Ascension

Interlude 1 - Ritchie

Please… please just… survive.

As someone who had grown up with his grandfather, Ritchie didn't exactly associate positive emotions with hospitals. Every time he had entered one, he was met with loss. Half-forgotten memories of sitting on his grandfather's lap, waiting for his mother and father to return to him still littered his mind. Come to think of it, the two-year-old Ritchie didn't quite understand the reality and harshness that was death. The only feeling that was firmly etched in his memory was a feeling of intense discomfort and anxiety. Perhaps even his child-self had known that something wrong and life-changing had happened here. Perhaps he was just uncomfortable with the unusually white walls and the pungent, sterile smell. Perhaps he was simply hungry and wanted a biscuit.

Ten years later, he had relived that faded experience once more, and this time, he had lost his grandfather. From what he understood, the old man had passed away in his sleep. Ritchie had only found out that something was wrong when his grandfather hadn't woken up post the afternoon.

Even the memory of that day sent shivers down his spine. He had come back from school and found his grandfather still asleep. He had called out to him— several times —and yet, the man never moved. Ritchie had managed to take his sleeping grandfather to the hospital, and only then did he come to know that the man was dead.

The twelve-year-old had developed a phobia about sleeping, fearing he'd close his eyes and never wake up— just like his grandfather.

Oh, he still had relatives, though he wasn't particularly close to any of them. Not that he minded. Ritchie had become a ward under the care of a distant relative, and to be honest, neither he nor his new caretaker really cared for each other. It was more of a… mutually recognized existence, at best.

And Ritchie had been okay with it. All he needed was to pass the Trainer Certification Exams, become a trainer, and his life would be in his own hands. It didn't disappoint. He had gotten a little pichu from the local breeder in Frodomar City. Not his first preference, since pichu were notorious for their unruly disposition. But ranch-grown starters were only available to those that could afford them— meaning those trainers that hired the services of said ranch for their future pokémon team. Ritchie wasn't poor by any standards, but acquiring a ranch service would hit his finances hard.

Hence, the pichu. After all, beggars couldn't be choosers after all.

Still, the pichu, despite being an avatar of mischief, had bonded with him over the next few weeks. He had traversed through Frodomar and Chrysanthemum Island, challenging every rookie he could spot, hoping to secure enough cash for his next meal. It was difficult, especially when he went hungry for a few days after a particularly bad losing streak. Still, once he became an elite-trainer all these problems would vanish. After all, there was no such thing as a poor elite-trainer.

After that, things started to look his way. He had hit a little fortune in a contest and won a taillow—a flying-type from the Hoenn region. He had then traveled to Celadon to face Erica. For all her hype, it had been a measly little bellsprout that Sparky, defeated in the first ten seconds. That was how he had attained his first badge.

Seriously, getting badges were over-hyped.

Zippo had been next— a conquest from a battle with a rather arrogant jackass called Damien when he had visited Cerulean City. That was also the same place where he had gotten his second badge, after defeating Lily Waterflower. Seriously, the gym leader was such a slob—the man couldn't be bothered to face him, and had sent his daughter to fight him instead. Sparky— who had recently evolved into a pikachu, had been instrumental in his victory.

He had even managed to acquire Squishy—his tentacool, as a reward for a good performance.

Not bad overall.

A ferry to Fuchsia had followed, and he had challenged the gym there. Koga was absent—as expected, what with the recent news about him becoming the new Johto Elite Four and all —and Ritchie had battled the man's daughter Janine instead.

The twenty-something girl was downright narcissistic. The battle had been difficult but he had managed to win it. Capturing Princess had been an extra perk. With three badges under the belt, he had wanted to try a hand at some of the really strong gyms, hoping they'd be better opponents.

And so he made his way to Vermillion.

And just like that, he was destroyed. There was no mercy or openings to take advantage of. Only the endless mockery of the cruel Gym-leader as his team was dismantled. Furthermore, there were no second chances either. If you lost once, then you could only challenge him after you got another badge. Something about not having to deal with an endless stream of garbage challenging him without end.

Ritchie would have been offended if he hadn't been so shocked. Sure, he had lost before, but never like this. He would have been able to accept it if he had been defeated by one of Surge's more powerful pokémon. The war-veteran had made it a point to use an unevolved pokémon— recently caught if he was to be believed.

Ashamed and unwilling to accept his loss, he had left— though not before promising that he would return much stronger and crush Surge and his stupid tricks.

