Chapter 44 – Day 16, Part 4: Out of Bounds

Chapter 44: Day 16, Part 4 – Out of Bounds

Common wisdom states that there’s a lot to be gained from vigilant skepticism. Even though it could be a tightrope walk between offending others and confirming suspicions, the world was rarely black and white in its entirety. Intentions did not need to be malevolent to incite harmful changes. More often than not, those that claimed to be doing good completely believed it to be so. True good required a moral compass—a righteous outlook of the world.

And true evil runs the world. But not for much longer.

As the land of Enigma passed by, and a lone Krookodile gazed out of the window of an airborne taxi, the distant spires of Kebia castle loomed on the horizon. Like sharp teeth, they pierced the sky, threatening to stab the clouds for all of their transgressions. Maybe that was why Kebia’s weather was so erratic compared to elsewhere; the castle itself kept the clouds in check.

Finch received a lot of dirty looks on his way out of that castle yesterday. Nothing new there; he was used to it. Kebia worked off of certain rules: namely, ones of rejection. Kebia was a repellent kind of place, crafted with the sole purpose of weeding out delinquents and lawbreakers.

Which was fine. Finch was not so far gone that he saw no reason for such places to exist, but normally such clauses would only become known to the regular citizens when actual crime was being committed. Finch, at worst, had previously gotten into a petty argument with the pokemon at the front desk. Nothing worthy of punishment.

Considering the looks those ghosts were giving him, though, he might have assumed that he was one insult away from being dragged away to his doom. The air was thick with their throat-tightening miasma, pumping his lungs full of conformity. However, none had stopped him when he left the castle.

They were waiting for me to slip up, he thought, carving gibberish into the cushion with his claws. That’s what it was. Their bosses don’t like me, but they have to follow the rules.

“Avast ye!” called out the Croconaw taxi driver. “We’ll be thar soon!” Loud, muffled wingbeats plowed against the air like cannons. The Corviknight carrying the taxi refrained from increasing their pace, but Tusk—being as he was—hollered and laughed all the same, swinging his scimitar like mad.

“Aye aye!” Finch shouted back, more for himself than the driver. His snout was inches from the taxi’s window, fogging it up as he growled to himself. There was a distinct tingling in his tail—one that only surfaced when he had a feeling that something bad was on the horizon. Was it a storm, maybe? A terribly destructive one that would leave everyone he cared about hopeless and afraid?

Whatever it is, I can only feel it getting closer. I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all.

Tusk called out again, shouting over the raging winds. “Finch, me bucko! Wha’ did ye say ye we plannin’ on doin’?”

Finch almost didn’t answer. It was doubtful that the Croconaw could even hear him. But if that croc could handle the winds, so could this croc. He opened the door slightly, squinting at the wind, and twisted his head around the opening.

“Visiting a contact!” Finch bellowed. “Friend of mine needed to talk to them, but he’s a bit caught up right now!”

“Ye heard ‘im, Lass! Stay low, take it slow!” Neither the Corviknight nor Tusk himself made themselves any less noisy, or slowed down in either cadence or demeanor. Oh well; Finch didn’t really expect anything less. A small chuckle escaped him as he slumped back into the taxi.

Once inside, Finch eyed the bottles and mugs rattling at the other end of the cabin—Tusk’s only cargo, aside from Finch himself.

Like I always say: you can trust a pirate with your life. Just don’t expect to leave their company sober.

Had they met up under better circumstances, Finch might not have been sober at that moment. Considering the state of Micle, though, Finch didn’t even have the time to explain what his plan was, let alone share a drink.

And it’s all because of Big Mama…

“We be nigh-on t’ Hopo! YAR!”

I’m going to make up for this, Finch thought despondently, watching the small cabins of Hopo come into view ahead of them. I’ll set them free and get my revenge. Count on that.

Finch leaned out of the door and shouted up at Tusk again. “Alright, this is good! Set me down here!” Today was not the day for big entrances. Finch could walk the rest of the way.

“Aye aye!”

With a howl and a “KAW,” the taxi lurched so fast that Finch only barely got back to his seat before being flattened against the cushion. He grasped the convenient safety handle as gravity pushed him upward.

“Wooooohoo!” the Krookodile bellowed, his gums pulled past his teeth. Many things were guaranteed when it came to Tusk, and a fun time was definitely one of them. Finch snickered at the thought of how someone like Oswald would react to such excitement.

