Chapter 24
“So you’d be the great Nathaniel Morgan, then?” the referee asks.
“Huh?” He tears his gaze away from the stands. “Oh, uh, yeah, that’s me.”
The boy on the far side of the field tries to hide his smile by glancing down, kicking at a clump of grass in the corner of his challenger’s box. “Yeah, real fucking funny, ain’t it?” the great Nathaniel Morgan growls. “Asshole friend of mine thought it’d be funny to help me fill out my entry form.”
Your opponent laughs and doesn’t bother hiding his grin this time. “Ouch. That’s rough.”
He turns to shout something up at one of the spectators, and the referee’s engrossed in entering information on his tablet, so you consider it safe to lean in close to the great Nathaniel Morgan and hiss, “I am not your friend.”
“Damn straight,” he mutters out of the side of his mouth. He’s scanning the bleachers again. There’s a big gang of teenagers sitting together, loud and laughing and hollering down at your opponent; a marill family messily sharing a tub of popcorn; a few more people in scattered ones and twos, trainers with pokémon. Nothing out of the ordinary. What’s he so worried about?
“Okay,” the referee says, “let’s get this started. Trainers ready?”
“Ready,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says.
Your opponent laughs and throws a cocky salute to his friends, then turns back to the battlefield. “Ready.”
“This is a fourth-round match between Carlos Wright and the Great Nathaniel Morgan,” the referee says, and the great Nathaniel Morgan winces. “On my mark, then. Ready… throw!”
Graveler’s up first, taking in the situation with her usual uncaring composure. A burst of whistles and cheers greets Carlos Wright’s lucario, and the fighting-type twists around sharply, searching for the source of the noise. He waves uncertainly at his trainer’s friends, then turns back to Graveler to a renewed wave of hoots and teasing.
“Lucario versus Graveler,” the referee says. “The first round will now begin!”
“Stay back, Lucario. Aura sphere.”
“Dodge it. You know what to do.”
Lucario bows his head and cups his paws in front of him while Graveler tucks her limbs in tight and spins on the spot. Clods of dirt spray in all directions as sheer friction digs her into the ground. Rock polish. Okay.
Lucario lets fly with a glowing blue orb of energy, which strikes Graveler dead center to no apparent effect. You whisper a quick criticism of her dodging ability to the great Nathaniel Morgan, but he doesn’t reply. He probably can’t even hear you over the horrible grinding, crunching noise of Graveler’s acceleration. Before Lucario can pull together another sphere, the rock-type careens straight at him with a rollout.
He leaps lightly aside, launching another aura sphere in the process. The attack curves neatly to follow Graveler as she swerves and charges straight for the edge of the field. The rock-type turns aside at the last second, and the aura sphere can’t compensate fast enough, colliding with the energy barrier and dissipating in a flash of light.
Lucario keeps hurling aura spheres, but Graveler keeps rolling, faster and faster, and jinking around his projectiles so they crash harmlessly at the arena’s edge. Soon Lucario’s doing more running away than attacking, trying to stay ahead of Graveler with small bursts of extreme speed.
“Stand your ground, Lucario. Knock her back with strength!”
“Break out and attack,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says. For some reason he’s watching the referee instead of the fight.
You’d watch, too, and try to catch whatever he’s waiting for, but you’re more interested in whether Lucario can stop Graveler. The fighting-type braces himself in a low stance, paws held up at chest height. You’re sure Graveler’s going to roll right over him, that he’ll get ground into the dirt, but then she swerves to avoid him instead. You only hear the beginning of Lucario’s disgruntled exclamation before Graveler extends her arms and legs and tumbles through one final revolution, each limb striking the ground in turn and setting off a burst of seismic waves.
The earthquake knocks Lucario off his feet, and his trainer scrambles to give new orders. “Extreme speed into force palm, quick! Throw off the spin!” Graveler’s already tucked and revving up again.
Lucario wobbles back to his feet, planting them wide as he rides out bone-rattling aftershocks. Then he leaps forward, only to let out a shout of dismay when his palm passes through a cloud of red energy.
“Switch. Infernape, you’re up.”
You look up at the great Nathaniel Morgan, startled. What just happened?
“Well?” he growls, tipping his head towards the arena.
You knuckle forward slowly, still not really sure what’s going on. The electric buzz of the energy shield passes over you, and then you’re on the battlefield, the sod cracked and crumbling under your toes and the air heavy with the smell of bruised grass.
“So are you going to stand and fight, or are you going to run, too?” the lucario asks. He’s young, maybe started with his trainer a year or two ago. He’s got a long scrape up his leg and a clump of grass stuck above one eyebrow, but mostly he just looks mad.
The referee raises his flags. You read the signal without even realizing it, and then all of a sudden it clicks–ah, right. The great Nathaniel Morgan never wanted Graveler to fight Lucario. He was just running down the clock until the referee gave the signal for open switching. Now you have a minute and a half before Carlos Wright can withdraw Lucario himself.
