Chapter 12

Fifteen minutes into your gym battle, things are starting to look grim.

Rats pants and swears to herself, combing yolk out of her whiskers as Blue’s exeggutor disappears in a flash of red light. The gym leader doesn’t hesitate before throwing out his next pokéball. “Let’s wrap this up, Alakazam.”

You can feel her before you see her, psychic pressure turning the inside of your skull close and buzzing. Alakazam gives you a long look as she walks her spoons back and forth through her fingers. She can’t read your thoughts at this distance, but she can probably catch their outlines, recognize they aren’t quite human. You wonder what she makes of that.

Rats growls and tries to puff out her sweaty coat, but there’s no need for her to act intimidating; she won’t be around to make good on her threats. You pull her pokéball off your belt. “Rats–”

“I got this, Boss,” she says through clenched teeth.

“Gonna switch?” Blue asks. “Looks like your raticate doesn’t want to. Go on, leave it in there. Alakazam’ll take it out in a couple of seconds, save you having to send it to get wiped later.”

There’s a reason you clamped down on your emotions way back at the beginning of the battle. It’s all gone distant now, but you think you found the gym leader’s attitude distracting, somehow. Now you just think he’s confusing. Why would he want to save you any trouble? He’s your opponent, after all.

“Return.”

“I said I got–” is all Rats manages, half-turning in your direction, before the recall beam pulls her off the field. “Go, Thunderstorm.”

“So Magneton’s back,” Blue says as Thunder takes shape, a bit dented after its battle against Pidgeot but still in decent shape. “Running low, aren’t you? No worries, Alakazam’ll make this quick so you can get right back to training.”

You wanted to save Thunder for Blue’s gyarados, but it’s all you’ve got left besides Rats, and the best she could do against Alakazam is maybe get off a sucker punch before fainting. Thunder doesn’t have any real advantage, but at least it resists psychic attacks.

The referee opens the round, and you don’t hesitate to attack. “Use thunderbolt.”

“Start off with light screen.”

It only takes Thunder a couple seconds to charge up and send a thick bolt of lightning at the Alakazam, but the psychic’s faster yet. She traces a golden shield in the air in front of her, and the thunderbolt hisses and crackles across its surface, only a few stray branches punching through to strike the psychic beyond. She doesn’t even flinch.

“Now calm mind.” Alakazam leaves her spoons hanging in the air in front of her face as she brings her palms together, closing her eyes in meditation.

“Metal sound.” Thunder’s magnets start spinning, setting up a grating, screeching noise that sets your teeth on edge. Alakazam’s brow furrows, and when the shrieking doesn’t let up she finally opens her eyes. You can feel her irritation pricking at the periphery of your awareness, ever so faint, as she reaches out to take her spoons again.

“Not gonna let us set up, huh? Then I guess we might as well get blasting. Use future sight.”

Alakazam is struck by another thunderbolt as she focuses on her attack, but she hardly seems to notice. After a couple of seconds where she does no more than stand in place, eyes glowing, she’s back in the fight, teleporting away from a thunderbolt with a faint pop.

Another lightning strike catches nothing but air. It’s time to change tactics. “Magnet bomb.”

Thunderstorm scatters a swarm of glinting metal spheres that drift towards the edges of the arena in an ever-expanding cloud, moving purposefully towards Alakazam when they drift into her proximity. She teleports halfway across the arena, only to attract a new clutch of bombs.

No amount of jumping around can shake the attack, and finally Alakazam gets too close to a bomb. It explodes, and the rest converge on its location, hiding the psychic from view with a series of fiery bursts. Alakazam is knocked down but rights herself quickly, just as a blue-glowing fissure etches itself in the air behind Thunderstorm. The burst of psychic power Alakazam sent into the future comes rocketing through it, smashing into the magneton’s middle and sending its magnemite spinning off in different directions.

“Now focus blast!” Alakazam points one spoon at Thunderstorm, a globe of swirling orange and blue energy growing at its tip. The attack takes a while to form, and it’s ponderous in the air, but Thunderstorm is in no position to dodge while it’s trying to pull its bodies back together. It finally manages, only for the focus blast to hit home, scattering it again.

You hadn’t realized she knew focus blast. This is a more dangerous situation than you thought.

“Good. Future sight,” Blue calls, and Alakazam closes her eyes, ignoring the furious thunderbolt Thunderstorm slings her way as soon as it gathers itself. A confusion attack redirects the next burst of electricity into the ground.

“Magnet bomb,” you say, and Alakazam doesn’t even try to dodge. The bombs swarm straight at their stationary target, and when the smoke clears she’s cringing, bleeding from long scratches left by shrapnel. Then she glows golden, just for a moment, and her wounds knit closed in a matter of seconds.

Alakazam straightens up again, standing tall while you give a mental sigh. Recover. That’s one you know well. And now a low drone heralds the arrival of another future sight. Thunderstorm is scattered, then struck with a focus blast while vulnerable.

“Future sight.”

By now Thunderstorm’s bodies are cracked and scuffed from the buffeting of powerful attacks. The alakazam, of course, is fresh and virtually uninjured.