That was why Ritchie ended up ferrying his way to the west coast of Pallet, wanting to leave for Sevii Islands for some training experience. Sevii were rather infamous for their pokémon contests, so the chance of earning some quick bucks was on the table. Also, the natives of Sevii weren't great battlers, or so he had heard. Then again, what could you expect from villagers?

He ended up meeting a trainer while he was going through the Pallet Forest. Well, met was a bit soft. The rookie's strange pokémon had tried to eat his Zippo. Obviously, this was a rich brat, one who bought exotic pokémon but couldn't keep them under control. Planning to teach him a lesson— and earn some money on the side —Ritchie had challenged him to a battle.

Everything had gone downhill from that.

The strange yellow thing— Mawile —had destroyed his Zippo.

Just like Surge.

He could almost see it in his eyes. The taunting. The mockery. The fact that his team was worthless. He could hear Surges's words ringing in his ears.

"Do you think that throwing around powerful moves randomly makes you strong? I see dozens of your type every day. And you know what happens to them? They get thrown out with the rest of the trash…"

Ritchie's mouth tightened. He would not lose again. He had lost to Surge but he was a Gym Leader. If he lost to the rookie, that would be proving the man right. That he was… That he was...

"This voltorb? I caught it a week ago. Its reserves aren't half of your pikachu's. Power can be bought by anyone with enough money. There's something more you need to become an elite trainer. And kid… you don't have it."

Ritchie had reacted with extreme prejudice. And it had not ended in his favor.

He suffered from acute anxiety, as his newly-minted team of pokémon fought and struggled for their lives. And this time, he had brought it upon them. When Doctor Pym had mentioned Sparky and Zippo's precarious situation, he had been shocked into dismay. All reason deserted him, leaving behind anxiety, frustration and blind emotional responses in the wake.

That was how he had ended up in Team Rocket.

And now once again, he was seeing one of his own team members struggling to live, after suffering what the doctors described as an acute stage of hypothermia. And all of that, because he had left him on his own to survive, to save his own life— his and everyone else's—at the cost of Zippo's own.

"If you lose here, everyone will die. I can't give up. Just... survive, and everything will be fine."

Those had been the last words he had addressed his familiar companion with, asking him— begging him —to somehow bear the pain, to somehow keep breathing, keep surviving, keep pushing past the limits of his own mortality, to just… stay alive for those damned remaining few seconds.

And then everything would be alright again.

"It's comatose. Might even end up dead. I presume he can be given one of those spare graveler then?"—those were Ariana's parting words. In just two sentences, she had taken his feelings, his loyalty, his pride, and affection for his teammates and thrown them away like yesterday's trash. They were useless if they couldn't win. Useless if they couldn't survive. Useless if their trainer was an incompetent fool that could only watch like a coward as they fought for every breath.

That was how Ritchie was back, sitting on a bench, along the white-walls of the medical unit of the Pallet training base. And Zippo— Zippo was lying unconscious, the occasional breath being his only sign of life. That and his tail flame that was flickering dangerously over the past three days. It was a wonder that the poor thing hadn't lost all sense of hope and given up.

God knows I would have if I had a trainer as incompetent as myself.

"…eight?"

I brought them here to survive.

"…ou listening?"

It's Zippo today. Perhaps Sparky will be next? Then Happy and the rest? I'm—

"… are you awake, goddammit?"

After all, it's hardly worth…

A strong arm pushed down on his left shoulder, almost making him lose his balance and slip off the bench. The sudden jolt shook him from his stupor though he somehow managed to hold to his balance before he turned around.

"What's the big idea?"

It was Grunt 17. Grunts didn't have names. Your names ceased to be of importance when you became a grunt. From then on, you were only Recruit, and a number signifying your identity. Ritchie was 38, and the one in front of him was the Unovan he had faced the first day, the one with the nasty krokorok.

"Coach has ordered you to report to him ASAP."

"Is this about my new mission? I cannot start without a team of six."

17 shrugged. "Do I look like I'm here to answer your questions?. Coach asked for you, so I did. He's in the staff quarters... with the grunt captains, I think. Maybe it is for your placement. It's about time anyway."

Ritchie didn't bother with the other teen's words. He was anxious since Zippo had yet to wake up, and between his hypothermia and his flickering tail flames—

"Well, my job is done, 38. Best not keep the Coach waiting."

"I'll… be going there now." Ritchie answered in resignation.

17 shrugged again, leaving him to his own musings.

Staff-Quarters, Pewter City Base.

