Sastrei
Emotional spelunker
Overall rating: T for mild language and some heavy themes
Synopsis: In 1986, on the day Cinnabar Island's Blaine was saved by a Moltres - he also became an uncle.
On this same day, 3 year-old Lance became his home's Chosen One.
The new life born in between - Blaine's niece, Cora - will change both of their fates, while experiencing victory and humility herself.
A story of friendship, healing, and learning to love. MCs are Lance & OC with lots of cameos from other cast.
Estimated word count upon completion: 200-300k.
Also available at FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14214597/1/The-Fire-s-Wake
And AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45960103/chapters/115682587

Original art by Sastrei
Cinnabar Island Grand Resort Hotel
Spring 1997
By all rights, this hotel room should positively emanate soothing relaxation. There's a beachfront view on Cinnabar Island's east side – the better one, with sugar-soft white sand and clear waters. The towels look so fluffy that one could sleep on them, and the room service menu – which Blaine had insisted upon paying for – left absolutely nothing to be desired. Lobster, filet mignon, crab legs–
"I want one of everything," Clair announces triumphantly. She's lying sprawled on one of two enormous beds, holding the menu above her head, swaying her boots up and down as they dangle off the mattress. "Although, what's a car-carpach–"
"Carpaccio," Lance corrects, dumping his travel bag loudly onto the dining table. "You probably wouldn't like it." His cousin hasn't left their hometown much – in fact her presence here on Cinnabar is a direct request of the Elder, who wishes for his granddaughter to experience new cultures now that she's twelve and might actually be able to absorb and appreciate some of them.
Years eight through eleven were, to put it bluntly, a gratuitous disaster. Twelve had to be better. Whether or not that is true remains to be seen.
"Car-patch-yo," Clair repeats terribly, but with confidence. "When can we eat? I'm starving."
Lance sighs. He's been doing that a lot today. Not only is his seventh Gym battle in Kanto tomorrow, which is stress enough in and of itself, but he's been tasked with watching over Clair the past several weeks. While she is family, and the Blackthorn Clan is as tight-knit as they come – he absolutely can't stand her sometimes.
There. He said it.
Or thought it, at least. Just that brief internal admittance is a welcome relief.
He's sixteen now – and more than anything, he just wants space, quiet, and time to train. Three things his cousin is extremely adept at ruining.
"I'm going to the Gym to scout ahead," he tells her, already heading for the door. "Get whatever you want."
"Scout ahead?" Clair scoffs, sitting up on the bed to smirk at him. "You sound like a soldier talking about a warzone. It's just a Gym; they're all the same at the end of the day. No need to get so serious."
"One day," Lance begins, opening the front door, "you'll see how wrong you are. Just try not to break anything, alright?"
"No promises! And don't expect any food left over when you get back."
He rolls his eyes as the door closes behind him. Deliberately, he draws in a slow, deep breath. Releases it as he heads downstairs to the lobby. The sun has just barely set, but this is the beginning of the Island's busy season, and tourists of all kinds are mulling about the entrance and front apiary. Bright, flowery shirts, khaki shorts, the lingering smell of sunscreen and saltwater. Laughter, occasionally, mostly from kids still wearing little floaties on their arms or flippers on their feet.
Lance observes this silently, his iron eyes flicking from one face to the next. A crowd of strangers is guaranteed to bring on familiar feelings of displacement and detachment. You'd think after nearly six months of travelling Kanto collecting Gym badges, this would've at least eased slightly.
He catches a strange glance from a middle-aged man with a goatee, some tall, fruity cocktail in one hand – and Lance is reminded of how untrue that is. The cape probably doesn't help; he hasn't quite grown into it yet, and the accentuated collar hides half of his face.
Whatever. They don't know his path, the power he wields in those pokeballs on his belt. He's going to fight for his place among the Elite Four soon – these people, these commoners don't know anything about what kind of sacrifice that entails.
Now outside beneath the budding stars, he releases his dragonite. The Gym isn't far, but he doesn't feel like walking among people. The sky is a much better place for his head.
