Well, the discord server made me update this again. So here I am.

I bet y'all have forgotten about this, and it really feels like ages ago. But this exists again. Yay…

-SpiritOfErebus

"Good match." I nodded, pocketing a barely conscious Glalie. Another hundred bucks was secured.

The opposing trainer with two badges sighed and nodded, walking away.

It had been a week since my battling campaign had begun, and in this time period, I've won five times and lost two times. Counting this match, I now had three hundred more dollars. However… If I wanted to make back the rent that I was paying, I would have to win seventeen more battles without losing.

Seventeen.

I also had to pay for food, and the occasional drink, and… not much else, really.

My pokenav pinged, and my parent's faces popped up after I answered a call.

"Hey, son. We're really sorry to ask you this, but-"

"No, I don't have money." I sighed. "I've lost two matches this week, so I'm only up three hundred."

"Damn." my father sighed. "We're just a bit short on paying this month's mortgage and for your sister's school supplies. So if you could just…"

I paused. Wait a minute…

"Have you paid your taxes yet?" I asked suddenly.

"N-no…? Why do you ask? We have money saved up to pay our taxes, if that's what you're asking. We can fight loan sharks, but the IRS is just-"

"Hold off on paying your taxes." I said.

"But the IRS! They'll steal our souls and faces-"

"I'll make sure we have enough money left over after we pay our taxes to pay the mortgage."

"How, son? Wait, don't rob any stores!"

"I'm going to start a business." I said, sighing.

"Having money troubles?" Holly said, popping up from out of nowhere. "I think that I can help you with-"

"I'm sorry!" I yelled, running away, tears in my eyes. "I still have two percent of my dignity! Please… spare me!"

Holly's wallet was already in her hand when I turned the street corner and disappeared.

…

Rationally, there was no way that I was going to make enough money in the two weeks before tax season really began. The only way that I was going to make this work was to create a business, allocate my family's assets under that business… and declare bankruptcy.

It wouldn't reduce other forms of tax, but income and the tax deduction from starting a business would be a good bit of reduction. The tax deduction from starting a business alone would be five thousand.

Thus, I had to start some sort of business in order to save this five thousand.

"Hey, dad?" I asked over the phone. "Is five thousand enough for whatever we have to pay this month?"

"Sure. You better not be taking more high interest loans, son-"

I disconnected from the call and continued to file my paperwork while it was still being printed. Finally, the last page fell from the pokecenter printer. As other people looked at me, flabbergasted, I retrieved Glalie from the healing machine, paid two bucks for printing fifty pages, and walked out of the air conditioned room.

The sun was even more sweltering now that we were crossing into the boundaries of midsummer. Glalie emerged from his ball, admiring his pristine form and the victory that we had just garnered against a grass type.

He looked at the paperwork in my hand and gave me a confused glance.

"I'm trying to start a business."

Glalie looked at me as if I was crazy.

"It's for alleviating tax burdens." I explained. "I'm not going to quit on our journey, but I at least have to help my family pay our mortgage, right?"

Glalie bobbed his head up and down. I took that as a yes.

"Oh, there you are!" Holly said. "What's with all the paperwork? Again, do you want-"

"Please…" I wailed, running away once more. "Spare me my dignity! Only one percent of it remains!"

Glalie caught a loose page of paperwork that escaped my grasp within his mouth, cast an apologetic glance at Holly, and floated after me.

"I was just going to ask if he wanted to eat dinner together…" Holly said.

Holly's Rosalia emerged from the roof of the pokecenter and began to use petal dance again.

"Now's not the time, Rosie." Holly groaned. "Why do none of my plans ever go right?"

…

Slurping my instant noodles, I looked at the complete paperwork package.

The words Winston and Glalie: Ice Co. were at the top of the now stapled stack of paper.

I put down the pot and sighed, wiping some sweat off my brow. Glalie took this as a queue to float a bit closer. I sighed and leaned against his icy body.

I very specifically did not ask for air conditioning for this very reason.

