go really bad.
But Casca Kichi was good at her fucking job. She had chosen Hoshi Mutsu for some pretty strong reasons, and her logic had only gotten more right as she uncovered more and more of his personality. So she stood outside his door, listening to the distant hiss of his tiny apartment shower, and repeated the mantra until the hesitancy ebbed away.
Casca Kichi is good at her job. Casca Kichi is good at her job. Casca Kichi is good at her fucking job.
She opened the door.
Hoshi could never bring himself to take cold showers. Every time a health magazine or doctor's pamphlet endorsed the practice he would give it a shot, and every time he would make it maybe thirty seconds before he turned the heat up.
Cold showers were fucking miserable. The supposed health benefits could go jump in the bay, if they loved freezing to death so much.
But today, that feeling of ice dripping down his body and soaking through his skin felt soothing. I guess I just needed to balance it out by having an Arcus damned heat stroke first.
He wasn't sure how long he had been in the shower, and he wasn't sure how long he would stay in there, either. He definitely wasn't trying to clean himself; his shampoo and body wash sat untouched, and he had no intention of even combing his hair. He just stood, letting the water pour over him with his eyes closed.
Will she be there when I step out? Or did I scare her off? He didn't want to find out.
But his body could only follow his mind so far, and eventually the lack of heat went from soothing to annoying, then painful. Hoshi was forced out of his shower, shivering, a clinging cold holding fast to his bones the only sensation making it past the numbness in his limbs.
He dried himself, dressed, and waited a few minutes more, dread pooling in his gut as he eyed the bathroom door. But eventually, conviction overpowered hesitation.
I don't want to know. But I need to.
He opened the door.
She was there. Casca Kichi sat on his couch, her back straight, staring at the blank, grey-green screen of his inactive television. Her expression was bland and far-away, an unlit cigar held between two fingers.
He moved. He sat on the couch, next to her, and after bathing the day's heat in cold he felt… closer to normal. Still tired, but he could probably get through whatever this was without freaking out too badly.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," she replied. "So… Ask me again." He blinked at her. "C'mon, ask me again."
The corners of his mouth raised, just a touch. The levity was a good sign. "Are you leaving?"
She reached forward, grabbing something he hadn't noticed from off his coffee table: a novelty lighter, the lid shaped and painted to resemble the head of a magcargo. She flicked it on, and lit her cigar.
"Okay so, there are two ways this can go," she said through half-clenched teeth. Inhale, exhale, and when the smoke reached Hoshi's nose it was fragrant, heavy with a whole host of things that were far more intoxicating than mere tobacco.
Ha. Where did she even find a gourmet cigar shop in Vermilion? He nodded, and she continued.
"Option one: I tell you who I am, and you don't like it. Life goes on for a while… then my long vacation in Vermilion City ends. I go back to Cerulean, and that's that."
His jaw tightened. "And option two?"
"I tell you, and you're into it. We see how far the diglett can dig."
He swallowed. How bad can it be? His brain attempted to conjure the worst thing it could imagine, but it was stalling out. A Johtonian spy? No, that's stupid. I genuinely can't think of anything that I would give a fuck about that isn't wild fantasy shit. "Okay. I'm ready, hit me."
A few seconds passed as she puffed, his apartment filling with weirdly pleasant smoke. "…You know that I have money."
Another nod. "Yeah." You're literally burning what must be two hundred pokédollars. Seriously, where did you get that? All the rich guy shit is up north.
"I didn't exactly come into it… legally."
"…Okay?" His mouth moved without thought, just as it had earlier in the day. "I steal stuff from work. Or pickpocket people's phones and shit. I know a guy who does electronic stuff, he pays me for it and sells it on as salvage."
For a moment Casca's face scrunched, her eyebrows going down and her nostrils flaring, and in that brief moment Hoshi felt like he would die. I fucked it up. She meant some kinda white-collar crime shit and I fucked up everything.
Then, to his mixed relief and confusion, she giggled. The tip of her cigar bobbed, its bright afterimage turning into dark scribbles in his vision. She plucked the smoke from her lips as her reaction intensified, breaking into full-on laughter for a handful of seconds before her breath petered out.
She looked him in the eye, her face reddened. "Hoshi. Hoshi, I respect you, but that isn't what I meant. That is some kiddie shit, compared to what I do."
Irritation. "Hey. C'mon. I stole a Pokéball once."
Her brows raised. "A Pokéball?" Yeah, yeah, stupid, I know. "Okay, I take it back. That's actually pretty hard." She took a long drag, and when she exhaled he doubted an angry dragon would produce so much smoke. "I was going to try easing you into it, but in hindsight that plan was stupid. Simple and direct, here we go." She looked at him again, and for the first time since meeting the woman Hoshi saw the smallest spark of fear in Casca Kichi's eyes.
"Have you ever heard of Team Rocket?"
Hoshi blinked. Rocket? The terrorist group? But as he asked himself the question, he recalled something deeper. No, they weren't always called terrorists. They used to be just petty criminals – and before that…
"Don't they know anything about Team Rocket?!"
The memory wasn't clear. It wasn't faded, either – no, it was simply indistinct. Something that he only half-recalled, because he had never bothered to mark the information as important.
Hoshi had been… young. Young enough to be held by his mother – young enough that his mother was still alive.
Four, maybe? I'm surprised I remember it at all…
When the news of the peace negotiations broke, his father had been livid. Hoshi could remember that part, or at least flashes of it – Shenja tearing a newspaper clean in half, nights where the three of them held each other and his father wept quietly.
This would be after that, he thought. After the Pallet and Silver Leagues joined together.
"It's those bastard appeasers in the government, I know it is!" The purple haired giant made a wild motion, but stopped himself at the last moment; his fist made soft contact with the table, not even making a sound.
"Honey, not in front of Hoshi. You'll make him cry," came a voice, familiar but too washed-out to really describe.
The toddler's face sours. I was irritated, I think. I wasn't afraid – I was never afraid of dad.
Shenja's voice became softer. "Sorry, sorry." His father's face stood out perfectly in the faded world, enough that Hoshi knew it had to be a lie – his mind inserting a clearer picture into the eighteen-year-old memory. "But this is important. This is history they're messing with. Team Rocket were the best damn saboteurs this country could have asked for! They stole the Pokémon Storage System right from under that bastard Bill's nose! And now the damn pencil-pushers…"
Blurs and smeared sounds were the only thing to follow, his mind failing to dredge up anything more.
But there were other memories, far apart, scattered like the last dying stars resisting dawn's light.
Casca watched her lover's face carefully. She thought that she had managed to navigate through the tricky part, the point where he might decide to kick her out, or worse, but even a trained intuition wasn't perfect.
Hoshi chewed on her question for long seconds, as she puffed on her Kalosian Kiloude Cloud Fountain. She would have honestly preferred something sharper, but Hoshi didn't smoke, so she had gotten the smoothest thing she could afford; the thing was more perfume than nicotine, and she was barely buzzed despite being halfway through the frankly oversized cigar.
A bead of sweat threatened to drip into her eye. Did I rush in too fast? Maybe I should have eased him into things after all…
Her numbers were good. Near the top, even – but she had plenty of failures under her belt, too. C'mon, Hoshi. Talk to me. This is freaking me out.
After however many minutes of silence, the man moved. He sat up, his eyes clearing. "Team Rocket, huh?"
She had to stop herself from wincing at his skeptical tone. "Yeah. You've heard of it, then?"
"Here and there." He crossed his arms and leaned back, sinking into the couch. "But everything recent is from the news, and fuck the news. The media says whatever it thinks will get people to turn on their television, when they aren't being blatantly paid off by Johto." He turned to her. "So I'd prefer to hear it from you. What's Team Rocket?"
Team Rocket is money. A roof over my head that actually has some people under it. A shitty collection of greedy assholes that's somehow not quite as bad as everywhere else.
She smiled as her personal answer flitted through her head. Those were good, true answers, but not what Hoshi wanted or needed to hear. Time to put those three months of boring lessons to use.
"Team Rocket was," she began, but a thought made her pause. "Do you want the long version?"
"I want what's important." His dark purple eyes drilled into her. "I'm sure I'll ask for the whole story at some point, but now's not the time. This is about me and you, not anything else."
While the conversation had been going, her smoke had dwindled. She took one last extra-long inhale, savouring the tingle, before standing. A few steps took her across the room, and as she slid open the apartment window she bid a silent farewell to her month's singular hit of nicotine. Maybe more than a month; I have a good feeling about this.
She left the window open, sitting back down.
"Okay," she said, Hoshi's positive reaction pepping her up. "Team Rocket was a gang back in the sixties, then a black ops group for the government, then a gang again after the unification. You heard about Giovanni back in '97?"
He nodded, his expression still serious. "Of course. Not every day a Gym Leader quits and flees the country. I remember my father thinking… Well, it doesn't matter right now. But I also remember it disbanded – did that actually happen?"
"Oh yeah, it was apparently basically dead for a few years there. But at the turn of the millennium the remaining die-hards hijacked a radio station for a bit, and it got the gang back together."
She took a breath. "And.. that's where I come in. My parents…" A twist of emotion stabbed into her gut, and she mentally recoiled. Okay, no, too much. "I lived on the streets a bit, when I was a teenager." She flashed him a smile, as much to buoy her own spirits as anything. "Rocket took me in. I'm not going to tell you they're good people, but they take care of their own. If you're out there stealing Pokéballs already, you're a much better catch than I thought, and I already thought you were a shoe-in."
His face didn't move; his eyes might as well have been carved from amethysts. "That's your job, isn't it? Finding guys."
A moment of tension – then, she raised her hand to her forehead, giving a two-finger salute. "Guilty! You got jynx'd, motherfucker!"
His stoic expression strained, strained, and then broke, cycling through incredulity, to anger, then back again. Then, finally, her words had their intended effect: Hoshi Mutsu let out a snorting laugh, doubling over as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
"Yup," she continued. "I've done this with so many guys. Like, maybe a three-figure number." He gasped, fighting to breathe. "Call me vespiqueen, 'cause I am a honey. Trap."
Hoshi continued to snort-laugh. "Fuck you," he managed to choke out. "You did not just brag about how many guys you've fucked."
Her smile widened. "I totally did, and you totally liked it."
He shoved her, not hard, and she shoved back. They ended up tangled together, leaning against the couch, their heads on each other's shoulders.
Hoshi spoke, his normally deep voice whisper-thin. "If I choose option two… won't you have to leave anyway? If you get paid to bring people in…"
"I get paid for a bunch of things," she whispered back, hugging her arms around him as tightly as their weirdly positioned bodies would allow. "I actually get most of my pay from smuggling. The recruiter thing is just way safer."
A moment of silence. "So what happened to all those other guys? That 'three figure number'?"
Ah, here was another tricky part. Sincerity. People can smell lies, so never, ever lie. She pulled back, and Hoshi reluctantly let her go.
"Most of them were just flings. I'd float the idea to them, and if they joined… great. But they weren't… serious. A few were, the way we are." His eyes had hardened again, but not as much. "They didn't last long either. Turns out that most relationships fail, and that doesn't change when you add crime into the mix." A brittle smile. "I'm too much for most guys. They can't handle me."
Another moment of silence, and the bead of sweat finally managed to overcome her brow, forcing her to blink first. She pouted at her once and maybe-current lover, urging him to fucking talk, asshole.
Finally, he did. "Was it real? Us?"
"Absolutely. Casca Kichi doesn't lie – in fact, I'd say not lying is her most marketable skill." Then, with a waggle of her brows, she drew a hand down her body. "If we ignore all this, obviously. The personality's a bonus, we all know what gets people through the door."
He shook his head slowly, but a smile was tugging on his lips. "I thought this was supposed to be a serious conversation?"
She flopped back, the couch's plush cushions deforming under her weight. "Smoke went out the window a while ago. I don't think I'm too complicated a woman; you should know me well enough to understand, I don't have enough serious for a whole conversation. Especially with those brooding silences."
He stared at her, and she stared back, and then he put a hand to his forehead. "Fuck, I have had too much of a day for this. Did I tell you I passed out at work?"
Her brows rose, and some of the levity disappeared. "What, passed out? You didn't mention that!"
He grunted, still cradling his head. "Yeah. My brain is soup, right about now. I can't make a decision when I'm this fucked up… Tomorrow." He slicked back his wet hair, looking at the ceiling. "Is that fine? If I spend the night thinking about it?"
She kicked him lightly, the impact moving her more than him. "Obviously! Are you sick? Seriously Hoshi, you should have said something sooner! I've got, like, so much time before I need to check in!"
Flowerberry Sambus – or rather, Danny Houndoom, because his parents had been hippie assholes who didn't understand what being named Flowerberry did to a man – had a pretty good rhythm going today.
"Money, money, gonna get me some mon-ey…"
The radio buzzed along, producing a mostly-audible pop song in like Paldean or some shit, he didn't give a fuck. Maybe it was just Kantonian put through ten kinds of static – what was important was that it was bopping, and he was, like, nine-tenths of the way to his next payday.
"Money, money, spend it on a Sunday bun-ny…"
A swarm of magnemite hovered around him in a loose cloud, the head-sized steel Pokémon happily buzzing as they bathed in the modified radio waves his cracked machine was putting off. He tapped his foot to the rhythm as he worked, hip-deep in a welded-together box of scrap metal.
"Money, money, days are looking sun-ny…"
Everything electronic in the modern age was either shielded, or spewed out particular wavelengths of electromagnetic radiation, all specifically to put these beauties off their supper. But if you were to flip a few wires around just so…
He soldered the last bit in place, and as one the swarm of fifteen-plus magnemite stilled. In a moment that would have been eerie if he hadn't triggered it himself, the cycloptic orbs turned to fix him – or rather the all-you-can-eat electricity buffet he was standing in – in their gaze.
His already-wide grin widened even further. "That's right boyos, come to daddy. Money, money, guzzle that shit like-"
"Danny! Arcus fuck, stop singing!"
He blinked, then turned towards the entrance to see a beanpole of a man walking in, one hand in his pocket and the other on the strap of a beat-up cooler.
"Hoshi? Damn, I didn't think it was that late already." It didn't even feel like noon, yet. "Whatever, check this out! Lemme just get outta here…"
He shimmied himself over the lip of the box, and the moment the potentially-dangerous human wasn't in the way, the Pokémon lunged. The first ones hit the bottom of the trap, then the rest piled on top, all of them vibrating and buzzing,
Hoshi stepped back, holding his ears. "Agh- fuck, that's somehow even worse! Go back to singing, it was shit but at least-!"
Danny hollered over the noise. "No no, see, we haven't gotten to the fun part!"
He hoisted the hinged lid up and let it slam down, locking the magnemite in – not that they would have willingly left before the batteries ran dry. The cacophony mostly cut off, though the box itself was vibrating like mad.
The kid hesitantly took his hands away from his head. "Okay? Great, you've got some magnemite in a box. What's the point?" He stepped forward, standing beside Danny as he admired his masterpiece. "Trainers won't pay for magnemite, they're too common around here."
"Just wait. Any second now…" Anticipation sparked through his chest, streams of imagined electricity dancing from rib to rib. C'mon, I know you greedy things can suck power like no-one's business…
On cue, his trap let out a deep, metallic clunk as the first set of batteries died. The lack of current would, if he had wired it right, trip the-
BANG
With a sound like a gunshot, the box exploded. He was blown back two paces by the wave of pressure as beside him, Hoshi fell on his ass. Magnemite went flying, screeching out their displeasure and sending sparks out in random directions.
"Fuck!" he exclaimed, his ears ringing. "Thought I'd fixed that."
Hoshi lay on the ground for a second, before he bounced up, his big blue-and-white cooler swingling like it weighed nothing, and- oh fuck that's a fist.
The punch hit him square in the nose and so he went down, clutching his face as his head rang in a completely different tone. A deep, murderous-sounding scream echoed around the junkyard as the kid gave him one good kick to the side, really driving the point home.
"You fuck! You built a grenade, you senile old fuck!" He wound up for another kick, but it never came – Hoshi growled and turned, walking away a few steps before turning back. "What the fuck was that about, Danny?"
The salvager stood, not letting the hits keep him down. Huh. Kid's really mellowed since he started getting laid – couple weeks back I'd have ate three or four kicks before Grimy tackled him off.
"One sec, lemme get my legs under me." Fuck me, I wasn't expecting that. Really thought the third-gen design would be stable…
"Well?"
He sent a gesture the man's way. "Fuck off, you got your hits in. We're even."
"You blew me the fuck up," Hoshi hissed, with enough venom to fill a beedrill's stinger twice over. But then he paused, and eventually snorted. "Fine, whatever. But seriously, what was that?"
Danny's grin returned. "Magnemite fuser."
The kid opened his mouth, thought better of it, and turned to look at Danny's poor, smoking machine. "Does it work?"
"Let's find out!"
Hoshi stayed ten paces back as Danny lifted his deathtrap's lid, angry black smoke billowing out in a tiny mushroom cloud as whatever was inside was exposed to the open air. He braced himself for some kind of ridiculous bullshit, like lightning jumping up into the sky, or Danny somehow creating a magnezone-evolver out of junkyard scrap…
But the man just turned, shooting his partner in crime a gap-toothed grin. "Yo, it worked. Check it out!"
Intrigued despite the threat of further explosions, Hoshi hurried to look. Waving away a stream of lingering smoke, he peered inside the cavernous box, piercing the murk to see…
"Danny, that isn't a magneton."
He just kept smiling. "Nope!"
"Danny, that's just five magnemite glued together by… magnetic shit, or something."
He nodded. "Yep! Gonna sell it for big money!"
Hoshi looked back down at the softly vibrating mass of magnetic spheres, bits of metallic scrap dusting their smooth bodies. "...Fucking how? Is this..?" He rounded on the man. "This is like that fake gloom shit, isn't it?"
"Hey," Danny snapped, visibly offended. "People ate that shit up. If the fertilizer hadn't cost so damn much…"
They both went back to watching the 'magneton' roll around in its enclosure. It didn't seem able to fly more than a millimetre off the ground, and tumbled wildly when it tried, screeching in anger – or possibly nausea.
"No, Danny, this isn't going to work. Those fatass oddish at least looked like gloom; this is obviously not an evolved Pokémon."
"Ah, kid, that's where you're wrong." Danny tapped the side of his head. "I know what a magneton looks like, and you know what a magneton looks like, but…"
"No, man. I know people are stupid, but this is… I refuse to believe any trainer who managed to survive the trip to the Pokémart to pick up their first ball, would fall for this." I'm a cynic, but there has to be a bottom line somewhere.
Danny's reply was swift. "If you walked in right now and I told you this was a weird foreign Pokémon – like, an Alolan magneton or whatever – would you have questioned it?"
Hoshi paused. For a moment he actually entertained the question, and…
…Shit, I might've just believed him. Who the fuck knows what's up with Alola? They've got psychic pikachu and shit.
"Okay, you got me. Someone who doesn't know you're full of shit might just buy this thing. You happy?"
"Extremely. Respect the hustle, Hoshi."
"So, what'd you come down for? It isn't even noon yet – you get fired or some shit?"
"Got some time off. No business today; I just came to hang out."
The two of them were laying on a pair of lawnchairs, Hoshi's battered cooler opened between them to reveal soda and sandwiches.
Danny stuffed his mouth with mayo-infused magikarp, then mumbled something too indistinct for even Hoshi's well-tuned Danny translator to make out.
"Don't talk with your mouth full, ass. Have some respect for the food."
The junkyard's owner swallowed, smacking his lips. "Damn, Hoshi. Couple weeks into a relationship and you're talking about respect and shit. You getting whipped, kid?"
"Fuck off." He laid back in the plastic chair, listening to the quiet sounds of the junkyard's Pokémon going about their business, interspersed with Danny choking down what was probably the only thing he had eaten today – when he started building something, the man was a machine.
…Holy shit, this was a good idea.
Explosion aside, just sitting with the old guy was really helping him settle down from last night's… stuff. He tossed his empty can, nailing the magnemite's box and receiving happy buzzing in return.
"Hey, don't feed the merchandise. Who knows what's in that soda!"
Hoshi snorted, grabbing another can of Volt Switch from the cooler. A cartoonish rendition of his uncle proudly announced 'Lt. Surge's drink of choice!' from a speech bubble as he popped the top with a sharp snap. "Corn syrup, Dan. Nothing but corn syrup and yellow food colouring." Despite his words, he drank it down like he had just spent a week straight walking through the desert.
The can emptied in a long unbroken chug, while Danny threw little bits of fish meat to a pile of curious grimer.
This time when Hoshi threw, he overhanded the empty in the direction of the wriggling collection of slimes, and they scrambled after it even harder than they did the fish.
Eventually, they ran out of food. The sun hit the top of the sky, and as the temperature climbed the two men took shelter inside Danny's 'office,' the only halfway-habitable building on the property.
It was a shack, if a well-appointed one, too much furniture piled into a too-small space. The place was… mostly clean, with the computer area in particular being completely spotless.
"Ar-kay-us it is boiling out there," Danny complained. He pulled out a chair from what was obviously a repurposed chemical bath being used as a table, and sat. "You think there's somethin' going on with Cinnabar?"
Hoshi grunted, taking his own seat: a wheeled office chair near his friend's computer. "Nah, there'd be ash if the volcano were acting up. My bet's on some legendary Pokémon." He spun around a few times before letting himself coast to a stop. "Like the Moltres or something."
Danny let out a snort. "That's such a cop-out answer. 'Oh, there's snow a week early this year, I guess a big blue god-bird is pissed, somewhere!'"
Hoshi responded by snagging a knick-knack – a little statue of some brand-name character – off the computer desk and tossing it at the other man, who ducked with a yelp. "Your first thought was that a volcano was erupting. That's not exactly better."
"Bah. You'll think that right up until we're hip-deep in ash."
They bantered lazily for a minute more, then swapped seats so Danny could turn on his computer. The massive rig rumbled to life, the startup jingle bleating out from about a dozen speakers strung up in the rafters.
The scrap merchant put on some music – actual music, not whatever he had been listening to outside – and Hoshi took the opportunity to briefly become a vegetable while his friend worked on one of his projects.
But he didn't get as much rest as he would have liked. A few minutes later Danny spoke up, his tone uncustomarily soft.
"Hey, Hoshi. Did something like… happen?"
Hoshi cracked open an eye. "Like what?"
The clack of keyboard strokes filled the silence for a moment before Danny answered. "Dunno. You're just giving off a weird vibe, man."
…Shit, I didn't think it was noticeable. Hoshi grunted, and let his thoughts put themselves in order before speaking. "Relationship trouble, I guess."
"Hm? What, you do something to piss this girl of yours off?"
Another grunt. "No. I just… found out what she does for money, and I'm not sure I like it."
"Ha!" Came a returning exclamation. "I knew she was a hooker! You owe me twenty pucks!"
To Hoshi's good fortune his friend had bothered to pick up his knick-knack after dodging it, so he didn't need to bend down to huck the statue of whatever-it-was a second time.
"Ow!" Danny turned the chair, rubbing the back of his head. "In my own home? Rude."
