The Stain of Heroism

Prologue

"Did you do your homework for Patel's class yet?"

With an inward sigh, Char looked up from her laptop, pulling the screen down some to shield her writing from view. She gave the interloper a narrowed look, suspicion carving a prophecy of premature wrinkles across her forehead and around her red-rimmed eyes. "I've already turned it in." She lifted her screen and bent back to her work.

Her classmate ignored the dismissal, his tone and mood souring immediately. It was the status quo of most who shared more than three or four words with the likes of Char Rivers. "Come on, girl, gimme a break! Shit, I can't miss another assignment."

She blinked, disturbed by the accusing tone in his voice. As if she was to blame for his failures. There were many things she disliked, and undeserved fault ran high on the list. Making her voice colder, her eyes flintier, she growled, "I'm rather busy, if you haven't noticed?"

"But I've been working so hard. You don't know what it's like, juggling a full-time job and school. You just coast along on your scholarship and dis—"

She blocked the rest of the speech out. It would do her no good to listen to their pandering. Every word, pleading and whining, dug into her skull like needles. Also on the list of Things Char Hates was laziness, and in her head the word was written in all capital letters. It ranked second highest of sins, because very little was worse than people who were too selfish or sloth to work.

She despised being an adult, being the most mature person anyone knew, because people looked to her to solve their problems. Because the children around her, idiots who refused to grow up, expected her to take care of them.

Share your homework? Share your money? Share your time? I'm so busy, Char, can't you help me out for once?

And they raged when she refused, as if it was her job to do their homework. As if she was Atlas, consigned to carry their world. They treated her like she'd failed them, when she didn't even know them.

Almost on cue, the accusations began. "You're stuck-up and selfish, you know that? I've never met someone so self-centered in my—"

Char surged out of her seat, slamming her laptop closed with a touch too much force. She'd regret that later, but the only thing on her mind was making them regret. On hitting, on hurting, on showing them—

She clenched her fingers into a fist, forcing it against her thigh. No fights; they weren't allowed. The consequences…no, not worth it. Char smiled thinly, knowing how she looked when she smiled, knowing that she was as fake as they were. "Sorry about that."

She felt plastic. Brittle.

She wished she could slap her classmate. All of them, even. She wished she was clever and charismatic enough to escape their ire, or dumb enough that she wouldn't catch their attention. Emilia could toss her hair and laugh, and no one would dare be mad at her. Wysteria, who was Char's self-proclaimed 'spirit animal,' would flat out lie and make an impressive charade of fury and indignation, enough to scare off her interrogators. But Char's ideals—or more accurately, an unattractive lack of tact—meant that she made more friends than enemies.

Her classmate muttered something insulting, and she returned in kind with, "Maybe if you spent less time complaining about how hard it is to flip burgers, you'd have room to do your homework?" She wouldn't have been surprised if he begged someone to do said burger-flipping for him, and because her face was easy to read, she knew that the thought could be read in her glare.

"Bitch."

"Fucker." She shot back hotly.

Stuffing her computer and charger in her bag, hating how long she was delayed, Char fled the library. And the campus, and then the city. She took a taxi to her apartment, knowing that the expense would be greater but loathing the idea of sharing space with other people. All the while her head ached more and more, thrumming every time someone shouted or a car honked or when she caught a whiff of perfume or smog. By the time she got to her door, she was dizzy. Why couldn't they simply leave her alone? She wished to crawl into a dark corner, cover her head with a warm blanket, and sleep forever. But adults weren't allowed to escape reality, even when they had migraines.

"Good afternoon. You're home early. Shouldn't you be studying?"

Her stomach sinking when she saw her landlady in the kitchen, arms deep in the sink full of sudsy water, Char croaked, "Oh, hi, Mrs. Ortega."

