A/N: This site seems to have spacing problems when it comes to italics (it connects the italicized word with the following word after). Hopefully I caught them all, but feel free to point them out if I missed any (in this chapter, the last chapter, or future chapters). Thanks and enjoy!

Letters in the Mail

Brendan was overwhelmed with the sudden realization that he was alone.

He felt it as he looked toward the sky, contemplating the chance of rain (the skies were blue and the sun was shining, but the gray clouds said otherwise). He heard silence between the tweets of birds, the rush of cars down the city, and it made him panicky in some ways, tension running through his veins and gathering in the fingers pressed against his neck. He wiggled them and let them grip his neck, his nails digging into his skin. He was alone, alone, alone; he had been alone for a while, really, but he had no one to call up, no one to hang out with – he only had, like, three friends, and all three of them were now out of town on some stupid cruise. But that didn't matter, right? Brendan was independent, a freethinker, someone who could easily amuse himself with balls of lint.

Silence. Overbearing silence. Empty, hollow silence, echoing itself vainly whenever it calls down narrow halls with tile flooring. Silence that likes to take up the space in between the noises of everyday life, a constant reminder that we aren't alone but, at the same time, very alone. A paradox, silence. Lots of big words, silence. Lots of unnecessary tangents to fill up time and space, silence. Language. More words. Paragraphs. Silence.

He scuffed his foot, the sound creating a noise akin to a needle scratching a record (Wally was right: using record players as a simile is pretty outdated. MP3s skip sometimes, don't they? Or was his computer just shitty?), trying to kill the loud silence, but it only multiplied like rabbits in spring once the dust settled. He was alone, but this time it was magnified, intensified. (This time he was positive he was alone. Positive.) His stomach felt like it was filled with a lunch of cold air, and his throat was tight, and it took some concentration not to vomit up his loneliness.

How annoyingly poetic. He rolled his eyes. He had no idea why he felt this way all of a sudden. Maybe because this time there were no distractions, no way for him to put off this apprenticeship application. He had to get his shit done, and that made him sad in a way, something twisting painfully inside and – God, why was he upset over this? Over getting his shit together? Over growing up? That's what you're supposed to do when you get older. You grow up because if you don't grow up, you're either stagnant, forced to be a stupid fourteen, almost fifteen, year-old for the rest of your life, like the goddamn Peter Pan, or you grow down, some sort of Benjamin Button shit. This was right. This is what he had to get on his dad's good side again. But ... well, shit, come on! Who doesn't love procrastination and watching television in sweats from noon to five while eating cereal from the box?

Brendan heard footsteps, louder, faster, and a wild flail of arms wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him into an awkward backwards hug. He recognized her scent, sweet but not overbearingly so. He recognized her touch, skin lightly kissed by the sun.

"You really can't come?" a girl's voice whined, muffled.

Brendan turned around in the girl's grip and wrapped his own arms around her lower back. Like before, he gently swayed them back and forth like they were dancing – dancing to silence, the loud, annoying, screechy silence that tends to repeat itself at awkward moments to once again fill space. "May, you know I have a lot of stuff to fix here."

As annoyed as the girl got with his stupid antics – and latios only knows how stupid his antics were – she was good at understanding. In some ways, he felt like her supposed anger was all an act, a subtle attempt in pushing his buttons because that was her thing, pushing his buttons until he flipped a bitch, and she, in turn, flipped a bitch, and it was one, fun endless cycle of flipping and bitching. And silence. Poetic silence. And something with being alone.

Still, she couldn't hide the way her eyes reflected disappointment, trying to blink it away but failing. She nodded anyway. "I know, and I hope it's worth it," she teased, playfully wrinkling her nose. "Do your pops proud, B Boy."

Brendan rested his hands lightly against the sides of his face and gently kissed her forehead. "I'll try."

May stood on tippy-toe and pecked his lips, her cheeks flushed, and sweet groudon, she looks gorgeous, he mused, unable to hide his goofy grin. This only made her giggle. "I'll get you a cool keychain," she said.

