Chapter 9: Fleeting Introspections

Torr stretched his arms and yawned as the rickety carriage bumped along the hardly maintained dirt roads. A few scattered rays of sunlight permeated the canvas roof. Bird wilds chirped a melody of verdant treetops and flowering fields. They had just passed through the thick temperate forest hugging the state border and arrived at the outskirts of Nocta.

For the first time in over half a decade, he was back in the grimy state of Ardenvale, where the gutters run red and gold. The rock bottom of Reystone Republic. After the collapse of the Cressinger Coalescence, Ardenvale had become the final bastion of large scale organized crime. 

However, despite its much deserved reputation, Ardenvale’s natural beauty was unmatched. Peeling away the curtains, Torr witnessed the flourishing hills and thawing mountaintops in the distance, forming rolling waves of mint chocolate chip. The afternoon sun shone between the two tallest peaks, a searing beacon cutting through the sparse clouds. Yet miraculously, the air remained relatively cool as the midsummer tradewinds glided throughout the region.  

“Need me to go any further, boss?” The mudsdale driver’s question snapped Torr out of his dreamy wanderlust.  

“Ah, here’s fine. Don’t wanna lead you into any trouble. We can walk the rest,” Torr replied. 

Raize let out a pained groan from across the car, causing Dolkka, who was sleeping by his side, to jolt awake. 

“More walking,” the raichu mumbled.  

“It’s good to get on our feet. Don’t wanna get caught napping in Nocta, ‘less you’re fond of losing your coinpouch.” 

“Sounds like a fun vacation.” Raize yawned and stretched his arms. 

“The best vacations are unforgettable.”

The three grabbed their belongings and hopped off the car as it came to a halt. From the car behind them, the arbok mightyena duo emerged.

“Why are we ssstopping here? There’sss no sscity here.” Caranaga flicked his tongue.

“Probably not the brightest idea to come barreling through Nocta in a fancy carriage and in broad daylight.” Torr turned to pay the driver. He produced four star-shaped gold coins and placed them in a pouch around the mudsdale’s neck. “Keep the change, it was a rough trip.”

The mudsdale breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Eeyup. Take care, my friends.” He turned and headed back in the direction of Cressinger. 

Torr turned back to face his motley crew. Black had flown to Nocta on his own to scout out a place to stay, so it was just the five of them. 

“First time in AV?” Torr asked.  

“Yip yep! Born and raised in Cress, never left!” Pashu beamed. The mightyena was brimming with unbridled enthusiasm, in stark contrast to his grimacing arbok partner. 

“You’re gonna love it here. Plenty of crimes to commit.”

“I’ve never really understood. How can there be that much crime when there are more criminals than honest folk? Is there like, instealing?” Raize asked.

“Great question! That’s actually a common myth. Many corporations actually exploit Ardenvale for cheap land and labor. The cost of living is also a fraction compared to the rest of the nation, so there are still plenty of poor law-abiding citizens trying to make it through all the chaos. Also, gambling! Lots of gambling.” 

Raize’s eyes lit up. 

“Okay, you got my attention. Where can I slam a few hands on a rainy friday evening while downing a sixth bottle of fire ale?” 

“There are at least a dozen casinos in Nocta alone. Even more if you go further south to Racha or Imo.” 

“Are you our tour guide?” Caranaga asked. Torr couldn’t really tell if he was being sarcastic.

“Free of charge!” Torr turned and started down the road. “Our first stop, some random warehouse to settle down in.” 

“We’re gonna be homeless?” Raize questioned with concern.

“A warehouse. It’s in the name. And it’s not like we’re just gonna squat around. I’m planning on buying.”

“What if there aren’t any conveniently inoperative warehouses for a group of misfits to purchase on a whim?”

“Maybe Black will find something.”

“Just because he’s a genius doesn’t mean he can work miracles.”

“Hmm, you haven’t been to Nocta before. I say our chances are pretty high.”  

“If you say so.”

The group trekked through a couple more miles of grassy hills until the city of Nocta came into view around the strip. Nestled in the valley beneath them was a cluster of poorly planned townhouses behind a field of wide warehouses consisting primarily of rusted sheet metal. Within the residential area were a few scattered high rises, along with several massive dirt mounds. Torr guessed some of them were for groundhouse support while others were abandoned construction projects possibly used as a front for money laundering. 

Torr was unusually cheery. It should have been a nerve wracking ordeal, abandoning his home of six years and returning to the dump where he spent several formative years of his childhood. He expected to be more sentimental of his time in Cressinger and more anxious about returning to his outlaw roots. Instead, he felt more liberated than he had ever felt in his life. There would be no more external shackles binding him down, telling him what was right and wrong, what standards must be upheld, what must be done. Now, he was in the driver’s seat. He knew what he must do, and he would see it through on his own accord. A determined smile grew on his snout.  

He wasn’t the only one in the group who was in high spirits, though. Pashu’s tail was an unstoppable force during the entire walk. The mightyena had been yapping nonstop, asking all sorts of questions, mostly personal ones unrelated to their trip. 

