Chapter 12 – Age

It was nearly a week after we got back from Snowpoint that I finally remembered to ask General Harding a question that had been on my mind for quite some time. Specifically, it probably dated back to when I first realized he was none other than the trainer I had seen on the television back when I was somewhere around eight years old.

"Sir?" I asked him, as we watched several machamp receiving a large shipping container from Timothy Kirrin's boom crane. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Eh? Ask away, kid – barring some highly confidential stuff, that is," he shrugged.

"Are all the heads of department here former pokemon trainers?"

He let out an amused chuckle upon hearing my question. "Kid, all of us used to be league contenders or former candidates for gym leadership at the very least. You know about my track record, as well as Fen's and Gary's, so... well, Claire was once in the running for leadership of Lieutenant Surge's gym when he retired, and Frances nearly became the Sinnoh league champion."

My eyes grew wide as I realized just how many high-ranking trainers worked at port control. I mean, I had expected maybe a couple of them to have been strong trainers once, but General Harding's answer had been way beyond my expectations.

But then again, his statements usually were.

"Hmm, in fact, I don't think there's a single department here that isn't headed by someone who has no background as a pokemon trainer," he continued, as he strolled over to the container that the machamp had opened up. "Even the heads of accounting and paperwork have some strong pokemon at their disposal."

"Wow, sir..." I followed him, and watched as he initialled some forms on a clipboard. "You mean that even Dr. Esther was a trainer once?"

As one of the machamp took the clipboard from him, he turned to face me with a vaguely surprised expression. "I actually have no idea – we tend to forget that she's in charge of the medical department, eh. She is a quiet one, you know..."

"She looks like she could be a poison specialist, what with the purple hair and all that," I smirked. "Plus, her skin is horrible – would that be a possible sign of a poison affinity?"

"Hah, you'd best not let her hear about you commenting on her skin – she's somewhat sensitive about it," he laughed, as we headed back to the cargo elevator that would take us to the office block. "But you do have a point, I guess. Koga's gang of ninjas used to have purple hair back in the day, as did some of the ghost specialists that spent a lot of their time with their gastly and gengar."

"No haunter?"

"Well," he scratched his chin in thought, "most people that use ghost-types tend to either use gastly or gengar, since haunter's more of an in-between pokemon, I guess. That, and haunter are actually the hardest to control of the three."

That certainly got my interest. "Why is it so, sir?"

"Haunter are the most unpredictable of the three members in that evolutionary line," General Harding answered as the lift's doors slid shut. "They also have the worst reputation for turning on their trainers if they deem the trainer to be incompetent – why did you think Agatha had two gengar and only one haunter? Ghosts do not regard age as a legitimate reason for making mistakes in a pokemon battle, heh!"

"Oh..." I nodded, somewhat unnerved by the idea of an angry haunter taking its trainer down. "That sounds bad."

"Bad doesn't even begin to describe it," he shrugged. "But it's the way of the universe, so c'est la vie and all that good shit."

"C'est la vie?" I echoed his words. "What does that mean, sir?"

"Eh, just one of the older languages that we hardly hear around these parts anymore... means 'that's life' or some crap like that," he shook his head. "I never was one to have a head for languages.

"And now, I have an assignment for you!"

I could only stare at him curiously – I had already finished all my assignments for the week in advance, so what he said was rather unexpected. Unless of course, he wanted me to go and bring him a change of clothes from his apartment again, while he finished his share of the departmental paperwork. "And what would that be, sir?"

"Well, what you said earlier about the good doctor has piqued my interest," he replied, as we stepped out of the cargo elevator – gods, it was slow – and headed towards his office. "So I want you to head down to the archives department and read her file! It's the only way we'll ever find out if she used to be a trainer, I guess."

"Sir, wouldn't that information be classified, confidential, or something?" I asked, relatively unsurprised by his instructions – he probably had done much worse before.

"Persiamon's quite relaxed in her capacity as the archivist," he smirked. "And trust me – she will know if you're planning to misuse the information in her archives."

"Wait – a digimon is the archivist?" I stared at him with a raised eyebrow. "You never mentioned there being any non-human departmental heads."

He merely shrugged as we reached his office. "No big deal, is it? Unless of course you're a xenophobe, in which case I'd be forced to report you to the relevant authorities."

