Chapter 17: Love (Not Actually)

SPENCER’S POV

If Tumble (or Agarth, for that matter) harbored any inclination to believe my warning, neither lion betrayed any sign of this. Slowly, I accepted that they just weren’t going to take seriously the word of this Litleo who’d only been part of their community for three short months.

Make no mistake: Giving myself over to this idea was painful. It felt akin to throwing a favorite piece of jewelry in the trash. But I had no reason not to believe it.

Why would they care so little about their own village? Why would they think I’m lying about such a grave threat?

In the end, it hardly mattered which one it was. Either way, Whitehall was in danger, and those tasked with its protection were less than receptive to my words of advice.

They’re not like the humans, who don’t believe in mystery dungeons at all. In a way, I’d almost rather deal with humans, because at least you know where they stand.

It didn’t feel great to throw my own race under the bus like this, but as time passed my connection to my humanity became increasingly tenuous. Perhaps I was starting to see things the way the villagers did – my former kind had brutally mistreated Pokémon for centuries, and something would need to be done to make things right.

Even besides that philosophical discussion, the night after the race was haunted by anxiety. My heart raced as I dreamed up the punishments Agarth would have in store; Calvin had told stories about other teams having to scrub the bathroom floor with a toothbrush, for instance, a plight I did not envy.

For the second night in a row, sleep was elusive, and I rose the next morning with a yawn. Calvin, too, had circles under his eyes as though he’d barely slept at all.

“Arceus,” Calvin moaned groggily, “I’m not looking forward to today.”

Indeed, I felt as though we were in the elevator of a mine shaft, sinking deeper into the Earth with each passing second. What awaited at the bottom, neither of us knew, but both of us dreaded.

We ate breakfast in the dining room as always. Frala had cooked a simple meal for us, toast with a couple leftover berries. For the record, the lioness knew how to make just about anything tasty, but the toast might as well have been cardboard today.

Eventually, there was a tiny knock on the door, which sounded more like a peck. (No, not a kiss – a literal peck).

“I’ll get it” Enfield offered, the first time he’d spoken the whole meal. 

Neither Calvin nor I objected. Fifteen seconds later, Enfield returned to the table, clutching an envelope in his paw. His face said it all.

“What’s wrong, Enfield?” I asked. “You look like you just shit a brick”.

Frala stiffened up. “Not while we’re eating, please.”

“Whatever” I replied. “Enfield, what’s in the letter?”

In hindsight, I think this question was a manifestation of my denial. Of course I didn’t want to believe the truth, and yet it was staring me right in the face in the form of that envelope.

“It’s from Guildmaster Agarth” Enfield mumbled. “It has the WASP insignia on it.”

Oh, shit. We’re dead meat – at least, we would be if this place ate actual meat.

After a brief yet very loud silence, Frala snapped the following: “What do you think that letter’s going to do? It’s hardly a bomb!”

We glanced tensely at one another. Then, Enfield sighed. “It’s probably better to get it over with fast,” he sighed.

The Emolga tore the envelope open. Sure enough, the letter appeared as official as if it had come from the guild. As Enfield had said, there was even the WASP emblem on the sheet of paper, which he plopped down on the table for us all to read.

These were the letter’s contents, which read just as caustically as if they’d actually been exclaimed using Agarth’s physical voice:

“Dear” Team Earthlink,

It has come to my attention that the two Litleo on your team engaged in a severe breach of the rules for the Whitehall sled race. By frolicking unannounced in the woods for numerous hours, you made the village worried about your whereabouts! How DARE you do that!

You three have disrespected the character of Whitehall Village so much that I’d have half a mind to expel you from the guild right away! But consider me MERCIFUL if anything, because you’re going to get off easily by comparison.

Your presence – yes, all three of you – is required at the guild hall as soon as you receive this letter.

From,

Guildmaster Agarth Torchic

“Fuckin’ asshole!” Calvin bellowed, generating another grimace from Frala. “He’s punishing us for something that isn’t even our fault! It’s not like we wanted to end up in the Labyrinth!”

“Well, I didn’t do anything,” Enfield sighed. “I guess I’m off the hook.”

I frowned. “What part of yes, all three of you is ambiguous?” (Mind you, I didn’t think Enfield deserved to be punished, but if he was at the guild hall with Calvin and I, at least we’d have company).

“Oh my Arceus!” the Emolga shrieked, flapping his wings and hovering over his chair. “They’re going to punish me for something you two did!”

“That’s enough arguing!” Frala exclaimed, bringing her water glass down onto the table about as hard as she could without breaking it.

