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The Heart of the Glades
Fifty years ago, the ‘gatrs came and never left.
A high-school drop-out in backwater Pastoria, Madison doesn’t have much going for her. But she knows the Glades better than most, and tonight she’ll have to prove it.
Fifty years ago, the ‘gatrs came and never left.
A high-school drop-out in backwater Pastoria, Madison doesn’t have much going for her. But she knows the Glades better than most, and tonight she’ll have to prove it.
This fic was written for @kyeugh. Please note that all persons appearing in the fic are entirely fictional. Really.
***
“From here on out, everything you see wants to kill you.”
Madison grinned as she spoke. Her job had its upsides and its downsides, but terrifying tourists definitely fell among the upsides. Her tour group exchanged nervous glances and shuffled closer together.
Only one of them appeared unmoved. Almost six feet, he towered at the back of the crowd, but more than his height, what made him stand out was his full-body khaki suit, complete with dark mesh face covering. It hid his features almost entirely, except that Madison could make out sunglasses under the mesh. She held back an eye-roll. Every tour group tended to have one—overdressed and sure they knew it all. She’d have to keep a close watch on him. Idiots with gear were the worst kind of idiots.
She went on, “Venomous roselia and skorupi, toxic shroomish lying in wait under the earth. Carvanha hungering for a tasty nibble at your flesh, whiscash that will swallow you whole and not even notice.”
“How about the wooper?” shouted out a boy in the front row. He stood conspicuously distant from a middle-aged couple with matching ginger hair.
Madison raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “Kid, I’d tell you what the wooper do, but I don’t want your parents calling me when you start wetting your bed again.”
For the pre-pubescents, embarrassment was Madison’s weapon of choice. The kid reddened, opened his mouth to deny all bed-wetting allegations, thought better of it, and retreated into stunned silence. Madison was pretty sure that was the last she’d be hearing from him.
Talk about job satisfaction. She clapped her hands together, pleased by the group’s resulting flinch.
“But you didn’t come here to hear about roselia or carvanha—or even wooper. You came here to hear about ‘gatrs.”
Madison lowered her voice to just above a whisper.
“The ‘gatrs. Where did they come from? To this day, no one really knows. They were first sighted in the Pastoria Glades fifty years ago. When the first report came in, people laughed about some idiots mistaking tillandsia for ‘gatrs. You’ll see some tillandsia soon, by the way—we have all sorts out here, though the giant wild-pines are my personal favorite.
“People had good reason to laugh back then. The feraligatr line has been extinct in the wilds of Johto, their native habitat, since the early twentieth century, with the species only surviving through breeding colonies. Someone must have had the bright idea to introduce a breeding pair into the glades. The results speak for themselves. Pastoria’s the only habitat in the world where ‘gatrs breed in the wild. And that first breeding pair? Well, no one ever stepped forward to take credit. Maybe it was unintentional, or maybe it was an experiment that got out of control. The funny thing about ‘gatrs is that they can live just as long as we can, maybe longer. People say that the first ‘gatr, the momma of them all, is still living in this swamp, grown just as big as anything. Who knows?”
Madison concluded her speech with an exaggerated wink. “Maybe you’ll meet her.”
She let that sink in for a moment, then motioned toward the river.
“Canoes are waiting.”
She relaxed her shoulders as the party ambled cautiously towards the water. The first big speech was over and it had gone well. If you wowed them at the start, they were usually obedient for the rest of the tour and tended to leave better reviews at the end. For the boating portion, Liam assisted her with the life-jackets and rowing tips. As he got the ginger-haired kid settled, she made her way over to her potential problem tourist.
“Hey,” she said, “need a hand?”
It was hard to tell through the mesh and sunglasses, but she got the definite impression that Mr. Overprepared was subjecting her to a cold glare.
“I do not.”
“Have it your way.”
Madison looked out across the water and caught a flash of red. She waved her hand. A few seconds later, Jojo’s head broke the surface of the water. He was muddy from diving, a shoot of seagrass hanging rakishly over his eyes. She picked him up anyway.
“‘Gatrs,” she said in her crowd-voice. “All big and bad, right? Except for this little guy. Meet Jojo, everyone. He’s a totodile. One day he could fit me into his jaw, but for now”—she ran her finger down his chin, and Jojo let out an excited burst of laser-like noises—“he sounds like this.”
