Heeeeey, this fic isn't dead (yet) after months of life getting in the way with me slowly chipping away at writing (and then editing) chapter 2, it's finally time for it to see the light of day.
Admittedly I'm actually a bit nervous about this since chapter 2 was originally conceived as a transition chapter...but now it's a lot more than that...and it's also longer as well, which I feel bad about to be honest, I'll try to space my chapters out to know if I should divide them in case that they get as long as this but hopefully the next few chapters shouldn't be so long.
So yeah, here we pick back up with Miguel after last chapter's revelation of guns possibly spreading through Lago. With no clues on who's distributing or if more of them will pop up, Miguel sure has his work cut out for him.
From now I'll also be putting these * signs for when characters say more complicated spanish phrases, translations will be listed at the end of the chapter.
Before starting I want to thank everyone for reviewing chapter 1, I'll try my best to reply to all the (months old) reviews over the next couple of weeks and note down all suggestions. Thanks again and I hope that you enjoy this chapter (pls don't kill me)
Also I just want to give a big shoutout to @WildBoots for editing this chapter like a champ, I owe her a virtual beer.
“Give me like twenty of those tickets, will ya, Maurice. I got a good feeling today.” the clerk groaned, followed by a slight rustling sound as he, Miguel assumed, took out some lottery tickets from the stand at the edge of the counter.
“You still on about winning that shit? Why don’t you go buy your wife something nice instead.”
“I told you, I’ve got a good feeling!” he replied with confidence; though his words did nothing in dissuading the clerk’s unease.
“Whatever. I’m not your accountant.”
Miguel tried his best to tune out the conversation, but it was hard not to hear when the store was otherwise so quiet. The only other sound came from the old CRT TV hanging by the corner of the store.
Miguel held his hand up, covering a yawn as he glanced at the packaged sandwiches lining the shelf. A simple ham or a tuna sandwich would get the job done, but the beer dripping condensation down his hand urged him to go for something that would pair nicely with it.
Red pepper and chicken. It’d complement nicely if he added the hot sauce from home.
No, a convenience store dinner wasn’t the best--and he’d already eaten those tequeños for breakfast as well--but after the day he’d had, he wasn’t in the mood to spend an hour cooking. Besides, if he was resigning himself to eating a sandwich, he could at least make it a “fancy” one.
Juan didn’t know anything about the man he shot the night before--neither did the other crows he’d asked. After that he went around Calle Ocho and the surrounding area in hopes of finding any information on the gun’s origin.
He knew it wasn’t going to be easy to find leads; if Juan wasn’t willing to let out a peep to him about it the chances of other gang members doing it would be slim. However, it seemed like everyone else he’d asked, from street food vendors to local gossips,had no idea.
“Hmmmm. I could call Bit..." he muttered to himself. Bit was one of the best hackers in the city, they could help him find what he was after--for a pretty penny, of course, something Miguel didn’t have at the moment. With a sigh, Miguel decided to think about it tomorrow; there was nothing a good night of rest couldn’t fix.
With a sandwich in one hand and a beer in the other he made his way through the aisle towards the counter, now noticing the line that had formed.
I hope this doesn’t happen with the guns too.
In an attempt to keep those thoughts from coming back, he turned towards the TV. Commentators were making predictions about the upcoming Lago Conference Finals.
The Lago Conference.
Another memory he’d rather not think about.
However, the spokeswoman’s voice caught his attention before he could tune it out.
“We’ve talked a lot about possible matchups and strategies, but let’s talk about what the people really care about: who deserves the prize most, Charles?”
“Hah, if I had a uni for every post I’ve read about that I’d be rich!” The co-host let out an exaggerated laugh as he leaned back on his chair. “That said, I think we can all agree that one of the most interesting candidates is Jordan Nuñez.”
The image and the name jogged Miguel’s memory as he looked at the dark-skinned young man on screen: his aloof smirk and the scar on the left side of his upper lip especially.
The hair was different, but even with the side fade and messy curls, the memory of those nights he and Jordan spent sleeping by a campfire on the outskirts of Dustbone Town still burned in his mind. It was the best a couple of borderline-broke trainers could do with the Pokemon Center at full capacity.
The spokeswoman continued, “This will be the so-called ‘Lago Golden Boy’s third conference, and a lot of people think he’s gunning for a comeback after last year’s semi-final. He’s garnered a lot of attention after clinching second place at the U-21 Ultra Cup, and winning here could finally be his chance to go pro after what’s been a rather tumultuous career.”
A frown crossed Miguel’s face. Jordan always said his dream was to get into the Pro League. Miguel hadn’t shared that dream: it was more about the journey for him. But he could relate to Jordan’s desire to get himself out of the streets and prove his worth. Even after Miguel stopped his training career, he’d still wished Jordan could reach that dream.
If Miguel hadn’t quit--if he hadn’t joined Team Murkrow--would he and Jordan be battling in the league now? Just like it was back when the world seemed so much bigger?
“It’s true that Nuñez’s is someone to watch out for,” Charles cut in. “But I wouldn’t say he’s pro material yet.” Jordan’s image disappeared from the screen.
“He’s got the skills and dedication, don’t get me wrong. But he’s been a trainer for almost five years now and his performance has been all over the place. It’s hard to enter the Pro League, it’s harder to stay in it.”
“Oh?” The spokesman said, raising an eyebrow at her. “So your money’s on Alois.”
“That’s right, Lin. Alois might still be new to the scene, but he managed to get his badges in record time.”
“And there's Hogan the Incineroar!" Onscreen, an incineroar slipped through a barrage of icicles, closing the distance between the abomasnow on the other side and firing a blast of flames. "It's like watching one of those old Masked Royale videos, how he’s able to work up the crowd and get out of any situation. Fans are already calling him the Leon of Caliorn, and we certainly need one of those after the last few years.” Now the screen showed a clip of Alois and his incineroar standing in the middle of a crowd; the teenage trainer brushed his hand through his blond hair before he and his pokemon partner each threw up a hand in a practiced pose, a confident smirk on each of their faces.
Miguel clenched the beer can as the man spoke, not realizing until it dented. Marketability was a constant when it came to competing in the league. So many trainers went around trying to create characters for themselves, targeting a specific niche; if you didn’t, you got the boot.
Alois DeRose was perfect for the job. The son of a Caliornian actress and Kalosian fashion designer and entrepreneur, he was raised in Roselia Way in North Lago. He got an official league-sanctioned starter, something that only those that passed--and could afford--the special Pokemon League test could obtain.
Passing that test already opened doors for a new trainer; news outlets watched and gym leaders took more of an interest.
A different breed from Jordan and him.
“Hey, kid. You buying or what?”
That snapped Miguel out of it. The fat store clerk glanced firmly at Miguel before shifting to the items he was holding.
Miguel turned and flashed the man a smile, nodding. “Sorry. Cable at home is busted so I haven’t been able to follow the League,” he said with a laugh as he put the beer and sandwich down on the counter.
“A big money dump is what it is,” The man groaned, passing Miguel’s purchases over the scanner.. “But well, maybe that Alois kid will get me some money back,” he added with a scoff.
“I don’t know.” Miguel shrugged, grabbing his items and making for the entrance. Then, just before he got to the door he stopped and said, “Do you know the difference between a poochyena pup and a newly evolved mightyena?”
“Hm?” the man raised an eyebrow.
“The poochyena has his whole future ahead of him. He has nothing to lose,” Miguel replied, his voice becoming colder. “A mightyena doesn’t have that luxury. He’s only getting older.”
***
The setting sun was descending over the city, casting wide shadows across Miguel’s apartment complex. Calle Ocho’s streets were littered with street vendors trying to get the attention of any passerby. Miguel glanced at an old Surean woman sitting next to a tower of egg cartons. He recalled Mr. Palmar’s complaint about cops asking for permits at night; imagining an old lady having to carry all those eggs left a solemn expression on Miguel’s face.
Mr. Palmar wasn’t in his usual spot. Even with all the other food carts and stalls, his was gathering the biggest crowd.The way he attended his customers--laughing and making small talk despite the sweat falling down his face, all while attending the fryer--was commendable.
“Yo, Mr.Palmar. Gonna pull another all-nighter?” he called out to him behind the crowd, a smile on his face as the older man picked him out and waved.
“Ojala, mijo. Ojala.” he laughed back as he fished out a few more tequeños from the fryer. “What about you? I’ve got a few with your name on it if you want.”
Miguel felt his stomach grumble; it was tempting, but he’d promised himself not to. “Nah. Got my feast right here,” he said while holding the bag up.
“Pffft. That’s no dinner.”
“Qué será, sera.” Miguel shrugged before waving goodbye to Mr. Palmar and walking inside his apartment complex.
“Miguel!”
Miguel saw Benito running towards him as soon as he walked inside the complex. His rattata struggled to keep up behind him. Its breathing was labored and its body swayed as if it was barely able to stand.
“Hey there, squirt. Don’t tell me you spent your whole Saturday training,” he said, kneeling down to pet the rattata. It wasn’t weird for kids to slip up when it came to tending to their pokemon, not when they got their D class licenses at such a young age. Unfortunately, that meant they wanted to try and act like the bigshot trainers they saw on TV, even if that meant training their pokemon until they were ragged.
“Of course. Ricardo and I have to be ready for when we set out on our journeys!” he replied, a proud smirk on his face.
“That won’t be till you’re fifteen, fourteen if you’re lucky.” Miguel sighed and shook his head at the boy. “Training is more than just battling. That--” he pointed at his rattata. “--can’t happen. Your pokemon’s your partner, you don’t let your partners fight till they drop. Me entendeis?”
“But can’t I just heal him afterwards?” Benito pouted.
“And who buys those healing items for you?” Miguel asked, leaning forward and giving the little kid a stern expression.
“...my mom.”
Miguel brushed his hand through the rattata’s hair again. He smiled as it rubbed its head all over his hand before saying. “Exactly, and your mom’s money doesn’t grow on trees. If you want, I can give you some of my notes later,”
The boy raised his eyebrow in confusion, almost making Miguel chuckle at how puzzled Benito looked; he remembered when he himself realized all the little details that went into caring for pokemon.