You grin at your scowling opponent. Plenty of time.
“Infernape versus Lucario. Begin!”
You’re charging before the great Nathaniel Morgan even opens his mouth, and Lucario races forward to meet you. “Bone rush, Lucario!”
“Overheat!”
A glowing femur appears between Lucario’s paws, the same eerie blue as his aura sphere. You duck under his first swing, then reach up and grab the bone yourself. Lucario snarls and tries to wrench it away, but you are, after all, much stronger. Your flames blaze white and tongues of fire lick down your back and arms. “Lucario, get away!”
Lucario lets go of the bone, and you reach for him as it flickers out of existence, hoping to catch him before he can get out of range. You grab one of his aura sensors, and he yelps and lashes out at you, slashing with his hand-spikes in a flurry of uncoordinated movements. Your flames roar higher, and an incredible wave of heat sets the grass around you alight. Lucario howls, and now the metal spikes coming at you are glowing orange-hot. One cuts a long gash down your cheek, and you return fire with with flame-trailing fists.
“Fire spin! Fire spin, go!”
Lucario’s aura sensors twitch, and he hits you with a wave of psychic energy that snaps your head back. The fighting-type shoves you away and retreats towards his trainer while you’re drifting uncoordinated. You sway, or maybe it’s just the world tilting in front of your eyes, but grit your teeth and leap at where you hope Lucario actually is with another fire punch.
“I said fire spin, for–come on!”
You wobble to a halt and shake your head, then move your hand in circles, conjuring a swirling wall of fire around you. An exclamation from Lucario’s trainer makes you glance his way, and you get a glimpse of him with pokéball raised, staring in dismay, before a curtain of flame sweeps between the two of you.
Fire spin blocks a pokéball’s recall beam. Not many attacks do that, not legal ones. But if Carlos Wright was going to switch–has it been that long already?
Lucario’s fist slams into your jaw, and you topple over, vision sparking green and yellow. “Dig! Dig! Get out of there! Dig!” Carlos Wright yells.
“Hold him!” is the great Nathaniel Morgan’s response.
The fire spin crackles on all sides, penning the two of you in a narrow, sweltering circle. Lucario kneels to dig, and you make a flopping lunge for him, knocking him into the fire spin’s wavering edge. He yells and struggles as he’s battered by whipping flames, but though you’re lying half in them yourself they do no more than tickle through your fur and fill your nostrils with the warm neutral scent of energy fire.
Lucario kicks you, and you grunt, air backing up in your throat. He’s fighting to get away, not hurt you. He wants to crawl to the other side of the fire spin, where his pokéball’s beam can reach him. You’re too dazed to do much about it, but at least your dead weight is making life difficult for him. You close your eyes and let the fire spin warm you, the heat of your own flames building into a boiling core of energy that you release in another heat wave attack. Lucario howls so loud you almost can’t hear his trainer yell, “Yield! I yield!”
You let go of Lucario and release the fire spin, a wonderful relaxing feeling like sighing out a long-held breath. The whirling flames scatter and disperse, and Lucario, on hands and knees, only has time to growl at you before he flashes red and disappears.
“Lucario is unable to battle,” the referee says, and you sit back on your haunches and rub your aching head while Carlos Wright’s hand moves over his pokéballs. He grabs for one, stops, then makes a different choice.
“Pidgeot,” he says, and you sit up a little straighter as the bird takes shape in front of you.
“Blue corner switches?” the referee asks, and you get back to your feet without waiting for the great Nathaniel Morgan’s reply. Like he said earlier, you can’t switch without being called knocked out, and you’ve got plenty of fight in you yet. You give your forehead one final rub and settle into a ready stance. “Pidgeot versus Infernape. Begin!”
“Agility, Pidgeot!”
“Stop it with vacuum wave, then toxic.”
Pidgeot sweeps into the air with a trilling cry, then chokes and crashes when a burst of fighting energy hits her in the throat. All good so far. But toxic? What on earth is the great Nathaniel Morgan thinking?
Jagged rock spires lance up from the ground under Pidgeot, knocking her on her side. “What the f–what? Hey!” the great Nathaniel Morgan yells.
You bound towards Pidgeot, but she sweeps a wing over the broken earth and sends a cloud of dust into your face. By the time you blink the gritty tears from your eyes she’s taken flight again and is well out of range.
“Air cutter, Pidgeot!” Carlos Wright says, and the flying-type brings her wings down with a sound like a thunderclap, releasing a blade of compressed air and flying energy. It slices a deep furrow in the ground beside you as you leap out of the way, straight into a roll to avoid a second attack. Pidgeot keeps throwing out more, sure to land a hit eventually.
