Chapter 30

You take long seconds to realize the black is real, not unconsciousness closing in but solid walls rising up around you. You’re falling, and falling, and it suddenly occurs to you that you really, really don’t want to hit bottom.

You flail at empty air, arms and legs glancing off the side of the fissure, ripping out hunks of dirt and sending you into a spinning tumble. You lash out again and again, clawing at the rushing cliffside until you manage to–slide, catch, hold, fingers and toes alike dug into cool, crumbling earth. You come to rest with heart hammering and streamers of dirt pattering down around you, the sound of your breathing loud in the still, empty fissure. Then you scream as the wall supporting you gives way and you fall, slide, grab at nothing over and over again until–slide, catch, hold. You hang there listening to your heartbeat roar in your ears and take shaking breaths, slower, and slower, until you can almost think again.

Your arms are already getting tired. They tremble with the effort of holding you there, and the movement dislodges a skittering fall of dirt that tumbles away into nothing. Your heart stutters painfully and you clutch on harder, forgetting your weariness for a second.

“Infernape? Infernape!”

The sky is a bright crack far away overhead, and the great Nathaniel Morgan’s voice sounds like it’s coming to you from some far-off other world.

Of course. You have to show you’re still in the fight. You close your eyes in weary resignation, leaning closer to the wall in a vain effort to find some position where your arms hurt less. A shake of your head scatters a few embers, and the glowing fragments of the swift attack shoot away upwards, making a long, long climb before swerving sideways and, you have to assume, smacking into Blastoise.

“Get rid of it, Blastoise.”

“Come on, Infernape! Get out of there! Use rock climb!”

You strain, muscles tensing in your arms, but after a few shaking, breathless seconds of effort you slump back into a boneless dangle. You can’t. You can barely even hang on. The fissure’s wall stretches endlessly up overhead, and you, you’re stuck down here.

A dark blot appears at the edge of the fissure, a silhouette against the sky. Blastoise, looking down. You practically choke on indrawn breath when a hissing burst of water hits the wall just above and to your left, carving out a huge chunk of earth and spattering you with warm droplets. You’re already sidling away, punching out foot- and handholds between heart-stopping moments of vertigo when one of them gives way.

How could she have come so close to hitting you? How can she even see you from all the way up there?

Another uncomfortably close hydro pump roars past, and then you realize–your head is on fire. That’s how. There’s no hiding, then. Sooner or later Blastoise’ll hit you, and that’ll be the end.

Or you could let go. You sigh and let your head fall forward, closing your eyes. You could fall, and it wouldn’t even hurt you that much. The fissure isn’t really bottomless. The energy barrier runs underground, too, to prevent seismic attacks from causing damage outside the arena. It’ll catch you if nothing else. You’ll hurt a lot, but then you can heal and be just fine.

So you could fall. You could lose. But what about after? Could you really look Absol in the face and tell her you gave up your chance to find Mew because you were tired? Or Mewtwo, what would happen if he found out he got stuck with the Champion because you couldn’t go on after getting a little bit hurt?

“Infernape! Infernape, are you there?”

You send another burst of swift stars upwards, and Blastoise’s silhouette twitches as they strike; you imagine her grunting in annoyance.

“Infernape, come on! You have to get out of there!” No, really?

“Just yield,” Aanya Singh says. Blastoise holds her fire, stopped by some signal from her trainer. “Your infernape doesn’t have a pokéball. Just give up now and let the staff pull her out. Nobody wants to have to scrape her off the bottom of the arena.”

“I…”

You screech at the top of your lungs and spray swift stars in all directions. What’s taking so long? It’s not like he actually cares whether you get hurt. He needs to come up with a plan now, that’s his job, that’s his only job, and of course he’s failing at it.

“Well?” Aanya Singh asks.

It’s not fair. You were winning. You could, you could win if you could just get out of here. You hit Blastoise a ton while she was stuck on encore. She must be hurting nearly as bad as you.

“Infernape, I…”

You growl and shoot off another burst of stars. That useless idiot.

Too tired to heal. Too tired to climb up. You lean in close to the wall again, fingers and toes digging deep in the soil, and try to think.

Blastoise can see your fire. But there aren’t any cameras down here, are there? And even Blastoise doesn’t know what you’re really doing, if all she sees is your glow. And even now, when the act of holding on is hard enough, there’s still something you can do. You can still change.

“Fine. Hydro pump.”

“No! I–”

But Blastoise has been waiting for this, no doubt taking careful aim. The blast comes immediately, hitting you square in the back, dissolving the earth under you and knocking you into freefall.

It feels like gentle summer rain, cool and soothing against the raw wounds down your back. They start to close as the water soaks into your skin, its energy combining with your own and setting off a wave of healing. You let yourself fall, savoring the sensation of overflowing energy that drowns aches and soothes spent muscles until you’re practically whole again. You’re lucky Blastoise went to finish you with one of her most powerful attacks.

You catch yourself on a cushion of psychic energy and drift back to the wall, digging in again and resting lightly for a moment. You can’t float all the way up–you can’t let anyone see–but the climb ahead doesn’t look so bad anymore.

You pull yourself tighter against the wall, sighting your path up, and lash your tail in anticipation–ow, no, you’ll need the Pokémon Center to fix that. But you spend only a moment in wincing, and then you’re off in a blaze of light, rock climb letting you run straight up the wall of the fissure.

Blastoise gapes at you when you crest the edge. You grin at her, and the great Nathaniel Morgan’s shocked cry of “Infernape!”, and turn a flip before perching on the lip of the fissure. You spread your hands, calling up grass-type energy.

Blastoise’s stare changes to a look of dismay as the scruffy grass around her comes to life, growing out into snaring ropes that grab and drag her forward, towards the edge.

A blast of water hits the ground right in front of you, sending turf flying and subjecting you to another glorious soaking. The recoil shoves Blastoise away from the fissure and out of the grass knot’s clutching tendrils.

