The first thing I'd like to say is that you folks make me feel old. I say I want the participants of this tournament to be older and the best you can come up with by yourselves is 27.
The second thing is that I'm still a little upset at Farla (and myself) for giving away so many points about where this story is going. In my defense against his/her complaints, I gave away some points I hoped to keep to myself.
The only thing I'm willing to say in response to a few things (such as Ooshii Kurai's comment about Jin's occupation) is to remind you that this is a first-person-present account of these events. There's a lot you can tell about a person by the information he offers (in other words, don't think that wasn't on purpose). For that same reason, don't expect all the characters to come out exactly as each of you expected. I will do my best to accommodate the characteristics you included, but everything ultimately is interpreted by Jin's personal worldviews and biases.
A Round of Women
I traveled to the harbor in Plumbum City to board the Hydrargyrum, a yacht-class ship bound for Quicksilver Island. I made it a point to meet everyone on the ship and find out what I could about them, and to make sure they all know who I am. They are a varied group, each with at least one big tournament victory under his or her belt. Listening to their stories, I realized that I was the only person who got the invite without ever participating in a Pokémon tournament. In fact, when asked for my lifetime battling record, my honest response was thirty-two wins and four losses. Everyone who knew my record was baffled; with the exception of the twelve-year-old boy, everyone had wins at least in the triple digits, making me a low outlier in a group of champions. That was when I first suspected this tournament might be over my head.
The yacht ride isn't important to my story. Its impact on my trip was practically nil. The story starts now and encompasses my stay on the island.
When we dock at Quicksilver Island, a handful of burly porters usher us to the resort mansion, which is bigger than the entire school campus where I teach. It seems to have several major subsections occupying a total land area equivalent to an airport. I think I'll need a map just to find my room.
On my way off the ship with my one suitcase bag, I sidle up to a pretty lady named Deborah and offer to help her carry her bags. She is a thirty-two-year-old redhead from the Johto region where she works in the Pokémon gym in Goldenrod City. She's an apparent up-and-comer en route to being the next Gym Leader for said Pokémon gym. She wouldn't give me the heads-up on what Pokémon she brought with her to Quicksilver when we spoke on the yacht—in fact, she didn't tell me much of anything—but now she accepts my offer for help. After all, she brought four bags to keep her a half week and she's a rather small person.
She strikes me as high maintenance, not someone I'd pursue long-term, but she's gorgeous and I admit that attracts me right off. She's not tall—maybe five-one—and is normal sized—not too skinny but far from fat. Her long, flowing, auburn hair glows in the sunlight; she's got two hair ties on either side of her head to separate her hair into two tails. She's wearing a yellow sundress with strappy shoulders that leave her shoulders bare; her skin is perfect and highly desirable. I can smell the oils and lotions she uses to keep herself looking like she's sixteen.
The rest of the dress is equally alluring as her shoulders. The dress is cut low enough to give a peek at what Deborah has to hide but not enough to give away the surprise. Her chest is fairly large for her body size, possibly enhanced through cosmetics. The dress ends less than halfway down her thigh, allowing anyone a glance at her bare legs—even more desirable, if it's possible, than her shoulders.
I notice everything about her she clearly wants people to notice, but I make prolonged contact only with her eyes.
"You planning to stay a while?" I ask her in reference to her numerous bags.
She gives me a friendly smile and says cheerfully, "I like to be prepared. You never know what can come up on a tropical island like this."
I suppose she has a fair point. Then again, I spent a day researching the climate, the terrain, and the weather patterns of everything west of Quicksilver as far as the mainland. I feel pretty confident we have only clear skies and high temperatures ahead of us for this week, with the exception of a three-hour storm I predict for Tuesday afternoon. Meteorology is not my specialty, but I know how to read a Doppler radar.
We get to the front desk inside the mansion, which is set up uncannily like a hotel, and the clerk gives us room keys and maps. (I'm obviously not the only person who thinks the floor plans here would bewilder a homing pidgey.) The clerk also gives us instructions to gather in the dining hall at six o'clock for an orientation supper and detailed description of the tournament ahead of us.
