Normal 1.8
Persephone
Infinite Screms
- Pronouns
- her/hers
- Partners
-
Normal 1.8: The Rules
Cuicatl
2012
Achcauhtli is staying after for some sports game, your dad is out of town, and your godmother will want help making tortillas or doing laundry so you walk over to her house alone. Not that it bothers you as much as your brother and everyone else seem to think it does. It’s just a certain number of steps. A number you don’t even count anymore. Your feet just know the path. The heat and humidity and the rough stone roads and the hills bother you more.
You’re interrupted halfway through by a burst of wind behind you. “Hello?” Adult? Pokémon? Car? What are you dealing with here?
There’s a low hiss and a deep grumble in response. You wait for the translation to pop into your mind.
It never does.
A dark-type. Like mandibuzz. Except far, far bigger. You can feel hot breath hitting your face, the left side of your abdomen, your right elbow. The breath smells like meat. Carnivore. Big carnivore. Big carnivore that approached a small disabled target while she was alone. Does this count as a combat death? Would it count if you hit it? Somehow the thought brings you out of paralysis and you ram your small fist into the belly of the giant beast.
You manage to bust open your knuckles. The carnivore doesn’t make any noise at all. Oh well. You tried. It was a battle. Now you get to meet Mom. It could be worse. Even if part of your gut is still clenched up and you’re crying for reasons you don’t quite understand.
Two rough, scaly limbs rap themselves around you and you can feel two streams of breath on your back. Its chest pushes against you. The warm, rough chest that you tried to punch. Probably has your blood on it mixed in with the creature’s other prey.
Then you fly. Your stomach drops and you almost vomit. You reflexively hug the giant monster. Maybe you scream. For a moment you don’t exist; there’s just panic and awe where a girl’s mind used to be.
She’s bringing you somewhere else. Why? Where? Is she afraid someone would see? Are there even any pokémon in the village that could fight something like this? You’ve heard rumors that a great warrior lived here once, but you’ve never met him. Some of the kids in school don’t even believe he was real.
The dragon lowers and your stomach lurches up. This time you do puke. And then dry heave when you hit the ground. It’s fine. You’re probably in the nest of a giant murder beast but it’s fine. It’ll all be over soon. Just keep it together and you’ll be fine.
{Why is she bleeding?}
The voice is in your head. Only in your head. Your brother can do that but then you both kind of blur together for a bit. You can do it with a slightly smaller headache and less blurring. You’ve never met anyone else who could do it.
There’s a noise that sounds like metal rubbing on metal and the soft thud of something crashing into the dirt. You cover your ears on reflex.
Even with your ears covered you can hear the low groan followed by a long whine. You don’t know exactly what it’s saying, but you can guess. “That’s not my fault, she punched me.” Were you supposed to be intact for this? Whatever this is? Why? Do the pokémon predators have rituals like the humans do?
{You can stop shaking. You aren’t being hunted. We just wanted to talk.}
“A-about what?” you stammer out. Your voice is shaking. You realize a moment later that your body is too.
{How much have you been told about your mother?}
You blink on reflex. “I… not much? She died when I was born. And she was from...” The enemy. The northern cowards. The bloodbags. Whatever the playground calls them this week. “Not here,” you settle on. Wait. You forgot, “She had green hair.”
You can feel and smell and hear the predator’s breath coming down on you but the voice is silent. {That’s less than we had hoped.} He sounds sad. Why? {Allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Renfield. Your mother captured and raised me. Your… escort is Alice. I can assure you that she’s harmless.}
Harmless? She’s giant, tough, powerful, and clearly a carnivore.
Renfield sighs inside of your mind. {Correction: While Alice is not harmless, she won’t hurt you or your brother.} The beast—Alice—whines again. Renfield ignores her and continues on. {If that tangent is over, we did wish to speak with you. Your father has kept you very isolated. We did not know if you had even inherited your mother’s powers until today.}
“She was…?” A witch? Is there a better term?
{Americans call you psychics. And yes, she was. Your telepathy is almost identical to hers.}
Wait. “My what?”
There’s another pause in the conversation. Alice fills it by leaning closer and running one of her scaly arms along yours. You freeze up and let it happen. Better than being eaten.
{Perhaps I can allow your mother to show you. She archived memories before her demise. I can share them with you now.}
Mom left memories? You can sort of imagine how it would work. You saw some things from your brother’s body while you were blurred once. But it was horribly disorienting and painful and…
{You don’t have to accept today. They won’t decay.}
You have no idea what’s happening so you swallow and nod and pray for survival while bracing for imminent death.
October 2019
You never sleep well your first night in a new place. Your godmother’s home, hotel rooms, impromptu shelters in the mountains—doesn’t matter. Achca—he was always better at that than you.
The rain isn’t helping tonight. Ordinarily it’s soothing; you love it when you can time your naps so they line up with rain showers. As a young girl you loved rain naps so much your father disciplined you with a cactus spike for being lazy. Even though it wasn’t your fault you lived in a rainforest! Okay, technically five centimeters of rainfall short of a rainforest. In any case he only disciplined you once since you quickly got the point: you should only take rain naps when he’s really busy or out of town.
Rain is good for sleeping. But someone (Kekoa) laid the tarp wrong and now you’re lying down in a centimeter or two of water on the edge of the tent. Maybe Genesis is dry, snoring away on her inflatable mat. Kekoa said you’d only need two mats for the tent. He sounded certain of it. And you’d let him have his way because he talked down to you when you tried to dispute it. Anyway. Genesis is lying down, arms spread out a little to the sides on a mat. He probably has one. You got pushed to the edge of the crowded tent, lying on your side pressed against the wet fabric but still sometimes touching Genesis’s arm. Your only consolations are that Pix doesn’t seem to mind as she purrs away on top of you. Kekoa isn’t sleeping either. You can tell. Enough years sharing a room with—it taught you the signs.