“Fine. Dig,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, and you hunch your shoulders and let out an exasperated grunt. You won’t even be able to hit Pidgeot with that attack. You have to get close, close enough to grab her, or find a way to knock her out of the sky. To reach her, though… You smile as an idea takes shape.
The great Nathaniel Morgan’s howling something, but you ignore him and make a full-on sprint for the edge of the arena, glancing briefly up at Pidgeot to gauge the distance. No time for more than that. You’ve got to be fast, or else you won’t hit the energy barrier hard enough to trigger its resistance and go flying straight into a ring out. You can do it, though. It’s time for everyone to see just how strong you are.
Another air cutter passes you by, so close that you’re stung by the spray of dirt and pebbles its impact sends flying. You pay it no mind, drop to all fours and pour on more speed. Flames flicker around your hands and feet, your mane streaming out in a whipping contrail as you summon a flame charge to add extra force to your run. Then you’re at the edge, flames tinging your vision a hazy, rippling orange, and you jump–and there’s the energy barrier, solid under your toes and humming like something alive. You won’t have more than a second’s purchase, and you need to move fast, change the direction of your momentum and push off caddy-corner to hit the other wall a little higher up.
But that precious sliding second holds all the time in the world. You feel each muscle tighten in your legs, fire hissing in your ears as you pivot, jump, soar. Then the barrier’s under your feet again and you’re can feel everything, see everything, feel like you have an hour between each racing heartbeat. You can feel each individual muscle tighten in your legs as you jump, with fire hissing in your ears and a floating sensation in your stomach before your feet hit the barrier again. And you jump, and you jump, back and forth, up and up and up.
You’re still drifting when you reach Pidgeot’s height and kick off for the last time, flipping around to face her in midair. She’s on the far side of the arena now, hanging back, and you realize that for her this all happened in a matter of moments, that she still doesn’t understand what’s going on. She still doesn’t realize, as the last scattered embers of your flame charge flare up again, what it is you’re about to do.
You can’t see the heat wave spread out across the arena, but you can see Pidgeot react, ducking her head and narrowing her eyes against the blast of hot air. You draw more energy for another attack, afraid she’ll recover and climb even higher before you can reach her. You’re still trapped in your bubble of crystallized time, and it feels like it’s going to take a thousand years for you to cross the arena, like you’re inching along even going top speed. You have the time to appreciate every one of Pidgeot’s individual feathers, the way the light dazzles from them as she raises her wings high. You watch the starting flitter of energy sparks traveling along her pinions, matched by the glowing aura of fighting energy that builds around your hand. When you release another vacuum wave you can even see the energy traveling through the air, a red-brown glow that, even in your dilated vision, is gone again in an instant.
This time the vacuum wave doesn’t catch Pidgeot off guard. There’s a flash of glittering white, a roar of noise, and then you’re lying on your back in the dirt with the breath knocked out of you and your fur all over sticky and wet. “Dig!” the great Nathaniel Morgan roars. “Dig, you–just do it!”
Your fall must have jarred time back into its proper shape somehow, because you never even see the next air slash coming. It crushes you into the dirt and rips open another long gash, shoulder to hip, forming a sloppy “X” with the wound the last one left. You dig your fingers into the dirt and strain to get up, because there’s no way you can afford to take another air slash head on like that.
“It can’t hit you if you’re underground! For God’s sake, dig!”
You pull yourself to a painful crouch, let the air slash crash and dissipate against a protect, and then scoop up a handful of dirt. You hurt too much to do anything but what you’re told. You rip up handful on handful of sod, carving out a long, narrow tunnel that winds down and down until the arena’s just a speck of light overhead.
With Pidgeot out of sight you allow yourself a moment of wincing pain, gently touching the oozing cuts across your chest. They’re fouled with dirt now on top of everything else. You don’t need to worry about infection, but all that muck’s going to sting coming out anyway.
“Stay up there and work up!” Carlos Wright says, distantly.
“Slack off.”
You can barely make out Carlos Wright’s grunt of annoyance. “Never mind, Pidgeot. Can you blow a gust down there, or maybe ominous wind?”
You lean back against the crumbly tunnel wall and wrap your tail around your ankles, ignoring brief flashes of dark as Pidgeot passes low over your tunnel’s entrance. It’s not really relaxing, slacking off, just forcing as much energy as you can into healing, but it means a break in the battle at least. The pain in your chest recedes, the steady drip of blood sealed off under big, crusty scabs. They itch like mad, and you pick at them halfheartedly, too tired to take more initiative than that.
It feels like the battlefield overhead belongs to a completely different world, one that can’t touch you anymore. Now and again a sudden downdraft ruffles your fur and tickles the tender skin on your chest even worse, but Pidgeot’s having some trouble aiming her attacks straight down.