"She isn't a damn hooker, Danny." But as the lightest tinge of red receded from the corners of his vision, Hoshi reconsidered. "...Except, fuck, I guess she kind of is? Arcus damnit, I'm all over the place. Can't think in a straight line…"
Danny continued to rub his head, eyebrows raising over the top of his dark glasses. "What, really? I was fucking with you! What's up?"
Internally, Hoshi waffled. Do I tell him?
…Fuck it. Maybe he knows something. A good chunk of his customers are criminals.
"She runs with a gang. She's a… recruiter, I guess would be the term?"
The man's eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his rainbow-vomit cap. "No shit?" Then his expression turned more considering. "Weepinbell Riders?"
"No."
"Geo '97?
"No. Danny, I'll just tell you if-"
"Naw, this is fun. Big Onix Truckers?"
Hoshi prepared to shoot his friend down, but hesitated. "Never heard of those guys. Kind of a juvenile name, isn't it?"
Danny flashed his gums. "That's 'cause it was my gang back when I was, like, ten."
"Pff. Seriously, I'm having a serious issue here." He paused in thought. Behind Danny's head the monitor glowed, framing his head like a halo. "Danny, you deal with that shit, right?"
The man's tongue swirled from one cheek to the other, as if he had to physically resist the urge to speak. "...Yeah. At a distance, once in a pink moon."
"Ever done a job for Team Rocket?"
The tiny cabin was nearly silent, only the whirring of the computer's fans providing ambiance. Danny was usually expressive to the point of parody, but as he took in Hoshi's question his black sunglasses suddenly seemed to hide his entire mood.
He leaned back in his chair, the old wheels squealing as they moved across the bare concrete floor. "Fuck, man. Rocket?"
"Yeah," Hoshi affirmed with a faint nod. Is it that bad? I knew they were wanted, but like – I haven't heard anything big about them since the nineties. An actual terrorist group would be obvious, right?
"...Okay. Here's the deal." Hoshi leaned forward at his friend's serious tone. "I've never done anything man-to-man with the new Rocket. You get me? It's always through a proxy, ninja black ops shit."
But you have done work for them. Hoshi nodded to show he was listening.
"Every now and then, they ask for something. A bit of tech, old parts that aren't in circulation anymore. The pay is never great, but it's prompt and they haven't fucked me on a deal yet." Under his breath, he added, "Unlike those bastards in Celadon. But! I've also heard some scary shit."
Hoshi was gripping his knees, fingers tight. "What kind of scary, Danny?"
"Like, people just gone kind of scary. I knew this guy, way back when the internet was a thing, a fucking 'kazam with computers. He'd come to me, and he'd say 'Rummy,' – I was going by Rummy back then – 'you've got to get a piece of this. I'm making hand over fist, here,'
"And I considered it, Arceus knows I did. Was almost about to convince myself to break my no joining a gang rule when just like that, pop," Danny snapped his fingers. "Dude was gone. House was empty, no furniture, neighbours didn't see him leave or nothing."
"...And you think Rocket did it."
The old man put his hands up, palms-out. "Don't got any proof. But my gut says the new Rocket's bad news. And I trust this guy with my life." He patted his belly. "If your girl's doing gang shit, might be best to just let it go. Once you're in, that shit doesn't let you go, man."
Hoshi left the cabin with mixed spirits. It wasn't that he didn't trust his friend; the ancient piece of shit had been doing this since before he was born. But…
But also, he's a fucking dumbass, sometimes. A mild electrical buzz caught his ear. Like, for example, when he builds explosives in his backyard.
Peering over the rim of the scrap-box, Hoshi watched the collection of magnemite bob around their six-by-six-foot space. They weren't tumbling; it looked like the things had figured out how to work together. Makes sense. They glom together to evolve, so…
"Hey Danny!" he yelled back towards the shack. "Are these things just, like, going to be like this?"
A second later, the building's one window jostled, sliding open with a faint squeak. Danny's voice echoed out. "Naw! Box keeps 'em together – a few hours outside, they'll all fall apart!"
Hoshi looked back at the collective. Hm. That's good, I guess. Bad for you, since your customer's gonna be pissed, but whatever.
But Danny wasn't done. "Hey! It's a metaphor! Drop that shit, Hoshi!"
His piece said, the window slid back into place.
Hoshi snorted. A metaphor, huh? The fake magneton hovered in place for a moment, one of its component magnemite tilting its eye up to look at him. A louder, higher-pitched tone sounded out, one Hoshi couldn't help but read as interrogative.
"No, I don't know what I'm going to do." He rested his arms on the box, watching as the conjoined Pokémon seemed to lose interest and go back to floating around in circles. "Ha. Look at you go. You're not worried at all about what's going on, are you?"
The magnemite just bobbed. "Yeah, I'm just talking to myself. But you are a metaphor, aren't you?" Hoshi let out a breath. "Isn't this how you're meant to be, even if it isn't perfect? Wouldn't you rather keep being a shitty, fake magneton as long as you can, rather than go back to being alone?"
The Pokémon didn't answer, and after a moment Hoshi stepped away. Damnit, I'm talking to wild Pokémon now. I don't know what to do at all.
He huffed, then squared his shoulders. Whatever, I'll just have to work it through – talk it out with Casca. That's what you're supposed to do, right? A few steps took him towards the exit, but a patch of yellow caught his eye. Then again…
He walked over to the discarded can. It was mostly bare aluminum now, the grimer having eaten almost all the paint, but patches of faded yellow were still visible, together with the vaguest outline of a man, visible only if you knew to look for it.
Hoshi stared at it for a lingering second before winding up, kicking the can deep into the jungle of scrap. It plinked off something beyond his vision, just another piece of garbage waiting to be either recycled or eaten up by nature.
I could use a little more advice. He looked up; the sun was just starting to descend from its zenith. He's probably at work… Whatever, I haven't spoken to him in a couple months. He'll be more relieved than annoyed, probably.
Hoshi left the junkyard behind, heading south. Next stop, Vermilion Pokémon Gym.
First place was taken by either Viridian or Celadon, depending how you measured; Viridian had been expanded over and over during the early nineties, turning the once-humble haven of bug catchers into the largest indoor Pokémon Stadium on the continent, surpassing even Hoenn's vaunted Battle Dome. Celadon Pokémon Gym, in contrast, had the largest total size, containing the massive Celadon Gardens within its borders.
But again, Vermilion was second, measured by both indoor and total space. The massive, red-roofed structure was preceded by the equally large Battlegrounds, four roughly-equal training fields, themselves broken into sub-fields of differing terrain, set up both to host local trainer tournaments, and to act as a buffer zone during Gym Season.
Hoshi could not see a single trainer from where he stood, just inside the entrance pavilion.
Actually, isn't it still Gym Season right now? I know Vermilion sees most of its trainer rush happen in spring, but things can't be this dead normally, right?
There should have been at least a few trainers taking advantage of the facilities; a Pokémon Gym wasn't just a place for a Gym leader to lord over, it was a dedicated space for its city's local trainers and Pokémon Rangers to keep themselves sharp. Hoshi stepped through the large open spaces, feeling perplexed. Did I forget a holiday, or something?
Sure, the amount of new trainers had slowed when the prerequisites increased, but for the Gym to be empty? In July? Actually, it might be this freak heat wave that's left it so empty. Everyone's decided to stay home.
That was the only explanation Hoshi could think of. He followed the winding brick path all the way to the entrance, unwilling to cut across the variously wet, overgrown, pit-filled, or straight-up electrified terrain. The double-doors slid open automatically as he came near, and he felt a small jolt of relief; the place was, at least, open.
Vermilion Gym's reception area was actually not that far off from the reception area of the nearby Vermilion Military Museum; thin wood panels covered walls of sturdy white washed concrete, bright pictures in dark frames taking up every available space. But where the museum had pictures of soldiers, factories, and war machines, the Gym's walls were dedicated to Pokémon trainers who had challenged the Leader and obtained Veridian's Thunder Badge.
The centre of the room was taken up by a bronze statue of one such battle, and as Hoshi stepped past his eyes were drawn upwards.
Rendered in just slightly larger-than-life stature were a pikachu and a raichu, menacing each other with bared teeth as they circled, metal sparks jumping from the rodents' cheeks, frozen mid-attack.
"Can I help you, sir?" came a feminine voice from behind his back, and Hoshi realised he had stopped to stare at the statue.
He cleared his throat, stepping up to the reception desk. "Yes, thank you. Is the Gym Leader available?"
"Are you here to make your challenge, sir?" the receptionist asked, hands hovering over her keyboard. Man, she's young. Sixteen at most, he would guess. Her dark brunette hair was streaked with lighter bleached lines, while her nails were painted bright pink. Looks kind of punk; doesn't match her voice as all. She must be a new hire – I've never seen her here before.
"No, I'm not a trainer. Citizen's Request, please."
The teenager frowned, entering a few keystrokes. "Name?" Hoshi answered, and she tapped away for a few seconds more, probably checking to see if he was actually a registered citizen. "In that case, he's actually free right this moment. Shall I schedule you now?"
"Yes. Thank you."
Another few keystrokes, followed by a nod. "Please wait for a moment, sir. Lieutenant Surge should be ready for you within a few minutes."
"Thank you," Hoshi repeated himself, and moved to sit in one of the plastic chairs set along the wall. Sorry, no exciting Pokémon battle for you today. Though actually… "Pardon, miss."
The young woman's head rose, and he continued. "Is there a reason I haven't seen any trainers around? I know it isn't exactly high tide, but…"
She put a pink-painted nail to her lips. "I think it might be the heat? We've seen a few trainers coming in, but it's definitely not the number I'd have expected." She shrugged. "I'm not sure, sir."
Hoshi grunted out another thanks, and settled down to wait. There were magazines set out for visitors to read, but he ignored them in favour of getting his thoughts in order.
To his mild surprise, the receptionist directed Hoshi not to his uncle's office, but rather the battle arena that occupied the Gym's heart.
Maybe she mentioned my name. Heck, maybe he told her to mention my name if I came in; he's probably pissed that I haven't been keeping contact.
Maybe I'm in for an ass-kicking. Ha.
The tepid joke made the corners of his mouth twitch, and a portion of his tension bled away. The rest went as he came out the end of the challenger's tunnel, to see his uncle's broad back – the man was turned towards the centre of the arena, where an electabuzz guarded itself against a circling round blur that was almost certainly Surge's prized electrode.
"Sorry to interrupt your training, Bob," Hoshi cried out, his voice raised to carry over the distance. Surge turned, his arms crossed.
Hoshi's father had been a large man, so muscular that his peers had nicknamed him the Champ. Surge had about the same amount of muscle, though it was spread thinner across his body – because Bob Surge, his father's best friend and Hoshi's uncle in all but blood, was fucking tall as fuck.
Veridian's Gym Leader of eighteen years towered well over seven feet; Hoshi had never asked after the exact number, but if it edged into the low eights he wouldn't be surprised. The man was dressed in his 'show uniform,' the camo-patterned faux-fatigues he wore while he was on the clock, but not actually battling.
He always said that he'd have preferred to wear his actual air force uniform, but that the strict division between the municipal and federal militaries made it a bundle of red tape he wasn't willing to cut through.
His blond hair was spiked up, valiantly fighting a slow, grinding battle against baldness, while the rest of his face was clean-shaven. His sharp eyes and sharper smile both lit up as he saw Hoshi approach.
"Kid!" he spoke back, his voice loud enough that raising it was unnecessary. He half-turned back to the fighting Pokémon, put two fingers to his lips, and whistled.
Immediately the blur halted, resolving into, as Hoshi had assumed, a large electrode. The spherical electric Pokémon rolled back-and-forth in place, communicating eagerness with every movement. In contrast the electabuzz dropped its arms wearily, seeming relieved for the fight to be over.
"You're late!" Surge continued. "The party was Sunday!" He stepped forward, and Hoshi could swear the ground was quaking as his thoughts turned frantic.
Party? Sunday? What the fuck is he- His face fell. Shit, Bob's birthday is in July, isn't it? I totally missed-
His guilty thought was cut off as he was enveloped in a massive hug. "Thought you wouldn't show up! How've you been, kid?"
"Sorry," came Hoshi's muffled voice. "I've been… busy. It slipped my mind."
"Ha!" Surge exclaimed, releasing his nephew. "Busy, is it? Little birdy told me what you're 'busy' with!" The man had the sort of smile that always seemed sinister no matter his actual intent, but Hoshi felt he was pretty good at reading it. But this time, it sent a chill down his spine. "So, when am I gonna be a grand-uncle?"
Hoshi grimaced. Damnit. I was hoping to keep Casca under wraps… Not for any sinister reasons, but just because his uncle could be brutal with his teasing. "We're not nearly that far along, Bob. Ask again when I've got a house and car."
"Ha!" he laughed again, bombastic as an exploding firework. "Not so easy, these days! Used to be you could grab a house in the outskirts for basically nothing, now…" He paused, his smile dimming before redoubling in ferocity. "That's why I keep saying, you should stay with me! Why pay for an apartment when the Surge Mansion is open seven days a week, huh?"
Another grimace, this one tinged with annoyance. Damnit Bob, don't try and guilt-trip me now, I'm still feeling it from the birthday thing. "C'mon, Bob." Well, since he apparently knows already… "I can't bring a girl around your place. She'd dump me the instant she caught sight of your ratty-ass furniture."
Bob sniffed, crossing his arms once again. Behind him the electabuzz started to trot towards them. "Hey, those are antiques! But I get your meaning, ha! Don't want your girl getting an eyeful of a real man!"
Hoshi snorted. "Sure, Bob, that's exactly what I meant. Who told you about Casca, anyhow?"
The tired Pokémon came to rest behind Surge's heel, seeming even shorter than its three-foot height next to the giant. "Hey, don't ask a ninja his tricks! Your old man made me swear on my mother to take his secret techniques to the grave!" He bellowed out a laugh, and Hoshi struggled to keep his smile contained.
"Don't disrespect my heritage, ass." Dad was barely a ninja; if you count, then I'm the right hand of Arcus Himself.
The Gym Leader bent down to rub the electabuzz's furred head. "No disrespect intended, little man! As for this little man…" He switched to addressing the Pokémon. "Not break time yet, slacker! Cooldown jog, now!"
He patted the thing on the back, ignoring its pleading look like the drill sergeant he was. The Pokémon gave a mournful croak, but obeyed, beginning to jog around the field. Its oversized forearms swung exaggeratedly – its form was terrible.
Hoshi closed the short distance between him and his uncle, the two of them watching the electabuzz run its sloppy circuit. "New 'mon?"
"Yeah. One of Jackson's kids."
"Named it yet?"
His uncle grunted. "Not sure he's Gym team material. Might send him off to the power plant."
"Hmm… Yeah, he does look pretty scrawny." Electabuzz weren't very large – Hoshi couldn't think of a shorter bipedal 'mon that wasn't a baby form, at least off the top of his head – but this one was notably small.
"I'm more concerned with the attitude. Little man just doesn't seem up for battling."
Hoshi made an affirmative noise, and the two humans watched the yellow-and-black-furred monster slow to a trot the moment it thought its master wasn't looking, its antenna bobbing as it moved. Occasionally a pinkish blur would flash past; the restless electrode doing its own laps without needing to be told.
As the electabuzz passed them to start its second go-round, Surge broke the silence. "So did you have an actual request, or did you come down to bitch about your fatass boss again? Cause you know I'm always up to hear that, but I'm kinda at work, here."
Hoshi's cheeks coloured. Oh, right. "Kind of both? Well, nothing to do with Everheart – I wanted to talk to you about something."
"Shoot."
Hoshi chewed on his tongue for a moment. "I've got this friend, and he thinks this group of people I've been hearing about are bad news. But I remember way back when I was a kid, dad used to talk them up… So I thought I'd come around and ask your opinion."
"...So you just straight-up forgot my birthday, huh?"
His cheeks colouring further, Hoshi stayed silent.
Surge shot him a raised brow. "You gonna give me a name?"
…Well, here it goes. No going back now. "Team Rocket."
The Gym leader's expression stayed fixed for a moment, his brow raised interrogatively. Then Hoshi witnessed the strangeness of his Uncle Bob frowning, something he almost never did – even when he was losing to a challenger, the man kept his wild, malicious-looking grin.
"Fuck, Hoshi. That's a group with some… history." He drew two Poké Balls from his belt. "Electabuzz, return. Humvee, return."
Red light shot from the balls, and the Pokémon collapsed into energy, returning to their homes.
"Bob?" Hoshi asked. I've never known him to cut his training short, even for me.
Surge turned, motioning for his nephew to follow. "Let's discuss this in my office. You'll wanna sit down; this'll probably be a long one."
The office of 'Lieutenant' Surge – whose actual military rank was Captain, but who felt the former rolled off the tongue better – wasn't particularly organised. Hoshi had to step around a stack of papers, the pile left right in the middle of the floor.
"How in Arcus's name does this place get worse every time I see it?"
Surge rounded his desk, sitting in his oversized, couch-like armchair. "Hey, I know where everything is. It's important to keep your work space personal."
With a snort, Hoshi planted himself in the much smaller visitor's seat. "Sure, Bob." He paused for a moment, before barreling forward. "I'll ask again: who are Team Rocket? The real Team Rocket, not whatever the media says."
His uncle steepled his fingers. "Team Rocket is…" A few seconds passed, Hoshi's annoyance growing with each tick of the wall-mounted, magnemite-themed clock. Yeah? Yeah?! Talk, damn it! "The Team Rocket that exists today isn't the same one that existed when me and your old man were pinballing around Johto, pulling stealth ops and dropping voltorb onto factories… Mostly."
"Mostly?" Hoshi repeated.
"Yeah. Mostly." The man stood, moving to the left wall of the room to look at a picture hanging from a screw, its details washed out by time. With uncommonly delicate movements he plucked the frame off the wall, returning to the desk.
He slid it across to Hoshi, who looked down. He had seen this picture before, of course, in this very room – but nowhere else; this was one of a few that Surge hadn't copied for him when it became clear that the then-teenager wouldn't be staying under the Gym Leader's roof for more than a few nights a month.
The composition was lop-sided; whoever had been behind the camera had zoomed in a bit too far, meaning that Shenja Mutsu was only shown from the chin up, while his taller best friend had the top of his head cut off. Between them was a third man, taller than Hoshi's father but thin as a pole, a man with purple-pink hair cut short at the sides but left long along the top of his head – Hoshi wasn't sure what to call the strange haircut. Mohawk? No, it isn't as extreme as that… Whatever, that's the least important detail, anyway.
"Who's this?" Though Hoshi had seen this picture before, he had never questioned it; Surge had three or four dozen different pictures of him and his father posing with some third person, and every time Hoshi asked after the stranger the answer was similar. 'That was Corporal So-And-So, who served with me and your dad,' or 'That's an old friend who worked under the Champ building factories,' or any number of basically-identical answers. I feel like this one's going to be a little different, though.
Surge drew in a breath – then raised his shoulders in a shrug. "No idea."
Hoshi shot the Gym Leader a disgusted look, to which the man only huffed out a small laugh. "No, really! He never told us his name; he was a black operator, a saboteur. Might even have been a relative of yours! Ha!"
Looking back down at the picture of the stranger, Hoshi's lips pursed. I don't see it. His hair is purple, yeah, but it's way too straight. Plenty of people have purple hair – heck, the other ninja clan in Fuchsia has purple hair, too. "But he was Rocket?"
"Yeah. I don't remember the exact mission we took that picture after, but we worked with Rocket more than a few times. Only the one picture though – the other black ops were smart enough not to leave evidence! Ha!"
"...So they were good guys?"
Rather than answer, his uncle leaned back in his giant plush chair. He clasped his hands up over his head, stretching as he blew out a breath. "That's complicated, kid. It was a war – if there were any good guys, I never met 'em."
Hoshi's nostrils flared. "Don't say that. You were fighting for Kanto, for your mother's homeland."
Surge's posture remained somehow both tense and languid, leaning back with his head pointed at the ceiling. "...Yeah. We were doing that." A long moment of silence passed before he continued. "Look, Rocket did a lot of things to help Kanto during the war. Some of it was pretty fucking ugly, but what I did was pretty fucking ugly, too, and I'd do it again in a flash."
Finally he returned to looking Hoshi in the eye. "I knew Giovanni Capo. Knew that man better than most of my blood relatives – we were Gym Leaders together for years. He was a cold bastard, but he knew how to make shit happen, and he wasn't cruel for its own sake. But Giovanni ain't around anymore – I don't know who's in charge of Rocket these days, if it's his kid or one of his lackeys or some random asshole, but it ain't the man I knew."
Hoshi sat for a moment, absorbing his uncle's words. After thinking it over, he decided – might as well go all-in. I trust Bob a heck of a lot more than anyone else in my life. He breathed in, then out, white-hot anxiety rushing through his veins. "Casca's a Rocket."
The Gym Leader – and in that moment he was the Vermilion City Gym Leader, not Uncle Bob – just looked at Hoshi, his face hard.
Please. He didn't even know what he was asking for. Please.
"...Hoshi, I love you. You're my best friend's kid, my nephew, and as much as you piss me off sometimes, I love you. So I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."
"But Bob-"
"Hoshi." The tone stopped him cold. "I am a public servant. If I know about a criminal, I have to go after them. No matter who they are, no matter if I think they deserve it. That's the job." Surge's eyes could have cut glass. "We can talk about hypotheticals, we can talk about the past, but unless you want to put somebody behind bars, we can't talk about individuals in a known criminal organisation, or about joining one. That ain't on the table, kid."
Hoshi sat, looking at his uncle's sharp, vividly blue eyes. There wasn't a hint of give. "...I understand. Pretend I didn't say anything."
A small nod. "You're damn right you didn't say anything. Seriously kid, I'm the damn Gym Leader, what did you think I'd say?"
"...Sorry. I guess I… kind of forgot."
Surge huffed, but his eyes had lost a hint of that cold sharpness. "Well don't go forgetting shit when you talk to anyone else. Seriously, don't let that get out. People talk, Hoshi." Even more of the harshness drained away as the giant in camo pattern clothes relaxed. "Anything else?"
Fuck. Fuck, that was stupid.
"No… Unless you have anything about the modern Team Rocket you want me to know?"
His uncle shrugged. "Nothing you can't get off the news. They hijacked the big radio tower over in Goldenrod – something about gyarados, too, at the same time. The Jennys catch one every now and then…"
For a moment, Surge's face screwed up in indecision. When he spoke again, his voice was hesitant. "...Okay, there is one more thing. It's… probably not something I should be saying with the job I have, but fuck it, you deserve to know."
Hoshi blinked. What? Worse than the stuff you've already said? I'm pretty sure most of what you told me would get you in trouble with the government. He nodded slowly. "I'm listening."
"Okay, so… This is speculation. I need to say that up front." Hoshi nodded again.
