Chapter 48 – Day 18, Part 1: Who’s Oswald?

Chapter 48: Day 18, Part 1 – Who’s Oswald?

Four days was not a long time.

When Swift first started his own training, it took him weeks to comprehend the basics. To learn. To control his shell.

He was just a Squirtle then. Spry in his energy yet weak in his techniques. His father…or who he assumed was his father at the time, drilled into him the idea that youth was an excuse. One would work around youth, not nurture it. Above all else, it was a handicap that faded away with age.

The melting of Swift’s handicap was a natural process. Incredibly natural—water over smooth stones shaped by a constant current. Its presence was forgotten entirely by the time Swift had reached adulthood.

Oswald fought like his handicap was never removed.

“Like this?” the Dewott asked after shifting his arm opposite of what was just demonstrated.

“No,” Swift corrected. “Like this.”

First up across his torso towards the opposite shoulder, Swift directed, then down at an angle that left the wrist parallel to the abdomen. It was a defensive maneuver, favoring practically over showmanship. The arm would be situated neutrally after the strike to allow for a quick shift to a block or another strike depending on the circumstance. Always on guard.

It was a basic concept that enhanced any physical fighter. Even Swift, who opted to hit-and-run when it came to physical fighting. Wartortles could not utilize their shell in ways that Dewotts could, but Swift depended on Liquidation as a retaliatory dueling option when needed. He had learned to fight with weapons and improvised hand-to-hand before learning to slide, and as a result, Swift gave little attention to his spitting distance. There was little room for it.

“Right…” Oswald uttered, then swung. The ensuing practice strike was terrible. Much too slow and much too disjointed. An Igglybuff could have survived it.

That was an improvement. Swift nodded approvingly. “Better,” he said.

Oswald dropped his stance in an instant, as though maintaining it harbored a great weight. He looked at Swift. “Better how?”

To demonstrate, Swift replicated Oswald’s stance to the best of his ability, faults and all. Such flimsy posture nipped badly at his pride, but he persevered for the sake of proving his point.

As Swift explained, “Your legs were too close together. Spread them more.” So Swift widened his own to the point of a near squat. Such a pose provided a steadier center of gravity, and evened out the body to maintain tension.

“Alright,” said the Dewott, mimicking the motion.

“Loosen your elbow but tighten your grip. Be fluid, not stiff.” Swift brought his wrist up to his shoulder opposite of his current striking arm. Perpendicular to the body, wound up only half-way to reduce telegraphing his attack.

“I was doing that.”

Swift then swung his wrist diagonally across his chest, slamming it into a complete halt in front of Oswald, pointing his invisible blade at him. “Quicker,” Swift stated. “And more focused.”

“Yeah, I got that part.” Oswald crossed his arms and stood up straight. “Swift, I asked about what I did better. Sure sounds like I did everything wrong, still.”

These complaints of Oswald’s never stopped. Swift did explain what was wrong. In perfect detail. But that demonstration showed a definite understanding of what was asked on Oswald’s part. Did Swift not make that clear?

Swift returned to a neutral standing position and frowned deeply. His ears pointed towards the ceiling, disgruntled in their alertness. He grumbled, “Your posture is lacking. But…it is getting better.”

As if to test this, Oswald peeled a scalchop off his hip and swung the instrument with unpracticed restraint into a nearby wooden post, only to look down upon it visibly unsatisfied. Only shallow divots were left in his wake. “Didn’t you say that every Dewott forms their own fighting style?” Oswald asked. “If it belongs to me, why am I doing it wrong?”

“The basics still matter,” Swift reasoned. Yet there was a weakness behind his words that polluted his stature. Learning the basics was important, but Oswald had only grown more frustrated with that explanation as time had gone on. Swift had maybe a few answers to Oswald’s quandaries in total, and he had reused them several times over.

Oswald slapped his scalchop back onto his hip aggressively. His tone was harsh. “I know that, Swift. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t even go to the bathroom without thinking about the basics.” He sighed, looking off at nothing in particular. “I’m not getting anywhere with this, am I?”

Swift truly had to wonder where Oswald was getting these ideas from. Untrained he might be, yes. So skinny that his ribs poked through his fur at times. He was weak and spindly. And on Oswald’s chest was the missing patch of fur where Swift himself had driven his shell into, bumping against those very ribs.

Blinded by anger and envy, Swift had sincerely wished he had done worse at the time. Oswald could have been seriously harmed, leaving Swift full of blame. But he didn’t really care at the time.

And Oswald, in the face of all of that, simply walked away with minimal injuries. He hardly held Swift accountable for it in the end.

The more Swift thought about it, though, the more he found that fact to be emblematic of Oswald’s resilience. Now if only the Dewott had the wherewithal to fight the bad thoughts in his own head.

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Swift finally said.

“What?” The incredulity on Oswald’s face was perplexing. “No, I’m- being realistic.”

“Same thing.”

Oswald stared.

Ever since Swift had learned of his origins as an adoptee, the truth of his birth burrowed its way deep into his shell, slowing him to a crawl. The glass between Swift and Allium finally shattered to reveal the Samurott on the other side—a pokemon who looked no different and acted no different. But still, Swift resented his adoptive father more than ever before.

Swift had to wonder why. Did the knowledge of this lie really change anything, especially when Swift suspected it all along?

What got Swift to apologize to Oswald was not the revelation, it was the confirmation that every ounce of envy and spite had been for nothing. The realistic reaction for Swift was to recognize that he was a terrible pokemon. So that was the conclusion he came to: he was a dumb, single-minded Slowpoke with nothing to contribute and even less to say.

But Swift could not accept that. After everything he went through, he was not about to stay knocked down. Being realistic would not help him.

“Just…listen to me,” Swift insisted, “it took you four days to get better. Try another four.”

Oswald just shook his head despondently. “I can’t wait that long. Not with how things have been going.”

Swift stomped his foot. “Try.”

“I have been trying!”

In a fit of rage, Oswald ripped out a scalchop, turned, and lunged at the same wooden post from before. He yelled, arms over his head. “AAAAAAAHHH!” The blade came down like a guillotine, predisposed to collide with the post’s tip. But just as it reached its apex, the scalchop began to glow.

It was too late to stop it—not that Oswald would have done so had he noticed. Fantastical, blinding yellow light filled the training dojo and expanded in an instant. What was once a chop forged from frustration, grew to a slice clean enough to wound a legend.

The wooden post, which wore the scars of countless experiments before this, was now in two pieces. The cut was clean, not a splinter in sight.

Oswald looked upon his work, panting heavily, his chest heaving. Yellow light lingered at his hip in fading bursts, until his scalchop returned to its normal, beige state. Slowly, he brought the scalchop up to his face and examined it thoroughly. He remained like that for several moments.

That was no Razor Shell. Swift had attempted to teach Oswald how to properly activate that move several times, with little to no results. On the third day, Oswald explained that Allium’s method of “channeling his inner wave” had stopped working. In that moment, all of Oswald’s faults made proper sense.