"You can drop those there," Deborah tells me at the front desk. "I'll get a bellhop to carry them for me."
"Nonsense," I reply. I carried her two biggest bags here from the dock already; a little farther was a small request. I even grab a third bag of hers with my index and middle finger on my left hand, leaving her responsible for only the smallest one. Her smile turns from one of friendly appreciation to one of sultry appreciation.
"Follow me," she says and waves a single finger. I do so without question. Carrying her three bags in my arms and my bag over my shoulders, we make our way up one flight of velvet-lined stairs and down two hallways wide enough for planes to taxi until we reach the guest residences. I wait while Deborah puts down her bag and fumbles through her purse for her room key the clerk handed her only three minutes ago. I notice her Pokéballs in her purse, too; she has one basic Pokéball, one Safari Ball, and one Ultra Ball. The Pokéball and the Ultra Ball don't narrow down her selection for me at all, but the Safari Zone is home to only so many Pokémon. I try to imagine Deborah with a scyther, but the image just doesn't stick—she's too soft to raise a Pokémon so dangerous.
She finally gets the door open and invites me inside. Her room is like a hotel suite. She has a seventy-two-inch television screen sitting within a massive entertainment unit that contains all the accoutrements for a killer Superbowl party; three very large and fancy seats including a four-person couch, a two-person loveseat, and a reclining chair; a beautiful oak desk; and a matching coffee table. And there's still room to park those planes that taxi down the halls.
"This place is amazing!" Deborah says excitedly. She smiles brightly and has trouble hiding her sorority-like giddiness in response to her luxurious digs, but she tries. She very quickly catches herself and puts on a calmer, more serious reaction; I think she wants to impress me. "You can drop those in the bedroom," she says and leads me to the next room. The bedroom has a Jacuzzi tub in the floor; a second, thirty-two-inch television; four beautiful dressers each with four oversized drawers; and a queen-sized bed. I see a bathroom off to the side with an enormous and elaborate vanity and a fancy shower stall constructed immaculately from marble. From one look, I imagine most guests are reluctant to leave a place like this.
I place Deborah's bags carefully next to the dressers by the door and readjust my own bag to prevent a muscle cramp in my shoulder. Deborah practically corners me next to the dressers; her gaze starts at my waist and slowly travels up until she meets my eyes.
"Thanks for your help," she says softly.
"Glad to be here."
She takes a step closer and lightly presses her hand against my stomach. "You know… we've got a half hour to kill before we need to get ready for that big dinner."
Thirty minutes? If that's all she needs, she's in a different class from the other women I've dated. I consider her proposal for about two seconds before I stroke her hair aside and lean in to kiss her. Something in her eyes tells me she's not usually this forward. I'm not sure what she hopes to gain from this behavior. Maybe she just wants to weasel out of me what Pokémon I brought with me for the tournament, and it doesn't take a lot of creativity for a woman who looks like that to get what she wants from a guy. The irony is I would have told her if she just asked me. I've changed my mind about that now.
Thirty minutes go by too quickly—they always do. Deborah's touch is tender and graceful like a princess, and her skin is silky to the touch. I hate for it to end.
When she finally brings up my choice of Pokémon for this trip, I realize she's easy to read and I was correct about the catalyst for this little workout. I consider holding out on the information, but I figure she earned it. She seems surprised and slightly disgusted when I mention scyther as my favorite choice, and she reacts when I mention jolteon. She's careful not to give much away—she'd be a good Poker player—but I start piecing things together in my head.
She has a Safari Ball, meaning she's been to the Safari Zone. Judging from the location of her home and the fact that she claims not to travel a lot, I guess she got it from the Safari Zone in Kanto, the same place I got mine. There are seventeen species of Pokémon there, and she very obviously doesn't appreciate scyther—perhaps that's true of all bugs. If I'm right, then four species of Pokémon are off the list. I start making assumptions in my head based on her work, and I assume her Safari Ball is home to a normal-type. Based on what I know of her now, like the fact that she's interested in appearances, I jump to the conclusion that she has a chansey.
