Arven should be studying for Professor Raifort's upcoming exam.
Unfortunately, there's little that will spark an interest in the scraps of fabric or pottery shards found around Fury Falls, and what those artifacts say about the history of the so-called "treasures of ruin." Arven prefers Home Ec to History class; he's not going to get jazzed just because Raifort wrote her doctoral thesis on those dusty old beads.
I will study soon, Arven lies. He has the textbook open in his lap and everything, just to bask in the delusion.
At least the inner spine of this hefty tome is a very comfortable resting place for Arven's arm. That makes it all the easier for him to stare down the endless scroll of his Instagatr home page.
While the boy's right thumb is perusing the World Wide Web through the magical portal of a Rotom Phone, his other hand stays grounded with consistent scritch-scratching pets down Mabosstiff's silver back. The Dark-type Pokemon has claimed the ratty loveseat couch as home base, having long since grown too big for its canine bed that reads "Maschiff" — scrawled with a six year old's backward 'a' and conjoined super 'f.'
"Ol' Reliable," as Arven has taken to calling the couch, is more muddy brown than the moss green once displayed so proudly in a Magby's Department Store catalog. Scratched-up upholstery is stuffed full of loose gray fur to bolster an ancient fluff of Ducklett feathers poking out of every cushion. Yet it remains — as advertised — a reliable mainstay in Poco Path Lighthouse's basement laboratory.
Most of Arven's belongings are kept at Uva Academy.
However, Arven's life is being rebuilt here.
It took a long time for Arven to dare sweep a single dust Bunnelby in the lab or its makeshift kitchen space. Whether he was afraid of incurring the Professor's wraith, or he was afraid of finally dashing the last semblance of hope that his father would return at all, is a question he'll leave in the hands of qualified shrinks. What matters is that the gang's odyssey into Area Zero finally nudged him toward renovating the space that, for all intents and purposes, became his property following Turo's demise.
Nemona and Penny's joint interest in having a clubhouse pushed Arven over the finish line.
The girls — and his little buddy, of course — were happy to help before Florian's big trip to Unova. A school-issue desk with barred leg supports moved from the elevated sheet metal kitchen floor down onto the main stretch of concrete foundation, where it serves as Ol' Reliable's coffee table. Comfortable clutter fills every corner of the desk. It features haphazardly strewn Pokepet toys, an extra GameCube controller for Penny's conveniently portable Nintendo Switch console (whose cable dangles off the edge), math worksheets buried beneath an overlapping pair of "Occulture" magazines, and a photo frame that once sat empty, but now holds the memory of their recent trip to Kitakami. The group shot looks complete with Carmine and Kieran locked into an eternal noogie.
Extra seats and beanbag chairs cover boxes of research notes not yet reclaimed by Paldea's Pokemon League. Unfinished equations wait on a creaking reversible whiteboard, flipped to display Florian and Nemona's bottomless pit of battle strategies. However, the massive bookshelves and mysterious 3D printing device remain untouched.
Another vestigial piece of Turo's laboratory is a semi-circle of monitors displaying nigh-incomprehensible data from stations dotted across Area Zero. Nobody is sure what to do with all those facts and figures, the constantly fluctuating pie and bar graphs, but it seems important to keep an eye on things.
Though this isn't nearly as important as commandeering an arm-mounted screen for streaming TV shows and movies, adding a splash of color to the sterile, eye-straining teal glow of data analytics.
Arven's eyes are much better off now that the basement's windows are regularly open. Visitors get a perfect view of the crystalline South Paldean Sea, and a salty cross-breeze blowing through the basement helps clear a decade's worth of mildew and musk. Mabosstiff certainly enjoys it; his paws twitch with a whining yawn when warm sunlight passes over his curling donut body. The trainer's hand traipses to a perfect scratching spot behind the ear of his Dark-type partner.
Meanwhile, Arven's thumb flicks mindlessly past dozens of posts. His eyes gloss over clips from the latest episode of his favorite cooking show, TV Mauville's "Pike Queen of Sauce." He barely registers Professor Jacq on sabbatical, gallivanting across some island paradise with an obscenely tall man. Classmates showing off their catches, a viral video of a Baltoy ceramic spinning pot, clips from a Grafaiai documentary; all pass with no substantial impact beyond a few moments burned.
Then, he stops.