Swift had to peel his lips open to speak. “…How did you do that?” he wondered aloud, gravel in his throat.

Still staring at the scalchop, Oswald murmured, “I don’t know.”

“Do you know what it is?”

Oswald shrugged and promptly ignored the question. “Water…my water isn’t supposed to be yellow, is it? Actually, don’t answer that.”

“It’s not supposed to glow any color,” Swift said. “There was no water. What were you thinking of when you did that?”

“…Nothing. I wasn’t thinking of anything.”

Liar. Allium had told Swift once that pokemon fight by flexing a muscle in their brain—by thinking. His examples of how he taught this fact often included images of the ocean and deep water hunting. Something too impersonal for the long term. Such an approach works for ferals, but not those with sufficient mental faculties.

Swift scowled. “Yes, you were. Try to replicate it.”

Oswald turned, scalchop now down by his side. There was a sullen look on his face. “I just…I don’t know how,” he said.

“You’re being negative again.” Swift furrowed his brow. “You won’t get anywhere like that around here.”

To that, Oswald sighed sharply. “No one told me that I needed to be in a good mindset for any of this to work.” He waved his wrist in the air, flailing the scalchop around limply, as if gesturing to something. “It makes no sense. Why are pokemon like this? Why am I like this?”

Yet again, these were problems the Dewott was making for himself. “You have it all wrong, Oswald,” said Swift. “It’s not…about the mind.”

“Then what is it about?”

Swift didn’t have an answer to that. He never thought about it in speakable terms.

Utilizing one’s inner capabilities came naturally, as inherent as walking or breathing. Every pokemon could tap into what made themselves…well, a pokemon. In contrast, it was difficult to say if Oswald was even acting like a pokemon, as strange as that sounded. Wherever he came from, he must have been brought up differently.

Regardless, Swift was having a hard time keeping his tongue under wraps. If he could learn this and fight then so could Oswald.

But not today. Both of them needed to cool down.

Swift’s ears fell against his head, and his tail sagged to the floor. With a grouchy frown, he sauntered over to the demolished training dummy, disconnecting its chains and lifting the pieces into his arms. He exchanged one more look with Oswald before stepping aside, telling him, “We’re done for today.”

Oswald blinked. “What, you’re not gonna tell me?” he asked.

At this rate, Swift would just explain it poorly. It was time to accept that he was a trainer, not a teacher. The answer was elsewhere.

Swift spoke over his shoulder on his way out. “…No. Dad didn’t tell me either.”

And there he left Oswald, standing out of place with nothing but his thoughts to accompany him.

---

Oo-oO

I can’t take this anymore.

I should’ve been overjoyed. After everything I’ve been through, the universe finally decided to throw me a bone by making my scalchop a glowing blade of death. Almost on command, too.

But who cares? What did it even matter? May as well chuck the damn thing off the highest balcony of the castle. May as well smash both scalchops on a rock, grow them back, then do it again. That would certainly be a better use of my fucking time.

Was there a point in coming back tomorrow? Try again by contorting my maladjusted form into a mold of perfection I’d never reach? Attempt to grasp at some distant straws of understanding?

As I stood there, alone, staring at the empty space between myself and the world beyond, I wondered if Swift was right.

The more I thought about it, the more I began to swim through the events in my head. It started with me searching for what I was so spiteful about in the first place. Then I just kept swimming, wading through the currents, and eventually diving and diving as far down as I could go.

I stopped when I reached the bottom, after which I realized that I was back in those flower fields again, pleading with Team Phlox not to kill me.

I looked down to find that the scalchop was still clutched tightly in my paw. My fingers rode up the rigid tool like paint down a slope, conforming to the little paths they made for themselves, never quite secure and predisposed to change course at any slight nudge of the pale. A part of my brain always twitched at how fragile my grip appeared, like I could drop the thing with enough carelessness. As a human I desired a handle—something to grasp in my five-fingered hand. As a Dewott…it just worked.

My body was a puzzle. Each piece fit into its own slot. My scalchop sat in my paw just right, my tail was just the right length to never get in the way, my whiskers curved neatly in their unkemptness on my face, and my legs moved one in front of the other. I did not need a handle because Dewotts simply held their scalchops like they held their mother’s paw: lovingly, beautifully, perfectly.

I couldn’t even remember my mother if I tried.

Am I being too negative? Probably. It was hard not to be, and lying to myself wouldn’t fix all of my problems.

Would it feel better, though, to lie? I’ve lied enough already, and I could at least act happier, so I may as well. May as well do a lot of things while I was at it. Like running as far as I could and becoming a hermit in the woods, subsisting off of the putrid mildew and the treacherous monotony of forest living.

…Oh wait, I can’t do that. Nevermind.

I put the scalchop back on my hip and sighed deeply. From there I just…kept staring—waiting, I guess.

Waiting…

Waiting…

And waiting…

I started to hear voices coming from down the hall. Two cheerful, young pokemon discussing something about a game they were playing, or watching. Louder and louder, reaching a crescendo near the entrance to the training dojo.

I frowned. No thanks, I was not interested in talking to gym monkeys while in the middle of another one of my episodes.

I trudged towards the exit and sidestepped the Machoke and Seismitoad on my way out. Neither of them so much as acknowledged me, simply viewing me as another patron of the training dojo. Another guild member. Another pokemon.

I’d just have to go sulk somewhere else.

---

These past few nights have been very unkind to my sleep schedule. Nothing changed, really. Still slept in the same bed with Fenn and everything. I had the opportunity to steal Finch’s straw bed but I didn’t take it. I wasn’t doing anything more draining, either. But god, I was exhausted.

My eyelids tugged at the fur on my face, every slow blink stickier than stale glue. My feet flopped heavily against the carpets of the castle. Before, I dearly missed the convenience of close-toed shoes, and how I didn’t have to think about every surface I walked upon. Now, the dirt poking at the webs between my toes were inconspicuous hitchhikers. My tail dragged and dragged, but for once I was fine with the fact that I could barely control it.

I didn’t know who I was anymore.

I hardly ate at all. When I did, I ate meat. That was the new normal I welcomed with a sluggish wave. Every chew with those underutilized fangs was a pondering question: “why do you taste the way that you do?” The answer never changed.

Needless to say, I did a lot of thinking since Finch left. I did it whenever I wasn’t occupied, which happened to be anytime I wasn’t training with Swift or chaperoning Cosmo. It felt depressing to say, but I could barely bring myself to do much else. And I wasn’t the only one.

I stopped asking Fenn if he was okay when I started giving the same response that he gave me: “I’m fine” or “I’m just tired.” Every day was the same for the both of us, as we waited for the other to finally figure out where they went wrong.

I didn’t really mind it. Waiting was what I was best at. Took me two whole weeks to finally accept that about myself.