“Those are awesome! Where did you get them?” Pashu pointed a paw at Raize’s glass daggers fastened around his belt. 

“Oh, uhh. Some dealer in Estias,” the raichu replied.

“Not just any dealer! Reu the Ripjaw. He’s a local legend, a uniquely talented stone and glass worker,” Torr added. “Those toys weren’t cheap. You saved up for a good three months.”

“I mean I guess they’re pretty cool.” Raize scratched his head, looking a bit embarrassed. Torr had been with this dork for over half a decade, yet the raichu’s mannerisms still often confused him. What was there to be flustered about?

“That is cool!” Pashu continued. “I wish I was bipedal so I can wield epic weapons like that.”

“Pashu! Don’t sssay thossse thingsss,” Caranaga hissed sternly.

“Oh, wait til you see the kinda gear Liebe makes for you four legged fellas,” Torr said, trying to ease the sudden tension. It was a heavy topic to bring up. The Arkanum Bipedia crusades occurred well over a century ago, but its cultural influence could not be understated. Pashu, however, was too innocent for social taboos. 

“Who’s Liebe?” the mightyena asked, tilting his head in curiosity. 

“My blacksmith buddy. We were actually just visiting him in Klinkaton. He makes a bunch of cool shit, like switchblade extensions for digitigrade legs, tail swords, tailored armor, you name it. He’s coming over with us here soon.”

Pashu’s excitement lasted for the rest of the walk. The group eventually made it to a billboard that might have once read “Welcome to Nocta, Population” followed by a number, but it was impossible to decipher through the layers of rust, graffiti, and half peeled stickers. The grass had gradually become less dense until it eventually was entirely replaced by dirt, sand, and industrial gravel. 

Ahead of them were rows of rusty storage rooms, warehouses, and mobile outhouses. There weren’t many pokemon milling about. A couple of scrafty were leaning in the shade, chatting while casually flicking their lighters. They glanced briefly at the newcomers, before returning to their conversation. A chesnaught seemed to be finishing up his shift, pushing wheelbarrows back into their lots while wiping sweat from his brows. 

“So are we gonna rendezvous somewhere with Black?” Raize asked.

“He’ll come find us,” Torr answered. Raize was often obsessed with concrete plans and stuff. What a tiresome perspective. Life isn’t ever linear, why live like it is? 

“Ugh,” Raize groaned. He turned to the warehouse worker. “Hey! Excuse me!” 

The chesnaught looked at them strangely. 

“What’s up?” he replied in a gruff voice. 

“Uhh, sorry to bother you when you’re on the clock, but have you seen a hydreigon flying around aimlessly?” 

“Been inside most o’ the day, so nah, sorry fellas.” He wheeled in the last wagon and locked the shed. “By the way, you guys visiting or something?”

“For an indefinite amount of time!” Torr exclaimed.

“Figured y’all aren’t from around here. No one enters through here with all that fanfare, ‘less they’re from Cress or something. Especially through this warehouse block,” the chesnaught continued. He clicked some device on the side of the shed, which started a dull whirring noise. “Dunno what your story is, but I reckon you’re in a bit of a spicy pickle if you’re movin’ into this dump. Oh, and I think that’s your man o’ the hour.” 

Torr and Raize turned around to see Black descending from the sky toward them. 

“Missed ya, Black. Did you find someplace?” Torr asked, waving. 

Black landed in front of them.

“Yes. A group of lots at the east edge seem to be out of operation.” 

“Sweet.” Torr turned back to the chesnaught. “Any idea how much one of these warehouses costs?” 

“Mate, I don’t own this place. I’m just a blue collar.” He shrugged. “Maybe like one grand a month?” 

“What? That’s under half the price of a shared bedroom apartment in Estias,” Raize said incredulously. 

“Told you it’s cheap,” Torr replied. “Appreciate the info, Sir Chesnaught.”

“Best of luck to you and yer squad.” 

“Hope we catch you around.” 

“Fair warning, though. Don’t go striking up too much talk. Most folk here won’t be as amiable as I am.”

“Yeah. I know.”

---

NOCTA STORAGE COMPANY: Rent This Facility Today! Negotiate at 100 Breybury Rd.

Torr and the others found themselves in front of a wooden sign staked into the packed dirt in front of another section of decommissioned lots. 

“Aw, man. More fucking walking?” Raize whined. He was leaning forward dramatically as if he was about to topple. 

“Breybury Road is right there.” Black pointed to the nearest street perpendicular to their path. “It should not be a long walk.”

“Oh, thank the Forces. I can feel my legs detaching from my body.”

“You guys should stay here while I go settle the deal, if you’re that exhausted,” Torr offered. It would also be kind of awkward if a group of six fishy mon just showed up to some cramped storage realtor. Torr didn’t want to give any reason for them to hike the price up. He needed to come up with a good reason why he needed a massive warehouse for only the most legal of reasons and definitely not to become the base of a newly formed criminal organization. 

“Gladly. Wasn’t really in the mood to haggle anyways.” Raize took a seat beside the sign against a rusty steel panel. 