In other words, she meant business; there was no denying that.

“I guess we should head over now,” Calvin muttered. “If you give Agarth an inch of a rod, he’ll take a mile, and use that mile-long rod to beat you up.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?” Idioms were hardly my strong suit.

“It means that if we’re late, he’s going to increase our punishment!”

“Then don’t just stand there,” Frala snapped, “run to the guild hall!”

That’s exactly what we did. We sprinted through the spring morning, which would otherwise have been a thing of beauty as we slipped on the dew-covered grass, and arrived at the guild hall within a couple minutes.

The hall was as musty as always, and I wasn’t able to resist a sneeze for more than a few seconds. This sneeze summoned Agarth right away.

“You three!” Agarth commanded. “To the basement!”

I hadn’t been aware that the building even contained a basement, but the Torchic led us down a steep, narrow stairwell into a carpeted room. This room brought to mind a small-town church basement, somewhere they’d teach Sunday School at the Church of Arceus. 

Is he going to make us sit through a bunch of sermons and whatnot? Honestly, that sounds worse than cleaning toilets!

Well, as it turned out, Agarth had an entirely different job for us. One that, on the surface, might sound like it’s hardly a punishment at all. But just you wait.

“Your task today,” the Torchic announced, “is to bake cookies.”

The three of us raised our eyebrows. At home, baking of any kind is often seen as a fun activity. As such, there had to be a catch, a little snag that meant that baking cookies would be unpleasant rather than a treat.

“What do you mean, bake cookies?” I blurted out, which made Agarth look at me as though I were from another planet.

“I mean,” the Torchic responded testily, “that you’re going to make dough out of eggs, flour, sugar, salt, raisins, and oatmeal, and you’re going to roll it out and cut circles out of them. Then you’ll bake them in the oven for ten to twelve minutes per batch.”

This can’t be real. Agarth is angry at us, and he’s punishing us by…having us bake oatmeal raisin cookies?

I couldn’t help it: I started licking my lips. I could already picture getting to taste small amounts of batter, which, as awesome as it was, could not compare to chowing down on the hot, doughy pieces of deliciousness that had just left the oven. 

But if something sounds too good to be true, it usually is. And indeed, I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up as much as I had.

“How many batches will we be baking?” Enfield enquired.

Agarth hesitated, twisting the figurative knife in. Then he smiled and spat out the answer.

“Fifty.”

“Are you serious?” I exclaimed. “That’s like…six hundred cookies!”

“Well, you’re baking cookies for the ball tomorrow. You might even get to eat some of them. But you are not to so much as lick a beater before all fifty batches are complete – if you take so much as a bite of a completed cookie, I’ll make sure your punishment increases!”

My forelegs already ached from the sheer amount of stirring I was about to be subjected to. My mouth still watered even though I knew the oatmeal raisin cookies were off-limits. That’s how it works: When you’re told you can’t have something, you want it even more.

The recipe was on the table, and Agarth let us be for the time being. However, he issued the following warning: “I’ve got ears in the walls, I’ve got eyes in the back of my head. If any of you slack off, I’m going to make sure you live to regret it!”

Well, at least he’s not threatening to end our lives.

So we got to work. The first step was to mix the batter together, which would have been a trivial task most of the time. Call me a mama’s boy, but I’d baked cookies many times with my own mother and knew how the process worked. However, one thing set this time apart, and I don’t think I need to tell you what it was.

“Man,” I muttered, “my body’s taking a beating.”

Reaching up to the counter and stirring the bowl was quite an endeavor. Before long, my forelegs felt like jelly. And then I remembered – this was only the first batch!

“I’d rather go through that spider dungeon again” I whispered angrily, impulsively. “Anything but to be here making cookies”.

“Be careful what you wish for, Spencer,” Calvin advised me. “Because you might just get it.”

Once the batter had been mixed up (and we didn’t lick the bowl), we mixed in the raisins and a few cups of oatmeal. The smell was delicious, but also tortuous, because it just made me want to take a bite.

“And then we use a spoon to scoop it out…” Enfield said, echoing the recipe. “But wait – something’s wrong. Why’s it so gooey?”

“Beats me” I replied.

Calvin glanced at the recipe and gasped. “It’s because you didn’t add the dry ingredients yet, Spencer. They are meant to make the mixture thicker – otherwise the dough won’t stay together…”

“But that’s okay,” I said (kind of grasping at straws), “because we can just add the flour now…”.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Calvin snapped. “You have to do everything in the right order – have you done this before?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should remember what to do, and when to do it. Autopilot doesn’t work here, Spencer, you’ve got to read the damn instructions!”

