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Sandra
"Look, I brought you your favorite sweets!" I showed the sylveon. Cherry candies still remind me of him.
"Mmm…!" He smiled gleefully. I put one in his mouth for him to bite at, and I let him climb on me. Little dots and trails of warmth went through my body his paws touched me, his ribbons caressing my delicate flesh. I took a deep breath.
And so did he. But of course his breath was sweet, smelling of sweet flowers and a fresh mountain jungle. All the more it reminded me of my baby boy. Deep in his eyes, I saw my face: the reflection of my body.
I almost felt guilt for tainting the crystal glow in his eyes with my reflection. But his reassuring smile dissolved all my worries, my fears. What remained was fearlessness, the courage that had long reigned inside the sylveon's eyes.
He didn't hesitate in removing my clothes. After all, pokémon like him saw no use in such…worthless pieces of fabric. What did I have to hide, anyway? From the sylveon, at least? He was so intelligent; even knew how to work the bra catch at the back. All the time, his eyes remained that solid blue, his smile unfazed.
The phone suddenly rang.
"Ah, fuck, who the hell is this?" I picked it up. "Hello?"
"Front desk. Your two hours are almost up, Sandy," the manager said.
"What're you talking about, I just got here!" Even though I was only on the phone, I still had the prudishness to cover by bare breasts during the conversation.
"If you wanna stay longer, I'm gonna have to charge you another P30000."
"No way," I said. "Screw you. Unless you wanna lose a good customer, I suggest you don't nickel and dime me."
He hesitated to speak. "Erm…look, I'll level with ya. We're a little short on cash. I got some debts to settle. Unless you want this place to go away, I suggest you pay up."
I turned to the sylveon, who retained his innocent smile even in the face of my worried look. "Erm…okay then. I'll pay. Later. Just put it on my bill. Bye."
"Mmm…?" the sylveon squealed. I had never seen him not smile, until that time. He saw I was worried, and for once the smile of innocence disappeared and he was worried too.
I never forgave myself for that. I guess you could say that my relationship with the sylveon would never the same after that. He swept one of his bright pink ribbons across my arm. It radiated with pulsating warmth, but it lacked the intensity I once felt.
And it was only going to get colder.
I shed one tear, but that's it. "Don't worry, it's…it's nothing," I convinced myself, thinking out loud. The sylveon's smile returned. "Everything's fine."
I lied on my back, in preparation. "Come on…let's go."
Very soon, we were but two living souls…the trainer and the trainee. And I have to say, it was a lovely lesson to learn. That was what was so special about him.
"Mmm…?" The sylveon noticed the cuts and bruises on my arms.
"Oh. It's fine. It's not your fault."
I had had a rough day. My husband shouted at me. He knew that I was secretly leaving home every night around 10pm. He accused me of cheating on him. He called me a bitch. He called me a whore. He took his belt at first and lashed it at me. Then it was full on fists.
"Dammit, Sandra, should've known you were a cheater," he sneered. "Fucking Alolan culture's gotten into you, hasn't it? What's next, screwing a pokémon!?"
I flinched slightly. Then my husband hit me again.
Amis was woken by the noise. He came out of his bedroom and watching his Daddy hit his Mommy. I caught a glimmer of his deceptively innocent-looking face in my eye. He didn't even flinch when his Daddy punched Mommy. He hugged his plush Pikachu tighter—maybe. His fingernails dug into the fabric, until you could see the stuffing. My husband hit me again. Amis tried not to laugh.
My husband had gone all out with his yelling and beating. There were two monsters in the room: him and his son. And oh, how they loved to hurt me. The only thing they would love more, though, is if I hit them.
I slapped my husband once. He screamed like a girl. He fell to the ground. His pain tolerance was absolute shit. All men and boys are just weaker girls with muscles, the way I think about it. Too much power for their own good. The sylveon, behind all its resplendent bows and pink fur, was unashamedly a male, in its truest form. Power. Raw power. All tied up with a bow in a lovely little package.
