"In the leeeeft corner, we have Adamantius," boomed the loudspeaker.
The tyranitar stood twice Toku's height. When he stamped his foot, the stadium shook.
"And in the riiiiiiight corner we have The Dragonmaster, who still holds the title of undefeated in this rink. Will the wrath of a raaaging tyranitar be enough to topple him?"
Lance tugged his cape so that the fabric sat evenly over his shoulders, waiting for the ring that signaled the start of the battle. They usually drew the opening out five or even ten minutes, to get the crowd properly hyped. Overhead, Toku flew in lazy loops. Someone with binoculars might have noticed the reddish tinge clinging to her scales, but only a dragon master would have recognized what Toku was actually doing—opening herself to the speed and power of the ancient ryu.
The bell sang. The tyranitar raised his arms and three boulders jutted up from the stadium floor. They would have been easy enough to dodge, but dodging wasn't a crowd-pleaser here. Toku broke the first with her fist, the second with her tail; the third she caught in a massive twister and hurled back at the tyranitar. The stone broke against his jaw with a painful crack.
The hit was enough to send the tyranitar into a fury. A hyper-beam split from his mouth as he charged forward, half-cocked and badly aimed. The beam missed Toku by a foot, passed over Lance's head, and fizzled against the psychic barrier that shielded the crowd. One glance at the tyranitar's "trainer" confirmed Lance's suspicion. He was facing a wild tyranitar and someone stupid enough to stand in the stadium near him. Toku moved easily between the purple-black pulses the tyranitar was now spitting from his mouth. But the massive pokemon was drawing uncomfortably close to Lance's side of the stadium.
Time to end this.
"Trip it," he called to Toku. As the tyranitar surged forward, Toku's twister knocked him off his feet. The pokemon slammed down back-first, his tail cutting a crevice into the ground. The reverberations ran up Lance's legs, but he kept his footing—more than could be said for his opponent. "Dragon claw."
A claw of green dragon-fire sprang from Toku's fist. She caught the prone tyranitar under the chin with a blow that shuddered down his body.
"Finish with aqua tail."
The upward sweep of Toku's tail stole the moisture from the air. Lance took a breath, his mouth suddenly bone-dry, as a ten-foot whip of water extended from Toku's tail. The water hit the tyranitar's belly with a slap that rang through the stadium. The pokemon grunted once and then went limp.
The barriers muffled the cheers, but Lance could see the crowd rising. He signaled to Toku, who flew down so that he could climb on her back. Together they made a quick lap of the stadium. It was pleasant to feel wind in his hair; it was also a convenient way to avoid shaking his opponent's hand. By the time he landed, the stadium had been cleared of both tyranitar and "trainer."
Hideyoshi was waiting for him inside. The stadium-master was a slim man with a drooping mustache and a gold blazer that suited him about as much as gold glitter would suit a eucalyptus tree.
"Not bad," he said, staring at his watch. Hideyoshi made a habit of not looking people in the eye when he addressed them. "Could have drawn it out longer. Maybe feigned an injury. I'm beginning to have trouble getting decent odds against you."
Lance shrugged. He was thirsty from Toku's aqua tail attack and dealing with Hideyoshi was a pain even when he was hydrated. "That was a wild tyranitar."
"Of course it was. Why do you think I matched it against you?"
"You know I prefer to fight actual trainers."
"You know you're one of the only ones I have who doesn't lose their cool when some monster-beast goes rampaging. Listen, I'm doing a VIP event tonight. I want you there."
"No thanks," Lance said.
Hideyoshi directed a glare at the light fixture above Lance's head. "I've got some information you might want to hear. Concerning—" He drew an exaggerated R in the air.
Lance stiffened. "Fine."
"Excellent." The stadium-master brought his hands together. "5:00pm, on the penthouse floor. Oh, and wear the dratini."
Wear the dratini, like Kaisho was some kind of scarf?
Before an indignant rebuke could pass Lance's lips, Hideyoshi took off down the corridor, his suit glittering copper-green in the fluorescent light. Lance sighed, his fist unclenching at his side.
He didn't make the rules here and he knew it, but living with that wasn't easy. Hideyoshi's fight-hall existed in a world outside the Pokemon League's carefully structured tournaments. Some fights were normal, but others were staged, and others were like the one Lance had just participated in—trained pokemon set against the most vicious-looking wild pokemon Hideyoshi could get his hands on. Lance's lack of ID and badges—both sitting somewhere back in Rocket HQ—had barred him from League-certified tournaments. Hideyoshi's fight hall left a nasty itch in his throat, but the money was quick and Hideyoshi had connections, most of them with the criminal underworld.
"The Rockets are legal," Hideyoshi had told Lance when he first raised the topic. "They're legal 'cause they've got the pocket of everyone who matters, same as me."
The locker room was empty. Lance changed quickly, swapping his bright red outfit and cape for a jacket and loose pants. The cape, made of faux spinsilk, was a mockery of a kairyu cape. It was slippery, insubstantial, and already fraying at the hem. Every time he held it, Lance couldn't help but think of Ibuki's cloak, abandoned at the Team Rocket headquarters. His gut twisted sharply.
5:00pm. Enough time for a quick flight with Toku, if he hurried. Saffron City, in Lance's opinion, was best endured from the height of a ryu's back.
Lance hated the VIP parties. They took place on the penthouse floor, where the carpet was lush and candles lent the room a shadowy light. Lance's apparent function at these gatherings was to stand like a miniryu in a tank, to be poked and prodded at. He made his way straight for the buffet and loaded his plate. Food generally made for the best defense against unwanted conversation.
"Here he is!" Hideyoshi's hand clapped Lance's back. Another man was with him—something about him struck Lance as vaguely familiar. He had an agile, handsome face, and wore his hair tied back in a high ponytail. His eyes were bright when they landed on Lance.
