KokoroEcho's Pokémon Chronicles
Entry 8

Kitahara Omori

Written by UKEagleClaw

Story/Concept/Edited by KokoroEcho

The Goldenrod Playboy

Vermillion City needed improvements in this boy's eyes. His nostrils flared. A fishy breeze, drifting in past the harbour, chilled his skin while, as he worked his way through the narrow streets, the conversations of foreigners and tourists assaulted his ears. Construction workers in filthy overalls were banging in their final nails and rubbing their last sweat-covered brows of the day. Grotesque blocks of concrete ascend skywards.

Upon disembarking from the SS Aqua, he had spotted a sign that had read:

Vermilion City

"The Port of Exquisite Sunsets"

But it was cloudy. There was no sun today.

What they need is someone with a sense of fashion in charge, decided Kitahara Omori.

On his way to the Pokémon Centre, he passed through the centre of Vermilion.

Shopfronts caught his eye. It was his first time in Kanto. The suits, the shirts, the kimonos, and the dresses ushered him closer. He stared beyond the glass, inspecting the differences between Kantonian and Johtonian fashion, until a familiar style reminded him.

His hand slipped into his glossy designer backpack. He found it. An envelope. Unopened. With some apprehension and a faint glimmer of hope, he gently pierced the envelope and took out the enclosed letter. His eyes examined the writing warily:

Dear Omori,

Myself and your father are having a splendid time in your absence. I am about to launch a thrilling new fashion line – I know it will be a hit amongst the young, glamourous ladies of Johto – and your father's restaurant has recently been awarded a fifth star!

Omori, we know you achieved some success last year, but you are always welcome to stay in Goldenrod with us instead of pursuing this . . . folly with Pokémon. I admit there is a certain attraction to them, and as a young girl, I had a few Pokémon myself, but I saw two reports the other day. One detailed how much of a struggle it was to make a career in Pokémon unless you are a top coordinator or trainer; the other showcased the impact of Pokémon in our marketing campaigns. It was staggering. People love these Pokémon, it seems.

All we want is the best for you. We sent you to private school for a good reason. So, you could have a lucrative, fulfilling career. Do remember, Omori, you have such successful parents – not at all do we mind you taking advantage of the family name.

Love,

Your mother and father.

Omori wasn't sure how to feel. He wasn't surprised. Was he angry? More disappointed. He had a strange relationship with his parents. He was more used to being away from them than with them. Either he was boarding at a private school or, when he was home, they were working late hours at work.

As he stood there, though, processing his emotions, he noticed:

PS: I would so love to savour first-hand some of Kanto's finest. Send clothes and souvenirs.

Omori stared enviously at a reflection in the glass: a mother and son. He wished his parents were normal. Clothes and souvenirs . . . he thought with a sigh. Is that all she cares about?

Kitahara Omori stood there for a moment longer, contemplating. Then he scrunched up the letter and buried it deep in his pocket. I'm going to prove them wrong, he decided. I'll make a career out of being a coordinator.

Maybe then they'll approve . . .

Applause was a beautiful symphony playing in his ears. Omori grinned. The first of many, he knew. His opponent returned his paralysed Pokémon and staggered away, head lowered.

The spotlight transferred solely to Omori with his glamorous suit, his popstar-like hair, and his handsome face.

"Pikchu!" squeaked Pichu. He stuck a cute pose for the crowd.

Omori bowed to the crowd. A spokesperson came over and presented him with a small ribbon.

Omori raised the ribbon for the crowd. They cheered their approval, and his grin widened at the sight of girls in the crowd screaming his name. He closed his eyes for a moment. This feeling . . . nothing's better.

Back in his hotel room, tiredness pulled at his eyes. It had been a long day. He had already showered, but upon pulling off his trousers, he had checked the pockets and his hand had found the scrunched-up letter. He'd put it back immediately, like it was too hot to touch, but that hadn't stopped him from considering the possibility . . .

His hand hovered over his phone. He stared at the digits on the touchscreen. He breathed out slowly, then typed numbers he had memorised by heart.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

He wasn't sure whether anyone was going to pick up. Unease instructed his finger to press the red 'end call' button—his parents, what would he say to them? He hadn't planned this out—but his mind persuaded his finger not to. He waited.

Ring. Ring. Ring—

"Hello. You have reached the Kitahara household. Unfortunately, I must inform you that Mr. and Mrs. Kitahara are presently away on business, but if you would like to leave a—"

Omori cleared his throat. "Gentarō, it's me."

