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Ch. 1: Scotty Doesn't Know
  • Homestar!

    Mikeposter/Galaxy-Brainer
    Location
    NorCal
    Pronouns
    He/Him
    Partners
    1. nidoqueen
    The Loser Cover Art 600x900.png

    Synopsis:
    Sometimes, people do drastic things to make changes in their life. For Mike, who has been struggling with obesity since he was a child, that change was training. He sets off for Unova and hopes that a life of hiking, fighting, and roughing it will finally let him realize his dream.

    The Loser is a "Man vs. Self" story, with a heavy emphasis on Mike and his personal struggles.

    It also tries to follows four personal rules:
    1: No Heroes
    2: No Villains
    3: No Myths
    4: No Death

    [CW: Language, violence, sexual themes, and explorations of mental & physical health.]
    Thanks for asking! Personally, I can take it, so serve up whatever constructive criticism you like!

    Though I do offer this challenge/caveat: I would like you to do your best to pair your critique with possible suggestions or solutions! Sometimes you can't put your finger on the issue, and that's fine; this isn't a hard-and-fast rule, just a challenge.

    I'd also prefer a semi-professional tone within your review. If you don't like my work, that's absolute fine, and I ask that you express that. However, taking up a dismissive/snide/sarcastic/rude tone within your review really doesn't help your case. That being said, please feel free to have fun with it!

    For the sake of reducing clutter, I would prefer spelling/grammar/line-by-line/general editing notes within Spoiler Tags.

    The above was last updated 5/3/2021.
    5/13/21:
    After a lot of thought, and ironing out exactly what I want this to be and where I want it to go, I've put up what I hope is the definitive final version of Chapter 1. The remaining chapters will be receiving similar rewrites/edits, but exponentially less and less. Chapters 1, 2, and 3 felt like they were stitched together, and hopefully I've rectified that a bit.

    4/27/21:
    Thanks to lots of critiques from various sources (most influentially @WildBoots, thank you!), I have re-sculpted the first three chapters. Notably:
    • Chapter 1:
      • Scott gets more focus, outlining his character, goals, and motives
      • General smoothing of pace​
      • General re-centering of P.O.V.​
    • Chapter 2:
      • Very heavy trimming and edits all around for pace and content, including
        • Removal of most of Juniper's introductory speech and surrounding fluff​
        • The complete restructuring of Juniper and Mike's discussion about starters, weaving it into the introduction of the starters themselves​
        • Trimming of many smaller, unnecessary moments​
      • Stronger focus on Mike's motives for starter selection​
      • Renaming the chapter to maintain an air of mystery​
    • Chapter 3:
      • Arguably the most important change: Addition of a completely new, 3k+ word passage focusing on the problems with Litwicks and Robin specifically​
      • Trimming the fat​
      • Editing and tweaks for continuity​
      • Ironing in of sapience levels for some of the Pokémon shown​
    • Chapter 4:
      • Trimming the fat​
      • Edits and tweaks to reflect continuity​
    4/28/21: Continuing with the trend (and this time thanks to @RisingDawn) we're changing things and chipping away imperfections.
    • Chapter 5:
      • Removed a bunch of 'show' from the beginning and shoved in some 'tell.' There's a whole battle sequence now!​
      • Justin's desires for rare Pokémon have been elaborated, as was Mike's split-second decision to catch a Pokémon.​

    9/6/21: This is the finalization of Ch. 1 edits. Outside of grammar/typo fixing, Ch. 1 should not change again! This also marks the day I sat down, churned out the AO3 and FFN updates, and homogenized the story across all platforms.
    • Chapter 1:
      • Added a little lore blurb as part of Scott's introduction; Removed the 'dinner scene'/loredump; added a tiny transition before the 'gift.'​

    The Loser is a “Man vs. Self” story set in my own interpretation of the Pokémon world. It has a heavy focus on our main character (Mike), a 23-year-old man struggling with obesity and some undiagnosed mental issues.

    I’ve written this preface to answer some frequently asked questions. If you don’t want spoilers, stop reading this preface!

    Q: What is [thing]?
    A: This is the general format for one of my most frequently asked questions. Much like real life, things exist within the world of TL outside of the focus of the story, and passing reference may be made to those things without explaining them. The most common reason for a lack of direct explanation is that Mike already knows what that is.

    If you want to know more about this world, you’ll have to keep reading! I promise that I do explain things given time. I personally love reading that style of fiction, and I do my best to emulate it here.

    For real: past this point, answered questions will begin to spoil the plot and ruin the fun.

    Q:
    You make reference to real-world locations; how does the world of TL mesh with ours?
    A: TL takes place using (roughly) our real-life globe. Regions are superimposed over their closest real-life counterparts. To capture the scale of Unova I desired to use, this actually superimposes it over a heavily terraformed slice of southern New Jersey, most of Delaware, and eastern Maryland.

    Q: What does the political sphere of TL look like in comparison to our own? What about world conflicts? How does [Country A] get along with [Country B]?
    A: This story is not concerned with that. For all intents and purposes, imagine that the nations of TL achieved world peace (save the occasional renegade ‘villainous team’).

    Q: Alright, that’s fair, but what about Unova? What are the politics and economics of the region?
    A: Again, this story isn’t concerned with the wider political spectrum. However, I have imagined Unova as practicing a semi-perfected form of Democratic Socialism. Prices are low and necessary services are free/cheap because taxes on the wealthy are high and war is nonexistent. Poverty is near-zero. Fossil fuels serve only niche uses. Pokémon training is one of the remaining “bastions” of Capitalism, however a region’s badges serve a similar purpose to degrees and certificates with regards to careers focused on Pokémon handling.

    That being said, the politics of Pokémon Training will be discussed in much, much later plot arcs.

    Q: What is the deal with Pokémon sentience in TL?
    A: Here’s my process: If the Pokémon isn’t a Psychic-type or a Ghost-type, and it’s based off of an animal, I (kinda-sorta) split the difference between that animal and a five-year-old child.

    With training comes an awakening of a Pokémon’s abilities and intelligence. I have decided that one of the defining lines between Pokémon and regular animals is an instinct — if not an inherent desire — for human domestication.

    Wild Pokémon are naturally more feral and less intelligent. Without human interaction, a Basculin is (basically) just a big fish; a Patrat is (basically) just a prairie dog; a Nidoran is (basically) just a rabbit.

    Feral Pokémon can be (and are) hunted and harvested for food quite often. They are also domesticated for food. Miltank are raised for milk, and likewise Bouffalant for beef.

    However, if one takes the time and effort to train a Miltank or Bouffalant, they will wind up with a very clever pet cow. But probably not much more than that.

    As a rule of thumb: the more training a Pokémon has received, and the more times it has evolved, the smarter it is.

    TL, due to how and where it starts, presents the reader with a wealth of clever-ish, smart-ish Pokémon, so this question is the one most-often raised. Because of this — and because this topic very much interests me — I am most keen on clearing the air with regards to this question.

    tl;dr: They’re whatever their animal counterpart is in the wild, except they react very well to human domestication — especially training. They are hunted and eaten by humans. They hunt and eat each other. They are domesticated and raised for primary or secondary foods. They can also be trained.

    Q: So what about Psychics and Ghosts?
    A: Psychics (for the most part) track with humans at their base stages. They do grow and learn much faster. As they evolve, their potential for higher and higher intellect increases. In the wild, they will still be smart, but this is shown instinctually as opposed to purposefully.

    Ghosts, similarly, are about as clever as humans at their base stages (again, for the most part). They aren’t as smart as Psychic types, but they can achieve human-esque intellect at later stages and with training.

    Q: What about animals?
    A: In general, the lower they are on the food chain, the more common real-life animals are. Very small living things still exist in vast quantities. Prey animals still exist in vast quantities. The higher up the food chain we go, the fewer and fewer real-life animals exist. This is due to being outmuscled by Pokémon in that same niche. There are more rats and mice than there are Rattata; There are no lions, tigers, or bears.


    Chapter 1
    Scotty Doesn't Know


    "Here, lemme get it," Mike offered. Scott moved aside with a grumble of thanks. Mike lifted the door to his soon-to-be-former apartment by the knob and threw his shoulder hard against it. It relented, swinging open with a bang.

    "Sick of shit like that, man. Fuckin' trainers." Scott's words had a ring of finality to them as he entered the semi-empty abode. Mike had noticed that his friend was in quite the mood, having become more and more heated on the drive from the airport. Today was the first time Mike had seen his best friend in the flesh in nearly five years. He quite enjoyed Scott’s gossip regularly; it was one of the ways Mike lived vicariously through him. But now, after an hour or so in the car, and with no end in sight, he wished that Scott would ask him about his life. Especially his newest project.

    Instead, Scott was finishing yet another diatribe about some trainer or other who decided to lie, or run, or fight. Or, at least, Mike hoped he was finishing it.

    "I hear you, Scott," Mike replied. "Glad I never was one before." He watched Scott's reaction to his emphasis.

    "Yeah, I can't imagine having to issue you a ticket." Yet again the intention seemed to miss. Scott moved to the only remaining true seating in the room — a very old, threadbare sofa — and sank into it. Mike went to stow the six-pack they'd bought in his bare fridge. He hadn't skimped out today, despite the usual rigor he’d applied to his new diet; he and Scott would drink full-strength, full-calorie beer the way Arceus intended.

    Though the idea still looped a coil of anxiety around his chest. While Scott had only grown up in their time apart, Mike had grown out. He had always been fat, but college wasn’t kind to his physique. A moment of reckoning had sent Mike down a rabbit hole, and on the other end of a week of absorbing every scientific, informative, or opinionated article about dieting, he found a solution that worked for him: count every single calorie. And from that solution came more questions, more education, and finally, a conclusion.

    "Damn, girl, you live like this?" Scott's joke from the other room made Mike's mind up: Scott had absolutely no idea. And yet—

    "It's as good as I'll get for a few months." Mike couldn't help drawing out the game. The whole affair was now completely ridiculous to him; Scott had to know. Mike's social media presence had been completely relentless: Photos, videos, live feeds, the works. He pulled two cans from the six-pack and returned to the living room.

    “So, fuckin’— alright, first things first: alcohol.” Scott held up his hands and Mike tossed him a beer. “Shotguns?”

    Mike gave a low, vaguely anxious — but very excited — chortle. He was suddenly a little more okay with listening to a few more stories. Scott hopped back to his feet and joined him on the kitchen tile. After a race to the bottom of their beer cans, each was surprised with how clean the other remained. Mike guessed the Wardens must party as hard as the frat boys did at Sac State.

    “Fuck,” Scott belched out, “Okay, lemme get a sippin’ beer, and I gotta tell you about this snot from Juniper’s fucking summer batch.”

    They each helped themselves to another can and made their way back to the living room. Mike pulled a large, sturdy box across the room for them to use as a footrest, then found another as a seat for himself.

    “I thought you were way up north?” Mike asked as he imagined Unova in his head, trying to find the right name. Scott had said it once, and he’d been studying the region for weeks now. “Like, Route 23?”

    “Bingo, but I picked up some hours so I could take this trip,” Scott explained. “The Wardens always get stretched thin when one of the lab’s programs fuckin’ lets loose. We go down to make sure nobody dies for a week or so. Mostly it’s a lot of sittin’ around and gettin’ hit on by the older greenhorns.” Scott leaned forward and brandished a finger as he continued, “But there’s always one mother-fucker who has to make us actually work.”

    “I long to be said mother-fucker,” Mike replied wistfully. Not his best hint, but it still felt like one. “Tell me their secrets.”

    “A’ight, step one: be rich.”

    “Tell me there are more steps,” Mike faux-pleaded. “The Mothims in my wallet have their own EBT cards.”

    “Step two,” Scott continued with a grin, “decide that you just wanna be a trainer for shits and giggles. Mommy and daddy will pay for it all, and you can always go home.”

    A pang shot through Mike. He now felt one for three when it came to being ‘that mother-fucker.’

    “Well, Mom and Dad cut me off just last month,” Mike shrugged, hoping Scott was too absorbed to notice his anxiety. “Guess I ain’t stacking up too well.”

    “Good,” Scott replied, taking a huge pull from his beer. “Anyways, Richy Rich here has shown up to just the end of the program, his own starter in tow, dressed in designer fuckin’ everything, top-of-the-line item balls in a backpack that itself probably has a fuckin’ certificate of authenticity, but: He hasn’t learned fucking anything about camping.”

    “Whaaat?” Mike drawled. Scott nodded enthusiastically. “The basic shit ain’t hard. Boil your water, burn your scraps, bury your shit.”

    “I guaran-fuckin’-tee that he has someone wipe his ass at home,” Scott deadpanned. Mike chortled at the idea. “So he hits Route 3, the first big one, and he’s like halfway through it and sends out a distress signal on his ‘dex. I roll up and there he is, sobbing, covered in dirt for the first time in his life, and he’s upset because his Charmander — his fucking shiny Charmander, I should note — has eaten his Patrat.”

    “What the fuck!?” Mike coughed out, choking on his sip. That was a new one.

    “Yeah, the kid’s a vegetarian,” Scott explained, “and turns out that the Charmander had gone three whole days without proper food. He had caught the Patrat earlier that afternoon. When Richy Rich let his little team out for dinner, Charmander finally got to have dinner.”

    “How does that shit happen?” Mike shook his head.

    “People just sign up for the survival kit and the starter, have someone else take the test,” Scott sighed. “The system’s fucked. It’s the glamour and glitz, it sucks people in. Now that Charmander’s with some rehabbers, the kid’ll get slapped with some charges, but you know what? That autumn batch from Juniper is gonna have some moron who’s just as fucked. Mark my words.”

    “I certainly hope it’s not that bad,” Mike shrugged, “I mean, I’ll—”

    "I'm not really changing shit, you know?” Scott pivoted suddenly, pulling himself up and moving to the kitchen. Obviously, something was still gnawing at Mike’s friend. “I patrol routes and ref battles and play babysitter to fuckers like Richy Rich, and where is it getting me? What's it doing for the Region? Or the system?

    “I joined up after the Plasma shit to fix shit like Plasma,” Scott continued, cracking open his third beer. He fell back into the couch, and — miraculously — not a drop spilled from his beer. “Terrorists, massive cults, crime syndicates, fuck, I’d even settle for some poachers at this point."

    "So quit!" Mike shot at him.

    "And do what," Scott shot back, "Be a fuckin’ Gym Leader? Go back to the circuit and get my eight?"

    "Sure!” Mike hunched over, clutching dramatically in mid-air. “Join me, and you can complete my training," he paraphrased in as deep of a growl as he could muster. "With our combined strength, we—"

    "Alright," Scott spoke, throwing his hands up, "I give up. Something's going on. Join you?"

    "Yes!"

    "Mike, you've been talking like you're gonna..." Scott faltered, looking around the barren apartment they were in. "Do... the... trainer thing?"

    "Hell yeah, mother-fucker!" Mike smiled like an idiot. He'd been waiting all day to get any sort of response from his friend. Scott, however, didn't do much more than narrow his eyes.

    "Bouffa-shit," Scott finally spoke.

    "What?"

    "I officially call B.S.” Scott fished out his wallet and tossed a bill on the table. “Twenty bucks says you're full of it.”

    Mike grinned, fished out a twenty for the pot, and wordlessly returned to the kitchen. He found some thick parchment envelopes on top of the fridge and brought them back to his friend, whose eyes widened. Mike handed them over with one hand, scooping up the bills with the other.

    Scott made no protest as he opened the first letter and began to read…


    Dear Michael Tapersson,

    Congratulations! Based on your independent class and/or course grades, and your lab-specific preliminary test results, we here at Juniper Laboratories, Inc. are excited to offer you a position in our Training Program™! Included in this program will be one of our very own hand-raised Starters™, maybe even a Snivy, Tepig, or Oshawott!

    Program:
    A.C.E. TRAINER'S PROGRAM - AUTUMN 2020

    Orientation Location:
    JUNIPER LABS, INC., 1000 JUNIPER STREET
    NUVEMA TOWN, UNOVA, R-001-USA


    Orientation Date and Time:
    MONDAY, AUGUST 17th, 2020
    9:00 AM EST


    See the enclosed paperwork (or attached .PDF file) for our full terms and conditions. You will need to fill out, sign, and turn in these forms no later than the Friday before your class begins. Please bring your own personal supplies (see included/attached SURVIVAL CHECKLIST for mandatory and suggested items), and any extra items as you see fit. We will include a small selection of Pokémon care items (see included/attached POKÉMON SURVIVAL KIT CONTENTS) but encourage you to supplement that list after you obtain your Starter™ Pokémon.

    "The moment you choose the Pokémon that will accompany you on your journey, your story will truly begin. During your journey, you will meet many Pokémon and people with different personalities and points of view! I really hope you find what is important to you in all of these travels… That's right! Befriend new people and Pokémon and grow as a person! That is the most important goal for your journey! Let's go visit the world of Pokémon!"

    - Professor Aurea Juniper, Ph.D.


    Damn.” Scott rubbed his beard, looking over the letter again. “I wasn’t even an Ace.”

    “I'm also a grown-ass man," Mike chided. Scott nodded. "Honestly, I think it’s ceremonial. I mentioned in my essay that I wanted a Tepig, and apparently, she really liked what I had to say.”

    “Is that this one?” Scott waved the next envelope, and Mike gave a quick nod. “What do you mean ceremonial?”

    “Well, I ain’t goin’ back to school,” Mike smirked. “I get a better choice of starters and maybe a discount card or some shit?”

    “It’ll be good on a resumé,” Scott replied, already nose-deep in the next letter…


    Dear Mr. Tapperson,

    Your test results were fantastic. Are you sure you haven't trained before? Since you're also an older trainer, I've gone ahead and placed you in the A.C.E. trainer program.

    While it seems like you’ve concluded your schooling, A.C.E. trainer status still has some benefits. The most important will be access to three specialty starters, and some other goodies we can cover in person. I usually have a one-on-one with everyone in that program to go over such matters.

    Unfortunately, to make sure we get time to have our talk, I have rigged the raffle a little bit. You will be the first to pick your starter on day two. Hopefully, the Tepig will still be available, but they usually go like hotcakes and we've only got one this quarter.

    And yes, I do read those essays. We'll talk about your particular challenges, too. I'm sure I've seen trainers heavier-set than you climbing mountains. By the time you hit Victory Road, you'll at least be strong.

    In summary: A.C.E. program, personal meeting, #1 on Day #2, only one 'Pig, don't be a quitter.

    See you soon!


    - Prof. Aurea Juniper, Ph.D.



    "Wow. You are serious."

    Mike no longer tried to hide his pride, kicking his feet up on a packed box and flashing his pearly whites. He accepted the documents back, giving the personal letter from the Professor another quick once-over.

    "Congrats, Mike," Scott said, more to his drink than anything else. Today was the first time Mike had seen his best friend in the flesh in nearly five years. They had both grown up, but only Mike had grown out. He thought he had felt Scott’s barely hidden judgment from the moment he'd picked him up at the airport. Now, though, for the first time since he loaded up his friend’s luggage, he didn't feel it.

    Scott finally looked up, a little bewildered.

    "That explains…” Scott gestured vaguely at the part-empty, part-packed apartment, "this." He and Mike shared a chuckle. "So that's, like, two weeks from now. How are you gonna get to Unova?"

    "What, you can't fly me? What happened to Alto? I'll fuckin' ride a Swablu." Mike began to pantomime saddling up onto a tiny bird, adding indignant trilling whistles as he went. Scott nearly snorted beer out of his nose when Mike gave a loud squawk and slammed back down onto his box-seat. As it was, Scott still wound up soaking his beard.

    "She evolved, finally," Scott coughed out, mopping his face. "She could take one of us, sure, but not both. Not to mention they’re all at a daycare for a few days.”

    "Ah, three-person limit," Mike slapped his gut. Scott's humor was suddenly gone. Mike pretended not to notice and opened another beer.

    "Wanna smoke?" He jerked his head towards a box marked 'DEFINITELY NOT DRUGS,’ which definitely had a small plastic bag of dried greenery on top. Scott hesitated, then shook his head.

    "If you were a trainer, I could arrest you for that, you know."

    "Not in Cali, you can't!"

    "That passed?"

    "Yeah, baby, like a year— two years…? A year ago." Mike reached instinctively for his phone but decided being right wasn't necessary.

    "Nice. But they still test us Wardens up there."

    "Damn, really? Those poor kids. Do you want people to huff Koffing? Because that's how you get people to huff Koffing." This at least got a smirk from Scott, but only a small one. "Damn, Scotty. Tough crowd tonight, huh?"

    "I've got a lot on my mind. More now."

    "You and I both. You first."

    "Well, I came home because I needed to get away from trainer shit for a bit. And I wanna see what’s up with these region rumors going around. And to see my best friend, who I've known since the womb, for a drink.”

    L'chaim,” Mike toasted. Scott hesitated before begrudgingly following suit. They both took deep, long drinks.

    “And— fuck me, not only is this trainer shit, but also my best friend is gonna kick rocks right when I think about coming home."

    Mike reached over and tenderly took Scott's hand, fluttering his best Deerling eyes.

    "Why, I do declare," Mike mocked. Scott rolled his eyes and jerked his hand away.

    "Didn't I tell you I'm—"

    "Ace isn't aromantic, you pig, now love me."

    "Mike. Please. Ease off the jokes for, like, five minutes." Mike opened his mouth to retort, but his brain caught up with it and stopped him.

    "Mike," Scott finally spoke, "when are you gonna grow up?"

    Mike froze. Coils tightened in his chest. His stomach hit the floor. Scott recovered first, and did so quickly:

    "Fuck, I'm sorry, that—"

    "No, no, it's—"

    "didn't come out right at all, I—"

    "alright, it's…"

    "mean, if you're serious… this is—"

    "Huge."

    "Huge."

    "What I meant," Scott started after a moment. Mike watched him think his words out, ignoring the anxiety that wrapped ever tighter around him. It was all he could do to stop himself from running away. Or yelling. Monologues tried to prize their way into his head, rapid-fire, but every thought he stopped as hard as he could by focusing. Being there. Listening.

    "I have known you a long, long time, Mike. Since we were little. You have always wanted to do everything, and be the best at everything, but you…" Scott paused, something processing behind his eyes that Mike couldn't fathom.

    "Fuck, man, you never really committed to any of it. You would get so good, so quick, at whatever you picked up. And I envied that. Then you’d just— you’d fuckin’ drop it outta nowhere. I had to work so hard to do in a month what you could do in a week…

    "And…"

    "... And?" Mike shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Scott offered no answer. "And I… never stuck with it? What?"

    "This isn't gonna be a fucking game!" Mike felt Scott slip into something other than being a best friend. This wasn’t a conversation anymore. "You're not going to be able to save and turn it off. You'll be toughing it out in shit weather for weeks on end. You'll have to forage and hunt, or else pack and pay out the nose for it. Both, usually. And with a half-dozen Pokémon, for God's sakes. Living beings!

    “Damn, Scott,” Mike replied, recoiling as his anxiety coiled ever tighter. “Where is this coming from?”

    “Do you know how often I’ve had to drag some moron out of a route, or a cave, or even a fucking center because they decided to just up and quit? This is a commitment. You’re not making just friends, or keeping pets; training is a whole new ball game—”

    “Hey, look, I know that,” Mike tried to cut in, “I’m not gonna—”

    “How long were you interested in hookah? A month?” Scott’s fervor was growing. Mike felt guilt pang through him. “Yo-yo tricks? Maybe six weeks. Football, remember the flag football league we did? How much you loved it? How you were gonna ‘drop the weight and be a football star!’ Fuckin’ A, man…”

    “I get it, okay, I hear you—” Mike's voice cracked. He felt his cheeks flush with anger and pain. Something was wrong. This wasn’t how he expected things to go tonight. Why was Scott so mad at him for this?

    “Most ‘mons aren’t even gonna be able to shit outside of your tent until you focus and give them some training, real honest-to-god work, and then they can’t just go back when you get bored!”

    Mike didn't speak. He couldn't speak. He had answers, but even now in the bitter silence, he could see his friend was poised to retort. Instead, he very gently put his beer down on the floor, pushed himself off the chair, and moved to the closet. Mike didn’t know what else to do except to prove, once and for all, exactly how serious he was. He let the silence hang for ages as he searched for his evidence.

    “You expect to keep up with a full team when you’ve quit how many diets?

    Mike returned and stood silently in front of his friend, holding a lockbox in his hands. A line had now been crossed, and Mike was biting his tongue to hold back tears. A key ring came out of his pocket and the box opened. He turned it to face Scott, whose eyes widened. Inside Mike knew what his friend was greeted with: an untarnished trainer ID card; several opened envelopes with governmental-looking typefaces; a few other carefully folded papers and receipts; and several large stacks of cash.

    Scott reached for the green metal card, which had 'MICHAEL TAPERSSON' etched into the top corner in thin text. LCD panels for displaying various values lay dormant beneath. Mike didn't avert his gaze from Scott’s face as his friend popped the badge compartment open. An ID number was also etched into the back of the metal, and eight uniform slots beneath waited to be filled.

    "That's from my car," Mike spoke quietly as he reached around to point to a bill of sale, "that's from my trading card collection." A handwritten receipt and cashed check. "All my glass and my bed made up that stack, this one is mostly savings and furniture, and this…"

    Mike waited. Scott finally looked up from examining the ID card and was greeted by a particularly rude gesture. "Is for you."

    "Why the fuck would you sell—" Scott muttered.

    "I know this isn’t a game. Something is different this time, and this—”

    "But why now? You're twenty-three!"

    "So are you! What does that ha—”

    "I've been doing it for a decade!” Scott rose from the sofa and, even with his slight frame, he filled the room. “I put in my time and it paid off. You can't expect to jump in and make this your life!"

    Mike blinked. Scott opened his mouth to reply, anger plain on his face, but Mike’s blatant confusion seemed to suck the energy from him.

    "Scott?” Mike asked gently, “Do you think I want this to be my job?"

    "What else am I supposed to think? You jump to come and get me from the airport and then spring this on me. I'm the only one who could do it out of anyone we knew, and—"

    "Fuck me, you really haven’t seen anything, have you?" Mike immediately dug his phone out of his pocket and pulled up his latest blog post. He shouldered up to Scott and turned his phone’s screen as a short, looping video loaded:

    A hand turned a green metal card back and forth. It caught the light and swept a reflection across itself. Beneath the .gif was a long string of text:


    Hey everyone! Nice to see some new followers!

    It's official! Yours truly passed the trainer exam with flying colors and turns out I'm not a master criminal (background check came back clean). It's insane to think I never did this as a kid. All that studying would have been right up my alley. We leave in a week! Get HYYYYPE!



    Scott took the phone and his brow furrowed. He scrolled through the small wall of hashtags to another post: a picture of a plane ticket with several thick artificial lines sloppily drawn through important information. Then a picture of a backpack next to various bits of survival gear, all meticulously organized and thrown through a black-and-white filter. A picture of Mike's old car, where the two had gotten stoned too many times to count when Scott had taken a year off between training and joining the Wardens.

    Scott finally found the first post and clicked play on a video of Mike's face. It was about a month old.


    "Okay, so, uh, hi everyone. This is Mike. I've, ah… I've had enough. If you know me, you know I've been fat since… forever. And it sucks. It really sucks. I've tried a million different things and it has never, ever stuck.

    But I can't do this anymore. So welcome to… Whatever this is? I don't know. We'll think of a name. But I need, like… I need to be held accountable, somehow? And I need something to really, really change.

    So that first part is where you come in! I'm going to be making weekly… Daily? Ehhhh weekly posts here, about what I'm up to and what I'm doing, which is gonna be training! I'm gonna do the Pokémon trainer thing, finally. I mean, what better way to lose weight, right? Living in the wilderness, hiking everywhere, wrangling some monsters... Sounds like a workout, right?

    So if you wanna keep in the loop, go ahead and follow me here and at hashtag 'The Loser Project', and let me know what you think! I'm trying to decide which region to go to, but I have always wanted to visit Unova. Here’s looking at you, Scotty!

    Yeah, so, uh… Stay tuned!"



    "I’ve missed a lot, huh?” Scott muttered. He scrolled back up in silence, pausing here and there, skimming this or chuckling at that. Then he looked at Mike.

    “You look different," he said. He scrolled back to the original video. "Mike, you started already, yeah?" Scott then really sized Mike up.

    "Yeah, mostly incline treadmill and calorie counting,” Mike replied. He thumbed over his shoulder to a gym bag unceremoniously discarded by the door. “I've been breaking in some hiking boots and a pair of Running Shoes, too."

    Scott's face seemed to go through several different little changes. Mike could almost feel him unwinding the misunderstanding in his head.

    "So this isn't, like, a business venture?" Scott's question caused Mike to bark out a laugh.

    "No! I'm not that crazy," Mike replied, "I got my degree and I'm debt-free. This is just… something I need to do. I need a break, and I need not be fat anymore. This is, like, my 'backpacking across Europe.’ But hopefully more intense. And also with more cool critters. And less, uh, me."

    Scott compared the pictures again, holding the phone side-by-side with his friend. "You look great, Mike. I hadn't even noticed." Mike smiled, and he even clocked that his paused face's smiling cheeks were suddenly too big on the screen. Rounder and puffier than what he saw in the mirror.

    "How much have you lost?" Scott asked after a moment.

    "Good question!" Mike snatched his phone, pulled in his friend, pulled up his camera, and started to record.


    "Hey everyone! Welcome back to The Loser Project! So this is Scotty, my best friend."

    "... Hi?"

    "He's a Warden, he's freshly back from Unova, ladies: he's single—”

    "Shut up, man—”

    "And he asked me a great question! I don't think I've actually posted any news about specifics yet! So I was, like, 378 pounds in my first video— act less surprised, you're my best friend."

    "Sorry!"

    "But I also started hiking around and eating less and stuff that day, because I'm gonna be hiking everywhere and, like, climbing trees for fruit and shit. So! Four weeks: how much do you think I've lost?"

    "Way to put me on the spot."

    "Guess!"

    "Uh… 15?

    "… No? 20?"

    "32 pounds as of yesterday."

    "Fuuuuuck me, really?"

    "Yeah."

    "Holy shit."

    "Just in case anyone thought I wasn't serious: there you go!"

    "Rude."

    "Anything you wanna say to my twelve whole followers?"

    "Hi, mom."

    "Hi, mom!"


    Mike dropped character and stopped the recording as the two slipped into a chuckling fit. They were both delighted the next morning to find that, after having tagged Scott, his mother indeed became a follower.

    Mike liked to think that he and Scott had grown somewhat closer after that night. He agreed with Scott's comments, even if they were painful: he had taken a long time to grow up and figure things out. Pokémon had always fascinated him, but he had been lazy. He stayed in school, coasted by on average grades, and got lucky when he got into Sacramento State. His degree in English wasn’t particularly noteworthy, and he expected his eventual teaching certificate would at least get him a job somewhere.

    Something had snapped inside of him, though. Changes were happening, and for once, dieting felt almost effortless. He had decided to take the unusual happenstance and run with it.

    Scott had told Mike that he had come home to sniff out some rumors going around. Supposedly, there was a new region forming with Sacramento, or possibly San Francisco, at its heart. Scott was on the cusp of quitting the Wardens, and possibly law enforcement as a whole, to pursue whatever might be in store closer to their home.

    Mike had invited him to crash at his place — barren though it may be — with ulterior motives; Scott's prior experience as a six-badge champ-in-the-making would be invaluable. Mike traded food, board, and rides in his parent's van for training tips, skills, and secrets.

    They went over his survival gear and made several runs to the Poké Mart outlet in the state capitol. Lots of returns and exchanges were made, which Mike would later be eternally thankful for. Gone were the MREs and wind-proof lighters, and in went much cheaper non-perishables, canned goods, spices, and a proper flint and steel. And some matches, just in case.

    An evening was spent pouring over the manual for Mike’s Trainer ID, with Scott giving him demonstrations using his own. Mike knew how to enter bet information and match outcomes from his 'Trainer Basics' summer class at the community college, but it was much easier to understand with a real example in his hands.

    A whole weekend was whiled away at a campground, with the old pro overseeing and critiquing the assembly of the newbie's tent and cooking gear. Once their camp had been set up, and their sleeping situation was sorted, Mike began to hint at his envy of Scott's well-used but well-cared-for cot.

    “Man,” he whined, kicking the corner of his bedroll, “my back always hurts on this shit. I’ve used it a few times, and I can never get comfy on it. How’re cots?”

    “Frivolous,” Scott replied. Mike couldn’t imagine how. “It’s good in the winter, but so is a Pokemon Center. Try it if you wanna.” Mike made a face and glanced down at his belly. “This one’s built sturdy, don’t worry. I buy cheap, but I don’t buy crap.”

