Chapter 22
“Deaf! Deaf! Can’t aim for nothing!” the golbat jeers as the pokéball clatters off the rock behind him. He’s fluttering like mad, trying to stay airborne with one wing frayed nearly to the vanes, but somehow he keeps dodging your throws.
You heft your last pokéball in your palm, staring narrow-eyed at the golbat. He might sneer, but he’s keeping his distance. If you could just get him to hold still a moment…
You throw your arm forward, and a vine whips out from your palm, wrapping around the base of the golbat’s wing. He lets out a stream of curses as you reel him in, followed by a blast of supersonic waves that rebounds crazily from walls and floor and ceiling, too close, too much, filling your head with chaotic, blaring noise.
You regain your wits just in time to catch the blue flash of the golbat disappearing into a narrow corridor. Of course he hears your pokéball coming and ducks out of the way, and you’re left empty-handed as it clatters away into the dark.
“Loser!” the golbat yells from somewhere out of reach, and seconds later the sound of his labored wingbeats fades to nothing.
You kick a fallen pokéball so hard it rebounds from the far wall and nearly hits you on its way back, bouncing and rolling off to some dark crevice or other. You slump down on a ragged outcrop and glare at the few feet of cavern illuminated by the spark of energy cupped in your hand. Whatever. You didn’t even really want a stupid golbat anyway.
When you first came through Victory Road it was full of stragglers hoping to clear it before the tournament cutoff. Anywhere you went you’d hear footsteps, distant conversation, the sounds of battle. Now it’s quiet, all sound smothered by the heavy sleep of the earth. You shouldn’t be here. The route’s closed until next August, and they won’t even start remodeling it until after the tournament ends.
This is where the most powerful pokémon in Kanto live, though. You hear them now and again, voices in the dark so distorted by jagged rock walls that you can’t make out the words. Trembling in the stone underneath you, a far-off grinding, speaks of rock-types moving about deeper in the cave. There are onix here, even; you could catch one and buy a metal coat with your prize money and the great Nathaniel Morgan would never know the difference.
But that would be stupid. You don’t go and give pokémon to Team Rocket. That’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to do.
There’s another sound, close. The click of claws on stone. You hold your light up high, and it glows back from Absol’s eyes.
“Do you like being creepy all the time?” you ask as she comes forward and bends to sniff one of the scattered pokéballs. She turns it gently with her paw, careful to avoid touching the button on the front.
“Are you out here alone?” she asks. “Where are that human’s pokémon? The mightyena or the raticate or the graveler?”
“Hospital,” you mutter. “Mightyena kept telling the wilds I was a horrible trainer, so they all ran away. And the other two wouldn’t do anything. So I left them with their stupid human.”
“It’s dangerous to be out here by yourself.”
“Not really. The wilds here aren’t that strong.”
Absol looks more interested in the pokéball than your answer. She bends down and takes it gently between her teeth, then comes over and sets it next to your feet.
You rest your chin in your palm and watch her as she wanders over to another one. “I need to find two pokémon now, you know, because you aren’t helping. If I end up losing, it’ll be your fault.”
Absol nudges the pokéball with her paw and watches intently as it rolls across the stones. A solid swipe sends it bouncing and skittering off into the shadows, and Absol races after it.
“Are you going to tell me what you found out about Mewtwo, or are you just going to play around?” you yell after her.
She takes her sweet time coming back, finally trotting into the light with the pokéball in her mouth. She sets it next to the first, then saunters off to find another, talking as she goes. “I have not found your brother,” she says. “The Champion does not have him. The humans couldn’t agree what to do with your brother otherwise, but still they thought the Champion shouldn’t have him. I believe he’s being kept in some corner of the storage network.”
“They’ll give him back. There’s no way the Champion’d let them take Mewtwo away.”
Absol crouches to bat a pokéball out from under a ledge and rests a paw on top of it as she goes on. “There were few at first, saying that the Champion is the only one who can control your brother, that the safest place for him is with a trainer. Now there are more. The one human, the psychic, she will not budge. But there are enough now to overcome her. They’ll send your brother back to the Champion in the end.”
“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”
Absol turns to face you now, and though her expression is as neutral as ever her words are as much a reproach as an explanation. “Because the situation changed, and I don’t know why. There’s something at work here that neither of us understands.”