"I'm Jiro," he said. "A pleasure to meet you. I caught your battle today."
"Wasn't much of a battle." The words passed Lance's lips before he could stop them, but the man only chuckled.
"No it wasn't," he agreed. "But your dragonite was impressive, nonetheless. I'd like to see her tested against a real opponent."
Kaisho wriggled forward on Lance's neck to get a look at the stranger. As he did so, Jiro's tunic rippled, and a blue face peeked out. A miniryu's face.
Lance's eyes went wide. "How—"
The man frowned. He reached up and lifted the miniryu off his shoulder with one hand, expression shifting from confusion to understanding. "Oh, excuse Gigaku. She gets carried away when she meets a new face. Change back, will you, darling?" The miniryu let out a reluctant trill, her tail drooping. But when Jiro fixed her with a stern expression a pink blush spread across her scales. Her body seemed to soften like melting butter. When Lance blinked, in the place of a miniryu Jiro held a pink blob with a furtive expression. "Makes for quite the party trick," Jiro said. "Gigaku's a ditto. She can change her shape into anything she sees."
Even a kairyu? Lance wondered. But the ditto was small, and kairyu were quite big.
"I'd quite like to battle you and your dragonite," Jiro said suddenly. "The day after tomorrow I have time free in the evening, if that suits you." Behind the man, Hideyoshi shot Lance a meaningful look. So the information was contingent on this too? Not that Lance ever minded a fight. He nodded his head.
"Excellent." Jiro's smile was warm. He seemed on the verge of saying more, but a passing woman recognized him, and they swept off together, wrapped in low conversation.
Lance turned to Hideyoshi with crossed arms. He had an inkling that this was the reason he'd been made to attend the party. "Now the information," Lance hissed.
For once, Hideyoshi didn't mince words. "I heard on the grapevine that the Rockets have arranged a buy with J's people. Tomorrow night, 11pm, at warehouse thirty-seven. Sounds like a big one."
That was way more specific than any of the information Hideyoshi had slipped him in the past. Lance narrowed his eyes. "You want me to interfere."
Hideyoshi sniffed. "Those Rockets have been pricing me out. J's the best, but she's got standards. Cross her once, she won't deal, no matter how much money you offer."
"If I crash the sale, she won't sell to them again?"
"That's the idea. Not that I'd dream of suggesting you do that," Hideyoshi added, his gaze drifting up to the chandelier.
"Right." Lance rolled his eyes. He quickly downed the contents of his plate—mushrooms stuffed with some sort of buttery, tangy goo—and made for the exit. Tomorrow evening didn't leave him much time to prepare.
The red Rs caught in the half-moon light, moving through the darkness like the crests of hunting gyarados. The fall air was smoggy and humid tonight, and condensation lay thickly on Lance's neck. He straightened his back and raised his arm in a stiff salute.
"All clear inside," he said tonelessly.
A pause stretched out. Lance kept his eyes fixed on the pavement, waiting for his presence to be challenged and rolling his answer around in his mind. Proton got wind there might be trouble. He sent me ahead to make sure no ambush was being laid. But tonight, the posture and uniform were enough.
"Excellent," came a woman's voice. "Fall in, agent."
There were three of them, two women and a man. Ten pokeballs total between them. Lance swallowed as he took his place in the back. Hideyoshi had been right, this was a big sale. He'd only expected a single agent, two at most.
The woman at the rear of the group shot Lance a quick glance as he approached her. She was middle-aged, with nondescript features, but her sharp gaze prickled uncomfortably over his skin and then fell to his belt. Toku's apricorn ball. That wasn't standard issue. Had she noticed it?
Whatever the woman saw, she said nothing. They entered the warehouse in silence, their boots squeaking against the vinyl floor. The woman leading the group flicked her hand and a venomoth appeared.
"Give us some light."
Energy collected in the venomoth's wings, until the warehouse was bathed in a wavering silver glow. Lance glanced nervously up to the shelftops where Toku and Kana lay waiting, but the light didn't illuminate that far up. The group leader checked her watch.
"Eight minutes to eleven," she said. "Shouldn't be long now."
The waiting was almost unbearable. Lance thought he could catch the rumble of Toku's breathing, deeper and slower than human breaths. Could none of them hear it? The group leader was staring at her watch, the man was adjusting a clunky-looking instrument, and the woman at the rear was looking at Lance. He snuck a quick glance her way. No, he didn't know her, and there was no way she could know him. He'd taken pains to tuck every strand of red hair into his cap tonight. He fiddled with the glass ball in his pocket, and tried to ignore her scrutiny.
The rev of an engine outside made Lance start. The group-leader lifted her head as the door groaned open and two men stepped inside. They wore caps and nondescript gray clothing that blended with the shadows. Each of them held a large suitcase.
"Evening," said the first man, a head shorter than his companion. "You're busy people, I'm sure, so let's get to business. Show us the money."
"Show us the goods," the group-leader countered calmly.
The shorter man nodded. His companion set his suitcase down, unlatched it, and took a small step back. Inside, Lance counted eighteen pokeballs, slotted in a neat array. The man from the Rocket group came forward with his instrument—a scanner of some kind—and moved it over the pokeballs. Lance began to edge backwards, out of the circle of light.
"All correct," the man said at last, latching the suitcase and hefting it up in his hand.
Now, Lance thought. He drew the small glass ball from his pocket and lobbed it across the room. Every head turned at the sound of breaking glass. That was Toku's cue. A sudden wind gusted from the depths of the warehouse, knocking everyone to their feet except for Lance, who had already thrown himself to the ground. Kana dived out of the darkness. Before anyone could react, she'd swept up the two suitcases and returned to Lance's side.