Walking through the castle hallways burned my chest more than it used to. After I left the training dojo, the sun bore down upon me so vehemently that I was surprised I didn’t catch on fire. I let it do its thing as I walked aimlessly down the hall of the first floor. My chest kept on hurting, every step a reminder.

Pokemon were congregating in little packs every several meters in the hallway like branches poking out of the walls, taking up space. Meanwhile, more pokemon poured out of a large doorway in little groups of their own, talking and talking. There was a cacophony of noise loud enough to splinter any thought process I might have had. Bird pokemon flew overhead to escape the growing crowd, cawing pleasantries at each other no differently than the pokemon below.

Great.

Constantly, I had to push past other pokemon. I’d catch snippets of their conversations, namely a consistent throughline connected to the word “meeting.” Meeting for what? I didn’t care to remember.

The crowd got so dense and I was so quick to rush through it that one pokemon in particular shoulder-checked me. They were rushing, too. I grunted and sputtered on the turnaround, sending a glare at the rude asshole. But he didn’t so much as utter an apology. Out of spite, I memorized the hooded, navy blue cloak he wore along with the prissy white ribbons poking out of his collar. Bipedal, not so much taller than me, dickhead.

I would do nothing with this information, I knew that. There was just something cathartic about not letting the guy get away with it, even if it only mattered in my own mind.

What a petty bitch, I maligned myself. Do something about it. Use that scalchop of yours and slice him in half. Right down the middle-

I immediately shut down the ensuing thought process. All it did was make me want to vomit.

I eventually stumbled to the stairs around the corner. As fabulous as it would have been to ride the elevator, I am not full of original ideas. The line was long and every bigass rock type in the castle seemed to be waiting there. Stairs worked, so I used them.

Voices rang out as an amalgamation of noise siphoned down those steps, trying to pull me by the tail into its chaotic clutches. I ignored them as I headed up to the second floor, past more stray pokemon, growing increasingly bothered by my inability to think quietly. Luckily, the second floor was considerably less busy, which wasn’t saying much. The castle was wide awake and swarming with activity.

From a team of Mightyena, Arcanine, and Boltund rushing with their tongues hanging out of their maws, to a whole congregation of Hypno and Drowzee debating with each other on-the-move—there was no shortage of excitement on display. Everywhere I looked, someone was moving, barking questions, or calling out to others. It was mind numbing.

When I left the training dojo, I had not planned to go back to my room from there. But considering all of the commotion, I had no choice. With an annoyed scoff, I continued my ascent to the third floor.

Up up up some more. Finally, at the top of the stairs again, most of the noise had been drowned out. If there were any remaining pokemon up there with me, they were heading down and away—thank god.

Far ahead of me stretched the seemingly endless hallway, full of doors warping up to the ceiling and into each other, infinite in scope and scale. My room was far towards the end, implying there was an end to reach. The carpet felt like gravel under my toes for the few steps I took.

With so much noise to account for, I had needed to raise the volume of my thoughts so I could hear myself think. With that noise gone, and my faculties still sluggish, my brain reverberated against my skull painfully, leading to a harsh headache.

I didn’t make it far before slumping up against a nearby trash bin.

Alright, I’m done.

Done with what? Everything. Why am I done with it? Because I just was. What was I gonna do next? I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I just…

No. No, I don’t know.

For some time I leaned up against that trash bin, sighed, stared into the distance, sighed again, and stared some more. It was easy to assume that I had been doing nothing but this for most of the time I had been here in the castle. It accomplished about as much, if you asked me.

I don’t know.

Clunk.

There was a sound near my head. Like something landed atop the metal rim of the trash bin. I almost didn’t bother to look, assuming that someone had just tossed something in my direction and missed the opening. What changed my mind was the lingering sensation that I was being watched.

I turned my head and came face-to-face with some kind of black bird. They had a long, yellow beak and lethargic, red eyes, as well as a red piece of cloth wrapped around one of their legs. A Murkrow. I blinked.

“Yo.”

And now she was talking.

“Hey Dahlia,” I said.

Dahlia shifted atop the trash bin, her beak pointed neutrally in my direction. “What’s up?” she asked. “It’s been a while.”

“How long is a while for you?” It certainly felt like a while since we last met, but I wasn’t even sure.

She just shrugged. “It changes with the times. Is it different for you?”

If I was going to think back on something that happened a while ago, I would have to relive my experience of nearly being decapitated by a Scyther, driving myself to insanity in a palace of cubes and faces, and my leg losing enough blood from a stab wound to leave me unconscious. And then I realized that anything further back from that didn’t exist.

So I answered with, “My frame of reference is scuffed right now.”

Clicking her tongue, Dahlia said, “Right, the amnesia. Still haven’t figured that out yet, huh?”

I shook my head.

“Damn.” Dahlia briefly peered over her shoulder before looking back at me with her head tilted. “Did you go to that meeting earlier?”

“I didn’t even know there was a meeting until five minutes ago.”

Dahlia waved her talon in front of her flippantly. “Well, you didn’t miss anything. It had something to do with these recent heists. One to the west, and another to the east.”

Not important to me, so whatever. “Great,” was all I could think to say.

“Yeah, same.” The Murkrow gave that a titter. “There’s been an awful lot of talk around here about doing something to stop all of the criminal activity lately. But no one knows what to do in the grand scheme of things.”

I forgot all of that was still going on. Colbur Village and that Darmanitan gave me a taste of it—the only taste as far as I could tell. How all-encompassing was it, even? Pretty hard to tell when you’re cooped up in a protected fortress.

I scoffed. “Maybe they should consider leaving the castle for once.” Better them than me.

Again, Dahlia tilted her head at me. “Huh.”

What I just said might’ve come across as pretty deadpan, so Dahlia’s confused reaction wasn’t too unexpected. Although, I always got the impression that she knew a joke when she saw one.

“What?” I said.

“Are you okay, Oswald?” She sounded genuinely concerned.

What? Where is this coming from?

It was at that moment that I finally took the effort to stand up straight, pushing off of the trash bin. “Yeah?”

“You don’t sound like it,” Dahlia remarked. “Or look like it.”

“What do I look like, then?”

Dahlia clacked her beak. “Tired. You look tired.”

I raised an eyebrow. What was she on about it? Sure, I hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night, but surely that didn’t show.

Right?

“Uh…what makes you say that?” I wondered.

“You’re slouching, for one,” Dahlia said.

…Oh. I was. I suppose “standing up straight” was an oxymoron, my bad. I went ahead and fixed that, straightening out my back while clearing my throat for good measure.

Okay, but seriously. I told her, “I do that sometimes. What about it?”

Dahlia flapped her wings in exasperation. “I wouldn’t have said anything if that was all there was to it.” She leaned in slightly, narrowing her eyes. “You sound dead, Oswald. Something happen?”