The group broke into appreciative coos. Sporting a smug expression, Jojo clambered up onto Madison’s shoulder, ignoring her slight wince. Jojo was a crowd pleaser and boy, did he know it. He was more than two-years old now, already big for her shoulder.
She’d found the egg when she was seventeen, out on one of her morning kayaks. It had been hidden in the roots of a cypress along with a smattering of other treasures that Madison easily identified as a bibarel hoard. Normally, she wouldn’t have poached, but when she touched the egg, its pale blue surface was still warm.
Back home, she’d stuck it in a make-shift incubator. She checked it every morning and every afternoon after school, more often once school fell off the agenda. The egg got her secrets, her stories, and her bad renditions of campy musicals. Uncle had shaken his head every time he caught her at it. Madison hadn’t been sure who had been more surprised—her or him—when, after forty five days, the egg hatched.
Jojo slithered off to charm some tourists and, probably, to beg them for food.
“Do not feed the baby ‘gatr!” Madison shouted after him.
When the tour group was all boated up, they began. By now, Madison had the whole thing down to an easy rhyme.
It was a good tour: along the banks, the spatterdock had begun to flower, its yellow bulbs opening invitingly, and in the last hour, they even sighted a ‘gatr. It was a young one and fairly distant from the boats, but the light blue and bold red of its coloring were unmistakable. Madison smiled, glad that she wouldn’t have to pull out her emergency trick—point out a flash of red that was really just a flowering bromeliad, swaying in the wind. The kid hadn’t turned out to be trouble and the overdressed man was so quiet she forgot to worry about him.
So she was surprised when, after they’d reached the shore and stowed the canoes, she noticed him lingering by the bank.
“Tour’s over,” she said helpfully. “Do you need suggestions for where to find lunch? If you want an authentic Pastoria experience, I recommend Alfonzo’s—”
He cut her off with an impatient swing of his head, but didn’t immediately speak. When he did, his voice was tight with tension.
“I have a task for you. I assure you that it will pay well.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “What kind of task? A private tour, or something?”
“Precisely. You see, I wish to see the heart of Pastoria’s Glades. I wish”—he lowered his voice—“to encounter the First ‘Gatr.”
“Oh,” said Madison. She’d met this type before—trophy-hunters who dreamed of adorning their walls with a feraligatr head bigger than a chimney. “Sorry. Going that far into the glade is pretty dangerous. Above my pay-grade, ya know?”
“I told you,” the man broke in, not bothering to hide his irritation, “that you would be well compensated. Let’s say, fifty thousand dollars?”
“You’re shitting me,” Madison said flatly.
“Maybe you don’t need money?” the man said. He said it normally, but Madison could tell that behind the mesh and the sunglasses, she was being mocked. Did Madison need money? She needed money like she needed sweet tea on a sweltering summer day. She’d been saving for the last two years, but tour-guiding paid next to nothing and her savings wouldn’t stretch far at all outside the second-rate glades economy.
“Nobody has that kind of money to throw around.”
“Want to bet?” He was smirking under the mesh. “Tomorrow evening at 7pm, at this spot. Can I count upon you to show up?”
“You’d need bait,” she said warily. “Real bait, I mean. The bigger ones don’t surface for nothing.”
“Don’t lecture me on how to play my part,” the man said. “I know what I’m doing. You just need to play yours.”
He walked away quickly, as if disgusted by the conversation. Madison shook her head and started homewards. Idiot. Venturing into the heart of the glades was never a good idea, and baiting ‘gatrs there was an even worse one. Besides, Madison didn’t approve of ‘gatr-hunting. It was childish and cruel. It wasn’t something she wanted any part of.
After forty minutes of walking, Uncle’s house came into view between the trees. For a moment, Madison regarded it with an outsider’s eyes. The house—shack, really—was ramshackle and derelict. Last spring, she’d had a go at re-painting it, but had given up halfway through. The incomplete coat of lavender paint made the building look eternally startled, like someone caught half-dressed.
In the kitchen, Uncle was frying something on the stovetop. Madison knew without looking that it was sausage. He looked at her reproachfully as she came in.
