Ch. 1: Scotty Doesn't Know
Synopsis:
Sometimes, people do drastic things to make changes in their life. For Mike, who has been struggling with obesity since he was a child, that change was training. He sets off for Unova and hopes that a life of hiking, fighting, and roughing it will finally let him realize his dream.
The Loser is a "Man vs. Self" story, with a heavy emphasis on Mike and his personal struggles.
It also tries to follows four personal rules:
1: No Heroes
2: No Villains
3: No Myths
4: No Death
[CW: Language, violence, sexual themes, and explorations of mental & physical health.]
Thanks for asking! Personally, I can take it, so serve up whatever constructive criticism you like!
Though I do offer this challenge/caveat: I would like you to do your best to pair your critique with possible suggestions or solutions! Sometimes you can't put your finger on the issue, and that's fine; this isn't a hard-and-fast rule, just a challenge.
I'd also prefer a semi-professional tone within your review. If you don't like my work, that's absolute fine, and I ask that you express that. However, taking up a dismissive/snide/sarcastic/rude tone within your review really doesn't help your case. That being said, please feel free to have fun with it!
For the sake of reducing clutter, I would prefer spelling/grammar/line-by-line/general editing notes within Spoiler Tags.
The above was last updated 5/3/2021.
Though I do offer this challenge/caveat: I would like you to do your best to pair your critique with possible suggestions or solutions! Sometimes you can't put your finger on the issue, and that's fine; this isn't a hard-and-fast rule, just a challenge.
I'd also prefer a semi-professional tone within your review. If you don't like my work, that's absolute fine, and I ask that you express that. However, taking up a dismissive/snide/sarcastic/rude tone within your review really doesn't help your case. That being said, please feel free to have fun with it!
For the sake of reducing clutter, I would prefer spelling/grammar/line-by-line/general editing notes within Spoiler Tags.
The above was last updated 5/3/2021.
5/13/21:
After a lot of thought, and ironing out exactly what I want this to be and where I want it to go, I've put up what I hope is the definitive final version of Chapter 1. The remaining chapters will be receiving similar rewrites/edits, but exponentially less and less. Chapters 1, 2, and 3 felt like they were stitched together, and hopefully I've rectified that a bit.
4/27/21:
Thanks to lots of critiques from various sources (most influentially @WildBoots, thank you!), I have re-sculpted the first three chapters. Notably:
9/6/21: This is the finalization of Ch. 1 edits. Outside of grammar/typo fixing, Ch. 1 should not change again! This also marks the day I sat down, churned out the AO3 and FFN updates, and homogenized the story across all platforms.
After a lot of thought, and ironing out exactly what I want this to be and where I want it to go, I've put up what I hope is the definitive final version of Chapter 1. The remaining chapters will be receiving similar rewrites/edits, but exponentially less and less. Chapters 1, 2, and 3 felt like they were stitched together, and hopefully I've rectified that a bit.
4/27/21:
Thanks to lots of critiques from various sources (most influentially @WildBoots, thank you!), I have re-sculpted the first three chapters. Notably:
- Chapter 1:
- Scott gets more focus, outlining his character, goals, and motives
- General smoothing of pace
- General re-centering of P.O.V.
- Chapter 2:
- Very heavy trimming and edits all around for pace and content, including
- Removal of most of Juniper's introductory speech and surrounding fluff
- The complete restructuring of Juniper and Mike's discussion about starters, weaving it into the introduction of the starters themselves
- Trimming of many smaller, unnecessary moments
- Stronger focus on Mike's motives for starter selection
- Renaming the chapter to maintain an air of mystery
- Very heavy trimming and edits all around for pace and content, including
- Chapter 3:
- Arguably the most important change: Addition of a completely new, 3k+ word passage focusing on the problems with Litwicks and Robin specifically
- Trimming the fat
- Editing and tweaks for continuity
- Ironing in of sapience levels for some of the Pokémon shown
- Chapter 4:
- Trimming the fat
- Edits and tweaks to reflect continuity
- Chapter 5:
- Removed a bunch of 'show' from the beginning and shoved in some 'tell.' There's a whole battle sequence now!
- Justin's desires for rare Pokémon have been elaborated, as was Mike's split-second decision to catch a Pokémon.
9/6/21: This is the finalization of Ch. 1 edits. Outside of grammar/typo fixing, Ch. 1 should not change again! This also marks the day I sat down, churned out the AO3 and FFN updates, and homogenized the story across all platforms.
- Chapter 1:
- Added a little lore blurb as part of Scott's introduction; Removed the 'dinner scene'/loredump; added a tiny transition before the 'gift.'
The Loser is a “Man vs. Self” story set in my own interpretation of the Pokémon world. It has a heavy focus on our main character (Mike), a 23-year-old man struggling with obesity and some undiagnosed mental issues.
I’ve written this preface to answer some frequently asked questions. If you don’t want spoilers, stop reading this preface!
Q: What is [thing]?
A: This is the general format for one of my most frequently asked questions. Much like real life, things exist within the world of TL outside of the focus of the story, and passing reference may be made to those things without explaining them. The most common reason for a lack of direct explanation is that Mike already knows what that is.
If you want to know more about this world, you’ll have to keep reading! I promise that I do explain things given time. I personally love reading that style of fiction, and I do my best to emulate it here.
For real: past this point, answered questions will begin to spoil the plot and ruin the fun.
Q: You make reference to real-world locations; how does the world of TL mesh with ours?
A: TL takes place using (roughly) our real-life globe. Regions are superimposed over their closest real-life counterparts. To capture the scale of Unova I desired to use, this actually superimposes it over a heavily terraformed slice of southern New Jersey, most of Delaware, and eastern Maryland.
Q: What does the political sphere of TL look like in comparison to our own? What about world conflicts? How does [Country A] get along with [Country B]?
A: This story is not concerned with that. For all intents and purposes, imagine that the nations of TL achieved world peace (save the occasional renegade ‘villainous team’).
Q: Alright, that’s fair, but what about Unova? What are the politics and economics of the region?
A: Again, this story isn’t concerned with the wider political spectrum. However, I have imagined Unova as practicing a semi-perfected form of Democratic Socialism. Prices are low and necessary services are free/cheap because taxes on the wealthy are high and war is nonexistent. Poverty is near-zero. Fossil fuels serve only niche uses. Pokémon training is one of the remaining “bastions” of Capitalism, however a region’s badges serve a similar purpose to degrees and certificates with regards to careers focused on Pokémon handling.
That being said, the politics of Pokémon Training will be discussed in much, much later plot arcs.
