Pokémon Talk About It More

[Rusting Knight]

Spoiler: Author's Note and Content Warning

the title is taken from 'emma' by jane austen. this story is completed; the second part will be posted on sunday next week. thank you to apollo32 for beta reading; any mistakes left are my own.
content warning: allusions to gender dysphoria

Part One: Cicada Husk​

[Below are the contents of a thick stack of worn, well-preserved postcards and letters, bound by a rubber band. All of them are written in the same loose, spiky hand.

The first postcard is from Oreburgh City, a glossy print of the coal mine, showing the sun gleaming on the conveyor belts arching over red ground. Yellow machinery crouches in the foreground, smeared with black grime. In the distance Mount Coronet rises, peak lost among a landscape of white clouds. Over the scene are the words: Oreburgh City: City of Energy. Below is a transcript of the accompanying letter.]

Dear Georgia,

Tonight is the most sleepless I’ve felt in my life, worse even than the night before I left for Route 203. Some of this is the streetlamp outside, brightening my room intolerably, sending watery yellow squares swaying across the bare walls. The tree leaning against my window is lit up electric green by that same lamp, its canopy’s depths thrown into starker darkness. Shadows waver on the uncarpeted floor, branches abstracted into loose lacework. When I hold my hands out in front of me, I can see them trembling. There’s dirt under my nails. Over the phone today I tried to tell you everything that I saw and felt, but the words came out misshapen, like overworked dough. It’s funny - I feel like I’ve gotten better at talking to people since I left Jubilife, but it seems to have come at the cost of us, our old double act. So, instead I’ve decided to write to you. I know how much you like getting things in the mail.

I don’t think I’ll ever be as happy as I felt today, standing in the disturbed dust of Oreburgh Gym. My first real, official battle, referee and all. It was different from a spat with a wild Starly, or a practice match at the Trainer’s School. It's different, fighting with eyes on you, judging your strategy, your performance. Bleachers ringed the field, with kids spread out in isolated clusters, waiting for their turn at the Coal Badge. As the sun fell, massive stadium lights came on, dwarfing Wisp, huddled there on the ground, isolating us. Adrenaline made my vision narrow until all I could see was her shivering frame, resolute before the bulk of Roark’s Onix. I’ve never felt happier, as if my body had dissolved into TV static and the tempo that Wisp and I moved to was all that remained.

It feels good to see a city other than Jubilife or Castelia, like a crack that opened when I left my mother’s house has widened. Smoke chokes the air in Oreburgh, thicker as you get closer to the mines. Energy hums throughout the streets, a busy, focused feeling that makes the city feel charged, like an Electric-type sparking with static. At night, the whole city turns on, just like Jubilife, but the lights are yellower, the cars sparser. From my window in the Pokémon Centre I can see the mine, for once motionless, conveyor belts dull by moonlight. When I go out people give me these soft, nostalgic smiles, seeing echoes of their own journey. Sleeping in a proper bed is such a luxury, after all those nights on the hard, cold ground of the campgrounds. Even if the Pokémon Centre’s pillows are a little flat.

But enough of that! It’s time for me to go to bed. And I’m running out of space on this paper.

Love,
L.

[The second postcard depicts the ancient statue of Dialga in a faux-vintage style, blocky black lines filled in with flat colours. An orange sunset washes over the scene, casting angular shadows under the elegantly tossed head and upraised hooves of the statue. At the pedestal’s base a bicycle is parked, gleaming in the late evening light. In the blank, warmly toned sky the words Eterna City: History Living is scrawled in an imitation of handwriting.

Attached to the card by a paperclip is a photo of a pale young girl with long black hair, dressed in a knee-length black skirt and a white tank top. In her arms is a Snorunt, blue eyes isolated in its dark face, huddled against her trainer’s shirt. Behind them is the ivy-covered facade of Eterna City’s gym, windows lit up against the colourless twilight.]

Dear Georgia,

I’m writing at the rickety chair set out on the balcony. All the lights of Eterna are burning around me: apartment windows, flickering TV screens seen through open balcony doors, convenience stores bathed in fluorescent white. Cars move in sluggish streams, crawling through a network of narrow roads. As people pass I can hear snatches of speech, voices without words, the click of shoes against pavement. My assigned roommate is snoring in his bed, his Glameow curled up by the radiator. He had the right idea, getting to sleep early. Wisp is shivering on my lap, happy in the cold night that has me huddling to a quilt. Right now it’s around ten o’clock, which means I am already up too late, given that I’m getting up at the actual crack of dawn tomorrow. No rest for a wannabe champion.

Yesterday, while I was waiting for my slot at the gym, I spent hours in the frigid Historical Museum, peering at leftovers from past times. It calmed me right down, after I’d worked myself up about the dangers of paralysis in battle, and fretted about not having enough Pokémon in my team. It can’t just be me and Wisp forever, not with Maylene next. But I’m not worried now; Wisp flew through that match, just like I told you she would. I mean, Ice against Grass is a pretty easy match-up. And there was that special feeling again, of moving to the same rhythm as her. It’s getting easier to slip into that flow, maybe because of how much I crave it.

