Ch 15: The Challenger, Part One
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The Challenger, Part One
The sandstorm cloaked the battlefield. Seated in Jiro’s private booth, Lance had a better view of the stadium than most, but the wall of sand left him just as blind as the general audience.
Beside him, Kaisho’s fins vibrated, but before Lance could ask what the hakuryu had sensed, the storm slackened and his gaze was drawn back to the arena. Billows of dust and grit eased down onto the ground, where Jiro’s snorlax lay unmoving.
Lance began to count under his breath. Seven, eight―as he reached ten, the announcer’s voice broke the expectant silence.
“Fiiiirst knock-out!”
As scattered cheers rose from the crowd, the announcer continued, “What we just witnessed was a triple combination: Iron Defense, paired with Roll-out, the move’s increasing power veiled by a Sandstorm. A combination that surely required immense focus and years of training to master, and with quite the pay-off―Jiro hardly knew what hit him.”
With the sandstorm gone, Lance could see how Jiro’s jaw clenched at the announcer’s words. In the weeks leading up to the hustings, he and Lance had poured over the names, faces, and battle records of Kanto’s top-ranked trainers; this challenger hadn’t been among them.
“Challenger,” the referee called out, “the first knockout is yours. You may now press your challenge or rest on your victory.”
This was only the seventh knockout Lance had witnessed in the first three furious days of the hustings, but he could already mouth the standard answer: My victory belongs to Kanto. I relent.
But the pause stretched out a beat too long. Then the challenger said, “All in.”
A murmur raced through the crowd, and Lance shifted in his seat, surprised. The hustings were held to determine the champion, but most trainers who participated were after a more achievable prize—the prestige that came with defeating a member of the Elite Four in a one-on-one battle. There was a reason challengers lucky enough to win a first knock-out chose to end the battle there. If they continued to a full battle and lost, that initial victory would be erased. But someone who fought a full battle and won . . .
Lance studied the challenger’s face, remembering for a moment the old men at the Grand Royale’s poker tables, their eyes gleaming as they shoved their chips forward. All in.
Jiro would have to fight through the challenger’s whole team now. Lance saw him scowl slightly as he considered his next move. Then his expression cleared. He gestured, and Akira, his clefable, floated into the ring.
“Close your eyes, Kaisho,” Lance warned as the referee raised his flag. He followed his own advice just in time: the white and pink radiance stabbed against his eyelids. As the afterlight faded, he risked a look. The challenger’s golem lay motionless on the battlefield, surrounded by wrecked stones. They’d tried to block with a stone edge, Lance guessed, but what was stone against the power of the moon?
“Jiro’s Moonblast, ladies and gentleman,” the announcer crowed. “What is more exceptional, the power or the speed? And in a single move, the tally evens out. The challenger has four pokemon left. Should she triumph, she will claim Jiro’s place on the Elite Four and if she wishes, may take his place in the hustings as a contender for the championship. If she fails, she walks out of this stadium with nothing.”
She’ll fail, Lance thought. The triple combination had been impressive, but winning five knock-outs was a very different proposition than winning one. Still, Lance worried. A full battle would wear Jiro’s team down, and he was still open to two more challenges before the Rule of Three would force the battle back on Kikuko.
The champion sat on the dais behind the referee, her hands clasped primly in her lap. Her arbok lay coiled at her feet; her crobat perched on her shoulder. The only sign of her other pokemon were the thick, unnatural shadows that spread out around her. Her expression was masklike as she watched the battle.
For once Jiro was eschewing his usual flourishes. He called out his commands with single-minded focus until the challenger’s last pokemon fell. None of Jiro’s remaining pokemon had been knocked-out, but from their sluggish dodges, Lance could gauge their exhaustion. If the next challenger was as skilled as this one had been, Jiro might be in real trouble. The hustings were a contest of attrition just as much as they were one of skill. A string of bad luck could end Jiro’s hopes for the championship before the hustings even made it out of Saffron.
Lance tightened his grip on the token in his hand. It could end before he had the chance to take on Kikuko himself.
He watched the challenger’s diamond expectantly, but one minute turned into five, with no new challenger announced. Then the announcer’s voice boomed, “The next challenge is by right. Representing Saffron City, please rise for Leader Natsume!””
Relief flashed almost imperceptibly across Jiro’s face as Natsume stepped into the harsh light of the stadium. The crowd broke into a roar.
“As gym leader of Saffron City, my challenge is by right,” Natsume called out in her cold, carrying voice. “Champion Kikuko, stand and face me.”
Like always, Kikuko took her time. But she seemed especially slow-moving today as she shuffled down from the dias.
At the ring of the battle bell, Natsume sent out her alakazam. Lance had sparred a few times with that alakazam, part of Jiro’s plan to strengthen his team’s psychic resistance. Natsume’s psychic pokemon had incredible force, but they lacked the fine control that had confounded Lance when he had fought Kikuko. He was curious to see how she’d fare against Kikuko’s gengar.
Kikuko’s lips drew back into a small, dry smile. She let out a low whistle, and her arbok slithered forward.
What? Lance and Kaisho shared a baffled look.
The announcer echoed their confusion. “An . . . unconventional choice by the champion. She’s hobbled herself by pitting an earth-bound poison-type against a teleporting psychic.”
What game was Kikuko playing? The ability to select second was the greatest advantage the hustings candidates had. But Natsume couldn’t have gotten a more favorable match-up if she’d chosen it herself.
Lance’s confusion deepened as the battle got underway. For some time, the arbok and alakazam played a fast-moving game of tag. Alakazam flitted from place to place, barely touching the ground; Arbok kept to the safety of deep dirt. Then Natsume seemed to grow impatient. Alakazam sent out a volley of energy balls that left the battlefield covered with craters.
A dark fog spilled suddenly from the ground. The battlefield obscured; when the smog finally cleared, Alakazam and Arbok were locked together, Arbok’s fangs clamped onto Alakazam’s abdomen. The tableau lasted only seconds, before Alakazam threw off the snake with a psychic blast and pressed its advantage with a whip-like psybeam. The cord of energy tangled around Arbok and bound it in place. Leisurely now, Alakazam floated across the cratered field. She held up her spoons, forming a psychic fist. The blow struck Arbok head-on.
“Fiiiiirst knockout!”
The crowd stamped and roared. They always cheered a knockout against Kikuko more loudly. No surprise there―Saffron was Jiro’s home turf. It was his name the crowd screamed when the two contenders took their places each day on the dais.
