Montgomery has been looking at himself in the mirror for the past hour, now. It's not that he's vain. If there were anything else pleasant to look at, his eyes would be there instead. But travelling is boring, so to the mirror he looks. The carriage he's in bumps along the road, the stoutland drawing the cart chuckling apologies with every little rock. It's driving him up the wall. Then again, anything could drive him mad when he's been stuck in this carriage with his family for the past few hours.

The Alcott family is not known for being silent, which is really the bane of his existence when they're all forced together like this. Their constant talking is grating on his ears. His younger sister won't stop blabbering about how many suitors she's gotten in this month alone, his older brother keeps bragging about how much wealth he's gained for the family estate this year, and his mother rambles about how nervous she is for this party they're about to attend. Mott doesn't see what her problem is with it. They're just going to the Callahan estate, something they've done just about every year to pay their respects to the dying patriarch. If anything, these events are rather somber and a little boring. This is the first year that something has actually changed, and that gives Montgomery a bit of hope that this affair will be more exciting than the rest: the Callahan patriarch finally croaked.

Maybe his nonchalant treatment of a tragic event sounds harsh, but Montgomery has known the guy his whole life, and honestly, the world is better off. Old Man Callahan was a wrinkly, grouchy, snobby old bastard. Whenever Montgomery was a kid and did something stupid, like grab an extra cookie, the crotchety serperior had to thwack his hand with a Vine Whip. It hurt like hell. So, yeah. He doesn't miss the guy.

He does, on the other hand, feel a little bad for his son, Florian. Emphasis on 'a little,' because Florian is just as snobby as a bastard as his old man. But he and Mott grew up together, so he's a little more lenient with him, and he feels sympathy for the tough situation he's in. At only twenty years old, he has to fill his father's place as the family patriarch and rise up to meet the dead guy's sky-high expectations. At twenty years old himself, Montgomery doesn't want to touch that kind of responsibility with a ten foot pole. He'd probably just mess it up, anyhow, as his father was so kind to remind him.

His father is the only one who doesn't feel the need to chat aimlessly. Montgomery is thankful that there's at least one other sane person in this family. Turning to the elder samurott, he gestures to their family and jokes, "Crazy, aren't they?"

The Alcott patriarch does not smile. He doesn't even crack. Instead, his eyes narrow down at Montgomery. That stare hits like a slap in the face, and he quickly looks at his hands to avoid being actually slapped.

"Montgomery," his father addresses, stern and unimpressed. The carriage quiets down. They've had it ingrained in them to stop talking when their father speaks, unless they want to suffer his temper. "I expect you not to make a fool of yourself tonight."

He bites back a sigh. "Yes, father."

"I will not have you embarrass us here like you so often do," he snips, looking out the window as if looking at Montgomery is simply too taxing for him. "This is an important celebration. Florian Callahan is ascending to become the patriarch of his own family. You're both the same age, yet he has accomplished so much more than you."

Part of him has always hated Florian, ever since they were kids, for that very reason. Florian is like the son his father wishes he had. "I apologize, father."

"Perhaps try and learn from him tonight. If that is too much for you to handle, just be quiet and don't speak unless spoken to." Every word his father says has an extra weight to it. No one else's words seem to hit him so heavily. Perhaps that's because his father is the only one of their family who's fully evolved, a great indicator of both power and social status. Montgomery looks down at his own hands, the useless hands of a mere dewott, and scowls. "Just do us all a favor and refrain from being yourself tonight."

"Yes, father."

The cart grows silent. They hit another small bump and the stoutland chortles a merry, "Sorry." Montgomery's glare grows sharper. As far as he's concerned, the luckiest one at this party tonight is Florian. He has everyone's praise and approval, even his father's. He can't even get his father's praise. He's not asking for some sappy 'I'm proud of you, son,' moment. What he wants is a symbol of his recognition, for everyone else to see. For everyone else to look at him and know, right away, that his father favors him. The only way for that to happen is for him to be granted the family crest.

The Alcott family crest is a deep blue shield with a silver sword cutting across it, to symbolize the sword-like tools all samurott's receive upon evolution. When a crest is given out, it's no bigger than a hand, a convenient size to be paraded around on scarves or capes or any other wealthy garment. Crests can only be given out by a family patriarch to his children who he deems fit to carry on the family name. And guess which of the Alcott children is the only one without a crest. Yeah, it's him.