Instead of making fifty batches that day, we made fifty-one. I took no joy in adding an additional set of cookies to the list, not least because we wouldn’t actually get to enjoy them.

“Man, this hurts” I groaned, stirring the dry ingredients in and encountering resistance that required some elbow grease to overcome. 

“Careful – he said the walls have ears” Calvin sighed. “That’s what they call a bubble thought.”

I made a mental note to ask Calvin where he’d heard the term bubble thought. If it had been the same sort of place as me, we would have much to talk about in the near future.

Once the dough had settled, our next task was to use a spoon to scoop it into a dozen balls and lay them out strategically on the baking sheet. This way, they would condense into the circles that we all know and love.

Then it came time to place the cookies in the oven. The easiest way to do this as a Litleo (or any quadruped) would be to place the edge of the baking sheet in my mouth and use my jaw strength to lift it upward. Something told me, however, that Agarth wouldn’t take kindly to such an unsanitary way of doing things.

So instead, I had to have Enfield prop the oven door open as I hoisted the cookies and sheet into the oven. It was not terribly heavy, but the motion required strained both my neck and back.

“One down, forty-nine to go,” Calvin mouthed.

I glared at him. “You’re not helping. There must be a better way.”

My fellow Litleo snorted. “Well, what’s that thing humans have been experimenting with? Fake smarts?”

“That’s artificial intelligence, or AI for short” I corrected him testily.

“Right. In any case, until we have some way to bake cookies using AI, we’ll just have to do it manually. Grin and bear it, okay?”

I would bear it if I had to, but I certainly wouldn’t grin in the process.

We set up an assembly line of sorts. Calvin would gather the ingredients and mix the batter, then I would add the dry ingredients and stir them into the bowl. Finally, Enfield would form the cookies on the baking sheet and transfer each sheet to the oven. 

Even with only one job to do, I was aching before long. I didn’t keep track of how many batches we’d done, because knowing a number meant that I’d be reminded of how very far we still had to go. As I poured some brown sugar into the bowl, I thought grimly about how this was still better than a different type of sugar trap that had almost claimed Marcus Riolu’s life.

After a while, I was at the end of my rope, and I sat down abruptly. By this time, I would ordinarily know how to do so without crushing my tail; on that occasion I did not. My eyes watered, and I gasped in pain.

“Come on, Spencer,” Calvin coached me. “You’ve been through tougher times. I know you have.”

“But we’ve done several dozen batches – “.

“To honor your definition of the word several,” Enfield responded, “I’ve only put several batches in the oven. This is the eighth batch out of fifty, which means we’re about fifteen percent of the way to our goal.”

“Arceus almighty” I sighed, stretching out my limbs. The piles of flour bags, boxes of raisins and oatmeal, bags of brown sugar…well, they seemed endless now that I saw just how much stuff it takes to make fifty batches of oatmeal raisin cookies.

“What are you going to do, smash the flour on the ground?” Calvin said in a teasing tone.

“Don’t tempt me.”

So the pain resumed. Yes, baking cookies is fun, but not when it’s an all-day affair. You can only imagine the cramps I endured by the time we were halfway through. And it’s not like I could get all of it over with quickly, because only so many cookie sheets could fit in the oven at once.

After what I counted as another several batches, I sat down yet again with a deep sigh. By this time my forelegs were as stiff as boards, and I was far from convinced that I could do even one more batch, let alone thirty-five.

Once I’d gotten up again after a few minutes’ rest, we made small talk for a while, but when you’ve been living with the same Pokémon for three months, there’s only so much new ground to be broken. It seemed as though we knew all there was to know about one another.

I placed the twentieth mixing bowl in front of Enfield. Thirty more to go, as much as I would have liked to be done right then and there.

And then I remembered: There was one thing left I hadn’t told Calvin or Enfield, something that many would consider personal. (Indeed, I saw it as personal information too, assuming neither of them had guessed it about me.) But it was a Hail Arceus move to make the endless baking task more bearable.

I sighed. Not like I had anything better to do. “There’s something both of you should probably know,” I muttered sheepishly.

“Yeah?” Calvin wondered aloud, barely being heard over the sound of the beaters. Once the machine had ground to a halt, he continued: “What is it, Spencer?”

Should I deliver this news slowly, or all at once? Well, it’s hardly “news”, is it, just information that’s always been true about me. I’ve had it since birth, after all.

