Deep within the dungeons of Mt. Silver, Rudolf Inor let his back‐and‐forth pacing become an almost‐dance. He had been right all this time—he had known all along. Altaria was alive and well, safe and secure. Everything was fine, and now they were only moments away from her return.
Once again she would step from behind the curtains, her gracious little feet carrying her onto the stage in bolstered spirits, with renewed confidence. Once again the audiences would be captivated by her sheer beauty as she spread her wings, captured by her heavenly song as she opened her beak. And he would stand guard, proudly protecting Tarnow Media's most valued asset.
He grabs the door handle. The coldness of the metal contrasts with the warmth radiating from the avian star next to him. Strides away, the nearest light source struggles to reach the end of the corridor, giving them relative peace and quiet together. He looks at her with a smile.
The pair of long plumes topping her round head glow with the same golden tone as the rest of her body. Her eyes glimmer with affection, and she opens her beak, humming softly. He yearns for the warm little moment to last, but he knows they're being watched.
He puts his arm around her. Below her long neck, most of her body is covered in thick layers of soft white feathers. Only her back is bare. Maybe that's why she likes to fold her wings toward her back, making her lower body look like a cloud. He rubs his palm against her wing, applying pressure with all the gentleness he can muster. To pull her in for a hug is tempting, but a glance aside confirms they're not alone.
Altaria seems to get the message, stepping away from the door. He pulls on the handle, and with a click the lock unlatches. The seal separating the performance hall from the outside world breaks, and a cool breeze enters through the gap.
Pulling the door open and leaning his back against it, he looks outside. A sea of desaturated grays mix together in the falling rain. A set of plastic barriers form a fence to separate them from the star's fans, eager to see her exit. Some have umbrellas, some wear raincoats, some have hoods on, and one wears an orange beanie. All of them stand still. If they're making any sound, it's imperceptible against the rain pounding the canopy above the door.
He bends his knees and brings his arms under Altaria's body. Perhaps caught by surprise, she tries to spread her wings in the cramped space. To help her relax, he moves his hands around her underside, giving her a gentle massage. She opens her beak, closes her eyes, and wobbles closer to him. With her cheek against his dress shirt, she brushes her head against the silky lining of his suit jacket. He grips her lightly, letting her feel his intention before making his hold firmer.
She opens her eyes. With a deep inhale, he lifts her. Leaning backward, he keeps her close and secure. Her head is right next to his, and she looks him straight in the eyes. Her fluffy body presses against his hard chest. He can hardly breathe. He can only think of laying her against a supple mattress, white as her cottony down, and taking her in for a deep, passionate kiss.
As he moves a leg over the threshold, Altaria wraps her wings around his body, pressing herself against him. Close up, her sugary aroma is intoxicating, like being wrapped by the most fragrant of flowers. Her syrupy scent blends the sweetest of Pecha Berries with a hint of the freshest of mint. He wants nothing more than to press his lips against her beak, letting their tongues meet in a tender kiss.
A gust of wind whistles past them, and he steps outside, letting the door shut behind them. He can hardly think, and for a moment just stares her in the eyes, holding her close. She looks back at him, her eyes lit with a pure affection, something truly out of this world. He speaks to her, "You are so precious."
Thunder strikes in the distance, momentarily joining the streetlamps in illuminating the scene. Finally he bends his knees, starting to lower her. She turns her head toward the crowd, who cheer in response. As her little feet get closer to the ground, he lifts his foot behind her, not letting her beautiful tail feathers touch the dirt.
With Altaria safely across the threshold, he takes out an umbrella. With a press of the button it swishes open, ready to cover the star from droplets unworthy of her attention. He glances at the crowd with a sigh. The orange beanie stands out like a Murkrow amongst Sunflora. Don't try anything.
A low rumbling comes from the end of the path. Their vehicle is waiting. With a low stance, he gets closer to Altaria. One arm carries the umbrella, while the other holds up her tail feathers. His eyes move between her and the crowd as they walk toward the vehicle.
Rays of light traveled from lights hand‐carried and weapon‐mounted alike, reflecting off the vault door at the end of the corridor. Four men in black uniform stood before the door. With them was a Pokémon less than half their height. Its fur was a dark brown with blotches of an earthy red. Metallic blades extended from its head and claws. Excadrill. Quite possibly the only way to defeat a barrier like this.
Rudolf took a deep breath, taking in the remarkably clean air of the dungeon. Countless times he had left his home in Goldenrod to search for Altaria on his own. His service weapon had been sufficient for most off‐route exploration, but Mt. Silver… There was no way he could have looked here. The entire area surrounding the mountain was off‐limits to all but the most accomplished of Trainers.