Given the way she reacted when I mentioned jolteon, I wonder if her Pokéball holds an evolution of eevee. Eevee is named such because it can evolve at least nine different ways according to Dad's stories. He chose to evolve Sundance—named because Dad was a Robert Redford fan—into jolteon because as an eevee, Sundance had such an electric personality. Dad had a bit of an electric personality, too, and they say Pokémon begin to act like their masters after a while. Using that as a basis for hypothesis, I try to compare Deborah to eevee. She's pretty bubbly on the surface—she might have vaporeon—but I also noticed during that half hour that she's got a bit of a dark side—something she tries to hide. It's possible that she kept eevee because it is also a normal-type, but I make another leap of faith and guess she has umbreon—an eevee evolved in the moonlight.
But then, I could be way off. I know a little psychology, but that certainly doesn't make me psychic or clairvoyant.
When she asks about my third Pokémon, I finally get stingy. Maybe I can get a repeat performance from her if I still have something she wants. I feel a little guilty about using her like that, but my guilt is appeased when I remind myself that she's just using me, too. She smiles flirtatiously at my sudden reluctance to divulge, but her eyes tell me she knows why I'm doing it. The fact that she's smiling tells me that she's okay with my decision; maybe she likes me. She tells me we should get together again after midnight. I'm curious why so late, but I accept her invitation. For now I head to my room to unpack and dress appropriately for our fancy orientation dinner.
My room is down the hall and around the corner from Deborah's room. I count the rooms on the way and see that four people have rooms between mine and Deborah's, not counting rooms on the opposite side of the hall. I mark her room on my map and unpack my clothes—that's almost all I brought aside from basic toiletries. I look at the one dress shirt I brought and decide it's not worth ironing it before supper. I put it on and tuck it into my khaki pants. A black tie complements the blue shirt well enough for me. Only my shoes don't match—I wear white tennis shoes not as a fashion statement, but because I hate dress shoes and I figure no one will really care, anyway. As far as the shirt goes, the only creases are in the stomach and the sleeves, but they become much less obvious when my shirt is tucked in and I doubt it's all that noticeable. The high temperature almost makes me question my attire, but I'm actually more functional with high temperatures than I am with low temperatures.
Satisfied that I look okay, I head out to the dining hall. Before I do, however, I decide to spend a moment standing at the junction of the two hallways and note which rooms everyone comes from. I hold my map in front of me to mark each person's room. As an added bonus, no one seems to know what I am doing, but rather thinks I'm lost; when they offer help, I respectfully decline and tell them I'm just studying the map for a few minutes before dinner. I only have trouble distinguishing Geoff's room from Bernie's room because they both come from the same room, but at least I know which two belong to them, and I don't really need more detail than that. The only people I never see leave their rooms are Deborah, Remy, Timothy, and Shawn. I note the possible locations of the latter three and take off to be the last one to arrive in the dining hall. The four who never left their rooms are already seated when I get there—I just missed them earlier.
I am the best-dressed of the group. Everyone else is wearing very casual clothing ranging from T-shirts and jean shorts to skirts and tank tops. I feel a little like I'm in one of my classrooms, except now everyone looks at me like I'm an overachiever instead of the guy who knows what will be on the test.
Before any food is provided, our attention is drawn to the small stage at the end of the room. That's where a man dressed in a two-thousand-dollar suit begins speaking to us on behalf of the man who invited us to this tournament. He's a very tall, rather lean and well built man, a lot like how everyone looks in the movies after they've been stranded on an island for a while, although he's missing the full, coarse beard.