The sellers were the first to react. The shorter man looked from Kana to Lance to the three other Rockets, and plainly decided he didn't like his odds.
"Fuckers," he hissed concisely, and bolted for the door, the other man at his heel. An engine revved and then silence fell for an instant, broken by the cacophony of ten pokeballs released in near simultaneity. Lance's quick glance caught a machoke, a weezing, and several golbat, before Kana expelled a curtain of fire. It surged over the venomoth and the silvery light sputtered out.
Kana's tail-flame was the only light left-making her and Lance clear targets. He grabbed a suitcase in either hand and lunged for the darkness of the shelves. Kana spun, flame flaring out as the golbat clustered around her. The eerie pitch of a supersonic attack split the air. As Kana clasped her hands over her ears, a second golbat bit down on her neck. Lance winced from where he stood nestled into the shelves. There was a roar and another gust whirled from the back of the warehouse. Toku swooped down, catching the machoke with a dragon claw and grounding the two golbat with a swipe of her tail.
Lance exhaled. Nine was a lot, but none of these agents knew anything about battling. Kana and Toku could take them—
Something cold and sharp came to rest against the back of Lance's neck. He went still.
"Sneee," a soft voice whispered, the menace unmistakable. A claw tapped against his right wrist. Lance opened his hand, and the suitcase hit the ground with a crash. A second tap. A second crash. "Sneasel!" the pokemon called out.
Lance stood absolutely still, his heart pounding in his head. Something about that voice . . .
"You've got him? Hey—listen-up, we've got your trainer!"
Kana let out a frustrated whine, and her dancing flames flickered out. Footsteps were coming closer. In a moment they'd find him, take the pokeballs back and take him too—
"Hunter?" he whispered. The blade lifted from his neck and he was flipped around. A wet nose snuffled over his face. "Hunter, it's you, isn't it?" Through the darkness he could make out the sneasel's unblinking gaze. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to leave you, I had no choice."
"Sneee—"
"I found the lights," someone shouted, and the world erupted in white. Hunter recoiled, and Lance was able to twist away.
"Toku I'm fine!" he shouted. At once, another twister whipped through the warehouse, setting the shelves rattling. Lance hoisted up the two suitcases. Hunter hadn't moved. When Lance met her eyes, the sneasel jerked her claw. Go.
Lance took off down the row of shelves. The bitter smell of smoke filled the air. He turned the corner, coughing. Were those footsteps? A red R loomed out of the smoke. As Lance spun around, a foot tripped him and he hit the ground. The Rocket bent over him, one hand pressing down on his back. Hot breath touched his ears.
"Listen to me. Tomorrow. 5:00am. Mr. Mime Ramen. Understand?" The pressure on his back built into something painful.
"Yes," Lance gasped out, entirely baffled. The pressure vanished. The smoke lay thick around. He stumbled to his feet as Toku emerged from between the shelves. "Let's go," Lance whispered. She blasted a hole in the nearest wall and rumbled. They broke into the damp air, Kana close behind.
Ten minutes' flight brought Lance to the door of his hostel. He could see Kana gritting her teeth as they tramped inside—the golbat's poison fang, probably. He treated her in his room with a store-bought antidote, glancing occasionally at the suitcases of pokeballs sitting on his bed as the adrenaline slowly fizzled away. He'd got them, but what was he supposed to do with them? Hideyoshi was probably hoping Lance would bring the pokemon to him. That wouldn't be any better than Team Rocket having them, though.
"Sorry," Lance murmured, as Kana flinched at the medicine-spray. "I didn't expect three people. I should have made a better plan."
As Kana snorted, Lance's hand moved up to rub the back of his own neck. And if that sneasel hadn't been Hunter, would he have gotten out at all?
Tomorrow. 5:00am. Mr. Mime Ramen. Do you understand?
Someone had helped him. They'd flipped the lights on and filled the room with smoke. Lance settled to sleep with his head resting against Kana's warm belly, the thought zizzing in his mind like hot oil hitting water. Someone had helped him.
Who?
Mr Mime's twenty-four hour ramen shack was all but deserted when Lance shuffled in at 5:05am, rubbing at his eyes. The restaurant was small—three booths on either side, and a counter squeezed in the back. A couple kissed in one, a construction worker bent over an enormous bowl in another, and a thin-faced girl sat in the last, sharing her soup with an equally bony meowth. None of them in any way resembled the Rockets from last night.
As Lance lingered in the threshold, a hand fell firmly on his shoulder. A middle-aged woman had entered the restaurant behind him. She gave Lance a tight smile as he turned to face her. He had a few inches on her, but the fact didn't reassure him.
"We'll take the back booth," she said.
A yawning teenager delivered their menus. Lance sat stiffly, his eyes fixed on the Rocket woman. She'd replaced her uniform with a shapeless gray shirt. Her hair was cut close to the scalp and her eyes were as watchful as they'd been the night before. When Lance didn't make a move to pick up his menu, she said, "You'll probably want the jumbo size after such an eventful evening."
The waitress circled back with a pot of tea. "You ready?"
"I'll have a Mr Mime special, regular size, magmar hot, with extra wood-ears," the woman said without looking at the menu. She waited a moment to see if Lance would chime in, then added, "He'll have a jumbo size Mr Mime special and a pecha ramune."
Lance sucked in a breath. He waited until the waiter had disappeared into the back to say in a low voice, "Who are you and why did you help me?"
The woman raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lip tugging downward. "I think the better question is who are you, and what is your business with Team Rocket?"
Lance kept his mouth clamped shut. He wasn't going to volunteer anything until he knew what was going on. After a moment, the woman let out a small sigh. "I go by Noriko. I'm working to bring Team Rocket to an end. There. Does that help?"