“Can I come with?” Pashu cut in. “I’m not tired, yip!”

Torr had already begun coming up with a polite way to decline Pashu’s request before the mightyena even finished talking. However, an idea suddenly popped into his head. Folks have always said Torr looked older than he actually was. Probably even old enough to be Pashu’s dad. 

“Alright, you can join me,” Torr replied, matching Pashu’s grin.

“Then I’m coming too,” Caranaga said. 

“No, you’ll have to stay here. More than two mon will give ‘em an excuse to mark up.” 

“I…” Caranaga began, then paused, narrowing his eyes. “Hsss, fine. Keep Pashu sssafe.” 

“No safer company than me, I assure you. Just ask my teammates.”

“Uhh,” Raize tilted his head in thought. The raichu had leaned so far back against the wall that he was almost laying on the floor. He shrugged. “Maybe?” 

Torr and Pashu detached from the group and headed over to the address written on the empty warehouse lot, which was just a block away. It was a lonely sight, a single office flat located amidst a sea of sheds, containers, and warehouses. Several wide window panes lined the exterior of the building, many of which were boarded up and covered in obscene graffiti. On the window beside the main entrance, a cheap neon open sign flashed obnoxiously, some of the runes occasionally glitching out of sync. A rack of yellowed, withering brochures stood beside the scratched glass door. 

“Alright Pashu, we’re gonna do some roleplaying,” Torr said in a hushed voice. “You’re gonna be my son, about to go out of town for university. We’re renting out some storage for your old stuff. Got it?”

“Oooh, okay! I’m good at trickery and stuff, yip!” Pashu began wagging his tail again. 

“Glad to hear that, son.”

The inside of the building did not betray its exterior. It was barren and worn, with paint cracks covering the edges of each wall and mysterious stains all over the beige carpet floor. Racks of miscellaneous supplies were rusty and crooked. Wild spray, oranguru glue, cranks, carpenter tools, etcetera. At the far side of the room was a long mahogany table, stabilized with a stack of newspapers shoved under one leg. 

A gabite was slinked back in a beat up office chair, legs kicked up on the table reading a raunchy magazine. He frantically dropped his material and spun in his chair as the shopkeeper’s chime announced Torr and Pashu’s arrival. 

“Oho, a customer? Welcome, welcome,” the gabite said with an odd inflection. He tipped his fedora and drummed his clown on the table. 

“Ahem. Good afternoon to you. My son and I are in the market for a warehouse rental. You see, he is heading to Cress for university and we need somewhere to put his… boating gear,” Torr said in the gruffest, deepest voice he could muster. 

The gabite raised a brow.

“Boating?”

“Yip, yep! I earned a scholarship for rowing, even though my grades weren’t very good!” Pashu replied without missing a beat. 

“Hmm, I didn’t know boating was big here in Nocta. We barely have a lake,” the gabite responded. 

“Har har, yeah. Ever since we moved here from Racha, my boy’s been itching to get back into the groove.” 

“I can’t wait to go to West Cressinger University! Their rowing scene is huge! Did you know the former world champion solo kayaker Junifer Dewott graduated from WCU?” Damn, Pashu was pretty good at this. 

“Yeah yeah, whatever. Good for you,” the gabite replied, getting up from his chair. His fleeting suspicion had quickly turned to annoyance. “Let’s get you guys a unit.”

The salesman walked over to a file cabinet and rummaged around for a minute, before producing a thick folder and slamming it on the table. 

“Here are all of our available lots. How big are you looking?”

“Well, we got like, four boats?”

“Five, if you count my M2 yacht!” Pashu piped up again. 

“Mhmm, so we’re gonna need something big big. Har har.”

 “This is the biggest we got for now.” The gabite slid out a document with his grubby claws. “It’s a warehouse/shed combo on the east side, comes with an additional mini shed to store lifts and other gear. So three facilities. Over a hundred thousand square feet in total!”

“Wow! Y’think this can fit your toys, Pash?” 

“They’re not toys! Daaaad!” Pashu whined convincingly. A bit too convincingly. Torr cringed ever so slightly. “It should be just big enough, though!”

“Okay, okay. Looks like a match. Hit us with a quote.”

The gabite had fallen for their ruse. His boundless passion for customer service was on full display with the vexed grimace plastered on his snout. 

“Seventeen hundred a month,” he replied curtly.

Now it was Torr’s turn to wear a grimace. It was definitely an affordable price, but it’s tough to haggle with one’s heart on their sleeve. 

“Quite steep, huh?” Torr racked his memory for another storage advertisement he came across earlier. “Maybe we should just stick to Shed Ninja’s offer of twelve. It’s a smaller lot, but we can probably make do, eh Pash?”

The gabite ground his teeth as his frustration grew. Even Torr could see the poor fellow’s commission flash before his eyes. 

“Guh, wait, lowest I can do is thirteen. Any less and the maintenance costs would put me at a loss, I swear! For just a hundred more than that stupid bugface’s lots, you won’t have to risk anything. Limited time offer.”