"Good evening, Pokémon masters," he starts his speech. I disapprove of the term. To this point, I hadn't questioned my invitation much, but I am a far cry from a master, and so I begin to wonder if they weren't confusing me with someone else. The man continues, "I am Kyle Mayhan, manager of this tournament and spokesman for Professor Zamia himself. He extends his deepest apologies for being unable to attend at this time, but he offers his mansion up for the duration of the tournament. Please feel at home here, and if there is ever anything you desire, just ask one of our servants and your wish will be granted.
"I wish to inform you all that this will not be a typical Pokémon tournament. The instructions change with every match, so be sure to pay close attention to your wake-up calls each morning. Every battle is scrutinized and scored such that a loss does not preclude your progress through the tournament, but you will instead be ranked on a point system. There is an explanation in your guidebooks, and it will make more sense when the tournament begins tomorrow. Tonight is yours to do as you wish, but please do not leave the mansion grounds. Now enjoy the feast and relax in preparation of the games."
Now they bring us a wide variety of foods from across the globe. I'm personally a fan of the steak—it's juicy and perfectly prepared, and every bite is a sensual experience for my tongue, but that could be leftover endorphins from earlier. The wine, especially complementary of the food, is available to everyone except the twelve-year-old boy Timmy and the nineteen-year-old boy Fell; they have sodas instead.
The conversation around the table varies by subgroup. Timmy speaks with Lisa and Victor about what it's like to win prestigious tournaments at such a young age. Deborah talks up Geoff and Bernie the same way she did me, although without making more contact than a simple finger stroke on the forearm. I wonder if she reads them as well as I do, that she could probably get whatever she wants from them if she just lets them get to first base. Emily and Sunday look almost like they are competing with one another for Anfernee's attention, and Anfernee keeps egging them on despite the fact that Sunday is much older than he is. I can't really hear Fell, Remy, Omar, and Olivia at this distance and I'm not too good at reading lips; all I can make out is: I'm pretty sure they're speaking English. I choose not to engage actively in any conversation, but rather I listen to all conversations to pick out clues about everyone else's personalities.
Timmy mentions he likes Pokémon who are tough, even if they aren't cute; Victor agrees with him, but Lisa remains silent on the matter. Bernie confesses with Breloom, and Geoff tries to trump him by claiming Breloom's attack power doesn't match Weezing's defensive strength. Anfernee mentions Monfernape as his only unevolved Pokémon, evoking Metagross from Sunday while Emily holds her tongue and doesn't let her secrets slip. As I write little notes on my map, I realize that Shawn and Jess aren't here anymore; I lost track of them already. I throw simple, flirtatious comments toward Emily and Sunday once in a while to draw some attention to myself just because I can't help it sometimes. That little part of me that thinks about women all the time hopes they will think about me all the time, and so I flirt. The effort seems unnecessary with Deborah, who occasionally glances my way as if to cry for protection from Bernie and Geoff's nerd talk.
By the time supper is finished, I have figured out thirteen of the sixty potential opponents for Musashi and Sundance to face. For no one did I figure out all three Pokémon; it seems like everyone guards that information as closely as I do now. It makes me wonder if they all own legendary Pokémon, too. Ultimately, I don't really care. I think Musashi is skilled enough to take on just about anybody.
It's only seven-thirty, and I'm not sure how to kill the next four and a half hours before I sneak back to Deborah's room. (It strikes me as a little odd that I'm at a Pokémon tournament and more interested in Deborah than the tournament until I remember that it's been two years since my last serious girlfriend and Deborah is very, very hot.) After a few minutes of sorting through alternatives, I realize the weather here is much nicer than back home. Even in the night air—which is considerably cooler than when the sun shines brightly on the island—the temperature is still quite pleasant. I decide to change into swim trunks and go outside for a dip in the pool, which I find is the same surface area as my entire apartment back home.
