While Maxwell Goldman descended from the trainer's platform, Steven Stone was still cleaning his metagross off the stadium floor. The sulfuric scent of dragonfire still hung heavy in the air, and the roar of the audience wouldn't die down for another ten minutes … by his estimation, anyway. Life was good, as far as he was concerned. Championships, exhibition matches, all the biggest battles one could think of—they all paid good. More than good, even. Hell, that battle against Steven Stone alone would net him enough sponsorship deals—and therefore money—to feed both him and his team for a year.

And yet…

"Goldman! Mr. Goldman! A word?!"

He stepped off the field and into a mob of reporters. A camera and a microphone from every station in this region and the next were instantly in his face, but he gave them his signature dazzling smile, as if it wasn't a big deal.

And they asked, of course. All the usuals, as he expected: what was his strategy? What did he feel the second his dragonite took out Stone's metagross? Did he have anything to say about the allegations concerning illegal TM use of his predecessor, fellow dragon-user Lance Skyborn?

"Now that you've won the Grand Championship, what are you going to do now?"

Oh. That was a new one.

He turned his sparkling grin onto the reporter who had asked. He didn't even take in who they were. Man. Woman. Straight-up pokémon. It didn't matter to him. All that mattered was that question. That fascinating, wonderful question.

Because when you're the best, what do you do then?

"You know," he said, choosing his words carefully, "I think I'm gonna go back to Goldenrod City. A good friend of mine promised me a battle when I started out, and Dane? Dane Ramone, buddy? If you're watching this, I think I'd like to take you up on that offer for old time's sake."

At that moment, dozens of miles from Indigo Plateau, in a run-down apartment in South Goldenrod, a young man kicked his feet off his dingy coffee table and reached for a cheap flip phone. He thumbed it open and dialed a number, but he did it without taking his eyes off his beat-up TV. Three rings later, and someone on the other end picked up.

"Banks?" he said. "It's Smithy. You watching the Grand Championship battle right now? Yeah, well, Dane's in deep shit, isn't he?"

He paused. Cocked his head. Listened to the bark of a response on the other end.

"What does that have to do with you?" Smithy laughed. "Banks. C'mon. I'm trying to make a business proposition with you."