*curls into fetal position* I am NEVER EVER watching a dubbed Kalos episode AGAIN. Serena's voice is terrible. Clemont's voice somehow manages to be even worse, which shouldn't even be scientifically possible, but it happened anyway 'cause these VAs have no respect for science or something.
However, as I found Amourshippy hints with the English voices to be way way more annoying than subbed Amourshippy hints, I wrote this chapter in record time while my ears healed. Something good did come of this after all.
Enjoy!
(I don't own Pokemon, be it subbed or dubbed *coughmademyearsbleedcough*, so don't sue me.)
Dawn weaves through the crowd, straining to not look like she's following Red Hat – she feels like a spy, albeit a fairly disillusioned one – and remain on the trail at the same time.
She elbows someone out of her way, sidesteps another, fails to avoid a collision with a third ("jeez, can't you watch where you're going?"). Goodness, the crowd is huge today. Usually the 'journalists' travel in small packs, like Mightyenas, and seeing so many at a time gives Dawn a distinctly jittery feeling, which abates slightly when she sees the Red Hat.
Speaking of him. Where'd he go?
Dawn stops, and people flow to either side of her, many not bothering to avoid her or at least slow down. She looks around for another few minutes, and when she doesn't spot him – and his hat is fairly distinctive – she sighs, deciding that he's probably left.
And now, robbed of her little spy game (stalker, some part of her mind grumbles), Dawn is left to what following Red Hat distracted her from in the first place.
Dawn has never once considered that her mother would be disappointed in her, and the thought makes her ashamed, as does her lack of faith in Mom, so weak that its foundations are shaken by one little comment.
Little. She laughs, bitterly maybe, but after all, hadn't she told herself yesterday that she would win this contest, not just for herself but for her Pokémon?
And see how well that turned out.
Calling the comment 'little' when its impact is so great is simply a lie, not another broken promise, and – hey –another lie to herself won't hurt.
(It will, though.)
"No need to worry!" she says loudly, and earns a few looks from passersby who undoubtedly think that yes, there is a need to worry, and they're looking at it.
She has to stop this self-pity; she must.
But Dawn will allow herself a night to grieve, to cry where no one can see her, to recuperate. Just one night.
She knows it will take more than one night. But.
Those contests ain't gonna win themselves, now are they?
Exactly. Dawn heads towards the exit when she sees, from the corner of her eye, the journalist who led the interrogation, a few other unfortunately familiar faces (well, hairstyles; she can only see their hair from here), and a couple of camera operators. Apparently all the facts have been compiled, and their talk show is about to start. Dawn realizes that the head interrogator is the host of Coordinator Watch, a talk show that for whatever reason has gained popularity.
She does not have time for this, dammit. Dawn averts her gaze, keeps her head down. "Excuse me…"
"Welcome to Coordinator Watch," says reporter lady, and Dawn turns back around, chin to collarbone but eyes raised up. Her hope – there it is again, stupid and painful and oh-so-resilient – is that this 'report' will anger her out of sadness. Or maybe it's masochism, not hope, that forces her to watch. Only time will tell.
"Tonight," continues the anchorwoman, obviously relishing her job, "the team found out that a rumor about your two favourite Hoenni coordinators is true, as confirmed by multiple sources. But first, the events of today's contest in Goldenrod City!"
Dawn straightens her shoulders, bracing herself for her name.
"Ms. Dawn Berlitz of Twinleaf Town, in case you didn't watch today's contest, lost to Ms. Kalina Sakamoto of Nacrene City in the first two minutes of the match."
Dawn watches as the woman and her cohorts give a play-by-play run through of her embarrassing loss, of course adding in their own approximations on how pathetic she is. She's not feeling angry yet, just tired.
"… and she is in the middle of a five –yup, folks, you heard that right, five – contest losing streak. What do you think of this, Roberto?"
Roberto, a painfully-thin, tall man – she can see his shoulders, even over the crowd's heads – says, "Well, I'm thinking that she should've quit while she was ahead. She peaked in Sinnoh, for sure, and even at her best she's only ever been second place." He chuckles, shakes his head.
Nausea goes over Dawn in a slow wave. She decides that angering herself out of pity isn't going to work, that it is in fact the stupidest idea she's had in a long time, and turns to go, but it's hard parting a path in the crowd and, even as she turns away, she can hear their prattle:
"I'd say that Hoenn was her best region stylistically, even if she only got to the semi-finals of the LaRousse Grand Fest," a hostess says.
