Chapter Text
You kinda liked this suit.
“Liked. Past tense,” you mutter bitterly as you force yourself to stand. Your options open up like a buffet in front of you: would you rather be cold with your butt on the floor, or be cold standing up?
Option two it is.
Why can’t you just catch a break? How many goddamn hours picking the right colour, contemplating the subtleties between raven-black, and pitch-black? Personally, you lost track of things in the messy transition between navy blue and purple. Not that it mattered either way, now—you reckon that any shade of suit looks the same grass-stained, wind-blown, and with a couple of tears just for good measure. Thankfully, the unlucky bastard inside the suit is mostly unharmed.
Mostly. Whenever you steal a breath, you can feel an ugly cut breathing with you. Plus the alligator bites lining your arm, the cookie cut nibbles from a disgruntled Rattata sprinkled on your fingers, and you’re starting to look like a war veteran. Ah well. You may scar ugly, but at least you scar fast; you won't be bleeding out in your outfit. Hopefully.
With a tremour of effort, you manage to force your body to its feet. You stagger towards the shimmering blue veil that had kindly spat you out onto the cold ground. It sparks with—energy, aura, whatever bullcrap you want to call it—when you put a hand on it. If you squint, you can just about make out darkened silhouettes shifting about.
…You assume it’s another kid’s Typhlosion-shaped blob getting his ass handed to him. And barely a minute in, too? Unlucky badger.
Welp. Might as well get back in the action. You take a deep breath in, focusing on the familiar coldness that sets in your lungs whenever you draw on Spark with a silent grin. You'll blow it wide open. Aura sensing was cool and all, you’d take Andrew’s word for it, but this was the real stuff. Easy as hell, too: just gotta take in a deep breath, and—
You stagger back, nearly landing on your ass for a second time that day. Your chest constricts, filling with a pervasive heat that you barely manage to quash into an uncomfortable thrum. You must look like an idiot, heaving your innards out in the middle of a field. You push yourself to your feet, tapping the barrier more out of stubbornness than anything else. What, did you stumble on the industrial grade material or something? You’d think Ms Sirrarron would mention something about this, somewhere in the mass of garbage she usually spouts in class.
“Master Sukui’s been Constructing longer than we’ve been alive.”
Despairingly, you turn around. The…Natu—Xatu, Demi—sits cross-legged in front of you. The embarrassment flowing through your body warms you for a brief, blissful second.
“You didn’t see that.” You say.
“Every graceful second,” it murmurs back without the slightest hint of joy in its voice. You jog in place in a futile attempt to stay warm, envying how unbothered the Xatu looks. “I am Iridia. You are Demi.”
“Yup,” you say, hoping that you aren’t stuck with another monotone Psychic-type in your life. “You’re also the lucky bastard stuck with Andrew for the foreseeable future. Welcome to the Trinity!” You joke. The Xatu shifts towards the Sun, staring at it for a few moments before replying.
“Lucky indeed,” it muses. “I am honoured to be the young master’s companion.”
“So,” you say, dropping to the ground yourself. The grass is cold and wet, but you can’t show weakness by standing. “What are we doing?”
“Looking forward,” it says cryptically.
“Say it isn’t so?” You say sarcastically, earning an annoyed side-eye in response. You grin. Good to see there is some life in this one. You’re so bored already that you check the news on ROTOM. Immediately, you regret your decision. Every news website does nothing but spout the same nonsense over that green-haired freak like he was the second coming of Jesus. “ROTOM?” You ask, busying your hands with a blade of grass. “Show me something actually interesting.”
“S3arching…” The faux-robotic voice pipes up. After a moment of deliberation, the voice drops to a conspiring buzz. “...h0w interesting are we talking?”
“Outside Unova,” you say instantly, knowing it couldn’t be possible. Getting working signal towers in Unova was hard enough—I guess you had to account for how the Green Space shifts, or something—but decent quality communication across regions was nigh impossible. So whatever mysterious network allowed Unova news channels to have anything to say about abroad every blue moon was obviously restricted for everyday use.