Well, that was easy. 

“Thirteen’s quite reasonable. With a lot this big, I’ll even be able to fit some of my, uh… golfing… stuff.” Torr wasn’t proud of that one. Pashu shot him a weird glance, which didn’t help his dwindling confidence. 

Luckily, the relieved salesmon didn’t take any notice of their deceit. 

“So we have a deal?”

“Yessir.” Torr still had juice in the tank to negotiate further, but he didn’t want to jeopardize his act any further. “I can pay for this month up front, if that would be convenient.”

“Yeah, I prefer that. Can I get your billing address for future payments?”

Oh shit, now that was a tough question.

“Ah, my billing address. Hrm. Yes, one moment,” Torr stalled as he racked his mind for anything. Only a single place came to mind. “1845 Claydune Street.”

The gabite jotted down the address into a small ledger. He pulled out a sheet of terms.

“And your signature.”

After skimming over it to make sure there were no sneaky fees, Torr pressed his claw into a pad of ink and printed it onto the contract. 

“The upfront payment, please?”

Torr fished out a string of star shaped coins. The gabite peered at him quizzically as he counted thirteen and slipped them off the end. It was definitely strange to keep so much cash on hand here, but the deal was already sealed. He exchanged the cash for a ring of keys. 

“Count it well. And pleasure doing business.” Torr swung the key ring around a claw as he exited the store with Pashu. 

---

As the team was getting settled in Torr’s newly leased property, the krokorok excused himself to take a peek at the complementary shed. It was a much appreciated bonus, as he had been deliberating where he would store the operations’s funds, sensitive documents, and other sorts of top secret shenanigans away from the prying eyes of new recruits. He fitted the smaller key on the chain into a simple padlock fastening the primitive hasp and staple door to the wall. The chassis let out a resounding click, and the door swung wide open. 

“EEEK!” A shrill scream echoed throughout the dark shed. 

“Hey! Who’s th-”

Before Torr could react, a yellow flash whizzed by his face as it darted out of the shed. Bits of yellow fur stuck to his scarf and arm wraps. The figure rushed down an alley down the street and disappeared immediately. 

“What the,” Torr mumbled, dusting off the staticky hairs. He should have expected it, honestly. Squatters were a dime a dozen in this area. Shrugging off the shock, Torr stepped into the darkness and fumbled about for the light switch. 

After a good minute of feeling up walls, all Torr had to show for it was a clawful of rust and dirt. Was there even a light in here? 

“What’s up?” Torr turned around to see Raize at the door. “Heard some commotion.”

“Hey man, I can’t find the- Ow!” A blinding pain seared through Torr’s left foot as he stepped on a sharp scrap of cold metal. He limped out of the shed as the confused raichu stared on in concern. “The lights. Fuck, that hurt.”

“Dude, just use a luminous.”

“I’m not using a whole orb to find a damn light switch. Gimme a flash.”

Raize rolled his eyes, extending a paw. Torr shielded his eyes as a pulse of light coursed through the raichu’s arm and lit up the front of the shed. 

The room was a mess. Jagged sheets of metal and random mechanical parts littered the floor. A table at the side of the shed was covered in piles of loose paper and spent inkwells. Some crumpled sheets were scattered on the ground among the shrapnel. Electrical burns were visible on the metal walls, forming an accidentally rustic wallpaper of blackened crests and arcs. 

Raize let out a sharp breath. 

“The hell?”

“Oh yeah, someone was in here earlier.” Torr found the switch, which had been ripped off the wall and was dangling precariously by a couple of wires. He flipped it on, and a couple dusty bulbs flickered to life. “Looks like they’ve been for a while.” 

“We should report that for compensation. This place is royally fucked.” 

“Don’t be so hasty. Let’s check it out first.” 

Torr shuffled carefully to the table, kicking aside an empty paint can. 

“Well, I’ll be damned. Prison plans.” On the table were the detailed outlines of prison architecture, complete with guard patrol cycles and system details. 

“Plans? Prison is the last place I’d plan to go.” 

Torr studied his friend’s unreadable expression.

“Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re actually stupid or just painfully unfunny.” 

“Aww, man. Have some faith in me.” Raize shot Torr a pensive look as he walked up to the table. “So, we gonna report this?”

“Snitches get stitches,” Torr replied. He returned his attention to the messy documents, sifting through them gently. Beneath the technical papers were a few letters and monochrome polaroids. All of the photos featured a jolteon and a torracat, wearing matching dark armbands embroidered with an unfamiliar gang sign. Torr held one up to the light. The pictured duo was posing at a dock. The jolteon wore a bashful expression and a tri-colored scarf around their neck. The torracat smiled confidently, earrings glistening in the sun. A hint of mischief was present in their wide yellow eyes. “Besides, something tells me they’ll be back.”

---

“Why, why, why? Why now?” All sorts of unsavory feelings rushed through Fleet’s mind. Annoyance, anger, and exhaustion swarmed her mind like a horde of wild beedrill: volatile, pugnacious, unyielding. But one emotion eclipsed all the others. It pressed against her temples and rang in her ears, a relentless pressure that overloaded her senses like never before.

