3.

BotherɅtion SeVen Times OVer


Professor Eiffel Laventon was thirty-seven years old, plump, excitable, and Galarian.

Cyllene had never heard of Galar before he showed up in the harbor one day. For all she knew he came from another world entirely. She believed he did, when she saw that belly tucked up tightly in a waistcoat and the black bowtie cinching his neck.

But Galar was real, he said with a lilt. It was a misty island, where fungi and Pokémon grew to enormous size, and where everyone liked hot tea and the sound of rain and "all the silliest sorts of dances." He demonstrated his favorite — a kind of skipping, spinning fit. When Cyllene didn't smile at him he was offended.

"It's a beautiful day in Hee-soo-ee, my dear! Do smile!"

She said nothing.

"Things could be much worse, you know. Chin up, please?"

Her chin went the opposite direction, with pale blue eyes absorbing his boots.

"No?"

At her further flustered silence, Eiffel's face went scrunchy, with dark stubble chafing against the strap of that ridiculous purple pom-pom hat.

It was never her intention to offend. But Cyllene was a part of the original Expedition Team, and she'd welcomed hundreds of new settlers at the harbor by the time Eiffel sailed in. There was a strict formality to Welcoming. She introduced herself. She recited the village mission and rules. She explained where newcomers could find their quarters and what they could expect for work. And usually she'd never have to speak to them again.

Smiling was not part of Welcoming.

And bold of a stranger to assume she wasn't happy to see him.

It was after midnight in Jubilife Village. The waterwheel turned slowly in the shallow creek. The distant chirps of Kricketot mixed with the wind. Windows were dark, save for the rare orange glow of a candle or gaslamp. The sky was deep blue with a scattering of stars — twinkling brighter where the waxing moon and the wound in the sky couldn't find them.

Cold dew gathered on Cyllene's sandals as she crept toward Galaxy Hall. Lately she could never finish a full night's sleep. She ate too much potato mochi, or her sore muscles pinched on the hard, flat futon. Today her "plain, pale" face had turned a painful pink, ears oozing and crisp where her hair wasn't long enough to cover them. By the time she marched back to basecamp the sun had set, and the daily ration of medicinal leeks had run out — all used up on the wounded, Zisu included.

Her key ground in the mechanism, and she let herself into the building. Her vision caught on tiny shards of glass embedded deep in the crimson carpet. Damp, dirty sheets were nailed up over the broken windows, bellying out where the night wind blew in.

She wore her blue gi loosely around the leggings and baggy pajamas. Her hair was slicked with grease, striped with darker blues and choppy. No eyebrows, of course. Hands coated in potato starch and smelling sweetly of mirin. The look would double her shame from crying in public last week, but the Commander's new curfew frightened Jubilife so much she doubted anyone would see her.

Except Eiffel. His study was on the first floor, separated from her office by plaster and wall studs. She could hear his voice now, and the frantic clicking of his typewriter while candlelight flickered out from behind the left staircase.

Eiffel can see me like this, she thought.

He won't even notice.

"Oh, thick-headed TWIT! You daft BASTARD!" he cursed loud enough for the whole empty Hall to hear.

"Eiffel," Cyllene said, appearing in the doorway of his study like a sunburned wraith.

The professor blinked. He sat at his desk in the library portion of the study, heavy tomes piled on either side of the typewriter, which sat crooked and nearly falling off the front edge while he curled himself over the desk like an overfed worm. The wood stove in the adjacent corner was dark now, and the floor planks were splattered with candle wax. Stuck to one of them was a small mechanical camera, a few gears lying idly inches away.

Rowlet cooed in its sleep where it perched upon a sapling potted near the nearest broken window. The bird could sleep through anything. She'd give it that, Cyllene thought. The professor was night and day. Merry at mealtime. Frightening without rest.

"Cyllene," he greeted, sitting up and patting down his unbuttoned waistcoat. That stubble was scraggly now. "Goodness, what time is it?"

"I haven't checked," said Cyllene, traipsing in and seating herself neatly on the sofa in the middle of the room. At her response, there came the rustling of a chain and the clink of his pocket watch springing open, and then a pained sigh heavy enough to extinguish one of the candles.

Eiffel was writing what he called a Poké Dex. It was a kind of encyclopedia, describing Pokémon species based on the Survey Corps's research. He'd apparently written one in Galar, too, and another half of one in the Alolan Islands, before the tropical heat filled his lungs and stomach with humors and he was carted back up to the nearest cold, wet, miserable fen. (Or at least, the nearest steaming teapot.)

"I didn't see you at the Wallflower," Cyllene told him. "I take it you weren't interested in waiting for me. I got in after the evening rotation of the guard."

Click-click. Click-click-click. The typewriter thrummed. The candlelight wavered. A pudgy elbow in a white smock sleeve nudged a whole stack of books off the side of the desk. They clattered on the floor, where a puff of dust erupted.

Eiffel shook his head at his own clumsiness. "I thought you preferred eating alone," he said.

