Chapter 8

It’s late to be hunting, with the sun well up and all the day-life awake and alert, squirrels scolding as you pass, birds taking off in sudden storms of wingbeats. At first you were relieved when your quarry ignored even such obvious signs, but by now it’s just annoying. Hunting isn’t any fun without at least a little challenge, even the smallest chance your target might escape. It’s obvious that won’t happen here, no matter how incompetent you act. You go from trying not to make noise to being as loud as you can until, in the end, you practically yell, “Good morning!”

The great Nathaniel Morgan starts and looks around. It takes him a while to catch sight of you, even though you aren’t trying to hide, just standing with a screen of trees between you. You haven’t been trying to hide for nearly twenty minutes, and still he didn’t notice you until you spoke up.

They call humans “the most dangerous game,” don’t they? What an exaggeration. It would be more fun to track slowpoke, and they’re stupider than dirt. You shouldn’t have hoped, of course. This human is a constant disappointment.

Even now he doesn’t look like he’ll put up a fight, staring at you with mouth half hanging open, eyes wide as he makes faint choking noises. “You are not very good at this. Did you think that I would let you just walk away? If you remember our agreement–”

He bolts. You watch him go for a second, considering. Judging by his horrible, teetering run, he’s probably going to end up falling, injuring himself, and needing more fixing. Boring.

You overtake him in a matter of seconds, reaching out to grab him before he crashes into you. “I will not allow you to run away, either.”

He tries to twist out of your hold, but you simply tighten your grip until he grits his teeth and stops struggling. You wait while he tries to gasp something out, taking the shallowest breaths possible and hunched over ribs that must still be sore. “What… What the fuck are you? Let… Let go of me, you fucking…”

“I told you before. I am me. Now, can I let you go, or are you going to try and escape again?”

He sags a bit, still panting and trying not to pant at the same time. “What, you’re that… that fucking charmeleon thing? No fucking way… No fucking way…”

“I said I would look like you. Did you not believe me?”

“That’s… not…” He suddenly throws himself backwards, but even caught off-guard you have no trouble bracing yourself against his struggles.

“If you keep being difficult, I will have to paralyze you. Calm down.”

“Calm down? I’m barely alive over here and I’m getting fucking attacked by my fucking evil twin. How the fuck am I supposed to calm down?”

“I am not your evil twin. If we are twins, you are clearly the evil one because you are a member of Team Rocket.”

“And you’re some kind of bad-trip demon thing that keeps going on about how it wants to murder me, yeah, clearly I’m the evil one here.”

“I am not interested in listening to you babble nonsense. You are evil.” He starts to argue, but you cut him short with a quick shake. “I said I am not listening to you. Now, I am going to let you go. If you try to run off again, I will make it so you cannot run. Do you understand?”

A slow smile spreads over his face, a horrible one, too wide. “Sure, why not? Buddies for life, right, Evil Twin?” To your confused horror, he starts giggling, madly and convulsively.

You let go of him and watch in disgust as he doubles over, unable to stop his strangled laughter, chest heaving fitfully and tears streaming from his eyes. Even when the spell passes and he’s able to stand straight again, that awful grin stays in place, strained and painful and somehow threatening.

In the end it falls to you to fill the uncomfortable silence. “Well. Good. I am glad we understand each other. Now, before we go any further, you need new clothing. What you are wearing now will attract too much attention.”

“What? Can’t you just magic it better? You know, like… woooo…” He waves a hand vaguely, then sinks into another painful laughing fit.

“What is wrong with you?” you snap while he’s trying to recover. Did your healing abilities affect his brain somehow? How on Earth are you supposed to deal with this?

“Oh, I don’t know,” he chokes. “I’m just getting told off by some asshole mutant thing that looks like me and claims it saved my life so it can take the fucking League challenge and become a pokémon master. It’s all just so fucking sane, I can’t take it anymore!” You clench your hands into fists while he gags on his own mirth.

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up,” you snarl, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and hauling him upright. Scales spread down your arm and claws slide from your fingers, shredding fabric. That, at least, is enough to shut the human up. His grin vanishes as he stares down at your sudden talons.

“What… What the fuck?” He struggles against your grip, and you shove him away, letting him stumble to a shaky halt.

You’re going about this all wrong, somehow. You tried to make this as straightforward as possible, but whether the human’s stupid or misunderstanding you on purpose, he’s not getting the picture. Concentrating mightily, you gather what few references you have for this sort of situation and line the words up in your head. Then, very slowly and carefully, you recite, “Listen, pal. You’ve made good friends with some bad people, but if we stick together, we’ll get through this thing just fine. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, capiche? Whaddaya say? Partners?”

For a few seconds he stares at you, and then, to your horror, dissolves into another fit of hitching giggles. “Oh, God,” he gasps out at last. “What the hell. Might as well enjoy the trip while it lasts, right? You want to go for a walk through the fucking magic woods or some shit? Fine. Lead on, Evil Twin, lead on.”

You consider the human as he tries to recover. It’s a “yes,” anyway. That’s probably the best you can hope for. “Good. I have no intention of hurting you, but if you continue to be a nuisance, I might have to. Now.” You pull some clothes out of your pack and hand them to him. “Put these on. I have food and water for you–I am sure you are hungry. You can have them once you have changed.”

You step away from him and watch as he blinks tears out of his eyes and, frowning, starts picking through the clothes. Slowly he says, “This is the same shit you’re wearing, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Pause. “Is that a problem?”

