WELCOME TO THE POST-GAME, I MEAN POST-STORY!

Just a note: this chapter is not really part of the "story," but is extra content from the universe that I wrote and couldn't fit into the larger book. As such, don't expect the tone or content to flow logically from previous chapters. It won't. This is separate and should be read as such.

Also be warned that there is a returning character from Guzma's childhood who you will probably not be happy to see, you know who I'm talking about, please don't kill me. There are no content warnings for this chapter, but you will filter it through prior knowledge, so be warned anyway I guess?

Addendum One: The Evil That Men Do

The evil that men do lives after them / the good is oft' interred with their bones

Twelve years ago in early June, the weather on Mele'mele Island had already become uncomfortably warm, but it had not stopped Guzma from walking home and sweating in his favorite hoodie over his school uniform. The island was small enough that on any given day, he could choose a variety of paths home: he could cut through the bustling city, past the beach; he could wind his way to a malasada shop for a post-school snack; he could trek up through the northern cliff-sides and fields for solitude. This time, in no particular rush to get home, Guzma chose a more meandering path, one that had gotten familiar to him in the last year.

At the south end of Hau'oli City, a row of duplex style homes sat at the edge of the sea. Unlike the homes in Iki Town, these were of more modern design and were almost exclusively occupied by adults without families of their own, either living alone or with a roommate. They also tended to be rented by transplants to the island, as such people would move to Mele'mele and have no claim to the village homes owned by local residents. The duplexes were tall―three floors with windows and a small balcony at the top floor―and rather narrowly packed in together. Guzma knew the faces, if not the names, of every resident along that street, but he knew only the one very well.

Guzma approached the first duplex. Like the others, it didn't have much in the way of a yard or garden, but a small picket fence divided its property line from the road, and some potted flowers and plants lined the rim of the house's porch. On its exterior, the home had a soothing, plain look, correctly communicating the quietness and solitude of its two neighboring residents. But if one knew where and how to look, subtle concerning signs could be spotted. Curtains and windows kept shut. Unswept pavement. A few wooden chairs piled in the corner of the yard, perhaps at one point to be repaired, but now bleaching and warping from neglect.

The duplex apartments were conjoined with one set of stairs and one whitewashed porch, with a door on the left and on the right sides to signify the division of the eastern and western halves. Guzma glanced toward the right side of the duplex―the side of interest―and saw a familiar sight.

A Mightyena draped over the floor of the porch, its long body stretched out and slumbering in the shade. Its front paws were folded neatly, and its head nestled between them, giving a steep and visible rise to its back as it took in sleepy breaths. Advanced in age, this particular Mightyena had stiffer, more matted fur than its younger, silkier counterparts; the lustrous mane that began at its head and wound down its back had likewise changed from a smooth ebony to a more matte gray color. Guzma knew that Mightyena tended to be wild, feisty pokemon, but this one had calmed significantly in its later years, now spending most of its days lazing on its owner's porch and watching the island-folk walk by.

When he saw the pokemon, he felt brave enough to reach out, push open the gate, and venture inside. He dropped his backpack from his shoulders and left it at the gate on his way in.

"Hey, Saki," he called.

The Mightyena twitched, yawned, and peeled a single eye open. Upon seeing him, its ears perked.

"Your owner home?"

Rather than answer, it sniffed the air in his direction and chuffed.

Guzma wasn't dissuaded. He plodded his way up the steps, knocked on the right-side door, and waited. When no one came, he turned to face the drowsing animal, who still tracked him with its eyes. He stooped down and put a hand on its head. The petting pleased it. It flopped a saggy ear at him and slipped out its tongue, lapping his wrist. A few scratches in, it groaned and rolled its entire body onto its back. Guzma snorted a laugh and indulged its request for a belly rub. The hairs were short and bristly on its stomach, but if he scratched the right place, he could make its back leg kick and throat whistle with a happy howl. Its tongue lolled out.

"Ha-ha! Tha'ssa a good boy, Saki."

Momentarily distracted, Guzma failed to hear the far door open, so he was caught by surprise when a sharp, unfriendly voice snapped at him.

"What do you think you're doing!?"

The Mightyena grunted at hearing the scolding tone; Guzma himself leaped to his feet and, without even looking, skittered down the steps. It was only when he turned around, heart pounding out of his chest, that he found the landlord glowering at him. The elderly woman, with tawny, wrinkled skin and beady, hateful eyes, probably posed no real threat, but she never failed to frighten him in the few times they'd interacted.

An Absol slipped out from behind her. Like her, it had a pair of cruel, penetrating eyes that seemed to never let up; Guzma felt a shiver move up his spine when it examined him.

The landlord's voice sliced into him. "What sort of child are you? Walking onto other people's property without their permission!"

Guzma frowned indignantly but couldn't keep his voice from shaking. "H-he said I can…"

"He's not here," she barked. "And he doesn't own the place; I do!"

The more she yelled, the more he found himself walking backwards and slinking toward the gate. He trembled as he picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulders. Guzma put a hand on the gate to leave, but proved so shaken that he fumbled with the latch a few times.

"Some no-good punk has been coming around at night and smashing my flowers. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"What?" Guzma pulled the straps of his backpack tighter against his shoulders. "Miss, I don't even―"

"And if I ever catch you, you're dead meat!"

