Little Shop of Wonders

Specific: A routine trip to buy dungeon supplies goes horribly wrong.

Special thanks to Demiurgic Pen and Namohysip for beta reading and listening to my flailing.

Gift of the Mountain

In the shapes of clouds, one could find their memories reflected back at them: Mareep. Arbok. Roserade. Silcoon. Stunfisk. Lycanroc. Flabebe.

The horizon rocked back and forth. Wanderer was sailing far, far away, somewhere no one could find her. A sky for an ocean and clouds for waves solidified the fantasy. Various companions, names long forgotten, accompanying Wanderer on her journey home.

“… and then there was the time he scalped that poor duskull. Turned around and sold the reaper cloth for twice as much as he’d bought it. Maybe this was a mistake. We should go back: he’s fine. Probably.”

Cinderblock was enormous, even for a mudsdale, her hooves not so much clopping as thudding against the mountain trail in a steady bass cadence. Her voice, by contrast, was soft and reedy, almost nasal, as she vacillated between timorous outrage and quiet concern.

For Cinderblock, shelves and counters shaped the clouds in the sky. Fluffy white noticeboards with memos denoting her next errand. (Transport and delivery more often than not.) A strident bell rang every time she entered and exited the store.

The memory shifted, turned sour. Impatient customers demanding to know where Kecleon was, when they could expect service, unacceptable, who was in charge around here, simply unacceptable. Cinderblock had no answer—words choked and died in her throat—and the longer he was gone, the angrier they became until:

A dusky-skinned marowak strolled in. Her calm indifference was like an eye of the storm.

“If I help you find him, could I get a discount?”

And that was how they set out together, to find Kecleon. They struck out west, where he had last been seen returning from a delivery order. The air was thin at this elevation.

“… Do you think he’s fine?” Cinderblock asked. Wanderer was surprisingly heavy. Solid and compact.

“Dunno. Only one way to find out,” Wanderer said. She was tired, usually slept during the day, and had to fight to keep her eyes open. The gentle rocking of Cinderblock’s trot didn’t help matters.

Cinderblock whinnied, melancholy, in response. She wondered if it was true, that Wanderer could not die, instead could only be reborn. Some pokémon were capable of miracles. There was silence until Cinderblock resumed complaining with soft-spoken gusto. Tales of Kecleon’s laziness, his bossiness, his cockiness, his kindness when two hungry siblings came by asking for food for their ill mother…

More clouds drifted across the sky. Wanderer lay on her back, hands resting behind her helmet, cradled between Cinderblock’s broad shoulders. A sharp, clear scent hung heavy in the air—pine resin—and the sense of a steady but gradual incline.

They say Groudon made these mountains. A promise of peace to both Rayquaza and Kyogre. They are ancient and have seen many things. Long after we die, they will remain.

A shadow scuppered the clouds. It circled overhead, lazily, and Wanderer traced its path. Lower, lower, lower, until it was not a shadow but a dragon, all sound and fury, red and blue and white with a slavering jaw and murderous intent—

Wanderer bolted upright, reaching for her bow. But Cinderblock noticed their assailant too, heard wings slicing through the air like the hiss of a slit jugular, and reared, braying, before taking off at a gallop.

The world lurched, spinning, colors merged into a kaleidoscope of grey, and Wanderer gripped Cinderblock’s thick, ropey mane, clinging on for dear life. At last, Cinderblock slowed and eventually halted. Wanderer poked her head up.

They had plunged off the path and deep into the mountain forest, thick branches and dappled shadows protecting them. Roars echoed overhead as the salamence declared their lives forfeit; there would be no mercy for trespassers. He spoke in the regal tongue of dragons, and Cinderblock did not understand him.

“Charming fellow.” Wanderer hopped off Cinderblock’s back and inspected her bow for signs of damage. Thankfully it looked fine.

Cinderblock had no answer. Her eyes rolled, and she snorted, stamping the earth repeatedly. (The earth trembled in response.) A shadow the size and weight of clay bricks (like the ones she would haul back to the store following an earthquake) rested on her heart. She was large, but the might of a salamence would crush her, would grind her into dust.

“We’re doomed,” Cinderblock said. She shied away when Wanderer turned toward her. “We’re doomed. We’re doomed, so is Kecleon, he’s dead, I just know it, oh, I should’ve come sooner, he’s dead and it’s my fault and soon we’ll be dead too—”

“Cinderblock. Breathe. Just breathe.” Wanderer suddenly had an air of authority about her, eyes gleaming pale blue within the off-white mask. Cinderblock stopped talking and stared. “In through your nose and out through your mouth.”