"Master Omori! What a pleasure to hear your voice! I must say your performance in the—"

"Where's Mother and Father?"

"Away in Galar. Your mother's company is looking to expand its presence in other regions."

"Any idea when they'll be back?"

"No, Master Omori . . . I'm afraid not."

"Oh."

Omori was conflicted. He had been relieved to hear Gentarō's voice. The family's butler had been around for years and Omori had spent more time with him than his parents. He was easy to talk to and lacked his parents' complexity. But disappointment clashed with his relief. He needed to hear his mother's voice, his father's voice, even if he didn't know what he would say to them.

"I was going to say I heard about your performance in Kanto. I tuned into a Kantonian radio station, and I was listening to commentary of your final match. Congratulations, Master Omori—"

"You know you can call me Omori, Gentarō."

"Of course! Of course! But, yes, it sounded like a splendid victory. I was on the very edge of my seat throughout, you see. Your parents . . . I'm sure they're proud of your achievement."

"Yeah, I'm sure they are," he said it for the benefit of Gentarō. He doubted his parents even knew he'd won his first ribbon in Kanto. Bitterness clouded his mind. A lump swelled in his throat. He couldn't talk any longer. He couldn't face the subject of his parents.

He ended the call and buried his head in his pillow.

Screams and blushing girls greeted Omori's senses as he exited the arena, having won his fourth ribbon in Kanto. He was flanked by two burly Pokémon: a Machamp and a Machoke. Omori's growing popularity had meant contest halls had started to employ bodyguards from the MPA (the Machamp Protection Agency).

Omori strolled over to his fans, black marker pen in hand.

"OMORI!"

"OMORI, YOU'RE THE BEST!"

"I LOVE YOU!"

"I LOVE YOU MORE!"

The girl Omori approached first went bright red. She held out her phone and, as Omori posed for the selfie, said, "Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! I can't believe it! It's Omori! It's really Omori!"

Another fangirl said, "Hi, Omori. Can you sign this one? It's of you and Little Miss Yurie. By the way, I loved your performance today."

Omori put on his best 'Goldenrod Playboy' smile. "Certainly! Anything for a fan so dazzling."

The fangirl fanned her flushed face with her hand, too stunned to respond.

There wasn't enough time to sign every single autograph and appear in everyone's selfies. The sun was falling beyond the silhouettes of skyscrapers; the sky was turning pink. But the time of day didn't occur in the minds of the fangirls, a restless and fanatical species. They pushed each other out of the way to get closer to Omori and started prodding him.

Machamp and Machoke exchanged words. The senior Machamp had sensed the danger coming, had placed one of his four hands on Omori's shoulder, and tried to usher him to leave. Omori knew it was getting late, but he had struggled to pull himself away from the blushing faces and smiles that greeted his every word.

"Machamp," said Machamp to the younger Machoke, knowing this was going to end in disaster.

Machoke adjusted his title belt worriedly. He was looking forward to evolving into a Machamp and earning a promotion. He didn't want this to tarnish his record, but he obeyed Machamp's order. He wrapped a thick arm around Omori.

"So sorry, ladies," Omori squeaked, being pulled away. "Must go. Beautiful Little Miss Yurie is waiting for me. A table's booked."

Machamp stepped between the fangirls and their idol.

Big mistake, Machamp.

The fangirls swarmed the barriers. Machamp had four jacked-up arms at his disposal. He held them out to stop the tide, but the fangirls were super-effective against him. He was overwhelmed sooner than you could say, "Magikarp."

"Machoke!" shouted Machoke. "Machoke!" He pushed Omori away before facing the fangirls, their merchandising brandished like swords. This hadn't been what Machoke had been expecting when he signed up with MPA. He would happily have started Brick Breaking these fangirls, but if he caused considerable harm to multiple humans, he knew his career would be over. He pushed back his Fighting-type instincts. There was another move he could use, and if his plan worked, the client would get away safely. He might even evolve and finally get his promotion.

Adrenaline shot through Omori's body. Footsteps pounded against the ground. He looked over his shoulder. He knew he should have been scared, worried at how much the fangirls wanted to get to him, but having girls race after him gave him a rush unlike any other. A crazy grin materialised on his face. He watched as Machoke concentrated, holding out his hands.

The fangirls raced closer. Eyes on Omori, had they even noticed Machoke?

"Omori please!"

"We need you in our life!"

"We love you!"

Then fangirl after fangirl flung themselves into a blue forcefield. Goldenrod Playboy t-shirts, posters, and photos fell to the ground, a mass of human bodies splattered against Machoke's Protect. The fangirls had been stopped, for now.

