The boots thudded into the tavern, a low, dark, smoky place, and everybody turned to look at the man walking in. Some shied away from the very sight of him; others disregarded him as just another man, but the big names knew him as a bounty worthy of a great amount of money. The man wasn't large in stature; in fact, he was a bit shorter than average. What really unnerved people was his presence, his bearing, and his attire.

His coat were just splashes of dark colors: blood red, mud brown, navy blue, all tied together with bands of black. His boots were black cow-hide, with red laces, and skirted about with the hem of his jeans, which were also black. His shirt's design was a color-splashed mess, it seemed, but everybody would know what the logo stood for if he removed his trench coat, which hung down to half-an-inch above the floor, his hands fiddling with something in his pockets, each. His necklace hung down, about mid-way between his pecs, and bore a small, flat, shiny pokèball trinket. His chin, defined, but not jutting, was clean shaven...or, it had been about three days ago; now, it was stubble-ridden. His cheekbones were visible, but weren't defined. His left cheek bore a scar that ran across his left eye and above his browline about an inch. Nobody knew what his eyes looked like; he always wore dark shades, which were supported by a strong roman nose. His dark brown hair, almost black, looked as if it had been slicked back a day-and-a-half-ago, but has since lost the firmness and wet look of the gel, and now was dry spikes.

He looked around the tavern, immediately picking out the noteable people from the common citizenry. The bigwigs huddled around tables in the darker corners of the tavern, and some smoked ciggarettes from long, thin tubes of silver, while others puffed away at cigars.

Disgusting, he thought. There was almost no act more vile than smoking. The man continued his embarkment towards the bar, where the citizens usually sat, and placed himself on a stool a few seats from anybody else.

The bartender placed himself in front of the man, and busied himself with a wet mug that needed dried. "What'll it be?" he asked.

"What do you have?" the man asked no later than a second after the bartender finished, with a smokey voice that was low and calm.

"Try me."

"I'll have water."

"Tsk. You came in here for a mug o' wateh? You could've stayed home and saved yerself the trouble of walkin' down the street fo' a measly ol' mug o' wateh. Of all things, wateh. Why don'tcha order a real drink?" He talked and poured him water, despite all his grumblings.

"I don't drink regularly."

"Oh, you're one of them tha' likes to keep 'imself clean, am I right?" The last three words had weird emphasis on them.

"No, it just impairs my judgement when I don't want it to be impaired."

The bartender took one last look into his shades, then set the mug down in front of the man. As he did, he noticed the little Pokèmon trinket on the brown lace. He was distracted for a bit, then stared directly where the eyes were, and bore a look that matched his thoughts, which were whispered ever so faintly, "Ahhh, so yer a trainer, I see."

The words spoken were so faint, the man had trouble hearing them. Nobody in the tavern heard a single breath.

The man said nothing, sufficing only for a small nod. A ghost of a smile flickered across the bartender's face, then he hurried to serve a small group of friends who became comfortable at a table in the middle of the floor.

The man took a sip of the water, to make sure no alcohol had perverted its clean look, and when he was satisfied, took a large swig of the water. He then took this opportunity to turn around, lean on the bar, and look around at the way the tavern was laid out. The bar took up about a fifth of the available space; the rest was taken up by tables, a certain one being a billiards table, and a small section open for people to dance to the jukebox, rested against the wall, waiting to accept money in return for music. The tables that were occupied mostly had small trails of smoke rising into the air, which he then noticed was ventilated by a few air ducts; silent, but present and working. Around these ducts hung lamps with conical covers, reflecting the light downwards, so people could more clearly see each other. There was one corner where the light didn't reach, and that's where the "masters", or men of power, sat. He then noticed that one table in particular was paying some extra attention to him, which made him become excited: an emotion he rarely showed.

He then studied the people a bit more. None of them seemed to notice him anymore; he was just another person in the large world. They all busied themselves with conversation and news and events, whatever got their mind off of the current circumstances of the world. Although many preferred this method, some resorted to drinking large amounts of alcohol. It was not late enough for the drunk individuals to emerge yet, but it would happen soon...if something didn't happen first.

He chuckled at himself, then turned his attention back to the mug of water. It sat there, waiting for the water to disappear so it may be used again. The man noticed the bartender move back to talk to him, and he was not disappointed when the bartender spoke.

"The men over in the corneh," he pointed them out, "would like teh have a word with yeh. They said they knew yeh and wanted teh speak to yeh."

The man made no indication that he understood, save a smile that formed itself with half his lips.

"You don't mind a fight in here, do you?"

"Only of ye don't pay fer damages," he said with a sly smile.