“What, because a bunch of humans changed their minds? That happens all the time. Who cares? All that matters is the Champion brings Mewtwo to the final battle. It sounds like we’re going to get exactly what we want. Like I said we would.”
“It matters because you may not be the only one who wants it.” Absol swats her pokéball over to you, then sets off stalking another like it’s recumbent prey while it lies there, inanimate.
“So that’s it? You don’t know what’s going on, and you’re worried about it. So you came here to try and get me to stop fighting in the tournament again.” No answer. “Are you at least going to help me battle? Please, Absol? It’s going to be hard enough to get one new team member, and you’re way better than any of the wilds out here. If you think it’s so dangerous, you would at least be there if I got in trouble.”
“I have work to do. And I will always be there if you get in trouble. I do not need to waste my time on pointless fights for that.”
“Come on, Absol. I don’t want to be stuck with the Rocket’s pokémon all the time. They’re almost as annoying as he is.”
“You could always go home.”
You lean back and cross your arms, scowling at Absol. She pounces, and the pokéball skitters from under her claws, rolling and bouncing away. She follows at a measured pace, like she’s pursuing an animal that’s fled into hiding. You give up and scoop the pokéballs Absol collected into your pocket. You’re feeling too irritated to go after the rest.
It’s not fair. You’d usually have Rats to back you up when Absol’s being weird, but you’re on your own now. And all you have to look forward to later is more of the great Nathaniel Morgan’s pokémon ignoring you when they’re not being outright mean.
“Fine, then I guess I’ll let you keep doing your work,” you say. “I’m leaving.” Not that she cares, or even notices, probably.
“Been busy, ain’t you?” the great Nathaniel Morgan asks. He’s propped up with a mostly-finished tray of food in front of him, eyes on the television–tournament coverage, of course.
The monitors around him are all dark and silent, disconnected, and he’s energetic enough to manage a proper meal. But even though you healed him again three days ago, he still looks almost exactly the same as he did when he came in here. No wonder the doctors think he’ll be stuck here forever. “What do you mean?”
“Well, while I’ve been lying around here, you’ve been out training… battling… getting little kids written up on drug charges… All in a day’s work, am I right?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I dunno. Somehow I’m just not buying that some twelve-year old was doping his mons hardcore, you know? And if he gets cited, who gets a bye into the next round? Seems pretty goddamned convenient, if you know what I mean.”
“It is you. You get the bye. And yes, it is convenient. How did you hear about it?”
“It’s all over the fucking news, come one. Unlike some dipshits I know, most people think cheating is kind of a huge fucking deal. You made a kid cry on international TV, Freak. How you feel about that?”
“I did not make him cry. That was his choice. And if he did not want people to make a big deal about it, he should not have cheated.”
“Give it a fucking rest already. I know you framed his ass. The only reason anybody would ever buy some dude standing in the middle of the street going, ‘Oops, oh no, look at all the drugs that I have. By the way, my name is Zachery Oberti, and I am a competitor in the Indigo League Tournament’ is because they don’t know there’s a pissy shapeshifter running around out there! Not with the kid going on about how it wasn’t really him and someone took his pokémon and locked him up and all that. They’re probably gonna call it a psychotic break or some shit, and he’s probably gonna walk, but I guess his mons were drugged up all right when they tested them, so he’s out of this tournament at least. So you’ll get your fucking bye, and I damn well hope you’re happy with it, jackass. But don’t go pretending like the kid actually did anything to deserve it.”
“I am happy with it. And he did so cheat in our battle. I was just making up for the referee being an idiot.”
“Oh, for Christ’s–he had a baton pass team! It’s a strategy, you moron. Ain’t fucking cheating!”
“It is cheap. He should not have won.”
“Don’t be such a fucking scrub. It ain’t even that good a strategy. You’re the one who let yourself lose to baton pass bullshit. It ain’t the kid’s fault you suck.”
“Well, what did you expect me to do?” you ask, exasperated. “We have to win this tournament. That is more important than Zachery Oberti being sad. I did what I had–”
“No you fucking did not!” He has to take a second to recover from his outburst, clutching his fork in a white-knuckle grip and wheezing painfully. “This is a fucking double elimination tournament, you fuckwit. Losing once don’t matter.”
“We will face much stronger opponents later in the tournament. We should try to win all the early matches so we can take a loss later if we need to.”