“Took your time, didn’t you?” he said. “I had to cook dinner all by myself.”
Madison bit back her instinctive retort: putting two sausages in a pan was hardly cooking dinner.
“Sorry, Uncle,” she said. “I’ll set the table.”
She relocated a pile of magazines from the table to the floor and tore two leafs of paper towel to use as napkins.
“Not that one, I was reading it,” Uncle grumbled, snatching up one of the magazines from the floor. He tipped the sausage onto aluminum plates and set out a slab of pre-sliced bread, still in the plastic. Dinner’s served, Madison thought listlessly.
“You have a good day?” she asked.
Uncle shrugged. He’d spread the magazine out by his plate and was already absorbed in an article on swamp buggies.
“Cool,” said Madison, staring up at the ceiling. The light fixture stared back, its face speckled with dead bugs. Something inside her snapped.
Screw this, she thought dispassionately. With fifty thousand dollars, she could get out of here tomorrow and not look back. That would be more than enough for a down payment on a studio of her own in Pastoria proper. Hell, maybe it was even enough to make a fresh start in Jubilife.
“I’ll be out late tomorrow. Got a thing.”
“No drugs,” Uncle said, waking up. His eyes narrowed at her suspiciously from across the table.
“No drugs,” Madison repeated tonelessly.
“No piercings.”
“No piercings.”
“No silly hair-dye.”
Madison frowned and fingered her hair defensively. The day she’d decided to drop out for real, she’d gone to the hairdresser and dyed her hair rainbow. It had been an indulgence, ate up money she should have saved, but the sight of her hair reflected in the water had given her the confidence to show up for tours each morning. The dye had long since faded, though. All that was left now was the pale suggestion of pink and green.
“No hair-dye,” she agreed.
Satisfied, Uncle grunted and sunk back into his magazine. Madison stared hard at him. Go on. Ask me what my ‘thing’ is. Try taking an interest for once in your miserable life.
He said nothing more. Madison wished she felt surprised.
***
The next day dawned muggy and miserable. Attendance for the morning tour was sparse enough that Madison half considered canceling it, but it wasn’t like she had anywhere better to be. She went through the motions on auto-pilot, while her mind picked away at her conversation with the trophy hunter tourist like at a scab.
Fifty thousand, just for a chance to see the First Gatr’? With a night’s sleep behind her, the number sounded absurd. Even if he were crazy enough to spend that kind of money, why spend it on a half-rate tour guide, instead of a professional pokemon hunter? It didn’t make any sense.
Some kind of stupid prank, Madison decided. If he showed his face again, she’d ask for the money, and when he didn’t have it, she’d send him on his way.
Fifty thousand dollars. As they rounded the final bend back towards the boat-house, Madison allowed herself a self-pitying smirk. It had been a nice fantasy, if a short-lived one.
A familiar face was waiting on the shore. Madison’s expression softened into a genuine smile as she swung out of her canoe.
“Cammy!” she called out, trying not to sound too eager.
In her smart plaid blazer and chic ankle boots (painstakingly thrifted), Camila looked as out of place in the glades as a contest hall vulpix. She was tapping away at her phone, scowling, but she looked up at Madison’s shout.
“Hey,” she said, smiling, and waved a bag. “I come bearing gifts. Do you have time for lunch?”
“Yes,” Madison said firmly. She made her way over to Liam, who was putting away the boats, and caught him by the shoulder. “Next tour leaves at 1:00.”
He frowned. “It leaves at 12:30.”
“Liam.” Madison gave him a meaningful look. “It leaves at 1:00, okay.”
He followed her gaze to Camila. “Ugh, whatever. But if some rich-ass tourist lady starts screaming at me because the website said 12:30, I get an extra half hour’s pay.”
“Done,” Madison said. She rejoined Camila, who was holding the paper bag high out of Jojo’s reach. The totodile let out a plaintive whine.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re starving, buddy, I know.” Madison grabbed the bag and inhaled deeply. “Picadillo?”
“With extra mojo. And tostones.”
“We can eat in the boat-house,” Madison said. Liam, exhibiting rare tact, had made himself scarce. She cobbled together a makeshift table as Camila laid out the disposable utensils. The food was still hot—Madison dug in with gusto.