Ritchie stood in front of the door, taking a deep breath. Ever since he had entered the building, this man, whom he had addressed as Coach, had been the source of his life's troubles. He knew for a fact that most trainees were easily recruited after demonstrating a minimum level of competency, something that he himself had easily demonstrated. For some reason, it hadn't been enough for the man. Instead, the Coach had put him through the grinder, intentionally making him fight against more and more experienced opponents. Ritchie would have asked him why he had such a grudge against him, but considering the way life had turned out for him, he might as well take it in stride.

Somedays I wonder why I still haven't given up.

He took another deep breath and knocked on the door.

"Come in!"

Ritchie opened the door, and stepped in, finding the man responsible for his present troubles looking up from what seemed like a Grunt-profile file.

Is this the moment when you tell me that I need to struggle for another month to become a grunt?

"You want to say something, recruit?"

Yes, that you are evil.

"No, sir."

"Good, I'm not fond of idle chit-chat either," the Coach answered with a half-frown on his face. "How's your… charmeleon?"

Still breathing, no thanks to you.

"Still in the ICU. I'm told he's still unconscious. Acute case of Hypothermia, as you know."

"Yeah well Ariana tends to go a little overboard at times, but this isn't about her, or your pokémon. This is about your future in Team Rocket. You are one of Mickey's recruits, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you have taken a loan in return for a year's service to Team Rocket, regardless of the impact said service might have upon your own life and future?"

"It was that or watching my team die," Ritchie said defensively.

"Like the match three days ago?"

"..." Ritchie glared at the man furiously.

"Something on your mind, recruit?"

"...No, sir."

"Heh! I'm surprised. I thought you had spunk. Too afraid to speak your mind?"

"...No sir, I'm perfectly happy just thinking about it."

"Heh!" The Coach laughed. "At least you know when to keep your mouth shut."

"Good," the man coughed, before gazing down at the file on his desk. "Recruit 38. Previous identity— Ritchie Kent from Frodomar City. Age— fifteen. Blood Group— B-negative. Huh, you're surprisingly resilient. Don't match your blood-type very much do you?"

Ritchie bristled at that comment.

"Past trainer history— Rookie. Number of badges— three. Been a trainer for three months. Wanted in police custody for a B-grade felony—an attack on a fellow trainer using pokémon," the man sneered before returning to the report, "Number of pokémon six—a raichu (forced evolution), a charmeleon, a tentacool, a nidorino, a metapod— bah, who keeps a metapod? Let's see—and a taillow. That's a rare one. Caught during migration?"

Ritchie shook his head. "Contest."

The man's eyes returned to the file. "You took a loan of fifty grand in exchange for a year's worth of service. Normally I'm a bit skeptical about lending money, but Mickey's a rather trustworthy fellow if a bit brash around the corners. Obviously, it's natural that I… test my investment to see if it is worth my effort."

Ritchie's eyes widened. "You—"

The Coach looked up, meeting Ritchie's eyes.

"My name's Edvard Butch Surge. I'm sure you heard that name before."

Ritchie nodded his head dumbly, trying to process the information. Was this really the man that had—

"I'd thank you to never use it. You can call me Butch, like everyone else. Executive Butch. I answer to Admin Proton and no one else. And from today onwards, Grunt 38— hmm, your name is Kent, right?

Ritchie blinked.

"Never was too fond of the number system. As I was saying, Grunt Kent, I'm your new taskmaster from today onwards. As an Executive, I'm allowed to have a personal group of grunts who answer to me and me alone. Currently, I have two teams working under me, with each of them having a situational Captain in command in my absence. As it turns out, my Team #2 is currently one member short, so this is an opportunity for you to fill up on the slot."

"..."

"I have no use for mute bastards, 38. So either speak or get out."

"I— I mean—"

Butch arched an eyebrow.

"Yes, sir. I'm willing to join. If you'll have me, sir."

"Indeed? Do you know the consequences of joining under an Executive, instead of a Grunt Captain?"

Ritchie shook his head.

"What do they teach in— never mind," the man barked, "working under a Grunt Captain means you become a Captain in due time. Working under an Executive means that you're being groomed. You'll stay a grunt, until you achieve the prowess worthy of the Executive position. Which means several years of dedicated work. I'd also like to think that when it comes to training, I know a little bit more than those tardy drunkards Cassidy has in her list of captains."

Ritchie filed that information for future contemplation.

"So I'll be… learning from you?"

