Thank you, Lance. I know I can count on you.
Lance tugged a tuft of grass from the hillside and twirled it in his hand. Next to him, Toku lay stretched out on the grass, slumbering after their afternoon sparring session. He raised a slice of tamagoyaki to his lips, then lowered it without taking a bite. Overhead, the fearow exchanged screams.
"Something on your mind?" Jiro said in a mild voice. "You've been miles away ever since you got back from Viridian."
Lance startled. "It's nothing. I'm just tired."
He'd met with Hunter's sister in a cabin on the outskirts of the town.
"My fiancé's," she told him as she set the table with quick, fluttering hands. "He's at work, though. We can speak in private. I'm sorry to make you come out all this way, but people around here are terrible gossips."
She was uneasy. When the tea cups were set out and the tea poured, she sat, but her hand kept rising to smooth down her blouse. Lance sipped his tea in silence, not knowing how to begin.
"Hachi's in trouble, isn't she," Miss Iwata said at last. She seemed to find her confirmation in Lance's face. "I thought so. She looked so desperate the last time she visited, and when I saw what she'd done to her hair . . . but she wouldn't tell me anything. Maybe I pressed too hard. She left before I served dessert."
"Have you heard of Team Rocket?"
"Team Rocket?" She raised her head. "Yes . . . I think so. Some kind of trainer organization, aren't they? I've heard the name, at least."
Lance spoke harshly. "They're criminals. Bad people."
"And Hachi joined them. That's what you mean?" The color had leached from her face. "And you . . . how do you know?"
Because I joined them too.
Shame curdled in his chest. He couldn't say it.
"I'm an agent with the G-Force," he said instead. The words rose readily on his tongue, even though he hadn't planned them. "We're investigating Team Rocket. I met Hunter in the Rocket training camp. Undercover," he added sloppily, but Miss Iwata didn't seem to notice the slip.
"The G-Force," she repeated in a troubled voice. "That sounds serious. Please believe me when I say Hachi has a good heart. She hasn't had it easy since Mother died. I tried my best to raise everyone, but Hachi was always difficult. Sullen. Played more easily with her little nidoran than with the other children. She thought they looked down on her."
"I know." Lance interrupted hoarsely. "I know she's not a bad person."
A smile loosened Miss Iwata's face. "You know? I'm so glad. I'm sure Hachi wouldn't do anything really wrong. If you could find her, convince her to come home . . ."
She traced the lip of her saucer with a nervous finger.
"Maybe I can help," Lance had said slowly. "But in return, I'm going to need you to help me."
He'd left the cabin feeling like an imposter who'd just pulled off a successful con. She'd taken him at his word easily—too easily. For all she'd known, he could have been an imposter, a member of Team Rocket sniffing around for weak links. She hadn't even asked him for ID.
And maybe he really was an imposter. He still wasn't a real member of the G-Force. He hadn't yet told Agent Noriko the deal he'd made with Miss Iwata or who he'd seen at Giovanni's gym.
Archer was there, watching me.
Watching you? he imagined her saying in response, her eyes sharpening. Why would he watch you?
Because he cared about me, Agent Noriko. At least, I thought he did.
Even the imagined conversation made Lance wince. Lately, he'd been feeling like two separate people. One wore bright colors and sparred with Jiro, made cheerful small talk at stuffy parties and navigated Saffron's crowded streets with ease. The other was a shade: known to nobody, belonging nowhere.
Jiro was still watching him, one finger drumming against the lid of his bento box. Every time Lance thought about telling him about the Rockets, he didn't know where to begin. Jiro trusted him. If Lance told him the truth, would that change?
"I'm glad, you know," Lance blurted out, buoyed by a sudden upsurge of guilt.
Jiro's hand stopped drumming. "Glad?"
"That I became your apprentice. I like training with you."
Spending time with you. Lance felt his face begin to redden as Jiro's mouth crinkled into a fond grin. "Well, it's mutual. Things have been more interesting with you around. Keeping me and Kintsugi on our toes."
The persian lifted her head and mewled dismissively, but after a few moments she shifted position, one of her paws coming to rest possessively over Lance's foot.