At this point, Guzma began to realize that arguing with her would do no good. As she yelled, anger spilled into his chest, and a wrathful heat clenched his throat. In that moment, he would have given anything for the courage to say exactly what he felt. He wanted to march over to her stupid plants and show what he thought of her, this caterwauling, bitter witch.

But before he could do anything, someone at a distance spoke.

"Guzma."

Guzma heard the voice and whipped his head around.

"Is everything okay?"

And Guzma saw him―the other resident of the duplex, and the owner of the Mightyena. "Uncle."

To Guzma's right, on the other side of the fence, Daturo had come around from the back of the house. The man rested his hands on the picket planks and looked between Guzma and the woman, showing his concern by wrinkling his brow. The white t-shirt he wore had smears of oil, sweat and grease, as did his face and hands, but before Guzma could try and deduce what the cop must have been doing, the woman piped up angrily.

"Oh, there's the bum. Why aren't you out on patrol? Did they finally fire you?"

"Ah..." Daturo nervously chuckled, smiled, and employed some false charm. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Makani… I'm working the night shift this week, remember? Say, it's nice weather today, isn't it?"

The old woman scrunched up her eyes, digging a glare into him. "Don't try and sweet-talk me. Your rent's late."

Smoothly, he spoke while wiping his hands down with a handkerchief. "How's your water heater? Giving you any more trouble?"

She breathed in―held her breath―then muttered darkly to herself, not answering. She dropped the issue. "If you're a cop, then you should keep this delinquent off my property."

"Will do, Mrs. Makani."

Grumbling, she turned for her door, yanking it open to retreat inside. Her Absol followed after her.

"Have a nice evening!"

The door slammed shut.

Daturo's voice plummeted and he sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck. "...Aye. Yeesh."

"I'm sorry," Guzma blurted.

Daturo blinked at him. "Huh?"

"I didn't―mean―"

"Ah, don't apologize," Daturo interrupted. "She's a crazy bitch. Just ignore her."

(From any other adult, the language would have shocked Guzma; from Daturo, though, he was used to it).

With another gruff sigh, the cop bent backward and pressed a hand to straighten his spine. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Guzma didn't know how to answer. He started unconsciously digging his shoe into a spot of dirt.

Daturo, having become an expert in reading him, cocked his head. "Something wrong?"

"No," Guzma said, too quickly. "I… I dunno."

Without being able to discern what Guzma wanted, Daturo simply relented. He turned with a shake of his head. "Well, I'm just working on my car around back. You can follow me, if you want."

Daturo had his police cruiser parked on the maintenance road winding behind the row of duplexes. The car's hood was propped open; tools lay scattered on the pavement; bottles and empty containers of undecipherable purpose lined the curb. By the time Guzma reached it, the cop, who he could see now was entirely in civilian clothing, had already returned to his work.

Guzma ended up standing there awkwardly for a while, wriggling under the weight of his backpack and watching Daturo tinker away. Finally, the cop finished some crucial step enough to pause and think of what to say.

"So, it's been awhile," Daturo observed.

It was true. It was also not an accident. Guzma just shrugged. "Yeah, I guess..."

"What have you been up to?"

"Nothing." Guzma hastily moved the subject away from himself. "What are you doing?"

Daturo, without shifting his focus from the current task, answered, "Nothing complicated. Checking its fluids. About to do an oil change."

Those words meant nothing to Guzma. He craned his neck slightly to see if he could make any sense of it by sight, but Daturo's body was enough in the way, and the mess of pipes and metal shapes had no recognizable pattern. "You know how to do all that?"

"Sure I do." Daturo at last turned and spotted Guzma's skeptical look. "I guess you island kids never learn much about cars," Daturo surmised―correctly. "Back in Jubilife, our dads taught us the basics."

Guzma held onto and marveled at that thought. His vision whirled with the images of traffic jams and highways, like he only ever saw on TV. "Did you all have one?"

Daturo chuckled. "Oh, we all wanted one. It was a big deal when you were a teenager. Especially for guys. We all wanted the chance to sneak out and slip our girlfriends into the back seat for some hanky panky, you know?"

Horrified, but not entirely surprised by the comment, Guzma averted his eyes and flushed.

Thankfully, Daturo didn't notice. He was too busy fiddling with something.

This was one of Daturo's most prominent flaws in character: when alone with him and not in the presence of prying eyes and ears, he did not restrain himself. He spoke crassly. He swore, he told lewd stories, he discussed sensitive topics, he overshared personal details, he asked invasive and intimate questions. If anything he said made Guzma uncomfortable, he'd laugh and tease him: Aww, what are you getting all shy for?

It was a flaw too easily misinterpreted by a child; Guzma mistook this lack of self-censorship as a sign of honesty and transparency. He even thought it was a show of respect, because Daturo spoke to him like he was another adult.

(In retrospect, though, Guzma would come to understand it as evidence of deeper flaws: a lack of self-control; an inability to maintain personal boundaries; a recklessness; a dangerous disregard for the uniqueness of childhood. In Daturo's world, all lines blurred together.)

"Hey, Goose."

Guzma, startled, brought his eyes up to see Daturo looking directly at him.

"You came here from school?"

Instinctively, Guzma glanced down and pulled at the telling backpack straps. "Uh, yeah."

"I thought you were out for the summer?"

"Nah. We got just a few days left."

"Huh. I swear when I was a kid, we were always out by June." After scratching his lower back and belting out a hoarse cough, he asked, "You got plans for the summer?"

"...Not really."