Swimming turns out to be a great idea—the water is a whopping thirty degrees Celsius, or eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit for those who prefer it. I spend an hour just swimming laps around the water's edge. That's about the time I'm joined by Sunday, a forty-two-year-old psychologist from Mauville City in the Hoenn region. She participated in the Elite Four Tournament a few years back and finished in the top ten, but she has since been all but forgotten in the world of Pokémon training. She was surprised to receive an invitation for this tournament because the most recent thing she completed was first prize in a local tournament in Mauville. It's possible her local victory sparked reminders of her glory days from when she was younger.
Sunday is five-foot-eight and very skinny—I estimate 130 pounds or so just based on her height and girth. But she slouches, and so she may actually be a little taller. Sunday doesn't seem too obsessed with her appearance at first, but her hair is multiple colors; her normally black hair is streaked with pink highlights, suggesting that she may be experiencing an early mid-life crisis. At dinner, she also wore more earrings and studs in her ears than I could count.
The most curious thing I remember about meeting her on the Hydrargyrum was that she insisted I call her "Lady" Sunday. I think she has some kind of thing about titles of nobility, whether earned through marriage or through ego. It's definitely the first time I met someone like that, although I did have a student once who wanted me to call him "Wolf" because that was his street name. Then again, if I were named for a day of the week, I'd probably want a nickname, too; I like to think I'd be less smug about it, though. I remember the royal blue dress Sunday wore to dinner, which supported her noble appearance.
In the present, Sunday wears a royal blue bikini with rhinestone studs on it. The rhinestones seem counterproductive on a swimsuit in my opinion, but at least she looks good in it. Her belly is tight, though she has a negligible amount of cellulite in her legs. I don't find myself attracted to her in the same way as Deborah. I'd like to think it's not because of her smaller chest or her age; she just doesn't appeal to me. But I must admit that for a forty-two-year-old, she looks like she's no older than twenty-five. Maybe I was wrong about her concern for appearance after all.
Sunday is a very introverted person, made obvious by her instantly acting surprised to see me out here. Outwardly she seems polite—she apologizes for disturbing me—but her tone of voice and a quick flash of disappointment in her face suggests she's being condescending through the apology.
"You're not disturbing me," I assure her. "In fact, I was just getting bored."
"Then allow me to keep you company," she says as she dips her foot in the pool. She hums softly and comments how nice the water feels, then slips right in. Considering she just looked upset to see me, this pleasant behavior is a rapid change; already she reveals herself to be a complex woman. "How long have you been out here?"
"About an hour," I reply.
"Did you come here right after dinner? Aren't you supposed to wait an hour, first?"
I laugh and tell her, "That's mostly old wives' tale." Actually, that was a Freudian slip; I feel guilty about using that phrase around Sunday, so I quickly stammer on to explain, "The theory is that digestion takes oxygen away from your muscles and can cause cramps. Not only is that an exaggeration because the body produces plenty of oxygen for swimming, but I also don't cramp easily."
"Thanks for the tip. You must be tougher than any man I know," she says, then elaborates by telling me every man she knows who contracts a cramp in the pool turns instantly into a baby. I laugh, but it's more because I'm uncomfortable around most women and feel the need to flirt with every one of them as a defense mechanism. "What brought you to the pool?"
"I'm a swimmer," I tell her. "I teach math and science, but I also coach baseball and I'm basically an exercise freak. Swimming is my second favorite way to stay in shape, and the Jacuzzi in my room just isn't big enough for laps."
"Mmm. I prefer to run mostly, but I do enjoy a good swim once in a while."
"Is that what brought you out here?"
She shakes her head and tells me, "I merely wanted to step away from the other trainers for a time." She chuckles at me and clarifies that she's okay with me being here with her. "Everyone tries to discover one another's Pokémon as if knowing what your opponent holds will guarantee you a victory."
"It gives you a slight advantage," I suggest. Honestly, I'm not sure how true that is. I haven't come across a Pokémon yet that Musashi couldn't eventually defeat thanks to his nitojutsu training. All that agility training and sword fighting makes him a tough customer.