"So when everything started stalling out, and Kanto went to the negotiating table, both sides brought a lot of their baggage with them. Now I wasn't there for that high-level shit, but like I said, people talk. So I can say that neither side was very happy about any of the… messier stuff that they'd- that we'd been doing to each other. Would'a been real hard to put things behind us if all the bombings and the poisonings and the assassinations and shit were all government-approved."
Hoshi's mouth was dry. "You're saying it was a work. They sold Rocket out."
Surge shrugged. "It ain't as black and white as that. Rocket did all the shit they did, and they never exactly asked permission – they just happened to get supplies handed to them after the fact. Team Rocket wasn't… official. Accounted for. Not like the ninja clans." He reached under his desk, and produced a twelve-pack of the stupidly caffeinated energy drinks that Hoshi sometimes found buried in the back of a convenience store. "Times like this, I wish I hadn't quit drinking," he muttered, before ripping open the pack and popping a tab.
He took a long gulp of the drink – probably five or six cups of coffee's worth – as Hoshi silently watched, before continuing. "So that's that. Team Rocket got branded a dangerous terrorist group, and there's no going back. Anybody caught in the organisation are war criminals by default. Only the greediest, most desperate, or dumbest of dumb punks join up these days." He slammed down the rest of his drink. "I'm done talking about Team Rocket."
Hoshi walked out of Vermilion Gym with a sour look on his face. Because as much as Uncle Bob had said, there had been a few things the man didn't say that were bugging him.
He never said not to join. He never said to stay away from Casca. And his exact words when I told him about her, when he said he would have to arrest her if he knew she was a Rocket… he said 'No matter if I think they deserve it.'
He started walking down the winding path through the empty training grounds. He warned me what would happen if I got caught, but didn't actually advise me to stay away. Uncle Bob's a pretty direct guy; if he really, genuinely thought something was for my own good, he'd tell me straight out – Gym Leader or not.
Surge hadn't actually admonished the group a single time – at least, not without tarring the entire military, himself included, with the same brush.
In the end all he really said about modern Rocket boils down to… 'I don't know those guys, don't get caught.'
He reached the pavilion separating the Gym from the rest of the city, and looked back. Vermilion's crown jewel stared back at him in white and red, a history of violence proudly displayed within.
Not a single trainer occupied the incredibly varied, incredibly expensive fields. Not a single person had been inside the Gym, waiting to challenge its Leader, striving to become a Pokémon Champion.
Hoshi's fists clenched and unclenched, his muscles tensing over and over as his mind worked.
'Would'a been real hard to put things behind us if all the bombings and the poisonings and the assassinations and shit were all government-approved.'
'We worked with Rocket more than a few times.'
'It ain't as black and white as that.'
…I need to talk to Casca.
Hoshi walked into the reception room just after dawn, less than ten minutes after the doors had been unlocked. His steps were confident, self assured and motivated. The receptionist – it was the same one, by some quirk of fate – looked up as he walked towards her desk. "Can I help you-"
Hoshi slid three hundred pucks worth of small bills across the counter. "Three hours of private lessons with the Gym Leader, please."
If I'm going to do this, I'm not going in half-assed. Flashes of the precious night's conversation with his girlfriend flashed through his head – what a Rocket Grunt actually did, how much it paid, what the responsibilities were.
What someone had to do to go up in that world.
He had a month's worth of paid leave, and then the money he had been saving up on top. I'm gonna be the most overqualified fucking Rocket Grunt they've ever seen.
Had to do a few things today; no chapter tomorrow.
Back when Hoshi would have begun his own Pokémon adventure, if his life had gone according to plan, any kid who got ahold of a ball could go out, nail a pidgey with the thing, and become a Pokémon trainer.
Not an official trainer, obviously; you still needed an Indigo League Pokémon Training Licence to collect Gym Badges, challenge the Indigo League, or participate in sanctioned tournaments. You also technically couldn't operate a business utilising Pokémon without being licensed, but that wasn't nearly as strictly enforced – not back then.
That changed as stronger Pokéballs became cheaper. There had always been little accidents here and there, but the unreliability of the base Poké Ball meant that an idiot who went out and tried to catch a scyther as their first Pokémon was more than likely to just die – which was tragic, of course, but much better than said idiot actually managing it, taking the completely untrained bug home, and releasing it to show off to his drinking buddies.
But as sales of Jet Balls and Pearl Balls began to eclipse those of Poké Balls and Great Balls, that latter situation started to happen with distressing frequency. In the same year that Silph Co. released the Indigo Ball, boasting that it had five times the effectiveness at half the cost of their previous super-premium Ultra Ball, the League began to crack down.
By 2009, only licensed trainers could buy Pokéballs. Only licensed trainers could own Pokémon. Giving a child a caterpie as a harmless pet was now Illicit Transfer of a Pokémon – smuggling, to say it in a single word.
But there remained a few, specific ways for a normal person to get hands-on experience with Pokémon battling. One of them was the League-approved 'Little Cup' events, where people could pick from a selection of carefully-chosen Pokémon, letting them experience battling personally in a low-stakes tournament.
Another, was paying for private lessons from a specially-approved individual, using their Pokémon. That privilege was given out incredibly sparingly, only to high-level, proven trainers – which included, of course, each of Kanto's Gym Leaders.
"Voltorb, Sonic Boom!"
Responding to Hoshi's command, the soccer-ball sized Pokémon rocketed forward, the explosive acceleration combining with a high-pitched screech to form violent shockwaves. Hoshi could see the exact moment the attack made contact: as his Pokéball-coloured orb rushed past its opponent, passing nearly close enough to touch, the pink dog-like enemy rocked in place, buffeted by the invisible force.
He pumped his fist. "Again! Keep attacking!"
The voltorb turned to make another pass, but it seemed his opponent wasn't going to let Hoshi take an easy win. His uncle grinned at him across the field, his voice booming a command almost as loud as the electric Pokémon's attack. "Scary Face! Ice Fang!"
The snubbull rocked on its feet, its eyes bloodshot from the sonic damage, but as the rolling ball bore down on it its stance firmed. All at once its thick fur puffed out, its expression turning from aggressive to downright murderous, its short fangs gleaming with palpable menace – and a coating of frost. Even though he had heard Surge openly shout the attack Hoshi was taken aback, a shock of fear rolling down his spine as all his instincts yelled danger, stay away.
"Dodge!" he managed to yell, but it was far too late; in the heat of battle, fractions of a second mattered. His voltorb's rotation was thrown off by the same fear that had rooted its master in place, and when it passed the snubbull was able to lean away from the Sonic Boom – and then retaliate, clamping its jaws around the small orb.
The voltorb screeched like an exploding engine, its smooth surface becoming cloudy with a thin layer of ice.
"Spark!" Hoshi screamed, but to his frustration his Pokémon failed to heed his command; the voltorb ceased struggling, its expressive eyes becoming lidded and unfocused.
"Burberry, return." His uncle's command was accompanied by the distinctive red beam of a Pokéball's return function, and the snubbull disappeared. "Two for three! Sorry little man, looks like this is my win!"
With gritted teeth, Hoshi hissed out his own command. "Return." The unconscious voltorb also disappeared, returning to the ball in his hand as a torrent of red light. "Damnit."
That one was winnable. If the stupid fucking ball had just hung on for one second..!
The anger ebbed away slowly as he stepped forward, meeting Surge in the centre of the field where he shook the older man's hand.
"Good try, Hoshi. You wanna go over it?"
He forced the last dregs of rage away as an act of will. "Sure. From the top?"
The Gym Leader nodded.
Surge's office hadn't changed much over the last week. Some of the paper stacks were taller, some were shorter, but overall the amount of care Hoshi had to put into his steps to reach the visitor's seat hadn't changed.
The photo of the two soldiers sandwiching the purple-haired Rocket had been returned to its place on the wall.
"So," Surge began, "Bear versus Chopper III. Your one win." He raised his brow, and Hoshi knew he was emphasising the word just to get at him.
"Right," Hoshi said, ignoring the bait. "That one was pretty easy; I had a solid type advantage." The match had been short; Surge's rattata had gotten in one good Quick Attack before Hoshi's machop had trapped it in a cycle of being tripped, the rat enduring a few Low Kicks as it vainly attempted to stand, before the Gym Leader called the match.
Surge nodded. "Low-level matches can get pretty one-sided. Not a lot of moves to choose from – but I'll compliment you on not messing up a winning strategy, at least."
Hoshi pointed a certain gesture his uncle's way. "Screw off. Okay, next one: magnemite versus pidgey." He grimaced. "I've got no idea how I managed to lose that one." Of all the matches he had fought since he started paying for lessons, that one stung the most. Fucking embarrassing. At least in the first match the rat could have hit pretty hard; the pidgey had to grind me down over like two minutes.
The Gym Leader sniffed. "Really? No idea? C'mon, at least try and fish for a reason."
A moment of silence as Hoshi's lip curled. "...You got lucky."
"Hmm?" Surge put a hand behind his ear, flat palm pointing forwards. "Sorry, I didn't hear that. Speak up, rookie!"
"I said you got lucky! Five fucking Thunder Shocks- if any of them had hit, your bird would've been fried!"
Surge did nothing but raise his brow, and Hoshi prepared himself for more of the man's drill sergeant shtick – but he only shrugged, his smile sharp as ever. "Yup! You're completely right – Blastwave managed to get some sand in Button's eye, and then was really, really lucky." His voice turned serious. "But more on that later – let's get to the finale. Burberry versus Cromwell. Tell me how it went."
"Before anything else, I have something important to say." Hoshi took a breath. "You suck shit at naming Pokémon."
Surge replied instantly, not offended in the least. "Noted. Next time I have to sort through fifteen newly-budded magnemite, I'll call you up so you can name them – and no repeats, or the paperwork guys will yell at you. 'Three pikachu named Bullet is really confusing,' my ass!" He threw his chin upwards. "Now quit stalling. How'd you decide on your strategy?"
Again, Hoshi was silent for a moment before he answered – though this time it was because he was actually thinking.
"Speed and power," he eventually said. "Voltorb is one of the fastest unevolved Pokémon, but it hits soft. I'm not as familiar with the other one, but I know it's a slow normal type, and those usually hit pretty hard." He leaned back in the cheap, plastic chair. "So I decided that hit-and-run was the best option. Spark would've done more damage, but it also would've left my Pokémon vulnerable if you decided to trade hits… not that it mattered." His face scrunched as he remembered the way the voltorb had completely failed to endure a single attack.
Surge hummed. "Not the worst strategy I've ever heard." He looked up for a moment, considering, before suddenly slamming his hands down on the table. "Okay, big lesson time! Professor Surge is in the house!" Hoshi flinched back from the volume. Arcus fuck, Bob, I'm like three feet away. "I'm gonna say one thing you did good, and one thing you did bad! You ready?"
"...Sure?" We've done this like six times, do you really need to keep doing the song and dance?
"First, the good: you've really improved since you started."
Hoshi's expression soured further. "Wow, 'you've improved.' That's definitely not another way of saying 'you started as complete dog-'"
"No interrupting the professor while he's lecturing! Okay, now the bad:" The man let the moment hang, drawing out the tension. "You're way too offensively focused. When Button started whiffing his attacks, you should have had him back off – instead you just kept yelling 'fucking hit it!' and that was… not very effective."
Hoshi sunk in his seat.
"Now don't go feeling too glum! I meant what I said; you really have improved. The Hoshi of a few days ago would have just charged right into that last battle; instead, you made a solid plan that eliminated your opponent's advantages, maximising your chances of winning."
"...Thanks, Bob." He still felt like he was being damned with faint praise, but it did take the edge off, just a little.
Surge smiled wider. "You only lost because I made good use of Burberry's Mean Look – that's the actual lesson here: remember your Pokémon can do things other than attack." He stabbed a finger down at the table's surface. "It's applicable to the second battle, too; I did only win because I got lucky, but I was able to get lucky because I made the situation possible. If I had attacked straight out… Boom! One bolt, little Blastwave would've gone down. I aimed for the slim chance of victory, and happened to roll double sixes."
Taking a satisfied breath, the Gym Leader sat back, folding his arms. "Chin up, little man. I'd say you've started to really get into the meat of first badge territory. Most trainers have to bash their head against wild Pokémon for weeks to start showing some actual strategy – and the rest show too much strategy! Ha!"
"Bob, I get it, you-"
He slammed his desk again. "Overthinking's worse that underthinking – all the same downsides, and it comes with an extra helping of hesitancy! The first step to making a soldier is to teach them to attack, first, and then after they get that down, then you teach them when to hang back and think it through. So you're coming at it from the right direction at least!" He let loose a bellowing laugh, and Hoshi allowed his spirit to be buoyed up.
"...Thanks, Bob," he said again, meaning it more the second time. I'm not sure what you'd say if you knew what I was taking these lessons for, but I appreciate you taking me seriously.
Hoshi had told the man he was finally becoming serious about getting his licence, and that was… technically not a lie.
"Oh, don't thank me – with the amount you've spent on lessons, I might be able to grab me a cool new Pokémon!" His voice lowered – relatively. "I hear buzzing that some guy got a whole bunch of Alolan magneton. No idea how he got them shipped in during typhoon season, but I'm curious to ask! Ha!"
Hoshi opened his mouth and began to form a sentence… but then let it go. Nope, not sticking my head into that. If Bob is dumb enough to fall for such an obvious scam, and Danny is dumb enough to try and scam a Gym Leader, then they deserve each other.
"Alolan magneton?" he asked, playing dumb. "Never heard of it. What's different from the normal kind?"
His uncle clapped his hands. "Well, I haven't managed to get any pictures of the things, but apparently it's actually made up of five component magnemite. Now this is just me spitballing, but it's known that Alola's mountainous region is a lot less magnetically active than Mount Coronet up north, so I'm thinking that Pokémon that rely on a strong magnetic field to evolve might have adapted by living more communally…"
As his uncle continued to ramble on, Hoshi was pulled between amusement and concern. Okay, this is a little less funny. "Bob," he interrupted. "You sure this is real? It might be like that fake gloom thing from last year – might be better not to get your hopes up."
Surge waved him off. "No, I know the guy who knows the guy who got the tip. This is definitely more credible than that oddish fiasco – the guys who bought those were real idiots, had the gall to get the blues involved after trying to buy unregistered Pokémon. This one's legit!"
He went back to talking about magnetic phenomena and their intersection with Pokémon evolution, and Hoshi could only shrug internally. Welp, can't say I didn't try.
As July rolled through its second half, the weather only continued to escalate.
"We're looking at the biggest storm since the seventies, folks," blared the voice of the grey-suited weatherman on the television. "This is, I'm told, meteorologically speaking, the biggest event since former Elite Four member Walker Hayabusa attempted his doomed expedition to the Seafoam Islands. Now looking on the chart here, we can see the storm itself will be passing almost perfectly along Route 20, hitting the coast of Fuchsia – we can expect the bulk of it to dissipate over the mountains, but even in the best-case scenario large sections of coastline, notably Vermilion and Pallet, are likely to see heavy damage from the literal hurricane-strength winds. In the worst case scenario-"
With a soft sound the news was cut off, and Hoshi stared blankly at his barely-visible reflection for a fraction of a second. "Hey, that seemed important."
Casca waggled the remote. "I know, but this is more important." She tossed the plastic brick down onto its habitual resting place on the edge of the coffee table. "The intel guys finally got around to doing their jobs, and guess what?" Her smile was bright. "You're good! Certified Team Rocket material!"
Hoshi blinked. Then, he stood up and hugged his girlfriend. "Fucking finally! Does it always take this long?"
The orange-haired woman rolled her eyes. "Oh, believe me, this was glacial. I think your uncle really spooked them, made them go over everything with a fine-tooth comb – and speaking of him, when am I gonna meet the guy?" Her eyes sparkled as her lips twisted into a pout. "We've been dating for like a whole month now, shouldn't you be showing me off to your family?"
Her obviously put-on tone and equally fake pout drew a chuckle from Hoshi's chest. "You really wanna meet Surge? Is that…" His voice grew more serious. "A good idea? With you being… you."
Another roll of her eyes. "It's not like I'm on wanted posters, Hoshi. I've never gotten caught doing anything – at most, I'm on a 'watch this person' list somewhere in the dank hole of Celadon's bureaucracy."
She flopped down on the couch, and Hoshi moved to follow her, though he sat normally rather than lounging. Their relationship following the Rocket reveal had… stayed the same mostly. But it's not identical.
"You're penciled in for tomorrow, just after noon. I managed to get you in on the exact day they hand out new Pokémon, so you're welcome." She leaned up to plant a kiss on the tip of his nose. "I absolutely hated going through orientation without a Pokémon to my name – you'll be able to skip to the hands-on lessons." Holding her upper body up by her elbows, straight orange hair pooling under her, Casca looked like nothing less than a mischievous imp.
In the last few weeks Hoshi had been hyper-aware of the changes his girlfriend underwent, and in hindsight the barrier the woman had kept between them was obvious – she had been holding herself back from acting entirely natural around him, though if that was something manipulative or just to keep herself safe from emotional attachment, he didn't know.
What he did know was that she hadn't lied, that day when everything had come out; Casca Kichi did not lie, except by omission. No particular quality of hers had been hidden, just the differing magnitudes. Without her mask, his girlfriend was a damn brat.
He smiled, but thinly, anxiety about his initiation battling with excitement for the same. "You think I'll make the cut?"
She gave him a flat look. "Honey, you're overqualified. Most grunts start off as street thugs – you've been training with a Gym Leader." The smile she flashed was all excitement, zero anxiety. "You are going to love the professors – or maybe hate them, they're kind of a lot. Ahh, I can't wait for you to meet them!"
She wriggled in place, but a moment later her face scrunched in an expression of annoyance. "Just steer clear of the other two, the 'Rocket Professors.' Those guys are creeps!"
They cuddled for a bit before Hoshi turned the TV back on, and the rest of the evening was spent clinging to each other as ten different channels documented the approaching typhoon.
On Friday, July 30th, 2010, Hoshi Mutsu slept through the sunrise for the first time in over two years.
Or at least, he attempted to. For the last hour or so he tossed and turned, and when his girlfriend finally began to stir, he felt that the extra rest had paradoxically made him feel less rested.
Casca's hand came up from under the thin summer sheets to stifle a yawn, the corners of her eyes glistening. "Morning, Hoshi!" Despite having just woken, her voice was bright and cheerful.
"Morning," he replied. His feet touched the carpet, which was already losing the night's stock of coolness – it would probably hit forty degrees today, and Hoshi was dreading stepping foot outdoors. I wonder if work is even happening.
A smile played over his face imagining the Ditto literally melting in the scorching heat. No way. People would actually die.
"Ready for the big day?"
He turned, considering the woman's question as he watched her dress. He could almost feel a Pokéball in his hand. His smile turned sharp as he followed her lead, pulling his own clothing out from the dresser.
The sun began to crest the horizon, reflecting off the glass superstructures of Celadon's downtown, bathing the city's streets in overlapping arcs of light even before the star itself became visible from the ground.
When the Pallet and Silver Leagues had joined together in the wake of the Indigo War, a new federal military government, known as the Indigo League, had been created. But as the separate territories of Kanto and Johto remained isolated both geographically and culturally, there came a need for an in-between body, much larger than a city's administration, but smaller than the country as a whole. And so the remnants of those previous leagues became the Provincial Ministration, a bridge between the new and old, responsible for communicating the needs of the various municipal governments upwards, and the demands of the League downwards.
Today, Daniel Jitsu felt that things would be going mostly downwards.
The Minister sipped his absinthe as he watched his city wake up. He had been a member of the Pallet League, once… But today he was simply a Minister of Kanto, one of a great many, rich and poor, male and female, old and young.
Surrounding him were a great gathering of his fellow Ministers, clad in modern suits and traditional robes, drinking anything from water to wine to spirits. An observer may have found it interesting to note how disorganised the collective was; people sat without hierarchy, young women who had joined the organisation mere months ago mingling with elderly statesmen who predated the Pallet League itself. Mixed in were a handful of mayors and governors, elected officials who had tied themselves to the cause.
But though some had climbed up from below, none had descended from on high; the room contained not a single League official. Nor would it ever; this was a place for only the most loyal of the loyal. Those whose sincerity was unquestionable, as verified by esoteric means.
All of them were in a state of anticipation, waiting to erupt into either fury or exaltation. The focus of their attentions was a small, innocuous-seeming object; a black stone, rectangular, just about the perfect size to fit in one's palm. Three indentations, vaguely shaped like eyes, were sunk into the face of it, and Minister Jitsu knew that three identical marks adorned the other side.
The stone was set upon a pedestal, against the backdrop of the city's prosperity, the perfect symbol of what the Inner Ministry was striving for. Through the wall-length window of his own personal office, Celadon gleamed, bright and alive.
Placed carefully upright, the black stone's indentations were arranged in a triangle – and the 'top' indent glowed white where the other two were only black stone, a pupil for the analogous eye. Every man and woman's gaze was fixed to those dark bottom indentations, as though they could force the artifact to respond to their will.
Would that it were so, he thought. Would that the world could be moved merely by the wills of men alone.
Ten, twenty, thirty seconds passed since the last transmission. Small sounds propagated through the room, people moving restlessly, consuming their drinks, but none spoke.
And then, the tension was released – the left indent flashed white for a single second, and then both it and the top indent went black, inert, the eyes closing as the psychic connection was cut.
The room erupted. Many growled in frustration, or turned to a nearby Minister to vent their spleens through complaint. One of the most elderly among them, Chancy Unsuki, a man whose life was measured in three digits, dashed his rice wine to the ground in frustration.
For as much as the Inner Ministry valued cold logic, it was also a living, spiteful thing. A creature of two faces, and six eyes.
Daniel did not partake. He simply sat, hand clenching around his glass.
One sign. The Moltres has evaded both us and the Johtonians.
Not the worst possible result, but a failure nonetheless. Today was our best chance. With the legend's passing across the Cinnabar line, our agents will have a harder time tracking it. Blaine controlled the Seafoam Islands, and his associates were some of the only people who could match Fuchsia's ninja clans in skill. In a perfect world the Gym Leader's goals would be in line with theirs… but if the world were perfect, there would be no need for the Ministry in the first place.
Minister Jitsu sipped at his absinthe, anise and wormwood and a dozen other herbs colouring his tongue green as the dazzling show of dawn progressed, the light travelling down each building like a rain of falling stars.
Then he stood. "Ladies, gentlemen," he projected. "There is no need to unsettle your stomachs. Come, let us drink, and plan for the morrow – for our task is not yet done."
Goldenrod was home to innumerable businesses. Offices, restaurants, stores selling clothing and furniture and entertainment; whatever one desired, it could be found in Johto's City of Golden Waters, often many times over.
But today, Tamara was in search of something that could only be found in a single place.
On the eastern side of said city, far from the water, the woman with dark hair and bright eyes ducked through the early morning fog, swift but light steps taking her towards one of those aforementioned businesses. She passed a few, none of them what she was searching for – until at last she spied it: Extravagant Coffee and Wonderful Pastries, read the sign above the entrance.
She opened the cafe's door, eliciting a cheerful jingle, and sat near the counter.