“So in other words, it was actually completely fucking unnecessary, and you’re just a colossal dick who decided you didn’t like the guy. Well, congratufuckinglations, he’s out now. He probably ain’t never gonna live it down, neither. I hope fucking up his life forever was worth your goddamned ego.”
You press your lips together to keep from showing teeth. “I did what was best for both of us. We need to win. You would have done the same.”
“No, because there was no fucking reason–”
“If you thought it was necessary to win. You would have framed Zachery Oberti if you’d had to.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan’s quiet for a few seconds, prodding at the scraps of food on his tray. “Well, yeah. But I wouldn’t have been such an asshole about it. Making out like it was all the kid’s fault, honestly.”
“The outcome would have been the same either way. Zachery Oberti would have been disqualified, and he would have been sad. You feeling bad about it would change nothing. Do not go acting like you are the moral one here.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan scowls down at his tray, then attacks a last tangle of soggy vegetables, ramming them down with an angry energy.
You can’t hide a smirk. It feels like you never win any arguments against the great Nathaniel Morgan, and you’ll savor this victory. At last the human tosses his fork onto his empty tray and pushes the lot away. “Where the hell did you even get all those drugs anyway? I mean, holy shit,” he grumbles, not looking at you.
“It was easy. You can smell when people have them.”
“Huh. Yeah, I guess that’s pretty convenient. But, I mean, come on, you had all that high-class shit and you didn’t fucking share? You’re such an ass!”
“Those are drugs for pokémon!” you say. “They would probably just kill you!”
“Yeah, well then at least I wouldn’t have to put up with no more of your bullshit, would I?”
“What are you doing?” you snap as he grabs the railing on the bed and drags himself upright, breath hissing between his teeth with the effort.
“The fuck you think I’m doing? I’m getting the fuck outta here. Didn’t you come to bail me out in the first fucking place?”
“I was expecting you to be healthier than this,” you say. Even sitting up looks like it took a lot out of him, as he sits panting and rubbing his side. “I think you should stay here for a little while longer. I can handle one more battle. You said it yourself, it would not even matter if I lost.”
“Oh, fuck no,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says. “If I have to sit through one more fucking second of you making an ass outta me on TV I’m going to die of fucking embarrassment. Besides, you fucking cured me, didn’t you? The doctors won’t shut up about how it’s some huge miracle. Fucking miracles. I’ve had it with motherfucking miracles.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan gets up by stages like old people do in commercials, sitting on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, then slowly dragging himself upright using the railing. Finally he pushes off and stands by himself, turning a sway into forward motion and stomping over to a cupboard. He bends down carefully, grumbling the whole time about how he feels like he’s “six hundred fucking years old,” and pulls out a neat stack of clothing. “Right. I’m just gonna change, and then we can get the fuck out of here.”
“Why do you not just change here?” you ask as he shuffles off towards the bathroom. “Those clothes are old, and you are a lot skinnier than you used to be. The ones I have on now will fit better. Here, I can just take them off…”
“Holy shit, stop. God, why do you always gotta be such a fucking creeper?”
“What is your problem? I have been you for days now, it is not like I do not know what you look like under your clothes.”
“Oh my God why are you still talking?” The great Nathaniel Morgan slams the bathroom door behind him. You glare at it for a few seconds, consider following him and continuing the argument, but ultimately decide against it. Let the human have his weird hang-ups, then.
When he come staggering out again his clothes hang off him like loose sails, just like you predicted. “Pass me my fucking belt already,” he growls.
You do, and the great Nathaniel Morgan buckles it on, cinching it as tight as it goes. He runs his hand over the pokéballs at his side, an unconscious gesture that ends with an awkward jolt when his fingers pass across the empty fourth clip. “All right, let’s bounce,” he says. “And then order a pizza. A hundred fucking pizzas. I’m so goddamned sick of shitty hospital food.”
“You ate that pretty fast if it was really so shitty,” you say, eyeing his empty tray.
“Yeah, well, it was free and it was right in front of me, which makes up for a lot in food. But seriously, you’d think a pepperoni murdered some doctor’s mom or something. Now come on, let’s go already.”
“Can you really just leave? Do you not need to check out or anything?”
“Well, no, they want me to hang around a while for ‘observation’ or some shit, but fuck that. They didn’t cuff me to the bed, they can’t complain if I decide to go for a fucking walk.”