You hear her muttering about it as she shoots past overhead, mismatched snatches of sentences that topple into your tunnel. The flybys grow more frequent, and Pidgeot’s voice closer, as she circles down and down, hoping for more luck with a closer target, you suppose. Finally a distant bump tells you she’s landed. You sit up, putting one hand against the side of the tunnel. She’s on the ground. You just need to get to her before she takes off again.
A shadow stretches over the lip of the tunnel, light gleaming from Pidgeot’s eyes as she peers in. “Are you going to hide down here all day?” she asks.
“Now use rock–no, what the–?”
Pidgeot ducks out of sight just before the column of fire reaches her, and you cut the flamethrower off and dig your fingers into the tunnel wall, pulling yourself up hand over hand. You hear wingbeats overhead. Pidgeot’s airborne again, but that’s okay. You just need to get her before she gets too high…
You burst back into sunlight in a shower of dirt and spend only a second to figure out where Pidgeot is before you jump, throwing all the power you can into your leap.
Pidgeot squawks as you grab her around the middle, tearing out handfuls of feathers as you struggle to get a grip. The bird barely wobbles, strong flier that she is, but once you wrap one arm around her neck and slam a thunder punch into her side, she plows into the ground, crushing you beneath her.
“Get away from there!” the great Nathaniel Morgan says at the same time Carlos Wright’s yelling, “Get it off you, Pidgeot!”
There’s no way you’re going to let go, not after you worked so hard to get ahold of her, not when she’s going to fly off again the second she’s rid of you. You cling on as hard as you can and hit her with another thunder punch, and another, again and again on any part of her you can reach.
You’re still trapped, though, with Pidgeot’s talons positioned right over your chest. She digs them in hard, clutching and twisting and letting her weight force them deeper. She goes to work with her beak, too, ripping into your head and neck while her wings beat at whatever part of you they can reach and knock your punches wild. You attack with fire and electricity both, not even thinking, letting your instincts handle that. All the attention you have is focused on stopping Pidgeot from getting away, on keeping her on the ground, even though it means she screams and struggles and sinks her talons even deeper.
By now her claws don’t even hurt. They’re just cold, like metal spikes hammered straight through your bones. You’ve gone all chilly and exposed, like there’s a cold wind blowing through every bit of you that should be sealed up under skin. But heat builds to counter it, a surge of fire-type energy that makes your mane leap and fills you with the strength to smash another thunder punch square into Pidgeot’s face. You grab her throat when she cringes and hold her head up and away while you gather fire energy, your own blood dripping back onto your face from the curve of Pidgeot’s beak. Your crown spits random bursts of flame and the air fills with the gassy stink of burning feathers, Pidgeot shrieking and tearing at you all the harder. Your vision wavers red and black, from your injuries or the gathering flames you don’t know. But nothing hurts, it’s all fire and feathers and wavering darkness.
At fist you think the shrill noise is just a hallucination, a nonsense ringing in your ears, but then Pidgeot croaks, “Let go, you idiot. Can’t you hear the whistle?”
All of a sudden you remember where you are, what you’re doing. You remember the great Nathaniel Morgan, whom you’ve thankfully gotten very good at ignoring. And you remember the referee, who’s blowing his whistle for all he’s worth because, because–you squint at the flags–because you’re out?
You let Pidgeot go and sit up fast, so fast the world spins and your stomach churns. You clutch at the grass until your head stops swimming, then turn to the great Nathaniel Morgan. He forfeited? You screech with all the strength you have left, wishing you could put words to your anger, tell him just how much of an idiot he is in front of the entire audience.
The great Nathaniel Morgan’s face is set in a grim expression. “I said you’re out. Get off the fu–ieeeld. Get off the field.” He jerks his head towards the referee.
You were winning! One more attack and you would have won. You grit your teeth hard, from anger, not the pain of standing, and snarl at Pidgeot for want of a better target. She clacks her beak in return, then goes back to preening. At least you have the satisfaction of knowing she won’t last long if her trainer decides to leave her in. Her feathers are singed and blood-smeared and sticking out every which way; you doubt she could even get airborne.
You hobble over to the sideline to accept a full restore from the referee, hunched over the wounds on your stomach. You sit down right next to him and fumble with the spray bottle while he gets the battle underway again.
Carlos Wright doesn’t recall Pidgeot, but it’s hardly a minute before he has to bring in his azumarill. You look up briefly as a particularly enthusiastic surge of applause greets the water-type’s arrival, but don’t bother paying attention farther than that. Instead you occupy yourself with making sure you get every last scrape with the full restore’s spray. Your eyes water as injuries flare up with antiseptic burning, like you’re misting yourself with acid, but then the pain medication takes over and everything turns blessedly cool and numb. A few seconds later even the largest gouges are closed and covered in a downy layer of new fur. Sudden movements still leave you dizzy, though, gumming up the back of your throat with nausea. You probably ought to go to the Pokémon Center after the battle just in case.