    Mike nodded, a little relieved. Nevertheless, he eased himself slowly onto the low cot. It groaned and settled, but held firm. It was plenty wide enough — at least when he was on his side, which was how he slept anyways. It was still very firm, but smooth, and Mike enjoyed how it almost form-fit him. The fabric was warped only just from use, almost comfortably, and it smelled faintly of disinfectant and the odd synthetic twang of something stored in an item ball for too long.

    “This rocks,” Mike concluded after a few silent moments.

    “Yeah? Think you can carry it?” Scott’s question prompted Mike to sit straight up. His friend was barely hiding a grin, and Mike knew immediately where he was going with the question.

    “I mean, I’ll strap it on somehow,” Mike replied, “or make room in my item ball. Are you selling it?”

    “Can’t,” Scott shrugged, “I just gave it away to a good friend of mine.” He fished in his own bag and produced two large, matte red-and-white balls in each hand. “He’ll want these, too.”

    The item balls were also old and well-used, but considering the volume of gear Scott had produced from them, they might as well be worth their weight in gold. Mike already had one, but it was a bargain brand. It could only contain a fraction of the volume that Scott’s donations could hold. Between the three of them, he imagined that he’d only ever need to carry the things he’d be using throughout the day.

    “Dude,” Mike shook his head and tried to pass one of the spheres back, “why the hell—”

    “I’m long overdue for an upgrade,” Scott answered, waving off the balls, “and I sleep indoors most days. All this stuff was just fuckin’ sitting in storage, anyways.”

    Please let me pay you,” Mike begged. Scott laughed. “Seriously!”

    “Tell you what,” Scott replied, flopping down onto Mike’s bedroll. “‘Servant for a day.’ I need to see if you’re gonna fuckin’ die out here, anyways. Deal?”

    “Fuckin’ deal,” Mike said with a grin, “I was gonna ask for pointers, anyw—”

    “Yeah, yeah,” Scott waved him off, “get me a beer, would ya, sweet-cheeks?”

    After putting Mike through his paces, Scott claimed the next day for himself and spent it showing Mike how he would personally set up camp. They drove back into town, made some calls, and got Scott’s team into — then back out of — the storage system. Scott introduced them one at a time— or, in a few cases, re-introduced.

    "Mito!" Mike bellowed as a hulking ooze materialized. He hadn't seen a Reuniclus before but knew instantly who he was. The little eyes of the floating ‘baby’ within lit up, a tiny triangle of a smile pulling as wide as it could. There was a snap in Mike's head as if someone had connected two stubborn Legos, and a rush of exuberance filled his mind.

    It is I, the Reuniclus responded, oozing drama as his voice echoed through the two boy's minds. Mitochondria! The Powerhouse of the Team! Gelatinous, bulbous arms flexed, taking cartoonishly muscular shapes as they posed. Mike wrapped it in a hug, and his friend was just as squishy and damp as he remembered.

    "Mito missed you," Scott spoke, once the false reverberations died away from their heads, "if it wasn't perfectly clear."

    Mike noted how his friend had a little routine with each one: Scott and Mito exchanged a complicated hand-shake that sounded like he was playing a drum set made from Jell-O; He delivered an incredibly firm headbutt to a red-crested saggy lizard, the force of which set Mike's teeth on edge; Scott picked at Alto's large, downy wings, allowing the Altaria to groom him in return.

    With each new face came a new ritual, and with each one, Mike got a glimpse at some different shade of his friend. He didn’t often see this softer side; Scott was brusque, firm, even humorless at times around people. Here, though, he seemed completely in his element. Mike found himself making a plethora of little mental notes, hoping an errant thought wouldn’t scatter them as they so usually did.

    Scott's team practiced drills and showed off tricks late into the evening. He even let Mike lead a sparring match, commanding an eager-to-please Scolipede against the rest of Scott's party in turn. Mike thought he did okay, but Scott led him in 'etiquette drills' for nearly an hour afterward, citing it was the only thing he noticed that really needed fixing.

    The two practiced greetings, challenges, and salutes — especially salutes — for a few hours. They clicked two Pokéballs together countless times, trying to find the sweet spot between too timid and too strong.

    Scott spent most of the second week chasing leads and doing interviews, but he loaned out Mito and the red-crested aloof Pokémon — a Scrafty named ‘Capo’ — to keep him company and help with packing.

    In Scott’s spare time, he helped Mike clean his apartment and move his delicate belongings to his parents' house. Capo was too careless for anything too fragile (or, Mike suspected, purposefully disobedient of him), and Mito was far too clumsy.

    Sorry! Mito apologized for the third time that day. His end of the sofa had just slid out of his gooey fingers. It slammed onto the last step of the apartment complex’s cement stairs and one of the legs snapped off. Capo stood holding the other end, looking between it and Mito with what Mike assumed was indifference. It was hard for Mike to tell; the Scrafty almost always looked that way.

    “C’mon, dude,” Mike sighed from behind them on the stairs, “you have psychic powers! Please use your TK?”

    I also have arms, Mito replied, raising them up and wiggling the oblong fingers, Which is dope. I gotta break these babies in!

    “I wanna donate some of these things, you know!” Mike stooped to pick up the broken leg. It floated away from him as he grabbed at it

    Wait, wait, I can fix it! The leg drifted lazily in the air towards Mito.

    “Please do.”

    With my arms!

    The Reuniclus grabbed the leg, almost completely absorbing it in its gooey fist. The little body within flicked its own tiny arm, sending the outer spheres and appendage on a long, circular path. The bottom corner of the couch jumped up and the leg slammed into the socket with a crunch.

    Mike stared at Mito.

    Mito stared at Mike.

    Sorry.

    Capo looked at where the leg had been awkwardly jammed into the bottom of the sofa, lifted his end of it up, then slammed it hard into the sidewalk. The two couch legs on his side disappeared with a crunch. The lizard chuffed out what Mike strongly suspected was laughter

    “What the hell was that for!?” Mike asked exasperatedly. The Scrafty hissed at him and spat on the arm of the sofa. The saliva began to bubble and fume on the fabric.

    “Capo, chill,” Scott called. He was standing at the top of the stairs, guiding his Seismitoad as it carried a large tower of boxes. The Scrafty shrugged and turned away. It gave a low growl and kicked at a splinter of one of the legs on the ground.

    Why did he do that?” Mike asked no one in particular. Mito shrugged.

    I can’t read his mind, Mito replied, dark types got weird brains, yo. He lifted his side of the sofa to examine the damage. Given how only an irregular portion of the couch was raised by this, Mike concluded that he couldn’t donate it anymore.

    “Capo probably thought you were breaking it on purpose,” Scott answered. Mito flinched and giggled awkwardly, the little mouth inside of its form emitting bubbles as it did.

    “What am I getting myself into?” Mike asked, taking the topmost box from the large blue frog as it reached the bottom of the stairs.

    “Oh, this is what a developed team looks like,” Scott laughed. “Now imagine starting from scratch with wild ones.”

    Capo chittered and gurgled behind him, and there was a thwack and the sound of splintering wood.

    “Capo!” Scott and Mike rounded on the Scrafty at the same time. They harangued him, the men clearly communicating that the lizard would have to load the sofa into the dumpster by himself. This seemed to be less of a punishment than they intended, as fitting the couch into the trash required a hefty amount of wanton violence.

    They spent the last few days before Mike's departure squeezed into his old bedroom. Mike noticed that Scott was spending a lot of time hammering away emails on Mike’s old computer, or making hushed work calls that Scott insisted were for ‘Wardens only.’

    On Mike’s last night, after they finished checking and repacking Mike's survival gear, Scott took a phone call well past dinner. He insisted on borrowing the van and running into town.

    “Work emergency,” he explained. Mike pointed out the right set of keys on the hook by the door.

    “When was the last time you drove?”

    “Fuck off,” Scott smirked, snagging the worn Dragonite keychain off the hook. “There’s more to training than riding bareback.”

    “Hopefully contraception,” Mike quipped, “with that much bareback I assume there’s gonna be a bastard or two in Juniper’s—”

    “Language!” Mike’s dad bellowed from the other room. They both cringed at the reprimand, but Mike could tell his dad was picking on them more than anything. Scott slipped out the door without another word.

    Mike returned to his room and picked up a length of rope. Unable to focus on anything not immediately training-related, he set himself to work memorizing various useful knots.

    What felt like a short time later, Scott knocked on his bedroom door and let himself in. Mike looked up from a well-organized jumble of knots just as his friend pulled a small blue parcel from his jacket pocket. Mike pretended not to notice, returning to his work.

    "Mike, I wanted to, uh, apologize."

    "We're good," Mike replied, not looking up from a bowline knot he was trying very hard to memorize. "These two weeks have been more than enough of an apology. And the cot, and the balls, and—”

    "No, Mike, they haven't." Mike looked up. He couldn't decide whether to be concerned about his friend's shame or excited about the mystery in blue tissue paper he was holding. "Even after that first night here, I didn't believe you were super serious about, uh… all of this. About training. Or about losing weight. I've gotta admit, I was humoring you for the first few days. And it was, uh, fun. To relive those pre-trainer jitters, and to teach you stuff."

    "I could kinda tell," Mike said, a little sheepishly, "but I still needed to know, and you didn't teach me wrong, right?" he widened his eyes in mock panic, raising his voice, "Right?!"

    "No," Scott laughed, "no, I didn't. But I also didn't believe you, and that wasn't very cool. And I also said some... fucked up shit the first night we were here, and I really am sorry about it."

    "Water under the bridge.” Mike smiled up at him. “So you got me… What is that, a book?" Scott finally cracked a smile. "I can't read on planes, I always get sick."

    "No, not really a book," Scott replied. "We confiscate and archive a lot of stuff, and I wondered if we had one of these. They almost always get returned to their owners, but this one, uh, couldn't be." Mike pulled a face, to which Scott shrugged.

    "Anyways, you have really, really impressed me. The survival stuff and the knowledge, sure, but… Mostly because I noticed you always spent your mornings hiking before the trails got hot as balls. And you don’t clean your plates like you used to when we go out to eat…" Mike did his best to hide his pride.

    "I believe it now. I believe you now. And I also wished I had one of these when I started my journey." Scott handed over the parcel to Mike. "The Wardens insisted I say it was from all of them… Mike. You deserve this. You've earned it."

    Mike gently pulled the tape away from one side and unwrapped the tissue, revealing what looked like a new, black leather phone case. It was too heavy to be empty, so he popped it open to reveal the top of what appeared to be a thick, black cell phone. He pulled it out and almost bellowed in delight. His shocked silence was only maintained with extraordinary restraint.

    "Fuck you, no way!" Mike finally hissed, "you did not get me a fuckin' Pokédex!"

    "Yeah, man. I couldn't believe it, either." Mike was examining every inch of the device. There were barely any blemishes or scratches, the screen protector was in good shape, and it was authentic — as far as he could tell. He went to depress the large white button on the front, but a noise from Scott stopped him.

    "Nonono, It needs to go straight to Juniper. Seriously, don't fuck with it until she can format it." Mike nodded, wide-eyed. "Last thing we need is whoever used to own it suddenly showing up across the country. I mean, in Unova, we'd know. But any law enforcement around here might freak."

    Mike immediately proceeded to delicately examine the 'dex with the tips of his fingers, making a show of it. As if somehow, any second, it could explode into a million pieces.

    "They actually put one of those plastic tab things in the battery compartment, so, like, not that gentle, moron. But... yeah,” Scott knelt down to look over the device with his friend.

    “So it’ll handle TMs and HMs for you, no extra machine or centers required,” Scott pointed to the top, where a thin mini-disc drive was visible. “It’s always got service on a route, or in any sorta sanctioned landmark. It’ll automatically register new catches, let you do nicknames, and handle your excess catches if you make any. Its data on wild and caught stuff is gonna be a lot better than internet junk once you reset it from ‘most popular’ to ‘scientific.’ If anyone else has a 'dex nearby you can do trades on the fly. Maps and GPS, of course. I think you can put music and videos on it now? Yeah, there’s the headphone jack. Oh, and it—”

    Mike slipped the Pokédex back into the case, snapped the lid shut, and tried to force Scott to take it back. His friend withdrew immediately, throwing his hands up.

    "Scott, no, this is too much," Mike insisted.

    "Hey, if it makes you feel better, say it was a gift from the Route Wardens. But it's yours."

    "These things, they're, like, for VIPs and researchers and shit, I can't—"

    "And Aces,” Scott pointed out. Mike didn’t know that, but it immediately made him feel much better about the gift. “Mike, seriously. It's nothing. Usually, we just give them back to the Lab, but I've been pulling strings all week and they made an exception."

    "Wait, how many people were involved with this?"

    "Well," Scott thought for a moment, "the Wardens, the surviving family, and Juniper. Who thought me giving it to you was, and I quote, 'much more lovely' than anyone else doing it."

    "Aw, she ships us," Mike cooed. Scott returned the finger so graciously given two weeks ago. "This comes with a favor, doesn't it?" His question was met with a smile.

    “I wanna know what the fuck got into you,” Scott replied, not unkindly. He sat in Mike’s desk chair and steepled his fingers. “What changed? Like, where was this,” Scott gestured in Mike’s general direction, “before?”

    “Uh...” Mike didn’t know how or where to start. Coils wrapped themselves around his chest, and a familiar, dark feeling filled him. He swallowed hard. He’d never told this out loud before. And he had been hoping to keep it that way.

    But slowly, delicately, almost vaguely, Mike explained himself. Because he needed to talk to someone, and his best friend deserved to know. Especially after the past few weeks.

    Then they sat in silence.

    Scott opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.

    Mike made a motion between a nod and a shrug.

    “So you think this, uh,” Scott stumbled over his words, “think this’ll help?”

    Mike shrugged again.

    Scott got up and sat next to Mike. He threw an arm around his friend’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight half-hug.

    “Any, uh, advice?” Mike asked, not particularly hopeful.

    "Yeah,” Scott replied, smiling. “Same as Juniper. Don't be a fuckin' quitter."
     
    Last edited:
    Ch. 2: You've Got a Friend In Me
  • Homestar!

    Mikeposter/Galaxy-Brainer
    Location
    NorCal
    Pronouns
    He/Him
    Partners
    1. nidoqueen
    Chapter 2:
    You've Got a Friend in Me


    "Hey everyone! I just wanted to take a second and thank you all for the well-wishes! This is my last video in California foooor… A very, very long time? A few months? Thirty seconds because I totally forgot to make a shoutout or something - anyways! We're here at the airport! Next stop, Unova!"

    Mike used to be the kind of person who never slept on Christmas Eve, or the day before a vacation, or before any special event, really. But after hours in a plane and even more hours on a bus, the hotel bed - a last luxury he allowed himself - had swallowed him up. When his phone's alarm clock woke him up the next morning, he found that he had done little more than kick off his shoes before passing out. The time difference weighed on him as he forced himself through a meticulous shower and thorough set of self-grooming rituals. Shaved, trimmed, clipped, and squeaky-clean, Mike made his way downstairs to a continental breakfast.

    Today was a special day, therefore it was a cheat day, he reasoned. He didn't go too far overboard: a little extra creamer in his coffee, cream cheese on his bagel, and a cup of cereal, sans milk, for the shuttle. He very recently had his diet's success reinforced by the plane ride. Usually he dreaded squishing himself into the painful seats and meekly requesting a belt extender. When he found he hadn't needed the extra buckle at all, it made him swell with pride.

    The rural roads were thankfully far removed from the routes. The trip from Accumula to Nuvema was short, barely half an hour, but on foot he knew it would take the better part of a day. He tried to imagine where the route was. Beyond the apple orchards? Further? Occasionally he'd see - or imagine - a flash of light somewhere out in the woods.

    He wondered if anyone else on the shuttle was making the same trip. It was nearly full; he had squeezed himself close to the window so as not to take too much of the elderly woman's seat next to him. He smiled to himself at the thought of her training: hiking for hours, or belting out orders, or setting up camp. He wondered if anyone else here was having similar thoughts of him, and the smile faded.

    A few passengers got off at a quaint little strip mall. A middle-aged couple departed for a rocky beach. There was just one stop left. Everyone began to recognize one another; The remaining passengers - seven including himself - were all bound for Juniper Labs. They each seemed to take turns making fleeting, excited eye contact with one another.

    "I might be the oldest new trainer here," Mike muttered to the elderly woman next to him. He winked at her wry grin. True enough, the rest of the shuttle contained a grab bag of teenagers.

    "No, I gotcha by a few years," she returned the wink. Mike feigned shock, to which she chuckled. "Surprised?"

    "Yeah, you don't look a day over twenty."

    "Cállate," she gave him a good-natured scowl, "I could be your grandma."

    "Meet me in the middle here; Podrías ser mi madre."

    "¿Hablas español?"

    "Mi español es terrible, pero... ¿hago lo mejor que puedo?" He struggled with that quite a bit, which surprised him somewhat: he used to speak Spanish almost decently. "'I try my best?' Was that right? Necesito practicar." She laughed.

    "We'll stick to English." The two shared a snicker.

    They, like the others who had paired or tripled up, chatted away the last stretch of the journey. Riding up through wooded hills and past a few lovely little houses, they finally arrived at a large facility. It was clearly modernized, but great pains had been taken to apply shiplap, square edges, and the outward appearance of simple fisherman's architecture. The appearance of a large, plain, wooden 'Juniper Labs, Inc.' sign spread a hush over the shuttle. The dirt and gravel road they turned off of gave way to smooth, fresh pavement. They were unloading themselves beneath a covered entryway in short order.

    "May I?" Mike offered a hand to his new friend departing the shuttle. The scowl he received wasn't so good-natured this time. She motioned two fingers at her face.

    "¡Mira Mira!" Mike obediently looked her in the eyes. "I'm not that old yet. Don't you forget it." He raised his hands in apology and made way for her to exit. Mike decided now was the time to fade his way over to the group outside of the doors. He knew there was no disappearing, even if the crowd wasn't so much younger than he was. Still, he worried instantly that he had overstepped with his new friend.

    They were very early, it seemed. Automatic doors were still shut, giving an occasional jolt against their locks as someone passed through their sensors both inside and out. Behind sheets of pristinely clean glass laid a strangely sterile reception area, and beyond that—

    A harried woman throwing on a white coat came from within to unlock the doors and usher them all inside. Orders were given and lines were formed. He found himself in the A.C.E. line, almost alone.

    He handed his trainer ID over to the aide behind the desk, who took it to be activated. Then he signed a few forms he needed to be caught up on in addition to the standard releases. He traded anxious small talk with the aide as he signed, but a large, stout, sleeping candle in his lap roused itself and glowered up at the disturbance.

    Eventually he was given directions to the room where the orientation would be held. He eventually found himself at the back of a small classroom or auditorium, with perhaps a hundred seats leading down in tiers to a stage bearing only a podium.

    He was still one of the oldest in attendance, but not by much. Several young trainers-to-be milled around a table near the entrance, which was covered in lovely pink boxes. Mike averted his near-automatic course for the donuts and helped himself to coffee instead. He'd abandoned his cheat day already, now wildly self-conscious. He could feel - or at least imagine - the people next to him staring. He took a deep breath and allowed himself some cream and sugar. A compromise.

    He planted himself in the back of the room, in a corner, and tried to relax a little. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed, on top of everything else, and the coffee was not doing much to help his tumbling stomach. He hated being like this. Anxiety had clawed at him for most of his life, and the feeling of some unseen serpent wrapping around his chest was far too familiar.

    Eventually an aide introduced Professor Juniper. She walked out to a gentle shower of applause as a screen rolled down behind her.

    "Welcome, everyone!" The applause roared back to life as she smiled behind the podium. The screen was illuminated with the words:

    'Congratulations Trainers!'

    "Today marks the official first day of your personal adventure as Pokémon Trainers!" More applause. She raised her hands to hush them.

    "So I have to cover some essentials, especially after everything that happened last year." The energy of the room shifted. Mike was a little unsure of what she was talking about. "Let's start with the not-so-good news." She clicked a small remote, and the screen changed.

    'Updates on The Region, August 2021'

    "Given the invasive and destructive nature of..." Mike tuned it out almost as soon as it began. He pulled out his phone and started to surreptitiously look at his blog, checking back in whenever the slide switched. It was college all over again.

    Click!

    'It's as easy as 1-2-3 to find a Warden!'

    Even as a non-trainer, that number would be impossible to forget. He hammered out a quick reply to a comment.

    Click!

    'First Three Gyms'
    'Recommended Path to Success!'

    Striaton, to Nacrene, to Castelia. Of course. He double-checked the volume was on silent before playing a video.

    Click!

    'Cheren - Aspertia City Gym Leader'

    Mike almost missed it, tearing himself away from some Glameow kittens tumbling over each other. His stomach lurched. Who the hell was that?

    The slide was accompanied by two pictures. The first was a serious-looking man only a little younger than Mike, with a thin purple and gold badge pinned to his collar. The second struck Mike as a stylized schoolhouse renovated into a Gym.

    "Aspertia's quite a ways from here, so I recommend securing some quicker form of transportation if at all possible. I believe some privately owned planes can take you directly there, but a boat from Castelia will suffice for most people." Mike's stomach flipped as something familiar began to wind around his chest again. This all was news to him, and very expensive-sounding news at that. Why hadn't Scott mentioned any of this?

    Click!

    'Roxie - Virbank City Gym Leader'

    "From there, your best bet is to head to Virbank on foot, to train yourself up for Roxie." That brought whoops and applause from a few trainers in the room. Mike saw on the left was pictured a wild young woman mid-strum, mid-yell, seemingly mid-performance or battle. On the right, a small, Pokémon League Seal-emblazoned entrance to what Mike guessed was an underground gym.

    Virbank was on the other side of the Region. How the hell was he going to get there?

    "Alright, alright," Juniper waved a hand at some excited kids singing an unfamiliar song together "Settle down, please! Almost done. Next up: Castelia!"

    Click!

    'Burgh - Castelia City Gym Leader'

    A flamboyantly dressed man, and a gym composed of various green shapes and shades. It was finally a familiar face.

    "Burgh is particular - he will only offer the third badge... And up, if you decide to skip him for whatever reason. This is also why you should get to Aspertia as soon as possible, if at all possible.

    "Anyways! That's the first three gyms covered! From there the order is pretty straight-forward:"

    Click! Several silhouettes, connected by a mostly single line.

    "I remind you all that, should you anticipate making a League challenge..." Mike was gone again. He pulled up the app connected to his bank and looked at his savings. Then another app to look at plane tickets. Wasn't there a train system? Yes, but of course, it was a glorified theme park now. It was all Mike could do not to swear under his breath.

    The crowd surged with a wave of noise, which ripped Mike away from his phone once again. "As always," she continued after a moment, raising her voice into the mic, "Ace trainers are first. Days one and two of the lottery have already been decided."

    Click!

    'Day 1: Tuesday (2/18/20)'

    Five names were listed beneath the header. There were some excited squeals and cheers from the front row, where Mike now noticed about half a dozen identically-dressed people sitting together. He felt a little relieved to see that half of them were of relatively close ages to himself.

    "If you see your name on this list, congratulations! Go ahead and gather around that door back there," she pointed, "and we'll be heading out to the nursery shortly! Aaand perfect! I see five heads. Looking sharp, Aces! It was lovely to meet you all, and I wish you the best of luck! Miss Peterson here will be presenting the day two lottery results and giving you further instructions. See you all soon!" With that, the Professor handed off the clicker to the aforementioned aide. Mike watched as Professor Juniper, without breaking stride, scanned the room and found his gaze. She smiled wide and began to march up the aisle he was closest to.

    "Hi, Mister Tapersson! Follow me, we'll walk and talk!" It took Mike a moment to process what she just said, but he eventually pushed himself to his feet and began to follow.

    He was not ignored by the group, not in any sense of the word. As the Professor spoke to them, five pairs of eyes stole fleeting looks at Mike. Each had their own curiosity, or scorn, or wonder. Mike suddenly realized he was being measured up. He lingered a few feet outside of their circle, trying his best to feign indifference. After a few more moments of scrutiny they all paid him no heed. He completely missed whatever it was Professor Juniper was explaining to them. He didn't think it was too important to him specifically.

    Most of his focus was taken up by his own silent measurements of the others. Especially of a curvaceous, short, curly-haired woman who looked to be his contemporary. When she turned to sneak a second glance at him, he made a point of looking anywhere else. His cheeks burned for a moment and he couldn't help a small, stupid grin. He only really snapped back to reality when he awkwardly tried to follow the group as it moved.

    "Mister Tapersson! You're coming with me, remember?" Mike turned on his heel without breaking stride and followed the already marching Professor in the opposite direction. He caught himself up with some difficulty.

    "So, welcome to Unova!" She beamed at him for a moment, and Mike couldn't help but smile back. "Any troubles with travel?"

    "Not yet," Mike replied, "Uh, kinda worried about getting to Aspertia, though. That was news to me."

    "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," she fished for a key in her jacket as they rounded a corner, "We can figure something out, hopefully. Just in here!" She twisted a key in the door handle, jiggled it a bit, then swung the door open for them. Mike led the way into a spacious but quite cluttered… office, he decided. A live-in office, he figured, from the faint smell of something cooking. A spacious entryway led back to several machines, various cluttered tables, and desks stacked high with books and electronics. In another room, only somewhat divided, he could see a spotless table and the hint of a kitchen.

    The Professor passed him, going straight to two chairs next to a narrow, messy table. She pulled a chair out for Mike, who sat, and she followed suit opposite him with a deep sigh.

    "Mister Tapersson, I must admit, I'm glad you're an adult," the two shared a chuckle together. "I know I picked this job, but still, teenagers can be exhausting."

    She gave a gentle little set of whistles over her shoulder before pressing on. "So! Mr. Tapersson. I need to cover some basics, some exceptions, and technical stuff before we get into things. Water?" Mike hadn't even noticed a fluffy grey Pokémon's arrival until the Professor motioned down to it. He thought it was a Cinccino, but wasn't sure. It offered up one of the two bottles it was holding, and Mike accepted it.

    "Yes, please. Thanks!" Mike directed his thanks to the grey and white... "He- or she- that's a Cinccino, yes?"

    "Yes, Yancy is my favorite little boy this week!" She also took a bottle as they both watched the Cinccino with quiet delight for a moment. Yancy used the condensation from the bottles to meticulously wash its paws and groom its face, oblivious to the two of them.

    "Now, Mike, let's get down to brass—”

    "Sorry, before I forget!" Mike produced the Pokédex from his hip holster and handed it to Juniper. She took it and looked it over a little mournfully.

    "Oh, that poor girl," she spoke, more to herself. "I'll have this taken care of for you, Mike. It'll take some time, so you can expect it waiting for you at the Center in Accumula." She passed it off to Yancy. "Put this on my computer desk, please!" He squeaked a response and bounced away.

    "Thank you very much, by the way!"

    “Of course!” Professor Juniper then proceeded to lay out how a usual Ace meeting would go: The talk about careers and how to handle their education, what classes to take and the like, would all be skipped. They would focus instead on Mike's personal goals, previous experience, and especially how he could get to Aspertia with any sort of haste.

    "Any way you slice it," she finally continued, "getting from here to Aspertia within a week will set you back at least five hundred dollars." Mike's eyes widened.

    "Five?"

    "Five. Heaven forbid you take a plane, or a taxi, but you could be there in two days if you did." She snapped her Xtransciever open, scrolling through it in silence for a moment. "An associate— Skyla, you've heard of her of course— she's cleared her schedule this week just for such an event. We could try to split the cost with some other—”

    "Nnnno," Mike forced it out painfully, "I could use the exercise, anyways. If it's all the same, I'll make the walk to Castelia." The Professor frowned up from her device.

    "You won't meet many other trainers," she explained, "and probably none from the program. After you do your final check-in at Accumula Center, everyone else is going to make a Combeeline for the other side of the region."

    "I did the program digitally, remember?" The Professor nearly nodded. "I'll survive, I think. And I'll be more than prepared for Cheren. Or whoever runs the Striaton Gym, if I really want to dawdle."

    "If it seems like a party's forming to split the cost, I'll let you know, alright?" Juniper's offer brought a little smile to Mike's face.

    "That's more than kind, thank you. Now, what else is there to cover? Starters?"

    Professor Juniper lit up at the subject's change to Pokémon. She produced some pamphlets as she talked, throwing various training guides and packets in a loose stack on the table. Yancy leapt up and compulsively straightened the pile as the Professor made it. Juniper briefly went over his non-Ace starter options, which he was still allowed to choose from. They were both much more interested, however, in the three new species available to him.

    "Let's go with this, actually," the Professor said, taking back a book and offering a pamphlet in exchange. It was divided into three columns, each one for a specific starter Pokémon he was now allowed to pick from. "So these little guys and gals are a tricky bunch, Mister Tapersson. But nothing I think you can't handle, of course!"

    On the right of the pamphlet was pictured a 'Sandile,' a somewhat silly-looking reptile with a large mouth and even bigger eyes. In the center was a 'Solosis,' which Mike instantly felt drawn towards due to his fond memories of Mito. The left held 'Litwick,' which he recognized as the sleeping candle in the lap of the aide who checked him in when he arrived.

    "Tell me a little about all of them, I guess?" He was becoming a little bewildered with the information dump, but still keen to learn more. The Professor smiled...

    A phone call woke Mike up the next morning. He lurched out of his tiny dorm bed and found the phone with his eyes half-closed. A voice, no more awake than he was, reminded him that he was first in line for starter selection that day.

    With an apple in one hand and a coffee in the other, he met the other four trainers at the entrance to the nursery. Two Ace trainers were dressed to their matching nines, alongside a young girl and - to Mike's delight and swooping guilt - Mira. The two smiled good morning to each other.

    "I'm sorry about—” Mike began, but Mira hushed him.

    "You worry too much, I can tell," she replied, "you're fine, dear." Mike started to say something else, but was cut off.

    "Perfect timing, Mister Tapersson." Juniper raised a mug to them as she hustled over. "Good morning all! Congrats to our day two crew!" She popped the last of her power bar into her mouth and fumbled for some keys.

    They were ushered into a containment room, then out the back of the lab. Mike instantly felt 'nursery' was an understatement, but also had no idea how to describe it short of a nearly-fenceless zoo. Securing the second set of doors behind her, the Professor returned to the front of the group and led the way down a dirt path. She began to explain the layout and their methods, noting that all of their starters were raised both by humans and their natural parents. Well-handled, but not at all ignorant of their natural skills.

    As Mike was trying to soak in the various structures and enclosures - a small stand of trees, a sand pit, a cave mouth, an artificial river, and this, and that, and—

    Juniper gently pulled him back to the task at hand. Literally: she took his arm and guided him to a vaguely familiar old man wearing a leafy, noodly, lizardy fashion statement.

    "Welcome back, Mister Tapersson. So! Of our specialty starters," the Professor explained, "we only have this little guy left." She reached out for the snoozing snake-ish thing draped over the man's neck. It looked up and slowly moved to the Professor's hands with a soft hiss.

    "This is a Snivy, if you've never met one," the Professor showed off the specimen to the small crowd. An upturned nose and yellow-lidded eyes surveyed them all for a moment before attempting to clamber up Professor Juniper's arm to her neck. She began to alternate her hands so that it was continually occupied moving to the next.

    "They're usually a little more lively than this one; I must admit he's a bit, uh, lazy." She grinned, "More than a bit, really: watch." She finally allowed it to progress, and the snake made its way up and around her neck. It snapped its eyes shut and went limp.

    "He's out cold," Mike whispered, not daring to disturb the Snivy. It gently began to snore.

    "So, Mister Tapersson, of anything we have, this is the only species we will run out of today. We only had one of each of the other specialties this season; this little guy is one of two." Mike felt his already thin hopes for a Tepig vanish, but he honestly expected as much.

    "Booo," Mike chided, "where's the bacon?"

    "Someone already brought it home."

    Mike lit up at her riposte, which also elicited a few chuckles from the others.

    "So? How does a sleepy Snivy sound?" Juniper shimmied as she alliterated. The snake roused itself with an irritable hiss. They all laughed that time.

    "I will... pass. But thank you!" After he declined, Juniper turned to each other trainer in their turn. Not surprisingly, no-one was interested in the lazy little thing. Mike noted a sense of relief from both the Snivy and the older volunteer who received it back.

    "So, even if everyone else picked the same thing, there will now be enough to go around," Juniper announced to the group, "Which means we don't have to wait for anyone in particular anymore! Miss Redding," she looked to the youngest girl, "I'd like you to go see Miss Everett over there," she pointed to a white jacketed woman near a small pond, "and she'll help you around, okay? Great! Mister Tapersson, stick with me; everyone else may roam as they please and I'll be around to check up on you. If there isn't a door, you're free to explore!"