You suppose they can’t. It’s not like you’re itching to stay, anyway. You put a hand on the human’s shoulder, and in two hops you’re back at the Plateau.
“Where the fuck are we, anyway?” the great Nathaniel Morgan asks, slouching on the couch. His eyes wander over the modest television, the scuffed and battered furniture, and the little kitchen with information about checking out taped to the fridge. The window behind the great Nathaniel Morgan looks out on a row of close-packed hotels, the late afternoon sun already sunk behind them, darkening the street with their long shadows.
“This is one of the apartments they give trainers who are here for the tournament,” you say.
The great Nathaniel Morgan nods and runs a hand over his scalp, taking another quick glance around. “Looks nice enough, I guess. So where’s the pokémon?”
“I do not know. I told them I was bringing you back with me. Maybe they decided to get away while they still had the chance.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan frowns for a second, then says, “Well, whatever. You wanna start doing the infernape thing already? I’ve had about enough of the fucking evil twin act.”
You shrug, and the room grows bigger around you as you settle into a more infernape-appropriate size, nearly as small as you can get without trouble. Your whole body aches, pain flaring where muscles tear and then re-knit, unsettling vibrations running up and down your body as bone grinds against bone. You grit your teeth and concentrate. Going from human to infernape isn’t bad, all things considered, but you have to be careful and get this one right.
“Ugh,” the great Nathaniel Morgan mutters as you fumble out of your ill-fitting clothing. “I hope to God I never gotta watch myself go all melty and turn into an infernape ever again. Holy shit.” He studies you intently while you scratch all over, itchy where fur forced itself out of your skin and from the thought of being trapped in those clothes one second longer. It’s so much more comfortable being a pokémon and not having to wear anything. “Yeah, that’s pretty good,” the great Nathaniel Morgan concedes at last. “You’re kinda scrawny for a real battle-trained infernape, but it’s one hell of a lot better than whatever the fuck you were doing with that charmeleon thing. What the fuck happened to your tail?”
“Tails are hard,” you say, looking over your shoulder at your own, making it twitch and curl in on itself. “They hurt a lot.” This one is pretty good, though, you think. It’s kind of stubby, but it moves just fine.
“Well, whatever. People’ll probably just think you’re a runt or some weird breed or whatever the fuck. So, you find a sixth pokémon yet? I’m guessing no, or you woulda been all shoving it in my face first chance you got.”
“No,” you say sourly. “Your pokémon kept scaring off all the good ones.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic. So not only can’t you battle, but you can’t catch pokémon for shit neither. Goddamn, Freak, you’re like the worst trainer ever.”
“I am working on it,” you say, injecting every ounce of menace you can into the words. The flames streaming from your head blaze orange and yellow, heating up along with your temper. “I do not want just any pokémon for this. I am not going to catch the first thing I see.”
“Yeah, well, we’re kinda running outta time, here, Freak. Anything’s better than nothing. The semis are six on six, and we only got, what, three matches left before that? Clock’s fucking ticking.” He frowns into the middle distance, running his hand over his belt. “Now, we’re gonna need a pokéball for you.”
“What? No!”
“Well, why the fuck not?”
“I am not going to let you catch me. As if you even could.”
“What, you mean I gotta have the team beat the tar outta you first? I mean, fuck, I ain’t complaining if that’s how you want to play it, but it seems kinda point–”
“No. I mean you cannot catch me because pokéballs do not work on me.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan spreads his hands. “Well, why the fuck not? Potions and shit do, don’t they? And attacks.”
“Because that would be stupid,” you say. The human makes an exasperated noise, but you move on before he can start in on some new complaint. “And anyway, I would not let you catch me. I do not want a trainer, and even if I did, I would pick somebody better than you.”
“Oh, what the fuck ever. Look, what about your absol friend? You got a ball for her?”
You smile at the thought of the great Nathaniel Morgan asking Absol to join his team. “You can ask if you want, but I do not think she likes pokéballs.”
“Great. Just fucking great.” The great Nathaniel Morgan rubs his face and sighs. “So that’s two mons that can’t get recalled, which means they can’t switch out in a tournament match. So already we’re starting with a big disad–” Something heavy thuds into the door, followed by a flurry of scratchings and scrapings, the door handle rattling. The great Nathaniel Morgan sits up straight, one hand gripping the edge of the couch like he’s not sure if he should be on his feet or not.
