Roots // PG-13

[Cosmic Fury]

I took quite some time to read this fanfic from start to finish, and I'm honestly not going to bore you with a pages-long review or anything.

All I've got to say about it is....




It's pretty darn good! It's hard to keep me hooked reading something, and yet here I am after 28 chapters posting this. I would say that among my favorite things about your fic is the style you use to write it with. It's very energetic and fast-paced, and that's what kept me reading.

Not much to say on critquing, as I positively stink at giving those. Just saying that I love this story, and if you can add me to the PM list, that would be great!

[Mrs. Lovett]

Hey there! I know it's not an easy task to catch up, especially since the story gets progressively longer as I move along. :P I'm glad you're enjoying it so far, and hopefully you'll find the remaining chapters just as interesting. The pace will pick up slightly from here on out, as we're fast approaching an important plot point. So you've jumped in at the right time.

PM list updated!

[Mrs. Lovett]

Hey everyone. Thanks for your patience. Fortunately, I've been hard at work during these past few weeks, and as a result, I've finished Chapters 30 and 31 (apart from some minor editing), and have gotten 32 well on its way. I'm anticipating that those will be posted on schedule, with no more than a two-week lapse.


And yes, I did split this chapter for the sake of one tiny scene... :P Since it's so short (and since I didn't anticipate the chapter being this long), I didn't split the links into two parts. It looks cleaner, at any rate.


Read on!

2.9

Bertha didn’t make her routine visit to Lona the next day. She spent her time walking with her pokémon, observing the town, thinking over what the woman had said. At first, her ideas had seemed radical, but the more Bertha thought about them, the more she could identify with Lona’s mindset.

For some reason, the pile of badges on her desk had stricken a chord in Bertha’s heart, and for the rest of that day, they stood out more clearly in her memory than any other part of their conversation. The badges were, of course, part of her job too. She had to order them by calling the League Office whenever she ran out, and they would arrive in a neatly-packaged box a few days later, pristine and identical.

Bertha had battled many trainers in her years as a Gym leader, and though she couldn’t remember every badge she ever bestowed, some occasions still lingered in her mind. She would always remember the first trainers she ever battled, back in 1959. The five kids had come all the way from Majolica, a town near Hearthome, and were planning on sticking together till the very end. They been a fun group, always laughing, and had left her a card before they moved on.

Speeding through the subsequent years was like watching a reel of film. The setting of her battle room remained the same, but so many trainers had passed through it that she had lost track of them. She only recalled a few—a trainer who shared her name, someone that had a team consisting of only one type, and another who had been tied to his parents for his whole life, and had only just taken his first steps into the outside world. They all had different personalities, different backgrounds, and different goals. But one thing had united them all.

Towards the early months of 1962, Bertha’s memories blurred. That was when the factory had begun to dominate her thoughts, casting a shadow over her like a storm cloud. The trainers came with the same frequency as before, but she no longer retained as much about them, being busy with making her first investigations into the factory’s inner workings. When she had uncovered the truth about the zero-sum game between Team Galactic and the Sinnoh Pokémon League, she began to devote her full energy into crafting her petition. Her duties as a Gym leader took second place, which in hindsight, Bertha realized had changed her attitude as well. She stopped devoting so much attention to her trainers, seeing them as relics of a lost world, one that she no longer belonged to. Their voices and footsteps were reduced to noises that animated the empty house, their head count merely contributing to the number of mouths to feed at the dinner table. She did little more than shake their hands after their battle ended, gently reminding them to make their guest rooms nice for the next person. She had become colder.


Then, Michael and Henry had arrived. Two boys who, at first, seemed worlds apart in character, but had teamed up for the same cause. Henry, always bright and beaming with enthusiasm, had surprised her with his genuine passion—for it was the very kind that Bertha had once had, before she lost it all in the corporate labyrinth. Michael, in comparison, seemed to be the mischievous one, unafraid to test the waters before he entered them. In that respect, he was no different from the multitudes of others, who exploited their advantages, calculating their every move with the skill of a chessmaster. But Bertha had seen something else in him: an iron conviction. No matter what, she knew, if that kid set his mind to something, he wouldn’t stop anywhere along the way until he got it.

The two seemed to have come at the worst possible time, for those had been the days when Bertha was being pressured both by the town council, and the factory management. But even so, they left an impression on her.

And then, unexpectedly, she had been swept away with them on a journey—this time not just her own, but theirs. The whirlwind of the League consumed her anew, and during those long weeks of travel, Bertha had been reminded of her own adventures as a child: of pining, battling, and exploring. And strangely, those years didn’t seem so far away anymore. The League she had loved before was still there, hidden away in the folds, waiting for her to rediscover it. And she did. All it had taken was for her to watch the two trainers by her side, who seemed to grow every day, their spirit bringing light to her darkness.



Bertha mulled over what to do for a while. She read over her petition several times, analyzing every paragraph she had typed. And what she found, to her surprise, was that her writing was strangely lacking—she caught many repeated phrases, inaccuracies, and typos that she didn’t remember seeing before. Beyond the stylistic level, she could still see the overarching concept—but it was imperfect, like a diamond encrusted in a shell of dirt. The Bertha who had written those words had been afraid, upset—and hadn’t yet perceived the modern League from a trainer’s point of view. Back when she had first drafted her petition, getting rid of Team Galactic’s chokehold had seemed like the most important thing. But now, she realized, it was only half the journey.





An idea came to her.

//////

A day later, on June 27th, Bertha stopped by the Gym at its opening hour, just as the first rays of dawn began to peek over the eastern hills. She hadn’t bothered to announce her arrival, but reasoned that either way, she would be able to say her two cents.

She found Lona in her office, as expected, sipping a cup of tea before starting the day. A wooden tray was laid out on her desk, holding a breakfast plate. When Bertha stepped in, Lona looked up in surprise, and the two women looked at each other in silence.

Bertha did not sit down; she hovered in the doorway, then approached the desk, revealing the folder she was holding.

“I thought about what you said the other day,” she began. “While I don’t agree with some of it, I understand now what you mean about the League not being good with money.”

Lona kept a steady gaze, but did not reply.

“I admit, I never considered it that deeply before. To me, the League was always a sign of progress, something that had the potential to unite the country, instead of dividing it. I could never really judge when too much was too much, since I came from Eterna, a town that knew nothing of that. I looked at all those fancy designs, and I felt that that was what Gym should be—a building that a city can be proud of, instead of a run-down facility… or someone’s house.” Bertha pursed her lips. “Ultimately, I think that that was the League’s mistake. They put more money into appearances, rather than function.”

Sliding off the rubber band, she set the folder down in front of Lona. “I might not be able to change other people’s opinions, but I can ask the League to change its ways. I revised my petition a little to clarify my intentions. I still want the League to get the money it deserves, but this time I made sure it’ll get used for the right thing: to restore the Gyms, reform the Game Corners, and benefit trainers by giving them the League experience they deserve—not a money-raffle, but a fair chance. For everyone. You helped me see that, in a way, so I guess I should be thanking you.”

Lona lifted the folder and opened it. She was silent for a few minutes as she flipped through the pages, then when she finished, set it back down.

“You mean to save the League…” she said quietly. “And perhaps, you could… But times are changing. And so, I’m afraid, are we.” She looked up at Bertha. “You know, they’re thinking of introducing a new system for trainer cards. Kids who frequently buy from PokéMarts or use League-operated facilities like Game Corners will be able to upgrade their I.D.s. The ones with the higher ranks will be able to unlock this new computerized system that’ll tell them everything—a walkthrough of all the Gyms, how many Game Corner tokens they still need to buy a certain healing item… even a database to tell them which collector’s items can be found where. A while ago, all a trainer needed was the companionship of his pokémon. Now they’re being forced to pay for all these things they don’t need, as if somehow, the League’s structural reforms changed the meaning of training as well. And I think, in a way, they have… The world’s slowly turning to technology. It’s the future everyone’s waiting for, and sooner or later, we’ll have to do what the government tells us—modernize or die.”

She paused.

“That’s what happened to Eterna, isn’t it? The town hung on to its culture and values as long as it could… but it didn’t realize how slow it was moving compared to the majority of Sinnoh. And then the worst of that outside world dawned upon it.”


Bertha nodded slowly. “And the same thing happened to the old League too...”


“Yes…” Lona said. “Only, I suppose, it’s still happening. With every year that goes by, I see it’s getting worse. It’s like this long downward spiral we’ve been sucked into and I still can’t see the end of it… What does the government want? Can it really be money? Do they favor one thing over another simply because they think it’ll be more profitable to them in the long run? I don’t know... I don’t know what they want to do with us.” She pressed her fingers to her temples and gave a shrug.

They both fell silent.



“I’ve thought about that too,” said Bertha, after a while. “I wondered why it was Galactic, of all things, that rose to power. And I guess I don’t know either. We can’t know.” She crossed her arms and turned towards the window. “But you know what I realized?”


Lona lifted her head.


“I realized that it doesn’t matter. You’re right—the League’s changing, and it might not be for the better. But we have a chance to make it stop. We can put an end to this before Galactic comes out on top again. And it’s not just them—it’s the whole country. Hell, it’s the whole world. It can change all it wants, but our job is to keep our place in it. We owe it to the trainers to keep the League’s traditions alive. And maybe, in some cases, accept change as well.”

Feeling a silence from Lona, Bertha turned to her and took a step forward.

“Look… I’m not denying that the League of the 30s and 40s was great. It was. But we can’t bring it back, and frankly, there’s no point in trying. Yes, it had a lot of good things that we don’t have today. But there was also a drawback—it was too restrictive, too adamant to change, and because of that it failed to realize when events were turning against its favor. It didn’t stand up for itself in time, and as a result, it let the government take complete control of its fate. But in a way, merging with the feds helped it too, because right now we have the one thing that the old Sinnoh League didn’t—worldwide recognition. That’s already something. It may seem like there’s no way out for us, but there is. Now is the time to act and take back what we lost. And we don’t have to forgo the old to accept the new—rather, we should work with all that we have today rather than against it. By doing that, we can make the League even better than it was before. And who knows…” Bertha took a breath. “Maybe if Eterna had done that, it would still be here.”


As she said this, Lona’s gaze trailed over to hers, and the two women locked eyes. Bertha kept hers fixed on the darker pair, and all of a sudden, she saw something familiar in their stare. Something lifted within her, and unexpectedly, she felt a stray smile tug at her lips. Bertha smiled, and all of a sudden her former frustration dissolved. She was no longer thinking of comebacks or of new ways to prove her point. She was thinking about the League—just the League—and what it meant to her and the woman sitting in front of her.

“We can get it back on track,” she said. “We may not be at our golden age right now, but I believe — and I know you believe it too, Miss Walker — that there’s still something in there worth saving. Think of your trainers. You told me a while ago that you knew how to distinguish the motivated ones. Think of them. There are tons of kids out there who had nothing to be proud of in their lives, and then regained their confidence through doing what their hearts pined for. I know it happens. I’ve seen it.”



Lona lowered her hands and leaned back into her chair. Her face bore a pondering expression, but she also seemed tired.



“I understand…”




She didn’t appear capable of saying more.


At that point, Bertha’s gaze flicked over to a small stool near the window, where she noticed a brown pokéball pouch. Apparently, Lona was battling today.


Feeling no urge to stay longer, she backed away, crossing her arms. “Anyway, it’s up to you. Read it. Or not.”


Lona inclined her head. “I’ll get to it… for now, go. Just go.”



Bertha did not immediately move. She remained where she was for a while, silently watching the woman who didn’t look back. And finally she understood.


Turning to leave, Bertha gave the room a final glance, and let the door swing shut behind her. At that moment, the clock on Lona’s wall struck six. A new battle day began.

//////

Eight hours into the day shift, Michael arrived at the Gym for his final two staff battles. The previous days had ended more or less in his favor—he had closed his first with a win and a tie, then the second with two wins. The staff had varying personalities and battling styles, but the pattern he had noticed with Paul, his first opponent, continued with the others.

Each staff member’s team consisted of three regular Fighting types, which varied from Meditites to Mankeys, and occasionally a dual-type. Then, at the end, they would send out their fourth pokémon, which would always be either a Hitmonchan or a Hitmonlee. This was evidently their way of preparing trainers for Lona’s team, though Michael noticed that those pokémon were confined to using only the most basic moves, and possessed no extraordinary capabilities over their teammates aside from better endurance. This, and the fact that Croagunk was excluded from the staff lineup, gave him the unsettling feeling that Lona had something up her sleeve.

But whatever thoughts occupied him during the day, it all vanished when he stepped through the battle room door. During the match, Michael became a blank slate—thinking of nothing but strategy, responding only to the rhythm of conflict. Winning became easier as he learned to guess in advance what his opponent could do, and oftentimes he found himself several steps ahead of them. What impressed him most was his team’s growing unity. Over the long weeks, he had developed a mutual understanding with his pokémon; he no longer had to give them as explicit instructions as before, for they always seemed to know what they had to do. Goldeen had mastered her water technique, and could now perform complex maneuvers across the floor, twisting in circles around her opponent, and even jumping. Machop learned to minimize distractions, and maximize his speed. Ringo became swifter, and apart from picking up catchphrases, learned new tricks to perform in the air. Turtwig became bulkier and sturdier, no longer the clunking creature he had been some weeks ago.

These changes had come about gradually, so Michael had not always noticed them, but in the staff battles, the true extent of their progress shone through. And with his pokémon’s stamina on the rise, his began to improve as well.


That day, Michael was in more of a battling mood than ever. He won his first battle four fainted pokémon to one, and in the next, achieved three defeats with all of his team still standing. His referee’s fourth and final pokémon was a Machop, to which he had countered with his own.

The battle began cordially, with both trainers giving commands at an even pace, but eventually escalated into a wrestling match. The Machops formed a twisting blur, constantly shifting their stances and jabbing with speedy fists. It soon became hard to tell which pokémon belonged to whom, and Michael and his opponent constantly moved around the battlers, trying to keep their eyes locked on one of them. Occasionally, Michael blurted out a command, hoping to gain some sort of response, but neither of the Machops seemed affected. They continued to fight, dealing and blocking blows, until finally one of them lifted a hand and brought it down on the other’s neck, striking a pressure point. The injured Machop collapsed, and did not move.

The still-standing Machop dusted off its hands, and turned to Michael with a smile. He felt a flood of relief.

“Ver’y good!’

From the other side of the field, his referee, Rachael, sent back her fainted pokémon. Shooting Michael a wink, she took out a new pokéball and held it out at arm’s length. “Just one more to go, and then it’s the leader battle for you! Go, Garchomp!”

“What?!”

“Relax! I was just kidding.” Rachael made a silly face. “But you still might wanna keep your head on—go, Chansey!”

A burst of light escaped from the capsule, fading as a round, pink pokémon landed on the mats. The Chansey’s face consisted of two beady eyes placed low over a smiling mouth. Its arms, disproportionately tiny and delicate, were folded over its belly, where a large egg rested in a pouch.

“But that’s not a Fighting type,” Michael blurted, before he could stop himself. Noticing Rachael, he backpedaled. “I mean… what I meant was, isn’t that what all the staff are supposed to have?”

“This is just our way of sending you guys off,” Rachael replied. “Historically, Chansies were symbols of luck and patience. We have all our trainers battle one at the very end as our way of wishing them luck… and testing their patience.” She winked. “I can tell you for sure that you won’t see Chansey in your battle with Lona, but even so, it’ a good experience.”

Michael looked down at the chubby pokémon, who blinked and smiled right back. Normal type, he thought. Easy.

He turned to Machop, who had made himself comfortable sitting down, and snapped his fingers for the pokémon to get up. “Machop, use Double Kick!”

The Chansey did not react as Machop broke into a run, aiming a kick at her side. The fighter’s foot struck her torso, and Chansey went flying—but instead of suffering a jarring collision with the floor, she bounced off with her head and landed on her feet, unharmed. The Chansey began to dance, tapping and twirling, as if inviting Machop to continue.

Frustrated, Machop kicked again—this time putting so much force behind the blow that Chansey sailed towards the wall. The impact seemed strong enough to bruise, but Chansey simply bounced off like a rubber ball, sailing over Machop’s head. She let herself fall to the floor, rolling and laughing.

Rachael did not give any commands, but kept a faint smile as Machop ran himself ragged. He tried all sorts of attacks, moving from kicks to jabs, from jabs to throws. But it was as if Chansey’s body was made of sponge. She absorbed every impact, rebounded from every fall, and each time she got up, she would begin to dance. Machop, lured into an inescapable rage by the taunt, kept right on going, ignoring even Michael’s commands to stop.