"Oh, no sir," I shook my head. "Just not something I expected, since they all seem to vanish at night and all that."

"Well, the digimon all vanish at night because they sleep in special chambers of some sort – bathes them in radiation that our sun cannot emit, or something like that," he said, as he found his key and opened the office's door. "So scoot already – I want you to find out whether our local mad scientist was, is, or never has been a pokemon trainer."

"Umm, sir," I called out, as he was about to shut his office door, "why don't you just ask her?"

"This way is more fun – more like a spy movie!" he replied. "And she gives me the creeps, so that's that."

xxx

The archives department turned out to be the entire first basement level. It was only accessible via a small elevator that was tucked away near port control's side entrance, and as such probably didn't see much traffic. According to Mary the receptionist, it had been placed there since the first basement was out of the way for most daily affairs, and yet remained close enough to keep the retrieval of documents from being unnecessarily tedious.

As I stepped out of the elevator, the first thing I noticed was that I apparently wouldn't be able to enter the actual archive rooms – the elevator opened up to a waiting area of sorts, with a bench on one side of the room, and a counter on the other. A thick sheet of glass formed the wall where the counter was placed, with some metallic mesh reinforcing it from the inside. The only means of communicating with the archivist was a three-inch gap between the counter-top and the edge of the glass partition, where a thick, hardcover book lay.

There was a formidable-looking metal door on the room's third wall, which turned out to be locked. So I ended up looking through the counter's glass wall, and trying to determine if anyone was actually in. Rows of metal shelves that had been painted yellow stood in the area beyond the glass wall, each holding dozens of blue-colored boxes. Labels had been pasted on the boxes, but the writing on them was too small for me to read clearly from where I stood.

"Is anyone there? I'm looking for," I paused, trying to remember the archivist's name, "Persiamon. Hello?"

For a few moments, the room remained silent. Then, there was a sound not unlike small feet pattering on the floor, and a cotton puff appeared on the other side of the counter. Once I had actually gotten a good look at it, though, I realized that it was actually a whimsicott – one of Unova's most recognizable grass-type pokemon. It was shorter than the counter, and so had apparently walked next to the wall until it reached the counter, where it had hopped up into my view.

Well, it resembled a cotton puff, so I think my branding it as that could be forgiven.

"Umm, is Persiamon in?" I asked the whimsicott, as it smiled at me and blinked its beady little eyes innocently.

"Whimsi!" nodded the fluffy pokemon happily, as it pulled a pen out of its fleece. "Whimsicott!"

"Uh, I was looking for the archivist, not a pen," I told it, as it slid the pen through the gap in the glass wall and across the counter.

With a giggle, the whimsicott shoved the hardcover book that had been lying on the counter towards me, and flipped it shut, revealing a handwritten note that had been pasted there.

"Oh, I need to fill in the log book?" I asked it, upon reading the note on the book's cover. "But I'm not going to take any documents – I just want to read them here."

"Cott!" insisted the pokemon, jabbing one of its paws in the book's direction.

I sighed, "If you say so, then."

I opened the log book, and flipped its pages until I found the last filled one. Then, I tried to fill in my name... only to receive a minor electrical shock from the pen.

"What the hell?" I glared at the whimsicott, which was giggling at me through the glass. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"Oh, do pardon him," purred an effeminate voice from somewhere close by. "My dear Castor tends to be a little... naughty at times."

"Whimsi!" said the little pokemon happily as it leaped off the counter and onto the shoulder of the belly dancer that had stepped up to it.

Well, she did resemble a belly dancer save for the liepard-like spots that covered her legs and the prehensile tail that coiled itself around her waist. Emerald-colored eyes without pupils twinkled at me from above a silken veil, as the digimon brushed the whimsicott off her shoulder.

"Persiamon, I presume?" I asked awkwardly – well, the answer to that was obvious, but I just had to say it.

"You presumed correctly," she replied with a delicate laugh, as the whimsicott hopped away in between the shelves that filled the archives room. "How may I be of assistance?"

"Umm, General Harding sent me to look up some records," I scratched the back of my head. "He wants to find out if Dr. Esther was ever a trainer."

She appeared surprised upon hearing that. "Well, why doesn't he just ask her?"

I looked her in the eyes – no mean feat, given their pupil-less nature – and shrugged. "You know him – he says it's more fun this way, and that she gives him the creeps."