    The girl excitedly ran off to the aide while the two Ace trainers each went down different dirt paths, barely containing their own joy. Mike looked to see which direction Mira would go, but she stayed put.

    "Misses Martinez, I'll be helping Mister Tapersson first, but do you have a question?"

    "Yes, thank you." Mira produced a picture from a sturdy-looking purse. "My grandson got one of these adorable little devils from you when he started training, and I don't think I saw them as an option on my brochure. Do you happen to have them still?"

    Mike and Professor Juniper found themselves looking down at an excited young man posing with a Sandile. Both were smiling so wide that it was hard to tell who had more teeth.

    "Oh, well, this is a Sandile, but..." Juniper studied Mira for a moment, "Hm. Mister Tapersson, is a Sandile on your radar at all?"

    "It's not off of it." Mike winked at Mira.

    Professor Juniper first took them over to intercept a few aides and their feeding buckets, which were filled with bone-in cuts of fresh meat. Then she led them over to a large, empty sand pit surrounded by a low stone wall. She unlocked a door and ushered them out to the middle of a concrete platform, which was bare save for a large sink on its closest edge and a dented metal pole on the furthest edge. The Professor instructed Mike to take the tongs from his bucket and rap the pole several times, which he did.

    The result was spectacular: The sand seethed in a dozen places. Each 'ripple' produced a pair of large black eyes, which proceeded purposefully through the sand towards the platform. Their speed surprised Mike, but he forced himself to stay put.

    The closest set of eyes disappeared a few feet from the edge. Mike leaned to see where it had gone and almost collided with a black and brown blur that leapt from the sand. The Sandile landed with a dull 'thwap' next to him, and immediately fixated on the bucket, loosing a surprisingly high-pitched grunt.

    "Oh my God, they honk," Mike spoke with glee. He dipped his tongs into his bucket and produced a rib of something. As he did, several more Sandile erupted from the sand around them. Soon they were surrounded by eager 'honks', the crunch of bones, and many contented reptiles. Juniper pointed out that the sand still swirling. Even larger, pointed, pitch black eyes sat on a long red snout. Mike would have thought it was comical, if they weren't so unerringly fixated on him...

    "So, Sandile can be nasty little... cretins, honestly." Juniper pointed at its picture over the top of the pamphlet, "but they are food motivated as a rule, and that's very useful for training. They're classified as ground and dark, so watch out for that mean streak. They're only for Ace trainers for that reason, and also because they are very strong - even while young. Mistakes and injuries can easily happen for anyone not cautious enough.

    "They can be ferocious. Brilliant battlers - and even better garbage disposals." Mike chuckled at this. "Don't let my disdain fool you, they're offered as a starter for many good reasons...”


    "That's the last of the juveniles," Juniper remarked, pointing to a particularly aggressive one that Mira was doting upon. "He's always last and always grumpy about it. The rest of them are quite affectionate, actually. They like a good pat, so slap them around a little if you like!" Mike laughed at this, immediately intensifying the petting he had already been giving out. He hadn't expected to enjoy them so much, but found a certain charm to their strange noises and placid - yet appreciative - demeanor. At least, when they weren't hungry.

    Mike spent some time with each one, save for the irritable one that had Mira's attention, but none of them really called to him. They were all quite cute, and he could see catching his own somewhere down the line, but he wanted his first Pokémon to be a lifelong partner. A true friend. Which he didn't see in any of these admittedly lovely little creatures. They lacked a little something he was looking for. He knew they weren't people, and he shouldn't be looking for anything too clever or bright. All the same, the lack of anything behind their little reptilian eyes made Mike's decision for him. And, sadly, against them.

    "Any winners?" Mike shook his head at the Professor's question. They exchanged shrugs and washed themselves up. "We've got an aide for the buckets, go ahead and leave them there. Misses Martinez," she called over her shoulder, "I really shouldn't leave you in here alone, especially not with… Huh."

    Mike followed her gaze to where Mira was standing, purse in hand. The Sandile she had been bonding with was hissing angrily. His gaping maw, still streaked red from raw meat, sent violent imagery swimming in Mike's mind. Mira hissed back a string of curses that Mike only half understood.

    In a flash the lizard lunged, but Mira proved quicker and swung her purse up to meet it.

    "Bad Niles!" she barked, fishing around in her bag. The Sandile gave a honk of surprise, before rounding back again on Mira. It was met this time with a few spritzes of water from a spray bottle Mira had pulled from her bag. The two glared at each other, locked in a stalemate.

    Again the Sandile opened its mouth to hiss, but was met with another squirt.

    "No!" Mira advanced on the reptile. "You were doing so well! I was so proud!" More hissing. Mira punctuated, "No! Biting! Mama!" with squirts from her spritzer.

    They all became aware of a deep, rumbling, syncopated growl. The wickedly pointed eyes, now having crept to the lip of the platform, were clearly entertained.

    "Well, Bertha approves," Juniper nodded at the beast half-hidden in the sand. It emerged a bit more and used its nose to prod 'Niles' towards the old trainer, who was now offering some small treat from her purse.

    They left the three to bond, making their way back up and out of the enclosure. Juniper led him next to what seemed like a large greenhouse. As an aide held the door open for them, Mike noticed a green blob trying to float away. He reached out and grabbed the Solosis without hesitating. It didn't resist his touch, save for a small wave of surprise that it washed over him.

    "Good save," Juniper noted, waving off the aide's apologies. They took the Solosis back inside. At least two dozen others were gently floating to and fro, using their budding powers to plant seeds, water sprouts, and collect harvests. What Mike recognized instantly as a Reuniclus came over and accepted the sphere. There was a very gentle 'click' as the gelatinous being made psychic contact.

    Thank you, Mike, an ethereal little voice sounded in his head, this one is always trying to get away.

    "You're welcome," Mike replied.

    Kids, am I right? The small figure in the green ooze jiggled with laughter. The rest of its body was eerily still. With a small flick of its tiny inner appendage, the figure within turned the ooze without back towards a planter box.

    "We keep the Solosis in here for two reasons," Juniper began to explain. As she babbled about the lack of roof outside and benefits of tending plants, Mike felt increasingly more uncomfortable with the tiny little pokes and prods he could feel in his head. It was like a dozen little somethings were playing - literally playing - with his feelings.

    He felt his throat squeeze with sadness, then a tickle of laughter, then a sneeze, then a spark of rage, one after another after another as they explored him. He was very quickly unable to do much more than stay on his feet...

    "Next, I think you're familiar with this one," Juniper smiled, tapping the green circle-within-a-circle on the page.

    "Solosis are quirky little things. They float, and fast enough, so no issue following you around all day. Their coating allows them to survive almost any weather with ease. They eat a simple diet; anything unprocessed that you and I would eat, really.

    “Honestly they would be perfectly acceptable starters for any trainer if they weren't so smart."

    Mike laughed, "That's really a bad thing?"

    "Abso-lutely," the Professor emphasized, "in some cases they're nearly as smart as their trainer. It's like trying to train a child. Have you seen two toddlers try to boss each other around? Ace trainers can typically figure them out, and I occasionally make an exception for older or more clever non-Aces. Scott happened to be one of them..”


    "Oh, I'm sorry, Mister Tapperson!" The Professor finally seemed to notice the tears beginning to well up in Mike's occasionally contorting face. "Lay off, everyone!" The sudden absence of the stimuli was almost worse, somehow. Mike was now completely frozen. There was a soft 'click' in the back of his head.

    You seem very, very tense, Mike. He looked to the Reuniclus - who he suddenly knew as Janet - and allowed her gentle mental touch to open his mind. She was much more delicate than Mito had been, and he felt calm and ease wash over him in waves.

    I see, came the voice again as it further comprehended him. I am sorry you were brought so low, but I feel like you will soar ever higher for it. You are not usually one for those thoughts, which is good, but know that those thoughts may come regardless. Perhaps you would allow me to make some changes in here?

    "No, thank you," Mike accidentally said aloud. He'd heard about 'psychic therapy,' and all of the things that could go wrong with 'fixing' so much so fast. Janet nodded solemnly.

    "No messing with my trainers, Janet," Juniper warned, "They have places to be. He can't afford to be comatose for a week. Besides, you're retired."

    That doesn't mean I'm dead. Mike thought the little figure in the gel heaved a sigh. But I see it is his wish as well. I wish you the best, Mike. Also, I believe a Solosis would make for a good fit. Trust me, they are much more enjoyable 'solo'. He gave a small smile at her terrible joke. However, I very much appreciate your approach. Go and find yourself a little someone who you love and who loves you.

    Mike tried quite hard to enjoy the greenhouse, but he found himself much too wound up to appreciate the Solosis. Several of them attempted to reach out, much more gently this time. A soft little psychic touch named Kubler-Ross conveyed her name and was able to form simple sentences. Another, called Hobbes, orbited his belly. He was unable to speak yet but enamored with Mike's own spherical shape. Freud demanded entry into his mind, and when Mike refused, spat the only words he knew at him. Many of them were rude, yet all of them were somehow botanical.

    Each and every one of them had exactly what Mike had thought he was looking for, but too much of it. They were all individuals that were much too willful, too solid in themselves already. Mike wanted to learn and grow with them, but they all seemed a little too far gone on their own paths. None of which played nicely with Mike's own philosophies.

    Mike retired for the afternoon shortly after. He looked up the local sunset time and set his alarm for roughly then, which is when Juniper said he could see the Litwicks awake. He eventually flopped into his little dorm's bed, too wound up to sleep but too anxious to do much of anything else. He wondered if he should let Janet poke around? He ultimately decided against it, slipping away into a much needed nap.

    He awoke before his alarm went off and pulled himself out of bed. He made his way to the cafeteria and helped himself to quite a large plate, reasoning that he skipped breakfast and lunch. He wasn't the only one there, but aside from the little girl from earlier that day sitting across from a very happy-looking ice cream cone, he didn't recognize any faces.

    Sunset was fast approaching as he made his way into the nursery. He found an aide and got pointed towards what seemed like an old, abandoned house planted right next to the fence line. A second aide was there already, looking through dusty windows and making notes on a pad of paper. He let Mike inside.

    "Now these are newer. We don't usually put in Pokémon that require anything besides training to fully evolve, but we wanted to give it a whirl," the Professor continued, pointing to the purple-flamed candle.

    "Litwick. We've just started giving these out in the last year or so, and from what we can tell they're very 'love them or hate them.’ Not much in between.

    “First of all, they're nocturnal; that makes things difficult until they have adjusted a little, for you and for them. Many settle into a crepuscular rhythm, where— sorry, a 'dawn and dusk' rhythm, where they and the trainer can at least compromise.

    "Also, they don't sustain themselves off of food. They are is exhausting, in more ways than one. They'll nibble on things, but they primarily eat energy. More specifically, while they're not free feeding, they're going to be eating you. We notice that-"

    "I'm sorry," Mike interrupted, "but they- they eat what?"


    The house was badly lit and rather dusty. There were crooked shelves, scattered dilapidated tables and chairs, and three different almost empty mantelpieces. On each of these surfaces was at least one, if not two or three, of the stout white Litwicks he had seen before. All appeared to still be asleep. Something about the room seemed to force a yawn from him. Unlike the bombardment of inputs that were the Solosis, these were all… taking something from him. He found it tiring, but also strangely uplifting.

    Whenever he passed a candle, he saw their purple flames swell to varying degrees. Some much brighter, finding something delicious about him, he supposed. Others barely shimmered and must have poor taste, he reasoned, smiling to himself. Coming to the back of the room, he examined an old landscape painting. Some sort of thrift rescue if he had to—

    T h e y

    L i k e

    Y o u

    The letters flashed one at a time in his mind, rapid-fire. He registered the phrase with abject horror. He was so strangely at ease that he hadn't noticed the swelling light above him, the source of the new 'voice'. He looked up to see what appeared to be a chandelier swaying violently above his head. Its bright violet flames popped and crackled. From it issued a high-pitched, tinkling, screeching laugh as it rocked to and fro. Mike had no clue what—

    Brrrrring! Brrrrring!

    Mike screamed as his phone's alarm went off behind him, marking the sun's departure. He had completely forgotten to turn it off. The whole house filled with tittering laughter amidst the electronic din. He whipped around to find that one of the Litwick was holding his phone in its little hands.

    They were both shocked: Mike by being robbed blind by something that couldn't even reach his knee; the Litwick by the buzzing, vibrating, glowing device in its grip. It let out a squeak every time it buzzed, and its disdain was met with more laughter and a blaze of purple candlelight. The whole room was feeding off of their confusion.

    Mike knelt down and, besting his fright, held out a hand. The Litwick handed over the phone instantly, and Mike shut it off. The laughter dissolved slowly, like a nightmare begrudgingly ending.

    "They will drain your energy, and they'll need to in order to survive. Like I mentioned, you're going to constantly feel like you need a little more sleep. We notice that trainers with Litwicks—”

    "Hold on," Mike paused, smiling, continuing to connect dots in his head, "so they eat your energy, and that in turn makes you need to eat more—”

    "I know where this is going and I strongly caution you against that line of thought."

    "Professor," Mike protested, "how much more perfect can you get?"


    "That must have scared you, too, huh?" Mike looked at the one visible yellow eye as the Litwick frowned up at him. "Hey, I thought ghosts weren't supposed to be scared?" Mike winked.

    The Litwick smiled a bit, leaned to one side, exposed its second eye, and tried very hard to mimic Mike. It succeeded after a few attempts and some gentle coaching.

    That

    One

    Especially

    The message was less terrifying this time, gentler, but still a surprise. A fresh wave of giggles and shimmers rippled around the two as Mike jumped, but this time the merriment included them.

    He and the Litwick spent several minutes on the floor, winking back and forth with glee and pulling faces. He could see a unique little silliness in her eyes and demeanor that struck a chord with him. He wondered if any of the others would share that. As soon as he decided to get up and look, the little candle whimpered.

    Mike paused half-way up, then lowered himself back down. The Litwick smiled, lifted her fringe, and winked again. Now that was interesting. None of the other starters he'd met today particularly cared whether or not he moved on. This one did. It seemed to genuinely like him. Not food, not his brain, not attention, but him.

    "It's not- it wouldn't be a shortcut," Mike clarified anxiously, "but I mean, I'm already watching what I eat. I'll be hiking every day. Imagine what adding that on top of things could do!"

    "It will increase your caloric deficit by nearly five hundred a day as a baby." Juniper's hard numbers had the desired effect, causing the spinning gears in Mike's head to lurch to a stop. "Until it learns to free feed, that will only get worse. Trainers almost always show up in Castelia quite pudgier than when they left here. I can't imagine how somebody struggling with obesity will handle-

    “I'm sorry," Juniper caught herself. She must have known she had overstepped. Mike had to remind himself that she wasn't his friend; she was a Professor.

    "It's a recipe for disaster if you ask me," Juniper summed up flatly, but not harshly. "Think about it: how tough has your diet already been for you?"


    Mike pushed himself to his feet, to which the candle gave a sad little cry. He had to take a lap around the house and think about this. He visited with several other Litwicks, and saw that they each had that tricky-ish glint in their eyes. Most of them, though, felt as if they had a cruel intent. Some were aloof. Some simply refused to show their faces, content to pretend to be real candles.

    All the while, the first Litwick followed him. He tried to ignore it, he really did. He felt he was on the cusp of making a very bad decision.

    Mike suddenly spun around, threw his arms wide, and yelled "Boo!"

    The Litwick following him gave a little shriek and vanished. Then, just as quickly, she reappeared in a fit of giggles. Several other Litwick tittered away around them. A low, chortling sort of rumble came from the being on the ceiling.

    Mike knelt down and scooped up his very bad decision with glee.

    Sometime later, finally interrupting their scares, giggles, and play, Professor Juniper heaved a sigh from the doorway.

    "I know what you said," Mike answered the unasked question from the floor, "but I want to choose all of my Pokémon for good reasons, not just because they're there, or they're quote-unquote good."

    He took the little waxy arms of the Litwick in his fingertips, squishing them into discs. The Litwick giggled, flapping its misshapen 'hands' as it waddled in circles.

    "I love this little thing. I can't tell you what struck me about this one, but it did, and it did hard. Also, the creepy chandelier told me this one likes me."

    "What chandelier?" Mike looked back to find that the strange, black and purple chandelier was gone. But only for a split second; It returned in a burst of flames and let out a screech that made even the Litwick jump. The noise dissolved into thin laughter and dancing light. The Litwick slid into the same fit of giggles and flickers, followed eventually - albeit hesitantly - by Mike.

    "I'm sorry, Mister Tapersson," Juniper giggled, "but Vincent - the Chandelure - he loves that prank. I assure you, an aide a day gets it, so don't feel too bad."

    "So was the whole thing a bit?" Mike felt a little hurt at the possibility that he had been lied to. He looked up to Vincent with puppy dog eyes.

    No, the Chandelure hissed in their minds with a wide grin, Is it not obvious?

    Mike smiled back. He returned to his new best friend, and offered to pick them up. The Litwick happily accepted, and the two made their way back into the open air. The Professor left the door open behind them, so the others might wander about and feed, she explained.

    "I'll call you Robin," Mike said after a moment, "since you robbed me. And, boy or girl, it works! Okay, Robin?" It didn't quite get it yet, but smiled at Mike's upturned voice.

    "She has been known to do that," Professor Juniper offered. "She's incredibly good at getting into places she shouldn't be, and taking things that don't belong to her. I can't believe one of the aides hasn't started calling her Robin already. That's a brilliant name for her."

    "I think so, too. What about you, Robin?" This time she reacted to the name a little, looking at his mouth as he spoke. He sang it to her in silly ways as they walked, and she smiled and made creepy little sing-song-esque noises back.

    "Robin will be waiting for you at the front desk in the morning, she really should be allowed out to feed tonight," the Professor explained, returning a scanned copy of his adoption paperwork some time later. "Congratulations, Michael."

    Mike's first name caught him by surprise. The two shared a warm smile.

    "Thank you, Aurea."

    "Professor."

    "Noted."
     
    Last edited:
    Ch. 3: The Long and Winding Road
  • Homestar!

    Mikeposter/Galaxy-Brainer
    Location
    NorCal
    Pronouns
    He/Him
    Partners
    1. nidoqueen
    Chapter 3:
    The Long and Winding Road

    Mike was the only trainer from his group that was asked to stay for an additional day. The complications of caring for a Litwick were apparently enough to warrant a one-on-one session.

    With Vincent. The resident Chandelure, and patriarch to the lab’s Litwick population.

    Shortly before four the next morning, a pair of glassy yellow eyes had yanked Mike out of his dream. They were all he could remember, that and a simple message: The House.

    Mike dressed quickly and headed for the nursery. Juniper met him at the doors in a similar state to his own. She had an eye mask pushed up over her forehead, her hair was undone, and she wore a lab coat over her robe, which was over her pajamas. She also had two cups of coffee.

    “How was that for a wake-up call?” Juniper’s mood was much more lax than the day before, possibly due to the hour. Mike snorted and nodded his agreement, too tired to say anything else. She pressed a coffee cup into his hands and motioned for him to drink. It was black, which was disgusting to him. Still: no sugar, no cream? No calories.

    Juniper unlocked the doors for him and motioned him inside with a yawn. She wouldn’t be accompanying him, it seemed. The second set of doors were locked tight, and for a moment Mike thought he was locked inside.

    Then the lock on the door leading to the nursery undid itself with a loud crunch. The doors swung open of their own accord.

    The House.

    Vincent didn’t have a voice today, but Mike felt the instruction clearly. No longer a flash of letters in his head, just an instruction he understood instantly. He wondered at the pomp and circumstance, if only to keep his nerves in check.

    The nursery was dim, but not dark. The paths were all illuminated with weak, white, solar-powered lights, and interspersed throughout the sanctuary were little violet flickers and twinkles. Mike realized he was looking at the bobbing, swelling, vanishing, living flames of the Litwicks.

    They feed at night, Mike understood as before. This will be a challenge for you.

    The House.

    Go.

    To punctuate, the house made itself known. Lavender light poured through the broken windows and wide-open door like an otherworldly beacon. Mike noticed the little purple flames all around him slowly redirecting course. He - and they - made their way for the dilapidated structure.

    Mike allowed a few Litwick to enter the house before him. Some insisted on using the open door, but most seemed to melt directly through the walls.

    They can become incorporeal.

    This will also be a challenge for you.

    The Professor has given her a harness. It will be invaluable until she respects you.

    Mike nodded, stifling a yawn. The voice was becoming somewhat more real as he approached the house. It was a thin, smoky hiss in his mind; a flicker of letters and words.

    He heard some disgruntled squeaks near his feet. A Litwick was trying to struggle its way through the wall, but was stopped short by some black and white leather straps around it. Mike snapped awake when he realized who he was looking at.

    “Hello, Robin!” The little candle pulled its head out from the wall and looked up. Her eye widened. She made some happy little noises, lifted a fringe, and started to wink over and over again.

    She is very young. She is stupid. The call came from inside the house, fully a voice of its own instead of just in Mike’s head. He looked into the doorway and saw the haunting yellow eyes from his dream on the sphere of its body. A bar across its front, crossed as if with blocky teeth, was pulled up in the middle slightly. It gave the impression of a frown.

    “Well that seems rude,” Mike quipped to Vincent, entering the room. Ghosts liked smarm, right?

    She is a child, the Chandelure replied, the mouth swapping to a slight smile. Children are stupid.

    But she is my child.


    You will protect her. To punctuate that point, a long arm unfurled itself and touched Mike on the chest, exactly above his heart. He felt it both burn and freeze for a fraction of a second. It skipped a beat. The hollow feeling threw a dozen coils of anxiety around his chest.

    Ghosts are easy, if you are prepared. She is no threat to you, or to others. She is a threat to herself.

    You have picked an infant.

    She is stubborn. She is clever. But she is an infant.

    She is stupid.

    “Do you mean ‘ignorant?’” Mike couldn’t help but ask. The yellow eyes narrowed at him. The Chandelure’s purple flames bloomed a little higher, casting strange shadows about the dark.

    Would you remember ‘ignorant?’

    No.

    You will remember stupid.

    It is comical. It is shocking. It is hurtful. You will remember my saying it.

    You will prove me wrong. She will become intelligent. She will become brilliant.

    Vincent’s flames were towering, licking at the charred ceiling. Waves of heat crashed over Mike. The gathered Litwicks all stared, little waxy eyes melting and swimming with the reflection of their father. Mike felt something cling to his pant leg, and that something emitted a shrill giggle.

    This lesson—

    I think—

    This works better with human young.

    “It’s still very effective,” Mike squeaked out, cowering under the sudden fury - or perhaps passion. The mouth smiled once more.

    Good.

    Now, we begin.

    Vincent had Mike sit at a table. His backside stressed a rickety chair to the point where he worried it would break. The Chandelure shooed and ushered Robin up to sit in front of Mike. The long, thin arms poked, prodded, and eventually scooped up the Litwick by the harness.

    You have picked a very young one, Vincent hissed, plopping the Litwick onto the table. It let out a little grunt. Mike couldn’t ignore the disdain in its voice, but he suspected it wasn’t directed at Robin.

    She has just formed, only weeks ago. She knows little.

    She will need guidance. She will need care.

    But I feel she is not especially stu—
    The glassy eyes looked up from the Litwick, narrowing almost imperceptibly as they locked with Mike's.

    I g n o r a n t .


    If the Litwick was insulted, she didn’t show it. The voice drew her attention only just. She was much more interested in the phone now in her hands. Mike recognized with a start that she was holding his phone. Again. He gently took it back.

    Bonding is essential, Vincent whispered. That game she plays is a good sign.

    A ball will be a prison to her. Many corporeal beings thrive within its walls; ghosts will not. It will frustrate her.


    You will, too. But you can apologize. The ball cannot.

    Make her walk. She is weak, and there is little else you can do to train her. Take your time.

    She will become stronger. She will become more clever.

    When she cannot walk, carry her. This time is...

    Special.

    Vincent went through what she could and couldn’t eat, which felt like a bizarre list. Normal foods did very little for her, but things that were once food could sustain her: Charred bones, dying plants, oatmeal raisin cookies.

    Mostly she would feed from people, Pokémon, and other living and feeling things.

    I can snuff out a human soul for breakfast, should I desire to do so. Mike couldn’t suppress the shudder at his blasé, almost prideful tone. His eyes narrowed again, the corners of his 'mouth' pricking up. She is much less than I, so she needs much less than I.

    At first she will kill mosquitos, maybe. Or ants. Both will be invaluable.


    She may end a life already on the cusp of ending. That could be troublesome. Or useful, should you hunt or fish.

    You will be nibbled upon nightly. You will be exhausted. So will your companions. You must prepare, until she can go feed herself.

    “When will that be?” Mike took his attention off of Vincent for a moment; Robin was making an escape attempt. He looped a finger through the back of her harness as she toddled towards the edge of the table. She gave a squeak of surprise as she was stopped.

    When you can trust her. That will take time, but hopefully not much. Vincent's voice was quicker now, almost impatient.

    Ghosts are not disloyal, but we are independent. She will be no exception.

    You will never be able to control when she leaves. This is why she has the harness.

    You must trust that she will come back. This is why you must bond.

    “It sounds like she’s going to be miserable,” Mike replied. “I have to drag her—”

    She will be. Vincent's pace picked up again, the mouth-like form pulling tight between the glassy eyes.

    Training presents problems. So does the wild.

    Some Pokémon will choose one or the other. Some will be thrust into one or the other.

    She is the latter.

    “I dunno if—”

    Silence.

    The rumble of his voice sucked all other sounds from the room. The Litwicks all snapped around to watch their patriarch. He began to rise again, flames swelling. His yellow eyes were cold, dim, drilling into Mike’s own.

    I feel the thought.

    You are stupid.

    Should she live here, this glorified zoo, for her whole life?

    No!

    The voice had risen to a roar, shaking the house to its foundation. Broken glass tinkled out from their frames to the floor. Mike pressed himself into the seat, trying to shrink away from the heat and anger. It gave way under him and he hit the ground with a crunching thump. Robin squeaked from the table, moving to the edge, looking down on Mike.

    She will desire a life beyond these walls! And she picked you to take her there. Whether she understands that or not! Whether she chose rightly or not!

    Had she more time, she would be taught. By the humans, by her kin, by me!

    She is too young to understand now. To understand training, understand her place, understand speech!

    A long arm whirled around, the candelabra upon it scattering small flames in a dozen directions. Each found a Litwick’s wick, which ignited, seeming to draw them into Vincent’s fervor. Violet, lavender, purple and puce battled violently on the walls. Shadows clashed, crossed, sometimes vanished entirely.

    Others have been here months, even years. They do understand, and when they are ready, they choose.

    They come from a noble brood. My essence, my lineage, is theirs!

    They each are destined for greatness, and they each know exactly who they should choose to get there.

    Like it or not, early or not, right or not, She! Chose! Y o u !

    Sweat rolled down Mike’s face under Vincent’s intensity. His chest was touched again by Vincent’s thin, black tendril of an arm. His heart froze, boiled, and stopped, all in the same moment.

    Through the tension, Robin clapped and giggled at her father, the 'plap-plap-plap' of her little hands clear over the crackling flames.

    And you chose her. Vincent reached over and stroked the Litwick gently. She cooed and trilled at the touch. The heat and light began to withdraw. Mike took the moment to push himself to his feet, brushing splinters from his backside.

    It will be a difficult journey for the both of you. She will be forced to adapt quickly to your life.

    She will learn to be awake when you are awake. She will learn to heed your call and orders. You will care for her as she adjusts.

    She can adjust. She must adjust.

    Or else, you ‘ a d j u s t : ’ You travel by night, train little else but her, meet no-one, struggle constantly, and accomplish nothing.

    The rumble in the voice was petering out. Vincent’s flames withdrew themselves as he floated down from where he had risen. Mike felt a cool rush of air from the windows as Vincent’s body heaved. It was as if the Chandelure sighed, and the wind sighed with him.

    Of course, there are many solutions to such problems. The seething voice almost felt like a mutter. Mike felt the barely contained emotion behind it. The mouth upon the Chandelure’s head pulled itself taught again. I merely offer my own. That of a father. Of a Champion. And once, a too young Litwick myself.

    You desire to learn, and know, and grow, and you desire to do so with her.


    She has found someone she enjoys.

    Early forms of love, and love is very important. Even if I am not the best at expressing it.

    The silence hung, only interrupted by Robin slipping over the edge and landing on the floor with a plop. Mike scooped her up and sat her back on the table, facing him. She smiled up and winked— he thought; He was only just able to see her other eye under her fringe.

    “Is there,” Mike faltered, afraid to speak again, “uh, is there an upside to this?”

    Vincent smiled, the glassy yellow eyes glimmering from within.

    Yes. She is young. Have you never raised an infant before? A pup, perhaps?

    Mike remembered the family Growlithe, Zippo. The dog had been barely five weeks old when he was first brought home. They had to constantly watch her to keep her out of the garbage and away from cables - especially the recycling bin, which caught fire more than once. They had to potty train her, learn how to give a bath to something that abhorred water, and work with her entirely from scratch.

    Consequently, Mike had never met a more well-behaved Growlithe. Zippo never barked at strangers or nipped at children. He always came when he was called, and—

    Yes, exactly, Vincent spoke. Zippo. What a funny name. What a nuisance he was as a pup, yes? Dangerous. Filthy. Stupid.

    “That’s a cruel way to put it, but yes,” Mike chanced. Vincent let out a raspy laugh.

    I’m not good, I’m not nice: I’m just right.

    Zippo became exquisite, and he was but a house pet.

    Robin will become so much more.

    The bond you will be able to form together will be unassailable, should you do so right.

    You will falter. She will falter. I faltered many times, with more than one trainer.

    But neither of you must fail. It will be hard. It may even be miserable. But it is not impossible.

    You already spit in the face of impossible, do you not, Mike?

    What is raising a ghost to a few hundred pounds?

    Mike hadn’t even felt Vincent slip into his mind, but this marked twice that the ghost had done so. Anxiety coiled itself around him, unsure of what else the Chandelure now knew.

    Be not afraid. Vincent smiled, but only for a moment. Be prepared.

    Now: Walk her.


    And Vincent was gone. No smoke, no sound; the Chandelure vanished as if he was never there. Without his flames flooding the house with light, Mike could tell that dawn was approaching. A minute passed in silence.

    The other Litwicks observed, or slept, but otherwise ignored them.

    “Well,” Mike finally spoke, “you heard your father.” Robin cocked her head. Mike stood, scooped her up from the table, and placed her on the ground.

    “Come on, Robin!”

    Mike walked towards the front door. He watched her over his shoulder as he went. She followed him, whimpering. It didn’t seem as if she had followed the order. She simply seemed eager to be around Mike. Vincent was right: she was very young.

    As Mike walked out the door, it closed behind him with a slam. He and Robin jumped and spun around, and the two jumped again to see Juniper standing next to the doorway. In her hand was a thin, silver chain.

    “This might seem silly,” Juniper spoke, “but you won’t need it long. Once you get your Pokédex, it can track your Litwick for you. For now, this will be incredibly useful.”

    Robin was content to walk next to Mike, at first. She would occasionally shake her body to adjust the harness, or prod at the strong clip on the front. Juniper instructed Mike to give her gentle, calm, but verbose reprimand when she did so. The volume of words he used would be important for her learning both English and his voice.

    Mike took to the challenge with gusto, elocuting at length. After the third or fourth bombardment, the effect seemed to stick: As they made a wide loop around the stone walls of the Sandile enclosure, Robin made an attempt to float through the barrier. Her harness stopped her short.

    “No,” Mike spoke, foregoing a monologue this time. Robin looked back at his voice. They locked eyes. After a moment, Mike raised his brows.

    Robin fell back into step with him. Mike beamed and immediately knelt down to scoop her up.

    “Verily, ye fiend!” Mike cooed, rubbing the waxy head as she giggled. “Egads! Ne’er before have I come upon one of such intellectitude!” He squeezed the parts of her front where he suspected cheeks were, and the pressure temporarily malformed Robin’s mouth and laughter.

    “Alright,” Juniper smiled, “maybe not that verbose. Smart alec.”

    The three made a few more loops before Robin, who was clearly becoming exhausted as the sun rose, finally stopped walking. Mike looked back as the chain went taut. Robin was standing, slumped over, her eyes half-shut. A little smile flitted onto her face as she made eye contact with Mike.

    “That’s enough for this morning,” Juniper spoke. “The poor thing should have been asleep an hour ago. She’ll get plenty of exercise tonight and tomorrow.”

    When the sun began to set, Mike returned to the nursery and Juniper let him in again. They found Robin and this time took her harness off. Juniper and Mike spent an hour or so following her, watching as she explored.

