3: Chasm
Grace had worked her miracle in her clinic, stabilizing the feverish kit just enough for transport. The hospital was no place for a feral Pokémon to recover, not with the amount of documentation required. So Hawthorne had smuggled it into the station under the guise of an 'abandoned fox'. He hid it in Isolation room four for observation. Visible in plain sight, hidden within the paperwork.
Hawthorne sat in the middle of the isolation room, looking at an empty kennel. So much for visible in plain sight.
It was day three since he had brought the trembling fox back to the ranger station. Every time he came to check up on the fox, it was like this at first - absent.
He sat on the chair he had brought with him, staring ahead. If his eyes were to be trusted, the kennel in front of him sat empty.
If his eyes were to be trusted. Stoutland sniffed the air, unconvinced. His tail wagged as he explored the edge of the kennel, nose working with loud
snughfs. He was rewarded as a tail popped into existence, floating in the void. The illusory beast had shown itself.
By now it was a routine: Hawthorne would enter to an 'empty' room, Stoutland would explore, and the startled beast would eventually break concentration and reveal itself. As if on cue, the empty interior of the kennel dissolved in a wash of static, revealing the shabby fox all puffed up with teeth bared, back pressed against the wall. The little grey ball of fur was desperately trying to look as fierce as possible, but that was difficult when you were a small, sorry thing with trembling legs and patches of crusted skin visible. Still, it looked much better than when it had simply whimpered and surrendered to fate at the clinic. The piece of jerky he had placed in the cage was finally gone- another small win.
The fox was clearly threatened by Stoutland's presence, but RC&P 17.8c stated that Rangers were to be accompanied by their partners at all times in the presence of unknown Pokémon. Hawthorne looked at its shaking legs and sighed, calling Stoutland to return to his side. The Pokémon hissed, continuing to protest.
Two hours in, and the room hadn't endured a moment of silence yet. It was always filled with the punctuation of a yip or growl, followed by a low huff or ruff in response; Stoutland was just as stubborn as the kit. Hawthorne slumped onto his arm, the rhythm of their call and response pulling him under. He yawned.
Stoutland moved.
Teeth closed around Hawthorne's leg and the world tipped. He hit the concrete shoulder-first, the grit biting into his skin as the room moved. Somewhere above him, Stoutland was growling, leg still in mouth. With eyes wide and the world upside-down, Hawthorne lay there, trying to assess just what exactly he had been 'rescued' from. His eyes fell upon the chair, still sitting in the center of the room as it impossibly floated above the gaping hole in the floor—no—the illusion of a hole in the floor. Stoutland looked ready to tear the little fox apart, and for a moment Hawthorne considered letting him. He reached out and patted the mutt. "It's okay, boy, I'm fine. Down."
He felt the release of his leg, and it dropped to the floor with a thud.
Hawthorne flipped over, orienting himself towards the chair. As a Ranger, he knew it was just an illusion; as a man, he crawled forward, testing the floor with each hand. This would take some getting used to. Each motion was paced and deliberate. Stoutland sat at the edge of the illusion whimpering, unconvinced but obedient. It was imperative the fearful fox understand two things: Hawthorne was not a threat, and the illusions would not work on him. Neither was true, but that was the game.
Hawthorne filled his mind with dry statutes and procedures, mentally calculated his income tax—anything, really, to keep him from thinking about the swirling depths below. As he sat on the chair, he did a great job projecting how unaffected he was by the illusion. Probably. His eyes saw him hovering over an abyss that stretched deep down into the earth, but his boots felt the reassuring rough of stable concrete. Instead of squeezing his eyes shut, he kept them open; this, too, was a type of training.
Hawthorne had undergone mental attacks from Psychic Pokémon before. They could trap you in a trance, but the weakness lay in lucidity. Though try as he might, he couldn't wake up. Psychic attacks broke when you realized you were dreaming; this one didn't. This was something else.
"You're good at that," Hawthorne murmured, his voice gravelly from hours of silence. "But I've got all night. We aren't going anywhere."