“Found!” ROTOM pinged. “Tuning from somewhere Else in Hoe-en…!”
It couldn’t be serious. You look around nervously, half-expecting a Ranger to drop out of the sky from nowhere in full camouflage, ready to knock your head in just for the thought of what ROTOM could be doing. Eventually, the screen buffers, then fades to black. And with a small spark of effort, the speakers roar to life. The feed is a mess of static, but the scene you can make out makes you scoff: your first thought is that somebody's had a bit too much fun with photoshop.
Affects weather and nullifies any Fire-type attacks.
The landscape shifts into torrents of rain that rip the waterlogged soil into watery mulch.
Affects weather and nullifies any Water-type attacks.
Blink, and your stomach lurches along with the pillars of pulsing basalt emerging from nothingness. Twin titans, their forms large and ponderous, are locked in a tug of war that shakes the entire earth along with their struggles. The slightest give from either sends shudders through the entire land; the sunlight shining from the barren sky is so bright you can almost feel it pounding against your skin. Whoever's recording must be made out of tougher stuff than you could imagine. Locked in morbid curiosity, you can only watch the tug of war play out longer.
Affects weather and nullifies any Fire-type attacks.
Affects weather and nullifies any Water-type attacks.
Affects weather and nullifies any Fire-type attacks.
Affects weather and nullifies any Water-type attacks.
Affects weather and nullifies any Fire-type attacks.
Affects weather and nullifies any Water-type attacks.
You get bored when the chaos begins to show a pattern. Green Space folds and unfolds itself at regular intervals, but the dramatic changes cancel out to nothing really happening, like a pair of positive and negative charges. It's an equilibrium that makes you wonder how it even works: water instantly vaporised by the Sun is dragged back down to the ground in the grey clouds.
But for a moment, just for the briefest moment…
Affects weather and eliminates all of the Flying type’s weaknesses.
You thought you saw something angry and sinuous, snaking through the sky in a stream of green.
When ROTOM is forced to cut the stream, moaning about policing Porygon monitoring the connection, you’re forced to do a double take.
“That was fake.” You say slowly, your voice slowly building confidence. Of course it was. It had to be. “Why kinda crap was that?”
Clearly, ROTOM thought otherwise.
“Why, is this how a friend treats a favour?! Do you know how much effort I had to put into masquerading as a League-crony ROTOM all while streaming at a respectable bitrate?”
“Uh, no?” You say just to be safe. The phone begins to spark, so you resolve to hold it further away from your body. Irida surreptitiously scuffles away on the grass. “I’m not saying you didn’t try, but…”
“ ‘But’ What?” It demands. The Rotom’s upbeat robotic voice begins to fray under the weight of its words, morphing into the deeper tone of what you hoped was its actual voice. “When’s the last time you Unovans bothered to think for yourselves? That everything is just hunky-dory all over the World? Worlddamnned Yankees can’t see £”!% past their own two shoes, and don’t even know how much they lucked out. What Living Legends do you guys have, hm?”
Goddamned Yankees…?
ROTOM literally jolts you out of your stupor. “Uh, uh, we have that…buff green guy whose somehow related to wind? Tornados Incarnate or something? I don’t even know if that guy’s still kicking anymore. And like, Hatsune Miku but a pokemon. I forgot its name.”
ROTOM mockingly pulls up a picture of Melodies in Breeze. It’s probably the clearest image of a Living Legend you’ve seen in your life, and it’s posing for the camera too, seemingly indecisive on whether its Pirouette or Aria form was more photogenic.
“Yeah. That.” You chuckle sheepishly.
The digital face, usually an inappropriately happy force in your life, sours into a discontent red. “Now Demi, I know you don’t have much of a brain for school. Or for anything, judging by the hijinks you’ve had and will have.”
You snort. ROTOM pauses. “Sorry, it’s just—hijinks? Who says that?”
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The phone sighs stormily. “Just take Sinnoh for example. If you’re feeling sympathetic, maybe you can let this news prick a tear or two out of your eyeball. If Tornados Incarnate occasionally screws with the weather, or Melodies in Breeze messes with whatever songs are most popular at the time, then what would a hiccup with the deity of time and space look like?!”