"Not sure about the learning part, but we'll give it a try. A half-handicapped raichu, a comatose charmeleon, and a team of half-ragged, unevolved shitholes— what were you drinking when you decided to attack that trainer back in Pallet?"

Ritchie bristled at the insult but didn't react to it. He had blamed himself enough for that mistake. It was in the past though, and nothing he said or did would change the present, nor the future.

"No grunt under my command should ever hold such a ridiculous team. Perhaps you'll listen to my suggestion and get rid of the more pathetic ones? Swellow are rather swift, and raichu, are not to be underestimated— regardless of how much it reminds me of the dirty old man. Get rid of the tentacool and metapod. Visit the reserve and catch yourself something worth training."

Ritchie didn't say a word.

"Nothing to say?"

"I think… I'll keep my team. They might not be up to anyone's high standards, but they have been with me through everything. I am not going to abandon them."

Butch blinked. "Idealist, eh? Need I remind you, that you caught them in the first place? If you hadn't captured them, they'd be happily grazing at... wherever you picked them from."

Ritchie felt his anger stir at those harsh words, regardless of how true they might be.

"Either way, no subordinate of mine should hold such sub-par resources, and as such, it falls upon you to bring your half-assed team to fighting capability."

"I understand, sir."

"Good, there are only three rules that you need to remember. One, you do everything I say. Two, your judgment is not better than mine. Do everything I tell you to. Three, never forget rules 1 and 2. If you end up breaking the rules without proper justification… well, the empty slot in group #2 speaks for itself."

"...what happened to… him?"

"Killed the bastard myself."

Right. No pressure and everything.

"Any questions, recruit Kent?"

"...No sir. None at all."

Butch— Executive Butch, Ritchie mentally corrected—sat down on his chair, and opened the drawer, pulling out what seemed like a— a pokéball? —and placed it on the table.

"Take it?"

"What's—?" Ritchie began before he realized what he was holding, "Is this the replacement for my charmeleon? I'm not going to throw away Zippo just because—"

"Shut your trap, recruit," the man barked, "I'm not obligated to listen to your self-righteous rants. You crossed the line when you joined Team Rocket. All that sense of fair play, duty, and whatnot— you left them behind when you entered these halls for the first time. Regardless of your wishes, this pokémon—", he pointed at the ball in Rictchie's palm—"is going to be your number one member to fall back on, when things get ugly. And things will get ugly, more than you think. Pokémon awarded to our employees are docile, and will follow commands as long as you hold their pokéball. They are bound to the ball, not to you, so don't waste time in getting mushy with this one. Is that clear?"

Ritchie nodded.

"Now stop gawking. Release it and see what it is."

"...Right." Not wanting to suffer further provocation, he clicked the release button, allowing the creature to escape in a flood of red light. It took a moment for the lights to condense, but when it did, the results were nothing short of… astonishing.

It was bipedal, with a body that seemed to be created out of condensed flames. If not for the puckered beak-like mouth, small circular eyes, and the metallic claws at the end of its hands and legs, Ritchie could have sworn that he was staring into sentient, hellfire given form. Flames erupted on its back, right from the base of its neck, traveling along the spine, and extending out in the form of a tail. Its mere presence alone transformed the air-conditioned room into a sweltering heat sink. It reminded him of Frodomar City in mid-summer.

"A magmar," Ritchie breathed.

The days following his accepting the deal with Executive Butch had been the most tiring episode of his life. Apparently, the man was a believer in taking the concept of 'working to death' literally. Ritchie was no stranger to diligence— in fact, it was one of those things he was naturally inclined towards, but Butch took it a step above.

The man was cruel, extremely so, both towards his subordinates, as well as his own pokémon. That being said, he was even crueler to himself. He had yet to see the rest of his compatriots that served him. Apparently, he'd be introduced to them once he and his team were fit enough to stand alongside them, or some bullshit.

Zippo had finally woken up, and was back in action, though it was obvious that something had changed in the charmeleon. He ate his food, followed his orders, and performed everything that Ritchie asked him to. But, and it was a big, Zippo maintained a rigid demeanor when interacting with him, almost like he was following commands because of allegiance, and not because of his affection or care for his trainer.

"Flamethrower," Butch commanded.

Zippo lifted his maw and let flames rush outwards. The hot fire burnt the grass all around the target— a rock boulder —but the boulder remained untouched.

"Pitiful," The Executive sneered. "Tell me Recruit, do you even understand what a Flamethrower is?"