"In fact," Jiro said, "There's something I've been meaning to ask. How would you like to become my peer instead of my protege?"
"Your peer? You mean—"
"Join me on the Elite Four," Jiro finished for him, leaning forward. "The hustings begin in three months."
"The hustings?" The word rang a vague bell, but Lance couldn't put any meaning to it. "I don't actually know . . ."
"Of course. I keep forgetting you aren't from Kanto. The hustings are an old tradition, dating back to the unification of the fiefdoms. Every four years the current champion and any would-be champions tour from town to town accepting challenges. If you defeat Kikuko at the hustings, you'd be offered a place on the Elite Four."
"Champion Kikuko," Lance murmured, remembering the old woman's disconcerting gaze. "Is she a lot stronger than you?"
Jiro laughed. "Well, I don't know about a lot. It's hard for us to spar properly—we have incompatible styles." His expression darkened. "In more ways than one. I don't want to give you the impression it will be easy. But I think you could pull it off. And you wouldn't be alone. I've also got to up my training for the hustings."
"Why? I thought you said they were only for the champion," Lance said with a slight frown.
"The champion, and would-be champions."
It took a moment to sink in. "You mean you—"
"I've decided enough is enough. Time to throw my own hat into the ring." Jiro ran a hand through his hair, the gesture uncharacteristically sheepish, and spread open his arms. "What do you think?"
"I think you'd be great," Lance said with conviction, sitting up straighter. "You're strong and a good speaker. You're already solving people's problems, like we did with Muno, and you're not even the champion yet. Champion Kikuko—" Lance hesitated, remembering how the old couple he'd met outside of Viridian had spat her name like a curse. "Nobody seems to like her much."
"So surprising, considering her charming personality," Jiro murmured under his breath. A smile spread slowly across his face. "Thanks, Lance. The vote of confidence—it means a lot."
Lance returned his smile, mind whirring. He thought of the way people turned when Jiro entered a room, the way they flocked around him, chattering like pidgey. It meant something to be on the Elite Four. It meant having a voice that people listened to. Surely he'd be able to do more about Team Rocket if he joined them. He wouldn't have to feel like a fraud when he heard the words, Thank you, Lance. I know I can count on you.
And Jiro could help him. Three months was a long time to figure out the best way to come clean about Team Rocket. He'd find the words, and then there would be no more secrets.
"If you're serious about this," Jiro said, "there's one thing we're going to have to get sorted. Only citizens can challenge at the hustings. The timeline's a little short, but I know one or two people at the immigration office. I'm sure they'll let us rush the paperwork."
"Citizens?" Lance repeated.
"Just a formality. Don't worry, Johto and Kanto have a close visa relationship. You'd be able to see your family anytime you wanted—do you have family in Johto?" Jiro's chuckle sounded forced. "All this time and I don't think I've ever asked."
The wind was picking up. Lance shivered and drew his jacket closer, avoiding Jiro's gaze.
Yes, he wanted to answer. Yes, I have family in the land you call Johto. There's my cousin Ibuki, and my uncle, though he never wanted me, and my aunt, though she was always strict. Family's a matter of blood. Distance and time can't take it away.
Miss Iwata's pale face floated into his mind, asking after her sister. Her concern had been tangible, like condensation on the morning air. Lance tried to fit that expression to the faces of his memory and could come up with nothing except the stern chisel of Uncle's jaw and the disgusted way Ibuki had looked down at him as he huddled on his sleeping mat.
It had been five years. Maybe they'd forgotten him—maybe forgetting him had been a relief.
He swallowed and bent down to scritch Kintsugi's chin, hoping the fall of his hair would hide his discomposure.
"Hey." Jiro's voice was gentle. "The only family that counts is the family that sticks with you, okay? Kintsugi's my family. So's Asahi. Those assholes who happen to share my blood—who didn't want anything to do with me until I made it—they aren't my family."
Kintsugi mewed her agreement. She unfolded from the ground and pushed her paws into Lance's chest, knocking him back on the grass. With a vigorous purr her paws kneaded his chest as if trying to work every doubt out of him. Lance let out a ragged laugh. He cleared his throat.