"Aren't you old enough to start that island challenge thing?"

Guzma was used to explaining local traditions to the cop, so he explained patiently, "Most kids do that in sixth grade."

"Oh. Really? That's funny. Hala told me he thinks you're ready."

Shocked that Hala would volunteer such information freely, Guzma groused, "All he ever tells me is what I'm doing wrong."

"He's a strict guy," Daturo said. Guzma could tell that he wanted to say something more profoundly unkind. Another habit of his: bad-mouthing other adults. But Kahuna Hala was so sinless that it proved difficult for him to cast stones; Hala was about the only man on the island who treated the cop with any respect or kindness, so even Daturo didn't have the heart to slander him. With that in mind, Daturo amended reluctantly, "I'm sure he just wants you to try your hardest." He paused again. Then, with an expectant, prodding upturn to his voice, he said, "So. If you're not on your challenge trip, I guess you'll be in the neighborhood all summer."

Guzma knew this voice, and he knew what it meant. But Guzma was a little older now, and a little wiser, and he had started to learn the dance―how to sidestep, how to dodge, how to slip away. That wasn't to say it always worked. Daturo was bigger than he was. And the man was sly when he needed to be: tricky, shrewd, well-versed in the art of deceit. Guzma carefully calculated his answer. "Maybe."

Daturo frowned. The slightest possibility emboldened him to start saying, "If you have nothing else to do, you can always hang around here."

"I might be busy."

Veiling his disappointment, Daturo said, "Okay. Well…"

Guzma turned himself suddenly around and crossed the access road, settling himself at the shoreline. He could hear only Daturo's surprised stuttering behind him as he peered over the edge, seeing a few feet below where the waves beat against the rocky soil. The weight of his backpack suddenly felt like a mountain; he stooped, crouching down and fidgeting with the fabric at his knees. A thought occurred to him. "Have you ever…" He stopped himself, overcome with nerves. He picked up a rock from the ground and chucked it into the water, and half-hoped that Daturo hadn't heard him.

"Have I ever what?"

...No luck. Guzma didn't face him when he asked, "Have you ever killed anybody?"

"What!?" Daturo was in so much shock, that he dropped his tool into the recesses of the engine; he cursed and fumbled for it. Once he recovered, he paced over, eventually placing himself besides the boy. His voice quavered. "Geez. What brought this on all of a sudden?"

"You're a cop."

"Heh, sure―but that doesn't mean I run around shooting people."

"I mean," Guzma said, frustrated by his flippancy, "you ever had to kill anybody?"

As Daturo contemplated how to answer, he took a long, hard look out into the ocean. He fished out another menthol drop from his pants pocket, shook his head, and mulled, "Life in other regions… It's not really like it is on TV. Things are pretty safe… People hardly ever get killed. I don't think I know any cop who's had to kill anyone; definitely no beat cop."

"Have you, though?"

"No, Guzma. I haven't." Daturo sighed. The drop clacked against his teeth. "Now, are you gonna tell me what this is about?"

"I just…" Guzma lost courage and stared down at his shoes. "Have you ever wanted to?"

Rather than answer that directly―Guzma suspected the answer, anyway―Daturo said, "Wanting to do something and actually doing it are very different things."

That was the kind of wisdom Guzma expected from Hala, not Daturo, a man who almost exclusively did as he impulsively desired.

"What's on your mind?"

How could he possibly tell him that? Guzma tried for a moment to even accumulate all his swirling thoughts into one place in his brain: his anger, disgust, resentment, terror, guilt, shame. If he let it, all of his putrid thoughts would spill out at once, right into the sea.

And for Daturo to so obviously pretend―like he didn't know he was a part of it. The man was either dodgy or more daft than Guzma first supposed.

"Hey." Guzma knew that tone of voice well. The whispering, begging, crawling voice, which crooked a finger and dug a hook into his skin, pulling, digging in. That voice had brought Guzma places, not all of them good. Suddenly, a hand reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "We promised, didn't we? Not to keep secrets from each other."

They had. They had promised. And he didn't know how to wriggle free this time. He had come here-why? For all the pain, Daturo was the only adult he could be honest with.

"Look… Goose…"

(His hand hadn't moved).

"You know―"

Then, suddenly, far off and coming ever closer, the excitable yapping of a Rockruff interrupted him. Daturo blinked, shaken from his moment of focus, and turned; Guzma glanced over his shoulder and saw what the cop did. The noise boomed from between the duplexes until the small, panting critter scampered out into the driveway. Upon seeing Guzma, it released a jubilant set of howls.

Guzma knew what that meant.

" Guzma-a-a-a!"

The voice cried out to the heavens, louder than any voice had any right to be. And from the front of the duplex came the running, lanky-limbed form that was, infamously, Kukui.

Kukui was a schoolmate and a persistent problem.

He had a closely-shaved head of brown hair which he nearly always kept under a battered baseball cap (his father had given up on letting him have longer hair, as it inevitably became a crow's nest of debris and tangles), and stood a full inch shorter than Guzma, despite being a year ahead of him. He had a wiry, uncoordinated body that was painted with the scrapes that come from climbing trees, cartwheeling into walls, and being generally spastic. His muscles were unpronounced but considerably powerful for his age; he could take down Guzma―and any kid up to twice his own size―with ease.

Kukui also happened to be the single most annoying kid Guzma knew.

