Samantha and the Golden Boy
…
- "Be Still."
The world rushed past me, racing at a clip through countrysides and cityscapes, bringing my old self to my new home.
'Old self' is a bit of an overstatement. I'm fifteen years old at the moment. The Boss had a habit of looking at the pimples on my cheeks, then down to the waistline on my torn jeans that was growing tighter all the time, and saying I would wake up one day looking thirty, at best. He's part of why I left, why I abandoned that negativity and came to live with my sister. Though I can't say I was entirely over the Boss, what happened at school, or a whole slew of other things. So yeah, I was bringing my old self to a new home.
Long-winded, I know. I can be like that.
The seat across from me had remained empty for the last hour of the train ride, but I was still reluctant to put my feet up. The ticket-collector lady had glowered at me with these eyebrows that suggested she could break me in two without so much as a second thought, and I was not about to give a reason. That's part of my philosophy.
Or maybe I have a series of philosophies. They all amount to the same thing: speak softly and carry a big stick. Though I never carried a stick, would not know where to purchase said stick, and would prefer to keep that little bit to myself.
The ticket-collector lady had started walking back, this time with a stack of thick papers. She handed a wad of them to the family of four seated across the aisle, topping it off with a smile and a dose of Goldenrod City hospitality.
She gave me the death stare, one handout she crumpled a bit with her mammoth grip, and kept on moving.
The family put the papers aside and went on speaking with one another. I couldn't hear them—I had done enough traveling to know how valuable a good pair of headphones can be—but I felt them watching me. This was routine, too. Just another family, with a bright-eyed little boy and his baby sister, both sets of eyes staring and wondering where this strange girl's parents are. Where are her parents? Maybe she's visiting her grandmother, or maybe she's the daughter of one of the train staff. That's it: she's the ticket-collector lady's little girl, and they're having a fight over what to make for dessert. Mom wants huckleberry pie, but the girl with the pizza face wants, well, more pizza.
I hunched over the duffel bag in my lap, bent my legs tighter around the seat.
'Immigration papers', the page read in bold letters.
Then, underneath: 'Welcome to Johto! Our fine nation is home to many creatures, which we call Pokemon.'
I wondered who had never seen a Pokemon before, until I remembered I fit that description myself until about a month ago.
'Now, tell us about yourself,' the form went on. 'Are you a boy? Or a girl?'
I put the page down. Kanto and Johto had some weird political alliance I didn't really understand, something amounting to dual citizenship? Hannelore got it all sorted out before I got on the train. I just had to pack my bags and get out before the Boss could throttle me as hard as humanly possible.
The train pulled into the Goldenrod City station with as much grace and fluidity as it had shown the rest of the trip. We stopped without so much as a stutter. The seat belt sign went off, the family of four released their seat belts at approximately the same time, and it was too late to turn back now.
I picked up my bag, kept my headphones in their battle-ready position, and stepped out onto the platform.
When they said each city in Johto had a name related to its color, they were not kidding. Goldenrod City, from where I stood, looked literally paved in gold. Even though this was only a few days after the new year and my Saffron State hoodie was needed now more than ever, watching the radiant skyline felt somewhat like baking in the sun on a hot day.
I checked the time on my phone. Two in the afternoon. Right in the middle of the day, meaning right in the middle of traffic. The family of four wandered toward the rental car lot, led by the father figure with his brisk gait and fatherly figure, the wife at his side and two tater-tots trotting behind. I almost felt bad for them until I saw the bodyguard-looking guy standing by his black car, which all things considered looked more like a hearse.
He held a single sheet of paper, two familiar words stretching across his chest.
"You're not my sister," I said jokingly.
He didn't budge.
"Get it?" I continued. "The sign says 'Hannelore Hutchinson', but you're not her, you're this buff guy with ominous sunglasses."
His head tilted downward, painfully slowly. Almost like he wanted to draw out this moment of awkward interaction as long as he could.
