Well, I think I dipped my toe enough with oneshots. Now I'm gonna try and go with something a little more challenging. This one's actually something I wrote two years ago, I've cleaned it up a little bit but haven't changed it too much, so that's why it might feel different in style and prose to what I've been posting so far.
Background:
Streets of Lago is a project that's been in my mind for...heck, a decade, the concept behind the story's evolved and changed a lot from what it was when I was fourteen years old, and I've never been able to properly put it down on paper (or doc if you wanna get technical), so I figured it'd be a good way to get back proper into writing stories by finally chaining down these elusive idea in my head.
EDIT 12-12-2020:
So I ended up rewriting the first chapter entirely, that means that if you're reading this you're reading chapter 1 version 2. I did it this way because I was having a lot of trouble deciding how I should properly start the story and tackle all its themes. As thus I ended up changing the structure of the story and even the POV character, hopefully this beginning ends up being even better than the one before.
Summary:
In the Streets of Lago is a story that takes place in the region of Caliorn. There, as its capital, stands Lago City, a city known for its contribution to entertainment and tourism and acts as a beacon for the region itself. However, not all is perfect, Lago's increasing immigrant population as well as gang activity has led to issues popping up around the city and it'll all start to boil over once a normal delivery boy becomes the unlikely friend of a young ex-gang boss looking to stir the pan.
Genres:
Crime, Drama, Adventure, Friendship, Romance, Action, Trauma
It’s your fault.
Screams pierced through shrouded skies, smoke rising from the ground around the bodies littering the floor.
His heart felt like it was being crushed by a graveler. He tried walking forward but found himself reeling as forced coughs came out of his smoke-filled lungs.
It’s your fault
His hands were covered in blood, the blood of other trainers and pokemon, the blood he’d been ordered to shed
With a gasp he threw his head back and heaved, using all the strength he could muster to get up.
Survivors. He needed to find them.
He spun in place, eyes desperately searching for signs of life amongst the sea of smoke and screams.
It’s your fault.
The smoke cleared; what he saw stopped his heart.
Fiera, his arcanine, laid limp just out of his reach. Her cream-colored mane was stained red, masking her in the flames around her due to her already overwhelmingly orange fur.
Deep inside those flames, was a circle of corpses, their skin slowly burning and crisping away, letting out a cloud of dark, foul-smelling, smoke.
A wave of revulsion pulled him away from the sea of corpses in an attempt to keep the vomit down. He covered his mouth with his hands, only to feel the wet blood on his palms, warm and dripping like water.
Slowly his hands rose.
Slowly they draped his face.
He pressed his face hard against his hands, so hard that he felt he was going to tear a hole through it. And then, with all the rage, grief and horror he could muster, he let out an ear splitting scream.
He flew forward, his arm swinging back and hitting the nightstand next to his bed. His eyes bulged; his heart beat against his chest like an electric type about to discharge a thunderbolt.
The scream didn’t let up, even as the image faded away from him and the orange hues and smoke were replaced by darkness and walls. That blood running down his face, those screams drowning out his ears; it made his cold-sweated skin crawl.
As he took in his surroundings the goosebumps were replaced by a new feeling, a softness around his hand that jolted him out of his stupor. Fiera was rubbing her mane against him, her scar-covered right eye facing him and a whimper escaping her mouth.
Once his heart and panting slowed he let his body gently fall back on his pillow, with his beating heart, Fiera’s soft mane and the dull sense of pain in his hand anchoring him to reality.
With newly regained stability he began to gently move his hand across Fiera’s fur, eliciting a soft hum from her.
After recovering his breath he was startled by movement from behind him, only to be met with his deddene plushie falling on his face and rolling off onto the bed. Icarus--his murkrow--was perched on his bed frame.
“No dejar dormir!” Icarus squawked in Surean, eyes narrowed and beak sticking out towards Miguel’s face.
Miguel chuckled at this, using his other hand to pet Icarus’ tuft, and in response Icarus moved his head away. “Perdon, Icarus. Es otra de esas noches,” he replied; Icarus didn’t let up his gaze.
“Just another one of those nights.” He repeated in Aeonian.
Those nightmares had been going on and off in Miguel’s head for the last six months--since the day he left Team Murkrow--like spectres haunting his dreams. Most days he was able to wake up before it got too bad. The problem wasn’t the nightmares after all, but what they represented.
The day his brother betrayed him.
***
Miguel got out of bed and started his routine. Get up, shower, shave--he’d rather shave the five hair that came out everyday than wait however long it took to grow a beard-put on some clothes with an episode of the Thinking Corner podcast in the background. Then, once he was taken care of, go into the kitchen of his studio apartment and fix up his pokemon’s breakfast—a bowl of fiery pebbles for Fiera and Fly By Feed for Icarus—before waking them up. Most trainers dealt with their pokemon waking them up instead; living with a soon-to-be twenty year old arcanine and a lazy murkrow meant he had to carry their mornings
Miguel liked this routine: it kept him focused and gave him a sense of control. Besides, tending to his pokemon became a small pleasure in his life over the last six months, even if Icarus always came out complaining about the sun being too bright or Miguel not feeding him enough.
As if on cue, Icarus squawked. “Mas!”
Miguel chuckled at this. “Bajale dos. Ya llevas tres tasas.” He slid Icarus’ bowl away from him and petted Fiera, who didn’t move her mouth away from the pellets she was chomping on.
“I think we’ve talked at length about the ways in which Lago PD has been confronting rising gang violence in the city. But what would you suggest a normal citizen could do?” his ears perked up from the podcast he was listening to on his phone.