"Let's head for the Gym," he tells his partner. "It'll probably be closed, but I want to see as much as I can before tomorrow."
They take to the sky easily, with practiced movements; his dragonair had evolved nearly two years ago now, again earning him the title of "youngest" for some sort of accomplishment among his clan. Most members wouldn't see a fully evolved Dratini until their twenties, at least. Lance had been only fourteen.
"I think that's it," Lance says, pointing to a large building below. "Maybe?"
They land swiftly, which makes it all the more apparent that this building was no longer an active gym, even if it still had signs saying otherwise. The front door had been nailed shut with wooden boards. Part of the roof was in disrepair and slouching to one side.
"Well, that's annoying," Lance grumbles, walking around to search for any sign of what might've happened. He hadn't received word his battle was cancelled, so maybe it was being held in another location?
There's a smaller house out back, clearly residential in nature. Several windchimes hang from the porch awning; a vast collection of vivid tropical plants surround the entire exterior, some bearing fruit Lance has never seen before. Lights are on inside. Clenching his jaw, he decides asking for help is his only option. Dragonite follows behind him closely.
He doesn't make it halfway before he notices someone outside, in a small, fenced garden just beside the house. They are partially hidden behind leaves and branches; he realizes it's a girl, about Clair's age, maybe a bit older. Her back is to him as she kneels down before a gravestone.
A gravestone. Lance pauses; he clearly can't interrupt someone kneeling in front of a grave. Literally nothing would be more inappropriate. On the other hand, he can't just stand here staring, either. Because that's weird. And not a thing normal people do.
God, he hates things like this. He really needs to find out about the Gym, but this stupid situation is so painfully uncomfortable. Cringing, he decides to turn around and make an attempt to return later–
"Can I help you?" comes a soft voice.
He turns around, begrudgingly. The girl has come closer; her hands are in her pockets casually. She has her reddish-blonde hair pulled up. A golden feather is stuck in between the strands, pointing back over the plume of her ponytail. And even though she's fresh from visiting a grave, there's only a small hint of sadness in her gaze. It's mostly curiosity and more than a little amusement.
"Nice cape," she says, smiling.
"Ah, th-thanks," Lance manages, clearing his throat. "I, er, didn't mean to interrupt. I apologize, truly."
"It's okay," she shrugs. "I visit Mom every night at sunset, when I can. It was her favorite time of day. She always liked visitors, though, don't worry." She peers past him now, at his dragonite, and her eyes light up. "Whoa, is this your partner? He's so cool! What's his name?"
That is… a lot of personal information from a complete stranger, as well as a barrage of questions. Lance swallows hard, his discomfort doubling. "R-right. Yes, that's my dragonite. I, uh, just call him Dragonite."
She purses her lips, then shrugs again. "Hmm. I like to nickname my Pokemon."
Great. Wonderful. "I'm, uh, looking for the Cinnabar Gym, but it appears to be closed."
The girl sighs now, with exasperation. "Yeah, that just happened a little while ago. Duncle said this place had become a 'tourist trap,' so he shut it down himself to scare away all the lame trainers."
Lance blinks. Did she just say – "'Duncle?' What is…?"
"Oh, right, sorry." She shakes her head, tapping her forehead with her knuckles. "I forget that's not a word normal people use. It's what I call my Uncle Blaine. Supposed to be a mix of dad and uncle. He sort of became both to me once Mom died."
And: more personal information! Lance's social anxiety reaches a penultimate high. He wants to throw up. He's probably – no, definitely – sweating. Still, he retains enough awareness to realize this girl just called herself Blaine's niece – which means she would know where he is.
"I'm supposed to battle him tomorrow," Lance manages. "Could you tell me how to find him?"
"Sure! But it's easier if I take you there. Outsiders get lost all the time, even with directions," she says, her annoyance obvious. "Um, just one minute though. Just gotta say bye to Mom."
Lance watches, dumbfounded, as she returns to the gravestone for a few moments. Every single inch of this interaction is entirely foreign to him. In Blackthorn, the dead were cremated and poured into the holy waters of the Dragon's Den. Gravestones were tantamount to sacrelige. Being trapped in one spot for all eternity? The thought made Lance shudder.