He’d probably scream. Then he’d get mad at me afterwards. What a funny guy.

They touched down not too long after, landing hard enough to nearly send Finch flying out of his seat. With his pack slung over his shoulder, Finch swung the door open and hopped out of the taxi. Immediately, the dry dirt—almost like sand—seeped between his toes. He took a deep breath of the arid air.

Tusk dropped down from his perch quickly after, landing with a thud, dust puffing out in a cloud. The muscular croc dusted off his claws and grinned at Finch, not at all deterred by the grime clinging to his striped shirt.

“HAHA! ‘n thar ye go!” said Tusk. “Quick ‘n easy, eh Finch?”

The wind stung like cactus needles. A moment was spent just taking in the sun-baked landscape of southern Enigma. While not completely derelict—the continent was much too small for that—there was a distinct warmth permeating through the air that opened up Finch’s sinuses and loosened up his joints. Trees were somewhat sparse to the south, and grass grew in clumps near the large river leading all the way to the ocean. Aside from any of the trees that were there, it was mostly barren. Perfect for a ground dweller like Finch.

Is what I would say if there were any jobs down here. Mom always dreamed of moving to where it’s quiet and comfortable…

The thought both filled Finch with nostalgia and left him melancholic over what could have been. But in the face of that, he grinned just as wide at Tusk. How could he not?

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Couldn’t ask for a more skilled driver.”

The Corviknight behind them guffawed at that.

Tusk proceeded to show off his muscles with a flex, flashing his sharp fangs, too. “Thar ain’t a pirate that can get ye t’ where ye needs t’ go faster! That’s Tusk, baby!”

“Sure is.”Finch chuckled. “Thanks again, Tusk. When I get back, we’re finding you a new boat.”

The last one was confiscated. Finch found the Crocoaw in a tizzy yesterday while he watched the Gummi dealer, Turaco, be dragged away kicking and screaming from Clamperl’s Dream. And he wasn’t the only one. All of Micle faced a complete invasion, with mons on every corner being arrested and questioned. It had been years since Finch had seen such a large-scale seize and capture. There was definite evidence of criminal activity, sure, but they didn’t need to search the entire city for that.

(…)(…)(…)

Miraculously, Tusk and Turaco hadn’t left for Blueline yet. Knowing Tusk, that was a bit surprising. But then again, if there was one mon that could evade capture unlike any other, it was Tusk.

“Tusk?” Finch had said. “Thank Darkrai you’re still here!”

Tusk had put on that big toothy grin of his and laughed. “Aye! They took me galleon! Don’t worry! Yer heartie Tusk thought ahead ‘n broke it afore they could take it! Squiffy! Har har har!”

Luckily Tusk had a backup plan on standby. From there, they rode out to Hopo, leaving Micle to its devices.

(…)(…)(…)

The prospect of a replacement dingy lightened Tusk’s eyes like a Volbeat’s tail. “Mighty?” he said hopefully. “Ah, Finch-” Tusk quickly pulled Finch into a brotherly hug, “-we’ll be downin’ ale ‘n punchin’ guts in no time!”

“Shouldn’t take me too long,” Finch remarked, gleefully returning the hug, patting the other croc on the back. “We need to head to Kebia after this.”

Hopefully by then Ozzy has his shit together. I ain’t staying in that castle for long.

Tusk pulled back, pounding his chest. “Aye aye! Run fast ‘n punch hard, Finch!”

“Can’t punch harder than you, Tusk!”

With a nod, the Krookodile dashed through the dirt, eyes on the cabins in the distance through the thirsty trees. Dust cascaded past his scales, and several minutes of traveling later, the treeline and bumpy dirt hills were broken. Finch emerged amidst a sea of dusty orange, punctuated by the engraved footprints of a well-traveled path.

Hopo, both from what Finch knew and could infer, was an intermediate settlement meant to give mons a resting point on their way to Hondew. It was small, unassuming, and often forgotten by most maps. If a mon wanted a safe place to make a deal, far from any interference, Hopo Town would not be a bad choice.

Immediately, though, Finch could tell it was far from barren. In fact, it seemed quite crowded. Pokemon were coming and going, separated into groups of three or four, moving with an organized purpose. Even from this distance he could see they stomped around in the dirt with about as much grace as a newborn Duraludon. They weren’t locals.