“There’s ways for you to tend to your pokemon even without centers and items.” he lifted the rattata off the floor gently and instructed Benito to open his arms to carry it. “Carrying or putting your pokemon inside their ball and then letting them rest outside of the pokeball, first aid, nutrition. All of these are stuff that can help a pokemon heal naturally...depending on its condition of course.”
Benito groaned, like the one a kid would give after being scolded by a parent. “Fine. Anyways, your girlfriend's here to see you.”
Miguel didn’t reply at first. Instead he just blinked, processing what Benito said. He raised his eyebrow after a second, doubt and confusion in his face. “My what?”
“Tu sabes. The girl that comes to visit you sometimes. She was carrying a pizza too, from Argentino’s.”
“Oh. That’s just Nadia.” Miguel put his hand on his chest and let out a sigh, realizing who Benito was talking about. The last thing he needed was some random girl he didn’t know claiming to be his girlfriend. “We’re not like that.”
“She cute though. I’d tap that.”
Miguel covered his mouth in a faint attempt to stop his laughter “...your cousin said that didn’t he?”
Benito visibly shook when he heard Miguel’s claims, his eyes looking away from the young man as if trying to hide something. “I-I mean, isn’t that just what cool guys say?”
“Don’t be that kind of cool guy. And you’re too young to say stuff like that anyway.” Miguel added, turning away from Benito and towards the stairs going up his building.
“I’m eleven, though!” he heard Benito call out from behind him.
“Exactly,” he said as he walked off. “And that rattata better be in tip-top shape next time I see it!”
Miguel didn’t have to walk too far past the third floor landing to see his guest. Nadia stood firmly in front of his door, white hoodie drawn over her head completely. As Benito had promised, she held up a pizza box in her right hand.
She scowled when their eyes met, and Miguel couldn’t help but grin.
“You know you could’ve just called right?” he said with a smile as he walked over to her.
Her scowl became a smirk, body half turning to allow Miguel a full view of the pizza box. “I figured your bum ass would just be sleeping it off. What better way to wake up than a surprise pizza and a pretty girl.”
“That’s the kind of thing that gets little kids thinking we’re a thing,” Miguel replied sheepishly and slipped by her so he could stand between her and the door.
“Ya quisieras,” she added, rolling her eyes. “Be happy I brought pizza,” she fired back.
Immediately his eyes fell for the box. Argentino’s usually had a hint of what flavor was inside plastered in the box. In this case, the box was marked with a golden olive surrounded by more golden waves on the side.
Miguel frowned. “You rock up all of a sudden and bring...olives?”
“Tu favorita,” Nadia replied with a cheeky grin.
“No. It’s your favorite.”
“That’s what I said,” Nadia clarified, eyes signaling towards the door. “Can you let me in, please? Don’t want the pizza to get cold.”
He was glad to see her, but a part of him still wondered why she was there. Their mother’s friendship led to the two of them being raised as cousins despite not sharing blood. In fact, her mothers had been taking care of Miguel since he left Team Murkrow.
Truth be told, it wasn’t hard for him to figure out what that reason for her presence was. Word on Team Murkrow’s recent escapade must’ve spread like wildfire. Nadia was probably trying to make sure he hadn’t gone and done something stupid.
He hadn’t. Yet.
But why would she try to hide her face? People around here knew her pretty well. Little Benito wasn’t the only one who assumed they were together--or at least got in the sack with each other. Then it dawned on him. He’d heard about Tia Camila running for Lago’s City Council. Maybe Nadia didn’t want people to associate her mom with Calle Ocho with all the Team Murkrow stuff going on.
He’d have to ask later.
He quickly opened the door to his studio apartment--making sure to let Nadia walk in first so she could put the pizza on the counter. Immediately upon closing the door, he let his pokemon out. Fiera didn’t hesitate to run up to Nadia, her tail practically wiping the wall with its cheerful wagging as she nudged at Nadia’s leg with her head.
“Awww, I missed you too, Fiera,” Nadia coed as she passed her hand through the arcanine’s mane, earning a happy whimper. When Icarus perched on Miguel’s head, she turned her attention onto the murkrow instead. on Miguel’s head. “Icarus.” she said dryly, her scowl matching Icarus’.
Miguel glanced up at Icarus before switching his gaze over to Nadia. He crossed his arms and sighed as he realized that he’d probably have to put a stop to their makeshift staring contest. Sometimes he wished Icarus could just play along with Nadia, if only because he knew Nadia would never let him get away with his superiority act--not after the time he left a “present” on the back of her shirt for ruffling his feathers.
Icarus turned away in indignation and flew over to Miguel’s room to perch on top of his bed frame. “That’s real love right there.” He said teasingly towards Nadia.
“You’ve had that bird for three years and you still can’t teach it some manners?” Nadia sighed. She’d taken her hood off. Her hair was longer than he’d last seen it but still short, a bob now instead of a pixie cut. He also took note of the purple highlight on the right side; it’d been pink the last time.
“Well, you know how murkrows are. And Icarus is nothing if not a proud specimen of his species,” Miguel joked. He actually kind of liked Icarus’ arrogant streak. Sometimes it was annoying, but it at least kept things interesting when it was just the three of them.
Nadia turned her back to Miguel as she opened and rummaged through his fridge, grabbing for one of the soda cans Miguel kept in the door. “A proud pain in the ass more like,” she said. She cracked the can and drank his soda. Miguel couldn’t be too mad--she had brought a pizza.
Miguel shook his head and walked over to close the fridge behind her. “Not all murkrow can be like Matrona,” he said, eyeing Nadia’s emerging frown at the mention of his mother’s Honchrow.
“It’s not really what I meant...but yes.”
“It’s fine. Pero si, Matrona always knew how to make herself look good,” he added with a bittersweet grin recalling the times Matrona would do impromptu coordination routines in front of him and his brother.
His mother wasn’t a coordinator but she’d always talked about her respect for the sport. She said that coordination was a skill that required a trainer and their pokemon to be in sync. The fact that you had to work together with your pokemon to bring out their inner beauty was perfect for raising a murkrow, a species that always tried to put themselves above others: it was easier to have them recognize you as an equal than make them submit to your will.
“Anyway.” Recovering his composure, Miguel went to grab a pair of plates, only to realize she’d already opened up the box and taken out a slice once he’d turned his back.
“Que? Sabes qué con Argentino’s no tengo paciencia,” she said through a mouthful. “Not my fault you don’t like it.”
“Oh I like Argentino’s. I just don’t like the olives,” Miguel said. He nevertheless grabbed a piece for himself, if only because a slice of pizza beat pre-packaged convenience store sandwiches any day.
Nadia chuckled through her pizza, bumping her shoulder into Miguel. “You’re too old to act like a picky kid.”
“An adult’s allowed to have his preferences.” He grabbed his own slice and bit into it, letting the taste of the cheese wash over him for a moment. “I listened to your podcast today by the way, it was interesting...”
“Ugh, I wish I could’ve gotten to talk to Mila. I ended up getting one of her activists instead. She was cool but it was like…” Nadia trailed off, moving her hands in the air as if she was trying to come up with a new word. Miguel watching a drip of cheese that looked in danger of oozing onto the floor with all that hand waving, but he let her continue, “I don’t know. It just felt like she was reiterating what everyone already knows, ya know?”
“I think you still came off pretty well. You got the word out, and that’s what matters,” he reassured her. Their high school days came back to his head as he remembered the day Nadia dragged him to the school’s AV club. It was fun, if a little chaotic, especially when Nadia wanted to incorporate actual real life news in her broadcasts and had to get shut down by the teachers.
All she’d had back then were the school’s sorry excuse for production equipment and a teenage crew that didn’t want to be there--Miguel included--but she’d made the best of it. What happened in the streets of Lago was of no concern to him back then, all he wanted was to do finish saving up money to go on his journey around Caliorn.
What had come of that? Nadia was still doing her best to help others--even making time for him--while he was spending his days lost, no trace of that original dream in sight.
“Yeah, maybe.” She took another bite from her slice of pizza, some of the cheese falling onto the box haphazardly. She spoke up again just as Miguel cracked open his beer. “So...how have you been?” She asked, grabbing onto her arms tightly as she glanced at him, her mouth curled into an uneasy expression.
He stopped with the can halfway to his mouth and glanced at her instead. Her shoulders slouched and she’d taken on a concerned expression, with her eyes glued to him like a fly on tape.
Miguel didn’t reply at first, he knew that the wrong words would only worry Nadia more. Instead he leaned on the counter, staring at Fiera, who rested on the living room floor. Her good eye was fixed on him, almost as if she knew what he was thinking.
“You worry too much,” he finally replied. He tried giving her the best laugh he could, but it didn’t work; her face hadn’t budged an inch.
“Si, me preocupo. I don’t hear from you in a month, not to mention it’s been six since...well you know.”
“I’m fine,” he said, mostly to himself.
A part of him felt bad for not being honest with her, for not telling her about the night terrors, for not doing a better job of keeping in contact with her--all of it. Nadia had been there for him since he could remember.
Calmly, in an attempt to regain some leeway in the conversation, he continued. “I was actually thinking of getting a job.”
“Oh.” A look of genuine surprise crossed her face. Had that convinced her a little? It wasn’t a lie, either. “That’s great. I mean, you know Mami and Mom have been talking about that. You could work at Mami’s firm… If you don’t mind being a coffee boy, it’d be pretty stable. Mom’s rehab center’s been taking off, too. I’m sure having the ex-leader of Team Murkrow there will help a lot of the folks.”
He whirled around, holding his hands up as if guarding himself. “No, no. I mean, I’m grateful for all Tia Camila and Tia Danielle have done for me but...I want to find something on my own,” he responded quickly.
Tia Camila was a big shot defendant, someone that always tried her best to help out the people in Lago, especially cases revolving around current and former gang members. He still remembered when he first joined Team Murkrow after coming back from his journey, how she’d sent him messages to try and get him out and always kept him updated on any information she might find about his mother. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what she’d think if he told her about what he was getting himself into.
Tia Danielle tackled Lago’s delinquency in a different way, with a rehab center focused on helping former gang members adapt and readjust to society. They were good causes, ones that his mother had respected, but they weren’t what he wanted. Aunt Camila could only do so much with her defendants, especially with the way Caliorn’s court system panned out, while Aunt Danielle’s center was hindered both by a lack of funding and the fact that there were more people ending up in gangs than those leaving them.