“...”
Your neck is starting to hurt from looking down at your phone so much. You stare blankly ahead at the glimmering blue barrier as you formulate your reply.
“I guess I didn’t think about that,” you admit with difficulty. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be clowning on me so hard. Not all of us spend all our free time literally inside a goddamn phone. I’m gonna get you out of it eventually, whether you like it or not.”
You expertly return the ball back to its court. Unfortunately, the ROTOM plays defense as good as any other liar. “Erm, us League-authorised Rotom phones are nice and snug inside our devices, with no need for removal!” It replies hastily, switching back to that irritating falsetto.
“And we’re back to lying like you think I’m an idiot. And maybe I am, don’t get me wrong, but definitely not a blind one.” You say. Irida is laughably indiscrete in how she listens in to your conversation. You give her a tiny wave, but she ignores it in favour of intensifying her glare. You press on. “You’ve got a fake name, fake personality, and when you finally give me something real, it’s in a sandwich of insults. What game are you trying to play, man?”
You wait for a response, and give a disappointed hum when you receive no response. “Whatever. If I’m gonna be sitting here in the miserable cold, can you at least play a video for me to watch? I’m bored as hell.” ROTOM sighs in relief, pleased that you’ve shown an olive branch in the form of brain-melting, mind-numbing short form entertainment. You look at the blue veil once more before hunkering down beside it, trying to focus on scrolling through an endless video feed and not the cold nipping at your toes.
“That’s bullcrap,” you protest, ungracefully working your tongue around the massive chunk of chocolate you had shoved down your gob. You pause the poor quality footage of Shifting Leaves in Wind cleaving a huge rock into neat halves. Playing it back, you can see where the farce lays clearly.
“Hm…I dunno little bossman, it looks pretty real to me. That rock’s pretty dead.” The Murkrow caws sceptically. Exasperated, you tilt the phone towards its nosing beak so it can have a better look.
“I’m not sayin’ the whole rock’s fake,” you say, pausing to shove more chocolate into your mouth. “But the caption totally is. Look at this! ‘Found footage of the Swords Leader’ on the public net, and it’s just poorly-made propaganda. See? You can literally see the evil little claw of the Garchomp in this frame.”
Slowly, it nods. “Little bossman nerd’s completely right, I guess, I guess, looks like we gotta a little sherlock holmes on our hands?”
Why do you gotta be ‘Little Bossman’, anyway? You’re sure those words were all English, but it takes you a second to decipher how they’re stringed together. The feathered demons had such a…peculiar way of talking, to say the least. If randomly repeating phrases in the middle of the sentence wasn’t enough, the nonsensical pauses and inflections were the cherry on top needed to throw you for a mental ringer. Still, you were getting better at understanding as you spent more time being harassed by Flamionis’ entire Murkrow population.
As politely as you can manage with frozen fingers, you shove its beak away when it starts getting greedy for a snack. You’ve lost close to ten quid at this point in petty thievery of your snacks, and you’re starting to catch on now.
“Nuh uh, I already gave you a small piece. I’m not tryna get thrown up on.”
“...and how you ain’t know that I ain’t the another Murkrow passin through, little bossman?” It challenges, spitting the last word like you were the one forcing it to call you that.
“Because you still have the ribbon I tied around your leg.” You deadpan, staring the crow down for a couple of seconds. It stares back, calling your casual bluff until it briefly lifts its leg to find nothing. “You’re gullible as hell, you know that? Get outta here.”
“Yeah, screw you too!” It caws before taking flight and gunning away. You’re just about to watch the next video advertising a new type of pokeball when you see the crumpled form of another Murkrow shoot through your periphery.
“Crazy bird!” It spits, hopping away from Irida’s meditating form. She pays the Murkrow no more than a disgusted look before staring at the sun once more.
“Yeah, and your ass is a stupid crow,” you retort. “Come here.”
“You talkin’ to me?”
