13:24 - October 14th, 2007 - 11 days until October 25th

While it was impossible to explore much without a bike, the vast Route 207 made for an ideal place for Connor and Reyes to train their Pokémon. Fellow trainers were quite scarce in the first leg of the route, as the rocky terrain of the place meant most travellers of the route were explorers and cycling enthusiasts. This, of course, meant that the pair could train mostly undisturbed, and there was plenty of tall grass to do it in. From time to time they'd bump into the odd trainer and one of them (almost always Reyes) would stop to have a bit of a chat, but for the most part the day had been spent so far fighting wild Pokémon.

Connor was careful to not exert Ronnie too hard, his memories of his first day as a trainer still fresh in the memory, and had decided beforehand to limit his haul for this session to ten Pokémon at the very most. This number was a fairly random pick, with Connor hesitant to avoid an unproductive session whilst also wanting to avoid another burnout. Besides, it was unlikely he was actually going to reach that number - the presence of species like Machop and Kricketot meant that there was ample room for Byrne to train and flourish, too.

On paper, anyway.

The extent to which this was actually the case was about to be tested, as Connor found himself standing - from a safe distance, of course - over a puffed up Byrne, who in turn faced a Machop determined to stand its ground, with its back a straight line, a defiant look in its eye and its fists laying on its hips. Ronnie had been withdrawn after his second battle of the day, and Reyes was off somewhere unleashing Baggo on a poor, innocent Geodude.

Connor's own body language was much less confident, mind; it dawned on him he was fidgeting with his hands. His biggest issue was that, by his Pokédex's count, the Machop had two levels on Byrne. Lack of discipline was very much a likelihood, one that worried him - Byrne probably wasn't going to follow instructions well at all here. In turn, he was possibly going to make things much harder than they had to be - there was a chance he was going to at least get hurt, and the odds of him getting knocked out were very much there. What did he know about Machop? A Fighting-type; Byrne, both Normal- and Flying-type - the emphasis lay on Normal-type here; he was still vulnerable to Fighting moves. Also famously a physically strong Pokémon - while Byrne knew Peck and Wing Attack, his advantage was lessened here. Although Byrne held the speed advantage, getting close was an inevitability, one that played into Machop's hands - and god forbid it went for the bad wing, too.

He noticed that the tensions were about to come to a boiling point, with Byrne breaking into a hiss and Machop a growl, and decided to make the first move. "Ah- alright, Byrne, erm… rush at his... right side and do a Wing Attack with your left wing!" His voice was shakier than he was pleased to admit.

There was a pause before the Machop let out a cry of war and charged at Byrne, fists swinging. Byrne let out a shriek in retaliation, extending his wings to the fullest of his ability - and Connor whimpered as he realised the Starly was completely wide open. Whilst he landed a few quite powerful (if imprecise) wing slaps, bruising the Machop's cheek and rocking his head about, he also took an emphatic uppercut to the chest. This knocked him off his rhythm completely and did some hefty damage.

"Byrne! Peck to his head! P-please!" called out Connor, a sludge of panic and impulse in his voice.

Just as Machop prepared another crushing blow, Byrne thrust his head back and unleashed a furious chain of pecks at the creature's stomach. This was an improvisation on his part, and while it seemed to be working - each blow provoked winces from the Machop, and some even left significant marks on the creature's gray skin - Connor was uncertain about it. He still figured a blow to the head would have worked better - and it would have got him in the air, too, considering the height difference - but if it worked, he supposed, then it worked.

Eventually, the Machop gathered its bearings, with a look of disgust on its frowning face. Sheer rage filled its red eyes as it flung back its toned arm, and Connor panicked. "Dodge! Now!"

Byrne did no such thing. He was, instead, content to keep going at its stomach, with Connor's plea going in one ear and out the other. As such, the powerful Karate Chop to the head completely caught him off guard. It drew a pained, shrill screech from his opened beak, his eyes slammed shut in the agony. When they opened, his vision was blurry, and a ringing sound hammered at his ear.

This was disastrous. Connor buried his head in his hands - he figured that he really should have known better. Cries of what were you thinking?! and of course he's going to ignore you! and Why did you rush him into the team, you moron?! rang in his head, as a well of shame built up in his gut. He managed to pull himself out of it just to holler a shaky, cracking command to "Use your wings!" - he wasn't even sure what he made of that, let alone what Byrne would.

