NebulaDreams
Ace Trainer
- Partners
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Author's Note 1: I will keep it brief here but this was submitted for the Magical but Mundane 2024 One-Shot Contest, and won first place of one of the two judging slots. I am really pleased about this, of course, but I'll save my full thoughts on what went into the fic for after. Please read at the end as it adds context to the story's creation.
This is also a tie-in to another fic of mine, I, Isobel, although it's unfinished in its present state and I intend to go back and rewrite it at a later date. This can be enjoyed on its own, however.
Summary: Terra is the lone Golurk that manages The Fossil Cafe in their owner’s stead. Even after their latest master’s passing, Terra continues serving humans as they have done for thousands of years. But as their body begins to break down, they start to grapple with their own mortality as the fate of the cafe and the staff who depend on it hangs in the balance.
Latte art is one of many human novelties I have yet to find the purpose of. Milk is poured at exactly the right angle to draw a heart or Pokémon in coffee foam, which is appreciated for ten seconds, then destroyed with one sip.
I have lived for 1,978 years in my service as a Golurk. I have witnessed wars. I have protected kingdoms. I have seen societies rise and fall. Latte art is trivial in comparison. Yet I attempt to make it regardless.
While I cannot enjoy coffee as humans do, my late master, Steve, took much joy from his daily cup. So every day I honour his memory by running the café in his stead. What I lack in taste, I compensate for with strict instruction, and recall my master’s voice, a voice that grows distant with each passing day.
“First, you froth the milk,” his voice echoes. I press the button on the coffee machine, activating the steam wand. I raise a milk jug up to the wand, not too deeply, and heat the mixture until the machine clicks with finality. “Then you hold your coffee cup in one hand with one third of espresso,” which I execute with great difficulty as my fingers are not made to hold delicate objects, “and raise your frothing jug in the other with two thirds of milk.” I raise it gently. Centuries ago the action would’ve resulted in a mess. “Then you tilt your jug ever so slightly, and pour in a swirling motion to make a fossil!”
I pour, but overshoot my aim, and spill the milk. All it makes an abstract shape, same with the second attempt. I am disappointed. I carry it as fast as my heavy legs can and present my failures to my customers, an elderly human named Delores, and her Gardevoir caretaker, Elizabeth. Fortunately, they are both patient, as are the rest of The Fossil Café’s clientele.
“Apologies,” I say in the human tongue. “I know you requested our signature fossil.”
“No need to worry, Terra,” Delores says, waving a shaky hand. “A bit of foam isn’t going to poison me. Arceus knows Steve certainly tried.” She takes a sip. “As grand as ever. You don’t mind if I put some sugar in it?”
“Not at all.”
Elizabeth hums, stirring sugar into Delores’ coffee, as I used to with my master when he was too frail to do so himself. I stare for seconds longer than intended, and Elizabeth looks up at me.
“What’s wrong?” she asks in our shared Pokémon language.
“ Nothing.” I switch back to address both of them for convenience. “I am curious to hear both your thoughts about our donuts, as we are trialling daily specials.”
Elizabeth splits the donut in half for her and Delores to share. I am dubious about the quality of these pastries as they have had mixed reactions, particularly as Delores takes longer to chew. Her face wrinkles, and she washes it down with coffee.
“I like the taste,” Delores says, “though it’s a bit tough, especially for my teeth.”
“I agree.” Elizabeth massages her throat. “Not just because of Delores, but it’s also heavy on the stomach. I might need a couple of fights to burn these off.”
“I will relay that to our baker.”
I bow and return to my duties, transporting used mugs from a nearby table to the kitchen. I perform this task with great care, although that proves difficult when the Morgrem baker, Mog, keeps leaving his rolling pins on the floor.
“I would pick the rolling pin up myself if I did not have my hands full,” I say.
“Just step around it, tin can.” He sits on a stool, observing the fresh batch of baking buns. It seems like he has prepared a lot of them again; yesterday’s donuts still crowd the fridge display.
“One customer said the donuts were rather tough and chewy.”
“They’re tough and chewy.” He rolls his eyes. “Freakin’ humans.”
“And a Gardevoir.”
“Point still stands.”
“Human or not, my master always said to perform your tasks to perfection for the sake of others. A rolling stone gathers no moss, after all.”
“Yeah, and your master’s dead.”
I do not acknowledge him. I gather that he meant that as an insult, but I do not find facts insulting.
“I also fear we do not have enough room for more pastries,” I suggest.
“Eh, I’ll take ‘em home if nobody has ‘em. I know a lot of Pokémon who’d appreciate ‘em.”
Mog lives in a Pokémon hostel, a place where Pokémon who can neither be rewilded or trained go. I do not question his portion control as I manoeuvre around the utensil and place the mugs into the sink. It is hard to say if my master’s request to encourage Pokémon to work under my instruction has resulted in customer growth. For now, I focus on the rest of today’s tasks.
The remainder of the shift passes with ease as I greet customers, serve coffee and donuts, gather feedback, and soon enough, prepare for closing time. The only Pokémon left are I and Mog, who gorges on one of his iced buns in the kitchen.
“You’re rigtght, It ith kind oth tough,” he says with his mouth full, then swallows. “Dang it.”
“It is not my opinion, as I cannot taste. The customer is always right.”
“Just wait until someone asks to speak to the manager.” He wiggles his fingers. “Cough it up, then.”
I hand Mog his payment of 5000 Pokedollars. The concept of Pokémon needing money eludes me, but he is a part of the PokeJobs system, a recent advent that I am behind the times on, and the hostel exchanges shelter for work and payment. As long as Mog continues to create pastries that people tolerate, and it keeps him off of Circhester’s streets, I will pay.
Mog gets up to leave, but turns back as I grab an icing-covered tray.
“Y’know,” he says, “you could get a dishwasher or somethin’. That’s what humans buy when they’re too lazy to clean.”
“I am not lazy.”
“Or hire a maid. But for cups and stuff. I’d do it but it’s kinda below me.”
I am still deliberating on whether or not to keep Mog. Besides, I do not want to burden anyone else with the duties of this café. Its maintenance and housekeeping falls to me and me alone.
“I do not need one.”
“Alright, suit yourself.” He takes a few iced buns home with him. “Smell ya later, tin can.”
“I do not smell. Golurk do not secrete pheromones.”
“Whatever.”
With that, he leaves, and I am free to wash dishes in peace. I do not mind washing up as I relish the opportunity to carry out more work, and I finish by the late evening. Thirteen hours remain before I can open the café again.
Routine is easy. Opening the café requires turning on all the electrical equipment, cleaning tables, dusting shelves that hold the fossilised discoveries collected throughout my master’s lifetime, checking inventory, ordering more coffee beans, sugar, milk, berries for eating, and other supplies if needed. This is before I can open the café to customers, who I must continually greet and serve until the café closes again. As long as I have tasks to fulfil, I am in motion.
The times where I am left with nothing to do are the hardest. When my master was still alive, we passed the time together. We hiked. We visited the museums of whichever city we travelled through. I watched nature documentaries with him, fascinated by all those Pokémon on screen whose lives were different from my own.
Since his passing, all I do is stand stationary in the café until it is morning again, like an unused tool. Golurk were created to function as tools, so my base instincts command me to work. And when there is no work to be done, I am left without a purpose.
With no duties to carry out, I retreat into a sleep-like state, waiting for the opportunity to put myself to use again.
I wandered without instruction. I walked through wastelands. I trudged through trenches. I crept through caverns. My previous master died, and I was left alone far too long without a human master to give commands.
Then I found Steve, a geology graduate from Circhester University. He was alone atop a cliff, chiselling at a piece of rock, which I watched from afar. I was curious, yet cautious, not knowing how he would react; some humans ran from Golurk in fear, others wanted to use me for battle, which I did not desire. When he took a break to sip from his thermos, I approached him, and asked why he took samples from the mountains.
Steve paid my curiosity in kind, asking who I was, what I was doing on Stow-On-Side’s cliffs, how long I’d lived for, and why I came to him.
In turn, he answered my questions, explaining his archaeological pursuits, his ambitions of travelling the world to gather rare samples, and selling them to museums, collectors, labs, and his desires to connect to anyone with a shared interest in long extinct Pokémon.
I had seen such long extinct Pokémon in my lifetime. I told him I could be of service. Then he took my hand, and said he’d be glad to be my partner.
I stand by the entrance not long after opening. I watch out of the window while I await new customers to serve. There is that Mr. Rime I see on occasion, performing his tour around the Hero’s Bath to a new crowd of foreigners. I wave, hoping to entice them, aware that I am stealing that Pokémon’s group.
One human eyes me with interest. Their friends soon follow, and the group of four approaches my café.
“Hey,” the leader says with a strong Unovan accent. “Fancy seein’ a Golurk here! And this is your café?”
“Indeed it is.”
“Sick!” They unload their heavy luggage by the door, blocking the entrance. “Kinda looks like a museum!”
I entertain the idea of becoming a tour guide for this café, as it has a rich history. “If you desire, I can give you more information. This caf é was founded eleven years ago–”
“I only came here for coffee.”
I overestimate the bounds of human curiosity sometimes. I adjust accordingly and walk behind the counter. “What would you like to order?”
“Can you get each of us an iced latte?”
“Yes, indee—”
“With no milk in mine,” another suggests, overlooking how a latte without milk is just iced espresso.
“A shot of caramel in mine!” another chimes in.
“And whipped cream on mine!” the last shouts.
“That is no problem—”
“Wait, scratch that!” the second tourist calls, “make mine a chocolate frappe, if you have those, with two shots of espresso!”
“Oh, sure,” the leader grumbles, “leave it all to the helpless Pokémon, why don’t you?”
I am not a helpless Pokémon. I have acquired enough knowledge to run this café single-handedly. I can handle complex orders such as these, and I invite opportunities to prove my dexterity and expertise.
“Not a problem.”
I brew the three lattes in a batch. Coffee beans are by nature bitter, but the bitterness varies on the blend, and I use our weakest blend, the medium-dark Akalan blend, as the flavour is already diluted by the milk. I pour the beans into the machine and grind them, tamp the resulting espresso into an even level, then brew the coffee, dripping into iced takeaway cups. As requested, I add one shot of caramel syrup and whipped cream to the two other coffees; my master often complained about these customers as he no longer considered it coffee at that point, but I remain impartial to human requests.
The three customers thank me and promise to regroup with the frappe-loving tourist as they leave. The frappe will take longer, as the difference between a frappe and an iced coffee is that it is blended, and typically uses instant coffee. I pour the ice, two portions of espresso powder, chocolate syrup and water, and blend. When it is done, I go to pour it into the takeaway container, but my right arm freezes.
I cannot move my fingers. I try to command each metallic phalange into action, but they refuse. The tourist is none the wiser as I take slightly longer to create their frappe. My other arm pries the pitcher from my immobile hand, which remains stuck, and I finish serving, much to the customer’s delight.
“Thank you!” he says.
“You are welcome. Please enjoy your–”
“And can I get one of your finger buns?”
I am confused for a moment, until I realise he is talking about Mog’s iced buns. Finger buns must be the Unovan name for them. I give him one, and he takes a bite.