“That’s a really good question, Nadia. Our focus has shifted quite a bit since the Blackwood shooting last month,” the guest replied. “I think the best people can do right now is to better inform themselves and others about the groups and movement combating this issue; gang violence doesn’t exist in a vacuum and it’s something we can’t fix unless everyone accepts that it’s the result of consequences carrying over from our parents’ and even grandparents’ time.”
“Oh, I agree completely, a lot of the time, people just see the violence but they don't think about the people behind it. These are problems that have been in our communities for generations, but historically Lago PD's methods of over-policing have never offered us the solution we needed. And recently, they've escalated to firing in every direction and hoping that'll fix things.” Miguel winced at the last sentence. Nadia’s voice wavered between casual and serious and her last declaration could set off the wrong reaction. Then again, she probably wouldn’t care either way.
“Exactly. That’s why we’re encouraging everyone interested to join us next week when we march through Rainbow Road. We hope that will open the public’s--and more importantly the city’s--eyes to the problems that Lago PD’s overreliance on pokemon and firearms, has spread.”
“Yeah, hopefully that’ll get them to stop talking about the Caliorn Conference for once,” Nadia joked, a slight chuckle escaping her and her guest after she said it. “Anyways, I’m really grateful you could join me today, Amelia. Would you like to remind our listeners about how they could get in contact with the Stop the Spread movement?”
“A high school radio or a podcast, you don’t pull your punches either way.” Miguel shook his head, his own chuckle escaping him.
Realizing he’d listened to the podcast far longer than he’d anticipated--Fiera was already turned over on the floor nodding off--Miguel paused it and pocketed the phone, noting that he had to finish it later and tell Nadia what he thought.
He proceeded to put on a pair of rings, an unzipped black hoodie, and a sun necklace over his plain tee. The necklace was actually Miguel’s Helios Badge, the first badge he’d gotten when he set out on his journey.
Finally, once he checked himself out in the living room mirror, he signaled for his pokemon to line up and allow him to return them to their pokeballs.
He noticed neighbors once he stepped out of his apartment; they were talking by the entrance to their apartment, although anything they said was drowned out by the heavy metal music bursting from the other side.
One of them--a woman with short purple hair--noticed him and smiled, with her male friend following her gaze and nodding to him. Not missing a beat, Miguel nodded back as he walked past them, leaving them to go back to their conversation.
Even with the dirty walls, broken floor tiles, an elevator that hadn’t worked for as long as Miguel remembered, and thin walls that left nothing to the imagination, it was still home, the place he’d lived with his mom and brother.
He made his way down from the third floor and through the courtyard where he saw Benito and Joaquin.The ten-year-old brothers had just obtained their class D licenses and were battling with their rattatas; it would’ve been cute if not for the adults laughing and drinking as they made bets on which one would win. Some of them glanced at him, only for their gazes to lower the moment they met Miguel’s.
That’s exactly how he wanted it, especially after Mr. Gonzales, sent out his machoke against his wife’s not-so-secret boyfriend last month. Miguel and Fiera had to step in to prevent the machoke—and, more importantly, his trainer—from going on a rampage.
Benito spotted him, his face lighting up the moment he recognized Miguel. “Yo, Miguel. When are we having that battle you keep promising!?” he called out, the sudden sound making his brother’s rattatta skid to a stop just before he could reach Benito’s.
Seeing the child’s glee drew out an involuntary chuckle from Miguel, who shook his head at the boy. “Nah, man. You’ll kick my ass...but maybe later,” he added with a wink as he went on his way not seeing Benito walk back and apologize to his annoyed twin brother.
Miguel finally reached his goal, a small stand in the complex’s vicinity. There was a crowd surrounding it, but he could still distinguish the sound of oil bouncing around in the fryer at the center of the crowd. Miguel noticed a way through the crowd from its left and carefully slid himself through it.
“Hey, Miguelito!” came Mr. Palmar’s voice as he turned away from the fryer. He was scooping up a pair of golden fried cylinder-shaped dough biscuits, cheese slowly peeking from the sides.
The sight of the tequeños—a traditional Venitian dish—immediately made Miguel’s mouth water, even as he saw the oil dripping from the strainer and remembered that he was trying to eat more healthy. Eh, he could burn it all later.
“How you doing, boy?” The man flashed him a kind smile as he dropped the cheese-stuffed biscuits into a brown plastic bag, oil seeping into it immediately.
“All good, Mr. Palmar. Coming for my daily dose,” Miguel replied, getting a laugh from the older man. He looked at the crowd around him, all Venitian citizens speaking Surean as they ate. Some broke off as soon as they got their bags, others ate as they caught up on their day to day.
“Aqui tienes.” Mr. Palmar waved another grease-stained bag in front of Miguel’s face. Miguel eyed the crowd. There were still a couple of people without bags and he knew they’d been there before him. “Don’t worry about it.” Mr.Palmarturned towards the crowd. “No les molesta, cierto?” he asked, to which he got a varying degree of nods in agreement.
Not being one to turn away an opportunity, Miguel grabbed the bag and handed Mr. Palmar a 200 uni bill. Then he got right down to eating, taking out one of the tequeños from the bag and biting into it. Flavor from the hot cheese immediately inundated his mouth, awakening his taste buds and causing him to pull his head back as the overwhelming taste washed over him.
“So, how’s business been over here?” Miguel asked as he continued eating. “I heard cops started popping around more.”
“Don’t remind me.” Mr. Palmar shook his head, his hand diving into a yellow bag positioned next to him. He pulled out a tray of raw tequeños and dropped them into the fryer, causing it to sizzle and send oil flying around the edges. “The assholes come out at night too, right when business is booming. I heard last night they took out Marcelo’s cart.”