You pretend to recover from the glancing blow while Blastoise gets to her feet, then leap across the fissure and fall on the water-type with a thunder punch. Blastoise sends you dancing away with a mega punch of her own, then stands there panting, the odd white wisp drifting from her cannons.

No boasts from her now, none of that terrible serenity, either. Blastoise stands quietly, but her gaze is on you. She’s bent forward just slightly, poised to move.

“Infernape,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, “use, uh…” He’s taking a while to catch up, but it doesn’t matter. You think you know how to play this out.

Blastoise swats you away when you go in for another thunder punch, then follows with an aqua jet. The edge of her shell catches you hard in the stomach, and there’s nothing feigned about your collapse, the winded seconds you spend on the ground feeling like you got hit by a truck. But the burst of water that came with the attack is an invigorating shock, freezing cold that nevertheless makes your flame burn higher as you draw its energy into yourself.

You can’t suppress a smile when Aanya Singh tells Blastoise to keep hitting you until you stay down. You groan loud, long, and pull yourself up, slowly, slowly, slowly. You never make it past a crouch, doubled over with hands balled against your stomach like the aqua jet left you queasy, left hand hiding the right.

Blastoise shows her appreciation for your acting by dousing you with a hydro pump. You duck your head and weather the blow with a screech of agony you’re quite proud of. The water only tickles your skin, but you do have to brace yourself or the sheer force of it would knock you down again.

“That’s a point-blank hydro pump,” the announcer says as you stand with head bowed, dripping. “This could be the end, folks. Unless Infernape can pull herself together and go on the offensive, Blastoise has this one in the bag.”

“Infernape, can you move? You have to try to get away,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says.

You can hear Blastoise breathing heavily and guess she’s tired from her own attacks as much as anything. It takes a lot to do one hydro pump after the next. The amount of water Blastoise has been throwing around shows how strong she is. No matter. All that matters is there’s no way she’ll survive your next attack.

She must see it coming, at least at the very end, must see the golden aura seeping between your fingers and register that something’s wrong. Her cannons click as you straighten up and raise your arm straight into the rush of stinging water with white-gold light blazing from your palm. The hyper beam goes off with a squeal of superheated air, and Blastoise is lost in a sheet of light that blanks your vision even through your closed lids.

“I don’t believe it!” the announcer yells. “Infernape was hiding a hyper beam the entire time! There’s no coming back from an attack like that–yes, that’s the referee’s signal!”

You throw back your head and howl, shooting flames high, high overhead. Blastoise is a crumpled mound in front of you, and the crowd’s roar mingles and harmonizes with your own, shaking the air, the earth beneath you, the entire stadium, all the world.

“Unbelievable! What a comeback, folks! This is the kind of action you can only see at an Indigo League tournament!”

You look over your shoulder. The great Nathaniel Morgan’s slumped against the trainer box’s railing, one arm hanging limply over the side. From the way he looks, you’d think he was the one who’d been clinging to the side of a chasm, contemplating the drop. But he realizes you’re looking at him after a moment and manages a weak smile, what’s almost a nod. “Good… good job, Infernape.”

Well, of course. You smile yourself, glowing with pride and adrenaline and the thrill of victory, and turn to Aanya Singh. What’s she going to do now? You hope–you’re sure–Blastoise was her strongest pokémon.

You probably should have guessed who’d be up next. “You!” Electivire says, a big grin spreading beneath his whiskers. “Well, fancy that. I guess I get to school you after all.”

“No way! Blastoise tried already, and I bet she’s stronger than you.”

“What?” He chuckles. “You’re standing there expecting me to believe you fought Blastoise? Give it a rest, kid.”

You smile to yourself, but the referee’s calling the round, and there’s no time to say more than that.

“Slack off! Take a break!” the great Nathaniel Morgan says immediately. He must think you’re running on nothing but adrenaline and stubbornness by now. At least after this you can stop pretending to be hurt.

You flop to the ground and stretch out like you’re following orders, but what you’re really doing is changing your ability back to blaze. It’s probably too much to hope that you can keep absorbing your opponent’s attacks without anyone noticing.

“Thunder wave!”

You grit your teeth as a sizzling pulse of electricity washes over you, and then your muscles lock up and your face freezes like that. Well, this is a promising start.

“That’s okay. See if you can get off an earthquake anyway.”

“Magnet rise!”

Electivire hovers over the tremors, floating on a cushion of electromagnetic charge. He glides when he moves now, skating on thin air, while paralysis turns you horribly clumsy and slothful. Electivire darts in and out, landing a couple blows here, another one there, and zips away before you can respond. The great Nathaniel Morgan has you fight back with attacks you don’t have to move to use: heat wave, focus blast, even grass knot, which yanks Electivire off his electromagnetic cushion so his own momentum slams him face-first into the ground.

It could have been an easy battle. Electivire isn’t that strong, whatever he says. But though Blastoise’s water attacks healed you, sheer exhaustion drags at you with every attack you summon, each a little slower than the last. The noise of the crowd, the droning announcer, even the trainers’ commands slip out of your awareness until all that’s left is the rhythm of attack, counterattack, energy flowing back and forth between you and Electivire. A tingling sensation sweeps your body as you gather energy, pressure building to a splitting ache behind your eyes, followed by a burst of elation as you let the attack fly. Then a staggering wave of exhaustion breaks over you as your body makes itself known again.

Electivire sweeps in with a barrage of thunder punches, and your vision blurs and jumps as pulses of electricity race through you, your wrenched tail shrieking pain in involuntary spasms, your nostrils filled with the scent of burning hair and you must have bitten your tongue at some point, your mouth is full of blood. Then it’s your turn to gather, gather, and release.

Your tumble a rock tomb over Electivire, pin him to the ground long enough for an earthquake to reach him. But after that you freeze, cramping muscles locked tight, and can do nothing but watch Electivire climb from the rubble, struggling against your own body while he strides towards you, blinding white electricity arcing between the tips of his tails.

“Grass knot! Grass knot! Grass knot!” the great Nathaniel Morgan yells.