“Yes, you, the dumbass bird who hurt its foot. C’mere.”
Reluctantly, the fuming Murkrow slowly hops towards you. You inspect the injured foot briefly. It’s begun to blacken, a clear sign its internal aura was already working on the wound. You draw in Spark with a short inhale, and Twi:st the foot with the exhale.
“Why the hell are you showing me your foot in my face?” You ask, pausing the video in annoyance.
“Hellooo? The crazy bird hurt me and you…and you…”
You watch as the Murkrow gives its leg an experimental flex, the natural sneer on its beak quickly morphing into abject confusion as it places its weight on it. “What?”
“What?”
“You—my—”
“You didn’t hit your head that hard crashing into Ife when Irida threw you.” You say, allowing a carefully controlled touch of confusion to colour your voice. The Murkrow’s head whipped around. “Big Meganium? Sitting right there? You can’t really miss her.” You add helpfully.
The Murkrow sputters and hops off your leg. The Meganium’s massive head barely flicks at the mention of her name. You watch as it pecks Ife’s side once, confirming that she’s real.
“What the hell kinda tricks have you got here?” It accuses. You sigh, mentally bracing yourself. This was the most important part. It's pretty much the closest you've gotten to paying attention in class all year. The power to do literally anything you wanted? And all you needed to do was convince people it was always like that? Paprika can go piss himself from anxiety, but you're tucking this Machin:ation firmly inside your toolkit. And all you needed to do was fake it until you made it:
Ife was always here.
“She was always here.” You say, so deliberately that the World itself is forced to accept the slight Twi:st. “Look, I know I couldn’t get you dead in a pokemon centre, but you probably need some rest. Don’t be an ass in the future, and have a square of chocolate before you go.”
“I guess, I guess…?” The Murkrow murmurs, in a daze, before spreading its wings and taking off.
You wait until you’re sure that it’s out of earshot before you start heaving in breaths like a diver tasting air. Christ, Miss Murphy sure wasn’t joking when she said Twi:sting is more taxing than you think. With the flower that had taken you seconds in class, you hadn’t been able to notice the subtlety between actually Twi:sting and maintaining the Machi:nation. But now? The feeling was scarily clear: it had taken nothing more than a sharp inhale of Spark to actually do what you wanted to, but you could barely hide how your chest rose and sank for air once the Twi:st had fallen under even idle scrutiny. It was like your tank was being drained dry.
Well, it serves you right—she did try to warn you, Demi. You must try to think more carefully before doing such reckless things. Just what happens if Ife decides to question why she’s here? You could very well end up choking yourself to death under the strain of maintaining the shift.
“She’s gone catatonic."
You mustn't get overconfident in Spark. There’s a reason the Twi:st Machin:ation is obscured from mere children.
“Ife’s gone cataconic.”
What?
“What?” Irida snaps to attention.
“Erm. Yeah.” You say lamely. The Xatu quickly lifts her with Psychic-Type force, inspecting it before shaking its head. Its next words make your chest tighten with a familiar strain.
“I swore she was inside with the young master, or have I read the Sun incorrectly…?” it murmurs thoughtfully.
“Think about it later!” You plead, sighing with relief as its attention settles elsewhere. A dark thought slithers into your psyche. Would you be stuck doing damage control for that Twi:st for the rest of your life?
Truly a horrible gift.
“I still think it's a useful one," you tell yourself weakly. "You can Teleport us to the pokemon centre, right?” You say quickly to Irida. You could do this. You just had to keep moving on from why she was here, and redirect to what you were doing now. “Hello? Sooner rather than later!”
It shakes its head slowly, nervously glancing towards the Sun. “I…no, I can’t.”
“Iridia!” You shout. Hearing her own name snaps her out of her stupor. “You’re a PSI bird, this is meant to be your thing! Unless—”
Unless, she’s never been there before. The realisation is a brief but ugly one. But you make a decision, and you make it fast.
“As sad as that is, we’ll just have to improvise. Where’s the nearest entrance to Green Space?”