Kikuko waited until the noise died down, a small smirk on her face. Then she called out, “Objection. Unsteadiness.”
There was a long pause. The referee flashed five fingers.
“Kikuko objects, and it’s been sustained with a five-minute wait. If the challenger’s pokemon is on its feet after the time passes, the knockout is proper. If not―”
Poison, Lance realized in a flash. The arbok got in a bite.
He studied Alakazam closely. She stood relaxed, twirling her mustache. Surely, a single bite wouldn’t be enough―but Kikuko looked awfully assured. Two minutes had elapsed when Lance saw the alakazam shudder. Natsume’s face grew stormy. Another minute passed, and the alakazam began to gently sway.
She’s not going to make it. Just as the thought formed in Lance’s mind, the whine of a recall split the silence.
“Natsume withdraws before the time has been called, forfeiting her victory!”
There were no cheers this time. In the audience, people bent their heads, muttering. Natsume bowed stiffly and departed the stage.
Lance clenched the token in his fist, sharing the audience’s displeasure. Kikuko hadn’t needed to do that. She could have chosen her gengar and beat Natsume easily. Instead, she’d gone with her arbok, and Lance could only find one reason for that choice: humiliation. Kikuko had all but proclaimed, “Even with every advantage, you can’t defeat me.”
“She’s arrogant,” Lance told Kaisho. “We can use that when we face her.”
He looked down at his token. He’d stood in line for it on the first day of the hustings, eager for the fight to come. But Jiro had been adamant that he not register his token yet.
“There’s a strategy to this, Lance. Let the early hustings wear her down before you enter. You don't want to face Kikuko fresh if you can avoid it.”
“We’re ready now,” Lance said aloud, staring at Kikuko’s face. She’d hunched back over her staff, but her eyes gleamed with private satisfaction. She’d looked the same way as she stood over him and Toku.
Lance’s glare deepened. He ignored Kaisho’s chiding trill until the hakuryu’s tail whapped lightly against his face. With effort, Lance forced himself to relax back into his seat. Kaisho trilled again.
“I know,” Lance murmured.
This was Jiro’s show, not his. All Lance had to do was play his part.
~*~
By the end of the fifth and final day of the Saffron hustings, Jiro’s team had taken twelve knockouts in total and they all looked exhausted. Even Kintsugi’s usually perfect coat had become patchy and unevenly groomed.
“Saffron’s usually the worst of it,” Jiro said, as they departed the stadium. “Town hall tomorrow, and then we’ll have one free day before the hustings resume in Celadon. The town hall should be a good time, at least. People love me here.”
He wasn’t wrong. The discrepancy in cheers that Lance had noticed at the stadium was even more pronounced at the town hall, as Jiro and Kikuko fielded a volley of questions about industrial standards, trade with Hoenn, and Saffron’s housing crunch. Kikuko’s answers were distant and non-committal; she seemed to recognize that she was fighting a losing battle. Jiro was at his most animated, grinning and gesturing as he spoke.
Lance paid close attention for the first half-hour, but as one hour wore into two, his concentration began to drift. When Kintsugi batted his leg and flicked her tail imperiously towards the exit, he followed her out with a silent apology to Jiro.
The town hall concluded just after three. Jiro shook his head as Lance and Kintsugi slunk into the backstage room to meet him.
“Truants. Come on, if we keep Natsume waiting much longer she might refuse to teleport us.”
Lance wouldn’t have minded giving teleportation a pass. He’d stopped getting a stomachache from it, but the experience always left him woozy. After they materialized, Lance sat down on one of the plushy hotel couches, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Jiro chatted for some time at the front desk, then rejoined Lance, looking pleased.
“Good news! I was able to reserve us the full spa for our exclusive use tomorrow morning. And I was very specific about your gyarados. There won't be any complaints this time.”
“You're serious,” Lance said flatly, shaking his head at the extravagance. Over-the-top, but well-meant. That was Jiro in a nutshell. “Ibuki will appreciate it,” he conceded.
But it still nagged at him the next morning, as Ibuki and Kaisho slithered off towards the wet rooms and most of the others followed Lance and Jiro into the dry sauna, stretching out on the oaken benches. Kana let out a blissful groan and flopped onto the heated floor, belly-up. Archer nestled next to her, crooning. The air was thick and steamy.
“Doesn’t it look bad?” Lance said.
“Hmm?” Jiro had already closed his eyes. The heat brought up sweat on his forehead, glistening in the dim yellow light.
“Reserving the whole spa like this. Isn’t it a bit―” Lance floundered for a word.
“Oh, so now you want to talk about image?” Jiro stretched out his arms, cracking his shoulders. “My team’s been fighting for five straight days. They deserve this, and so do I. No one in Saffron would bat an eye at our taking some well-deserved rest.”
“How about outside Saffron?” Lance said, his thoughts turning to Pewter’s miners. He was pretty sure they worked more than five days in a row and didn’t see a spa at the end of it, much less a private one.
Jiro snorted. “If Kanto really believed in democracy, I wouldn’t have to worry about ‘outside Saffron.’ We’ve got more people than every other township and municipality in Kanto, but thanks to this damned archaic system, Saffron has the same say in the champiancy as Pallet Town―and calling Pallet a town is stretching it. More like Professor Okido’s personal research fief.”
Lance frowned. He didn’t exactly agree with the idea that Saffron should get more of a say just because it happened to have more people crammed into its brooding high-rises. “Like it or not, the other places do vote.”
“They do.” Jiro splayed out his fingers and began to count them off. “Kikuko’s got her strongholds in Lavender and Fuschia. She’ll get Pallet, too―Oak knows where his funding bread is buttered. Cinnabar and the Sevis are always wildcards, but I’m guessing they’ll swing her way out of inertia more than anything else. Half the islanders don’t even have radios―absolutely hopeless trying to make headway out there. Saffron and Celadon are in my corner, obviously, and Vermillion follows Saffron. Pewter’s trickier. Muno's promised to endorse, which carries a fair bit of weight with the miners. But there’s a lot of anti-urban sentiment there. Hard to know which way it will come out. Cerulean’s a safer bet. I had my doubts back when Hamako was still kicking around―a traditionalist to her core, that one―but I've had some very productive conversations with the Waterflower Sisters and I can't see them putting in for Kikuko. They understand that Kanto’s not getting anywhere hiding from the future.”