His father says he hasn't proven himself worthy to be an official Alcott family member. That if he made bettering the family's status his central motivation, perhaps he'd have his crest by now. But no matter what he does, he just can't seem to reach his father's expectations. Whenever he beats someone in a duel of honor for the family name, his brother beats five. Whenever he lands a suitor richer than them (rare), his sister lands seven and gets marriage proposals from three. Nothing he does is good enough. But tonight, he's going to change that.

Florian is beloved by Father, that's no secret. On the other hand, Florian doesn't care at all for Father, and that is a secret that Montgomery was let in on. Although he and Florian certainly aren't as close as they used to be, they're still friendly with each other. Usually. Sometimes. Okay, maybe more like once in a blue moon. Point is, they have history, enough that Florian trusts him with his secrets, so maybe there's a chance that he can convince Florian to put in a good word with his father to get him that crest. Worst case scenario, he blackmails Florian with his secret disdain for the Alcott patriarch to get what he wants. Easy!

His plan gives him a little burst of excitement, like a firework went off in his chest. He quickly wipes any traces of it from his face, putting on a carefully neutral mask as he was taught to do from a young age. Smiling to himself like an idiot is not a good way to get that family crest.

The carriage comes to a stop, and the jolly voice of the stoutland woofs, "Here."

They step out, Father first, as expected. A Callahan estate attendant announces their arrival, and Father wears the announcement like a crown, holding his head high. Guests gasp and whisper to each other, in awe, probably stunned to see one of Unova's richest patriarchs in the flesh. His family trails behind him, much less regal and impressive. Especially in the face of the Callahan estate.

Is he mistaken, or did Florian redecorate to make the place even more ostentatious? God, what a prick.

There was one fountain before, now there's three. Either the marble has been scrubbed clean for seven days straight, or it's all been replaced. The finest red carpets drape elegantly along the staircases, like wine flowing in a river. Refined statues line the courtyard. The estate has an almost palatial vibe. It reeks of one snobby, pretentious servine that he knows.

Speaking of. Where is Florian?

He scans the crowd, but he doesn't see him. It's possible that he's farther in the estate, mingling with the guests inside. Or, he's just too posh to show up on time to his own party. Montgomery finds both to be equally likely.

Upon his father's signal, the family spreads out. Father has a rule: parties are not meant for enjoying, they are meant for business. And business means rubbing elbows with the most powerful people in the room. Montgomery looks around for anyone his siblings haven't already snatched up: his sister is chatting up a foriegn general and his brother is impressing a group of socialites. His mother frets anxiously, unsure of where to start and afraid of testing Father's patience. He walks swiftly into the mansion to avoid being in the same predicament.

Once inside, he's blown away by the amount of people milling about. This has to be a fire hazard, right? Having all these people stuffed into one room like this?

He doesn't pay it much mind. Fire never bothered him, anyway. Taking up a brisk pace, he walks into the crowd in hopes of catching someone he can use to elevate the name of the Alcott family. His sister got a foriegn general; that's gonna be hard to beat. There's gotta be someone here who can make her little general look like child's play. Florian wouldn't invite a bunch of nobodies to his ascension.

For a while, Montgomery finds himself drawn into a small crowd of overeager guests. After a few minutes of conversation, he concludes that they're of relatively low upper class status and that this is probably the fanciest party they've ever been to. They won't be much help in his task, but he does take a moment to enjoy toying with them a bit, flirting carelessly. The girls giggle sheepishly and the boys blush excitedly. Then, without remembering a single one of their names or promises to meet again, he walks away to find his real target.

Someone rich. Well, richer than most of the people here. Someone powerful, prestigious, unparalleled…

"Montgomery? Hey!"

Immediately, he groans. He recognizes that voice, and he knows the owner is the absolute opposite of what he's looking for.

He turns with great reluctance to see a pignite shuffling through the crowd with difficulty. His rotund figure makes weaving through a packed room a lengthy process, one that Montgomery does not have time for. Anxiously, he looks back to the front door to see if Father has made it inside yet. Luckily, he hasn't. But he'll be checking in soon. What if Mott doesn't have anything good by then?

After squeezing through a particularly tight gap, the pignite makes it to him. Catching his breath, he smiles at Montgomery like he didn't just shove his way inelegantly through a crowd of the most esteemed people in the world.

"It's been so long," Torquil says, his curly tail bouncing excitedly. "I don't think I saw you since the party at your dad's estate in the spring. We've gotta catch up!"