Cinderblock complied, nostrils flaring. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Again. And again. Slowly, Cinderblock relaxed. Then the wind changed direction, bringing with it a familiar scent. It smelled like safety; it smelled like home.

“Kecleon is somewhere nearby.” Cinderblock’s ears pricked forward.

Wanderer gestured. “Lead the way.”

They slogged through thick bramble and dense underbrush. Neither dared risk the open road, not with a salamence lurking in the skies. The intermittent roars of the salamence continued to follow them.

Travel was slow and arduous, Cinderblock stopping often to find the scent trail again. She fretted that they were heading in the wrong direction—she was no lycanroc, no beartic, after all—and Wanderer soon tuned Cinderblock out.

“Did you know there was a salamence in the area?” Wanderer asked suddenly. The salamence had fallen silent at last, setting her far more on edge than when he had been crudely asserting dominance.

“No. Well, there’s reports of a very dangerous one living deep in the mountains. But these are just the fringes.”

A roar punctuated the exchange.

“Looks like he’s expanding.” Wanderer groaned, relaxing somewhat. “Such a hassle.”

All she had wanted were supplies for a shortcut through the Thadrian Desert mystery dungeon so she could reach Steelmont quicker. And somehow that simple need had spiraled into traipsing through a forest at elevation while keeping watch for a territorial salamence.

This is why you never cut deals, Wanderer. Always fucks you over in the long run.

Cinderblock stopped. An enormous tree loomed before them, ancient and sprawling, roots jutting out of the earth and revealing a gaping chasm beneath. “He’s here.”

She was too large to fit into the entrance, only able to stick her head in. Drawing back, bits of debris clinging to her mane, Cinderblock faced Wanderer. Wanderer understood.

“Won’t be long, Cindy.”

Cinderblock snorted at the distasteful nickname but stepped aside. She mournfully watched Wanderer squirm inside.

The tunnel beneath the tree was dark and damp. Wanderer rifled through her things, pulling out a bone club, and the end burst into magenta flame. Her night vision was excellent, but Wanderer didn’t want to risk startling Kecleon. She walked forward, holding the torch aloft. Symbols were card on the walls, faded words from long ago:

The tunnels are full of terrors

Killing among fields of mushroom and mold

The lights are eyes of cave dwellers

They whisper ‘if you dare come seek our gold’

Sharp fangs like knives

They watch from the walls

Buried miles beneath the sky

You hear their cries

As the earth around them falls

The end for us all is nigh

After an interminable length of time, she spotted a stranger’s fire. The tunnel broadened into a cavern. Kecleon sat hunched in the center, surrounded by incomprehensible scrawling, watching her approach. He was suspicious and wary.

“Stay back. Back, I say!” Kecleon growled out. His ribs were showing; his scales were sallow.

Wanderer held up her arms, non-threatening. “I mean you no harm, Dunner.”

“What did you just call—actually, never mind. Who sent you? It was that nosy fool, Kirlia, wasn’t it? I bet it was.” Kecleon bristled.

He had never seen a marowak quite like her before, with skin like dusk and ethereal flame adorning her bonemerang, but knew pokémon were sometimes born strangely colored, sometimes gained attributes if born outside their usual domain. Therefore, he rationalized the oddities away.

“No, I, wait, do you mean Kirlia from the bazaar? That Kirlia?”

“I knew it.”

“No, no, no. I wouldn’t work for that jagoff.” He had ripped her off back in Meadowford. “Came looking for you along with Cindy—I mean, Cinderblock.”

“Cinderblock is here? That witless pack mule managed to track me down all the way out here? I don’t believe you.” Kecleon relaxed despite himself. Cinderblock was his most loyal employee; she would never betray him.

Wanderer remained expressionless, but the flame on her torch turned an ugly, violent shade of red. “It’s true. The entrance was too small, so she’s waiting for us by the tree. Now hurry up and let’s get out of here.”

“Absolutely not. Salamence, the beastly creature, has stolen my supplies, and I won’t budge until I get them back,” Kecleon said.

He had toiled deep in the mountains seeking those supplies—shed blood and tears in the process, only for it to be leeched from him by a parasite. Kecleon could not, would not, abide someone who broke bread on the back of another’s hard work.

Wanderer was tempted to turn and leave then and there. But Cinderblock would not have allowed it. Sighing, Wanderer knelt, face-to-face with Kecleon. He squinted at her, mucus congealing in the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t be stupid, Dunner. Let’s get you home and let a guild worry about this salamence.”

