"Have you finished changing?"
Wet ocean air gusted in through the open window. Lance pushed back the clump of hair clinging to his forehead. The band of his hakama cut tightly into his stomach.
"Yes," he called back. There was a soft clatter of pokeballs, and then Jiro appeared behind him in the mirror, Kintsugi at his feet. A thick cord hung around his neck: six pokeballs dangled on one side, balanced by a netsuke carved into the shape of a persian, raising one ivory claw. He'd twisted his hair up into an elegant bun, and his gold haori flashed in the lamp light.
"Hm," he said, studying Lance. "I'm glad I thought to buy a little something for your hair." He opened a small container, and a bright, fruity scent filled the room. "Pomade from Kalos," Jiro said with satisfaction. His fingers moving in quick, sure strokes, he worked the sweet-smelling lotion into Lance's hair. "Better, isn't that?"
"Better," Lance whispered, when Jiro had finished. His hair lay smoothly now, the ends styled into stiff spikes. He reached up to finger one. The texture of the hair felt odd. Below, his eyes watched him distrustfully in the mirror. Who are you? they seemed to ask. When a miniryu or hakuryu shed, they could see the evidence of the change left behind. People aren't like that, Lance thought suddenly. The silk fabric clung uncomfortably to his arms and chest.
"You're tense." Jiro sounded concerned. "What's the matter?"
"All this—"
When words failed him, Lance swung out his arm in a broad gesture that set the pokeballs corded around his neck clattering.
"Ah. Yes." Jiro's smile fell away. "I know."
Without meaning to, Lance turned and shot his mentor a doubtful look. In the months they'd spent together, he had never seen Jiro uncomfortable or at a loss for words. The man always had a smile on his face, a ready phrase on his lips. And he always moved like he knew exactly where he was going. Even now, as he crossed his arms, the gesture oozed grace.
"You don't believe me? But it's true. I wasn't born to all this." Jiro looked down. "And neither was Kintsugi." The persian's ears pricked up at the sound of her name. "In other parts of the world, meowth are treated like royalty, or so I've heard. Well, the only special treatment Kintsugi ever got was that they didn't bother knotting the bag too tightly when they dropped her in the trash. I found her curled up inside a broken flowerpot to keep off the rain. But she was a fighter. We won her pokeball in a bet against a kid who couldn't believe the nerve of us and couldn't believe it when he lost, either. Pure-bred growlithe to back-alley meowth."
Jiro smiled as he looked at Kintsugi, though the expression was slightly strained. He dropped into a crouch and began to scritch her chin. Lance dropped to his knees as well. It seemed more respectful.
"My first party," Jiro continued after a moment, in the same soft, strained voice, like he was making a confession. "Well, that was a disaster. I had no idea, no idea at all how to act. Imagine a ditto that had tried to transform based on a picture. I wore the brightest clothing I could find, draped Kintsugi in rhinestones. We must have looked a sight—really, it's a wonder no one laughed to my face, though I'm sure they all laughed behind my back." A grimace twisted Jiro's mouth, but only for a blink. "And now—" He spread out his arms as if to say, look at me. When he spoke again, his voice was edged with pride. "Don't worry. You're my protege, and nobody's going to laugh at you."
A thick silence fell. Before Lance could consider breaking it, the pidgey clock chimed, making both of them flinch. Kintsugi let out an irritated mewl. Jiro smiled, the humor back in his eyes.
"Well," he said, standing up and smoothing out a crease in his haori. "They'll laugh a little if we show up late. It's time we were on our way."
Outside, the clouds hung low and heavy. It wasn't yet 4:00, but the darkened sky made it seem as if evening had come early. Jiro hailed them a ponyta taxi. Staring out at the street, though, Lance wondered if walking would be faster. People streamed up and down Cerulean's crowded main boulevard, moving from shop to shop, and the taxi had to swerve every few feet to avoid a collision. Jiro made himself comfortable on the padded bench, unconcerned with their slow progress.
"These are a funny relic," he said conversationally, holding up his corded pokeballs. "From feudal times, when these kinds of formal occasions were fraught with danger, and no one wanted to turn up without protection. Parties aren't violent occasions anymore, of course—well, leaving aside that time Muno got in a fist-fight—but the custom has endured."