The Forest badge is just as heavy as the Coal; I can feel its hard edges cut into my palm when I clench my fist around it. After our victory Wisp and I went wandering through the streets, giddy with released tension, admiring cracked cobblestones and old-fashioned brick houses with new, familiar affection. This is my favourite place in Sinnoh so far, I think. Better than Jubilife, though I loved it there, better than Oreburgh or Floaroma Town. Something about the heft of history in the cramped streets, all those preserved buildings flaunting the marks of wear on their pleasant, long faces. But something in me longs for the Routes, eating by firelight in the crowded campgrounds, watching Wisp play-fight with the other Pokémon.

Love,
L.

[The third postcard is taken up mostly by the words Greeting from Veilstone City: Hewn from Rock, which are filled in with drawings of the city skyline, depicted as a series of white and yellow rectangles. In the background are the craggy, steep mountains that the city was carved from, drawn in blocky reds. Once the card would have been glossy, but now the corners are frayed. There is a large crease in the middle, as if it was folded in half for a long time and carried around. A soda pop bottle cap is taped to the back.

Instead of the usual plain paper, a Flame Mail set was used. Folded inside the letter is a small photobooth strip showing L, a Snorunt in her arms and a Wingull perched on her shoulder. The series of photos gives the impression that taking two Pokémon into a cramped booth was a bad idea. On the back the spiky hand had scrawled: Meet my new friend, Sailor!]

Dear Georgia,

From my window I can see streets drenched in blue light, as if dusk sent a paint bucket spilling over the whole city. Yellow lamps glow behind the lacy curtains of the apartment block opposite my room. Above the skyscrapers clouds hunker down in one ragged mass, luminous lavender from light pollution. A light, early winter rain is falling in loose sheets outside, pattering against the windowpane. Drops, lit up golden by the floor lamp, roll down the glass. There are a lot of vacancies in the Pokémon Centre; for once I didn’t have to share a room. The room across from me is occupied. I can hear someone’s radio, playing Unovan jazz turned up loud. It makes me homesick; it’s the same music that my mum would play while she cooked.

The air here carries the salty stink of the sea and the constant gossiping of Sailor’s old friends. Cold seems to radiate from the mountains that the city was hacked out of, making everyone rug up as if they're on Mount Coronet. The weather is making Wisp cheerful, but the gloominess has sent me into a bit of a mood. It’s funny, I guess, that I’m getting so down in the dumps here of all places, when Veilstone is so big, full of so much cool stuff. To shake my bad mood, I went on a bit of a shopping binge. Stuff for Wisp and Sailor, mostly, but between you and me I couldn’t resist the urge to get fancy stationery for myself. Sailor is the best, though nobody seems to agree with me. So what if he’s a little less well-behaved even than most wild-caught Pokémon are? He won against Maylene for me, single-handedly. Though I’ll admit this win didn’t excite me as much as the others did; I’ll have to be careful not to get complacent.

Please pass on my thanks to your mother again, by the way. There is nothing I bought that keeps me warmer than her scarf. It’s good to hear that she has come around to letting you go on the contest circuit. Now that I’m drowning in the League, it is clearer than ever you’re not suited for battling.

Love,
L.

[The fourth and fifth postcards are dated four months after the first. On the first is an image of the Great Marsh, showing a shallow pond crowded with reeds, surrounded by tall trees with broad, closely gathered green leaves. Perched on a large rock is a Wooper, head tilted to watch the late evening play upon the stagnant water, dispersed into dappled patterns by the canopy. Over the image is plastered the slogan Pastoria City: The Marsh City.

Paper-clipped to the postcard is a photo of the same girl, bags under her eyes, smiling red lips almost hidden by a handmade white scarf, pasty under the fluorescent lights of a Pokémart. She is holding up a Croagunk by the armpits, so that it is level with the wooden statue on the counter carved to resemble its species. Scrawled on the back is: I have to keep moving, so I can’t write properly. But I’d like to introduce you to another new friend.

The second postcard is an image of the Super Contest Hall from a street-level perspective, shown in bright sunlight. A Drifloon floats before it, and people form a solid stream before its massive facade. Above the Hall’s dome, in faux-retro lettering, is written: Hearthome City: Warm & Kind. Another paper-clip attaches a Polaroid of a Snorunt, eating a Poképuff piled with cream, the faint shimmer of a Protect wall around her to shield her treat from a scavenging Wingull.]

Dear Georgia,

You’ll like it in Hearthome, when you come for the contest circuit. There really is something Warm & Kind about this city, maybe because of all the children playing in the streets. I can hear them now, sounds of their play drifting through my open window along with the smell of car exhaust. A Murkrow is perched on a powerline outside, fluttering its wings and cawing. I’m sorry that I haven’t written; calling from long-distance is useless, and words seem to be becoming more difficult for both of us. Besides, there are things that I can’t tell you with your mum listening in, that well-intentioned spy. I had my first cigarette, for one, and my first drink. I’ve been travelling with a trainer I met in Pastoria City. Her name is Sofia, she’s seventeen, born the same month as me, if you can believe it. Her partner's a Snorunt too; we met because both of our partners had wandered off to cluster together beneath a tree in Route 214. When I stalled trying to get past Crasher Wake with a Snorunt and a Wingull, she saved me. By that I mean she helped me get Gauze, the handsome gentleman I sent you the photo of. Not a Grass-type, like I said I would get, like Sofia and everyone else told me to get, but it was love at first sight. Though he does wake me up at night sweating, shaken from strange nightmares haunted by his ribbits. Who knew there was a sound more disturbing than Sailor demanding breakfast?

