Chapter Text
”You arrived like a breath from the Angel of Death.
Famine, disease, and a life on your knees,
guaranteed when you put them in power.”
- Amebix: Spoils of Victory
Remorse Bay township, Sariola Region, 21st of Earthmoon, 1993.
The prison gate creaks horribly. They should really be oiling it properly, considering how often it gets used. Hilma Sointula’s lanky frame steps through the Remorse Bay Prison gates. She draws a papirosa from her tracksuit pocket with an all too familiar motion and flicks a match alight. Inhale. Exhale. Sweet release.
Another sentence behind her. Three months, this time. She couldn’t pay the fines so jail time it was. She must be getting old and sloppy. The years haven’t been kind to her, after all.
She begins to walk, the grey sky looming above as the run-down port town stirs into motion. The Wingull fly alongside the Port Guard’s Kilowattrel squadron above the still freezing cold waters of the Gulf of Regret and an annoyed-looking Mudsdale pulls a cargo van stuck deep in the rasputitsa mud. The driver is whipping its backside and shouting. What a bastard. Hopefully he gets kicked.
Hilma is a small time criminal by profession. Not the noblest one, she knows, but there’s not much else to do ever since the old factories were bombed and never reopened after the war. Smuggling contraband, selling rotgut to the endless town drunks and the occasional petty thievery. Now fresh out of jail, she is also fresh out of marks in her pocket and she sighs. Time to get back to the grind.
First, a visit home. She needs to check if her aunt Elsi is still alive and maybe she could score some oatmeal too. She feels her stomach rumble. Obviously the prison is saving money by not giving the prisoners any breakfast on the morning of their release. Because having to shit in a bucket is not cost-cutting enough, it seems.
She trudges on through the mud and sleet, relishing every bit of asphalt that finds its way under her worn-out boots. The scars of war are still everywhere after three years of peace. Ruins, streets full of holes big and small, some vets begging for change under the awnings of the slowly emerging businesses until the cops come and chase them to another spot. It’s like the entire region of Sariola has forgotten this remote corner, except when it’s time to collect taxes or draft for the military, of course. Port Katarina, to the northwest, has better harbour facilities on the Gulf and safer routes inland to boot, so it’s no wonder.
Hilma finds the familiar apartment block, the outer plastering is mostly gone and bare concrete showing, along the rusty steel bars of the small balconies where the bravest are hoping to grow some vegetables, despite the risk of it luring bug Pokémon. She steps inside the stairwell and makes her way up. She has her keys but she knocks first. She hears faint grumbling inside and soon the door opens. Aunt Elsi stands there in her garish pink bathrobe and with bloodshot eyes.
”Shit, Hilma. They let you out? I was hoping you’d stay there this time. Ah, fuck it. Come on in then, lass. But don’t touch the vodka. I have barely enough for myself.”
”Nice to see you too, auntie”, Hilma gives her deadpan reply and steps inside. It smells like old pickles, stale vodka and makhorka in the apartment, the same as ever. The old black-and-white TV is showing the morning news. Hilma sits down on the floral-patterned sofa, while Aunt Elsi goes to the kitchenette.
Hilma’s ice blue hooded eyes gaze at the TV’s occasionally static screen. A corporate newsreader with perfectly gleaming teeth reports on the region’s recent events. A derailment in the West, on the Lifeline between Kinhouse and Fisher Lake. 14 people dead or missing. Serves those posh cunts right. To be without the relative ease of a rail connection has been the case around here in the southeast ever since the war began seven years ago. Last year’s Midsummer Tournament winner has pledged to challenge the Elite Four. By Arceus’s ballsack, just how stupid is he? Well, it’s his funeral. Rasputitsa is in full swing, the mud situation is bad, travel by Route is not advised at the moment. When it ever is? It’s armed transport and Pokémon trainers, otherwise you’ll get eaten.
Soon, Aunt Elsi comes back with a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of thinly brewed coffee. Elsi begins to ramble while she lights a papirosa and pours some vodka in her own coffee.
”Eat and drink then, Hilma. But I’ll expect you to pull your full weight from now on, no matter how scrawny you are. Fuck, what do they feed you these days in the prison? At least back in the 60’s, we had proper black bread and bug sausage while serving time.”
Hilma begins to eat, taking an occasional sip of coffee. The oatmeal is watery, but Elsi did add a small eye of margarine in the middle. Hilma decides to humor her aunt a little.
”I really don’t want to know what the sausage is made of these days. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. But there was very little of it anyway. Mostly just gruel and peas, that’s all. The government has really axed most of its spending on such things.”
