Chapter One: Phone Calls and Pitfalls
Disclaimer: I have no rights or claims over the Pokemon franchise.
Lately, she doesn't even need to hear the piercing sound of her alarm to stir herself from her slumber. She doesn't need the light seeping through the blinds to open her lids, or the arm affectionately snaking across her waist to suggest she indulge her drowsy state for another half hour. Now, all these things are habitual- a morning ritual she adheres to with religious diligence. Yet as she crawls out of bed and inspects her pasty complexion in the bathroom mirror, Lyra can't help but question whether devotion to such a rhythmic lifestyle is a hapless cause.
It's the voice that groggily calls out from the bedroom that reminds her why she's doing it in the first place.
"Ly, don't forget that guy from Hoenn is coming over today."
"Yep."
Petalburg City's gym leader is probably more distinguishable than "that guy from Hoenn", muses Lyra, but with 15 minutes to be ready and hair resembling a Tangela, she disregards the questionable drabbles of her half-asleep boyfriend.
"What's his name again?"
"Google it. It's half past eight and I haven't even poured myself a coffee yet," she snaps back.
"Y'know, I get that you like being a smartass whenever the opportunity arises, but it would've taken you less time to tell me his name than it took for you to have a jab at me."
Lyra, with visibly less unkempt hair- only marginally so, as her cowlicks have endured half-assed efforts of hairspray and heating products- goes back into the bedroom to hastily dress herself. Her boyfriend takes this opportunity to lean upright and peck her on the cheek.
"It's Nathan, isn't it?"
She lets him caress her cheek in what she suspects is his attempt of subtly coaxing the answer out of her. He was suave, but so was she.
"Do I look like a search engine to you?"
With that, he collapses back on the bed with a disgruntled sigh. He was never shy about outward acts of discontentment, especially if his performances won affection. With an amused smirk, Lyra leans down and kisses him goodbye.
She doesn't even make it to the end of the street before she's, for the second time this day, plagued by self-doubt. It rears itself ugly head when she sees a girl, no older than twelve, laughing at the sight of her Corsola trying to nail its execution of bubblebeam, its foe a mahogany tree. Her friends– two boys around her age, but one taller and mean looking- join in her amusement as the pink sea creature flails about dramatically, disillusioned by its failed efforts of learning the move.
Hmph. Give that scrawny kid some red hair-dye, and the dweeby one a baseball cap, and this scene is straight out of my childhood.
She doesn't look for long. If she does, the feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach will only intensify.
Waves of nostalgia are normal. It's the same feeling I get when I see that tragic overall getup I used to wear at the back of my closet.
Only it's not. Lyra looks on with the distinctive expression of regret: furrowed brows, mournful eyes and pursed lips. She subconsciously reaches for her pokegear and gazes down at its bright screen.
Kris helped me turn off my caller ID when we prank called that Falkner asshole after he dumped her, didn't she?
She looks down on her contact list, and is inadvertently scrolling down to the 'S' section. It's an innate thing for her- whenever she's reminded of those joyous years, she looks back to the one she largely credits it to: Silver.
I haven't seen him in four years… Arceus, we're 20 now. Last time I saw him, we were 16- basically embryos! He might not even remember me. He might even throw me the "new phone, who dis?" line. I mean, it's Silver- he might even be dead.
Today marks the fourth time Lyra has stared intently at Silver's contact details on her pokegear, frantically pacing back and forth before she throws the device back in her bag, struggling to come to terms with the fact such an incomprehensible thought had even entered her consciousness.
But what if Giovanni was sick of his son's teen-angst bullshit and, in an act of pure rage, buried him alive? That's what mafia guys do, and Giovanni is basically Kanto's Tony Montana. If Silver really is dead, Ethan has a right to know. If I didn't call Silver to verify his state of living- or state of perpetual restfulness- what kind of friend would that make me?
Lyra decides she will be a good friend.
It's not such a big deal, anyway. I have my anonymity- this is just for Ethan's sake. I won't even say anything when I call, if I can hear him breathing on the other line, I can swiftly hang up and go about my day with the comfort of knowing Silver is, in fact, alive.
After double-checking her caller-ID is off, Lyra shakily clicks 'call'.
"…Hello?"
"…."
"Who is this?"