Being with either of them would only remind Miguel of the past.
His mind went back to Team Murkrow. It was always the same faces. He saw them on the daily throughout his life. His mom tried to shield him and Rafael from them when they were young, trying to keep them from interacting with the Murkrows as much as possible; and yet he’d still come to identify them, those faces filled with a desire for power, for justice.
He’d asked his mom about that once, about why people joined Team Murkrow. She’d told him that they just wanted “a place to feel welcomed”. He didn’t understand it back then, why couldn’t they just go on journeys or try and find a job or something?
He got his answers a few years later. Fiera’d lost her right eye to a “foul attack” in the Lago Conference semifinal. The red masking where her right eye used to be, as well as her howls, haunted him. Back then it’d ignited something in him, sent him running across the field, his vision clouded in the same kind of red.
Everything except for his opponent’s face.
His hands hit bone, over and over and over again as if bouncing a ball around. At one point he remembered arms trying to pull him back, but he swung at them as well until they pinned him to the ground.
He could’ve won that match, at least according to the league’s “rules”. All he had to do was stand there quietly and let his friend--his sister--suffer until some random guy in uniform decided to call the battle in his favor. Instead he jumped to protect her, did what he thought was right, and got disqualified for it.
He quit the league after that. Too much bullshit to deal with.
With his longtime companion injured and his dream crushed, Miguel went back home and threw himself into finding his mom. He’d enlisted his aunt’s and Nadia’s help and began searching around her whereabouts. Unfortunately, with his mom’s background as Team Murkrow’s leader, talking to cops was no option. Instead they relied on the neighborhood, talking to anyone that might’ve interacted with her before she disappeared, figuring out where she’d gone and why; Nadia even tried looking up any information online.
It all came up empty, but he didn’t give up. He kept looking, even going out into the streets at night to try and beat an answer out of anyone that might have it. At that point he wasn’t even sure if it was even for his mom, he was just angry, at the league for Fiera’s injury, at the city for taking away the person he cared about most and even at his aunts and Nadia for not being able to do a good job finding her.
But there was still someone he trusted, someone that stood there with him; his brother Rafael. He listened to Miguel, helped him take care of Fiere and--most importantly--fought along with him. They couldn’t find their mom, but they could at least take out their rage through Team Murkrow, alongside all the other young lives that fumed just like they did.
“Yo. Earth to Miguel.” Nadia’s fingers appeared in front of his face, snapping him back to the present. “Qué te pasa hoy? Anyways, I’ll just tell them what you told me... But there’s no shame in asking for help if you need it.”
“Sure, don’t worry about it.”
“Anyways.” Nadia finished her slice of pizza before she continued speaking. “Did you go and see Team Murkrow today?”
There it was, the question he’d been expecting and dreading since he saw her at his doorstep.
“Huh?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
“I’m not dumb. I read about the shooting online.” Nadia explained. She stepped back so she could lean against the fridge and give Miguel a once-over. “There haven’t been any official reports on who was involved but it doesn’t take more than one brain cell to figure it out.”
“Yeah,” Miguel muttered, frowning. His mind went to the gun still in his pocket. Part of him thought about showing it to Nadia--if only to not carry that burden on his own--but he knew that would only cause her to worry more.
She let out a sigh and patted his shoulder. “Listen. If you really want to get out of Team Murkrow then...why do you keep worrying? I know it’s hard but it’s not going to do you any good.” Her other hand went to his right hand, grasping it lightly. “You should report anything you know, it’s better tha--”
“Nada de policias!” Miguel hissed, making her jump back a bit. “Sorry...you know that’ll only make it worse.”
“I don’t mean cops. And besides, I’d rather Juan get locked up than for you to get yourself in a mess.” She pulled her hands away, face steeled with resolve. “You don’t owe them anything, just like you don’t owe Rafael anything. The sooner you realize that…”
“There’s actually something you could do if you want to help me,” Miguel replied quickly. He couldn’t deal with more of her questions. “I need you to get me information on the guy Juan killed.”
“So it was Juan, then. And weren’t you listening, I don’t want you getting anywhere near this?”
“I did. But we both know I’m gonna do it whether you help me or not.” Miguel insisted, lowering his pizza. “So, will you help me?”
Nadia rubbed her forehead and turned away from him. “Why do you want to get involved so badly?”
“Why does everyone ask that?” Miguel groaned. “I feel bad, okay? I want...I want to see who his family, or people he cared about were. Maybe talking to them will help.”
“You doing it for them or for you?”
“Does it matter?”
Nadia shook her head before taking another bite and going around the counter; giving her back to Miguel. “His name was Ryuji Mikami, don’t know his address but I could have my guy find it for you.”
“Damn, you already had all of this?.”
“My sound mixing guy lives in Yamadori.” Nadia shrugged. “I called him up when I found out about the shooting and he asked some questions around.”
Miguel smiled and took a long drink of his beer. It was probably contradictory to worry about his independence and then ask a favor from Nadia. She’d always been better at gathering information. Back in high school she’d hang around everyone and pay attention to every detail going on in the halls, as if she was building up her own super secret intel network.
“Ten cuidado. Okay, Migui?” she said with a shrug, accidentally dropping a piece of cheese on the counter. “Oh shit!” she exclaimed, jumping back and looking over her chest to check for trace amounts of grease.
Miguel couldn’t contain his laughter, especially when Nadia started lifting up her jacket to really analyze every corner of it. “And that’s why I use this convenient little thing called plates,” he snickered, lifting his empty plate in the air for good measure.
She immediately turned to him, shooting daggers fromher eyes. “Oh, can it, smartass.”
“Yeah, yeah. You need a napkin though?” he asked, hand fishing a napkin out of the kitchen shelf. He stopped for a moment-- barely grabbing onto one of the disposable napkins--a soft smile on his face. He didn’t turn to look at her, but he said, “I’m glad you came to visit.”
“No prob.” She didn’t need to say anything more.
They continued eating, falling back into easy conversation. Mostly, Nadia vented about the podcast. Miguel didn’t mind, even chiming in to throw a snide remark or ask her for more detail when something peaked his attention.
A couple of hours later, Nadia left and Miguel went to bed, finally putting an end to that eventful day, and yet already thinking about what he was going to do the next one. He was going to see Ryuji’s family, not knowing what he was going to say or how they would reply.
Nadia’s question popped back into his head. Was he doing it for them or for himself? He didn’t know. All he knew was that a part of him wouldn’t let him rest until he did it.
***
Calle Ocho was like a pocket dimension, self-contained and complete. Seventh Street--or Yamadori, as the locals called it--was another. Miguel didn’t come to Yamadori often, and crossing between the two felt like going from one end of the world to the other. Five star Johtonean restaurants like Mikazuki, the famous Kantonian-inspired arcade Shoot Star calling to him with the sound of claw machines and games, Sinnohan tech stores showcasing all the new TVs, phones and computers and of course the classic Yamatonian food stalls Nadia wouldn’t shut up about selling ramen and takoyaki.
As he walked through the streets he spotted a group of teenagers walking towards him. They seemed to be talking normally, like they hadn’t noticed his presence; he couldn’t say the same, at least after he realized the one in the center, a young girl with bright red hair, was wearing a yellow bandanna around her arm. One of Team Manectric signature marks.
He immediately turned around in front of one of the arcades, eyes meeting those of a squirtle plushie--that he actually wouldn’t mind getting--as the laughter from the teens got farther and farther away from him.
He let out a sigh and let go of Icarus’ pokeball once they were fully gone.
Team Manectric was a relatively new gang, originally formed from a bunch of Yamato immigrants and their descendants who broke off from other gangs--a few even hailing from Team Murkrow back before it was solely Surean. After only three years it ended up being known as the biggest Yamatonean gang in Caliorn.
He remembered the day he’d gone back to Team Murkrow. It was shortly after his loss in the Lago Conference and three months after his mom's disappearance. The latter event hit Team Murkrow hard, and Rafael taking over the gang hadn’t helped either.
Back when Miguel’s mother was around she emphasized Team Murkrow as a home for those seeking a place to belong. A lot of runaways and troubled youths from all over the city ended up there. She tried helping them make amends, whether by convincing them to go back to their families or asking Tia Danielle for help, but she didn’t shun them if they wanted to stay either; better than letting them fall to worse gangs.
Rafael was passionate, and he made people realize that the moment he took over as leader. He set his sights on becoming Calle Ocho’s personal band of hoodlums, weeding out anyone trying to take over its turf and taking in only those that benefited him. After that he set his sights beyond the street they grew up in.
Rafael’s words the night he joined Team Murkrow still echoed in Miguel’s head. “We can’t go around looking after everyone when we can barely take care of our own. Aqui trazamos la raya *, and we’re not taking shit from anyone beyond it.”
Making enemies, crushing them, and then stepping over them was Rafael’s way of asserting Team Murkrow’s dominance.
That plus Lago’s new influx of immigrants in recent years drove Team Murkrow to become a prominently Surean gang, generating conflict with members from other ethnicities or that interacted with other gangs.
It boiled over one day, when a Kantonian member named Masaru gathered a few of the other Yamatonian members behind him and behind Rafael were Juan...and Miguel.
Miguel stood paralyzed, constantly glancing between Rafael and Masaru to see who’d throw the first punch. At first it seemed like Rafael was willing to talk things out, acknowledging the way some of the Surean members were treating Masaru and his group, calling them slurs, stealing their pokeballs at night and having them go through “initiations” that were just more ways to harass them.
“I get where you’re coming from, man. But I honestly don’t care,” Rafael replied, cold and uninterested.
Masaru stepped back, at first staring at Rafel in shock, before his expression was consumed by restless rage. “What!?”
“The majority of Team Murkrow’s Surean, ya know. Can’t bite the hand that feeds you, it’d make me look bad?” With a shrug Rafael walked closer to Masaru, alerting Masaru’s crew as the two came face to face. “Wanna make me, puto?”