Lance tried to listen but found his attention drifting in and out.
"Jiro," he said hesitantly. "Do you know why she's stepping down?"
The question had loomed in Lance's mind like a storm cloud ever since Jiro had informed him exactly what ceremony they'd be attending tonight.
Jiro shrugged. "Hamako's got a stubborn streak an ocean wide, but she's got enough grace to bow to the inevitable."
"Was she injured, then? Or her pokemon?"
"Oh no, nothing like that." Outside, a large crowd forced the taxi to a standstill, and the driver swore loudly. "She's a perfectly capable trainer. Those gyarados could still win her a tourney or two if she had the inclination, but a gym leader has to do more than just win battles, you know, and Hamako—let's just say she hasn't been doing that. There was an incident a year or so back with a wild gyarados crashing the league president's speech—"
"That made a difference?" Lance interrupted, his heart suddenly thudding. The clip-clop of ponyta hooves on the cobblestone resumed.
"Weeeell," Jiro dragged out the word between his teeth. "It didn't exactly look great. Ah, here we are!"
The city square was coming into view. A stage had been set up before long rows of collapsible chairs. It all seemed slightly distorted, as if viewed through thick glass. As they climbed out of the taxi and drew closer, Lance realized the pavilion was covered in a protective barrier just like the one used in the battle halls.
"Can't have the occasion rained on," Jiro said, following Lance's gaze. "Not at a torch-passing ceremony."
An usher directed them to seats in the second row from the front. The woman to Jiro's right immediately turned to speak to him, but she had hardly opened her mouth when the ceremony began. Hamako stood at one side of the stage in a simple blue kimono and dark shawl. Four young women entered at the other end of the stage, striking in pinks and reds. A long series of introductions followed, until at last Hamako stepped up to the podium. Lance straightened in anticipation as she began to speak.
"People of Cerulean," she said hoarsely. "I am grateful to have been given the honor of serving as your Gym Leader for more than thirty years. In this role, I have tried my best to execute my duties faithfully; to remember my obligations to this community; to the people and pokemon that dwell here; and to the land and sea that we have been blessed with. I hope future generations will bear this blessing in mind, and shape their actions accordingly."
Lance's vigorous clapping rose above the polite applause around him. He lowered his hands to his lap, feeling like he'd made a misstep. Jiro shot him a quick, reassuring smile.
A torch was handed to Hamako. The younger women stepped forward.
"That's some of the actual sacred flame up there." Jiro leaned over to whisper in Lance's ear. "From Indigo Plateau. Ho-Oh's own flame, they say. Johto gifted it to Kanto centuries back, as part of the peace accord—the Compact of Flame."
The words Hamako spoke next were simple, but Lance felt the weight of them—old words, words that had been spoken over many years, by many mouths. "I am Hamako, Leader of Cerulean. This place has been entrusted to me, and I keep it. Now this place passes to you. Do you swear to keep it?
A pause stretched out as the four women attempted to work out how to all hold the torch at the same time. Jiro chuckled under his breath, and Hamako's lips tugged back sardonically. At last, all four of them gripped the torch. The crowd fell silent.
"I swear to keep it, safe from storms and foes," the women chanted together. "And may the flames consume me, if I have sworn false."
For a moment, the flame seemed to flare up, burning white-hot. But when Lance blinked, he saw only normal fire crackling atop the torch.
"And now, a few words from our newly-annointed Leader Sakura!"
The tallest of the women, wearing a kimono adorned with pink luvdisc, stepped forward. She had a pleasant, emphatic manner of speaking and at the end of each sentence tugged gently at her hair.
"Thank you so much. And thank you to everyone who has come here today to join us in this torch-passing ceremony. I first want to say just how much respect I hold for Leader Hamako, who has been a well of strength for Cerulean City and an inspiration to so many water-type specialists over the years, and to me personally, as well as to my sisters." Hamako dipped her head in acknowledgement, as polite applause broke out. Her hair fell over her eyes, but she didn't bother to push it back. Lance was struck by the thought that she wanted to hide her expression. "I only hope my sisters and I can live up to her reputation as we transform the Cerulean Gym into a hub for art and performance. Let's work together to share the beauty of Cerulean City with the entire world!"