"We're done for the day." I said, idly scratching an irregularity that formed on Glalie's icy body due to freezing condensation. "All of my paperwork has been filled out… We've done our daily battle… And we haven't given into the temptation of living off of Holly's money. But at this rate, we might have to. You're running out of Pokemon food."

Glalie sighed.

"We're going to have to find other ways to make money in the short term. And not just a little money…"

The pokemon looked concerned, as much as his frozen expression allowed him to.,

"We're going to have to make five hundred dollars in business registration fees."

That night, I lay awake, thinking of everything that I could do to make money. My covers tostled. My bed was generally thrashed on by my squirming. Glalie looked concerned at my strange actions.

At somewhere near one, I sat up.

"Oh, wait, I have an Ice type pokemon and it's summer!" I almost shouted. The result of the statement was still rather loud, and several people banged on the walls for me to quiet down.

"Sorry!" I yelled.

The banging intensified.

"Damn…" I sighed. "I really have cranky neighbors."

…

I sat at the side of a slushie stall, looking over my business permit forms. Beside me was an array of plastic chairs that I had borrowed from my apartment manager, who had allowed me to use them.

In front of the array of chairs sat a whiteboard that I had rescued from the back of the Rustboro Training school. It may have a corner shaved off by what looked like extremely sharp claws, and may also be dented by what was probably rock throw target practice, but at least it was a whiteboard.

Holly sat in front of the board, leisurely sipping on a slushie that had come from Glalie's relentless ice production practice.

Speaking of Glalie, said ice ball was currently exhausted, having both trained and provided ice stock for my slushie business for the whole morning.

"So… what exactly are you doing here?" Holly asked, finally putting down the overpriced slushie filled with sugar and food coloring.

"I'm not licensed to give economics lessons, technically, but what I can do is start a supposed economy study hall that encourages people to start businesses and evade taxes via bankruptcy."

"Are you bankrupt then?" Holly said, looking around at my haphazard setup.

"Yeah." I muttered, lamenting my decision of only creating one canopy for the seats. "If I declare bankruptcy, I can save five thousand on taxes and make my trainer earnings tax deductible."

"Is that how it works?" Holly said, raising an eyebrow. "I mean, if it really was that easy to evade taxes, why aren't more people doing it?"

"Because of your credit score." I said simply. "If you keep declaring bankruptcy, then nobody will bother to let you borrow money. And if you're really that financially destitute to need the bankruptcy bonuses, then it's not sustainable."

"Ah." she said.

"Yes." I said awkwardly.

We sat in silence as the sun continued to burn down on us, and it occurred to me that not many people would be outside

"Can I buy your stall for five thousand, then?" Holly said innocently, pulling out her wallet. "I don't know if you have a card reader, but-"

"I appreciate your help…" I said, sighing. "This is something I have to handle on my own, though."

"I mean, you're still in school. You're not expected to handle this stuff on your own."

"There's a matter of dignity, and the matter of proving that I can actually do something." I said. "Years ago, I failed on my pokemon journey. I couldn't achieve anything. This is my last shot at proving that I'm not a failure before entering the corporate workforce!"

"That's cool and all, man, but are you going to sell me a slushie or not?" a kid said, waving his hand impatiently.

"Oh, of course!" I said, instantly plastering a grin on my face. "What flavor?"

The kid grinned.

…

"Customer service is a damn nightmare." I said, sighing. The sun had left its peak of noon, but hadn't yet arrived at its waning state at 4pm. Looking at the measly collection of bills in my pockets and a thoroughly exhausted Glalie, I sighed.

"That's 102 dollars."

Glalie gave an exhausted, yet cheerful rumble.

"So, if we keep this up, we can eventually get 500 dollars for the registration fee!" I cheered. "And the taxes are due in… four days. Great. And we have no seminar sign ups."

"If you really need five hundred dollars, you can take the gym challenge." Holly said helpfully. "Winning against the gym trainers gives you a sizable prize, you know? I think it's about a thousand. And it's four thousand for winning against-"

I looked up from the bills in my hand so fast I thought something cracked in my spine.