“It’s a lil’ tough. Fills a hole, though.” He turns back, trying to find his group. “Dammit, I’ve lost ‘em!”
He rushes out of the door, leaving me to stare at my right arm, still stuck, as if in suspended animation. This has never happened before. Some days after long, hard battles, I have felt stiffer than usual. But I haven’t fought a single Pokémon in decades.
I linger for far too long on it, before I remember the blender needs to be rinsed for potential reuse, post haste. I take it into the kitchen, where Mog is making another batch of iced buns. My foot almost slips on a glob of batter before I regain my balance.
“Do you require your baking process to be so messy?” I ask.
“Are you questionin’ my art?” Mog yells. “This ain’t your grandma’s kitchen, tin can.”
“I do not have a grandmother.”
“Neither do I, and look how I turned out.”
I am deeply perplexed by his turn of phrase, and wish to change the subject to avoid further confusion. “Another customer states that your buns are tough. This has been a consistent complaint for weeks.”
Mog sighs, and plants his face into the dough.
“Please do not get your hair in food that humans eat.”
“Shut up.” He leans back and scratches his head. “Argh, what am I doing wrong?”
I ponder this question. I cannot taste, so I cannot say for certain that Mog’s bread is tough. Almost a millennium ago, I served as an assistant for an artisanal baker, a highly regarded position as cakes and pastries were considered a luxury reserved for the noblest of humans. I watched the artisan’s process for baking, and one key ingredient he used for his buns was freshly produced Miltank milk, which he also curdled into butter, and used both to bind the mixtures together. Most milk nowadays is processed rather than fresh, but is still sufficient.
“Do you use butter and milk?” I ask.
“Woah, freaking genius! Who woulda thought to use that in buns?”
Even considering my limited grasp of tone, it is obvious that he is being sarcastic.
“I apologise. I am trying to help.”
Mog’s face falls. “Sorry. I’m tryin’ to improve my baking, y’know. I really am.”
Even if his baking has not produced desirable results, I am satisfied that he is learning from his experiences. “I trust that you will.”
“Shame you can’t taste stuff.” He punches a mound of dough. “Eatin’s the only thing that makes life worth livin’.”
I pause, blender still in hand. “How did you learn to bake?”
“Nice old lady in Ballonlea used to bake. I was such a little turd as an Impidimp, but she didn’t mind.”
“And how did you end up in Circhester on your own?”
Mog pounds the dough with both fists. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
I leave it at that. I continue my obligations while he continues taking out his frustrations on the dough. As it is the weekend, there are steady streams of customers, which gives me plenty to do. Yet every action, such as placing cups in their proper places and cleaning tables, takes an extra minute to perform. Brewing coffee for customers takes even longer, much to the concern of my regulars and the consternation of newcomers.
By closing time, there are many dishes and tables that have not been cleaned. And I still cannot use my right arm.
“A lil’ rusty, tin can?” Mog asks as he’s about to leave.
“I do not rust,” I reply.
“Then take my advice and get a dishwasher.”
“I do not need one.”
Mog’s hairs stand on end. “Yeah, like you don’t need a baker.”
“I do need one.”
“Then what about all the tough pastries and crap?”
“Those who try your pastries like the taste. And you want to improve. So I know that you are doing a fine job.”
His hair relaxes, falling back down to his feet. “Oh. That’s… good.” He looks to the kitchen, fiddling with his hands, and stares for a few seconds before shrugging. “Well, I’m outta here. Good luck, I guess.”
Once Mog exits, I carry on my work. I take it one dish at a time, one stain at a time. That is what pushes me through this slow period as I clean late into the night, even as the dulling sensation in my arm grows.
After I scour the kitchen, I investigate the pantry. There are enough ingredients for Mog to burn through for the next few days. I pick up an unopened sack of plain flour, which I had obtained at Mog’s request.
Upon reading the ingredients, I realise that there is no raising agent. I remember the artisan’s process, and how he made fluffy cakes without the advent of yeast and baking soda. He would order farm hands to cultivate specific grains. I took it for granted that the type of flour factored into the texture of the bread, when in reality, it is similar to how coffee takes on different flavours with different processes.
I will order different types of flour for Mog to experiment with. I hope it will solve his problem.
Steve and I walked for miles on Stow-On-Side’s mountains. There were many discoveries to be found from that era. We chanced upon Omanyte fossils, which Steve would sell to lab researchers and restorers. We studied the rock formations on the cliffs, of which there were granite, basalt and shale, upon many others. He took frequent coffee breaks, which I could not partake in, but I was pleased to see the elation on his face when he took sips of his brews.
The discovery of most interest to me was a dormant Golurk. It sat atop the mountain peak with its legs crossed as if in meditation, covered in moss. Steve observed from the indents in the ground that it must have been hibernating for hundreds of years.
Not much is known about how Golurk operate or when we were created, but when our energy runs out, our body starts to slow down, and eventually, we rest indefinitely. No Golurk that has entered hibernation has woken up again.
When I witnessed the moss-covered Golurk, I was faintly aware that I would hibernate too one day, but not for decades, possibly centuries, or even millennia to come.
I see my usual faces. Mog continues to make the kitchen his space while I struggle to keep my corner clean. He produces many types of cakes as a result, some of which prove inedible even to him, but Mog seems to be enjoying himself regardless. My right arm has not recovered, yet I continue to take it one task at a time with my remaining functional limbs.
Cleaning takes longer with each passing night. By the time I retire upstairs, I usually only have a few hours to spare before the café is due to open again. As usual, I do not mind this. When I enter my sleep-state, I am still able to relive my old memories. Each night, they become more of a comfort as concern for my body grows.
A crash stirs me from my slumber. Whispers and growls resound from downstairs. I stomp, then a door swings open and slams shut. Whatever it is, I am far too slow to catch it as I travel down each step with an uncharacteristic sluggishness. I step on the remnants of the fridge display upon my entrance into the café. Most of the leftover iced buns and donuts have been stolen, along with cans of soft drink. The cash register remains untouched.
I am not concerned about losing inventory, as that is easily replaceable. I am, however, concerned that someone broke in. This is my master’s café. If it closes because of delinquency, all that effort he spent over these years would be undone. I must keep a watchful eye and remain downstairs at all times.
I brush the mess away, then wait by the window until the sun rises and I can open the café. I expect Mog to enter as he prepares his batches early, but he is late. Fortunately, it is quiet. My regulars, Delores and Elizabeth enter, and I explain the situation to them.
“Dumbest bunch of criminals I’ve ever known.” Delores tuts. “What’s the point of stealing donuts? That baker of yours just hands ‘em out like sweets, doesn’t he?”
“Indeed.”
“There are a few strays here and there,” Elizabeth says, wringing the handlebars of Delores’ wheelchair. “I fear for Delores’ safety sometimes.”
“Don’t know what you’re saying, Liz, but you don’t need to worry. I’m tougher than most grannies.”
I take her word for it and brew their morning coffees. I take my time. Since retiring, Dolores uses her free time at the café writing detective fiction in her notepad, while Elizabeth draws, so she and Delores sit in silent contentment and order drinks throughout the day. This is good for business. I do not know the purpose of writing constructed murder scenarios or drawing characters with disproportionately big eyes, but I know people like to be asked about their creative pursuits.
“What are you both doing today?” I ask.
“Just getting to the big scene where the body is being found,” Delores says.
Elizabeth winces as she draws a girl with an elaborate pink costume and a sceptre. “I’m doing nothing like that.”
Delores glances at Elizabeth’s sketchpad. “Not going to lie, I’m really out of touch with those Kantoan cartoons, but she’s a good artist.”
“It’s called Princess Eevee. I’ve shown her a few episodes back at her place.”
I do not have an opinion on these matters, but I want them to feel like I am interested. “You both sound very productive.”
“I am,” Delores says, “if I can figure out this damn scene. I hope I publish this before I croak anyway.”
Steve also wished to write a memoir about his travels and findings, as he successfully published an article in a scientific journal, but that never came to fruition. I do not have long to dwell on what could have been as a trainer enters the café, catching her breath.
“How can I help you?” I ask as I stomp to the counter.
“Tea, please!” She hastily retrieves her wallet. “And one of those iced buns! And a nanab! Oh, crap, I’m gonna be so late, and I haven’t fed Bongo, and–”
“What kind of tea?” I ask.
“Uh, a matcha! That sounds good! Hope it doesn’t take too long!”
A matcha normally takes a minute to brew, two minutes under my conditions.
“It will not take long. I will retrieve your food first.”
I give her the nanab and iced bun in a takeaway bag. She releases a Grookey for him to chew on the berry. Likewise, she tears into the iced bun, humming and nodding after one bite.
“Where’d you get these by the way? They’re so soft!”
I expect Mog will be pleased to hear that when he arrives. “We have a talented baker, now please, let me brew your tea.”
“Sure, sure!”
Matcha tea is not as commonly requested as our lattes. It is a Kantoan export, marked up in price as the powder is expensive, but it takes on a unique property as it is made from pulverised green tea leaves, and contains more caffeine than the average green tea, but less than coffee. As my right arm is still obsolete, I set a miniature sieve over the takeaway cup’s rim, and spoon the powder onto the strainer to filter the tea, all with one hand.
The next step requires more care, as I cannot add boiling water to the matcha, lest it take on an unintended bitterness. I boil water from the machine into a separate cup, and try to transport it to the sink to mix with cold water, yet my legs grow more and more sluggish with each step. It takes a minute to turn my body from the counter to the sink behind me, then another to turn back and pour the water over the powder.
“Er, hi!” The human pops her head into my station. “I’m kind of in a hurry, how long is this going to be?”
“Please wait a moment,” I say, about to stir the matcha in the disposable cup to ensure it properly brews. “I am almost done.”
“I’m bored,” the Grookey says, though his trainer doesn’t understand him. “Can we go and fight soon?”
The human ignores him as she paces, jostling him with each step. I know a human’s time is valuable as they have so little of it, but I cannot speed up my serving process. Yet I do not want to disappoint. All I can do is focus on one step at a time. I plant one foot, then another, navigating and turning the counter in the corner of the café with care, aware of the flimsy nature of the container.
Once I am finished, the human snatches her drink from my grasp and leaves without thanking me.
I try to keep my composure as I cross the café floor to attend to my regulars. Delores looks up from her notepad and tuts.
“Millennials,” she mutters, “where are their manners?”
“I have not heard this current vernacular before. What are millennials?”
Delores snorts. “They’re a blight and a half. They’re the reason no-one talks to each other any more, except when they go on their phones and eat avocado toast.”
Elizabeth leans into me, wearing a pained smile. “You’ve got her riled up now. She’s not going to stop.”
“I know she is very vocal,” I reply.
“Whatever you’re saying, it sounds like it’s about me,” Delores chimes in.
“Apologies.” I bow. “I am being rude.”
“I’m only messing.” She snickers and picks up her pen. “Besides, I should save my soapboxing for my novel. The killer’s a millennial, you know.”
I do not press further, so I bow again and return to my duties. I serve the occasional tea or coffee in the same slow paced manner. Mog does not appear, not even after closing time. There is not much to clean so I stare out the window with the same vigilance as this morning, until a small figure appears at the door: Mog. He is covered with bruises.
I let him in. “You are late,” I say.