“We could do this all day,” Blue says, running a hand through his hair to fluff it up. Gossip magazines attribute his hairdo’s increasing height to the fact that Red’s started shooting up in growth spurts, while Blue hasn’t. “This the best you’ve got?”

Perhaps it is. You turn your options over calmly, unhurried, being as careful as you can. Thunderstorm can’t give as good as the alakazam, especially not those focus blasts. Alakazam can dodge most of Thunder’s attacks with teleport, and the others don’t do much damage. Even paralysis isn’t going to help you, not when Alakazam doesn’t use her muscles to get around.

You have to gamble, then. “Supersonic,” you say as Alakazam draws another light screen in the air to replace her fading shield, then dull your ears as the warbling pulse makes your eyes water. If you’re not careful you’ll end up as confused as Alakazam.

The psychic wavers as the noise washes over her, spoons going slack in her grip and eyes drifting off to focus on nothing out in the corner of the room.

“Okay, good work. Now use–”

“Leave it to me. I think I know how to finish this.” Thunderstorm shoots across the arena towards Alakazam, starting to spin as he goes.

“Use spark.” That’s the closest thing you can think of to what Thunder’s doing. It never actually strikes its opponent, stopping to hover just in front of her, wheeling, wheeling, its three magnemite in constant motion. It moves in little darts and swoops just in front of Alakazam and, as you watch, her spoons begin to move with it.

You’re as surprised as Alakazam when one of her hands jerks up and delivers a decisive uppercut to her chin. She staggers, and her hand draws back again, then slams straight into the middle of her face.

At first you think it’s severe confusion, strong enough to make Alakazam attack herself rather than just tripping her up. But then her eyes clear for a moment, focusing on Thunderstorm, and blue light gleams from her pupils–only to fizzle out when she punches herself in the gut.

Thunderstorm keeps up its constant dance, making precise little movements that somehow play Alakazam like a puppet, setting her to merrily battering herself unconscious. One arm hangs slack by her side, swaying and twitching with some echo of the force making the other move. Alakazam manages to bring it up into a defensive position whenever she regains her awareness, but it does little good against her other arm’s determined assault.

As the confusion fades the psychic tries to lash out at Thunderstorm, her ambient mental radiation carrying her anger into you. It’s easy for you to ignore while you’re wrapped in uncaring, the emotion recognized, acknowledged, but never truly felt.

Finally Alakazam lets go of the spoon that’s acquired a mind of its own, leaving it to hang in the air like it did while she was meditating. It’s suspended for only a second before Thunderstorm makes a little lunge and it flies backwards, bouncing off the broad expanse of Alakazam’s forehead then flipping up and over, spinning end over end as it tumbles to the floor behind her.

Thunderstorm allows itself a brief moment of crackling laughter as Alakazam raises her empty hand in disbelief. Then the psychic finally heeds Blue’s frustrated commands and disappears.

Thunderstorm wheels in the air, scattering magnet bombs as it goes. You realize you’re just standing there watching, a spectator in your own battle. You don’t know what’s going on, you have no idea what Thunderstorm is planning, and you can’t ask, can’t distract it now while it’s trying to win.

Alakazam blinks back and forth across the arena while the magnet bombs spread out. Then she pauses a moment, stretching out her empty hand. Her spoon zips towards her, but Thunderstorm moves to intercept, and it arcs wide, repelled by some invisible boundary. The spoon clatters back to the floor as a magnet bomb detonates against Alakazam’s side, soon followed by the rest.

In the meantime, the fabric of reality splits open as another future sight arrives, and while Thunder collects itself Alakazam rises and pulls her spoon back into her hand.

The psychic clutches her weapons tight, impassive expression changed to one of utter fury as she stares Thunderstorm down. “Disable magnet bomb! Disable magnet bomb and get out of there!” Blue yells, but the psychic stands her ground. From the texture of her thoughts you get the sense that this fight has gotten personal.

Thunderstorm’s spinning even as it realigns its magnemites, and it sizzles with electricity as it makes a lunge for Alakazam. A wave of telekinetic force meets it with a clang and knocks it back a bit, but the magneton powers forward again a second later, spinning all the faster, and Alakazam braces herself as it draws close.

Her eyes glow, and it takes you a moment to realize she’s not attacking, just pushing against whatever force Thunder’s generating. The magneton spins faster as it approaches the psychic, a whirl of gleaming metal and white-bright jags of electricity. It moves ever closer, fighting against Alakazam’s psychic pressure.

At last it comes to a halt about a yard in front of its opponent. The two pokémon stay there for long seconds, locked in an invisible battle for dominance, until all at once Thunder releases its gathered lightning as a wicked thunderbolt.

Alakazam is knocked back by the sudden discharge, and with her concentration broken she loses her grip on her spoons, which shoot out of her grip and ricochet off the forcefield in front of Blue’s face.

Thunderstorm tries to keep Alakazam off balance with a quick thunder shock, but though she shivers from the electricity she manages to teleport away. The magneton scatters more bombs.