I made Sofia take me to see a contest every night, so I could tell you about them. It made me fight better against Fantina, seeing moves deployed with such creativity, freed from battling’s strictures. I had a long talk with Fantina, actually, after our fight, about the proper care for Ghost-types. It made me realise that I had been expecting Wisp to evolve into a Froslass, even named her in hope of it, without looking into anything about caring for her future form. Maybe because she felt bad for me, Fantina called me ‘the kind of girl who can’t survive without Pokémon.’ That’s true, I know, but something about it made me feel physically repulsed. I almost opened my mouth to correct her, though I don’t know what I meant to say.

Last night, there was a dual performance by a Ninjask and a Shedinja, their trainer sticking to the wings. At first, it was just confusion, dozens of illusory Ninjasks darting through sand it had kicked up into billowing clouds. Then, just as my eyes were beginning to ache, the movement stopped, the sand fell into a golden layer on the wooden stage. Through dim shafts of light, dancing with dust motes, a Shedinja rose, its white halo tinted purple by writhing shadowy energy. The audience seemed to be one whole, waiting creature. It hung there a long time, unmoving, until the curtains came down. For some reason I couldn't place, the sight of it rising from the sandstorm, its unexpected life, made me cry. It reminded me of seeing you, as a kid, crouched in front of the TV, explaining all the performances to me, your face illuminated by the screen’s wavering blue light.

Love,
L.

[The sixth postcard is dated a month later, and shows the pier of a port city on a rainy day. The ocean has been roused into restless movement; a wave is captured as it tosses up white spray against the pier’s posts. Ships dot the water, hunkering against the horizon and docked at the bustling waterfront. In the air a Pelipper is flying, its massive beak hanging open. Sprawled across the length of the postcard is the slogan: Canalave City: Cargo Port. On the back is written, in neater handwriting than normal, a short message: The sea air is doing me good. Sailor is happy to be by saltwater once more; Gauze is happy that he got to be in the spotlight again. I have been too busy to call lately, but there is nothing I miss more than talking to you. Paperclipped to the postcard is another photobooth strip, this one of L. and an attractive girl with long, blonde hair in a braid, scarves loose around their necks. They are laughing; in the last photo Sofia is kissing L’s cheek.

The seventh postcard is dated two months later, and is an illustration of Mount Coronet in watercolours, showing it rising snow-capped and enormous to meet an electric blue sky. At its feet is the dark green canopy of a sprawling forest, painted as a spiky mass. In the top left corner, in unobtrusive lettering, is written: Snowpoint City: City of Snow. A paperclip attaches a Polaroid of a smug Toxicroak, eating an obviously expensive Pokpéuff. There is no accompanying letter; below is transcribed the cramped message on the back.]

Dear Georgia,

What a dull slogan!

My team is useless against Candice. Though Gauze should be able to take care of her easily, especially after evolution, my power looks lazy before her skill. There is a chance that I am one of those trainers who just don’t have what it takes. What a drag! Sofia says to keep my chin up. It is hard to say anything good about Snowpoint; all I can notice about it is that it is white, and very, very cold. It’s as if a static that has been in my ears for a long time is growing louder. I find myself flinching away from people’s touches and compliments. The sound of my own name rings horribly false. At least Wisp is happy to be back home.

I would write more, but I have nothing nice to say - except congratulations on getting your first Pokémon. Electric-types are beautiful on the stage.

Love,
L.

[The eighth postcard is a retro-styled drawing of Vista Lighthouse from the sea, rendered a black silhouette on a fringe of jagged rocks. The sun hangs in the sky, low and enormous, veiled by skeins of white clouds, beating down upon the aquamarine waves. A steamer is coming into the bay; smoke trails behind it and disperses in a strong wind. In large, bright yellow letters is the slogan: Sunnyshore City: Solar Powered!

Accompanying the Space Mail stationery is the empty wrapper from a Seal package, and a Polaroid of a Froslass, eating another pricey Poképuff.]

Dear Georgia,

It’s been awhile since I wrote to you, though I know that is terrible. Over the last three months I have found myself humiliated, humbled and, finally, victorious. Under the barrage of Sofia’s cajoling, not to mention Mum’s well-intended encouragement, I turned tail and fled down the mountain to try my hand at the Beacon Badge. You’d think that after months of battering my head against Candice’s elegant strategies the traditionally final gym would be harder. It wasn’t. I beat it easily, even with Sailor benched. Funny, how these things work.

Of course, a lot of that win is owed to your mother’s generosity. Giving up a Dawn Stone for me, a preserved prize from her own journey, when it ought to have gone to you - I would like to extend my sincere thanks; I don’t know how to express it without formality. I hope that still means something to you. Or maybe that’s being unkind: I’m the one who stopped calling, who stopped answering your letters, who got caught up in embarrassment. I’ve talked to your mother more than I have you. Maybe now that you’ve left on your own journey, you’ll understand. You called me condescending; I apologise for that. It’s probably because you’re better than I’ll ever be. The Ele-Seal is for Volta. I hope that it will help you bring the routine you described to life.