You take stock. This sucks. Nothing to be done. How do you minimize the suck that future Cuicatl has to endure? Start with clothes. Kekoa whined “I’m the one carrying this, y’know,” when you were packing and maybe you got a bit too prideful. You have three sets of clothes: sleepwear for sleep; a quechquemitl, tank top, and thin trousers for hiking; and a tunic and leggings for formal occasions. The sleepwear is going to be wet and unless the rain stops and you can talk Kekoa into staying in camp for a while you won’t have a good chance to dry it. That probably means mildew if you stuff it into a plastic bag and leave it in a dark pack all day. You don’t want to sleep in mildew. You aren’t tracking in the trail scents of the hiking clothes into your tent because that’s how you end up sharing a bed with a rattata. You could just sleep in your more formal stuff. It’s still reasonably comfy but the tunic was a gift from your godmother so you don’t want to ruin it if it rains again. Or get vulpix fur on it. You don’t deserve Pix but there are some things you don’t want taken from you, even by her.
A yawn escapes your lips. Tired. Solutions later. Try to sleep.
You relax and meditate.
At some point it works.
“Get out.”
You yawn and stretch your body out, loving the feeling. “Won’t look. Promise,” you grumble.
“Out. Not big enough to change in here with you,” Genesis says.
“Yeah, fine.” Another, slightly less nice yawn that still leaves you with a grin. “Whatever.”
The tent isn’t familiar yet. Your fingers still struggle to find the zipper out to the rain fly, your boots, the first zipper again so you can close it, the zipper out of the rain fly, and then the rain fly zipper again. Maybe it would be easier if you were fully awake.
Pixie follows at some point, noticeable as a wave of cold air sometimes sliding by your ankle. “Good morning, friend.” She huffs in response. You smile when you get the translation. “Oh, come on, it’s not even that hot out.” You get one good stretch in and then settle, pressing your weight down as far into the earth as it can go. She doesn’t answer in that time. “You want to take me to the toilet?”
The air currents start moving a little. She’s difficult to follow without the leash because her footsteps are nearly silent. Your only saving grace is that she doesn’t try particularly hard to avoid stepping on fallen leaves and twigs. She might even be making a game out of dominating as many as she can. It wouldn’t be out of character. Got to show the icky leaves who’s boss.
Eventually Pix stops moving and your boots fall on concrete. “Thanks, girl.” She barks. You hold out your arms and feel for the door. Is there more than one door? Like, girl and boy doors? There’s only one toilet inside with a metallic sink outside and you feel a lock, so it doesn’t matter much.
What does matter is that this latrine smells awful. And it feels so cramped. It’s hard to explain it to sighted people but you can tell when you’re in a very tight spice. You hate it. Always have. Especially if all the textures are either cold metal or wood so rough that you’re worried about splinters. The less said about the smell the better.
You finish your business as quickly as possible, thoroughly wash your hands, and walk a comfortable distance in the general direction of camp. Then you stop and crouch down, holding a hand outstretched. “I think a very good guide fox has earned some scratches.”
Pixie practically teleports to you and starts rubbing her scent glands against your palm while you dig your fingers into her chin. She pushes her head down and you move on to cupping her cheek with one hand and scratching her ears with the other. Then she starts moving in circles and you just hold a hand unmoving, letting her continuously scratch her back, head, and tails in an endless loop. You’d think she’d get dizzy but she goes for a full minute or two before slowing down and collapsing in a heap.
You gently scoop her up into your arms and hug her to your chest. She’s relaxed, occasionally twitching a tail or pressing one of her legs against you and squirming for a better view. Close enough you can feel her heartbeat and so much of her glorious fur pressed against your arms. She’s a lot like Searah, but cold.
A pause and a flood of panic.
No. It’s fine. You’ll see her soon. Even a trained heatmor is 250,000 Quatchli, or $10,000, tops. Today is a decent day. Don’t ruin it.
You squeeze Pix tight enough that she whines a little before relaxing. Right. Is not a stress ball. Is a fox.
Dried pink apricorns aren’t terrible. You get the whole pack down before Pixie finishes her bowl.
“You like those things?” Kekoa asks.
“Yeah. Used to love them as a kid. Haven’t had them in years. Not as good as I remember.”
He walks over to you and shoves something into your hand. Genesis belatedly follows. Your muscles tighten and your breathing picks up a little. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. Just apricorns. Fills your belly. Almost no fat at all. Keeps you from overeating later. Wins all around. It’s fine. It’s fine. You can relax. Slowly. Breathe. Slowly. Eat. The. Apricorns. You. Sad. Excuse. For. A. Human. Being.
You reach into Kekoa’s bag and pull a few out while the narrative starts stirring into gear in the background. It’s fine. You’re in nature. It’s fine. Seven years from now when the world ends you’ll barely remember this at all.
“Okay, so if neither of you two wants to capture a mudbray then—”
Kekoa clears his throat. He then continues to speak with what you’re pretty sure is an exaggerated Galarian accent. Even your mental translation adds the bad accent. “I hereby establish The Rules Of The Trail. Rule #1: Shut up, Jennifer.”
There’s a period of silence. The footsteps continue. You really hate it when they just stop without telling you. They’re much faster than you are since they can just look down and see if there are rocks or tree roots and you have to use a hiking stick to feel that out so you do need the chances to catch up but the exclusion bothers you.
“Rule #2,” Genesis says in an accent that again makes it through your gift. And accents never filter in. You’re pretty sure they’ve never even heard your real accent because Kekoa definitely would’ve given you shit. “Shut up, Kekoa.” The accent drops from both the real-time Galarian and the slightly delayed Nahuatl translation. “See, I can do that too.”
“Rule #3: Shut up Kiwi.” Kekoa proclaims.
You make a show of groaning. “What did I do?”
“Nothing personal, just needed to complete the set.” You open your mouth and he cuts you off. “Unless, I’m invoking Rule #3, in which case, yeah, it is personal.”
You sigh, bite your tongue, and count down. Not worth pressing this. It’ll just make you upset. “Okay. Fine. Whatever. And Genesis? I’d rather we not get a mudsdale. You ever walked on a horse trail?”
She’s quiet for long enough that you accept that she isn’t one of the “horse girls” that upper class American girls were often stereotyped as being. Fascinating to discover what is and isn’t true about this country after years of hearing the Anahuac view on it (i.e. degenerate misogynist racist genocidal madmen who crush their lower classes) and the American film version (pretty much the same thing).
“No, never been on a horse trail. Why?”
“Well,” you start. “If it’s rained recently mudsdale turn the entire trail into mud. And they are big enough that I mean the entire trail.” Your foot catches on a rock and you hold in a curse. It’s fine. Get over it. Barely even hurts. Kekoa snickers behind you so it must have been a visible stumble. Asshole. “Now, that wouldn’t be so bad. Everyone steps in mud eventually—”
“That what your mommy told you?” Kekoa asks.