Q: What is the deal with Pokémon sentience in TL?
A: Here’s my process: If the Pokémon isn’t a Psychic-type or a Ghost-type, and it’s based off of an animal, I (kinda-sorta) split the difference between that animal and a five-year-old child.
With training comes an awakening of a Pokémon’s abilities and intelligence. I have decided that one of the defining lines between Pokémon and regular animals is an instinct — if not an inherent desire — for human domestication.
Wild Pokémon are naturally more feral and less intelligent. Without human interaction, a Basculin is (basically) just a big fish; a Patrat is (basically) just a prairie dog; a Nidoran is (basically) just a rabbit.
Feral Pokémon can be (and are) hunted and harvested for food quite often. They are also domesticated for food. Miltank are raised for milk, and likewise Bouffalant for beef.
However, if one takes the time and effort to train a Miltank or Bouffalant, they will wind up with a very clever pet cow. But probably not much more than that.
As a rule of thumb: the more training a Pokémon has received, and the more times it has evolved, the smarter it is.
TL, due to how and where it starts, presents the reader with a wealth of clever-ish, smart-ish Pokémon, so this question is the one most-often raised. Because of this — and because this topic very much interests me — I am most keen on clearing the air with regards to this question.
tl;dr: They’re whatever their animal counterpart is in the wild, except they react very well to human domestication — especially training. They are hunted and eaten by humans. They hunt and eat each other. They are domesticated and raised for primary or secondary foods. They can also be trained.
Q: So what about Psychics and Ghosts?
A: Psychics (for the most part) track with humans at their base stages. They do grow and learn much faster. As they evolve, their potential for higher and higher intellect increases. In the wild, they will still be smart, but this is shown instinctually as opposed to purposefully.
Ghosts, similarly, are about as clever as humans at their base stages (again, for the most part). They aren’t as smart as Psychic types, but they can achieve human-esque intellect at later stages and with training.
Q: What about animals?
A: In general, the lower they are on the food chain, the more common real-life animals are. Very small living things still exist in vast quantities. Prey animals still exist in vast quantities. The higher up the food chain we go, the fewer and fewer real-life animals exist. This is due to being outmuscled by Pokémon in that same niche. There are more rats and mice than there are Rattata; There are no lions, tigers, or bears.
I’ve written this preface to answer some frequently asked questions. If you don’t want spoilers, stop reading this preface!
Q: What is [thing]?
A: This is the general format for one of my most frequently asked questions. Much like real life, things exist within the world of TL outside of the focus of the story, and passing reference may be made to those things without explaining them. The most common reason for a lack of direct explanation is that Mike already knows what that is.
If you want to know more about this world, you’ll have to keep reading! I promise that I do explain things given time. I personally love reading that style of fiction, and I do my best to emulate it here.
For real: past this point, answered questions will begin to spoil the plot and ruin the fun.
Q: You make reference to real-world locations; how does the world of TL mesh with ours?
A: TL takes place using (roughly) our real-life globe. Regions are superimposed over their closest real-life counterparts. To capture the scale of Unova I desired to use, this actually superimposes it over a heavily terraformed slice of southern New Jersey, most of Delaware, and eastern Maryland.
Q: What does the political sphere of TL look like in comparison to our own? What about world conflicts? How does [Country A] get along with [Country B]?
A: This story is not concerned with that. For all intents and purposes, imagine that the nations of TL achieved world peace (save the occasional renegade ‘villainous team’).
Q: Alright, that’s fair, but what about Unova? What are the politics and economics of the region?
A: Again, this story isn’t concerned with the wider political spectrum. However, I have imagined Unova as practicing a semi-perfected form of Democratic Socialism. Prices are low and necessary services are free/cheap because taxes on the wealthy are high and war is nonexistent. Poverty is near-zero. Fossil fuels serve only niche uses. Pokémon training is one of the remaining “bastions” of Capitalism, however a region’s badges serve a similar purpose to degrees and certificates with regards to careers focused on Pokémon handling.
That being said, the politics of Pokémon Training will be discussed in much, much later plot arcs.
Q: What is the deal with Pokémon sentience in TL?
A: Here’s my process: If the Pokémon isn’t a Psychic-type or a Ghost-type, and it’s based off of an animal, I (kinda-sorta) split the difference between that animal and a five-year-old child.
With training comes an awakening of a Pokémon’s abilities and intelligence. I have decided that one of the defining lines between Pokémon and regular animals is an instinct — if not an inherent desire — for human domestication.
Wild Pokémon are naturally more feral and less intelligent. Without human interaction, a Basculin is (basically) just a big fish; a Patrat is (basically) just a prairie dog; a Nidoran is (basically) just a rabbit.
Feral Pokémon can be (and are) hunted and harvested for food quite often. They are also domesticated for food. Miltank are raised for milk, and likewise Bouffalant for beef.
However, if one takes the time and effort to train a Miltank or Bouffalant, they will wind up with a very clever pet cow. But probably not much more than that.
As a rule of thumb: the more training a Pokémon has received, and the more times it has evolved, the smarter it is.
TL, due to how and where it starts, presents the reader with a wealth of clever-ish, smart-ish Pokémon, so this question is the one most-often raised. Because of this — and because this topic very much interests me — I am most keen on clearing the air with regards to this question.
tl;dr: They’re whatever their animal counterpart is in the wild, except they react very well to human domestication — especially training. They are hunted and eaten by humans. They hunt and eat each other. They are domesticated and raised for primary or secondary foods. They can also be trained.
Q: So what about Psychics and Ghosts?
A: Psychics (for the most part) track with humans at their base stages. They do grow and learn much faster. As they evolve, their potential for higher and higher intellect increases. In the wild, they will still be smart, but this is shown instinctually as opposed to purposefully.
Ghosts, similarly, are about as clever as humans at their base stages (again, for the most part). They aren’t as smart as Psychic types, but they can achieve human-esque intellect at later stages and with training.
Q: What about animals?
A: In general, the lower they are on the food chain, the more common real-life animals are. Very small living things still exist in vast quantities. Prey animals still exist in vast quantities. The higher up the food chain we go, the fewer and fewer real-life animals exist. This is due to being outmuscled by Pokémon in that same niche. There are more rats and mice than there are Rattata; There are no lions, tigers, or bears.
Chapter 1
Scotty Doesn't Know
Scotty Doesn't Know
"Here, lemme get it," Mike offered. Scott moved aside with a grumble of thanks. Mike lifted the door to his soon-to-be-former apartment by the knob and threw his shoulder hard against it. It relented, swinging open with a bang.