You fight back desperate, shaking panic, try to focus on what’s left of the grass under Electivire’s feet. A thunderbolt breaks over you, and your fear vanishes into agony. You don’t even try to open your eyes afterwards, don’t try to move, just feel out with your life-sense to find the grass, find Electivire, grow them together and drag your opponent down.

“Overheat, now!” the great Nathaniel Morgan barks.

Electivire’s pushing himself up again, one arm braced against the ground. The tremors in your limbs are fading. You can nearly move properly, not that it matters. You don’t need to move now. All you need is fire, and fire, and fire, until you can’t see Electivire through a sheet of white-hot flame. You let everything go, pour flame on flame until there’s nothing left, until the whole world is the brilliant shifting glow of flames and the sweet smell of burning.

When it clears you’re sitting on the ground without knowing quite how you got there, breathing hard in dry, smoking gasps. Colored spots drift in your vision, bursting neon colors and then fading. The ground around you is cracked and blackened. Here and there a blob of Muk’s poison sizzles, releasing an ugly sour smell into the air. Electivire’s still burning, collapsed on the ground with his arms over his head.

You sigh, closing your aching eyes and letting your head fall forward. You want to leave them closed, to lie all the way down and surrender to sleep right here. But you hear a noise.

Electivire’s moving, uncurling to stand. The fire still burns, orange-red flames licking up his arms and spreading ghostly across his back.

Color. They’re the wrong color.

You suck in a deep breath, which turns into a fit of painful coughing. Electivire straightens up and turns to you, scraped, scratched, singed, smiling.

“Endure,” Aanya Signh says, belatedly.

“Not bad, kid,” Electivire rasps. “Better luck next time.”

You try to move, to rally muscles that struggle beneath fatigue as well as paralysis, but Electivire disappears in a blur of motion, and the next thing you know you’re flat on your back, looking up into some audino’s face.

You sit up fast, then choke on rising bile, clutching your head while the pokémon around you titter. You don’t recognize them, can’t remember if any of them were there when you got angry after your last battle. You don’t really care. You need to know what’s happening, if the great Nathaniel Morgan’s still in the game. It’s hard to see the field from down here, and the miltank standing directly in your line of sight isn’t helping. You lean out as far as you can, moving with careful slowness, and see Electivire turn red and disappear. Raticate’s crouched on the great Nathaniel Morgan’s side of the field, so that’s a win for your team.

You let out a huge sigh and relax, then flinch when something slaps across your shoulders. You twist around, trying both to tear the clinging thing off and glare at whoever threw it, then recoil as a wigglytuff thrusts an energy bar and a carton of juice in your face. “Eat,” he says curtly. You bare your teeth at him but take the proffered items and drag the towel higher on your shoulders.

The great Nathaniel Morgan’s recalling Raticate now, and you doubt the normal-type will go out again. He’s still caked in poison goo, whiskers drooping and posture hunched with pain. Even his ability can’t keep him going forever with poison eating at him. You suck contemplatively on your juice box and look up at the battle screen. One on one. The great Nathaniel Morgan just sent out Mightyena, and Aanya Singh has whatever’s beneath the last pokéball icon on the status screen.

“Let’s go, Salamence!” Aanya Singh yells, tossing a pokéball down.

Oh. You forgot about that.

“Shit, I knew it,” the great Nathaniel Morgan mutters before a tidal wave of cheering drowns him out, and you don’t like the twang of nervousness in his voice.

Salamence stretches and flexes her wings, muscles rippling under deep turquoise scales. She isn’t acting particularly threatening, you don’t think, but you see Mightyena’s ears twitching, wanting to settle back against her skull. Even though humans are supposed to be immune to the intimidate ability, the great Nathaniel Morgan’s pale and staring, clinging to the railing as if for dear life. Your own chest tightens with fear. You’re so close. Please, please don’t let the great Nathaniel Morgan screw everything up now.

“Salamence versus Mightyena. The final round will now begin!”

“Fly up and dragon dance,” Aanya Singh says. It’s one of salamence’s most common opening sequences.

It’s so common that the great Nathaniel Morgan must be ready for it, must know how to handle it, so your heart sinks in the long moment of hesitation before he says, “Taunt!”

Salamence are clumsy on the ground, waddling and bow-legged, but in the air Aanya Singh’s dragon is nothing but fluid motion, changing direction with only the slightest tilt of her huge wings. You can’t tell whether Salamence’s dragon dance is some ritual form or merely the way she moves out of sheer joy, full of flips and rolls that send her looping back and forth over the arena. For once the announcer’s silent; the crowd, too, and even you’re disappointed when Mightyena’s strident barks intrude on the display. A couple pointed comments about how much brain damage Salamence must have after throwing herself off a bunch of cliffs really spoil the mood.

“Fine. Dragon rush, then,” Aanya Singh says. Salamence snorts, nostrils flaring in irritation, and then she simply falls out of the sky.

“Holy shit! Dodge!”

Salamence accumulates dragonfire as she falls, flaring green and purple. She hits with the force of a meteor strike, an impact that rattles even the trainers’ boxes outside the barrier. The great Nathaniel Morgan braces himself against the railing and yells into the haze of debris, “Get the wings while it’s down!”

“Headbutt into dragon claw.”

You jump as Mightyena comes tumbling out of the cloud of dust, Salamence rocketing along after and raking sparkling claws across the dark-type’s side. Mightyena twists around to bite at Salamence’s leg, but her teeth glance off the dragon’s scales and then Salemence is up and away again.

“Good. Now draco meteor!” Aanya Singh says. Salamence screeches and throws her head back.

“Aanya’s not messing around,” the announcer says. “This is more aggression than we’ve seen from her all match, and if The Great Nathaniel Morgan can’t get his momentum back she’s going to roll right over him.”

“Dig!” the great Nathaniel Morgan shouts. Mightyena sends dirt flying while faint specks appear far overhead. The audience’s clamor builds as the meteorites grow larger, edged in purple and green flame. You duck your head as they land, each striking with a roar and a rattling impact, spraying earth and fire in all directions.