Even at such an early hour – or perhaps because of it – the service was swift. "Would you like a menu, ma'am?" came the voice of an approaching waitress, a woman of similar age but nearly opposite appearance. Heavyset, with strawberry red hair and eyes like charcoal.
"No thank you," Tamara replied. "Give me the usual, with three times the salt." A brief pause. "The cooks will know what I mean."
The red-haired woman's eyebrows pulled together, but her tone remained professionally polite. "Of course." She began to step away, but a beckoning gesture from her customer caused her to pause.
"And can I get the key to the bathroom?"
The waitress nodded. "Yes, of course. I'll be back in a moment."
Tamara waited. The cafe was relatively empty, only her and four employees; the waitress, a young man on cashier duty who continually snuck peeks at her when he thought she wasn't looking, and the two cooks in the back, whose movements she could track by sound. It was a small business, seemingly no different from the many others that filled Goldenrod's wide streets and narrow alleys.
In fact, the sign looked almost identical to the donut shop across the street. She frowned at the stray thought. Was that there the last time I was in town?
If it started being too hard to find the shop, the exterior might have to be made slightly more visible.
She continued to wait. The waitress returned less than a minute later, baring the key, and Tamara entered the cafe's bathroom – and then, she continued to wait. Another minute and a soft click entered her ears, and in response she removed the back of the toilet, reached inside, and after only a moment's search found the switch hidden on the underside of the submerged pipe.
A section of the tiled floor made a dull sound, raising up a few millimetres, and Tamara bent down to haul the secret door upwards.
She went down. She closed the door behind her. She followed the narrow, short hallway to a room with several lockers. She opened the one with the number 48 engraved on its surface.
Tamara ceased to exist as she stripped off her wig and coloured contacts, fished the bits of plastic that subtly changed the shape of her mouth out from between her gums and cheeks, and stepped out of her silhouette-altering clothing and shoes
For a moment, the nameless woman stood nude, shivering slightly in the chilly room. Then she donned her ninja robe – a sleek, form-fitting garment that might have looked impractical to anyone who had never needed reasonable protection, near-superhuman range of motion, and low weight all in one – gathered a few of Tamara's things, and finally slipped on the mask that transformed her into Number Forty-Eight.
Then she continued descending into the complex.
"Do we have eyes on it yet?"
Those were the first words that Forty-Eight heard when she opened the door to The Basement. The voice that spoke them was slightly raspy, somehow teetering on the knife's edge between youthful and aged, like a woman in her twenties who had smoked every day since she was a toddler.
Or a woman in her twenties with old poison stiffening her vocal cords.
"Not yet, mistress." "We're monitoring, but the radios keep failing…" "The messenger should be here any- ah, there she is."
The litany of subordinate voices were less damaged, but not a single one was whole. One of her sisters turned – the one who had first noticed Forty-Eight before the others, her mask bearing the digits 6 and 2 in fabric just a half-touch lighter.
She was a small woman, enviably so – Forty-Eight had been forced to scout out larger openings many times over the course of her duties; if her body were like that, she would be able to fit easily through the gap beneath a closed door. "Report, junior sister."
The young ninja placed her hands in full view, bowing. "I am Forty-Eight. I'm afraid I must be the bearer of bad news."
The woman in the centre of the room, Matriarch Four, turned away from the wall of screens. "Speak."
A steadying breath calmed her nerves – though her training prepared her for many things, the events of the previous days had been… difficult. "We were able to harry the Firebird all the way to the island's edge," she began, "But at that point we began encountering… problems."
Four's eyes narrowed. "Doksu."
Her bowed head tilted downwards a fraction more. "As you say, Matriarch. The first clue was when Twelve and Twenty-One took ill. Their feet were covered in pustules consistent with natural toxins, so we guessed that they had simply passed below a forretress' tree without noticing, but…"
"In the act of treating their wounds, you were attacked," one of the other subordinate ninja finished.
Again, the most subtle of nods. "The two who were poisoned died. Sixteen died. Eighteen was heavily wounded. We killed two, while at least four escaped."
The room was silent as the Matriarch processed her words. "You are too few to continue the mission?"
"Yes, Matriarch. When I left, there were only three others. We had only a single of the capture tools remaining."
Four's face was grave beneath her mask, emotion reaching up to touch her eyes. "Were you able to recover any enemy equipment?" Behind her the screens flashed in and out of static, brief views of a smoking caldera, an icy mountain, an abandoned wreck of charred and melted steel.
Forty-Eight reached behind her back, slowly, pulling free a small package from a concealed location.
"Place it on the floor, then remove your mask."
The ninja stilled for only a fraction of a second – then she obeyed. She ceased to be Forty-Eight, continuing to bow before the Matriarch, all but non-existent in her namelessness.
Between one second and the next, the mask lying carefully folded on the ground disappeared. Then a different one blurred into existence, similar but distinct. The Matriarch of the Ankoku ninja clan did not appear to move even slightly, despite moving so quickly as to be invisible even to her own sisters.
"Put it on."
The woman did so.
"You are now Twelve. Wear the name with pride. Follow Sixty-Two for the extended debrief; afterwards, return to your civilian life."
Jiei Enoki has never seen himself as a social person. Perhaps that was why he pursued the path of the monk, why he felt more at home in the presence of the dead than the living, why the small conference room filled with his peers made him so very, very uncomfortable.
Or perhaps each of those things sat off in their own corner, unconnected, their roots obscured beneath the soil of his mind. For it is the nature of a spirit to always quest for themselves, searching and searching for that which cannot be answered. If it is true of the dead, then why not the living as well?
The woman called the Dragon Empress slammed her palm down on the conference table, the sound like a clap of thunder, and none of them were moved. They were the Elite Four; a startling noise could never touch them.
Clair must be aware of this, said his thoughts; she was not attempting to intimidate. She was only a rash woman, passionate, expressing herself with restrained violence.
"Enoki, you promised me you'd have them rooted out by summer. It's the last day of July. What happened?"
Embarrassment turns in his gut, the urge to dip his head under the table as three additional pairs of eyes turn his way.
Or perhaps it is shame. Perhaps it is shyness. Who can say which emotion is which, when they all bleed into each other, plants grown from the same seed?
"I am sorry, Champion. While my ghosts seemed the perfect solution to our puzzle, the pieces have changed their shape while I looked away." A gastly, unrepentant of its failure, flitted out from one of his sleeves before disappearing down the other, its tongue lolling with joyful malice.
A vein pressed out from the Dragon Empress's forehead. Quickly, before she could explode, another voice cut in.
"You shouldn't expect too much of him, Clair. He's only a child."
Jiei's cheeks colour. The Masked Magician is not wrong, but the man's words cause his chin to lower nonetheless.
Will Zelcovia is resplendent as always, slim and graceful in his elaborate silk finery. Of all of them, it is the Psychic Elite that Jiei most admires; the Karate Master's movements are harsh and powerful like a flowing waterfall, the Dark Mistress languid with a persian's grace, and Clair Blackthorn is the Champion.
But for whatever reason, it is the sight of the mysterious Will that makes Jiei's head fill to bursting with feelings of inadequacy.
His power is his own, even more than the Champion's, than the other two Elite's. And their power was at least earned through deeds.
Jiei Enoki is merely the Heavenly Medium; there is not a shred of power that comes from him. He is conduit – a servant, not a master.
Clair's voice is harsh and low, rumbling. "No insulting the other members, Will. Don't think I won't throw you out."
The magician replies, soft and airy. "You misunderstand. I am defending him, Champion. Two countries' worth of ninja, legendary Pokémon, and worst of all, politicians…" He flips his hand as though performing a card trick – and like magic, one appears. The seven of clubs. "Not even I could keep track of all that, let alone keep them from killing each other, and I've been digging my roots in for over a decade. You place entirely too much weight onto the shoulders of a single person."
Jiei swore he could feel the Champion's teeth grinding. "It's necessary. If either side manages to get a single legend into a ball, then the war's back on. We won't be able to stop them – not you, not me, not anyone." Even though her arm is slender, and her fingers even moreso, the steel of the table deforms under her grip.
"We need to keep things from escalating. And the last tussle with the Articuno put my whole team on their last legs. I need you four to step up." Even while asking for assistance, her snarl is aggressive. "Please. Just keep them stalled for a month so my dragons can get back into fighting shape."
The Karate Master huffs. "Don't ask me to do more than I already am. I've had to completely put my training on hold just to keep Saffron from exploding into full-on gang warfare." Though he is nearing his fifties, the man's voice is smooth and full of vitality – and under Jiei's skin, a thousand voices chuckle at the thought of such a supple meal. "Unlike you, I don't have an entire clan to fall back on. Can't you deploy some of those famed Dragon Monks of yours?"
Clair flares up like a bonfire. Karen speaks for the first time since the meeting's start to compare her unfavourably to her cousin. Will attempts to act as peacemaker, but cannot resist the sharpness of his own tongue.
They bicker, the four most powerful people in Indigo fraying at the edges under too much responsibility – and he, the Heavenly Medium, can do nothing to help; he had tried to keep the Ankoku and Doksu from each other's throats, and failed. Had tried to keep them from finding the Three Heavenly Birds, and failed.
Inside Jiei's chest a sea of darkness roiled, feeding on the conflict.
He hoped, dearly, that he would not need to feed it with souls, before the summer ended.
Getting harder to write all the way through the day, with the summer heat being as... summer and heat as it is.
Might slow things down to a Mon/Wed/Fri schedule. We'll see what happens.
But in happier news, my novel The Salt & The Sky just dropped on Amazon – or at least, the first third of it. Give it a look.
The Electric Academy was, in its original vision, meant to be the largest university in Kanto, eclipsing Saffron's Institute of Pokémon Technology half over. It was meant to offer both normal courses focusing on trades, humanities, and science, as well as specialised tutoring for Pokémon trainers – but in reality, it was undercut by a number of issues.
For one, the Celadon College of Arts and Science saw a massive expansion just three months into construction. This coincided with an equally massive labour strike along Kanto's coastline, affecting not only construction efforts, but the shipping necessary to bring in materials.
If either of these things had not occurred, it was entirely possible that Hoshi himself might have worked on the building – Everheart grumbled about the lost opportunity for a month straight after things started up again. But it was not to be; the half-finished building had sat unused for three months, eating up its allocated funds, and it seemed that the academy would be nothing but a failed dream.
Then, in the early months of 2008, the academy's land was bought out by a local gentleman of extreme wealth: the chairman of the multi-nation Pokémon Fan Club Media Group. Special contractors were brought in from up north, and the Electric Academy was opened before year's end – as a private school, accepting only friends of its owner, or the ultra-connected.
That was the story of the Electric Academy that Hoshi was familiar with. But as he had learned, it was not entirely truthful.
The school's land had been bought out, and the name on the cheque was the chairman, one Yoshi Sukizo. But according to Casca, the money, and the labour, had actually come from Team Rocket.
Not that that's necessarily what actually happened, he thought to himself as he eyed the wrought-iron gates. Casca learned the 'secret origin' from Rocket, so the source is suspect at best.
But as his girlfriend led him through the front doors of the opulent building in the early hours of the afternoon, the doorman in his tailored clothes letting them stroll in without a second look, he was forced to concede that yeah, Team Rocket – or Casca, at the very least – seemed to have the run of the place.
"Holy shit," he breathed. "Is the trim plated with gold?"
Casca put a hand to her lips. Today she had painted them cherry red, and the saturated brightness contrasted strongly with her black-painted nails. "I think that's just bronze? You'd have to have nonsense cash to gold-plate the walls."
Hoshi grunted, conceding the point. Okay. But still, holy shit, this place is posh as fuck.
The flooring of the halls was polished tile, alternating squares of light and dark marble that reflected the light of the hanging chandeliers like mirrors. He almost felt bad stepping on it with his work boots.
And the walls were no less impressive, though they had more of a nature theme; greens and soft browns were accented with living plants, sometimes so neatly that he couldn't tell where the architecture ended and living thing began. The architect's son in him was eyeing the place with extreme incredulity. Didn't Casca say the place was understated? Understated compared to fucking what?
It wasn't the most expensive building he could imagine – and in reality the Pokémon Gym was probably more impressive in a vacuum – but it oozed the feeling of wealth, like he had stepped into an ephemeral money-aura.
Is this really just a front? They have to actually teach a few rich assholes, or else none of this makes sense…
A moment later he decided to voice the same question aloud, and in response Casca gave an over-the-shoulder shrug. "No idea. I mean, they probably do, but I didn't see anyone other than fellow Rockets when I was here." They walked down another set of halls, passing some pretty ordinary, non-ultra-wealthy looking people, before she continued. "Maybe they're recruiting rich assholes? I know for a fact they've got a few legitimate businesses – I've worked in them! – So they've probably got the business connections to go with them."
Hoshi had no coherent answer to that, so they crossed the next handful of opulent hallways without speaking.
Casca led him up a flight of stairs, through a short maze of hallways – carpeted, these ones – and stopped in front of a solid wood door marked Bio 107 in probably-not-gold leaf.
The orange-haired woman was all but vibrating with energy. "Okay, this is it! Now I can't actually go in with you, but I'll be there in spirit, okay?"
She leaned forward, and they shared a kiss.
"Don't worry at all. Like I said, most people who make it through are half-rate thugs – you're going to do fine." You know, if you keep insisting so hard, I might actually start to get nervous… "Just remember to cozy up to the instructors – that's what I did, and I got through smooth as butter!"
She kissed him again, fiddled with his tie, and then he was through the door.
Hoshi entered something that reminded him most strongly of a bank's waiting room.
The floor was carpeted in dark red, and one side of the room was occupied by a large, solid counter, a single man loitering behind with a bored expression. The man tilted his head Hoshi's way – and for the first time since entering, Hoshi looked at someone who was definitely in a gang.
It was almost a relief; a tiny part of him had been afraid this whole Team Rocket owns an entire academy thing was some kind of elaborate joke.
The man wore a black newsboy cap, the puffy-looking thing blending into his similarly black, sleek hair, and a stiff-looking shirt of the same material. A red R was emblazoned on his chest for all to see, and Hoshi struggled not to let his jaw drop. Arcus fuck, he looks like he stepped out of a photo from the sixties. The only concession given to modernity was the belt of pokéballs peeking just over the counter's edge – he counted four of the things, though they looked strange.
"You the new guy?" asked the Rocket Grunt. "Hoshi Kudzu?"
Hoshi opened his mouth, but choked back the reflective insult. It's grade school all over again. "I'm Hoshi Mutsu, yes. This is the place?"
The man gestured with his chin, and Hoshi realised he had completely neglected to take in the rest of the room; seated along the other wall were three other grunts, two men and a woman. "Sit with the others. You'll get your uniform today." He had the sort of bland voice that could only come from working retail for far too long, politeness worn away to expose the dark void underneath.
"Okay." Thought I would get, like, an interview or something, but I guess it's just right in the deep end, minute one.
He crossed the room to sit, taking note of his… coworkers, he supposed, as he did.
They were dressed identically, save for the woman being in a skirt rather than pants, the same black fabric and big red R as the counter guy. Their boots also matched: grey leather, with the woman's going way up past her knees like super-thick leggings. Ugh, those look uncomfortable. I hope this is just a 'school uniform' thing, and I can wear my normal shit when I'm… out on the job. The thought of wearing the outfit outside in the heat made him feel like he was drowning, but at least the building was air conditioned, so the thick black fabric wouldn't make his bones melt. My current getup is bad enough, and I chose it specifically to still let me breathe.
He sat between one of the men and the woman, taking advantage of a set of four empty chairs. His instincts said he should be doing something, examining the other grunts for clues about who to trust, who was going to be trouble, who he'd have to beat down, but the weird unreality of the situation was making his heart pound on his ribcage like a trapped mankey.
Is… is that really it? Not even going to check me out, I'm just in? Here's your uniform, get to work? He knew that his relationship with Surge had made whoever was responsible for background checks give him an extra-thorough look, but… Not even talking to him, getting him in a room alone to sweat it out? Gangster movies have been lying to me. Danny owes me a refund on all those burnt DVDs.
Minutes passed in mostly silence. The other recruits didn't seem nearly as anxious – one guy was reading a book, and the woman had a game console out, the bleep-bloops of some arcade classic softly issuing from its speakers.
"So are we waiting for something..?" he said, and immediately regretted breaking the silence as the man to his right, a huge roided-out looking biker type with a shaved head, turned in his direction.
"Waitin' on fuckin' Puke, as always." His too-broad face was pockmarked with acne. Oh yeah, this guy's on the moon-juice.
Hoshi grunted back, and the silence resumed. Fuck, this is weird and uncomfortable.
He felt off being the only person out of uniform. Could have at least worn something comfortable, but no, Casca convinced me to come in wearing a damn suit and tie, to 'make a good first impression.'
It was unbearable. He had to say something. With the other two obviously occupied, Hoshi turned to the biker-looking guy. "So, you been waiting long?"
He growled, and Hoshi could easily picture the sound issuing from a territorial primeape. "Like an Arcus damned half-hour. Bitch couldn't find her ass with both hands and a map." Ah, so it's two women and two men. Or three men, with me, I guess.
Five people, and Casca said they handed out Pokémon once a month, so this was the entire month's recruits. That seems pretty low. But then again… His construction company recruited maybe twenty or thirty guys a year, and Machamp & Sons was a pretty big enterprise. Let's say this month's a good one, or maybe a few wash out, so they average out to fifty a year. And this is just Vermilion; Casca got picked up in Cerulean, and there's no way they aren't doing something in Saffron, so multiply that by at least three, and…
Team Rocket was actually pretty damn big, potentially.
"So what's your deal?" came another growl from his right, and Hoshi realised he had spaced out.
"Huh? Oh, I'm… a construction worker."
A scoff. "Sure you are, Suit. But I meant, why are you here?"
A dozen potential answers flitted through Hoshi's brain. I'm in love with a woman. I want Kanto to change. I want to be somebody. "I met a girl in a bar. We talked, and… here I am."
The man snorted in amusement. "Weak. At least say you're here to get paid, man."
Hoshi's nostrils flared in annoyance. He was glad there were a few chairs between them; this could easily turn into a situation where he would be tempted to take a swing, and that probably wouldn't end well for him – the guy might not have worked out for his muscle, but it was still muscle. "That why you're here?"
"Fuckin' right, man. Plus, who doesn't want a Pokémon? Even if it's just a zubat 'r somethin'."
His face twisted further. I really hope they don't cheap out and hand me a zubat. Those things are like the weakest Pokémon I can think of – fuck, at least a weedle would evolve fast. "Yeah, that's a part of it too. You hoping for something in particular?"
The man's massive arms crossed. "Machop."
Hoshi grunted. "Good choice." Yeah, those are pretty good. I don't really think of them as battle Pokémon 'cause of my job, but anything that gets on two Elite Four teams can't be bad.
"What about you, Suit?"
Hm? "Well…" He hesitated. What kind of Pokémon would I want, if I could choose? He had thought about it more than once, but nothing had jumped out at him. "Obviously the best case would be a dratini or something, but that ain't happening. Maybe a ground type." He was probably carrying a bias since the Gym focused on mostly electric Pokémon, but ground had always seemed like a good, solid pick.
"What, like a diglett?"
"I could think of worse. If I could choose, I'd go for a sandshrew. Or-"
His sentence was interrupted by a sudden noise as the door he had entered from crashed open, the solid wood impacting a doorstop set into the bottom of the wall with a sound directly out of an old cartoon.
"Sorry, sorry! I got lost again!" cried some sort of black-clothed gorilla, in an entirely unfitting feminine voice.
"Oi, took you long enough!" the moon-faced man heckled, and Hoshi let his hackles down. Oh. That's not a gorilla. Just a… very large woman.
She was actually bulkier than Mr. Steroids, though the lack of obvious side-effects made him think she had probably gotten that bulk naturally. Arcus fuck, she reminds me of dad. Her arms are wider around than my legs.
The woman – he absolutely wasn't going to be calling her Puke, at least not anywhere she could hear – sheepishly scratched the back of her head as Counter Guy finished recoiling. "Sorry…" she repeated.
"That's-!" The Rocket Grunt gulped, obviously fighting down a near heart attack from the sudden noise. "That's fine. Just sit down. I'll be handing out the stuff in a minute."
She turned, still sheepish, and as she approached Hoshi saw her hesitate as she eyed the seats – there were four empty ones, but she would be forced to sit right next to somebody.
Do I move..? Actually, yeah, this was a good opportunity to distance himself from calls-the-professional-bodybuilder-Puke guy. He half-stood and slid into the seat to his left, putting himself next to Gamer Girl.
If she had even noticed the last of them enter, she didn't show it, continuing to tap away at whatever she was playing. Magnificent. I've joined a group of weirdos… Maybe the book guy over there is at least half-normal.
The huge woman continued to eye the seats with a wince – it seemed Hoshi wasn't the only one who wanted to stay away from Moon-Face – but after a second she sat herself down heavily in the middle of the stretch of empties.
"Puke, you bitch! I've been here like an hour – you've gotta start leaving the house early, woman!"
Said woman replied with a soft mutter, before finding her voice. "It's… still Puce, Moony… Uh, but I did actually start early, I just misremembered the room number, and then got turned around a bit, and the janitor gave me these really vague directions…" Once again, Hoshi was struck by how unfitting her voice was to her frame. She sounded more like a shrinking violet than the sturdy oak her body represented.
Moon-Face – is his name actually Moony, or was that some kind of half-assed banter? Whatever, I'll figure out everyone's names later – opened his mouth, but before he could speak the grunt at the counter cleared his throat.
His eyes went forward, and Hoshi saw that while he had been watching the gorillas interact, the grunt had pulled a suitcase from somewhere and set it on the table. Or maybe I shouldn't label him 'the grunt.' We're all grunts… I think? Fuck, this isn't like how Casca described her initiation at all.
At least those are probably our Pokémon…
"Looks like it's your lucky day, twerps," said the counter guy. "Somebody from out east chickened out, so I've got an extra ball for one of you. You can decide how that gets split amongst yourselves, but before that – Ramone, come up here."
The grunt who had been reading the entire time put his book down next to his bag. "It's Ryan, you soulless ass." He was fine-boned, at least in comparison to the two to Hoshi's right, with platinum blond hair that fell out the edges of his cap in extra-curly rings. Eyes of clear topaz were set above a nose long and sharp enough to use as a steak knife, and lips that were full but extremely narrow.
The overall effect was to produce a face just weird enough it didn't count as regal; if literally any part had been just a touch more fitting, he'd be a classical Kanto beauty.
"Don't care. The boss sent something special, so either get up here, or I'll give it to someone else and put your name on the next caterpie that comes down."
Ryan stood with a shake of his head, approaching the counter. The suitcase opened, and Hoshi saw that his suspicions had been true; inside were six Pokéballs, their strange design a match for the ones he had noticed on the senior grunt's belt. Purple, the same dark shade for both the bottom and top, with a few lighter, raised sections drawing away in thick lines from the frontal lens…
Which was shaped like an eye, for some reason. Wow, I didn't think you could make a Pokéball look evil. Was slapping a big red R on the thing not enough? Designer needed to give it veins so they could get it up?
