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xi. necktie


Skyla holds herself like a wind vane—her head is constantly changing direction, her eyes surveying a new corner of the room with every breath, but no wind will knock her over. She shifts smoothly, stirring a splash of milk into her cup.

"So you two have gotten a lot better." Skyla smiles tightly. Her spoon makes a tight vortex as the liquid turns from dark to pale. "What's next, Iris? Surely you'll try for Champion."

Iris doesn't like coffee. You know this. But Skyla likes people who like coffee, so Iris pretends. Her back is ramrod straight, and she exhales into her cup before taking a sip. The café chatters around her. "Probably not this year. Drayden doesn't think I'm ready."

"You?" Skyla's eyes widen almost comically. The flower on her beret flops over as she slams her cup into the table and dabs at a bit that splashes out. "Not ready? Your team is strong, girl. Me and Swanna didn't stand a chance against Fraxure."

"Nonsense. You gave Sienna a run for her money; the two of us haven't had a fight that close in weeks! Your Air Slash accuracy is really something." Iris shrugs and takes another sip of coffee. To give herself time to think, you're sure. It's not like she enjoys it. "It's not like Alder's going anywhere anytime soon, you know? So if Drayden says I should wait, I'll wait."

Iris's voice is breezy, to match the woman sitting across from her. You've seen Skyla and her swanna ride breezes before—they make it appear effortless, but you know deep down it's an ease that only comes from years of practice. Skyla's the same with conversation; she casually directs and redirects each sentence, each polite titter, until she's certain she's gotten what she wants. "Your funeral," she says with a shrug, and Iris laughs cheerfully back.

But you know. You and Iris share one skin. She hides her disdain well, but you can feel it roaring within her, chafing at the leash Drayden has placed her on, raging at Alder's untouchable crown, seething even at Skyla's casual acceptance of it all. If it were just the two of you, you'd roar.

Instead, Iris calmly stirs her coffee and exchanges pleasantries with the most influential woman in Western Unova. You are the dragon and she is the girl, after all; it would not do her any good to rampage here. These humans have silly constructs of power. You beat Skyla's team in a fight without even trying, and yet Iris is still the one groveling; you're still the one sitting primly by her side.

"By the by, I heard there's supposed to be a Plasma protest this afternoon in the square." Skyla adds, her tone almost conspiratorial as she leans in.

Iris remains stock-still, like a patrat under a winged shadow. But beneath the table, you wrap your tail around her ankle, and feel the tendon in it tense. The hand on her thigh clenches into a fist, and you imagine her channeling her frustration back into you, where it can be carefully stowed under your armor and unleashed later.

"Oh?"

"Mistralton PD will respond with necessary precautions." Skyla's looking at her teacup, swirling the dregs around the leaves. Before you can decipher if the threat of violence was intentional, she continues, "I will not have my town be made into a pedestal for fools."

A long silence. Iris weighs her options. Surely she must know the implied question, but you already know she's going to make Skyla say it.

"I'm sure you've got a friend of a friend who knows what's what, with all the things you're involved in." Skyla's smile is more strained than her tea. "Could you pass the message on for me, Iris?"

There isn't a correct answer to give. Skyla's too far up in the clouds to know the difference; all she sees are people sending her petitions, blocking her streets, staking signs on her lawn. People in her way, to be intimidated or bribed or charmed into moving. If she listened to all of them she'd know that there was a difference, that whoever runs Plasma isn't on Iris's leash any more than Iris is on hers. But Skyla doesn't know that difference, and somehow that makes her question even harder to answer. Does Iris have the time to delineate this? Would Skyla even care? You both know the answer.

"I'll see who Drayden can talk to."

"Wonderful!" Skyla's laugh is just a touch too loud, you think. "Now, did you happen to catch the match between Burgh and Cilan last week? I only caught the second half and I thought it was one of the best I've seen all year!"

Eventually, their conversation winds down and Skyla floats off to the rest of her weekend duties.

Iris simmers in her seat, and you nuzzle up against her hand.

{Why do you do this?} you growl. There are no other pokémon in the shop; no one else to listen. {You despise her.}

"Not here," she murmurs back. Perhaps she doesn't understand the exact meaning of your words, but the intent is clear enough, and she knows you too well to be deaf. "When we get home."

She glances at her phone with one hand and idly scratches the ridge at the back of your head with the other. Weekdays are for duties—early morning training, fielding gym challenges for Drayden, a random assortment of logistical tasks involved in organizing the largest gym on the Unovan circuit, meetings with the League, the occasional interview. Saturdays are for the unofficial battles: meetings with the local interest groups, marches, action. And Sundays are usually for quiet training, relaxation, sometimes a few socially-weighted visits. Today is one of the Sundays that's morphed into an endless train of commitments. Posturing, smiles.