In his frustration, Michael grabbed the sides of his head and groaned. “What the hell?” Then, remembering Rachael, he looked up. “Uh—I mean, uh… why is she so…?”

Rachael giggled. “Remember, this isn’t just a battle,” she said. “It’s life! Not all of your opponents will fall down after the first punch. I’ll give you a hint, though: Chansey gets her strength from somewhere. Find the source.”

Michael turned to Machop. The fighter was currently jabbing at Chansey’s side, and the pink pokémon was flinching away, giggling. Throughout, she was keeping her arms folded in front of her, the tips of her stubby hands just barely covering the pouch on her belly.

Finally, it clicked. “Machop!” he shouted. “The egg! Get the egg!”

Machop tore his raged gaze away from Chansey, his chest expanding with rapid, exhausted breaths. A brief look of puzzlement crossed his face. Chansey straightened herself and beckoned, tapping her feet. But Machop had broken free of Taunt’s hold—in a flash, he grabbed the egg and pulled it out of the pouch, jumping back. At once, a great weight seemed to press down on Chansey’s body. She lost her former grace, shoulders drooping, and began to teeter. After a brief struggle, she fell, landing in a seated position. Machop continued to step back, hugging the egg ever tighter, as if afraid that it would be taken away.

Rachael clapped. “Spot on! You guessed it!”

Chansey, who was still fumbling to regain her balance, finally managed to stand. She hobbled over to Machop and lifted her arms, trying to reach the egg, but he held it high over her head. After a minute of enduring her protests, Machop finally softened and handed it back to her. Chansey dusted off the egg, testing for dents. Then, she hobbled over to Michael and held it out to him. Somewhat hesitantly, he reached to take it. The egg was hard, but strangely light.

“What’s this for?” he said.

“It’s a Lucky Egg,” Rachael replied. “Open it.”

Michael turned the egg over in his hands, and found that there was a thin line that ran across the middle. He lifted his knee and cracked it open. A puff of green sparks escaped, dissipating in the air around him. He looked up in puzzlement. “That’s it?”

Chansey frowned and crossed her arms. Rachael let out a laugh. “They’re not easy for her to make, you know.”

Michael blinked. “Oh. Well, uh… sorry.”

After the both of them sent back their pokémon, Rachael picked up her clipboard and put a big check beside his name. “All right Michael, you are officially done with this Gym! All you have to do now is go meet with Lona to schedule your battle. I believe she’s in her office now.” Then, remembering something, she added, “Oh, and your friend Henry was also promoted earlier today. He agreed to wait till you finished so you two could go together.”

Michael nodded. “Great.”

Rachael pushed open the door, and together, they went to the lobby. Henry’s face appeared amongst a sea of others — he was sitting at a bench, tapping the floor with his toes. Upon seeing Michael, a smile lit up his face, and the boy sprang up to meet them.

“Did you get it? Did you make it?”

“I made it!” Michael said. “Come on, let’s go book our battles. I don’t want to wait a second longer than I have to.”

“Right.”

They followed Rachael down the left hallway, tripping over their own feet to keep up. She stopped by a door labeled ‘Office’, and indicated for the boys to wait. Slowly, Rachael turned the doorknob and took a peek inside. An answer came, and she nodded once to the person inside.

“All right, you’re set!” Looking back to the boys, Rachael smiled, motioning for them to enter.

Michael stepped forward, crossing the threshold into a big, sunny space. Light from the window spilled across the room, over glistening books, colorful figurines, and shelves made of polished wood. Everything was clean and exact, not a pin out of place.

Lona herself was seated behind a big desk in the center, the corners of which seemed to stretch to infinity, piled high with papers and binders. As usual, she was bent over a paper of some sort, though by the pace of her writing, Michael could tell she was weighing her words, clumsily scrawling a line before crossing it out. She did not look up at them.

The door closed behind them with a thump as Rachael departed, shrouding the boys in silence. At last, Lona lowered her pen and set it aside.

“Well done,” she said. “You have both demonstrated the required skills demanded of an aspiring trainer. Now you will take the next step and see what you have made of your knowledge.” She handed them each a slip of paper. “Your battles will both be tomorrow afternoon. Henry McPherson, yours will begin at 1:30, and Michael Rowan, 2:30.”

The boys took the leaflets, and Lona went back to what she had been writing before. Henry looked at the time chart, then, biting his tongue, lifted his head. “Ma’am, how’s the petition coming along?”

“You may leave now,” Lona said, not looking up. “Good day.”

Michael grabbed Henry’s arm and pulled him out of the office. When they were out in the hallway, he stopped the boy beside the wall.

“What the hell did you do that for?”

Henry began to stammer. ”I—I don’t know, I just…”

“Did you see the way she talked?” Michael said. “She’s pissed, and if you push her, she’ll get pissed even more and take it out on us. Whatever they’re doing is Bertha’s business.”

“But what if Bertha doesn’t make it in time? We’ll have to stay and wait for her!”

“You think I don’t want to get out of here too? Just focus on winning the battle. Bertha will get everything done in time. Don’t worry.”

Michael wasn’t sure where his sudden resoluteness had come from. Part of him wanted to hope that Bertha’s negotiations were going well, but every day that she remained quiet, the more he wondered what was holding them up. And now, for the first time, he saw the strain on Lona’s face as well. Even in the comfort of her own office, she suddenly seemed uneasy, like a dam ready to burst. She was on the verge of something, though he didn’t quite know what.

Henry, who seemed to catch on to this invisible thought, bit his lip and nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. Let’s go.”


They left for the lobby together, pocketing the slips of paper. Simultaneously, from across the room, a group of kids filed out of the other hallway, forming a clump around the doorway. Michael saw them as he entered. The trainers were holding bright orange flyers, whose contents seemed to be the topic of a hushed debate. They trailed across the room, gathering followers, as the kids who didn’t have papers of their own looked off of their neighbors’ shoulders. He caught bits of their conversation as they passed by:


“What is it? Where’d you get it?”


“I found it in my room this morning.”


“… petition to fire the Gym leader?”


“It’s not even spelled correctly!”


Michael felt a brief shock pass over him. He watched as the trainers came to a gradual stop in the middle of the lobby, and eased his way over to them, trying to get a glimpse of the flyers. But the kids were so occupied by their discussion that they kept twisting and turning, and each time his eyes locked on one, it was quickly turned away.

Meanwhile, the staff at the front desk paused what they were doing and looked up at the crowd. One of them rose from her seat, and Michael recognized Betty, his referee from the week prior. Behind her was Leroy, who was stapling a stack of papers. As the staff around him stilled, he looked askance to see what the hush was about.

Betty leaned over the counter and reached out. “Hey, hold on ther’!”

The group of trainers froze. As one, they turned towards the front desk, and Betty motioned for them to approach. “Come over here. Show me what y’all are reading.”

At first, no one moved. Then, a boy with glasses approached and handed her a copy of the flyer. Only now did Michael become aware of the bone-dry silence that had fallen over the room. Betty scanned over the paper, face clouded with puzzlement, while the trainers watched with widened eyes.

When she finished reading, she looked up, blinking as if to clear a haze. “Who started this?”

“We don’t know, miss,” the boy replied.

“Yeah, someone slipped them under our hotel doors last night.”

Betty frowned. “Well whoev’r it is, I want to know. This here is not what a trainer should be sayin’. Especially to someone who goes out of th’r way every day to help them. I know Lona p’rsonally, and let me tell you—she is as sweet and honest as they come. I hope this isn’t the attitude y’all have towards your teachers and y’r parents too, because if it is, then you better kick it fast. Now I want all of you to turn in those papers to me here, and don’t let me hear any more about them. If I catch anyone collecting those signatur’s, then I’ll have them kicked from this Gym.” She looked around at the trainers. “You kids bett’r speak up now. Who knew about this?”


No one replied.


Betty did not appear surprised. “Fine then. But I’m warning you—I will find out. I’m going to tell the rest of the staff about this, and we’re going to start lookin’ for this person. Whoever it is, they have their due punishment in store. Now all of you give your papers to me.”

As a group, the trainers approached and presented their flyers to Betty. She set them off to the side face-down.

“Now go off wherever you were headed before. We’ll deal with this.”

The murmuring crowd dissipated, some leaving through the exit, others trailing off towards the hallways. Michael remained where he was, still unable to shake his disbelief. But beneath that, he found it amusing that Rick’s plan ended up a flop. Anyone who resorted to such sloppy methods was only asking to be caught.

A few trainers stuck around as Betty conversed with the other attendants, and watched as all three staff members left through a side door. Leroy was the only one who remained. When all the attendants had gone, he stepped out from behind the counter and grabbed a flyer from the stack. Henry approached from beside the benches, and the three boys found each other by the front desk.

Leroy held up the paper and began to read it. “So what’s all this about?”

Michael shrugged. “Don’t know. We didn’t get one.”

“Me neither.” Leroy frowned. “The person must’ve only done their section of the hotel.”

Henry bit his lip as he scanned the typed lines. “This is really terrible... I wonder who started it.”

“Someone obviously too lazy to think things through,” Michael said in a humored tone. “We could’ve done a better job.”

Henry and Leroy gave him an odd look, to which he responded by lifting his palms. “What? I’m just saying.”

Henry lowered his gaze. “But it’s still rude.”


From the far-flung corners of the lobby, the trainers that remained gradually drifted together. Michael, Henry, and Leroy followed along, lingering on the fringes of the crowd. The trainers’ faces bore varying degrees of shock and suspicion, but at first, the talking was confined to whispers. Then, a bespectacled boy stepped away from the others, planting himself at the center where everyone could see him. He looked around at the others, who met his gaze in silence, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“So… who did it?” he asked. “Any of you know?”

The trainers shook their heads.

“I think I saw a kid with that color paper yesterday,” someone offered. “He was in the hotel. But I don’t remember his face.”

At this, a young boy let out a sigh. “Well it sure wasn’t anyone on the top floors. I’m all the way up on the sixth and I didn’t get one. I always miss out on everything…”

“My friends are all on the fifth floor and they didn’t get any either,” a girl chimed in. “But I’m on the fourth and everyone else I’ve talked to there got them.” She took out a folded copy she had hidden away in her pocket.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean their room’s on the lower floors,” said another. “Wouldn’t they start from the bottom up either way?”

“I think I know who it might be…” came a voice. All heads turned to find a short boy in trousers, who stood with his arms crossed. Upon meeting the others’ gazes, his face became grave. “I saw a kid in the mail room two nights ago. I went there ‘cause I wanted to send a letter home — and you know how there are all those typewriters there? I saw a kid with a whole stack of orange paper. He must’ve gotten it from one of the shelves. I walked in and he was just sittin’ there and typing. I didn’t see what he was working on, but he seemed busy as hell. So I got a table by myself and started typing my letter, just minding my own business. Then a few minutes later, I finished, but then I realized I didn’t know where the envelopes were, so I went up to ‘im and asked. He looked at me kind of funny, like ‘where the hell did you come from’—and he seemed scared, kinda, probably because he didn’t notice me there before. He tried to make me go away, and I tried to explain that all I wanted was to ask a freaking question, but he started making a big deal out of it. I think he thought I was spyin’ on him or something. By the time I found the envelopes, the kid just packed up all his things and left. I remember him ‘cause of his bag—he carries this weird sports thing.”

The trainers began to mutter.

“Two nights ago?” someone echoed. “That would’ve only given him enough time to make a hundred copies or so. He probably wanted to make more after giving out the first batch today.”

“Yeah, but at this rate, he’s a goner. With the staff on his back, he’ll get busted no doubt…”

A plump boy with a baseball cap made a face. “That sucks, man. It was about time someone stood up to that skag Walker. Too bad the kid didn’t tell us how to contact him—all he said was to send our signatures to some post box.”

The bespectacled boy who had spoken earlier puffed out his cheeks. “Well, that’s as good as gone now. Staff’ll be on top of that in no time. What I want to know is maybe there’s still some way we can do this. Even if the kid does get caught, we can’t just let this whole thing go dead. It’d be a waste. The petition’s obviously a call to action — and I think we ought to answer it.”

“But how?” said a girl. “They’re gonna start looking, aren’t they? The staff will make sure nothing’s going on under their noses. And I bet they’ll find a way to watch what’s goin’ on in the hotel, too.”

“That’s why we gotta be smart,” the boy replied. “I think that whoever started this petition knew the stakes. I mean, duh, it’s Lona Walker we’re talking about here. She and her staff can grill anyone who gets in their way. But that’s the point. You can’t live life without risks.”

The trainers began to murmur anew. Henry, who had grown noticeably tense by Michael’s side, suddenly seemed to snap. Without warning, he pushed himself forward. “But didn’t you hear what that lady said?” he blurted. “You’ll get in trouble! And you’ll get us all in trouble too!”

The girl made a face. “So? I think it’s worth it! There’s no way I’m gonna go through another week of this hell—and there’s still staff battles to worry about. If it weren’t for this Gym, I’d already be in Sunyshore!”

“I don’t know… I think that kid is right,” someone else said. “It’s not worth it. For one thing, you’ll get caught, which’ll mean that the blame might get put on us too—the ones who didn’t do anything. I’d rather spend two weeks getting my badge than be kicked out and have to wait another year.”

This was followed by sparse murmurs of agreement.

“Well I wouldn’t!” the girl replied. “It’s freaking summer, and I want to travel and get badges. I don’t need another teacher to make me work.”

“But that’s what you’re supposed to do!” said Henry. “You’re supposed to battle to get the badge.”

At this, the boy with the glasses shook his head. “Wait, wait, wait. Cat, what’s your problem? Do you get what we’re talking about here? This is Lona Walker’s Gym. How can you be defending it?”

“But that’s easy!” the girl cut in. “How long has he been here?”

“Two weeks,” said Henry promptly. “And I’m done with staff battles!”

The girl shrugged. “Well, then it’s obvious why you don’t care. You got it off easy, but not all of us were so lucky. Don’t you think it’s a little bit unfair for you to be moving on so quickly, while some of us have to stay?”

“But you’ll have to stay even longer if you decide to do the petition, wouldn’t you?”

“Not if everyone does their part,” replied the boy. “It doesn’t even have to be a single document. Think of it this way—if we all just send in our letters to the League Office separately, and keep passing down the information to each new group of trainers that comes in here, we could get over a hundred signatures in a month. We just need everyone to cooperate.”

“Well I’m not doing it!” Henry turned away, crossing his arms with finality.

The boy sneered. “What are you, a baby?”

“Lay off!” said Leroy. He stepped between them. “Henry’s got more guts than you! And I’m with him—I’m not gonna be a part of this either. You guys are the ones acting like babies right now, starting some stupid petition instead of beating the Gym like you’re supposed to.”

“Well obviously you’d think that. You’re one of them, aren’t you?” The boy nodded up at Leroy’s staff shirt. “All you do is run office errands. You’re not the one battling. You’re not the one going through this bullshit every day.”

Leroy narrowed his eyes. “You’re saying you know this place better than me?”

“Yeah I do, ‘cause I’m an actual trainer, not some data-freak who hides behind the staff’s backs!”

Some kids began to chuckle.

“A trainer who can’t even be bothered to train?” Leroy countered. “Is that why they rejected you, Derek? I wouldn’t be surprised—I see how some of you battle. You guys treat all this like it’s a joke, and the staff are telling you the same things over and over again, but you don’t listen. You tune them out and at the same time say that they’re not helping you. I know this Gym isn’t easy like the ones before, but there’s this little thing called respect, which I suggest you all start learning, ‘cause you’re gonna be in big trouble later on if you don’t. Everyone knows that it’ll only get harder from here on out. But if you shy away from the first challenge you get, then what are you gonna do when you get to the next four Gyms? Are you gonna try and petition your way out of those too? I thought the whole point of your little League was to win it!”

“The point of the League is to finish it!” Derek said. “We were going through just fine before we got to this place! And now look—we have to spend two whole weeks here, while any other Gym would take me four days! It’s not fair to us!”

“Not fair?”

