16.
Flip-Flops On Talk Shows
She's undercover girl, it's all she's got —
She's takin' it high, and make your heartbeat stop
Candice wanted to go downstairs and play with those twisty-wheel cereal dispensers. She did not want to deal with uniboob.
She'd bought a new sports bra thinking it could go under a cami or a summer blouse — just another layer of unassuming nylon straps going over her shoulders for the sweltering days ahead. But she'd also bought the black ribbed muscle shirt she wouldn't let Flint buy. Not for muscles in her case, but as a neutral layering piece. A girl could never have too many of those. And she'd brought them both with her, slipping the sports bra on first thing after she woke up in the hotel room and trying to pair it with all her flowy tops and pastel camis. But it was a bright neon orange sports bra. It made every look stand out. No good for going unnoticed.
And then she pulled the muscle shirt on over the sports bra and could only gawk in the mirror at the way the creased seams beneath black fabric made her chest one large low-lying hill riddled with wrinkles.
"Ugh… I get that looking flat is trendy right now, but what's wrong with showing off what you've got? It's only a man's world if nobody tells girls to embrace themselves," Candice told her reflection, and then fidgeted with the wrinkles for a bit. Finding no good solution, she tore off the top and bra and went back to digging through the depths of her bloated suitcase in search of a normal padded one. When she finally found it underneath all her skirts, she hooked it on and replaced the muscle shirt, now admiring the definition enhanced by the allure of a skintight silhouette.
"It's unassuming enough for a day undercover, but is it casual?" she voiced, suddenly exasperated that the leggings she pulled on were also black, and a skirt over them would just make her look like a feminine shadow strolling down the street. What about the snakeskin-patterned leggings and the flowery red skirt? Clashing patterns? Would that work with her long brown boots? Or should she stick with the canvas sneakers? Those hurt her feet on long days, though. But they went with everything.
"And you kissed the guy who wore freaking flip-flops to his own Ascension ceremony," Candice huffed, finally deciding on washed-out turquoise jeans and the sneakers. She tucked in the muscle shirt, then clipped each end of a wallet chain around a belt loop. To finish, she brushed back her long black hair with a purple headband and plugged a little blue heart into a hole in the cartilage of her right ear.
"Except would it make sense to wear a headband and sunglasses up on my forehead?"
A gurgle in Candice's stomach cut her off. No more experimenting with clothes, it seemed.
She popped a few sour gummy Ursaring in her mouth while she applied mascara and dusted light purple eyeshadow over her lids. And some baby blue to brighten them. And silvery-blue glitter rolled on her cheeks, of course. [Bringing Snowpoint down south!] she'd caption the look, and oh, she was tempted to do so, the fingers of her left hand hovering over her phone while those on the right scraped off the extra globs of solid mascara making her lashes stick together.
Maybe just… a little V Sign for the morning… to let people know she was alive. She didn't have to tag it with a location. Using the bright light in the bathroom and mustering her best Snowpoint smile, Candice snapped the pic.
[Best cautionary vacation ever!]
No, that was insensitive.
[Girl's day out! Not so fun when the boys are AWOL~]
Ugh, too needy.
[Thanks for all your support. I'm still focused and fashionable!]
Well, this wasn't really about her…
"I'll just do the dead meme," Candice groaned, and spammed the caption box with electric plug emojis.
[#WhereIsVolkner #SussyshoreCity]
Okay, now she really needed to go play with those cereal dispensers.
It was pitch-black in the arena.
Only a single tiny circle of light flickered and shone in the very center of the battlefield, where Leader Visquez lay on her back, legs sprawled out and teal eyes staring tiredly up at her phone.
Her DMs were still swarming with condolences. Some from friends, but most from complete strangers. It seemed every time she went through and viewed them all, the red notification circle started ticking up again with pings and messages. Or worse, the metallic voice of her Rotom declared a battle challenge had been issued. There was nothing to do but decline. Until things blow over, she thought. Until people stop trying to be so damn nice to me…
The kids on the Lay School playground weren't nice when they mocked her white hair. The teachers weren't nice when they scolded her for tackling her own classmates, nor were her parents when she asked if she could go on a journey instead of wading through multiplication tables. The customers weren't nice when they shouted in her ear about how they'd ordered pepperoni and gotten cheese. They still weren't nice when she not-so-nicely told them the pepperoni was under the cheese. That was how the cooks always prepared it. The weather didn't like being nice either. Not when she was eighteen and still afraid of thunder.
Had Surge been nice? Maybe not when she threw herself into his gym, a shivering, skinny wet heap from the rainstorm outside, and used his battlefield as a cot, only hissing and banging her fists when he tried to move her. Punching the back of his green jacket when he slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and brought her to the barracks for a proper bed. Pouting all the next day when he tried to be reasonable and she just wouldn't leave… Pouting, whining, shouting back when he shouted — shouted louder…
"Nothing you say will save you when you're struck by lightning, soldier," Surge had told her, a sneer on his face. "I know from firsthand experience."