There was a pestering itch at the back of my brain goading me into giving that question the most derisive, sassy response I could think of. That was what Oswald would do: he would dig into his dirty little pile of sarcasm and pull out a real zinger of a sentence. One to make the ladies squeal, that was for sure.

But I had a few problems with Oswald at that moment, and I was more inclined to push him back into his corner again where he belonged. Dahlia would just have to do with a dismissive shrug and me going “I dunno.”

“Gonna be secretive about it?” Dahlia asked, her forehead under her hat creasing with her widened, questioning eyes. “Is it that bad?”

“No,” I lied.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Really?“

“Yes.“

And then Dahlia shook her head, very much not interested in humoring me. “Oh, Oswald.” She brought her wing up to cover her eyes. “You’re lying through your teeth.”

Well, yeah, but, so what? What did she care? And why was I not frustrated with her for saying it?

I stomped my foot, balled my fists, and growled through those same teeth I just lied out of. But it came out as a laugh, like I wasn’t even taking myself seriously. It probably would’ve sounded a lot less whiny if I had said “I’m not lying!” in a more serious tone. I was just confused as to why I didn’t.

“Uh huh,” Dahlia deadpanned. “Oswald, you are such a basket case. It gets more obvious every time we talk.”

“No!” I insisted. “Look, I’m fine. Never been better.”

Much to my chagrin, Dahlia kept shaking her head. “I saw you stomping around earlier, Oswald. No mon that’s ‘fine’ grouches like that.”

Fuck this. I threw up my arms in defeat. “Alright, whatever!” I bellowed. “I’m having a bad time! I can’t do anything right…what do you want from me?”

It took a few more seconds for Dahlia to bring her wing back down and sigh to herself, her incredulity harsh enough to keep her eyes shut for just a little longer. When she cracked them open again, she rested her cheek on her wing and looked at me fondly, her beak curled into a kind smile. “I was just going to ask you how you were doing,” Dahlia said, “maybe ask you a few other questions, too. But seeing you now? I think I need to do a bit more.”

I looked like such a pathetic loser that I was being offered a favor for free. Truly, today was the day I reached rock bottom. Woohoo.

“What did you have in mind?” I asked with a sigh, not even fighting it anymore.

Dahlia lifted into the air, peering back at me as she hovered a few feet above my head. “Follow me,” she said. “There’s someplace I want to take you.”

I shook my head and did just that. Going back to my room and staring up at the ceiling sounded like torture anyway.

---

It never occurred to me that the castle had a pub. But after finding out about it I had to wonder how big the wine cellar was.

I had never been up to the fifth floor, outside of Anemone’s office, and I had to kick myself over it. The fourth floor and above had a distinctly “modern” feeling compared to the lower reaches of the castle. Less gaudy whites and more classy browns, compounded by the complete and utter shift from natural and candle lighting to electrical fixtures nailed to the walls.

The designs of the carpets shifted, as well. Swirls and abstract imagery morphed into these euclidean squares in repeating patterns, meticulously measured and laid out. Not a lick of grime or dirt in sight, with sparse windows giving way to carved wood garnishing on every corner and murals painted with warm oranges and reds. I didn’t recognize any of the landscapes depicted.

There were these leathery-looking chairs propped up on corners around the staircases and at the end of hallways, where the occasional pokemon sat and read a book. It was quiet—hushed and muffled, even. All of the pokemon I saw, which wasn’t a lot, were older and more dignified—unlike the haphazard collection of pokemon downstairs. A Lombre wearing a gray dress vest and bowtie, a Volcarona covered in sparkling jewelry floating from one place to another with a lazy, smoldering stride, and a Servine with a foppish coat embroidered with speckled rhinestones.

That last one in particular sized me up as I walked past them. Half-lidded eyes accentuated their glossy eyeshadow, further emphasized by their exaggerated jaunt that really made those rhinestones jingle. They wore their lavish lifestyle on their sleeves and wanted me to know it. I was still looking over my shoulder, watching them go, as Dahlia cleared her throat, trying to get my attention.

“Don’t get too attached,” she said, landing atop my head. “They’ll bleed you dry.”

I winced, heat rapidly rushing to my cheeks. Her claws were gentle, but firm, and they dug lightly into the nest of hair I had tossed around up there. Slowly, I turned my head forward, walking straight. “Why is the upper castle so different?” I asked. “Is it more…new?”

Dahlia clacked her beak. “It’s always been like this. Micle might act like it’s so sophisticated with its human clothing and big machines, but the real opulence is here, high up above everything else.” She shifted slightly, uncomfortably. “You can look all you want…”

“But you can’t touch,” I finished for her, to which verbally affirmed.

I’m not surprised it’s like this, I thought. This is just the first time I’m hearing of it. You’d think they’d be more vocal about their riches or something.

I caught Dahlia pointing her wing in the corner of my vision. “Turn right here,” she directed. “It’s around the corner.”

“Aye aye, captain,” I muttered, keeping my neck straight.

Earlier, I asked Dahlia what to look out for. She told me that the sign would tell me when we got close—the name of the pub being The Grapevine. After making it to the door I could handily disagree, but the presentation was a dead giveaway anyway. Outside of the sign posts and numerous smaller paintings at the entrance depicting ripe fruits and cityscapes, the door was distinct. Patterned sheet glass, embroidered with winding grape vines, gave very little insight to the interior of the pub. But it helped me to know where I was.

I turned the knob and headed inside.

Stepping into The Grapevine filled me with a strong sense of unworthiness and an even stronger pang of nostalgia I couldn’t place. I was in the ballroom of a fancy banquet, the bar of a cruise ship, and an upper class coffee shop all at once. Had I not walked the whole way, I wouldn’t have believed I was still in that musty castle.

Where was I even supposed to start? The chairs? The ceiling? The bar? How about the smell?

My nose picked up a lick of cherry riding a cloud of mist that crawled over the leather arm rests and glass tables. Like Salandits crowding a Salazzle’s raunchy harem, muffling the low light of lamps topped with cloth carapace hoods.

The ceiling was high, and my eyes traced the carved wooden foundation to a faux sky. Blue permeated the cracks by which the clouds were painted on, yet that optimistic depiction was marred by a cloud of sleazy fog, turning this bright day into a warm forecast the sun only visited on occasion.

The source of this sticky grandeur was towards the back, behind the bar. A Wheezing huffed smog and puffed it out in spurts of laughter and political parley, as his obnoxiously tall top hat jostled atop his head. A Dachsbun sat across from him, barking soft giggles between occasional licks at an amber mixture on-the-rocks. Their voices slipped into the audible smog circulating the room, fading into a quiet clamor.

“When was the last time you had a drink, Oswald?” Dahlia asked.

“If you mean alcohol, probably never,” was my best attempt at a guess, but I was a bit too preoccupied to think about it much.

“I don’t believe you,” Dahlia said. “Also, the bartender’s fumes are harmless.” She landed atop the back of a chair near the wall.