You wait until the silence has gone on for several seconds before raising your head. Salamence floats alone over a crater-pocked moonscape, a battlefield torn apart by meteors and repeated earthquakes. Unnatural dragonfire still burns in the pockmarks left by the draco meteor, littering the field with dancing blues and purples and greens. Mightyena pops up near the middle of the arena while Salamence chews down a couple of white leaves that were tucked behind her facial spikes, recharging for another big attack.

“I think that’s good, Salamence,” Aanya Singh says. The dragon rumbles an affirmative, her eyes on Mightyena, who stands snarling up at her opponent. “Great. Then take it away with–”

“Yawn!”

“Whoops. Protect.”

You groan inwardly as Salamence freezes a moment, a thin glint of silver marking the orb of energy that protects her. Even Mightyena’s widest yawn leaves her unmoved. Aanya Singh says, “Okay, now we go. Dragon rage.”

“Dig again!”

You huff an anxious breath out of your nose. Mightyena’s never going to win if she keeps running away.

Salamence blows a spinning burst of dragonfire at the ground below, then bellows in frustration when the flames clear to reveal a ragged hole in the ground. “Works for me,” Aanya Singh says and, impossibly, she sounds amused. You grind your teeth, bearing down even harder when your opponent follows with, “Dragon dance again.”

“Stay hidden. Dark pulse!” Mightyena doesn’t show herself, but an arc of black shoots up out of her hole. There’s no chance of it hitting, though, not with Salamence swooping and tumbling every which way. Neither does the next, or the next. You turn hopelessly to look up at the trainer’s box overhead. What is he doing. What is he thinking?

“Okay, now earthquake.”

“Get out of there! Get out! Go, go!”

How could she, when all Salamence has to do is tip her wings into a dive, touch down in what looks like a dainty landing, one foot leading all the others, to set off a wave of chaos across the arena? The ground trembles and splits and cracks, and Mightyena–well, she nearly makes it. She crawls back up the tunnel, reaches the surface just as the ripples start to spread. She has three legs out before the hole collapses and traps the last.

You only get to see her for a second, paws splayed way out in front of her, tugging uselessly at her half-buried leg while the earth beneath her rolls like an unquiet sea. Then Salamence casually turns her head and breathes a dragonbreath over Mightyena, and the dark-type disappears amidst dancing orange and purple flames.

“Mightyena!” the great Nathaniel Morgan shouts, and you rock forward on the balls of your feet, tail twitching in agitation. If he’s really worried about her he ought to be helping her, not yelling her name like it’s going to do something somehow.

A dark pulse flies out of the cone of fire, and Salamence cuts the attack off with a grunt. She breathes deep to start another, but a second dark pulse brings her up short. Mightyena tosses her head, scattering the last embers of the dragonbreath. She stands on three legs, crushed foot held up at an awkward angle, but she stares Salamence down like she’s two times bigger than the dragon.

Salamence snorts and takes off in a blast of air that makes Mightyena duck her head, eyes closed. “Dragon claw!” Aanya Singh says, and Salamence doesn’t even have to land to do it, just rakes past low in the air, claws sparking. Mightyena slides across the ground, side laid open in bleeding strips, but she’s on her feet a second later, only to stumble when she tries to run. Salamence sweeps down on her again, and she manages to dodge only by throwing herself on the ground–at least you think that was deliberate, not her tripping.

She can’t just lie there, though, and she can’t outrun Salamence, either. Still she tries. Aanya Singh seems content to let Salamence harry Mightyena around the arena with dragon claws, and Mightyena hobbles as fast as she can, tongue lolling. She breaks into an unsteady sprint as Salamence dives, but another dragon claw knocks her off her feet.

“Mightyena, use–use–” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, but he can’t get the rest out. You growl, long and low, the air around you rippling with heat. The healers mutter to each other while you stare at the battlefield with jaw clenched so tight it hurts and your heart thudding loud in your chest and in your temples. He can’t do this, he can’t, he can’t, not again.

Then you suck in a deep breath as a keening cry rises above the noise of the crowd, silences the healers’ chatter. It goes on and on, expanding and wavering mournfully above the battlefield.

You can’t imagine how Mightyena finds the breath to howl while she runs from Salamence, but she does. When her first cry wavers and finally fades, she just breathes deep and starts in on another, head thrown back while she scrambles, stumbles across the battlefield.

You look up at the great Nathaniel Morgan, your own breath caught in your throat. He has to hear. He has to, he’s her trainer, he can’t just stand there and do nothing.

The great Nathaniel Morgan shakes his head like he’s waking from a strange dream. Something bumps against your shoulder, and you realize you’ve run into the side of the trainer’s box trying to get a better view. The great Nathaniel Morgan out at the arena, then bows his head down between his arms, still clinging hard to the railing. You watch and worry as he stands there for what feels like an eternity until at last he yells without looking up, “Use substitute!”

“Get ready to bust it, Salamence,” Aanya Singh says, but you can hardly hear her over the scream, the scream you realize is coming from your own throat because she can’t, she can’t. You turn back to the battlefield, desperate, but of course Mightyena doesn’t hesitate, even though she knows she can’t.

She shakes droplets of dark energy from her fur, which stream across the ground to merge and mass up into a pitch-black, shadowy wolf shape, eyes glowing red. Salamence growls faintly, drawing her head back as she gathers fire. You don’t know if the dragon recognizes the strain in Mightyena’s stance, how she bows her head like she’s standing against an attack. Wisps of dark energy drift from the messy spikes of the substitute’s shadow-fur, but Mightyena’s holding it together, she’s doing it, she’s not going to let it fail.

Salamence snaps her head forward and breathes a streamer of dragonfire, sweeping it across the ground towards Mightyena. The dark-type bares her teeth, trembling with the strain of keeping the substitute together. The construct wavers around the edges, its eyes winking like distant stars. Then it slumps into a puddle of thick, oily goo.

