Chapter 1:
The structure in question was an apartment building in outer Rustboro, a fairly modest one that could use some touching up. Located in a peaceful residential neighborhood, it was, save for its unusual tenants, nothing out of the ordinary. Until of course, when the marshals got the warrant and charged in.
I, Detective J. Frederick Tally, was unlikely to go there. Contrary to a dozen bad TV shows, detective minds are far too valuable to risk going in. That's what you have police-ok-ok, that's what you have the League Marshals for. The local police are totally worthless except for collecting tolls-in both the literal and figurative sense-, and maybe directing traffic away from road closings. Maybe. I would probably go there after the dust settled in some form-whether they were arrested, killed, or escaped. But the entire Hoenn Provincial Police was on high alert, and marshals were being flown in from other regions. We kind of had to keep up appearances, so instead of watching what was happening at home via my scanner, I was, with most of the other detectives, sitting in the Slateport station.
The marshals had blockaded off the area, with their barricades stretching for blocks. An outer layer was handled by the local police. In a nearby vacant lot was a command vehicle, and dozens of other cars in varying states of size and armament. One of the armored cars swiveled its turret back and forth, while another took occasional potshots at the building.
The terror of the last attempted attack was seen whenever cameras passed over the building. Two dead marshals and at least seven Growlithes lay in front of the building. On an upper balcony, propped against the wall, was an occupant, a man wearing some kind of full-face helmet.
"Dunno what they're doing now. I think they're debating whether to use the paras or trainers for the next attempt." Someone next to me said it.
Sure enough, I could see both a ton of paramarshals there, all in their distinctive uniforms, and I could see more League trainers, along with Roxanne herself, the local leader, here and there. There was an argument between her and one of the paramarshal officers, and I could see why.
Granted, since Slateport doesn't have a gym, I didn't know the mentality of leaders. What I did know was the mentality of paramarshals. See, the League has countless levels of counterbalancing forces to prevent any one figure from getting too strong. But they needed an advanced strike force regardless, so they ended up with the paramarshals-don't ask me whether this stands for "paramilitary" or "paratroop", although they do jump from aircraft a lot. Now, these paramarshals are great when it comes to immediate threat elimination-but that's all they know how to do, because no one wants a sustained maneuver force. So, their operations are either extensively preplanned or done in the wilderness, where they can just blast away in a well-known sweep. No doubt they were planning an attack as I watched, but even the possibility of them acting quickly was discomforting. So they'd probably-
"Ok, it's the trainers. Definitely the trainers." Some of the well-worn League trainers had put on armor and were releasing their Pokemon. I counted two Rhyhorns at the front of the formation, and at least one Bellossom.
Bellossom throws a chem attack on the building, Rhyhorns act as a shield. Either that or the Bellossom's there to stop the Rhyhorns.
The Rhyhorns lumbered forward, the trainers and Bellossom ducking by them. Already I could see muzzle flashes from inside the building, and the beasts wincing slightly. Then it happened, though somewhat sanitized from the low-light camera. One trainer failed to duck properly and collapsed immediately-then another. Someone ordered the Bellossom forward, and it tossed a swarm of sharp leaves at the building-although it did so with the pose of an arena Pokemon, not a practical one. This meant no cover-and a predictable end.
The trainers were not panicking, and the Rhyhorns charged. As they neared the building, high pressure water hoses joined in the volleys of return fire. One of them stumbled, then roared in pain as the water seeped into its body. Another held its ground and smashed into the building, making a solid hole in the wall and entering, but even through the camera I could see the hoses shifting to it. The poor creature was bound to meet the fate of its companion, behind which the rest of the League trainers were hiding.
At that point, an assistant arrived. "Phone, homicide, report."
I immediately moved to get it. I thought that maybe, after seeing this very weird crisis, I could get a break by looking at an unrelated crime. Even if it's a skeleton found in the middle of nowhere. Even if it's a drunk stabbed by another drunk and the only witness is yet another drunk. Even if it's a contest bookie dying under circumstances that scream "The perpetrator has connections." Those I knew how to deal with.
As it turned out, it was a contest bookie. Fortunately, this did not seem like a connections-related case. More like Slateport Bookie Murder Scenario #83200. Underdog wins contest, bookie wins big haul because everyone bet on the favorite. Someone sees this, takes a mask and a weapon, follows the bookie, shoots the bookie, grabs the money, and leaves.
The questioning was a little awkward given that there was footage of the renewed standoff at the Rustboro apartment building, and I had to take the handful of witnesses and relatives around the crowd. All I got about the suspect was "The guy had a mask", and contradictory claims as to what type of body he had. Yeah, this case was not going to go forward unless we got a confession or lucky break.
After a few hours of questioning, I could finally go home to a well-deserved sleep. There was still the possibility of me being woken up, but that seemed unlikely-the situation at the building was reverting to a tense encounter, but not a hostile one.
When I went back to my own dinky little home, the housekeeper poured me some water and asked if I could tell her who the people in that building were. I knew the people in there were some sort of weird trainer cult that hadn't been paying the property tax, but that didn't justify a raid-just the tax department taking their assets. I said even the local chief didn't know what was up, then went to sleep.
The next morning, a deal had been worked out. Any resident who wished to leave would face trial on a lesser charge only. Only a few actually did. Once it became clear that the remaining dwellers would stay and fight, the paramarshals attacked with their usual force. I later learned that, as usual, they'd wanted to keep waiting, but Roxanne pushed them into attacking before the next day. Final death toll: Two League trainers, three marshals, a paramarshal in the final attack, a Rhyhorn and Bellossum, and at least fifteen of the apartment residents. .
Afterwards, I got the story. The residents were illegally stockpiling weapons and planning an expedition into the wilderness to try and find legendary trainers-some to find and follow, and others to hunt. The League found out about this, but didn't know of the weapons, so they sent their marshals in unprepared. There was of course, little coordination, but that's a feature of the system. Better lose two trainers to a bungle than lose a lot more in a civil war, so it goes.
A few days later I got the next murder-and I thought it was fairly easy. A pair of fangirls got in an argument that turned fatal. I didn't think this was going to be more important than Dead Bookie #8,244,680. As it turned out, it was. Oh, how it was.