The wagon ride to Crullfeld remained uneventful aside from the brief delay. The event hadn't left Jet's mind, still itching in the back of his brain, but he didn't bring it up with Percival or Valentine, deciding it was best left to himself. He did his best to sleep for the rest of the ride, pushing the thoughts off to the side.

"Hey Jet, wake up." Jet lifted his hood and opened one eye at Percival, who pointed ahead. "Crullfeld's right in sight."

Jet yawned, stretched his limbs, and stood up, peering off to the distant town. He made out the stone buildings and chimney smoke of the sleepy town. A river snaked past the town with a stone bridge connected to the main entrance. Out on the fields beyond the perimeter stood the farmlands, being tended to by the dedicated farmers under the hot sun.

"Nice place," Valentine commented. "Maybe I should retire here. I wouldn't mind taking a stab at farming in my old age."

Percival shook his head. "We all know mercenary work is your occupation before you tend the crops."

Valentine grinned. "There's something relaxing about hunting criminals."

Jet crossed his arms. "Seems peaceful enough. Are we sure there was a bandit attack down here?"

"Positive. You'll see it once you head through." Percival pulled his canteen out. "You should find Zephora somewhere by the local clinic."

Jet sighed, then scratched lightly at this neck. "Hopefully she hasn't caused any trouble."

"You good, dude?" Valentine asked all of a sudden.

"What do you mean?" Jet asked.

"You've been scratching your neck ever since that figure you thought you saw vanished."

Jet sighed. "Stress, I guess. Or maybe it's the heat."

"Well, stay in some shade. You wouldn't want a physical from Zephora, right?"

Jet shivered. "That chick still gives me the creeps. I'm almost glad not to be on field work with her anymore."

"Almost?" Valentine teased.

Jet rolled his eyes. "She's a useful ally above all things."

"You know you find her whimsy charming."

"So long as she's not lecturing about corpses." Jet glanced back at the two. "You both will be fine on your own, right?"

Percival sipped his canteen, then wiped the coffee stain from his lips. "Valentine and I have our assignments under control, as do you. With you and Zephora guarding Crullfeld, I doubt there's cause for concern."

"Are we certain the enemy will try and cause havoc in one of the towns?" Jet asked.

"If they want the princess that badly, they'll do pretty much anything, even if that means putting lives at risk." Percival sipped his canteen. "Still, nothing to worry with you guarding the town. Not many bandits out here know just how vicious you are."

"I still have the nightmares from sparring," Valentine casually mentioned.

After a few minutes of banter and gentle carting, Godfrey stopped at the stone bridge. Jet jumped off, lightly scratching his neck again. "We'll be stationed here for a week unless we find our target. You said the chick's name is Marsaili, right?" Jet asked.

Percival nodded. "You can't miss her. Angry looking Wigglytuff."

"Never thought I'd hear someone describe a Wigglytuff as angry."

Valentine leaned over the cart and waved. "Have fun, Jet! Bring home some snacks!"

"Get your own damn food," Jet grunted as he walked onto the bridge.

Valentine laughed. "Have fun, then!"

Percival sat back down. "Take us away, Godfrey." The Mudsdale neighed deeply and marched down the dirt path, leaving Jet to himself as he crossed the town bridge.

Jet stopped halfway over the bridge, faced the sky with closed eyes, and took in the fresh, crisp air as the wind tickled his fur. Though he appeared crabby on the surface, and perhaps a little bit on the inside, Jet appreciate the calm moments when they came. Still, he really did miss the old days when he went out on missions with the Nature Spirits, back when he was one. It was more rewarding than doing paperwork for supplies, though that's why he was assigned as the head instructor for rookies.

Jet was naturally violent. It developed over the years, becoming a part of himself. It did little to improve his social skills, which made it difficult to cooperate when he was a Nature Spirit, but he improved bit by bit. The violence felt right, so it made these tender, quiet moments relieving.

He inhaled the fresh air ad sighed. "I envy you sometimes, Valentine. You don't have a care in the world." He grunted through his teeth and scratched his neck again. "Wish I didn't have to care about these heat rashes or whatever they are." He shook his head, deciding to ignore the itching, and marched into town.

As expected, it was a quiet afternoon with few Pokémon bustling on the streets. Though, Jet caught sight of a couple knights on duty, no doubt in response to the bandit raid. He made sure to conceal his uniform under a cloak he brought along and casually passed by.