The senior grunt took the leftmost ball from its indent, passing it to the curly-haired young man, who held it with almost lustful reverence. "Amazing. I can't wait to use it in battle."
He turned and began walking back to his seat, but of course the meathead at the end of the line had to open his damn mouth. "Hey," he mumbled, too loud for it to be anything but deliberate. "Why's he get special treatment?"
Raising a single brow, the dead-eyed man replied. "Cause he's the boss's special little dicksleeve. Now get up here, the rest of you."
The blond froze in the act of sitting, his expression filled with incredulous fury. Wow, I almost admire that desk guy. You've gotta have an impressive amount of not-give-a-fuck to say a line like that cold… Am I gonna see a Rocket-on-Rocket battle on my first day? But in the next moment the fury cleared, replaced by smug self-assurance as Ryan's long, sharp nose tilted up.
"Be careful. I don't think Mr. Archer would take kindly to those sorts of accusations – do you?"
The grunt didn't flinch. "Kid, the worst he can do is kill me." His eyes turned to the rest of them. "Did I stutter? Get up here."
Moony made for the counter first, then Hoshi rushed to get behind him. No way am I settling for the dregs. Sorry ladies; first come, first serve.
But when Moony reached for a ball, the senior grunt pulled the case away. "Hey! What gives?"
"This is a little team-building exercise," the man replied. "Makes it just a little bit more fair; fewer hard feelings. I'll show you the Pokémon, then the four of you get to decide who gets what – nobody gets anything until you reach an agreement."
Moony's face soured, and Hoshi felt a touch of the same emotion. Damn. Though I guess I'd be pretty happy if I was… He glanced back. The nameless girl at the back of the line.
Speaking of the nameless teenager – she was definitely the youngest of them; Hoshi would guess maybe fourteen – she opened her mouth and spoke for the first time. "Sounds simple enough." Her voice had a slight rasp to it; either she smoked, or she was coming off a bad cough. "Let's see 'em."
Counter guy nodded, and one by one he released the Pokémon from their weirdly sinister balls. They all stepped back as red light gathered back into flesh and blood.
A sandshrew, a rattata, an ekans, a zubat, and a koffing sat on – or floated above, in the poison bubble's case – the rich red carpet, blinking and turning their heads in vague interest.
"I call the ekans," said the still-unnamed girl.
"I don't think that's in the spirit of things," replied Puce. "Calling dibs… But if no-one's opposed, could I take the koffing? I'm not good at remembering things under pressure, and since it's a poison type that flies…"
"Sandshrew," said two overlapping voices, and Hoshi turned to fix the over-muscled ogre with a glare.
"I literally said I'd want a ground type a minute ago. Don't be a dick."
"Well I don't want either of the other two." Moony's eyes narrowed, and he extended his hand. "Rock-fire-steel?"
"What are you, five?" He wasn't going to gamble getting a decent Pokémon on a game of chance. "I remember you saying you'd want any Pokémon, even a zubat."
Actually… Looking closer at the man's outstretched hand, Hoshi saw the skin was smooth. No scar tissue on his knuckles. Man looks intimidating, but he's never walked the walk. He threw out his earlier assessment of the man. "I'll fight you for it. First blood."
Moony's nostrils flared. "Wha..? Are you stupid, I must weigh three times-"
"No inter-Rocket fighting," the senior Rocket broke in smoothly. "Not with your fists, at least." He reached down to tap the balls at his side. "Words, only."
Hoshi's face soured. The edges of his vision pulsed with frustration. I take it back, there's nothing admirable about this guy at all.
"You know," said Gamer Girl. "Since nobody wants the last two, we should put them together. Make them a little more appealing."
For a moment Hoshi and his moon-faced rival considered it. Then, they both spoke: "I still want the sandshrew!"
Sparks flew as their eyes met. "Okay, fine. Rock-fire-steel it is." Hoshi put his hand out, curling it into a fist. "On three?" The man grunted, and Hoshi counted. "One, two," he's a meathead, he'll choose rock. Or is that just what he wants me to think? No, he's an idiot, he'll definitely choose-! "Three!"
Their hands came down. Hoshi had chosen to open his hand face-up, letting his fingers form the licking flames of fire. And the steroid-abusing grunt in front of him…
Shot him a cheeky grin, his hand remaining in the closed fist of rock. Son of a bitch. I should've stuck to my fucking guns.
"Glad that's settled," said the biggest asshole in the room. "Here's your balls."
He tossed them out, and Hoshi consoled himself with the fact that he had at least gotten two Pokémon, even if they were pretty shitty. Actually, maybe this is pretty not-shitty? Zubat is fucking garbage, but if I have a second 'mon to switch to after using Supersonic…
He tuned out the man's explanation of how to recall their Pokémon, already more than familiar with the process. "Rattata, zubat, return."
Despite being designed by some sort of mad scientist – since obviously no sane human being would make their Pokéballs look like they had eyes – the two round capsules felt perfectly normal in Hoshi's hands.
Heavier than one would expect, though still light enough to hold comfortably, and with a slight wobble to their centre of gravity – like there was a second, smaller ball inside, rolling around with each movement. Hoshi shrunk his new 'mon's homes down and placed them in his pocket, where they sat a touch awkwardly. Need a belt or something… I guess I'll get one with the uniform, since it looks like everyone has the same kind.
…I have two Pokémon. I'm a trainer.
"-And double-click the button to put it into storage mode," the counter guy finished as Hoshi tuned back into reality. "They don't need to eat while the balls are small, but they- you know what? This isn't my job; ask one of the instructors."
The room was silent for a moment, before the smooth voice of the blond, Ryan, sounded out. "So? Are we done here?"
The man – Hoshi would have used some facet of his appearance to describe him, but his face was so plain it was almost hard to look at – gave the collected grunts a flat look. "That's it. Get to your class – which you're probably late to, since Puke refused to show up on time."
The muscular woman shuffled. "Not my fault they built a maze and called it a school…"
After a second's hesitation people started to move, turning back to grab their bags or just making for the door. Just like when the asshole of a Rocket had called them up, Moony managed to leave first, while the younger girl took up the rear. Hoshi watched them go, before returning his attention to the aforementioned asshole. "I don't have any classes. Do I just… go home?" Arcus fuck, this situation is painful. Did Casca get instructions for me and just forget to pass them along, or something?
The man held his gaze for a long moment, before sighing. "No, you should be getting Poké-orientation with the others. And after that…" He reached under the counter, the sound of shuffling papers rustling softly until he came back up with a pamphlet. "Go down to Elec three-oh-three. It's all labeled on here."
Hoshi took the folded paper. A map? Yeah, looks like it. "So where's this 'Poké-orientation'?"
"Just follow the others, Kudzu." Hoshi's growing annoyance must have shown on his face, because the man raised a single perfectly average brow. "You waiting on something? Better hurry, they're getting away."
With an under-the-breath "Fuck you, ass," Hoshi turned and threw open the door, the springy doorstop making its cartoonish sproing as his anger-powered motion sent it slamming maybe half as hard as Puce's entrance.
He exited the room, looked left, looked right, and caught sight of a flash of purple-green fabric disappearing around a corner. He rushed after the group, catching up to the still-unnamed girl trailing behind the others, all but dragging herself under the weight of an overstuffed, poison-Pokémon-themed backpack.
She turned at the sound of his footsteps. "Oh. Hey." Face-to-face for the first time, Hoshi saw her eyes were a startling green, covered by a pair of nearly invisible eyeglasses, their body either clear plastic or glass. "Mutsu, right?"
"Yeah." He stepped up beside her. "Didn't catch your name." That tinge of blue-green on her bottom eyelid… Sleep Powder? Some people took the stuff recreationally, but mostly it was used as medicine – as a sleep aid, obviously.
"Nerine," she introduced herself. "Though according to our handler, it's 'Nerd.'"
Hoshi winced. "He's our handler? Like, permanently?" Fuck. I'm probably going to deck the guy in the face if I spend much more time around him – not that it won't feel good, but I won't be looking forward to the consequences.
"Eh," she replied. "I've only been here like, a week and change. I assume we'll be able to get away from the guy once we're actual Rockets." Her hand went down to the Pokéball on her belt, the thing seemingly attached via magnet. "Which is after today, I guess."
He had been calling her Gamer Girl in his head, but now that he was taking in her blue hair – a metallic shade, obviously dyed rather than natural – and the grunge aesthetic of her backpack, he thought a better label probably would have been Punk Girl. "Hopefully."
They continued through the twisting halls, eventually going down a set of stairs back to the ground floor, and Hoshi took the time to examine his map. Somehow, this place is even bigger than it looks from outside. Four stories and two basement levels… I wonder how many people actually work here. They had been passing people as they went; mostly janitor-adjacent working types, but occasionally Hoshi would look up from his map to see someone in a lab coat, expensive suit, or Rocket uniform.
I guess they do teach actual rich people… Or maybe those suits are high-level Rockets in their day clothes. Casca said I was fine to keep working at M & S, so I assume a bunch of people must have kept their normal jobs too. The variety made him feel a bit less awkward about wearing his own suit, though the thing was ratty in comparison.
Another flash of passing white made him raise his head, and Hoshi's eyes-
Drew over something that made his brain shut down completely. He stopped dead still. That… No, it couldn't be, right? He almost turned his head to follow the passer-by, but thought better of it as a voice cried out from ahead.
"Yo, Suit!" came Moony's growling tones. "Don't fall behind! I've already waited like half the day 'cause'a Puke; if you get lost I'm kicking your ass with my new Pokémon!"
…I must have been seeing things. Hoshi grunted back, widening his stride to catch up. A few more twisting ultra-rich corridors, and they went through a set of wide double doors into a room his map labelled Auditorium 2, but that Hoshi's brain gave the much more appropriate name of holy fuck that's entire Arcus damned theatre!
Seats, multiple hundreds of them, filled a wide semi-circle around a raised stage, the interior of which was hidden by a red curtain. The roof was partially glass, letting in more than enough light to see even with the lights turned off.
Ahead of him, Moony whistled. "Fancy shit. Knew I made the right choice comin' here."
The seats were mostly empty, but not entirely; a few were filled by a cadre of business suits, another section was grunts in black uniform and caps, and a third, larger area was taken up by what were obviously scientists or lab technicians in white coats.
"Oi," came a raised voice from the grunt section. "Over here, new guys! What took you so long?"
When Hoshi had been really little, he had been a big fan of the TV show Wiggly Theatre. It had been a puppet show starring a talking wigglytuff that broke down into a bunch of smaller segments, with each half-hour doing three or four different sketches or stories.
He had grown out of it when he started going to school, its place as his favourite being taken by a rotating slideshow of different cartoons – but looking at the stage with its ceiling-mounted spotlights and giant red curtain was bringing those old memories to the fore.
It all felt just a little unreal. He kept reaching a hand down into his pocket, feeling at the pair of Pokéballs, wondering if any minute now he would jolt awake, the whole thing turning into a fading dream in the pre-dawn light.
"And then the guy says, 'That's a stupid name,' and goes back to reading the list like he didn't just insult me to my face!"
The group rumbled with laughter. "Yeah," said the Rocket who had called them over, a man who had introduced himself as Black. "Nak's always been a real piece of shit. He kind of grows on you, though – like mold."
"He's getting his fortieth soon," continued another, this one a woman with long, dirty blonde hair. "We're planning on taking him to the bay for a party, and then tossing him in at the end. You want in on it?"
Hoshi listened to the banter with one ear. "A party? Count me in!" yelled Moony.
Ryan added his own comment. "I'd certainly enjoy watching that waste of a uniform take a dip in the sea. Perhaps a passing tentacool will decide to put him out of our collective misery." He adjusted his cap. "When is this event happening?"
"Second week of August," Black replied. "Though we might have to call it if the typhoon's as bad as people say it is. Don't let it slip though; man's got ears like a noctowl."
Wait. Something about what they had just said passed through Hoshi's half-present brain. "That guy's fourty?" No way. I'd have thought he was my age, late twenties at most.
Black grinned. He had kind of a generic face himself, though unlike the topic of their conversation he at least had the decency to have some memorable facial features. Beneath his cap lay sharp grey eyes and a mildly hooked nose, both set into a squarish face with light blue sideburns framing the edges like bookends. "Ha, everyone's surprised the first time they hear it. Nak's an original Rocket, even fought in the war – though he won't say a damn word about it, so don't even try."
Huh. He must bathe in rosewater or some shit to have skin that good at his age…
The light conversation continued for a bit. Hoshi learned that Moony's actual name was Menard, though he preferred to go by Kenny, and he had joined Rocket after his plans to become a professional wrestler failed to go through.
Ryan was Ryan Sampo, a name he said with obvious pride, and his family had some sort of prior connection to Rocket – he didn't get to the details before the discussion moved on, a fact that made the young braggart pull a sour face.
Puce had dreams of becoming a real, professional Pokémon trainer, and Nerine answered the question of why she had joined Rocket with a bored shrug.
"All the other gangs were shit. Weepinbell Riders?" A scoff. "That sounds like a sex thing, and not a fun one." She had her backpack resting on her knees, and every few dozen seconds would fiddle with the zipper. Hoshi would have found it supremely annoying, if the conversation hadn't mostly been drowning it out. "Is it fine if I smoke in here?"
Black waved her down. "Better not, the bosses can get really into the school thing sometimes – actually, they should have started by now…" He glanced at the stage, a few of the other grunts following his lead. "Whatever. So," he said, turning Hoshi's way. "What about you? Why'd you join Rocket?" A quirk of the lips. "Salaried life not offering enough excitement?"
Hoshi looked down at his plain blue-grey suit, opened to reveal a white shirt and black tie. Stupid fucking idea to wear this thing. "It started with a woman."
"Oh?" He quirked a brow – or at least Hoshi thought he did; the man was wearing his cap low enough that only his eyes were visible. "Anyone I'd know?"
Hoshi grunted. "Maybe. But I think the real reason I joined was…" Chances are I'm about to get laughed at, but who gives a fuck what any of these low-level jackasses think? "I want to do something about Johto. About the League picking shit apart – I mean, look at Puce, here."
The woman winced, seeming to expect an incoming insult.
"She wants to be a trainer – and a few years ago, she could have been, even while working a different job on the side. But now people like her, like me, have no choice but to go behind the League's back, 'cause that's the only way to do it."
Fucking exams. Fucking 'too many unqualified' blah blah excuses. Just thinking about it threatened to set his blood boiling.
Black clapped, along with a few others, and maybe Hoshi was deluded, but he thought it might have been only half sarcastic. "Heh. Got an ideologue, here. Don't make that face; I'm not gonna bite your head off about it, just-"
He was interrupted by the light dimming, and Hoshi looked up to see that a rolling cover was being drawn across the glass ceiling.
"Ah, there we go. Let's watch the show." The senior grunts turned towards the stage as the room progressed towards pitch black.
"Huh?" questioned Moony – Should I call him Kenny..? Maybe if he stops calling me Suit – who was immediately shushed.
"Quiet. The bosses can be touchy – we only get this once a month, I don't want anyone ruining it with their big mouth."
A moment later the cover finally succeeded in blotting out the sun, and Hoshi couldn't see a thing. Are we actually getting a show? I really did join a gang of weirdos. Then, a single spotlight illuminated a section of curtain.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" came a practiced voice, high but masculine, echoing from above – most likely from a series of speakers, given how far it carried.
"Sorry for the delay!" followed a slightly deeper, but much more feminine voice. "We had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction at the last minute…"
"But it's all resolved now, so!"
"Without further ado!"
Bombastic trumpets sounded out, the sound washing over Hoshi's ears as the curtain pulled back to reveal..!
An empty stage. The new trainer blinked, but the pair continued undeterred.
"To protect the world from devastation!"
"To unite all peoples within our nation!"
"To denounce the evils of truth and love!"
"To extend our reach to the stars above!"
And then, as the music swelled, something dropped from above, a blur of different colours – which resolved into the figure of a woman, posing, clad in black and white, her vivid, dark pink hair trailing behind her like an exclamation mark. "Team Rocket Senior Executive, Jessie Oakley!"
Then to her left dropped a second person, soft blue hair, a rose held to his lips as he made an equally vivid pose. "And of course, Team Rocket Senior Executive, James Kidd!"
Then, to Hoshi's continued astonishment, a persian dropped down between them – wearing what could only be a specially made pinstripe suit, complete with persian-sized trilby. "Meow," it said, in a voice that he would have assumed was a man's if he hadn't heard it issuing directly from the Pokémon.
"Team Rocket blast off at the speed of light!"
"Surrender now, or prepare to fight, fight, fight!"
"That's right!" concluded the pair together – or rather trio, since the large cat joined in with a roar – and the trumpets followed them with the music's own dramatic finish.
Polite applause from the assembled… faculty, and Hoshi joined in, slightly dazed.
It wasn't just the performance, or the fact that someone had tailored a full suit for a three-foot-tall, four-foot-plus-tail-long predator – though that was a good chunk of it – it was also the fact that both the people in front of him could have been supermodels.
Holy shit, that's a beautiful woman – and a fucking pretty dude, for that matter. The woman had a round face, lips painted to mimic her hair below shapely blue eyes and slightly old-fashioned pearl earrings. Her figure was stunning, shown off by a white… half-cape… coat… thing that probably would have looked ridiculous if she hadn't been posing like a runway model, over a latex tube top. A skirt and leggings rounded off the ensemble in white fabric and black latex, respectively.
The outfit left her stomach and thighs exposed, revealing creamy skin with exactly the right mixture of toned muscle and smooth fat to make a blush rise to his cheeks.
…And though he'd never admit it, the man was doing as much work in that department as the woman. His face was sharp where her's was rounded, but he held himself with the same vive, eyes sparkling like green jades. The male version of what Hoshi refused to call a uniform failed to show as much skin, but it was obvious from the way he had caught himself during the landing that the man was fit.
He looks like a Kanto-pop idol. It was extra impressive, because judging from their voices and builds, they must have been half again Hoshi's age.
Fuck, even the cat looks good. He wasn't as familiar with the Pokémon as its pre-evolved form, which roamed in packs north of the power plant, but it had a distinguished, aged look that together with the white suit gave it a mob-boss sort of aesthetic. Looking at it conjured pictures in Hoshi's imagination, of the thing sitting in an antique armchair, puffing on a cigar as some poor schmuck begged it to call off the hit on his wife.
…Holy shit, I need to lay off the gangster movies, they must be rotting my brain.
The duo ended their extended pose with synchronised bows, and he wondered if they had been actors before joining Rocket, or if being an Executive gave them enough time and cash to pursue it as a side hobby.
"Thank you, thank you!" projected the woman, Jessie.
Then the man, James, followed up. "You're too kind!"
"But the show wasn't just for entertainment, oh no!"
"This is an educational program!"
"Meow."
"That's right!"
"A little pidgey told us our darling new recruits just got their very own Pokémon – the first one's they've ever owned!"
"So we're going to give you a little lecture… Followed by the real lesson!"
"Our very own tournament! But we can't have a tournament with just the five of you – any volunteers from the audience?"
The entire group erupted in cheers, from the richest business type to the scrawniest scientist, and Hoshi felt a complicated emotion.
Exhilaration and anticipation, from the fact he would shortly be having his first ever battle as a real trainer, with his Pokémon – as well as a certain trepidation from the realisation that ah, here it is, this is the initiation. He was probably about to watch his rat and bat be beaten a dozen times over by battle-starved senior Rockets.
"Magnificent!" started Jessie.
"We'll just have our lovely assistants hand out the merchandise, while we set the stage!" continued James.
"Meow."
And with the persian providing the conclusion, the curtains dropped, the sun-shade beginning to peel back with the faintest whirr of a distant motor.
From either side of the stage emerged a grunt in uniform, carrying identical bags – black with an emblazoned R, of course. Hoshi was becoming increasingly convinced that the entire aesthetic sense of the 'school' had been carefully stapled together by the pair of Senior Executives, from the uniforms to the wallpaper. It's certainly dramatic enough.
The grunts closed in on him and the other rookies, one handing out a small electronic dongle while the other did the same with plastic cards. Are those..? Hoshi thought, his eyebrows raising as a different flavour of anticipation joined the mix in his belly.
They reached him at nearly the same time, emptying their bags and retreating as Hoshi held up the small card to catch the returning light. "No," he said aloud. "This can't be real."
"It ain't," answered Black. "Well, it's a little real. I'll let the instructors explain, they'll be back any second now."
Hoshi could only stare at the card. It had his name, a mug shot – where the fuck did they get that? – a few other details like his height and weight, and most importantly, a title in large block letters running across the top: OFFICIAL POKÉMON TRAINER LICENCE, a string of numbers and letters in a much smaller size sitting just below.
"This can't be real," he repeated. For all his smarm and bluster, Danny is actually pretty fucking good at hacking shit, and he laughed for a minute straight when I asked if he could spoof a licence.
In the seats ahead of him the other recruits were taking things with various levels of stoicism. Ryan and Moony were mildly satisfied, as if they had seen this coming, while Puce was dabbing tears from her cheeks. The girl – what was her name again? Ner-something? Nerine! – Nerine was looking at her card wide-eyed, emoting for the first time since he had met her.
As the cover completed its journey with a dull clunk and the room reached maximum brightness, the curtains began to roll away a second time. Hoshi tore his eyes away from the fake, don't get your hopes up, it's obviously fake licence to look at the stage.
While the curtains had been down a screen had been set up, large and flat and wheeled like a whiteboard. Jessie and James stood on either side, with the persian lounging on top like- well, like a cat, he supposed.
"We see you've all gotten your handouts!" started James, this time.
"I'm sure you want to know how our wonderful scientists managed to replicate our dear League's proprietary technology…"
"Or at least, what you can do with it!"
"…But first, direct your attention to the board – and the other piece of equipment you've received."
Hoshi looked down at the dongle he had neglected, then back up to see that a diagram of the thing had appeared on-screen.
It was shaped a bit like one of those adapters you'd put into a car's lighter socket to turn it into an electrical outlet; thinner than it was long, with a flat bit near the end of the otherwise cylindrical body. The flat part had a tiny screen and two buttons, up-arrow and down-arrow, about the size of those on a digital watch.
"This is the Mini-Dex, or as I like to call it, the Rocket Dex!"
"Meow."
"That's right! Though it isn't quite as powerful as the full-sized, League-database-powered official machine, our Mini-Dex is more than capable of telling you your Pokémon's moves and condition!"
James sighed dramatically. "No one calls it the Rocket Dex… Look, it even looks like a spaceship!" A cough from the side. "Oh, right. Just plug this thing into your Rocket-manufactured Rocket Ball, and click the buttons to navigate!"
"Don't worry, you won't break anything! Just insert Tab A into Slot B," the redhead said with a wink, "And let the magic happen!"
Hoshi looked back down at the dongle – no, at the Mini-Dex. His body thrummed with energy as he drew a ball out of his pocket.