As Byrne stumbled backwards, he heard Connor's concerned voice cut through the haze and turned to see his anguished face, messy hair and slender forelocks hanging in shame as his eyes screamed an apology. He turned back to the Machop, who was preparing to launch a powerful jab to the face, and while he hadn't been listening to the specifics of Connor's instructions as much as the emotion - he figured he knew better, as he was the one doing the fighting and not some idiot human - a newfound sense of determination to win for whatever reason sprouted in him. Quick as a Unovian gunslinger, he went for Machop's thigh with all the might he could muster at that moment with his left wing, just as the fist neared his face. It landed with a decisive thud. The Machop buckled under the stress on its leg for just long enough.

It was with a bittersweet feeling that Connor heaved his head out of his hands and looked at the scene to see Byrne land a forceful jab the weakened Machop, seeing it clutch its stomach in pain before falling to the ground and writhing in pain. This was certainly a victory, even if it was quite a pyrrhic one - Byrne had suffered his share of thunderous blows from the fight, and judging by his blank expression and stumbling gait, he probably wasn't fit to fight on. But he'd won.

What also surprised Connor was that Byrne was stumbling over to him. Of course, he was Byrne's trainer, and this was probably to be expected - except Connor hadn't expected it. He wasn't actually sure what he'd expected from the plucky little bird. Byrne stood by his side nevertheless, giving him a furrowed look. It was still an apprehensive one, but it was a look nonetheless, and a matter-of-fact smile bloomed on the trainer's face.

Just as he scrambled for Byrne's Pokéball, though, an ear-splitting, blood-curdling scream from nearby almost made his heart stop. It was the sound of someone being murdered in the most violent way imaginable, like a thousand knives to the jugular. Connor and Byrne both shot a terrified look in the direction of the noise as it trailed off. Something was terribly wrong, and they were both unsure whether or not to investigate or flee for their lives. Connor's blood snap-froze. Dread filled him. Sweat drenched him. He wasn't keen on dying either by any means, but what if somebody desperately needed his help?

As much as he felt like emailing his last goodbyes to Reyes or Murphy and accepting his fate, he took a deep breath and decided to play hero. A sense of duty filled him, as he looked to the source of the noise with a reluctant gulp… only to find out the source of the noise.

It wasn't someone being murdered. Rather, it was a very panicked looking Reyes, panting and horror scrawled on his face, with a Kricketot clung to his coat.

"Um…?"

"Connor!" he hollered, terrified as he gestured to the little brown bug. "What the hell is this?! How do I get it off?!"

It was very hard for Connor to mask his amusement at this, stifling a giggle with all his might. "Um… th-that's… that's a Kricketot, Reyes - have you not seen one before? I - they're harmless, I promise."

"They're gross, is what they are! Ay, ay, ay - please, Connor, get it off!" was the genuinely panicked reply.

Byrne shared Connor's perplexed look as he was returned to his ball. The trainer gingerly approached the Bug-type, its round body clung to the flowing blue coat and bright little eyes sparkling back at him. It responded with an innocent hum of contentment when Connor reached out a hand to touch it, and did not mind being handled at all when he grabbed it and stood up with it.

"Well, hey, you," Connor mumbled softly towards the little brown creature as he held it in his arms, much to Reyes' shock. He was met with a high-pitched chirp as he took a few steps away, marching on through the tall grass before setting it free.

Once that was done, he returned to Reyes, who gave him a silent look half amazed and half disgusted. "...You know, Reyes, uh… Kricketot are basically harmless-"

"Connor?"

"Yeah?"

"Never speak a word of this. To anyone."

Connor nodded, desperately trying to mask his bewildered smile.

"Good," was Reyes' reply, a surrendering grin just managing to creep its way onto his face. "Now, shall we get back to training?"

With that, Connor took out Ronnie's ball once more, as did Reyes with Garra, and the two went further into the grass together with their Pokémon.