For old times sake, I’ll tell you that Sunnyshore is beautiful. My window shows the elevated walkways, gleaming modern in chrome and glass. Something about them reminds me of the conveyor belts at Oreburgh Mine, constant, efficient movement. Sunnyshore is the kind of city I would dream up, lying up at night, eyes screwed shut so I could plan out my speedy victories at the Sinnoh League. Yesterday, after I beat Volkner, so that the little velvet gap in my badge case could be bracketed on both sides, I went up to Vista Lighthouse. From that height the sea seems like the only important thing on the earth. It extends from shore to beyond the thin line of the horizon, where cargo ships hide their bulk behind a blue veil. Waves whipped themselves up before the driving wind, only to collapse against the shore, desperately caressing the seaweed-strewn sand.

When night fell I went swimming, in the frigid winter water. Most of the time I floated on my back, shivering, so I could see Sailor circling in the sky above me, buoyed by the wind, crying out. Maybe you can choreograph a performance that will make the audience feel like I felt then, as if I had left behind my body and my ambitions. I just dissolved into the water, like a bar of soap worn to a sliver, until all that was left was some small, calm centre. There is something I realised then, but even now, writing to you, I think I’m too scared to admit it. Maybe you can guess.

Love,
L.

[The final letter comes on Snow Mail stationery, without any accompaniments.]

Dear Georgia,

Now that I have spent a month in Snowpoint, and intend to spend more, it has become a beautiful place to me, fondness leading to attraction just as it does with people. I have rented a tiny little apartment, close to the fringes of the city, with the last of my money, and taken up a job at the Mart. Most of my nights are spent at the counter there, looking at the dark street outside, knees aching from standing too long, bleached by the fluorescents. I’m not allowed to have my team out in the apartment, or in the store, so despite the cold I find myself spending a lot of time out in the open. I sit in the park by my apartment, feet frozen inside my new, unbroken cold weather boots, watching Sailor circle in the sky above, a white shape lost in the grey cloud cover. At first I found that park dreary, and so did Sailor. But Wisp didn’t; in the snow and ice she seems at home in a way that I thought she had lost with evolution. These days I find myself swayed over to her point of view. Have you ever seen proper snow? It’s falling now, the only thing visible past my dark windowpane, carpeting the still streets, piling up on red rooftops and frosting car windows. In the air, overpowering the usual city stinks, is the scent of pine trees, fresh even as the snow dirties and hardens during the day.

I have a name you might not expect, on the badge pinned to my uniform apron. After I beat Candice at last, she shook my hand, wishing me luck with the Elite Four, and I told her before I knew what I was saying that I wasn’t planning to challenge them. Sofia had already left me behind, uneasy once she realised I wasn’t the ace Trainer I’d put myself forth as. When I told Candice I wasn’t sure if I would go on, she laughed, then seemed to feel bad about it, and said that it didn’t surprise her. Not in a mean way, she clarified, though I could tell from her laugh that she had meant well. It was just she could tell I was the kind of Trainer who cared about Pokémon, but not battling. That’s true. I’ve spent a lot of time labouring over strategies that felt clunky, forced, the sort that Sofia improvised with a natural flair. Candice asked me, gently as she could, if I might not be better off going home and doing some reassessing.

But I couldn’t go home. Not to sit at my kitchen table, not to listen to Mum whistle along with the radio as she cooked my favourite dinner, looking up to see her veiled disappointment. After I completed my Badges, slotting the Icicle Badge into its custom-made place, I got about a week of relief. It felt good to give up, though I know it shouldn’t have, as if I had been heaving uselessly at a boulder set deep in the earth. But then the old feeling came in, moments of quiet emptiness interspersed with days or weeks of anxiety constant as the hum of Ninjasks, fraying my nerves until I felt sick. That sickness got worse, not a physical illness but a bitter, burning twist in my stomach. It got so I was barely eating, unable to extend kindness to anything but my own team, tracking men with my eyes. Men were the thing that made the feeling come on strongest, young, old, attractive or unattractive. I watched the way they moved, dressed, talked, and felt sick with envy. Being any kind of man, I thought, would be better than this. In the mirror my face looked abstracted, like it was only a shadow cast by some unseen person, not belonging to me. The cautious appreciation I had been getting for my new landscape waned.

That realisation that had come to me in Veilstone, which I had stifled with deliberate force, returned, seeping into my idle daydreams. Late at night, watching light from passing cars cast watery cells on my ceiling, I had felt out the possibility, slow going as walking in the Great Marsh. It felt so big, turning it over, the same electric potential that I felt when I held your mother’s Dawn Stone in my hand. I felt an echo of the same hope that I had seen in Wisp’s eyes as I presented her with it. One night, I called my mother crying, and told her the truth like I had told Candice I wasn’t planning on completing the League, not realising what I meant before the words were out of my mouth. She told me that she loved me.

My new name is Luke; I’d like to reintroduce myself to you. I tried calling you twice, to tell you, but I guess after our fight you blocked my number. That’s okay. I’m better at keeping grudges than you. That’s my first bit of news. My second is that I’m gonna be staying in Snowpoint, though my mum was furious at me when I told her, and so was yours. I can’t stand to be home, not when I’ve thrown off not one but two identities, and am electric with both guilt and relief at what I’ve gained. Not when I know you’re there, but about to leave, furious at me. Besides, Wisp is happy here.

Anyway, good luck on your journey, and give my love to your companion.

Love,
Luke

 

[Rusting Knight]

Spoiler: Author’s Note and Content Warning

Apologies for the late upload; I put off doing final efforts until I decided to just publish as-is. Because of this, this chapter might not be as clean as the first.
Content Warnings: Mild profanity.

