Chapter 4 - The Waypoint

The ring cut the dewy morning like the shriek of a ghost. Haru stopped short, his heart thudding, before common sense caught him up. Wei's nav was gone, soaked in the bathtub until the power shorted. He'd tossed it with his breakfast down the cafeteria dumpster.

Haru pulled his vibrating nav from his pocket: 10 am on a Sunday. It was time for the family conference call. He glanced around Route 121—Atalanta was happily occupied by a bunch of blooming flowers—and accepted the video call. His mother and sister were already on, both of them framed by the muted wallpaper of their company break-rooms.

"Your father can't join us today," Mother said at once. "He's in a meeting."

Haru just nodded. After everything that had happened yesterday, he didn't trust himself to sound normal. Luckily, Erika, who tended to be tactical in these matters, had saved the story of her promotion for the weekly call. Haru was able to listen quietly as Mom oohed and ahhed over every detail. It was easy to let Erika take the center stage —it tended to happen anyway, whether he wanted it to or not. Erika was the oldest, the success story. His parents had named her after the famous Kantonian gym leader who started a multinational perfume company, all ladylike delicacy and hard-headed business acumen. Haru wasn't sure he believed that names shaped destinies—but his parents seemed to have pulled it off with Erika.

Haru had been named at his grandmother's urging. She had wanted at least one traditional name preserved in the family. Her own father had been a Haru, and his father's father. "It may be that a Haru once knelt before Lord Ho-oh himself. So you must always cherish this name and act to bring honor upon everyone who has borne it before you."

"Well, Haru?"

The impatience in his mother's voice made his back stiffen. He must have tuned out a question.

"Excuse me, Mother, what was that?"

Mother and Erika exchanged an all-too-familiar glance. Haru privately called it the "Oh, Haru" glance. It had been cropping up with increasing regularity in the past year.

"Mother was asking whether you'd finished dropping off all your pokemon yet," Erika interjected. Mother hated to repeat herself.

"Yes. Heconilia was the last." The lie came out smoothly enough. But their attention was on him now.

"To some ranger program, you said?"

"That's right, Mother. Tropius don't do well outside their native habitats, so it was the best thing for her."

"It's taken some time, though. Where are you now?"

"Just outside Lilycove."

"And when does your internship begin?"

"In eight days." He was answering on automatic now, falling into the familiar rhyme of interrogation.

"Eight days? And you'll be able to make it to Mauville on time all the way from there? Not by foot, I hope."

"The Lilycove ferry goes direct to Slateport, and it takes less than a day from there. I'll rent a bike."

"Hmph. And that fossil pokemon of yours is taken care of?"

"Yes, she's already settled in at the lab."

"And what about you? Have you finalized your housing arrangements in Mauville?"

Haru blinked, thrown. Housing. He stared at the flashing red light of the video call, his mind gone completely blank.

"Wake up, Haru!" Mother said sharply. "You aren't a pokemon trainer anymore. You'll need an actual apartment to stay in. Mauville's housing is notoriously expensive. You should have been working on this last month. I thought you had been."

The rebuke hit Haru like a slap. What was the matter with him? Every year he'd attended the Hoenn league, he'd booked his room months in advance, refusing to trust the overflow lodgings or rough it in a tent while he competed. He had known giving up his trainer's license meant an end to free pokecenter lodging. But somehow, with everything, the pieces hadn't come together in his mind.

"You're right, Mother," he said quietly. "I'll figure something out."

Frustrated with himself, Haru fell silent as his sister spoke up hastily with an amusing story from her last staff meeting.

This fuzziness—this aimless, wild feeling—had to end. He would catch the next ferry out of Lilycove, Haru resolved. That would leave him a full week to devote to apartment hunting.

The call was drawing to a natural close, like a receding tide. Haru felt he had to make amends. "I should have time to make a stop at the Lilycove shopping center," he said. "Is there anything you want?"

Mother wanted her Ecruteak teas. Erika wanted some complicated battery pack from Unova. "They're the best value for money and of course they're impossible to get here, what with how Devon locks down the market—sorry, Mother, but you know it's true. You should be able to find them on the basement floor. Ask for the Zeno Mark VII pack, okay?"

Haru nodded.

"Oh, and Haru," said his mother, "Nya-Nya is doing quite well, by the way. She's a very docile pokemon. I've even started to take her out on errands with me and received several compliments on her behavior!"