Although, honestly, getting visits from loved ones every day didn't seem so bad. Clan rites largely forbade conversing with the dead – it was thought to keep their spirits from fully moving on.
Lance holds a hand to his suddenly aching head. He does not have time for an existential crisis.
Apparently, the girl had a pokeball behind her waist, because there is now a small, young charmander standing on the grass between them, its flaming tail swinging happily, illuminating the rapidly darkening evening sky. Strangely, the irises of its eyes are tinged red – don't most charmander have blue eyes?
Even more strangely, as soon as the fire pokemon materializes in front of them, that golden feather in the girl's hair bursts into flames, what is even happening? At once Lance pictures her whole head catching fire, Dragonite trying to hit her with a de-powered Hydro Pump as she runs around screaming –
"It's not a real fire," she says, obviously noticing his bewildered face. "Don't worry. It only happens when my pokemon are out. Besides, we'll need this and Draco's tail light to get through the cave to Duncle." She starts walking, the charmander beside her, motioning for Lance to follow.
He exchanges glances with dragonite, who gives him a look of 'hey, why not,' and they head after her.
Finally, there's a little bit of silence. Lance's headache and nausea ease gradually. He keeps staring at that flaming feather in her hair; to his knowledge, there's only one other like it, and it's kept at the Indigo Plateau, to light the Pokemon League torch during the opening ceremonies every year.
That can't be right, though. The one in the Indigo Plateau is from Moltres, and it's incredibly rare and valuable. There's no way a girl from Cinnabar would be wearing one as a hair accessory.
"It's about a ten minute walk up the slope," she tells them. "There's a lot of annoying zubat, but once they see Draco's tail they usually stay away."
There's that name again, Draco. Through the fading tenseness, Lance's curiosity is piqued. "Did you say your charmander's name is Draco?"
"Yep!" They cross into the mouth of aforementioned cave; it is indeed very dim. "Draco is the dragon god that lives in the stars. One day, my Draco will be a charizard, and then he'll really look like a dragon." The charmander growls a small sound of approval.
"I'm from Blackthorn City in Johto," Lance says with pride. "We have lots of stories of Draco, too."
"Really?" She turns to face him, walking backwards, still expertly stepping over certain rocks and bumps. That flaming feather casts strange shadows on her smiling face. "We get a lot of travellers, but I've never met anyone from Blackthorn. That's really cool. What's it like there?"
"Very different from this," he admits with a sardonic laugh. "I can see why your uncle Blaine wanted to shut down the old gym. There's so many tourists here."
"They're annoying, aren't they?" she scoffs. "Every year, they come, they trash the beaches, they leave. I was born on this Island. I wish people realized this is a home, too."
Lance feels that. "Blackthorn also gets tourists, sometimes. People like to come just to see where all the Dragon Tamers are from. We're pretty famous." His chest is puffing out now, with more pride.
She gives him a studying stare for a moment. "Duncle says the only pokemon harder to train than Fire types are Dragon types. You must be pretty good if you've already got a dragonite at your age."
Lance frowns. "'At my age'? I'm older than you, you know."
"Only a little, and you're not a grown-up yet," she declares. "I've seen plenty of grown-ups lose to Duncle. When you battle him tomorrow you'd better be ready. He'll roast your pokemon alive!" That last part was said with too much glee for Lance's comfort.
They round another corner, and now stand before a huge, heavy metal door. It's tall enough to reach the ceiling of the cave; beside it is a small plastic box that the girl now points to. "When you come tomorrow, just press the button here and say who you are. Duncle will open the doors for you."
Lance nods. Easy enough. "Thank you for your help, uh…?"
"Cora," she says, instantly holding out one hand in a greeting.
He shakes it, honestly a little surprised at the firmness of her small grip. "Lance."
"Ooh, cool name. Lance the Cape Guy."
"Just Lance is fine, thanks."