Persiamon merely sighed and pressed a surprisingly humanoid hand to her forehead dramatically. "Oh, I do know Zachary Harding and his antics... Just fill in the log book, and I'll let you in."

"Umm, Persiamon? This pen-"

"Ah, yes – Castor has used that on every visitor to this department ever since Zachary Harding gave it to him for Christmas a few years ago," she shook her head. "If you don't mind, I'll have that."

I handed her the pen, and she gave me another in exchange. Soon enough, I had filled in the required spaces in the log book, and she had opened the metal door to the archives room itself.

"So, you're looking for Esther Maxwell's file?" she asked me, as she shut the door and spun the massive wheel that apparently controlled its locking mechanism. "The head of the medical department? Stringy purple hair, bad skin, surgical mask?"

"Well, yes..." I answered, following her as she headed towards the maze of shelves. It was only once I had actually entered the room that I realized how many shelves there were in it – the room's walls were over a hundred feet away to my left and right, with its fourth wall being hidden by the actual shelves.

The room itself smelled funny – it was a familiar smell, and not an unpleasant one at that, but I couldn't really put my finger on it. So as I followed Persiamon in between the shelves, I ended up taking curious sniffs of the air to try and identify the strange aroma.

She ended up revealing that it was none other than the smell of hairspray when she pulled out an aerosol can of the stuff and sprayed it into the air.

"Umm, you use hairspray to keep the musty smell away?"

"Why not?" She asked as she gave the air one last spray. "It keeps the air smelling nice, and is good for my fur, as well."

"... just how much of it have you used?" I asked, as my mind matched the room's large dimensions to the volume of a can of hairspray. "This room is huge!"

"Well, I have been on the job for four years, darling," she laughed, as her tail whipped around in the air behind her. "I probably should get stock in the company that sells this stuff or something like that."

"You could do that, I guess," I nodded with an amused smile. First a crazy boss, corruption, illegal pokemon battles, an unresolved murder case, and then an archivist that kept her domain fresh using hairspray – I really wondered if anything else at port control could surprise me in the future.

"Here we are!" she announced, stopping in front of a shelf that appeared no different from the others – none of them were labelled, incidentally. "Hmm, Maxwell, Maxwell...

"It's that box over there – you can see her name on it."

I nodded, and bent down to pull the box out. It was roughly shaped like a one-foot cube, and bore a small tag declaring it to contain 'Personnel records for Maxwell, Esther/May, James'. Upon opening it, I noticed that it only held two very slim folders – one of which was marked with a red stamp saying 'DECEASED'.

Obviously not Dr. Esther's file, I mused, as I placed the box on the floor and took out the folder without the deceased notice on it. The folder was hers, all right – it had her name and title on it, printed in bold black type on a small card that served as its label.

Opening the folder, I saw that it was relatively empty. It only had about three pages, and all when I flipped through them, all three of them seemed relatively untouched – the printed blanks were mostly devoid of handwriting. Within less than thirty seconds, I had found her – brief as expected - personal biodata.

"She wasn't a trainer, then," I mumbled to myself, as Persiamon read the biodata alongside me.

"Indeed," she noted. "So I guess you can tell Zachary Harding that the only person he actually fears to an extent isn't even a pokemon trainer."

"I'll do that," I chuckled, as I replaced the folder in its box and hefted the box back onto the shelf. "Thanks for your time."

"Ah, it's no big deal, since we get very few visitors down here, usually," she said with a wave of her hand. "Do drop by if you have the time – we wouldn't mind the company."

"Alright, then-" I suddenly froze in my tracks and leaped backwards, reaching for my pistol as an ariados scuttled over one of the shelves and glared at me. "How did one of those get in here?"

"Relax, he's mine," Persiamon giggled, beckoning to the spider-like pokemon. It let out a happy chirp, and moved up to her feet, rubbing its side against them like a growlithe would. "Ford, how many times have I told you not to scare visitors?"

The ariados let out a somewhat subdued chirp, followed by several gesticulations with its foremost legs.

"Oh? I'm sorry, but it seems we have more visitors – we'll have to get back to the counter fast."

Even as I followed her back to the counter, where several people could be seen in the waiting area, the ariados gave me yet another glare. It was walking on the shelves like they were a collection of massive stepping stones, and swung between them using its webs – I hadn't noticed earlier, but the ceiling seemed to be covered in them.

