22.
Rocket Roark
Loud thunder, heavy rain
Thin line 'tween joy and pain
A hundred bucks said aces out front. A thousand said Megas. Nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine said helmetless Roark.
"I wanna bet helmetless Roark!" Ash exclaimed from where he sat crammed in the creaking aluminum stands of the Oreburgh Gym between Goh and a woman with a septum piercing. His legs were jiggling — still a bit itchy from Marcell's attack, but he had his own immunity with Pikachu as a partner. (Goh didn't get out so lucky. His feminine crop cut was standing up in all directions with no amount of conditioner calming it.)
"You don't even have that money to give away," Goh told him as he scrolled through his Rotom Phone.
"Yeah, but you gotta take it all if you wanna be a master!"
"Gambling is only legal in Sinnoh if you're over eighteen in Veilstone City. Also, pretty sure 'helmetless Roark' is a joke bet. Roark's the foreman of the Oreburgh Mine. From what I've read, he's never been seen battling without his helmet on."
"Man, it's awesome so many people showed up to watch. When I challenged Roark for the Coal Badge, he was so tough I needed a rematch, and by then his Cranidos had evolved into Rampardos!"
"It says here Roark relies on sheer offense. Even static attack power, like with the entry hazard Stealth Rock."
"What's it say about Gordie?"
Goh flipped to his other tab. "Kinna the opposite of Roark. He's trying to prove Rock-Type Pokémon can be graceful as well as tough. He uses moves almost like a Pokémon coordinator would, going for both power and style."
"So they're step-brothers with two whole different battle strategies!"
"Force versus fashion! I wonder who'll come out on top."
The battle was planned as a "community event." Roark's employees, the workers of the Oreburgh Mine, took the Monday night to bring their families to the gym. Young trainers sat with their legs swinging and small Pokémon sitting on their laps. Friends and neighbors sipped coffee from styrofoam cups and talked about who wasn't wearing a bra in church yesterday and if Roark planned on getting married, (and if his father Byron would divorce twice,) and how it was delightfully cathartic to watch two strapping lads throw dinosaurs at each other.
This was the intended audience. Of course, after Gordie and various leakers made it public, the Oreburghers only made up about ten percent. Another chunk was Gordie's fangirls flown in from Galar. These were identified by the rainbow rhinestones stuck to their cheeks and shiny League cards in their hands just aching for signatures. Then there was a decent-sized group of bearded men in flannel shirts and young people in college gear who had heard Roark on a podcast and decided he was an influencer. These sat very still so they wouldn't war with the largest population — the men with mushroom perms and women with rat tails who were securing bandanas around the knees of their jeans and holding signs with such brilliant slogans as "REAL MEN PRAY FOR VERMILLION" and "ROCKET ROARK GETS HIS ROCKS OFF TO RADICALS."
"That's one way to cheer on your favorite trainer," James muttered, a bit glassy-eyed at the amount of posterboard trickling in around him. His own sign read "GO GORDIE," with a few stars drawn in permanent marker, and he was feeling very underdressed.
"Hmph! Not that he doesn't deserve it," Jessie responded, straightening her bucket hat.
"Is Roark really that revolting? I've been seeing his name places, but I don't believe I've heard the beginning of it."
"The story's straight as a Gyarados. Roark downplayed Vermilion, he backs gangs in Sunyshore, and on top of that he's a stochastic ecoterrorist who wants to blow up Mount Coronet and fill another giant hole in the ground with his fragile masculinity."
"Dat's some slippery slope. Last I heard, dey was callin' him a cuck for not smashin' all da solar panels in Sunyshore himself."
"No, Meowth, now he's a shill for Big Energy. Get up-to-date on your fact-checks."
"Wait, so what side o' the aisle is he on?"
"Whichever is convenient for the Ruling Class."
"Sounds quack."
"Well, the handsome man on that podcast said the difference between conspiracy and reality is a couple of months. I wouldn't be surprised if soon someone leaks an invoice for Rocket-made explosives smeared with sweat and coal dust."
