The Market, a pokémon fanfic

The Market
.
This is the most brutal place on earth.

Chapter One
.

He was all smiles, thick and fake and made of plastic and sugar. He was all words, sweet and charming and polite. He knew what he was doing, every step of the way. He knew how to hate and how not to show it. He knew how to ruin a life and blame it on someone else.

He knew his name was Dante.

He knew he worked for the Market.

He slid a finger down the printed list of names, the exchange rates. It made him a little sick. They had been made the way they were made for a reason. They shouldn't have to change. It made him a little angry. It made him a little spiteful. It made him think of his father.

Fuckers.

Jacob Everson wanted to exchange twenty-four figures of anger for nineteen figures of mild temperament. His records said he had a drinking problem and three young children. His wife did most of the work around the house. Dante tutted and snapped his fingers for Alakazam No. 32. It looked up at him with heavy lidded eyes.

"Come on, you," said Dante easily, setting off down the hall way. Alakazam No. 32 had a reputation for being insufferably lazy. It floated sluggishly along behind him.

It was a slow day today and Dante was glad for that. He was tired. He didn't want to work. He felt sick; this city made him sick. He wanted to go home and maybe read a book or the newspaper. Or perhaps even watch a little television.

It was a hallway with scrubbed floors and white wash walls, fluorescent light bulbs and ugly glass doors. He walked down to Room 22 and opened it. Jacob Everson was sitting there at the table, brows furrowed as he stared into his lap. Dante smiled because at least Jacob Everson looked as broken as he felt.

"Hello there, Mister Everson," greeted Dante. "How are you today?"

Jacob Everson murmured something under his breath. Dante nodded and pretended he understood. He was good at pretending. Everything about him was pretend, right down to the cheery tilt of his shoulders.

"That's good to hear," said Dante, sliding into the seat opposite and readying his materials. "Now, the rules state that I have to inform you of the dangers of transferring Flaws and Good Traits. You understand that by signing the contract you were given earlier that the Market cannot be sued or held responsible in any way for any mishaps that occur after the transfer and any physical side effects should be taken up with your family physician and not us?"

Jacob Everson nodded. Jacob Everson already knew everything about the transfer. This would be his fifty-sixth one.

"Fantastic, perfect," hummed Dante as he prepped Alakazam No. 32's spoons. "And you know that if you don't return to get you twenty-four figures back you'll be banned from all Market branches for ten months, as well as returned double the amount of anger figures you exchanged in the first place?"

"I know," snapped Jacob Everson. "Get it over with!"

Dante smiled and it glittered white and dangerous and knowing in the artificial lighting.

It was in his employee manual: any dosage of mild temperament over forty-four figures could cause severe mental damage. Dante measured out forty-five figures and set it aside.

Alakazam No. 32 waited expectantly for Dante to hook one of its spoons up to the receptor beneath Jacob Everson's jaw and the second spoon to a twenty-five figure holding vial, where the anger would be stored until the agreed upon six months was up and Jacob Everson came back to collect his Flaw – if he ever came back.

"Alrighty," chirped Dante, like the good, friendly employee that he acted like he was. He slid psychic transmission wires, twisted thin and encased in a thin roll of syringe-inspired copper, into the Jacob Everson's receptor. "Alakazam No. 32, if you would."

The creature's eyes glowed pale and blue and Dante's head ached with the pulse of energy that rippled through the room. It was like the grinding of teeth and the clattering of bone. He acted as though he were unaffected by it. He switched the twenty-five figure vial – now almost full – in with the forty-five figure vial of mild temperament.

Jacob Everson looked vacant.

Dante whistled a tune. "Go," he instructed Alakazam No. 32.

The same eerie glow, the same shudder, the same, the same, the same. It was like a broken record stuck on replay; he didn't care that he was killing someone.

He unhooked everything and set it all back in its proper place. Jacob Everson stared at him, blinking slowly. Dante pulled the man from his seat and lead him back down the hall way, right to the client elevators. He even pressed the button for Mister Jacob Everson.

"When you get to the bottom and these doors open, you're just going to walk in a nice, straight line, okay? They'll be lots of pretty metal things zooming by. You want to walk right out into the middle of the pretty things, okay? That'll make things easy."

Jacob Everson slurred a word of affirmation or two and Dante let the doors slide shut.

Some days he felt bad about what he did.

But not today.

At the bottom of the form, he signed a name. Not his name, of course, but a colleague's name. He didn't want to be blamed for such a terrible mishap, just in case they decided to check the Flaw and Good Trait ratio. He tucked the manila folder under his arm and sauntered back to the labs. He hooked Alakazam No. 32 up to the medical machine to restore Power Points for the next client.