Applause roared out as she stepped back from the podium. Louder than they'd clapped for Hamako, Lance noticed, unsure what to make of it. There were a few more speeches, each longer and more boring than the next. He found his attention drifting, returning to Hamako, who stood with her hands clasped. Her hair covered most of her face, but Lance could see that her lips were tight and unsmiling.
"Now for the important part," Jiro murmured, as the ceremony concluded and the crowd began to stir. The rain was still holding off, but condensation hung thick in the air as they ducked into another taxi.
The party. Agent Noriko had been ecstatic when Lance told her about it at their last check-in. She'd pelted him with an impossibly long list of names and epithets, which he'd tried his best to memorize. He had an uneasy feeling not all of it had stuck.
"Is it all right if I let out Kaisho?" Lance asked aloud. He thought he'd feel a little less lost with the miniryu there on his shoulder.
Jiro nodded languidly. "Now remember, be polite, don't speak unless spoken to, and always smile. Everything you do in there is going to reflect on me." Jiro held Lance's gaze for a moment, his expression serious, before it dissolved into a wink as he added, "So don't do anything I wouldn't do, okay?"
Lance laughed and ducked his head, feeling more at ease. The taxi had pulled up in front of a tall, grand building. Wide doors opened into a wide lobby, and they took the broad, red-carpeted stairway upwards into a brightly-lit room, big enough to double as a battle stadium. An enormous fountain flowed in the center of the room, the stones styled into a leaping gyarados flanked by koiking and seaking. Waiters circulated with plates of single-bite foods.
They'd only gone a few steps inside when Jiro stiffened and whispered in Lance's ear, "You see the woman in purple?"
He was looking towards an elderly woman, with a beaky nose and hair like dull straw. She grasped a dark cane, the knob shaped like a gengar, but she didn't seem to need it for support. As Lance watched, she jabbed it forcefully into the air, emphasizing a point in her conversation.
"That's Champion Kikuko. Watch yourself around her. She—"
A voice rumbled, "Well now, I'd know that hair anywhere!"
Lance jerked around. He didn't recognize the burly man looming over him until he noticed the onix-shaped netsuke.
"Muno!" Jiro exclaimed. "Have you run across my protege before?"
"His little charmander knocked out one of my onix, if you can believe it!" Muno said. "Hey, how's that little char doing now?"
Lance smiled. "She's got wings now," he said proudly.
"Of course, of course. I'm sure she's a real terror if she's anything like what I've been dealing with. Jiro, you won't believe what these damn white-coats have done now—" Muno's head swiveled suddenly to the side and he cursed emphatically. "There's Saffron's mayor! I really need to have a word with that bast—ah, if you could excuse me, Jiro."
He marched into the crowd, a determined set to his chin.
"Poor man," Jiro said, watching him go. "He tends to approach delicate conversations like an onix trying to tunnel through hard rock. But he means well. Ah! Giovanni!"
The man coming towards them stood out from the sea of haoris in his bright, double-breasted suit. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but navigated easily through the thick crowd. It wasn't so much that he was graceful, Lance noticed, as that people seemed to move out of his way.
"Your dragon-wielding protege, Jiro?" The man's voice was low and polished, burnished with a trace of something foreign. Before Jiro could answer, he spoke directly to Lance, eyes sharpening with scrutiny. "A pleasure. I've heard so much. Giovanni Fiorelli, Leader of the Viridian Gym."
Giovanni Fiorelli. Noriko had mentioned him. Gym leader and businessman, she had said. Highly influential. Not a man to cross.
"Viridian Gym?" Lance repeated. He had a distant memory of scaffolding towering over run-down huts. "Has the construction finished, then? The building must be huge."
"Perhaps you'll come and see for yourself," said Giovanni. "I hear you've been giving my other colleagues a hard time, though I seem to have been left out."
Lance faltered, unsure if that was a joke, or if the man had actually taken some kind of offense. He wasn't smiling, but his eyes glinted with dark amusement.
"He's saved the best for last, of course," Jiro interjected. "Now don't you dare go easy on him, Giovanni. I promise you, he's got what it takes to go up against your personal team."