"So what's the plan? For beating Kikuko."
Jiro narrowed his eyes, but accepted the change in subject. "I was thinking you could start by heading to Fuschia. Spend some time with Koga, pick up some knowledge about poison-types and dirty tactics. You still need his badge, don't you?"
Lance nodded. The year he'd spent chasing rumors of Team Rocket activity had never brought him within the borders of Fuschia Town.
"That'll make a good excuse. Try to learn what you can from him, though it may not be easy; that man's as closed as a cloyster."
The sun had dropped as they spoke. A red glare crept through the haze and another rush of wind made Kintsugi mew a loud complaint. Jiro rolled up the picnic blanket, Lance woke Toku, and they wound their way down the hill in silence as the street lights flickered on. Lance still found the way Saffron City transitioned from day to night startling. The drab grays became potent blacks; magnemite connected to neon panels floated above the major boulevards, washing the streets with fluxing, kaleidoscopic light. Somewhere, music was playing—a pulsing, spine-rattling drumbeat. With each beat, Lance heard Jiro's question, reverberating grimly in his head.
Do you have family in Johto?
Lance shut his eyes against the burn of the neon lights. In the privacy of his mind he answered, I don't know, anymore.
Fuschia lay nestled in a wide-ranging forest, several miles inland of the sea. From the air, the forest made an odd picture. A gap ran through it, clear of all growth like a furrow. The forest on one side seemed substantially denser than the other.
Archer touched down where the road curved away from the coast. The sea made him skittish, but he relaxed as the smell of salt faded and the air dried out. After a few hours, they reached a massive archway, painted an ostentatious red. Carved letters proclaimed, Welcome To Ninja Land! The archway was littered with glossy posters depicting lithe figures wielding gleaming shuriken.
Lance frowned. Noriko had told him stories about the ninjas of Fuschia: they were cunning warriors, silent as ghosts and deadly as the poison-types they trained. They hadn't sounded like the kind of people who advertised.
A crash drew Lance's attention back to Archer. The aerodactyl was harassing a swarm of spinarak by the roadside. One spinarak—small enough to fit into Archer's jaws thrice-over—let out a disgusted hiss and spat a swathe of spin-silk. Lance whistled before Archer could reprise with a hyper beam.
"Don't destroy other people's homes," Lance said wearily. Archer's eyes widened and he let out a crooning whine. "Trees aren't like mountains. You can do a lot of damage here." He stepped over to the spinarak and dropped into a quick bow. "Please excuse us."
The small pokemon chortled. It was perched atop an old sign, almost unreadable between the dirt, the lichen, and the overlapping spinarak webs. Lance squinted and made out small, square letters.
You are entering the sovereign lands of the Unified Ninja Clans. 17 Revised Kanto Code 2000-b establishes the sovereignty of Ninja Clan law within the borders of the Fuschia Region. Consult with the Bureau of Information to learn your rights here.
The spinarak blew another gob of sticky silk, this time at Lance. With a last chortle the pokemon swung itself upward, out of sight. Lance sighed. The goop was already hardening over his shirt.
"No, you still can't use hyper beam," Lance told Archer before he could open his mouth, and tramped under the gate.
The wind carried the stink of refried grease and the shrill shrieks of children. Shortly, they came to a wide pavilion, dense with stalls and chattering people. Archer twitched, his head swiveling back and forth. Lance had been trying to acclimate him to larger groups of people, but Saffron was simply too enclosed for the aerodactyl's comfort. At least here the air was open; if Archer got too nervous, he could fly.
A large crowd had gathered up ahead around a man dressed in eye-catching black. He struck a dramatic pose next to his golbat and called out in a carrying voice, "Who here dares to take the ninja's challenge?"
The ninja's challenge, it turned out, consisted of two pokemon trying to tag each other with staining berry juice. The man's golbat was very fast; Lance watched a geodude, a pikachu, and a pidgeotto toss their paint at one of its double-team illusions before getting tagged just as they realized their mistake.