“No. He is a thief, has taken what is mine.” Kecleon’s claws scraped and kneaded the earth. He was a demon possessed, scales darkening, teeth bared with restrained fury. “I already have a plan. The locals don’t like Salamence any more than I; he came only a few months back, driven out of his home because it was turning into a mystery dungeon, supposedly, which would be very sad and all if he wasn’t such a brute. Honestly, the rabids there might be better off.”

Kecleon then dragged a piece of parchment—faded and worn, creased and wrinkled—lines scribbled in charcoal webbing across its face. Kecleon smoothed out the map, a futile effort, while staring knowingly at Wanderer. She said nothing.

“This is a map of the tunnel system throughout the mountain range. The locals gave it to me. Salamence lives here”—Kecleon drew a line to a northwestern point circled in red—”and that’s where he hoards all his stolen treasures. Help me get back what’s mine, and you can have your pick of whatever remains as your reward. And, with Cinderblock here, we can perhaps haul even more back…”

He became lost in a vision filled with jewels and baubles and rare items and sweet, sweet revenge.

Wanderer quelled the desire to throttle Kecleon. She pulled the map toward her, inspecting it. After a moment, she sighed in resignation. “Okay, fine. I’m in. But we can’t get there through here; Cinderblock is too large.

Kecleon tsked and tapped his chin. “There should be a trail a few miles away that’ll bring us to Salamence’s home. An irritating setback but unavoidable, I suppose. Very well, let’s be off.”

He brushed past her. Wanderer gritted her teeth but followed suit. They exchanged empty pleasantries, return trip somehow twice as long as when Wanderer first ventured down the tunnel.

“So, you know the Egg?” she asked, in an attempt at small talk. Only worms and fungi and roots kept them company.

“I have no idea what you mean by that.”

“Kirlia.”

“Oh. Him.” Kecleon scowled and ploughed straight into the earthen tunnel wall. Wanderer held her torch higher. He stepped back and ‘harrumphed’ before continuing, “He has this thing called a grab bag. You’ve heard of it?” Kecleon didn’t wait for a response. “Ridiculous name, don’t know how anyone takes it seriously. Grab bag. Grrrrab bagge.

“Anyway, grab bags are a cancer, like dive bars. Or religion. What’s in the bag? Open it and chances are you’ll get a plain seed, or maybe an oran berry. But if you’re really lucky, it’ll be something rare, like a gold ribbon or a specialty orb, all for a ‘bargain.’ Today might just be the day I win big. I won’t, but I might. Bah. It’s a scam, but they fall for it every time, hook, line, and sinker. And you know what pisses me off the most? That Kirlia thought of it first.”

Kecleon smacked a fist into his opposite palm.

“Truly a tragedy.” Wanderer lapsed into silence, disinterested in prolonging the conversation. Being around Kecleon filled her with immense distaste; she wondered what Cinderblock saw in him.

Cinderblock was overjoyed when Kecleon emerged from the bowels of the tree’s roots, then baffled by his abrupt explanation of the situation, and then aghast when everything clicked into place. She trailed behind them, skittish but quiet, eyes rolling and shying away from even the most inconspicuous of sounds.

Kecleon ignored Cinderblock, aside from a few terse instructions. He remained focused on the map and the current task. Only when Wanderer suggested they eat did Kecleon stop, voraciously tearing into their food like he was dying slowly but surely.

They came upon the main road cutting a path through the forest and up the mountain. It was broad and open. Exposed. They would need to cross to reach their destination. Dread premonition pricked Wanderer’s neck, and she yanked Kecleon back.

“Wait, numbskull. It’s not safe. Everyone, get down.”

They all crouched, Cinderblock rather awkwardly and clumsily, hiding in the thicket. Nothing happened. Kecleon, losing patience, fidgeted. A noise rustled from down the path. Everyone froze. Kecleon camouflaged with his surroundings, only the bright red stripe across his belly unchanged. He hunkered lower to the ground in hopes of hiding it.

The ursaring strode forward with a confident tread, hailing from the north and having the misfortune to not be in the range of Salamence’s territory during Wanderer and Cinderblock’s frantic escape. An enormous hiking pack hung from his back. He moved easily, uninhibited by the weight, singing a nonsense tune, voice deep and smooth like honey.

“A mew few pew, a mew few pew

Aiye aiye aiye a mew few pew

A gloom, a gloom

Aiye aiye aiye a mew few pew”

A living tempest descended from above. Trees bent before the whirling frenzy, bowed before their king. The ursaring stopped singing, stance defensive, expression a mixture of wariness and fear.