"Sick of shit like that, man. Fuckin' trainers." Scott's words had a ring of finality to them as he entered the semi-empty abode. Mike had noticed that his friend was in quite the mood, having become more and more heated on the drive from the airport. Today was the first time Mike had seen his best friend in the flesh in nearly five years. He quite enjoyed Scott’s gossip regularly; it was one of the ways Mike lived vicariously through him. But now, after an hour or so in the car, and with no end in sight, he wished that Scott would ask him about his life. Especially his newest project.
Instead, Scott was finishing yet another diatribe about some trainer or other who decided to lie, or run, or fight. Or, at least, Mike hoped he was finishing it.
"I hear you, Scott," Mike replied. "Glad I never was one before." He watched Scott's reaction to his emphasis.
"Yeah, I can't imagine having to issue you a ticket." Yet again the intention seemed to miss. Scott moved to the only remaining true seating in the room — a very old, threadbare sofa — and sank into it. Mike went to stow the six-pack they'd bought in his bare fridge. He hadn't skimped out today, despite the usual rigor he’d applied to his new diet; he and Scott would drink full-strength, full-calorie beer the way Arceus intended.
Though the idea still looped a coil of anxiety around his chest. While Scott had only grown up in their time apart, Mike had grown out. He had always been fat, but college wasn’t kind to his physique. A moment of reckoning had sent Mike down a rabbit hole, and on the other end of a week of absorbing every scientific, informative, or opinionated article about dieting, he found a solution that worked for him: count every single calorie. And from that solution came more questions, more education, and finally, a conclusion.
"Damn, girl, you live like this?" Scott's joke from the other room made Mike's mind up: Scott had absolutely no idea. And yet—
"It's as good as I'll get for a few months." Mike couldn't help drawing out the game. The whole affair was now completely ridiculous to him; Scott had to know. Mike's social media presence had been completely relentless: Photos, videos, live feeds, the works. He pulled two cans from the six-pack and returned to the living room.
“So, fuckin’— alright, first things first: alcohol.” Scott held up his hands and Mike tossed him a beer. “Shotguns?”
Mike gave a low, vaguely anxious — but very excited — chortle. He was suddenly a little more okay with listening to a few more stories. Scott hopped back to his feet and joined him on the kitchen tile. After a race to the bottom of their beer cans, each was surprised with how clean the other remained. Mike guessed the Wardens must party as hard as the frat boys did at Sac State.
“Fuck,” Scott belched out, “Okay, lemme get a sippin’ beer, and I gotta tell you about this snot from Juniper’s fucking summer batch.”
They each helped themselves to another can and made their way back to the living room. Mike pulled a large, sturdy box across the room for them to use as a footrest, then found another as a seat for himself.
“I thought you were way up north?” Mike asked as he imagined Unova in his head, trying to find the right name. Scott had said it once, and he’d been studying the region for weeks now. “Like, Route 23?”
“Bingo, but I picked up some hours so I could take this trip,” Scott explained. “The Wardens always get stretched thin when one of the lab’s programs fuckin’ lets loose. We go down to make sure nobody dies for a week or so. Mostly it’s a lot of sittin’ around and gettin’ hit on by the older greenhorns.” Scott leaned forward and brandished a finger as he continued, “But there’s always one mother-fucker who has to make us actually work.”
“I long to be said mother-fucker,” Mike replied wistfully. Not his best hint, but it still felt like one. “Tell me their secrets.”
“A’ight, step one: be rich.”
“Tell me there are more steps,” Mike faux-pleaded. “The Mothims in my wallet have their own EBT cards.”
“Step two,” Scott continued with a grin, “decide that you just wanna be a trainer for shits and giggles. Mommy and daddy will pay for it all, and you can always go home.”
A pang shot through Mike. He now felt one for three when it came to being ‘that mother-fucker.’
“Well, Mom and Dad cut me off just last month,” Mike shrugged, hoping Scott was too absorbed to notice his anxiety. “Guess I ain’t stacking up too well.”
“Good,” Scott replied, taking a huge pull from his beer. “Anyways, Richy Rich here has shown up to just the end of the program, his own starter in tow, dressed in designer fuckin’ everything, top-of-the-line item balls in a backpack that itself probably has a fuckin’ certificate of authenticity, but: He hasn’t learned fucking anything about camping.”
“Whaaat?” Mike drawled. Scott nodded enthusiastically. “The basic shit ain’t hard. Boil your water, burn your scraps, bury your shit.”
“I guaran-fuckin’-tee that he has someone wipe his ass at home,” Scott deadpanned. Mike chortled at the idea. “So he hits Route 3, the first big one, and he’s like halfway through it and sends out a distress signal on his ‘dex. I roll up and there he is, sobbing, covered in dirt for the first time in his life, and he’s upset because his Charmander — his fucking shiny Charmander, I should note — has eaten his Patrat.”
“What the fuck!?” Mike coughed out, choking on his sip. That was a new one.
“Yeah, the kid’s a vegetarian,” Scott explained, “and turns out that the Charmander had gone three whole days without proper food. He had caught the Patrat earlier that afternoon. When Richy Rich let his little team out for dinner, Charmander finally got to have dinner.”
“How does that shit happen?” Mike shook his head.
“People just sign up for the survival kit and the starter, have someone else take the test,” Scott sighed. “The system’s fucked. It’s the glamour and glitz, it sucks people in. Now that Charmander’s with some rehabbers, the kid’ll get slapped with some charges, but you know what? That autumn batch from Juniper is gonna have some moron who’s just as fucked. Mark my words.”
“I certainly hope it’s not that bad,” Mike shrugged, “I mean, I’ll—”
"I'm not really changing shit, you know?” Scott pivoted suddenly, pulling himself up and moving to the kitchen. Obviously, something was still gnawing at Mike’s friend. “I patrol routes and ref battles and play babysitter to fuckers like Richy Rich, and where is it getting me? What's it doing for the Region? Or the system?
“I joined up after the Plasma shit to fix shit like Plasma,” Scott continued, cracking open his third beer. He fell back into the couch, and — miraculously — not a drop spilled from his beer. “Terrorists, massive cults, crime syndicates, fuck, I’d even settle for some poachers at this point."
"So quit!" Mike shot at him.
"And do what," Scott shot back, "Be a fuckin’ Gym Leader? Go back to the circuit and get my eight?"
"Sure!” Mike hunched over, clutching dramatically in mid-air. “Join me, and you can complete my training," he paraphrased in as deep of a growl as he could muster. "With our combined strength, we—"
"Alright," Scott spoke, throwing his hands up, "I give up. Something's going on. Join you?"