"Okay, where's the clinic again?" he mumbled. He reached into his bag and pulled out a map of the town. "Clinic, clinic, clinic…" He stopped beside a bulletin board, tracing his finger across the map. "The bridge is over here, and I'm here, so…ah, a few blocks down, right across from the bakery. Just follow my nose."

He tucked the map away and started on his way, taking a passing glance at the board. He froze for a moment, then doubled back to get a second look at the various posters nailed down. A few standout bandits came up, others not so notable or worth Jet's acknowledgement. One, however, caught his attention and left him confused.

A rough sketch of some long-eared Pokémon illustrated with a comically scary expression. Sharp teeth bordering on fangs, sharper eyes, and a forked tongue that a snake would find attractive. By Jet's interpretation, the artist took creative liberties when given the description of the criminal. It was these types of drawings that gave two-bit criminals false infamy and subsequently ended their careers when encountering a not-so-amateur bounty hunter.

However, what drew Jet's eye to the poster was the description, one that left him thoroughly puzzled.

"Wanted: mysterious new Forester. Harlow the Rookie Thief. Caution: reportedly dangerous and unassuming in appearance." Jet raised his brow. "Harlow? Do we have a Harlow?" Over time, it wouldn't surprise Jet if he forgot a few names here or there. It was bound to happen. And yet, based off the description of this long-eared psychopath the poster illustrated, you would think he'd remember someone that colorful.

"Must be some joker pretending to be a Forester," Jet mumbled under his breath. He squinted at the sketch, then read something else written underneath. "Last seen in Grimebrook. Grimebrook?" Jet raised his brow. "Wait a minute…"

Suddenly, a sharp scream elicited his attention away from the poster to a fearful child running down the road. "Scary lady! Keep the scary lady away from me!"

Jet watched the child disappear down the road, staring in puzzlement for a moment. "Scary lady?" He closed his eyes for a moment and pondered. "…Arceus dammit, Zephora." He groaned and proceeded with his march to the clinic.


Zephora examined the little Litleo in front of her, dangling him by his hindleg. The two Pyroar present in the clinic stared at the Maractus apprehensively as she poked and prodded at their son's sides with her needle digits.

"Mhmm." Zephora squinted at the child's face, then set him down with a disappointed sigh. "Well, I have some bad news." The parents inhaled sharply, fear written over their faces. With a straight face, Zephora stated, "Your son is perfectly healthy. He'll be fine."

The Pyroar parents hovered over her evaluation, frozen into their terrified expressions, then melted into relieved, yet confused looks. "Oh, that's…that's good," the mother expressed.

The father gulped and asked, "But why is that bad news?"

Zephora shook her head. "Oh, it's bad news for me, not you. Probably should've said good news instead. I've just been itching to examine the decay process of a corpse. It's been so long. Are you familiar with the stiffening of the body postmortem? Rigor mortis. Fun topic. I've tried to replicate the process in a living body to see its effects." She raised her brow. "Actually, if your son isn't busy, maybe he could help me—"

"Uh, we have to go! Thank you!" The mother bit down on her son's scruff and hurried out of the clinic with her husband.

Zephora poked out the door and waved. "Get home safe! And make sure to pace yourselves! Don't want to wear out the joints too fast!" She sighed. "Why does no one appreciate a beautiful corpse? I swear…"

"Predictable. People are running away, Zephora's probably giving a lecture." The Maractus turned and saw Jet approaching her with a leveled gaze. "This is why you're not a doctor."

Zephora scoffed and turned away. "Focusing my talents on medicine is a waste when I could study the hidden beauty of the dead." She smirked. "And yet, Jason put me in charge of caring for Crullfeld."

"Because you're the only other Forester with some medical experience, even if you don't practice it."

Zephora shrugged. "Well, I guess I can list off what isn't wrong with someone." She raised her brow. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Remember how one of our providers got jumped? Yeah, turns out the shooter's a part of a gang. They're hunting Foresters down so they can get closer to finding Melissa."

Zephora chuckled. "Poor girl. Most popular princess in Virdis, all for the wrong reasons. Does she have any gray hairs yet?"

Jet shook his head. "Actually, she's the one who took down the shooter."

Zephora gasped. "Seriously? Well damn, girl's got game!" She grinned. "How's she doing?"

"Last I saw, recovering from a gunshot."

"If she continues to be that reckless, I'll have to plan a proper funeral for her. Her service will be my best work."

"Uh huh." Jet looked up at the clinic building. "So, given you still have business, things are well?"

Zephora nodded. "Much to my ever-growing disappointment, no dead bodies. Some injuries, some afflicted with poison, but no one grasping on Yveltal's door."