That horrible smirk of his is broad enough to show the angular stubs of teeth. “Oh, no,” he says, and a spasm of suppressed laughter shivers through him. “No, there’s nothing fucking weird about that. You’re definitely not my fucking evil twin, huh?”

“Right. I am not.”

You try and puzzle out what the great Nathaniel Morgan finds so funny while he finishes shuffling through the clothing. “Hey. A little fucking privacy, here?” he asks when he sees you looking.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, so now you want to fucking watch me get naked too? Just what the fuck is your problem? Look, I don’t know if this is all some kind of sick power trip to you, but–”

Oh, right. You forgot about humans and their taboo against nudity. You like dressing up, especially in bright colors, or clothes with your favorite cartoon characters on them. Unfortunately, this morning’s shopping trip failed to turn up any Transformozords shirts in the great Nathaniel Morgan’s size. But if you aren’t going to wear something special, why bother?

“I have no interest in your body. I simply do not wish to turn my back on you.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, I totally buy that one, you sick fuck. Tell me, you do this kind of thing often, or am I just so lucky to be the one who–”

“Fine. Fine. I will turn around, and you will change clothes, and if you try anything else, you will regret it.” And you do turn, glaring off into the trees and keeping ears wide open for any sign of either attack or escape.

But the human only mutters, “Sure. Fucking whatever, then.” There’s the rustle of fabric and the occasional hiss of pain, and in your boredom you notice you haven’t changed back the arm you transformed earlier, which glints teal and scaly in the sunlight. You massage it back to the right shape and rub your fingers together to drive out the last of the tingling. Finally the great Nathaniel Morgan announces, “There. Done. Now where’s the goddamned food?”

You turn back around and give the Rocket a critical look over. The new clothes do help, and they cover most of his injuries. The unreasonable number of soft-boileds you stuffed down his throat left only a few fading bruises and scabby cuts behind, but he’s still covered in blood and dirt, and the skin beneath is pale and loose-looking, like it’s a size too big.

It’s a start. At least the human doesn’t look like he got run over by a tyranitar while out on a killing spree anymore. You unsling your pack and dig out a sandwich. “Catch.”

He drops his old clothes to fumble the sandwich out of the air, and in a matter of seconds he’s managed to tear the plastic open with his teeth and is devouring the contents in huge bites. You can’t help but be impressed as you stand there with the rest of his lunch in your hands–just an apple, an energy bar, and a water bottle. You probably should have anticipated his appetite–using soft-boiled certainly left you hungry, and all things considered it was probably harder on him.

He walks up to you with one hand out, and you silently pass over the rest of the food. The great Nathaniel Morgan takes it without pausing in his destruction of the sandwich, and you leave him to it while you deal with his old clothes. You pick them gingerly out of the grass, trying to ignore the smell of blood, then set them alight with a wash of heat from your palms.

A choking noise makes you glance back at the great Nathaniel Morgan, who was gnawing at the apple with the good side of his jaw. He’s caught in a fit of coughing, and you watch impassively as he splutters and chokes, once more contorted with pain. The fire burns itself out in the meantime, leaving you holding no more than a few smoldering tatters of fabric. You drop the ashy remains in the grass and stomp them out.

“How the fuck did you do that?” the great Nathaniel Morgan wheezes at last.

“You thought I was a charmeleon, remember? Would you be surprised if a charmeleon did that?”

“No, but you ain’t no fucking charmeleon, duh. Where did the fucking fire even come from?”

You shrug. “From the same place as all fire attacks, I suppose. Now come on. I want to get to Fuchsia by this afternoon.”

“Oh, nice. Real helpful, asshole. Do you get off on being a mysterious dickhead, or what?”

You ignore him and step forward, reaching out to catch his arm. He jerks away and snarls, “What the fuck are you doing? You want to walk, fine, whatever, I’ll fucking walk. You don’t have to motherfucking drag me or nothing.”

“I am not going to drag you anywhere unless I have to. We are going to teleport. Anything else would be too slow.” You can see him starting to object, but before he can get anything out, too fast for him to dodge, you lunge forward and grab him by the shoulder, then pull him along the trail of your memory to a spot a mile or so north of Route 18.

“And now we walk.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan shrugs your hand away and blinks around at a new assortment of trees, a shift in light and shade. Then he turns to you and snarls, “If you can just fucking teleport wherever you want, why are we still in the middle of the goddamn woods? You’re going to Cinnabar, right?”

“I do not want to risk anyone seeing me teleport. It could lead to awkward questions.”

“Right, like having me walking around half fucking dead isn’t going to get you any goddamn ‘awkward questions,’” he grumbles, but fortunately that’s the last of it. He’s more concerned with eating than arguing. The great Nathaniel Morgan wanders after you when you start moving, struggling to get the energy bar’s wrapper open as he goes. And, after the roughly fifteen seconds it takes to dispose of the snack, “Hey! Is that it?”

“Yes. You can have more at dinner.”

“Oh, nice. Real fucking nice. Look, I’m so hungry I swear if I ran into that fucking ursaring again I’d up and eat it. I’m probably going to collapse of starvation or some shit.”

“If you keep complaining about it, you will get nothing.” But the question jogs your memory, and you scrounge up something you forgot to give him earlier. “For now you can have these.”

“Fuck, why didn’t you give me the drugs first, Freak?” the great Nathaniel Morgan grumbles, struggling for a few seconds with the childproof cap. He dumps a slurry of pills into his palm, considers them for a moment, then knocks the lot back with a swig from his water bottle. “Well, thanks, I guess. But I don’t think what I’ve got going on here is really aspirin-level pain, you know?”

“I thought giving you medication might make you stop whining.”

