MISS RIGBY

It was an old table. Martha had never seen one like it before; it looked like someone had carved the shape out of one massive tree trunk. She felt her way across the edge in front of her, in case there were splinters.

Agatha was holding Mer now. They were opposite Martha, both watching her. Martha kept looking at the tabletop.

"There's a lot of stuff you miss out on in Pallet, isn't there?" said Agatha. It was both a question and a statement. Martha didn't reply.

"Y'see, trainers do lots of things once they get out of there." Again, Martha didn't reply. She knew they did.

"But they all catch Pokémon. And just like us, some Pokémon are healthy, and some aren't. And some trainers have a heart, and some… don't."

Her tone had changed slightly. It didn't sound angry, or disgusted. Rather, it sounded… empty. Like the air around Agatha had suddenly turned into a sponge. Martha shrank back slightly in her chair.

"And some trainers… release their Pokémon. I mean, it happens. It's usually the frail and unhealthy ones, the ones that won't make it in battle. Like, hm, your Squirtle" – she picked it up, glanced at the name tag, held the Pokémon up into the air with both hands – "Mer. It's pretty sickly. Pale – can you see?"

"See… what?" said Martha. She peered at the – the creature that she now knew to be called Squirtle. It was the only Squirtle she had ever seen. "What – what's wrong?"

"Hm… No, you wouldn't know, would you. But, well. Lemme put it this way, don't expect a Blastoise from it." She put Mer down on the table, rubbed its head softly.

"A… what?"

Agatha waved her hand without looking up. "Not important," she said. "Suffice to say, it's something most people expect their Squirtles to become."

And there it was again, that hollow tone. It had waned for a bit, but now it was back. Agatha was looking at Mer, looking bothered, looking hungry, looking hungry hungry greedy

"D'you know what a trainer sees when they release their Pokémon?"

The question caught Martha off guard. It took her several seconds to realise that her own mouth was hanging open, like her body had decided to reply but her voice hadn't followed suit. "Um…" she said, and regretted it.

"They see nothing," Agatha said. "They don't see a sodding thing. To them, the Pokémon just… disappears. Like it didn't even exist in the first place." She stopped, drew a deep breath. Twiddled her thumbs, looked Martha straight in the eyes.

And then she said, "They don't disappear."

The woman's gaze delved deep into Martha, who suddenly became aware of how little control she had over her own expression. How little she knew about what she herself looked like. She could be glaring disgustedly at Agatha, or seem completely carefree. Agatha sat there, like a mirror. Martha tried to copy her, matched the eyebrows, adjusted the mouth. Swallowed. Waited.

"They're still there. Maybe they'll try to get their former trainer's attention, but it won't work, because that former trainer doesn't see them, hear them, smell them. It's like being a ghost. Except not really, because the Pokémon is still alive. But the people up there," she pointed half-heartedly with a thumb, almost like she didn't want to acknowledge who she was talking about, "they don't know that."

"Oh," said Martha. Not seen, and not heard. And yet, she had seen Mer.

… But nobody had seen her.

So it was Oak, after all. Somehow, he had released her. He had been her owner – that was why Agatha had called her 'Oak's girl'. And that was why she had been stuck in Pallet for an eternity, an eternity of nineteen years.

"I'm released," she said. And now, nobody could see her, except Agatha. Nobody would see her if she went above ground. Nobody would hear her scream if she got run over. Nobody would come to dig her a grave, or put her body away. She would rot away as the wheels rolled over her, become one with the asphalt and rubber, a red and dirty smear that wouldn't be red, because nobody would be there to see it. She would die, but it wouldn't be a death, because nobody would ever know of it.

"In a way," said Agatha. But then she added, "Except you released yourself."

"… What?"

"You released yourself. It's called – well. We call it 'departing'. You departed from your position in Pallet, and… that does things to you. I'm not sure why. But it's the same idea. People up there can't see or hear you anymore."

"But, but –" and Martha couldn't phrase the question she wanted to ask, because it wasn't just one question but every question in the world, questions filled with words she couldn't pronounce or hadn't even heard about, and she would run out of breath before even mouthing the first 'What' –

– and she thought about death on the road, thought about the ribs poking out from the invisible Martha pulp, thought about the cars driving by, and then one day, a car would run over the jagged remains of her ribcage and shatter it completely, but not before the edges puncture the car's tyres, and it's her body's last cry of "I'm still here" before it's no longer true, and there is nothing left for Father McKenzie to bury…

She was nothing. She was a breeze pushing against a tall building, a glance through a stained-glass window. She had left Pallet with no idea of what would come, and now she realised that nothing did. Nothing came because nothing happened to nothing. You brought this on yourself, she knew it was true, you wanted to do something with your life but you're hopeless useless homeless

Agatha didn't say anything. She just smiled weakly, like she didn't know what was going through Martha's head, like this whole thing wasn't a big deal, like it would pass –

– would it?

"Can I… can it be fixed?"