"Umm…"

"Speak clearly." Butch rebuked.

Ritchie quaked at the sudden reprimand. "Gather flames and then release them at the target at high pressure."

Butch arched an eyebrow. "Did that dismal demonstration seem like a high-pressured attack?"

The recruit shook his head.

"Flamethrower isn't just gathering flames and vomiting them out. Your fire-type must connect to its reserves, and pull out a single stream of heavily concentrated fire. The strongest fire-types can keep on going with a Flamethrower until its reserves are empty. That is how you get a constant sea of flames, for as long as you need. A real Flamethrower is scary because it is unending. And that is without considering altering the intensity." The man paused. "That thing your charmeleon did—it wasn't a flamethrower. It was an overpowered Flame Burst that went wrong because you were too lazy to concentrate."

Ritchie looked considerably chastised. "I didn't know that."

"Of course you didn't. What do they teach in schools nowadays? Anyway, Magmar, Flamethrower."

Magmar followed the orders instantly, belching out a sea of raging fire out of his beak-like mouth. The temperature itself made his skin boil, forcing Ritchie to take a step back to avoid getting scalded. The flames washed over the rock boulder. The moment it was done, the entire boulder was red with the sweltering heat, with parts of it half-melted.

"Now that's what a standard Flamethrower is like," The Executive commented with a wry grin. "Vulcan—that's my own Magmortar—would have melted it to slag even when he was a regular magmar. That should tell you just how far you have to go to attain strength. It took me over a decade of struggle to get to where I am, and it will be worse for you, especially if you keep sticking to your stubbornness instead of actually taking control of your life."

"Can I too… reach that altar of strength?" Ritchie asked, slightly humbled at Magmar's demonstration and Butch's words.

"Altar of strength? Hah!" The man laughed. "If this is what you think the altar of strength is, you are in for a rude awakening, boy."

"You mean—there is more? Even for your magmortar?"

Butch looked at him with a strange expression on his face. It was almost wistful. "Maybe if you're lucky, you'll be able to see what strength really is. And when you do, your world will never be the same ever again."

Ritchie nodded dumbly.

"Now back to work," The man commanded. "You have the end of this week to get yourself up to speed. Should you be able to defeat Magmar—under my orders—with your entire team, then I'll consider you passed. If not, Magmar returns to me, and you get back to training to become a grunt for the next month. No pressure, eh?"

I really, really hate this brute.

And just like that, the week had passed. Butch had been pushing him and his team to hell and back— hours of grueling training, followed by theoretical question/answer session on types, as well as the theory behind the types. Whoever had thought that the amount of study material mugged up by students was enough to make a proper trainer out of them had yet to meet Butch. Ritchie was being taught the explicit details— pokémon physiology, attack formations, attack levels, and move-chains. Butch was teaching him how to be a really versatile trainer.

And of course, the dirty bastard was not satisfied with that. After those grilling sessions, he'd put Ritchie into the ring, and beat the ever-loving shit out of him. Something about endurance training or something equally bullshit. Personally, Ritchie thought the man was a sadist of the highest order and was simply abusing his position to fulfill his twisted fantasies.

At the end of the ninth day, he had finally been able to defeat the magmar with his team. Ironically enough, the deed had been from his newly evolved Butterfree, hitting the magmar with a blast of Confusion. Zippo and Sparky had taken advantage of the opportunity and combined a Fire Punch and an Iron Tail onto the magmar's knees, making the fire-type fall into a crouch. A powerful Water Gun from Squishy had ended the battle.

Butch hadn't been impressed.

"Well, if nothing else, you have the sheer dumb luck needed to pull off a victory like that. But a win is a win I suppose and I'll keep my word. From today onwards, you're part of Team 2. Congratulations. Now it's time to meet your new team. Come with me."

Butch led him to a separate training area containing a guy that looked close to eighteen, and a girl that looked around Ritchie's own age, both dressed in army uniforms like the ones the Executive wore when he was on Coach-duty. Both stepped forward from the shadows, waiting for further orders.

Neat. Ritchie marveled. Compared to his own T-Shirt and casual jeans, the two looked more formal and had a stronger physical presence than himself. In fact, between the curly-haired blonde girl with her standoffish demeanor, and the dirty-yellow haired guy with that annoying smug smile on his face, Ritchie felt like the odd one out.