"Samantha Hutchinson?"
"The one and only," I said. Then: "What's your name?"
He put the sign down and opened the back door. The heated leather interior beckoned. I tossed my duffel bag inside, but bodyguard-guy—who should probably be called chauffeur-guy—caught my meager possessions by the worn strap as they flew. He put them in the front passenger seat with a controlled motion, his arms snapping at the joints.
I was glad I wasn't the bag, I can tell you that. And I don't always prefer to ride in the back of a hearse.
We pulled out into traffic. My heart raced for a split-second, before I remembered that in Johto, people drive on the wrong side of the street. Or maybe we drive on the wrong side in Kanto, and Saffron City's infamous congestion could be resolved just that easily.
While we chugged along, I made sure to people-watch as though my life depended on it. It had depended on it back in Saffron, under the Boss's roof. Being able to go out and let someone vent was a well-appreciated skill.
So, I watched my new home unfold. We passed all of the landmarks: the department store, the bicycle shop, the flower shop, and of course the Pokemon Gym. The day-care, the underground. The radio tower loomed in the background all the while, trying its hardest to disappear, like a fly on a wall, or like me at the average social function.
We made it to the more residential district soon enough. The skyscrapers and high-rises gave way to expensive homes, fancy cars, and apartment complexes of various quality. Some of the nicer ones had outrageous names like 'Sherman Oakes Community' and advertised around-the-clock security. Some of the dubious ones were just like the skyscrapers from a while ago, except now with entire sides being flat, unpainted stone. I spied more than one complex decorated with laundry hanging from the tenant balconies, like urban Christmas decorations in a post-industrial jungle.
Imagine by surprise when we stop in front of a similarly-decorated complex.
"Funny, I thought Hannelore's company liked things flashy," I slipped.
"The Company manufactures HM05 and HM04 disks, if that is what you're referring to," the driver said.
"That's a strong claim."
"Indeed, 'strength' is one of our top-selling products."
I rubbed my temples, ignoring the familiar bumps on my face. "Don't you ever laugh, Chauffeur-guy?"
He opened the door and swung around to the other side. My door and the passenger door opened at the same time. Chauffeur-guy held my duffel bag out with one arm, which meant he himself had no need to learn a move called 'strength'. I took my bag with both arms and struggled to keep upright.
Chauffeur-guy nodded and gave something resembling a wave. The car barreled back into traffic.
Community Apartments, the sign in the glass lobby window read. I could already sense the quality: this place surely used its money on more important things besides coming up with creative, enticing names.
Even better: when I stepped inside, I could smell the quality! That lovely cigarette odor flared back up my nostrils. I had escaped the Boss and Saffron City, but I still couldn't escape being around smokers.
It's funny, reading that back. I make it sound all nostalgic, like I have a reason to miss cigarettes. It's actually the polar opposite. New Years Eve probably would have gone way different, to the point that I might not have bothered escaping to literally the other side of the continent, if not for cigarettes.
I pressed the call button for the elevator, trying not to think about it.
It's hard not to think about something, because by definition, you're thinking of the thing you're telling yourself not to think about. It's telling yourself not to think about elephants. Telling yourself not to think about how the Boss brought his friends over for New Years Eve when he promised it would be just you and him, because he knows that after botching your birthday by having to return your present and using the money to pay the utilities bill, he needs to make amends. Telling yourself that surely, he didn't bring all of his friends, including the guy that's always talking about how grown-up I've gotten.
Reminding yourself that, in no way did the Boss think it was fine to take that man's word over yours, that Of course you lied when you said that man grabbed you when you brought daddy's pack of cigarettes. Of course there had been no evidence, not like said man and "family friend" never stared at your chest, adding embarrassment to social injury.
The elevator dinged, and I snapped out of my mind. It was a breath of fresh air.
Not exactly fresh air. You know, cigarette smoke and all.