    Whenever she found something particularly interesting, she would scoop it up and bring it back to Mike: a dead bee (which she ate), some crisp leaves (which she burned), and - once again - his phone.

    “No,” Mike scolded. Robin gave a shrill giggle, vanishing. Mike’s phone clattered to the ground, the rubber case corners bouncing it onto its back. He pocketed it quickly, searching for his miscreant. “Bad! That wasn’t very nice, Robin!”

    “She isn’t a dog,” Juniper spoke gently. “Someday she might even be giving the orders.”

    “You think?” Mike asked, looking over to Juniper as walked. She took a glance back at the dilapidated house.

    “Vincent’s here because he wants to be,” Juniper replied. “He appeared a few years ago in quite the state. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, but he must have had some mortal moment. He and I had a very enlightening conversation about— Oh, ha!” She caught Mike’s snicker and joined him, “Enlightening!

    Ahh, anyway: he wanted to help me ‘put Litwick on the menu.’ He wants to never be forgotten, I think. I, of course, obliged. ‘What an excellent addition,’ I thought. ‘What a splendid idea!’” She shook her head and sighed.

    “I think it was all worth it in the end, but…” She trailed off, the two walking in silence for a moment. Mike couldn’t help but wonder if she was censoring her next words against any ethereal eavesdropping.

    “Don’t get me wrong, he can be a good sport,” she finally continued, “and loves a good prank. But he’s obsessed with lineage, and power, and The League. We give the Litwick as much T-L-C as we can, but still, they are all very picky because of him. I was surprised you found one. No offense, of course! Vincent has given most of them a strange sense of who is and who isn’t ‘right’ for them.”

    “He said he was a champion?” Mike’s question roused a nod from Juniper. “Does he mean—”

    “The League, yes.”

    “I figured. So who did he belong to?” Juniper made a strange face and took another look at the house.

    “Michael, if I may offer some unsolicited advice: Don’t ask him. It’s a sore spot. I honestly don’t know myself.”

    “Noted.” Mike nodded, moving to sit on a bench they had wandered to. There was a loud shriek as something squished underneath him. He leapt up in a panic, terrified he had just killed whatever poor creature he sat on.

    Robin had been pressed wide against the bench, one yellow eye in either of the cheeks imprinted upon her. Her now wide mouth inhaled and blew out a long, wet raspberry. She sprung up back into her usual stout form and vanished in a fit of laughter.

    My name is Robin and I’m a jerk, screeched Vincent on the breeze in a ridiculously high-pitched voice. Somewhere else on the wind came the cackling laughter of Mike’s Litwick, invisibly playing with her father.

    “Hey! You be nice to my baby!” Mike called out to nowhere in particular.

    My baby.

    “Our baby?”

    Fine. Our stupid baby.

    "So today is supposed to be day one…

    "And here I am…

    "At four in the fuckin' morning…

    "Is it too early to start? Can I go yet? Will anyone be awake? I
    want my Pokémon where's my bayyyy-beeeee"

    "Oh yeah! I picked - drumroll…

    "A Litwick!

    "I mean, of course, right? It eats your calories, like… What a ffffantastic thing for me.

    "I need to stop swearing. How am I supposed to be a
    good parent with such foul fuckin' language?

    "So it's five now. Five, uhh…

    "Five-twelve in the morning. I can't get back to fu- freakin' sleep.

    "We're just gonna go bathe one last time.

    "That's pay-per-view only, you perverts. See you soon!"


    "The front desk…

    "... is not…

    "... opeeennnnn- oh, shit, uh…"


    "Hello? Who's there?"

    "Hi Professor!"

    "... Mister Tapersson? What are- it's-"

    "Six, I know, I was just-"

    "What on earth are you recording?"

    "It's for my, uh, for my weight loss... blog... thing."

    "Oh! I've been meaning to follow that, actually. Hello world!"

    "Wh- Cool! That would be nice, Professor! I didn't know you cared."

    "I adore a good origin story! Let me guess, you were looking for Robin?"

    "I mean, can I take her this early?"

    "I don't see why not! I'm up anyways. I'll be right back!"

    "... She is seriously the best. Ten-out-of-ten."

    This is Robin.
    Robin is a Litwick.
    Robin needs a special harness so she doesn't disappear.
    Because she's a ghost.
    Robin doesn't like the harness.
    Because she likes being a ghost.
    Poor baby.
    Look at that widdwe faaaaace!
    So angery.
    I promise she likes me!

    #Litwick #BabyLeash #StarterShowcase #JustGhostProblems

    "Come on, Robin," Mike called, giving the thin silver-chained leash a little tug. The Litwick lurched forward, still surprised at being able to be pulled at all. He felt terrible having his new best friend on a leash, but knew he would feel worse should he lose her.

    "Wiiiiihhhhhh," the Litwick whined, rubbing sleep from its eyes. They had been slowly trudging along like this since leaving the lab. Mike had decided, at Vincent's behest, that he wanted Robin to walk by herself for at least one solid hour. He anxiously checked his phone. The seven remaining minutes felt like ages.

    "I know, baby. I know." Mike murmured, pausing and waiting for Robin to catch up to him. She came level with him, stopped, yawned, and slumped against his leg. Her already tiny flame snuffed itself almost immediately. Mike couldn't stand how absolutely adorable she was and pulled off his backpack.

    "Okay, I can't resist you anymore," Mike relented. Robin's mouth swapped from a frown to a little smile. He took a moment to find a place for her to sit on his bag, opting to strap her into the open top of his backpack. She snuggled in as Mike re-clasped her striped leather harness. It was sturdy but light, made from the hide of some dark and normal type from overseas.

    "Watch my back, ok?" Robin roused enough to give him a somewhat quizzical look. "It means keep an eye out for me." She cocked her head to the side. Still not a real response.

    "Eye." Mike winked. She smiled and, using an arm to raise her waxy fringe, winked back. At least she understood that much.

    Within moments she was out cold, and Mike slung her and the bag gently back on.

    Route 1 was quaint, Mike thought. Borderline easy. He had been told it was a mostly straight shot and - if pressed - could be done in a day. He had gotten himself used to a daily five mile hike, but this was many times that. It also wasn't a hike, he mused, happy to plod along a flat dirt path. He could tell the humidity here would be a challenge. Mike pulled a rag out of his back pocket and gently blotted his face as he marched. His eyes were already stinging from sunscreen-laced sweat.

    He couldn't help but notice that the path was practically groomed . There were few places for anything to hide, save for the dense tree line to either side. He occasionally passed an orchard, or a fenced-off field of one crop or another, all either ready for harvest or close. One of those crops was definitely corn - which he knew from sampling. Mike allowed himself the theft of two ears from a stalk close enough to pick without actually trespassing.

    Mike very much enjoyed the illusion of wilderness. He enjoyed even more that, once or twice, an orchard's branches would hang just far enough over a fence. Feeling a little guilty at his continuous thefts, he committed himself to only taking one apple at a time. After one for either pocket, of course. He made a note not to track his exercise calories today, and to call it even against the debt of the fruits.

    As the day pressed on, he felt Robin tug the cover of his backpack over her head. Even with a fresh coat of sunscreen, the late summer heat was beginning to burn his ears and arms. He reached back to poke at Robin, who was softer than before but still felt stable.

    Remembering the ferocity of Vincent, and how Robin had withstood it, Mike felt something try to squeeze inside his chest. However the coil had a hard time clinging on. Exercise, he reminded himself, releases endorphins. A gentle mantra of sorts, for when it felt less true. Exercise releases endorphins. He smiled, remembering how his younger self had balked at the idea of training...

    "My parents are sending me to Unova!" Mikey heard Scotty's downstairs yell clearly through his bedroom door. Scotty had been talking about training for the last few months, and it was exhausting to listen to him. They were best friends, sure, but couldn't he talk about anything else?

    Footsteps banged their way up the stairs. "Shoes!" called Mikey's mom, and the footsteps briefly receded before beginning again, somewhat quieter. Mikey practically threw a book and some papers out of his bag onto his desk. He sat just before the door opened, and tried to act surprised when it did.

    "Wh- oh, hi Scotty." Mikey tried to sell being sucked into a math problem. Scotty was grinning ear-to-ear, which was admittedly rare. Mikey almost wanted to be excited.

    "My parents are sending me to Unova!" Scotty repeated, holding out a letter in his hand. "Read em' and weep!"

    "Weep for what? I totally thought you could." Mikey looked for a moment, then turned back to his papers and began to copy out a quadratic formula. Just to do something.

    "Are you actually doing homework?" Scotty looked over Mikey's shoulder. Then at Mikey. Then he leaned over and turned on the desk lamp. "This might help, dumba- uh, dumb-butt."

    Mikey snorted. "That was so fuckin' lame," he hissed through a grin. Scotty flinched at the curse. "Just be quiet, dad doesn't care anyways, just mom."

    "Did you not hear me, Michael ?" Scotty looked at the paper Mikey was writing on. "That isn't even right."

    "Yeah it is," Mikey scowled at the page, pointing with his pen as he spoke: "negative-bee plus-minus the square route of-"

    "The square route of The Great Depression ?" Scotty's comment forced Mikey to check what he was actually writing on. English homework. A subject he actually liked. And he has used a pen! He fumed silently for a moment, scribbling it out.

    "Dude, you can, uh, just tell me to go home." Mikey was cut to hear the hurt from his friend. Whether or not it was what he wanted. A coil wound around inside his chest, squeezing differently than before.

    "No! No, tell me about the letter," he replied. He was curious, after all. Unova was apparently an amazing region. So much older and cooler than La Diega, and who could even remember that one in… Arizona? Texas? He didn't want to go to any region, or train at all for that matter. If he had to pick, though, Unova would have been his choice.

    They spent the evening looking over the A.C.E. acceptance letter, searching maps on Mikey's computer, learning about Unova, and generally joking around. Mikey felt… surprisingly jealous, he admitted to himself. That thing kept coiling up in his chest, slowly squeezing him tighter the whole evening until dinner. Food always helped, but it didn't relent as they readied for bed. Mikey only knew one other way to help abate it: humor.

    "All that walking is just, like, stupid," Mikey spoke, rolling to look over the edge of his bed sometime later. Scotty insisted on sleeping on the floor nowadays, wanting to 'get ready.' "I'd take a cab."

    "You hate walking, though," Scotty retorted, "I do track and field. I love it. You forget your gym clothes on lap day."

    "What are you trying to say, I'm fat or something?" Scotty snorted, trying not to laugh too loud. They were definitely up too late already. "You're a big shot but I'm just big , huh?"

    "Wow . Way to put words in my mouth."

    "Yeah, ' Mikey's pretty good at putting stuff in mouths ,' that's all I'm hearing!" They both stifled snickers at this.

    "I'm gonna miss you, man," Scotty eventually sighed after a long string of similar jokes. "This is crazy! I leave in, like, two weeks ."

    "Good riddance." This earned Mikey a thwack from a pillow as he chortled.

    "Go to sleep!" They both froze at Mikey's dad's order, at least until Scotty was blindsided by one last pillow. Both of them had to suppress a genuine giggle fit, lest Mikey's dad come and ruin their fun.

    Eventually, Mike was caught up to by two more trainers. The boy and girl were 'young and spry,' Mike thought to himself with a smile. Not quite out of highschool, if he had to guess. The sun was high and everyone was a little tired, so they slowed to his pace for a while. They - Manny and Danielle, he came to learn - were both enamored by the Litwick on his back. Mike invited them to stop for lunch so they could let their Pokémon stretch, and the two accepted with glee.

    Mike elected to get a fire going, and the twins scampered off in search of water and fuel. Robin was roused and eventually coaxed into producing an Ember into a pile of sticks and dry leaves, which took nearly half an hour. She did not want to be awake, and in her stupor she seemed to have a very hard time understanding what she needed to do.

    "Ember," Mike repeated, for the third time, flicking open his lighter. A little flame blossomed to life once more.

    Robin finally ignited her wick.

    "Good!" Mike hammered the lesson in a few more times. Getting her to move any fire to the tinder pile was another chore, especially considering she didn't seem to care for any of his snacks.

    Eventually, and against Mike's better judgement, he scrunched up a ball of leaves. He pinched it between his fingers and lit it. Just as the ball caught, he tossed it at the pile of larger sticks and tinder, and barked out "Ember!"

    This Robin understood instantly. Mike watched the gears spin to life behind her eyes. She reached out with a stubby arm and pulled a little plume of violet fire out of thin air. She wound up and tossed the flame like a toddler throwing a baseball for the first time. It landed with a crackle into the pile of tinder, and Mike leapt to his feet and whooped for joy. He scooped up the little candle, hugging her close as she giggled and shrieked.

    Soon a fire was crackling merrily, and a pot set above it was filled with water to boil.

    The two trainers produced their own starters: Manny had been granted a Solosis, which he called "Ziggy the Zygote." It was put to work with filling their tin cups. The little sphere's outer 'jelly' quivered from the telekinetic exertion, but it managed not to spill too much as it placed the cups in a neat-ish line in the shade. It beamed with pride each time a cup was placed the right side up on the ground.

    Danielle had chosen a little scoop of a Pokémon that she fittingly called "Gelato." She clarified that it was a Vanillite at Mike's request. It blew out a weak gust of cold air over each cup, smiling as its snowy head began to melt and dribble down the corners of its mouth. Danielle had to recall it quite quickly.

    Each trainer pulled out a different lunch and settled in the shade to eat. Mike gave out his 'ill-gotten' apples from the morning. The kids - both too short to reach the fruit still on the branches - graciously devoured them. They all sat together for an hour or two, hydrating a little too well, awkwardly deciding where and how to relieve themselves, and in the meantime musing about how deserted the route had felt so far.

    They each had theories, but the smartest one - offered by Danielle - was that the Aces from the days before had set to work on the route with gusto.

    The trio filled their canteens and broke camp. The fire was doused, snuffed, and buried, and - as a parting gift - Gelato did his best to freeze Mike's canteen. It somewhat succeeded in creating a slush, which was more than a delight to Mike. The kids each wanted to get their hands on a Lillipup, so Mike agreed to give them some space to do so. He had thought of catching one himself. He had a soft spot for canines...

    "Ember!" Mikey whipped a laser pointer around at one of the small squares of metal he had set up. The family Growlithe, Zippo, spun to find it nearly as fast. He barked up a string of coals which rattled the target as they struck. Each found its mark, much to Mikey's glee.

    "Good boy!" Mikey tossed a small treat to Zippo as he jogged over to snuff out the embers. He'd found himself much more bored than usual this summer, senioritis kicking in well before his last school year started. To alleviate it, he'd asked if he could whip the Growlithe into shape. A condition of his dad's permission to train up the family's lazy pet was that Mikey repair any burn scars on any surface. There were thankfully very few so far, and only on the grass.

    "How's Zippo?" Mikey's mother slid the back door open as she called to him. The Growlithe bounded over to her and - as far as Mikey could tell - attempted to jump directly into her soul. She laughed and loved on the pup in her arms.

    "Good! He learns fast, watch," Mikey replied. At his whistle, Zippo raced back to sit in the middle of an old hula hoop. Mikey reset a few 'stations' of his makeshift training ground as the Growlithe waited, nearly perfectly still. It focused on the 'trainer', panting but alert. Another whistle came from Mikey, and it rose to a crouch, ready to sprint. With a series of commands, the dog made its way with haste through an obstacle course.

    "Agility!" It weaved through several empty soda cans which each wiggled from how close the turns were cut. "Quick Attack!" It turned to an orange blur that intercepted a tossed bean bag. "Take Down!" It slammed through a wall of empty boxes, landing with a hard tumble in the grass. "Ember!" A laser pointer lit up a different target, which rattled from the shower of sparks. " Good boy!" Zippo barked with joy, bounding up to Mikey who met it with open arms and plenty of pets.

    "Wow ," Mikey's mom laughed out, crouching to join him in Zippo's snuggle-fest. "You're a real Pokémon! Yes you are!" They took turns rubbing, patting, and feeding Zippo.

    "You did all this in a week?" She asked, measuring Mikey up. He nodded with a smile

    "Yeah, Zippo's a quick study. And it was fun!" He scritched and scratched the Growlithe behind the ears, causing a back leg to thump away merrily. "His cough is gone, too. I read online that they'll get backed up if they don't, y'know, breathe fire every once in a while."

    "Mm-hmm! I'd do this myself if I didn't work so much," his mother heaved a sigh, "I miss it a lot, Mike."

    "I know," he spoke, smiling. She turned her eyes on him with a hint of sadness. He felt a coiling in his chest, but didn't look away.

    "And I really regret that you never did it," she said, as if to open, read, and shut a book all at once.

    "I know, mom."

    When he began to walk again, he found that extending his reprieve may have been a bad idea. His swollen feet seemed to squish with every step, and plodding along turned from the reflective therapy it was in the morning to near agony in the heat of the afternoon. This was relieved somewhat when the trail began to fall apart into patches of waist-high grass and thick brush loaded with not-quite-ripe berries.

    Their assumptions of the trainers from a day before were thankfully wrong; Mike had to shoo nosy Lillipup and Patrat away fairly often. Each time he tried to rouse Robin to fight, but she barely gave any of the wild Pokémon a glance. She would inevitably cling to Mike's pant leg and whine, and he would begrudgingly lift her back to her bag-perch.

    Late in the afternoon, as the dirt road began to re-solidify, Mike noticed the Litwick was much more awake. He strongly suspected Robin of merely being lazy. So, the next time she refused to do much more than glare at a Patrat, he didn't pick her back up. Instead, when she eventually grabbed onto his jeans, he insisted on walking as normal. She gave shrill little giggles as they went, her flame sputtering to life and snapping in the gentle breeze that had picked up.

    The grass gave way to the dirt path from before as the sun began to sink in the west. The ocean air was crisp, cool, and strong. Mike found all of the open camping spots exposed and unappealing. He passed the two Aces from before. They were happily playing with their starters and, to Mike's delight, two little Lillipup. They waved to each other, and he pressed on.

    The tree line to his left broke and revealed a small set of stairs down a cliffside. Beyond that was a bay, and beyond that the opposite side of the bay was thickly - but naturally - wooded. As he approached the stairs, a smaller cove within the bay revealed itself. In its calm waters he saw and heard another trainer, an Ace, considering the uniform. They were nearly up to their waist and making beautiful casts towards the cove's mouth. On their back was some large, blue-striped fish. He saw with delight that their - her, he guessed - hair wasn't mussed by the breeze, nor was her tent. He checked a sign by the stairs, which warned mostly of where to camp on the beach and where to find water along the short cliffs, before making his way down.

    "Hello!" Mike called out to the somehow familiar curly-haired figure. "Mind some company?" The fisherwoman turned to him and he was hit with a pang of recognition: it was the Ace who nearly caught him checking her out a few days before. A little more frazzled, a little more windswept, but just as pretty.

    "You're gonna wade out in those ?" She called back with a grin. Mike's stomach flip-flopped as he examined himself. He was sweaty and filthy from the walk, which wasn't news to him, but was suddenly and horribly embarrassing.

    "I, uh- no, I mean," Mike floundered, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, "to- to camp?"

    "Hey, you're the extra Ace! Go ahead, I'll be right there." Mike nodded with a smile. She reeled in her line, stowed the hook, and began to slog in his direction.

    "I said go ahead," she clarified as she got closer. Mike hadn't moved, a little dumbstruck.

    "Oh!" He felt his cheeks flush, and not from the sun. "I guess I didn't hear. Uh, thanks, and yeah, I'm Mike."

    "Stephanie," she replied. They shook. "I gotta know your story. And get the hell outta these." She looked down at her rubber waders, awkwardly - but adorably - shuffling her feet in the shallows for a moment. Mike laughed as she struggled her way to dry land. Robin detached from Mike's pant leg to follow her - or more specifically, the not-quite-dead Basculin she was carrying.

    "Oh hello !" She turned and addressed the little candle that was squeakily calling to her. Mike smiled at Robin and her new friend before starting to set up camp. He didn't notice what was properly going on until Stephanie gave her own startled squeak.

    Mike turned from his half-erect tent to see Robin next to the Basculin on the ground. Her flame was engorged, rippling with violent shades of violet as the fish's writhing intensified. The two trainers watched as the poor thing flapped, shook, shuddered, croaked, and - disturbingly suddenly - stopped . They made eye contact, sharing the harrowing moment in silence. Mike had to break it.

    "Think it'll taste different?" His morbid question roused a snort.

    "Oh yeah," she remarked, "now we can't make soul food." Mike and Stephanie shared a horrible little laugh together as Robin poked at the now dead Pokémon.

    After having set up his tent properly, giving himself a quick towel bath, and throwing on a new shirt, Mike pulled a log over to her fire pit to serve as a chair. Just one, somewhat purposefully. He fluttered with nerves at what - to him - was a brazen act.

    "Oh, thanks!" Stephanie had poked her head out of her tent at the noise. From the looks of it, she either was or had been similarly freshening up. "I'm just getting jammies on. Doubt I'll go back out until butt-fuck-o'clock in the morning."

    Mike snorted. "Sure, take your time," he replied with a smile. She returned it before retreating and zipping her door shut. Mike looked over to Robin, who was chewing on a fin contentedly. "I'll swap you something for some fish," he called out, "I'd, uh, like something not shrink-wrapped for dinner."

    "Counter-offer," she called from inside the tent, "I have, like, zero idea how to, uh… prep? Clean? Gut? Let's go with ' prep' a fish."

    "What the hell do you Aces learn at school?" Mike's not-quite-faux-exasperation drew out a giggle from the tent.

    "I took the online survival class," she remarked, which only baffled Mike further. "I know, stupid idea. I figured I could just, like, look it up."

    "Well, when you get out here, you c-can, uh, hi. Hello." Mike had stuttered to a halt as she emerged. He didn't have a lot of experience with women, so seeing a girl in pajamas was a novelty, even if it was just leggings and a comfy-looking flannel. He noticed the loose-fitting shirt was done up one button lower than some may find decent. Not him , but some. He'd blame the fire for his cheeks this time, he thought, smiling and trying not to look in any one place too long.

    "I can what, nerd?" She sat next to him with her own little grin. Her taunt brought Mike back to the task at hand.

    "You can watch a master at work," Mike recovered with a confident little smirk. She made a little noise of false wonder as he got up to pull a cutting board and filet knife from his kit...

    "Careful with the belly," Mikey's dad spoke as he watched over his shoulder. The boy held the now dead Whiscash in the lake by its mouth. While his left hand adjusted the fish, the right tried to find purchase with his knife.

    "When am I ever, Dad?" Mikey undulated his gut momentarily, then ran the sharp blade along the underside of the fish. He did as his dad had shown him the day before, rinsing the body cavity in the water, freeing the guts with his fingers. He'd seen his dad do this on a dozen camping trips when he was younger, and usually would help somehow. Asking to be in charge of dinner was completely new. There was something firmly adult-ish about it to Mikey, which was nice. It's exactly what he was looking for after the particularly ludicrous string of college parties leading up to the summer.

    "I thought you were squeamish?" His dad chided. Mikey laughed but didn't reply. "Okay, now they don't have scales, but slime comes off almost the same way. So what next?"

    They continued much in this fashion, through each step in processing the day's catch. Removing the slime, de-finning and deboning, prepping, and into the pan over the fire.

    They sat in silence, enjoying the hiss of oil on meat. Mikey was dangerously close to actually salivating as he worried over the cuts in the pan. His dad smacked Mikey's hand with his own spatula.

    "Patience, young Kricketot," his dad mocked. "It'll cook. It needs to cook all the way through, unless you want worms."

    "They might help," Mikey rubbed his belly as his dad snorted.

    "The only thing that's gonna help that is you, kiddo." There it was. Mikey had been dreading that for a while, hating these conversations. He wilted in on himself a bit, but tried not to show it.

    "You really gotta lose that weight," his dad eventually spoke.

    "I know." Mikey's reply was quiet.

    "I mean," his dad continued, checking the underside of one of the cuts, "I just... I want to see you live. Get out there and enjoy life, you know?" Mikey didn't reply. Instead he got up to grab some seasonings.

    "I was heavy when I was your age, too. Not that heavy, not like you, but I didn't do the trainer thing, either."

    Mikey knew that. It wasn't news to him. He salted the fish.

    "But you're heavy, Mike. And I worry about you. I don't want you to miss out on things."

    Same old story. Mikey peppered the fish.

    "I feel really bad. I lost weight and I started seeing a lot of women, Mike."

    Same old song and dance. Mikey flipped the fish slowly, laying them away from himself, careful not to splatter the oil.

    "And I don't… I don't want you to die before me."

    Mikey stopped.

    "Nobody wants to bury their kid, kiddo."

    Mike turned to his dad, with a hurt inside of him that he wasn't expecting.

    "Holy shit, Mike," Stephanie blurted out through a mouth full of fish. Her genuine shock only made Mike smile wider. She took another large forkful as Mike set about stripping the stolen corn he had roasted.

    "Yeah?" She gave a small but emphatic nod in answer.

    "Yeah, this is bomb," she spoke through another mouthful. He gave a laugh.

    "Try to taste it," he chided with a wink, "oh, and watch out for bones. I think I got them all, but you never know."

    "I'll eat the damn bones," she shot back. He laughed anew. "Seriously, this is amazi- Oh yeah, there's one." She picked it out and flicked it into their fire. Robin and Champ - Stephanie's Tepig - followed it through the air, both of them nearly drooling. There was plenty of fish to go around, but Stephanie insisted on their starters eating after the trainers had eaten. 'For discipline's sake.'

    After they both enjoyed some dinner, they fed their starters. Mike did his best to hide his jealousy of the well-mannered little pig, which was gently trying to play with the Litwick. Robin was doing her best to ignore the Tepig as it charred the bones and scraps of the Basculin. Her best was more than good enough to allow her to eat in near-peace, considering she could simply disappear. Eventually Champ realized that he could instead nab the food Robin was preparing, which was much more entertaining than trying to pick on her directly.

    "So, Mike," Stephanie spoke, standing and disappearing into her tent for a moment. "I have a confession to make." She emerged again with a bottle of wine and a grin. "I'm a total wino. Care to join me?" Mike felt his heart flutter.

    "Uh, of course," he replied, trying to hide his nerves with bravado. He gulped down the last of his water from his tin cup while she uncorked the bottle. Stephanie ensured the both of them received a sturdy pour before leaning the bottle against the log and sitting again. Mike couldn't help but notice she was a little closer.

    "What shall we toast to, my dearest?" Mike threw on a grandiose affect, which Stephanie fell into as well. Each straightened up and held their arms as elegantly as they could muster. What he intended to be a quick and simple joke turned into a game, much to his delight.

    "Well, I say ! I hadn't thought of it," she replied in an airy posh tone. "Shall we toast to summer evenings?"

    "To summer evenings," Mike cordially offered his cup. They clinked them together and sipped. "Mmm! To fisherwomen!" Stephanie nodded delicately at his addition.

    "To fisherwomen!" Clink! They sipped again. She thought for a moment, still holding her cup aloft. "To Professor Juniper!"

    "And to Aces!" They smiled and clinked. He hadn't drunk much on his diet, and he could feel warmth already spreading in his emptier-than-usual stomach. "May they never teach survival properly," he offered with a wink. She shot him a look, then returned to her character. Clink! Drink.

    "To Feebas," she offered with a smile. Mike was completely lost.

    "What on earth is that, my good woman?"

    "It's a cute little thing that I desperately want," she articulated, "a grey-ish fish that turns into the most lovely Po-"

    "Soup," Mike finished over her. She snickered and pushed him.

    "Pokémon," she reiterated, her character sliding a little, "they turn into Milotic. They're gorgeous, and very strong. I've wanted one forever, and Feebas only live in a few weird places."

    "This cove being one of them?" Clink!

    "Mm-hmm." Drink. They both were sliding back into normalcy. Or perhaps something else. She refilled their cups.

    "What else," Mike mused, casting about for something. "To... happenstance? Serendipity?"

    "Is that a Pokémon?" She almost sold genuine disbelief, but couldn't contain a small smile. "Yes, to Serendipity." Clink! Drink. "And to the opposite, for not having caught a Feebas and fucked off already."

    "Language, dearest," Mike chided, sliding back into his accent.

    "Oh! What a silly ass I am!" She almost made Mike snort out his wine. They both laughed. She dropped the character somewhat, placing a hand on Mike's thigh and asking, "so, why don't you tell me why you're out here, and we'll toast to that next?"

    He took a little downward look at her hand, his heart fluttered at her touch. He decided to focus back on her. "Well, uh, what do you want to know?"

    "You're an honorary Ace," she replied, withdrawing the hand but turning to him. "That's weird. It's not unheard of, but it always means something . Spill!" Mike shrugged, sad to have the hand leave but glad to have a better view. Firelight was beginning to dance on her dark skin as they lost the sun. She was a little flush, like he felt he was, and her eyes were focused on him. On his eyes. He was lost for a moment in his drink, in the heat, in that deep hazel...

    "Uh," he eventually forced himself, after what felt like an eternity, "I, uh, did good on the test?" He smirked. He wished he had a better answer that wasn't so private. She raised a brow.

    "That's it?" She withdrew a bit, hands on her cup. It sobered him somewhat.

    "Well, no, but that was, uh, a major part of it," Mike gathered himself, remembering his essay, the Professor's letter, and their talk in the lab. "She really liked my essay, and I did well on the test."

    "What did you write?" A small smile of encouragement. He felt weirdly protective of his motives, even though he ran a blog kind-of sort-of all about it. Nobody here knew that, though, besides the Professor. She would be the second.

    "So, I've always been heavy," he started, as if he were revealing some grand secret.

    "I mean, me too," she offered.

    "You're not , not to mention you're gor-" He caught himself, acutely aware of the wine, "you're very, uhm- you're not ' me big.'" She smiled and blushed a bit. "Sorry. You're very pretty, and I'm, uh, a lightweight. Funnily enough." She grinned into her cup as he swirled his own.

    "Thank you," she replied, soft and genuine. He felt unsure of how to continue, and could tell she felt similar.

    "Anyways," he pressed on, "I had this moment where suddenly I just… I dunno, it all clicked together in my head. I guess I snapped, but not in a bad way? And I decided that I was done fuckin' around.

    "So I, like, had this hairbrained scheme. I never did the training thing, and-"

    "Me, either," Stephanie added, "obviously. Sorry, continue."

    "No prob! Anyways, I never did it. But it - this," he gesticulated, nearly spilling the dribble left in his cup, but not pausing as she gasped and giggled at it, "is all about hiking, and camping, and being out in the wilderness, right? So I thought: 'if I only pack what I need, and completely remove myself from being able to binge eat, and spend all day walking and training up a bunch of Pokémon, how could I not lose weight?'

    "So I bought this book on how to ace the new trainer's exam, and it sucked , so then-"

    "Was it 'Trainers Training Trainers?'" Stephanie interrupted.

    "Yes!" They both lit up, elated with their common loathing.

    "It was so bad !" Stephanie touched his arm as she said so. His heart jumped once more. She emptied the last of the bottle into their cups, which was barely a gulp each. "Like, I get it, you're writing for thirteen-year-olds, but it barely helped with the exam!"

    "The writer intended it for La Diega and Orre, where apparently it's much easier I guess? Hence the reviews being so good." Stephanie gave a knowing nod at Mike's explanation. "Unova's got a lot of unique species and regulations and stuff. Anyways, after that, I just binged a bunch of videos and took a course at the local community college. Turns out I was way over-prepared."

    "Yeah, same here," Stephanie chimed in.

    "So I demolished the test, and Juniper apparently loved my essay, and all-of-the-sudden I get enrolled in their Ace course. I have no idea exactly why, besides her wanting me to get a different starter. I said I wanted that Tepig, actually." Champ drowsily looked up at the word 'Tepig' to find Mike pointing at him. He snorted at the trainer. Mike snorted back.

    "Ohhhh , yeah, that makes sense," Stephanie added. "You'd never get a shot at one of her specialties without being an Ace. And she seemed a little put out when I picked him, but I have wanted my own little piggly-wiggly for ages , so tough titty ."

    "I'll trade ya." He didn't entirely mean it, but the humor made it worth saying. Stephanie and Mike were both surprised when Robin span around to shoot her trainer a dirty look. Mike knew that the Litwick had a mediocre-at-best grasp on English, but perhaps she could read his intent? He immediately felt terrible. Robin's yellow eye narrowed and Mike felt something tug on his chest as her violet flame grew. Was she eating his regret? It certainly felt like it.

    "She did not like that," Stephanie laughed as she spoke, "and besides, no deal."

    "I'm sorry Robin! Daddy didn't mean it!" Mike's soothing did nothing, and Robin turned to wander away. She proceeded to test the limits of the leash and harness for the rest of the evening; she was attached to a long post screwed deep into the earth, which wiggled slightly if she pulled too far but otherwise proved steadfast.