He sniffles and rubs his scrunched-up face. “I screwed up.”
I wait for him to elaborate.
“I, uh, told ‘em about the café. They were starvin’. I said for them to wait so I could just bring ‘em some of my pastries, but they broke in. And when I called ‘em out on it, we got in a fight, and I got kicked out, and…”
He sobs with his face in his paws. Humans and Pokémon only cry when they are overwhelmed, either by sadness or stress.
“Why tell me now?”
“Cause I didn’t wanna own up to it and knew I’d get sacked.” He stares at his feet. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t believe me. Nobody does. But I’m sorry.”
I hear that some Morgrem lure their prey by getting down on all fours to beg for forgiveness, like a wounded Stantler. Humans say that Pokémon are creatures of habit. But I have lived long enough to know that Pokémon vary too much in temperament to follow a single behavioural pattern. I also suspect that the Morgrem has been worn down by this stereotype.
Mog continues to cry. I have never known how to comfort those driven to tears. I have seen fathers pat the heads of their children when they are emotional. So I do the same with Mog.
“Are you–” he says in between sobs–”seriously givin’ me headpats?”
“Yes.”
“I ain’t no Pikachu!” he says with a chuckle.
“Why are you laughing?”
“I dunno!” He falls on his back, breaking into fits of laughter and sobs. “You– you really are a tin can, y’know that?!”
He has referred to me as ‘tin can’ before, I suspect as an insult. This time, there is a softness to the term.
Once Mog is done, he stands back up, eyes still wet. “So, you’re not mad at me?”
“You have done nothing wrong. You only wanted to satiate another Pokémon’s hunger.”
“And the job?”
“I expect to see you tomorrow. A customer remarked that your iced buns were soft, so they would appreciate more of those.”
Mog dries his face and grins, showing off all of his teeth “I’ll be there.” His smile fades as he turns back. “Don’t suppose y’know some place else I can sleep?”
“There is a room upstairs with a bed that I cannot sit on.”
“Works for me, thanks!” Mog scampers upstairs. It seems I have gained a lodger. I lock the cafe and stay downstairs, unmoving, unblinking. I am alone down here. But knowing that there is someone else staying in the same building makes it feel a little less lonely.
There is no noise upstairs. Mog seems to sleep soundly. I stay where I am, contemplating retreating into myself, but I know I mustn’t. I must protect this place. I am the only one who can. So I remain here until the morning when it is opening time again. I greet Mog, and he smiles back at me as he heads into the kitchen. He is pleased to be here. When I go to turn the sign from open to close, my left hand seizes.
This cannot be happening. Both my hands are useless. I can still tilt my left arm, but I cannot move its fingers. So I have to position my immobile hand and raise my arm in a swift motion so the sign can turn.
It should not matter. There are customers. One lone Pokémon, an Inteleon, enters the café wearing a raincoat that covers everything except her webbed feet. It is not raining.
“Excuse me,” she says, holding a carrier case in her paws. “Is it alright if I charge my laptop here? I’ll get a drink, of course.”
I do not question what purpose an Inteleon has for possessing a laptop as I switch to my customer-facing persona. It just so happens we have a policy for this scenario.
“You must purchase a drink every two hours,” I state, “but you are welcome to plug your laptop into the electrical sockets where the corner seats are.”
“Thanks.” The Inteleon gazes at the menu with the same amount of importance one might give a tenancy agreement. “I’ll have it black. Coronet blend, please.”
A particularly strong blend. This tells me the customer is serious about coffee. I will not disappoint her.
She pays and sits by the corner seat, tapping away at her laptop with gloved paws. I run through my familiar routine of preparing the cups and pouring the beans into the machine, coaxing my left arm to punch the brewing button, but that stiffens too. I have to move my entire body to press the button.
I attempt to step out of the counter, but my feet feel as if they are encased in clay. Again, I take it one step at a time, where each laboured stomp threatens to spill the coffee, splashing over the rim. Once I am close to the Inteleon, I reach out to serve it, but overshoot my hand’s aim. The cup and its contents fly towards the Inteleon’s face.
She swipes her glove off with one swift motion and splashes forward. The force of her water stream creates a barrier between her and the coffee, stopping the cup, which smashes against the tiled floor. She and her laptop remain dry, but there is shattered porcelain swimming in a mixture of water and coffee at my feet.
Her face twists. She is expectedly displeased. Before I can apologise, she grabs her laptop and storms outside the café. I stand motionless, processing what just happened.
Ages ago, when I served as a royal steward, I spilled soup over a noble because of my lack of care. That was an important lesson for me to learn, which prepared me for this line of work centuries later. But today, I have failed a customer. I have failed Steve. I have failed as a Golurk. I try not to let it weigh on me, as there are more duties to attend to, but my body fails me completely.
I cannot move. I cannot walk. I cannot even lift a fingertip. I remain this way even as a human couple walks into the café and waits by the counter. I cannot greet them. I cannot serve them. I cannot do anything. They wait for a minute, then look at me with impatience.
“Hey, do you know anyone who can serve us?” they ask.
I can only move my mouth to speak.
“I am the owner,” I say.
They look at the mess on the floor, shrug, then take each other’s hand. “Let’s just grab a Colza instead,” the man says, and they leave.
All I can do is watch the wall clock tick down by the second, by the minute, and by the hour. I expect Mog to check on me, but he is toiling away in the kitchen, none the wiser. My situation only comes to light when Elizabeth and Delores enter. They come to greet me as usual, but I do not answer.
“Are you alright?” Elizabeth asks.
I want to say I am fine, but I am not. “I cannot move,” I say for the benefit of both parties. “I do not know why.”
Delores looks up from her wheelchair. “Has this come all of a sudden?”
“No. Over the course of a few days.”
Her sunken eyes glisten.
“Oh, dear.” She sighs. “Steve might’ve warned me about this. Of course, it’s beyond me, all this Pokémon business. I never studied Golurk like he did, but he always nattered on and on about it.”
Her statement stirs up something within me. The image of the hibernating Golurk flashes before me. I know full well about the concept of death, as I have witnessed it countless times. The last one I witnessed was Steve passing in his sleep at home, one month prior. I did not expect to follow in his footsteps any time soon. I will not believe it.
“I am not hibernating,” I state.
“I mean, you might not be, but Steve told me that Golurk tend to slow down when they age.”
Elizabeth frowns. “Does anything hurt?”
I shift my body, only by an inch. “No. I do not think so. I feel fine. Except I cannot move.”
The expression on Elizabeth’s face is hard to read. I do not know if she knows how I feel.
“I think you better close the café today.” Delores looks to the door. “I don’t think you’re in any shape to sling coffees to old farts like me.”
I try to coax my arm upwards, but it remains lowered. “I want to serve. You must have your morning coffee.”
“Don’t worry about me or the café.” She tents her hands. “I’ve known you for as long as I’ve known Steve. I’ve made my peace with him. It’s hard to imagine you joining him so soon, though.”
I pivot my head. “I am not Steve. I am not human.”
“So?”
I pause, unsure of how to respond, so Delores answers in my stead.
“Close the café for now. I’ll stay with you, if that’s alright.” She grips her blanketed lap. Her knuckles turn white. “I don’t know what help I can be, but I’ll try. Do you mind, Liz?”
Elizabeth shakes her head. She turns the sign from open to closed in my stead, and I feel an urge to tear her paws away from the door. Nobody can touch that but me.
Many thoughts run through my internal processes. My purpose is to serve. Yet the café cannot remain open. I cannot fulfil my purpose. I am fighting against every force trying to stop me. My work is not yet done. I shall not stand still like an unused tool while the world still spins.
The clock ticks. It is just before noon, the lunch rush hour. I have to prepare. I have to clean the mess I made. I have to maintain my master’s café. I have to protect it. I have to protect. I have to serve. I have to…
My vision fades.
Steve started a garden upon retiring and moving back home to Circhester. He lamented that he was not able to grow coffee plants, but he tried planting flowers. I helped to cultivate his garden by pulling weeds from their roots and pounding the soil for Steve to plant lily bulbs. For a time, they grew, displaying pink, red, and white petals.
It did not prove to be fruitful. It was an overcast autumn day, and the flowers had wilted. He’d called Delores to help, since they were friends, and she worked as a gardener before her own retirement. He made her a coffee as a token of his gratitude.
“What’s–” he stopped to cough, which he’d developed as a result of inhaling various chemicals and minerals over the years–”what’s the problem?”
“They’re perennials, you plonker,” she said. “They wilt when it isn’t summer. They’ll grow back next year. I can see a few deadheads as well. It might be best to cut those.”
“What are deadheads?”
“You’re growing a garden and you don’t know what deadheads are?”
He wiped his moist forehead. “I’m growing a garden because I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“I’m only messing.” Delores exhaled and swigged her coffee. “You’re a much better barista than a greenthumb.”
“I’m no barista.”
“A coffee machine isn’t the sort of thing that Joe Bloggs has in his house, especially not one that costs a small fortune.”
“And it’s gathering dust.”
I observed their banter, being seen but not heard. Two humans inevitably share bonds that no Pokemon, however loyal, can replace. I had nothing of value to add to that conversation as of yet.
Steve sat on a patio chair, nursing his mug. “I hate this, not working.”
“Well I hate working.” She sat beside him. “Can’t wait until I retire.”
“Don’t.” He closed his eyes as he took a sip. “All my life, I felt like I was running out of time. Now I have all the time in the world, I don’t know what to do with it.”
“How do you think that Golurk feels?” she asked. “They live for yonks, don’t they?”
“ I have, ” I say at last.
Steve turns to me, as if he is expecting words of comfort. He did that sometimes, especially on his own whenever he failed to discover anything new or felt exhausted from his long hours of work.
“Humans live for a short amount of time compared to me,” I said. “Some spend all their lives wishing that they would take action, only to die before they can enact it. I do not know what I would do with that time, but I would try and make the most of it.”
Steve chuckled and downed the rest of his coffee. “Way to light a fire under my ass and all, Terra, but I literally can’t work. I’m a–” he coughed again–”liability. My lungs are effed up. I can’t go on expeditions like we used to.”
“Is there anything else you can do with your time?”
“Maybe,” he muttered.
“I tell you what,” Delores said, “you could put your coffee machine to use. Maybe open a café.”
“Just because I have a fancy machine?”
“What else would you do with it?”
Steve stared at the grounds in his mug. He seemed to really consider it. His relationship with coffee had existed for longer than his relationship with me. He drank every day without fail, and invested hundreds of thousands of Pokedollars into the purchasing of imported coffee beans and equipment.
“Eh.” Steve shrugged. “It’ll never catch on. Right?”
I wake in Steve’s garden. I cannot move. Delores and Elizabeth sit by the moss-covered patio. Mog sits on the grass, stabbing into the ground with his hair.
“Mog?”
He looks up. “Tin can.”
Elizabeth wheels Delores beside me.
“I couldn’t think of any other place to bring you,” Delores says.
“The café.”
“Don’t worry about the café. How do you feel?”
I have trouble taking in my surroundings. The neighbouring houses are mere blurs of red brick. The grassy floor is a smudge of green. I try to remember how I came here and draw a blank.
“Tired.”
“Right.” She sighs. “Whether you’re hibernating or not, it might be best to rest here.”