Miguel nodded his head, eyes drawn to the portable fryer. Lago was strict when it came to who could serve food on the street, you needed a license--what didn’t you need one for?--and to opt for one you needed citizenship; not something first generation immigrants like Mr. Palmar and his family could get so easily. They were left alone for the most part, but whenever street activity increased, so did cops that wanted to make it seem like they were doing their job by cracking down on stands.
“You know, I could do deliveries if you want. They won’t bother me,” he offered, suddenly and without truly thinking about it; after all, he’d been born a Lagonian citizen himself.
“It’s okay, boy. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble if I end up getting caught; I’m already worried enough about my daughter as is.”
Things went quiet between the two of them after that; Mr. Palmar went back to handling the food and customers while Miguel kept eating his breakfast, though he noticed Mr. Palmar’s gaze shifting to him every once in a while. Then, just as Miguel was about to throw his bag away in the trash can next to him, Mr. Palmar spoke.
“So, did you hear about last night?”
“Last night?”
“Your old friends the crows got into a brawl with Seventh’s Manectrics, or so I’m told.” Mr. Palmar’s voice was quiet, his eyes glanced at the crowd to check if someone else heard him. Most didn’t, with the ones that did choosing to ignore the comment instead.
Miguel stood quiet, processing the older man’s words. Then, his face started shifting into a frown, eyes involuntarily forming a glare as his arms tensed up. “What happened?” he asked, his voice now a few pitches lower and firmer.
Seeing the shift in the young man’s expression made Mr. Palmar regret his words, but he knew it was better to tell him than to hold back information. “The battle got heated and one of the Manectrics got killed…they say the new Team Murkrow leader pulled a gun on him.”
“I see…” Miguel’s voice trailed off as he put his hands in his pocket and took out another bill, handing it to Mr. Palmar. “Thanks for telling me.”
Just as he started to turn around the old man spoke once more. “Miguelito, don’t be rash. Otherwise you’ll--”
“I’ll be fine,” Miguel replied, though he didn’t turn back and his voice certainly didn’t sound as carefree as he would’ve hoped it would. “It’s them you should worry about,” he muttered as he pocketed his hands and walked off.
***
Team Murkrow’s rundown apartment building wasn’t a place he wanted to be. Its dilapidated walls, boarded up windows, and front entrance filled with newer members just lounging about were both familiar and also haunting for Miguel.
He’d been just like them before.
That thought crossed his head as he was escorted by a couple of Team Murkrow members--their own murkrows on their shoulders--up the stairs of the apartment complex. The sight of the uninhabited, dilapidated apartments bringing back memories of his own time as Team Murkrow’s leader. He’d resisted the responsibilities of the position all his life, even going so far as journeying through Caliorn.
But Team Murkrow was his family--he had the tattoo on his back to show for it--he’d believed in them, believed he could change them into something different, a place where those that felt abandoned could thrive and feel safe.
But that wasn’t how Lago worked; sooner or later its claws sank in. The violence between gangs, the violence from the police, the sight of his gang members beaten. It’d only left him with a cloud full of trauma and distrust from the rest of its members, especially Juan, who surely blamed Miguel for Team Murkrow’s loss of influence in the city.
Juan, that bastard who would pull a gun on someone knowing full well that Team Manetric wouldn’t stay quiet. Even after the fight they’d had when Miguel left--a fight Miguel won--he’d still go behind his back and get a gun.
The problem wasn’t just the gun--Miguel had seen enough violence to know a gun was hardly the only way to hurt someone. It was how Juan had gotten it. Firearms were outlawed for normal citizens due to their lethality to humans and most pokemon. If Juan found a dealer despite Lago PD’s best efforts, that meant so had the other gangs. Innocent people and pokemon would eventually get caught up in the cross-fire; he didn’t want that to happen.
On the fifth floor Miguel turned towards the apartment at the end of the hall, following the music that reverberated and made the walls bounce as they climbed the lower floors. A frown crossed his face, mind suddenly wondering what Juan might’ve done with the sofa and bookshelves he’d left when he retired; Miguel still hadn’t found a place for them in his apartment.
Stopping just before the apartment--and making sure his two escorts left already--Miguel’s right hand went for Icarus’ pokeball.
***
The studio apartment had changed in some ways and in others stayed the same. The mahogany book shelves he’d had on either side weren’t there anymore, which was at least better than them being in pieces.
The sofa had once held his extensive plushie collection and now looked barren even though two of Juan's lackeys sat there now. A portable speaker boomed from atop a cushion between them.
The one on the right end of the sofa, a girl with short black hair combed to the side, turned to him, allowing him to see the murkrow tattoo marking the left side of her cheek, with the tattoo’s eye being painted around her left eye.
On the left of the sofa was a stockier, male member, his brown hair in a ruffled afro. He wore a black t-shirt, allowing him to show off his arms and the murkrow tattoo on his right shoulder.
They both glared at Miguel for a moment, only for both their eyes to open wide as they realized who it was they were seeing.
The murkrows on their shoulders stood tense and let out a squawk, alerting Juan.
He was reclined with his feet on top of the mahogany desk that used to belong to Miguel’s brother.He didn’t wear a shirt, letting the whole world see the tattoo on the left side of his chest.
Miguel’s eyes fell on Juan, pent up anger beginning to spill out from his gut as he thought back to what Mr. Palmar told him.
At the other side of the room Juan clicked his tongue,reaching up to pause the speaker with his phone.
“A vaina, cuervito. What brings you here?” Juan finally addressed him, a slight smirk on his face; he knew why Miguel was there.
“Cut the bullshit, Juan,” Miguel spat back, clear disdain in his voice as he walked into the room. He glared at the crows on the sofa and then at Juan, who signaled for them to leave the room. They accepted his signal reluctantly and went around Miguel, though not without giving him a glare.
