Chapter XII: T.C.B.

He knew not the time or the day. He ignored the slight scent of smog lingering Saffron City. His eyes caught neither the populous diversity nor the marvelous skyscrapers. It all fell to the wayside. Nothing seemed to matter more than the warm print of sweat on his right palm. The moisture was a result of intimate, transient collaboration.

Words fell from Skylar's lips like snowflakes in the northern wind. Damion heard every word. He responded adequately when prompted to do so, though he was not quite listening. He determined this was how she released her jitters.

When she reached for the boy's hand in the darkness of the Magnet Train's tunnel, Skylar could only hope for the best. To her delight, he tightened their clammy hands together. For a boy so cold on the outside, there was certain tenderness about him. How he gazed upon her brought a sparkle to her eyes.

She offered him a tour of Kanto's economic epicenter to which he graciously declined.

"You don't even want to go see Mr. Psychic?" she said, referring to a local resident known to gift Pokémon Trainers a powerful Technical Machine. He shook his head no. His only concern was of which whatever her schedule consisted. This approach stumped Skylar. Of the boys she connected with in the past none of them placed a spotlight on her suggestions. They always took the lead. Skylar concluded that was her type: strong, assertive, star-of-the-show – the only kind of man that could juggle her ever-changing impulses, she assumed.

Damion bore resemblance to her romantic idiosyncrasy in spirit but not in behavior. Mysterious he was and curious was she. He had come all this way to see her. Or did he? She wondered if their rendezvous was chance and asked if he would agree. He saw a different light in her. A fragrance of raw cherries and cinnamon entered his senses. Was it lotion or lip gloss – perhaps a pie recipe? Skylar noticed his wandering eyes.

"Did you know that, Damion?"

". . . Huh? K-Know what?"

"Tuning me out already?"

"I would never;" he coolly responded, "how fast did you say the Magnet Train was again?"

"Over 550 kilos per hour!"

"What's that in miles?"

"Like, 340."

"Oh, wow. That's fast."

"Oh, wow," she mocked. Damion rolled his eyes and smirked. They first headed south, then west, where the gate to Route 7 lied. The boy mentioned their deed in the dark.

"So. . . We gonna talk about what happened back there?"

"I'm not quite sure what you mean. . ."

"Playing this game, are we?"

"Since you're certain something happened, why don't you tell me what it was?"

"Look at you, can't even keep a straight face. There's no need to front."

Route 7's gate beckoned. Skylar postponed her answer until they reached the other side of its hall. A security guard alongside an Arcanine, a fairly rare Fire-type canine Pokémon, monitored their passage. She stopped and turned to him when they reached a suitable distance from the door.

"Maybe what happened back there was earned," she resumed. "That hand offered me a gift, even if said gift tasted awful; that hand protected me when danger was afoot; and it wrote me a thoughtful little note."

"Actually, I'm left-handed," he tittered.

"I'm gonna pretend what you just said was really, really smooth."

She grabbed his dominant hand with hers and giggled ahead of Route 7's middling patch of tall grass. Herb aromas filled the air. A green motif permeated the city of Celadon. Skylar was in her element. Many waved hello to her as they passed in the streets. He saw her beauty in the joy she shared with others as opposed to her womanly constructs. She seemed happiest amongst friends, something Damion knew little about. He rarely connected with anyone, but rather perceived others as purposeful checkpoints on his path to greater knowledge of self.

Skylar commented on his antisocial behavior. Introducing him to neighbors, friends, friends of friends, local shop owners and more, she witnessed his hesitancy to reveal his inner essence. He appeared to mask both his internal and external emotions. When asked of his background by strangers, he spoke in vague buzzwords. He gave no insight into his beliefs, heritage or future plans. Personal information, he surmised, belonged solely to the individual, and it was his or her choice to release it. Damion chose to remain private in spite of multiple small-talk lulls.

To some Skylar jokingly apologized for the boy's tendency to under-explain. He was respectful to his elders and careful with the youth. He even gave away the hat he wore to one of Skylar's favorite little helpers. She complimented him on his sweetness. The young boy hugged Damion's leg and ran off, bragging to all who would listen.

Conversely, Skylar's peers, ones who stopped to chat about their upcoming first college semester, hardly paid Damion any mind. He embraced the exclusion, though. His vision swiveled between the vast surroundings of Celadon City. Grass-type Pokémon sprang from every corner like sidewalk dandelions. He left Skylar to her conversations, walking closer to the city's world-renowned Department Store.

"The First of Its Kind!" read the front door sign. Curiosity got the better of him. Damion raised his mask and entered. A flood of shoppers weaved in and out around one another in perfect formation. Buying, selling and trading happened both over the counter and amongst the aisles. Blackthorn's prince did not belong in a place such as this, yet an urge to traverse its many floors in search of treats for his Pokémon came over him. On the thirteenth of fifteen floors, according to the receptionist on the ground level, was a clerk who sold stat-boosting medicinal products.

In the elevator he remembered Skylar might be looking for him. He thought of her as someone who paid close attention to tiny details even if she never stopped to mention them. She must have seen him enter the Department Store. He hoped so, at least. His heart began to thump, regretting his impulse decision. The elevator chimed once, twice, three times.

His anxiety-ridden thoughts distracted him from realizing on which floor he exited. A queasy sensation entered the boy's gut as he lifted his head from its downward gaze. An inquisitive woman looked excited to see him for an unknown reason. She wore a flattering navy blue apron. It featured Celadon's city logo: a crisp green leaf blade with a fiery purple letter C in the middle. Damion glanced at the symbol only for a moment.

"Oh!" said the employee. "Is that a vintage Lior?"

"I beg your pardon?" Damion said, slightly muffled.

"Your mask, is it a season one? It kinda looks like a season one Lior. That adorable little Ho-Oh, I just love his work."

"Uh. . . What floor is this?"

"Fashion, of course."

"Ah, I see. Definitely took a wrong turn somewhere, then. Thanks."

"You could at least tell me where you got your mask before you just leave like that."

"I would if I knew, okay? But I don't – now goodbye."

"No. Stop! I think you stole that mask and, as a Pokémon Trainer, I insist you either hand it over or challenge me!"