Your blood goes cold. No. Don’t dignify him with a physical reaction. “No. But I heard your mom shoved you in mud to make you cleaner.” Does that joke even make sense? He doesn’t respond so it either does or really, really doesn’t. Time to plow on regardless. “Horses shit. A lot. All of them. Rapidash, zebstrika, mudsdale—doesn’t matter. They shit. Everywhere. In large amounts. Then they mix that shit in with the mud that, again, is the entire trail.”
“Oh,” Genesis responds. “That’s, uh.”
“Yeah. So let’s not. Not everyone here grew up bathing in that shit, right?”
“Rule #3, Kiwi,” Kekoa finally responds.
“Aw, is someone mommy’s little girl?” It’s a low blow and he’ll hate you for it. But he already hates you and if he wants to drag your dead mother into this, he can deal with the consequences.
“Rule #4: Get new jokes.”
“Because ‘Kiwi’ is still a laugh every time, right?”
He doesn’t answer that.
Lunch is decent. Small trail mix bags. Nuts and dried fruit. A lot of dried fruit. No chocolate, either. Not that you need chocolate, but it does give more of an incentive to eat it. But those pinap berries, right? Those are good. Sort of. Texture’s weird when dry. Not like the fresh ones at home. Ugh. It’s decent. That’s what you mean. The nuts have a lot of fat but even if you stuck the whole bag right on your stomach it’s not too much of an addition.
“Hey, Cuicatl?” Genesis asks.
“Hmm?”
“Could I borrow, I mean, could I take some kibble at meals? Just a few pieces. I can, um, I can help pay for it once you need some more.”
You take the bag back out from your pack. Pixie’s feet pitter over and you pour her a few more pieces out of guilt. “Yeah, come get it.”
She does and walks away. Is it for Sir Bubbles? Is she going to eat it?
Doesn’t really matter. Just add it to the list of weird American shit.
Your voice dances and you want to move your body with it. How long has it been since you were in the cuicacalli? Would’ve been right before THIS. IS. A. GOOD. DAY. How many times is he going to come up on your good day? You correct your pitch back up and move back through the wordless song. Does that translate?
“Rule #5: No Pirates of the Caribbean,” Kekoa says.
You keep on singing. It is good music. And it’s upbeat enough that it can almost silence your feelings.
“Going to throw in a Rule #3 for good measure now.”
You break off the song. “Well, you brought it up.”
He’d asked whether Aztec gold could make you immortal. You’d started humming, and then singing by way of answer. You’re pretty sure the answer is no, though. A female pirate could die in childbirth and later come back as an undead skeleton pirate at the end of the world, but the Black Pearl crew was way too male for that. Or maybe they were all like Kekoa. You won’t judge.
“Yes, I started it. And I’m ending it. Keep singing and I will trip you.”
Well, screw him. You have a very pretty voice. And nice hair. And maybe you’re a fat disgusting waste of humanity but you’re very proud of those two things.
“Shit!”
You catch yourself on the way down and your pack isn’t heavy enough to cause serious problems. You can still feel a cut on your thigh and your hands aren’t feeling too good either. Can’t tell if that’s just the shock of hitting the rocks on the trail or something worse. More than that, it had rained last night. The whole trail is coated in mud and now you are too. Pixie won’t want to cuddle you and damn him you need her.
But you deserved it. For the mama’s girl dig. And just in general you deserve a few trips here and there. Remind you of your place. Might make you prettier. You almost just drop down and collapse into the mud and let your face hit the earth and wallow there forever. They could just hike faster and
“Kekoa, what the hell?”
Did she just… swear? You hear her move towards you and throw her pack off before bending down. At least, you hear her knees crack and feel the moving wind so you assume she bent down. She should probably get her knees checked out. She’s, what, fifteen?
“Well, she’ll always remember that this is the day we established Rule Fucking Four,” he answers.
You feel a hand brush against your elbow. “Need help?
Yeah. More than she can give. You swallow it down. The cuicacalli taught you acting alongside song and dance and legends. Time to act. Not happy. Indignant? Scowl a little. Show no real pain.
“Nah, I’m fine.” You push yourself up and make a show of brushing your hands off on your equally muddy shorts. You glance over your shoulder and deepen your scowl. “And it should be ‘this is the day we almost established Rule Fucking Four.’ Which is still a terrible joke. Two out of ten.” That’s the end of that. Now you can go in silence. Manage your steps. Maybe hum a little bit; you doubt he tries that again if Genesis is on your side. He has to have some shame, right? Eventually you let the humming rise up in pitch. You’re happy. Still a little annoyed, but happy. That’s what a normal person would feel in this situation, right?
Keep your face on. Don’t cry. You’ll spiral downward if you cry. No one wants to see that.
Dinner is supposedly eggs and potatoes. You don’t remember either having sand in them. Definitely more tolerable than the “potato salad” or “spaghetti marinara” from yesterday. Getting food into your mouth is usually an uphill battle and you count on your stomach showing up to fight for what your muscles need. Even its turned traitor now.
Fine. Whatever. You let Kekoa pick this shit because the man had a plan and you’re some blind kid but now you’re putting your foot down. And since the self-loathing rose back to anger when Pix wouldn’t cuddle you until a very awkward shower under a sixty-centimeter-tall, low pressure water spicket, well, he’s in for it.
“We aren’t doing this again.”
“Agreed,” Genesis adds. Lovely. Starts with Kekoa cornered.
“In Paniola we pick up rice, noodles, whatever. Find seasoning if we can. Keep dried fruit if you two want it. Cut and cook vegetables ahead of time. Toss in nuts or beans or canned meat or whatever for protein.”
Kekoa doesn’t challenge it. Instead he takes another bite of food and carefully chews it for far too long before swallowing. Power move. Ugh. Men. Him. “First, this is why I insisted on spending two nights on the trail. So we could detect problems like this in advance.” Is he really taking credit for this? Why is he being such an asshole, anyway? Do you care? “Second, I can probably win a battle or two and get cheap lunches in town. Take way more condiment and seasoning packets than I should. Helps if Jennifer gives me cover here. There, spice problem solved.”
“I’m glad you agree—”
“Third,” he interrupts. “How do you plan on keeping your vegetables cold? Ice packs are heavy as fuck and melt in a day.”