Salamence stood there, impassive, looming larger than life. No interlopers would pass without paying the toll. Smoke curled out of his nostrils, brimstone burned in his eyes.

Cinderblock bit into a thick, jutting root to muffle any sound.

“Give me your bag. Now.” Salamence’s voice rumbled like thunder. Ursaring faltered then stood tall, filled with foolish defiance. He shook his head.

When Salamence spoke again, smoke poured out of his jaws. “Very well. Answer the riddle, and you may pass:

“What force and strength cannot get through

I with a gentle touch can do,

and many in the street would stand

were I not a friend at hand.”

A key. It was a key. But only Wanderer realized the answer, for Salamence spoke in his native tongue, and few knew the language of dragons. Cheater. He played by his own rules.

Ursaring stared at Salamence, blank and uncomprehending. His expression shifted, and he attacked with a snarl. If he did not fight, he would die. He moved quickly for one his size, bounding on the balls of his feet. But fast as Ursaring was, Salamence was faster; only Wanderer tracked both their movements fully.

Salamence’s tail, thick as a tree trunk, lashed out, tripping Ursaring. Salamence spun and lunged, pinning Ursaring down. Ursaring struggled, feeble like a reed wall in the face of a hurricane.

Ursaring remembered, then, with startling clarity, where the river met the stars, where the silver flash of fish scales met the golden shine of sunlight, where his mother took him as a cub and how he never—

Cinderblock whimpered into the root. Everything went still.

Salamence paused, tilting his head. Then he growled and turned Ursaring over, like a doll, ripping off the bag and spilling its contents onto the ground. Water and berries rolled free.

“Worthless,” Salamence said, more smoke billowing from his mouth.

He caught sight of a metallic gleam and rifled through the pile. A gold bracelet glittered in the bright sunlight. Salamence picked up the bracelet, inspecting it, and then, satisfied, slipped it on his tail. He admired his appearance before gathering the rest of Ursaring’s pack, and took off in a whirlwind, returning to his hoard.

No one dared to move right away. At last, Kecleon summoned his courage, creeping across the road. Slowly the others followed suit. They could not afford to dally. The dull eyes of the dead ursaring watched them leave, unspoken accusation branded into their backs.

Cinderblock cried softly.

“Kecleon, can we please go home? I’m scared,” she sniffled.

“Go? After all of that? Absolutely not!” Kecleon was shaken, too, hid behind false bravado. He could not back down in front of his employee. “It’s all the more imperative we strike now and show that menace what’s what. I’ve been tracking Salamence for the last few days. He’ll bring his new, ill-begotten treasures home and then leave again at dusk to hunt.”

Wanderer was silent but grim. Loathe though she was to admit it, she agreed with Kecleon—Salamence was a menace. To do nothing yet again felt wrong. Her eyes burned silver within the confines of her helmet, and the shadows around Wanderer swayed. The group continued their trek up the mountain.

The forest and the air both thinned as they rose higher and higher. Wanderer could see Cinderblock’s breath. Kecleon led the way, checking his map from time to time, and directed them toward a narrow, winding path along the side of the mountain.

Cinderblock eyed the path nervously but chose not to voice her concerns aloud. Wanderer was also worried, but for a different reason: they would be wholly exposed scaling the mountain, easily picked off if spotted. Kecleon pressed onward, assuring them that Salamence wouldn’t leave yet—that there was a crevice further up the mountain they could wait in until dusk—and they had no choice but to follow.

Moving slowly, precariously, taking each step like it might be her last (which, if wrong, it very well could be), Cinderblock lagged behind the others. Her caution proved wise, for the earth crumbled away—but it wasn’t Cinderblock who fell. It was Kecleon.

He yelped as he plummeted and reached out, grabbing the swiftly disintegrating ledge. It only held for a moment, but that fraction of a second gave Cinderblock time to react. She lunged forward, biting Kecleon’s shoulder—he cried out in pain—and tossing him onto her back.

The entire path was falling away, collapsing into the ravine. Wanderer grabbed hold of Cinderblock as she bolted past. They charged forward, wild and careless, terror lending Cinderblock wings as she raced against death itself. At last, the ground beneath her feet widened out and became stable. Cinderblock still would not slow down.

“Stop! Stop! We’re safe!” Kecleon shouted. Cinderblock skidded to a halt, sides heaving, covered in lather. Kecleon dismounted, as did Wanderer, after a brief pause. Touching his back, blood shone slick and red on his claws.