“So,” she said through a mouthful of rice, “swamp beat again?”
Camila’s scowl returned in full force. “I’m supposed to be on street crime now, but apparently, until someone more junior joins the paper, I’ve got to cover the swamp beat too.”
Swamp beat was bad, Madison knew, the lowest rung on the ladder, but she had trouble producing a sympathetic grimace.
They’d met in first grade. Madison had been big for her age, loud in the classroom and rambunctious outside of it. Camila was more reserved. Madison had only noticed her because she had the prettiest hair in the class: glossy, dark brown curls, always arranged in pig-tails, tied by gauzy yellow ribbons. Everyone knew about those ribbons. There had been a boy who watched them like a murkrow. One recess, he’d come up behind her and tugged until they came loose.
Camila’s face had twisted into a scowl. “Give that back,” she’d said quietly, but the boy had refused. Crowing, he’d bounded off to display his prize.
That had been about when Madison pushed him. He’d hit the sand, windmilling, and Madison had retrieved the ribbons, trotted across the playground, and handed them back to Camila. She’d watched while Camila silently re-did her hair. Camila hadn’t said thank you, but later they’d curled up next to each other during the afternoon nap.
The friendship sealed that day had persisted into high school, even as Camila distinguished herself with honors classes and the school newspaper and Madison skipped class more and more in favor of trawling the glades, until there seemed like no point showing up at all.
“Well, my stomach’s grateful, at least,” Madison said, before the silence grew too awkward. “Uh, let me see. Someone claimed they netted a 70 pound carvanha.”
When Camila met her gaze blankly, she added, “Uh, standard weight is around 50, so that would be a pretty damn big one. It was Dylan, I think. You can probably catch him at his tackle shop. I wouldn’t check there before 10:00, though—he’s a lazy bastard.”
“Thanks, Maddy.” But the thought of a story didn’t seem to cheer her up. Camila crunched a plantain chip between her teeth, staring dolefully out at the river. “Dad’s been on me about working full-time at the restaurant.”
“Again?”
“Yeah. Again. But, he’s saying he’ll pay me what he’d pay anyone else. No filial duty slave compact bullshit.”
“Well, that’s something, at least. But it’s not what you want, right?”
Camila didn’t answer right away. Slowly, she said, “The Herald only pays me by the story, and they pay almost nothing. If Dad’s really serious, I’d make more at the restaurant than I make now. It wouldn’t be table-waiting—he wants to teach me how to handle the book-keeping. That’s—he’s never trusted anyone else to do it. Ramon’s been working there three years already and Dad’s never even offered. Maybe. Maybe it’s time to start being practical. Like you.”
Madison was surprised into a bitter laugh. “Cammy, I’m, uh, not exactly a glowing success story. No diploma, remember?”
“So? I got my diploma. I got all those pretty grades. It doesn’t mean anything, if no one’s going to pay me for them. You’ve got Gatr’ Adventures, I’ve got Alfonzo’s. We make the most of what we have, right?”
“Cammy . . .”
Madison had seen her in a lot of moods, but defeat was a new one. She should say something, she knew. Remind Camelia that reporting was her passion, tell her she shouldn’t give up after just a year of trying. Eventually, someone was bound to recognize her talent.
The trouble was, Madison believed that. Ever since grade school, she’d been waiting for Camelia’s star to catch fire and leave her in the dust. She’d resigned herself to it a long time ago, but some selfish part of her wanted to hang on to what she had, like a remoraid clinging to the underside of a mantine.
She’d been quiet for too long. Camelia sighed, mustered an obviously fake smile, and got to her feet. “I should get on your carvanha tip.”
“Yeah, right.” Madison stood too. “Thanks again for the food. Uh, see you around?”
She checked her watch as Camelia walked away. 12:24. The lunch tour would leave on time after all.
If Madison’s heart hadn’t been in the morning tour, for the lunch and afternoon tours she was practically robotic. Congratulations, Madison Carter, she thought furiously as she paddled. You’re a piece of shit, fine, that’s a given, but now you want to suck Cammy down into your shitty vortex?
