MABLE STONE
Mable could hardly wait for tonight. Everything had to be perfect for the annual gala of Devon Corporation. If all went well, the gala would set a new standard for the rest of the Hoenn season; everything, from the music to the fashion, would be mimicked. Furthermore, not only was it a chance for Mable to show off her flawless party planning, but it'd help show all the crusty old men on Devon's board that she was running the show better than her father. When she'd been named acting head, so many fingers were wagged Mable thought that the board must think her a misbehaving lillipup.
She'd left Devon earlier than usual in order to get ready for tonight. The doors opened at seven thirty, but only the lesser aristocrats would be there on time. Mable had her secretary alert the media a week ahead, and a big-shot Hoenn television talk show was covering the event. Mable planned to arrive at about eight fifteen. Not too early, not too late. Perfect.
Mable lay back in the bath, the steam rising from the hot water in beautiful smoky waves. Her beauty team were milling around the expansive, marbled room. Sculptures and crystal chandeliers and exotic plants were in abundance, as well as floor length mirrors with delicate lights serving as frames, and counters covered in an array of expensive makeup. In the midst of all this was a gleaming claw-foot bath, in which Mable reclined luxuriously.
The pedicurist wordlessly held up two nail polish bottles. Mable gestured languidly at the left one; a stunning 4-carat gold number. Nothing was going to be spared for tonight.
As her nails were filed and primped, Mable watched the rest of her team arranging her clothes and makeup and light dinner. One of her beauty team approached her with a silver platter of blood orange segments and a tall glass of stantler milk. The latter was a delicacy, a new fad amongst her people.
Smirking to herself, Mable took the glass.
She knew herself to be utterly spoilt. She knew that some people around Japan went hungry – and that definitely wasn't a surprise, even after all these years; the population of this country was bursting at the seams – but really, what was she to do? Did starving trainers want glasses of stantler milk? She took a sip. No, they did not.
Mable wasn't entirely heartless; she did understand what people were going through. That was why tonight's gala was going to be such a surprise.
She'd be planning for months. Mable needed something explosive, something to demonstrate to everyone that she was here to stay, at the head of the wondrous Devon-Stone empire. Her father may be dying, but Mable didn't have to think about that. She'd figured out that the way to make the eventual… passing… easier, would be if she just kept going at full-steam. Managing Devon on a day-to-day basis was excruciatingly boring, but Mable knew that if she went off shopping or on cruises to Sinnoh, as so many of her other trust-fund buddies did, when her father did eventually die, she wouldn't be able to pick up the pieces.
Mable's father was the one man in the world who understood her completely. She couldn't lose him just yet. She needed to make him proud.
As the pedicurist and manicurist dried her nails with an activated nail-dryer, Mable bit her lip in sudden hesitation. What if tonight was all a bit… too much? What if she was trying too hard?
"Someone get me Steven," she heard herself command. Mable didn't want to think about what this meant. About how much she relied on her grey-haired uncle.
Mable rose from the bath, attendants hurrying around her to use hand-held drying mirrors on her body. Once dry, she was helped into a semi-sheer silk robe that showed nothing and everything.
When she was seated at the makeup station, one of her team gently toning her face in roselia-petal water and another setting her damp hair in self-heating curlers, Steven walked in.
Her uncle, as ever, was dressed in his laboratory coat, though Mable had ordered him an expensive, authentic German 1900's-inspired suit for tonight. She couldn't help herself; she was drawn to history.
"What." Steven's voice was toneless, barely rising at the end to give any indication he'd asked a question. Mable bristled – if her beauty team heard his rudeness, they might get it in their heads to do the same – but one of the curlers burnt her scalp and she yelped instead.
As Mable berated the hair girl, who looked close to tears, Steven glanced about the room, taking in the sheer opulence and sense of wealth it exuded. Reluctantly – he doubted whether Mable would give up her tirade for a minute more, at least – he wandered over to his niece and took a swivel chair beside her, crossing his legs somewhat effeminately. On instinct, Steven batted away another member of Mable's beauty team, who had approached him with a fine-tooth comb and a tin of bryl-cream.