Skyla's a tricky one. You're reminded of the sawsbuck that change their coats with the seasons. She's not venomous, but she isn't completely innocent either—she's whatever she needs to be. You don't fully understand Unovan culture, but Skyla and Iris are similar in one regard: they've both been groomed into the roles they have now. From the outside there's no telling if they truly enjoy who they pretend to be. From the inside, well. You know Iris better than any other person on this earth, and she knows you. She is yours and you are hers. You will guard her heart with your life.

"Hilda, over here!" Iris calls, waving to a gangly, brown-haired teenager who's milling in the doorway of the café, one hand clutching tightly at the strap of her backpack. Her head flicks over to the two of you and she begins weaving her way through the tables. Her heels never touch the ground.

You look this Hilda over. Hmm. Practical garb. Good boots. Her daypack is new, hardly broken in. Must've been her first. Gleaming pokéballs—only four, this far in? Interesting. Her clothes are loose, comfortable, mostly plain. Looks like she doesn't carry a city wardrobe; she's probably not a big enough up-and-comer to warrant that quite yet.

An interesting one. Juniper always picks the strangest candidates.

"Do you want anything?" Iris asks. "They've got a really good artisanal tea blend."

"I'll just have a water, thanks." Hilda flashes a tight smile. "Gotta keep hydrated, you know?"

Iris smiles politely back. "It's on me—I remember the traveling life. No room in the budget for hand-bagged double-filtered brews, right?"

You may have assessed wrong. The new backpack made you think new money, the kind that loves trendy joints like this. The Skylas of the world. But Iris has always had the better eye for strategy, so if she sees something that you don't, it's probably there. You try to reassess while Iris flags over a waiter and orders drinks for them both. Juniper's sponsorship could've come with new gear. You look Hilda over again—if it's all new, how did she manage to make it this far? The boots look like the only thing that's older than her journey.

"So, five badges already?" Iris asks after they've folded up the menus and the waiter whisks them away. "Skyla next? Your zebstrika just evolved, right?"

Another tight smile. "I see Juniper's already told you everything."

"Not everything. That's what these chats are for." Even though it's empty, Iris cradles her coffee cup while it rests on the table. An old habit, one she's never tried to break. Her natural tongue has her talking with her hands and her words. She learned to sing with her fingers before she could walk. But here, in a posh coffeeshop tucked away in the business district of Mistralton, flannel-clad hipsters and low-fi tunes trickling around you, her unspoken words would flag her as an outsider long before her spoken ones would. The accent's faded from her lips but it'll never fade from her hands. "I like to check in with all the fellowship trainers by the third or fourth badge. Forgive me; I didn't expect you to move so quickly."

Hilda's voice is almost mechanical; the words come out like they've been memorized by rote. "My zebstrika's just evolved. My servine is probably close to follow; I'd say she'll evolve before the next badge. My duosion is probably a long way off from evolution. I've recently acquired an archen and we're working on getting to know each other."

There's a long pause. Iris drums her fingers against the edge of her mug and stares into it for a second. "You know, in my year, there were actually four fellowship trainers. A record high sponsorship rate. Those sound like rookie numbers to you now, I'm sure—Juniper has three this year alone, right?—but back then it was pretty much unheard of. Drayden had never floated a mentee into the ring, not since he started. And then Corrin, who used to run the Striaton Gym, went ahead and sponsored three kids at once. So suddenly there were four, and the strangest thing was that no one in Unova had heard of any of us."

Skyla was sponsored two years before Iris. You remember having a similar conversation, except Skyla was the one staring archly down across a cup of tea, her glittering pink eyeliner doing nothing to soften her gaze. You'd heard that her braviary could spot prey from two miles up, and in that moment you'd wondered if he taught that to her or if she'd taught it to him.

But Skyla had been born in the league circuit, holding her grandfather's hand in his interviews since she was four. It hadn't been a question of who he'd pick to succeed him in his gym; just when, and how much he'd rig the proceedings in her favor.

You and Iris and the triplets and their simians were the first to break the mold. You were all plucked out of obscurity and thrust into the spotlight. Iris—who still talked with her hands in interviews, whose tusked earrings accidentally sparked a short-lived line of costume jewelry, who had a strange green dragon that she refused to put in a pokéball at any time—was their favorite, of course. Unova loved the idea of a tough girl with a pretty face. She couldn't be too tough, of course. But that's what you were for, to give the fangs a different face from the flower.