"When have you two been looking into this!?"
"It's all over the internet, Jimmy. Roark's so hot right now dey forgot to fight about Grusha last week. Also Jess, he'd be rollin' fat stacks o'cash up in a jar and meetin' our grunts at da mall. 'S not dat covert an operation."
"There's still an invoice for inventory."
"Ya know dey cover for leakers if da content benefits ya. Just sayin, if youse two was interested in gettin' dose Gymmies off da Rockets for good we could drop dat invoice, blast ourselves off, and spend da rest o' September on our ass watchin' da media eat itself."
"OreburghGating for the ratings," said Jessie.
"Dat's da ticket."
James quirked an eyebrow. "It's easy enough to board the bandwagon and brandish the buzzwords, but do you really think Roark is a Team Rocket renegade too? I remember him being a prehistoric bonehead who talked to fossils."
"Shush," Jessie forced, as the lights in the gym suddenly dimmed. She hunched down in her seat and pulled Meowth onto her lap. "Look, there were some rumors floating around Beta Class. I doubt that coal-shoveler is an actual criminal, but we followed Volkner here, so we should assume Roark's going to be in real trouble soon enough."
"Right. PR for the Rockets is good, I suppose. And orders are orders, as we should well know."
"James, I don't like the way things are accelerating."
"Hush now, sweetheart. If Volk's taught us anything, it's to run like the lightning is chasing us and laugh when it strikes. You know what we have to do…"
Down below, Roark's referee Ian stood in the center of the battlefield — a freshly-raked sand pad with limestone pillars skirting the edges. He held out his arms in welcome and waited in awkward silence as a shirtless Raihan was escorted off the battlefield by police. Then he cleared his throat and announced as loudly as he could:
"Welcome to the Oreburgh Gym! I haven't seen this many excited fans in a long time!"
And another awkward silence as Jenny's deputies found the backpacks filled with rotten berries and shuffled another forty protesters outside to abide by the fire code.
Skip the theatrics, Ian thought then, as he gestured for the two men still shrouded in shadows to emerge from doors on either side of the battlefield and walk out to stand in the trainers' rectangles.
Roark wasn't helmetless. His red helmet was polished and shiny over a clean, conditioned mullet, and the strap was cinched even tighter than usual around a full oiled beard of burgundy. Two thick, greasy black streaks were smeared under his eyes with charcoal, his gold-framed aviator glasses sitting smudged and crooked on his nose and his gloved fingers charmingly filthy.
Aside from the helmet, he wasn't wearing his work clothes. He was dressed in the short-sleeved jersey and shorts of a Galarian Major League uniform, printed with white-and-gray camouflage and the black polygonal symbol of a Rock-Type user. Muscle bulged beneath the skin of his exposed calves and forearms. He clenched both fists and kicked the dust beneath his black rubber boots.
Gordie was still pinchably soft as ever, (as his fangirls proclaimed,) but his belly was flatter than the last time they'd seen him, and his arms were looking thicker in a new, more powerful way. He'd donned the full ensemble of the Oreburgh Mine, silver hair tied up in a ponytail trailing from the back of his own polished helmet, and now streaked with red instead of the old yellow dye job. He was already sweating in the black tank top and gray hi-vis overcoat and work pants tucked into rubber boots. A whole spectrum of rings and gems glittered on his pudgy fingers, matching the rhinestones he'd plastered all over his face. His round blue eyes sparkled beneath the wrap glasses, and he flashed a wide, white smile that sent half the crowd swooning.
"Tonight's battle will be a three-on-three," Ian announced. "Exhibition rules apply. Battle items are permitted, trainers may substitute Pokémon at any time, there is no time limit, and a winner will be declared when all three of one trainer's Pokémon are unable to continue."
"HOLD IT!"
All eyes snapped to Gordie, now crossing his arms and leering mischievously at his step-brother across the field.