Multiple days behind schedule, Hawley arrived in Oreburgh with a venomous scowl and a chip on his shoulder. His mood was already severely dampened by the events of the past couple of days - having to abstain from battling had been worsened significantly by the hiker he had met in the cave, and he was dreading his stay in the city with every single fiber of his being. What was there for him in a dusty shantytown like this, full of insufferable tools, doomed to a life of hard labour in the caves?

For one, he decided, his first order of business was to pay a visit to his old friend Kurt. His best efforts to locate him in Jubilife had led him to conclude that he now made his home in Oreburgh, and he figured that he needed to play a bit of catch-up. If that snot-nosed little turd was to have a traveling partner, then he owed it to himself to get his own, too - one that wasn't so savage and violent, mind. After that, he had decided he was going to investigate the museum, and study the history of the region, a subject of great interest to him. He had no other plans after that other than to train relentlessly until this Roark, the fellow who called himself gym leader. had been defeated, and then leave the town immediately for somewhere better. From his first impression of the city, that left his options very much open.

"Alright, Tomyris," he declared as he began to walk, his voice hushed and grumbling, "follow me. We're meeting an old friend of mine, who I think you should get along with quite well. It's unlikely, but if anybody challenges either of us to a fight, ignore them - you're above them, and you must save your energy to fight those who need to be fought. Am I clear?"

An affirmative ribbit met him in reply.

"That's what I like to hear. Off we go, then."

His heavy boots of lead thudded against the sidewalk as he marched through town, hands latched onto the innards of his pockets and back faultlessly straight - "weak posture," his father had always said, "is a symptom of a weak human." Hawley couldn't help but pick up on the fact that nobody seemed to want to bother him or his Pokémon, mind; he took this as a sign that none of these passers-by dared to do so - good. Beside him, Tomyris mirrored his stance, and he couldn't help but feel a hint of pride at the sight.

As he walked, he brought out a crumpled piece of paper that lay in his jacket's pockets and unfurled it. 33 Ironside Way, Apt. 205, it read. This was where he could find Kurt if he was correct. Beneath it lay directions from the east entrance to the town; at thirty more minutes of walking, it was far from ideal. Moreover, he had taken care to keep his Pokéballs concealed much more adequately than he had in Jubilife, not wishing for a repeat of that fiasco - judging by the state of the people around him, that was probably a wise choice. This reminded him to make a mental note of paying a visit to Julius next time he was in that area.

However, in spite of his dedication to keeping to himself, he couldn't help but overhear two people walking not far behind him have a discussion. His attention began to shift to that talk as he kept walking.

The first speaker he picked up on had a strong accent - Hawley hazarded a guess he was Oreburgh, born and bred. "Aye, mate; did I tell ye 'bout the new bloke across the hall from me?"

"No, I don't think you did," was the reply; he reckoned this fellow was probably visiting from elsewhere in the region. "What's he like?"

"'ere, he moves in across the hall from me the other week. Long, curly, black hair. bit of a goatee; proper fancy ol' black jumper and pants, posh accent, all that jazz. I says 'ello to him, y'know - being a good neighbour and all that; doesn't really say anything back, just a smile an' a wave. So I say to 'em, 'what brings you 'ere, pal?' He says it's a nice change of pace-"

"Nice change of pace?" spoke his companion, bewildered by this assertion. "From where?"

"See, that's what I says - and he says 'well, I'm studying to be a lawyer!' A lawyer - in Oreburgh?! I ask 'im if he's sure he's in the right place, and he gives me this look, like I'm speaking a foreign language or something and he just buggers off into his room!"

Although Hawley stopped paying attention to the conversation at that point, he took a guess that the subject of this conversation was none other than Kurt - a guess that was confirmed not long afterwards, as he heard the Oreburgh native go down the same street as him, leading to the same apartment building he was headed to. While there were no shattered windows or ongoing fires, it still wasn't a particularly pleasant sight; at about five stories tall, it was difficult to miss, yet its exterior was made of rather unsavoury shades of brown and black. A lot of the windows were in desperate need of cleaning, too - really, the whole thing just wasn't nice to look at. Making sure Tomyris was still by his side, and checking his pockets to make sure Clausewitz's ball was still present, he reached the door of the building and hammered in the address number - 205 - and dialing.

There was a crackling noise, before a deep, and deeply uninterested, voice came through the intercom. "Who is it?"