The folder was put back in the filing cabinet and Dante went back to his desk, where he spent the time between clients pretending to be productive. He hated it here, where it stunk of whispered conversations and stale secrets, where the people were hunched with work and reeked of cheap coffee. He hated acting like he enjoyed there company.

He hated acting like he didn't know why people were screaming.

No one was going to blame him for anything.

He had his fingers tucked around his empty mug and pretended to be shocked and horrified and surprised. Someone just walked out onto the street! The street! It was suicide, suicide, suicide—

"That's awful," said Dante. He could win a prize for being such a good actor if he wanted. "Who was it?"

"Dunno," someone replied, a nameless assistant who spent all day running to the local café to bring them caffeinated beverages. "I hope it's just because they really were suicidal or it was an accident. If anyone messed up then the whole unit gets the heat for it. You just did a transfer, didn't you?"

"Yeah," he conceded. The more truth he told, the better. He was a good liar and good liars always told as much truth as they could get away with. "That Jacob Everson. He's been here a lot recently."

"His records say he's been here over fifty times," said nameless-assistant-boy conversationally, trying very hard to appear knowledgeable.

Dolce hummed. "Get me more coffee, please? Cream, no sugar."

"Er, right. Sure."

He watched nameless-assistant-boy leave. Dante hated him, too. He didn't have a real reason why. Maybe because he willingly worked for the Market, or maybe because he was spineless, maybe because he cared so much about everyone thought of him.

"Dante." That was the woman who sat in front of a superior's office on the twenty-third floor. She was looking trim and serious as usual. "Mister Brightside wants to see you."

"Sure."

Some days he felt bad about what he did.

But not today.

Mister Brightside's office wasn't lavish, but it was roomy compared to what Dante had. Homely, though, it was not; everything was whitewashed, from the walls to the desk to Brightside himself, not to mention his buzzed silvery hair.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Dante asked, taking a seat in a white leather armchair.

"Yes, Mr. Navarro. As you may have heard by now, we've had a string of… mistakes, recently. Including one just moments ago."

"Quite a tragedy. He was quite a regular, apparently, too.," Dante said, the slightest hint of (fake) empathy in his stone-cold voice. He was blankly staring at a picture of Brightside's family, in front of, what else, a white mansion. They all looked unnaturally happy in a way… and, of course, Dante knew why.

"Indeed. Well, it turns out that it was the fault of one of your superiors. One who we thought was one of our most efficient workers. So, after a quick performance review, you will be receiving a promotion to his role." Brightside tallied off the ramifications of the switch almost as if he was as bored as Dante. "Your salary will increase by 9.5%, your workload will get a bit higher, and of course, you will work with better equipment."

It took Dante every ounce of his strength not to gag at that statement. Pokemon were not equipment.

"Understood?" Mr. Brightside asked, still staring at the sheet of computer paper beneath his slightly wrinkled fingers.

Dante simply answered "Yes sir. Thank you sir," standing up. He couldn't care less about the salary increase, although it would get him out of his shoddy downtown apartment, but the workload increase would help his cause. He glanced back at Brightside, who had furtively shot his white eyes at Dante, and both immediately looked away.

Dante was off for the rest of the day after filling out paperwork, so a tedious twenty minutes later he was out the door and sauntering the five blocks to his apartment complex.

As the brisk air made vain attempts to get to Dante, the smell of freshly grilled meat wafted from a local bar. As if on cue, his stomach barked at him to go inside, and Dante gave in to its demands.

A man sitting at the bar waved to Dante. Dante replied with a simple glare, but sat next to him anyways.

Any other day, he would've regretted it.

"Hey, don't you work at the Market too? Saw you in Brightside's office as I left…" the man asked. He was slouching on the barstool, and Dante counted three empty glasses in front of him.

"Uh, yeah…" Dante confirmed, "Just a little promotion."

"Ah, good for you! Yo Jack, get 'im a tall one!" he replied, giving a half-wave to the bartender, who smiled and nodded.

"Oh, uh, I d-"

Dante was ignored as a pint of draft was slid over to him, and the scent of alcohol tortured Dante's nostrils.

"I work as an assistant to one of the chairmen," he announced unabashedly as he signaled for another beer. "Sian Rutherford's the name. My name, of course."

The brewer gave Sian his refill, and he downed it like a pro.

Or an alcoholic.

He was starting to look a little dazed by this point, and Dante smiled as he realized the opportunity that had just arisen.