Mable noticed the movement. "You have to let them clean you up," she said, half in admonishment and half disinterested: an attendant was actively smearing moisturizer on her face. "Did you get the suit I sent you?"
"Yes, I did."
"Well?" Mable was rather pleased with herself.
"I am not wearing it."
"Steven." Mable pulled away from the bottle of moisturizer, a great gloop on her cheek not yet rubbed-in. "I need you to wear that suit. It's really important."
Her uncle didn't reply. Mable turned away in a huff.
They sat in silence for a while, the only sounds the soothing voices of Mable's beauty team as they murmured about colour palettes and theme. Out of the corner of her eye, Mable could see Steven was getting restless. One glance at the clock told her that he needed to start getting ready right this instant, especially if he was escorting her down the red carpet.
Steven cleared his throat. "Did you want anything else?"
Mable opened her mouth to say something, but shut it. "Just go get ready," she muttered, pretending to be occupied with choosing an eye shadow.
Steven threw his hands up in exasperation, got to his feet, and stalked out of the room, the glass doors sliding closed behind him with a whoosh.
Tonight will be perfect, she reassured herself, nothing is over the top; nothing is gaudy or middle-class or anything other than wonderful.
But she wished she'd had Steven's opinion.
It was approximately seven forty by the time Mable was ready. All the thoughts of lament she'd had earlier (about Steven, the gala, gaudiness) had disappeared from her mind about an hour and a half ago.
She felt glorious.
Mable didn't think she'd looked as beautiful in her entire life as she did now. It brought her down a little to think that this was all achieved through makeup and two hours of preparation… But she looked so illuminating!
Her hair had been curled tightly, then brushed out in the Old Hollywood style of mid-Third War time. Typical to the Stone family, her hair was a grey-toned ash blonde, though not prettily silver. Normally, Mable thought her hair looked as if she'd aged prematurely – indeed, the same could be said for all members of her family – but tonight it fell it soft waves to her shoulder blades, catching the light and reminding her of blurry monochromatic photographs of old-time actresses.
Mable had found her dress after months of searching beforehand. A deep, sophisticated mossy green, the square neckline and three-quarter length sleeves added a glamorous touch to the floor-sweeping hem. Tiny iridescent baby yanma wings covered the dress, making her seem as if she were made of light.
One of her fashion team came forward, holding up two fur stoles. "The shiny eevee fur, or the cincinno?"
Mable considered the two and then chose the white cincinno fur stole. It was impossibly soft, the creature bred specifically for the purpose of the fur trade. Amusingly, there were two pokémon Unova couldn't wait to get rid of: audino and the mincinno evolutionary family. Both were common pests to Unova, so the government happily sent them out to Japan in massive shipments at a ridiculous price. And the Japanese aristocracy ate them up.
"The car is waiting for you, Miss Stone."
Mable raised a hand in acknowledgment to the servant by the door, not looking up from inspecting her small jewelled handbag. Patiently, the room waited. Once their mistress looked up, everyone burst into a flurry of motion; they ushered Mable through the Devon building from the very top floor, where her apartments were, down to the ground level in minutes.
When Mable stepped out into the street, the sleek limousine hovering quietly at the curb, she only had to look around once for Steven. He got out of the car, holding the door open with one hand, his face fixed in a look of boredom.
"Thank you, Steven," Mable said primly, trying to climb into the car with as much dignity as her tight dress and high heels would allow. By the door, her beauty team waved, as if she were setting off on a voyage across the world.
"We're late," Steven snapped in response, getting in after his niece and slamming the door shut.
The limousine pulled away from the curb soundlessly, swiftly floating down the massive front driveway that lead up to Devon's towering building and into the busy road beyond. Mable gave it five pleasant minutes before she spoke.
"Where's the suit?"
The air is charged here at the Hanna Stone Memorial Ballroom, with elite members of Japanese society waiting with baited breath for Devon Corporation's acting head, Mable Stone.
