Chapter Five - The Safehouse

Mother had been right. Mauville City was ridiculously expensive.

First, Haru had tried to find a room at a newly built apartment complex a few blocks from the pokecenter. The studio flats there were dourly minimalist, with stark white walls and bare concrete floors, but they were clean and private, which was all Haru needed. The realtor warned him that the wait-list was already long and they were selecting tenants 'holistically,' whatever that meant. She'd handed him a ten-page application—previous apartments, job history, income. But his eight badges had impressed her. She'd sent Haru off with a warm handshake and the promise that he'd hear back in no more than a week.

The price-tag, though, for that modest, dark little room . . . Haru doubted his research stipend would stretch that far.

He'd spent the rest of the day inquiring after other listings, but they were either already filled or even more expensive than the apartment building had been. Haru found himself half-heartedly wishing he'd been a little more social on his journey. He didn't know anyone in Mauville nearly well enough to suggest rooming together. Most of the kids in his cohort had dropped off from training after a few years—the remaining trainers had been focused on making it as pros, rocketing from tournament to tournament, and conversation with them was limited to discussion of the latest protein shake blends.

His feet aching from walking up and down the city and a headache brewing behind his temples, Haru retired to his bed at the pokecenter, trying not to think about how much the stay was costing him. After two hours readjusting his pillow and covers, he gave up and sent himself to sleep with the spore he'd collected from Aporea before dropping her off.

The next day's search wasn't any more fruitful. Evening was drawing on when Haru decided to take his chances with Mauville's lower level. The area had a reputation, but Haru did have a pokemon on him, if it came to that. He stowed Atalanta's pokeball in his jacket pocket and took the screechy lift down.

The contrast was obvious from the moment he stepped out into the streets. The pavement was smeared with oil and dirt, and tents lined the avenue. People were arrayed on the sidewalk—some sitting on crates, others sprawled out on dirty piles of bedding. A few eyes followed Haru as he made his way down the street, unfocused and apathetic. One man approached Haru to ask for money in a hoarse, quiet voice. When Haru shook his head no, the man went back to sitting on his torn quilt without another word. Haru found himself speeding up, though not out of fear. The place seemed more depressing than dangerous.

Anyone who talked about the prosperity of Mauville City should spend some more time down here, Haru thought, averting his eyes as he passed a man defecating on the street.

A few blocks out from the address on the listing, a familiar scent made Haru pause—the smoky, fragrant burn of incense. The scent wafted from a small doorway, set off from the street with nothing more than a faded lavender hanging. The building had no sign announcing its function, though its outer wall was covered by a smeared, amateurish mural, depicting a mixed panoply of mythic pokemon.

Haru hesitated for a moment and then pushed the curtain aside. He stood blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dark. The room inside was lit, but only just, by a few scattered candles and some hanging lamps that emitted dim, yellow light. The carpet was lush and thick, layered with mismatched mats and pillows. Shrines were crammed together along the sides of the room. Haru could make out the rainbow feather of Ho-oh, the double helix strand of Mew, and icons of other gods he didn't recognize. The room was mostly empty, but not deserted. As his eyes adjusted, Haru made out figures spread throughout the room, in various states of prayer. The silence was broken only by the occasional whisper of verse or scattered yawn.

A house of prayer. It had been a long time since Haru had been inside one.

He picked his way forward slowly, trying not to trip on the wayward corners of prayer mats, over to the emblem of the rainbow feather and bent to examine the shrine beneath it. The candles were stubs, but they were braided from red, green and white wax. At the center of the shrine a greening copper plate held a sweet-smelling loaf, its crust glazed gold from brushed egg. Haru sniffed the cup to its left and felt his nostrils flare at the powerful, vinegary smell of fermented rice-wine. Something unclenched in his chest. The shrine wasn't beautiful or costly, but it was correct. It was respectful, for all its poverty.

Prostrating himself on the prayer mat, Haru began to work through the traditional blessings. He gave thanks for bread and wine, for sunlight and water. He thanked the evening for ending and the darkness for passing. Halfway through, Haru realized that he had defaulted to the longer version, the priest's version that Grandmother used to insist on.

The prayer for the dead came last. Look to the second sun that waits behind the rainbow. There dwells Ho-oh, Life-Bringer . . .

When he had finished, Haru didn't rise. The room was pleasantly warm and the sweet, smoky perfume of the incense reminded him of the long afternoons he'd spent in the Ecruteak temple as a child, in a stupor that wasn't quite sleep.