"Go easy?" Giovanni said. He stared at Lance for a moment and then said sharply, "Would you go easy on me, young man?"
What kind of question was that? Lance met Giovanni's gaze squarely. "No."
"No. There you have it, Jiro. I try to practice reciprocality in my life." He gave them both a short, almost casual nod. "Would you excuse me for a moment? But I do expect to see you at my gym without further delay, young man."
Lance let out a breath as the man strode away. Jiro noticed and gave a chuckle. "He can be a bit imposing at first. A good man to befriend, though. And a very fine trainer. You won't find it an easy battle to win, though I think you can win it."
A politician introduced herself, and then another. There were far too many of them, in Lance's opinion. He did his best to keep track of the names, but after a while they began to blur together. He focused on smiling, even though his face felt stiff. Luckily, like with Hideyoshi's VIP parties, no one seemed to require him to actually say much. Jiro handled most of the conversation. He seemed to have a limitless store of minutiae about hobbies, children, and vacations to Kalos at his disposal.
When a break came in the string of people, Lance asked him how he kept track of it all. Jiro laughed. "Can a krabby learn metal claw?"
"Yes," Lance said, his eyes narrowing.
"What about a sandshrew?"
"No."
"Well, however do you keep track of all that? It's the same skill, you just have to make the effort."
Lance pondered that as Jiro fell into a longer conversation. Five minutes in, he waved Lance away with the command, "Go and mingle."
The party was in full swing now, and people had sorted into small clusters. Lance made for the balcony. The wetness in the air was tangible as he stepped outside, the moisture settling on his skin. Kaisho let out a pleased trill from his shoulder. The noise caught the attention of one of the men on the balcony. He broke away from his conversation and made his way over to Lance.
"Mizuno Sukejuro," he introduced himself. The name struck a faint chord. Mizuno sits at the head of the Appropriations Committee. They hold the purse strings. Impossible to get anything into the budget without his support. "Jiro's new protege, are you? What a peculiar little pokemon you have there. Can I hold it?"
"Him," Lance corrected reflexively. His lips were already shaping a refusal, when he hesitated. He had a feeling Agent Noriko would have told him to agree. "Are you okay with that, Kaisho?" he asked, a note of pleading slipping into his voice.
"Rii," Kaisho agreed, but without enthusiasm. Lance placed the miniryu gently into the politician's arms. The man ran a curious finger up her scales. Kaisho endured this until the finger moved on to the sensitive white of his fins. Then the miniryu whined and snaked up the man's arms to the back of his neck, out of the reach of his prodding fingers.
Mizuno let out a surprised huff of laughter. "A very peculiar little pokemon," he said again. "Ah, you better take it back. I'm no trainer, I'm afraid. Tried it briefly in my youth. That sandshrew wouldn't listen to a thing I said, just curled up in the sunlight and dozed. Ah, well. It takes all sorts to keep a country running."
Lance nodded, placing Kaisho back on his shoulder. "You decide who should get money, right sir?"
The man laughed again, though Lance hadn't been trying to be funny. "Charmingly put. I do indeed. Does that sort of thing interest you?"
Lance answered honestly before he could pause to consider if he should. "Not really. But—" His brow furrowed slightly as he tried to shape what he meant into words. "I know that it's important. Getting money and not getting money is like priorities, right? It's about what's worth doing and what's not."
That was why Noriko cared so much.
"Indeed. A solemn responsibility, for all of us who undertake it. I should get back to my colleagues, but it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, young man."
When the politician had gone, Lance leaned over the railing, shutting his eyes. He felt wrung out and exhausted. All these new faces and names. The balcony was growing more crowded and feeling less like a refuge. Lance sucked in a breath and ducked back inside. Dry air and overlapping conversation surged over him. He found Jiro, impossible to miss in his bright gold haori, laughing and gesticulating with a solemn-looking woman whose dark hair fell past her waist. Suddenly she laughed and extended her hand. The two began to dance, even though there was no music.
Jiro seemed to be having a good time, and Lance didn't want to disturb him. Somewhat at a loss, his gaze trailed across the room. He noticed Giovanni, locked in close conversation with an older woman—Champion Kikuko, he realized after another moment. As if feeling his eyes on her back, she turned and directed an unblinking stare in his direction. It had the predatory, watchful quality of an arbok, and Lance shivered, remembering Jiro's warning. Giovanni turned as well, following her gaze. A smile tugged at his lips and he raised his glass as if making a toast.