Just like Micle. Guildies swarming like Combee in pursuit of nectar.

The grip Finch had on his pack’s straps tightened until his knuckles turned white.

They came here, too? Now? What for…?

And then it hit him. Iris. They were looking for Iris. The Queen wanted to leave no stone unturned it seemed; no way was this a coincidence.

You gotta be kidding me…

It was never going to be easy. He should’ve figured that sooner when it took him a couple hours just to find a willing carriage driver back in Kebia. And even then, the one he found left him worse off than before.

He needed to get closer. If Iris was caught then that left him no choice but to head to Rabuta and beat The Queen to the punch, even if the thought made him want to rip his teeth out. Any reservations he had over the rebellion’s gradual degeneration paled in comparison to what was happening now. Allies were dropping fast.

So, Finch dashed once again, keeping low, quickly latching onto the lingering thought that this was all a trap. Not just for himself, but any others that took the same path. If Turaco of all mons knew about Iris, surely others did, too.

It didn’t take long, and thankfully no one saw him. Sidling up against the nearest cabin, Finch inched around the corner, poking his snout out just enough to get a good look of the carnage.

Compared to the street corners of Rabuta and Kebia, there was no cohesion to the placement of houses in Hopo. Or order, no style. If Colbur village, where Finch first met Oswald and Fenn, was a homely place predicated by a clear vision, Hopo was made out of necessity. It barely functioned, let alone thrived.

But that worked for Finch. He practically blended in through the trash and grime, getting a good look at Kebia’s lapdogs through the cracks. Each wore one of those candy colored bands of subservience, shouting commands at each other, turning themselves into searchlights. Seeing this, Finch was prompted to check his arm. It was naked.

I’d wear my own, but they’re probably expecting that. They know I’m aware of their games and don’t want me to play.

Just yesterday for instance, Finch needed to leave Kebia and do so as fast as possible. With that Aggron he had talked to before—a deal had been struck that placed Finch in his priority list. If the croc needed to be somewhere, the Aggron would be there to take him.

Apparently the deal fell through over the course of those three days. The Aggron explained that he had other obligations and could not help Finch. Fortunately, there were alternatives. Carriages were in abundance in Kebia.

He asked another one. They turned him down.

He asked one more. They claimed to have been booked for the entire week.

He asked another. The carriage rider claimed to only accept “certain clients.”

It was after maybe the seventh attempt that Finch confirmed that something was wrong. After the eighth, the carriage rider let it slip, and claimed that he did not want to lose his job by helping Finch.

Why, under any circumstances, would a carriage rider lose his job for doing what he was being paid to do?

Finch scoffed to himself. Nope, that wasn’t going to happen again. The second they’d see that purple band, it would all be over. With this. he’d be staying low. Or high, if needed. None of the goons he could immediately see had any wings…

Could also be in the walls. Never know with these pricks.

A few of the groups started moving again, and fast—low would be good for the moment. And only as close as he needed to hear them.

Sliding around to the other corner of the cabin, Finch brought his claw to his ear, listening for any pokemon that happened to be heading his way.

Two voices stuck out: one awfully warbly in their intonations, and the other punctuating every other word with loud clicks and clacks.

“…at a shithole,” said the warbly one.

Click click clack! “Yer tellin’ me,” replied the clacking one. Clack clack click! “I hear this place used to be swarmin’, but the war killed it.”

“Yah. History-bistory. I hate it.”

Click clack! Click clack! “Buncha rebels camped out here. Treated it like a communications center.”

“Who cares?”

“Yer mother might’ve!”

“Bah? Nah. Mama was too busy knitting to care.”

Clack! “Never heard of a Golisopod that could knit!”

“Never heard of a Kingler that could knit either.”

“Never said my mother could!” Click!

“Whatever. Let’s find this chick and get out of here.”

Finch waited in silence for a few moments as the duo fell out of earshot. From the direction of their footsteps alone, Finch garnered that they were heading to the edges of town, away from the center.

Would a general store be on the outskirts? Doubt it. Iris is still hidden, too. They probably already searched the place.

Once he knew the coast was clear, Finch poked his snout around the corner again, peering towards the center of town. Pokemon were still gathered, planted firmly in their spots. Less of them than before—plenty of them didn’t look happy.

Hopo isn’t that big. Why haven’t they turned this place upside down yet?

Or better yet, left town entirely.

Finch needed more info.