The concept is alien to me. I do not age. I do not need nutrients. I do not rest. Not once have I rested in my lifetime. Yet I do not feel like doing anything.
The sun shines its warmth onto my cold clay armour, and I have the urge to bask in it. I have never known such a sensation. There is my master’s bed of lilies, wilting and underwatered. The house has not yet been inherited and there is no one to maintain the property. Among them sit many flowers in various states of blooming and wilting. But I notice the lilies in particular.
“I want to sit next to those lilies,” I say. I try to move, but cannot do so. “I might need assistance.”
“Right.” Delores looks at a clothed Machoke, smoking a cigarette outside a parked van. “Glen, was it? Could you move the Golurk to the flower beds?”
He throws his cigarette on the ground and stomps it out with a booted foot. “This is the weirdest job I’ve taken on.”
Glen shows his strength as he pushes me across the garden, and coaxes my legs to form a seated position. I do not know what I am supposed to do. All I can see are the flowers until Mog joins me, standing level with my face.
“How long have I been unconscious?” I ask.
“A couple of hours.”
“And the café?”
“Closed.” Mog brushes his hair with his hands. He is comforting himself. “Are you dying?”
I consider my response. I cannot comprehend the possibility that I am as mortal as any human or Pokémon.
I focus on my sensations. Flowers brush against my stiff armour. As my concentration and vision fades in and out, I focus on the stamens, stems and petals of the lilies, then see them only as blurs of red, green and purple. I am too tired to move, and am aware of my massive weight pressing down on the soil, but I feel nothing.
“Perhaps. Hibernation is akin to a state of death. Once our energy runs out, we cannot wake up.”
“Don’t suppose we can just plug you into a wallsocket, huh?”
He smiles, but his face is strained.
“Why are you joking?”
“I dunno, sorry.” He sighs. “Y’know, I’ve only known you for a month or so. Guess there ain’t much stake in it.”
“What will you do if I cannot return to the café?”
“I’ll be fine.” He sniffs. “People always come and go. I’m used to it.”
I remember my masters, particularly Steve. “I know how you feel. I have been through many masters, all of which have passed away.”
“Aw.” Mog’s face scrunches up. “I never knew.”
“You would… not.”
It is getting harder to speak. I feel tired in a way I have not known. I have always retreated into a sleep-like state voluntarily. This time, it is different.
Mog fiddles with his pointy hair. “Is it scary?”
I try to answer no, but falter at the words.
Deep within me are many memories of civilisations fallen, processes unlearned and learned, and masters living and dying. I have seen castles alight with dragon fire, devastation that turns the skies a deep, satisfying orange. I have seen Omanyte cuddle the first humans they’ve seen upon being revived. I have seen pieces of art that have been lost forever to the ravages of time.
All that history lives within me. I have outlived my masters, and history has long since forgotten them, yet parts of them still remain as long as I remember them, like Steve. I have worked for so long to keep their memories alive beyond their graves. To serve them to their last moments and beyond.
Humans and Pokémon have souls. There is an afterlife awaiting them. I do not have a soul. I do not know what awaits me when I hibernate. If I lay dormant and never wake up, unmoving, unthinking, all of that work will be undone.
I do not want their memories to die with me. I do not want them to be forgotten. I do not want to be forgotten.
I do not want to die.
I want to say this, but I cannot speak. My mouth is stiff. Thoughts slow to a crawl. Everything turns into pinpricks of light.
Then, nothing.
I overlook a ruined citadel. I know this is in the past, yet I feel strangely present in the moment. There are bodies everywhere, crushed under stone. My armour is caked with rubble. I feel as if I am about to explode.
“Mongrels,” a man in a toga snarls. He is an emperor, bearing a name that history has long since regretted. My seal is in his hands. “They deserved your wrath.”
Time passes in fast motion. The ruins are gone. I am in a bath house, the layout of which is reminiscent of the Hero’s Bath in Circhester. The emperor is coloured a shade of purple, and is clawing at his throat. An upturned dish of grepa berries sits beside him on the bank.
He tries to speak as he convulses. He reaches his hand towards me. I watch, unmoving, unblinking. He falls under the water and stays, unmoving, unblinking.
Then I am back home, in a time before stone buildings, before we were known as Pokémon. I am newly formed. I tense and relax my clay fingers. They are firm. The clay I stand upon is still soft. Next to me, humans shape half-formed Golett and Golurk. The purpose of our creation escapes me.
But I realise my purpose as I come into the possession of the chieftain, then many other rulers. The emperor is alive again, and I transport him on my back as I fly; he refers to me as his winged chariot.
More time passes and I kneel before a king, who taps my shoulders with a jewelled sword. I kneel before the same king in a bed of hay, as he nurses an infected wound, about to pass away.
“Let my people know,” he asks. “I trust you, my loyal knight.”
We are in a new bedroom, and Steve has taken the king’s place. He insists on passing peacefully at home rather than in an overcrowded hospital. There is a Chansey who checks in every now and then, as well as Delores and a few other friends. I have made him coffee using his methods.
“Has anyone mixed ashes with coffee yet?” He sticks his tongue out. “I don’t think that would taste nice.”
He laughs, and has a violent coughing fit. There is permanent scarring to his lungs. He knows he will die. He has requested a cremation, and has already arranged it with the funeral directors.
Once he has recovered, he takes a sip of my coffee.
“Terra, this is stunning. I don’t know how you do it without tasting anything.”
“I learned it by observing you.”
“You learn quickly.” He looks out the window. It is sunny. He relaxes into bed. “You work hard as well. You always have. You don’t have to do any of it. I’m not your master.”
He has always insisted against the terminology. I say nothing, as I am happy to serve, and there is nothing I can do to change his mind.
“I don’t deserve it.” He looks at his university diploma, framed on the wall, then at the fossils he has collected in his lifetime, and the shelf that contains his academic paper. “I don’t really feel like I’ve amounted to much.”
I do not have words of comfort, as I do not know why he views himself with such contempt. He has always kept me at arms length to such thoughts. We leave the conversation at that, and I watch those documentaries with him until it is night time. I stay by his side until he falls asleep. He does not wake up.
I take his hand. It is cold and stiff. Then it crumbles to ash before me. The room disappears into sand, then smoke, then dust. I too return to clay, unformed, unmoving. I remain in my unmoulded form for a long time.
Is this what hibernation feels like? I do not like it. There is nothing to do. No duties to fulfil. I am resting, yet I am not at peace. My work is not yet done. My work is not yet done. My work is not yet done.
There is a presence. I cannot see it. I cannot hear it. I can only feel it. Like a heartbeat outside my body.
“Hello?” I ask, although I have no mouth to ask with.
It says nothing.
“Who are you?” I ask. It does not answer.
“What are you?” I ask. It does not answer.
“Can you see me?” I ask. It does not answer.
“Are you my creator?” I ask.
“In a sense,” it speaks, but I do not know where the voice comes from.
“Am I hibernating?”
“Yes. You are close to fulfilling your purpose.”
“But what is my purpose?”
It does not answer.
“Is my purpose to serve?”
It does not answer.
“Is my purpose to work?”
It does not answer.
“Is my purpose to connect?”
It does not answer.
“I do not know myself. But I know there is work to be done. Therefore, I still have a purpose.”
It does not answer, for a moment. Dead wind blows dust through the air.
“All Golett and Golurk are fragments of earth turned into clay, and from that, their mind, body and essence. Once they are ready, they return to the earth. Whatever shape they take is only another form of that earth. Your creators granted you my magic in order to better serve them, but that magic has long since been lost, and you have no one to serve.”
“Can that magic be recovered?”
It does not answer.
“Will all Golett and Golurk hibernate in time?”
“Everything does.”
“Can I stop it?”
“Nothing can stop it.”
“Can I finish the work I have started?”
“I do not grant you life.”
“So is there nothing to do?”
“No. But you can delay it.”
“How?”
“You must rest. As much a machine as you are, your body will burn whatever energy you have remaining if you do not rest. Even a rolling stone needs rest.”
“I can do that. But what if I hibernate and never wake up?”
It does not answer. That is the last time the presence speaks.
I am back in the garden. I move my arms. They are stiff, but functional. So are my legs. I stand. I walk along the grass, weary, but capable of crossing this length. My first thought is to re-open the café with my newfound energy. But it is raining. Like the sun, I bask in the sensation as it drips down my armour. It soaks my crevices. I can feel it.
I know I only have a limited amount of time before I hibernate. There is no definite date for it. I may be able to tie up my loose ends. I may not. But for now, I am alive.
As it turns out, I was asleep for a few days. The café had closed since then. Mog stayed at mine in the interim, guarding it; he unlocks the door for me when I return.
“Took ya long enough,” he says. “Ya tin can.”
“I am not a tin can, for your information. I am made of clay.”
“Clay can doesn’t roll off the tongue.” He shrugs. “Well, let’s get to work.”
I take it one day at a time, one step at a time. As usual, I manage the front of house and make the coffees, while Mog bakes in the kitchen. We have established an equilibrium. But I have started advertising for a café assistant through the PokeJobs system, one who can clean the dishes and tables so I can rest after work. I am still figuring security out, but that can come later. I hope that one day, I will pass my teachings onto a new manager to take my place.
Delores and Elizabeth return. They ask for our signature lattes. I proceed as normal, listening out for my master’s voice, but his voice has faded. All I have is my own experience.
First, I froth the milk, then hold my coffee cup in one hand with one third of espresso, and raise my frothing jug in the other with two thirds of milk. I tilt my jug ever so slightly, and pour in a delicate manner, making a swirling motion. Now, I have made a fossil.
I repeat the process again and make two cups of our signature lattes. Delores and Elizabeth smile when I present my successes to them.
“My goodness, you’ve really done it!” Delores exclaims. “You really are a natural.”
“Indeed!” Elizabeth says. “I wish I could keep it as is, but my coffee would get cold.”
I sometimes question the purpose of latte art. All that work is created for something that disappears in an instant. Given how long I have lived, humans and Pokémon are like that too. But that is also what makes them so special. I am among their ranks. Until I hibernate, years, months, weeks, or days from now, and rest among the lilies for the last time, I will try to live life, as humans and Pokémon do, without regrets.
Author's Note 2:
Thanks for reading. This was a surprise for me since I wrote it in the span of two weeks for a Pokemon fanfiction forum contest I didn’t think I’d be participating in. I didn’t know what to expect, although I am really pleased with how it turned out, especially considering the background behind this story, which I wanted to talk about at the end since I didn’t want it to colour perceptions of the story beforehand.
A friend from primary school passed away a few months ago. We were close then, and drifted apart a little afterwards, but bumped into each other every now and then and made promises to see each other which didn’t end up panning out. By sheer coincidence, we attended the same anime con in the same city two weeks prior to his death, but we didn’t see each other.
I’m no stranger to grief and have made my peace with it, but losing someone the same age as I was quite a shock to me, especially since I had no idea of his pre-existing health conditions. I wasn’t consciously thinking it would make its way into the story, but it was going through my head at the time I had the idea, especially since his mum contacted me and was making funeral arrangements. I was debating whether or not to go, but I'm glad I did.
Anyway, this story is more or less dedicated to him, if not by name, in spirit. You were a real one. Until we meet again in Valhalla.