There was no turning back after that. Masaru sent out his manectric and Rafael his honchrow. Sparks, gusts of wind and shadows flew across Team Murkrow’s building. More members joined in, choosing their side and letting their pokemon in on the mayhem.
Rafael wasn’t a seasoned trainer, unlike Miguel, his battling style was honed on the streets, rough around the edges and animalistic. Brute force approaches worked for overwhelming his opponents, but eventually Masaru’s manectric was able to gain the upperhand.
Miguel had a choice, side with the brother, and Team Murkrow, he’d known all his life or go against his mother’s legacy. Rafael was wrong, he knew that doing things his way would only tarnish everything their mother worked hard for.
And yet, with no hesitation, he ordered Fiera to attack and the room was quickly filled with manectric’s ear piercing screams--no different from Fiera’s back at the league--as Fiera bit into its leg.
That choice ended the fight, but it also set Team Murkrow and what would eventually become Team Manectric in a collision course.
Everyone from Team Murkrow was forbidden from setting foot in Yamadori after that. Miguel might’ve put an end to their fight but Rafael had all but lost to Masaru. After that he changed his approach, focusing on protecting their turf over going out and forcibly taking other’s territories.
That’s not to say Miguel’s broken alliance with Team Murkrow made coming to Yamadori any better. A lot of Team Manectric members probably heard of him, the older members knew what he looked like. He had to be careful and that’s why he kept an eye out for their yellow bandanna or signature lightning bolt, the mark all of its members carried either as tattoos--a tradition inherited from Team Murkrow--or as part of their clothing.
Luckily for Miguel, the rest of his walk was uneventful as he finally reached the address Nadia’d given him. Between a pharmacy and an air conditioner store stood a small two story building. There was a foldable roof made of orange fabric shading the entrance to the building, with a series of Yamatonian characters written across it. Miguel couldn’t understand the characters but luckily there was a translation beneath it: Golden Palace.
Miguel remembered Nadia’s voice: Ryuji’s parents had died a few years back, so he had no main residency, but apparently he’d been seen hanging around this restaurant, owned by his uncle’s family.
The question of whether or not he should even be there finally dawned on Miguel. Even if he had no involvement with what happened to Ryuji he still couldn’t avoid feeling somewhat responsible. A part of his head blamed himself for not reining in Team Murkrow after Rafael left and he got to be the leader and, most of all, for letting Juan go off and make a deal with who knows who that led to all this happening.
Miguel didn’t pull the trigger, but he couldn’t distance himself from the choices that led to that trigger being pulled.
But even so, what was he going to tell them? Sure he was trying to find the person distributing the guns, but the one that killed Ryuji was Juan and Miguel wasn’t turning him in either. Would ‘I’ll make sure to find the person responsible’ really work as an excuse when he wasn’t going all the way with it?
He stood paralyzed, hands going for Fiera’s pokeball for comfort. He tried his best to command his body to move, but it was as if he’d suddenly lost complete control. Noises around him grew dimmer, as if he was being plunged into a dark, silent sea.
Then, before his body gave away, he was pulled out of his headspace by the sound of his growling stomach. The street’s noises came back and his right hand let go of his vice-like grip on Fiera’s pokeball. He let out a sigh, realizing that a bead of sweat was running down his cheek.
Gathering his courage, Miguel stared at the entrance to the restaurant once more. A resolute expression settling over his face as he walked forward so the glass doors could open by themselves.
The smell of ginger, onions, curry, soy sauce and spring onions bombarded his nostrils, almost making him drool.
It was after his nose and stomach finally acclimated to the place that he took in the rest of the restaurant. Nadia told him that Yamadori’s restaurants could get pretty crowded around lunchtime. Instead he found the restaurant surprisingly barren, with only three figures standing in front of the counter that ran the length of the restaurant.
They all wore the same baggy black pants but with different colored jackets. However, what stood out to Miguel the most were the lightning bolts embroidered on the sides of their pants.
He’d found exactly the people he was avoiding.
One of the Manectrics, the one facing towards the door, raised his head and stared straight at Miguel. He had a shaved head, pierced ears, and a fierce expression that looked plastered-on.
Miguel didn’t say anything. Instead he flashed the Manectric a casual smile and began making his way to one of the booths.
Shaved Head didn’t let up his gaze, poking his teammate to make him take notice as well. As Miguel sat, he felt their gazes burning holes in the back of his neck.
A deep, gruff voice rang out from the center of the Manectrics’ huddle. “Leave him.” He wore a red denim vest showing off his tanned and defined arms. Miguel could see nothing else of him but the back of his messy hair--he wouldn’t even turn to look at him.
Miguel took note of this. Either the guy was too arrogant, like Juan, or he actually had bite to back up his bark. Miguel wasn’t planning on making a fuss anyway, but he was going to have to watch out for the Manectric leader either way.
The three guys turned back to talk to the waiter, who seemed less than pleased with their presence as he adjusted his glasses and, nervously, spoke back--though not enough for Miguel to hear him. The Manectrics presence explained why the restaurant was empty, but it was still surprising to Miguel that there was only one waiter.
Taking his eyes away from the situation--lest it would make the Manectrics suspect him--Miguel skimmed over one of the plastic menus that had been left on his table; tuning out the conversation the three Manectrics were having with the worker behind the counter.
At first he’d planned to just order whatever piqued his interest from the menu--he was no stranger to Johtonese food, so he didn’t have one favorite-- but he couldn’t stop himself from becoming transfixed by the pictures.
Miguel wasn’t an artist by any means, but he’d grown to admire people that could put in the work and create something great when it wasn’t needed. Even he thought it was weird to feel that way about a menu, but he still couldn’t avoid noting how each dish was drawn; special attention was paid to shading and lighting, from fried rice drawn in a way that made every grain and ingredient in the plate stand out, to steamed dumplings letting out a very subtly drawn steam line, with the dumplings themselves being round yet loose enough to convey filling and weight.
“Um...excuse me.” Miguel was snapped back into reality when he realized the waiter was standing beside him.
Miguel looked up at him, resting his head on his wrist as he closed the menu and smiled at the waiter. “Ah, sorry. I got a little lost just looking at the menu.”
“Oh,” the waiter replied, readjusting his glasses. “Well, we do have good food.”
“No, no, I mean the food looks great but--and this is gonna sound really weird--this is a pretty well-designed menu,” Miguel said, letting out a small laugh after he finished.
“Wait, for real?” The waiter replied, his face opening wide with shock as an honest smile crossed his face. It seemed he’d realized this himself too, as he immediately took a step back and combed his hand through his messy black hair in embarrassment.
Miguel couldn’t avoid letting a chuckle when he saw this. That’s when his eyes went down to the waiter’s hands. They seemed tense, in the way a muscle would tense up after being strained for too long. Sure, for someone working in a restaurant that could happen if you handled dishes, but it was barely lunchtime and the place was empty.
“Did you draw it?” Miguel asked. At first the waiter didn’t reply, but his initial reaction and the fact the shock wasn’t leaving his face was all Miguel needed.
The waiter quickly regained his composure before nodding at Miguel with a smile. “That’s right. I only just set them down today since my parents weren’t going to be around.”
Miguel processed this for a moment before grinning at the waiter. “You know, I don’t think that’s the kind of thing you should tell a customer.” He leaned back on the booth, letting the waiter freak out for a moment before continuing. “But that’s pretty coo--”
“You gonna order or what, asshole?” the shaved Manectric interrupted. He and his friend made their way to the booth.
Miguel’s grin didn’t wane, however. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I had a time limit.”
“Oh, you’re mouthy huh?” The other Manectric gritted his teeth, walking behind Miguel from the other side and making the waiter jump. “Well, in case you didn’t realize, this is a Johtonese restaurant. So get your Raylian ass out of here before we-”
“Venitian,” Miguel clarified, not even taking his eyes away from the menu.
“What?”
“You were calling me Raylian. I’m Venitian.” He shrugged. “I get that a lot. Were these guys bothering you earlier by the way?” he asked the waiter, who’d shrank back between the two gangsters.
“We told you to butt out!” Shaved Head called out, ripping the menu out of Miguel’s hands and throwing it to the floor. It floated down gently.
Miguel raised his hands innocently, even if his smirk betrayed him. “I didn’t butt into anything.” Turning towards their leader, who was still sitting down, he said, “Besides, didn’t your boss tell you to leave me alone?”
Shaved head didn’t reply, instead he gritted his teeth in frustration. “Whatever.”
He turned back to the waiter, grabbing him by the neck of his shirt and pushing him towards the counter. “Tsurugi was talking to you, and you just turned your back like that? You ungrateful little-”
“Let him go.”
Shaved Head gave no indication he’d heard and instead clenched his hands harder on the neck of the waiter’s shirt and turned around. “What did you say!?” he called out as Miguel stepped out of his booth.
Miguel lifted his jacket slightly, allowing them to see Icarus’ pokeball and--more importantly--Fiera’s ultra-ball, proof of Miguel’s Class A license.
“I said. Let. Him. Go.” Miguel gave the gangster a powerful glare only matched by the quiet, yet commanding, tone of his voice.
“Let him go, Toru.” The leader of the three, finally stood up and walked over to them. Miguel stared at him, noting the scar that went along his right cheek and his deep, bagged, brown eyes that matched well with the scowl plastered on his face.
Miguel and the Manectric stared at each other, sizing each other up without saying anything, neither willing to give an inch to the other.
“So you’re Little Crow,” the leader--who he assumed was the one the other manectric called Tsurugi--said, his tone completely neutral. He stepped between Miguel and the waiter.
“He’s a Murkrow!?” Toru exclaimed, practically seething. “Well. This is perfect,” he said with a smirk. He let go of the waiter and pointed at Miguel. “Hear that, Keita? This guy was part of the gang that killed Ryuji.”
The waiter’s face paled, eyes opening wide. He stared at the gangster, then shifted his gaze to Miguel, utterly dismayed.
Miguel didn’t say anything, only cursing inwardly at himself.
He stared at the waiter, Keita’s, eyes and felt his resolve waning. He’d wanted to see who Ryuji’s family was, to try and do or say something to make up for what Team Murkrow did, to reassure them he was doing something about it. But the last thing he wanted to see were those eyes full of grief.