“You left out Viridian,” Lance said, choosing to ignore the jab at Hamako.
"Oh, Giovanni’s a friend, but he’s also a cagey bastard. Wants to keep his finger in every pie, you know.” Jiro cracked open an eye. “I’m glad you’re taking an interest, Lance, but you shouldn’t worry too much about the politics. It’s not going to come to a vote. You’ll beat Kikuko first.”
“Right,” Lance said. His gaze fell on Toku. She had both her eyes shut and her breathing had evened out. In the thick haze of the sauna, she looked more peaceful than she had in months. “You’re right,” he said, more emphatically.
~*~
That evening, they went to see a play. During the ride, Jiro was uncharacteristically stony, staring in fixed silence out the cab window. He’d taken a call in the afternoon, and when he returned, his whole body thrummed with tension.
“Is everything all right?” Lance finally ventured. Jiro’s gaze snapped over to him, and he waved a vague hand.
“Theater’s just so tedious. And Kazuki’s Tale is horribly overdone. They always perform it for the hustings and of course it’s a snub to Celadon if we don’t show up, so here we are.”
Lance was pretty sure the play wasn’t the actual issue, but he held his tongue.
He had never been to a theater before. With its stage surrounded by a half-circle of bleachers, Lance thought it looked a lot like a battle stadium, though the seats were definitely more comfortable. The air was thick with the same anticipation that heralded a pokemon battle, but when the lights dimmed, the crowd went quiet instead of loud.
In the beginning, Lance struggled to follow anything that was happening. The actors’ faces were painted so thickly they hardly seemed human, and they spoke in a strange, archaic dialect that passed right over Lance’s head. The battling was strange, too. The pokemon’s attacks were as exaggerated and artificial as the actors’ gestures. Nothing like real battling at all, he thought at first, but as the play progressed, he began to find a logic―even artistry―in it. Each battle had been condensed to its most essential moments, those crucial shifts that normally occurred in the space between blinks.
The play told the story of the very first hustings. Kanto lay under siege by a great army. But instead of meeting the threat in battle, the lords of Kanto squabbled and did nothing. When Viridian sent desperate pleas for aid, Kazuki saw that the lands would fall if they did not unite. He traveled from fief to fief and stood in the town square thirty days and thirty nights, taking every challenge. After this, the lords swore to follow him, and he led Kanto’s first combined army into combat, pushing back Johto’s forces and holding the narrow pass against them through a punishing winter, until at long last Johto relented.
Kazuki was the first champion. After him, the towns of Kanto never stood alone.
When the curtain fell and the lights returned, Lance rose in a thoughtful mood. What would have happened if the great dragon masters had been like Kazuki? If they had stood and fought, rather than retreating into their seclusion?
On the way out, their paths crossed with Kikuko. Jiro made her a deep bow, elaborate enough to verge on mocking. She returned a curt nod, her lips curling.
They didn’t speak.
~*~
By the time Lance woke the next day, Jiro’s bad mood had burned off as thoroughly as Saffron’s morning fogs. He hummed as he smeared spicy mustard over his natto and rice, and sent Lance back to change twice. “I don’t think any photographers will be bothering with me,” Lance said at last in exasperation when Jiro raked a critical eye over Lance’s third ensemble and opened his mouth once more.
“Never assume that,” Jiro said. “Always look your best, even if you think no one’s watching. But I was thinking it’s time for you to register your token.”
“Now?” Lance’s irritation dropped away. “Didn’t you say I should wait until Cerulean?”
“I did. But, you’re ready, aren’t you? So why wait.”
Lance refrained from rolling his eyes. He’d been saying that since the start, after all.
“Kaisho,” Lance said. “Are you ready?”
The hakuryu stirred from where he lay curled on the couch. They had decided Kaisho would be his lead. Kikuko would most likely expect Toku; the hakuryu’s appearance would make her drop her guard. But underestimating Kaisho would be her mistake. Kaisho had the agility to match her gengar and Kikuko wouldn’t be counting on his shadow ball.
Kaisho’s answering trill sounded less than sure. Jiro turned around.
“Come here,” he said firmly. When Kaisho floated over, he undid the yellow ribbon from his bun and tied it neatly around Kaisho’s horn. “You need to look your best, too,” he said. “Now listen. You’re strong. You’re smart. You’ve trained hard every day. Kikuko doesn’t stand a chance.”
Kaisho trilled again, more warmly.
When they arrived at the hustings, Lance joined the line that wound out from the registration table. A half-hour passed before he reached the front. He showed his citizenship papers and badges and signed an affidavit. The clerk wrote down the number of Lance’s token, then passed it back to him.
“This token is your battling ticket,” said the clerk. “Remember, you’re only entitled to one. Sale of tokens is forbidden by law and carries a civil fine and league expulsion. If your token is called and you do not present yourself within fifteen minutes, you forfeit your challenge and your token number will be struck. Please affirm that you understand the rules.”
“I understand,” Lance said. His pulse quickened as he made his way into Jiro’s reserved booth. Celadon’s hustings took place in an open-air stadium, perfumed by the late autumn flowers. It would make good terrain for Lance’s team. Kaisho could even call the rain here.
Now that he was registered, Lance took more interest in the large board where the called token numbers were displayed. Most numbers passed unclaimed―Lance guessed those belonged to Saffron trainers who weren’t inclined to follow the hustings to Celadon―but the day dragged on and Lance’s number still didn’t come up. As the final challenge concluded with a clean knock-out by Kintsugi, Lance sighed and tucked away his token. It would have been very lucky to get called on his very first day. He heaved another, deeper sigh when Jiro informed him that they’d be attending another gala tonight.
“Don’t even start,” Jiro said, when Lance opened his mouth to suggest that maybe his time would be better spent training than partying. “The moment you beat Kikuko, you become a member of the Elite Four. You should start acting like it.”
The rebuke was mild, but it still stung. Lance straightened his back and nodded. That evening, he smiled until his face hurt, and when Kaisho grew restless, Lance didn’t follow him out into the hibiscus-scented night.
It was nearing eleven when they returned to the hotel. Jiro’s face was red and flushed―he’d been drinking more than usual. Lance sat cross-legged on the carpet, rubbing Kintsugi’s belly.
“I’ve decided.” Jiro spoke up from the couch, his words slightly slurred. “When I’m champion, I won’t live at Indigo Plateau. It’s ridiculous having the champion so remote. If Saffron’s good enough for Parliament, it's good enough for me.”