"Yes!"
"Mike, you've been talking like you're gonna..." Scott faltered, looking around the barren apartment they were in. "Do... the... trainer thing?"
"Hell yeah, mother-fucker!" Mike smiled like an idiot. He'd been waiting all day to get any sort of response from his friend. Scott, however, didn't do much more than narrow his eyes.
"Bouffa-shit," Scott finally spoke.
"What?"
"I officially call B.S.” Scott fished out his wallet and tossed a bill on the table. “Twenty bucks says you're full of it.”
Mike grinned, fished out a twenty for the pot, and wordlessly returned to the kitchen. He found some thick parchment envelopes on top of the fridge and brought them back to his friend, whose eyes widened. Mike handed them over with one hand, scooping up the bills with the other.
Scott made no protest as he opened the first letter and began to read…
Dear Michael Tapersson,
Congratulations! Based on your independent class and/or course grades, and your lab-specific preliminary test results, we here at Juniper Laboratories, Inc. are excited to offer you a position in our Training Program™! Included in this program will be one of our very own hand-raised Starters™, maybe even a Snivy, Tepig, or Oshawott!
Program:
A.C.E. TRAINER'S PROGRAM - AUTUMN 2020
Orientation Location:
JUNIPER LABS, INC., 1000 JUNIPER STREET
NUVEMA TOWN, UNOVA, R-001-USA
Orientation Date and Time:
MONDAY, AUGUST 17th, 2020
9:00 AM EST
See the enclosed paperwork (or attached .PDF file) for our full terms and conditions. You will need to fill out, sign, and turn in these forms no later than the Friday before your class begins. Please bring your own personal supplies (see included/attached SURVIVAL CHECKLIST for mandatory and suggested items), and any extra items as you see fit. We will include a small selection of Pokémon care items (see included/attached POKÉMON SURVIVAL KIT CONTENTS) but encourage you to supplement that list after you obtain your Starter™ Pokémon.
"The moment you choose the Pokémon that will accompany you on your journey, your story will truly begin. During your journey, you will meet many Pokémon and people with different personalities and points of view! I really hope you find what is important to you in all of these travels… That's right! Befriend new people and Pokémon and grow as a person! That is the most important goal for your journey! Let's go visit the world of Pokémon!"
- Professor Aurea Juniper, Ph.D.
“Damn.” Scott rubbed his beard, looking over the letter again. “I wasn’t even an Ace.”
“I'm also a grown-ass man," Mike chided. Scott nodded. "Honestly, I think it’s ceremonial. I mentioned in my essay that I wanted a Tepig, and apparently, she really liked what I had to say.”
“Is that this one?” Scott waved the next envelope, and Mike gave a quick nod. “What do you mean ceremonial?”
“Well, I ain’t goin’ back to school,” Mike smirked. “I get a better choice of starters and maybe a discount card or some shit?”
“It’ll be good on a resumé,” Scott replied, already nose-deep in the next letter…
Dear Mr. Tapperson,
Your test results were fantastic. Are you sure you haven't trained before? Since you're also an older trainer, I've gone ahead and placed you in the A.C.E. trainer program.
While it seems like you’ve concluded your schooling, A.C.E. trainer status still has some benefits. The most important will be access to three specialty starters, and some other goodies we can cover in person. I usually have a one-on-one with everyone in that program to go over such matters.
Unfortunately, to make sure we get time to have our talk, I have rigged the raffle a little bit. You will be the first to pick your starter on day two. Hopefully, the Tepig will still be available, but they usually go like hotcakes and we've only got one this quarter.
And yes, I do read those essays. We'll talk about your particular challenges, too. I'm sure I've seen trainers heavier-set than you climbing mountains. By the time you hit Victory Road, you'll at least be strong.
In summary: A.C.E. program, personal meeting, #1 on Day #2, only one 'Pig, don't be a quitter.
See you soon!
- Prof. Aurea Juniper, Ph.D.
"Wow. You are serious."
Mike no longer tried to hide his pride, kicking his feet up on a packed box and flashing his pearly whites. He accepted the documents back, giving the personal letter from the Professor another quick once-over.
"Congrats, Mike," Scott said, more to his drink than anything else. Today was the first time Mike had seen his best friend in the flesh in nearly five years. They had both grown up, but only Mike had grown out. He thought he had felt Scott’s barely hidden judgment from the moment he'd picked him up at the airport. Now, though, for the first time since he loaded up his friend’s luggage, he didn't feel it.
Scott finally looked up, a little bewildered.
"That explains…” Scott gestured vaguely at the part-empty, part-packed apartment, "this." He and Mike shared a chuckle. "So that's, like, two weeks from now. How are you gonna get to Unova?"
"What, you can't fly me? What happened to Alto? I'll fuckin' ride a Swablu." Mike began to pantomime saddling up onto a tiny bird, adding indignant trilling whistles as he went. Scott nearly snorted beer out of his nose when Mike gave a loud squawk and slammed back down onto his box-seat. As it was, Scott still wound up soaking his beard.
"She evolved, finally," Scott coughed out, mopping his face. "She could take one of us, sure, but not both. Not to mention they’re all at a daycare for a few days.”
"Ah, three-person limit," Mike slapped his gut. Scott's humor was suddenly gone. Mike pretended not to notice and opened another beer.
"Wanna smoke?" He jerked his head towards a box marked 'DEFINITELY NOT DRUGS,’ which definitely had a small plastic bag of dried greenery on top. Scott hesitated, then shook his head.
"If you were a trainer, I could arrest you for that, you know."
"Not in Cali, you can't!"
"That passed?"
"Yeah, baby, like a year— two years…? A year ago." Mike reached instinctively for his phone but decided being right wasn't necessary.
"Nice. But they still test us Wardens up there."
"Damn, really? Those poor kids. Do you want people to huff Koffing? Because that's how you get people to huff Koffing." This at least got a smirk from Scott, but only a small one. "Damn, Scotty. Tough crowd tonight, huh?"
"I've got a lot on my mind. More now."
"You and I both. You first."
"Well, I came home because I needed to get away from trainer shit for a bit. And I wanna see what’s up with these region rumors going around. And to see my best friend, who I've known since the womb, for a drink.”
“L'chaim,” Mike toasted. Scott hesitated before begrudgingly following suit. They both took deep, long drinks.
“And— fuck me, not only is this trainer shit, but also my best friend is gonna kick rocks right when I think about coming home."