Silence follows, a vacuum created by the indrawn breaths of all the people in the stands. In the hush you fall forward on hands and knees, eyes blurring with tears. You should have won. It’s not fair. After everything, it shouldn’t end like this.

Salamence coughs, and the dragonbreath dissipates with a fizz of purple and orange embers. The dragon descends until she’s hovering just above the ground, peering at the substitute. She must be wondering just how incompetent you have to be to order an attack your pokémon hasn’t even mastered, you think with a surge of hopeless anger.

“Go! Go now!” the great Nathaniel Morgan roars, slamming both fists on the railing in front of him, and both your head and Salamence’s snout snap towards him in surprise. Neither of you is ready for Mightyena to hurl herself into the air, grabbing the dragon’s arm in her jaws and clawing long rents in Salamence’s side as she scrambles for purchase. Salamence screeches and tumbles sideways, one wing hitting the ground and the rest of her crashing down after.

“Now that’s what I call seizing an opportunity!” the announcer says as Salamence rolls back and forth, trying to wrestle Mightyena off. The dragon doesn’t notice the substitute making its way forward in slow, oozing surges until it starts to climb her leg, trying to put itself between Mightyena and Salamence’s teeth.

Salamence squeals and hurls Mightyena away, then rolls onto her side, scraping along the ground to dislodge the gooey, formless substitute. It keeps tenaciously climbing, extending oily black pseudopods towards Salamence’s face as it blindly crawls towards its creator. Salamence thrashes and roars while Mightyena gets painfully to her feet, one leg at a time.

“Come on, Salamence, snap out of it. You’ve got this!” Aanya Singh calls. “Get her back with dragon breath!”

Salamence finally rips the substitute from her body and hurls it to the ground, then slams her tail down on it, over and over again in a flurry of earth-shaking blows until the pulverized mess fades into wispy shadow. She stands breathing hard, blood smeared across the scales under her eye where she managed to scratch herself trying to get the substitute off, droplets of darkness dripping from her tail. Then she roars as Mightyena tackles her from the side, biting and clawing in a play rough attack. Salamence’s wings flare, and she takes off, dumping Mightyena on the ground and winging off to a safe height.

“Finish her, Salamence. Dragon dance into dragon rush, one more time.” Salamence climbs in a hammering of wingbeats, spiraling as she goes.

“Just wait, Mightyena,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, and you think she stands a little straighter then, ears tipped forward and eyes trained on Salamence overhead.

You watch too, fingers digging into your palms so hard your hands ache as you follow Salamence with your eyes. Nothing fancy to her dance this time, just one broad loop in the air as she builds momentum. Then she dives, a comet wreathed in blue-green flames, the end of your hopes for the championship, the end of your search for Mewtwo.

“Foul play!”

Mightyena waits until Salamence is within five yards, wings tucked close to her body in a flat-out dive. Then she jumps, propelled more by the black energy blazing around her than her failing muscles. You can’t see the strike itself, just a burst of sun-defying shadow that knocks Salamence off course.

The dragon’s dive turns into a tumble, and she hits the ground at an angle, dragging a long furrow across the battlefield while Mightyena lands, limping and cringing from the shock of impact.

Dragonfire flickers in Salamence’s wake. Mightyena stares at the crumpled blue shape, no doubt ready to race in and try to get her teeth around its throat.

She’s still on guard when the referee says, “Salamence is unable to battle. The red corner wins.”

The noise is so loud you don’t even hear it at first. You’re screaming with both hands in the air, and the roar of the crowd feels like it’s coursing through your veins instead of blood, resonating all around you, inside and outside at once. You did it. You won. Absol told you it would never work, but it totally did. This is the best. You are the best. And now everybody knows it.

You realize some of the healers are patting you on the back, murmuring congratulations. The challenger’s box rattles back to earth beside you, and the great Nathaniel Morgan scoops his pokéballs out of the healing machine built into its railing. He spends a minute just rolling them in his hand, looking exhausted, but his eyes narrow when they settle on you. “You. Keep up.” He sets off towards the stands, and you follow, floating in a dreamy haze and only vaguely aware of the reporters who crowd around the great Nathaniel Morgan, jostling you without appearing to notice you’re there.

“Mr. Morgan! Mr. Morgan, how does it feel to be going to the finals?”

“Mr. Morgan! Why do you use so many pokémon without pokéballs?”

“Mr. Morgan! Can you explain how you chose your nickname for the tournament?”

The great Nathaniel Morgan plows through like he doesn’t even see them, not a “fuck you” spared for anyone. You hesitate a second, airy mood pierced by the sense that something’s not right, before plunging forward into the dark, echoey tunnel that leads beneath the stands.

The great Nathaniel Morgan isn’t slowing down. You hurry to stay behind him, try to get close enough to whisper so he can hear without the reporters catching on. “Great Nathaniel Morgan,” you start, then yelp when he grabs your arm and drags you sideways into a prep room, slamming the door behind him.

“Just what in the fuck was that?” he snarls, two inches from your face. You can only stare. He’s mad?

“Well?” he yells. “What the fuck is the matter with you? You just gonna do whatever the fuck you want on the field, and fuck what I say? You think it’s funny? You think–”

You brighten as you realize what he’s talking about. “Actually, it was pretty–”

“Shut the fuck up! Have you gone fucking insane? You see the scariest motherfucking blastoise on the entire fucking planet and, what, you pop a huge boner for throwing yourself right the fuck in front of it?”

“What are you even–”

“In the fucking semis? You’re going to pull shit like that in a fucking semifinal match, when you know we can’t lose? Hell, it was you who wouldn’t shut up with the bitching about how much was riding on this, then, you–this? You can’t even, you can’t–” He’s interrupted by a bout of coughing, reaching out to steady himself against the wall.

“Are you done talking now?” you ask.

He shakes his head and wheezes, “I ain’t done, you–” But his cough gets the better of him again.

