Prologue – Once

Vor einer langen Zeit haben die Pokémon, welche diese Welt bewohnen, mit Wesen die sie „Menschen“ nannten geteilt. Seltsame Kreaturen, welchen die Weisheit gegeben war, die Geheimnisse unserer Welt wie durch die Augen der Göttern zu sehen und zu verstehen. Doch sie waren nicht in der Lage, diese Geheimnisse anzuwenden, nicht ohne die Unterstützung von Kreaturen wie uns.

Man sagte, dass Menschen wie Vermittler zwischen den verschiedenen Arten von Pokémon gehandelt haben. Sogar Sengo und Vipitis lebten friedlich nebeneinander und die Wilden konnten so leben, wie sie sich in ihrem unberechenbaren natürlichen Lebensraum niemals vorgestellt hätten.

Und dann kam was wir „Der Glühende Blitz“ nannten. Auf einmal umhüllte ein blendendes Licht unsere Welt, welches die gesamte Menschheit entfernt hat. Die Dimensionen wurden gestört und die ganzen Kontinenten schüttelten. In dessen Ebbe hat es eine entzweite Welt mit verzerrten Orten, welche wir „Mysteriöse Orte“ nannten, hinterlassen.

Auch mit solch einen großen Verlust, haben wir Pokémon mit der Weisheit, die die Menschen hinterlassen haben, unsere eigenen Gesellschaften entwickelt, welche dieser unserer Vermittler ähnelt. Um die Geheimnisse dieser veränderten Welt wenn auch flüchtig zu sehen. Und so bekam diese neue Welt, deren Geburt den Anfang unserer Zeitrechnung markiert, ihren Namen – „Wunder“.

–  Auszug aus »Die Gesammelten Legenden aus Wunder«

---

The waning rays of the evening sun washed an Oran Berry field under warm orange tones, shining down on Pokémon going to and fro among rows of bushes. Here and there, the creatures would stop and gather up the blue fruits into small wooden baskets of varying sizes. Among the figures scurrying about was a tired-looking Quilava with a plain orange scarf tied about his neck, who paused to set down a basket that he lugged in his forepaws and dropped to all fours for a moment to catch his breath. The Fire-type felt the wind chill and blow over his fur, as it tended to during autumns in the north of Varhyde, which made him thankful for his body’s natural warmth.

He looked down at his basket, the most recent he’d managed to fill with harvest season drawing to an end. With the bushes of the Oran field running increasingly barren, it was also likely the last he’d manage for the day. He let out a grumbling sigh and flattened his ears, before trudging off with it towards a small collection of huts off in the distance.

The Quilava gaped about his surroundings on the way over, seeing other Pokémon in similar garb still at work trying to glean the last stray Oran Berries off bushes with leaves that had long since turned red with the seasons—a sign that they’d be the last crop to be picked from them until winter. The Fire-type trudged along, until he reached the huts and came to a queue of Pokémon of different shapes and sizes. All of them waited with tubs of Oran berries at the ready, in front of a larger wood-and-sod shack with jars filled with luminous moss hung along its eaves.

There, a Crustle in a simple tan scarf stood behind a table with a set of scales on them. One by one, the Pokémon in line would pass a slip of paper over to the earthen-shelled crab, who would weigh their bucket’s content before letting another Pokémon dump them onto a conveyor belt driven by Pokémon on running wheels in the background. Amidst the din of the conveyor belt’s operation in the background, the Crustle would take the Pokémon’s paper, scribble some marks onto it, before passing it back and moving onto the next Pokémon in the queue.

After what felt like an eternity, it came time for the Quilava to step forward. He passed his bag and a sheet of paper across the table, much as he had every day since the middle of the last summer month of Erntemond₁ almost a full moon ago. The Fire-type tapped his foot and fidgeted irritably as he watched the Crustle take his bag, look at the scale skeptically, and then narrow his eyes back with a small click of his claws.

“… You’re light today, Lyle.” the Crustle weigher said.

“It can’t really be helped, there wasn’t much to pick on the bushes today,” the Quilava harrumphed back. “It’s better to gather the stuff that’s still reasonable to harvest for now and wait for the last of the Oran Berries on them to ripen.”