Alakazam reaches for her spoons, but Thunder sends them flying. The psychic teleports around patient lightning strikes, only to be harried by a constant stream of bombs. Finally she tries to take the offensive, but her powers are erratic without her spoons to channel them. Blue dazzles of random discharge spark around her fingertips as she tries to summon a future sight; multiple focus blasts explode in her face; light screens flicker and die, leaving her at the mercy of Thunderstorm’s increasingly bold offense.

At last a thunderbolt hits the psychic square in the chest. She falls to her knees, heavy head hanging, then slumps unconscious on the floor as Thunderstorm follows on with another blast of lightning.

The mangeton’s wild spinning slows to a smooth halt, and you can finally get a clear look at it. It’s dotted with scorch marks, one eye cracked and blank. Other than that it’s hard to tell how the electric-type is doing; it floats in place as serenely as ever.

“You’re brilliant, Thunderstorm. Good work.”

“Thank you.”

Blue recalls Alakazam with a scowl, but his cocky smile snaps back into place as he takes the next pokéball off his belt. “Not bad. I’m impressed–or I would be if you’d done more than stand there and let your pokémon do all the work. Gyarados, finish this loser off!”

His pokéball disgorges a huge flash of light, and the pokémon that takes shape fills almost half the arena. The serpentine water-type rears up, flaring his fins as he lets out a shattering roar.

You have to tilt your head far back to get a look at your new foe. Gyarados, the legendary creature of rage. Gyarados, the destroyer of cities. Gyarados, the consummate predator.

Gyarados, the pokémon with one of the best-known, most easily-exploitable weaknesses of all time. This battle’s as good as over. “Thunderbolt.”

“Earthquake.”

Thunder starts charging, and Gyarados slaps his tail down, sending waves of seismic energy radiating across the arena. Thunderstorm lets out a popping cry of distress as the floor heaves and lurches under it, throwing off its anti-gravity. The magenton falls and bounces, smashed into the floor again and again as the earthquake wracks the arena.

As the last tremors die away Thunder is left motionless, its battered magnemite scattered and silent.

“That’s more like it,” Blue says as you recall Thunder, not disappointed, not worried, but contemplative. There must be some way to win this still, if only you can see it. “Now send out the rat so Gyarados can finish it off and I can go to lunch.”

You reach for the last active ball on your belt. “Go on, Rats.”

She looks horribly small before the gyarados, hunched down and still breathing heavily from the exertion of her last fight. Gyarados’ mouth curls up in a faint smile as he looks down at her, whiskers twitching in anticipation. He could probably swallow her whole if he wanted to.

“Oh, what? This was your brilliant plan, Boss? Not going to let me fight the alakazam, nooo, you’d rather I went up against the giant killer fish instead? That makes a lot of sense.”

You can only shake your head, keeping your eyes on Blue. He’s totally at ease, hands in his pockets as the referee announces the start of the round.

“Hyper fang.” Rats’ complaining fades into a drawn-out snarl as she launches herself at Gyarados.

“Dragon dance.”

Rats manages to seize one of the serpent’s fins in her teeth, but she’s forced to release it almost immediately as the gyarados’ tail sweeps sideways, threatening to take her with it. She backs away from the big water-type as his thrashing grows more and more frantic. Dragon dance may not be an attacking move, but it’s plenty dangerous when it’s being used by a twenty-foot-long sea monster.

Gyarados coils and twists back on himself, moving in a complex, undulating pattern you can’t predict. Going near him risks getting crushed by an unexpected movement of one of his heavy coils. Rats stands near the edge of the arena and simply watches the fearsome display, seeming hypnotized by the play of light off Gyarados’ cobalt scales.

Of course as soon as Gyarados’ done with this, he’s going to be faster than Rats, and there goes the only advantage you thought made this a better fight for her than Alakazam. “Bite when you see an opening,” you say.

“Ooh, excellent. Glad to hear you had an actual strategy figured out before throwing me into this one.”

You don’t think it’s much of a strategy yourself, but it’s all you’ve got for now. The gyarados’ dance is slowing, and at last he uncoils in one fluidly menacing motion, head lifting high. He sways faintly back and forth, awaiting commands.

“Show it what a real bite looks like.”

Gyarados lunges, horribly fast, but his jaws snap shut on empty air. Undeterred, he strikes again and again, driving Rats across the arena as she skips and ducks away from his attacks, constantly retreating as she tries to keep her distance from the huge monster.

“Get out of there with quick attack.”

Rats sprints away in a blur of motion, and Gyarados doubles back on himself to follow her as she races for his tail. She seizes the base of the caudal fin, earning a grunt of annoyance from the serpent, then is launched into the air as Gyarados flicks his tail up.

Rats tumbles in freefall, flailing at empty air. Water streams over Gyarados’ scales as he brings his tail back, then down like a flyswatter, crushing Rats against the floor with a thud you can feel in your gut.

That might be it. Gyarados lifts his tail back up and peers at the crumpled form of the raticate beneath. You can see the referee craning her neck, too, getting ready to make the call.

Rats stirs, face set in a grimace as she rolls over and, with slow determination, gets to her feet. Gyarados lets her, watching impassively as she raises herself up as much as she can and hisses at him.

“You’ve got real feisty pokémon, I’ll give you that.” Blue’s voice comes from somewhere distant. You’re not paying attention to him, going over options in your mind.

