A/N: hA ya'll thought I was done writing pokémon fics think a-fucking-gain (don't let me replay white version because I will die of ferriswheelshipping and dualrivalshipping feels its a fact)
Because everything I write is an au here lovelies have this
Disclaimer: No I don't own Pokémon but it would be bitchin' if I did.
*hides in corner* leave me and my unhealthy body modification kink alone~
You're a traveler, a gypsy boy, just like every other kid above the age of 10 with a Pokémon. You like to think yourself a roughneck, hardened from seven years of living on the road, but really you're just a kid. A kid with a fuck load of tattoos, concealed behind black turtlenecks and white shirts, and piercings to match. You're a kid whose favourite place in the whole region of Unova is the Ferris wheel in Nimbasa, because you love heights and you love to look over and see people living their lives down below, love to wonder what they like and dislike, what Pokémon they have and what their goals in life are. You're a kid who favouritises dark type and prefers to walk with your Pokémon than keep them in their Poké balls. If you're a travelling by foot, so are they.
At the moment, you're in the middle of trying to con a rich boy in a lilac-and-purple trimmed suit out of his money just outside the PokéMusical theatre (not your exactly favourite place, you'll admit). You're re-using your professional businessman alias of Norton Hermond, telling him that you work in stocks and bonds and exchange; that "yes, give me 10,000P and in a month I'll have it doubled - tripled even, guaranteed. I'll even give you my cross-transceiver number, nothing can go wrong, no no," (the number is entirely false, of course).
You nearly have the twat hook, line, and sinker when a small body hits the back of your leg, and holy crap it's hot. Uncomfortably so. You're about to kick and shake your leg to get whatever it is off, when the pain suddenly disappears and you're turning around and end up face to face with blueblueblue eyes, open wide, and an awkward smile upon chapped lips.
"Sorry," the weathered mouth says, the blue still focused on your dusty green. "My Darumaka here is a bit adventurous. He seems to think just 'cause I don't keep him in his ball it means that I constantly want t'play hide 'n seek with him or something."
She has a funny accent, a sort of drawling lilt to a few of her words, one that comes from growing up in a small southern town like Nuvema or Accumula.
You can see your client appraise her scantily clad attire, her short short shorts, so ripped you wouldn't be surprised if they had previously been a pair of jeans before she started her journey, and the poor article of clothing had fallen to the symptoms of being worn constantly; her tight, greying white spaghetti-strap tank and her dirtied-up sleeveless bomber, silently judging her. There's a few purpling bruises on and around her knees, a pink scar lining her left cheekbone and more than one leaf or bit of twig caught in her matted and unruly curls, pulled into a tight ponytail underneath a cap with a Poké ball pattern on the front.
You smirk to yourself, and tell her "no harm, no foul," and though it's technically true you have a feeling if the Pokémon had been owned by anyone other than her you would have been an awful lot more cold and unforgiving.
She gives you another smile and an awkward "sorry for the interruption," before picking up her Pokémon that had hidden behind her leg after she had started apologizing - how she could do that and not suffer third degree burns you'll never know - and walking off in the direction she came.
"Commoners, huh?" the smarmy rich boy says, and you want to punch him.
There's no reason for you to ever see the strange girl with her cheeky fire type ever again, no concrete evidence you ever will see the sky blue of her eyes or the dark chocolate of her hair.
You don't really know why you want to, anyway.
You're in Driftveil now, deciding that since Elsa convinced Clay to lower the drawbridge down, its high time you got your Quake Badge. Not because it's your biggest, most cliché dream to become a Pokémon Master, but because making it to the Pokémon League is a sure fire way to get stacks, beating it giving you millions instantly. In reality, you really don't care about money all that much – you've perfected your technique of nicking the odd potion or Poké ball, whatever you need, and you've only been reprimanded a handful of times by Officer Jenny - added onto the fact you've literally grown up for the best part of your life without enough for anything, so there's no real problem there. It's not even the fact that you want to have a place to go home to after a lifetime in rest homes or in a sleeping bag under the stars – honestly, you love it, being one with the world, however hippie-ish it may sound.
Really, you think it's just for the appearance. You look and sound like you come from wealth, minus the body modifications you have that are easily hidden - fringe covering the barbell through your eyebrow, bangs coating the tunnels in your lobes and the rings and studs through various parts of the cartilage of your ears; tight fitting clothes covering the intricate patterns you have on your arms, chest and back - as egotistic as it may sound. It's one of the reasons why you think your cons work so well, because you look the part. You just think it would be nice to be able to complete the rich boy look you already have with some actual, tangible money in a bank's vault somewhere. You're a man of substance, after all.
You're outside the Driftveil Gym now - the guy who appears to be at every single gym is outside and tells you to wait, that Clay is facing someone else at the moment, why don't you train up on Route 6 and you just tell him thanks but no thanks I think I'm good and he says suit yourself, want a fresh water? and hey, you take what you can get and pocket the drink.
After about half an hour of standing around, your Zorua looking more impatient by the minute, Liepard bored and constantly stretching, scratching it's sharp claws along the gravelly concrete of the walls, you decide to call it a day and try tomorrow. Maybe you'll go and check out the famous Driftveil Marketplace, because someone you know recently got an absolutely gorgeous backpiece by some dude named Charles, and you want to see if he can hit you up with something to fill the gap of skin just underneath your right shoulder blade.
You were thinking something blue.