"Ye say it's a free-for-all? But I thought this was a row 'tween two Gym Leaders."
"I'm sorry we don't have tea, Gordon!" Roark called back.
"Oh, the rules sound just as fair without the tea. But I thought I'd be gettin' a Coal Badge tonight, that's all. And becomin' the Orebur'uh Gym Leader meself. I've come te love this toon, ye see. Could see meself raisin' a family here once ye finally let me drive that dragline."
"That so?" Roark chuckled. "You gonna pronounce my home's name like that? I thought you were my brother."
"I am yer brother. From another mother. And father. In me motherland Galar. And damned by Almighty Sinnoh's Time an' Space te share a single loo with ye. So whose legacy is it, Roark? That's what I'd like te decide tonight. Who'll be the last legend standing in this eroded old coal toon?"
"You'd give up Circhester?"
"Will ye hold onto all this dirt?"
Roark's eyes went wide, and Gordie could see his face turn pale from all the way across the field.
"You're serious."
"The reps are in the stands. It's all official, big bro. All ye have te do is accept."
"You son of a Bidoof, Gordie. You got us dressed like this."
"All in good fun, marra."
"Does this mean…" Ash whispered on one side of the gym.
James nodded on the other side. "He's challenging Roark in The Old Ways."
Roark took in a deep breath. Then he reached into the pocket of his uniform shorts and produced the same charcoal he'd used to make his eye black. Without even blinking, he brought it to his lips and took a bite.
Chewed slowly.
Swallowed.
He made eye contact with Gordie — faded, muddy red into fiery, starry blue — and snarled like a caged and cornered beast.
"I accept."
Ian straightened, recalculating the weight of events. "All righty, then. It seems this has just become a Battle of Succession! That means a nonstop six-on-six, with no battle items permitted and only the challenger, Gordie, given the power of substitution. In addition, both Gym Leaders are free to use shorthand when commanding their Pokémon. Roark is defending his title as the Oreburgh Gym Leader and agrees to relinquish the position upon his defeat. Gentlemen, please give your opening pleasantries!"
Roark thumbed his helmet and raised a Poké Ball in his right hand, button facing toward Gordie.
"May the stronger brother win."
Gordie shimmied his shoulders and spun around before raising an Ultra Ball.
"It's time to rock and roll!"
Ian threw his hand down.
"BATTLE BEGIN!"
Two great, glittering blue flashes of light filled the room, and money exchanged hands beneath the seats when Rampardos and Coalossal coalesced into being.
"Give me twelve hours," Roark had said. "Gordie and I have been dicks to each other since our parents got married. Only in the past few weeks have we started seeing each other as real brothers. We need this Pokémon battle tonight. It… has to be the last good thing."
"You won't snitch to the Sinnoh League before then?" Marcell seethed. Raichu's tail was wrapped firmly around Roark's legs where he stood backed up into the corner of the office. The plasma pistol still floated around in plain sight.
"That would be a trap, wouldn't it."
"Embezzling, conspiring, the paper trail's inspiring.'"
"Right, and you'd just disappear again. Because you don't care. Because you can."
Marcell's lips tightened. He flicked his wrist, and Raichu squeezed even tighter, a light stream of static flowing through its black cord of a tail.
Roark steeled his glare. "You can do anything you want n' no one'll catch you. But when Sinnoh wipes the dust off our souls He'll find mine's a whole lot cleaner than yours. My soul rejects you entirely. Your t-twelve-dollar chai spice lattes with two extra shots of espresso and skim vanilla froth on top, in your dinky little seaside café with the bicycles on the plastic brick wall and the vintage depot lightbulbs and the weed cookies crumbling on a floor nobody sweeps where you talk about the state of modern poetry and exchange email signatures and then melt down the minute somebody younger than you looks happy!"
"Roark, that's… You are very confused about some things."