It wasn't a very good double-team, though. Giovanni's marowak had created figures with three-dimensional forms. This golbat's illusions were paper-thin and rippled with the wind. Lance didn't blame the challengers for not knowing the difference—it was obvious they weren't experienced trainers. But the amateur quality of the attack irritated him. He studied the ninja again with a dubious eye. His form-fitting black clothing gleamed in the weak sunlight. It was the kind of black casino dealers wore. The kind of black meant to stand out.
When the man called out his challenge again, in a voice that now struck Lance as slightly bored, Lance stepped forward, Archer at his side. Interest lit in the man's eyes.
"And where might you be from, challenger?"
It was a harder question now than it had been a week before. Lance chose to answer it with a shrug.
Their battle, if it could be called that, was short and not particularly stimulating. The thin fakes didn't fool Archer: the aerodactyl dove straight at the golbat and clipped it with berry juice before it could swerve away. He would have followed up with a bruising steel wing if Lance hadn't whistled sharply to call him back.
"That's quite the speedy pokemon you have there!" the man said to Lance with a forced grin. "On the gym challenge, are you?"
"Something like that," Lance said, accepting the object the man thrust into his hand. He examined it as he walked away—a plastic shuriken with the words "Winner" inscribed in the center. The trophy was as half-hearted as the golbat's double-team attack had been. Lance swallowed his disappointment. For some reason he had expected more from the home of the ninja clans, the founders of the G-Force. This was all just bad illusions and tourist tricks.
A man from the crowd fell into step beside him, drawing a suspicious glare from Archer.
"Well done," he said.
Lance answered more sharply than he intended. "Not really. I don't think he's a real ninja."
"Not a real ninja? You shock me."
The sarcasm in his words was thicker than the grease in the air.
Startled, Lance gave the man a once-over. His garishly patterned shirt and souvenir pendant marked him a tourist. But the clothing didn't match his fluid, controlled stride or the way his eyes rose to take in the whole pavilion with a single glance.
"I don't think a real ninja would be so flashy," Lance said thoughtfully. "He would know how to hide in plain sight."
The man said nothing, but his pace quickened. His course led away from the pavilion into a residential area, strewn with well-maintained huts. A few children were splayed on the grass, casting stones, but they scattered as Lance and the man approached.
Lance didn't ask where they were going. He had a suspicion about who this stranger was that only strengthened when he noticed the way the man's patterned shirt bunched over his waist.
They skirted along the edge of the village and then passed back under the eaves of the forest. Lichen hung thickly from the trees here, and the roots grew in close tangles. Lance remembered the view he'd had from the sky—this must be the older portion of the forest. The path was thin and badly-marked. It diminished as they went until there was no path at all, at least to Lance's eye. But the man moved without hesitation even as the branches formed into a dense canopy and the shadows thickened. Archer let out an uneasy croon.
When the man came to a sudden halt, Lance almost ran into him. They'd come into a small clearing, and the canopy was open enough to let in dappled light.
"Your mentor is a terrible gossip," the man said in a slow, stiff voice. "You've come for your last badge?"
"You're Koga?" Lance said, unable to keep the statement from slipping into a question.
The man turned, his face cast in mottled shadow. He was middle-aged, with no silver streaking his hair, though the frown lines imprinted on his face made him seem older. It was a harsh face, thin-lipped and angular. He scowled.
"A ninja is not in the habit of giving out his name to one who has not earned it."
"Test me, then," Lance said easily, squaring his stance. "I'll earn—"
The man was looking behind him. Not at him. Behind him.
Lance threw himself to the side just as a gob of webbing shot from between the trees. He rolled: the bitter scent of soil and decomposing leaves entered his nostrils. Where he'd stood before, the ground was carpeted with white goop. Through the branches, he caught a flash of purple and red—the warning colors of an ariados. A roar drew his eyes up. Archer circled an enormous crobat. And only feet away, closing fast, was a venomoth, wings heavy with powder, close enough now that Lance could see the light reflecting off its small incisors—
"Whirlwind!" he yelled and flung his arms around the nearest tree. The wind hit like a hammer. The trees groaned and swayed, and from somewhere in the distance came the sharp crack of a branch splitting.