Part Two: Electric Dreams
​

[A loose stack of envelopes and assorted papers, kept preserved in a little wooden box with an engraving of Palkia on the lid, a souvenir from Eterna City.

The first envelope contains two pages, torn out of a sketchbook, and two sheets of lined paper. The first page consists of a sketch of the turbines at Valley Windworks in loose grey pencil, fluffy clouds floating above the rotating fans. A Drifbloon is crossing low to the ground, its strings dangling above a drowsing Glameow. The second sketch is a study of a Combee in flight, its wings done in fine detail, with a message on the back: Caught this guy just after I finished writing. On the back are a few loose studies of different flowers from Floaroma Meadow.]

Dear Luke,

I’m writing this camped out at yet another honey-smeared tree in the Valley Windworks, which is a poor substitute for my nice, warm bed in the Pokémon Centre. In the pale twilight, everything is bathed in clear light, so that the rustling leaves and slowly turning turbines seem like a steady hand has gone over them in ink. Lingering warmth weighs down the air, already heavy with pollen and the scent of flowers. I came here to try and catch a Combee, though as of writing this letter I’ve struck out three other times. Strange, the things we do. Tomorrow the annual Floaroma Town Contest will be held, on an open-air platform I could see them setting up yesterday. It’s not a formal contest, I’ll admit, but between me and you all I want is the prestige from winning it, not any special Ribbon. A couple of town Contests, along with legitimate Ribbons from the Hall, will be enough to start getting me bar gigs.

You never went to Floaroma Town on your journey, did you? Today I spent three hours out in the Meadow, waiting at my second honey-soaked tree, sweat staining my shirt, trying not to sneeze every two seconds. The Meadow is like an illustration in a children’s book, carpeted with the same soft, pastel colours that the bakery in Jubilife uses to ice their cakes. Even the grass here is vibrant, bright green against the electric blue sky, pale only in comparison to the flowers. It’s as if someone photoshopped the whole place to be unrelentingly oversaturated. I could hear insects humming in the depths of the greenery, the nameless animal life that crowds the world. No Pokémon in sight; definitely no Combee. There is something fake about the town itself, underneath its beauty. People are always trying to sell you things, berries or flowers, accessories, which tempts me out of proportion to my budget. But there’s no faking that cloying floral scent that floats on the wind. Before I left I allotted a carefully regulated amount for contest equipment, which does not cover impulse purchases from the Flower Shop. That E-Seal you sent me is the only thing that kept me from spending all my money. I can tell myself with an easy heart that there is nothing there that is more striking, more suited for Volta. For a little Joltik, that guy sure is vain already - though there are worse things than vanity in a contest Pokémon. In fact, I’m lucky that he pays so much attention to his appearance.

Right now, I can see him practising for the contest tomorrow, throwing out sparks before the embers of my campfire. Before evolution, Joltik can’t produce their characteristic charged webs, but the ways in which they release static electricity are strange, special. Lost amidst the grass, it's as if his dancing sparks are appearing from nowhere, glowing fairies fluttering through the air. There are a lot of Electric-types around; I can see a Shinx crouched in the tall grass, waiting to pounce on a Pachirisu. Something about all the energy in the air, I guess. I’m used to Volta drowsing, glued to the power socket in my bedroom.

You were right when you called Mum a spy, by the way. She told me that you got a job doing odd jobs, the sort that require powerful Pokémon like yours. Congratulations, though I know it isn’t what you were hoping for. There are a lot of ways to be around Pokémon - you’ll find yours. Until you do, or until you start returning my calls, I’m gonna keep on writing to you. It’s lonely, being on your own out on the Routes. I want someone to run my routines by, who’ll tell me when they are tacky. Next time I write, I’ll tell you about the one I developed for the Floaroma Contest.

This must seem like a banal letter to send, after we’ve talked maybe twice in six months. Especially given that this is my fault, holding onto a grudge just because you said I wouldn’t, like a Herdier worrying a dead rat. I told myself a lot of stupid excuses when I should have been there for you, entertained bitterness about silly slights. But if it’s my fault then it’s my obligation to repair this useless rift.

Love,
Georgia

[The second envelope contains a sheet of sketchbook paper and several sheets of paper, folded up together. The sketchbook page is covered in a landscape portrait of the Moss Rock in Eterna Forest, the trees and undergrowth done in vague outlines, so that the focus is on the play of light through the canopy above. On the back is a second sketch, of a Combee flying close to a Joltik in a manner that, through its proximity and the smiling larvae, suggests teasing. Folded within the sheets of paper is a glossy photo, showing a young girl with dark brown skin, in an expensive leather jacket and knee-length skirt beaming with pride as an official clips at Ribbon onto her lapel. Perched on her tightly braided hair is a Joltik, unadorned but sleekly groomed.]

Dear Luke,

In the depths of Eterna Forest, I have discovered that there is a feeling of unreality that comes from being entirely alone in an alien, isolated place. For one, in the gaps between the close-set trees, the sky is showing more stars than I’ve ever seen before. It’s as if a layer of grime has been cleared away, exposing the whole gaping rift of the Milky Way. Somewhere in the tall grass, Kricketots are chirping, holding a strange sort of religious service. Unseen Ninjasks harmonise, so that the night is alive with layers of low, monotonous music. In the darkness beneath their own canopy, trees glow in what moonlight slips through, their white trunks like the columns of an ancient ruin. My new friend, as you used to say, is well-acclimated now enough to be let loose. I can see her past the light of my weak campfire, a yellow blur lost amongst the thick undergrowth, her drone the only real evidence of her presence. Tomorrow, we’re off to Eterna City.