Elsi laughs while absent-mindedly fixing the rollers in her bright red dyed hair.
”You’re a fool of a girl to resort to crime when the Elite Four can just about any day decide to go for capital punishment instead. Aren’t there any proper jobs here?”
Hilma takes a sip of coffee and side-eyes Elsi.
”No. There are not. And travelling elsewhere is too expensive for anyone not born with a silver spoon up their arse. Must be easy on that old pension of yours. Probably the only thing the government hasn’t gutted yet.”
Elsi shrugs and answers in a cold tone.
”Life is a series of choices, Hilma. I have a bad back, you know that. I can’t work. Thus I applied for pension when the old government still handled things.”
Hilma finishes eating and gets up to go and wash the dishes.
”Thanks for the food, auntie. But fuck your advice, that’s still as useless as ever.”
”Language”, Elsi calls after Hilma in vain as the lanky younger woman has already gone to do the dishes. Once again, the water sputtering from the faucet is far from pure, but it gets the job done. Every Remorsian knows not to drink it before boiling though.
Hilma proceeds to head out, nodding to Aunt Elsi as she departs. No more words are exchanged, they’re not necessary. Elsi knows where Hilma is going and Hilma knows Elsi isn’t probably going anywhere.
Hilma stumbles outside, her foot catching a bit on the uneven threshold. She fixes her plaid flatcap that covers her head of messy brown hair, and looks up. The sun is peeking out between the clouds. She also spies one of her neighbours, a man usually referred to as Jortsu, standing on his balcony while trying to swat a Caterpie off the wall with a broom.
”Fucking vermin! You leave my seeds alone!”
Jortsu then notices Hilma.
”What the fuck are you gawking at, Sointula? Go back to whatever cell you crawled out of! I have pressing matters here.”
Hilma chuckles and lights a papirosa. She takes her leave, narrowly dodging a cart pulled by two Mudbray on the street. She knows where to go to hopefully find some paying work. Seedy’s Pub should be open already. It’s a bit of a walk to the edge of the Western suburbs from here and the mud is trying to ruin Hilma’s day. But the opportunity to find work, and maybe even get a pint, drives her onward. After walking for about a kilometer, she leaves the street and turns towards an alleyway. She passes a crew of thugs who eye her up and down. It’s Brother Pekka and his bunch of misfits. No one knows where the Brother thing comes from but that’s what everyone calls him. After they realise it’s Hilma, BP’s face turns into a grin.
”Fuck me, it’s Hilma Sointula. You look like you got run over by a herd of Tauros, no offense. How was prison?”
Hilma rolls her eyes.
”It was shit. Both figuratively and literally. What’s going on in the streets?”
Brother Pekka fixes his mullet and pushes his loose-fitting sunglasses up.
”Good stuff, all things considered. We might be onto a big score.”
Hilma looks intrigued.
”What is it?”
BP’s expression hardens a little.
”Some fucking serious shit. I’m talking big time. I’m not sure if I should say anything else, but I know Raikku will spill the beans. Just go ask him, he’s still doing some scouting.”
Hilma nods and gives BP a faint smile.
”Great. That’s where I’m going anyway.”
Hilma then continues walking through the murky alley, waving a goodbye to BP and his crew. The thugs go back to smoking their papirosy and kicking the dumpster. Soon enough, Hilma spots a buzzing Seedot-shaped neon sign above a cellar stairway and she heads down. The glass on the door has been broken again and the window pane is patched with cardboard. Hilma avoids the glass on the ground and opens the door, stepping inside. The air is thick with makhorka smoke even when there are only a few patrons. No one has wiped the floors in what looks like a couple of months. Hilma walks across the sticky floor, enduring the grim sensation beneath her boots and goes to the counter. Seedy is there, sitting on the bar. That’s the Seedot. He’s taking huffs through the hollow stem on his head from a papirosa placed on a specially crafted holder since the thing has no arms. The proprietor Raikku is nowhere to be seen. Seedy is his usual grumpy self and he gives Hilma’s muddy boots a look that seems like disapproval. Then he calls out, making those strange Pokémon noises.
”WHHRRR-do-do-DOT!”
After a while, Raikku emerges from the back. He’s a burly middle-aged man with a bushy moustache and a wild graying haircut that’s often jokingly called ”Crown of the Four Winds” by the patrons when Raikku is out of earshot. He’s wearing a dirty apron decorated with an embroidered Seedot covering his white tank top and tracksuit pants.
”Sointula. Been a while. What will it be? Beer? Vodka?”
Hilma lights a papirosa.