{Pix, shoot an ice shard at him. Keep it a little weak.}
You can hear the attack and Kekoa’s surprisingly muted swearing. “I told you before,” you answer with a low, measured voice, “that Pixie is a very good fox and can take care of that.
“Still heavier than I want to deal with.”
“Then I can keep it in my pack,” you say.
He laughs. “Oh, like hell you will. You’re, what, ninety pounds sopping wet?” You don’t actually know how heavy a pound is but the telepathic translation puts it in kilograms. You really hate it when he’s right. “No,” he continues, “you’ll carry it for half a day, complain about your back breaking, and then put it in my pack.”
“I’ll take it,” Genesis says. “I’m bigger than you and I’m not carrying much so it shouldn’t be too hard.”
Kekoa doesn’t answer. He just gets up and walks away. The water turns on. He’s washing his dishes. Which reminds you that you still have way, way too much left to eat.
There’s another ‘thunk’ sound behind you followed by a short roll. Fourth this morning. You hate it but you really need to do something about it for your sanity’s sake.
“Rule #5: Keep your water bottle in your pack when you aren’t drinking. Sorry, Gen.”
She sighs. “That annoying?”
“Kind of. Sorry. You’re tossing it up and trying to catch it, right?”
“Yeah,” she responds. Kekoa is being mercifully quiet.
“Maybe you could use a rock or twig or something less loud?”
“Oh. Yeah! That would work. Thanks.”
Why is she thanking you? You told her off.
“What’s it like out there, anyway?”
“Uh. Still kind of burnt? A little more greenery, though. I think there’s a highway nearby.”
You’d heard the road. Not busy enough that you’d call it a highway. There’s also a river somewhere near the trail. More pokémon sounds, too. So that description is about what you’d expected. “Getting close to Paniola, then?”
“Should be another or hour or two,” Kekoa answers. You decide to kill the conversation now that he’s joined. You’re in a decent mood today.
Your lunch is interrupted by a long, howling whine going up and down in pitch like a passing ambulance.
“Pix!”
There are loud, rushed footsteps and a “Crap!” said like a curse beside you.
“Jennifer, what the hell!” Kekoa yells.
Pixie keeps screaming.
“Pix!” you yell louder just to be heard. That seems to shut her up, although she grumbles afterward.
{Was helping!]
{I’m sure you were.} “Kekoa, what just happened?”
He stands up and starts pacing. “An eevee showed up to eat the kibble Jennifer put out, your vulpix started screaming bloody murder, the eevee ran away, Jennifer picked up her poliwag and ran into the forest after it.”
It’s not a good idea to run off into unfamiliar woods, even if there aren’t any predators worth worrying about.
“I’m going after her. If I call to you, call back.” And then he’s gone. Into the woods. Without asking permission.
Hypocrite.
“Hey, Pix. Want some food?”
She dutifully trots over, her surface thoughts full of rage words and eevee. You scoop out some of the spam. The flavor’s okay. Interesting, even. Texture isn’t the best. Maybe it’d be better if you had a chance to cook it. In any case, Pixie seems to like it.
“I wasn’t going to catch the eevee, you know?”
She hisses between bites. {No eevee allowed.}
“Why, though? Even if I don’t own it?”
Her surface thoughts are a jumble of unrelated words. Not useful. Jealousy, maybe?
“I agree. They aren’t the best. One of the teachers at my school had one and…” How much self-awareness does she have? You think it’s safe to bet on ‘none at all.’ “She was very pretty, but incredibly stuck-up. Only wanted to talk about herself and make everyone appreciate how cute she was. Thought she owned the world. But she wasn’t even that pretty so she was just silly. I’d never want to train one.” That seems to calm her. She even purrs a little. “Besides, vulpix are the best foxes and I am very smart for a human so I know not to leave one for an eevee.” You try to pour as much disgust as possible into those words. She seems to buy it. And having a clear job to do as a trained guide fox and portable ice-maker down the line should calm her down a bit. Hopefully even make her willing to have teammates.
It’s taking your partners a while to come back. Was there any predator you forgot about? You’d thought bewear and stoutland usually didn’t attack humans. Sylveon, maybe? Do they hunt people? Genesis would know better than to tug on pretty ribbons, right?
…right?
No. No she wouldn’t. Kekoa probably would, though.
You’re pretty sure that Pix fell asleep on your lap at some point. You keep gently stroking her fur. She’s so soft. And even if she’s sometimes a literal and figurative bitch at least she has a personality. Besides, your mom’s starter was also kind of a pain in her later years. At least to you. And Renfield. Maybe swanna are only kind to the people they imprint on? No. You remember that Mom gave you the memory of her first meeting with ‘Chovsky. He wasn’t any better back then.
Still, it might hint at a strategy: Find a bird egg, when it hatches make sure it imprints on you. Emphasize to Pixie how unkind it would be to take a child away from its mother. Profit?
It’s definitely not your worst idea. Way better than the “coat a grimer in flour, put it in a refrigerator for a few hours, tell Pix it’s another vulpix” plan you toyed with back in Hau’oli.
There’s a distant “marco.” You nudge Pix awake and move to put your pack on.
“Hey, can you go to the tree line and use roar for as long as you can?”
She clearly pours everything she has into it and it’s very adorable and you already love her more than you love yourself, even if that’s not a very high bar to clear.
It hasn’t rained in the half-day since you got to Paniola. When you take Pixie out for her midnight pee you figure that there might be stars in the sky. “Can you tell me about a star tonight?”
She huffs before a trickle streams onto something offending her.
“Glistening’s Star. Many new stars recently. Ancestors. The brightest is Glistening’s. The star appeared after she died.”
That’s probably the space station. Not that she needs to know that. Might not believe it. If ninetales can’t go to space, then mere humans definitely couldn’t figure it out.
“Did it now? Can you tell me about Glistening?”
“My mother’s mother’s sibling. Died before I was born. Never met her. Had the prettiest coat on the mountain. So pretty the Moon had to put it in the sky.”
“Wow.”
“I got mine from her.”
“Except yours is prettier, right?”
“Probably.”
“Way prettier than an eevee’s.” She hisses, offended that you even compared them. “Come over here.” She trots over and you scoop her into your arms. “I’m never going to leave you. Ever.”