The weigher tilted his head and gave a sharp scowl in response, curling his mouthparts into an unimpressed frown back at the stoat in the orange scarf.

“You shouldn’t give in so easily. These berries help to go and support our royal troops bleeding for us on the frontline,” the crab reminded. “Why, that Hoppip Bucky brought in more than you today, and he’s just a little grub!”

The fire along the Quilava’s back vents danced for a moment, the Fire-type glaring sharply back up at the Crustle.

“Look, it takes me four trips with this stupid bucket just to gather a single Scheffel₂ of berries, and my wages are tied to each one I bring in,” the Fire-type snorted back. “I think I know how much is in a day’s work, Trent. So just let me go get my pay for the day and get some rest.”

The Crustle said nothing for a moment, before pressing a stamp down on a scrap of paper and giving a low grumble under his breath.

“… If you say so. I’m just glad that not everyone’s as unmotivated as you,” the Bug-type said. “If your parents’ generation quit as easily as you during the last invasion, we never would’ve driven those dirty Edialeighers back across the sea, and we’d all be getting kicked around by them right now.”

The Crustle slid the paper across the table towards the Quilava. Lyle rolled his eyes and snatched the receipt, all but crumpling it up in his paws before nipping at a corner and making his way on all fours over to a low-slung shack at the other end of the strip. The Quilava didn’t bother unfurling the paper, only a complete idiot would fail to keep track of the number of buckets he’d brought in in a day, or the number of Scheffel they added up to in volume. Eighteen. Eighteen measly Scheffel of those gottverdammten₃ Oran Berries that this field grew, for which he could expect five Carolins each for his trouble to repeat the process again tomorrow. Just enough to put two meals’ worth of food and a pint of stiff lager in his belly for a day or two… and precious little else.

The Fire-type drifted past the shacks along the strip, stopping by one with a set of chests where he fished out a tatty satchel that he’d brought and left for safekeeping prior to starting his day’s work. He couldn’t imagine there being much worth stealing from it, but you never knew these days. After collecting his belongings, the Quilava carried along down the strip, making his way forward on all four of his legs.

Along the way, he passed a dingy hall with crude tables and seats fashioned from wooden odds and ends that carried a strong scent of alcohol. The place was a dive that served the sorriest excuse for beer he’d ever tasted, but there never seemed to be an absence of pickers visiting it after a day’s work. Among the customers today were a Gumshoos and Greedent, who sat outside the door with clay cups trading low whispers with one another.

“A friend of mine who hangs around the garrison at Moonturn Square says another levy’s coming down for ‘mons to fight in the army’s ranks over the next few days,” the Gumshoos murmured, prompting the Greedent pause and to pin his ears back back in reply.

“Again?” the squirrel asked. “Whatever happened to all those ‘mons who were shipped out in the campaign back in spring?”

“I dunno, but I ran into one getting patched up after being sent back from getting a paw messed up out there,” the Gumshoos explained. “He seemed pretty shook up over whatever happened, so it makes me wonder just how many of those ‘mons from that last levy are still around.”

Lyle paused and reared up, flicking his ears uncomfortably at the Gumshoos and Greedent’s chatter. It was the third week of Herbstmond₄, well into autumn and around the time when the army would try and ship more fighters off for the front line. Their last opportunity for the year to shore up their offenses against Edialeigh, before winter weather made further ones in the intervening months into exercises in futility.

There had been much crowing among those close to the army about how things were different now. It’d been seven years since Edialeigh’s last invasion into Varhyde had finally been broken and chased back across the sea. Now, the ravages of war were their problem and the homefront in Varhyde could know something approximating rest. There was no fear of raids by warbands of ‘mons who spoke muddled Commontongue, or at least not for now. And at times, the war could almost be forgotten as some sort of faraway nightmare…

Except it’d been the fifth time that the theater of war had moved to Edialeigh in the more than seventy years the war had been dragging on, and meant there was little enthusiasm to go around for chances at glory and vengeance. Every year since then, there seemed to be little to show for the Kingdom’s offenses on Edialeigh’s territory but some new funerals and chewed-up ‘mons limping back to their homes to look forward to a life of unstable employment and praying that the nearest town’s food dole didn’t fall short yet again.