Kecleon snarled, “Look at what you did to me!”

He brandished his claws. Flecks of blood dotted Cinderblock’s muzzle; she pinned her ears back. Before Cinderblock could apologize, Wanderer had Kecleon shoved up against the mountain wall. Her bone club pressed against his throat. She burned hot like a miniature sun.

“Count your blessings, Dunner. Personally, I would’ve let you fall and saved us a lot of trouble.”

“Marowak!” Cinderblock’s voice was shrill and loud. “L-leave him alone.”

Kecleon choked in response. Wanderer released him and backed away—Kecleon dropped to the ground with a strangled cry—scanning the valley.

Before them spread an ocean of trees, covering the lower half of the mountain range. She picked out the main path, like a vein in the mountain’s wrist, as well as various lakes from the glacier that had passed through the area centuries prior. Even farther away, on the edge of the horizon, lay the shadow of the city of Earthbound. Wanderer turned toward the tip of the mountain, capped in snow, and—

“Oh. Found the crevice,” Wanderer said.

Wanderer slept, dreamt of forgotten memories, while they waited for dusk. Kecleon nursed his injuries—and his pride—in sullen silence. Cinderblock stared at the horizon, quietly longing for home. She wondered if the ursaring had had a family.

“No one else wanted to come look for me, did they?” Kecleon asked out of nowhere.

Cinderblock didn’t answer, which was an answer in and of itself.

A fierce roar woke Wanderer. She stretched and shook away the cobwebs of the past. They watched Salamence fly past, spiraling down into the valley on blood-red wings. Kecleon stood, grim and determined.

“Stay here, Cinderblock. It’s safer that way. We won’t be long.” He walked away without another word. It was a definite improvement in Wanderer’s opinion.

The cold nipped at their skin. Frost threaded across Kecleon’s scales like delicate silver lace. He shivered, stripe along his belly bright red against a pale white backdrop, and brushed away the frost with a soft crssh.

Crystals webbed the cracks in Wanderer’s skull helmet before melting from her internal body heat. Gentle eddies of steam swirled around her. She felt nothing more than mild annoyance.

They walked in silence far more frigid than their surroundings.

“Would you really have let me fall?” Kecleon asked.

“Probably not.” Wanderer scratched the underside of her chin with her club.

The scrape of bone on bone—like nails on slate—had Kecleon grinding his teeth. Something about her mannerisms and appearance struck him as vaguely familiar, but Kecleon couldn’t quite put a claw on why. She was far too irksome a creature to devote much energy toward anyway.

“Why are you here, anyway? What’s in it for you?”

“What, don’t think I’m helping out of the goodness of my heart?”

Kecleon snorted.

Wanderer relented and said, “I was promised a discount.”

“… How much?”

“Half-off.”

Kecleon stopped and stared. Then, grumbling under his breath about Cinderblock’s utter lack of business sense, he strode forward again. One way or another, Salamence would pay.

“She’s a good girl,” Kecleon said out-of-nowhere. Wanderer blinked. “There were two brothers, young, they often came by and bought supplies for their sick mother. Cinderblock would give them rides. Rambunctious little rapscallions, but she never once complained. I always had to make them stop when they went too far. Sometimes I forget that.”

Wanderer didn’t respond. But she disliked him a little less, then.

They reached Salamence’s lair. It gaped, dark and deep, filled with terrors. Wanderer waited at the mouth of the cave, keeping a lookout, while Kecleon plunged inside.

He stifled a gasp. Dying light filtered in from the entrance, revealing a sight far exceeding his wildest expectations. Treasures overflowed within the cavern—a sea of gold, gleaming, glittering, glimmering, glinting.

Mine, all mine. Greed curdled in the pit of his stomach.

Orbs and statues and seeds and items and bags and more flotsam drifted among the precious waters. In the center stood the lone island: a pedestal on which a strange clear sphere rested. Kecleon had never seen anything like it before.

He moved toward the sphere, fixated, only nominally aware of his surroundings. Coins clinked beneath his feet. It was warm, much warmer than outside, and idly Kecleon wondered if the cave led to some sort of vent deep within the earth’s bowels. Or perhaps one of Salamence’s items kept the interior heated.

The sphere had a twisting series of red, white, and blue light caught within it. The lights writhed, trapped in an obscene dance for eternity. Kecleon touched the sphere, admiring its lack of imperfections, its smooth texture, until it grew hot—he dropped it with a hissed curse. The resulting clatter echoed loudly in the abrupt, claustrophobic silence. Kecleon froze.

