[AN: Welcome to my third ever FF upload I guess! I've been sitting on this for a while because I feel it's only an 8/10 for my potential but it's getting to the point where nobody will care about pokemon sun/moon anymore so here goes! There are three chapters of grouped mini-chapters and it is 95% canon-compliant. Thanks for reading y'all!]

Route 2

Despite all he'd said on the beach, Guzma was following him. Muttering profanity, shouting insults, and dawdling several paces behind – but he was following him. Hala almost laughed. For all his swagger, he was still a child in so many ways.

When they reached the outskirts of the city, he stopped and turned, folding his arms and blocking the road. "Well?" he challenged.

"Well what?" Guzma yelled back, stopping several feet back and thrusting his hands into his pockets.

"If you keep following me, I'll take that to mean you're my student now."

"And if I don't?" he said, puffing his chest out.

Hala shrugged. "Then I don't care."

He turned around again and resumed his steady pace. He didn't have to turn back to know Guzma was still following. His pride would never let him be dismissed like that.

"I don't need you to teach me!" he insisted as they turned up the path towards Iki Town. "I'm already strong!"

Hala was glad Guzma couldn't see his smirk. "Then why are you following me?" he called back over his shoulder.

"I'm not following you! I'm just going the same way!"

"Your home is in the opposite direction," Hala pointed out as they entered the town.

There was no reply. Bemused, he turned to see Guzma glaring at the grass.

"That's not my home," he said.

Well now. That was a little cause for concern.

"Still the opposite direction," Hala retorted, continuing his walk. He didn't get far before a familiar face appeared from his house. "Hau!" he called, waving his grandson over. They shared a quick hug.

Then Hau saw who was accompanying him, and gave an exaggerated jump back. "Whoa!" he exclaimed. "Tutu, you're being followed!"

"I'm not following him!" Guzma said, and then glared furiously as Hala let out a deep belly laugh and Hau grinned.

"I'm going to be teaching Guzma the skills of a real trainer," Hala explained. "So be nice, alright?"

"Of course!" Hau waved at Guzma, who ignored him.

"Don't mind him," Hala said, resuming their walk. "He's sulking."

The string of expletives Guzma gave in response only served to prove him right.

Home

When Guzma woke up, he didn't recognise the ceiling above him. Nor did he recognise the bed. Unfortunately, he did recognise the person who had opened his door to wake him up.

"Get out of here ya little punk!" he said, chucking a pillow in the kid's direction.

Hau didn't even dodge, laughing as it hit him in the torso. "It's gone noon, y'know? Aren't you hungry?"

He was, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that he, the big bad Guzma of Team Skull...had been caught in bed asleep...in what looked like a shared bedroom...which meant someone had slept in the same room as him. Although Guzma was definitely very fearsome and very strong and therefore very intimidating, it was hard to be intimidating while you were snoring in bed. And he was pretty sure he snored.

"Anyway, who are you calling a punk?" Hau added. "C'mon, we're making lunch."

He left the door open as he departed, because clearly he wanted to be annoying. Guzma shuffled down the bed just far enough that he could kick it shut, and then stretched out, hands behind his head.

Guzma, what are you doing?

Living with the kahuna, apparently.

What is wrong with you?

He didn't have any money. He didn't have anywhere else to go. Everybody around here knew who he was, the moody teenager with the bronze trophy in every competition he entered. Grown up into a moody adult with nothing to his name but a broken-up gang.

He missed the grunts. Things were easy with them. He missed Plumeria.

Hala was an interfering old man, and Hau was just fake. Everything about him put Guzma on edge. Always smiling and laughing, making jokes and acting goofy. Nobody was like that all the way down. He didn't seem real.

Dad was like that. In front of guests.

His mood ruined by that thought, he got to his feet, leaving the bedsheets in a crumpled pile. Whatever happened here, it was better than being at home.

Barricade

Guzma kicked a stone and it rolled down the hill, picking up speed until it disappeared into long grass. He kicked another.

"Keep up, Guzma," Hala said without looking back.

"Why do I have to come?" he retorted. He kicked a larger rock, but it didn't budge, and he suppressed a hiss of pain.

"This is part of your training."

"The hell it is!" But still, he followed.

When they entered Hau'oli proper, Guzma fell quiet, glaring about him. Hala, too, became more alert, and together in silence they walked, both scanning the crowd for the same people.

The city was bustling, and in the corner of his eye, Hala watched Guzma sidle and twist to move between people, not making eye contact with anyone, occasionally cursing if someone bumped into him. People were generally giving him a wide berth, and his height made him easy to avoid, but it wasn't always possible. Nevertheless, he kept moving, never stopping to let someone get out of the way, but acting remarkably reserved.