Nya-Nya had had a hard time of it in the upper levels of competitive battling. She deserved some pampering and ease.

"I'm glad you two are getting on," Haru said with a smile. It felt odd, still stretched across his face, when the call ended. He picked his nav back up and switched over to the newsfeed.

Another wurmple outbreak. Some act of terrorism over in Johto.

Atlanta tugged impatiently at his hair. Haru glared up at the ninjask. "What are you in such a hurry for? I'm doing something important." Nothing about a death on Route 119. If something had gone wrong with Wei, it would have made the headlines, right? It would have been a story. If he saw nothing, that meant everything had gone fine.

Another painful tug. Haru set his nav down and plucked the insect pokemon off his head. "Do you want to know what I was doing? I was checking for news about your trainer. You know, your trainer?" Uncomprehending red eyes met his own. "Aren't you worried about him?"

Haru doubted the ninjask had understood what all the business with the emergency signals had been about. From her perspective, they'd left the boy slumped on the ground, still as a corpse.

"Aren't you worried about your trainer?" Haru tried again, shivering slightly as Atalanta's unblinking gaze didn't alter. When nincada evolved into ninjask, Haru knew, the lifeless husk they shed in the process animated into a new being.

Did ninjask even understand the concept of death?

The thought made him go cold. He stood quickly, cinching his pack. It was another two hour's brisk walk to Lilycove.

"Hey, you up for a quick battle?"

Haru's heart flipped. He wheeled around and saw a smiling trainer standing next to a bright-eyed zangoose.

I'm not a trainer . . . would sound ridiculous when he had a ninjask buzzing over his head.

"Sorry, I'm a coordinator," he called back. His shoulders slumped with relief when the trainer simply nodded and kept walking, her zangoose at her heels. Around Lilycove coordinators were thick as wurmple. Still, he really had to deal with Atalanta.

Any metropolitan pokemon center would accept the ninjask for re-settlement. But their first action would be to scan for an identifying chip. Atalanta would register as Wei Luo's pokemon and Haru wouldn't be able to escape the questions.

Frustrated, Haru shook his head. A solution would suggest itself eventually. One had to.

.

Haru knew he was getting close to Lilycove when the fog began to thicken. Lilycove was on the sea and even in the summer months the fog crept deep inland, lingering through the afternoon.

Haru had visited Lilycove many times and the cobblestone streets of the city were wide, but he still felt uncertain as he traced his way to the mall. The fog hid the vast bulk of Lilycove's shopping center, so it was with surprise that he stopped a few yards away from the flashing lights of the entrance.

He hadn't met anyone in the streets; it was as if Lilycove's entire population was congregated within the mile-long shopping center. The lobby was hot with the press of bodies. Most people had the sense to keep their pokemon stowed, but a few flying-types soared overhead and an errant linoone was winding between shoppers' legs.

The import-tea store was where he remembered it, tucked in a rare quiet side-corner. The old woman who ran the shop didn't seem to alter with time. She was wearing a formal kimono in a deep shade of purple. A couple was browsing the shop, speaking loudly in Kalosan. The shopkeeper was ignoring them, but she gave Haru a small nod when he came in. He wasn't sure if she really recognized him or had just noted the Johtoan cut of his hair. He picked out a set of strong red teas for his mother and added in a small packet of sencha for himself.

Piloting on automatic, he took the elevator up and turned left, into 10ib Pack, the best value-for-money training goods store in Hoenn. Nothing there was high-end, but it worked reliably, a cut above the goods sold by street vendors, and far less expensive than league-sanctioned pokemarts. Entering, Haru had to step quickly to the side to avoid a girl racing by with her combusken. He stood still for a moment, thrown. What was he doing here? He had no training supplies to buy. He wasn't a trainer anymore.

Feeling off-balance, Haru hurried out of the store. His sister's battery pack would be on the lower levels. There were no walk-in stores down there, just stands where vendors hawked their goods. Haru passed racks of phones, good luck charms, and mechanical odds and ends. He didn't give any of it more than a quick glance. But when he caught a scruffy man hawking pokeballs for 1,200 apiece, Haru felt himself slowing in disbelief.

"1,200?" he said out loud. "That's insane."

The man smirked. "What do you mean? These are free." He emphasized the last word strangely.

Free. The slang rang the vaguest of bells. That meant . . . a pokeball without an identification number or tracker. The kind of pokeball a criminal used.