"I can't wait to watch your battle tomorrow," she beams. "I'll make sure Duncle gets plenty of sleep tonight. He's not very good at sleeping."
"Ah, sounds good." He hesitates here, brow furrowing even deeper than usual, wanting to do the most polite thing, but also not wanting to overstep anything. In his extremely brief knowledge of Cora, he has the sense she wouldn't mind, though.
"And, uh, I'm sorry about your mother," he continues gently. "But I'm glad Blaine was a good enough man to step up and care for you. That takes strength, and I enjoy battles with strong-hearted trainers the most."
To his immense relief, Cora smiles again, though it's wistful, and so strangely full of peace. "Thanks. She was really strong. And Blaine is the best Duncle anyone could ask for. I'm really lucky." Her charmander tugs on her shorts. She pats its head, scratching behind its jaw. "Sorry, Draco. You're awesome too, of course."
Lance gives one last look to the charmander's oddly red eyes, and that flaming feather lighting Cora's head. He honestly has so many other questions, but he really needs to return to the hotel to rest up.
And to make sure Clair hasn't conned the front desk staff into giving her champagne. Again.
"I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then," he says, waving over one shoulder.
"Best of luck to you, Cape Guy! You're gonna need it!"
When he returns to the front lobby, there's still plenty of people milling about. He can hear a band playing on the restaurant deck around back. Clair has succeeded in making a rather large mess of their room, with a dozen half-empty food plates strewn on every flat surface, but she's thankfully already asleep in a food-coma. Nothing is on fire, and no security was called. Success.
He steps onto the patio for a moment, enjoying the soft night breeze and the ancient sound of waves. He's smiling a little, for once. Battle strategies dance in his head; he can feel his spine tingle, that electric excitement the night before a big match.
Hiding underneath that, in a small corner of his thoughts, is peace. At sixteen, thanks to the solitary nature of Blackthorn's ways and his regimented training, Lance has yet to forge any connections outside of his clan, other than professional ones or mentors for battle. It's fair to say he's never had a friend before.
Maybe that can be different now.
He tells Dragonite goodnight, in his pokeball, then dreams of victory.
Synopsis: In 1986, on the day Cinnabar Island's Blaine was saved by a Moltres - he also became an uncle.
On this same day, 3 year-old Lance became his home's Chosen One.
The new life born in between - Blaine's niece, Cora - will change both of their fates, while experiencing victory and humility herself.
A story of friendship, healing, and learning to love. MCs are Lance & OC with lots of cameos from other cast.
Estimated word count upon completion: 200-300k.
Also available at FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14214597/1/The-Fire-s-Wake
And AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45960103/chapters/115682587

Original art by Sastrei
Cinnabar Island Grand Resort Hotel
Spring 1997
By all rights, this hotel room should positively emanate soothing relaxation. There's a beachfront view on Cinnabar Island's east side – the better one, with sugar-soft white sand and clear waters. The towels look so fluffy that one could sleep on them, and the room service menu – which Blaine had insisted upon paying for – left absolutely nothing to be desired. Lobster, filet mignon, crab legs–
"I want one of everything," Clair announces triumphantly. She's lying sprawled on one of two enormous beds, holding the menu above her head, swaying her boots up and down as they dangle off the mattress. "Although, what's a car-carpach–"
"Carpaccio," Lance corrects, dumping his travel bag loudly onto the dining table. "You probably wouldn't like it." His cousin hasn't left their hometown much – in fact her presence here on Cinnabar is a direct request of the Elder, who wishes for his granddaughter to experience new cultures now that she's twelve and might actually be able to absorb and appreciate some of them.
Years eight through eleven were, to put it bluntly, a gratuitous disaster. Twelve had to be better. Whether or not that is true remains to be seen.
"Car-patch-yo," Clair repeats terribly, but with confidence. "When can we eat? I'm starving."
Lance sighs. He's been doing that a lot today. Not only is his seventh Gym battle in Kanto tomorrow, which is stress enough in and of itself, but he's been tasked with watching over Clair the past several weeks. While she is family, and the Blackthorn Clan is as tight-knit as they come – he absolutely can't stand her sometimes.