I'm coming to you live from in front of the Stone Ballroom. We've already seen gym leaders from across Japan turn up, all looking very elegant and fashionable. So far, the gown of the night has been taken by Valentina Tholomyés, with a stunning French-inspired strapless dress, embroidered with juvenile clamperl pearls. Actually, it seems that many of the gowns, and indeed those wearing them, are going back to their heritage. Miss Tholomyés, for example, daughter of the late Hearthome gym leader, Fantina, traces her roots back to France. It seems to be an overarching theme, so the question remains: What is the theme Mable Stone has arranged for tonight?
It's all a bit of a mystery, but we'll keep updating you as the guests for tonight arrive… Wait. Hold on there, Bob, I think we're… yes! Ladies and gentlemen, our loyal viewers of Jubilife Society TV, here is the much-anticipated arrival of Mable Stone, the organiser of tonight's exclusive gala!
It would be an exaggeration to say that the crowd went wild as Mable stepped out of the limousine, but it was definitely a warm reception.
A light drizzle had started to fall on their way from Devon to the ballroom. Steven clambered out of the car behind her, almost knocked out of the way as a servant hurried to protect Mable with an umbrella.
As if flicking a switch, Mable lit up, her smile dazzling. The bedraggled, though decently sized crowd flanking the red carpet huddled closer to the boundary line, cameras flashing and excited reporters babbling questions at her as she passed. A hovering camera panned slowly around Mable; she turned and winked at the lens.
It was over so quickly. Before she knew it, Mable was standing in the gigantic lobby of the Stone Ballroom, letting an attendant brush a light coat of powder over her nose and someone else gently rearrange her hair.
Steven stomped in after her, somewhat damper than she. He fussed with the lapels of his awful tuxedo jacket. Mable noted that it was the same outfit he'd worn to her last gala.
"Ready?" she asked him, not bothering to make her tone anything less than icy. If he was going to ruin her night by not fitting in with her theme, by mew she was going to make it unpleasant for him.
Steven begrudgingly let an attendant run a comb through his gelled grey hair before offering Mable his arm.
The double doors at the end of the lobby opened automatically, swinging forward to welcome them into the massive ballroom Mable had spent the better half of a year organising.
It definitely paid off.
Her guests milled about the room like brightly coloured birds, each dress more fabulous and expensive than the last. Some pokémon followed their masters and mistresses dutifully, sleek fur or gleaming scales almost competing with the overawing lavishness of the ballroom. The floor was white marble; the walls lined with magnificent windows overlooking private gardens; the ceiling dotted with live chandelure, casting a warm, fuzzy glow over the otherwise modern room. Servants stepped lightly through the crowd, each boasting a rich tray of alcohol or appetizers and an exotic heritage; Mable had made sure each servant individually represented the many cultures that now made up Japan's population. It was a strategic move; one of her better ideas, she thought smugly.
The other half of the room was separated by a thin gold rope, and beyond that, numerous round tables were clustered – the space was designed to give an air of intimacy in otherwise what was such a formal setting. A group of musicians were in one corner, their fingers tripping over instruments, playing a beautiful slow jazz piece.
As Mable descended the brief flight of stairs to the main floor, her guests applauded. She smiled and simpered and waved her free hand, saying in cosily alternating Japanese and English to people as she passed: "You're too kind, really, oh, thank you."
Steven didn't let go of her arm. Soon, Mable had a champagne glass in one hand and was engaged in a conversation with a member of the Japanese government. She didn't know what the young Korean woman did, though she asked all the right questions and flirted a little, and the woman walked off looking pleased as punch in three minutes flat.
The first hour went by in no time, Mable slipping into the stage-perfect persona she'd created during her debutante season when she was fifteen. She talked to gym leaders and elite members, politicians and military recruits, diplomats and fashion designers. Almost every conversation began with I love your dress and Mable would titter and go this old thing?
She'd be lying to herself if she said she was having a bad time – it wasn't that at all. On the contrary, Mable enjoyed occasions such as this with a sadistic sense of humour. She liked watching people plaster on smiles and air their graces and name-drop like mad. It was as if they were all a part of a conspiracy, or a secret club. It was thrilling.