    "Anyways," Mike returned to his explanation, "turns out there was a kicker! A friend of mine is a Warden, and he was able to hook me up with a Pokédex from their lost and found. Which are reserved for Aces in this region, right?" Stephanie nodded. "So that means everything's on the up-and-up, if anyone ever bothers to ask."

    "So, Juniper likes you," Stephanie summed up, "you write well, your test was good, and you're well-connected." Mike shook his head with a smile; he was obviously being picked on but the facts still made him feel nice. "And you're a blogger ! It all makes sense now."

    "Oh, shut up," Mike spoke, looking up at her. There was a sudden urge inside of him that he hadn't felt in a long time. She was sitting there, very close, smirking, eyes glowing with mischief. The feeling may have been right, but the timing felt a little off. He hesitated.

    "Okay," she cut the moment short, "that's nice, but I wanna know what the snap was." She put an unfamiliar emphasis to the word 'snap.'

    "What do you mean?"

    "What made you go through with all this?" Stephanie tried to drink from her cup, but it was empty. She gently tossed it into her pile of dishes with a clatter. Mike placed his in his own mess of a mess kit.

    "With what, moving to the opposite side of the country, selling everything I owned, and deciding I wanted to act like a kid for a few months?" She nodded. "Well…"


    —​

    "... it, I dunno, it was a lot of things." He pushed the memory back down where it belonged. Fuel, but not the fire. Important, but just to him. He tried his best to not show the moment, but he knew he lived with his heart on his sleeve. Stephanie gave a little frown. He decided to share some truths.

    "Well, I just got my degree." He began.

    "Congrats," she replied with an admiring smile. He was glad to see it back.

    "Thanks. And I don't have any debt. I have a little put away, I'm single, I-"

    "Oh," Stephanie's grin was a little more coy than before, "Why, Mike, are you trying to seduce me?" She closed the distance between the two on the log. Mike's heart was hammering in his chest. He was suddenly very aware of her; the smell of her skin, her curls gently resting on his arm, her leg pressed against his, the wine on her breath.

    "Well," he returned, with charm unexpected, "is it working?"
     
    Last edited:
    Ch. 4: Thnks fr th Mmrs
  • Homestar!

    Mikeposter/Galaxy-Brainer
    Location
    NorCal
    Pronouns
    He/Him
    Partners
    1. nidoqueen
    Chapter 4:
    Thnks fr th Mmrs

    Mike had an incredibly hard time waking up. Robin, who had been left out on her leash to wander, managed to make her way into the tent with him. She half-dozed next to his head, clutching a square of folded paper, her flame burning strong - yet unnaturally dim.

    Mike finally rose from his stupor to the feeling of something pulling in his chest. It was as if the coils of his anxiety were being tugged towards the Litwick’s flame. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it did have the effect of making him feel as if he hadn’t slept at all.

    “Robin,” he mumbled, prodding her gently, “are you... eating?” The candle roused itself. Mike could only just make out her yellow eye through his bleary vision. He succumbed to sleep.

    A moment later, he jerked himself back awake and met her gaze again.

    “Can you stop?” Mike forced the question through a yawn. The Litwick tilted her body slightly to move her fringe and better see her trainer eye-to-eye. Mike felt as if she knew she was being spoken to, but had no idea what he was saying.

    Remembering something from the night before, he thought Stop as hard as he could, and tried to imagine ‘stop-ish’ thoughts:

    Running, then stopping.

    Eating, then stopping.

    Holding his breath.

    He found it was quite difficult to think ‘stop-ish-ly,’ but after a few moments Robin’s eyes widened in recognition. Her flame promptly sputtered and died, leaving only a wisp of fragrant smoke.

    The pull in Mike’s chest subsided instantly, but the grogginess stuck around. Not to mention the pinch of dehydration. He hadn’t gotten that drunk, but he did forget to drink anything but wine.

    Mike also clocked a familiar, very intense feeling: Hunger. The desire to recklessly stuff his face with anything he could get his hands on. A single-minded drive to eat, eat, eat. His stomach growled as dread began to grip him. Robin may indeed have been a very big mistake.

    He forced himself to drink a long pull of water from his flask. He found his phone and punched various foods - and two and a half glasses of wine - into his calorie counter. Needing to kill the all-consuming gluttony somehow, he added the apples he’d said he would discount. He wound up only slightly over.

    He had intended to guilt away his hunger, not reinforce it. He didn’t even need to enter eight hours of walking to know he had a ridiculous surplus to work with.

    The sun was higher than he expected when he emerged from his tent, and with a pang he saw that he was alone at the campsite. The sun was already quite high, which did nothing to help his shock and guilt. The night before came rushing back in a tumble of emotion.

    Where was Stephanie?

    Robin squeaked behind him, having followed him out. Mike ignored her and looked around the cove for any sign of his… he didn’t know what to call her. But he knew she wasn’t there. No tent, no trash, and only his pieces of his mess kit remaining. His kettle was sitting in the ashes of a fire, still warm, and - he noticed with a swooping mix of thankfulness and sadness - filled with fresh-ish coffee.

    Robin was now pulling on his leg as he tried to set up his own mess kit. He was too absorbed in abating his hunger and trying not to feel too jilted to notice the irritation building in his little friend. He worked silently to get a pan ready; to get eggs, bacon, and bread out; to change into something fresh.

    Mike didn’t acknowledge her until she shrieked at him as he opened his clothes trunk again. He had no idea how she managed to get into it - perhaps when he had grabbed some fresh underclothes earlier? His whole body jolted hard as a wave of some foreign energy washed over him.

    What?!” He boomed back, bewildered and frazzled and already at the end of his rope. Robin recoiled with a whimper and tried to vanish. The only thing that gave her away was her striped harness and faint, quick hiccups. Mike immediately felt like a monster, and tentatively reached in to lift her up.

    “I’m sorry, Robin,” he murmured, picking up the disembodied harness. He pulled her into a hug, squishing her somewhat soft body against his chest and face. “That wasn’t very nice of me. I don’t- uh, well, jump scares suck. It’s not your fault, it’s okay. I was ignoring you. I’m sorry.”

    Mike knelt and held her quietly for a moment. Robin gave a few gentle little sobs as she faded back into reality, her little arms wrapped around her trainer’s face. She finally pulled away and slapped him with the little square of something she was holding. He laughed, knowing he deserved it. She did it again, and he snatched it from her.

    “Stay out of my stuff, you little—” Mike caught himself, seeing his name written in thin violet ink on the neatly folded paper square. It wasn’t his at all.

    His heart hammered with excitement. He turned it over, looking between it and Robin, and suddenly realized why she had been trying to get his attention all morning. He opened the letter with hands that began to tremble, coils gripping him tightly as ever.

    Mike,

    Thank you for being a gentleman last night. I enjoyed our dinner and wine and stuff! I woke up early to fish the low tide and immediately caught myself some ‘soup.’ I’d leave you my number, but people out on these routes can be total creeps, and I don’t want someone stealing this and spamming me with dick pics.

    I’m so sorry for bailing, but the sun isn’t even up yet, and I promised some friends I’d meet them in Accumula for lunch today. They’re also my ride to Castelia, and if I miss it I’ve gotta leg it the whole way. I have no idea if I’ll see you again, but I make a habit of treating myself to
    The Pallet on Friday evenings. They’re a Unovan chain of cafes with open mics, cozy seats, and great wine. Maybe we’ll bump into each other sometime?

    See you soon (I hope)!
    Stephanie

    xxx

    Those three little kisses made Mike’s whole week.

    The remaining walk to Accumula was much worse than the day before. The terrain was similar: a sturdy dirt path, leading once more through what seemed like purposeful patches of grass and scrubby shrubs.

    The walking, however, was agony. Even with all of his preparation, Mike found that his feet were more tender than he ever felt before. His glutes and calves eked out a low wail of pain and his thighs twitched and twinged.

    He found himself chuffing, “Thank you Scott, thank you Scott,” periodically, his cargo wonderfully lightened by Scott’s gifts. He decided wasn’t tracking food at all today, content to shovel fuel into the cumbersome engine he had become.

    The thankfully light Litwick made herself at home in the top of his bag again, and - save for the whimper or yawn - slept the day away. Mike strongly envied her. She didn’t have to walk, and didn’t have to tangle with the tumult of emotions from the night before.

    If she was sleeping - which Mike was certain she was from the occasional tiny snore - she must not have been too offended from his raised voice earlier. That thought looped another coil around his chest, adding to everything else that was already hampering his breathing.

    They didn’t stop for lunch, out of Mike’s fear of never being able to move again. Sometime past noon he finally saw the edge of Accumula. It was, as he remembered, a town built on gentle hills and into valleys. Very nearly a city in its own right, but not quite. He could make out loosely packed red brick buildings, their tops staggered strangely by the various swoops and dives in altitude. In time they found the final stretch of path, which dissolved into gravel, which abruptly became smooth pavement.

    They made their way past a raised town square and directly for the Pokémon Center. Mike had made good time: most of the cafes and restaurants lining the square were quiet, and he would be able to snag a gratuitous meal in relative peace. Not quite yet, though. He desperately needed his ‘Three S-es;’ A shower, a shave, and to use a real toilet.

    The Pokémon Center was likewise none too crowded. The PokéMart outlet at the front showed the only sign of real life, with a few young trainers and an Ace he didn’t recognize milling about the aisles. Mike trudged towards the check-in counter and tried to book himself a room without so much as a second thought to what he was supposed to be doing here. The nurse lit up a little at his name and began to explain something he knew was important.

    “Please,” Mike interrupted with a comically exaggerated wheeze, “can I come back later?”

    “Oh! Of course sir,” the nurse replied with quick, articulate cheer. She launched into a speech that was clearly well-rehearsed. “The evening seminar will begin here around seven, which is where you’ll receive your activated Trainer Card. Rooms start on the second floor, up the elevators or stairs to your right.” She pointed over one shoulder.

    “Just swipe a payment card or scan your ID at any door with a green light and you’re good to go! Each night’s stay beyond the first per week is only forty dollars or four thousand Poké. That also comes with two meals in our cafeteria, which is down that hallway to your left,” she pointed over the other shoulder.

    “First door on the right. Meals include up to six Pokémon.

    “Thank you for using the Accumula Town Pokémon Center, we hope to see you again!”


    “We survived! Just! Uh, anyways, I just wanted to let the world know we weren’t, uh, dead. By the way, I get why they’re called ‘Nurse Joys.’ How anyone could endure a trainer’s—”

    “Wih!”

    “stink and still be that happy—”

    “Li-wiih!”

    “to see them must be—”

    “Liwiwiiiick!”

    “What, you booger? It’s a phone. See?

    “Look! Hello! That’s—”

    “Wiiiiih!”

    Hey!

    “Give me that!

    Robin!

    “The ball, where’s your stupid…

    “Hold... Still!

    “Okay. Oh-kay... is this still… Oh yeah... I’m posting this... for sure… God damn am I out of shape…”


    Two of his three S-es later, Mike decided he wasn’t quite ready for a shave and collapsed into a rather-too-small bed. Robin, not at all happy with her firm reprimand for trying to escape with Mike’s phone, was busy trying to push her way through the door.

    Her paws flailed feebly through the surface, but her harness caught her shoulders and held her fast from escaping. Mike sucked in his gut so he could watch her from where he lay, smirking as she whined and wiggled in vain.

    “The sun isn’t even down yet, goober,” he chided. She didn’t react. He pushed some pillows behind his back to prop himself up a little better.

    “Hey, Robin,” he called. “It’s okay. We’ll go out later.” Robin turned slightly at her name, but otherwise didn’t cease from her escape attempt. She began to jump up towards the handle, tiny arms flailing fruitlessly. Mike heaved himself back up onto his sore feet and went to double-check the deadbolt.

    “No, Robin,” he sighed, testing the knob, then flipping a latch shut on the door, “You barely know your name. We’ll figure out free-feeding soon, but for now, nap-time.”

    Robin whined, long and monotonous. She leaned her forehead through the door to the point where the harness sat on her shoulders. Her mouth, much to Mike’s chagrin, was still on his side of the door and keening louder than ever. He recalled her in a flash of light and returned to his tiny bed. He was out before he hit the pillow.

    The orientation was barely useful, but Mike attended anyway. A bubbly aide of Juniper’s met their small group. She distributed their Trainer Cards with some difficulty, fumbling the devices more than once. Their eager recipients were quick enough to catch them, save Mike, who fretted over a small ding on the corner.

    The aide then led a short tour of the Pokémon Center; the PokéMart outlet, the wall of computers and complicated electronics that made up the PC System, the front desk (for the second time), the Cafeteria, the front desk (which Mike, finding her adorable, almost didn’t point out that they had seen twice before), and the elevators to their simple lodgings. At each point she emphasized how all Centers followed this style, and that the trainer rates for staying covered almost everything not Mart-related.

    “Okay, so, front desk again, which means we’re all done!” She fixed their small group with a cheerful grin. Mike returned it, possibly the only one in the group to do so.

    “Hey, gringo,” a familiar voice hissed in his ear, “act like I was here, will you?”

    “Capiche,” Mike replied, barely able to stop his smile widening.

    “Any questions?” The aide’s voice was so full of hope that Mike almost made one up. Everyone took that as their cue to leave, save Mira, who inquired about her card, playing up a dottering old lady act that Mike barely bought.

    When she had finished and the two turned to leave, Mike realized he did have a question.

    “Excuse me, uh,” Mike floundered for the aide’s name. He wasn’t entirely sure she had said it.

    “Oh! Duh, sorry,” the aide replied, realizing the same herself. She then cupped her hands to her mouth and called out, “I’m Bianca, by the way! Feel free to— aaaaand they’re not listening. Anyways! Heeey! I have a feeling you’re Mike, right?”

    “What gave it away?” Mike knew very well what gave it away.

    “Uh,” she stumbled, having been caught, “actually it was the s-smell?”

    “The what?!” Mike couldn’t help but exclaim with joyful bewilderment. He had not expected that reply at all.

    “No! N-not like— I mean— you smell like—” She pulled her somewhat ridiculous green hat down over her head, “it’s weird, this is weird, it’s to-tal-ly weird.”

    “Yes, I agree,” laughed Mike.

    “You smell like the Litwick habitat,” Bianca finally got out, which Mira must have heard given the cackling that erupted behind them, “it’s like this oily, smoky, cheap-lily-scented candle smell. It’s not bad! You smell great, I swear— I mean— oh wow please let me dieeee.

    “You’re free to die in just a sec, I promise,” Mike laughed out, “but first, Professor Juniper said I could get my Pokédex here?”

    “Right, thank you!” She flipped open a small green purse and dug around for a moment. She soon pulled out the holstered device Scott had given him a few weeks ago. She handed it over with a wide, albeit frazzled, smile. “Congrats, by the way!”

    “Uh, thanks?” Mike didn’t hide his confusion.

    “On your weight loss!” He was instantly flattered, and both loved and hated the feeling. She glowed as she continued, “the Professor showed me your blog! We think it’s a-ma-zing! You can totally see it in your face!”

    After an awkward round of ‘thank-you’s and ‘excuse-me’s, Mike extricated himself. He joined Mira, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping and was grinning widely. The two made their way towards the front door.

    “You never said you were losing weight,” she replied, with a tone that felt like she was his offended grandmother.

    “You never pulled the ‘¿Qué te están alimentando?’ routine,” he shot back with a smirk.

    “Didn’t think I had to, big guy.” Her off-handed retort and side-eyed measuring up cut Mike a little deeper than he expected. He never liked other people making the fat jokes; that was his sacred ground. “And lay off the Spanish, gringo. Your accent is terrible.”

    “Wh—!”

    “I like you already,” she continued, unabashed. “You try too hard. Unless you want to practice, save it.” Mike wasn’t used to someone shooting so straight with him, besides his mother. He flushed with embarrassment.

    “Noted. I— I’m sor—”

    Cállate. Come, let’s eat. ‘You’re wasting away.’ Apparently.

    They made their way to the cafeteria, gossiping about their first few days as they went. The set-up reminded Mike a little too much of his college’s dining hall: stacks of dishes still damp from the washing machine, a mess of hot tables with various inoffensive fare, a few stalls where you could get omelets or burritos and other messy foods hand-made, and always too few chairs for so many tables.

    The most major difference was the addition of a separate room with a few serving tables and stalls specifically for Pokémon. Mike and Mira toured it out of curiosity. They understood immediately why it warranted a separate room, as they were hit by a peculiar but not horrifically unpleasant odor as they opened the doors.

    The Pokémon dining hall included various grades of kibble, mats of grasses and small brush in disposable trays, vats of chum, raw cuts of meat, a stall with various live seafood, and another stall which held a staff member in a hazmat suit, a bin of compost, and a small silo with a wide spigot. The silo was labeled with various hazardous symbols and a list of ‘recommended Pokémon.’ The odor from several yards away was enough to send them scurrying back to whence they came.

    Mike hated eating like this. Portion control was hell at restaurants anyways, but a buffet? He might as well write the whole day off. Which, after having recouped some sleep, he was intent on not doing. Mira watched with vague curiosity as he entered a mess of different energy bars and trail mixes into his calorie counting app. He was relieved to find he wasn’t over budget, even after halving his walk’s distance. His macros were a complete mess, but that didn’t matter to him. Mira scolded him for his high sodium and carb intakes, intent on ‘giving an authentic experience.’

    They ate, and gossed, and poked fun at poor Bianca, but Mike kept his night with Stephanie close to his chest. Though it was clear enough that he wasn’t doing a good job of hiding anything.

    “You’re certainly smiley,” Mira insisted after Mike cleaned a rather small plate. “Talk to your dear, sweet abuela.”

    “Okay, okay,” Mike rolled his eyes, “I get it. No more spanish.”

    “I’m more offended by the grandma stuff,” she said with a wink. Mike now felt even worse. “But I’m glad that’s hit home, too. Anyways, you’re glowing about something.”

    “Thanks, it’s the sunburn,” Mike returned in a ridiculous voice, fluttering his eyes. She smirked but otherwise ignored it.

    “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you got lucky.” Her comment was so deadpan and so close that Mike choked on his decaf. She gave a loving little titter. “Well don’t you work fast!”

    “I— we didn’t—” Mike was too busy coughing coffee out from the wrong pipe to argue much more. After mopping himself up and clearing his throat, he finally replied: “nothing happened. I mean, not much.”

    “Oh dear, I didn’t think you could get much redder,” Mira chided, “So? Who was it? I think there was only one girl your age. Oh, I’m sorry, unless—”

    “Nah, that narrows it right down,” Mike confirmed.

    “So it was her. The short one with the long curls?” Mike nodded his response. Mira leaned forward almost confidentially. “She got coffee with me this morning and had a very similar look on her face.” Mike grinned down into his lap, where he was gripping his phone as if it might ring any second. It wouldn’t, he knew, but he could hope.

    “Hey, wait,” Mike looked up, “I had to cover your ass for the tour. How’d you see her?”

    “I was here yesterday,” she replied nonchalantly. “I decided to skip it and get some rest. Niles, that brute, he’s running me ragged. I overslept for the evening orientation, but it’s for kids. I’m not stupid. I was surprised to see you there at all, Ace.

    “Surprised and lucky,” Mike replied. Mira gave a conspiratorial little smirk in return. They rose to see if there was anything left worth picking at. Mike had been judicious for their first round, but he remembered how miserable he felt that morning and abandoned his diet. No, he thought to himself, we’re not abandoning it. We’re feeding Robin. Don’t be stupid.

    “How will you be getting to Aspertia,” Mira asked sometime later. She’d just finished fawning about her grandson, who was coming to town to check out her Sandile and give her a ride. Mike pushed a wilted floret of broccoli around his plate, not wanting to think about it.

    “Uh, I won’t,” he replied, “I can’t— I didn’t expect to need to.” Mira frowned.

    “I wish I could help,” was all she could say. Mike nodded glumly into his plate. They were only just friends, he didn’t expect a handout like that.

    The two said their goodbyes sometime later, getting off the elevator on the same floor and sharing a tight hug outside of Mike’s door. She was leaving first thing in the morning, and with Mike intending to catch up on some much-needed sleep, this would be the last they saw each other for a long time.

    Mike called her back and showed her his blog, then called her back again to swap numbers.

    Then she called him over for another hug.

    Finally he went inside.

    “Alright everyone, new to live streams, but yeah, so, uh, happy Friday! I just did my first on the road weight check this morning! And…

    “Well, I didn’t really gain anything, at least. I’m up a third— a third-ish of a pound. Which is much better than I thought we would be doing.

    “Robin is a very hungry little girl. Does, uh, does anyone know exactly how much they eat? Is there an app for that? I swear Professor Juniper said something about it but—

    “Oh hey! Hi Juniper! She says: ‘I thought I told you? It’s roughly five hundred kay-cals.’ Kay-cals? Kilocalories? What the heck—

    “Oh. ‘Kay-cals are just calories, hope you are doing well! Love—’ Aww! Hi Scott’s mom!”


    Mike spent most of the next day not doing very much of anything. He woke up late, groggy but not nearly as exhausted as before. He forced Robin to stay awake until he had finished breakfast. It didn’t feel so much like forcing once he’d found her a small bowl of minnows, which she methodically drained, killed, and ate with glee.

    His legs were sore and his feet were very tender, but - loathe to spend any more than he needed to - he insisted on traveling the town by foot. He stopped in a few different stores, longingly perusing their merchandise, but remembering that he would be out forty dollars that evening should he want to stay another night in civilization.

    It was either that or set up camp on the outskirts of town, which - while financially tempting - seemed like a physical impossibility. They had to camp on a Route, and the closest proper campsites were a few miles in any direction. Far too much walking to even consider.

    He took a light, late lunch at one of the eateries on the town square. Sitting under an umbrella, the heat was almost bearable. He nursed a diet soda and nibbled at a salad with one hand. The other he wrapped around his new Pokédex. Mike sat there for a few hours, losing track of time and becoming acquainted with the device. Robin sat asleep on the table, which - if any of the few other pet- and Pokémon-laiden tables were any indication - was completely acceptable.

    “At least it’s just wax, right?” Mike’s joke drew a polite smile from his waiter. Robin had been shifting to follow the umbrella’s shade, leaving a faint white trail on the dark metal grates of the table.

    The Pokédex certainly seemed useful. Mike was bombarded by information, but only about his Litwick. He saw that she was already identified as ‘Robin,’ and as belonging to himself, along with various other tidbits: Her type - fire and ghost - which he knew; her ‘level,’ which seemed to be an indicator of relative strength; several statistics, all quantified somehow; Her ‘ability,’ which was listed as ‘Infiltrator,’ which answered a lot of questions he had about her habit of mysteriously popping up in places. He silently thanked Juniper once again for the harness.

    The little machine even tried to quantify her personality. Nothing about her felt particularly ‘modest’ so far, but ‘highly curious’ felt bang-on.

    Little waxy hands appeared around the side of the device, gently trying to tug it away. Mike was more than ready to be robbed this time, and - with a rush of relief - realized she could now be tracked. He made sure to set the tracker as his home screen, and even synched the Pokédex to his phone for good measure.

    He ordered a charcuterie plate and another diet soda, logged the plate, and spent a lazy afternoon sorting out his new life. He was worried sick about his money, and consequently his time. He looked at his bank account, scribbled down some numbers onto a notepad he’d snagged from his room, then checked his funds now available on his ID. Fifty thousand Poke was nothing to sneeze at, but it really didn’t give him too much more to work with.

    “So,” Mike spoke to Robin, whose lone visible eye was half-way open, “if we wanna stay inside the whole time, we have about five months.” He circled a number on his notepad. Robin’s focus honed in on where the pen met the paper, apparently noticing the phenomenon that was ink for the first time.

    “And if we only sleep there for the one free night, and try to spend only twenty dollars a day on supplies, we can double that. Ish.”

    “Lih,” the Litwick mimicked. She reached for the pen, which Mike gave to her.

    “And it takes about two months per gym, if we’re very good.” Mike spoke slowly, purposefully, taking the end of the pen and helping Robin to write a ‘2.’

    “Two,” he spoke as they drew. The Litwick marveled at the symbol she made.

    “So if we have ten months,” he helped her make ten little circles, “and it takes two months to get a badge,” they circled two of the dots, “how many badges can we get?”

    He remembered how he ‘spoke’ to her the morning before, and had thought very, very hard about each step of the simple problem.

    To his great surprise and elation, she circled four more sets of dots.

    Five badges! That’s right!” The two beamed at each other.

    Then she circled all of the dots.

    And his math problems.

    And everything else he had written on the sheet.

    It had still been more than he expected from a baby starter. He tore off a sheet so that she could doodle freely, and she filled it with little circles in short order. It was a good distraction from the coiling anxiety in his chest.

    Ten months felt like very, very little time. Especially when every lost battle could also be a lost day. He had anticipated to just enjoy his ‘vacation’ of sorts as long as he could, but he had anticipated training for at least a year. How was he supposed to make any real diet progress in less than a year? Or training progress? Or anything progress? The thought threw another loop into the coils. Robin stopped scribbling and looked up to him, cocking her head.

    “You feel that, huh?” Mike reached out and rubbed his little friend. She smiled and returned to doodling. As she did so, her flame ignited, and he felt something familiar in his chest: a tug in her direction, as if the flame itself had grabbed at the coils and was gently pulling. Unwinding them, ever so slightly. The difference wasn’t spectacular, but it was noticeable, and he was suddenly incredibly grateful for his new friend.

    “I worry too much,” he muttered with a smile. “Which I think you’re gonna enjoy, huh?”

    Wih!

    “You don’t have to be so happy about it.”
     
    Last edited:
    Ch. 5: Run, Rabbit, Run (With the Glenn Miller Orchestra)
  • Homestar!

    Mikeposter/Galaxy-Brainer
    Location
    NorCal
    Pronouns
    He/Him
    Partners
    1. nidoqueen
    Chapter 5:
    Run, Rabbit, Run (With the Glenn Miller Orchestra)

    Leaving Accumula felt harder than getting there in the first place. Mike had spent a few days lingering and ‘picking on’ trainers, as Bianca had once accused him. He would while away his mornings and evenings in the Center’s lobby, waiting for the tours to finish before offering to have a quick battle.

    “We gotta break in your trainer card,” he’d say, so often that it felt like a motto. Bianca didn’t seem to hate it, except for the fact that Mike’s Litwick had a terrific edge on most of the other starters.

    Most of the remaining trainers that came through were much younger, right around the legal training age of thirteen. Excitable and passionate, they often leapt at the chance for a fight with an ‘Ace.’ They marveled at his Pokédex, which Mike was sure to allow each of them to use. He took to carrying the complimentary notepad and pen from his room at the center, so that trainers could scribble down any of the information they desired from the little computer.

    As far as Mike was concerned, sharing his ‘dex was a win-win: he filled out the machine a little more, they could train their starters a little better, and everyone had a good time.

    Mike always made sure to keep the stakes low, if they existed at all. He would even offer to fight ‘off the books’ if they didn’t want to get money involved. Unregistered battles were technically illegal

    “But, y’know, our starters are all too weak to really hurt anything. Besides,” Mike explained to a particularly worried young woman named Trish, “we’re out in the open. No sense in hiding, yeah?” He had taken to fighting smack-dab in the middle of the town square, which today drew a small crowd of local looky-loos. Mike smiled at the girl, who relaxed and grinned back.

    “And,” an adult cut in, a bronze seal flashing on his chest as he walked, “we’d rather you practice in town, anyways.” The warden made his way over and introduced himself. Any coils that had been added to Mike’s anxiety by his skirting the law were unraveled by Warden Schmidt in moments.

    Mike and Trish clicked their only pokéballs together, moved to either end of the town square, and made to announce.

    "Oh, uh, First to One I guess?" Mike called. They were supposed to do this before their salute, but Warden Schmidt jangled his nerves.

    "Full Team Wipe!" Trish demanded. Mike bit his cheeks. It meant one of them would scurry back to the Center after this. He wondered if he'd been hustled. Well, two could play at that game.

    "Double the bet?" Mike asked this to both her and the Warden. Trish nodded. The Warden pulled out his Trainer ID, and after a moment both his and Trish's chimed.

    "Let's try to remember to do this before salutes next time," Warden Schmidt called out. Both trainers apologized.

    "Ready?" Mike called. Trish nodded. "Alright, I challenged, but you changed the rules, so you first."

    "It's a Tympole! Go ahead, Froppy!" There was a flash of light from her hands, and in a moment a small, spherical, black-and-tan creature trilled away a rhythm in front of them. It bounced as it did, keeping a lively tempo.

    "Nice," Mike called back, unsure of how this battle would go. He'd be at a disadvantage. "I'll use my Litwick, Robin." He patted the flap of his backpack, and his Litwick shook herself awake. She clambered onto his shoulder.

    "Rise and shine, Robin," Mike helped her down. "This will be tough, it's water. Remember water?" Robin frowned up at him as Mike unclipped her harness. She clearly did remember the last time she fought a water type. To her credit, she turned and glided to face the—

    "Froppy! Bubble!" Robin had hardly taken her place when the girl barked the order. Mike squawked dismay at the false start, but Robin vanished before the Tympole finished inhaling. It automatically sprayed out a thick jet of foam, apparently unable to stop itself.

    Mike didn't want to spoil the surprise: he knew what Robin was up to. But he also wanted to give a good impression to the younger trainers around him. And to the Warden who had taken to observing his daily routine.

    "Astonish," he shouted. The Tympole looked around wildly, but nothing happened. It had lost its beat, and began to count itself back in with its tail. A few moments passed. Mike shrugged.

    "Guess she just isn't—"

    Robin materialized with a shriek that blew the Tympole over and made most of the crowd jump. The tadpole instantly began to sob. Considering it was in-time with its previous rhythm, it was almost funnier than it was sad.

    "That was a dirty trick!" The little girl snipped.

    "So is false-starting," the Warden drawled. He raised a brow and a hand in Mike's direction

    "No, no, we're good," Mike nodded at the man. "Smog it up!"

    Robin looked back at him.

    "Smog!" Mike repeated. The Tympole was recovering from its shock. Their window was closing. "Smog!" He could see her in his mind, clear as day, issuing forth a thick cloud of burning, choking smoke.

    Robin nodded, whirling around and gliding in quick circles around the Tympole. Thick white smoke poured from her wick.

    "Bubble it!" They were able to see the Tympole whirl around on its belly, spraying jets of foam this way and that. Mike threw up his hands as a soggy jet slopped near his feet, splattering his front.

    "Keep it up!" Mike wondered if she understood. The smoke began to thin, and he could tell she didn't get the message. "No! Robin! Smog more! Smog more!"

    Robin, panting, leaned over slightly to catch her breath. She hadn't been unscathed. The Tympole, though, was in a similar state, and completely turned around. She looked up to Mike, locked eyes with him, and pushed herself back into movement. The cloud began to thicken once more.

    "Yes! Good work!"

    "Froppy! You gotta stop it! Supersonic!" Trish was too little too late. A noise echoed dully through the smoke that made Mike's head swirl, but it gurgled and died away in a hacking fit of tiny coughs.

    Robin stumbled out of the cloud in little corkscrews, her eye not quite able to focus on anything. But she was still standing. Froppy was belly-up, coughing and hacking, its skin terribly dry.

    "The Tympole is no longer fit to battle," Warden Schmidt announced. "Congratulations, Mike."

    Mike jogged into the arena and scooped Robin up. He immediately regretted it, the not-quite-cleared smoke stinging at his eyes and throat. He meant to give his starter a big squeeze, but only managed a thumbs-up as he retreated. She smiled widely anyways, smoke trailing from the corners of her mouth.

    On Thursday, Mike took up his usual position near the Center’s front desk.

    “Hey, Tiff,” Mike called. The older nurse slid her cash drawer shut before sticking out both of her arms.

    “Where’s my baby,” Tiffany demanded. Mike obliged, releasing Robin onto the counter. The little candle literally and figuratively lit up to see one of her favorite ‘Joys.’ The two spent some time cooing at each other as Mike scanned the lobby for Bianca. She ran late as a rule, but after fifteen minutes of playing with one girl and idly flirting with the other, Mike felt like something was wrong.

    “Bianca’s running later than usual,” Mike mused as the two worked to try and style Robin’s waxy fringes. They often picked on her during their lulls, reasoning that she needed to get used to human touch. The Litwick in question, albeit a little annoyed, allowed them to shape and mold her ‘hair.’

    “Bianca? Oh, she’s done,” Tiffany replied, “she’s too young for you anyways, sugar.”

    “Wh— Ew!” Mike retched, which drew a giggle out of the nurse. “She’s, like, twelve.”