“Geez, man. Don’t see you in months and you come in waving your dick around.” Juan snickered, lowering his legs from the table as Miguel went deeper into the room. Miguel’s nose twitched as a wave of alcohol hit him.
“Someone has to.”
The two stared at each other for what seemed like minutes, with nothing but the sound of Juan’s murkrow picking at his feathers to break the silence. Eventually Juan’s bravado wore down, his suave demeanor replaced by a thumping foot--a sign of impatience Miguel’d grown accustomed to seeing--while Miguel crossed his arms and stood like a sagely tree in front of his ex-desk.
“Out with it!” Juan roared, startling his grooming murkrow.
“You know why I’m here,” Miguel replied harshly. “I heard about what happened last night. Figured you wouldn’t follow your word.”
Juan passed his hand over his head, leaning himself back against the chair as he let out a long sigh. “I knew it’d be bullshit.”
“We made a deal. “
“You think I give a fuck about our fucking deal, asshole?” Juan slammed his hand on the wooden desk, the smacking resounding throughout the room. “The other gangs started invading our territory, taking our members. We had to retaliate. That’s what Team Murkrow does.”
Juan leaned forward with a grin. “After all, it’s what your brother did.”
He had to say it didn’t he?
Miguel walked closer to the desk, eyes opened wide and laser-focused on the older man as he slammed his own hands onto the desk. “Guess what, birdbrain. I’m the one here in front of you, not my brother.”
“Careful, cuervito.” Juan said, voice lower, oozing with menace as he got his face closer to Miguel. “Because I’ve got something worse than what’s on your belt.”
As he said those last words, Juan leapt to his feet, raising the gun in his hand. It was a long silver barrel pistol with a black tinted, straightened, sharpedo skin hilt. Based on the size of the hole at the end of the barrel, Miguel deduced it was a Rock Piercer, perfect for damaging rock types and anything else he could aim at.
“Keep talking shit. Go on. Keep talking shit.” Juan gestured with the gun, his grip tightening around the handle. “You almost drove this gang to extinction when you were boss, and then you expected us to just sit back as it crumpled. We were mocked, treated like a bunch of has-beens. And why? Because of your bullshit crusade in trying to be a goodie-two-shoes.”
Miguel could’ve replied in many ways to Juan’s statement. He could remind him about what happened last year. How they’d lost ten members during his brother’s last job, how their little attempt at proving they were the bigger gang led to one of the city’s worst gang wars in history.
But that wouldn’t have been wise. It would just fan Juan’s flame and unearth Miguel’s trauma, and Arceus knew Miguel needed to keep his composure in that very moment, even as his nightmare came back into view.
“That’s still no reason to go around shooting people,” he replied, taking in a deep breath, hands raised at his side. “Who gave you the gun?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Juan’s smirk returned to his face. “Tell me why I shouldn’t bust a cap on you right now?”
“You’d lose a finger if you did.”
“What?” Juan raised an eyebrow.
A cloud of shadows materialized on Juan’s side.
Icarus’ head popped out of the shadows, beak clamping down on the gun and scooping it out of a startled Juan. Juan whipped his hand back. That was fortunate too; Miguel had been afraid he would involuntarily shoot.
Then, just as quickly as he appeared, Icarus disappeared into the shadows once more and reappeared above Miguel’s head, handing the gun to his trainer.
“Mamaguevo,” Icarus gloated while shooting Juan’s murkrow, a proud smirk.
Juan was still in shock, eyes darting around as he made sure his right hand still had all its fingers. “What the fuck!?” he finally uttered, bravado completely gone and replaced with heavy panting and quivering lips as he accidentally stepped back against the desk.
He saw his murkrow taking on a fighting stance from the corner of his eye but quickly signaled for him to stand down. Even if they were able to take out Icarus it would give Miguel enough time to release Fiera.
“Imagine if you’d shot me.” Miguel shrugged, effortlessly putting the safety back on and letting the bullets hit the floor with a clank as they slipped out of the chamber. “Now that would’ve been stupid.”
“What do you want?” he asked, shoulders tensing up.
Miguel passed the gun back to Icarus, allowing the murkrow to hide it amongst the shadows in its wings.
“I already told you. Who gave you this thing? And are there more?”
Juan got quiet—disturbingly quiet, in fact. His silence worried Miguel even more than his bragging.
“Speak up.” Miguel commanded.
Juan bit his lips as he glanced away from Miguel, hands clenched and shoulders slouched forward like a kid trying to keep a secret from his teacher.
“Fine,” Miguel said with a heavy sigh. “You don’t have to tell me who gave you the gun. Just tell me if there are more. Does Team Manetric have one? Do other gangs?”
“Not as far as I know…for now, at least,” Juan muttered, letting his body fall back on the chair. “Listen, cuervito. These people mean business. Whatever you want to turn Lago into…they won’t let you.”
“I’d like to see them try,” Miguel replied, his voice recovering that harsh tone he held back when he first came in. “As for you. No more gang fights. The next time I hear Team Murkrow’s starting shit, I won’t hesitate to feed your murkrow to Fiera for lunch.” Hearing this the murkrow flinched. Icarus flashed a sadistic smirk.
Juan groaned. “You really want this gang to die.”
“No, on the contrary. I want everyone here to live.”
Miguel turned around and began walking out of the room, only to stop right at the doorway. “By the way … who was it last night?”
“Why does it matter? El hijoeputa está muerto.”
With a pained expression Miguel replied, “Everyone leaves someone behind.”