“I knew we had to win that battle. That is why I went out against the blastoise. Because you were losing,” you say as the great Nathaniel Morgan slumps down on a bench, trying to get his breath back.

“You–” he manages to get out, but now you’re the one who won’t let him get any farther.

“You were not believing in yourself,” you say peevishly. “You were convinced you were going to lose. I had to do something to turn things around.”

“Wh-what?” the great Nathaniel Morgan gasps. “What are you, some kind of fucking shrink? You thought fighting that fucking monster would help?”

“Yes. I wanted you to get mad so you would stop being afraid.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan leans forward, face livid and teeth bared. “I don’t need your fucking help, asshole. I know what the fuck I’m doing. You think I didn’t know we were in deep shit? You think I didn’t fucking care, like I just wasn’t trying hard enough or some bullshit?”

“Of course I knew you cared. If you did not, you would not have gotten mad when I went on the field. And anyway,” you add, cutting off an angry retort, “it worked, did it not? We won.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan stares at you for a moment, then looks past you, like he’s contemplating something off in the distance. “We won,” he says slowly.

“Exactly. Thanks to me. I beat Blastoise for you, remember? And basically Electivire, too.”

A brief smile flickers across the great Nathaniel Morgan’s face. “Yeah, I guess that was kind of badass.”

“More like really badass. So stop complaining. Now are we going back to the apartment or what?”

He’s taking the pokéballs off his belt instead. His pokémon take shape in dazzling bursts of white.

“What’s up?” Raticate asks. “Did we win?”

Mightyena jumps on the great Nathaniel Morgan the instant she solidifies, and he laughs and hugs her around the neck. She slobbers all over his face, but he just keeps laughing and laughing, hanging on tight while Mightyena wriggles and bounces on her hind legs.

“Well, I guess that’s my answer,” Raticate grumbles. “Hey! Where’s the love?” He jumps up next to his trainer, and the great Nathaniel Morgan gathers him under an arm. The human endeavors to scratch under the rat’s chin and handle Mightyena at the same time, but the dark-type keeps shoving up against him until she’s nearly driven him off the far side of the bench.

“We won!” the great Nathaniel Morgan says in frank, delighted disbelief. “We fucking won! Hell yeah! Take that, you fucking academy nerd!”

“Okay, but what happened?” Raticate asks. He pushes Mightyena out of the way and settles himself in the great Nathaniel Morgan’s lap, stretching out flat while his trainer scratches along his spine. “Some of us were stuck inside a pokéball for the good parts, you know.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan’s head snaps up when you repeat Raticate’s question, and for a second he stares at you like he doesn’t recognize you. Then he says, “Oh, man, it was fucking awesome. I mean, I guess you know all about the muk, right? But Mightyena fought a salamence, and then there was this fucking blastoise…”

“I punched an aggron,” Graveler offers. She’s standing off to one side as usual.

“Well, it’s gonna be on TV, ain’t it? Like all kinds of replays and shit. You can see the whole thing.” The great Nathaniel Morgan chuckles, a dazed but giddy look on his face. “I mean, it’s gonna be on TV. All those losers back at base can suck it, I’m gonna go against fucking Red. Here, come on, we gotta celebrate. I mean, we got the money now, right? We should, like, go out to eat or something. Somewhere all fancy, you know? Come on, I’m fucking starving.”

He pulls himself up with the help of the wall and gently pushes past his clamoring pokémon. Raticate and Mightyena climb over each other, yelling about what restaurant they want to go to. The great Nathaniel Morgan herds them towards the door, Graveler stomping up behind. He turns back to you, arms crossed over his chest. “Well? You gonna stand there all fucking day, or what?”

You have no idea what he’s talking about. He rolls his eyes and motions towards the door.

“I can come?”

“Not if you don’t get your ass over here right this second.”

You hesitate. There must be some kind of trick. But the great Nathaniel Morgan turns to go, and the door nearly closes behind him before you run up to catch it. The great Nathaniel Morgan ignores you, and you hang around at the rear of the group, curious and somehow hopeful besides. Today is a day for surprises, you suppose.

Absol meets you in front of the restaurant, then appears at your table before the rest of you can even cross the room, and you grin at her showing off. At first you’re wary when the great Nathaniel Morgan insists you sit across from him, but after a couple minutes you realize he only invited you so he could keep up with his pokémon’s conversation, prodding you to translate between bites of your food. That makes sense, then. You can settle in and enjoy the dinner, an all-you-can-eat buffet for humans and pokémon both.

The great Nathaniel Morgan mostly just listens and shovels food into his mouth. Down towards the end of the table Graveler does the same, steadily crunching her way through a pile of rust-red Indigo Plateau rock. You imagine some poor lackey chef getting shoved out the back door with a bucket and a pick whenever the buffet runs low.

Raticate and Mightyena swap details of their matches, only slightly exaggerated. “What? Your substitute scared the crap out of a dragon? You’ve got to–well, actually, I can kind of see that,” Raticate says. “Anyway, listen, at least you didn’t have to literally swim in a muk, which by the way is made of poison death and just the smell could kill you.”

“What, you’re saying you’d rather face the salamence?”

“Honestly…”

“Well, I couldn’t send Mightyena against a muk,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says. “I mean, with her nose? She wouldn’t be able to take the stench. You did good, buddy. It was a tough fight.”

Raticate stares at him, ears flattened against his skull. “Nate, I can smell better than Mightyena.”

“But you smell worse,” Mightyena says. Raticate throws a gnawed chicken bone at her.

The great Nathaniel Morgan’s brows knit together in a frown. “Wait, what? I mean, she’s a dog, they got super noses, don’t they?”

“I swear, your lot have the best PR,” Raticate says to Mightyena.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, you filthy, disease-ridden vermin,” Mightyena says brightly. “Anyway, that’s about it for us, isn’t it? Now what were you talking about with a blastoise, Nate?”

“Oh, that. This asshole’s the one you want to talk to about that.”