“Fat fucking chance, Freak. Fat fucking chance.” He pockets the pill bottle and sighs.

For a time the two of you walk in silence, and you bask in the sense of being on your trainer’s journey at last. The sun stabs little islands of warmth through the cool shade of the forest, and the air is full of the dampy-sweet smell of decaying leaves. There’s no path out here, and you clamber over fallen logs and thrash through bushes, following the ups and downs of the land.

You keep hoping you’ll be attacked by a wild pokémon–you’re a trainer now, after all. You hear them from time to time, brief snatches of conversation in the distance, the odd yell of surprise or anger. Here and there are symbols scratched out on tree trunks, blasts of scent where someone’s marked their territory.

But no one bothers you. Maybe it’s because there are two of you humans. Maybe it’s because you’re still far from the route; pokémon who want to battle trainers usually hang around near humans, after all. Whatever the case, your walk is uneventful, if pleasant. But there is, inevitably, one glaring problem.

“Can you not go any faster?”

The great Nathaniel Morgan starts to reply, then nearly trips over a root. He stops for a moment, leaning against a tree trunk as he regains his balance. “Hell yes I can. Just not after I’ve been beaten practically to fucking death and then revived by some asshole who wants me to walk a thousand miles through difficult fucking terrain. We can’t all be motherfucking nature spirits like you.” He aims a petulant kick at a bush, which clings thornily to his leg. “I mean, come the fuck on, I should probably be sleeping fourteen hours a day for the next fucking week, here. And I’m hungry. And I’m thirsty. So you know what? Why don’t we just take this opportunity for a nice fucking rest break?”

He moves as if to sit down, only to scramble upright again when you reach out to stop him. “No! No rest breaks! It has barely been half an hour! You can rest while we are surfing to Cinnabar.”

“Wait, surfing? The fuck are you talking about?”

“How did you think we were getting to Cinnabar Island?”

“I don’t know, the fucking ferry, like sane people. I mean, that’d be bad enough, but surfing…”

“Trainers do not take the ferry,” you say with utmost disdain. What would even be the point? No wild pokémon to battle. No trainers, either; it’s considered a safety hazard. Why go journeying if you’re just going to take shortcuts? “We will surf on my pokémon, of course. Why are you so stupid?”

“Surf on your what? How in the hell do you have pokémon?”

“I caught them. Why are you surprised? How did you expect me to take the gym challenge without pokémon?”

“I thought you were using mine, dumbass.”

“Your pokémon? I do not have them.”

“You don’t.” His face sinks into an even deeper scowl than usual. “Then where in the hell are they?”

“Team Rocket took them, of course.”

“Of course. Of fucking course,” he mutters. “So how about you explain to me just how in the hell that works, huh? They somehow decide to take all my shit but my pokédex?”

“No. I took the pokédex myself.”

“And you just left the fucking rest?”

“Yes. It would have been difficult to get it all without being noticed. The pokédex was all that I needed.”

“All that you–” He bites the sentence off and slams the side of his fist into the tree, turning away from you for a second. Then he snarls, “And I guess it didn’t occur to you that I might need some of that shit later, asshole?”

“I do not care what you need. You are a criminal. You got what you deserved.”

A nasty smirk spreads across his face. “You got that fucking right, Freak. I am a goddamned criminal.”

“Yes. So you should not be surprised if other people steal from you. It is only fair. Now. We need to get going. I had expected to get to Fuchsia by noon, but at this rate we will be another hour. I do not want any further delays.”

“Oh, you don’t, don’t you?” the great Nathaniel Morgan sneers. “Funny, ’cause me, I was thinking I might just like to lie down and take a fucking nap right now.”

“No. You are done resting.”

He backs up a step as you start towards him, baring his teeth. “What, you think you’re gonna haul me the rest of the way there? Face it, Freak, you can’t make me walk if I don’t want to.”

“I can and I will if I have to. I do not think you will enjoy it. Last chance, now. Are you coming?”

He stares at you for a few seconds, then drops his gaze and sinks into a resentful slouch. “Yeah, sure. Why the fuck not? God, this is the shittiest trip ever.”

You let that one go in favor of getting moving again, but despite all your exhortations and threats that you really will carry him if he will not walk, you achieve only a modest increase in speed. The great Nathaniel Morgan only gets slower and clumsier as time wears on. He’s panting like he’s run the whole way, sweating heavily into his new clothes. Pathetic. At least he doesn’t have the energy left to complain, sunk into a dull, head-down doggedness, all his attention invested in staying upright and taking yet another step.

It gets him through the last of the forest and onto Route 18 proper, where the trees thin out and leaf litter fades to scruffy grass. The human doesn’t speed up even when you reach the paved thoroughfare down the middle of the route, where foot traffic shares an uneasy peace with cyclists zipping down off Cycling Road.

“Hurry up,” you hiss. “We are nearly there. The faster you walk, the sooner you can rest.” The great Nathaniel Morgan gives you a blank look.

This is all his fault. If not for him, you’d be well on your way to Cinnabar. And you wouldn’t be attracting so much attention, either–your dirty, staggering friend is drawing eyes. You meet curious stares with your broadest smile, and that, thankfully, has so far been enough to get onlookers hurrying on about their business.

Finally, when the great Nathaniel Morgan stumbles and nearly falls, tripping on nothing, you concede. “Fine,” you growl at him. You grab him by the arm, haul him over to a bench by the side of the route, and practically throw him onto it. “If you insist on being so pathetic, you can stay here. I will bring food. Titan,” the pokéball is in your hand without conscious thought, and you drop it next to the bench. “Watch my brother for me. He is not feeling well.”

