Winnifred and Lyle's Everyday Miracle
…
Welcome to Aspartia Town! - Part 1
-Winnifred-
The 'new message' tone rang loud and clear.
Room 14: Is everything okay?
Winnifred turned the volume knob down on the computer, then minimized the window. Uncle Howard glared at her subtle hand motions.
"I'm not interrupting anything?" He asked.
Winnifred shook her head.
"Excellent. Now, as I was saying, those assigned to hotel staff group A will need to stay in the lobby and maintain the tile shine. I know it's hard work, especially with the families coming in for the summer, but somebody's got to do it."
Somebody but you, Winnifred thought. Another ding from the computer, followed by another flashing notification. She hovered the mouse.
Room 14: It sounds kind of noisy. I didn't get you in trouble or anything, did I?
Winnifred glanced back at Uncle Howard. He paced back and forth, one hand at his belt and the other rubbing his shiny forehead. She typed back.
FrontDeskSupport: Everything's fine, no worries. Uncle's being paranoid again.
Room 14: What, he thinks the building'll burn down without him?
"It's a month in Sinnoh, but a lot can happen in a month. My plane could go down. The economy could crash. Winnifred back there can get knocked up. It happens."
FrontDeskSupport: Knock on wood.
"What do you want, Mac?" Uncle Howard bellowed.
Mac, the twenty-four-year-old IT support guy, raised a tentative hand. Winnifred had only seen him once, the day he was hired. His beard hadn't been quite as scraggly and his skin not remotely as pale. Uncle Howard figured that meant Mac was doing his job. "Just a question, boss."
"My name's Howard, I keep telling you."
"I know, Boss." Winnifred stifled a smirk. "I don't mean no disrespect or nuthin'. You're the head honcho, you keep us fed and whatnot. And yeah, we do goof up, so you're probably right to tell us all the risks of your highness leaving for a month…"
"Get your nose out of my behind and make your point."
Mac's back stiffened. "Well, the day shift ended fifteen minutes ago."
Winnifred knew it, just like the other four staff members with them. The worst victim didn't even work at Embassie Hotel. Mirelle barely got out of her day job, all for the excitement of glaring at Winnifred from the other side of the front door for the last fifteen minutes.
Winnifred mouthed 'sorry' for the fifteenth time.
Uncle Howard sighed. "You're right. And since I hired every one of you, I guess that means you're responsible." Then, dropping his hand in the air: "Dismissed."
Winnifred stood up loudly, letting her desk chair knock against the wall. Uncle Howard's gray, tired eyes had drained of the military formality by the time they found her.
"God, I sound like such an ass. I'm coming on too strong with the whole 'manager' thing, I know it," he said.
"We all know it," Winnifred said, rapidly closing computer windows and putting the lobby phones on hold. "We don't all like it, but that's just part of being a stable, honest employee of Aspartia Town, a place in which I am thrilled to work and please don't fire me, lovely Uncle Howard."
"Huh. Would you like some complimentary bathroom tissue for all of that BS you just spouted?"
Winnifred's smirk escaped and echoed through the lobby. She slapped a hand to cover her mouth, but the blush spread.
Uncle Howard's mouth curled into a half-grin.
"Please don't say I remind you of Mom," Winnifred groaned.
"I wasn't going to say that."
"You were thinking it!"
"I was thinking you should shut that computer down and get off of my property. Poor Mirelle's been waiting for you." He rubbed a hand along his stubble. "Probably dropped her keys down the storm drain again, or something."
"That was one time." She took a final glance at the computer screen, pulling her backpack on as she read. One new message.
Room 14: Have a good night. Don't do anything outlandish and fantastic.
The weight in her blue plaid backpack sent shivers in her spine.
FrontDeskSupport: I am what I am and I do what I can.
FrontDeskSupport is closed for the day. Operating hours are 9 to 5 M-F.
The computer blinked into sleep mode, ready and waiting for the night receptionist to take over. Winnifred didn't know her. Winnifred didn't care, either. She was out the door before Uncle Howard could warn her not to wander down strange alleys or talk to strange men. It was a habit.
Winnifred rushed her practiced reply as she pushed the door open. "I'll be home late tonight, enjoy your flight and please have fun on your vacation, Mirelle says 'hi' and don't forget to pack your pills and bye!"