Steven wasn't having a good time, that much she knew. With each passing conversation, the weight on her left arm grew, until eventually her uncle muttered some excuse and disappeared into the crowd. Mable was slightly embarrassed – he'd left just as she had started talking to Valentina Tholomyés, a vapid gossip and up-coming contender in the Sinnoh elite four.
As Valentina murmured something about pokémon training, sprinkling her words with delicate French asides and laughing softly and self-deprecatingly at herself, Mable felt her patience start to wear a little thin. The first course could not come soon enough. She knew that these young men and women her age were not her friends – no one had friends when you were this wealthy. But sometimes, when she babbled on about shoes or a modern political issue she knew next to nothing about, she wanted to look at her conversation partner and feel truly pleased. Pleased that this person in front of her was enjoying her company; that they were laughing genuinely at her jokes or that they were flirting for the simple pleasure of it, not for some twisted battle of dominance.
Mable glanced around for Steven.
One of the servants must have misconstrued this action, because the next moment she knew the music was swelling cheerfully, and people were heading off towards the dining tables.
Mable moved with the crowd, dodging past people to get to her table in the very middle. As she sat down, she reminded herself of Louis XIV, the 'sun king' of Absolutist France – how that physically diminutive man built his bedroom in Versailles right in the middle of his palace. He was the centre of the universe. She took a sip of the Italian wine that had appeared at her elbow. Well, so was she.
She'd chosen the members of her table with great consideration. It was important that she be surrounded with those who would support her announcement she'd make later in the evening.
As such, Mable had selected the three people responsible for the funding of Devon's Big Three – two women and a man, all high-up in the Japanese government. She'd also chosen the champions from each region. It was a strange ego-boost to see that some of her table members had returned their pokémon when in her presence.
Unfortunately, the leading members of Japan's United Government couldn't make her gala, which ruffled Mable's feathers.
"Your gala is a great success, Mable," Lance Scale murmured as he took the seat to her left. "Sorry – Miss Stone."
Mable giggled. She liked Lance a lot; he was an incredibly strong pokémon trainer and was still the Indigo League champion, although he was nearing fifty. Word was that his cousin, Clair, would take over when he was finished. Mable didn't like that idea at all. Thankfully, the brattish Welsh woman wasn't here tonight – there was some 'crises' at Blackthorn (although Mable privately thought it was just a flimsy excuse). She and Mable did not get along. What was it with her and other young women? Mable wondered absent-mindedly. They were like fire and ice.
"How's everything at the League?" Mable asked Lance as the first course was served: a light buneary broth with shallots, coriander, and croutons.
"Very well, actually. Thank you for asking." Lance's voice was so pleasant to listen to. His Welsh accent lilted upwards at the end of sentences, the sing-song rhythm enough to charm a gyarados, one would imagine. "Although I did not know you were so interested in pokémon. Could it be," he teased, "that that girl Oskana has changed your ways?"
Mable coloured. Most of the league members knew about her failure as a pokémon trainer. The teasing was all in good fun – until someone she didn't like started ribbing her. "Oskana can't even change her clothes," Mable retorted cattily, referring to the Rustboro gym leader's efficient failure at fashion. "But tell me, what news from the League? Has anyone given you a run for your money, lovely Lance?"
The older man grinned wryly at her. When Mable was younger, she'd had a terrible crush on him – though who hadn't? Lance was still as charming and gallant as he had been at nineteen, fresh from a championship win. In later years her affections had waned and… strayed… though she liked to tease him anyway.
Before Lance could lurch into a thoughtful account of the past few challengers, Steven slipped into the seat on her right. Mable watched him out of the corner of her eye. Her uncle grabbed the napkin and smoothed it over his lap, taking up his spoon and, without making any eye contact with the rest of the table, started on his broth. Mable listened to Lance with absorbed attentiveness, though she was hyper-aware of Steven's presence.
How dare he? She could feel her hand shaking, so she busied herself with her wine glass. First he dashes off when I'm talking to Valentina – who's bound to have posted her witty observations to the Internet already – then he comes in ten minutes late to the first course, without any apology whatsoever.