"Everything's solar-powered. Even the paper towel dispensers and door handles, so ya don't have to touch 'em with your sanitized hands. No I am not confused, Marcell. And I'll call you that only 'cause I know it's ruining you. You know it, too, but Time and Space have spoken. You're unbreakable! Indestructible! And I hate you, Volkner! If it's come to this, then I hate you! I have waited years to tell you that!"
"You have a lot of interesting ideas about… who Volkner is," Marcell muttered, neck still going tense at the name as it buzzed on his tongue. "But if you think I'm him you're confused. Unfortunately, Volkner died last month. I'm his beneficiary."
Roark crossed his arms, slouching as much as he could when his shoulders were shaking. "Really? How'd he die?"
"He was taken out by a microwave. A repair accident, owing to some exposed live wires and a power surge. Ten amps stopped his heart and fried his brain. He passed instantly."
"That's… Wow, got me on that one. That's just the fuckin' empty-headed mess that would do it. You'd leave it plugged in and grab the wires with your bare hands. Is that what baked your hair? I got some drugstore 3-in-1 out in my car if ya want. Colin got it for me. Ocean scent. It makes me gag."
"Raichu, ten percent Thunderbolt on standby."
"Twelve hours," Roark cut. "Give a man his dignity."
"You slipped out on the agreement once before. My mission is to see you don't do it again."
"I don't want your Ginty bombs."
"Then say goodbye to your mine!"
BANGBANGBANG!
"ROARK! ROARK, THE PROTESTERS ARE HERE! THEY GOT WATER-TYPES AND MOLOTOVS! BACKHOE DOWN! I NEED MORE DINO POWER!"
"GODDAMMIT GORDIE, CAN'T YOUR STEAM ENGINE TURN HUGE!?"
"NOT UNLESS YE DUG UP A POWER SPOT SOMEWHERE!"
Marcell snapped his fingers and Raichu released, changing to red mist as it returned to its Poké Ball.
"What'd you even do to catch this much heat?" the Rocket agent asked.
"World's longest game of fuck-knows where Vermilion even is."
"Still haven't looked it up?"
"I don't wanna know what your targets are."
"Apparently my next one is Oreburgh," Marcell told Roark as he slipped back into his miner's disguise. "Twelve hours. Clock's ticking. Siliconic, if you gotta know."
The foreman slumped down into the pile of glass to catch his breath.
He waited in the shadows, concealed in the tunnel where Roark had just emerged onto the battlefield. Now the fight was on. Rampardos rushed forward, throwing all its weight into a mighty Zen Headbutt.
"Coalossal! Give 'em Glitter Quartz!"
The living steam engine's back burned right red. It let out a plume of steam from its mouth, and flaming coals burst from its back like fireworks, popping and glittering before scattering all over the battlefield. Where they landed, the sand melted and baked into jagged points of glass.
Then with a burst of speed it caught Rampardos' thick blue skull in its rocky jaws. The headbutt attack blew it backward, but it barely flinched, using the next moment to belch a load of tar all over its opponent. Rampardos struggled, only for a second, before Coalossal struck again, spitting out the skull and punching the theropod in the side. It stumbled, stepping on the still-burning embers of before, and let out a grunt when it realized the tar had made it slower.
Shorthand. The signature skill of a Gym Leader. Combine commands and maneuvers into a single move and give it a flashy codename. It was illegal during normal gym battles out of fairness to the challenger, but a Battle of Succession was all about the gimmicks. Gym Leaders could call moves and combos whatever they wanted. The Volknerds knew "Protocol Danger-4160" was Luxray chewing on its own tail and spitting out an ultra-powerful Charge Beam. Flint's fans, the Fleet Enjoyers, knew "Get Nerded On Epic Style" was Infernape eating a spicy berry, then bending over and using Flamethrower on its own farts.
"RAMPARDOS! HIT 'EM LIKE THE GRILL OF AN '85 TAHOE!" Roark shouted.
Which meant the bulky theropod went in for a Zen Headbutt, then at the last second jumped and socked Coalossal in the face with both legs, transferring the glowing power to its claws. The Fire-Type fell backwards, spilling even more hot coals in the sand.