"I say 'hi'?" Mirelle rolled her eyes. "I would hope my imaginary alter-ego has a little more personality than 'hi'."
Winnifred pulled her along, nearly dragging Mirelle's lanky body along. "Hold on, where's the fire? My arm's gonna fall off."
"I'm trying to make it look like I'm late so Uncle Howard doesn't try to walk me home," Winnifred explained.
If Winnifred squeezed hard enough, she could probably bruise the poor girl. Winnifred ate the same diet of burgers and ramen, yet only one of them had the subsequent love handles. Same went for the breathy voice, the subtle curves, and the deep pink bob cut. The one caveat to living with an artist: Winnifred looked at herself next to Mirelle and saw an insult to femininity.
Case in point: Mirelle being so damn sweet to everyone.
"He still says all that?" Mirelle raised an eyebrow. "You didn't even give the man a chance to wish you luck tonight, did you?"
"He's not wishing me luck, he's wishing me to stay inside and shut the doors and be afraid of whatever goes bump in the dark. It's insane." They paused at the intersection. Winnifred's knee paced back and forth. The hair tie on her left wrist had chafed all day, and the palm of her hand itched. "It's like he's afraid I'll die by living."
"That's a bit much," Mirelle said. They crossed the street to Aspartia Town's business district. Skyscrapers and shady alleyways galore. "Don't get me wrong. I'm still pretty sure you'll end up kidnapped with your knees broken, but that's not death per se."
"My number one fan, Mirelle, everybody." Winnifred cracked a grin. They continued until the herds of exhausted workers in tight suits started to thin. Once she was able to walk without swerving past high-powered, over-salaried working stiffs, Winnifred started digging through her bag.
The one glove went on first. She had cut the fingers off herself. Losing the other glove was an accident, not an attempt to be a unique, edgy Trainer. Honest.
Next came the Trainer belt. She wrapped it around her waist, deliberately letting the side with her one Pokeball hang low on her hip.
"It's too bad changing at the hotel is out of the question," Mirelle smirked. "If you got dressed while standing still, preferably surrounded by fancy windows, this whole thing would be like a transformation sequence."
"Real Trainers don't need transformation sequences."
"That's what I meant. It was a low blow, Winnifred."
"I realize that," Winnifred replied. "I was simply steeling my emotions. It's another Trainer thing."
"Just like flirting with Room 14?"
Winnifred willed her cheeks to refuse the blush. "It's not flirting, it's talking. You can't flirt with someone who's not in real life."
"Right. So you'll just let him say nice nothings to you as long as he's living in that room, abusing the front desk messaging system to not flirt with you."
She tossed her bag back along both shoulders. The girls stopped at an empty corner. The streetlight above them flickered to life.
"Room 14 could be a creeper," Mirelle wondered aloud. "Or a predator! I mean, he knows what you look like. You're a gorgeous sixteen-year-old."
"Gorgeous? Wow, stop the presses. My roommate thinks a digital predator thinks I'm gorgeous."
Winnifred approached the dim subway station. Mirelle stopped dead in her tracks and jabbed a finger into the din. "It's not down there tonight, is it? Tell me it's not down there. The trains don't even run anymore. It's gotta be a hive of scum and villainy down there."
"It's not too late to back out," Winnifred sang. "Scaredy-cat."
Mirelle shook her head, eyes shut and fists clenched. "I'm not backing out. I'm just saying that if anything awful happens, it was all your fault and Uncle Howard was right."
"And wouldn't he love to hear it. Come on, the message said they're starting soon."
"Who's up first?" Mirelle asked as she followed Winnifred down the concrete steps. The overhead lights cast the two of them in a sorry, pale glow. "Hulk Hogan or Mr. T?"
"Some new guy. He's got a gold tooth or something." Then, jumping onto the long-deactivated train tracks: "I thought you liked Hulk Hogan?"
"I do." Mirelle bunched the hem of her skirt in her hand. She landed softly on her tip-toes. "He gave me his Sprite, and I was thirsty. That was sweet."
"A forty-year-old loser giving a sixteen-year-old girl a drink in an alley, during an illegal streetfight. Mirelle, we need to find you a normal guy."
