Thread: Imagine That — WWC 2012

Hi, all!

Some of you might not know me— I'm some guy who left for about a year due to being busy playing that wierd, addictive MMORPG called "Real Life" (RL for short)... but I'm finally back. "About time!" say all the people who do know me. ;)

The last story I posted was for last year's Winter Writing Contest, and I'm here to pick up where I left off. This story is set in the same world as that one, but takes place elsewhere and follows an entirely different cast of characters.

Click the link in the previous sentence only if you feel like it, because while related, that story is somewhat long and is not required reading in order to comprehend or enjoy this year's entry. :)

I apologize for the extreme length of this story; it was originally intended to be only ~120k-150k characters long, but kind of ran away with me. ^_^; I encourage you to bring your novel-reading mood, and to set aside an hour or two to read through it (depending on how quickly you read!)


---Imagine That — WWC Entry---
---WARNING: PG-13 (COARSE LANGUAGE)---
---WARNING 2: EXTREME LENGTH (543,119 CHARACTERS)---
---BEGIN---


Chapter 1: Wednesday
Chapter 2: Thursday
Chapter 3: Friday
Chapter 4: Saturday
Chapter 5: Sunday
Chapter 6. Monday
Epilogue: Tuesday, Wednesday Again

Chapter 1: Wednesday

Hello, pleased to meet you; I'm Rachel Avery, and I live in a world that was like your own; a world that used to be identical in every way... except for one.

It's been ten years since the creatures started appearing. The ones that the government officially termed Genesis Beasts, but that people refer to as Pokémon— short for Pocket Monsters— in everyday talk. Pokémon are mysterious creatures with frightening powers, powers that are often beyond anything technology can manage. There are over four hundred known kinds now, with more being discovered all the time. At first, forums and blogs everywhere wondered how the sudden, inexplicable presence of Pokémon would change the way everything works. The world held its breath, worried that the mere existence of these powerful creatures might throw society into chaos. All across the globe, people braced themselves for the worst...

And did they ever get it!

Things are a lot different now. For example, I'm told the police used to be a big deal. Well, not any more. I think I was too young to understand the concept of "lawkeepers" back when it mattered. Now— in most cities, at least— a bunch of guys in uniforms trying to keep everyone in line would be a total joke, whether they had guns or not.

Some things never change, of course: grown-ups still go to work every day, to earn money (but any kind of goods will do, as long as they can be bartered for food and other necessities at the downtown market); kids still fight over stupid stuff (although obviously the ones with Pokémon always win); and the schools are as bad as ever (only now they're run by crazies because no adult in their right mind would take the job.)

...I guess nearly everything is different, actually. It's safe to say that in the last seven or eight years especially, Pokémon have totally changed the way society works. Gangs of Pokémon Trainers roam the streets in broad daylight, and it's not safe to go anywhere alone. Corporate business is totally nonexistent, and travel and trade between cities is rare. As a result, most food is grown locally, in the farms that used to be suburbs. The government basically isn't even a thing any more. Anyways, you'll hear more about this stuff later.

Right now I'm on my way to school, with my Mom, Catherine Avery. The beige apron she's wearing over her practical green dress may look like just an accessory at first glance, but it carries the red-cross-and-Chansey-egg emblem that marks her as a healer. There's also a Pokémon with us; she's Mom's, and is named Dream. She's a Bellossom, and looks like a little one-foot-tall green-skinned girl with two pretty red-petaled flowers growing out of her head instead of hair and a "dress" made of flowers that chime softly when she moves. Even though Dream looks like a tiny person, her skin is actually made of a material that's more like leaf than skin. It gives me the shivers, so I usually avoid getting too close to her.

The three of us live in an apartment near the middle of downtown Seattle. Mom and Dream are walking me to school, because Mom's convinced it isn't safe to go alone. She's probably right, because most of the way between our place and my school is through a maze of alleyways with a bad reputation. She would probably make me go by a safer route if she could, but the nearest major street is so far out of the way that it's just not worth it.

I'm fifteen years old, and I'm in grade ten at Bastion High School, which has a nice name but isn't a very nice place. It was built on the ruins of the Seattle University, which was destroyed in the Second American Civil War because the army used it as a base of operations. Anyways, we're almost there. Bastion High is the only public school in the city that has a policy of not accepting students who own Pokémon. They advertise that like it's a big deal, because a lot of grown-ups treat any kid with a Pokémon like a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off. Mom figured Bastion High— "the Bastion" for short— was the safest place around, but I still think the whole idea sort of backfired. Not letting kids with Pokémon into the school doesn't actually mean less bullying happens: it just means every kid who goes to Bastion is a prime target for the group of tough-guy teenage Trainers who always hang out across the street from the school's gates at eight-thirty in the morning.

Sure enough, they're there as usual— wearing their big coats and their nasty sneers. They should be at their own schools... But if they don't want to go to class, who's gonna make them? Skipping school is the easiest thing in the world for Trainers. So instead of going and doing something constructive, they just stand there leaning against the grimy brick wall of the building directly across from the Bastion, smoking cigarettes and making derisive remarks about the kids going by them. They've got special jeers for "babies" like me who get walked to school. I've tried to get Mom to stop walking me, but she's stubborn sometimes... And I'm actually glad she does it— even though I'd never tell her so— because Dream's presence means the Trainers won't bother us. Even though Dream doesn't seem very threatening, looks can be deceiving where Pokémon are involved.

The Trainers' Pokémon are hanging around them, glaring at everyone who goes by. I recognize a few of the creatures: there's a Blitzle, which looks like a zebra with lightning-bolt patterns in its fur; a Scraggy, which is a yellow thing with a froggy face that walks on two legs and carries its own rubbery shed skin to use as a shield; and even a Charmeleon, an orange-skinned lizard that stands upright, has deadly-looking claws and teeth, and carries a flame on the tip of its tail that marks it a fire-type. Along with those are a few Pokémon I'm not familiar with, including one that looks like a tall, thin cactus with pink flowers on its head. All of them look like they could take someone apart without too much effort— even the cactus— and most of them have nasty expressions on their eerily expressive animal faces, as if to say that they'd really enjoy doing just that.
Some days the Trainers and their Pokémon just loiter there and enjoy making people uncomfortable. Other days they're in a bad mood; those are the days they'll grab a couple unlucky kids and make them cough up their lunch money. Mom and Dream can't do anything about the Trainers, because there's too many of them; neither can Bastion's teachers, because they don't own Pokémon any more than its students do. School policy or something.

Mom stops halfway across the yard that separates Bastion High from all the smaller buildings around it, and kneels to kiss me on the forehead before letting go of my hand. I roll my eyes, as she expects of me by now, but really I don't mind. Even though I've never really enjoyed displays of affection, I know it's just her way of telling me that she loves me, and it's probably more comforting to her than it is to me.

She watches me as I walk the rest of the way to the gates of the school, even though she doesn't really need to. I'm pretty sure I'm safe anyway, because the Trainers aren't moving from their usual spot, and because, despite the dark grey clouds in the sky, it hasn't started raining yet. Rain is one of the things that's guaranteed to get the Trainers in one of their "lunch money" moods.

I walk up to the gates and join the line of subdued-looking kids waiting to get in. The Bastion's gates are massive, painted-black steel things, and they're always left open only wide enough to let us through single-file. They're set in a huge grey concrete wall that stretches at least twenty-five feet in the air and goes all the way around the school. The wall is about two and a half feet thick, and is basically what gives Bastion its name; I'm not even exaggerating when I say it makes the place look more like a prison than a school.

Everyone always relaxes just a bit when they get the gates between them and the Trainers... But only a bit, because even once you're inside, your lunch money isn't safe: now you're on the turf of the schoolyard bullies. They're not so tough outside the walls, because— duh— no Pokémon, but as soon as you pass through the Bastion High gates, the boys with the biggest muscles and the girls with the sharpest tongues become the top of the pecking order. Sound familiar? (Excuse my cynicism, by the way. It's just that I'm beyond tired of high school politics already, and this is only my second year of high school. Ugh.)

On the other side of Bastion High's gates, separated from the towering walls by a wide ring-shaped field of bare concrete, is the school building itself. It's technically a group of buildings, but they're all ugly concrete cubes with no windows, and are all connected to each other by ugly concrete cube-shaped hallways with no windows, giving the appearance more of an ugly concrete hamster maze than of a school campus.

There's nothing else inside the wall, just the big courtyard of empty pavement surrounding the hamster-maze. A fading squre of painted white lines border a tiny "soccer field" in one corner of the flat grey expanse; this and a few basketball hoops bolted to random spots on the inside of the wall are the closest thing the Bastion has to a gym. We don't have sports teams because, according to the school website, sports competitions would "unnecessarily expose Bastion students to conflict with schools which harbour Pokémon Trainers."

The twenty-five-foot walls surrounding the whole campus make everything look smaller than it is, and give you the feeling of being indoors even when you're outside. That's mostly because the sun doesn't actually make it over the walls except between eleven a.m. and one p.m., and that's when it's fall or spring. During the winter, the entire day is usually spent in the walls' shadow. I wish I were kidding about this, but seriously, it's like going to school in Mordor.

Not everything's bad at Bastion High, of course. I'm just being cranky because I hate mornings. Most of the teachers here actually care about teaching, and a few even make their lessons interesting most of the time. The cafeteria food is surprisingly good. Apparently the Bastion has the highest percentage of students who go on to post-secondary education out of any public school in the city (which, of course, was a major selling point with Mom.) Best of all, there are only three bullies in my grade— mostly because they pounded any other prospective bullies into submission back in grade nine— and those three generally stick to picking on certain favourite targets. This basically means that if you don't call attention to yourself, you can usually keep your lunch money in your pocket.

Anyways, first class for me on Wednesdays is History. To be honest, I don't mind History. I kind of like hearing about the way things used to be before Trainers screwed up the world. Not that I would ever tell anyone. There are few fates worse than being branded a nerd.

I head across the pavement and go through the door to the wing of the school where my classroom is. The lights on the ceilings are all the same type of old-fashioned, dim bulbs, meaning that walking into the windowless buildings is kind of like entering a cave. Inside, the hallways all look the same, with off-white linoleum tiling on the floor and iron student lockers with green numbers painted on the doors covering every inch of wall. The only breaks in the walls of lockers to both sides are doors to classrooms, which of course all look the same. I'm pretty sure whoever designed the Bastion wasn't exactly gifted in the imagination department.

I find the specific door I'm looking for— the green painted numbers proclaim it "Room 130"— and go in. It's like every other classroom in the building: all the walls consist of varnished light brown wood that's probably a veneer, except for where a blackboard covers the entire upper two thirds of the wall opposite the door; a bunch of small desks with laminated wooden tops and metal legs sit in orderly rows and columns; plastic chairs accompany the tables, their seats just low enough that you can't quite comfortably sit in them and sleep with your head on the desk. I'm pretty sure that last detail is intentional, not that I'm particularly tempted to try sleeping in class. Being considered a slacker is just as sure a way to get you targeted by Bastion's sharp-tongued gossips as being a nerd is to get you wedgied in the halls.

About half of my History classmates are here, but I don't know most of them by name. The ones I do know, I know only from occasionally overhearing other people gossiping about them. Keeping yourself to yourself is usually a good idea at Bastion, because— in my opinion at least— there always seems to be way too much social drama going on. Getting involved isn't high on my list of priorities.

I find a chair near the middle of the classroom and sit down, neither slouching too much nor sitting up too straight. "Vague disinterest" is what's generally expected of Bastion students, and displaying too much interest or too much boredom is a good way to get a name for yourself (as a geek or as a slacker, respectively.) That said, I've gotten pretty good at appearing to be "vaguely disinterested" while actually paying attention. As I mentioned earlier, I kind of like History.

More of my classmates file through the door over the next few minutes. There are only a few empty seats left when our teacher, Mr. Ward, comes into the room and immediately starts briskly writing on the blackboard. Mr. Ward is about fifty years old, has short white hair that makes a thin ring around his bald head, and wears old-fashioned stuff (today it's a plaid shirt and grey pants.) Despite all that, he doesn't really come across as an old man. I think his eccentric-professor-syle rimless glasses have a little to do with it, but the least old-man-like thing about Mr. Ward is how he generally acts more energetic than most of the kids in his class. In fact, he's a bit over the top about it sometimes, pacing back and forth and gesturing wildly while he talks. (I mean that in the best possible way. Seriously, it's pretty funny.)

"NOW!" he says loudly, turning suddenly away from the blackboard and startling the more uninterested-looking of us. Just for the record, that doesn't include me. I've gotten used to this kind of thing in the last year-and-a-bit of having Mr. Ward for a History teacher— this is how he starts some of his classes, about one in ten I think. He likes to keep us guessing.

"If I may have your attention," he continues in a perfectly normal tone of voice, as though he didn't just shout in our faces, "Would anyone like to tell me what it is that I've written on the board?"

He steps aside to reveal what he was writing. On the board are two words: "Democratic Government."
Ugh. Mr. Ward does stuff like this a lot. He basically lays a trap for schmucks, which serves to get the more braindead of his students to wake up and think for a second. I understand why he does it this way— obviously, just talking at his class will put a bunch of us to sleep, whereas asking questions makes a lesson interactive— but it annoys me sometimes. It's like he thinks we're stupid.

Unfortunately, he's probably right about at least some of us. In a class of twenty-six, there've got to be at least some slackers. And I just know that any second, some smart aleck in this room is gonna read that phrase off the board word-for-word; probably that pudgy boy in the corner who's just picked his head up off his desk and is opening his mouth to attempt to form the words Democratic Government. I have about another second before he fully wakes up from his state of near-sleep and actually gives voice to the syllables, painstakingly sounding them out one-by-one like a kindergartener... Ugh.

I think I have to out-smart-aleck my classmates just this once, for my own sanity's sake.
"Obsolete crap?" I ask loudly, raising an eyebrow sardonically at Mr. Ward. His eyes fix on me; I return the glare. This staring contest is kind of a ritual with us, even though I only speak up about once every few weeks. He was my History teacher last year in grade nine, too, so there was time for it to become kind of habitual. A few seconds pass and my eyes begin to water, forcing me to blink and look down. He wins this time.

"Arguably, yes," he responds without missing a beat, switching his bespectacled gaze off of me and looking around the rest of the class, as though we had all come up with the answer. I'm okay with that: drawing attention to myself isn't my thing. Someone has to move the subject along and skip a bunch of unnecessary steps consisting of Mr. Ward laboriously drawing out a bunch of chorused "Yeeees" and "Nooooo" answers from the whole class. Of course, he's still gonna do at least a bit of that, because otherwise the less interested kids (like the pudgy boy in the corner, who's already almost asleep again!) will zone out.

"Can anyone tell me why some individuals might consider democratic government an obsolete concept?" he asks. A few seconds pass as his eyes sweep the class, and I can almost hear the crickets chirping. I return to my apparently uninterested slouch in my chair; I'm not about to jump in again. Once in a class is more than enough input for me, and at least this time there isn't an answer written on the board that the person reading it would never have come up with on their own.

A girl sitting in the front row of desks speaks up. "Maybe because of the definition of democracy, like we talked about last class?" Her wide-rimmed round glasses on their own would mark her as a nerd to most people, but to be honest, her choice of a seat in the front is probably more telling. Anyways, thankfully this class isn't made up entirely of slackers. That means I can usually keep my smart aleck responses to myself and let the other intelligent people in the class talk. That said, when I do put in my two cents, I try to keep my answers sufficiently snarky that most people will think I'm just trying to annoy Mr. Ward. Getting branded a geek would be mildly disastrous.

"And what do you mean by that, Amadea?" Mr. Ward asks with a satisfied smile, turning to regard the girl who spoke up. "What is the definition of democracy?"

"Uhh..." Amadea falters for a moment. I can't help but think, Paraphrased textbook regurgitation in 3... 2...

"Democracy is the rule of the many, where everyone's opinion is equal... Umm... Right?" she stammers.

"That's correct," answers Mr. Ward. "And why might this definition make democracy more difficult to maintain in today's world?"

There's a big hint in the last three words, but I'm content with just waiting patiently for him to get to the point. After a few seconds of either thoughtful or uncomprehending silence (depending on who you look at,) Mr. Ward continues with another prompt: "Is there anything you can think of that can give one person a lot more power than another?"

It's like I can smell the dawning comprehension in the air. Surprisingly, it's the half-asleep pudgy boy in the corner who comes to the realization most quickly. "Pokémon!"

"Correct!" says Mr. Ward loudly, with a dramatic, triumphant raising of his fist towards the ceiling. He holds the pose for about a second— it looks silly, but less silly than it would if performed by someone who was actually self-conscious about it. He relaxes abruptly and continues: "A well-trained Pokémon is a powerful thing. In a world where only a small portion of the population has a Pokémon companion, democracy is fragile at best."

Next he explains the term "social inequity," and asks if anyone can give him an example of situations in which Pokémon can cause it. A lot of people have responses to that one, for obvious reasons. The rest of the class continues in basically this manner, and although I don't stop feigning disinterest, I am actually paying attention. After making sure everyone understands how the government used to work before the appearance of Pokémon, Mr. Ward goes on to explain the reasons why it no longer works that way.

It basically amounts to this: after about a year of watching the police fight a losing battle against an underground resistance made up of thugs and criminals with Pokémon, the government decided to bring the army into the cities to try to regain power by force. They used propaganda campaigns to stir up hatred towards Trainers, and began to treat anyone with a Pokémon as if they were one of the criminals who were the 'public enemy.' If these tactics sound familiar, that's because they're basically the same ones every oppressive regime ever has used. This raised a lot of muttering about Soviet Russia and Nazi Germany, and there were plenty of protests, which went unheeded by the panicked government.

Eventually, after attempts at peaceful protest failed, large coalitions of Trainers and non-Trainers alike slowly began to appear in the occupied cities, striking at the occupying armies; the turning point was supposedly when Trainers everywhere started to realize that the established power couldn't control them any more, and that they could make their own laws. Let's just say a military full of human beings isn't good for much when a Rhydon or a Charizard can total a field full of tanks without taking a scratch, and the stronger Psychic-types can leave entire military squads collapsed on the ground, clutching their heads and howling in agony.

In reality, the turning point was more of a period of change, one that was driven mostly by the increasingly drastic and unpleasant measures the government took to maintain control, but Mr. Ward is simplifying things for the sake of not making this one topic take all month. After a year-long series of clashes with a growing army of Trainers, a conflict now known as the Second American Civil War, the U.S. military had been decimated, and the government was reduced to a much-diminished executive branch which contented itself with just running public services and watching nervously as a new social order set itself up. They haven't done anything big since then— they only still exist at the mercy of the gangs that moved in to replace the government after the Trainers failed to set up any kind of better system.

The kids in the desks around me are starting to check their watches. I do the same: class is nearly over, only a couple of minutes to go.

Mr. Ward notices, of course. "That's about it for today, class," he says. "Tomorrow we'll discuss the civil war itself. For homework, write one page about how democracy could be made to work in a world with Pokémon. It can be in the format of a story or essay, and is due a week today."

He briskly wipes the board off and is out the door before most of us have even gotten out of our seats. A moment later, the clock reads 9:30, and the bell rings to signal the ten-minute transition from one period to another.

My next class is Science. At Bastion, grade nine and ten students take science in "rotations;" one group of the class takes Biology in the first quarter of the school year, then Chemistry, Physics and Earth Science in the next three quarters; the other three groups start with a different science and rotate at the same time. I'm looking forward to grade eleven, when I actually get to choose which sciences to take. I'm not really a fan of any science, but Earth Science and Physics especially are boring as heck.

Navigating the hallways between classes isn't too difficult, because if nothing else, they're wide enough to accomodate the storm of kids going from class to class as well as the ones stopping at their lockers to pick up and put away books. I keep all my binders of notes in my backpack, so I don't usually need to use my locker.
It's still early autumn, which means that we haven't rotated yet and that I still have Bio for my Science rotation. The class is okay, I guess— my Bio teacher this year, Mrs. Ker, is better than most— but here at Bastion they don't teach Pokémon anatomy; only cell biology and the anatomy of humans and normal plants and animals. I'd prefer if they taught some Pokémon stuff, but some of the teachers here have a dislike bordering on a phobia of Pokémon, so that's unlikely to happen. Besides, Pokémon study is such a new field that it's even hard for private schools to get a hold of teachers who know stuff about Pokémon. At the moment, the internet is better for learning things like that (as long as you take everything you read with a grain of salt.)

My Biology classroom is identical to my History one (and to every other classroom in the school) except for the presence of a single lab bench at the front of the classroom, which has a sink, a Bunsen burner outlet, and a microscope on it. Its drawers are full of the stuff the science teachers use for demos, I guess. There are some actual labs in one of the school's buildings, but we don't get to use them until grade eleven.

The material for today's Bio class is an explanation of ecosystems and how they work. I know most of it aleady, but there's still a bit of new stuff about the distinction between 'abiotic' influences on an ecosystem (light, temperature, soil quality, etc.) and 'biotic' influences (the kinds of life forms that are in the ecosystem.) I try never to assume I 'know it all,' because usually I don't.

After second period, it's 10:40; recess time. That's my cue to go outside, pick an unoccupied place to sit (a safe distance from any of the groups of kids playing soccer or basketball,) and get my laptop out of my backpack. I seat myself against the Bastion wall and connect to the school's wireless internet network, because it's a little faster than the connection I get from my USB satellite chip.
Only a few seconds after I connect to AIM, a message pops up:


10:47 Group Chat: [ItsNotRight.org SEATTLE DIVISION]
ElloMello: hi Rachel!!


That's Ellen, the only one of my circle of friends who goes to Bastion. Our recess is at a different time from most schools', so we're the only two of our group online right now. I don't want to spam the Group Chat with a private conversation that'll pop up annoyingly on the others' screens when they log in, so I double-click Ellen's username on my friends list, opening a message window.


10:47 Now chatting with ElloMello.
10:47 RAVEry: Hello Ellen, how r u?
10:47 ElloMello: good!!! :D
10:47 RAVEry: Just had Bio. Easy stuff
10:48 ElloMello: yea, I had chem
10:48 RAVEry: Any news from Brian?
10:49 ElloMello: nope, i wasnt on b4 school this morning. why?
10:50 RAVEry: Nvm
h/o, checking to see if he emailed me.
10:50 ElloMello: k i will too
Last message from ElloMello at 10:50am
10:52 ElloMello: Nothing... but I'm sure hes ok.
*he's
10:52 RAVEry: Yeah, me 2.
10:53 ElloMello: wasnt that wierd tho! it just showed up like out of nowere!! now hes, like, our guy on the inside ^_^
10:53 RAVEry: I guess...
10:53 ElloMello: Lol are u jealous?!?
10:53 RAVEry: Not rly... being a trainer is hard, I bet.
10:53 ElloMello: yeha but SO COOL!!!!
10:53 RAVEry: I don't see why it's such a big deal. =|
10:54 ElloMello: r u kidding
xD
pokemon are a HUGE DEAL!!1
10:54 RAVEry: >=\ Whatever, they r still bad news. Remember how worried he sounded?
10:54 ElloMello: ...Ya... he's going 2 have 2 hide it isnt he? :(
10:54 RAVEry: Probably. I mean, if he keeps it and his family finds out, theyll kick him out
10:54 ElloMello: T_T
10:55 RAVEry: Well, maybe it's better to be a Trainer with a Trainer's problems,
Than just a normal kid all the Trainers can push around...
He IS lucky I guess.
10:55 ElloMello: :o u ARE jealous lol!!
10:55 RAVEry: Aren't you?
10:56 ElloMello: ...
:(
A bit
but mostly im happy 4 him!
10:56 RAVEry: Eh
Me too =)
10:56 ElloMello: ^_^
Class time in 3 mins
Im g2g
bai
10:57 ElloMello has logged out.


I guess I should explain what that was about. Ellen and I are part of a group... almost a secret organization, I guess... dedicated to helping Pokémon-less kids with problems with Trainers. The original idea came from the leader of the group, a lady named Karen who uses the online nickname "Kares4UAll." She's a Trainer, and doesn't try to hide that fact, but she created the organization out of concern about non-Trainers who are being threatened or abused by people with Pokémon. Karen's idea was to make a low-profile help site where kids could come for help when they had nowhere else to turn. For a while, it was a one-person operation, intended only as a place to anonymously contact Karen and get her advice on problems.

But ItsNotRight.org isn't just an advice site any more. I'm not sure about the details, but long story short, two of Karen's real-life Trainer friends found out about the site, and instead of getting angry at her for siding with the non-Trainers, they pledged their support to the cause.

ItsNotRight.org has since grown into a hidden, continent-wide network of more than a thousand volunteers— adults and kids, Trainers and non-Trainers— who are anonymous to everyone except Karen and who can be called on to give small but important support to kids who come to the site with a serious problem and nowhere else to turn. Methods of help include escort to and from school, supplying a place to stay for short periods of time, and things like that. It's unlike any help network I've ever heard of, and it's something I'm proud to be involved in. Ellen and I are two of the five members in Seattle, but Karen got the five of us in touch (after we all agreed that we wanted to share our contact information, of course) and we've been comparing notes and chatting ever since.

Brian is another of the five; he lives just on the edge of town in a suburban neighbourhood. Yesterday he contacted us all, sounding worried, saying that the injured Pokémon he'd rescued about a week ago seemed to have taken to him, even trying to follow him home from the temporary shelter he'd built for it. He's got a decision to make now— whether to send the Pokémon away or to accept it and learn to be a Trainer. Him becoming a Trainer would be okay with us— we know he can be trusted not to use a Pokémon's power to hurt people— but his family is another story. His parents are very old-fashioned and religious, and believe Pokémon are evil and should be eradicated. The way he describes them, they strike me as kind of crazy; I'm not exactly a fan of Pokémon myself, but I hardly think it's their fault that the people they chose to trust screwed up the world. They're just dumb animals that don't know any better— if anyone should be gotten rid of, it's the Trainers.

At any rate, if Brian's family finds out about his Pokémon, there'll be hell to pay. Hopefully he'll make the right choice and just release it into the wild before that happens... Not that I'd suggest that to Ellen. She's a bit naive; she believes that good people with Pokémon, working together for the good of everyone, will eventually be the solution to the problem of Trainer gangs. All I can see coming out of that idea is ugly conflict and plenty of heartache... But I don't want to disillusion her, so I'll keep quiet and let Brian make his own decision.
My next class, English, is pretty simple; spelling and grammar have always come easily to me. The teacher is a bit of a letdown, too; he just drones on and on about poetic devices and literary mechanisms, completely ignoring the fact that half his class is literally asleep on their desks. After about twenty minutes of this, I can't take it any more. Against my better judgement, I get my laptop out of its bag and switch it on under my table.
I visit ItsNotRight.org before anything else, to check the news feed. The site isn't a forum or a blog; kids speak directly to Karen or one of her friends via live chat, and their exchanges are kept strictly confidential. Other than the chat box, the site consists of a forum and a main page where Karen puts up excerpts from news articles to keep members and kids alike up to date with good things happening in the world. She normally picks news that gives her hope for the future; reading the featured articles is usually a feel-good experience.
There's a new entry on the news feed— a copy-and-paste from an article about a group of Pokémon Trainer kids who stood up to a local Trainer gang in Boston. The gang had been overrunning the entire neighbourhood for several weeks, terrorizing the western part of the city and robbing shops and homes with impunity; deciding that enough was enough, the entire city's population of kid Trainers got together and chased the criminals out.
I smile to myself, trying not to let the expression be too bitter. I wish someone would do that here. But that's not about to happen. Only gangs that totally overstep themselves get notorious enough for people to unite against them. In Seattle, like in most places, the kid Trainers are just as bad as the adult ones... And our problem here isn't just a single gang, but an entire sub-society of Trainers concerned only with their own interests.

The end-of-class bell rings; it's 12:00, also known as lunch time. I leave the classroom quickly and hurry to the cafeteria. The cafeteria is a grey concrete cube set a short distance away from the rest of the campus. Unlike the rest of the school, it has windows. I'm lucky (and speedy) enough to arrive to a nearly empty cafeteria; the line is only a few people long, and no one's sitting down yet.

The lunch menu today, according to the sign next to the cafeteria counter, is grilled cheese sandwiches, chili con carne, and some kind of spaghetti-ish pasta, with rice pudding for dessert. All the ingredients are local. That's the way most kitchens operate now— long-distance trade is a thing of the past, and most of the suburbs are slowly being converted into farmland. I grab a tray, get a bit of everything, and pay at the end of the counter. Then I have a seat near the end of an empty table and dig in. The food isn't great, but it's better than it could be, and I'm hungry.

I'm about halfway done eating when I see Ellen on her way towards my table from the door, her usual brown paper lunch bag in one hand and wearing her favourite navy blue sweater over a white shirt and blue skirt. Her funny-looking hazel eyes (hazel means sometimes they look green, sometimes blue, and sometimes brown) scan the crowded bench for a place to sit; I wave for her to join me, and she smiles and starts to wave back— then she freezes, staring at something behind me.

Before I can turn around, two big, threatening-looking boys drop themselves onto the bench on either side of me. I freeze; the boys are Bernie and Arnie, two of grade ten's most notorious bullies. What did I do to attract the attention of these goons?

I start racking my brains for some polite way to stand up and leave, but draw a blank. All that comes to me is, If these two are here, then Neil can't be far behind.

As if summoned by the thought, Neil himself materializes, walking around the end of the table to sit down across from me with a wierd, creepy half-grin on his face. Bernie and Arnie are tall, and muscly (from beating up nerds and playing football somewhere, I guess,) but Neil is almost as tall and has the wide shoulders of a bull. Even the grade eleven and twelve bullies rarely mess with him when he's on his own, and none of them would try to take him on with Bernie and Arnie there.

I glance around surreptitiously; the tables are too long to empty completely, but everyone sitting near me for a good few seats has found some excuse to stand up and go elsewhere. The general chatter seems to have gotten louder; the people who are farthest away and feel safe are whispering to each other about what they bet Neil's gonna do to me, and the ones who are closer are talking loudly and nervously to each other about the weather or their favourite sports team or the latest fashion. I can't help but feel isolated and ridiculously vulnerable.

"Hey, Rachel," says Neil, still grinning that scary, sadistic-looking half-grin. "Whassup?"

My mind is going a mile a minute. What does he want? Lunch time would be a wierd time to try and get people's lunch money— obviously we've spent it all already. Maybe he's hoping I brought extra? "Um... Just eating," I respond, more to buy time than anything else.

"Cool." Neil takes his gaze off of me for a moment, and looks to either side. People who were watching suddenly find somewhere else to look. "Uhh... What d'you think of the food?" he asks, planting his elbows on the table and leaning forwards threateningly. I hesitate, wondering what response he wants; a second passes, and his grin wavers and disappears. He looks like he could lash out any second.

"It's... okay," I stammer hastily, trying to control my instinct to lean back. Showing fear never helps. "Better than it could be. You know, with all the stories about bad cafeteria food. Glad we don't go to one of those schools with bad food!" I babble, still wondering frantically what he's after. Maybe he's planning to throw the tray full of food in my face, and say something nasty about how it tastes now?

Instead, to my relief, he leans back again. "Haha, yeah," he says, nodding and smiling. I'm not reassured by the dumb smile that spreads itself across his face, because it's the same smile he uses when whatever poor geek he's tormenting bursts into tears. "This school is great, isn't it?"
"Y-yeah, fantastic school," I say, nodding and smiling for all I'm worth. Maybe if I agree with him enough, I'll get out of this in one piece. "We're really lucky to be here, huh?"

To either side of me, Bernie and Arnie start laughing meanly, echoed by giggles from a few of the people in the closest seats, who have been listening intently. I shut up, turning crimson with embarrassment. Clearly, public humiliation was what the goon squad was after. I hope they'll decide this is enough and leave soon.

"Shut up," Neil says, glaring at Bernie and Arnie. His mood swings are the talk of the school, and clearly even his goons aren't exempt from his sudden anger. I freeze again, waiting for the glare to be turned on me and my doom announced. It's all I can do not to fall backwards out of my seat and run for the door.

"Sorry, Neil," Arnie says sheepishly from my left. "Just thought it was funny, y'know. 'Cause of how you were saying you hate this place yesterday at recess—"

Arnie doesn't get any farther, because Neil suddenly stands up and punches him in the face, right across the table. "Shut up! Didn't ya hear me say this school is great just now? Anyone who doesn' agree can take it up with ME!" he shouts angrily. Most of the cafeteria has gone silent, and is watching him.

Neil breathes hard for a moment, then returns his attention to me, with that awkward, scary half-grin returning to his face. "See ya around, Rachel," he says. The way he says it, it sounds like a death threat. I barely manage to suppress a shiver.

Suddenly, miraculously, Neil turns and walks away, throwing the cafeteria door wide open with a BANG on his way out. Bernie levers himself awkwardly out from next to me and sidles around the table to follow his leader. Arnie, sprawled on the floor with one hand to his face, scrambles to his feet and gives chase.

There's a moment of near complete silence, then everyone goes back to their lunch, albeit not without a fair bit of chatter— likely about my impending doom.


~~~~~~~~~~


"Ohmygosh, Rachel, are you okay??"

It takes a moment for Ellen's concerned, energetic voice to filter into my spinning head. I squint up at her for a second before gathering myself enough to respond.

"Um... Sort of. Just getting over the fact that I'm still alive. For now, anyways."

She sits down next to me. "That was horrible to watch. What was he thinking?"

"I don't think he thinks at all. Bullying is more of an animal instinct, as far as I can tell."

"Oh... Um, yes." Ellen seems to be fighting the urge to laugh for a moment, but her expression steadies when I narrow my eyes suspiciously at her. "You're right. No thought involved," she says with a very serious look on her face. That in itself is even more suspicious to me, because Ellen is almost never serious... But I have no idea what it is that she knows and I don't. It's maddening, because I'm usually the first to figure out most things.

"Did you hear about Brian?"

"Huh?" I ask, a bit thrown off by the abrupt change of topic, and also a bit miffed that there seems to be something else I've missed the memo on.

"I talked to him on my cell just after lunch started. He said he'd decided to release his Pokémon..." She abruptly looks heartbroken. "The poor thing is all on its own again, now..."

"I see..." Personally, I can't help but think Brian made the right choice. His family wouldn't have stood for it, and it was only a matter of time until they found out. "He already helped it recover from its broken leg; it'll be fine in the wild," I reassure Ellen.

"I guess..." she doesn't look much happier. I'm beginning to think she's more disappointed for herself than for Brian: she was probably looking forward to living out her fantasy of being a Trainer through him.

"Don't worry, Ellen!" I say, putting one arm around her and smiling warmly in an effort to cheer her up. "You'll get a Pokémon of your own one of these days, and then you'll be twice the Trainer anyone else is. That way you'll make up for Brian missing out!"

Ellen stares at me for a moment, then starts giggling. "Hee hee, Rachel! You sound so silly when you're trying to be silly!!"

"Well, duh!" I exclaim in mock affront, laughing along despite myself. "What kind of silliness doesn't sound silly?"

We both dissolve into giggles for a couple of minutes, until the bell rings to signal the end of lunch. We part ways with a hug, and head off to our respective classes (I have Phys. Ed. and she has Math.)


~~~~~~~~~~


An hour of torture later (twenty jogging laps around the whole inside of the Bastion wall, UGH!) I stagger back indoors to my locker and get out the books I stored there during the HELL CLASS, muttering about horrible drill sergeant P.E. teachers. My two remaining classes for the day are Math and Spanish. As I leave my locker, I hear a chorus of loud, stupid-sounding guffaws of laughter from around the corner. Only one group of three kids would dare to make such easily mockable sounds, specifically because they're the three no one would dare to mock. Not even bothering to close my locker, I turn and run the other way as fast as I can, even though my legs are burning already and despite the fact that this takes me in the opposite direction from where my Math classroom is.

I'm a few minutes late to Math because of a combination of exhaustion and taking the long way around the school's concrete hamster-maze, but it's definitely worth not getting beat up. Standing near an open locker when Neil and his goons are around is just asking to spend an hour or two locked inside it... especially if you've already been singled out for their attention. I've seen it happen to too many unsuspecting kids whose only mistake was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Math is another simple class. Unpleasant, but simple. I can never bring myself to read ahead in the textbook, but I never need to. I just sit there and watch the algebra scrawl its way across the chalk board, entertaining myself as best I can by figuring out for myself how it all works without even listening to the teacher. I don't even know my Math teacher's name, even though it's been a week since school started.

An uneventful transition from my Math classroom to my Spanish classroom is an enormous relief, and I'm feeling almost normal at 3:20 when it's time to go home. I keep my head down and stick in the middle of the river of kids flowing out of the hamster-maze campus and through the black iron gates of the Bastion, praying to God that no one spots me and tips off Neil to try and get on his good side. Thankfully, I make it to the gates without incident, and Mom is waiting for me halfway across the courtyard with Dream on her shoulder. Like usual, all the kids leaving the school are giving Dream a wide berth, even though she looks so tiny and harmless. To some extent, I don't blame them— in the hands of the wrong people, Pokémon can be unbelievably dangerous— but Mom wouldn't hurt a fly. She's even wearing her beige healer's apron with its red cross and Chansey egg, which makes everyone's cautiousness just look silly.

Anyways, I'm extremely glad to see her. Even though hugging really isn't my thing, I walk over and give her a big hug, because I know it means something to her, at least. I breathe in the sweet scent of Dream's perfume that always clings to Mom's clothes.

She seems taken aback for a moment— I guess this is a bit uncharacteristic of me— then hugs me back tightly. "Are you all right, honey?" she asks.

I nod wordlessly and pull away, a little embarrassed. The Trainers lounging against the buildings way behind Mom jeer at me. I ignore them, and start walking in the direction of home. Mom follows, clearly a little nonplussed. I'll explain things to them later, but right now I really don't feel like talking.

The trip through the network of narrow alleys that connect Bastion High with my house seems to take less time than usual, and I sigh in relief as I walk through the door, a little faster than usual. Mom comes in behind me, not even a little out of breath, and closes the door behind her. She's pretty fit— she gets a lot of exercise going from place to place making house calls and delivering the medicines she makes using extracts from Dream's shed petals.

"Rachel?"

"Yeah, Mom?"

"Is something wrong?"

I think about it, and decide that Neil isn't Mom's problem. School stuff is school stuff, and she'd just try to meddle— or, worse, try to get help from the teachers. Kids who go crying to the teachers are just begging to be picked on. At least Pokémon aren't involved; that means I can handle it by myself. I hope.

"It's nothing," I tell her firmly.

"Hmm." Mom doesn't seem convinced. She's been practicing seeing through me since I was born, I guess, so I'm pretty used to not being believed when I'm not being truthful. That's all right— as long as I don't actually tell her what's going on, she won't be able to get me in worse trouble than I already am. "Well, you don't have to tell me what it is if you don't want to," she says, "But at least take these."

She digs in one of the pockets of her apron and comes up with several small spheres that look like pinkish-red beads, about an inch and a half in diameter. She hands them to me; they're cool to the touch and kind of soft, like marbles made of plastic instead of glass. "They have a bit of Dream's sleeping solution in them," she tells me solemnly. "If someone's giving you trouble and you feel like you're in danger, throw one at them, and they'll go to sleep for an hour or two."

My eyebrows rise all the way into my bangs. While I'm not sure if things like this are actually technically illegal— not that laws are even enforced any more— I'm 100% certain they aren't allowed at school, where the rules ARE enforced with exceeding strictness. The fact that Mom would trust me with these things is a huge deal. She isn't stating the obvious at me, either: she knows that I wouldn't use them for anything less than a serious threat.

I'm also more than a bit nervous to realize that Mom thinks I might be in the kind of trouble where I would need these sleep pellets. "Umm, I really don't think it's this big a deal, Mom..." I begin, offering them back to her.

"No, keep them. I should have given you these as soon as I knew you were responsible enough not to use them unless they were really needed," she says, tucking her hands firmly in her apron pockets so I can't give the sleep pellets back. "Everyone needs a trick up their sleeve, honey. Find somewhere safe to keep them, where you can reach them quickly."

After a moment's thought, I reach around to the back of my head and pull my ponytail straight out, tucking the pellets into the hair at the very back of my head and then tightening the hair elastic that holds the ponytail in place. My hair is long and brown, not really anything special, but it is thick and straight enough to make a ponytail out of. Now I guess I've found another use for it; nothing's gonna fall out of that part of my hair as long as I keep the elastic tight.

"How's that?" I ask Mom.

"Good," she says, hesitating a little and then smiling. "I hope you never need to use them, Rachel."

"Me too," I say, nodding fervently. To my relief, the motion doesn't even jostle the pellets, which I can still feel as little spots of smooth pressure against the back of my head.

Mom smiles her gentle smile. "Now, haven't you got some homework to do?"

I sigh, slumping my shoulders exaggeratedly. Nothing can distract Mom from making sure I do well at school. "Yes, Mom," I sigh melodramatically.
Time to get down to business, I guess.

After about half an hour of sitting on the edge of the living room couch, typing out a short essay in Spanish about exercise and healthy eating (as if we don't get enough lectures in P.E.!) I'm distracted by a pinging noise. Someone's messaging me on AIM.


3:52 Brian4theWin: Hey
Rachel
I sent the pokemon away :(

I close the Spanish textbook I was using the table of verbs from, and sit back more comfortably in the couch. I think this essay can wait— it sounds like Brian needs some moral support.

Chapter 1: Wednesday
Chapter 2: Thursday
Chapter 3: Friday
Chapter 4: Saturday
Chapter 5: Sunday
Chapter 6. Monday
Epilogue: Tuesday, Wednesday Again

Chapter 2: Thursday

Thursday morning, I wake up to my alarm clock beeping, telling me loudly that the time is 8:00am (also known as TIME TO GET GOING, SLEEPYHEAD!) I get dressed really fast, inhale the breakfast Mom's got waiting for me— scrambled eggs and a bowl of homemade cereal with a banana sliced into it— and we head for school, just barely on schedule.

As we walk, I eye the dark clouds overhead nervously and think about the conversation I had with Brian last night on AIM. He sounded really sad about having chased his Pokémon off, but I reassured him that he'd really done the right thing by setting it free. He was at least glad I agreed with his choice, even though I still got the feeling he already regretted making the friendly Pokémon leave. I guess I can sympathize; having a Pokémon would make so many things possible... But at the same time, I know that if a Pokémon chose me, I'd have to make it leave, too. Even though Mom is a Trainer and wouldn't mind, the fact remains that having a Pokémon would mean I'd be immediately expelled from Bastion High School, and be forced to go to one of the schools where some of the kids have Pokémon and essentially run the place, terrorizing all the Pokémon-less ones from a seat of power while the teachers look on helplessly.

Ugh. I'd rather die.

When Mom, Dream and I reach Bastion, the clouds are still hanging overhead, now coloured darker grey than ever, but fortunately they haven't started dumping their load of rain on us. The group of Trainers lounging across the street from Bastion's gate is smaller than usual, partly because most of them would rather be in their warm and dry schools than tormenting Pokémon-less kids in the pouring rain. Unfortunately, this means that the few who remain are the most unpleasant. Still, they're sticking to their usual position and showing no signs of being in a bad enough mood to do more than sneer at us Bastion students as we file through the gates.

My classes for today are Planning, Art, Math, History, and P.E. By some miracle, I manage to get to Planning on time without running into Neil and his goons. Fortunately, it's always easy to hear them coming; they don't exactly make any effort to be quiet as they navigate the halls between classes.

Planning, or CAPP (short for "Career and Personal Planning") is a snore-fest, even for the geekiest kids. It basically consists of the teacher talking on and on about future careers and the classes we should pick during grade eleven and twelve in order to best prepare ourselves for post-secondary education, which sounds like it should be an interesting topic but somehow isn't.

After that, I go to Art class, where I shrug off my heavy backpack and drop it next to the door with relief. Art is the class where you can literally just sit there and chat with your friends, as long as you look like you're watching people draw, and the teacher won't mind. Since I'm not big on the whole "socializing" thing, I just spend the hour of class making "abstract art" (in other words, using a bunch of different colours to scribble whatever random geometric shapes occur to me) with watercolors on a piece of paper tacked to an easel. It's very relaxing.

During recess, I hide away in an empty classroom, talking to Ellen on AIM about nothing in particular.

Math goes more or less as usual; there's a homework assignment that has to be returned at the end of class, but I did the page of problems right after it was handed out almost a week ago. Yawn.

At lunch time, I get out the lunch I covertly packed for myself while Mom's back was turned— a banana and a container of yoghurt with a plastic spoon. I'm not about to go to the cafeteria where Neil can find me again.

"Honestly, I think you've got the wrong idea about this whole thing," Ellen says in a too-reasonable tone, leaning against the side of my locker. She's wearing that serious look again, which I know means she's trying hard not to laugh... And succeeding, at the cost of acting completely unnatural. "I promise Neil doesn't have you marked for death, it's actually perfectly safe to go eat in the cafeteria!"

"Oh, shut up," I snap at her, more than a little annoyed because I know there's something she's not telling me. "I didn't bring lunch money anyways."

When it becomes clear I have no intention of putting myself in harm's way just because Ellen says I'm safe, she shrugs and drops the subject; we sit down in an empty classroom, where we eat our lunches in peace and quiet. She even insists sharing half of her peanut butter and jam sandwich with me; normally I'd refuse, but today I'm too hungry to say no. A banana and some yoghurt do not constitute a real lunch.

After lunch, I have History, so Ellen and I part ways. When I get to the classroom, Mr. Ward standing impassively a few steps in front of the blackboard, which is filled from top to bottom with information: dates, names of people and places, diagrams, and key words. A few of my classmates start groaning to each other about how long it's gonna take to learn all this; my eyes scan the board, trying to make sense of everything. I can't find any kind of pattern to it; everything is jumbled up, with names of politicians and rebel Trainers scattered around, and simple battlefield diagrams drawn next to lists of events that have nothing to do with them as far as I can tell. I sit down without taking my eyes off the board, still searching for some kind of reasoning behind the chaotic jumble...

"Class," Mr. Ward says, drawing everyone's attention immediately. "I hope this mess I made on the board illustrates approximately how complex the Second American Civil War really was." He pauses, and looks from us, to the board, to us.

"You will not be required to know any of these details." He turns and starts erasing everything on the board, and I relax, irritated. Of course— the whole display was meant to be needlessly confusing.

"Keep in mind, however, that there is more to any war than what we will talk about in class. Now, please open your textbooks to page two-hundred ninety three, and silently read the passage starting from the second paragraph, where the eyewitness account starts..."

This topic has everyone's attention, even the slackers. The Second Civil War is the stuff of legend, and it's actually hard to find info about it on the internet. Even though Google is still running— after all the big search-engine corporations like Google, Bing and Yahoo went under, the Mods took control of the Google domain name and started hosting it on their private servers— there pretty much isn't anything to search for. It's like anyone who was involved is either too old to figure out how the internet works, or doesn't have access to it (only about one in five people have a computer nowadays, even though internet access by satellite adapter is free. That said, most families have at least one that's shared among them.)
So, long story short, the Second Civil War is a mysterious and interesting subject. I've already read the single chapter of the textbook that deals with it, but the book is full of obscure references to old televised political speeches, or to battles whose names turned up a blank when I Googled them. Most textbooks are old, since new ones aren't printed any more; I think this one was written back when all this was common knowledge, so it assumes we know what's what; I'll need some context to sort it all out. I'm hoping that, despite the apparent secrecy enshrouding the whole affair, Mr. Ward knows something about all this. He's a history teacher, right?

To my disappointment, the lesson consists entirely of us reading the textbook and commenting on the accounts written by people who witnessed the fighting first-hand. Not that the graphic retellings of Pokémon slaughtering army squads or buildings being levelled by artillery fire aren't interesting, but I've already read all this, and it's honestly more than a bit nauseating. Mr. Ward concludes the class by explaining that, when all was said and done, it was the fact that Pokémon were so versatile and easy to hide that made the rebels' guerrilla tactics so effective.

When the end-of-class bell rings, I deliberately get to my feet slowly and hang around in the room until everyone leaves. No one seems to notice, fortunately. Mr. Ward is still erasing the last few notes he put up on the board, so at first, he doesn't notice me either. I wait patiently, and he quickly realizes there's someone still in the room.

"Hello, can I help you with someth—" he begins, before recognizing me. "Oh... it's you," he says, crossing his arms and smiling, a bit too patiently if you ask me. "Yes?"

I figure he doesn't have a very high opinion of me for all the snarky answers I've been giving for the last year and a bit. Well, not like it matters. "Why isn't there any information anywhere about the Second Civil War?" I ask bluntly. "It's been almost eight years since it ended, so why hasn't anything popped up on the internet yet?"

Mr. Ward regards me, raising one eyebrow in either surprise or disapproval, I can't tell which. "That's not a bad question," he says. "To answer it, first I should ask: are you aware of the organization known as the Knowledge Guardians?"

I blink. "You mean the Mods?"

"Yes."

The Mods are more or less common knowledge to anyone who uses the internet. They control it, at least as much as anyone can be said to. After the internet service provider companies started going belly-up, their servers were all bought by the mysterious organization that later became known as the Knowledge Guardians (or "Mods" in everyday speak.)

The Guardians are less a company than a... Well, I guess "cult" would be an apt term. They portray themselves as a religion dedicated to preserving certain aspects of the internet and backing up the majority of the knowledge stored on it; they now run Wikipedia, Facebook, and some other major sites that would otherwise have gone down when their patron corporations disappeared. The Mods apparently have headquarters located all across the world in the buildings that house the massive servers that host the top-level functions that bind the internet together. As a part-time denizen of the internet, I made sure to find out at least that much about them, but any more info than that is hard to come by (probably intentionally on their part.)

"Yeah, I know about them," I say dismissively, forgetting for a moment that I don't have to keep up the appearance of vague disinterest any more. "...Sir," I add as an afterthought. It can't hurt to be polite.

"I see," says Mr. Ward, still regarding me with exaggerated suspicion. "Well, I can't say for certain that it's true, but I do know what the rumour was eight and a half years ago."

"You mean before the government collapsed?"

Mr. Ward hesitates. "Don't you have a class to get to?"

"Phys Ed," I say, making a face. "I can be late."

"Well..." He says, frowning, "The rumoured— and probably true— explanation is that the Intelligence Agency asked the Knowledge Guardians to keep information about the Second Civil War off the net."

I frown. The Intelligence Agency is more or less an urban myth; supposedly it died out with the rest of the governmental structure, but some people believe it continues to exist in secret. If it is still around, that would make it the only remaining branch of government that's left, other than the executive branch which the gangs have allowed to continue to look after things like schools and street repairs and suchlike (not that the streets really need repairing; no one uses cars any more, since gas imports stopped.)

"So," I conclude out loud, "That implies that either the Guardians have a good enough reason to hide all this info that they're still hiding it despite the Agency being gone, or the Agency is still around to put pressure on them."

Mr. Ward just looks at me with a sort of disbelieving smile, his eyebrow quirking again.

"So which is it?" I ask impatiently. "You're gonna have to help me out here. It's not like I have much to go on, given that I was six years old when all this was happening."

Mr. Ward's single lifted eyebrow is starting to get on my nerves, as is his growing smile. "I thought as much. Your mask is slipping, Rachel."

"So?" I ask, a little irritated. How is that such a big deal? "It's not like I have to keep pretending not to be interested when no one's looking," I say, perfectly reasonably in my opinion.

"No indeed," he says, but he's still grinning as though it's a big joke. "At any rate, I'm not sure which is the case, but I doubt it matters. The Intelligence Agency, as far as I know, is a semi-secret network of spies dealing in information rather than a military organization, so it doesn't really command too much authority. Whether the Agency is still active or not, they would have had to convince the Guardians to do it willingly instead of by coercion."

"So it's a big cover-up job of something that happened in the Civil War and would probably cause problems if everyone knew?" I ask.

"Essentially." Mr. Ward says, his grin fading. His raised eyebrows resolve themselves suddenly into a frown. "You're a smart girl, Rachel. Why do you hide that?"

"Being considered 'smart' is more trouble than it's worth," I say matter-of-factly, matching his frown with my own. Is he gonna start trying to convince me to 'speak up more' or something stupid like that? "All that matters is that I understand things, whether I say so or not."

"Oh?" I can tell he's about to argue the point, probably ridiculously convincingly. I can do without that kind of complication of my life.

"Well," I say, not interested in continuing this discussion any longer, "I'd better get to P.E."

I turn around and leave before he can say anything else. It occurs to me as I open my locker that walking away like that was a bit of a rude thing to do, but I didn't realize that at the time; I've never been very conscious of social nuances. Oh, well...

I dump my backpack and shoes in my locker and change into my beat-up white P.E. sneakers. I'm just finishing tying the laces when I hear a very, very unwelcome set of three voices approaching from around a corner. Neil's donkeyish braying voice is unmistakable, as is Bernie and Arnie's dumb-sounding laughter.

Crud! I think; I slam my locker shut, again not bothering to lock it— maybe no one will notice it's open, since the layer of rust on the top of the metal door holds it shut— and run for the exit as fast as I can. I barely make it out of the building before the three bullies turn the corner. I definitely don't want to spend an hour locked in my own locker. Just my luck to be scrawny enough to probably actually fit.

Anyways, my P.E. class is already out on the field, most people hugging themselves for warmth in the chilly wind. The class goes relatively smoothly— at least, as smoothly as a horrible, gruelling nonstop hour-long game of soccer on the tiny crookedly-painted pavement soccer field can go. Ugh. And as if that weren't enough, when I get back indoors and peek around the corner that leads to my locker, I see that my worst fears are confirmed. Neil, Bernie and Arnie are all standing around in the section of hallway that contains my locker. They look as though they're just lounging around casually, but that in itself is out of character for them— they're the type to fill any moment of boredom by going looking for unfortunate geeks to torment. They usually don't wait around in hallways that are totally empty of people (as if anyone would be stupid enough to stick around!)

I duck back around the corner, breaking out in a cold sweat that has nothing to do with the hour of soccer I just played. They have it in for me! And if I want to get my stuff back, I have to go through there...

I gulp. This is a nightmare. Why me?? cries a wimpy part of me that just can't understand why anyone would bother to persecute me so thoroughly. The rest of me is a bit more jaded, though, and knows more or less exactly why bullies do what they do. My wimpy self's crying gets ignored and rationality takes over.

Hmm. I can stand to leave my bag full of binders here for tonight, I decide. I haven't got any homework in there that's due tomorrow, and it's not as if I'll get behind in my studies— I've actually read ahead in most subjects' textbooks, except for Math.

That decided, I begin walking back down the hallway in the direction I came from, towards the nearest door leading out of the building. Let those goons wait there for another half hour until they get bored, I decide. Serve them right for being so persistently horrible.

I leave the school building and head towards the gate, pushing my way into the after-school clump of kids waiting to get out of the gates. I put my head down and hope that'll hide me; I'm not particularly remarkable seen from behind, and anyone would be hard to pick out of a crowd this big.

After I finally get through the gate, I look around for Mom and Dream. The crowd dissipates quickly once everyone's out on the open street, so it's usually not hard to find them.

Oddly, though, I don't see them. I slow down and look more carefully, trying to find Mom's taller head and shoulders above the quickly scattering groups of kids; still nothing. A slight sense of panic grips me; Mom is never late to pick me up from school. She and Dream might take my safety too seriously sometimes, but they would never leave me to walk home on my own unless...

Unless something's happened to them? Without meaning to, I start to imagine all the things that could happen to someone walking alone through alleys. A mugger lurking in a dark alley; a drunk motorcyclist roaring recklessly down a side street; a roaming gang of Trainers eyeing Dream and seeing a bundle of ingredients for making illegal narcotics...

The panicked feeling intensifies until it literally feels like a hand grabbing my heart and squeezing. There are all sorts of horrible stories about the fate of people who fall afoul of the Trainer gangs.

I look around frantically, praying for some glimpse of Mom, but it's almost twenty minutes after school and the street is entirely clear of students. I should have never let her keep walking me to school! I think, hating myself for not realizing that something like this could happen. And now I'm standing in the middle of the street, completely alone.

Conscious of the interested eyes of the Trainers and Pokémon lounging against the building across from my school, I realize that I have to get moving, or risk having them come to see what's up with this lone Bastion girl. I walk slowly across the street and into the alleyways that lead home. It's already dusky in the alleys, where the tall buildings to either side block out the afternoon sun.

"Mom?" I call quietly. "Mom, are you there?"

I'm still hoping against hope that she's just late, that she's somewhere between home and school. If I just follow the usual path home, maybe I'll meet up with her.

"Mom?" My voice sounds pathetically quiet and shaky. I begin to shiver. The darkness of the alleyways is kind of freaky when you're alone, and I'm already half scared out of my wits. It's all I can do to keep a level head. Panicking won't do you any good, I tell myself. But it's hard to stay calm when you're in one of the most dangerous parts of town with no Pokémon to protect you.