"Kurt, you miserable bastard, it's me!" was his exuberant reply.

"Who Is 'me?'"

This time, he toned down his enthusiasm, a tad embarrassed. "Me, y'know - it's Hawley."

"Ah." The voice was notably less lifeless, a hint of surprise present through the crackling intercom. "In that case, come in."

There was a mechanical buzz as the entrance to the building unlocked, and Hawley swung the door open. He was greeted by a dimly-lit and faded checkered-floor corridor, and only mustered up one disgusted look before heading upstairs. Going up the stairs, he was greeted with a similar sight. Not paying it much heed, he counted the doors on the odd-numbered side - 201, 203, 205. Room 205's door was cleaner than the other, grimier doors - Hawley considered himself lucky he didn't have to put his hands anywhere near those other, grimier doors.

"Oi, you 'ere to see the new bloke?"

Hawley recognised the voice as the man from behind him, and turned around to see a heavy-set man of tall build looking at him. "Yeah," he replied before turning back to the door.

"Ooh, d'you know 'em from somewhere?"

This was a silly question that Hawley didn't pay much heed to as he instead opened the door.

Walking in, he was hit by the strong aroma of air freshener - as a matter of fact, he was almost overwhelmed by it. It was a pleasant smell - albeit an artificial one - a sentiment that was not shared by his Croagunk. As a matter of fact, she seemed to loathe it, her sacs filling up in disgust and eternal grin morphing into a frown. The curtains were neatly done, with the sunlight of the early-to-mid afternoon illuminating the room. Air came in through the open window, although with the effect of Great effort had been evidently been poured into making the place presentable, and it paid off quite nicely, Hawley felt.

"Good afternoon," came a voice that he recognised from, and he and Tomyris turned around to see Kurt. It had been several years since the pair had last spoke in person, and while Kurt was almost exactly as the man had described, he still couldn't help but feel a little shocked at how time had acted on him. For one, Kurt had always been the taller of the two from what he recalled, yet now Hawley had a good couple of inches on him. Secondly, his Larvitar was exactly as he recalled it. This was a shock to him - he recalled Kurt always spoke of becoming a great trainer one day, he and his Larvitar. At the very least, he'd expected it to evolve after all these years - if they even did evolve, anyway.

"Ah, hello, old chum," was his reply, a grin emblazoned from cheek to cheek as he held out a hand. For everything the past few days had thrown at him, it felt good to genuinely smile for once - not out of spite or cunning, but rather out of actual happiness. "How're you doing these days?"

Kurt seemed less excited about this. His look was not one of enthusiasm or glee; rather, it was almost a frown - a bemused frown. "I'm well." He refused Hawley's handshake, opting to look him in the eyes with the precision of a particularly stern cyborg. "How did you get my address?"

This caught Hawley off-guard, as he withdrew his hand and began to wilt. "Hm?"

"I'm going to be honest with you here, Hawley," said Kurt as he crossed his arms tighter, leaning against his wall. "As much as I appreciate your concern, I don't particularly appreciate people turning up to my house without me giving them my address. This isn't a personal thing, by any means; rather, my security is at risk if every Tom, Dick and Harry has my address."

"Oh, uh, yeah. I knocked on the door to your parents' house and they said you'd moved out, but they told me that this was your address - I do hope you don't mind that?"

Kurt looked up at the guest in his home, going to great lengths to keep his poker face intact. While it was rather jarring for someone to have put such effort in finding him, this was quite clearly harmless - after all, he recalled his parents taking quite a liking to Hawley back in the day, and so it only made sense they'd tell him about his new location. Not only that, but it seemed as though he had thrown Hawley off by reacting the way he did. He had begun to sweat and was clearly at least partially uncomfortable. He was also trying to hide it, but as Kurt knew quite well, Hawley was not the best at hiding things.

As such, he took it upon himself to lighten up the situation, cracking a smile of his own. "That's quite alright!" he declared, sticking out his own hand this time - an offer that was taken up.

With the mood much less standoffish, the pair began to walk through the apartment, eventually taking sitting across from each other on the black leather sofa. Their Pokémon took their places beside them, with Tomyris looking blankly, looking nonchalantly at its counterpart; in turn, the Larvitar leered back at her with narrow red pupils. Whatever the Pokémon equivalent of resting bitch face was, this creature certainly suffered from it.