"He was normal enough. I mean, he clearly didn't brush his teeth or shave, but still."
The first time Winnifred followed the train tracks to get around, she kept looking over her shoulder, waiting for something to come out and do something ghastly. The second and third time, she wondered what she was afraid of. Random Woobat attacks? The boogeyman? Telling Uncle Howard where she was when she got attacked by the boogeyman and his Woobat squad?
Uncle Howard telling her mother where she'd been?
Floodlights illuminated the scene just up ahead. The angry grumbles of grown, disgruntled adults filled the air.
"Oh, I didn't answer your question," Winnifred said. "It's me. I'm first."
Mirelle popped her lips. "Huh! And we're late. That certainly won't give them a reason to kidnap us."
"Kidnap us and leave our nubile bodies in a ditch," Winnifred finished with a grin. She kept the grin on during the entire final steps to the ring.
The groans and grimaces of the Aspartia Town Underground scene weren't home. Not yet. Winnifred was used to clean gymnasiums and licensed professors teaching her Battling 101. She was used to waiting in line to practice one throwing gesture, not squeezing through bodies twice her size, her best friend and roommate's hand squeezed, until she got to the center of the ring.
And when she got to the front, she was used to teachers frowning. Not this one, they'd think. Not the one that can barely hold a Pokeball right, much less do the pounds of reading assigned every night.
To be fair, she could get used to the earth-shattering cheers as she emerged. Winnifred handed her backpack to Mirelle.
"You're late," the voice of authority said. An older man—enough to be her father, in fact—with tan skin and a heinous comb-over served as the Underground's referee. He even dressed the part, white polo shirt and black slacks and even a moustache. Mirelle liked to think he worked as an undertaker in his spare time. "We almost had to call the match without you, Winnifred."
"And what a shame that would be, right?" She stretched her left arm across her body. "Who's up tonight?"
A hint of a smile appeared in the corner of the referee's mouth. As if he didn't enjoy his part-time job.
"In this corner, the challenger!" He announced. "New to our home scene, a young man all the way from the infamous Black City, the terrifying, the deadly…"
Voices beside Winnifred chortled in anticipation—
"The heinous Biker Roy!"
The tall, lean man with his torn denim jacket, boots, and bald spot summoned a smile on Winnifred's taut lips. She scratched her head, tapped her foot, anything to keep from laughing.
Biker Roy entered the ring and circled, pumping his arms to energize the crowd. Winnifred caught Mirelle putting a hand to her forehead. Men.
He turned back to face Winnifred. Fat hands thumped against flabby man chest. "Four-thousand bucks," he announced. "I'm betting four-thousand dollars that I can wreck Alice in Wonderland over here."
The referee turned to Winnifred. The crowd died, waiting for the cue—
"I'm game," Winnifred replied. And the cheers returned in full force, enough to make Winnifred wish she had brought her headphones.
It was time for the part she hated most. She couldn't blame anybody else for this, and truth be told, that was part of the embarrassment. Winnifred removed her lone Pokeball from her belt and held it high. The worn red paint had chipped, and the white half lost its luster months ago. But in her hands, Winnifred's Pokeball was a beacon.
"Any takers tonight?" She announced, her teenage girl voice straining to carry. "Four-thousand dollars…sounds like a lot."
The offers poured in immediately.
"Four-thousand, one hundred!"
A man right behind her: "Five-thousand dollars!"
"Six!"
"Seven fifty!"
Biker Roy's bravado drained. He tugged at the referee's sleeve. "What in the hell is going on?"
The referee pointed to the Pokeball in Winnifred's hand. "See that ball? Look closely. It's got a card reader on the side. Lights, too."
"Huh. It's a Permit Ball." And connecting the dots: "Don't tell me doesn't have a Trainer's License."
"She uses this for the experience," the ref explained. "Whoever unlocks the ball gets the prize money."
The babydoll doesn't even want the money…Don't tell me she's like, twelve."
"Nah, she's legal." And surveying the crowd of willing patrons: "Believe me, she's legal. At least in Western Unova."
A final supporter had emerged. An aging man, decades older from the usual Underground clientele. Winnifred typically avoided taking money from older people. Winning fights for guys in their twenties was fine and dandy, especially since they had a kind of weird respect for the system. Older men only wanted one thing from her. It gave her goosebumps. But hey, that was the system.