Sticking to the shadows was easy, and would’ve been easier if he had the luxury to wait until night. For the moment, the croc settled with darting between dusty bushes and piles of long-since abandoned materials. No one saw him.

Eventually, Finch reached a vantage point behind a collection of barrels collapsed against what appeared to be a run-down shanty. His scales blended in nicely with the dry wood and metal. Ahead of him was a consortium of arguing mons, stumbling about in front of a building with its windows blown out. The sign in front of it, currently hanging limply on its hinges, read: “Oasis Goods – Open!”

…Looks like Finch found what he was looking for.

“Now I’m not gonna ask you again,” a Bewear with an infectious frustration in his voice sternly started, “where’d she go, bub?”

A Tauros in front of the bear stomped. The frustration reached him, too. “I don’t know, dammit! She was here yesterday!”

“‘Yesterday’ isn’t good enough!” The Bewear jabbed his massive paw in the Tauros’ direction, then swept that same paw around himself, gesturing to the surrounding area. “Mons don’t vanish out of thin air!”

A chorus of voices erupted in agreement, one as close as the building right next to Finch.

The Tauros huffed. “Now listen here: Hopo hasn’t done anything to deserve this. We do our work, you leave us alone. Why does that have to change now?”

His question was met with a laugh. “Because you’re hiding a dangerous criminal, sheriff!” replied the Bewear helpfully. He leaned forward, showing his teeth. “You better not tell me your name is ‘Potoo,’ too, or else we’re gonna have even more problems.”

“How did it go again?” said one of the goons. “‘Potoo loves his children—a father to all, an uncle to many. The one true king’—or some shit like that.”

Finch gagged.

They took the fucking words out of my mouth! Bunch of scumbags!

Not only had Big Mama uncovered Clamperl’s Dream’s location from Ozzy’s brain, she stole Finch’s code phrase, too! No wonder Perlshine, the diner holding the hidden bar, had been absolutely gutted, turned inside out, and left out to fester. At the time, Finch couldn’t even get close. He was too late.

But not this time.

This is war. Queenie wants me out of the picture? She’s gonna have to work for it.

Both then and now Finch’s scales steamed with righteous fury. His tail thwumped against the ground out of a desire for violence. He figured that a few of the guildies would go down if he was quick enough. The bastards deserved to be put in their place.

It would have been an incredibly stupid thing to do, but it was days like this where Finch earnestly wished he could be stupid.

Instead, Finch used the ensuing raucous laughter to bolt to the backside of the adjacent building. The store was a straight shot ahead—he just needed to find a way to get to it.

Which sounded counterproductive. It was obvious that Iris wasn’t here.

Or was she?

First rule of escaping the law: never run in a straight line.

Finch’s first step would be to look for clues, and that meant reaching the store. Easier said than done, had Finch not noticed the lack of bases covered by the guildies.

No wings, no ghosts, and most importantly, no ground types. He was almost disappointed after he got a good look at their numbers. Were they even taking this seriously?

Thankfully they all seemed distracted with that grumpy bull, so getting to the back of the store would be as simple as…going in a straight line. Being careful to keep quiet and cover his tracks, Finch retreated to another building behind him and started digging.

Layers upon layers of decrepit roots and rocks met his claws. Every scrape forward was a reminder of just how dead the soil was, that of which only seemed to be growing tougher the longer he dug. Stray bits of ground trickled behind him, coating his scales in grime that even their slippery shimmer couldn’t shake.

Finch was a street croc, not a tunnel croc. Unlike his mother, who seemed to treat the ground like a holy body, trying to measure the correct distance of a proper dig was prone to a lot of guesswork. It largely came down to vibrations and the trickle down of past residue, none of which helped Finch all that much in this instance.

It didn’t matter, though, as Finch soon emerged within a barely illuminated basement, poking through a hole in the wall. Really goes to show how little Finch dug recreationally; forgetting about basements felt annoyingly amateurish.

The light was faint—barely assisting in deciphering the silhouettes ahead of Finch, but that was good. At best, that meant no one was there to catch him. At worst, it meant anyone could come scampering down at any point.

Finch clawed the rest of the way, grumbling to himself, “This the store’s…?” Only one way to make sure. Once he slid to his feet, he reached into his now dirt covered bag and pulled out a small lantern.