"…"
"Listen kid, if you don't feel inclined to answer me, it's fine."
"…"
"Because I have an app that tells me what your number is, anyway, and I'm trackin-."
With the speed of Deoxys itself, Lyra hangs up. She grips the device so tightly her knuckles turn white.
He's probably messing around. No one has access to that kind of tracking technology, unless you're an authoritative figure. Silver is anathema to authority. If he really did track my ID- which he didn't- he would call back. He's not going to call.
Much to her chagrin, a part of her wishes he would.
A vibration buzzing against her sweaty palms snaps her out of her moment of wishful thinking. Hesitantly, she brings the device up to her ear.
"…Hello?"
"Lyra, it's me. Listen, uh, don't worry about coming in today. We don't have much for you to do, the workload's light for everybody today."
Oh. It's just Professor Elm.
"B-but what about my analysis of habitual disparities amongs-"
"No, it's fine. You can resume it tomorrow. You haven't had a day off in months, just enjoy yourself and don't get stressed out about it."
"Sure thing. I'll see you tomorrow."
beep.
There's a reason Lyra doesn't take days off. When she's not immersing herself in studies, she's alone with her thoughts. Instead of conjuring up hypotheses of how a pokemon's behavioral attributes can be a by-product of their environment, she's hypothesizing what would've happened if she didn't let him win two years ago. With no reason to still be at route 30, Lyra calls out Togekiss and with no prompt needed, the two head back home.
Seeing her go each morning, but knowing she'll by back by seven, has instilled in Morty the elated feeling of anticipation.
At twenty-six years old, he was well acquainted with the casual dating sphere. Girls would travel all the way to Ecruteak under the guise of wanting to challenge him, but upon further inspection, they were more fixated on getting his number than getting a badge. For a while, he indulged it- after all, a town with the charisma of Lavender Town and the liveliness of the Old Chateau left even the most enduring characters feeling depleted. But he was young then, unmarred by the harrowing sensation of revolving doors and unaware that he yearned for something more tangible.
He remembers it was a blistering cold Tuesday when she graced the premises of his gym. He hadn't seen her since she was the sixteen-year-old champ-to-be, standing triumphantly and exuding self-assured charm as he placed the fog badge in her extended palm. Now, 5'6 and with a sharper, older face, her clumsy disposition had faltered, and with its omission came refinement and poise. And yet, as they began chatting and she beamed at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes, he realized she was still the same Lyra he was endeared to all those years ago. She explained that she was living at home again, Professor Elm throwing her a lifeline after her fall from grace.
"It just feels contrived, you know? Like, am I supposed to announce myself as the former Johto Champion now? It's such a mouthful of a title."
"It's only one more word than what you're used to, Lyra. And you don't have to assign yourself to it if you don't want to."
It's the warmth and sincerity of his voice that makes Lyra look up to him and meet his stare. With their close proximity, she takes the chance to scrutinize every inch of his face- a face that was hard not to be in awe of when she was young. The years have simultaneously been kind and rough on him; his boyish good looks have shredded and a rugged handsomeness has emerged from its ashes, but the purplish bags under his eyes and the gaunt, sunken in cheekbones allude to a man who's the victim of his own restlessness. She's engrossed in studying the contours of his face when his low voice stops her in her tracks.
"I missed a spot."
"Huh?"
"When I was shaving this morning, I was in a rush and I missed a spot."
"I, uh, didn't notice?"
"If my patchy stubble wasn't the reason for your ogling, then what was?" he quizzes her, with thinly veiled smugness.
"Could you be more conceited?"
"Could you be more obvious?"
With that, they both snicker. The teasing that laid the groundwork of their friendship was much needed, because without the comfort of humour, Lyra fell victim to mourning the past, and Morty was plagued by paranoia of what lied ahead for him. In many ways, they counterbalanced each other: where Lyra struggled to free herself from sentimental attachments of the past, Morty grappled with the threat of uncertainty that accompanies the future.
"Listen, the gym closes in a half-hour... I should probably start closing up," he drones as he scratches the back of his neck.
"It's only five, why are you closing?"
Eyes downcast, he fumbles with the hem of his sleeve.
"The league has seen better days. There's not exactly an influx of trainers lining up to battle gym leaders at the moment…it leaves us in a difficult position, and forces us to make compromises. Whitney, ever the drama queen, started closing up early a while back but eventually, we all followed suit. What's the point of being open till late if only one or two passer-byers come in?"
