“Alright, here we go again,” Emil said, gripping the aging steering wheel of his 533 Economy model Aron.
The car was a working man’s affair; blocky, beige colored, with dents and scratches in various places, and the lights needed wiring re-soldered from time to time because of the way the car vibrated in regular use. However, Emil had the skills to pay the… well, he had the skills to pay his debts; paying the bills might’ve been a bit much to ask for. In truth, the thing was hideous in every way perceivable by men or mon. It was the cheap model meant to scare middle class Rattata-racers into upgrading to something more respectable, but he knew the guts of the vehicle were all the same. It didn’t make sense to rekit production for the real machinery, after all, and besides the wiring issue the thing was reliable and parts were plentiful. Unlike in Kanto or some of the other more community-oriented regions, Hoenn invested more in roads and local business infrastructure than in public transit. Every man woman or Nomel-Berry-lemonade-stand-running child was expected to find their own way of traversing the desolate expanses of road, and this was his attempt.
He stabbed the key into the ignition and twisted as several airplanes roared overhead. The thing purred to life, he slapped his tired face, forced a swig of canned espresso down his throat, and shook his head awake again as his eyes readjusted to the yellow nighttime parking lamps. He adjusted his thin rectangular glasses as he pulled out of parking space labeled, “Silph Co. 3,” and smiled in contentment as he drove to the exit gate.
“Oh, youngun. Good t’ seeya!” crooned an elderly lychee-haired woman with a jovial grin. Her skeletal figure was practically draped over in lose skin, graffitied in fading tattoos, stretch marks, and work scars. A living tapestry of lower class Hoenn life.
Emil gave her a dumb ear-to-ear grin and quietly handed her a laminated card. “Good to see you on shift, Bridget. You gonna retire today?”
She scoffed and flipped the card back into the cabin like a ninja star as she animatedly pressed a button. A fwip-click sounded from below her and her chair rustled behind her. “Emilio Malison, my crusty ass’ll retire as soon as ya get some sleep.” From just beneath the counter, a Slakoth yawned and extended their long twin clawed paws up to her, handing her a small slip of paper. “Can send ya home with Molases here, I trust ya. Paid a pretty pokedollar to learn ‘m Yawn so I could get some shuteye myself.”
It took Emil an extremely uncomfortable amount of time to register the words and respond. “You’re sweet, ma’am… but I don’t wanna get caught with a mon that ain’t mine. Don’t even have my license yet.”
She glared at him, and shook her head. “Ye remind me of muh late husband,” she said, then wrote down something on the slip of paper. “Seriously, baby. Y’get discounts workn for the man. Find a hotel over there and lay down.”
“Got a house to pay down, got other loans. Shoot, ma’am, I gotta pay my application fees so I can have a Molases all my own. I’ll pull over and take a nap, just for you. See ya next week!”
“Stubborn shit. S’all I can ask fer, I guess,” she said and flicked a switch to lift the gate. “Keep that promise, baby. I wanna see ya with a lover in that side seat, not rolled into a tin ball. Good luck on yer license. I heard they’re tightening the number they hand out again,” she said and then the one-way spikes laid down with a smack.
Emil waved lazily as he manually cranked his window up, coasting out onto the industrial road to hide behind a crumbling red-brick compound. He promptly ignored her warnings, knocked back the last of his stale espresso, and crushed the can down in his hand. He could handle it, he always did.
From the freeway he always enjoyed turning his head to the right now and again as he left Mauville Regional Airport. The huge luxurious living centers, made popular by Gym Leader Wattson back in the day, could easily be picked out from the ashen landscape like gemstones set into a sheet of gabbro. Their bejeweled windows, gold-accented marble, and rich green agricultural rooftops were a dazzling sight to behold. No way he could ever expect to afford to live there, but at least he lived in the same city and their shadow cast value on his little hovel.
That was the story he told himself, anyway.
He swerved from time to time, but the caffeine let him slap the sleep from his cheeks and last just long enough to finally glide off into massive expanse of homogeneity. In a way, it was a good thing he was tired and always drove home on habit since each of these streets had the curb-appeal of row of corporate cubicles. Same tiny patches of faux grass, same blue-gray paint jobs, same tall brown fences. His was at the far edge of this entire project where a stretch of older more organically grown properties were barely in sight.