You have no desire to join the great Nathaniel Morgan in the challenger’s box, so you settle in to watch just where you are. Raticate’s getting the chance to make good on his boast about how easily he could beat an azumarill–and not exactly enjoying it, by your estimate.
“Double-edge,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, and a bruised and dripping Raticate grumbles skeptically to himself before sending Azumarill flying. You imagine a cartoon bwoing as she rebounds from the energy barrier, but there’s nothing funny about how she shoots straight back at Raticate, a ribbon of chilly fog drifting from one hand as she prepares an ice punch. The great Nathaniel Morgan blurts out his next command as fast as he can. “Assurance the hole now!”
It doesn’t mean much to you, but Raticate groans loudly before leaping into the air. He spins to bring his tail down atop Azumarill, and the assurance attack dunks her neatly into the hole you dug earlier. The water-type’s a bit pudgier than you, and she wedges in tightly.
She also unloads a hydro pump on Raticate the second he comes back to earth, but the recoil of the attack forces her deeper into the hole. Raticate rolls back onto his feet, a mess of sodden fur and waterlogged whiskers, but he has the advantage now. He darts in and out, nipping at Azumarill in short bursts while she alternately flails at him and tries to pull herself free. By the time she gets unstuck she’s woozy and bleeding, and a particularly vehement hyper fang ends up being all it takes to end the battle.
The great Nathaniel Morgan hardly waits for the referee’s verdict before releasing Graveler next to him and pulling a potion out of his backpack, spraying down the hairline cracks Lucario’s aura sphere left behind. They glow the deep orange of molten rock for a few seconds, then cool off into thin bands that show up smooth and dark against the rest of her rough, chipped skin.
“Nice work,” the great Nathaniel Morgan mutters, rubbing the ridge of rock above her eyes. Graveler makes a noncommittal grinding noise.
Carlos Wright’s friends descend on him, some with conciliatory words but more apparently hoping to mock him into laughing off the loss. His azumarill, no doubt fresh off a potion herself, is chatting with her family off to one side. And meanwhile the great Nathaniel Morgan is–settled atop Graveler and already well on his way back to the street.
You start to shout for him to wait, remember you’re an infernape at the last second, and turn it into a smoky cough that earns you an alarmed look from the referee. The great Nathaniel Morgan doesn’t even turn around, of course. You catch up to him with a quick, blazing burst of speed, then fall behind again while you shiver on hands and knees, bending all your concentration towards not throwing up. By the time you catch up to Graveler, moving at a studied walk, she’s nearly to the street. “Where are you going?” you hiss. Your irritation must make it come out louder than you wanted, because the great Nathaniel Morgan’s gaze snaps around to you immediately, and he raises a hand to shush you.
“Pokémon Center,” he growls, “and then I’m going to sleep for a thousand fucking years. Good Christ I feel terrible.”
He’s slumped over on Graveler, head hanging, but you’re feeling less than empathetic. It’s not like he was out there fighting. “You are not even going to go lie to Carlos Wright about having a good battle? People always do that.”
“Fuck no.”
“But that is something you are supposed to do! You cannot just walk away! Do you really want to screw this battle up worse than you already did? Do you really–”
“Would you shut the fuck up already?” And you can’t get any more out of him, not the whole way to the Pokémon Center, not even when you get in Graveler’s way and demand he say something. He doesn’t even have to tell Graveler to punch you in the stomach and shove her way past.
You return to the apartment reeking of shampoo from the bath the nurses insisted on giving you, like you couldn’t have gotten the blood out of your fur yourself. The great Nathaniel Morgan’s here, asleep on the couch, instead of waiting for you in the Center’s lobby like a responsible trainer. Raticate’s curled up next to him with face tucked under paws. The normal-type raises his head when you climb up on the back of the couch, but the great Nathaniel Morgan doesn’t wake up until you reach a foot down and kick him.
Raticate tumbles to the ground in a flail of claws and tail as the great Nathaniel Morgan curls in on himself, clutching his side. “Ah! Fuck! Jesus Christ, what the fuck was that for?”
You try to look baleful, staring down at him while you finish off the cookie they gave you at the Center. It probably has medicine in it or something, but it tastes pretty good. Raticate draws up on his hind legs and hisses at you, and you lean forward, ready to leap on him if he tries anything. Graveler’s moving in your peripheral vision, still halfway across the room but no doubt ready to back Raticate up. You’re ready for her, too.
“Stop!” the great Nathaniel Morgan says. “For God’s sake, you can’t fight in here!”
Raticate stops hissing, but his fur stays bristled out as he climbs onto the arm of the couch by his trainer’s head. Graveler stomps up beside him, wedging herself between the couch and the wall. “We’re not going to forget about this,” Raticate says. You dismiss him and his teammate with a flick of your tail and keep your focus on the great Nathaniel Morgan.