I told Amis to go to bed. And seeing my husband crouched on the floor in pain, like a little boy, I also commanded him to go to bed.
Amis had become more and more withdrawn. In the times he did talk, he was interested in guns and battleships and the like. Pokémon were for pussies, he would say. I scolded him with a broken heart, saying that it was wrong for an eight year old like him to say such words.
I had a glimmer of hypocrisy in my mind though: perhaps it was wrong for me to have sex with a pokémon. But I did not let it worry me. I did not let my family worry me.
Of all the things the sylveon stripped from me: clothing, bras, lingerie—the most important was my fear. My fear was gone. I was courageous. I refused to succumb. All thanks to the sylveon.
And with that, my family was gone.
So I wondered, how long would it be before the sylveon was gone?
Christine
There is something called the forbidden fruit argument, which many prominent Alolan figures, including people such as Professor Kukui, have endorsed. He told me "Gems are only mined because they are buried deep," which I think most aptly summarizes his argument.
I had lunch with him about six days before we conducted the raid, hoping to eke out a prominent witness from him. Here is an abridged excerpt of our conversation.
"Heh," he scoffed, casually taking a sip of his iced coffee. "That's what you International Police folks in Goldenrod don't understand. Humans have always had responsible relationships with pokémon. It's called the trainer."
"But sex isn't the kind of training most normal humans have in mind," I retaliated.
We were seated indoors in a relatively luxurious restaurant, but he was decidedly informal. He didn't bother to button up the top three buttons of his shirt, and he wore a pair of board shorts that doubled as swimwear.
I couldn't help but feeling like a prude at times during that meeting, wearing my traditional women's suit with a long blazer and long pants. Which perhaps only furthered the Professor's argument against my case.
"But in that you're wrong," he said. "Humans have always been curious about having sex with their pokémon. It's just that the mainland has always denied it. Denial of problems never solves any problems, Ms. Christine. And we Alolans understand that."
I leaned in closer. "Have you, Professor, ever had a sexual relationship with a pokémon?"
The Professor let out a peal of laughter, leaning back into his chair. "Goddamn it, you Johto people! You're from Johto, right? You don't have to lower your voice like that and treat it as taboo. We Alolans aren't ashamed by this kind of thing. But answering your question, yeah. I have. But I tell you something."
This time, he leaned in closer. "I never hurt any of them. My pokémon are my long-time companions and friends that I have raised and gotten to know. Pokémon have personalities, just like people. And just like people, it takes time to form a long, fulfilling relationship. I'm not saying it's easy, or that it should be easy. But by all means, it can be done."
"Then do you condemn the businesses that sell sex with pokémon for profit?" I asked him.
"You mean the pokémon brothel? What's it called, the PokéPalace? I'll have you know none of us locals visit that place, myself included. It's for tourists, or folks from the mainland who have settled down here recently."
I pulled out something from my briefcase. "This is a cyndaquil, owned by a young eight-year old boy. I want you to take a good look at it."
"Mm-hmm." He picked up the photo print of Mrs. Macintosh's son, standing at the trailhead of the jungle: smiling, petting his pokémon. The photo was taken many years ago. Too many years ago for Mrs. Macintosh.
"The boy killed the pokémon with bleach in his food. Here is a photo of the corpse." I shoved it into the Professor's face. He flinched slightly. The cyndaquil was pale, eyes frozen in terror, the fire on its back extinguished. "The kid killed his own pokémon in cold blood. No remorse. In fact, he even laughed. And you deny that pokémon are not being abused in your so-called 'perfect Alolan society'?"
"Not at all, I agree with you on that," the Professor replied calmly. "The kid needs to be punished. And our Alolan courts will deal with that. If anything, we condemn the cold-blooded murder of pokémon more than all you mainlanders do.
"Abusers of pokémon will always be around, no matter how many rules you impose," he said. "But by penalizing the humans who conduct responsible and ethical relationships with pokémon, you're not differentiating the good from the bad.
"I mean, what harm could happen with a consensual, long-term relationship with a pokémon?"