Her funk hadn’t lifted by the end of the last evening tour. Dusk was approaching rapidly, but the last thing Madison wanted was to go home. She lingered in the boat-house, busying herself with one of the many neglected repair jobs that could always be counted on to occupy her if she didn’t want to think. Jojo joined her for a while, but when she didn’t respond to his burbles, he disappeared into the river.
“There you are.”
Madison spun around, instinctively reaching for a paddle. A bizarre figure stood in the doorway, framed by the setting sun. It was dressed like an astronaut, in a silvery suit and matching helmet.
Peevishly, the astronaut said, “You did not meet me at the agreed upon location.”
The voice sparked Madison’s memory. He’d traded his safari mesh for astronaut silver, but this was her trophy hunting tourist. He’d turned up after all.
“Some of us have day jobs,” Madison said. She didn’t put down the paddle. “You promised me fifty thousand.”
“So I did. I will pay you ten thousand now, in cash, and the remainder upon the successful completion of our enterprise,” he announced. “Do you accept?”
“Ten thousand in cash?” Madison cocked her brow. His shimmery suit was form-fitting and not exactly brimming with pockets.
The man gestured, somewhat theatrically. A bronzong floated out from behind him.
Madison could tell just by looking that it was one of the newer, man-made ones, though it was sleeker than any she’d seen before, constructed from a kind of silver-white plastic and embellished with blood red garnishes. When it rotated in the air, Madison spotted the Nelon Dusk logo on its back. She could imagine the accompanying advertisement: bronzong for the modern age, stream-lined and efficient. And the omnipresent tagline, “Humanity first.”
When the astronaut snapped his fingers, a cavity opened in the pokemon’s chest. A pouch levitated out.
“A living safe.” Madison cracked a smile. “Seriously?”
The man ignored her in favor of opening the pouch and removing a thick wad of bills.
“You may count them, though I can assure you that I am scrupulously, even pathologically, honest in business matters.”
Without being able to see his face under the helmet, it was hard to tell if he was serious. With a snort, Madison started to count the hundreds. Her disbelief mounted with each flick. Not bothering to be subtle about it, she checked the security ribbon, then the color-change ink, and finally held one of the hundreds up to the light. The pink thread glowed under the UV light, exactly the way it should.
“Guess you are,” she said at last. Ten thousand dollars in her hands felt real and solid in a way that the fantasy of fifty thousand hadn’t. If he didn’t really have the rest, well, she’d still be up ten thousand from a single night-time boat ride.
She stowed the cash in her vest and zipped up the inner pocket. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
Sunset had made the sky a messy medley of indigo and orange. Around them, the glades thrummed with subtle movements. Some daytime pokemon were still active, and the nocturnal ones were beginning to wake up. When Madison pushed the canoe into the river, Jojo surfaced, his eyes glinting. He was always trying to drag Madison on evening boat rides.
“It’s your lucky night, little guy,” she murmured to him, giving his snout a quick pat. To the astronaut, she said, “We’ll reach the inner glades faster if we both row.”
He didn’t accept an oar. “My bronzong can propel us. That’s faster than rowing.”
Madison shrugged. She held on to her own oar, just in case.
A ripple of blue light passed over the bronzong. The canoe jerked forward, almost ramming into a patch of cypress roots. Before Madison could correct course, the boat swerved back towards the center of the river, its motion smoother.
Twilight descended rapidly into evening. Madison leaned back in the canoe as it picked up speed. It had been a long time since she’d gone down the river without the distraction of talking or rowing. Yanma flitted across the water, their gauzy wings flickering with reflected moonlight. Along the banks, croagunk were beginning their nightly hunt. Jojo called a challenge to one, but it spit back a dismissive rejoinder. The astronaut, Maidson couldn’t help but notice, hadn’t taken off his helmet.
She had to ask. “Can you even see in that thing?”
“Of course.” He sounded offended. “It’s optimized for all lighting conditions.”
Studying the suit again, Madison realized where she’d seen it before.
“That’s one of those high-tech suits with the built in protect, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I thought they were still, uh, prototypes. My uncle’s into them. Says that one day we won’t even need whole suits, protects will just be sewn into your ordinary jeans and a t-shirt. But that’s a long way off.”