The boy's finger hovers over a familiar user: 0rthwarmachine.
In the image uploaded yesterday, Nemona is floating in a visibly steamy hot spring at Torkoal's Den — one of Cascarrafa's primo tourist spots. The ridiculous grin on her face is only rivaled by her one-piece swimsuit in Pawmot orange, complete with puffy forearm floaties. Carmine and Kieran sit on opposite ends of the wall behind her. Whereas Carmine vogues for the camera with hunched shoulders, her double-strapped black triangle top hanging above the water as her arms fold over the ledge, the shirtless Kieran offers an eyes-closed smile that looks halfway to a sob.
"Tonight we soak, tomorrow we hike! Too bad we can't battle in here :("
Arven spends a bit too long staring at the image. An inexplicable smile is plastered to his face. It lingers long after becoming uncomfortable.
He gives the post its 370th "Like."
Scrolling commences until Mabosstiff stirs. The Pokemon raises its muzzle with geriatric energy and blindly pushes a wet nose into Arven's hand before it delivers a deep, reverberating bark.
"What's the matter, bud?" Arven clicks his phone back to its lock screen (coincidentally another image of sleepy Mabosstiff), and lets Rotom return to a charging port by Turo's research screens. "Ya hungry?"
"Ruff!"
Mabosstiff roils its stocky head, which airs out its mane as Arven spins its jowls like bike wheels using both hands.
"Alright." His steady, pleasantly warm voice perks up. "Lunch time!"
Arven shuts his textbook, and pats the front cover image of Cofagrigus barely illuminated in torchlight, emerging from ancient brick. He sets the tome aside and stands, leaving Mabostiff to curl back into its folded forelimbs. The trainer pushes his arching back until it cracks like a glowstick, and then shakes out his hair as though it'll start glowing. His shaggy gray locks rustle with similar volume to his sunbathing pet.
"I could use some grub, too. Maybe sandwiches are in order."
A mild whistle fills the room as Arven beelines toward the kitchen, a skip in his step. He rummages through the front pocket of his yellow vest to find a cheeky packet of Spicy Herba Mystica snuck out of Uva Academy.
He doesn't make it further than the first metallic step.
In an instant, the warm summer day is frigid as the Crown Tundra. Arven feels every hair on his neck bristle, and whips around — is a Gastly playing pranks?
All he finds is Mabosstiff sitting up in an unchanged room, if not for the disconcerting pit in Arven's stomach.
No… Something has changed.
The vibes are off.
As the boy scans his surroundings like a champion level "spot the difference" puzzle, Mabosstiff growls.
He's notices it too.
"Rrr-ruff!" The Pokemon snarls, its sharp fangs and beady eyes bare. "Bark! Ruff-ruff! Bworf!"
All Mabosstiff's ire is directed at the coffee table.
Arven runs back, stumbling over the Snorunt shell rug and slamming both hands on the table.
He scours the surface with desperate eyes, all while pouring over his memories.
There are Pokepet toys, thoroughly chewed by Mabosstiff. A GameCube controller with a loose cable. Half-finished mathematics puzzles. Three copies of "Occulture" magazine. The Area Zero gang and Kitakami siblings posing for the memory of a lifetime. Everything appears to be in order.
Except…
Arven takes a hard, gritty swallow through his desert-dry throat. His eyes linger on the August issue of "Occulture," its dark cover depicting the mouth of a cave (wherever Bug-types haven't chewed the corners). Terror niggles at the back of his mind.
This issue hasn't arrived in the mail yet.
He snatches the glossy paperback, which Mabosstiff follows with a drooling scowl. The magazine feels worn and pliable, like he's thumbed through these pages a dozen times already.
Has he?
Arven can't recall.
His thumb flips through the first half of the magazine, stopping only when the centerfold image comes into focus; it's the same cavern from the cover, now dimly pink as though a Litwick has come to life within.
Arven's eyes scan each line of the cover story with clumsily fast plodding that requires him to reread portions over and over.
The boy's breathes pick up, mouth agape.
The dull babble of a medical drama on TV fades.
The only thing louder than tinnitus ringing in his ears is the sound of data pouring into Turo's system. His computer program crackles with each update, filling the ambient room noise with constant trilling clicks, not unlike a Geiger counter.
Mabosstiff leans away from his trainer, whimpering.
Arven shutters.
"Oh, fuck."