"One that says, 'My friends went on a cruise, and all I got was this stupid keychain?'"

She stepped back, one hand wrapped around his right wrist. "Yeah. Or something that lights up. I know how lights distract you."

"Goody." He grinned. "Have fun."

"Will do." She released his wrists from her grip and mock saluted him. "I'll see ya in a week, B Boy. Don't miss me too much." She winked.

"I'll try."

She blew him a kiss and skipped down the dirt road to catch up with the two boys waiting for her at the end of the block. (He could imagine Wally's eyes rolling and Chris snickering at the public display of affection.) He turned back around and started his ascent toward the laboratory's entrance.

In some ways, he was relieved he didn't go. Sure, a vacation would have been nice, breaking up the tedious work of watching television hours at a time, and he hadn't seen Chris or Wally in weeks. But he really needed the time to stop, breathe, and think, take life seriously for once. He had been away from home for more than a year, scraping his knees, sleeping in latios-knows-what, and going days without showering, sometimes to spite May – look. She deserved it. She took the last piece of food on a two-day hike, and the punishment for not sharing is a smelly boy with greasy hair because sharing is caring and not sharing is overbearing … in smell. Where was he going with this?

Right. Good to be home, yada, yada. Life had been so wrapped around his external goals – finding a certain type of pokémon for his dad, getting all his gym badges, qualifying for the league, placing in the league, failing in the league, stop being annoyed by May, start liking May as a friend, start liking May as more than a friend, etcetera – that he really didn't know who he was anymore. Along the way, the cocky trainer who came off rude to strangers became the cocky trainer who came off rude to strangers but had three friends to smack him in the head and tell him to apologize.

"Journeys" are supposed to help you figure out who you are, but he felt more lost than ever. Most trainers start off as blank slates; he didn't. You're the son of Professor Birch, and you're expected to be something. He was supposed to be the shit, the top banana, because his dad was the shit, the top banana, in his own right. Of course he was that "bright-eyed" kid, but he had expectations to fulfill, a parent to please. It was a constant thought nuzzled in his mind. When he thought about it, it was for this very reason that he bizarrely believed and joined Team Magma. Look at me! I'm doing something useful! Stupid. But it felt good to feel important for once, to not be looked down upon as some stupid kid who's just learning but as a person who knew what he was doing. (He really didn't know what he was doing, but he felt pleasure in knowing that Maxie had so much trust in him for a while and expected him to get his goals done, no questions asked. Of course that, too, fell flat on its head.)

He found his way to the entrance of the pasture where the wooden fence had split up into a fifteen foot gap. He looked at the laboratory's metal mailbox that sat on top of one of the fence's wooden pillars. The flag was down and the door was cracked open at the top – mail was here. Brendan pulled down the opening and inserted his hand, grabbing a hefty bulk of papers. He shuffled through them halfheartedly, looking for anything remotely interesting. Bill, ad, bill, ad, letter, ad, ad ...

In the midst of his mail reading, Muddy had slowly crept up on his hind legs, orange eyes bright and mischievous. He noticed a puddle made from last night's storm, water brown and gently rippling with the slightest movement from the wind. He pounded his fists together, declared, "RAIN DROPS KEEP FALLING ON MY"–he jumped into the puddle, the water splashing in all directions and hitting Brendan and his pile of letters–"HEAD!"

Brendan looked at his pokémon dismayed, wiping his soaked fingers on a dry spot on his jeans. He flapped the letters in the air, beads of water flying off of them. "I don't think you realize how much I hate you, Bemired Muddy Swampert," he muttered.

Muddy looked coyly at the ground, drawing circles in the ground with his left foot. Since his blue skin was rubbery, the water dripped off his skin. "My beloved Brendan Robert Birch," he mocked back. "I never knew you felt so strongly for me. I must reject your advances, though. I can totally do better than you."