End of Chapter 1
Next Time: Meeting
Background:
Streets of Lago is a project that's been in my mind for...heck, a decade, the concept behind the story's evolved and changed a lot from what it was when I was fourteen years old, and I've never been able to properly put it down on paper (or doc if you wanna get technical), so I figured it'd be a good way to get back proper into writing stories by finally chaining down these elusive idea in my head.
EDIT 12-12-2020:
So I ended up rewriting the first chapter entirely, that means that if you're reading this you're reading chapter 1 version 2. I did it this way because I was having a lot of trouble deciding how I should properly start the story and tackle all its themes. As thus I ended up changing the structure of the story and even the POV character, hopefully this beginning ends up being even better than the one before.
Summary:
In the Streets of Lago is a story that takes place in the region of Caliorn. There, as its capital, stands Lago City, a city known for its contribution to entertainment and tourism and acts as a beacon for the region itself. However, not all is perfect, Lago's increasing immigrant population as well as gang activity has led to issues popping up around the city and it'll all start to boil over once a normal delivery boy becomes the unlikely friend of a young ex-gang boss looking to stir the pan.
Genres:
Crime, Drama, Adventure, Friendship, Romance, Action, Trauma
Swearing and cursing, implied and possibly visible (though not detailed) drug use, implied sex, corruption, social unrest, exploration of trauma, political critique
Swearing and cursing, slight exploration of trauma and violence, casual gun use. Some dialogue is also in Spanish, it's not important to understand it but I won't translate it either.
Streets of Lago
1st Street: Little Crow
1st Street: Little Crow
It’s your fault.
Screams pierced through shrouded skies, smoke rising from the ground around the bodies littering the floor.
His heart felt like it was being crushed by a graveler. He tried walking forward but found himself reeling as forced coughs came out of his smoke-filled lungs.
It’s your fault
His hands were covered in blood, the blood of other trainers and pokemon, the blood he’d been ordered to shed
With a gasp he threw his head back and heaved, using all the strength he could muster to get up.
Survivors. He needed to find them.
He spun in place, eyes desperately searching for signs of life amongst the sea of smoke and screams.
It’s your fault.
The smoke cleared; what he saw stopped his heart.
Fiera, his arcanine, laid limp just out of his reach. Her cream-colored mane was stained red, masking her in the flames around her due to her already overwhelmingly orange fur.
Deep inside those flames, was a circle of corpses, their skin slowly burning and crisping away, letting out a cloud of dark, foul-smelling, smoke.
A wave of revulsion pulled him away from the sea of corpses in an attempt to keep the vomit down. He covered his mouth with his hands, only to feel the wet blood on his palms, warm and dripping like water.
Slowly his hands rose.
Slowly they draped his face.
He pressed his face hard against his hands, so hard that he felt he was going to tear a hole through it. And then, with all the rage, grief and horror he could muster, he let out an ear splitting scream.
He flew forward, his arm swinging back and hitting the nightstand next to his bed. His eyes bulged; his heart beat against his chest like an electric type about to discharge a thunderbolt.
The scream didn’t let up, even as the image faded away from him and the orange hues and smoke were replaced by darkness and walls. That blood running down his face, those screams drowning out his ears; it made his cold-sweated skin crawl.
As he took in his surroundings the goosebumps were replaced by a new feeling, a softness around his hand that jolted him out of his stupor. Fiera was rubbing her mane against him, her scar-covered right eye facing him and a whimper escaping her mouth.
Once his heart and panting slowed he let his body gently fall back on his pillow, with his beating heart, Fiera’s soft mane and the dull sense of pain in his hand anchoring him to reality.
With newly regained stability he began to gently move his hand across Fiera’s fur, eliciting a soft hum from her.
After recovering his breath he was startled by movement from behind him, only to be met with his deddene plushie falling on his face and rolling off onto the bed. Icarus--his murkrow--was perched on his bed frame.
“No dejar dormir!” Icarus squawked in Surean, eyes narrowed and beak sticking out towards Miguel’s face.
Miguel chuckled at this, using his other hand to pet Icarus’ tuft, and in response Icarus moved his head away. “Perdon, Icarus. Es otra de esas noches,” he replied; Icarus didn’t let up his gaze.
“Just another one of those nights.” He repeated in Aeonian.
Those nightmares had been going on and off in Miguel’s head for the last six months--since the day he left Team Murkrow--like spectres haunting his dreams. Most days he was able to wake up before it got too bad. The problem wasn’t the nightmares after all, but what they represented.
The day his brother betrayed him.
***
Miguel got out of bed and started his routine. Get up, shower, shave--he’d rather shave the five hair that came out everyday than wait however long it took to grow a beard-put on some clothes with an episode of the Thinking Corner podcast in the background. Then, once he was taken care of, go into the kitchen of his studio apartment and fix up his pokemon’s breakfast—a bowl of fiery pebbles for Fiera and Fly By Feed for Icarus—before waking them up. Most trainers dealt with their pokemon waking them up instead; living with a soon-to-be twenty year old arcanine and a lazy murkrow meant he had to carry their mornings
Miguel liked this routine: it kept him focused and gave him a sense of control. Besides, tending to his pokemon became a small pleasure in his life over the last six months, even if Icarus always came out complaining about the sun being too bright or Miguel not feeding him enough.
As if on cue, Icarus squawked. “Mas!”
Miguel chuckled at this. “Bajale dos. Ya llevas tres tasas.” He slid Icarus’ bowl away from him and petted Fiera, who didn’t move her mouth away from the pellets she was chomping on.
“I think we’ve talked at length about the ways in which Lago PD has been confronting rising gang violence in the city. But what would you suggest a normal citizen could do?” his ears perked up from the podcast he was listening to on his phone.