He spends a while just clutching his ribs, breathing hard, but at last he looks up at you with watering eyes and says, “Okay, let’s go back to ‘What the fuck do you want, asshole?’”
“Your performance in that battle was unacceptable,” you say.
“My performance? You going to sit there and act like I’m the one who fucked up?”
“You gave completely unreasonable commands, and even when I managed to work things out by myself you forfeited before I could win!”
“Oh, so you were gonna win, huh? ’Cause to me it looked like you’d rather let that pidgeot tear you into a bunch of fucking tiny pieces.”
“One blast burn and it would have been over!”
“Yeah, sure. Look, I thought you wanted me here because I was like the sickest battler on the planet or some shit. So when it comes to an actual fight why in all fuck would you throw it out the window and ignore every goddamn thing I say? I got eight fucking badges, you asshole. You gonna obey me or not?”
“That is not how it works, and you know it. I am not going to do what you say if what you say is stupid.”
“This from the guy who thinks ‘punch it til it dies’ is a fucking great–” the great Nathaniel Morgan winces and breaks off for a moment, holding his side. When he recovers, he locks eyes with you, abruptly angry. “Okay, you know what? No. You want to do this, let’s fucking do this. How were you thinking you were gonna beat that fucking pidgeot?”
“Infernape have a lot of attacks that are good against flying-types. Like stone edge. And thunder punch.”
“Who gives a shit? It can fucking fly. Your attacks ain’t worth dick if you can’t hit with them.”
“But I can hit with them. You saw me. I bet you never knew I could climb the barrier like that!”
“Okay, yeah, I didn’t know you could do none of that parkour bullshit. And it was kinda badass. But looking badass don’t win battles, Freak. Sure as hell didn’t stop you getting turned to birdseed.”
“Like your ideas were any better. You kept telling me to dig, when that cannot even hurt pidgeot.”
“Yeah, and here’s why, you fucking moron.” The great Nathaniel Morgan shifts around, gingerly pulling himself into an almost sitting position. “So you’re playing somebody who’s got the advantage, right? Their best attacks are the ones that hurt you most. And worse, they can fly, so they can just sit up out of your reach and spam air slashes at you, while the best you can do is, I dunno, swift or some shit. You can’t even go after them, because they’ll snipe you way before you reach them.”
“I reached her without getting sniped.”
“If that’s what you call taking an air slash to the fucking face and landing on your ass thirty feet down, fine. But what you really want to do is make them come to you, get me? So you go underground. Now they can’t hit you, and you can’t hit them. Stalemate.”
“Exactly! You cannot win if you run away and hide!”
“Not winning but not losing’s still better than losing for sure. And it’s easy to turn it into a win. All you gotta do iiiis…” He trails off, making a circling motion with his finger and giving you a mocking smile.
“This is stupid.”
“Toxic!” the great Nathaniel Morgan says cheerfully. “Pidgeot ain’t got no real way to deal with status, so as long as you can jam it, it should stick. And then the birdy’s fucked, right? It can’t just hang out up high, ’cause it’s gonna be taking damage all the time, and anything it hits you with you can heal off no problem. It’ll have to come down eventually, either to try and get you or to roost or rest or whatever the fuck. And when it does, bam!” He punches the back of the couch. “You drop a rock tomb on it, and then you hit it with all the fire you got until it goes down. Easy win. And none of that getting your guts ripped out crap.”
“You wanted me to wait around the whole time? That is boring.”
“No, I wanted you to wait for a good opportunity to attack. Look, Freak, spamming your strongest moves works great if you’ve got the advantage. Like, if you’re a fucking dragonite or whatever, sure, go nuts. But if you’re at a disadvantage? You can’t just go around blasting shit and expect to win. Like, stone edge is good and all, but it’s just one move. Pidgeot’s got way more flying attacks to work with, and better ones, too. Plus it’s using with its own element, which makes them even stronger. So if you get in a straight damage race, you’re always gonna lose.
“That’s why you gotta fight smart, see? You don’t open with your best attack, you make them think you got nothing, you make them think they got you on the run, and when their guard’s down, when you see the moment, that’s when you hit them with every fucking thing you got, understand? You gotta make it count.”
“I suppose you would have experience being the weaker one in a fight,” you admit sourly.
“Damn straight,” the great Nathaniel Morgan growls. Raticate chuckles, then rubs his head against the side of his trainer’s face, and the great Nathaniel Morgan smiles and reaches back to scoop him off the arm of the couch. Raticate settles in beside his trainer and rests his head on the great Nathaniel Morgan’s chest while the human scratches his back. “So what I’m saying, Freak, is let me do my fucking job, okay? I ain’t gonna tell you every little thing you gotta do in a fight, but if I say something, it’s fucking important, okay? Like with that fucking lucario. The other guy was gonna recall it, see, and if he did we’d be pretty fucked–either Graveler or Raticate would’ve had to deal with it, and that would’ve been real dicey. You kept waiting on that fire spin, and if you’d put it off any more, it woulda fucked the whole team over. That’s why you gotta do what I ask, get me? We’re supposed to be in this together, and I sure as hell ain’t trying to lose. Plus I don’t want to get bitched at by no fucking nurse because you won’t even listen to ‘get away from it before it rips you a new one.’”