Brendan wiped the letters against the back of his jeans, smearing the brown water against one of the white envelopes. He turned the envelope around, noticing that it was addressed for him. "You're lucky," he said while walking toward the dome-shaped laboratory, Muddy waddling next to him, his heavy, gray tail shaking back and forth. "This letter is for me."

"You have friends?" Muddy asked, blinking rapidly a few times. "Friends who are literate?"

Brendan glared at Muddy who only smiled goofily in return.

"You know, I can read," Muddy added proudly, pulling at one of his orange whiskers.

"Mhm," said Brendan airily as he pinned the rest of the letters underneath his armpit. He gripped the envelope addressed to him, sliding a finger underneath a corner and pulling up on it.

"I'm great at reading." Muddy nodded. "I know so many things because I can read. Reading is P-H-U-N."

"While spelling is not." Brendan ripped open the top of the envelope. "Amuse me. Tell me something you learned through reading."

They were closing in on the laboratory; the dirt path was now replaced with a brick one. The two could feel the cold air of the air conditioner seep through the cracks of the laboratory's glass doors. Brendan stopped as he pulled the letter out, causing Muddy to stop, too. "Did you know that Voldemort was Tom Riddle?" the swampert asked.

"What is a Voldemort?" Brendan replied, eyes busy.

"I don't know. Some sort of snake man? But yeah. That's what I learned! Also!" Muddy peered forward, looking at Brendan's letter and trying to piece together the weird, squiggly symbols into something coherent. "I can read this! It says you qualified for Hoenn's Battle Frontier!"

Brendan flipped the letter back and forth, confused. "Whoa. You're right." He looked up suspiciously. "You can't read. How did you know that?"

Muddy grinned. "Okay, so maybe the messenger taillow told me. Sue me." He pushed his paws in front of him as Brendan stared dully at him.

Brendan straightened out the paper, gripping it tightly at the edges and creating creases. "'Dear Mr. Brendan Birch,'" he read out loud, eyes rolling left to right. He shook his right leg. "'Congratulations. In recognition of your talents in the various fields of pokémon'"–he brushed off Muddy's snort–"'you are invited to take part in Hoenn's Battle Frontier' ..." he trailed off and looked around the paper, staring his pokémon in the face. "The Battle Frontier ... What's a Battle Frontier?"

"A frontier of battles," Muddy said firmly.

"Besides that."

"Words."

"Besides that."

"Words strategically stringed together in a specific arrangement to illustrate an object."

"Oh, shut up," Brendan grumbled as Muddy smiled cheekily at him. He racked his brain, nose crinkling. "Right." He snapped his fingers. "That one thing that Scott dude was talking about a couple of months ago." His mind flooded with memories of chasing the shady, chubby, sun glass-wearing man who rode on the back of a milotic, trying to get away from him and Muddy. He was stopped when Muddy threw a rock he pulled out of latios-knows-where at Scott's head, knocking him off his milotic's back.

Sure enough, Muddy had pulled out a rock from latios-knows-where, letting it rest on the flat of his open palm. "Ron remembers," he said, petting it with his other paw. "Ron remembers all."

Brendan eyed his starter pokémon warily before going back to the letter. "'If you are interested in participating in the Battle Frontier and would like more information, we have set up exhibits in the following cities: Slateport, Fallarbor, Verdanturf, and Lilycove. Each exhibit will provide information about the various battle facilities the Battle Frontier holds while demonstrating a specific battle style each facility may use. The Battle Frontier is located on an island off the coast of Hoenn's main island. The first ship will depart on July second from Slateport's port or Lilycove's docks.' July second, huh?"

"Hey," Muddy commented, balancing Ron on his head, "that's almost your birthday."

"That is my birthday."

"Poe-tay-toh, poh-tah-toh."

Brendan finished reading. "'We hope to see you there. Sincerely, Scott and the Frontier Brain Trust.' Interesting."

"Scott and the Frontier Brain Trust sounds like a final boss," remarked Muddy.

"Yeah, a huge brain that can teleport with eyes that extend out and tendrils at the bottom that can entrap you."