“Your brother?” Titan looks down at the great Nathaniel Morgan, brow furrowed. “Why does he look like a human?” He leans in close to snuff at the man, who does not react. “He smells like a human,” Titan says, an accusation.

You wish there weren’t anyone around so you could explain things properly. For now all you do is pat Titan on the shoulder and say, “That is right. He just needs a bit of time to rest, that is all. So you are going to watch him and make sure he does not move or make any noise, okay?”

Titan gives you a bewildered look, but after a second he nods, then turns to stare at the human again. You do the same. “And you understand as well?”

The great Nathaniel Morgan’s eyes are closed and covered with a shaking hand, but he does nod, ever so slightly. “Good. I will be back soon.”

It takes less than half an hour to find food, but you’re still on the verge of running as you make your way back. Visions of the human escaping, of him somehow managing to overcome Titan and stealing away with the charizard, play endless loops in your head. You slow down as the bench comes into view, letting out a long breath of relief. They’re exactly where you left them: the great Nathaniel Morgan asleep on the bench, Titan staring at him with single-minded diligence. At least you don’t have a new crisis to add to this farce of a trip. Titan can smell both you and what you’re carrying a ways off, and he turns towards you, wings stretching upward in anticipation.

“Thanks, Titan,” you say. “Here. I brought you some food.”

The charizard fidgets while you rearrange your burdens, his tail twitching back and forth in agitated little arcs. He snatches the bucket of chicken from your grasp as soon as you hold it out and rips the top off with his teeth, then sticks his whole head inside, gobbling and crunching with such reckless enthusiasm that you have to smile.

If only your other companion could be so easily pleased. Irritation lends a bit too much force to your kick, and you glance around nervously, hoping no one notices the dent you’ve put in the bench’s metal leg.

The great Nathaniel Morgan wakes with a start, followed immediately by a wince and a growled curse. “Now is not the time for sleeping. You can do that on the ocean. For now, eat. Then we will walk the rest of the way.”

“Yeah, because eating is the first fucking thing I want to do before getting on the goddamn seasickness express,” he says, but he doesn’t turn down the fast food bag you hand him–probably he would have snatched it like Titan if he could move properly.

He pushes himself to a more upright position and digs in, and you watch with mild interest while you get out your own food. If only the human walked as fast as he eats. After a couple of minutes, you’re halfway through your cheeseburger, and the great Nathaniel Morgan is nearly done with his entire meal, chasing stray fries around the bottom of the bag. When he’s actually done eating he immediately makes as if to go back to sleep, and you cram the rest of your burger into your mouth, annoyed. You’d like to spend more time eating, but not if the great Nathaniel Morgan’s going to take it as an excuse to slack off. “Get up.”

“Oh, fuck you. You keep pushing me, you’re going to need to start dishing out the emergency heals real damn fast, because I am not in any fucking shape for this shit.”

“It is only a twenty minute walk to the beach. You will make it if I have to carry you the entire way. Now get up.”

“Oh, yeah, like that’s not going to attract any fucking attention or nothing–”

“Get up!”

Titan pulls his head out of the bucket, looking nervously between the two of you. Grease shimmers on his muzzle, and he’s managed to get clot of breading stuck to the base of one horn. You glance around, embarrassed, but though a couple of people looked around after your shout, no one seems particularly interested. The great Nathaniel Morgan opens his mouth to make some complaint or other, but before he can get anything out you grab him by the front of his shirt and haul him to his feet.

While he stands coughing, trying to get his breath back, you say, “There. You are up. Now we walk. Titan? Do you want to come with us? We are going to the beach.”

“Oh? The beach? Um.” The charizard licks at his snout as he thinks. “Sure, I’ll come.”

“Hey, Charizard, think you could do me a favor and set this asshole on fire or something? I don’t want to go to no fucking beach.”

“Titan. This is Titan.”

Titan, who is looking anxious. “If he, um, says he doesn’t want to come…”

“It is fine, Titan. Do not worry. And you.” You shove the great Nathaniel Morgan so hard he staggers forward a step. “Walk. Do not make noise. If you do, I will make it so you cannot talk.”

“Yeah, I bet you will, won’t you, assh–” He wavers where he stands, clutching his head and gasping in breathless pain. “Fuck. Wh-what–?”

“That was only a weak confusion. A stronger one could make it so you can’t talk. Now walk.”

He walks. Slowly. Titan brings up the rear, cleaning his face with little bursts of flame. You close your eyes a moment and take a long, fortifying breath. The rest of the day should be easier, with War doing all the work.

Tourists clog Fuchsia’s streets, milling around quaint little gift shops, and trainers are out in force, battling their pokémon under the brilliant sun. Normally you wouldn’t mind taking your trip slow, stopping to buy ice cream like Titan strongly hints you should, enjoying the show. But you can’t relax today, when you’re sure every look you get is someone wondering who you are, what’s wrong with the great Nathaniel Morgan, whether they ought to offer assistance or get help. Your pace feels plodding instead of leisurely, the crowds threatening rather than engulfing.

By the time you reach the beach proper you’re so on edge that you’re literally prodding the great Nathaniel Morgan along, for what little good it does. Titan wanders off, beckoned by open stretches of sand, but you drive the human straight down to the water’s edge. He collapses as soon as you stop harrying him, and you ignore his wheezing and release War into the water. The tentacruel takes shape with his jagged beak buried in the sand, staring out at you from the shadow of his bell.