She could sense it was something troubling him, and that he was probably downplaying just how bad of a state the league was in. Morty would never admit to it, but she knew his status as a gym leader was a great source of pride to him- he had, after all, had this gig since he was sixteen.
"Was that all my abrupt arrival was to you? Just another passer-byer," she feigns distress, clutching her arm against her chest.
He takes another step towards her, her back now making contact with a cold breeze as she leans against the marble gym statue.
"No… you're more of a nuisance."
For a moment, Lyra is rendered speechless. It's a rarity for her; she's the type who rambles incessantly when insulted or nervous, but she's been reduced to a stammering mess as she averts his eye contact. Then, as if on cue, she catches the glimpse of a young trainer nervously making his way towards Morty.
"If I'm such a nuisance, then why are standing here investing all of your energy in talking to me when there's a trainer waiting for you to look up and notice him?"
Morty's eyes widen as he swiftly turns around, trying to compose himself in front of his new challenger. Lyra can't help but smile at the scene; his seamless transition from self-assured smooth talker to humble and earnest gym leader is quite a sight to see.
"I'll get going, then. Was good seeing you again, Morty," she trails off, waving him goodbye as she strides towards the gym entrance.
"Wait, Lyra…next time you come to see me, wear something warmer. This winter has been brutal, and the heater we have in this gym is beyond shitty."
"Excuse me?"
"Lyra, as much as I'd like to stay and ch-"
"Next time I come to see you?"
"I know what I said."
She turns around to face him one last time and is met with that amused grin of his which is as irritating as it is contagious. As she grips the doorknob, she decides she can't leave without delivering a final blow.
"You know, it all makes sense now. The shit heater in this building is probably the reason you wear that ugly scarf covering half your face all the time, right?"
Before Morty has the chance to recover from her clap back, she's gone.
As she made her way past the bell tower, Lyra regretted not layering up when the thin fabric of her shirt offered little protection against the ferocious wind. But what she didn't regret was letting Morty's premonition ring true, as she came to see him the next day- and many days thereafter.
"Hey ghost boy, why's the door locked?"
Lyra's incessant knocking lures him away from his daydreaming. He drags himself down the hallway and sluggishly extends his arm to unlock the door.
"I thought I told you to stop calling me that," he groans as he brings her in for a kiss.
"Oh c'mon, you shouldn't have told me that anecdote of a groupie coming onto you by calling you that, then. Besides, I thought I told you to stop locking the door, but I guess it just locked itself."
"…Gengar did it."
"Cute."
What Morty doesn't tell her is that something doesn't feel right; that he locks the doors for a reason more profound than to annoy her. And that lately, he's been agitated with the unshakable feeling of trepidation.
"Why are you home so early?" he asks lightly, perceptive of the way she crosses her arms across her mid-section tightly in response. She's defensive.
"While I was on the way, Elm called me up and told me not to bother coming in. The guy's too much of a pushover to admit that he's overstaffed. I might be a lot of things, but dense isn't one of them."
She's going through the motions with this Elm gig. But what can I do? The last thing she needs right now is a guy trying to be her messiah- that would require an inflated sense of self-importance, which she's already had to suffer from with that egotistic pain in the ass she used to hang around with.
"That I can agree with," he hums, gently tucking an unruly strand behind her ear as she buries herself in the crook of his neck.
"I should clean the place up a little before Nathan comes over." She laughs into his jacket and looks up at him bemusedly.
"You should call him that. Really, see how it goes. But Norman might be a safer bet."
Looking up at the sacred site of the Bell Tower made Norman realize Ecruteak City held an understated beauty. The traditional architecture and historical sites imbued the city with a strong mythical culture, and its situation in the midst of a forest heightened just how diverse the mountainous landscape of Johto was in comparison to the region he'd relocated to so long ago. As he made his way to Morty's gym, he was floored by waves of sentimentality. He was, after all, a Johto boy until he saw a job opening in Petalburg city, which prompted him to pack up his things from Cianwood City and move his young family to the humble town of Littleroot. But that was nine years ago. He no longer had an 11-year-old tugging at his sleeve, and he was no longer that new gym leader guy with the menacing Slaking by his side. Now, tides were changing, and if he didn't warn the others, the League will be in disarray to the point of no return.