"They also call that Andross, and he's copyrighted." Muddy winked toward the open space as Brendan rolled his eyes.

Brendan folded the paper back into thirds and started to walk into the clean, white laboratory, Muddy walking beside him. The automatic glass doors slid open, and the cold air blowing from the vents enveloped them. "So what do you think?" he asked, scuffing his shoes against the tile floor. "Think I should go? The opening is in two weeks."

Muddy wasn't looking at Brendan, his eyes focused on the oak bookshelves filled with heavy books pushed up against the laboratory's east wall. He turned his attention up and watched the ceiling fans spin. Brendan poked him in the arm, and he swatted at it in return. "I heard you," he said, bright eyes snapping back toward his trainer, "and I don't know."

"Don't you miss battling?"

Muddy looked down at his feet, staring at his blurry reflection in the tile. "I don't know," he repeated. "I'm busy with the chilluns. Aren't you busy with your application?"

Brendan puckered his lips, lightly biting the inside of his cheek. "Well," he began, "all I have to do is write my dissertation, request and pick up some recommendations"–he held up two fingers and wiggled them in the air–"and reorganize my 'dex information and input it into the home database." He dropped his hand and grinned. "Shouldn't take me that long – and hey! Maybe I'll have time to visit one of the exhibitions. Slateport is only a few hours away by train. Maybe I can request someone to write me a recommendation in that area. I'll use that as an excuse. Two birds, one stone."

Muddy could see the excitement in Brendan's face. "I don't know," he said for the third time, pulling his tail to the side and rubbing his paws against the red and black bandana tied around it. "Assuming you can finish all that in two weeks, what if you get accepted for an apprenticeship? You think you can work that and battle at this frontier of battles? I mean, you only had one sole task during our journey, which was getting badges and qualifying for the league, and look where that got you."

"Balls deep in a situation that may or may not have destroyed Hoenn's ecosystem, which may or may not have eventually ruined the world," Brendan answered airily, swatting his hand back and forth like a composer. "What is this, being logical all of a sudden?"

"Moments, man, moments." Muddy grinned as Brendan slid the letter back into the envelope. "Besides that, aren't you sent to a specific area to study under a specific researcher? What if you're in an area that is far away from wherever this frontier of battle takes place?"

"That's the point of the dissertation; it works as a personal statement so the panel, if they so choose to pick you, can recommend a reasonable place for you to do your study under a researcher who is commended in the field you are interested in. But in the end, the apprentice has the last say in where he or she wants to study – and really, Muddy. This is freaky. Stop thinking so practically."

"Just sayin'. I thought the whole reason why you didn't go on May's cruise thing was because you wanted to stay here and get on your dad's good side again."

"That's a vacation. This–"

"Has nothing to do with your apprenticeship," the swampert interrupted. Brendan pulled the letters away from his armpit and tugged anxiously at the bottom of his shirt. "Look, I know I'm not the best voice of reason–"

"Seriously, it's freaking me out. Please stop."

"–but you keep whining to me about gaining your dad's trust again. 'Muddy'"–the swampert turned the corners of his mouth and raised the pitch of his voice–"'my daddy hates me. Muddy, nobody yikes me. Muddy, my diaper is full and I don't know what to do.'" He grinned back when Brendan glared at him. "Isn't that all fabricated anyway? Your dad's 'rage,' not the diaper. You never really talked to him about it since you're too chicken."

"I just ... know, Muddy. How would you feel if your kids–"

"Kips," Muddy corrected happily.

"–fine, kips joined an eco-group on a whim without doing any research about them in the first place? It's so ... so anti-researcher. Oh, by the way, this eco-group is Team Magma. Oh, by the way, your son almost got himself and his friends killed by joining them. Oh, by the way, your son almost winded up in jail. Oh, by the way, the reason why your son flubbed up so badly in the league was because he couldn't take the rumors circulating about him being an ex-Magma member."