“Mmm,” Lance said. He’d never been to Indigo Plateau, but he’d heard about it. A broad mountain, topped by a wide, flat plain, from which all Kanto was visible. Kana and Archer would probably enjoy the open space there. He wondered if it had a lake.
A pleasant lull fell. Lance closed his eyes and rested his head by Kintsugi’s paws, knowing he should go to bed, but unwilling to move from the floor. Tomorrow, his token might be called. Since the hustings had begun, he’d itched to fight Kikuko, but now that it might happen at any moment, Lance felt a small stab of reluctance. He wanted to win that battle, of course. But if he won―when he won―everything would change. For all the attention Jiro paid to how he dressed, the reporters that followed Jiro like second shadows mostly ignored him. That wouldn’t last once he took Kikuko’s place.
The sudden shrill of the phone startled Lance from his thoughts. Muttering under his breath, Jiro hoisted himself from the couch and picked up the receiver. His forehead scrunched. “Lance, do you know a Miss Iwata?” he called across the room.
Lance got to his feet. Miss Iwata called him every other Friday―what was she doing calling on a Monday? And why so late? He pulled the receiver from Jiro’s hand.
“Hello?”
“Agent Lance?” Miss Iwata’s voice was indistinct. “I’m so sorry to call at this hour. I tried to reach you three times already, but they said you were out―”
“It’s fine,” Lance said. He turned to Jiro, who looked desperately curious, and flapped his hand. “Can you, uh―”
A grin split his face. “I’ll give you two your privacy,” he said with an exaggerated wink and ambled unsteadily off towards his bedroom.
Great, Lance thought with an internal groan. Jiro would be teasing him about this for weeks.
“Is something wrong?” he asked Miss Iwata, trying to keep the annoyance from his voice.
“Not wrong, right! I finally have some information for you. That criminal you’re after―he’s going to be in Celadon City tomorrow. 6:00pm, at the Grand Royale Casino.”
Lance’s heart began to pound. “Are you sure?” he demanded. “How do you know?”
“Mr. Fiorelli canceled his lunch meeting today, and told me he’d be having lunch in. I thought it was odd, so toward the end of the lunch hour I took some papers that needed his signature and went up to his study. The door was locked, but I could hear voices. Then I heard Mr. Fiorelli say “Archer,” so I knew it was your man. He speaks softly, though. I couldn’t catch much, just that something was “risky.” But then Mr. Fiorelli said loud and clear, ‘6:00pm tonight, the Grand Royale. I’ll see you there.’ Is that―you people can do something with that, right?”
“Yes,” Lance said, though he wasn’t actually sure they could. Agent Noriko had explained to him in her usual dry way that as far as they could prove, Archer hadn’t done anything illegal. He gave his profession on his tax returns as the Grand Royale’s Chief Executive Officer and he held himself out as a businessman and high-society lender. Visiting his own casino probably wasn’t out of the ordinary. But Giovanni would be there too. If Lance could listen in on their meeting, if he could get proof that Archer was threatening Leader Fiorelli― “That’s really helpful, Miss Iwata. But listen, you have to be careful. Archer’s dangerous. If he realizes you’ve been eavesdropping on him―”
Miss Iwata cut him off, her tone polite but firm. “Respectfully, agent, where my sister is concerned, I’ll take whatever risks I like.”
“Of course,” Lance said, chagrined. “Just be careful, please.”
After she rang off, he sat for some time, staring at nothing. He fell asleep on the couch.
~*~
Tuesday’s hustings came and went without Lance’s token coming up. He had an excuse prepared if Jiro insisted on another gala, but they made it back to the hotel by five. Lance changed into his Rocket uniform, then threw on a dark sweater to hide the bright R. It took him some time to find one in his luggage―Jiro had been energetic in his efforts to replace Lance’s “entirely unsuitable” clothing.
Lastly, he grabbed the tape recorder Noriko had given him. Again, he wondered if he should try to contact her first. But what would be the point? He knew she didn’t trust him to do anything about Team Rocket. When he’d asked her for a real mission, all she’d done was give him this tape recorder and said to keep his ears peeled. Well, that was what he was doing, wasn’t it?
Jiro was also heading out. He raised an eyebrow at Lance’s all-black attire, but didn’t comment. They took the stairs down together, and as they stepped outside, both turned left, almost bumping. Jiro laughed. “The practice hall’s the other way,” he reminded Lance. His expression turned sly. “Or are you meeting a friend?”
“I’m going to see someone I haven’t seen in a while,” Lance said carefully. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly, but he felt rotten the moment he spoke, and even more so when Jiro nodded, oblivious to the undercurrent in Lance’s words.
Jiro was more than a mentor. He’d opened his life to Lance, and he deserved better than secrets. He deserved the truth―all of it, no matter how much it hurt to tell.
“Will you be free later tonight? To talk about―” Secrets and lies, Lance thought, wincing. “Just to talk,” he finished weakly.
Looking faintly bemused, Jiro nodded. “Of course. I’ve got business now, but it shouldn’t run too late.”
Lance shot him a quick smile, then set off down the street at a brisk walk. It had been years since he’d been in Celadon, but he could have found his way to the casino in his sleep. He followed a shortcut that led directly to the casino’s back entrance. A block away, he drew out his battered black cap and worked it onto his head, tucking in wayward strands of red hair.
Two men were stationed at the back entrance, their stances slumped and bored. Neither wore Rocket uniforms, just the midnight black of the casino staff. Lance steadied himself and then took off toward them at a run.
They watched him approach without any change in stance. Lance stopped a few feet away. “Is Archer here yet?” he said breathlessly.
“Executive Archer to you,” one of the men answered. “I haven't seen him. What's going on?”
Lance tried to look nervous and lost―he didn’t have to pretend very hard. “I don't know, they just told me ‘show up.’ Thought I was gonna be late. You-you don't know where I can find him?”
The other man shrugged. “Better check with the manager.”
Lance nodded. But as he stepped between them, a hand came down on his shoulder. He stiffened, his blood pumping hot.
“First time you’ll be assisting the executive?” the man asked.
Lance swallowed. “Yes,” he said. Seizing onto a thread of inspiration, he looked up and said in a rush, “Is it true that he―”
Both men laughed.
“He won't bite, boy, not if you keep a respectful tongue in your mouth.”