“We are going to Cinnabar Island, War,” you say. “We will stop at the Seafoam Islands tonight. Will you carry us?”

“Both of you?” the tentacruel asks, looking down at the great Nathaniel Morgan, who’s content to lie back in the sand and ignore you, eyes closed.

“Yes, him too. I am sorry. I know it will be a lot for you to carry two people. Do you think you can do it?”

“If that’s what it takes,” War says, waving a few tentacles dismissively. He’s much more interested in the great Nathaniel Morgan, watching the human intently.

“Good. Thank you, War. Now.” You prod the great Nathaniel Morgan in the side with your foot. He opens his eyes and glares mutely up at you. “This is War. He will be taking us to Cinnabar Island. War, this is, uh, my brother. The great Nathaniel Morgan.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan raises his eyebrows at you, then addresses War without bothering to get up from his sprawl. “Yeah. Hi. Did you know your trainer’s a total fucking douchebag?”

The tentacruel lets out a grating laugh that sets his whole bell quivering. Then he reaches out, and the great Nathaniel Morgan, finding himself confronted by dozens of bulb-tipped tentacles, scrambles backwards, nearly falling as he tries to get to his feet in the same motion. “Hey! What the fuck?”

“Oh. He wants to shake hands.” You’re not sure what War finds so fascinating about the human custom, your washed-out memories tell you of a child who once carried her tentacool around, annoying people who had very important jobs to do with requests to indulge his curiosity.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Shake hands with that thing? I don’t even want to go near all those fucking tentacles.”

“His name is War,” you snap as the tentacruel’s eyes narrow. “And yes. You will shake hands. It is polite.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan stares at you, then at the tentacruel, the forest of tentacles still upraised. “Oh, fine,” he snarls. “Fucking fine. I guess I should just give in now and accept that you’re fucking insane.”

He steps forward and reaches out, gingerly taking one of War’s tentacles by the bulb and moving it ever so slightly up and down. “There’s your fucking handsh–aagh! Fuck!” The Rocket pulls his hand away like he’s been burned, hissing expletives between his teeth. “That bastard stung me! Shit!” he snarls, staring at the line of red welts down the middle of his palm. War is beside himself with mirth, slapping at the water with his tentacles while his laughter tumbles on and on, a pattering noise like churning pebbles.

“Yes. It was pretty funny. Keep your voice down.” You glance around, but the only people nearby are a group of swimsuit-clad children gathered around Titan, watching the charizard wallow in the hot sand.

“Jesus fuck, are all your pokémon as sociopathic as you?” the great Nathaniel Morgan asks, cradling his injured hand against his chest.

You aren’t sure what he means by that. “You deserved it. Now we are going. Get on.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I could be fucking dying over here, and you just want to sail off into the motherfucking sunset?”

“You are not dying. War did not really hurt you,” you say, shooting the tentacruel a look that says, Right? War stares back at you, placid and inscrutable. “You have held me up enough already. Either get on, or I will drag you up there myself.”

The Rocket looks from War to the ocean beyond, teeth bared in a grimace. “Look, if I have to be perfectly fucking honest here, I kind of really fucking hate water, okay? Like I can’t swim for shit and I kind of don’t trust your evil fucking tentacruel not to fucking drown me the first fucking opportunity it gets.”

“That is unfortunate. Get on.”

“I’m just saying, is all. If you don’t want me throwing up all over you and your fucking pokémon, it would probably be safer to just take the ferry or something.”

“I told you already. We are not taking the ferry. And you are not taking it alone, either,” you add, when he starts to protest. “If it is really such a big problem for you, I will put you to sleep so that you do not realize where you are. That is my final offer. Make your decision before I make it for you.”

“I don’t even want to fucking know what you mean by ‘put me to sleep,’ do I?”

“I am not going to wait much longer.”

You allow him a couple seconds of deliberation, then take a step forward, readying a spore attack. He recoils, snapping, “All right! Fuck, I’ll do it. Stay the fuck away from me. You’re probably just going to try and dump me overboard or some shit as soon as there are no witnesses, and I’m not going to make that any fucking easier for you.” He skirts around you and approaches War, face set grimly.

The Tentacruel watches him come, forcing his beak deeper into the sand with a loud crunch and tipping his bell down towards the human. Even with the help, the great Nathaniel Morgan’s left to jump and curse and shimmy awkwardly one-handed up the springy curve of the tentacruel’s bell. After much swearing and the occasional exclamation of pain, he finally manages to drag himself up to the crest of War’s bell and perch there, weary and slumped in defeat.

Then he lets out a stifled shriek and throws himself flat as War wrenches his beak out of the sand and raises himself to his full height in one sudden, swaying motion. You sigh in exasperation and say, “Stop messing with him, War. I do not want to have to listen to his whining all afternoon, and I do not think you do, either.”

You’re about to jump straight up next to the great Nathaniel Morgan, but remember where you are just in time and ask War to lift you up instead. The tentacruel deposits you next to your shivering, sweating companion, who clings to the tentacruel’s bell for dear life. You ignore him and call, “Titan!”

The charizard’s buried neck-deep, sending up little plumes of grit as he snuffs around under the sand. He lurches guiltily upright at the sound of his name, blowing sand out of his nostrils and looking around in wild disorientation. His audience is beside themselves with giggles. “Titan. We are leaving. Do you want to come with us now, or catch up later? We will be stopping at Seafoam tonight.”

“Seafoam?” he roars back, and you realize your mistake as his expression hardens, his tail flame leaping higher.

“It is okay, Titan. I can take you in your pokéball. You do not have to go there if you do not want to.”