Hawthorne wished he had gone to sleep instead of getting in a spiteful standoff with a fox. It was morning now, and coffee was his only hope to fully regain consciousness. The stuff in the Ranger break room was legally a 'coffee product' and tasted like bitter mud. As the hot brown liquid flowed into his cup, the exhausted Ranger's thoughts turned to the fox in the isolation room. Over the past week, it had moved from a shivering mess to a smoldering glare. Progress, he supposed. A wet nose pressed into his side. He blinked, pulling away the cup just as the liquid reached the brim. What would he do without his trusty partner?
Hawthorne's morning meeting was filled with the usual nonsense. Today was the monthly audit, where all Rangers were held accountable for their spend. Two of the Rangers were reprimanded for splurging on 'premium' Poké chow for their partners. Hawthorne's transactions were beneath the threshold because he bought each item individually, knowing the admins never checked the sum.
He was highlighted as this month's responsible Ranger. Personal recognition dispensed, the meeting continued. There was something bandied around about 'berry picking permits'. The permitting process was a complex problem, and so talk shifted to 'revenue from enforcement'. Hawthorne didn't listen. He watched Stoutland gnaw his bone.
Room 403.
HR had marketed his office like a real estate agent trying to promote a downtown apartment. "Cozy," it was called. Apparently the definition had changed. If he so much as scooched back his chair, he'd bump into the massive floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets that loomed overhead. Sure, it was convenient, being able to reach behind and pull a file, but there was a constant concern one of the racks near the ceiling would fall on his head someday. He had put in a maintenance request ages ago, but was told there was no money to fix it. The cold metal radiated a chill, and the constant buzz of old fluorescent lights irritated his ears as the world was washed in a flat, sterile haze.
In front of him lay his personal copy of the
Regional Ranger’s Conduct & Protocol Manual, pages worn from years of careful use. He had always been proud to follow the rules—to uphold fairness and discipline for both people and Pokémon was part of the Ranger's Creed. To its left, a safety harness and ice pick.
He ran a thumb over the dull tip of the ice pick. The metal was room temperature, but the memory in the steel sent a chill up his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut, and the whipping wind and bitter cold of that day enveloped him. He could still hear the faint shouts ordering him to stop as he took his pick in hand and jammed it into the wall, safety harness flapping in the wind untethered. With each grunt and scream, he had inched through the freeze, closer to the fraying line snagged against the rock face. It was the first time Hawthorne ever ignored a direct order, and the last time he was allowed on the mountain.
A fresh stack of manila folders dropped into his inbox with a snap. He flinched.
"Morning, Shedinja."
The smooth leather of Dave's penny loafers and spotless white socks bled into the edges of Hawthorne's peripheral vision. He mentally traced a hairline crack in the wall, hoping Ranger Dave would just go away. He wouldn't, but it would have been nice if he did, just this once.
"Chief needs these processed by noon," Dave said sharply. "Everything you need is there."
Keeping his eyes fixed on his desk, Hawthorne picked up one of the folders and carefully opened it. The folder contained an application for a green roof tax break and a signed inspection checklist. No photos, and no environmental report. Just Dave's signature, and a blank line where Hawthorne's seal would go.
Hawthorne pivoted, reaching for the city map. Dave must have had a sense of what was coming, because he spoke again. "Look, I just said this needs certification by noon. Why do you have to—"
He said some words that were probably an excuse or threat of some sort. Hawthorne focused on the slight bump of the ink on his fingertip as he traced the roads to the address on each application. He muttered a response into the pages of the map.
"What?" Dave said.
"I'll take a look." His voice was thin, and he could feel a headache begin to bloom.
"You're not going to go out by yourself again, are you?" Dave walked a half-step into the office, his bulk filling the air, and Hawthorne scooted a half-step back. "I told you we need this by noon."
Hawthorne swiveled away from Dave and made a point of looking through the other applications. The remaining sheets bore Dave's signature on inspections that didn't add up. Square footage that exceeded lot sizes, atmospheric readings 15 points off from historical averages, and plants listed that didn't grow in Driftveil. It was clear Dave had stopped believing anyone would ever check. It wasn't the lying that bothered him; it was the sloppiness of it. He could no more leave it alone than step over a starving Pokémon in a yard.