"So," began Hawley, leaning in, "I noticed your Pokémon - er... Larvitar, was it? Hasn't changed much since last time - have you given up on training, then?"

"Yes, he's still the same old Franco - still a Larvitar. And I've not completely given it up, no; rather, it's just taken a back seat as it's not really my main priority right now, with studying and becoming a lawyer and all that. It's a bit unfortunate, really; I did enjoy it quite a bit, but my career is much more important than chasing some pipe dream." Kurt seemed wistful as he spoke, his attention drifting off to the window for a fleeting moment before returning to the topic at hand. "I see you have a Pokémon of your own now, though - are you becoming a trainer?"

Hawley's face lit up when asked about this, as he lay his hand on the back of his Croagunk's head, giving her a pat on the head. "Ah! Yes, I am - this is Tomyris; she's a Croagunk. I have another Pokémon too; a Shinx - his name is Clausewitz." He was met with a pleased croak, which was reflected in Tomyris' expression.

"Interesting. Not a bad choice - I'm assuming you're taking on Roark as your first gym leader, then? Is that why you're in town?"

"Yep. Well, that and I appear to have a bit of an ongoing rivalry with Connor - oh, erm, you remember him, right?"

Kurt's face shrivelled up as he thought about this for a moment, chewing his lips before bursting into a dubious laugh in reply. "Oh, him? He can control a Pokémon? Hmph - colour me surprised."

"Hah! Me too - and he's not particularly good at fighting," was Hawley's reply before he gestured at his nose, "although he apparently has a friend who is, now. The bastard."

"Hmph - one little boy who's too scared to do anything by himself, so he calls on others to do his dirty work; another white knight who decides it's his duty to help those who don't help themselves. You know, the two worst sorts of people. Just get rid of them, and Sinnoh would be a much better place, I tell you." Kurt paused for a moment before letting out a soft sigh, a sigh that morphed into a sardonic chuckle. "Ah... still, remember when we used to torture him? Give him the old what for? I do miss that - those were the days, as they say."

"They were, aye," said Hawley in reminiscent response. "That's actually sort of a reason why I came to see you, actually. See, we work better as a team than we do as individuals, and you do seem to miss being a trainer - so, you know, if you do want to join me, I could use a sidekick, you know? We could work together, give people like them the kick up the arse that they need, and just change the world for the better bit by bit. Who knows, I could even become Champion like my old man one day, and maybe those bits won't be so small, eh?"

"'Use a sidekick' - you haven't changed a bit, it seems." Kurt let out a light sneer, before looking down at Franco - who was, in turn, giving him an expectant look of his own. He took a look at Tomyris, who seemed genuinely happy to be traveling with Hawley; a bright smile adorned her face as she looked at her trainer. "See, if I could, I would," he began, a tinge of uncertainty present in his baritonal voice. "But I cannot - I have a future ahead of me, and a solid one at that. One where I could actually make a name for myself and become independent, become responsible. More importantly, one where I can serve Sinnoh and protect her, save her from those who wish to harm her - I am sorry, but for now, that's where my heart lies, If that changes in the foreseeable future, however, then I'll be sure to let you know, but for now it isn't an option."

Hawley took a moment to soak this in, nodding in acknowledgment. "That is fair - I won't pretend that that isn't a disappointment, but I do understand."

A silence festered in the air, one that both Kurt and Hawley felt rather uncomfortable sitting in. Only Tomyris' croaking could be heard, alongside the rhythmic tapping of Kurt's fingers on the couch before he spoke once more. "So are you staying in town for long, then?"

"No, I'm leaving as soon as I beat Roark. I don't care much at all for this place - erm, no offence, of course."

"Hmph, none taken," was the reply. "Although I'm assuming you haven't heard about what's been going on recently? He's having a bit of a whinge because the new mine owners want him and his ilk to quit slacking - you know, like they're the ones who own the place. Not taking any challengers at the moment until it's resolved."

Hawley rolled his eyes, drenched in exasperation. "Oh, come on, really? That's ridiculous - it's not like the gym challengers are hurting him."