"So, what've you been working on lately? What's all the talk from the higher-ups?" Dante asked, facing Sian.

"Ohh, actually… I did just fffind out something toooday. But you can't tellll anyone."

Dante smirked. "Go on."

"Aww, you haaaven't taken a drink yet?" he suddenly said, pointing shakily at Dante's beverage.

"Oh, uh, sorry. Got caught up in the conversation…"

Sian looked at him expectantly, and Dante slowly lifted the frothy beverage to his lips and took a decent-sized sip.

It tasted like Skitty piss.

"Oh, so what were you saying? You found out something?"

"Well, you knooow how the chairmen all have their Flaaawws removed, righ?"

Right?

"I found ouuut what they're gonna do with 'em."

"Well, spill," Dante commanded, softly. No need to scare him off, even if he was wasted.

"Not until you finish off that drink…" Sian said, smiling creepily. Dante sighed; at least he was holding his drink. He quickly gulped it down, and motioned for a little water to wash down the urine/draft.

"Go on."

"Theyyy're gonna make a huuuge superpokemmon outta alllll those Flaws. Pretty cool, huh?"

That caught Dante's attention. "Repeat that?"

Sian leaned in close, and his alcohol breath nearly caused Dante to gag. "All thoooose Faws from the big guuyys are gonnnna be used to make a reeeeallllly powerful pokemon."

Dante wasn't sure how much he could trust a drunk guy, but as he sipped his water, he realized that, well, it was possible.

And extremely disturbing. Talk about playing Arceus…

"That's all I'm sayin'. You wannnna see for yourself, go to HQ's nooorth wing."

Before Dante could ask further, though, Sian staggered off, with help from Jack, and left Dante to his own devices. With nothing left to do, he left a small tip (Sian had paid for the drink), and exited the now-boisterous pub.

By six, Dante was climbing the metal stairs to his abode, feet producing a clank with each step. Right as he opened the door to his 4th story apartment, a white, furry feline-like creature snapped up from a nap, bounding over furniture to greet Dante.

"Hey buddy," Dante said soothingly with a grin, crouching down to see the Absol. "You always were my favorite… how're you doing?"

"Sol!" came the reply, tail wagging excitedly. He ran back to the kitchen area, then swaggered back with his head held high. A dead Rattatta was in his mouth.

"Taking care of the Rattatta problem and feeding yourself, huh?" Dante asked with a laugh.

Absol grinned as much as he could with a deceased rodent clutched in his jaws.

"Well, I'm going to start looking for a new apartment soon, since I got a promotion, so maybe you won't have to deal with those little guys anymore," Dante noted. "Heck, I'd give you a bedroom for yourself, even."

Dante'd had Absol since the day the egg had hatched, and since day one he'd put Absol on an equal level with him. Like brothers, in a way, but not weird. They knew how to communicate with each other using body language and whatnot, and for an Absol this one was definitely on the smarter end.

Anyways, he walked into his bedroom with Absol at his heels, and as he leapt onto his bed Absol did the same.

"Now, we just have to figure out what to do with this whole 'superpokemon' business…" Dante told him, lying down. "That one – Sian or something – said it was being made of Flaws. I don't like that, Solly. Flaws aren't something you fuck around with. I would know."

Absol curled around his feet, tail beating against the comforter rhythmically. "Sol…"

"Don't worry about it, Abs, it's irrelevant. I want to know more about this superpokemon thing, though." He ran a spidery hand through his hair. The wind ran icy fingers across his window. "But it's not like I can just go around and ask people about. It's top secret apparently. Any suggestions?"

"Absol," barked the creature.

"I don't think acting rashly would be wise," argued Dante, eying a cobweb with great intensity. Cobwebs, he often found himself thinking, were wonderful things. If he were a cobweb, he wouldn't have a care in the world. He would just blow in the draft of a poorly insulated room and watch people go about their sad lives. He would be pretty okay with that. He decided, "I'll wait it out a few days. See if I can find out anything more. At least I know where they're keeping this thing, hm? The North Wing is small."

He fell asleep in his clothes.

e.n.d.
to be continued

A/N: This story is a collaboration between Killer Bun-Bun and myself (Happy). I came up with a half-assed concept and Buns did most of the work. I just yelled at him and was my usual annoying self. As you can see, it turned out pretty wicked. How did you all like it, by the by? We poured our souls into this, as you can obviously see. Obviously.

We'd love to hear what you think, so if you have a moment, please leave us a review! We're always pleased to see tips on how we can improve and to hear your thoughts on the story! Have a lovely day! Hopefully next time we'll get Killer B on here.

Hugs and Kisses.