Mike reached over and tenderly took Scott's hand, fluttering his best Deerling eyes.
"Why, I do declare," Mike mocked. Scott rolled his eyes and jerked his hand away.
"Didn't I tell you I'm—"
"Ace isn't aromantic, you pig, now love me."
"Mike. Please. Ease off the jokes for, like, five minutes." Mike opened his mouth to retort, but his brain caught up with it and stopped him.
"Mike," Scott finally spoke, "when are you gonna grow up?"
Mike froze. Coils tightened in his chest. His stomach hit the floor. Scott recovered first, and did so quickly:
"Fuck, I'm sorry, that—"
"No, no, it's—"
"didn't come out right at all, I—"
"alright, it's…"
"mean, if you're serious… this is—"
"Huge."
"Huge."
"What I meant," Scott started after a moment. Mike watched him think his words out, ignoring the anxiety that wrapped ever tighter around him. It was all he could do to stop himself from running away. Or yelling. Monologues tried to prize their way into his head, rapid-fire, but every thought he stopped as hard as he could by focusing. Being there. Listening.
"I have known you a long, long time, Mike. Since we were little. You have always wanted to do everything, and be the best at everything, but you…" Scott paused, something processing behind his eyes that Mike couldn't fathom.
"Fuck, man, you never really committed to any of it. You would get so good, so quick, at whatever you picked up. And I envied that. Then you’d just— you’d fuckin’ drop it outta nowhere. I had to work so hard to do in a month what you could do in a week…
"And…"
"... And?" Mike shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Scott offered no answer. "And I… never stuck with it? What?"
"This isn't gonna be a fucking game!" Mike felt Scott slip into something other than being a best friend. This wasn’t a conversation anymore. "You're not going to be able to save and turn it off. You'll be toughing it out in shit weather for weeks on end. You'll have to forage and hunt, or else pack and pay out the nose for it. Both, usually. And with a half-dozen Pokémon, for God's sakes. Living beings!”
“Damn, Scott,” Mike replied, recoiling as his anxiety coiled ever tighter. “Where is this coming from?”
“Do you know how often I’ve had to drag some moron out of a route, or a cave, or even a fucking center because they decided to just up and quit? This is a commitment. You’re not making just friends, or keeping pets; training is a whole new ball game—”
“Hey, look, I know that,” Mike tried to cut in, “I’m not gonna—”
“How long were you interested in hookah? A month?” Scott’s fervor was growing. Mike felt guilt pang through him. “Yo-yo tricks? Maybe six weeks. Football, remember the flag football league we did? How much you loved it? How you were gonna ‘drop the weight and be a football star!’ Fuckin’ A, man…”
“I get it, okay, I hear you—” Mike's voice cracked. He felt his cheeks flush with anger and pain. Something was wrong. This wasn’t how he expected things to go tonight. Why was Scott so mad at him for this?
“Most ‘mons aren’t even gonna be able to shit outside of your tent until you focus and give them some training, real honest-to-god work, and then they can’t just go back when you get bored!”
Mike didn't speak. He couldn't speak. He had answers, but even now in the bitter silence, he could see his friend was poised to retort. Instead, he very gently put his beer down on the floor, pushed himself off the chair, and moved to the closet. Mike didn’t know what else to do except to prove, once and for all, exactly how serious he was. He let the silence hang for ages as he searched for his evidence.
“You expect to keep up with a full team when you’ve quit how many diets?”
Mike returned and stood silently in front of his friend, holding a lockbox in his hands. A line had now been crossed, and Mike was biting his tongue to hold back tears. A key ring came out of his pocket and the box opened. He turned it to face Scott, whose eyes widened. Inside Mike knew what his friend was greeted with: an untarnished trainer ID card; several opened envelopes with governmental-looking typefaces; a few other carefully folded papers and receipts; and several large stacks of cash.
Scott reached for the green metal card, which had 'MICHAEL TAPERSSON' etched into the top corner in thin text. LCD panels for displaying various values lay dormant beneath. Mike didn't avert his gaze from Scott’s face as his friend popped the badge compartment open. An ID number was also etched into the back of the metal, and eight uniform slots beneath waited to be filled.
"That's from my car," Mike spoke quietly as he reached around to point to a bill of sale, "that's from my trading card collection." A handwritten receipt and cashed check. "All my glass and my bed made up that stack, this one is mostly savings and furniture, and this…"
Mike waited. Scott finally looked up from examining the ID card and was greeted by a particularly rude gesture. "Is for you."
"Why the fuck would you sell—" Scott muttered.
"I know this isn’t a game. Something is different this time, and this—”
"But why now? You're twenty-three!"
"So are you! What does that ha—”
"I've been doing it for a decade!” Scott rose from the sofa and, even with his slight frame, he filled the room. “I put in my time and it paid off. You can't expect to jump in and make this your life!"
Mike blinked. Scott opened his mouth to reply, anger plain on his face, but Mike’s blatant confusion seemed to suck the energy from him.
"Scott?” Mike asked gently, “Do you think I want this to be my job?"
"What else am I supposed to think? You jump to come and get me from the airport and then spring this on me. I'm the only one who could do it out of anyone we knew, and—"
"Fuck me, you really haven’t seen anything, have you?" Mike immediately dug his phone out of his pocket and pulled up his latest blog post. He shouldered up to Scott and turned his phone’s screen as a short, looping video loaded:
A hand turned a green metal card back and forth. It caught the light and swept a reflection across itself. Beneath the .gif was a long string of text:
Hey everyone! Nice to see some new followers!
It's official! Yours truly passed the trainer exam with flying colors and turns out I'm not a master criminal (background check came back clean). It's insane to think I never did this as a kid. All that studying would have been right up my alley. We leave in a week! Get HYYYYPE!
Scott took the phone and his brow furrowed. He scrolled through the small wall of hashtags to another post: a picture of a plane ticket with several thick artificial lines sloppily drawn through important information. Then a picture of a backpack next to various bits of survival gear, all meticulously organized and thrown through a black-and-white filter. A picture of Mike's old car, where the two had gotten stoned too many times to count when Scott had taken a year off between training and joining the Wardens.
Scott finally found the first post and clicked play on a video of Mike's face. It was about a month old.
"Okay, so, uh, hi everyone. This is Mike. I've, ah… I've had enough. If you know me, you know I've been fat since… forever. And it sucks. It really sucks. I've tried a million different things and it has never, ever stuck.
But I can't do this anymore. So welcome to… Whatever this is? I don't know. We'll think of a name. But I need, like… I need to be held accountable, somehow? And I need something to really, really change.