"You're serious. . . Here in the store?"

"Right here, right now . . . thug."

The boy pictured chucking the mask at the woman's face. Although her claim held some truth, he considered the accessory a prize of victory. He was no one's thug. Thus he did not back down. Her challenge sidetracked his paranoia. In the back of his mind, Damion wished to stay hidden. Siegfried had eyes on him; he must. His escape, he concluded, had been reported ages ago.

However, a lack of headwear exposed his identity. If one were to hack the store's security footage in search of Damion, one would immediately recognize him. The disguise remained, though more out of spite than fear. A dilemma presented itself. If Damion accepted her challenge he also accepted her ignorance, so he thought. Resistance could be aggressive or passive, depending on how one looked at a particular situation.

Fight back or walk away, which was correct for his current predicament? He dwelled upon this decision for as long as possible before cowardice could define him. He posed a legitimate concern to buy some time.

"I thought salesclerks weren't allowed to be Trainers."

"I'm taking an early lunch, just for you."

A Poké Ball flew through the air, painted with wheat and olive green stripes. A Nest Ball, they called it, was made for catching relatively weaker Pokémon. A puzzling monster of about two feet, with squinty eyes and a reddish-brown flower for a crown, appeared in the department's open central layout. Racks of clothes and fitting rooms spread on either side. Patrons paused to witness their duel. The clerk and her Pokémon posed with synchronized breaths. The blue-bodied Pokémon stood on two rudimentary feet; foul-smelling liquid dripped from its thin, purple lips.

Damion knew the Pokémon as Gloom, a Grass-and-Poison-type, though he had never seen one in person. Each petal of its head flower featured a single large white dot which denoted it was female. He flipped open his Pokédex to scan her data. The device beeped and flashed, reading the entry aloud:

Gloom: The Weed Pokémon – It secretes a drool-like honey. Although sweet, it smells too repulsive to get very close.

He clutched the shell of his beloved dragon. He stared deep into the eye of the Poké Ball. He lowered his gaze and smirked.

"You will lose," he said. "Your Pokémon surely loves you and you it. But I am no thief and, more importantly, I am no thug. Gloom will suffer all because you couldn't mind your own business."

Dragonair joined the battle. He knew his faithful dragon would not let him down. The clerk initiated the action. She called for her Gloom's Lucky Chant. Underneath the glow of fluorescent bulbs, she performed a starry incantation. A mystical veil passed over them, protecting their team against random feats of strength, also known as critical hits.

Damion countered with patience. A weak jolt of electricity launched in Gloom's direction. The Weed Pokémon trembled in paralysis. The boy's strategy was a simple one. Dragonair used four moves in battle, like any skilled Pokémon. Aqua Tail, Dragon Tail, Thunder Wave and Return served their friendship well. TM27, which held the Normal-type attack Return, gained attack power depending on the bond between the user Pokémon and its Trainer. The boy and his dragon's spirits aligned as he readied his next command.

Intermittent sparks flickered off Gloom's acorn-shaped body. She powered through her handicap and followed her Trainer's order. The Grass-type charged at her opponent. A heap of thick purple fluid spewed from her mouth. Dragonair ducked at the sight of the oncoming attack. A drop splashed onto Damion's sneaker. His pinky toe lay exposed to the public. He tucked his lips and tightened his gaze.

Dragonair used Return! It slammed its stubby horn into the face of Gloom. She was fully paralyzed. Following orders from Damion, the dragon summoned its aquatic attack. Spirals of water surrounded its crystal orbed tail. It locked onto the large white dots on Gloom's flower crown. Over and over the Dragon Pokémon swung its tail at the Grass-type's frame like a vicious wave in a raging storm. They showed no mercy.

Gloom stole some health back by shooting out her Giga Drain, though it was not very effective. Despite the Weed Pokémon's resistance to Water-type attacks, Dragonair's close range and successive hits depleted her remaining health. The clerk had been defeated, rather easily at that. If she were to defend the righteous path, the boy boasted, she would at least need a team of Pokémon. The clerk agreed. Damion offered her a Revive from his Trainer Bag. She smiled with a change of heart. A familiar voice resonated.

"Hey! There you are… Oh. Did you just have a battle, without me?" asked Skylar, jogging in from the stairway corridor. She placed both hands on his chest; she tilted her head north to lock eyes with him.

"Was I supposed to wait for you?" he asked.

"You were supposed to fraternize with my friends, not wander off to buy a new wardrobe."

"I'm sorry I left. I couldn't help it; I really do ha—"

"Hate small talk. Yeah, I noticed," she teased. "Next time you battle I wanna be there."

"Yeah? And why's that?"

"So afterwards I can tell everybody that you won for me."

She tapped his nose with her finger and giggled. Their shoulders brushed as she perused the footwear aisle. She would not be seen with a boy with holes in his sneakers. A pair of white-based mids with splashes of lime green, regal purple and sport orange across the soles caught her eye.

"What size do you wear?" she asked.

"13," he replied.

"Yas," she whispered.

"What was th—?"

"Nothing!"

Skylar hurried over to the checkout counter where she stared down the clerk. Her custom photo credit card slid forward. The cardboard box slid in the Trainer's direction. Her selection would not suffice. Neutral colors, he insisted, are timeless. They never needed replacements. She attempted to convince him otherwise.

"Variety is the spice of life!" she claimed.

"Black reflects who I am," he countered.

"Okay, I guess. But aren't there days when you want to branc—"

"Nah."

"Oh, c'mon. You can't honestly be that boring."

". . ."

"W—"

"Black."

She gripped her hips and scowled. He chuckled at her decorative frustration. The colorful sneakers returned to their original rack, replaced by a pair of charcoal black Running Shoes. With the amount of walking Trainers endured, on top of the unexpected trials of their indefinite journey, trendy footwear fulfilled little purpose.

Skylar pestered the clerk to discount his sneakers. Her glare buckled the knees. He zoned out to avoid the awkward encounter, scratching between his braids. His dysfunctional disguise he left at the counter. Perhaps someone who valued the term chic would make better use of it.