His car sighed in relief as he pulled into the tiny paved cubby of his driveway, tucked snugly between his and his neighbor’s homes. He wobbled out of the driver side door and cajoled the trunk open with a slam of his fist, popped the buttons on his garish, painfully mandatory, Pokeball pinstripe-colored overalls and then peeled them away in the dark like an insect molting its carapace.
A metal tag dangled from a Klefki-shaped key ring in his hands that read, ‘Lil’ Maniacz: 520,” in bold saccharine font, still desperately clinging some of its Dipplin-Red enamels. He stepped inside and pulled at a grungy recycled rubber band that bound his hair into a tight bun until it snapped free, letting his long silk-brown spin loose and drape over his shoulders.
A well loved home left empty for a while always has a peculiar smell, and it was invigorating every time; the scent of dust along with all the deeply personal and comfortable aromas that you took for granted until you were away for a week or more. He always first caught the librarian aroma of rows of neatly stacked academic books with such riveting titles as, ‘Chemical Pressures on Wormdam Silk Variety,’ by Dr. A. Kawananakoa. Some much less sobering titles with pictures of Pokemon littering the bindings laid about at random through the home, including one that was thicker than the rest and had an antique canvas cover stained with the oils of human hands titled, ‘Through the Tall Grasses,’ by Ranger Solana. Regardless, each book was divvied into even chunks by densely scrawled sheets of paper slipped between the pages.
In particular his nose caught the whiff of piles of mass produced stationary as he bound his hair up into a comfortable ponyta-tail. Sure enough, a pile of unopened mail had mounded beneath the mail slot of the door. Beside the stack of mail, a dusty plush Pokemon bed and pair of little bowls languished in a darkened corner with a tiny paper note reading, “Good Luck, Mom.”
He’d get to that later. For now, he was going to take Bridget up on her bet. Who knew, maybe he would get some real sleep and he could finally catch her wasting away her golden years at the game corner. He tip toed down the hall, banked right, and wobbled into a humble spartan bedroom with the windows blackened with thick industrial paint. The bed had been left for himself in a wavy wrinkled heap but it only made him more excited to spin around, hair lashing around and smacking him in the face, and letting his body finally find peace.
Meanwhile, outside, a very different spectacle was unfolding.
Around the corner of the residential block, just beyond the lines that were drawn for low income development, visible to all who had even half-functioning eyes, was a massive and luxuriously appointed bachelor home. It had a backyard that was strewn with all manner of expensive Pokemon training equipment, running track, and even a full-size concrete pad with Pokemon league standard field markings. Its driveway was a massive U running through a perfectly manicured front garden with real grass and berry bushes that then branched off to a large two vehicle garage. The place reeked of privilege, earned or not, took up a whole quarter of the block in and of itself, and, as a bachelor pad will, never liked to remain silent.
An expensive SUV, black paint with red and brass colored trim, sporting a hood ornament of a Metagross in full battle posing, roared around the corner with hip-hop music pulverizing the air so hard that all of Hoenn could follow the noise like the north star. Behind it was a cavalcade of similarly gaudy vehicles that pulled in and parked wherever they could find a place, haphazardly creating a discordant blockade that likely would irritate all of the residents in the morning. Out of the SUV hopped a stunningly handsome, well toned, and impressively dressed young man. On his belt was a collection of 5 luxury Pokeballs, well worn from use, and of course he was wearing his designer sunglasses in the dead of night with a rapturous confidence chiseled into his marble-carved face.
His matching leather jacket swung around in a grand circle like the cape of an pretentious medieval lord as he raised his fist and shouted, “Welcome, everyone, to STONE CASTLE!”