A jovial slap to the back propelled Lance through the entranceway. He jogged down the corridor until it turned a corner, then paused to collect himself. This was going to be harder than he’d thought. He didn't dare try the same ploy out on the manager―she was too likely to recognize him.
He decided to canvas the third floor, where the casino had its private meeting rooms. Trotting down the winding halls, Lance kept his head low. It was the dinner hour and downstairs the casino bustled, but the landing on the third floor was deserted. Most of the rooms were locked. But the room at the far end of the corridor had its door slightly ajar. Coming closer, Lance noticed a discrete ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign.
“Wataru?”
He froze.
“Wataru,” the voice said again, more sure this time.
Lance turned slowly, his heart thudding. A server in a pink kimono was coming towards him, pushing an ice cart in front of her. A stranger―at least, until she stepped out from behind the cart and their eyes met.
“It is you!” Aki breathed. “You’ve gotten so tall!”
He smiled uncertainly. She had also gotten taller. The baby fat in her cheeks had thinned out, and her hair was longer now, loose around her shoulders. She wheeled the cart past him, into the meeting room, then looked back, her uncertainty mirroring his own. “I have to prepare the room, but nobody will be here for a while yet. We can catch up?”
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The walls and floor were dark-paneled wood, lit by a low-hanging chandelier. A table stood at the center of the room, surrounded by plush chairs.
“Important guests?” Lance said, fighting to keep his voice casual.
She nodded as she draped a thick red cloth over the table and set out a silver bucket and three champagne glasses. “The executive’s coming. Are you here to see him? The manager told me you’d gone to work in his personal office.” She began to scoop ice, her eyes cast down. “I had to ask. You didn’t exactly say goodbye.”
Guilt prickled in his chest. “I’m sorry, Aki,” he said heavily. “I didn’t think―it happened really fast. How have you been?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m great.” She shoved a bottle of champagne into the ice-bucket. The ice crunched loudly. “I’m a senior server now. I’ve got―well, my boyfriend’s got―a nice apartment on the west end.”
As she reached to place another bottle in the bucket, her arm knocked against a glass, sending it rolling off the table edge. It hit the wood and shattered.
“Shit,” Aki said. Before Lance could react, she was on her knees, snatching up shards of glass with her bare fingers. “Shit, shit.”
He joined her on the ground, noticing how her hands trembled.
“Aki,” he said, alarmed. “Are you okay?”
She didn’t answer. Dumping the largest glass shards on the cart, she grabbed a cloth napkin and swept up the rest.
“It’s fine,” she said, pulling another glass out from the cart. “See? I always bring spares.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She set the spare glass on the table. Then, finally, she looked at him. Now that he was paying more attention, he noticed the puffiness under her eyes, the chalky paleness that indicated heavy make-up.
“You’re the first person to ask me that all month,” she said flatly. “And I haven’t seen you for three years.”
Lance glanced towards the closed door. He wasn’t sure how long they had until 6:00pm―as a rule, the casino rooms displayed no clocks. If Archer found him here . . .
“Aki, if something’s wrong, maybe I can help.”
“You can’t.” She wheeled the cart into a small alcove, drawing a curtain closed in front of it. Her back to him, she said, “For weeks, I haven’t been feeling well. Nausea in the mornings, throwing up my food. And every day I’m so tired I don’t know how I’m going to get up. So I stopped by a chansey shop last week. They told me I’m―that I’m.”
“―sick?”
“Pregnant.”
“Oh,” Lance said stupidly. He looked at her stomach, but it didn’t seem that big.
“I haven’t told anyone,” Aki said, her voice picking up speed. “I haven’t told Benjiro. I just don’t know if he―I don’t know if this is what he signed up for. And if it’s not and if he doesn’t―I put all my savings into the deposit, but the apartment’s in his name, and I think maybe I’ve been really dumb.” Her throat worked. “I just don’t know how I’m going to do this. I don’t know.”
Lance didn't know either. He sought for something to say, but all his mind offered back was the empty saunas of the spa Jiro had reserved. He wondered how much money it had cost, and what that kind of money would have meant to Aki.
She rubbed her temples. “Sorry. Gods, I haven’t even asked how you are.”
“I’m―”
Were those footsteps in the hallway?
“Aki,” he said, fear sharpening his tone. “They can’t see me in here.”
She blinked at him. “Executive’s orders?”
It would be so easy to say yes. But after her honesty, Lance couldn’t bear to lie to her.
“No,” he said softly.
Definitely footsteps. Aki stared at him, then gestured frantically toward the alcove. He made it behind the curtain just as the door swung open.
The alcove was about as large as Toku. Along with the ice cart, Lance barely fit. He heard footsteps clattering on wood and then the scrape of chairs being drawn back. Hoping the noise would cover his actions, Lance opened his pack and pulled out the recorder. He winced at the low hiss it made as the cassette began to turn.
“May I pour you some champagne, sirs?” Aki asked, crisp and professional.
“Certainly, my dear.” Giovanni’s smooth baritone was unmistakable. There was a clink and a loud pop.
“None for me.”
Lance had been bracing himself for it, but Archer’s stiff drawl still hit him like a slap to the face. He heard his breathing speed up and forced it steady.
“Of course, executive,” said Aki. “And you, sir?”
“I’ll indulge.”
Lance froze.
The third voice continued brightly, “Genuine Kalos import? You’re spoiling us, executive.”
He knew that voice. But it was impossible.
Lance couldn’t help it: he twitched back the curtain just enough for the room to flash into view. Three men were seated around the table. Giovanni swirled his glass, expression indulgent. Archer sat rigid in his chair. And smiling up at Aki as she poured his drink . . . was Jiro.
The curtain flopped back into place. Lance stared at its coarse red fabric, unable to form a single coherent thought.
“But of course. Only the best for yourself and Leader Fiorelli. That’s all, girl. We aren’t to be disturbed for the next hour.”
There was a lull, filled by Aki’s departing footsteps. The door thudded shut.
“A toast,” Giovanni said into the silence. “To Kanto’s future champion, Adachi Jiro!”
The glasses clinked.
“Won’t you drink to that, executive?” Jiro asked, his tone teasing.
“You’ll forgive me, Master Jiro. I make a habit of avoiding intoxicants, particularly when discussing business.”
Giovanni chuckled. “He’s hopeless, Jiro―believe me, I’ve tried.”
Jiro chuckled too. More seriously, he said, “I’m grateful that you’re taking the time, executive. I know you’ve got a busy schedule.”