"I know, right? The whole thing's insane; it's a mine, what do you expect? Bunch of wet wipes, I tell you,"

Whilst this wasn't a situation Hawley knew a whole lot about, he was inclined to agree with Kurt on this one, for the sole purpose that refusing all challengers because of something unrelated to his Gym was a stupid move in his opinion. Not only that, it kept him in this dusty shantytown for much longer than he was happy with.

"Still, though," continued an undeterred Kurt, "there's actually a fair bit to do here. The museum, for one, is actually a fair bit more interesting than you'd imagine - especially their exhibition of ancient history. I'd suggest giving it a visit, myself."

"I'll keep that in mind. In any case, I'll get out of your hair now," grumbled Hawley as he pulled out his piece of paper from earlier, tearing off a piece and scribbling on it. "If you need me for anything, here's my Pokétch number."

"Oh, okay - in that case, I suppose I'll see you around, then. I wish you the best of luck with the whole gym thing, and I apologise sincerely that I cannot join you."

Hawley let out a single laugh under his breath as he stood up, walking to the door with Tomyris in tow. "It's fine, I understand - and good luck with the whole lawyering thing, haha. See you around!"

With that. he made his exit, and Kurt gave a glance at Franco, who met him with eye contact in response. The Larvitar's leer, conveyed by beady red pupils, still carried a hint of envy and was met with a defeated sigh. "You know, I suppose taking on just the one gym wouldn't hurt. Put Roark in his place and all that, eh?"

Oreburgh's museum was quite the change of pace for Connor and Reyes, compared to its mines. It was much quieter (due in part to the museum's strict "only guide Pokémon allowed" policy), for one, and breathable too; Connor didn't feel as though the air trapped him in a chokehold. Its outside was not a particularly inviting one, as was par for the course in Oreburgh, but inside it was much more evident that great care had been put into its upkeep. The rundown, dust-eaten exterior of the building belied the painstakingly crafted replica of a Bastiodon skeleton that stood, imperious, in the center of the grand main hall, or the carefully maintained paintings of yesteryear hung on the beautiful cream walls, or the meticulous glass cases that enclosed fossils safe from time's decay. Overall, the place's calm feeling was befitting of its intention, as a place of learning.

Of the aforementioned artifacts, Connor's attention was currently fixed on the paintings. In particular, these were medieval paintings dated usually around 1500, by artists whose names he recalled from history and art textbooks he'd read, such as Bartolo Barbachollo or Lorenza di Gallio. The latter's painting was most intriguing to him; it was a painting of the fabled Spear Pillar Mt. Coronet. It depicted what Connor had no doubt was an old man, a clean indigo cloak draped across his back. Before him, a stairway rose to the heavens. atop which stood the magnificent white body of Arceus, flawless green eyes meeting this intruder's gaze with an impenetrable glare. It left Connor stricken with awe, as though the piece had been touched by the very same powers it depicted.

"Yeah, that piece is a good one, isn't it?"

This completely unfamiliar voice ambushed Connor. Freezing up on the spot, he cranked his head around with his deep sense of unease reflected on his face, and he could only muster up a sharp nod before turning back around.

"Erm... cool," was the rather uncertain reply, before the owner of said voice went off on his way, leaving Connor only slightly wanting a bottomless pit to open up in the ground and swallow him up forever, absolving him from the cold coat of shame clinging to him. A coat that he had brought upon himself.

Meanwhile, Reyes was more focused on the fossil section across the floor. Fossils from each and every corner of the world were on display here, of many shapes and sizes. Sinnoh's representatives in this eclectic spectacle, for example, came in the form of a large skull with a prominent forehead, jagged jaw hung open and small eye sockets empty, and what looked like a large shield with oddly-shaped holes present in it. Looking at them, he couldn't help but feel that these were of much more interest to him than Hoenn's fossils, a great set of claws and a big root - on the flip side, he knew for certain that these came from ancient Pokémon. Whilst the skull was definitely of similar origin, the shield made him very dubious.

