Smoking is a terrible habit.
It increases the risk of cardiovascular diseases. Causes cancer to fester all across the body. Damages blood vessels and builds clots, leading to high blood pressure and strokes. Not to mention the environmental impact of cast-away cigarette butts; the Corsola population in Galar is still on dire straits from the region's rapid industrialization and discarded carcinogens flooding the ocean.
A horrible, awful habit.
Arven isn't a smoker. But as he stands on the streets of Mesagoza, upper body drooping down a wall of semicircle bricks overlooking the city's compass rose arena, fuzzy arms awkwardly slotted into the thick mortar divots cut around a jaundice-bleached piece of masonry, Arven would kill to have something fill his twitching right hand. Anything to beat the witching hour chill that taunts his hasty state of dress.
He kicks his right toes against the greyed brick flooring, scuffing up the nose of his Tandemaus slipper (specifically the member with a darker shirt pattern) against the memory of a million passersby; students and citizens going about their day near the base of Uva Academy's grand staircase.
His dad used to do something similar, Arven recalls. Professor Turo tapped his boot whenever he stepped away from work, bumming a smoke where he thought nobody would see. Watching over the limitless waters behind Poco Path Lighthouse.
But Arven knew.
He could always smell the burning chemicals and char from his converted couch cot, back when they had a makeshift living space with the strange purple Pokemon brought home from Area Zero. The one time Arven went out to confront his dad about the nasty habit that some older boys spoke to his class about, Turo acted none the wiser. He greeted Arven with a chipper smile, hoping the boy wouldn't notice a smoldering butt sail down into the water after it was flicked behind his lab coat.
The way Turo's sun-kissed hand ruffled Arven's hair that summer afternoon is one of the few fragmented memories of pure affection baked into Arven's cells. Even the cigarette lingering on Turo's breath is an intoxicating high worth chasing.
Arven's right fist clenches, shaking more from a flood of unwanted emotions than the nippy air. He slams his fist against the wall, cigarette memories making way for honeysuckle smell in the potted railing of a staircase to ground level beside him.
A mob of Murkrow scatter from their rooftop nests, spooked by the thud. Their guffaws do little to rouse the slumbering Swablu that perch atop wires strung between buildings and lampposts across Mesagoza, claws threatening to cut down assorted triangle pennants in the hazy, lavender light of a waning crescent moon. One Misdreavus cackles as it feasts upon an uncomfortable Swablu's delicious dream of floating on cotton candy skies.
Few people are awake at this hour. Every shop window is dark, including the bookstore that Arven loiters in front of, and food carts are abandoned at every street corner. Those ne'er-do-wells who use the cover of darkness to tag expansive canvases of empty wall or practice ollies packed it in hours ago.
Yet Arven isn't the only insomniac who haunts the big city streets.
The loudest of these ghosts is foretold by the abrasive squeaking of sneakers against dewy brick, a sound that grows louder to Arven as it approaches from the west flank of Uva Academy's staircase.
Nemona holds in place as she sees the doubled-over man in pajama pants, mousy slippers, and a yellow puffer vest loosely fit atop a sleeveless white tee. Her knees bounce high with every step as she keeps her jogging heart rate up, inches away from kicking the ratty charcoal file box stuffed with haphazard manila folders, which Nemona clutches to her chest with both arms.
Panting breaths clear as cigarette smoke against the cool night, she drops down to a casual stride and approaches.
"Oye, Arven?"
He glances around his shoulder, watching sideways as Nemona sets her cargo nearby with a smile that's blinding in this dim light. She's still dressed for a typical day of school.
"Oh." Arven offers a halfhearted show of teeth before looking to the arena. "Hey, student council girl."
"Ohhh boy." Nemona's smile falters into clear concern. She paws at her purple tie. "Alright, something's definitely up."
Arven jolts upright, no longer looking like he'll belly slide off the ledge.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You haven't called me that nickname in aaaaaages." Nemona leans against the retaining wall of the potted staircase railing. "Not to mention this whole 'up at weird hours' thing. Makes me thing you're trying to create some distance."
That keen battle sense makes Nemona more astute than Arven likes to give her credit for.