Why do I have to be related to him?
After a few minutes, Cynthia Mori sat down on the opposite side of the table.
Mable felt herself freeze for a moment, though she forced herself to take another sip of wine and give a tinkling laugh in relation to Lance's story.
The older woman was no longer the Sinnoh champion. She, along with Steven, had been involved with the pokémon alliance back in the Third War. Dumped from the new league – many of the other champions and gym leaders had remained neutral during the war – Cynthia was now a kooky historian living holed up in her family cabin in Celestic town. Mable's little birds had whispered that Cynthia was trying to get a visa to move over to Unova; specifically Undella.
Washed up like her dear uncle, Cynthia looked perpetually exhausted. Her once-luxurious hair (Mable had Googled her) was now streaked with silver, and was cropped to just above her shoulders.
Mable tossed some of her own curls over her shoulder and laughed again. What had Steven wanted with that old hag?
Their half-full broths were swooped away from the table by silent servants. Mable had hardly touched hers, though Lance had managed to eat all of his.
"Miss Stone, we are delighted by the success of the pokémon Translator."
Mable turned her attention to one of the Japanese government officials on the other side of Steven. The rest of the table continued to murmur diplomatic conversation, the background noise a gentle combination of trailing piano keys and feminine laughter. Mable smiled indulgently at the man who had spoken, a stout middle-aged man with military bearing and apparent Japanese heritage. He inclined his head at her smile.
"I thank you for your patronage," Mable gushed breathily. She completely ignored her uncle, who sat uncomfortably between them. "Devon could not have achieved such success without our government's support."
Placated, the man bowed his head again and spoke a rapid stream of Japanese; Mable laughed. She hadn't caught half of what he said, but she assumed it to be some half-hearted attempt at flirtation. Mable's origins were German, her grandmother Hanna Stone was the namesake of the Memorial Ballroom, although her grandfather and father were Japanese. Still, she preferred English. Somewhat inspired by Valentina Tholomyés, a few years ago she'd tried muttering German comments in conversation, though her native language was not as musical as Valentina's, and she'd given up in embarrassment.
When she looked back at her meal – the second course was a platter of steamed octillery and a side dish of remoraid caviar – she almost missed Steven getting up and leaving the table. Mable whipped around to watch her uncle disappear between the full, chattering tables. One eye she kept on Cynthia, though the other woman was in deep conversation with Hispanic Wallace Rivera, the Unova-hosted champion of Hoenn. It wasn't uncommon that Japan sent some pokémon trainers to Unova and vice versa – much like in medieval times, when young men would be given away as 'wards', the same ritual was performed now; but these days the act was generally of goodwill and a suggestion of continued peacetime between the remaining two superpowers, and not a veiled threat, as it had been in the fourteenth century.
Without thinking of how this might look, Mable put down her wine glass, coolly excused herself from her pleasant guests, and stalked out after her uncle.
Dress swishing on the marble floor, Mable went into the empty foyer. She glanced around, the entrance room cold and dark after the ballroom. Behind her, she could feel the warmth of the chandelure, the sweet strings of the band, the pretty conversation of the elite. She had a sudden urge to forget about her petulant uncle and return to her guests – but a cough from one of the shadowy adjoining corridors gave her pause.
Gathering up the skirt of her dress, Mable darted to her left. The corridor was tall and made of glass, the ceiling sloped so heavy splatters of rain fell like gunfire before bouncing harmlessly off. Beyond the glass wall, the street was deserted, the journalists and cameras long since packed away.
She fervently wished she'd forked out a bit more to have the rest of the Memorial Building heated and lighted. Mable shivered as she stepped out of the corridor and into a round room made of glass. The view was no longer of the street, but of the private gardens that surrounded the building. In the middle of the shadowy expanse was a fountain, though it was only dimly lit, casting up an odd glow over the marble underside of the entwined gorebyss and huntail.
On the right curved glass wall, one of the several door-come-windows had been opened. In the gap, watching the rain, was the silhouette of a man.