"Holly, you're a lifesaver! Thank you so much!"

"There's something you have to know, though! You need a second pokemon to make it an exhibition match. Rustboro televising it actually gives you the money."

I sighed.

"Where am I going to get a pokemon now?"

…

"So, even as a psychic type, you wish to follow the route of physical strength?"

"Yes."

A Ralts wearing wooden armor stuffed with magazines said, its eyes obscured but its passion not hidden in the slightest. For some reason, a rather large rock was right in front of it, clearly robbed from its natural habitat and judging by the amount of grass stains and mud splotches on it, it had been pushed for… several miles.

Before the Raltz stood the pokemon that was obviously a strength trainer. With their intimidating lumps and almost rock hard skin, it was clear that it was pretty tough.

"Very well. You remind me of when I was younger." the grizzled pokemon said. "Very well, then. You will train… and you will suffer."

"I'm prepared." the Ralts murmured.

"What did you say? I can't hear your determination."

"I said… I'm prepared!" The Ralts declared. "I'll get stronger. I'll lift the rock and pass the Glalie trial. And I'll join that trainer's team!"

With his wooden sword in hand, and a dream filled with manga and comic books, the Ralts was ready to take on the world.

…

The Ralts was not ready to take on the world. His pitiful, white, thin, and thin arms shook. Emphasis on thin. Did I mention thin yet?

"It's almost like they are vestigial structures." the older pokemon noted, nodding his head. "Your arms are weak. weaker than one of my eyelashes. But I admire your determination."

The Ralts lay sprawled on the ground, his makeshift wooden armor on the ground, but the comics that lay within were stacked on top of a rock neatly.

"Was I not cut out for this?" the Ralts muttered. "Maybe it was just a dream. Maybe it was impossible."

"Why do you forsake your natural gifts, child?" The pokemon said, sitting down on a rock and peering at the frazzled, green hair that blended in so well with the grass.

"Because… I can't use it." the Ralts said. "Sure, I can perform telepathy and read emotions. But whenever it comes to manifesting psychic energy, or any type of energy, as an attack… It just doesn't work. I can't do it."

"What do you mean that it doesn't work? Are you just not finding your mental switch? Have you not asked the other Ralts in your group?"

"There… is no group. My first memory was of me out in a dumpster." the Ralts reminisced. "It was a misty, rainy night, and I was too weak to move. I tried to move. I tried to crawl. But the things on me just wouldn't let me budge. I was in that plastic prison. For two days."

The older pokemon said nothing.

"But then, when I felt like I was going to finally collapse. To never open my eyes again? Somebody threw away a book. One of these comics. I still have it here." the Ralts said, slowly inching his way to the pile of books that he had left on a rock..

"On it was an image of adventure. A promise of life. I couldn't read the words back then, but I saw the pictures… and I knew… That I, one day, would also want to live like that. If I made it out of the dumpster."

"So you lifted." the elder said, nodding.

"Yes." the Ralts said. "So I lifted."

"Very well then." the elder said, standing up from the rock and kicking some moss loose from his feet. "I shall train you in earnest."

"Wait, this wasn't the earnest part?" the Ralts said. "But the trainer that I want is going to take a gym challenge in four days! And he'll need a team member that's dependable by then! And the Glalie promised that if I lifted that rock over there, I could join the team!"

"Don't worry." the elder said. "Some good, old fashioned spartan training will see you through."

"What the hell is that? Spert-ain? Aspartame? The sweetener?"

"Aspartame may be sweet, but your training will be bitter. Bitter yet rewarding."

…

"Run, run you maggot!" the elder said, watching the young Ralts run across the clearing as fast as his legs could allow. His legs were strange, with a concentration of mass that was very much centered on the feet, meaning that steps were much harder to take.

And yet, it persisted. Trudging through the grass and the uneven ground. Ending up with bruises that

…

"Okay, twenty more reps!" the elder roared. "I could do more with the hairs on my body!"