There aren’t many. Rats can’t take another hit, and she’s in no shape to dodge. She’s got maybe one good attack left in her, and Gyarados isn’t even winded.

You bow your head in defeat, closing your eyes, and Blue’s voice takes on a different tone as he continues. “Too bad they’re stuck with a worthless trainer like you. Now, Gyarados, end it with–”

With your head down like this, no one can see the glow of psychic energy in your eyes as you reach out and stab at Blue’s mind. The arena’s defense systems prevent you from interfering with the pokémon, but there’s nothing protecting the trainers against attacks from outside the battlefield.

Your eyes pop open as Blue’s command cuts out in a shout of pain. You straighten up and try to act surprised, but no one’s watching you, and they miss your beautifully executed gasp of shock.

Gyarados twists around, letting out a worried rumble as he peers down at the little human behind him. Blue’s slumped against the railing of his box, clutching his head and groaning. His pokémon leans down further, pressing his face against the energy barrier and sending up a faint tracery of sparks as he watches his trainer.

It’s exactly the opening you need. “Okay, Rats, get it with super fang.”

She hesitates, glancing back at you. After a moment she starts creeping forward, only to stop as the referee waves her flags. “Whoah! No, no, time out!”

“Thank you for that, Nadia,” Blue growls. He’s still clutching his head, and his arm shakes as he tries to push himself upright again.

“Are you okay?” Gyarados asks, voice a bit muffled by the shield. “What happened?”

Blue squints up at him and takes his hand away from his face long enough to manage a dismissive wave. Gyarados grumbles to himself and settles into a more comfortable coil, obviously unconvinced.

“What are you thinking?” the referee asks, still holding her flags high to indicate that the battle’s paused. “Was it a discharge off the shield? Maybe all that magnet nonsense earlier messed it up somehow. Should we call this off and get it checked out?”

“Nah.” Blue starts to shake his head, then stops with a wince. He’s standing on his own now, massaging his temples with his fingers. “Don’t think it was that. Something psychic, but I don’t know what. Let’s just finish this. It’s almost over anyway.”

“Are you sure? I don’t know if this is wise.”

“Of course I’m sure. Get ready.” He starts to step forward, maybe going to move to the front of his box, then wobbles like the floor’s moving underneath him and falls forward, only just catching himself on the railing again. “Shit.”

Gyarados snarls and bangs his snout against the barrier once, twice, ignoring the buzzing hum it gives off with each impact.

You hope you didn’t hit Blue too hard. You were trying to be gentle, but humans are delicate creatures, and you can’t control your psychic attacks very well. It would be inconvenient if the gym leader went and died on you in the middle of your battle. Would they still give you the badge if that happened?

“Fine. Fine.” Blue waves one arm at Gyarados without getting up. “Forfeit. Whatever.” The serpent stops trying to break through the shield and retreats a little, though he stays vigilant, his head hovering on a level with his trainer.

“Forfeit?”

“Yeah. Forfeit.” He manages to raise his head to look at you and tries to grin, but the expression comes out warped with strain. “So congratulations, you’re obviously a great trainer, blah blah blah, you can get your prize stuff at the front desk on the way out. And while you’re at it, you can go ahead and thank whatever deity you’ve been praying to, because you’ve gotta be the luckiest bastard I’ve had the displeasure of fighting. Huh. You owe me a rematch, loser, and we’ll see how you manage when I don’t have any random psychic fits.”

The shield goes down as the referee makes the official announcement, and Gyarados lunges forward, nudging his trainer’s shoulder. Blue tries to pull away as the serpent’s whiskers dance over his torso, poking and prodding. “Knock it off, Gyarados. I’m fine.”

“You aren’t fine.” Gyarados is satisfied enough to take his eyes off Blue for a moment, though, turning to glare at you. “He has something to do with this, I know it. I don’t like him.”

Blue reaches up and puts a hand on the serpent’s crown, “Come on, Gyarados. This has nothing to do with him. Help me down, would you?”

Gyarados stares at you for a couple seconds more, then turns and very carefully closes his jaws around Blue’s midriff, lifting him up and out of the challenger’s box and setting him down on the floor. The gym leader has to lean against the water-type’s neck while the referee dashes over, phone out, probably calling for medical help. The three of them huddle together, ignoring you completely.

Togetic arrives to do her usual victory dance as you withdraw your pokédex from the terminal in your challenger’s box, and you shake off your indifference until you can smile and laugh with her, the battle behind fading into indistinct memory.

“Hey,” Rats says, and you stop teasing Togetic for a moment to give your champion a smile.

“Good work, Rats. That was a tough battle, but–”

“Can it,” she snaps. “What the hell was that? You not even going to let me fight my own battles anymore? Don’t trust me, huh, Boss? Think I’m too weak to fight for myself?”

You look around to make sure there’s no one in earshot. “There was no way you could have beat that Gyarados by yourself. We cannot waste time here, Rats. I could not afford to take the loss.”

“Oh yeah, that’s some serious ‘believe in your pokémon’ shit right there, isn’t it? How do you think it makes me feel, Boss, you deciding I’m so hopeless you’d have to step in and take this one yourself?”