Marble knew Steven anywhere. He was a tall man, slender and muscular in his youth, though now at his age sported curved shoulders and an unhealthy tendency towards underweight. He often slouched, frowning and generally appearing unsatisfied. Sometimes that made Mable want to please him even more. Steven's hair had been gelled down for tonight – the one allowance he had made for her outfit, Mable could see; he looked very Second World War country gentleman – though normally it sprang every which way, the grey tufts rumpled from dragging his hands through it in exasperation.
As Mable stood there, quietly drinking in his figure, she was surprised when a waft of cigarette smoke drifted towards her.
Cigarettes were very popular, that was true. Medical advancements meant that people could essentially do what they wanted without repercussion. This was generally only a privilege afforded by the wealthy, however.
Still, Mable had never known her uncle to smoke before. She went to stand beside him.
The rain outside was hammering down. The city lights were muffled by the onslaught; the garden was wet and black, like an undiscovered jungle. Mable looked down and watched the rain splatter upon the concrete to join a rushing rivulet that hurtled into the trimmed grass.
She looked at Steven's profile. His aquiline nose, broken, he'd told her once, after a pokémon battle, stood out starkly against the white stone of the building. He held the cigarette up and drew in a deep cloud of the smoke, exhaling heavily through his nose. Soon, he turned his head slightly to catch her eye.
"How was the second course?" he asked smoothly. Anyone who didn't know Steven might have said that this question sounded utterly genuine. Mable ignored him and said, "What did you want with Mori?"
Steven breathed a stream of smoke out into the rain. "Shouldn't you be with your guests?"
"What about Mori?" she countered.
Her uncle took his time tapping the cigarette ash onto the concrete. Eventually, he said, somewhat sadly: "Cynthia just gave me some news I hoped very much not to hear."
"What do you mean?" Mable shivered as a gust of rain blew inwards, spattering her beautiful dress. Wordlessly, Steven shrugged off his jacket and handed it to her. Just as Mable thought he was about to answer her question, he took another drag, then crushed the cigarette beneath the toe of his shoe.
"You need to go back inside," he commented, giving her a meaningful look. "It is your party, after all."
"Steven, tell me what you talked about!" Mable winced as soon as the plea left her lips. She tried so hard to sound sophisticated, but whenever she was with her uncle, she seemed to revert back to childhood habits.
"Why do you call me 'Steven'?" her uncle asked mildly, leaning forward and pulling the tall window-door closed. Immediately, Mable felt a wave of warm relief wash over her. "Why not call me uncle?"
"Stop changing the subject," Mable muttered, though her tone held no venom. She yawned and instantly felt guilty. Steven smiled at her. His face was half-hidden in darkness.
"Come on." Putting a thin arm around her shoulders, they started walking across the round room, passing by the illuminated fountain. Mable hesitated and then laid her head against Steven's shoulder. His arm tightened.
From the ballroom, someone screamed.
Heart straining against her breast like a rapidash at the starting gate, Mable fled up the corridor and through the lobby, Steven right beside her. They burst into the main ballroom, the wash of heat and music almost drowning their senses.
Breathing heavily, Mable feverishly scanned the ballroom, searching for a gun-wielding lunatic or a rampaging ursaring or something other than what she saw.
In the middle of the room lay Valentina Tholomyés. The young woman was laughing hard, her chest heaving. In her hand was an empty champagne glass.
"Merde!" Valentina exclaimed in delight, giggling as a comely young man with wavy chestnut hair helped her up. "I am so clumsy! Silly me, silly me. I nearly killed myself, je suis tellement maladroite! I'm sorry, I'm sorry – here, get me another." She thrust the glass at the young man.
Mable exhaled. Merde, indeed. Relief, however, was quickly replaced with irritation. Why must her guests be such pigs? At some of the other tables she could see some people laughing too hard at Valentina's blunder, faces red and glasses empty.
She felt like tearing out her hair. People needed to be conscious to hear her great announcement. She couldn't have half of them rolling under the tables.