"Oh, little Tycoon wouldn't do that." Muddy chuckled to himself. "Tycoon is a rascal and he's been getting in trouble, but he wouldn't do that. Maybe almost get his friends killed, but that's, like, a rite of passage in swampert culture. Sally might, though ..." He cocked his head to the side in thought. "Also, they're pokémon."

Brendan blinked rapidly a few times as he slid the letter into his pocket. "Regardless," he said, "I just can't bring myself to talk about it with him. I already know he's disappointed in me. But that's beside the point. What were we talking about?"

"Me saying that you shouldn't go to the frontier of battles because you said to me earlier that you should stay here because you think your dad is disappointed in you." Muddy inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.

"It could be beneficial. I'll talk to him about it." At this, Brendan lightly hit the top of his pokémon's head with the stack of letters. "You go back to doing whatever you were doing earlier."

Muddy frowned. "I can't," he lamented. "Flare took my wand, and now I'm one of you stupid muggles."

"Once again, I have no idea what you're talking about, but that kind of makes me glad." Brendan shrugged his pokémon off and began to head toward the door bordered by stacks of cardboard boxes at the back of the laboratory. He stopped when he was in front of it, reading the gold-plated plaque nailed to the door. "Robert Birch, Ph.D" was what he read before he wrapped his hand around the metal doorknob and pushed down on it. The door opened with a loud groan.

Good old Robert Birch, commonly known as Professor Birch to everyone else and Dad to him, was sitting on the edge of his desk, legs crossed at the ankle and right leg on top, revealing the bottom of the professor's sandal (Brendan could see black bubblegum stuck to it). A manila folder was propped open in his left hand, and he was flipping through the thin sheets of paper before stopping on one, eyebrows furrowed. He looked up idly and gave Brendan a small grin.

"Hey, kid," he greeted. "Since you're there, think you can pull out the file on the castform's molecular structure? It's in the cabinet to your right, second drawer from the top."

Brendan nodded while kicking the door closed with the back of his foot. He walked over to the steel filing cabinet, pinned the stack of letters under his armpit again, and pulled the second drawer open. He flipped through the thick folders before finding the one his dad requested, pulling it out. With three giant steps, Brendan crossed the small office and dropped the heavy manila folder with a thud, throwing the rest of the letters next to it. The action awoke a small, gray, squishy thing sleeping next to Professor Birch's thigh. Blue eyes looked at the boy tiredly before widening themselves. He squeaked happily and flew upward, nuzzling the top of his head against the bottom of Brendan's chin.

"Hey, Thermo," the boy greeted just as enthusiastically, gently petting the castform. "Didn't know you were here. Sorry I awoke you."

Thermo squeaked three times in return, giving his trainer's chin a final nudge with his head before flying over to Professor Birch's shoulder and resting on top of it. He peered into the file the professor was looking at, curious.

"Reading about castform, huh?" Brendan laced his hands behind his back and shifted his weight between the balls and heels of his feet.

"Fascinating creatures, castform," Professor Birch replied. "Hope you don't mind Thermo hanging out with me so much." He reached up and rubbed the top of the castform's head with two fingers, and Thermo squeaked back, relaxing against the man's neck.

"'Course not."

Professor Birch put down the folder he had at hand and picked up the one Brendan had placed next to him. "Well, thanks for getting the file." He looked down at his side again. "Oh, and for getting the mail, too."

"'Course." Brendan added a nod this time.

His dad smiled to himself and opened the folder, eyes scanning the first page quickly before moving onto the second one. Brendan didn't leave – move, really, besides his rocking – and looked at the clock that hung from the wall above more filing cabinets, watching the seconds tick by. Fifteen minutes past two. May, Wally, and Chris were probably waiting at the bus station now. His eyes wandered down the white walls, across the tile, and up his dad's mahogany desk. He observed how cluttered the desk was, how papers were disorganized and haphazardly thrown about the table (the more you research, the less picky you are about how neat the external details are). There were empty mugs of coffee, pencils, some broken, and fancy pens. Picture frames: pictures of the Birch family, and one of his dad, Professor Elm, and Professor Oak (Rowan was the one taking this particular picture) with their arms around each other, the flimsy sheets protected by thin glass. Behind the desk was a black leather chair and two bookshelves also containing heavy, hardbound books, some written by his dad himself.