He withdrew a remote from his pocked at lazily clicked it over his shoulder. All the lights in his home, including the porch, interior mood lighting, and the vanity spotlights came to life like a miniature Sin City. Everyone piled out of their vehicles and stormed the front door with assorted boxes and bottles of booze in a wild parade of revelry. At the entryway the words, “Richard Stone,” were engraved into a granite plaque above the door. All the people in the home released their Pokemon, began drinking and mingling, creating impromptu dance areas wherever their drunken fancy saw fit, and played games wherever those spaces weren’t present.
Emil’s bloodshot eyes stared up at the ceiling as an empty-headed insanity painted over his once relaxed visage. “Petitil’s sake…” he groaned.
For hours through the party, especially when the drinking games began, he gazed at the ends of his eyeballs in a desperate search for slumber. He tossed and turned for a half hour until he finally gave up and reached for the nightstand drawer and withdrew glass bottle containing unmarked capsules of sparkling white powder. “Mareep, Mareep... carry me on Butterfree wings…” he recited to himself as he remembered the lyrics of a popular classic rock album from his childhood. Then he cracked a capsule into his palm like a tiny egg, showering it in what looked like cheap craft glitter, and swiftly snorted it up both nostrils. He coughed violently... He always did, hating how it felt on the way in as he wheezed and spluttered out small clouds of glittery dust that covered the sheets and reflected the glow of the hallway light he left on for comfort... But, without fail, as soon as he breathed in that second torrent of fresh air into his lungs his world began to twirl and his body began to cool as an electric chill started at the base of his spine.
His heavy eyes began to sink like rocks gently laid onto a pool of thick silt…
“Take me…. on...”
He smiled as the euphoria rippled over his icy nerves and his vision blurred…
It took the brightness of the midday sun to finally penetrate the mammoth cloud of unconsciousness that had cocooned him throughout the night and the entirety of the next morning. He wrenched his body into a shape that allowed him to sit up off the side of the bed like having to bend the limbs of a stiff doll into place. He slowly rocked himself to and fro as he breathed in, gaining some composure. “Aaaalways leaves me draggn’ ass,” he uttered to himself as he stood and then shuffled his feet out into the hallway.
His kitchen was small but was much bigger than it looked, at least when it came to storage and efficiency. He reached from nooks and crannies all over as he assembled his brew, eyes barely open as the sun from the open windows seared his retinas, then boiled and bubbled up something particularly unhealthy and delicious to warm himself up from the dust hangover. He grabbed a remote that had been left in the kitchen weeks ago and clicked on the TV in the living room around the dividing wall of the kitchen. The dim gloomy light was much more inviting than the cheery death-blaze of the midday sun, so he closed up all the blinds and decided to hole up like a wretched Cave Diglett as he gripped his triple-strength white mocha mint espresso. The smell of peppermint and white chocolate filled his nostrils and tickled his mouth every time he nursed a sip from his favorite coffee mug that sported the image of a disheveled looking Koffing with the atomic structure of caffeine on its tummy.
A stunningly handsome but remarkably humorless looking man with graying hair and and bright green eyes came into view on the screen, looking over some papers on his glass platform desk. He smiled in a way that cooed the soul and told it everything would be OK.
“Good afternoon, citizens of Mauville and all who visit our home; I’m Jackson Steady and this is the Hoenn News Network Midday Roundup. We’ve got a couple doozies for you fine folks today, so I won’t waste any time,” he said and nodded as if he was agreeing with some people across the table from him.
“Historical downtown Mauville is in disarray this morning as protests of the recently announced Apogee Nature-Clinic have shut down any hope for those in the area wanting to drive instead of walking ‘neath the blazing sun. Participants in the demonstration claim that Apogee is an souless driver of Pokemon suffering worldwide and that permanently changing a personality is a heinous crime against any living thing. Proponents of the construction cite that this company has been the spearhead of fantastic leaps in psychological science for both men and mon and that their studies show no quantifiable discomfort in the mon that undergo the procedure. Pedestrians are tired of walking to work from all the way outside at the off ramps and having to scrape protest fliers off their faces when they get to their desk.”
He flipped a paper out of his hand and tossed it over his shoulder with dramatic flair as video footage of the protests showed brightly colored placards of Silphco and Apogee emblems crossed out in red with corny declarations of hate painted on in stark red paint. One striking image is that of an apogee lab vehicle with its tires slashed and covered in red graffiti.