Montgomery tries to smile along with the conversation, but he's pretty sure it comes out more as a grimace. Florian isn't the only childhood friend (acquaintance?) that he has: Torquil is the other. The three of them used to be thick as thieves when they were younger, but he realized pretty soon that being friends with them was a terrible idea. Family politics were too messy. Whenever he helped Torquil or Florian out with something, Father would accuse him of trying to undermine the Alcott name by focusing all his efforts on other families. All Florian and Torquil ever brought him was trouble. They're better the way they are now: amicable yet distant.

"How have you been?" Torquil asks, listening attentively to Montgomery's vague and brief answer. "That's cool, that's cool. Have you heard anything new about the whole Zekrom dilemma?"

Zekrom has been the talk of the town at every social event he's been to. Ever since the legendary woke up about three months ago, it's been on a rampage, attacking and demolishing everything in its path. Thousands dead, cities wiped from the planet, etc etc.

Montgomery is kind of sick of talking about it, honestly.

Like, why can't they talk about anything else? The weather has been crazy lately, how about that? But people will immediately pin the blame of any little storm cloud on Zekrom, claiming he's come to strike them down with lightning. Any time he tries to bring up any other topic, it always seems to end with Zekrom. He supposes it's just one of those things that will have to pass slowly, as public interest fades and it grows into obscurity.

As he makes small talk with Torquil—yes, I did hear that Zekrom killed twenty-four people in Lord Bennet's Cartham City, how crazy—he searches for an escape route. His eyes wander, landing on something he never expected: a seal on Torquil's scarf, bold red and depicting flames.

What?! Torquil got his family's seal! Before him?!

He's not sure there's much else that could slam his self-esteem to the ground any faster. Between himself, Florian, and Torquil, Torquil is definitely the slower of the bunch. The fact that he got surpassed by the dumb one is more embarrassing than he can express. Especially when Torquil keeps smiling at him with those clueless eyes.

God, he could punch him.

However, he most decidedly does not want to do that, not with everyone here. That would just stain his family's reputation. He'd have to kiss goodbye any dreams of claiming the crest.

He tries to comfort himself by pretending that Torquil's family is just more lenient than his, that they gave Torquil his emblem out of sympathy. He knows better, though. The Douglass family is on par with the Callahan's and the Alcott's. The three of them are neck and neck; they don't have room to be tossing around pity points. That just means that somehow, the guy who is currently stuffing his face full of appetizers beat Montgomery to getting a crest.

He watches, his expression forced neutral, as Torquil loudly devours the food stuffed in his mouth.

Yeah, if Montgomery doesn't get out of this conversation, he really is gonna punch the guy.

He makes an excuse—he doesn't remember what it is, or if it's even believable—and takes off. Making a beeline to the back door, he forgets all about rubbing elbows like Father instructed and escapes to the gardens outside. There aren't as many guests out here in the hedge maze, which is a relief. Right now, he needs a moment to himself.

Finding a lone marble bench, he plops himself down on it and buries his head in his hands. This night already sucks. His siblings beat him to all the good connections and Torquil beat him to a family crest. It seems like everywhere he looks, someone is beating him in something.

He takes another moment to cool down. Taking deep breaths, he shoves down every nasty thing he's feeling until he can put up his mask again. Entirely neutral, almost blank. Perfect enough that even Father would struggle to find faults with it.

Once he's confident that he's got that down, he stands, making his way back. He needs to socialize as Father commanded. Either that, or he needs to find Florian to convince him to put in a good word for him with his father. He rounds the corner of the garden maze, and—well. Speak of the devil.

Florian is sitting on a bench, away from the party. No one else is here. Maybe that's why Florian allows himself to anxiously rub the pendant around his neck and mutter to himself.

Montgomery immediately recognizes the pendant as part of his family crest: a jade colored emblem with a triple-pointed leaf. It seems that Florian attached his crest to some sort of bejeweled pendant, because he's just that pretentious. In the cover of the shadows, Montgomery rolls his eyes. Then, he steps out.

Florian's eyes snap toward him, startled. Almost instantly, his expression drains to neutrality. Montgomery curses him inside his head. How is it that Florian is even better than him at faking his composure?

"Florian," he grins, crossing his arms over his chest, "Long time no see."

"Montgomery," Florian sniffs, arching his brows at him. "I see you're running away from responsibility in the gardens, as usual."