Panic.

Fleet bit her lip. 

Get it together, bitch. What would Rook think if he saw you like this?

The quivering jolteon got back onto her feet. She peered at a discarded window pane at the end of the alley. A living wreck stared back, eyes bloodshot, ears drooping, disgusting yellow fur slicked with sweat. 

Stop wallowing in self pity. Rook has it a thousand times worse right now. You’re gonna save him, right? He’s done so much for you. Surely you’re not so pathetic that you can’t even return a simple favor. 

“Ugh, quit yapping. I’m not in the fucking mood,” Fleet growled at her own tainted conscience. That devil over her shoulder wouldn’t let her catch a break. 

Fleet shook her head and tip-tapped her paws in an attempt to ease the trembling. It was effective enough, but her chest still ached terribly. Agility was taxing on the body, and it disoriented her every time. 

The jolteon looked back down the way she came. She hadn’t gone as far as she thought. The backstreet peered into the edges of the quiet Ranch District, displaying fields of golden grains and withering weeds. A slight breeze blew into the alley, reawakening Fleet’s allergies. She sneezed violently, the fur on her torso prickling up like a togedemaru’s spines. 

What would Rook do?

Fleet paced back and forth, eyes glued to the ground. Rook was affable, quick to make connections and quick to see intentions. He was smart, always precise and thorough in his scheming. He was intuitive, no mistakes ever slipped past his keen eyes. And he was hot. 

Fleet was none of these things. She could hardly maintain eye contact when talking, her heart fluttered about, and nothing that entered her mind could stick around for dinner. She was unfathomably clumsy and preferred to run away from all her problems. Lifting her head, she met her reflection once more. Nope, definitely not hot. 

The jolteon let out a defeated sigh. The panic had subsided, and an unfamiliar calm usurped her senses. Acceptance, for better or for worse. 

Hey. Get back in there. Confront your foes. Retake what’s yours. It’s what he would do.

“No it isn’t. At least, not without a plan.”

Then make one. 

A plan. The word bounced around in her empty mind for a few seconds. 

“Run straight in and thunderbolt the shit outta everything in the way.” 

I wish I could say I’m appalled by your stupidity, but I’ve gotten used to it. 

“What? I— You are me!” Fleet gasped. 

I am only part of you. But we’re digressing. Let’s think about your ‘plan’. Who opened the shed?

Fleet paused for a second.

“Uhhh, a krokorok.”

Has anything clicked in your tiny dome? Any neurons firing up there at all?

“Okay, okay,” Fleet mumbled. “No need to be so fucking condescending about it, sheesh.” 

Ground types, the bane of her existence, now once again sending her back to the drawing board. 

“Addendum. Run straight in and extreme speed the shit outta everything in the way.”

Right, we’ll see how that works out.

---

Blackell had sought out his spot: the far left corner of the warehouse, behind a sizable pillar and beside a set of painted plaster shelves. He reposed on the gelid concrete, curled into his usual idle position, deliberating the state of the facility. 

Incongruous. 

No. That was not an accurate descriptor. The building was hardly an aberration amidst the vast plot of warehouses in which it was situated. Conventional orthogonal structure, lusterless gray walls fortified with corrugated galvanized steel, and a set of latticed double doors. 

Irregular. Asymmetrical. A…morphous? 

He was getting colder and colder. 

The hydreigon frowned. It didn’t upset him as much as before, but the familiar unease still lingered. Not the oddity of the warehouse, but rather his inability to intuit exactly why it was so odd. 

In an attempt to turn his attention elsewhere and abandon this sepulchral matter weighing on his conscience, Blackell surveyed the abode. Dolkka was in tranquil slumber atop a folding table situated near the entrance, snoring placidly. An unassuming pile of unorganized sundries leaned against the front wall precariously, prone to topple from a wayward sneeze. Raize’s backpack was left agape on the floor, assorted oddments and trinkets spilling out onto the ground. 

Eventually, Blackell’s vision locked onto the latest additions to their squadron. As the roguish duo toured the room, he watched on, pareidolic hands rising instinctively to match his gaze. The arbok seemed to have minimal interest in the mightyena’s ramblings, yet he clung to the wolf like a dutiful sentinel. 

The hydreigon began to wonder how such a connection came to be, but quickly halted that train of thought. Judging character solely on superficialities is a beguiling prospect for the fickle-minded. It provides a convenient pretense that one “knows” an individual without even having conversed with them. Pointless at best, counterproductive at worst. 

Blackell liked to think of himself as rational. Of course, no sentient spirit is completely rational, but such descriptors are not dichotomous when pertaining to one’s character. Relations, emotions, intelligence, wit. All these parameters are relative. His own acumen had been honed by decades of conducting extensive scientific inquiry and research. And although his work ended up being all for naught in the tangible sense, it was invaluable in developing his faculty for producing cogent conclusions. 

And his tentative conclusion for his team’s current situation: FUBAR.