Rubbing his forehead, once again he thought over the report that had led them here. The expert Trainer had stayed inside the mountain during a bitterly cold mist, and heard Altaria's song. Widely respected and well‐known for an exceptional ability to connect with Pokémon, there was little reason to doubt the Trainer and the authenticity of the report.
He nodded to himself. It all added up—it all made sense. Despite his every insistence, Altaria had never been trained in combat. As it was, she knew only the power to create mist. While sometimes applied as a tactical defensive move, Altaria's use of it had been more based on emotion of the moment, rather than tactics. Still, it was not out of the question that she would have used it to draw in the Trainer, knowing her powerful voice would be heard.
He frowned, looking at the ground. A time or two during his searches he had thought he could just about hear something resembling her song. Delusion. That's what he had attributed it to. Could it have been, had he paid enough attention—no, there was no way. The idea was ridiculous.
His eyes sought the shadowy outline of Altaria's owner. Patricia Tarnow. To many, the name would bring to mind cutthroat business tactics and unfair competition. But for him, the CEO had shown kindness and understanding.
Regardless, they had their differences, and some things he had to be careful with. In truth, it was hard to look at her without unease. He had guarded his secret the best he could. While it may be little more than a remnant from his old ways, he could never shake off the feeling that the Tarnows had eyes everywhere. Even now, a nervousness reminiscent of their first meeting moved through his body. He just couldn't risk it all.
He pauses in front of the door of dark wood. This is it. Either he is to become Altaria's bodyguard, or all his efforts will have been in vain.
He looks down at the handle. The yellow tone pales in comparison to Altaria's golden beauty. Beyond this door is his only chance. The CEO is waiting.
He curls his fingers around the handle. His heart beats as if he's running a marathon. His breathing is unsteady. His head is dizzy. He can hardly think.
But the time has come, and with a firm application of pressure, the lock mechanism disengages, and the tongue slides out of its slot. He takes a step back and pulls the door ajar.
A strike of thunder hits his body, or that is what it feels like. Altaria. Sitting on a cushion of royal purple, her little feet come out of her cottony covering. She's so beautiful. He cannot even lift his eyes off the floor, let alone focus on his task.
But there is no going back now. Pushing his body inside the room, he grabs the door handle and steps forward. The door closes behind him with a soft click. He hears something about welcoming him, but is unable to think clearly.
He ought to say something nice back, but his mind is too crowded, too clouded by thoughts. First impressions, they always say. He has already failed. He has no hope. There's no way they'd choose someone like him. It's impossible.
A high‐toned chirp reaches his ears. Is Altaria making a sound in reaction to his presence? Could it be? He lifts his eyes off the floor. A desk. A woman sitting behind. "Greetings," he finds himself saying. Right away he feels stupid. That's no way to greet a CEO.
His eyes shift to look at Altaria, as if pulled magnetically. "I'm uh—I'm here to apply as bodyguard."
He can only keep staring at Altaria, even if it's not proper. She's so beautiful. She inclines her head, looking at him. He comes to his senses and looks back at the CEO.
With a warm smile he offers his hand across the desk, looking her in the eyes. "Rudolf Inor. Pleasure to meet you, Madam."
A droplet of water hit his head, and he looked up. A variety of shapes protruded from above. With only the underside receiving any light, who knew what could be hiding there. As if sensing his apprehension, the rescue team's gray‐bodied Machamp sauntered in front of him, the bright‐red Assault Vest glowing softly from the rays of light reaching it. The Superpower Pokémon had displayed outstanding strength and dexterity against the Onix overpopulating the dungeons. Still, he had his concerns.
All government Machamp came from the infamous Machoke Training Facility. New Machop entrants were pitted against current Machoke. Victorious Machop were trained into their evolved form. This simple system set the bar constantly higher, but what happened to the majority of Machop who failed, who knew. The Machoke were either picked by eligible Trainers and became Machamp, or died. To the proponents of the facility, it was a simple matter of culling the weak.
The Machamp posed in front of him, as if in a bodybuilding contest. The red vest puffed up as the Pokémon displayed the massive muscles on each of its four arms. This individual seemed perfectly content with the job, evident from the upward curl to its pale‐yellow lips. He shrugged off the matter. He was hardly in a position to judge others' training methods. Looking at the Machamp, he felt the same way he always had. The Trainer–Pokémon relationship had never quite felt right to him. With Altaria, it was different. She wasn't his. He was hers, by his choice.
He stepped away, stretching his arms out. Things had gone so well, it was almost hard to believe it was real.