"Yes, slight," she repeats with emphasis. "The intensity with which Emily and Anfernee are debating, one might think knowing the opponent's lineup is a guaranteed win. That redhead Deborah even discussed with Emily Bernie's Pokémon as a trade for whatever Emily knew about my and Anfernee's Pokémon."
That answered one question for me. Information was like currency in a tournament setting. I may have been the only participant naïve enough to think half the excitement was finding out what your opponent would throw at you next. Everyone else knew that knowing your opponent gives you the edge. (I knew that regarding swordplay, but I guess it slipped my mind regarding Pokémon battles.) That's why Deborah was so eager to know who I brought with me. I begin piecing together in my head that she's not likely to repeat with anyone else the hospitality she showed me—she has my information already to use as a bargaining chip against further information, and unlike real money, she doesn't lose information with every exchange. She carries that same information to multiple people and gets just as much out of it each time, building her own information base in the process while simultaneously keeping everyone else at a clear disadvantage; no matter how much information everyone else gathers from her about the other participant, they will never know what she has.
"I guess that means everyone on the island knows about my Pokémon already," I conclude out loud.
Sunday smiles at me coyly. "Why did you tell Deborah, anyway?"
I shrug and conceal the truth from her to avoid being judged for taking advantage of the situation in a moment of weak constitution; I also like the idea of that information not spreading. "She asked me," I say, "and I guess I don't have enough experience to realize what kind of disadvantage that gives me." At least nothing I said in that answer was a lie.
Sunday scoffs amusedly. "You should still be okay if your Pokémon are strong. Knowing what your opponent has only gives an advantage to a point. After that, it's all personal strength, coaching, and type-matching." That's true. At some point, sheer mettle becomes the true trump card in a match. I have faith enough in Musashi, Sundance, and Ra that I would readily pit them against any opponent. I tell Sunday the same except that I never mention Ra to her. As far as I know, the only people who know about Ra are the organizers of the tournament who had me register my Pokémon.
I spend another thirty minutes in the pool with Sunday talking about life back home—I tell her some of my funny stories about my students over the years—when I decide to get out of the pool before my skin shrivels much more. She climbs out of the pool with me and makes a point to stretch her body while she dries herself off. I'm not certain about it, but I'd bet she's flirting with me. Maybe chicks really do dig scars. Or she really is having a mid-life crisis and flirting with a younger man makes her feel pretty.
"Good night," she says seductively. "I'll see you in the morning."
On my way back to my room wearing my swim trunks and a sleeveless workout shirt, I notice Lisa inside the mansion's weight room, which is located almost directly beside the back door that goes to the pool. She's using the isolateral chest press machine. I look at my watch to find the big hand on the three and the little hand on the nine. With still too much time to kill, I enter the weight room and figure to try for another association.
"Hi, Lisa."
She simply nods in my direction until she finishes her set. Then she takes a few deep breaths, drinks from her water bottle, and then finally greets me somewhat curtly.
Lisa is a twenty-eight-year-old woman who is an active, traveling Pokémon trainer. She travels across countries to collect and train a wide variety of Pokémon. When I met her on the yacht, she admitted to me that she has collected more than twenty-four Pokémon Gym badges. As impressive as that sounds to me by simple number, I really have no basis for comparison except to know that she even received a badge from Dad's old gym, even though it was after his heart attack.
I find it hard not to admire Lisa's body when she lifts. She's about five-five and probably weighs 140 pounds, estimating from her slender and muscular build. It seems almost like she has no body fat, holding herself together exclusively by lean muscle tissue. But her muscular appearance is probably lost on an untrained eye; she doesn't look like female bodybuilders or like she's on steroids, but rather like a lean, slender woman. Her skin isn't tight on her arms when she's at rest—only when she's lifting.
Lisa's workout attire alone can catch someone's eye. Her jet black hair, which normally falls just past her shoulders, is pulled into a ponytail. Her tanned complexion disappears beneath the sleeveless, black sports bra—it doesn't reveal any cleavage, but it can't hide the size and shape of her well sculpted chest, either. Her midsection is bare, revealing an abdomen even comparable to my own. Her shorts that match her bra are tight and end just after the quadriceps emerge from her hips. Her legs are bigger and much more solid than Deborah's. The lean form of her beautiful legs tells me she's also a runner and not just a lifter.