The trainers all turned as a blonde girl with braids rose from a side bench. “I’ll tell you what’s not fair,” she said. “It’s when you come from a place like Twinleaf that has no connections with the League at all, not knowing anythin’ about how to train pokémon, and having to learn everything on the fly while others are laughing at you for losing! This place was the first one that taught me how to battle. Before that I had to repeat practically all my Gym battles twice. My pokémon never listened to me, and no matter how hard I tried to train them, they could never hold out for more than a couple minutes in battle. But when I got here, the staff helped me. They told me how to make my pokémon listen to me, and how I should listen to them. They taught me that it isn’t about how strong your team is, but how flexible it can be. And I started improving. I think that Leroy’s right—if y’all would just listen to what the staff are trying to tell you, then maybe you might get through here faster and actually learn something. Because if it wasn’t for Lona and her staff, I wouldn’t even be here. I’d probably have dropped out already… and I felt so much like a failure sometimes that I almost did. But look now—” She took a gleaming coin from her pocket. “I got the badge! I got it just today!”

This was received with a mixture of gasps and applause. Henry, who had fallen silent behind Leroy, looked up, eyes widening. As the noise died down, a flicker of light passed over his face, bringing a smile.

“It’s true!” he said suddenly. His words were directed at no one in particular, but right then, they seemed to sail above the noise, and the kids around him turned. “I’ve gotten loads better here than I was before. Before I had any badges, I thought I was the worst trainer in the world. And I kind of was… I didn’t really know where I was going or what I would do when I got to the next Gym. Back then I thought badges were everything… I thought that if I could get all eight, then people would treat me better, and I’d never feel like I wasn’t good enough. But this Gym made me realize that there’s so much more to pokémon training than that. In the other towns, it was always me practicing to win a single battle. But here, I can battle with all these other people without worrying about who wins or loses, and I can get advice from people who know more about training than I do. I used to think my team was weak because we always lost. But now I know that my pokémon are strong, because no matter what, they’ll always keep trying. This Gym was the first time I stopped thinking about the badge, and started thinking about my pokémon. It’s like what my friend Michael told me when we first met. He said… he said that if you need a piece of metal to feel cool, then you’ll always be a wimp. But now I don’t need a badge to feel cool. I’m battling here and I’m having fun and I’m learning. And that’s kind of what I think Lona is trying to tell us. It’s not about the badge—it’s about what you did to get it.”

At this, the trainers grew thoughtfully silent. Henry looked askance at Michael and caught his eye. Michael shrugged sheepishly in response.

Henry turned back to the crowd, and lowered his chin a little when he saw that they were all looking at him. But a beat later, he regained his composure, and stood up straight.

“So I think… we should show her that we can do it,” he continued. “Whoever started that petition, I bet they just didn’t want to practice. I bet they thought the League would be a one-way ticket to fame. And when they met the first person who told them it wasn’t, they got upset and tried to fight back. But I’m not upset. I’m going to beat the Gyms fair and square, and when I’m done, I’ll have more than just badges to show it.”

“Me too,” the pigtailed girl agreed.

“And me!”

“Same here!”

Michael watched with unblinking eyes as one trainer after another piped up their agreement. It was like witnessing a world phenomenon—the crowd split before his very eyes, some moving over to Henry’s side, and others to Derek’s, who held his ground firmly by the front desk. Michael was jostled somewhere in the middle, arms crossed amid the sea of moving elbows. Many who had renounced their involvement with the petition left through the front doors, among them the blonde-haired girl. The rest trailed off into the hallways, or various points along the perimeter of the lobby.

Derek and his friends were the last to leave. Still whispering, they left through the front exit, keeping several paces behind the others. As the glass doors swooshed closed, Leroy let out a sigh.

He placed the flyer back with the rest of the pile, then went over to Michael and Henry. “Well, it’s the staff’s business now,” he said. “I hope that Derek kid doesn’t start anything. But then again, I don’t think any of them will. They know it’s not worth it—like you said, Henry.”

The boy nodded. His cheeks were still slightly pink; clearly, he wasn’t used to being the center of attention.

“Come to think of it, I think I get now why Lona’s so crabby. It can’t be fun to take all that smack from people every day.”

“I wonder what she’s gonna do when she finds out about this,” Henry said.

Michael snorted. “Pin our heads to the wall, most likely.”

The boy smiled. For a minute, he seemed lost in a trail of thought, then he came to and looked at his companions. “You know… I think we should do something nice.”

“Nice?” Michael tapped his chin. “Sorry… I don’t think that word’s in my vocabulary.”

Henry gave an exasperated sigh. “I mean it. If Lona’s upset now, it’ll only get worse when she finds out that a bunch of people want her fired. And then it’ll be bad for us, because if she’s mad, she’ll be even more strict. We should try to cheer her up.”

Though he recognized the boy’s point, Michael couldn’t help but grin. “We should get rid of all her books and replace them with Bidoof dolls.”

This elicited a chuckle from Leroy. Henry rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“What?” said Michael. “It’ll be cool! Imagine she walks into her office and sees that it’s filled with—”

“I was thinking of something else,” said Henry, cutting him off. He gave a second’s pause, then smiled. “We should get her to meet up with Ted.”

Michael lifted an eyebrow.

At the same time, Leroy frowned. “Ted, you mean…”

“Ted the move tutor! Remember, the guy you told us about? We went to visit him a while ago. He helped us out a lot with our pokémon, but we also found out that he has a crush on someone.” Henry leaned in to whisper. “And that someone is Lona!”

Leroy’s eyes bulged. “You’re kidding. Seriously?”

“Yup. It’s the real deal! Only he doesn’t know it’s Lona, and Lona doesn’t know it’s Ted. They just know each other by what they look like.”

“Huh. And… you want to get them to meet up?”

Henry nodded. “Think about it—Ted’s sort of got no one, right? And it’s the same with Lona. So if they make friends, then they’ll both end up happier.”

Michael gave a shrug. “Eh… I don’t know. “

“It kind of makes sense, though,” Leroy said. “Ted always struck me as kind of a loner... But how do you plan on getting them to meet, exactly?”

Henry froze. “Well… I was thinking we could get him to write a letter. Right?” He looked at Michael. “Or... something.”

“I don’t know… something tells me that Lona’s not love letter type.” Michael cast his gaze towards the ceiling reflectively. “Dear Ted… Love Lona.”

Henry began to crack up. But all of a sudden, Leroy snapped his fingers. “Guys! I’ve got just the thing.” He slipped behind the front desk and came back with a business card. “Look. It’s got Lona’s name, phone number, everything. Bam.” He gave it a tap.

“But how would Ted know what to do with it?” Michael said. “For all he knows, it could just be a random person.”

“Not if we write something,” Henry offered. “Remember the note Lona wrote when she gave him back his book? We should do something like that.”

“But how are you going to forge her writing?” asked Leroy. “If he already has a note from her like you said, then wouldn’t he be able to tell the difference between them?”

Henry pursed his lips in thought, and fell silent. A moment later, his gaze trailed over to Michael, who drew back.

“What?”

“Please?” asked Henry. “If there’s anyone of us who can forge a note… well, it has to be you.”

Michael’s shoulders drooped. Realizing he was bound to the inevitable, he held up his hands. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Henry breathed a sigh of relief.

“Just give me a clean sheet.”

Leroy went behind the counter and brought back a small leaflet. Michael sat down at a bench and began to dig through his backpack, sorting through the clutter to fish out the note Lona had given to him on his first day. Then he took out the newer one and laid them out side-by-side. Finally, he grabbed a pencil, and smoothed the clean paper against the surface of the bench.

“Okay. So what are we gonna make this thing say? Gimme some ideas.”

Henry looked over his shoulder. “Umm… oh! How about ‘Meet me in front of the Gym?’”

“But how’s Lona supposed to know that she has a date?

“Oh. Right.” Henry began to think anew. “Let’s see…”

Leroy cut in: “How about we just invite him to drop by during the week? I know Lona has a break from two till three, right after the partner battles end. We could tell Ted to come by in a few days, just to give him time to prepare. But it can’t be on a Friday. She takes those off.”

“That works,” Michael said. He thought for a moment, then began to write, sketching his letters carefully to accommodate a new style. He even held his pen like Lona did—slanted slightly, so that the letters were bent to the right. When he was done, he dusted the paper off and handed it to Leroy.

“‘Come by from 1:00 to 3:00. I think it’s time we introduced ourselves.’” Leroy nodded. Yeah, that sounds sorta like what Lona would say.” He passed the paper to Henry. “What do you think? Does it look like her writing?”

Henry held the paper out at arm’s length. “Wow, it does! How do you do it, Michael?”

Michael bowed his head. “Years of experience.”

“Heh. That’s pretty cool.” Leroy chuckled. “Now we gotta deliver it to Ted.” He started for the door, but stopped when he noticed Henry’s questioning look.

“But wait,” Henry said. “What about your shift?”

Leroy looked back at the deserted counter, and after a second of debate, flicked his hand. “I’ll say I was in the bathroom.”

Michael grinned. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

Leroy paperclipped the business card and the note together, and pointed gallantly towards the front doors. “Let’s go!”


The boys ran laughing into the fading afternoon.

[Mrs. Lovett]

//////

By the time they reached Ted’s house, the heat of the day had settled, and the trees were rustling in a light breeze. People strolled about the neighborhood, some with pokémon on leashes, others flitting by on bicycles, voices and laughter permeating the air.

As always, the Move Tutor’s house stood still and quiet, secluded by a tiny border of shrubs. Michael stood looking at it for a while, then approached the old mailbox beside the road and slipped the note inside.

“Well, that’s it.” He looked back at the other boys, who were standing side-by-side behind him. Henry, who had been resolute in the moments prior, seemed struck by a brief hesitancy.

“That’s it? Do you think Ted’ll notice?”

Michael shrugged. “Sure. The next time he goes to check his mail, he’ll see it.”

“No, I meant, are you sure that’s all we have to do? Maybe a note’s not enough... Or maybe he’ll read it wrong or something.”

Now it was Michael’s turn to give Henry an odd look. “Who’s the expert here?”

The boy giggled. “Fine. I’ll stop talking.”

With that, the trio turned to leave. Michael gave the house a final glance back, then let it slip away behind him, vanishing into its pocket of silence in the distance. He thought of Ted again, who had once seemed so strange, then turned out to be just a regular guy like everyone else. Whatever came out of their little plan, he reasoned, would not be up to them. But even so, the thought of it gave him a strange contentment. Maybe Ted deserved it.

The boys passed out of the neighborhood in silence, walking in a straight line across the breadth of the sidewalk. Henry was caught in between the two taller boys, his back perfectly straight, taking tiny steps to keep up. Leroy veered to the left every so often to accommodate him. Michael, who walked alongside the road, kept a loosened stance, one thumb unconsciously hanging from the edge of his pocket. As he walked, he looked up at the sky, which seemed vast and tired, drooping near the half-closed sun on the horizon.

“Well, that’s it for this place,” he mumbled.

“Yeah…” came Henry’s echo. “One more day, and we’re done. I still can’t believe it.”

Leroy looked askance. “You guys are battling her tomorrow?”

They both nodded.

“Mm. Well, good luck. I know you’ll both win of course, so it’s not like you’ll need it.” He sighed. “As for me, I’ll probably be getting a move on too, soon. I’ll stay for another two weeks or so, but then I’ll head out. New places, new pokémon. That sort of stuff.”

Henry lowered his chin. “It stinks that we probably won’t ever see each other again after this.”

This thought had occurred to Michael before, though now, its return brought him a slight unsettlement. He nodded his agreement.

“Well, maybe we’ll meet up again somewhere,” Leroy said. “I doubt I’ll go as far as Pastoria, though. I’ll probably go north to Celestic then swing back over to Hearthome. I have to be back in Sandgem by July 12th to report my results to the professor. There’s gonna be this huge gathering of all the camp members, and once they review everyone’s entries, they’ll announce the winner.”

“Why did you do that camp anyway?” Henry asked. “Are you into research or something?”

Leroy shrugged. “I guess it’s just what I got into first. I was never that competitive, so the League didn’t seem all that interesting to me. And at any rate, the lab is like five feet from my neighborhood. It was pretty much the first place my parents thought of when signing me up for a summer activity.”

Michael smiled at the odd twist of fate. “That’s not so far from my pad,” he said. “I live in Jubilife.”

Henry feigned a sigh. “I feel all alone. I live in Floaroma!”

The boys shared a laugh.

They talked intermittently for the next several minutes, sharing stories of their hometowns, and travels around the country. Though Leroy’s and Henry’s lives seemed worlds apart from his, Michael appreciated for the first time how similar the three of them were.

Soon, above the line of trees that bordered the road, the gleaming roof of the hotel popped into view against the skyline.

“Well, at any rate, I guess it’s good to leave on a good note,” Leroy continued. He looked at the other two, and a slight jest crept into his voice. “Who knows—maybe meeting Ted will magically turn Lona nice. That’ll make it easier for a lot of people after we’re gone.”

Henry smiled. “Yeah, that’s for sure…”


But Michael had long since zoned out of the conversation. His friends’ words were lost in the fleeting landscape, scattered by the faint rush of wind, the hum of passing cars. Colors and sounds which had once been so distinct to him now swam before his eyes in a muddled blur, and he looked upon the town with a parting satisfaction, ready to forget it all and move on.

[robinhood]

This fanfic is amazing. I was reading it all along and I finally decided to come out. I'm not really good at reviews so I'll save you that misery. Keep up the good work and I'm looking forward to the next chapter.

[Mrs. Lovett]

Thanks so much for reading! I always appreciate little shout-outs. ;) I'm glad you're enjoying the story, and I'll certainly do my best to make the rest of these chapters as great as they can be.

[Cosmic Fury]

Awesome chapter! I wonder what exactly that note says.

Keep up the good work, I'm enjoying this story!

[Mrs. Lovett]

The note says ‘Come by from 1:00 to 3:00. I think it’s time we introduced ourselves.’ That's all Leroy read (and that's all Michael wrote), because to write more would be to risk sounding un-Lona-like and making it obvious that it's a forgery. As for the ramifications of that... you'll just have to wait and see.

Glad you enjoyed the chapter!

[Grav]

I read this in two days and I love it. All description, spelling, etc. is great. Lona's gym quirk is great and I made one of those little phrases about them for you:
The Woman who Lives in the Past
Little nitpick,but if this is 196someting, then when was Red and Blue?
Only minor so keep writing!
PM LIST?

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[Mrs. Lovett]

You read the whole thing in two days, now? xP That's impressive.

And I totally forgot that all the Gym towns have little signposts with the Gym leader's title... The only one I did was Byron's 'I rock this town'. After that, none of the Gym leaders really focused on image-making. (Jerry is an exception, but his title is 'Jerry Bradford'. Hehe.) I suppose Lona would take his example too, but with dozens of not-so-friendly trainers passing by that sign every day, there might be a slight change in message over time. :P

But no worries. We still have four Gym leaders to meet. And they're all very... interesting.

Little nitpick,but if this is 196someting, then when was Red and Blue?

This story takes place in 1963. As for Red and Blue... I have no idea. I started writing this way back in 2010, and the way I planned the time frame was I subtracted 60 years from the present date. (Because I assumed that Rowan was 60 years old at the time of the DPPt games. And I assumed that the DPPt games took place in 2010, because that's when I started the story. D/P were released in 2007, and Platinum came out in 2009, so I suppose that my estimate for 2010 was pretty fair.) I didn't take the other games into consideration because there was no need to. There's a whole page on Bulbapedia that lists the canon-confirmed timeline of events in the in-game world. Going by that, then the events of DPPt take place three years after the events of Red and Blue. So I suppose that if you went by the time frame established in Roots, then the events of Red and Blue take place in 2007, when Rowan was 57.

Speaking of that, I am eventually going to connect the 1963 Sinnoh with the 2010 Sinnoh. The bulk of this fic is dedicated to 1963 because a lot of important things happen to Michael and to the world, but I couldn't call this a story about Professor Rowan if I didn't include a bit about what he actually did when he became professor. I won't spend too much time in Michael's future, because the 1963 events are supposed to speak for themselves, but I will tie all the loose ends. I just need you all to bear with me for another several months. xP


Thanks for stopping by! I'll add you to the PM list straightaway...

[Grav]

Thanks. Your fanfic was 2 days about a coupe hours each; I read The Unova Chrinicles in 3 hours flat. I am not a huge reviever so dont expect long ones. Keep writing!

Grav out.
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[Mrs. Lovett]

Hey everyone. I have a big chapter for you today... both in length and in content. The battle scene you will read is going to be the last one for a while, so I spared the length cutbacks. I think it deserves its own few pages. xP

Other than that, this chapter speaks for itself. There is be a slightly higher-than-usual concentration of swearing in the second post, but not to a great degree.

Read on...