“So that is what happened. Is that why the nurses told me you had to leave?”
“Yeah, I got a goddamn earful about how fucking irresponsible I am for letting you get all banged up and shit, and how if you can’t control yourself in battle I oughta cram you in a pokéball for your own fucking safety. And then she acts like I’m way out of line for not just standing there and taking her shit. And the fucking chansey were always gonna take her side, of course.”
“They always go on about that stuff if you go into the Center with a lot of battle injuries. How you should not push yourself so hard, even if your trainer tells you to, and how to report your trainer if they make you do dangerous things or things you do not like, all of that stuff. It is annoying.”
“Really? They do that?”
“I just said they do,” you snap, though you’re more annoyed by remembered lectures than by him. “They should mind their own business.”
“Tell me about it,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says. “Anyway, point is I don’t want to be catching no heat for your fuckups, get me? I ain’t got time for that shit. You do what I say and we all win. I mean, I’m pretty fucking sure none of my guys has ever had to sit through the ‘you look like fucking death, have you considered your trainer might be a shithead’ talk.”
Raticate blinks sleepily and stretches one of his paws, splaying the claws wide. “Well, I did once.”
“Raticate did,” you say, and feel warmly smug at the look of shock on the great Nathaniel Morgan’s face. He can’t seem to decide whether he should be looking at you or Raticate, head jerking anxiously back and forth.
“What? When?”
“Oh, it was a long time ago. With my other trainer.”
“Oh.” The great Nathaniel Morgan goes very still. “Your, uh, other trainer.”
“Yeah, it was just a dumb thing. He was new, you know, didn’t have a clue what he was doing. I didn’t either. That sort of thing can happen, sometimes.” Raticate yawns and rubs sluggishly at his nose while you repeat his words for the great Nathaniel Morgan’s benefit.
“Yeah. So, I was kind of wondering,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says after a lengthy pause, “about your other trainer. What they were like, you know?”
“What he was like?” Raticate says. “Uh, I dunno. Kinda dumb, really enthusiastic. The usual, I guess.” He blinks drowsily and frowns at the great Nathaniel Morgan’s hand, which for whatever reason isn’t petting him. He nudges it with his nose, and the great Nathaniel Morgan reflexively scratches under his chin. “I was only with him for a few weeks, anyway. Why?”
“Oh, I dunno.” The great Nathaniel Morgan stares up at the ceiling, absently combing his fingers through Raticate’s fur. “I was just kinda wondering whether you ever, like, missed them, you know? Or if you ever felt like you wanJESUS CHRIST!”
Raticate topples to the floor again, and you double over, gasping at the sudden cold gripping your chest, like someone hit you with a bucket of icewater. The great Nathaniel Morgan probably feels the same, since it’s his chest the sableye landed on after phasing through yours. From the wide-eyed stare the great Nathaniel Morgan’s giving you, her popping out of your torso must have been quite the sight.
Eskar smiles innocently at the great Nathaniel Morgan, like she doesn’t notice the chaos around her. “Hello, Lazurite-eyes.”
“What the fuck?”
Raticate leaps at Eskar, teeth trailing ribbons of black. They snap closed on empty air, and a dark squiggle zips down the side of the couch and across the floor. Eskar pops out of the shadow sneak not half a second later, perched on the edge of the kitchen table with one leg crossed over the other, leaning back on her hands with her huge smile still in place.
Meanwhile, the great Nathaniel Morgan’s groaning over Raticate landing on him, which must have jostled his broken ribs, and there’s a loud crunch as Graveler rips up a hunk of floor. She transmutes it to rock as she hefts it overhead, then hurls it at Eskar, who jags out of the way in a lightning-fast flicker of motion. The rock sails on and smashes a cabinet to bits, littering the kitchen floor with long splinters of wood.
The noise startles you into taking a deep, chilly breath, which at last brings to back to the moment. A sharp crack announces Graveler reloading, and you realize there’s an actual battle going on. “Stop,” you gasp, and then again, louder, when Graveler’s second rock smashes a deep hole in the wall. “Stop!”
Raticate’s creeping up on the ghost while Graveler readies another rock. “Stop, it is okay! I told her to be here!” You wince, and the lights flicker, as the rock throw misses. “She is not going to hurt anyone!”