His grin immediately turns to a scowl. "And what exactly are you doing?"

Florian doesn't answer. That's the only way Montgomery ever knows that he won an argument, because Florian will suddenly stop having it. Eventually, Florian picks up a new topic. "Enjoying the party?"

"It's wonderful," he lies, because that's what Father has instructed him to say about any and every event he attends. Then, somewhat honestly, he adds, "You've really outdone yourself."

Florian hums. "I'm glad you think so."

"You are?" He asks before he can stop himself. His incredulous tone doesn't go unnoticed by Florian, who frowns at him. "Since when have you cared what I think?"

"Since the opinion of the Alcott family could impact the reputation of mine," he responds sharply. "Unlike you, I have duties to fulfill. I bear the burden of the Callahan name and am expected to uphold it. My family has high expectations for me."

Montgomery is quiet for a moment. Then, he wonders, "Does it make you nervous?"

"Of course not," Florian denies, still rubbing at his amulet. "I am more than capable of the task."

"You are," he agrees, hit with an unexpected wave of sentimentality. He hasn't seen Florian vulnerable like this since they were kids and Florian's dad hit him for the first time. "You got your crest when you were, like, twelve. You'll be fine."

Florian's expression doesn't change, but he can tell by the way the other's shoulders lower that his words helped a little.

Out of nowhere, Montgomery snaps back to his senses. He has a job to do; he doesn't have time to get sappy with his old friend-not-really-friend-anymore!

"Speaking of crests," he begins, and Florian fixes him with a suspicious look. His endeavor to gain the family seal isn't exactly a secret. "I'd like you to do me a solid and help me get mine."

Florian scoffs. "This again?"

"Come on," he whines. No, it wasn't a whine. It was more like a very manly command. "You know my dad likes you more than me. Just talk to him, tell him I deserve it."

Florian eyes him up and down. "You don't deserve it."

"Then lie! I don't care!"

"As the head of my family, I have our own internal affairs to deal with," Florian proclaims, rising. "I can't be bothered to get muddied in your little ego boost."

"You're one to talk about an ego," he retorts. "And since when have you cared about getting your hands dirty?"

"Even I am not willing to stoop to your kind of filth."

"Can you stoop at all, or are you just as old and wound up as your dad?"

"At least I was close enough to my father to gain his recognition." Florian is already sauntering away. With his back to Montgomery, he holds up his pendant and swings it carelessly around. "Remember, between the two of us, I'm the only one who has talent to recognize."

He glares at Florian's retreating figure like he might secretly be a fire-type that could burn a hole through the guy. After standing stone still, stewing in his own fury for half a minute, he realizes he didn't even get to try and blackmail him. A few curses run through his head. Could he still try to hunt Florian down and blackmail him? By now, he has to be surrounded by guests. There's no way he'll be able to extort him quietly. Unfortunately, he needs a new plan.

What else can he do? Perhaps he should talk up Torquil instead. The pignite has always been more agreeable and, quite frankly, a bit of a pushover. It wouldn't take much for Montgomery to convince him to help out.

But would Torquil's help even be helpful? Probably not. Torquil has never impressed his father; if anything, the opposite is true. He might even go so far as to say that Father is less impressed with Torquil than with himself.

Okay, so Torquil is a no-go. What now?

He runs through his head a list of all the influential people he knows, contemplating which are most likely to help him. His siblings? Not a chance, they love having him around as the disgraceful sibling so they can redirect Father's ire to him. They'll never help make a name for him. His mother? No, she'd sooner faint than support anyone Father might disapprove of. Any other people of affluence he knows aren't friendly with either him or Father to make much of a difference. At this point, it seems asking for someone to put in a good word for him is a deadend.

If he can't have someone talk him up, he needs to talk himself up. But he's tried that already. Several, several times. None of his pitches have impressed his father. Words don't get through to him, not like actions do. If he's going to stand out tonight, he needs to do something spectacular that even his father can't ignore. He needs to make a statement. He needs to prove the Alcott family to be the best, and he needs to prove that he's worthy of it. He needs to do something that will make Florian, his father's most beloved not-son, pale in comparison.

Staring at the bench where Florian had sat mere minutes ago, deep in thought, something inside Montgomery's brain finally clicks.

That's it!