3.0

The next day, at 1:30, Michael was sitting at a bench in the Gym lobby, his back bent, elbows resting on his knees. It was battle day, but he wasn’t thinking about battling. In fact, he was hardly thinking at all—just staring down at the floor, stealing glances at the clock periodically to see if his hour was up yet.


1:40.



1:59.



2:15.




In another room somewhere, Henry was battling Lona. Was he winning? Did he open with Clefable like they discussed, or was her team so powerful that it warranted a change of strategy? And perhaps most importantly of all, what would the boy say when he turned up?


Michael watched inattentively as the other trainers moved past him, going about their daily duties. Their voices were distant to him, as if separated by a pane of glass. All he wanted to think about was strategy—and indeed, in the past hour, he had gone over so many scenarios that his head had begun to ache. For some reason, all of them involved Lona whipping out a powerhouse of some sort and giving his team a clean sweep—or, even worse, all of her pokémon being so powerful that he wouldn’t even be able to faint one.

Distracting himself, he glanced up at the clock again. The minute hand had jumped—this time by a whole five-minute increment. (He had much experience with doing this in school, especially during classes that seemed to drag on for ages. The trick was to memorize the minute hand’s position, zone out for a while, then look back at the clock and see how much it had moved.) But this time, he was going for the opposite effect. Rather than speeding through time, he wanted to slow it down, to make each minute linger as long as possible. Through it all, he looked periodically at the left doorway, where Henry had disappeared earlier, and for better or worse, would soon emerge.



At last, a familiar pair of sneakers appeared amongst the others. Henry stepped warily into the lobby, glanced around the room, and when his eyes locked on Michael, he hurried over. One hand was still holding his last pokéball. The other hung stiff at his side, clenched tightly.

Michael stood from the bench as the boy approached. “Well?” he said. “What happened?”

For a moment, Henry was silent. Then, he lifted his free hand and opened it to reveal the Cobal badge.

“I won,” he said. “But she’s tough. Be careful.”

Michael didn’t know what to make of these words. He and Henry swapped places—the boy sitting down, Michael hoisting his backpack over his shoulder and turning for the front desk. Despite his victory, Henry’s face retained a detached, pondering look, as if there was still something that he couldn’t figure out.

After signing him in, the attendant pointed Michael to the same hallway, and he went off. He followed the numbers on the doors to the very last one in the lineup—Room 99.


He stopped before the closed door, and after a brief pause, pushed it open.


The Gym leader’s battle room was larger than the others, nearly three times as big as a regular one. Wooden shades were draped over the windows, providing light in lined segments along the floor.

Lona herself stood on the far end of the room, in between two back doors. She held a brown pokéball pouch, but other than that, had no other items on hand. She nodded once as Michael entered, stepping off the hard floor and onto the shifty surface of the mats. Involuntarily, his gaze began to wander — he noticed that the cushions which had appeared clean before were scarred and dented in many places, and if he squinted, he could even make out what he thought to be a footprint in the center of the field, belonging to a big, heavy creature.

“Welcome,” Lona said. Despite the distance between them, her voice carried over as if she had been standing only a foot away. “Today you will prove to me your worth of the Cobal Badge. Be advised that the rules of partner and staff battles do not apply here. You may switch pokémon as many times as you wish, or keep the same battler, or do anything else provided that it’s within the boundaries of the League rules. That being said, I give out the badge on a discretionary basis. Winning does not guarantee that you’ll earn it, nor does a loss have to be the end for you if you fought skillfully.” She removed a pokéball from her pouch and held it out in front of her. “When you are ready, you may begin.”

She twisted open the capsule, and out came a burst of light, materializing into a Hitmonchan that landed on its feet in front of her. The pokémon’s body was lean and chiseled with muscle, though by far the most striking detail was its fists—big and heavy, hanging past its knees, covered with red fabric like boxer’s gloves. The creature lifted them with ease, though each one was comparable to the size of its own head, and held them in a defensive position at its chest.

Michael sent out Goldeen, who slid onto the field atop a stream of water. Once she had pulled all the liquid into a ball beneath her, he gave his command: “Use Psybeam!”

Goldeen lowered her horn like a lance, and the sound of crackling static filled the room. Seconds later, a thick, pink beam blasted out from the tip, shooting across the field at her opponent. But before it could make contact, the Hitmonchan raised its gloves over its face, and the ray of energy broke against the barrier, dissipating into a thousand tiny wisps in the air. In the same breath, the pokémon’s body swayed forward, like a spear of grass pushed by the wind, and fell into a sprint. Its feet sailed soundlessly over the mats, crossing the distance between them in a matter of seconds. Upon reaching Goldeen, the Hitmonchan leaned back, curling its fist to aim a punch.

“Dodge!” Michael called.

Goldeen swerved aside just in time, the stream trailing around her like an elongated tail, and the Hitmonchan’s fist plunged through empty water. She twisted around to strike from behind, but the Hitmonchan proved just as quick—it spun around to face her again, and began to punch at the tail of water, its fists striking so rapidly that they formed a blur of splashes. The punches edged with increasing proximity to Goldeen’s tail, who tried in vain to outrun them, till finally one of them hit true. Hitmonchan’s fist struck Goldeen squarely in the side, knocking her to the floor like a missing tooth.

The spiral of water collapsed, but the Hitmonchan paid it no mind, letting it slosh over the mats while it caught Goldeen with its foot. Before the fish could wiggle away, the Hitmonchan tossed her aloft, and punched her back against the mats, making her bounce.

“Get the water back! Get it back!” Michael said.

But Goldeen’s flails amounted to little. Each time she hit the floor, the Hitmonlee scooped her back up with its foot and tossed her up again, giving no time for an escape. After the umpteenth toss, the Hitmonchan pulled back its fist and punched harder than ever, throwing her like a shimmering ball halfway across the room.


Lona hadn’t said a single word.


Goldeen landed with a thump onto the mats and rolled a while before stopping. A second later she flipped over—and a pink Psybeam blasted from her horn, striking Hitmonchan square in the chest. The pokémon stumbled back, ousting a cry.

Michael grinned. “Again! Do it again!”

Goldeen shuffled to the side to make a fresh aim, but before she could launch the attack, the Hitmonchan was on top of her, kicking at her side in an attempt to lift her. But this time Goldeen was able to ground herself, retaliating with Pecks whenever the Hitmonchan’s foot came too close. The fighter’s face contorted with pain at onslaught of Flying moves, and his kicks abated, becoming more like struggles for balance as he hopped from one foot to another, trying to evade Goldeen’s beak. But with his tiny feet no longer the center of balance, the Hitmonchan began to teeter, pulled down by the weight of his oversized fists.

For a split second, it seemed that the pokémon would fall. The Hitmonchan had leaned back on one foot at a sharp angle, its arms groping at the air. But at the last minute, he managed to place a sturdy foot behind him, and lunged forward. In a swift motion, he kicked Goldeen up into the air and prepared to punch. But the fish was faster—still aloft, she spun around, and before the Himonchan could reach for her, a burst of pink light exploded from her horn. The force of the Psybeam blasted the Hitmonchan back, knocking it to the floor. Goldeen landed on her belly just a few feet away.

“Get the water!” Michael said, slapping his knees with impatience. “Get it back! Hurry!”

Goldeen spun around to where the puddle of water lay, slowly seeping into the cracks between the cushions. While the Hitmonchan got to his feet, she jumped over to it and pulled what was left of it beneath her. Michael’s shoulders drooped with relief as she rose into the air once more, supported by a stable column of water.

A short distance away, the Hitmonchan drew itself upright, eyes locking on its target. With a cry, he bolted forward.

“Water Pulse!” Michael commanded.

Goldeen sailed over to meet the Hitmonchan, riding atop a rolling wave. Just as she reached him, she jumped, letting the water crash over his head. She sailed over the pokémon’s stooping frame, skillfully pulling the water back beneath her, and performed the maneuver from behind—not giving the Hitmonchan even a second to recuperate. The wave of Water Pulse struck it a second time from behind, and the Hitmonchan fell to its knees, fists dangling at its sides like wrecking balls.

“Not finish it off! Psybeam!”

Goldeen rose on a billowing wave, her horn blazing. She launched the Psybeam at the Hitmonchan, who fell without protest, collapsing on his belly with an exhausted oomph.

Lona lifted a hand and snapped her fingers twice. The Hitmonchan did not move. Pulling open the pokéball pouch, she called it back inside, swapping it for her second pokémon. Michael’s bewildered joy faded into puzzlement as he once more became aware of the Gym leader’s pervading silence. She hadn’t given a single command, and yet her pokémon had moved with steadfast resolution, as if it had been given a script of actions to follow. But at the same time, all of Hitmonchan’s decisions had been its own, as if it wasn’t reacting to the will of its trainer, but to the battle itself.

Guide them, not command them… All of a sudden, those words seemed to take on a whole new meaning. They lingered in Michael’s mind as Lona sent out her second pokémon—a Hitmonlee. Right off the bat, he knew what he had to do.

“Goldeen, return.” He called the fish back inside and sent out Caterpie. He unlocked the pokéball and held it out as far as he could, dropping the Bug pokémon onto the center of the field. It was her third day in metamorphosis, and the cocoon had hardened and darkened around her.

Michael didn’t give the command for String Shot right away. He waited, like Lona waited, and gradually the Hitmonlee began to move away from its trainer, scanning the territory for danger. When it came close enough to Caterpie, Michael smiled. “Now!”

At once, the cocoon began to shoot out mounds of silvery string, which wrapped and tangled around her opponent’s feet. Once the Hitmonlee realized what was happening, it jumped back in shock—but found that its ankles were already bound by a sticky white band. The Hitmonlee tried in vain to pull its feet apart, jerking its torso from side to side while Caterpie tightened the binds. When she hopped off, the Hitmonlee was left standing like a statue, its arms swiping in a vain attempt to capture her. Unlike the Hitmonchan, however, the Hitmonlee’s stance was completely sturdy. Michael knew that it would take much more to make this one fall.

Nodding in acknowledgment to Caterpie, he sent her back, and swapped her for his next battler.

A white bullet burst forth from the pokéball, shooting a brilliant arc through the air like a comet. It morphed into a pair of wings, and upon escaping the cloak of light, Ringo’s black head emerged, claws bared with relish as he out a ringing screech. “LONA LONA DRY AS BONE-A — SLEEPING, STANDING, LIKE A DRONE-A —”

As Ringo sang, he began to circle around the Hitmonlee, and gleefully planted himself on its head. The Hitmonlee’s arms shot upward in an attempt to capture him, but Ringo slipped away, fluttering instead to the pokémon’s shoulder, pecking and clawing the whole while at its bare skin. Upon Michael’s command, Ringo used Aerial Ace twice, two rapid slashes to the back that caused the Hitmonlee to teeter, but still not topple.

Frustrated, Ringo pestered more, perching on Hitmonlee’s head and beating his wings. The Hitmonlee swayed to and fro like a reed, eyes wrinkled under the blows, trying to shake off its bothersome new hat. Meanwhile, Michael noticed that the binds around its feet had begun to loosen. Ringo seemed to sense this as well, and the more wiggle room Hitmonlee gained, the more desperate the bird became. Leaning forward, Ringo pulled his feet over the Hitmonlee’s eyes to shut them, and right then, Michael heard a loud snap. Something small and brown knocked Ringo out of his perch, and the bird fell like an autumn leaf, slumping to the floor.

Michael blinked, unable to fathom what had just happened. The silver rope had snapped, and Himtonlee’s leg had shot upward like a boneless appendage, bending all the way over its head to hit Ringo. It was now lying flat against its face like a spaghetti noodle, bending with the curve of its head.

With hair-raising fluidity, the leg straightened and lowered itself to the ground. Ringo, meanwhile, was rolling over onto his feet, head spinning in an attempt to discern up from down. He managed to take off again, but with his opponent on the loose, he could not go far. In a couple of swift strides, the Hitmonlee had gained on him—and the tip of its foot shot up towards the ceiling, striking Ringo in the underbelly. Ringo flapped harder, managing to propel himself higher, but the Hitmonlee kicked again, and the bird was knocked in a downward ‘C’ towards the floor. No matter which direction Ringo tried to escape, the Hitmonlee always adapted, its legs stretching like rubber to accommodate any angle. Ringo quickly tired from the repeated blows. His flight grew labored, and his head began to droop towards the ground. Not wanting to risk a fainting, Michael sent him back.

He rushed over to his backpack, and after a brief impasse, brought out Turtwig. His starter was dropped with a clunk onto the field, shaking himself awake from a light slumber. He turned around, looking up at his trainer’s face, and Michael pointed down. “Shell! Now!”

Grunting in understanding, Turtwig withdrew, leaving the round, limbless shell glinting temptingly in the light. Hitmonlee approached and gave it a kick, and Turtwig skidded towards the wall.

“Stay in, stay in!” Michael called.

Turtwig managed to hold his own for several minutes, curled up in safety while Hitmonlee kicked his shell about, trying to make him emerge. The kicks increased in frequency, and at times, the speed with which the shell skidded across the mats and clashed with the walls made Michael afraid that it would shatter into a million pieces. But miraculously, it didn’t. He was waiting for a specific moment, when Hitmonlee kicked at a specific angle, too blinded by its preoccupation to calculate its moves.

At last, it happened. The shell was lying in the center of the room, and Hitmonlee lunged for it with a running start, kicking it in a broad arc towards the wall.

But just before the shell made contact, a pair of stubby legs emerged and pushed off against the wall, with a momentum so great that the shell smacked Hitmonlee back in the face. The pokémon staggered back, eyes puckering.

“Now, Razor Leaf!”

Turtwig’s head and limbs popped out of the shell, and a second later, a storm of leaves whipped through the air, hitting the Himtonlee’s flat face like a windshield. They left behind bloody gashes. Landing on his feet, Turtwig attacked again and again, then when the Hitmonlee was sufficiently distracted, ran forward and gave the teetering pokémon an extra push. Hitmonlee fell without resistance, collapsing on its belly.

Lona waited several seconds, but the Hitmonlee lay still. Silent as ever, she called it back, and sent out her third battler. The light from her pokéball had barely faded before its inhabitant—a small, blue-bodied creature—fled its place of deposit. A dark bullet zipped around the perimeter of the room, too fast for the eye to see, its dash stirring up a light wind. It circled the room twice, then broke free of the walls, rolling itself over into the center point of the battlefield. It was Croagunk.

The blue frog amounted to little more than the height of Michael’s knee. It stood on its hind legs with its back slightly hunched, its lips spread out into a perpetual, clown-like grin. Seeing Michael, the Croagunk tittered softly, a nasty sound that reminded him of human laughter.

Michael swapped Turtwig for Goldeen. The fish emerged atop a crashing wave, stopping right in front of her opponent. “Use Psybeam!” he said.

Goldeen lowered her in preparation to launch the blast. But Croagunk was already gone—the frog had fled for the walls, and was now making a circle across the room, running to take Goldeen from behind.

“Watch out!” Michael called.

Goldeen looked askance just in time to dodge a stubby arm, which had appeared at her side only moments prior. She made a clumsy forward jump, pulling all the water with her, and Croagunk landed on its knees from its failed attack. Michael noticed that the fingers of one hand were oozing a thick, purple fluid.

Poison Jab… shit.

He knew that there was no hope in using Caterpie, for the Croagunk would be impossible to pin down with String Shot. He would have to win with sheer persistence.

“Goldeen, confuse it! Peck it, Psybeam it!” Michael paused. “Don’t worry if it hits you!”

Goldeen did as she was told, though a part of him sensed that she knew her own fate. The Croagunk evaded direct combat, dancing around the pink rays of Psybeam and jets of water she shot at him. He never attacked until he could reach her from behind, and got her with a few Poison Jabs which she was too slow to counter. After hardly two minutes of being out in the field, Goldeen’s body was almost entirely covered by splotches of toxic slime, which trickled into her source of water and mixed around with the current. Already, Michael could see its effects setting in—the fish became less coordinated than before, and had to exert more force than before to keep the water together around her body. But the more time she spent submerged, the more the Croagunk’s venom could circulate around her open cuts, poisoning her further. Michael felt a brief pity, but knew that they had to act soon, or else she would faint.

Meanwhile, Croagunk was preparing for a new offensive. He had slunk off to a safe spot to the side where he watched Goldeen’s demise, tittering softly behind his palms. It began to tap its feet in a circle across the mats, doing the slow, familiar dance of Taunt.

Goldeen began to flap her fins in anger, churning the water faster beneath her. Despite her weakness, she managed to rise a little from the ground, and lowered her horn in preparation to attack.