“As do you, for the next few weeks. I’m slightly perplexed as to why we’re here, Master Jiro. I thought we had agreed that you would receive your loan once your position was secure.”
“That’s right. But the situation’s changed. I got word on Sunday that the city’s pushing the auction forward. I’m afraid I’ve run out of ways to delay.”
“I appreciate that circumstances have changed for you, Master Jiro, but I don’t see how they’ve changed for me. You’re requesting I advance the full sum on a probability, rather than a certainty. You can hardly fail to grasp my reservations.”
“I think, Jiro,” Giovanni interjected, “that what Executive Archer wants to know is how sure you are. Even if I endorse, if it goes to vote and you lose Pewter, that’s the end of it. And you know I’d prefer not to go public on the race. The politics are delicate, to say the least.”
“I understand completely, Giovanni, and I’m telling you, there’s no need. Lance is going to win.”
Lance flinched at the sound of his name. Had Jiro always said it like that? Proud. Proprietary.
“Ah, yes.” Archer’s voice was drier than Pewter’s parched air. “Your dragon-wielding prodigy. I heard Champion Kikuko thrashed him in a private battle last month. Given that, do you really expect me to take your assurances seriously?”
“Respectfully, Executive Archer, you don’t know Lance. I do. You’d be hard pressed to find a more capable trainer―or a more stubborn one. When I first fought him, my persian took down his dragonite. After that, the two of them didn’t give it a rest until they could match us. More than match, if I’m being entirely honest. He’s going to beat Kikuko, and in my opinion, it’s not going to be close. The old zubat’s gotten cocky.”
A short silence followed Jiro’s pronouncement. Then came the sound of a hand slapped against wood. Lance almost dropped the recorder.
“Well dammit, Jiro, you’ve convinced me. Haven’t you heard enough, Archer? I say, give this man his money.”
“As one of our chief investors, your opinion is, of course, entitled to the highest deference, Leader Fiorelli. Master Jiro, you understand that if I were to grant this advance, under these highly exceptional circumstances, I would expect, shall we say, reciprocal consideration on your part in the future.”
“That goes without saying, executive. I promise you, when I’m champion you won’t find me ungrateful.”
“It’s settled, then!” boomed Giovanni. “Executive, I’m sure you can manage the fiddly details. Jiro, shall we head down to the floor and go a few rounds of poker?”
Jiro’s laughter sparkled with relief. “How can I refuse? But only a round, Giovanni. You’re a dangerous man at the poker table. If I’m not careful, it’ll be you, not me, walking out of here with Executive Archer’s money!”
“You’re a scandalous flatterer, Jiro. Very well. One round only, but do make it good. Worthy opponents are so hard to come by these days.”
The chairs scraped again. The door opened and shut. After a minute had passed in silence, Lance dared another twitch of the curtain.
Archer hadn’t left. He stood with his back half to the alcove, unmoving. Lance froze. The recorder’s whirring sounded louder in his ears than a rushing waterfall. Any moment now Archer would turn, their eyes would meet―
As Lance watched, Archer lifted Giovanni’s abandoned glass to his lips. He contemplated it with a strange, private smile, then took a single sip. Without even a glance in Lance’s direction, he slipped out the door.
~*~
The ginkgo trees had all shed their leaves.
When had it happened? Only yesterday, Lance remembered looking out the taxi window and seeing a limitless sweep of gold. But the branches were bare beneath the street lamps, and pale yellow leaves clung to the soles of his boots. As the hotel came into view, his walk slowed into a trudge.
He wanted to fly. He wanted it so much he could almost feel the cold wind on his face, how the city would become nothing more than a grounded constellation. But he had to talk to Jiro. He had to try and understand what he’d heard. Lance had the strangest feeling that he’d just witnessed another kabuki play, all labyrinthine words and artificial gestures, and beneath it all some meaning, just out of reach.
But if it was a play, who had been the audience?
Lance’s heart hammered as he unlocked the door, but the hotel suite was empty. He walked over to the room where Jiro slept and for the first time, tried the door. It opened without resistance. Inside, Jiro’s bed was strewn with clothes, shimmers of gold and russet, sunny yellows and burnt reds. Lance began to poke around in the drawers, under the bed, not sure why he was searching or what he was searching for. Maybe he was just looking for anything hidden, anything that hinted at some discrepancy between outward and inward―but there was nothing to find.
He crossed back into the living room. A glance at the clock told him that almost an hour had slipped by. He slumped on the couch, and it was only then that he realized how tired he was. His legs and eyes seemed to have turned into stone weights. But despite the fatigue, he couldn’t stay still. Jittery, he swung to his feet and made a circuit of the room, from the couch to the window, then back to the door. He did it again, and again, picking up speed until he was moving at just short of a run. The pidgey clock trilled. It was 9:00pm.
When the door finally swung open, Lance had his face pressed to the window, watching the city lights flicker. He spun around as Jiro entered the room, humming.
“Winter’s coming on quickly,” Jiro said conversationally. He unlooped his scarf, tossing it across the nearest armchair, and began to work on his coat buttons. Lance said nothing. Once his coat was shucked, Jiro glanced at the clock and performed a double-take. “Quarter after nine already?” he said. “I hope I haven’t been keeping you waiting. I got a bit caught up.”
“Playing poker?” Lance said quietly. His voice came out hoarse, like some grit had lodged in his throat.
Jiro blinked. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Lance,” he said, playfully stern. “You weren’t meeting this friend of yours at the Grand Royale, were you? I know it’s hypocritical coming from me, but there are some bad habits you don’t want to develop too young. If you’ve really got your heart set on gambling, I can take you sometime this spring, after you’ve turned eighteen.”
Lance studied Jiro’s loose smile. He seemed at ease, as if this conversation was no different than a hundred ones they’d had before.
“Is playing poker all you were doing?”
“Bit of business, bit of pleasure,” Jiro said vaguely. He squinted at Lance. “What’s this all about? Kikuko hasn’t been feeding you some nonsense, has she? I thought I saw that damn gengar of hers lurking around. Well, she can take―”
“This is nothing to do with Kikuko,” Lance interrupted. The anger spiked in him suddenly. Jiro could talk until the tauros came home and still not come to the point. He drew in a short breath. “I saw you. I heard you. What’s Archer giving you? What does he want in return?”
For a long moment, Jiro didn’t speak. Then he walked slowly over to the couch and sat, gesturing towards the armchair opposite. “Sit down, Lance. Let’s talk.”