Almost hidden against the back wall, Lance spotted Hamako. She was watching the crowd with her arms crossed. Her gyarados netsuke bobbed from side to side, its red eyes blazing furiously. A few people stopped by to speak with her, but each of them moved on after only a few words. Lance began to make his way over. Half-way, Hamako looked in his direction, and her eyes widened in recognition.
She looked older than he remembered, the lines sunk deeper into her face, but her voice hadn't lost any of its sharpness when she said, "Well, so we meet again. Are you going to congratulate me on my retirement? Going to tell me what an honor it is, to have the whole contingent turn up to usher me out?"
Lance stared at her. Slowly, he shook his head.
"No? Well, I appreciate that, I do." Hamako's gaze rose to the glittering, swirling crowd. "Damned bejeweled murkrows. I've endured this long enough. Time to make good my escape." She cocked an eyebrow at Lance. "Are you planning to stick around?"
Lance didn't need time to consider his answer. "No," he said emphatically. He'd done everything Jiro had asked him to do, and he'd even spoken to one of Noriko's prized politicians. That was plenty for one night.
Hamako led him to a side-door, through a corridor, and down a cramped stairway. A few waiters passed them, going up. When they emerged into the night air, Hamako set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the beach. Lance followed her, feeling uneasy. He didn't know how to break the silence that had fallen.
The beach was almost entirely deserted, and the few people that remained were hurriedly packing up their blankets. It wasn't hard to guess why. Thick, threatening clouds hung close to the ground, and the sea water moved restlessly. Lance looked back towards Cerulean City. The sky above the buildings was yellow, resembling an island of butter melting into the coming night. Kaisho snaked down Lance's back onto the sand. His tongue flicked out, tasting the air.
Hamako stood with her eyes closed and her head slightly upraised. "Storm's brewing. The fishing boats have all come in, and the tourists are scuttling back into their dens. Only fools and gyarados stay out on a night like this one." She opened her eyes, pinning Lance with her gaze. "Your gyarados has grown quite a bit, hasn't she?"
She knew. The certainty lodged like a biting pit in Lance's throat. Hamako must have recognized Ibuki that day on the beach.
"Master Hamako, I—"
A shrill cry cut him off. Kaisho!
The miniryu stood at the lip of the sea, fully uncoiled. His gaze was fixed on the darkened sky. As if answering his call, thunder cracked above. A lightning bolt split from the dark clouds. Lance started forward with a shout.
As the after-image of the lightning cleared, he saw Kaisho's head glowing white where the bolt had struck. The light spread down his body in a silver wave. Lance's steps slowed, and then stopped.
"Blessed." Hamako spoke in a hushed voice as she came up behind him. "Truly I am blessed, to twice bear witness to a dratini's evolution."
Oblivious to everything but the rising storm, Kaisho dipped and arced through the air. The deep blue of his back shone against the storm clouds. Thunder rumbled once more, and the hakuryu let out a pure, joyful trill.
A rain-caller, Lance realized in awe. Kaisho was a rain-caller.
A few droplets burst on Lance's upturned face. The downpour quickened. In a few seconds, he was soaked through.
"I'm a fool," Hamako said in a low voice. "If you are too, what do you say we have ourselves a proper battle?"
She jerked her head toward the open sea, where the waves were beginning to dance.
Hamako rode out on the back of her seaking, flanked by two massive gyarados. Her hair, soaked a deep blue, clung to the back of her kimono. Lance took off on Toku's back, Kaisho soaring alongside them. The two ryu exchanged excited trills. Kaisho cartwheeled backwards into the air, each spin executed with new and sudden grace. Below, Ibuki cut through the waves, her crest like a determined helm.
The battle began by wordless agreement. "Dance!" Lance called out to Kaisho and Ibuki. On the sea, Hamako's mouth shaped the same word, though the wind dragged it from her lips. Her two gyarados began to circle.