With a gleeful shriek, the Croagunk lunged, the claws of both hands bared and gleaming.

“Psybeam!” Michael shouted.

The tip of Goldeen’s horn blazed with a hot, pink light—and just as the Croagunk sprang for the final blow, a searing blast escaped from it. The frog was swallowed whole by a torrent of light, and dropped fainted on the floor, its spark extinguished by the super-effective combination. Michael smiled in relief, feeling a macabre satisfaction that the Croagunk’s Taunt had come back to bite it.

He was about to turn to Goldeen, when he noticed to his surprise that she had fallen slack, was letting the water rock her away towards the floor.

“No!” he said. “Goldeen, get up!”

But it was no use. The fish continued to sink, and out of necessity to save the water, he sent her back. Returning to his backpack, Michael dropped pokéball in with the others.

Lona, meanwhile, returned her Croagunk, and brought out her final pokémon. Michael noticed her step back, casting her gaze briefly to the ceiling, and twist open the capsule. The pokéball released a screen of searing light that blocked her entirely from view, expanding into a shapeless mass that towered almost halfway to the ceiling. Gradually, the light assumed a human shape, fading to reveal the Machoke.

This pokémon was neither big-fisted like Hitmonchan, nor long-legged like Hitmonlee. It had a body that surpassed the musculature of any human being, and stood nearly four heads above its trainer. Its skin was blue, rippling with red veins, packed with muscle from head to toe. The belt it wore shone with a metal gleam from the center of its waist, loaded with all sorts of buttons and grooves. The device was thick and heavy-looking, and seemed to press into the pokémon’s very flesh. Michael sincerely hoped it wasn’t broken.

As he held out his pokéball, he couldn’t help but glance up and meet the Machoke’s gaze. Its eyes were tiny, but fierce.

Tightening his resolve, Michael opened the capsule and sent out Machop. The fighter tumbled out onto the floor and sprang to his feet, standing up straight like a gymnast. Upon locking eyes with the Machoke, Machop’s eyes widened, lips parting in curiosity. At the same time, something in Machoke’s face softened, possibly humored at the sight of its lower evolution.

Slowly, the giant lumbered over, swinging forward its arms, and lifted the smaller pokémon by the waist. Its hands were so big that they wrapped completely around Machop’s torso. Machop remained obediently slack, peering up at his captor. Michael cracked a smile.

The Machoke remained still at first, as if in thought. Then, it lifted its hands over its head and threw Machop across the room. The small pokémon went flying like a broken toy, hitting the wall behind Michael and sliding headfirst to the floor. When Machop got to his feet, all traces of brotherly awe had vanished from his face. His eyes had narrowed into slits, and he began to curl his fists, jaw clenched.

Michael clapped his hands. “Go get him!”

With a cry, Machop lunged forward, dashing across the mats and aimed a flying kick at Machoke’s belly. The larger pokémon hunched its back, shielding itself with its forearms, and Machop bounced off as if he had hit a block of lead. Still unfazed, Machop got up and tried again, this time seeking a weak spot from behind. But he might as well have been trying to dent a boulder—no matter where he kicked, the Machoke would not budge, or otherwise indicate that it had even felt the blow to begin with. Physical overpowering, Michael realized, would be impossible. But with Goldeen gone, he would no longer be able to strike from a distance. His only hope lay in speed, and on the slim possibility that the Machoke would somehow tire out.

But it didn’t.

Machop raced around his opponent for a whole minute, jabbing and kicking with hardly a second’s pause in between. But the Machoke stood its ground. It soon woke from its idleness, and began to seek Machop with its gaze, turning as if in preparation to catch him. Sensing that his efforts were in vain, Machop scurried away, and began to race around the room in panic.

Machoke set about in pursuit, patiently trudging along as a parent would after child. Despite the smaller pokémon’s speed, the Machoke was able to catch up in only a few strides, and every so often helped Machop reach his destination more quickly — whether it was the floor, or the top of the window frame. The Machoke began to knock its prey around the room, much like Hitmonlee had, hitting him against any flat surface its eyes alighted upon.

The more time Michael spent thinking, the worse Machop’s situation became. Soon, the fighter began to spend more time flying than running, touching the walls more frequently than the floor. At one point, the Machoke stepped away to let Machop get to his feet—Michael saw that the smaller pokémon was stumbling around in confusion, eyes blinking rapidly. At one point, Machop seemed to steady himself, and rose awkwardly to his feet. He lifted a foot to take a step, but midway he paused, swiveling to the side like an old signpost. And without a moment’s resistance, he collapsed. Fainted.

Dammit. Michael curled his fist around the pokéball and sent Machop back. He watched his pokémon fade away into the light, and silently cursed his ineptness. The Machoke had managed to faint his first counter in a matter of a few throws. And Michael, being too slow to make sense of things, had let it.

Think faster… think faster… He repeated the mantra in his mind as he searched his backpack for a replacement. Finally, he selected Turtwig. He knew that it wasn’t a particularly good match, but figured that he should do as much damage as he could. Coming back to his place on the battlefield, Michael unscrewed the pokéball, and released his starter onto the mats.

“Razor Leaf! Quickly!”

Turtwig obeyed, flicking his head from side to side, and launched a flurry of sharp leaves speeding towards the Machoke. The giant stepped through them as if they were pieces of paper—the majority of them bounced right off its skin, with only a few leaving behind red marks, the same color of the veins that bulged from its neck and arms. Nevertheless, Turtwig kept firing, even as the Machoke kept advancing, till it had dwarfed the turtle in the center of its huge shadow.

“Run!” Michael shouted. “Move! Don’t stand there!”

Leaning down, the Machoke clapped his hands over the spot where Turtwig was standing. But the turtle had managed to slip away, escaping through the gap in between Machoke’s legs. Turtwig ran without looking forward, firing leaves in a frenzy behind him, no longer concerned with taking proper aim. The leaves scraped past the Machoke’s body, and the pokémon swerved around, seething with rage. Michael saw that its back was covered with cuts, many of which were now oozing. The Machoke heaved itself at Turtwig, who slipped away yet again, shooting leaves in defense at every chance he got. The giant’s breathing soon grew ragged from exhaustion.

“Keep doing it!” Michael shouted. But his giddiness was short-lived. Machoke had gained on Turtwig again, and before he could escape, the giant grasped him by the shell with a single beefy hand. Bending back its arm, the Machoke hurled the shell across the room, sending it skittering like a hockey puck towards the wall. Once the shell came to a stop, it moved no more.

Michael swapped pokéballs almost mechanically. He sent Turtwig back, dropped the capsule into his backpack with the others, and sent out Caterpie.

The pokéball deposited her in the dead middle of the battlefield, like an offering to the raged, growling beast who flexed his fists nearby. But the Machoke was no longer as ferocious as it had been before—its energy seemed drained, clearly the work of the power belt, which buzzed and blinked as its mysterious function kicked in. The Machoke now stood with its shoulders slouched, its chest rising with rapid breaths. But its warrior’s spirit was unquenched. It looked at the Caterpie with a twisted grimace, and approached in eagerness of playing with its new toy.

Michael cupped his hands around his mouth. “Use String Shot!” he said. “Make as much as you can!”

At once, the cocoon began to shudder. A faint, rapid whirring arose from inside, and moments later, it began spitting out globs of white string from its front end. Caterpie no longer cared to dispense it neatly—she seemed to sense the danger too, and by the time Machoke got to her, she had spun out a sizable mound that lay like a lump of spaghetti in front of her. But before she could sever the string with her pincers, the Machoke lifted her and hurled her across the room. A segment of string broke off and followed her trail, wrapping around her as she fell. The cocoon touched the wall and slid down, clattering dryly on the floor. Five seconds passed, and it appeared that Caterpie had been scared into silence.

Michael was beginning to feel a bitter taste as he returned Caterpie. Dropping the pokéball into his backpack, he took out his last—Ringo. A brief panic gripped him as he held the capsule in his hands. What if he lost? No doubt, Lona would banish him to the lowest trough of partner battles, immersing him in the murky gloom, forcing him to crawl his way to the light all over again. By the time he’d get to staff battles, half the summer would be gone.

No.

Michael steeled himself. It would not end like this.

He sent out the bird, upon seeing Ringo aloft once more, he pointed straight at Machoke’s face: “Get him, Ringo! Make that flake sorry he ever crossed us! Use Aerial Ace!”

Ringo dove forward with a screech, swiping his claws across the Machoke’s cheek. The pokémon’s beefy hands flew after him, but Ringo was far too fast—he swiped again from behind, this time coming back and perching on Machoke’s head.

“Bang—bang—Ma-choke silver hammer!”

He began to peck in rhythm, piping loudly the fragments of a song, all the while clawing at Machoke’s head and shoulders. Whenever the pokémon tried to snatch him, he quickly jumped to the other side, and began to sing even louder. The Flying attacks took their toll quickly—Machoke’s gestures became slow, its footsteps heavy and swaying. The giant seemed to have finally reached the end of its string, no longer holding itself in form, wanting only to shut off the bird-boombox.

Right then, Michael tore his eyes away from the struggle and noticed the pile of webbing sprawled on the mats. His heart skipped a beat.

“Ringo, the string! Get the string!”

Tearing his attention away from his captive, Ringo flew off Machoke’s shoulder and followed the direction of Michael’s finger. He grasped the edge of the string with his beak and flew off towards Machoke, letting the webbing trail behind him. He flew in a tight spiral around the Machoke’s legs, winding the string around them, suppressing the pokémon’s attempts at escape. Ringo worked his way upwards, dodging Machoke’s flying fists, binding the pokémon’s torso, and one of its enormous arms against its side. When the string was all gone, Machoke resembled a standing mummy, and could do little but swing at the air with his remaining arm in an attempt to regain balance. Swooping in for the kill, Ringo pushed the Machoke with his claws, and the pokémon toppled like a boulder.

It writhed and rolled around on the floor, snarling with rage, but Caterpie’s binds held strong. Ringo perched himself atop Machoke’s shoulder and pecked twice at the string. “Stay!” he growled.

By some invisible trigger, the Machoke obeyed. The pokémon slackened, breathing rapidly from exhaustion, its eyes drifting half-closed.


The room fell silent.




From across the battlefield, Lona closed her eyes and inclined her head. “Very good. You have grasped the meaning of listening.”

She lifted her pokéball, and the Machoke vanished like a bad dream, fleeing in a beam of white light to the opened capsule. The string collapsed onto thin air where its body had been, and Ringo took off, piping fragmented phrases of “Walker!” and “Boss!” in jubilation. He flew a circle over the field, then came back and fluttered over to Michael’s shoulder.


Noticing the boy’s utter bewilderment, Lona closed the pokéball pouch, and almost slyly, lifted an eyebrow. “I never expect anyone to faint Machoke. Usually it’s enough to keep him out for a couple minutes so I can see someone’s strategy take form. You lasted eight. I’m impressed.”


Michael gave a weak nod. He looked askance at Ringo, whose gaze was as stern and piercing as ever, and gave a laugh of relief. He let the bird nibble his finger, then sent him back, zipping him up with the rest of his team in his backpack. As Michael turned back around, he saw Lona step forward, and unconsciously, he mirrored her motions. The two met at the center of the room.

Lona looked down at him, and the corners of her mouth lifted slightly. “My staff have reported your improvements. I’m glad to see you have learned.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small coin. White, slender hands placed the badge into his. “Be mindful of your tactics…” she said, “and also remember your purpose for challenging the League. Whatever it is, make sure it’s strong enough to guide you till the very end. That’s the only advice I have left to give.”

Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer, and he saw them flash with a brief cheer he hadn’t noticed before. Then she backed away, arms falling of their own accord into their folded position in front of her. “You may collect your monetary reward at the front desk,” she added. “Goodbye.”


Michael looked down at the badge in his hands, sinking his gaze into the pattern of lines etched across its surface. Wasting no time, he hoisted his backpack on his shoulders and hurried out of the room.

//////

[Mrs. Lovett]

//////

The hallway outside was empty, quiet save for the scattered sounds of battling from distant rooms. With much of the early crowd gone, the Gym was like a vast, hollow shell, even the subtlest motion stirring soft echoes within its walls. Michael walked at a fast tempo, his steps falling in rhythm with the pounding of his heart. He was clutching the badge ever tighter in his hand, feeling the joy of the metal digging into his palm, the relief of its subtle weight as he swung it by his side.

Towards the end of the hallway, a boy was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. As Michael approached, the kid turned his head, and upon seeing Michael, his face lit up. It took him a few seconds to realize it was Rick.

“Hey Mike. What’s up?”

Michael slowed to a stop, and Rick rushed forward to meet him.

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” he said. “Some idiots went and ratted on me, and now they’ve got all the staff looking for the guy who started the petition. Some of the trainers, too. I swear… it’s like everyone became a Lona spy overnight. We’ll have to be more careful.” Rick paused, and after making sure no one else was around, he lowered his voice. “Listen, I need you to meet me in the mail room tonight. It’ll have to be when no one’s awake, like three or so. I want to type up the next batch of letters. I figured we’d get a lot more people on our side if we told them the truth about Lona—who she is, and what she’s really like when no one’s looking. We’ll get it done much faster if it’s the two of us.”

After a brief delay, Michael nodded.

“I’ve already got down the main points, but you can add to the list if you want,” Rick continued. “One of the things I’m gonna put are the hours. Did you know that this Gym has the longest workday out of all of them? It goes from six in the morning to six in the evening.” He shook his head in exasperation. “Oh, speaking of that… what are you doing here so late? I asked the people at the front desk if you were still here, and they said that you were. Staff battles don’t go this long unless you do really badly.”

In response to Rick’s questioning look, Michael held up the badge. “I got it.” He grinned. “Swellest feeling in the world, man.”

Rick’s eyebrows climbed, to the point where they vanished behind his tangled bangs, and his face adopted the look of a betrayed puppy. “You got the badge? No freaking way!”

Michael nodded. “Yep.” But his smile quickly faded when he realized that Rick wasn’t joking. The boy took a step back, grabbing both sides of his head and took long, rapid breaths.

“I knew it… my God… this shit just keeps happening over and over again… Everyone—every-freaking-one has gotten the badge but me! I’m still here after four freaking weeks! What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a wimp. There’s nothing wrong with you. Did you do the counter thing I told you about?”

In a snap, Rick tore his hands away from his face and dropped them against his sides. His face was beet red. “Yeah, like that’s gonna help me. Just because something works for you doesn’t mean it works for everyone. Don’t you get it? That skag Lona hates me! You think that’ll change just because I show up with a pretty team? I’ve tried everything already! Trading, items… everything but petitioning the League Office, that is, and reporting the bitch like she deserves. So if you don’t mind, that’s what I’m gonna do now. Bye, Michael.” Rick lifted his sports bag and turned for the lobby.

Without knowing why, Michael reached for the boy’s shoulder and pulled him back.

“Just listen to me!” he said. “I can show you how to beat her!”

“No you can’t!” Rick pulled against Michael’s grip. “And get off me! I was in this alone from the start, and that’s how it’s gonna be till the end. Why would you want to help me? You have the badge already, now leave!”

The sound of clacking heels advanced over the carpet, just barely audible over the struggle. Michael was too caught up in a rage to notice. He gritted his teeth and looked at Rick, jerking him by the shoulders as if to snap him out of a stupor. “Did you hear a word I just said? I know how to beat her! Lona is a complete joke! Whatever else she says is just a scare tactic to make you feel helpless. Look—” He dropped his backpack onto the carpet and took out his notebook, holding it out between them. “I have everything right here. I’ve been taking notes on her Gym this whole time. I know Lona’s team, and I’ve found out how she battles. All that stuff about being motivated is a lie—all you have to do is match your pokémon’s types against hers and make sure yours are better counters! Don’t listen to the shit she tells you, dammit!”

All of a sudden, a hand reached into his field of vision and snatched Rick by the collar. Before Michael could understand what was happening, claw-like nails gripped him by the shoulder and spun him around, and he found himself face-to-face with Lona. Her eyes were blazing.

In a single stroke, she pulled the boys apart, standing them helpless on either side of her, and turned to cast the full beam of her glare at Rick.

“So,” she said. “This is how you’ve been preparing. This is how you strive to succeed. By stomping around and demanding that others hinder their own progress to help you. It would be nice if that was really how it worked in life, wouldn’t it? But unfortunately, it’s not. You were a decent trainer for the first week, but now I see that rather than improving yourself, your main goal seems to be trying to change everything else around you to suit your needs. Now I see that you have no understanding of the meaning of effort, of how to act towards your peers, or what help is when it’s given to you!”