“Dammit, would you hurry?!” Wanderer paced at the entrance.

Kecleon growled but set about searching for his bag. He spotted a variety of fascinating trinkets he longed to examine in further detail, but his own supplies proved infuriatingly elusive. Then Kecleon came across a familiar, abnormally large bag.

He tasted the air with his tongue and recognized the ursaring’s scent, as well as the scent of blood and death (cold and hollow and empty like frozen caverns high in the mountains). Overwhelmed by sudden nausea, Kecleon doubled over, claws on his knees. The world tilted askew, and he swallowed back his bile.

“Uh, Dunner, we’ve got company coming in hot.”

Fuck.

Kecleon scrambled, search turning frantic, almost tripping over loose coins. There. He recognized that specific cross stitch pattern anywhere. He dove, cradling the bag close, burying his head in the leather and breathing in safety and home—

Salamence landed with a thump outside the cave’s mouth. Wanderer had fled.

“I smell intruders,” Salamence drawled, low and sibilant.

Kecleon knew a few words of Salamence’s language, but it was a broken, garbled mess. However, Kecleon didn’t need to understand to know he was in grave danger. His scales transformed into the colors of his surroundings, and he held himself very still.

Salamence swung to and fro, like a charmed snake, eyes alight with cruel violence. His forked tongue flicked out. When he stepped forward, the dunes of gold trembled.

“Oi, behind you.”

Salamence whipped around. Kecleon’s heart leaped into his throat; Wanderer had returned for him.

She stood, feet spread shoulder-width apart, bow drawn and knocked and gripped so hard her knuckles turned white. Already Wanderer regretted her stupid decision, but the time for regrets was long past. This would probably hurt quite a bit. Salamence loomed over her.

“I know you, Immortal Flame. I have heard the stories.”

“Well, stories often exaggerate,” she answered in his native tongue. Salamence didn’t visibly react, but he was impressed.

“You must have a great many treasures.” Salamence’s greed shone through his voice and eyes. “After all these years.”

“Not really the possessive type.” Wanderer cleared her throat. “Although I heard a rumor that if anyone could beat you in a series of riddles, they’d have the pick of your hoard.”

A blatant lie. Suspicious, Salamence growled, asking, “Where did you hear that?”

Kecleon began to move. Slowly, cautiously, like every step was his last (which a single misstep would be). He dared not so much as breathe.

“Around. You know how rumors are.” Wanderer feigned indifference. “I take it you’re not interested, then?”

Salamence cocked his head, studying her. He indulged in this sudden amusement. “And if I win, you will give me a precious treasure of your own?”

“Sure.”

Salamence reared up and slammed down on the ground. Kecleon fell over, but his graceless trip was masked by the various treasures tumbling around him. Salamence said, “Any tricks and I will kill you.”

Then:

“In marble walls as white as milk,

lined with skin as soft as silk,

within a fountain crystal clear,

a golden apple does appear,

no doors are there to this stronghold-

yet thieves break in and steal the gold.”

Wanderer watched a red stripe drag a bag, edging against the cavern wall, from behind Salamence. She cleared her throat loudly. Something precious others tried to steal? A treasure that wasn’t conventional—oh.

“An egg.”

Salamence snorted in response. But he didn’t attack. Pleased, Wanderer adjusted her grip, palms clammy. Then she said:

“A hill-full, a hole-full

You cannot catch a bowl-full.”

Salamence became stone. Only his eyes moved in the dying light. At last, he said, “Fog.”

“Mist, technically.”

A growl rumbled in Salamence’s throat.

“But fog works too.” Wanderer shrugged. The arrow pointing straight at Salamence never wavered.

Pleased, Salamence unfurled his wings and stood a little taller. Solving riddles always brought him immense satisfaction. His tail swiped just above Kecleon’s head (who froze, overcome with heart-pounding terror). Salamence said:

“Only one color, but not in size,

Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies,

Present in sun, but not in rain,

Doing no harm, and feeling no pain.”

Wanderer knew this riddle. She had heard it before. She smiled and told him the answer.

Kecleon edged ever closer to freedom. He knew a technique that would let him melt into the shadows and escape, but he’d have to leave his bag behind. That wasn’t an option. Wanderer’s own, long shadow came alive for a brief moment and winked at him.

Salamence snarled, irate, claws digging into stone with a loud, unholy squeal. Wanderer gritted her teeth. She said:

“What goes on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening.”