Jet sighed. "That's a relief."

"So, how long are you here for?"

"I'm staying for the week, or at least until we catch the shooter's partner. Which reminds me, you wouldn't have happened to see Pearl Bullet Marsaili around?"

"Marsaili, eh? Name sounds familiar, but no other bandits around here."

"Well, I'll be on patrol while you wrap up with work here."

Zephora smirked. "Oh, and I can't help? What's wrong with that?"

Jet deadpanned. "You would destroy the ecosystem if I allowed you on patrol."

"I'm hurt. I may fancy the dead over the living, but I don't believe in mass murder or complete destruction." She huffed and turned away dramatically. "But very well, I'll leave you to your business. However…" She held her arm over her eyes and peered around the road. "I hear no screams or chaos brewing. That means you're free now."

Jet raised his brow. "Where are you going with this?"

Zephora grinned. "You are helping me carry some boxes. I'm making runs with soup and medicine, and I'm afraid my lack of legs will make the transport difficult."

Jet's eyes dipped into a glare. "You can't be serious."

"Come now, Jet, can't you help a lady in need?"

"You're being lazy."

"Lazy? Bah! Do you want me to drop the cargo and ruin all that perfectly good soup and medicine? Think of the people who desperately need it." She grinned cunningly. "It would be the right and just thing to do, yes?"

"You know if I refuse, you'll hold it over my head like I'm a horrible person."

Zephora nodded. "It's not as fun if you know the trick off the bat, but that is what I'm asking for."

Jet sighed, once again scratching at the irritable itch that seemed to plague him. "Well, if there's nothing going on right now, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to help."

"Glad you see things my way." Zephora pointed into the clinic. "I can procure a wagon so you can help me cart them around town. Much easier than you carrying them all."

"What, not going to guilt me into carrying a stack of boxes?"

"Well, since you're offering…"

Jet rolled his eyes. "Just get the wagon." He headed inside the clinic.

"You're a peach, Jet!" Zephora bounced off to locate a suitable wagon.

Jet peered back over his shoulder once the Maractus was gone. He sighed and stared down at the floor. I swear, she's either being creepy or being manipulative. Still, I don't really mind the busy work. Makes me feel useful.

For a moment, he involuntarily curled his fist, digging his unseen claws into his palms. He would do anything to gain approval. He had no dignity to lose. All he wanted was to feel like he could be put to use, whether it be carrying out Jason's orders or helping for the greater good. He had a lot to owe to the Foresters, so he couldn't stay mad forever at Zephora.

Though, I wouldn't object to a bandit attack right about now. Jet shook the thought away. Whatever. Now, where are those boxes? He walked further into the clinic in search of the precious cargo.


Purposeless. Though he never knew it at the time, he was deemed useless the moment he hatched from his egg. A curious child like any other who wanted the love of his parents, to feel loved and comforted. Most couples dreamed of having children to raise and spoil before carrying on the family legacy. Family was important to keeping the family legacy alive, to gain notice in the coming decades.

However, not all couples seek to have children, whether because they aren't ready, are incapable of having children, do not have the means to raise them…

Or, in the case of a certain Oshawott, they were nothing but a mistake.

A child with no name. That's what this Oshawott was. That's how much his parents cared for him. Two deadbeats who fell in love and left their families to pursue their passions, but ended up falling into a rough spot. Poor and withered, forced to get by on the scraps they could barely afford. They managed fine for all it was worth, hoping their luck would turn around. That dream died when the no-named child came into their lives.

Another mouth to feed, and a damper on their barely sustainable lifestyle. Forced to care for a crying baby the first year or two, forced to go out of their way to provide for him, and forced to care for him. They hated it more than anything. The child was nothing but a nuisance hampering on their already shitty lives.

But what could they do? They lived nowhere close to an orphanage or church that would take him in, and there was no way they could abandon him on the streets. Not because they cared, but because their community of neighbors would add more drama to their lives should they throw a defenseless child out on the streets. With their living conditions, they were stuck with him. And they hated it. They hated him.

"Momma, I'm hungry," the five-year-old Oshawott proclaimed, patting his stomach and looking up at the imposing Samurott, blissfully unaware of the annoyance in her face.

She grinded her teeth. "You…already ate," she stated in a tone trying to stay neutral. "We need to ration our food so we don't starve."

"But I'm hungry!" the child complained. It was annoying, but he was a child. No grasp of consequence or reality. His stomach demanded food, so food he must have. "Please, Momma!" he begged, pulling on her apron. His pleas could melt the hearts of any other mother who truly loved their child, but all it did was aggravate the woman further.