"RED DIAMOND!"
Coalossal's black body turned a flickering molten orange. On all fours now, it twisted into a somersault and barreled into Rampardos with the move Heat Crash. With the drastic difference in weight, Rampardos flew all the way across the field, landing battered and burned at Roark's boots. The whole gym exploded into a spasm of cheers.
"GO GORDIE GO! GO GORDIE GO!"
"EAT DIRT, ROCKET CLOWN!"
"Guys! Guys, the stream is lagging!"
"THE HOKULANI HACKER IS LIVESTREAMING HIS ATTACK!"
"NO WAY, THAT'S AWESOME! I'M GONNA USE THE HUNDO I JUST WON AND SUPERCHAT IT!"
"AND WILL FROM THE INDIGO FOUR IS LIVESTREAMING HIS LIVE REACTION TO THE HACKER'S LIVESTREAM!"
"Rampardos is unable to battle!" Ian announced to deaf ears. "The winner is Coalossal!"
"RAIHAN JUST POSTED A SELFIE FROM THE BACKSEAT OF A COP CAR RIGHT OUTSIDE!"
"Thanks Rampardos," Roark said, recalling his ace. "We'll train harder for Fire moves next time. Take a good rest now."
"UH OH! WHO'S GONNA TAKE ALL THAT GLITTER ON THE GROOND!?" Gordie jeered.
Roark ate another bite of charcoal. "How 'bout a Pokémon that can fly!? Aerodactyl! I choose you!"
"Hey Raichu, you wanna fizzle me up? It's almost our time to shine," Marcell whispered as he finished reapplying eyeliner with the help of Emitter's flashlight. He'd gotten a new stick to try, and the purple wings flashed like reflector tape.
"Rai," his partner squeaked, then grabbed both his hands in its paws and sparked. Strings of static tickled as they coursed up through his skin to his helmet hair, turning it into a fresh plume of spikes.
[It was such a good idea to raid Roark's car for that man soap, Marcell! You look totally electrifying!]
"Yeah, but my hair… Roark was right. It's almost white."
[It looks good on you!]
"White hair means a villain's unhinged."
"Rai."
[Raichu says you are unhinged!]
"Okay, it was not unhinged of me to take those stolen solar panels in Roark's trunk and reinstall them around the city."
[In the hardware store you started tearing your hair out and Raichu had to shock your heart to calm you down.]
Marcell slipped on his safety glasses and sighed. "I wasn't supposed to be in the hardware store. Then I found out those modules were manufactured in Kanto. They required metric fasteners."
"Rai-raichu."
"When you go to the hardware store, you ask the guy working there where to find metric fasteners. They have metric, but it's a hassle because with metric you gotta worry about the length of the bolt, the thread length, the head shape, whether it's coarse or fine-grain, basically anything but standard. And when you ask about them, he's gonna direct you to the very back, where all those different variables are kept in individual separate buckets. Except they're not. Because why would they be separated? They're just all mixed together from different little kid hands dipping in there and employees knowing nothing about metric anyway. No. Do you know what would be unhinged of me? Taking my electric drill and punching fifty holes in every single one of those solar walkway frames over in Sunyshore to give them a full standard conversion. And no bendy aluminum. One hundred percent steel."
His fingers had all curled up into trembling claws, and he heaved out his breath, the bleachy spikes already falling out of place.
BOOM! RRRUMBLE! RRRRRRUMBLE!
"Rai!"
"What the!?"
The floor of the Oreburgh Gym shook like the full-power wrath of an earthquake. But this move came from neither of the opposing Tyranitar, currently competing in the setup of the century with the last four moves from both trainers being Dragon Dance. Both glowing dinos suddenly stumbled backward as the sandy floor broke apart, revealing the comically cone-shaped drillbit of a giant mecha-digger, emblazoned with the stylized pink R on its flank.
Pshew! Pshew!