The unmistakable shapes of crates, boxes, and barrels met his eyes through the orange lantern light. Many, many crates and boxes and barrels. If all of this didn’t belong to Iris then Finch would regret betting on it.

First things first, where was that other light coming from? A staircase, and at the top of said staircase was a cellar door that couldn’t stop a Cleffa if it made itself small. Still, it was closed. Finch breathed.

“Lucky break,” he whispered. “Alright…” He started his search by placing a couple boxes in front of his entry hole. From there, he got to looking for…anything.

“Make this easy on me, will you?”

He searched the boxes and all he found were crappy little knick-knacks. He perused the cabinets and only discovered rotting fruit and fermented wine. He opened the sacks and wished he hadn’t when the smell hit his snout.

So far, nothing. Not a single clue.

Finch was beginning to think that Iris wasn’t here. And if she wasn’t here, then she certainly wasn’t in the store itself. So, maybe she did slip out under everyone’s noses.

That was what he thought…until something caught his eye.

On the edge of the lantern light, something etched into the side of a cabinet stuck out to him. A few lines intersecting. A symbol.

Had he not been looking carefully, he never would have seen it. Two lines pointing perpendicular downward above a slanted trapezoid, with a slanted rectangle offset beside it. Innocuous in presentation, and clearly rushed, but jaw droppingly meaningful for someone like Finch.

Underground…below…

Finch smirked devilishly. He silently thanked his late mother for all of the secrets she trusted with him. Including the hidden language the rebels used back during the war. If a pokemon needed to hide, and only wanted to be found by a select few, a symbol would work perfectly for that. Just like this one.

Finch turned off his lantern, stuffed it into his pack, then got right back to digging, quickly closing the hole behind him with a crate. This time, he clawed at the dirt with an excited fervor.

He dug and dug and dug, far past the point of a reasonable distance underground. If his hunch was right, and it regularly was, someone really didn’t want to be found.

He was right. The dirt under his claws quickly loosened after a certain few minutes and the world collapsed under him. In the split instant he had to fall, Finch righted himself, landing on his feet within a stuffy, musty room. Falling mites of soot cascaded down to the floor along with him.

And there was light. A lantern directly ahead of him! Satisfaction coursed through his bloodstream, invigorating him. He was so hyped up on his hunch being correct that he forgot the second law of escaping the law: always check a room before lowering your guard.

Without warning, Finch was yanked backwards and pulled into a tight arm lock. He flailed initially, but that stopped once he felt the familiar cold of metal sliding up against his throat. He wavered between struggling and freezing his movements.

“Whoa, whoa, wait-“

A voice from behind him, sharp like the blade on their arm, scratched at Finch’s ear, threatening to gouge it and go even deeper. “Who was King Potoo?” they demanded. “Tell me quick or I’ll-“

“Potoo was an eccentric Espeon!” Finch blurted out, his tail thrashing out behind him in search of leverage. “The Gutter King! Someone needed to own the castle to combat the psychics…so Carnation chose him!”

A gasp erupted from the croc’s lips as he was pushed forward onto the ground. And in the process, his limbs were set free. He rushed to turn about, his tail balancing his backwards stride. Breathlessly, Finch glanced up.

A Bisharp, with a bladed arm still extended upward, stood straight like a soldier and with just as much wariness. Her steely gaze pierced the meager darkness, meeting Finch’s eyes with suspicion.

But just as quickly, any fragment of a flame in those eyes was washed away with the ocean. In the wake of such a change, a warmth still persisted, lending passage to a nurturing and devoted gaze. The Bisharp retracted her blade.

“The castle belongs to everyone,” she said, “but they still need a king as a symbol.” The resounding sigh relaxed the tension of the entire room. “So happy to see that some young folk still remember the story.”

“Ha…” Finch stood up, shaking some of the grime off. “Iris, I’m guessing?”

Based on the immediate appearance of a smile, Finch was on a roll today. “You were looking for me?” Her expression changed to something more worrisome, as though the subject bothered her. But then she shifted gears. “And who might you be?”

The Krokorok snapped his fingers then replied without missing a beat, “Finch.”

Iris nodded. “Ah, Snapper Finch. I’ve heard of you.”

“And as of a few days ago, I’ve heard of you. So we’re about on the same page.”

“Indeed.” She nonchalantly walked past him, sitting down in an old, wooden chair behind a table that would fit well in a carpentry workshop. “I’m going to assume you aren’t working with them? You weren’t compromised.”