If Florian won't voluntarily help him, he'll do it involuntarily instead. Tonight, Montgomery is going to make Florian look like a fool at his own grand party. He'll smear the Callahan name in the mud, elevate the Alcott's, and show Father that he is better than Florian in every way. That way, Father will have to give him the crest.

With his new plan taking shape, he storms into the mansion with newfound resolve. Either people see the fiery determination in his eyes, or they recognize him as one of the Alcotts and don't want to risk offending him, because they part like he's sliced through them. Even Torquil jumps back when he marches past.

His eyes catch a glimpse of that slim, green bastard in the crowd. With tenacity in his every step, he picks up the pace.

He shouts, "Florian!"

Curious murmurs rise from the room as everyone's conversations die down. Hundreds of eyes train themselves on Montgomery, before flicking to the object of his outrage. Florian, still facing away from him, sighs heavily. He turns and fixes Montgomery with an exasperated look.

The crowd parts even more than they already were, leaving Florian in the middle of the room. Montgomery, still at the top of the stairs, begins to make his way down.

"Why are you shouting like a lost child?" Florian demands, regarding him with cool indifference. "Do you need me to hold your hand and escort you to your father?"

A series of chuckles flutter up from the guests. Florian's decisive wit can land devastating blows. Maybe esteemed nobles have gone home with their titles revoked in shame because of his quick insults. But Montgomery isn't here to fight a battle of words; he's not suicidal. He's here for a battle, plain and simple.

With a quick glance around the room, he finds Father. The samurott is up on a balcony with a group of aristocrats, glowering down upon him. He swallows his nerves and focuses on Florian.

"I'm here to challenge you to a duel of honor, in the Alcott family name," he proclaims, stepping onto even ground with Florian. He can't help the smug smile that comes with his next words. "For disrespecting my father's affections for you by not returning it."

Quiet gasps escape some patrons, and Florian's eyes flare for an instant before returning to their neutral facade. Montgomery's grin grows wider. That's right, he won't hesitate to use things told to him in confidence against you, Florian! Maybe you should've helped out when you had the chance!

Of course, Florian always knows just what to say. "The only reason I might hold back my affections for your father is out of sympathy for you. I imagine it must be incredibly painful for your father to ignore you in favor of someone who isn't even family."

More gasps, louder this time. He grits his teeth. The longer they use words, the more of an advantage Florian has. He needs to end this and get on with the duel, now.

Unsheathing his scalchop shells, he points one at Florian. "You. Me. Duel for honor. Now."

"Always so impatient," Florian sighs, like he's entertaining an unruly child. Taking a battle stance, he says, "But as host, I suppose it would be rude not to indulge."

Montgomery doesn't wait for him to make the first move. Summoning powers deep inside him, he shoots water directly at Florian's chest. Florian stands still, even as the attack barrels toward him, as if he's just waiting to get hit. But in a sudden blur of green, he vanishes along with the guest standing behind him. Montgomery's attack hits the wall.

Florian reappears with the guest in tow, his speed blinding. In a flash, he retaliates with a powerful move that Montgomery doesn't recognize. All he knows is that it must be a grass-type move, because it hurts like hell.

Montgomery tumbles to the floor, skidding to a painful halt against the marble. His skin burns from the slide, torn and bleeding in the slightest. A quiet hiss of pain escapes him, but thankfully, no one notices. They're all too preoccupied marvelling over Florian.

An astonished patron gasps, "He just saved that guest, dodged, and landed a blow in one move!"

Another adds, "That's the Callahan patriarch for you. Anything less would be a disappointment!"

Montgomery props himself on a knee, already struggling to stand. This is not good. Whatever move Florian used was strong. He might not be able to take another hit like that. Refusing to go down so easily, he pushes himself to his feet. Florian hasn't made a move to approach him, opting to stand at a distance and study him coldly.

"Well?" Florian demands, having the audacity to look bored. "I thought I'd be getting a duel, not a punching bag."

Scowling, he leaps into action. Gripping tighter to one of his scalchops, he channels energy into it to create a blade of water. Diving at Florian, he raises his arm high, preparing to strike him down. But when he slashes downward, Florian is no longer there.

He's behind him.

He realizes this too late, and he doesn't even have time to turn before Florian slams him into the ground.

He falls, hard. The taste of blood stings in his mouth. Sounds from the room suddenly grow hazy and disoriented, far away. He tries to rise. He can't tell if he's succeeding or not. All sense of direction has gone to hell as the world spins around him and his head weighs ten times the normal amount.