Agatha's smile didn't change. "Not that I know of. Probably not. But it's not such a bad life. Lots of good people down here – and, hey, you got this little critter here." She pushed Mer across the table, and Martha had her hand on it the moment it crossed the halfway point.

"I gotta go fetch someone, but I'll be right back," said Agatha. "You two just make yourselves comfortable while I'm gone, okay?"

The turtle was like a cold bath to the touch, but she grabbed it, clutched it to her chest. It didn't make a noise, didn't protest, didn't struggle. Just like her, it might as well lie dead in Viridian. But it didn't, and neither did she. And now, it was hers. It was hers, because it was nobody's.

"Mer," she mumbled.

"Skwer," it said.

And then… there was silence. It was like any other silence, but in it, Martha started to notice the room. It seemed bigger with Agatha gone, darker without voices to brighten it. The table waxed under her elbows, the floor vanished below her feet, the ceiling shot away as though she had reached out for it. She remembered it as a stone-clad kitchen, but as shadows poured from the corners it seemed more and more like a hell; the walls parting to let in darkness from an unknown beyond, brightness fading away like the light was in on it, the wood beams splitting open and spilling their murky gloopy blood –

– and then there was a creaking noise, and the room settled, and Agatha came in with two companions: Hope and an unfamiliar gentleman in a cape.

"Martha," she said, "this is the Marquis the Dragaras."

The man bowed, with one hand pressed to his chest. His carmine hair, which was greasy and shoulder-length, crawled in front of his face as he did so; however, it didn't hide his expression, which was stony and arrogant.

"Charmed," – he said the word, but he didn't say the tone.

"Um, hi," said Martha.

"You are Martha, of Pallet Town?" The man still addressed her, but his eyes travelled between her and Mer, as though he was perusing a book.

"I, I am," she said, pulling the Squirtle closer.

"And I see you've found a Pokémon that matches you to a T," he went on. "Really, Agatha, are you sure?"

"Well, she can't just walk around by herself, can she? We gotta find something for her."

"Ah, but that makes it all so very easy. Let's promote her to Queen."

"Come on, Lonnie. Take this seriously, won't you?"

"You're quite right. I won't."

And then Agatha slapped him on the cheek. "You will, or I swear there'll be hell to pay for you."

The man gave Agatha a bow so stiff that Martha half expected him to fracture at the hip. "Thy will be done, O magnificent one," he said, poison dripping from every syllable.

And then his attention was on Martha again. He drifted closer, grabbed her hand – and her helpless glance to Agatha was answered with hand gestures and a mouthed "Don't worry" – and then he was at her face, pulling her eyelids apart and staring into her irises, and Martha fought the urge to stretch out her free hand and do what Agatha had just done, to give him a solid clapping across the chin –

"Really, Agatha, this is highly irregular," he burst out suddenly, letting go and taking a step back. "There's no point. She'll never make it."

"You said that about him, too."

"Yes, and I've learned from that mistake. This one definitely won't make it."

They were talking about her. They were talking about her, like she wasn't even there. They were talking about her like she was a patch of bad weather, and they were inside.

"You don't know unless you give her a chance," no, you don't, you don't know a thing, you have no right to talk about me like that

"A chance for what?" a chance for who cares, you have no right to talk about me

"Let's send her to Braggart, then we'll see," oh yes you'll see, you'll see, you have no right to talk

"He'll crush her," you have no right but now fear was creeping in, draining her confidence – fear of all the unfamiliar names, fear of the unfamiliar world, fear of the unfamiliar everything and fear that the Marquis was right, whatever he was talking about, fear swept across her mindfields and coloured them a sickly grey –

– they are talking about you, insulting you, don't let them treat you like dirt, like socks to be darned –

– "Um," she said, and their gazes muffled her. Agatha looked surprised, but the Marquis' puffy face seemed haughty, contemptuous. His black eyes told Martha that she was something to be inspected, measured, weighed and found too light; and she couldn't match it, couldn't resist…

But then Agatha broke the silence. "It's settled, then," she said, and there was a finality about the tone. "Martha, you'll go to Pewter."

"… I… I will?"

And the Marquis relented, bowed to Agatha. "It will be her death," he said.

"I won't hear another word from you, Lonnie," she replied, and – the man continued his bow, then drifted away, out through the door he had come in.

Agatha sat down by the table. "I'm sorry about that," she said simply.

"I… why will it be, be my death?" Martha shuddered. It was one thing to imagine death on your own terms, but to have it prophesised by a stranger…

"Well, I have to admit…" The woman looked a little bit worried now. "Lonnie's got – Lonnie, that's the Marquis – he's got a bit of a point. You've been safe in the world up there, right?"

"I…"

"You have. 'Safe' is not the same as 'interesting'. But down here, it's… different. Parts of the world are missing. You're not prepared for it right now, but… Well, I hope Braggart can help with that."

"Who's… Braggart?"

Agatha sighed. "Well, glossing over all his better qualities… Let's just say he deserves his name."