The guildies, Finch assumed. “Yes and no,” he said. “I managed to get into the castle, but I left before they could do anything to me. I’m not with the ones outside.”

Iris grew stiff. “Do you know why they decided to come now?” she asked.

“Unfortunately.” Finch crossed his arms, making himself out to appear peeved. “The queen has a particular interest in someone I know, and some info leaked out. Micle was hit, too.” He made it a point not to mention his role in all of this. Iris was already on-edge—her knowing about his mistake wouldn’t help.

“Micle?” Iris balked. “Arceus, how long until they strike at Rabuta, as well?”

Finch shrugged. “No idea. Hopefully not at all.”

Iris sighed, shaking her head in defeat. “This is bad,” she muttered. “But we have measures against this. I’m certain word has already spread.”

I sure hope so, Finch thought. Only so much I can do here.

The Krokorok grunted in agreement as his eyes scanned the cave they were in.

Mine shafts were common in south Enigma, and this looked exactly like how Finch would expect one to look. Wooden supports, jagged and rocky walls, and the occasional drip of water onto a moist floor. But from the looks of it, Iris—or someone long before her—fashioned the cave system to function as a hiding spot. More of those barrels and crates were here, supplies built to last. Alongside that were various pieces of parchment slung about on wooden tables. One held a map, marked with various red X’s.

“Old war bunker?” Finch wondered aloud.

“Old war bunker,” Iris affirmed. “Not many know about it. Even less have dug into it.”

Finch raised an eyebrow. Bisharp could Dig, right? “I saw the symbol, I did what it said.”

She smirked slightly. “That just means that the bunker is beneath the mark. The actual entrance-” she pointed behind her, “-is through a cave outside of town.”

“Oh. My way was quicker anyway.”

Iris then proceeded to ask an actual relevant question. “Who led you here?”

Finch ruminated over this question during the entire ride to Hopo. Mainly because the connection between a Gummi dealer like Turaco and a store owner like Iris was so tenuous that there were only a few possibilities Finch could think of. If there was one thing he wanted to learn from this meeting, it had to be what that connection was.

He answered her without hesitation. “Turaco. Gummi dealer in Micle. You know him?”

The blade atop Iris’ head shimmered while her eyes flashed with understanding. She said, “Only in name. I’m confused, Finch. Of all pokemon, I would have assumed you would know where The Oriole is located.”

“Oriole?” Finch repeated. Even though he was partially expecting it, hearing the word ‘Oriole’ made him do a double take. “So that’s what this is about…”

“You didn’t know?”

Finch ignored that question for now and shook his head. “Why am I being led to The Oriole?”

Iris scoffed, quickly becoming cheeky with her response. “Because I assume you’d want to be recruited. Turaco and I are in a long list of contacts all across Enigma, our job being to pass each potential recruit along until they find their way to The Oriole. For safety reasons, of course. I shouldn’t actually be telling you this, but since I know who you are, I made an exception.”

“…Why is The Oriole recruiting?” Finch wondered, his voice low and suspicious. “They haven’t been active in years.”

Did that have something to do with the sudden rise in criminal activity, now that he thought about it? The Oriole was being built back up, but why? From what Finch could remember, The Oriole was never this active. They always kept to Rabuta, and to themselves.

That was why Finch left. Their unwillingness to expand and grow was not what Carnation would have wanted. They were a shadow of the former rebellion. But now…

“Things are changing,” Iris said simply. “I hear something big is being planned. And they need more bodies.”

“How big?”

Iris shrugged. “Not allowed to know. I’m just a guide.” She pointed over her shoulder. “I can point you to someone who does know, though.”

That would have to come later. Finch was still caught up on the Oriole being involved in the first place.

He grumbled, “I don’t get it. Last time I was there half of the pokemon didn’t even know Carnation existed. What could they possibly be fighting for? What changed?”

If his question was meant to be rhetorical, which it was, Iris didn’t view it that way. She locked eyes with Finch and gave him the best answer she could think of. “Your guess is as good as mine. But…maybe it has something to do with all this talk about a ‘human.'”

Right…that. Wasn’t that why Oswald wanted to come here in the first place?

“I’ve heard about that,” Finch said. “Colbur Village up north was hit by a gang looking for it. What’s the deal with that?” Because up to this point, Finch hadn’t put much thought into it. To him, it was just a rumor. Humans didn’t exist. At least not anymore.