Two nets slicked with black rubber sealant shot out the sides of the machine, trapping both Tyranitar in their tracks. Then two great snaking claw arms extended telescopically from beneath the hood. One swung shut around Roark's chest with a painful-sounding clang that bolted his arms to his sides.
The other shuddered wildly as it swung around trying to catch Gordie. The bigger man dashed from his position toward the center of the battlefield and his brother, but the claw quickly caught up. It clamped tight around his belly and drug him back through the dirt to plant him firmly on his rear where he'd been. Both robo arms then disconnected from the mech and retracted into the traps, leaving the Gym Leaders stuck where they sat.
Marcell caught himself on the steel wall where he'd stumbled. His almost-invisible eyebrows came into a tight pinch as he watched the bubble of a windshield swing up to reveal a certain doltish trio now posing and dancing on the hood. The cheering of before had morphed and loudened into a cacophony of shrieking — jeers turned to red-hot insults and laughter turned to howls of rage.
"Listen! Is that an agenda I hear?" Jessie cooed to the crowd.
"It's splendid hypocrisy, loud and clear!" James sang.
"On the wind!"
"Past the stars!"
"Up your rear!" Meowth hissed, pointing a claw at the nearest lunatic with a bandana.
"LET GORDIE AND TYRANITAR GO!"
"GET OUT OF HERE, SCUM!"
"Inciting chaos at a breakneck pace!"
"Riding the trends 'til we're edgy and based!"
"Ow!" Jessie spat, as an undiscovered rotten apple met her forehead with a splat.
"Keep going, dear! Keep going! Just finish it!"
"Uh, haha, a rose by any other name's just as sweet!"
"When everything's worse, our work is complete!"
"TRASH!"
"CLOWNS!"
"NUTJOB EXTREMISTS!"
"This is Leah Lave, reporting live for JubilifeTV News at nine. What appears to be a Team Rocket-operated digger drill has just emerged from the middle of the battlefield, sending the day's peaceful protesters into a fiery frenzy. Sir, can I ask about your reaction to this new development at the Oreburgh Gym?"
"I'M GONNA STUFF ROARK'S MOUTH FULL OF DIRT, AN' SEND HIM TO SUNYSHORE TO LET THE CARTELS SUCK THE CAFFEINE OUT OF HIS BLOOD WITH CURLY STRAWS!
"And you, sir, what's your reaction to Roark and Team Rocket finally in the same room together?"
"Well, it's wrong, obviously. I feel bad for Roark. He's a working class citizen, twenty-four years old, shouldering the coal industry all by himself, and I don't think the kid deserves to be bullied by a bunch of gutless cowards."
"Yes, but we now have evidence that he is associated with a criminal syndicate—"
"Roark is my son! I'd be more worried about him, but seeing my other son Gordon take down his Rampardos makes me a very proud papa!"
"Gym Leader Byron, is it true your son Roark has been conspiring with Team Rocket for months? Do you think this is the clear end result of his—"
"Raihan just posted another selfie from his jail cell! He's gonna get public indecency! Think we can get the Hokulani Hacker to pitch in for his bail!?"
"Okay, anyone who still cares about Raihan and not the literal terrorists at the Oreburgh Gym is on the same level as Roark. Full stop."
"FLINT!"
"PERILLA!"
"FLINT!"
"PERILLA!"
"FLINT!"
"PERILLA!"
Without any trouble, Marcell rushed out onto the battlefield to where Roark sat struggling. A fierce sweat poured down the foreman's forehead. He kicked out both legs wildly as the Rocket agent approached.
"I'm gonna get you out. Stay calm."
"Don't get near me! They wanna destroy me 'cause o' you! You wanna destroy me too!"
"So? You're a Gym Leader. Get some guts. Nothing they say matters and I never cared about you in the first place."
"You…" Roark whimpered. "You are so damn privileged and ignorant."
Marcell crouched down and put the miner in a headlock, kneeling on both his legs so he could reach around with a hex key and unlock the metal jaws of the trap. Roark breathed a sigh of relief as his arms came free. Immediately he threw a punch, but Marcell blocked and slapped him hard across the face, knocking off his glasses.