It felt a bit like conceding something, but Lance took a seat.
“I don’t suppose you want to tell me how you heard this.”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not. Listen, it’s simple enough. I need a loan; Executive Archer’s giving me one. That’s all.”
“But what do you need a loan for?” Lance burst out. He’d been turning it over in his mind while he waited, and the more he thought about it, the less sense it made. “You’ve got more money than there’s koiking in the sea!”
“Ah. Well.” Jiro’s smile shaded on a grimace. “That’s certainly the impression I aim to impart, yes. However, there are certain debts that have gotten a little on top of me in recent years. And now that I’m in a position where I need a substantial sum right at this moment, it’s been a tad difficult to find a lender willing to extend their goodwill. Even with Archer it was a close call―if Giovanni hadn’t had my back, I’m sure he would have sent me packing.”
“But you―” Lance shook his head, trying to square that with everything he knew about Jiro. The pieces didn’t fit. “If you need money so much, what are you doing reserving spas and buying me shiny new clothes every other day?”
“Appearances are important, Lance. How many times have I told you that? And it’s not like―” For the first time, Jiro looked slightly uncomfortable. “Well, take the spa. The manager was happy to do me that favor. No money needed.”
Lance’s forehead creased. “What?” he said sharply. “You mean you didn’t even pay? Why would the manager agree to that?”
Jiro seemed to weigh his words. Then he shrugged and said simply, “Because I’m going to be champion.”
Lance digested that in silence. The room felt very warm. “So it was a bribe. Archer too. It’s all bribes.”
Hideyoshi’s words rang through his mind. They’ve got the pocket of everyone who matters.
Jiro’s nose wrinkled. “That’s an ugly word, and an inaccurate one. It’s favors, Lance. Favors are the grease that turns the world’s gears. Everyone does it.”
Then everyone was wrong. What kind of thing was that to say?
“So Archer does you a favor and you’ll do him one back? What do you think that’ll be?” His voice rose. “Don’t you know who he is?”
“The Grand Royale’s CEO,” Jiro answered, tone entirely baffled. “And a seriously cold ‘karp if you want my opinion, but that’s neither here nor there. I know what he wants: looser licensing, fewer restrictions on the import-export of pokemon, shaking the dust off some of the old morality laws. It’s practically my platform anyway.”
“He all but runs Team Rocket.”
“What’s that? Oh,” Jiro said, before Lance could open his mouth, “they’re that trainer’s rights group. What’s your point? They’re a bit obnoxious, but nothing to get worked up about.”
“They kill people,” Lance said flatly. “If you don’t believe me, talk to Agent Noriko from the G-Force. She’ll tell you.”
“Slow down,” Jiro said, blinking. “Kill people? The G-Force? Lance―” He held out his arms placatingly. “It’s just a loan, all right? No need to get the G-Men involved.”
He’s not lying. He really doesn’t know. Lance’s anger faltered, punctured by a rush of relief. He forced his voice back down. “This is serious, Jiro. You have no idea. Whatever you need that money for, it’s not worth it. Give it back. Tell them you don’t need it.”
“I do need it, though.” Jiro leaned forward, his eyes bright. “I was planning to tell you once the sale was complete, but―it’s Fearow Hill. I’m buying Fearow Hill. And it can’t wait. The city needs revenue, they’re putting the land up for auction. It’s prime pickings for development―the view alone is a goldmine, and nobody but me cares that construction there would mean stripping the trees, driving away the fearow.” Jiro’s face went tight as he spoke. “I can’t just let that happen.”
Lance’s eyes widened. Jiro had never said it outright, but from his offhand comments Lance had come to understand that Fearow Hill was the closest Jiro had gotten to a permanent home. In a burst of sympathy, Lance imagined monstrous bulldozers piling into the Ryu’s Gift like an invading army, tearing up the koiking grass and banishing the kairyu.
“That’s―that’s terrible,” Lance said emphatically. “But surely―surely you can’t be the only one who’d want to stop it. People probably just don’t know. You should tell them. If you speak up about it, about how it’s been the fearow’s home so long, and what that means, wouldn’t Saffron support you?”
Of course they would. Saffron loved Jiro. He could do it at the Celadon town hall, in front of all the journalists with their notebooks and recorders. Lance was opening his mouth to suggest it, when Jiro started to laugh, low and bitter.
“Raise a stink and piss off all of local government, not to mention the development industry and the construction unions to boot?” His voice was sharp, incredulous. “You have no idea how badly that would go. No, I’ve got to buy the land. It’s the only option.”
“Sounds to me,” Lance fired back, “sounds to me like it’s the easy option, not the only one.”
Jiro sucked in a breath. Anger flashed across his face, distorting his handsome features, but when he spoke his voice was level, almost bored. “Think what you want, then, but it’s my choice to make.”
“It’s not. Not when it involves me. Don’t sit there and tell me it doesn’t. They don’t think you’re going to win. They don’t want to give you money. So you use me―” Lance’s voice cracked. The anger was back, hot and thick, and it was impossible to sit still, so Lance got to his feet. He was shouting. “I’m supposed to hand you the championship so you can go and take their bribes and make their laws. Aren’t I?”
Jiro shook his head sharply. “It’s not like that, Lance. You’ve got it all turned around. You’re in the hustings to join the Elite Four because you want to be there and because I want you to be there with me.” His gaze latched on to Lance, arms open and beseeching. “And I want that because I trust you. Don’t you trust me?”
Lance shut his eyes to block out Jiro’s face. His head buzzed, and his body felt strangely weightless―liable to float away.
“Jiro, just. Please. This isn’t right. Give the money back. Tell Archer you won’t have anything to do with him ever again.”
His eyes were still closed when Jiro’s answer came. “I’m sorry, Lance. I can’t do that.”
“Then you’re a coward,” Lance whispered.
He didn’t wait for Jiro’s reaction. Turning, he grabbed his backpack from the table and made for the door. He had nothing else to say.
Nothing.
~*~
The late autumn wind snapped and bit at Lance’s face. It was a cold night for outdoor camping, and he wasn’t dressed for it. When he shivered again, Kana rumbled and pulled him flush against her belly, draping him with her warm, leathery wings. He’d fled to their old spot outside Celadon―a little more trampled than it had been three years ago, but still isolated. Still a place to get away and think.