You sit back, so surprised your fork clanks off the plate as you set it down. “You want me to tell it?” The great Nathaniel Morgan nods and makes circular “go on” motions with his fork while he chews.

“Well, there was this really big blastoise. She was super old,” you begin, and smile as you remember what it was like to stare her down across the battlefield, how scary she was. But you won.

Soon enough you’re absorbed in telling the story, arguing back over Raticate and Mightyena’s skepticism, getting the great Nathaniel Morgan to back you up on the best parts. Of course you don’t mention how you actually won, how you had to change–you don’t want the great Nathaniel Morgan getting mad again now.

Raticate’s still scurrying back to the buffet now and again to grab more food, but everyone else seems more interested in chatting and slowly finishing whatever’s left on their plates. Graveler’s no more outgoing than usual, and of course Absol’s been quiet the whole time, daintily murdering a couple of extremely rare steaks. The other three banter back and forth about what it would be like to have a salamence on their team, which somehow evolves into the great Nathaniel Morgan regaling them with the story of how he set a high school teacher’s car on fire. “So they kicked me out,” he says. “And that was supposed to be the punishment! Holy shit, if I’d known I woulda done it years earlier, saved us all some time.”

In the end even Raticate’s reduced to desultory picking at his plate and the great Nathaniel Morgan’s dozing where he sits. You’re none too alert yourself, stuffed so full it’s almost painful. You’ve been talking for practically everyone, after all, and as lethargic silence settles over the table it’s nice to slide down in your chair and not have to say anything, just smile as you watch Mightyena get increasingly blatant about stealing scraps off her trainer’s plate.

This goes on until she gets greedy about some bits of ham at the far opposite side of the plate and ends up knocking everything into the great Nathaniel Morgan’s lap. “Come on, come on, let’s get back already so I can get some goddamned sleep,” the human grumbles. “Someone thought it would be funny to raise my blood pressure right through the fucking roof today. I’m beat.” The procession that leaves the restaurant is far slower than the one that arrived, the great Nathaniel Morgan falling asleep on Graveler’s back after only a few minutes. Raticate climbs up to join him, curling up to sleep in his trainer’s lap.

By the time you get back to the apartment you’re feeling pretty beat yourself. The great Nathaniel Morgan and his pokémon pile off to the bedroom while you contemplate the television. But no, even that feels like too much effort, so you climb into your chair and pick up Captain Rubina Roth, who was guarding it while you were away. Curled up with an overfull stomach and the good captain hugged against your chest and the weariness of the day’s battle dragging at you, you settle in warm and content for a good night’s sleep.

Something cold and sharp seizes your shoulder. “Cordierite-eyes.” The hissed word is cold, too and loud, coming from about two centimeters away from your ear.

You sit up too fast, heart racing. The comfortably small chair suddenly feels confining. “What?” For once you don’t even try to hide your annoyance.

Eskar perches on the arm of the chair, behind your head so you have to twist all around to even see her. The sliver moon, just visible through the window, lights her gems like shards of colored glass.

“Ah, Cordierite-eyes,” Eskar sighs. “Sometimes I worry.”

“About what?”

“About you, Cordierite-eyes.” For once Eskar’s not smiling.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You worry me, yes, yes.”

“Why?” you ask. You want to sleep. Why can’t she just spit it out?

“The human,” Eskar says. “You know that Illite-eyes will be so displeased if she can’t get Lazurite-eyes. But I think, ah, I think, when the time comes, perhaps you will not be so willing to hand him over, you see?”

“What? Of course I will! What are you talking about?”

“Please, please.” Eskar holds up her hands. “No disrespect. You know I like you, Cordierite-eyes. We are good friends, are we not? But I think maybe you are also a little too friendly with Lazurite-eyes. Perhaps you think he is not so bad, yes?”

“No!” Your flames cast tall, flickering shadows over walls and ceiling. You can’t let them go as much as you like, though, have to clamp down on another yell. The great Nathaniel Morgan and his pokémon are sleeping in the next room, or in the case of Graveler, most likely not sleeping at all. “I hate him! Of course I hate him. Don’t be stupid,” you go on in a whisper.

“Good, good,” Eskar purrs. “But I worry. I do. You see how he tries to manipulate us?” She points to your hand, and you look down. You forgot all about Captain Rubina Roth, and only now do you realize how tight you’re squeezing her, so tight her plastic edges are digging into the insides of your fingers.

“Let me see that,” Eskar says, and snatches Captain Rubina Roth away before you can say no. One bite snaps the action figure clear in half, and Eskar spits the upper portion carelessly away.

“Hey!” you say, and struggle to uncurl out of the chair and go after it. You flinch back when Eskar shoves the remainder of Captain Rubina Roth in your face, brandishing the torsoless legs like a poker. “No, Cordierite-eyes. No. This is how he buys us, you see? With cheap trinkets like this. Worthless trash!” She reaches into her chest and pulls out a chip of rock–one of the gemstones the great Nathaniel Morgan gave her, you realize. Its glossy surface glints in the moonlight, but you can’t tell its color.

“Useless thing. It’s dyed, you know. Cheap, cheap trash,” Eskar says. “But watch now, Cordierite-eyes. Watch.” She drops Captain Rubina Roth’s legs and scratches something into the back of the gem, claw squeaking and rasping through a few quick, efficient strokes. “You see?” Eskar holds the gem up for your inspection.

You squint but can’t make out the symbol by the shifting light of your fire. “Illite-eyes’ own mark,” Eskar says softly. “It means you have her protection. Good for one favor, yes? Take it. Take.”

You reach out, slowly, and Eskar drops the gemstone into your palm. You feel the scratches on it as you close it in a fist, but still can’t tell what they form. “My gift to you,” Eskar says. “Very precious. It is good to have the regard of Team Rocket, yes? And we are good friends, are we not, Cordierite-eyes?”

You nod, hesitantly. You don’t really want a gift from Team Rocket. You don’t want to be friends with them at all. But it could be useful.