So that first part is where you come in! I'm going to be making weekly… Daily? Ehhhh weekly posts here, about what I'm up to and what I'm doing, which is gonna be training! I'm gonna do the Pokémon trainer thing, finally. I mean, what better way to lose weight, right? Living in the wilderness, hiking everywhere, wrangling some monsters... Sounds like a workout, right?
So if you wanna keep in the loop, go ahead and follow me here and at hashtag 'The Loser Project', and let me know what you think! I'm trying to decide which region to go to, but I have always wanted to visit Unova. Here’s looking at you, Scotty!
Yeah, so, uh… Stay tuned!"
"I’ve missed a lot, huh?” Scott muttered. He scrolled back up in silence, pausing here and there, skimming this or chuckling at that. Then he looked at Mike.
“You look different," he said. He scrolled back to the original video. "Mike, you started already, yeah?" Scott then really sized Mike up.
"Yeah, mostly incline treadmill and calorie counting,” Mike replied. He thumbed over his shoulder to a gym bag unceremoniously discarded by the door. “I've been breaking in some hiking boots and a pair of Running Shoes, too."
Scott's face seemed to go through several different little changes. Mike could almost feel him unwinding the misunderstanding in his head.
"So this isn't, like, a business venture?" Scott's question caused Mike to bark out a laugh.
"No! I'm not that crazy," Mike replied, "I got my degree and I'm debt-free. This is just… something I need to do. I need a break, and I need not be fat anymore. This is, like, my 'backpacking across Europe.’ But hopefully more intense. And also with more cool critters. And less, uh, me."
Scott compared the pictures again, holding the phone side-by-side with his friend. "You look great, Mike. I hadn't even noticed." Mike smiled, and he even clocked that his paused face's smiling cheeks were suddenly too big on the screen. Rounder and puffier than what he saw in the mirror.
"How much have you lost?" Scott asked after a moment.
"Good question!" Mike snatched his phone, pulled in his friend, pulled up his camera, and started to record.
"Hey everyone! Welcome back to The Loser Project! So this is Scotty, my best friend."
"... Hi?"
"He's a Warden, he's freshly back from Unova, ladies: he's single—”
"Shut up, man—”
"And he asked me a great question! I don't think I've actually posted any news about specifics yet! So I was, like, 378 pounds in my first video— act less surprised, you're my best friend."
"Sorry!"
"But I also started hiking around and eating less and stuff that day, because I'm gonna be hiking everywhere and, like, climbing trees for fruit and shit. So! Four weeks: how much do you think I've lost?"
"Way to put me on the spot."
"Guess!"
"Uh… 15?
"… No? 20?"
"… No? 20?"
"32 pounds as of yesterday."
"Fuuuuuck me, really?"
"Yeah."
"Holy shit."
"Just in case anyone thought I wasn't serious: there you go!"
"Rude."
"Anything you wanna say to my twelve whole followers?"
"Hi, mom."
"Hi, mom!"
Mike dropped character and stopped the recording as the two slipped into a chuckling fit. They were both delighted the next morning to find that, after having tagged Scott, his mother indeed became a follower.
Mike liked to think that he and Scott had grown somewhat closer after that night. He agreed with Scott's comments, even if they were painful: he had taken a long time to grow up and figure things out. Pokémon had always fascinated him, but he had been lazy. He stayed in school, coasted by on average grades, and got lucky when he got into Sacramento State. His degree in English wasn’t particularly noteworthy, and he expected his eventual teaching certificate would at least get him a job somewhere.
Something had snapped inside of him, though. Changes were happening, and for once, dieting felt almost effortless. He had decided to take the unusual happenstance and run with it.
Scott had told Mike that he had come home to sniff out some rumors going around. Supposedly, there was a new region forming with Sacramento, or possibly San Francisco, at its heart. Scott was on the cusp of quitting the Wardens, and possibly law enforcement as a whole, to pursue whatever might be in store closer to their home.
Mike had invited him to crash at his place — barren though it may be — with ulterior motives; Scott's prior experience as a six-badge champ-in-the-making would be invaluable. Mike traded food, board, and rides in his parent's van for training tips, skills, and secrets.
They went over his survival gear and made several runs to the Poké Mart outlet in the state capitol. Lots of returns and exchanges were made, which Mike would later be eternally thankful for. Gone were the MREs and wind-proof lighters, and in went much cheaper non-perishables, canned goods, spices, and a proper flint and steel. And some matches, just in case.
An evening was spent pouring over the manual for Mike’s Trainer ID, with Scott giving him demonstrations using his own. Mike knew how to enter bet information and match outcomes from his 'Trainer Basics' summer class at the community college, but it was much easier to understand with a real example in his hands.
A whole weekend was whiled away at a campground, with the old pro overseeing and critiquing the assembly of the newbie's tent and cooking gear. Once their camp had been set up, and their sleeping situation was sorted, Mike began to hint at his envy of Scott's well-used but well-cared-for cot.
“Man,” he whined, kicking the corner of his bedroll, “my back always hurts on this shit. I’ve used it a few times, and I can never get comfy on it. How’re cots?”
“Frivolous,” Scott replied. Mike couldn’t imagine how. “It’s good in the winter, but so is a Pokemon Center. Try it if you wanna.” Mike made a face and glanced down at his belly. “This one’s built sturdy, don’t worry. I buy cheap, but I don’t buy crap.”
Mike nodded, a little relieved. Nevertheless, he eased himself slowly onto the low cot. It groaned and settled, but held firm. It was plenty wide enough — at least when he was on his side, which was how he slept anyways. It was still very firm, but smooth, and Mike enjoyed how it almost form-fit him. The fabric was warped only just from use, almost comfortably, and it smelled faintly of disinfectant and the odd synthetic twang of something stored in an item ball for too long.
“This rocks,” Mike concluded after a few silent moments.
“Yeah? Think you can carry it?” Scott’s question prompted Mike to sit straight up. His friend was barely hiding a grin, and Mike knew immediately where he was going with the question.
“I mean, I’ll strap it on somehow,” Mike replied, “or make room in my item ball. Are you selling it?”
“Can’t,” Scott shrugged, “I just gave it away to a good friend of mine.” He fished in his own bag and produced two large, matte red-and-white balls in each hand. “He’ll want these, too.”
The item balls were also old and well-used, but considering the volume of gear Scott had produced from them, they might as well be worth their weight in gold. Mike already had one, but it was a bargain brand. It could only contain a fraction of the volume that Scott’s donations could hold. Between the three of them, he imagined that he’d only ever need to carry the things he’d be using throughout the day.