I sighed. “Calvin…you mentioned the other day that you were just like me before you learned how to read social cues.”

My fellow Litleo raised an eyebrow. “Yes. I guess I did.”

“Well, what do you mean by that?”

Calvin sighed. “Isn’t this a little personal to discuss when Agarth can probably hear our every word?”

“I didn’t think of that,” I admitted. “But I think it’s fine. Agarth isn’t going to judge us for that, so long as we keep working.”

Once Calvin handed me Bowl Number 21 to stir, I sighed again. It was yet another reminder of how far we had left to go.

“Whatever” my fellow Litleo sighed, going to the cupboard and opening a new bag of flour. Some of it got on his multicolored fur, which made me chuckle.

“Calvin – you’re going to look just like the rest of us if you’re not careful!” I joked.

As Enfield sent the twentieth batch into the oven, he appeared totally oblivious to our conversation. Maybe he was lost in his own thoughts, or maybe he’d decided to tune out my coming heart-to-heart with Calvin. And I didn’t know which I’d rather believe.

After Calvin snorted, he answered my question in a more serious tone. “Well, sometimes I talked about adventuring as a kid even when it wasn’t appropriate. Like when Whitehall held a funeral for an adventurer, though that’s an extreme example. But even when the other ‘mon weren’t mourning a loss, I still couldn’t stop myself from hyper-fixating on it.”

“You used that word,” I said. “Hyper-fixating.”

“Maybe I did,” Calvin admitted. “But that’s the word that describes me. I could name facts about geography until you drop. Like I could tell you the names of all the regions, and name them on a map blindfolded. I even won the village’s Geography Beedrill twice for all the good it did – I just got a scarf that’s now too small for me.”

I frowned. “How can a scarf be too small for you?”

Calvin rolled his eyes. “Asking the important questions, are we now? Anyway, my special interest, as some would say, is mystery dungeons. I’d say it’s come in handy over the last few months – I’ve almost been living my dream!”

I thought back to the spider’s lair, deciding that Calvin had to have a pretty liberal definition of living the dream for that to qualify. But I could scarcely stop myself from blurting this out:

“So the special interests can come in handy? That’s what I heard at the social thinking courses my parents kept sending me to!”

“Same here” Calvin stated, and it was then that the light-bulb went off in my mind.

What I was going to share with Calvin…maybe he already has it too. Not necessarily the information, but the quality.

Even in the absence of any confirmation, it was still quite something to suspect that you and a friend (not just a friend, a teammate) had more in common than you’d realized. As I heard the beaters in the background, I couldn’t help but smile at this connection I shared with Calvin…

…until, that is, when Calvin set the bowl of batter in front of me with these words: “You know what to do.”

Indeed, I did, as much as I would have loved to play dumb. Playing dumb wouldn’t release me from my obligation to bake more cookies, to engage in this highly unconventional method of torture.

(Insert a horizontal line here)

For the third night in a row, I lay awake in bed for much of it. The saying “dreaming instead of sleeping” certainly applied here.

As I glanced weary-eyed at the ceiling, I allowed myself to smile slightly. There’s something about letting go of a secret that is very liberating, like casting a shackle off your ankle for the first time in a long while.

Calvin knows that special interests can come in handy. I mean, he’s kept us alive in so many dungeons because he knows the ins and outs of how to navigate them. Well…most of the time.

Meanwhile, what have I done with my special interests? I guess I’ve sat at a classroom desk for hours a day as professors lectured about how to make maps, or which forms of government Sinnoh has existed under and their pros and cons. Nothing that really matters when your life is as simple and pure as it is here.

Calvin might have been three years younger than me, but in some ways he seemed like a more complete version of myself. Like if I’d put my neurodivergence to a more productive use than nerding out about politics.

Well, tomorrow’s the ball. Maybe there I’ll be able to find someone to date. Someone who’ll make my life here less lonely…

I shook my head. As impossibly awkward as I was, it also felt unnecessary to hook up with anyone at the village ball. After all, I had Calvin and Enfield to count on in life. Calvin had saved my life three months ago, and who knew how many times since. Enfield had played a supporting role in many battles, rarely serving as just a benchwarmer. I was happy enough to just have them as friends, nothing more. 

Overall, I was the sort of guy who didn’t see the need for romance in his life. But if one of the girls (or guys) at the ball caught my fancy, maybe that would change. Perhaps I’d have a relationship for the first time in my life, or maybe they’d remain “just a friend.”