“Your uncle is right. One day, every person will be able to face this world without fear, fully protected and insulated from its dangers. Once that day comes, what barriers can remain? Who then can deny that the homo sapien is an ingenious creature, capable of constructing with the power of the mind alone those advantages which pokemon brutishly wield?”
“You watch a lot of Nelon Dusk videos, don’t you,” Madison said after a short silence. “Just like my uncle. You sound a bit like him too. Dusk, I mean. Not my uncle.” A sudden suspicion struck her. “Take off that stupid helmet, will you?”
He sighed. “The problem with fame,” he remarked to the air, “is the corresponding lack of privacy. I will not take off my protective gear. But I will answer your implicit question. Yes, I am.”
When she craned her head back around, she saw that the glass portion of his helmet had gone from dark to transparent. It now framed the somewhat puffy, unremarkable face, with the slicked back hair and protruding lips that appeared on so many posters, promotions, and viral clips. Madison blinked.
“Uh,” she said, “can I get your autograph?”
Some idiot on the internet would pay a boatload for it.
He made it out to her on one of the hundred dollar bills, his mouth slightly pursed. The glade continued to whiz by, as Madison worked out how to frame her next question.
“Why, exactly, do you want to see the First ‘Gatr?” To the bronzong, she said, “Turn right up ahead.”
“When people think of Pastoria,” Dusk said, “they do not think about a burgeoning metropolis, bursting with innovative potential. They think of the glades and the ‘gatr.”
“Shouldn’t they? The ‘gatr are extraordinary. And they chose us. Out of all the places in the world, this is the one they thrive in. What else have we got to be proud of, besides Crasher Wake’s pro wrestling win streak?”
Dusk said stiffly, “I, of course, was born in Pastoria, though this is not always remembered.”
Madison almost burst out laughing. “You and the ‘gatrs, sir,” she said, holding it back. “Now there’s a thought.”
The purples of twilight had deepened into dark, sinister grays. The moon was only crescent tonight and in its shifting, pale light, everything looked the same. Still, Madison knew from the thickness of the trees that they were approaching the heart. The sounds of hunting pokemon had faded. It was quieter out here, as if nothing wanted to disturb the giants that slept in these deeper waters.
When Madison spoke next, she did so in a whisper.
“A little further in. Then you can place your bait.”
The next half hour required all her concentration, navigating sudden tangles of roots and snatches of thick-growing seaweed grass. At last, the obstructions ceased. The canoe drifted into an open patch of water, at its center an island large enough to accommodate several cars. Madison’s mouth went dry. She’d been here once before with Uncle in the oppressive heat of a summer day. A tail had been curled across the island—just a tail, but it covered the island’s width.
“We’re here,” she said quietly.
“Excellent.” Dusk held out his hand, and the bronzong deposited a pokeball in it. The ball’s release noise split the still night like a thunder roll. A growlithe appeared on the island. Its ears went back as it scented the moist stink of the glade. It nosed forward along the muddy island, recoiling as it reached the water’s edge. It whined piteously.
Madison’s heart clenched. She didn’t generally get too sentimental over the circle of life. Big, sharp-toothed things chowed down on smaller, furry things and that was just the way it was. But the growlithe, with its silken orange coat, appeared ridiculously out-of-place among the sawgrass and button brush. It whined again, louder this time.
Be quiet, she commanded it in her mind, just be quiet and lie there still. It won’t even know you’re there.
But the growlithe’s confusion had blossomed into panic. It paced up and down the inlet, howling and letting off spurts of fire that hung burning in the air. At Madison’s foot, Jojo lifted his head and nudged her leg. He let out a puzzled query-sound.
Madison stroked his snout, as much for her comfort as his own. She gulped down a mouthful of sour saliva.
“It might not come,” she said. “It might not be here at all.”
But even as she spoke, the water rippled. A wave formed, rolling across the water and cresting against the island. The growlithe retreated to the land’s highest point. It sunk into a crouch, shuddering furiously.
A red fin broke the water’s surface. It was almost as tall as the boat-house—imagining the size of the thing beneath it made Madison woozy. She gripped the sides of the boat and spoke urgently.
“We need to get further away. It’ll capsize us.”
“Turn around,” Dusk said.