When Lance opened his eyes, the venomoth lay stunned, its wings twitching weakly. His hand dropped to Kana's pokeball—then he hesitated, remembering the nearby village with its wooden huts.
He threw Kaisho's ball just as a shrill note pierced the air. It seemed to penetrate straight into Lance's head, beating silver fists against his mind. A supersonic. Archer howled, writhing like a trapped magikarp. Pure white light tore from his mouth, scorching the tree tops. Lance smelled smoke, then felt static as Kaisho's electric pulse caught the venomoth from behind. It twitched for several seconds, awash with fizzing light, before falling limp.
"In the trees," Lance told Kaisho, pointing. Another hyper beam crackled into the clearing, missing Lance by less than foot. Archer, still braying madly in the clouds. Lance called out Toku, on her back even before the light solidified. They sped upward, into the open sky.
Lance's breathing steadied. From the air, everything was clearer. He whistled sharply, and Archer twisted his head up, tracing the sound. In his amber eyes, Lance saw a terrific struggle towards clarity. The crobat took advantage of his distraction to lash out with an air slash. The blow sent Archer reeling back, but he somersaulted, and when he rose again, his wing-beats had steadied. At Toku's questioning rumble, he let out a deep croon. The two turned their gazes on the crobat and let fire hyper beams in unison. The afterimage blazed behind Lance's eyelids. When it faded, the sky was clear.
They winged back down to find Kaisho coiled in guard-position over the venomoth, crobat, and ariados. The trees behind her were blackened and the air had taken on an acrid tinge. Lance turned at Archer's triumphant call. The aerodactyl dragged their attacker into the clearing, spiked tail wound around his throat. In the course of the battle, he'd shed his tourist garb like a false skin. Underneath, the clothing was a green so dark it was almost black. His face was completely blank—if the blade at his throat bothered him, it didn't show in his eyes.
"I am Koga," he said simply. It didn't sound like a concession.
Lance frowned at him, blood still pumping hotly from the unexpected fight. "Do you ambush all your challengers?"
"Only the ambitious ones."
In a movement too rapid and somehow innocuous for Lance's gaze to follow, he extracted himself from Archer's grip and then was bending by his fallen pokemon's side. Archer roared, but Lance whistled him back before he pounced. Koga checked his pokemon carefully, lingering longest on the venomoth's wings. At last he seemed satisfied, and all three vanished in white light. He stood, casting his gaze around the clearing. Lance tensed as Koga stuck his hand into the folds of clothing, and Toku rumbled, but the object he tossed through the air was no weapon. Lance caught the badge on reflex.
"What you came for," the ninja said. He turned away.
If I lose him now, I may not find him again.
"Wait!" Lance called out. "That's not what I came here for. I came to meet you. To learn from you."
"From me?" The words were threaded with mockery. "What would you learn from me?"
Koga spread out his arms in a gesture that encompassed the scorched and broken trees, the destruction of their impromptu battle. His eyes shone with a hard, unfriendly light.
Lance's indignation fell away as he looked around the clearing, seeing the scene through Koga's eyes. Koga had attacked him. But his pokemon belonged to this place. Their webs and spores didn't do harm. Lance had.
"I'm sorry," he said, coupling the words with a bow low enough that his eyes left Koga's face. "This is a very old forest. I should have taken more care."
When Lance lifted his eyes, the ninja was still there. That was something, at least. But his hard expression hadn't changed. Lance studied the way he held himself, his back straight, his chin tilted upward—the picture of a man undaunted despite his defeat. A proud man, Lance decided.
But that pride was hard to square with his behavior earlier. What kind of pride let him stand by while charlatans drew coins trading on the false name of ninja? If Lance had found someone flashing a false kairyu cape—but that thought stung oddly, and Lance forced it away. He met Koga's gaze head-on.
"Don't they dishonor your traditions? Why do you allow that?"
Something flashed in the ninja's eyes, but the man tamed it before Lance could decipher the emotion.