Suddenly, I hear running footsteps behind me, echoing through the alleys in the distance. My muscles lock up with terror, freezing me in place. The Trainers are following me! The footsteps get closer and louder, and still I can't move. Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid! I shout in my head. Am I just gonna stand here until they come and do who knows what to me??

Suddenly, a far-off sound like a match being struck diverts my attention from the running footsteps; suddenly, as if that distraction from my fear was all I needed, I can move again. I look ahead, and see a distant light on the far wall of the alleyway ahead of me. It looks like someone's turned on a flashlight or lantern just around the right-turn corner at the end of the alley.

Right now, all I can do is hope that anyone carrying a light is better news than a mob of cruel Trainers. That's not a hard conclusion to draw at this point. Stirring my shaky but no longer frozen muscles into action, I dash towards the corner. As I do so, the light on the wall gets dimmer, as if its carrier is moving away.

"Wait!" I shout, turning the corner and seeing... another alley, lit by the same light source, whose carrier seems to have just gone around the left-turn corner at the end. I chase after it, and turn left, only to see yet another alley, this time forking in both directions; the light is brighter on the right, though, and I remember that right happens to be the way home from here. The footsteps behind me aren't getting any farther away, so I can't hesitate; I keep running, following the mysterious light.

A couple of turns later, I can tell that I'm totally lost. The echoing noise of the footsteps behind me is a little fainter than before, but it's still steady, so I have no choice but to sprint onwards, trusting the elusive light to guide me in the right direction. I don't know who or what is carrying it, but it hasn't misled me yet that I know of.

Finally, the alleys start to look familiar again; they're the ones closest to the street with my apartment building on it. I'm only a turn or two away from reaching home. I pant out a tiny sigh of relief, my lungs burning with the effort of running for nearly ten minutes straight... but then I stop dead, realizing something. If I lead a bunch of Trainers to my doorstep... They'll never leave us alone! Teenage Trainers' contempt for Bastion kids is legendary, and they enjoy nothing more than finding out where a Bastion student lives. There's this one true story about a time this gang of Trainers trailed an unlucky grade eleven boy home; every day at 8:00 AM for more than a week, they went and camped outside his house for half an hour, just to make him late for school. They kept harrassing him on and off for more than a year; his family finally had to move away to get rid of them.

I struggle with my priorities for a moment. If I lead the Trainers home, they'll ruin Mom's life as well as mine— there's no way she can fight them all, even with Dream's help— but on the other hand, I don't know what it is they actually want right now, so if I lead them in another direction and get caught...

Better not get caught, then. Feeling brave, I turn away to the right instead of following the mysterious around-the-corner light to the left.. Maybe I can find another way onto the street, a way that doesn't come out so close to home, and lose the Trainers somehow.

I dash through more alleyways, mostly running at right angles to the way home. Right turn, left turn, right turn, left turn... The mysterious light is gone now, left behind in the alleys that are the most direct route home. The running footsteps behind me get closer and louder; I realize I'm growing too tired to run fast. Even though I'm thin, I'm not really very fit. I start looking frantically for left turns that will take me onto the main street, but the next turn takes me right instead. I can hear my pursuers behind me, shouting as they glimpse me turning another corner (left, this time, but I'm still not going in the right direction!)

I turn one more corner, my heart lifting— it's a left turn, which might take me straight to the main street!— and then my heart nearly stops instead. I'm standing face to face with about ten feet of alleyway that terminate in a dead end; the wall of an abandoned three-story apartment building with boarded-up windows cuts off any escape. I can hear my pursuers right around the corner. Thinking quickly, I put my back against the wall— if I'm lucky, they'll all run right past me in the dimness of the alleyway and I can take off in the opposite direction.

No such luck. The first Trainer to come around the corner spots me immediately, stops, and holds out a hand to tell his buddies to slow down. I back away from him, all the way to the end of the alley, and put my back against the wall at the end of the alley, for what little good that'll do.

The Trainer is a teenager, dressed in tatty yellow-and-green striped pants and a faded yellow shirt with a green skull design on it. He looks like he's eighteen or nineteen; he has silver rings piercing his ears, nose and eyebrows, and his face has an ill-natured look of annoyance on it, as though he's not pleased to have to chase someone this far. His Pokémon, standing next to him, is the cactus-like green plant thing from yesterday, the one with the pink flowers on its head. It has spines that have got to be three inches long and an inch in diameter at their base, and freaky red eyes that glare at me with cruel amusement. I can never get used to how eerily expressive Pokémon's faces can be...

"What have we here?" the yellow-and-green Trainer asks me, his disdainful face splitting into a contemptuous grin. "A little Bastion girl, running around all on her lonesome in the scary alleyways? You should be more careful, girlie. People can get hurt doing that..."

He laughs, and is echoed by the knot of four or five Trainers behind him. Their Pokémon settle for standing there and looking menacing.

I reach for the sleep pellets hidden in my ponytail, trying to hide the motion behind my body.

"Keep your hands where I can see them!" barks the Trainer abruptly. "No funny business."

I freeze, then let my hand fall. Uh oh...

"Now, I wonder what we should do with you," the Trainer says, with a glance at the crowd of Trainers and Pokémon behind him. "Any suggestions, boys 'n girls?"

"Knock her out and leave her in the alleys for the feral Pokémon!" shouts a girl Trainer enthusiastically. I can't help but shudder at the thought.

"Make her lead us to her house, so we can camp out at her door!" says a boy's voice. I can't tell who's talking due to the alley's gloom.

"Since Bastion kids like walls so much, leave her on top of a really big one," says a boy vindictively.

"Cut her ponytail off!"

"Take her jacket!"

"Take her backpack!"

The green-and-yellow Trainer holds up a hand for silence, and the stream of nasty suggestions stops. "All good ideas, of course. But we can't just go around robbing people. We're civilized human beings, after all..." he says, his sardonic expression indicating that he couldn't care less about being civilized.

"Hey! What's goin' on here?" interrupts a new voice from a short distance behind the crowd. It's male and vaguely familiar, almost like...
"Neil??" I ask incredulously. I can hardly believe it, but even in the dimness of the alley, there's no mistaking the huge silhouette of Bastion High School's biggest bully.

"What's this kid's deal?" asks yellow-green, frowning. "Hey, Carl. He got a hidden Pokémon?"

"Negative," responds another boy after a moment. "Solo detects nothing."

"So he's not brave, just stupid," yellow-green says with a grin. "Well, I'm in a good mood today. Bug off, big guy."

"No way," says Neil stubbornly. "I'm not leavin' Rachel here with a bunch of losers like you, who can't even fight without Pokeymons. Do yer worst, I'll give you a big damn black eye before I go down."

I still can't believe what I'm hearing, but I'm starting to figure out what's actually been going on with Neil for the last couple of days. If I look back at the way he was acting, from a certain perspective it almost seems like he wasn't trying to intimidate me... Just, in his own awkward and clumsy way, trying to get my attention.

My stomach does a wierd queasy flip-flop. I don't know whether to be flattered or disgusted by the thought of Neil liking me that way— on the one hand, it's usually supposed to be the most popular and pretty girl who gets the head bully's attention, so it's kind of a compliment... but on the other hand, I find Neil (well, bullies in general, but especially Neil) generally repulsive.

Damnit, Ellen, you knew about this! I think angrily, remembering how she was always hiding her amusement when we talked about Neil. And she didn't tell me! I'm gonna kill her tomorrow... provided I get out of this in one piece.

"Ha!" Yellow-green barks, the harsh amusement in his voice jerking me out of my moment of shocked thought. He gestures to his Pokémon. "All right, whatever you want, kid. Spines, go get 'im."

"I don't think you want to do that," says a new, and very familiar voice. A huge weight seems to evaporate from my shoulders. Mom.

She walks around the corner, with Dream on her shoulder. Dream's petals are shining with a soft, bright glow— kind of like bioluminescence in the green and yellow flower-colours of her petals— that floods the alleyway with gentle light.

"I think you should all leave right now," Mom says calmly.

"Or what?" Yellow-green asks belligerently, but in the light of Dream's Flash technique— a move named for what it does when it's turned up to its maximum brightness for a moment— I can tell he's a bit uncertain.

"Well, from what I've heard from my patients, your group would be the Shell Gang. But this isn't your territory, is it?" Mom asks, a bit of steel underlying her calm voice. "Imagine what the local gang would do if they found you all here in their alleyways, sleeping like babies." She strokes Dream's head casually with a free hand, but the tiny gesture comes across as a very real threat. As a Bellossom, Dream has the ability to release one of the most effective Sleep Powders of any Pokémon; the main ingredient Mom put in my sleep pellets is the same stuff, dissolved in water and diluted a lot.

The yellow-green Trainer meets my Mom's serene blue-eyed gaze defiantly— after a second, it's him who looks away. "Whatever. Let's go, guys." The Trainers and their Pokémon file sullenly out of the alley, shoulders hunched like kids after a severe telling-off from a teacher.

I sigh in relief, but it's only a few seconds before I realize there's still one more problem to deal with. Neil is standing there, staring at Mom with his mouth wide open with disbelief.

As if on cue, Mom asks me, as if she hadn't just singlehandedly chased off an entire gang of teenage Trainers, "Well, Rachel? Aren't you going to introduce me to your brave friend?"

Just great. "Mom, Neil. Neil, Mom."

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Neil," Mom says politely, smiling at him. I can tell she thinks he's just a fantastic boy for trying to fight those Trainers. But I can't just tell her the truth with him listening.

"P-Pleased t'meetcha too, Miss Rachel's Mom, uh, ma'am!" Neil stammers, still gaping moronically at her. I mean, okay, even I have to admit she was pretty awesome just now... But he looks really dumb staring like that.

"Uh, anyways," I say hastily, before he can say anything else, "We should get home, Mom."

"All right, honey," she agrees, her smile fading slightly to be replaced with a look of contrition. "I'm sorry to have left you at school on your own, but I had something to take care of... Say goodbye to your friend, and we'll go."

"Wait!" Neil says suddenly. "I saw ya leavin' school, but ya forgot yer backpack! So I came ta bring it to ya..."

I notice that he is, in fact, carrying my backpack. It looks tiny hanging from one of his massive shoulders. He shrugs it off and hands it to me.
"Uh, yeah. Thanks," I mutter halfheartedly.

The look of disappointment that appears on his face is both comical and a bit pathetic. Despite myself, I start to feel a bit guilty, especially as I remember that he was prepared to take on an entire gang of Trainers and Pokémon to help me (regardless of whether it was out of bravery or stupidity.)

"Seriously, thanks, Neil. I appreciate it," I say reluctantly, and watch with an internal wince as his face lights up with its big dumb just-made-a-nerd-cry smile.

Mom and I walk out of that dead-end alley, leaving Neil standing there grinning from ear to ear. Ugh. I can already tell I'm gonna regret saying that.


~~~~~~~~~~


As soon as we get home, Mom doesn't waste any time sitting me down on the sofa in the living room. "Talk to me, honey. What happened?"
I bristle, my annoyance with her returning. As if this isn't all her fault for ditching me at school! "What's there to say? I was on my own, so they followed me! Where were you, anyways??" I burst out angrily.

"I had something very important to handle, Rachel." She looks very serious.

"Like what? What could have been that important? I was worried!"

"I'll tell you as soon as I'm sure you're all right. You haven't... gotten mixed up with the Trainer gangs somehow, have you?"

I cool down just a little. It hadn't occurred to me that Mom might still be worried about me. Besides, she's hard to stay mad at. "Of course not!" I answer shortly. It should be obvious I have more common sense than that. "They only followed me because they saw me walking home alone."

"And you haven't met a Pokémon that you're keeping a secret?"

"No."

She looks me in the eye in that strange, searching way she sometimes does. It's disconcerting, almost like she's looking into my head. I've never figured out how people see "emotions" in each other's eyes. To me they're just eyes... But every fiction book ever can't be wrong, I guess.

After a few uncomfortable seconds, Mom smiles and relaxes. "Okay, honey. I believe you." Her smile fades. "There's something I have to explain to you now, isn't there?"

I cross my arms. "Uh-huh." At least she knows better than to try and change the subject on me.

"It's time I told you about your father," Mom says.

If Mom hadn't had my undivided attention already, she would now. I've never met my father... Or at least if I have, it was when I was too young to remember. Dad is a bit of a wierd subject with us; Mom doesn't talk about him much. When she does, though, it doesn't sound like he's dead or disappeared or with somebody else; it's more like he's just around the corner, hiding or something. It's always offhand statements like, 'Your father prefers green tea to chamomile, too,' or 'If only your father were here to see this,' things like that. Every year for my birthday on April 18th, she always gets me two presents; one from her and one from Dad.

When I was younger, I would sometimes ask where Dad went, but Mom always evaded the question, until I eventually lost interest and stopped trying. I realize that's wierd, but it's never really seemed all that important. Mom is the only parent I've ever known, and that's always been fine with me.

"I know you've never had a chance to meet him, honey, but your father never really left us," Mom begins, absently twisting her elbow-length hair around one of her fingers. "His job for the last ten years has meant that he can't let anyone, even us, know where he is, and living at home would just put us in danger." She unconsciously glances at the closed door to her room.

I'm starting to suspect what's going on here. "And he's back now?" I ask.

"Yes." Mom notices that I'm staring pointedly at the door, and sighs. "He works for a branch of the government that's dedicated to intelligence operations," she says.

"So he's a spy," I interpret in a flat tone of voice.

"Yes," Mom answers, equally bluntly. "But he's also a Trainer, one of those responsible for keeping the gangs in Seattle from getting completely out of control. A lot of the Intelligence Agency's power comes from keeping secret exactly how much influence they have, so the gangs don't know how heavy the retaliation for interfering with people's lives will be."

I'm still not impressed. "So why hasn't anything been done about them? If the government is still around, why are the gangs still in charge?"

Mom looks down at her lap for a moment, and I can tell she's carefully considering how to word her answer. She's one of the only people who really realizes how much I get it, so she doesn't talk down to me. I appreciate that, but right now I'm not about to give her an easy time of it for hiding this.

"It's not as simple as that," she explains. "No one knows how many people like your father are watching over Seattle, but all that's certain is that there aren't enough to fight all the gangs at once. There's a big difference between making any one gang too afraid to step across a certain line, and chasing them off the streets completely. One way, you only have to take on the one gang, and probably win. The other way, you end up with an all-out war on your hands, one that you can't possibly win. Do you understand?"

I do, kind of. I'm a little conflicted, though— on the one hand, warring Trainers in the streets would be a disaster... But on the other hand, I feel like it's the responsibility of Trainers to step up and try to fix things... Not just stand by and watch while us normal people try to deal with the problems they've caused! Mom would be hurt to hear that from me, though, and really, I do understand what she means. Trainers who give a damn about non-Trainers are in short supply, so even if one side won, we'd be trading one set of Trainers lording it over us for another, at the cost of a whole lot of useless destruction and bloodshed. "Yeah, I get it," I mutter.

Mom looks relieved, and I'm immediately glad I kept my thoughts to myself. "Thank you, Rachel. As a Trainer myself, I can't really put myself in your shoes, but I know it's hard being at the mercy of people you don't trust." She reaches out and cups a hand around my cheek, which I distantly recognize as a gesture intended to be comforting.

I'm a bit too busy sorting out my thoughts to pay much attention. I feel a bit guilty about my opinion of Trainers when Mom refers to herself as one. Somehow I've never thought of her as a Trainer, even though obviously having Dream as a companion makes her one, technically. She's just too much of a real person.

Even forcing myself to think of Mom as a Trainer doesn't change my feelings. I still think the world would be better off without Trainers as a whole. If Pokémon were gone, Mom and I wouldn't have Dream with us, but we would be able to live a normal life even without her, and I wouldn't have to be walked to school every day, and I would have a real Dad, and... and...

I don't notice my eyes have filled with tears until Mom brushes one off my face. She gathers me into a warm hug— which fails, as usual, to make a dent in the angry storm that's swirling my feelings around, even though it should. I sob once with frustration. What a wimp! I think angrily at myself. Since when do I deserve to criticize anyone? It's not like I'm doing anything to help this whole situation. I just wish I could do something!

"Catherine? Who is—" asks an unfamiliar, male voice from my right. I jump to my feet, startled, and then stare at the doorway of Mom's room in complete astonishment.

A man is standing there, wearing a pair of Mom's pink pajama pants and nothing else. He has a narrow, clean-shaven face that would look youthful if his forehead and the corners of his eyes didn't show the lines of too much time spent worrying. His hair is the same shade of brown as mine, and his dark brown, almost black eyes are practically the same ones I see when I look in a mirror. He's wearing a thoughtful, serious frown that I'm more than a bit familiar with feeling on my own face, and returns my stare with the same kind of focused intensity I'm directing at him, like he's memorizing the way I look. A few seconds stretch on as we size each other up, and I can tell that he's going through the steps of figuring out how he feels about me, just like I'm doing in my own head. So this is where I get it from, I think analytically.

Dad glances at Mom, and I follow his gaze; she's looking from one of us to the other apprehensively, as if she's wondering what we're thinking. I look back at Dad, and almost at the exact same time, we both relax, our frowns disappearing to be replaced with small smiles... Mostly to set Mom at ease, because neither of us has really decided whether we're comfortable with each other or not.

"You must be Rachel," he says.

"Uh-huh. Hi, Dad."

We look at each other for another silent moment, but I still don't feel anything but awkwardness. How do you greet a father you've never met, never actually known? Am I supposed to go hug him and tell him how glad I am to see him? Would I even be telling the truth? "Where's your Pokémon?" I ask instead.

Dad stiffens, and his eyes slide off mine. "He's dead," he says bluntly. "Or captured. One of the two."

Mom gasps; apparently this is news to her, as well. "Oh, Stan, I'm so sorry..."

"We both knew the risks," Dad says, his voice gravelly. "We chose to do this for a living, and it was always going to end this way, sooner or later."
I keep quiet, staring at the floor. Right now I don't feel anything but disappointment. Dad is back, and he isn't a Trainer any more, but I can't seem to even make myself act like his real daughter. Shouldn't I be sad for him? Shouldn't I want to comfort him? I search through my head for any urge to be nice at all, and draw a blank. What kind of person does that make me? I wonder shakily.

A bit of resentment starts to rise, curdling sourly with my confusion. As if Mom didn't have enough on her shoulders, looking after one non-Trainer! Is she gonna have to take care of him, too? I suddenly hate myself for thinking that way, but it doesn't stop me from feeling like Dad shouldn't be here. Mom and I were fine on our own, and now he's gonna ruin everything!

"I should leave," Dad says, as if reading my thoughts. "There are people I can go to for help, and I've put you in danger by coming here." He takes a staggering step towards the door, but loses his balance and falls sideways onto one knee. Now I can see the huge wad of bandages taped to his back; they go all the way from his right shoulder to his left hip, and the center of the thick cloth is stained red.

"Stan!" Mom shouts, rushing to hold Dad up and prevent him from injuring himself any further. "You're in no shape to go anywhere!" she tells him, an edge of panic to her voice. I stare dumbly at the bandages; sometimes Mom takes me with her to help carry supplies when she delivers medicines on the weekends, and I've seen some serious injuries. A gash big enough to soak through that much bandage is dangerous at the best of times, and depending on how deep it is, it could be very life-threatening. Suddenly I realize how desperate he must have been. It's not that he doesn't care about the burden he's putting on Mom— it's that he literally had no choice but to come home.

I guess I feel a bit better about him, knowing that, but it barely makes a dent in the layer of cold uncaring that seems to have settled over my heart. After all, he's a Trainer, or was. They're the enemy, the original source of everything that's gone wrong in my life, ever.

Still, I go over to where he's kneeling with Mom supporting him under one arm, and pull his other arm over my shoulder. "Come on, Dad. Let's get you back in bed," I say quietly. Mom gives me a look of immense gratitude, and I smile hollowly back at her. Even if I can't be a good daughter, I can at least pretend. Maybe things will improve if he recovers enough that we can actually talk. That is, if he doesn't just leave again.

Together, we lift Dad carefully to his feet and steer him back to Mom's bed. He protests weakly as we lie him on his side, but relaxes when Mom shushes him.

"Dream, Sleep Powder," Mom says; her Bellossom releases a tiny stream of silvery dust onto her patient's face. The lines of pain and worry on Dad's forehead disappear as he drifts off to sleep, and once more I'm surprised by how much he looks like me. Not that I should be surprised, I guess. Genes are funny things.


~~~~~~~~~~


"I'm so sorry, Rachel."

I look up from my book, then switch the bookmark to the current page and set it down. It's only been a few minutes since we put Dad in bed; I was just waiting for Mom to feel like talking. I take it as a good sign that she's no longer just sitting on the sofa like a lump of rock and staring hopelessly at the floor.

"It's okay, Mom. I can tell you really love him."

"Oh, honey..." she tries and fails to smile, and I go over to the couch and hug her tightly. I think she needs the comfort. "You're not mad at me for springing that on you?"

"Hey, you've taken in seriously injured people before. It's not like this is anything new," I say in the most matter-of-fact tone of voice I have. I'm not really as unaffected as I'm pretending to be, but Mom would only worry more if I told her how wierd I felt about having Dad here.

"I know, honey, but..." Mom's voice trails off. "Are you sure you're all right with this?"

"Totally okay," I bluff, standing up before she gets a chance to figure out that I'm not quite telling the truth. "I'm gonna go talk to my friends online, okay? Don't worry, I won't mention anything that's classified info." Picking up my backpack with my binders and laptop in it, I walk into my room and close the door behind me, leaving Mom still looking worried but a lot less out of it than before.

My room is small (this is an apartment, after all) but cozy. My bed is at the other end of the room from the door, and stretches the whole seven feet from one wall to the other; the sheets and blanket are arranged neatly, which means Mom came in sometime today and re-did it after my usual sloppy job. I can't help but smile, even as odd as I'm feeling. The two small bookshelves bolted to the wall over the foot of my bed contain books by some of my favourite fiction authors— mostly Tamora Pierce, Scott Westerfeld, and Ash Ketchum (which is an alias chosen by a rather eccentric Pokémon-themed novel writer; I still don't know where he got the idea for the name.)

There's a small closet built into the right-hand wall; it holds all my clothes. Mostly jeans— which are still easier to come by than most other types of pants— and t-shirts, but Mom insists that I always have at least one dress. The one she forced me to pick out at the marketplace last year was a plain, homespun green one-piece thing that I chose because it wasn't too fancy, but Mom insisted on spending a few hours of her spare time embroidering it with white thread after we brought it back home. Thankfully, though, she still hasn't found any excuse to make me wear it.
The only other furniture in the room is my desk, which is a bit messy with a few half-finished English and History essays, and my huge beanbag chair, which I believe was a present Mom gave me on Dad's behalf on my tenth birthday.

That thought makes me feel odd again. My room is right next door to Mom's, and as I stand here at the door, I stare at the left-hand wall for a moment, considering the fact that my long-lost Dad is lying half dead on the other side of it. Hmm... Still no emotional response. Maybe, when he's a bit better, I'll go in there and try to talk with him properly.

But for now... I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I get my laptop out of its bag and plug in the USB satellite internet receiver. As soon as I open the computer's lid and it connects, I'm bombarded with offline messages:


Offline messages from: ElloMello
3:51 ElloMello: RACHEL!!
OMG!
NEIL JUST RAN AFTER U
WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A PHONE xD
anyways DON'T PANIC
I THINK HE LIKES U
SO HE WON'T HURT U (i hope!!)
um so msg me back if ur ok. :o
Last message from ElloMello at 3:52pm
3:53 ElloMello: OMG THE TRAINERS ARE GOING AFTER U TOO D: D:
RUN, RACHEL, RUN O_O
T_T


Offline messages from: Brian4theWin
4:00 Brian4theWin: Its back :(
The Pokemon
I dont think I can chase it away
It wont stay gone
What do I do??? Help
:(
:(
:(
Last message from Brian4theWin at 4:01pm
4:10 Brian4theWin: :(
ttyl



Offline messages from: Kares4UAll
4:21 Kares4UAll: Hi, Karen here.
This message is being sent to everyone in the Seattle area.
Sorry to make such an unpleasant request, but if any local news includes something that looks like a gang fight or a murder in the next couple of days, please let me know ASAP.
I'm looking for a tall Trainer who goes by the name of Reginald Davidson (Reggie for short,) whose Pokémon is a Larvesta. (info & appearance in that link)
Last I heard from him he was near Seattle, so please let me know if you hear anything!
I just hope he's still alive.
Anyways, thanks guys!


I smile at Ellen's message (albeit a bit sarcastically), but the message from Brian puts a frown on my face, and the last one turns the frown thoughtful.

Karen said the person they're searching for was called "Reginald Davidson," which might mean he's related to her. Maybe her brother or something? I think to myself. Whatever the case, I file the information away in my head as something to look out for. Instructions to just "be on the lookout" may sound boring, but the It's Not Right organization's biggest priority (after helping kids with Trainer problems) is exchanging information. Joining INR is one of the best ways to be informed of the latest news from all across the world. That's partly because forums and email are the main method of spreading long-distance news; TV is gone, phone lines are in bad shape, and only a few commercial radio channels still broadcast at all (even those are just music streams run by groups of teenagers who've taken over derelict broadcasting stations.)

Not that things like the wars of liberation in the middle east are a big secret— anyone who still uses the internet can be up to date on the biggest, most important stuff— but smaller bits of international news tend to get lost for a while before making it on to the web, so INR is the quickest way to be on top of things.

Ellen and Brian are both online; I open the [ItsNotRight.org SEATTLE DIVISION] group chat; might as well talk to both of them at once.


5:04 Group Chat: [ItsNotRight.org SEATTLE DIVISION]:
RAVEry: Hey Ellen, Brian.
Brian4theWin: Hey Elle
ElloMello: OMG ELLEN R U OK WHAT HAPPENED THE TRAINERS WENT AFTER U DID U RUN INTO THEM I HOPE NOT OMGGGGGGG
Brian4theWin: Ellen*
Woah thats a lot of caps
RAVEry: Heh heh, Ellen
I'm ok, a bunch of stuff happened but I'll tell you later.
Brian did you tell Ellen about what happened with you?
Brian4theWin: Yeah
We were just talking
ElloMello: i think he should keep it >:o
RAVEry: >=|
ElloMello: i know how u feel Rachel but srsly give it a rest
he already tried ur way
just stop!
ur such a wet blanket!!
RAVEry: Well excuse me, Miss "Pokémon Solve Everything"
Brian4theWin: ...
RAVEry: I must have missed the part where his parents suddenly decided they won't kill him if they find it.
ElloMello: ur such a worrywart!!
Brian4theWin: STOP IT GUYS!!!!!1
Cant you both just chill
ElloMello: I am chill!
>:(
RAVEry: w/e, sorry.
Brian4theWin: I agree with both of u ok? Its just that I already tried making him go away TWICE
He just keeps coming back
and I dont know any way to make him stop :(
so I want 2 try 2 keep him
cause it actually is prett ycool 2 have a pokemon.
ElloMello: SEE??
RAVEry: Ok, ok!! =P I get it! Do whatever you want Brian. =)
I just wanted to make sure you understood the risks. =(
Brian4theWin: I know Rachel and I appreciate it
ur right that its risky but I think I can handle it
ElloMello: i win! haha
RAVEry: *sigh* Don't push it, Ellen <_<
ElloMello: sry ^_^;
...
now tell us
what happened after school!!
last thing i saw was u running off with a bunch of TRAINERS CHASING YOU!
D:>


I spend the next forty minutes or so telling Ellen and Brian basically everything that happened, intentionally ending the story at the point when Mom and I get home in order to leave the part about Dad out. The whole thing takes longer to tell than it would normally because they keep interrupting with questions, but that's okay with me. It's not like I'm in a hurry to get any homework done.


Brian4theWin: So let me get this straight the biggest bully in your entire pokemonless school likes you
?
Awkward...
ElloMello: hahahahahaha!!! i think it's cuuuute ;)
RAVEry: Ugh... *facepalm* Srsly?
I may have discovered a light-carrying ghost or something haunting the alleys
and I nearly died getting cornered in an alley by an entire gang of Trainers
and I'm pretty much traumatized
and you guys are focusing on how a guy I hate is making googly eyes @ me??
F
M
ElloMello: aw, that's mean...
RAVEry: L
ElloMello: he tried to beat up a bunch of trainers 4 u!!! at least be a little nicer 2 him
RAVEry: I am being nice to him... <_<
I'm being nice to him like he is nice to every kid with glasses in the entire school <_<
I'm so very flattered that I'm considered attractive by possibly the dumbest example of a human being ever to exist
So very very
flatterd
flattered*
Brian4theWin: Oh so youre basically tsundere for him
RAVEry: What?
ElloMello: OMG, IT'S SO TRUE!! HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAH
RAVEry: Wth is tsundere?
It sounds insulting.
ElloMello: xD xD xD xD xD
Brian4theWin: Google it
TykeBomb has logged in
Brian4theWin: or TVtropes
Lol tvtropes! speak of the devil
ElloMello: HAHAHAHA ROFL ROFL LMAO
RAVEry: Ugh what did I do to deserve you two D=
Oh hey Tyco
TykeBomb: wat? wat happen? O_o
Brian4theWin: Someone set up us the bomb ;D
ElloMello: Rachel is in love with teh school bully ;3 ;3 kissies kissies
RAVEry: FFFFFFFFF you can all go die!! X(
ElloMello: ouch, harsh! xD
TykeBomb: what did *I* do????? D:
Signing out of AIM...


I sit back in my chair, still trying not to laugh despite being so annoyed. Clearly using the group chat for this conversation was a mistake. I'm gonna kill you tomorrow, Ellen! I say to myself. Yeees... And there will be noogies.

After a few more seconds of fiendishly plotting Ellen's noogie-filled demise, I catch myself yawning. It's been a long day, but according to the clock on my laptop, it's only 5:55— far too early to go to bed. Stifling a second yawn, I drag my Spanish binder out of my backpack. Opening it on my table, I find two pages of verb-conjugation homework due tomorrow, which I'd completely forgotten about.

Ugh. Stupid Bastion, with its mandatory Spanish classes and its ugly campus and its no-Pokémon snootyness. Honestly, I'd almost prefer to go to a school dominated by Trainer bullies at this point. At least at other schools, one of the self-appointed jobs of the Trainers is to keep other schools' Trainers off their turf... a kind of "no one can bully these losers but us" arrangement.

Going to Bastion, I can't even claim that kind of dubious protection. Reality begins to set in, a bit belatedly in my opinion. Well, that's not good, I think. After what happened today, those Trainers are all gonna be after me personally.

I'm starting to get an unpleasant, sick feeling in my stomach. I was hungry a moment ago— Mom usually makes sure dinner is ready at 6:00— but now my appetite's gone the way of the dodo bird. I'm fricking doomed, I think gloomily. After a moment of indulging in self-pity, though, I roll my eyes at myself for being such a drama queen. There's always Mom to walk me to and from school... and I've still got my secret weapons tucked into my hair. I reach back to make sure the sleep pellets are still there, and am reassured by the feel of them against my fingertips. I'll be sure to have them in my hand before I need to use them, next time.

"Rachel! Dinner!" Mom calls from the living room. We eat dinner in the living room; our apartment's kitchenette is right next to it, around the corner.

"Coming, Mom!" I shout, closing my laptop and plugging it in to charge before leaving my room. Mom's sitting at the table, and our dinner— which looks like rice and broccoli casserole and roast beef, and smells delicious— is already there. We dig in, and make short work of the food. Mom's cooking is fantastic.

"Is Dad gonna have any?" I ask, by way of conversation— once I'm done stuffing my face, of course.

"I'll take him some later just in case, but he's unlikely to be able to stomach anything but broth," Mom tells me, her face falling. "His body and mind have both been subject to serious trauma, and it'll take a lot of work to get him eating proper food again."

Ack. I kick myself inwardly for reminding her. "Well, at least he'll recover, right?" I say cheerily, trying to look on the bright side of things.
"I'm not so sure, Rachel," Mom says, now visibly on the verge of tears. "Losing his Pokémon partly killed his will to live. Even if his back on its own isn't enough to kill him, he might just die of shock."

I clamp my mouth shut, feeling like the biggest screw-up on the planet. Can't I take my foot out of my mouth for just one sentence? I wonder frustratedly. I go over to Mom and give her a hug, and she hugs me back extra-hard. Then she starts crying into my shoulder, and I just sit there awkwardly. I have no idea how to deal with this— Mom has always been the strong one. And I can't even relate to her feelings, because even though someone Mom loves this much can't be a bad person (except for about Neil, she's an excellent judge of character,) I have nothing to base any kind of emotion about Dad on.

That, I suddenly realize, is what's really wrong here: my discomfort about my feelings towards Dad all stem from this pressure I'm putting on myself to show proper daughterly love. I've been wanting so hard to like him, without actually having any reason to, that some contrary part of me is rebelling. So maybe getting to know him as a person rather than just a label ("Dad," "Trainer,") would help.

By the way, I've always had a bit of a habit of psychoanalyzing people, including myself. I'm usually right, too (about myself, at least.)

"Mom?"

"Yes, honey?" Mom responds, her voice muffled by my shoulder but steady. She sounds like she's mostly gotten over her fit of sobbing.

"Is it all right if I talk to Dad a bit, once he's a bit better? I..." I stop as my breathing shudders a bit and my throat gets tight. Now I'm choking up? Well... It makes sense, I guess; I probably just stopped unconsciously trying to feel like I thought I should feel. "We have a lot to catch up on," I finish when I think my voice is steady enough to go on.

"Of course, Rachel," Mom says, and I can hear her smiling. "I think he would like that."

"I would too," I say, and to my surprise it's actually true.

Chapter 1: Wednesday
Chapter 2: Thursday
Chapter 3: Friday
Chapter 4: Saturday
Chapter 5: Sunday
Chapter 6. Monday
Epilogue: Tuesday, Wednesday Again

Chapter 3: Friday

Mom and I set off early for school, leaving Dream in the apartment to look after Dad. Earlier, Mom gave Dream instructions to keep him in bed, as well as permission to enforce those instructions with Sleep Powder if he started acting up. I couldn't help but giggle as the little one-foot-tall flower Pokémon puffed herself up with importance and assumed a soldier-like stance on the bedside table. Clearly, no one would get out of that bed while she was on duty!

It's an unpleasant day out, to say the least; a cold wind is winding its way through the alleys, and the dark grey clouds overhead threaten to rain any moment. Once or twice, though, I glimpse lights at the end of alleyways off to the sides when we walk by them, as though someone's standing just around the corner with a lantern. My mysterious guide again? I wonder.

I want to mention it to Mom, and maybe go investigate, but if we do that I'll be late for school... And besides, Mom wouldn't approve of the risk. I've still got my sleep pellets, and Mom has a bunch of different self-defense concoctions on her (most of them a lot more dangerous than the sleep pellets,) but there's no sense in tempting fate. Still, I can't help but be curious about whatever it is that's following us.

The one thing I'm sure of by now is that it's a Pokémon of some kind. The light doesn't seem to have any trouble keeping up with us despite only appearing from around the corners at the ends of alleys, and it seems to only show itself once Mom's out of sight. Is it spying on us? I wonder, Or is it just playing games?

By the time Mom and I get to Bastion, it's started to rain and a nasty strong wind is sweeping down the street, driving the drops diagonally into our faces. Dream loves the rain, but the same can't be said for the small knot of Trainers and Pokémon huddled scowling under umbrellas in their usual spot. They're glaring ill-naturedly at the subdued-looking students filing into Bastion High across the pavement from the school; I can tell they're just about bored and miserable enough to start picking on kids despite the fact that that will mean standing in the rain. I duck my head against the wind-driven droplets, hoping they won't recognize me, and head for the gate as fast as I can without running.

I'm nearly at the Bastion gates when I hear a shout and a familiar, squeaky shriek of surprise. I look back and stifle a groan of sympathy. Two kids are sprawled on the ground with one of the Trainers' Pokémon standing over them. It's the cactus-like green Pokémon, the one with the pink flowers on its head that belongs to the Trainer I've started calling "yellow-green." I looked up the name of this species last night— it's a "Maractus."
I take in the situation a bit more thoroughly, and groan again: by some horrible turn of bad luck, Ellen is one of the two people the cactus knocked to the ground. The other is a boy I don't know, who looks to be in grade nine. Both of them are getting to their feet slowly and carefully, not taking their eyes off the Pokémon for a second.

Yellow-green, still wearing the same striped pants and yellow shirt with the green skull (does he even wash those?) steps forward to stand next to his Pokémon.

"Goddamned Bastion kids," he says with a sneer. "Not so snooty when you ain't hidin' behind your big-ass walls, are you? Cough up your lunch money. Now."

To emphasize his point, his Pokémon makes a sudden movement, and two huge, needle-sharp cactus spines embed themselves in the concrete near Ellen's feet. She turns pasty white with terror.

The boy next to Ellen nods fearfully. "Okay, okay!" he shouts, half crying with panic. "Just don't hurt us, please!" He fumbles at his backpack, looking for the money the Trainer wants.

Ellen's colour hasn't improved at all. "Uhh... I'm sorry, but I always br-" she hiccups, "-bring a packed lunch."

The Trainer's head jerks around so he can glare directly at her. "Are you kidding me?"

"N-no!" Ellen says, tears running down her face now. She pulls her brown paper bag out of her backpack and holds it out towards the scary Trainer, as if begging him to take it instead. "See?"

The Trainer's Maractus moves like a flash, tearing the bag out of Ellen's hand before anyone even notices the Pokémon has moved. It stands there, right in front of her, its cruel red eyes staring down a scant few inches into her face, with the bag dangling impaled on the three-inch spines in its arm.

Ellen whimpers.

"Worthless idiots," the Trainer says dismissively, a cruel look of disdain on his face. "Give her a whack for me, Spines."

Before anyone can even react, the cactus attacks viciously, its spike-studded arm crashing into Ellen with the force of a sledgehammer. She goes flying three feet sideways and lies there, motionless. In what I detachedly diagnose as a state of shock, I stare at the three large irregularly spaced red holes in her side, where the cactus's three-inch-long spines struck her. A cold feeling spreads over me, and before I know it, I've grabbed one of the sleep pellets out of my hair and am rushing over to help her, regardless of the fact that yellow-green is still watching.

Everything seems to be moving very slowly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom also running towards Ellen; she must have started as soon as the cactus snatched the bag out of Ellen's hand, so she's a lot closer to Ellen than I am. The Trainer doesn't seem to have noticed her yet— he's yelling at the kids behind him, who seem to think he's gone too far.

"Hey, boss, I thought we weren't gonna hurt anyone?" squeaks one younger-looking Trainer boy who's hugging his blue octopus-like Pokémon to his chest like a stuffed animal.

"Oh, shut up! She's not hurt, just bein' a wimp!" Yellow-green says scornfully.

"Are you sure?" asks a girl Trainer, the one from yesterday who wanted to leave me in the alleyways for the feral Pokémon. "She's not moving..."

"I said shut— Hey! Kid!"

Both I and the dazed-looking grade nine boy freeze, him on his way toward the gates and me on my way to Ellen.

"Where do you think you're going?" Yellow-green turns to regard me menacingly. After a moment, his eyes narrow. "Wait a minute... I recognize you!" he exclaims. His menacing glare turns positively murderous. The terrified grade nine seizes his chance and runs whimpering for the Bastion gate. He's safe— the Trainer's attention is focused on a much more interesting target.

I know that I'm in serious danger right now; every sense is screaming at me to run away!!! But I don't. That Maractus can catch me easily if I try to run, and giving in to panic would be the worst possible thing to do. My mind is perfectly clear, and all that's left is to wait for the perfect moment...

"I said..." the Trainer repeats, slowly and awfully, as though he's speaking to someone stupid who doesn't quite understand what he's saying, "Where do you think you're going, Bastion bitch?"

"Nowhere," I say, and throw the sleep pellet that I already have in my hand.

It sails through the air and scores a direct hit on yellow-green's shoulder. He looks confused and annoyed for a moment, then brushes it off.
"The hell was that?" he asks derisively, then crumples to the ground.

His cactus Pokémon and his gang of Trainers look uncertain for a second or two; that's all the time I need to quickly fish three more pellets out of my hair. "You'd better pick him up and leave right now," I tell them, trying to sound a lot more confident than I am. "Unless you want a nap, too?"
One of the Trainers snorts with laughter. I look him up and down apprehensively. He's a boy with red-dyed streaks in his blond hair, wearing an expensive-looking black dress jacket and standing near the front of the mob. "Ha! By all means, try," he says derisively in an accent I can't quite place.

I suddenly become aware that I can't move at all— not even my eyes. I'm forced to keep staring straight at the Trainer, and he gestures for his Pokémon to join him. It floats over, and I recognize it as a Solosis, a Psychic-type Pokémon whose body is basically an off-white blob with a vertical triangle for a mouth. It's surrounded in an orb of green slime, and floats using the same psychic power that's holding me in place.

My vision starts to drift in and out of focus, and I realize with a jolt of panic that I'm not breathing; the Pokémon's telekinetic grip on my body is so absolute, my lungs can't even expand. I'm starting to feel light-headed, and my fingers and toes are going numb.

Panic grips me. How long can someone go with no air before dying? Five minutes? Six? I try to remember. Distantly, I remember hearing somewhere that brain damage starts to occur after you go four minutes without breathing.

Tears run down my face. I don't want to die, I think desperately, unable to even make a sound out loud. Please don't kill me...
My swimming vision starts to tunnel, and I can tell I'm about to lose consciousness. My panic seems quite distant now, like an emotion felt by someone a few feet away. A black veil covers my field of vision, and I start to see wierd images in the darkness. Mom's face. A nonsensical snatch of a conversation from a couple of years ago. A lit candle, short and thick, which swims into view from one side of me, its flame dancing about mesmerizingly. It gets closer and closer until I can feel its warmth on my face. Then the candle suddenly disappears, though I can still feel it, warming me from within.

A slight tingling feeling returns to my numb body, and although I still can't move any other part of me, my chest begins to rise and fall with shallow, panicked breaths. It takes me a moment to realize that my vision is returning as well, if only as a vague soup of dim colours. My head clears a little with the renewed supply of oxygen to my brain; the tiny breaths I'm ableto take aren't really enough, but at least I'm not in immediate danger of asphyxiating. Maybe the Solosis heard my thoughts— some Psychic-types can do that— and decided to have mercy. My eyes are still out of focus, but my ears are working just fine, and I realize that the Solosis's Trainer has been talking while I was busy fighting unconsciousness. He has a slight accent, almost like British aristocracy from an old movie.

"...perhaps that will teach you not to cross us, stupid girl!" he says, laughing cruelly. "This is neutral ground, so this time you can no longer threaten us by hiding behind an alley gang—"

He stops abruptly. I'm not sure what happened to cut him off, but it's obviously affected his Pokémon as well, because suddenly I can move again. I double over, collapsing to my hands and knees and gasping desperately for air. Being able to breathe properly is like heaven after nearly a minute and a half of oxygen starvation. It's a few seconds before the feeling starts to come back into my arms and legs, and I count to twenty to clear my head before I risk looking up to try and figure out what happened, blinking tears out of my eyes.

The entire gang of Trainers and Pokémon is out cold, sprawled in the middle of the empty street. Even in my dizzy, light-headed state, I can figure out that Mom must have been responsible. One of her proper sleep bombs, like my pellets but a lot stronger, could have easily put all of them to sleep at once.

"Mom?" My fuzzy mind seems to be speeding up a little. I look around to where I can see Mom kneeling over... somebody else who's lying in the street. Who...?

Suddenly, in a rush, I remember what was going on before I got the attention of the Trainers. "Ellen!!"

Mom has her medicine kit out; it's a slim, rectangular metal box, painted white with a red cross on it. I've always suspected the box must have been a tin for fancy chocolates or something before she emptied it out and painted it. I gulp. Ellen's injuries must be serious— Mom's opened the tiny secret compartment at the bottom, the part with all the rarest stuff; anticoagulants and antibiotics and things like that, stuff that's hard to come by nowadays. Only a few actual economies are still running in the whole of North America— after seeing the results of the Second Civil War in the U.S., Canada's gangs only took a couple years to stage a much less bloody coup— and ever since big business took a back seat, a lot of the most complex "nonessentials" like medicine and toys aren't really produced anywhere anymore. With suburban neighbourhoods ploughing up their lawns to grow vegetables, food is about the only thing that ever gets transported from place to place, and overseas shipping is rare as hell. So antibiotics have to be imported at great cost from somewhere halfway across the continent.

I realize my thoughts are rambling; with an effort, I force my spinning head to focus on what's happening here and now. I find myself kneeling on the other side of Ellen from Mom. There's blood everywhere; Mom's cut away the side of Ellen's sweater and has a bandage over each of the deep holes the Maractus's spikes made. Blood is already soaking through the bandages.

"Ellen!" Mom shouts at my friend. "Stay with me, girl. Stay with me."

Ellen's eyes flutter open. She squints at us through the drizzle of rain. "I'm... tired. Lemme sleep..."

"No, no, Ellen, you can't sleep," Mom says. "Keep talking to me."

"What happened?" Ellen asks. "I remember walking to the gate and then something happened..." her eyelids droop.

I grab her hand. "Ellen, you know what happened. Remember?" I know enough about first aid to know that I need to keep her conscious and talking while Mom does her job. "Think. Tell me what happened."

"Um..." Ellen says slowly, her hazel eyes going all dull and glassy so they look like river mud instead of their usual gemstone colours. A few seconds pass before she asks simply, "Why?"

"It's really important," I tell her. I don't think it's just rain running down my face any more. You can't die, Ellen. Not like this.

"There was... a boy. He fell over, and... I fell over, too." Ellen says, pausing to gasp shallowly between every few words. "Rachel, this hurts. Why does it hurt so much?"

"Just... just stay with me, Ellen," I beg. "What... What happened next?"

"There was a Pokémon," she says. "It had... such scary eyes. Red, angry eyes. It... hit me. Really hard." She seems a little more conscious now, and her eyes don't have that awful glassy look to them.

"That's right, Ellen, but you're gonna be okay," I say, wanting to believe it myself.

"How hurt am I?" she asks, squeezing my hand weakly. "Is it bad, Rachel?"

"No... No, of course not," I say with false cheerfulness, praying I'm telling the truth. "Mom will have you patched up in no time."

"Haha... You're not a very good liar, you know," she says, smiling her carefree smile at me despite how much pain she must be in. "You never act that happy unless you're trying really hard to cheer someone up. It's really sweet of you..."

My heart breaks a little. "Ellen, you're gonna be okay, I promise. Mom's the best doctor there is."

"I know," Ellen says, still smiling bravely. "Thanks, Rachel."

I sit there, holding her hand, keeping her awake by talking with her about anything that pops into my head, until Mom finishes bandaging her side and a couple of brave Bastion teachers finally show up with a stretcher.


~~~~~~~~~~


I'm sitting in the school's infirmary, staring at the spotless beige linoleum floor. Ellen's in the school nurse's office with Mom and the nurse and my Biology and P.E. teachers, who are the only ones in the school with first aid training. If there's any feeling worse than sitting outside a door, waiting to find out if your best friend is gonna live or die, then it's a feeling I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

The door opens and I jump to my feet. It's Mom, her apron stained with blood, a tired but relieved look on her face. "She's going to be okay," Mom says.

My knees go weak, and I almost collapse, but settle for hugging Mom tightly instead. She puts her arms around me and strokes my hair like she used to when I was really young. "Luckily, the spikes missed all of her internal organs, and only scratched one of her ribs. She was most at risk from blood loss, but the worst of the surface damage was somehow already cauterized when I took the bandages off," she tells me, knowing I understand what she's talking about.

"C-cauterized?" I pull back, to look up at her uncomprehendingly. "I don't understand. There weren't any fire-type Pokémon there."

"Yes, it's very mysterious..." Mom says, a pensive look crossing her face. "But we'll worry about that later. We need to get you washed up."
I look down, and realize my hands and clothes are covered in Ellen's blood. I gulp, feeling a little ill. And this isn't even all the blood she lost. I don't waste any time cleaning my hands in the infirmary sink, but I think my clothes are a lost cause. It's just an old coat, a pair of faded jeans and a white t-shirt, but the quickly drying bloodstains show up dark brown on the jeans and shirt, and even scrubbing at them with a towel soaked in soapy water doesn't do anything.

"I can't go to class like this!" I protest.

Mom looks at my brown-splotched clothes, and sighs. "I'd forgotten how hard it is to get bloodstains out of fabric. My apron's specially treated to resist stains, but we'll have to get you home and changed into something else. For that matter..." She frowns and squints at me, then puts a hand on my forehead. Her eyebrows shoot up. "You've got a temperature, Rachel! Why didn't you mention it? Are you feeling dizzy, or nauseous?"

"Huh?" I say, frowning. "I still feel a bit dizzy from when that Solosis kept me from breathing, but I thought that was it. It's not a big deal—"

"Come on, honey, we're going home," Mom says forcefully, cutting me off. She takes my hand, picks up my coat, and pulls me gently out of the infirmary. Fortunately, it's the middle of first period, so no one's there to see my bloodstained shirt and jeans. "You've got a very high fever, and we need to get you somewhere you can rest."

"What about Ellen?" I ask.

"Your school's nurse is a very smart woman. I'm confident she can take care of Ellen now that the worst is over."

I'm not about to argue with Mom when she's in doctor mode. I know from experience, from the once or twice I came down with something when I was younger— when Mom considers you a patient, there's no arguing with anything she says. It's frustrating, but in the end probably for the best. I suddenly realize I'm exhausted, and wouldn't particularly enjoy having to slog through an entire day of classes when I'm this tired. And isn't fatigue another symptom of fever? Maybe Mom's right, and I should be in bed.

~~~~~~~~~~

I'm lying in my bed, still half-asleep; I don't know what time it is, but it's probably late afternoon and still cloudy, based on the grey light that's filtering through my room's single window.

My last clear memory is of leaving the Bastion. The trip home passed in a bit of a haze, but I do remember almost falling asleep at one point and having Mom carry me piggy-back for a little while. Eventually I half-deliriously insisted that she put me down and let me walk, because she can't get at her self-defense pellets and stuff when she's carrying me. As soon as she put me in bed, I think I pretty much instantly dropped off into dreamland.

I reach down and feel around for my backpack on the floor next to my bed— fortunately, I guessed correctly that Mom would leave it there for me— and pull my laptop out of it. I boot it up and check the clock: it's 5:20 PM. Then I start AIM and sign in. Brian and Tyco are online, but no one else. I really don't feel like talking with anyone (or doing anything at all) right now, but my conscience gets the better of me. Fever-induced apathy or no, I should at least let them know what happened with Ellen.


5:20 Group Chat: [ItsNotRight.org SEATTLE DIVISION]
RAVEry: Hi.
TykeBomb: hey Rachel!!!!!
how r uuuuuuuu!!?!?!?!?!?!
RAVEry: Ugh
Not good at all
Fever
>_<
TykeBomb: ouch!! D: sry to hear that!!!
brian's afk...
i think he had chores to do!!
RAVEry: Please use less exclamation marks, they r hurting myhead
TykeBomb: oh sry!!
i mean
sry.
RAVEry: Thanks
Ellen is hurt.
Pretty badly I think.
TykeBomb: O_o
D:
RAVEry: Trainers attacked her
I stupidly tried to help
And got my ass kicked.
TykeBomb: D: D: D:
RAVEry: Sorry
TykeBomb: totally not ur fault!!!!!! stop saying soryr!!!
RAVEry: sorry
TykeBomb: >:(
RAVEry: oops
TykeBomb: those gangs r out of control!! f them!!
makes me want 2 Roaring Rampage of Revenge!!!!
RAVEry: Trainers r the worst.
X_X
TykeBomb: ya, except Brian
and Karen
and ur mom, rite??
lolololol i used ur mom in context!!! xD
RAVEry: i guess <_<
lets not hav this discussion
i dont feel well
TykeBomb: oh, right :o
RAVEry: U know that feeling where u dont wanna do anything and everything seems too much work?
Like apathy on steroids
?
Thats how I feel right now
TykeBomb: argh taht sucks!!!!
wait didnt u say u got ur ass kicked
r u ok??????
RAVEry: Yeah I only got held in place by a psychic type for about 1.5 mins
TykeBomb: that doesn't sound so bad?
RAVEry: It wasn't letting me breathe.
>_>
TykeBomb: O_O
RAVEry: It could've been a lot worse if Mom wasn't there.
Ellen got punched by a cactus with 3-inch spikes in its arm
I thought she was gonna die!!!!!!
Ugh I just did that thing you do
with all the exclamation marks(!!!!!!)
TykeBomb: ...
Brian4theWin: Back
Oh hey Rachels here
Whats up
h/o lemme read up
TykeBomb: ...
RAVEry: .............................
Brian4theWin: WHAT THE????????????????????????
RAVEry: Wow Brian that's even more question marks than Tyco usually uses.
And you don't even usually use punctuation at all. =O
Brian4theWin: What happened??
RAVEry: That gang of Trainers who hang out across from the Bastion...
They were in a bad mood because it's raining.
And they knocked her over and asked for lunch money.
But she didn't have lunch money
Because she always brings a packed lunch.
T_T
So they got mad...
Brian4theWin: holy fuck
RAVEry: Watch your language, there are kids in here.
*points at Tyco*
TykeBomb: pfft Rachel u think I care??? i pretty much live on the internet!! relax!!!
RAVEry: Never mind... =P Just trying 2 lighten the mood.
Brian4theWin: Is Ellen OK????????
RAVEry: I wouldn't say ok, but she'll pull through.
She's at the infirmary at our school.
I think they'll keep her there until she's well enough to move.
Brian4theWin: Omg thank god
Grr
That makes me so mad
I want to go beat them up
With my l33t Trainer skillz!!!!
RAVEry: I doubt that would work...
You're still new at this and your Pokémon is pretty young isn't it?
Brian4theWin: I KNOW I KNOW :(
I wasn't being serious
But someday I will be serious! >:(
You should see some of the stuff Stanley can do
RAVEry: Stanley?
U named the Pokémon Stanley?
Brian4theWin: Um he seemed to like the name
Whats wrong with it
RAVEry: Nothing's wrong with the name, I like it =)
It sounds really familiar for some reason, though.
Dunno why.
TykeBomb: DUN DUN DUNNNNNN!!!!!
RAVEry: ?
TykeBomb: lol nothing xD that's just rly mysterious and i thought i'd add some dramatic background music lol!!
RAVEry:
Brian4theWin: Well I am glad u like the name
:)
RAVEry: I'd still be more comfortable if you didn't have a Pokémon in the first place...
You KNOW my opinion
But it's not rly my business.
I just hope nothing goes wrong with Stanley & ur family.
Brian4theWin: :(
TykeBomb: god Rachel why dont u take a chill pill!! xD
ur like, all passive aggressive up in here
RAVEry: No I'm not! >=|
I just don't want Brian getting kicked out of his house!
Is that so hard to understand?
TykeBomb: well stop bringing it up!!!!!
he made his decision. ok????
RAVEry: Okay, okay! Sorry! >_<
Brian4theWin: Its okay Tyco it doesnt bother me
Its nice that she cares
TykeBomb: ok sorry.
RAVEry: It's all right. I get a bit intense about stuff sometimes.
Anyways, feeling tired. I should go back to sleep.
TykeBomb: aww poor Rachel is sick :(
Brian4theWin: :(
:(
:(
:(
Get well soon
!
RAVEry: Lol, thanks guys. =)
Signing out of AIM...


I close my laptop and put it down next to my bed, then lie back and try to go back to sleep. Despite feeling really tired, though, I can't. I just woke up, so it's like my body doesn't want to stay put any longer, and my head's too full of all the stuff that's happened to me in the last couple of days. Thoughts about Trainers and Dad and Brian and that light-carrying who-knows-what in the alleyways keep vying for my attention until I'm thoroughly annoyed with all of them. Frustrated, I pull my Spanish textbook out of my backpack and spend a while trying to memorize verb endings, but I can't seem to focus. Maybe it's the fever?

I need a distraction. As if it was waiting for me to decide that, my mind drifts to my fellow invalid a room over. Dad. It still feels wierd to have a face to attach to the word. Maybe I should check on him. And, I admit, I'm curious.

I swing my feet off my bed and sit up, and a wave of dizziness nearly knocks me back down. I wait for it to subside, then open the door of my room a crack and peek out. Mom isn't anywhere to be seen— she's probably off on one of her medicine deliveries or house calls. That's good, because there's no way she'd let me get out of bed with a fever.