Lance's lips parted. "You—"
An enormous, steaming bowl of ramen thunked onto the table in front of him. Corn floated on the top, sprinkled with green scallions. A rich scent rose from the dark broth.
"Me too," Lance said, when the waiter had left. The words sounded nonsensical. "I mean, I'm also trying—"
"How old are you?" The woman's gaze had dropped to her ramen.
He lifted his chin. "Eighteen."
She lifted a wood-ear mushroom with her chopsticks, brought it to her mouth, and chewed. "Nice try, but I wasn't born yesterday. How old are you."
" . . . Sixteen."
"Sixteen," the woman repeated. "So I'll ask you again, what business do you have with Team Rocket?"
Lance took a sip of ramen to avoid answering. The hot broth scalded his tongue, and he reached hastily for the pecha soda. The sweet fizz of the liquid didn't help much, though. He set down the drink to find Noriko studying him, her expression unreadable.
"I joined," Lance said. The words were hard to get out. He lowered his eyes to the table, where someone had taken the trouble to carve natsume's a bitch into the plastic veneer. "Two years ago. I thought—that part doesn't matter. They need to be stopped."
"And you fancy you're the one to stop them?"
Her tone was mild, not mocking, but Lance still flinched. "I did last night," he bit out.
"Last night you nearly got yourself killed and nearly blew my cover bailing you out." Her eyes narrowed. "You still have those pokeballs?"
"Yes."
"You have plans for them?"
"No."
"Of course you don't. That's the problem with vigilantes. You make messes you don't know how to clean up."
A tense silence fell. Lance sipped at his ramen, but he felt more nauseous than hungry. Noriko slurped vigorously at her noodles.
"What else am I supposed to do?" he said finally. Kairyu masters had a duty, wherever the strong troubled the weak. He hasn't sworn it, not properly, but the duty had been his from the moment Toku evolved.
"Let the law handle this."
Lance looked up at her in disbelief. "The law doesn't handle it. Team Rocket bribes them!" He set down his spoon with a clatter. "No one is doing anything—"
Noriko held up one hand. "Don't get yourself overexcited, please. It's not correct to say that nobody is doing anything, since I'm a person and I'm doing something. Particularly since I am not just a person but a representative of a larger organization. Are you familiar with the G-Force?"
Lance shook his head and Noriko's expression soured.
"I'm not surprised. We've somewhat fallen from the peak of our glory. Centuries back, after the ninjas of Fuschia repelled the Hoennese invasion, an elite band was formed, comprising both ninjas and warriors from the main fiefs of Kanto. They were set under the direct command of the champion and their purpose was to root out threats to the entire nation. Times have changed since then. Grown more peaceful, though not more innocent. Now it's all we can do to prevent our office from getting cut out of the budget." Noriko shook her head and with that gesture seemed to reel herself back in. "The G-Force is aware of Team Rocket and we're handling it. What we don't need is sixteen-year-olds getting involved."
Something sour rose in Lance's mouth. An ursaring's paw cut down. He stood there, still. Useless.
"I'm involved already." Lance didn't think his voice had changed, but Noriko's head jerked up from her soup. "I'm involved, and I can help. You saw my pokemon. We can handle anything they throw at us."
"Kid, very few things that matter are won or lost in pokemon battles." Noriko raised her bowl to her mouth and sucked in the last of the broth. "I've got to get back. My shift starts soon. Listen, tomorrow's my off-day. Meet me here at 8:00am and I'll get you debriefed at the G-Force office. And bring those pokeballs."
She stuck down several bills on the table—enough to cover both their meals. When she'd left, Lance picked at his ramen, but he had no appetite. He pushed the bowl over to Kaisho and let the miniryu feast.
If there was an organization fighting Team Rocket, Lance had to join them. So what if he was sixteen? He'd joined Team Rocket when he was only fourteen.
He returned to the hostel and crawled into bed. When he woke it was early afternoon, and his mind felt heavy with mud. He found his feet turning towards the battle hall. Maybe training would clear his head.
When Lance entered the massive pool in the basement of Hideyoshi's battle-hall, he saw a woman drilling hydro-pumps with her vaporeon and a man timing his poliwhirl as it ran laps. Both of them cleared out quickly when Lance released Ibuki into the water. He felt bad about that, but not as bad as he should have.
Kaisho dived off his shoulder into the water. She trilled to Ibuki, who took up a watchful stance. Static crackled between Kaisho's fins. The bolt of electricity broke against the water churned up by Ibuki's tail. All Lance's pokemon had begun to take the miniryu a lot more seriously once he began to spit lightning with all the ease of Toku summoning a twister.
When Kaisho showed signs of tiring, Lance sent out Toku and Kana. The two ryu banded together; Ibuki and Kana exchanged begrudging looks and then flamed out in unison. Steam filled the air as the flamethrower met Toku's aqua tail. Lance started to call out commands, the hiss and flare of clashing attacks washing over him.
Ibuki had just let off a particularly fine hyper-beam, when the sound of clapping made them all start. A man was watching from the doorway. The hot, steamy air stuck his turtleneck to his chest. A miniryu was draped around his shoulders.
The man from the party! Lance had completely forgotten about him. He dropped into a short bow and mumbled an apology.
"No need for that—you put on quite the show. Though if your dragonite still has energy, I'd like to hold you to the battle you promised me."
Lance caught Toku's harumph. This had only been a play fight. Of course she still had energy.
"Excellent. You might want to throw on a coat. The day's turned cold out there."
"We're going out?" Lance said in surprise. "But there's plenty of battling rooms free down here and there's nowhere to fight in the city—"
The man waved his hand. "I know a place. It's a bit of a walk, but you don't mind, do you? I think a battle in the open air is always preferable to an indoor fight."