"Ten-thousand dollars," the older man said. "Ten-thousand dollars that this young lady wins."
"Ha!" Biker Roy chortled. "Bleed me dry, why don't you! I don't have that kind of dough. Tough luck, sweet—"
A hand in the crowd. "I'll make up the difference."
Heads turned to the young man's voice. Cleaner, more wholesome. Cut from a different cloth. He came to the front of the crowd, and Winnifred did not recognize him. Brown hair in a plume, held back by a headband. Blue vest, black shorts, and a bag strapped across his torso. Two, maybe three years older than her.
The strange boy nodded to Biker Roy, who seemed to accept the offer.
His eyes met Winnifred's. The bright brown stare that seemed so interested…
Whatever. If Winnifred hadn't gotten busted for this before, it wasn't gonna happen now. Probably.
Biker Roy removed his Pokeball of choice from his inside jacket. He cast it into the center without fanfare. The ball erupted into white light, then bounced back to Biker Roy's open palm. As the light faded, the evening's opponent appeared: a red Pokemon hunched onto its front knuckles, with beady eyes and teeth to tear limb from limb.
The ref resumed his crowd-pleaser voice. "Biker Roy sent out Darumaka!"
"A fire-type, specializing in physical blows," Winnifred said. "That's nice. I'll take it over a Patrat any day."
Time for the final step.
Winnifred reached to the hair tie on her wrist. In one fluid motion, she pulled her wavy chestnut locks back into a tight tail. She wrapped the tie around once, twice, finally a third time. She let the tie snap into place.
The one strand of light curl that fell over her face used to be an annoyance. Several accessories later, she kind of liked it.
Winnifred lowered the Permit Ball. She held it level to the older man, who took time to remove his Trainer License from his wallet. When he had it in his grasp, he swiped the card along the horizontal slit. The Permit Ball's lock blinked green.
She cast it into the ring—
Blitzle materialized in the white light, its black and white mane glistening under the pale light. Blue electricity raced along it's the ivory horn atop its head.
"And it's Blitzerella, Winnifred's Blitzle of choice!"
She let the smug smile show. As if she had any other Pokemon to choose from…And even if she did, why would she ever not rely on Zella?
The ref raised a hand—
"Trainers…Win or lose? Let's rock!"
—And the hand dropped!
"Darumaka, Flame Charge!" Then, to Winnifred herself: "A little girl who doesn't know how to fight? Easiest ten-thousand I ever made."
Winnifred clenched her fists. "Zella! Same to you, Flame Charge! Go!"
Both Pokemon lit up in red fire. Swirls of flame engulfed the two, and Darumaka and Zella raced for one another. Zella was faster, but Darumaka had the heft. If they collided, Zella would go down, and it'd be a real short battle—
Time for the 'A' game.
"Now! Game-change it!" Winnifred's gloved hand shot forward, fingers out. "Flame Charge, Cancel to Discharge!"
Biker Roy scrunched his face. In fact, everyone seemed confused except for the knowing referee, a fist-pumping Mirelle, and the strange boy.
Zella stopped in her tracks, still carrying the fire plumes around her. In the second before Darumaka smashed into her, Zella grounded her hooves, whipped her head around to gain energy in her horn, and—
Biker Roy was too late. "Darumaka, no!"
The Discharge strike hit as a neon yellow sphere, surrounding Zella and flowing out. Darumaka hit it head-first, its body convulsing against the electric juice.
Zella followed through: the instant her technique finished, she tackled Darumaka to the ground, her Flame Charge fire still intact.
Darumaka rolled along the ground, a disoriented, burning and sizzling mess.
Winnifred had to yell over the audience roar. "The ref was right. I don't have a Trainer's License. He never said anything about whether or not I could fight."
While Darumaka struggled to its feet, Biker Roy clearly racked the shallow depths of his brain for a counter-attack. Winnifred would bet all twenty-thousand dollars in play that he had never seen a Cancel before. Much less anything else she could throw at him…
"Fine! Try this!" The desperation in Biker Roy's deep voice was embarrassing. "Darumaka, Flail! Let's see My Little Pony take this!"