I sneak over to the door to Mom's room and open it. It's dark, so I leave the door open to let a tiny bit of light in from the living room as I tiptoe in.
Dad is on his side in the bed, cocooned in a nest of blankets so his injured back won't be in contact with anything. The bandages are clean, and I'm relieved to see there isn't any blood soaking through this time. I can hear his breathing, pretty shallow but steady, and most importantly, not rattling. Rattling breath is bad, I remember Mom telling me, because it indicates a damaged lung or fluid in the windpipe.

Dream isn't here, probably because Mom might need her for treating a patient if she needs one of her more potent powders or oils. I sit down on one side of the bed and peer down at Dad. I'm pretty sure he's awake; his breathing changed rhythm a moment ago.

"Hello, Rachel," he says.

"Hi, Dad."

We stare silently at each other for a moment.

"I guess you don't really have much to say to me," he says. "I haven't been around since you were about five."

"Yeah. Sorry."

"It's all right. It's not your fault."

Another moment of silence. It's not uncomfortable silence, really. I get the feeling Dad and I are a lot alike in the way we think.

"I'm sorry about your Pokémon," I say.

"Thanks. He was a good friend."

I'm about to respond when another sudden wave of dizziness hits me, and it's a few seconds before I can get my eyes to focus on Dad again. I've lost my train of thought, so I take a moment to try and remember what it was that I was about to say.

I'm still trying to figure out exactly how I feel about suddenly having a Dad as well as a Mom, when for so many years just having a Mom was my idea of 'normal.' Now that I've stopped trying to make myself feel something about Dad, curiosity seems to have usurped numbness. I've got so many questions! Where did he live when he was a secret agent? How did he manage to stay hidden from Psychic-type Pokémon and hostile gangs? How did they finally manage catch him? Why did he get injured? And, I guess most importantly...

"What was it like to be a Trainer?"

I can see him smiling, even in the dim light from the living room.

"Being a Trainer was... the most difficult thing I ever did in my life. I made a lifelong friend who understood me like no one else ever could, but I gained a responsibility that nearly broke me. I gained a lot, but gave up so very much in return."

He shifts his position in the bed, and his breath hitches with pain. I wince. But despite his pain, he continues, "Giving up a normal life, years with your mother, and years with you... is something I've always wished I'd never had to do... but I don't regret it, either."

There's another long minute of silence, and I start to think that maybe he's gone to sleep again when he says suddenly, "I'm sorry, Rachel."
"For what?"

"For putting my duty as a Trainer above my duty as a father."

"I..." I pause to swallow a lump that's appeared in my throat. He had no way of knowing how I feel towards Trainers, but what he just said is so very similar to my own thoughts yesterday about how Trainers have a duty to fix what they broke. "I'm proud of you, Dad."

We sit there in silence for another few minutes, during which my mind goes all hazy with fever and then drifts slowly back towards clarity.

"Rachel?"

I shake my head a bit, chasing the last bit of fog out of my mind. "Yeah?"


"I'm proud of you, too."

I sit with Dad for a few minutes until he falls asleep again, then quietly leave the room and close the door behind me.


~~~~~~~~~~


After using the chamber pot in the bathroom and washing my hands using a bit of water from the jug by the sink (the sewage network has been backed up for years, and there's no running water... which is also part of why the toilet doesn't work) I get back into bed and try again to fall asleep. Unfortunately, I feel wide awake now. I'm also not as weak or dizzy as before, though, so I pick my laptop up from where it's sitting next to my bed, and open the lid.

Before I reconnect to AIM, I check my desktop. I've got one reminder to myself there in the form of a text file; opening it, I see two lines. One is, "Math assign. (1 page) due Thurs.; CHECK". I delete it; that's the one I handed in yesterday.

The other is, "English HW (1 Pg Democracy essay) due Wed."

Ugh. I'd entirely forgotten about that essay. I groan. While democracy is a totally great idea, I was being both snarky and truthful when I called it "obsolete." There's no way Trainers are going to let democracy happen, not when the difference between people with Pokémon and people without is so obvious. And now I have to write some kind of story or proposition about implementing an old-fashioned idea like that in a new and unequal world? Crud. Well, anything's possible in fiction, I guess. Maybe I'll ask Ellen to help me—

Oh. My insides feel like they're tying themselves into a knot. For a moment I'd forgotten that Ellen is probably lying in a bed in the Bastion High infirmary right now, unconscious or in pain. She's not gonna be helping me with any assignments anytime soon.
And yet... It's a shame, I can't help but think. This assignment would be right up her alley.

I need a distraction. I click "Sign in" and see Brian and Tyco still online.


6:02 Group Chat: [ItsNotRight.org SEATTLE DIVISION]
TykeBomb: yeah but that doesnt make it ok!!!!!!
you should be able 2 make ur own choices!!!
Brian4theWin: I know but its just the way things are
Its not like I can change their mind
TykeBomb: Hey Rachel's online again!!!
Feeling better?? :(
RAVEry: A bit. Thanks =)
Talking about Brian's parents?
Brian4theWin: Ya
TykeBomb: yeah.......
RAVEry: Hey Brian
I was wondering something
Brian4theWin: ?
RAVEry: You never actually said what kind of Pokémon Stanley is.
Brian4theWin: Well
Pretty sure hes one of these
Larvesta
even tho she looks a bit different from the picture
TykeBomb: wow those are rare!!!!!!
ur lucky!!!!!
RAVEry: Isn't he already lucky to be chosen by a Pokémon though? =P
TykeBomb: luckiER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
RAVEry: Ugh nvm, sarcasm doesn't translate well over the internet.
Brian4theWin: OBTW
Guess what
I talked 2 Sonia
The present is ready
Why dont we give it to Ellen now to make her feel better
?????
RAVEry: Whos gonna pick it up from her?
Brian4theWin: Herp derp
Who actually lives in Seattle?
RAVEry: Oh right. ._. Sorry
Still not 100% clearheaded.
TykeBomb: go sleep then!!!!
u need to be BETTER 2morrow so u can GO 2 DA MARKET!!!!!!
LIKE A BOSS!!!!
RAVEry: Ok ok your allcaps yelling is hurting my head xD
G'night guys.
Signing out of AIM...


~~~~~~~~~~


I don't usually remember my dreams, but this one was quite vivid. I remember being able to see an old-looking paper map in my head, showing a top-down view of the alleys between home and my school. Then, in that funny way dreams have of moving you from place to place without warning, I was walking through the alleys. A couple of people walked past me without seeing me, and I noticed that they had black leather jackets and white bandanas on. That's all I noticed; the dream didn't really let me see anything else about them, so I couldn't even have told you if they were men or women. Just that they were wearing black jackets and white bandanas.

Then I was up high in the air, looking down at the same set of alleys, straight down so they looked like a real-colour version of the map I saw before. A few people were walking around in the alleyways in groups of two or three, their white bandanas only visible as round spots of brightness from this high up.

Then I was standing in front of my own apartment building, on the street between the apartment building and the entrance to the alleyways. I looked up at the second floor and focused on the window of my room— I could tell which one it was because it was the one with the candle burning on the windowsill— and woke up.

Chapter 1: Wednesday
Chapter 2: Thursday
Chapter 3: Friday
Chapter 4: Saturday
Chapter 5: Sunday
Chapter 6. Monday
Epilogue: Tuesday, Wednesday Again

Chapter 4: Saturday

I sit up and yawn, stretching as wide as my arms will go. There's a bright shaft of sunlight spilling across my bed from my window; I feel totally full of energy— unbelievably so, because I'm normally not a morning person. I hoist my computer onto my lap and take a look at the time— 12:40pm. Well, that explains it. It's not morning any more.

I get up with another big stretch, then change out of my pajamas and into some jeans and a pink t-shirt. Yesterday's jeans and t-shirt are missing from my closet, and I'm guessing I won't ever see that particular set of clothing again.

"Mom?" I call. An answering murmur from the other side of my room door informs me that Mom is, indeed, home. I'm halfway through gathering up my binders and laptop into my backpack before realizing it's Saturday. Right...

I'm hungry, so I head for the door. I'm reaching for the handle when...

"Rache— oof!" Mom opens the door to my room suddenly, calling my name, and the door bounces off my head and back into Mom's face. We both stagger back, holding our foreheads.

"Haha, Mom. Don't forget to knock next time," I admonish her, grinning.

She stares at me for a moment. "Rachel, are you all right?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, the door's pretty light, so my head's okay. How about you?"

"I'm all right, too, but..." Mom shakes her head in disbelief. "I've never seen you so cheerful in the morning."

"Well, I've sort of missed morning, so maybe that explains it," I say flippantly, still grinning like an idiot. I probably look silly, but I don't care; I just feel so energetic for some reason!

Mom is feeling my forehead, and frowning. "I don't believe it. You were running such a high temperature yesterday, I could've sworn you'd be all weekend recovering. But..."

"I'm hungry," I inform her, pushing her hand away gently. "What's for 'lunch'?"

Lunch turns out to be homemade French Fries and a fried ground beef patty between two slices of buttered toast. Mom likes to serve 'comfort food' like this to ill people who are well enough to keep it down— she jokingly calls it 'fast-food-style medicine,' even though fast food restaurants (or, really, any restaurants) haven't existed in Seattle for more than seven years. She claims it helps keep invalids' spirits up. Right now, I can sure as heck vouch for that claim! Delicious.

"Listen, honey, I'm going to the downtown market for groceries," Mom says as soon as I've cleaned my plate. "Are you sure you don't want to have a lie down? You should still be feeling the aftereffects of the fever, and I'm worried your energy is going to run out sometime soon."

"Aw, can't I come?" I beg, trying not to sound too much like I'm whining. The Seattle Square Market is the best possible place to be on a Saturday afternoon. Most of the farmers and craftsmen from the suburbs come to sell their goods on weekends, and during the autumn the entire place smells wonderfully of with ripe fruits and veggies and fresh-baked bread. The Seattle Square on a Saturday is just like you'd imagine a medieval marketplace being... And I guess that's not far from the truth. Money can still be used to buy things there, but you can also barter using tools, trinkets and jewellery, or even liquor. That's how the world works now, where people are as happy to be paid with food or simple necessities like clothing and cutlery as they are to get paid with money.

"I'm not sure, Rachel..." Mom says, wringing her hands unconsciously. "I don't want you to suddenly realize you're exhausted when we're halfway to the market."

"Pleeeease? I feel fine, really! Like, better than fine! I promise I'll let you know the moment I start feeling weak or dizzy, okay?"

"Hmm..." Mom reaches across the table and feels my forehead one more time, shaking her head with disbelief. "I suppose, if you really feel that much better, there's no reason why you can't help me carry the grocery bags," she points out, a little mischievously.

"Fine by me," I say. I'm totally okay with carrying food in exchange for a day in Seattle Square. And besides, there's something I have to pick up from there.

"Well, all right," Mom says, smiling. "Grab a bag and we'll go right now."


~~~~~~~~~~


For the first time this week, there's not a cloud in the sky. The sun bathes everything in a glow that makes the world seem like a totally different place from the one where Ellen is lying sedated in an infirmary bed. I'm still sorry about my friend's condition, but somehow I just can't feel bad on a day like this. It helps that I know Ellen wouldn't want me to be miserable on her account.

"Hey, Mom? Can we pick something up for Ellen? It'd be a shame for her to completely miss out on a Saturday market."

Mom nods, clearly a little bemused by my carefree attitude. "You're in a rather upbeat mood today. Normally you'd be moping."

"Moping won't do Ellen any good. A nice fresh croissant, on the other hand, might," I point out.

"Very true," Mom concedes.

Up ahead is Seattle Square, also known as Occidental Park. Even from this distance, you can hear the sound of thousands of people talking, and smell the mingling odours of fresh bread, baked veggies, and popped corn. The place has the feel of a fair to it, even though it's technically best described as a flea market.

After telling me where and when to meet her after I'm done with my shopping, Mom heads off to her part of the Square— she has medical supplies to buy, like bandage cloth, stitching thread and, if she can get it, rubbing alcohol and other specialized medical materials. Sometimes we'll be extra lucky and there'll be a van from out of town carrying antibiotics and rare medicines from the functioning medical labs in Portland or Vancouver.
So now I'm standing here, more or less in the middle of the Seattle Square Market in Occidental Park. Stalls and kiosks of all kinds fill every bit of space that isn't taken up by the Park's maple trees, its dilapidated years-old benches, or the half-destroyed legs of a statue that was knocked over during the Second Civil War. The vendors mix without any particular rhyme or reason; over by the destroyed statue I can see a simple stand that consists of a couple of people standing behind a foldable table covered in secondhand clothing, while right next to them sits a full-on wheeled stall with a bored-looking Rapidash hitched to it by thick ropes (which must have been treated with flame retardant or something.) The stall with the horse Pokémon is decked with all manner of food, clothing, tools and trinkets, indicating that it's one of the ones where you can buy or sell nearly anything.

The sun is almost directly overhead, its heat dispersed by the yellowing leaves of the maples overhead but its brightness suffusing everything with vivid colours. Wind chimes dangle from some of the more permanent stalls, and the entire scene is host to a constantly flowing river of people going from place to place with their canvas bags and shopping lists.

Most Saturdays, I come here with Ellen to get groceries for both our families— as well as window-shop and chat, of course— but without her here I'm not actually sure what to do. She's always the one dragging me to this stall and that; her infectious enthusiasm is what makes it all so much fun.
Still, I'm determined to have a good time. The stalls here carry all sorts of stuff, and there's almost always a nice surprise to be found if you look carefully. I thread my way through the press of people, keeping my eyes on the stalls; there are all sorts of colourful clothes, most of them homemade or heavily patched. I'm gonna need a new pair of jeans to replace the ones that got ruined yesterday...

A few minutes later there's a new pair of blue jeans in the bottom of one of my grocery bags— quite a good find, faded but with only one small patch in the corner of one of the legs. Factory-made material in such good condition is usually a lot more expensive, but the young lady at the stall seemed to like me and gave me a discount.

There's one particular shop I'm hoping is here this weekend. It's the one place that has exactly the perfect gift for Ellen. Sure enough, after a bit of wandering around, I finally locate the right stall. It's owned by a family whose main craft is machinery repair, but I'm not here to talk to the owners.

"I'm over here!" calls a melodious, singsong voice from up ahead. I smile to myself. Sonia always seems to know when someone's looking for her.
"Hi, Sonia," I say, walking around to the back of her parents' machinery-decked stall.

"Rachel!!" I'm promptly ambushed by a flying tackle. I laugh as I untangle her arms from around my neck. Sonia does everything like an exuberant child. She's so silly and carefree, it's sometimes hard to believe she's sixteen— a year older than me.

"Hey there. Been a while," I say, still smiling. "Did you finish it?"

"Yep!" Sonia chirps. "It's perfect! Wanna see?"

Sonia is the fifth member of the It's Not Right.org Seattle Division. She lives way out near the forests to the east, and she can't be on AIM much because she doesn't get to use her family's computer when her Dad is using it for his work. She's still part of the group, though, and Ellen and I can spend hours and hours hanging out with her on Saturdays.

The thing we're talking about is a gift for Ellen, from all of us. It's a stuffed animal version of her favourite Pokémon, Pikachu. Sonia put it together using cotton from Brian's garden and high-quality bandage linen from me (I begged it off Mom,) and it was designed by Tyco (I'm pretty sure he taught himself to make fabric diagrams just for this project. I swear that kid could learn to do anything in a matter of weeks.) It was supposed to be for Ellen's birthday, but Brian got in touch with Sonia and told her the news about Ellen. They decided that if her parents brought the stall into town today I would pick it up and take it to Ellen to cheer her up.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she says, presenting me with the most lifelike stuffed animal I've ever seen.

It really is fantastic. I take the yellow stuffed animal gingerly, but it shows no sign of being likely to fall apart. It's sturdy but soft and huggable. I don't even usually like dolls, but... this is amazing. It has black glass-bead eyes and its carefully-stitched face looks just like the pictures I've seen of the mouse Pokémon. Tyco and Sonia must have worked so hard on this— it's hard to believe this was all done with just cotton, bandage linen, yellow dye and black ink.

"Hee hee! Don't you just wanna hug it??" Sonia gushes.

"Yeah," I say, smiling at her. She's practically bursting with excitement. "First official hug goes to Ellen, though. She's gonna love it."

Sonia and I hang around for another few minutes, chatting, but eventually I have to go. My grocery list is short but important, and I don't want to keep Mom waiting if she finishes with her purchases before I do. I bid Sonia goodbye and promise to talk to her next time I see her on AIM.
I head over to a likely stall that's surrounded by wheelbarrows stacked high with vegetables and sacks of flour. The stall owner, a pretty young lady dressed in green and brown, is offering a price that's neither too expensive nor particularly cheap, but the veggies look top-quality, so I'm happy to pay the offered price. She gives me a friendly smile and helps me fill my bags with carrots, sweet potatoes, turnips and lettuce.

I shake hands with her to seal the deal, and then drag my purchases over to one of the beat-up but sturdy benches scattered around the marketplace. This is where Mom said she'll meet me when she's done shopping. I gather the three canvas bags together and pushing them under the bench, then sit down and pull my laptop out of the side pocket of my backpack. Opening it and plugging the USB satellite receiver in, I get an offline message from none other than Ellen.


Offline messages from: ElloMello
11:18 ElloMello: RACHEL!!
hi
just letting u kno, i'm ok
well, sorta ok. hurts a lot but i'll live :)
i have 2 stay in bed, hopefully u wont miss me!
have fun @ the market AND DON'T U DARE MOPE
<3
ttyl!

She's offline right now, but I send her a =) smiley in response anyways. Just imagining her face when I give her the homemade Pikachu plushie is enough to make me smile in real life, as well.
Brian and Tyco are online, too. I figure I should check in.

1:04 Group Chat: [ItsNotRight.org SEATTLE DIVISION]
RAVEry: Hi!
Brian4theWin: Hi Rachel
TykeBomb: hey rachel!!!!!! r u at the mrket????
RAVEry: Yep Tyco. =)
Got "the goods"!
Preparing to deliver.
TykeBomb: ffffffffffffff yesssss!!!!!!!!! how does it look?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!???
RAVEry: It's amazing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AMAZING DO YOU HEAR ME?????????
FFFFFFFFFFFF YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!
TykeBomb: :o
Brian4theWin: Holy crap Rachel are you all right
RAVEry: Hee hee. xD
Never been better! =3
TykeBomb: i knew it, Sonia is contagious after all!!!!!!!
and so am i apparently!!!! xD xD xD
exclamation marks all the way across the page!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Brian4theWin: Rofl
RAVEry: But srsly, that thing is awesome Tyco. I don't know how you and Sonia do it
Did you even know how to do fabric diagrams before Sonia had this idea?
TykeBomb: nah I googled it :)
wasnt so hard rly
Brian4theWin:
RAVEry:
TykeBomb: ...
!!!!!!!
i win by having moar eyerolling smiliez!!!
Brian4theWin: Haha
TykeBomb: :)
RAVEry: hey Brian
Brian4theWin: ?
RAVEry: Remember how last night I thought your Pokémon's species was familiar from somewhere?
I remembered where I've seen it before!
You guys got that message from Karen too right?
h/o let me c/p

Offline messages from: Kares4UAll
4:21 Kares4UAll: Hi, Karen here.
This message is being sent to everyone in the Seattle area.
Sorry to make such an unpleasant request, but if any local news includes something that looks like a gang fight or a murder in the next couple of days, please let me know ASAP.
I'm looking for a tall Trainer who goes by the name of Reginald Davidson (Reggie for short,) whose Pokémon is a Larvesta. (info & appearance in that link)
Last I heard from him he was near Seattle, so please let me know if you hear anything!
I just hope he's still alive.
Anyways, thanks guys!

RAVEry: Same type of Pokémon right?
COINCIDENCE?
Brian4theWin: O_O
...
Uh oh
I hope I don't have a missing guy's pokemon
TykeBomb: GOD RACHEL YOU RUIN EVERYTHING!!!!!
J/K
xD
RAVEry: That's not what I was getting at...
But it's a good point. =O
TykeBomb: should we let Karen know about this?????
RAVEry: Hmm
Normally I'd say yes
But there's something I need to check first
I have a growing suspicion. ._.
Can we wait until I know more?
TykeBomb: ooooo mysterious!!!! ;)
Brian4theWin: :(
:(
:(
:(
:(
RAVEry: Relax, Brian.
For what it's worth, it might be a totally different Pokémon.
Larvesta may be rare but it's not like there's only one or two in the world, right?
TykeBomb: well actualyl

1:10 Now chatting with TykeBomb.
1:10 RAVEry: SHH
Tyco
I'm trying to cheer him up!!
1:10 TykeBomb: oh
right
sorry
thing is there really are only one or two known Larvesta in the world
they r super rare
like crazy rare
so the chances are soooooooo slim
just saying.
1:11 RAVEry: ...
Well, please don't tell Brian that
He's already uneasy enough as it is.
And FYI I think the Trainer might still be alive
I'll tell you more later.

1:11 Group Chat: [ItsNotRight.org SEATTLE DIVISION]
TykeBomb: actually*
they say seattle is like a hotspot 4 bug types
partly cause of the forest 2 the east
you live about halfway to the forest, rite? probably lots of larvesta in there
just sayin :)
Brian4theWin: Oh
Thats good to know
:)
Hey maybe Stanley can help find the trainers pokemon if hes still alive?
Like if he can find other members of his species maybe???
Pokemon are supposed to be good at tracking things arent they
RAVEry: That's not a bad idea actually!
You should try teaching Stanley to track stuff.
It might keep him from trying to follow you home again.
Brian4theWin: Oh he stopped doing that
I asked him and he said he understands
RAVEry: He "said" that?
Can he talk to you or something O_o?
Brian4theWin: Of course not its a figure of speech or something
But
I can understand him sort of, not like words but its like reading ppls body language
TykeBomb: haha u goof :)
Brian4theWin: xD I guess when you say it like that it sounds strange.
Anyways I g2g, chores.
Ttyl
1:15 Brian4theWin has logged out.


1:15 Now chatting with TykeBomb.
1:15 TykeBomb: hey Rachel
u really need to read up on ur pokelore lol!!
they say there's a bond between pokemon and trainers, like almost telepathic but not quite
empathic is what they call it
empathic bond
and uhh
i think that if Stanley belonged 2 sum1 else b4 meeting Brian
the only way he could make a new bond
was if the old trainer is dead :(
so be careful what u say plz.
cause if Brian finds any of this shit out hell be rly pissed :(
1:16 RAVEry: Oh wow. I'm sorry =(
1:16 TykeBomb: w/e, it's k ^.^
have a good 1
tell me how Ellen likes the "SPECIAL DELIVERY" :D
bai
1:16 TykeBomb has logged out.


I close the lid of my laptop with a sigh. Empathic bond, huh? Every time I think the whole "Trainer" thing is wierd enough, I learn something like this. So is the relationship between Trainer and Pokémon a little like mind control? Or am I reading too much into it? Maybe it's like people with their pets, but a little stronger because Pokémon are smarter than normal animals?

I realize I'm starting to get fidgety; I have this odd feeling, like someone's watching me. I glance around the marketplace, and almost immediately find my eyes drawn to a small, vividly colourful purple-and-blue tent that's pitched halfway across the marketplace from me. That it catches my attention isn't so odd in itself— the tent is pretty attention-grabbing, after all, since fortune-tellers are popular here at the market— but outside the tent stands a woman wearing a garish purple robe that matches the tent. She's staring straight at me, and when she sees me looking at her, she waves and beckons.

I smile and wave back, my curiosity piqued. I wonder why she singled me out? Staring at potential customers who might not even notice you from all the way across the marketplace seems like a rather unreliable way to get their attention.

"Rachel!"

I jump, then relax as I realize it's just Mom. She's got a small satchel of medicine ingredients in bottles slung across one shoulder, but I don't see any of the really rare stuff. Apparently today was a pretty average market day for her. Not for me! I'm still bubbling with excited energy
"Hi, Mom," I say.

"Thinking of getting your fortune told?" she asks me, smiling.

I blush, embarrassed. Of course she saw where I was looking. "Nah, I don't believe in that stuff. I was just curious, is all."

Mom smiles at me. "Well, why not satisfy your curiosity then? I'm sure we've got a few extra dollars left over, and I'm set for medicines for a while. Go on."

I wasn't actually that keen on the idea— the cynic in me still considers the whole thing a waste of time and money— but now that Mom's got it into her head that I want to get my fortune told, there's no way she'll take no for an answer.

And besides, I think, with a stirring of that new, strange bubbly energy that I've had since getting up this morning, it actually might be pretty fun.

~~~~~~~~~~

The inside of the tent is dark, and a little claustrophobic. The only furniture is a low, round table with a purple tablecloth over it, and the only light comes from a glowing crystal ball in the center of the table. I frown at the ball, wondering whether the light is an LED or underneath the table. I glance around— I can't see anyone in here, even though the old lady went inside earlier.

I reach down and touch the crystal ball; it's slightly warm, which makes sense if it's being lit from below.

"Oh, leave that trinket alone, girl," says a deep, gentle female voice from the shadows in one corner of the tent. "I know a skeptic when I see one, and we both know the ball is just for show."

The fortune-teller lady in the purple robe emerges from the darkness. She has a smooth, exotic-looking face, almost like a classic movie-style gypsy but not quite. She walks in a measured way that, coupled with her trailing robe, almost makes it look like she's floating. If nothing else, I have to admire her showmanship. "Now, what brings you here?" she asks. Her voice has the very slightest hint of an accent, barely noticeable and impossible to identify.

"Other than you inviting me? Nothing," I say bluntly. "I don't really believe in fortune tellers. Sorry."

Rather than acting insulted, she just smiles. "Of course. I suppose you're wondering why you even came in here."

"Yep."

"Maybe one word will change your mind." The lady walks over to the round table and seats herself gracefully in one of the low chairs. She regards me for a moment, then...

"Candles," she says softly.

"What?" I frown, a little unsettled. Why would she pick that word? Something about it seems familiar, but it's probably just a coincidence... right? "What do you mean, 'candles?'"

"I mean," she says in a matter-of-fact tone, "That the principal mark on you is like a lit candle, bright enough that I noticed it in broad daylight. I don't know what it signifies any more than you do, young skeptic, but with luck I can find out. Humour me and play along for a while?"

I think about that. Why not? This whole fortune-telling thing is supposed to be for fun, after all, and I'm not gonna enjoy it much if I keep trying to pick it apart. "Yeah, okay, I'll suspend my disbelief," I say with a smile, sitting down across from the fortune-teller.

She squints at me for a moment in the light of the glowing crystal ball. "No good," she mutters. She reaches down to the floor near one leg of the round table, and flicks a switch I hadn't noticed there, turning the ball's light off and enveloping the entire tent in darkness. A moment later, she strikes a match. In its glow, I can see that she's holding a candle mounted on an old-fashioned-looking brass wax-catcher. She lights it, blows the match out, and sets the candle on the table, where it casts a flickering light smaller and dimmer than the crystal ball's.

"Much better," the fortune-teller says, though she doesn't say what is better. "With cases of such vivid marks as yours, the best place to start is with dreams," she intones, her matter-of-factness disappearing into a proper fortune-teller-y mystical murmur.

"Tell me, have any of your most recent dreams involved candles?"

For a moment, I'm a little disappointed— isn't it a little too easy to miss the mark, asking a really specific question like that? I rarely remember my dreams, and none of the ones I do remember had anything to do with...

Wait a second.

"Last night..." I tell the lady slowly, "I had a dream where I was standing out on the street, looking up at the window of my room on the second story. There was a lit candle on the windowsill... But I just realized, Mom and I don't own any candles."

"That's a start," she says pensively, as though completely unsurprised by such a huge coincidence. "It seems likely that you were seeing your own mark rather than an actual candle. There should be more, though. Tell me, in your dream, what happened after that?"

"I woke up."

"Before?"

"I was in the alleys near home. The ones between our apartment and school."

"I'm still seeing a candle, though, not the alleys," the fortune-teller says, her eyes closed in the flickering light. "Is there any connection, for you, between candles and those alleys?"

My blood suddenly turns cold. No way...

"A couple days ago, I was... walking home from school," I tell her, omitting the detail about being chased by a mob of Trainers. "I could see a light at the ends of the alleys, like what would be cast by a lantern or... or a candle, just around the corner. It stayed ahead of me the whole way home."

"Hmm... That uncovers a rather strange mark," the lady says, tilting her head as if to try and see my face from a slightly different angle. "Have you recently been in danger of death?"

"Wh... what?"

"Perhaps you encountered a near-death experience?"

"Why would you think that?" I ask guardedly. There's no way she's just guessing now. But how would she know...?

"There are signs, hard to find but easy to read when you know what to look for," the fortune-teller explains, an odd edge of frustration to her voice. "Near brushes with death leave such signs. Yours is... strange. I've seen one like this only once before, on a girl who had nearly drowned as a child. But yours is more recent, and has less water to it. Did you perhaps nearly choke on something in the last several weeks? It would have been quite a memorable ordeal."

I can't help but shiver. How is she managing to come so close to the truth without me giving her any information at all? "I was nearly choked to death by a Psychic Pokémon yesterday morning," I say, the admission sounding strange even to me. Was it only yesterday? Did I really almost die?

I feel queasy; my shivering turns into uncontrollable shakes. It's like it never really sunk in until I said it just now: I nearly choked to death yesterday.

"I'm sorry," The woman says, a note of distress entering her gentle voice. "I didn't realize it was that recent. Please forgive me."

I shake my head in disbelief. She must have tricked me into giving that away, somehow. "How did you know that? For real, I mean! Don't just say you can see 'signs' or 'marks,' this time."

"Should I lie to you?" she replies simply.

I'm starting to get control of myself, and I slowly sit back up from where I'd been hunched over, shuddering and gasping for breath. This is crazy! I think. Guesswork alone can't do this. Time for one more test.

"Tell me about my future," I say, a little more harshly than I'd intended. "Let's see how much you can get right."

"As you wish," she says, her voice sliding back into a mystical cadence. "There are three primary marks on you, as on most people. The candle rules the present for you, though still it hides its true meaning from me. Looking onwards, I see that... A red cross and a black dagger rule your past— a strange, if poetic, combination."

Mom and Dad, I think numbly, by now a bit beyond being wierded out by all this.

The fortune-teller isn't done. "The future mark can usually only be seen once the present and past marks are comprehended," she explains. "Yours is unusual; though it tries to hide itself from me, it is lit by the candle and is thus dimly visible. This is a future towards which your present course is guiding you, and only a great deal of striving will change it, for better or for worse."

The woman leans across the table towards me, so her face is fully illuminated by the candle on the table. She's squinting, as if trying to see something distant or unclear. "I see... ever so faintly... a white cloth and a black shroud."

Then, abruptly, she sits back in her chair and flicks the crystal ball's switch, lighting the tent once more with a whitish glow. She blows out the candle and stows it under the table.

She and I stare at each other for a moment.

"You are quite an odd girl, miss...?"

"Rachel," I answer, not sure whether to be insulted at being called 'odd.'

"And I am Lady Isabel de Cristál," she says, pronouncing the name with a very Spanish accent, "Though you may call me Crystal."

"Pleased to meet you," I reply politely, secretly wondering if the title is serious or not.

"I can make neither head nor tail of any of your marks," Crystal says frankly. Somehow all this stuff about signs seems almost believable when she talks about it in such a matter-of-fact tone. "I'm not often confounded by the signs; I would give a lot to talk to you in, say, a year's time."
"Maybe I'll come back," I say, not really meaning it. That was the wierdest experience!

"Well, Rachel, I wish you good luck with your white cloth and black shroud," the fortune-teller says with a smile. "I'm usually a little more specific, so consider this one on the house."

That was more than specific enough! I think to myself as I walk out of the tent on shaky knees. Skepticism is clearly no match for this lady.

It's not until I've almost gotten back to Mom that I realize I never actually explained anything fully to the fortune-teller named Crystal. I shudder to think what she would have mysteriously known about me if I'd spoken up about being chased by Trainer gangs, or dreaming about seeing the alleys from above, or dream people wearing white bandanas and black coats...

Wait a minute. White cloths and black shrouds?

Holy shit.


~~~~~~~~~~


"Mom?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"Why don't we have any candles? Don't most people keep them in case of power outages?"

Mom and I are walking home from the marketplace to drop off our purchases before we head for the Bastion to deliver Ellen's surprise, nibbling on the last remaining pieces of some fresh-baked pastries we bought from a stall on our way out. Mom is carrying her satchel of medicines and one bag of veggies, and I've got the other two bags along with my backpack, which has its own precious cargo. I can't wait to see Ellen's reaction to her gift!

"The electricity is quite reliable in our part of town, Rachel," Mom points out.

"Still," I reason, getting my thoughts back on the track of our discussion. "Wouldn't it be better to be prepared?"

"To be honest, I've never thought about it, honey," Mom says. "We're both out of the house a lot, so even when there's trouble at the power station, usually we're not at home. I just never bothered to buy any candles. Would you like to pick some up tomorrow?"

"Nah, I was just curious," I reply. Funny how a talk with a fortune-teller can make you wonder about the smallest things... But I guess it was just a coincidence that we don't own any candles, after all.

I'm feeling more or less normal again— or rather, "new normal," with that strange, cheerful energy still running like a motor in the background of my thoughts. I feel like there's something odd about how I've been acting all day, to be honest. I'm usually a lot more reserved and slow to get excited about things. I'm considering the possibility that I'm unconsciously trying to compensate for Ellen not being here to keep me upbeat, but somehow that doesn't ring true. All I know is that I feel pretty good without any reason to feel good.

The sun is still shining brightly, lighting everything with a cheerful warmth that even the chilly autumn breeze can't completely dispel, but grey clouds are gathering on one side of the sky, promising rain sometime later today. This close to the coast, rainclouds can gather in a matter of minutes. Trainers wearing gang signs, most of them aged anywhere between sixteen and forty, are lounging around on the street, basically declaring their territory.

They're watching people go by, but even though Dream is at home watching Dad, I don't feel threatened. Mom and I have got our sleep-pellet secret weapons in case the Trainers decide our grocery bags are worth taking.

Our apartment is in a quieter part of town, an area that used to be part of downtown Seattle. The streets are emptier around here, because there are less apartments and lots of derelict shops with boarded-up windows. Living space and proximity to jobs is really all that makes a neighbourhood attractive nowadays.

I'm starting to have misgivings, though. It's usually less busy downtown, but not this empty. There are maybe one or two people hurrying up James Street with their heads down, all going the opposite way from Mom and me... And there are no Trainers to be seen. Where are they all? I wonder. Weekends are prime time for gang scuffles over territory, so shouldn't the local gang be all over the place, on the lookout? Or maybe this place is too out of the way for other gangs to want it...

We cross under the empty, silent Interstate highway and turn onto 7th Avenue, where our apartment is. A lot of old streets don't exist any more, blocked with rubble from the fighting eight years ago or with barricades built by gangs to wall off their territory, but 7th has mostly escaped that fate. The street signs at either end of our block are still legible, and the avenue has even still got some trees along the edge of the street.

Unfortunately, as we turn the corner, I realize exactly why the usual gang lookouts weren't around: they're all gathered on the street outside our apartment.

Yellow-green is right at the center of the group, still wearing the same green skull t-shirt and green-and-yellow striped pants— does he wash his clothes or not??

He must be back for revenge, I realize, clenching my fists angrily. Hasn't this guy learned his lesson yet? How dare he come after us again, after what he did to Ellen! And how did he find our house?

Mom sees them, too. Still walking, she shifts one of the grocery bags to her shoulder and unstraps her medical kit from where it's fixed to her back. She digs in it for a moment, and I see more of the large, two-inch-across bubbles whose pinkish colour indicates they're her "sleep bombs," stronger versions of my sleep pellets.

"What are they doing, waiting for us like that?" I whisper to her, fishing one of my own pellets out of my hair. "We can just threaten them with leaving them in someone else's territory asleep, right?"

"No, this is their territory, honey," Mom says. "The Shell Gang are all kids, so most other gangs don't take them seriously. They got our neighbourhood because it's a quiet place that no one else wanted."

"I thought their territory was by Bastion."

"No, Bastion and most major streets are neutral territory. The alleys between here and there belong to Thug Life."

Hmm. I kind of remember hearing that boy with the Solosis saying something about 'neutral ground' yesterday after his Pokémon nearly strangled me, but I never really thought about what that meant. The whole gang territory thing sounds more complicated than I thought it was. Of course, as always, I'll take Mom's word for it. She knows this entire area like the back of her hand, and she knows all the local news from making so many house calls; families of ill or hurt people talk a lot to take their minds off their worry.

Up ahead, it looks like someone's seen me and Mom coming. There's a brief scramble, then the Trainers and their Pokémon all spread out in pairs to form a rough semicircle, staying far apart so we can't put them all to sleep at once. They start coming toward us.

Uh oh. Mom and I drop our grocery bags, getting ready to let fly with our sleep pellets. Appropriately, dark clouds have covered the sun, giving everything a greyish, unhealthy tinge. The world feels like a totally different place, and I can't help but shiver as I tighten my grip on the sleep pellets in my hand for comfort.

"Stop where you are!" shouts yellow-green. "Put your hands in the air!"

Not like I'm about to surrender just yet. I go to throw the sleep pellet in my right hand at him, but instead both my hands wrench themselves into the air, seemingly of their own accord. My hands open, and the pellets fall out, bouncing away harmlessly and rolling down the street. Psychics again, I think, a familiar lead weight of panic lurching into place in my chest. Why was I feeling so confident a moment ago?

Fortunately, it seems to be only my arms that are being held right now; I can still breathe and move my eyes, as well as turn my head to glare at the unassuming boy sitting on the sidewalk with his blobby Solosis hovering over his head. He stares back at me, smiling sardonically. I'd really like to wipe that disgusting smirk off his face, but I've got bigger things to worry about; yellow-green is talking again.

"I hafta say, you've got guts to take on the Shell gang," he's saying. "But that was stupid. Real stupid. We got a reputation to keep up... Isn't that right, boys and girls?"

His cronies chorus agreement, while I take a moment to size them up. There are eight Trainers altogether, rach one standing next to his or her Pokémon in pairs. This is the biggest group I've ever seen them muster; yellow-green must have gathered as many of his gang as he could. As if he needs more than just that smug boy with his Psychic-type, I think frustratedly.

In addition to yellow-green, his red-eyed Maractus, the Solosis, and that Psychic-type's insufferable Trainer, there are eight other Pokémon-Trainer pairs. One is the girl trainer, who has a thick shock of short brown hair and is wearing beige pants, a red shirt, and a shapeless, silly-looking yellow beret that looks like she's wearing a big yellow bag on her head. I note with envy that she has an extremely curvy figure, the kind that probably makes boys stare at her when she walks by on the street. Her Pokémon is the Scraggy I saw back on Wednesday; the frog-faced creature is standing on two legs next to her, fiddling impatiently with the rubbery yellow shed skin it's holding up to its waist like a pair of baggy pants. Scraggy are a species of Pokémon that are Fighting/Dark-types and have a reputation for fighting dirty.

Another Pokémon I haven't seen since Wednesday is the Charmeleon that's regarding us menacingly, flexing its clawed forelimbs and whipping its flame-tipped tail from side to side; its lean, wiry Trainer has his hair shaved into a mohawk that's dyed the same shade of orange-red as the skin of his fiery lizard Pokémon, and is wearing red-tinted sunglasses. This one honestly looks more like a gang leader to me than yellow-green does.

Near that pair is a Blitzle I've seen before, when he was in the group hanging around near Bastion; the lightning zebra's Trainer is wearing a black headband, white shirt and black pants. I'm starting to see a pattern. Trainers and their wierd choices of gang signs, I think.

Near the back of the semicircle is Trainer standing behind a heavyset, three-foot-tall humanoid Pokémon with a weaselly face, yellow skin, and pale red markings on its arms, legs, feet and stubby tail. I take a few seconds to identify it as a Mienfoo; it's not a type of Pokémon I've ever seen before, except in pictures online. Its Trainer has blond hair and is wearing an open-zippered hoodie with wide, puffy red sleeves over a yellow t-shirt and baggy red pants, making him look like a bigger version of his Pokémon. He's the one who pulls it off best, I think... For what little that's worth. The whole coloured-like-your-Pokémon thing is stupid.

A strangely timid-looking girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, is standing a short distance behind the semicircle of Trainers. She has pretty shoulder-length brown hair, and is carrying a little grey dog Pokémon in her arms. She doesn't look too happy to be here— my guess is she's one of those unfortunate Trainer kids who get forced to join a gang because they live in that gang's territory. I bet they only brought her because they needed her Pokémon to find out where Mom and I lived. They would've had plenty of clothes smelling like Dream for the dog Pokémon— a Poochyena, I think— to track back to our apartment. (After it's exposed to air for a few minutes, the sleep powder solution in Mom's sleep bombs becomes harmless and smells like flowers.)

Backing up that assumption, I can see a younger boy I vaguely recognize— from sometime he was at Bastion with the others, no doubt— standing next to her like a guard and hugging an unknown blue five-legged octopus (pentapus?) Pokémon to his chest like a teddy bear. He looks like he's trying to put on a tough face, but I get the feeling he's not any happier to be here than the girl he's guarding. Futilely, my mind files those two away as foes it'd be easier to scare off than to fight.

Who am I kidding? I wonder. I'm about as likely to scare Trainers away as a flailing Magikarp is to flood Seattle.

"You don't have to do this," Mom says to the semicircle of Trainers. "We did nothing but defend ourselves." Her tone grows indignant. "You ought to be ashamed of what you did to that poor girl! She almost died of blood loss!"

There are some murmurs from the Trainers. "I told you she wasn't just being a wimp," the girl trainer with the Scraggy mutters to yellow-green.

"Shut up!" he shouts at her, then turns to Mom. "You humiliated us, and left us sleeping right outside Thug Life territory. You could have gotten us all hurt if they'd found us, and I don't see you acting all ashamed!"

"You deserved what you got!" I shout, unable to keep quiet any longer. "Mom is the only thing that saved you from being murderers! Do you like hurting people? Is that what Pokémon are for?"

Tears are running down my face, but I don't give a damn right now. "Ellen idolizes Trainers! She'd give anything to have Pokémon like you, just so she could help people! But you...!" I'm speechless with anger for a moment, but then the words start to pour out of my mouth almost by themselves.

"You have what she probably never will, and you use all that potential, all that power to hurt the sweetest, most harmless girl there ever was? You creeps! Do you have any idea how lucky you are? Do you know how many people you could make smile just by taking a fucking moment to do something nice for them? You all make me sick—"

An invisible hand suddenly grabs my throat and squeezes, the pain dropping me to my knees when the force holding my arms above my head disappears.

"Rachel!!" shouts Mom, her usually gentle voice rising into a raw shriek. "Please, let her go, don't hurt her!" she begs.

"Enough," says yellow-green, sounding close, like he's standing over me. "We've made our point, Carl, you can call Solo off."

The psychic grip on my throat slackens, then disappears. I kneel in the street, alternately coughing and gasping for air. A drop of rain splashes onto the back of my head, then another. A few seconds later, the sky opens up, drenching us all.

My hands leave my aching throat and ball into fists. I hear yellow-green clear his throat to talk again, and pinpoint his location. Acting without thinking, I gather my feet under me and jump up, my fist leading with a vicious uppercut that smashes the teenage Trainer right under the chin.

There's an audible gasp of disbelief from the Trainers and Pokémon arranged behind yellow-green. They've probably never seen a regular person punch a Trainer before. There's probably a good reason for that, I think wryly, but that doesn't stop me from feeling really good about it.

"Fuck!" says yellow-green angrily, picking himself up off the ground a little ways away from me. It looks like I actually hit him hard enough to send him flying a few feet.

I'm so not sorry. Even the ache spreading through my right hand is a hundred percent worth it. I flip him off with an insolent grin.

"Okay, bitch, you asked for it," he says viciously, bringing up his hands with their fingerless gloves and balling them into fists, like a boxer. It's immediately clear he doesn't actually have any training, because even I can see his feet are placed all wrong for proper balance, and I'm no expert— I only took karate lessons for a few months before the community-run dojo had to close due to lack of funding (the volunteer sensei had to pick up a second job to make ends meet and didn't have time any more.)

That said, I don't think I can beat him. He's eighteen or nineteen, and bigger than me. He's also probably more fit— I really don't exercise enough to be this thin. It's not like I'm gonna give up now, though. This is the fairest fight I'm gonna get, since for once he doesn't seem inclined to get his Maractus or his buddy's Solosis to do it for him.

Yellow-green comes at me at a run with a massive telegraphed haymaker, which is easy enough to duck under. I throw a hard punch at his stomach as he goes past, but he twists aside and I get him in the side of the chest instead. I start turning around to face him, but not fast enough; he elbows me in the side of the head, knocking me sprawling.

Now it's his turn to turn around, and I scramble to my feet, massaging my temple. It hurts, but not as badly as it could; he got me on the edge of the bone above my eyebrow, instead of in the soft spot on the side of my head.

We both stand there for a moment, waiting for each other to make a move. Then there's a skittering noise a short distance behind me, a sound that I recognize as the spikes on my opponent's Pokémon's foot sliding against the ground.

I glance back reflexively, and that's all the distraction yellow-green needs. I jump to my left, out of the way of his right-handed punch, but he reverses the motion and elbows me again, hard, this time in the side of my stomach right above my hip.

I stagger backwards, winded, and have to backpedal quickly as he turns and keeps coming towards me, swinging again with his right fist. I block the punch with my forearm and throw a left-handed swing at his jaw, but he catches it and knees me in the gut before I can get out of the way. He kicks me in the hip, knocking me onto my side as I double over and gasp for beath. I curl up in a foetal position, knowing I'm beaten, bringing my arms up to cover my head; he kicks me again, this time in the back.

I wait for another blow, but it doesn't come. I can hear yellow-green breathing hard, but everything else is silent.

There's a scuffing sound, as the Trainer brushes himself off. "You're not a bad fighter," he says approvingly.

He's wrong— I am a bad fighter— but so is he, so he wouldn't know. For the moment, though, I'm too busy trying to catch my breath to tell him so.

I don't want your approval, you jerk, I think angrily. "You don't... have to... be any good... to beat up a fifteen-year-old girl," I manage to gasp.

"Shut up," he says, his tone darkening with anger. "That was your fault for hitting me. Now stand up."

I pull myself to my feet and straighten, doing my best to ignore the spasming muscles in my stomach as they protest being made to stretch. The Trainer glares at me, and I glare back. His eyes are probably telling me something, but like I said before, I've never been any good at reading people's eyes.

That said, it's not that hard to figure out what I should be doing— lowering my gaze to stare at the ground, giving in and letting him feel like he's won— but I'm too angry to do that. This is the guy who cornered me in an alley, commanded his Pokémon to nearly kill my best friend the next day, and just now made my protective Mom watch me fistfight him. My hip feels bruised, I'm still a little winded, and I can feel a trickle of blood running down the side of my face... But this nasty teenager is gonna have to hurt me a lot more than that to make me back down.

My unrelenting stare seems to be annoying him. "Aren't you scared, bitch?" he asks. "I could end you with a word."

"Fuck you."

"God, how stupid can you be?" he asks with a snarl. "Well, it's not like this wasn't what we came for anyways. Carl, show this bitch a bit of hell."

I only have a brief second to wonder what he means by that before my whole world catches fire. Pain runs through every part of me, on my skin and under it, starting as an ache— almost like a bruise that's somehow everwhere at once— and growing worse, sharper, until it's like I've got a thousand red-hot needles all sticking themselves through my skin at once and lancing through my lungs and heart. My breath, trapped in my chest until now, escapes in a piercing scream.

I can faintly hear someone shouting in a panicked tone— a female voice, but not Mom— and a responding yell from yellow-green. It's all as though from very far off, though, because the rest of my attention is being pulled in all directions, to the pricking, slicing, cutting feeling all over my skin. Everything burns. Deliriously, I wonder if this sensation is all real and I'm actually on fire right now, despite the pouring rain.

"I mean it, you can stop someone's heart with that much pain!" shouts the panicked girl's voice distantly, but then there's a thump and a scuffing noise, like someone being knocked to the ground.Must be that timid-looking girl from before, I think detachedly, the idea slow to make it through the wall of pain that's obscuring my thoughts.

For some reason, though, that thought makes me angry. I imagine the girl with the pretty brown hair sprawled on the ground, with a bruise on her face. Why does this seem familiar? I think slowly, examining the picture in my head. Then the image shifts and changes, and I see Ellen lying in the drizzling rain with her blood running out on the street, clutching my hand and asking me if she's gonna die. My hands curl into fists, though I can barely feel them, and my rage suddenly flares as white-hot as the pain running through every nerve in my body.

As if in reaction, a clear, cool feeling begins to spread slowly through my stomach and up into my arms and chest, a sensation of freezing cold replacing the fiery pain and bringing with it a strange tingling. It's like all that torturing heat is being chased out of my body, flowing up into my head and gathering into one point right behind my eyes; like a headache but burning. It hurts, but less than it should. My body feels like a far-off thing... But my thoughts are clear once more, and I'm very, very angry. I open my eyes, fixing them on yellow-green, who's standing over the brown-haired girl curled up on the ground.

"You..." I say quietly, my voice shuddering.

"Huh? What's that?" Yellow-green asks, turning to face me. "You say something, bitch? Hey, Carl, shouldn't she be too busy screaming to—"

"You creep!" I yell at him, rage pouring through me like a wall of flame. I literally see red. "You and your Pokémon can just go die![/I]"

Oddly, the Trainers and their Pokémon are starting to back away from me. I realize there's steam rising off of me, as the drizzling rain literally evaporates from my skin. I feel a tug as my ponytail rises into the air and tries to escape its bindings. Something really wierd is going on, but at this point I don't care what it is. I just know that I'm really, really mad, and that this asshole is gonna pay!

A small trace of orange-red fire spontaneously appears on one of yellow-green's fingerless leather gloves. The Trainer lets out a yelp and stumbles backwards, nearly falling over as he waves his hand panickedly to put the burning glove out.

His Maractus suddenly gathers itself and leaps towards me, moving with the eye-blurring speed I remember from when it attacked Ellen. It's fast... but somehow I feel like I have all the time in the world. Every part of my body feels light, as if by giving the smallest push I could rise into the air, and the whole world seems like it's moving slower.

I fix my gaze on the attacking Pokémon, my eyes drawn to the spikes on its arms. I remember those spikes, and the memory goes through my mind clear as day. In my head, I can see the red-eyed Pokémon swinging its arm viciously, burying the spikes in Ellen's side, and in slow motion I can see them coming out stained red with her blood...

I raise my arm to point at the Maractus, my hand shaking with rage.

"Burn," I whisper... And the Pokémon bursts into flame.

I watch without pity as the Maractus shrieks in anguish and stumbles from its collision course with me, dropping to the ground to roll in a puddle, trying in vain to extinguish the rushing flames covering its swiftly charring body.

I turn towards yellow-green, who's sitting numbly in a puddle, watching his Pokémon burn. The only one of the other Trainers who isn't gaping widemouthed at me is the one called Carl, who's glancing from me to his Solosis with his eyes bugging out.

I ignore them all— there'll be time enough to deal with them later— and stare down at yellow-green. He's the one who hurt Ellen, I think balefully, remembering the scornful, casual look on his face as he ordered his Maractus to "give her a whack." My fists clench harder, until I can distantly feel my fingernails drawing blood. He tried to kill my friend.

I advance on him slowly, step by step. He stares up at me with unconcealed terror, shaking in his boots... As he should.

This is justice, I think, my body trembling with rage. An eye for an eye. These Trainers should know how it feels to be helpless. They deserve to feel this way, for once in their worthless lives!

My hand rises to point condemningly at yellow-green, and, looking at it, I realize distantly that there are now flames rising off my skin, though I don't feel any heat from them. My hair, which is still tugging at my head, straining to stand up as though in a strong breeze, suddenly escapes its elastic and explodes outwards, waving and sputtering in the rain. I realize it's on fire, too, but at this point I don't care. All that matters is to make all the Trainers pay.

The fountain of pure, scorching rage behind my eyes expands to fill my head, chasing out all other thoughts and filling my vision with an opaque red haze. The sizzling noise of the rain increases as the flames rising from me grow larger. Fire rushes around and through me, ready to do my bidding and scorch the object of my ire from existence. The temperature of the flames rises and rises, until...

There's a slight feeling of something popping in the tangled mass of hair at the back of my head. After a moment of confusion, I remember vaguely that there was one last sleep pellet stowed back there.

Suddenly, everything goes dark.


~~~~~~~~~~


My mind floats slowly back into consciousness, as if from the depths of a deep, calm ocean. I drift there for a while, half asleep, until I feel myself being reeled back into the real world by the sensations of a throbbing head and a sore jaw. A bunch of other parts of me hurt too, notably my eyes, cheeks and hip. I struggle to remember how I got hurt... And when it all comes rushing back to me, I immediately wish I hadn't woken up.
It's cold and dark— too dark to see anything. I've been left propped up against what seems to be a large metal garage door (I can tell because it rattles when I shift) and I'm sitting on a cold concrete floor. A huge wad of cloth is holding my mouth uncomfortably wide open, hence the soreness in my jaw.

There's a musty smell in the air, like old wood and mildew. I try to stand up— feeling returns to my chilled arms and legs, and I realize my hands are tied behind my back. The gag is held in my mouth by a tight, coarse string that loops several times around the back of my head; it seems to have rubbed my cheeks raw while I was unconscious. My grocery bags and backpack are gone, as is my jacket. I shiver in the cold— the early autumn chill is worse in a place that probably doesn't ever see the sun.

I try to call for help, but it comes through the gag as a muffled whimper. My head is spinning, and all my thoughts feel all soft at the edges, like they're being pushed into my head covered in a layer of cotton. My jaw hurts, but trying to close my mouth just forces the cloth a little further in, nearly triggering a gag reflex. Whoever made this gag is either too dumb know how easy it is to choke on something like this, or doesn't give a damn about my safety.

I really, really hope it's the former.

I whimper again, tears finally forcing themselves out of my painfully dry eyes. I'm so confused. My face feels sunburnt; then I recall, as if remembering a dream, seeing flames rising off my arm and can't help but be faintly surprised that that's all. Wouldn't being set on fire have slightly worse effects on most people? Of course, most people don't burst into flames when they get angry.

In the back of my head, something important occurs to me... but when I try to focus on it, a wave of dizziness goes through me, followed by a surge of weakness. I nearly black out. As dancing dazzle-spots fade from my vision, I decide that thinking too hard is probably a bad idea right now. I'm clearly not in particularly good shape.

"Hey," a quiet voice says from a short distance in front of me. "Did you just move?"

"Mmmph??" I ask/shout through the gag, trying and failing to get my hazy mind to function properly.

"Oh, you are awake. Uh... Sorry to bother you."

"MMMMF!"

"What? I can't understand you."

"Mph mmph!"

"Oh, right. Um, sorry... I can't take the gag out. Carl's orders, he doesn't want you calling your Pokémon or something."

I glare into the darkness. As if I have a Pokémon! If I did, I'd kick all your asses! I think, anger kindling inside me.

"Mmph MMPH—"

There's a sudden flash of light, and the gag in my mouth disintegrates completely. In the brief flare, I recognize the young Trainer boy standing over me, with his five-tentacled blue octopus Pokémon floating in midair behind him and peeking over his shoulder. He's stumbling back in alarm, but is saved from going down on his butt by the Frillish, which supports him with a tentacle. He looks as surprised as I feel.

Darkness shrouds everything again, made worse by light-dazzle in my eyes. I squint, trying to figure out where the boy went, while also opening and closing my mouth to relieve the ache in my stiff jaw. It's a few seconds before I register the fact that the ashes of the burned gag are still in my mouth. They taste foul; I spit them out.

After a few more seconds of working my jaw, I feel like I can talk without it hurting too much. "Hey... 're you still there?" I ask blearily, my voice slurring a little.

"Y... yeah. Please don't hurt me!" says the boy's voice from a little ways above and in front of me.

An ugly surge of rage replaces my relief at the gag's absence. "Like you didn't hurt Ellen?" I ask in a surly tone of voice, my head clearing a little. "Funny how keen you are to ask for mercy when you're the ones in danger!"

"It wasn't me!" The boy sobs. "I would never— aah!!" I can see him now, sort of, but only because tiny tongues of flame are flickering to life on his clothes. I'm so mad right now, I could just...

A jet of water suddenly drenches the boy and cascades off of him to splash me square in the face. My anger sputters out instantly, as do the flames on the boy's clothes; I fight a sudden wave of exhaustion. Something gives me the feeling that, whatever odd power I've somehow obtained, I'm more or less tapped out. Trying to burn anything else will probably knock me out cold. I carefully avoid thinking about exactly why I can suddenly burn stuff with my mind— I don't feel equal to solving that mystery quite yet.