“Dude,” Mike shook his head and tried to pass one of the spheres back, “why the hell—”
“I’m long overdue for an upgrade,” Scott answered, waving off the balls, “and I sleep indoors most days. All this stuff was just fuckin’ sitting in storage, anyways.”
“Please let me pay you,” Mike begged. Scott laughed. “Seriously!”
“Tell you what,” Scott replied, flopping down onto Mike’s bedroll. “‘Servant for a day.’ I need to see if you’re gonna fuckin’ die out here, anyways. Deal?”
“Fuckin’ deal,” Mike said with a grin, “I was gonna ask for pointers, anyw—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Scott waved him off, “get me a beer, would ya, sweet-cheeks?”
After putting Mike through his paces, Scott claimed the next day for himself and spent it showing Mike how he would personally set up camp. They drove back into town, made some calls, and got Scott’s team into — then back out of — the storage system. Scott introduced them one at a time— or, in a few cases, re-introduced.
"Mito!" Mike bellowed as a hulking ooze materialized. He hadn't seen a Reuniclus before but knew instantly who he was. The little eyes of the floating ‘baby’ within lit up, a tiny triangle of a smile pulling as wide as it could. There was a snap in Mike's head as if someone had connected two stubborn Legos, and a rush of exuberance filled his mind.
It is I, the Reuniclus responded, oozing drama as his voice echoed through the two boy's minds. Mitochondria! The Powerhouse of the Team! Gelatinous, bulbous arms flexed, taking cartoonishly muscular shapes as they posed. Mike wrapped it in a hug, and his friend was just as squishy and damp as he remembered.
"Mito missed you," Scott spoke, once the false reverberations died away from their heads, "if it wasn't perfectly clear."
Mike noted how his friend had a little routine with each one: Scott and Mito exchanged a complicated hand-shake that sounded like he was playing a drum set made from Jell-O; He delivered an incredibly firm headbutt to a red-crested saggy lizard, the force of which set Mike's teeth on edge; Scott picked at Alto's large, downy wings, allowing the Altaria to groom him in return.
With each new face came a new ritual, and with each one, Mike got a glimpse at some different shade of his friend. He didn’t often see this softer side; Scott was brusque, firm, even humorless at times around people. Here, though, he seemed completely in his element. Mike found himself making a plethora of little mental notes, hoping an errant thought wouldn’t scatter them as they so usually did.
Scott's team practiced drills and showed off tricks late into the evening. He even let Mike lead a sparring match, commanding an eager-to-please Scolipede against the rest of Scott's party in turn. Mike thought he did okay, but Scott led him in 'etiquette drills' for nearly an hour afterward, citing it was the only thing he noticed that really needed fixing.
The two practiced greetings, challenges, and salutes — especially salutes — for a few hours. They clicked two Pokéballs together countless times, trying to find the sweet spot between too timid and too strong.
Scott spent most of the second week chasing leads and doing interviews, but he loaned out Mito and the red-crested aloof Pokémon — a Scrafty named ‘Capo’ — to keep him company and help with packing.
In Scott’s spare time, he helped Mike clean his apartment and move his delicate belongings to his parents' house. Capo was too careless for anything too fragile (or, Mike suspected, purposefully disobedient of him), and Mito was far too clumsy.
Sorry! Mito apologized for the third time that day. His end of the sofa had just slid out of his gooey fingers. It slammed onto the last step of the apartment complex’s cement stairs and one of the legs snapped off. Capo stood holding the other end, looking between it and Mito with what Mike assumed was indifference. It was hard for Mike to tell; the Scrafty almost always looked that way.
“C’mon, dude,” Mike sighed from behind them on the stairs, “you have psychic powers! Please use your TK?”
I also have arms, Mito replied, raising them up and wiggling the oblong fingers, Which is dope. I gotta break these babies in!
“I wanna donate some of these things, you know!” Mike stooped to pick up the broken leg. It floated away from him as he grabbed at it
Wait, wait, I can fix it! The leg drifted lazily in the air towards Mito.
“Please do.”
With my arms!
The Reuniclus grabbed the leg, almost completely absorbing it in its gooey fist. The little body within flicked its own tiny arm, sending the outer spheres and appendage on a long, circular path. The bottom corner of the couch jumped up and the leg slammed into the socket with a crunch.
Mike stared at Mito.
Mito stared at Mike.
Sorry.
Capo looked at where the leg had been awkwardly jammed into the bottom of the sofa, lifted his end of it up, then slammed it hard into the sidewalk. The two couch legs on his side disappeared with a crunch. The lizard chuffed out what Mike strongly suspected was laughter
“What the hell was that for!?” Mike asked exasperatedly. The Scrafty hissed at him and spat on the arm of the sofa. The saliva began to bubble and fume on the fabric.
“Capo, chill,” Scott called. He was standing at the top of the stairs, guiding his Seismitoad as it carried a large tower of boxes. The Scrafty shrugged and turned away. It gave a low growl and kicked at a splinter of one of the legs on the ground.
“Why did he do that?” Mike asked no one in particular. Mito shrugged.
I can’t read his mind, Mito replied, dark types got weird brains, yo. He lifted his side of the sofa to examine the damage. Given how only an irregular portion of the couch was raised by this, Mike concluded that he couldn’t donate it anymore.
“Capo probably thought you were breaking it on purpose,” Scott answered. Mito flinched and giggled awkwardly, the little mouth inside of its form emitting bubbles as it did.
“What am I getting myself into?” Mike asked, taking the topmost box from the large blue frog as it reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Oh, this is what a developed team looks like,” Scott laughed. “Now imagine starting from scratch with wild ones.”
Capo chittered and gurgled behind him, and there was a thwack and the sound of splintering wood.
“Capo!” Scott and Mike rounded on the Scrafty at the same time. They harangued him, the men clearly communicating that the lizard would have to load the sofa into the dumpster by himself. This seemed to be less of a punishment than they intended, as fitting the couch into the trash required a hefty amount of wanton violence.
They spent the last few days before Mike's departure squeezed into his old bedroom. Mike noticed that Scott was spending a lot of time hammering away emails on Mike’s old computer, or making hushed work calls that Scott insisted were for ‘Wardens only.’
On Mike’s last night, after they finished checking and repacking Mike's survival gear, Scott took a phone call well past dinner. He insisted on borrowing the van and running into town.
“Work emergency,” he explained. Mike pointed out the right set of keys on the hook by the door.
“When was the last time you drove?”