"You were the same year as Cilan, Cress, and Chili, right?" Hilda's still guarded. You imagine her with a rapier in hand, poised to deflect the incoming blows. But Iris isn't the one she should be afraid of.

"They were Izan, Andrés, and Julian when I knew them, but yes."

The waiter returns with two cups of tea. Small. From the scent it looks worth less than the cup it's in. Fascinating, the world you've left and what you traded it for.

Iris swaps her mug for a teacup and cradles it tightly, despite the steam rippling off the surface. "Our year was a little different from yours, I think, but the roots are still there. There was an early interview with the triplets once. Izan mentioned that their mother used to cook empanadas, and she'd passed the recipe down to him. An offhanded comment, probably thirty seconds in an hour interview. The label stuck. Now they run a restaurant and have to dye their hair and use ridiculous imported pokémon to fill out their rosters. Izan didn't realize it—and knowing him, if he'd known I'm sure he would've said nothing at all— but in that moment he created a brand."

Hilda frowns and blows into her tea.

She's still new to this, you think. You and Iris learned this together when you came here, when she learned to talk with her mouth instead of her hands, to leave her thoughts hidden with you. The flow of a battle is guided by targeted, direct strikes. Every attack has value and weight. The flow of a conversation is different. Precision doesn't matter nearly as much as just getting it out there. You watched Iris learn this lesson the hard way. You can build a mountain with words and force people to climb up to get you.

In a quiet, clear voice, Hilda finally says, "You said you meet with all the fellowship trainers at around this time. Bianca said you approached her in Castelia. But I don't think you've talked to Cheren yet, have you?"

There is, of course, a second approach to someone who builds a mountain with words: ignore it, and build one of your own.

Iris smiles and stands up, kicking back her chair with the one of her knees as she does so. "I'm bored. Do you want to have a practice spar? There's a park nearby."

Hilda frowns, one hand uselessly wrapped around her cup. "But the tea," she manages.

"Take it with you," Iris says dismissively, tucking a fold of bills under her empty coffee mug and scooping up her teacup into one hand. "They'll call me if they care. They know how to reach me." She leaves the rest unspoken.

Iris stopped talking with her hands, and hid her mother's earrings, and changed her clothes to blend in with the rest. But there were some things, she explained to you, that you cannot yield on. They can be small; they can be big. Breaking the small rules reminds you that you have the strength to break the big ones. So she takes coffee cups. She refuses to put her dragon in a pokéball even where public areas don't allow you. By making defiance part of her brand, she got Unova to commend what they would've condemned in anyone else.

Iris sweeps out of the café, tossing a jaunty wave to the shopkeep with her free hand. Hilda hesitates for a moment, and then grabs the tea in her hands and follows.

"It's loud in there," Iris explains as the door jangles shut and they step onto the street. You mentally translate her words—there are too many people who could listen.

"You don't think Cheren needs this talk," Hilda says. She drifts slightly behind on the pavement; you don't leave Iris's side and the sidewalk isn't big enough for three.

"How does Cheren dress, Hilda?"

Iris has mastered this way of talking and sweeping along, not looking back. Observing out of the corner of her eyes. It conflicts with your predator instincts; all your life the two of you only needed to look forward. But it's good practice, and you can see Hilda's brow furrow before she responds, "Um, three-quarters buttondown, blue windbreaker, jeans."

"Pants," Iris corrects.

"Pants?"

"Jeans are casual. He wears pants, not denim." Iris wears jeans, and she shoves her hands into her back pockets as she continues strolling down the avenue. Heads turn towards the three of you. You walk stiffly beside her, project her indifference for the world to see. "The difference is important. Anything else?"

Hilda's silent for a moment. "No?"

"Red tie." Iris doesn't even look over her shoulder as she begins to cross the street. You glare at the cars for her.

"The tie?" Hilda shouts over the honking. "Really? It's a stupid thing that he picked up for the first photoshoot …" She trails off.

"Tell me why."

"What?" Hilda finally manages to cross the street. Back when Iris did this in Castelia, the Bianca girl had to wait for the crosswalk. "What do you mean, why?"

"Tell me why I didn't schedule a conversation with him. Here's good, by the way."

You stop on a grassy lawn, fenced in on three sides by an array of shops. The square is quiet at this time of day; most of the interesting practice battles will happen closer to the gym, where Skyla's appraising eye could happen to land on them. You square your shoulders.