"What do you know of our traditions?" he demanded.
"Not much," Lance admitted. He stepped forward. "But I know the ninja clans once saved Kanto. I know they were responsible for the founding of the G-Force. I know enough to know your name should not be taken lightly."
Koga seemed to consider this. Then he spoke, in a sing-song tone completely at odds with the tension tightening his jaw. "Tell me, what did you see when you first entered Fuschia?"
Lance knew that tone. It was the voice the elders put on when they were asking riddles. But the question didn't sound like a riddle. What had he seen? He'd seen a bold red archway. If he tried, Lance could even remember the writing from a few of the posters.
He opened his mouth—and closed it. No, this was too important to rush. When the elders asked their riddles, the obvious answer had never been the right one. Though that had never stopped Lance from giving it . . .
Memory swelled up like a sudden updraft. He was lying on the fragrant grass, tickling Toku's belly. Above, the sky was a startling azure, and the air was warm and languid. At intervals, Elder Kyo asked questions, and he threw back whatever words were floating at the top of his mind. No question had seemed worth the effort to think its answer through.
If Lance could find that past-him, he thought he might shake the boy and shout, Wake up! Clear your ears! This matters.
Would it have changed anything, if he'd answered differently that terrible day?
The sunlight shifted. A hot beam found its way into the clearing, forcing Lance to blink against the glare. He became aware of the forest again, of Koga's unblinking stare.
"I saw two signs," he said softly.
There was a long pause. "Correct. Well, at least you are in possession of eyes. Two signs—one to be seen, the other to be obeyed. In Fuschia, we keep our own laws. Here one may not fight with fire in battle, nor may an active psychic pass our borders. Were you to commit a crime here, that crime's punishment would be left to the discretion of the clans. And when my service as gym leader comes to an end, the league will not choose my successor. Do you think we have won this lightly? You say that this forest is old. What would you say of the forest you passed through before?"
"It was younger," Lance said, frowning. He remembered the view from the sky, and certainty seized him. "It burned."
"It burned," repeated Koga, his voice low and grim. "Yes. One hundred years ago, Kanto forgot her gratitude. Her people distrusted us—distrusted our isolation, our pride, our independence. They whispered that we plotted secret war. With this mood at its fervor, the champion of Kanto perished by poison. It was not surprising. In those days Kanto was a nest of swarming arbok. My people had nothing to do with it, but what does a simple truth like that matter to the frightened and leaderless? The whispers swelled into an avenging sea.
"They came for us. Burned the webs of our ariados, the nests of our venomoth. Our forest. Our homes. It brings me no satisfaction to say that for every life of ours they took, we took in return two of theirs. And after, when half our lands wore garments of ash, we came to the negotiating table all the same. Such pragmatism has ever been the way of the ninja. A treaty was signed. A gym founded. The lands devastated by the fire were opened to the rest of Kanto, our gaping wound for them to tramp in. Our leader journeyed to the Sacred Flame, and there she bowed and swore once more our allegiance to the champion.
"So. You ask why I suffer those fools who parade before tourists under the name of ninja? I tell you that my people have suffered far worse. We know that this thing some call pride is little more than a bright cape, to be donned and doffed as circumstance allows."
His eyes bore into Lance fiercely, full of anger, full of challenge.
Lance didn't think before he answered; the words flowed from him like water running downhill.
"My people burned too. It was called the Battle of the Five Valleys. Every valley burned. That was before I was born, and now the valleys are green again. But my people still hide themselves away. And so no one in Johto sees the glory of the kairyu, or the proud red of a kairyu cape."
My people, Lance thought, his tongue catching. Why was it so easy to fall back into claiming them? He closed his eyes for a moment and saw a low fire, a woman weaving between the wings of a dragon, but the image seemed distant and strange. When he looked back up, he found Koga watching him closely. For the first time there was something like softness in his face.
"We hide as well," he said. "We hide in plain sight. That was astute of you to see. We parade the fangless arbok, allowing them to trash and adulterate our heritage, all in the name of their sense of safety, for upon that sense our own safety rests. An honorless, precarious existence, do you judge it? But the blood of our mothers and fathers fashioned it, and that is honor enough. Champion Kikuko understands this. She knows our struggle, respects our sovereignty. The clans know her. We do not know Adachi Jiro."