“A record breaking ELEVEN Ultra Class League trainers from our own jewel of the region climbed the rankings in one single battle event. Leading the effort is Richard S. Stone, who’s ranking skyrocketed to 124 after an earth-shattering turn around in the final moments of his last match with an opponent far above him in the ladder. Gratitude from us, and a hearty congratulations to all those who make Mauville proud. Also, I’m sure Richard’s grandfather is glowing with pride, carry that baton son.”
Emilio’s eyes stared deadpan at the screen as nodded his head. “Yep, that tracks.”
“Do you need comfort, are you finding that love is a million miles away, are you grieving for a loved one? If so perhaps you might consider TabulaRasa, a company who has taken the therapy world, and many other industries, by storm. Should mon be therapists? When is a job so much you have to pay a mon? Is it ethical? We here at HNN can say we’ve personally worked with the fine folks at Ta-Ra and we can say that the Ditto in their employ are happy as a Clamperl. But many questions are being asked, and perhaps its time to take a step back and let these questions get answered with the field of philosophy before we get them answered with economics.”
He set the papers down on the desk and rolled his shoulders, staring into the camera with seriousness as a comically awful rendition of a ditto in fishnet stockings and a bra on a street corner is shown to the host’s right.
“One of those questions in particular; can you love a Mon? Well, of course. They’re like family in some cases. But how much before affection should instead be incarceration? A tiny minority of deviant enthusiasts have filed yet another petition to the Hoenn supreme court to allow Man-Mon intercourse. Like every time before now, the standard our society has upheld since time immemorial has been maintained with firm resolve. In stunning coincidence a group of criminal activists radicalized by online content were taken into custody yesterday, alleged to have Pokemon… ‘Partners’ if you get what I mean. The primary investigator, one Lieutenant Keenan Steel, has made only one public statement about this unprecedented arrest of no less than twenty-three people…”
A picture appeared of a hard nosed, relatively young man with tough features, jet black hair, and a police dress uniform covered with shining medals and multicolored ribbons standing at a podium with the seal of Hoenn in bronze on the front. His gaze, and the gaze of the Watchhog at his side, was like that of an ancient justicar whose heart is filled with the righteous fury of the people. Jack peered into the last page in his hands and nodded as he read the quote
“Pokemon Abuse of this kind is a blight on the world, and our region should never allow garbage like this to walk free. So long as I live and breathe, every scrap of trash will be TAKEN OUT.”
Jackson nodded with his lips pursed in appreciation for what he just read. “Truly a man in a class of his own. But, I like rousing debate, I want to know what you think. Hit us up on the HNN Razzberry page where we, in proper Hoenn fashion, knuckle down and do what’s right. Thank you for listening in on the Roundup, don’t miss me in the eve----”
Emil flicked the TV off. “Gross. What the hell is wrong with people…” he uttered as he finished off the rest of his coffee.
His body had begun to feel some semblance of normalcy and so he ran over to the massive pile of bills and junk mail to look for something in specific. He spotted it immediately, attracted to the bright red and white stylized Pokeball sticker seal on the fold. He frantically opened it, full of enthusiasm.
“Salutations, Emilio Malison!
This letter comes to you in response to your application for Pokemon League Licensure: Hobby Trainer Certification – No Battle – No Labor.
These are the the results of your evaluation:
Knowledge Testing- 98th percentile.
Support Network - 75th percentile.
Lifestyle Choice - 35th percentile.
Your knowledge of Pokemon at the Hobby Trainer level is more than sufficient to meet the qualifications. It is clear that you are an enthusiastic learner and deeply appreciate all that there is to learn about the Pokemon in this big wide world of ours. If you were not already considering becoming a researcher, we would encourage you to seek out this profession.
Your ability to support yourself and your potential Pokemon partners is sufficient in our opinion. We would like to see some identified family and friend support networks, but your income alone is enough to ensure you could provide for at LEAST one plus-one in your home. At least one letter of recommendation from a member of the league in good standing would help greatly.
