Chapter 17

Blake had been given an ice pack for his face and a band-aid with little Pidgeys all over it; something quite typical for Lavender Town's facilities, he supposed. He vaguely hoped it wasn't infected as he gathered up his things to head out. Originally he had planned on staying in Lavender for a while in order to train his Spearow a few levels up—it was only four off from evolution—but after that afternoon's psychic encounter, he figured that trekking back to Saffron wouldn't be such a bad idea.

Besides, there were other things on his mind besides training his Flying-type Pokemon—the only reason that his father had allowed him to leave Azalea town in Jhoto to come here—such as his sister. Blake had been separated from her for far too long, and had made it a personal goal of his to reconnect with her before the year was out. It was late June now, almost July, and Blake figured that if he slowly but surely made his way to the Viridian forest he would be all set.

Blake was just considering whether to go south to Fuchsia City or west to Saffron when a boy about half a foot taller than him caught his eye. At first, all Blake had really noticed was the hair—it was a strange, almost white blonde, that, when it caught the light off the sun, was silvery-grey. Actually, Blake thought, frowning, it almost didn't look blonde at all. The other reason this particular stranger had grabbed his attention was the enormous Fearow beside him.

The creature was magnificent. Its wingspan was at least twice as long as an average Fearow's could hope to grow in its entire life, and yet this particular Pokemon looked only about three years old.

Blake, being the bird trainer he was, was mesmerized. He supposed the Fearow's trainer saw him staring, because a few seconds later he was aware of two coal-black eyes fixed on him, eyes that took in light and gave none of it back.

Embarrassed, Blake looked down and to the left, continuing on his way. Unfortunately the boy with the Fearow was dead in front of him, right where he was heading, so there was no real way to pretend he hadn't been staring. He had almost passed the pair, when:

"You like my Fearow?"

Blake stopped walking, bit his lip—which reopened his wound—and turned around. "Oh. Yeah, it's really… big."

Astounded at how utterly lame that sounded, Blake waited for the stranger to laugh or challenge him to a battle, which, Blake knew from experience, was pretty much the only reason people talked to each other around here. He'd been walking here along Route when a girl had stopped him, commented about how she liked his shoes, and abruptly challenged him to a battle. Bewildered, Blake had agreed to it, since it was considered poor etiquette to turn down a battle invitation, but he couldn't help wondering if it was possible for two people to have a normal conversation in Kanto. Around Azalea town everyone had known he was Falkner's son—and had therefore steered clear of him. Blake supposed that it was better than getting picked on, but it did tend to get lonely.

Meanwhile, the silver-haired boy had started talking again. Blake forced himself out of the back corner of his mind and out into reality again, focusing on the person in front of him. His lack of social skills made conversing extremely difficult, but he was determined to get it down.

"You're a bird trainer, I take it."

"Um… yeah, I am. Pardon my asking, but how'd you tell?"

"No one else would really care about the average size of a Fearow."

Blake felt as if he'd fallen into the Twilight Zone. Did people really talk to each other like this? It was as if they'd fallen into some badly written fanfiction, or something. The boy was regarding him evenly with a smile that didn't reach his eyes at all. Blake shuddered.

"Well, you're right about that. It really is amazing—what level is it?"

"Fifty-five," the boy said offhandedly, looking slightly disgusted. "But with all the training I've put the thing through it should be around sixty by now…" he shot it an annoyed glance. "It's a slow learner."

Blake's jaw had dropped open. A level fifty-five Pokemon? Blake wasn't sure he'd ever seen one over thirty-five. It was particularly amazing, especially since the levels became harder and harder to attain the higher they became. Needless to say, level 100 Pokemon were pretty much a joke—hardly anyone spent that much time training.

"So, what's in your arsenal?" The boy asked Blake, seeming genuinely interested.

"Um…" feeling his face flush, Blake muttered, "Spearow, Pidgey, Natu, and Murkrow, but they're all pretty low-level."

"Well, variety is better than brute strength, no?"

"I suppose so… I'm Blake." He stammered out impulsively, feeling somewhat awkward that neither of them had introduced themselves properly before then. He wasn't sure that he was going to be hanging around for much longer, but the ever-constant nagging of courtesy and etiquette that nagged at the back of his head wouldn't shut up. "What's your name?"

"Zaden," was all the boy said. He turned back to his Fearow and tightened some black leather straps that appeared to be a saddle onto its back. Shifting them back and forth for any sign of slack, he tightened them again.

"Unusual name," Blake commented offhandedly, almost not expecting Zaden to answer. When the boy did, he was slightly confused.

"My father is an unusual man."

Awkward silence. Blake decided to file away into his memory banks that introducing yourself to a near stranger wasn't a smart thing to do when Zaden continued.

"Actually, I'm on my way back to see him, but before I go I have to find a girl that's supposed to be around the Viridian. One of his old students."

Zaden turned back to face him, and Blake noticed something odd. Clipped to the boy's belt were three very lethal looking shuriken. The sight of them made Blake feel slightly uncomfortable, but he was thankfully able to avert his gaze before the other noticed. "Oh… so your father is a Pokemon Trainer too?"

A sound that was almost laughter escaped from Zaden's throat. "Yeah, I guess you could say that," He looked anxious all of the sudden and adopted a strictly-business attitude, straightening his spine out and half-lidding his eyes. "Have you seen a girl with long black hair about to here," he motioned with his hand to his waist, "and grey eyes? Her name is Azrael."

For a moment, Blake was too stunned to speak. "Um—" And then he coughed hard into his hand to hide the answer that had been on the tip of his tongue, changing it abruptly to, "No, can't say that I have. Sorry."

Zaden knew. Blake felt his heart leap up into his throat inexplicably. He really had no idea why he was so afraid of this stranger with the silver hair—he could hardly expect him to stab him through with one of those nicely-sharpened metal blades, right? Not here in the middle of the pathway to Route .

In the back of his mind, Blake tried to remember what time it was.

"Not a problem, I wasn't really expecting much. She's not social." He turned back to Fearow and mounted the Pokemon, pulling its black reigns tightly and extracting a cry from the creature as it spread its remarkable wingspan. Blake was temporarily struck dumb by the sheer magnificence of it again.

"Well, I'd better be going. Nice meeting you, Blake."

And then Zaden smiled in a way that was not at all friendly, a way that almost made Blake think of one of those cold-blooded psychopathic murders from cheesy black-and-white films or radio programs from the turn of the last century.

"Yeah, I—you, too."

Zaden was already taking off at the last sentence, and Blake wasn't at all sure he heard it. It didn't really matter, he supposed, as he watched the beautiful red-and-gold bird soar off into the magenta-shot sky—he didn't plan on meeting up with that boy ever again.

When I find Azrael, though, Blake thought to himself, pulling his jacket around his shoulders a little tighter against a sudden cold breeze, I'll have to ask him how she knows this guy's father.

From nowhere, a deep sense of foreboding gripped Blake and sent him running down the pathway to the outskirts of the forest, filled suddenly with a chill that wasn't generated from the cold air outside.