Normally the boy avoided skin-to-skin contact. Yet her touch reminded him of a dream. They locked hands again, this time heading for Celadon Condominiums. The prodigious housing unit featured a postmodern design. From its wide, rectangular frame protruded a multitude of rounded shelves looking out onto the city; they resembled layers of tree rings in color and concept; greenish glass embellished the scene.

She waved her Key Card in front of the door monitor. A photo of Skylar materialized inside the screen. Her picture-day smile grabbed his attention, along with her curl-tipped locks.

"You coming?" She brushed loose strands of hair behind her ear as she held the door open.

"And here I thought chivalry was dead," he answered.

"Good thing I'm CPR certified."

She paced ahead of him. Her ponytail bopped side to side. She addressed the receptionist with a pet name. He took a look at Damion, then back at her. His eyes rolled as if the boy was one of many. Even if that were true, he thought, he knew somehow he was an exception.

She pulled the door on the left side of the front desk. It led to a stairwell. Elevators, she claimed, stole one's unbridled youth. For how could one appreciate their destination without the lingering effects of one's journey? He respected her philosophy. And so for ten consecutive flights they huffed and puffed. Once he asked about her father's whereabouts on flight number three, her lips did not cease to flap. This he enjoyed. Her monologue eased his anxious mind.

She informed him that her father was in the Sinnoh region shooting his magnum opus, a polarizing love story between a widowed movie theatre custodian and a gentle Pokémon with a human soul. She presented its title, impassioned and proud: "Of Love and Liquid." They arrived at her home, Condo 10-02. She delved into the film's theme with a hand on the door knob:

"There's been a million love stories about people, and some about Pokémon; but never one linking the two in romance. I admit, when he pitched his idea to me I was a little skeptical. But the story is so touching, Damion. I can't wait for it to come out. It's not about sex with a monster. It's so much more than that: a fairy tale depiction of a misguided society.

Every day fear is served to us on a silver platter. You've seen the news; you know what I'm talking about. We're supposed to be afraid of what makes us different, but aren't our differences why the world is as beautiful as it is? I think so. On the other side of fear is discovery. It isn't always peachy-keen. But how will we ever grow if we don't try to understand each other?

You see, love and liquid mirror each other. They spread and adapt to any environment they find themselves in. They neither break nor bend, but rather take whatever form suits the scene. Love doesn't judge or discriminate. It embraces all who accept it. But if we continue down this path and can't love each other for who we are, who we truly are, then we are the ones who are monsters."

A handle turned from two doors down. An enchanting woman entered the frame. Two-inch heels, oxblood in color, dangled above the oddly styled carpet from her fingertips. She lit up upon seeing her floor mate. Her look set her apart. His bones tensed; he had never seen such beauty. Her eyes were like giant stars shooting cross the sky. They matched her long, flowing hair – a pale grayish green. Although impossible, the hue came across as more or less au naturel. In this city she belonged. The ladies exchanged greetings.

"Skylar, sweetie, how are you?"

"I'm fabulous, of course!"

"Yes you are. Hmm . . . I know that look. You must be talking about your father's work again."

"You know me so well. I just had to share his new project with m—"

"Oh. And who might this be?"

"Celeste, this is Damion Harrison from Blackthorn City. He saved my life a few days ago. Isn't he the cutest?"

"Um," she paused. "No, not really. But it's a pleasure meeting you. . . Damion, was it?"

He extended his hand with furrowed brows and replied.

"Yeah, Damion. Say, you wouldn't happen to be Celeste, as in Bill the programmer's ex-wife Celeste, would you?"

Skylar swallowed spit upon her floor mate's change of expression.

"Um, yeah," Celeste replied. "That would be me. Thanks for bringing that up."

She turned back to Skylar, nearly ignoring the boy altogether. They discussed their anticipation for the coming semester – a dreadful déjà vu. This time he could not escape. Celeste was finishing her digital arts degree (specializing in photography and computer animation) while Skylar was beginning her path as a film studies major.

First-year professors and study hot spots came up as topics. Skylar admired her green-haired friend; it was clear from her continual compliments and conversational cues. Perhaps she merely wanted information Celeste possessed. However, he had a feeling they had had this exact talk before, possibly many times – which in his mind equated to more small talk, though a savior soon arrived.

From the same door as Celeste walked a man of levelheaded essence. His silvery hair spiked down and out. Deep blue garments embraced his lean frame. He wore polished steel rings on almost every finger. A quaint smirk rested on his lightly chapped lips; a kiss from his lover quenched their surface. Damion knew this man as Steven Stone, the Hoenn region's League Champion. The boy's eyes grew wide and starry. Skylar introduced the Champion like an everyman.

"Steve, this is Damion. Damion, this is Celeste's fiancé St—"

"Everyone knows who Steven Stone is," blurted Damion. "Wow, sir, it is an absolute honor to meet you."

The Champion chuckled with a hand over his heart.

"It's nice to meet you too, Damion. How do you do?"

"I'm well, sir – quite well, actually. It's not every day I get to meet a League Champion."

"Well, I hate to burst your bubble. But I'm no longer Hoenn's Champion."

"What? Someone defeated you?!"

"No, I'm afraid not. I resigned so I could explore the world's caves. I needed some time away from the politics. Wallace, the former Water-type Gym Leader of Sootopolis City, is the current Champion – unless he's defeated of course, or I decide to reclaim my title."

"That makes sense. I gotta ask, though: Do you think he could take you?"

"Between you and me, he doesn't have a chance."

Four laughs combined. Damion probed further.

"So what brings you to Kanto?" he asked.

"I came here to visit the Pewter City Museum of Science and revive a Fossil I found in the depths of the Underground in the Sinnoh region."

"Oh, the Sinnoh region – that's where Skylar told me her dad shot his latest movie."

"Oh, 'Dream World Ability'? I love that one!"

"Actually, no. It was called. . . 'Of Love and Liquid' I'm pretty sure."

"Hm, I don't think I've seen that one."

Skylar butted in.

"That's because it's not out yet!" she said, holding up one finger. "I was just telling Damion the meaning behind it. You must've just missed my dad; he's been over there for a couple months now. He should be back in the fall. I would say we'll be seeing you in Undella Town this year, but I'll be in school. Our villa hangout will have to be rain checked."