“That’s a really good question, Nadia. Our focus has shifted quite a bit since the Blackwood shooting last month,” the guest replied. “I think the best people can do right now is to better inform themselves and others about the groups and movement combating this issue; gang violence doesn’t exist in a vacuum and it’s something we can’t fix unless everyone accepts that it’s the result of consequences carrying over from our parents’ and even grandparents’ time.”
“Oh, I agree completely, a lot of the time, people just see the violence but they don't think about the people behind it. These are problems that have been in our communities for generations, but historically Lago PD's methods of over-policing have never offered us the solution we needed. And recently, they've escalated to firing in every direction and hoping that'll fix things.” Miguel winced at the last sentence. Nadia’s voice wavered between casual and serious and her last declaration could set off the wrong reaction. Then again, she probably wouldn’t care either way.
“Exactly. That’s why we’re encouraging everyone interested to join us next week when we march through Rainbow Road. We hope that will open the public’s--and more importantly the city’s--eyes to the problems that Lago PD’s overreliance on pokemon and firearms, has spread.”
“Yeah, hopefully that’ll get them to stop talking about the Caliorn Conference for once,” Nadia joked, a slight chuckle escaping her and her guest after she said it. “Anyways, I’m really grateful you could join me today, Amelia. Would you like to remind our listeners about how they could get in contact with the Stop the Spread movement?”
“A high school radio or a podcast, you don’t pull your punches either way.” Miguel shook his head, his own chuckle escaping him.
Realizing he’d listened to the podcast far longer than he’d anticipated--Fiera was already turned over on the floor nodding off--Miguel paused it and pocketed the phone, noting that he had to finish it later and tell Nadia what he thought.
He proceeded to put on a pair of rings, an unzipped black hoodie, and a sun necklace over his plain tee. The necklace was actually Miguel’s Helios Badge, the first badge he’d gotten when he set out on his journey.
Finally, once he checked himself out in the living room mirror, he signaled for his pokemon to line up and allow him to return them to their pokeballs.
He noticed neighbors once he stepped out of his apartment; they were talking by the entrance to their apartment, although anything they said was drowned out by the heavy metal music bursting from the other side.
One of them--a woman with short purple hair--noticed him and smiled, with her male friend following her gaze and nodding to him. Not missing a beat, Miguel nodded back as he walked past them, leaving them to go back to their conversation.
Even with the dirty walls, broken floor tiles, an elevator that hadn’t worked for as long as Miguel remembered, and thin walls that left nothing to the imagination, it was still home, the place he’d lived with his mom and brother.
He made his way down from the third floor and through the courtyard where he saw Benito and Joaquin.The ten-year-old brothers had just obtained their class D licenses and were battling with their rattatas; it would’ve been cute if not for the adults laughing and drinking as they made bets on which one would win. Some of them glanced at him, only for their gazes to lower the moment they met Miguel’s.
That’s exactly how he wanted it, especially after Mr. Gonzales, sent out his machoke against his wife’s not-so-secret boyfriend last month. Miguel and Fiera had to step in to prevent the machoke—and, more importantly, his trainer—from going on a rampage.
Benito spotted him, his face lighting up the moment he recognized Miguel. “Yo, Miguel. When are we having that battle you keep promising!?” he called out, the sudden sound making his brother’s rattatta skid to a stop just before he could reach Benito’s.
Seeing the child’s glee drew out an involuntary chuckle from Miguel, who shook his head at the boy. “Nah, man. You’ll kick my ass...but maybe later,” he added with a wink as he went on his way not seeing Benito walk back and apologize to his annoyed twin brother.
Miguel finally reached his goal, a small stand in the complex’s vicinity. There was a crowd surrounding it, but he could still distinguish the sound of oil bouncing around in the fryer at the center of the crowd. Miguel noticed a way through the crowd from its left and carefully slid himself through it.
“Hey, Miguelito!” came Mr. Palmar’s voice as he turned away from the fryer. He was scooping up a pair of golden fried cylinder-shaped dough biscuits, cheese slowly peeking from the sides.
The sight of the tequeños—a traditional Venitian dish—immediately made Miguel’s mouth water, even as he saw the oil dripping from the strainer and remembered that he was trying to eat more healthy. Eh, he could burn it all later.
“How you doing, boy?” The man flashed him a kind smile as he dropped the cheese-stuffed biscuits into a brown plastic bag, oil seeping into it immediately.
“All good, Mr. Palmar. Coming for my daily dose,” Miguel replied, getting a laugh from the older man. He looked at the crowd around him, all Venitian citizens speaking Surean as they ate. Some broke off as soon as they got their bags, others ate as they caught up on their day to day.
“Aqui tienes.” Mr. Palmar waved another grease-stained bag in front of Miguel’s face. Miguel eyed the crowd. There were still a couple of people without bags and he knew they’d been there before him. “Don’t worry about it.” Mr.Palmarturned towards the crowd. “No les molesta, cierto?” he asked, to which he got a varying degree of nods in agreement.
Not being one to turn away an opportunity, Miguel grabbed the bag and handed Mr. Palmar a 200 uni bill. Then he got right down to eating, taking out one of the tequeños from the bag and biting into it. Flavor from the hot cheese immediately inundated his mouth, awakening his taste buds and causing him to pull his head back as the overwhelming taste washed over him.
“So, how’s business been over here?” Miguel asked as he continued eating. “I heard cops started popping around more.”
“Don’t remind me.” Mr. Palmar shook his head, his hand diving into a yellow bag positioned next to him. He pulled out a tray of raw tequeños and dropped them into the fryer, causing it to sizzle and send oil flying around the edges. “The assholes come out at night too, right when business is booming. I heard last night they took out Marcelo’s cart.”