“Fuck off,” Scott smirked, snagging the worn Dragonite keychain off the hook. “There’s more to training than riding bareback.”
“Hopefully contraception,” Mike quipped, “with that much bareback I assume there’s gonna be a bastard or two in Juniper’s—”
“Language!” Mike’s dad bellowed from the other room. They both cringed at the reprimand, but Mike could tell his dad was picking on them more than anything. Scott slipped out the door without another word.
Mike returned to his room and picked up a length of rope. Unable to focus on anything not immediately training-related, he set himself to work memorizing various useful knots.
What felt like a short time later, Scott knocked on his bedroom door and let himself in. Mike looked up from a well-organized jumble of knots just as his friend pulled a small blue parcel from his jacket pocket. Mike pretended not to notice, returning to his work.
"Mike, I wanted to, uh, apologize."
"We're good," Mike replied, not looking up from a bowline knot he was trying very hard to memorize. "These two weeks have been more than enough of an apology. And the cot, and the balls, and—”
"No, Mike, they haven't." Mike looked up. He couldn't decide whether to be concerned about his friend's shame or excited about the mystery in blue tissue paper he was holding. "Even after that first night here, I didn't believe you were super serious about, uh… all of this. About training. Or about losing weight. I've gotta admit, I was humoring you for the first few days. And it was, uh, fun. To relive those pre-trainer jitters, and to teach you stuff."
"I could kinda tell," Mike said, a little sheepishly, "but I still needed to know, and you didn't teach me wrong, right?" he widened his eyes in mock panic, raising his voice, "Right?!"
"No," Scott laughed, "no, I didn't. But I also didn't believe you, and that wasn't very cool. And I also said some... fucked up shit the first night we were here, and I really am sorry about it."
"Water under the bridge.” Mike smiled up at him. “So you got me… What is that, a book?" Scott finally cracked a smile. "I can't read on planes, I always get sick."
"No, not really a book," Scott replied. "We confiscate and archive a lot of stuff, and I wondered if we had one of these. They almost always get returned to their owners, but this one, uh, couldn't be." Mike pulled a face, to which Scott shrugged.
"Anyways, you have really, really impressed me. The survival stuff and the knowledge, sure, but… Mostly because I noticed you always spent your mornings hiking before the trails got hot as balls. And you don’t clean your plates like you used to when we go out to eat…" Mike did his best to hide his pride.
"I believe it now. I believe you now. And I also wished I had one of these when I started my journey." Scott handed over the parcel to Mike. "The Wardens insisted I say it was from all of them… Mike. You deserve this. You've earned it."
Mike gently pulled the tape away from one side and unwrapped the tissue, revealing what looked like a new, black leather phone case. It was too heavy to be empty, so he popped it open to reveal the top of what appeared to be a thick, black cell phone. He pulled it out and almost bellowed in delight. His shocked silence was only maintained with extraordinary restraint.
"Fuck you, no way!" Mike finally hissed, "you did not get me a fuckin' Pokédex!"
"Yeah, man. I couldn't believe it, either." Mike was examining every inch of the device. There were barely any blemishes or scratches, the screen protector was in good shape, and it was authentic — as far as he could tell. He went to depress the large white button on the front, but a noise from Scott stopped him.
"Nonono, It needs to go straight to Juniper. Seriously, don't fuck with it until she can format it." Mike nodded, wide-eyed. "Last thing we need is whoever used to own it suddenly showing up across the country. I mean, in Unova, we'd know. But any law enforcement around here might freak."
Mike immediately proceeded to delicately examine the 'dex with the tips of his fingers, making a show of it. As if somehow, any second, it could explode into a million pieces.
"They actually put one of those plastic tab things in the battery compartment, so, like, not that gentle, moron. But... yeah,” Scott knelt down to look over the device with his friend.
“So it’ll handle TMs and HMs for you, no extra machine or centers required,” Scott pointed to the top, where a thin mini-disc drive was visible. “It’s always got service on a route, or in any sorta sanctioned landmark. It’ll automatically register new catches, let you do nicknames, and handle your excess catches if you make any. Its data on wild and caught stuff is gonna be a lot better than internet junk once you reset it from ‘most popular’ to ‘scientific.’ If anyone else has a 'dex nearby you can do trades on the fly. Maps and GPS, of course. I think you can put music and videos on it now? Yeah, there’s the headphone jack. Oh, and it—”
Mike slipped the Pokédex back into the case, snapped the lid shut, and tried to force Scott to take it back. His friend withdrew immediately, throwing his hands up.
"Scott, no, this is too much," Mike insisted.
"Hey, if it makes you feel better, say it was a gift from the Route Wardens. But it's yours."
"These things, they're, like, for VIPs and researchers and shit, I can't—"
"And Aces,” Scott pointed out. Mike didn’t know that, but it immediately made him feel much better about the gift. “Mike, seriously. It's nothing. Usually, we just give them back to the Lab, but I've been pulling strings all week and they made an exception."
"Wait, how many people were involved with this?"
"Well," Scott thought for a moment, "the Wardens, the surviving family, and Juniper. Who thought me giving it to you was, and I quote, 'much more lovely' than anyone else doing it."
"Aw, she ships us," Mike cooed. Scott returned the finger so graciously given two weeks ago. "This comes with a favor, doesn't it?" His question was met with a smile.
“I wanna know what the fuck got into you,” Scott replied, not unkindly. He sat in Mike’s desk chair and steepled his fingers. “What changed? Like, where was this,” Scott gestured in Mike’s general direction, “before?”
“Uh...” Mike didn’t know how or where to start. Coils wrapped themselves around his chest, and a familiar, dark feeling filled him. He swallowed hard. He’d never told this out loud before. And he had been hoping to keep it that way.
But slowly, delicately, almost vaguely, Mike explained himself. Because he needed to talk to someone, and his best friend deserved to know. Especially after the past few weeks.
Then they sat in silence.
Scott opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.
Mike made a motion between a nod and a shrug.
“So you think this, uh,” Scott stumbled over his words, “think this’ll help?”
Mike shrugged again.
Scott got up and sat next to Mike. He threw an arm around his friend’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight half-hug.
“Any, uh, advice?” Mike asked, not particularly hopeful.
"Yeah,” Scott replied, smiling. “Same as Juniper. Don't be a fuckin' quitter."
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). I wanted to show something atypical and "close to home" in a sense. There is no romantic past between them. I'm personally not sure whether or not it oversteps, though an ace lady friend of mine and I also used to do shit like that. I'm smushing a bunch of things together into Scott and hoping they stick lmao