Machoke glanced back and saw that Omori hadn't gone far.

"Machoke," he said.

Omori didn't need a translator to know that Machoke had said something like, "Get going, kid."

Omori's hotel wasn't far away. After he'd ducked inside, another contingent of fangirls arrived. Someone had found out from their sister's friend of a friend, a receptionist at the hotel, that Kitahara Omori was staying there. They mobbed the entranceway. Despite the door-Pokémon's efforts attempts, the fangirls toppled Poliwrath over and broke inside, shrieking for Omori.

But Omori was nowhere to be seen. The Goldenrod Playboy had already disappeared from the lobby. While the fangirls were disorientated, backup arrived and the fangirls were escorted out of the building.

Omori was instead upstairs, in a private room on the highest floor that was far too big for an 11-year-old kid, with a grand king-sized bed, a massive TV, a huge bathroom (with a jacuzzi), and a mini-fridge stocked with sparkling water, juices, and soda.

Meganium and Pichu helped fill the space—Meganium was inspecting the contents of the fruit basket and Pichu was jumping up and down on the bed; normally, it would have got on Omori's nerves, but they'd won a contest today. He could let it slide.

His phone buzzed in his pocket; it had been on silent for the duration of the contest.

3 missed calls, he realised when unlocking his phone.

He recognised the number and dialled back. Doubts weighed down his hopeful thoughts. He knew how unlike it was . . .

"Hello! Mom? Dad?"

Omori was surprised at the excitement in his voice.

"Master Omori!" answered an older but an even more excited voice. "I just had to call you!" blurted the family's butler. "Oh! That was fantastic! Fantastic! I watched it on television this time. I was so impressed!"

"Thanks, Gentarō," murmured Omori. "But I . . ." Disappointment strained his voice. "I had hoped my parents would answer."

"Oh. I'm terribly sorry. Your mother's away on business still, I'm afraid, and your father's been promoted; overseeing the improvement of other restaurants in the chain. I did receive the packages you sent for your mother, though, and I have forwarded them onto her hotel in Galar. I'm sure she will want to thank you in person for those gifts . . ."

Omori could tell from his faltering tone that Gentarō wasn't convinced she would.

Omori considered his parents and blinked hard. He'd bought the clothes and souvenirs in the end, hoping it would make a difference, hoping it would warrant a phone call.

"It's okay," he lied, pushing past the lump in his throat. "It's okay . . . Thanks for calling, Gentarō. I appreciate it."

Omori and Gentarō talked for some time, even if Omori couldn't stop thoughts whirling around in his mind about his parents. When the call ended, he turned off the lights, lay back, and wondered about the future.

The king-sized bed dwarfed him, and his thoughts were heavy burdens on his mind. Pichu was curled up on his chest and Meganium's sweet scent helped soften his breathing. He watched the rise and fall of Pichu's body in the semi-darkness, reflecting on the four ribbons he had won so far. His parents. His thoughts wavering between what he thought of them and what he wanted them to be, wondering what he could do differently.

He closed his eyes. His breathing grew shallower.

If it would make a difference, he would give it all up. Truthfully, he wasn't a great battler, but he adored the commercial side of contests, the showmanship that one needed to possess to become a top coordinator: the merchandising and sponsorship, the arenas full of screaming fans, the spotlight.

But, if it would strengthen his relationship with his parents, he would extinguish the Goldenrod Playboy. He would become Kitahara Omori only. His supporters would find and flock to the next sensation, no doubt.

But no more contests . . . that thought twisted his heart.

Eagleclaw's Notes:
Kudos to Kokoro for this one. He supplied me with an outline of Omori's Chronicle, and his notes on Omori's character were really interesting to read. Omori is essentially compensating for his parents' lack of affection through his appearances as the Goldenrod Playboy. Kokoro made it clear that Omori had two personas and I tried to stress that with the second-last paragraph in particular.

The MPA in particular was a spur-of-the-moment idea. I really liked writing that bit, though. Was a lot of fun and having the Machamp and Machoke involved added a Pokémon element to Omori's Chronicle. The younger Machoke wanting to evolve and get promoted added to the career-focused nature of this chapter, stressed the most by Mr. and Mrs. Kitahara. Overall, though, it was really interesting to consider.

Kokoro's Notes:

You did a wonderful job! I had the idea to write this chronicle with the idea in mind that we could explain some of Omori's behavior. I'm curious as to who people will be rooting for in the Kanto Grand Festival when it comes around. Maybe this chapter will create more Omori fans. Next week, Michika's chronicle!