He had considered a mouthful of potential expressions to adequately reduce their plight, but nothing captured its essence quite as well. “Ambitious” implies a perceivable, non-negligible chance of success. “Doomed” does not carry the right magnitude of absurdity of founding a criminal operation from the ground up. “Ludicrous” is loaded with malapropos derision given the virtuous context of the mission. 

Fucked up beyond all repair. Yes, that was the only apt way to put it. 

Blackell cracked a rare smile. Fate was a droll mistress. 

As he was brewing up these amusing thoughts, Raize reentered the facility, accompanied by the main catalyst of all this drama. The krokorok sauntered over to Blackell’s corner with exaggerated swagger, his smiling face betraying nothing. 

“Hey Black!”

“What do you need?” the hydreigon asked. 

“Well, I don’t need anything. But we would appreciate it if you could help us clean up that shed.” Torr pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Some squatter made a huge mess. I’d ask Dolkka to help too, but it seems he’s out like a log.”

“Sure,” Blackell replied curtly, unamused by the krokorok’s sarcastic pedantry. Despite his verbose thoughts, he preferred to keep his conversation concise. Partly because every spoken thought must be delicately composed in a fashion that is impossible to misconstrue in bad faith. Partly because he believed exchanging pleasantries between confidants was an utterly useless endeavor. And finally, because he must be vigilant not to divulge anything about his past life. Not even to his most faithful allies. 

The hydreigon followed his teammates to the shed adjacent to the warehouse. It was an unassuming property, barely escaping the shadow of the neighboring building. The door was ajar, exhibiting a dimly lit interior. A myriad of mechanical contraptions and parts blanketed the floor. At the far end of the room was a tattered futon and a wall mirror mounted with twine and duct tape. 

“See? Looks like someone carpet bombed the place.” Torr picked a crankshaft off the concrete and tossed it outside haphazardly. 

It did not look like “someone carpet bombed the place”. Blackell likened the display to an unusually inventive child’s bedroom. The biases accrued throughout one’s youth rarely fade with time, even if the memories do. 

“Okay, so where to start? Hmm, Black, I think you should get cracking at the far end, since you’re not prone to these terrain hazards. Raize and I will clear the front.” Torr ducked around the side of the shed and rolled out a pair of trolleys of mysterious origin. “Just drop stuff in here.”

“Understood.” Black floated over with a rattling trolley in hand and began diligently working on his task. He collected mouthful after mouthful of empty beverage cans that had accumulated in a massive pile around the shoddy futon like a caffeine-addicted dragonite’s hoard. 

“Torr, I think you may have been right,” Raize suddenly commented, breaking the manual labor induced silence. 

“I usually am. But wait, about what?” Torr tilted his head.

“Someone’s coming straight for us.”

Blackell, lacking critical context, made his way over to his teammates and peered down the barren street. A small yellow quadruped, presumably a jolteon, was barrelling down the dirt towards them, leaving behind substantial palls of dust and gravel in its wake. 

“HELLO!” Torr shouted at the incoming pokemon. “Nice weather we’re having today, ay?”

The jolteon ignored the krokorok’s salutation and continued on its crash course without any utterance.

 “Listen, we’re not tryna get in your fur! It’s just that— huh?” 

The jolteon suddenly blinked out of view, leaving only the trail of dust clouds still lingering in the air. 

“Torr, at your nine!” Raize cried out. 

Out of Blackell’s peripheral vision supplied by his carpal appendages, he witnessed the exact moment a sprightly yellow flash collided against the side of Torr’s jaw. The pivot was deft, the flipturn collision was precise. It was a flawless execution of a challenging move. The jolteon landed gracefully on its feet, a longing, determined scowl plastered on its face. 

Torr caught a couple seconds of airtime before landing on all fours, marginally less gracefully. He blinked his eyes a couple of times in shock.

“Oh,” Raize huffed quietly. 

The krokorok’s eyes promptly began glowing a dark crimson. Light wisps of smoke emanated from his open maw as he panted heavily. 

Pokemon abilities have always been a subject that baffled researchers in manifold aspects. It has engendered debates between the top minds of every generation and has torn rifts between much of pokemon academia. Whether abilities are innate or a product of one’s environment had been a critical point of contention for the entirety of Blackell’s career back home. His own specialization was established closer to the disciplines of theoretical physics than that of life sciences. But pokeology was a uniquely expansive field for such a close-knit community, so his voracious erudition was constantly augmented by the work of his colleagues.  

Blackell had also inevitably developed an acute familiarity with Torr’s Anger Point throughout his recently terminated six year stint as a glorified mercenary. The stimulus for the ability was once an enigma to Blackell. Its activation had apparently been random: it could be triggered by innocuous, ineffective moves like poison sting, as well as brutally deleterious attacks like hydro pump. He soon came to realize that the category of offense engaged against the wielder of Anger Point had no bearing on its activation. The true culprit lied in the relative effectiveness of the attack within itself. If an attack that inflicts a median damage of ten instead deals a statistical outlier of twenty damage due to extraordinary circumstances, Anger Point’s threshold would be met. The precise divergence required hovered around two standard deviations from the mean, at five percent significance, according to Blackell’s empirical deductions. 