Pixie huffs but doesn’t call you a liar. It’s progress. You’ll take it.
Cuicatl
2012
Achcauhtli is staying after for some sports game, your dad is out of town, and your godmother will want help making tortillas or doing laundry so you walk over to her house alone. Not that it bothers you as much as your brother and everyone else seem to think it does. It’s just a certain number of steps. A number you don’t even count anymore. Your feet just know the path. The heat and humidity and the rough stone roads and the hills bother you more.
You’re interrupted halfway through by a burst of wind behind you. “Hello?” Adult? Pokémon? Car? What are you dealing with here?
There’s a low hiss and a deep grumble in response. You wait for the translation to pop into your mind.
It never does.
A dark-type. Like mandibuzz. Except far, far bigger. You can feel hot breath hitting your face, the left side of your abdomen, your right elbow. The breath smells like meat. Carnivore. Big carnivore. Big carnivore that approached a small disabled target while she was alone. Does this count as a combat death? Would it count if you hit it? Somehow the thought brings you out of paralysis and you ram your small fist into the belly of the giant beast.
You manage to bust open your knuckles. The carnivore doesn’t make any noise at all. Oh well. You tried. It was a battle. Now you get to meet Mom. It could be worse. Even if part of your gut is still clenched up and you’re crying for reasons you don’t quite understand.
Two rough, scaly limbs rap themselves around you and you can feel two streams of breath on your back. Its chest pushes against you. The warm, rough chest that you tried to punch. Probably has your blood on it mixed in with the creature’s other prey.
Then you fly. Your stomach drops and you almost vomit. You reflexively hug the giant monster. Maybe you scream. For a moment you don’t exist; there’s just panic and awe where a girl’s mind used to be.
She’s bringing you somewhere else. Why? Where? Is she afraid someone would see? Are there even any pokémon in the village that could fight something like this? You’ve heard rumors that a great warrior lived here once, but you’ve never met him. Some of the kids in school don’t even believe he was real.
The dragon lowers and your stomach lurches up. This time you do puke. And then dry heave when you hit the ground. It’s fine. You’re probably in the nest of a giant murder beast but it’s fine. It’ll all be over soon. Just keep it together and you’ll be fine.
{Why is she bleeding?}
The voice is in your head. Only in your head. Your brother can do that but then you both kind of blur together for a bit. You can do it with a slightly smaller headache and less blurring. You’ve never met anyone else who could do it.
There’s a noise that sounds like metal rubbing on metal and the soft thud of something crashing into the dirt. You cover your ears on reflex.
Even with your ears covered you can hear the low groan followed by a long whine. You don’t know exactly what it’s saying, but you can guess. “That’s not my fault, she punched me.” Were you supposed to be intact for this? Whatever this is? Why? Do the pokémon predators have rituals like the humans do?
{You can stop shaking. You aren’t being hunted. We just wanted to talk.}
“A-about what?” you stammer out. Your voice is shaking. You realize a moment later that your body is too.
{How much have you been told about your mother?}
You blink on reflex. “I… not much? She died when I was born. And she was from...” The enemy. The northern cowards. The bloodbags. Whatever the playground calls them this week. “Not here,” you settle on. Wait. You forgot, “She had green hair.”
You can feel and smell and hear the predator’s breath coming down on you but the voice is silent. {That’s less than we had hoped.} He sounds sad. Why? {Allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Renfield. Your mother captured and raised me. Your… escort is Alice. I can assure you that she’s harmless.}
Harmless? She’s giant, tough, powerful, and clearly a carnivore.
Renfield sighs inside of your mind. {Correction: While Alice is not harmless, she won’t hurt you or your brother.} The beast—Alice—whines again. Renfield ignores her and continues on. {If that tangent is over, we did wish to speak with you. Your father has kept you very isolated. We did not know if you had even inherited your mother’s powers until today.}
“She was…?” A witch? Is there a better term?
{Americans call you psychics. And yes, she was. Your telepathy is almost identical to hers.}
Wait. “My what?”
There’s another pause in the conversation. Alice fills it by leaning closer and running one of her scaly arms along yours. You freeze up and let it happen. Better than being eaten.
{Perhaps I can allow your mother to show you. She archived memories before her demise. I can share them with you now.}
Mom left memories? You can sort of imagine how it would work. You saw some things from your brother’s body while you were blurred once. But it was horribly disorienting and painful and…
{You don’t have to accept today. They won’t decay.}
You have no idea what’s happening so you swallow and nod and pray for survival while bracing for imminent death.
*
October 2019
You never sleep well your first night in a new place. Your godmother’s home, hotel rooms, impromptu shelters in the mountains—doesn’t matter. Achca—he was always better at that than you.
The rain isn’t helping tonight. Ordinarily it’s soothing; you love it when you can time your naps so they line up with rain showers. As a young girl you loved rain naps so much your father disciplined you with a cactus spike for being lazy. Even though it wasn’t your fault you lived in a rainforest! Okay, technically five centimeters of rainfall short of a rainforest. In any case he only disciplined you once since you quickly got the point: you should only take rain naps when he’s really busy or out of town.
Rain is good for sleeping. But someone (Kekoa) laid the tarp wrong and now you’re lying down in a centimeter or two of water on the edge of the tent. Maybe Genesis is dry, snoring away on her inflatable mat. Kekoa said you’d only need two mats for the tent. He sounded certain of it. And you’d let him have his way because he talked down to you when you tried to dispute it. Anyway. Genesis is lying down, arms spread out a little to the sides on a mat. He probably has one. You got pushed to the edge of the crowded tent, lying on your side pressed against the wet fabric but still sometimes touching Genesis’s arm. Your only consolations are that Pix doesn’t seem to mind as she purrs away on top of you. Kekoa isn’t sleeping either. You can tell. Enough years sharing a room with—it taught you the signs.
You take stock. This sucks. Nothing to be done. How do you minimize the suck that future Cuicatl has to endure? Start with clothes. Kekoa whined “I’m the one carrying this, y’know,” when you were packing and maybe you got a bit too prideful. You have three sets of clothes: sleepwear for sleep; a quechquemitl, tank top, and thin trousers for hiking; and a tunic and leggings for formal occasions. The sleepwear is going to be wet and unless the rain stops and you can talk Kekoa into staying in camp for a while you won’t have a good chance to dry it. That probably means mildew if you stuff it into a plastic bag and leave it in a dark pack all day. You don’t want to sleep in mildew. You aren’t tracking in the trail scents of the hiking clothes into your tent because that’s how you end up sharing a bed with a rattata. You could just sleep in your more formal stuff. It’s still reasonably comfy but the tunic was a gift from your godmother so you don’t want to ruin it if it rains again. Or get vulpix fur on it. You don’t deserve Pix but there are some things you don’t want taken from you, even by her.