A familiar, and rather unwelcome, sound cut off this train of thought - the distinctive sound of boots stomping into the hall. He turned around to see the red-haired goblin he distinctly recognised from a few days earlier, displeased as ever and with a bandaged nose. The sight of his face, all scrunched up as though he'd bitten into a Nomel Berry, made him wonder: was he ever happy? He assumed not - after all, the way he acted around Connor made him suspect that even the slightest ray of sunshine touching his cold, dead heart probably would have killed him.

Hawley definitely noticed him looking back at him, too, and Reyes would have been lying if he'd said the sight of him wilting under his gaze, disgust carved into his face, wasn't greatly enjoyable. He watched on, barely masking his amusement, as Hawley stomped past Connor. While it was clear the urge to lay into him filled every inch of his body, he instead trudged on in defeat. Reyes was almost certain this was because he was in a public space, mind, and undoubtedly would have been booted out in quite humiliating fashion faster than one could say "fossilisation," but this was a victory nevertheless.

As for Hawley, these suspicions were partially correct. Sure, he was absolutely livid at the site of two of his least favourite people in the entire world. But acting on these feelings was a fantasy he had to forgo for a number of reasons. This was a 2v1, both members of this dastardly, dickheaded duo had trained much harder than him over the past few days, and there was a third person on the floor who seemed as though he could have gotten involved. While with a bit more prep time and a touch of luck, he came away from any potential fight taking Connor down at the very least, there was also the matter of security guards getting involved - and he dreaded to think of the sums he'd have to pay, how utterly furious his father would have been, if he damaged any of the exhibits. He would've made a clown of himself - and no clown was fit to wear the Wilkins name.

With regret he swallowed this bitter pill and moved on to look at the paintings, happening to stop just next to his loathed rival. The one that interested him most was that of a muscular brown-haired fellow; behind him, a strange orange figure wearing a scorching red aura. The second being caught his eye - it seemed to be a Pokémon, sure, but it wasn't like any he'd ever seen. It was tall and wiry. Its chest was a dull black, its head a three-pointed trident. Its face was almost entirely blank - there was no mouth, no nose, only two white eyes burning with the intensity of a thousand suns. Hawley quite liked the look of this creature. It certainly wasn't to be trifled with.

All the while, Connor pinned his trembling gaze to the painting before him. He'd long since stopped analysing it. However, he couldn't move to another exhibit. Rather, he remained locked in place still as a statue, imprisoned. The prospect of making eye contact with Hawley terrified him - from this close, in fact, he could probably smell his fear. Fear that he was quite lucky had not been capitalised on. Moreover, the person who had asked him about the painting was still in the room, and he dreaded making an even greater fool of himself.

His eyes remained locked on the painting until it was time to leave.

Roark was sick. Sicker than he'd been for quite some time.

It was a sharp, stabbing sickness, a most unpleasant sickness, that had laid its seeds at the pit of his stomach. A stomach that was tying itself in knots, wringing any joy out of itself as he sat in the miner's quarters. His leathery palms had been tainted black from work that day - palms smothered by sweat, sweat that covered him from head to toe. Mining was something he'd always relished; it was not just a piece of him, it was his whole being, his passion. A passion that had been utterly snuffed out as of recent. His beloved Cranidos had clearly cottoned onto something being wrong, too - the poor thing had been a lot more protective of him recent, it felt.

His sickness was not a virus of any sort. Nor was it a bacterial infection. It wasn't even caused by a gas leak. This was a sickness entirely wrought by stress.

A piece of equipment had malfunctioned that day at work. Specifically, it was a hose that leaked hydraulic fluid. This hydraulic fluid ended up hitting a Machoke with the force of a speeding bullet. Roark felt sick that he couldn't even muster up much of a reaction anymore; what was once a terrible disaster had grown to be something he was used to, like a tumour on the back.

What sort of terrible, terrible leader had he become, he asked himself? Unable to even muster up an ounce of shock, or outrage, or anger, at a wholly avoidable injury.

It was at that moment that he heard a fumbling on the door. Figuring being down was no benefit to anybody, exasperation left his lungs along with the air as he sat up straight. He bent over to pacify the rocky grey reptilian that nuzzled his leg, giving him a pat as if to say "there, there."