He’d tried calling Noriko first. She hadn’t picked up until his third attempt, and when she did her voice was edged with irritation at the lateness of the hour. The irritation hadn’t gone away when he explained.
“Going after Elite Four members for taking loans is not in our mandate, Lance.”
“Not loans, bribes. And from Team Rocket.”
“Unless you’re telling me that Jiro’s actively collaborating with them and you can prove it . . .” When he stayed silent, she continued, “Look. I’ve already told you—we don’t have anything on Archer yet. If Jiro’s taking loans from him, that’s a matter for an ethics committee but not for us. We fight crime, Lance. We’re not a roving morality commission. And frankly, if we start going after popular Elite Four members, we can kiss our funding goodbye. ”
Then what good are you? Lance had thought furiously. He hadn’t said it, though. Just set down the phone and walked out into the night.
Now he looked out at his pokemon, arranged in a loose circle like his very own counsel of elders. It had been hard to put Jiro’s conduct into words they understood. Money didn’t hold the same weight to pokemon. But betrayal did.
Kaisho’s trill broke the silence. The hakuryu slithered forward, jutting out his head. Jiro’s yellow ribbon, still tied around his horn, shone in the thin moonlight.
Lance undid the ribbon and twined it around his fingers. He thought of the clothes Jiro had gifted him, their fine fabrics and careful embroidery. And then he thought of Kaisho, displayed in the artificial blue water of the casino tank.
“Everything he’s given us,” Lance said slowly. “Maybe it was always more for him than for us.”
Kaisho whined, his tail whipping from side to side. From the river, Ibuki let out a roar. She bent down her massive neck and snatched the ribbon from Lance’s hand, taking care not to graze his skin with her teeth. Slaver dripped down the sides of her mouth.
Despite everything, Lance had to laugh. “How about we save eating him for plan B?” he managed.
Archer let out a caw. With the help of the others, he acted out an elaborate charade showing what the aerodactyl did to the ones who took more food than was their share. The flock pushed them from the nest, and harried them if they dared approach again.
“I’m just a person, though. Not a whole flock.”
Lance twisted around.
“Toku?” he said. “What do you think?”
She’d been silent since he first spoke, her eyes dark and hooded. Now she pointed up at the sky, where the half-moon beamed. Then she pointed towards a level patch of dirt. She crooned softly.
“Oh,” said Lance. The fatigue hit him suddenly, like a mallet. “You’re right.”
He pulled out a thin blanket from his backpack and lay it out on the dirt, wishing he’d thought to grab his coat when he’d stormed out of the room. But Toku and Kana crowded in next to him, their bodies blocking out the worst of the wind. His mind churned, muddy and turbulent.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I’ll figure it out.
~*~
Jiro hadn’t slept.
Even from the distance of the bleachers, Lance could tell. He’d applied kohl to hide his red-rimmed eyes, but nothing could disguise the dullness in his voice or the hollowness of his smile as he greeted the crowd. His gaze skipped right over Lance, sitting with his cap pressed low in the challenger’s section of the bleachers. It was the first time Lance had sat with the other challengers. They buzzed with boasts and stratagems, but Lance was deaf to it all.
He almost hadn’t come. A part of him still longed to leap on Toku’s back and leave Celadon behind. But running wouldn’t solve anything this time. With a night’s sleep behind him, he could see that he’d handled the confrontation all wrong. He’d been too ruled by his outrage to think straight―so sure that if Jiro only understood what he’d gotten himself into, he’d do the right thing.
Well, Lance knew him better now. He wouldn’t, not on his own. But that didn’t make Lance helpless. When the hustings wrapped for the day, he’d give Jiro an ultimatum. Give back the money, or I won’t fight Kikuko.
“Thirty two!” The bleachers began to chant for the benefit of anyone in the back who couldn’t see the board. “Thirty two!”
“Saffron number,” muttered a woman next to Lance. The chant continued ten more times, then died down.
Lance turned his eyes back to the battlefield. Jiro had been fighting poorly. He’d suffered an early knock-out, losing Asahi to an icebeam that on any other day he would have countered with a mirror move. Between battles he sat slumped in his seat, his face drawn. Kintsugi, who usually claimed his lap, lay curled an arm’s length away, her tail twitching. Lance wondered if he’d told her what had happened.
“Fifty seven!” Lance startled. The woman next to him joined her voice to the chorus. “Fifty seven!”
Lance had memorized the surface of his token, every groove and scuff. But he still drew it from his pocket, unwilling to believe. Fifty seven. The number hadn’t changed.
“That’s me,” he said. His words were swallowed by the chanting, but the woman next to him heard. Her eyes lit up and she hollered, “Hey, make space! We’ve got one!”
The rest of the bleachers took up her call. “Budge up, make space!”
Knees were drawn in, backpacks lifted off the ground. Lance stood unsteadily. As he passed, someone gave his back an encouraging slap.
And then, with all the suddenness of teleportation, he was at the foot of the stairs, holding out his token to a burly man in striped league garb and a bored-looking kadabra at his side.
“Name?” the man said.
“Lance.” His voice was so soft he barely heard himself. “Lance,” he said again, more distinctly.
“You know the challenge words?”
He nodded.
“Rule of Three isn’t active. When you hear the bell, take your place in the challenger’s diamond. Don’t speak until you’ve been announced. And please remove the headgear. Good luck, challenger.”
The kadabra gestured, and a gap formed in the shield that separated the battlefield from the spectator stands. Lance pulled off his cap. His mind had gone completely blank.
Then he heard the bell.
It took him ten strides to reach the white chalk outline of the challenger’s diamond. At the sight of him, Jiro’s whole face lit up like noonday sun. His mouth jerked open as if he meant to continue their conversation then and there, in front of all Kanto.
He’s thought better of it, Lance’s thoughts sang out desperately. He’ll give it back. He’ll turn it down.
Kikuko’s gaze bored into him, her black eyes narrowing into slits. Shadows curled at her feet. Her fingers closed around her staff.
“―the challenger, Lance!”
He remembered rain beating on his back, sand pressed under his knees. Hamako’s nails digging into his shoulders.
Promise me, boy.
You could only draw your token once. You couldn’t cross an ocean twice. He had to choose, and if he chose wrong, there wouldn’t be another chance.
He opened his mouth.
When he finished the challenge, no one moved. They just stared at him, like he was an actor who had given the wrong line.
So Lance said it again.
“Jiro of the Elite Four, stand and face me.”