“Hey, hey! Stop!” the great Nathaniel Morgan hollers. “Knock it the fuck off!” He drags himself to a sitting position with one arm, the other clamped across his chest. Graveler grumbles and shifts her latest rock to a two-handed grip, but you have no doubt she’s ready to chuck it on a second’s notice. Eskar’s still lounging on the table, though she’s had to shift a bit to accommodate a gaping hole left by one of Graveler’s rocks. “What the fuck?” the great Nathaniel Morgan repeats into the tense silence.
“This is Es–Sableye. She is going to battle with us until the tournament is over. So we have six pokémon now.”
“Oh, this is gonna be fucking great, ain’t it?” the great Nathaniel Morgan grumbles as he fumbles his pokédex out of his pocket. “So it’s wild?”
“She has a trainer,” you say. “She is just going to fight for us, too.”
“Really? How the hell is that supposed to work?” the great Nathaniel Morgan’s pokédex chimes. He glances at the screen and raises his eyebrows, then bangs it against the arm of the couch a couple times before pointing it at Eskar again. “Sableye, you know what the fuck’s going on here? The freak give you a rundown?”
“Oh, yes, Lazurite-eyes!” Eskar says, glitteringly. “The League finals! So exciting!”
“And you’re okay with it?” the great Nathaniel Morgan asks. “And your trainer? They’re okay with you joining us?”
“Yes, of course, Lazurite-eyes. No need to worry.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan looks back down at his pokédex, rubs his eyes, and sighs. “Sure. Great. Welcome to the fucking team, I guess. You gonna hang out with us, or are you gonna stay with your trainer?”
“Oh, I’ll be around, Lazurite-eyes,” Eskar says, waving a claw vaguely. The great Nathaniel Morgan looks up at you, and after a moment you realizes he wants you to translate.
“Sure. Fine. Whatever,” he says once you do. “Just make sure you’re back here when we go training, okay? So tomorrow morning at…”
“Eight,” you supply for him.
“Nine. Got it?”
“Most certainly, Lazurite-eyes.” Eskar drops lightly to the floor. “And I look forward to working with you. And you.” She nods to Graveler, who’s still watching her closely with rock in hand. “And you.” Her head snaps around 180 degrees to face Raticate, who’s lurking behind her in the dark. He yelps and jumps backwards and gets tangled in the legs of a chair. Eskar turns back to the great Nathaniel Morgan while the normal-type swears and struggles to get free. “Until tomorrow, then, Lazurite-eyes.” She steps back into the shadow under the table, and her gemstones glimmer a moment more before she fades away entirely.
In the silence that follows, the great Nathaniel Morgan turns to you. “Okay, what the fuck?”
“What? You told me to find another pokémon for the team, so I found one. She is strong, is she not? She will do great.”
“I ain’t said she’s on the team yet,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says. “This whole thing stinks to high heaven. Where the fuck did you even find her?”
You shrug. “Indigo Town. What do you think is wrong with her?”
“It don’t make no fucking sense.” The great Nathaniel Morgan looks down at his pokédex and rubs his forehead. “I mean, hell. You ain’t got a pokéball for her neither, do you?”
“No.”
“Of course not. Of-fucking-course not,” the great Nathaniel Morgan mutters.
“We need another team member.”
“Yeah, I know.” The great Nathaniel Morgan slumps back into the couch and covers his eyes. “I’ll see tomorrow, okay? We’ll see what she can do. But I don’t like it.” He surveys the destroyed cabinet, the holes in the walls. “Guess there’s a reason we’re not allowed to keep you guys out in Base. Shit.”
“Seriously, Graveler, what the hell,” Raticate says.
The rock-type’s brow furrows, rucking up like a carpet into craggy ridges and deep fissures. She looks almost petulant. “She attacked you,” Graveler says to the great Nathaniel Morgan.
The great Nathaniel Morgan gives you another significant look, and after a second you relay their conversation. The human sighs and pats a jut of rock above Graveler’s shoulder. “Ah, well. Dunno what I’m even worrying about anyway. Ain’t like I was gonna see security deposit on this place anyhow. I mean, after ripping off the fucking Champion in front of fifty thousand people I’m getting right the fuck outta dodge, ain’t gonna be coming back to turn in my keys or nothing.” He chuckles and shakes his head, his gaze distant. “Like, yeah, after pissing off the entire goddamn League, I’m totally going to show up to check out. And Team Rocket, haha, Team Rocket, like I’ll bet they’ll be stoked to see me all fuck you swiping Mewtwo like that, but it’s cool, I’m totally gonna hang out all polite and shit, make sure I don’t inconvenience nobody, like be a fucking upright citizen and all. I’m gonna, gonna…” His chuckling gives way to full-on hysterical cackling that goes on and on for what must be a minute at least, until tears stream from his eyes and he gasps for breath between bouts of uncontrollable giggles.
“Oh God, that hurts,” he wheezes. “Goddamn. Fuck me. Oh, fuck me.”