There. He said it.
Or thought it, at least. Just that brief internal admittance is a welcome relief.
He's sixteen now – and more than anything, he just wants space, quiet, and time to train. Three things his cousin is extremely adept at ruining.
"I'm going to the Gym to scout ahead," he tells her, already heading for the door. "Get whatever you want."
"Scout ahead?" Clair scoffs, sitting up on the bed to smirk at him. "You sound like a soldier talking about a warzone. It's just a Gym; they're all the same at the end of the day. No need to get so serious."
"One day," Lance begins, opening the front door, "you'll see how wrong you are. Just try not to break anything, alright?"
"No promises! And don't expect any food left over when you get back."
He rolls his eyes as the door closes behind him. Deliberately, he draws in a slow, deep breath. Releases it as he heads downstairs to the lobby. The sun has just barely set, but this is the beginning of the Island's busy season, and tourists of all kinds are mulling about the entrance and front apiary. Bright, flowery shirts, khaki shorts, the lingering smell of sunscreen and saltwater. Laughter, occasionally, mostly from kids still wearing little floaties on their arms or flippers on their feet.
Lance observes this silently, his iron eyes flicking from one face to the next. A crowd of strangers is guaranteed to bring on familiar feelings of displacement and detachment. You'd think after nearly six months of travelling Kanto collecting Gym badges, this would've at least eased slightly.
He catches a strange glance from a middle-aged man with a goatee, some tall, fruity cocktail in one hand – and Lance is reminded of how untrue that is. The cape probably doesn't help; he hasn't quite grown into it yet, and the accentuated collar hides half of his face.
Whatever. They don't know his path, the power he wields in those pokeballs on his belt. He's going to fight for his place among the Elite Four soon – these people, these commoners don't know anything about what kind of sacrifice that entails.
Now outside beneath the budding stars, he releases his dragonite. The Gym isn't far, but he doesn't feel like walking among people. The sky is a much better place for his head.
"Let's head for the Gym," he tells his partner. "It'll probably be closed, but I want to see as much as I can before tomorrow."
They take to the sky easily, with practiced movements; his dragonair had evolved nearly two years ago now, again earning him the title of "youngest" for some sort of accomplishment among his clan. Most members wouldn't see a fully evolved Dratini until their twenties, at least. Lance had been only fourteen.
"I think that's it," Lance says, pointing to a large building below. "Maybe?"
They land swiftly, which makes it all the more apparent that this building was no longer an active gym, even if it still had signs saying otherwise. The front door had been nailed shut with wooden boards. Part of the roof was in disrepair and slouching to one side.
"Well, that's annoying," Lance grumbles, walking around to search for any sign of what might've happened. He hadn't received word his battle was cancelled, so maybe it was being held in another location?
There's a smaller house out back, clearly residential in nature. Several windchimes hang from the porch awning; a vast collection of vivid tropical plants surround the entire exterior, some bearing fruit Lance has never seen before. Lights are on inside. Clenching his jaw, he decides asking for help is his only option. Dragonite follows behind him closely.
He doesn't make it halfway before he notices someone outside, in a small, fenced garden just beside the house. They are partially hidden behind leaves and branches; he realizes it's a girl, about Clair's age, maybe a bit older. Her back is to him as she kneels down before a gravestone.
A gravestone. Lance pauses; he clearly can't interrupt someone kneeling in front of a grave. Literally nothing would be more inappropriate. On the other hand, he can't just stand here staring, either. Because that's weird. And not a thing normal people do.
God, he hates things like this. He really needs to find out about the Gym, but this stupid situation is so painfully uncomfortable. Cringing, he decides to turn around and make an attempt to return later–
"Can I help you?" comes a soft voice.
He turns around, begrudgingly. The girl has come closer; her hands are in her pockets casually. She has her reddish-blonde hair pulled up. A golden feather is stuck in between the strands, pointing back over the plume of her ponytail. And even though she's fresh from visiting a grave, there's only a small hint of sadness in her gaze. It's mostly curiosity and more than a little amusement.