Drayden wasn't a very good mentor. It took you a while to put your finger on why. When you were young, his druddigon beat you up daily. Training practice. He didn't ever talk during it. No pointers. In a way that was the best lesson he could've given you—you learned how to find your own weaknesses and overcome them. There's a blind spot where the tusks can't defend, close to the rear leg. Lure enemies in and then dispatch them with a fire attack. You learned to take your shorter stature into stride: you can't fight like a fully-grown haxorus until you are one. Drayden didn't actually want to teach you two, but he did a good job of it by accident. The lessons stuck when you had to find them on your own.

Iris learned that the hard way, but she'll pass it down. Both of you will.

"The tie is his brand," Hilda says slowly. A bit of a guess, but it's the only obvious answer. She'll have to figure out the rest on her own. "Elesa's got her modelling, Clay's got his mines, Burgh's got his art." Her brow knits together. She runs her hands over her belt. "But that's the important part to you? The tie?"

There's a flash of red, and a lanky servine appears in front of you, all curls of green and golden leaves. The scales around her eyes narrow as she meets your gaze, and she tilts her neck to one side. You can tell from the arch of her tail that Hilda wasn't exaggerating earlier; this one's soon to evolve.

"Lenora adores him. He's your friend, Hilda. You'll know him better than me." Iris's hands are jammed firmly in her pockets and she stares straight ahead, but you study her target for the two of you. "But I saw the headshots Juniper published when she announced her candidates. He changed up his look because he thought he needed to."

She leaves the rest unspoken, but you've seen Skyla around the two of you, and Izan and his brothers. You know what Hilda does not: the people who matter will never accept you. Iris could wear as many outfits as she wanted; the two of you would always just be simisage in dressup to them. But if that's the path her friend has chosen, then that's the one he'll walk. When he reaches the end he'll learn his lesson, one way or another. He wants to dress up like them; they'll see his tie and drag him around by the neck.

"You didn't think it was worth having a talk with Cheren."

"I don't think he needs to have that talk with me," Iris responds smoothly. "He already knows what he's after. For him the outcome is simple: either he'll get it, or he won't. But I admit I'm not quite sure what you want yet."

An airplane jets overhead. Iris stands on the edge of an empty sidewalk, cars blowing past her, her face a clay mask that betrays none of her pent up anger that's been seething beneath your scales for eighteen years. Across the street, a pair of teens in hoodies stroll by in the opposite direction.

Hilda is a mess of emotions and distrust, and who could blame her? She would have better luck taming dragons than taming Unova. But beneath that tangle, you see something familiar: the smoldering sort of rage that only comes from wanting something she'll never get.

"You two can go first," Iris says after a long pause, gesturing to the lawn where her servine is casually rearranging the leaves of her tail to get more sunlight.

Hilda balks. "Oh. Right." A pause, and then: "Open with Slam."

The servine jerks out of her reverie and tenses, preparing to leap. Iris raises her eyebrows at you and then tilts her chin forward.

"If you really think all of that," Hilda begins, and peters off. At her side, her fist clenches. She straightens. "Just. Why are you doing this? Why don't you do anything about it?"

You catch the servine on your shoulder; she's dangerously close to impaling herself on your right tusk and you have to tilt yourself out of the way to avoid causing any serious damage. Still, you tap her with the flat of it as she recoils away, and you catch the back of her head before she can manage to twist around for another attack.

Iris raises one eyebrow. "Is that what you want? To be able to do something about it?"

You expected Hilda to flinch. This isn't a world for idealists, after all. You and Iris learned that lesson young. There are things you want, things you deserve, and things you are given. Fight as hard as you can for them to be the same, but never expect them to be.

But instead, she squares her jaw. The rage is back. "Vaselva, Leaf Blade. Keep your head back."

An interesting response. Juniper really does pick the strangest candidates. Most of them don't get anywhere, instead falling to the wayside after their first few badges and returning to do research for her—which was probably what Juniper wanted the whole time. But this one has the battle chops to do well in the League, and maybe the backbone as well.

The servine coils around herself, a blur of emerald and beige scales, and you see the glow concentrating around at her tail, whispering with grassy energy.

There's an adage that battling is how trainers get to know each other. Some would say that that isn't correct, as you can only really see the pokémon fight, that you're the ones who are on the field, after all. But what you see in this servine is a reflection of her trainer's grim determination. The grass-type didn't seem particularly eager for the battle; she seemed far more happy when she was letting her leaves relax in the sun. But now that she's in it, the hesitation is gone. She exhales sharply as she readies herself, and in that one breath you can sense all of her—exhaustion, grit, loyalty, pride.

Human battles are all about conversations, posturing, and hiding yourself. And they certainly aren't designed to be fair—Skyla left herself wide open, but it didn't matter. The rules already said she got to win anyway. So is it really cruel to believe that some people have to fight in other ways instead?