Haru's mind had been blank as he prayed. Grandmother always said that a true prayer demanded nothing from Lord Ho-oh and everything from one's self. With an uneasy twinge, Haru realized that he hadn't brought anything to offer on the shrine, not even simple buns.

Fumbling for a moment through his belt bag, Haru's fingers closed around the wood carving he'd purchased in Lilycove. That was something. What better way to praise Ho-oh than to offer back an emulation of his handiwork? Haru placed the carving gently on the shrine, where the candlelight caught on the figurine's red eyes, making them flash and dance.

"'Scuse me."

The voice made Haru start. He hadn't noticed anyone coming up beside him.

"No disrespect—I don't want to interrupt your prayer."

"That's all right," Haru said. His voice sounded odd, as if it had been pulled from a long way away. "I was finished."

"We don't get too many people at the Ho-Oh shrine. But you're a Johto boy, huh?"

Haru twisted around to face the person addressing him. It was hard to make out her features in the dim light—her skin was very dark.

"That's right."

"I'm from the Sevi Islands, off of Kanto. Grew up putting out milk for Mew." She smiled, her teeth flashing white. "Here, the milk's not so good, but I don't think She holds it against me. I'm Maliki."

"Haru," he said. Instead of holding out his hand, he brought his fist over his chest and made her a seated bow.

His reward was a delighted laugh, loud against the muffled stillness of the prayer room. Haru glanced around hastily, but none of the other worshipers seemed bothered.

"I haven't seen you before. Do you live in the city? Or are you just passing on through?"

"I'll be settling here," Haru said. He huffed an awkward laugh. "As soon as I can find a place to rent, that is."

The woman looked at him carefully. "I usually wouldn't ask a stranger, but I get a good vibe from you. We have a shared place above the shrines, on the second floor. A bit crowded, but I promise you, no stealing, and everyone here minds their own business. We're proper worshipful types, too."

Haru's eyes widened. "What's the price point?"

"About 35,000 a month."

Haru's mind jumped to his bank account. That was less than half of what the apartment complex charged. His stipend could cover it easily—he could probably manage out of pocket for a couple of months even, if the payment came late.

Mother's litany of 'clarifying questions' bubbled up in his mind. Was there in-house laundry? Did the payment include utilities? Did the other tenants use drugs? Were pokemon allowed? Could he see the rooms?

But none of it came out. Instead, Haru said, "I'll take it."

Maliki's grin widened. "You trust your instincts too, huh? I knew we'd get along. You can move in anytime. Your berth will be the third room on the left. We mostly keep the place unlocked. Not much to steal, here, and anyone who tried would bring down the wrath of at least thirty gods."

"I've got about 10,000 on me," Haru said. "The rest I can get you by—"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Keep it, until you're sure this is the place for you. Saves hassle in the long run, don't you think? Friday evenings we always do a group dinner. If you want to meet the others, that's the best time. Try not to come empty-handed though. That wouldn't be a great start."

It all sounded so loose, Haru thought, as he ducked back out onto the street. He'd secured a room, but there had been no paperwork, no key, no money exchanging hands. Mother would be shocked if he told her he'd leased a room without seeing a contract first. But, Haru figured, promises made in a prayer room were probably as good as oaths.

He bought a cheap dinner at an alley-side ramen shop and returned to the pokecenter long enough to gather his belongings, close out his room, and withdraw his savings.

The room turned out to be small, little more than a futon stuffed in a closet, with a single window letting in weak light from the adjoining alley. But Haru didn't plan to spend much time here—his new job at the research station was sure to keep him busy from dawn until dusk. Painting his eyelids with sleep spore, Haru sank into deep, dreamless sleep.

.

He woke the next morning to the savory smell of something frying.

"Early riser, huh?" Maliki said, when he stumbled into the cramped galley kitchen. He could make out her features better now in the light of early morning. She had an ovular face, arched eyebrows and full lips. Her hair ran down her back like beads on a string, twisted into dark knobs. Something loose and orange was draped over her back, swaying as she slid sizzling nanab berries around in a pan. "Would you like some?"

"I couldn't." Haru already felt like a trespasser in this cramped space. The morning light had revealed the peeling red wallpaper and forgivingly dark brown color of the carpet. Everything here spoke to a poverty his family had never known.

"Sure you can," Maliki answered, in a voice that didn't brook argument. "I always make extra."