Coming to terms with that reality, I finally fell asleep well past midnight. When I awoke later that same morning, I didn’t exactly feel refreshed, but it was better than the aftermath of a totally sleepless night.

The ball was slated to begin at noon, so the three of us ate breakfast with Frala as usual. It was impossible not to notice the way her smile seemed almost like a frown, which might sound like an oxymoron, but not when you meet such an enigma as Frala Pyroar.

“Why do you keep looking at us that way, Mom?” Calvin enquired. 

The lioness sighed, probably weighing the best response. Eventually, she replied thusly: “I’m just thinking of how you’ve grown, Calvin. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t that long ago that I…adopted you.”

If Frala had discussed any details of Calvin’s adoption with the latter, I hadn’t been privy to that talk. It was just as well in my view – better not to make him feel as though he wasn’t part of the family. (Besides, I wondered if Frala wanted to cling to what little family she had after what had happened to her parents and Borden’s sudden demise.)

“No, it wasn’t,” Calvin responded with a blush.

“Indeed. Well, in terms of my life it was, but that hardly matters. What’s truly important is that we’re eating together now.”

Calvin glanced at me. I think she imagines she’ll miss me when I’m gone, one way or another.

“Now, do you three need to bake any more cookies for the ball?” Frala asked.

As soon as those words had been said, my legs burned as a grim reminder of yesterday’s ordeal. I silently cursed the lioness for even bringing it up.

Enfield snorted. “Don’t give us that, Frala. Don’t ever give us that.”

The lioness shrugged. “I just wanted to make sure you’re fulfilling all the guild’s demands. I’m sure being a rescue team isn’t easy.”

“No shit” I muttered, the profanity promptly earning me a disapproving glance from Frala. 

“They’ve all been baked,” Calvin clarified, rubbing the back of his neck. “Now we get to partake in the most enjoyable part of baking cookies.”

“And what’s that, Calvin?” Frala all but cooed in a tone that felt almost mocking.

“Eating the cookies!”

“Yes, that must be a highlight of the ball. Anyway, you three should probably get ready for it – would you like to dress up for the occasion?”

I snorted. “That will not be necessary,” I replied, fully expecting that the other young ‘mon at the ball would mostly avoid clothing entirely. And when in Whitehall, you did as the Whitehallers did.

“If you say so. If you wish to find a mate, though, you’ll want to impress your potential partner. After all, it is mating season here in Whitehall.” Frala said that almost as though she didn’t mean it. Which she probably didn’t, especially in Calvin’s case.

Eventually, it was time to head to the village green. After Calvin kissed his mother goodbye, we made our way over, where we were greeted by what looked like a mosh pit at a concert. 

Music filled the air – drums, cymbals and guitar. I couldn’t place the song, but it sounded like something my fellow GPU frat boys would listen to at their leisure. Additionally, about twenty Pyroar ranging in age from maybe eighteen to twenty-two were strutting their stuff in front of the stage.

“We’ve got a local band playing!” an excited female voice exclaimed. “Count Down and the Ring-A-Dings!”

Amidst all the cheering and singing along, a chorus of voices that drowned one another out, I couldn’t hear the lyrics. But in a way, it did not matter, because the festive atmosphere still came across.

“Count…what now?” I wondered aloud, having to shout to make myself heard over the band.

The female, a Litleo who looked about my age (still twenty-one for the time being), stepped into my field of vision. Right away, as was often the case, my first mental note was to wonder: Why didn’t she evolve? Is she just like Calvin? But then, why didn’t Calvin evolve either? I’ve never understood that.

The female Litleo giggled warmly, but then raised an eyebrow. “Count Down? Please tell me you’ve heard of him before! He’s the frontman for the most popular local band in Whitehall!”

Shit, I thought, nearly biting my tongue. I’m going to expose myself as an outsider if I’m not careful here! Maybe I already have!

“Why are they called that?” I asked, rather stupidly if I’m honest with myself.

Luckily, the girl seemed to accept my ignorance without judging me too harshly. “Count Down is his stage name because he times his songs according to when he’s performing. Since it’s midday right now, his song ‘High Noon’ was just played”.

“Oh” I mouthed, making the corresponding shape with my lips. “That makes sense. Totally.”

“And then, like the bells on an old grandfather clock, the Ring-A-Dings, the band members with all the instruments, lend support. They play in harmony – it’s no wonder they’re so popular.”

“Huh” I said.

The song ended, which gave me enough time to walk away from this girl. But when I did so, I was assaulted by the knowledge that…

I just walked away from a chance to find love! 