You parry the first attack, but the servine ducks low and aims for your knees.

{You're a fast learner,} you hiss approvingly in draconic as you catch the second swing on your scaly forearms.

{I try,} she responds frostily.

{Don't wind up as much,} you add when her third jab easily goes wide over your shoulder, a crackling blur of green energy. {You don't need it.}

"And you think if you stand where I am, you'll get it?" Iris hides her cynicism with a laugh; you vent her frustration into your next thrust, an open-palmed strike with your claws tucked safely out of the way.

It isn't her fault. You're both looking at a firestarter who thinks that if she battles hard enough and believes in her pokémon, she'll get whatever she wants. This is a land where opportunity can be pried from the earth for all those who dig deep enough, of course. What would stop you?

The air is thick, though, and suddenly Hilda's holding her rapier again, defending against attacks that aren't aimed at her. "You've got a better shot than me."

"What would be the first thing you'd change?" This one isn't a rhetorical question. Iris isn't trying to coax her anywhere. This is a genuine query to the ones who follow in her footsteps—if I didn't fight hard enough, what would you have done in my stead?

You wrap your hand around the servine's neck and slam her into the ground, a cage of dragonfire glimmering on the tips of your claws.

Iris isn't exactly subtle; that was never your style. Clay bribed an entire industry to support him; Drayden used his dragon-wielding protégé as a stand-in; Alder was a punching bag for anyone who wanted to pull his strings—but Iris's only weapon was raising her voice. The problem was that people never listened for good, even if it was obvious, even if it demanded to be heard. Iris was the first female League Finalist of native descent. She was the point person for expanding the training sponsorship program to mandate funding for lower income families, and campaigned for the Unovan Endemic Species Protection Act, and chafed loud and hard against the rest of the archaic and outdated rules that had kept the League tilted toward the wealthy for years. And she was twenty-two, and had a long climb ahead of her, longer than setting up kids like Hilda for sponsorship, or making sure that hydreigon didn't go the same way haxorus were.

But what people hated to see was slow change, these baby steps up a mountain so massive. It reminded them that the battles that really mattered weren't like the ones in the League, with the cameras and the glitz and the lights. It was slow, boring, and discouraging work. In fifteen years maybe the two of you will have enough power to start tackling the things that really matter. In twenty years maybe you'll have the courage to look back towards your home. Twenty-five years, or maybe thirty, you'll come to peace with what you had to lose to get yourselves here.

A group of five—three humans, a liepard, a scolipede—goes past on the sidewalk across the street, their shouts muffled by the cars.

In the time that those thoughts flare through your head, you've thrown the servine to the ground, and Hilda's got an answer. "The League gives out battle-competitive starters to all children who want one at age ten."

"Oh, taking a page out of Kanto's playbook?" Iris asks, a faint smile on her lips. "Do you think that fixed things for them?"

"It was a start," Hilda says firmly.

"Are you concerned that this would open up the system to a higher percentage of pokémon abuse? Statistically there's a higher incidence of accidents in younger and lower-income—"

"The old and the rich are harder to prosecute."

Iris settles back, but the smile hasn't faded. Hilda has good responses for her age. Iris always has a knack for finding firebrands, after all.

"I've seen you involved in the Pokémon Liberation stuff," Iris says lightly, but now her words are loaded and heavy. "Be careful which causes you support, Hilda. You won't be allowed to get away with that forever."

Her servine trills in alarm, and Hilda finally looks down for the first time and sees that you've twisted the servine in a u-shaped messy knot, tangled her up in her own feet and pinned her to the ground. You see the horror flood into her face, and a pang of regret—and then there's a flash of light, and the servine is gone. Hilda whispers something to the ball as she clips it back on her belt, but her eyes are still on Iris. "Get away with what?"

"Contradiction," Iris says shortly. She normally isn't one for curt, mysterious statements—rather just say something glancing and polite—but even you know it's too risk to elaborate here. Contradiction between Hilda's ideals of equality for the kids like her? Contradiction by raising points against the League that brought her here? A bit of both.

"Thanks for the advice," Hilda says drily, and that's when you know she's not going to listen. Of course she isn't. Five or ten years ago, just starting out, you would've been in the same boat, idealists and dreamers, believing if you can fight hard enough you can change the world overnight.

But Iris is a bit more stubborn. "You're a quarter native, right? Your mother's father, or your father's mother?"

"Mother's father," Hilda answers without thinking, and then immediately after: "How—"

Iris shrugs. "I'm a good guesser."

Her father's father would've been permitted to keep no sons. Her mother's mother would've passed down her dowry earrings.

"Why does it matter?"