End of Chapter 2
Next Time: Ryuji
* Aqui trazamos la raya: This is where we draw the line
Admittedly I'm actually a bit nervous about this since chapter 2 was originally conceived as a transition chapter...but now it's a lot more than that...and it's also longer as well, which I feel bad about to be honest, I'll try to space my chapters out to know if I should divide them in case that they get as long as this but hopefully the next few chapters shouldn't be so long.
So yeah, here we pick back up with Miguel after last chapter's revelation of guns possibly spreading through Lago. With no clues on who's distributing or if more of them will pop up, Miguel sure has his work cut out for him.
Alcohol consumption, trauma, allusion to violence
From now I'll also be putting these * signs for when characters say more complicated spanish phrases, translations will be listed at the end of the chapter.
Before starting I want to thank everyone for reviewing chapter 1, I'll try my best to reply to all the (months old) reviews over the next couple of weeks and note down all suggestions. Thanks again and I hope that you enjoy this chapter (pls don't kill me)
Also I just want to give a big shoutout to @WildBoots for editing this chapter like a champ, I owe her a virtual beer.
2nd Street: Meeting
“Give me like twenty of those tickets, will ya, Maurice. I got a good feeling today.” the clerk groaned, followed by a slight rustling sound as he, Miguel assumed, took out some lottery tickets from the stand at the edge of the counter.
“You still on about winning that shit? Why don’t you go buy your wife something nice instead.”
“I told you, I’ve got a good feeling!” he replied with confidence; though his words did nothing in dissuading the clerk’s unease.
“Whatever. I’m not your accountant.”
Miguel tried his best to tune out the conversation, but it was hard not to hear when the store was otherwise so quiet. The only other sound came from the old CRT TV hanging by the corner of the store.
Miguel held his hand up, covering a yawn as he glanced at the packaged sandwiches lining the shelf. A simple ham or a tuna sandwich would get the job done, but the beer dripping condensation down his hand urged him to go for something that would pair nicely with it.
Red pepper and chicken. It’d complement nicely if he added the hot sauce from home.
No, a convenience store dinner wasn’t the best--and he’d already eaten those tequeños for breakfast as well--but after the day he’d had, he wasn’t in the mood to spend an hour cooking. Besides, if he was resigning himself to eating a sandwich, he could at least make it a “fancy” one.
Juan didn’t know anything about the man he shot the night before--neither did the other crows he’d asked. After that he went around Calle Ocho and the surrounding area in hopes of finding any information on the gun’s origin.
He knew it wasn’t going to be easy to find leads; if Juan wasn’t willing to let out a peep to him about it the chances of other gang members doing it would be slim. However, it seemed like everyone else he’d asked, from street food vendors to local gossips,had no idea.
“Hmmmm. I could call Bit..." he muttered to himself. Bit was one of the best hackers in the city, they could help him find what he was after--for a pretty penny, of course, something Miguel didn’t have at the moment. With a sigh, Miguel decided to think about it tomorrow; there was nothing a good night of rest couldn’t fix.
With a sandwich in one hand and a beer in the other he made his way through the aisle towards the counter, now noticing the line that had formed.
I hope this doesn’t happen with the guns too.
In an attempt to keep those thoughts from coming back, he turned towards the TV. Commentators were making predictions about the upcoming Lago Conference Finals.
The Lago Conference.
Another memory he’d rather not think about.
However, the spokeswoman’s voice caught his attention before he could tune it out.
“We’ve talked a lot about possible matchups and strategies, but let’s talk about what the people really care about: who deserves the prize most, Charles?”
“Hah, if I had a uni for every post I’ve read about that I’d be rich!” The co-host let out an exaggerated laugh as he leaned back on his chair. “That said, I think we can all agree that one of the most interesting candidates is Jordan Nuñez.”
The image and the name jogged Miguel’s memory as he looked at the dark-skinned young man on screen: his aloof smirk and the scar on the left side of his upper lip especially.
The hair was different, but even with the side fade and messy curls, the memory of those nights he and Jordan spent sleeping by a campfire on the outskirts of Dustbone Town still burned in his mind. It was the best a couple of borderline-broke trainers could do with the Pokemon Center at full capacity.
The spokeswoman continued, “This will be the so-called ‘Lago Golden Boy’s third conference, and a lot of people think he’s gunning for a comeback after last year’s semi-final. He’s garnered a lot of attention after clinching second place at the U-21 Ultra Cup, and winning here could finally be his chance to go pro after what’s been a rather tumultuous career.”
A frown crossed Miguel’s face. Jordan always said his dream was to get into the Pro League. Miguel hadn’t shared that dream: it was more about the journey for him. But he could relate to Jordan’s desire to get himself out of the streets and prove his worth. Even after Miguel stopped his training career, he’d still wished Jordan could reach that dream.
If Miguel hadn’t quit--if he hadn’t joined Team Murkrow--would he and Jordan be battling in the league now? Just like it was back when the world seemed so much bigger?
“It’s true that Nuñez’s is someone to watch out for,” Charles cut in. “But I wouldn’t say he’s pro material yet.” Jordan’s image disappeared from the screen.
“He’s got the skills and dedication, don’t get me wrong. But he’s been a trainer for almost five years now and his performance has been all over the place. It’s hard to enter the Pro League, it’s harder to stay in it.”
“Oh?” The spokesman said, raising an eyebrow at her. “So your money’s on Alois.”
“That’s right, Lin. Alois might still be new to the scene, but he managed to get his badges in record time.”
“And there's Hogan the Incineroar!" Onscreen, an incineroar slipped through a barrage of icicles, closing the distance between the abomasnow on the other side and firing a blast of flames. "It's like watching one of those old Masked Royale videos, how he’s able to work up the crowd and get out of any situation. Fans are already calling him the Leon of Caliorn, and we certainly need one of those after the last few years.” Now the screen showed a clip of Alois and his incineroar standing in the middle of a crowd; the teenage trainer brushed his hand through his blond hair before he and his pokemon partner each threw up a hand in a practiced pose, a confident smirk on each of their faces.
Miguel clenched the beer can as the man spoke, not realizing until it dented. Marketability was a constant when it came to competing in the league. So many trainers went around trying to create characters for themselves, targeting a specific niche; if you didn’t, you got the boot.
Alois DeRose was perfect for the job. The son of a Caliornian actress and Kalosian fashion designer and entrepreneur, he was raised in Roselia Way in North Lago. He got an official league-sanctioned starter, something that only those that passed--and could afford--the special Pokemon League test could obtain.
Passing that test already opened doors for a new trainer; news outlets watched and gym leaders took more of an interest.
A different breed from Jordan and him.
“Hey, kid. You buying or what?”
That snapped Miguel out of it. The fat store clerk glanced firmly at Miguel before shifting to the items he was holding.
Miguel turned and flashed the man a smile, nodding. “Sorry. Cable at home is busted so I haven’t been able to follow the League,” he said with a laugh as he put the beer and sandwich down on the counter.
“A big money dump is what it is,” The man groaned, passing Miguel’s purchases over the scanner.. “But well, maybe that Alois kid will get me some money back,” he added with a scoff.
“I don’t know.” Miguel shrugged, grabbing his items and making for the entrance. Then, just before he got to the door he stopped and said, “Do you know the difference between a poochyena pup and a newly evolved mightyena?”
“Hm?” the man raised an eyebrow.
“The poochyena has his whole future ahead of him. He has nothing to lose,” Miguel replied, his voice becoming colder. “A mightyena doesn’t have that luxury. He’s only getting older.”
***
The setting sun was descending over the city, casting wide shadows across Miguel’s apartment complex. Calle Ocho’s streets were littered with street vendors trying to get the attention of any passerby. Miguel glanced at an old Surean woman sitting next to a tower of egg cartons. He recalled Mr. Palmar’s complaint about cops asking for permits at night; imagining an old lady having to carry all those eggs left a solemn expression on Miguel’s face.
Mr. Palmar wasn’t in his usual spot. Even with all the other food carts and stalls, his was gathering the biggest crowd.The way he attended his customers--laughing and making small talk despite the sweat falling down his face, all while attending the fryer--was commendable.
“Yo, Mr.Palmar. Gonna pull another all-nighter?” he called out to him behind the crowd, a smile on his face as the older man picked him out and waved.
“Ojala, mijo. Ojala.” he laughed back as he fished out a few more tequeños from the fryer. “What about you? I’ve got a few with your name on it if you want.”
Miguel felt his stomach grumble; it was tempting, but he’d promised himself not to. “Nah. Got my feast right here,” he said while holding the bag up.
“Pffft. That’s no dinner.”
“Qué será, sera.” Miguel shrugged before waving goodbye to Mr. Palmar and walking inside his apartment complex.
“Miguel!”
Miguel saw Benito running towards him as soon as he walked inside the complex. His rattata struggled to keep up behind him. Its breathing was labored and its body swayed as if it was barely able to stand.
“Hey there, squirt. Don’t tell me you spent your whole Saturday training,” he said, kneeling down to pet the rattata. It wasn’t weird for kids to slip up when it came to tending to their pokemon, not when they got their D class licenses at such a young age. Unfortunately, that meant they wanted to try and act like the bigshot trainers they saw on TV, even if that meant training their pokemon until they were ragged.
“Of course. Ricardo and I have to be ready for when we set out on our journeys!” he replied, a proud smirk on his face.
“That won’t be till you’re fifteen, fourteen if you’re lucky.” Miguel sighed and shook his head at the boy. “Training is more than just battling. That--” he pointed at his rattata. “--can’t happen. Your pokemon’s your partner, you don’t let your partners fight till they drop. Me entendeis?”
“But can’t I just heal him afterwards?” Benito pouted.
“And who buys those healing items for you?” Miguel asked, leaning forward and giving the little kid a stern expression.
“...my mom.”
Miguel brushed his hand through the rattata’s hair again. He smiled as it rubbed its head all over his hand before saying. “Exactly, and your mom’s money doesn’t grow on trees. If you want, I can give you some of my notes later,”
The boy raised his eyebrow in confusion, almost making Miguel chuckle at how puzzled Benito looked; he remembered when he himself realized all the little details that went into caring for pokemon.
