POV: Cynthia / LOCATION: Veilstone City


The Seven Seas Restaurant is located on Hotel Grand Lake, Sinnoh's most popular beachside resort. To get there, however, we'll have to cross Route 214. The messiest stretch of land to ever spawn on the face of the earth.

As usual, Cyrus offers his commentary.

"Somewhere within Route 214, a secret path is rumored to exist."

Sure. With all the rampant vegetation, it's entirely possible to fall into the Johto region via a hole in the underbrush.

"The alleged Spring Path leads to the fourth lake of Sinnoh," he continues. "Superstition seems to supersede science, regardless of modernization. In fact, you won't ever see a fourth floor in any of the hospitals in Sinnoh."

What a morbid tidbit of trivia. He can be lying through his teeth, but I wouldn't know, since I was lucky enough to not have to go to a hospital.

"Are you trying to impress me?" I say coyly.

"Me? Impress the Champion of Sinnoh? How can I please someone who has everything?" Mischief glints in his eyes. "But if that was my intention, have I succeeded?"

"I'll give you some credit."

Cyrus chuckles. A surprisingly gentle sound from someone composed entirely of edges. "There is quite a lot of mud from yesterday's rain. Walking is out of the question."

Exactly. Kitten heels and mud don't really mix. But I don't have Togekiss with me, and Garchomp can't Fly… And I feel a little weird hitching a ride on his Crobat. Motion-sickness guaranteed.

"We will Fly," he declares. As if reading my mind, he adds a cheeky, "Not on Pokemon."

"Let me guess. You have a flying car."

"I didn't bring it today. Maybe next time."

Of course he has flying car. Why am I surprised anymore.

Cyrus extends his hand. He is trying too hard to impress me. Admittedly, it's working. I never know what he's about to do next. Whatever it is, it has to be over-the-top dramatic. Unforgettable.

Unsure of how to properly react, I reach for his hand—and trip over a sneaky pebble jutting out of a crack in the ground. I fall into his ribcage.

"Sorry," I yelp.

Silence. I pass a hand across his unblinking eyes. Snap my fingers in his big ears. His body is here, but his head is somewhere in the clouds.

"Cyrus!" I yell.

The statue comes back to life. Sputtering a few random noises, he hastily gropes for the pieces of his resting smirk. Composure regained, he wraps his arm around my waist and kicks off into the sky.

Wait a minute.

I glance down. The land is indeed blurring beneath my dangling feet. We are so high up that the Trainers milling around Route 214 are just tiny mushrooms swaying in the grass.

The black wings unfurling from Cyrus's back are the finest I've ever seen. When wind threads through the feathers, they ripple like a million fragile eyelashes under sunlight.

Cyrus is Flying. Without any strings or tricks. Catching my stupefied gaze, his eyes crinkle as though laughing at a shared secret only he knows.

No one speaks throughout the flight. I am pressed so close to him that his cologne rolls off me in waves: worn books gently dappled by the white froth of an incoming surf. Which is odd, because I expected him to smell more like Veilstone than the beach.

Somewhere in the billowing wind is the frantic pounding of someone's heart. It doesn't belong to me.


A sweet saline breeze welcomes us to Valor Lakefront.

We touch ground as you would expect from that one movie about a prematurely-aged woman and a narcissistic birdman: he lowers me first, then himself, then the Honchkrow acting as his wings.

"You tricked me!" I exclaim.

"Deception was never my intention," he says a bit too playfully. "Recall how I said 'not on Pokemon.' I suggest you listen more closely to what I tell you, lest you only hear what lies on the surface."

Whatever, smartass.

The Seven Seas Restaurant staff give us a table as soon as we check in. As this is a high-end luxury establishment, you can expect to wait upwards of six months to secure a spot on the waitlist. I guess our CEO here is more capable than he looks to lock in a reservation on the same day.

Cyrus sets the menu aside without opening it. "What will you have, Miss Cynthia?"

Color floods my eyeballs. So many options. "What about you?"

"I can eat anything."

"Anything?"

"Yes."

I'll make him eat those words.

The food arrives in decorative silver trays, one after the other until the entire menu is on our table. Seared foi gras! Beef wellington! Confit egg yolk sous vide! BBQ churrasco! Mont blanc! And Unovan-style baked macaroni and cheese, let's go!

I am halfway through the tuna tartare when I remember that Cyrus is also here too.

"Better than fried chicken?" he says, chuckling.

"Very," I say through a mouthful of marinated raw fish. "This melts right in your mouth! Here, try some."

Then I watch in horror as he spears the delicate slice of tuna with his dessert fork, destroying the fragile layers of flesh and fat, before putting it in his mouth, grinding the marbled fish into pulp with his teeth, and swallowing with a long sip of carbonated mineral water.

"It's good," he says.

That's it?

I make him try the seafood capriccio next. With the grace of a drunk Miltank, he scoops a bleeding portion of shrimp, squid, and scallops onto his salad spoon. A mussel falls onto the carpet. And guess what he does!

The verdict: "It's good."

Before I can lecture him on bacteria and food poisoning, a waitress practically flings herself at me.

"Are you really Champion Cynthia?" she gasps.

"Yes…?"

"Oh my gosh! Miss Champion, please sign my apron!"

Soon half of the staff is at our table. The commotion draws in the distinguished patrons, who also flash their jewelry and monogrammed napkins and ten-billion Poke possessions for me to sign.

When the annoyed manager descends to disperse the crowd, some kind staffers show me to the emergency exit.

"The gentleman with you already paid the bill and left the tip," they tell me.

Oh no, I forgot about Cyrus again!


I find him on the patio of the restaurant, leaning against the wooden railing and staring out to the reddening sky.

"How could you just leave me like that?" I huff.

"You are more than capable of fighting your own battles. I would've only gotten in your way."

Cyrus is not wrong. Those fans would've flung him aside like a rag doll. Still, I was hoping for him to drop his guard so I could probe into his personal life. To understand more about the man than the CEO. Food loosens the lips along with the belt, after all.

"Sorry," I sigh.

"Why are you apologizing?"

"I ended up eating your portion too."

For a minute, he just stares at me. Then he turns away.

"She apologized to you," he mumbles into his hand. "This wasn't in the plan. Are you sure you know what you're doing, Cyrus?

"Are you talking to yourself?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Miss Cynthia." The all-knowing smirk is back. "Anyhow, there is one last thing I'd like to show you. Let's go down to the beach."