Mrs. Ortega owned the condo that Char shared with two classmates from high school, one of them Mrs. Ortega's daughter Raquel. She was a reasonable woman, Char had always thought; she was fair with the rent and took on the risk of renting a condo to students. But then Raquel's parents had divorced, and now in the midst of war over property and money, Mrs. Ortega didn't seem as kindly mature as before.

Char had stood at the edge of worse skirmishes and survived, but she wasn't feeling up to Mrs. Ortega's passive-aggressive spite today. "You shouldn't be washing the dishes." She said, careful not to make her tone sound reprimanding, fearing that the other woman might take insult. Char dropped her bag on the couch and started rolling up her sleeves and stuffing jewelry in her pockets. "Let me take care of it."

She was the sort who liked chores done a certain way, and despite all logic, she had a difficult time accepting that 'other' ways were 'right.' Dish washing was one of her particular quirks. She hated doing dishes overall, but as neither Raquel or Elvira ever did it right, the city often fell onto Char's shoulders, regardless of whether or not she'd made the mess.

Mrs. Ortega waved her away, smile solicitous yet slightly icy. "You girls are filthy. Haven't any of you learned any responsibility? How long have these dishes been in here? Char, you more than anyone else need to get your act together."

Char's spine stiffened indignantly. She hadn't suffered temper problems in high school, but after she'd come back from overseas, she'd found her patience for others wearing thin. Thinner and thinner, which each passing day. But her discipline was too well-ingrained for her to respond except with a twisted, pained look.

Mrs. Ortega mistook this as agreement. Burying her arms up to her elbows in the dirty dish water, she scrubbed at the baking pans and mixing bowls. Bits of icing and cookie dough floated amidst the suds, and Char's throat closed in disgust. Mrs. Ortega didn't notice. "You girls never clean up around here. If you want to cook, you need to be prepared to clean up after yourself."

Excuses weren't her thing, so Char bore the criticism in silence. It didn't matter that the dishes hadn't been there when she'd left for class.

"—the living room is a mess, too. Why do you need so many blankets all the time? And you never fold any of them."

She never used those blankets, but she didn't say it aloud.

"Really," Mrs. Ortega sighed, and the sound was like a hit in the back of Char's head.

It hurt. Overseas, with her closest friends, she'd learned the true definition of faith and trust. But when she'd returned to the US, alone and world-weary, she'd yet to find an ounce of it in others. Maybe if she'd stayed down south with her sisters, she'd heal, but isolated in a college campus, she felt adrift and raw. Vulnerable. And that made her sharp and defensive.

Except for her family, no one had ever given Char much of anything.

"You're so—"

"I have to study." She grabbed her bag and made a beeline for her room. A part of her wanted to stay, to pick a fight, to scream. But she was a big girl. Big girls didn't have temper tantrums. Big girls sucked in their stomachs, clenched their teeth, and did the responsible thing.

She hated being the big girl.

Char resolved to set aside some time to call her sisters. Though states separated them, and though the past had been hard and brutal and rife with bitter fights and resentment, she'd never felt so at peace except when she was listening to their voices, hearing their assurances.

"We're fine, yes. We've been eating. Mom's getting better. She was cutting coupons the other day! We got a sticker at one of those recruitment things they do at the high school, stuck it on Wysteria's bumper. When will you be home? We miss you!"

Her throat went tight. She missed them, too. They'd only reconciled less than a year ago, and it felt so sweet to be loved again. To have shed the burden of hate and replaced it with understanding and the warm hands of family. Same as most people, her sisters couldn't relate to Char. But they understood, better than others could, why. Why she was hard, why she was bitter, why she hated everything and everyone around her. Why she hated herself most of all.

"Char, I'm not done talking. Raquel says you haven't been paying your portion of the rent. She says she keeps asking you, and—"

Ice skittered down Char's spine, and she nearly stumbled over her own feet. Clumsily, she turned around. "Ex-excuse me?"

She'd handed Raquel the cash last Tuesday.