When Professor Birch realized his son hadn't left, he began to ask questions. "Did you feed the babies?"

"Yeah."

"Water the oran trees?"

"Yeah."

"Mow the grass?"

"Later." At this, Brendan wiped nervously at the back of his neck.

"Work on your apprenticeship application?"

"About thaaaaat ..."

This caught Professor Birch's attention. He looked up, eyebrow raised. "You have been working on your dissertation, right?"

Brendan brought his hands to the front and wrung them. "I'm still settling down on the thesis–"

"Come on, Brendan–"

"–but once I do work out the kinks, I should be okay. You know how starting is always the hardest part of the journey." Brendan paused. "And speaking of journey ..."

Professor Birch sighed and placed the folder back down on the table. He scooped Thermo into his left hand and held him, letting the creature ooze between his fingers. Despite the sigh, his eyes flashed amusement; Brendan took this as a good sign. "What about 'journey'?"

Brendan reached into his pocket and shakily pulled out the folded envelope. He waved it in the air. "I got invited to participate in the Battle Frontier."

"You don't say." His father smiled. He readjusted the folds of his white lab coat with his free hand, careful to not disturb the castform that was slowly being lulled to sleep by the hum of the air conditioner. "I didn't know Scott and Noland were opening that place up so soon. They've been working on it for years now."

Brendan didn't bother asking who Noland was or how his father knew who Scott was (though he probably should have figured – his dad pretty much knew everyone important in the Hoenn region). "It opens in two weeks," he said, trying to straighten out his shaky voice. "I think I'm gonna go."

Professor Birch looked at Brendan through tired, brown eyes. "I don't know, Brendan. You still haven't finished your application, and you know that's due at the end of–"

"I know it's due at the end of the month," Brendan interrupted, annoyed, nostrils flaring. "And I swear I'll get it done before then. I still need to go out of town and collect letters of recommendation."

His dad pulled out his cell phone from the pocket of his shorts and flipped it open, checking to see if he missed calls. "From who?"

Brendan racked his brain quickly without trying to look panic-stricken. "Captain Stern," he said slowly, whimsically, eyes rolling up and to the right, "in Slateport."

Brendan knew nothing about Captain Stern other than he watched him freak the freak out when he realized his submarine was being stolen by Team Aqua, but it was the first name that popped up in his head when he thought of people in Slateport. In retrospect, he should have said Mr. Briney (or was it Captain Briney now? He recently came out of retirement to become lead developer of the S.S. Tidal that started running a month ago) because he knew Briney better than Stern.

Sure enough, his dad called him out on it. "When did you meet Stern?"

"Did I say Stern?" Brendan's voice was growing higher in pitch. He pulled at his shirt collar and cleared his throat. "I meant Briney. Mister – er, Captain Briney. He shipped May and I to Dewford and Slateport a couple of times. We helped rescue his wingull from Team"–he visibly flinched and tried to change the course of conversation back to his original point–"I mean we helped rescue his wingull, Peeko."

He could tell his dad loved how awkward Brendan was right now as he grinned again and put his phone back in his pocket. He picked up the castform file from the table and put down the sleeping castform in his hand. Wiping his wet hand across his dark-blue undershirt, he asked, "Who else?"

This one clicked automatically, remembering another city the Battle Frontier was hosting exhibitions. "Professor Cozmo in Fallarbor."

"Crazy Carl the meteorite man," his father mused. "You met him?"

Brendan nodded eagerly. "I helped get his meteorite back when Team"–effin' hell, another Team Magma or Aqua connection?–"when he lost it. Yeah."

"Impressive." Brendan felt his insides surge with pride at his father's comment. "Anyone else?"