The glass lens-slash-button on the front of the ball depressed as he slid the adapter-looking bit in, continuing to depress until the two machines fused with a click. They really did look like they fit together, black plastic complementing the two-tone purple whatever-it-was they made the Pokéballs out of.
The screen turned on. ZUBAT, it displayed in small text. He pressed a button, and the text changed to HEALTH: PERFECT.
He cycled through the screen's settings.
STAT CON: NONE
HUNGER: MILD
And then, the word MOVES. Hoshi pressed the down button again, and it changed to LEECH LIFE, then SUPERSONIC, before rolling back over to ZUBAT.
Amazing, he thought, completely genuine. Most trainers have to suss out their Pokémon's moves through trial and error; this is a big upgrade. Almost as good as what those official League-sponsored brats get. The condition checker was equally useful; in theory he would know the moment his Pokémon got sick, or had any sort of internal injury that would be hard to see from outside.
He dug in his pocket for Rattata's ball, but Jessie's resonating voice broke in. "Do you like it? Our very own Rocket Professors worked on those magic wands!"
"They're sort of like us, but for science instead of Rocket recruiting, Pokémon poaching, and all-around amazing our allies and enemies alike!"
"Meow."
"That's right! It isn't even the most impressive thing they've made – but the licences we handed out come close!"
James gestured to the screen, which changed to feature a pair of licences – featuring the Rocket Executive's names and faces. "Now, these little forgeries aren't exactly bulletproof…"
"But they can get you into the shallows of the system! They'll fool bank kiosks and the hand scanners carried by the pretty officers in blue…"
"And that means you can also use the official League Pokécentres!"
"Meow."
"Right," Jessie corrected. "So long as you don't do anything that queries the more… reactive bits of the system."
"Which is, admittedly, a dauntingly long list! So buckle up, we have a few rules for you to follow…"
What followed was, indeed, daunting: a list of all the things that would see them instantly or not-quite-instantly marked as hackers, rendering them unlicensed once more. If we're caught committing a crime-crime, we're fucked. Anything with just a fine is okay, but things that would go on our non-existent record need to be avoided…
Registering a Pokémon for major surgery, draining their League account below zero when the month rolled over, trying to buy certain super-restricted items like evolution stones, all of them were off limits. Hoshi frantically wished he had brought a pen and notebook, and it must have shown on his face because Black reached back to nudge him in the shoulder.
"Don't worry," he whispered. "The tech guys will give you a list if you ask. Just focus on the moment."
Hoshi nodded and turned his eyes forward, embarrassment dusting his cheeks with red.
"...And of course, if you void your licence you won't be getting a replacement for a while," stated Jessie.
And James followed up, "Can't let those curmudgeonly cretins up north get wise to our tricks!"
"Meow."
They nodded in sync, including the cat.
…Is it reacting to a cue? Is it a poké-genius like Dabi's machoke? It can't be a puppet, right..?
No, I'm just thinking about that because of Wiggly Theatre.
"So now that we've explained the gadgets…" began the blue-haired Executive. "It's time for the show!"
His red-haired partner took out a remote, and with the press of a button the screen shut off – only to flash back on with a long list of names. "Our dear recruits will take centre-stage, of course!" she announced.
The list split in half, then each name moved to scrunch up against another. "But everyone should get a chance to participate! And for our prize…"
The senior crowd leaned forward, obviously knowing what was coming even before Jessie spoke. "Something special! A rare Pokémon! Bring it up for us, Professor!"
A diminutive figure came from stage left – and as it had earlier in the halls, Hoshi's brain short-circuited.
No. That's not-! Every single time Hoshi had seen Dabi Mokusen, he had placed the man in an imaginary lab coat. It was simply impossible to look at the man and not see it, that was how stereotypical he looked, even in the overalls and hardhat of a construction worker.
The man who walked confidently across the stage, not cringing even a little, was not clad in the uniform of a worker. He was also, Hoshi's brain insisted, not Dabi Mokusen – because that was too ridiculous. More than the bright red R plastered to a uniform from out of a black-and-white movie, more than the look-how-evil-I-am Pokéballs, more than the Executives with their weird and hot show routine, and even more than the persian in a pinstripe suit, little weedle-like Dabi being a big-shot gangster was completely ridiculous.
His coworker's evil twin turned to the audience, drew a Pokéball from his pocket, and with a casual toss and an echoing whoosh-oosh-oosh revealed the prize: standing over five feet tall, rippling with muscle, was the four-armed form of machoke's near-legendary evolution, machamp.
Moony stood up in his seat, pointing, childlike wonder thick on his acne-riddled face. "That's so fuckin' cool!"
Poor Meowth. Finally evolved, but seemingly at the cost of his vocabulary. At least he's still on board with his partners' costuming.
Assuming that he ever did talk in this universe, that is. It could be that Rocket has developed a way to make Pokemon more intelligent in general and Meowth/Persian is one of their successes, it'd be far from the craziest thing Rocket was able to tweak in Pokemon in the manga.
As the auditorium echoed with a resounding cheer, Hoshi struggled with two revelations…
That his coworker had been a member of Team Rocket potentially the entire time he had known him, and that the man knew how to evolve machoke.
And though that second one was probably a lot more important in the grand scheme of things, the first one was what loomed large in Hoshi's mind.
Son of a bitch! I told Casca- I told her I stole a Pokéball! She probably would have mentioned that to get me in as quick as possible… What if it got back to him? Did he put it together? Will he?
The sound died down as Hoshi stewed in his building anxiety, the Executives continuing their spiel.
"That's right!" announced James. "The signature Pokémon of Kanto's very own ex-Elite, Bruno!"
"A Pokémon whose pre-evolved form is strong enough to lift a dump truck with one hand!" continued Jessie.
"Previously so rare as to be nearly extinct…"
"With not even the current fighting-type Elite Four possessing one…"
"Who can say how strong it is?!"
Jessie put a hand to the side of her mouth, and spoke in a breathy, false whisper. "We'll give you a hint… We have no idea!"
"Meow."
"Just so! It broke every piece of equipment we tested it with!"
He's not going to hold a grudge, right? If he even figures it out…
Standing next to the Executives, Dabi held himself completely differently from the man Hoshi was acquainted with; his spine was ramrod straight, his expression falling somewhere between annoyed and disgusted, not a hint of cringing fear. Under the stage lights his short, combed-forward hair and nearly opaque glasses seemed almost… menacing.
Hoshi couldn't see his eyes, but it was easy to picture the man staring straight at him.
No, I'm imagining it. Just keep listening to the new bosses; pretend you don't even know the guy.
Behind the two Executives the screen settled into its final configuration: a tournament bracket, with what looked to be six rounds. The second was odd, being mostly people excluded from the first round immediately jumping in.
Jesse and James struck another perfectly-synced pose. The redhead spoke again, and it suddenly struck Hoshi that no, there had never been any speakers, it was only the acoustics of the room and the strength of the Executives' lungs that made their voices carry.
"Now we're unfortunately just shy of the nice round sixty-four necessary for a six-round tournament…"
"But this is just a casual competition among friends, so a little unevenness won't slow us down!"
"As you can see on the board, we've picked out a few of our darling Junior Executives and Rocket Scientists to give a bye – now you may be tempted to think we're playing favourites…"
James flashed them all a huge, pearly grin. "And you'd be completely right! We're exceedingly bribable, folks!"
"Meow."
A few of the suits gave stately chuckles, while the black-uniformed grunts looked aggravated in a slightly performative way. "Damn you," said Black, his fist waving, his voice flattened by the obviously scripted nature of what he was doing – an actor, the man was not. "When will there be justice for the working man?"
The pair looked at each other, then back to the audience.
James grasped his chin. "You know, what's a good point!"
"It would be a bit unfun to have the Executives steamroll everything, wouldn't it?"
"Meow."
Further chuckles from the suits, along with a few playful boos. The persian stretched out along the top of the board, yawning, its wickedly sharp claws extending.
"Meow," it repeated.
Jessie pointed to the Pokémon. "That's a great suggestion, Meowth! It's settled..!"
"It won't just be a Rocket Cup; today will be a Rocket Little Cup!"
Jessie gestured with her remote, and the screen changed to show a drawing: pikachu and raichu, the raichu cartoonishly crossed out.
"There we are!"
"Unevolved Pokémon only!" The pair nodded to themselves. "That will put the deciding factor on trainer ability, rather than Pokémon alone!"
Another click of the remote, and the screen reverted. "We'll give our contestants a few minutes to prepare, then we'll start thing's off!"
Tackle, Quick Attack, and Tail Whip…
Those were the moves his Mini-Dex said that Rattata currently knew. Exactly what I'd have assumed. Just a normal rattata…
In the seats around him, his new coworkers were abuzz, talking about the tournament, and more specifically the prize.
"I can't believe it! A machamp!" Moony was all but vibrating in his seat. It didn't seem to have occurred to the juiced-up man that he couldn't possibly win with just a sandshrew he'd never used; his eyes were glued to the Pokémon still on stage, who was reacting to the crowd's attention by doing poses. "Do you think they stole it from overseas?"
Nerine shook her head. "No way. We'd have heard about it. That short guy is one of the Professors; I bet he figured out how to get it to evolve."
Puce's soft voice floated just over the general murmur. "That makes sense… If they just had the one, they wouldn't give it out in such a small tournament, right? The Executives would keep it for themselves."
The Pokémon continued to pose with Dabi watching from the side. The Senior Executives had left the stage at some point; Hoshi wasn't entirely sure when.
"Not necessarily," said Ryan. "If they want as many people as possible to know about it, this is an organic way to do that."
"Why would they want that, though? There are like sixty people in this room; someone's going to talk…" Puce was basically Moony's opposite, in that the moment the machamp had made its appearance, she had become still and even softer-spoken.
"If I had one'a those, I'd be singin' it from the rooftops!"
Hoshi scoffed. Right. And you'd get it stolen out from under you just as quick. Ryan said something in a snide tone – probably putting to voice what Hoshi had merely thought – but he tuned out of the conversation. A few minutes. What can I do in a few minutes?
Obviously, winning wasn't anywhere near the table; even if the older grunts were using unevolved Pokémon, they would still be trained. And it isn't like they've been caught flat-footed – obviously they have tournaments like these regularly. The persian making a 'good point' was obviously just a bit of showmanship…
The other Rockets will be bringing ringers. This was just as much an initiation as a real competition; breaking the new guys down before building them back up as loyal soldiers.
But there are a few things I can check. Winning wasn't a reasonable goal, but using the tournament as training was.
Hoshi ducked down in his seat, and removed the Mini-Dex from his rattata's ball. "Go, Rattata." he whispered, and the ball opened in his hand with the usual woosh-oosh-oosh. Somebody probably heard, but whatever; as far as he knew, having your Pokémon out was perfectly allowed.
The purple-pink rat coalesced, blinking and turning its head, its whiskers twitching.
"Hey, little guy." The thing was smaller than average if he were comparing it to what he saw in the Gym – hopefully, it was just young, rather than undersized. "How much training have you got?" Probably not much, but…
He held his hand out, making a come-hither gesture. "Use Tail Whip." The rattata froze for a moment, seemingly confused, before obeying. Hoshi received a sharp slap across his palm from the 'mon's curled tail, causing him to wince. "Okay, good. Dodge left."
No response except a whisker-twitch.
Hoshi pointed left, exaggerating the motion. "Dodge left."
This time, the rat took a quick hop to Hoshi's left. Okay, wow, this thing is raw.
Pokémon tended to have a pretty good understanding of body language, even wild ones; that it understood his command wasn't unusual, but that it had needed the gesture for something so simple was a bad sign. This thing probably hasn't been out of its ball for more than an hour since it was caught. Hoshi repeated the dodge command a few times, before drawing his hand back. "Dodge left," he said in a low but steady voice, and the rattata completed the action without the gesture. "Good rat. Dodge right."
"And that's the first round! Amazing showing for our new recruits!"
"Three of the five have advanced, an auspicious number!"
"Meow."
Garcia let the voices of his superiors wash over him, not raising his head. In his hands he clutched a Rocket Ball, its surface smooth and glossy, not yet worn by time and violence like the two at his side were.
"Will the round three participants please gather in front of the stage, thank you!"
"Don't dawdle now, or you'll be out like a light!"
He opened his eyes, and stood. Even in such a strange setting, using weak newly-caught Pokémon, there was a certain air to the room, an energy. Garcia had been a Rocket for two decades, and an unlicensed trainer for three, but he still felt the spine-tingling sensation that came before a real Pokémon battle, the same as when he was five years old with nothing but a pair of kakuna and a butterfree.
Already, the area around the stage was filling up. His eyes scanned the crowd, then the large list of names, and… Four of the rookies made it through? Impressive. This month's crop might actually be able to get his blood up.
"Executive Seto?"
He half-turned, his eyes finding the black-suited grunt who had called his name. Not a participant. "Here to referee my match, son?"
The young man – everyone seemed to be so young, these days – nodded. "Over here," he said with a gesture, beginning to walk before adding a belated, "…Sir."
Garcia followed the man to a cleared space, still clutching the Pokéball in his hand. Around the auditorium a few battles had already started up, dull thuds and high-pitched cries sounding out as the baby Pokémon scrambled around, not unlike human children roughhousing.
It made him feel nostalgic for the forest.
A second of basking in the emotion, and then they had reached their destination, a cleared circle outlined by traffic cones. His opponent was already there; another young man, perhaps a touch older than the grunt, wearing a grey suit. Ah, splendid. I didn't expect to get a rookie today.
His lips twisted into a smile as the referee took his place. The new Rocket, who Garcia knew by face but not by name, also had his ball out and expanded – and interestingly, a distinctive bulge in his pocket. "Two Pokémon, son?" he questioned.
The purple-haired man's face twisted. "Yeah. That a problem?" He spoke like he expected to be cut down at the knees at any moment; defiant, but a fearful sort of defiance. The tone of a man who had accepted the loss already, only fighting to spit in his opponent's eye.
"Not at all." The old bug catcher brandished his ball. "Don't expect an easy win, though."
The rookie grunted something that failed to make it across the tiny battlefield, and the impatient referee apparently took that as his cue to begin.
The uniformed young man raised his arm. "Rockets, prepare your Pokémon! This will be a standard battle; a winner is determined when their opponent's Pokémon are unable to battle! Fatally injuring your opponent will result in both sides forfeiting!" A moment, and then, "You may switch freely!" Cheeky little bastard. The arm came down, and Garcia was already tossing, aiming for the other side of the arena before the referee could finish his exclamation. "Begin!"
His opponent cursed, throwing a fraction of a second later, and the balls very nearly collided in the air – but it didn't happen; Garcia's Pokémon came out that fraction of a second sooner, already turning, feeling the opponent's ball strike the ground with its sensitive feet.
"String Shot," he ordered, raising his hand to catch the returning ball.
His spinarak followed the order gleefully, shooting sticky webbing from between its clacking mouthparts. "Rattata, forward!" came the order from his opponent, and the confused rat, its head swivelling around to look for its missing opponent, just barely bounded forward in time to avoid the first round of webbing.
"Keep it up! Close in!"
The thin man snarled, his expression worthy of a Scary Face. "Circle around! Right! Sprint!"
The rattata dodged around the continuing stream of webbing by virtue of speed more than dexterity or situational awareness; the tiny thing put its head down and bounded for all it was worth, outpacing his ambush-predator spider's comparatively slow turning radius.
"Quick Attack!"
"Poison Sting, ranged!"
The attacks landed at mostly the same time, the rat darting in to land a swipe with its paw as his spinarak's horn glowed purple, poison-coated hairs jumping off like blaster shots from an old sci-fi movie. A good number of them went wide, his spider's aim thrown off by the hit, but a few managed to stick in the opponent's retreating form.
Both Pokémon reeled back, and Garcia's smile was sharp. I'm going to lose this one, I think. His spider had a large scratch across its green exoskeleton, clear fluid dripping from a damaged eye. "String Shot!"
"Dodge left!"
But spinarak's attack, though undoubtedly lighter than its opponent's, had done its job; when the rattata placed its weight on its front paws, it squeaked in pain and failed to move – the hairs digging deeper into its soft pads completely destroying its ability to run on all fours.
The stream of white silk plastered it to the ground. "Finish it! Constrict!"
The man gnashed his teeth, brandishing his Rocket Ball. "Return!" Before the spider could begin binding its prey the red laser stole it away, the rattata returning to its ball. "Damnit! I wanted at least one clean win…" A sigh, and he drew the second ball from his pocket. "Go, zubat."
A rattata and a zubat? Quite the classic combo. Before the resounding sound effect of the Pokémon's release had faded away, spinarak was already firing a spray of webbing.
But it seemed his opponent was more on-the-ball the second time around. "Fly up!" he ordered as his Pokémon went from red light to flesh and blood.
The zubat screeched and climbed, moving in an erratic spiral motion that was hard to follow even in the well-lit auditorium, though not necessarily fast. Once again the lines of sticky silk failed to find purchase, and the aging Rocket allowed a touch of sour to enter his expression. "Two manoeuvrable Pokémon, hm? Switch to Poison Sting, wide shot!"
His opponent countered with an order of his own. "Supersonic! Stay high!"
Glowing hairs filled the air like anti-aircraft cannonfire – but unlike the heavy bolts of Vermilion's defenses, his spinarak's attacks were barely scratching its opponent. Too far away, and zubat's own toxins make it resistant besides.
The bat's screeching took on an entirely different quality, and Garcia nearly fell despite not moving, as his sense of balance shorted out. It was twice as bad for his spinarak; perceiving the world mostly through vibrations, the spider must have been effectively blind and deaf.
"Hang on!" It isn't over just yet. If it goes in for a melee attack we should be able to catch it with a surprise Constrict-
But either his opponent had seen into his thoughts, or was simply cautious; he withdrew his zubat and sent the rat back out – without the hairs hampering its mobility, and his spider reeling in confusion, the battle was short.
The rattata landed a Quick Attack – from behind this time – and Garcia withdrew his Pokémon. "Spinarak, return." He sighed. Of course I would draw a speedy opponent on my first round. He had chosen spinarak to catch the slow-but-strong drowzee and magnemite that the scientists tended to favour, since they were local Pokémon that made up the bulk of his opponents. "Ah, unfortunate. I suppose this is my loss, young man."
The victorious grunt didn't look it; rather than jubilant or satisfied, he stared crossly at both Garcian and the referee, who only shrugged.
"You won, man. Go over and get your team healed up; round three will start soon."
A moment of silence, before the rookie recalled his Pokémon. "Right." He nodded Garcia's way, at last seeming to let his battle fury peter off. "Thanks for the match. I'm gonna… go do that."
Hoshi turned away from the thirty-something man in his rich red suit, frustration pursing his lips. Another match I would have lost with either of my Pokémon alone. His first opponent had been a senior grunt with a staryu, and the thing had nearly taken his zubat out of the air with a single well-placed Water Gun. In truth that first match had been a lot closer to the edge; he'd gotten lucky confusing the starfish Pokémon at the last minute, and rattata had been able to pin it down before it got its head- uh, before it got itself straightened out.
Even face down, the water type had made the fight drag on by hardening until Rattata's teeth could barely scratch it – which might have been a tactical error on the opposing grunt's part, since if it had been able to flip itself over Hoshi could have easily lost.
In comparison, this last fight had been pretty easy – if still beyond his abilities as a trainer; had he been fighting one-on-one, that Johto Pokémon would have trapped his own, then crushed them in its oversized jaws.
Damnit. I won two fights, I should be feeling good about it. He came up on the nearest of the three healing machines – stripped-down versions of the larger ones that existed in Pokécentres, they would have his Pokémon back to a hundred percent within seconds. He absentmindedly handed his two balls to the grunt manning the machine.
It's just frustrating. Surge's Pokémon are all a lot stronger – from where I'm standing, this seems like a downgrade. He got his balls back, and for about the twentieth time wished he had a proper belt to put them in. I probably look ridiculous. Well, whatever, it's not like I can do anything but-
"Young man," intruded a voice, disrupting his thoughts. Hoshi turned, meeting the eyes of his previous opponent, the man in the red suit. Damnit. Is he going to hold a grudge? If you couldn't beat me then you were doomed from the start, you rich ass!
"…Hello."
The Rocket Executive – assuming that's what he was – lowered his head in a brief, shallow bow. "Pardon. I just wanted to get your name. I have a feeling you'll be someone to watch, in the future."
Implying that I'm nothing much now, aren't you? "I'm… Hoshi." My name and face are on the licence, so there isn't much point in keeping anything to myself. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
The Executive hummed. He wasn't the oldest person here, about the same age as the Senior Executive pair, but unlike them he walked with a certain weight to his bones, seeming older than he was. "And I am Garcia Seto. This month seems to have a few standout recruits – and I think you might be one of them. Don't make me embarrassed to have lost to you, my boy!"
He stepped past, firmly patting Hoshi's shoulder as he went, and Hoshi was silent for a moment, digesting the encounter. Huh. Weird old guy. Are we really doing that well?
His eyes found the scoreboard, and he scanned the tiny names from across the room, looking for the ones he had picked out ahead of time. Oh, it looks like we actually are – Puce washed out in round one and Moony just lost to one of the guys who got through with a bye, but Nerine and Ryan are still in it.
"Oh my! It seems that three of our adorable little rookies are still in the race!" boomed James's voice from the raised stage.
"Magnificent work!" Jessie continued. "Once might have been happenstance, but winning two rounds shows some actual promise!"
"Especially against our Junior Executives! Those titles aren't just for show, you know!"
"Meow," the persian named Meowth – is that more or less creative than a persian named Persian? – concluded.
Could I… actually do this? Despite constantly reinforcing to himself that winning was impossible, staring at the board was making Hoshi's heart race. I'm a third of the way there already. How many people have a 'mon that can beat two in a row?
In his mild bafflement, it seemed that he truly was the only person with two Pokémon – a fact that was ratcheting up both his hope and his anxiety in equal measure. The refs haven't stopped me yet. Is it just etiquette? Maybe they used to bring whole teams, and things ran out of control, or went way too long, so… a gentleman's agreement was formed. Nothing in the rules, just all the higher-ups deciding to limit themselves together. It was the only rationalisation he could muster.
He was brought back to reality by another round of narration from the Executives. "In fact…" Jessie led in.
"Why don't we get a few words from our intrepid baby Rockets? Come up here, you three!"
The duo gestured, and Hoshi's gut did a flip. Fuck. Public speaking? This really is the worst bits of grade school all over again…
But as he moved forward and ascended the stage, he kept his spine straight. He wouldn't be intimidated by a few men in suits, or by the harsh spotlight following him as he went – he was a Mutsu. There are only two people whose opinions I need to care about; the bosses. Ryan joined a moment later, and then Nerine brought up the rear, struggling up the side-steps with her overstuffed backpack. The tree of them stood, looking out at the crowd, as behind them the machamp struck a pose like it was a backup dancer.
Hoshi could feel Dabi's stare needling into his back. In my head. It's just in my head – keep cool.
"Magnificent showing, you three!" projected James, his voice actually seeming slightly less from close up – still impressive, but the design of the stage must be doing at least half the work to make their voices carry.