To its credit, Darumaka was built to take a punch. It raised its own gargantuan fists and raced for Zella, swinging in a flurry of red blows. Zella weaved through each one, but she was slowing down. Winnifred knew too well that Zella was still just a Blitzle, she didn't have an adult Pokemon's speed…
Biker Roy was clever after all. He was just making her tired.
Darumaka took a half-step back—
"Flame Crash it!" Biker Roy shouted. "Pound it into the concrete!"
Darumaka slammed its fists into the concrete floor, propelling it eight, nine feet above them, almost beyond the flood lights' reach. Zella found herself covered under the round Pokemon's shadow, waiting for orders as her opponent once again charged its body into flames—
"Time to show off," Winnifred boasted. "Zella, jump at it!"
Mirelle's "What?!" echoed down the tunnel.
Zella catapulted to meet Darumaka halfway. Her tired body paled next to the impressive fireball that raced for her.
Winnifred counted the milliseconds, waiting for her opening—
"Hit it! Wavedash him!"
Zella was a blur on the wind. Her white and black stripes melted into a gray mass that zipped clear under Darumaka, avoiding its trajectory entirely and for a fraction of a second, being under it entirely—
Game over.
"Final strike—Thunder!"
Zella flexed her body, reveling in the blue electricity running the length of her form. It traveled up into her horn and waited, almost mockingly, until Darumaka was hovering in the air and staring at the element of its demise. The blue electricity turned a painful yellow as it flew straight up.
Darumaka collapsed to the ground, utterly fried.
"Winner!" The ref called. "Winnifred and Blitzerella!"
Winnifred watched the reactions from the crowd. She recognized a few familiar faces now that the pre-battle edge had worn off, and truth be told, half of them weren't even surprised. This wasn't the first time she used a Cancel or a Wavedash.
Just the first time she was really show-off-y about it.
Winnifred took her hair tie out once they were back on the surface. Mirelle always made an overt show of turning back to watch the way they had come, and tonight was no different.
"I think if we were gonna be jumped and sold to some offshore slaver, it would have happened by now," Winnifred sang. She flipped the Permit Ball in her hands, feeling the fresh night air waft through her mane.
"Yeah, well," Mirelle replied. "I still don't like this. You cost that man ten-thousand dollars, Winnifred."
Winnifred held up a finger. "True story! Equally true, though, I won some geezer that very same dollar amount. And because I'm such an interesting show, I'm still invited back to the Underground scene. My training in the ways of the Pokemon Trainer may continue."
Mirelle threw her head back. "There's no point in talking to you like this. You've got that after-battle, I-am-so-great voice on."
"It's a well-deserved voice, if I do say so myself!"
…
Another day, another eight hours killed at the front desk.
"Don't wake me up," Mirelle had said when they first became roommates, almost a forever ago. Or really just six months ago. Winnifred changed the number depending on the mood. "Let one of us get our beauty sleep."
That was the first moment Mirelle really smiled: when Winnifred told the poor girl that no amount of beauty sleep can fix a messed-up face. Despite being in Aspartia Art University and keeping their apartment caked in acrylic paint, Mirelle always seemed like she had been brought up by stern, unfunny types. The kind of family that always had a yes-or-no answer.
Yes, I'll be quiet as I leave.
No, I'll wake you up as I head to my lame job that reeks of nepotism.
And then here came Winnifred, with her well-intentioned insult and charm in spades. A forever or six moths later, Winnifred headed to work and left poor Mirelle asleep on the couch, passed out from where she had to make up time on her project after seeing the Underground match.
"You don't look too good."
Mac, the IT guy. He and Winnifred worked the early-morning and afternoon shifts, Mac because IT was ever so in-demand, and Winnifred because she enjoyed having money to pay rent and buy food. Since he kept to his back office during the more busy hours, Mac got away with wearing his band T-shirts and his long hair. At one point, Winnifred didn't believe Mac was twenty-two years old until she saw his resume on file.
"I bet," Winnifred said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "I probably look just like I feel."
"Nah, then you'd just look slightly constipated." Mac pulled himself up and sat on the desk. His feet dangled beside Winnifred while she typed in the computer start-up passwords. "So, you gonna tell me where you were that was so engaging?"