"Well, that was a good drink," the man said, and paid for it with a sum of money much more than what the amount of water was worth: payment in advance. He rose, and walked over to the dark corner of the tavern.

"You wanted me."

The "master", apparently in charge, said, "We don't like your kind in this part of town. We will kindly oblige you if you don't walk away." His voice was as sharp as the look in his eyes, even though, he thought, it was supposed to sound convincing. He then placed the bare end of the ciggarette holder in his mouth.

The man took another look at the "master", studied him for a split second. His shirt seemed to be a mixture of a yellow and white coat and shirt, respectively. Around his neck hung a gold chain and the links seemed to form an electric current line. On a few of his fingers were small, golden rings. All of his features were angular and rigid, and it didn't stop at his skin; his hair was yellow-blonde, and formed inch-long spikes.

Before he removed the ciggarette, the man started, "Zack, electric superior, in charge of a third of the city, and a fifth of the county. Suspected for multiple murders, Pokèmon cruelty cases, and a single monopoly case, involving electric-type Pokèmon labor, mainly Raichus."

Zack's face went from confident and smug to resentment and malice over a time-span of five seconds. He threw the table aside, landing wherever it did, and rose, showing his sheer height and terrifying size. The man stood, seemingly unaware of all this, and continued staring him in the eyes. "How did you know that?"

"It doesn't take much to notice all the pride you take in electricity, and you lack a different favorite color than yellow."

The two men stared at each other for a while longer, unaware of all the attention they were receiving that silenced the entire tavern. After what seemed an eternity, Zack swung at the man, who deftly dodged and backflipped away. He then withdrew two small, red and white balls from his pocket, and then pressed the single buttons on the fronts. They grew and he threw them into the air, and yelled, "Pidgeot! Butterfree! Use gust and clear a reasonable fighting area!"

The two balls spun alongside each other, and, when they were in the right spot, opened, allowing a red mist of matter into the air, which then quickly formed a falcon-sized bird and a falcon-sized butterfly. They violently flapped their wings, no need to fear for the citizens because they already retreated to the walls for safety and distance, and made a rough, rectangular shape. Zack, on the other end of the arena, withdrew virtually identical balls and threw them out, yelling, "Jolteon! Magneton! Come forth!" and the same sequence happened, placing his Pokèmon on or near the ground.

"This will be a quick fight," Zack said, clearly thinking he had the advantage.

"I'm glad you see it my way," the man said, with his excitement nearly reaching its peak. He brought his fist forward and held the other back, as if he was fighting an invisible foe, and yelled, "Pidgeot, swift attack! Butterfree, stun spore!" The Pokèmon sprang into action, and effectively dealt with the Pokèmon; Pidgeot distracting them as Butterfree released the entrancing powder, causing the Pokèmon to slow or even become useless as their limbs forgot to react to their will. "Pidgeot, tackle jolteon! Butterfree, use confusion on Magneton!" Zack was yelling orders at his Pokèmon, obviously becoming more and more angry that his Pokèmon were losing. "Pidgeot, use whirlwind! Butterfree, add your gust to her attack!" The ensuing blasts of wind became violent and impacted the Jolteon and Magneton so intensely that they were immediately knocked out, both conciously and literally, in the sense of the tavern.

Zack's eyes met with the man's, and he stated clearly and sharply, "This isn't over." He then left and his companions followed. He counted four, as he forgot to do so before. The man turned to the bartender, who was grinning so wide he was practically beaming at him.

"That was marvelous! I am so surprised they jus' decided to leave afteh that!"

The man smiled with half his lips, and said, "I'm not, although I wish they had fought a bit longer. I was having fun."

The bartender looked at his tavern's protector and asked gingerly, "Can I get yer name, sir?"

The man looked on, turned to the crowd and announced in a loud, yet modest tone, "I am Felix, and I will liberate you all from your oppression of the 'masters'!" At this bold declaration, everybody cheered, and rooted him on. Felix rose his hand to silence them, and when they fell quiet, he told them, "However, you CAN...NOT...speak a word to anybody about what happened in this tavern, what I look like, who I am, or what Pokèmon I possess. Absolutely not a single word must ever reach another person's ear. Is that clear?" The last three words had a weird emphasis on them. The people agreed, but that wasn't good enough for Felix. He said again, but sharper this time, "Is...that...clear?!" The last word was louder than the rest.

The people, realizing the gravity of the situation at hand, gave a more affirmative answer, from each of them, swearing that they would not tell a single person, not even their families.

Felix smiled, and said, "Wait for me to rise against the "masters", then follow me."

After this statement, Felix left the tavern into the towering buildings and jumbled streets of what was Supinion City.