"Nice cape," she says, smiling.
"Ah, th-thanks," Lance manages, clearing his throat. "I, er, didn't mean to interrupt. I apologize, truly."
"It's okay," she shrugs. "I visit Mom every night at sunset, when I can. It was her favorite time of day. She always liked visitors, though, don't worry." She peers past him now, at his dragonite, and her eyes light up. "Whoa, is this your partner? He's so cool! What's his name?"
That is… a lot of personal information from a complete stranger, as well as a barrage of questions. Lance swallows hard, his discomfort doubling. "R-right. Yes, that's my dragonite. I, uh, just call him Dragonite."
She purses her lips, then shrugs again. "Hmm. I like to nickname my Pokemon."
Great. Wonderful. "I'm, uh, looking for the Cinnabar Gym, but it appears to be closed."
The girl sighs now, with exasperation. "Yeah, that just happened a little while ago. Duncle said this place had become a 'tourist trap,' so he shut it down himself to scare away all the lame trainers."
Lance blinks. Did she just say – "'Duncle?' What is…?"
"Oh, right, sorry." She shakes her head, tapping her forehead with her knuckles. "I forget that's not a word normal people use. It's what I call my Uncle Blaine. Supposed to be a mix of dad and uncle. He sort of became both to me once Mom died."
And: more personal information! Lance's social anxiety reaches a penultimate high. He wants to throw up. He's probably – no, definitely – sweating. Still, he retains enough awareness to realize this girl just called herself Blaine's niece – which means she would know where he is.
"I'm supposed to battle him tomorrow," Lance manages. "Could you tell me how to find him?"
"Sure! But it's easier if I take you there. Outsiders get lost all the time, even with directions," she says, her annoyance obvious. "Um, just one minute though. Just gotta say bye to Mom."
Lance watches, dumbfounded, as she returns to the gravestone for a few moments. Every single inch of this interaction is entirely foreign to him. In Blackthorn, the dead were cremated and poured into the holy waters of the Dragon's Den. Gravestones were tantamount to sacrelige. Being trapped in one spot for all eternity? The thought made Lance shudder.
Although, honestly, getting visits from loved ones every day didn't seem so bad. Clan rites largely forbade conversing with the dead – it was thought to keep their spirits from fully moving on.
Lance holds a hand to his suddenly aching head. He does not have time for an existential crisis.
Apparently, the girl had a pokeball behind her waist, because there is now a small, young charmander standing on the grass between them, its flaming tail swinging happily, illuminating the rapidly darkening evening sky. Strangely, the irises of its eyes are tinged red – don't most charmander have blue eyes?
Even more strangely, as soon as the fire pokemon materializes in front of them, that golden feather in the girl's hair bursts into flames, what is even happening? At once Lance pictures her whole head catching fire, Dragonite trying to hit her with a de-powered Hydro Pump as she runs around screaming –
"It's not a real fire," she says, obviously noticing his bewildered face. "Don't worry. It only happens when my pokemon are out. Besides, we'll need this and Draco's tail light to get through the cave to Duncle." She starts walking, the charmander beside her, motioning for Lance to follow.
He exchanges glances with dragonite, who gives him a look of 'hey, why not,' and they head after her.
Finally, there's a little bit of silence. Lance's headache and nausea ease gradually. He keeps staring at that flaming feather in her hair; to his knowledge, there's only one other like it, and it's kept at the Indigo Plateau, to light the Pokemon League torch during the opening ceremonies every year.
That can't be right, though. The one in the Indigo Plateau is from Moltres, and it's incredibly rare and valuable. There's no way a girl from Cinnabar would be wearing one as a hair accessory.
"It's about a ten minute walk up the slope," she tells them. "There's a lot of annoying zubat, but once they see Draco's tail they usually stay away."
There's that name again, Draco. Through the fading tenseness, Lance's curiosity is piqued. "Did you say your charmander's name is Draco?"
"Yep!" They cross into the mouth of aforementioned cave; it is indeed very dim. "Draco is the dragon god that lives in the stars. One day, my Draco will be a charizard, and then he'll really look like a dragon." The charmander growls a small sound of approval.