"You aren't trying to trade information and figure out what Pokémon everyone brought with them?" I ask her.
"Don't bother," she tells me, probably under the mistaken assumption that I was in here to weasel that information from her. "I'm not telling anyone who I brought and I don't care who you brought. Pokémon battles aren't nearly as much fun if you know what's coming."
It shocks me a little to hear that from someone who is rated a Pokémon Master, but I think it probably speaks to her personality. I also noticed that she referred to her Pokémon as "who" instead of "what," something I used to think was ridiculous until fairly recently. She hasn't said much and already she has me intrigued.
"I agree with you," I tell her. "I just thought I would come in and say hi. Get to know you a little bit maybe."
She starts lifting another set while she responds to me. "Why? You think my personality and behavior can tell you how I train Pokémon?"
"Absolutely it can," I reply, "but I honestly don't care about your Pokémon. I just want to get to know you. Isn't meeting people the other half of the fun of a tournament?"
When she finishes this set, she sits for a moment and stares at me. She's trying to figure out what my angle is, but anything she comes up with will be false: I sincerely care more about knowing her than I care about playing the puzzle game with figuring out Pokémon. (I know I played that game with Deborah, but she started it.)
"You really aren't trying to analyze me?" she asks me.
I tilt my back and say, "Well… It is an analysis of some kind. I judge you, you judge me…"
Now she smiles at me; it's a knee-weakening image. "I get it now," she says, now aware of us not as two Pokémon trainers but as a man and a woman. She stands from the chest press and motions toward it with her hand. "Come on, Scarface. Let's see what you've got." Following her insistence, I load a forty-five pound plate on either side of the machine. I do a quick set of ten repetitions at this weight, approximately equivalent to lifting 115 pounds.
"That's all you've got?" she mocks.
"Give me a minute," I say. "I just want to warm up." Now I tack on another forty-five pound plate to either side, approximately equal to lifting 205 pounds. This set is significantly heavier, but I manage to squeeze out six repetitions before I have to stop. A guy with my muscle definition should be able to lift more, but for a guy with my bulk, it's a respectable number. I might be able to make the case that two hours of swimming weakened me to some degree, but that would present me as a sore loser—I decide to leave it how it is and see Lisa's reaction.
She hums and says, "Okay. You're about as strong as you look. I thought you might be one of those guys who's just lucky his biology lined up to give him the perfect body."
I grin, now remembering that I'm not wearing much, and ask her, "You think I have a perfect body?"
Suddenly Lisa's face turns bright red and I realize she's not as careful and guarded as she tries to be. The irony is she's got a killer body herself. Her chest is not as large as Deborah's, but still impressive, and the rest of Lisa's body is perfectly taut and appropriately curved in all the right places. She seems more natural and a little more perfect than Deborah.
She looks away and says, "You want to hang out? Come give me a spot on the military press."
While I spot her on the military press, Lisa tells me about her workout routine. Assuming her description is accurate and not an exaggeration, she is physically stronger and in better shape than any woman I've ever met—maybe even better than I am. She says she lifts weights at least four times a week when she has access to a gym and engages in cardiovascular training every day she doesn't lift—being on the road in travel often leaves her without a gym and that's why she chooses to lift so rigorously when she can. She tells me the exercises she already completed before I came in, including inclined bench presses.
"Presses are dangerous without a spotter," I point out to her.
Appropriately, she reacts with a very sarcastic, "Duh." That got me thinking about her situation—she probably used her Pokémon as spotters most of the time. If I'm right, then she might have brought fighting types with her, or at least something big and strong. Judging from her body shape, though, I'm definitely leaning toward fighters. But… I really don't care; I'd rather stare at her than her Pokémon.