Any hope of a decisive victory had died many years ago, much like the gods who’d once fought under the banners of those two lands and met their ends on the battlefield like so many others. Even with the promise of revenge and repaying old wounds, the endless grind had burned away much of the enthusiasm and fighting spirit of Varhyde’s Pokémon, and the Gumshoos and Greedent trading worried looks with one another were hardly exceptions.

“… You don’t suppose they’ll start dragging out ‘mons like us out there, do you?” the Greedent asked.

“I dunno… I heard that the Sheriff out there’s been dragging his feet over it and holding out for some sort of workaround, but if there’s really a levy going on, he’s gotta send somebody,” the Gumshoos murmured. “After all, when was the last time you heard of anyone volunteering to go to the frontlines who wasn’t desperate, drunk, or both?”

Word was that even in the capital of Newangle City itself, the local guards had largely stopped bothering to arrest ‘mons for airing such sentiments, even if on the books, such talk was tantamount to sympathizing with the enemy and grounds for conscription or worse. There were too many offenders, and morale within the ranks had been lacking even back when his father was a mere Cyndaquil.

But that was someone else’s problem. For Lyle, his problem was scraping together enough food for the week, and his ticket to that was the Persian paymaster at the counter of the last shack at the end. The Normal-type had just finished counting out coins for a Hoppip under the dull blue glow of a cracked ring made of some sort of clear resin that was hung from a wooden pole. Stuffed with luminous moss if the color of the light was anything to go by. And if the ring-shaped light was really the human relic it appeared to be, it was likely the most valuable thing in the entire strip of buildings.

The Quilava made his way up, reared up onto his hind legs, and uncrumpled his paper, turning it in with a sigh and pinch of his brow. He watched the cream-furred cat look over the paper and count up the stamps on it, eighteen, just as he himself had counted, before reaching into a small box and pulling out a few gold-colored coins and clinking them against the counter. The Fire-type stared blankly at the coins for a moment and let his mouth flop open, before letting his body’s fire flare up and spluttering back indignantly at the Normal-type.

“Hey, what the-?! This is 60 Carolins!” he exclaimed. “I got almost a third more than this for yesterday’s pickings! I even brought in more buckets today!”

“Yeah, well that reflects the new price that the army passed onto us, and they get the first cut of everything grown here on top of it,” the Persian explained. “Naturally, we can’t afford to pay the same as we used to.”

“And you’ll just hike the prices for whatever you do get to keep at market, so how on earth is that fair?!” Lyle demanded. “How do you expect me to be able to buy food this week if I’m getting paid at this rate?!”

The Persian shot a dark glare back that made the Quilava reflexively flinch and tamp his fire down, half-expecting the cat to summarily yank his already meager pay off the table. While Lyle’s fears ultimately proved to be unfounded, the paymaster’s gaze remained firmly trained on him as she spat back a huffing reply.

“Lyle, everyone’s getting squeezed here right now. I already know that you live in a burrow out in the fringes, so grow a berry bush of your own next to whatever hole you sleep in at night like everyone else does whenever things come up short!” the Normal-type growled. “I’m sure you’ve got someone who can take care of it while you’re working out here, don’t you?”

Lyle said nothing back to the paymaster for a long while, before pinning his ears back and snatching the coins off the counter. For most of the past two years, he lived alone, and barely knew his neighbors, so he wasn’t exactly rich with options to act on the Persian’s advice. So what else was he supposed to do?

Lyle sighed, and held his eyes to the ground. He’d thought of stealing the difference from the field while on the job before, but… he’d always found himself unable to muster the courage. Only a berry or two at the most. It just wasn’t worth the risk of being kicked out of this job too.

He’d already struggled to find employment with an interrupted apprenticeship as a glassblower and a past that he deliberately kept opaque to others. Getting banned from what few potential sources of employment he’d been able to find was a complete non-starter of an idea.