He stopped once, when they reached the far west side of the town. Guzma went to turn away, and Hala reached out an arm to bar his progress.

"What? You trying to make me go back?" Suddenly he was back, shoulders straightening, arms coming out to gesture aggressively. "You can't handle me after all, huh?"

"That's not why we're here," he replied calmly.

"Well I don't care! I'm not going back." He pushed past Hala, at that moment colliding with a boy who had been about to slip past him, who crashed into his chest. "Hey!" Guzma shoved the boy's shoulder. "Get out of the way, bug!"

"Guzma!" Hala's hand shot out, grabbing the arm before it could shove again, leveraging it behind Guzma's back away from the boy, who ran off.

Guzma shook him off angrily, turning on him again, face flushed with anger. "Get your hands off me! I'm not your student!"

"I am not sending you home," Hala said. Guzma flinched at his sharp tone. "As my student, your place is with me until I'm satisfied you've learned how to be a real trainer."

Guzma didn't reply, hand clenched around a fistful of jacket. Hala scrutinised him for a moment, and then relaxed. He turned away, beginning to walk south. "Come on, we'll be late."

Captain

The house was a large U-shape opening onto the street, with a sparkling pool off to the side that was rippling in the cool sea breeze. Guzma didn't trust fancy houses, and especially because he knew this one. He pulled up his jacket collar and set his jaw moments before Ilima opened the door.

"Uncle," the young captain said with a warm smile. "And Guzma, too," he added, unsuccessfully trying to make eye contact. "Come in."

Hala stepped forwards, pausing to gesture for Guzma to follow, somehow sensing he would sneak away given the first opportunity.

As the door was closed behind him, Guzma felt his teeth press together. The inside was even worse than the outside: tidy and excruciatingly clean, with several family members going about their day. Ilima took them upstairs to his room, also very neat and full to the brim with expensive-looking records and books. He stopped at the table, whereupon he indicated a map of the city weighted down by a Pokéball. "I've highlighted the particular problem areas," he explained as Hala pored over the map. "Smeargle has done his best, but even where he struggles shouldn't be a problem for you."

"Or for Guzma," Hala agreed.

"Indeed," Ilima replied, only sounding slightly surprised. He looked up to see Guzma was standing off to the side, arms folded, pretending not to notice he was standing right next to Ilima's trophy collection.

"I'll take you around the grass that needs managing," Ilima decided. "Rather than boring you with maps."

The neat, fenced-off grass areas seemed not to need any attention at all. Guzma wondered if it had been Hala's excuse to get him out of the house. Hala set about matter-of-factly weeding and neatening the area, as Ilima's Smeargle began touching up the fence's paint. Ilima took Guzma to the other side and explained what needed to be done.

"The wild Pokémon here are weak, but numerous. The population is starting to get out of control, so I made plans to offload some of the pressure into other areas. To do that, I need them weakened, so they don't cause trouble while being moved over."

Why can't you be like him?

Guzma grimaced at the memory and shook his head. "Whatever."

Ilima smiled, moving to clap him on the shoulder, but Guzma shook him off and stepped away. Ilima let his hand drop apologetically. "Sorry," he said. "It must be awkward to take directions from someone younger than you."

Guzma glared at him. They both knew that was only a small scrap of the whole issue.

"I'll be over there with Smeargle." Ilima tactfully retreated, leaving Guzma to throw himself into beating down the wild Pokémon.

"Good job," Hala declared, as Ilima closed the gate. "Herding is easier with strong Pokémon."

Guzma puffed his chest out proudly. "I'm the strongest there is."

Hala merely inclined his head. "Strength is not everything. You must be respectful, considerate and brave."

The memory of a Pokémon's high-singing cry hit Guzma unexpectedly; the overwhelming feeling of fear. He shook his head hard to get it out. "I'm brave," he asserted.

Hala smirked. Ilima covered his mouth with a hand.

"What?" he said, moving up towards the younger captain and raising his voice. "Are you laughing at me? You think you're stronger than me?"

Ilima backed up gracefully. "No, I know I'm not," he admitted immediately, without a shred of embarrassment. "I know my limits."

For a moment, Guzma was stunned by the offhand admission. How could you admit, so casually, that you were weak? Did Ilima really think...?

There was a moment of uneasy silence.

"Why don't you go ahead?" Hala said at last. "I have a few other things to discuss with Ilima."

Shooting one last glare at Ilima, Guzma muttered, "Whatever," and strode away.