Someone had to do the thing properly. He'd decided a long time ago that someone was him. So instead of stamping what he'd been handed, he would go do Dave's job for him.
Dave's eyes narrowed, sensing Hawthorne's stubbornness, and he stood up straight.
"Hawthorne. Don't ignore me."
Stoutland let out a low growl, and the Ranger stumbled back into the hallway. As he made a tactical retreat, he called out behind him, "By noon, Hawthorne!"
He pulled out all the applications and started calculating the time it'd take to go to each one, scratching onto the paper with his pencil. He'd find some excuse to delay, just like he'd done with Greyscale, and then inspect each roof in person.
Puff-Puff Bakery was in the shopping district, the
Argon Residences were flung into the outskirts of the city, and
The Basculin's Encounter was in the middle of the fisherman's wharf. His list looked more like a Rhyhorn Rally racer's sheet than an inspection log. No matter how many different courses he plotted through the city, there wasn't enough time. He needed sleep, too, and his body was already at its limits.
The pencil in Hawthorne's hand snapped in two. With a sigh, he tossed the jagged pieces into the small tin bucket at the corner of his desk. It was already filled with half-broken stubs. Hawthorne leaned back, alone in an office that held no color. Stoutland gently tugged at his leg.
Time for a walk. A long one.
Hawthorne ignored the buzzing in his pocket as he scrambled through the slippery cobblestones of the fisherman's wharf. It just so happened Stoutland really wanted to take a pee in front of
The Basculin's Encounter. The shop has a wide, faded blue awning made out of weathered wood instead of fabric. Only the oldest shops in the wharf still had those. He carefully stepped inside, and a little bell rang to announce his presence.
The shelves were dusty and bare. Product was sparse, most of it pushed to the front window display to project abundance that was not there. He suspected might be the days only customer; two elderly employees had shuffled over to help, only for their faces to fall when they saw his uniform and clipboard. He asked for the roof. The application listed a thick garden with 10 different native species. But the navy blue roof was barren, save for a couple of tomato plants. They disappeared into the shop as Hawthorne filled out his forms.
Hawthorne's phone buzzed again. This time it was the Chief, and he had to pick up.
"Where are you?" The voice was low.
"On an inspection," Hawthorne breathed, voice tightening.
"Did I ask the master of records to go on inspections?" The words were measured so precisely they could be weighed on a scale.
"No," Hawthorne bluntly responded.
There was a silence, then a command. "Then stop playing detective and do the job you actually have. Process what's on your desk and stay out of everyone's way. This is your last chance. Return. Now." The dial tone hung, and the arid air felt hard to breathe in a way it hadn't since that day on the mountain.
That was the day he'd chosen people over protocol, and they had taken the field from him. But now fairness was paperwork, and discipline was blind. So what was he?
Stoutland pressed his nose to his partner's thigh, but there was no response. Hawthorne just stood there, looking out over the rooftop and to the bustling city below. Everyone bustled about, busy with purpose. One man was trailed by several Pokémon, a trainer on his way to a gym. A woman carried a heavy pallet filled with fish on her back. Red and gold streaks of color blurred through the market, the fringes of two children's bright clothing coming in and out of view as they darted and weaved between the vendors. Only Hawthorne stood still.
Back at the office, Dave was waiting in front of the alcove. A set of manila folders next to him on Hawthorne's desk. He had reprinted the green roof applications. Dave had his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor. "Look man, can we talk?"
Hathorne stared silently, waiting for the utter hogwash that would come out of Dave's mouth.
"I know you have this...thing for doing it your way. But all the master of records has to do is certify it's real. The accuracy is my responsibility. You know how you have your...guests? Well Delilah and Eddie are my guests."
Responsibility. Hawthorne inwardly scoffed at the word. "Delilah and Eddie?"