“There’s ways for you to tend to your pokemon even without centers and items.” he lifted the rattata off the floor gently and instructed Benito to open his arms to carry it. “Carrying or putting your pokemon inside their ball and then letting them rest outside of the pokeball, first aid, nutrition. All of these are stuff that can help a pokemon heal naturally...depending on its condition of course.”
Benito groaned, like the one a kid would give after being scolded by a parent. “Fine. Anyways, your girlfriend's here to see you.”
Miguel didn’t reply at first. Instead he just blinked, processing what Benito said. He raised his eyebrow after a second, doubt and confusion in his face. “My what?”
“Tu sabes. The girl that comes to visit you sometimes. She was carrying a pizza too, from Argentino’s.”
“Oh. That’s just Nadia.” Miguel put his hand on his chest and let out a sigh, realizing who Benito was talking about. The last thing he needed was some random girl he didn’t know claiming to be his girlfriend. “We’re not like that.”
“She cute though. I’d tap that.”
Miguel covered his mouth in a faint attempt to stop his laughter “...your cousin said that didn’t he?”
Benito visibly shook when he heard Miguel’s claims, his eyes looking away from the young man as if trying to hide something. “I-I mean, isn’t that just what cool guys say?”
“Don’t be that kind of cool guy. And you’re too young to say stuff like that anyway.” Miguel added, turning away from Benito and towards the stairs going up his building.
“I’m eleven, though!” he heard Benito call out from behind him.
“Exactly,” he said as he walked off. “And that rattata better be in tip-top shape next time I see it!”
Miguel didn’t have to walk too far past the third floor landing to see his guest. Nadia stood firmly in front of his door, white hoodie drawn over her head completely. As Benito had promised, she held up a pizza box in her right hand.
She scowled when their eyes met, and Miguel couldn’t help but grin.
“You know you could’ve just called right?” he said with a smile as he walked over to her.
Her scowl became a smirk, body half turning to allow Miguel a full view of the pizza box. “I figured your bum ass would just be sleeping it off. What better way to wake up than a surprise pizza and a pretty girl.”
“That’s the kind of thing that gets little kids thinking we’re a thing,” Miguel replied sheepishly and slipped by her so he could stand between her and the door.
“Ya quisieras,” she added, rolling her eyes. “Be happy I brought pizza,” she fired back.
Immediately his eyes fell for the box. Argentino’s usually had a hint of what flavor was inside plastered in the box. In this case, the box was marked with a golden olive surrounded by more golden waves on the side.
Miguel frowned. “You rock up all of a sudden and bring...olives?”
“Tu favorita,” Nadia replied with a cheeky grin.
“No. It’s your favorite.”
“That’s what I said,” Nadia clarified, eyes signaling towards the door. “Can you let me in, please? Don’t want the pizza to get cold.”
He was glad to see her, but a part of him still wondered why she was there. Their mother’s friendship led to the two of them being raised as cousins despite not sharing blood. In fact, her mothers had been taking care of Miguel since he left Team Murkrow.
Truth be told, it wasn’t hard for him to figure out what that reason for her presence was. Word on Team Murkrow’s recent escapade must’ve spread like wildfire. Nadia was probably trying to make sure he hadn’t gone and done something stupid.
He hadn’t. Yet.
But why would she try to hide her face? People around here knew her pretty well. Little Benito wasn’t the only one who assumed they were together--or at least got in the sack with each other. Then it dawned on him. He’d heard about Tia Camila running for Lago’s City Council. Maybe Nadia didn’t want people to associate her mom with Calle Ocho with all the Team Murkrow stuff going on.
He’d have to ask later.
He quickly opened the door to his studio apartment--making sure to let Nadia walk in first so she could put the pizza on the counter. Immediately upon closing the door, he let his pokemon out. Fiera didn’t hesitate to run up to Nadia, her tail practically wiping the wall with its cheerful wagging as she nudged at Nadia’s leg with her head.
“Awww, I missed you too, Fiera,” Nadia coed as she passed her hand through the arcanine’s mane, earning a happy whimper. When Icarus perched on Miguel’s head, she turned her attention onto the murkrow instead. on Miguel’s head. “Icarus.” she said dryly, her scowl matching Icarus’.
Miguel glanced up at Icarus before switching his gaze over to Nadia. He crossed his arms and sighed as he realized that he’d probably have to put a stop to their makeshift staring contest. Sometimes he wished Icarus could just play along with Nadia, if only because he knew Nadia would never let him get away with his superiority act--not after the time he left a “present” on the back of her shirt for ruffling his feathers.
Icarus turned away in indignation and flew over to Miguel’s room to perch on top of his bed frame. “That’s real love right there.” He said teasingly towards Nadia.
“You’ve had that bird for three years and you still can’t teach it some manners?” Nadia sighed. She’d taken her hood off. Her hair was longer than he’d last seen it but still short, a bob now instead of a pixie cut. He also took note of the purple highlight on the right side; it’d been pink the last time.
“Well, you know how murkrows are. And Icarus is nothing if not a proud specimen of his species,” Miguel joked. He actually kind of liked Icarus’ arrogant streak. Sometimes it was annoying, but it at least kept things interesting when it was just the three of them.
Nadia turned her back to Miguel as she opened and rummaged through his fridge, grabbing for one of the soda cans Miguel kept in the door. “A proud pain in the ass more like,” she said. She cracked the can and drank his soda. Miguel couldn’t be too mad--she had brought a pizza.
Miguel shook his head and walked over to close the fridge behind her. “Not all murkrow can be like Matrona,” he said, eyeing Nadia’s emerging frown at the mention of his mother’s Honchrow.
“It’s not really what I meant...but yes.”
“It’s fine. Pero si, Matrona always knew how to make herself look good,” he added with a bittersweet grin recalling the times Matrona would do impromptu coordination routines in front of him and his brother.
His mother wasn’t a coordinator but she’d always talked about her respect for the sport. She said that coordination was a skill that required a trainer and their pokemon to be in sync. The fact that you had to work together with your pokemon to bring out their inner beauty was perfect for raising a murkrow, a species that always tried to put themselves above others: it was easier to have them recognize you as an equal than make them submit to your will.
“Anyway.” Recovering his composure, Miguel went to grab a pair of plates, only to realize she’d already opened up the box and taken out a slice once he’d turned his back.
“Que? Sabes qué con Argentino’s no tengo paciencia,” she said through a mouthful. “Not my fault you don’t like it.”
“Oh I like Argentino’s. I just don’t like the olives,” Miguel said. He nevertheless grabbed a piece for himself, if only because a slice of pizza beat pre-packaged convenience store sandwiches any day.
Nadia chuckled through her pizza, bumping her shoulder into Miguel. “You’re too old to act like a picky kid.”
“An adult’s allowed to have his preferences.” He grabbed his own slice and bit into it, letting the taste of the cheese wash over him for a moment. “I listened to your podcast today by the way, it was interesting...”
“Ugh, I wish I could’ve gotten to talk to Mila. I ended up getting one of her activists instead. She was cool but it was like…” Nadia trailed off, moving her hands in the air as if she was trying to come up with a new word. Miguel watching a drip of cheese that looked in danger of oozing onto the floor with all that hand waving, but he let her continue, “I don’t know. It just felt like she was reiterating what everyone already knows, ya know?”
“I think you still came off pretty well. You got the word out, and that’s what matters,” he reassured her. Their high school days came back to his head as he remembered the day Nadia dragged him to the school’s AV club. It was fun, if a little chaotic, especially when Nadia wanted to incorporate actual real life news in her broadcasts and had to get shut down by the teachers.
All she’d had back then were the school’s sorry excuse for production equipment and a teenage crew that didn’t want to be there--Miguel included--but she’d made the best of it. What happened in the streets of Lago was of no concern to him back then, all he wanted was to do finish saving up money to go on his journey around Caliorn.
What had come of that? Nadia was still doing her best to help others--even making time for him--while he was spending his days lost, no trace of that original dream in sight.
“Yeah, maybe.” She took another bite from her slice of pizza, some of the cheese falling onto the box haphazardly. She spoke up again just as Miguel cracked open his beer. “So...how have you been?” She asked, grabbing onto her arms tightly as she glanced at him, her mouth curled into an uneasy expression.
He stopped with the can halfway to his mouth and glanced at her instead. Her shoulders slouched and she’d taken on a concerned expression, with her eyes glued to him like a fly on tape.
Miguel didn’t reply at first, he knew that the wrong words would only worry Nadia more. Instead he leaned on the counter, staring at Fiera, who rested on the living room floor. Her good eye was fixed on him, almost as if she knew what he was thinking.
“You worry too much,” he finally replied. He tried giving her the best laugh he could, but it didn’t work; her face hadn’t budged an inch.
“Si, me preocupo. I don’t hear from you in a month, not to mention it’s been six since...well you know.”
“I’m fine,” he said, mostly to himself.
A part of him felt bad for not being honest with her, for not telling her about the night terrors, for not doing a better job of keeping in contact with her--all of it. Nadia had been there for him since he could remember.
Calmly, in an attempt to regain some leeway in the conversation, he continued. “I was actually thinking of getting a job.”
“Oh.” A look of genuine surprise crossed her face. Had that convinced her a little? It wasn’t a lie, either. “That’s great. I mean, you know Mami and Mom have been talking about that. You could work at Mami’s firm… If you don’t mind being a coffee boy, it’d be pretty stable. Mom’s rehab center’s been taking off, too. I’m sure having the ex-leader of Team Murkrow there will help a lot of the folks.”
He whirled around, holding his hands up as if guarding himself. “No, no. I mean, I’m grateful for all Tia Camila and Tia Danielle have done for me but...I want to find something on my own,” he responded quickly.
Tia Camila was a big shot defendant, someone that always tried her best to help out the people in Lago, especially cases revolving around current and former gang members. He still remembered when he first joined Team Murkrow after coming back from his journey, how she’d sent him messages to try and get him out and always kept him updated on any information she might find about his mother. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what she’d think if he told her about what he was getting himself into.
Tia Danielle tackled Lago’s delinquency in a different way, with a rehab center focused on helping former gang members adapt and readjust to society. They were good causes, ones that his mother had respected, but they weren’t what he wanted. Aunt Camila could only do so much with her defendants, especially with the way Caliorn’s court system panned out, while Aunt Danielle’s center was hindered both by a lack of funding and the fact that there were more people ending up in gangs than those leaving them.