“W-what?” It says, suddenly apprehensive. “I can’t be tainted by—”
“—Look, purifying Green Space aside, Ife’s here, and she probably needs medical help. Are you gonna carry her, or am I just gonna have to drag the Meganium myself?” You demand. After a moment too long, it nods. You grin. “Good man.”
“Girl,” she mutters, like you were somehow meant to know. “This way,”
Not long after, you’re keeping a brisk jog through the endless canopy cover. In a twisted sense, you’ve learnt to actually enjoy navigating Green Space. Doing it this quickly gives you a misplaced elation, like you’re finally taking the training wheels off of a bike. In the first couple of months since you’ve been allowed to go off-route alone, it felt confusing—like walking in a straight line but still going around in circles. But all you needed was a change in mindset: that instead of taking the metaphorical steering wheel yourself, you were giving gentle nudges to whatever was actually driving. Or whoever. Not like you care: they were a decent enough driver.
“Irida, how you holding up?” You ask, glancing behind. The Xatu’s eyes are fixed on the ground as she keeps pace behind you. “Hellooo? Earth to Irida?”
She mutters something in the World, something you can’t understand. God, if only pokemon weren’t so weird. You don’t know well enough to tell if she’s coping or literally losing it.
“Alright, alright, stop!” You command. Irida slows robotically to a halt with a look of confusion. You sigh. “Are you good?”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve been better.”
“It’s a yes or no question.” You say bluntly. “Do you maybe want to take a break? I’m gonna be honest, you don’t look like you’re doing so hot.”
You watch as she mutters lowly to herself with a small headshake. You make an executive decision.
“Right! Team-mandated break, c’mon.” You say, gesturing forward. The Green Space’s massiveness stares down at you with a question. “Uh, maybe somewhere calm.”
The expanse dips in slow acknowledgement. Your attention is tugged to the side, to where the trees part into a landscape that takes you a second to comprehend. You grab her wing and tug her forward, until the trees around you fold into a different shape than before.
“Where are we?” Irida demands in a shrill voice. “This isn’t in any of the books, how deep in Green Space are we?”
“Would you just relax!?” You snap, turning to face her. “All you‘ve done for the last half an hour is moan moan moan, Demi this, and Demi that! Would it kill you to have a bit of trust?”
She stares at you.
“I’ve followed a person who I’ve known for two hours at most into non-euclidean space for thirty minutes straight, with no hopes of exiting in my lifetime without a human to use Spark.” She says coldly. “My ‘bit’ of trust is stretched taut.”
“Well, when you put it like that—” you scoffed, cowed. “—Whatever! Whatever. We’re in the Fields Conformation.”
“The sky is purple.”
“Not those Fields!” You say, stuttering for words. The sky is a muted purple, and a cooling breeze sifts through the tall grass reflecting the violet light. The whole scenery is dizzyingly familiar. “Gold and Silver. Don’t question it, okay? Life’s weird. We’re weirder. Let’s just take a short break.”
“And Ife?” Irida demands weakly. The Meganium is eerily still,suspended in a gentle psychic hold behind the two of you.
“Something tells me she’ll be fine,” you say with a shrug. “Things move slower here, I think. It's a place to take a breather.”
"And you know this how?"
You struggle for words for a moment. "It's a gut feeling, don't worry about it. How bad can it be?" You say, immediately hit with the feeling that you've jinxed it. Irida just lets her head droop in defeat.
“So.” You sigh, sitting in the grass. ROTOM is perched on your leg, and you're leaning back against Ife’s body. Irida stands in front of you, looking around. It's like watching a meerkat look desperately for some unseen predator. “Siddown!.There’s nothing here but us.”
“And how can you say that for certain? The sun isn’t the right one, it…I…”
“Sit.” You say, a little softer. Irida’s shoulders sag, and she sits beside you. “So. If it's just you and me, then you can spill the beans. How’d’ya and Andrew meet?”
“Is that the most important thing on your mind right now?”
“Yup. Because, I’ll say it again, there’s nothing here but you. And me.”
“And Ife?”
“And Ife. ROTOM’s here too I guess.” You laugh.