"That's quite alright," Steven replied. "Since I have my master's in geology, I took a teaching job at the university so Celeste and I could spend more time together."

"Oh, yeah! I remember you mentioning that last time we spoke."

"So it looks like I'll be seeing you around campus."

"I can't wait till the semester starts. Re-watching and analyzing all the classics and learning about set designs and lighting techniques and screenwriting will be a dream come true!"

The couple giggled in unison. "I'm sure you will make your father very proud," said Steven. His partner pinched his side to remind him they were running late. They reserved a table at the hottest restaurant in town, the Victory Belle. An offer to accompany them stood but was not accepted. The men shared a strong, friendly grip as the women traded double-cheek kisses.

"Maybe next time!" Skylar echoed on their way into the elevator. Her view shifted to the boy; a warm smile developed. She opened her condo door and gestured him inside. Charm pink walls splotched with gold featured a gallery of family photos, vinyl records and framed movie posters. A state-of-the-art chrome kitchen at their immediate left began the tour. Two small steps led down into the central living room square. A stunning chandelier prop from a famous decades-old gangster film hung above them, between the television and her velvety soft L-shaped couch.

From the luxurious bay window lookout, which glided open from the middle at the press of a button, he saw the couple en route to their reservation. Skylar nudged his side.

"You're attracted to her, aren't you?"

"W-What?"

"She's hot. You can say it."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"You guess so? Should I be worried about you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Why can't you boys just be honest?"

Damion avoided her question. He walked over to a particular mounted vinyl – 'Hard Boiled' by The Second Chanseys, autographed in every corner by each of the four band members. He relayed his love for the record to her. "It's okay," she replied. "Their first album's better." He brushed off her blasphemy and followed her lead into her bedroom (the master bedroom was off-limits to guests). She took a seat next to him at the edge of her bed, sifting through a stack of movie cases. He was nervous, and she knew it.

"Everything… okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," he said. "Everything okay with you?"

"Yep. . . So, why did you bring up Celeste's ex-husband like that?"

"Who, Bill? Well, I, uh, I just met him the other day, the same day we met actually, but after, and he told me his ex-wife's name was Celeste. So, I was just cross-referencing."

"Cross-referencing?"

"I'm not someone who worries about what they should or shouldn't say."

"Clearly."

"Does that bother you?"

"No not really. It just caught me off-guard; that's all. Celeste is probably trashing you right now."

"You think so?"

"I mean, I would be if I were her."

"So it does bother you."

"I didn't say that."

". . . Hey, can I ask you a personal question?"

"Yeah, sure. What's up?"

"Are you here alone a lot? Is your mother still around?"

"Yes, I'm alone fairly often. My dad is off shooting or promoting his films for the better part of most years. But he trusts me with the place and we talk on the phone whenever he has the time. And to answer your other, super personal question: No. She left my dad when I was six."

"Oh. Sorry if I went too far."

"No, it's okay. I'm an open book! I love my mom and I used to stay with her every other weekend before I turned 18. I chose to stay with my dad because I wanted freedom. She can be suffocating most of the time. My dad was too much of a busy body for her. She liked a set routine every day but my dad has always been spontaneous. Eventually they butted heads enough for her to leave. She doesn't like that I'm following in his footsteps, but I'm grown so I'm gonna do what I want."

"I hear ya, sister."

"Anyway, where did you run into Bill at? I've always wanted to meet him."

"Well, I didn't really run into him. Blaine and I flew to his Sea Cottage in Cerulean to have a chat."

"Chat about what?"

"I don't know if I should say."

"Oh, c'mon. I just told you my whole deal. You've been so mysterious with me ever since we met on the ferry. I got you out of that jam at the train station; I let you into my home. Can't you trust me?"

"For some reason, I feel like I can. But I don't know if I should. My mission is confidential."

". . . Do you believe in God, Damion?"

"What?"

"Do you believe in God?"

"I believe in Arceus."

"Me too. But do you believe in an even greater power? Like, if Arceus created all the Pokémon in the world, and its Legendary Pokémon created time and space and dimensions and the land and the seas, then who made us? You seem like a deep thinker. What's your take?"

"That's a tough question, but a good question. Well, I believe… that there is a God, above us and above Arceus, one that is not bound by matter or space or time. I believe God is a source of limitless light energy from which all things were birthed."

"Wow. Keep going."

"Um, okay. I believe our souls live forever and that we're on this planet to learn a new lesson that we failed to understand in our past life."

"That's interesting; I've never heard that before. Do you feel like you've learned the lesson you're supposed to learn?"

"That I don't know. I haven't been thinking along those lines. The only thing on my mind as of late has been the task at hand."

"Which is . . . ?"

"Hm, nice try. But you won't get me t—"

She swooped in for a peck. Electricity entered the air. A beam of satisfaction graced her face as she analyzed the boy's reaction. His heart opened anew. She pulled back and held up one of her all-time favorite films. "This will be the perfect movie to watch with you."

They moved to the kitchen where Skylar laid out various popcorn options. She wished for him to gain an appreciation for movie culture. In her mind, since he had not seen her father's outer space series, chances were he was never touched by the world of cinema. In the coming weeks she would be the student, but this night she became the teacher.

Buttered kettle corn was his selection, a combination seldom requested by guests. Kernels popped and cracked while she placed the disc into its corresponding tray. She signaled him to turn on the television and switch the channel to Input 4. He stared at the elaborate controller with an open mouth as if it had fallen from an alien spaceship. She smiled and shook her head.

"Here, I'll just do it," she said. The 80-inch monitor flashed on. She pressed play on the remote and chucked it back onto the couch. The boy examined her movements as she grabbed the snacks and kicked off her shoes. She plopped on the couch beside him.

"Like what you see?" she asked.

"That popcorn does look delicious," he smirked. With the automatic trailers playing unattended, she scooped a handful of kettle corn out of the bucket. She stuck two pieces with her tongue to eat and threw the rest at his face. To her surprise he caught all but one with his mouth and hands.

Finally the movie started. She nuzzled her head into his shoulder. Their buttery fingers slid off one another back and forth. The film followed a young boy with visions of another realm. Yet he had not the slightest clue. At school the others teased him for his imaginary friends. This he did not understand. They lived; they breathed; he felt their presence. One even taught him how to fish. They were more real than his father ever was.