"Where are we?" I ask, settling for the answer to a slightly less thought-intensive mystery.

"One of our home bases," the boy says, his voice trembling.

It takes a moment for my slow thoughts catch up with the fact that he doesn't know I'm tapped out. Maybe I can use that. "I have to talk to your leader."

"Symon's..." the boy gulps audibly in the darkness. "He's off caring for his Maractus. Carl's in charge for now."

Oddly, that makes me feel a bit better. It takes a moment for my thoughts to catch up with my emotions. "He's all right? And his Pokémon survived?"
"Yeah."

"That's good... I guess," I say. Now that I'm in a more rational frame of mind, I know I wouldn't want anyone's death on my conscience, whatever my opinion of yellow-green— Symon— or his Pokémon. Not that I'm sorry for giving him a good scare. He had it coming, I think angrily.

"C-could you stop doing that?" stammers Frillish Boy fearfully.

"What?" I ask crossly.

"Sparking. Your hair."

I blink, and realize there are tiny sparks falling out of my bangs and past my eyes. I have to assume the rest of my hair is doing it too. Well, that's interesting... I think. The sparks stop as my anger dies down.

I'm tired of sitting here; but when I try to pull myself to my feet without my hands, rattling the garage door behind me, a wave of dizziness knocks me back down with a thump. "Can you help me up?" I ask Frillish Boy.

"What? No! I'm supposed to be guarding you!" the boy whispers. "Keep your voice down, Carl will think I took the gag off you!"

"Carl's the one with the Solosis and the funny accent, right?" I ask, just to confirm.

"Yeah. Trust me, wierd accent or not, those two are a nasty pair. You don't wanna cross them."

"I think I already have— more than once," I observe mildly. My eyes are adjusting slowly to the dark; I can see Frillish Boy's silhouette, and the dim shapes of lots of big metal warehouse boxes past him. On the ceiling far above me I can see a dim, stretched-out rectangle of light cast by a source that's hidden behind the boxes— probably a door.

"Listen, just stay put, okay?" Frillish Boy whispers, a note of pleading entering his voice. "Carl's meeting with the leader of a real big-time gang, and he's always in a really bad mood after those. It's a good idea to give him a while to blow off some steam."

I consider this briefly, and decide I'd rather not stay put. Ignoring Frillish Boy's protests, I give a collossal heave and manage to stand all the way up, leaning against one of the big empty metal boxes in order to not fall over as I fight off another dizzy spell. Then I stagger away in the general direction of the light source door.

Frillish Boy follows me, wringing his hands and imploring me in a whisper to please just stay here. He doesn't seem willing to actually stop me, though, perhaps because he's afraid of being burnt. It strikes me as odd that he's not more confident— he has a Pokémon, after all, and I don't— but my fuzzy thoughts don't go any farther than that.

As I turn a corner around another set of boxes, an important question finally percolates into my head. "Hey, Frillish Boy, where's my Mom?"

"Uh... I think she's probably tied up in the other warehouse," the boy says uncertainly. "I haven't seen her in here, and Carl never told me what the plan was."

"Hmm," I hum, for lack of anything better to say. I stagger through the door and squint around at the new room I find myself in. It's small and square, with dingy white walls and a ceiling that's just the inside of the tin roof— it's a lot warmer in here than in the warehouse. The only furniture is a beat-up table and a few chairs scattered around. The only other exit is a little hallway in the far corner of the room; diluted sunlight spills out of it, forcing me to squint even harder. I go over to it and see a doorway at the end, sporting a pair of hinges with no door attached to them. Beyond that is a square of daylight that's too bright for my eyes. More interesting, though, are the voices that can be heard from the other side of that doorway. I stand in the hallway and listen carefully.

"Listen," says a man's voice, Southern-accented and gravelly. "We can do this th' easy way or th' hard way. One way or another, we're gonna have a look around."

"And I just told you," replies Carl's goofy British-aristocracy accent with an undertone of anger, "You will not be permitted to search our territory, nor to threaten its residents. No one gets to screw with them but us. That is the rule, and you know it."

"True," concedes the man with a falsely good-natured chuckle. Then his voice turns menacing. "Know what else's in the rules, boy? If we come in here 'n wipe the floor with y'all, then it's our territory, where we do as we please anyhow."

There's a pause. "Is that a threat?" Carl asks, stiff disapproval in his voice.

"Does it have ta be?" I can hear the nasty smile behind the man's voice.

"In that case, I will need to confer with my leader, who is not here presently. Would you mind coming back tomorrow?"

"Haw haw haw!" the man laughs. "You got balls, kid, I'll give ya that! But no can do, pardner— can't have ya stallin' on us."

"I suggest that you leave immediately, in that case," Carl says scathingly. "Unless, of course, you brought your gang along in your pocket?"

"Naw, they're a bit too big fer that!" exclaims the man, guffawing loudly at his own joke. I'm strongly reminded of Neil. "See ya when ya least eggspect it, pardner!"

A shadow suddenly drifts across the doorway, and I can hear large wings flapping as something huge and feathered lands. Then there's another flurry of flaps, and I can tell both man and flying Pokémon are gone.

Just outside the door, Carl breathes an audible sigh, whether of relief or something else, I can't tell. There are a few footfalls, and then his silhouette appears in the doorway. He's taken a few more steps towards me before his eyes adjust.

"You!" he says, sounding just like the classic cartoon villain who just found out the hero's escaped his highly escapable deathtrap.

"Hey there," I respond flippantly. "Mind explaining what all that was about?"

Suddenly he has a dagger at my throat, and is pinning me against the hallway's right-hand wall with his free arm. I freeze, then swallow slowly and carefully. My estimation of Carl as just a goofy kid who would be a nerd if he wasn't a Trainer disappears in a cloud of Eep, dagger!!

"None of your business," Carl growls at me. "Dylan, why did you disobey my express request that she not be ungagged and allowed to roam about?"

I'd totally forgotten about Frillish Boy, who's was standing behind me until a moment ago.

"Uhh.... Uhh... Sorry," the boy named Dylan stammers. "I just, I didn't... She just burned the gag and I figured, 'Well, if I try anything she'll burn me too.'"

"You have a water Pokémon, you blithering idiot!" Carl retorts, never taking his eyes off me. "What Pokémon are you hiding, girl?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" I tell him truthfully.

"Please excuse me if I don't believe you," he says sarcastically. "I imagine the innate ability to set oneself on fire and cause things to burst into flame is no more common hereabouts than it is in Great Britain."

I remain silent. It doesn't take a genius to know it's not a good idea to talk back to a boy who's holding a sharp knife against your neck. Great Britain? I thought international travel is ridiculously difficult nowadays...?

"Hey, Carl, isn't that a bit... extreme?" Dylan asks nervously from my left.

"What, did you forget that she nearly burned Symon's Pokémon to a cinder?" Carl retorts sharply. "He was ready to kill her for that, if you'll recall, but I dissuaded him because I thought she could be of use to us. As it happens, I was right."

What's that supposed to mean? I wonder.

"Solo can keep her under control," Carl continues, talking to Dylan but still watching me alertly, "But only provided she's not permitted to simply stroll out of of his field of influence!"

I'm starting to get the feeling everyone only thinks yellow-green is this gang's leader— more likely, the real leader is standing in front of me with a dagger at my throat. "If I agree to cooperate," I say shakily, "Will you stop threatening me with death?"

Slowly, Carl removes the knife from my neck. "Solo will not hesitate to bring you down with overwhelming force if you show signs of not cooperating. Do you understand that?" he asks me, clipping his words off even more harshly than usual.

I nod, feeling ill. I can honestly say that was my first time being threatened with a weapon. It's definitely not an experience I ever anticipated having. I should have figured Carl was more dangerous than he looked— especially after the things he's had his Solosis do to me.

"Now, we are evacuating this place immediately," Carl informs us both, grabbing my wrists, which are still tied together behind my back, and cutting the rope binding them. He straightens the lapel of his ridiculous-looking suit jacket and continues, "I believe the conversation you both just eavesdropped on amounts to a declaration of war from the Thug Life gang. Obfuscating stupidity notwithstanding, that man is intelligent and highly dangerous, and will strike at the first opportunity."

He turns on his heel and walks out of the doorway. Now that my eyes have adjusted, I can see that the building we're in is part of a fenced-off lot that has two different warehouses in it. Carl is heading for a gap in the ten-foot-high rusty chickenwire fence, his Pokémon floating to join him from somewhere else on the property.

"Hey!" I shout, running after him. "Where's my Mom?"

Carl doesn't answer. Catching up to the tuxedo-wearing Trainer, I glance back at Dylan, and notice that he looks pale and a bit ill.

"We're in for it now," he says dejectedly.

"Why?" I ask.

"If that was really the leader of Thug Life, we're probably screwed," the boy answers, jogging to keep up with the quick pace Carl is setting.

"They're a real gang, not just a bunch of kids like us. They fought in the Second Civil War. This turf is as good as theirs already."

"Hey, that's no way to talk, Dylan," says a cheerful voice from right next to me. I give a start, and nearly trip; someone grabs my arm, steadying me until I've got my balance. I look at the newcomer, and see the girl with the red shirt and yellow hat. "Sorry," she giggles, "Didn't mean to startle you."

I thought her voice sounded familiar. "Aren't you the one who wanted to leave me in the alleys for the feral Pokémon?" I ask coldly, pulling my arm out of her grip.

"I was just kidding, duh!" she says, grinning insincerely at me. "Honestly, can't you take a joke?"

I resist the temptation to punch her. If I ever needed a reminder that these are the people who have spent the last couple of days tormenting me, this is a good one. As I jog through the gap in the fence, and into an unfamiliar-looking maze of alleyways, I start trying to think of a way to ditch these creeps. Unfortunately, my mind still doesn't seem to be working at full speed; nothing occurs to me just now.

The boy with the red hoodie and the Mienfoo comes up to me and wordlessly hands me my backpack. Still following Carl, I take a moment to open it up and check that everything's still there; it is. I'm surprised and pleased to have my stuff back; I guess evacuating means everything leaves the building.

Looking back at the pair of warehouses, I see the other members of the gang filing through the gap in the fence and hurrying to follow us. Behind the boy with the red mohawk and the Charmeleon comes Carl's Solosis, with Mom— clearly still unconscious— floating along behind it. Ugh. How am I gonna get her away from that thing? I wonder.

I'm still wondering what the big hurry is when a high-pitched avian shriek interrupts my thoughts. Along with everyone else, I look up, searching for the source of the noise. A huge bird-shaped shadow flies overhead, silhouetted against the sun. A moment later it flies the other way, shrieking again.

"That, I believe, was an advance scout. They're here," Carl says grimly into the ensuing eerie silence. "Run, Shells, run!"

We begin to dash through the alleys in a mad stampede of eight Pokémon and ten people (though Mom's unconscious and floating, so I guess she doesn't count as stampeding.) Behind us, we hear a sudden, loud clanging of metal against concrete, like a cannonball being dropped from the sky. The noise repeats once, then again and again, faster and faster; I glance back and see a tire-shaped Pokémon bouncing and rolling after us, making that awful clanging din. It's a Whirlipede, and it's actually a type of bug Pokémon with a hard, circular carapace— not a Steel-type at all— but this one looks like it's wearing spiked armour over the gaps in its shell. Despite being a bug, it's about four feet tall and looks like it could run you over better than a motorcycle... Especially with the spikes.

The Charmeleon opens its mouth and lets loose a stream of flame, but the Whirlipede dodges it smoothly and continues to gain on us. Up ahead, the alleyways open onto a street; we dash onto it, and the black-and-white-wearing Trainer shouts something I don't quite catch. His Blitzle makes a sudden zig-zagging u-turn to face the onrushing Whirlipede, and sends a crackling bolt of electricity straight at the bug. The Whirlipede's armour attracts the lightning bolt, turns red-hot almost instantly, and starts to smoke; the Pokémon wipes out in much the same way a motorcyclist would, flipping onto its side with a resounding clang... But this only means that it's still coming right at us at high speed, only now it's tumbling end over end and bouncing erratically.

Our group scatters like ninepins, scrambling to get out of the way of a hundred and fifty pounds of smoking, clattering bug Pokémon and metal. The Whirlipede flies past us, smashes through the boarded-up windows of a shop on the other side of the street, and disappears inside with a series of crunching noises as it flattens empty display shelves and suchlike.

Before the Shell gang and I can do more than get to our feet, a new group of Trainers appears out of the alleyway the Whirlipede just chased us through. They're a bunch of adults, and with them are some pretty intimidating-looking evolved Pokémon. But the thing that grabs my attention about them is the one unifying aspect— their gang sign.

They're all wearing white bandanas and black jackets. White cloth and black shroud, I think with a sinking feeling. That fortune-teller sure knows her stuff.

"Shells, scatter!" shouts Carl suddenly. "Girl, follow me."

No one hesitates— it looks like the Shells are outnumbered as well as outclassed. Some of the Shells take off up or down the street, and others duck into alleyways.

Carl chooses a different alley from the rest of his gang, and I find myself obeying his order to follow him, even though going a different way would probably help me escape his Pokémon's 'field of influence,' whatever distance that might extend to. I guess it's partly because his Solosis is still levitating Mom along behind them— I can't just run away on my own and leave her with someone like Carl, can I?

Glancing back, I see that Dylan is also coming this way, probably just because he got left behind by everyone else. Carl seems to know where he's going, so I follow him through one alley after another— right turn, left turn, right turn, right turn, left turn... It's not long before I lose track.

I'm starting to get tired; is anyone even chasing us? I look back again, and almost run into Carl as he stops abruptly. I face forward and freeze as still as he did.

A large black dog Pokémon, about four feet tall at the shoulder, is blocking the alley, standing between us and the only way forward. I take a moment to identify its species— it's a Houndoom, a Fire-type Pokémon with a tail that ends in an arrow, white bony ridges on its back that are reminiscent of ribs, and two curling horns extending from behind its ears. Behind the dog, on the sidewalk outside the alley's exit, stands a tall, thin Trainer with a cane, a mustachioed gentleman who looks like he's about sixty. He's wearing his white bandanna and black coat over a spotless white dress shirt and black dress pants. He makes the gang sign look practically classy— in fact, I think it's not a leather jacket but a tuxedo tailored to look like one. "Hello there, children," the man says with a polite smile. "I'd appreciate it if you'd surrender. There's no need for this to get unpleasant."

Carl glares at him. "I refuse. As acting leader of the Shells I shall fight until my last breath for our territory."

"My, how melodramatic," says the man. "Gangs haven't fought to the death in seven years, and I see no reason to resume such an unsavoury tradition now. We'll settle for your territory, or more specifically, a certain apartment building, thank you very much."

"Hey, Carl," Dylan whispers, "How come you're not just getting Solo to hold them down?"

"Dark-type," mutters Carl curtly. "Immune to psychics. But that's not to say there isn't a backup plan..."

The gentleman at the end of the alley suddenly shouts, clutches his head, and collapses to the ground in a heap, his cane tumbling onto the sidewalk with a clatter. His Pokémon, a few paces ahead of him, stares over its shoulder in surprise for a moment, then suddenly turns and advances on us with a snarl, a red glow appearing in its mouth to herald the arrival of flames.

"Now, Dylan!" shouts Carl.

Dylan's octopus Pokémon floats past me and Carl to hover between us and the Houndoom, then angles its body down the alleyway and looses a powerful jet of water. By some unbelievable stroke of luck, the water strikes the dog Pokémon full in the mouth from over twenty feet away, quenching the nascent flames in the hound's throat and sending it skidding backwards with a howl of pain.

Dylan and I watch tensely as the Houndoom struggles to its feet, and for a moment seems like it's about to come after us again... But then a large slab of concrete suddenly dislodges itself from a pile of debris on one side of the alley and rises into the air— clearly Solo's handiwork— before launching itself at the Fire-type. It strikes the Houndoom full-on, knocking the dog Pokémon onto its side and pinning it to the ground. The hound scrabbles at the stone with its paws and whines, but it's well and truly caught, and thankfully also seems unable to get at us with its fire from this distance.

"Is that guy okay?" Dylan asks, peering down the alley past the pinned Pokémon to its inert Trainer.

"There shouldn't be any permanent damage to his mind," Carl says callously. I can't help but note that I dislike this boy more and more with every word that comes out of his mouth. It's like disregard for other people's safety is just part of his personality or something. "Let's get moving," he continues.

We end up needing to backtrack a bit, because without relying on another lucky shot by Dylan's Frillish, there isn't any way to get past the Houndoom without being immolated. It's not long before we find a spot that branches into two alleyways, and Carl leads us down it for two turns before frowning and stopping.

"Dylan, do you see what I see?"

"What d'you mea— oh."

I turn the corner behind them and see what at first appears to be an empty alleyway... But then I notice the faintly gleaming wall that's in the way, like a pane of glass. I walk up and tap on it with one foot; it feels like glass, too, but somehow I doubt it would break if I kicked it.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Barrier," Carl responds. "A technique of certain Psychic-types. I think we may be about to have company..."

Sure enough, I glance around the corner we just turned, and see a figure wearing a white bandana and black jacket walking toward us from the other end of that alleyway, a Pokémon behind him that, from this distance, just looks like a floating greyish-black blob with at least four pink eyes near the top of it.

"Hmm," Carl says. "Tactically, I believe I'm the only one who can serve as a proper distraction at that point, which puts me in a bit of a dilemma. Perhaps you can help us after all."

"What are you talking about?" I ask frustratedly. "I don't have the patience for your riddles right now, Carl!"

"Never mind," he says, waving my annoyance off dismissively. "I recommend that you go straight home. Seventh street is just left, right, left from here."

"Wh... what?" I stutter. "You're just letting me go?"

"Keeping you prisoner at this point would be more or less meaningless," he says in a perfectly reasonable tone that sets my teeth on edge. "I lack the time to fully explain, but for the last several days, the Thug Life gang has been searching for a certain person, whom they have recently come to believe to have fled into our territory." He raises his eyebrows at me.

That can only mean... "...Dad," I conclude out loud, a knot of worry rising into my throat. "Is he in danger?"

"Almost certainly, if they find him. I recommend you do your best to ensure that the Thugs do not discover your place of residence. And the reason I chose to take you with us when Symon was having his little breakdown was because I already knew this and suspected that you could tell me more. Alas, events seem to have conspired against me." He gives a melodramatic sigh and shrugs exaggeratedly. "Now, I believe I have a distraction to stage. Leave your mother with me; you can't carry her and run. I will catch up with you tomorrow, when it's safe for me to teleport us to your apartment without being trailed by the Thugs. Now, if you please, Solo...?"

Carl's Pokémon makes something that isn't quite a sound; it feels like the air around the Solosis gets thicker and harder to breathe for a moment. Then there's a tinkle like shattering glass, and the Barrier in front of us splinters and falls apart, the pieces fading into nothing instead of hitting the ground. Dylan and I dash off down the newly opened alley, while Carl and Solo turn to confront a Pokémon I only get a glimpse of as it comes around the corner. The impression I get is still of a big floating something with black-and-white markings, and at least four bright pink eyes on a head shaped like a giant spinning top.

I shiver, dashing around the corner toward safety. Psychic-types are spooky... I think, ...And for that matter, so are their Trainers.


~~~~~~~~~~


I unlock the door of our apartment, and sigh with relief when I see the living room undisturbed. I'd been afraid that the Thug Life gang might have somehow already found it.

Dylan trails uncomfortably behind me as I walk through the door and cross to the door of Mom's room. I open the door and peek in; Dad is asleep, and, to my amusement, Dream is sleeping soundly on the bedside table.

I close the door, then turn around and survey the living room critically. Everything is in its usual place, except for one boy who shouldn't be here at all, standing awkwardly right in the middle of the room with his Pokémon floating agitatedly around and around his head. Yep, definitely something out of place here.

"Sit down and don't bother me," I tell him curtly, in no mood to be polite, slipping my backpack off and sitting down on the couch.

While I get my laptop out, Dylan collapses tiredly into the chair across from me, hugging his Pokémon again like an oversized blue teddy bear. That gesture reminds me just how young he is compared to eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds like Carl and Symon. How old can he be, thirteen? How does a kid like this get mixed up in gangs, anyways? I wonder. Ugh. That's a question for another day.

My laptop's clock says 6:10pm. Wow, has it only been four and a half hours since Mom and I were at the marketplace? AIM boots up and a group chat I missed appears. I skim it, but it looks like mostly Tyco giving Brian advice about Pokémon care based on stuff he read.

No one's online; at six o'clock on a Saturday everyone's off doing stuff or having dinner. I sigh. I need a real person to talk to, not more crazy bipolar Trainers who are kidnapping you one moment and treating you like you're one of them the next.

"Um..." Dylan says.

"What?" I ask him tiredly.

"What now?"

Actually, I'd been wondering that myself. "Well, from the sound of it, we wait. Carl said he'd catch up with us tomorrow if he can, so I guess we should just hope he does. He'd better— he still has Mom with him."

As all the adrenaline of the last few hours wears off, I realize I'm completely exhausted. I put my head in my hands for a moment, just to rest my tired eyes.

That's really all it takes for me to fall asleep.

Chapter 1: Wednesday
Chapter 2: Thursday
Chapter 3: Friday
Chapter 4: Saturday
Chapter 5: Sunday
Chapter 6. Monday
Epilogue: Tuesday, Wednesday Again

Chapter 5: Sunday

I wake up to darkness. For a moment I'm surprised I fell asleep, but then I remember how exhausted I was after yesterday's ordeal. I feel better now, but not even close to a hundred percent. My entire body still feels like one big bruise.

How did all this happen? I wonder. It wasn't so long ago I was walking home with Mom from the Market... But somehow, in the space of no more than three or four hours, I managed to discover wierd unexplained fiery powers, lose Mom, and get mixed up with not one but two gangs of Trainers— one which injured my best friend, and one which probably nearly killed Dad and is now looking for him.

God, when did my life get so complicated?

I feel around for my laptop. I find it lying on the couch next to me, out of batteries. I plug it into the wall socket, but there's no power. Of all the times...

I decide now's as good a time as any to go check on Dad. I have stuff to ask him. I get up and open the door to Mom's bedroom.

"Wha?" says Dad's voice. "Who's there?"

"Rachel."

"Ah. Hello." His voice sounds a lot stronger than it did the last time we talked, which is a good sign. "What's up?"

"I wanted to ask you a couple things," I say.

"Go ahead."

There are all sorts of questions I could ask, based on all the crazy stuff that's happened to me in the last little while... But the one that I'm most curious about, suddenly, is related to a conversation I had about an hour before that.

"I remember Mom mentioning your first name. Stan, right? As in, Stanley for short?"

There's a brief moment of silence. "That's right. Why?"

"Oh, no reason," I lie. "Just wanted to make sure I know my own Dad's name. Can I ask something else?"

"Shoot."

"What kind of Pokémon was yours?"

"A species called a Larvesta. A Fire and Bug-type."

I knew it. "I have one other question."

"Yes?"

"What's it like to have an empathic bond with a Pokémon?"

Dad chuckles. "Interesting question. Trainers and their Pokémon share a kind of automatic understanding of each other. It's there from the moment you meet, though usually it takes a while to realize. Basically, you can feel it when your Pokémon is happy, or sad, or hurt. And vice versa."

"When your Pokémon died... What did it feel like?"

"Like a rubber band being snapped. It... It hurt." Dad's breathing is ragged, and I realize I'm being more than a little insensitive.

"Sorry."

We sit there in silence for a while.

"What was he called?" I finally ask. "Your Pokémon, I mean."

"Bright One. Bright for short. I was in a bit of a poetic mood when I named him," Dad says wryly, but his voice is shaking just a little.

"I need to go," I say uncomfortably. There's someone I have to talk to before I continue this particular conversation with Dad, and as for other conversations... I figure he doesn't need any more stress, and telling him about the Trainer gang that's looking for him would just make him worry. That and he'd probably try to leave again to protect me and Mom, which would be suicide with his back the way it is. "I'll be back soon."

"See you then, Rachel," Dad says quietly.

I get up and go back into the living room. The charging light on my computer is lit, indicating that the power is back. I flip it open; the time says 6:50am.

Brian is online, as I'd hoped. He usually gets up early, dunno why. Probably a farm thing, since his family runs a suburban-neighbourhood-turned-farm.

I've got such a bomb to drop on him...


6:51 RAVEry: Hey Brian
I have good/bad news
This is gonna sound rly wierd.
6:51 Brian4theWin: O rly
:)
Ur up early
How did Ellen like her present
6:51 RAVEry: Uhhhhhhh wow
She hasn't got it yet.
It's a bit of a long story, I'll tell you about it later.
Right now, though
I have something to tell you about the whole thing with your Pokémon.
6:52 Brian4theWin: Uh oh
6:52 RAVEry: Okay here goes.
You know that guy who Karen was asking about?
The one with the Larvesta who went missing?
I'm pretty sure that name "Reginald Davison" was just a fake name
6:52 Brian4theWin: ???????
I dont get it
6:52 RAVEry: I KNOW, let me finish! >=O
6:52 Brian4theWin: K
6:52 RAVEry: On Thursday
My dad showed up out of nowhere
6:53 Brian4theWin: I thought u never knew ur dad
Howd u know its him O_o
6:53 RAVEry: Well, Mom said so
And he looks TOTALLY like me, so it's a bit obvious
But that's not the whole story!!
He said his Pokémon was dead
And he thought so because his bond with it was broken
Tyco told you about empathic bonds, right?
6:53 Brian4theWin: Right
Go on
6:53 RAVEry: Well
I think that what happened was
Dad and his Pokémon both got injured
And thought the other was dead
And their bond broke because of that (or something, this is just a guess!)
But here's the thing
Karen was asking about a Trainer with a Larvesta
And you found a trainer-less Larvesta
And I found an ex-trainer...
So I started wondering...
And I asked my Dad what his Pokémon was
And he said
Larvesta.
._.
6:55 Brian4theWin: ...
Omg
I'm so sry
I can give him back T_T
6:55 RAVEry: Wait Brian
I'm not even sure it works that way
Your technically as much Bright's Trainer as Dad
You're*
Maybe more
(Btw Bright is the name Dad gave to him, short for Bright One)
Because you have a bond to him now
And Dad doesn't
So umm
I think,
IF you're ok with it,
I'll tell Dad Bright is alive
And you guys can figure it out yourselves?
=(
Sorry if this is wierd for you
But I figured it'd be best for you to know
That Bright's old trainer never died
And Bright should know that too.
...
Last message from RAVEry at 6:57pm
Brian?
Hello?
6:57 Brian4theWin: ... :)
Thanks RAchel
Rachel*
Plz do tell him
And ty for finding this out
6:58 RAVEry: Ok. =)
Oh, umm, I g2g, stuff is happening, but please let Karen know
I think Dad has something to do with INR.org
So plz msg her for me.
Thx!
Signing out of AIM...


I had to say goodbye to Brian because I can hear someone at the door. I tense up. Best-case scenario, it's Mom. Worst-case scenario, it's a Trainer (at this point I don't know which group of Trainers would be worse, the Thugs or the Shells. I've had it up to here with both of them.)

As it turns out, it's Mom and a Trainer.

Mom rushes in the door first, not even bothering to flick the lights on as she comes in; she envelops me in an extremely tight hug.

"Rachel! I'm so glad you're okay!" she cries into my shoulder. I bear it for a few seconds, then disentangle myself just in time to see the owner of the very unwelcome footsteps that I can hear following Mom through the door. Carl.

"I'm happy to see you too, Mom, but right now I think there's stuff that needs to get explained," I say, turning to glare at Carl. "Starting with why the guy who tried to kill me twice and then kidnapped us is suddenly so keen to help."

He smiles enigmatically. "There's very little to say. I've been manipulating Symon since he founded the Shell gang, and when the leader of Thug Life put out the word that he was looking for an injured man by such-and-such a description with a Larvesta for a Pokémon, I immediately recognized it must have been the person Dylan had earlier found and turned over to your mother."

I turn my head to stare incredulously at Dylan, who's still asleep on the chair behind me with his Pokémon still in his arms; the Frillish is also asleep. "He's the one who found Dad?" I ask.

Mom nods. "I didn't recognize him yesterday, but he's the same boy who called me."

"I was the only one who knew about both the search and the chance finding of this man, so I kept quiet," Carl continues. "When Ariadne's Poochyena discovered that the latest poor sap Symon had developed a vendetta against was living in the same apartment building as the healer who is caring for the man the Thugs were seeking, I considered it merely a happy coincidence. I knew it would allow me to snoop around this place while appearing to be spying for Symon, not for myself. I still had to hide the Thugs' search from Symon, you see— After all, it wouldn't do for him to find out about the reward and turn your father over to the Thugs before I had found out what they wanted him for."

Carl's face curves into a cruel smile, one that I decide I really don't like. I'm starting to feel uneasy. "It was only a short while later, of course, after you nearly killed Symon's Pokémon, that I realized you were the daughter of the Catherine Avery. It wasn't any sort of stretch to realize you'd taken control of the injured man's Fire-type Pokémon, especially after hearing you refer to him as 'Dad.' I realized I had found the rare Pokémon long before the Thugs had... And with this chance at a greater prize than any reward the Thug Life gang could offer me, my new objective became to obtain that Larvesta by whatever means necessary."

His Solosis, hovering next to him, suddenly turns its beady eyes towards me and Mom, and I feel my arms and legs freeze in place. Next to me, Mom gasps as the same happens to her.

I knew it was too good to be true! I think bitterly. Carl wasn't helping me or acting friendly for any good reason, after all— he just wanted to gain my trust and get me somewhere safe so he could take what he wanted without the Thug Life gang interfering!

And what's worse, he's got it all wrong. He thinks my flame powers are because I'm hiding Dad's Pokémon somewhere on me. What'll he do when he finds out I don't have the Larvesta? He's already shown that he doesn't have any particular aversion to doing things that could easily kill people. Who's to say he won't decide we know too much?

"Oh, how helpful," he says. "Thank you for summing that up so nicely."

I realize belatedly that I'm dealing with a Psychic-type. It can read my mind. Stupid, stupid, stupid...

"You don't have the Larvesta at all, do you?" he asks with an amused, snaky smile that turns my stomach. "Well then, shall we a look and see if you know who has it...?"

I immediately start reciting silly poetry in my head. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves/Did gyre and gimble in the wabe...

Then, with a horrible mental lurch, I feel my train of thought shifted against my will to thoughts of Bright. Or Stanley, as Brian calls him. I find myself wondering whether Bright will decide to return to Dad or stay with his new bonded partner—

"No!" I shout out loud. "You can't do this! I won't betray my friend to you!"

Carl smiles that snaky smile again. "No, you won't: because you already have. I just need a little more information, so calm yourself and be silent."

With the last word, my mouth clamps shut and I feel the rest of my body seize up. Carl's Pokémon is choking me again, and I panic. Fear swamps everything, and I can actually feel the Solosis pawing through my mind with a greasy hand, sifting for information on where Brian lives...

I try desperately to summon the anger that I think will help me break free, but every time I reach for memories that will make me mad, the Solosis stirs them around and I lose track. My vision begins to tunnel as I run out of oxygen; my panic mounts and my mind becomes more and more muddled until...

Suddenly I'm released from the psychic Pokémon's hold. I feel a moment of horror— did it let me go because it found what it wanted?— but then I hear and feel twin thumps through my feet.

Carl and Solo are both sprawled on the carpet, out cold; behind them are Dylan with a rolling pin that he's just used to crack Carl over the head, and his Frillish, whose tentacles are crawling with the last traces of a ball of shadows it hurled at Solo while the Pokémon was distracted with sifting through my mind.

Mom and I stare at Dylan. He stares back.

"What? I only even heard the last half of that, and I could tell he had it coming to him," he says simply. "Manipulative asshole."


~~~~~~~~~~


About an hour later, Mom and I are walking down the street, heading for the marketplace. It's only eight in the morning, but market days start early.

I've told Mom there's something I really need to do there, and she somehow trusts me enough to escort me there instead of grounding me for life. She's an awesome Mom that way— I know if my daughter started getting mixed up with gangs, and talking about the time she burst into flames when she got angry, and making cryptic statements about mysterious things she had to get done, I would sit on her until she swore she'd never do drugs again.

Of course, it probably helped that she was there that time I was on fire. I guess that does make it a little more believable, even though it still sounds crazy to me, and I was the one all this stuff's been happening to!

We left Dream in charge of making sure Carl and Solo don't wake up, and Dylan in charge of Dad (it was originally the other way around, until I pointed out Dream's methods of inducing sleep are a little less likely to cause brain damage.)

Anyways, we're here, and there's the purple tent. A young man is just leaving, looking excited and upbeat. He must have had a nice future, I think. I doubt the same will be true of my future— I'm just hoping against hope it doesn't still include white cloths and black shrouds!

I go straight into the tent, looking around for Crystal. It looks the same as last time, with the soft glow of the electrically lit crystal ball lighting the inside of the purple fabric. I look around for Crystal lurking in one of the shadows, but am still somehow surprised enough to give a start when her gentle, mystical voice says from the shadow across the tent, "What brings you here, seeker of fortune— oh! Rachel! Why didn't you just say it was you?"

She drops the mystical act the moment she realizes it's me, and I can't help but smile. You'd think a matter-of-fact, friendly tone would ruin the effect of the whole fortune-teller thing, but I've already become a firm believer in Crystal's talents. Her acting like a normal person makes it all feel more real to me, not less. "I would have, but you were too busy being mystical," I tease.

"Well, come in and I'll pour you some tea— oh, dear," she cuts herself off worriedly.

"What?"

"You've already picked up another of those nasty near-death signs. And it has only been a day! What have you been up to, young lady?"

I giggle despite myself. She sounds like Mom at her most stern and parental. "I've got a lot to explain, I guess. I need to get as much information about my future as I can... and, I guess, my present and past too."

"I see," says Crystal, grinning. "Well, you are the fastest convert from cynicism I have ever met, so that is at least something."

"I've had a lot of opportunity to see just how right you were," I tell her.


~~~~~~~~~~


I'm sitting across from Crystal, with a nice hot cup of green tea (locally grown, of course) in my hands. The candle from last time has been placed back on the table, and she's regarding me intensely in its light.

"I still see the candle. If we are to do this correctly this time, we should try to understand this mark first."

I nod agreement. "There's one thing that I didn't tell you about last time, and things that have happened since then."

"Tell me."

I explain about seeing a candle in my head, the first time Carl and Solo tried to choke me. I mention the way it seemed to disappear into my body, and how its warmth seemed to help me breathe despite the Psychic-type's hold. Then I tell her about seeing the map of the alleyways in my dream, and the white bandannas and black jackets of the Thug Life gang.

Finally, I recount the story of how I somehow tapped into a strange power when I was confronted by the Trainers who had hurt Ellen. I relive every moment of it, remembering how my rage took control of me until I was ready to kill everyone there if I could. How I was only saved from that all-consuming anger by the dumb luck of one last sleep pellet. By the end of the story, I'm shivering and tears are running down my face.

When I'm finally finished, Crystal regards me for a short while with a look on her face I can't identify— it's too neutral. She speaks too much with her eyes, I guess; like I said, I've never been able to read eyes. To me they're just colourful parts of your face that show where you're looking.
However, after a long moment, she says, "I think I know why your candle sign is so vivid, and why it appeared to you so clearly in your moment of near death."

She stands up, and beckons for me to do so as well. "Do you trust me, Rachel?"

I frown— isn't that a rather odd question to ask?— but I've trusted her with so much of my story, I think it'd be a bit silly to stop now. "Sure."

"Close your eyes, and give me your hands."

She takes my hands in hers— they're smooth and cool. With my eyes closed, I wait for her to say something else.

"Picture the candle in your mind."

I do. The thick, short candle appears easily, vividly, almost like a real thing sitting there in my head. I stare into its flame for a moment, mesmerized by the flickering, joyful dance...

Then, suddenly, a strange, whispery presence, like a tangle of silvery strings, begins to surround the dark, calm place where the candle is. The flame flickers, then gutters as if in a breeze, perturbed by the web of threads surrounding it. I feel like reaching out and cupping the precious flame to protect it, but a sensation like a gentle hand holding me back changes my mind. I reach curiously for the owner of that hand, and feel someone there.

~This is not our struggle,~ says the voice of that someone in my head. ~Watch.~

Out of the tangle come more silvery threads, reaching out to swipe at the flame, trying to bind it; I get a feeling from them as though they're actors playing a villain character in a story. The candle flame gutters feebly in the wind of their passage, making a show of just barely dodging each thread sent to tie it up. I keep watching despite my urge to shield the beleagured flame, though, and the flame slowly starts to fight back against the ensnaring threads. Instead of flickering away from the strings, it rises higher and larger to scorch them, timidly at first but then with greater force, even anger.. It grows and grows as it gets angrier and angrier, eating more and more of the threads that were threatening it until it's the size of a bonfire, a bonfire which ignites the entire web of silvery strings.

Then the flame dies down, with no more thread to consume; the wax of the candle is almost gone, boiled away before its time by the intensity of the bonfire that was atop it. The candle's flame grows small and dormant to conserve what little wax remains, and remains quiescent, flickering only a little in tired protest as new threads weave themselves into the dark calm space from outside and descend to snare it. The threads lift and carry the flame away from the candle stub, and set it in midair, where it burns on its own, without wick or wax.

From amongst the tangle of silvery threads, a Pokémon appears, one that looks like a grinning ghost dangling by yet more silvery marionette strings. It reaches out to the free-standing flame. The flame alights on the puppet Pokémon's limb, growing brighter as it makes contact, and the Banette fades away as swiftly as it appeared, carrying the flame with it.

All that's left in this strange room in my head is a candle stub sitting there in darkness, with no flame to brighten its surroundings. Disproportionate sadness strikes me as I look at this empty picture, and I begin to wish I could bring the flame back.

"Open your eyes, Rachel."

I do; the first thing I see is the familiar, squat candle from my mind's eye, floating in front of me in the darkness of the tent... But its flame is now purple, not orange-red... And twin eyes, both glowing a friendly yellow, peek out from underneath a lopsided fold of melted wax.

"Wh... What?" I ask in astonishment.

"This was your little hanger-on, Rachel," says Crystal with a smile. "She's spent the last few days hiding in your psyche. Maybe you've felt very upbeat lately, without needing any reason? Or found your excitement getting away from you?"

I shake my head in disbelief, even though I should probably be beyond being surprised by things by now. "So I was possessed?"

"After a fashion, yes. She's mostly positively-aspected, so in general she just amplified your 'good' feelings, but she certainly ran away with your anger when it came out, didn't she? For such a sweet-looking thing, she's got a lot of anger issues from her past life to work out."

I blink, confused. "Okay, I think I understand some of that. So... where was the Banette from?"

"Oh, I'm sure you can guess," Crystal says with a smile. There's a slight whooshing sound and the ghost Pokémon appears out of nowhere, a little in front of Crystal; I can see faint, silvery ethereal strings leading from its back to the fortune-teller.

"So... all that fortune-telling stuff was just your Pokémon reading my mind?" I ask, feeling let down. I hadn't realized I'd wanted it to be true so badly...

"No, Rachel," Crystal assures me, shaking her head and still smiling. "Ghosts can't see your thoughts. When they look into you, it's your underlying desires and drives that they see... Just the very surface of your 'soul,' if you will. When I read people's fortunes, I'm simply using Querida's eyes as my own and reading the marks that their lives leave on their souls. It's all true, I promise. Please believe me, Rachel."

Her deep brown eyes make contact with mine— I guess she's trying to communicate her sincerity, but as always when I look into someone's eyes, I see nothing but a colour and a contour. Nothing except...

Wait... Suddenly I can see something in Crystal's eyes. Not a feeling or a message— I'm still pretty sure I'll never be able to see those— but something just as important. A golden ring is sitting there, deep in Crystal's eyes, notched and dented and stained with grime but still made of gold. I get a strong feeling of sadness, looking at this ring. I don't understand the feeling, but at the same time it makes a certain amount of sense to me. How could anything so damaged and abandoned not be sad? Where is the finger the ring's supposed to rest on?

"Oh, that poor ring..." I murmur, a little mesmerized. "It's so sad..."

Crystal recoils, averting her eyes with a start. "Rachel! That— that is private!"

I gasp, and look away too. "Oh! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to— well— whatever it was I did!"

After a tense moment, Crystal's body relaxes and she lets out a sigh. "No, that was my fault. I've never seen a budding Medium learn to do that so quickly. I let my guard down." She seems to ponder something. "And for you, it seems to be the eyes through which you see the marks. That's going to be difficult... You may have trouble seeing the messages in people's hearts without also seeing the messages on their souls."

"I never saw the heart messages anyways," I tell her. "I like that way of putting it, though. Messages in people's hearts, seen through their eyes. It's poetic."

"Never?" she asks. "What are— were— eyes to you, then, if not windows to the heart?"

"They're a pretty colour and a way of telling where somebody's looking," I say simply. "Can we talk about something else? Like this beautiful creature?" I ask, indicating the ghostly candle Pokémon that's bobbing up and down and smiling cheerfully at me.

"She has certainly taken a liking to you," observes Crystal wtih a smile. "I believe you became a Trainer without knowing it!"

Something inside me goes cold. I'm... a Trainer? I don't know how to feel about that.

"Um... Crystal? I'm not a really big fan of Trainers. A lot of the things that are wrong with my life— and with the world— are thanks to them."

"I think you simply need to keep an open mind. If you take steps to be the kind of Trainer you'd like to see more of, you'll find that others like you will appear in your life," Crystal says, putting a hand on my shoulder as if trying to comfort me. (It doesn't work; physical contact, like eye messages, is one of those things that doesn't really have the same effect on me as it does on other people.)

"Is that a guess, or a prediction?" I joke halfheartedly, trying to smile through my inner confusion.

"Both," Crystal responds flippantly. "Now, shall we get on with the main show?"

Without realizing it, I glance at the Litwick for approval. She smiles back at me cheerfully, as if to say anything's fine with her. Looking at this cute little creature beaming for all she's worth, it occurs to me how many sayings there are about radiant smiles and grins that light up people's faces and suchlike. The pun potential for a Pokémon who seems to like smiling so much, and who really does shine, is endless.

"I'm going to call her Sunshine," I murmur softly.

Crystal doesn't hear; she's busy looking at me with intense concentration. Now I realize she's looking into me with her Banette's eyes, in the same way I guess I was looking into her with Sunshine's eyes. "The sign of the white bandanna and black coat is now a sign of your present as well," she says. "That means it's passed out of the realm of the possible or probable and into the real. Any issues relating to that sign will have to be fully understood and given closure before it becomes a part of your past sign."

I nod. I'd hoped future run-ins with the Thug Life gang were avoidable, but it doesn't sound like it... And besides, logic dictates that with them after my Dad, they'll have to be dealt with sooner or later.

"Your past signs still feature the red cross and the black dagger," Crystal tells me, "But there is a green snake with grey eyes here too, more recent."

I wonder what that could mean for a second, and then remember the look on Carl's face that I described to myself as "snaky," this morning. "That does refer to something recent," I say, and explain how Carl acted helpful only in order to get us to a place where it was safe to betray us for his own ends. By the time I finish, I'm feeling angry and out of sorts. No sparks are cascading from my head, but my guess is that that's because Sunshine isn't in my head any more.

"It just makes me so mad that I could get taken in like that!" I tell Crystal for the third time. "I mean, it was clear he was no good just from the way he has no regard for people's safety, but I still accepted him as an ally and look where it got me!"

Without warning, my anger and frustration melt away, and I start to feel a lot better. I blink, and look around suspiciously for Sunshine— she's nowhere to be seen. Then I look inside my head, in that strange little dark room I've learned to find so easily, and there she is, burning merrily orange and chasing all my negative feelings away.

"Stop that, Sunshine!" I tell her with mock annoyance. "I have to deal with this stuff sometime, and hiding the bad feelings won't make them go away."

She fades out of my head and reappears in front of me, looking contrite. I smile at her, showing her all is forgiven, and she Sunshines back. I decide I like her name as a verb.

"You're right, Rachel— it's a good idea to learn to deal with your own psyche," Crystal says. "Using a friend as an emotional crutch isn't healthy."

"Thanks," I say. I'm probably pretty lucky to be learning this stuff from a pro. "Anything else I should know?"

"My own bond with Querida is quite different, but if I am interpreting the imagery correctly, then whenever— Sunshine, was it?— spends time in your mind she will draw strength from your life's fire," Crystal says. "She will have access to more power, but greater uses of power will draw more from your body and mind's strength. If you draw too much, you may faint or even die, so use your rage and compassion alike carefully."

I file that away as something to know. "Regarding my other marks, they're pretty simple," I say, getting us back on track. "Mom is the red cross, and Dad is the black dagger. I'd rather not say any more."

"I understand," says Crystal with a small smile, "Just as I'd rather not say any more about a certain ring. As for your future mark..." She frowns and stares intensely at me for a few moments. "Does a green field strewn with many white ribbons mean anything to you? I cannot see it clearly."

I think hard for a few minutes, imagining all the green fields I've seen, but they're mostly from books— I haven't done much traveling in the country. On a hunch, I try to remember which books I saw them in, but draw a blank. Maybe something in my ecology text? And the part about white ribbons doesn't seem to make any sense. "Sorry," I say. "Maybe I have a future in agriculture?"

Crystal smiles. "Somehow I find that hard to imagine. I believe you will do something great when you are older— and that is neither a guess nor a prediction, but a fact!"


~~~~~~~~~~


I'm pretty quiet as I walk toward Bastion with Mom. The sun is still smiling down on the two of us, and I'm content to enjoy it and consider all the stuff I learned— and the new friend I made— at the marketplace.

I still haven't decided whether to tell Mom about Sunshine. She's not in my head right now; instead, she's ghosting along (pun intended) somewhere nearby, invisible. I can't quite tell where, but Crystal said that with time I'll learn to always know what direction my Pokémon is in.

There's a lot to come to terms with. I'm a Trainer now— that's a fact and irrefutable— but did I really have a choice? For the first days of my Trainerhood, I wasn't even aware of it... So, I guess the question is, do I still want to be a Trainer?

Never mind, that's an easy answer. Of course. Somehow, even though I've only actually known Sunshine as an entity of her own, rather than a subtle presence in my mind, for half an hour or so, I already feel like life without her would be totally different in some impossible-to-define way. It wouldn't be like returning to normal... It would be like leaving normal behind.

The hard question, then, is should I be a Trainer. If I allow myself to take on that label, will I lose everything I think I am? Will I turn into one of the Trainers I see every day, who look at non-Trainers and see a bunch of schmucks ripe for tormenting? Even if I don't, will I be able to keep myself up to the high standard I've always held Trainers to?

I've always believed that each Trainer has a duty to set right what all the other Trainers ruined, but now that I am one, can I really call myself anything but a hypocrite if I don't live up to that belief? ...It's a lot of pressure, and all of it self-inflicted.

I honestly wouldn't have it any other way.

In my backpack is a small selection of groceries from the Market, to make up for the ones we lost after my fight with the Shell gang, and Ellen's gift, which is none the worse for wear despite its time in the gang's warehouse (I checked carefully.)

We're about halfway to the Bastion when running footsteps make us turn and discreetly retrieve our (recently replenished) sleep pellet 'secret weapons.' Neither of us relax when it turns out to be a girl from the Shell gang, the one with the red shirt and the big yellow beret-hat-thing.
As it happens, though, there's no need for alarm. "Here you go," says the Shell girl, handing us a pair of grocery bags that are mostly full. Inside are most, albeit not all, of the groceries we got yesterday. "We figured that, since you have a fridge and we don't, anything we weren't gonna eat was going to waste anyways."

I'm not particularly impressed by the Shells' 'altruism.' "So you helped yourselves, then decided to be good Samaritans and return the food," I say in a bit of a scathing tone of voice.

The girl nonchalantly adjusts her silly-looking beret and flips her thick brown hair, clearly completely unabashed. "Hey, we stole it fair and square. It was your fault for not being careful enough with your valuables. Be glad you got anything back at all— most people don't!"

Ugh, this girl rubs me the wrong way. "You say that as if there's nothing wrong with stealing in the first place!" I exclaim, annoyed.

"How is it 'wrong' if everyone does it?" the the Shell asks breezily. "You have some really old fashioned views, little girl."

"Li— Little girl??" I sputter. "You're probably no more than three years older than me!"

"Hey, three years! That's a fifth of your life so far, and a sixth of mine you're talkin' about, kiddie! Don't go sayin' it's peanuts!"

I snort huffily and give her the silent treatment... for all of twenty seconds. "What are you even following us for?"

"Eh, I'm bored," she replies, shrugging. "Symon is still moping around with his Pokémon, even though it's pretty much better already, and Carl's last instructions to us were to help you guys out and lead the Thug Life guys on a wild goose chase or three. Since he ain't showed up again yet, that's gonna be what we do till he does."

"I see," I say in a very neutral tone. This is awkward...

"Ah, I wouldn't worry about it," the girl says, her 'bored' tone being replaced by her 'airy' one. "He goes missing for days at a time sometimes, this ain't anythin' new. You mark my words, he'll be back from this one with some kinda cool new info or neat stuff."

I go back to giving her the silent treatment, wondering exactly how 'neat' the Shell gang would find a Larvesta, unaware or uncaring of how many people were killed or maimed in the process of getting it.

Probably pretty neat.

"Hey, ain't that one o' them Thugs?" Beret Girl says suddenly.

"Where?" I ask, looking around.

"Over there, honey," Mom observes, pointing at a nearby shop front. It looks familiar— in fact, it's the same one that got smashed in by a Whirlipede yesterday.

Sure enough, there's a woman in a white bandana and a stylishly cut black leather jacket inspecting the store's destroyed window. Apparently coming to some kind of decision, she turns away, and scans up and down the street. For a moment, it doesn't look like she's gonna spot us, but then...

"Uh oh, think it's time to run," says Beret Girl with a wink at me and Mom.

We take off at a run, following Beret Girl down the first alley we come to. As we go in, I glance back; the Thug Life woman is chasing after us, and I could swear she's laughing.

"Where are we going?" I ask Beret Girl, panting already. I think that episode in the fortune teller's tent took more out of me than I thought; I remember the candle stub that was left, and groan. "I don't think I can run far, I'm a bit tired from... not sleeping much last night."

"Don't worry, I know this place like the back of my hand," says Beret Girl airily. "No one can catch even the slowest of Slowpokes if that Slowpoke has me as a guide."

She leads us down alley after alley, twisting and turning until I'm thoroughly confused as to where we are, forget our pursuer. We take a double-right at one point that, instead of leading us in a circle, causes us to end up on a slope that leads to a set of flat rooftops.

I've got a stitch and am panting heavily, but Mom and Beret Girl seem unfazed by the mad dash so far. They both start jumping from rooftop to rooftop, leaving me increasingly far behind until I yell after them to slow down a bit!

Once I finally struggle up to where they're waiting for me, we're on a fairly high, flat roof with no way down that I can see, other than the way we came up.

"Isn't this a dead end?" I ask.

"Sort of, but not just any dead end," Beret Girl replies with a grin. "It's the Dead End, used by crooks and escape artists almost since Seattle was built! You should be honoured to have been led up here!"

"I don't quite follow," Mom says. "What's special about this rooftop as opposed to any of these other ones?"

"Observe," Beret Girl says, putting on a serious face that's even more clearly fake than Ellen's. "See this rain gutter on the edge of the building?" She clambers over a decrepit air conditioning unit and waves us over so we can see a section of metal gutter.

"It's fake," she says, pressing down on it to demonstrate how it's actually a grip bar on a hidden pulley system, which descends slowly when any weight is put on it. "If someone's comin' after you and you get up here, you duck behind the AC unit, grab onto the gutter, and ride it down with no one the wiser. To the chaser, it looks like you just plain disappeared!"

"Speaking of which," I say from where I'm perched on the dead AC unit, "We may want to start heading down now.

I point down at the row of steadily taller flat roofs that led us up here; on the farthest of them, a black-coated figure with a white bandanna is jumping rooftop-to-rooftop toward us.

"Unbelievable!" says Beret Girl. "You two go ahead, I've so gotta meet this chick!"

"Are you crazy?" I ask. "She'll wipe the floor with you!"

"Yeah, but that's part of the fun," Beret Girl retorts. "Gangs don't kill each other in gang wars 'round here, haven't in years, so a bit of a test battle and the occasional capture are the spice of life!"

I shake my head slowly. I really don't get these people. Fighting is what they do for fun? No wonder they're so messed up and nasty to non-Trainers.

Mom has already taken to the hidden pulley while we were talking; she rappels down the side of the building like she was taught by a professional. I'll be honestly surprised if I ever find anything Mom can't do.

"So, umm, see you at the bottom?" I say to Beret Girl.

"Nah, once she gets up here I can't use the pulley. Revealing the secret of the Dead End to a chaser is a big no no. Besides, it doesn't work very well if they see you on your way down, 'cause they'll just follow you or cut you off."

"Hey, I never actually asked your name," I say.

"Yeah, me either," she says. "I'm Jasmine, but call me Jazz. And you?"

"Rachel."

She shakes my hand briefly. "Better get goin'! I've got a battle to fight!"

I head over to the fake gutter, which has already ascended back to the edge of the roof on its pulley mechanism, ready for me to use. I hesitate, though. What if Beret Girl— Jasmine, err, Jazz, I mean— is wrong about whether or not it's safe to battle this Thug Life woman? And she never told me no one gets injured in gang fights, just that no one dies any more. Was she putting on a brave face when she realized all three of us couldn't get down without being seen?

With all these doubts chasing each other around in my head, I glance around surreptitiously... and then crouch down behind the AC unit, stretching out on my stomach. Hopefully the Thug Life woman won't see my head peeking around the edge...

I look around the corner of the unit just in time to see the white-bandanna'd lady hop lightly onto the rooftop. She's wearing a white t-shirt under her black Thug Life jacket, as well as a pair of loose, no-nonsense black pants that look scuffed and worn, as though they've seen many a roof-hopping chase.

Jazz is waiting for her, smiling. "Hey there, lady. This is a nice place to take a stroll, isn't it? Just look at that view!"

Her comment is obviously facetious, because on three of the roof's four sides, massive dilapidated skyscrapers block the view.

"Well, I don't know about the view," says the Thug Life woman in a frank but amused voice with a hint of a Southern accent, "But I do quite enjoy people-watching." She looks Jazz up and down, smiling as if she likes what she sees.

"That's all great entertainment, I guess," Jazz says dismissively, "But if you're really looking for a fun time, a fight's where it's at. Wanna try me?"

"I would," the Thug woman sighs theatrically, with an exaggerated shrug and a shake of her head, "But that'd be pretty unfair. After all, it doesn' look like you have a Pokémon with you."

Jazz grins. "Oh, how uncourteous of me. I should introduce us. I'm Jazz..." she says, grasping her big, goofy beret and sweeping it off with a courtly bow, "...and this is my buddy Scar."

Her Pokémon, with his yellow skin and red scaled belly, is standing on the back of her bowing head, clinging to her thick brown hair to keep his balance. Then he hops down in front of her as she straightens and stands tall— all two feet of him— holding the shed skin around his ankles like a pair of baggy pants. Jazz puts her yellow beret back on; with the dyed-yellow jeans she's wearing today and her red shirt, her colours match her Pokémon's more or less perfectly.

I shake my head at this silliness. Now I realize why Jazz's beret was oversized this whole time; it was being held up by her Pokémon. And all that, by the look of it, was all planned just to be able to show off right now. Does she treat everything like a joke? I wonder disbelievingly.

"Well, who am I to return courtesy with rudeness?" asks the woman with a smile, her faintly Southern accent making the formality sound quaint rather than odd. "I'm called Agitha..."

On cue, a Pokémon that looks like a bigger, dark orange version of Jazz's Scraggy leaps from its hiding place on the next roof down, landing on the Dead End's roof with a thump I can feel through the floor even over here in my hiding place. The newcomer is bigger and heavier by a lot; it's almost twice Scar's size. I notice that, also unlike Jazz's Pokémon, this one has a dark grey underbelly instead of a red one. This must be one of those 'evolved' Pokémon I've heard about, I think.

Pokémon have strange life cycles that often involve drastic changes in form. The process has been called 'evolution,' though that's a misnomer— real evolution only happens from generation to generation, not to a single individual— and refers to the process by which, often over the course of years, a Pokémon's appearance changes entirely and it grows into a larger and stronger creature. Some Pokémon change colour or body shape, and others even seem to change from resembling one species of normal animal to another. It's a process that's never really been understood, but nearly everyone knows the basics. It's probably enough to say that Pokémon that have evolved are usually a lot stronger than ones that haven't.

Looking at Scar and the newcomer, I can see why. I realized the Pokémon used by the Thug Life Trainers when they were chasing us were evolved, but it's one thing to know about the process in theory and another to see an unevolved and an evolved form at the same time. The differences in size and colour are startling.