Torr abruptly leapt up from his crawl and pounced at the intruder with a feral rage. His claws managed to nick the jolteon’s leg as they blitzed to the side. The jolteon bolted away, unflinching.

“Raize. Handle Torr,” Blackell directed. The raichu nodded in acquiescence. 

Blackell brought his hands up to his head and closed all his eyes. He visualized a singular point, accelerating at a constant rate across an empty plane to form a vector. 

Then, he conceptualized a wave. It propagated at the speed of light orthogonal to the vector, cutting off the point before it could take its course. Energy began flowing through his body, eager to burst through the seams. 

Blackell opened his six eyes as he unleashed a hyper beam, white pulses of radiation from each mouth concentrating into one ornery laser. The jolteon let out a raspy screech as the beam impacted them squarely in the thigh, sending them sprawling into the broad side of a neighboring warehouse. The eeveelution scrambled back onto their feet and continued running, evidently crippled by the blow. They were limping laboriously, and a massive singe mark was visible where they were struck. Yet, they persevered. Tenacious. 

The frenzied Torr wasted no time following the injured jolteon in hot pursuit. He galloped like a rabid manectric, slowly gaining on his adversary. 

“Torr! Stop!” Raize hopped onto all fours as well and joined the chase. “Get a fucking grip, dude!” 

The raichu’s words expectantly fell on deaf ears. Torr proceeded to grab the jolteon’s left leg, launching the two combatants into a furious tumble. The belligerents battled for control, each attempting to shove the other’s head against the earth. Meanwhile, Raize scurried frantically to intercept the melee. 

Blackell’s energy reserves had been critically sapped from his hyper beam, but his vital faculties were supple. Within ten seconds, he had largely convalesced his spent energy and was primed to initiate another move. 

Blackell closed his eyes and entered his cognitive plane once more. Another point, accelerating at a descending rate, set on a collision course with two static coinciding points. He conjured a second euclidean plane, perpendicular to both the initial plane and the vector constructed by the accelerating unit. It intercepted the path of the unit behind the static points, creating an impact buffer. 

The hydreigon opened his eyes, channeling a deluge of psychic energy past the ongoing skirmish. A meshed pink wall materialized the moment Raize made physical contact with Torr, tackling the krokorok off the jolteon and into the air. Blackell’s two teammates hurtled through the reflect he had just fabricated, breaking their fall by decelerating them to a halt within a couple of seconds. Raize rolled onto his back, hyperventilating violently. Torr shuddered with a similar intensity, a surefire signal that his ability’s influence was waning. No pretext for concern; they would be fine. 

Blackell redirected his regard to the unfamiliar jolteon. They were lying face down on the bloodied dirt, limbs flaccid. Their torso expanded and contracted, indicating that they were still breathing. The hydreigon floated over to the fallen pokemon and, exercising delicate prudence, lifted them onto his back. He shuttled the unconscious mon into the shed and dropped them onto the futon. 

A gnarly gash ran from the side of the left side of the face to the shoulder, still secreting serosanguineous exudate. Her light pink and blue neckerchief had been imbrued in carmine, bestowing a tawny luster. A few lesser lacerations were visible on the left thigh, probably caused by a series of kicks. 

Such severe injuries necessitated immediate action to prevent desiccation or even necrosis. Blackell rushed back outside and glided toward his teammates. Torr was sitting on the dirt path, eyes vacant and dazed. Blackell snatched the krokorok’s bag off his shoulder and rummaged through the assortment of dungeoneering gear until he finally extracted a couple of sitrus berries. Breathing a sigh of relief, he hurried back to his patient with a berry in each hand-mouth. No need for cauterization. Too many factors could run awry given substantial fur around the wounds.

Although Blackell would be branded dilettante by licensed medical professionals, he considered himself a sufficiently adept autodidact in trauma care. Situating one berry down beside the jolteon, he began peeling the other with utmost fidelity, careful not to break apart the rind. This was a method he assimilated back home when he interned at a pokecenter. Boring an incision into the peeled sitrus, he applied about an ounce of juice onto the intact rind. He employed the rind as a wet gauze to the most grievous wound, gently dabbing it along the rent flesh. Dressing the wounds before the patient regains consciousness is of the most practical modi operandi in first aid. 

After applying the sitrus dressing to every last laceration, Blackell clasped his hand around the other berry. He raised it above the jolteon’s slack maw and crushed it with vigor. The acute acidity brought a cringe to Blackell’s face. He bit his lip as the juice dripped out of his mawful appendage and into his patient’s mouth. 

The jolteon emitted a series of hacks, but remained in a stupor. She began murmuring deliriously in her sedated state. 

“Rook. I’m sorry.” 

Blackell pulled a blanket over the comatose jolteon. He had been so engrossed in his medical efforts that he failed to perceive his two teammates leaning against the doorframe. 

Raize was bent forward like a wilting waxflower. He heaved consistent, heavy breaths as he struggled to stay on his feet. 