It was difficult to sum up his problems with him―the list could go on all day if he let it―but here are some of the most crucial things to understand:

Kukui was loud. As if his lungs had outgrown his tiny body, and so he shouted absolutely everything, regardless of how close he stood to you―a booming, ringing voice and an even more grating, screeching cackle when he laughed. He made Guzma's teeth rattle.

And not only was he a loudmouth? But a big -mouth, too, not afraid to ask the stupidest questions or say the stupidest things. Kukui was the loudest, most persistently idiotic spaz in the whole sixth grade class, maybe even the whole school.

Guzma might have been able to endure all this if Kukui ignored him as the other children did, but apparently Kukui had made it his personal mission to annoy Guzma to death. He didn't listen when Guzma told him in so many ways to leave him alone―as if the part of his brain that processed rejection hadn't kicked in yet. Guzma could tell Kukui to his face that he hated him and would push him off a cliff if he could, and Kukui would giggle-snort and ask, "DO YOU WANNA DARE ME TO BACKFLIP OFF THIS ROCK?!"

Kukui was also his neighbor on Mele'mele, which meant he couldn't escape him outside of school, either. He was always following him home, banging on his front door, or chucking pebbles at his bedroom window.

He was, in short, an obligatory best friend: not asked for, not wanted, staunchly resisted, and yet there at every turn.

So in this moment, Guzma felt simultaneously vexed and relieved at seeing him.

The other boy, also in his school uniform, reached the two of them and bent over, puffing and gripping his knees to recover his breath. His backpack was jostled, almost falling from his shoulders for being bounced around so badly. Rockruff zipped back around toward its master, who grinned at it and said, "Good job, buddy! You found him straight away, huh?"

Rockruff wagged and yapped.

Saki then appeared from the front of the duplex, too, sluggishly dragging itself out after the pup, which soon ran in buzzing circles around it, yipping and nipping in a pleading bid for play. Saki just sat and grumbled at it, occasionally scolding it with a snap of teeth and growl.

Kukui, in the most dramatic way possible, waved his arms out in a broad circle. "I've been looking ev-er-y-where for you, cuz! I got something to show you!" He finally noticed Daturo's presence and grinned. He threw an arm over his head to stretch it, and hopped with vibrant, irrepressible energy. "Heya, Uncle D!"

"Hey, Kooks."

Without missing a beat, and still wearing an amiable smile, Kukui replied, "It's Kukui."

"Uh… Right." Daturo hesitated. "Ku… Ku- ku- i, sure."

Every time Daturo ever said Kukui's name, he seemed to pronounce it slightly differently, putting emphasis on the wrong syllable or slurring different vowel sounds. Kukui was happy to relentlessly tease the man for it, and Guzma had thought up until recently that the whole thing was a mutual joke, but he had lately come to the conclusion that more than anything else, Daturo was annoyed by it.

Kukui ran over to Guzma and narrowly missed knocking the other boy into the water when he grabbed him by the arm. "C'mon, let's go!"

Without answering, Guzma irritably pulled himself away. Not that it mattered; Kukui redirected his energy by running a ways up the road and calling after him to follow. His Rockruff similarly hopped in place, barking and beckoning.

" Hurry up, Slowpoke! "

Daturo watched all this and sensed defeat in the face of competition. "Well," he said, "he seems pretty insistent; you better go with your friend."

"He's not my friend."

Amused, Daturo replied, "I think he hasn't gotten that memo, bud. Go on. I'll see you tomorrow."

With an air of reluctance, Guzma turned and started up the hill.

"Oh―Goose. Wait."

Guzma turned back to find Daturo facing the other way. The cop stooped down, picked up a tin can rattling with tools and loose screws, and after plucking through its contents, drew out an item. He then came back around, approaching Guzma.

"I got something for you. Here." Within a few seconds, a small, black pocket knife revealed itself in the cop's palm. Daturo looked a little mutually ashamed when he said, "I got it back from your teacher a few weeks back."

Without any expression of gratitude, Guzma reached for it.

But Daturo hesitated for a second, closing his fingers around it to prevent a quick snatch. "Just be careful with it," he exhorted. "Don't… bring it to school anymore, okay? I don't need people finding out I give kids knives to play with."

"Okay." Guzma had to suppress his impatience, and it paid off: Daturo opened his fingers and allowed the boy to take it. With knife in hand, Guzma hurried to shove it into his jacket pocket and run off toward the main road.

He didn't move quickly enough to keep Kukui from taunting, "C'mon! Geez, ya got longer legs than me, and you're still slo-o-w!"

Kukui didn't bother telling him what he had planned, and instead led him on a typical, roundabout path along a dirt road leading out of the city. Guzma was used to the kid taking him on meandering walks that kept him guessing; you could never tell what Kukui was really thinking. The Rockruff that followed at their heels certainly didn't mind the free-wheeling path, as it yapped, frolicked, and nipped the air while panting profusely. Guzma had to more than once kick it aside to avoid being tripped by it, but thankfully, Kukui possessed sense enough to not allow the pup to overstay its welcome, and after a few minutes chose to withdraw it.

So the two of them were alone with Kukui's nonstop mouth.

Guzma had tuned out Kukui's incessant chatter for the last minute, but now that he looked up and realized they were taking the long route home, he questioned, "So, what is it?"

"Huh?"

"The thing you wanted to show me." A thought occurred to him. "Why didn't you find me at recess and show me then?"