Sandra
It had been the 30th time we met each other at the PokéPalace, a sort of anniversary I guess. But every time felt just as new, just as refreshing.
"AAAHH!" The sylveon squealed ever louder as I pulled his ribbons, his body pressing against mine. I did think that even a pokémon would have grimy sweat around him. But I did not think that his sweat could smell so…sweet.
"Yeah…that's right…scream…feels…so good…" I gasped, pulling at his ribbons. He always loved me to do that.
"AAAHH…!" We both screamed. I felt his heat inside of me. And then his ribbons drooped, and he grew limp and tired on the bed.
BAM-BAM! I heard a sound. I thought at first that the manager was pounding on the door, groveling for more money. Had it been an hour already? But it was the window.
I walked up to the window. There was no one there. I feared my husband. He was intelligent, and remarkably athletic. He could have easily climbed up the three-storey wall of the building to reach me. Amis took very much after his father.
"Mmm…?" The sylveon looked at my tense face, cocking his head a little.
"My son killed his cyndaquil today," I admitted my worries to him.
"Mmm…?"
"The pokémon was just…choking…gagging…and all Amis did was stared." No. Not just stared. "He stared and laughed. Loud. By the time I got there it was too late."
"It just makes me wonder—" I paused. The sylveon retained his unsullied smile. Was he even listening? My face turned morose. Did the sylveon even understand? Did he feel what I felt, see what I see, kiss what I kissed? Or he was just another oblivious pokémon.
I looked at him. He was still smiling, his eyes the same lovely liquid blue. Oh. I see.
Then perhaps I was just as much of a pokémon abuser as my son was.
I lay flat on my tummy, looking at the lying-down sylveon in the eye. I was close enough to smell the sweet scent of his breath.
"Did you hear all that? Hmm? Did you?"
His expression didn't waver. He was like a statue. Perhaps his conscience was only a figment of my imagination.
"Do you understand what I'm saying?" No response. I giggled, thinking how silly it was to talking to a statue.
The sylveon finally responded: he giggled back. We laughed together for a few minutes, staring deep into each other's eyes.
"Sing…sing me a song." I told him. "Please."
And with that, the notes of his disarming voice came out like dust in the wind. Like balloons drifting in a breeze. His voice was so light and high-pitched, like my son. I liked to think, when I closed my eyes, that it was my son singing. But the feeling of fur in my fingers dispelled that myth. We were at the highest floor of the building, on the third floor. I wanted so much to cling onto the musical ones and fly away from this hell.
That was what was different. There was something about us: me and the sylveon, that I couldn't describe. It was told in the song, in lyrics of the pokémon lyrics that I couldn't understand. There was something locked deep in the sylveon's soft melody that told me it couldn't be "abuse".
But then he stopped singing, and my mind was beset with worry again.
Sylveon
Why did you stay with the lady?
Because I had to. She's my customer.
But did you want to stay with her?
Well, yeah, kinda. I felt sorry for her.
Why is that?
Her husband was violent. He beat her. And her son liked to hurt pokémon.
What did they do?
I saw the cuts and bruises on her arms. She also got hurt down there. Her husband beat her. And then she said her son killed the cyndaquil he had since he was a kid. He put bleach in the cyndaquil's food, and he died. The lady said her son laughed a lot.
It's like that time in the dark room, when Master's people poked me with those needles, and put the burning liquid on my fur.
The lady cried when she told me the story about her son. She didn't feel like having sex with me anymore. But she stayed with me for two hours anyway.
Do you know what death is?
Of course I do. [giggles] It's when you stop breathing forever. And ever. You know, sometimes I can hold my breath for two or three minutes. After a while it starts feeling weird. I haven't gone longer than three minutes. I think that must be how that cyndaquil felt when the lay's son fed him the bleach. Like holding your breath, except you don't have a choice.
Do you hold your breath often?