"B-but how could you possibly?" the Ralts wondered, losing his concentration and dropping the fist-sized rocks it was using as training weights.

"Yes." the elder said. "Exactly how you think it is possible."

The Ralts screamed in frustration.

…

"Thirty more!"

The Ralts groaned.

…

"Ten more laps!"

…

"Two more- wait, there's a human."

With the montage interrupted at the third day mark, the Ralts looked up from his twenty seventh sit up and looked into the clearing that was near a dirt road. Quickly rustling through the grass, the Ralts peeked out of the bush to finally see-

"It's him! It's him! My destined trainer!" the Ralts said. "And the Glalie. But that's not important. Quick, I need the rock. I need the rock that he gave me as a test. Where is it? Where?"

"Oh, hey, Glalie." the trainer said. "There's some rustling in the grass. Do you mind if I just… try my luck with this pokeball?"

The elder pokemon stared at the trainer, slightly confused. The trainer just looked perfectly average. Sure, the evolved pokemon was dangerous, but given the fact that the trainer was in Rustboro, they probably weren't very advanced.

"I have it! I have the rock!" the Ralts squealed, pushing it over from across the grass.

The Glalie by the trainer froze. And not because it was a block of ice.

"So it was the Glalie that issued the challenge, huh?" the elder thought. "Well, it probably knew that lifting a rock like that one was impossible for a creature as skinny as a Ralts. So that means the Glalie really doesn't want that young Ralts on their team. Why would it possibly be…"

"This is just like what the comics said! I'm so gosh darn excited!" the Ralts squealed.

"Ah, that would do it."

"Eh, whatever." the trainer said. "I'll just throw it. I can probably find another pokeball conveniently in the woods, anyways. I wonder how all of that gear just got scattered out in the wild, though…"

The trainer squinted and spotted a glint of red.

"What is that thing? Whatever. I'll try to catch it."

The ball was thrown, and it sailed past a leaf, bounced off a branch, and almost hit the Ralts's head-

A block of ice was shot at the pokeball, and it was deflected far off course. The Ralts seemed almost betrayed as the block of ice deflected its chance of being captured.

The elder sighed, and closed his eyes.

"I guess your dreams weren't meant to be, young one." The elder said, turning to look at the dejected expression of the Ralts. "Now that trainer will find another, and-"

The pokeball was flying straight at him.

"Wait! Wait! Wai-!"

Then, everything went black.

…

"Why did you have to blast that pokeball with ice?" the trainer said disapprovingly at Glalie. Surprisingly, for a block of ice, he expressed… fear… pretty well. For some reason.

"Was that thing going to blow up?"

The Glalie shrugged, somehow, with no shoulders. It was more of a motion like changing its hovering altitude slightly.

"Okay, then. Go get it… maybe." the trainer said, wincing and backing away. "We don't want to get traced to a potential fire hazard. It might even get us fined!"

The Glalie snuck into the forest. Quickly, it looked around for the Ralts, but it was currently still catatonically lying down on the grass in shock.

Perhaps it was for the best. Some nutjobs really should just… stay out of their team.

Glalie found the red pokeball in the midst of a ton of weeds, and realized that… it had actually captured something. Almost out of reflexes to follow his trainer's orders, he tried to pick it up with his teeth. On the third try, the ball of ice succeeded, and the red ball was successfully held by the slightly open jaw.

As the Ralts slowly sat up and accepted a life without meaning, it saw Glalie holding the pokeball.

Then, looking at the rock, its eyes filled with determination.

"It's you! I can lift it now! I can lift the rock now!" the Ralts desperately lied, "Just please, tell your trainer to come capture me!"

The Glalie zipped out of the forest with speed never seen before in an ice ball that was in no way aerodynamic. Its two horns cut deep gouges into some trees as it floated at a truly preposterous speed.

"Wait, I'm still here! Please!" the Ralts shouted, running after the ice block.

"Is that… a Ralts… shouting? I'm pretty sure I heard it say its name." the trainer said. "Weird. I never really took them for the type. Wait, where are we going? Why are you scooping me onto your back? How are you doing this?"