"I couldn't, brah! I wasn't there." Kukui fidgeted with his cap and confessed, with the appropriate modicum of shame, "Dad found out I busted another desk when I was practicin' my Body Slam today―yeah, so, I was in his office gettin' dirty lickins."

"...Oh." Guzma went uncomfortably quiet.

Kukui noticed the weightiness of Guzma's response and, worried that he'd caused undue alarm, thumped him in the arm. He joked and cackled, "Woo, you shoulda heard me, cuz! I was hollerin' for Tapu Koko to save me!"

The levity sort of worked, in that Guzma's mild grimace faded, but he didn't smile.

"Anyway, I ain't got the something on me. It's at my house."

Guzma watched Kukui take to skipping down the dirt road. When Guzma thought the other boy wasn't paying attention, he slipped the knife from his pocket to admire it. It glinted black and burned his fingers with the confidence it afforded.

"What's that?"

Guzma jumped out of his skin and shoved the knife away, but it was too late. Kukui stood next to him, eyeing his pocket. Guzma tried lying. "Nothing."

"Eh? It didn't look like 'nothing,'" Kukui said crossly.

Guzma shuffled his feet, sighed, and produced the knife from his pocket. "Okay… Just don't tell nobody."

"WOW, LOOK AT IT! IT'S HUGE!" (It really wasn't.) "Can I hold it?"

"...I guess." He had a feeling that Kukui wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.

The other boy took up the knife, opened it, and marveled some more. He took a few large steps backward, settling himself in a large open space, and began thrusting the blade in the air, spinning around, yelping hysterically unrealistic karate sounds. He paused to grin in Guzma's direction. "Where'd you get it?"

It was supposed to be a secret, but his answer slipped out. "Uncle Daturo."

"Ugh-h-h-h. Lucky-y." (Guzma revelled, for a moment, in Kukui's transparent jealousy). "I asked my dad for one, and he said I would just hurt myself." Kukui gave him a look, goading Guzma to agree that this was absolutely ridiculous and unreasonable, even though they both knew his father was right.

So Guzma played along. "Bogus."

"I know!" Kukui tried throwing the knife at a tree a few times, but mostly missed or struck its trunk with the handle rather than the blade, so he eventually relented, picked it up from the ground and handed it back to Guzma. "Here."

Guzma pocketed it and they kept going, but it wasn't long before Kukui started to fidget again. He hopped, skipped ahead, waited for Guzma to catch up, then snorted aloud with impatience. He contained his restlessness only long enough to drum his shoes on the dirt for a little while before giving up on his friend's pace. He charged Guzma until he came within arm's reach.

"Ugh! C'mon, let's go!"

And there was his last bone to pick with this aggravating, infuriating kid: Kukui liked to hold hands.

Even though everybody had figured out by second grade that holding hands with girls was weird, and holding hands with boys was even weirder.

Admittedly, it had a normal origin: it had gone on since Guzma started kindergarten. They were neighbors, and so naturally they walked to and from school together every day. Little kids like that, walking on a winding dirt road by themselves―of course they clung to each for security.

But Kukui, for whatever reason, never let up. So it was that whenever they walked anywhere together, inevitably, Kukui would grab his hand and tug him along at a brisk speed. The grip he had on him was always such that, even if Guzma tried to squirm his way out of it, Kukui kept it in an ironclad lock and refused to let go.

Guzma tried, once, to ask Kukui about it, but his questioning skills had never been very good, so he ended up asking Kukui if he was a "weirdo" and Kukui didn't understand the question, and that was that. But after thinking on it and studying Kukui's behavior, Guzma had since come to the conclusion that Kukui was just kind of dumb. (Not, you know, a "weirdo.")

About all Guzma had ever decided to do about it was grit his teeth and put up with it, praying no one would see.

For now, he had to pick up his pace to prevent Kukui from pulling his arm from his socket. This proved easier than avoiding being seen; after climbing one grassy hill, they ended up cutting along the street on their way to Route 2. People bustled outside the shops and on their way to their respective homes.

Then, just ahead, they came to pass a group.

Girls. A cluster of them, outside the malasada shop. Usually Guzma could ignore them, but Kukui was the sort of crazy kid who had no fear, who didn't worry about talking with girls or even befriending them, all while his peers still fidgeted about cooties.

The nutcase waved and hollered: "Heya, ladies!"

(Guzma, realizing now that Kukui had gone and called attention to them, desperately maneuvered himself behind Kukui and tried to hide his face. Prying his hand out of Kukui's at this point was a lost cause, but he gave a panicked tug, anyhow.)

Too late. He heard the group of girls burst into giggles and call: "He-e-ey, Kukui! He-ey Guzma!"

Guzma pulled his hoodie over his face and steamed. For a passing moment, he wanted to sock Kukui in the back of the head.

"Hey, Guz, whaddaya think about Burnet?"

The question came once they hit the dusty road again and were surrounded on all sides with trees and silence. As Kukui had found things he wished to kick and throw, he at last released his friend from bondage, but evidently, his thoughts had not wandered from the schoolgirls in their skirts and ribbon-laced hair.

Uh-oh.

Had Burnet even been there? Kukui must have seen her, despite Guzma's lack of attention. In any case, Guzma didn't hide his feelings. "She's a dork."

"Yeah," Kukui said, tilting his head to the side dreamily. "She's awful cute, though!"

Guzma pulled a disgusted face, alarmed that his companion had already gone to the dark side. "...Ugh. Ew."