“No,” he says with unusual force. “No, I’ll go. By myself.”

Before you can object he stretches his neck up and spreads his wings, sending children scampering as they realize what’s coming. The charizard takes off in a blast of wind and sand, flapping mightily in a rapid ascent. Below, the kids squeal and stumble around, laughing and blinking sand out of their eyes. A couple wave.

You do not. You watch Titan bank around and soar out over the ocean, anxiety tightening your chest.

Nothing to be done for it now. Best to get moving. You push your worries aside and pat War’s bell, shouting down, “Okay, War. Let’s get going.” The tentacruel lurches around, clumsy in the shallows, and sets out into the sea.

---

You expected the great Nathaniel Morgan to be the one making trouble this trip, but it’s actually War who’s annoying you the most. It was pretty funny the first few times the tentacruel pressed a stealthy, slimy tentacle against the back of the human’s neck–you definitely wouldn’t have expected he could shriek that loud–but he keeps freaking out so much he falls in the ocean, and then you’re the one who has to save him.

“Come on, War. This is getting old.” You haul the great Nathaniel Morgan back up while he makes a desperate one-handed grab for the tentacruel’s bell. His other hand’s swollen up a nasty shade of purple, and the human holds it out away from everything, letting out a bitten-off cry of pain whenever something bumps it. He lies half-curled on War’s bell, eyes pressed tight shut as he breathes fast and shallow, shuddering convulsively. “He is just going to be sick again. Really, you ought to leave him alone.”

War waggles an impudent tentacle at you, then lets it slide back into the water with the rest. “I mean it,” you say. “No more of that.”

That gets a sullen burble of assent, coming up distorted through the water. Even War’s starting to get bored of playing pranks. He lashes out at a passing tentacool, forcing her to hasty retreat. A few minutes later he sinks another of his kin with a precise blast of water, and you have to smile. Your old friend has become quite the terror of the seas since you last saw him.

“Hey.” You tap War’s bell and point at a cluster of V-winged shapes circling nearby. “See those wingull? Think you can hit them from here?”

The tentacruel shudders beneath you, and you grab hold of his bell as it tilts back. War spits a dripping gobbet of sludge, which sails much farther than you expected but only grazes one of the seabirds. Most take off, shrieking curses back at you, but a few wheel your way instead, jeering angrily as they bear down on you and War.

“Go on, get them!” you say with a laugh, and War fires away, knocking a couple out of the sky. Then the rest are upon you, screeching and dive-bombing you and War and your unfortunate companion. You laugh and toss Thunderstorm’s pokéball out over the ocean. The magneton appears in a shower of sparks, only to get soaked, a moment later, by a wingull’s water gun.

It only takes a few seconds for Thunderstorm to roast the rest of the flock. You laugh, and War laughs with you, as the last of the birds topples out of the air. “Nice, Thunder! All right, come on. Keep your eyes out to see if there are any other good fights around.”

“This shit again? Why don’t you give it a fucking rest already?” the human croaks from behind you. He’s sitting with his back to you now, head hanging and one eye slitted open just enough to give you an accusatory look. He swallows thickly and adds, “Whatever happened to your crazy goddamned hurry, anyway?”

“Thanks to you, I am already way beyond late. A little extra time will not hurt. Besides, this is what a trainer does.”

A trainer usually battles other trainers, too, but you don’t want people seeing the great Nathaniel Morgan and asking questions. He ruins everything, so the least he can do is shut up and let you get in what training you can. You pass the hours distracting War with fighting, sending Thunderstorm out to zap whatever he can’t easily clean up. Even Rats gets a workout, despite complaining the entire time about how much she hates swimming. She throws herself at her opponents with extra ferocity, just so she can get back into her ball to sulk all the faster.

The battles peter out as shadows lengthen and your pokémon tire, and you let the team rest in their pokéballs while War strokes on south and west. The day bleeds out in sunset reds until the stars and sickle moon gleam off the low humps of the Seafoam Islands. Broken reef-spires show black against pale ocean spray and frame the weatherbeaten hills that mark the entrance to the caverns.

War glides on, skirting around the rocks and putting in near the middle of the island, a flat, pebbly expanse between the caves’ twin entrances. The tentracruel has to lift himself to crawl forward on his tentacles as he enters shallow water, and his smooth forward motion turns jerky and rocking. Finally he plunges his beak into the ground with a shuddering grind, anchoring himself; then stillness.

You jump down and stand stretching and shaking the stiffness out of your limbs. War doesn’t wait for the great Nathaniel Morgan to get moving and shrugs him off with a quick rolling motion. The Rocket lands with a groan of pain, lying half in and half out of the water, and War goes through his own stretches, massaging his bell with his tentacles, working the imprints of your rear ends out of it.

“Thanks, War,” you say, running your hand along the edge of his bell as you contemplate your campsite. It’s windswept and exposed, but it’s the only solid ground for miles. There’s a light near one of the cave entrances where Titan sits, staring into the dark opening. “Titan!” you call. He turns his head slightly but does not get up. “Come over here a minute, okay?” After a couple of seconds he slowly gets to his feet and starts in your direction, and you return your attention to nearer concerns.

The great Nathaniel Morgan is lying where he fell, shivering, and you prod him with a foot. “Get up.”

For a moment you think he’s going to ignore you, but then he starts moving, slowly, painfully. At this rate he’ll be vertical in an hour, maybe. A sudden stab of irritation has you bend down and seize him by the arm, hauling him upright while he hisses in pain. “Do not be so pathetic.”