"Norman! Over here, the passageway is a little confusing."
He looks up to see the tall frame of the blond Ecruteak gym leader, looking a lot older and strung out than he'd remembered. He was still handsome, his half smile showcasing a left dimple as he beckoned Norman to follow him inside, the Petalburg gym leader grateful to be led away from the dark and unsettling atmosphere permeating throughout the gym.
"Guess you still dig that maze layout, huh Morty?"
"What can I say? It's a timeless design," he replies coolly, before he looks over his shoulder to Norman.
"Done a lot of sight-seeing, or are you only visiting for a short while?"
"C'mon, I'm no tourist with a brochure in hand. I'm staying in that inn near the Kimono Theater for a couple of days. Morty… I'm here because I have to be, not for some mid-life crisis voyage," he responds dryly.
With those sneakers and that hair-gel, you could've fooled me.
But it's hard for Morty to ridicule him, for his pity for the man outweighed his contempt. This was a man who hadn't seen his daughter in years, whose gym was one of the most inactive in all of the regions, and whose influential prowess over his peers was about as effective as Magikarp's splash.
A Gastly is trying to lift her spirits by poking his tongue out and twirling around when Lyra hears the door unlock.
"Norman! It's great to see you. Here, let me take your coat," she beams at him as he mumbles his gratitude.
Those brown doe eyes… she's just like May.
She watches as his eyes scan the flat with meticulous scrutiny.
Yeah, it's a nice shack- a lot nicer than where I was living in my twenties. But why does it feel so… disjointed? Are these two even a couple; maybe Lyra's bearding for him? With the purple rug over the black leather couch on the left side, and the pink armchair with the Chikorita plush doll on the right side, I've never seen a place inhabited by a couple who so clearly have their own respective space with an invisible line dividing them.
"Now… let's talk about why you're here."
As soon as she hears the stoic tone of his voice, Lyra's suspicions are confirmed: Norman's visit has some relation to the League.
And that's my cue to leave.
By no means was she a meek, soft-spoken girlfriend who didn't want to get tangled in business beyond her scope; in fact, it was the opposite. She'd been through it all before, winning the title of Johto Champion and basking in glory- a glory that was short-lived. She respected what Morty's position as a gym leader meant to him, but she wasn't particularly invested in protecting the sovereignty of a League that ate her alive and spat her out with unnerving ease when she was young and impressionable.
"I'll leave you boys to it, then," she says evenly as she walks past the dinner table.
"Wait. I don't expect you to want to help- believe me, I know your disdain isn't without reason. But please, it's absolutely integral what I'm about to tell you both doesn't leave this room. And it explicitly involves you, Lyra."
She pauses before gripping a chair and dragging it out.
"Shoot."
This better not be another poorly concealed guilt trip.
"We've reason to believe there's an uproar manifesting among the ranks, and that it's reaching its tilting point. The earliest signs of rebellion appeared to have emerged from the Indigo League, but we can't pinpoint its origins with utmost certainty. Essentially, their purpose is to dissolve the League as we know it, and they strive to achieve this by dismantling its traditional infrastructure of eight gym leaders, four elite trainers and one champion for each region. I've suspected inner turmoil for a while; there used to be a plethora of new trainers trying to fight their way up the ranks, but those numbers have been on a study decline. In consequence, so too are the number of eligible challengers vying for gym badges, let alone prepping themselves to compete against the elite four. But now that I'm hearing murmurs of some of our own joining this underground alliance, I'm officially concerned."
"Some of our own?" Morty piques, the colour draining from his face.
"Erika, Koga, his daughter Janine...Pryce, Roxanne, Flannery…Gardenia, Maylene, Byron and Volkner are the ones we know for sure."
Morty's gnaws his lower lip in an effort to suppress the rage pumping through his veins. Those are the names of people who I've treated with respect and kindness, and nothing less. How could they so easily by lulled by delusion, without considering the devastating aftermath a revolt may cause?
"As awful as of this all is, and at risk of sounding like a complete narcissist, I don't understand how this mess explicitly involves me?"
"Because, Lyra, the figure we suspect to be at the forefront of this movement is the guy who took the title of Johto Champion from you. Demand a rematch from him and you'll extinguish his capacity to have a platform for his preaching."