A proper battle, Hamako had said. What followed was nothing like the practice battles Lance fought with Jiro. The wind stole the commands from his mouth and the water clogged his ears. Kaisho struck out with a wave of electricity, which Hamako's gyarados blocked with a shield of wind. The two spun together and sent up a whirling vortex, pulsing with green light.
As the battle progressed, the winds grew more intense. They didn't just come from the sky now. Wind wrapped around the gyarados and lifted them aloft. Lance remembered the old saying, the storm gives gyarados wings.
Hamako's gyarados were masters of sea and wind. But not lightning, Lance thought, raising his eyes to the swirling mouth of the sky. Kaisho only needed the opportunity. Maybe Lance could give it to him.
He shouted hoarsely over the wind and rain. "Kaisho. Fly with me and use protect. Ibuki, hyper-beam!"
White-yellow light bolted from Ibuki's mouth, ripping through the shield of wind and scattering the two gyarados left and right. Toku shot forward into the gap. The roar of the rain cut out as a blue bubble shimmered up around them. The silence was more startling than the noise had been. Lance's ears felt scoured and raw. No water pounded his back. The gyarados hovered only feet away, one on either side. Their mouths roared furiously but soundlessly beyond the egg-shell barrier.
Lance's voice rang out absurdly clear in the silence. "When I say now, Kaisho, drop the protect and use thunder. Toku, when he does that, you have to drop like an anchor. We'll only have a few seconds to get clear."
Toku rumbled uneasily, but there was no way out now other than down. The sides of the barrier were bowing inwards, lashed by the wind.
"Now."
A roar, wetness, and then terrible, slicing wind. Lance clung to Toku's back as they plummeted down. Lightning flashed, painting white blossoms across the backs of his eyelids, and the smell of burnt flesh clogged his nose. Toku banked hard over the water. Waves leaped up, clapping Lance's feet. He lifted his head.
Above, Kaisho hung in the sky like a golden rod. Lightning coursed down his body; the gyarados were suspended in the air, their massive bodies twisting. The tableau stretched out longer than seemed possible. Lance found himself counting, to three and then to five. On six, all light seemed to vanish. The sun was gone and the storm-clouds hid all traces of the moon. There was a wet smack as the gyarados hit the sea.
It was over.
Two bright flashes arced through the night. Hamako's seaking was cutting back towards the beach. Toku followed, Lance slumping against her neck. The rain hadn't let up. It streamed down his neck, under his clothing, accumulated in his shoes. He was noticing the cold now. A gust of wind pirouetted by, and he shivered.
Kaisho and Ibuki beat them to the beach. Ibuki dragged herself onto the sand, her creamy underside facing the sky. Kaisho curled up on her belly. The rainwater glinted blue off his new scales.
The adrenaline that had zizzed through Lance's arms and legs during the battle was leaving him. His muscles felt leaden and at the same time terribly light, as if ready to evaporate up into the sky and join the chorus of falling water. When he swung off Toku's back, his knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed onto the sand. Hamako lay stretched out on the beach. She cracked an eye open.
"Fools and gyarados indeed. I haven't seen a ploy that foolish in thirty years."
But she was smiling.
The last exhilaration of battle fell away as Lance looked at her. He dropped to his knees on the wet sand, his head finally clear. He knew what he needed to say now.
"Master Hamako, I owe you an apology."
Her eyes had closed again. Several seconds passed before she spoke. "An apology? For what?"
"It's my fault that you—"
"You were behind that mischief with the gyarados, then." Hamako's expression was impossible to read. "Well, don't give yourself too much credit. It would have happened with or without that nonsense, though I daresay you sped things along." Lance dropped his head to the sand, dark gray and cratered with rain drops. "There's just one thing I want to know. Was that your idea, or somebody else's?"
Lance remembered sitting in a conference room, spinning idly in his chair as conversation streamed over him. Oblivious. He hadn't understood what was being planned and he hadn't tried to understand it. He should have tried. Why hadn't he tried?
"Not my idea," Lance said. He straightened his back and added, "but that doesn't excuse—"
One veined hand settled on his shoulder, the grip tight.