"Raichu, Iron Tail on those nets trapping Tyranitar."
"Save my brother too, you clod."
"I will. I will. Just… why are they… Flint Perilla? Are they chanting 'Flint Perilla?'"
"Do you care if they are?"
"JESSIE!" Jessie finally roared. This motto would be completed, dumpster fire or not!
"JAMES!"
"MEOWTH!"
"MARCELL!"
James whipped his head back. "MARCELL!?" he cried, limbs swinging into Jessie, who fell to her knees. The crowd now took notice of the fourth uniformed aggressor, standing tall with his fists clenched in his gloves and electricity crackling a bright combination of cerulean and gold around his frame.
"Marcell?"
"Marcell!?"
"HO-LY CRAP!? IT'S THE GUY WHO DID VERMILION!"
"SUPER ROCKET MARCELL!"
"THEY'VE BEEN WORKING TOGETHER ALL ALONG!"
"Roark, my boy, I know it's difficult having a new stepmother but I don't see how this is a healthy way to get'cher frustration out."
"PUTTING THOSE PROTESTERS IN THEIR PLACE!" Jessie wailed.
"WE'RE TEAM ROCKET, IN YOUR FACE!"
"WOBBUFFET!"
"Rai-rai," Raichu growled, jumping up and swinging its Iron Tail into the hood of the mech. Screws and bolts, knocked loose from the bigger holes drilled for a standard conversion, flew out everywhere. They scattered in the sand and caused a plume of static to erupt from the electric engine beneath. Jessie, James, Meowth, and Wobbuffet flew backwards off the top of the mech and landed squarely in the sand below, bodies crumpled together in a heap.
"Thunderbolt!" Marcell commanded.
"Rai-chuuuuuuu!"
SMASH went the ceiling.
"WE'RE BLASTING OFF AGAAAAIN!"
ding~
"Now Raichu, Protocol Oreburgh-11822. Blackout time. We're getting Roark out of here," Marcell said, swinging an arm up and pointing to a power socket deep within the hallway where he'd been lurking. Once more, Raichu lit up yellow with power. Its beady eyes narrowed in on the target, sparkling.
"Pikachu! Use Quick Attack on Raichu!"
The light died. Raichu's chubby body fell and collapsed in the sand while Ash's Pikachu came out of a glowing sprint.
"Now use Iron Tail!"
"Counter!"
CLANG! The two tails met, with Raichu's slamming the chunkier tail and Pikachu back against the closest limestone pillar.
"Tyranitar!" Roark roared, "Stone Edge!"
"Raichu, Volt Tackle!"
Tyranitar dodged, its speed unmatched after the setup. It threw itself down on all-fours and roared, sand particles fusing and forming into glowing blue rock spikes that pursued Raichu as it kept on rushing forward. Its Volt Tackle carried it all the way into the arena wall, where it crashed and fell on its back again.
"Use Crunch, marra!" Gordie called from where he still sat imprisoned. His own Tyranitar dashed forward to meet Roark's, and together, they both aimed their jaws at Raichu.
"Use Volt Tackle to escape between their legs! Then Thunderbolt! Activate the protocol!"
"The protocol?" Ash said from where he now stood by Roark. He handed the Gym Leader his glasses and helped him up to his feet. Once Roark could see again, he shoved the boy out of the way of Gordie's Tyranitar, which was stomping after Raichu with thunderous strength.
"The police are escorting everyone out. Go with them," Roark told Ash.
"Huh? No way! I can help you fight Marcell!"
"I'm not here to battle kids," Marcell cut. "Roark and I have business. Rocket business."
"Roark, are you actually working with Team Rocket?"
"I…"
The protesters still screeched from the stands. There weren't enough deputies to keep them in check, and the backup still had yet to arrive. Roark's father Byron was more stunned if anything, casually watching the fight from where he stood leaning over the edge of the arena wall with his wife Melony sobbing at his side.