“We have a mission, Rats. I am sorry, but I had to win. Your feelings are not important here.”

Rats snorts and turns her back on you. “Huh, yeah. Some mission. Funny, I don’t remember the part where getting badges had anything to do with Mew.”

“We will talk about this later,” you say, and when Rats doesn’t respond, you recall her, then turn to Togetic, who’s hovering at your shoulder and making anxious noises.

“Do not worry, Togetic,” you say, reaching out to ruffle the feathers around the base of her neck. “We got the last badge! Be happy!”

She doesn’t need any real convincing, and you smile as she starts scattering her joy dust again, laughing with delight. If only everyone on your team were so easy to please. Waves of elation wash over you as joy dust sparkles in the air, and you laugh along with Togetic as you make your way to the lobby. For now, at least, you’re not going to let anything spoil your final victory.

---

Your good mood can’t last, not through a lunch where Rats picks at her food, sullen in the midst of her teammates’ good cheer. An exhausting argument sees you leave the great Nathaniel Morgan with Togetic and Duskull while you go shopping. It’s probably for the best; with your temper as short as it is, having him along would be downright dangerous. To top it all off, storm clouds blow in from the east, and you’re forced to hurry through your errands, grabbing only the most essential supplies. By the time you reach the park you’re outright stewing, longing to be on the road where you’ll be able to work off a bit of your irritation.

It’s not much of a park, hardly more than a few flower beds ringing a monument to of one of the gym’s old leaders. She held back an invasion from a Johto clan during some half-forgotten old conflict, back when gyms were there for protection from human and pokémon alike. Gym leaders are still important in the region’s defense, of course, but in these days of peace and prosperity that function is a distant second behind mentoring rising trainers.

“I am done shopping,” you say as you come up behind the great Nathaniel Morgan’s bench. “We need to get moving. It will start raining soon and–not the sour ones!”

The great Nathaniel Morgan jumps at the sound of your voice and starts turning around, but you lunge forward and seize his arm before he can finish, fending off an indignant Togetic with your free hand.

“Agh! What the fuck? I thought you had like eighty thousand things you wanted to buy before we skipped town. How the fuck are you back already?”

“Did you eat any of these?” you ask Togetic, prying the piece of candy the great Nathaniel Morgan had been offering her from between his fingers. “Did you eat anything he gave you?”

“No. Why are you so mean?” Togetic pouts, flouncing her wings.

“This is sour candy, Togetic. It will make you sick. Stay away from this human, you understand me? You cannot trust him.”

She calls you unfair, but you don’t back off. “Do you understand me?”

Togetic wheedles and whines a few seconds more, then finally trails off, withering under your stare. “Fine. I understand. Meanie.”

“Good.” You turn your attention to the struggling human. “And you. If you ever, ever try to hurt one of my friends again, I will kill you. I do not even care what it costs me. I do not care who finds out. You do not. Ever. Hurt my friends. Stay away from them.” You squeeze his arm tighter with each word until you feel bones shifting under your fingers.

“The fuck are you even talking about?” The great Nathaniel Morgan asks through clenched teeth. His gums are an angry red around the stubs of the broken ones. “It’s just a fucking piece of candy, she eats that shit all the time, what the fuck is your problem?”

“Sour candy. Sour things make Togetic sick.”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know the stupid thing’s allergic to sour shit?” he growls, and then his eyes widen as your expression darkens. “Shit, I meant she, I meant she was allergic to–arrrgh!”

Your fingers grow claws down into his flesh as you say, “After everything you said? After all your bragging about how much you know about pokémon, you expect me to believe this was an accident?” You stop for a second, staring blankly as it dawns on you. “Wait. Where did you even get that?”

He doesn’t answer, hissing curses through his teeth as he watches blood run down his arm. You let go and grab at the bag of candy in his other hand, glancing at the name on the packaging. “Are these mine? I bought these for myself. Did you steal them from me?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t look at you, talking instead to the hand he’s clamped over the gashes.

You take a long, shuddering breath, crushing the pack of candy between your fingers. “When?”

“When you weren’t paying attention, dumbass.”

“Because?”

“Because I was fucking bored, duh! What the fuck do you want from me?”

You stand still a moment, grinding down the points growing on your teeth and letting the pain distract you from your anger. You turn and say, “Togetic, you–”

But she’s gone. No real surprise there. She always disappears at the first sign of conflict.

“I do not even know why she goes near you,” you growl at the great Nathaniel Morgan. “Togetic are supposed to avoid bad people.”

“Not my fault you’ve got a fucking defective togetic.”

“She is not defective! There is nothing wrong with her!” You stop with a wince as you realize you’ve been yelling. You glance over at the street. A couple of young trainers are stopped and staring, wide-eyed. You offer them a huge smile, then, noticing your hand is covered in blood, hastily stuff it into your pocket.

The pair scurries off, and as you turn back around, the great Nathaniel Morgan meets your furious gaze with a tired look. “Hangs around with you, don’t she?”

“She does.” You spend a moment puzzled by the non sequitur, but it can’t distract you for long. “Stay away from her. Stay away from all my friends. This is your last warning.”