Only when I feel bad. When I hold my breath, there's hope. There isn't time to worry about things on a busy night. You're counting seconds instead of years. Why is there hope? Maybe if I died, I could finally be able to count the years. [smiles]
Christine
The two years of investigation prior to the raid was not spent in vain. I, for example, was given the honor of compiling and estimating the brothel's financial records, thanks to intelligence reports. Cameras were installed and stakeouts done to record the exact flow of clients through the door. Our agents entered undercover as clients to inquire about pricing, and then leave on some pretense (the price was too much, they didn't want to get involved with something illegal).
Mrs. Macintosh had spent at least P1.5 million over the past two months on the sylveon, which amounts to 50 sessions with the pokémon: almost once a night.
Over the course of 90 days, our intelligence reported at least 8 regular clients (a few times a week), 30 occasional visitors (a few times a month), and 47 one-time visitors. Sessions cost on average, P45000 for two hours (the sylveon was considerably cheaper). Extensions cost P20000 per hour, and are an extremely lucrative tactic on the brothel's part.
Based on these statistics, we calculated monthly revenues of about P33.5 million, not including impromptu tips by customers.
The Master, otherwise known as Kai Beverly, took a handsome salary of P1.7million a month, all tax-free of course. His staff of five people, including pokémon tamers, medics, and cleaners, each took a whopping salary of P1.1million a month: a payment for silence, more than anything else.
Food expenses were not counted. They were so negligible in comparison, that they weren't even worthy of recording. Flour costs P50 per pound in bulk. This, along with miscellaneous costs (maintenance of the building, bribes to nearby businesses, etc.) adds to no more than P5 million a month.
Our intelligence reports found that the business made a profit of about P5.5 million a month, not a shabby sum.
But this leaves P15.8million of expenses unaccounted for. This confounded our entire investigation team for some time. Where was all this money going? We looked into the banker cords of the Hau'oli Regional Bank.
Consistently, every month, we found record of a P15.1 million wire transfer to Saffron City. Such high levels of money require a signature by the sender and recipient, to prove they were anticipating the money in advance. The recipient was signed:
Giovanni.
The infamous leader of Team Rocket had signed the wire transfer in his name. Moreover, Saffron City is the headquarters of Team Rocket. This alone was not damning, however. There were plenty of people with the name Giovanni, and the handwriting was not a definite match. We would be crushed by their legal defense team.
"The only difference between defense lawyers and police is that police have morals," one of my colleagues joked when I presented him with my evidence. "You're gonna be fucked with this little proof."
I prayed every night not to get fucked. My wish came true several months before the PokéPalace was raided. We had conducted an unrelated raid on an alleged hideout of Team Skull. Upon searching the person of one of the female grunts, I uncovered a small receipt in her pocket. It read:
PokéPalace. Bill of services. July 5.
Persons: 7.
1 Primarina, male—2 hours: 51000
1 Sylveon, male—2 hours: 30000
2 Meowstic, female—2 hours: 2 x 40000
4 Lopunny, female—2 hours: 4 x 30000
Extension +1hr (8 pokémon): 8 x 20000
Extension +1hr (8 pokémon): 8 x 20000
Extension +1hr (8 pokémon): 8 x 20000
40% discount (Team Skull member): -304400
Total P456600
Written at the bottom, in different handwriting:
Will reimburse your party. I will fill out form for you all. Contact Giovanni to arrange details.
"What do you know about this?" I confronted the female grunt in interrogation.
"I didn't arrange the party," she said calmly, seemingly oblivious to my anger. "Someone gave the receipt to me. This is the first time I've looked at it."
I shoved the receipt into her face. "Look at the receipt. It says Giovanni on it. Tell me: how is Giovanni linked to the brothel?"
The grunt pushed my hand with the receipt away from her face. Her eyes turned fierce, but in reality she was fearful; trembling.
"I…I suggest you don't say that name," she said after a long silence, "If you value your life…Ms. Christine."
I got as far as crumpling the receipt. But I did not throw it away.
(To be continued. Hope you enjoyed it, and I would appreciate your comments/feedback/criticism.)