Roark never got a chance to give his answer. Raichu's Thunderbolt hit the weak socket at the end of the hallway. Tendrils of electricity branched out, seeking and destroying every other outlet in the gym with a series of ear-piercing bangs!
Everything went black, save for the eerie red glow of the exit signs at the top and sides of the arena. Marcell counted his heartbeats. The gym was cooked. In three seconds, the street would be. Five more, all of downtown, and with luck, another two would darken the Oreburgh City police station.
Which could potentially release the most powerful Gym Leader in Galar — radical activist, fond of sandstorms, and known for his powerful Ground-Type dragon, and that was another reason to scoop both arms under Roark's armpits and start dragging him backwards through the sand toward the pitch-black hallway.
"No! No, you're not doing this!"
"Shocking, I know, but I am doing it. You know you don't have a choice."
"You can't blow up the mine. It's my life! It's my legacy!"
"I won't as long as you do what you said you would do and start stripping the mountain!"
"Do you… Marcell… Marcell, they have total control of you. Marcell, let me go! You don't know what you're doing!"
"Emitter, use Thunder Wave and shut him up."
[Is that safe, Marcell?]
"Don't ask me if it's safe. I know you wanna do it anyway."
[Yes I do! Yes I do! Yes I verrrry much want to do that!]
A muted blue-white flash glittering on the midnight ozone, and Roark's body went completely limp in his arms. Marcell could feel his muscles squish and tighten into paralysis under the thin, sweat-moistened material of the jersey. He stopped, then, breath coming out in gasps as he realized how heavy the other man was. His head started pounding. His heartbeat lagged and he coughed, letting Roark tumble to the floor.
A triangular head poked into the hallway. One of the Tyranitar, with its night vision easily making out where its master lay.
[Take off your glove.]
"I'm not… no. We can't merge. I can't afford the recoil."
[It does not seem like you have much of a choice. Let's use Psychic! We can destroy this gym too!]
"The gym is not what we're here to destroy."
[Take off your glove and let me enter your neurons, and I will make you enter a world of bliss."
"That's creepy."
The Rotom device's eyes grew wider, its flickering smile brighter.
"Oh, you know I want it," Marcell growled, tearing off his right glove.
The blue-white orb of static peeled itself out of the device, which dropped to the floor with a clatter. It dove toward Marcell's outstretched palm. Tendrils kissed skin. Veins lit up, and blood ran backwards. Nerves fired, crackling, fizzling, numbing into blue-warm-cold-hot-yes-more—
The floor rumbled.
Marcell cringed as the white-hot light faded flickered and faded from his vision, trembling hand once again going limp at his side.
"Where did you go? Emitter?"
He saw the Rotom circling around Roark's body instead, tendrils tapping along the frozen muscles. The reflections in the polished floor tiles began to twist and rupture. The ground slipped. The Rocket fell to his knees, scrambling over to where the miner had fallen.
"What the hell is this!? Is Tyranitar using Earthquake!?"
Something squeezed tightly around one wrist, and Marcell could faintly make out Roark's nails digging into the rubber of his glove.
"F'ckin Steelix," he choked out through locked teeth. "Bet that drill disturbed it."
"I thought you evicted all the Steelix from the area."
"D'sn't matter. They… c'me back."
The hallway buckled. The power socket sparked and burst.
"I knew I couldn't trust… those rumors."
"What?"
"The Sunyshore Tower. It wasn't you. It's… all a trap."
An enormous serpent formed out of steel plates tore up out of the floor and the walls and the ceiling at once and both men were tumbling down, down, deep beneath the surface of the earth.
~N~
I, too, am an enjoyer of Fleet.
Also my friends actually made the stupid gingty meme:
/ channels /940813337040658432/942531295458758697 /1017262963863863336
Published by Syntax-N on FanFiction . Net September 5th, 2022. Please don't repost on other sites. Reviews appreciated~