… Perhaps he should’ve been thankful he even had this much. Considering what became of most of his old friends, getting stuck slaving away in a berry field was probably the best outcome he could’ve realistically hoped for. Lyle quickly deposited the coins into a small bag that he threw into the bottom of his satchel and shuffled off for a dirt path down a wooded slope with a low grumble. At the beginning of the slope, the Quilava suddenly heard the Persian call out after him and turned his head back to see her giving a stern gaze.

“By the way, you might wanna wait and see if the moon comes out before you head off,” the Normal-type suggested. “The routes have been getting more dangerous on dark nights like these lately. Besides, a drink with your fellow pickers over at the canteen might take the edge off of you.”

Lyle fanned the flames on his head and tail out annoyedly at the Normal-type’s insistence. It was already getting dark, and he wasn’t exactly deaf! He’d heard the Persian’s warning plenty of times over the past moon, and were it a mere two years ago, that same warning would probably have been about him.

“I’m sure I’ll manage somehow,” Lyle harrumphed. “Not like I’d be able to afford the cheap swill that dive here sells with this pay anyways.”

The Fire-type huffled and dropped to all fours along the ground, darting off down the path for the road where he turned left and made his way along it. Lyle slowed his pace after the entrance to the Oran field he worked at slipped from view. It was already twilight, and running or not, he’d never beat the night’s dark back to his home burrow. The Quilava gaped about the tree-lined path, the last rays of light faintly illuminating the fields on either side of him.

There were the standard fields of berry bushes and fields planted with the likes of wheat and rye. Others had been planted with seeds that had been affected by the Distortion of Mystery Dungeons, yielding crops that had little use beyond being used as implements to fight with. There was at least one more field planted in such a manner than he remembered from last year, and they seemed to consume ever-increasing swaths of Varhyde’s land. There were Totter Seeds to daze Pokémon, Blinker Seeds to impair their vision, and Blast Seeds to blow their ramparts to smithereens. Crops that grew without the influence of Mystery Dungeons that were similarly weaponizable also gobbled up land for the war effort, as the Apricorn field he was passing to his left evidenced. It was hard to think of any use for the damned things other than for grapeshot and mines to swallow Pokémon whole, condemning those who weren’t freed from them in time to hungry, lonely deaths trapped inside.

Lyle shook his head as the skies darkened and he moved on to a more wooded patch of the trail, happy to leave the fields behind. The sun’s last glimmers had given way to a gibbous moon and stars above, so there was little light left to guide him beyond the glow of the fire on his head and tail.

He supposed there was the small ribbon of blue-and-green light in the sky towards the west, but the aurora appeared to just be one of the ones that formed in the skies above Mystery Dungeons. Over Waterhead Cave from the looks of it. But it was hardly bright enough to light his way even without a bunch of treetops obscuring it. The stoat lowered his head a bit so as to let his fire better illuminate the path, when he felt a sticky glob suddenly strike his right flank from the treeline.

“Agh! What the-?!”

“I got something! I got something!” a voice chittered.

Lyle tensed up and flared out his body’s fire, whirling to his right where he spotted a glob of silk attached to his flank’s fur, along with a white strand that his eyes followed back up to a pair of Spinarak dangling from the trees. Unlike the Pokémon back at the Oran field, neither of them appeared to be wearing any garb. The leftmost of the two Bug-types looked on in startled alarm at his target, while his companion turned with an angry chitter.

“I told you to try and track away from the path, you moron!” the other Spinarak fumed. “You tracked some knot-neck!”

Lyle narrowed his eyes and angrily spat up a small gout of fire at the tree, making the two drop from it with frightened screeches as the patch of tree bark where they’d been resting smoldered. After striking the ground, the two Bug-types squealed and hurriedly scuttled off into the undergrowth, their cries ringing out in the darkness.

“Eyaah! Run for it!”

“J-Just consider yourself lucky you can hide behind the Vow, you furry jerk!”

Lyle looked down at the glob of silk on his fur and tugged it off, burning it with a small puff of fire on the dirt path. He could’ve done without the hostile Wilder run-in on the way home, but he supposed that all things considered, the encounter could’ve gone worse.