Confused, Madison looked back at him. His helmet had gone dark again, so there was no making out his expression. The bronzong floated down by his side. Its eyes pulsed blood-red in the darkness, like beating lungs, in and out. Madison stared into them, enraptured by their unsteady glow.
A sudden pain in her leg tore her gaze away. Jojo met her eyes guiltily, closing his jaws. He’d never bitten her before, never. A thought penetrated through the sleepy daze in her mind like a blast of cold water.
“What the fuck! That was hypnosis.” Madison got to her feet, her hands shaking. “What the fuck was that thing trying to do to me?”
Dusk shook his head. “You should have let it happen. Hypnosis was the kinder way.”
Madison’s legs locked. She strained, but nothing would move, not her legs, not her arms, not even her head. A force lifted her up in the air, where she hovered for a beat. Then she was slammed down into the water. Water filled her lungs, but she could move again. She kicked out, cleaving desperately through shadows until her hands hit something solid. She dragged herself onto the island, coughing.
Something warm and soft barrelled into her. The growlithe pressed itself into her side, whining terribly. She began to pet it without thinking, whispering soothing nothings. More waves rippled across the water.
Dusk was still standing, looking more like a silver statue than a man. It seemed impossible that he could hear her, but she shouted all the same, “Why are you doing this?”
He answered her mildly. “It’s a simple answer to a complicated problem. Pastoria will never grow up until we drain the marshes. Until that day, development will continue to be stifled; we will remain a place of wilderness and anarchy, untamed by human genius. For many years, I have petitioned for this, but always there is an outcry, a swell of bleating protest. What about the ‘gatrs? Where will they live? Where will they go?”
He shook his head in disgust.
“Imbeciles. We don’t need the ‘gatrs. They are overgrown beasts, good for nothing except indolence and predation. I asked myself what it would take for the people of Pastoria to understand this. And I found my answer: you, Madison Carter.”
He flung out his arms.
“Who are you, after all? A swamp tour-guide, a nobody. You have no parents, no siblings, no significant other. You dropped out of high school; you have never aspired to be more than what you are. You would have died in this swamp anyway. I am simply speeding up the process. But your death will not be in vain—I will make sure of that. It will spark horror and outrage. The ‘gatrs will answer for it, and Pastoria will be born again.”
Madison found her voice.
“Bite him, Jojo. Now!”
The totodile clamped his jaws around Dusk’s leg, but only for an instant. The next second, the silver suit flared white and he was flung backward into the water. Dusk shook his head pityingly.
“Good bye, Madison Carter.”
The bronzong’s body lit up, and a moment later, both of them vanished.
All around the island, the water roiled and turned. Madison hugged the growlithe close.
“It’s fine, it’s all fine,” she heard herself saying. “You’re safe with me, you’re fine.”
But it wasn't. She was going to die here because the richest man in Sinnoh believed she was the kind of person the world wouldn't miss.
And was he wrong? There was only Cammy, and Cammy would be better off without her.
The red fin had almost reached the island. Madison couldn’t watch. She closed her eyes as a wet appendage slapped against the earth. A dark, meaty scent entered her lungs, more powerful than the stink of the swamp. Hot breath passed over her face. It was right on top of her now.
Madison trembled and waited to die.
A tentative chirp broke the silence. Swim away, Jojo, Madison shouted in her mind, I’m not worth it, but terror had fully vanquished her capacity for speech. He chirped again, louder this time, the same tone he used when demanding food.
A rumble answered him. Its vibrations made the ground shake, yet somehow it didn’t sound threatening.
Madison’s eyes felt glued shut. She could only press the growlithe closer and listen as Jojo burbled back with rising excitement. A gentler rumble answered him. Then the island shook again, and the smell retreated.
She opened her eyes. The water lay still, as innocent as if it had never been disturbed. The great ‘gatr was gone, and so was Jojo.
***
Eventually, Madison got to her feet. It took a small eternity to coax the growlithe into her canoe, but she didn’t have the heart to manhandle it. It curled itself around her legs, twitching each time the canoe rocked.
She thought she should be exhausted, but her arms had never felt stronger. Each stroke of the oar came with more vigor, as if her body was determined to prove its continued vitality. She took in every curling tendril, caught every rustle and sway on the bank. The darkness pooled around her like folds of velvet.
The glades had never been more beautiful.