"Just wait," Kukui laughed, pounding Guzma's shoulder with his fist. "When you get older, you'll like girls, too."

Guzma winced, rubbed his shoulder, and blustered at the implication. "You're only like a year older than me!"

"Yeah! So you'll catch up before you know it!"

Some time passed for Guzma to steam and Kukui to completely miss it.

"Hey, Guz. Do you think our kids will be friends, too?"

It took a moment for Guzma to process the deeply stupid question. "What are you talking about?"

"You know!" Kukui skipped a step and aimed his foot at a rock, kicking it down the road. He looked jovial and excited. "When we both get married someday―an' when we have kids―do you think our kids will be friends? I think that would be neat, yeah!"

"I'm not getting married," Guzma contradicted fiercely.

"Why not?"

He didn't expect to get interrogated. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and tried to wait out the painful flips in his stomach. Heat creeped upward over his face. "I―I dunno, it's gross, is all."

Kukui frowned, uncertain. "What, like the kissing and stuff?"

With a furious snort, Guzma sneered and pushed past him. He concealed his burning embarrassment by facing ahead. "Do you know anything? How do you think babies happen, huh?"

Instead of answering right away, Kukui backed up a few steps, took a running start, and cartwheeled several times on the grass growing alongside the road. His cap fell off immediately, but he persisted until he landed on his hands back on the path in front of Guzma. He paused in a hand-stand, lazily kicking his legs in the air, his shirt falling around his head to reveal the muscles and rib-dimples of his puffing chest. "I don't get what's gross about it," Kukui blathered, finally rolling back upright. "You get married, you go to the tapu, an' you pray and ask for a baby and―"

"Are you serious? You're in sixth grade and you still believe that!?"

It was Kukui's turn to be embarrassed. He flushed, scrambled to his feet, and hurried to retrieve his hat, pouting as he did. "Whatever," Kukui said. He sounded a little wounded. "What do you know, anyway?"

It wasn't worth fighting over. Kukui's father taught health class at school, anyway, and Guzma knew that topic was formally covered in the seventh grade―so Kukui would have to endure compound humiliation next year, unless Lokelani decided to talk the birds and bees with his son beforehand.

"Anyway― I'm gonna get married, and have, like, ten kids, yeah!"

Kukui's father, Lokelani, was known by most kids on the island as simply "Coach," because within their small community, if there was a sport or physical activity to be had, the man was sure to be a part of it. He also worked as the school gym teacher, which made him yet another individual impossible to avoid. Lokelani was an imposing figure, especially to those who didn't know him: he stood over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and impressive, lean muscles. His chin had a sizeable but neatly-trimmed beard to offset the messiness of his hair, which he allowed to grow long and tangled and put up in a top knot when it became too much of a hassle. If one ever needed to find Lokelani in a pinch, a sure bet would be to hit the beach, because he spent hours surfing and swimming almost every day, as his tawny, sun-kissed skin clearly showed.

Though responsible for leading countless athletic clubs and teams (many of which Kukui participated in), Lokelani by most descriptors qualified as a conservative, religious man and had never been terribly competitive. He preferred to enjoy the leisure of outdoor play: the feel of grass in the soccer field, the waves licking the surfboard, the crunch of gravel at home base. In that way, as he was in other ways, Lokelani was an old-school native islander, a sort of man going extinct in Alola: the warrior monk who both taught and practiced physical feats not to glorify oneself, but to glorify life.

As such, Lokelani possessed firm traditional values, which had always turned Guzma off. He would sermonize in the middle of class, extolling the virtues of cooperation and hard work, and denouncing the unequivocal evils of laziness, rebellion, gluttony, and other such sins. Guzma heard that as students got older, the man's preaching broadened to similarly warn against bodily vices―drinking, smoking, premarital sex―which only served to cement Guzma's impression that the man was a blathering, moralistic crank. How many times had Guzma been forced to sit through one of Coach's 'your body is sacred' spiels at the beginning of gym? In any case, none of it had ever struck Guzma as true or applicable to his own life circumstances, so he usually yawned and shut his eyes, listening to the giggles and whispers around him rather than yielding to those sappy lectures.

Guzma didn't speak with Lokelani much outside of school, even though the man had always been welcoming and inclusive, inviting him over, feeding him, treating him like another son. The fact was, Coach intimidated him with his size and brawn. He also had a very faint, but charged memory of the man scolding him once, when he was maybe five or six.

Perhaps Guzma shouldn't have held it against him. After all, while Lokelani shared Hala's strictness and old-world-values, he had a discernment the kahuna lacked.

When Kukui pushed open the front door, the strong odor of grilled meat and pineapple flew into their faces. A steady plume of steam and smoke flowed out from the stovetop, tended to by familiar, broad shoulders.

"I'M HOME!" Kukui announced with a characteristic lack of volume control.

It was just as well. With all the hissing of the grill and fans, Lokelani only just heard him. The man turned, spotted them over the countertop, and smiled, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm. "Hey, sport!" He hurried to flip a few items before approaching the near side of the kitchen and poking his head out. "Aw, howzit, Guzma?"

"Um." Guzma averted his eyes and mumbled, politely, "Hi, Coach."

"Didn't expect to see you here today. And so late. Especially―" Lokelani's expression narrowed in Kukui's direction. "-Since I told you to come straight home today."

"I did," Kukui protested, his voice squawking unconvincingly.