Wary, I made a pointless effort to cover my mouth and nose with the back of my arm. I said, “if I catch an incurable disease fifty years from now I’ll make sure to blame you for it.” By the time I was seated across from her, though, I gave up and put my arm down. It actually smelled pretty nice in the pub, as long as I didn’t think about where it was coming from.

A smirk curled onto Dahlia’s beak. “How about I make up for it and buy you a drink?” she offered with her wing extended.

“What do they have?”

“Check the menu.”

Fair enough. I picked up the laminated paper off the table in front of me with some effort; these chairs were so spacious that I literally sank into mine, my feet just barely hanging off the end of the cushion. My tail rode up the back of the chair and eventually flat up against my back.

I don’t know what I was expecting—I still couldn’t read feet text. And there were no graphics aside from—unsurprisingly—more grapevines. I’m sure that even if I could read I’d roll my eyes at the stupid names they came up with. Names that made no sense to anyone that didn’t live in the bar itself.

I tossed the menu back onto the table with a frown. “I don’t care, just as long as it has Oran in it,” I said.

Dahlia nodded. “Something to help with a headache?”

“…Sure.” The migraine never really went away, anyway.

“Wailmer Tonic, got it.” The Murkrow lifted into the air before flying off toward the bar. “Be right back.”

Wailmer tonic? I gave in to the chair’s wrinkly embrace. See? Stupid.

I was left alone for a couple minutes while Dahlia went to grab our drinks, and in that time I rested my head back and closed my eyes. Anything to just relax for a moment. All of these new sights distracted me from the pounding in my head, but after slowing down the smog started to taste like old taffy on my tongue. I had a sugar migraine and I hadn’t eaten anything since earlier that morning.

I dug my claws into the armrests of the chair, only to balk at the lack of resistance it provided. Perplexed, I opened my eyes to glance down at the grooves carved around my fingertips. There were these long gashes that tore shallow holes into the leather. I guess I wasn’t the only one bar-hopping with a bad headache.

Which reminded me: what the hell was I even doing here? I didn’t belong among all of the other regulars, and I definitely didn’t drink. That pang of nostalgia still lingered, I just had to wonder if it related to the decor, the atmosphere, or the circumstances. Not that it mattered.

Where else am I supposed to be? I had to wonder.

Somewhere that I belonged, clearly.

Can I list out some places that meet that criteria?

The pool? That was one.

But I don’t want to go swimming right now.

…Anywhere with Fenn?

…

I rubbed my temples and groaned. My headache had become unbearable by the time Dahlia got back. When she did, I had no choice but to notice because she hovered in front of my face with a glass in each talon.

“Take them,” she urged. “I can’t land like this.”

“Oh, right,” I uttered. “Got it.” I carefully plucked both glasses from her talons and held them aloft awkwardly.

Dahlia lowered herself onto the cushion of her chair across from me with a sigh. “Normally I have Pink to help me with these sorts of things,” she said, eying me closely. “I guess we’re both trying new things today.”

I supposed we were. Though in retrospect it would have been a lot more polite for me to do it. Whoops.

Anyway, it wasn’t difficult to tell which drink was mine. One was deep sea blue and the other was squashed berry red. I put the glass with the red liquid on the table between us, an ice-accompanied clink sounding out. “What did you get?” I asked.

“Red wine.” The Murkrow hopped a little closer until she was right at the edge, then leaned down to poke at the drink. Her tongue lashed out at the liquid with more elegance than I expected. Or at least, it looked about as elegant as one would expect from someone without lips, just a bit moreso.

“And this is…?” I looked down at the glass in my paw. The blue liquid was languid in how it sloshed about, almost like a gell or a lotion. “…Wailmer tonic?”

Dahlia looked up from her drink, the tip of her beak stained red. “Having second thoughts?” she asked. “Give it a try. It helps with headaches for a reason.”

And mine was not going away anytime soon without it. Oh, whatever. I gave it a shot, and took a sip.

The Oran was easy to detect. I liked Oran berries so I liked the drink, at first. Then came the overpowering—and distinctly unfamiliar—sting of alcohol. The flavor flared in my gums, making my face tense up like I was sucking on a lemon. My throat burned as it went down harshly; swallowing was a challenge in and of itself. It felt like a fireball landed in the pit of my stomach.

Is that what alcohol tastes like?

All I could say was “Blegh.”

Dahlia chuckled. “Like it?”

I shook my head in condemnation. “It’s like drinking cough medicine. Yuck.”

At that, Dahlia wiped her beak with a wing. “I have a feeling you’ll get used to it someday,” she remarked.

Regardless of the taste, I’d have to finish my drink eventually. One sip and I was already starting to feel better, the pounding slowly subsiding. I hardly noticed, though, as what Dahlia just said made me raise an eyebrow.

I set the drink down and said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dahlia hopped back a little and properly sat down. The towering walls of the well-used chair dwarfed her, surrounding her in support that she did not need.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was in the same position. Dwarfed by curved walls of support that did not help me. I hardly leaned back during the entire conversation as it shifted.

Dahlia looked up at me with no hint of irony or sarcasm in her expression. She was serious, just like how she was when we first met. But also curious, also like how she was when we first met. It came through her tone when she started talking:

“What I mean is, if you keep this up, Oswald, you’re going to be drowning in stress relievers by the time you’re thirty.” She tilted her head to the side, gesturing towards the bar. “Or sooner, depending on how many of those Wailmer tonics you drink.”

Now, I knew that she was referring to how I was acting earlier. And while what she said was entirely fair, I also haven’t been using any stress relievers at all. Unless I counted the meat I had been eating recently, which I didn’t. That was more like me attempting to change the subject of my own discomfort, if that made any sense.

I rolled my eyes. “So you say.”

“I do,” Dahlia said. “You’ve always seemed a bit high strung.”

Understatement of the century. “I’ve had to put up with a lot lately.” I waved my paw dismissively.

“Like what?” Dahlia tilted her head at me this time, her expression falling into one of concern. “Does it have to do with your friend?”

I tensed. Instinctively, I leaned forward to grab my tonic. “Maybe,” I grumbled. “What gave you that impression?”

“I saw him yesterday—” Dahlia said, “the Quilava, I mean. He was alone at Altaria’s.”

I went for another sip there, my face squeezing in a cringe once more. Strangely, the taste was better this time. The urge to relax must have been overpowering my taste buds, just like how I assumed it would. The idea of that scared me.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You know?” Dahlia prodded.

“He wanted a smoothie.” Because he did. Why would I tell him no?

“And you didn’t?”

I shook my head and said, “I never said I didn’t. I just said he wanted a smoothie.”

Dahlia noticeably frowned. “So why didn’t you go with him?”

I really, really tried to hold it in, but this line of questioning pushed a heavy sigh out of me, complete with my whole chest deflating. “How does this help me?” I had to ask.