It was said that Spinarak and Ariados among the guards of Varhyde’s settlements stalked their own prey on the job by tagging them with silk and letting them lead them back to their hiding places. Evidently, even if they killed each other off for their sustenance and petty squabbles instead of on behalf of some kingdom or for loot and plunder, the practice was much the same among their Wilder counterparts.

The comparison almost made that sort of harsh Wilder lifestyle in the hinterlands sound noble when he framed it like that. Almost. Not that it made having to get the Wilders’ silk out of his fur any less annoying. Lyle flicked his ears as quiet returned to the path when he noticed the sound of flowing water coming from up ahead. It wasn’t exactly the most comforting thing to hear, but it was a sign the bridge he needed to cross about halfway back to his home was just up ahead.

The Quilava sighed and carried on, when he heard splashing and his nose caught the scent of damp fur. The Fire-type froze and flared up in response as his mind returned to the Persian’s warning, only to be snapped back to reality by a yipping voice calling out from under the bridge.

“I see that you’re as popular as ever, Lyle.”

Lyle screwed his eyes shut in frustration after he realized the voice was deeply familiar. It wasn’t from an Outlaw, but he’d frankly have preferred it if it was. The Quilava looked ahead, watching as the form of a Floatzel clambered up onto the bridge and sauntered forward.

The Sea Weasel Pokémon bore a white scarf with a bold gray chevron on it, with his underbelly and back covered in overlapping green plates, with one on his head of similar design that functioned as a rough helmet. The attire wasn’t exactly hard to miss, but the presence of a white triangle insignia with circles at its tips that pointed upwards along with his scarf’s chevron made it unmistakeable. It was a set of the standard issue armor that was given out in Varhyde’s army and among the town guards who were subordinate to them.

Each of the plates were fashioned out of tightly-banded linen that had been treated with fire retardant, then glued together in layers until they formed a segment thick and durable enough to stop the likes of an Iron Thorn. And from the Floatzel’s demeanor, he clearly hadn’t forgotten about his armor’s protective qualities.

The Floatzel shook some water off his pelt, Lyle recoiling as some of the drops dashed against him much to his disgusted annoyance and shifted back with a grumbling sigh. After all, if nothing else, he knew who the accosting sea rat was all too well.

“What is it this time, Nils?” the Quilava demanded, prompting the Water-type to turn his muzzle up with an affected display of offense.

“Now what’s that attitude all about?” the Floatzel scoffed. “I’m a soldier and here you are giving me the third degree like a common Outlaw!”

More like a ‘Gendarm₅’ who was unlikely to have seen any action outside of guarding towns or countryside roads and being a pest to peasants and travelers, but that was splitting hairs. Even if it was hard for him to imagine Nils lasting a moon in Edialeigh before deserting into some forest with his tails between his legs, Gendarmen like him were still technically part of the royal army and still Grünhäuter₆, as the green-clad bastards were sometimes mocked, through and through. Soldiers went off to the front lines across the sea and tore up battlefields and villages that were out of sight and out of mind for the homefront, while Varhyde’s Pokémon had to live with the likes of Nils.

The Floatzel approached and brushed the fur on the exposed regions of his head back with some stray water that clung to it, the otter peering down at his shorter counterpart with a smug smirk.

“Really, I’m on your side here!” the Water-type insisted. “Edialeigh might not be able to throw a whole lot of ‘mons into Varhyde proper right now, but that doesn’t mean your old buddy Nils isn’t putting his neck on the line for you!”

“Hrmph, thanks I suppose,” Lyle said, as he attempted to brush past the armored pest in his way. “But it’s getting late and I really should get moving on.”

Nils quickly cut off Lyle’s path and stepped into his way, making the Quilava fold his ears back and glance up with a quiet grimace. The Floatzel chuckled bemusedly to himself, shaking his head in reply as he stepped forward and leaned in over his captive audience of one.