"Because you of all people should know," Iris replies stonily, "how it feels to have a pale man stroll into your life, rip off your tusks, and declare himself your king."

This time she doesn't bother with tea, or a battle. It's not like she'd need to. The entire videocall lasts ninety seconds, and even that feels agonizingly long.

"Is that all? Thank you for your time."

"Would you like me to say anything in response, Ghetsis?"

"No. I will make no promises. We will respond with as much civility as we are given."

{You're the gym leader's fawn.} The hydreigon's heads prick up, and he hisses over the human's shoulder. Even in the grainy image of the x-transceiver, you can sense the judgment and disdain leaking from his eyes. {The last fraxure. I thought you'd be taller.}

Perhaps Iris doesn't speak the dialect of dragons in its entirety, but she'd have to be deaf not to hear the fury in his words; she'd have to be numb not to feel the responding rage that screams up inside of you.

"Skyla intends to let the police handle this," Iris says smoothly while you glower back at the hydreigon, and that's as urgent of a warning as you've heard her give anyone.

"Then let her. The time has come for Unova to witness what happens when we are content to stand idly by." Pause. "If you have nothing further to say, I would hate to waste your time."

"Have a good evening."

He cuts the connection. Iris buries her head in her hands, and you place your chin in her lap. Idly, she begins to rub at the spot where your blade meets the jaw. "Do you think we succeeded?"

{No. He wants what he wants, same as the rest.}

She may not have an ear for your words, but she doesn't need them. She never did, not for you. "I know. It was a longshot."

{It isn't your job.}

"No." She sighs. "But it is my responsibility."

It isn't your responsibility either, you want to tell her, but that's the beauty of duty—it can be anyone's. And it should be. Skyla should want to keep peace within Mistralton. Plasma should want to minimize violence. But everyone outsources the hard problems because they think problems should belong to someone else.

There's a certain terribleness of growing up as an other. You only belong until they decide they want you to be an other again. Iris is an angry activist to Skyla, and a complacent gym leader to Hilda, and a Unovan puppet to Ghetsis. No matter that in someone else's eyes, you both could've been allies.

"It's only going to get worse, this whole Plasma thing. You can sense it too, can't you?"

Yes. The blood of dragons courses through your veins, and it is stirring. Unova is on its breakpoint—but really, it's been lumbering there for years. Only now, when it's too late to turn back, are the symptoms finally clear enough for everyone to see. {Unova will not slumber forever, and neither will we.}

"No," she says grimly. "We can't."

N stands on top of a wooden crate. The megaphone in his hands amplifies his voice. You and Iris wormed through the crowd to get close to him; there's easily two hundred people already, and the march hasn't even begun. Behind him is a smattering of humans holding signs, a scolipede with a festive banner draped across her flank, a smiling leavanny with a brightly-colored poster. And then, further behind, you see Ghetsis and the hydreigon, both impassive among the exuberant crowd.

You glance around at the mix of humans and pokémon around you, dread curdling in your stomach. It's quiet for now—they'll cheer intermittently, when N pauses for breath—but none of the humans look worried; none of their pokémon share your apprehension. They don't realize that this calm is balanced on a razor's edge.

"When I look at battling I see the ultimate symbol of humans claiming to speak for pokémon, to know better than they do about what it means to fight, to suffer, and to be strong," the megaphone says for N, twisting his calm voice into a shout and hurling it into the crowd. This must be the tail end of his speech; you can catch the intensity slipping into his voice from where you stand. The urgency speeds up his words. "We have fashioned our society around this for too long, to the point that we have deafened ourselves to the idea that pokémon could want more than violence. Can you consider that world with me? A world where pokémon are free to be their own people?"

The crowd erupts into cheers while you and Iris watch stonily. What right does he have to lecture about freedom? You and Iris are one life; not one without the other. She speaks for the two of you with her words, and you speak for the two of you with your actions. You listen to each other, and how could either of you not? You are one. And her gym matches are grueling and intense, and part of you would rather not fight them—but there are so many things you need to right first. You are the last free fraxure in Unova, but he still thinks you are in chains because you choose to live with her.

When the crowd quiets, N continues, "And you must understand! When asked about the nature of a pokémon's plight, a human can never know the truth. How can we, if we don't listen? We can't help but lie if we try to speak on the behalf of someone we don't understand, even if we mean well. But when it comes to the nature of their own suffering, their own dreams, this much is clear: when you let them answer that question themselves, pokémon never tell lies. How can we possibly claim to know better than all that they know? How—"

A rock hits him in the shoulder.

N staggers back, almost tripping off of his makeshift platform.

The frills around the hydreigon's necks flare into three black stars when he roars.