He heard a crack and a pained grunt through laboured breaths. In hobbled Tom as Roark glanced at the scene. "Hey, boss," mumbled the man as he went to take off his uniform. Even with his ailment, Tom was among the last to leave, and had even been commended on this by the new owners. "A model employee," they declared, "and one you could all take a leaf out of." It wasn't like he had a choice, of course; even with a doctor's note advising him that taking time off was a necessity, he had been declared fit to work by the council's social security office. As the new owners were quite strict with their paid sick days - days that Tom had already spent a fair few of off - he was faced with taking time off or being able to feed his family.

"Tom," was Roark's matter-of-fact grunt of a reply. "Still being forced to work?"

"Aye."

"When're you supposed to be getting the doctor's results back? I'm all for you working hard, but by the gods, you need time off with that back of yours."

Tom sighed. "Should be the next few days. But please, Roark, don't worry about an old coot like me - heh, I swear, I've been through worse. It's probably nothing too serious, anyways."

He was met with a dubious grunt from Roark. While this would have been bad enough with anybody else, Tom was a close family friend. Admittedly, it didn't feel right to have a favourite - it went against the very spirit of being the miners' representative, he felt - but his closeness to Tom for as long as he could remember meant that it was unavoidable.

Roark's self-loathing was interrupted by his de facto favourite tumbling to the ground with a thud, and his head whipped around. "Geez, Tom, you good?!" he said, scrambling over to him and offering a hand.

"Agh… yeah, nothing to worry about." Tom accepted this offer and was promptly pulled up, clawing onto the wall for stability.

"What happened?!"

"It just happens sometimes, doesn't it?"

It didn't, of course, and Roark was now visibly quite aggrieved. "Tom."

"Look, I just…" sighed Tom. "If you must know, my legs went a tad numb, okay? I assure you, it's nothing that'll stop me from mining, and you can damn well expect me here tomorrow."

Roark could have sworn he felt a vein burst as he exploded in reply. "Dammit Tom, take time off! Spend some time with your family, or something - fit people don't just lose sensation in half of their damn body! I swear, I'll do everything in my power to make sure nothing happens!"

"Roark," was Tom's decidedly cooler reply as he ran a hand through his mop of white straw hair. "My family are the ones I'm doing this for. I won't be taking time off - if I have to come into work in a body bag, I'll come in in a body bag, and you bet your hiney my corpse'll be shovelling coal if that's what it takes to feed them. And please don't get yourself fired for me, boy; you're just an employee. You don't hold the cards here. I don't wanna have to explain why you lost your job and got stripped of your Gym duties to Byron, either."

Quiet befell the air as soon as Tom finished speaking, as Roark trudged back to his chair, defeated, "If you insist." A whine escaped his Cranidos' throat, as he knelt down to comfort him. As much as his colleagues were important to him, it was also a matter of great pride to him that he held the position he did within the League - being such a vital part of the development of many a Pokémon master meant a lot to him. Yet he was still merely an employee, and unruly employees got the sack. Moreover, it would have been a source of great scandal within the League if he lost his mining job - especially with a rich bastard like Arthur in the role of Champion.

"See you tomorrow, Roark," said Tom, having changed into his normal attire. "And please don't worry about me. I can make my way home fine, I swear."

"Uh… right, yeah, see you."

The door slam shut, and Roark returned to feeling like a dead Ducklett. He was alone (with the exception of his Pokémon) and, from the very pit of his stomach, sick.

Pokémon Stats - Cranidos

- Trainer: Roark Swanson

- Male

- Type: Rock

- Ability: Mold Breaker

- Level: 15

HP: C (67)

Attack: S (125)

Defence: E (40)

Special Attack: E (30)

Special Defence: E (30)

Speed: D (58)

"Cranidos are Pokémon originally from the mid-Cretaceous period, with paleontologists believing them to have lived one hundred million years ago. They were extinct until the early 1950s, when the technology needed to resurrect fossilised Pokémon came into being, and were the second, and to date last, fossilised Pokémon found in Sinnoh after Shieldon, and the fossil from which Cranidos are revived is known as the Skull Fossil. Their skulls are extraordinarily thick to compensate for the impact of head-based attacks, which this species specialises in; as such, they have profoundly small brains and are often the subject of ridicule for their perceived unintelligence. However, people who own specimen have reported that Cranidos can be surprisingly affectionate."