“Just you wait, fucker,” he says, swaying as you release him. “I’m gonna laugh like hell when you’re on your fucking knees, begging me for mercy…”

“I look forward to you trying to get revenge. I bet it will be funny,” you say, rummaging your pokéballs out of your pocket. “Come on out, everyone.”

Titan stomps up just as the rest of your team takes shape. Rats, still sopping, gives herself a vigorous shake and settles down to busy grooming. You glance around, but all the shadows are empty. Absol already knows what’s up anyway.

“Everybody,” you say, “this is the great Nathaniel Morgan. I’m going to be him for a while, but Absol told me to not let him die, so he’s coming with us for a bit.” Your pokémon exchange sidelong glances, and a couple look ready to protest. You raise your hands and keep going. “It will be fine. Just ignore him and let me deal with things. I don’t know what Absol was thinking, either, but don’t worry about it. She knows what she’s talking about.”

Nobody can deny that, but there’s still a lot of restless shifting. You plunge on, straight into the good news. “We’re staying here tonight, and tomorrow we’ll be on Cinnabar Island. We’re going to train a bit, then face Blaine.” Even Titan brightens at that, wings coming up out of their droop.

Rats leaves off preening to squint at the great Nathaniel Morgan. Her whiskers twitch, and she makes a “tsk” noise. “So just what makes him so great, huh? Looks kinda dumb to me. Why’s he staring?”

You turn and find the great Nathaniel Morgan tensed to run, eyes wide in the starlight. After a moment you realize you’ve slipped into talking pokémon, and he hasn’t been able to understand a word. “I was making introductions. These are my pokémon. Rats. Thunderstorm. You already met Titan. Togetic. Duskull.” You indicate each in turn. “And War too, of course.”

He barely glances at them. “Yeah, hi.” And turns back to you. “What the fuck was that?”

“What?”

“Those… Those fucking noises you were making. I thought you were having some kind of fucking fit.”

“I told you. I was introducing you.”

“And just what in the fuck do you mean by that?”

“I speak pokémon. Obviously.”

“What?” His laugh is shallow, breathless, without mirth. “Listen, Freak. Even the wackjobs who claim they can talk to pokémon don’t stand there going all ‘bark bark growl hiss’ at them and shit. Come on.”

“Humans do not have to speak the pokémon language to be understood. But I can. I like to.”

“Oh, right. Uh huh. The fucking pokémon language.” He shakes his head, snorting. “I already knew you were a fucking psycho, Freak, but that? Seriously fucking delusional. Seriously fucking insane. Fucking insane…” He falls into a silent laughing fit.

Titan stretches his wings high and beats them once, letting out a snort, and Thunderstorm drifts gently side to side, radiating boredom. You decide to let the human think what he wants; you don’t care if he’s too stupid to see the truth.

“I’m going to get some food ready. If you want to help, you can look for wood. That’s all,” you say to your friends. While the rest of them scatter, you ask War, “You want any?”

“No. I’ll hunt.” There’s a crunch of sand and rock as he uproots himself, and then he’s toddling back to deeper waters, starlight glinting wetly off the red sacs on his bell as he lurches out of sight.

You turn back around, then jump as you find Togetic hovering directly in front of your face.

“Yay camping!” she chirps, flying a quick loop around your head.

You smile. “That’s right, Togetic.”

“Where’s the TV?”

Ah. “No TV tonight, Togetic. I’m a real trainer now, so we’re staying out here. You can watch tomorrow when we’re at a Pokémon Center, okay?”

“Mmmm.” She bounces as she thinks, ricocheting around in midair. You watch with bated breath, hoping she doesn’t start a tantrum. You don’t want to deal with that with the great Nathaniel Morgan there, staring at you two like he’s witnessing an alien landing. Not that you’d blame Togetic for her distress–you don’t even want to think about all the shows you’re missing out on.

After a few moments Togetic brightens. “Okay! No TV! Adventure!”

You laugh as she zooms in erratic circles. “That’s right. Now, you want to help? Can you find me some wood?”

“Yeah!” She zips away, zigzagging low over the ground and humming a happy nonsense song to herself. The great Nathaniel Morgan follows her with his eyes, frowning.

“And you. Stay out of the way.”

“With fucking pleasure,” he grunts.

And he does until later, when he settles in by your fire, as far away from you as he can manage without being completely outside its light. You fuss with the spitting, flaring little thing, cobbled together from pieces of driftwood found bleaching on the rocks, then start rooting in your pack for food. There’s nothing to catch around here but fish, and you don’t feel like swimming in the black deep of the ocean tonight. It’s human fare for you.

“Did you get something to eat earlier?” you ask Titan as he flops down behind you with a gusty sigh.

“Not hungry,” he mutters, staring out at the ocean. You frown and scratch the base of his neck just above where the wings connect. He doesn’t acknowledge you, and you don’t know what to say. How can he be mourning that other trainer, the one who stole him from you? You’re right here, alive; the two of you are together again. How can he be sad? But somehow, it seems, he is.

The matter is driven from your mind as Togetic comes zooming in, demanding food with high-pitched chirps. You gently fend her off while you dig a pack of fruit chews out of your bag, then dump a few into your palm and offer them up. She snatches them and takes off, dancing around the fire and showing off her prize to everyone, the great Nathaniel Morgan included. “Piss off!” he growls, taking a swipe at her as she darts past. She evades him easily, laughing, and rockets away, probably looking for Duskull, her favorite person to irritate.

The gummies should keep her occupied for a while, but you get out a tupperware full of honey and crushed insects to heat up for her actual dinner. And while you’re thinking of it… “Thunder?”