Lance couldn't argue with that. He recalled his pokemon and threw on his jacket, following the man—Jiro, he recalled—outside. It was a typical Saffron day, sullen and overcast. Tendrils of wet fog hung thickly in the air and the scent of tar and smoke clung to every breath. Jiro wore a russet coat over his gold-yellow turtleneck. He walked at an easy amble, his scarf and pony-tail streaming back with the wind. Lance noticed gold studs glinting in his ears.
"Have you spent much time in Saffron?" he asked as they walked.
"Not too much."
"Well, what's your impression been of Kanto's capital?" Jiro turned as he spoke the question and laughed at whatever he saw on Lance's face. "Too gray and too dark?"
"And smelly and dirty."
"Fair enough, I suppose. Though I like the grays we get here. They come in different textures like different makes of cloth, and the sun's all the more brilliant when she chooses to show her face. Even the smell I don't mind. Sometimes I even miss it, when I'm out somewhere pastoral and perfect. The bitter tinge to the air . . ." He looked again at Lance. "No? Well, I suppose home is the one place you're allowed to be sentimental about. But I think you'll appreciate this spot I'm bringing you."
They were climbing upwards, Lance could tell, though their route wasn't straight. At first they'd followed a busy boulevard, but soon Jiro turned off, and from there they took smaller streets, until the pavement ended and the road beneath them turned pot-holed and white-gray. It curved up and around and, as they turned the bend, rose suddenly above the gray buildings into a broad hill, thick with vegetation and crowned with cotton-wood trees, their spade-shaped leaves flashing yellow as some late-afternoon sunlight penetrated the fog.
"Welcome to Fearow Hill," said Jiro, as Lance slowed to take in the sight. "Never let anyone tell you we don't have any wild places left in Saffron." He strode forward, his coat flaring out as a sharp gust of wind twisted by. A shriek rose from the hilltop and the air filled with red and russet. Fearows, Lance realized, more of them than he'd ever seen in one place. They made a circle above Jiro's head, then one dove downwards, beak-first. Lance cried out a warning, his hand falling to Toku's pokeball, but even as the kairyu took to the air, Lance saw Jiro was in no danger. The fearow's dive levelled out. The massive bird, whose crest reached Jiro's shoulder, folded its wings and allowed the man to work his fingers gently down its ruff.
As Lance and Toku neared, the fearow turned a suspicious gaze on them, but when Jiro murmured something to it, the bird looked away.
"I'm something of a regular, you see," Jiro told Lance. "Fearow are loyal pokemon. This is Asahi. I fed him bread-crumbs when we were both small, and now he's got a beak that could snap me in two." He tossed a pokeball into the air. "We're here, Kint."
A glossy persian materialized on the hill-side. She let out a short mewl as the wet fog hit her and at once began to groom her buttercream coat.
"Darling, are you in the mood for a quick battle?" The persian raised her head to study Lance and Toku with blood-red eyes. The jewel on her forehead sparkled and flared, even though the sky was once again clouded. Her mew sounded dismissive to Lance, but Jiro plainly took it for agreement. They climbed about fifty more feet to where the hill levelled. From here, the whole city was visible, crests and ridges of building tops, upon which the smog lay like muddied snow. It was so different from the pure greens and blazing oranges of the Ryu's Gift. Lance wondered if he would have found it beautiful, if some twist of fate had made this place his home.
He and Jiro stood about thirty-feet distant. The fearow had returned to their perches, but Lance could make out their red crests, scattered among the branches. Toku took to the air, looping into the broad somersaults of a kairyu dance.
Jiro's eyes narrowed as he traced Toku's movements.
"Power gem," he said softly. Gold light split from the gem on the persian's forehead. The ray was slim, but concentrated, and it clipped Toku across the foot before she could react. Where it had struck, the beam solidified into something hard and amber-colored. Toku sagged in the air as if a chain had been clapped around her ankle.
Jiro met Lance's eyes. "I hope that wasn't out of line. My impression was that the battle had already begun."
Lance shook his head, staring up at Toku. "You're right. We'd begun."
No one had worked out that Toku's opening dance was anything more than aerial show-boating before.
"Break that thing off with a dragon claw," Lance called up to Toku. He turned to watch the persian, who was sitting with her paws demurely crossed. Something about the way the red jewel on her forehead flickered, its red deepening, made him uneasy. But no attack came. Toku soared back into the air, unencumbered. "Use twister!"
The hilltop was already windy, but the gale that pushed from Toku's wings made the cotton-woods groan and the fearow shriek in protest. The wind carried away Jiro's command, but his persian extended her claws into the craggy ground and pressed herself flat. Jiro hadn't been pushed back either. Squinting, Lance made out a shimmering blue barrier in front of him, eggshell-thin, but powerful enough that not a hair moved on Jiro's head. The ditto must have created it.
Lance had been expecting the twister attack to throw the persian up into the air, where she would be vulnerable. Still—his gaze dipped to her dug-in claws. It would take her more than a few seconds to pull herself free.
"Get closer, and then use dragon claw," Lance called up to Toku. He doubted Jiro would be able to make out his words over the wind. Toku dove down, the twister attack unrelenting. At five feet, her fist sharpened into a green claw. The persian was still stuck fast in place. Perfect.
But when the blow connected, the persian's form dissolved. Lance blinked, but there was only white cotton fuzz on the breeze. Toku's antenna curled in confusion. She swung her head from side to side—
The lull in the wind carried Jiro's words to Lance with crisp precision. "Throat chop."
"Up!" Lance yelled, but it was too late. The air rippled by Toku's feet and a white shape sprung upwards, knocking Toku back against the dirt. The persian leaped onto Toph's belly and slashed across the tender scales beneath her chin. Toku howled. She thrashed against the ground, her wings fluttering.