But do I need love? No! I don’t need it! So what am I complaining about?

Fortunately, the band took the opportunity to introduce themselves just in case any of us (read: me) weren’t familiar with them. The lead singer, a mighty Pyroar, was backed by a fellow Pyroar on drums, a Braixen holding a pair of cymbals, and a Watchog on bass guitar.

“Ladies and gentle ’mon, as well as those who do not identify with either gender…for those about to rock, we salute you! We are Count Down and the Ring-A-Dings, after all! I’m your frontman, Count Down! Of course, I have another name too…it’s Jonathan”.

Jonathan “Count Down” Pyroar mentioned his legal name with utmost contempt, as though he couldn’t accept the indignity of not being allowed to use a stage name on official documents. Judging by the way the rest of the band presented themselves, I had to believe this was unanimous. As best as I could gather, the drummer was Aaron (better known as “A”), the cymbal-holder was Danny “Ring” Braixen, and the bassist was Francis “Ding” Watchog. Stage names of champions if I’d ever seen any.

Count Down spoke up at the end of the introductions, booming into the microphone so loudly that my eardrums felt fit to burst.

“Before we launch into our next tune, ‘I Will Fall’ ( an ode to the sun, by the way), I just want to express my gratitude to Whitehall Village for raising us and granting us the honor of performing at your annual ball. After all, this is no small honor, for the ball comes only once a year!”

Lots of cheering followed, which made me flinch. And then…

“I love this village, and I believe I speak for the rest of my band as well! Which is why I wish for those of you here looking for love to be successful! After all, without love, what else do we have?”

Leaving us with that rhetorical question, Count Down and the Ring-A-Dings launched into their next song, a nice feel-good rock ballad about the sun and how it could both give and take life. That song was at least passable, but after that I didn’t focus much more on the music, rather pushing my way through the crowd to get out of it. 

Getting away from the crowd felt much like poking my head up after being underwater for longer than I’d have liked. As I approached the several (yes, seven) buffet tables bearing dishes catered from the White Lion, I saw a number of tables occupied by lion couples talking and sometimes holding paws. (To me, this called into question the notion that all the attendees had been looking for love – some of them seemed to have found it already).

Regardless, I grabbed a plate and made my way down the line of tables, each of which carried a luscious-looking vat of some food. After grabbing a little of this and a smidgen of that, I reached the last table, which contained a giant pile of…

“Oatmeal raisin cookies!” I gasped, pinching myself to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. But you’ll have to excuse me, because I’d never seen that many cookies in one place at one time.

“We made those!” Calvin exclaimed. “Something I used to do all the time with Mom!”

I smiled at my fellow Litleo, who’d appeared out of seemingly nowhere. “I used to do that with my own mom as well.”

Enfield stood right behind Calvin, shivering.

“Why are you shivering, Enfield?” I asked the Emolga. “It’s a warm day!”

Indeed, it must be said that there was hardly a cloud in the sky. The air was crisp but pleasantly warm at the same time, and I could practically taste the light breeze. It was certainly a far cry from the many wintry woods we’d traveled through to reach mystery dungeons, so why did Enfield seem so cold?

“I’ve gotta go” Enfield muttered, clasping a paw over his mouth and jogging away from the buffet tables.

Once the Emolga was out of earshot, I glanced at Calvin. “What do you think his deal is?”

My fellow Litleo shrugged. “It’s not polite to talk about others behind their backs. There’s a word for that, and it’s gossip.”

“We’re not gossiping” I mouthed. “Just speculating.”

Calvin shook his head. “Still. It’s not nice. And if you can’t mask when appropriate, then…”.

There’s that word. Mask. 

“Whatever” I muttered, belatedly realizing that we were holding up the dessert line. “Want any cookies?”

“Hell yeah. We poured our sweat and tears into them, literally. I’ll be damned if I’m not going to have any!”

So we piled the cookies onto our plates and sat down at an empty table. Just like yesterday, there wasn’t much in the way of small talk, simply because knew one another too well. We just sat there for a while, eating our food (which hit the spot – if anything, the banners proclaiming WHITE LION’S FINEST CATERING had undersold it).

Eventually, the same Litleo who’d told me about the band’s identity came over, tray in her teeth. My heart skipped a beat.

“Can I sit with you two?” she asked. “Nobody else wants to join me.”

Maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe you’ve alienated others by talking so much about Count Down and the Ring-A-Dings.

But it did not seem that way, as Calvin nodded. The Litleo lady took a seat across from us and began chowing down on the food she’d carried over.