“Lazurite-eyes, he tries to bribe with his worthless little gifts. Pfeh! His pokémon, they love it. But we are not so easily bought, Cordierite-eyes, are we? We will not be swayed by cheap trinkets.”

Not that she gave you much choice, you think with a flash of resentment. But you already had an action figure like that anyway. And Eskar’s right, it’s a pretty cheap toy. “No. And you don’t have to worry. The great Nathaniel Morgan deserves to go to the boss. I told you you could have him, and I meant it. I’m not a liar. I won’t go back on my word.”

“Ah, good, good, Cordierite-eyes,” Eskar chirrs. “Such a good friend. I am much reassured.”

“Is that it? I want to go to sleep.”

Eskar shakes her head. “Ah, Cordierite-eyes, ah–”

“What are you doing?”

Eskar hisses a curse between her teeth, head snapping 180° in a single abrupt twist. You know Absol well, though, and you aren’t surprised when she steps from the darkness beside the couch.

“Absol! We’re just talking.”

“I can see that,” Absol says. She never looks at Eskar, but the sableye perches tense on the arm of the chair, overwide mouth curved down in a frown. “And why is it that you’re talking to this… person?”

“Because I want to,” you say, folding your arms over your chest. “Why are you here? You never visit except for training.”

“This sableye is not trustworthy. It is not safe to do business with her.”

“Ruby-eyes! Please! Such slander!” Eskar says. She freezes, poised on the edge of the chair arm, as Absol tips her blade in her direction. But Eskar’s constant smile is back. “Team Rocket always keeps its promises. It’s good business, yes?”

“Eskar’s on our side, Absol. I asked her to help with the tournament, and she said yes. A lot faster than you did.” You shift around in the chair, averting your eyes from Absol’s steady gaze. “We need her.”

“Need can’t justify everything,” Absol says firmly, ignoring Eskar’s affronted gasp.

You’re pretty sure Eskar’s only pretending to care what Absol says, but still. You care. It’s always the same thing with Absol.

“You didn’t have a problem with me being around the great Nathaniel Morgan, and he’s from Team Rocket, too. Is this about him? Are you mad because I’m sending him back?”

“The human is of no consequence,” Absol says. “You are the one I’m worried about.”

“Well, I’m fine. I already told you, I don’t want to hear you complain about the tournament anymore. Go away if you don’t have anything else to say.”

Absol stands there, looking between you and Eskar. For once you think she’s being quiet because she doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” she says at last.

“Please, please, Ruby-eyes,” Eskar says, holding up a hand. “I am not here to hurt anyone. Cordierite-eyes and I are friends, yes? There is no reason to fear.”

“I’m not going to get hurt, Absol,” you say. “Now go away already.”

She stands and looks at you, until Eskar says, soft as a breath, “Cordierite-eyes asked you to leave.”

That brings Absol’s attention around to her, hard and coldly furious like you’ve never seen. Absol levels her blade at the sableye again. “You are the one who should leave,” Absol says. “I have not agreed to tolerate you.”

“Absol, come on!”

“Is that so, Ruby-eyes?” Eskar says, and there’s real laughter in her voice now. “Cordierite-eyes has made their decision, yes? You can’t interfere, watcher-cat. Both of us, we know you are bound.”

“Absol, I told you to go away. I know you’re trying to help, but you’re not.”

Eskar holds Absol’s gaze without flinching, smiling wide, so wide, like there isn’t a blade hovering in front of her nose, like Absol isn’t standing with claws splayed in the carpet, muscles tense beneath her silky fur. “Cordierite-eyes says to leave,” Eskar says quietly.

At last Absol turns away. “We will discuss this later,” she says.

“No we won’t!” you say, as loud as you dare. You sit with your hands balled into tight fists, flames hissing and crackling in your ears while Absol melts back into shadow. She can’t make you. She can’t.

“Sorry,” you say, unable to meet Eskar’s eyes. “Sorry, she just… She can be like that sometimes.”

“Worry not, Cordierite-eyes, worry not.” Eskar waves a hand dismissively. “Watcher-cats, yes? Crazy, all of them. Let her worry if she will. You will show her, yes?”

“Yeah.” You take a deep breath and let your flames die back, slowly, to gutter fitfully at shoulder length. “We’ll win the tournament, and then she’ll see I was right.”

“Of course, Corierite-eyes.”

“So is that it?” you ask. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll make sure you get the great Nathaniel Morgan back.”

“Ah, Cordierite-eyes.” Eskar looks away from you, wringing her hands clean through one another in little puffs of ectoplasm. “Ah, Cordierite-eyes, I fear there is one other thing.”

Your flames are trying to flare up again, from threading fear this time. “What?”

“Well, you see, Cordierite-eyes, Illite-eyes, she is not pleased. ‘Why haven’t you found them?’ she asks me. ‘What are you doing out there? Should I send someone else?’ So angry, Cordierite-eyes. So angry.”

“So…?”

“So I fear I must ask something else of you, Cordierite-eyes. If I were to turn our human friend in, such rewards I would have! But no. Instead I say nothing. And so Illite-eyes gives me nothing, no, not even the smallest treat. So I must ask you for something. Something for Eskar, for her service and her hardship, yes?”

“So what do you want?” you ask after a moment, but you already know, of course, you know before Eskar tips her head and taps a claw against one gemstone eye.

Your stomach turns over, bile souring your throat. You wish you didn’t have so much for dinner. “That’s okay,” you manage to get out. “I can give you another eye, if that’s what you want.”

“Oh, Cordierite-eyes, you don’t understand! Illite-eyes wants Lazurite-eyes so very badly, so very badly indeed. If someone let slip where he was to be found, if they gave just the tiniest little hint…”

“I know!” It’s half a shout, choked down at the last second. You have to take a moment to gather yourself before continuing. “I know, Eskar. It’s okay. You can have another eye. It’s fine.”

“Ah, Cordierite-eyes! I like you, I really do. Such a good friend.” Eskar gives you a dazzling smile. “But I’m afraid my rates have gone up.”