Hannelore wrote in our emails that her apartment was on the fourth floor. Meaning, it was too high up to take the stairs without becoming a sweating bloated mess, while taking the elevator for that blip of a second made you feel like you should be a sweating, bloated mess.
The elevator doors opened onto a puke-yellow hallway. The carpet had that atrocious green kind-of-plant-looking pattern, though nobody had vacuumed in a while and the whole space smelt of mildew. I shouldered the duffel bag and heaved it bravely. If I were the duffel bag, I wouldn't want to be dragged across a floor that looked like this. Common courtesy.
A few twists and turns later, and I came to Hannelore's front door. If the apartment number didn't tell you so, the crude construction-paper sunflower—complete with a drawn-on smile!—was a dead give-away.
I reached down at her doormat. Her instructions were simple: find the key under the mat, go inside, crash because I'm probably pretty tired, and wait for big sister Hannelore to get us dinner. Not a terrible plan.
It might have gone much better if Hannelore left an actual key under the mat.
Let it be known: I did believe my spotty sister had placed a key for me. I searched a good ten minutes, feeling all around the mat, looking under her front door jamb, and even trying to turn the knob in an attempt to get inside. None of it worked. I was very much locked out.
The phone clock read 3:37. Hannelore wouldn't get off work until at least five, if she worked normal hours. I knew next to nothing about her job. She worked for an ominous Company that required you capitalize the first letter, and they paid for her shabby housing along with health insurance and a pension. I also knew she was a lab aide, from when she worked for Silph Co. back in Saffron. According to Silph Co., standard hours went from 12 AM to, well, 12 AM.
I went back down the elevator and tried to come up with a plan.
"I'm sorry, you have dialed an incorrect number," my phone said when I tried calling Hannelore. The voice had a hokey Johto accent, just to drive home how out-of-place I suddenly was.
I sat on the cold vinyl couch in the lobby, lungs filling up with secondhand smoke, and thought it through. I could wait in the lobby until Hannelore showed up. I could wait in the hall, though someone might find me and think I was some crazy foreigner. They would call security, and everything would go okay until they asked for an ID, and I handed my passport over. I'd get tagged as a terrorist, shipped back into Saffron, and the Boss would pay my bail. I'd then repay that bail in all kinds of devious ways.
Or, I could stash my bag with the front desk and go for a walk in the suburbs of an unfamiliar country.
That seemed about right to me.
I went to the receptionist-lady.
"Excuse me," I started.
No response.
I cleared my throat. "Um, excuse me?"
Her hand flew up. She leaned back in her chair and I saw she was talking on the phone. I didn't catch much of the conversation—she had this weird Johto dialect where they eat the last syllable of every word?—but I caught something about a boyfriend named Ted and an illegitimate child.
I carried my bag with me, back to the sidewalk.
When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. When your older sister isn't home and there's no way to reach her, you go exploring. And when there's no place to stash your bag, you take out the passport, stuff it down your shirt, and hide the rest by the dumpsters. Worst-case scenario, I'd lose my two weeks of clothing. It might even be kind of funny, walking around in a day or so and spotting a homeless lady wearing my baggy pants and oversized sweaters. I put my headphones back onto my ears, cranked the volume, made one last pass over the trash to make sure nobody saw my bag, and hit the road.
Hannelore's building sucked the mythical fat ass, but there was something to be said about living in the suburbs.
Ten minutes of constant walking and I was passing rows of older homes with tall trees and clear skies above them. These weren't anything like the mansions and Victorians back by the city center, far from it. If I had to ask, the difference was in how these homes held actual, honest-to-God families. Those fancy ones maybe had a hip, rich young person. Plus or minus a significant other. That's how downtown Saffron was, and that's why nobody my age ever went there. We got to stay at home, where the action was.
Even though my legs eventually got tired of going past endless block after endless block of suburbia, the sights never failed to impress. Pidgey and Spearow soared in confident flocks overhead. The breeze tickled my covered shoulders, prompting the extra fabric in my hoodie to swing in time to its own song.