“Wait. You had a motherfucking car battery in your bag this entire time?”

“Obviously,” you say as you clip the black contact to one of the magneton’s magnets, the red to another. Thunderstorm lets out a contented buzz as current starts to flow.

“That thing must weigh like thirty fucking pounds! How the hell were you lugging it around all day?”

“It is not really so heavy.” You need some food for yourself and Rats. And the great Nathaniel Morgan too, you suppose. He’s even more obnoxious when unfed. Soup?

“God. Why don’t you use a charging station at a fucking Center?”

“Everyone else is eating. It would not be fair for Thunderstorm to be left out.” Chicken noodle. Four cans, you think, to split between you. Plus crackers and energy bars and cookies… You smile as you set up your tripod and collapsible pot, then drag a sudden claw around the rim of a can and lever up the top.

The great Nathaniel Morgan watches, dubious. “You’re fucking crazy.”

Rats, now dry and fluffed, comes scrambling over as if summoned by the sound of soup hitting pot. She flops down by the fire and immediately tucks herself into a dozy curl, nose buried in the fur on her stomach and paws up over her head.

The great Nathaniel Morgan raises his eyebrows at her. “Your raticate’s pretty lazy, huh?”

“He’s can criticize after he spends an afternoon swimming around and beating the tar out of uppity starfish,” Rats says into her stomach. Then, as if suddenly inspired, she lifts her head a little and addresses Titan. “Hey, that reminds me. You totally missed how I destroyed this lame staryu this afternoon. See, I don’t really like swimming, but…”

You smile and shake your head. “You should save that for later, Rats. Titan is not feeling well right now.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan frowns at you across the fire. “Oh, come the fuck on. You can’t seriously expect me to believe you understood any of that shit.”

“Of course I did. You may not believe that pokémon can talk, but I know better. You are stupid.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck off. I know pokémon can talk. I just think you understanding them is bullshit.”

“Oh? I did not realize Rockets consider pokémon to be sentient.”

Titan turns and actually looks at the human, and Rats opens one dark eye to regard him as well. “Rocket?” She flashes her teeth at him. “Maybe you shoulda just ignored Absol and let him die anyway.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan frowns at Rats as she settles back into her doze, then turns his scowl on you. “Yeah, you got me, Freak. I like to spend my free time kicking baby eevee and repeating my mantra about how all pokémon exist for the glory of Team Rocket and shit.”

You nod and set aside the empty soup can to eat later and heft a second one, considering. Is your pot big enough to hold all of them at once?

“Christ,” the great Nathaniel Morgan mutters, and you glance up to find him looking at you with lips curled back to show a hint of teeth. “Look, maybe you missed the part where Team Rocket kicked me out because I ain’t shitty enough for them. You know, while you were all busy doing fuckall and I was getting my ass kicked and all my shit stolen. I thought you wanted to be some kind of pokémon master like all the other trainer brats. Whatever happened to kicking Rocket ass like the morons in the movies?”

“There were too many of them, and I did not know how strong they were. I did not want to start a fight. And yes, I recall that they thought you had betrayed them. Which you denied. So either they were wrong and you are as bad as any of them, or you were lying, in which case you are a bad person anyway.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan blinks. “Oh, shit. For a second there that almost made fucking sense. God, I’m really losing it.” Then his expression hardens. “But oh, good one, ‘Yeah, I could have done something about it, but I was just too fucking pussy.’”

You tighten your grip on the soup can in lieu of going for the Rocket’s throat. “I told you before. Your pokémon are your responsibility. Do not blame me for failing to protect them. I would have if I could. And besides, I think they may have more luck with whatever trainer they go to now.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan tilts his head and bares his teeth in a ragged, hole-riddled mockery of a smile. “Yeah. You know what? I think I’d be more pissed if you had up and snagged them. At least this way they’re probably not going to get stuck with a murderous psycho piece of shit like you.”

“I am a good trainer!” Does he want you to kill him? You could, you really could. You can feel the muscles shifting under your skin, bones thickening, talons threatening. How dare he? How could he even suggest? Your words come out husky and strained. “You are a member of Team Rocket. You are not a good person. I am.”

“Ooh, nice comeback, jackass. That’ll fucking show me.”

“You are not listening. I am a good trainer. Me! Your opinion does not matter. You are a worthless, stupid Rocket!”

You’re shaking, you notice distantly. Rats’ voice comes to you, far-off and small. “Uh, Boss… Maybe you oughta, you know, kinda calm down?”

The Rocket sneers at you. “Yeah, go on and say it a little fucking louder. I didn’t quite hear you the first eight thousand fucking times.”

“Shut up! Shut up!” The soup can in your hand explodes, and you stop in shock as cold, slimy broth drips down your wrist and drizzles onto the rocks. Then you shake the can off, extricating your fingers from the holes punched through the metal, and leave it lying there in an expanding puddle.

In the silence that follows you realize everyone is watching you. Titan is half to his feet, crouched nervously in the shadows behind you. Somehow Rats made it to your side without your noticing, her paws up on your arm. You shake her off, gently, and sit and suck chicken juice off your fingers until you feel calm enough to talk again.

“If you keep annoying me, that will be your head,” you say to the great Nathaniel Morgan, who watches tensely from across the fire. “You do not know anything, and I am tired of listening to your lies. If you have to speak at all, you had better speak the truth.”

He gives you another toothy smirk and starts to cross his arms over his chest, but stops with a wince as he jars his injured hand. “Temper, temper,” he hisses, so quiet you almost miss it. And that’s the last you hear from him for the rest of the night.