A yawn escapes your lips. Tired. Solutions later. Try to sleep.
You relax and meditate.
At some point it works.
*
“Get out.”
You yawn and stretch your body out, loving the feeling. “Won’t look. Promise,” you grumble.
“Out. Not big enough to change in here with you,” Genesis says.
“Yeah, fine.” Another, slightly less nice yawn that still leaves you with a grin. “Whatever.”
The tent isn’t familiar yet. Your fingers still struggle to find the zipper out to the rain fly, your boots, the first zipper again so you can close it, the zipper out of the rain fly, and then the rain fly zipper again. Maybe it would be easier if you were fully awake.
Pixie follows at some point, noticeable as a wave of cold air sometimes sliding by your ankle. “Good morning, friend.” She huffs in response. You smile when you get the translation. “Oh, come on, it’s not even that hot out.” You get one good stretch in and then settle, pressing your weight down as far into the earth as it can go. She doesn’t answer in that time. “You want to take me to the toilet?”
The air currents start moving a little. She’s difficult to follow without the leash because her footsteps are nearly silent. Your only saving grace is that she doesn’t try particularly hard to avoid stepping on fallen leaves and twigs. She might even be making a game out of dominating as many as she can. It wouldn’t be out of character. Got to show the icky leaves who’s boss.
Eventually Pix stops moving and your boots fall on concrete. “Thanks, girl.” She barks. You hold out your arms and feel for the door. Is there more than one door? Like, girl and boy doors? There’s only one toilet inside with a metallic sink outside and you feel a lock, so it doesn’t matter much.
What does matter is that this latrine smells awful. And it feels so cramped. It’s hard to explain it to sighted people but you can tell when you’re in a very tight spice. You hate it. Always have. Especially if all the textures are either cold metal or wood so rough that you’re worried about splinters. The less said about the smell the better.
You finish your business as quickly as possible, thoroughly wash your hands, and walk a comfortable distance in the general direction of camp. Then you stop and crouch down, holding a hand outstretched. “I think a very good guide fox has earned some scratches.”
Pixie practically teleports to you and starts rubbing her scent glands against your palm while you dig your fingers into her chin. She pushes her head down and you move on to cupping her cheek with one hand and scratching her ears with the other. Then she starts moving in circles and you just hold a hand unmoving, letting her continuously scratch her back, head, and tails in an endless loop. You’d think she’d get dizzy but she goes for a full minute or two before slowing down and collapsing in a heap.
You gently scoop her up into your arms and hug her to your chest. She’s relaxed, occasionally twitching a tail or pressing one of her legs against you and squirming for a better view. Close enough you can feel her heartbeat and so much of her glorious fur pressed against your arms. She’s a lot like Searah, but cold.
A pause and a flood of panic.
No. It’s fine. You’ll see her soon. Even a trained heatmor is 250,000 Quatchli, or $10,000, tops. Today is a decent day. Don’t ruin it.
You squeeze Pix tight enough that she whines a little before relaxing. Right. Is not a stress ball. Is a fox.
*
Dried pink apricorns aren’t terrible. You get the whole pack down before Pixie finishes her bowl.
“You like those things?” Kekoa asks.
“Yeah. Used to love them as a kid. Haven’t had them in years. Not as good as I remember.”
He walks over to you and shoves something into your hand. Genesis belatedly follows. Your muscles tighten and your breathing picks up a little. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. Just apricorns. Fills your belly. Almost no fat at all. Keeps you from overeating later. Wins all around. It’s fine. It’s fine. You can relax. Slowly. Breathe. Slowly. Eat. The. Apricorns. You. Sad. Excuse. For. A. Human. Being.
You reach into Kekoa’s bag and pull a few out while the narrative starts stirring into gear in the background. It’s fine. You’re in nature. It’s fine. Seven years from now when the world ends you’ll barely remember this at all.
*
“Okay, so if neither of you two wants to capture a mudbray then—”
Kekoa clears his throat. He then continues to speak with what you’re pretty sure is an exaggerated Galarian accent. Even your mental translation adds the bad accent. “I hereby establish The Rules Of The Trail. Rule #1: Shut up, Jennifer.”
There’s a period of silence. The footsteps continue. You really hate it when they just stop without telling you. They’re much faster than you are since they can just look down and see if there are rocks or tree roots and you have to use a hiking stick to feel that out so you do need the chances to catch up but the exclusion bothers you.
“Rule #2,” Genesis says in an accent that again makes it through your gift. And accents never filter in. You’re pretty sure they’ve never even heard your real accent because Kekoa definitely would’ve given you shit. “Shut up, Kekoa.” The accent drops from both the real-time Galarian and the slightly delayed Nahuatl translation. “See, I can do that too.”
“Rule #3: Shut up Kiwi.” Kekoa proclaims.
You make a show of groaning. “What did I do?”
“Nothing personal, just needed to complete the set.” You open your mouth and he cuts you off. “Unless, I’m invoking Rule #3, in which case, yeah, it is personal.”
You sigh, bite your tongue, and count down. Not worth pressing this. It’ll just make you upset. “Okay. Fine. Whatever. And Genesis? I’d rather we not get a mudsdale. You ever walked on a horse trail?”
She’s quiet for long enough that you accept that she isn’t one of the “horse girls” that upper class American girls were often stereotyped as being. Fascinating to discover what is and isn’t true about this country after years of hearing the Anahuac view on it (i.e. degenerate misogynist racist genocidal madmen who crush their lower classes) and the American film version (pretty much the same thing).
“No, never been on a horse trail. Why?”
“Well,” you start. “If it’s rained recently mudsdale turn the entire trail into mud. And they are big enough that I mean the entire trail.” Your foot catches on a rock and you hold in a curse. It’s fine. Get over it. Barely even hurts. Kekoa snickers behind you so it must have been a visible stumble. Asshole. “Now, that wouldn’t be so bad. Everyone steps in mud eventually—”
“That what your mommy told you?” Kekoa asks.