You're about to push yourself off of the wall you've been planted on for what seems like forever when two figures emerge from the gym doors, one you recognize as Clay, and the other a girl just a little taller than him with a bushy chocolate brown ponytail covered by a worn pink-and-white cap, a Darumaka waddling along at her feet. She's laughing, her bright eyes sparkling, and the leader has a pleased smirk on his face, and you suspect he's the one who made her laugh.
When he notices you, he gives a gruff "Ya sure ya'll can handle me, pretty boy?" and the still frustratingly nameless girl bursts out into another peal of laughter.
You think she has the worst laugh in the world, all snorts and choking sounds, rapid gasps for air and tears of mirth brimming in her eyes.
When she sobers up, she looks at you, puzzled for a moment, as if trying to place you; then looking extremely pleased with herself when she points and exclaims "You're the guy from Nimbasa! Hey!" grinning widely and waving a hand.
You don't know if you're happy she remembered you, or if you're upset she didn't recognize you from the get go, like you did her.
You give her a small nod, then tell Clay that you're plenty sure you can handle him, you're almost twice his size, and that is he sure he can handle him?
You're rewarded with a grunt of what could be construed as a laugh, and asks if you'll give him a moment to rest his Pokémon, that this little firecracker right here did a number on his team. The girl just grins so wide that you're surprised her face doesn't split into two, and gives a very unapologetic "Sorry!"
You think the old guy has a soft spot for her, with the way he just grunts at her and tells her to be on her way, go heal up her Pokémon even though she probably doesn't even need to. She laughs, drops a kiss on his cheek, thanks him for the battle and the badge, and leaves.
Your eyes follow her as she leaves, and Clay tells you to close your mouth or else you'll catch flies.
You're in the Pokémon Centre, newly acquired badge gleaming in your sleek blue and black case, the only thing of yours that you bother to keep in good condition other than the gold and grey Rubik's cube you have dangling from your belt.
You're waiting in line, behind a few kids with sorry looks on their faces, and you guess they lost a battle, a few lost-looking backpackers probably asking for directions, and again you see the girl. She's sitting in a corner booth at the other end of the well-lit room with her Darumaka, a Servine you guess is hers, what with it curled atop her ridiculously sized ponytail, looking down on all the other patrons of the centre, an Elgyem hovering around and blinking it's brightly coloured lights rapidly, and a Panpour squirting little shots of water up and then catching them again in it's mouth.
There's a half empty glass of milkshake on the table, cherry still there, and empty Pokéballs on the table alongside it. You can just make out patterns along the outside of them that look hand drawn with a marker pen or something.
This girl is crazier than your first initial impression lead you to believe.
You're called next and you ask about rooms, and are given a small key on a ring with a dog tag hooked to it, room number engraved in. You give a quiet thanks and leave, Zorua at your heels.
You find a seat at a table, order yourself a drink and some food for your Pokémon, and are about to stick your headphones in your ears when a body drops itself into the seat opposite you, a cheery "hey!" greeting you, and a Darumaka flinging itself onto your calf and tightly hugging it.
"Darumaka wanted t' see you again. No idea why though, I told him that you look grumpy and that your Zorua would prolly get jealous an' destroy him, but there's really no reasoning with him once he's got his mind set on something."
You wonder if she can talk to Pokémon like you, but abolish the though quickly, because you have kind of accepted it's a one-off gift you were blessed with and it never does do well to dwell on what if's and could be's.
"I can't really blame him for wanting to leave you, though," you say without thinking, and then mentally slap yourself because this is a person you've never actually had a proper conversation with and that you can't just stay stuff like that to people unless they are your friends, but she just throws her head back and laughs her horrible, grating laugh and shoots out a "rude."
Her Servine is still sitting on her head and is giving you an evil look, and you don't even need to be able to talk to Pokémon to know its making up it's mind about you, and you're not meeting it's standards. Her Panpour doesn't seem as hostile, settled on the table and peering down at Zorua, who's giving it a tired and mostly bored look (he's very lax). Her Elgyem is mostly just shy, hidden behind her shoulder and peeking out every other minute, it's blinking lights slow and cautious.
"Does they have a nicknames?" you ask, looking down at the Darumaka, trying to get a read on what it's thinking.
She just huffs and says, "My best mates convinced me nicknaming Pokémon wasn't cool, so I never did, but now I kind of wish I had started using a nickname on 'em. Would'a called Darumaka 'asshole' or something, because he really is."
The Pokémon seems to register that yes, asshole isn't a good thing to be called, but he has the same jokey, jolly and carefree nature as his trainer, and seems to understand that she's only kidding, and that she loves him very much. It's an amazing bond, and to be perfectly honest, you're a little jealous yourself.
"Your's got any names?" she asks, leaning forward to peek at your Zorua in your lap, and eyeing the few Pokéballs on the table, the inhabitants of them getting a well-earned rest.
"No," you say, looking back up at her. "No outside influences though, just the fact I'm not creative enough to think of nicknames that actually sound good or threatening when in battle."
She gives another unholy snort and sticks out a hand, covered in nicks and scratches, layers of dirt under her stubby nails. "Names Touko, nice t'meetcha."
You take her hand and shake it once before dropping it. "I'm N. Pleasure is all mine."
A/N: Okay I will admit I'm kind of in love with this 'verse what is this
- mentioned in my last fic that I have an ao3 account now so yeah I'm not sure if I'll actually post this to it but go ahead and check out my empty page yeah