Mrs. Ortega's voice was stern, disappointed. "Honey, I know you're working hard, but it's not fair on the others—"

Char had given extra last Tuesday, because Raquel had said that the rent went up. She'd given her roommate…Char's stomach rolled, and she felt the nausea climbing up her throat.

Her chest heaved.

Putting a hand over her mouth, Char rushed to her room, feeling like she was wading through jelly. Behind her, Mrs. Ortega raised her voice, followed.

Bathroom.

"We need to talk—"

She was going to throw up.

"Idon'twanttotalk!"

She wanted to turn around, to screech. They were always…taking advantage or trying to…probing her, poking her, making her miserable. Almost everyone she'd ever known was that way. Once upon a time, even her mother and sisters had been guilty. Char was responsible by nature, but responsibility meant assuming blame. Not just hers, but other's. It meant that she assumed punishment, that the fine was hers to pay. The only burden she'd ever borne willingly—the only one that was rightly deserved—was nowhere near as heavy as the expectations of the small-minded people around her.

Char despised others. She despised responsibility, when the people around her were such children. Raquel had probably run off with Char's portion of the rent and spent it without thinking, and when confronted by her mother about the missing portion, she'd pointed her finger in the other direction. No doubt Raquel would come apologize to Char later, swear to tell her mother the truth and correct the error. But then she'd forget, time would pass, and it wouldn't seem worth the effort anymore. At least, not to Raquel. Like a chore put off too long, the urgency would fade, and so would the importance of the mission. And Char would…would…

Her head throbbed.

She needed to call Emilia and Wysteria. They'd calm her down. They'd make it better, even if she wasn't home where the three of them could curl together on Char's old twin size bed and giggle about Star Wars and frivolous things that didn't matter. The girls had a way of soothing the beast in Char.

Fumbling with her doorknob, she stepped into the darkness of her bedroom.

…and felt nothing beneath her feet.

She tumbled down, down, down, like Alice through the rabbit hole. No air rushed past, no wind sang in her ears. In fact, she felt like she was floating in jelly, the air around her thick and heavy. Char felt gravity—a force—pulling on her, dragging her through the blackness, and the pounding in her head kept growing, crawling across the back of her neck until it felt like a dozen fingers digging into her skull.

Pushing, pushing, pushing, until surely she would pop like a cherry under the pressure.

And then…she did.

Char slammed against a wall, sharp bits digging into her hips and shoulders and tearing at her exposed skin. Her chin knocked against stone, her teeth clacking so hard they must have cracked, and white dots sprang before her eyes. Then she was falling onto her back, more rocks cutting and jabbing, and she cried out. It hurt.

Her head didn't.

"Oh my goodness, ma'am, are you alright?"

Sudden light flared, blinding, and it didn't make her head spin with agony. Her migraine was gone, apparently.

So was her room.

Char blinked. Rocks, everywhere. She was in…a cave? And…no, that didn't make any sense, but…

A hand touched her shoulder, making her jump. "Ma'am, you alright? Oh, dear, you're bleeding. Let me take you to the Center. Did you fall from…uh, up there? What happened? Never mind. I've got you."

The young man was dressed like a spelunker, with a hard helmet, a headlamp, and dirt-covered pants and shirt. The majority of the light wasn't from his headlamp though; it came from the child standing beside him.

Rubbing her eyes, Char tried to make sense of what she was seeing. The child…was that kid dressed up like a pokémon?

"Sa…ble?" The purple head tilted sideways, wide mouth displaying a red tongue and sharp white teeth. It held a ball of light in its hand, above its head like a lantern.

The proportions of the body weren't right for a child. The arms too skinny, the fingers too long, for it to be a mere costume. Unless it was a very well-made costume. How'd she get from her bedroom to a cave with a cosplaying duo?

"Why's your kid dressed like a sableye?" Was there a Comicon going on that she wasn't aware of? In a cave?