    “I’m just sassin’ ya, dear. I know you’re here to bully the babies, but they’re all gone now.” Tiffany cocked her head at Mike, sizing him up. “To be honest, I think Bianca appreciated you.” He looked up, curious to hear more.

    “Yeah?”

    “Mm-hmm.” Tiffany split up some of Robin’s wax and began to braid it. “We get one or two every season who wanna stay around an’ pick fights. But you’re gentle with ‘em. You don’t make ‘em bet, you let ‘em see your ‘dex; you’re a good little teacher.”

    “Thanks,” Mike replied, unable to hide his pride, “I was gonna be one, got my degree and everything, but I decided I wanted to try this before I settled down. So that— It’s nice to hear, thanks.” Tiffany beamed back at him. She pressed the ends of the Litwick’s waxy braid together so it would stick.

    “Alright, hun, all done!” She turned her smile to Robin, who gently shook her head. The braid flopped from side to side with surprising ease. Mike enjoyed being able to see both of her little eyes, each so full of delight.

    Given the news, Mike spent the rest of the day shopping and preparing for Route 2. It was about as long as the route before, as the ‘krow flies. Various incoming trainers from that direction - who were few and far between - remarked on the ease of the downhill trek. That always threw a coil around Mike’s chest. The last route was flat; how would he handle this one?

    Robin, however, was restless. She had been adapting to their crepuscular rhythm with particular gusto. She loved to fight and loved attention, and she only partook in those things when she and Mike were awake at the same time. When Robin finally realized that they weren’t going to be fighting that day, she had a small meltdown in the middle of a thrift store. She seized the legs of the jeans Mike had found - a true rarity given his size - and set fire to them. After a lot of stamping-out and a loud scolding, Mike returned her for the rest of the trip. He also wound up begrudgingly buying what would soon be shorts.

    On his way back to his room at the Center, he stopped in a tiny mom-and-pop-ish bookstore. He found the mouseish owner and asked him for their section on ghost-specific training. Mike was led around a few turns in the packed, barely-organized labyrinth until they found a shelf loaded with ‘TRAINER’S GUIDES’ of all shapes and sizes. The owner left Mike to his search, and - with nothing to guide him - he started to pull various ‘spooky-looking’ books out of the collection.

    The orange-and-black books, which he hoped were halloween-ish, turned out to be mostly for dark- or fire-types. He skimmed a few of the latter, but found very scant entries on Litwicks - if anything at all. The purple-ish books skewed much more in his favor. Eventually he narrowed down his choices to three different ghastly tomes, which he leafed through quickly.

    Mike eventually settled on a newer-looking violet paperback. On its front, in blocky yellow letters, read The EASY MEDIUM: How to Handle HARD to Train Ghosts. The humor of which sold Mike immediately. At a glance, a solid third of it was devoted to general care, tips, and resources for ghost-types. The rest included the most common specters of Unova, which left plenty of room for each to be given ample attention.

    When Mike took it to the counter, the owner tittered about the publisher and authors with delight. He pointed out that a long-standing member of the Elite Four penned the forward for their region’s edition. If Mike hadn’t been sold before, he was now.

    He sat in the cafeteria some time later, helping himself to a second omelet and worriedly logging the excess. He’d spent most of the first plate skimming a section entitled ‘What to Eat When You’re Being Eaten.’ He’d been good so far about sticking to a five hundred calorie excess, but the more he read, the more he worried. Seeing as he was probably the primary source of nutrition for the Litwick, he was more than likely underfeeding himself. At least, according to the various charts now at his disposal.

    As he picked and perused, he flipped deep into the book to find the section on Litwick. To his great joy, he found an entire section for the species labeled ‘Basic Communication.’ He began to read - and eat - with gusto.

    “Intentions (by which we mean your immediately present thoughts and urges, both conscious and unconscious) form an important set of signals for ghosts. Litwick are no exception; they can read most beings’ intent with ease. As pattern recognition is to human beings, intention cognition is to ghosts.

    “As a reminder (for those who have forgotten or skipped Section I): In order to set up traps, scares, pranks, and generally evoke an appetizing emotional response, most ghosts have evolved to be able to clearly sense what you are
    currently doing and thinking about - as well as what you are immediately about to do. We sum up this phenomena as “intention cognition,” and will make extensive reference to your “intent” within this chapter.

    The intention cognition phenomena present in ghosts is most akin to a psychic’s combination of telepathy and genuine precognition, however the former should never be mistaken for the latter. Whereas psychics and other telepathic Pokémon can easily open up a two-way avenue, communication via intent alone will only be trainer-to-ghost.”


    - The Easy Medium, Section II, Chapter 3: Litwick, Lampent, and Chandelure

    “Alright, alright- it’s recording. Stay there…

    “Okay! Ready, Robin?”


    “Lit!”

    “Okay. Right hand!

    “Right! Come on!”


    “Wih!”

    “Good! Now, left.”

    “Wih…”

    “Fu- yes, heck yes, okay…

    “Both!”


    “... Li-twi?”

    “Now headbang!”

    “Yeah-ah-ah-ah-ah!!!” “Wii-ii-ii-ii-ii-ii!!”

    #DidYouKnow that Litwick (and a lot of ghosts, apparently), read intention to hunt? And they eat emotions? It sounds complicated, but basically it means that if you think super hard they can hear you and do tricks! Like this! Look at us go! #RockinRobin #MetalHeads

    Mike wanted to make sure he had an early start the next morning, but it was all he could do just to open his eyes. Shortly before four he scrubbed, shaved, packed, and readied himself and his starter for the long day they were anticipating. He passed by the front desk just after five, his bag on his back and a groggy smile on his face. Robin, much cheerier than usual, had been allowed to wander without her leash. Nurse Tiffany was busy counting a cash drawer, but called out as they passed.

    “Mike, c’mere,” she beckoned. Mike gave an exaggerated groan before thinking ‘desk’ as hard as he could at the Litwick. It slid to a halt, processed the incoming ‘intent’ with a little burst of purple flame, then scooted merrily back to her favorite nurse.

    “Morning, Tiff,” Mike yawned, leaning heavily against the counter. Robin hopped up with ease, beaming at Mike and waiting for praise. He smiled weakly back at her and rubbed her unlit head. “What’s up?”

    “You aren’t.” She smirked as she slammed the register drawer shut. “Look, I gotta be honest with you. I’ve been watchin’ you pretty hard these past few days.” Mike bobbed his eyebrows, to which he received a dismissive snort. “Not like that. Like, how you’ve been with everyone. Especially the newbies. You’re a good man.

    “Now, I was hoping you weren’t leaving so soon: I only just got the go-ahead to ask, but looks like you’re on your way, so it’s now or never.”

    “Where’s this going, Tiff?” Mike was slowly rousing himself, realizing these compliments and kind words were coming from somewhere.

    “I got a favor to ask,” she continued. Mike nodded with a poorly-suppressed yawn. “A co-worker and good personal friend of mine usually has one of her kids take the other to Striaton for school. Her older son is busy and she’s on the clock all weekend. Justin’s begging to make the trip alone, but legally he’s too young. Barely.”

    “Justin’s the kid?” Mike asked, still visibly bereft of his morning coffee. Tiffany nodded.

    “Yup. He’s great. Eager - full of it, really - but smart. He’ll be a part of Juniper’s Winter Program, but until then it’s illegal for him to be out on the routes alone. His mother and I haven’t been able to find a solution. Until now.

    “If you’re up for it, of course,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “Juniper’s trainers’re all background checked, yeah?” Mike nodded as he began to put two and two together.

    “What, does he go to boarding school?” He was busying himself by lazily playing with his Litwick, thinking simple commands as hard as he could and watching her wave her arms or do little dances.

    “Bingo!” She watched the two with a small smile as she continued, “Academy of Combat Enthusiasts, Striaton Campus. Big, ornate building on the west side of town. Can’t miss the place.”

    “That makes much more sense,” he nodded, causing Robin to nod with ridiculous vigor. “And - not to help anyone’s decision-making - but these,” he pulled out the Pokédex from its protector at his hip, “are all GPS tracked and have emergency whatevers and junk.”

    “Don’t I know it.” Tiffany’s smile broadened as she continued, “an’ since yer hell-bent on taking the long way to Castelia, that makes you the perfect man for the job.”

    “Well…” Mike thought about it, as much as he could. He was going that direction, anyways. It would be nice to have more than himself to talk to - especially if Juniper had been right about the lack of trainers. “How old is this kid, again?”

    “Justin’s almost thirteen,” Tiffany replied, not without some bitterness, “an’ he won’t let you forget it.”

    “He sounds like a— Wait, wait...” Mike was squishing his eyes shut and concentrating. Robin finally understood and her flame bloomed into life. She gave a little giggle in anticipation. Mike reached out two fingers and started again. “He sounds like a de-light.” As he enunciated, he pinched the flame out. Tiffany gave an amused cluck of a laugh as Mike showered the Litwick with praise.

    “I’m reopening your room for the morning, my treat. Go sleep on it an’—”

    “Today would be free anyw—”

    Go sleep on it and be back at nine.” Tiffany leveled a glare at Mike that strongly reminded him of his mother.

    “Why do I have the feeling this isn’t an option?” Mike had already decided he wasn’t going to say no, but he didn’t particularly enjoy his loss of agency in the matter.

    “If they can afford a boarding school, they ain’t broke,” Tiffany added, with no attempt at subtlety. Mike enjoyed that about her.

    “You’re absolutely right,” he replied with a grin, suddenly in much better spirits. “This isn’t an option.”

    A few hours and one much appreciated nap later, Mike and Robin returned to the Pokémon Center’s lobby in near-opposite spirits from their earlier visit. Robin’s glee with freedom seemed to be the only thing keeping her awake, and Mike’s exhaustion had taken a massive blow thanks to his sleeping in and the promise of payment.

    There he is,” Tiffany nodded in their direction. Mike couldn’t help but clock the flash of surprise on the other woman’s - the mother’s - face. He was much more pleased, however, by the boy next to her, who he assumed was Justin. He was used to kids having zero grace when it came to his size, but Justin smiled broadly and betrayed nothing but joy. Perhaps because he was much more focused on Mike’s Litwick.

    “Hi, I’m Michael," He said to the both of them. He and the woman shook hands.

    “Rebecca,” she replied with a smile. Mike looked over to the boy, who was focused on Robin, who was focused on her reflection in the polished Center floor.

    You can call me Mike, if you want to,” Mike spoke at the boy, hoping to prompt a response. Justin didn’t take his eyes off of Robin, as if she might disappear at any moment. Which, in his defense, she could.

    “What about your Litwick?” Justin’s question drew Robin’s attention. She looked up and struggled through a yawn.

    “This is Justin,” the mother introduced the son. Her voice was dripping with exhaustion and irritation in equal measure, making Mike assume that the boy wasn’t one for manners or tact. Which made him no different than any other kid. The two women immediately went back to a hurried conversation. They must have been switching shifts.

    “Her name is Robin,” Mike returned his attention to Justin. The little kid shot him a funny look. “Well, she’s a bit of a thief. See, when I first met—”

    “So are you Crobatman?” Mike suppressed a cringe and shot back his own terrible pun.

    “No, but you’re ‘Just-in’ time for a butt-kicking.” Justin gave an exaggerated guffaw. Mike made a show of pointing at his eyes then pointing at the kid. Robin, to their surprise, mimicked the motion - albeit with her arms in lieu of fingers. All involved were trying their best to suppress grins and maintain their mock-irritation.

    “Settle down, boys,” Tiffany called, “and c'mere, Mike.” He moved obediently over to the counter, quickly repeating the ‘I’m watching you’ motion over his shoulder as he went. He enjoyed kids, and felt like he was good with them. It was a large part of the reason he wanted to pursue education. Justin seemed to be no exception - so far.

    “So,” Rebecca started, halfway through pulling on a pink Center uniform, “are you sure you’re alright with this?”

    “Uh,” Mike hesitated, “I think so? But I—”

    “Oh, thank you so much,” Rebecca barreled over him. “I know this is weird, but all of the trainers from the lab’s program are checked and double-checked, and I didn’t know what else to do. Tiffany told me there was a nice young man helping out the newbies from his class, and work has been so hectic lately. And Ben, his older brother - bless him - he just got a promotion. They usually do this every year, you know. Ever since Justin was six. The walk isn’t hard, but he’s not a legal trainer yet, and he really needs a—”

    “Uh, Miss? Ma’am?” Mike interjected sheepishly.

    “I’m so sorry,” she chuckled off some anxiety and settled herself. “Yes?”

    “Do you mind if we go over some specifics?”

    “Of course,” she clucked out a few more chuckles, “right, so what did Tiffany tell you?”

    “Not much, just enough - I think,” Mike replied. “She has a friend who needs a favor - you - and that favor is getting Justin to school: the A.C.E. over in Striaton. I don’t think anyone else from the lab is taking the slow way, so I’m your guy if he needs a baby-sitter.” He called the last few words somewhat behind him, to which Justin balked his indignation. Tiffany and Rebecca laughed.

    “I know we’re total strangers,” Mike continued, to clear the air, “but I am going the same direction, and I was planning on leaving today anyways. I’ll go ahead and give you my Trainer ID Number and Cell Phone number. Please don’t hesitate to call at any time! Justin seems like he’s got a good attitude and a good sense of humor, and my skin’s as thick as it looks.” He smirked at the self-depreciation. Mike noted that Rebecca did not.

    “Sounds like you've got a handle on things. Anything else you’d like to know?” Rebecca asked, counting in her cash drawer.

    “Does Justin have any medications he needs to take?” Mike, unable to help himself, slipped into responsibility.

    “... No, he’s twelve," Rebecca replied. Mike shrugged, remembering the medical cocktail that Scott had begun trying at his age.

    “Any allergies?”

    “Keep him away from too much milk and he’ll be fine.”

    “Disabilities, phobias, or—”

    “Are you—” Rebecca laughed aloud at Mike’s sudden, clerical shift in demeanor, “were you a teacher or something?” She straightened her hat in the reflection of a blank monitor.

    “That’s what I thought,” Tiffany cut in, emerging from a door behind the counter wearing much less pink. “He’s got his credential an’ all that, but wanted to do this first.”

    “Just the degree, no credential,” Mike clarified, glowing with pride. “But yeah, that’s the plan after training. I never did it at his age.”

    “Well, lucky me,” Rebecca smiled at him, “if I wasn’t comfortable before, I am now. Anything else?”

    Mike hesitated. This would be the point where he would begin to haggle, but suddenly he felt incredibly guilty about asking for payment. He was going to be making the exact same trip he would have, just with an extra pair of eyes, ears, and hands. Plus, Justin was a soon-to-be-Ace. The kid could probably do this alone, were it not technically a crime.

    “Nope,” he decided after a moment, “But you should know I’m a brand new trainer. I only have Robin over there.”

    “Oh! He has a little Oshawott named Choppy. I almost forgot, here,” she reached into her pocket and pulled out a Great Ball covered in scuffs and scratches. “He’s been taking care of the little thing for a long time, and he really needs some exercise if he's gonna shape up into Justin's starter, anyways. Justin!”

    The boy trotted over, hands covered in a thin layer of wax, which went just past his wrists.

    “What on earth,” Mike muttered with disbelief.

    “She’s a ghost!" Mike snorted at the comment. "I was just petting her and whoosh! Then I wanted to see if she stole anything.” Another snort.

    “Didn’t you have an Xtransciever?” Justin paled at Mike's question. They all turned to see it sticking out of Robin’s forehead. She seemed entirely unperturbed. Or, quite possibly, she was acting unperturbed.

    Please leave Michael’s Litwick alone,” Rebecca gave an exasperated sigh, “you and Chop get up to enough mischief as it is.” With that, she handed over the ball. Justin went to throw it, but with a bark of, “not in the Center,” from several staff members, he pocketed it instead.

    After a brief shopping trip - wherein Justin was quicker to point out essentials than Mike was - Rebecca bade them farewell and they were off. Their first stop was the Warden’s Station that separated Route 2 from the city proper. At Mike’s insistence, Justin kept his Oshawott within its ball until they cleared the gate. Once they were officially on Route, Mike was introduced to the spunky little otter and the four made their way up the gently sloping trail and into the woods.

    Justin and Mike got on like a house on fire, where Mike was the house and Justin was the fire. The two bickered, picked, and argued with good humor as they marched through the trees. Mike loved every moment; he always wanted a little brother. He had two older sisters and wasn’t particularly close with either of them. Justin felt like a small taste of that reality.

    Choppy was much like his owner, and even more like his name. As they trudged along, the Oshawott would charge forward to slash at flowers and slice at weeds. Each time he did, he’d look back to see who was paying attention. Mike couldn’t help but marvel at the swiftness and sharpness of the little shell, and how it somehow stuck fast to the otter’s stomach.

    Occasionally they would be barked at by some brave little Lillipup or Patrat. After Robin made short work of one or two - her intangibility and flames making things incredibly one-sided - Mike allowed Justin and his Oshawott to mop up most interlopers.

    Choppy would chase down and swipe at anything and everything, unless Justin was giving ‘strict’ orders. Those orders tended to simply be guided chasing and swiping, with the occasional blast of water for good measure. The Oshawott seemed to have a much firmer understanding of English than Robin did, though Mike noted that the latter wasn’t far behind. Where he and Robin still fumbled with basic strategy, Justin and Choppy could almost formulate hilariously ineffective plans. Almost.

    “So this time,” Justin whispered, pointing to a fat, pink thing that Mike didn’t recognize, “you need to remember about its tongue. Tongue,” the boy stuck out his own to reiterate. He continued, pointing at his mouth, “Do - no’uh - tut-th - thuh tung”

    “Osh!” The little otter nodded, sticking out its own tongue, and barreling off towards the… thing. Mike pulled out his Pokédex and pointed it towards the Oshawott’s prey.

    “Lickitung, the Licking Pokémon,” came a happy, tinny voice from the Pokédex. “Being licked by its long, saliva-covered tongue leaves a tingling sensation.”

    “No! Chop! Don’t touch the tongue!” Justin’s anguish pulled Mike away from the screen. He looked up to see that the Oshawott had misinterpreted its orders. The otter was whining and squealing, its little shell stuck to the huge pink tongue of its target, who barely noticed the intrusion.

    “It says here,” Mike drolled, only half-looking at the chaos, “that it’s gooey saliva sticks to anything.”

    “No, really?” Justin shot back with a nasty look. Mike grinned, scrolling to another trainer-submitted entry. Distantly he heard some thumping stomps, a rush of water, and a lot of strange, possibly tongue-obstructed gurgling.

    “Ooh, apparently,” Mike continued, “ahem, ‘it is somewhat put off by sour things.’ I wonder why.” Justin yelled in frustration. Mike felt Robin stir from her perch in his bag.

    “Make Choppy pull its tail,” Mike guffawed as he suggested it, “I wanna see if it reels in its tongue.”

    Eventually the Oshawott prized its ‘scalchop’ off the walking tongue and routed the poor critter. Mike still hadn’t made his mind up about whether or not it was worth catching, but since he wasn’t sad to see it go, he felt that he’d found his answer.

    Mike would only insist on Robin fighting when he heard the hiss of a Purrloin. He knew they were dark types, and knew that they had the upper hand against ghosts. He wanted to make sure that his Litwick had ample experience dealing with that sort of adversity. As well as plenty of practice being woken up to fight.

    “Why haven’t you caught one yet?” Justin asked Mike for the fifth or sixth time that day. The two of them were presently watching Robin as she warily weaved closer to a large Purrloin. Mike admitted to himself that the unique calico-ish dappling was appealing, but he stuck to his guns.

    “Because I don’t want one.” Mike’s simplicity seemed to irritate Justin.

    “But, like, you keep fighting them— Get ‘im, Robin!” The Litwick had made a sudden leap, attempting to Astonish the poor cat. It hissed and kicked up dirt in response, not bothered by the scare.

    “Yeah, it’s good practice for her,” Mike nodded to Robin, who was now hurling tiny Embers at the Purrloin. Or trying to, at least. The trainers deflated at the misses, until Mike realized that the flames were slowly circling around the cat. He whipped out his Pokédex to confirm a suspicion.

    “That’s a Fire Spin,” Mike smiled, pointing at his screen. Justin looked quickly at the device, then back to the action with glee. “That’s new! Good job, Robin! Good Fire Spin!” The two boys watched as the flames ramped up their pace, swirling around the cat with alarming speed. It hissed and spat at the dancing lights, unable to move much without bringing itself pain.

    “But that one’s huge,” Justin returned to his prior issue after a moment, “and it’s a scrapper! Look, it’s—”

    “It’s a cat,” Mike remarked, as if cats somehow offended him. “I’m only gonna be a trainer once, and I don’t want something unless it’s, like, exceptional. Smart, or strong, or rare, or something.”

    The cat in question, having been pelted with several true Embers within its prison, flopped onto its back in exhaustion and submission.

    “Okay, Robin, that’s a clear faint, that’s enough.” Robin, familiar with the word ‘faint,’ doused its flames and returned to Mike’s side. The Purrloin didn’t move for a few moments, its body heaving with labored breaths. Suddenly it righted itself and bolted off clumsily into the thick woods.

    The two stopped for a brief lunch at the base of a steep, crumbly ledge sometime later. As they ate, Mike wondered aloud at why the trail led almost neatly to a stop under the short cliff-ish structure. It was nearly impossible to climb, entirely too steep and studded with many loose stones and dirt clods.

    “You can save a few miles through the woods. I mean, when you’re headed to Accumula,” he explained with a grin. “So trainers do it all the time, and the trail makes itself. That’s what Ben says.” Mike, who had a mild fear of heights, suppressed it with a knowing nod. Justin insisted on being boosted up to the top to demonstrate. He then slid back down the way he came with ease, none the worse for wear - albeit dustier for his trouble. He immediately went for his canteen, and Mike poised himself to strike.

    “Okay, my turn.” Mike timed his deadpan perfectly: Justin sprayed a mouthful of water from his nose in two impressive jets.

    After lunch, Mike insisted on the two of them reapplying their sunscreen - which Justin openly loathed just as much as Mike secretly did - before they continued. They were making remarkable time, even with all their stopping to bully the local wildlife. Justin continued to ooh and ahh over various interesting specimens: a very stripey Watchog they saw from a distance, a small pack of short-hair Lillipup, and every single Purrloin that Mike insisted on facing down.

    As the sun began to sink towards the treeline, the two rounded what Justin announced was the second-to-last bend.

    “Oh, uh, can I ask a favor?” Justin posed, suddenly timid. That was new to Mike.

    “Shoot,” Mike replied, eager to humor the kid he’d been denying all day.

    “There’s this, like, glade thing tucked away back there.” Mike followed a pointing finger, seeing a thin trail lead off into the woods behind them. “Ben and I go check it out every year. He always looks for Pokémon that aren’t super common out in the open, and I like seeing what trainers leave behind.”

    “Leave behind?” Mike raised a brow. He had noticed small things left at campsites, but they were either trash, camping equipment, or simply not useful to him.

    “Oh, yeah, that’s a thing. Have you heard of geocaching?”

    “I have not!”

    “Basically, people leave stuff for other people to find, but you have to swap something for whatever it is you take. Or you can just leave stuff, take a few things, whatever. Some trainers love to do it!” Justin fished around in his bag and pulled out a bright red, ornate Pokéball with a broken clasp. “I found this when I was ten!”

    “Whoah,” Mike gently took it with genuine surprise, “aren’t these things—”

    “Yeah! They’re super rare! It’s called a Cherish Ball! I wanna get it repaired one day, but even fixing one is pricey. Mom said maybe as a graduation present.” Mike gently returned it, now curious himself to see what all the glade-related fuss was about.

    “Okay it with your mom first,” Mike replied, nodding at Justin’s Xtransciever. The boy snapped it open and called within seconds. After a few rings, Rebecca’s familiar face filled the screen.

    “Hi, you two!” They both greeted her in kind. “Almost there?”

    “Yeah, we’re a mile or two out,” Mike confirmed.

    “He told me I had to ask about the glade,” Justin rattled off, “can we go, mom?”

    “Sure, you go every year,” she shrugged, confused. “Oh! Mike’s never been, right. Yes, it’s perfectly safe. Apparently that trail widens out pretty quick. You should be able to make it there and back before it’s too dark, but feel free to camp if you need to. Classes don’t start until Monday.”

    “That’s all I needed to hear,” Mike replied, smiling at Justin. “He’s been great, and Choppy’s gotten plenty of training. Are you sure this kid can’t catch anything out here? He wants me to start a zoo or something.” Rebecca frowned up at them from the screen.

    “Yes, he’s only got one more month, he can wait,” she spoke, as if for the umpteenth time. “I’m personally okay with skirting the law on this - you’re a great little trainer already, Justin - but the Academy would confiscate it on the spot. He’d be in a heap of trouble and he’d have to release it. Not to mention there’d be quite a fine for any aider and abettor.”

    “I haven’t caught a thing!” Mike raised his hands, as if that somehow proved his innocence. “Honest! But apparently he wants to be a crazy old cat person when he grows up.”

    “Hey! You keep picking them out!” Justin shot back.

    “I told you why—”

    Children,” came a stern voice from the boy’s wrist. Mike stifled a giggle. “Alright, you’re racing the clock if you wanna go there and back tonight, so get a wiggle on. Call me when you get settled! Love you, hun!”

    “Love you,” Justin replied with a grin. Mike bit his tongue and resisted the comedic urge to echo it back. Funny to him, sure, but definitely weird. He settled with waving. The Xtransciever automatically snapped shut when Rebecca ended the call. Justin was moving the second it did, incredibly eager for whatever the glade held.

    The boy took the lead as they wound their way through tall, leafy trees. They tried following a thin path, but it dissolved into grass on more than one occasion, nearly leaving them lost. After a half hour of picking their way through, Justin made his way back to Mike, whose sore feet and aching calves were taking their toll.

    “Through here,” Justin encouraged. Mike could finally see where Justin had meant to lead them. A break in the trees gave way to a wide clearing of short grass. There were a few circles of stones, having seen scant but still obvious use for fires. A neat stack of wood was left between the closest two. Seeing as the sun was hidden behind the trees, Mike insisted that they set up camp.

    “Sure, sure, but let’s—”

    “No ‘butt-lets,’” Mike chided, “help me get a fire started and then we can keep exploring.”

    Mike hadn’t seen anyone work quicker in his life. Justin produced a bow drill and had a fire going in moments; the talent left Mike quite jealous, loath though he was to admit it. The man barely had his tent up and Justin was already nipping at his heels to go treasure hunting. Mike could no longer see the sun, but the bright streaks of red and gold reassured him. After pounding a final stake, he finally acquiesced.

    “So it’s back here a little more, like, fifteen minutes tops.” Justin chattered away as he led, almost literally pulling Mike along. Which Mike would have enjoyed, as he was almost completely spent. Robin tagged close behind. She once again was the reverse of Mike; she slowly but steadily gained more and more vigor as the light dwindled.

    They pushed their way through a tight web of branches, Justin following an almost invisible run of sorts. He pointed to various tracks and signs that Mike would have completely missed even if he was well-rested.

    “See the nibbling here?” The boy dropped his voice and pointed at a thorny little shrub. It’s branches were riddled with uniformly sized missing chunks. “The teeth marks are too big for a Patrat, but too small for a Watchog. It’s gotta be a Nidoran! They’re rare around here but apparently Ben says they do live here.” Justin looked back with a bright smile. “Nidoran, right? Am I right?”

    “How do I know?” Mike whispered as well, shrugging the question off. “I dunno what that is.”

    “What!? They’re little, like, rabbits,” Justin hissed, eyes wide, following the barely visible trail of barely eaten plants and small piles of round scat, “but they’re blue or purple, depending on the gender. And they’re poisonous, but it’s not, like, lethal. I don’t think. Not when they're little."

    "Oh, I think I've heard of those," Mike recalled, racking his brain, "they live here?"

    "There, like, suuuper rare," Justin spoke, squatting to look at some weeds. Or, no, he was using a stick to poke through some droppings. Mike scrunched up his nose. "There's a really small group or something out here. Ben tries to catch me one every year, but they're so skittish. This kinda looks like Patrat piles, though. I dunno."

    "How can you—" Mike whispered, then caught himself, "Never mind. I thought we were geocaching?"

    "I don't have the app. I wanted to find—"

    "Hey, you said we were going to—"

    "You're a trainer! I can show you rare 'mons! I swear, there's this place, it's just through—"

    "You stinker! You want me to catch you someth—"

    "Yes, but like, lemme expl—"

    “Are those—” Mike’s whisper prompted the boy to press a finger quietly to his lips in a ‘shut up you moron or they will run’ sort of way. After a moment, the boy nodded in answer.

    In the middle of the glade was a small fluffle of blue and purple creatures, nearly a dozen total if Mike had to guess. The purple ones were larger and fewer; Mike could only see two of them. The colony sniffed at the ground over a large, loose circle, chewing on thorny weeds and grasses, somewhat oblivious to the two trainers. The boys stood stock still, appreciating the gentle crunching and leafy tearing sounds the creatures made.

    “These are so rare,” breathed Justin. Almost two dozen large ears pricked in their direction. The colony of Pokémon became so still that, save for their rapidly sniffing noses, they could have been statues. Slowly, their snouts returned to their landscaping duties. Mike turned to see where Robin was and noticed with a jolt that she was nowhere to be found.

    “Where’s Robin,” Mike mouthed to Justin. The boy looked around and shrugged. Mike pulled out his Pokédex, ensured the volume was off, and pulled up her tracker.

    She was somewhere to the right of the two, moving slowly along the edge of the glade. If he squinted, he could just see her harness gently bobbing in the distance. Mike could only guess that she was getting ready to feed. He had an ambitious idea and tried to hold a picture in his mind.

    A pile of colorful rabbits. Themselves. Robin on the other side.

    He thought it very hard, and very ‘loud,’ until the image and words related to it drowned out anything else in his head. The dot on the screen representing Robin stopped for a moment, then proceeded to move in a straight line towards exactly where Mike was thinking. He couldn’t believe it was working.

    "Should - I - catch - one?" Mike mouthed to Justin. He didn't know exactly what possessed him to ask, but it did. Opportunity knocked but once, right?

    Justin's eyes widened as he nodded vigorously. It was all the excuse he needed.

    “What - color?”

    “Blue,” Mike thought he mouthed back. It was only one movement; it had to be blue.

    Mike waited for Robin to get into position. A few of the creatures bristled and looked about as she passed, but the colony didn’t move except to find a new plant to eat. Mike studied the closest blue Nidoran, forming as strong of a mental picture as he could of it. Blue, smaller ears, whiskers, fewer spines. He held it in his head and once again ‘yelled’ the image.

    Then he waited. He ‘yelled’ it again. He wished dearly that she could speak back to him and let him know that she got it. Any sort of signal would surely disrupt the group, and ruin any plan.

    Mike looked down, found a twig, picked it up, and snapped it.

    The colony turned their heads as one, a dozen-ish pairs of fearful eyes locking with Mike’s.

    Fire Spin!

    The Nidoran scattered in all directions at Mike’s command, save for one, who was caught by a swirl of flames in an instant. Robin’s practice that day made the move’s execution much faster than it had been. Or perhaps she had been scattering her strange, vanishing flames around one while they waited. Screams and shrieks came from the center of the cyclone; it was thoroughly trapped.

    Mike closed the distance quickly, fishing in his pocket for a crate of Pokéballs. He popped open the carton as he ran, picking one out of its spot and discarding the rest of the box. He’d grab it later.

    “Good girl, Robin,” Mike called to her across the flames, shielding his face from the heat as he tried to get closer. He could clearly see the struggling Nidoran - thankfully the correct color - trying vainly to dart out of the vortex. On the other side of the Fire Spin sat his Litwick, waving her arms to maintain the flames. The creature within was too fast to aim at, and even if Mike could hit it with the ball, it would likely break out and bolt.

    “Robin, we need it weaker, but gently,” he called out. Pokéballs rejected unconscious targets. He tried to think gentle thoughts, and settled on…

    A pillow fight.

    Robin leaned to the side, squinting at Mike for a moment, then she nodded. She first reinforced the whirling flames, which had been shrinking away. Then she loosed a swirling cone of energy that washed through the flames, through the Nidoran, and through Mike's own mind.

    Mike would later describe it as a very bad, but very funny 'trip.'

    Each time he blinked, the figures in front of him were a little different. A purple Nidoran was throwing itself awkwardly into the water sloshing around it. A lit firework was moving towards him with a worried little frown.

    He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

    This time the blue rabbit was back, but it had once again stumbled into a wall of whirling blue rabbits, while a blue rabbit tugged on his blue-rabbit-colored pants. He pushed her away with his blue rabbit paws and blinked again.