Lance startled at his mentor's name. This was about politics, then. And where politics began, Lance's comfort ended. If only Jiro were here. He was knowledgeable, tactful, charming—everything Lance wasn't. But Jiro was back in Saffron, and Koga's gaze was expectant.
"You don't know him. So, why do you assume he'd be worse than Kikuko?"
Koga's lips curved into a grim smile. "I do not know him, but I know his kind. He is from the Saffron Megapolis. Such people have no understanding, no ability to see beyond themselves. They think it would be right and fitting if all Kanto became Saffron's fief. Had they the power, they would extinguish the Sacred Flame and put in its place electric lights, thinking that those burn brighter. These city-folk are all alike: arrogant, self-centered, too busy talking to listen."
"I'm listening," Lance said. "And I know Jiro, even if you don't. I promise he—"
Koga spoke over him in a hard voice. "Promise no promises on the behalf of others. There's as much sense in that as the summer sun promising to shine in winter."
"Then I promise for myself." Lance lifted his chin. "Do you doubt my word?"
Koga stared at him, so long that Lance began to feel uneasy.
"I do not play at politics," Koga said in a slow, deliberate voice. But that wasn't true, was it? Lance thought. This whole conversation had been politics from start to finish. "Kanto's internal affairs are of no interest to the ninja clans, except when Kanto's endless squabbles and industrial enterprises put our way of life at risk. Champion Kikuko has been a good friend to us. There is no more to say on the matter. But you—" Koga nodded, as if coming to a decision. "You I will teach, if it is teaching that you have come for."
He stepped into the shadow of two trees and vanished, but the wind bore back his voice.
"Come with me."
In Fuschia, the morning bell rang promptly at dawn. The first morning, Lance stumbled to his feet, feeling like he was twelve again. He had been given a private room, large enough for all of his pokemon to stretch out together. As the bell chimed again, Toku yawned and flopped over on her side. Archer blinked open a single eye, then drooped it shut. Only Kana seemed at all excited by the idea of rising. She butted her head into Lance's side, huffing curls of smoke.
They stepped outside together. Fires had been lit in the main clearing, and the savory smell of porridge woke hunger pangs in Lance's stomach. He saw children grouped around one fire, yawning and bickering. Nostalgia rose like bile; he averted his eyes and made his way over to a squat woman who seemed to be directing most of the activity.
"Can I help?" he asked quietly.
She eyed him warily, everything in the tightness of her face speaking the word "outsider," but after a pause she answered, "There's wood to be cut. And that big orange lug can help tend the fires, as long as it doesn't burn the houses down."
Kana snorted, but shuffled without further comment over to the furthermost fire, where the kindling hadn't yet caught, and stuck her tail into the wood.
It was another two hours before Lance, sweaty and a little light-headed from exertion, sat down to eat. Only one fire was still lit: most of the community had dispersed. Lance had gulped down a few spoonfuls of lukewarm porridge when he felt a hand on his back. Koga stood over him. The ninja gave a short nod, almost approving, and said, "When you've eaten, come find me."
Jiro had always been an amiable teacher, cracking jokes, softening any criticism with a quick word of praise. Koga had no such compunctions.
"You are sloppy," the ninja snapped when Lance and all his pokemon stood before him. "Too much power, not enough subtlety. There is nothing admirable in blowing out a candle with a hurricane when a single breath would do the same. You can overwhelm many opponents this way, that is true. But Kikuko is not one of them."
It was the first and last time Koga invoked the champion's name. He set them a series of bizarre exercises—knocking a solitary twig off a tree, destroying an egg without breaking the glass it rested on. Kana's first air slash snapped the twig—and continued cleanly through the trunk of the tree behind it. Lance had winced as the tree crashed down, and Koga had smirked, his point made.
The days that followed were long and frustrating. Kaisho was the first to succeed, scorching her egg with a single spark of electricity sent zagging through the air.