"Indeed! Rocket Grunt Mutsu, why don't you start us off; tell us a bit about yourself!" Up close the older woman seemed, impossibly, even more attractive. Hoshi kept his eyes above her neck, but it was a struggle. "Hobbies, dreams, aspirations – you're one of our older recruits, so I've no doubt you put a lot of thought into it before joining!"
He blinked. Am I? Moony and Puce look about the same age, and Ryan must be at least twenty… whatever. Dreams, huh? He opened his mouth – but despite already expressing himself to Black and the other grunts, repeating the exact same words while on-stage felt suddenly impossible. He struggled for a moment, clearing his throat.
"...I hear you're actually related to our city's electrifying Lightning Lieutenant! Why don't you start off with that?" came the voice of James, rescuing him from the stretching silence.
Cool blue relief flooded his veins. Arcus, get it together. "We're not related by blood. He was my dad's best friend, and after he passed… Well, to make it short, I just think of him as Uncle Bob. He's really helped me out, more than I could ever repay." Though I've sure been trying to make it even, with how much his private lessons cost. "I probably have him to thank for getting this far."
"Ooh! You hear that? Trained personally by the man himself!"
"I hope that soothes a couple bruised egos – no shame in losing to the Gym Leader's nephew!"
His stoic expression held, but only barely. I didn't say he trained me – even though he did. Don't put words in my mouth!
The pair spun to the next rookie, the fair-haired Ryan. "Mr. Sampo! Your family has a bit of a pedigree," said James. "Care to explain your deep connection to Team Rocket?"
Unlike Hoshi, the apparently-younger grunt took the attention of the audience in stride. "The Sampo family have been supporting Rocket from the moment they stepped foot in Viridian City," he stated, his voice proud and his chin held high. "My grandfather, Leon Sampo, was a close friend to Giovanni Capo – our family's money helped to fund the expansion of the Viridian City Gym, turning it into Kanto's largest stadium."
His smile shone, and for a moment the weird proportions of his face were eclipsed – under the spotlight, the young man seemed every bit a proud, patriotic Kantonian, his words smooth and charismatic. "And of course, my father, Giorgio Sampo, contributed heavily to the rebuilding of the organisation in recent years. I hope that my own contributions will be half as grand, but it seems a tall order indeed – I can only rely on my elders to guide me along the right path."
He bowed, and the duo clapped. "Ah, what a filial young man!" said James.
"I'm certainly rooting for him – and it isn't just because of his Pokémon, either!" continued Jessie.
"Meow."
A twitch went through the muscle of Hoshi's brow. His Pokémon… Is it really that good? He's been finishing his matches before me, so I haven't actually seen it yet. Curiosity and a touch of envy bit at him, just deep enough to hurt.
"And finally," Jessie announced, "Our youngest new recruit, Nerine Bay Rose!"
"Tell us, how does it feel to have made it to the third round? Any secret tips to share with the audience?"
The teenager shuffled, her face gaining a touch of red at the attention. "...I got lucky, I guess." Her voice was small, saved from the description of mumble only by the clarity with which she spoke. "Fought an oddish and a paras… it was a good couple matchups." Her head seemed to be doing its level best to disappear between her top and cap, sinking low while rocking forward to hide her face.
"Oh, don't be so modest!" Jessie admonished. "My first Pokémon was an ekans, you know; I can tell you're familiar with them, to command the little noodle so well!"
"A bit of precocious training, perhaps?" James cut in.
Her face coloured further. Ha, I guess I'm not the only one who thinks he looks like a K-pop star. "Uh, just a little? I've always really liked the vibe of poison type Pokémon…"
"Ah, a lady after our own hearts! Team Rocket loves poison types, don't we?" The sharp-featured Rocket turned to his partner.
"Of course!" They posed, pointing to each other. "Like your weezing!"
"Or your dustox!"
"Or your victreebel!"
"Oh, and who could forget little jellicent!"
"Meow!"
James paused, his head tilting the still-lounging cat's way. "Is it not?"
"Meow," the persian firmly stated, shaking its head.
"…Well, be that as it may, we still love poison types!"
Jessie spun back to the teenaged girl. "So you'll fit right in!" The two turned back to the audience. "So there you have it!"
"Three bright young stars, and I'm not just saying that for the pun!" Scattered chuckles, and Hoshi felt the urge to strangle the stupidly attractive Executive. Ha, ha, very funny. Never heard that one in my life.
He continued, "Give a round of applause for our trio of prodigies…"
"And then those of you still in it should step up for another round, this one of Pokémon battling! We don't have all day you know!"
Hoshi stepped down off the stage, nerves continuing to tingle with aftershocks of the mild stage fright he had experienced. Okay, third round. Gotta get my head back in the game – do I open with Rattata or Zubat?
A deep part of him still wanted to eke out a win with his rattata alone, just to prove he could, but that part was dumb as fuck, so he squashed it. Opening with Rattats worked out fine for the second match, but it's probably not the winning move. Unless they send our an electric Pokémon, Zubat is probably the better option.
The problem with that was that they were in Vermilion City; every other opponent was a magnemite or voltorb. He had even seen a single pikachu, the much rarer rodent taking a loss to an Executive's geodude. Speaking of geodude, if I run into a rock type I'm pretty much fucked. Normal and bug are my only attacking options, and Leech Life puts my bat into melee – basically unusable. His fists clenched. Fuck, I'm psyching myself out when I should be psyching up.
He had made it two rounds already, so why was he freaking out? I'm at least as good as anybody here. I just need to treat this like training with Surge. The thought calmed him, and he managed to unclench his fists – only to repeat the action, this time in determination.
His gaze went over the crowd. I'll use this time to scout out the competition. If I see any ice or electric types, start with Rattata. Rock… probably go for Supersonic with Zubat. Battles were already starting, a grunt with his spearow facing off against a sharp-suited woman's seel, Nerine's ekans slithering in a zig-zag pattern to avoid clumps of sparkling ice crystals thrown out by- holy fuck that's an ice type sandshrew!
Hoshi boggled for a moment. Arcus, those things are rare as fuck. Like a lot of Alolan Pokémon, the island-specific variant of the otherwise common Pokémon were close to extinction by normal standards, wild specimens existing on only a single mountain on the tiny chain of islands. Glad I haven't fought something like that so far. Steel and ice… Once again, he resolved that his next Pokémon would be a ground type.
"Hey," came a feminine voice from behind. "You Hoshi? Your opponent's waiting."
He turned, seeing an older woman in the standard black uniform sans gloves. So? You're meant to be guiding me; it isn't like I know what my opponent looks like. "Sorry. Which way?"
The grunt guided him to the other edge of the vast room, and Hoshi snuck a peek at a third match as he went. A labcoat-wearing scientist type was all but pulling his hair out as his floating metallic disk – the first Pokémon today that Hoshi couldn't identify – was slapped around by the hooves of a ponyta, an aura of flame issuing from the much larger horse's coat to lend heat to its attacks.
Fire type. Probably no ranged attacks – Zubat should be able to handle it.
Loping strides ate up the distance swiftly and soon enough Hoshi was standing across from his second Executive opponent of the day – a woman in a black suit and long straight skirt, her equally long hair bone-white despite being into her early forties at most, according to her face.
"Finally." Her voice was deep, surprisingly so, and Hoshi received an even larger surprise as she lifted a pure white, opalescent ball – a Pearl Ball, rather than the strange Rocket Balls Hoshi had been seeing up to this point. Does this mean she's a legit trainer? That she's using a Pokémon she caught herself? He had no idea, but he was wary.
"Sorry for the wait. Let's get this battle started, alright?"
She sneered, and something in Hoshi's chest calmed – it was a lot easier to fight someone who was looking down on him. "I should hope so. Referee, start us! I have other meetings today!"
The referee – who seemed reasonably sour to be talked down to by someone her own age – flared her nostrils, but obeyed. "This is a standard battle. A winner is chosen when one side has no Pokémon fit to battle, and lethal damage counts as an automatic loss for both sides." She raised her hand. "On three. One, two-"
Hoshi expanded his zubat's ball, preparing to throw. Right on my side of the field, to give it time to climb. "-Three!" Her hand came down, and both combatants threw their Pokéballs.
"Zubat, fly up!" he ordered, peering across the field. Come on, give me another bug type.
His opponent's Pokémon revealed itself in a flash of red, and he smiled. Krabby! Yes, this should be easy! The short, red-and-tan crab was well-known for its extreme attacking power and solid defense… but also, Hoshi happened to know that the thing wouldn't have a decent ranged attack. Zubat should be able to dodge a few Bubbles, and that super-strength will work against it once it's confused! "Dip down and use Supersonic!"
The woman's sneer continued. "Dodge," she ordered, seemingly unconcerned.
The crab scuttled sideways, avoiding the main blast of sound, but Hoshi grinned. There's no way that thing can jump. "Keep it up! Stay right above it!"
His bat moved in erratic circles above the zig-zagging water type, dancing tantalisingly, just out of reach of its clacking claws.
But again, the Executive seemed unworried. "Scald," she ordered, and Hoshi's smile dropped.
"Fuck!" That isn't- she must have shelled out for a move disk! Instead of a froth of slow-moving bubbles – the only ranged attack a krabby should have – the Pokémon attacked with a spray of pressurised, boiling liquid.
Dodge or attack? There was no time to pick, he was already yelling-! "Dive!"
The zubat dipped, still screeching, and the steaming stream doused one of its wings. His Pokémon's cries took on a different tone as its attack was cut off in favour of expressing its pain. "Get under it! Leech Life!"
"Vicegrip," came the disinterested order from the Executive, and Hoshi's teeth grit as his vision reddened.
The foot-long bat made a valiant effort, but the krabby snatched it before it could roll under the crab's armoured belly. A single squeeze, and it was over.
"Zubat is unable to battle!" the referee announced, as though it wasn't plainly obvious as the crab dropped his unconscious 'mon. "Grunt Hoshi, withdraw your Pokémon!"
He knew his face had frozen into an ugly rictus snarl, but it was beyond his ability to feign anything else. "Fucking fuck fuck." Didn't manage to confuse it. Fucking rich-ass cheating- fuck! "Return."
Zubat disappeared, merging with the red laser, and he immediately put the ball into storage mode, freezing it in stasis until it could be healed – then he withdrew Rattata's ball, pausing to consider his options. The red receded a touch as he forced away the suicidal urge to go out and stomp the stupid crab with his steel-toed boots.
Can I still win this? If it was completely hopeless, he was better off not risking his Pokémon's health. Quick attack might let me get a few hits in, but it's armoured up. Hoshi was pretty familiar with coastal Pokémon, and he had seen foraging krabby outright ignore the questing pecks of even evolved birds.
His snarl became a grim line. The referee looked over. "Grunt? Are you going to send out your next Pokémon?"
He lowered Rattata's ball to his side. "I…" But then he saw it: the slightest tremble, the krabby's claws wavering as it adjusted its feet. "Sorry, just thinking. Go, Rattata!" Thanks, Zubat. Looks like we might just get to the fourth round! "Circle around and use Tail Whip!"
The white-haired Executive sniffed. "Crush it."
The crab smoothly turned to follow his rattata's movements, and Hoshi prayed to Arcus. Come on. I know what I saw; Zubat's Supersonic got it as it dove! Come on! Stumble, you front-heavy fuck!
And for once, Hoshi's prayers were answered; the crab misjudged a step in its addled state, overextending and dipping to the side. The swinging, open claw grazed his rattata's back, removing a stripe of fur, but the darting rat smashed its tail into its opponent's face as it ducked past. The crab slipped, clutching its face with its other claw, and Hoshi found himself grinning savagely.
"Tackle from behind! Don't let it stand up!"
"Prince, protect yourself with Bubble."
Rattata struck the crab in the back and it reeled, but before Hoshi's Pokémon could attack again a thick mass of large bubbles frothed up around its opponents body-encompassing mouth, spreading across its slick surface in an instant to create a sort of armour.
"Rattata, stop!"
But while it had been growing quite used to Hoshi's orders over the last two battles, the rat was still untrained; it's attempt to pull back was uncertain, and it struck a number of bubbles – which detonated with a series of sharp pops, more akin to firecrackers than anything else. Rattata recoiled, and the Executive smirked.
"Vicegrip," she ordered.
"Stay behind it!" Fuck, what do I do? The bubbles weren't actually very strong, but he didn't think his young Pokémon would willingly attack something explosive. "Tail Whip! Aim for the legs!"
His rat whipped its opponent over and over, but though the krabby stumbled, it seemed to have shaken off the confusion – the crab outmanoeuvred the lavender rodent, managing to pivot enough to snatch it in a claw. Hoshi withdrew his Pokémon before it could be crushed, once again scowling.
"Rocket Grunt Hoshi concedes! The match's winner is Junior Executive Tanya!"
The Rocket withdrew her Pokémon, cooing at the ball for a moment in motherly affection, before turning and walking towards the healing station without further acknowledging either Hoshi or the referee.
I hope that 'junior' in your title haunts you for your entire fucking life, you whore.
Hoshi stepped away from the healing machine, still sporting a scowl. He knew, he knew that he was going to get knocked out, but the loss still stung. If it hadn't known a fucking disk move-!
He huffed. Pointless. He'd already lost – there was nothing worth being mad about. At least now I get to actually watch some matches, see what Ryan's super-secret Pokémon is.
He headed towards the ongoing matches.
…But still, he couldn't put the anger behind him. Fucking childish shit. He'd thought he hadn't had any illusions about his chances of winning, but it seemed a part of him was a dumb kid who thought they were a special little boy, who would be able to beat money and experience and better Pokémon! Wow! But it turns out I'm just some guy! Who would have fucking thought that a fresh trainer couldn't beat hardened criminals twice his age! Isn't that fucking weird?!
His self-loathing continued to build until some internal dam broke, his vision blanking out for a second. A moment passed, he breathed, and he kept walking, empty, the anger washed away to leave nothing but some lingering puddles of annoyance.
"Fucking take the loss like a man," he mumbled to himself, and settled into a seat to watch the last moments of round three.
Nerine won her match, the teenager's ekans scoring an easy win against a grunt's balloon-like jigglypuff. The little thing could only weakly beat its fists against the young-but-still-larger snake as the latter choked it out with Wrap and Poison Sting.
Then the intermission, where the Executive duo acted – or maybe were, he didn't know them well enough to guess – astonished that two rookies had made it to the fourth round.
And then, finally, Hoshi rose from his seat to stalk his fellow grunt. I want to know what that Pokémon is that you seemed so proud of.
He followed behind Ryan, thankful that the man's features made him stand out from the crowd – and then someone put a hand on his shoulder. Oh for fuck's sake. What now?
"Suit, there you are!" Moony greeted. "Me 'n Puke were wondering where you got off to!"
Oh, fucking amazing. "Hey. I was about to watch Ryan's match."
Seemingly immune to Hoshi's flat tone, the acne-riddled man continued. "Us too! Puke's following him around 'cause she's got a crush, and so'm I, 'cause why not?"
Puke- Puce made a face. "Don't make up weird rumours, Moony. He is," a pause, "Way too young for me!"
Hoshi blinked. "Is he really a kid?" I'd have sworn he was just a bit younger than me, but maybe his weird face threw me off?
Moony elbowed the woman. "Naw, Puke's just bein' weird. He's like eighteen or something."
…Well, a couple years off isn't that bad. "Hm. Anyway, looks like his referee found him, so let's walk and talk."
The three rookies followed after the fourth, Hoshi leading the way. What could it be? Something rare and strong… A dratini? Maybe a rare fighting type, like a hitmontop – except no, that wouldn't be allowed for the tournament, I don't think. What was the baby form… tyrogue? Or maybe something foreign, like a… His face scrunched in thought. A sandile or something. He was vaguely aware of a dozen different foreign Pokémon that were considered top-tier, but put on the spot his mind was blanking.
"Hey…" a soft voice sounded out from behind. "Sorry for not cheering for your matches. You did really well."
Hoshi glanced back at the muscular woman. "Oh. Well, thanks." Having someone cheering for me would have been… weird, so I'm kind of glad you didn't. "Sad you got knocked out right away. Who'd you lose to?"
"Well…" she trailed off.
"She said she got smashed by a dweeb with a pikachu. Right?" Again, Moody elbowed the larger woman.
"Uh… Yeah, I guess 'smashed' is a pretty good word. Koffing only knows Tackle and some poison moves, so it just got hit over and over with lightning." She sighed. "I'm a bit embarrassed… You made it pretty far, and Ryan and the younger girl are still in… you three seem way more skilled than I am."
Hoshi grunted. Two pikachu? Maybe they aren't as rare as I thought… I guess it's been a long time since Champion Red, people must have started breeding them by now. "Well, I have some experience. I trained for a bit with Surge before joining."
"Oh, really? I thought maybe the instructors were making that up."
Moony broke in. "You're really his nephew? Man, that's crazy! Does that mean that Team Rocket has like, gotten into the government and shit?"
Hoshi turned back to shoot the man a look. What the fuck thread of twisted logic are you following? "No, I didn't tell him I'm in Rocket," you moron. "His job is literally to beat the piss out of criminals and shit." Theoretically; that hasn't really been a thing since before the war, it's all the Jennys now. "…He's cool with the old, wartime Rocket, though."
"Cool," said Moony, and Hoshi restrained the urge to pop him in his too-wide fucking ignorant face.
Arcus, can the match just start already? Ryan was standing with his arms crossed, waiting for his opponent to arrive, and whoever it was sure seemed to be taking their fucking time.
Thankfully Hoshi was spared from the increasingly awkward conversation; the other two lapsed into silence, and eventually the grunt referee returned – a second, identically-dressed grunt in tow.
"Fucking finally," Hoshi mumbled.
"Fuckin' finally!" Moony exclaimed, and Hoshi winced. I don't sound like that, right? No, that's impossible, he's like a giant baby.
The referee's opening spiel was the same as the ones Hoshi had gotten, and he leaned forward as the two trainers drew their Pokéballs.
"Oh hey, you haven't seen Ryan's Pokémon yet have you? It's pretty cool, I was surprised that-"
"Shut the fuck up," he hissed, and Puce fell silent.
The referee's hand came down, Ryan and his opponent – a man with similarly platinum blond hair, actually, though his was long and straight – threw their balls, and both of them yelled out their orders.
"Jormungandr, Fire Fang!"
"Spot, use- is that a fucking dragon?!"
Hoshi's eyes widened. I was close. Not a dratini, but a… "Bagon," he stated, taking in the baby dragon's bipedal stance and ridged, armoured cranium. "Fuck, no wonder he's gotten this far."
"Well, it isn't like it's entirely the Pokémon, right? You lost to a krabby, and that's an even stronger Pokémon, so there are a lot of… strong…"
She petered off at Hoshi's withering look. How the fuck-? You implied you weren't watching! He didn't tell the woman to shut up a second time, though he did think it. That's… okay, not the worst point in the world, but that's a fucking dragon. That's a Champion-level Pokémon, if he manages to raise it right.
The fight ended within seconds. The bagon got its maw around its opponent – a bulbasaur – and flames erupted around the sides of its mouth. The straight-haired grunt withdrew his Pokémon before it could catch on fire, and rubbed his forehead.
"Fucking- how am I even supposed to fight that?"
He trudged off towards the healing station while Ryan preened, letting his Pokémon jump around excitedly at its win.
…Could I take that Pokémon out with mine? I don't think bagon learns to breathe fire until after it's matured a bit, but… Entirely possible that it, too, was sporting a move the species didn't usually learn.
Moony hollered, waving to the man – Hoshi didn't think eighteen warranted a young – and Ryan waved back. "Great show, man! Yer gonna win this whole thing, I know it!"
The blond approached. "Thank you. Ah Hoshi, I saw you'd been eliminated – no worries, I'll be sure to avenge you on my way up." He smiled, entirely sincere, and Hoshi forced down his reflexive response.
"…Well, I doubt that old lady will make it that far. You're on the other side of the bracket, after all." I refuse to believe a fucking krabby can make it to the finals, rich trainer or not.
Sorry for the late chapter, I picked up a cold – I blame the heat.
Monday's chapter might also be late, though I'm feeling better so hopefully I'll be able to pull things back on track.
Kanto shared its immediate borders with three other nations: Johto to the west, Sinnoh to the north, and the Orange Archipelago to the south. Theoretically, it had friendly relations with all three: Orange had been a steady trade partner since each nation's discovery of the other; Sinnoh kept mostly to itself, separated from the rest of the continent by a tiny strip of land filled with large mountain ranges; and though the recent past had been fraught, Johto and Kanto were so closely linked they were labeled as a single nation on many maps.
But that was only the theory, of course. In reality there were a whole host of sticky issues to gum up the peace in our times narrative, not the least of which was the Indigo War of Hoshi's earliest memories.
"Ooh! Lookit that hit! Go for it, Ryan!"
"D-do your best, Miss Rose!"
And as Hoshi watched Nerine's ekans take measured Poison Sting potshots against Ryan's increasingly enraged bagon, he was reminded of one of the primary reasons Kanto hadn't won that war.
Fucking dragons. Johto had them, and Kanto didn't – save for the extremely small numbers of dratini imported for Fuchsia's Safari Zone. It also didn't have the most direct counter to dragons, fairy type Pokémon, because living in a land with zero dragons and omnipresent poison had slowly drained away what made 'mons like clefairy and jigglypuff dominant against the former and vulnerable to the latter.
A self-assured voice flew across the battlefield. "Keep charging, Jormungandr! The next hit will end this!"
Only to be countered by stiff determination. "Left. Poison Sting. Back. Back. Poison Sting."
Nerine's cap was clenched in her white-knuckled fists, her expression sharp enough to cut glass. Each order came out with stiff precision, a half-second before her ekans actually needed to follow it – it was obvious that she was predicting her opponent's movements ahead of time, showing a level of tactical skill that was, in Hoshi's eyes, not just solidly above her opponent, but maybe on par with that of an elite,professional trainer.
Not that Ryan is bad, either.
The rich man's plan was obvious, simple, and effective: let his bagon build up a Rage from his opponent's weak attacks, then take it out. The ekans had been nearly knocked out from a glancing blow earlier; his words hadn't been just a boast, the next hit would end it.
Nerine grit her teeth. "Keep retreating." The three-foot-long snake, only half the size it would eventually reach as an adolescent, attempted to follow the order – but the battle had been going on for minutes, and it had been sprinting- it had been slithering at max speed the entire time.
And Ryan's pretentiously-named little dragon seemed to be an endless wellspring of energy. It bounded, closing the distance, heedless of the poison needles digging into its body and face.
Hoshi saw the exact moment the young grunt gave up on her strategy; her face slackened as tension released, blood flowing freely where it had previously been constrained – it almost made her look instantly healthier, the teen's skin almost glowing. He had seen that look a few times over his life; the face of someone who had decided to throw caution to the wind, and rely on one last throw of the dice. "Wrap," came the order, a touch of something kin to relief colouring the word.
The snake turned, bared its fangless maw, and the two cold-blooded Pokémon lunged at each other.