"Right," Haru managed. But he didn't walk quickly away as he would have once done. He was thinking about the ninjask. If he wanted to transport it on the ferry, it would be best if he had a pokeball.

"Do you sell pokeballs that work even if the pokemon already has an ID tag?"

The man stiffened at the question and subjected Haru to a sharp once-over. "You want a broken ball?"

Guessing that was the slang, Haru gave a short nod.

"That'll cost you more than this free merchandise, for sure. And I don't carry them, anyway. You can get in a lot of trouble doing that." He eyed Haru suspiciously. Who does he think I am? Some kind of undercover agent? Haru almost smiled. The dealer's speculations were likely far more glamorous than the reality of Haru's situation.

"Okay," Haru said. "I was just asking." It had been a stupid idea anyway.

"Wait." He looked back. The vendor met his gaze steadily. "I might know a guy. Interested?"

His backpack twitched.

"I'm interested," he answered despite himself.

.

Haru woke on Monday morning feeling queasy to his stomach. His window might as well have been a gray curtain for all he could see out of it. Lilycove, he reminded himself. Still Lilycove.

A small bowl of rice and a cup of sencha brewed in his single-serve teapot were all he felt he could hold down. He huddled in the corner of the cafeteria for the rest of the morning, scrolling through his newsfeed. At some point, the action became mechanic. The words blurred, sliding senselessly past.

At 9:37 he headed back to the shopping center. The difference from the weekend was stark; Haru took the escalator down to the basement level alone, feeling horribly exposed.

"You're early," the pokeball seller drawled when he caught sight of Haru. "He won't be. You should browse."

So Haru lost himself for a while between colored scarves that flew like flags and shelves of hand-carved icons. One caught his eye—a suicune carved from an albino wood, the eyes set with some red jewel. "Real ruby!" the seller burbled when she noticed him looking. Haru doubted that, but he threw down a few hundred poke and stuck the icon in his belt bag.

Past ten now. He circled back to the northwest section. A man who couldn't have been too many years older than Haru had joined the pokeball vendor. Hoenese, with his black hair jelled into stiff spikes. He was wearing an electric-blue trenchcoat made from some shiny vinyl material. When Haru approached, the pokeball vendor nudged him.

"You my client?" he called out, and Haru nodded. "Okay," the man said, pausing as a wide yawn split his face. "Broken ball, right? 20,000 yen."

Haru felt his jaw drop. "Don't be ridiculous," he managed after a moment. "5,000 is all I'm prepared to pay. Which is already generous."

"Don't lecture me on what's generous, Pretty-Boy," the man said. "What I'm selling, you're not gonna get anywhere else here, and you're gonna go through a lot more to get it, too. So don't mess with me. 20,000 or we don't have any deal."

20,000 was . . . far too much. He'd need that kind of money for rent once he reached Mauville. Haru shook his head and backed away.

"You're the one who's mistaken," he said quietly. "I don't need what you're selling. So take 10,000 or I'm leaving, and believe me, I won't be back."

The man met his eyes with a scowl. "You got it on you? In cash?"

"Yes," Haru said cautiously, glancing around to make sure they weren't completely alone. He didn't expect the two men to jump him, but he had no assurance that they wouldn't.

"Let me see."

Haru pulled out the wads of money jerkily and made a show of counting them. "Now you," he said, his voice steadier than his heart, which was speeding wildly.

"What?"

"I want to test your merchandise."

The man gave a shrug after a moment and produced a single pokeball. It didn't have any special markings; it just looked like a normal pokeball, a little scuffed. Haru uncinched his pack and held his hand over the opening to stop Atalanta from bursting out. "Hold still, okay?"

When he pressed the capture mechanism, the inside of the pack lit up with red light. The ball didn't even shake once before clicking shut. Haru let out a breath and handed the money over without speaking, his grip on the pokeball tight.

The man seemed much happier with the cash in his hand. He came over and gave Haru a slap on the back. "Nice doing business with you. If you ever need anything else, just ask around for Marve."

Haru must have made a sound. The man stepped back with a frown.

"I—I think I've heard of you," Haru said. "Is it true that you—trade in eggs?"

"Might be." The man narrowed his eyes and looked Haru over. "This isn't the place for that kind of talk, though. I'll be hanging around the Gyarados' Head tonight if you want to talk real business."

He left before Haru could answer, swallowed by the growing crowd. Haru stood still, staring at nothing.

"You mind budging along?" the pokeball seller said after a moment. "I've got merch to move, you know."