Being with either of them would only remind Miguel of the past.
His mind went back to Team Murkrow. It was always the same faces. He saw them on the daily throughout his life. His mom tried to shield him and Rafael from them when they were young, trying to keep them from interacting with the Murkrows as much as possible; and yet he’d still come to identify them, those faces filled with a desire for power, for justice.
He’d asked his mom about that once, about why people joined Team Murkrow. She’d told him that they just wanted “a place to feel welcomed”. He didn’t understand it back then, why couldn’t they just go on journeys or try and find a job or something?
He got his answers a few years later. Fiera’d lost her right eye to a “foul attack” in the Lago Conference semifinal. The red masking where her right eye used to be, as well as her howls, haunted him. Back then it’d ignited something in him, sent him running across the field, his vision clouded in the same kind of red.
Everything except for his opponent’s face.
His hands hit bone, over and over and over again as if bouncing a ball around. At one point he remembered arms trying to pull him back, but he swung at them as well until they pinned him to the ground.
He could’ve won that match, at least according to the league’s “rules”. All he had to do was stand there quietly and let his friend--his sister--suffer until some random guy in uniform decided to call the battle in his favor. Instead he jumped to protect her, did what he thought was right, and got disqualified for it.
He quit the league after that. Too much bullshit to deal with.
With his longtime companion injured and his dream crushed, Miguel went back home and threw himself into finding his mom. He’d enlisted his aunt’s and Nadia’s help and began searching around her whereabouts. Unfortunately, with his mom’s background as Team Murkrow’s leader, talking to cops was no option. Instead they relied on the neighborhood, talking to anyone that might’ve interacted with her before she disappeared, figuring out where she’d gone and why; Nadia even tried looking up any information online.
It all came up empty, but he didn’t give up. He kept looking, even going out into the streets at night to try and beat an answer out of anyone that might have it. At that point he wasn’t even sure if it was even for his mom, he was just angry, at the league for Fiera’s injury, at the city for taking away the person he cared about most and even at his aunts and Nadia for not being able to do a good job finding her.
But there was still someone he trusted, someone that stood there with him; his brother Rafael. He listened to Miguel, helped him take care of Fiere and--most importantly--fought along with him. They couldn’t find their mom, but they could at least take out their rage through Team Murkrow, alongside all the other young lives that fumed just like they did.
“Yo. Earth to Miguel.” Nadia’s fingers appeared in front of his face, snapping him back to the present. “Qué te pasa hoy? Anyways, I’ll just tell them what you told me... But there’s no shame in asking for help if you need it.”
“Sure, don’t worry about it.”
“Anyways.” Nadia finished her slice of pizza before she continued speaking. “Did you go and see Team Murkrow today?”
There it was, the question he’d been expecting and dreading since he saw her at his doorstep.
“Huh?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
“I’m not dumb. I read about the shooting online.” Nadia explained. She stepped back so she could lean against the fridge and give Miguel a once-over. “There haven’t been any official reports on who was involved but it doesn’t take more than one brain cell to figure it out.”
“Yeah,” Miguel muttered, frowning. His mind went to the gun still in his pocket. Part of him thought about showing it to Nadia--if only to not carry that burden on his own--but he knew that would only cause her to worry more.
She let out a sigh and patted his shoulder. “Listen. If you really want to get out of Team Murkrow then...why do you keep worrying? I know it’s hard but it’s not going to do you any good.” Her other hand went to his right hand, grasping it lightly. “You should report anything you know, it’s better tha--”
“Nada de policias!” Miguel hissed, making her jump back a bit. “Sorry...you know that’ll only make it worse.”
“I don’t mean cops. And besides, I’d rather Juan get locked up than for you to get yourself in a mess.” She pulled her hands away, face steeled with resolve. “You don’t owe them anything, just like you don’t owe Rafael anything. The sooner you realize that…”
“There’s actually something you could do if you want to help me,” Miguel replied quickly. He couldn’t deal with more of her questions. “I need you to get me information on the guy Juan killed.”
“So it was Juan, then. And weren’t you listening, I don’t want you getting anywhere near this?”
“I did. But we both know I’m gonna do it whether you help me or not.” Miguel insisted, lowering his pizza. “So, will you help me?”
Nadia rubbed her forehead and turned away from him. “Why do you want to get involved so badly?”
“Why does everyone ask that?” Miguel groaned. “I feel bad, okay? I want...I want to see who his family, or people he cared about were. Maybe talking to them will help.”
“You doing it for them or for you?”
“Does it matter?”
Nadia shook her head before taking another bite and going around the counter; giving her back to Miguel. “His name was Ryuji Mikami, don’t know his address but I could have my guy find it for you.”
“Damn, you already had all of this?.”
“My sound mixing guy lives in Yamadori.” Nadia shrugged. “I called him up when I found out about the shooting and he asked some questions around.”
Miguel smiled and took a long drink of his beer. It was probably contradictory to worry about his independence and then ask a favor from Nadia. She’d always been better at gathering information. Back in high school she’d hang around everyone and pay attention to every detail going on in the halls, as if she was building up her own super secret intel network.
“Ten cuidado. Okay, Migui?” she said with a shrug, accidentally dropping a piece of cheese on the counter. “Oh shit!” she exclaimed, jumping back and looking over her chest to check for trace amounts of grease.
Miguel couldn’t contain his laughter, especially when Nadia started lifting up her jacket to really analyze every corner of it. “And that’s why I use this convenient little thing called plates,” he snickered, lifting his empty plate in the air for good measure.
She immediately turned to him, shooting daggers fromher eyes. “Oh, can it, smartass.”
“Yeah, yeah. You need a napkin though?” he asked, hand fishing a napkin out of the kitchen shelf. He stopped for a moment-- barely grabbing onto one of the disposable napkins--a soft smile on his face. He didn’t turn to look at her, but he said, “I’m glad you came to visit.”
“No prob.” She didn’t need to say anything more.
They continued eating, falling back into easy conversation. Mostly, Nadia vented about the podcast. Miguel didn’t mind, even chiming in to throw a snide remark or ask her for more detail when something peaked his attention.
A couple of hours later, Nadia left and Miguel went to bed, finally putting an end to that eventful day, and yet already thinking about what he was going to do the next one. He was going to see Ryuji’s family, not knowing what he was going to say or how they would reply.
Nadia’s question popped back into his head. Was he doing it for them or for himself? He didn’t know. All he knew was that a part of him wouldn’t let him rest until he did it.
***
Calle Ocho was like a pocket dimension, self-contained and complete. Seventh Street--or Yamadori, as the locals called it--was another. Miguel didn’t come to Yamadori often, and crossing between the two felt like going from one end of the world to the other. Five star Johtonean restaurants like Mikazuki, the famous Kantonian-inspired arcade Shoot Star calling to him with the sound of claw machines and games, Sinnohan tech stores showcasing all the new TVs, phones and computers and of course the classic Yamatonian food stalls Nadia wouldn’t shut up about selling ramen and takoyaki.
As he walked through the streets he spotted a group of teenagers walking towards him. They seemed to be talking normally, like they hadn’t noticed his presence; he couldn’t say the same, at least after he realized the one in the center, a young girl with bright red hair, was wearing a yellow bandanna around her arm. One of Team Manectric signature marks.
He immediately turned around in front of one of the arcades, eyes meeting those of a squirtle plushie--that he actually wouldn’t mind getting--as the laughter from the teens got farther and farther away from him.
He let out a sigh and let go of Icarus’ pokeball once they were fully gone.
Team Manectric was a relatively new gang, originally formed from a bunch of Yamato immigrants and their descendants who broke off from other gangs--a few even hailing from Team Murkrow back before it was solely Surean. After only three years it ended up being known as the biggest Yamatonean gang in Caliorn.
He remembered the day he’d gone back to Team Murkrow. It was shortly after his loss in the Lago Conference and three months after his mom's disappearance. The latter event hit Team Murkrow hard, and Rafael taking over the gang hadn’t helped either.
Back when Miguel’s mother was around she emphasized Team Murkrow as a home for those seeking a place to belong. A lot of runaways and troubled youths from all over the city ended up there. She tried helping them make amends, whether by convincing them to go back to their families or asking Tia Danielle for help, but she didn’t shun them if they wanted to stay either; better than letting them fall to worse gangs.
Rafael was passionate, and he made people realize that the moment he took over as leader. He set his sights on becoming Calle Ocho’s personal band of hoodlums, weeding out anyone trying to take over its turf and taking in only those that benefited him. After that he set his sights beyond the street they grew up in.
Rafael’s words the night he joined Team Murkrow still echoed in Miguel’s head. “We can’t go around looking after everyone when we can barely take care of our own. Aqui trazamos la raya *, and we’re not taking shit from anyone beyond it.”
Making enemies, crushing them, and then stepping over them was Rafael’s way of asserting Team Murkrow’s dominance.
That plus Lago’s new influx of immigrants in recent years drove Team Murkrow to become a prominently Surean gang, generating conflict with members from other ethnicities or that interacted with other gangs.
It boiled over one day, when a Kantonian member named Masaru gathered a few of the other Yamatonian members behind him and behind Rafael were Juan...and Miguel.
Miguel stood paralyzed, constantly glancing between Rafael and Masaru to see who’d throw the first punch. At first it seemed like Rafael was willing to talk things out, acknowledging the way some of the Surean members were treating Masaru and his group, calling them slurs, stealing their pokeballs at night and having them go through “initiations” that were just more ways to harass them.
“I get where you’re coming from, man. But I honestly don’t care,” Rafael replied, cold and uninterested.
Masaru stepped back, at first staring at Rafel in shock, before his expression was consumed by restless rage. “What!?”
“The majority of Team Murkrow’s Surean, ya know. Can’t bite the hand that feeds you, it’d make me look bad?” With a shrug Rafael walked closer to Masaru, alerting Masaru’s crew as the two came face to face. “Wanna make me, puto?”
There was no turning back after that. Masaru sent out his manectric and Rafael his honchrow. Sparks, gusts of wind and shadows flew across Team Murkrow’s building. More members joined in, choosing their side and letting their pokemon in on the mayhem.