"A bar down the street, it's called Nunya Business."
Mac held his palms up. "Hey, just making conversation. The boss is gone for a month and on day one, it's already a ghost town in here."
He had a point. This time on any other morning, Uncle Howard would be barking orders at the staff, making annoying small-talk with the tourists as they woke up, and the stress would make that vein on his forehead even veinier. Winnifred hid behind the reception desk, and Mac had his office. A quiet morning like this was out of the ordinary.
"It does feel lifeless," Winnifred conceded. "Here's an idea. Can you get some music playing over the speakers?"
"The speakers reserved exclusively for boring, formal orchestral music?" Mac beamed. "I am on it." He leapt back over the desk and took off toward his back office, the squeak of his sneakers echoing.
The next echo: a distinct ding from the computer speaker.
Room 14: Top of the morning to you!
Winnifred shook her hands out.
FrontDeskSupport: Good morning, customer that can't seem to get off of our message system.
Room 14: I am very capable of logging off. You click that 'x' button.
Room 14: Like so.
Room 14 has logged off.
Room 14 has logged on.
Room 14: Did it work?
A small smile fell on Winnifred's face. Not one of those ha-ha smiles. Just a little, amused grin.
Before typing again, she took a quick glance. Uncle Howard was long gone, but it was a good habit to keep up.
Mac clearly wasn't afraid of her uncle. The change in atmosphere when Mozart was replaced with a Slipknot album said it all.
FrontDeskSupport: Yes, it did. I need to get to work, just like every other morning.
Room 14: You're already at work! =D
FrontDeskSupport: Working hard or hardly working? No, srsly. Gotta work.
And not a moment too soon. Winnifred minimized the window and looked up across the lobby. Two bigger guys with dress shirts walked around, admiring the art facsimiles on the walls.
"Hi! Welcome!" Winnifred called to them. "How can I help you?"
A third man followed behind them. Winnifred noted their long gait, and the way the third man's black vest hung off of him. One of those fancy dress vests to go with his suit, but still worn at the edges. A familiar furrow along an aging brow. Restrained anger, the kind men have when they're this close to knocking somebody out.
By the time he came to the front desk, Winnifred knew exactly who he was.
"If it isn't Alice in Wonderland," Roy said. When Winnifred kept silent: "What's with the silent treatment? Chesire Cat got your tongue?"
What should she do?
Just play it cool.
Roy clicked his tongue. "Aren't you gonna offer me a room? Man, talk about crap customer service."
Winnifred swallowed hard. Professionalism first, panic later. "Were you interested in a room?" She said curtly.
Roy stretched his arms. The fabric on his shirt stretched. "So glad you asked, Alice. My boys and I just got into town last night. We would've checked in around then, but I got scammed out of ten thousand dollars." He paused. "You know how that is."
"I beat you fair and square." Her voice chafed.
"That's BS, for one. No little schoolgirl knows how to do a bloody Cancel move without even having her License, so you obviously cheated."
"I did not—"
"That said, I'm pretty glad my boys followed you and your girl friend home. I know where you work," Roy said spreading his arms, "And I think free room and board is in order. Somewhere equivalent to ten thousand dollars' worth."
Winnifred shook her head slowly. "Not going to happen." Half because Uncle Howard didn't have ten thousand dollars to blow, and half because he'd murder her for having a secret life.
Roy sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that." He turned back to his friends. "Buckos!" He snapped his fingers—
Both men took a separate painting from the wall. The frames smashed as they hit the tile floor.
"Hey!" Winnifred shouted. "Stop that!"
"Pay me my money."
Deep breath. "I don't have—"
"What the hell was that?" Mac asked as he came from the back office. He poked his head through the door, eyes landing on Roy. "Winnifred? What's going—"
Winnifred screamed; Roy's friends pulled Mac from his room and slammed him against the bare wall. He kicked and struggled, but his lanky programmer's arms were nothing next to biker muscles.
"Let him go!" Winnifred yelled. "He didn't do anything. This is my fault. Settle it with me."
"I intend to," Roy said. "I owe somebody eight thousand dollars, and you're gonna get it to me. I'll give you…fifteen minutes," he said as he regarded the wall clock. "Don't make me wait. The alley on Fifth and Balbo."