A long pause. Salamence hesitated.

“Mew?”

Wanderer shook her head, triumphant. “A human.”

Salamence roared, loud enough that the earth both above and below cracked and shook all around them.

“CHEATER!”

CHE-ater che-AT-er cheat-ER…

Kecleon stumbled again, the ground beneath his feet shaking. This time Salamence heard the disturbance. He turned, fire in his mouth, and Wanderer shot him. Her arrow found its mark, striking Salamence’s eye. He screamed, high-pitched like a dying animal, thrashed and knocked Wanderer over.

Kecleon scrambled to his feet and ran. The last thing he saw was Salamence, jaws snapping shut around Wanderer—she exploded into ash and shadow with a cry that cut off sharply like a snuffed candle—all he could do was run and run and run.

The thin, frozen air dug knives into his lungs. Salamence was still screaming, as Kecleon’s ears rang with the call of the clarion. Everything spun on its axis—the world was ending, falling apart, he was falling apart at the seams—then the sky vanished, only dark earth remained to swallow him whole, just like the tunnels he had crept and crawled through for weeks on end. (And for what?)

Kecleon heard Cinderblock say his name. He clutched his bag close to his chest, breaths coming out in short, rapid bursts. His throat closed, all he could see was Wanderer dying, and it was all his fault.

All his fault.

“Kecleon!” Cinderblock tried for the umpteenth time. Kecleon rocked back and forth without an answer.

Outside Salamence hurtled through the skies, shrieking obscenities. It took a long time for his cries to fade. His rage and pain circled around the crevice, pinning them in.

Despair welled within Cinderblock, followed by determination. She was afraid, but she had to try. She had to be brave. Kneeling, the movement awkward in such a cramped, confined space, Cinderblock brought herself eye level with Kecleon.

“Breathe, Kecleon. Just breathe. In through the nose and out through the mouth.”

He choked on his spittle. Snot and tears dripped down his scales onto the worn leather of his bag. Like a child, Kecleon reached out, desperate for something to anchor him to reality, and splayed his claws against her chest. Cinderblock’s large heart thrummed steadily beneath his palm.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. All to the rhythm of Cinderblock’s heartbeat. Thud, thud, thud. At last, Kecleon drew back. He pawed at his face in quiet shame.

“Marowak?” Cinderblock asked. Kecleon shook his head. Cinderblock’s ears drooped, and she looked away. Unshed tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. She hated Salamence then like she had never hated anyone before, hated him with a quiet desperation.

“I heard her. She sounded like she was in so much pain. I…” He buried his head in his paws. Cinderblock didn’t know what to say.

“Do you remember the time you invited me to feastday with your brother?” she asked out-of-nowhere. Immediately, Cinderblock felt like a blockhead. But Kecleon, blinking and baffled, looked up. Cinderblock barreled forward, enunciating poorly but driven onward by earnest emotion. “It was the best meal I’d ever had. I wanted you to know that. Just in case. When you didn’t come back, I, I was afraid I wouldn’t. Get to know.”

Kecleon stared at her. When young, he would travel with his brother into the marketplace where all sorts of pokémon hawked their wares. And Kecleon had liked all the items on display, yes, liked admiring them, but what he had truly loved was the banter, the back-and-forth between merchant and client as they danced with their eyes and with their mouths until reaching terms. The items simply facilitated the dance. It had been so beautiful.

When had he forgotten that?

After a moment, Kecleon shivered and smiled, strained, drained, but real. “It was a very good meal, yes. Brother has a gift when it comes to the culinary arts. The stuffing, in particular, was divine.”

“I liked the cornmeal,” Cinderblock said. Kecleon chuckled. Something locked into place, the certainty of conviction, and he became calm and determined.

“We need to do something.” Kecleon stood. His dark, beady eyes burned bright. “He needs to pay. All those things and he doesn’t do anything with any of it! They just sit there when they could be out in the world helping someone somewhere. An item that isn’t used is worthless. He is worse than a thief, he is a miser. There must be a reckoning, all those pokémon, and I—”

Kecleon’s voice failed, he stared at his feet. The soft, almost rubbery lips of Cinderblock’s muzzle brushed against his fin crests.

“I’m with you.” And she meant it. He had stood by her in her darkest hour, when she had nothing and no one, given her a chance to make something out of her life. Cinderblock treasured Kecleon because of it.

His paws dropped to his side. Kecleon smiled, eyes suddenly filmed over with tears once more. “Thank you.”