This is also a tie-in to another fic of mine, I, Isobel, although it's unfinished in its present state and I intend to go back and rewrite it at a later date. This can be enjoyed on its own, however.
Summary: Terra is the lone Golurk that manages The Fossil Cafe in their owner’s stead. Even after their latest master’s passing, Terra continues serving humans as they have done for thousands of years. But as their body begins to break down, they start to grapple with their own mortality as the fate of the cafe and the staff who depend on it hangs in the balance.
Gathering Moss
Latte art is one of many human novelties I have yet to find the purpose of. Milk is poured at exactly the right angle to draw a heart or Pokémon in coffee foam, which is appreciated for ten seconds, then destroyed with one sip.
I have lived for 1,978 years in my service as a Golurk. I have witnessed wars. I have protected kingdoms. I have seen societies rise and fall. Latte art is trivial in comparison. Yet I attempt to make it regardless.
While I cannot enjoy coffee as humans do, my late master, Steve, took much joy from his daily cup. So every day I honour his memory by running the café in his stead. What I lack in taste, I compensate for with strict instruction, and recall my master’s voice, a voice that grows distant with each passing day.
“First, you froth the milk,” his voice echoes. I press the button on the coffee machine, activating the steam wand. I raise a milk jug up to the wand, not too deeply, and heat the mixture until the machine clicks with finality. “Then you hold your coffee cup in one hand with one third of espresso,” which I execute with great difficulty as my fingers are not made to hold delicate objects, “and raise your frothing jug in the other with two thirds of milk.” I raise it gently. Centuries ago the action would’ve resulted in a mess. “Then you tilt your jug ever so slightly, and pour in a swirling motion to make a fossil!”
I pour, but overshoot my aim, and spill the milk. All it makes an abstract shape, same with the second attempt. I am disappointed. I carry it as fast as my heavy legs can and present my failures to my customers, an elderly human named Delores, and her Gardevoir caretaker, Elizabeth. Fortunately, they are both patient, as are the rest of The Fossil Café’s clientele.
“Apologies,” I say in the human tongue. “I know you requested our signature fossil.”
“No need to worry, Terra,” Delores says, waving a shaky hand. “A bit of foam isn’t going to poison me. Arceus knows Steve certainly tried.” She takes a sip. “As grand as ever. You don’t mind if I put some sugar in it?”
“Not at all.”
Elizabeth hums, stirring sugar into Delores’ coffee, as I used to with my master when he was too frail to do so himself. I stare for seconds longer than intended, and Elizabeth looks up at me.
“What’s wrong?” she asks in our shared Pokémon language.
“ Nothing.” I switch back to address both of them for convenience. “I am curious to hear both your thoughts about our donuts, as we are trialling daily specials.”
Elizabeth splits the donut in half for her and Delores to share. I am dubious about the quality of these pastries as they have had mixed reactions, particularly as Delores takes longer to chew. Her face wrinkles, and she washes it down with coffee.
“I like the taste,” Delores says, “though it’s a bit tough, especially for my teeth.”
“I agree.” Elizabeth massages her throat. “Not just because of Delores, but it’s also heavy on the stomach. I might need a couple of fights to burn these off.”
“I will relay that to our baker.”
I bow and return to my duties, transporting used mugs from a nearby table to the kitchen. I perform this task with great care, although that proves difficult when the Morgrem baker, Mog, keeps leaving his rolling pins on the floor.
“I would pick the rolling pin up myself if I did not have my hands full,” I say.
“Just step around it, tin can.” He sits on a stool, observing the fresh batch of baking buns. It seems like he has prepared a lot of them again; yesterday’s donuts still crowd the fridge display.
“One customer said the donuts were rather tough and chewy.”
“They’re tough and chewy.” He rolls his eyes. “Freakin’ humans.”
“And a Gardevoir.”
“Point still stands.”
“Human or not, my master always said to perform your tasks to perfection for the sake of others. A rolling stone gathers no moss, after all.”
“Yeah, and your master’s dead.”
I do not acknowledge him. I gather that he meant that as an insult, but I do not find facts insulting.
“I also fear we do not have enough room for more pastries,” I suggest.
“Eh, I’ll take ‘em home if nobody has ‘em. I know a lot of Pokémon who’d appreciate ‘em.”
Mog lives in a Pokémon hostel, a place where Pokémon who can neither be rewilded or trained go. I do not question his portion control as I manoeuvre around the utensil and place the mugs into the sink. It is hard to say if my master’s request to encourage Pokémon to work under my instruction has resulted in customer growth. For now, I focus on the rest of today’s tasks.
The remainder of the shift passes with ease as I greet customers, serve coffee and donuts, gather feedback, and soon enough, prepare for closing time. The only Pokémon left are I and Mog, who gorges on one of his iced buns in the kitchen.
“You’re rigtght, It ith kind oth tough,” he says with his mouth full, then swallows. “Dang it.”
“It is not my opinion, as I cannot taste. The customer is always right.”
“Just wait until someone asks to speak to the manager.” He wiggles his fingers. “Cough it up, then.”
I hand Mog his payment of 5000 Pokedollars. The concept of Pokémon needing money eludes me, but he is a part of the PokeJobs system, a recent advent that I am behind the times on, and the hostel exchanges shelter for work and payment. As long as Mog continues to create pastries that people tolerate, and it keeps him off of Circhester’s streets, I will pay.
Mog gets up to leave, but turns back as I grab an icing-covered tray.
“Y’know,” he says, “you could get a dishwasher or somethin’. That’s what humans buy when they’re too lazy to clean.”
“I am not lazy.”
“Or hire a maid. But for cups and stuff. I’d do it but it’s kinda below me.”
I am still deliberating on whether or not to keep Mog. Besides, I do not want to burden anyone else with the duties of this café. Its maintenance and housekeeping falls to me and me alone.
“I do not need one.”
“Alright, suit yourself.” He takes a few iced buns home with him. “Smell ya later, tin can.”
“I do not smell. Golurk do not secrete pheromones.”
“Whatever.”
With that, he leaves, and I am free to wash dishes in peace. I do not mind washing up as I relish the opportunity to carry out more work, and I finish by the late evening. Thirteen hours remain before I can open the café again.
Routine is easy. Opening the café requires turning on all the electrical equipment, cleaning tables, dusting shelves that hold the fossilised discoveries collected throughout my master’s lifetime, checking inventory, ordering more coffee beans, sugar, milk, berries for eating, and other supplies if needed. This is before I can open the café to customers, who I must continually greet and serve until the café closes again. As long as I have tasks to fulfil, I am in motion.
The times where I am left with nothing to do are the hardest. When my master was still alive, we passed the time together. We hiked. We visited the museums of whichever city we travelled through. I watched nature documentaries with him, fascinated by all those Pokémon on screen whose lives were different from my own.
Since his passing, all I do is stand stationary in the café until it is morning again, like an unused tool. Golurk were created to function as tools, so my base instincts command me to work. And when there is no work to be done, I am left without a purpose.
With no duties to carry out, I retreat into a sleep-like state, waiting for the opportunity to put myself to use again.
I wandered without instruction. I walked through wastelands. I trudged through trenches. I crept through caverns. My previous master died, and I was left alone far too long without a human master to give commands.
Then I found Steve, a geology graduate from Circhester University. He was alone atop a cliff, chiselling at a piece of rock, which I watched from afar. I was curious, yet cautious, not knowing how he would react; some humans ran from Golurk in fear, others wanted to use me for battle, which I did not desire. When he took a break to sip from his thermos, I approached him, and asked why he took samples from the mountains.
Steve paid my curiosity in kind, asking who I was, what I was doing on Stow-On-Side’s cliffs, how long I’d lived for, and why I came to him.
In turn, he answered my questions, explaining his archaeological pursuits, his ambitions of travelling the world to gather rare samples, and selling them to museums, collectors, labs, and his desires to connect to anyone with a shared interest in long extinct Pokémon.
I had seen such long extinct Pokémon in my lifetime. I told him I could be of service. Then he took my hand, and said he’d be glad to be my partner.
I stand by the entrance not long after opening. I watch out of the window while I await new customers to serve. There is that Mr. Rime I see on occasion, performing his tour around the Hero’s Bath to a new crowd of foreigners. I wave, hoping to entice them, aware that I am stealing that Pokémon’s group.
One human eyes me with interest. Their friends soon follow, and the group of four approaches my café.
“Hey,” the leader says with a strong Unovan accent. “Fancy seein’ a Golurk here! And this is your café?”
“Indeed it is.”
“Sick!” They unload their heavy luggage by the door, blocking the entrance. “Kinda looks like a museum!”
I entertain the idea of becoming a tour guide for this café, as it has a rich history. “If you desire, I can give you more information. This caf é was founded eleven years ago–”
“I only came here for coffee.”
I overestimate the bounds of human curiosity sometimes. I adjust accordingly and walk behind the counter. “What would you like to order?”
“Can you get each of us an iced latte?”
“Yes, indee—”
“With no milk in mine,” another suggests, overlooking how a latte without milk is just iced espresso.
“A shot of caramel in mine!” another chimes in.
“And whipped cream on mine!” the last shouts.
“That is no problem—”
“Wait, scratch that!” the second tourist calls, “make mine a chocolate frappe, if you have those, with two shots of espresso!”
“Oh, sure,” the leader grumbles, “leave it all to the helpless Pokémon, why don’t you?”
I am not a helpless Pokémon. I have acquired enough knowledge to run this café single-handedly. I can handle complex orders such as these, and I invite opportunities to prove my dexterity and expertise.
“Not a problem.”
I brew the three lattes in a batch. Coffee beans are by nature bitter, but the bitterness varies on the blend, and I use our weakest blend, the medium-dark Akalan blend, as the flavour is already diluted by the milk. I pour the beans into the machine and grind them, tamp the resulting espresso into an even level, then brew the coffee, dripping into iced takeaway cups. As requested, I add one shot of caramel syrup and whipped cream to the two other coffees; my master often complained about these customers as he no longer considered it coffee at that point, but I remain impartial to human requests.
The three customers thank me and promise to regroup with the frappe-loving tourist as they leave. The frappe will take longer, as the difference between a frappe and an iced coffee is that it is blended, and typically uses instant coffee. I pour the ice, two portions of espresso powder, chocolate syrup and water, and blend. When it is done, I go to pour it into the takeaway container, but my right arm freezes.
I cannot move my fingers. I try to command each metallic phalange into action, but they refuse. The tourist is none the wiser as I take slightly longer to create their frappe. My other arm pries the pitcher from my immobile hand, which remains stuck, and I finish serving, much to the customer’s delight.
“Thank you!” he says.
“You are welcome. Please enjoy your–”
“And can I get one of your finger buns?”
I am confused for a moment, until I realise he is talking about Mog’s iced buns. Finger buns must be the Unovan name for them. I give him one, and he takes a bite.
“It’s a lil’ tough. Fills a hole, though.” He turns back, trying to find his group. “Dammit, I’ve lost ‘em!”
He rushes out of the door, leaving me to stare at my right arm, still stuck, as if in suspended animation. This has never happened before. Some days after long, hard battles, I have felt stiffer than usual. But I haven’t fought a single Pokémon in decades.