His mother encouraged the friendships. The other children were just jealous, so she said. But one day the boy lost hope. His fishing friend, Garfield was his name, stood beside his desk in English class each morning. He and the boy had a deal. Garfield would stay with the boy until Ms. Milton arrived to class. Like clockwork she did so at precisely 9:05, though for the first time she was tardy.

Two stocky boys who were brothers, one dumber than the other, picked a fight with our young subject. They pushed him, called him names. One held his arms to keep from squirming. One pressed his knuckles against his skull and kept on churning. His classmates pretended not to notice. The boy looked for help from his good friend. But his gaze turned down as he shook his head.

"Garfield, please! Please won't you help me?" The entire room labeled him crazy. Somehow he was the one who ended up in the principal's office when Ms. Milton entered the room 12 minutes late. It was funny how something as frivolous as not using a turn signal could lead to such heartbreak, Skylar explained.

One by one, the boy's imaginary companions vanished into thin air in the days that followed. He had never felt loneliness as intense as this. The bullying became more and more frequent. His mother had to pull him out of school for a few days. While she worked her housewife sister would watch over him. His aunt admired his drawings. They stirred her darkest emotions. She knew of a place for them to be put on display. Her former college roommate owned a corner bookstore where she hosted poetry competitions. As an added bonus, she allowed local artists to sell their work.

On their third day together, the boy and his aunt took a trip down to the bookstore. She showed her friend his artwork and asked if it could be put on display during her next event. The shopkeeper held the illustrated papers to her face. "These are astounding," she said, giving him a look of encouragement. The bashful boy gave a weak smile in thanks. She continued her reaction.

"The eyes – so big and detailed – give me goosebumps. They make me want to call my mother. I will absolutely show these at the next WordPlay. But tell me, young man, why are your eyes drawn so big?"

"Because," he mumbled, "they're looking for a friend."

The next day he returned to school. Things picked back up exactly where they left off, only worse. During the boy's absence, the bully brothers concocted a punishment plan. They would find anyway to hurt or embarrass him – pull his shorts down in front of the cutest girls; sucker punch him coming around corners; untie or step on his shoelaces – carefully enough as not to leave any visible marks or scars. This continued for an entire week. His drawings hanging up in the corner store's old-fashioned windowpane were all to which he had to look forward.

When Saturday evening arrived, his mother dressed him up in his sharpest cardigan. He forced smiles whenever she spoke. Her bountiful positivity peeled away his sadness. Yet the layers were too thick. By the time they reached the bookstore, he had already lost any sliver of glee. His mother bent down for one last word of encouragement. It had no effect. He ripped his hand from hers, refusing to enter the store. The despair in his art manifested. These words fell from her mouth:

"Head up still, my untamed stallion /

No dollar bill or chain medallion /

Could ever measure how bright you shine /

Head up still, my dear sweet boy /

No matter what happens we'll be just fine /

You'll be just fine; we'll be, just, fine."

She wiped the tears from his cheeks prior to their entrance. The storeowner greeted them with open arms. She showed her friends around the gallery. The rhythm of stanzas surrounded them. At the back of the store a small crowd gathered around a makeshift stage; the front featured local sculpture, ceramic, oil, graphite and textile artists displaying their most prized pieces. One of them, a wrinkled hunchback of a woman, looked as if she had already purchased the boy's big-eyed drawing. She held it below her chair as she waited for possible patrons. The trio approached the old woman.

The storeowner introduced her as Phyllis, the widow of a once-famous painter. She brought with her one of her late husband's paintings at each event, selling it at a high price. With a withered smile she asked the boy's name. "Joel," he said. She gave his cheek a light pinch and described her love for his artwork. He collected his share of her purchase and thanked her for her support.

"No, thank you," she replied. "You cannot spell heart without A-R-T. So, thank you for sharing your heart with me. Now, can I share mine with you?" He nodded and grinned. The woman pulled a black veil from her canvas. A surge of terror rushed through his veins. Her husband's painting was a self-portrait; one of him leaned against a chair made of oak that he himself had carved.

It was Garfield. The boy screamed. His tears reactivated. "He's not real; he's not real!" he shouted, sprinting out the door. His mother chased after him. Coins plummeted from his palms. Heavy rain placed them near a sewer drain. The camera held at their zoomed position. His mother's footsteps splashed on by. The frame dissolved.

Come Monday, Joel was numb to it all, the bruises, the names, the emotional scars. He talked only to the friendly lunch ladies, as they would reward children they liked with the highest quality portions. He sat alone in his misery. The bully brothers took notice, this time with spitballs from across the cafeteria. Olympic accuracy they had. Today the boy had had enough.

He flicked off their ammo's residue and confronted the hooligans. They snickered at his newfound confidence. He insisted that they stop their unfair shenanigans. The brothers rose from their seats, giving Joel a good shove or two.

"Leave me alone," he demanded.

"Aw, is the big baby gonna cry?" one said.

"Leave me alone!"

A supernatural wave lifted the bullies off the ground and into the cafeteria table. A swift hush swallowed the room. Joel paced to the lunchroom attendant and asked if he could go to recess. The stunned man obliged. He found a secluded spot to think, past the playground but still in plain sight. He gripped his pocket lint not knowing if he was angry or afraid. Footsteps advanced in Joel's direction. He sensed a familiar aura.

"That was you, wasn't it?" asked the boy.

"Indeed it was," said Garfield. "I couldn't stand those two any longer."

"Tell me about it. . . Hey, Garfield?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"Why didn't you ever tell me you were real?"

"Didn't think I had to."

". . . I saw your painting."

"Yeah, I figured this day would come. Guess I was putting off telling you who I was out of routine."

"What does that mean?"

"This whole time I've been afraid of facing what awaits me on the other side. I thought if I hung around and helped out a good kid like you maybe I would wake up from this bad dream."

"Garfield, why did you leave me?"

"Boy, disappointing you made me realize that my time is up. I know I hurt you and I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I forgive you."

"Thank you, Joel. You're more a man than your father."

". . . Are you ever coming back?"

"Afraid not, buddy. But if you ever come across another straggler like me, be sure to remind them where they belong."