"Ugh, fine!"

She cobbled together whatever scrap they had laying around and dumped it into a bowl. She set it in front of her spawn and shoved a spoon into his little hands. Unaware of the aggressiveness, he cheerfully exclaimed, "Thank you!" He shoveled down the horrible gunk without complaint, merely grateful for another meal.

The child served only one purpose to the parents, though: free labor. Gleeful to please his parents, the child did everything they asked without question.

Need a heavy box moved? He was strong. Gladly!

Buy groceries? Not a problem for him!

Steal from the neighbors? Seemed wrong, but if that's what his mom and dad wanted.

The child did everything asked of him without question. No warmth in their words or thanks for his hard work. He was more like a slave than their son, but he didn't know the difference. In his little world, that was true love. Bossing your kid around so that he was useful. The child did he was told and felt pride in his work. If it made his parents happy, he didn't need praise. He was happy to make use of himself.

The unnamed Oshawott worked his tail off every day to ensure his parents' happiness. Whenever they yelled at him for messing up, that was a sign to improve and never make the mistake again. Whenever they weren't scowling at him, that meant he did an excellent job. Sometimes, he even got an extra slice of bread for his hard work. What a delectable treat. Two slices of bread for dinner instead of his usual one. The stomach pains were annoying, but he assumed that was normal for being such a good son.

That was the routine for eight years of his life. He would work, work, work for the sheer satisfaction of pleasing his disgruntled parents. It was all the naïve child could ask for.

Until that day came.

The child busied himself with the house chores at his mother's request while she lazed around at the dinner table, sewing her son's faded trousers. The even glare she wore was a sign that she was in a bad mood, which always seemed to be when she mended his clothes. The child never questioned it, just happy to have freshly mended clothes after roughhousing outside.

Then, without warning, the kitchen door flew open with an exhausted, yet excited Zangoose flying through, clutching a letter in his claws.

"Aikia, you won't believe this!" the Zangoose exclaimed.

The young Oshawott smiled and waved on his tippy toes. "Hi Papa! I swept the floors. They're nice and shiny now!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," the Zangoose dismissed, still focused on his wife.

Aikia sighed and set the trousers down. "Firmin, shouldn't you be at work? I'm not making you lunch. I've got enough to deal with—"

"Oh, forget making lunch! We won't have to do anything for ourselves ever again!" Firmin exclaimed excitedly. "I got the best news ever! My father died!"

Aikia raised her brow. "Oh, uh…I'm sorry? Congratulations? What emotion should I be feeling for you right now?"

"Just listen! Remember all those trips I took to see him? I've been trying to get into his good graces so he would include me in his will. Just my luck, the old fool caught the plague and died two days ago. I got a letter from his representative that I inherited his fortune."

Aikia's eyes widened. "Inherited? Fortune?! You mean—"

"We're rich!"

"We're rich?! We're rich!" Aikia flew out of her seat and pulled her husband into a tight squeeze. "This is incredible!"

The unnamed Oshawott stared at his parents in confusion. In the eight years he has been alive, he has never seen such jubilation decorated on their faces before. It kind of terrified him, yet he could tell they were excited about this inheritance of theirs.

"I won't have to cook or clean ever again!" Aikia gushed. "I knew I was right to fall for that crafty little mind of yours."

Firmin rubbed his nose against hers. "We'll have all the time in the world to enjoy our lives, my beloved. Father's representative is waiting for us with a coach and everything. He's taking us to our new home."

Aikia squealed. "We're finally moving out of this stupid house! Finally!"

"We're moving?"

The excitement darkened immediately. The couple finally acknowledged their son, who stared at them with wide, curious eyes. The spawn that they thought they were stuck with forever. Their useless son who could only do what he was told. He had his use over the years, but their patience with him had run its course. And at an opportune time, too.

Firmin grinned and kneeled down. "Hey kid, want to do something super, extra special for us?"

The child gasped. "Extra special?"

"I need you to go to our room and get the money I have stashed under the bed."

"What for?"

Firmin winked. "That's your reward for being such a…gift to our little family. Your first allowance."

The child beamed with joy. "The legends are true."

"Uh huh. Go get it. We'll be waiting for you."

With a spring in his step, the Oshawott ran off to his parents' room and instantly dove under the bed. He crawled around for several seconds, coughing at dust bunnies before finding the small sack of coins. He grinned, pulled it out, and ran back to show it to his parents.