You don’t bother turning to look, recognizing Raticate from the way he snuffles and mutters to himself while he fumbles with the door. Your only warning is a second’s glimpse of the great Nathaniel Morgan’s nervous look changing to a grin before Mightyena goes past like a rocket, slamming into you and almost knocking you flat on your face. Raticate shoves by a second later, and you take a halfhearted swipe at him, but he’s already gone. The two of them leap onto the couch with such force that the great Nathaniel Morgan has to grab for a handhold lest he get bounced out of his seat.
“Hey, whoah, careful. I don’t wanna go back to the–gah, Mightyena!”
The dark-type shoves past his warding arm to get at his face with her tongue, and then Raticate pushes her out of the way and climbs up the great Nathaniel Morgan’s side, reaching for his shoulder. Mightyena bounces around in a circle, panting out huge excited breaths and smacking the great Nathaniel Morgan upside the head with her tail as she goes. He winces and puts a hand up to his head, but manages to transform his expression into a strained smile before Mightyena turns back his way. With the other arm he’s trying to keep Raticate out of his face. “Okay, wow, I’m happy to see you, t–no no no no no!”
Mightyena pounces on him again, slobbering all over his face without a care for his attempts to push her away. You cross your arms and frown, impatient, while the great Nathaniel Morgan chokes on breathless laughter, barely managing to gasp out a garbled “stop, stop” as he tries to disentangle himself from the pokémon.
Graveler stomps past and sets a couple of pizza boxes and a six-pack of beer on the table, then joins you in quiet observation. “Hey, Graveler,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, attempting to pull Raticate off, the normal-type’s claws tangling in his shirt. Graveler makes a rumbling noise that could conceivably be some kind of greeting. “What have you got there?”
“Wait, hold on!” Mightyena jumps down from the couch and gallops across the apartment to a plastic bag lying abandoned by the door, grabs it in her teeth, and races back over. The great Nathaniel Morgan leaves off investigating the pizza to sort through it, setting wrappers crinkling. You see chips, snack cakes, candy…
“Holy shit, you even got some of those little chocolate cupcake things? Badass!”
A thought occurs to you. “Wait, where did you guys get the money for all that?”
Mightyena sits next to the great Nathaniel Morgan again, and Raticate appears comfortable draped across his trainer’s lap. The great Nathaniel Morgan absently steadies the normal-type with one hand as he leans forward to consider his food options.
“They stole my wallet!” you snap at the great Nathaniel Morgan after a quick rifle through the pockets of your discarded pants. “They took my money to go out and buy all of that!”
“Not really your fucking money, is it, Freak?” the great Nathaniel Morgan asks cheerfully as he selects a bottle of beer and bangs it open on the edge of the table. He takes a long pull from it as he reaches for a package of beef jerky, then tears the snacks open with his teeth. “I mean, you jacked it from some dead guy, right?”
“That is not the point,” you say. “The point is your pokémon should not be stealing from me.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan offers Mightyena a piece of jerky. “No, no, that’s all for you,” she says, giving him a lick on the cheek.
“Speak for yourself, Dogbreath,” Raticate says, eagerly snatching the treat out of the great Nathaniel Morgan’s fingers.
The human smiles and offers Raticate the rest of the package when the normal-type tries to snag another piece without being noticed. To you he says, “Go cry to someone who gives a shit, Freak.”
“If we are going to work together, you are going to have to stop letting your pokémon antagonize me.”
“If we’re gonna work together, you’re gonna have to stop being such a little bitch. Quit whining about every goddamn thing and grow a fucking spine already. And don’t give me none of that ‘antagonizing’ bullshit, neither. You’re always going on about how you could fucking destroy anybody with like a flick of your finger or whatever the fuck. You can keep an eye on your goddamn wallet. Ain’t that hard.”
The back of your neck heats up as your flames leap higher, and the pokémon stop eating, tense and wary. The great Nathaniel Morgan shoves a huge handful of chips into his mouth and chews noisily, looking unimpressed.
“Who has it?” you growl. “Give it back right now, or your dinner is going to get ruined.”
“I think we’d better settle this later,” Mightyena says, her hackles bristling. “Or are you really looking for another beating so soon?”
“Oh, come on, guys,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, grabbing a slice of pizza. “You really want to see the Freak throw a tantrum in here? I just want some fucking food. Give the damn thing back, would you?”