“You want my opinion?” Iris asked, being about as rhetorical as Finch was. “It’s a rallying cry. A hidden signal and a unifying force to bring everyone back together one last time.”

That sounded…absolutely ridiculous yet simultaneously very interesting. Corral enough pokemon like Ozzy and that Darmanitan from Colbur and an entire coalition would be formed in a day. It made him wonder aloud, though, “How would that work?”

Iris got right to the point. “Personally, I don’t think there really is a human. You just need someone who says they’re a human.”

That would also be very interesting, because that Darmanitan said the same thing, more or less. They “used to be” one, so they weren’t one. But then, by that logic, anyone could say they were a human.

Finch had a thought. What if that was the point? There was no singular human. Like Potoo, the king made to be a symbol for the rebellion, a human could be used as a call-to-action. Instead of a king, anyone could be the savior. Therefore, everyone was.

It was genius. And also completely insane.

“So like a code?” Finch said somewhat excitedly. “Or an alibi?”

“Maybe. I was thinking more of a…psychic flag, actually,” Iris remarked. “Only certain pokemon could access it. Somehow, some crazy mastermind found a way around Anemone’s abilities, and this is supposed to be the validation.” She smirked. “Because if you can trick Anemone, you can win a war.”

A psychic flag…something meant to only be accessible and obtainable under certain circumstances. An idea implanted in another pokemon’s head that, once reached, would confirm an advantage and potentially change the course of Enigma’s history as they knew it.

The only problem was that the pokemon’s mind would have to be completely devoid of any stray details about the plan. And that would be impossible unless the pokemon’s mind was…wiped…clean.

To the outside observer, Anemone included, this would look like amnesia.

But this only raised more questions. If they were looking for someone specific, why weren’t they being discreet about it? What else was a part of this master plan? What really sparked it? Who was in charge of it?

And what role does Ozzy play in all of this?

Aside from a thoughtful “Hm,” Finch remained quiet.

“I’ll be waiting for that day,” Iris stated, standing up from her chair. “In the meantime, I’ll need to hide out somewhere else. This place has too many holes for my liking.”

Finch was too distracted to riff with Iris over that joke. His attention fell back on a question he had ignored previously. “You mentioned that you knew someone who could lead me to some answers? Mind telling me who?” He needed to know more. This was too big to let slip out of his fingertips.

The Bisharp went quiet for a moment, thinking. Then she motioned for Finch to come closer. He obliged.

Iris pointed to a point on the map, a red X positioned not too far west from Hopo’s location.

“There’s a mine here,” Iris started. “Ganlon Mine—a mystery dungeon. I’ve got a buddy who’s been stationed there recently to uncover some sort of treasure. It’s been ongoing for days now with no luck. He knows a lot more than I do, and it’s a great spot to discuss secrets.”

“Ganlon Mine, huh?” Finch chuckled. After a day and a half of running across the continent, the next destination was right next door. Too bad he already had plans to head back to Kebia first. “What’s his species?”

“Zangoose. He’s a part of the Oriole, too.”

Finch adjusted the pack on his shoulder, a toothy grin quickly stretching across his snout. “And here I was thinking I’d never go back…” He turned to Iris with a confident smirk. “Thanks for the help. I’ll let him know you’re safe.”

As he walked past the Bisharp to leave, already thinking of what he would say to Tusk when he’d get back to the taxi, Iris stopped him by putting a cold hand on his shoulder, inciting him to look back at her.

She said solemnly, “Thank you, Finch. I do hope that one of these days we can end all of this secrecy.”

Finch frowned. “Same here. Been keeping to the shadows my whole life.”

Without another word, Iris nodded, lifting her hand from Finch’s shoulder. Deep down, he knew that she could say the same. All either of them really wanted was a reality where everyone could live as they pleased. A reality where no one would have to hide. It would be the peace that Finch had been fighting for his whole life.

Mom would want that, too, he thought.

Finch granted the steel type with one final look before dashing out of the cave, back to the surface. And he did so as fast as he could; there were a couple of favors he still owed back in Kebia. Those would have to be dealt with first, if only just to get Big Mama off his tail.

As he ran, though, a spark of hope coursed through him. A hope that, by the end of this, the truest of evils would fall with the new world. And Carnation’s vision would finally be realized.

He sincerely hoped for the queen’s death.