"Momma, Papa! I found it! Thank you so…" He slowed down and blinked at the empty kitchen. "Momma? Papa?" His ears pricked as he heard a stagecoach moving out front. He raced to the door and threw it open.

His parents rode in the backseats, throwing their heads back and laughing as they disappeared down the road in the Rapidash-drawn carriage. The child gasped and chased after it, but got caught up in the dust cloud.

"Momma, Papa! You forgot me! Stop!" He tripped over his tiny legs and landed on his face, getting sand in his eyes. He sat up and rubbed it out, focusing his bleary stare at the fading carriage. "Momma? Papa?" he whimpered, clutching the sack of coins against his chest.

The child believed there was a mistake. Perhaps they got so excited that they forgot him at home. Again. No matter, he would just wait until they return for him. They loved him, right? They could never forget him.

He waited on the front porch with the money sitting in his lap.

He waited hours, then days, then weeks until the neighbors grew concerned. He kept saying "They'll come back" while trying to stay positive.

It was a front. Each day, his optimism diminished. Each fleeting day as he waited on the front steps for their return produced a dark cloud of his little head.

He braved the harsh winds, the torrential downpours, the chilly nights, and blazing afternoons all in the hopes they returned soon.

But they never did.


When the dreadful realization dawned on the child, he ran. Concerned neighbors tried to take him in, but he kept running. He ran away from every act of kindness, every shred of sympathy, every gesture of goodwill in fear. He packed what little food he had and the money gifted to him by his parents and took off into the night.

The trek was arduous for someone so young, but this child was tougher than most. He marched through the dirt road, sullen in appearance, but steadfast in body. He could go hours before needing rest. Wandering hermits would offer goodwill to the child, asking if he was lost, but he would always decline them and trek on ahead.

Somedays he felt like he would pass out under the beating sun, but he persevered, knowing in his heart that his parents were waiting for him. How could they function without him? He had chores to do, right?

He had no idea where he was going, though. He just followed the dirt road in hopes it would lead him to his parents like a magical guide. His food supply dwindled steadily by the day. He prayed to the bottom of his heart that he will find salvation soon.

He would never reach his destination, but his journey would lead him to a well-off town: Lyngholm. The child immediately noticed the sharp contrast from his old home to here. It looked like everyone was dressed better and cleaner. No buildings made of weathered stone and twigs, but red brick walls, tiled rooftops, and doors that weren't covered in rot. It was like stepping into a dream.

"Wow," the Oshawott awed. "This is nothing like back home." He kept his head low and tried not to draw too much attention to himself as he walked past the Pokémon. He got disgusted looks as he brushed against their legs. While they were prim and proper in appearance, the child was muddy and disheveled.

He pushed himself out of the crowd and took a moment to rest against a building. He plopped down and searched through his small knapsack for food. Unfortunately, all he had left was bread crumbs and an apple core. He lifted the apple core and nibbled feebly at the little bit of food left.

"Hurry along, Ferguson." The Oshawott lifted his head and saw a fancy Aromatisse walking down the street, followed by a Machoke carrying a ludicrous number of boxes. The Aromatisse was dressed in a beautiful blue dress with a wide skirt hanging an inch off the ground. She wore pearls around her neck and wrists and wore a matching blue, wide-brimmed hat. She held her head high.

"Coming, Mistress Brinley," the Machoke wheezed. The weight of the boxes didn't concern him, but there were so many that they could fall over at any second.

"If any dirt gets on those clothes, it is coming out of your pay," she warned without turning her head.

"Mistress Brinley, could we please…take a break—" Ferguson staggered for a moment and tried to keep his balance, but at least a dozen boxes slid from the stack. "Oh no!"

The Oshawott sprung from the ground and dove at the boxes. He caught one, then caught each of the boxes on top of each other until he had a stack of twelve secured in his hands. He sighed in relief.

Brinley turned with a brief scowl, but softened into confusion at the young Oshawott who saved her clothes. As he carefully stood up, she asked, "Who are you?"

The Oshawott peeked around the stack of boxes. "I'm nobody. You look like you needed help."

Brinley scrunched her nose in disgust. "Ugh, you look like a street rat. You are a commoner, right?"

"I guess so."

Brinley grumbled to herself, then said, "Well, I suppose I cannot be too picky since you saved my belongings—no thanks to you, Ferguson!"

Ferguson flinched and hid his face behind the remaining boxes. "S-Sorry, Mistress Brinley."