The office atmosphere is pleasing. A variety of leafy plants, some smaller, others larger. The air smells fresh, almost as a forest. The large desk between them is made of a light wood, perhaps maple. The chairs are covered in a soft, relaxing material. Muffled traffic noise joins the hum of the air conditioning in preventing awkward silences.
He speaks up with confidence. "I've been working as a security guard at the Game Corner. I don't do gambling myself, but I certainly don't judge those who do."
Being interviewed directly by the CEO is something he expected to be more stressful.
Altaria… While he wouldn't dare to accuse the family of overworking the star, over the two or three years he'd served as her bodyguard, he'd grown increasingly concerned for her well‐being. While she had tried not to show her stress and anxiety, it had been obvious to anyone close to her. The family had insisted all she needed was some time alone before her performances.
In the same way, they had been adamant in saying Goldenrod was fine, that she did fine, locked into an apartment. As spacious as the family's penthouse was, in his view, she deserved better. And he was confident he could provide for her.
His dream was to take Altaria for a peaceful walk beyond the forests north of Ecruteak. To his secret location, a wilderness plateau he'd scouted out just for the two of them. An unblemished world, a sanctum of purity, a place where time itself ceased to have meaning.
A sanctuary hidden away from the rest of the world, where droplets of dew covered the fields of grass without end, reflecting rays of light from the gentle morning sun. A quiet place of serenity where she could freely spread her wings, feeling the soft massage of the cooling wind.
A place where she could lie down against the velvety grass, taking in the refreshing moisture, absorbing the sun's healing shine, savoring the sweet scent of wild orchids. Her own paradise where no expectations would be placed upon her, where the world existed for her, where nothing would be asked of her.
It would be the one day that would be just for her, where there was no pressure, no burden. A time of rest, a reminder of her own value. His way of letting her know, how much he loved her.
He was ready to provide everything she'd need. It was only a matter of working up the courage to ask the family, finding the right moment to propose his suggestion. Earning their trust, assuring them all would be fine.
Slowly he lowers himself to be closer to Altaria's level. Little by little he extends his shaking hand toward her neck. As his palm meets her neck, he lets it slide down the natural curve, as if pulled by gravity. His other arm he brings around her, stroking her cottony wing with the lightest of touch.
She closes her eyes, and lets out a light chirp. Holding his breath, he glances at the CEO.
She looks right back at him. "You may leave."
A pair of twisted horns entered his field of view, and hot air reached his face, creating a slight burning sensation. Coughing, he stepped backward. Noticing Altaria's owner beside him, he spoke to her, "Everything's fine, Madam. Our star—"
A beam of light shot into his eyes, and he looked away.
"All right now, time to move," the cop said, strutting past him together with his Machamp. "They are ready for the breach."
Rudolf sighed, watching as Patricia followed them. Her deep‐green coat glinted with its luxuriously smooth texture. "I understand, Mr. Inor. She's fine."
The emphasis in the last word made it obvious she hadn't changed her pessimistic view. "Is in good hands," he finished his sentence with a low voice.
A low growl came from behind him, and the other officer to don the blue uniform spoke next to him, "Move it."
"May I," he says, looking down at the teenager, extending his hand toward the upper shelf.
"Go ahead," she says, sitting down on the couch and leaning backward.
He takes hold of the book. While its faded blue spine reminds him of a calm ocean, today is a storm of an opportunity. A book on Altaria, and he'd be the co‐author. "You know, I've thought of a sub—"
"Look at chapter seven. It's not how you said, it's not like that at all."
He can only smile. Evelyn has the bluntness of her mother, but lacks her refinement. Obedient as he feels when it comes to the Tarnows, he places the book on the coffee table between them, and opens it. Browsing through the pages, he continues, "How would you like a subtitle, The True Story of Our Star?"
He pauses, waiting for an answer. He raises his eyes, only lifting his head enough to look at her. "Well?"
"It's fine."
His body tenses up. Is she mocking him? He continues staring at her, but she just wouldn't budge. Gulping down the ultimately meaningless matter, he sighs and continues browsing. She shares his passion, even if it doesn't quite manifest the same way. Still, since she wants to choose the title, it would only be fair that he could choose the subtitle.
Rudolf pressed his hand against the wall. The rough, rocky surfaces of the damp dungeon would soon be left behind. He could hardly wait to feel Altaria's cottony body again, taking her back to safety. Just one door remained in their way, and that door was about to be breached. It wouldn't take long, not with an Excadrill.
The cops moved their flashlights around, lighting up stone formations from pebbles to boulders, but no Onix. The Machamp punched the air, practicing or bored, who knew. The Houndoom rested against the floor, for once silent.
Patricia's calm expression spoke of the quiet confidence he knew her for. But if she didn't believe Altaria was fine, how could she be positive like that?