On future walks, I'd learn it took exactly twenty-two minutes to reach what was called The Village. Goldenrod City had spread out so much recently that the different districts often had their own little city centers. I read up on the topic the night before the move, when the Boss was sound asleep and I was wide awake and terrified.
The Village, true to the description, catered to run-of-the-mill families and young people just starting out in the world. There was nary a tall building or chain store in sight. The cobblestone streets ended at narrow sidewalks, and I seemed to be the only person paying any attention to the sidewalks at all. The whole town looked like the pictures of Kalos I had seen in school, right down to the bakeries and groups of hipsters with framed glasses and rapid conversations about Mega Evolution, cross-national trading, and like, art.
My stomach rumbled a bit. It couldn't have happened at a worse time, I remember thinking. I had no money, Hannelore wouldn't be back for a while and I stood a fair chance of getting lost. The Boss called me stupid all the time, but I knew better than to ask strangers for help in a foreign country. I had parked my feet right outside a pizza joint.
This is my life, my life is amazing.
A very-audible, nearly-tangible crash erupted down the alley right past the pizza place. The handful of young guys jumped a bit; I flew out of my skin, hugged my chest and passport, and prayed for a quick entry to a heaven with food and my sister. Another crash, then a series of them, to the point that a trash lid rolled out into the sidewalk, onto the cobblestone road, and fell like something out of a cartoon.
At the time I thought everyone was watching, and that same everyone thought the crash came from me.
Turns out, that was about as far from the reality as I could have gotten.
When I first saw the Pikachu, I felt the lump in my lungs disappear and the air around me quiet to a whisper. It crawled out of the alleyway on all fours, its expression a mix of embarrassment and fear. If you've never seen a Pikachu in the wild before, you probably don't know that they're very different from the Pikachu that Trainers have, the kind you see on TV or in magazines. In pictures and on screens, Pikachu are cuddly, chubby things with neat tails, crimson circles on their chubby cheeks, and perky ears.
From top to bottom, this Pikachu stood out from the crowd in my mind. Its most defining feature had to be its left ear, where a painful cut had split the black tip in two, like a bloodied cowlick. The red circles at its cheeks were more like blobs than defined circles, never really starting and stopping anywhere on its face. I could tell it was starving from how lean it was, like a model in Pokemon form. Fur matted in a lot of places and tangled in others. Its tail was the most recognizable: it had a few brown spots, but was still in line with the standard image. And from the way the tail ended at a flat top, rather than curving into a heart, I knew this Pikachu was a boy.
We stood there for a moment, each one staring at the other. Me watching this run-down, hungry and frightened Pikachu. Him, watching this short, round girl with a blotchy face, fat headphones and comical glasses.
Another crash from the alley. The Pikachu stood up on its hind legs now, the undamaged ear perking upward. I approached him slowly, holding my hand out to show I didn't mean any harm.
"What is it, little guy?" I asked. "Are some of your friends back there?"
His attention went back to me, his small pink mouth hanging open. Judging me, contemplating me. Nothing I hadn't experienced a million times before at school.
The next crash rang out louder, more ferociously. Whatever had accidentally bumped into the cans before must have deliberately punched it. The Pikachu slammed back onto all fours, this time with its tiny fangs bared. Small electric currents flowed from its cheeks, zapping the air with white and blue streaks.
What started as one tumble next to one alley grew to a cacophony. A veritable orchestra of metal collisions burst from every direction, every dark nook and cranny in The Village. While the Pikachu stayed focused on the path from which it had come, I slowly craned my head around.
Somehow, I highly doubted that this was a happy family of Pikachu coming for a walk in town.
That's when I noticed something else that was strange. All of the people had vanished.
And not 'vanished' like, their clothing stayed behind, or their slices of pizza fell to the ground behind them. I looked back inside the pizza parlor, just to make sure. Nobody home.