He rolls his eyes, though only one is visible thanks to his messy two-tone bedhead.
"Whatever. Could say the same." Arven gestures his flop hair toward the charcoal box. "Most people aren't delivering parcels at 3:00 a.m. Shouldn't you be getting your beauty sleep?"
Nemona puffs out her chest, and then stamps her foot atop the jaundiced brick wall.
"Gotta give others a chance to catch up, Flamigo." She holds an explorer's pose, eyes trained on the middle distance where the spires of Mesagoza's southern entrance pierce the sky. Green hair strands dance across Nemona's face.
Arven looks unaffected by her shtick.
"Uh huh."
"'sides..." Nemona arcs her back using both hands until her groan is broken by a crack. "Gotta finish a very important delivery for La Primera."
This comment gives Arven pause. His posture tenses, and his eyebrows furrow.
"Wait. Geeta sent you out on errands after midnight?" Arven snarls as he steps away from the wall, attempts at being intimidating somewhat undermined by his padding slippers. "She's gunna get a piece of my mind."
Nemona bites her thumb before leaping to grab Arven by the scruff of his vest.
"No!"
He follows Nemona's pulling motion around to face her.
"She didn't do that," Nemona says while stuffing her hands in her pockets, a rare instance of shrinking inward. "She sent me out at, like, four o'clock yesterday. And then… I got distracted." She dips her head, mumbling. "By some battles."
Arven's eyes dart across Nemona, trying to catch her face when it rises.
"Right. That tracks."
Nemona snorts.
"Luckily, Larry was still up working his third job when I got there." She perks up for Arven, though her hands remain pocketed. "Guy's a sweetheart. Wish he didn't work as hard! ¿Que te pasa, bobo?"
Arven senses the irony of that statement is lost on her.
"Nemona." He scratches at olive eggshell hair. "Why didn't you wait for tomorrow? It's physical documents, I doubt Geeta was expecting a delivery within the hour."
Nemona's gaze drifts, and she tugs at her fleshy thigh with a long-gloved hand.
"… You wouldn't get it."
"Try me."
His staunch statement catches her attention.
"It's just, y'know." Nemona shrugs.
Arven nods encouragingly.
"If I didn't have it on La Primera's desk by morning, my perfect record…" She pantomimes tossing a trash can basketball. "Out the window."
"So?" He raises his palms to the few stars twinkling through Mesagoza's light pollution. "Not like Geeta can kick you out of the student council."
"It's not about that."
The tawny girl turns in an arcing step. She mutters to the closed buds of orange-and-yellow flowers in her native tongue, seemingly working through the words.
Arven lays his palm against the scratchy brick wall.
"It's not like I want to be some…" Nemona stretches her lanky limbs, lumbering in place toward the direction of the flowers. "Freaky… Weirdo… Robot all the time. Scaring our classmates away. Making them think I'm… Perfect. Unapproachable."
She twirls back, crossing her lumbering arms to frame her core.
"But to Mother and Father, perfect is the standard. Anything less… May as well be nothing."
She cups her hands over one another, cradling an invisible Poke Ball.
Arven frowns, slumping against the wall.
"I thought you told us your parents were pretty chill." He tilts his head, expression smocked with hair. "Hands-off."
Nemona swallows a lump. The next bit takes her a moment of pacing into the street and back.
"I mean they are! Mostly 'cause their attention's on my sister." Sick of balancing on jellied legs, she matches Arven's slump. "She's everything. Doesn't leave much room for me to be… Anything."
They linger under the moonlight, the distant caws of Murkrow. Arven has never seen such melancholy fill Nemona's orange eyes, lidded as green strands pass over her freckled nose. Clearly she needed her run more than she might have been letting on.
Arven has never felt so seen while feeling so lost.
"Parents." He scoffs, turning up his nose. "Way more trouble than they're worth, huh?"
Nemona closes her eyes with a nod.
However, they shoot open quickly. She bobbles upright like a punching doll on the rebound.
"WAIT!" Nemona's energy makes her companion flinch. "Arven, are you also having daddy issues tonight?!"