“Lyle, Lyle, Lyle… you of all ‘mons oughta know that we bust our tails to look out for the little guys,” the Floatzel insisted. “And the army’s had to cut back on stipends for us folk on the homefront over the ‘mons going across the sea to keep the fight from coming back into Varhyde again…”

The Water-type reached out his right paw, and motioned towards his body with it a couple times with a small, almost taunting smile.

“So how about you help out a friend in need, huh? Consider it a friendly donation,” the guard insisted.

Lyle narrowed his eyes in disgust and felt the fire on his body simmer. He didn’t need to deal with this crap from Nils again. Not tonight of all times.

“Sorry, I’ve got my own problems this time,” he insisted, prompting Nils to shoot back with an unimpressed scoff.

“And just what’s that supposed to mean?” the guard demanded. “You’re not getting back into trouble again, are you, Lyle?”

Lyle grimaced and pinned his ears back much as if the guard had just summoned a Surf to deluge him. Yes, Nils knew the Pokémon he shook down for his… ‘donations’ quite well. Well enough to know that even without his natural disadvantages, the Quilava before him was particularly ill-prepared to refuse his demands.

“I mean, I heard your ma and pa were those glassblowers out in Freeden Village, weren’t they? But the last time I was passing through, they said that they didn’t know any ‘Lyle’ other than some good-for-nothing thief they chased off from their shop,” Nils explained. “And then there’s that old wanted poster for a Quilava from some ‘Foehn Gang’ that was floating around last year with a description that matches up with everything but your name, Lyle Fremders. I mean, I’m sure that he’s long been caught with how old that listing is. But… it’d be awkward for you if ‘mons around here got you confused with either of those two characters, don’t you think?”

Lyle bristled at the Floatzel’s faux amity. Even close friends didn’t bring up a ‘mon’s Vatername₇ in casual conversation, not that ‘Fremders’ was even his real one. It was a stupid idea he’d had to try and hide who he was when he tried to leave his past behind, to pretend that he was some recruited Wilder who didn’t have a father to record.

At the time, he thought it’d surely draw less attention than just going around as ‘Lyle Igelavars’ like he had back when his parents still acknowledged his existence. But all it’d done was tip off more observant types like Nils that he had something to hide when they noticed his behavior didn’t match up with his backstory. And it gave the guard all that he needed to skim off his pay without him being able to so much as raise a word in protest.

“Ugh… how much do you want?” Lyle grumbled. As soon as the words left his mouth, Nils’ smile vanished from his face, and his expression hardened into an icy scowl.

“20 Carolins sounds about right for tonight. The straps for the back of my armor have worn out and I need to replace ’em, and I didn’t really have the heart to go asking for money from folks like Oulen either,” the Water-type said. “Ever since her joey came along, she’s been struggling to get by, and not because she’s got something to hide either.”

Lyle muttered under his breath before loosening the pouch with his pay in it and grudgingly parted ways with a quartet of golden-colored coins from it. As steep as Nils’ demanded bribe was, there wasn’t much point in trying to dig his heels in. Even if Nils wasn’t in a position to rat him out and have the book thrown at him, Nils’ kind as Water-types held the upper paw over Quilava like him in battle. A straight fight right here and now would accomplish little other than getting him knocked out and giving the damned Grünhäuter a license to clean him out entirely. After palming the coins Lyle passed over, Nils threw them into a small bag that he stuffed back under his breastplate, and stepped aside with a smarmy smile and mocking wave of his paw.

“Have a good night! And do take care of yourself out there!” the guard said. “There’s been a rash of robberies by Outlaws around these parts lately.”

Lyle lowered his head and spat a few embers into the dirt as he trudged along over the bridge, growling under his breath over the indignity of having to let some sea rat help himself to his stuff. If he were still with his old gang, he’d have allies to make the Floatzel whimper out an apology and scurry off all the way back to his garrison at Moonturn Square. But yesterday was gone, and he’d left that game. He was just a berry picker now and there were no allies for him to call on, and no remedy for the third of the already-meager earnings he’d collected that day that Nils had just pocketed.