"
The Basculin's encounter." Dave whispered sharply. "I know you were there. They need it." He paused, "and the station gets a fee for each successful application we process." The light above Hawthorne's alcove flickered sharply, then dimmed a quarter.
Hawthorne said nothing. Stoutland looked down, and as Hawthorne followed his partner's gaze, he noticed a shoelace was trailing on the ground. Without waiting for a response, Dave walked off. Hawthorne stuck out an ear, listening for the telltale thud of the man tripping over himself. But it was in vain. It seemed there would be no justice today.
Hawthorne sat back at his desk. Driftveil was full of mini 'Greyscales', folks making performative installations in exchange for millions in tax breaks. His chair squeaked. The fluorescent light above him buzzed; one of the bulbs had been dead a month and no one had ordered a replacement. There were no new Rangers this year; the kibble shelf was half-empty. His inspections cost the station. Dave's were paying the electric bill.
Hawthorne hesitated. Doing it right had slipped out of reach hours ago, somewhere between a city he couldn't cross fast enough and a Chief who'd told him to sit down and stay out of it. Dave's inspections would come apart eventually, and eventually was a luxury he didn't have. They would audit anyone who had even sniffed the documents, and there was a small grey fox in isolation room 4 that would not survive an audit.
So the man who had taken Dave's folders because he could not bear to see the job done badly settled in to do the job the only way left to him, and told himself he did it with dignity. That his forgery and Dave's were not the same thing at all. Dave lied because it was easy, and he lied to protect those who could not protect themselves, because
That's what a ranger does.
He held the words there a moment, waiting for the warmth they used to carry, and when it did not come he let them go and gritted his teeth, then pulled his notary seal, the only one in the entire building, out of its case.
The Basculin's Encounter was first on the list, a fresh copy waiting for his review. The original report that failed them was still on the clipboard in his hand. There were a few places, like
Puff-Puff Bakery, that had put in the effort, unaware of the free passes being handed out. Photos of rows of berries, hand-built planters, and appropriate documentation. Hawthorne's pen swept across Dave's inspection reports, bringing the numbers inline. He scrawled plausible findings: atmospheric measurements within historical averages, and replaced plants that couldn't grow in the Driftveil heat with lists of native flora.
Above, the harsh overhead lights nipped at his eyes, and the uneven padding of his chair left his back with a dull ache. As he swept his hand across the finished stack, a thin line of red bloomed across his palm. The pain registered, but he simply capped his pen. The click echoed through the alcove like a gavel. Work that should have required a week of site visits had been forged in twenty minutes.
Now for the final step. He picked up his seal, ignoring the sting in his hand. Something pressed frantically into his thigh, but he didn't stop. He held the seal to the ink pad, lingering as the blue was drawn in, mixing with the red ink already there. He gripped, pressed, and lifted. The mark came away fuzzy and smudged. He couldn't be bothered to fix it.
The sharp bite of the cut finally made him blink. He reached for a tissue, cradling his hand; for a paper cut, it was unusually deep.
The ink was still wet when the station doors hissed shut behind him. The office was filled with the scent of musty papers and metal; the world was filled with the cool evening air and the salt of the sea. A wet nose pressed against his rear. Stoutland. The mutt was always looking out for him. If he was too far behind, Stoutland would run back, press his nose to Hawthorne's knees, and nudge him forward. Must be a herder somewhere in that mutt's lineage. He reached down and tousled the mutt's fur, letting out a laugh. He was a good boy.
Twilight was slowly giving way to night, and the usual suspects emerged as Hawthorne made his way to the barracks. The uneven dash of a Rattata who had just lost a fight for territory, the subtle scent of a Garbodor, or the two yellow orbs gleaming in the shadows, a domestic Glameow who had just spied dinner.
The smell of alcohol from a discarded bottle lightly tickled his nose, a phantom of a memory from a year ago; he could still smell the owner's breath from the day he had cited RC&P 4.2b and handed the bruised Pokémon back.
Private Owner - Out of Jurisdiction. Hawthorne had referred the case to the local police, but nothing ever came of it.