"Twister!" Lance cried in panic.
Wind swirled weakly and then burst out, flinging the persian high into the air. Toku followed. She lunged forward with a dragon-claw, but the persian had pulled itself into a tight ball. Somersaulting, the persian countered Toku's attack with a gleaming iron tail.
A persian only had one tail, though. Toku had—
"Your other claw!'
The second hit struck the persian squarely against her side. She dropped through the air like a stone, out of sight where the hill sloped down. Toku descended slowly through the air. Closer, Lance could see that the persian's attack had scored pink lines across her throat.
"Do you want to stop?" Lance asked, but Toku shook her head, her gaze drifting to where the persian had fallen. "Careful," Lance called as she took off down the hill-side. "That persian is—"
Brilliant gold light flooded the hill-top. Lance shielded his face as it surged over him, seeming to come from everywhere at once. When he lowered his hand, the clearing seemed dark in contrast, like night had fallen in a moment.
Toku lay grounded. A hard, amber substance covered her wings and body, leaving only her neck clear. As she struggled, the persian slunk forward. She raised her right paw over Toku's neck, the claw extended.
"We concede." Lance managed to shape his suddenly dry mouth over the words.
Letting out a satisfied parrumph, the persian began to groom atop Toku's amber-encrusted body. Jiro crossed the hill-top and knelt next to his persian, scritching her near her whiskers.
"Flawless as always, Kint. But would you mind breaking this poor dragon out?"
With a huff, the persian brought down her tail against the stone. The crack was enough for Toku to free herself. The kairyu scratched a few shards of amber off her body and retreated to Lance's side, rumbling unhappily. The slash-marks had already scabbed over, but the dark pink lines left made Lance's stomach twist.
"Not many people can lay a hit on Kintsugi," Jiro said, examining the mottled bruise on the persian's side. The persian let out a hiss and nudged him away with her tail.
Jiro's impressed tone seemed entirely unwarranted to Lance. "We lost."
Jiro chuckled. "Of course you lost! If you'd won, they'd be calling you a member of the Elite Four." His grin widened at Lance's bemused expression. "What, you really didn't know who you were fighting?"
Mutely, Lance shook his head.
Jiro stood and made an elaborate bow. "Jiro of the Elite Four, at your service. I don't usually say that—everyone already knows and it sounds a bit gauche, I think." His persian snorted. "And Kint agrees."
Some levity left him as his eyes fell on Lance. "Seriously, you did well. Kint doesn't usually feel the need to end a battle with a claw to the throat—she only does that when her fur's been ruffled a little. You and your team have a lot of potential. The raw power's there, and your control's not bad at all. Tactics could use some refinement, of course. I'd be open to taking you on."
Lance was thinking about the persian's final attack. The light had only solidified once it touched Toku. If they countered with aqua tail before it reached her . . .
"Taking me on?" Lance repeated, his eyes drifting up in confusion.
"As an apprentice. Used to be fairly common practice, though it's fallen out of fashion a bit."
The Elite Four were the four strongest trainers in all Kanto, weren't they? Lance thought he should feel elated, but he just felt tired. Two suitcases of stolen pokeballs lay back on his hostel bed. Noriko's dismissive words rang through his mind. Very few things that matter are won or lost in pokemon battles.
"Can I think about it?"
Jiro's mouth crinkled into a smile. The wind stirred the tail of his coat. "Sure," he said. "Just don't think too long."
Lance's shoulder ached from holding the suitcase, but he didn't want to set it down. Mr Mime's Ramen Shack grew busier as the hour neared 8:00am. Lance thought he looked strange, standing off to the side, but nobody in line paid him any attention. He stared hard into the crowded avenue, craning his head left and right. For all that, though, he somehow missed Noriko's approach.
"Where's the other suitcase?" she said, after looking him up and down closely.
"I'll bring it next time."
Noriko's unamused grin told Lance she'd seen straight through that ploy. "There's not going to be a next time. Where's the other suitcase at?"
"My hostel. Room 308."
"I'll have someone retrieve it. Come on." Noriko took off at a brisk walk. Only fifteen minutes had passed before she stopped in front of a huge building. Nothing, to Lance's eyes, set it apart from the other gray buildings that lined the block. Inside, the foyer was small and funneled through a tall metal machine, watched over by a security guard.
Noriko nodded to the security guard and handed Lance a small plastic bin. "Put your pokeballs in here. Any other weapons too, if you have them." She and the security guard spoke in low voices for a moment. Lance saw her flash some kind of card. "All right, step through."
Noriko followed him a moment later.
"Pokeballs are restricted in this building to authorized personnel," she said. "They'll be kept here while we talk."
Lance twisted around. "What? No." His gaze leaped to the conveyor belt where his pokeballs sat.
"Those are the rules." Noriko spoke flatly. "This building is government property and we can't allow reckless teenagers with dragonites to do whatever they want in here. Look, your pokeballs will go in the central safe and you'll get a claim number." A small smile cracked her stern expression. "Nobody's going to steal your pokemon, if that's what you're worried about."
No. He didn't want Toku and Kana and Ibuki and Kaisho locked away anywhere. Especially Kaisho. "Can't my miniryu come with? You've seen him, he's small. He won't cause any trouble."
Noriko shook her head. "If you're really interested in joining the G-Force the first thing you need to understand is that rules are rules."
"Fine," Lance said at length. "But I want to see where you put them."
When they finally took the elevator up, Lance felt twitchy and horribly alone. Noriko led him into a cramped office. A jumbo-sized bag of leppa-pocky peaked out from under the caverns of paperwork on the desk. Noriko wheeled two chars into facing positions, stuck a device on the desk, and sat herself down, leg over knee.