"Meet Astrid," Butch directed towards the girl whose calm stare told Ritchie plenty about her, "—and Trip,"—the guy gave him a condescending smile— "They are your future teammates. Your uniform should be in your room. Go on, introduce yourself. I'll expect you on the field tomorrow morning, five. We'll start with a little physical workout."

With those parting words, the Executive stepped and walked out of the area, crossing past the door towards the staff quarters, leaving Ritchie alone to deal with his new teammates.

"Uhm, hi?"

"Do you have a name, new guy?" The girl, Astrid asked.

"I think 'new-guy' is good enough. It's not like anyone from the countryside is any good." Trip sneered at Ritchie. He gave him a condescending smirk.

"Excuse me?"

"It talks!" Trip exclaimed.

"Funny," Ritchie snapped, before turning towards the girl, "I'm Ritchie. Ritchie Kent from Frodomar City."

"Basically you're from the boonies." Trip repeated with disdain.

"And what wonderland are you from?" Ritchie snapped back angrily.

"Unova," Trip replied, his voice carrying the admiration he had for his homeland.

"That place where people put darumaka-shit on themselves to stay warm in winter?" Ritchie goaded, "awesome place your Unova is. I've heard a lot about it."

"Yeah?" Trip snarled. He knew about that old custom practiced in the upper hills of Unova's Moor of Icirrus, and how it tarnished Unova's pride and reputation in front of the rest of the world. "Your Frodomar City? You know what I've heard of that?"

"What?" Ritchie asked, somewhat curious as well.

Trip glared before his expressions shifted to a smirk. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"Why you—?"

"If the both of you are just going to waste the day trash-talking, I'll be excusing myself," Astrid interjected. "We need to get up early tomorrow. And you, new guy, you better pull your shit together and not get started with Trip in front of Executive Butch. "

"Yeah, you keep your toe in the line, new-guy. Either way, you'll probably end up just like Ha—"

"Trip!" Astrid snapped.

"Yeah, yeah, big deal!" Trip waved her off, walking off. "Steer clear and follow my orders when on the field. Butch won't like a second… ex-member on his list."

Ritchie watched him go. He didn't need to be a genius to understand that Trip would be a hard teammate to deal with.

At least Astrid seems more reasonable.

"I'm from Kalos," Astrid spoke with a clear tone, "I was arrested by pokémon rangers when I captured an absol from the reserve. Managed to outrun them. Stuff happened, and now I'm here, working for Executive Butch. I'm good with recon and long-ranged attacks."

"That's an… odd way to start an introduction," Ritchie replied.

Astrid shrugged. "There's hardly anything normal about this, is there? Trainers turned criminals, and are now trying to climb the ladder in a parallel government that exists in the shadows."

Ritchie snorted at that. "That's a first." He extended his hand. "Well, I'm more of a normal kind of guy, so a boring intro for me. Orphan got into trouble and messed things up for myself and my team. Somehow, I managed to scrape enough luck to get myself here."

"Well that was descriptive," Astrid drawled.

Ritchie shrugged. He wasn't in a particularly chatty mood.

Astrid chuckled at that. "Butch told us he gave you a magmar. That must mean that you're going to be the main-line fighter of our group. Trip, he's good at… tripping others, I guess. Not very reliable, but he's good at what he does. He got a dugtrio from him."

"Does Coach—I mean, Executive Butch give every grunt a pokémon?"

Astrid considered his question. "Come to think of it, our old teammate didn't get any, though he had a rather powerful heracross, but it was… killed in battle." She paused, "I managed to bond with my absol quite well, but he gave me a rather rare pokémon that fits my battle style."

"Hooah! What's that?"

"A kecleon," Astrid looked at him with a smile. "It's a rather strange one for a pokémon, but it is useful if I say so myself." She lifted a stray piece of her hair that was falling in front of her eyes and tucked it behind her ears.

Ritchie thought that she looked rather cute while doing that.

"I don't know much about absol. Never seen or heard about one, you see." Ritchie admitted.

Astrid chuckled. "Somehow that tells me that you and Absol will have a wonderful first introduction then. Either way, do you know about our first mission?"

Ritchie shrugged. "Butch said it'd be something about Pewter City. Though, he said that my job would be part of the distraction squad."

"That makes thirty-seven of us," Astrid chuckled. "Butch wasn't joking when he said that it'd be the most important event in the last five years."

"Huh? What's happening in Pewter?"

Astrid leaned in closer. "Butch has been very tight-lipped about the whole thing. Most of the details are on a need to know basis. But something big is gonna happen. They're calling it the Collapse Protocol."

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