They planned and prepared, swift in their preparation because they were rapidly losing daylight. Cinderblock hid further down the trail, close enough to help but far enough away that Salamence would not notice her. Hopefully.

Kecleon rifled through his bag, withdrawing a luminous orb. He could see his reflection in the smooth crystal and grimaced at the disheveled creature there. Walking to the crevice entrance, Kecleon held the orb aloft, closed his eyes, broke it with a loud crack. A brilliant white light sang forth, cutting through the darkness. A gentle wind caressed his scales.

Dots spotted his vision. Kecleon blinked, dizzy, and stumbled back a few paces, leaning against the wall for balance. An answering roar pierced the heavens, followed by a dark shade hurtling into view.

Salamence barreled toward Kecleon, red tears streaming out of one slit of an eye. Blood streaked the hunter’s muzzle; fire rumbled in his maw.

Kecleon took out a seed, aimed, and lobbed it at Salamence. The seed exploded, knocking Salamence off course. He crashed into the side of the mountain with an ear-splitting cry. The mountain shook, rocks and debris showering Kecleon. He fled deeper into the crevice, terrified.

Salamence hauled himself up and lunged forward, smoke spewing everywhere. He was slightly too big for the entrance, but he didn’t care—there would be retribution—and brute-forced his way inside. The mountain quaked and quailed before Salamence’s unmitigated fury.

Cinderblock witnessed it all. She reared up and slammed her massive hooves into the earth. The heart of the mountain stirred. Cinderblock tried coaxing it (“help me”), but the mountain was afraid. (“he is the wind that wears me away.”)

Had she failed? But she could not, Kecleon would die if she failed. He trusted her.

Cinderblock became angry (“help me or else I’ll never forgive you!”), and the mountain’s heart beat faster. Cinderblock slammed into the stone once again. It reached forward with outstretched fingers, became a clenched fist.

Violent tremors shook the crevice to its core. Kecleon lost his footing, stumbled, the contents of his bag spilling loose, items tumbling free. He reached out as if to gather them close, clutch them to his breast, then instead grabbed a single, solitary seed and chucked it behind him at the onrushing Salamence.

bang

Flowers of fire blossomed forth. Stone screeched and squealed in protest. Salamence roared, but now panic tinged his voice; he realized the trick too late.

“Wait!” Salamence cried, turning and desperate, but Kecleon did not understand him.

The heat scorched Kecleon’s dark red scales, debris striking him while the crevice collapsed. He needed to escape. With one last longing glance at what remained of his supplies, Kecleon melted into the shadows of the earth.

Everything was dark. Kecleon had never been proficient at sneaking through shadows. And the path was breaking down. He would be lost forever if he wasn’t quick.

A magenta flame appeared. It bobbed in front of him, then began drifting forward. When Kecleon remained unmoved, it stopped and twitched, an air of—of impatience to the action. Something about it felt familiar.

“Marowak?”

No answer. It started moving again, and Kecleon placed his trust in it. They walked together on paths and tunnels unseen. When he resurfaced, it felt like breathing for the first time; the cold, thin air had never tasted so wonderful.

Kecleon rolled onto his back, coughing, covered in ash and dust, ugly burns blackening his arms. Cinderblock hovered over him, worried. He sat up, wincing, and rubbed the back of his neck.

The crevice had become a tomb. Nothing stirred from it.

Both Kecleon and Cinderblock took a moment to just breathe. They mourned Wanderer together in silence. Cinderblock even mourned Salamence, because that was just who she was.

“What now?” Cinderblock finally asked.

Kecleon thought about the question. He thought about a lot of things. His stomach growled.

“Let’s get something to eat and discuss your promotion. I’m sure the locals will be very interested to hear all about what happened.” Kecleon stood and brushed some of the dirt off. Cinderblock stared at him, wide-eyed. Kecleon hauled himself onto her back with difficulty, grumbling about his own lack of height, then patted her neck. “And, Cinderblock? I’m sorry.”

Her ears pricked forward, and she nickered in response. They began the long trek home. Not once did Kecleon look back.

…

Years went by.

Kecleon was old, scales faded, had seen many types from behind the counter. When the scrawny scrafty came in, just short on poké, Kecleon gave him an apple regardless and threw in a piece of candy as a buy-one-get-one-free special. (The special ended as soon as the scrafty walked out the door.)

Cinderblock was in back taking stock. Arthritis had slowed her down quite a bit. She handled few physical affairs these days.

The door chimed open. In sauntered a dusky-skinned marowak: Wanderer looked the exact same.

“Hey, so, about that discount, Dunner?”