Lokelani must have known Kukui was lying, because he looked to Guzma and tilted his head in a stern and silent, ' is that true?' expression.

Guzma only said, "We met up on the way home."

"Uh-huh." Lokelani seemed torn for the moment between scolding Guzma for colluding with his son's deception, or commending him for his loyalty. He squeezed his temple with his fingers and sighed. "Well, so long as you're here, are you staying for dinner?"

"No…" Guzma thought on that a second longer. "I don't think so."

"In that case, you'd better head on home. Kukui has chores he's been putting off all week, so he won't be able to play today."

...Great. Kukui had decided to drag him to his house in the midst of some domestic drama. Guzma eyed the door and wondered how quickly he could make his escape.

But the whining picked up immediately; Kukui hopped with tension. "D-a-a-ad! Can't I just show him my thing really quick!"

"Your what-now?"

"The thing I got yesterday!"

"Oh!" Lokelani, in spite of himself, smirked. "All right, but make it quick. Dinner's in five."

With that news, Kukui wasted no time; he seized Guzma by the arm and yanked him toward his bedroom with sheer, unrelenting force. He threw the door open, knocking some equipment over in the process: a bat, a racket, some sneakers. Then they had to kick aside and step over unsorted piles of clothes, but they reached his desk, at which he rifled through a drawer swimming with trinkets, pokeball, and papers. His hand paused after touching what must have been the object of interest, because Kukui looked up and grinned at him, readying the reveal. "A-a-and―" He pulled it out and stuck it in Guzma's face. "Ta-da!"

A challenge amulet.

Guzma shouldn't have been surprised. But he was.

Kukui had talent―that much, he could acknowledge―but Guzma had never thought of him as a serious opponent. The kid usually slid in comfortably at fourth or fifth place at tournaments, as he battled like a complete goofball, spamming moves at seemingly random times. He didn't fuss about winning or coming out on top. He just belly-laughed and tried to have fun. Besides, he spent more time playing with his partners than training them. Guzma had always assumed Kukui would settle for a more leisurely path to adulthood.

Guzma felt the small, slow, burning crawl of resentment make its way up his throat.

Kukui rattle on as if Guzma had said anything at all. "That's right! I'm going on my island challenge, yeah! I went to Ol' Hala's yesterday and picked this up. I'm goin' to him for special training starting next week! A couple other kids will be there… I know Big Mo for sure. It's gonna be amazing!" The boy gripped the amulet in his fist and clawed his hair. "Augh! It'll feel like forever! I just can't wait, you know? I'll be takin' on the captains, and the kahunas, and I'm gonna prove what I'm made of!"

The embedded gems gleamed and winked at Guzma. He thought about another summer squandered at home around an eternally-volatile father, or perhaps finding himself wrapped up in schemes not of his own making.

"And who knows! In a couple'a years, maybe I'll try out to be a captain, too!"

"Well, I―"

It was too late. Guzma had opened his mouth, and Kukui waited with bated breath for him to finish.

"I―" Though he could have taken it back, a sudden surge of desire passed through him. His voice turned firm and certain as he, on the spot, made his decision. "I'm starting my challenge, too."

"REALLY?"

"I'm… gonna get my amulet tomorrow, and…"

Like his Rockruff, Kukui tended to express joy through a good tackle, and Guzma tended to forget this, leaving him vulnerable to attack. So in one sudden swoop, the kid grabbed him, sent him to the floor, and shook him madly, ignoring Guzma's shock and groaning at landing hard on his back.

"THAT'S AMAZING!"

Weak and pinned, Guzma made a sad effort to push him. "Get offa me."

"WE'RE GONNA DO OUR TRIALS TOGETHER!"

Thankfully, Lokelani heard the violent thud and called out from the kitchen: "Kukui! No horseplay in the house!"

A hefty sigh and shuffle of obedience brought Kukui and Guzma back to their feet. Guzma grumbled and checked that nothing in his backpack had been profoundly disturbed by the fall, but Kukui couldn't stop ranting.

"You'll have to come to Master Hala's with us! Aw, man! Doing this together is gonna make it way more fun!" Kukui folded his arms and did his best impression of an adult. "We're gonna have to fight each other sometimes, though. We'll still be friends afterward, right?"

We're barely friends as it is.

Because Guzma hesitated to answer, Kukui took it as a challenge and again screamed at him, shoving him hard. "SWEAR!"

"Ow!" Guzma rubbed his chest and glowered. "Fine, whatever."

"KUKUI! DINNER!"

"COMING!"

If Guzma ever had to wonder where Kukui got his voice, time spent in his house dispelled it.

While Kukui set the table and fulfilled other childhood supper duties, Guzma found his chance to slink out the door without further assault. Outside, he could see the last glint of sunlight singing the sky, and dusk began to fall over the island. He didn't have much time.

But one last interruption came.

"Hey… Guzma."

Guzma stepped out onto the dirt footpath leading up to the house, then turned around. Lokelani had emerged and shut the door behind him. He stood tall, his eyes burning with intent.

"You know, it's good you stopped by. Let's have a quick chat, yeah?"

His stomach sank. Was he in trouble? He didn't need trouble now. Not from this massive man who didn't hesitate to pick up a phone and call someone's parents. What was this guy's problem!? Why was he always in someone else's business? Why…?

The frantic flow of angry thoughts was cut short when Lokelani asked, "Is everything okay?"

"H-huh?"

"You seem a little on edge today."