The Oshawott looked up at Brinley with utter fascination. She was harsh, cold, and firm in tone. He was right to assume she was important. She spoke with clear conviction and demand. It was nostalgic to listen to after being without his parents.

"Alright, that is enough fooling around," Brinley stated, clapping her hands. "Ferguson, take the remaining boxes back and try not to drop them this time—"

"I got it!" the Oshawott exclaimed, running up to her side. Brinley flinched at how close he got to her dress, but had to admire how he was able to balance the stack of twelve. "I can carry the rest of these back for you."

Brinley blinked. "Seriously?"

He nodded. "Uh huh. Do you need help with anything else? Just say the word and I'll do it."

Brinley narrowed her eyes. "Anything?"

"Anything!"

"So, if I asked you to steal from someone, you would do it?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Clean my house with a toothbrush?"

"Of course!"

"Punch yourself?"

"I don't mind!"

She smirked a little. "What if I asked you to kill someone?" She meant it in jest, obviously. As if she would order someone to perform a hit for her—

"If that's what you want, I'll do it!"

Brinley's eyes widened. "What?"

The Oshawott nodded firmly. "You look very fierce. It reminds me of my momma and papa, and they tell me to do stuff all the time."

Brinley was understandably put off by the child's blatant lack of awareness. He couldn't be more than five years younger than her, yet he was offering his services without question. On top of that, the admiring look he gave her was kind of creepy and concerning. It was like he was raised to listen to authority without question or personal input.

She wasn't staring at another living creature. It was a living instrument that could be manipulated.

Brinley wanted to tell him to shove off and not speak to her ever again, but she considered the potential use out of him. He was offering his service to her, and he seemed to be homeless from what she could tell. Would it be so bad to take him in and make use of his free loyalty?

"What is your name?" Brinley finally asked.

The Oshawott blinked. "Name? I can have a name?"

"Yeesh, what did your folks do to you?" She shook her head and faced forward. "We will worry about that later. You will follow me back to my home. We will get you cleaned up and see if we can put you to use."

The Oshawott beamed brightly. "Really?!"

"Yes, yes, do not blow my eardrums up. Hurry up and do not drop those boxes like Ferguson."

"Yes, ma'am!" The Oshawott tagged closely behind his new idol with conviction. The desire to search for his parents seemed like a fleeting memory in that instant. His drive to be useful ignited once more in his chest with fervent passion.


"Here you all go," Zephora said as she handed sealed bowls of soup to the next house on their delivery. "You'll find everything you need to preserver your fleeting existence before you return to the earth as all-natural fertilizer. May I help you with anything else today?"

The Dustox and Beautifly at the door understandably back into their hobble with strained smiles. "No…thank you. Thank you again for the soup." They quickly slammed the door shut. Zephora could hear them bolting the door down.

Zephora rolled her eyes. "Sheesh, that bandit attack must've left them pretty shaken." She bounced back over to Jet, who was put in charge of wheeling the wagon.

He rolled his eyes. "Right. The bandits. That's what has them spooked." He followed Zephora, easily pulling the wagon behind him.

Zephora stretched her arms. "Well, we're almost done delivering the medicine and soup. I say we take a break and grab some lunch ourselves."

"It's barely three o'clock."

"Never too late for lunch. Or breakfast."

Jet huffed through his nose. "Well, I'm not joining you. I have to patrol the town for Marsaili."

"Boring~!" Zephora exclaimed, bouncing backwards so she could face him. "It's not like anything she does will be subtle. The second we hear screaming, we'll catch her in the act and put an end to her little hunt for the princess."

"There's a bit more to it than that. We speculate she's in a gang. Problem is, we don't know what gang she's in."

"So?"

"There are some people in Virdis that even Jason doesn't want to cross paths with." Jet looked over his shoulder and glared. "Outside the kingdoms and in their unsecured territories, Freaks of all kinds are popping out left and right. Some perish at the start of their career, and some make others perish."

"Don't get me wrong," Zephora stated in a bored tone. "I rather not pick a fight with the super wanted Freaks, obviously. I said so because we are one of those gangs. People and Freaks fear us for a reason, and thus we are on par with the rest of them."

"That is not how that works," Jet dismissed dryly.

"No one's stupid enough to blindly attack us."

"Oh yes, except for the dirtbags I had to put into the ground with the rookie," Jet reminded firmly.

Zephora rolled her eyes. "I'd argue they had a plan. They just didn't account for you and Rookie being such a…complementary pair. You said she was still recovering from her wounds, right?"