The Murkrow shrugged. “Neither of us will know until you tell me.”

Fine. The dam broke, and I melted into the chair fully. My shoulders fell along with the rest of my body.

“You wanna know why, Dahlia?” I waited for a couple seconds in suspense, as if I was actually asking her and waiting for an answer. “…It’s because I can’t. I didn’t follow Fenn because I couldn’t. I wanted to. But I couldn’t.”

I took another sip. Alcohol tasted like sticky cotton after a while.

Dahlia observed me briefly, searching for any sign of a joke. But there wasn’t one, because Oswald was taking a backseat today. She said, “Was it a bad argument?”

“No,” I said simply. And thank god for that. I could only handle so much. “I can’t leave the castle,” I told her.

“…What are you talking about?” A second later, Dahlia raised an eyebrow. “Wait, ‘can’t?'”

I nodded. “Anemone’s orders.” ‘Dead’ really was a proper descriptor for how I sounded. The crow was right.

Dahlia looked absolutely flabbergasted, like someone had basically smacked her beak so hard that it shifted across her face from the sheer impact. That was how visibly confused she was. As such, she uttered in a quietly disturbed voice, “I’ve…never heard of that happening before. And I’ve heard a lot.”

That deserved a toast. I lifted my drink. “It’s a first for me, too. Believe me.” One more sip. I didn’t even cringe this time.

“No kidding,” Dahlia breathed, then leaned forward in sudden interest. “So, bad boy, what’d you do?”

Oh, that one was easy. But first, I took another sip. What do you know? I was getting used to it.

I smacked my lips. “Be Oswald,” I said, setting the drink down for good. This new warmth in my chest was worrying me.

Dahlia trilled out a hearty scoff at that. “And no one else can be Oswald, right? Too unique of a name.”

I looked down at the table, watching the condensation form on the glass as little droplets fell into a puddle beneath.

“Yeah…” I said.

Yeah…

Yeah…

Maybe it was for the best. Oswald made enough mistakes to screw himself several times over. Pretty sure that guy hurt his best friend—in record time, too. What an asshole. No one should have to be him.

No one.

“I won’t prod,” Dahlia admitted. “I know better than to question Anemone.” She corrected herself quickly, but smoothly. “But you knew that already.”

Knew it well enough to hate her guts. What else is new?

I returned my gaze to Dahlia, who was now leaning forward and poking at her wine again. “So yeah,” I muttered, “I didn’t go with him because I couldn’t.” I narrowed my eyes at Dahlia’s flicking tongue. “Also…because we both need some time to think about things.”

Dahlia looked up from her drink, tongue still slurping up a few droplets from the corners of her beak. She swallowed and said, “Ah, so there was more to it, then. I had a feeling.”

I shrugged, though I didn’t quite know why. “Fenn’s been dealing with a lot, too.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Like…um…uh…”

Do I just say family troubles? How accurate is that? Wait, I’m taking too long-

Dahlia, with her eyes full of inquisitiveness, leaned her cheek onto her wing. “You don’t know,” she stated.

“I do,” I said quickly. “Just not the specifics.”

Her hat was rising in incredulity more and more by the second. “Why?”

I scoffed, my whiskers twitching with heated annoyance. “I don’t know, I just…never asked.”

Dahlia repeated the question. “And why not?”

Because I didn’t want to push it? Because I assumed he would tell me on his own eventually? Because I wanted so desperately for him to trust me enough for that? I knew that I had to earn it, but how the hell was I going to do that when I’ve got chicken legs on one side of the brain and Swift’s untested instructions on the other?

Maybe I was scared of what would happen if I let my stupid mouth flap open and lie again. Because if one throwaway line I tossed together on a whim purely to cheer Fenn up left me down in the mud this bad, then…

Why don’t I just shut up forever? Stitch my lips together, glue my eyelids closed, and cut off my fingers. I don’t care. Whatever it takes to stop being this…this…

“Oswald?”

Dahlia’s voice sounded muffled behind the static. I saw her across from me, her previously serious yet amicable red eyes now troubled.

I wondered what I looked like to her. Would she be horrified if, somehow, the human in me rose to the surface and glared at her for daring to utter his name? What would she think of that?

I breathed in and out, only to realize that I was already doing that, but heavier. That must’ve happened sometime in the middle of all of that, I guess.

Right, I still needed to answer her.

Sighing deeply, my reply was this: “Because I’m an idiot. I thought it would help if I let things happen naturally, you know? It’s not like doing nothing could…make things worse.”

I knew that was a lie the second it left my mouth.

Dahlia sat up straight. “I thought like that once,” she said. “I spent most of my life up in Lanset to the north with my family. It was going well enough. So I just went along with what my mom wanted for me—which meant becoming a designer for the family business. But the closer I got to eighteen the more I began to question if that was what I really wanted.”

She looked off at the many seats crowding the pub, past the light mist and onto the few pokemon wasting away in the smog. But it was a good kind of wasting away, because they didn’t feel it. Did Dahlia feel it, at that moment? She seemed almost pained, talking about this. Yet resigned at the same time—accepting of her place in the world.

She continued. “I’m not a designer, Oswald. I knew it then and I know it now. Only problem: I still don’t know what I want.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Everyone knows me for the gossip and the shiny jewels, but those are things, not passions.”

And then Dahlia looked at me, sharper than I had ever seen her. Feathers sheening, tail raised, talons clenched.

“I knew for certain that I didn’t want to be a designer. I knew that, and the only way anyone could know that themselves is if I told them, and showed it through my actions. I flew from home because no one would listen to me otherwise. And I came to Kebia because there were better opportunities here compared to Lanset. More gossip, more shiny things.”

Dahlia paused to catch her breath. “Oswald, you doing nothing just tells me that you don’t want things to get better.”

When I spoke, it was hoarse and barely audible. I said, “But I do…”

Why would I not want that? Why? What did I gain by wanting things to be worse? It made no sense.

You’re being negative again.

None of this did, the more I thought about it. Well, actually, Dahlia was making sense. More sense than I could handle with the return of that agonizing headache and stifling heat in my chest. What she said next just made it worse.

Dahlia stated resolutely, “There’s only one way to prove it.”

It was obvious:

I have to ask Fenn about what happened with his parents. In fact, I should ask him more about himself in general. When was the last time I asked him anything like that?

I don’t think I ever did. I was too focused on myself.

Sharp pain coursed through my skull, bouncing on my brain with each heartbeat. Groaning, I leaned forward and put my head in my paws.

“Ugh…I need some air…” I mumbled. This smog was starting to make me nauseous. Or was that the alcohol?

Didn’t matter. The room was spinning.

Dahlia hummed her agreement. “Mhm. I think I know just the place.”

All of that and I didn’t even finish the Wailmer Tonic. What a stupid name.