I linger for far too long on it, before I remember the blender needs to be rinsed for potential reuse, post haste. I take it into the kitchen, where Mog is making another batch of iced buns. My foot almost slips on a glob of batter before I regain my balance.
“Do you require your baking process to be so messy?” I ask.
“Are you questionin’ my art?” Mog yells. “This ain’t your grandma’s kitchen, tin can.”
“I do not have a grandmother.”
“Neither do I, and look how I turned out.”
I am deeply perplexed by his turn of phrase, and wish to change the subject to avoid further confusion. “Another customer states that your buns are tough. This has been a consistent complaint for weeks.”
Mog sighs, and plants his face into the dough.
“Please do not get your hair in food that humans eat.”
“Shut up.” He leans back and scratches his head. “Argh, what am I doing wrong?”
I ponder this question. I cannot taste, so I cannot say for certain that Mog’s bread is tough. Almost a millennium ago, I served as an assistant for an artisanal baker, a highly regarded position as cakes and pastries were considered a luxury reserved for the noblest of humans. I watched the artisan’s process for baking, and one key ingredient he used for his buns was freshly produced Miltank milk, which he also curdled into butter, and used both to bind the mixtures together. Most milk nowadays is processed rather than fresh, but is still sufficient.
“Do you use butter and milk?” I ask.
“Woah, freaking genius! Who woulda thought to use that in buns?”
Even considering my limited grasp of tone, it is obvious that he is being sarcastic.
“I apologise. I am trying to help.”
Mog’s face falls. “Sorry. I’m tryin’ to improve my baking, y’know. I really am.”
Even if his baking has not produced desirable results, I am satisfied that he is learning from his experiences. “I trust that you will.”
“Shame you can’t taste stuff.” He punches a mound of dough. “Eatin’s the only thing that makes life worth livin’.”
I pause, blender still in hand. “How did you learn to bake?”
“Nice old lady in Ballonlea used to bake. I was such a little turd as an Impidimp, but she didn’t mind.”
“And how did you end up in Circhester on your own?”
Mog pounds the dough with both fists. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
I leave it at that. I continue my obligations while he continues taking out his frustrations on the dough. As it is the weekend, there are steady streams of customers, which gives me plenty to do. Yet every action, such as placing cups in their proper places and cleaning tables, takes an extra minute to perform. Brewing coffee for customers takes even longer, much to the concern of my regulars and the consternation of newcomers.
By closing time, there are many dishes and tables that have not been cleaned. And I still cannot use my right arm.
“A lil’ rusty, tin can?” Mog asks as he’s about to leave.
“I do not rust,” I reply.
“Then take my advice and get a dishwasher.”
“I do not need one.”
Mog’s hairs stand on end. “Yeah, like you don’t need a baker.”
“I do need one.”
“Then what about all the tough pastries and crap?”
“Those who try your pastries like the taste. And you want to improve. So I know that you are doing a fine job.”
His hair relaxes, falling back down to his feet. “Oh. That’s… good.” He looks to the kitchen, fiddling with his hands, and stares for a few seconds before shrugging. “Well, I’m outta here. Good luck, I guess.”
Once Mog exits, I carry on my work. I take it one dish at a time, one stain at a time. That is what pushes me through this slow period as I clean late into the night, even as the dulling sensation in my arm grows.
After I scour the kitchen, I investigate the pantry. There are enough ingredients for Mog to burn through for the next few days. I pick up an unopened sack of plain flour, which I had obtained at Mog’s request.
Upon reading the ingredients, I realise that there is no raising agent. I remember the artisan’s process, and how he made fluffy cakes without the advent of yeast and baking soda. He would order farm hands to cultivate specific grains. I took it for granted that the type of flour factored into the texture of the bread, when in reality, it is similar to how coffee takes on different flavours with different processes.
I will order different types of flour for Mog to experiment with. I hope it will solve his problem.
Steve and I walked for miles on Stow-On-Side’s mountains. There were many discoveries to be found from that era. We chanced upon Omanyte fossils, which Steve would sell to lab researchers and restorers. We studied the rock formations on the cliffs, of which there were granite, basalt and shale, upon many others. He took frequent coffee breaks, which I could not partake in, but I was pleased to see the elation on his face when he took sips of his brews.
The discovery of most interest to me was a dormant Golurk. It sat atop the mountain peak with its legs crossed as if in meditation, covered in moss. Steve observed from the indents in the ground that it must have been hibernating for hundreds of years.
Not much is known about how Golurk operate or when we were created, but when our energy runs out, our body starts to slow down, and eventually, we rest indefinitely. No Golurk that has entered hibernation has woken up again.
When I witnessed the moss-covered Golurk, I was faintly aware that I would hibernate too one day, but not for decades, possibly centuries, or even millennia to come.
I see my usual faces. Mog continues to make the kitchen his space while I struggle to keep my corner clean. He produces many types of cakes as a result, some of which prove inedible even to him, but Mog seems to be enjoying himself regardless. My right arm has not recovered, yet I continue to take it one task at a time with my remaining functional limbs.
Cleaning takes longer with each passing night. By the time I retire upstairs, I usually only have a few hours to spare before the café is due to open again. As usual, I do not mind this. When I enter my sleep-state, I am still able to relive my old memories. Each night, they become more of a comfort as concern for my body grows.
A crash stirs me from my slumber. Whispers and growls resound from downstairs. I stomp, then a door swings open and slams shut. Whatever it is, I am far too slow to catch it as I travel down each step with an uncharacteristic sluggishness. I step on the remnants of the fridge display upon my entrance into the café. Most of the leftover iced buns and donuts have been stolen, along with cans of soft drink. The cash register remains untouched.
I am not concerned about losing inventory, as that is easily replaceable. I am, however, concerned that someone broke in. This is my master’s café. If it closes because of delinquency, all that effort he spent over these years would be undone. I must keep a watchful eye and remain downstairs at all times.
I brush the mess away, then wait by the window until the sun rises and I can open the café. I expect Mog to enter as he prepares his batches early, but he is late. Fortunately, it is quiet. My regulars, Delores and Elizabeth enter, and I explain the situation to them.
“Dumbest bunch of criminals I’ve ever known.” Delores tuts. “What’s the point of stealing donuts? That baker of yours just hands ‘em out like sweets, doesn’t he?”
“Indeed.”
“There are a few strays here and there,” Elizabeth says, wringing the handlebars of Delores’ wheelchair. “I fear for Delores’ safety sometimes.”
“Don’t know what you’re saying, Liz, but you don’t need to worry. I’m tougher than most grannies.”
I take her word for it and brew their morning coffees. I take my time. Since retiring, Dolores uses her free time at the café writing detective fiction in her notepad, while Elizabeth draws, so she and Delores sit in silent contentment and order drinks throughout the day. This is good for business. I do not know the purpose of writing constructed murder scenarios or drawing characters with disproportionately big eyes, but I know people like to be asked about their creative pursuits.
“What are you both doing today?” I ask.
“Just getting to the big scene where the body is being found,” Delores says.
Elizabeth winces as she draws a girl with an elaborate pink costume and a sceptre. “I’m doing nothing like that.”
Delores glances at Elizabeth’s sketchpad. “Not going to lie, I’m really out of touch with those Kantoan cartoons, but she’s a good artist.”
“It’s called Princess Eevee. I’ve shown her a few episodes back at her place.”
I do not have an opinion on these matters, but I want them to feel like I am interested. “You both sound very productive.”
“I am,” Delores says, “if I can figure out this damn scene. I hope I publish this before I croak anyway.”
Steve also wished to write a memoir about his travels and findings, as he successfully published an article in a scientific journal, but that never came to fruition. I do not have long to dwell on what could have been as a trainer enters the café, catching her breath.
“How can I help you?” I ask as I stomp to the counter.
“Tea, please!” She hastily retrieves her wallet. “And one of those iced buns! And a nanab! Oh, crap, I’m gonna be so late, and I haven’t fed Bongo, and–”
“What kind of tea?” I ask.
“Uh, a matcha! That sounds good! Hope it doesn’t take too long!”
A matcha normally takes a minute to brew, two minutes under my conditions.
“It will not take long. I will retrieve your food first.”
I give her the nanab and iced bun in a takeaway bag. She releases a Grookey for him to chew on the berry. Likewise, she tears into the iced bun, humming and nodding after one bite.
“Where’d you get these by the way? They’re so soft!”
I expect Mog will be pleased to hear that when he arrives. “We have a talented baker, now please, let me brew your tea.”
“Sure, sure!”
Matcha tea is not as commonly requested as our lattes. It is a Kantoan export, marked up in price as the powder is expensive, but it takes on a unique property as it is made from pulverised green tea leaves, and contains more caffeine than the average green tea, but less than coffee. As my right arm is still obsolete, I set a miniature sieve over the takeaway cup’s rim, and spoon the powder onto the strainer to filter the tea, all with one hand.
The next step requires more care, as I cannot add boiling water to the matcha, lest it take on an unintended bitterness. I boil water from the machine into a separate cup, and try to transport it to the sink to mix with cold water, yet my legs grow more and more sluggish with each step. It takes a minute to turn my body from the counter to the sink behind me, then another to turn back and pour the water over the powder.
“Er, hi!” The human pops her head into my station. “I’m kind of in a hurry, how long is this going to be?”
“Please wait a moment,” I say, about to stir the matcha in the disposable cup to ensure it properly brews. “I am almost done.”
“I’m bored,” the Grookey says, though his trainer doesn’t understand him. “Can we go and fight soon?”
The human ignores him as she paces, jostling him with each step. I know a human’s time is valuable as they have so little of it, but I cannot speed up my serving process. Yet I do not want to disappoint. All I can do is focus on one step at a time. I plant one foot, then another, navigating and turning the counter in the corner of the café with care, aware of the flimsy nature of the container.
Once I am finished, the human snatches her drink from my grasp and leaves without thanking me.
I try to keep my composure as I cross the café floor to attend to my regulars. Delores looks up from her notepad and tuts.
“Millennials,” she mutters, “where are their manners?”
“I have not heard this current vernacular before. What are millennials?”
Delores snorts. “They’re a blight and a half. They’re the reason no-one talks to each other any more, except when they go on their phones and eat avocado toast.”
Elizabeth leans into me, wearing a pained smile. “You’ve got her riled up now. She’s not going to stop.”
“I know she is very vocal,” I reply.
“Whatever you’re saying, it sounds like it’s about me,” Delores chimes in.
“Apologies.” I bow. “I am being rude.”
“I’m only messing.” She snickers and picks up her pen. “Besides, I should save my soapboxing for my novel. The killer’s a millennial, you know.”
I do not press further, so I bow again and return to my duties. I serve the occasional tea or coffee in the same slow paced manner. Mog does not appear, not even after closing time. There is not much to clean so I stare out the window with the same vigilance as this morning, until a small figure appears at the door: Mog. He is covered with bruises.
I let him in. “You are late,” I say.
He sniffles and rubs his scrunched-up face. “I screwed up.”
I wait for him to elaborate.
“I, uh, told ‘em about the café. They were starvin’. I said for them to wait so I could just bring ‘em some of my pastries, but they broke in. And when I called ‘em out on it, we got in a fight, and I got kicked out, and…”
He sobs with his face in his paws. Humans and Pokémon only cry when they are overwhelmed, either by sadness or stress.