The Quilava paused and reared up, seeing that he’d gone far enough for the bridge to no longer be visible, and the trickling sounds of the stream no longer reached his ears. He had ended the day expecting to have earned 90 Carolins, and was now left with 40. Whatever thoughts of lager this week were sheer fantasy at this point, and he’d need to start thinking of what other meals to skip in it if this sort of pay was going to be his new norm. He supposed there was the food dole that was distributed in towns like Moonturn Square, but using it meant making yourself known to the local authorities… and for the army’s levies for ‘monpower for the front lines. Right when a fresh one was just about to go out and the garrison was already known to be short on volunteers.

Perhaps it was time to just give in and take from it. One of the last things that had happened in his former life as an Outlaw was that he’d begun to falteringly learn how to use Flame Charge. He hadn’t exactly practiced it much since then, but the fact that he’d even gotten to that point was sign enough that his time as a Quilava was nearing an end. Whenever that happened, he’d need to afford the extra food to feed his new body somehow, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to happen with his wages.

Lyle folded his ears back and dimmed his head and tail fire, staring down at the ground as the sense of solitude on the brisk autumn night sank in. Just then, he heard a branch crack in the undergrowth to the right of the path, and flared his ears and fire as he whirled over towards its direction.

“Huh? Who’s there-?”

The Quilava was cut off by a black-and-red blur bursting out from the undergrowth and knocking him to the ground. Lyle curled up reflexively and flared out the fire on his body, before rolling over onto his feet and bracing for battle when he felt something catch at his throat. The stoat looked down and caught his breath, noticing a pair of long, white claws digging their points in at his throat.

“Heya, miss me, Lyle?”

Lyle followed the claws with his eyes up to their owner, and saw a Sneasel in a blue scarf with a lighter-shaded wind swirl design stooping down beside him with a wry smile. The Quilava panted tensely for a moment before calming after he recognized the features of the Dark-type, who pulled her claws back, brought them up behind her feathered head and stuck her tongue out teasingly. Lyle reared up, and after brushing at his throat a couple times, turned back to the familiar Sneasel with a sharp frown.

“Would it have killed you to give a normal greeting, Kate?” the Quilava fumed. “What are you even doing here?”

“Heh, so you do recognize me!” she exclaimed. “And here I thought this scarf from the Mistral Marauders would throw you off!”

“Hrmph, you’re not exactly a character who’s easy to forget,” Lyle grumbled back, narrowing his eyes. “And you didn’t answer my question about why you’re here. There’s a guard on the bridge not even a hundred paces down the path!”

The Sneasel unfolded her arms and circled around the Quilava, walking about him in an arcing path around his back from his left to his right.

“Well… I’d heard that you’d been having some money troubles,” Kate said, giving a playful poke at the stoat’s flank. “So I figured that I’d offer you a chance to scratch my back, and I’d do the same to yours.”

Lyle stiffened up from the Sneasel’s jab, which vaguely reminded him of the pokes he and his brother traded when they were younger to tease and roughhouse with each other, if a bit more uncomfortable on account of her claws. Kate really hadn’t changed all that much from when they parted ways… or the times they’d met since then. Now, just as then, the Quilava gave a sharp shake of his head back, and repeated words that had become almost rote to him.

“Oh Blauflamme₈, this crap again?” he snorted. “I already told you last time, no more jobs. I left that game and I’m not planning on getting back in.”

Kate folded her arms and blew a puff of chilly breath up at her ear feather, giving a sour frown in reply to her former comrade.

“You could’ve fooled me seeing how your current scarf’s just missing that pattern our old crew’s had. So you obviously don’t have that many bad feelings about it,” the Sneasel insisted. “Besides, I wouldn’t have made the offer if I thought you’d have trouble with it! You pulled your weight every bit as much as I did back when we were on the Foehn Gang!”

“Yeah, well last I checked, the Foehn Gang doesn’t exist anymore and the Charizard who used to run it got pushed into an Apricorn to starve to death,” Lyle grumbled. “So there’s not a whole lot I can do to help you there.”

“Well the Pokémon from it are still around… or at least a few of ’em anyways,” the Dark-type insisted. “Including your old buddy, Alvin.”