"I'm a gyarados trainer," Hamako said. The wind had hit a lull and Lance caught every hoarse word. "There aren't many of us. Why should that be so? Koiking swim everywhere, flourish in every clime and sea. But gyarados are considered wild, frightening, impossible to tame. People covet their power yet fear that power, so they turn instead to the few who train them, thinking that even if they cannot tame a gyarados, they can tame the tamer of a gyarados." Her mouth twisted. "It won't be any different for you and your dragons. They'll flock to you, as they once flocked to me, seeking to make use of that power for themselves, to manipulate and use you. I want you to promise me one thing, lad, one thing only. Do not allow yourself to be used."
Hamako's blue eyes blazed; her nails dug into his shoulder like talons.
"I promise," Lance whispered. He raised his voice. "I swear, Master Hamako."
She studied him for a moment. "Good," she said, releasing his shoulder and falling back once more on to the sand. The rain streamed over and around her like she was a piece of driftwood.
"Too damn old for this," she mumbled to herself. "Perhaps they were right to retire me. A battle like that used to leave my blood singing, but now all I want is a dry towel and a hot flask of sake. And the walk home is so dreadfully long."
Lance looked over to Toku. "We could fly you home," he offered. "If you want."
"Fly me? On the back of your lovely dragonite?" Hamako sat up, a beatific smile lighting her face. "You'd make an old woman who was once a young girl listening to tales of the dragonite very happy, lad."
She looked out at the purple-black sky.
"Yes," she added quietly. "Very happy indeed."
Soaked silk clung to Lance's legs as he climbed the hotel steps. When he opened the door, the lights inside the room were blazing. Jiro waited on the couch, his persian's head nuzzled into his lap. As soon as he caught sight of Lance, he burst out laughing.
"Goodness," he said, taking in the bedraggled clothing, ripped in places and encrusted with sand in others, "Decided to take a swim, did you? And fight a gyarados while you were at it?"
"Two gyarados," Lance said under his breath, his eyes falling to the hem of his pants, where water was running down onto the carpet. He managed a lopsided bow. "I'm sorry about the clothes, Jiro. I promise I'll pay you back for them."
"Nonsense. Those clothes were a gift, yours to do what you wanted with them. If that means destroying them on your first night out, so be it." Jiro dislodged Kintsugi from his lap and crossed to the phone. The persian let out a short mewl of protest. "Yes, hello, I'd like a pot of genmaicha for room 234 and some hot towels." He laid the phone back down and frowned up at Lance. "What are you waiting for? Change out of those wet rags before you catch something."
When Lance emerged from the bathroom, Jiro had set two tea cups down on the table in front of the couch. He tossed a towel over to Lance, who wrapped it around his wet hair and curled up on the edge of the couch, lifting his knees to his chest. Kintsugi sniffed at him curiously and Lance gave the persian a small pat. He still stank of sea-water.
Jiro watched them with a smile. "So," he said, when Lance had taken a cautious sip of the hot tea. "Two gyarados, eh? Now I know where Hamako snuck off to."
The couch was wonderfully warm and solid. Kintsugi rested her head against Lance's feet. Her fur felt softer than silk against his bare skin.
"Just what possessed the two of you to have a water battle in a thunderstorm?" Lance opened his mouth, but Jiro was already waving a dismissive hand. "More importantly, did you win?"
"Yes," Lance said. A smile broke out on his face. "And Kaisho evolved!"
It already felt strange for Lance to picture Kaisho as anything but the beautiful creature who had lent his body to the lightning and sung with the storm.
"Wonderful," Jiro said, setting down his cup of tea. "And that wasn't your only victory tonight either. I got a lot of compliments over your behavior. Very dignified—now who said that? Erika, must have been." Jiro chuckled. "Perhaps she'd take that back if she could see you in those wet clothes."
A yawn split Lance's face before he could answer. The air in the room seemed very warm and the tea pooled in his stomach like sleepy lava. Jiro's words drifted into his ears as if from a long way off. The light of the room hurt his eyes. It was so bright. Not even the lightning flash had been that bright.
"Come on, protege," Jiro murmured. "You need to get some sleep."
Lance shuffled towards his bedroom. Heavy covers fell over him. The towel unwound gently, and his head flopped back against a mountain-ridge of pillows. The light receded and a soothing darkness surged up like surf. Lance slept.