Norman's words lingered in Lyra's mind as she tried to sleep that night in what turned out to be a fruitless pursuit.
"All we know is that he took a weekend getaway to Alola."
Restless, she flips her pillow over and stretches out her limbs.
"Suffice to say that he learned about the region's Island Challenge during his visit."
She hoists her legs up and tucks her knees in, settling into a fetal position.
"…And wants to integrate this free-form infrastructure into all other Leagues. In a way, he's honing in on the enduring appeal of an anti-establishment stance."
Her chest rises and falls rapidly.
"He wants the Alola structure to achieve uniformity, even if the only means of acquiring it is by leading a dictatorial regime and harnessing the power of fear."
She hugs her knees tighter as her exasperation intensifies.
"I guess if you want me to be blunt, what I'm saying is that we need you, Lyra."
Lyra's self control was on the verge of imploding as she fought her desire to scream into her pillow. She wanted to have an uninhibited moment and screech at the top of her lungs, but the snoring figure to her right stopped her in her tracks.
Is thinly veiled manipulation a socially acceptable thing, now?
Lyra couldn't comprehend how even though she conceded her title two years ago, she was still being thrust into the harrowing world of accountability.
I don't need this. I'm a Pisces! I'm not wired to be able to have a convoluted mess thrust upon me and then be told to fix it in the same breath.
Only her compassion- which she considered to be both her most redeeming and most damning feature- thwarted her vexation.
Even if I've forged a new life for myself, I can't allow myself to be so self-involved. Knowing that all regions would have to bow down to imposed commands would be some kind of dystopian nightmare.
But equally scary to Lyra was the thought that she would be reduced to a pawn again, just like she was when she was the bright-eyed sixteen-year-old Champion; blissfully unaware of the distrusting people that would surround her and the desolation that would soon follow.
If Silver knew how quickly I was having a change of heart, he'd scorn me for being such a doormat.
With Morty in a borderline comatose state, Lyra's access to comfort was limited. She understood that her boyfriend was a heavy sleeper, but as a chronic sleep deprivation sufferer, there were times when she yearned for someone to talk to in those early hours of the morning. Now was one of those times. Feeling depleted, she tries to lull herself to sleep by listening to the cries of a flock of Hoothoots outside.
She was lightly dozing off until the loud vibration of her Pokegear forces her eyes wide open.
If this is Joey calling to tell me about his Rattata, Arceus help me.
Groggily, she extends her arm and grabs the device from the bedside table.
"Hello?" she slurs, barely audibly.
"…"
She's met with silence; a silence that speaks volumes.
"Silver," she whispers breathlessly.
"…"
She knows he's pulling the same stunt she did to him earlier in the day. She knows that regardless of what she says, he'll stay mute and any effort of conversation will be rendered ineffective. But tonight, she didn't care. The comfort of knowing he was there, indulging their mutual solitude- neither knowing where the other was, but relishing their wired interaction- was exactly what Lyra needed right now.
She is so fixated on trying to detect any trace of a noise- an intake of breath, a creak from the floorboards, a suppressed yawn- that she doesn't notice Morty nuzzling closer to her. As he wraps his arm around her side, she swiftly hangs up.
"Who was that, Ly?"
She grips the hand resting on her waist and entwines her fingers with his.
"Just Kris, she called up to tell me about some guy she was about to go home with but the line was breaking up so I.. hung up."
He hums in response as she melts into his embrace, drifting off to sleep.
Morty looks at the nape of her neck and marvels at how her pale skin seems to illuminate the room before he allows sleep to claim him.
He never knew Silver was such a common name.
Author's Note:
The canon this fic is set in is a fusion of the manga and game verses. As such, it may be a little confusing (while Red, Silver, Kris, etc will be present in this story, May replaces Sapphire and a few figures, most profoundly Lyra, will be derived from the games.) Further, it's a future-fic with the characters in their early twenties, and flashback sequences will be an integral element to the narration (in a hopefully non-tropey or sleep-inducing way). Lastly, the predominant POV will be through the guise of an omniscient narrator, with occasional glimpses into each characters inner psyche.
As the fic progresses, the violence and angst will amplify. The psuedo-fluffiness will live on, though. All R&R are warmly welcomed & much appreciated!