Miguel nodded his head, eyes drawn to the portable fryer. Lago was strict when it came to who could serve food on the street, you needed a license--what didn’t you need one for?--and to opt for one you needed citizenship; not something first generation immigrants like Mr. Palmar and his family could get so easily. They were left alone for the most part, but whenever street activity increased, so did cops that wanted to make it seem like they were doing their job by cracking down on stands.
“You know, I could do deliveries if you want. They won’t bother me,” he offered, suddenly and without truly thinking about it; after all, he’d been born a Lagonian citizen himself.
“It’s okay, boy. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble if I end up getting caught; I’m already worried enough about my daughter as is.”
Things went quiet between the two of them after that; Mr. Palmar went back to handling the food and customers while Miguel kept eating his breakfast, though he noticed Mr. Palmar’s gaze shifting to him every once in a while. Then, just as Miguel was about to throw his bag away in the trash can next to him, Mr. Palmar spoke.
“So, did you hear about last night?”
“Last night?”
“Your old friends the crows got into a brawl with Seventh’s Manectrics, or so I’m told.” Mr. Palmar’s voice was quiet, his eyes glanced at the crowd to check if someone else heard him. Most didn’t, with the ones that did choosing to ignore the comment instead.
Miguel stood quiet, processing the older man’s words. Then, his face started shifting into a frown, eyes involuntarily forming a glare as his arms tensed up. “What happened?” he asked, his voice now a few pitches lower and firmer.
Seeing the shift in the young man’s expression made Mr. Palmar regret his words, but he knew it was better to tell him than to hold back information. “The battle got heated and one of the Manectrics got killed…they say the new Team Murkrow leader pulled a gun on him.”
“I see…” Miguel’s voice trailed off as he put his hands in his pocket and took out another bill, handing it to Mr. Palmar. “Thanks for telling me.”
Just as he started to turn around the old man spoke once more. “Miguelito, don’t be rash. Otherwise you’ll--”
“I’ll be fine,” Miguel replied, though he didn’t turn back and his voice certainly didn’t sound as carefree as he would’ve hoped it would. “It’s them you should worry about,” he muttered as he pocketed his hands and walked off.
***
Team Murkrow’s rundown apartment building wasn’t a place he wanted to be. Its dilapidated walls, boarded up windows, and front entrance filled with newer members just lounging about were both familiar and also haunting for Miguel.
He’d been just like them before.
That thought crossed his head as he was escorted by a couple of Team Murkrow members--their own murkrows on their shoulders--up the stairs of the apartment complex. The sight of the uninhabited, dilapidated apartments bringing back memories of his own time as Team Murkrow’s leader. He’d resisted the responsibilities of the position all his life, even going so far as journeying through Caliorn.
But Team Murkrow was his family--he had the tattoo on his back to show for it--he’d believed in them, believed he could change them into something different, a place where those that felt abandoned could thrive and feel safe.
But that wasn’t how Lago worked; sooner or later its claws sank in. The violence between gangs, the violence from the police, the sight of his gang members beaten. It’d only left him with a cloud full of trauma and distrust from the rest of its members, especially Juan, who surely blamed Miguel for Team Murkrow’s loss of influence in the city.
Juan, that bastard who would pull a gun on someone knowing full well that Team Manetric wouldn’t stay quiet. Even after the fight they’d had when Miguel left--a fight Miguel won--he’d still go behind his back and get a gun.
The problem wasn’t just the gun--Miguel had seen enough violence to know a gun was hardly the only way to hurt someone. It was how Juan had gotten it. Firearms were outlawed for normal citizens due to their lethality to humans and most pokemon. If Juan found a dealer despite Lago PD’s best efforts, that meant so had the other gangs. Innocent people and pokemon would eventually get caught up in the cross-fire; he didn’t want that to happen.
On the fifth floor Miguel turned towards the apartment at the end of the hall, following the music that reverberated and made the walls bounce as they climbed the lower floors. A frown crossed his face, mind suddenly wondering what Juan might’ve done with the sofa and bookshelves he’d left when he retired; Miguel still hadn’t found a place for them in his apartment.
Stopping just before the apartment--and making sure his two escorts left already--Miguel’s right hand went for Icarus’ pokeball.
***
The studio apartment had changed in some ways and in others stayed the same. The mahogany book shelves he’d had on either side weren’t there anymore, which was at least better than them being in pieces.
The sofa had once held his extensive plushie collection and now looked barren even though two of Juan's lackeys sat there now. A portable speaker boomed from atop a cushion between them.
The one on the right end of the sofa, a girl with short black hair combed to the side, turned to him, allowing him to see the murkrow tattoo marking the left side of her cheek, with the tattoo’s eye being painted around her left eye.
On the left of the sofa was a stockier, male member, his brown hair in a ruffled afro. He wore a black t-shirt, allowing him to show off his arms and the murkrow tattoo on his right shoulder.
They both glared at Miguel for a moment, only for both their eyes to open wide as they realized who it was they were seeing.
The murkrows on their shoulders stood tense and let out a squawk, alerting Juan.
He was reclined with his feet on top of the mahogany desk that used to belong to Miguel’s brother.He didn’t wear a shirt, letting the whole world see the tattoo on the left side of his chest.
Miguel’s eyes fell on Juan, pent up anger beginning to spill out from his gut as he thought back to what Mr. Palmar told him.
At the other side of the room Juan clicked his tongue,reaching up to pause the speaker with his phone.
“A vaina, cuervito. What brings you here?” Juan finally addressed him, a slight smirk on his face; he knew why Miguel was there.