"You can't strike lightning back," she growled.
"You can… You will."
The next day, she was a "soldier" of the Vermilion Gym, taking out her anger with toilet brushes and steel wool. The next week, she had her own Pokémon and told to train nonstop until 13:00. The next month, she was defeating every challenger Surge threw at her. She was defeating Surge himself in battles — when he let her — and that still involved enough static in the air to make her skin itch and her muscles tighten into throbbing knots. The next year…
Three missed calls from mom. Six more challenges declined. Not a word from Surge.
Vermilion City's new "supervillain" greeting her in the headlines every morning.
Condolences to a woman who didn't do small talk.
And the strange weight in the pocket of her sweatpants.
Visquez sat up and slipped a gloved hand in, drawing out the Poké Ball so she could look it over again. It wasn't polished. The red paint was thick in one spot, like it had melted. By the wear, its trainer threw it left-handed. Threw it. No simple press-and-release. That was an experienced battler.
Her heart fluttered as she rubbed a thumb over the button. Dare she? At least attempt to reason with it this time? Visquez bit her lip and squeezed the ball tighter. No one was stopping her. No one was telling her to do anything, really, except "take it easy," and that was a false bit of advice when no one else was in her position.
She pressed the button. A blue light burst forth, growing and coalescing into the yellow-and-black-furred behemoth that glared down at her with dark eyes and two rows of blocky teeth.
Electivire raised its two tails in the air. The ends lit up like red-hot sparklers, aiming in her direction. She scooted back, then clambered to her feet and held up both palms. The floodlights in the arena flickered on. They brightened to blinding white. The bulbs blew out, sparks and glass raining all over the darkened rows of seats.
"I won't hurt you! Stop!"
All its fur stood on end.
"STOP!"
The creature began to growl, then let out a horrid roar. It lunged forward with two huge flaming fists. Visquez ducked down to dodge just in time — at the cost of twisting her ankle the wrong way and slamming jaw-first into the sandy floor of the arena. With one eye cracked, she hurled the Poké Ball at Electivire and watched it shrink back into a streak of red energy.
She coughed. The air was still thick with static.
Then the challenger's side door opened a crack, popping the pressure of the room and letting a ray of gray light fall upon the still-sparking form of the Vermilion Gym Leader.
"Talk about a burnout. This looks worse than the time Volk lit up his own gear puzzle on accident. I told him that was a bad idea. Way too gimmicky. And…"
Visquez narrowed her eyes at the intruder. She expected anyone else. She expected Ash from Pallet Town. God, Ash would be more tolerable than that beast and its electrifying power. And his squeaky little Lay School friend who caught instead of battled.
Instead, it was a young woman with makeup caked on her eyes and a men's muscle shirt tucked into turquoise skinny jeans. She raised her sunglasses up to sit with the headband holding back a curtain of night-black hair and looked with curious eyes at the arena. When she saw Visquez, her whole body froze.
"Talk about uniboob," she muttered.
"Excuse me?"
"I mean, you're going for the jock look. That's okay. But there are padded sports bras, you know. For more definition when you're doing heavy exercise. I wear them when I'm climbing up snowy mountains—"
"You're not allowed in here. The police tape and melted ceiling should've told you that."
The woman sputtered. "But… hm… I know it looks like I'm trespassing, but I'm actually doing important research. You see, I'm looking for someone."
"A Gym Leader?"
"Mm-hm!"
"Electric specialist?"
"Yes! Yes! Have you seen him!?"
"I'm a woman!"
"You're…"
Visquez crossed her arms and sat on the arena floor again. "I'm not taking challenges or interviews right now. No Vermilion Gym, no Vermilion Gym Leader. And don't say you're sorry or ask if you can pray for me. Every time I'm reminded of that night I almost die of embarrassment."
Her visitor's face fell. She pressed the door up to the magnet to keep it open, then came and sat down next to her.
"So you're the Vermilion Gym Leader, and you train Electric-Types."
"I did train them… until they were stolen from me."
"Stolen? Who stole them?"
"Don't act like you don't know."
"But I don't. What's the story?"
"Seen the headlines?"
"I've tried not to look at them lately."
"You have to have seen something. It's the biggest story in years."
"I really don't like to look. I know I should, but my… boyfriend is missing right now. I'm embarrassed when I'm reminded of him, too. He's kinna famous. Well, he's more than kinna famous. Like, 'wears flip-flops on talk shows and doesn't care' kinna famous."
"And… do I need to get you a drink of water? Why are you here in the burned-out gym?"
"Because I'm looking for someone. I told you."