---

After I first arrived in Enigma a couple weeks back, on the walk to Kebia with team Phlox, I remember taking a brief moment to peer over the hill at the castle through the leaves. At the time I didn’t think anything of it. With my brain still handily grasping on to those vestiges of humanity that lingered, a giant castle seemed downright normal compared to the talking dogs and birds.

I never took the time to appreciate it, simply because I was glad that it was there: something normal amongst the fields of uncertainty. Over time, the castle became my new normal. I clocked in for work, going day-by-day hoping that the normalcy would expand, not shrink.

Then I met Anemone, and Fenn. Cosmo and Finch. Dahlia and Calluna. Swift and Riz. Experienced mystery dungeons, and learned more about this strange world I was in. Pamtre, they called it. I was so far from my real home that I wasn’t even on the same planet.

All the while, I kept staring down this long hallway hoping for the door at the end to open so I could leave. A hallway that, as far as I could tell, was endless. The door just kept getting smaller and smaller. Further and further away.

I was never going to reach it, even if it did open up for me. Deep down, I always sort of knew that. But I wanted to believe because despite it all, I was moving forward.

But in doing so, I never noticed the other doors at the sides of me, in that same hallway. Doors that could have brought me closer, with shorter paths and easier routes.

I opened one. The sights, the smells, the sounds. Previously unimportant to me, now made fresh and clear.

Watching the world from so far up pushed me to be introspective like that. Up here, on an open air balcony on the fifth floor of the castle, I witnessed Enigma at its fullest.

Winds whipped past my fur, almost tossing me around with its strength. I was small now, and less stable. Maintaining my balance meant gripping the railing—a gate made of smooth stone and white plaster, segmented by pillars bracing the awning above.

I leaned against it, over it, as I hooked my feet onto a couple smaller pillars in the balcony’s design. Made to accommodate the average human, and not me, I had to try just a little bit harder to be comfortable.

But it was worth it.

I saw land stretching far into the horizon. Mountains poking high through the clouds, now like distant neighbors as opposed to dramatic landmarks. I saw the roads snaking and coiling through fields of grass, over hills and down valleys with the clarity of a newly drawn map. Buildings were abundant, and not just in the town below. Some were scattered, while others congregated in little pockets within the forests of orange and red leaves.

A distant lake to the north, surrounded by pine trees and just barely visible through the cracks. Grepa Lake, I think it was called, where Fenn and I saved that Phanpy. Somewhere farther east, around the corner, I caught signs of flowing grass and occasional outposts. Kelpsy Fields was not far off from there. And to the west, just right past the trees, was Fenn’s hometown. The place I once yearned to visit, if it meant being there for him.

And everywhere I looked, there was movement. Bird pokemon were flying against the cool wind, tiny specks of color dispersed throughout the streets of Kebia like ants in their little tunnels, and the land itself flowed in the breeze. Leaves were falling with the change of the season while the sun turned the clouds into a mosaic of fluffy pillows, cloaking the air itself in an amber wreath.

I lost the headache from earlier. Not sure if it was the fresh air or that tonic doing its work, but for the first time today I felt like I could think clearly. I wasn’t dealing with a jumbled mess of concerns or issues, I had a checklist of concepts to address for myself. I was calm for once. My skin didn’t itch for me to scratch it.

Dahlia had landed next to me and stood atop the railing. Her talons seemed to clutch the stone perfectly as she watched the swaying trees of Enigma, never once wavering like I did. I guess she was used to it.

She asked me, “Does this count as leaving the castle for you?”

I shrugged because I didn’t know. I could only imagine that Oleander was watching me with his large, skeptical eye right then, waiting for me to attempt an escape.

Or something worse than that.

I crossed my arms over the railing and rested my chin on top of them. My tail hung low just above the ground, my whiskers blew about in the wind.

I breathed in…then out.

In…and out.

“Dahlia,” I said quietly, “have I been too negative?”

Neither of us looked at each other, but I could tell that Dahlia wasn’t entirely paying attention. “Depends,” she said. “Where’d you get that idea?”

“Swift said so when we were training earlier.”

I saw Dahlia’s beak suddenly turn to me out of the corner of my eye. “Swift? The Wartortle?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t you two have a fight?”

“We did.”

Dahlia scoffed. “Things change quickly for you, don’t they?”

Do they? I wondered. Was that not normal?

If only I could say for certain.

“Dunno,” I said.

“Anyway,” Dahlia started, fluffing her feathers, “to answer your question, I have a question of my own: why would you be so negative?”

How…was I supposed to respond to that? Because everything sucks, Dahlia, I thought. But it was obvious that she wanted a better answer than that. So against my better judgment, I got specific.

“Because…” I sighed. “Because I can’t catch a break. I have no memories of before I got here, the person who was supposed to help me with that is a piece of shit, and the one person I care most about has his own problems. And every step of the way, it’s like I’ve been stepping on rake after rake with no end in sight.”

“Rake?” Dahlia wondered.

I groaned.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Dahlia clacked her beak in amusement. “Sounds like a lot.”

“Mhm.”

Then she abruptly asked, unprompted, “You wouldn’t happen to come from The Shard, would you?”

Um.

“No?” I said, giving her a look. “I don’t remember anything, so how would I even know?”

I was lying. I didn’t even intend to this time, but I did. Despite all I had been through, the one thing I remembered was also the one thing I could never be truthful about.

That was the most frustrating part. If I could figure out what me being here meant then I was certain the negativity would fade away. It would be one problem dealt with, at least. I needed that more than anything.

Dahlia faced the grand vista below. “Thought as much,” she said. “Just wanted to check.”

Choosing not to think about it much, I copied her action and looked back to the mountains. “Whatever you say,” I mumbled.

The breeze grew steady. Somewhere in the distance, a Staraptor rode the winds with deft ease. Near complete equilibrium caused them to hover, swerving slightly—a midair rest. They remained until the Staraptor discovered their next destination, flapped their large black wings, and dived out of view.

“Oswald, I can’t blame you for feeling sorry for yourself,” Dahlia said.

I grimaced. “I don’t feel sorry for myself.”

Dahlia cut me off before I could say more. “Yes, you do. And I don’t blame you, like I said.”

Was I supposed to thank her for that? I opted to sink my chin deeper into my arms instead.

She had more to say, anyway: “It’s a lot to put up with. But I think you’re overestimating how much of it is out of your control.”

I glared at her out of the corner of my eye. “Oh yeah?” I challenged. “What am I supposed to do about Anemone, huh? Or the…”

The dungeons. The meat. My memory. Fenn.

“…or anything, I don’t know.”

To that, Dahlia squawked loudly, catching me off guard. “Arceus, listen to yourself! I’m not telling you to do anything, Oswald!” She sighed, exasperated. “Do you think before I left Lanset I was asking myself ‘what do I do about my mother?'”

My whiskers were still frazzled by the time I considered the question. Never thought I’d see Dahlia lose her cool like that.