    A moment of normalcy, at last. He kept his eyes open and wound up the orange in his hand, throwing it into the middle of the juicer where it collided with the lazily spinning blade. The fruit split open and spilled bright juice everywhere.

    Mike, his mission done, decided to close his eyes and sit down until life made sense again. Somewhere in the chaos that was the real world, he heard a satisfying click.

    “You got one!” Justin’s hoots and hollers came from far away, but he and his footsteps were rapidly approaching Mike as he sat on the ground. He decided to open his eyes.

    The child-sized Farfetch’d he’d been travelling with all day had a wide grin on its beak.

    “That was awesome,” quacked Justin, “how on earth did you do that? Robin totally knew where to go and what to do! Were you talking to her? How did you do it? Can I—”

    “I will explain,” Mike cut across the hyperactive bird-man, “after we get cack to bamp. I got caught in the foss-crier and my bomble got smutched.”

    “... What?”

    “Please - walk - me - help,” Mike choked out, pushing himself awkwardly to his feet.
     
    Last edited:
    Ch. 6: Baby (Tenacious D)
  • Homestar!

    Mikeposter/Galaxy-Brainer
    Location
    NorCal
    Pronouns
    He/Him
    Partners
    1. nidoqueen
    Chapter 6
    Baby (Tenacious D)


    Mike had to be led by Justin all the way back to camp. His head and gut swam with nausea long after the visual effects of his Litwick’s Confuse Ray had faded. He stumbled over candy canes— no, roots, on more than one occasion. Every time he moved his head, it felt as if his eyes were only loosely fitted in their sockets, swirling about wantonly. If he didn’t need to avoid being hit in the face by low-flying clouds, or swarms of bees, or whatever the hell they really were, he would have kept his eyes firmly shut.

    Justin was left juggling the trainer, a carton of Pokéballs, and their prize: a ball containing a freshly-caught Nidoran. He babbled and bubbled with adoration for Mike, but since every other word sounded like it was switched around, the adulation was lost.

    When Mike was finally leaned up against a log, he shut his eyes tight. Familiar with the excuse of hunger-induced nausea, but also in genuine need, he invited Justin into his food stores and left him to his own devices.

    Mike sat, eyes shut, rubbing the heels of his hands into them every so often, and listened. Against swirling darkness, the audible din of the woods slowly came into focus. He absorbed the sounds around him, enjoying that one of his senses still made sense. He made a game of guessing what Justin, Robin, and Chop were up to based on their noises.

    Justin, as far as he could tell, was making breakfast for dinner. He heard his cooler pop open and the cast iron clang, and his nose filled with savory songs of butter and bacon fat.

    It wasn’t until Mike had noticed the lack of buzzing that he realized what Robin might be up to. He finally peeked and found her bobbing through the grass a few yards away. Her pale flame shone as brightly as it could, and every few seconds she would swat at the air or give a small jump. Almost every time a different voice was lost from the insect’s choir.

    If Mike had to guess, Chop wasn’t doing much at all. Until, after each egg cracked, it was followed by a feverish crunching. He had no idea that Oshawotts ate eggshells. Unless it was playing with it? A thought he entertained only until the otter belched.

    “Where’s your— what are you doing,” Justin asked. Mike beamed, eyes still shut.

    “My eyes are fu—,” he caught himself, “funny. The Confuse Ray.”

    “Oh. Where’s your spatula?”

    “You made eggs without your spatula ready?”

    “Shut up! They’re gonna burn!”

    “I’m blind,” Mike shrugged. “The adult is broken. Pop quiz! What do you do!?

    Tell me!” Justin’s demand was punctuated with an unexpected kick to the bottom of Mike’s shoe. He jumped with a snicker.

    “Fine, jeez,” he hefted himself off the ground, blinked away the blinding firelight, and set about saving dinner.

    The little ball containing the Nidoran sat like a centerpiece between the boys as they ate. It occasionally wiggled or shuddered in the grass. With the safety still on, that was as much as it could do.

    “So can I keep it?” Justin asked when Mike finally cleaned his paper plate. The man snorted.

    Sure,” Mike oozed. He picked up the ball and offered it to Justin. “Wanna get expelled?”

    “... No.”

    “Yeah, I thought so,” Mike smirked. He tossed his plate into the fire. The grease caught and produced a sudden plume, washing them with heat. The Oshawott looked up from chewing at its owner’s leftover paperware, bristling and giving low growls. Mike was quite thankful to have a little living water hose close by.

    “Wait,” Justin turned to Mike, “You didn’t even know what Nidoran were. Why did you catch one?” Good question. Mike had a response prepared, but it wasn’t an answer.

    “If you saw the way you lit up when you were looking at their poop, you— you woulda—” Mike couldn’t help but laugh, and the rest of the thought was lost when Justin joined him in it. Mike performed a crude, ridiculous pantomime of Justin’s tracking earlier, and the boy laughed so hard that he had to excuse himself.

    “I had a plan!” Justin called as he returned a short time later. He double-checked his fly, then continued. “We can give it to my brother!”

    Whaaat?” Mike was both intrigued and offended: he had caught it fair and square, even if he still didn’t know why.

    “Yeah, Ben can have it, legally, and he can raise it until I turn thirteen!”

    “Which is when?”

    “November twelfth!”

    Mike pulled a face that very clearly asked ‘and you really thought that was a good idea?’

    “What?” Justin shot back.

    “So your brother is gonna be okay with looking after a poisonous rabbit for three months?”

    “Not even!” Justin shot back, “Like, two and a half!”

    And you thought I would just, like, give you this super rare thing?” Mike’s question prompted a groan.

    “Ugh, no, that wasn’t supposed to happen!”

    “So,” Mike smiled, rolling a limp hand in a grandiose way, “what was your original plan?” Mike still avoided the main question — if only because it asked a difficult question of himself — and instead reveled in the hare-brained scheme.

    “So I was gonna take you to the glade,” Justin began, speaking as much with his hands as he did with his mouth, “and if we found anything super cool, I was gonna pay you for some Pokeballs, but I,” he enunciated, with a smile, “was gonna use Chop to weaken it. And then, once I did the work, you throw the ball— which is legal. Then I give my brother a call and we send it to him!”

    Mike’s wide-eyed, drawn-lipped skepticism should have been enough to shatter the already delicate idea, had it not been posed by an overly ambitious twelve-year-old. Even still, he saw Justin’s morale waver under the glare.

    You said you wanted—” Justin started, and Mike could detect genuine anger in his raised voice.

    Yes, I did say,” Mike cut across, raising his own voice. Choppy growled and gurgled at him softly. “I said I wanted to catch you something when I talked to your mother because I wanted to know what the ramifications of my actions would be if I did. That doesn’t mean I caught this for you.”

    “Then why did you catch it!?” Justin was on his feet, almost teary, yelling at the man. The sudden anger caught Mike off-guard. The two locked eyes.

    Though he wore a firm mask of offense, beneath the shallow facade Mike truly didn’t know. He wished he knew. Catching the Nidoran on a whim went against everything he told himself he wanted to do when he became a trainer. There was no calm observation to this catch, there was no thought and care, there was no prior research.

    The Nidoran clearly didn’t want to be captured either. The fight was quick, chaotic, borderline dirty. It had no escape, and no strength to fight the ball. He was legally well within his rights, wasn’t he? And if they didn’t escape the ball, they were caught, right?

    Mike knew to his core that this was all a whim: Justin found them, Robin trapped one, he caught it, and that was it.

    Another knee-jerk, life-altering choice for the growing list. And now it affected several living beings, one of them permanently.

    The question still lingered. Why? Why did Mike pluck a wild, unaware, and unwilling Pokémon out of nature?

    Admittedly, he had captured it partially at Justin’s behest, and partially because of Justin’s fervor. But he wasn’t going to admit that and strengthen the boy’s already shameless bid for the creature. Nor did that absolve Mike.

    Mike’s gaze hadn’t faltered in those few seconds of thought.

    And then he checked himself.

    Took a deep breath.

    Justin waved his arms and shook his head, waiting for an answer.

    Instead came a now calculated silence, along with a gaze Mike had imagined giving students a thousand times: He leaned his head forward, letting his eyes ask the question before he did. Body relaxed, but head, mind, and wit poised to strike.

    Justin’s arm’s dropped, and so did his gaze.

    “Breathe,” Mike spoke, somewhere between a suggestion and an order. He saw the boy’s shoulders lurch, heard air hiss through his nostrils.

    Mike continued: “It’s been a long day. I do have an answer, but I must admit it isn’t a brilliant one.”

    Justin’s eyes looked up, but not his head.

    “Because I’m a trainer,” Mike concluded, simply. Justin’s renewed glowering was received with a shrug. “I see rare Pokémon, I catch rare Pokémon. I think— I want to give it a chance,” he caught himself, more to reassure him than Justin. “If it’s not a winner for me, I can always trade it or put it right back. You even agreed that I should get one, remember?”

    Justin frowned at him hard. Mike sighed and returned his focus to the fire, prodding it with a long stick. The Oshawott burped.

    “But I found it,” Justin finally muttered, frumping back down onto the ground next to Mike. “And if I talked, they woulda run away. I coulda told you the plan if...” the boy trailed off, tucking his knees into his chest.

    “Justin?”

    “Yeah?”

    “That was a terrible plan.”

    “... Yeah.”

    The tension finally dissolved, and Mike rolled his shoulders out from where they had crawled up under his ears. He leaned back against the log and looked up at the stars.

    “Thank you.” Mike eventually spoke. He turned to Justin and smiled. “I really couldn’t have done it without you.”

    Justin gave Mike a side-eyed glance but didn’t unscrunch himself.

    “... You’re welcome,” Justin eventually muttered into his knees. Mike patted him on the shoulder.

    They sat and stared at the fire for a few quiet minutes. Robin drifted along the top of the log the boys had leaned up against in their exhaustion. Every once in a while, she made a gentle sucking sound, and then there was one less buzz or chirp or clumsy flutter in the background.

    “Can I at least—” Justin asked, reaching for the ball. Mike snatched it and leaned away, surprised and amused with Justin’s continued lack of social graces.

    “If I let it out now, the poor thing’s gonna bolt,” Mike frowned at the ball in his hands. “We’ll let it out in the morning and see how it’s doing.”

    “She’s hurt!” Justin protested.

    “She? Well, she’s in a Pokéball,” Mike retorted. “She’s stable, even if she’s really bad. Which…” Mike pulled out his Pokédex and scanned the sphere.

    After a few prompts and requests, Mike was able to set aside the nickname entry window and see her statistics. A little yellow bar quantified her health, and yellow was hardly dire.

    “She’s not,” Mike passed the verdict, lazily skimming some specifics. She had no burns or major injuries but was definitely worn out. He leaned the screens toward Justin. “Wanna see?”

    The boy scrunched up next to Mike and the two poured over the Nidoran’s information. She was a Poison-type, which Mike had guessed from Justin’s earlier description. There were lots of little numbers which Justin fawned over. It was barely level five, which put it quite a few notches beneath Robin at this point.

    “So,” Mike dared to poke the Beartic sitting next to him, “Nidos… Are they any good?”

    Are they any good?” Justin gave the distinct impression that Mike had slapped him in the face. Mike pulled away with a snicker, lest the boy actually slap him. Justin instead launched into a passionate spiel.

    “Nidokings are crazy strong! That’s what the boys turn into: first they’re Nidorino, then Nidoking. They have these big thick tails that can crush cars and wrap things up! Their horns can even spin!”

    “No they can’t,” Mike drawled.

    “It’s true! I swear!”

    Ahhh,” Mike held the ball in his fingertips as if examining a fine jewel. “But this is a lady. Can she do that, too?”

    “No, she’ll get a shorter tail and horns. She turns into a Nidoqueen. Nidorina first, though. Either way, you need to get your hands on a Moon Stone! But, like, Nidoqueens totally make up for it with smarts. They’re, like, Linebacker-Mom-Geniuses.” Mike rolled his eyes. “Seriously!”

    “So why did you tell me to get a female?”

    “Because Nidoqueens don’t need a R.E.D. permit.” Justin’s reasoning provoked a knowing nod from Mike, though to be honest, he’d forgotten the acronym.

    “Pop-quiz,” Mike posed, trying to veil his ignorance, “what does—”

    “Rare, Exotic, and-or Dangerous,” Justin regurgitated. It must have been on his homework several times by now. Mike remembered that his new book noted several of the evolved ghosts as a ‘R.E.D. Species.’ Mike tried to hide this sudden recollection

    “But Nidoqueens are just as strong,” Justin plowed on, “and smarter, and, since they aren’t naturally crazy, you don’t need a permit!”

    “You’ve thought a lot about these little ‘mons, huh?” Mike’s question was answered with a nod.

    “My dad had a Nidoqueen,” Justin continued, a little softer, a little slower. “And now Ben has it. They never lay eggs, so Ben was always trying to find me my own Nidoran. He’s only seen them one other time, and they all scattered, like, instantly. We got so lucky!”

    Mike looked down at the Pokédex in his hands, quietly mulling over an idea.

    “Go ahead.” He pushed the device into Justin’s hands. The ‘nickname’ screen for the Nidoran was pulled up.

    “Really?” Justin asked.

    “It’s the least I can do.” Mike opened his mouth to say something else, but Justin was already hammering in a name:

    Elizabeth II.

    “Lizzie for short,” Justin added, confirming the registration. He returned the ‘dex and simultaneously made a move for its ball “Can we let her out n—”

    No,” Mike raised the ball high above his head. Justin scrunched up his nose and recoiled from the sudden odor Mike’s pits issued forth. The man chortled at the serendipity, then continued: “It’s late, it’s dark, it’s mad, and I’m still not sure you’re not a duck. Now let’s go to sleep.”

    “A duck? Wait, was I a duck? Am I still a duck?”

    “Your face still quacks me up, so I’m not— Ow! Hey! Mom said no hitting! No hitting— Ow!”


    Good news! I caught my first Pokémon!
    Bad news! It’s an angry little rabbit covered in barbs!
    @Route 2 Campsites North
    #WhosThatPokemon #FirstCatch #UnovaRoute2



    Robin prodded Mike awake sometime shortly after dawn. Both literally and, in her strange way, ‘emotionally.’ The cohesion of his dream began to spiral away shortly before he awoke. Robin giggled as she poked his nose, her violet flame petering away as the dream — an admittedly steamy affair featuring a very familiar Ace Trainer — slipped from his memory almost by force.

    “Oh, I don’t wanna wake up,” Mike groaned, wrapping an arm around the Litwick and squishing her in close. She let out a shrill giggle, deforming and dematerializing in his grasp. Only her harness held her fast.

    “Too bad!” Justin called from outside, “breakfast is ready!”

    “What’s for breakfast?”

    “More breakfast!”

    “Yay,” Mike deadpanned, running the calories in his head. He could still feel the last breakfast sitting like a rock, and decided that the toast would be begging for trouble.

    Mike refused to allow the Nidoran out until after everything was stowed. Justin complained loudly as they worked, probably still irked at his plan falling to pieces. Though Mike noticed that he barely had to lift a finger for any collective chores. When Justin begged for a cup of coffee, Mike obliged from two different kinds of guilt. He thought he might come to regret it, but he could tell from the large bags under the boy’s eyes — and his own relative spryness — that Robin had fed much more on the kid last night.

    After Mike had double-checked the campground for garbage and tent stakes, he relented to Justin’s never-ending request. He set out a burn heal, a potion, and a small bag of granola for the Nidoran, overpreparing just in case. He pulled on a pair of sturdy leather gloves from his bag. He patted himself down and found the Nidoran’s ball in his breast pocket, where he had been hiding it from Justin’s gaze. Just before he let it out, he pulled an antidote from his supplies for himself.

    “Ready?” Mike called over to Justin, who was standing with his Oshawott about ten feet away.

    “Yes!” Justin almost yelled. Both boy and otter were poised, eyes glued to the Pokéball. Mike cautiously tossed the sphere down in front of where he knelt. It popped open and released a flood of dim red light.

    The Nidoran’s small blue form materialized in front of them. Huge, crimson eyes snapped open and met Mike’s. He guessed that it must have been sleeping: it looked ruffled and tired but seemed uninjured.

    It quickly became horribly tense, its whole body stock-still — save for its rapid breathing and twitching nose.

    “Hey there, Lizzie,” Mike murmured. Its round, barbed ears snapped to point in his direction. He reached to his side, not breaking eye contact, and scooped a small pile of granola out of the open bag.

    As he went to put the treat in front of the Nidoran, it struck out and bit his forefinger hard. Mike yelped and suppressed the urge to cuss. The rabbit bolted as granola went flying. Mike snatched its Pokéball and was just quick enough with his recall; the thin beam struck the fluffy, prickly backside as it tried to dart between Justin and his Oshawott. The Nidoran froze, paralyzed by the transformation, and vanished back into its ball.

    “You two are no help,” Mike snipped half-seriously at the younger pair, who both looked away. Justin muttered an apology, but Mike missed the exact words. He pulled off his glove and tried to shake the pain from his finger. He imagined the mark would ache for quite a long time, but the glove had saved his digit for now.

    “What should we do?” Justin’s question was a good one. Mike didn’t know exactly how to handle this situation. He had always thought that he would catch a Pokémon and immediately have some semblance of respect from it. Then again, he always thought he would put a lot more thought into catching a Pokémon. This poor creature was still terrified, and its situation was a surprise to everyone involved. Mike mulled over his options as he scooped together the scattered granola.

    “Justin, can you get straight across from me?” Mike asked, pointing. “Maybe— yeah, right there. Can you get Chop over there? And I’ll get Robin on the other side.” Robin stirred from Mike’s bag a little bit away. She looked to Mike and the two locked eyes. After some mental imagery, Robin nodded and moved to complete their loose square.

    “Let’s try this again.” Mike opted to beam the Nidoran out this time, to keep his hand on its ball. The rabbit bolted the second it completed the shift from energy to matter.

    “Stay,” Mike called as he withdrew it before it got too far. Everyone else had shifted in the direction it had tried to run. Exactly what Mike had wanted: even if the Nidoran slipped past the beam, they were now all poised to stop it and give Mike another chance at a recall.

    Mike repeated this process three more times. He’d release the Nidoran, who would attempt to run, who would then be told to “Stay” as it was recalled. On the fourth attempt, something different finally happened.

    The Nidoran sat there, irritation plain on her face, and glared at the Pokéball in Mike’s hand.

    “Good girl, Lizzie,” Mike soothed, motioning to the granola. The Nidoran bristled up a plethora of hidden quills from within her fur as his hand approached. At least she was giving warning this time, Mike thought. She turned and tensed to run.

    “Stay,” Mike demanded, moving the Pokéball in her direction. The lesson seemed to click: she turned back to Mike and — albeit still tense — lowered her barbs.

    “Good girl!” Mike motioned to the granola again, which Lizzie finally acknowledged. She tentatively hopped over and began to nibble at some of the dried fruit, while simultaneously trying to stay as far away as possible from her new trainer. They all gave her gentle cheers and praise.

    After a few moments, where the Nidoran relaxed and assumed a more natural position as she ate, Mike motioned for Justin to move in. Lizzie flinched at the movement from Mike but didn’t budge from the granola pile.

    “Gimme a sec,” Justin called. Mike took fleeting glances at the kid and saw that he had begun to dig a weed out of the dirt with a pocket knife. When he finally got the long root free from the earth, he made a few gentle kissing sounds. The Nidoran jumped at the noise, turned, and sniffed in the air towards the boy.

    “Hey, Lizzie,” Justin called, proffering up the weed. To Mike’s great surprise, she hopped right over to the plant he was holding. She gave a few tentative sniffs, then yanked the root out of Justin’s hand and set her teeth to work on it.

    Good girl,” Mike offered with a chuckle. “What’d you find, Justin?”

    “A dandelion!” Justin reached in with a bare hand to pet Lizzie. Coils threw themselves around Mike’s chest, anxiety squeezing him instantly. But…

    Nothing happened. Justin pet the Nidoran front-to-back, careful of the obvious barbs but unharmed by the hidden ones. The Nidoran sat eating, perfectly content. When the weed was nearly gone, Justin set to work pulling out another. This time, Lizzie ate the root from the offering hand. Justin scratched behind her ears and the Nidoran gave contented little squeaks through its munching chews.

    Mike, however, had no such luck. Even using some of the weeds that Justin had pried up, he couldn’t confidently pet Lizzie if he wanted to. She would freeze, tense, and bristle under his gloved hand. He and Robin must have made a terrible first impression the night before. Robin, for her part, was sitting a distance away and puffing up her violet flame. Mike only noticed her wick alight when she was eating or fighting, and he wondered if she was trying to nibble away at the Nidoran’s fear.

    Lizzie surprised them all when, as Justin went to scoop her up, she hopped into his hands. Mike took that as the cue to hit the road. He hauled on his bag and helped Justin awkwardly into his. Both the boy and the Nidoran seemed loath to part with the other, and Mike didn’t dare test the hypothesis.

    As they walked, Justin made a few calls on his Xtransciever. The first was to his brother, Ben. He was working in an office in Nimbasa, a phone pinched between his ear and shoulder as he spoke in hushed tones. Mike was surprised at how intensely similar he looked to Justin, even with their wide age gap. He was ecstatic to see a Nidoran, but couldn’t talk for very long.

    Neither could Justin’s mother, who was on shift and spoke in quick distracted bursts for barely a minute. Though she at least took a screenshot and promised to show Tiffany when she saw her next.

    Mike, meanwhile, was surreptitiously taking pics of Lizzie, trying to capture her at her cutest for his blog. He was having quite a difficult time, as every movement he made caused the Nidoran to tense and bristle. Eventually, he settled on the least threatening one.


    It’s Nidoran!
    And it bites!
    And it stings!
    And sometimes it kicks!
    So my gloves are never coming off!
    #WhosThatPokemon #Nidoran #FirstCatch



    Elizabeth II was perfectly content to be held by Justin for the two-ish hour march to Striaton. She half-dozed for as long as Mike didn’t try to interact with her. When he did risk it, she would sniff herself fully awake and stare at his hands.

    Especially his fingers.

    As sweaty and miserable as his gloves were, Mike didn’t dare remove them. They were the only thing shielding him from the hidden quills and quick mouth.

    While the two boys chattered about the creature, Mike felt the coils of anxiety squeeze ever tighter. He still wasn’t entirely sure why he caught the Nidoran in the first place. It felt like a challenge, maybe? Did he want to impress Justin? Or just humor the kid? He wished dearly he could give his new friend the Pokéball and be done with it, but feared the wrath and ruin it would incur for the both of them.

    For better or worse, the little Nidoran was Mike’s now. He’d simply have to strive for the former.

    The sun was still high when most of the small troupe crossed onto the pavement marking the city limits of Striaton. Mike stopped just short, admiring the aged brickwork through the trees, and the ease which Justin had with the Nidoran.

    “You know,” Mike called, “it would probably be cheaper if we stopped for lunch before town.” He jerked his head over his shoulder, toward a campground they had just passed. “Lizzie should probably stretch her legs, and we can, like, work on her basics?”

    Justin lit up and nodded vigorously. Mike wasn’t sure if this was really the best of ideas, but he couldn’t help giving the two a little more time. They walked back and began to set things up for lunch. Mike consulted his Pokédex for a freshwater source. Justin took Choppy’s little shell and had the otter fill it for a quick drink. Mike retched as he watched Justin down it, the attempted joke more genuine than he expected. There were things about trainers and training that he didn’t understand.

    Mike picked out the least fresh of his foods and threw together something he dubbed “leftover surprise.” Justin laughed at the name and insisted Mike had actually made “trainer-fried rice,” even though the only starch was some hastily cooked ramen. Thanks to some clever spicing up from both of them, they were all pleased with the result. Even Lizzie picked at a small bowl when Mike offered it to her.

    Mike started the Nidoran out with the actual, factual basics. Lizzie was slower on the uptake than he expected: he spent the better part of an hour ironing in her name, bribing her with scraps from lunch and some painful-looking plants that Justin kept digging up. Compared to how quickly she had learned ‘stay,’ this exercise was painful. When Justin wasn’t prying up this root or that weed, he was paying rapt attention to the older trainer.

    Mike had also noticed that Robin was becoming quite pouty and irritable. He at first assumed it was because she was awake during the daytime, but eventually it became clear that she was very jealous of the attention the newcomer was getting.

    “Well,” Mike muttered to the Litwick as he hefted her from his back, “you’re usually sleeping. Do you wanna be awake with us?”

    Robin frowned up at him from his outstretched arms. Mike tried to focus his mind on the two of them working on some moves. He wanted to iron out that Confuse Ray, and imagined Chop stumbling around.

    With a puff of violet from her wick, Robin giggled and nodded. Mike beamed with the success, exhilarated at the bond the two were forming. Mike hadn’t expected communication to come so easily with anything but a psychic-type, and was delighted to see Robin learning to read him as much as he was learning to read her.

    “Your turn, Justin,” Mike called. “Robin deserves some time, so we’re gonna go work on her new moves.” Justin didn’t need to be told twice, and immediately set to work with the Nidoran. Meanwhile, Mike and Robin set off into the grass to torment the local wildlife.

    As Justin and Lizzie worked, Mike tried his best to focus on both them and Robin. He couldn’t help but notice that the difference for Lizzie was night and day: she responded to her name immediately; ‘Sit’ and ‘stay’ were ironed in within moments; Mike noted that it became less and less about treats, as Justin completely abandoned them when he moved on to some attack practice. With Choppy demonstrating, Lizzie picked up her little suite of attack commands in short order.

    Robin, on the other hand, had a terrible time with verbal commands. Mike found conjuring constant, firm mental images challenging, so he tried his best to pair them with words and phrases. The downside to this being his mental pictures were foggier when he did so. Though, in time, Robin was able to delineate all of the words Mike was saying into what she ought to do. Unfortunately, Mike was well aware that her confidence seemed to depend almost entirely on the presence of his imagery.

    In Robin’s final bout of the day, against a particularly wily Patrat, Mike made a point to not picture anything at all. Robin whimpered as Mike cleared his mind, and hesitated after each and every order.

    “Fire spin,” Mike prompted, holding a mental image of a donut in his head. His stomach growled. Robin turned to look at him, her eyes wide with bewilderment. The Patrat squinted at her hard. Mike flicked out his Pokédex and realized that Robin might be in a pickle.

    “You gotta learn, kid,” Mike insisted. “Fire spin!” He thought of a burrito. Robin wailed, whirled around, and finally threw out a smattering of purple flames.

    The Patrat charged through them with a squeak. Robin vanished, and — as Mike expected, but Robin did not — the rodent chomped down around where she had been. The Litwick reappeared with a shriek, caught fast by the teeth. Mike’s heart panged with guilt. Was he pushing her to hard?

    “Minimize,” he called, with false confidence. To his delight, he watched the Litwick shrink and slip from the Patrat’s jaws. She swelled to nearly her former size, her flame on her head blazing, and pelted the rodent with flame after flame.

    Finally the Patrat squealed and bolted into the brush. Robin went charging right after it, her waxy body still bearing large teethmarks. Mike stepped in and scooped her up, and she flailed against his grip but did not vanish

    “Shhhh,” Mike squeezed her tightly, “I know, that was a tough one. You did so good.” She sniffled and hiccupped, but finally stopped struggling when Mike planted a little kiss on her forehead. He smoothed out her wax and smothered her with affection as they walked back to the others.

    The Nidoran looked up at Mike as he approached, and across her fur a myriad of little quills perked up. Justin, who had also decided to take a breather, reached a hand down without looking. He offered it to the Nidoran but didn’t quite touch her. Lizzie sniffed the fingers and relaxed, bowing its head.

    “She really likes you,” Mike said without thinking. Justin beamed up at him for a moment before focusing the pride back on the Nidoran, rubbing its face and cheeks slowly but deeply.

    Fearlessly, Mike thought to himself. He wondered if he would ever be able to be that way with the poor thing. Mike rubbed Robin’s head absently, and she snuggled deep into the crook of his arm.

    “Let’s see what you’ve been working on.” At Mike’s behest, Justin and Lizzie got back to work. He couldn’t help but be astounded by their progress.

    After executing this or that command, the Nidoran always looked to Justin hopefully. Even when Mike took over and began slathering on as much — if not more — praise. He felt some coils squeeze in his chest. She didn’t want treats or just anyone’s praise; She wanted Justin’s praise.

    Mike finally couldn’t stand to let the two bond any longer and, with ample protest from Justin, insisted they pack up and get to town. They were back at the city’s outskirts in short order, with Lizzie once again nestled in Justin’s arms. Mike knew he should insist on carrying the Nidoran, but the two were too damn cute together.

    As they passed into the city proper, Justin began to rattle off historical nonsense that Mike barely caught. Something about the stairs of the old brick houses and buildings and their former necessity due to heavy snow. How this thin, crookedy street used to be the main thoroughfare decades ago, but the Center and the Gym pulled business — and businesses — away.

    Mike could tell without Justin’s words just how old this town was. Everything was mismatched: buildings seemed to be thrown together, the angles of streets made very little sense, intersections were a complete mess of shared space and slow, almost plodding vehicles. And yet, the patina of age made it all match just so. Browns, reds, and grays of all hues complimented the slowly changing leaves of the old trees popping the brickwork from the sidewalks.

    As the boys searched for the Center, with Choppy happy to exist alongside them and Robin pretending not to, the two continued to dote upon Lizzie. Or, in Mike’s case, did his best to.

    “How am I gonna train this thing if she—” Mike started, feeling the quills pushing against his gloved fingers.

    “Lizzie,” Justin insisted, holding a wilting, prickly weed by the root so the critter in question could munch on the leaves.

    “If Lizzie,” Mike continued, trying — and failing — to repeat the name without attitude, “won’t relax around me?”

    “I can take her!” Justin’s enthusiasm made Mike’s stomach lurch. He wanted dearly to say yes. He’d been thinking so all day.

    “You wish,” Mike grumbled with a smirk, rubbing the Nidoran just above her nose. The short fur there couldn’t hide any surprises. Lizzie finally — almost begrudgingly, Mike thought — made some gentle, contented little chuffing. That ‘purr’ had so far been reserved for Justin’s touch. Mike smiled at the small success.

    “Anyways,” Justin continued, “when the Gym first opened, they—”

    “Oh, look, is that the Center?” Mike pointed ahead of them as they turned. The edge of a red roof was just visible down the street and across a wide road. Next to it, to Mike’s delight, was a bustling restaurant. Which was quite remarkable, considering they were no closer to dinner than they were to lunch. He felt he deserved a cheat day at this point and made a mental note to skip his free Center dinner.

    Then he made a second mental note to check his bank account and pinned it to the side of his brain over the first one.

    A third note, the most important one, pinned itself over the first two: Get on a scale.

    Mike and Justin entered the Striaton Pokémon Center a short time later, both of them dirty, gross, exhausted, but very happy. Justin reluctantly allowed Mike to recall the little Nidoran and they both checked in their ‘teams.’ Their Pokémon’s healing wouldn’t take nearly as long as their resting would, but Mike still asked if Justin wanted to come wait in the cafeteria.

    “You, uh,” Justin stumbled, “I think you gotta check me in at the school.” Mike’s tired eyes snapped open and he nodded his agreement.

    “Right, right,” he said, turning in a wide circle and heading automatically for the front door.

    “Hey!” Justin’s squawk of indignation stopped Mike, who was very much on autopilot. “What about our ‘mons?”

    “Well, how far is the school?” Mike rubbed his eyes with his still-gloved hands and immediately regretted it. Thin traces of poison began to sting and burn. He heard Justin explain what happened to someone, who led him to an eyewash station immediately.

    Sometime later, their teams safely returned, Mike’s eyes slightly puffy, and with a bottle of eyewash apiece, two made their way out into the city. Justin insisted the Academy wasn’t far, and they began to plod along without much earnest.

    They made their way down a lazy thoroughfare, which seemed both more modern than the outskirts they had passed, yet less sophisticated. Lots of sleek, familiar brand names were crammed in shoulder-to-shoulder with the patina of the local storefronts, each trying to out-compete the other.

    The corporations and their slick, minimalist designs were, “As much of an eyesore as Nidoran juice,” Mike quipped. He much preferred the aging brick and crumbling mortar of the mom-and-pops.

    Many grocers had large bins and barrels of fresh local fruit set out beneath their sun-bleached canopies. Mike made a point to stop several times to buy fresh fruit and vegetables, not unaware of Justin’s lack of enthusiasm for their main trip. Shopkeepers would come to greet them in moments, happy to have customers in the early afternoon.

    Mike would ask about this or that, mostly making small talk, playing up his west coast accent and relaxed manner. Then the dickering would begin. His mother was a shrewd and cunning shopper, and Mike had learned from the best, and it paid off in spades.