When he's turned on his back, he's not sure if it's by his own doing or by someone else's. He glares up at the blurry figure of Florian, who stares down at him with shadows cast over his face.

"Just stay down," Florian says, quiet enough that surely, no one else can hear. Montgomery thinks he can hear a hint of pity in there, too. That makes his blood boil. "It's for your own good."

His rage spikes, and in a fury, he lunges out with his scalchops slashing. Florian evades effortlessly, dodging and ducking from every swipe. No matter how Montgomery hacks and slashes, his attempts always turn up futile, his struggles always prove fruitless. Useless, useless, useless

Florian must decide he's had enough. With a sharp spin, he lashes out with his tail, hitting Montgomery with that same, crippling move. Blown back, Montgomery can only brace himself before he slams into the wall. He hears the exclamations and cries from the guests pierce his ears. His head throbs.

Slumping, his body goes limp. Keeping his eyes open is a struggle enough. There's no way in hell he can stand and fight.

He catches his father's gaze. There's nothing but disappointment and disdain.

Florian regards him for another moment to see if he'll try and get up. When he decides there's a fat chance of that, he turns to the guests in the room and begins to speak.

"My love for the Alcotts knows no bounds. I invited them to my ascension because I could not imagine celebrating without them, my dear companions." He's laying the flattery on thick, enrapturing his audience with his words. Every perfectly crafted phrase is delivered like poetry to bend the room to his vision. "But clearly, my love is not returned."

Montgomery can't even try to interrupt, to derail him from where he's headed. A pit of dread sinks in his stomach.

"The Alcotts have come to my home, on the day of my ascension, in an attempt to make a mockery of me," he laments, his tone conveying no deception. He's gotten better at acting since childhood. "There is no limit to my feelings of betrayal. I've always thought of them as a pillar of righteousness in our community. Needless to say, I expected better of them tonight."

Father's eyes flash with indignation. It's not directed at Florian.

"So, it's with a heavy heart that I must ask them to leave," he proclaims, turning to face Montgomery once more. His eyes are dark. The pendant that bears his crest glitters in the light. "I have no room for disrespectful families in my estate."

Just like that, everything Montgomery tried to accomplish tonight has been turned on its head. Shaming the Callahans and elevating the Alcotts morphed into the opposite. The surrounding patrons are regarding him with disgust while revering Florian with sympathy and admiration.

Somehow, from so far away, he still manages to hear the loathing in his father's voice as he says, "It's time to go."


Nursing wounds is not easy in a bumping, unsteady carriage. Especially when no one will help.

Montgomery has cleaned all his cuts and scrapes and has eaten enough healing berries to make his headache go away. He's clear-minded again, but there's still something cloudy inside him. It churns like a storm brewing. But it's nothing compared to whatever is brewing inside Father.

The family knows better than to talk when Father gets into one of his moods. One misspoken word or misplaced tone will spark his anger like you've never seen anger before. They know even better to avoid associating with the object of his anger: right now, that's Montgomery. That's why everyone keeps their eyes on the floor and steadily refuses to offer him any aid as he clumsily wraps bandages around his arm.

Driving over a massive pothole makes him lose his grip on the bandages. The drop to the floor and roll themselves out across the carriage. Outside, the stoutland driver chuckles, "Sorry."

When he dies and goes to Hell, the only thing he'll hear is that stupid stoutland on loop.

He bends down to pick up the bandage, hiding a wince of pain behind his neutral mask. The wrappings he's already done are loose and disordered. Unable to suppress his scowl, he unwinds them to start anew.

Apparently, scowling was the wrong thing to do. Or, maybe it's just making any facial expression at all. Regardless, Father's eyes turn to him and sharpen like they've locked onto a target. The stiffness in the carriage increases tenfold.

"You dare show your anger?" His father seethes, eyes blazing. Montgomery drops his head and stops winding the bandages. Any movement could set him off further. "You think you have the right to be angry?"

He swallows the lump in his throat. It comes back, dry.

"None of you have the right to be angry!" Father roars, slamming his fist into the wall. It jostles the carriage more than any rock has. Carefully, Montgomery masks how much the shaking hurts his injuries. "We should've sealed ourselves as allies to the new Callahan patriarch tonight! Instead, my incompetent, idiotic, useless family have botched every simple request I have given them and have made fools of me!"