"On busy days, yes. When I've got all the reports and spreadsheets. But I don't not desire company."

Cyllene frowned. Don't not desire? I do desire occasionally…? I am allowed to desire?

Eiffel ignored the issue of syntax. "I assumed I would see you compiling notes in your office later on. You're always so scrupulous."

Her cheeks burned a warmer rose. She focused on the little bronze nuggets carved into Cufant and Copperajah lined up in families on the bookshelves. Her thoughts sharpened, late-night woes coalescing like steam into solid, breathing forms.

If you were more athletic, Professor, perhaps you'd have joined me in the field, shared a hot meal with me, and saved all that typing for tomorrow.

But she kept quiet. Professional. Expectant. She watched Eiffel typing, tracing the generous curve of his body, the thin sheen of grease on his light brown skin, curls popping out of the violet-dyed wool hat he wore even now. His eyes were small and downturned. Sleepy yet determined. They flicked over the pages and pages he'd typed. Untrimmed nails traced typos. Small shoulders wriggled and cracked.

"What are you working on?" she ventured.

Not that she cared. But she wanted to care. Or… she should care. She was his Captain. His colleague. His… Perhaps if she asked about his passions, he would ask about hers, too.

Eiffel hardly lifted his gaze from the typewriter.

"Still Piplup," he said. "I've been studying the specimen Rei obtained in the Cobalt Coastlands. It's an entry that has me scrambling to cross-check my notes on Empoleon, since I'm beginning to believe metamorphosis is at play there. But then… how does a Water-type adjust suddenly to the Steel-type? And the downy blue plumage… does it molt or transmute upon that singularity of maturation?"

Where Cyllene's hands were coated in starch, Eiffel's were white with chalk. The green boards beside his desk were cramped with all the theories his brain couldn't keep contained. A more genuine, respectable study of Pokémon, with proper taxonomic classification upon anatomical specifics. Piplup was birdlike, but it had stubby flippers instead of wings, and its head was too large to allow for flight anyway. Instead it swam in arctic waters, blowing bubbles and screeching.

So she'd observed. Cyllene was very observant. The professor was not.

"Could you imagine it?"

"What," she asked, one sandal squelching in wax.

"Pokémon metamorphosis," he said. "Or that new term they're using back in Galar. 'Evolution.' My advisor at university made footnotes of it in his thesis, but what confused thoughts must go through a Pokémon's head? Forgoing youth in a nigh instant? Could you just imagine? The unfathomable horror of it all? What does Piplup feel when it's suddenly Empoleon?"

"It sounds like magic," Cyllene said. She ran her fingers carefully through her hair, feeling the sting of burns on her scalp. Her stomach softly growled. Potatoes were only filling until midnight.

"Confound it," Eiffel chided. He stood up from his desk, softly moaning at a cramp in his lower back. "Do you think it's magic, my dear? Is that what you think?"

"I…" She stood up now, too, crossing her arms and failing to meet his beady-eyed glare. "I only think magic is a safe conclusion for this time of night. Professor, as your Captain, I order you to drop all this questioning and rest."

"Oh, 'as your Captain.' You tease me. You tease me, Miss Cyllene! Botheration seven times over. It's the perfect time to question why humans speak a different language than Pokémon. That's what my advisor claimed to study. Fifty-seven pages of his dissertation all typed up, all annotated, with a shoddy conclusion that only begged for more time and money lollygagging in a laboratory."

"I can tell you're frustrated with the Poké Dex's progress, but—"

"Now, I, Eiffel Laventon, when I was an undergrad, I could tell you in an abstract why we can't understand Pokémon. It's because the Almighty Sinnoh who rules this vast waste would have it that way. What confused thoughts, indeed."

She sighed, circling the sofa and crossing to where he stood behind the desk, transfixed by the piles and piles of paperwork.

"Wasted intelligence. My diploma — shoddy! My Poké Dex… Called an amusing book for children. 'The patinas on Copperajah's trunk won't clothe the hungry…' "

His pocket watch was still ticking. She'd counted the seconds. Only a moment before it wasn't worth remaining here any longer. She'd only thought…

"A Ginkgo Man died in the Fieldlands," Cyllene said, suddenly. "I found him today partly buried just south of the Horseshoe Plains. The one missing his left eye. He was young. Maybe twenty."

"Strange." Eiffel brushed her off. "Curious."

"He shouldn't have been out there alone."

"Oh, surely not. Not even the merchants of the Guild can prepare for everything. It is unfortunate you had to encounter that, Cyllene. The sight of him must have disturbed you so."

You are incredulous, she thought. And annoyed that I changed the subject. And disturbed yourself that I would intrude on your musings with something so intense. And impudent. Whining about all your accomplishments.

"Eiffel, will you answer a question for me?"

When he didn't slouch, he was taller than her. This time of night, their eyes were level. His collar was unbuttoned, bowtie lost or left in his quarters. She wondered where exactly he kept it. And how he kept those waistcoats clean. And how warm and soft that belly was, were she to reach out and touch it. Her mind was reeling with questions, her heart remembering torn grass and platinum-blond hair slicked in river mud and Zisu's innocent sing-song voice.