Raticate and Mightyena glance at each other, and after a second the dark-type turns away with a snort, glaring at the wall. Raticate reaches into his mouth, extracts a spit-covered square of leather, and chucks it at your head. He hops over to the table to inspect the pizza while you fumble the wallet out of the air.
You flip it open, acid anger fizzing in your chest when you see how little cash is left, then wipe it off on your fur. Your searing look goes ignored, everyone too preoccupied with the pizza to pay attention to you. You tuck the wallet into the fur on your chest and fix it in place with a localized sticky hold. No way anyone can swipe it from you now. Then you make for the pizza yourself.
Mightyena growls as you approach, getting louder the closer you come. Raticate and the great Nathaniel Morgan look up from their food, and the human puts a hand on Mightyena’s side. “Okay, okay, we get it. That’s gonna get old real fast, all right?” Mightyena stops growling but stays tense, watching you like she thinks you’re about to leap at her trainer.
“I am just going to take some pizza and leave,” you say. You wouldn’t even do that much, but the food does smell really good.
“Wait, what? This is our food, Freak. As in ‘not yours.’ You want some pizza, go get your own goddamn pizza.”
“What?” you yelp. Raticate snickers, but Mightyena’s as serious as ever, as though she suspects you’re just waiting for her to let her guard down. “But your pokémon bought it with my money!”
“Oh, you mean the money you fucking stole? What the fuck was it you said earlier? Something like if you’re a thief you can’t get mad if somebody takes your shit? Yeah, that.”
“This is not the same thing at all!”
“Whatever. Look, you want some fucking pizza, you can grab some leftovers later–if there are any. Otherwise piss off and get your own goddamn dinner.”
You glare at him as he shoves a slice into his mouth, tearing off almost half of it in one go. Mightyena’s given up her ban on eating his food and is licking the toppings off her own slice, her eyes still on you, and Raticate’s fur is bloodied by sauce and bits of cheese. He’s attacking the pizza like he’s afraid it might get up and run away. Leftovers. Right.
“Is that really the sort of thing you should be eating right after you get out of the hospital?” you snarl.
“Nope.” The great Nathaniel Morgan belches expressively and leans back into the cushions, grinning. “I could swear I died and went to heaven. You guys are the best.”
Raticate snickers again, and Mightyena nudges the great Nathaniel Morgan with her nose. He strokes her head until Raticate shoves her aside, demanding his own scratching. You stand and watch the scuffle, considering setting them on fire, just setting everything on fire, but in the end all you do is throw open the door and take off into the dusk.
You try to stay mad, you really do. But it’s Indigo Plateau in the middle of the League Championships. Everything’s lit up like a party as sunlight leaches out of the sky, the streets mobbed with laughing, chatting people milling around bars and restaurants or migrating towards the park, where a band’s tuning up for a free concert. You get a rice bowl from a food cart, and then some ice cream, and then a waffle dipped in chocolate with sprinkles and raspberry syrup from a stand you could smell halfway up the street.
You’ve been spending too much time worrying about the championship battles, you decide. Now that you actually get to fight, it’ll be easy. Even if the great Nathaniel Morgan and his team are completely incompetent, you can carry the matches if you need to. You should be relaxing and enjoying the Plateau while you can, not letting those losers get on your nerves.
You climb a streetside tree and find a comfortable spot amid leaves edged with red by the oncoming fall. You lean back against the trunk and scratch your back on the bark, then sit sucking on sticky fingers, listening to distant cheering and the indistinct boom of the announcer from the direction of the grand stadium. Someone’s giving it their all out there, fighting for their chance at the championship. You imagine the glare of the stadium lights against the blue-black sky, the wall of spectators rising up on all sides, the battlefield shaking with the force of powerful attacks. Not long now. One more round, and it’ll be your turn to battle in front of thousands.
There’s snick overhead, the scratch of claw against bark. It’s a small noise, easily lost amidst the clatter of branches and rustle of leaves. You’ve lived with a pokémon who loves to make unexpected entrances for years, now, though, and the tiny noise sounds loud in your subconscious, loud enough to snap you out of your imaginings.