“...I’ve known him my entire life.” Irida admits. “It’s what we were raised for. I assumed that's how most humans meet their partners?”
"Eh... not really?" You respond. "Pokokyu came from a random-ass pond we found, and I'm pretty sure Eberny's just a Murkrow hooligan who wanted less hassle and more food. Paprika's the closest you can come to being 'raised' for it. I guess."
Irida looks mildly surprised, but she masks it well with a flick of a wing. "I suppose. It is just peculiar to think about, if you'll forgive me. How can you ever be sure that you've found someone who's truly trustworthy?"
You shrug. The grass sways in waves of purple, a mysterious shine converting the gleaming sunlight to tufts of undulating gold and silver. It's dizzyingly peaceful. "You just go off of vibes. Good vibes, bad vibes...they've gotten me to a good enough place, even if the path to get there's been pretty crappy at times. Just 'cause you can't always see where your feet are treading doesn't mean you're going the wrong way, right?"
“Yes. Yes. You are right," she says with a curious degree of longing in her voice. "If I could even obtain half of your conviction...nevermind. It is of little consequence. I was merely the best candidate by the time young master was of age. The others will of course still work with the Sukui family, but none were elevated higher than I was. I am thankful.”
“Damn,” you whistle, gazing up at the sparkling flecks falling from the sky. “I knew Andrew was cold, but I didn’t know he was that cold. Making you all compete just to be on his team?”
Irida chuckles, shaking her head. “Oh, no no no. It’s just tradition: I doubt the young master’s even seen me before a few weeks ago.” She says. “Maybe ‘know’ was the wrong word. More like I’ve studied him: we’d get daily briefings on what made him happy or sad, how to offer gentle encouragement or subtle reprimandings.”
You pause contemplating the sky to shoot her a look. A better person would probably feel worse about that. “Uh, like what specifically?”
“Like Ripple. She was meant to be a temporary solution for the family’s Primarina problem, but she stuck. Hard. His father tried everything, even hypnosis, but nobody has managed to separate them. I think he’s hoping that I would be a…compromise of sorts. I think. I dare not ask. It's ill tidings all around for the future! Not to mention the Primarina he was meant to have has disappeared completely, it's...messy, to say the least.”
“And you want to just be a bandage?” You say.
She contemplates your sentence for a moment. The Xatu stares down at her own clothing, suddenly uncomfortable in the garments. “It’s my duty.”
“You struggle a lot with yes or no questions.” You point out, sighing. You force yourself off of your feet, away from the surprisingly comfortable grass. “We should probably go. I’m not sure how safe it is to stay.”
Irida darts to her feet soon after. “You said we’re the only ones here!”
“Well I wasn’t counting the grass, stupid.” You retort. “I didn’t know it was lonely. And needed company. Pull Ife up, we’re getting out of here.”
With a flick of her beak, Ife is suspended in mid-air once more. “We’re headed…”
The Green Space folds with a request. A short diversion? Please? You’re in a rush, but it won’t take long.
“...we’ll get there eventually. Come on, this way.” You tell Irida. The Xatu treads dutifully behind you. Considering there’s nothing but knee-length grass in all directions, you should have seen the misplaced pillar from leagues away. But you didn’t. And now, it’s here.
“There’s something behind it.” Irida points out. Following her lead, you peer behind the pillar.
[For when the path grows more obscure still. It's yours.]
“Just in case there’s a tennis match that surprises us?” Irida questions you as you pick up the racket, contemplating the monochrome handle and smooth sheen. It's perfectly weighted, and the dimples from use fit perfectly into the grooves of your hand. You want to, but the Green Space's slow but insistent pressure won't let you doubt it for a second: it is yours.
“I’d really hope so,” you mumble, letting your attention be tugged to the path spilling out in front of you. “But if I’m being honest with you, I don’t even play tennis.”
Irida and you stumble out from some trees, the League-mandated jingle playing from the building sounding like heaven’s bells.