“How should I know?” I said defensively. “Maybe…maybe you did.”

I caught her gaze right then. For once, her red eyes bored into me, reminding me of spilled blood. There was a blink, and the red flickered to become reminiscent of the setting sun, splatters of brilliant orange and yellow to hint at closure.

Dahlia, with her voice low, said, “And you would be right. I thought about it daily. Do you know what changed my mind?”

I stared, waiting for an answer.

“I tried and failed to work with what my mother gave me. Over and over again. And then, one day, I asked myself…’is this really what I want?’ No. No, it wasn’t. So I left.”

I was having a hard time believing that. After all, it wasn’t like I could just up and leave.

“I can’t do that, Dahlia,” I reminded her.

She pointed at me with a wing, locking me down with her declaration. “You’re taking this too literally.”

“Alright.” I rested my cheek in my palm and listened closer. “What am I missing?”

Dahlia put her wing down. “You can start by asking your friend about what his deal is. Make it easier for yourself by focusing on the plausible solutions first.”

Easy for you to say.

I knew that I had to talk to Fenn, but that still didn’t solve my problems. I still had to lie to him. Couldn’t do much of anything to make it up to him after I left him behind, either.

But fine. Let’s say I do that.

“Okay,” I conceded, “then what?”

Dahlia furrowed her brow, possibly detecting that I wasn’t getting it yet. “Then,” she said, “you make a choice.”

“A choice?”

“You can choose to ask him for his help in return, or keep going at it alone.”

The last time I asked Fenn for anything, he…formed a team with me. We stuck together even after our first failure. And then I…fell in love with him.

Of course I’d choose him. Even still, Fenn was agreeable, sure, but no amount of affability would be enough to forgive me if Anemone snapped my neck in the end.

I mean, did I even care at this point?

…Did I?

I had to be honest. “I don’t want to do this alone,” I murmured.

Dahlia nodded. “Good. You shouldn’t. You’re suffering, Oswald. You have friends. Ask them for help. Let them know what you want.”

She went on to ask the question I had both the easiest and hardest time answering. She said, “What do you want, Oswald?”

What do I want? Well…

I want to hold Fenn tight. To tell him everything. To run my fingers through his soft fur, look into his eyes, lose myself, and forget about all of this.

I want to leave the castle so I can find out more. Both about myself and why I’m here. To find answers and know for certain that I have a purpose here. To know how to get home.

I want to be strong. To control my scalchops to the point where that glittering yellow light comes naturally to me. To become a samurai—a protector. To wield a sword.

But most importantly, I want to be me. But…who is me? Who’s Oswald? The human, or the pokemon?

“I want to know who I am,” I said in a near whisper.

A smile popped onto Dahlia’s beak immediately. “That one’s easy. You’re Oswald.”

I made a “psh” sound with my mouth. “Yeah, I know that.”

Dahlia pulled up a talon and began looking it over casually, absentmindedly. She said, “Sometimes the easy answer is the right answer.” Her eyes flicked up as she gave me a knowing look. “And sometimes you just ask stupid questions.”

It’s not stupid, though! I thought, the steaming of my brain nearly reaching a boiling point. I’ve been agonizing about this since I was reborn as a Dewott!

I tightened my arms around my chest and looked away. “I thought there weren’t any stupid questions?” I grumbled.

“There is when you already know the answer.” Dahlia seemed more interested in her manicure than me at this point. But that was fine, she could do what she wanted. I didn’t care.

I’m Oswald, huh? I scoffed.

I mean, I was. Dahlia was right about that.

But I mean…

I mean…

Wait…

Hold on.

It hit me. I wasn’t expecting it to, but for some reason that simple sentence flipped a switch in my brain that I hadn’t realized was flipped off.

My stomach twisted. The world spun. The wind chilled my fur to a frost.

I’m Oswald.

I’m Oswald.

I’m Oswald.

When I tasted meat a few days back, it struck me how after I had agonized over it for so long, the taste was basically exactly what I expected. I had asked why. Why did meat taste like meat? Why didn’t I feel any different after eating it?

I tasted it again and again. Continuously wondering why. All the while, I knew the answer. I knew it well. It was just too simple so I didn’t think anything of it.

Meat tasted like meat…because meat is meat. And I didn’t feel anything because meat…is just meat. It’s not special or magical or significant. Nothing like that.

Meat is meat.

I am me.

Oswald is Oswald.

I am neither human nor pokemon nor something in between-

I’m me.

Oswald is Oswald.

I blinked several times. Off in the distance somewhere in my mind was a ship sailing against the backdrop of a rising sun. Its sail carved a shape, through which the giddiness could crawl in and sour right into me. The intensity was so vehement that it forced the exhaustion from my eyelids. I was awake, fully aware of the scent of fresh air around me. Leaves flowing like joyous laughter in the wind.

It was small at first—the smile curling onto my face. So small that I didn’t even feel it. Then it grew larger and larger until I wasn’t just smiling- no, not just smiling. I was grinning, ear-to-ear.

Oswald is Oswald, huh? What a concept. I chuckled lightly.

“Huh,” I breathed out in small mutters. “Yeah, you know what? You’re right.”

“Oswald?” Dahlia spoke up, sounding slightly worried. “What’s wrong?”

I swallowed and smacked my dry lips. “Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “I’m Oswald. I…I got what I wanted.” Whether or not she detected the relief in my voice didn’t matter to me. I wanted to cry, and not out of sorrow or stress for once.

This was good. I was good.

Dahlia opened her beak as though she wanted to say more. There were words left unsaid that I was sure she had prepared in case what she told me didn’t work. But with that final, conclusive statement of mine, she closed her beak, let out a satisfied huff, and turned back to the open air.

She cooed, “I’m glad. Don’t know what’s going through your head, but I’m happy you figured something out.”

Oh, I still had a long way to go.

There was a human inside me. A man by the name of Oswald who never got closure of any kind in his past life—because he ended up here, in a Dewott’s body. I couldn’t say for sure if I was him or if he was me. For all I knew, we were both the same and not the same at once. But I did know that his name was mine. And as Oswald, I got to say when things happened. That human was just going to have to wait for answers.

I could do what I want because I say I can. I’m me. I get to say what I can do.

If I want to leave the castle, I’m fucking leaving the castle.

And I was going to. Because there was something I needed to do. I needed to set things right.

I let out a long, heavy sigh. In the process, I felt lighter. Everything I wanted to do seemed so much more possible. All of those disastrous moments, those setbacks…they were nothing. I was me, and tackling my problems would be so much easier now.

“Dahlia,” I asked, “can you do me a favor?”

“Hm?” She raised her eyebrows, intrigued. “Oh, sure. Only if you return the favor, though. These don’t come cheap.”

I nodded. That wouldn’t be a problem. “I can do that, don’t worry.” From there, I lifted my head and gazed off to the west, quickly finding the hill I was looking for.

“I need you to get me something…”