Rafael wasn’t a seasoned trainer, unlike Miguel, his battling style was honed on the streets, rough around the edges and animalistic. Brute force approaches worked for overwhelming his opponents, but eventually Masaru’s manectric was able to gain the upperhand.
Miguel had a choice, side with the brother, and Team Murkrow, he’d known all his life or go against his mother’s legacy. Rafael was wrong, he knew that doing things his way would only tarnish everything their mother worked hard for.
And yet, with no hesitation, he ordered Fiera to attack and the room was quickly filled with manectric’s ear piercing screams--no different from Fiera’s back at the league--as Fiera bit into its leg.
That choice ended the fight, but it also set Team Murkrow and what would eventually become Team Manectric in a collision course.
Everyone from Team Murkrow was forbidden from setting foot in Yamadori after that. Miguel might’ve put an end to their fight but Rafael had all but lost to Masaru. After that he changed his approach, focusing on protecting their turf over going out and forcibly taking other’s territories.
That’s not to say Miguel’s broken alliance with Team Murkrow made coming to Yamadori any better. A lot of Team Manectric members probably heard of him, the older members knew what he looked like. He had to be careful and that’s why he kept an eye out for their yellow bandanna or signature lightning bolt, the mark all of its members carried either as tattoos--a tradition inherited from Team Murkrow--or as part of their clothing.
Luckily for Miguel, the rest of his walk was uneventful as he finally reached the address Nadia’d given him. Between a pharmacy and an air conditioner store stood a small two story building. There was a foldable roof made of orange fabric shading the entrance to the building, with a series of Yamatonian characters written across it. Miguel couldn’t understand the characters but luckily there was a translation beneath it: Golden Palace.
Miguel remembered Nadia’s voice: Ryuji’s parents had died a few years back, so he had no main residency, but apparently he’d been seen hanging around this restaurant, owned by his uncle’s family.
The question of whether or not he should even be there finally dawned on Miguel. Even if he had no involvement with what happened to Ryuji he still couldn’t avoid feeling somewhat responsible. A part of his head blamed himself for not reining in Team Murkrow after Rafael left and he got to be the leader and, most of all, for letting Juan go off and make a deal with who knows who that led to all this happening.
Miguel didn’t pull the trigger, but he couldn’t distance himself from the choices that led to that trigger being pulled.
But even so, what was he going to tell them? Sure he was trying to find the person distributing the guns, but the one that killed Ryuji was Juan and Miguel wasn’t turning him in either. Would ‘I’ll make sure to find the person responsible’ really work as an excuse when he wasn’t going all the way with it?
He stood paralyzed, hands going for Fiera’s pokeball for comfort. He tried his best to command his body to move, but it was as if he’d suddenly lost complete control. Noises around him grew dimmer, as if he was being plunged into a dark, silent sea.
Then, before his body gave away, he was pulled out of his headspace by the sound of his growling stomach. The street’s noises came back and his right hand let go of his vice-like grip on Fiera’s pokeball. He let out a sigh, realizing that a bead of sweat was running down his cheek.
Gathering his courage, Miguel stared at the entrance to the restaurant once more. A resolute expression settling over his face as he walked forward so the glass doors could open by themselves.
The smell of ginger, onions, curry, soy sauce and spring onions bombarded his nostrils, almost making him drool.
It was after his nose and stomach finally acclimated to the place that he took in the rest of the restaurant. Nadia told him that Yamadori’s restaurants could get pretty crowded around lunchtime. Instead he found the restaurant surprisingly barren, with only three figures standing in front of the counter that ran the length of the restaurant.
They all wore the same baggy black pants but with different colored jackets. However, what stood out to Miguel the most were the lightning bolts embroidered on the sides of their pants.
He’d found exactly the people he was avoiding.
One of the Manectrics, the one facing towards the door, raised his head and stared straight at Miguel. He had a shaved head, pierced ears, and a fierce expression that looked plastered-on.
Miguel didn’t say anything. Instead he flashed the Manectric a casual smile and began making his way to one of the booths.
Shaved Head didn’t let up his gaze, poking his teammate to make him take notice as well. As Miguel sat, he felt their gazes burning holes in the back of his neck.
A deep, gruff voice rang out from the center of the Manectrics’ huddle. “Leave him.” He wore a red denim vest showing off his tanned and defined arms. Miguel could see nothing else of him but the back of his messy hair--he wouldn’t even turn to look at him.
Miguel took note of this. Either the guy was too arrogant, like Juan, or he actually had bite to back up his bark. Miguel wasn’t planning on making a fuss anyway, but he was going to have to watch out for the Manectric leader either way.
The three guys turned back to talk to the waiter, who seemed less than pleased with their presence as he adjusted his glasses and, nervously, spoke back--though not enough for Miguel to hear him. The Manectrics presence explained why the restaurant was empty, but it was still surprising to Miguel that there was only one waiter.
Taking his eyes away from the situation--lest it would make the Manectrics suspect him--Miguel skimmed over one of the plastic menus that had been left on his table; tuning out the conversation the three Manectrics were having with the worker behind the counter.
At first he’d planned to just order whatever piqued his interest from the menu--he was no stranger to Johtonese food, so he didn’t have one favorite-- but he couldn’t stop himself from becoming transfixed by the pictures.
Miguel wasn’t an artist by any means, but he’d grown to admire people that could put in the work and create something great when it wasn’t needed. Even he thought it was weird to feel that way about a menu, but he still couldn’t avoid noting how each dish was drawn; special attention was paid to shading and lighting, from fried rice drawn in a way that made every grain and ingredient in the plate stand out, to steamed dumplings letting out a very subtly drawn steam line, with the dumplings themselves being round yet loose enough to convey filling and weight.
“Um...excuse me.” Miguel was snapped back into reality when he realized the waiter was standing beside him.
Miguel looked up at him, resting his head on his wrist as he closed the menu and smiled at the waiter. “Ah, sorry. I got a little lost just looking at the menu.”
“Oh,” the waiter replied, readjusting his glasses. “Well, we do have good food.”
“No, no, I mean the food looks great but--and this is gonna sound really weird--this is a pretty well-designed menu,” Miguel said, letting out a small laugh after he finished.
“Wait, for real?” The waiter replied, his face opening wide with shock as an honest smile crossed his face. It seemed he’d realized this himself too, as he immediately took a step back and combed his hand through his messy black hair in embarrassment.
Miguel couldn’t avoid letting a chuckle when he saw this. That’s when his eyes went down to the waiter’s hands. They seemed tense, in the way a muscle would tense up after being strained for too long. Sure, for someone working in a restaurant that could happen if you handled dishes, but it was barely lunchtime and the place was empty.
“Did you draw it?” Miguel asked. At first the waiter didn’t reply, but his initial reaction and the fact the shock wasn’t leaving his face was all Miguel needed.
The waiter quickly regained his composure before nodding at Miguel with a smile. “That’s right. I only just set them down today since my parents weren’t going to be around.”
Miguel processed this for a moment before grinning at the waiter. “You know, I don’t think that’s the kind of thing you should tell a customer.” He leaned back on the booth, letting the waiter freak out for a moment before continuing. “But that’s pretty coo--”
“You gonna order or what, asshole?” the shaved Manectric interrupted. He and his friend made their way to the booth.
Miguel’s grin didn’t wane, however. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I had a time limit.”
“Oh, you’re mouthy huh?” The other Manectric gritted his teeth, walking behind Miguel from the other side and making the waiter jump. “Well, in case you didn’t realize, this is a Johtonese restaurant. So get your Raylian ass out of here before we-”
“Venitian,” Miguel clarified, not even taking his eyes away from the menu.
“What?”
“You were calling me Raylian. I’m Venitian.” He shrugged. “I get that a lot. Were these guys bothering you earlier by the way?” he asked the waiter, who’d shrank back between the two gangsters.
“We told you to butt out!” Shaved Head called out, ripping the menu out of Miguel’s hands and throwing it to the floor. It floated down gently.
Miguel raised his hands innocently, even if his smirk betrayed him. “I didn’t butt into anything.” Turning towards their leader, who was still sitting down, he said, “Besides, didn’t your boss tell you to leave me alone?”
Shaved head didn’t reply, instead he gritted his teeth in frustration. “Whatever.”
He turned back to the waiter, grabbing him by the neck of his shirt and pushing him towards the counter. “Tsurugi was talking to you, and you just turned your back like that? You ungrateful little-”
“Let him go.”
Shaved Head gave no indication he’d heard and instead clenched his hands harder on the neck of the waiter’s shirt and turned around. “What did you say!?” he called out as Miguel stepped out of his booth.
Miguel lifted his jacket slightly, allowing them to see Icarus’ pokeball and--more importantly--Fiera’s ultra-ball, proof of Miguel’s Class A license.
“I said. Let. Him. Go.” Miguel gave the gangster a powerful glare only matched by the quiet, yet commanding, tone of his voice.
“Let him go, Toru.” The leader of the three, finally stood up and walked over to them. Miguel stared at him, noting the scar that went along his right cheek and his deep, bagged, brown eyes that matched well with the scowl plastered on his face.
Miguel and the Manectric stared at each other, sizing each other up without saying anything, neither willing to give an inch to the other.
“So you’re Little Crow,” the leader--who he assumed was the one the other manectric called Tsurugi--said, his tone completely neutral. He stepped between Miguel and the waiter.
“He’s a Murkrow!?” Toru exclaimed, practically seething. “Well. This is perfect,” he said with a smirk. He let go of the waiter and pointed at Miguel. “Hear that, Keita? This guy was part of the gang that killed Ryuji.”
The waiter’s face paled, eyes opening wide. He stared at the gangster, then shifted his gaze to Miguel, utterly dismayed.
Miguel didn’t say anything, only cursing inwardly at himself.
He stared at the waiter, Keita’s, eyes and felt his resolve waning. He’d wanted to see who Ryuji’s family was, to try and do or say something to make up for what Team Murkrow did, to reassure them he was doing something about it. But the last thing he wanted to see were those eyes full of grief.
End of Chapter 2
Next Time: Ryuji
* Aqui trazamos la raya: This is where we draw the line