Eventually, there was a lull in the chewing, and it was then that the girl decided to speak up. “So what is your name?”

“I’m Calvin,” my teammate said. 

“Oh, I know you” the girl responded curtly. “You’re the one who doesn’t have white fur like the rest of us.”

Calvin shook his head at that, then came back to Earth. “I know. And I regret that I don’t, but I don’t.”

Turning to me, our visitor gave me a slight glare. “Who are you, if I may ask?”

I gulped, my face probably turning the color of a Pecha berry. “Uh…Spencer” I replied. “Spencer Litleo.” (Even after all this time, giving my Pokémon species rather than my human surname felt unnatural. Some things, you just never get used to).

“It is nice to meet you, Spencer” the girl responded. “I’m Emaire. Emaire Litleo”.

“Emaire” I mouthed, trying the name out on my tongue. It brought to mind the green fields of Kalos, sheep grazing on the copious green grass that could be found all over the countryside. A name I found attractive, for the record, not that anyone should be judged by the word their parents decided to call them.

Emaire nodded. “That is my name. And you’re Spencer. How old are you?”

“Uh…twenty-one” I mumbled. “But I’ll be twenty-two in June”.

The female Litleo’s eyes lit up. “Same here!” she exclaimed jubilantly. 

“That’s, uh…nice” I said, hardly able to process my words. “Is…is your birthday also in June?”

“Yes!”

Should I suggest that we celebrate our birthdays together as though we’ve been friends for a long time? After all, I just met this girl!

I did not know what else to say, but Emaire solved that problem for me.

“So you’ve lived in Whitehall your whole life, I assume? Who are your parents? Hopefully they treat you well.”

Uh, they live in the suburbs of Pastoria City and they’ve been painting the town red looking for me for over three months. 

For obvious reasons, I couldn’t exactly tell Emaire that, but I was damn tempted to pour my heart out. At a minimum, I was aware that keeping your emotions bottled up isn’t always healthy, but I just risked too much if I told her the truth.

“They’re fine” I muttered in little more than a whisper. “It’s just…I don’t love talking about them.”

“Too personal? I can respect that” Emaire replied. “But I’m surprised you’ve flown under the radar for so long. You might be anonymous in the skyscrapers of Jubilife City, but try that in a small town.”

I snorted in a desperate attempt to hide my blush. “Yeah, that’s how it works. I guess I’ve evaded you for this long.”

“Hey, it’s not too late, Spencer,” she suggested. “It’s never too late to take the next step?”

Calvin, who’d been watching this whole chat with what looked like mild amusement thus far, now shot me a happy, playful sort of glance. 

She’s flirting with you, it said. And you need to be able to handle this situation. As we take on more quests and gain more prestige, there will be a lot more ‘mon flirting with you. They’ll want to date such brave adventurers like us.

“Uh…” I began. So many people have talked about whether I should disclose a certain piece of information to my future employers. But it’s a different bit of info entirely that Emaire might know, or at least suspect.

But I’ll tell her anyway.

“You might have, uh, heard of us” I said impulsively. “We’re Team Earthlink, and we’ve been together for…three months.”

“A little more than three,” Calvin added, glancing at me. Whenever you can, make it sound more impressive than it already is.

That seemed to pique Emaire’s curiosity. “Team Earthlink? Didn’t you rescue Stu’s son from a spider’s den back in February?”

“Yep,” I added. Hey, not to toot my own horn, but it still felt great to succeed at a rescue. Every time I saw Marcus alive in the village, his leg now fully recovered due to his young age, I had another reason to smile.

“You’re so brave” Emaire cooed. “That was the pit of a hundred spiders, wasn’t it?”

I winked slowly. “The pit of a hundred thousand spiders” I corrected her. 

“You know,” Calvin stated, “there’s supposedly more spiders than that in there. Not a few hundred more either – like, maybe twice as many”.

I glared at my teammate. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“Because if I had, you wouldn’t have come with me and Enfield!”

I mean, I can’t really argue with that, can I?

Emaire, on the other hand, laughed heartily. “Oh, you boys and your bickering about such small things.” Even this was said playfully, in a teasing tone rather than an accusatory one. “And that same mine – that’s the one the lawsuit centered around, right?”

Both of us stiffened up. She’d been laughing before, but she wasn’t laughing anymore. After all, it wasn’t exactly a laughing matter.

Us villagers had received precious few updates about the state of the lawsuit we’d filed against the Dengar Corporation, and those we did receive felt far from precious. The jury had reportedly seemed more receptive to the defendants’ arguments, though Mayor Barrett cautioned us – it was impossible to read a jury, he said.