She shoved Rick away so abruptly that he would have stumbled, had he not stopped himself with his heel and advanced back towards her.

“But you never help!” Rick shouted. “All you do is scream at me and kick me around like I’m your fucking toy! All your other staff at least know what constructive criticism is, and they know battling better than you! Anybody knows battling better than you! And, they know how to recognize it when someone improves! I’m winning in partner battles, but all you’re doing is keeping me in one place!”

Lona lifted her eyebrows. “Oh? And has it ever occurred to you that maybe I don’t care whether someone wins or not? Have you ever bothered to think that maybe the reason I don’t promote a trainer is because I see, week after week, that he lacks the character his peers possess?”

“Character?” Rick scoffed. “Look in a mirror! I have more character than you ever will, Miss Walker. Because I, unlike you, don’t try to shove my opinions down other people’s throats! It would help if we actually learned something useful here, but we don’t. All you care about are your stupid papers, your stupid point records, which have nothing to do with the real League we’re supposed to be preparing for. You don’t even train—you just hide in that stupid office all day and act like you’re better than us. What the hell do you know?”

Lona narrowed her eyes. “Quite a lot, actually. For one thing, I know it’s not an accident that the people who don’t appreciate the opportunities they’re given here are the same ones I see complaining. I also know that there are some people in this Gym who, for the life of me I don’t know why, think that the proper way to beat a Gym is to beg for its leader to be fired. And thirdly, I know that the boy standing in front of me has been lying to me in every word since he came here!”

Rick froze with a questioning glare.

“Yes, I found out about the petition,” Lona said. “A group of trainers came to me yesterday and told me their suspicions. I was skeptical at first, but now I see that their facts are confirmed.” She smiled dryly. “Let me guess… you decided that you had finally had enough. You decided that this Gym only exists to make you miserable, that you were the only one who ever got held back in it, and, what more, that I was doing it because I had some special grudge against you. So you, deprived of your last wits, decide that there’s nothing left to do but rebel and exact revenge on the people you don’t like. I must say, that is an interesting concept of success and failure. Spreading lies about myself and my staff, who have done nothing but devote their attention to you and help you correct your mistakes, while putting up with your cheek and disrespect—which you display even towards your fellow trainers when they call you out on it. And then you take it a step further and type a document that, in a nutshell, undermines the efforts of all the people here who ever helped you, both staff and trainers alike. That shows me that you care nothing for those around you, and seek only to manipulate them into getting what you want. You have quite some nerve.”

At that point, her gaze flickered over to Michael.

“As for you… I expected better,” she said. “Especially after all you and Henry were doing to prepare. I don’t think he would be particularly pleased with you right now, if he saw this. Or was he a part of your grand scheme too? Funny… because for a moment, it seemed that you two were working hard, that you were really putting forth the effort to improve your battling. But it appears that I was wrong. Turns out you really can’t be sure who’s who until you catch them red-handed.” Lona’s eyes locked on the notebook in his hands, and a shadow fell over her brow. “And to think… for a moment, I almost believed what Miss Herrida had told me.”

She looked away, and Michael felt a stinging heat bloom inside of him. For once, he had seen something in Lona’s face that he hated even more than anger—her disappointment. He looked down at the red carpet, trying to lose himself in the pattern of gold lines, but nothing he did could erase her expression from his mind.

“They are in on the scheme!” Rick piped up. “Everyone is! Just wait—when I tell them the truth about you, I’ll get all the trainers on my side! And you know it, because you have nothing to back yourself up!”

“Stop talking!” Lona shouted. Rick flinched back. “Don’t you dare try to justify yourself in front of me! If I had a wisp less of pity than I do now, then I’d have sent the both of you packing home! As a matter of fact, I should have sent you home the moment you turned up your nose and showed me who you really were—a grumbling, lazy child who rages at problems in life instead of solving them. But I was foolish; I decided to wait, to see if you would change your attitude. Now I see that that’s impossible. Do you think that, honestly, if I were gone, the Gym leader who replaced me wouldn’t eventually notice the same things I did? Do you really think that this is the attitude that will lead you to success in the Elite Four tournament? In anything?”

Rick clenched his jaw. “You don’t get it!” he blurted. “You don’t get anything! All you want is to be a fucking dictator! You don’t care about anything but your stupid selfish goals, and I was the only one who saw it from the start! I bet it just bothers you that I’m not scared of you—that I unlike everyone else here, realize that you’re a lie! You think that just because Mommy was Champion, that makes you the greatest Gym leader in the world, but it doesn’t. You’re just a bloodsucking freak who’s stuck in the past and wants to turn us all into the trainers you want us to be. But that League’s gone now—Mommy’s gone, and nothing you try to do is ever gonna bring it back. Because no one wants it back. No one wants to make pokémon the whole focus of their life. No one cares about catching all the ones that there are, or traveling the world with them, or going to trainer conventions, holding community tournaments, or anything. You know why all that stuff’s gone? Because no one needs it anymore. And no one needs you! If you dropped off the face of the earth tomorrow, we’d all be happy. But you just can’t accept that. You gotta be the boss. You gotta be the queen of the world—always so mannered, so proper—but all you’re doing is showing everyone how fake you are.”

At this, something flitted behind Lona’s eyes, though her face remained as placid as ever. The hand that was still holding Michael’s sleeve had slackened. He might as well have turned invisible—Rick and Lona were now standing face-to-face, both of them wearing such similar expressions of fury that it was hard, for a second, to tell them apart.

“Beneath that shell of yours, you’re just a lonely freak,” Rick chided. “You don’t have a life, you don’t have a family, and you don’t have any friends. And you never will. Know why? ‘Cause you act like a damn princess! You’re always up on your high horse and demand respect from people, but you don’t give it back. You treat everyone like dirt. And you treat me like dirt. You always shout, you always push me around, and you act like I’m a freaking baby!”

Lona leaned forward. “Then maybe you should stop whining like one, start listening to the shit I tell you, and work on your skills! And if you don’t want to, then leave!“

“Fine, I will!” Rick grabbed the plastic wristband that was wrapped around his left arm and pulled it off, smacking it against the ground. He grabbed his sports bag and turned for the exit, dragging his feet so they wrinkled the carpet. “I quit the League!”


Michael stared in dumb shock as Rick stormed down the hallway. Before he could come to his senses, he felt a sudden weight lift from his right shoulder. He turned, looking just in time to see Lona turn her back to him, arms stiffening at her sides.



“If you have nothing else to add, then you may proceed to the lobby and sign out,” she said. “Congratulations...”




And just like that, she was gone.






Lona fled down the hallway till she reached her office, slamming the door so loudly that it trembled on its hinges. From the other direction, Rick’s footsteps faded away into the distance, followed by a loud bang as the front doors closed behind him. Silence rushed back in, leaving Michael alone in the corridor, standing like a pillar and unable to move. Only now did he become aware that his hands had gone cold from shock, and that he was clutching the notebook ever tighter under his arm, as if in fear that it would be taken away. But Lona hadn’t even touched it.



Unconsciously, Michael’s eyes found the wristband that lay on the floor, and he reached to pick it up, examining its smooth surface. His face was reflected in it as a smudge, colored and distorted by the plastic.


Rick's words were still buzzing around in his ears, like remnants from a jarring explosion. As he pictured his face, Michael felt a returning spite kindle within him. In a heartbeat, the boy had ruined his own work, had turned away from the door that would have led him to his goal. And it was all because he had been careless, too blindly obsessed with getting revenge on a single person, to see a way out when it was staring him in the face.

Stupid… Michael thought. His forehead creased in a frown. That’s what you get for hanging out with dweebs… now everything’s ruined. He could’ve listened to me, but no, he just had to run his stupid mouth.

He closed his palm around the band, and looked back in the direction of Lona’s office. She had vanished there like a mirage, throwing their end of the hallway into a deathly stillness. She could be reporting him this very minute, jotting notes on his Gym record, perhaps declaring his badge null and void. His curiosity began to gnaw at his judgment.

Stifling his breath, Michael crept up to the office door and pressed his ear against it.



From behind, he heard a rustle of papers, and the creak of a chair.


“… yes, Ann, this is Lona. Do me a favor and take Rick Emaldo off the roster for next week… he’s decided not… not to continue… No, I don’t want to hear about that petition! I don’t care who started it! Let them march right up to the League Office if they please. If that’s how they like to solve their problems, then so be it. Tell everyone to stop searching... It’s not fair to the ones who weren’t at fault. And if there’s anyone else left who hates it here that badly, then tell them that they can just go ahead and leave! What do I c-care?”


A telephone was slammed back into its holder. More papers shuffled. Michael stood facing the closed door, torn between running and staying. His heart was hammering. Any minute, Lona could open the door and catch him—and perhaps he would never lay eyes on the outside world again. But as he listened further, he heard little else. A strange quiet had settled over the room.

Michael started to turn the doorknob, and to his surprise found it was open. He gave it a light push, and the door swung back to reveal the interior of Lona’s office, quaint and sunny. He stepped inside, still keeping to the door in case he had to run. But Lona didn’t seem to notice. She was sitting behind the desk, her face buried in her arms, the sounds of her sobbing rising from within. The pink jacket was balled up on a table behind her, as if she had tossed it off in a rage, finally tired of its presence.



Michael didn’t know what he felt as he approached the desk. Shock faded into silence, blotting out everything from his awareness but the single figure in front of him, no longer terrible or imposing, but strangely small against the surroundings. Lona was crying, he realized—really crying—and the sound of it was both sad and frightening, filling his head with such a mess of thoughts that, for an instant, he could barely think. He knew there was a part of him that would have been happy, and not so long ago, would have even strived to bring that moment about — to tear down a deserving foe, like he had done to so many others before.

But suddenly, that part of him was gone. The Lona Walker who had haunted his mind before had vanished — fallen away like the fragments of a shell, leaving behind the shattered remains of its keeper. And right then, everything clicked. The glares. The whispers. Everything they said had been hidden away inside of her, piling over memories from years past, fueling the storm that was consuming her from within. The timidity had been there the whole time, but it was crushed under layers of scorn, till no one—perhaps not even Lona herself—could sense it. It had emerged in a single moment when Ted had been there, blossoming almost to its former state, but then it slipped from her grasp again, like a tiny light lost amid the raging darkness.

Rick had been one of many to sustain her downward spiral. He had been a mirror of the person she had turned into—retaliating with the same tactics, toying with her gloom, like so many others who had spoken those same words before. Each encounter only pulled her down further, driving her closer and closer to her own destruction.

But in the end, it was Michael who had broken her. And oddly enough, he did it without uttering a single word in her direction. It was because she had counted on him, because he had been one of the few to give her hope—catching on to things she herself had lost touch with long ago. But then he took it away. In a matter of seconds, he had wrecked yet another person’s care for him, had ruined yet another thing that he could have done right. And the more Michael thought about it, the more he realized it was all he had ever been good at.





He stood in place for what felt like hours, numb with indecision, wanting to run but unable to leave. In a sudden, feeble burst, he remembered that he was still holding Rick’s wristband—and felt its slight firmness as he tightened his grip around it. Desperate for something to do, he opened his hand and began to fiddle around with the plastic button, deciding for God-knows-what reason to snap it closed. At last, he did, and a sharp click pierced the air.


Lona stilled.


As if sensing that someone was in the room with her, she grew quiet, and after a hanging pause, she lifted her head. A pair of red, puffy eyes emerged from the tips of her arms and locked on Michael’s own—then almost immediately, she hid them away.

Michael’s blood chilled.

Lona didn’t let out another peep, but he could feel it as she tensed, and even more so, could feel his own heart pounding, reaffirming his presence with every jarring beat. He had done it. He had fallen into the death-grip of her stare, had plunged past the point of no return, where he would lose everything—his work, his hopes, his sanity.

His mind began to scramble. The watchful eyes were gone, but Lona was still there, waiting, teetering on the verge of another outburst. Numbly, Michael approached the desk and placed the wristband down in front of her.


“Sorry,” he mumbled, and stepped back.


After a minute more of silence, he became assured that she hadn’t heard him, and turned to leave. But right then, he heard a sniff, and a faint rustle as Lona lifted her head from the table.


“Wait.”


Michael stopped. He turned around, just as Lona grabbed a tissue to blow her nose, opening her reddened eyes. She rummaged about her desk and lifted a brown folder, to which a white envelope was clipped.

“Give this to Bertha,” she said. “It’s my letter of support. Tell her—” She was cut short by a loud sneeze. Covering her nose with the tissue, Lona proffered the folder with her free hand. “Tell her… good luck…”


After a brief pause, Michael took the parcel. Lona brushed her hair away from her face, and their gazes met for an instant. All traces of the former coldness had washed away from her eyes, leaving them soft and patient. They could have been anyone’s.


For a minute, he thought of saying something else, but found himself at a loss for words. As he backed away, Lona exhaled slowly and lowered her forehead into her hands. But for the time being, she seemed to have calmed.


Michael left the office in a daze, unable to fathom what had just happened.

















His mind was still spinning as he walked down the hallway, his footsteps resounding in the silence. Muffled noises of battle fled past his ears, alternating in trance-like synchrony with the silence of empty rooms. He walked at a solemn, deadbeat pace, when a sudden yip-yip tore him out of his thoughts. He stopped in his tracks and looked down—just as a Stunky poked out its nose from one of the empty battle rooms, following a trail of scent.

The pokémon’s dark fur stood up in tidy bristles, brushing against the edge of the half-door, pushing it out slightly as it emerged. Upon seeing him, the Stunky looked up, its ears flicking.

Michael stared dumbly at it for a few seconds, till in a half-hearted burst, he recognized it as his own. He might have made a snide remark at it, but right then, he wasn’t in the mood. He continued on his way, not noticing the Stunky patter along in diligent pursuit. Michael passed through the lobby without a wayward glance, forgetting all about the prize money and his wristband, proceeding right by the front desk to the exit.


A warm, humid wind rushed over him as he pushed open the door, with such force that he had to narrow his eyes. The sun had retreated behind a thick sheet of clouds, casting a gray gloom over the entire town. To the south, a rainstorm was gathering.

Bertha and Henry stood on the Gym’s front lawn, observing the changing weather. The wind stirred the grass around them, rippling the edges of their clothing. As Michael approached, they turned, and Henry ran forward with a smile.

“Hey! How’d it go? Did you—”

The boy stopped short when he noticed the look of blank shock on Michael’s face. His gaze fell to the Stunky, who was running to catch up, and his lips parted. “Michael! You didn’t… you didn’t lose, did you?”

Michael shook his head. “No.” He held up the badge, and Henry relaxed somewhat.

“Oh. But then what—”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off as Bertha came over. “Hey kid. What happened?” Her gaze fell to the folder in Michael’s hands, and she frowned in puzzlement. “What’ve you got there?”

“It’s Lona’s letter. She signed your petition.” Michael held it out to her.

Bertha blinked in surprise. “Just now? You mean she told you during the battle?”

“No, it was after… she just gave me the envelope. She must’ve had it earlier.”

Bertha looked at him for a few seconds without replying. Then she took the folder and unclipped the envelope, gently peeling off the seal. She removed a typed letter and scanned through it without comment, though her eyebrows lifted.

She was about to put it back when she noticed a second piece of paper still folded inside the envelope. Michael and Henry came to look as she opened it. It was a written note.


Miss Herrida,

I’m glad we were able to come to an understanding. I hope that in the future you will continue to look out for the League’s well-being, and perhaps encourage others to do the same. You have encouraged me.

-LW


Bertha lowered the letter. “Huh. I guess I did change her mind, then…” She placed both papers back, and after a brief paused, looked up at the boys and sighed. “Well, that’s about it for this place. I guess it’s time to head over to Pastoria for the next Gym. I don’t know about you two, but I’ve got all my things. Are you ready to leave today?”

Henry nodded. “Yep! We don’t have much to pack.”

Bertha looked at Michael. “How about you?” Noticing his strange silence, she frowned. “What’s the matter? Did something happen back there?”

Michael shook his head. ”No. Why?”

“You look like you just saw your ghost.” Bertha smiled at her own joke. Somewhat belatedly, Michael returned the gesture.






But in a way, he had.

//////

The boys finished packing in less than an hour, and after turning their keys in to the front desk, they left with Bertha to the rail station. The clouds continued to thicken overhead.