“Yeah. I fucking get it.”

“Good.” You take deep breaths and stare up into the cloud-covered sky until you’ve collected your thoughts. “Now. I have purchased all the supplies we will need for Victory Road. There was more I would have liked to buy, but it would be better to leave now. I don’t want to spend all afternoon walking in the rain.”

“Great. Quick marching. Just what the fucking doctor ordered.” He peels his hand away from his injury, then grimaces and clamps it back down when the bloody scratches start welling.

You ignore him, peering into the shadow under the bench. “Duskull, where are you?”

The ghost’s red eye drifts out of the wood, the rest of his body fading in around it. “What were you doing? I told you to watch the human.”

The ghost grumbles something indignant. “I know he did not go anywhere. You are supposed to make sure he does not try anything funny, not just keep him from running off.”

The ghost lurks around muttering, and you give him a stern look. “Togetic could have gotten really hurt. I know she should have been more cautious, but you still should have tried to stop it.”

Duskull twitches his tendrils at you in grumpy acknowledgement, then fades back into the bench before you can say anything else. You clench your teeth and let out a hiss of exasperation. That’s two of your friends you’ve had to yell at now, all because the great Nathaniel Morgan will be horrible at absolutely every opportunity. He’s still clutching his bleeding arm.

“I said we need to get to Victory Road as quickly as possible,” you say, straightening up.

“Yeah?”

“That means get up and walk!”

He does, albeit with no small amount of complaining as you prod him ahead of you down the street. You tune him out and try to focus on the positive. You’re on your way to Indigo Plateau, eighth badge in hand, soon to meet the Champion and your brother. You won’t have to put up with the great Nathaniel Morgan for much longer, either. But somehow this brings you back to you your gym battle, and Rats, and what almost happened–and you look around, hoping to find something to distract you.

Viridian City is offering plenty of distractions at the moment. This is its most prosperous time of year, when trainers and spectators alike flow through on their way to the Plateau and the city is decked out in honor of the coming tournament. The trees lining its boulevards are hung with streamers, sidewalk planters overflow with blossoms, and baskets of flowers are suspended from lampposts. Above the city’s namesake vegetation its traditional green-tiled roofs are clean and bright, showing signs of recent repair.

The great Nathaniel Morgan thinks this is all “a load of flowery bullshit,” but you’re enamored of the sights and, too, of the crowds–and the riotous business that’s sprung up to serve them. Everywhere banners and posters advertise special sales and new products, and you look with longing at all the fantastic deals you’re going to miss.

You could easily spend days here, snapping up exclusive merchandise, watching endless hours of pre-tournament speculation on TV, just going out and walking, letting the tide of tourists carry you where it will. You’ve lurked around the festivities before but never traveled all the way to the Plateau to see the tournament in person. Participating this year means spending your time trekking through Victory Road instead of immersing yourself in all the clamor and excitement.

Togetic reappears, flying a loose orbit around you and amusing herself by spelling out words on the signs you pass. “Viridian” is her favorite, and she finds it everywhere, of course, letting out a delighted chirp every time. After a while she gets tired of flying and settles on your shoulder. You entertain her by reading off your favorite bits of text from posters in the windows you go by: “Official League apparel sold here! Wear it like a champion!”; “Lightning Strikes, here for a limited time only!”; “Try our Victory Roadhouse Ribeye! Best steak this side of the Plateau!”

You notice the great Nathaniel Morgan glancing back at you every couple minutes, staring like you’re some kind of alien species. You give him a huge smile the next time you catch him doing it, talking a bit louder for his benefit. For once it’s not a constant struggle to keep him moving; he’s trying to stay as far away from you as possible.

Your voice trails off into hoarseness by the time you reach Route 22, but the festive atmosphere lingers on. A steady flow of foot traffic snakes towards the gatehouse that marks the entrance to Route 23 and Victory Road, and people selling food, water, and trinkets of all kinds line the edges of the path, calling out their wares to passersby.

Gaggles of kids, too young to be proper trainers, weave in and out of the crowd, roving jabbers of young voices. One girl, dressed in an outsize jersey from some local training clan, lets out a stifled shriek and points at a young woman with a vaporeon by her side–someone she’s seen on TV, maybe. More kids cluster around, staring unashamedly and talking in hushed tones as the trainer goes past.

Then they’re off again, proclaiming loudly that they’ll be here one day, on their way to fight at the Plateau. Here and there they break out in spontaneous games of tag or I-spy or halt in sudden distraction, gasping over a particularly exotic pokémon. Now and again one gets called aside and goes scurrying back to one of the spectator family groups easily recognizable by their clean, well-kept clothing and conspicuous lack of gear.

The trainers are much dustier, and most are showing off, traveling with their pokémon out and on full display. “Riptide!” a hulking poliwrath calls to a feraligatr stomping along with another group of pokémon. “Fancy seeing you here. So your witless trainer actually managed that eighth badge in the end?”

“Witless? Your human’s no prize either, Taddy.” The feraligatr’s grinning as he says it, looking back over his shoulder. “Roger’s a better battler than Vic’ll ever be, and you know it.”