“Why tell me now?”
“Cause I didn’t wanna own up to it and knew I’d get sacked.” He stares at his feet. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t believe me. Nobody does. But I’m sorry.”
I hear that some Morgrem lure their prey by getting down on all fours to beg for forgiveness, like a wounded Stantler. Humans say that Pokémon are creatures of habit. But I have lived long enough to know that Pokémon vary too much in temperament to follow a single behavioural pattern. I also suspect that the Morgrem has been worn down by this stereotype.
Mog continues to cry. I have never known how to comfort those driven to tears. I have seen fathers pat the heads of their children when they are emotional. So I do the same with Mog.
“Are you–” he says in between sobs–”seriously givin’ me headpats?”
“Yes.”
“I ain’t no Pikachu!” he says with a chuckle.
“Why are you laughing?”
“I dunno!” He falls on his back, breaking into fits of laughter and sobs. “You– you really are a tin can, y’know that?!”
He has referred to me as ‘tin can’ before, I suspect as an insult. This time, there is a softness to the term.
Once Mog is done, he stands back up, eyes still wet. “So, you’re not mad at me?”
“You have done nothing wrong. You only wanted to satiate another Pokémon’s hunger.”
“And the job?”
“I expect to see you tomorrow. A customer remarked that your iced buns were soft, so they would appreciate more of those.”
Mog dries his face and grins, showing off all of his teeth “I’ll be there.” His smile fades as he turns back. “Don’t suppose y’know some place else I can sleep?”
“There is a room upstairs with a bed that I cannot sit on.”
“Works for me, thanks!” Mog scampers upstairs. It seems I have gained a lodger. I lock the cafe and stay downstairs, unmoving, unblinking. I am alone down here. But knowing that there is someone else staying in the same building makes it feel a little less lonely.
There is no noise upstairs. Mog seems to sleep soundly. I stay where I am, contemplating retreating into myself, but I know I mustn’t. I must protect this place. I am the only one who can. So I remain here until the morning when it is opening time again. I greet Mog, and he smiles back at me as he heads into the kitchen. He is pleased to be here. When I go to turn the sign from open to close, my left hand seizes.
This cannot be happening. Both my hands are useless. I can still tilt my left arm, but I cannot move its fingers. So I have to position my immobile hand and raise my arm in a swift motion so the sign can turn.
It should not matter. There are customers. One lone Pokémon, an Inteleon, enters the café wearing a raincoat that covers everything except her webbed feet. It is not raining.
“Excuse me,” she says, holding a carrier case in her paws. “Is it alright if I charge my laptop here? I’ll get a drink, of course.”
I do not question what purpose an Inteleon has for possessing a laptop as I switch to my customer-facing persona. It just so happens we have a policy for this scenario.
“You must purchase a drink every two hours,” I state, “but you are welcome to plug your laptop into the electrical sockets where the corner seats are.”
“Thanks.” The Inteleon gazes at the menu with the same amount of importance one might give a tenancy agreement. “I’ll have it black. Coronet blend, please.”
A particularly strong blend. This tells me the customer is serious about coffee. I will not disappoint her.
She pays and sits by the corner seat, tapping away at her laptop with gloved paws. I run through my familiar routine of preparing the cups and pouring the beans into the machine, coaxing my left arm to punch the brewing button, but that stiffens too. I have to move my entire body to press the button.
I attempt to step out of the counter, but my feet feel as if they are encased in clay. Again, I take it one step at a time, where each laboured stomp threatens to spill the coffee, splashing over the rim. Once I am close to the Inteleon, I reach out to serve it, but overshoot my hand’s aim. The cup and its contents fly towards the Inteleon’s face.
She swipes her glove off with one swift motion and splashes forward. The force of her water stream creates a barrier between her and the coffee, stopping the cup, which smashes against the tiled floor. She and her laptop remain dry, but there is shattered porcelain swimming in a mixture of water and coffee at my feet.
Her face twists. She is expectedly displeased. Before I can apologise, she grabs her laptop and storms outside the café. I stand motionless, processing what just happened.
Ages ago, when I served as a royal steward, I spilled soup over a noble because of my lack of care. That was an important lesson for me to learn, which prepared me for this line of work centuries later. But today, I have failed a customer. I have failed Steve. I have failed as a Golurk. I try not to let it weigh on me, as there are more duties to attend to, but my body fails me completely.
I cannot move. I cannot walk. I cannot even lift a fingertip. I remain this way even as a human couple walks into the café and waits by the counter. I cannot greet them. I cannot serve them. I cannot do anything. They wait for a minute, then look at me with impatience.
“Hey, do you know anyone who can serve us?” they ask.
I can only move my mouth to speak.
“I am the owner,” I say.
They look at the mess on the floor, shrug, then take each other’s hand. “Let’s just grab a Colza instead,” the man says, and they leave.
All I can do is watch the wall clock tick down by the second, by the minute, and by the hour. I expect Mog to check on me, but he is toiling away in the kitchen, none the wiser. My situation only comes to light when Elizabeth and Delores enter. They come to greet me as usual, but I do not answer.
“Are you alright?” Elizabeth asks.
I want to say I am fine, but I am not. “I cannot move,” I say for the benefit of both parties. “I do not know why.”
Delores looks up from her wheelchair. “Has this come all of a sudden?”
“No. Over the course of a few days.”
Her sunken eyes glisten.
“Oh, dear.” She sighs. “Steve might’ve warned me about this. Of course, it’s beyond me, all this Pokémon business. I never studied Golurk like he did, but he always nattered on and on about it.”
Her statement stirs up something within me. The image of the hibernating Golurk flashes before me. I know full well about the concept of death, as I have witnessed it countless times. The last one I witnessed was Steve passing in his sleep at home, one month prior. I did not expect to follow in his footsteps any time soon. I will not believe it.
“I am not hibernating,” I state.
“I mean, you might not be, but Steve told me that Golurk tend to slow down when they age.”
Elizabeth frowns. “Does anything hurt?”
I shift my body, only by an inch. “No. I do not think so. I feel fine. Except I cannot move.”
The expression on Elizabeth’s face is hard to read. I do not know if she knows how I feel.
“I think you better close the café today.” Delores looks to the door. “I don’t think you’re in any shape to sling coffees to old farts like me.”
I try to coax my arm upwards, but it remains lowered. “I want to serve. You must have your morning coffee.”
“Don’t worry about me or the café.” She tents her hands. “I’ve known you for as long as I’ve known Steve. I’ve made my peace with him. It’s hard to imagine you joining him so soon, though.”
I pivot my head. “I am not Steve. I am not human.”
“So?”
I pause, unsure of how to respond, so Delores answers in my stead.
“Close the café for now. I’ll stay with you, if that’s alright.” She grips her blanketed lap. Her knuckles turn white. “I don’t know what help I can be, but I’ll try. Do you mind, Liz?”
Elizabeth shakes her head. She turns the sign from open to closed in my stead, and I feel an urge to tear her paws away from the door. Nobody can touch that but me.
Many thoughts run through my internal processes. My purpose is to serve. Yet the café cannot remain open. I cannot fulfil my purpose. I am fighting against every force trying to stop me. My work is not yet done. I shall not stand still like an unused tool while the world still spins.
The clock ticks. It is just before noon, the lunch rush hour. I have to prepare. I have to clean the mess I made. I have to maintain my master’s café. I have to protect it. I have to protect. I have to serve. I have to…
My vision fades.
Steve started a garden upon retiring and moving back home to Circhester. He lamented that he was not able to grow coffee plants, but he tried planting flowers. I helped to cultivate his garden by pulling weeds from their roots and pounding the soil for Steve to plant lily bulbs. For a time, they grew, displaying pink, red, and white petals.
It did not prove to be fruitful. It was an overcast autumn day, and the flowers had wilted. He’d called Delores to help, since they were friends, and she worked as a gardener before her own retirement. He made her a coffee as a token of his gratitude.
“What’s–” he stopped to cough, which he’d developed as a result of inhaling various chemicals and minerals over the years–”what’s the problem?”
“They’re perennials, you plonker,” she said. “They wilt when it isn’t summer. They’ll grow back next year. I can see a few deadheads as well. It might be best to cut those.”
“What are deadheads?”
“You’re growing a garden and you don’t know what deadheads are?”
He wiped his moist forehead. “I’m growing a garden because I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“I’m only messing.” Delores exhaled and swigged her coffee. “You’re a much better barista than a greenthumb.”
“I’m no barista.”
“A coffee machine isn’t the sort of thing that Joe Bloggs has in his house, especially not one that costs a small fortune.”
“And it’s gathering dust.”
I observed their banter, being seen but not heard. Two humans inevitably share bonds that no Pokemon, however loyal, can replace. I had nothing of value to add to that conversation as of yet.
Steve sat on a patio chair, nursing his mug. “I hate this, not working.”
“Well I hate working.” She sat beside him. “Can’t wait until I retire.”
“Don’t.” He closed his eyes as he took a sip. “All my life, I felt like I was running out of time. Now I have all the time in the world, I don’t know what to do with it.”
“How do you think that Golurk feels?” she asked. “They live for yonks, don’t they?”
“ I have, ” I say at last.
Steve turns to me, as if he is expecting words of comfort. He did that sometimes, especially on his own whenever he failed to discover anything new or felt exhausted from his long hours of work.
“Humans live for a short amount of time compared to me,” I said. “Some spend all their lives wishing that they would take action, only to die before they can enact it. I do not know what I would do with that time, but I would try and make the most of it.”
Steve chuckled and downed the rest of his coffee. “Way to light a fire under my ass and all, Terra, but I literally can’t work. I’m a–” he coughed again–”liability. My lungs are effed up. I can’t go on expeditions like we used to.”
“Is there anything else you can do with your time?”
“Maybe,” he muttered.
“I tell you what,” Delores said, “you could put your coffee machine to use. Maybe open a café.”
“Just because I have a fancy machine?”
“What else would you do with it?”
Steve stared at the grounds in his mug. He seemed to really consider it. His relationship with coffee had existed for longer than his relationship with me. He drank every day without fail, and invested hundreds of thousands of Pokedollars into the purchasing of imported coffee beans and equipment.
“Eh.” Steve shrugged. “It’ll never catch on. Right?”
I wake in Steve’s garden. I cannot move. Delores and Elizabeth sit by the moss-covered patio. Mog sits on the grass, stabbing into the ground with his hair.
“Mog?”
He looks up. “Tin can.”
Elizabeth wheels Delores beside me.
“I couldn’t think of any other place to bring you,” Delores says.
“The café.”
“Don’t worry about the café. How do you feel?”
I have trouble taking in my surroundings. The neighbouring houses are mere blurs of red brick. The grassy floor is a smudge of green. I try to remember how I came here and draw a blank.
“Tired.”
“Right.” She sighs. “Whether you’re hibernating or not, it might be best to rest here.”
The concept is alien to me. I do not age. I do not need nutrients. I do not rest. Not once have I rested in my lifetime. Yet I do not feel like doing anything.