"I'm from Blackthorn City in Johto," Lance says with pride. "We have lots of stories of Draco, too."
"Really?" She turns to face him, walking backwards, still expertly stepping over certain rocks and bumps. That flaming feather casts strange shadows on her smiling face. "We get a lot of travellers, but I've never met anyone from Blackthorn. That's really cool. What's it like there?"
"Very different from this," he admits with a sardonic laugh. "I can see why your uncle Blaine wanted to shut down the old gym. There's so many tourists here."
"They're annoying, aren't they?" she scoffs. "Every year, they come, they trash the beaches, they leave. I was born on this Island. I wish people realized this is a home, too."
Lance feels that. "Blackthorn also gets tourists, sometimes. People like to come just to see where all the Dragon Tamers are from. We're pretty famous." His chest is puffing out now, with more pride.
She gives him a studying stare for a moment. "Duncle says the only pokemon harder to train than Fire types are Dragon types. You must be pretty good if you've already got a dragonite at your age."
Lance frowns. "'At my age'? I'm older than you, you know."
"Only a little, and you're not a grown-up yet," she declares. "I've seen plenty of grown-ups lose to Duncle. When you battle him tomorrow you'd better be ready. He'll roast your pokemon alive!" That last part was said with too much glee for Lance's comfort.
They round another corner, and now stand before a huge, heavy metal door. It's tall enough to reach the ceiling of the cave; beside it is a small plastic box that the girl now points to. "When you come tomorrow, just press the button here and say who you are. Duncle will open the doors for you."
Lance nods. Easy enough. "Thank you for your help, uh…?"
"Cora," she says, instantly holding out one hand in a greeting.
He shakes it, honestly a little surprised at the firmness of her small grip. "Lance."
"Ooh, cool name. Lance the Cape Guy."
"Just Lance is fine, thanks."
"I can't wait to watch your battle tomorrow," she beams. "I'll make sure Duncle gets plenty of sleep tonight. He's not very good at sleeping."
"Ah, sounds good." He hesitates here, brow furrowing even deeper than usual, wanting to do the most polite thing, but also not wanting to overstep anything. In his extremely brief knowledge of Cora, he has the sense she wouldn't mind, though.
"And, uh, I'm sorry about your mother," he continues gently. "But I'm glad Blaine was a good enough man to step up and care for you. That takes strength, and I enjoy battles with strong-hearted trainers the most."
To his immense relief, Cora smiles again, though it's wistful, and so strangely full of peace. "Thanks. She was really strong. And Blaine is the best Duncle anyone could ask for. I'm really lucky." Her charmander tugs on her shorts. She pats its head, scratching behind its jaw. "Sorry, Draco. You're awesome too, of course."
Lance gives one last look to the charmander's oddly red eyes, and that flaming feather lighting Cora's head. He honestly has so many other questions, but he really needs to return to the hotel to rest up.
And to make sure Clair hasn't conned the front desk staff into giving her champagne. Again.
"I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then," he says, waving over one shoulder.
"Best of luck to you, Cape Guy! You're gonna need it!"
When he returns to the front lobby, there's still plenty of people milling about. He can hear a band playing on the restaurant deck around back. Clair has succeeded in making a rather large mess of their room, with a dozen half-empty food plates strewn on every flat surface, but she's thankfully already asleep in a food-coma. Nothing is on fire, and no security was called. Success.
He steps onto the patio for a moment, enjoying the soft night breeze and the ancient sound of waves. He's smiling a little, for once. Battle strategies dance in his head; he can feel his spine tingle, that electric excitement the night before a big match.
Hiding underneath that, in a small corner of his thoughts, is peace. At sixteen, thanks to the solitary nature of Blackthorn's ways and his regimented training, Lance has yet to forge any connections outside of his clan, other than professional ones or mentors for battle. It's fair to say he's never had a friend before.
Maybe that can be different now.
He tells Dragonite goodnight, in his pokeball, then dreams of victory.
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