Hala and Ilima watched him go without speaking, until he was a distant shadow in the clear night. Then Ilima said, "I wasn't expecting to see him again."

"Hm. He went to Ula'ula."

Ilima glanced at him sharply, but his voice remained neutral. "I see."

"Do you see his parents often?"

"No. Not since he ran away." Ilima hesitated, then sighed. "I still feel a little responsible for that."

Hala laughed sadly, and patted him on the back. "You did nothing wrong. If anyone is at fault, it's me. And I'm making up for that now."

Challenge

His father had come with him, which only increased the pressure. His heart in his mouth, Guzma watched as the rival Pokémon delivered its last crushing blow.

"Victory, Makana!"

The two trainers shook hands, and Guzma watched enviously as the other boy left to collect his trophy. He wandered back to where his father was waiting, smiling shyly at the people who congratulated him.

The smile faded when he reached his father, whose lips were pressed tightly. He grabbed his son's hand and started towing him back home without a word. Guzma hurried to keep up with his father's longer strides, still holding his fainted Pokémon's ball in one hand. He'd have to go to the Centre later. And then he'd have to get stronger, so next time she didn't faint at all.

His father pulled him through the door and his mother emerged from the bedroom, beaming. "Welcome back," she called cheerfully. "How did he do?"

"I came fourth!" he replied, feeling her enthusiasm lift his spirits.

"Well done!" she returned, clapping her hands. He smiled, seeing her genuine pride light up her face.

"Don't encourage him," his father cut in, causing an immediate end to the joviality. "He didn't even place. He needs to work harder."

"I will, dad, I swear," he promised eagerly. "I'll do better next time."

He tried to smile as his father stared down at him.

"You looked weak today," he stated eventually, enunciation sharp. "It was an embarrassment. Don't do it again."

Guzma blinked, and then dropped his gaze. "Okay."

Drenched in rain, face etched with a scowl, Guzma shouldered the door out of his way and stepped into the warmth of his living room. "I'm back," he announced.

"Good afternoon!" his mother replied, dropping what she was doing and coming over. "Oh dear, look at you! Go and have a bath. I'll make you cocoa, alright?"

"Thanks," he muttered, looking past her to his father, who was chopping vegetables in the kitchen. He crossed the living room to the bathroom door.

"Wait," his father called, making him stop in his tracks and turn. "Don't you have anything to say?"

Reluctantly, Guzma pulled the trophy from his bag and put it on the counter.

There was a long silence.

"Again?" his father said eventually with a sigh. "What is wrong with you? Aren't you improving at all?"

"I am!" he replied defensively. "We're working really hard. The other day we—"

"I don't want your excuses," his father interrupted. "This is getting pathetic, Guzma. Clean up your act."

Guzma snatched the trophy back and walked away.

Hala patted him on the shoulder as he passed. "You did well today," he said.

Guzma turned his head, but he was already gone, moving on to Ilima. This boy he embraced, slapping him on the back, and then held him at arm's length and said something in a low voice, thrumming with pride.

Guzma felt the familiar sting of his nails digging into his hands, clenched so tightly into his fists they were gouging marks in his palms. One day he'd probably have scars there. As he watched Hala and Ilima celebrate, Ilima's family gathering around him, the trophy in his hand, reflecting the sunlight, everybody smiling, laughing and hugging, Guzma felt himself disappearing. He turned around and walked away. Despite himself, he picked up the trophy as he left.

He listened, but nobody called out to say goodbye. Even Hala was too busy celebrating his favourite, and the other students were sucking up to him, fawning over him like he was the coolest person in the world.

One foot in front of the other. Up the hill, past the green where the Pokémon were always scrapping and eager. His house loomed, the steps, the swing in the garden like he was still six. Before he opened the door he took a deep breath, smoothed his hair. Straightened his shirt. Held the trophy in front of him like a shield.

"I'm home."

"Welcome back!" called his mother from the kitchen.

Guzma's father didn't greet him. He looked up from his book, took in his son with a surgical glance, and then returned his gaze to his current page with only a faint 'hmph' in acknowledgement.

His hand tightened on the silver trophy, and his heart sank. He knew that look. Not good enough.

He strode past without another word and slammed the door to his room behind him.

White Out

The breeze rustled in the trees, but there was otherwise total silence. The sun streamed down from a cloudless sky, making everything seem bright and glorious. The podium was set up on the marina, the sea sparkling cerulean behind it, a glittering backdrop to the boy speaking to the crowd.