The man had a handheld device, maybe a radio, up to his ear. "Porter, can you come down to the Painted Room? The room with the murals, know what I'm talking about? There's someone hurt here. Could you and Machoke help me carry her? She might have hurt her legs. It was a bad fall." At this he looked speculatively overhead, but his child's light didn't reach far enough to show anything.

"Hey, dude, I know roleplay is important, but it's okay to get out of character." Char snapped, sitting up and rubbing at her arms. And then her legs. Shit, it was cold, and her cuts and bruises were stinging like crazy.

She patted her pockets, found them empty. Then she checked them again, turning the pockets inside out and cursing herself. Where was her cell?

"Hey, can I borrow your phone? Fuck, never mind." She was underground. No matter how much any service provider bragged, she doubted they'd set up service underground. "Where am I, anyways? I was in my apartment…"

The only logical thing she could come up with was that she'd hit her head, passed out, and was now experiencing a vivid dream. Or Elvira was dabbling in drugs again, this time some sort of incense that brought on hallucinations. Cursing her roommates silently, Char forced herself to her feet, ignoring the frantic worrying of the stranger.

"Stupid fucking dream," She groaned, using the wall to support herself.

"Hey, you probably shouldn't touch that. There's scientists who come out here every so often, and they'd pitch a fit if you were ruining—"

Clutching her arm, and noting that it was sticky from a long scratch stretching from shoulder to elbow, Char tried to find her balance. She nearly failed. The man came up from behind and caught her by the armpits, and his kid darted between her and the wall, as if to prevent her from getting closer.

"Thanks, Sabie. Miss, I think you cracked your head. We should get you checked out."

She wouldn't be surprised if she had. A concussion could explain the strangeness of this all. A tumor, maybe. The guy felt real, his hands warm and his breath stirring her hair. If she didn't know better, she'd think he was more than a figment of her imagination.

Behind them, another voice greeted, "Oi, Jonathan, is everything okay?"

She heard running feet, coming towards them, but Char's attention drifted behind the kid cosplaying as a sableye to the mural behind it. Holy fucking sticks, it looked just like it did in that pokémon video game she played when she was a kid. Except…big. Really big. And most definitely not made with poor-quality pixels.

"I think she's got a concussion. She fell from up there. Is there a ledge that overlooks this room? Or you think she got grabbed by some zubats and carried up? They avoid this room, but my cousin said it happened to him once in Johto—"

"Your cousin's a compulsive liar." The newcomer chuckled. His laugh was mimicked by a throaty "Ma-choke-choke!"

The new guy was dressed like a hiker. Or rather, like what a city person would stereotypically assume was a hiker—heavy jacket, blanket roll, and an obscenely-bulging backpack. Why was someone carrying so much shit in a cave? And right beside him, grinning from ear to ear, was someone wearing a machoke costume. Or maybe, since this was a dream, yeah, it was a fucking machoke.

Why not? Why. The. Fuck. Not?

This was shaping up to be a weird dream, and Char bet that Emilia and her stupid "college try" drug phase was to blame.

Except it wasn't a dream. Or a drug-induced hallucination.

It was real. All of it.

«_-~*°»

"Where did she come from?"

"Calm down, Flannery. We should get all the facts first. Brawly, she was given medical care?"

Through the tiny screen, Brawly Sega nodded, eyes closed in concentration. His blue hair was as unruly as ever, but Norman suspected that it was a touch more wild than usual. Brawly was a quiet, sage man, but it seemed that recent events had disrupted his normally-unshakeable equilibrium. "We have a local clinic. I was going to call Rustboro and see if the hospital had equipment to check for head trauma. All the clinic could do was wrap her up and try to keep her from sleeping, in case of concussion. The chansey at the PokéCenter didn't seem concerned, so there couldn't have been anything life-threatening, but still…" He trailed off, scratching his chin. A furrow of worry formed between his brows. "I don't like it, all the same. A girl, heavily injured, running off on her own. If any of you see her, give me a call?"