Based on what we have learned about the requirements to meet the demands of your current position with your employer we cannot recommend that you take on a Pokemon Partnership. Pokemon training is a big responsibility, and it is not good for Pokemon to be cooped up in their Pokeball all the time. We encourage you to get to a place in your life where you can devote 4 hours a day at minimum every single day to your Pokemon.
It is with much regret that we here at the Hoenn Pokemon League have to reject your application for: Hobby Trainer Certification – No Battle – No Labor. You may retest again in 3 months from the date mar---
His hands folded the letter carefully as he slowly blinked. A nugget of toxicity sprouted inside him and he crumpled it into a ball. “No point in keeping a mark of failure around,” he uttered as he tossed the thing into the trash.
“I wouldn’t squander a Pokemon Partner like those perverts, that’s for sure,” he said as he reached into the fridge for a tall can of pechaberry tea. He grabbed a book he had been reading for a few months now, ‘Somethings Fishy in Here; Inconsistencies in Water Egg Group 2 Taxonomy.’ Truly engaging, but this was the kind of stuff he enjoyed. He wanted his knowledge bunched together in neat piles, with succinct topics, and laid out into consistent arguments. It always helped him in his job, being a self motivated detailed learner with a penchant for reading something until it was so cemented into his brain that he could recall every minute detail.
He was going to spend some time out in the sun, whether he liked it or not, because Venomoth Dust depleted you of Vitamin D and he was out of supplements. Besides, he was somewhat curious as to the horrible destruction was wrought on his rich ass neighbor’s property by his hoard of party-goers. He didn’t hate Richard at all, though Richard gave him lots of reasons to. He was a terrible neighbor, even if you set the noisy block parties out of sight. He constantly was doing loud obstructive construction on his property, adding expensive training equipment for his Pokemon or some other luxurious expansion to his abode. His Pokemon, especially his Rhydon and Torterra, practically made the ground shake when they trained, and one of his other mon nearly lit fire to a few pieces of property the week prior!
It was clear to everyone on this block that his wealthy family ties allowed him to influence the city plans for this working class housing development, setting aside a gerrymandered plot of land at the very edge especially for Richard Stone at rock bottom prices compared to what anyone else would have to pay for Open Market property. But, all that aside, Emil put up with the racket because his home value skyrocketed when that rich brat’s home absorbed that half of his neighborhood. Also, it was nice to see Pokemon, even if they were intense and threatened the foundation of your home. Pokemon Maniacs like him don’t complain when they can catch a glimpse of a seismic toss or two.
However, when he got back outside he was surprised to see that not only was the entire property spotless, Richard was out there in sweat pants and a hoodie, running with a couple of his Pokemon at full trot. An old Machamp and his Incineroar jogged behind him and they looked as motivated as any other day without the threat of hangover. He couldn’t help but be impressed with Richard’s work ethic; he played hard, so so hard, but he apparently worked hard to back it up.
In the back yard it seemed like there was a crew of men taking measurements of the ground, Richard from time to time would stop and give them some directions, slapping them on the back in jovial conversation. Pipe was being trucked in on one side, being laid out in neat lengthy pyramids, and at least one Dugtrio could be felt rumbling in the soil beneath their feet. He was entranced at this point, wanting to try and figure out what sort of pretentious thing Richard was going to erect in his own honor now.
Emil’s heart fluttered and sank all at the same time when the eye-shades covering Richard’s face dropped down on one of his laps around the track and he started running towards the fence separating their two properties. “HEY! HEY!”
Emil slunk down past the fence and hoped he was talking to one of the workmen. For one tiny moment in his life he decided to be a nosy neighbor and he immediately regretted it. He slid down slowly into his wooden lawn chair and started trying very hard to look like he was reading his book.
“Hey there!” Richard shouted over the fence at Emil. “Yo, my man! How are ya?”
Emil, realizing he was doomed after all, looked up and smiled with a little embarrassment. “Hey there! Heh, sorry, I didn’t mean to be a Snoopy Frou.”