"Sorry," Haru said breathlessly. He started away at a brisk walk, his pace increasing as he approached the exit. When he stumbled out into the fresh, wet air he was almost running.

The ferry now, he told himself when he was back in his room. His belongings were packed and ready to go. But exhaustion had hit him like a hammer. He dropped back on his bed and fell into sleep with Atalanta's new pokeball clutched to his chest.

.

It was late afternoon when he finally set out for the ferry. The sky was beginning to tint orange as the sun sank into the sea. He felt groggy from the daytime nap, like his body was something separate from himself. He also felt strangely at ease. It was funny—Haru knew intellectually that both the purchase and possession of the pokeball that now held Atalanta were illegal. But he felt safer with the pokeball than he had felt without it.

When the grinning head of a gyarados loomed suddenly through the fog, Haru stopped short, his breath coming fast. Blinking, he registered that the gleaming fangs were plastic. The sinister red light of its eyes came from small electric bulbs.

Haru flinched when an arm slung around his shoulders, pressing down hard. A voice exclaimed into his ear, "Pretty-boy! You came."

Before Haru could say anything, Marve had already maneuvered him into the dark entrance of the bar. The bouncer gave them a quick, apathetic glance and waved them in without asking for ID.

The bar was cramped and badly-lit. In one corner a small stage was set off, in another, arcade games whizzed and glittered. Marve's bright blue trench coat glinted in the strobe light as he made his way over to the counter. Haru followed him slowly, feeling as if he had stumbled into a bad dream.

"Order whatever you want! It's on me—well, it's on you, really. It's your money I've been drinking," Marve said. He tipped back his head and laughed uproariously, as if he had just said something immensely funny.

"Sake," Haru answered automatically, but he grimaced when the bartender slammed down a golden can in front of him. He loved the slimly tapered neck of a traditional bottle. Sake in a can missed the whole point.

But that was Hoenn for you, Haru reflected, surprised by the bitterness of the thought.

"So," said Marve, knocking back something pink and strong-smelling. "You looking for a life of crime?"

Haru shook his head, staring at his canned sake. He felt strangely paralyzed, still lethargic from his daytime nap.

"Scared, huh?"

Haru shook his head again.

"Aw, you don't have to put on a brave face for me. I know your type. Bet you used to spend sleepless nights worrying you'd filled out a form wrong."

Marve grinned widely at Haru's expression. "Oh, I'm right. And then you grew up a bit, didn't you, started to take a look around. And you wondered, who's it all working for, and who's going to stop me? Well, I'll let you in on a secret, Pretty-boy." He leaned in uncomfortably close to Haru's face. Haru flinched at the puff of hot, alcohol-heavy breath that blew against his cheeks. "No one's gonna stop you. All that tauros-shit they feed you in school, about conservation and responsibility? Hah! Tauros-shit," he repeated with evident satisfaction. "It's not like any of them actually give a damn about pokemon. They just want people to follow the law, for pokemon to stick to their place. As long as you don't shake things up too much, the world's your clamperl, there to be prised open."

He was drunk.

Haru didn't have to sit here and listen to this, like a trapped dreamer. Nor did he have to justify himself to this glittering apparition. He stood, tossing down a 1,000 note, and left without looking back.

.

The ferry wasn't far. At the kiosk the woman told him the next ship would depart in 18 minutes. Haru bought himself a ticket and went into the inner lobby to wait. Inside, the floor was dark and so well-polished that he could make out his own reflection peering curiously up at him. The sight made him uneasy, so he looked out the window instead, at the gray expanse of sea.

Haru had grown up knowing the sky belonged to Ho-oh and the sea to Lugia. His grandmother thought it was tempting fate to take a ship and blasphemy to take an airplane. She'd refused to speak to his parents in the months after they'd flown to Hoenn. Maybe she'd have forgiven them in time, if she hadn't . . .

But it was useless to dwell on that. A horn blared, announcing that the ferry had docked. He hurried on board with a few other passengers, though it was clear that the ship was under capacity. The evening was an unpopular travel time: the chilly evening headwind chased everyone below deck.

Haru remained by the railing, staring out as the wind blew cold ocean spray into his face. The fog hid the place where the sky met the sea, leaving only an impenetrable grey shroud. After a few minutes, Haru turned to look back, but Lilycove's harbor was shrouded as well.

As if there was nothing behind him—nothing at all.