"...And this is Bones," finishes the woman called Agitha. The evolved Scraggy— Scrafty, I think this form is called?— lets out a feral battle cry and shakes the shed skin hanging around its shoulders, producing a wierd musical sound, like a rubber band being twanged, but louder.

"All right," Jazz says with another flirty grin, "Come at me."

To my surprise, the Thug Life woman and her Pokémon both move, in unison; the Scrafty bears down on its smaller counterpart, and the woman, having already dropped into a low, balanced "fighter's stance," quick-steps toward Jazz.

I didn't know Trainers actually fought each other, I think with surprise. Is Jazz gonna be okay?

My question is immediately answered as Jazz sidesteps around a lightning-quick strike from the white-bandanna'd woman and responds with a sweeping kick, which the woman jumps. They spin to face each other and trade a series of blows so fast I almost can't follow, blocking and deflecting hits with their forearms at the same time as launching counter-blows.

On a different part of the roof, barely visible from my hiding spot, the two Pokémon are also fighting. There's a clear difference there, with the smaller Scar constantly on the defensive, dodging Bones's blows by leaping on and off of the various vents and smokestacks sticking up from the roof.

I switch my gaze back to the closer fight, where Agitha has managed to pin one of Jazz's feet under her own, effectively making them both unable to move, only pivot; they're exchanging blows with both hands and their free legs now, kicking high as often as they punch low.

I look back at the Pokémon battle in time to see the bigger Scrafty smash a fist into a broken smokestack, shattering it to pieces as his target jumps free. The bigger Pokémon looks to be getting tired, unable to hit its smaller foe. Already, Jazz's Scraggy is practically running circles around it, darting in to strike at spots unshielded by its larger counterpart's rubbery shed skin...

Without warning, Bones strikes out with unexpected speed, pinning Scar to the rooftop. It was only pretending to be tired! The smaller Pokémon struggles for a moment, then goes limp, indicating submission. It looks like that battle's over, and without anyone getting seriously hurt. I'm relieved—

THUMP.

I jump as the AC unit I'm hiding behind shakes under the impact of something. I scramble into a crouch and peek over the top to see Jazz pinning Agitha to the top of the unit with her legs. Fortunately, neither of them can see me; Agitha's back is against the AC unit, and Jazz is turned sideways away from me, in the process of pinning both of her opponent's wrists down with one hand— it looks like some kind of wrestling hold.

It looks like Jazz has won her fight; Agitha seems to have stopped struggling, which I think is a win in wrestling... right? Jazz confirms that she's won by kissing her opponent passionately on the lips—

WAIT, WHAT?

I turn away, my face turning bright red. Oh god oh god oh god I didn't realize this was like that, I think, grabbing the fake gutter and lowering myself over the edge. I walk backwards down the side of the building as fast as my legs will take me, trying to ignore the distant sound of moans from the rooftop.

Mom's waiting on the street, at the end of the secret mechanism's track. "What took you so long?" she calls up to me as I get near the bottom.

"Uhh... I stayed to watch the fight," I say, reaching the end of the line, my face still bright red.

Mom, of course, notices. "Ah. Not what you expected," she says tactfully.

"Nope."

"Do you want to talk about it, honey?"

"Never. Ever."

We leave it at that.


~~~~~~~~~~


We're quite a bit off course from our route to the Bastion now, but it didn't prove too difficult to find a major street from where we found ourselves in the alleyways south of downtown. The sun is still out, and I'm still sensing Sunshine nearby, invisibly sunbathing somewhere. It's funny— I'd always thought ghosts didn't like sunlight, but apparently that's only true of certain ones: to my great amusement, Sunshine loves the sunshine. Hee hee! I guess that makes two of us. I'm always happiest when it's bright out.

Mom has the grocery bags, but when I offer to take one, she refuses to let me. "I can tell you're very tired today, Rachel. You're a lot quieter than usual," she says.

I'm not about to argue— my feet are starting to drag. But I have to get this gift to Ellen today. I can't let her miss an entire weekend of Seattle Square Markets without bringing something to cheer her up.

We're finally on track again, walking through the familiar alleyways between home and Bastion, when I hear a shout from somewhere behind us.
"Wait up! You can't just go in there on your own!" It's two more of the Shell gang, running to catch up with us. The speaker is the black-and-white-wearing boy with his Blitzle; the other is the quiet-seeming Charmeleon boy with his black jacket, red glasses and mohawk (the one I thought looked more like a gang leader than yellow-green.) "They'll tear you apart!"

It takes me a moment to realize what they mean. "Yeah, hold on, Mom, aren't these alleys Thug Life territory?"

"Yes, these and nearly everything to the southeast," Mom tells me. "But we're neutral, so as long as we're not with you, we're able to pass just fine."

"Oh," says the Blitzle Trainer.

"Thanks for your concern, though," Mom says kindly. "That was sweet of you."

"Pff, don't take it the wrong way, lady!" snorts Blitzle Boy, "We're just followin' orders."

I note with interest, though, that the boy with the Charmeleon has something that might possibly be a trace of a blush.

"Well, either way," I say, mostly as a test (...but also, I admit, partly because I feel bad that their "acting leader" is unconscious in our apartment right now and they're protecting us under out-of-date orders,) "I feel safer knowing you two are looking out for us."

Blitzle Boy snorts again, but Mohawk is definitely blushing now. Interesting... I get the feeling he's not as cool as he looks. Which is fine by me— the world needs less "cool" Trainers.

Mom and I leave the two boys at the edge of the alleyways and make our way to the Bastion without incident. Neutrals like Mom are generally left alone when they're going from place to place. Healers get all kinds of diplomatic immunity even in a gang-dominated world, which is exactly as it should be.

Honestly, though, if I'd been alone I might have accepted their escort. Non-Trainers are always fair game for Trainer gangs, and unaffiliated Trainers risk getting forcibly conscripted into a local gang if they step on the wrong territory. I'm safe with Mom, and only the Shells know I'm a Trainer, but getting singled out for torment or robbing as a non-Trainer and getting in a situation where I'd need to ask for Sunshine's help to defend myself would be an easy way to lose that anonymity. New Trainers get snapped up quick; I'm surprised none of the Shells have tried to pressure me into joining yet. Not that I ever would.

Bastion appears on the horizon, its twenty-five-foot concrete walls like a rectangular hole in the blue sky. I increase my pace, anticipation making me giddy. Ellen's gonna love this!

When we get to the gates, they're closed and locked. That's normal on weekends; Mom rings the buzzer, and after about five minutes, the infirmary nurse comes to unlock the gates with a key-card.

It takes all three of us to push/pull the gate open, but we manage it. Once it closes behind us, a shiver goes through me. I suddenly feel a little awkward. I'm a Trainer now, I think. Technically I shouldn't even be here any more. If they find out, I'm expelled faster than you can say "Sunshine."

It's this, I guess, that cements my feeling that everything's changed. Once, not too long ago, I remember thinking that if I ever encountered a Pokémon, I'd have to give it up because I'd rather die than go to a school with Pokémon. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe if Sunshine and I got strong enough, we could change a school. Turn it upside down, give some power back to the adults and make sure the Trainers are kept in line...?
I shake my head in irritation. That's been tried, many a time. So many kids think they'll be the ones to change things. Even on the rare occasions I've heard of where the initial change worked, it never sticks.

While I was busy stewing in my own insecurity, Mom and I have reached the infirmary. I open the door, and break into a wide grin when I hear Ellen squeak, "Rachel! You came!"

Mom smiles at me and leaves the room, to give us some privacy.

I go over to the single occupied infirmary bed and give my friend a big hug, careful to avoid her hurt side. She holds on to me for a long time, so I just stroke her hair for a while and start telling her about everything that's been going on.

When I get to the part where Sunshine finally appeared, she gasps and sits back up from where we were leaning back-to-back on the hospital bed. "Ohmigosh! You're a Trainer now too! I knew it! It's the skeptic always gets won over in the end!"

"Always with the story books, Ellen..." I sigh with mock exasperation. But she's right in this case, I guess. And just knowing I have her unqualified support gives me a bright feeling inside that's not unlike the warmth of Sunshine's candle. Maybe I can change something.

"Tell me more about the Shell gang!" Ellen says. "They sound like good guys, except Symon and that Carl boy. Maybe you can convert them to the cause!"

I snort. "They're like every other Trainer in this city, ready to bully and steal from non-Trainers if it'll benefit them. Only the youngest ones even have a hope."

"Aw, don't be like that!" Ellen says, putting her head on my shoulder. "That's such a downer. Never give up on anyone, that's the number one rule for the hero of the story!"

"What about the really bad villains, like Carl and the Thug Life gang?" I ask. "Are we gonna save them too?"

"They'll come around when everyone else is with you," Ellen says confidently. "You're strong, Rachel, even without your Pokémon. And you always act so cynical, but deep inside, you've got even more heart than me."

I sincerely doubt that, but I appreciate the sentiment. Ellen's always been able to cheer me up, mostly because she genuinely believes every nice thing she says about anyone. "Thanks, Ellen."

Mom knocks on the infirmary door.

"Come in!" I call.

"I've got to check Ellen's stitches and make sure there's no risk of infection," Mom says gently. "Why don't you wait outside?"

"Wait, I have one thing to give Ellen first," I say. I get out my computer and log on AIM; Everyone is online, including Sonia, because I told them when I was gonna give Ellen the present. I delayed it because Sonia couldn't get on until one o' clock.


1:00 Group Chat: [ItsNotRight.org SEATTLE DIVISION]
RAVEry: Hello all!
Ellen, we've got a very special gift for you. ^_^
It was gonna be for your birthday, but we decided you needed something to cheer you up after spending a whole WEEKEND in bed!
So...
Without further ado...
And avoiding further delay...
And accepting no deferral...
And without a preliminary speech of any length...
TykeBomb: GOD RACHEL JUST GIVE IT 2 HER!!!!!!! xD
RAVEry: Sorry xD
Here, Ellen.
(the following is Ellen typing k guys? h/o changing font)
OMGOSH!!!
IT IS SO
FANTASTIC!!!!!
I LUV U GUYS!!
WHERE DID YOU FIND THIS
TykeBomb: well, I designed it!!!!
diagrams and everything!!!!!!
Singingwizard224: and i put it together using stuff from rachel and brian, so i hope you really like it and no one has hugged it except you (as long as hugs before it was finished don't count)!!!!!!
ilu ellen 8)
RAVEry: sniff ;')
u guys r the best!
i have the best friends in the wrld
and we will all be trainers someday and we will become THE BEST THERE EVER WAS
and help people.
Last message from RAVEry at 1:03
RAVEry: <3
Singingwizard224: <3
Brian4theWin: <3
TykeBomb: <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
RAVEry: <3 from Rachel too! ^_^
Ok, we have to let my mom check Ellen's side now.
G2g! Cheers all. =)
Signing out of AIM...


~~~~~~~~~~


It's after two o'clock when Mom and I leave the Bastion. We head through the Thug Life gang's alleys, again uneventfully— my guess is that they don't spend much time around here anyways, and that doesn't seem to have changed despite their ongoing campaign against the Shells— and when we come out, we encounter none other than the same two Shell boys from before, along with their Pokémon. They insist on walking us home, because according to them, Thug Life has started being seen all over the place on their turf. I realize that's why the adult gang isn't anywhere to be seen in their own territory; they're doing the gang equivalent of staging a hostile takeover.

We're a couple blocks over from Seventh Avenue when I see a lone Thug Life gang member walking up the street, his Pokémon beside him. Mom and I take one look at them and both head for a side street.

The two boys with us, however, start heading for the Thug before they realize their escortees are going somewhere else. They dither for a moment, and then hurry after Mom and I.

"That makes me so mad!" says Blitzle Boy. "They just walk around like they own the place."

"Do own the place," says Red Mohawk, as stoic as usual.

"Hell no they don't, not while we're still around!" says Blitzle Boy. "I don't get why you can't just help us clear them out, Rachel. They're obviously no good, and they're threatenin' your old man, so why don't you help take out the trash?"

"Well, for one thing, Bli—" Ugh, I think. This is stupid. "Excuse me, but what are your names, so I don't have to keep calling you Mohawk and Blitzle Boy?"

Mohawk runs a hand through his mohawk, as if he'd forgotten it was there. "Mohawk's fine."

Blitzle Boy rolls his eyes. "He's Matt and I'm Tom. He would prefer Mohawk, though, he's so damn proud of that hairdo."

Behind us, there's a shout and the sound of a scuffle. I turn around' on the other side of the road, a man in a ratty coat is being thrown to the ground by the Thug's Pokémon. The Thug, a heavyset guy with a bald head, demands the man's wallet, and he gets it out fearfully, his eyes fixed fearfully on the Pokémon standing over him. It's a Mightyena, the evolved form of a Poochyena; the doglike Pokémon's two-layered coat is black on top of grey.

"I think I have an answer for you, Tom," I say grimly. "I only take out the trash when they're threatening someone who can't fight back. Stay out of this. I can do this because I'm neutral, and if you help out it'll just look like I'm part of your gang. Which I'm not."

"Rachel, are you sure?" Mom asks. "Have you even figured out how your fire works?"

"Yeah, Mom, trust me," I say with a giant grin for her and just for her. "I'm gonna make Ellen proud."

The unfortunate man is handing over his wallet when I show up. "Excuse me," I tell his assailant politely— I don't expect it to work, but it's worth a shot— "But I think you should stop that right now."

The bald-headed Thug pauses, then turns around and stares at me. "You gonna stop me, kid?"

"Not if I don't have to," I say, more confidently than I feel. "Just give it back and we can all go on our way peacefully."

The guy looks uneasy. He's probably not used to kids without visible Pokémon acting this confident. "Listen, you're one o' the Shells, right? I'll give ya half if ya just let it pass. It ain' like this is gonna be your turf much longer anyways, right?"

I realize he's actually a bit scared of me. I'm an unknown quantity. And in his mind, to act this confident I've got to have a pretty powerful Pokémon. Maybe I can solve this without a fight after all... I send out a call with that feeling I've started to associate with Sunshine, asking her to pay a visit for a moment.

"No, I'm just a neighbourhood Trainer," I tell the Thug, "Not part of any gang. I don't mind if you walk around here, but I'd really prefer if you'd give that man back his wallet." It's not hard to make myself feel a little anger on behalf of the poor man who's sitting there on the pavement looking between me and the huge guy and his big dog, wondering if he even dares hope I can help him. People get robbed by Trainers all the time, I think to myself, And no one ever goes to help them. There's so much of this crap going on, all the time! It's maddening!

Sure enough, sparks start to rise from my hair, spitting and crackling. The bald behemoth in front of me takes a step back. "Fuck! Fire-type!" he says in a panicked tone of voice. "Fine, I'll give the fucking thing back! Probably just pocket change anyways!"

The Thug throws the man's wallet at him and hurries off down the street. I let go of my rage and let Sunshine know she can go exploring again— I don't need her in my head any more. She sends a brief flare of comforting feelings through me, then disappears.

I turn to go. As I walk away, the man behind me stammers, "Th— Thank you!"

I just wave a hand behind me. I feel like a big damn hero, right out of Ellen's books. I can't help but smile. Maybe there is hope.

"The fuck was that?" asks Blitzle B— Tom— when I walk up to the two Shell boys and Mom. "You didn't kick him off our turf."

"No, I didn't," I say simply. "Far as I care, he can be on whoever's turf he wants, as long as he doesn't hurt anyone. Mom, let's go home."

She puts an arm around my shoulders and we head off in the direction of Seventh Avenue. The two boys behind us disappear into the alleyways, chatting under their breath about something. Probably what a wierdo I am.

I don't really care, because Mom's approval is worth the scorn of a thousand gang Trainers... and Ellen's dream is worth the hatred of a million.


~~~~~~~~~~


Dad is awake and lying on the couch in the living room when we get back. The improvement is ridiculous. After I told him Bright was alive last night, it was like ten years fell off him. I put him in touch with Brian on my computer, and they chatted for hours. He's still got a massive unhealed gash in his back, but he's got the energy to walk around stiffly and even use the chamber pot on his own. Mom has the slice heavily bandaged to make sure it doesn't reopen while he moves around.

"Dylan and I have been talking about measures to deal with our Sleeping Beauty over there," Dad says when we walk in, jerking his head at the chair where Carl is still asleep, and has been for 24 hours. Mom's been force-feeding the unconscious blond boy water, but we figure we should find some way to wake him and his Pokémon up safely before they start to starve.

The problem is that, as a Psychic-type Pokémon, Solo can do any number of things the moment it wakes up fully, including teleport, throw things around, freeze people, and even attack minds directly. It's a dangerous creature, but leaving it asleep is an impossibility; one simply can't give a Pokémon an intravenous nutrient feed without understanding its alien biology, even if we had the materials and equipment for IV (which we don't.)

"Our idea is morally not fantastic, but certainly preferable to letting them starve," Dad says matter-of-factly. I'm listening, though I can feel Mom tensing up. Just let him finish, I think analytically. I'd kind of forgotten what it was like to not be emotionally impacted by stuff until I'd fully decided what I felt about it; Sunshine's influence made me more emotional, I guess, and was pleasant... but sometimes less than efficient.

"Dylan agrees with the one possible plan we've come up with, though he says it 'gives him the shivers.' I myself don't like it but can't think of any better alternative." Dad pauses. "The plan is inspired by my own experience with Bright and Brian. I think if we can somehow sever the bond between Solo and Carl, and bind Solo to a new Trainer, it might be more possible to control him."

"No." Mom is adamant. "That would be a horror and an abomination. Accidentally cutting the tie is one thing, but intentionally? I refuse to let you do anything of the kind."

I think about it. "I have to agree with Mom on this one, dad. Even from a non-emotional standpoint, it violates all sorts of logical safety measures, including the ones about not messing with forces we really don't understand. If we're unlucky, we might end up somehow corrupting the person we bound Solo to with Carl's disregard for human and Pokémon life."

Dad sighs. "Yes, that's what I thought too, based on the assumption that it's the Trainer's nature that causes a Pokémon to tend to behave cruelly or kindly. But the alternative seems to be either letting that pair of sociopaths go free, or killing them by starvation or in cold blood, either of which are morally reprehensible."

I find myself remembering something Ellen said. At first I don't think it's really a likely solution, but on second thought, I've been wrong about her ideas before. A lot of times, actually. "How about a third option?" I suggest. "We can try to change Carl's mind about wanting Bright. If we wake him up before Solo, and get him to see reason, he can pacify Solo and maybe even help us."

"Rachel," Mom says, quirking her lips as though she's trying not to smile. "That's very unlike you... But I like the idea."

"Ellen's very persuasive sometimes, Mom. And it can't be worse than just letting him go free."

Dad humms and hawws for a moment. "Your friend Ellen might be on to something," he says. "Psychology can be a strange variable, but when a logical approach fails, a psychological one might very well succeed."

Dylan appears from around the wall that separates the kitchen from the living room, munching on a piece of toast. "What's that mean in English?" he asks interestedly with his mouth full.

"If we play mind games with him, we might not need to choose between letting him starve to death and letting him go," I translate.

Dylan looks from Carl to me to Mom and Dad. "So... Who's gonna out-mindgame Carl?"


~~~~~~~~~~


We end up deciding it's gonna be me who talks to Carl. For one thing, I'm the one who's talked with him the most (except for Dylan, who's scared stiff of him,) and for another, with my "fire powers" (I still haven't decided how or when to explain to Mom and Dad about Sunshine) I'm probably the safest in case he gets violent. I haven't done anything major since Crystal's trial at the Marketplace, so I have at least some small reserves of strength for Sunshine to draw on if needed, but I'm still relieved when Mom insists we eat a quick lunch of roasted veggies in cheese sauce before setting Operation Save the Villain in motion.

I have my misgivings— after all, this is a very Ellen-ish plan— but, as Dad pointed out, the alternatives are worse. Do I think I can convince Carl to forget his plan? No.

Do I have to try? Yes.

I'm sitting on a stool in Mom's room, looking down at Carl, who's been placed on the bed with his hands pinioned to his sides with rope. Everyone's waiting outside, ready to rush in if I need help. That's just another safety precaution, as is the rope; with his dagger confiscated and Solo asleep, Carl's fairly harmless.

"Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead," I tell him. "You're not fooling anyone."

He opens his eyes. "I wondered when you'd realize I was faking it," he says, infuriatingly calmly.

"Kind of assumed, since I just gave you a dose of Mom's antidote for Dream's sleep powder," I reply airily. "Now I think you've got some real questions to answer."

We decided in advance that I should start this out like an interrogation. No need to tip him off that our only reason for waking him up is to try to change his mind about giving us trouble.

"Well, I appear to be bound, so there's nothing to stop you from asking," he says flippantly in that wierd British-aristocrat accent. I wonder again how he got here, with international travel so rare.

"First of all, how did you hear the Thugs were after Dad?"

"They told me so. Next question."

I hold up a hand. "Not so fast. What do you mean, they told you so? You met with them?"

"Regularly. They're even more useful than the Shells... Albeit harder to control. Their leader is a great deal more subtle than that oaf Symon. Nonetheless, giving a smart man the right information at the right time can usually produce the intended outcome." Carl says smugly. Then his face sours into an unpleasant frown. "Unfortunately, he has a tendency to find things out on his own... As you've likely seen from the fact that he's probably taken over Shell territory by now in his search for your father. I would've preferred he not realize the Larvesta's Trainer was in this neighbourhood until after I'd had a chance to spirit that valuable Pokémon away... But it hardly matters now. I know you don't have it any more."

God, this boy likes to hear himself talk, I think. "I can't let you harm Brian," I say. "You don't know where he lives and I'm not about to tell you. Why not give it up? There are better ways to make money for someone as smart as you."

Carl smirks. "Yes, but hard work is no fun. I'd much prefer to manipulate my way to greatness."

Ugh. I feel greasy just talking to this disgusting excuse for a human being. "You're not gonna be manipulating anyone if you don't get out of here," I point out, careful not to betray any sign of my fury.

"I see..." Carl says, still smiling that smug smile. "So you've woken me up because you wish to strike some sort of deal in exchange for my freedom? I'm all ears, girl."

"Stop calling me 'girl'!" I snap. "I'm probably only a few years younger than you!"

"My apologies, young lady." He puts a mocking emphasis on the last two words. "Your bargain?"

I take a deep breath and calm down. "There is no bargain. I just didn't want to have to let you and your Pokémon starve... But it looks like that's our only choice if you're not gonna cooperate."

For the first time, Carl shows signs of being genuinely afraid. His hands, bound at his sides, twich, and his breathing pattern changes ever so slightly. "You wouldn't do that," he says confidently, his face perfectly straight in its smug grin. His tone and expression don't betray any hint of his sudden fear; I wouldn't have noticed if I wasn't so used to watching people's body language for their emotions instead of their faces. Faces (and of course, eyes) have always been too vague for me.

"Wouldn't we?" I ask seriously. "We're considering it. You're a bit too dangerous to let run around without some sort of leash."

Carl's silent for a moment. His tension disappears a little as he thinks hard, and as far as I can guess, he's reconsidering his opinion of me as someone who's easy to manipulate using her emotions. His surprise makes sense— his experience of my temper has all been from when I was under Sunshine's influence unawares.

"What kind of collateral can I offer you?" he asks in a businesslike tone, all pretense of smugness gone now that he's no longer trying to anger me.

"How about telling us a way to keep Solo under control, so we can feed him without worrying he'll bring the building down around our heads."

Carl hesitates. I can tell he's not used to sharing information he'd rather not. "...Solo's entirely self-sufficient when he's not actively using his psychic powers," he finally says, in a reluctant tone. "He doesn't need to eat."

"Perfect," I say with an evil grin. "Solo will be your collateral, then, since he seems to be the one thing you really care about. You can go free as long as you leave him here with us."

Carl stares at me, aghast. The possibility we'd keep his Pokémon as an assurance of his good behaviour hadn't even occurred to him, and if he'd thought of it he definitely wouldn't have told me Solo doesn't need to eat. "Leave him here? You can't just send me out there without him! I'd be vulnerable to all sorts of nasty things!"

"Well, you can stay in here asleep, then," I say, crossing my arms and making a show of not caring. "Take it or leave it. There's plenty of people in this world who get by without a Pokémon. Who knows— being one of them for a while might do you some good."

"No, no way!" Carl says, angrily now. "Surely there's something else I can offer you instead!"

"Here's a start: you can come and eat something," I say, getting out of my chair and walking towards the door nonchalantly. "Decide over a good plate of roast veggies and leftover steak."

He hesitates, his mental process as clear as day to me— without any mind-reading needed, unlike him with his psychic-type . On one hand, he thinks it might be best to starve himself so we have to hurry and offer him some other, better deal; on the other hand, he's starting to consider the possibility that I'm serious about keeping him asleep until he starves to death, and his stomach is telling him eat something, damnit!

"...Fine," he says. "I shall eat if you insist, but I am not about to agree to such an absurd notion as leaving here without Solo. Freedom without a Pokémon is no freedom at all!"

"Funny how that works," I mutter darkly, yanking the door open and nearly slamming it behind me before I get control of myself. Carl is actually more aggravating when he's being himself than he is when he's deliberately trying to get a rise out of me. Determined to keep my actions uninfluenced by my emotions, I close the door gently and look around at the expectant faces of Mom, Dad and Dylan.

I explain briefly about Solo not needing to eat, and describe the deal I offered Carl.

"This solves a lot of our problems," Dad observes thoughtfully. "Carl is much less of a threat without his Pokémon, and using it as collateral will ensure he doesn't do anything directly to subvert us when we let him go."

"True, but it's the indirect that I'm worried about," Mom says. "From what Rachel said, he can do plenty to cause us trouble without it being traceable back to him..."

While Mom and Dad continue to discuss things, and Dylan— at Mom's request— goes to heat up some food for Carl, I head for the apartment door. Those three can probably take care of the Carl problem themselves, and I need a break from talking to or about that disgusting person.

"I'm taking a walk," I call.

"All right, but be back before dinner!" responds Mom.

I check my watch as I go out the door. Three-thirty— two and a half hours till dinner, which is always at six. As I clatter my way down the dusty concrete stairwell that leads to the main floor and out the apartment building's door, I consider the fact that with me out of the apartment, Dream busy watching over Solo (who's being kept in my room, resting on the beanbag chair for lack of a better place to put him,) and Dad no longer a Trainer, Dylan is actually the one responsible for everybody's safety. I wonder briefly why I'm not worried by this; after all, Dylan hasn't given me any logical reason to trust him, and he is technically a member of the Shell gang... But somehow, he doesn't strike me as a bad guy, especially with how he beaned Carl with that rolling pin and— as I learned this morning— having been the one to call Mom when he found Dad passed out in the street.

It feels odd, being able to go out without being afraid a Trainer will rob me or beat me up for fun. Odd but good. I look around, unused to being able to just roam freely. I pick a direction— the general direction of Occidental Park, where the Seattle Square Market is probably just starting to quiet down at this time of the afternoon— and set out at a jog, enjoying the feeling of the afternoon sun on my face despite my lingering traces of Sunshine-sunburn. I could get used to this, I think. Maybe I'll make an afternoon jog a routine, and finally get into shape. I've cursed my lack of physical fitness often enough lately, with all the running I've been doing...

"Hey! Flame girl!" shouts an out-of-breath voice. I give a start, and turn to regard the boy who's running towards me from down the street. I glance around at the street my feet took me to while I was daydreaming— like most streets in this neighbourhood, it's empty— and then return my attention to the boy.

His red hoodie, yellow shirt and red sweat pants are familiar; I recognize him as the Shell boy who had the Mienfoo— whose species I Googled quickly this morning, before leaving for the Market with Mom. I found out the weaselly-looking Pokémon was a Fighting-type, but there wasn't much more info than that on Wikipedia and I didn't have a lot of time to go searching. Oddly, the Mienfoo doesn't seem to be with its Trainer.

"Flame girl!" he shouts again, coming to an abrupt stop right in front of me and grabbing me by the shoulders. "Rachel! That's your name, right? You've gotta help me!"

I glare at him. "Why should I help you?"

"The Thugs are after me," he says, panting. "The fuckers ambushed me up an alley and took out Minnie. Then they came after me!"

I shrug his hands off my shoulders coldly. "Well, that's not my problem. I want nothing to do with your gang wars. If you're gonna go looking for fights, learn to deal with the consequences." I'm not particularly sympathetic, especially remembering how nonchalant Jazz was about confronting one of the Thugs (I think that had nothing to do with what happened after the fight. It didn't look planned to me, but...)

I tear my mind from that dangerous track. "It's not like they're gonna kill you or your Pokémon, so what's the big deal?" I point out. " Nonetheless, I start jogging up the street. Might as well talk while I walk, especially if the person I'm talking to is being chased.

Hoodie Boy glares at me angrily, matching my pace. "You have no idea what what the fuck you're talking about. You get caught, you sit in a holding cell for the rest of the fight, which could take weeks. You may not've heard, but they already caught Jazz." He spits on the ground, narrowly missing my foot. "This isn't a game! People don't die in gang fights any more, sure, but do you have any idea what it'd mean if they caught me? Jazz has it easy— she's got nobody waitin' at home for her, so for her, bein' put in jail by the Thugs just means three meals a day— but I got a family to feed, fuck it! I go missing for a week, I lose my job, and Mom and Jake starve."

It takes me a moment to process all that. I've never really thought of Trainers as people with families, or needs. "Oh," I say faintly. My head spins with all the implications. To me, being a Trainer always seemed like an answer to every problem, so I guess I assumed they always had all the basic things they needed. Suddenly, gang Trainers robbing people makes a certain amount of sense. If you can't find a job, or your job doesn't pull in enough money, what is there to do but steal to make ends meet?

"Yeah, fuckin' 'oh,'" the foulmouthed boy snorts. "So can you help me or not?"

I frown at him, off-balance but more than a little annoyed. "And get involved in this whole fiasco? I'm neutral, remember? At best I can stall for time or something, but I don't see why I should help you. It sounds like you have a good head start, so just keep running and find somewhere to hide out. Take a break from all this gang war stuff, hold up that job for a while."

"Don't act like this has nothing to do with you!" he growls, scowling right back at me. "Symon's still moping, and like usual, Carl didn't tell us jack shit before he went and disappeared somewhere, but I'm not so dumb I can't put two and two together. Carl told us to 'keep the girl and her mother safe for now, and distract the Thugs,' and suddenly the Thugs are fucking up our shit. So don't try and tell me you got nothing to do with this sh—" he suddenly stops running, cutting himself off mid-swear.

I slow down and look back at him; he's standing still about three paces back, staring straight up. I follow his gaze, and see a large bird silhouetted against the blue afternoon sky. There's no way to tell how large it is without figuring out how close it is, but either way it's too big to be anything but a Pokémon. Then, something drops out of its talons.

There's a tapping noise, and a man and a Pokémon land a short distance in front of us. I tense; the man is the old gentleman from before, with the expensive-looking tuxedo still taking the place of the usual black Thug Life jacket. He's still holding his cane; more for show, I think, than because of any infirmity. The man's upright posture betrays no weakness whatsoever, and no one who needed a cane to walk could jump down ten feet or more onto a cement road without taking a scratch. His Houndoom is growling at me, baring dangerous-looking teeth. Clearly the dog Pokémon hasn't forgotten what Carl did to its Trainer last time we met, and holds me partially responsible.

I shiver. I don't want to see those teeth from any closer up.

"Greetings, Shells," the gentleman says, tugging on the edge of his white bandanna like he would if he were tipping a top hat at us. Somehow the gesture fits. "I suggest you surrender, especially as you don't seem to have that Psychic-type and his deplorable Trainer with you to attempt to crush my mind."

For the first time I realize the similarity between this guy's mannerisms and Carl's; the only differences are the accent and the fact that the older gentleman actually seems halfway polite instead of just snarky. The two even wear similar expensive-looking outfits. "Hey, hey," I say, trying not to show my nervousness at the Houndoom's growl. "I'm no Shell. I'm just some kid from the neighborhood."

"Be that as it may, you show a suspicious tendency to run with the Shells. I'm afraid it will be up to Gloria to determine whether you are too inextricably tied up with these unfortunate children."

The boy to my right suddenly snaps out of his daze. "Fuck you!" he shouts, throwing back the hood of his red sweater to glare at the man. He has brown hair, it turns out, shaved into a buzz cut. "Give Minnie back!"

"I'm afraid I couldn't do that even if I wished to," the gentleman says, with a disapproving sniff at Hoodie Boy's profanity. "Our chief of aerial delivery is just on his way to get her, you see, to deliver her to a secure location. On the bright side, it seems likely you will be reunited with her before long. We are not cruel to our captives."

I remember Hoodie Boy's comment about his family starving if he's captured. "I can't let you take him in," I find myself saying, with a bit of surprise at my own recklessness. "He's got people to feed."

Tuxedo Man sniffs again. "Forgive me if my heart fails to bleed. He should have thought of that before joining a gang."

My blood boils at the unfairness of that statement. As if most Trainer kids even have a choice about whether to join the local gang! I'm just lucky to live in the territory of a bunch of pushovers, or I'd probably have been 'forcibly recruited' already. "That's not accurate, and you know it," I say, drawing myself up to my full five feet six inches and echoing the man's lofty tone. "Just take the Pokémon as collateral, and you have my word that this boy will give you no further trouble."

The moustached gentleman leans on his cane and appears to consider this, a small, polite smile ghosting across his face. "An interesting proposal... But I'm afraid I don't have any reason to put much stock in your word, girl. If you'll recall, last time we met, your companion tried to crush my mind." He straightens, and points the cane at me threateningly. "No bargain."

I wonder briefly if the cane's got some kind of poison dart in the tip, like in the movies. I'm starting to worry; without Carl here to pull a cheap shot, or Dylan with his Frillish to counter the Houndoom's fire, it seems unlikely I can pull off a win; I've never been in a proper Pokémon battle, and my reserves of strength aren't more than half filled. A brief look into the dark room in my mind confirms that; the candle is sitting there, half-melted and clearly only restoring itself very slowly. I haven't had more than a small meal and a couple hours sitting down since Crystal's Banette battled Sunshine in my head, which isn't nearly enough rest.

But still...

"Run," I tell the boy who's standing behind me. "I'll try and hold him off."

"Are you serious?" Hoodie Boy says. It doesn't look like he expected me to stick up for him. Heck, I'm surprised I'm helping.

I wave him off. "Get going." What the hell is wrong with the world? I'm right in the middle of a gang war and getting myself involved, think, my head spinning.

He turns around and dashes for an alleyway. The gentleman's Houndoom starts to give chase, but a wall of flame suddenly appears between the fleeing boy and the dog Pokémon, which scrambles to a stop before plunging into the fire. A moment later, I feel the candle in my head flare to life as Sunshine appears there, radiating a blissful feeling of calm. My worry and tension melt away like so much heavy useless wax.

Tuxedo quirks an eyebrow at me. "That was a curiously non-neutral action."

"Take it how you want," I say. "To me, that looked a lot like a Trainer persecuting a kid without a Pokémon. I make a habit of getting involved in special cases like that."

The gentleman twirls a finger in his curly moustache. "Yes, I've heard reports of your vigilantism, girl. Interesting that you haven't yet revealed your Pokémon. Where is it hiding, I wonder?"

A shower of sparks flies out of my hair before I quell my temper. "Guess."

"I think I no longer need to," Tuxedo says simply. "Bernard, attack."

The Houndoom lunges, and almost without thinking, I raise one hand as if getting ready to throw something; a ball of fire ignites in my hand. Somehow, it's got mass, and only feels slightly warm against my skin. I throw it as hard as I can, with a satisfying feeling of throwing a baseball.

The ball strikes the dog Pokémon directly in the face, but the Houndoom barely pauses. Instead, the fireball scatters off of its forehead and seems to blossom, almost like an orange flower with petals ruffling in the wind; it spreads along the Pokémon's spine and sides in a flash, and flares up to become a single, massive bonfire on the dog's back. Belatedly I remember that Houndoom, as a Fire-type, is sure to have some power over flames. And now I don't just have seventy pounds of canine Pokémon rushing toward me... I have seventy pounds of canine Pokémon rushing toward me on fire.

The Houndoom is too close. There's no chance to react, or to do anything else. I barely have time to flinch and screw my eyes shut in terror as a final leap brings the black dog's terrible ivory fangs racing toward my face...

A light in my mind winks out, and my legs turn to noodles as an emotional wall I didn't even realize I'd been leaning on disappears. My eyes, previously screwed shut, widen as I collapse bonelessly in a heap; in slow-motion I watch Sunshine materialize in front of me...

I nearly black out as a wave of horrific pain jolts me. It's not my own pain, though; Sunshine's link to my mind is still not fully broken, and I watch helplessly from where I'm lying on the ground, my entire body trembling with her pain and shock, as the Houndoom's jaws close on her tiny two-foot-tall body with bone-crushing force. Its forward momentum slowed, the dog Pokémon drops to the street mere inches from my feet; without Sunshine's intervention, it would have landed on me even if I'd had the presence of mind to drop flat on my own.

The Houndoom tosses Sunshine aside with a snarl, making a face as if it's tasted something unpleasant. The wave of pain stops suddenly, and my heart nearly stops with it. Oh God, no... I think, tears coming to my eyes. Not like this, please not like this!

After a couple seconds of gut-wrenching fear, I feel a faint but unmistakable feeling of comfort run through me. A tiny, tiny flame relights itself in my head. Sunshine! The flame wavers and sends another comforting feeling through me. I'm so glad you're okay, I tell her in my head. I can tell, though, that she's not up to fighting any more; she'll need to spend a while fueling herself with my energy before she'll be in good condition again.

"That was foolish," the gentleman says from somewhere off behind his Pokémon. "Your companion would have been much better off letting you perish and fleeing, instead of sacrificing itself for you. Overconfident young Trainers are my pet peeve... Many a good Pokémon has been wasted by inexperienced hands."

Still in shock, I stare uncomprehendingly up at the Houndoom that's now standing over me, its red tongue lolling as it breathes scalding-hot dog breath into my face. Its back and sides are still on fire, and their heat is starting to hurt the arm that's lying on the pavement nearest the Pokémon. "Letting me perish...?" The word takes a moment to settle into my head. "I thought... No one dies in gang wars any more," I say dully, through a pounding ache in my head.

"Well, that tends to be the case," says Tuxedo airily. "Still... Accidents happen, especially to enemies of the Thug Life gang. And, since you're so keen to declare yourself neutral, I wouldn't say this battle constitutes part of a gang war at all."

My blood turns cold. That polite exterior is a sham, I realize. This man is just as depraved as Carl. Why is it always the well-dressed ones...?

"Now, I'm afraid you've overstayed your welcome in our territory, young lady," the gentleman says. "As I said, overconfident young Trainers need to be put in their place. And in my opinion, I'm sorry to say, your place simply happens to be an afterlife. Don't worry, though; your deportation will be as painless as I can make it..."

As if to agree with the man, an avian shriek sounds from the sky, and a shadow passes over me and the Houndour. The dog Pokémon leans closer, and my face begins to burn with the proximity of the flames enveloping its body. For the second time in the last minute, my heart pounding, I brace myself for the feeling of fangs ripping out my throat...

A loud, distant squawk of surprise suddenly comes from somewhere far above me and in the direction of the murderous tuxedoed Thug. There's a thump near my feet, and then an even louder thump and a yelp near my head. The heat of the fire dog's breath disappears from my face, and I breathe in deeply, the sudden wave of cool air a blessing to my overheated lungs.

I struggle to get up on my weak, noodlelike arms, then crane my neck to see what's going on. A short distance away from me, a blur of yellow and red is unleashing a furious barrage of punches on the Houndoom, which is whining and retreating, snapping uselessly at its smaller attacker. The close combat attack doesn't let up however, as the newly arrived Mienfoo advances while keeping up its fluid, continuous series of graceful punches and kicks. The sight is truly amazing; where Jazz's Scraggy, Scar, fought with brute force and its ability to block incoming blows with its shed skin, the Mienfoo instead uses technique, speed, and efficiency, flowing from strike to strike without pause and getting the maximum impact out of every blow to the dog's muzzle, chest and ribs.

"Bernard, get out of there!" the tuxedo-clad Thug barks. "We'll return later with allies more suited to handling that opponent."

The Houndoom yelps agreement and scrambles to disengage, but Hoodie Boy's Mienfoo isn't about to let it get away without one last, intense strike. The little Fighting-type whirls and smashes one foot into the back of the black dog's head, snapping one of its curved horns off halfway up.

Bernard scrambles over to his Trainer, whining in pain and humiliation, and the two glare at me and my three-foot-tall saviour for a brief moment before whirling as one and making their escape into an alley.

"Thanks," I tell the Mienfoo breathlessly. Now that it's stopped moving in that blurringly fast, fluid fighting dance, I can tell that the little humanoid Pokémon isn't in the best of shape. Scratches and lightly bleeding scrapes mar nearly every part of its visible skin, and one of the eyes in its weasel-like face is swollen shut by a nasty purple bruise.

Nonetheless, the Pokémon gives me a little bow of acknowledgement. I can't help but admire its ability to continue functioning even with that much injury. I struggle to my feet, determined not to let a little psychological shock and Houndoom-induced sunburn keep me down. The poor Pokémon doesn't look all that steady on its feet, so I kneel down and pick it up in one arm, with its head over my shoulder like a young child. It tenses for a moment, in pain or protest at being handled like this, but then relaxes.

I turn to stagger back in the direction of home, only to see two familiar faces coming towards me. It's Mohawk and Tom: the former with his Charmeleon in tow and his red sunglasses slightly askew; the latter carrying his injured-looking Blitzle across his shoulders, huffing and puffing under the three-foot-tall lightning zebra's weight.

"Hey, Rachel!" shouts Tom, waving and then nearly overbalancing as the action shifts his Pokémon's weight to one side. "Good thing we made it in time!"

"Hello," I say. "I guess you two had something to do with Hoodie Boy's Pokémon turning up?"

"Yeah," Tom replies, "We saw that damn Fearow heading this way with something in its claws, so we set off to intercept. Turns out it was Minnie it was carrying— her Trainer's called Lowell, by the way— so Matt and Charming here bullshotted the bird with a fireball! It was awesome!"

I grin despite myself at his enthusiasm. I shouldn't approve of all this fighting, but since it seems inevitable given the Thug Life gang's tendency to pick fights even when not necessary... "Well, I sure can't complain. You pretty much just saved my life with that skillshot," I point out, as much to myself as to them.

"Cool," says Mohawk with a small smile.

Tom stares at him for a moment, then grins. "Haha, see? It just takes someone who isn't me thinking it's cool, then you get all proud of yourself. Jeez, man, have a little more faith in my judgement of what's awesome or not!"

"Everything's awesome to you," Mohawk points out simply.

"I know, right?" Tom says, still grinning. "That's the great thing about me."

"Hey, guys, I hate to be a spoilsport, but should we be standing around chatting in the middle of the street?" I point out. "That horrible tuxedoed guy said he'd be back with more, so maybe we should get moving."

Tom and Mohawk share a glance, then nod in unison. "C'mon," says Tom, turning and heading for an alley that heads in the same direction as home. "We should get you to your house."

I follow, frowning. Something doesn't add up. "How is walking me home is a good idea for not drawing attention to our apartment?" I ask.

The two Shells look at each other conspiratorially, as if deciding whether there's something they should tell me. Clearly the unspoken decision is yes, because Tom clears his throat. "Uhh, lately a lot of us... that is, some of us but there aren't a lot of us... Uhh..." he stammers haltingly, trailing off and turning to look imploringly at Mohawk for help.

"Shells wanna change leaders," says Mohawk simply, in his deep hoarse puberty-voice.

I don't get it for a moment, but when I do, I nearly burst out laughing (which I imagine wouldn't be a very nice thing to do. After all, these guys are serious. I think.)

"You want me to lead your gang?" I ask, just to clarify. "You're aware I hate gangs in general, right?"

The two look at each other again. "Told you it was a bad idea," says Mohawk.

"Shut up," says Tom sulkily.

"Wait, wait, wait. Did I say I wouldn't consider it?" I ask them. Ellen's words about the Shells using their Pokémon for a good cause ring through my mind, and for a split second I feel like I'm channeling her infinite optimism. "We can't call it a gang any more, though," I say in the most Ellen-ish way I can manage, grinning widely. "This has to be something else, something no one's ever seen before. A group of Trainers dedicated to a single, important cause that everyone can relate to."

"Like what?" Tom asks skeptically. "Like a brotherhood, or a cult? 'Cause I dunno about that stuff..."

"No, nothing like that." I say, thinking. "More like a police force or a union or..." I trail off, searching for the right word.

"Association?" Mohawk suggests, in his simple, emphatic way.

I blink at him. I realize I've been taking the red-haired boy's stoic silence and short answers as just a sign of him being a bit dull, but it begins to dawn on me that he always seems to have the right comment waiting. Mohawk might just be a lot smarter than I gave him credit for at first...

"What, like some kind of government shit?" Tom asks, looking askance at Mohawk. "Acting like those IA bozos seems like a good way to get screwed over. We can't hide out in super-secret bases like they can."

It takes me a moment to realize 'IA' is an acronym for the Intelligence Agency. I hadn't realized their continued existence was common knowledge, but I guess gangs would know who the people stopping them from taking over everything are. "No, not like them," I say decisively. "The Intelligence Agency is too much of a reaction-based thing, because they don't have enough Trainers to actually get anything done. What we need is a plan to gather more Trainers who want to see safety and fairness for everyone, not just the ones with the strongest Pokémon. Then we can really do something about this whole situation!"

"Wow... I didn't realize you were such a hippie," says Tom nervously. "Are you sure about this, Matt?"

"Totally," Matt says. "Always wanted to help people. Never met anyone else who did, though. Kinda stopped trying. Till now."

I let up a bit on the Ellen-ness. "Are you on board, Tom?" I ask seriously. "There's every chance this will never take off, but I won't know until I've tried, and if I can get all or even most of the Shells to help out, I think we have a shot at giving it a try."

Tom seems to relax now that I'm behaving like a bit more of a rational person. "Well... Shit, it's not like I want to go robbing people," he says, a bit guiltily. "I just always figured if I didn't, someone else would. If you say we can make sure no one does that kind of stuff, then I believe you."

"Same," says Matt, holding out his left hand to shake. "You got my help."

"And mine," Tom puts in, offering his right hand.

I shake both hands at once, a feeling of heavy responsibility and power settling on my shoulders as I do. It's not entirely uncomfortable. If only Ellen could see me right now, I think, smiling. She'd be so proud.

"Welcome to the Trainers' Association," I tell the two boys. "And thanks."


~~~~~~~~~~


6:24 Group Chat: [ItsNotRight.org SEATTLE DIVISION]
RAVEry: Okay, done eating dinner.
TykeBomb: sup Rachel?????
Brian4theWin: Hi
Damnit Tyco you type fast lol
TykeBomb: :3
RAVEry: Omg I have SO much to tell you guys about.
Brian4theWin: Me 2!
!!
!!!
!!!!
TykeBomb: !!!!!
Brian4theWin: !!!!!
TykeBomb: Ninja'd
;D
RAVEry: Ok then, who goes first?
Brian4theWin: Me first
I talked to Karen
She is glad to know your dad is alive & says I should tell you
You cant let anyone know where he is
There are people out to get him and they wont stop at anything!!!!!
She wouldnt say who it was or give any other info
But she sounded rly serious! :O
RAVEry: ...
I'm pretty much a mile ahead of you, Brian. =P
Lemme explain some stuff, k?


I take a deep breath and lean back on my bed, thinking about how to explain everything that's happened since I last seriously talked to Brian and Tyco. I didn't even get time this morning to tell Brian about the whole episode with the Shells outside my house, because I got interrupted by Carl coming into the apartment with Mom, and after that I ate breakfast and rushed off to the Market as fast as I could because I needed to talk to Crystal...

In my head, I go over everything Brian and Tyco haven't heard about. There's a lot of it, and I'm honestly way too tired to write a big essay on it. I decide to just summarize and let them ask questions.


[/B]Last message from RAVEry at 6:57pm
RAVEry: Okay here goes, you can ask me a bunch of questions after this but just wait until I'm done okay?
Ahem. (Omg this is gonna blow your minds! =D)
Mom and I walked home from the market yesterday to drop off stuff before going to give Ellen the epic stuffed animal gift.
But when we got home, that gang of Trainers (who are called the Shell gang, btw,) were there waiting for us! =O
TykeBomb: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
RAVEry: SHHH. Exclaim & interrogate later! =P
Anyways, the Shells started threatening us and I got really mad. I started a fistfight with their leader but I lost.
Then he got Carl, the boy with the Solosis— that's the Psychic-type I told you about that was choking me on Friday— to torture me. It was horrible, I think the thing was firing like all my body's pain receptors at once. At least it felt that way.
Anyways, I got really mad, and suddenly all the pain went away and all that was left was anger.
Then I burst into flame and set the gang leader's Maractus on fire (it's the one that hurt Ellen) and nearly killed the gang leader (who's called Symon, btw.)
I got KO'd just in time to not kill him because I had a sleep-fluid pellet in my hair and it burst because my hair was on fire.
I woke up in a warehouse that was one of the bases of the Shell gang, tied up and gagged. But there was just this wimpy little kid called Dylan, who looks way too young to be in a gang, guarding me. So I burned the gag and nearly passed out because apparently I can't use those fire powers without tiring myself out.
Anyways, long story short, I found out this other gang, the Thug Life gang, is searching for my Dad and knows he's somewhere in Shell territory (our apartment is on Shell 'turf,' which is why they could just wait outside it.)
They declared war on the Shells because they wouldn't let them just walk into their territory and start looking around.
You guys with me so far? BTW, Brian, you told Tyco and Sonia about the whole thing with Dad already, right?
Brian4theWin: ._.
Um yeah I already told them this
TykeBomb: go on this sounds like an awesome story!!!!! i bet theres a pokemon involved in ur 'fire powers,' and ur a trainer now!!!!!!!! :)
RAVEry: HEY! Don't spoil the surprise Tyco! >=O
But yes.
And Brian, I totally have newfound respect for you for even trying to get Bright to leave, even if it didn't work.
I mean Stan*
This whole empathic bond thing is really...
Uhh
Let's talk about this later so I can get back to my story and you can ask over 9000 questions.
Brian4theWin: Aww thanks Rachel
:)
But you can call him Bright
I started calling him that too because its his real name (and is a better name than Stan anyways.)
RAVEry: I C.
Right, anyways!
So the Thug Life gang is after Dad, and after Carl (the one with the solosis, who was acting leader because Symon was caring for his burned Pokémon) told them he wouldn't let them search the Shells' territory, they almost immediately started attacking the warehouses!
The Shells let me and Mom free just before that happened, and Carl started leading us to safety. The Thugs chased me, Mom and the Shells for a while, and everyone had to split up, but me and Mom and Carl and Dylan stayed together for a bit.
Then an enemy Trainer with a Psychic-type showed up and Carl had to stay behind with Mom (because she was unconscious and because he was the only one who could distract them.)
So I got home with this wimpy gang kid Dylan with me. He didn't seem dangerous so I just sat down for a few minutes...
Then next thing I knew it was morning, because I was so exhausted from all the running and from using massive fire powers on the Maractus that attacked Ellen.
That's when I talked to you about Dad, Brian, but had to go because Carl was at the door with Mom.
It turned out Carl's reason for helping us get back home, and for telling the Shells to protect me and Mom, was because he knew the Thugs were after Dad and that Dad had Bright, and he thought I had Bright (because of the fire powers) and wanted to STEAL Bright from me without the Thugs knowing! D=
TykeBomb: uhh wow rachel did u just make a grammar error! xD
shouldnt that be "telling the Shells to protect Mom and I"?
:D
RAVEry: ...
Omg. I can't believe you, Tyco. =|
You interrupt my HIGHLY DRAMATIC STORY to NITPICK MY GRAMMAR...
AND YOU'RE NOT EVEN RIGHT. =P
It's short for "telling the Shells to protect me and telling the Shells to protect Mom,"
Not "telling the shells to protect Mom and telling teh Shelsl to protect I."
L2english and stfu!
>=P
TykeBomb: oops xD sorry
plz continue
RAVEry: THANK you. <_< *sigh*
Right, so Carl was actually a manipulative asshole the whole time and was just setting things up so the Thugs wouldn't know where our apartment is.
Then he made sure he was there alone with me and Mom so he could steal Bright without anyone in his gang OR the Thugs Life gang knowing he did it.
So he froze us and started reading my mind to find out where Bright was.
I think he intended to kill us both afterwards so we couldn't tell anyone what he did. That's how his mind works, he's a really creepy person. >_<
He found out about you, Brian, but not where you live, partly because I only know the general area and partly because he got KO'd by Dylan just before he could read that part of my mind.
So yeah, he and his Solosis just fall down suddenly, and Dylan is standing there with a rolling pin and his Pokémon with a Shadow Ball.
After that Mom and I left for the Marketplace because there's this fortune teller there who predicted ALL of this happening yesterday (that was after I talked to you guys after getting Ellen's gift from Sonia.)
And I had a feeling she was more than just a fake, and could help me with my mysterious fire powers. =)
Long story short, she did. It turned out this Litwick had been hiding out in my head since that time Carl nearly choked me to death on Friday, and was responsible for letting me breathe then, as well as for getting rid of the pain from the torture yesterday.
She's so cute and cheerful! I named her Sunshine. ^_^
Um, so after that Mom and I went and delivered Ellen's gift to her. Apart from some gang-related shenanigans on the way there and on the way home, nothing big happened.
I'm back home now. We just let Carl go a few minutes ago, because we can't just keep him asleep here forever, but we're holding on to his Solosis as a safety measure for now (because it doesn't need to eat or drink.)
So... that's about it.
Questions away!
TykeBomb: o_o
gang-related shenanigans! explain!!!!
Brian4theWin: Omg so youre a Trainer now
I want to hear about your Pokemon :) Whats she like
?
TykeBomb: nvm, ^ this is a better question. u can tell us about the gang shenanigans later.


For the next couple of hours, Tyco and Brian pelt me with questions, which I do my best to answer. It's actually helpful— a lot of the chaos of the last few days starts to organize itself in my head as I explain things to them. Eventually, the subject of conversation turns to Carl.


8:40 Group Chat: [ItsNotRight.org SEATTLE DIVISION]
TykeBomb: well, im most worried about that carl gangsta......
he sounds like a massive creep!!!!!
how do u know he wont start trying 2 free his pokemon???????
RAVEry: There are a bunch of Trainers here. Me, Mom, Dylan...
TykeBomb: r u sure u trust dylan.
hes a gangsta 2, u know.......
RAVEry: Oh yeah, you're right. He's probably just acting helpful to win our trust, and the best way to do that is TOTALLY by KO'ing his own leader with a rolling pin right as he was about to complete his plan.
</sarcasm>
TykeBomb: meh good point....
just trying 2 think ahead
Brian4theWin: But Im worried about Carl too
If hes so good at manipulating people whats to say he isnt cooking up some plan to get his Pokemon back RIGHT NOW???
You would never know until his trap was sprung D:
D:
D:
RAVEry: Ugh, relax! =| We have his Pokémon, he's not about to go stirring up trouble.
I think it's the Thugs I need to worry about.
They've basically got the run of the neighbourhood, and Mom says they're starting to just randomly break into people's houses.
I bet they're searching for Dad. =(
Brian4theWin: Woah
Isn't anyone stopping them?
The Shells are supposed to protect their territory arent they
??
And as far as the rumors go...
Isnt the IA supposed to keep that kind of thing under control
Stop gangs from going into peoples houses and all that kind of thing
?
RAVEry: ...
I think the Shells are basically in hiding by now.
They can't openly fight the Thugs, these are guys who fought in the CIVIL WAR!!
They're really tough :(
And I dunno, maybe the IA is still waiting to step in, even though I'd think gangsters breaking into houses would be enough...
That or maybe they're understaffed with Dad gone?
...
OH SHIT
THAT WAS CLASSIFIED
NEITHER OF YOU CAN TELL ANYONE ABOUT THAT, SERIOUSLY
NO ONE.
Please? =(
TykeBomb: d/w rachel, ur secret is safe with us :)
Brian4theWin: I promise too
TykeBomb: its pretty kool that ur dad is part of a secret defense force protecting nontrainers, tho!!!
karen would be proud
oh wait i just realized she knows him!!!!
maybe he's her tie to the IA????? :o
RAVEry: ...
Thanks guys. =)
Anyways I hope they aren't understaffed because we NEED some backup over here... =(
If they find Dad, we're screwed. There's no way we can move him, he's still too badly injured.
Brian4theWin: :(
:(
:(
:(
TykeBomb: :(
Brian4theWin: :(
TykeBomb: ninja'd ;D
well rachel, just stay hidden
and, u should talk to karen!!!!!
maybe she can give u some advice :)
RAVEry: She's offline right now, though.
TykeBomb: nah she never logs on AIM
try the help box on the site!!!!!!! :D
RAVEry: Okay, maybe I'll do that.
Right now, someone's knocking at the door. I g2g.
Brian4theWin: Bye Rachel
TykeBomb: byeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!
be safe!!!!
RAVEry: Thanks. =)
Signing out of AIM...


I get off my bed and walk past Dream— who's perched next to the unconscious Solosis on the bean-bag chair in my room, watching the Psychic-type carefully for signs of waking— to the door to my room. I go through the living room and walk up to the apartment door cautiously, wondering who's out there. A note from Mom is stuck under the metal rim around the door's peephole; I read it quickly.


RACHEL:
Out on a house call, not sure when I'll be back.
Your father is asleep; please check on Dylan
when you read this! That Mienfoo that follow-
ed you home is in my room with them.
Love,
Mom


Whoever is at the door has just started knocking again. I put my eye to the peephole and am surprised and relieved to see Hoodie Boy— Lowell, Tom told me his name was— standing out there, looking up and down the hallway nervously.

After a moment's thought, I open the door. After all, his Pokémon is in here, and I'm not about to hide her from him. I would hate it if someone was keeping me separate from Sunshine. I'm not about to do that to anyone— at least, not to anyone who hasn't done anything to me. Recently. Uhh...

"Lowell, right?" I ask. Was opening the door such a good idea? I think, belatedly having second thoughts. After all, this is a boy who stood by and let Carl run rampant. And, unlike Dylan, he has a pretty foul mouth and seems at least brave enough to speak up if he had a problem with something... So why didn't he?

"Yeah, that's me," he responds, his tone of voice quiet and subdued. "I, uh... I heard Minnie escaped. Matt and Tom said she'd be here with you. Is..." he swallows. "Is she okay?"

I smile, my misgivings disappearing. His care for his Pokémon seems genuine. "Yeah, she's just fine. She had a lot of scrapes and scratches, but Mom patched her up."

"Can I see her?" the boy says, still hovering outside the door as if unwilling to step into the apartment uninvited.

"Yeah, sure," I say, stepping back. "Come in, and close the door behind you. I'll go check if your Pokémon's awake."

Lowell pauses and pushes his hood back, revealing his brown buzz cut, apparently because he thinks he shouldn't wear a hood in someone else's home. (He's probably right; I'm not one to keep track of tiny social cues like that, though.) Then he steps haltingly across the invisible boundary, staring around at my living room with wide eyes. "Nice place," he says.

"Thanks," I respond, turning to head for Mom's room. I open the door, and find Dad, Dylan and Minnie all awake and waiting, having heard voices out in the living room.

"Who's here?" asks Dylan from the chair next to the bed. He looks tired; I'm guessing he's been up since seven AM, like me. He certainly seems to take Mom's assignment of watching over Dad (and, more recently, Minnie) seriously.

"It's Lowell," I say, adding for Dad's benefit, "Minnie's Trainer."

Dad, lying sideways on one side of the bed, nods sleepily at me, and to all appearances simply goes back to sleep. The little Fighting-type Pokémon, however, who is tucked into the covers on the other side of the double bed with her arms and legs wrapped in bandages, starts struggling to get up when she hears Lowell's name.

"Relax," I tell her in my best imitation of Mom's authoritative 'doctor voice.' "He's coming right in. You need to stay there and not jostle your bandages, so your scrapes heal up quickly."

Minnie calms down almost immediately; I can't help but be impressed by her self-control. Sunshine is a sweetheart, but I can't imagine her being that capable of calming herself down— when she gets excited, she gets very excited. I guess Pokémon have their own personalities, a lot like people.

I hear Lowell come through the door behind me, and I step aside, allowing him to rush over to his Pokémon. He starts talking to her in a quiet voice, something suspiciously like tears appearing in his eyes.

Uninterested in listening in— whatever the boy has to say to his Pokémon none of my business— I go over to Dylan. "Are you tired?" I ask him quietly.

"Yeah," he whispers back. "I can stay up a bit longer, though."

"No need," I say. "Dad's asleep now."

It's true; Dad's eyes are closed and his face has relaxed out of the lines of pain that are always written across it when he's awake. He sleeps a lot— Mom says it's because his body's busy fixing the damage to his back.

"The chair in the living room is probably a lot more comfortable, or you can use the couch now Carl is gone," I tell Dylan. "Go on."

With a mumbled 'thanks,' Dylan staggers to his feet and drags himself out into the living room. My contemplation of the door is interrupted when I yawn widely. Looks like I'm not the only one who's that tired, I think.

"Hey, Flame Girl— I mean, Rachel." Lowell is sitting on the bed next to his Pokémon, looking over at me. "Thanks for..." he swallows, "...For what you did. I missed Minnie so bad, and I was so scared they'd take me away and leave Mom and Jake on their own..."

Tears are running down his face. I go over to him and put a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. He shrugs me off and wipes a grimy hand across his face, smearing a bit of grayish dirt onto his cheeks. "Don't get all emotional on me," he says in a wavery tough-guy voice. "I'm just saying thanks. 'Cause that's what decent people do, all right? I'm just tryin' to not be some ungrateful punk."

"No problem," I say gently. "I didn't do anything but get my butt kicked. Thank Sunshine and Minnie; they were both the best knights in shining armor I could've asked for."

A little flame appears on my shoulder, making us both jump. Lowell looks from Minnie to the flame and back. "Yeah... Thanks, both of you," he says.

A few moments of silence stretch out, and Lowell gets a thoughtful look on his dirt-smeared face. "I think..." he begins slowly, "...Maybe, now the Shells are pretty much not a gang any more... I might just leave all this behind. Try to hold down a second job or somethin'. Robbin' people always made me feel like shit, anyways."

An idea comes to me. "Hey, you could join the Trainers' Association! I'm organizing a group that's basically dedicated to protecting non-Trainers from Trainers who abuse their power. Mohawk— that's Matt— and Tom are already with me... Wanna join in?"

Lowell frowns, then shakes his head tiredly. "Sorry, but I think I wanna leave this whole thing behind. Live a normal life, no gangs or nothin'."

I'm disappointed... But I don't blame him at all, especially after he nearly lost Minnie to an enemy gang. For the first time, it really sinks in that anyone I invite to join the Trainers' Association is gonna basically be up against gangs— all the gangs— and risks losing everything. It's a sobering thought, but Ellen's voice in my head says it's all worth it if, someday, non-Trainers can leave their homes without being afraid of being bullied or robbed.

"I totally understand," I tell him. "And I'm proud of you for making that choice. If all the gangs decided to leave that kind of life behind, there wouldn't be a problem to fight against." He's tall enough that, even with him sitting on the bed, I barely need to bend down to give him a brief, awkward hug. "You can stay here with Minnie for as long as you want, and I'll see if Mom will walk you to work... If you have work tomorrow, that is."

"Thanks," he says. He looks as exhausted as I feel. "I'll go crash on the floor or the couch or something," he mumbles, and then brushes past me on the way out the door.

I go back through the living room, closing the door on my way out. Back in my room, I collapse onto my bed with a sigh. This has been a tiring day for everyone, I guess. I consider getting some schoolwork out, but right now, nothing feels more welcoming than my pillow. I glance at the digital alarm clock by my bed— it says 9:04, which is a bit early but not too early to be going to sleep.

I'm ahead in all my subjects anyways, I think sleepily, pulling the covers over me without even bothering to change into pajamas. I deserve a bit of a break...

My head comes to rest on my pillow, and sleep washes over me like soothing, cool water, washing away the day's aches and pains...