“Cut the bullshit, Juan,” Miguel spat back, clear disdain in his voice as he walked into the room. He glared at the crows on the sofa and then at Juan, who signaled for them to leave the room. They accepted his signal reluctantly and went around Miguel, though not without giving him a glare.
“Geez, man. Don’t see you in months and you come in waving your dick around.” Juan snickered, lowering his legs from the table as Miguel went deeper into the room. Miguel’s nose twitched as a wave of alcohol hit him.
“Someone has to.”
The two stared at each other for what seemed like minutes, with nothing but the sound of Juan’s murkrow picking at his feathers to break the silence. Eventually Juan’s bravado wore down, his suave demeanor replaced by a thumping foot--a sign of impatience Miguel’d grown accustomed to seeing--while Miguel crossed his arms and stood like a sagely tree in front of his ex-desk.
“Out with it!” Juan roared, startling his grooming murkrow.
“You know why I’m here,” Miguel replied harshly. “I heard about what happened last night. Figured you wouldn’t follow your word.”
Juan passed his hand over his head, leaning himself back against the chair as he let out a long sigh. “I knew it’d be bullshit.”
“We made a deal. “
“You think I give a fuck about our fucking deal, asshole?” Juan slammed his hand on the wooden desk, the smacking resounding throughout the room. “The other gangs started invading our territory, taking our members. We had to retaliate. That’s what Team Murkrow does.”
Juan leaned forward with a grin. “After all, it’s what your brother did.”
He had to say it didn’t he?
Miguel walked closer to the desk, eyes opened wide and laser-focused on the older man as he slammed his own hands onto the desk. “Guess what, birdbrain. I’m the one here in front of you, not my brother.”
“Careful, cuervito.” Juan said, voice lower, oozing with menace as he got his face closer to Miguel. “Because I’ve got something worse than what’s on your belt.”
As he said those last words, Juan leapt to his feet, raising the gun in his hand. It was a long silver barrel pistol with a black tinted, straightened, sharpedo skin hilt. Based on the size of the hole at the end of the barrel, Miguel deduced it was a Rock Piercer, perfect for damaging rock types and anything else he could aim at.
“Keep talking shit. Go on. Keep talking shit.” Juan gestured with the gun, his grip tightening around the handle. “You almost drove this gang to extinction when you were boss, and then you expected us to just sit back as it crumpled. We were mocked, treated like a bunch of has-beens. And why? Because of your bullshit crusade in trying to be a goodie-two-shoes.”
Miguel could’ve replied in many ways to Juan’s statement. He could remind him about what happened last year. How they’d lost ten members during his brother’s last job, how their little attempt at proving they were the bigger gang led to one of the city’s worst gang wars in history.
But that wouldn’t have been wise. It would just fan Juan’s flame and unearth Miguel’s trauma, and Arceus knew Miguel needed to keep his composure in that very moment, even as his nightmare came back into view.
“That’s still no reason to go around shooting people,” he replied, taking in a deep breath, hands raised at his side. “Who gave you the gun?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Juan’s smirk returned to his face. “Tell me why I shouldn’t bust a cap on you right now?”
“You’d lose a finger if you did.”
“What?” Juan raised an eyebrow.
A cloud of shadows materialized on Juan’s side.
Icarus’ head popped out of the shadows, beak clamping down on the gun and scooping it out of a startled Juan. Juan whipped his hand back. That was fortunate too; Miguel had been afraid he would involuntarily shoot.
Then, just as quickly as he appeared, Icarus disappeared into the shadows once more and reappeared above Miguel’s head, handing the gun to his trainer.
“Mamaguevo,” Icarus gloated while shooting Juan’s murkrow, a proud smirk.
Juan was still in shock, eyes darting around as he made sure his right hand still had all its fingers. “What the fuck!?” he finally uttered, bravado completely gone and replaced with heavy panting and quivering lips as he accidentally stepped back against the desk.
He saw his murkrow taking on a fighting stance from the corner of his eye but quickly signaled for him to stand down. Even if they were able to take out Icarus it would give Miguel enough time to release Fiera.
“Imagine if you’d shot me.” Miguel shrugged, effortlessly putting the safety back on and letting the bullets hit the floor with a clank as they slipped out of the chamber. “Now that would’ve been stupid.”
“What do you want?” he asked, shoulders tensing up.
Miguel passed the gun back to Icarus, allowing the murkrow to hide it amongst the shadows in its wings.
“I already told you. Who gave you this thing? And are there more?”
Juan got quiet—disturbingly quiet, in fact. His silence worried Miguel even more than his bragging.
“Speak up.” Miguel commanded.
Juan bit his lips as he glanced away from Miguel, hands clenched and shoulders slouched forward like a kid trying to keep a secret from his teacher.
“Fine,” Miguel said with a heavy sigh. “You don’t have to tell me who gave you the gun. Just tell me if there are more. Does Team Manetric have one? Do other gangs?”
“Not as far as I know…for now, at least,” Juan muttered, letting his body fall back on the chair. “Listen, cuervito. These people mean business. Whatever you want to turn Lago into…they won’t let you.”
“I’d like to see them try,” Miguel replied, his voice recovering that harsh tone he held back when he first came in. “As for you. No more gang fights. The next time I hear Team Murkrow’s starting shit, I won’t hesitate to feed your murkrow to Fiera for lunch.” Hearing this the murkrow flinched. Icarus flashed a sadistic smirk.
Juan groaned. “You really want this gang to die.”
“No, on the contrary. I want everyone here to live.”
Miguel turned around and began walking out of the room, only to stop right at the doorway. “By the way … who was it last night?”
“Why does it matter? El hijoeputa está muerto.”
With a pained expression Miguel replied, “Everyone leaves someone behind.”
End of Chapter 1
Next Time: Meeting
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