By the time the Ralts got to the road, the trainer and pokemon were long gone.

"I guess it really wasn't meant to be, right?" the Ralts sighed.

There was no response.

"Respected elder! Where are you!"

…

After being dumped off at the city entrance, Glalie dropped the pokeball onto the pavement and fell to the ground.

"Why… Did you go that fast?" I asked, trying to tidy up my windswept hair. "Was there something dangerous in there?"

Glalie thought for a moment, before nodding.

"Alright." I said, deciding to trust my loyal companion that didn't have any reason to possess ulterior motives. "Well, it was probably for the best. Now, let's see… is this thing going to explode?"

I picked up the pokeball. Despite its scratched exterior and slightly sticky button, it… glowed… showing the indication for a new capture.

"Wait, I got something?" I yelped, almost dropping the ball. "If it was next to something that was dangerous… And it allowed itself to be caught… surely, it would be a young, strong, exotic pokemon!"

The Glalie somehow looked… doubtful. But I interpreted it differently. Maybe Glalie was doubting its future place in the team.

"Don't worry." I said, patting Glalie on the horn while bending down to pick up the fallen ball. "Whatever is in this ball, even if it's extremely powerful, I would never, and I stress, never betray the promise that we made."

I pressed the button. With a spluttery, white glow, the aged pokeball worked its futuristic technology and sent out a beam of concentrated, red energy. As it slowly coalesced into a recognizable form, I leaned forwards in anticipation.

It was red. Yes, I had seen red in the forest. That was to be expected.

And it was yellow.

And it was… a bug?

An old and slightly concussed Wurmple looked back up at me.

"...Yeah." I said awkwardly. "Definitely not breaking that promise. I'll still only be using you to defeat Roxanne."

…

It was an age of strife before the league was established. Before the humans walked the earth consistently amidst the Petalburg Woods.

But back then, it had no such name. The only thing that gave the place significance were the pokemon.

The battles for survival were bloody and fierce. And amidst the chaos that formed were two major factions: the bugs and the birds.

One? Predators that soared in the sky, that bonded over the combined abundance of food and roamed the skies

The other? Hardened survivalists that could only resort to burrowing underground, or surviving in the crevices under bushes.

He was let out to face the wilderness when he was but a hatchling. He had faced the trial of obfuscation before, and stared down the wild shroomishes attempting to incorporate him with nothing but a stinger and the move tackle.

But he survived. And there were many like him. Soldiers born of the same cloth, of the same clutch of eggs.

Slowly, he grew. Fighting for nutrition against the invasive Nincada. Avoiding the birds like the plague. The Wurmples grew in number, but any time one of them was cocky enough to evolve, their cocoon-ridden forms with no mobility would be beset upon and pecked to death.

Thus, they suffered. And waited for their numbers to swell larger.

At the point when they finally reached a critical mass, when they could no longer gather enough food to sustain their large population… they marched.

Wurmples. Hundreds by hundreds. Gathering in the trees, stingers and string shot ready. Adorned with all sorts of natural armor that their segmented limbs could find, and armed with stones and pebbles slowly stockpiled over years.

Now, he was old for a Wurmple. Barely past adulthood. His carapace had molted for the fifth time already, and it was beginning to lose its luster.

But he was the oldest of the first generation. The generation that hid, and bided their time, and survived.

No longer. That would be the day where the treaty betwixt bird and bug would be rewritten. Where they would no longer need to cower and hide against the birds.

Some cocky birds approached, flying over the crowd of puny bugs like they were nothing but hatchlings. They would soon be taught otherwise.

String Shot slings and rocks. They did their part.

Atop the few corpses of the birds congregate a mass of the Taillow. First by tens, then by fifties, they gathered, until they numbered at about one fifth of the bug's host.

Despite being outnumbered, each one was stronger, more maneuverable, and were built to be bug-killing machines.

What did the Wurmples have besides preparation?

"Wurmples!" the birds had cried. "Lay down your stingers!"