Richard laughed a little and leaned on the fence with both of his muscular arms. “Nah man, got a lot going on, can’t go pretending like people can’t see me. Nah, nah man. I actually was, like, thinking ‘Ah man, I’ve never seen that guy before!’ Holy shit man, we’ve been neighbors for, like, a year and I never even SEEN you!”
Not really neighbors he thought, more like fence-huggers since his actual address was the other side of the block and Richard’s back yard was his one and only view, but Emil didn’t correct him at all and nodded as he sipped his tea. “Well, I guess there’s a first for everything. I’m Emilio. You must be Richard Stone. Nice job on your jump in the ranking!” Emil said, thankful to Arceus above that he had something to talk about other than the fact that Emil was a social leper.
He smiled and arm pumped. “Ah yeah! You follow League battles, my man?”
Emil shook his head and stood up, realizing that staying sitting would have been awkward as hell. “Nope… Ah, well yes but no, you were in the news just now. Word gets around quick. I do follow battles though. I guess I need to follow yours more closely, I heard you came in clutch at the very end.”
He grinned and and wiped some sweat from his brow now that his workout was beginning to catch up with his exercise in the sun. “I won’t spoil anything, watch it on League Net. So, like, what on Earth do you do, man?”
Emil raised an eyebrow. “What you mean?”
“Like for work, man. First guess…. undertaker or some shit.”
“Oh, nah. I work for Silph Co.”
He bobbed his chin up and down, interested in what Emil had to say. “No shit? You a factory worker?”
Emil, suddenly filled with prideful energy, wanted to immediately set that record straight. “Nope, I fix equipment they make and sell. Literally anything they make or sell. If Silph Co sells some huge piece of machinery or uses it themselves, I’m one of the guys that fixes it when it breaks.”
Richard’s eyes opened. “Whoa! I pegged you for a big brain, but I though you might’a been a lab researcher or something. That’s dope; no wonder you’re never here, Silph Co is everywhere! Where’s your Pokemon? You work for the Big Guy, no doubt you got a sick partner.”
Emil at once went from full-of-pride to deflating like a day old birthday balloon. “Oh… no, no. I can’t get a license yet. My job doesn’t let me have a Pokemon when I’m on call. Contract stuff with all the factories.”
Richard snapped his finger as he scrunched is face up in frustration, realizing this was a soft spot. “Yeah, no way you’re gonna meet the daily regiment requirement. That sucks, I bet you’d make a kick-ass Labor Trainer. Get you a Meltan man, you’d never regret it.”
Emil was taken aback. This neighbor of his, who he assumed was a complete jackass, was having a polite and even enjoyable conversation. Even when he admitted he thought Emil was an gravedigger that kept bodies in his basement or something. “Thanks, I… I kinda needed to hear something like that,” Emil said, feeling himself open up bit by bit as this lunkhead somehow came across as genuine. Annoying, but genuine.
Richard gave him a thumbs up. “No problem, Em.”
Emil snapped back to reality and remembered why the whole conversation was happening in the first place. “What’s going on back there?”
A soft roaring rumbled from behind the fence as Emil could feel thunderous footsteps approach from behind Richard. His Rhydon grunted in displeasure and Richard swung around. “Ok, ok. Sorry I’m slackn’. Just made a new friend though!” He then put his shades back up on his eyes and he nodded in approval at Emil. “Building a pool. I qualified for my 6th slot with that last match and I need a water type to round out my strategy.”
Emil perked up immediately. “What are you getting. Do you have them already? Do you mind if I meet them?”
Richard laughed and smiled confidently. “Ha! THERE’S the maniac I pegged you for! Don’t have her yet. And now I know how excited you are, I’m definitely gonna keep it a secret.”
Emil’s face filled with shock, then he chuckled and gave Richard a thumbs up, mirroring his macho pose and demeanor. “I’m even more excited. You’re evil, Richard.”
He nodded, rolled his shoulders, and jogged backwards as he said. “You don’t know the half of it. Catch ya later, Em!”
Emil is a quiet man with a well kept secret; he has little to look forward to but even less to complain about as he works his life away and puts up with his obnoxious wealthy neighbor.
That is until a once-in-a-lifetime sequence of events threatens to upend everything he has, should he go for the catch.