Stunned, Guzma tried to dodge the observation. "I don't… I don't think that I am."

"No?" For a long, heartwrenching second, Lokelani stroked his beard and hummed with thought. Finally, he revealed his purpose. "Y'know… Kids talk. And I know they sometimes think grownups aren't listening, but… I overheard someone say you and Kawika are going to have a fight after school tomorrow."

"I―" Guzma felt his mouth go dry. He bunched up his shoulders. "Just-a pokemon battle, that's all…"

"Guzma. I wasn't born yesterday," Lokelani chided gently. "I know how it is. You have beef, yeah? And now you're going to try and settle it, man-to-man."

Guzma chose to say nothing, even though words stuck in his throat.

"In my day, we did that plenty. So I understand. And you know―it's good for kids to try and solve their own problems if they can. That's how you become a man, yeah? But Guzma―if things get too deep, if you're scared or don't know what to do―it's okay to ask for help."

"I'm not…" Guzma buried his hands deep in his hoodie pocket, and felt his face flare up with embarrassment. The pocket knife inside touched his fingers. He gripped it tight and began nervously flipping it over as the word flew at him: Scared. Kawika, by most measures bigger and stronger than him, telling him to his face that I heard your mom's a― He couldn't even allow himself to remember. But he did remember how intensely he wanted to bury a knife in the other boy's face. Scared. Scared of Kawika first, then himself, of what he was becoming. Guzma tightened his throat. "I'm fine."

"Yeah?" Lokelani ruminated on his reluctance to speak. He scratched his chin and said, "You know you can talk to me, right? If someone's bothering you―"

"I think," Guzma interrupted, paused, and swallowed, all while shaking with nerves. "I should get home. It's kinda late."

"O-oh. Alright, little man. You be safe."

Guzma had never been so relieved to leave that house.

Alone.

Finally.

The truth was, Guzma felt no rush to get home. He took the path closer to the cliff-sides than to his house, and settled at an edge from which he could see far out over the sea. Day-dreaming overtook his view. Up until a few minutes ago, he could see nothing of his future but imminent strife, but for now, he could push that aside and think beyond it.

The Island Challenge.

Was he stupid? Maybe he shouldn't have said anything. He didn't even know for sure that Hala would let him start. What if he went to the old man tomorrow and he rejected him…?

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow?

What was wrong with him?

He was supposed to fight Kawika tomorrow.

Even the most basic of forward-thinking told Guzma that this was bad timing. Hala would frown on a schoolyard fistfight, and he couldn't hope to hide it from him, because whenever he got in trouble, Hala heard about it. Guzma could hear the man's disapproval in his head : "This is behavior you think is fit for an Island Challenger? Perhaps you'd better wait another year… "

Angry at himself, Guzma kicked a rock over the edge and watch it grind and splinter dustily into the sea. His fists balled up at his sides. Why did nothing work out for him?

"The trials are stupid, anyway," he told himself.

Waves crushed against the rocks like slapping palms.

"I can't chicken out."

But the more he reasoned it out, the more he remembered how little he wanted the fight in the first place.

As he looked through the sky, he pushed his hands in his pocket. The knife was still there, and he drew it out. In the bronze evening light, it shone orange, a torch of gleaming light. He admired it, but couldn't escape the troubling circumstances of its retrieval.

He had admitted to, as plainly as he could, thoughts of killing―and Daturo handed him a knife.

Even Guzma knew how perverse that was. What kind of person would do that?

A synapse fired, and for the first time in his life, he ascribed a value to an adult: irresponsible.

He had never thought of an adult as a moral actor; he thought of them more as capricious beasts, turning with the wind, at times cruel, at times benevolent. But to think of them as flawed…? As prone to failure in judgment, or feebleness… That thought soured his stomach and shook his frame with terror. The very gods who ruled his life―daily telling him what to do, how to do it, where to go, and what truth is―what were they, more than larger children who bumbled around and did as they pleased? Who saw him as an object by which they could punish the misery in their lives, or satisfy their illicit desires, or show off their virtue?

Guzma chewed his bottom lip.

He turned the knife over in his hand.

The good in him wanted to chuck the knife into the ocean and never think of it again. He even drew back his arm a little, like he meant to skip it across the waves. But his fingers clawed tight, desperate, needing. He couldn't let go of it, not quite yet.

I'll be a good person, he vowed. Someday. Just not now. Not yet.

So he put it away.

In the end, he would think of some way to circumnavigate Kawika and attain a more delectable goal. His father would be pleased to live vicariously through his successes (his father used to be a trainer, a someday-Champion, before unexpected family life overthrew his plans). His mother would cry (that's all she ever did these days). He would get as far as he could until fate stepped in and mediocrity caught up with him.

And all along the way, the knife stayed. It poked and prodded him, a thorn in his flesh, drifting from one pocket to another, wounding others throughout the years. The knife never changed, and it grew smaller in his hands as he grew older, but its weight seemed to escalate, dragging him with memories. Once, he cut a rival's arm with it. Once, he cut a cop's leg with it to escape arrest. Once, in the dark, with no one around, he held it against the skin of his wrist and couldn't do it.

His extra tooth to bare. His id. His fury.

To survive, he had to pocket all of this and turn for his house. The home glowed against the steadily-growing darkness, a candle flickering along on the hillside. When he had the amulet in his hand the next day, he thought, everything would feel more certain. He would see his future… and grab it with both hands.