At the reception counter, Bertha purchased their tickets, while the boys waited in the seating area, amid the shifting, chattering crowds. Since Pastoria City was nearly three hours away, they would be taking an over-ground train, whose tracks would traverse the bogs between the Great Marsh and Lake Valor. All in all, the journey would amount to 500 miles, and would take them to the very edge of Sinnoh’s southeastern shore.



A short while later, Michael found himself sitting at the window seat of a thin train, looking out at the darkening plains. For the first time, the excitement of leaving was lost upon him. It had numbed, much like the world he saw through the glass, its sounds reduced to a blurry thrum in the pervading silence of his mind. He didn’t feel anything now—not relief, or joy, or sadness.


Rather, as he stared at the dreary town, part of him wanted nothing more than to go home, shut the door to his room, and forget everything that had happened to him.










Little did he know, someone far away was thinking the exact same thing.

[Grav]

Love it. That was your best battle scene yet. Who is the far away person ? Will we ever know?
Are you going to have any of Micheal's team evolve soon? I'd love to see his reaction to Grotle or Seaking."Oh. Has it changed type? Let's find out! Ringo, Aerial Ace! (dink) Ringo!"

[Mrs. Lovett]

Thank you! I worked very hard on it. Length and effort wise, it was like two of my regular battle scenes put together.

And yes, I will definitely have Michael's pokemon evolve, and in fact, I've been hinting at Turtwig's approaching evolution for a few chapters now. (The ones with battle scenes, at any rate. Michael has noticed that Turtwig's been getting bulkier and sturdier.) It won't be an explosive evolution like Clefable's, unfortunately, because the Turtwig line evolves through growth. However, there's a certain point that Turtwig must pass before he becomes Grotle. When he passes it, I'll mention it outright.

As for the far-away person, I thought it would be obvious you will find out next chapter. Stay tuned. xP

Thanks for reading!

[Crimson Penguin]

Hello again. It's been quite a long time, but I wanted to drop in and let you know that yes, I am still reading this, and I've enjoyed every minute of it.

I thought this chapter was beautifully done. It seems all the work you put into it paid off. : ) The intensity and pacing of the Gym battle was just right, and I could really feel Michael's emotions coming through the whole time. Your descriptions were spot-on as well - I pictured everything clearly as if it were happening right before my eyes. Nicely done.

I also want to thank you for completely changing my views about Lona (and Michael to some degree). Part of the reason this chapter was so successful, I thought, was because of all the buildup from the previous chapters, from seeing Michael and Henry's growth in their battling styles to finding out Lona's true beliefs and motivations behind her actions. And her philosophy of putting in honest effort to reap true success (which was a theme I appreciated seeing throughout the Solaceon arc, by the way) just hit with full force when she confronted Rick. I actually sympathized with her for once, especially when she was just sitting there crying at the end. It showed that she's a real human being, too, and you did a great job getting me invested in her character.

I noticed one small typo towards the end of the battle scene:

Michael was beginning to feel a bitter taste as he returned Caterpie. Dropping the pokéball into his backpack, he took out his last—Ringo. A brief panic gripped him as he held the capsule in his hands. What if he lost? No doubt, Lona would banish him to the lowest trough of partner battles, immersing him in the murky gloom, forcing him to crawl his way to the light all over again. By the time he’d get to staff battles, half the summer would be gone.

No.

Michael steeled himself. It was not end like this.

I think there's a word missing here - "it was not to end," maybe?

Anyway, wonderful job, and I will do my best to keep up with each chapter from now on. Thanks for the great read!

~Crimson Penguin

P.S. Loving the new avatar. : )

[Mrs. Lovett]

Hey, Crimson Penguin! It's good to see you back again. Glad you enjoyed the chapter.

I also want to thank you for completely changing my views about Lona (and Michael to some degree). Part of the reason this chapter was so successful, I thought, was because of all the buildup from the previous chapters, from seeing Michael and Henry's growth in their battling styles to finding out Lona's true beliefs and motivations behind her actions. And her philosophy of putting in honest effort to reap true success (which was a theme I appreciated seeing throughout the Solaceon arc, by the way) just hit with full force when she confronted Rick. I actually sympathized with her for once, especially when she was just sitting there crying at the end. It showed that she's a real human being, too, and you did a great job getting me invested in her character.

Yay, you hit the point :) Yes, the main thing that I wanted to get across in Solaceon was the fact that Michael isn't the same person he was at the beginning of the story. He's starting to see things in a different way, and that's changed his attitude towards the people around him. (Food for thought: did Lona change, or did Michael? hehe.) Now all that's left is to move forward and see what he makes of it all...

Michael was beginning to feel a bitter taste as he returned Caterpie. Dropping the pokéball into his backpack, he took out his last—Ringo. A brief panic gripped him as he held the capsule in his hands. What if he lost? No doubt, Lona would banish him to the lowest trough of partner battles, immersing him in the murky gloom, forcing him to crawl his way to the light all over again. By the time he’d get to staff battles, half the summer would be gone.

No.

Michael steeled himself. It was not end like this.

I think there's a word missing here - "it was not to end," maybe?

It was actually supposed to be "It would not end like this," which I remember correcting in one of the earlier versions of this chapter... But once again, my writer's memory has led me to post something completely different than what I typed. xP I'll just go ahead and fix it now.

Thanks for the review! (And thanks for liking my avatar :P)

[Mrs. Lovett]

3.1

They say what goes around comes around.







No one knew it better than Patricia Rowan.






In the days that followed her son’s departure, the once cozy, enviable home of the Rowans had declined into a disorderly den, cluttered with the fragments of something that her hands hadn’t been quick enough to mend.

She did not know what exactly had happened the night that Michael left. She had been in her room, doing something or other, when a sudden loud banging in the kitchen had roused her from her comatose state. She had gone downstairs, and found the traces of what looked like a struggle—a broken vase on the floor, papers scattered all over the rug, and a front door that stood slightly ajar, as if it had been slammed only moments before. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together — Michael had done this. He was somewhere outside now, probably off to a friend’s house, or anywhere that she wasn’t.

Fine, Patricia remembered thinking, caught in a brewing storm of anger. Let him go. We’ll see how he likes it with those precious hooligans of his.

And then, without a backward glance, she had gone up to her room, thinking that when he had blown off enough steam, Michael would come to his senses and return.


But he didn’t.


The next morning, Patricia woke up to find the house in the exact same state as before—broken vase, rumpled pillows, scattered papers. She went outside, but Michael wasn’t sprawled out on the porch with a sleeping bag, or crouched behind a bush. She remembered phoning his friends’ parents, but they only returned her queries with surprise. No, Michael hadn’t showed up at their doorstep the previous night. No, he wasn’t having breakfast with them that very moment, not wanting to speak to her. Neither Cory nor Brendan had heard from their friend since he had visited them the previous Saturday.

Patricia tried to ask others. She phoned her next-door neighbors, neighbors across the street, neighbors five doors down. By the end of the hour, she had telephoned the entire community, it seemed, but each voice that answered her only told her the same thing: “I’m sorry, miss, but we haven’t seen him.”

Patricia sat home for the entire day, not knowing what to do. Betty Arlington, an old family friend, stopped by at noon and offered to start a neighborhood investigation. Patricia accepted. She was slumped on the old leather couch, her head tilted down, her hands resting uselessly in the lap of her skirt. She remembered looking at her hands.

What have I done? Patricia had mulled, picking her cuticles. What could I have done?

Those two questions swirled around and around in her mind, pestering her constantly, giving her no rest. She couldn’t pinpoint what exactly had set Michael off that night, and as the shock of his absence escalated into a panic, the memory became all the more muddled in her mind. Eventually, Patricia decided that it didn’t matter what had caused her son to leave. She wanted him back. Promptly.

The neighborhood search team assembled in her driveway the following day, consisting of over thirty people—both friends and friends of friends, some of whom Patricia barely knew. The hunt wore on for three days that seemed like weeks. They checked houses, the neighborhood park, and other remote areas, but found nothing. There was no sign of Michael Rowan’s presence or departure, almost as if he had never been among them at all.

Patricia’s patience quickly wore thin. As a last resort, on the morning of June 1st, she got into her car and drove to Jubilife City. She stopped by the police station and filed a request for a city-wide search, giving the officer a recent school picture of Michael’s to identify him by.

“Name?” asked the officer, taking a clipboard from his desk.

“Michael Rowan,” Patricia replied. As soon as those words left her, her heart seemed to sink.

“Age?”

“Thirteen.”

“Where do you live in the city?”

“In the suburbs,” she said. “My address is 984, Old Bay Road.”

“When did he run away?”

Patricia paused briefly, without meaning to. “He left on May 28th in the evening. I didn’t know what he was up to at first, and it wasn’t until the next morning that I realized he was gone.”

“Do you know if he took anything with him that could reveal his identity? A credit card? Pokémon?”

Patricia froze, then flushed with shame. She had been so immersed in her worries that she hadn’t even bothered to check Michael’s room to see what he had taken. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “He couldn’t have taken a wallet… I have all my things right here.” She touched the purse that hung from her shoulder.

The officer nodded. “And pokémon? Is your son a trainer?”

Patricia was silent in her mulling for a while. Finally, she let out a breath. “No. He’s not a trainer. I don’t think he has any pokémon with him.”

The officer finished writing the last bits of what she had told him. When he clipped his pen back to the edge of the board, he looked up at her. “Okay. Thank you, Miss Rowan. I’ll dispatch a search party and we’ll begin a city-wide investigation. I’ll let you know if we get any leads.”

“And if not?” she asked.

The officer’s gaze hung on her hers for a moment, placid and grave. “We’ll let you know.”

After leaving her address and telephone number with the office, Patricia went home. She pulled the car into the driveway and rushed inside, slamming the door behind her. A part of her still hoped that Michael would reappear somewhere, like a lost shoe, from behind the lamp or inside a closet. Patricia spent a whole ten minutes pacing the house, but it was empty. And not for the first time.

Days passed. The Jubilife Police posted notices around the city, even resorting to the old milk carton headline that, up until that point, Patricia had thought to be an effort in vain. No one ever looked at the milk cartons. They just took out the milk when they needed it, let it rest on the table for the duration of a meal, then put it back, ignoring all the advertisements that tried to wheedle into the serenity of their day. But now that she was on the losing side of the game, Patricia was gripped by a desperate sort of anger. It couldn’t be her son in that picture. Maybe someone else’s, but not hers. (Soon, she stopped drinking milk entirely, since she couldn’t bear to see the face that stared back at her, gray and lifeless.)

The investigation office updated her twice a week, but so far, nothing had come up. In the meantime, Patricia’s previous attachment to order and cleanliness had utterly dissolved. Wherein the days before Michael’s departure, the only mar to the otherwise clean home had been a few empty take-out boxes scattered over the counter, now the house was a disaster. Dirty laundry and half-washed dishes accumulated in the areas that Patricia frequented, while dust settled over the barren wood furnishings. Meals had lost all ceremony and significance to her. In the first few days, Patricia had been content to cook something new every evening, but as time wore on, she stopped doing even that. Her leftovers remained for over four days, which she spooned out gradually till the pot or skillet was completely clean. Then she would set it aside and cook on a fresh one, repeating the process.

Days grew into weeks, and eventually, Patricia had severed all ties with the woman she once was. She no longer bothered to put on makeup in the mornings, and often strolled around in her nightgown well into the afternoon. Phone calls and visitors became less frequent, as her friends probably realized that she didn’t want or need their comforting words. The only people she was interested in talking to were those from the police office, though over time she grew to suspect that they were just as inept as everyone else.

On the morning of June 17th, more than two weeks after Michael’s disappearance, Patricia reached her all-time low. Stepping into her home, a former friend would have been appalled at its appearance, even more so at the ghost of a woman who skulked inside.

Patricia was curled up on an armchair in the living room, where she had fallen asleep the previous evening without bothering to turn off the TV. The muted set was still playing, flashing bright pictures and colors into her sore eyes. A cup of coffee stood on the table beside her, cold and forgotten. With a grunt, Patricia leaned forward, pushing herself out of the chair to kneel beside the quacking box. She turned it off with the jamb of a thumb, and the flashing lights vanished, as did the false-white smiles, and the stupid-happy commercials. The picture dissipated into a screen of black, and Patricia was able to see her face in the reflection, against the backdrop of the room.

She looked no better than the house did. Her eyes had narrowed into slits, and were weighed down with heavy bags from lack of sleep. The corner of her mouth were drooped into a permanent downward ‘C’, and her hair was a frazzled brown mop.

Is this what I’ve become? she wondered. But there was no question about it.

Slowly, Patricia rose to her feet, grimacing at the pain that flared in her legs and back, from all the slouching and sitting. She lumbered over to the kitchen, which after days of incremental dishwashing, looked as if it had hosted a dinner party for twelve. The table and counter were littered with empty tea cups, crumbs, and utensils of all sorts. Every pot and pan she owned was in use, resting at various points on the counter and table, containing meals from previous days. Patricia grabbed a clean plate from the sink and began to snoop around the buffet, looking for a source of breakfast. She paced the whole kitchen twice, lifting lid after lid, but to her surprise, all the pots were empty. She checked the fridge, but was met with a similar situation—the eggs were all gone, as were the vegetables and dairy. It was as if a hungry monster had ransacked her food supply, scraping out all the containers, clearing the shelves and drawers.

As Patricia’s frenzied eyes swept over the inside of the fridge, they alighted upon a crumpled candy wrapper that lay on the third shelf, right under her nose. A Hershey bar. No doubt, it had been someone’s midnight snack, and that someone had been so careless and ravenous that they hadn’t even bothered with proper disposal, just taking out the chocolate and leaving the package to rot in 38 degrees Fahrenheit.

Feeling her heart sink, Patricia pressed a hand to her belly. The other hand was leaning against the cold wall of the refrigerator, supporting her slack weight.

She had finally run out of food.

After keeping her gaze locked on the candy wrapper for a good minute, Patricia’s face darkened. She backed away from the fridge and let the door swing shut as she turned away. Hands on hips, she began to pace the kitchen again, her hunger at odds with the laziness that wrapped her like a too-warm blanket.

Gazing up at the wall, Patricia let out a frustrated sigh. I guess I just won’t eat today, then.

She sighed again, with finality, and went back to the living room to turn on the TV. But she stopped midway. Was she really going to spend the next five hours watching the same reruns of Jukebox? There was nothing good on the news, and there were only so many times that one could watch the same commercials over and over again before their brains fried. She already had one foot in the couch potato camp, and if she broke down and placed in the other, there would be no turning back.

A fresh, passing anger clouded Patricia’s face again. She wouldn’t watch TV either. But then what would she do?

Walking around the house with that question in her mind, Patricia visited her room and skimmed the bookshelf, perhaps to occupy herself with reading. But none of the books she had at that moment interested her. Avoiding the mirror on her vanity, she steered herself out. She went into Brian’s old room, which had remained untouched, and therefore protected from degradation. Michael, obviously, had never had any use for it, and in the years after Brian’s departure to boarding school, neither had she. Patricia only visited it to clean at least twice a month, but she left the furniture and decorations mainly as they were. Brian’s bed was smooth and dormant, patiently awaiting his return, and the swivel chair at his desk was turned slightly to the side, as if he had stood up to leave only moments ago.

His books and albums were still in place, as were the photos framed on the wall. Patricia looked at them. There was Brian, side-by-side with her. Brian and Richard. Brian and Michael. Brian, Michael, Andrew, and Richard.

Richard had left too. The burning she felt in her stomach only intensified at the memory. He was her son. He had no right. Was he happy, now that he had torn apart their family, and her heart along with it? She could answer that question too — of course he was. After Andrew’s death, Richard’s life in the household had been nothing short of miserable. She could have helped him, but he didn’t let her. He had grown distant in the last few weeks, more so than usual. And then?

Patricia frowned.

What had he said that night at dinner?


She wracked her brain for almost a minute, then suddenly, the curt, placid face of her middle son appeared before her.



"And when was the last time you were happy for either of us?"



Patricia smiled, more at the fact that she had remembered than at the words that had pierced her like a knife. And they were still hurting to this very day. How could she, the mother of three boys, not care equally for every one of them? How could she have succumbed to such a sick form of favoritism, treating her sons like trophies when they were all that anchored her to sanity? Andrew had been the love of her life. They hadn’t always gotten along, but they were happy together for a long while. When Brian and Richard were added to the picture, however, their differences were made all the more striking.