Haru sat down heavily on the rickety wood chair. He rested his hands on the table, then moved them to his belt bag, where Atalanta's pokeball was nestled. "I was meaning to ask. Are pokemon allowed here?"

"Allowed?" Maliki quirked an eyebrow. "Sure. I mean, be courteous, if you've got a muk or something."

"No, nothing like that."

She sat opposite him, setting down a plate for each of them. "You a trainer, then?"

"Ex-trainer," he answered quickly, hoping she'd fill in the rest herself. Plenty of ex-trainers kept a few Class C pokemon around.

"What do you do now?"

"I'm starting as an intern. Up on Route 111's lab."

"A researcher?" She eyed him with interest. "Do you follow Doctor Qian's work at all?"

Haru didn't know the name. He shook his head apologetically. "There's so much out there—I'm mostly focused on ecology."

"Too bad. Maybe I'll tell you about her work sometime, huh?"

She flashed a wide grin at that, as if something had struck her as funny.

"I'd like that." Haru dipped his head over his food. The nanab was sweet, the faint bitterness balanced by the crunchy edge. "Oh, I almost forgot. I have the rent for you."

Maliki waved her hand. "What did I say? Keep it until you're sure, okay? If it ends up not working out, it's no skin off my back to have put you up for a night or two."

Haru was struck by the suspicion that this generosity wasn't entirely for his benefit. Maliki wanted to see if he was the kind of person she and her flatmates wanted to keep around.

It had been a long time since Haru had needed to endear himself to anyone that way. For the last five years, his only company had been his pokemon. Other people were incidental, passed on the road, spoken to only on those long nights at the pokecenter when the storms shorted out all power. Haru had never needed to live with them or prove that he was someone worth living with.

Erika had told him he'd have to get used to pleasing other people—career advancement was a delicate balance between hard work, skill, and sucking up, she'd said. Which all sounded hideous. But Haru didn't mind the idea of proving himself to Maliki. Her impeccable hospitality deserved reciprocation.

He finished his meal in silence and insisted on doing the dishes, relieved when Maliki allowed it. She watched him for a moment, presumably to make sure he wasn't about to break anything, and then said, "Catch you later," disappearing down the dark hallway.

When the cleanup was finished, Haru set out westwards, towards Verdenturf. The cramped industrial buildings gave way to an open, floral landscape, brimming with berry trees. The fragrant air brought a smile to his face, though something about Route 117 nagged at him. The serene beauty was almost disturbing, coming directly from Mauville's lower levels. Haru glimpsed gardeners at work along the route, tending to berry trees, weeding flower patches. What society would put such care into creating beauty here, when there was such obvious ugliness and need only a short walk away?

Haru shook his head to banish the thought. Route 117, with its clean, temperate air and excess of flowers, was the perfect place for Atalanta. Taking shelter behind a dense berry thicket, Haru released the ninjask, who let out a pleased chirp. She buzzed into the air and began to flit from flower to flower, trembling with unmistakable joy.

Watching her, Haru felt a sudden rush of shame. He hadn't let her out once since purchasing the pokeball. He'd been so relieved to shut her away, he hadn't even considered it. Ever since Atalanta had chosen to follow him, Haru had been thinking of her as a problem, not a pokemon. She deserved better than that.

"You like it here, huh?" Haru called out. "What do you think about calling this your new home?"

Atalanta detached herself from a blossom and jetted back over to perch on his head, pincers clasping tight around his hair.

"Seriously, why not stay here? There's no reason to stick with me. You don't owe me anything."

Maybe Haru was imagining it—assigning meaning where there was none—but he heard skepticism in Atalanta's answering screech. Frowning, he pulled her from his head.

For the first time, Haru wondered what would have happened to Atalanta, if his path hadn't happened to cross with Wei's. Would her wings have survived that prolonged water exposure, the long walk back? Wei's cheap pack hadn't held any heating equipment. Atalanta's wings might have been disabled for life.

It was a painful thing to contemplate, as he watched her wings vibrate, their delicate, gauzy surface catching copper in the sunlight. A ninjask that couldn't fly couldn't live.

The original Atalanta, Haru remembered suddenly, had declared she would be no one's bride but Suicune's, in gratitude for the gift of speed Suicune had granted her. Atalanta had been the daughter of a powerful lord, promised to the prince of a rival kingdom. Her refusal to wed had drawn both nations into war. But history had not judged her harshly for it—Haru's teachers had always praised Atalanta as an exemplar of piety and sacred obligation.