"Excuse me," Dawn says, jostling the person in front of her. She doesn't want to hear this. The person doesn't move; she covers her ears, but can still hear Coordinator Watch's reporters droning on.
"But you're right," the same hostess notes, "about her quitting while she's ahead. She's barely a competitor; all she's doing is wasting space in the arena."
"And our time as spectators," adds another host.
Maybe she'll just sue for slander. Or is it libel?
"Please," she says to the person blocking her path. She looks for ways around him and sees none, so she snaps, "Get out of my way."
The head interrogator's voice cuts over the clamor, cuts into Dawn: "We want to watch winners, not losers."
Dawn actually considers turning around and delivering a few punches. Would you look at that, she's angry after all. It worked.
But these past few months have taught her not to just go on impulses with the media. So she just continues trying to escape.
A chorus of agreement rises up in relation to the head interrogator's comment, then turns into murmurs of confusion, then of dissent. A man squawks: "What are you–"
"Maybe you should get your eyes checked," says a familiar voice that's muffled by the disapproval of Coordinator Watch's cast. "Because if you can't see that Dawn – um, Ms. Berlitz – is not just a winner, she's a champion, then – well, you must really, really need some glasses."
Despite herself, Dawn spins around, standing on her tiptoes to see – she knows that voice from somewhere, somewhere.
Then she frowns; maybe she needs her eyes checked. All she can see is the top of the head, but that's enough to tell that it's definitely Red Hat. Why is he…?
Another host screeches, "You are on national television and–"
"Am I? Huh. In that case, hi, Mom!"
A growl. "Who do you think you are?" demands a hostess, incensed.
Red Hat says, a grin in his voice, "Me? Just a guy who hates seeing incredible peop – I mean, incredible coordinators – being belittled by a bunch of stupid" – Dawn sees his hands waving in the air as he searches for a word – "gossipers," he finishes, triumphantly.
He disappears again, presumably jumping off the stage (or he is pushed, who knows.) And Dawn can't miss him – the chase is back on, amid complaints from the hosts and hostesses.
It's easier to navigate now – the disaster of tonight's 'Coordinator Watch' has drawn the majority of the crowd, making it easier to get to where she wants to go – to Red Hat.
Red Hat vanishes out the west door, towards a more forested part of Goldenrod – the contest arena is just on the outskirts of the city, so unused to contests is Johto. Dawn slips between a camerawoman and interviewee – good luck, Unovian kid, Kalina…you'll need it – and takes a breath of fresh air and quiet when she finally gets outside.
The moonlight-gilded leaves rustle in the breeze, a fleeting eerie shhh, and Dawn obliges, breathing quietly and tiptoeing. But night so soon! She looks up at the full moon and frowns at how high it is already. It must be late; perhaps they interrogated her for longer than she thought.
Although it had seemed an eternity.
She shakes her head – she doesn't want to think about their questions again; she hasn't answers to them. Or, more accurately, she has answers, but to put them into words would be beyond discouraging, and on principle she tries to avoid discouraging things. Tries and fails, to be sure, but the importance lies in the trying.
Speaking of trying. It's time to put her training (if you can call watching spy movies with Cilan 'training') to the test. This terrain is rockier, leafier, and of course, darker; she has to actually be stealthy here, unprotected by crowds.
With that thought comes a worry: what if Red Hat – a stranger, really (Arceus, what was I thinking?) – is dangerous? Never mind that he defended her to Coordinator Watch. A shiver runs down Dawn's spine, and suddenly the whispering of the leaves seems ominous, the moonlight alien, foreboding. Here she is, just blindly following some –
Wait. Is that…?
The darkness is playing tricks on your eyes, Dawn thinks, and it must be. That isn't really Ash's blue shirt.
Except it is.
It is.
Dawn stops, realizes: Ash was the one sending the flowers, the notes, is the one who defended her at Coordinator Watch (not that she really needed his defense, but still…)
And, upon realizing these truths, the overwhelming reaction is fear, a kind of visceral frightenedness:
for Dawn is afraid of her hope, that has finally been satisfied (because who knows when it will turn back into disappointment?), of her ebbing anger. She is afraid to not be angry at Ash, because without her anger, it is easier – and harder, in some ways – to forgive him.
She is afraid to forgive him, but so much more afraid not to, because – because...
Don't think of the kiss on the dock, Dawn, you haven't the time to daydream. You have questions that Ash needs to answer, and answers to give in return.
So she walks briskly to Ash, hesitates (how is he not hearing her?) and taps him on the shoulder.
To be continued. Next chapter'll probably be the last one.
Review, please!