"Let's start with the basics," she said. "What's your name? And give me your ID as well, I'll do a scan."
"I don't have any ID. It's with Team Rocket."
Noriko frowned. "I see. Well, thumb here, then." She pulled another machine out of a drawer and held it out to Lance. "Once your print is verified, we can get you set up with a new ID. Full name?"
Lance hesitated. He barely recalled the family name Mr Inushi had made up for him. "Fu-Fusube Wataru." If the family name sounded ridiculous, his own name didn't feel much better. It felt like a miniryu's old skin—something that didn't fit right. "I go by Lance now."
"Name changes are Department of Registry business, not mine. How did you get involved with Team Rocket?"
"I was working at the casino. In Celadon."
"The Grand Royale?" Noriko interjected sharply. When Lance nodded she said, "Yes, we're aware of them. Nothing to be done there. The casino industry's more thickly shielded than a cloyster in its shell."
She listened in silence as Lance went through the rest. He left out everything to do with Kaisho, though. He had a sneaking suspicion that if Noriko knew Archer had given him the miniryu, she'd try to confiscate him. He didn't say anything about Archer either. The omission hadn't been conscious at first, but as Lance spoke, he realized that he was avoiding the man's name.
Just then the whirring device on Noriko's desk cut out. The woman muttered a curse. "Damn penny-pinching—" She placed a finger to her temple and sighed. "All right, let's wrap this quickly. Did you happen to learn the real names of any Team Rocket members? Not code names."
Lance was about to shake his head when he hesitated. Hunter—the human Hunter, not the sneasel . . . he knew her real name, at least one of them. Hachi from Viridian. That would have been enough in the Ryu's Gift, but in Kanto's cities?
"No, just code-names," Lance said.
"Anything else I should know?" The note of finality in her tone made Lance stiffen.
"You should know that I can help! I've been doing a lot." Lance was going to list examples, but Noriko shook her head.
"Clearly, but what you've been doing isn't helpful. Take two nights ago. What did your actions achieve? We got back two suitcases of pokeballs before an illegal sale took place."
"And now that poacher J won't sell to them," Lance interrupted.
"Yes, but that's not the good thing you seem to think it is. A few more sales in, we could have brought in everyone at the meeting. Gotten a lead on J and Team Rocket at the same time. The poacher might not sell to Team Rocket anymore, but she's going to keep selling to other people, until she's brought to justice. Did you consider that?"
Numbly, Lance shook his head. He hadn't thought about that at all.
Noriko's tone softened a smidge. "I recognize you're trying to do the right thing here. But this work isn't easy. Eighteen's the youngest we let people join—I joined then, and I was a disaster for years, until I finally had my head set straight. Wait two years, make sure you really want to devote your life to this—you're a pretty serious trainer, aren't you? Pokemon can be powerful weapons, but on the G-Force it's more useful to be able to spot a ditto mask than to win an open fight. You probably don't even know what a ditto mask is—"
"I do." Something like relief washed over Lance; for the first time in this conversation, he felt like he was on solid ground. "Ditto are pokemon that change their shapes. Jiro has one who keeps imitating my miniryu. I bet I could work out the difference if I tried."
Noriko's eyes narrowed. "Jiro? Jiro of the Elite Four? Yes, he does, but—I'm sorry, are you saying you know him? Personally?"
"Sure," said Lance, raising his chin. She actually sounded impressed. "He wants me to be his apprentice."
Noriko opened her mouth and then closed it. She uncrossed her legs. Her words, when she spoke, were enunciated very precisely. "Jiro of the Elite Four wants you to be his apprentice."
Lance nodded. "I said I'd think about it," he added. "Because I'd rather join the G-Force."
Maybe that would show her he was serious about this.
Noriko said nothing for several seconds. "Kid, the ear of an Elite Four member is worth fifty successful stings. Look, you can't join officially at sixteen, but I should be able to get you in the system as an informant. Jiro floats through all the political circles. Stick with him, make some connections—when the budget comes around again, we can cash them in." She spoke with rising enthusiasm. "Get new agents and equipment that doesn't break. Move to a building where the goddamn ceiling doesn't leak." Her gaze fell back to Lance. "Come on, let's get you kitted up."
He blinked as she rose suddenly to her feet. When Lance remained sitting, she crossed her arms and spoke in an impatient voice. "Well, do you want to be a member of the G-Force or don't you?"
Lance shot up. "I do!"
"Then listen carefully . . ."
Noon had come and gone by the time Lance returned to the fight-hall. He found Hideyoshi in the private dining room, finishing off a pink and white confection. "Have you seen Jiro?"
"Not since the party," the stadium-master answered, looking up from his dessert. "Nice work, by the way. J's mad as a salamence. I can give you a fair price for those pokemon, you know. You'll have trouble re-selling them anywhere else—" Lance turned and headed out of the room. Hideyoshi called after him, "He's doing an exhibition battle this afternoon, over in the league stadium. My humble establishment's not good enough for an Elite Four member, apparently . . ."
The line was already around the block when Lance reached Saffron's main stadium. Excited chatter buzzed all around him.
"I hope Jiro uses his clefable. There's this one attack clefable do, where it's like they bring the moon down into the stadium. Everytime the cameras try to catch it they just white out."
"Nah, I want to see his ditto."
"What do you mean, see it? It would just look like Akane's pokemon. Boring."
"At least it's not Kikuko fighting. You can barely tell where her pokemon are half the time."
One of the girls in the group noticed Lance listening and said in a friendly voice, "What pokemon do you want to see today?"
"Uh," Lance said. The whole conversation felt surreal to him. "His persian is pretty strong?"