Hours later, bleary-eyed, she stepped up to her front door. The light was still on inside the shack, which was odd. Uncle usually went to bed at 9:00, and by now it had to be almost midnight.
When Madison pushed open the door, she saw Uncle, whittling in the lamp-light. That had been a familiar sight, once. Her room was still crowded with the pokemon figures he’d whittled her for her birthdays. But sometime after Aunt Bess left, the figures had stopped appearing.
“Hey,” she said softly.
He set down his knife and came over to her, his face unreadable.
“Exhale,” he ordered her tersely.
“I wasn't drinking,” she said, but she exhaled anyway. “Happy?”
He took his seat again, but didn’t pick up his carving knife.
“Rich tourist wanted a late-night joy-ride,” she offered by way of explanation. “He was a dick.”
It sounded manageable, like that. It sounded like something you could experience and still come out the same person on the other end.
She studied Uncle’s weathered face, his reddened eyes and gaunt cheeks. He rarely left the house these days. The only people he saw regularly were his blackjack buddies, and they did more drinking than talking. Nelon Dusk would probably diagnose him as one of the world’s expendables.
Yesterday, Madison might have agreed.
“What’re you carving, Uncle?” she said, pulling up a stool next to him.
He held it out, almost shyly. “That baby ‘gatr of yours. Hatching.”
“Oh.” She could see the emerging shape of it, now that she had the idea. The beginnings of an oval, a jutting rectangle that could become a snout.
Jojo saved my life tonight. She didn’t say it.
Instead, she walked over to the refrigerator. There was a cooked sausage waiting inside on a cellophane-wrapped plate. “You saved me a sausage?”
“Didn’t know if you’d eaten,” he answered without looking up.
Madison’s stomach let out a hopeful rumble, but she had a better use for the food. She set the plate on the ground and whistled. After a few seconds, the growlithe’s head appeared around the doorway.
“Another stray?” Uncle grumbled.
“Shhh,” she said, as the growlithe inched forward, shooting suspicious looks at Uncle. It sniffed the sausage twice. Then, caution giving way to hunger, it dug in.
“Your aunt had a growlithe,” Uncle said, so quietly that Madison almost missed it. She turned towards him, but he was studiously avoiding her eyes. He stowed the carving under the table, picked up the newspaper of wood shavings, and dumped it in the trash.
“Night.”
“Uncle,” she said, before he could vanish into his bedroom. He’d waited up for her. That meant—she wasn’t entirely sure what, but it meant something. “Have you ever thought of leaving?”
“Once,” he said, surprising her. “After—”
Yeah, thought Madison, looking at the floor. After.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Well . . .” His head sagged. “It’s home, ain’t it?”
He ducked into his room and pulled the door shut behind him.
Madison flicked off the lamp and navigated by touch to the cramped space that passed for her bedroom. Moonlight streamed in through the window. She changed out of her damp clothes into a sleeping shirt. Then, with sudden fervor, she grabbed her discarded vest from the floor and unzipped the inner pocket.
The money was still there, with barely a trace of water damage. The top bill bore a swoopy signature.
Madison exhaled heavily and sank onto her bed. She unplugged her flip-phone from its charging socket, stared at its glowing screen for several minutes, then dialed. Camelia’s number went straight to voicemail.
“Hey, Cammy,” Madison said. “I, uh. Had a weird evening. A category five weird evening. It got me thinking about some things.
“You ever wonder, if I was dead, who’d care? I mean, really care. Not in the headline, 19-year old, all that potential cut short kind of thing, but for you as you actually are, all the messiness and the mistakes.
“I guess what I wanted to say is, I’d care. If it were you. I’d care a lot.
“And if running Alfonzo’s is what you want to do, I know you’ll kick ass at it. But it should be because you want to, Cammy. Me, I’m . . . you called it being practical. But it’s not, not really.
“I like the glades. I fit here. And if I had fifty thousand dollars, well. There’s a lot I’d do with it, but I think I’d do it here.”
Soft paw-steps approached the bed. Madison reached down and nestled her hand in the growlithe’s silky fur. She came to a decision.
“Meet me at the restaurant tomorrow morning. I’ve got a story for you. And Cammy? This story’s gonna make your whole damn career.”
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