"I will, Garfield. I promise."

The old soul's embrace lasted no longer than a heartbeat. Once again Garfield had left. Yet the boy did not feel alone. In that moment, he became the shepherd of lost souls. Ms. Milton called his name in the distance with two related ears in each hand. Joel and his teacher met halfway.

"Joel, honey, these boys have something they want to say to you," she said in a stern, directive tone. The bullies stuttered a bit before spitting out their peace.

"We, uh," they said in unison. "We know we hurt you, and we're really sorry. It won't happen again."

He questioned their sincerity in his mind. The camera stayed on his crinkled face. He remembered Garfield. His skepticism soon softened into remission. He knew love would heal all wounds.

"It's okay," he responded. "I forgive you."

All four smiled as they walked back towards the school. Credits filled the screen. Skylar sat up in a flash. She probed for his opinion. A mixed review ensued.

"It was alright," he said. "Not bad at all. Not enough conflict for my taste, though."

"Well, what do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean, like, the message was good, but…"

"But what?"

"It's just that it was all kinda vague, and kept getting more and more depressing for almost no reason."

"Ugh. You're missing the point!"

"Please, enlighten me."

"Y'know, I thought you'd like this movie based on what you said earlier – about our souls living forever."

"See, I don't judge art based off what I believe. Intent, execution, presentation – those are what I'm looking for when it comes to something like a film. His mother pulls him out of school because he got bullied too much? I'm not a parent, but that is a terrible stra—"

Vibrations tickled their bottoms. They shared bewilderment. Her hand plunged into the couch's abyss. She yanked out her phone. A photo of a round, mustached man lay under the contact DADDY in clean black lettering. Her thumb slid from left to right.

"Hi, Daddy! . . . I'm great, how are you?"

She motioned the boy off the couch.

"That is fantastic. I've been telling everyone this will be your masterpiece."

She removed her Key Card from her purse, handing it to him.

"Stop your worrying. I'm not giving away any plot points, Daddy. People will love this."

He was not sure of his next move. She muted the phone and briefed the boy.

"Hey. Take a stroll around the city while I talk to my dad. We can meet up in the lobby in a little bit."

He complied with a thumbs-up. With soft steps he exited the condo. Down the hall and down the stairs he went. Celadon was his oyster yet with it he knew not what to do. There were attractions and shops galore. Perhaps he would challenge the Celadon Gym, though he was not in the mood for a battle. He was unsure which mood best suited him. Her father must have sensed his presence in his home. Damion prepared for a good chunk of alone time.

He dipped and dodged the bustling residents. A limited-time-only kiosk intrigued him, operated by a scrawny kid around his age. The front portion of his hair was undulating to one side. Braces linked across his competent smile. He offered him a sample of his product. Casteliacones were exclusive to the Unova region. Yet their popularity brought in business in select cities each summer. The teen rang up the order.
"Thank you for buying our product," he said. "Here you go."

He examined the cone. Chilled plastic encased it. The lid preserved its flavor for possible battle use. He and the clerk parted peacefully. His options remained endless. He wished for a genuine taste of Celadon culture. A restaurant perhaps; he was nonetheless full. His fingers were stamped in butter. Possibly a gallery; yet all three had closed for private showings. The elite were shrouded in mystery. Landmarks maybe; crowds infested them nevertheless. He managed a good photo or two. Howling laughter erupted from the parallel end of Fountain Plaza, his camera's current subject.

Through the lens, past the fountain's centerpiece vignette, four men sat around a cheap fold-up table. They were slapping down cards and roasting up a storm. The boy investigated their session, still watching from a distance. They were split into teams of two. A broad-shouldered man in a white tank top held alpha energy. A toothpick danced on the corner of his lips as he trash-talked his teammate. His jokes possessed a tone of regularity. The boy stepped closer.

"Boy, I tell ya! You 'bout the worst cards playa I ever did see," said the alpha.

The trio busted a gut. Twin brothers – one in purple, one in green – wore gold rings and gold chains. The one in purple placed down a card as he snickered. The game ended after the beta dropped his last remaining play: the Ace of Spades. "You're just now playing that?" the alpha yelled. The twins burst into giggles. He pointed his toothpick at his teammate every other syllable.

"Least your trump got us our five books. I can't keep takin' L's out here, Chuck. It ain't smooth," he said, shaking his head.

The boy caught their attention as he was much closer now than before. He licked his treat and stared. The twins signaled to the broad-shouldered man. He twisted his torso to take a good look at him. The test commenced.

"Can I help you?" asked the man.

"I see you're playing cards," replied Damion. "Mind if I join you?"

"We don't get a lot of folk asking to play with us. You got a name, boy?"

"Maybe."

"Ha! Who is you s'posed to be, secret service?"

"Maybe."

"Pssh, get outta here, kid. We already playin' enough games as is."

"What's the issue; why can't I play with y'all?"

"Well, for starters, just look at ya, eating that basic white-girl custard. You know that's for white girls, don'tcha?"

He took a giant lick of his vanilla ice cream, smacked his lips to chew and then swallowed. His response was right on-time.

"What you got against white girls?"

The friends shared a glance. His toothpick flung from his mouth while they held onto each other in laughter.

"You alright, kid," the man said. "Sit ya'self down."

Damion nodded and replaced the man's teammate.

"The name's Kenny," he said. "And this here is Derrick and Eriq. The bum behind you is Chuck. We call him Chuckie Cheese 'cause he ain't got no front teeth. See?"

Chuck rolled his eyes and showed his grill. Damion dapped him up.

"Nice to meet all of you. So, what game we playing?"

"What, you don't already know?" Kenny asked.

"Know what?"

"That we playin' Spades, boy. Don't tell me you ain't never played Spades before."

"I've never played Spades before."

"Ha! You for real? A brotha that don't know how to play Spades. Was you adopted or somethin'?"

"Well, kinda."

"Oh, oh. My bad then. Well, here, lemme teach ya how to play. Ol' Kenny is the best Spades playa in town, yes he is… Long as he has a good teammate."