The line shuffled forward. By the time they'd reached the front, Lance had received the full run-down of Jiro's team and an in-depth evaluation of his fashion sense. The ticket was pricier than Lance would have liked, but he handed over the money, and found himself squeezed onto the bleachers at the top of an enormous stadium. Only the sudden din let him know that figures had walked out onto the battlefield—he could hardly make them out from where he was sitting. The enormous screens on either side of the stadium showed Jiro, wearing a slim-cut coat made out in russet and gold, and a young woman with hair that blazed brighter than Lance's.
"What a match-up we have today! Saffron's own Jiro of the Kanto Elite Four faces off against Johto's Champion Akane. They bring very different styles to the battlefield. Jiro is known for his flexibility, surprising move-pool, and imitative tricks. Akane is famous world-wide for her utterly bold fighting style."
"Indeed. I was there at the 1990 Silver Conference when her flareon tore through the largest steelix I'd ever laid eyes on with Flare Blitz, her signature move. A stunning sight."
"And the referee is checking in with each trainer. Both flash the ready sign. Looks like we're getting underway! Akane sends out Flareon, her ace, and Jiro his snorlax. That snorlax may not be winning awards for speed, but he's a tough customer to be sure, especially for a fire-type."
"Jiro opens with Belly Drum—not usual for him. That's more Akane's style, I'd say, though Saffron's Star excels at taking on and shedding different strategies. Oh my—talk about imitation! That was Flareon's Copycat—Akane's setting up with Belly Drum as well. We're going to be looking at a swift and brutal battle with opening moves like that. An adrenaline-inducing ride from start to finish, I reckon."
"Akane seems set on transforming this stadium into a volcano, with that Lava Plume. People in the ring-side seats are certainly getting immersed in the heat of the battle, even with the screens up. . . Ah, looks like Jiro's managed to trap Flareon with a Rock Tomb. That won't last long at these temperatures—and indeed, Flareon breaks free with Flare Blitz, running head-long into—some kind of fighting-move, looks like."
"I think that was a Focus Punch, Maiko. Impressive, if so, to pull off that technique under those conditions. Still, that's the kind of skill we'd expect to see in a match like this."
"The aftermath of the collision looks inconclusive. Both pokemon are still standing. In the battle of pure endurance this has quickly become, in any other match-up I'd put my money on the snorlax, but I think everyone's learned that underestimating Champion Akane is a mistake."
"Now what was that? Jiro seems to have lured Akane into a repeat of their earlier collision, with his Snorlax pulling a Counter at the last minute!"
"Anyone else would be down for the count after a feint that brutal, but Flareon holds on with Endure and strikes back with a mind-boggling Superpower attack, lifting the snorlax and slamming it down, vulnerable to a Fire Spin."
"Flareon's on her last-legs, but can Snorlax break-out of that fiery vortex? Most fire-spins flicker out after a few seconds without fuel, but Champion Akane's have been known to last whole minutes."
"Oh my! Let's see if we can sort that out for the people watching at home. Jiro utilized Rock Tomb to quench the fire spin attack. Akane hit out with another Superpower and the two pokemon went down together. Neither's rising. I think we're looking at a draw."
"Yes, the ref's called it now! What a refreshingly heated battle. I get the sense that both trainers were trying out new techniques today. It's a true pleasure to witness the craft advanced on the battlefield itself."
Lance's mind was bursting with the after-images of the battle as he filed out. He'd never seen anything like it before. The cameras and commentary had only managed to convey so much—he wished he'd been down there, feeling the heat in the air, attuned to every strike and counter-strike.
A huge crowd was gathered outside. He caught Jiro's name and pressed on, though the people were packed so closely that moving forward was like trudging through shoulder-high snow. Finally, Lance caught sight of Jiro, flanked by a clefable as he signed pokeballs and exchanged words with the crowd. Getting closer was impossible, but Jiro's eyes landed on Lance as he looked out. Recognition flashed through them. Five minutes later, a man in a Pokemon League vest shouldered through the crowd, and told Lance to follow him.
He led Lance to a roomy, dark-windowed car. Between the driver's seat and the seats along the back, there was a raised cushion, white with shed hair. If Lance had wondered whose car this was, that left him with no doubt.
Ten minutes later, Jiro slid into the backseat. He smelled of smoke and sweat and when he threw off his coat, the shirt underneath was plastered to his chest. He was grinning as he turned to face Lance. "Did you like the battle?"
"It was brilliant," Lance answered honestly.
"Who do you think won?"
An odd question. Hadn't it been a draw?
Jiro read the confusion on Lance's face. "Technically a draw, but Akane could have swung it if she'd wanted to. You could drop a mountain on that flareon and it would still get up. Rule number one of exhibition matches—battles between Kanto and Johto always end in draws. It's just one of those things." His eyes narrowed. "I'm not getting ahead of myself, am I? You are here to become my apprentice, right?"
"Yes," Lance said hastily. He ducked his head in an awkward bow. "I'd be honored if you'd take me on, Master Jiro—"
Jiro grimaced. "Well, your first task as my apprentice is to never call me Master Jiro again. I'm not even thirty yet, but with a title like that I might as well be as old as Kikuko." He stared out the window for a moment. "Your second task is to cut all contact with Yoshioka Hideyoshi. That man's a piece of shit."
Lance blinked. "Yes, Mast—Jiro," he said with feeling.
"As for your third task—"Jiro's sudden scrutiny was intense enough that Lance almost lowered his eyes. "A haircut."
"A . . . haircut?"
"Yes, a haircut. What do you think?"
The smile crept up on Lance. "Fine by me."
When Jiro laughed, Lance found himself laughing too. The sound startled him, bright and sharp. As the car slid along the murky streets of Saffron, he found his breathing settling into a slow rhythm.
For the first time since his flight from Team Rocket, Lance didn't feel like running away.