Ditto for the sidewalks, the street, and the dainty chairs outside the several bakeries stretching down for miles.
It went silent for just a second—
A pitiful scream escaped my lungs. A man, a full-grown man old enough to be my father, tumbled from the alley. Unlike the Pikachu, who took a moment to smell the roses, this man scrambled to his feet and took me by the shoulders. Had I not been so completely mystified, I might have had the urge to knock him some.
That was, until I got a look into his eyes.
Now, I've seen some weird stuff in my fifteen years. Hannelore and I learned to tell how much the Boss had drank by whites of his eyes. And in turn, my classmates always knew their jabs were working when I went all doe-eyed. So, I knew that this man was terrified out of his mind just by looking at his bloodshot gray stare. I couldn't imagine looking the way he did in that moment. It would take experiencing the kind of horror that made living with the Boss seem just heavenly.
He shook me once, twice.
"Are they here yet?" He shouted. And when I didn't answer immediately: "Are they here yet, girl? Answer me!"
He was strong, no doubt. He pulled me off of my feet and shook harder.
I tried to say that I had no idea what he was talking about, but it all came out babbled and jumbled.
The man looked away for a brief moment, and that was enough. His expression froze. His hands went lax and I landed back on my feet, stumbling a bit but basically fine. The man stood catatonic, his throat making guttural, animal sounds of panic. He managed to move one foot back, then the other, and soon he was racing down the street. I watched him go—noticed that the Pikachu had ran to the next block—and refused to turn around.
Because whatever it was that stood behind me, it didn't exist if I couldn't see it.
It didn't exist if I refused to let it exist.
I refused to live with the Boss, and so I didn't. Ignoring our demons were just that easy.
So I stood there.
I felt some thing's breath on my shoulders. Heard each individual cobblestone crunch under its Olympian feet. Felt everything grow colder, felt the shadow behind me grow past and engulf my own, until I was standing in complete shade and near-darkness.
At this point, I should have ran.
But I couldn't. My legs had locked, my entire body frozen just like the man before. I heard the lips smacking, heard a jaw unhinge with an anticipating 'click' of bone and gristle. The world behind me turned warm, smelled rancid—
The air parted with a violent slash. I fell forward, scraping my hands on the street and skidding my pants. This time, I looked back, and to this day, I cannot really explain what it was.
The creature stood the height of a man, but tilted from side to side with no center of gravity. It clicked with each motion, its many arms waved and slammed in the air and into buildings thoughtlessly. The jaw belonged to a Mawile, not a man, though the drool that melted the street beneath it I could not explain, could never explain.
A black bird swooped down between me and the creature, flapping its mighty wings to repel the creature. I tried standing, but the winds pushed me back down, guided by the bird Pokemon's impossible strength. I tried standing a second time but only succeeded in tumbling forward, almost right into the alien being's mouth—
A hand gripped by collar and threw me back, but thankfully on my feet. It was a boy. My age, give or take a year in either direction. He didn't look my way, his eyes focused on the battle waging before us. The being's arms grew to become those of giants, its jaw dropping through to the earth.
The boy pushed the thin frames of his oval glasses further up his long face.
"I imagine you're not supposed to be here," he said.
If there was ever a hint to be taken, that was the one. I turned tail and bounded down the street, pumping my arms and racing away from the sounds of combat as though my life depended on it. Forgive me if I felt like it did.
The Pikachu was suddenly at my feet, running with the same urgency. I don't know how far we exactly ran, just far enough that we saw the man from before stumbling, holding his arm at his side. Crimson flowed down to pool at his feet.
I stopped so abruptly, I fully expected to eat rock.
Now, I had seen blood before, but in the same way most people did. Maybe a dribble from your arm when the doctor gives you your shots, or a slow trickle when you give yourself a paper cut. I'd venture to guess that less than ten percent of the population has seen a grown man bleeding out from his side, holding his innards inside his body. If you want to narrow that to teenaged schoolgirls, then I'm sure that list goes down to like, three people. Now four.