"This duty," Ilima began, "is one I have aspired to carry for many years. In admiration of our kahuna," he smiled in Hala's direction, "and from love of Pokémon, I hoped not only to establish a trial, but also to help the Pokémon in our city. I hope to excel not just in battling, as I seem to have done so far," he smiled modestly, "but in guiding new trainers, maintaining our local wildlife, and helping my city to flourish."

The crowd cheered.

"Thank you," the boy finished earnestly, and bowed. He stepped down from the makeshift stage to clapping, and the small audience began to break up. Guzma watched as his father made his confident way through the gathering to congratulate Ilima personally, followed instinctively by his mother. He trailed after them, unnoticed.

"My boy could learn a thing or two from you," his father was saying. "He's so busy roughhousing, he never pays attention to his studies."

Ilima smiled uncertainly. "Thank you, sir. Guzma has taught me a few things himself."

His father laughed. "I hope not!"

Then Ilima's attention was caught by one of the schoolteachers, and his father turned away. He caught Guzma's eye as he did so, his expression going cold. Guzma scowled, but looked away.

He offered Guzma's mother his arm, and they led the way back home, chatting as their son dawdled behind. "You could always tell he was captain material," his mother was saying happily. "Such a nice boy. And so young!"

"He's a real trainer alright," his father agreed. "Strong, but disciplined."

Guzma rolled his eyes behind their backs. Discipline, discipline, is there anything else in that dusty head of yours, old man?

Unspeaking, he followed them into the house.

"Guzma," his father said as soon as the door was closed.

He froze, halfway to putting his shoes down. Slowly, he straightened. Waited.

His father's brow was heavy as he fixed his son with a stern gaze. "It's been three years since your trial. Today simply proves it. You've been passed over."

He knew that already.

"Ilima has what you lack. Manners. Responsibility. Discipline. He's everything you're not. That's why he succeeds."

He knew that, too.

His father sighed. "It's time to stop deluding yourself. You're never going to become a captain."

He...

His head started swimming.

"Hala has made his opinion of you clear. He views you as a disappointment."

Was that true? His heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear himself think. Hala hates me?

His father continued, calm, measured, unstoppable. "You're reckless. Careless. You don't even have any friends. Even Kukui has a better chance than you."

Kukui? You hate Kukui.

"You will give up on this childish dream. Start focusing on your schoolwork."

You were the one who wanted me to do this.

He couldn't breathe.

"You humiliated me today. I had to stand there amongst our neighbours and watch a boy two years younger than you take the position you've been trying for since you were sixteen." His father's voice was rising. "You're pathetic, Guzma. An overgrown child begging to be noticed for mediocrity."

Guzma moved backwards as his father advanced. He'd been the taller of the two for years now, but something about the words and the disgusted expression on his father's face made him feel six again.

"You've failed to become a captain. You're barely even a trainer. It's time for you to quit."

His back was against the door. He was wound up like a spring, ready for whichever of his father's hands came out first.

"Well, Guzma? Answer me!"

For a long moment, he could barely process the words. He forced his distant mouth into a response. "Yes, sir."

"Give me your Pokémon."

No.

The word clammed up in his mouth. He shivered violently, but held his tongue.

"Guzma." His father held out one large hand, his brown eyes like drills, his expression edging into anger. "Give them to me."

Guzma shook his head desperately.

The hand lashed out, pushing him back against the door as with the other his father searched his pockets, pulling out the six occupied Pokéballs in turn and tossing them onto the floor behind him. "You don't deserve these," he was saying, as Guzma struggled unsuccessfully. "You never did. I wasted all that time on this ridiculous hobby and nothing came of it."

Guzma watched the balls bouncing and rolling over the wooden floorboards. Gyrados. Bewear. Snorunt. Tsareena. Graveler.

With a triumphant grunt, his father let him go, his hand around the last one. Guzma's eyes widened.

Incineroar.

His first Pokémon.

"Don't," he pleaded.

"Quiet!"

He jumped and clenched his jaw shut.

"I'm putting these away," his father declared. "You are no longer a Pokémon trainer. Is that clear?"

He felt his breathing pick up, anger bubbling up in him. Not for him, but for them, for the friends he'd raised and travelled with, and his father wanted to lock them away forever. "Leave them alone!" he shouted back, "You can't take them from me, they're mine!"

"Not anymore," his father raised his voice to match. "They're a waste of time."

"You can't do this!" He leapt forwards, reaching for Incineroar where the ball was still in his father's hand, but it was jerked out of reach. Before he could react, a blinding pain sent him flying back against the door.

"While you are under my roof, my word is law!" his father bellowed, his fist so tight around the Pokéball that his knuckles were white. "This," he gestured with the ball, "is mine."