Norman nodded, and the others, each relegated to a tiny square corner of the screen, nodded back. Of course they would. If a young woman was in danger, it was their duty as human beings to help out.

"Did you find any identification on her?" Asked Wattson, his normally-jolly face lined with concern. He had a daughter, and maybe he was superimposing her onto the young woman.

"I didn't think to check for a trainer card. But one thing…I, uh, I think she's foreign." Then Bray blushed a little, as if he'd said something embarrassing or rude. When the others didn't comment, he elaborated, "She had a 'dex on her. It was in her…uh…tucked in her…shirt."

Flannery looked bemused, but both Norman and Wattson understood, small smiles twitching their mouths.

"In her bra? Haha! What a place to hide it!"

"A Pokédex?" Roxanne spoke up for the first time, looking up from the mountain of paperwork claiming her desk. "Think she's a research assistant from another region?" She started rifling through papers, getting lost amongst them. "Who's got the number for Immigration and Customs? They keep records of who comes in, don't they? Or maybe Professor Birch can reach out to the others? Mayor Wiseacre…"

Norman sighed and rubbed his forehead, feeling exhausted by the very idea of dealing with either party. Immigration felt itself separate from the Trainer League and would balk at the thought of sharing any information. And the mayor of Slateport would try to derail the subject and focus on his private agenda—getting a gym situated in the city. "If a research assistant is out there with a possible concussion and a priceless piece of tech in her hands, we are more than just obligated to find her."

"Priceless?" Wattson guffawed, slapping the table in front of him repeatedly. "I heard your son dropped his six times before he made it outta Littleroot. No concussion required on his part."

"A Pokédex is tough enough to handle any accidents. But the human head isn't. She's got a concussion—"

"Careful, Norman, you're contradicting yourself."

The two men shared looks of thin dislike.

"…as I was saying, just…" Norman pointedly looked at Brawly's share of the screen. Avoiding Wattson. "We'll keep an eye out for her. I'll tell Rory to watch out for her, too. In the meantime, I'll ask the Professor if he can check with his colleagues, find out who she is."

"This does wonders for my peace of mind." Brawly said, by way of thanks. "Which reminds me, how close is Rory to swinging by Dewford for his badge?"

"He hasn't made it to me yet." Came Roxanne, muffled by her files, which seemed to have multiplied in number.

Norman frowned but delayed, holding up a hand in a placating manner, "He's having a hard time adjusting, after the fiasco last year."

"I don't think we have to have rematches." Flannery piped up, looking anxious. "I mean, I don't mind, but I don't see how—"

Peeking up over her files, the dark circles under her eyes matching her dark hair, Roxanne said, "Trainer card applications were 30% this year compared to last. And I've had a 15% drop in challengers. The rematches are supposed to inspire the trainers that the League is still alive."

When it had almost been drowned by the actions of a mere gang. And then stopped by a child.

"Which reminds me, Norman, that I caught one of your students causing a ruckus at the nightclub. Aren't they supposed to be a little more disciplined than that?"

The subject moved on to other areas, from city politics to local pokémon life. Flannery complained about her responsibility and the fact that no one took her seriously, and Wattson wanted someone to explain "crowd funding" to him so that he could start working on New Mauville. Again. Brawly set himself aside from the rest, unable to tear his mind away from the girl. According to the men who'd found her, she'd had a foreign accent and kept accusing them and their pokémon of cosplaying. Stranger than that was how she'd appeared to begin with. In Granite Cave, in the Painted Room, from above.

There was no ceiling to the Painted Room. He knew it without a doubt. And according to the clinic nurse, she'd said something odd. About video games and drugs. She'd been rude, confrontational, ungrateful and almost violent, according to the nurse who'd attended to her. And when no one was looking, she'd climbed out a window.

Brawly couldn't put aside the feeling that the girl was trouble. And she'd slipped away before he could figure out what kind.