Your head flicks over, but the crowd has already burst into chaos. Another rock goes flying, and this one strikes the window of a storefront.

"Get back!" someone is shouting at N, but the hydreigon's three heads snap asynchronously, his body curled protectively around N's even as the humans are trying to extract him.

"Sienna," Iris says in a low voice. While you were looking at the stage, she was studying the crowd, eyes darting back and forth across the faces. "Protect the stage. We need to stop this before it gets worse."

You hiss. You will not leave her side.

"I'll catch up. I need to find Skyla and get her to deescalate. Go. They need you."

You hiss again. {They could never need me more than you do.}

"I know." She kisses you gently on the forehead. "Go, Gaasyendietha. I will find you."

Snarling, you wrench yourself free and shoulder your way through the erupting crowd. Iris. Always trying to be a hero. Always inspiring you to be the same. How could you betray your heart? You turn back to catch a glimpse of her in the seething crowd, but it shattered alongside the storefront window. She's gone.

It's hard; the panic hangs low and thick over the crowd, and you're both too short to command their presence and too powerful not to draw attention. A human girl runs over your tail and almost stumbles into the ground. {Be calm!} you hiss, but she's already mumbled a sorry and is sprinting off.

Where are they—

Look up.

It isn't just the crowd that makes you uneasy. The walls are close here; the grassy lawn is an open space, but the brick walls tower into the sky, more than fifty feet high. They blot out the sunlight around you. It's a good place for a hunt, you can't help but notice.

The humans won't listen. But there are one, maybe two people who will. You drop to all fours and push your way to the platform, where it looks like the hydreigon and N are in a tense disagreement about whether or not the human can survive going on dragonback.

{You've trapped yourselves. You both need to get out,} you say tersely. {Immediately.}

{We were just trying that, little fraxure. Run along. This is no place for you.}

{I'm trying to help,} you respond stiffly. If Iris can make smalltalk with Skyla, you can be polite here, under these circumstances, where an old man tells you he'll never recognize you as clan leader. No place for you. If only he knew.

{You really think that?} A chuckle rumbles from one of the three heads; it's hard to tell which and the sound is slips away into the panic of the crowd. {Little fawn, run back to your rules and your gym battles. They might care about who your human is, but they'll never care about what your human wants.}

N's been staring at you, with his eyes narrowed. "Why did you come to warn us?" he asks softly.

How do you put it into words? The walls, the square. Humans must have organized this, humans who couldn't see that they'd all walked into a dead-end, and now—

"This is Mistralton PD! Step away from the line!"

{You've trapped yourselves,} you repeat hoarsely, eyes scanning the crowd. Where is Iris? She sent you away but she needs you, needs you desperately for what's about to come next.

By the time they fire the first tear gas cannister towards the hydreigon, you've already got a glimmering Protect shield raised, and it bounces harmlessly off. Not good enough. It hits the concrete just outside of your barrier with a soft clink—this is the part where Iris would rush forward and pour water on it, but—it erupts into a roiling cloud of white, heavy smoke.

You feel the air spike in temperature behind you, and you slash wildly with your tusks, gouging into the hydreigon's right arm. The fireball blooming in its throat hits you in the side of the cheek, and even through your scales you can feel the blistering heat.

He snaps his teeth at you but doesn't aim for your neck. {You—}

{You can't fight them!} you shout back.

{You can't stop me, little fawn,} the hydreigon snarls. {We already warned you. We will not stand idly by.} This time it's the left mouth that blossoms into flame, and the blue light of dragonfire flickers across your vision. You struggle to project another Protect shield, the image of a haxorus suddenly in the back of your mind, one hand extended to stop a torrent, and in that moment you're not just yourself but—

His attack goes high, and lances another gas cannister out of the air. It explodes in midair, and you see another deadly cloud form before the blue fire consumes it.

{You're going to get someone killed!}

{What would you rather we do, let them land on us?} he shoots back.

"What are you saying we should do?" N asks.

Iris normally is the one who says these words, but you feel a thrill of excitement. He understands your words, even if he doesn't understand your plight. Perhaps there's hope for him after all. {You can't fight. Not here. They outnumber you and if you escalate, they'll just hit back harder. You need to get out of here, regroup somewhere else. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but you can't stay here. They'll crush you.}

You try to remember. How old is Plasma, really? Do they not know how this game works? It's a war of attrition, not a pokémon fight. You can't just beat someone down until you get what you want. The rules don't work like that, not with humans—they beat you down until you prove that you're strong enough to take it.