Your blood goes cold. No. Don’t dignify him with a physical reaction. “No. But I heard your mom shoved you in mud to make you cleaner.” Does that joke even make sense? He doesn’t respond so it either does or really, really doesn’t. Time to plow on regardless. “Horses shit. A lot. All of them. Rapidash, zebstrika, mudsdale—doesn’t matter. They shit. Everywhere. In large amounts. Then they mix that shit in with the mud that, again, is the entire trail.”
“Oh,” Genesis responds. “That’s, uh.”
“Yeah. So let’s not. Not everyone here grew up bathing in that shit, right?”
“Rule #3, Kiwi,” Kekoa finally responds.
“Aw, is someone mommy’s little girl?” It’s a low blow and he’ll hate you for it. But he already hates you and if he wants to drag your dead mother into this, he can deal with the consequences.
“Rule #4: Get new jokes.”
“Because ‘Kiwi’ is still a laugh every time, right?”
He doesn’t answer that.
*
Lunch is decent. Small trail mix bags. Nuts and dried fruit. A lot of dried fruit. No chocolate, either. Not that you need chocolate, but it does give more of an incentive to eat it. But those pinap berries, right? Those are good. Sort of. Texture’s weird when dry. Not like the fresh ones at home. Ugh. It’s decent. That’s what you mean. The nuts have a lot of fat but even if you stuck the whole bag right on your stomach it’s not too much of an addition.
“Hey, Cuicatl?” Genesis asks.
“Hmm?”
“Could I borrow, I mean, could I take some kibble at meals? Just a few pieces. I can, um, I can help pay for it once you need some more.”
You take the bag back out from your pack. Pixie’s feet pitter over and you pour her a few more pieces out of guilt. “Yeah, come get it.”
She does and walks away. Is it for Sir Bubbles? Is she going to eat it?
Doesn’t really matter. Just add it to the list of weird American shit.
*
Your voice dances and you want to move your body with it. How long has it been since you were in the cuicacalli? Would’ve been right before THIS. IS. A. GOOD. DAY. How many times is he going to come up on your good day? You correct your pitch back up and move back through the wordless song. Does that translate?
“Rule #5: No Pirates of the Caribbean,” Kekoa says.
You keep on singing. It is good music. And it’s upbeat enough that it can almost silence your feelings.
“Going to throw in a Rule #3 for good measure now.”
You break off the song. “Well, you brought it up.”
He’d asked whether Aztec gold could make you immortal. You’d started humming, and then singing by way of answer. You’re pretty sure the answer is no, though. A female pirate could die in childbirth and later come back as an undead skeleton pirate at the end of the world, but the Black Pearl crew was way too male for that. Or maybe they were all like Kekoa. You won’t judge.
“Yes, I started it. And I’m ending it. Keep singing and I will trip you.”
Well, screw him. You have a very pretty voice. And nice hair. And maybe you’re a fat disgusting waste of humanity but you’re very proud of those two things.
“Shit!”
You catch yourself on the way down and your pack isn’t heavy enough to cause serious problems. You can still feel a cut on your thigh and your hands aren’t feeling too good either. Can’t tell if that’s just the shock of hitting the rocks on the trail or something worse. More than that, it had rained last night. The whole trail is coated in mud and now you are too. Pixie won’t want to cuddle you and damn him you need her.
But you deserved it. For the mama’s girl dig. And just in general you deserve a few trips here and there. Remind you of your place. Might make you prettier. You almost just drop down and collapse into the mud and let your face hit the earth and wallow there forever. They could just hike faster and
“Kekoa, what the hell?”
Did she just… swear? You hear her move towards you and throw her pack off before bending down. At least, you hear her knees crack and feel the moving wind so you assume she bent down. She should probably get her knees checked out. She’s, what, fifteen?
“Well, she’ll always remember that this is the day we established Rule Fucking Four,” he answers.
You feel a hand brush against your elbow. “Need help?
Yeah. More than she can give. You swallow it down. The cuicacalli taught you acting alongside song and dance and legends. Time to act. Not happy. Indignant? Scowl a little. Show no real pain.
“Nah, I’m fine.” You push yourself up and make a show of brushing your hands off on your equally muddy shorts. You glance over your shoulder and deepen your scowl. “And it should be ‘this is the day we almost established Rule Fucking Four.’ Which is still a terrible joke. Two out of ten.” That’s the end of that. Now you can go in silence. Manage your steps. Maybe hum a little bit; you doubt he tries that again if Genesis is on your side. He has to have some shame, right? Eventually you let the humming rise up in pitch. You’re happy. Still a little annoyed, but happy. That’s what a normal person would feel in this situation, right?
Keep your face on. Don’t cry. You’ll spiral downward if you cry. No one wants to see that.
*
Dinner is supposedly eggs and potatoes. You don’t remember either having sand in them. Definitely more tolerable than the “potato salad” or “spaghetti marinara” from yesterday. Getting food into your mouth is usually an uphill battle and you count on your stomach showing up to fight for what your muscles need. Even its turned traitor now.
Fine. Whatever. You let Kekoa pick this shit because the man had a plan and you’re some blind kid but now you’re putting your foot down. And since the self-loathing rose back to anger when Pix wouldn’t cuddle you until a very awkward shower under a sixty-centimeter-tall, low pressure water spicket, well, he’s in for it.
“We aren’t doing this again.”
“Agreed,” Genesis adds. Lovely. Starts with Kekoa cornered.
“In Paniola we pick up rice, noodles, whatever. Find seasoning if we can. Keep dried fruit if you two want it. Cut and cook vegetables ahead of time. Toss in nuts or beans or canned meat or whatever for protein.”
Kekoa doesn’t challenge it. Instead he takes another bite of food and carefully chews it for far too long before swallowing. Power move. Ugh. Men. Him. “First, this is why I insisted on spending two nights on the trail. So we could detect problems like this in advance.” Is he really taking credit for this? Why is he being such an asshole, anyway? Do you care? “Second, I can probably win a battle or two and get cheap lunches in town. Take way more condiment and seasoning packets than I should. Helps if Jennifer gives me cover here. There, spice problem solved.”
“I’m glad you agree—”
“Third,” he interrupts. “How do you plan on keeping your vegetables cold? Ice packs are heavy as fuck and melt in a day.”