It was a good thing I hadn't eaten.
One, two, three more of those things walked toward the man with a zombie-like gait. Two came at him from both sides of the dark alleys, and I kid you not, one grew up from nothing out of the ground itself. And like something out of a movie, their slowed-down motions suddenly picked up as all three jaws dropped down and arms swiped at him.
A distant voice yelled at me...for me? To me?
The man's body flew into the air and spun around five ways from Sunday. My stomach retched.
A hand to the back of my head, pulling the headphones down and shoving me onto my knees.
"I said, get down! Lili, now!"
A barrage of leaves, verdant as a fresh spring morning and sharp as daggers, sliced the air and cut through the beings. They didn't bleed, not exactly. Bits of shadow ripped off of their flesh and flew like blood would, but it disappeared before hitting the ground.
"Get up!"
The voice belonged to a girl. Again, a girl my age. She pulled me to my feet, shoved me to the right, pointing frantically.
"That way! Move it!"
I caught a hint of red ribbon moving with her as she stood brave against the abominations, but didn't stay around to watch. The Pikachu ran faster than me this time, only stopping every few seconds to let me catch up. What a nice guy.
I saw it long before the Pikachu ever would: the creature growing up from its feet, silent and deadly. My entire body shook, hand moving back and forth, fighting the urge to reach for it, and to pump my arms and keep going. If I took these seconds to run, I might get a few more moment before another of those things just showed up and took me alive. Or I could use them to give the Pikachu the same chance.
The black creature's head came out of the ground. I screamed, my voice sounding nothing like my voice.
"Pika!"
Preface: I don't speak Pikachu. I don't speak Pokemon. But that one half-word was enough to get the Pikachu to jump into my arms and knock me back against a storefront, down into the trash bins and to my own explosion of metal chaos. Not that the sound stood out anymore, not between my ringing ears, pounding chest, and two fights going on behind me, which entailed buildings coming down and vehicles flying through the air to land like childrens' toys on the road.
The Pikachu and I huddled there, buried under food wrappers and empty plastic cartons, while the creature rose to its full height. We had no chance now, none at all. If we got up, it would strike us with those arms and bring us into those jaws. If we stayed put, we would go to the same toothy place, just without the effort on the ghoul's part.
Its body creaked as it turned exactly the wrong way, bending at a forty-five degree angle.
Only now did I see its eyes. Glowing white circles, moving in slow circles on its inky head.
We made a very alarming kind of eye contact.
I was seconds away from saying my prayers when an arm came down by my head, this one a pinkish human one. I followed the arm up to the boy it came attached to, watched the hints of sandy blond hair flutter under his white beanie cap. His simple white shirt hung to his lean frame, ending lamely just below his waist where his torn jeans started.
Nothing stood out about him, nothing at all. He had no pointy glasses and strange know-it-all vibe like the boy with the bird Pokemon, nor an angry urgency like the girl after.
The boy spoke in a gentle whisper, a hum on the wind.
"I've got you."
He extended the other arm out toward the beast with an amazing confidence, the kind you'd associate with a knight in some bogus fantasy story. I followed his other arm down, from the same lanky forearm to the same bony fingers...ending at what was supposed to be a Pokeball, but somehow wasn't. It was like no Pokeball I had ever seen. The entire sphere glowed with every color of the rainbow, swirling in and out of itself but never glowing, a mundane item of the most ornate design.
The creature acknowledged the boy now, but when its eyes saw the ball in his hand, the situation changed. It drew its arms back, and its jaw snapped shut.
"I-if I didn't know any better," I babbled, "I'd say that's a fighting stance."
The boy smiled, just enough for me to catch it.
"You'd be right," he said. "Do me a favor?"
I nodded.
"Be still."
He threw the ball out into the arena between himself and the demon. A white explosion burst forth.
...
Thanks for reading! Hope you stick around for the adventure.