Glancing about the room – no one seemed to have noticed their arrival, thank mew – Mable ripped off Steven's jacket and shoved it at him. Back straight, she threw a great wave of curls over one shoulder, and marched into the fray. Stepping lightly around tables and guests, some of which were now ferrying between tables, swapping seats, and happily lolling over one another in earnest conversation, Mable made her way to the biggest table in the middle.
She was thankful to see that her most exclusive guests were reasonably sober. Most of them were peering over heads to watch Valentina's clumsy walk back to her table. Lance was chewing his way through the third course. Cynthia looked morose.
Mable picked up her glass and took a healthy swig of wine for courage. Steven hovered at her side, putting his jacket back on and pointedly avoiding eye contact with Cynthia.
Suddenly incensed at her uncle's pathetic behaviour, Mable signalled to the maître d', who made a quiet gesture to the band.
The only sound in the room the tinkling of glasses and cutlery and gradually the conversation ground to a polite halt, all eyes fixed on their lovely host.
Mable smiled around her, basking in the attentive glow.
"Good evening," she started, "I thank you all so much for attending my little get-together." The crowd chuckled appreciatively. "I'm delighted to see so many of you dressed up for the occasion. You might have been wondering what tonight's theme was…" Of course they're wondering, they're going to copy it for their own pathetic parties, "I'm pleased to announce that tonight's theme is… multiculturalism."
The only thing Mable was thankful of in that moment was her flawless pronunciation. She was oblivious to the surprised murmuring that swept the crowd.
"Indeed, tonight wasn't just another gala for our upcoming season. In fact, I had another idea in mind." Mable took a deep breath, nearly bursting with pleasure. "We live in Japan, victorious and bountiful, our wonderful nation of many cultures. Devon Corporation believes that our country should fully embrace the colourful background of our society -"
A volley of chatter broke her speech. Mable whipped around to the source; a table in the back of the room, where a group of guests were huddled around a holo pad.
The maître d' swept up to the table and bent his head to murmur some admonishment, but before he did, the portly woman holding the holo pad gave a terrified shriek and dropped the device on the table.
"What is going on?" Mable barked. Why won't anyone listen? she thought desperately, why isn't anyone paying attention?
A man at the offending table leapt to his feet as the woman gave another shriek and covered her eyes. He stared at Mable, his expression terrified. "The gyms," he rasped, "they're attacking the gyms!"
The room burst into conversation. Distressed, Mable turned every which way, watching as people brought out holo pads of their own, fingers rapidly moving across the translucent, paper-thin surface.
"Listen to me!" she cried, almost in tears, "I haven't finished my speech!"
"Mable." She looked at Steven, who had put his hand comfortingly on her forearm. "Maybe just -"
"Mew help us!"
"By Arceus -"
"Mable -"
"What?" she screamed, spinning to face her uncle.
Gravely, he held up his own holo pad. The image before her flashed and blurred, the camera obviously repeatedly being jolted out of focus. A spray of red shot across the screen, then another, followed by a great plume of flame. Human and pokémon screams echoed from the footage. The camera jerked back as smoke flooded the screen, then bobbed wildly and focused on the ground, where a mutilated human corpse lay strewn on the rubble.
Aghast, Mable grabbed the holo pad. Distantly, she was aware that the ballroom was completely silent except for the magnified sounds of a hundred streamed videos.
The camera toppled to the ground. People were rushing past, their shadows ducking in and out of the billowing smoke. Another spray of gunfire cut through the grey screen. Suddenly, the person wielding the gun stepped into the camera's view.
It was a young man with a shaved head, dirt and sweat smeared across his startlingly feminine face. He raised the gun and splattered his surroundings with another jet of bullets. Then, another boy with a gun rushed past the camera. He paused briefly next to the other boy, yelling something, before dashing off screen. He sported a massive mohawk streaked with ash. His bare chest was dotted with blood. The first boy looked around him, setting off a volley of gunfire. As he span about, his eyes shot to the camera.
Mable felt a chill run down her spine as the youth aimed the weapon at the camera and pressed the trigger and the screen was filled with static.