Now, as promised, a short description of my routine at the Floaroma Contest. It was just Volta and me up there, for our solo act. No battles in the town competitions. When I got up, I realised that in my fantasies I had forgotten to imagine the crowd, except for their applause. You were always my main audience, the reason I kept nurturing my ambitions. Performing for nobody is pathetic; performing for one person is special. In reality, there were so many upturned faces to put me off, young, old, bored or intent, lips parted from craning their heads. My nerves spread to Volta a bit, I think; he started giving off static like a high school science experiment. But after the initial strutting about, he slipped right into the routine we had practised. First, he strung webs from one end of the stage to the other, using Agility to make his movements dizzyingly fast. Then, he used a Thunder Wave to make the delicate design thrum with electricity, sparks scattering harmlessly over the audience’s heads, until the web broke under the strain. I wish you could have seen it, how wonderful the stage looked with those snapped threads dancing crazily in the late evening light. We won, of course. None of the other participants came close.

I hope that you and your team are well. Thank you for writing back to me.

Love,
Georgia

[The third envelope contains two sketchbook pages, one of which is covered in a careful copy of the inscription in the Solaceon Ruins, surrounded by a cloud of Unown, shaded with shaky cross-hatching. On the reverse side is a still life of a Joltik attached to a socket, its Pokeball and the remains of a fast food meal scattered on the floor around it. The second page is a study of the Pokémon Nursery’s yard, focused primarily on a sleeping Bastiodon in a patch of sunlight.]

Dear Luke,

Inside my room it’s dim, a blessed relief from the simmering heat outside. The shutters are lowered; golden bars of light lay across the floor, falling onto my hair, my hands, the rubbish I have scattered about. Every half an hour I troop down to the cafeteria to get another chilled soda bottle to hold against my temple, its condensation leaving my prickling skin damp. Sweat rolls down my neck, cooled by the ancient fan that I have shoved up against the desk. After taking part in the intermediate Contest at the Hearthome Hall, I found myself swinging back around to visit Solaceon Town. FIttingly, given its name, my stay here is defined by the sun, which seems to be determined to melt me down into a steaming puddle. Below my feet I can hear the activity of the Nurses, busy despite the sweltering day. Every now and then a wisp of their laughter floats up to me.

Around here there’s a lot of farmland, pastures brittle in the summer heat, rolling out in undulating waves until it strains the eye to follow them, monotonous under the cloudless sky. White shapes dot the landscape, Mareep drowsing in the midday. Hay bales disrupt the green, and the orange roofs of farmhouses. Maybe it seems strange to you that I decided to drop by here. There are no contests in Solaceon, and few other trainers come by. In the interest of honesty, I’ll tell you that I wanted a bit of a break. We won at Hearthome, which is to say that I got to debut Syrup with his first routine, but two wins in a row left me feeling jittery. After my third win, I’ll have enough qualifications to go out looking for gigs, which makes my stomach churn with impatience and anxiety. So I decided to beat a hasty retreat until I found myself sparking with static that had nowhere to go, like when Volta gets sick from glutting himself on electricity. Here it is too busy to be peaceful, which is its own kind of idle, seeing the hive-like working of the town and the surrounding ranches running smoothly along.

The lack of attractions has given me an opportunity to get to know the only other guest at the Centre too, an elderly retired Trainer named Helen. She’s like us, which is to say that she’s also trans. It’s been nice to talk to someone so much older about my experiences, and about hers. For the first time, I can imagine myself her age, happy, self-assured. Plus, I’ve gotten a lot of tips from her about raising Pokémon, particularly in looking after Syrup, who seems to like her better than me. She has a Bug-type too, a Dustox which likes to flutter lazily about, demanding Pokepuffs from whoever stops to stroke its head. At first, I thought that was her only companion, but when I mentioned that she laughed. Then she took me out to the Nursery, and led me to a massive, aged Bastiodon, asleep in the shade of an oak tree. It awed me a little, seeing something so powerful bend its head before that wrinkled woman, its slow movements broadcasting accumulated strength. I’ll be sad when I have to leave her behind, though she’s promised we can stay in touch. Maybe you’ll meet her someday. I’ve told her all about you.

Love,
Georgia

[The fourth envelope contains two sketches, one of a Combee hidden among the dresses hanging on a rack in a dressing room. The other is of the counter at a cafe, a study of the salt shaker, pepper grinder, sugar pot, and napkin holder. In the foreground is a plate holding the remnants of an omelette; in the background is a loose drawing of a hand setting down a cup of coffee. A photo is paper-clipped to the accompanying letter, showing Georgia with her Joltik clutched to her chest, beaming with pride as another Ribbon is pinned to her lapel.]