Torr had his arms crossed, and his countenance was contorted into a shameful frown. His eyes met Blackell’s. 

“So, um. Not the best time for that to happen, huh?” Torr quipped in an endeavor to buoy up the tense atmosphere. “Sorry about that.”

“Nothing to apologize for. Don’t dwell on happenstance,” Blackell replied. It was puzzling to him why most everyone had an instinct to hold themselves liable for the ungovernable forces of their nature. If anything, it was his own culpability; he had miscalculated Torr’s commencement velocity. But to bewail in hindsight is a potentially fatal fallacy. 

“Wouldn’t have happened if I had just dodged the attack.”

Now Torr was just being boneheaded. He had the agility of a freeze dried ditto; the probability that he could dodge an extreme speed of that impressive caliber was asymptotic to zero. 

The jolteon began to stir again, stealing Blackell’s attention. 

“Worthless…?”

The futon creaked discordantly as its occupant tumbled about, drenching the sheets in her viscous blood. Blackell’s foresight of applying the dressing in advance turned out to be quite the felicitous resolution, as the formerly gaping wound had already initiated proliferation. 

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” The jolteon sprung upright with her eyes still shut, then crouched down with her head to the bedding and her front paws on her temples. “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

“Um, sorry,” Torr muttered, staggered by the sudden outburst. 

The jolteon heaved four times with descending intensity. Her eyes fluttered open. The pair of fiery pits met Blackell’s gaze. 

She bared her fangs and growled in a low contralto, before attempting to leap off of the bed. Her forward surge stalled midair as she yelped in agony, landing her beside Blackell’s detritus filled trolley.  

“Don’t exert yourself,” Blackell instructed in a sterner pitch than his usual monotone. 

“Get out of our home.” The jolteon’s venomous voice dripped with reckless confidence. Her brash, dauntless composure was sabotaged by the obvious limp afflicting her left foreleg. 

“Your home? We paid for it,” Raize expostulated. 

“Raize, I got it,” Torr put an arm across the Raize’s chest, stopping the raichu before he could asseverate any more unproductive grievances. The krokorok stepped up to confront the jolteon that he had been engaged in a pugnacious fray with just minutes prior. 

“You,” she seethed, before spitting a globule of blood at Torr. It landed squarely between his pectoralises and splattered onto his scarf. “Asshole.”

“My fault. You caught me at a bad time. I’m not usually like uhhh, that.” Torr wiped the bloody discharge off his chest with a flick of his wrist. Upon observing the jolteon’s guise shift from irate resentment to menacing discomfit, he added: “We just want to talk. Got no intention to evict ya. Promise.”

The jolteon’s gaze veered downward as she maintained reticence. She rolled her digitigrade ankles and bit her lip. 

“My name’s Torr.” Torr extended a claw. The jolteon’s gaze did not depart from the filthy concrete flooring. 

“Beat me to an inch of my life and now you’re talkin’ sweet. The fuck do you want?” she barked after an extended moment of cogitation. The diffidence on her face only grew more apparent. 

“Straight to business, then. We’re the leaders of the Fatespinners, a crime syndicate from Cress.” Torr’s words triggered an attentive response from the jolteon. She snapped her gaze back at the krokorok. “You’re free to keep this dingy little place. That is, if you decide to join us.” 

The jolteon stared at Torr’s still extended claw. 

“I…” She paused again. 

“We’re all family here. If you need a favor, we’d be more than happy to lend a helping hand. Let’s say that, hypothetically, your friend was framed for a somewhat serious crime and was thrown in the slammer.”

The jolteon tensed up. 

“Fuck you.” 

“We can help, just saying.” Torr shrugged. “It’s a win-win-win situation. And you get two of the wins.”

“Not falling for your shitty scam,” the jolteon seethed, blood dripping into a shoal pool on the floor. Blackell frowned at the sanguine sight, slightly vexed. All these subsidiary stressors were hindrances to the healing process. 

“Of course, every contract has a catch. But ours is generous, very open-ended. All we need is your cooperation in spreading our influence underground.”

“And what makes you think I can do that?”

“Pardon if I misread your profile, but something tells me you’re not exactly an upstanding citizen.”

“It’s… complicated.” 

“Of course it is. Not a single soul in this world is simple.” Torr’s claw remained extended sanguinely. “Hmm. How about a free trial? We help you with your friend, then you guys can decide if you want to stay. Non-binding, no contract. And I’m not one to hold grudges.” 

Blackell couldn’t help but feel disesteemed about Torr’s negotiation tactic. The jolteon was already chary of the excellent terms presented, yet he insisted on embellishing the deal further. A tantalizing covenant often arrives shattered. 

“Fine. You got me. I’m fucking desperate.” To Blackell’s astonishment, the jolteon raised her paw and set it atop Torr’s claw. “Just to be clear, we are not friends.” 

“Abundantly clear. Miss…” Torr cocked his head expectantly. 

“Fleet.”

“Very well, Miss Flee—”

“Just Fleet.” 

“Apologies. Lay out the details for us, Fleet.”