"This one remembers what it is to be weak," Koga announced. "That is good. That is the essence of strength. The arbok must always remember his time as an ekans; the ariados must treasure the fragility and cunning of the spinarak."
It was easy to fall into the rhythms of the ninja village. Lance knew the pace of life here, and slipped into it like a rediscovered skin. Elders told late-night stories, their time-worn faces gilded by the firelight; children played invented games and whined as they did the washing-up in the river; ekans sunned on the slanting rooftops like purple-skinned miniryu. Sometimes the nostalgia grew so acute that Lance would see a flash of blue and turn, expecting to see his cousin running past.
He knew Toku felt it too. His other pokemon were thriving in the clean, pine-fresh air and open space. Archer went off with the golbat flocks, biting and scuffling and shrieking happily. Kana had become fast friends with the cooks, stoking their fires and nabbing the first taste of every meal. Kaisho was fascinated by the silk-weaving. He watched the looms spin, his eyes bright and focused. Even Ibuki seemed content, mud-bathing in the river and surfacing occasionally to have her belly tickled by the bolder children. But Toku hung back, her green eyes clouded. Some nights, Lance woke to a coldness and found the place by his side empty.
One such night, Lance threw on his jacket and waded into the chilly, pre-dawn murk. He found Toku on the roof and joined her silently. Her scales glowed, even in the weak moonlight. Her eyes were shut.
"You could go back," Lance said.
Toku's antenna stiffened, but she otherwise gave no sign that she had heard.
"Home. Without me. I was the one who was banished, not you. And I think—" Lance drew a breath, the words coming hard. "Toku, I think they meant banished for good. But you're a kairyu. The whole world belongs to you—the Ryu's Gift is still your home."
His words trailed off like a failing stream.
Toku opened her eyes. Hurt blazed in them so brightly that Lance flinched. She whined—a thin, high sound—and shoved her face into his shoulder, like she was a miniryu again, trying to coil around him, to find safety in the fold of his shirt. Lance felt wetness gather in his eyes. He wrapped his arms around her neck, holding her close and listening to the rise and fall of her breath.
Strength and wisdom. That was what it took to raise a kairyu. Lance had never known what wisdom meant, and if Koga was right, maybe he'd never understood strength either.
"It was easier, wasn't it?" he said softly. "Before."
There were things they couldn't unsee now; obligations they couldn't shrug aside.
Toku nudged him onto her back. They flew for hours, until the sky grew bright.
For the rest of the day, Lance was bleary-eyed and distracted. A few children approached him for a game of stones, but he waved them away. He sat in a patch of sunlight, idly stroking an ekans in her tender spot just under the venom sacks. It surprised him when the light failed, and the evening fires began to crackle. On half-sleeping legs, he approached the cooks.
"How can I—" he began, and was cut off by a laden tray shoved into his hands.
"Master Koga's evening meal. He requested that you bring it to him."
Lance had never received that honor before. Surprised, he made his way to Koga's dwelling, a small, inconspicuous hut at the edge of the town, almost subsumed by the eaves of the forest. Koga nodded to Lance as he set the tray down.
"Stay a moment," he said. He didn't touch the tray, but watched Lance for several minutes, as if gathering his thoughts. "You have been a diligent student. But the lesson you most need, I can't teach you. You should visit Lavender. Ghost pokemon obey their own rules—you'll need to learn them, if you wish to have any hope against the champion."
"Thank you," Lance murmured. He bowed, and prepared to go, but Koga's voice halted him.
"This is . . . not a dismissal. That is one course—you do not have to take it. You are welcome here, as long as you choose to stay."
His voice lacked its usual gruffness. In the dark gloom of evening, his face long and stern but his eyes almost soft, he might have been Uncle.
A lot of things might have been, Lance thought with a bitter pang, but they aren't. Pretending couldn't bring anything back.
"Thank you," he said again, but his voice was clipped, and Lance knew Koga heard the refusal written there. The ninja nodded back, unsurprised.
The next day, Lance climbed on Toku's back. They were gone before the morning bell chimed.