Arven groans, melting into an unprecedented level of shame. He covers his teal eyes with a hand visor.
"Please don't say it like that."
A calloused, bare palm sets atop Arven's other wrist, balancing out the girl's supercharged burst. He glances at her fingers before meeting her sympathetic gaze.
He finds a nice shade of alternating red and black nails.
"Hey. You can talk to me, y'know." Nemona's ponytail and green strands linger around her shoulder as she cocks her head. "You, Pen, Florian. When I'm with you guys… Just being me… ¡Me siento especial! Dejame ayudarte."
Goosebumps spread as Arven feels Nemona's red-capped thumb caress his skin. A prickle of tears hit his ducts in equal measure.
With a shaking breath, Arven watches a sleeping Swablu.
He hopes they're having better dreams.
"Florian…" Arven starts slowly. "My little buddy. He's so… Cool. And strong. He'll drop anything he's doing to help you out in a heartbeat. Makes you feel like life is… Okay. You don't want to burden him with all the poison seeping into your brain. All those cruel adult thoughts you can't beat back with a well-timed Flower Trick.
"I've been learning a lot about my dad recently. Everything I can. Reading old books, interviews, talking to Director Clavell. I tell Florian: I'm looking to find myself. Seeing what kind of person dad was, maybe that'll help me figure out where I fit in. Help me find something to go from being average ol' me to exactly the kind of super confident, super strong, super smart person I see in Florian. In Penny. In you.
"It's half-true — I suppose. But really? Since our first excursion into Area Zero, I can't get the man out of my head. He's everything confident. Everything strong. Everything smart. And he's terrifying.
"A man with limitless potential who almost destroyed the world.
"I used to hate the man. Hate him for everything he hadn't done for me as a kid. I felt sick going back to that lab, thinking he was enjoying his decade-odd vacation in… Paradise. Enjoying it so much he couldn't be bothered to send me emails anymore. Now I know the truth, and it takes some of the sting out of those memories — but not all of it.
"I have nightmares about that thing we found down there. That thing wearing his face. A reflection of everything dad stood for, good and bad, shining its horrible, radiant light until my soul casts a pall across Paldea. I think… Am I scared to turn out like him? Someone so blinded by his ambitions that they overtake him. Am I scared to be nothing like him? Someone so untalented, so lost, that my name fades as the great Professor Turo and his life's work define history books.
"Or am I scared that I'm so unlike him, his life's work will destroy the planet, and I'll never be able to bear the burden of stopping it? Stopping those machines from crawling out of the Great Crater and wreaking havoc.
"Florian… He turned off the time machine. We all watched him do it. But monsters keep crawling out of the abyss. Waiting for us to slip. What if… I'm the one who slips? The one without the confidence, the strength, the smarts. The man who watches the world burn from the comfort of his kitchen."
Arven rests his hoarse voice before tears spill down his cheeks.
Nemona stares, lips ajar. Both hands grasp his arm.
"Arven…"
Her slender digits squeeze into taut flesh. "You say that like, if you do slip, we won't all be there to catch you."
"Huh?"
"Estupido."
Nemona flicks his forehead before stepping back to re-up her explorer's pose, one foot on the brick wall.
"You don't have to carry the weight of the whole world on your shoulders!" She pretends to fiddle with a fencing sword looped to her belt. Her imagination betrays an intimate knowledge of the sport. As she splays out the invisible blade, her darkness-shredding smile shines. "We're the Four Musketeers! The Swords of Justice!"
She politely bows.
"All of us will ever be at your beck and call. I know I will."
Arven is dumbfounded. How does one respond to such a gesture?
Ultimately, he lands on cracking into laughter that sends pent-up tears down his cheeks; the kind of laugh that finally rouses Swablu on a nearby light pole.
"How can anyone think you're some perfect, unapproachable robot?" He ekes out between the uproar. "You're such a dweeb!"
Nemona retains her sharp grin and joins his merriment. She stumbles over, nearly tripping as she pulls her foot off the wall, and throws an arm around the stocky young man.
"I'll count that as a compliment tonight, mister chef!"
They laugh until both are finally ready to tuck in for a good night's sleep.