"You don't like me, and I don't like bugs, either," I said to the arachnid, as I headed off towards the archive room's entrance. It let out a hissing sound, and that was the end of our little conversation.

"Don't forget to visit us next time!" Persiamon called out, as her next visitors filled in the log book.

xxx

I got back to General Harding's office within five minutes of leaving the archives department – taking the stairs is always faster than using the elevator to get to his office, for the record. As I approached the door, I saw that the lights inside were off – something not too unusual for most people given that it was now coming close to lunchtime, but strange given that he tended to keep them on whenever he was in his office.

Knocking on the door, I called out to check if he was in. "General Harding? Are you there, sir?"

"Come on in, kid," he replied. "Don't worry – no axe murderers have broken in and are holding me hostage or anything."

Shaking my head with a resigned smile, I opened the door. "I highly doubt-"

"SURPRISE!"

I could only blink like a hoothoot as I stood in the corridor and saw who was inside the room. General Harding was there, of course, but so were Generals Fen and Maine. Babamon was smoking in a corner near an open window, and Mary the receptionist was standing behind General Harding's desk with a big smile on her face.

"Umm, what's going on?" I asked them, as I brushed my hair out of my eyes to make sure that it wasn't causing me to see things.

"You're turning eighteen today!" replied General Harding with a wide grin. "So we decided to throw you a little party."

"Little indeed," noted General Fen," since all we have is a small cake with some booze."

"Booze is good, though," Babamon chimed in. "Vodka?"

"Naturally," he shrugged. "What else do the three of us hoard, really?"

"Sir!" I said, horrified. "As much as I appreciate the gesture, isn't this-"

"Illegal? Wrong? Hideously immoral? Criminal?" General Harding smirked like the meowth from Alice in Wonderland. "Kid, since when have I given a fuck's worth about these things?"

"Well, there was that time-" General Maine began with a sadistic glint in his eyes, only to be hushed up by my commanding officer.

"As I was saying," he cleared his throat. "Happy birthday, kid!"

When I saw Mary taking out a cake from a box on his desk, I almost felt overwhelmed for a moment. The last time I had actually had birthday cake had probably been more than five years ago, before my parents told me that I had become old enough to not be bothered by celebrating a day when I grew one year older. And yet these people which I hadn't known for more than a year were all here with a cake for my birthday.

Ignoring the lump that was forming in my throat, I offered them what was probably my fifth genuine smile since I had first arrived at Canalave. "Thanks, guys."

xxx

"- so he suddenly starts shouting, 'The fish are burning!'" laughed General Fen, as he recounted a story from their training days, when General Harding's cooking skills were apparently quite horrible. "Next thing we know, Gary here rushes over and dumps the whole pan of fish into the pot of stew which I had going on the fire also..."

"That was the best stew I had ever eaten till today, though," nodded the massive rock-specialist. "You would have to be there, eating that horribly charred fish and laughing around the campfire, to truly appreciate the moment, I think."

"Hey, at least I didn't set my underwear on fire," General Harding said, wagging his finger at General Fen with amusement in his eyes. "Fen, how many times did I tell you-"

"Well, they were wet, and I couldn't very well go on without any clean underwear!"

"Ever heard of going commando?" suggested Babamon, as she lit a fresh cigarette. "I'm surprised that you didn't, knowing your travelling partners."

"Nah, I don't particularly enjoy having my goods bouncing around as I got into scrapes with these two goons," he smirked. "But yes, I did go commando a few times when Zachary borrowed or stole my underwear for the fun of it."

"I still don't know how you could enjoy wearing briefs, though," commented General Maine.

"Wait, sir – General Harding borrowed your underwear?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"Well, we were about the same size for a while back then," General Harding replied with a triumphant look. "But then came the day when I had a growth spurt, and borrowing them would've been an act of abuse."

"Zachary, you fucking-"

"We shall not discuss your underwear and endowments here, thank you very much," Mary said primly from where she sat behind General Harding's desk. "And what's the meaning of this – we've blown out the candles, but no one's eating it!"

"Ah, yes," General Maine perked up. "What kind is it?"

"Chocolate, of course," answered General Harding, as he turned to face Mary. "Did they give a knife with it?"

"Yes, they did," she nodded, holding it up for him to see. "So, should I cut it into little square slices or pie slices?"