Lyle hesitated for a moment at the Sneasel’s words, who keenly watched his expression and posture in response. He never had heard of Alvin turning up among the Pokémon who’d been captured when the Foehn Gang was broken up. But at the same time, Kate had never mentioned him before the past times they’d met, so what was going on?

“Alvin?” the Fire-type asked. “Since when did you still work with him?”

“Well, it was more luck of the draw with the old bonehead, really,” the Sneasel admitted. “His new crew and mine are teaming up to take on a caravan that’s set to come through here tomorrow.”

Kate raised a claw and prodded at Lyle’s chest gently with one of her claws, curling her muzzle up into a knowing smile.

“The boss wanted some local muscle to help her and the gang out with the job,” she explained. “When I mentioned that there was a former pyro from the Foehn Gang who had a mean Will-‘O-Wisp and made a name for himself punching above his weight who was toiling away in a field right in the neighborhood… well, it kinda piqued her interest.”

Lyle hesitated for a moment, before brushing the Sneasel’s claw aside and starting off, sharply huffing in reply without bothering to look back at the Dark-type.

“I’m sure you can find someone else to help her,” he insisted. “Outlaws aren’t exactly hard to come by these days.”

“Outlaws? Or ‘mons short on coin?”

Lyle’s ears pricked at the sound of jingling coins when he noticed that the flap of his satchel had been pried back. The Quilava whirled around and saw Kate holding his bag of coins, before opening it, eying its contents, and looking back with a disbelieving scoff.

“Lyle, can you even feed yourself properly with this sort of money? I’ve seen ‘mons try their luck outside the law with more than this to show to their name!” she exclaimed. “And just how badly did that Floatzel clean you out earlier? I can smell his grubby mitts all over this thing!”

Lyle grit his teeth and let the flames on his body simmer in irritation. Kate must’ve been shadowing him for some time if she’d known about his run-in with Nils. He thought of raising his voice to ask her just how long she’d been following him, only for her to draw the bag of coins shut, and toss it up and down in her claw.

“Oh come on, what’s with that look? You of all ‘mons oughta know I don’t rip off friends,” she insisted. “And it’s not as if I’m asking you for a commitment here either.”

The Dark-type caught onto the satchel and tightened her grip around it, giving a stern look back.

“All I’m asking for is for you to lend your skills and help me and Alvin this one time, doing something that should be old hat to you: we go in, we pull a smash and grab, and get out afterwards,” she said. “You’ll get your share of the loot, we part ways again, and you leave better off from it. From what I’ve heard, the caravan we’re targeting ought to have enough once everything’s divided up properly for your cut to help you get a fresh start away from this dump.”

Kate shook her head, before throwing the bag back at Lyle’s feet. The Quilava reflexively stooped down to snatch the coins up, the Sneasel watching and letting her ears droop as she couldn’t help but let an almost pitying look cross her face before speaking up again

“… Or you just say ‘no’ and I’ll try and find some other talent from around here,” she sighed. “I personally wouldn’t find picking berries all day along with the occasional shakedown by a troll under a bridge to be rewarding, but hey. You do you.”

Lyle stuffed his coin bag back into his satchel and clamped it shut. The Quilava turned to leave but found himself unable to just shrug off the Sneasel’s offer as he had in the past.

Lyle bit his lip. Everything Kate had promised was secondhand, hardly a guarantee of any sort. But she was never the type to deliberately mislead him and wouldn’t have pitched this as a one-time job if she didn’t genuinely believe it was going to be one… so why did he have an awful feeling in his stomach about it?

Lyle heard the quiet grumble of his stomach and pinned his ears back. Right, he hadn’t been eating well lately. And with his dwindling pay from the Oran field, he likely wouldn’t be for the foreseeable future. There’d be nothing left to pick within a month, and the money he’d been able to save for winter this year had been… meager, to say the least. Maybe he’d be able to find an odd job to plug the gap, but if he didn’t…

Wouldn’t it just be a matter of time before he found himself back in this situation? And if it came to that, did he really want to face things without friends who could watch out for his back?

“… Those crews you’re working with. Who are they? And what do they know about this caravan?”