a/n: White/Hilda/Touko/the female player character's name here is Whitney, and I used a couple members of my game team (very original, I know). Just wanted to take a break from SnK; it's literally been YEARS since I wrote for Pokémon. Philosophy in lieu of romance, pretty self-indulgent. Hopefully, you enjoy it!

She noted he was distinctly watchful when they sat down. His body was lanky and limber; self-consciously, she tucked in her legs so their knees barely touched. His outfit, now that she had time to reflect, seemed surprisingly care-worn for someone who was almost always accompanied by a group of pristine Plasma grunts. His jeans brushed coarse against her bare calf and his hands were slightly larger than hers, but his fingers were fine, his wrists bony and slender. His face was pale like the rest of him, and his hair was green and wild.

He did not look at her at first, instead choosing to gaze out of the half-spherical window encrusted with a thin layer of grime from the many, many other passengers that had come before them.

The tiny car vibrated precariously before it began to move, startling Whitney out of her reverie. N was humming to himself faintly as they began the ascension.

Whitney never let him out of her sight. It was a silly fear, maybe, instilled by everyone from her mother to Bianca to Cheren, even Alder at some point—talk about stranger danger—but she still had Torpedo and Kickass, her Samurott and Sawk, respectively, and they were a few levels above Cheren's posse. The two pokémon had kicked enough Plasma-ass collectively that she wondered when the grunts would start employing better pokémon to deal with her rising level of threat. But that was beside the point: why was she so afraid of this guy when she could take on the likes of Cheren in a battle?

Okay, she reasoned, maybe this wasn't such a good plan. After all, it wasn't as if either of those two would be much help in close-quarters. Especially not Kickass, whose definition of 'enough room' was less dependent on space and more about 'how many times I can smash my opponent into whatever is currently around me'.

Whitney was definitely beginning to feel much less optimistic, the more she considered her disadvantages.

"I've always loved these," N said absently, derailing her train of thought.

"Huh?"

He looked over at her. In the cheap blue neon lights glowing under their feet, it was hard to tell what he was thinking. There was a glimmer of innocent delight in his green eyes that both perplexed and unsettled her.

"Ferris wheels," he elaborated.

"Uh," said Whitney. "…what about them?"

"Their perfect circular motion. It's pleasing to the eye, and to the senses." He smiled a little. "Except for this one. It's an older model. Not quite in the best shape, you know?"

"Uh-huh," said Whitney, unsure if she was supposed to laugh or not.

N watched her quietly. There was nothing disdainful or perverted in his gaze—if anything, she felt like he was simply studying her. It would have been easier to deal with if he was just a creep.

"You're tense," he said after a moment. "Am I bothering you?"

He spoke to her softly, more like a trainer to his pokémon than another human being. Whitney shrugged, not sure how to answer without being offensive.

N sat back, looking a little crestfallen. "First, I must tell you something very important," he said, getting back on track. "I think you have a right to know." He folded his hands, fingers interlocking. "I am the king of Team Plasma."

Whitney stared at N, in all his unintimidating manner, then narrowed her eyes in incongruity.

He seemed to pick up on her skepticism and added: "I think you ought to know this, too: there's a couple Plasma grunts waiting for us down below after we disembark from the carriage. Are your pokémon ready to fight?"

Her jaw worked like she was chewing the air. "Why are you telling me this? Aren't we enemies?"

N blinked. "Maybe. But can't enemies learn to respect one another? Just because we're fighting for different ideals doesn't mean we can't try and understand them."

This pseudo-philosophical spiel was really starting to freak her out. "Okay," she said, curiosity finally getting the better of instinct. "Can you give me, like, an example?"

N brightened. "Sure. In my case, Team Plasma asked me to work with them to save as many pokémon as we could from a life of inside a pokéball. From my perspective, I can agree that they aren't meant to thrive inside capsules, but outside, free as we humans are. However, in the times I have spoken to your pokémon—"

"Wait," Whitney interjected. "Sorry, I mean…what do you mean by talking to my pokémon? Humans haven't come close to developing that kind of tech."

"You're thinking too critically," N responded calmly. "It's not about what technology has achieved; it's about the emotions we, as living beings, experience. You don't always need to speak with a close friend, or a family member, to know what they are thinking. Such is the case with pokémon."

Whitney wanted to argue, because there were good trainers and bad ones, just like any other occupation. Pokémon were friends when you taught them the right way, everyone she'd talked to knew this. And yet something about the way in which N posed his argument kept her hesitant, holding her tongue, because as outlandish as it sounded, it was also well-reasoned, with nary a drop of self-importance.

"But let's talk about you, Whitney," N continued. "Why did you decide to become a pokémon trainer?"

The car was rounding the top of its revolution. Outside, the low light of sunset transformed the window into a shiny crimson hemisphere. Whitney squinted against the glare. "It's none of your business. How do I know you won't sell me out to your goons when you get the chance?"

N nodded. "That is a reasonable argument. But I was only curious. I'd much rather hear your reasons in your own words than build an opinion of you upon preconceptions." But he sighed, shrugged. "So, from what I've gathered, you and your friends are on a mission to collect as many pokémon as possible: to study their habits, or perhaps protect them from other trainers with ill-intent. And I think there is good in that purpose. To learn all the secrets surrounding Pokémon would be a wonderful experience for humans, wouldn't it?"

Whitney shrugged, answering stiffly: "I guess so."

N eyed her scrupulously. "You're allowed to disagree with me if you want."

That did it. "I know, okay?" Whitney snapped at him. "I get it! You're just going to turn the argument around in your favor, because that's what they've trained you to do! Nothing I say will make any difference!"

N stared at her, a look of mild shock on his face. "Um. I never said any of that, actually."

Whitney was fuming. She wanted out of this stupid car as soon as possible. She looked out the window and screwed her eyes shut against the glare outside.

"Do you want to talk about something else?" N offered, sounding guilty. "It's a lovely sunset out there."

Now Whitney felt awkward, sick-warm. More than anything, she was ashamed at the way she was acting. She didn't even know why she'd exploded at him anymore, she was just sorry that she had.

"Listen," she muttered, "I didn't mean to yell at you. I just don't know what to say when you go off on these, uh. Crazy tangents."

N smiled. "It's all right. We don't have to talk at all, if you don't want to."

Whitney found herself reclining in relief against the hard metal seat. "God, that would be great."

Now, out of the brunt of the sun's glare, she could tell they were close to ground.

"Just one more question for you," N said. "I promise. You don't have to answer it right away."

"Fine," said Whitney peevishly. "One question."

N laughed. "What does being a Trainer mean to you?"

Whitney blinked, unsure what she had been expecting. She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering where the trick would come into play. "Is that it?"

N nodded. "Like I said, you don't have to answer it yet. But I would like to know what you think when we have more time to talk." He cast a knowing glance at the window.

She chuckled before he could help it, and then stopped.

In a minute, their car came to a stop with a judder, startling her. She clasped quickly onto the rails on either side of her; N was a bit more proactive in steadying himself. Once they were out of the compartment and back into fresh air, N turned to her.

"Good luck," he said, as he extended his right hand, a pokéball at the ready in his left. "I hope you accomplish your goals, whatever they may be."

Whitney nodded, and gingerly took his hand. They shook.

And then N turned to the Grunts who had been waiting all this time aside, and called: "I'll take care of this! Get away while you can!"

The two turned tail and fled. When N found her eyes again, there was a silent challenge in his expression, and all of a sudden he wasn't so unintimidating.

But Whitney wasn't about to back down. She withdrew Torpedo's pokéball and flashed him a small, defiant smirk: bring it on.