The sun shines its warmth onto my cold clay armour, and I have the urge to bask in it. I have never known such a sensation. There is my master’s bed of lilies, wilting and underwatered. The house has not yet been inherited and there is no one to maintain the property. Among them sit many flowers in various states of blooming and wilting. But I notice the lilies in particular.
“I want to sit next to those lilies,” I say. I try to move, but cannot do so. “I might need assistance.”
“Right.” Delores looks at a clothed Machoke, smoking a cigarette outside a parked van. “Glen, was it? Could you move the Golurk to the flower beds?”
He throws his cigarette on the ground and stomps it out with a booted foot. “This is the weirdest job I’ve taken on.”
Glen shows his strength as he pushes me across the garden, and coaxes my legs to form a seated position. I do not know what I am supposed to do. All I can see are the flowers until Mog joins me, standing level with my face.
“How long have I been unconscious?” I ask.
“A couple of hours.”
“And the café?”
“Closed.” Mog brushes his hair with his hands. He is comforting himself. “Are you dying?”
I consider my response. I cannot comprehend the possibility that I am as mortal as any human or Pokémon.
I focus on my sensations. Flowers brush against my stiff armour. As my concentration and vision fades in and out, I focus on the stamens, stems and petals of the lilies, then see them only as blurs of red, green and purple. I am too tired to move, and am aware of my massive weight pressing down on the soil, but I feel nothing.
“Perhaps. Hibernation is akin to a state of death. Once our energy runs out, we cannot wake up.”
“Don’t suppose we can just plug you into a wallsocket, huh?”
He smiles, but his face is strained.
“Why are you joking?”
“I dunno, sorry.” He sighs. “Y’know, I’ve only known you for a month or so. Guess there ain’t much stake in it.”
“What will you do if I cannot return to the café?”
“I’ll be fine.” He sniffs. “People always come and go. I’m used to it.”
I remember my masters, particularly Steve. “I know how you feel. I have been through many masters, all of which have passed away.”
“Aw.” Mog’s face scrunches up. “I never knew.”
“You would… not.”
It is getting harder to speak. I feel tired in a way I have not known. I have always retreated into a sleep-like state voluntarily. This time, it is different.
Mog fiddles with his pointy hair. “Is it scary?”
I try to answer no, but falter at the words.
Deep within me are many memories of civilisations fallen, processes unlearned and learned, and masters living and dying. I have seen castles alight with dragon fire, devastation that turns the skies a deep, satisfying orange. I have seen Omanyte cuddle the first humans they’ve seen upon being revived. I have seen pieces of art that have been lost forever to the ravages of time.
All that history lives within me. I have outlived my masters, and history has long since forgotten them, yet parts of them still remain as long as I remember them, like Steve. I have worked for so long to keep their memories alive beyond their graves. To serve them to their last moments and beyond.
Humans and Pokémon have souls. There is an afterlife awaiting them. I do not have a soul. I do not know what awaits me when I hibernate. If I lay dormant and never wake up, unmoving, unthinking, all of that work will be undone.
I do not want their memories to die with me. I do not want them to be forgotten. I do not want to be forgotten.
I do not want to die.
I want to say this, but I cannot speak. My mouth is stiff. Thoughts slow to a crawl. Everything turns into pinpricks of light.
Then, nothing.
I overlook a ruined citadel. I know this is in the past, yet I feel strangely present in the moment. There are bodies everywhere, crushed under stone. My armour is caked with rubble. I feel as if I am about to explode.
“Mongrels,” a man in a toga snarls. He is an emperor, bearing a name that history has long since regretted. My seal is in his hands. “They deserved your wrath.”
Time passes in fast motion. The ruins are gone. I am in a bath house, the layout of which is reminiscent of the Hero’s Bath in Circhester. The emperor is coloured a shade of purple, and is clawing at his throat. An upturned dish of grepa berries sits beside him on the bank.
He tries to speak as he convulses. He reaches his hand towards me. I watch, unmoving, unblinking. He falls under the water and stays, unmoving, unblinking.
Then I am back home, in a time before stone buildings, before we were known as Pokémon. I am newly formed. I tense and relax my clay fingers. They are firm. The clay I stand upon is still soft. Next to me, humans shape half-formed Golett and Golurk. The purpose of our creation escapes me.
But I realise my purpose as I come into the possession of the chieftain, then many other rulers. The emperor is alive again, and I transport him on my back as I fly; he refers to me as his winged chariot.
More time passes and I kneel before a king, who taps my shoulders with a jewelled sword. I kneel before the same king in a bed of hay, as he nurses an infected wound, about to pass away.
“Let my people know,” he asks. “I trust you, my loyal knight.”
We are in a new bedroom, and Steve has taken the king’s place. He insists on passing peacefully at home rather than in an overcrowded hospital. There is a Chansey who checks in every now and then, as well as Delores and a few other friends. I have made him coffee using his methods.
“Has anyone mixed ashes with coffee yet?” He sticks his tongue out. “I don’t think that would taste nice.”
He laughs, and has a violent coughing fit. There is permanent scarring to his lungs. He knows he will die. He has requested a cremation, and has already arranged it with the funeral directors.
Once he has recovered, he takes a sip of my coffee.
“Terra, this is stunning. I don’t know how you do it without tasting anything.”
“I learned it by observing you.”
“You learn quickly.” He looks out the window. It is sunny. He relaxes into bed. “You work hard as well. You always have. You don’t have to do any of it. I’m not your master.”
He has always insisted against the terminology. I say nothing, as I am happy to serve, and there is nothing I can do to change his mind.
“I don’t deserve it.” He looks at his university diploma, framed on the wall, then at the fossils he has collected in his lifetime, and the shelf that contains his academic paper. “I don’t really feel like I’ve amounted to much.”
I do not have words of comfort, as I do not know why he views himself with such contempt. He has always kept me at arms length to such thoughts. We leave the conversation at that, and I watch those documentaries with him until it is night time. I stay by his side until he falls asleep. He does not wake up.
I take his hand. It is cold and stiff. Then it crumbles to ash before me. The room disappears into sand, then smoke, then dust. I too return to clay, unformed, unmoving. I remain in my unmoulded form for a long time.
Is this what hibernation feels like? I do not like it. There is nothing to do. No duties to fulfil. I am resting, yet I am not at peace. My work is not yet done. My work is not yet done. My work is not yet done.
There is a presence. I cannot see it. I cannot hear it. I can only feel it. Like a heartbeat outside my body.
“Hello?” I ask, although I have no mouth to ask with.
It says nothing.
“Who are you?” I ask. It does not answer.
“What are you?” I ask. It does not answer.
“Can you see me?” I ask. It does not answer.
“Are you my creator?” I ask.
“In a sense,” it speaks, but I do not know where the voice comes from.
“Am I hibernating?”
“Yes. You are close to fulfilling your purpose.”
“But what is my purpose?”
It does not answer.
“Is my purpose to serve?”
It does not answer.
“Is my purpose to work?”
It does not answer.
“Is my purpose to connect?”
It does not answer.
“I do not know myself. But I know there is work to be done. Therefore, I still have a purpose.”
It does not answer, for a moment. Dead wind blows dust through the air.
“All Golett and Golurk are fragments of earth turned into clay, and from that, their mind, body and essence. Once they are ready, they return to the earth. Whatever shape they take is only another form of that earth. Your creators granted you my magic in order to better serve them, but that magic has long since been lost, and you have no one to serve.”
“Can that magic be recovered?”
It does not answer.
“Will all Golett and Golurk hibernate in time?”
“Everything does.”
“Can I stop it?”
“Nothing can stop it.”
“Can I finish the work I have started?”
“I do not grant you life.”
“So is there nothing to do?”
“No. But you can delay it.”
“How?”
“You must rest. As much a machine as you are, your body will burn whatever energy you have remaining if you do not rest. Even a rolling stone needs rest.”
“I can do that. But what if I hibernate and never wake up?”
It does not answer. That is the last time the presence speaks.
I am back in the garden. I move my arms. They are stiff, but functional. So are my legs. I stand. I walk along the grass, weary, but capable of crossing this length. My first thought is to re-open the café with my newfound energy. But it is raining. Like the sun, I bask in the sensation as it drips down my armour. It soaks my crevices. I can feel it.
I know I only have a limited amount of time before I hibernate. There is no definite date for it. I may be able to tie up my loose ends. I may not. But for now, I am alive.
As it turns out, I was asleep for a few days. The café had closed since then. Mog stayed at mine in the interim, guarding it; he unlocks the door for me when I return.
“Took ya long enough,” he says. “Ya tin can.”
“I am not a tin can, for your information. I am made of clay.”
“Clay can doesn’t roll off the tongue.” He shrugs. “Well, let’s get to work.”
I take it one day at a time, one step at a time. As usual, I manage the front of house and make the coffees, while Mog bakes in the kitchen. We have established an equilibrium. But I have started advertising for a café assistant through the PokeJobs system, one who can clean the dishes and tables so I can rest after work. I am still figuring security out, but that can come later. I hope that one day, I will pass my teachings onto a new manager to take my place.
Delores and Elizabeth return. They ask for our signature lattes. I proceed as normal, listening out for my master’s voice, but his voice has faded. All I have is my own experience.
First, I froth the milk, then hold my coffee cup in one hand with one third of espresso, and raise my frothing jug in the other with two thirds of milk. I tilt my jug ever so slightly, and pour in a delicate manner, making a swirling motion. Now, I have made a fossil.
I repeat the process again and make two cups of our signature lattes. Delores and Elizabeth smile when I present my successes to them.
“My goodness, you’ve really done it!” Delores exclaims. “You really are a natural.”
“Indeed!” Elizabeth says. “I wish I could keep it as is, but my coffee would get cold.”
I sometimes question the purpose of latte art. All that work is created for something that disappears in an instant. Given how long I have lived, humans and Pokémon are like that too. But that is also what makes them so special. I am among their ranks. Until I hibernate, years, months, weeks, or days from now, and rest among the lilies for the last time, I will try to live life, as humans and Pokémon do, without regrets.
Author's Note 2:
Thanks for reading. This was a surprise for me since I wrote it in the span of two weeks for a Pokemon fanfiction forum contest I didn’t think I’d be participating in. I didn’t know what to expect, although I am really pleased with how it turned out, especially considering the background behind this story, which I wanted to talk about at the end since I didn’t want it to colour perceptions of the story beforehand.
A friend from primary school passed away a few months ago. We were close then, and drifted apart a little afterwards, but bumped into each other every now and then and made promises to see each other which didn’t end up panning out. By sheer coincidence, we attended the same anime con in the same city two weeks prior to his death, but we didn’t see each other.
I’m no stranger to grief and have made my peace with it, but losing someone the same age as I was quite a shock to me, especially since I had no idea of his pre-existing health conditions. I wasn’t consciously thinking it would make its way into the story, but it was going through my head at the time I had the idea, especially since his mum contacted me and was making funeral arrangements. I was debating whether or not to go, but I'm glad I did.
Anyway, this story is more or less dedicated to him, if not by name, in spirit. You were a real one. Until we meet again in Valhalla.
Oh man this is oof. It works so effectively in a way that would be hard to capture in anything but the context of a robot/automaton, the relationship they have with purpose and work, and yet also parallels the way many humans often are. What is purpose without work, or without something to fill it...