The ekans attempted to encircle the smaller creature's limbs as the dragon thrashed, the two 'mons grappling in a brief test of strength and dexterity – and then the bagon smashed its bone-plated skull into its opponent, and it was over.
A roar of applause, about as loud as the dragon's own cries of victory. "Ah…" sighed Puce. "You did your best, Miss Rose! Finishing in the semifinals is super impressive!"
Beside her, Moony pumped his fists. "Yeah! Hardcore! That little guy's a powerhouse!"
You know, you accused Puce of having a crush on the man, but out of all of us, you're cheering the loudest.
Hoshi watched the match's aftermath with a strange feeling he couldn't name.
Ryan actually returned his Pokémon first, before the little dragon's continued fury could pose a threat – he left the ball in active mode, a decision that made Hoshi nod as the referee announced the blond grunt's victory.
He knows what he's doing. Out of storage mode, his 'mon will be able to cool off. Nepotism or not, the man was a competent enough trainer.
The teenager returned her own Pokémon, and then the two actually stepped forward to shake hands, something very few competitors were doing. Hoshi strained his ears to catch their words over the gathered crowd.
"My hardest-won victory of the day! Nerine, I can see how you managed to climb so high – your skill as a trainer is head and shoulders above the competition!"
The defeated grunt had a complicated look on her face. "…Thanks. I didn't expect to make it this far." A swirl of mixed emotions chased each other across her features – it seemed Hoshi wasn't the only one who didn't know how to feel – but her voice remained the steady, almost bored rasp he was becoming familiar with. "Win this thing for the five of us, yeah?"
Ryan's reply was washed out as a second cheer combined with the tail end of the ongoing one – Hoshi turned his head, his expression going flat. Damn, that must be the other semifinal ending. I wanted to at least catch the back of it…
But he had decided to watch Ryan and Nerine's match instead, and as the two circles – much larger than his own battlefields had been – broke up, he found that he didn't regret it. "Good match, both of you!" he added to the waning congratulations.
The pair approached, and for a minute the five of them were together in a little huddle. Moony slapped Ryan's back hard enough to knock the smaller man over, and Puce peppered both semifinalists with questions about their tactics. Hoshi stayed mostly silent – there wasn't a whole lot he had to contribute, anyway.
Then came the intermission. The male Senior Executive's voice washed over the crowd. "Two stunning battles! On one side, a brutal beatdown of fire versus water!"
"And on the other, our two up-and-comers duking it out to enter the finals!" his partner continued, before turning to address him. "What do you think, should we do one last speech before the grand finale?"
"Hm?" James turned, oblivious – though if it was real or scripted, Hoshi had no idea. "Are we not already doing a speech?"
"Meow!"
"From the finalists, you dolt!"
The Executive made a noise of understanding. "Of course, why didn't I think of that?" Then his expression became thoughtful, and he turned back to the crowd. "We wouldn't want to overdo it, though. Usually we save the hot air for the winner…"
Jessie also turned back to the crowd. "What do you think? Want to hear a few words from our soon-to-be first and second place?"
The crowd asserted that yes, it did, with a roar that wasn't quite as loud as Hoshi would have predicted, but still cacophonous enough to make his ears ring. Damn. Some of those old people can really holler.
"Magnificent!" she continued. "Get up here, you two!"
The house of Sampo was young, as far as families went – or at least, their legacy in Kanto was young. Ryan's great-grandmother, Ninfina Girasole, had come to the country in 1955, a tale whose every word was engraved into his memory; it had been the one his great-grandfather most loved to tell, before his passing.
Indeed, Ryan knew every step of his family's legacy in exacting detail. How they settled in Viridian City, how they swiftly took control of the entire textiles industry, how they allied themselves with the local Gym – and later, how they butted heads with the intruding Team Rocket, before replacing enmity with friendship as the western conflict brought about Kanto's highest highs and lowest lows.
Today is another step in that legacy, one that my own sons and daughters will one day learn.
As he ascended the stage a second time, he exalted in that feeling – today was his first day owning a Pokémon, but in many ways he had been a trainer since he could walk. Another step, taking the Sampo lineage into the future.
He entered the spotlight, the rest of the world washing out against the radiance from above. "Ryan Sampo!" boomed his superior, Senior Rocket Executive James Kidd. "Nineteen years old, and already fighting your way to the top of the pile! Let's hear some praise, folks!" The man gestured together with his partner, the two mimicking each other with not a single hair out of place as the crowd's collective voice washed over the five people and one Pokémon standing on-stage..
Ryan's smile widened. He knew these two by proxy, through their superior, and together with the day's observation he thought he had a good handle on their actual personalities…
Their praise was overblown, maybe, but sincere. A small knot of fear, that the rest of Team Rocket's administration would resent his obvious skill, untied itself from around his heart.
Then, like clockwork, the other – Senior Rocket Executive Jessie Oakley – took up the speech. "And on the other side of the coin, our venerable Rocket Executive; please give a cheer for Mister Quirius!"
More applause, similar but distinct in tone; the grunts had put their hearts into cheering for him, while the executives did so for his opponent. Ryan's smile did not waver. Win or lose, I've gathered quite a bit of clout. People will be looking at me for real, now.
"Amazing work, the both of you!" continued Executive Kidd as the noise died down. "But you know what they say: age before beauty!"
"So why don't you start us off, Mister Quirius? Your last match was quite the upset!"
"A fire type beating a water type? That takes some serious skill!"
"Meow."
As the elderly Executive stepped forward, Ryan caught a good look at him. White of hair, short up top but with an expansive moustache and beard, deep wrinkles nearly obscuring sharp eyes – mischievous, was the word that came to Ryan's mind as he observed the man's expression. Like an old forest fox; not malicious, but more than willing to lead someone around by the nose for a quick laugh. He wore a red suit, as many of the upper management did, but his was worn around the edges, older in style – the man couldn't be a day under ninety, his back bent forward, though he walked without even a cane.
He cleared his throat, then spoke, revealing a voice as aged as his face implied. "Thank you, thank you. Of course all the real compliments should go to my ponyta, Buckingham – he did all the work, after all."
"Ah, what humility!" projected Executive Kidd
"Surely you have a little bit to say about your strategy?" continued Executive Oakley. "Move choice? I saw a few things the average ponyta definitely wouldn't learn!"
Quirius cleared his throat a second time. "Oh, nothing too special, I assure you. But if you're interested…" The Senior Executives, and the crowd – and yes, Ryan himself, all leaned forward expectantly. "I happen to be friends with a breeder of some skill; I'm sure you're acquainted with Mister Sukizo? Well, about two months ago I was in the market for a new Pokémon to participate in these little tournaments – Windsor had evolved during the last one, and sadly gotten herself disqualified – and I'd heard good things about the pedigree of his ponyta, so I went down and had a chat…"
What followed was a long, meandering, mind numbing story about how the man acquired his ponyta, which revealed absolutely nothing about its moves, or the strategy its master had employed. Ryan would have applauded if he weren't so annoyed; from the glint in his eye, the elderly Rocket knew exactly what he was doing.
After about a dozen attempts to wrench the flow of conversation away from the finalist, Jessie threw etiquette to the wind and physically covered the old man's mouth.
"Magnificent words from one of our most respected members!" She turned to Ryan, expression pained. "Why don't we move on to Mister Sampo?"
"Yes!" her partner all but screamed. "As the highest placing Rocket Grunt and rookie, how do you feel about the upcoming match?"
Ryan stepped forward. The crowd of less than sixty seemed small against the largeness of the room, filling well under a quarter of the seats – but at the same time, it was easily twice as many people as he had ever addressed.
"I'm feeling confident, sir." He allowed his smile to turn cocky; the higher ups would find it gauche, but by the time he climbed the ranks many of them would be gone. It was the Rocket Grunts he had to impress, and they were a more hot-blooded breed. "Some of you may think I'm only here because of my Pokémon, but I'll be sure to show you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what kind of trainer I am."
The crowd applauded – those who weren't asleep, at least – and the Senior Executives looked relieved.
"What a wonderful-"
"And brisk!" Jessie interjected, still restraining the older Rocket.
"-Speech by our other finalist!"
"Let's not waste any more time – onto the finale!"
"Winner takes all!"
"Meow!"
Red. A sea of red, enough blood to cover the tallest mountain, soft sand holding it up from below as a black void pressed down from above.
Two moons, shining white, rolling across the horizon like the sea was a soft cushion. A point of blue formed between them, infinitesimally small, only visible by sharp contrast, a single star illuminating the dark sky.
The blue shone, somehow hot, and Hoshi was rent apart.
"Gah!" he gasped, jolting in his chair.
"There we go," said Moony, and Hoshi blinked dumbly for a fraction of a second before his brain fully woke up.
Oh, that fucking horse story- did I seriously fall asleep? "Ugh. How long was I out? Has the match started?" Or is the old blowhard still talking about his fucking ponyta?
"Naw, we've got like a minute to go, still. Bosses 'r making it fancy; setting up a whole thing."
He pointed, and Hoshi swivelled in his seat – behind him, in the middle of the room, something like the Vermilion Gym's Battlegrounds was being set up. Well, a mini version, at least. Apparently the room featured a trap door, because there was now a yawning pit where a section of seating had been, other bits of the auditorium transforming into rock-strewn fields and extremely shallow pools as a smattering of scientists and grunts directed their Pokémon to set things up.
He watched a rhydon conjure a torrent of sand from nowhere, the tiny Sandstorm settling down to create an equally small desert.
Holy shit, there's like… twenty Pokémon going at it. Hoshi was a professional construction worker, he knew how impressive it was to coordinate something like this, even on a small scale. "Wow, they're really going all-out – though…" Something about the effort didn't fit. "I'd have guessed they'd have a dedicated battle room for this sort of thing." Even my elementary school had one of those.
Moony shrugged. "Probably do, but for sixty people?" …Okay, that's not a bad point. "Come on, let's watch!" He started moving forward, and Hoshi threw off the last dregs of sleep before standing – something he noticed more than a handful of other people doing, to his hidden solace. Boring as shit story must have knocked out a third of the crowd.
As he approached, it became clear that the field wasn't just similar to the Battlegrounds, it was a direct copy – Hoshi could see bits that were just scaled-down replica hazards taken directly from the Gym's high-tech courtyard. No electrified sections or running water, though. I guess that's too much to expect, even from this place.
With the increase in size and complexity, it was already going to be harder to see the actual fight; adding big setpieces for a single battle would be ridiculous overkill.
"So," he said, as they reached the edge of the field. "You think Ryan's going to win this whole thing?"
Moony replied with a grin. "Fuck yeah! You saw the last fight, little guy took like a hundred Poison Stings!"
"From an ekans, sure." A really young one, at that. Based on its height, that little dragon's at least a few months old – it isn't just a strong Pokémon, it's older than the rest of ours, too.
The ex-wrestler snorted. "C'mon man, you really think the other guy can win?" He had a cocky grin on his face, and Hoshi had to hold himself back from commenting about his obvious man-crush. You're acting like him winning does something for us, but it really doesn't. "Oh, I get it! You want the old guy to win 'cause he beat the lady who beat you, right?"
"Fuck off. I don't care about petty shit like that." He folded his arms. Ahead, past Moony's overly round face, the finishing touches were being put into place. Two tower-like pedestals were forming; the places the trainers would stand, so they could see everything from on high. "You really think somebody who won with a type advantage isn't going to put up a damn good fight?"
If we compare the three, krabby, ponyta, and bagon, they're all pretty damn good for unevolved Pokémon. Krabby has its super-strong grip, ponyta is the fastest, and the dragon resists both the other two's types. I honestly can't say which would win – except the ponyta did win, against that bullshit disked-up crab, so it must have some way around a type disadvantage.
He was starting to regret not watching the other match. Ryan versus Serine had been a spectacular demonstration of the younger girl's tactical mind – and Ryan's less impressive, but not terrible, skills – but the match between the krabby and ponyta would probably have been more educational where high-level battles were concerned.
Moony made another dismissive sound. "Whatever. It doesn't really matter, does it? I just wanna see them duke it out!"
Arcus, why did I come over with you? Even the teenager would have been a better choice for conversation. Hoshi scanned the crowd, but failed to find the other two rookies; the field was just too wide, and half the people were dressed exactly the fucking same.
"Yeah, I guess we'll just enjoy the match," he hissed out, and settled down to wait.
"Trainers, are you ready?"
My, they're really pulling out all the stops. Ryan felt like he was in an actual tournament finale; the grounds had been prepared with a variety of terrains, and he was standing on a passing replica of a real trainer platform. Across from him stood his opponent on his own platform, and their eyes were locked in the powerful fervour that preceded a Pokémon battle.
"I am," he replied to the stripe-clad woman on the sidelines.
"As am I," his opponent followed a second later. Ryan felt ever more confident in his assessment of the elderly man as he continued to observe him; though his back remained bowed, so too did his eyes retain that sharpness Ryan had seen on the stage. He hefted a Rocket Ball, expanded and ready to throw.
"Then you may release your Pokémon and wait for the signal to begin!" came a more masculine voice from the other side of the field.
The two instructors had actually traded their Rocket Admin uniforms for authentic-looking League Referee garb, black and white vertical stripes with shaded caps – they were overseeing the match personally, and Ryan couldn't have been more delighted. He tossed his dragon's ball, issuing the first order. "Jormungandr, stay still!"
For a moment he lamented that he couldn't have retained the Rage-boosted strength from the previous battle, but alas; while the amazing healing technology had cured his bagon's injuries, it could not overcome base fatigue. He had been forced to let his Pokémon rest naturally, lest it emerge from its ball with maximum power and minimum energy.
"One last push, Buckingham."
Unlike Ryan's excitable dragon, the pony needed no further orders to stop it from attacking.
"Alright!" shouted the blue-haired Rocket.
"On three!" followed the other. "One!"
"Two!"
"Meow!" said the persian apparently named Meowth, emerging from a spot of fake vegetation on the edge of the field.
For a moment Ryan stilled – why was the persian hiding? Why is it wearing an umpire's uniform? – but experience in mock battles at his father's salons won through. "Jorm, hunker down and wait for it to get close!" I won't be able to catch it straight out. The best thing to do is respond; if it gets close, Bite, if it uses a ranged attack, Rage.
Ponyta could have some respectable firepower, but he had faith that Jormungandr could weather a hit of two – he resisted fire, after all.
But rather than issue a verbal order, Executive Quirius whistled sharply. His ponyta took a few steps back, and Ryan began to get a bad feeling. The grunt I paid off told me he defeated the krabby with an electric stomping attack – surely, he hasn't got too much more up his sleeve, right?
But the thought failed to provide comfort; a twinge on the back of his neck was telling him he was in danger, and after a second's hesitation he decided to heed the warning. "Charge it! Latch on with Bite and don't let go!" Jorm is strong, but with only three moves… he lacks options.
The old man watched the baby dragon charge his young horse, his heavily wrinkled face showing not a hint of concern. Ryan's teeth grit as something built up. A charging attack? He could feel it, an ephemeral wave that made Jormungandr sprint even harder.
But the size of the field worked in his opponent's favour. Ryan's Pokémon dodged through obstacles feverishly, twenty metres, fifteen, ten, and then… finally, Quirius issued his order.
"Solar Beam."
Hoshi watched his coworker descend with middling dignity down the back of the platform.
"Ah, bad luck in the final matchup!" announced James.
"But still, an amazing effort!" Jessie continued. "It isn't often a rookie gets this far… in fact, I can't recall it happening a single time!"
"Neither can I!"
"Meow!"
Ryan's face was a mask, solid and unyielding, not a hint of emotion peeking through as he approached.
"Ah…" Puce muttered. "I want to say it was a good match, but…"
Hoshi tamped down on the urge to snicker; it would have been impossible for him to say something as wounding as the woman's comment, and it hadn't even been purposefully insulting. Ryan's mask slipped just a hair as her soft voice reached him, the edges of his thin lips turning down.
"Aw, don't say that Puke! It would'a been a real good fight if the old guy hadn't had a super-strong move!" He growled. "Who ever heard of a fire Pokémon with a grass move, anyway? Must'a had to shell out hard for a TM like that."
"Actually, it's not that uncommon," came a flat voice from behind, and Hoshi startled. Damnit! At least approach from the side, like Puce did! Nerine continued, unperturbed by his sharp look, "A lot of fire types get stronger in the sun, so teaching them Solar Beam to deal with water and rock types is a pretty basic strategy… Though you're not wrong about it being expensive."
"Yes, I suppose it was a bit conceited of me to think I could win with a barely-trained Pokémon." Ryan stepped past them, going for the seats near the stage, and the rest of them followed. "I don't suppose you'd have had some way to deal with that ponyta, Miss Rose?"
The teenager shook her head. "No, I think I'd have done about the same. Maybe ekans could have hid in the fake bushes… but then it'd have gotten burned out, probably." She strode forward to give the older grunt a knock on the shoulder. "It was just a really strong Pokémon. Nothing to do about it but train up."
The blond sighed. "I suppose…"
The five of them were shortly joined by a few other grunts, including Black, and there was some back-and-forth about whether it was sportsmanlike to bring disk moves – TM moves, I'm a trainer now, I should use the proper name – to such a low-power tournament.
"Yeah, it's usually one of the old hands who takes it," Black commiserated. "The suits get their positions through either money or power, so they've got an advantage over us grunts."
"Sometimes one of the science guys wins, though," another grunt broke in. "I remember one of them got through three in a row with the same drowzee, just putting everything to sleep."
"Yeah, then half the executives showed up with mankey! Hah!"
"That wasn't just some guy, man, that was the other Professor." The black-clad man shivered. "Gives me the fucking creeps."
"Oh, come on," countered a woman. "That's a hurtful stereotype. Drowzee are perfectly normal Pokémon!"
"You're only saying that 'cause you have one of them…"
The light banter continued, and as before Hoshi stayed mostly silent. Even with his brief nap, the day's adrenaline rush was getting to him. You wouldn't think ordering something else around would be tiring, but I feel like I ran a marathon. The walk home was going to be brutal with the heat.
"Yo, Suit," came a voice directed his way, forcing him to perk up. "You even listening?"
Hoshi's nostrils flared. "Sorry, feeling a bit out of it. First real battles, you know?"
Black laughed, the sound sharp. "Suppose I do, though that was a while ago for me. You did pretty good out there, by the way."
"…Thanks. And it's Hoshi."
Another laugh, and some of his coworkers joined in. "That's so old fashioned!"
"This coming from the guy named Black," he grumbled.
Puce looked away. "Way better than Puke, though…"
"Or Nerd!"
"Or Menard!"
The crowd turned Moony's way, and Hoshi opened his mouth. "That's your name name, dude."
"Yeah, but it sucks. My parents should have picked something cool!"
A bolt of amusement went through Hoshi's side, but before he could take the opening to roast the man a deep, feminine voice rang out from the stage.
"Sorry for the delay, ladies and gentlemen!"
"Somehow we keep misplacing Meowth's hat…"
"Meow."
"Anyway! This one's run a bit long, and we all have other things to do today!"
"So without further ado, let's present the prize already!"
The two gestured. "Come on up, Rocket Executive Quirius!"
The elderly man plodded his way up the stairs, and soon he was in the spotlight. Dabi stepped forward, and spoke for the first time since ascending the stage.
"I present to you my latest and greatest masterpiece: a fully evolved machoke, a machamp, one of the strongest Pokémon on the planet."
It wasn't just his body language; he spoke differently, too. Though it was still the same voice Hoshi knew, the man's tone had gone from quaking to rock solid, almost arrogant.
The machamp struck a pose, its muscles bulging, its four arms held at different angles to show off each in a different light.
"Thank you, Professor," Quirius stated, none of the drawling tones he had told his long story in present. "I'll make good use of him."
"Her," Dabi corrected.
"Ah, pardon. Does she have a name?"
"I knew I would be giving this specimen away, so I did not name it. Feel free to choose one for her, if you wish."
"Hm…" The old man walked deeper onto the stage, approaching the Pokémon. Contrasted against a human figure, the machamp looked even more monstrously top-heavy, its atavistic proportions causing it to resemble a lizard even more than its pre-evolutions.
It had a beak, pale yellow against grey-blue scales fine enough to pass for bare skin, and three red frills along the top of its head. A ribbon of dark envy twined itself around Hoshi's skull as the tournament's winner inspected his prize.
I could have won, came a voice that was immediately smothered by no I couldn't. That ponyta was a menace; it would have jumped up and smashed Zubat right out of the sky, with or without Solar Beam.
"I believe I'll call you Elizabeth. How do you feel about that, young lady?" Quirius extended his hand, and the machamp looked mildly confused as it mimicked him, receiving a handshake.
"Maaaaa..?" came its incredibly deep, reverberating reply.
The Rocket Executives clapped, and the rest of them took the cue to join in.
"I'm sure you'll have many adventures from now on!" said James.
"Usually this is where we would have a speech…" Jessie paused. "But you already got one, so we're giving it to the Professor! Professor?"
Dabi nodded. "I'm sure that everyone in this room can see the potential of this Pokémon – and by extension, the potential that Team Rocket has unlocked." He pushed his glasses up by the bridge. "Now that I have unlocked the secret of this species' final evolution, we are one step closer to our ultimate goals." Then suddenly his voice raised, and Hoshi rocked back slightly in his seat – not at the noise itself, but at Dabi Mokusen raising his voice. "But this is only the beginning! My fellow Professor is close to unlocking the secrets of alakazam, with gengar close behind."
Jessie broke in, "And of course, Rocket has had golem from the start, thanks to our illustrious boss!"
"I don't think that's what the word means, Jessie…"
Dabi's face scrunched, the scientist obviously annoyed at the interruption. "Yes, quite. As I was saying, with these Pokémon Rocket's ascendancy is all but assured." His head turned, and again Hoshi got the feeling he was being stared at – but this time, it probably isn't just in my head. "Assuming our agents are up to the task of wielding said Pokémon. I had my doubts, but today has… put them to rest, somewhat." From one of his oversized labcoat pockets he drew a ball – a standard Poké Ball, not a Rocket Ball. "Here is… Elizabeth's ball, Executive. I'm sure she'll be quite pleased with such a skilled trainer, though I'd suggest coming down to my lab for a full briefing on care instructions. At your leisure, of course."
Quirius accepted the ball with a shallow bow. "Of course, of course. I'm not too familiar with fighting type Pokémon – hmm, I'll have to get some helpers…" His voice began to trail off. "Maybe poach a few Blackbelts from saffron… Ah, but I'll do my thinking later. Elizabeth, return!" The red laser shot out, engulfing the human-sized Pokémon and sucking it in.
James clapped again, just once. "And with that, the festivities are concluded!"
"There will be a selection of refreshments before you go – remember to tip your waiter!"
"Meow."
"Oh, right. And if our delightfully precocious rookies could come backstage, we'd appreciate it!"
"That means now, you five!"
The two posed for a final time. "Team Rocket, blasting off again!"
Smoke enveloped the stage, and when it dissipated only Dabi was left, coughing into his sleeve.