{Pix, shoot an ice shard at him. Keep it a little weak.}
You can hear the attack and Kekoa’s surprisingly muted swearing. “I told you before,” you answer with a low, measured voice, “that Pixie is a very good fox and can take care of that.
“Still heavier than I want to deal with.”
“Then I can keep it in my pack,” you say.
He laughs. “Oh, like hell you will. You’re, what, ninety pounds sopping wet?” You don’t actually know how heavy a pound is but the telepathic translation puts it in kilograms. You really hate it when he’s right. “No,” he continues, “you’ll carry it for half a day, complain about your back breaking, and then put it in my pack.”
“I’ll take it,” Genesis says. “I’m bigger than you and I’m not carrying much so it shouldn’t be too hard.”
Kekoa doesn’t answer. He just gets up and walks away. The water turns on. He’s washing his dishes. Which reminds you that you still have way, way too much left to eat.
*
There’s another ‘thunk’ sound behind you followed by a short roll. Fourth this morning. You hate it but you really need to do something about it for your sanity’s sake.
“Rule #5: Keep your water bottle in your pack when you aren’t drinking. Sorry, Gen.”
She sighs. “That annoying?”
“Kind of. Sorry. You’re tossing it up and trying to catch it, right?”
“Yeah,” she responds. Kekoa is being mercifully quiet.
“Maybe you could use a rock or twig or something less loud?”
“Oh. Yeah! That would work. Thanks.”
Why is she thanking you? You told her off.
“What’s it like out there, anyway?”
“Uh. Still kind of burnt? A little more greenery, though. I think there’s a highway nearby.”
You’d heard the road. Not busy enough that you’d call it a highway. There’s also a river somewhere near the trail. More pokémon sounds, too. So that description is about what you’d expected. “Getting close to Paniola, then?”
“Should be another or hour or two,” Kekoa answers. You decide to kill the conversation now that he’s joined. You’re in a decent mood today.
*
Your lunch is interrupted by a long, howling whine going up and down in pitch like a passing ambulance.
“Pix!”
There are loud, rushed footsteps and a “Crap!” said like a curse beside you.
“Jennifer, what the hell!” Kekoa yells.
Pixie keeps screaming.
“Pix!” you yell louder just to be heard. That seems to shut her up, although she grumbles afterward.
{Was helping!]
{I’m sure you were.} “Kekoa, what just happened?”
He stands up and starts pacing. “An eevee showed up to eat the kibble Jennifer put out, your vulpix started screaming bloody murder, the eevee ran away, Jennifer picked up her poliwag and ran into the forest after it.”
It’s not a good idea to run off into unfamiliar woods, even if there aren’t any predators worth worrying about.
“I’m going after her. If I call to you, call back.” And then he’s gone. Into the woods. Without asking permission.
Hypocrite.
“Hey, Pix. Want some food?”
She dutifully trots over, her surface thoughts full of rage words and eevee. You scoop out some of the spam. The flavor’s okay. Interesting, even. Texture isn’t the best. Maybe it’d be better if you had a chance to cook it. In any case, Pixie seems to like it.
“I wasn’t going to catch the eevee, you know?”
She hisses between bites. {No eevee allowed.}
“Why, though? Even if I don’t own it?”
Her surface thoughts are a jumble of unrelated words. Not useful. Jealousy, maybe?
“I agree. They aren’t the best. One of the teachers at my school had one and…” How much self-awareness does she have? You think it’s safe to bet on ‘none at all.’ “She was very pretty, but incredibly stuck-up. Only wanted to talk about herself and make everyone appreciate how cute she was. Thought she owned the world. But she wasn’t even that pretty so she was just silly. I’d never want to train one.” That seems to calm her. She even purrs a little. “Besides, vulpix are the best foxes and I am very smart for a human so I know not to leave one for an eevee.” You try to pour as much disgust as possible into those words. She seems to buy it. And having a clear job to do as a trained guide fox and portable ice-maker down the line should calm her down a bit. Hopefully even make her willing to have teammates.
It’s taking your partners a while to come back. Was there any predator you forgot about? You’d thought bewear and stoutland usually didn’t attack humans. Sylveon, maybe? Do they hunt people? Genesis would know better than to tug on pretty ribbons, right?
…right?
No. No she wouldn’t. Kekoa probably would, though.
You’re pretty sure that Pix fell asleep on your lap at some point. You keep gently stroking her fur. She’s so soft. And even if she’s sometimes a literal and figurative bitch at least she has a personality. Besides, your mom’s starter was also kind of a pain in her later years. At least to you. And Renfield. Maybe swanna are only kind to the people they imprint on? No. You remember that Mom gave you the memory of her first meeting with ‘Chovsky. He wasn’t any better back then.
Still, it might hint at a strategy: Find a bird egg, when it hatches make sure it imprints on you. Emphasize to Pixie how unkind it would be to take a child away from its mother. Profit?
It’s definitely not your worst idea. Way better than the “coat a grimer in flour, put it in a refrigerator for a few hours, tell Pix it’s another vulpix” plan you toyed with back in Hau’oli.
There’s a distant “marco.” You nudge Pix awake and move to put your pack on.
“Hey, can you go to the tree line and use roar for as long as you can?”
She clearly pours everything she has into it and it’s very adorable and you already love her more than you love yourself, even if that’s not a very high bar to clear.
*
It hasn’t rained in the half-day since you got to Paniola. When you take Pixie out for her midnight pee you figure that there might be stars in the sky. “Can you tell me about a star tonight?”
She huffs before a trickle streams onto something offending her.
“Glistening’s Star. Many new stars recently. Ancestors. The brightest is Glistening’s. The star appeared after she died.”
That’s probably the space station. Not that she needs to know that. Might not believe it. If ninetales can’t go to space, then mere humans definitely couldn’t figure it out.
“Did it now? Can you tell me about Glistening?”
“My mother’s mother’s sibling. Died before I was born. Never met her. Had the prettiest coat on the mountain. So pretty the Moon had to put it in the sky.”
“Wow.”
“I got mine from her.”
“Except yours is prettier, right?”
“Probably.”
“Way prettier than an eevee’s.” She hisses, offended that you even compared them. “Come over here.” She trots over and you scoop her into your arms. “I’m never going to leave you. Ever.”
Pixie huffs but doesn’t call you a liar. It’s progress. You’ll take it.
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