“Oh, thank the Lord,” you gasp as you stride through the doors. “I know we’ve had our differences, but—”
“—Hello, and welcome to the Pokemon Centre,” the prim voice interrupts. “We restore your tired Pokemon to full health. Do you wanna rest your pokemon?”
She’s unfazed by the huge Meganium floating near the ceiling. Just shows how much of a bad mood the nurse is in today. And worse yet, you’ve interrupted one of the rare moments of peace she has to talk with her partner, the Audino from school who still hasn’t gotten over that singular time you got injured. How were you meant to know that Eberny would have sharp feathers? The Audino chitters something to the Joy, and she groans sympathetically. All with that fake-ass smile on his face, like you can’t see through that doe-eyed doughface like glass. “It’s the Meganium. She’s sick. And we don’t know why,” you say, and the lie comes out smoothly because it’s almost the truth. But the prospect of a hurt pokemon drives any snarky comments out of her; she instantly straightens up.
"And you're sure you don't know?" She questions, making you grimace. "Whatever. I'll be the judge of whatever the problem is—just hand over the pokeball."
Your blood runs cold. What kind of a trainer would you look like if you lost a pokeball? And with your reputation already, a large red mark on your trainer card following you until the day you die, it could be the last mistake as a trainer you make. So where is it?
Where is it?
Your hand ghosts over your pocket nervously, and the spherical lump you find makes you almost go limp with relief as you hold it out. But then you go stiff with shock. You severely hope this Twi:st won't keep coming back to bite you in the ass—and how are you going to explain this to Lyra when Sukui's done thrashing them? It never happened for you, but she probably remembers handing you Ife's pokeball for safekeeping, and now you've gone AWOL on her.
“So do you normally parade your pokemon around in PSI aura whenever they’re hurt, or do you just not like this one?” She asks suspiciously as you reach out to give the pokeball to her.
“Little bossman! Little bossman!”
Her face sours as you step back, nearly dropping the pokeball along with it. A Murkrow—the one from before? You couldn’t tell—comes flapping through the doorframe, dropping to the ground with its tiny chest heaving. “Not who she is, is I think, I saw her do done bad things with her, that foxy bugger!" You can’t decipher most of it, but that last word is enough. The Audino vocalises incredulously, threatening to use what looked like a Fairy-type move on the Murkrow. It hops cowardly behind you in fear. “I dunno’, little bossman. Jus’ don’t give it nothin. Not even your name, not even your name.”
Irida looks contemptuously down at the Murkrow. “We’ve had a long enough diversion. The others are going to be wondering where you’ve gone. And the young master’s father might seek me soon.” She says, her voice straining into something that sounded almost like fear at the end. Not like those unblinking eyes could tell you for certain.
“Look,” the Joy says, raising her hands up to you slowly like you had a gun. “Ignore the rat with wings. My fingerprints are perfect. You can count every eyelash on my face if you want too. But what self-respecting pokemon would find themselves in such a pissy job, anyway? I know you know how much I hate it. So either get your pokemon over here, or go home. We were in the middle of a conversation.” And, true to her words, her palms don’t lack any of the finer detail that would be a dead giveaway of being an illusion. Everything considered, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t stop wasting everyone’s time and get Ife the help she needs.
But still, you can’t shake off that feeling that something’s wrong. Not to mention the normally misanthropic Murkrow nipping at your heels, begging you to reconsider. Yet a decision has to be made. So, staring at the nurse, at the perfect pink hair and perfect lips and smile, like Joys across have in the entire region, you ask a simple question:
“Nurse.”
“What?”
“Is your tongue resting on the top of your mouth, or the bottom?”
She laughs, and you immediately feel like an idiot. Like, full on belly laugh. Like the funniest thing she’s heard all day. There’s practically tears brimming at the corners of her crinkled eyes, and you watch her nearly drop her phone from her manic fit. Even the Audino stifles a few giggles. You watch her laugh until her face is as red as a tomato, until her face stiffens into her usual frown. “Kid, I know you’ve always been unhinged, but really? Do you ask every lady about their tongue, or just the ones y’think are pretty?”