"Is it your boyfriend?"
"No, he's not my boyfriend. He's a Gym Leader. He trains Electric-Types. Genius. Blue eyes. Tinkerer. Modern art critic. You think he wouldn't like sweets but actually if you take a peek while he's sleeping you find out getting struck by lightning doesn't give guys eightpacks like on TV."
"Let's start over," said Visquez. "I'm Visquez. Leader of the Vermilion Gym."
"Candice," said the other woman. "Leader of the Snowpoint Gym, in Sinnoh."
"Crap. I saw that headline. Your boyfriend in flip-flops is Flint."
"Gah! Why do they keep using that photo he posted of us cuddling on the couch!?"
"I thought you looked familiar, but the crazy threw me off."
"Hey! I'm not crazy! I'm twitterpated!"
"So you think Flint's in Kanto."
Candice sighed.
"Let's start over."
"And he comes back every few days. Either stealing a bunch of Pokémon or just destroying things."
"Team Rocket," Candice voiced. "I thought they were a bunch of hooligans pretending to take over the world."
"They were until Marcell showed up. He must be their secret weapon. Or the first of many. He's a joke, I think. He stole my Raichu and forces it to commit crimes with him, but he was dumb enough to let me steal this right out of his pocket," Visquez told her, taking the Poké Ball out of her pocket again.
Felled pylons and frayed power lines snaked all over the empty street. Maybe she shouldn't expose the capsule to sunlight. This kind of destruction was just from Raichu… her Raichu…
"What's inside?"
"A dangerous Electric-Type Pokémon called Electivire."
Candice stopped beside her, gazing past the wreckage at the sea in the distance. A chill settled on her shoulders despite the wet heat of a cloudy summer day. A chill that could melt, like Flint had said. She took a peek at the Poké Ball in Visquez's hand. Then she snatched it, turning it over and holding it up to the gray light.
There. At the smooth vertex of the capsule's white half. A V, etched into the paint with the edge of a hex key.
"This is Volkner's ace Pokémon."
"That beast does not belong to a Gym Leader. It tries to kill me whenever I release it."
"It probably just hasn't seen the sun in a while and has a lot of pent-up energy. That's what Volkner told me about Electric-Types. They act on impulse when they're tired. Just like Ice-Types can hold frosty grudges. It takes a special kind of love to reason with them."
"Or… it was trained to attack me."
Visquez hopped over the cracked shards of a walk signal, leading Candice on toward the beach. Towels were rolling up as the rain clouds rolled in. She knew she was recognized. Candice thought she was recognized, too, and fiddled with her sunglasses and linked arms with her new friend, ushering her to less-populated sands with all the discretion of a supermodel.
"What if I wasn't the first Gym Leader Marcell attacked. That's what I'm saying. I bet he stole that Electivire from Volkner before he came and stole my Raichu and Electrode. He wants powerful Electric-Types, and we know he can bend them to his will."
"But the last time I saw Electivire's Poké Ball, Volkner had it on him when he went to work on his gym. He came back later that night, and the next morning, all his Poké Balls were in Penthouse Perilla except this one."
She remembered Flint's account. Volkner had been acting strangely the night before. Refusing to speak. Lashing out in anger. Ruthlessly attacking without regard for his own friend's safety. (Well, she could imagine Flint did the same, but Volkner was supposed to be his safeguard.)
No, there still weren't enough facts. Nothing to prove Volkner was a Zoroark that night. Nothing to prove Volkner had been frisked by some hotshot supervillain. And why just take one? Why not all his powerful Electric-Types? Luxray. Jolteon. A second Raichu. The Ambipom that knew Shock Wave. Octillery, for some godforsaken reason.
Don't follow me, because I know I can't cover my tracks.
Maybe he was really hurting. Maybe the blue jacket and his hair disgusted him. Maybe he'd only meant to get away from the noise and the tension — to Veilstone or The Battleground or somewhere, and something horrible had happened on the way.
No way he'd seek help from Flint in that case.
Screw Flint, he'd say in that case.
Acting on impulse like a true Electric-Type.
"Somehow Marcell got a hold of that Poké Ball," said Visquez. "Maybe Volk's here to try and take it back."
The chill was back, and stronger than before.
"In any case, I've got to go after Marcell."
"He won't let you talk to him. All those robots and he can vanish in an instant."
Candice glanced back up at the electrical pylons tangling up their wires in the blackened trees shading the shoreline.
"Visquez, don't doubt my ability to deal with moody guys."
~N~
Learned the term "hex key" today... from another Volkner fic, mind you, and I will not be out-Volknered. Two can play at the Volkner using actual specific technically-named tools game when he's doing his... pylon maintenance.
Published by Syntax-N on FanFiction . Net May 25th, 2022. Reposters cursed.