"Taillow!" he replied, screeching to the sky. "Come and get them!"

First, a gust was sent through the grove as the birds gathered into one huge block, beginning to create the winds. Some Wurmple chose to evolve right then and there, into Cascoons or Silcoons, to brave the assault. He stood behind his comrades as they rendered themselves immobile.

Easy targets.

Yet, their sacrifices were worthy. Their hard exterior and their almost immovable position defended the bug host from the wrath of the wind.

Next, impatient, the birds swooped down upon their lines. From the trees, Wurmples emerged. Shooting spikes and throwing rocks with their silk-made slings. Many segmented arms came off during the intensity of combat, but the Taillow were equally disturbed by the flying rocks and poison.

"Steady!" He roared.

The Wurmples did not flinch. Amidst the ring of battered Silcoon and Cascoon, the majority of the Wurmple host fired back their stingers and threw their stones, waiting… for the birds to swoop down.

And they did.

"Our wings will blot out the sunlight." the leader of the Taillow, one bird particularly close to evolution, said. "You will stand no chance! Descend! Go to melee!"

And as the birds descended beneath the treeline, they did not see why the bugs had chosen this particular grove.

String shots from the trees laced across the skyline, covering the bird's escape. Once the birds realized that they had, indeed, been trapped, they tried flying out sideways.

But during the initial battle, Wurmple after Wurmple had given their vitality and string supply in order to barricade the sides. Hundreds lay catatonic at the feet of their creation.

With the cumulation of his follower's sacrifices, with their determination and dedication, he was able to say this.

"Then we will fight in the shade."

Shroomish corpses were dug up, and their spores were spread across the clearing. With Shield Dust as an ability, most Wurmples were resistant, if not just a bit impaired. It was a different story for the birds, however.

Trapped in a cage, unable to escape. Unable to spread your wings, as spores wafted through the air and made your muscles spasm. Their warm-blooded nature made them especially susceptible, having developed less resistance to the spores over the years.

Meanwhile, stingers stabbed. Rocks were thrown. Pecks were doled out all around. He had been at the front of the fray, his carapace scratched and punctured. Yet, leaking hemolymph from every wound, he continued to fight.

In the end, the barrier was broken, and the Taillow escaped. They had entered with around a hundred, and had left with twenty.

The Wurmple had begun with a thousand. They ended with two hundred.

This battle had decimated both their population.

But what the Wurmples also had… were their young. They had who knew how many generations, stashed in the earth. And though the Taillow were strong, this battle would remain to teach them a lesson.

That bugs could bite back.

Eventually, a treaty was fixed between the two races. The continuous presence of Nincada on the border of what would be known as Petalburg woods troubled the both of them, so they declared not to ambush each other. Any individual caught slaying one another would be exiled.

This treaty was spat on when the humans arrived. Carving dirt roads through their lands and destroying generations of selective tree farming and bush formations.

Eventually, the treaty and their battle were forgotten. His companions had either perished to the new fire types given out by the human settlers to their children or succumbed to old war wounds. Taillow were especially popular to capture, and what little population remained in the woods either fled to the areas near the beaches, where fish was plentiful, or other remote islands where trees were accessible to nest in.

But he remained.

And he remembered.

For he was the one that the bugs once called Leonidas.

But now? Chained to a half-broken pokeball to a buffoon more concerned about monetary troubles and personal pride than self-improvement?

It was a grave insult.

As the group strode into the gym, a foreign place for the elderly Wurmple, he knew that he was going to be used as cannon fodder. To be placed and surrendered. All because of a silly promise that a child had made years ago.

When will the pain of his race end? When will the cries of his companions be heard, when they had been roasted alive by Torchic or crushed under the feet of the destructive forces of humanity?

He didn't know.

But that… was not this day.

Yes, this was a very blatant 300 reference. Yes, this is mildly stupid.

But it was funny, and you never really know what's going on with pokemon society and their potentially tribalistic culture.

Discord link: discord . gg / 9t9MK3jHmV

-SpiritOfErebus