"Whatever it is you think you owe me," Haru said slowly, picking his words with care, "I want you to make a life here. If I need you, I promise I'll come back and collect the debt."

Atalanta stared at him for a long moment, her red eyes intent. Then, in an abrupt motion, she shot into the air, lingering only a second before setting off between the berry trees. In one blink, she was a yellow speck in the distance.

Haru sank to the ground, floored by relief and a strange exhilaration. He'd guessed right. He'd understood. Nothing he'd ever read had suggested pokemon could understand the concept of debts. But how could a situation like this be replicated, anyway? Haru sat for a while, lost in the thought of potential experiments, but every idea seemed inadequate or deeply cruel.

At last he got to his feet, stowing the illegal pokeball in his bag. He regretted the expense now, but there was nothing to be done about it. Whatever he'd said, Haru didn't plan to be back. This Atalanta's debt could expire in peace.

.

When Haru made his back into Mauville's downtown, it was already past noon. After fortifying himself with a quick lunch, Haru set himself to the task of shopping, picking up rice, ume, nori, eggs, sweet milk, and a square pan. As he waited in the endless check-out line, his conversation with Maliki that morning came back to him.

"Doctor Quian," Haru typed into his nav, but none of the results seemed right. Searching "Doctor Quian Mauville" brought up an article from a local newspaper, headlined Local Researcher Raises Alarming Questions About Mauville's Power Plant.

The body of the article was only a few slim paragraphs.

Doctor Bai Quian, a local researcher, has released a new study exploring the impact that working at the Mauville Power Plant has on electric pokemon. She argues that the work, generally considered harmless, leaves these pokemon with long-term damage.

In the study, Quian compares 100 wild electrike, magnemite, and voltorb with 100 pokemon of the same species that worked at the power plant, estimating the duration of their work from the data found in their ID chip. She measured these pokemon on a set of health metrics and found that the wild pokemon have, on average, lower stress levels, less instances of electrical degeneration disease, and longer life-spans of five to ten years.

When asked what the public should take away from her research, Doctor Quian told Rewire, "I'm not prescribing policy. But I should think the logical consequence would be an immediate review of the working conditions in the power plant and the methods of voltage extraction."

A spokesperson for Mauville Power Plant stated in response to an email inquiry, "Mauville Power Plant is a testament to what people and pokemon can achieve by working together. The work is safe, rewarding, and mutually beneficial for all."

Haru tried to open the link in the first sentence, but the page was defunct. Try as he might, Haru couldn't find the full study. Eventually he landed on an abstract of the paper, entitled "The Impact of High-Stress Voltage Extraction on Electric Pokemon." It was followed by a short peer review, criticizing the article for citing too few comparable fieldwork experiments.

It seemed to Haru that the author might have cited few comparable field experiments because there were few comparable field experiments. Frowning, he shoved his nav back in his pocket and paid for his groceries.

There was a teenage boy prepping instant noodles when Haru made his way into the kitchen. The boy glanced up suspiciously and took off with his bowl before Haru could say hello. Charming his flatmates would have to wait, then. With a shrug, Haru measured out three cups of rice and began to wash the grains. Two hours later, the onigiri were ready. He wrapped them carefully and stowed them in the fridge for tomorrow evening.

When the kitchen darkened without another appearance of his flatmates, Haru decided to call it a night. Lying on his futon, he quickly skimmed his email. A message from Route 111's lab sat at the top of his inbox. A few friendly words, inviting him to stop by anytime to check on his cradily. Tomorrow, Haru decided. It would be good to scope the lab out before his internship officially began. And he missed Damascus.

Below that—

Haru swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

A message from the Ethics Commission, the league's chief regulatory body.

Haru's breath began to speed. He got messages from the Ethics Commission all the time: legal updates, reminders, even the occasional notice about government internship opportunities. It didn't mean anything had happened.

His breath was coming faster and faster, like Atalanta's beating wings.

He should just open it. It would be something normal, it would be something fine, and if his heart would just stop pounding—

Haru's hand closed around the jar of sleep spore. The bottle was already beginning to look empty at the top. He'd been using it too frequently these last few sleepless weeks. If anyone knew, they would have told him to stop. The consequences of medicating with the pokemon powders were still largely unknown.

Screwing the bottle open, Haru scooped up a generous dollop of sleep spore and smeared it over his eyes. The effect was instantaneous. With a light clatter, the poke-nav tumbled from his limp hand. Haru sank down into his futon, letting the artificial sleep wipe his mind clean.