He doesn't need to glance at his siblings to know they're looking at the ground, deferential. He doesn't need to see his mom to know she's holding back tears.

Father suddenly grips his arm, right where the marble floor had scraped it bloody. Montgomery clenches his jaw to avoid making a sound.

"And you!" Father yanks him to the floor, snarling down on him. Montgomery knows better than to meet his gaze. "Challenging the Callahan patriarch to a duel? Humiliating me with your incompetence? Losing?! Did I not tell you to avoid being yourself tonight?!"

Mongtomery doesn't know whether he's supposed to answer or not. He closes his mouth tight and hopes he's made the right choice.

Wrong. Father tightens his grip, shaking him. "Answer me, boy!"

Montgomery's words come out rushed and choked. "Yes, father."

"Why is it that you fail in every task I give? The one area you have not yet failed in is being a disappointment! What use do I have for a son who brings me nothing but trouble?"

"I'm sorry, father."

"Father this, father that! Don't you have anything more clever to say?"

If he says anything clever, he'll get out of this carriage with more wounds than he got in with. His mind scrambles for something to say, something to appease Father with, but he's never given the chance. Father pounds on the window of the carriage, shouting to the driver, "Stop the cart, stop right now!"

For once, the driver doesn't have anything daft to say. He stops at once, everyone inside jolting at the sudden halt. Father kicks the door open, ripping the bandages off Montgomery and flinging him outside. He hits the ground, hard, knocking the air out of his lungs. Expecting his father to step out after him to teach him a lesson, he hastily tries to rise. The palm of his hand slips in the mud, and he falls again.

He hears his father scoff behind him, unamused and bitter. The sound comes from the carriage; his father hasn't exited like he thought he would. Hesitantly, Montgomery turns to face him, terrified by a look of rage he's never seen in his father before. This anger is different from his usual kind. It's the anger of a man who's been pushed past his limits.

"From today onward, you are no longer my son," his father proclaims, stern. Montgomery feels those words stab into his bones like ice.

Mouth dry, he flounders, "Father, I…"

"Whose father am I?! Not yours!" He snaps, gnashing his teeth. "You have been revoked of the Alcott name; you are banished! Now, get out of my sight!"

Without a word, Father motions for the driver to carry on. He slams the door behind him as the carriage begins to rumble down the road. In shock, Montgomery can do nothing but watch the cart roll away.

Did that just happen? Is this real?

It can't be. Right?

He stares, paralyzed, at the family crest etched into the back of the carriage. It grows farther and farther from him with every second.

Frantically, Montgomery staggers to his feet. Ignoring the aches and pains in his body, he races to catch up with the cart.

"Father! Father, wait!" He cries, leaping onto the side of the carriage, gripping tight to what little handholds he can find. The mud between his fingers makes his hands slip; he fights to hang on. "Let me make it up to you! I'll do anything, anything!"

Father grips his wrist like he wants to shatter the bone.

"Then," he hisses, eyes dark, "restore your family's honor by defeating Zekrom."

Montgomery's mind goes blank. He wants him to… what?

He wants him to beat Zekrom? The legendary, indestructible, bloodthirsty dragon can't be beaten by a mere dewott. It could conjure up a single storm cloud and kill him with one measly bolt of lightning! It has already demolished cities and burned down acres of forests. Montgomery doesn't stand a chance against a beast like that.

"Zekrom?" He repeats, still gaping. "But—but, I'll die!"

His father narrows his eyes. "Then so be it." He shoves him off the carriage.

Montgomery goes tumbling down a steep slope, stabbed by twigs and rocks the whole way. With a mouthful of grass and his fur coated in mud, he eventually crashes into a thorny bush, stopping there. Disoriented and breathless, he stares at the stormy sky above him for a few long minutes, still in shock. It takes a long while for him to be fully aware again. When he reaches that point, though, he wishes he never did.

Every inch of his body is covered in sharp, stinging pain. Drying mud clings to his fur uncomfortably and leaves behind an insufferable itch. The injuries he had so pain-stakingly cleaned are now covered in grass and dirt. To top it all off, his stomach growls, reminding him that he never got a chance to eat at the party.

The true dread of his situation doesn't settle in until right about then.

He has no money. No food. No shelter. No allies. And if he ever wants to return to his family, to gain the family crest, he has to defeat a god.

Closing his eyes, Montgomery wishes he'd made that duel with Florian a duel to the death.