The area of the crowd furthest from you has become a makeshift line—you see glints of Protect shields, a few Reflects, but not nearly enough. Even as you watch, two shields go down. Most of the crowd has fled already; this is just the stragglers. They didn't come expecting a fight. But even though the barrier is so far away, they're still concentrating their fire over the front line, focusing on …

{They're aiming at you,} you say quietly, almost inaudible over another hiss of fire that rockets a gas canister into a wall. {You can't be here.}

You wait for a witty retort, but he's silent.

You look over at N. {You can blend into the crowd. He can't. You have to recall him and run.}

"I can't just—"

{Now!}

The one similarity this has to a battlefield is how quickly the tides can change. You look over your shoulder. The glimmering lights are gone; their front line is already shattered. There isn't much time left before the police force their way through.

"Will you come with us?"

There's a line between you and them, one that you've toed but never crossed.

He must think you're lucky, to have a partner like Iris rather than a trainer. But to you, he is the lucky one, blessed with the position to ignore you and Iris' shared plight. What would this human boy who calls himself king know about being someone else's tool? You and Iris spent this world watching warily for decrees that came from castles; he was born in one. Unova is cruel. Iris knows this and fights it, and if she needs you to fight as well to lend legitimacy to her words, then so be it. A world where pokémon are free to be their own people is a pretty thing indeed, if you can believe humans are fair to people now. That assumption alone speaks volumes for what he sees and what he refuses to.

{I have my rules and my gym battles,} you say coldly, straightening your back. Even then you're nowhere close to his height. And you might help them, but you would never flee with them, not while your heart is still with Iris, somewhere in the haze below. {I'll be fine. Go.}

N turns away. "Thank you," he says softly.

The hydreigon studies you for a long moment, three gazes spearing into you as one.

{You're small for a haxorus,} he says, before flicking his tall onto the recall button and vanishing in a flash of red.

What you hate most about people like them is how much they refuse to understand.

Ten thousand years ago, a dragon shaped Unova from fire and thunder and ice. From that dragon, the Twin Gods were born.

Two thousand years ago, the haxorus of the Dragonvalley entered into an accord with the humans who lived there. They would share these lands and protect the valley together. If nature willed it, their children would hatch at the same time, and the two would live in the image of the Twin Gods—not one without the other. For as long as there were twins to remind them why they were the same, the peoples of the Dragonvalley could live in harmony.

Three hundred years ago, Unovan settlers discovered the Dragonvalley and routed the peoples who lived there into less fertile, less desirable pockets of land, where they could die without being seen. The haxorus who refused were put to the sword. The humans who refused were given necklaces of rope. The peoples of the Dragonvalley who fled wept bitter tears, which washed into an enormous river; once crossed, they would never return.

Twenty-two years ago, a meteor streaked across a moonless black sky. That night, Tsis'swakeras was born to a loving human mother and father. On the same night, an axew hatched, and her proud mother named her Gaasyendietha, for the meteor of old that hatched into the Twin Gods, and for the new comet that proclaimed her birth. Although neither child knew it, the reservation rejoiced, and the children were joined as twins. Tsis'swakeras wasn't a very vocal child, but her hands babbled. Gaasyendietha was large for an axew, and a voracious learner.

Eighteen years ago, Unovans returned once more to the diasporic peoples of the Dragonvalley. They proclaimed that haxorus were an endangered species, that licenses and permits were required to raise them, and all hatchlings had to be surrendered to the League for safe rearing. They came for the human children as well, also for safe rearing, and to teach them things that could not be learned on the settlement. But Tsis'swakeras and Gaasyendietha were one life, one pain—not one without the other. So both were taken together, too young to understand why their parents wept and why it would not have been dishonor to do the same.

Thirteen years ago, Drayden Kennsington wanted a haxorus, but saw no legal way to obtain one. What he saw instead was a young, malleable girl and the axew who slashed at all who came close, save her. The girl mattered little. The axew was the last unlicensed female in Unova, and therefore the only one from which he could breed a lineage. And so, for their tenth birthday, he extended to the twins a great and terrible gift.

Twelve years ago, in her first interview on national television, Tsis'swakeras froze when asked to repeat her name. A sea of unfamiliar pale faces stared back at her. The foreign language heavy on her lips, her quivering hands screaming into white-knuckled fists, Drayden's hands on her shoulders, she murmured my-name-is-tsis'swakeras, but what came out was a jumble, and then eh-ras, and then an overly-enthusiastic, "Let's give it up for Iris!"

Plasma claimed to want to give you back your freedom. What they fail to understand is that your soul has only ever known a leash. Unova has always held you both by the neck; there is no separating your struggles from hers. Not one without the other.

You will be free the day she is, and not one day sooner.


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