"Yeah. I have to admit, she handled herself competently against Amos, if not too recklessly." Jet narrowed his eyes for a moment, then asked, "By the way, Zephora?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you seen the wanted posters recently about a long-eared mastermind in Grimebrook? Harlow?"

Zephora raised her brow. "Yeah, actually. They came in recently."

Jet glared. "You don't think those are about…"

"May seem like it."

"Oho, don't keep me in the dark, you two. I'm all ears."

Jet and Zephora stopped and instantly turned their weapons toward the wagon. Sitting atop their boxes was a lone Wigglytuff. She wore a white, formfitting shirt that hugged her balloon-like body, a blue vest with golden tassels hanging from the shoulders and bottom edges, and a matching blue skirt. She wore an outlandish and feathery sunhat that sat askew on the left side of her head. Blue, green, and white feathers on the wide brim and sticking out on the top. Standing out less among the outfit was the gray cloak disposed of on the boxes.

Zephora gripped her halberd tightly. "May I perhaps request a name, miss?"

The Wigglytuff grinned casually. "Oh? My name? How forward of you. It's only polite to introduce yourselves first."

Jet scowled, clutching hard on his scalchop. "If I could wager a guess, you're Marsaili. Pearl Bullet Marsaili."

The Wigglytuff frowned for a moment, then sighed. "You really are a buzzkill. That's the feeling I got when I first lay eyes on you. You're no fun." She grinned. "But yes, your accusation is sound. I am Pearl Bullet Marsaili."

"Astounding," Zephora praised sarcastically. "It's not every day I meet criminals who willing walk themselves to their own executions. Unfortunately, I'm sworn to an oath, so I can't make work for myself, even though I wouldn't mind examining your corpse."

Marsaili leaned back into the boxes, nestling herself in. "Don't get cocky, missy. I couldn't quite stand the arrogance of you two. Do you fancy yourselves as deities just because those idiots got their asses handed to them? I think they overstepped their boundaries believing they could fight on home turf."

"What idiots?" Jet asked.

Zephora glared. "The alchemists you and Rookie apprehended most likely. But how do you know about them?"

Marsaili sighed. "Oh dear, am I saying too much?"

Jet bared his teeth. "You worked with them."

Marsaili grinned toothily. "Let's forget about them for now. I'm more interested in this Harlow chick. She left my pal, Amos, in quite the tizzy. Now, I naturally thought he was full of shit, but hearing you two talk about her opened my eyes. The rookie's name is Harlow, isn't it?"

"We don't know a Harlow," Zephora stated, thrusting her halberd closer.

Marsaili gently poked the tip of the weapon. "You can't hide the truth from me, I know. She's connected to the princess' disappearance, isn't she? In fact, she's the one who kidnapped the princess." She smirked. "Makes sense. Anyone who sounds that unhinged must go all out during initiation or whatever. I bet she wanted to stand out by leading the kidnapping."

Jet wanted to shut down her accusations until the situation dawned on him. Wait…that means…shit, does that mean that wanted poster really was of Melissa? You stupid, stupid girl. What the hell did you do?

Marsaili stood up and raised her arms. "Do you know how much I'll get for taking her in? Retribution comes, and I get paid. Removing you freaks of nature from the limelight puts crooks like me at the top. Standing above the class until all sets in motion." She grinned. "I can become one with the upper class with money like that. I could retire early and live off a fortune, and without crooks like you getting in my way."

Jet shared a look with Zephora. They were in agreement regarding 'Harlow', but it was clear Marsaili didn't know who Harlow was. With an entire gang looking to sink their fangs into Melissa's bounty, capturing her would set off an internal conflict unlike any other. A princess turned rogue? The backlash would spark a civil war in the worst case scenario.

Zephora tightened her glare and pressed her halberd against Marsaili's chest. "You're coming with us. You'd be stupid to take both of us on."

Marsaili sneered with delight. "Oh, but I have you two exactly where I want you."

"What are you talking about?" Jet demanded sternly.

She laughed and shook her head. "Did you think I revealed myself so blatantly without a plan in mind? While you two are wasting your time playing interrogation, someone's bound to die at any second."

Before they could respond, Marsaili dropped an empty glass vial at their feet. Their eyes followed it, and their hearts sank.

"Are you two familiar with arsenic? In small quantities, it can cause severe pain to the body. Larger doses, like say a whole bottle, could kill someone." She pressed her fist to her cheek. "I'm sure a grown Pokémon could survive the dosage, but…oh, weren't you delivering soup to children, too?"