~~~~~~~~~~


A candle flares to life, drifting along in front of me, its wavering flame trailing a tiny ribbon of itself as it moves. I reach for it, and drift up and out of the dark space it's in until I'm hovering in a place that looks like my room but isn't quite. Everything, from my bookshelf and its contents to the sleeping Solosis on my beanbag chair, looks grey and semitransparent, like it's not entirely real. The exception is Dream, who's asleep just above Solo; her green and yellow petals shine with a faint inner light, and a shifting green-and-red haze hovers over her body. Looking more closely, I can see faint images, too blurry to really recognize but unmistakably the stuff of dreams.

I float through the dark window and out into a sky that's blacker than night. There's no moon, or stars, or even the grey darkness of rainclouds, but somehow the street below and the buildings stretching into the empty sky are clearly lit as though under a bright sun. The candle shifts form, growing thicker and squatter until it resolves itself into Sunshine, who is beaming sweetly at me. I notice with a pang that there are deep, not-fully-healed bite marks in the wax on her sides; but if they bother her, her bright smile doesn't show it.

I reach out to her, and she dodges away playfully, spiraling down into a space between two buildings before I can so much as react. I aim my body at the alley she went into, and after a few seconds feel myself start to drift downwards, slowly at first and then faster as I get used to the sensation of moving just by thinking of going somewhere. I descend into the alley after my Pokémon, and see a familiar light hovering teasingly just around the corner.

I give chase; as I turn the corner, Sunshine is already around the next. She leads me through turn after turn of the mazelike alleys in a now-familiar game of tag. I smile and enjoy the feeling of speeding along, with not even wind through my hair to distract me.

Finally, I catch up with my candle Pokémon. She's come to a dead end. I realize she could simply phase through a wall to get away, but I get the feeling there's something here that she wants to show me.

She drifts down to an empty spot amongst the grey, insubstantial ghosts of the pieces of rubble and piles of garbage that clutter the alley. A shimmer of silvery fire appears surrounding her, spreading into a bonfirelike mass and growing larger and redder as the seconds go by. I shield my eyes from the heat and light of the blaze, which is an eye-smarting riot of red and orange colour in the midst of a grey ghost world.

All the fire suddenly goes out, and in its place is what appears to be a dead girl, sprawled on the ground. She, too, has colour in a place where colour was previously restricted to my pajamas and the flame on Sunshine's head. She has long, bright red hair and pale blue eyes that stare sightlessly into oblivion. The girl's school uniform is one I don't recognize, consisting of a plaid skirt and white short-sleeved shirt. Over it she's wearing a warm, orange-red winter jacket. And around her neck, knotted into a strangling noose, is a red, silky-looking scarf.

I avert my eyes, not wanting to look any further. Her face is swollen, but must have once been pretty, with faint freckles nearly obscured by the dark bruising that is the mark of a victim of strangulation. Almost without wanting to, I glance back once more and nearly shriek. The swelling is somehow gone, and the body's eyes are looking straight at me, suddenly no longer dull with death. Like a movie playing in reverse, the scarf unknots itself and resettles around her neck in a more natural fashion; then the girl blinks once, stirs, and levers herself to her feet, taking a few steps forward to face me. Lacking the blotches of her strangling death, her face turns out to be pale, smooth, and, as I guessed, very pretty.

"Hello, Rachel," she says softly, in a sweet, musical voice that reminds me of Sonia. Where Sonia moves with the bouncy rambunctiousness of a child, though, this girl instead has a certain unconscious grace, conveying a kind of optimistic confidence with every movement. She seems to be about eighteen, and she's pretty curvy and, uhh, 'well-proportioned.' I note with just a little bit of jealousy that her breasts are the perfect size for her slim body.

"Who..." I stammer, "Who are you?"

"I don't remember the name I had in life," she says, a hint of sadness entering her posture and then leaving as quickly as it arrived, "But you named me Sunshine."

I realize with a start that Sunshine never reappeared out of the bonfire that revived this girl. "Sunshine? You were... You were beautiful..." I murmur.

"Thank you," she says, blushing prettily. "I wanted you to see who I was, at least once. It's been a long time since I was alive... Years."

"But not more than ten," I guess, coming to my senses and blushing, too. "It was after Pokémon started appearing, wasn't it?"

"Yes. But let's not worry about that! I want to show you how to fly!" she exclaims, an expression of such cheerful joy appearing on her face that I'm struck with an overwhelming feeling of gladness myself. It's like my eyes just opened to something I never knew before, and I only just now realized how wonderful it is to be alive.

She takes me by the hand— her skin is warm, which feels nice on my cold fingers— and suddenly we're lifting up, up and into the dark sky. The city spreads out below us, and even without the feeling of wind against my face, I laugh out loud with the exhilaration of flight.

Sunshine and I zoom over blocks and blocks of ghostly grey buildings in a matter of seconds, and keep going, until we enter the suburbs, where the hard monochrome of concrete below us is replaced by soft silvery grasses and treetops in many shades of grey. These living plants look solid, unlike the pavement in the city; Sunshine suddenly pulls me downwards with one hand, so that we're grazing the tops of the tall grass on the plains, both giggling at the faint, tickly feeling of the silver stalks passing through us.

A lone house in the middle of a field approaches; we pass straight through the wall at high speed, still laughing. I get a glimpse of a few different rooms, two of them with sleeping people in beds, many-coloured hazes surrounding them as they dream. Then we're out the other side of the house, and Sunshine is pulling on my hand, turning us in a wide loop so that we're going in a new direction.

I revel in the feeling of flying as the ground, a crisscross of weed-choked roads and large farm patches of autumn harvest, sweeps by underneath me and Sunshine. Every ten or fifteen seconds, we fly over another house or barn. As we approach one house, though, Sunshine seems to change her mind about heading past it; she gives my hand another pull, taking us in a wide circle around the it, and we slow down gradually until we come to a halt hovering over the roof.

Sunshine points down at a small dot of green floating speedily along the partly overgrown dirt road leading up to the house. The spot of colour resolves itself into a little green sphere a foot in diameter, and Sunshine suddenly takes my hand again and pulls me into a hiding place behind the chimney of the house. If I focus my eyes right, I can still mostly see through the chimney as though it were a pane of dirty glass, but I realize that in this strange ghost world, unless someone focused just right on the chimney they wouldn't be able to see us in return.

It seems that's what we're counting on. As it comes even closer to the house, I recognize the green ball as a Solosis— and I get the sneaking suspicion it's a familiar one.

"How did he get away?" I ask Sunshine. "Wasn't he just asleep in my room when we left?"

"That's his mind only," Sunshine says. "He's left his body, just like you. I don't know how it all works— I'm not an expert, just someone who's been hanging out here every night for ten years— but a lot of psychic Pokémon can do this."

"Then he's been exploring since we knocked him out?" I ask.

"Probably. I want to see what he's up to," says Sunshine with a smile at me.

I can't help but grin back. "Me, too." We return our attention to Solo, who's almost reached the house's front door. He passes through it, and Sunshine pulls me down through the roof and a cluttered attic until we're poking our faces through the ceiling of a bedroom.

An ordinary-looking boy with curly brown hair is in his bed, sleeping with a faint smile on his face. Multicoloured haze surrounds him, giving a blurry window into his dreams. I spend a few seconds mesmerized by the dancing colours, even though I can't make out any clear images, before I manage to tear myself free and look around the rest of the room.

Everything seems pretty normal; there's a desktop computer in the corner, switched off for the night, a cupboard for clothes, and a bedside table with an old-fashioned alarm clock that reads 12:35. Then I notice a tiny red-and-white cloud of dream haze hovering over a drawer in the bedside table.

A greenish bubble appears through the door to the room, and I pull my head back until only my eyes are looking through the ceiling. As long as Solo doesn't look up, he won't see me. Fortunately, he doesn't; instead, he turns immediately to the drawer and begins to shake with some tremendous effort.

The drawer slowly pulls itself open, without a sound— though from the way it's shaking, there must be a sound that we simply can't hear in the ghost world. Inside is...

I nearly gasp, but stifle it before I can give us away to Solo. In the drawer, nestled amidst a bed of socks and underwear, is a large bug with white fur all over it, red chitinous spikes extending from its head, and what look to be six smallish wings folded across its lower thorax. Although it doesn't look entirely like the pictures I've seen online, it's unmistakably a Larvesta. This isn't any coincidence, I'm immediately certain— we seem to have stumbled upon Solo stumbling upon Brian.

I glance back at the boy in the bed. I've never met Brian in real life, but it doesn't take much for me to reconcile the faintly smiling face of the sleeping boy with my mental image of the slightly clumsy but always cheerful and well-meaning person behind the brown text, who likes to spam smilies and begins sentences with capitals but almost never uses punctuation when chatting online.

The Larvesta in the drawer stirs; I realize abruptly that the dream haze disappeared when Solo started opening the drawer. A moment later, it lets out an angry and confused (but quiet) buzzing noise. Brian awakes with a start and looks around wildly before noticing the open drawer. He goes over to his Pokémon, eyes searching in what must be dim light for the source of the disturbance.

Neither of them notice Solo or the two pairs of eyes watching them from the ceiling; clearly Solo is as invisible to awake people and Pokémon as Sunshine and I are. The Psychic-type turns and disappears through the door; Sunshine takes my hand once more and lifts us off in pursuit.

Solo is moving as quickly as he was on his way to Brian's house; about the speed of a slow motorcycle. However, it's easy for us to keep up with him. Clearly Psychic-types aren't as free to move around in this ghost-world (dream-world?) as ghosts and dreaming people are. He's heading for Seattle, which can be seen on the black, empty horizon as a dot of semitransparent grey.

After about half an hour of straight-line travel that's enough to confirm Solo's course, Sunshine and I tire of trailing him; at this rate of travel, it'll take him hours and hours to get back to Seattle... and I suspect I know exactly who he's going to contact when he gets there.

Sunshine and I retire to a treetop, where we sort-of-sit; no surface would support our weight in this place, but we actually don't have weight. So we just land ourselves on a tree branch in a sitting position and 'leave ourselves there,' which basically feels like sitting, complete with the faint roughness of tree bark that I can feel through my pajamas.

"Can he get in touch with Carl from here?" I ask Sunshine. "Once he reaches Seattle, I mean?"

"Awake people can't see anyone on this side of the dream gate," she replies, her playful smile fading into a thoughtful look, "But entering people's dreams is possible, though difficult. I've tried it a couple times; after a little while their mind kicks you out."

"But Carl's mind wouldn't reject his own Pokémon," I point out. "And they're used to having some kind of psychic link. I've never seen Carl issue Solo an order out loud."

"So, yes," Sunshine says, "It's likely they can communicate, but only when Carl is asleep."

"So we have until tomorrow night for Solo to tell Carl where Brian lives," I say, frowning.

Sunshine frowns, too, and I stare at her for a moment. I've always disliked the way I look when frowning, but somehow the expression doesn't make Sunshine's face look any less pretty. She's lucky, I think with another small surge of jealousy. Then another version of her face, bloated and strangled, drifts through my mind, and I shudder. Maybe not so lucky. Who could have done something like that to such a sweet girl...?

"Well, I say we don't worry about it," Sunshine says with sudden, unfeigned cheerfulness, distracting me from my dismal thoughts. "Night-time is for relaxing and dreaming, not stewing over things that won't happen for almost a whole day!"

I can't help but smile back. On a hunch, I look into her eyes, but see nothing but pretty blue irises and black pupils reflecting my own smiling face. No fortune-teller 'marks,' and no 'heart messages.' I feel a surge of disappointment at that— I'd hoped that, maybe here and maybe with Sunshine, I would see something— but when my gaze returns to her pretty, cheerful smile, I find it easy to push the disappointment away and just enjoy the moment. I don't need to read anything in her eyes, I realize, with a feeling of immense relief. She's my Pokémon, and I'm her Trainer... So I get her heart's messages delivered straight into my own.

Who would've known it would be a girl who was already dead who taught me to really, truly enjoy life?

Chapter 1: Wednesday
Chapter 2: Thursday
Chapter 3: Friday
Chapter 4: Saturday
Chapter 5: Sunday
Chapter 6. Monday
Epilogue: Tuesday, Wednesday Again

Chapter 6: Monday

I wake up with a bright smile for the cheerful beam of sunlight that's shining warmly through my bedroom window. I look over at my clock, which reads 7:29am. Nice of Sunny to drop me off right before I got woken up by the alarm, I think, reaching over to switch the alarm off.

My mind drifts back to all the wonderful things Sunshine showed me after we stopped following Solo. First we flew all the way to the other side of the continent, watching all the forests and deserts and plains and cities go by underneath us like a world tour on fast-forward. There were so many amazing places and things and people to see, I think I could spend every night exploring for the rest of my life and never run out of new things to do in North America alone.

When I mentioned that to Sunshine, she just smiled and told me that if I wanted, I could do exactly that. Then she took me up, and further up, and further still until we'd gone as far as North America was wide. Even at the huge speed we were going, it took a long time before we found ourselves standing in that empty black sky far above the grey continent and the darker grey sea around it, staring at the horizon and seeing it curve ever so gradually downwards. The hugeness of it all was astounding; even though we were in space by now from the real world's standpoint, the Earth was still so big, stretching in all directions underneath us, it seemed absurd to compare it to those dinky little globes sitting on their stands in the geography classrooms. Just imagining the distance we'd have to go to make the Earth look that small boggles my mind.

I shake myself out of my reverie and lever myself out of bed, still grinning like crazy. Flying back to my body took us the rest of the night, but I feel totally fresh and rested. Clearly being in that dream-world or ghost-world didn't change the fact that I was sleeping and recovering. Which is good, because today's a school day and I'm gonna need my wits about me to deal with going back to school after all the strange stuff that's happened since Friday, and to pay attention in my classes, and...

I frown, a little of my good mood evaporating. ...And to hide the fact that Sunshine exists. That, too.

Then my grin returns. This is gonna be an interesting day. Bring it on, world!


~~~~~~~~~~


I stack the last fried egg and the remaining two slices of bacon on my final piece of buttered toast, and take a big bite before turning my attention back to my computer and my ongoing conversation with Brian.

Last message from Brian4theWin at 7:55am
7:56 Brian4theWin: Rachel are you there
7:56 RAVEry: Yeah, sorry, just eating breakfast.
7:56 Brian4theWin: Oh
Well Im still worried
What if Solo got back faster than you thought
Or Carl goes to sleep before tonight
7:56 RAVEry: =(
I hope not.
But even if he does find out where you live, he wouldn't dare do anything.
You have a Pokémon and he doesn't. That must be a novel experience for him. =P
Anyways, you've already left a message for Karen, right? I'm sure she'll get back to you A.S.A.P.
Until then, just try and act as if it's a normal day, okay?
7:57 Brian4theWin: I dunno if I can do that
:(
:(
:(
You seem used to being in danger every day
But out here in the burbs its not like that
Danger is a rare and scary thing around here
Im not cut out for a life of adventure
!
D:
7:57 RAVEry: Haha, hang in there, Mr. Frodo!
(Or was that not a reference to L.O.T.R.? =P)
7:58 Brian4theWin: ...
Rofl
Ok Ill admit that made me laugh
...
Thanks Rachel :)
I guess Carl cant do anything
You have his Pokemon after all.
7:58 RAVEry: That's the spirit. ^_^
Oh, btw?
7:58 Brian4theWin: ?
7:58 RAVEry: You're cute when you sleep.
;)
Signing out of AIM...


I giggle as I log out, imagining the look on Brian's face as he realizes I know how he looks in real life. He's always avoided the subject of real-life appearance when any of us asked him about it, out of self-consciousness or something. There wasn't really any need— as I recall, he was reasonably good-looking as boys go. Not that I was paying too much attention.

"You're certainly in a good mood this morning," Mom observes in response to my laughter, smiling at me as she passes by the living room table on her way to check on Dad. She's carrying a tray of the same breakfast I'm eating— toast, bacon and eggs, one traditional breakfast that's never gone out of style.

"Who wouldn't be? The world's a great place to be today!" I call after her, then take another big bite of my egg and bacon half-sandwich.

Mom offers to walk me to school, but I point out that she doesn't need to any more. I set off at 8:10 and head straight through the Thug Life alleys, ready for trouble but never encountering any. The Thugs, of course, are all in Shell territory, scouring it for any sign of Dad. I'd be worried on his behalf rather than my own, but with Dylan and Lowell both in our apartment guarding him (at least until Lowell has to leave for work at 3:00, at which point I'll already be on my way home,) and Tom and Mohawk both hiding nearby ready to fetch the other Shells if the Thugs show up, I'm not too concerned that Dad's in any danger. Best of all, Mom told me this morning that Dad's just about well enough that we can move him if there's an emergency, so we've finally got a backup plan for if they do find him.

I snort with amusement. If you'd told me last Friday that I'd be feeling relieved about a bunch of gang Trainers loitering in and around our apartment, I'd have thought you were crazy. But somehow, the same older kids who once watched without comment as their now-considered-MIA leader and his Pokémon attacked Ellen are now willing to fight to help me defend my Dad... Even if, for some of them, it's just because of the orders of another MIA "leader" whose Pokémon is being kept asleep and under guard by Dream (unbeknownst to all but Dylan and Lowell.)

I arrive at the Bastion gates and join the throng of kids pushing their way through the gate. There's a slightly more relaxed feeling than usual in the air, and it takes me a moment to realize that that's because the Shells aren't in their usual place loitering across the street. I smile to myself. Looks like something has changed around here, even if everything else about the Bastion is identical.

I think it's a good change.

"Hey! Rachel!" shouts a voice from ahead of me as I pass through the gate. Suddenly, all the kids who were jostling me a moment ago are giving me a wide berth, and as I walk, unhindered for once, onto the Bastion campus I realize who the voice belongs to.

"Oh. Hi, Neil," I say resignedly, watching the wide-shouldered boy coming towards me, the crowd scattering in an effort to get away from him. In all the excitement of the weekend, I totally forgot about Neil. Strangely, I don't feel particularly hostile towards him any more. More... indifferent. Three days spent dealing with people like Symon and Carl— especially Carl— makes Neil seem ridiculously harmless in comparison.

He comes to a halt in front of me. "Uhh... Hi," he says haltingly, with the awkward, twisted half-smile that I now recognize as his face's clumsy attempt at a 'shy' expression. "Can I, uhh, carry yer bag or something?"

A sudden storm of murmurs burst from the crowd surrounding me and Neil; clearly everyone was listening while pretending not to. The flow of kids pushing their way through the Bastion gates reduces itself to a trickle, as people slow down to hear what's going on while appearing to still move toward the school. Neil making a move on a girl counts as big news at Bastion.

Well, it's now or never. "Neil, I'm sorry to say this," I tell him earnestly, "But I don't really like you that way. Or at all." I fight off a moment of nervous uncertainty. There's no way in the world I'd have said something so bold to Neil on Friday... But I'm a different person than I was four days ago. "I appreciate you trying to take on a bunch of Trainers to help me," I say, "But really, I'd only willingly hang out with you if you didn't do things like wedgie people in the halls or beat up nerds. That kind of thing really gets on my nerves, and I'd appreciate it if you'd stop."

Neil's face contorts. Everyone who's listening takes a judicious step away from him, or stops pretending to walk and heads for the blocky concrete school buildings as if a crowd of angry Pokémon were chasing them. "Wha... What'd you say ta me?" Neil asks incredulously, too surprised to be mad (his head can't really handle more than one major emotional reaction at once.)

"I said, bullies aren't my type," I say simply. I'll take a black eye for telling the truth if I have to, but I'm not gonna lie or pretend I have any actual respect for Neil. "Consider being a little nicer to people, please."

"Where d'you get off, callin' me names?" Neil says, still looking more dazed than angry. "No one says that kinda thing 'bout me!"

"Well, not where you can hear them," I say. "I guess no one tells you stuff when they're afraid you'll punch them out if you don't like what they have to say."

This conversation has gone on long enough. I start walking toward the school, right past Neil, pretending I have nothing to fear from him. He just gapes at me as I go by, and I stifle a sigh of relief as I get out of punch range. I may feel less threatened, now, but not showing fear is still just as important for dealing with bullies as it was before my trauma-induced infusion of reckless courage.

I have Science first thing. The class goes without a hitch; ecosystems and biological niches, all that stuff. I only half pay attention; more of my attention goes to daydreaming about the world Sunshine showed me, and planning night-time visits to North America's most amazing places. The White House buildings in Washington, D.C., which the biggest gangs in the city unanimously declared neutral territory after the Second Civil War, even agreeing to allow non-Trainers safe passage through their territories to visit it; the city of Niagara Falls, which recently became a gang-free haven for peaceful Trainers and non-Trainers alike under the sovereign rule of the self-styled Queen Celia the Just, whose Pokémon, Milotic, lives under the city's legendary waterfall; the Grand Canyon, where native American tribes have established a Mecca of sorts for their culture, and where it's said a 'truly deserving' non-Trainer (whatever that means) can undertake a spirit journey to meet the Pokémon who will be their partner (my plan is to see if I can explore what these mysterious journeys entail from the perspective of the 'spirits.') The list goes on, but the class ends before I get much farther than the plans for those visits.

I head for Spanish class, frantically scribbling probably-incorrect answers on the second of two pages of verb-conjugation homework I just realized I still have in my Spanish binder. The first page and a bit I did way back on Thursday, though, so I'm pretty sure the homework won't pull my marks down too much.

Given the semi-incomplete homework, I decide to actually pay attention in Spanish, because it wouldn't do me any good to get behind in the course material. I admit, though, my new interest also has a bit to do with the fortune-teller, Crystal— or rather, intriguingly, "Lady Isabel de Cristál." It'd be nice to be able to surprise her someday by having a conversation with her in Spanish. I leave the room with hice, hiciste, hizo, hicimos, hicisteis, hicieron running through my head like a mantra, and head straight for the infirmary.

Ellen's sitting up in bed, clearly glad to see me even though we only have twenty minutes before my next class. I update her on everything that's happened since Mom and I came to drop off the stuffed animal yesterday (she's still holding the stuffie close; I bet she hasn't let go of it once since then.) She's especially intrigued by the story about Tom and Mohawk wanting to be in my 'gang.'

"See?" she says, beaming at me. "You will change everything, I just know it! You've got an Association behind you now!"

"Yeah," I say dryly, "An Association of three people, including me." But my responding smile gives my sarcastic tone the lie; Ellen's reaction is all I could have ever asked for.

"In my book, you count for twenty," Ellen says affectionately, giving me a big hug for support.

Hugging Ellen back, I catch a glimpse of my wristwatch; it's 10:58. I'd just stay here with Ellen for another few minutes if my next class were anything but History, but that's the one class I can't be late for. I sigh and reluctantly pull away from her hug. "It's time for class, I gotta go."

Ellen waves goodbye as I leave the infirmary. "See you at lunch!" she calls after me.

I get to the classroom just as Mr. Ward starts his lecture; this time it's about the strategies and tactics used by both sides of the Second Civil War. I pay close attention to this; it strikes me that the Thug Life gang is made up of mostly people who were on the Trainer side of the conflict. The thought runs a shiver through me; gradually, as I hear about Fearows that dropped improvised explosives from the skies and Charizards that set entire buildings on fire, my earlier optimism about all the protective measures around Dad starts to seem more and more naive. I fight to control my growing panic, and Mr. Ward seems to pick up on it. I catch his eye on me more than once.

When class ends, as everyone is packing up their stuff, Mr. Ward says, "Rachel, could you please stay back for a moment? I'd like to talk to you about something."

Uh oh. Mr. Ward is smart; I know that for a fact. Whatever it is he wants, it'll probably involve the kind of questions I'll have to answer with lies, if I don't want to be expelled from Bastion High School. I briefly consider simply running for it— after all, he phrased the invitation as a request, not a direct order— but doing that would just make him even more suspicious that I'm hiding something. I go over and wait for him to finish erasing the notes on the chalk board.

As soon as he's done, he turns and fixes me with a stare I can't read; there's too much eye language and not enough body language for me to guess what he's thinking. "I noticed you seemed quite affected by today's lecture," he says shrewdly, peering at me over his rimless glasses. "Were you in distress?"

I can tell this isn't something it'll do me any good to lie about. My reaction was probably pretty obvious. "Yes," I answer curtly.

Mr. Ward sighs unhappily and takes off his glasses, polishing them with a sleeve of his plaid shirt, and suddenly seems a lot less like the Spanish Inquisition. "I'm sorry. That topic isn't easy to hear about for someone who nearly lost a friend to a Trainer's whim."

It takes me a moment to realize he's talking about Ellen. Mr. Ward seems to have given me a plausible explanation for my discomfort during class. "I'm all right," I say shortly. "Can I go now?"

"Hold on just a moment," Mr. Ward says, putting his glasses back on. "The questions you asked about the Second Civil War have been bothering me, and I decided to do some digging over the weekend. I called in a few favours and found out exactly what happened at the end of the Civil War, which the Intelligence Agency is so determined to cover up. I'll warn you, though— the truth may prove disturbing. Do you still want to know about that?"

"Umm..." I think for a moment. On the one hand, I'm intrigued... But on the other hand, it's lunch time and Ellen's probably waiting for me in the infirmary. "I'm interested, but how long is this story gonna be?"

"I'll try to keep it concise, but it may take some time," Mr. Ward says.

Time to kill two birds with one stone, I think. "In that case, come with me. Ellen'll just want to hear the story from me later anyways, so she might as well hear it firsthand."

Mr. Ward follows me out of the room and to the infirmary, where Ellen is sitting propped up by pillows and typing away to someone on her iPhone. She's never really bothered to get a proper computer, which I guess explains why her grammar is so atrocious in chat. She looks up as I come in, and blinks a few times when she sees Mr. Ward following me through the door.

"Hey, Ellen," I say with a smile. "It's time for a history lesson. I think this is one we'll both find interesting."

"Uhh... Okay?" she says. "Is this, like, part of an extra credit project or something?"

"Not quite," Mr. Ward says with an amused smile. "You'd best have a seat; this is a long story."

I sit down on the edge of Ellen's bed. "All right," I say with a mischievous grin, "You're about to hear a story so secret, the Mods of the Internet themselves are involved in covering it up."

"Oooooh," she says, a responding smile appearing on her face. "I love mysteries."

"This story begins just over eight years ago, when the Second Civil War was just drawing to a close," Mr. Ward says in his best storytelling voice— the quiet, dramatic tone that can make a whole class go silent and lean forward to listen. "Washington, D.C. was in the hands of the Trainer Rebellion, with more and more Trainers flocking to the city every day. A group of the Rebellion's leaders, who called themselves 'The American Council,' were drafting a new version of the Constitution, one which would uphold the rights of Trainers and non-Trainers alike and would lift America to new heights of prosperity. The feeling in the capital was one of acceptance and near-universal optimism, as citizens waited and hoped for a new age of peace after more than a year of horrific and bloody warfare. New laws were being created; the old, decaying judicial system was discarded, and the foundations for new networks of enforcement— including a Trainer police force— were being discussed."

I take a moment to envision the nation Mr. Ward is describing. A Trainer police force stronger than the gangs it opposes? Is such a thing even possible? I glance at Ellen, and see a look of such hopeful yearning on her face that I immediately decide that it's something I'll someday make possible, even if achieving it means Sunshine and I have to take on every gang in the city by ourselves. I'll do anything it takes to make Seattle a place where everyone, non-Trainer and Trainer alike, is safe from being persecuted by those stronger than themselves. A place where Trainers protect instead of oppress, and are respected instead of feared. I'll see Ellen someday live in a Seattle like that, or die trying.

Ellen's dream, I'm beginning to realize, has become more important to me than anything. It's been working itself into my head for years, even as every day I told myself halfheartedly that it was impossible. Every thought I've ever had about how it's not right for Trainers to push people without Pokémon around, or how Trainers have a duty to fix the world they ruined, has been because of Ellen. Without ever meaning to, she helped me stack a bonfire's worth of tinder and wood around the glowing ember of my heart... And now, I ever since Sunshine came into my life and ignited that flame, Ellen's dream has been blazing like a beacon that calls to my heart and soul, guiding me to do the right thing, whatever the cost. I'm just now realizing that everything that's important in my life is important because of Ellen. She's been making me the person I am since we first became friends in the first grade.

If I manage to pull this crazy Trainers' Association scheme off, I think, I'll owe it all to her. I put an arm around Ellen's shoulders and give her a sideways hug, blinking back tears. After a moment, Sunshine appears in my head and radiates calm, helping me get my emotions under control.

Neither Mr. Ward nor Ellen seem to have noticed my brief epiphany. My feelings rarely show themselves on my face, I guess, and I'm thankful for that right now. Mr. Ward is continuing his story, a note of wistfulness entering his voice.

"Until recently, that was all I knew of the situation. I remember the dazed, happy looks everyone wore, as if they couldn't believe it was almost over and that better times were ahead. It was almost too good to be true..." The wistful tone disappears abruptly, and his face contorts into a dramatic frown. "Unfortunately, as it turned out, it was too good."

"Wait," Ellen interrupts, "You mean you were in D.C. after the Second Civil War?"

"Yes, of course," Mr. Ward says lightly, as though that's no big deal. "My companion and I fought in it, after all. But that's another story, and mostly unrelated. Now, the army was decimated by this point, and the government's power was at an all-time low. The Intelligence Agency itself was rebelling, its best operatives refusing to carry out assassinations of key rebel leaders as they began to see more and more that the American Council now better represented their ideals than did the government, which had abandoned most of its scruples amidst the madness of war.

"The generals were reeling, their air force and navy reduced to wreckage and their armies scattered or outright joining the growing population of supporters of the newly formed Council. They were humbled... But not defeated." Mr. Ward's eyes narrow and he lowers his voice even further into an ominous whisper. "They watched the televised satellite news from their last remaining fortified base in the middle of a desert in Arizona, and they saw only a system that made a mockery of their beloved democracy by centralizing power in the hands of the American Council. Never mind that the Council's aims were for the good of everyone, and that they would have welcomed the remaining vestiges of the military with open arms if they'd chosen to surrender; in the eyes of the generals, no system that so resembled an absolute monarchy could ever be a good thing for the United States.

"So, they took matters into their own hands— against the will of the very populace they believed they were protecting— in a way that would be condemned as the height of hypocrisy. What they did was exemplary of the totalitarian and horrific decisions that the government had proved itself capable of making over the course of that hellish year. It was the last and greatest of the many, many terrible errors that were made during the war, and represented the very reason we first took up arms against the government." He pauses for effect. "They launched a nuclear warhead at the White House."

Ellen and I gasp. All those people... "They didn't care that there were innocent people in the city?" Ellen asks breathlessly.

"Correct," Mr. Ward says grimly. "All they cared about was the fact that a large proportion— almost eighty percent— of the Trainers who'd fought against them in the war were gathering in Washington. Their aim was to wipe out as many of their foes as they could, along with the American Council and their deliberations over the new world that they were to have created.

"In an act of what could have been called cruelty just as easily as compassion, they instructed the remaining agents of the Intelligence Agency who were loyal to the military and the government to spread the word of the strike twelve hours before the launch, supposedly to 'give loyal Americans a chance to escape.' The result was near-instant mass riots and chaos, with people scrambling to leave the capital, trampling each other and crashing vehicles in their rush to escape. The Council's influence, which had been so strong mere hours before, was suddenly scattered like flour on the wind. Only a few loyal Trainers remained in D.C. to seek a way of saving everything they'd worked for. An even smaller number of us headed straight for Arizona as quickly as teleportation and flight could take us. Our elite team— just the twelve of us— attacked an entire military base on our own. We fought against all odds, trying so very hard to stop the launch... But in vain." Mr. Ward goes silent for a few seconds, his eyes staring at the wall. I can tell he's seeing something else, though. The Mark of it is in his eyes, and I can almost make out a scattering of red-and-silver, with a terrible, immense sorrow behind it, like...

I tear my gaze away from Mr. Ward's eyes, and that iron vise of sadness slowly, slowly unclamps itself from around my heart. I feel terrible; it's not right for me to pry into someone's past like that... and feeling the deepness of his hurt was like being hit with a bucket of ice water in punishment for my presumption. I'm beginning to understand why Crystal told me to avoid reading people's Marks without their permission— they're something very personal, and often very private.

After a moment, he seems to return to himself, as if from very far away. "Nearly an hour after the missile had left its pad," he murmurs, "I found myself standing over the general who had ordered the launch, and who had commanded the machine gun crew that cut down my cherished partner Scizor. He didn't so much as surrender; he just sneered at me, as if he didn't care that he was going to Hell... As though he were proud of killing millions.

"I shot him in the head. I let my anger and my pain rule me, and I've never stopped regretting it. It was one thing to fire a gun at enemies who were firing back, and to simply send Scizor to tear apart entire tanks... But killing someone in cold blood ruined my taste for conflict for ever." Mr. Ward shakes his head as if to clear it. "But the life of a Trainer at war is nothing for you girls to worry about, thank goodness," he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "This story isn't about me, so never mind all that. Rather, it's about the Young Saint."

The Young Saint is a legend; he's one of very few people from the Second Civil War whose name is still known by most people. He's also commonly referred to— on the Internet, at least— as 'the Golden Boy,' or more rarely, 'Pokémon Jesus.' He was a pacifist— an actual pacifist, not just someone who refused to take part in war. And he had the strongest Pokémon ever known. Its species was never really named; instead it became known by the name its young Trainer gave it: Lugia.

The Golden Boy became famous for his acts of completely unbiased pacifism. There are pictures and amateur videos on the Internet of the boy and his huge, majestic Pokémon sitting in the path of a wedge formation of tanks rolling down the street of a conquered city, their shells exploding harmlessly against a protective shell of pure energy that hovers over them like a bubble. Behind the boy huddles a beleaguered mass of Trainer and non-Trainer survivors, whose homes the army is destroying, ignoring their surrender. However, there are also videos of him staring down an entire gang of Trainers and their dangerous-looking, fully-evolved Pokémon, daring them to enter the building behind him, which is home to the wives and children of men who work for the Intelligence Agency. Remembering the latter makes me shiver in hindsight; if Dad hadn't stayed so consistently far away from Mom and I, who knows what the Thugs might have tried to do to us in an effort to flush him out?

Anyways, the point is that the Golden Boy is both a historical figure exemplary of pacifism in every way... And an oft-referenced meme all the way across the Internet. Mentions of him range from the sarcastic— i.e. 'Wow, ur practically the golden boy," indicating that someone's a goody-two-shoes— to a genuine compliment, whether female or male— i.e. 'To me, Ellen's the real live Golden Girl.' But for a person so universally worshipped, it's actually surprising that no one knows how he died. All that's certain is that he did die.

"Everything beyond what I've told you already, I heard from old friends from the war," Mr. War says, no hint of his own emotions entering his voice now. "Some, like me, fled and heard about it after the fact; others went back to Washington after we failed to prevent the launch. Even some of those who lost their Pokémon in that final, vicious battle at the military base went back.

"This story, including the launch of the nuclear missile, is what has been hidden by the government and the Knowledge Guardians, for fear of what people would do if they found out. Opening a society's old wounds has never been a good thing, and the Guardians are aware of that fact. At best, there would be peaceful outrage against the remaining, mostly blameless executive branch of the government. at worst, there would be a full-out witch hunt of vengeance for the Young Saint's death."

So that's what this is about, I think. This is why information about this can't ever become common knowledge. It makes a surprising amount of sense.

"The Young Saint was in Washington at that time, watching quietly as was his way. With Lugia as a companion, he could travel the world speedily, teleporting much greater distances than any other Psychic-type could, and flying when his Pokémon's powers of teleportation were insufficient. No Pokémon so powerful had ever been found before, nor has anything like it been seen since its demise. As a result, it was known as a Legendary Pokémon.

"The boy was there merely to observe the writing of the New Constitution. He spoke, as always, few words, but the ones he did say were of happiness about the conflict's end, and of hope for the future. Then, word of the nuclear missile arrived.

"That, they say, was the first and only time anyone had seen the Golden Boy truly angry. He and his Pokémon took up vigil on the roof of the White House for almost twelve hours, both of them staring defiantly up into the sky. Then, word arrived that our team had failed to stop the launch; the missile was on its way. There were no surface-to-air defenses remaining that would be capable of stopping a nuclear missile; the army made sure to sabotage any equipment they couldn't use before surrendering Washington, D.C. to the Trainers."

Mr. Ward sits down wearily on a nearby infirmary bed, looking older and more tired than I've ever seen. It's like just telling this story is draining his usual youthful energy. I'm trying not to cry at the picture he makes; the whole story so far is so much sadder than I could have imagined. I regret ever asking him to tell it, I think miserably.

Ellen notices my distress and leans her head against my shoulder, shifting her legs so that she can put her arms around me comfortingly. Usually physical contact doesn't really affect me that way, but Ellen's compassionate support somehow alleviates a lot of the ache. I smile at her, grateful.

"The Young Saint's response was immediate," Mr. Ward says, still staring at the ground and looking defeated. "His legendary Pokémon disappeared, teleporting to intercept the missile. Then, drawing on every ounce of power it possessed, as well as its Trainer's reserves of strength, Lugia shifted itself and the entire several-thousand-pound cruise missile high into the stratosphere where the fallout wouldn't harm anything... And then detonated it.

"The Golden Boy spent three weeks in critical condition in Washington's one remaining functional hospital, unconscious and being fed intravenously. He was cared for by a meager few Trainers with first aid training— all the health care workers were still trying to flee with the rest of Washington's population. It wouldn't have mattered if the world's best doctors had been there, though," Mr. Ward says sadly. "His will to live died with his Pokémon. After three weeks, he simply expired in his sleep. The only sadder waste would have been if the missile had hit its target... Which I'm sure the boy knew." Mr. Ward puts his head in his hands. "He sent his Pokémon to its death and sealed his own fate knowing that. The strength of that young man... It defies the imagination."

There's a cold lump in my throat. For the first time since seeing a Houndoom's ivory fangs sink into Sunshine's little wax body, I'm struck by the reality of the danger my Pokémon might face if I stand up for what I believe in. If I were ever in the position of deciding whether to live or die for my cause... Could I ever be as strong as that Golden Boy?

I harden my heart, throwing my doubts forcefully into a deep, dark corner of me. If I'm not already, I'll just have to make myself be that strong. I'll risk death a thousand times for Ellen's dream, I think. Sunshine?

Sunshine returns from wherever she's lurking invisibly for just long enough to pop into my mind for a split second; the wave of approval that hits me in response to my query is answer enough. Sunshine is with me all the way, for better or for worse. Her support warms me, albeit in a strangely different way from Ellen's.

Mr. Ward clears his throat, and starts talking again. "In the end, people who had fled slowly started trickling back into Washington. If the missile had hit, most of them would have died from the shockwave regardless; twelve hours' warning plus the missile's flight time was a mockery, more like a cruel joke than an actual chance at survival.

"The army was gone now, really gone, but the damage was done. Gangs of Trainers started setting themselves up with territory in the wreckage of the looted shops and abandoned apartments. The Council tried to keep order at first, but was rebuffed by gangs who decided they'd found an easier way to live, robbing and looting the mostly abandoned city. All the optimism of the previous few weeks had gone sour, leaving only a sense of defeat. The whole city turned into a place where survival of the fittest was law.

"Other Trainers kept trickling in, but left when they saw there was nothing for them in Washington any more. Eventually things steadied out, with cities all across America turning into what you see today, no better than medieval villages squatting in the ruins of a more advanced civilization. Only the last-ditch intervention of the remaining vestiges of the Intelligence Agency, doing what little they could to protect those too weak to defend themselves, combined with the efforts of the executive branch of government to keep schools running and education alive, prevented us from sliding directly into a new Dark Age. The Knowledge Guardians proved their worth many a time by rescuing important pillars of our culture, though their agenda was, and remains, far from clear."

Mr. Ward sighs and straightens in his seat, assuming his usual casual but confident posture. He seems a lot more in control of himself. "So, there you have it," he says simply, his storytelling voice entirely gone as if it were never there. I wonder briefly how he can hide so many of the emotions he just showed us; not a word of that sad, sad story is visible in the upright shoulders and matter-of-fact, analytic expression I've grown used to seeing on him. "An admittedly biased account of: the last gasp of a dying, corrupt government; the death of a heroic martyr; and the beginning of eight years of anarchy. Any questions?"

"Yes," says Ellen. "What about you? What's the ending to your story?"

I look at her, and see faint lines of dried salt where thin trickles of tears are still running down her face. I resist an urge to brush them off her cheeks, and settle for giving her a comforting squeeze with the arm that's still around her shoulders.

"Ah, well, there's not much to say," Mr. Ward says with a shrug. "After my team's failure, I retired to Seattle and spent a while collecting books and reading up on anything that caught my interest. When my savings ran out, I finally pulled myself out of the self-indulgent rut I'd dug myself into, and found myself a job teaching History at a school called Bastion High. The rest you know."

"Mr. Ward? Why hasn't anyone tried to start the Council's work again?" I ask thoughtfully, voicing a question that's been bothering me for days. "If they had everyone together once, ready to make a new world, why couldn't it happen again?"

"That's a difficult question, Rachel..." Mr. Ward says, then smiles ruefully. "But of course, you're a smart girl, so nearly every one you ask is. There are a number of reasons why no one has imitated the Council, intentionally or otherwise. One reason is that the Council were the clear victors of a large and gruelling war, one that had everyone tired of fighting and ready to embrace a completely new way of life by the end of it. They were the clear choices for leaders when the dust settled, and against all odds they were an upstanding and compassionate bunch whose vision for the United States of America extended beyond just their own lifetimes.

"That's not the only reason their legacy hasn't been revived, though," he continues. "You see, Rachel... Society likes stability. As long as there is a status quo, breaking it in order to make a new order is much more difficult than building a society from scratch. People with the drive and ambition to stand up to the entire rest of the world and fight for their beliefs, whether with words or with weapons, are rare indeed... And even rarer, with the advent of Pokémon, are the ones whose ability matches their inner fire."

He shakes his head sadly. "I'm sorry, both of you... But in today's world people like us are left to simply hope and dream, while Trainers make decisions for the world. It's a sad state of things, but it's our reality."

The fire in my heart flares, as if in a sudden gust of wind, and spreads a warm feeling of pride through me. I almost decide to tell Mr. Ward the truth about Sunshine and my plan to make everything better— imagine his surprise!— but a tiny voice of caution stops me. There's every possibility that I'll fail— after all, I'm probably not the first Trainer to decide the world needs fixing— and I don't want to get his hopes up unnecessarily. Also, something just occurred to me.

"If you don't believe the rule of Trainers can be broken, then why did you set us homework to write an essay on how democracy could work in today's world?" I ask, frowning at him. "Isn't the point for the assignment to be possible?"

Mr. Ward chuckles hollowly. "When you put it that way, it is a bit absurd, isn't it? I suppose I'm hoping that someday, if I keep giving this essay to every grade ten class, someone will come up with an idea that might work... No, that's not right," he corrects himself. "I guess what I'm waiting for is just... one essay that'll do the impossible and restore some of my hope for the future."

There's nothing Ellen or I can say to that. We just watch as Mr. Ward gets to his feet, nods to us, and walks briskly out the door with his usual, confident stride, showing no sign of the broken, hopeless man we glimpsed a moment ago. It hurts just to think about him being like that inside, when I always thought he was so confident and, well, not self-conscious.

"Rachel..." Ellen says, her voice trembling. "Maybe he's right. Changing things is..." she sniffs tearfully, "It's scarier than I ever imagined. How can we do something a whole Council of powerful Trainers never could? I'm so sorry... I've been talking to you nonstop about changing things, but I never realized you were so right to be skeptical! I've been so—"

"Ellen!" I say, horrified. "You can't mean that!" I turn to face her, kneeling on the infirmary bed. Ellen can't be losing hope! Not Ellen... Never her!

"You've always been the one who had hope," I tell her, almost pleading. "Always. Even when I used to tell you right to your face it was a naive dream to think the world could be a better place, you were the one who never gave up." I put my hands on her shoulders and search her face for... something, I don't know what. "Now you're saying it's not gonna work, just because some broken old man tells you he thinks it's hopeless?" I ask, tears running down my face. "Is that the Ellen I know??"

Ellen's staring wide-eyed at me. "Rachel, are you... Are you serious? You... believe it can still happen?" she asks me in a dazed-sounding voice.

The beacon in my heart, the one that's been guiding me since Sunshine lit it, flares brighter than ever. "Always!" I say, almost able to hear the crackling, snapping sounds of fire under the word. "Ever since I met you, you haven't once stopped believing... And I trust that more than I trust any stupid war story!" I tell Ellen fiercely. "You can't stop now! Not when I've finally realized your dream is the most important thing I have!!"

"I..." Ellen says, her mouth hanging just a little bit open, transfixed by something in my eyes. "Rachel...?"

The next thing I know, I'm leaning forward and kissing her. She stiffens for a moment; then her arms go around me and she's kissing me back, her lips soft against my own. Her tongue flickers out and tentatively touches mine— a sudden wash of heat rushes through me, and I open my mouth a little wider, exploring the contours of her smooth lips. I put my arms around her shoulders, careful of her injured side... My heart races; I can feel her body pressing against me, soft and smooth through her thin pajamas...

I pull back suddenly, turning bright red and staring down into Ellen's upturned face. She stares back at me, equally flushed, both of us breathing hard. I'm not sure how long it is that we just stare at each other, me kneeling on the bed and her sitting with her legs folded on one side, supported by the pile of pillows on her right. For the first time, I realize what everyone means when they say they can see feelings in someone's eyes. So that's what it looks like, I think, barely coherently.

The tender moment can't last forever. Finally, Ellen breaks the silence. "Rachel, I... I don't know what to say..."

"Then don't," I say, reaching out and wrapping her in a gentle hug. "I love you."

She gasps when I say the words, and I almost gasp with her— immediately after I said them, I realized they change something. Somehow more than the— the kiss did. After a moment of stiff shock, Ellen relaxes into my arms, tucking her head under my chin. "Me, too," she says quietly, putting her arms around me.

We sit like that, just holding each other and listening to one another's heartbeats, until the bell rings to signal the end of lunch time. Then, reluctantly, we disentangle ourselves.

Ellen lies back down with her head on her pile of pillows, and I tuck her in with a shared smile and a kiss on the forehead. I head off to class, trying not to think too hard about the feeling of her lips against mine. As my new situation really sinks in, my heart starts to pound again.

I'm in love.


~~~~~~~~~~


I'm late for P.E., of course; not that that really matters. However, when I find the class running laps around the wall and fall in step, I find myself suddenly surrounded by kids who are somehow not too out of breath to talk.

"Is it true Neil asked you out this morning?"

"I heard he tried to kiss you!"

"Where were you at lunch?"

My head is still spinning, and can barely keep up with the barrage of questions. "Umm..." I pant, already a little out of breath from the jogging. I'd forgotten what a rumour mill this school was. Clearly the stories have already gotten blown out of proportion. "He didn't ask me out, or try to kiss me," I say, trying not to smile or blush when I think about who I did kiss a little while ago. "He just asked if he could carry my books, which is suspicious but not a huge deal."

"Did you hear, though?" asks one boy excitedly. "Today in the cafeteria he went up to the head geek and said sorry! Like, the actual word!"

My eyebrows rise all the way into my bangs. That's news. "You saw this yourself?" I ask the boy. "It's not just a rumour?"

He swells with the importance of being the first to tell me. "Yeah! He was all, like, 'I'm really sorry I did all that stuff to you, I'll try not to be so mean any more!' It was awesome!"

That's food for thought... And also more than a bit awkward. I'd figured Neil would forget his crush on me when I told him what was what this morning, but from the sound of it, he has it pretty bad, even to the point where he's actually making an effort to be less of a bully.

Ugh... Not that I don't approve of Neil getting up the courage to say sorry— that's actually pretty impressive, since bullies are generally cowards at heart— but it's gonna take a lot more than that to change the way I feel about how he's acted since he entered Bastion Junior School in grade two and started terrorizing us all.

Besides, I think, with an inner smile that I'm careful not to show on my face, I'm taken.

One of the benefits of P.E. is that I can avoid the questions by pretending— well, to tell the truth, not pretending— to be too out of breath to answer. After a while, amidst panting murmurs of disappointment, my classmates give up on trying to get me to talk to them and go back to muttering amongst themselves between wheezes.

After class, I somehow summon the strength from my rubbery legs to dash to my locker as fast as I can, escaping my classmates before they can descend on me. It's exhausting, being the center of attention, I think exasperatedly. No one even gave me a second glance this morning, but it only took until lunchtime for word to get around, and now the eyes of practically everyone in this section of hallway are following me as I walk away from my locker.

My last class is Math, which goes as normal except for the whispers and unsubtle stares from the seats behind me. I find it hard to focus with the constant feeling of being watched, and eventually I turn around and glare at the kids whispering to each other behind me. They shut up, looking startled and a little afraid. Oh, great, I think sardonically, Now I'm under the school bully's protection, and my wrath is to be feared. I won't stand for this— I can't think of anything worse than people shrinking away from me in the halls, unless it's people mobbing me with questions and gossip. If Neil doesn't either stop being a bully or stop chasing me in the next few days— preferably both— I'm gonna do something drastic. I haven't decided what, but whatever it is, he won't like it.

The three o'clock bell rings, signalling the end of class. I gather up my stuff and follow everyone out through the hallways, but when the crowds all start heading for the doors, I make a detour toward the infirmary.