“He may have won last time, but that was before I evolved,” the poliwrath says. “You’d better hope we’re not in for a rematch, you big lizard, unless you’re cruising to lose even more teeth.”

“Bring it on, you overgrown frog.” The two of them banter on for a bit, their voices mingling with the rest of the trash talk flying over the humans’ heads, pokémon calling out to old friends or antagonizing rivals. Here and there new rivalries are being made as territorial pokémon get on each other’s nerves, the crowded route sending them jostling into one another by accident or design.

A battle’s broken out off to the side of the path–it sounds like a rapidash against a nidoqueen, but even craning your neck you can’t see more than the occasional burst of fire. The fight is mobbed with spectators, cheering and laughing and thoroughly blocking your view.

You’d love to stop and challenge somebody, maybe that boy there with his liepard, or the woman perched on her rhydon’s shoulders–but the gray sky threatens, and after the morning’s gym match you’re feeling a little battled out, somehow. No one seems inclined to challenge you, perhaps because you only have Togetic on your shoulder and Duskull at your side. More likely the other trainers are put off by your traveling companion, who’s surveying the cheerful bustle as though it’s done him some grievous offense. Also: “Your face is bleeding again.”

“Huh?” He reaches up to dab at his nose and grimaces when his fingers come away wet. “Ah, fuck.” He scrubs the cut with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his face in a rusty streak.

“Why do you keep picking at that, anyway? It will not heal unless you leave it alone.”

He stops rubbing to glance at you, then snorts and goes back to work. “’Cause it’s fucking annoying, that’s why. You try going around with a hugeass scab on your face and see if you can just ignore it.”

“I heal too fast for that to happen.”

“Yeah, well ain’t you fucking special?”

“It has been a week. You would be healed now too if you did not mess with it like that.”

“Big whoop. So one little cut gets healed up, that’s fucking fantastic. Meantime in agony getting dragged all over the fucking planet with about a hundred cracked ribs, but oh, good thing that one scrape closed up all nice, that’s going to make one hell of a difference.”

You frown. “Are you still complaining about those? I thought your ribs would be healed, too. It has been an entire–”

“Yeah, yeah, a week, I get it. And no, Freak, try more like a month on those fuckers, if I get a chance to actually lie around and heal instead of being a fucking wilderness explorer. That it, then? You thought I was all fucking better and, what, I’ve been making shit up when I say I’m in fucking pain? You think I’ve been lying just to piss you off or some shit?”

“You would.”

He cracks a grin at that. “Okay, granted. But no, Freak, the reason I’m a slowass is because walking hurts like a fucking bitch.”

You size him up for a couple of seconds. “I do not believe you.”

That gets you an irritated look. “You are such a fucking asshole.”

Bickering gets you most of the way to the gatehouse, where the stream of people breaks up into tributaries, each taking its own route to the Plateau. There are a couple buses waiting for spectators going directly to the stadium, but most people coming this early are taking the scenic route instead, following the long road up into the mountains. It’s lined with little hotels and restaurants and scenic lookouts, as inviting as the path through the mountains’ heart, the one you’ll be taking, is forbidding.

You get into the queue of people passing straight through the gatehouse. This is the first of six checkpoints you’ll need to register at to actually earn a place on the tournament roster.

“He is with me,” you say to the smiling woman who slots your pokédex into her computer.

“Must be nice, getting to travel around with your brother. Most trainers’d kill to have someone to watch their back in Victory Road.” If she’s at all put off by the great Nathaniel Morgan’s newly-bloodied appearance, she doesn’t let it show.

“You got no fucking idea, lady,” the great Nathaniel Morgan grumbles.

“Thank you!” You snatch the pokédex back from the miffed woman and shove the great Nathaniel Morgan forward before he can open his mouth again and make things worse.

Beyond the gatehouse the route broadens, running through marshes and over foothills to the base of the mountains. It’s mid-afternoon, but the lowering clouds have brought an early dusk and hidden the peaks of the Kanto range from view.

Beside you, the great Nathaniel Morgan’s looking up into the sky, where a lone fearow circles against a backdrop of leaden gray. “We need to speed up,” you say.

“Oh, right, because I wasn’t going as fast as I fucking could before or anything. Forget the fact that I’m even more fucking tired now than I was when we started out–”

“Must we really go through this every single route?”

“I guess so, since you haven’t figured out that bitching at me isn’t gonna make me move any faster. So what’s next? Threats? Some shit about how fucking weak I am? Or can we just skip to the part where you get all pissy and quiet?”

You scowl and watch with naked envy as a trainer goes sailing past on the back of his pyroar. If only Titan could carry two people.

Much though you hate to admit it, the great Nathaniel Morgan’s right–you’ve never had much success getting him to speed without taking extreme measures. You resign yourself to being one of the slowest trainers on the route and say, “Just get walking. The faster you move, the less you will get rained on.”

A cool breeze kicks up, rippling the waters of the marsh ahead and carrying the damp scent of rain to your nostrils. The wind makes it hard for Duskull to move, tossing his gaseous body around. He tugs at your sleeve until you recall him, and then Togetic decides she’d like to rest for a while, too. All of a sudden you’re alone with the great Nathaniel Morgan as your only companion.