"Norman."

"Might as well milk your girlfriend's dad for all he's worth." Professor Birch winked before opening the file again.

"Kind-of-sort-of-not-really-girlfriend's dad," he corrected.

"Uh ... huh." Professor Birch licked his fingers and turned a page. "Sounds like a solid list. You better ask them today before it gets too late."

"I'll call them this afternoon." He had to slide this next point in very carefully. "And since I'm going to be in Fallarbor and Slateport, I think I'll go ahead and visit the Battle Frontier's open exhibitions just to see what they're about." Brendan quickly turned around toward the door and opened it. "Okay, thanks for everything, Dad! See you in a week!"

Nice one, Brendan. He celebrated in his head.

"Not so fast, son." Professor Birch emphasized the last part, stepping forward, reaching out, and grabbing Brendan by the back of his shirt. The boy tried to wiggle out of his dad's grasp, outstretching his arms toward the open door, but it was no use; his father's grip was firm. So he slouched, his face in a scowl, his arms crossed. "You've only been home for two and a half weeks, Brendan. Give your pokémon a chance to relax. Give yourselfa chance to relax. Don't just rush back into the battling world."

"But Daaaaad," whined Brendan, pulling his shirt out of Professor's Birch's grasp and turning to face him. "I've been so bored! And if I'm going to–"

"If you were so bored then why didn't you go on that cruise with May and your other friends? Or finish your dissertation – and you better write that soon as well," argued Professor Birch, crossing his arms. Sighing, he walked over to his desk and leaned against it again, picking up the folder again. "The Battle Frontier isn't going anywhere, Brendan, and neither are its exhibitions. I don't want you dashing off to some unknown area with no idea what's up there."

Brendan frowned. "But isn't that the point of being a trainer? To explore unknown areas? To adventure? And really, Dad, it'll give me a chance to see new pokémon. The Battle Frontier isn't limited to Hoenn trainers; there are trainers all over the world going there. It'll be great for research! Imagine it." Stars were in his eyes as he raised a fist in the air. "A venusaur from Kanto! A sentret from Johto! A yanma from Sinnoh!"

"Yanma are more native to Johto actually."

"Bah! Whatever!"

Professor Birch sighed. "You have prior commitments. I don't want you to get distracted."

"I won't, I promise. My main goal will be to pick up those letters, and on the train I'll work on my dissertation. It's perfect because I won't be distracted there, and the train takes hours! Since I'm going to be so far away, can't I hang around town for a day or two just to sight see? It's been a while since I have last been in Fallarbor, and besides the exhibit, Slateport Market is having its bi-annual taffy sale now. I know you want taffy."

Professor Birch looked up dreamily. "I do enjoy taffy ..." He shook his head. "Fine. You can go and stop by the exhibitions, but I'll be checking up on you and your progress on your application. You only have two weeks left."

"I won't let you down. I'll get it done. I'll call Norman, Cozmo and Stern–"

"Briney," his father corrected, cupping chin with an open palm and rubbing his left temple with his fingers.

"–Briney right now. I'll start hammering out my dissertation after."

"No, you first call Briney, Cozmo, and Norman and politely"–his father made sure to put stress on this word–"ask if they will write you a letter of recommendation. After that, you mow the lawn, help Muddy feed the babies dinner, THEN work on your dissertation."

"Dammit." Still, Brendan couldn't hide his grin. He slipped the letter back into his pocket and patted it twice as he left his dad's office and back into the open space. The sun was shining through the windows, and he raised his arms in the air and spun around like he was in a corny movie. This was his chance at a new start, a chance to not only make his dad proud but himself proud, too. For once, he thought as he exited the lab and stood outside, admiring the way the long grass waved back and forth like the tide, he felt like he was on the right path, and he was determined not to fail this time. It was going to be a lot of work, sure, but Brendan could handle it ... right?

Right.

Originally Posted: 09.08.11
Last Revised: 09.08.11 for grammatical errors