She settled for touching his right hand. Starch scraped, then glided over the chalk. Could fingers be muscular? Built up from typing and tearing burrs out of his trousers?

"I'll try my best to answer. I am quite spent."

She thought about how to word it. How to comprehend his mood between the ticking of the pocket watch and the rustling of the chain.

Deciding no version of a question would suffice, Cyllene simply leaned forward and kissed him firmly on the lips.

She'd never kissed a man before. Zisu offered to teach her how with feather pillows. "Pretend it's an older man," she'd say, when they were teenagers and Zisu was popular and Cyllene "was too smart to settle for charlatan boys." Then she grew up. Then they left home behind and sailed to a dangerous northern waste. And Zisu said, "Oh, just pretend it's someone like Eiffel."

"Laventon? Why him?" Cyllene asked.

"Well, he's a good man for you."

"Why?"

"Because he's older and smart."

"He isn't handsome."

"But you'd be so cute together!"

"He doesn't care about anything but his research."

"But you like researching Pokémon too!"

"Then it's not about us."

"You think too much, Cy. If you don't want to be lonely, then you need to try things."

She felt Eiffel's lips contract. For a ticking second she tasted his teeth. Felt him breathing into her mouth. Felt his belly pressing against her when he inhaled again. It wasn't soft. It was firm under all the fabric. Probably hairy. Probably uneven in roundness. Cyllene gasped and pulled away, only squeezing his hand harder, as if forcing the moment to last. Her whole face was burning. A tingling warmth pooled in her chest and trickled down her arms and she shivered.

"Goodness," Eiffel whispered. "That was entirely unexpected. Goodness."

"Eiffel," she said then, "will you fall in love with me? Because I don't want to die alone in the wilderness, and because you… amuse me."

She met his gaze again. He looked at her blankly. Thick eyebrows furrowed. Mouth open, free hand tracing where her lips had been.

"Em… hm… well… Well… Goodness… I…"

"Zisu said you liked me."

"I do like you, Cyllene. I think you're the star at the center of our little Hisuian galaxy, to be sure. Your leadership is superb. I admire how much you like the idea of trusting Pokémon. You're clever and deliberative, and you keep your promises, scarce as they are. But as a romantic partner, well… I suppose I hardly even know you on that personal a note."

The tension drained from her body. She crossed her arms and leaned against his desk, annoyed and confused and fighting off the vision of the dead merchant in the Fieldlands, (who had kept his hair long enough for a Pokémon to kill him, but that wasn't the blasted point.)

"Have I offended you?" the professor asked. "Were you wanting me to love you in that way?"

Cyllene shook her head. "I don't know."

"You always seemed proud of your independence."

"I know."

"But you are human, all the same."

"I'm… I don't know why I'm here. Zisu's here for her family, and for the fun of it. You're here because you want to prove your Poké Dex is more than a children's book. I looked at that Ginkgo Man today and wondered what he might've been out there for. And then I thought about myself, and why I stumble back into the village all burnt up and sore, and eat potato mochi by myself and go to sleep by myself. Zisu said I need a new frontier and new challenges. But I feel like I'm still transitioning. It's been two years, Eiffel. What future do I have here? Am I kidding myself? Are we all kidding ourselves, thinking this place can be settled? We call it a waste in passing."

Eiffel wiped his lips with the hand she'd touched. He scratched at his hat strap, then unbuttoned it and took it off fully. Dark curls sprang out, greased and unkempt. She'd shame him, but he was only a mirror of herself.

"Perhaps you ought to ask the Clan leaders, when they arrive, what they believe is the right path forward. Their faith in "Almighty Sinnoh" has sustained them here for centuries."

"I'm not playing with a feud."

The professor shrugged. Gently, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed.

"If you'd like, we could discuss this more tomorrow."

"I'd rather not," she said. "Clearly coming here to kiss you was rash and stupid of me. I'm sorry."

"You seem shaken."

"Everyone keeps saying that. But I don't want your concern."

"I'm not concerned."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Huffed out a breath.

"Let's agree to not argue about it for now," said Eiffel. "I doubt another kiss would solve anything either."

Cyllene nodded. Trying again seemed more daunting than the initial trial. She could've screamed as she stepped over the broken camera and over the threshold into the darkness of the hall.

"Goodnight, Cyllene."

"Goodnight, Professor Laventon. Extinguish those candles. You'll burn this place down otherwise," she said. Then she added, "Please breakfast with me in the morning."

But morning had already come. The shards of glass embedded in the carpet were glittering gold.


as you go down, my soul will run...


~N~

We only ever see Cyllene interacting with teenagers, in both gameplay and the short animation. There she has to be professional and intimidating, to emphasize the harshness of the wilds. But what's she like with the adults? Confused? Reckless? Even strained romantically?

Clan leaders next chapter ^^

Published by Syntax-N on FanFiction . Net May 20, 2023. Please don't repost. Please do review!