”A pint of Waywick Strong and a shot of your rotgut. Put it on my tab, I’m here for work.”
Raikku trades looks with Seedy. A few seconds pass. Raikku continues.
”Seedy says your tab needs to be settled before we add anything else.”
”Oh, come the fuck on”, Hilma blurts out, giving Seedy a toxic glance. ”I just got out of prison. Had to spend the last of my marks to keep myself in papirosy.”
Raikku and Seedy share another silent moment. Raikku sighs.
”Fine. But this will be the last time. And only because Seedy here has heard about something that could be of interest to you. And to us when it comes to you settling your tab, Sointula.”
”Aye, what is it?”
Raikku leans over the counter and lowers his voice to a whisper. His breath smells of stale vodka.
”There are rumours of a large corpo shipment coming to the port. The little Pidove of Port Katarina have been singing that a train with several Kielo Corp cars has been seen at the Katarina Docks station, with interesting-looking equipment getting loaded on a cargo ship registered here in Remorse Bay.”
Hilma nods, now listening carefully.
”So they’re not taking the land route here, obviously. With the mud and all. Who’s planning on making moves?”
Raikku looks to his left. Then to his right. He then lowers his voice even more.
”The Suvorov Family.”
Hilma gulps involuntarily. She whispers.
”The fucking Suvorovs? So this is probably not a shipment of genetically altered seeds heading to Waywick or Harrows then. Must be tech, right?”
Raikku shrugs.
”No bloody idea, to be honest. But the Suvorovs are looking for a crew. Outsiders. This means they think it’s big. Seedy says Brother Pekka’s gang has already been hired as extra muscle and I’m sure they could use someone with your talents as well.”
Hilma takes a sip of her beer.
”So they expect psychic protection or something like that. Damn. It must be valuable. Any idea on where to find a contact?”
Raikku scratches his beard as he is pretending to wipe the counter with his filthy rag.
”Well, don’t go to their Compound first. Unless you want to get shot. You should try to find Svetlana. The Grimm Club is probably your best bet. That’s her usual haunt.”
Hilma drinks the moonshine shot and grimaces.
”The Grimm Club it is tonight then. Fuck. I’m going to need some fancier clothes. Gotta do a little shoplifting, I suppose. Thanks, Raikku. And Seedy.”
Seedy belches out a massive cloud of makhorka smoke.
”Whiuuuuyyyyyy-dot!”
Hilma finishes her beer and heads back outside. The sun has again vanished and the wind is picking up, howling through the narrow alleyway. It’s quiet, only an Arceus Priest with a fresh-looking black eye hurries past, looking at Hilma with great suspicion. Hilma goes the other way, towards the town centre, where struggling businesses try to survive in a slowly dying town. Back on the streets, traffic is equally sparse.
Hilma reaches the town center without much trouble, other than almost tripping on several potholes on the way. Neon signs dot the ground floors of the concrete blocks surrounding the Camaraderie Square. The new government hasn’t bothered to rename it yet, the motion has been stuck in the town council for nearly three years now. They did, however, topple the old communist monument, planning to replace it with a statue of Lady Protector Tuulispää and her Salamence, but the funds for that keep on getting embezzled by the middlemen. The entire place looks really quite dismal, there’s still a bit of old fire damage on the eastern wing of the municipal building as well. Hilma decides to go to the department store, since the workers there tend to be extremely uninterested in any shoplifting shenanigans.
With well-practiced agility and nonchalance, Hilma manages to fill her shoulder bag with some club-worthy items, such as a black sequin dress with faux Nickit fur decorations and also a pair of relatively matching heels. They’ll probably look like absolute fucking shit on her, but she thinks basically everything does so it doesn’t matter much to her. She also pockets some makeup to finish the inventory and then goes to pretend to try on something, grumbling that it doesn’t fit and then promptly exiting the clothing department. She looks around. The clothing department clerk is still sitting behind the counter, his eyes fixed on some Battle Tournament magazine. The security guard and his Machop are asleep on a bench at the other end of the hallway. Perfection. Hilma walks away from the department store, pocketing a couple of protein bars from a food kiosk along the way.
The damp, cold air is promising rain or even sleet. Hilma stops to eat a protein bar on a park bench while a group of school children walk past in an orderly paired line, their teacher telling them about the evils of socialism and how it almost ruined Sariola. Ten years ago, the same teacher would have probably babbled on about Unovan degeneracy and how Galarians have bad teeth. Hilma scoffs. Same shit, different ideology. Things haven’t improved at all, quite the opposite, at least here in forgotten Remorse Bay.