You bite your lip, staring down at the Murkrow subtly shaking its head back at you.
You double down.
“It’s not a hard question, nurse.” You say. It's a stupid question, but definitely not a hard one. It's a question you're certain nobody's ever asked before, but anyone could answer it without a second thought. She casually blows a bubble with the gum she permanently has stuck in her mouth, quiet consideration dancing in her irises. “On the bottom of my mouth, you rat. Now give me your pokemon.”
You dip your head, walking up to her and placing the pokeball on the countertop. Irida wouldn’t know. The Audino wouldn’t know. The Murkrow wouldn’t know.
But an actual human?
"It’s the top,” you mumble, staring into her eyes as you place the pokeball on the table. “It’s the top.”
“Oh.” She says abruptly. The eyes may be the window to the soul, but the dread coiling in your gut tells you you're looking into the wrong building. Her face splits into a smile, followed by her apron and hair. At first, it's the little details. Her smile is all teeth, but it somehow grows even wider. Nobody wants yellow teeth, but the pure white slabs stuck inside her mouth cannot be natural. There’s too many teeth. Why are there so many teeth? Your vision narrows.
The Seviper beneath the Lilligant
And, when it all comes splitting together again, you're seeing something else behind the illusion. “Normally, it’s a question that’s personal y’know?” The Zoroark titters. There's a horrible scraping sound, and your lagging mind takes a moment to realise it's clapping. "Seriously, dude! Trust me, any other day and I'd cut a nasty deal for your life that you couldn't refuse. Because, y'know, I'd have to kill you and stuff. That was brilliant! Normally, I'm prepped for questions about first boyfriends, or your first pokemon battle, the real tearjerker things. And it ain't easy, really! And it was going so well too, the big V only wanted me here for a couple more days, but..."
It lets its words drag out into silence. The Audino seem frozen, and for a moment, you are too. Your mind simply can't comprehend that, a pokemon normally confined to bedtime scares or horrible would-you-rathers (horrible because the choice without the Zoroark is unanimously correct) is grinning in front of you. And the worst part is, it's your fault. You should've just kept your mouth shut. Luckily, your plucky pragmatism forged from months of encountering aggressive pokemon in your traveling days comes back full circle. If you can't kick a pokemon's ass, you haul your ass away as fast as your legs can carry you.
[No. There's no running from a ____ battle.]
The Zoroark clicks its tongue playfully. “It's a neat trick, right? So just hang tight, I'm almost done with my spiel." It chuckles. With a silent leap, it's sitting on the countertop and swinging its legs with not a care in the world. "And to think I was actually enjoying the whole Nurse Joy thing! It's a nice change of pace, y'know? People lookin' up at you with gratitude instead of fear, saying thank you instead of ohmygodpleasedon'tkillme!" It says with a dramatic wail. Seemingly remembering where it is, the Zoroark clears its throat conspicuously. "Ahem. Anyway. I gotta say again, great question. I gotta write that down on a flashcard, or something, just to make it stick—can't let myself be fooled twice the same way, kyehehe! Ya done put me between a rock and a hard place, so you cann’t blame a ‘mon for gambling on the fifty-fifty, right? And for the record, I really hoped I was right. For your sake. You’re kinda screwed.” It says apologetically. "I'd say you're in the wrong place at a wrong time, but you're on the wrong path altogether, dude. Should've gone any other pokemon centre on any other night, except this one. It's a huge bummer, I know."
"Story of my life," you groan, running your hands through your hair. Maybe a couple hours ago, this suit would've been a decent one to die in. It was that good. But now you have to die looking homeless?
Humming, the Zoroark straightens out the pink locks of hair until they rot and fall. The bead that ties up its scarlet hair rolls across the counter, tapping your feet with a hollow chink. They say it's the only sign that the Illusion pokemon has been there. It's replaced by the proud mane of hair that a Zoroark never shows any living soul.
Unless, that person is prey.
Unless, they consider that person already dead.
You should’ve just let the Murkrow break its damn leg.
[No. There's no running from a running from a ?!??!]
No rest for the wicked, then.