“Absol–” you start, but of course you’re twenty feet off the ground, and even Absol isn’t that good. You twist around and stare into the branches overhead, squinting in the dim light. There’s nothing up there, nothing scratching, nothing creeping. A breeze whips past, and branches sway, leaves hiss and shiver. You stay still, listening with all your might, waiting.
The wind blows again, and as a branch shifts aside, just for a second, your fire gleams off something blue and sparkling. Another breeze, and it’s gone.
“You!” you roar, leaping to swing a blazing fist through the spot where the ghost was. Because you’re sure it was her, still following, still watching. “Get back here!” you howl. “Get out here and fight! Coward!” Hot, sweet-smelling ash stirs in the air around you, leaves blacking and crinkling before they even touch your roaring flames. There’s no answer, not that you were expecting one. Coward.
“Come on!” You climb higher, the fire following you up and around, leaves catching other leaves and bark charring under your fingers. “Where are you? You want to spy on me, huh? You think you can sneak around and I won’t notice? Let’s settle this! Come out and fight!”
No reply. There’s nowhere to hide, either, the tree blazing away under you, flames breaking the shadows into wavering, dancing splinters. You perch high up, where the branches thin to whippy, springy twigs, and fume.
The fire’s starting to attract attention, people gathering down below, and with a final frustrated snort you hurl yourself back to the ground, landing hard and sending a lickitung scrambling aside with a screech and a burst of fire. You race through the crowd on all fours, knuckles jarring hard against pavement, wrapped in a sheet of fire just in case anyone thinks they want to get in your way.
You run and run and leave the city center behind, all the lights and all the people and the noise, until you’re far out in dark, quiet streets, not really sure how to find your way back and certainly not caring. You skid to a halt, a few last tongues of flame flickering and dying in your wake, and take a seat against the side of a building, leaning your head back, flames burning low from exhaustion.
Of course the sableye’s still following you. She challenged you once and escaped before, didn’t she? Not next time, though. Next time you’ll be ready. You know how to handle ghosts, and she really has no idea what you’re capable of.
You sit there for what feels like a long time, long enough for the cold to creep in even with your fire warming you from the inside out. You should get back to the apartment, get some proper rest. You’re going to need it, if you’ll be dealing with the great Nathaniel Morgan all day tomorrow.
It’s now well past dark, and the great Nathaniel Morgan’s sound asleep with Raticate hugged against his chest like a buck-toothed teddy bear. Graveler’s still awake–for all you know she never sleeps–standing in a corner, watching you.
You suppress a shudder and look away, making a beeline for the bed. Something moves in the semidark, and you jump, flames leaping high in shock. Mightyena’s eyes gleam in the firelight as she glares at you from her trainer’s far side. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Going to bed, obviously.”
“Keep your voice down!” the dark-type hisses. “And I don’t know if you noticed, but the bed’s taken. Go sleep somewhere else.”
“There is still room. I can be small, too.” You start to climb up, but Mightyena gets her paws under her, letting out a low growl.
“So you want to wake everybody up while you go climbing over them, looking for a spot? I don’t think so. My trainer needs rest.”
“He needs a lot more than that. Your trainer is a disgusting slob.”
Mightyena’s teeth flash white in the dark, her hackles raised, but you only smirk. She can’t do anything without waking the others.
“Maybe you don’t remember the lesson I taught you a few days ago,” Mightyena says. “You’re not in charge here. You think you want to push me, you really want to start something over this, you’re going to get a pretty harsh reminder of where you stand. And if it comes down to a fight and it wakes Nate up, I’ll be twice as angry as I was last time.”
You stare her down until you hear Graveler shift, a chalkboard noise of scale over scale. “Well, where am I supposed to sleep, then?” you snap.
“There’s a couch, isn’t there? And there’s plenty of floor. I don’t care. Just not here.”
The light of your flames casts a warm, flickering glow around the room, warmer now that agitation lends them extra fuel. Mightyena rests her chin on her trainer’s side, ears up and eyes fixed on you until, at last, you turn and go.
It’s quiet and cold out in the living room, and you curl up tight on the couch, tail thrown over one shoulder and flames banked. You stare into the darkness and seethe, playing the injustice over and over in your mind. It’s only a few days, you remind yourself. Four more battles. Then you can tell Mewtwo to blow up the great Nathaniel Morgan’s stupid head and get on with your life. You huddle on the scratchy old couch where the smell of pizza sauce still lingers and nurse thoughts of revenge late, late into the night.