Dear Luke,

I’m writing this right after our call, sitting at the counter of the Café Cabin, angled awkwardly so I can see out the Route past the Cabin’s outdoor furniture. Fog is low over the ground, though it's the middle of summer, wreathing the long, brittle grasses in white. It seems impossibly solid, sprawled out over the ground, cloaking tree trunks and giving an earthy, damp smell to the muffled world. Through the diffuse white glow I can see the Trainers’ silhouettes, marked by flashes of light from practice battles and spats against wild Pokémon. Every now and then the bell above the door rings as someone comes stomping in, buried in layers of protective clothing. Inside I feel smug, safe in the warm, coffee-scented cafe, drinking glass after glass of Moomoo Milk. Volta is refreshing himself too, clinging to the power socket and gorging himself on electricity. After serving the customers, the two waitresses on shift lean against the counter and chat to each other, wisps of gossip that float across to me. It reminds me of the cafés we would go to after school, though the setting is a little different. These days, now that I have mostly conquered it, homesickness catches me off-guard.

For the past month I’ve been in Hearthome racking up my third Ribbon at the Hall, practicing routines more suited for the cramped confines of bars than open stages. I have a gig in a week, actually, at Veilstone Game Corner. It’s gonna take some hard traveling to make my way back there in time, after all my dawdling back at Solaceon. So much time spent waiting, training, jumping through hoops, for exactly this, is fraying my nerves more and more the closer I get to the actual day. For my first performance outside of a Contest, I think it’ll be Volta who’ll shine - because of his size, for one, and because it only feels right to honour my starter. First a casino, then a bar (probably), then another bar, then bar after bar - until I find my way back at the Contest Halls, this time for the real performances. At night, when I can’t sleep, I give up the reasonable, practical routines I prepare in the hot light of day and draft extravagant, wild plans for when I have my name up in lights. Whenever I go off the rails too much, I think of your letter from Veilstone - ‘make the audience feel like I felt’. It changed my thinking when I read that, shifted my mind off of beauty and gaudy displays, onto how my audiences should feel, watching my Pokémon. When I think about my most successful shows, I remember the ones where I caught a look on somebody’s face that was different, stranger, more than joy at a dazzling trick. Though that’s going a little too pretentious for the patrons at the Game Corner, who’ll probably give me only the corner of their eyes.

Love,
Georgia

[The fifth letter is folded within a sketchbook page depicting a bar just after closing, loose lines illustrating the bartender scrubbing the tables clean, a waitress hunched over a mop. Unlike the other drawings, this one has colour, shades of brown and yellow to show the dim, warm light. A newspaper clipping is pasted onto the back, depicting a small article on a rising star in the more artistic circles of Contest performances named Georgia O.]

Dear Luke,

You know, when I was stuck in Jubilife and you were out on the Gym circuit, I spent of a lot of time anxious for your letters, sickening at my own resentment, a see-saw of my pettier and kinder impulse that always tilted one way the longer it took between your replies. Now that my life is not spent running along the tracks between school, home and work, I find myself more sympathetic. My hours, which once dragged out dull and empty, now buzz with activity. I tried calling you just then, which is to say just before I started writing. This is going to be a little shorter than my other letters; I only have twenty before I’m on stage. Partially, I’m writing this to calm my nerves, though the other part is of a more generous nature. Not that I’m presuming anything, just that you said you were grateful that I wrote. And I guess I’ve always assumed other people like getting mail as much as I do.

In the corner, Volta is asleep, rather bigger than he used to be, and calmer before performances than when he was a Joltik. Now that he can produce proper electrified webs, my routines have been focused on shimmering, sparking networks of light, suspended over the heads of patrons, spinning around Volta’s insect bulk. There is something tinged with fear in the eyes of audiences that watch him, mingled with a touch of awe, like they are recalling the childish wonder they used to feel at the night sky, or the first time they saw a battle. I always think of my mother’s Pachirisu, the first time I saw her battle in a demonstration for the Trainer’s School. After my shows, I call her up, listen to stories about Static’s antics and neighbourhood dramas. There’s a new dynamic between us now though, one I don’t quite know how to handle, like my old image of her is slowly being scrubbed away, a layer of rust giving way to shiny metal. I think the same thing is happening to her; I can hear it in the odd note in her voice sometimes, like she’s talking to a stranger. Soon as the week is up, I’m gonna start making arrangements to visit her.

My biggest news is that I ended up giving Syrup away, to stay with Helen back in Solaceon; she liked the sun better there than the dim lamps and beery stenches of the bars I haunt these days. In a way it was a relief to hand her off, especially to such a capable trainer, so that I could focus just on Volta. Something between us never clicked - not on an emotional level, but on the stage. Besides, if I miss her it gives me an excuse to take a break and go back to visit Helen and the Nurses Joy at the Centre. These days my life seems to take place at night in Hearthome and at day in Solaceon, all my hours crammed full with performances, people, Volta.

I’m getting to love this city, as you said I would, all these open streets lined with tall, tidy houses. When I get sick of the jittery, sweaty atmosphere of the bars, I like to sit by the fountain, watching water sparkle in the sun. There’s good people watching by the fountain; there’s good people watching in my haunts, too. As you might expect, there is a thriving Contest scene in Hearthome, though the bar gigs and festival shows are only called ‘contests’ by affectionate nickname. A lot of my friends in the same line of work get a little up themselves about it, saying that what they do is art, and what goes on in the rounds and battles at the Hall are just beauty pageants. I disagree, though after a while I got sick of fighting about it, content to just sit and simmer. After all, most of them have the talent to back up what they’re saying, and the rest drop out after a few months. I’m not humble enough to say that I’m not one of the ones with talent. You know if you have talent or not - you, Luke, know that you have talent. Not for battling, maybe, but for dealing with Pokémon. Hanging out around Contest trainers and their hanger-ons has made me see that it is even rarer than I thought. Honestly, I’m getting sick of everything to do with Heatthome except the performances themselves. But being able to get up on a stage with Volta - any stage, no matter how dingy - is worth it.