"Hang on a second," she tells me and stands beside the military press. She starts pulling on her left shoulder like she's trying to stretch the muscle by hand. On a whim, I put my hands on her back and start to rub her shoulder for her. She jumps away and gives me a look that makes her suspicions quite obvious, but I assure her I was only offering an extra set of hands—very talented hands, I add, that have dealt with a number of cramps and pulled muscles during baseball season. She grudgingly stands still while I position my left arm around hers for support and start pressing into her shoulder with my right hand. I can see her cheeks enough to know she's still blushing, but a moment later she also exhales fully, a sign that a large amount of tension was just relieved. I let go and she starts shaking her shoulder, seemingly pleased with the result.
It takes her a long time to say just, "Thanks." She was still waiting for my big move, unable to believe I was just trying to be a nice guy.
"Come on," I tell her and pat the seat on the military press. "You still have two more sets."
Watching Lisa lift gets me a little excited about being in the gym again and I take a few sets of each exercise between hers. All in all, we end up staying in the gym until ten-thirty, a two-hour workout for her. Now I feel pretty tired and sore, and I still have an hour and a half to kill. Lisa decides it's time for bed. I walk her back to her room and get a goodnight handshake at her door. Not exactly a fair trade for a shoulder massage, but I'll live.
I go back to my room and decide that while I'm already hot and sweaty, I'll finish off my training regimen. I remove from the dresser the two short swords I opted to hide in the room and begin performing the swords dance, a series of coordinated maneuvers that strengthen the body and improve flexibility as I combat imaginary opponents. It is a series of movements my grandfather and I put together from watching the behavior of my scyther.
I finish practicing just before midnight and take a quick shower to clean up. I spend several minutes considering what to do next—so many options and potential decisions lay in front of me now. I judge myself a little when I find myself outside Deborah's door thinking about Lisa. Just because the option is there and I feel foolish to pass it up, I knock softly on Deborah's door at twelve-oh-six. She opens the door wearing a white nightgown that does amazing justice to her figure.
I ask her, "Any chance we can just talk?"
She ushers me in by simply waving one finger and shuts the door behind me. When she realizes I'm serious, she puts a robe on—which I admit kills me just a little—and we just talk and get to know one another some. Actually, she gets to know me. I don't think two words she said to me were true. She's even more careful with her words than I realized earlier.
It's just as well that I figure out now how unlikely it is for any actual connection to develop between me and Deborah. There are moments she seems interested in me, but then she closes off any time she talks about herself. She definitely has something to hide. The conversation simply serves to turn me off of her and return my thoughts to Lisa. I leave the room before the clock hits one and return to my room to get some sleep.
This chapter is mostly intended to show some of Jin's thought processes, introduce a few of the female contestants (I remind you that character importance comes from Jin's perspective), and establish one of the two main themes of noir-style narration. I read the rating guidelines carefully and came to the conclusion that this chapter is quite subtle enough to maintain a T rating. If anyone disagrees with me, however, let me know and I will likely change it. I am not sure yet whether the violence I have planned for later will require the M rating. I would like to keep the T rating as long as I can.
The next chapter will begin with the first round of Pokémon battles. I'll introduce a few more characters and demonstrate for you a few of the ways I attempt to reconcile the physical impossibilities of the Pokémon world with one closer to our own (e.g., spontaneous creation of matter for so many attacks). Obviously, pure physics is going to be difficult, but I have a few ideas to describe Pokémon biology in such a way to explain their abilities. I think the healing process (i.e., 'Nurse Joy' and the like) may have to be exaggerated lest the Pokémon not be able to battle twice.
As an aside to sunshine5991, I accepted Emily you submitted, but you disabled the messaging option and so I couldn't contact you about the character.
Credits:
Emily....sunshine5991
Anfernee....watts63
Lady Sunday....Happy2BMe
Fell....Happy2BMe
Shawn....Jack Krieg and James Crusade
Jess....Imagination Domination
Everyone else....YamiRuss