Jonas Zoroark, the lawyer arguing this case on behalf of Whitehall, was not so stoic. He was allegedly retiring to his home progressively earlier each night, with progressively large glasses of wine. In my mind, that said everything.

“Right” Calvin confirmed eventually after a brief silence. “That’s the one. Hopefully Jonas comes back soon.”

“They’re probably still arguing the case now” Emaire mouthed. “Unless there’s a verdict today. Which is always possible, I guess.”

I kid you not: Just then, literally just then, a Zoroark wearing a conductor’s hat and carrying a briefcase full of what must have been legal documents came scurrying into the village.

“He looks like his tail’s on fire” I remarked.

“I can confirm that it isn’t,” Calvin replied grimly. “But you’re right – it might as well be from how fast he’s running away from something.”

Jonas Zoroark ran through the crowd in the mosh pit, then transformed into a Raikou. This was of course merely an illusion – in reality, so much as talking would break the spell and make Jonas resemble his true form once more. He was likely weaving this illusion for one reason, and one reason only: To scare the crowd and make them disperse.

And it worked. As effectively as if tear gas had been sprayed all over the surrounding air, a lot of the lions screamed and ran away from the mosh pit. For an obvious Zoroark, they seemed oddly panicked, but that was hardly consequential. The music ceased – all four members stopped playing their instruments, but that didn’t make the scene silent.

The expression of Jonathan “Count Down” Pyroar was midway between anger and terror, as though he couldn’t decide whether to yell at Jonas or to flee the stage. In the end, he went with a middle ground, staring stone-faced at the Raikou (who swiftly shifted back into the Zoroark form).

“What do you want, Jonas?” Count Down bellowed. “We’re just trying to put on a show here!”

“Concerts aren’t more important than news, are they?” Jonas replied, his teal eyes gleaming in the early afternoon sun. According to the numerous social-coaching sessions I’d endured, this had to mean that Jonas wasn’t going to leave the former mosh pit without getting what he wanted. Not under any circumstances whatsoever.

The Braixen carrying the cymbals (whose name I’d already forgotten) jabbed one of his cymbals skyward, as though seeking approval from heaven above to continue the concert. “With all the bad news we’ve been getting, can’t we just enjoy this afternoon?”

“Nope,” Jonas snapped. A single word; that’s all it took to get his message across.

“We need music more than ever!” the Watchog bassist exclaimed. “Without it, what do we have?”

“Well, this news needs to be delivered,” Jonas announced. “And it needs to be done sooner rather than later. Let me just take the stage, okay?”

Count Down glared at the lawyer. “On the contrary, I do not have to listen to what you say. You asked me to relinquish the stage, and I’m saying no.”

Jonas’ eyes glinted even more brightly. “I’m not asking. I’m demanding. And you might be a lion, but these claws can still tear fur and flesh into ribbons!”

That was all it took for the band to leave the stage. The roadies didn’t appear to be present, so Jonas would need to give his speech while standing next to the instruments. These instruments (plastered with the band’s emblem of an alarm clock) already seemed to belong to a different time, one where live music existed, young lions danced in mosh pits, and all was well.

That time was long gone, and it might never come back after what Jonas had to say. The Zoroark took the stage, grasping the microphone Count Down had used, and heaved a great sigh.

All eyes were on Jonas now. At least, all the eyes that were present – his Raikou form had scared away many of the attendees, and older adults weren’t allowed at the ball for obvious reasons. But there were still plenty of lions to witness this talk.

“As all of you know, I’m representing Mayor Barrett and the rest of Whitehall Village in a lawsuit seeking to halt the construction of a gold mine in the Pit of 100,000 Spiders mystery dungeon. We’ve been delivering updates periodically so that you are all informed about the way the case seems to be heading.”

The villagers stood there with bated breath. It felt so dissonant to stand here on such a heavenly spring day and think (maybe even know) that everything this village loved was at stake. And yet, that circle had been squared.

“As many of you are aware, the case had been seemingly trending in a negative direction for weeks. I’ve cautioned you all not to read too deeply into it – you shouldn’t feel too happy on a good day or too dejected on a bad one. It seemed as though we had a chance.”

I don’t love the way he phrased that sentence. It’s as if…we don’t have a chance anymore.

Jonas shook his head. “Unfortunately, our worst fears have been confirmed. We lost the lawsuit, and the mine will be built. We have failed to save our land.”