He strode across the room and placed the six balls on the top shelf of the cabinet. Desperately, Guzma charged, but it was too late. His father's hand was on the handle of a golf club, and he turned to meet him.

Everything after that was pain.

Starter

Akala was familiar, though it had been years since he'd travelled. Without Pokémon, the routes he could take were limited, but he also didn't want to be in the city. He walked north, stopping in at a Pokémon Centre cafe for food, and eventually he had walked the length of the island and had stopped at its northern beach. It was a clear, warm day and sunset was only just beginning, so he sat on the sand and tried to clear his head.

While you are under my roof, my word is law!

But he wasn't. He tilted his head back, looking at the cloudless sky. His father had locked him in his bedroom for the night, and he'd smashed up his room in anger, including the window. With nothing left to lose, he'd patched himself up, stuffed his pockets with change, and made his getaway at dawn. Running full-tilt down the hill to the marina, he'd jumped on the first ferry of the day. Now, he was alone. He was free.

In a small crack in the rocks on the Route 8 beach, buried some way back into the cliff, was a small, timid creature. It was just over a foot long, with a silver carapace that reflected the thin shaft light of that was shed on its hiding spot. It did not move, its yellow eyes fixed on the figure sitting on the beach.

Guzma stayed like that, watching the sky change colour, until his neck hurt. He wasn't really paying attention to the pain, thinking more about what he was doing. He would run out of money soon, even if he sold his trainer supplies. He was old enough to find a job, but what about a place to live? And he didn't want to work, anyway. He was a trainer. If he wasn't going to do that, he might as well have stayed at home.

Pathetic. A trainer with no Pokémon.

He sighed. It wasn't the first time he'd done this. The whole reason he'd jumped on the chance to do the Island Challenge was for this, the escape. It hadn't lasted. It never lasted.

He'd probably go crawling home again tomorrow.

The figure wasn't moving. Wimpod crept out from his crevice and slowly made his way across the beach, sniffing all the while. Still no movement from the figure. Wimpod kept going, right up until he bumped into something soft in the sand.

Guzma turned his head in surprise when something touched his hand, and then leapt to his feet in surprise, sending it scurrying away again. "Aagh!"

It was gone just as quickly, and he caught his breath, glancing around to reassure himself that nobody had seen him. "Idiot," he muttered under his breath. "Just a Wimpod."

A wild Pokémon could be dangerous, a fact that was drilled into all children, but a Wimpod? Hardly. The things were little cowards, and besides, Guzma was pretty sure he could take any Pokémon he'd find around here. You didn't train up a Bewear by being scared of a little rough and tumble.

Not that he had a Bewear, anymore.

Angrily putting the thought from his mind, he brushed down his jeans and sat back down. The sound of the sea was soothing, and there was nowhere better to be.

The danger seemed to be gone. Everything was quiet again. The scary figure had stopped being scary.

Wimpod scuttled out, a little more confident. He had gone out to this figure before, and hadn't been hurt! He'd even touched it!

The figure moved a little bit, and Wimpod froze, poised and trembling, ready to spew his natural defence mechanisms if the danger approached.

After several seconds, he relaxed again. There was no more movement. He continued creeping forwards.

Guzma stayed as still as possible and watched as the Pokémon approached. He recognised its twitchy movements as those of caution, fear even. He slapped a hand down for fun and watched the Wimpod turn tail and speed back to safety. And yet, not two minutes later, it was sneaking towards him again. Scared, but tenacious.

A memory of his Litten came to him unbidden, sniffing cautiously at his hand when they'd first met. His eyes filled with tears and he shook his head violently, pushing the grief back down. Wimpod fled immediately, and he sighed.

It took longer, this time, but he came back. Guzma held his breath as it worked its way slowly right up to his hand beside him, touching its purple snout gently to his skin.

It didn't smell dangerous. It smelled like a human, which made sense! Humans were big and noisy, and sometimes dangerous, but usually not. Other Pokémon attacked the humans, and the humans fought back with more Pokémon.

The Wimpod on the Route 8 beach was not a brave one like those Pokémon. He sat next to Guzma's hand and slowly started to get comfortable. Guzma didn't move a muscle, not even to turn his head and look at the sunset. Any movement risked scaring the Wimpod away again, and without really knowing why, he didn't want to do that.

Only once did he try to move, very slowly, by extending a finger from the hand. It touched to Wimpod's side. The silver plating was surprisingly cool to the touch.

The Wimpod tensed, but didn't run. When Guzma moved no further, it settled down again.

For the first time since Ilima's speech, Guzma felt himself smiling.