Derrick, the one in green, shuffled the deck in a flash and dealt everyone 13 cards. The three veterans analyzed their hands while Damion organized his cards in ascending order, alternating red and black. The rules were simple, Kenny explained. Two teams bid how many tricks, sometimes called books, they could take in one round. If a team bid they would take five tricks and reached their goal, they received 50 points. If they were to achieve eight tricks instead of five, they would receive 53 points. However, a failed bid led to negative points. The first team to 500 points won the game.

"The player to the left of the dealer lays down a card," he continued, "and the rest follow suit."

Every player must follow suit – unless there were none like it in a player's hand. In that case, the player without a corresponding card could either play a random, ineffective card or a Spade. Spades were called trump cards, as they automatically took a book if played against any suit other than a Spade. The card with the highest value won that specific round.

"Now," Kenny said, "say you play a Spade 'cause that's your only move, then somebody after you plays a Spade too. Then whoever's Spade has the highest number wins. Make sense?"

"Yeah, I think I've got it," Damion replied. "But what are these Jokers for?"

"Oh, boy. Well, for starters, ya ain't s'posed to let anybody know you've got a Joker."

"Oh."

"Ha! It's alright, kid. We'll just shuffle the deck once I'm done explainin'. Anyway, there are two Jokers: a big one and a little one. The big one is the trump card. And the little is the next in line. They're both one up from the Ace of Spades. Got it? You think you're ready to get things goin'?"

"Yeah," said Damion with growing confidence. "Let's do this."

Derrick collected 52 cards from the table and recycled. All four players ignited their competitive spirits. Kenny gestured to Damion, who was sitting directly across from him. "What you workin' with over there?" he asked. The boy surveyed his spread: Three Spades, two low and one high; four low Hearts; the King of Clubs; and five Diamonds, two low and three high.

"I can probably take four," he declared.

"Woo! Is that right? Well then, looks like we gon' have ourselves a feast 'cause I got 'bout five on this side."

The twins scoffed.

"Think I'm lyin'?" Kenny snapped. "Put us down for nine books. You gon' learn today."

The twins predicted six tricks of their own, though each round totaled only 13. Kenny led off with the King of Diamonds, a safe but strong opening move. Eriq followed with the Eight of Diamonds; Damion dropped the Three; Derrick ended with the Ace, thus taking the trick.

"Man," Damion uttered. "I thought you had that one for sure."

Kenny assured him the war had not yet been won. Although he trusted his teammate, the boy could not help his competitive nature. Every small victory of his opponents' left a dense feeling in his stomach. He hated to lose. Moreover, he hated to lose more than once in a small frame of time. Even more than that, he hated to lose as a team due to his incompetence. His frustration levels reached their max after six rounds of play.

"Why is it," he steamed, "that every time I put something down it feels like the wrong card? Are these guys reading my mind or something?"

The group shared yet another laugh. "Not gon' lie, kid," said Kenny, "you're playin' like a rookie." He scratched between in braids. The man kept his spirits up however. "But don't worry. You'll get the hang of it soon."

"What makes you so sure?" Damion asked.

"Look'ere, these two fools, they ain't mind readers. They're card readers. All they're doin' is countin' their blessings."

"Their what?"

"Countin' their blessings. Y'see, there's somethin' to learn on every play. If you see one of 'em play a random card instead of the suit you put down, that means somethin's up. Either they can't play nothin' else or they waitin' to spring that trump on ya when ya least expect it."

"So. . . ?"

"So, be aware of your surroundings, young blood. Pay attention to the little thangs. Each card played gives ya a better idea of what that player's got in his hand. The longer ya play, the more knowledge you accumulate, the easier it gets to predict the future. Knowledge is a blessin'. All you gotta do is count ya blessings. Play ya cards right and not even trump can hurt ya."

They resumed play with the score 206 to 75, in favor of the twins. Damion used the advice given to him by Kenny. He began recalling who was first to throw down a Spade. He recognized patterns in his opponents' playing style. Derrick had an itchy nose any time he prepared to trump. Eriq enjoyed swapping his cards to and fro. Puckered lips meant he was no threat that round. Raised brows meant a Spade was imminent.

As the game progressed, the boy compiled a new strategy. He pulled his Spades early, forcing trump cards to diminish early. Yet he had a trick up his sleeve. He kept one Spade, if he had more than one in his hand, behind as his staple finisher – not every time, but enough for his teammate to dub it a signature move. He was beginning to get the hang of the game, just as Kenny had predicted. Their chemistry flowed seamlessly. They integrated a high-low system, which, depending on if one played non-winning cards in ascending or descending order, communicated the other's next play. After seven more rounds, they overwhelmed the twins.

The score stood 448-286. Kenny and Damion could have bid six tricks to win, though they settled on eight for good measure. Damion pulled his Spades once more, which differed from his last two rounds. Unpredictability was his mere advantage. His Little Joker, Queen of Diamonds and Jack of Spades took the first three books. Derrick snagged the next with his Ace of Clubs, and another with the Ace of Hearts. Kenny surged with four books in a row: his Big Joker, Ten of Spades, King of Hearts and Jack of Clubs. Eriq's sole trick came with the Ace of Spades. Damion stashed the Queen of trump away for later after completing his team's bid with a finesse win using the Nine of Hearts, a suit of which his partner held the majority.

With eight tricks and three rounds left, Kenny and Damion's success was inevitable. The twins had bid three tricks. Kenny stole two of the remaining three. His final play was the Ten of Hearts. Eriq ran out of the suit long ago, placing down the Nine of Spades. It appeared to be the highest trump not yet used, though Damion masked his Queen by dumping two others he had in his hand earlier. They did not see it coming. He slapped down Her Highness and absorbed the twins' collective sighs. Their faces were priceless. Kenny and Chuck cried with laughter.

"Ayo, Chuckie!" Kenny called.

"Yah?" Chuck replied.

"Look at these identical fools."

"Oh, I see 'em alright!"

"W-W-What you call that there face on their faces? What that is?"

"Dem be the Trump Card Blues right der', bwah!"

Knee slaps, cruel howls and projectile saliva ensued. Damion sat with a satisfied smile and his arms tucked across his chest. Once the cackles died down, the twins rallied the cards into their box. A certain aroma sparked the boy's olfaction. The Sun began its descent into darkness. Kenny rambled on about the best damn sandwich in town. Two sturdy taps came to the boy's shoulder. Chuck extended his hand.