    They all enjoyed some fresh treats together as they ambled the wide, people-friendly streets. Mike and Justin split several little punnets of berries, the former carrying the punnets and the latter carrying Lizzie.

    The Nidoran was content to steal a berry here and there - Mike had to call it stealing, as she grabbed the little fruits from his fingers with such hesitance and speed. Mike was thankful that Justin wasn’t insisting on feeding her. Maybe he knew that Mike needed to bond, too. Or maybe she was just a little too cumbersome to juggle so the boy could both eat and feed her.

    Choppy enjoyed using his little shell to slice rounds and chunks out of a Sitrus Berry. The oils of the fragrant rind did nothing for Mike, but the Oshawott had beads of drool in the corners of his mouth with each cut. He ate with the reckless abandon only afforded to beings that could produce huge volumes of water. Mike was surprised to find himself jealous of the gluttony. Even with (what he thought was) the sloppy state of his diet, he found himself counting each and every blueberry.

    Robin slept peacefully in Mike’s bag, only stirring if and when they stopped. She did, to her credit, try a blueberry. Just the one. After that, she seemed intent on nibbling at Mike’s enjoyment of the berries instead of the real thing.

    After a peculiarly short hour or so, Justin pointed out the building they were looking for. Tiffany had been right: they really couldn’t miss it. The Striaton Academy of Combat Enthusiasts rose like a pillar from a large, square plot of neat grass. All around it was a low wall, sparsely decorated along its top with discrete little signs naming donors or advising people to pick up after their Pokémon. Twin poles at the head of an old concrete path flew crimson flags trimmed in gold, each emblazoned with the letters ‘A.C.E.’

    Mike was not entirely sure how things would go for any of them. He was going to try to talk to someone - anyone - about making an exception for Justin. The professor made one for him. They were both technically Aces, and that had to count for something, right?

    Choppy halted just before crossing onto the property, turning back to look at his trainer-to-be. Justin freed a hand from under the Nidoran and withdrew the Oshawott. Mike followed suit for Robin, but not for Lizzie. That could wait.

    They strode the short walk up to the main entry in silence. When they were a few yards from the door it opened, and an older, sharply-dressed woman emerged. She was followed by a bow-covered Pokémon that seemed to be wearing a black dress.

    “And there they are,” the woman spoke, nodding to her Pokémon, “Thank you, Trelawney. I might have missed them entirely.” The Pokémon gave a bow and returned inside.

    “Hello, Mrs. Halu-Marun,” Justin chanted.

    “Hello, Justin,” she replied with a smile, “And you must be Mister Tapersson.” She stepped forward and offered her hand.

    “Yes, Mike’s fine,” he replied, and they shook. “So do I need to check him in or anything?”

    “Seeing as I’m here, I can take care of that,” she replied, “I’m the vice-principal of this campus.” She turned to Justin and the little Nidoran in his arms. Lizzie was nearly asleep, and Justin’s fingers dug gently into her fur around her horns and quills.

    “Well, this is quite a surprise! What did you find?” Mrs. Haru-Marun reached out and stroked the Nidoran with the same ease. Lizzie started and bristled up, but as long as the woman stroked in the same direction, there was very little they could do.

    “This is Lizzie,” Justin spoke, now quiet, “she’s Mike’s.” The little Nidoran looked up at the woman for a moment before snuggling deeper into Justin’s arms.

    “Well, congratulations, Mike! Nidoran are quite hard to find, aren’t they?”

    “Justin made it look easy,” Mike replied, “You’d think he’d tracked them all his life. I dunno if I said it before, Justin, but that was cool.”

    “Thanks.” Justin squeezed the Nidoran a little tighter. Mike and Mrs. Halu-Marun made eye contact. Meaning flowed between them. Mike looked at his feet, defeated almost instantly.

    “You gotta say goodbye, Justin,” Mike finally said.

    “I know,” Justin croaked. He held Lizzie so tightly that Mike winced. The boy either wasn’t poked or didn’t betray it. As he relaxed, the Nidoran propped herself up on her paws and pressed her nose against his, purring and chuffing with delight. Justin smiled and let out a few little sobs, rubbing his cheeks against hers.

    Mike wiped his eyes. The vice-principal frowned hard at the ground.

    “Goodbye, Elizabeth,” Justin finally hiccuped.

    The Nidoran disappeared in a flash of light.

    “Justin,” Mike started, not quite sure what he was gonna say. The boy looked up, his arms seemingly stuck cradling his missing friend. “You— She and you, you were—” He looked vainly at the Vice Principal again. She shook her head.

    “I tell you what,” Mike finally found an idea and ran with it, “I’m gonna take great care of Lizzie. I’ll raise her up to be big and strong, and I’ll make sure she’s safe and happy. When you become a trainer and get a few Pokémon, I want you to give me a call.” He put his bag down and pulled a nearly empty pad of paper from a front pocket. He scribbled down his name and number, tore the sheet off, and handed it to Justin.

    “I’ll trade you,” Mike said, finally spitting out the idea, “but, I want something totally cool, okay?”

    Justin nodded, wiping his face, his fragile smile slowly gaining strength.

    “No Patrat with extra toes,” Mike began to list, “no three-eyed Lillipups, and if I even smell a Purrloin I will—”

    “You’re t-totally getting a Purr—”

    “I will rename Lizzy ‘Fart-Bubble’ and you will be stuck with that forever.” Justin finally, genuinely laughed. Mike stuck out his hand to shake. To his surprise, Justin wrapped his belly in a hug.

    “She better be the happiest, strongest Fart-Bubble, okay?”

    Even Mrs. Haru-Marun joined the laughter.
     
    Ch. 7: Therapy - All Time Low
  • Homestar!

    Mikeposter/Galaxy-Brainer
    Location
    NorCal
    Pronouns
    He/Him
    Partners
    1. nidoqueen
    Chapter 7
    Therapy - All Time Low​

    Mike had no idea what to do next.

    He spent the night before sitting in the Striaton Center cafeteria, emotionally spent, pouring over his Pokédex and the internet for any help with raising a Nidoran. He had fixated on video after video but could tell that he was only absorbing the most basic of details.

    What little brainpower remained was grappling with the idea of a temporary teammate. After a few moments, he shoved the idea out of his head entirely. Lizzie would not be treated as temporary, in any sense of the word. The implications of that idea seemed, at best, negligent. Mike would not -- could not -- treat her as anything but his.

    However, now he sat, feeling quite useless, while Lizzie nibbled his shoes, and he did his best to treat her as if she didn’t exist.

    Apparently, the number one method to gain the trust of a Nidoran was to sit around with it, doing very little, and allow it to acclimate to you.

    Robin sat on top of the bed, looking down at Mike, seeming to be half-awake and fully irritable. She was used to training and trekking, not sitting and watching basic cable. Mike was altogether too used to the notion, and only lamented the lack of recreational substances.

    “Wanna order a pizza?” Mike’s question caused the Litwick to tilt. Her wide eyes blinked a few times, and he saw her mouth babble in silent mimicry.

    “Yes,” Mike spoke, thinking hard about Robin nodding and chewing on a burnt piece of crust, “or No.” An image of Robin shaking her head, and Mike crying over a salad.

    Robin shook her head almost instantly. His mental breakdown, as it were, must have been a little too humorous. Mike smiled at her progress, but not at the answer.

    “You know, we should have started with ‘Yes’ and ‘No,’” Mike muttered. He wasn’t supposed to be too loud around what was essentially still a wild Pokemon. To his great surprise, Robin gave an enthusiastic nod.

    “Did you understand that?” She nodded again. He tried not to get too excited.

    “Is pizza a vegetable?” She nodded again. Mike realized that she thought it was a new trick; how could she understand the word vegetable, let alone the concept?

    “Nooo,” Mike chided her, pushing himself onto his knees and leaning against the bed. Lizzie gave a little squeak and thumped his shoe with a foreleg, scampering under the bed. Robin giggled as Mike shook his head hard enough to send his lips flapping. “Pizza is not a vegetable, young lady.” They were nose to ‘nose’ as he shook more and more, wiping his nose - and whole face - against hers. She let out a shrill peal of laughter.

    When Mike thought about it, Robin hadn’t really been conscious during true downtime before. She would usually hang out in his bag asleep, only woken up to battle, or flit around a campsite or the room they were in for the night while Mike took stock. They had time to play here and there during lunches, or if she roused herself from a nap, but Mike now saw the silver lining for his day spent ‘bonding’ with Lizzie: now he could bond with Robin, too.

    “Robin, am I doing a good job?” He propped himself up on the bed, leaning on his elbows and belly, chin in his hands. She enthusiastically shook her head no.

    “What!?” Mike tried to act as ridiculously offended — and as quiet — as he could. The streak of anxiety that bolted through him was almost smothered by the performance. Robin giggled. “How dare you! I should smoosh you!” He imagined himself sitting on her like he did the day after they first met. She gave a little cackle almost the same way she had then.

    Robin stopped laughing and tried to deform herself that same way. The harness around her midriff caught her, stopping her from completing the change. She became stouter and much pudgier, but Mike could tell it frustrated her that she was restrained. She pulled herself back to her normal shape and tugged at the black and white straps.

    “I’m sorry,” Mike spoke gently, taking her little hands away from the harness. “I don’t want to lose you, so you have to wear it.” She pouted.

    Mike had an idea: he wanted to try a very long ‘intention reading.’ Holding anything in his head for too long had always been a tricky task, but something about all the exercise lately had given him both a more intense ‘fog’ during it and a sharper clarity outside of it.

    He pressed his head against Robin’s forehead. She rubbed his forehead with hers momentarily, then stopped as soon as Mike began to form a mental image.

    He imagined her: A happy little Litwick. The harness around her popped into pieces and fell off. He made her look around, and vanish into thin air.

    He imagined her reappearing somewhere else. The little hidden glade they had seen a few days before. She ran around and played, but then she said, ‘Where is Daddy?’

    She looked around some more. She got lost in the woods. The little imaginary Litwick cried and said, ‘Where am I?’

    He next imagined himself, looking around Striaton. Talking to Justin at the school. Talking to a Joy at the front desk — Tiffany, even though the center was wrong. He imagined himself sitting in his room, holding her little broken harness, crying. He allowed the ‘daydream’ to dissolve.

    “So that’s the bad ending,” Mike said out loud. He pulled away from Robin and opened his eyes. Her little eyes looked worried, and he could see waxy tears welling up at their bottoms. He didn’t know if this was right, or good, but he knew it certainly wasn’t nice.

    “It’s okay,” he soothed, wiping her tears away. “There’s a good ending, too.” He took a breath and leaned against her again. She headbutted him as he approached, and he couldn’t help but smile.

    Mike imagined a clock on the wall, next to a window. The clock spun and the sun set. Mike looked down at Robin in their room, and her harness popped off. They gave each other a hug, and she vanished.

    Mike imagined the Center, and some areas very close to it. He made the pretend Robin keep tabs on where she was, making sure she could always see the Pokémon Center when she looked.

    He made the sun rise. He imagined Robin going back to the Center, and finding their room. He vividly imagined her looking at the door numbers until she arrived at 42, the room they were in today.

    The pretend Litwick slid through the door. He imagined himself waking up, and the two jumped up and hugged each other. The dream dissolved.

    The real Robin wrapped her waxy arms wrapped around his head and squished him close. Then she pushed him away, squeaking, frantically tugging at her harness and pointing at the door. She nodded and nodded and nodded.

    “No,” Mike shook his head, thinking. He might have made himself a monster. He wracked his brain for a solution. Finally, he found it.

    “Okay, okay, come here.” He beckoned her back over with his hands, leaning his head forward again. She slammed into it, the not-quite-soft-enough wax forming around his forehead and hair where they connected. He laughed, took a breath, and began to think. He was running out of steam.

    He imagined them with their heads pressed together. He put a thought bubble above their heads, playing an abbreviated version of the ‘good’ memory within it: Robin wandering at night with the center in view, coming back in the morning. Then he imagined a window next to them. He had to drop the thought bubble but kept their heads together.

    He imagined the sun rising and setting, day and night falling, over and over. Seven times. He felt Robin nod hard against his forehead.

    Just like that, he had another promise he could only hope to keep.

    When he pulled away, the Litwick’s little eyes were wide and hopeful. She held up a little hand, and a single tiny blob of wax poked itself up.

    “Yes,” Mike laughed, forgetting the Nidoran, “yes! Today is the first day!” He nodded, and she nodded.

    And the Nidoran gave a little snorting noise. She was behind Mike now, and he turned to find that Lizzie had been eating. Had been; the Leer it was shooting their way made it clear their cheer had disturbed her.



    “Okay. Get hype, get hype, get fucking hyyyype—

    “…

    “Let’s! Fucking! Gooooo—”

    “Hey!”

    “Fffff— shit, shit, I’m—”

    “There are kids here!”

    “I’m sorry! I’m doing a video—”

    “I don’t care! Language!”


    40 POUNDS LOST GET HYYYPE #TheLoserProject #Loss #LoseIt



    Mike spent the next day doing… Well, very little, if he was honest. And, if he was honest, ‘very little’ felt quite good to do. It had been a long time since he simply had nothing going on.

    By nothing, he of course meant ‘premeditated nothing adjacent to a Nidoran for the purposes of acclimatization.’ But it was nothing all the same.

    He spent a lot of time in his room at the center, with both of his little teammates out and about, and doing his best to be a good trainer to them both.

    Lizzie the Nidoran was, for better or worse, simply being a Nidoran: eating, nosing around, eating, relieving herself, and eating. Mike was perturbed at her personality, or more accurately, her lack thereof. Compared to any of the days prior she was downright boring.

    It was then that it clicked in his head: this was what a wild Pokémon must be like prior to The Change. Much closer to any of its comparative, non-Pokémon species. In this case, that meant Lizzie was — for all intents and purposes — a rabbit. A little prey animal that Mike was doing his best to tame.

    Robin was the opposite: restless, of course, but inquisitive, bright, almost childlike. She would push at — and through — the door, the walls, and the little window. She was much closer to an infant than Mike expected a Pokémon to ever be, with the thankful exception of not relieving herself everywhere as a toddler might. Or like a certain Nidoran was doing.

    Presently, Robin whined and tugged at Mike’s backpack. She hopped inside, staring at him with wide, waiting eyes.

    “No, Robin,” he soothed, reaching over and rubbing the waxy head. The ghost’s fire leapt up and surprised Mike in more ways than one. He was instantly spooked by the nasty trick, and by the temperature of the flame: icy. He hissed and flexed his suddenly aching knuckles. Robin made an indignant squeak.

    “That wasn’t nice,” Mike growled. The Litwick gave a warbling little protest. She tugged at the lid of Mike’s bag, flopping it over herself as if to say, ‘Come on, let’s go!’

    “I don’t think Lizzie is ready yet,” Mike replied. They both looked over to a pile of dirty laundry in the corner where the Nidoran had made herself a little nest. She had chewed herself a fluffy pile of sweaty shirt, which Mike guessed must remind her of the last time she saw Justin. Both boys had been downright filthy after the hike.

    Robin shrieked very suddenly, and Mike’s ears rang with ethereal echoes.

    Mike shrieked right back in a high, sharp, thin voice. The sound was brief but the response was immediate: both of his Pokémon snapped around to stare at him, each wincing. Mike took a deep breath, trying his best to calm himself. He didn’t enjoy being cooped up, either. He had been sore in all sorts of strange places yesterday, but now he ached in that strange, familiar way that begged for more exercise.

    Unsure of what to do next, Mike went to grab his phone from the nightstand. He wanted to see where he might have the best chance of finding a trainer or two in the town, but…

    “Robin,” Mike grumbled, “cough it up.”

    The Litwick giggled, shaking her head. Mike swallowed a huge lump of anxiety and frustration, reminding himself that she probably just wanted to play.

    “Is it in here?” Mike asked, pointing to the bag. She shook her head with a smile. Mike frowned hard.

    “Uh, okay,” he scratched the peach fuzz on his neck, thinking. “Is it in my pocket?” He checked his shirt and pants while the Litwick giggled and shook her ‘head’ again.

    And then he saw that Robin was a little more flat along her belly, which allowed for that strange distinction of ‘head’ and ‘body.’ She was flat with a few familiarly-spaced corners jutting out from within the wax.

    “Robin,” he half-scolded-half-laughed, “did you eat my phone?”

    A shrieking, giggling laugh was the answer he needed.

    And then, altogether unpleasantly, yet with horrifying ease, the Litwick threw up the phone.

    The sturdy travel case was covered in waxy, ectoplasmic residue. Mike paled as he saw the extent of the damage; the speakers were clogged with whitish wax, the screen smeared with ghostly spittle, and thin strings of drool hung from the culprit’s wide grin.

    Mike decided he could go down to the front desk and ask about local trainer hotspots instead.

    It turned out that, in order to have trainer hotspots, Striaton would first need to have trainers. Armed with next to no advice, Mike spent about an hour hiking out to a small preserve called the Dreamyard, where the joy at the front desk had said trainers would usually gather. Of course, with no gym and the explicit instructions from Juniper to go elsewhere, the pickings were nonexistent.

    The hike itself was just as dreadful, though it wasn’t from the walking; if anything, Mike was happy to be moving. Robin was lightly snoozing in his bag, and Lizzie was trotting next to him quietly, using the thin silver chain as a slip leash with surprising ease. This left Mike alone with his thoughts.

    And his thoughts dwelled, not for the first time, on a little evening at a little beach.

    He had done his best to not think about her, or that night. His life had been a veritable whirlwind for over a week, but as the realization of his solitude deepened, an awful pit had formed in his stomach.

    He had never told Stephanie that he wasn’t going to be in Aspertia.

    He hefted his backpack off gently, set it against a tree, and slumped against it. He had made a poor decision to start hiking in the afternoon, and as he huffed and puffed and sweat, his mind swirled with several varieties of regret and self-pity.

    “She thinks I stood her up,” he muttered to no one at all.

    Robin whimpered from inside of his bag and poked her head out. He looked at her large, yellow eyes and tried his best to ignore the sudden, familiar bottomlessness that was growing in the pit of his stomach.

    Why was this happening here? He had done so well, he thought. It frustrated him. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

    He saw the fire, smelled the breeze, felt her lips…

    Had he thrown that all away before it started?

    No, no he hadn’t; she had left him, with just a letter and nothing else.

    What was even there? If anything was, was he worth it?

    He had expected to wake up and see her tent the next morning. He wasn’t to blame, was he?

    But she was right not to leave a number with an otherwise perfect stranger, or leave it for anyone to come along and take.

    He was very clearly spiraling, and his stopping to breathe had been a fatal error.

    Then he noticed a strong, ethereal tug in his chest. A violet light pushed through the corners of his eyelids, and he opened his eyes to see his Litwick hard at work. Her flame was nearly as large as she was, and she had a determined little look on her face.

    The effect was two-fold: the pit of despair that had been forming, the serpentine coils of anxiety and depression, began to unwind at an alarming pace. But as the serpent died, it smoldered, and his strength went with it. This ‘instantaneous catharsis’ was coming at a steep price.

    “Hold on,” he groaned, his vision swirling, “thank you, but stop.” Robin obliged, and her flame petered away. He gasped, not realizing the pressure that her feeding had caused, and the despair within him slowly eeked back from whence it had been pushed. But not entirely, and not nearly so stark.

    “What on Earth was that?” Mike gave a weak laugh, scooping Robin up. If anything, it was certainly a welcome distraction. “Can you ask next time?” The little candle cocked her head slightly, uncertain.

    “We’ll work on it,” Mike spoke. He pushed himself to his feet, legs shaking, and forced himself back into motion.
    The aftereffects were quite difficult for Mike to describe or determine their value. He felt a blankness and easiness that he was unfamiliar with; his mind simply didn’t have the effort to chase any thoughts. Good or bad. This lasted for only a few minutes, after which he could feel his hammering heart doing its job — perhaps more so than he expected; he had been marching at quite a clip.

    The Dreamyard Preserve turned out to be only a few more minutes away. Aside for a lone, bored-looking trainer, there was nobody around. Mike, whose wits weren’t enough about him for a fight, nodded to him as he passed. The man gave a short whistle that brought Mike to a halt.

    “You’re not displaying,” the older trainer called lazily. Mike had completely forgotten; in the past few weeks, he had no reason to even use his Trainer ID except for at a Center. And even then, it just went back into his wallet.

    “Sure, sorry,” he muttered, pulling out the metal card and sliding it into a clear pocket on his backpack’s shoulder strap. Lizzie, who had marched along without paying attention, gave a squeal as her leash went taught. “Seen anyone else out here, warden?”

    “Ranger, actually,” he corrected him. Sure enough, Mike noticed their ID was entirely different from a warden’s; the screen of the dark, matte green badge on his chest flashed in the light as he tapped it. “Which means I get to whup you on or off the clock, trainer.”

    “Zero badges,” Mike shrugged. The man’s face soured instantly.

    “Damn,” he hissed. “Yeah, I’ve got five. Never mind then. Shame, I’ve been looking for a scrap.”

    “And you expected—”

    “Hell yeah, I expected some mettle,” he barked, “all you newbies shoulda been in Aspertia.”

    “You’re telling me,” Mike muttered, pushing the regret out of his mind once again.

    The ranger was content to allow Mike to wander, but the preserve offered very little for either of his teammates. His Litwick found no challenge in the wildlife, especially not the occasional Munna. After a few minutes of terrorizing the locals, she clambered into his backpack and fell asleep.

    Lizzie had the opposite problem. First, she was still quite green. Her tendency to flee once she was off leash felt like an insulting regression, but not an unwarranted one. Once she realized she had to stay, getting her to fight was altogether impossible.

    “Poison Sting,” Mike begged, “please, just once! Just try!”

    Lizzie lay, ears back, eyes wide, as a curious Patrat poked at her side. Neither of the Pokémon seemed phased by the large man swearing under his breath a few feet away.

    The Patrat reared up and thumped on the Nidoran’s haunch. Lizzie squeaked, and Mike was certain she would have to retaliate somehow. But, to his great surprise, the Nidoran dashed in a quick circle and lay still again. He swore that he could see her smirking.

    He allowed the two to play, and play they did. They tumbled, tackled, kicked, bit, and otherwise raised an unholy ruckus. It was as close to a real fight as Mike could hope for. He almost lost track of Lizzie in the tall grass several times, but luckily Robin was on the case.

    Mike would occasionally rouse the Litwick and think hard about a Nidoran. Robin, with her unfathomable senses, would point him right towards where she was playing. Their trainer, content to know where his charge was, would then try very hard not to think about anything else at all.

    Especially not cute, curly-haired, short women.

    Robin, none too helpful but all too observant, eventually fished Stephanie’s letter out of Mike’s bag. She must have thought that she was being helpful, but unfortunately, the reminder wasn’t what he needed at all. He tucked the little square away into his breast pocket without looking.

    Mike lazed against a tree sometime later and, for the second time that day, felt himself slipping into a spiral.

    Luckily for him, but unluckily for Lizzie, a strange sight appeared from behind one of the dilapidated structures dotting the Dreamyard. A very large, round, pinkish being wafted out from seemingly nowhere. Mike flicked out his ‘dex and took careful aim, only to scramble to his feet a moment later and blow a shrill whistle.

    “Robin, be ready,” Mike warned, “Lizzie’s gonna need an assist, I think.” The Litwick beamed up at him, winked, and began to glide away towards the Musharna. Not unheard of around here, but not precisely common. The ‘dex warned it was much tougher than Robin, but the species was not inherently aggressive.

    “Liz-zie,” Mike called in a sing-song, “you need to come back, ok?”

    No response. He studied the Musharna’s paradoxically graceful bulk. It was sniffing at the air and beginning to float towards where he had last seen his Nidoran.

    “Lizzie,” Mike ordered, “come.”

    Nothing.

    “C’mere, girl!”

    Still nothing.

    “Alright,” Mike warned loudly. “Suit yourself. I’m going home.”

    Finally, there was a rustling from a far shrub. Lizzie pointed her snout out of it, the irritation plain on her face. She was blindsided by a thin, warbling blast of technicolor energy for her trouble.

    The Nidoran very much seemed to hate whatever that attack was. And, to Mike’s shock, she decided to show the Musharna exactly how she felt about it.

    The size difference alone provided significant issues. After some ineffective stinging and kicking, Lizzie swapped to her teeth, which had a much stronger effect. The ‘dex said the attack wasn’t anything yet — it was currently considered a ‘Struggle: an unidentifiable, unofficial offensive maneuver’ — but it did point out that she would learn how to properly Bite in the future.

    The Musharna, unable to aim amid the onslaught, gave up the ‘prey’ and tried to retreat. Only to find Robin, who had been lazily watching from a distance. The Litwick gave one short shriek and Mike thought for a grim moment that the Musharna had been Astonished to death. It landed with a heavy thump and a thick blast of deep crimson vapor.

    “Noononono,” Mike intercepted the candle, which was positively drooling. “Good job, but we won. Let it go.” Mike was thankful that he hadn’t removed the harness today, as Robin had attempted to slip through his hands to finish the job.

    There was a sudden invasion of feelings and images into Mike’s head: irritability, concern, a smidge of curiosity, but mostly a motherly sense of defending her own. Mike realized that they all had inadvertently breathed in the Musharna’s mists, and now all felt what he felt: a little like a very irritated mother Musharna who was protecting her young from an unexpected ghost.

    Presently there was a swirl of thick yellow gas, and as they breathed they all were blindsided by a very potent, urgent, and powerful flight response. The message wasn’t in English, but it did not need to be.

    Too close,” Mike choked out, his voice not quite his own. He scooped up his Nidoran and felt Robin settle into his backpack. He coughed hard, and with each cough came a flash of some primal danger. Eyes in the dark. Loss of control. A guttural roar. He began to run, Lizzie tucked under one arm like a football, and he didn’t stop until a raucous laughter shook him back to reality.

    “I see you met a momma,” called the old Ranger. Mike realized himself, slowed to a stop, and wiped his brow. He turned back to see the long grass from where they emerged wreathed in yellow mist. Many little Pokémon scattered in all directions, each wide-eyed and terrified. Almost ten feet above the ground rotated a large, serene, purple-pinkish lump. As they watched, the mists receded.

    “What—” Mike gasped, not realizing just how hard he had been running.

    “They get curious from time to time. Lucky to see one, actually,” the man smiled at the Musharna. Slowly, it began to lower back into the grass. “Almost never attack unless you’re too close to their den. What’d you do to piss her off?”
    “I think she—” Mike coughed, “I think she didn’t like my Litwick.”

    “Ayup, they hate ghosts.” The man pulled out a pack of tissues and shoved a wad into Mike’s hands. “Make sure you blow as much of that shit out as you can. It’ll give you nightmares.”

    Mike felt like they all deserved a treat after their interesting afternoon. They sat in the Striaton Cafe sometime later, people-watching as they waited for their respective little plates. He was delighted to find that, as long as they were on the patio, his team could be happily out and about.

    Robin sat on top of the table, half-dozing, feigning as if she was part of the cafe itself. Her little flame sputtered and swelled, almost like she was snoring.

    Lizzie was doing her best to tangle up the thin silver chain that she had been bound to. Mike hoped it wasn’t too tight, or she wouldn’t find a way to loosen it, but those didn’t seem to be problems at all. The real problem was Lizzie’s sudden uptick in energy as the sun began to set. Mike hadn’t realized that he now had two dusk-lovers on his team, and made a mental note to train accordingly tomorrow.

    As if today was even training, he thought bitterly to himself. But the thought was sharply cut off.

    “Excuse me,” a crisp voice roused him from his drink. He looked up to see a somewhat familiar face framed in ridiculous, lusciously blue hair. “I was told a new trainer had arrived in town, and I wanted to make an introduction.”

    “Hello, Mister Cress!” Mike was caught off-guard by the gym leader, who gave a thin little laugh at his formality. He rose and shook hands, and found the man’s grip to be delicate and short. Their handshake styles were at odds, and they disconnected awkwardly. “Uh, I’m Michael. Mike is fine, though.”

    “Just Cress is fine, thank you,” the man straightened himself, and the two were caught again in an awkward beat; this time of repetition. The anxious snake in Mike’s gut squeezed at him. What did a presumably defunct Gym Leader want with him?

    “Well, Mike,” Cress cleared his throat gently, “how are you finding Striaton?”

    “Lovely, honestly,” Mike smiled. “A little light on trainers, but that’s my fault, I suppose.”

    The look that flashed in Cress’s eyes told Mike that he probably stepped right onto a sore nerve. He briefly thought about trying to literally drown himself in his beer.

    “Honestly, no,” Cress sighed, “that would be mine. It’s why I’ve come with a peace offering, of sorts.” Mike blinked up at the man, who was now smiling genuinely. “Firstly, tonight is on me. It’s the least we can do.”

    “That’s, uh, very kind.” Mike was genuinely taken aback. He felt a catch coming.

    “Secondly,” Cress continued, a little more business-like, “I do have an offer I would like to make.” Mike nodded, suppressing a smirk at his own intuition. “Typically we see a lot more trainers come through here, and we make a habit of hiring temporary help in and around the cafe from those that pass through. They essentially get to live and eat in town for free; We are adequately staffed, and our clientele gets to enjoy the variety and vivacity of Juniper’s latest batch.”

    “‘Vivacity,’” Mike repeated with admiration, his inner English Teacher glowing. “Nice word.” Cress gave a thin, proud grin.

    “Thank you. To cut to the chase, we are short-staffed. We’ve plenty of tourists in town; those who love to watch the leaves change or visit the local orchards, but we’ve also a dearth of our usual employees.” Mike was beginning to adore this man’s vocabulary, and he had already decided he would gladly take a few shifts — within reason.

    “Well,” Mike took a pull of his beer and sucked his teeth. “I really need to be getting to Aspertia, or at least Virbank, as soon as possible.”

    “Yes, to acquire your first badge?” Cress raised a brow. Mike nodded. “I believe we may be able to help with that. After all, the gym is only temporarily closed. And could be temporarily opened.”

    Mike sat up in his chair, careful not to betray his poker face. “Cress, are you offering what I think you’re offering?”

    Cress leaned in to reply. “We know for a fact we will be, for lack of a better phrase, absolutely slammed this weekend,” Cress hissed. “We typically expect to be well-staffed on this weekend and next weekend every year, and consequently we pack the place well in advance. We are not well-staffed this year, and I would be more than glad to offer you some ‘additional payment,’ as it were.”

    “Two weekends for a gym battle?” Mike asked quietly, inviting Cress to sit. Cress gave a slight shake of his head, looking over his shoulders surreptitiously.

    “One would be fine, honestly,” he replied. “We have secured the staff for next weekend, or otherwise canceled arrangements. Do think on it, Michael. We would need you to start on Wednesday.” And with that, Cress gave a deep bow and glided away. Mere seconds later, as if on cue, a waiter appeared with a rolling cart. It was loaded with a slew of plates that each seemed strictly better than what Mike had actually ordered.

    His order of a much more modest steak was now, to his delight, a filet mignon; Robin’s bowl of minnows had been substituted for a too-fresh Arrokuda languishing on a plate, which she delighted in finishing off before the waiter cleaned, thinly sliced, and burnt for her tableside; Lizzie’s ordered trough of greens had become a delightful salad filled with fresh vegetables, fruits, and garnished liberally and beautifully with whole dandelion plants.

    As he and his motley crew worked their way through the unexpected windfall, Mike couldn’t help but think that Cress was laying on the bribery a little too thickly. What made this weekend so terrifying that a Gym Leader was bending over backward to ensure Mike’s employ?

    At the end of the meal, he received a simple contract along with an even simpler, hand-written card detailing their agreement. Four shifts, eight hours apiece, this Wednesday through Saturday. An hour break in each. Each beginning at three o’clock, and ending at midnight.

    He had two choices to make, too: The first was his form of pay; He would be able to make nearly a third again as much if he accepted Poké, which he did without hesitation. The second was a date for their gym challenge, which he set the furthest out he could; the following Thursday, at two o’clock.

    He filled in various blanks: ID numbers, names, and dates, and signed several times. He hastily scribbled down the expectations for attire and timeliness on the back of a napkin, only to later receive a copy of the contract. When all was said and done, he was so excited and bewildered that he was downright nauseous. Being absolutely stuffed for the first time in weeks was also doing its best to contribute to the feeling.

    This stretch of his journey had just become much less ‘pointless’ in his opinion. Even if it had been very nearly life-changing already, in its own rights. He hadn’t realized exactly how much tension he had been carrying, and as he sucked on an after-dinner mint, he suddenly found it quite delightful.

    That night, just before he went to bed, he did his best to convey his entire week’s plans to Robin, in the forms of various little dream vignettes. They pressed their foreheads together for long spans of time, Mike softly muttering under his breath, and Robin very intent on catching every little moment...
     
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