Zephora bared her teeth. "You bitch…"

"Hmm, something wrong—" She had only a second to dodge the powerful halberd thrust. A cut opened on her cheek. Too fast!

"You dare sully the beauty of death for your callous pleasure? Death should be natural and filled with purpose, yet you put innocents in danger for some silly scheme? I won't stand for heretics like you!"

This chick's nuts! Marsaili gasped.

Zephora vaulted off her halberd, spun it over her head, and came down on the wagon. The wagon collapsed under the impact, slicing in two down the middle. Crates tumbled through the air and smashed open on the ground.

Jet covered himself from the wood fragments, then glared at the wagon. Though Zephora's attack was effective, Marsaili had vanished in the moment. "How did she do that?" he asked aloud.

Zephora stood up and waved her halberd around. "Where are you, Pearl Bullet?" she called out in a chilling tone. "I want to examine your corpse~."

"Zephora!" Jet yelled. "Forget about her. We have bigger problems. We don't know if she poisoned one or all the soup and medicine with the arsenic. You need to hurry and make sure everyone's safe."

"Me?!" Zephora gasped.

"If anyone's poisoned, you're the only one who can save them. You have to hurry, now!"

"But what about Pearl Bullet?"

Jet raised his scalchop, furrowing his brow sternly. "Leave her to me. I came here to hunt her down and that's exactly what I'm doing."

Zephora blinked twice, then smirked. "Heh, alright. Try not to die, though. As much as I would love to examine your organs, you're good company." She sheathed her halberd and bounced off down the street.

Jet took a deep breath, then shuffled across the road. The streets were empty and quiet. Though he couldn't tell, it was just him and Marsaili in the area, wherever she was. A switch seemed to go off in his head. His gaze turned steely and focused, a sign of complete, unwavering concentration.

"In the name of the Foresters, I will destroy you," Jet promised, his Razor Shell turning sharper.

"Oh, you silly boy, how's that god complex working out for you?" Something socked Jet across the face, knocking him to the ground. He rolled back to his feet and waved his Razor Shell at Marsaili, wearing her same carefree grin. "Marlo and his cronies might have been bested, but I'm not scared of you."

Jet glared. How did she do that? I was keeping watch off all my angles. Even if she tried to sneak from a blind spot, I would've caught her. He gritted his teeth. She had a cloak with her. Is she the figure I saw on the road earlier?

Marsaili beckoned him forward. "Come on, silly boy. Hit me with your best shot."

"You'll learn to regret those words." Jet took off with Aqua Jet and swung at her. Marsaili ducked under the Razor Shell, but Jet kicked off the ground to spin back around. However, Marsaili had vanished yet again the second he took his eyes off her. "What the—"

Something battered him in the chin, knocking him out of his Aqua Jet. The same force slammed down on his nape and buried him in the street. He tried to swipe the air with his scalchop, but it flew out of his hands. The force bashed into his back and grinded his face into the road. As he pulled himself up, he heard Marsaili laughing at him.

"You're out of your league. You Foresters don't scare me at all. I've rose up the ranks as far as I did because no one can stop me. No knight, bounty hunter, or bandit has a chance in hell of defeating me."

Jet looked around, but couldn't see the Wigglytuff anywhere. Though her voice was clear as day, its omnipresence unnerved him. He was clearly dealing with a master escape artist. Hit and run tactics were her go-to for battle. She obviously wasn't one for an upfront fight, otherwise Jet could easily destroy her.

Jet bared his teeth, snarling. Don't push me, Pearl Bullet. The second you cross my Razor Shell, I'll make you suffer.


Marsaili amused herself with the angry expression the Oshawott made. She knew she had this fight in the bag. Separating him and the Maractus gave her better breathing room to work with. Two sets of eyes ruined the illusion. If multiple people saw her evading attacks, the trick would be lost and easily exploitable. Not to say she cares if the trick was unveiled or not. She was confident in her abilities.

You have no idea who you're messing with, Forester. I was trained under a true deity of the outskirts. She's an actual threat while you are but a simple ant. Though I have yet to master the Ground Dance Art, I know just enough that puts me above filth like you. I perfected it to my personal style of combat. You'll never find me, and you'll never catch me.

She clung to the white stalks of fur she hung from, grinning as Jet aimlessly searched for her. Not only could she disappear in an instant, she was barely comprehensible to the naked eye. At her current size, the size of a bead, she dangled from her opponent's fur like a tree branch.

You Foresters pretend you're larger than life, but you should never underestimate little guys like me.