She and Andrew had always been good at keeping their arguments hidden from the boys, and at the time it seemed like the proper thing to do. Why spoil a child’s fun at the park or day home from school with angry glares and reprimands? It seemed like a much better solution to keep apart for the time being, instead devoting their energies solely to the young boys. But as Patricia was only starting to realize now, that had been a grave mistake. While she and Andrew gave each other the cold shoulder, whichever boy happened to be at Patricia’s side would be the one she would see for most of the day, and talk to, and play with. That boy was Brian. He was surprisingly similar to her, and they enjoyed many of the same things. Likewise, Richard grew to be more like Andrew, both in character and in attitude. Relationships across this boundary were amiable, but not wholly loving, even when everything was all right between the parents. By the time Patricia realized what was happening, it was too late. Instead of their children patching up the tensions between her and her husband, she and Andrew had used them to pull themselves further apart.

Michael had been her last child. At the time of his birth and early childhood, it seemed that Patricia and Andrew had survived enough time together to put their problems behind them. For once, they tried to balance their work schedules so that both of them could have equal time with the kids, but the damage had already been done. Richard and Brian viewed their mother and father in two different lights, and Michael soon caught on to the pattern. Patricia loathed to see her young, innocent boy be degraded by something so frivolous as parental competition, and in her blind anger, she had associated his habits with his father. She tried to pull Michael away from him, but he, of course, saw this as an attack, and distanced himself even more.

By the time Andrew fell ill, he and Patricia were barely speaking. Richard and Michael, who loved him more than they loved her, were especially attentive to their father’s needs, and treated Patricia as if she had been at fault. Brian was the only one who tried to comfort her, and for that, she probably loved him more at that point too.

All stupid… so stupid. Patricia bit her lip. He face began to heat up, her vision clouding.

Maybe Michael was right to leave, she thought. I’m a monster. I could’ve changed things early on, but I didn’t. I just had to hang on to that stupid hate, those stupid fights… Whatever came over me… I’m sorry.

Patricia swallowed. Pretty soon, the tears began to stream down her cheeks with a force that she was powerless to stop. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed against the bed, burying her face in her arms. The sound of her wails echoed through the silent house. It was all over. All the people she cared about had left her, and for good measure, too. There was no going back. She had made a mess of her life, and now the only thing left to do was die, to plunge into the bottomless depths of darkness and wait for her misery to come to an end. She would never see any of their faces again, never get the chance to see her family all around the table, happy, talking. Life had given her countless opportunities to change her ways — but she had thrown them all aside, clinging to the conviction that she was right, and as a result, her family had split before her very eyes. First Andrew had gone, then Richard, now Michael. Slipped through her fingers like sand, and she had done nothing to stop it. All those times she had seen the faces of her three sons, she had not once tried to get them together, to mutually comfort them after the death of their father. No, she had adhered to the old boundaries… she had kept up the old game, and she had paid for it. She had paid dearly.







A few hours later, Patricia stumbled out of the room, her cheeks wet, her eyes red and puffy. She took a look around the house, at the sunlight that was subtly streaming from the blinds in the living room, and felt the silence return—oh, it was dreadful, that silence. It was the silence of solitude, the kind that pervaded everything, pressing down upon her with an almost tangible weight.

But for the first time in a while, her head was clear.


Setting her hands on her hips, Patricia walked down the rest of the hallway and turned into Michael’s room. She hadn’t set foot in it since he had left, and was briefly disoriented by its reappearance, for it didn’t look quite the same as she remembered it. The bed was smooth like a slab of stone, clear of all objects save for a single pillow. The writing desk with its lamp askew stood in its usual spot by the door, containing what appeared to be the same assortment of objects that had lain there for months. Michael had never been a desk-worker. He always preferred to see things for himself, writing down only what he thought was important, regardless of what an assignment demanded. And so the desk became just another flat surface, on which he would throw old papers, pencils, coins, and records that weren’t in use. It always drove her crazy.

Now, however, Patricia looked upon the mess with an odd wonder, as if seeing it for the first time. The assortment of items seemed to be the same as it always was, but for some reason it still looked different, just like everything else in the room, changed on some level deeper than appearance. The bookshelves, although dusty, seemed emptier, as if their contents had been hastily rearranged. Opening the doors to the closet, Patricia saw that it had been sorted through as well, though (as always) the person who did it had forgotten to straighten the shirts that hung in the middle. Patricia let out an exasperated sort of sigh, and fixed a sleeve that had slipped off the edge of a hanger, then proceeded to turn all the hooks in the same direction.

Once she was done, she stepped back and allowed herself a faint smile. There. At least that’s done.

As her gaze swept over the closet, she alighted upon the inner shelves, where other articles of clothing were balled up in Michael fashion. Patricia swiped her finger across the bottom surface of one, and found to her surprise that it was covered in dust. She was stricken by a momentary appall.

When was the last time I cleaned here?

She stood still for a moment, eyes scanning the room, then made a firm turn for the door and went down to the kitchen. A few moments later, she came back up with a rag, and began to clean the room, skimming over all the surfaces and wiping off anything that looked dusty. It was more of a memory ritual than an attempt at cleaning—she left all the items where they were, and did not venture anywhere she couldn’t immediately reach, so in the end, the room remained in the same state as before. But it was a start.

Over the course of the next few days, Patricia worked her way through the rest of the bedrooms, overcoming her stagnancy to snoop around. This time, she devoted her energies to a full overhaul: she vacuumed the carpet, cleaned the blinds, and wiped every surface she could reach. Patricia emptied entire closets, throwing nothing away, but setting aside anything that needed to be cleaned and putting the rest back where it belonged. Soon, she amassed a heap of dirty laundry from all four rooms, which afterwards she washed in segments, leaving the washer and dryer machines rumbling for the whole day. When she was done she moved on to the living room, straightening the decorations and cleaning the furniture, then proceeded to the kitchen, where she scrubbed off the grime from her dishes, washing away the remnants of her decline under the powerful faucet stream.

Within a week, the house had risen back to its former state of order—and this time, along with it, so had Patricia. During the time she spent sorting through the house, digging layer by layer through years of history, something had reawakened within her. It was a change that had come about with the suddenness of a lightning strike, something that she hadn’t felt for what seemed like an eternity. She felt better.




The shadows of her past would always be with her, she knew, but it was up to her to learn from them and make the best of what she had. It wouldn’t honor her husband’s memory to keep alive the old torment, and let it seep into their children’s lives. Rather, Patricia took the hardest step of all—to overcome it for their sake, and hope that one day they’d be free of it too.

And though she knew that Brian and Richard had moved on in their lives without her, she still had one more son to watch over and support. And from now on, she would.

//////

“So why’s she calling us now?”

“I ain’t got a clue, man, stop asking me!”


The hushed whispers of two boys rose out from the empty streets of the neighborhood, a tiny stir of life beneath the vast canopy of trees. Cory and Brendan were walking down the sidewalk together, keeping a slightly quickened pace, passing rows of houses on their way to Michael’s.

As usual, their clothing was loose and plain, the ‘badass’ trademark that they were known for at school. There was no strict uniform, but students were nevertheless expected to show up prim and tidy, which the two boys almost never did. While the obedient kids wore pretty shirts and shiny belts, Cory and Brendan dressed functionally, avoiding collars so that their teachers had nothing to yank them by, and wearing shorts with lots of pockets to hold notes, coins, and homework answers.

Today, the edges of their shoes were coated with a layer of mud, for they had been exploring the area beyond the neighborhood, near Route 202. They had left that morning without a single comment from their parents, but when they returned, they had found Brendan’s mother waiting for them by her porch, who told them that Patricia Rowan wanted to see the both of them immediately. The boys had exchanged surprised glances, though there was really little to be surprised about. Ever since Michael had disappeared, all they would hear about from their parents and friends of their parents was the investigation in Jubilife, the one that wasn’t turning up jack, as Cory liked to say.

Their friend’s leave had affected the boys perhaps the most out of anyone else, but in a way that the adults in their lives didn’t understand. While the parents scurried about, exchanging apologies and offers to help, Cory was consumed by a philosophical sort of silence, which Brendan imitated of his own accord. They rarely shared more than a few words about Michael, though he remained in their minds at all times, like a guardian angel who watched over them from some place up in the sky.

Over the days, the boys watched as the people from their neighborhood and even their school were visited by the police, and asked for anything that they knew about Michael Rowan and his whereabouts. Cory and Brendan had escaped much of the scrutiny that plagued others. After an initial few questions from their parents, and a brief routine visit from the police, they were left to their own devices, as the investigators probably realized that they had no useful information. That was the way it always was, and Cory and Brendan were used to it. They were the black sheep, the spare parts, the ones who were always overlooked by the rosier members of society. But over the years, that had become their strength. They answered to no one, and followed the path they thought was right, rather than the one prescribed to them by others. Michael had been a kindred spirit, and often displayed such an embodiment of that goal that Cory and Brendan found themselves learning from him. When it was just the three of them, no one else mattered.

And then, coming out of the blue, Patricia’s call to them had caught them unawares—both by the fact that no one during the search had ever called them anywhere, and from the fact that she wanted to do it privately, rather than going through the police. Michael’s mother had never gone to great lengths to mask her dislike for Cory and Brendan, and the boys had never gone to great lengths to care. Even when Michael had been there, Patricia liked to act as if the two boys didn’t exist, letting her son settle his own arrangements. She never said anything to them outright, but they knew at the back of their minds that she didn’t think highly of them, much less believe that they had anything worthwhile to say to anyone.

Normally, this didn’t bother the boys, and they were perfectly happy to hang out with their friend without the parental cling that weighed down other aspects of their lives. But now Patricia had as good as invited them over. Which, if their experience with her enigmatic nature had taught them anything, wasn’t necessarily a gesture of friendship.

As they made their way over to the house, Brendan was eager to voice his speculations, but Cory preferred to just go with the flow and wait to see what would happen.

“But don’t you think it’s kinda weird, all of a sudden like that?” Brendan was continuing. “I thought we already said everything we knew.”

“We did.”

“So why’s she asking us? It’s like she suspects us or something. Maybe she wants us to frame ourselves for the police.”

“Look, I don’t know! Just shut up and we’ll find out a few feet from now.”

To the left, the familiar roof of the Rowan house emerged from behind the trees. Cory and Brendan stepped up to the front porch and rang the doorbell, and waited side-by-side for Michael’s mother to open it.

A minute later, Patricia Rowan appeared. She stepped out in a dress, as usual, and had pulled back her hair away from her face and shoulders. Her face was completely smooth, devoid of emotion, but when she laid eyes on the boys she smiled softly. Cory didn’t like the look it brought to her face. It made her look knowing, and slightly dangerous. He stared back at her silently, letting his face reflect the utter calm he felt on the inside. Brendan did the same.

“Hello boys,” Patricia said. “Just come right in here.” She stepped back to allow them in, leading them straight to the kitchen. The house looked as if it had been put through a speedy cleanup. The dining table was clear, save for a cup of tea and a spoon. Patricia sat down at the spot, and motion for Cory and Brendan to the empty chairs.

Patricia waited for them to get settled. She took a few sips of her tea, keeping her gaze fixed on the window behind them, as if searching for something beyond the hedges along the road. Then, she leaned back and finally turned her gaze to the boys that sat side-by-side in front of her, their slouched shoulders nearly touching.

“Okay, fellas. Here’s the deal.” Patricia let go of the cup and folded her hands on the table. “Michael’s gone. I want you to tell me, honestly, if you know where he is. The police have been searching Jubilife for weeks, and from what they’ve told me, it seems that he’s no longer there. He must’ve moved on to someplace else.” She paused, shifting her gaze from one boy’s face to the next. “I know you two are his closest friends. And I know that there’s a whole bunch of things that Michael told you that he wouldn’t tell me or anyone else. All I’m asking for is the truth. Tell me anything and everything that you know about all this.”

After a short silence, Cory was the first to respond. “We don’t know where he is. Honest. I mean, he’d tell us if he was planning on going somewhere, but neither of us heard anything about it from him. Right?” He looked over to Brendan, who nodded in agreement.

Patricia sighed, and began to stir her tea. “Well, suppose that he did tell you that he was about to run away. Where would he go? The three of you spend entire days together running off to all sorts of places—don’t tell me that you’ve never, not even once, made some crazy plan to go somewhere far away.”

“Well…” Brendan cast his gaze up at the ceiling. “There was one time we wanted to sneak aboard a ship to Iron Island.”

Cory began to crack up.

“We heard there were lots of jewels and stuff there, and we wanted to get some to bring home.” A smile tugged at the corners of Brendan’s lips, which he fought to restrain under Patricia’s gaze. She looked somewhat irked at this development, as if part of her was still appalled at the things thirteen-year-olds got themselves into, but she quickly overrode it with a nod.

“And?”

Brendan shrugged. “Well, we couldn’t get tickets. Plus we had exams that week, so we had to put it on hold so we could, um…”

“Study,” Cory put in.

Patricia ran her fingers through her hair. “Okay… well, I doubt Michael ran away so that he could go treasure hunting. Maybe I should put this to you another way: Did anything Michael say to you, or did any ideas that he share with you, indicate that he was serious about leaving?”

The two boys began to ponder. After a minute of silence, Patricia intervened.

“Maybe this will help. What did the three of you do when you last saw each other?”

At once, Cory and Brendan seemed to jolt awake, and faced each other with wide eyes.

“We… well, we met up at my house,” Cory began. “And we watched the Space Race.”

“Uh-huh…” Patricia narrowed her eyes. “And, is that all you do together?”

“No.”

“What else do you like to do, then? What kinds of things does Michael show an interest for that he might not say to me?”

The boys shrugged in unison. Their facial expression were so synchronous that it was almost comical. In a flash of rage and disbelief, Patricia slapped the table. “Did you two know him at all?”

Brendan shook his head. “I’m sorry Miss Rowan, but we don’t know. We’re sorry.”

It seemed that Patricia wanted to say more, but at the last minute, she waved her hand. “Okay. You two can go. Thank you.”

Nodding their heads, the boys got up and left.

Stepping down from the Rowans’ front porch, Cory and Brendan set off together down the sidewalk. They walked in silence for a few moments, then stopped when they reached the edge of the block. Brendan turned to his friend, eyes narrowed against the glare of the afternoon sun. “I can’t believe this, man. Michael was always the guy with the big ideas, but I never expected him to do this. Weird that he didn’t tell us, too.”

Cory hooked his thumbs into his pockets and let out a long, slow breath. “Nah, I don’t blame him. What’s the point in telling? If his mind was set, nuthin’ we would’ve said could’ve stopped him anyway. I bet our old pal just got sick of this place and decided to move on.”

“But still,” said Brendan. “We could’ve gone with him. It could’ve been the three of us out there, surviving, exploring... I don’t get why he had to be such a jerk about it and not tell us.”

Cory scowled. “Shut up. Michael ain’t no jerk. Kid’s smarter than the both of us put together, and unlike us, he knows what he’s doing. Maybe he didn’t want us to come with him. Maybe he knew he had to make the trip alone, to find himself or get away from something in his life. It doesn’t matter. Point is, it ain’t our business. And that’s what these parents don’t get. They want to read everything that’s going on in our minds, because the minute they stop getting us, they get scared we’ll tear away from them. But sometimes, that’s exactly what you gotta do.” He looked down at a rock that lay on the side of the road and kicked it with one dirty shoe, watching it skitter into a gutter. “Kid’ll go places. Just wait.”

“And what about us?” Brendan said.

Cory looked at him and shrugged. “Well, we’re still here, aren’t we?”

Brendan’s frown lingered a moment longer, then he lowered his shoulders in resignation. The boys fell into silence. They looked up at the sky, which was a stained sheet of yellow and orange above them.

“Wherever he is, I just hope he’s okay,” said Brendan, finally. “Wish he’d come back soon.”

It was a while before Cory responded. “He’ll come back,” he said, and smiled. “Exactly when he wants to.”


By some magnetic pull, a smile tugged at the corners of Brendan’s lips. The two boys stared at the clouds, not speaking, for — in the space of those brief few words— all the questions had been answered between them.

[PokemonAndDBZ]

I very much liked this quote, "Point is, it ain’t our business. And that’s what these parents don’t get. They want to read everything that’s going on in our minds, because the minute they stop getting us, they get scared we’ll tear away from them. But sometimes, that’s exactly what you gotta do” and the entirety of chapter 31 for that matter

Btw, you can take "Pokemon and DBZ son" off of the PM list if you want. That's another name of mine.

[Mrs. Lovett]

You can interpret that line however you want, but either way, there is definitely more to Cory and Brendan than what they might seem. :P Part of that scene's purpose was to give them a much-needed time to shine.

Glad you enjoyed the chapter! I'll update the PM list right away...