Winnifred's mind raced. Roy socked Mac straight in his abdomen, then again on his forehead, knocking him out cold. The three men left in no hurry; one of Roy's henchmen kicked over a plant, just because they could.
What could she do?
Winnifred pulled her backpack from under the desk. Her battle gear was still there, but the Permit Ball was still locked. And even if she could find a Trainer License to unlock it, what was she supposed to do? Beat Roy into submission? Wasn't that the illegal crime of the modern era?
Wasn't she already a criminal underground Trainer?
She realized: that sound in her head was not her going insane. It was the customer in room 14, blaring message after message. She pulled the window open.
FrontDeskSupport: What do you want?!
Room 14: There you are! I heard crashes. What happened? Are you hurt?
Winnifred wiped the nervous sweat from her eyes.
FrontDeskSupport: I can't talk to you right now. I screwed up something, bad.
Room 14: Are you hurt?
Winnifred struggled to breathe.
Room 14: Start from the beginning.
Oh, this was rich. Mac is with full-grown mobsters demanding a ton of money, but sure, let me talk to the Internet first. Winnifred bit her lip.
There's an idea.
What did she have to lose?
FrontDeskSupport: Do you have a Trainer's License?
She almost started to pray.
Room 14: Yes.
FrontDeskSupport: I need it. I'm coming to your room now.
Room 14: What? : /
Winnifred cracked her knuckles. If she was going to explain this over the Internet and save herself the gab time upstairs, she had to be quick about it.
FrontDeskSupport: Men came and broke stuff and hurt my friend and I need to go help him so I need your License to fight them before my uncle gets back. I'm coming up, be dressed or something!
Winnifred closed the window, slammed her hand on the keyboard for support, and raced for the main staircase.
She knew how dumb this was, how presumptuous the whole thing was. If she knew someone over the Internet, she'd probably always be afraid they were some old creeper. Isn't that what Mirelle said last night? Or every night? That Room 14 was clearly some kind of predator?
Her feet raced to the hallway. Winnifred weighted the options.
Call the police. Admit to being an unlicensed street brawler.
Take the money from Uncle Howard. Get shipped back home for being a scumbag neice.
Do nothing. Let Mac battle the fates himself.
Or…
She stopped at Room 14. No light came from under the door, despite it being well into the morning.
Last chance to turn back. Winnifred couldn't help anybody if Mirelle was right, and this guy grabbed her and stuffed her in his suitcase the second she opened the door…
She decided.
Three quick knocks on the door.
"It's me," Winnifred said. "From the desk."
She watched the doorknob twist slightly…then stop.
"You said your friend is in trouble."
The voice was young. Younger than she expected. It almost took Winnifred's resolve away. It's easy to bother a predator when you expect a predator, but a young guy?
Winnifred nodded. And when she realized he couldn't see that: "Yes."
A pause. "You didn't go to the police."
"I can't," she said. "It's…I screwed up. I really, really screwed up."
Silence.
Winnifred watched the unmoving doorknob, counting the seconds. How long did she have now? Ten minutes?
The doorknob turned. The door swung back.
Before her stood a boy her age. Scraggly blond hair failing to lay flat and poking up where it hung at his eyes. His simple black shirt hung at his broad shoulders, the fabric draping down his lean body. Winnifred found her reflection in the boy's oval-shaped glasses.
"You're her," the boy confirmed for himself. "You're the front desk girl."
Winnifred remained silent. There was no way this boy could help. He wore nerd glasses and probably hadn't showered. This was all a mistake.
"You can help me?" She asked, her face stoic. The boy nodded.
"Give me your License. I need it to unlock my Permit Ball."
He shook his head. "I can't do that. It's against the law. I could get in trouble."
Winnifred's jaw dropped.
"That's what I need from you right now," she said, voice raised. "Look, I'm fine with us being friends on the computer, because you're sweet and it's nice, but don't say you can help me when you can't! Don't waste my time."
"I can help you."
Winnifred folded her arms. She gave him until the count of ten…
"My name's Lyle. I…I'm a Pokemon Ranger."
Holy heck, it feels good to be back! I've had this one floating in my head for a few months. Stick around, enjoy the ride, review if you like, and thanks a ton for reading.