The two of you stick to the outskirts of the route, avoiding the worst of the marshy muck that sprawls across its middle. You’re only about halfway to the cave entrance by the time it starts spitting rain, but at least the trees marking the edge of the route give you a bit of cover.

At first you think the sudden weight on your shoulder is the great Nathaniel Morgan grabbing you, but you turn around to find he’s still several feet behind, trying with little success to pick his way around half-hidden puddles of brackish water. Then the weight lifts and you twist around to investigate a faint noise at your side. There’s a flash of black in your peripheral vision, and you snap your head up just in time to see a sneasel leaping for a tree trunk, sinking claws into wood. Then it pushes off, heading deeper into the trees.

“The fuck was that?” The great Nathaniel Morgan pants, squelching to a halt next to you.

“That sneasel, he, he…”

“Sneasel?”

“What is a sneasel even doing on this side of the mountain?” You clench your hands, hard. “Why would he want my pokédex?”

“Hell if I know, but if you keep standing there wondering it’s probably gonna get awaaaaugh! What the fuck are you doing?!”

You hoist him in a fireman’s carry and dash into the trees, ignoring his thrashing and loud protests. You pay no more mind to the branches lashing your face and tugging at your clothes, charging straight through every obstacle in your path.

The sneasel is virtually silent, leaping easily from tree to tree, but you can smell him, then see him. He hears you coming, of course. His carefree pace picks up until he’s little more than a black blur pouncing from one limb to the next.

You accelerate to match and bellow over the great Nathaniel Morgan and the crashing noise of your progress, “Give that back! Give it back now, or you’re going to have to fight me!”

The sneasel’s gait falters, and you catch the flash of his eye as he looks back at you over his shoulder. For a second you think he’s stopping, but then he takes off again, even faster than before. Maybe you should’ve said that in human instead, but you’re too angry to concentrate on the words right now.

This would all be much easier if the great Nathaniel Morgan would allow himself to be carried without a fuss, but of course he insists on trying to kick you or reach you with a punch, despite that it means he gets caught on even more things as you race through the undergrowth. You shift him to one shoulder and tighten your grip until the vile names he’s calling you give way to a shriek of pain, then fire a swift after the sneasel with your free hand.

The brilliant-white stars split up, looping around branches to converge on the sneasel from all sides, battering him until he loses his grip and tumbles to the ground. He lands in a roll and is back on his feet in an instant, though his once-graceful flight turns to a panicked scramble. Another swift knocks him flat on his face, and a second later you’re there, aiming a stomp at the base of his skull.

The sneasel jerks out of the way, and your foot slams down on his forearm instead. His screech of pain comes with a blast of cold air that sends you staggering, frost riming your lower body. In the time it takes you to recover the sneasel is away, dashing across a small clearing and up the side of a huge, half-rotted old tree, perching himself on the shattered jut of a branch split by lightning.

You step into the clearing after him, watching the little thief all the while. He watches you back, teeth bared and gleaming. He’s shivering and clutching the pokédex against his chest like it’s his most prized possession.

You dump the great Nathaniel Morgan at your feet and hold one hand out towards the sneasel, palm up. “This is your last chance. Give that back and I’ll let you go free.”

It’s only then, as you’re standing with arm outstretched, that you begin to notice something wrong. “Motherfucker,” the great Nathaniel Morgan gasps, holding his side as he slowly pulls himself into a crouch. “I think you broke one of my fucking ribs again. Fucking fuck.”

You grab his arm and haul him to his feet, holding him steady while he lets out a breathless yell of pain. “Quiet. Get ready to move.” You keep staring at the sneasel as you conjure a ball of fire in your palm. It fizzes in the strengthening rain, but it’s enough to get the point across. The sneasel’s eyes widen, and he presses himself harder against the tree.

“Throw the pokédex on the ground now,” you say. “Then go. Get out of here.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan tries to pull away from you, squinting up into rain that runs in bloody rivulets down his face. He’s covered in whip-thin scratches from all the branches you ran into on the way here. You tighten your grip on him and say, “Stay still. There is something wrong here. I will let you know when it is time to run.”

You toss the ball of fire at the sneasel, and he drops from the branch, swinging by one claw as the incinerate attack bursts just where he’d been sitting. The concussion knocks him away, and he lands messily in a tangle of roots, still holding the pokédex against his chest.

“Get it!” he screeches, kicking up a scatter of dead leaves as he claws his way back upright. “Get it! Get it! What are you waiting for?!”

“I can’t believe you dragged me all the way out here,” the great Nathaniel Morgan mutters, trying to pull out of your grip. He’s still staring upwards. “Give me a fucking break. Give me a fucking break already. Give me… give me… give me about three… steps… to the left.”

He stops trying to break your hold and leans into it instead, slamming his shoulder into your side and knocking you away. You turn to him in frank disbelief, mouth hanging half open. “Did you just push me?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s already gone, stumbling towards the far side of the clearing. Before you can go after him something slams into you from above, knocking you to the ground. You barely register the sodden mess of feathers on your chest as a fearow before the bird’s beak spears down, stabbing clear through your shoulder and into the earth below.