Well, I gotta go, they’re calling for me.

Love,
Georgia

[The sixth envelope contains a letter, a photo and a card made out of thick watercolour paper. On it is drawn, in confident detail, the site of a view from an open ground floor window with flapping, ragged curtains. Outside are parked cars, shiny as beetle shells, shielded by neat rows of trees, painted with careful attention to the yellow-green of their leaves. In the window of the opposite house in a Glameow, watching the street with an alert tail. In the sky, just barely visible over the low roofs of suburban houses, is the antennae of the Jubilife TV station. The photo is of a Galvantula, asleep in a pet bed, with a Pachirisu curled up on its back.]

Dear Luke,

One way or another, this is going to be the last letter you get from me.

When I first got off the train at Jubilife Station, my stomach lurched with a feeling of unfamiliarity, like I had walked down a step that was no longer there. That same instant of shock came again when I saw my house, again when I saw the grocery store, over and over. My bedroom was vacuumed, tidy and smelling of the lavender that my mother had put on my nightstand, her preparations making it into a nicer space than it had ever been before. Have you ever seen a film set in Jubilife, and felt a strange jolt when you recognised a familiar place filled with actors, grainy on the cinema screen? It was like that in reverse, an unplaceable, uncomfortable twisting sensation. Maybe part of that was because you weren’t there. Some of the strangeness has got to do with how Mum talks to me now, cautious like the workers at the Nursery are with a newly evolved Pokémon, giving me soft, assessing glances when I do shit I used to make her do for me. Still, I’m glad to be home, away from all the dramas of Hearthome. Nothing matters to me quite the same way that Contests do, but I wish it didn’t come with all this extra bullshit sticking to it. And there is something nice about the changes. Just like Mum treats Volta with more respect than she did when he was a Joltik, she talks to me more openly, gives me more responsibility. Last night we sat out on the porch after dinner, watching the people walk down the grey streets, listening to Ninjasks and Starly weaving a gentle backdrop of noise. She gave me a beer; I told her about my forays into the dating scene at Hearthome. There was more understanding in her voice, when I talked about my routines, as if she saw them as more than idle fancies.

I want that with you. Something fresher, steadier than what we used to have. When I imagine you I don’t want to picture your old self, but I don’t know what to replace it with. So I think this’ll be the last letter I send to you - not even a letter, really. Just a heads up that I’ll be in Snowpoint City sometime next month, looking for you. I hope you’ll be waiting.

Love,
Georgia

[The final page in the little stack is another watercolour card, this one depicting snowfall on an empty shopping strip from a café window, done in blurry muted tones. Only the snow is bright, glittery as it passes beneath the shafts of light under streetlamps. At one end of the street is an empty phone booth, lit up fluorescent white. In the foreground, there is a steaming cup of coffee, and the detritus of painting tools. On the back is written a short message in cramped handwriting, transcribed below.]

Dear Luke,

I’ve made up my mind to give this to you no matter how badly our meeting goes. After all, I got here three whole hours early, so I’ve had nothing to do but paint and steel my nerves. The most comfort I have is the coffee, warming my chilled body, and the weight of Volta’s ball at my belt. Inside a cocoon of warmth, the snow is casting the same spell as it did when I first stepped foot out of the station. Right now, waiting for you, my only company is that of the boisterous waiter, talking with his hands braced on the table of a group of young men, clearly mates of his. Maybe you’ll sneer at me, having to catch the train to Snowpoint instead of journeying, when your job is hiking about the most dangerous parts of Mount Coronet, catching Pokémon for breeders and collecting herbs for Nurseries. But with only Volta, whose power is focused on looks over combat, I’d be easy prey for any Sneasel or Abomasnow who happened along.

But I’m not writing to tell you about that. The point of writing this is to let you know that even if you leave this meeting hating me, or thinking yourself distant from me, I love you. I even think I might love this city. I don’t think I have the guts to say that in person, so I’m saying in writing, which is, after all, how most of the important parts of our relationship have been negotiated these past years. If you come here angry, or disappointed, not wanting to keep our friendship up, not wanting what I want, then that's alright. Now I've gotten to perform before real, live people, I've realised there are other things to do than pursue art. Besides, I'll confess that I don’t want to have drifted together only to grow further apart again. If nothing else, it would make me dizzy.

Yours,
Georgia

[At the top of the stack there is no more envelopes, letters or cards, but a few torn-off corners of notebook pages, and receipts, and napkins scrawled over in spiky handwriting]

Sorry, I can’t stay to catch you after your show, I have a job interview. I just wanted to say that Volta was beautiful, and so were you. - L

Went out to give Gauze a walk + air out Sailor. Please don’t let dinner boil over again. - L

Don’t get the purple Pokéblocks for Wisp, she only likes the blue ones. - L

Your mother called, said that she had heard something about an opportunity for you at a festival in Jubilife. Call her back! - L

[Lying over the rubber band holding the collections together, one corner torn, is a photograph of Georgia and Luke together, in a dressing room of the Hearthome Super Contest Hall. It’s a candid shot of them sitting on the floor, fussing over a large Galvantula, their heads close. It’s a little blurry, because the photographer caught Luke in movement, turning his head to kiss Georgia’s temple.]