I come through the door to see Ellen over by her bed, zipping up her backpack, which looks stuffed full. She's wearing her blue skirt, which is a little wrinkled from being stuffed in her backpack all weekend, as well as stained slightly with old blood near her left hip. Her white button-down shirt is borrowed, I guess, since her old one was completely ruined. She hears the infirmary door swing closed and straightens, then smiles when she sees it's me; wrinkled skirt notwithstanding, she looks lovely.

"Ellen, are you leaving?"

"Yep," she says, hoisting her backpack onto her shoulder with a wince. "The nurse said I'm healed enough to walk, and go home, though I'll still need to spend time in bed once I get there." She takes a step towards me, favoring her left side and wincing again as the movement puts pressure on her injuries.

I rush over to her to support her under her left arm. She gives me a grateful smile, and together we do a three-legged-race kind of walk over to the door, which I didn't realize until now has a "handicapped access" button you can press to make it open automatically. Handy, I think.

We leave the infirmary and head out onto the concrete 'field.' The very last few students are trickling out of the Bastion gates as we get close, and I see them cast fearful glances across the street. Following their frightened looks, I stop dead in front of the gap in the gates, holding onto Ellen's arm tightly so that she stops as well.

There are four people with white bandannas and black coats standing next to the empty building across the street from the gates of the Bastion, loitering near the alleyway I usually use to get home. They're too far away to recognize from here, but I think I see the black-and-white shape of the Houndoom that belongs to the frightening, Carl-like gentleman, as well as a large, floating Pokémon whose shape I can't make out— except for several of the bright pink eyes running in a ring around its whole head.

One of the Thugs seems to notice me, and points. As one, the four of them start coming towards me.

"Ellen..." I say in the calmest voice I can muster, "Please go back to the infirmary. Please."

She frowns at me and is about to protest, but then she follows my gaze and sees the four Trainers and their Pokémon coming toward us. "Rachel?" she says in a frightened voice. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"I'll be fine," I say with false confidence. "Go. If it comes to a fight, I'll be better off if I know you're safe."

Ellen suddenly grabs my face and kisses me hard on the lips. "I love you," she says fiercely. "Be safe, or I swear I'll never forgive you!" With that, she turns and limps away, back towards the infirmary wing.

I can't afford to stand here any longer. I pass through the Bastion gates, leaving their illusion of safety behind, and go to meet the Thugs in the middle of the street. As I draw closer, I stifle a gasp. One of them has a familiar-looking shock of brown hair and is wearing a red shirt that's visible under the unbuttoned black Thug jacket. Even with the white bandanna replacing her giant beret, I'd recognize Jazz anywhere. She's grinning in a friendly way, completely unabashed at showing her face to me after joining the people who are making my life hell.

"Hey, Rachel!" she says cheerfully as she, her three companions, and their Pokémon come to a stop about ten feet away from me. I recognize the cruel, dangerous gentleman in his black tuxedo, his Houndoom with its snapped-off right horn growling murderously at me from next to his leg, and the woman called Agitha who Jazz seemed so... taken with. Jazz's Scraggy, Scar, and Agitha's Scrafty, Bones, are standing next to each other with their rubbery shed skins clutched in their hands, ready for trouble. The fourth Trainer is an unknown, a woman with a bland, uninteresting and uninterested expression on her face and a one-piece purple dress hanging from her slack shoulders. Her bored expression belies the fact that her eyes, which have eerie-looking pink irises the same colour as her Pokémon's, are scanning her surroundings continually in search of threats. Her Pokémon, which is floating in midair next to her, has a body that looks like a giant, squarish, dark grey spinning top. Its head is shaped like another top stacked upside down on the body, and bears a circle of large oval eyes that glow bright pink. This is the first time I've seen it up close, and I finally recognize it from online pictures— ones from the war, actually. It's a Claydol, a species known for having immensely powerful telekinetic powers.

Looking at the overwhelming display of force arrayed against me, I can't help but feel inadequate. Can I really expect Sunshine to even try fighting all these opponents? I think despairingly. Well, I don't know that they want to fight. This area is technically neutral ground, after all, isn't it? Maybe they're just here to talk...

I glare at Jazz. "Looks like you sold out to the highest bidder. Don't act like we're suddenly friends," I say coldly.

"Freedom and a cool jacket are a pretty good offer, I'd say," Jazz retorts sassily, grinning at me. "What's the problem? I thought you didn't think much of any gang, so why's it matter if I went from one to another?"

"It might explain why I'm not so miffed with the Shells right about now," I shoot back, determined to give as good as I get in the snark department. "They're less of a gang and more of a beleaguered group of kids being bullied around by a bunch of war veterans."

"Big words," Jazz says, raising her eyebrows and making a show of pretending to be impressed. "Maybe I should let Gramps handle this?"

"With pleasure," says Tuxedo in a menacing tone that still somehow manages to sound polite. "However, girl, you will refer to me by my name, which is Gerald."

"Whatever, Gramps," Jazz says, shooting him her usual flirty wink.

Does she think this is a game? I wonder briefly, before my attention is drawn back to Gerald as he begins talking.

"You've been quite the thorn in our side," he's saying. "I had assumed it was because of your allies, but this new development changes everything. His blood truly does run in your veins... Which will make it a pleasure to spill it."

Well, that rules out 'just here to talk' as an option, I think. I glance at the other three Trainers. Only Jazz seems surprised by the tuxedoed creep's intention to 'spill my blood.' She keeps quiet, though. I glare at Gerald. "I've done nothing but protect myself and a few defenseless non-Trainers," I say furiously. "Why do you people have it in for me?"

"I don't need to explain myself to the likes of you," Gerald spits, his mask of civility slipping abruptly. My heart nearly freezes at the sudden look of hatred on his face. "Silence yourself and submit to judgement! Bernard, atta—"

"...No," interrupts the lacklustre woman standing to my right, with her monstrous pink-eyed Pokémon floating behind her. "Tell her," she says in an eerie, monotone voice.

"...Never," Gerald says scornfully, but he returns to his usual stance of nonchalantly leaning on his cane. That woman must be very dangerous, if she can call a loose cannon like that to heel... "Gloria, you should know better! I refuse to speak to spawn of his ilk."

"Oh, screw your stupid vendetta," Agitha tells him impatiently, kicking his cane out from under his arm in an offhand, almost lazy motion. "I'll explain. Girl, our gang's got a bone to pick with your dad. See, he left us when we needed him most, right after the war ended and it all went to Hell. Turned out he was in the Intelligence Agency the whole time, had been playing us for fools all along. Right when we were settin' up here in Seattle, he went straight back to the Agency— the prick— and sold us all out."

I'm not impressed. Even from the short time I've been able to spend with my Dad, I know for a fact that he's too much like me to turn traitor to anyone without a good reason. "Was that before or after you started demanding protection money from people in your territory and robbing those too weak to defend themselves?" I ask scathingly.

"Hah!" Agitha barks, then cackles loudly. "I knew it! Just like the old man! Girl, your daddy left us 'cause they offered him a big fat wad o' cash, and don't let anybody tell you otherwise. The real world ain't no place for ideals— and mark my words, that man was too smart to live in some birdbrained world of make-believe!"

I just smile. "I guess you don't know him as well as you thought you did, then."

"Enough!" Gerald snaps, raising his cane to point at me with it. I wonder again if he's got a poison dart or some such storybook item in there. Then a switchblade snaps out of the tip, and I realize I was half right. "This girl's self-assured smugness sickens me. It's time to—"

He doesn't get any further as a psychic scream sends all of us except his startled-looking Houndoom to our knees, clutching our heads in pain. Sunshine is hovering next to Gloria's Claydol, her little wax body nearly hidden behind its bulk; shadowy, ghostly tendrils are stretching out from her and spreading to cover the Psychic-type's body in a film of pure shadow, shading its grey surface darker and darker until it looks like a patch of the world has been cut out and replaced with the blackest night.

The Night Shade attack goes on for what seems like minutes, so long that the pain in my head forces me to the ground, trying not to scream. Then, abruptly, it's over. I uncurl from my foetal position; the Claydol is lying on the ground, unconscious, as is its Trainer. The Houndoom, Bernard, is whining and pawing at his Trainer, who is still curled up in the middle of the street, whimpering.

Agitha and Jazz, however, are on their feet already. Scar and Bones scramble to their feet more quickly than I do, and at a command from their Trainers, they dash toward Sunshine. Normally punches and kicks wouldn't even faze her, but I don't like the look of the shadowy energy that's gathering around their fists. Dark-type Pokémon wield a strange power that no one wants to inspect too closely.

"Sunshine, run for it!" I shout, and dash away down the street before Jazz and Agitha can react. A moment later, I hear furious barking and hear the skitter of canine paws on the pavement behind me. Apparently, the Houndoom can act even without its Trainer's directions, though from our previous encounters I've started to suspect the Pokémon isn't very smart. Clearly Gerald is the brains of the pair.

Sunshine disappears from next to the downed Claydol, and a flame lights itself in that special, dark space in my mind. I glance back; Gerald's Houndoom is gaining on me, and Agitha and Jazz are giving chase with their Pokémon. It's all academic, though— even if I were fit enough to outrun those four, the dog can bring me down easily before I get a chance. Sunshine can't do anything to harm him, either; any fire she throws will just make him stronger, and if she gets close enough to use her Night Shade attack, he'll swallow her whole.

I duck into an alleyway to buy time— maybe Bernard won't be able to turn corners as easily as he runs straight lines— and gasp for breath, running for my life. Sunshine feeds me energy from my life force's candle, but it's not the right kind; my legs stop aching so much, but if anything I feel even more winded. She realizes it too, and stops immediately.

A growl sounds close behind me, followed by a snapping of jaws near my heels. I whimper and put on a final burst of speed, turning a corner... and immediately throw myself flat against the wall. I shiver; the last time I did this, it didn't work...

Fortunately, this time, it does. Bernard goes racing by me, his speed taking him a fair distance before he realizes I'm not in front of him any more. Not pausing to watch him, I hear the skittering of Bernard's nails against the concrete as I run back around the corner, heading for a fork in the alleyways I saw earlier...

I'm not fast enough, though. As I approach the place where the three alleyways meet, Agitha and Jazz appear at the intersection ahead of me, Bones and Scar behind them. I skid to a halt about ten feet away from them, hearing loud barks behind me as Bernard races back towards me.

I stare in panic at the four fighters blocking my path, wondering if it's even possible to get out of this one. Just when I've decided to try setting myself on fire and rushing straight through them— a tactic almost certainly doomed to failure, since both women and their Pokémon all excel at close-quarters fighting— Jazz suddenly winks at me.

Scar suddenly dashes straight at me, and I duck reflexively as he jumps into the air, kicking the space where my head was a moment ago... And then sails onwards to smash the hapless Houndoom behind me right in the face. The two go bouncing away from me in a yelping, snarling tumble, complete with loud, painful-sounding clacks of the bony protrusions on Bernard's back against concrete.

Agitha turns her head to glare at Jazz, but the girl has already walked halfway across the ten feet separating me from her, reaching up to unknot the back of the white bandanna she's wearing. "And what exactly are you doin', li'l missy?" Agitha asks suspiciously.

"Well," Jazz says, turning suddenly to face the woman and shaking her hair loose from the bandanna, "I guess I just decided I don't particularly like this thing. I think my beret suits me much better." She grins, and tosses the white cloth into the dust of the alley floor. "Sorry, sweetie. It was fun, and all, but I think this is where we part ways."

Agitha looks furious. "I trusted you!" she shouts. "I told them I'd vouch for you so Gloria wouldn't have to paw through your mind!"

"Well," Jazz says, a smile in her voice— I can tell even with her back to me that she's giving Agitha her usual flirty wink— "There was also the fact there was stuff in my head you didn't want her finding. Who knows what she'd think of you... Fraternizing with the enemy, shall we call it?"

I blush. That's one way of putting it...

Behind me, the sounds of a scuffle end with a sudden yelp; after a second of silence, Scar walks past me, dusting his little pale yellow hands against the shed skin he's carrying. Jazz pats him on the head for a job well done, then the two of them raise their hands like boxers, squaring off against Agitha and her Scrafty.

"You won't get away with this!" Agitha shouts, her face red with fury.

"Time for round two," Jazz tells her cheekily, unperturbed. "I don't intend to lose this one." She turns her head and gives me a very flirty smile. "Go on, then, cutie. You got work to do over at your place."

My blush deepens, and I stammer something that I hope sounds more or less like 'thanks.' Then I turn and run, past the unconscious Houndoom in the corner and away through the alleys towards home... Hoping against hope that Jazz didn't mean what I think she meant by 'work to do.'


~~~~~~~~~~


I race out of the alleyway across from our apartment building, panting and wheezing. Bracing myself with my hands on my thighs, I take a moment to catch my breath, staring up at the second-story window of my room. Everything seems normal... But looks can be deceiving.

I walk toward the building's front door, but halt abruptly when it flies open. Out of it come the two people I least want to see right now.

Carl is supporting Symon under one shoulder; Symon looks like he's in pain from something. His stripy yellow-and-green pants and yellow shirt with its green skull are soaking wet, and there's a spreading stain of what looks like blood from a spot near his hip. Behind the two, Solo is hovering along beside Symon's Maractus.

"It doesn't seem too serious, but I'll have Solo stop the bleeding," Carl is telling his companion. "It's really rather irritating— We were perfectly equipped to handle Dylan and that accursed grass-type, but I didn't count on Lowell switching sides like that. It's as if the accursed girl is corrupting everyone she touches. I'll have no trouble dealing with her when we've had a chance to recover, of course, but for now we should retire to—"

He stops abruptly, cut off by Symon, who's grabbed his shoulder tightly and is pointing at me. I glance up and down the street to make sure no one'll be caught in the crossfire if I have to take these two down; fortunately, Seventh Avenue is deserted, as usual.

"I should have known," Carl says nastily. "You're too late, girl! I've already escaped your clutches for good, and—"

"Shut up," Symon growls. He pushes the well-dressed boy away, and takes a staggering step toward me. "You... You bitch!" he says through gritted teeth. "You'll get what's coming to you for what you did to Spines. Mark my words!"

"Oh, you shut up," I tell him impatiently. "I don't care about either of your stupid vendettas, and it looks like my friends are well able to handle you on their own, so you can forget going after them. Now get out of my way."

Carl sneers. "Those buffoons, able to handle me?" he laughs. "They failed to thwart my attempt to get Solo back, is what they did! And I've already told the Thugs about this worthless place. They'll be here to clean up whatever remains... after. By the way... do you smell smoke?"

With that strange parting shot, he disappears. So do Symon, Spines and Solo. I scowl; damn Psychic-types. Then I look back up at the apartment and gasp.

A pall of smoke is rising from the roof. Not from the chimney— the fireplace in the lobby hasn't been lit for years, not since the going-away party when the last set of tenants other than Mom and me moved out. My blood runs cold.

Fire.

I race into the building, and immediately start coughing, belatedly remembering that it's the smoke, not the flames, that's most dangerous. Sunshine? Can you do something about that? I think to her.

She responds by doing... Something. My breathing steadies, and I can't feel the smoke in my lungs any more, even though the air still feels hot in my chest. I race up the stairs and hammer on the apartment door, fumbling for my keys. After a moment, the door flies open, a wild-eyed Dylan staring at me, his Frillish hovering worriedly behind him. A trickle of blood is running from a small cut in Dylan's forehead, and he's got the beginnings of a black eye, but both he and his Pokémon seem okay overall, if panicked.

"Rachel!" he exclaims. "Carl and Symon were here, they got Solo out!"

"I know," I say quickly, pushing past him and running into the apartment, where the overturned table and scattered pieces of sofa cushion show the signs of a struggle. "But we have to get out of here— Now! The Thugs are coming, and the building's on fire!"

I burst into Mom's room, where Dad is lying in bed and Mom is straightening from where Lowell is sprawled in the bedside chair, his red hoodie and shirt missing, moaning and clutching the bloodstained bandage she just finished wrapping around his shoulder and upper chest.

"Mom, we have to go!" I shout. "Carl set the building on fire, and the Thugs are on their way!"

Mom's face goes white. "Rachel, Dylan... Wet some of those bandages in that bucket and put them over your mouths and noses. Then take Lowell and Dream; I'll bring your father," she says, her authoritative doctor voice steady despite her distress.

Lowell groans in pain as Dylan and I make a chair out of our hands and arms and lift him out of his seat. Then, huffing and puffing, we carry him out of the apartment and into the hot, smoky air. Dylan starts coughing immediately, even with the wet bandage over his mouth. Can you protect him? I ask Sunshine, and receive a distressed surge of No go through me.

Together, Dylan and I lug Lowell awkwardly down the stairs and out the door, with Dream following after us, chiming in distress. There are still no flames anywhere that I can see, but the smoke near the ceiling in the lobby is thicker than ever. Carl must have set the fire in the basement.

"Take them and hide!" I shout to Dylan, setting Lowell down and hoping he can support his own weight with Dylan's help. Fortunately, it seems he can. I leave the three of them there, and dash back up the stairs.

Back in the apartment, Mom is laboriously helping Dad out of bed. He's still wearing a pair of her pink pajama pants and no shirt, but she's already tied a wet bandage across his nose and mouth. Seeing me, she gestures for me to get his other shoulder, and together we half-help, half-carry him out of the room.

There's a visible haze of smoke clouding the air now, and Mom is coughing a lot. She's been in here a lot longer than Dylan, and it shows. Worried, I silently take a bit more of Dad's weight, which seems to help.

We're halfway to the stairs when Mom suddenly collapses, and Dad's weight nearly pulls me to the ground. I drop him, and go over to her. She's unconscious.

No, no, no! I think desperately. Wake up, wake up! She remains inert.

I steady myself, taking deep breaths of air so hot and smoky it would have choked me by now if not for Sunshine's protection. Mom is lighter than Dad, and I don't have to be careful of her back. I grab her and, with an immense effort (helped along by a surge of my own energy from Sunshine,) sling her over my shoulders. I stagger over to the stairs and somehow drag her, step by step, down and out the door.

I nearly collapse as soon as I drop her, panting, every one of my breaths letting out a little puff of sooty air. After a moment, Dylan emerges from a terrible, terrible hiding spot in a big abandoned length of pipe designed for sewer repair that's lying underneath the Interstate Highway across the street. Seriously, that was a terrible place to hide— the first place I'd have looked— but I guess he didn't have much choice, since Lowell couldn't have walked far in that condition.

"Take her over there," I tell him, turning to go back in for Dad.

He catches my shoulder. "You can't go back in there!" he says.

"It's all right," I reply, "Sunshine's protecting me from the smoke."

"No, I mean, you can't." He points. Orange flames are licking up from the floor of the lobby ten feet away, spreading to climb greedily up the walls even as I watch.

Sunshine? I ask. Can you shield me from a fire that big?

She sends a pulse of warm comfort through my mind, meaning Yes.

"I'll be fine," I tell Dylan with more confidence than I feel. Walking into a burning building is probably the stupidest thing I've ever done, but...

"He's my Dad," I tell Dylan simply, pulling myself out of his limp grasp. "I have to try."

I stride into the flames, Sunshine's power protecting me as she promised. I take the stairs at a run, and find Dad lying face-down right at the top of them, having dragged himself there before losing consciousness.

I try to lift him by the shoulders, but he's so heavy. With a struggle, I manage to drag his torso down onto the first step, but any further and he runs the risk of simply tumbling all the way down the stairs and into the inferno that's consumed the apartment's lobby. I glance down; to my alarm, the fire is climbing the stairs, nearly halfway up already.

"Can you hold the fire back?" I ask Sunshine desperately. By way of answer, she pushes the fire down the stairs, leaving charred carpet behind. The flames rage beyond an invisible barrier which is just Sunshine's will, refusing to let the flames come any closer.

I turn my attention back to trying to get Dad down the stairs. Eventually I manage to lever his upper body into position on my back and walk a couple of torturously difficult steps down the stairs, with his weight threatening to push me forwards into a headlong tumble at any moment. Finally, after a few more difficult steps, my legs feel like they're about to give way. I lower Dad's weight onto the stairs again and kneel next to him, exhausted and gasping for air. I've barely got him a quarter of the way down.

I'm beginning to feel lightheaded, and I suddenly realize my mistake. While Sunshine can prevent the soot from sticking around in my lungs, she can't conjure air out of nowhere. There's no oxygen in the air any more, with the flames now licking up the sides of the staircase; I'm about to run out of breath without even stopping breathing.

I suddenly realize I'm lying facedown on the stairs. That's odd... when did I lie down? I wonder faintly. I'm exhausted... But wasn't I just resting? I should get up, start helping Dad down the stairs. But my body won't move. So tired... Maybe I'll take a short nap; just a short one, to help me get up the energy to— to— to do whatever I was doing just now. Whatever it was, it can't be that important. I should just get some rest...

"Oh dear," says a voice from somewhere above me. "Looks like we got here just in time."

I frown to myself, eyes closed. Won't they just let me sleep? "Quit bothering me," I try to say, but it comes out as a vague mumble.

Then a hand grabs me by the back of my shirt, and I feel a strange sensation of everything around me twisting. The stairs feel hard and cool and flat all of a sudden.

I smell grass, and take a deep breath of the smell. A little clarity returns to the world, but it just brings questions. Why would there be grass in the apartment? I wonder, perplexed. And, wait, wasn't the apartment burning?

I sit up with a gasp, then cough explosively, expelling a massive cloud of black soot. The thought of not having Sunshine to keep that stuff from clogging up my lungs, mouth and nose is a bit sickening. More of my thoughts return to me, and I give a shout and turn to look around wildly for Dad. To my relief, he suddenly stirs, coughs and starts spitting up black stuff on the pavement.

Pavement?

I look around; I'm sitting next to Dad on the path leading away from our apartment, which is now blazing in earnest. I stare up at it for a moment, mesmerized by the dancing flames that are gouting from every window and rising off the roof.

"Are you all right?" asks a woman's voice from right beside me.

I give a start, and nearly fall over trying to whirl around while still sitting. "Who—?" I begin, then abruptly cut myself off. There's only one person this could be. Kneeling face to face with me is a young lady— maybe nineteen or twenty years old— with long brown hair and grey eyes, wearing a pretty green dress and what appears to be a pair of sandals. Her name is Camilla, and she's Karen's best friend, the one who masterminded the transformation of the It's Not Right organization from a help website into a multinational support and information exchange network.

Even if I didn't recognize the lady's description, the Pokémon sitting behind her with his eyes closed would have been a dead giveaway. He's a yellow humanoid with a pointy goatlike head, long yellow whiskers, and a brown carapace covering his shoulders and knees. His name is Wes, and he's an Alakazam, the fully evolved form of a very rare and powerful species of Psychic-type Pokémon. Even though he seems to be concentrating very hard on something, he's fiddling with two silver spoons, one in each hand, bending them with the power of his mind and then restoring back into their original shape. They say it helps him focus.

"Rachel?" Camilla asks me, her voice snapping my attention back to the present. "Are you all right? Perhaps in shock...?"

"I'm all right," I say hastily, blushing with embarrassment. "Sorry, it's just... You're Camilla, right? The Camilla?"

She looks amused. "I believe so. I suppose this must be a bit much for you. Let me explain... Your friend Ellen contacted Brian when she saw you were in trouble. He contacted Karen, and she asked me and Wes if we would look into it. Wes teleported us to your friend Brian's house with his help, and he filled us in on the situation. I believe he's currently elsewhere in the city, leading a group of volunteer Trainers from other cities' divisions of the It's Not Right organization against the Thug Life gang, holding them off from converging on your apartment." She smiles just a bit. "Karen wouldn't approve, but I think it's time our organization took a bit more of an... active role in things."

It's all a bit much to take in at once. "How did they all get here, though?" I ask. "Brian lives way out in the suburbs, and..." My brain finally catches up with my mouth. "Wes did all that teleporting?" I wonder out loud, gaping at the calm-looking Pokémon.

"Yes, it's something he's rather good at— oh dear, really, Wes?" Camilla cuts herself off, presumably due to some inaudible message from her Pokémon. "I think that qualifies as a situation that needs our attention. I'm sorry, Rachel, but I have to go. I'll check back in an hour or so; please excuse me." A moment later, without so much as a telltale glow of psychic energy, she and Wes are simply gone.

For a moment, I just stare silently at the place where they were a second ago, but then I remember I have people to get to safety before the Thugs show up. I kneel next to Dad, who seems to have fallen unconscious again; I'm relieved to see, though, that he's breathing steadily and evenly. I glance nervously up at the crackling, groaning apartment building towering above us, and start pulling him away from it.

"Well, well..." says a male voice from a short distance away, a strong Southern accent giving the words the quality of an entertained drawl. "Look what the cat dragged in..."

I give a start, then turn around and see the speaker standing on the sidewalk at the end of the path away from the door. He's wearing a leather vest over a button-down white shirt, dust-stained blue jeans, and a pair of riding boots complete with spurs; all in all, the classic image of a Wild West cowboy. Over it all, though, is a long black trench coat, and a white bandanna is wrapped around his bald head. There's a golden star pinned to the bandanna... Not that it wasn't already clear the guy's important.

Normally I'd at least talk before resorting to violence, but I think I'm pretty justified in assuming the Thugs don't mean anything good by showing up here and now. So I don't have any time to waste on pleasantries. With a thought, I summon one of Sunshine's fireballs into my hand and hurl it at the man, aiming to kill.

A sudden, impossible gust of wind shrieks out of the sky and dashes the baseball-sized orb of fire against the ground, scattering it into a bunch of tiny harmless flames that quickly go out. There are sharp edges of compressed air in the midst of the powerful gust, which leave visible marks in the cement of the path in front of me. I freeze, realizing how close I just came to dying.

"Now, now, was that nice?" the man says in his thick Texan drawl, grinning at me with extremely white teeth. "Y'all are lucky Roc an' I ain't in the mood for that sort o' pre-emptive strikes, or y'all'd be in pieces already," he points out unnecessarily, indicating the slashes the Razor Wind made in the pavement.

The shriek of a bird of prey from above serves to underline the implied threat. A moment later, a shadow falls on the man in front of me, and a huge Pokémon flaps down from the sky and comes to rest on his shoulders. It's a Fearow, a species aptly named for the fearsome red crest on its head and its dangerous-looking facial markings, which resemble frowning eyebrows. I'm pretty sure most Fearows are supposed to be only three or four feet tall, but this one easily clears six, with at least an eight-foot wingspan. It glares down at me with open contempt written across its posture. Somehow it pulls the body language off better than some humans.

"I reckon I should introduce myself," drawls the man, tapping one of his cowboy boots against the sidewalk absently. "I'm Hayes, the leader o' the Thug Life gang. And you—" He pronounces it like 'yew' "...You, I'd bet my bandanna, are none other'n Rachel Avery."

"That's me," I say, with the steadiest voice I can muster. "Would you please leave?"

"Hmm..." Hayes says, appearing to consider the idea with mock seriousness. "...Nope. No can do, girlie. I ain't leavin' till y'all are dead as doornails."

"Then you'll have to go through me!" shouts a voice from amidst the shrubbery in our apartment's small front yard. Tom, his skin and his black-and-white clothes alike stained with soot so that he looks even more like his zebra Pokémon, emerges from hiding to stand between me and the leader of the Thug Life gang. His Blitzle follows him, sparks dancing threateningly all along its body and gathering around the lightning-bolt-shaped tip of its spiky white mane.

"Same," says Mohawk's quiet voice from right near my ear, startling me. He moved so silently, I didn't even hear him approach over the crackling from the burning apartment behind us. "Get lost." His Charmeleon growls, echoing the sentiment, the flame on its tail flaring in readiness for a fight.

Their support makes me feel warm inside, and restores some of my hope... But I would still rather see Hayes leave peacefully. Seeing Tom and Mohawk— Matt— get hurt fighting for me is about the worst thing I can imagine, short of dying at the hands of this nasty man. "I'll ask you again," I say steadily, "Please just leave this whole thing behind."

"Haw haw haw!" Hayes guffaws, somehow managing to slap his thigh without disturbing the giant Fearow perched on his shoulders. "That's rich, comin' from a soot-stained lil' hussy hidin' behind a bunch o' kid Trainers fer protection! Haw haw haw haw!"

Behind me, Dad stirs slightly. "That laugh..." he mutters hoarsely, then pauses to cough. "I'd recognize it... Anywhere..."

Hayes grins his white-toothed grin, a bit of malice to the expression now. "Yeeeeeah, I reckon y'all's gone without hearin' it long enough, pardner," he drawls. "Hoped you'd never see me agin, didn't y'all?"

Dad reaches up with one hand, and I help him to stand up. He pulls himself to his feet, but then has to lean heavily on my shoulder. "You know I'd like nothing better than to forget this silly feud," he says tiredly, still in that hoarse smoky voice. "I have no personal quarrel with you, Jonathan, no more than I do with any member of a gang that makes a mockery of what America used to be."

"Still spoutin' that drivel?" Hayes asks derisively. "Thought y'all'd give it a rest after leavin' us. How'd them IA sons o' bitches put up with that shit?"

"They didn't," Dad says simply, sounding immensely tired. I put a comforting arm around his waist, careful of his injured back, and shift myself to hold more of his weight. "I never joined them. There's been no Intelligence Agency presence in Seattle since before the war ended."

Hayes's eyes bug out, then he grins. "Haw haw haw... HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW!!" he laughs uproariously. "You kept the entire city's gangs unner control completely on yer own, jus' by bluffin'! An' none of us knew a doggone thing! Haw haw haw haw!! Only you, Avery, only you!" He wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. "Gawd, it's times like this I almost wish I didn't have ta kill you an' everythin' you love."

"Please, Jonathan," Dad begs, "Leave them out of it. I'll surrender, and you can do whatever you want to me... But leave these kids alone."

"The Shell kids can go," Hayes says, still grinning, "But that lil' lovely yore leanin' on is goin' with y'all. I ain't that forgivin', you asshole... Y'all betrayed us, remember? Y'all shoulda thought o' yore lovin' family before ya went an' ran off."

"You betrayed me long before I betrayed you," Dad says, and I can feel his smoldering anger in the way he changes his stance, his weight lifting off of me as he stands tall despite his injury and the smoke in his lungs. "You betrayed me, and the entire world, the moment you told Seattle's Elite that it was hopeless, and that we should just carve ourselves a bit of heaven out of hope's bleeding carcass."

"Haw haw..." chortles Hayes. "I weren't so eloquent as all that. Y'all's creditin' me with paintin' too pretty a picture. Far as I recall, my words were... 'Well, Council're fucked; let's go home an' show these D.C. gang wannabes how it's done.'"

"Everyone would have followed you if you'd chosen to revive what the Council started!" Dad tells him savagely, raw pain in his voice. "But instead, the most decorated platoon leader on our side of the Second Civil War became a self-proclaimed 'Thug' living on the suffering of others." Dad spits on the ground, disgusted. "The Jonathan Hayes I knew is dead!"

"Dead and gone," agrees Hayes with a nasty grin. "Can't say I'm bothered. I like the new Hayes better— he ain't tied down by all them whinin' ingrates who watch a man save 'em all an' then kick 'im in the teeth." He pauses. "Well, I've said all I wanted ta say. Get out the way, kids, or I'll kill y'all with 'em."

By way of response, Tom's Blitzle lets loose with the massive bolt of lightning it's been charging since it and its Trainer emerged from hiding. I shut my eyes just in time, but the light from the blast can be seen even through my eyelids. A smell of ozone hits my nose, and I open my eyes to see...

Hayes standing there, laughing, with his Pokémon still sitting there on his shoulders. A ring of scorched earth surrounds him, its inner edge stopping at a faint, transparent barrier around him. "Much obliged, Gloria," he says to the empty air. "My turn."

His Pokémon launches itself straight up off his shoulders, then, climbing higher into the air, flaps once, whipping up a gust of wind. Impossibly strong— clearly the product of the ability of Flying-type Pokémon to somehow manipulate wind— the gust seizes the six of us and nearly blows us all into the burning building behind us. Reacting quickly, Dad grabs me and Tom and bears us both to the ground under his weight, while Mohawk seizes the two Pokémon and does the same. The apartment fire roars with the sudden extra supply of air, and an ominous creak comes from the building, like it's nearly ready to fall on us.

The Fearow flaps again, but there's no repeated gust of wind. Instead, a small, faintly visible whirlwind begins to rise upwards from the ground underneath the bird Pokémon, growing in size until it surrounds its creator. Flashes of white— blades made of air compressed so strongly it reflects light— appear in the spinning vortex.

There's no way any of us can get out of the way before all the murderous strength of the Razor Wind is unleashed. I remember that wind created by Flying-type Pokémon can sometimes exceed the speed of even the strongest gales. Other useless facts race through my mind as I stare up at the last stages of what could very well be the attack that kills us all.

Think, Rachel, I rail at myself. But my mind won't stop coming back to my geology classes, throwing worthless tidbits of information at me: the winds in a tornado can travel as fast as a hundred miles per hour, but hurricanes can be even faster; wind turbines are the source of most of our energy needs nowadays, since nuclear and geothermal power plants need specialized parts that are no longer produced; wind is the product of differences in pressure resulting from warm air rising in one place and cold air falling in another...

...Warm air... rising?

I crawl forward as quickly as I can, racing to get as far away from Dad and Tom as possible...

With a shriek of those blades of compressed air, the Razor Wind leaps free from the control of its creator, racing towards us with the deadliness of a thousand bullets.

It's met with all the heat Sunshine can give me, an inferno that erupts upwards from my body and sends the razor-filled wind careening into the sky with an angry buzz like a nest full of hornets. The stream of air continues, and I know that if even a bit of it gets through to me or the five people I'm defending, it's all over.

Seconds pass; Sunshine starts to get tired, fighting to maintain the huge fire in my mind— as it diminishes, the flames around my body die a bit lower, and the deadly wind is deflected less and less until it's flying close over my head and feeding the inferno in the building behind me. The candle in my mind has power to spare, but Sunny simply can't burn it fast enough— something important is missing. Frantically, I search for something, anything, to give her.

Then she nudges my thoughts to a particular set of memories... And I start to get angry. At first, I see flashes of unrelated stuff that's always made me mad in the past: Ellen lying injured in the rain, bleeding from three deep wounds in her side; Carl gloating as his Pokémon inflicts horror after horror on me; a bald-headed man in a white bandanna holding his frightened victim's wallet... Then I begin to tap into my anger against the man standing in front of me, smiling that smug smile as he watches me fight for my life and those of the people who stood up for me. He's the one who injured Dad in the first place, I'm now certain, remembering the ugly slash across Dad's back and comparing it to the gashes in the pavement. He betrayed Dad after the war, betrayed us all, by throwing away a dream— The Council's dream— Ellen's dream! I grind my teeth. Throwing away the one thing I value above all else is possibly the one thing I can never forgive. How could anyone hold so much hope in their hands, and crush it?

The flames around me grow stronger again as the fire in my heart rises to match them. Sunshine feels my rage at the stupid, stupid waste of all that potential for good, and feeds it back to me. The candle in my mind begins to burn away faster and faster; and I watch with detached fascination as the bonfire of our shared anger melts it down to the halfway point, and keeps going...

Then, abruptly, the heat of the flames rising from my body reaches a critical point. The deadly stream of blade-filled air, which until now was simply being deflected, suddenly begins to splash directly into the wall of fire... And is turned back by its raw fury, straight back to its maker. The Fearow narrowly avoids being cut to pieces by its own redirected attack by falling out of the air with a startled squawk. The heavy bird lands hard on the ground ten feet below with the sound of breaking bones, and thrashes briefly with a shriek of pain before losing consciousness.

The danger seems to be over. I sigh and let go of my rage with difficulty; my fire dies down to a steady burn as Sunshine conserves energy. I'm glad, I think, relief beginning to grow to replace the receding anger in my heart. I was afraid that would kill me. I'm glad I never had to make the choice the Golden Boy did; sacrificing myself in anger instead of compassion doesn't sound like something he'd have been proud of me for. I realize I'm still lying down, my limbs leaden with tiredness from all the power Sunshine drew from me. Still, I'd better get up...

Suddenly, as I begin to get to my feet, my body freezes... And starts to hurt all over, like I'm being pressed on from all sides. I immediately recognize the sensation, and my dwindling anger suddenly flares to life again.

Psychic-types... I growl inwardly. The drab woman named Gloria is lurking somewhere unseen... And her Pokémon, it seems, is not only holding me but trying to crush me with its power. According to the laws of physics, of course, doing so shouldn't be too difficult for a creature whose mind is strong enough to telekinetically lift and throw boulders, or create a barrier that can divert a massive lightning bolt... But the strange rules that govern some abilities of Pokémon seem to treat living things as much more difficult to manipulate. The theory is that there's some kind of strong, innate psychic resistance in every living thing's body, or something like that.

Right now, though, the theoretical guesswork doesn't really matter to me. All that matters is that I'm not scared, or even worried... Just extremely angry. How dare she treat my body like a plaything? She's like Carl, always thinking he can do whatever he likes to people, just because his Pokémon has more power than most people can ever dream of having! My anger at Carl for every single stupid, petty, unpleasant thing he's done to me since I met him gets channeled into my rage at the cold, uncaring woman who's supporting her nasty leader in terrorizing an entire city that just wants to live in peace.

My anger expands to fill me once more with empowering, uncontrolled, frightening warmth, pushing back the force that threatens to crush me. With Sunshine's help, I find the invisible, intangible pipeline the Claydol has created in my mind to send its power through, and I pour all the white-hot fire of my anger into it. The fire collides with the flow of psychic power— which is light purple in my mind's eye— racing in the opposite direction, and curdles to an inky pool of black, frustrated hatred. Then that intense feeling of hate suddenly breaks through the tide of crushing psychic energy, darkness jetting like high-pressure water towards my attacker, the psychic equivalent of a vigorous poke in the eye.

I'm jolted back to the real world by a distant, unearthly wail of terror. In the sky behind Hayes, past the raised pillars of the Interstate highway, a bright pink glow is lighting the sides of a circle of skyscrapers. Half a second later, the light disappears, as do the invisible shackles holding me. The Claydol and its Trainer that were skulking back there are both incapacitated for now... And from the impression I got before the link to my mind was severed, I'm fairly certain the Psychic-type is now permanently blind in all but one of its eight eyes.

The funny thing about anger, I think nastily, all my tiredness forgotten, Is that it feeds on itself. Like fire. My rage isn't at all assuaged by the horrible thing I just did to that Pokémon and its Trainer... That just made it stronger.

I turn towards Hayes, the flames around me climbing higher as my fury mounts. My vision is tunnelling, but it's not blackness at the edges; it's red. Sunshine and I blaze, twin suns, one inside and one outside, consumed by so much anger— so much anger!— that there's no doubt something, someone, is going to break forever before we burn out.

I point at the man, whose eyes are wide with real fear now that his psychic backup and his Pokémon are both missing. He should be afraid. "You!" I say, my voice crackling with the vicious heat of my anger. The pure, unforgiving rage inside me urges me to crush this evil man like he's crushed so many others. I feel like a goddess passing judgment, condemning him. "You were given the power to do what you liked with the world. And this is what you made?" I gesture contemptuously, furiously, at the crumbling Interstate highway, the deserted streets where non-Trainers fear to tread. Tears of rage run down my face. "You took all the power of your Pokémon, and all the trust of the Trainers who followed you through the hell of war... And you used them poorly."

I gesture, and a ring of fire springs from the ground around Hayes. He sits there in the middle of it, staring at me numbly. His life is entirely in my hands. In his eyes I can see clearly a single Mark, that of the candle of his hope— extinguished long ago and never again lit. It sickens me.

"You were so keen to kill a man you called a betrayer. Should I do the same?" I ask him vengefully. Do it! says my pounding heart, caught up in the furious, ruthless cascade of anger running through it. He would have killed you without a second thought! Every part of me is clamouring for his death... Every part except one.

Another fire, tiny and silvery-white next to the vast red blaze of my rage, is burning in a deep corner of me, a corner I can barely recognize through the veil of my righteous fury. That fire is far smaller, but so much more intense... It tells me there's no person in the world who deserves death— no candle that can't be lit again. I look back at the Mark I can see in the eyes of the man in front of me, and suddenly, along with the hateful sight of abandoned dreams, I see in that unlit candle the potential for new hope.

My hatred rages at me; it tells me that gangs wouldn't exist to hurt people if Hayes hadn't thrown the dream away, shows me horrible images of Ellen being struck by Symon's cactus Pokémon, asks me how I could possibly forgive anyone who would do that to her... But that other, kinder fire tells me about the future that even someone like Hayes could still help to create, shows me the image of a place where Pokémon are used to help people instead of hurt them: a world where everyone has hope for the future, and where Ellen will always smile her lovely smile.

It's that smile that shows me the path I want to take; I embrace the fire of Ellen's dream, its tenderly laid timber of her smiles and soft, hopeful words are so very different from the memories of horror and pain that fuel my anger.

I take a step toward Hayes, then another, until I'm standing right in front of the man, in the middle of the wall of flames surrounding him. Then I let the ring of fire die, as well as the flames rising from me. "No," I say quietly, the sound of a different fire— Ellen's fire— wavering softly in my voice. "I won't hurt you. Not when there's so much you can still do to fix what you destroyed."

Tears run down the man's face. "It's you," he murmurs, staring up at me with an astonished look of revelation spreading across his face. Slowly, faintly, the candle in his eyes flickers to life. Its tiny flame wavers... and then steadies. "I don' believe it... The spirit o' the Golden Boy is back. That look in his eyes... It's the same, was always the same."

I don't get it at first. If this man really met the Golden Boy, and considers the fire I have the same as his... Why do I not feel like a martyr?

Then understanding hits me like a brick. The Golden Boy's message was never one of self-sacrifice, was it? I realize, with the feeling of uncovering a great truth. It was hope. His sacrifice was just one example of his immense willingness to do anything to keep hope alive.

So... Having realized this, am I somehow the Golden Boy's successor, like Hayes seems to suddenly believe? Am I destined to be the one to carry his message? Somehow that seems... not quite right. I still can't bring myself not to hate Hayes, no matter that I've decided to spare him, even help him. The fire in me is silver, not golden; harsh and judging instead of soft. My light is that of the moon, beautiful in its own way but only ever shining when it reflects the radiance of the sun. I still have my dark side.

"No... It's not me. I'm just the messenger," I tell Hayes with a pained smile. "The real Golden Girl would never have acted in anger. She would have forgiven you— all of you— from the start."

"So... She isn't here after all?" Hayes asks, his posture like that of a man lost in a storm at sea.

"No, no," I say, smiling more to myself than to him. "She's very much here."

If anyone has the spirit of the Golden Boy, it's Ellen.


~~~~~~~~~~


The first people to arrive and find me standing over the defeated leader of the Thug Life gang are a few of the volunteers from the It's Not Right organization. They're wearing all sorts of different clothing, but each one of them has, somewhere on their body, a small pin in the shape of a sun with wavy flame-shaped rays coming off of it— the organization's symbol, meant to show that we're a light in the darkness for people in trouble. They've heard of me; apparently Karen and Camilla referred to me as "the leader of the Seattle division," and they seem to simply assume I'm in charge of everything going on today. To my astonishment, they greet me with a salute. It's a little mind-boggling; I'd never realized other cities' divisions were so... official. Seattle's group is small— we're just a bunch of kids, after all— and I'm really only the 'leader' by being the one who's the most interested in organizing what few events and meet-ups we have.

Trying to play the part, I jokingly tell the first group to be 'at ease,' military-style, but they seem to take the 'order' completely seriously; they stop saluting but immediately start giving me military-sounding reports about what they call 'casualty-free action' throughout the city. It's kind of surreal, like being thrown straight into the last scene of a war movie and told to play the part of the victorious general. More and more reports trickle in, until I wonder if there aren't hundreds of volunteers flocking into Seattle, and I find myself having to put my exhaustion aside and listen carefully to all the volunteers' accounts.

They're interesting, at the very least. There have been scuffles all over the city, mostly with Thugs but also with other, smaller gangs that wanted in on the action. Despite that, there haven't been many injuries; our organization isn't military, after all, so all the volunteers have kept to a strict policy of not biting off more than they could chew, as well as avoiding hurting their opponents seriously where possible.

Over the next half-hour, the reports change to a series of surrenders by the Thug Life gang members; Hayes, who's now kneeling by his broken-winged Fearow tending to its injuries as best he can, informs me that this is because he's "taken the liberty o' havin' Gloria tell my lieutenants to surrender."

It turns out the Golden Boy was kind of a hero figure to the Seattle Elites, the platoon Hayes commanded during the Second Civil War, as Dad informs me confidentially in a brief moment of privacy between reports— their dedication to the Young Saint was absolute, as well as, in Dad's opinion, somewhat fanatical. Apparently the Golden Boy's death was what broke Lieutenant Jonathan Hayes so completely that he turned to a life of crime. And from what I hear, the Thug Life gang's core of members only consists of about half the platoon; the other half left in disgust when Hayes converted the Seattle Elite platoon into a gang.

"Why did he have a vendetta just against you, then?" I ask Dad.

"We were very good friends at one time," Dad replies with a melancholy smile. "When I left— the one person he thought would stay with him no matter what— and allowed him to think I'd been an Intelligence Agency plant all along, he took it as a great betrayal and swore revenge."

"Oh." I say.

I still don't really know what to make of Hayes. He seems like a completely changed man; so much so that I can't quite bring myself to trust him. What kind of person changes his mind completely like that, in a matter of minutes? One moment he was willing to kill my entire family for some imagined slight... and now, less than an hour later, he's obeying me without question? I wonder suspiciously. But when I ask Dad if he has the same suspicions, he simply shrugs. "The Golden Boy was something special. It's been a long time, but I can remember the kind of loyalty he inspired. If Hayes says you're the Golden Boy reincarnated or some such... then, provided he truly believes it, he'd go to the ends of the earth on a fool's errand if you told him to. It sounds crazy, I suppose, but such is fanaticism."

It does sound crazy... and yet it seems Dad's right. The leader of the Thug Life gang seems to have appointed himself my number one fan. His opinion of me seems to be not only that I'm a worthy opponent who's defeated him, but also the 'Golden Girl's messenger,' whatever that means. I'm not impressed— it sounds like a title he made up on the spot, in some kind of attempt to appease me. Oddly, though, whether or not it means anything to me, the title clearly means something to Hayes; he hasn't denied a single one of my requests for information about the Thug Life gang, from an account of its glorious past— glorious to hear him tell it, anyways— as the Seattle Elite platoon to its most recent unsavoury dealings (including no small amount of extortion, petty robbery and ruthless subjugation of other gangs.)

At the very least he has the grace to look shamefaced as he gives an account of the latter half of his group's exploits; the look on his face as he tells me about the people whose lives he's destroyed indicates a kind of dazed revulsion towards himself, as though he's just now waking up and realizing what a horrible person he's been for more than eight years. I try not to feel vindicated by his growing self-loathing, but at the very least, he deserves to feel terrible for everything he's done in the eight years since he threw away hope like a piece of trash.

Within an hour or so of the first volunteers arriving, some men and women in white bandannas and black coats trudge into the camp, dragging large mattresses and pallets removed from a Thug Life hideout in the nearby alleys. Then they turn themselves over to the several squads of volunteers that have set up a 'home base' of sorts in the middle of the street a little ways down from our still-burning apartment. Mom takes the pallets and adds them to the makeshift infirmary she's already begun setting up underneath the Interstate highway overpass, where the late afternoon sun won't bother her charges.

Mom has been as busy as I have for the last hour. After getting everything set up, she's occupied herself with tending to Lowell's shoulder injury, Hayes's broken-winged bird Pokémon, and five or six other people and Pokémon injured in the fighting, Thugs and volunteers alike. As I was told in the reports, actual injuries are relatively few and minor; mostly fractures and one dislocated shoulder. As soon as they're all taken care of, she goes up to Dad and demands that he also lie down. In her words, "You're not in good enough shape to be gallivanting about, Stan! You can barely walk! Now have a seat and stay out of trouble..."

There's now a steady stream of bandanna-and-jacket-wearing 'prisoners' and their Pokémon being escorted into the camp by smaller groups of volunteers. Their captors seem to be taking things seriously as far as the actual delivery of the so-called prisoners, but as soon as the Trainers in the white bandannas get to the camp, they just sit down somewhere and start chatting with the nearest friendly face, whether that person is a fellow gang member or a volunteer. It's all very calm and civil, which seems odd to me. I guess the truce Hayes and I have is considered basically a temporary alliance, but shouldn't these volunteers feel a little uneasy supervising this many criminals?

Slowly it becomes clear that the dynamic here isn't so much the Thugs surrendering to a stronger force as it is a discliplined military group willingly joining forces with a somewhat distrustful set of allies. Listening in, I actually hear one or two of the 'prisoners' giving their captors tips on how best to watch over them.

One bandanna-wearing woman is sitting with her hands on the back of her head, demonstrating the best position to have dangerous prisoners take in order to deny them access to possible hidden weapons. "Transfer of tools or hidden weaponry is the best way to prepare for a sudden escape," she's saying to the group of teenage boy and girl Trainers who are watching her. 'Keep an eye out for any prisoners getting too close to each other or exchanging signals."

I shake my head in disbelief and move on, wandering through a camp full of sights like this. The world's gone crazy, I think wonderingly. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing— I like the kind of crazy world where gang members start acting like disciplined soldiers and giving tips to members of an organization dedicated to stopping the injustices gangs perpetrate. It's almost like something magical is happening, somehow drawing all these people together behind a cause that I once pretended to think was just an idealistic girl's dream. But even for all the years I pretended to be a cynic, I think with a smile, I always secretly wanted the same thing you did, Ellen.

I'm brought up short mid-stride by a sudden shadow falling across my field of vision. I look up to see who it is that's suddenly standing in my way, and see Gloria coming to a stop a few feet ahead of me, a hard expression on her face. The knees of her drab purple dress are stained with mud. Her grey spinning-top-shaped Pokémon is floating behind her, its one bright pink eye regarding me balefully; the other seven are dark and empty, victims of my rage. I'd feel guilty, but the Pokémon sustained its injury while basically invading my mind and binding my body with its powers, two things I can't stand seeing done to anyone. Gloria and her Pokémon got off lightly— if I'd been even a little angrier by then...

"What do you want?" I ask, returning the unpleasant woman's glare. "Are you here to chew me out for defending myself?"

"Of course not," Gloria says in her uninteresting, monotone voice. "Injuries sustained in battle are to be expected when one underestimates one's opponent."

I frown at her. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?"

"No," she says frankly. "If we were to meet in battle at this point, I would win. Sigil and I have your measure."

I tense. I'm not in any shape for a fight, if she's trying to pick one. "And?"

"I won't fight you," she says simply. "The platoon leader has ordered surrender, and it's not my place to question. But be aware, girl, that our eyes will be on you at all times. The foul power you used on us reeks of darkness and evil. Even if the platoon leader has been fooled into believing you are the messenger of the Golden One who was for so long the icon of our division, we have not."

"So, let me get this straight," I say, trying not to grind my teeth. "You think I'm evil because I got mad at you for trying to make my head explode, and that's the reason you're gonna be watching me nonstop to make sure I don't turn into some kind of demon and lead your illustrious leader astray? Is that it?"

"Your use of hatred as a psychic weapon is understandable," Gloria says, a catty tone entering her voice. It's only slightly preferable to her monotone. "The power you used to deliver it, however, is not a proper psychic's tool; it had the reek of the unnatural to it. Deny that you commune with creatures that have no place in this world, if you can!"

I've just about had it with this unpleasant lady's snark. "Yeah, I'd say I commune with Pokémon pretty often," I retort scathingly. "The only ones I'd say are all that unnatural are the ones that go into your head and try to snoop around."

The Claydol behind Gloria realizes its probing has been noticed, and the lone pink eye that's insinuated itself into my mind withdraws abruptly from where it was squinting at the outside of that dark place where Sunshine's candle rests. To my relief, it didn't seem able to see through the walls of the dark room, fortunately, but I make a mental note to see if I can learn some way of keeping Psychic-types out of my mind entirely.

Still glaring at the nosy Pokémon and its Trainer, I cross my arms and raise one eyebrow; Gloria's challenging gaze slides off mine for a moment. "Yeah, I thought so," I say scathingly. "Don't go calling other people's methods 'unnatural' until you've got a firm handle on what the word actually means."

If I didn't know better, I'd say Gloria looked shaken. Well, actually, I'm lying; I know she's shaken, because suddenly the firm wall of strange, slippery blankness that's shielding the Mark in her eyes wavers and gives me a very brief glimpse of... Something. I only get a brief look, not long enough to glean anything but an impression of deep, implacable anger... but that's enough for me. I don't want to know her innermost secrets. "It might be a good idea to deal with those anger issues, by the way," I tell Gloria nonchalantly, just to unbalance her. "You might end up like me, using mysterious spooky forces to strike out at people who walk into your head and start rearranging the furniture."

Gloria turns and walks away from me as fast as she can while still maintaining an appearance of dignity. I get a gratifying feeling of vindication out of that, but then I sigh at my own pettiness. Why does that woman bring out the worst in me...? I wonder. Ugh. I'll have to do a bit of introspection one of these days, I decide, if I'm gonna be a proper 'messenger for the Golden Girl.' I can't go having cat fights with every unpleasant person I meet. I'm probably just irritable because I'm so exhausted, though— hopefully my ability to deal with people will return when I've had a good night's sleep.

"Hey... Rachel?" asks a voice from a little ways behind me, one I've never heard before.

Making an effort not to respond grumpily— I'm really too tired to deal with all these people wanting my attention— I turn around and am immediately glad I held my tongue. A boy I've seen only once— during last night's dream-walk— is standing in the street, a smile growing on his face. He's wearing a rather striking grey windbreaker over a sky-blue button-down shirt and scuffed jeans; he looks good... as, I suppose, befits the de facto leader of a team of nearly a hundred volunteers on a rescue mission for an entire city.

"Brian?" I say, breaking into a grin. "Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes. I'm exhausted from dealing with all these Trainers." I go up to him and give him a tight hug, which he takes a moment to return. Poor guy, he must be almost as tired as I am.

"Uhh, hi, Rachel," he says, a bit belatedly, as I let go. I look him up and down one more time; to my relief, even on closer inspection, he doesn't seem injured. "Pleased to meet you."

"Oh, right," I say, still smiling. I step back so he can get a proper lookat me. "I forgot you haven't seen me before in real life. What d'you think?"

He mumbles something.

"Huh?"

"I said, you're beautiful," he repeats clearly, blushing bright red.

Oh.

"Umm, you're looking pretty good yourself, but I can't really, umm..." I stammer, flushing just a little myself. I hadn't realized Brian of all people... How do I break it to him? I wonder. After a moment's deliberation, I decide to take the coward's way out for once. "I mean, now's not a good time. Tell you what, why don't I take you and Bright to meet Dad? Those two deserve a reunion."

"Oh... Yeah, sure," he says, looking a little disappointed, though he's trying to hide it. Clearly my reaction wasn't what he was hoping for. Nevertheless, he follows me over to where Dad's lying face-down on one of the pallets in the shadow of the Interstate.

"Where is Bright, anyways?" I ask him under my breath just before we get there. The last thing I need is for Dad to get introduced to Brian only to find out his beloved Pokémon is injured or something.

Oddly, Brian grins widely. "You'll see. Hi, Mr. Avery!" he says, this last directed at Dad. "Nice to meet you for real."

Dad rolls onto his side and nods up at Brian, trying to smile, but it turns into a wince as the movement jostles his injured back. Adjusting to being among the Thug Life 'captives'— who are really captives in name only— is turning out to be difficult for him. People keep stopping to wish him well. From what he told me in the first half hour or so of the aftermath, before Mom forced him to lie down with the other invalids, he has a lot of memories of these people from the war— not all of them bad— and is finding it a bit hard to reconcile himself with the reality of having them as potential allies after spending so long forcing himself to consider them enemies. He knows, at the very least, that I'm proud of him for sticking to his morals even when the entire world seemed to be against him; I hope that counts for something.

Brian is still smiling. "Say hello to your new old friend, Mr. Avery," he says, and beckons at the either the sky or the Interstate above, I can't tell.

A loud whirring noise fills the air suddenly, like five electric fans all running at once. I squint up into the late afternoon sunlight, and gasp in wonderment when I finally spot the source of the sound. A huge insectoid Pokémon with six orange-red wings is descending from the sky, its wingspan easily as tall and wide as a person with their arms outstretched. Its light blue thorax glows with heat in the shadow cast by the highway above, and white fur surrounds the upper part of its mothlike body. The wings look familiar— not from any picture I've seen, but from my journey with Sunshine to visit Brian during my dream last night. I recall thinking that the Pokémon seemed large compared to the usual sizes the data listed for a Larvesta, and that the wings weren't in the picture. Bright must have been close to evolving for some time, and has done so over the course of the last few days.