"Whatever works," muttered Babamon, "though if you're doing the tiny square cuts, I call dibs on the edges."

"Hey, I want the creamy bits too!" protested General Maine, as she shoved him aside and made her way to the desk.

"Bite me," she retorted. "Look at you – you're nearly three feet taller than I am, and still you want the creamy pieces!"

"It has nothing to do with- ouch! Okay, you win! Take the creamy pieces and stop clubbing my knees!"

I couldn't help myself – I burst out laughing upon seeing Babamon giving his kneecaps hell with her walking stick. For the first time since I had been to Canalave, I really did feel at home.

"Hey, kid – aren't you going to let Silas out?" General Harding startled me out of my reverie. "He can take chocolate in small doses, you know."

"Eh? Oh, yeah," I nodded, unclipping Silas' pokeball from my belt and letting him out. He materialized on the floor beside me, and turned to look curiously at me once he realized that there were more people than usual in General Harding's office.

"Hey," I greeted him, picking him up, "do you want some cake? It's chocolate."

Silas shifted a little in my arms to get a look at the cake, and let out a soft chirp. He stuck his tongue out and flexed it a few times as if he was testing the air, before chirping again.

"He says he'll be happy with a small piece," Babamon said, as she hobbled over, placing two pieces of cake on Silas' back. "And he's asking what the occasion is – here, have them."

"But these are the creamy bits," I protested, as I tried to hand them back to her. "Don't worry, I'll get my own pieces – you go ahead and enjoy them."

"Nonsense, you're the birthday boy!" she scoffed. "Do you want me to beat you across the knees with my walking stick?"

"Err, no," I said nervously, backing up against the bookshelves that lined the wall.

"Then take the cake," she said, as Silas let out a whistling sound, and flicked his tongue in her direction. "Yes, shellder – your trainer just turned eighteen. I'd advise not turning around to wish him yet, though, since there's cake on your back."

"Thanks, Babamon," I said, as I took one of the two pieces of cake and held it in front of Silas. His tongue snaked out and wrapped around it, taking the piece out of my hands. "How's its taste, Silas?"

He let out a muffled sound, like someone speaking with their mouth full, causing General Fen to laugh. "He says its tastes like chocolate, Captain Obvious. Sharp tongue you have there on your shellder."

"Well, he tends to speak his mind," I shrugged, as I ate my own piece of cake. "Hmm, tastes good."

"So, kid," General Harding turned to face me, eating a piece of cake. "Going to give your parents a call?"

I froze and stood rooted to the spot once my mind had processed his question. How did I answer that one? Realizing that everyone's eyes were on me – including Silas', I noted – I decided to evade the question.

"Ah, maybe," I said, plastering a big, fake smile onto my face. "Maybe tonight, since they're only usually home after eight."

"After eight?" Mary asked, raising her eyebrow curiously. "They work late, eh?"

"Well, their business keeps them occupied most of the time," I said casually, despite the fact that my heartbeat had picked up its pace a little. What if General Harding knew something about it? "I didn't see much of them before eight as I was growing up, really."

"Ah, well – most of us didn't see our parents that often, either," laughed General Maine. "That's the trainer's life, I guess."

"Too true," nodded General Harding, giving me a funny look.

Luckily, no one else seemed to notice my brief slip-up – I think. Silas had probably noticed the changes in my heartbeat, since I was holding him against my chest, but he didn't make any comments.

I guess I should have been thankful for that small bit of mercy.

Later, when I got back to the hostel after work, I was told by the dormitory head that my parents had called earlier, around eight-thirty. For the first time in a while, I was in two minds about calling my parents – the urge to do so hadn't really bothered me since I first enlisted in the military.

Five minutes after nine, I decided to return their call using the hostel phone. Silas was with me, on the table under the wall-mounted phone, looking bored as he sat on the phone book.

"Hello?" mom had picked up the phone.

"Hello, mom," I said, feeling my voice cracking through the registers as it had done when I was going through puberty. "I heard you called earlier?"

By the time I hung up, I was on the verge of tears. I really hadn't expected that phone call to go well, to be honest. But my parents had sounded so happy to finally hear from me after such a long time, and it wasn't easy to try and sound normal while I spoke to them. After all, I hadn't expected them to forgive me for running away to join the army two years ago.

I barely noticed when Silas scooted over and wrapped his tongue over my shoulders.