"You ever get Gloomy, my G?" he hinted.

Damion contemplated the billowing peace offering. "Sometimes," he answered. He remembered the taste of Skylar's lips – sticky strawberry sweet. "But not today."

"Suit yourself," said Chuck, passing to Eriq. Kenny snatched it from his grasp milliseconds before his first puff.

"Winners take first hit," he blurted. "And since the kid ain't tokin' I'ma take two."

"It's been a real pleasure, fellas," Damion said as he rose from his chair. They received his signal.

"Same here, brotha," said Derrick. His brother agreed with a nod. They, along with Chuck, exchanged daps.

"Y'know," Kenny said, toothpick in one hand, cigarillo in another, "ol' Kenny used to have cornrows just like yo's back in the day."

"Is that right?" said Damion.

"Damn straight. Cornrow Kenny used to pull all the honeys, he sure did. . . But get on outta here, boy. It was good playin' wit ya."

"Likewise."

"Say, I never did catch your name."

"Damion, Harrison."

"Damion Harrison, you alright wit me." The boy gave a two-finger salute goodbye as he paced back to Celadon Condominiums. There was Skylar, in the lobby, still chatting away on the phone. He grinned upon seeing her, but did not stop. He made a quick detour to the Pokémon Center to fully heal his allies. Once they were good to go, he thought, he would formally introduce them to his special friend. Nurse Rebecca Joy-Rodgers greeted him with glee.

"Why, hello there. Busy out there grinding?" she asked.

"In a sense," he replied, "just got back from a great game of Spades, looking to heal up my guys before I forget. You ever played?"

"Played what?"

"Spades."

"Oh. I'm sorry. No, I'm afraid I haven't. I can take your Pokémon now."

He handed over his five Poké Balls to the nurse. The Center housed a handful of focused Trainers. His were the fourth set of Pokémon in line for healing. He heard whispers that this Center's computer systems had experienced some technical difficulties, which hindered the usually speedy recovery process. To kill some time, he went over to the PC to log in and browse for a sixth and final addition to his team.

He typed in his Trainer ID number and password. ACCESS DENIED, the screen read. He tried again. ACCESS DENIED, it repeated. He pulled out his Trainer ID card. Perhaps it would recognize that better. He pushed it into the slot and waited. Three parallel animated Poké Balls loaded onto the screen one after the other in three-second intervals. A minute or two elapsed before his patience bottomed out. He forcefully removed his ID card and walked to the counter more perturbed than necessary.

"Excuse me," he directed. "For some reason, my Trainer ID card isn't working."

"Oh, yes," said Nurse Joy. "That's been happening to Trainers all day today. Just keep trying and it should start working."

"But I just tried multiple times and nothing happened."

"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to simply try again."

He marched back to the computer. Another Trainer had already replaced him. She logged in without a hiccup. His foot tapped as if it were sending an elaborate telegraph; and in a way it was. The Trainer took notice of his impatience and hurried through her process. Once she withdrew her Pokémon, the boy zipped towards the screen.

Alright, he thought. Fourth time's the charm.

Yet it most certainly was not. Multiple failed attempts brewed anger deep within his psyche. As discretely as possible, he smacked the disobedient machine. He jammed his card in again and again to no avail. He pounded the PC's side. Nurse Joy took notice.

"Hey," she shouted. "Sir, please do not strike our machines. What is the issue?" He approached the counter.

"Like I said before, this PC won't let me log in. I've tried typing in my ID number, putting my card in, voice command, everything. Nothing is working. This is ridiculous."

"Well, sir, if you agree to remain calm, I might be able to assist you."

"I'm calm; I promise," he averred.

She prompted him to give her his Trainer ID card. It locked into her desk computer without an issue. Her fingers keyed at lightning speeds until an error alert sounded. Her face soured.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, her voice full of regret. "I'm afraid your Trainer access account has been suspended."

"What's that? My what is what now?" He tried his best to cling to the idea that this was only but a dream.

"Your Trainer access account – it's been suspended. I am required by law to confiscate your Pokémon."

A gasp emerged from the cluster of occupants. He looked over both shoulders. All eyes were on him. His head hung in shame.

"So, you're telling me. . . I can't see my Pokémon?"

She confirmed his assumption. His eyes welled thick with tears. His head swayed back and forth.

"No," he said in disbelief. "No, no. There has to be a mistake. You made a mistake, Nurse Joy."

"I'm afraid I didn't," she corrected.

"Check again."

"Sir, I –"

"Check again!"

She served her customer as best she could, though none of her efforts reaped positive results. Her suggestion to phone customer service only made him angrier. He slammed his fists onto the countertop. "You made a mistake!" he exclaimed. All he could do was blame. Defeat filled his eyes. She knew his words were not personal. In her eyes he searched for solace. She broke their lock.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir. You're causing a disruption."

He mustered his glare for as long as physically possible. His knees buckled. He dropped helplessly to the floor.

"This can't be happening," he yelled to linoleum tiles. Numerous camera phones captured his fetal position. He continued to make a fool of himself with outer monologues of frustration, paranoia and wrath. His commotion echoed past the Pokémon Center walls.

Skylar's instincts jolted. She hung up with her father and hurried outside. The screaming came from the east. Her strides made haste until she arrived at the Pokémon Center. His pitiful weeping tore her heart in half.

"Everybody back up!" she snapped, pushing phones down in succession. She caressed his face with her palms and wiped his tears with her thumbs. "It'll be okay, Damion. It's okay. Just tell me what happened."

Her voice felt familiar, but it mattered not. To him she did not exist. No one did. She texted Steven and Celeste not knowing what else to do. Perhaps they could help bring him back to reality – or at least help her seem more prepared. They entered the Pokémon Center after a few moments. The Champion knelt to the boy's level. His ringed clutch gripped his shoulder.

"Please, come with us," he said to the boy. "These people don't deserve your pain."

By now, pain was like a brother to him. It was clear he had failed. He was not careful enough. Love had weakened his logic. Maybe the cynic was right; maybe it was an illusion. It left him battered and broken. Shame was all he had. Siegfried held the upper hand.