Stoutland nudged his knee again, a blunt reminder to keep moving. Hawthorne exhaled, letting the memory go with the sea air, and turned down the final gravel path toward the ranger barracks.
The copper nameplate RANGER T. HAWTHORNE was tarnished where his thumb always pressed it on the way in. He set his bag on the single bed. The single dresser. Stoutland's woven mat, frayed at the corner where he chewed it as a pup. He set his large duffel bag on the bed. He folded a pair of underwear, a shirt, a pair of pants. Toothbrush and toothpaste. Two field journals, and a carving of a Hoothoot from his father.
To remember to be wise, he had said. He would move in with the fox, protect it until the danger had passed. And in any case there was no one else who could; a half-feral illusionist that snapped at shadows and would not touch its food was not a creature you handed off to the desk-bound rangers who'd long forgotten which end of a Pokémon bit. It needed someone who understood animals like it, and he was, as ever, the only one. Yes, that was the only reason why.
He was surprised. He was just packing the essentials, but his entire life fit in the bag with room to spare. The only things left were the extra uniforms in the closet, Stoutland's mat, and a framed photograph from his academy graduation. A younger him, and a younger Stoutland, Herdier then, were grinning like mad, proudly showing off their badge. Hawthorne hesitated. It was just a temporary move, camping really. There was no need to take the photo.
He turned around to leave, but doubled back to take the photo anyway. It would serve as a reminder.
The cool night air evaporated as the station's heavy doors hissed behind him with a click. The lobby's air hung stale and warm; facilities turned off the HVAC every night to save energy.
Section 1045.3 of The Driftveil Masterplan on Sustainable Urban Development, he unhelpfully recalled. Instead of proceeding straight, Stoutland took a left and headed down a dark hallway.
Hawthorne had always thought Room 4 was a great place to lose your mind. A kennel, overhead lights, and a drain in the middle. A heavy glass door and a steel bulkhead were the only points of egress. That was the entirety of Isolation Chamber 4. It was so sterile, every time he spent more than a few minutes inside he could feel the room start showing him things at the edge of his vision. Most Rangers considered the room itself to be a cruel and unusual punishment. Yet he was here, spending the night of his own free will, his own volition. Perhaps he
had lost his mind after all.
Hawthorne set his bag down and turned to his new roommate. Two red eyes framed by thin, scruffy fur stared back. It did not try and hide this time. He took out a loose shirt and a thin blanket. He pushed his bag down into the corner, and the fox followed with its eyes. Stoutland walked in a circle a few times, then sat. He let out a soft
harumph as he settled his head onto his paws.
Hawthorne sat in the center of the room, meditating when he heard the loose scrape of paws scrambling on the concrete. Stoutland was assuming alert position. He opened his eyes. The fox was back to its usual tricks, casting another illusion of a gaping hole in the center of the isolation room. Always the hole. The kit had picked its hill to die on.
Hawthorne sat comfortably in the illusion, ‘floating’ over the chasm. His eyes and ears were no less convinced he'd fall at any moment, but today he didn't care. It was funny, really, how small things suddenly didn't matter. It was even more amusing how the place he'd wanted to come back to was a soulless void of a room instead of the barracks.
Stoutland lay at the edge of the illusion. It was getting late - or early? It wasn't quite clear. One of the cruelties of the room was the constant din of its fluorescent lights. Time seemed to bend and warp in weird ways, and without his watch, Hawthorne could never tell how much time had actually passed.
Something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. A little patch of floor, no bigger than a pack of playing cards, had returned. Then another tennis ball-sized section of the illusion fizzled out. And another. Another. Gradually the hole dissolved into the concrete, and he sat in the grey of the room. The fox simply glowered at him, finally tired of playing tricks.
The fox regarded him, ears flat, exhausted. It had thrown its biggest at him and he was still here. Hawthorne dragged a thin blanket closer and lay down on the concrete, facing the kennel. Stoutland shifted until his back pressed against Hawthorne's side. He pressed back, feeling his partner's warmth.
The fluorescents stayed on, but he was too exhausted to care.
He closed his eyes, and sleep took him.