Dad is sitting up in bed, his eyes following the flight of his long-time partner and friend with unabashed amazement. He hesitates for a moment when Bright comes to a halt at his bedside, but after a moment, he reaches out tentatively and strokes his Pokémon's fur. His face remains still for quite some time, and I recognize that way Dad and I both have of fully thinking our strongest emotions through before showing them. Brian doesn't know us, so he looks tense for a long minute or two... until Dad smiles, an expression full of such pride and happiness that I almost start crying. It's been far too emotional a day, and I feel like anything could make me cry at this point.

"Come on, Rachel," Brian says, "Let's give them a moment alone." He hesitates, then takes my hand and leads me away in the direction of the ruins of my apartment.

We walk that way for about a minute until we reach the sidewalk in front of the field of smoldering wreckage— I can't really bring myself to let go of his hand until then, since he seems so... happy, I guess.

A glint of reflected sunlight from the ground near my foot makes me look down, and I kneel for a moment to pick up the small, gleaming item. It's my pin— the one I got sent to me when I joined the It's Not Right organization. Ever since then, I've kept it in the drawer of my bedside table. The back of the pin's intact... but the front is all melted together, the yellow paint burned off by the fire, and the chunk of silvery metal is bent in half by whatever freak accident launched it way out onto the sidewalk. Only one yellow flame-shaped ray of 'sunlight' survives to make the badge recognizable.

After I look at it numbly for a moment, rotating it in my hands, it comes to me that, placed on its side, it looks almost like a silver candle with that one yellow flame coming off the top of it. Appropriate, I guess. I pin it to my shirt with a wry smile— even if I can't shine like a sun, better a candle than nothing.

"Wow," Brian says after a while of watching black drifts of ashes ashes blow back and forth across the vacant lot that used to be a five-story apartment building.

"Yeah, Carl really did a number on this one," I say, trying to make light of it. One of the hardest things I've been trying to deal with for the past hour and a half is that everything I own that wasn't in my backpack is gone. And, I guess more importantly, my home is gone. It's where I've lived for my whole life that I can remember. I vaguely recall another place from when I was very young, but it's not the same.

Brian seems to pick up on my melancholy, and after a moment's hesitation, he puts an arm around me. I squirm— rather than being comforting, the gesture just makes me even more uncomfortable. Especially since...

"Brian... I need to talk to you about something," I murmur, gently shrugging his arm off.

"Oh, sorry," he apologizes, trying to hide his disappointment at my reaction. "I didn't mean to be..." He trails off awkwardly, but I know what he meant.

I try to give him a smile, to take away some of the sting of what I know I have to say to him... but I think the expression comes off as more of a grimace. "No, I'm sorry, Brian... It's not you, you're a totally nice guy and I like you as a friend. It's just... I'm actually already... with... Ellen."

Brian's eyes widen, and then he blushes scarlet. "Oh, wow, uhh... I didn't realize... I mean... I'm sorry," he stammers contritely.

"It's okay," I say past a lump in my throat. It's not like he's even got anything to apologize for— in less awkward circumstances, I'd be flattered by his feelings for me, even though I don't feel the same way about him. "We... We can just be friends, right?"

"Yeah, absolutely," Brian says, with a smile that's a bit too cheerful to be genuine, like he's trying to pretend it's no big deal. "Like always."

An awkward silence stretches out for several minutes as we stand there side by side looking at the smoldering ruins of my home. Eventually I mumble something about going back to check on Mom and excuse myself. I glance back once, and see Brian just standing there, staring silently past the smoking pile of rubble. My heart sinks. Poor Brian...

Walking back into the main part of the growing camp on the street, I look around for something to distract me from how terrible I feel about myself right now. Fortunately, there's plenty.

I go over to a group of volunteers and bandanna-wearing ex-Thugs who are standing in a circle in some kind of formal discussion, and start getting myself caught up with the situation.

Some of the Thug Life gang has chosen to fight back or go into hiding instead of surrender— almost all of them members who were never part of the Seattle Elite platoon, having joined after Hayes returned to the city. The estimate is about twenty or thirty Trainers, most of them sub-par but still extremely dangerous to anyone without a Pokémon. The volunteers are accepting suggestions from the ex-Thugs in the circle about how to go about dealing with the few that have chosen to fight. They're asking questions about how to take them in without anyone being hurt, which I approve of— however, the general consensus seems to be that the best way to do this is to use Psychic-types to hold down any opponents they can... which I don't quite agree with, even if it does make sense. There's something that rubs me the wrong way about psychics holding someone against their will with an invisible force they can't fight. I dismiss the feeling as a personal bias born of having it done to me too often— I imagine there are plenty of good uses for Psychic-type Pokémon; I simply haven't seen them yet.

Notably, of the few Seattle Elites not accounted or among the so-called captives is Gerald, the well-dressed Trainer of Bernard the Houndoom. When I hear a bandanna-wearing man mention his name, I ask about his whereabouts, but the ex-Thug tells me Gerald is nowhere to be found, having absconded mysteriously to parts unknown rather than turn himself in to 'that spineless cretin and his girl-child.' I'm not sorry to see the back of him— just concerned about whoever he's causing trouble for, now that that person isn't me. I'm confident he'll surface again when it's least convenient, though; he really seems to hate me and Dad.

I'm distracted from the discussion by the sounds of a scuffle over by the perimeter of the camp, and I excuse myself to go and investigate. I arrive to see a pair of female volunteers trying to hold onto a struggling girl, who looks to be about fourteen or fifteen years old, without hurting her. I've seen the girl before, but it takes me a moment to place her; she was the timid-looking one who was with the Shell gang when they were waiting for me and Mom outside our apartment. The girl's little grey dog Pokémon, the one Symon and Carl used to track Mom's scent back to the apartment building, is racing in circles around the scuffle, barking shrilly and snapping ineffectually at the volunteers' ankles. Between their shouting and the Poochyena's yaps, the scuffle is quickly drawing onlookers.

"Hey!" I shout as loudly as I can— which is pretty loudly. I've got a voice that carries well. The little grey Poochyena jumps about a foot in the air and shuts up, and the struggle suddenly ceases as all three of its participants turn to stare at me.

"Just what's going on here?" I ask, walking up to them and frowning. "This is no time to be walking around the city," I tell the girl. "Shouldn't you be at home with your parents?"

"I have no parents," the girl snaps back, surprisingly fiercely for someone I originally pegged as timid. "And you're the same age as me, so shouldn't you be at home?"

"I have no home," I respond simply. "It just burned down. Now, will you calm down so those girls can let go of you safely, and tell me why you're snooping around what basically amounts to a paramilitary encampment?"

She seems to deflate, all the fight going out of her as she looks around and realizes just how many people are wearing the sun-shaped pins of the It's Not Right organization. "I was just curious," she says, sounding cowed. "Who are you people, anyway?"

"We're an organization called It's Not Right," I explain. "We're normally dedicated to just helping kids who're in some kind of trouble with Trainers, but our leaders have decided it's time to stop settling for helping people one at a time."

"But where did they all come from?" the girl asks, eyes wide.

"They were teleported here by one of the organization's leaders," I tell her. "They'll probably go home after this, so I'm gonna have my work cut out for me, even if Seattle's Elites get their act together and help me out under Hayes's leadership."

"What?" she asks. "Who are Seattle's Elites?"

"Sorry," I say distractedly, "I was thinking out loud." I'm no longer really paying attention to my conversation with the girl, because the leader I mentioned a moment ago— Camilla— just appeared out of thin air close to the centre of the camp, along with Wes, two other Trainers, their Pokémon, and a pile of what look like tent kits.

"I'll just... go, then," the girl next to me says, turning slowly as if to leave.

"No, stick around," I tell her distractedly. "I'll see if I can find you a place to stay after all this is over. Somewhere you won't have to worry about your Pokémon being taken advantage of by people like Carl and Symon. In the meantime, Mom looks like she can use a little help; she's over there tending to the injured people." I wave a hand in the direction of the makeshift infirmary.

"Your mom is Catherine Avery??" the girl says in astonishment. I'd forgotten how well-known Mom is in this neighbourhood, since she's one of the only practicing doctors left in the city.

"Shh. Go help," I say, my full attention now on the three Trainers, the other two of whom are looking around the camp in astonishment.

One is a young man with a round face and short brown hair who's wearing jeans and a white hoodie under a scruffy-looking faded brown coat; the coat is buttoned tight against the autumn wind, which is rapidly growing colder as the sun dips toward the horizon. The It's Not Right badge pinned to the lapel has a ":D" smiley face painted onto it, and the badge's owner is looking around with an expression that mirrors the one on the sun-shaped pin. Clearly he thinks this paramilitary base of operations is the coolest thing since the Golden Boy. He keeps on staring and grinning with amazement as a bunch of people in white bandannas start helping pin-wearing volunteers set up the tents from the kits Camilla brought. As he cranes his neck and tries to watch everything at the same time, he unconsciously runs his hand through the tan fur of the large cat Pokémon that's rubbing its head against his side. The Pokémon is a Persian, a species that looks like an exceptionally sleek house cat, but with the proportions of a panther or leopard and a slender tail that curls elegantly at the end. It purrs loudly as the young man— who absolutely has to be Porter, Karen's best friend and Camilla's boyfriend— strokes its back absently.

If that's Porter, though, and Camilla's here with him, that would mean the girl with them is... No way!

I take my first look at Karen, the founder and official leader of the It's Not Right organization. She's a young lady with an earnest, open face that's framed by a tumble of unruly but lovely black hair that falls just past her shoulders. I notice that her pink chemise and skirt match perfectly, but her red coat looks like it was thrown over them hastily. Her Pokémon— the famous Mina— is a huge light brown hippopotamus-like Ground-type with a dark grey back and big friendly blue eyes; she's one of a species of Pokémon called Hippowdon. My impression that Karen wasn't expecting to travel to Seattle by teleport until just recently is reinforced by the fact that neither she nor Mina seems to know what's going on, though obviously she's catching on quickly. She looks positively flabbergasted by everything she's seeing.

Unfortunately, she also doesn't look nearly as pleased by all this as Porter does.

Karen is saying something to Camilla in a quiet but intense tone, which makes Porter stop and turn to regard them with a look of sudden trepidation appearing on his face. Apparently all is not well with the triad of the It's Not Right organization's administrators; I walk closer, until I can hear what Karen's saying.

"...not what I made this organization for!" she's telling Camilla in a whisper-shout, glaring at the slightly taller girl. "I stood by while you turned It's Not Right into an information exchange, because I thought no harm could ever come of good people comparing notes. Was that all just to build a network of spies and agents?" she asks furiously.

"Of course not!" Camilla responds in the same intense tone. "I did all of this for you, Karen, and never once left behind the caring spirit you founded it with. But the world is moving on, with or without us. Surely you can see that! Should we be called the organization that stood by as the first chance at hope in more than seven years struggled and died? We're the only ones who can help get rid of the gangs in Seattle once and for all!"

Karen doesn't look mollified in the least. "I thought you were finally done with manipulating people for what you think is best, Camilla! What right do you have to bring all these volunteers here and make them risk their lives for a cause you never even asked them about? And don't go telling me you did this all just to help kids with Trainer problems, because as far as I can tell, the kids you came here to 'help' were handling things just fine until you stuck your nose in and turned this into a battle! And did you even think about what happens next? Even if you find somewhere to lock all these ones up, another gang will take over where they left off! You put everyone in danger, and what did you even accomplish??"

To my astonishment, Karen seems to be near tears. Thinking about it for a moment, I can sort of see why— all these volunteers were originally people she asked to help her with a peaceful, non-confrontational help network, and she took responsibility for their safety... but today, apparently without her even being told about it, they were used as an impromptu militia to fight an entire hundred-person-plus gang. My heart goes out to her, even as I sympathize with Camilla; they both want to help, but seem to have such different ideas about how to do it. And neither of them know about Lieutenant Hayes's change of heart, nor about my plan to make Ellen's dream come true.

Porter moves to stand between the two, his Pokémon ghosting along gracefully at his side. "Calm down, both of you," he pleads. "What's done is done, and we can talk about it later." After a tense moment, both girls relax, and Porter breaths an audible sigh of relief. "For now, Karen should have charge of the decision-making, including whether or not to leave."

Camilla starts to protest, but Porter looks at her with a surprisingly serious look on his boyish face; she hesitates, then closes her mouth and stares at the ground despondently.

"I haven't forgotten you had a part in this," Karen tells Porter warningly. "I'll have some stuff to say to both of you when we get home. Now, we're getting everyone out of here."

A sudden, spreading sound of murmuring from the nearest parts of the encampment makes me realize just how many of the volunteers have gathered around the place where Karen and Camilla were arguing. They're gonna leave now? I think with a sinking feeling. This is gonna be really hard without them... and I can't believe Camilla did all this organizing behind Karen's back! I bet these volunteers all thought she was on board with this idea. I don't blame them for leaving...

"Wait a minute," says one boy Trainer from the front of the ring of onlookers. He's probably no older than fourteen; he's got a little bird Pokémon on his shoulder and is wearing a goofy-looking camouflage suit that looks like it's more of a Hallowe'en costume than a uniform. "Aren't we volunteers?" he asks. "I don't mean to be rude, Karen, but can you even order us to leave if we don't want to?"

I stare at him, surprised; Karen also looks askance at the boy. "What?" she asks him.

"I mean, I wanna do something to help. That girl over there with the candle pin— Rachel, I think was her name— she gave this really awesome speech earlier, about makin' everywhere safe," he says, jerking a thumb at me. "I dunno about going around beating gangs like Camilla said, but if we can get enough people to join It's Not Right, maybe we won't have to?"

I'd completely forgotten about talking to the volunteers back then. I was pretty out of it with exhaustion for the first half hour or so after my ordeal, so I think I just said whatever came to mind. Apparently it was pretty good?

Karen is staring from me to the boy and back. I realize I'm a little ways in front of the crowd of onlookers, but it's a bit late to step back now. "You mean you want to stay?" Karen asks him, as though she can't believe her ears.

A growing murmur comes from the volunteers, and then a few of them start nodding and shouting things like, 'Why not?' and 'Seems nice here.' Before long, the entire group of more than eighty volunteers is standing in a ring around us all, cheering. I feel as dazed as Karen looks— everything's moving too fast, blurring together in my exhausted eyes. Ellen's dream is a powerful thing, I think.

Karen turns and looks me in the eye for a long moment. "Well, Rachel?" she says with an odd, quirky smile growing on her face. "Explain yourself. Why does my organization seem to answer to you more than me?"

I shake my head. "It's Ellen. She's got a dream everyone can understand. It's not me."

"It is you," Karen insists. "I can see it, now that I look. You've got something you'll do anything to make happen." Now the legendary girl Karen, whose name is known halfway across the Internet, is smiling. At me. "I remember a time when I was that surprised to realize so many people looked up to me. Maybe you're the leader we all need."

I experience a moment of despair. I'm good with words, but I'm not good with people! And I don't deserve looking up to me. "I'm not... I can't just..." I stutter, overwhelmed. I can't lead all these volunteers! I'm too tired and alone and full of anger! I think wildly, remembering the nasty things I've done when I got angry. What if I lose my temper again and screw everything up? Ellen would be heartbroken!

"Karen, what are you saying?" I ask her, almost pleading. "You're the leader, aren't you?"

She shakes her head. "I was... and until today I thought I still was. Camilla did, too. But the organization's outgrown us. Maybe we both forgot what it means to lead."

"I never learned to lead, though!" I protest. "I've always been a loner! I've never led anything but a group of five friends who meet in an online chat room!"

"It isn't something you learn, silly!" Karen responds, still smiling. "It's what you do when there's something that's clear to you that others can't see. I can't see that dream you mentioned like you see it, but I know enough to be able to tell there's a wish in your heart that's better than anything I've ever fought for."

I stare at her. How could she know? How could she possibly know how much Ellen's dream... Ellen's smile... means to me? It only makes sense if, somehow, she can see it... and so can everyone else. Slowly I come to terms with the possibility that maybe I'm the only one who can do this. Even if it was Ellen's dream before it was mine... maybe, if I take on this challenge, I can make it happen for her.

"Karen," I ask quietly, "Will you help me?"

She takes a couple of steps towards me and looks into my eyes one more time, searching for something. As she holds my gaze, I can't help but see a Mark in her eyes. It's an image of the sun, almost blinding in its brightness. As if her very soul is willingly offering me its secrets, I feel a few of her strongest Signs, too; they help me comprehend that the brightness of the sun on her soul is the immense strength of her will, and that its light is compassion. Like me, she has a dream that she'll stop at nothing to achieve, one that I can't read because it's too complex. I'm struck by the immense strength of her soul... and humbled by the fact that she's willing to entrust me with the future of her dream. She's doing so in the unshakable belief that my dream is greater than the one that's shining from her sunny Mark; I realize that, if I accept Karen's help, it'll mean I can't just back down from the scary prospect of making Ellen's dream happen. Even if I can't always believe in myself, I'll have to keep going out of belief in Karen, who believes in me. And that, I realize, is what leadership means— living up to the trust others place in you, whether you feel you earned that trust or not.

As I come to that realization, Karen's warm smile returns to her face, as though she's found whatever she was looking for. "Yes, Rachel," she tells me gently. "I'll help you."

There's a huge cheer from the crowd surrounding us, and Karen's gaze snaps up to them fiercely. "Enough lounging around!" she says sharply, but with the hint of a smile in her voice underneath the commanding tone. "Get those tents set up! We're going to be here for quite a while, if I'm not mistaken!"

As the volunteers all get back to work, Karen simply moves off to join them, with a carefree wave at me over her shoulder. I'm not fooled; the messages written on her soul told me just how hard it was for her to trust me so completely. The weight of responsibility rests heavily on my already tired shoulders, and I slump briefly, fighting a yawn.

"That was well done," says Camilla's voice from next to me. "I don't know how you did it, and I'd give a lot to find out, but after a show of support like that from Karen, every one of these volunteers will do just about anything for you."

I straighten with an effort and survey the ongoing efforts at setting up the tents. "That's just it, though," I say. "I didn't do anything. I... I just opened up and let Karen see who I was, and she trusted me with everything."

There's a moment's silence, and then... "You're lucky," Camilla says. "Karen's the same way. She never tried to get people to follow her, they just sort of did. I've spent years trying to emulate it, but it's like she sees something no one else does. And you're the same, I guess." She sighs, then smiles. "Well, at least you're more of a fighter than she is. We'll take down the other gangs just like the Thugs did, and then..."

"No," I cut Camilla off, barely even registering the fact that I just interrupted someone who's almost as legendary in the It's Not Right organization as Karen is. "Camilla, but this isn't a war; it's a protest." I wave a hand at all the white bandannas and yellow sun-pins working together to drag more pallets into the campsite and stretch large tarps on tent poles for shelter from the elements. "I'm sorry, Camilla, but these people aren't an army. They can't be, because I refuse to be responsible for another war."

"Then how will anything get better?" Camilla asks me. She sounds more curious than angry, and I realize she's genuinely hoping I can come up with a proper alternative for fighting. I get the feeling Camilla's a bit forceful with her beliefs, but has a rare ability to let go of them if presented with a better alternative. "If we act like pacifists, gangs will tear us apart wherever we go, no matter what changes we try to make."

"We're not going to be pacifists," I tell her decisively. "But we also won't be trying to conquer or exterminate gangs. We won't be taking apart any gangs unless they bring the fight to us, or step across the line to where they're interfering with regular people's lives."

I look over at Camilla, and see that I have her undivided attention. Wes, standing silently on her other side, is regarding me with something akin to respect in his posture. I wonder when it was that I got so good at reading the body language of Pokémon, but I suppose it's not any different from guessing at people's emotions from the way they hold themselves.

"It's a lesson I learned from a certain man who masqueraded as an entire Intelligence Agency for almost eight years," I continue, feeling more confident. "Alone, gangs are weak compared to a large or determined enough force... but if they're threatened directly, they'll band together. That's when they're most dangerous."

"So we just let them exist and ?" Camilla asks. I'm starting to get the feeling she sees the world in black and white, where anything that isn't 'good,' like gangs, should be eliminated.

"No. We won't bother them unless they bother us, but we'll have our own irons in the fire," I explain. "The point of the truce is that it'll keep them from bothering us while we're executing our real plan. We'll build a new system— in time, instead of just a threat, we'll have an actual police force of Trainers to keep the gangs in line, even if we can't get rid of them. I hope someday the gangs will just disband on their own, though, when the world starts to come out of its shell and they see there are better ways to live than looting and robbing."

Camilla's silent for a while. "That," she says finally, "Is a crazy plan, conceived of using the most idealistic principles I can imagine... but somehow, despite all that, it's brilliant, and has the potential to produce a force that can someday wipe gangs from existence forever. How did you think of this?"

I scowl. More of that black-and-white rhetoric. Being around Ellen has made me see that it's never too late for someone to turn around and change the world for the better. In my situation, would Camilla have killed Hayes in cold blood? If she'd been in charge of that decision, we wouldn't be sitting here talking— we'd still be fighting the Thug Life gang! "Let's just say a very good friend gave me some help on a History assignment," I tell her, begin deliberately mysterious. "Now, this conversation is over, and we both have important things to do," I finish curtly. "I'll talk to you again later."

I turn and walk away, leaving Camilla and Wes standing forehead-to-forehead, probably talking to each other at the speed of thought.

Psychic-types are creepy! I think, not for the first or the last time.

All around me, I see people begin to take out lanterns and flashlights as the evening sunlight begins to fade into dusk. Pin-bearing volunteers and bandanna-wearers alike are gathering in circles around various Fire-type Pokémon that glow with heat, giving off hues of red and orange that paint the street. People turn and wave at me as they see me approach from the darkness outside these pools of light, and I shiver. I've never been the center of attention before. But I put my discomfort aside— I've got work to do.

The medical area is lit by a massive battery-powered floodlight that Mom commandeered, given the need for proper lighting in an infirmary. In its brilliance, I can see Lieutenant Jonathan Hayes sitting next to the pallet containing his injured bird Pokémon, conferring in a conversational tone with several bandanna-wearing men and women. A couple of them I recognize: Agitha is sitting cross-legged in her practical black pants, with her Pokémon next to her; Bones is fidgeting as if he's bored from staying still for so long. Gloria's dress prohibits sitting... so instead she's simply hovering in midair alongside her one-eyed Claydol. Psychic-types, I think grumpily.

The others, however, I don't recognize. One is a man with a severe expression and close-cropped black hair shading to gray near his temples, who's wearing what looks like a bullet-proof vest under his black Thug Life jacket. Crouching frog-like next to him is a blue-and-green humanoid Pokémon with a giant lily pad on its head.

The other unfamiliar Trainer is a younger man with blond hair and a bristly, scruffy-looking beard; he's seated on a huge, curled-up centipede Pokémon, which at first reminds me of the Whirlipede from earlier. Then the giant insect suddenly uncurls slightly as it notices my presence. It raises its head to regard me mistrustfully, nearly throwing its Trainer off of its back as it rears up, two rows of dangerous spiky-looking legs waving at me.

I stop where I am, quelling an urge to start backing away. Even with half of its segmented body still curled up on the ground, the Scolipede is more than six feet tall, and the armoured carapace on its back is coloured a bright magenta patterned with purple circles; in normal nature, markings like that indicate that the wearer is highly poisonous... and I think it's safe to assume that holds true in this case.

"Down! Down, Sequin! She's a friend!" shouts the blond-headed Trainer, jumping down from his precarious perch on his Scolipede's back, seizes the Pokémon by one of its massive, intimidating mandibles, and pulls its head down to the ground until it stops thrashing its stubby insect legs. "Sorry," he tells me. "He's been a bit on edge ever since he crashed through a shop window on Saturday, and today's fighting didn't help."

It takes me a moment to draw the connection between this monstrous insect and the significantly smaller (if still intimidating) Whirlipede that was chasing me and the Shells two days ago. It evolved that quickly? I think, surprised. I guess Bug-types like Sequin and Bright evolve more quickly than other types; most Pokémon take years to evolve. "Well, no harm done," I say tactfully. "Just make sure he doesn't get overexcited and rip my leg off."

"What brings y'all here, Messenger?" Hayes asks. His voice is still thick with his Southern accent, but his tone is respectful; I'm reminded again of how odd it feels to have people deferring to me.

"I just wanted to talk about our plans for the next couple of days, and for the long term. I have a few requests of you, if you're willing." I can tell they're listening carefully. "The first thing I need you to do is spread the word to your Th— Elites that no one's to start any fights with other gangs. If they come to you looking for a fight, that's okay, but there'll be no conquering of territory or trying to eliminate other gangs..."

It takes me a while to finish listing all my requests, which are worded as strong suggestions... but I can tell from Hayes's grave expression that they'll be taken as orders. By the time I finish, the moon's already risen overhead, and Agitha is nodding and grinning at me.

"Looks like our Messenger has a head on her shoulders. Told ya she wasn't no religious crackpot, Jamie! Girl got Hayes on her side by beatin' him in a frickin' battle, not whisperin' voodoo in his ear!"

"I was only saying, Captain Agitha," the man with the greying hair protests, turning his severe face on her, "That I worry about trusting anyone on the basis of a 'feeling.'"

"Well, rest yore head easy, pardner," Agitha says, exaggerating her Southern accent so that she sounds like Hayes. "When she orders us all ta jump off a cliff, y'all ain't gotta do it if y'all don't want to!"

"And besides," puts in the Scolipede's Trainer with a grin, "I could do with a little skydiving. Nice break from robbing people."

Jamie's forbidding visage suddenly softens, making him look ten years younger. "That's true, Captain Leon," he says quietly. "And, as I was saying, blind faith is one thing... but I've no trouble with following a plan that so clearly has the spirit of the Golden Boy's teachings behind it. It's been a long time since I've heard orders I liked this much."

"I object to this entire charade," Gloria says darkly, her expression cutting off the exchange's growing levity like a knife. "To simply stand by and wait for the gangs to rally against us is madness. Even with the volunteers, our numbers are barely the same as those of the rest of the city's gangs combined, and our so-called allies are untrained and likely to disappear at the first sign of trouble."

"Gloria, have you forgotten everythin' I taught you?" Hayes remarks casually, eyeing her with mild disappointment. He gets to his feet, his gaze shifting to stare out into the night as if at something far away. "Seen it before, a hundred times, a hundred conquered territories. Them gangs ain't gonna gang up on us— no pun intended— any more'n they ganged up on us when we were the Thug Life gang." He paces back and forth, hands behind his back military-style. "This young'un takes after her da, it's obvious. Or did y'all forget he kept us an' every other gang in the city scared o' our shadows fer eight years?" He stops, and looks around at the four Trainers surrounding him, a smile growing on his face. "Y'all have been my captains since the good ol' days, an' stayed with me even when I gave up hope o' the Golden Boy's dream ever comin' true. Now are y'all with me for one last change? Fer good?"

"With you, Lieutenant," says Jamie, rising to his feet and saluting. "For a return to what we once stood for!"

"With you, boss!" the younger man named Leon exclaims, leaping up and saluting as well. "Lookin' forward to a real challenge for once!"

"And me," Agitha says lazily, leaning back on one arm rather than bothering to get up. She glances at me. "I've always been a sucker for a pretty face and a smooth tongue, I guess."

I blush, and she winks at me; to my relief, cheekily rather than lasciviously.

Gloria looks around at them all, her body stiff with disapproval, then fixes me with a look that could shatter rock. I'm not particularly impressed; her anger, like everything else about her, is half-baked and lacklustre. "Lieutenant, as always, I am at your service," she says with serene calmness in her voice, belying the weight of anger hanging on both of her shoulders like twin buckets of bricks. It seems psychics are terrible at hiding their body language, I think with amusement. Must come from thinking no one can read their minds.

"Good," Hayes says with a charismatic smile. For a moment, past the intentionally rough and obfuscatingly laid-back exterior, I can see a spark of whatever made such a large and diverse group of people follow him into the hell of civil war. "You have your orders; do as Rachel here says, and we might well have one last shot at that dream I once gave up on... not just fer Seattle, but fer the whole world. In the name o' the Golden Boy!"

The other four echo the cheer— even Gloria— and promptly march off into the night, military efficiency in their movements. As if in contrast, Hayes looks suddenly exhausted; he sits back down and strokes his broken-winged Fearow's head wearily.

"Been a long day," he explains. "Gonna see longer ones before this is over, and I ain't as young as I used to be. Y'all better make this happen, or it'll crush 'em all."

I fix him with a hard stare, my frustration boiling over in a kind of anger that's new to me; it's cool, and quiet, not roaring with flames of rage. "Oh, I'll make this happen," I tell him fiercely. "I have more at stake than you ever could. You might just earn redemption in your own eyes, but this dream is my life now. So don't you dare tell me how important your Golden Boy's dream is, not when you were the one who abandoned and betrayed it eight years ago."

Surprisingly, he just smiles at me, tears running down his face. "And that's why you're the Messenger. He always needed someone to stick up for him, get angry for him. Someone willing to die for him if need be. This time, he— she— has that person. Thank you, Rachel."

My anger evaporates. "You do understand," I tell him. And, after a long struggle with myself... "And I forgive you."

Then I turn and walk away, to find someplace I can finally, finally rest.


~~~~~~~~~~


Mom's already found a nice abandoned apartment a lot closer to the center of town, and it was the work of barely an hour for a few of Hayes's ex-military-engineers to get the power lines in the walls repaired. She's just finishing the process of moving in when Dylan leads me up the stairs and points out the door.

On mattresses scattered across the spacious floor of the flat are Dad, Lowell, and the few injured people and Pokémon who were still too hurt to get around on their own. Mom's set water to boil on the electric stove and is busily tending to the invalids.

Mom has some help with her self-appointed task, though; along with her charges, she's brought home the timid girl Trainer with the little dog Pokémon, who seems to have caught her fancy as a potential appentice. As far as I can tell, the girl— whose name is Fay— is taking to the medical arts like a born natural; she seems happy to help Mom with the various chores involved in caring for the injured, in return for lectures about the medical arts.

Mom takes one look at me and hustles me to bed in my new room; it's huge in comparison to my old one. The room is also very bare, with no furniture except a single mattress in the corner and a grime-caked window with cracked glass that looks out on a dark street. The lack of furniture is only to be expected, though— we'll buy more stuff later, no doubt, and at this point I'd even sleep on the floor.

I drop myself on the mattress, not even bothering to do more than kick off my sneakers, and sink gratefully into the calm, comforting darkness of sleep.


~~~~~~~~~~


"Hello, Rachel," says a familiar voice, sweet and melodious.

I smile, my eyes still closed. This is the first time I've heard Sunshine's voice or felt her presence since we burned so brightly together. I know I'm not hearing her with my ears, but with my mind. Her voice fills me with a feeling of peace and lightness like never before, and even though I'm asleep, I know she's talking to me from somewhere in that grey-shaded world of ghosts.

"I can't talk to you long," she tells me. "We both need our rest, in spirit as well as body and mind after such an... emotional time."

I smile agreement, content to simply listen to the music of her voice. Everything's very... mellow, here. Soft around the edges, like a dream; which I suppose it is, sort of.

"There are some things I should tell you," Sunshine says, "Before you drift too far into sleep's country. About how I died."

In place of words, sensations begin to pass through me, images and sounds and smells... I feel my/Sunshine's heart race as I run through alleys, pursued by shouts and the echoes of running feet. Her thoughts, and her body's senses, are my own; I feel the fear that rises in her heart as we turn a corner... and come to a halt facing a dead end in the maze of concrete. Unable to do anything else, she turns around slowly and puts our back to the cold, unforgiving wall.

A mass of Pokémon and human limbs and faces appears around the corner, their details blurred with both panic and the fading of memory over time. The dead end's smell of garbage mingles with sweat and the wood-smoke odour of Fire-type Pokémon.

"Give the trinket back, girl!" says a voice; its owner is the man in front, who I recognize as a younger version of Lieutenant Hayes, complete with cowboy outfit and Southern accent. "It wasn't meant fer the likes o' you."

"No!" Sunshine shouts, her melodious voice full of panic. "It's all I have left of him!"

"Well, that goes for us, too," Hayes retorts, an ugly tone of menace shading his voice. "The Golden Boy's medallion ain't no plaything, girl. I don't know how y'all found us, but your companions are dead... An' so will you, if ye don't give that back!"

"It was never yours!" Sunshine says defiantly. "Strike me down if you must, but you'll never know what this medallion can do!"

"I reckon it don't matter, if even you can't use it," Hayes says with a malignant smile. "Gloria, she got any tricks up her sleeve?"

"Negative, Lieutenant," says the woman in her monotone voice, moving forward in midair to hover beside Hayes along with her Pokémon— which in this time and place is much smaller, its child's-top-shaped body made of light brown clay instead of dark grey and having only two pink-irised eyes in the front of its pointy head. "She doesn't know how it works either, as far as I can tell."

"Well, there we have it," Hayes says nastily. "Cough it up, girl."

"You dare threaten the Golden Boy's most loyal follower?" Sunshine asks angrily, the storm of fear and doubt inside of us making it clear that her outrage is just a ruse. "You abandoned his dream! You're not worthy to carry this!" she shouts, shaking a fist at him; from it dangles a golden medallion in the shape of a flame, like one that would rise from a candle.

Hayes's face darkens with anger. "So be it," he says, striding forwards and seizing Sunshine roughly by the front of her shirt. "I won't enjoy this, but you at least deserve me killin' you myself."

"Unhand me—" Sunshine is cut off as Hayes punches her/me in the side of the face, hard. We fly backwards and strike the concrete wall behind us with an impact that makes our head spin. Then there's a yank as our silky red scarf is snatched from around our neck... only to return abruptly in the form of a noose. Hayes pins us to the ground with one foot, his knuckles turning white as he heaves mightily on the end of the scarf, tightening the loop and cutting off our breath.

Sunshine's chest heaves as we try to draw breath through the horrible, tight noose, pressure beginning to fill our head as blood stops flowing. "St... Stop..." she begs with the last of our strength.

Maybe it's just our swimming vision, but I could almost swear tears are running down Hayes's face. "I can't do that," he says. "You're too dangerous, girl."

Too dangerous... Too dangerous... his voice echoes as blackness begins to crowd Sunshine's/my sight. I feel a tug as something pulls me away from our body; I feel a sensation of drifting, and the scene grows more distant, as if it's someone else being strangled...

Which it is. "Sunshine, you..." I say, speechless. "You were so alone..."

"There's no need for you to experience any more of what I felt when I was dying," Sunshine says calmly, no sign of sadness in her voice. "I'm happy now, even though I'm dead, and that's all that matters. Now, the only other thing I have to show you is..."

Images return, grey and muddled; I'm floating above my/Sunshine's body, invisible to all the Trainers and Pokémon gathered around it. I feel Sunshine's confusion; aren't we dead? It certainly looks that way; the horrible swelling of the body below us leaves little doubt that it's no longer capable of supporting life. Somehow, though, we're not... gone.

"What d'ya mean, it ain't here?" Hayes is shouting. "She had it just a moment ago! Just look around, it's probably in a pile of garbage or somethin'—"

"No," Gloria replies in a puzzled tone of voice, "It simply isn't here. Its aura is gone."

"Find it!" Hayes snaps, glaring around the alleyway with a wild look in his eyes. "I have to have it back!"

"I fear it no longer exists," Gloria says. "If it were anywhere in the city, I would be able to find it."

"No!" Hayes says, lifting one of the bags of garbage and tossing it across the alley to explode in piles of ancient, dessicated banana peels and bacon rinds, his eyes scanning the ground underneath it as if searching for a telltale glint of gold. "It has to be here!"

"Calm yourself, Lieutenant!" says Gloria sharply. "The medallion was a thing of power, imbued with the strength of Lugia. Its uses are nothing we've ever understood; it can no longer be found anywhere in this world, of that I'm certain."

Hayes's response is to roar at the sky, a cry of frustration and rage so bereft of hope that Sunshine and I cringe away from him. The black sky overhead seems to roil with shades of grey in response to his anguish, and for a moment Sunshine and I experience a feeling as if something huge and frighteningly powerful is looking down on us...

Sunshine's growing confusion at having died, only to find herself in this eerie grey world with its empty sky, rushes through us in a horrible wave of panic. We turn and flee through the walls of the alley, passing through wall after wall to get as far away as we can from the scary whirlpool of loss and disorientation and fear that has centered itself on that alleyway. As our panic feeds on itself, and our head begins to fill with pure, heedless terror, I feel another tug. My mind detaches from that of the tiny candle Pokémon that's rushing lost and afraid into the grey city, and the image dissipates as I return slowly to the peaceful drifting sensation of half-asleep dreaming.

"And that," says Sunshine's voice in my mind, "Is just a bit of my story. I won't share any more with you unless you want me to."

I open my eyes to the greyness of the ghost world, and rise out of my body, settling myself across from Sunshine on the bare floor of my new room. She's back in the appearance of her living self, wearing her orange jacket and silky red scarf. She smiles at me, and I smile back. "Thank you, Sunshine. I'm sorry for your loss."

Her smile fades. "When I came to myself and realized that the medallion had given me a second chance, the first thing I wanted was revenge," she murmurs. "I was... angry, so angry at the ones who killed me. I hated Hayes. For abandoning Nathaniel, and for crushing his dream into dust the way he did by turning Seattle's Elite— the one group who answered to Nathaniel instead of to the American Council— into a gang of criminals. And for killing my friends, who gave everything to help me try to get that medallion back..."

There's a long silence, more than a minute. Then... "I loved him," Sunshine says quietly. "Nathaniel— you know him as the Golden Boy— he was everything to me. And in my mind, it was Hayes who killed him, killed his dream forever. When I looked at the world, instead of all the beautiful things, I'd see all the ugliness that wouldn't be here if Hayes hadn't abandoned Nathaniel's ideals. For years, as I slowly recovered and gained the power to do tiny things to the real world— at first, I could mostly just light candles and make quiet crackling noises in empty fireplaces— not hating everything was, and is, the hardest thing I've ever done."

She sighs. "I learned to see the beauty in everything, to be cheerful all the time, but I was always hiding that burning anger, waiting for the day I could make Hayes pay. Mine was a special kind of cold anger, one that could only ever be appeased with revenge. But..."

Sunshine suddenly smiles at me, her pretty features lighting up breathtakingly. "But today, you did the impossible!" she says happily. "When you finally forgave Hayes, really forgave him, despite all he'd done to you... it was like you turned a light back on in my heart. I finally remembered what I'd lost sight of in all my hatred."

She reaches out and takes me by the hands, beaming radiantly. "Nathaniel never hated anyone. He would forgive anyone anything; I remember, one time, a Trainer assassin showed up, bent on killing Nathaniel out of some kind of religious fervor. He said the so-called Golden Boy was secretly a demon sent to lead the human race astray. Instead of being afraid, Nathaniel told us— his small group of companions and protectors— to stand down... and then he just looked the man in the eye and told him that if he still wanted to kill him, he wouldn't resist. The assassin couldn't do it; he broke down weeping, and Nathaniel spent three days comforting him and helping him rebuild his shattered faith.

"His last... his last words to me," Sunshine says, still smiling with eyes full of tears, "He said that even though he was angry at the generals for firing the missile, that we shouldn't hold the entire government responsible for their action. Then... then he died." The tears are running down her face now. "When you forgave Lieutenant Hayes, I realized that I've spent the last eight years hating, instead of enjoying the new life I was given by Lugia's medallion, instead of helping people like Nathaniel would have wanted. After I met you, I finally started to really see the beauty in the world again, like I used to before I died.

"I'm not unhappy even though I'm dead," she says, "And all of a sudden it seemed like spending the rest of my new life on hate instead of love was as much a betrayal of Nathaniel as what Hayes did. It was with that realization, that I'd become so much like him... that I finally found it in me to forgive him like you did." She wipes the tears from her eyes. "Hope was born from the ashes of my hate, and now I don't have to be angry any more. So... thank you, Rachel. You're the best friend... and the best Trainer... I could ever have wished for."

I don't know what to say to that, so I just say nothing, smiling at the happiness in Sunshine's face. Then she waves goodbye to me, and I realize I'm slowly drifting backwards towards my body, as the exhaustion in my heart and mind call me to a good, long rest.

As I wave back, darkness closes around me once more, and this time, I drift all the way into the inviting softness of sleep's kingdom.

Chapter 1: Wednesday
Chapter 2: Thursday
Chapter 3: Friday
Chapter 4: Saturday
Chapter 5: Sunday
Chapter 6. Monday
Epilogue: Tuesday, Wednesday Again

Epilogue: Tuesday, Wednesday Again

When I left the apartment late on Tuesday morning, the girl with the Poochyena was busy fishing clean bandages out of boiling water and listening carefully as Mom explained the principles behind boiling them to kill infection-causing bacteria. I think she'll do very well as Mom's apprentice; her timid way of holding herself is already slowly being replaced by a more self-confident posture. I'm glad; I think she just needed someone to offer her a kind hand and show her a better way to live than depending on a gang for food and water.

After the emotional roller-coaster that was the last week of my life, Tuesday felt like a sudden breath of fresh air. There was a lot to do, but every time I turned to get something done, it seemed like one of the two-hundred-plus people surrounding me was already there with a smile and a nod, letting me know it was being taken care of.

Nonetheless, there were plenty of decisions to be made, and loose strings to be wrapped up. Partway through the day, a grimy-looking pair of boys were dragged into the camp, their clothes drenched in foul-smelling muck from their attempt to escape through the sewers. Symon and Carl looked much the worse for wear, and their Pokémon were nowhere to be seen— I was later informed that they were being held elsewhere in the camp, with Solo in a hypnotized trance under the single watchful eye of Gloria's Claydol.

After a long moment of deliberation, I offered them a harsh but necessary choice; join the Trainers' Association, or go free while we keep their Pokémon captive as insurance against their good behaviour.

Carl's answer was to spit at my feet; Agitha promptly hauled him off by the hair, lecturing him gleefully (and hypocritically) about manners and ignoring him as he shouted and swore at her. Symon, however, after a few minutes of serious thought, chose to accept his second chance. He'll be under the watchful eye of one of Hayes's junior captains, of course, but I have a feeling he won't be such bad news given a proper guiding influence and no need to steal to put food on his plate. That and a proper bath, courtesy of Dylan's Frillish (whose name, I finally found out, is Diver.)

Hayes's worries about supplies for our nascent peacekeeping force were solved by none other than Camilla and Wes; the two teleported into the camp at about three o'clock in the afternoon with a large package of nonperishable goods, ranging from canned soup to salted meat. It was all courtesy, she said, of a new It's Not Right.org food drive Karen set up... Complete with a webpage with my picture on it and a simple homemade information video detailing the general idea (albeit not the details) of my plan.

From what Camilla reported before she left to get the next load, the outpouring of support was overwhelming. Nearly every It's Not Right member in western North America— both non-Trainers and those Trainers who couldn't leave their families or jobs to lend their support here in Seattle— donated whatever they could, from food to cooking utensils to batteries for flashlights ...and even a few valuable firearms and ammunition, both of which are normally scarce. While I hope the guns won't ever need to be used, realistically there will be some fighting in the future against gangs who don't want to recognize the Association's authority as we spread our influence beyond Seattle... and it's best if our Trainers are well-equipped so that they can protect their Pokémon partners in return.

As if all that support wasn't enough, it seems I've become something of a rallying point for those of the Shells who have decided to stay with the movement. Lowell still intends to return home to his mother and younger brother as soon as he's well enough to get around— and I don't blame him— but Dylan, Tom, Mohawk and even Jazz all expressed a wish to stay and help me make Ellen's dream a reality. They came up with a name for themselves: the 'Candle Guard,' after Sunshine and after my half-melted, candle-shaped It's Not Right pin.

As per unanimous decision, all five of us delivered a portion of our ration of Karen's donated supplies to Lowell's family; his mother, after demanding an explanation and listening to our account of things, requested that we allow her to temporarily move into another apartment in the same building as ours, just until Lowell is able to get home. I couldn't have refused even if I'd wanted to— living space is basically free, after all, with all the old apartment buildings and hotels just sitting abandoned all over the city. Lowell's expression was priceless when his mother and his little brother Jake came into the room and threw themselves at him, crying tears of joy.

I may have made some amazing new friends... but there's one old one I'm already starting to miss. Brian's been avoiding me; I think he feels awkward... and so do I, unfortunately. Of all the rotten luck, for him— the boy I've considered my best friend besides Ellen for the longest time— to finally show up, only for this wall to appear between us. His hurt feelings will get better with time, I think... but I can only hope our friendship survives it.

School is another thing I know I still have to deal with. Tuesday was far too busy for me to spend it at school: there were too many people to meet with, community service teams to organize, and things to get done, even with all the support of a hundred volunteers and a hundred more ex-soldiers. But sooner or later, I'm gonna have to go back... and there's no way I can hide the fact that I'm a Trainer, not when my name is being whispered by people all over the city.

The city's gangs, predictably, are pretty riled up by what appears to be a new and different sort of gang moving in on their territory. We're more than twice the size of even the largest gang here, but Seattle is the notorious gang capital of North America, even more so than Washington D.C. or New York, meaning they aren't just gonna take this lying down.

They can't do anything overtly, because we're too entrenched with our base of operations now placed in the middle of what used to be Thug Life territory... but Trainers' Association members have to go everywhere in fairly large groups of fifteen or twenty, or risk being set upon, and occasional skirmishes occur on the edges of the places we control; Hayes and his captains liken it to "camping out in enemy territory."

It's all worth it, though. The Thug Life gang used to control basically all the streets between my apartment (which was at the edge of Shell territory,) so we'll still have access to the Market come the weekend, and the non-Trainers located in the space we control are already starting to reap the benefits of having what amounts to a police force watching over them. One or two gangs, bitter at their inability to strike at us directly, attempted robbing non-Trainers leaving our territory... and were hit with swift, harsh (but nonlethal) retribution. After seeing that, none of the gangs dare to harass people who live in Trainers' Association space.

I slept well that night: an exhausted, dreamless sleep, without Sunshine to take me on a tour of the world of ghosts. She, too, needed the extra rest, since her reserves of energy were as depleted as mine. Now, standing in my new, comparatively spacious room in an unfamiliar but comfortable apartment, I pull on underwear, socks, and a borrowed grey t-shirt and pair of grey track pants. I feel like a new person.

That's appropriate, I decide with a smile. I am a new person.

It's only a few minutes' walk to the Bastion from this place, but Dylan, Tom, Jazz and Mohawk still insist on walking me to school. I can't help but giggle at the irony; only a week ago, Mom was walking me to school every day to protect me from these very people. I don't share the thought, though, even when they ask me why I'm grinning like an idiot. I don't think they would appreciate the reminder.

They refuse to leave even when I'm within sight of the walls, and escort me right up to the gates of the school, sending scared kids scattering everywhere. I sigh. There goes any possible subtlety... Not that I was intending to hide Sunshine any longer.

A division of grim-looking teachers come striding across the field as I pass through the gates, looking resolutely ready to do their best to convince my escort of Trainers to leave... but their looks turn to surprise when the boys and girls outside turn and walk away peacefully.

My biology teacher rushes up to me and asks me if I'm okay.

"I'm just fine," I say, patting her on the shoulder comfortingly, "But I need to see the Principal. It's urgent."

A few minutes later I'm standing in front of an imposing stained-wood desk that sits in the middle of a stark, oval room whose curved concrete walls are bare of even the slightest decoration or veneer. The entire scene is lit by two bare light bulbs embedded in the ceiling, as well as by sunlight from a single window, wide and panoramic, that looks over the entirety of the campus from the highest point on the entire Bastion; this is the place from which an austere king surveys his castle.

I've never seen the Principal up close before— only from afar at school assemblies— but the man standing in front of the desk facing me appears much as I expected him. He's a slim, almost gaunt man with an unforgiving, hard face and thinning dyed-black hair combed strictly over the bald spot on the top of his head. His eyes are grey, and I can't help but be reminded of Camilla; if I could read eyes like everyone else, I'd probably see the same cold, calculating look in them as the feeling I got from Karen's spooky friend.

I gulp despite myself... but out of everything the last week has changed in me, the biggest thing is that I'm no longer afraid to speak my mind. Clearing my throat, I tell the imposing man, "I'm afraid I can no longer attend the Bastion without your express permission, sir. I'm a Trainer, now."

The man nods, as if unsurprised. Clearly he'd already guessed— or, more likely, he's simply tapped into the buzz the city's making about me. "I see. Is there any demand in particular you wished to make of me?" he asks curtly.

"No, sir. I don't want to cause any trouble. I'm just here to tell you why I'm leaving."

"Ah," the man says, nodding slowly. "If that's the case, consider your mission complete," he says in a matter-of-fact tone. "Goodbye."

"Wait," I say, "Before I go... It's— It's not a demand, but... I'd like to just make one small request, if I may."

I wait for an answer, and after a few seconds the Principal nods for me to continue, his face perfectly neutral and unreadable.

"I've got an assignment— an essay— to hand in, you see..." I swallow hard, trying not to lose my composure in front of him. I have to be on my best behaviour, to show him Trainers aren't all cruel, like I used to think they were. "It's very important, and not just to me. Can I... May I please stay, just long enough to hand it in to Mr. Ward?"

The Principal regards me for some time, his eyes boring into me. For a moment I wish I could read them, but then decide I'd rather not; if I could, I probably wouldn't like what I saw there.

"May I see the assignment?" he asks.

My backpack was the only thing that survived the fire, since I had it with me when our apartment burned down. Fortunately, it contained my binders full of notes— all of them except Math, which isn't such a huge loss— and my laptop. I shrug the backpack off, and pull out five pages of lined paper, a final draft in double-spaced, careful handwriting on both sides of each page.

The Principal takes the essay and glances over it cursorily, turning over each leaf of paper briefly as if checking for some sort of booby trap. A few seconds later, he briskly puts them all back together in order and hands them to me, nodding. "Yes, you may hand this in. Follow me."

The hallways are empty; I'm at the same time both glad and sorry that no one's here to see my last walk through the halls. Would they laugh at me, I wonder? Or have they already heard my name being whispered across town, and be glad to see me go?

We arrive at Mr. Ward's classroom, and the Principal motions for me to wait here as he goes in to fetch Mr. Ward. After all, it wouldn't do for a Trainer to go into a classroom full of defenseless kids, I think bitterly as I wait.

Mr. Ward comes out, following the Principal, and stops when he sees me, his eyes locking onto mine. I avert my gaze, refusing to look at his Mark; it's too sad.

The Principal motions us down the hallway and into an empty classroom. Then he turns to Mr. Ward and says in a businesslike tone, "This student has an assignment to return. I suggest you look it over."

Mr. Ward takes the sheaf of papers I offer, and without a word begins to read. My hands begin to tremble, and my mind goes over the first few paragraphs of the essay, the ones I went over so many times to make sure it was just right...


Imagine a world where equality is just a dream: where a select few, chosen by nothing but the whim of chance or fate, hold the power to rule as they see fit; where those not chosen have lost all hope of ever changing things. To this, some might say that democracy has no place in such a world. That the rule of the many is a lost cause, one with a thousand martyrs but no heroes. That the right of each human being to be exactly that— human— is a dying ideal. The reality is... that there's no self-fulfilling prophecy like hopelessness.

Imagine, instead, a world where equality is law: where the select few, chosen for their merit and taught to love instead of fear, are beloved partners to the many, no different and no better or worse; where those not chosen each have their own part to play in the shaping of their world. To this, some might say that hatred and cruelty are things that humankind cannot live without. That a utopian society where everyone uses their strength to help instead of hurt is the dream of fools. That no matter who has power, those with it will eventually turn it to their own ends. The reality is... that there's no self-fulfilling prophecy like hopelessness...

...Unless that self-fulfilling prophecy is hope itself.


He reads on, and on, and on, clutching the paper like a drowning man clutches a piece of driftwood. The Principal looks on impassively, his face unreadable, but I couldn't care less about him. My eyes are on Mr. Ward, My eyes fill with tears as he reads the final page, which reads simply...


Hope is all that's needed. All any of us need.

My Golden Girl taught me that.


Mr. Ward holds out my essay to me with shaking hands. I take it, and watch solemnly as he stands there, weeping openly and staring over my head at something very far away. On an impulse, I look into his eyes and see... not a blazing fire of hope; not even a spark. Instead, I see a scattering of tiny red and silver pieces, their sharp jagged edges even now melting into a pool of smooth silvery-red metal, like liquid mercury mixed with blood. There's a feeling of motion; the pool flows somewhere, falls into a metal cast somewhere on the surface of Mr. Ward's very soul. I don't know what will come out of that mould, but it'll be something new, something just as full of hope as any symbolic flame.

Hope born from the ashes of loss, says Sunshine's voice in my mind, echoing our last conversation.

I smile, and open my eyes. Mr. Ward is staring at me, and I look right back at him, feeling Sunshine's candle burning in my head, with the fire Ellen built flaring gently from my inner self to mirror it. He sees them, I can tell, because my heart is so very tied up with my mind and my soul; its messages are theirs, and always have been.

"Rachel, this is..." Mr. Ward says, finally finding his voice. "It's..."

"Shh," I tell him. "I know. It's the essay you've been waiting for, for eight years." I smile. "But now, I have to leave. Goodbye, Mr. Ward."

"Hold on, young lady," says the Principal suddenly. "Who said anything about leaving?"

"Huh?" I ask.

Suddenly, the Principal smiles, and the transformation is unbelievable. He looks like a different person. Belatedly, I remember that this is the man who, for better or for worse, created a haven for Pokémon-less kids, and paid for the entire project out of his own pocket back when big business was in its final throes. "You are a most extraordinary Trainer, as well as a highly unique person. If you've made up your mind to leave, that's one thing. However, I believe that this school, for all its concrete walls and rigid rules, could use an exception. A guardian, if you will. Would you and your companion consider remaining here for the duration of your studies, and perhaps longer?"

This is too much to handle all at once. I'd been expecting to be sent away in disgrace, but... this? "Why, though?" I ask. "Why me?"

"Rachel Avery, that essay was among the most inspiring and touching discourses I have ever read... and I assure you, I am well versed in the writings of the great poets and philosophers. Your work is passionate if unpolished, and, if I'm not mistaken, carries a certain pertinence to current events..."

"Wait, what?" I ask, frowning. "How do you know what the essay even said?"

Mr. Ward, standing to my left, clears his throat. "Rachel, Professor Zinnowitz was a renowned scholar, and was quite famous before society became disconnected from the intellectual network. Among other things, he's a speed-reader, meaning he can read an entire book in seconds flat and understand the entire thing."

"Oh," I say.

"Yes, 'oh,'" Mr. Ward echoes with a smile. "I'm glad to have my opinion validated by such an august personage."

Ignoring Mr. Ward's tendency to wax eloquent unnecessarily, I'm touched by his compliment... even delivered in as roundabout a fashion as it was. I smile back, happy to see him looking so much... better. His posture is still full of that strong, youthful energy that belies his age, but now the energy is less frenetic and more self-assured; there's a calmness to it that wasn't there before. I may not be able to read things in people's eyes, but their body language is a different story!

"Well, Rachel?" The Principal— Mr. Zinnowitz— asks me. "Will you consider my request?"

I look at him for a long moment. Is the Bastion the right place for me? I mean, it's a great school, and I'll miss Mr. Ward... I wonder if I might do more good at some other school, though, where I might help guide younger Trainers away from the path that leads to gangs and violence. Is that what I want to do, though? Or just what I feel I should do? Deep inside, I know the real reason I don't want to leave. I don't want to leave Ellen behind here... I don't want to ever leave her again.

As I struggle with myself, my gaze unfocuses and drifts past Mr. Zinnowitz to the blackboard behind him. Some teacher or other didn't bother to erase it properly, and there are squiggles of writing all over it, distracting me. My mind, uncharacteristically, begins to drift, and I find myself wondering why they still call them blackboards when most of the ones in the Bastion are actually green. White on green somehow looks better than white on black, I'm not sure why.

White on green. Those words are familiar for some reason. Then I remember Mr. Ward, standing in front of a board covered in white diagrams and names and dates...

"A green field... with white ribbons," I murmur, the words of a certain fortune-teller coming back to me. A smile begins to grow across my face. A green blackboard covered with white chalk: knowledge of the past and hope for the future. That's what she saw.

"I'm sorry, Rachel, I didn't quite catch that," says Mr. Zinnowitz. "You'll have to speak up."

"I... I accept," I say, beaming. "There's no school I'd rather be at."

"For more reasons than one, I'll wager," Mr. Zinnowitz responds, with that warm smile that transforms his face. "From what I gather, there's a certain Golden Girl who'd be very sad if you left."

Ellen. I'd been trying not to think about how she'd react to my being expelled from the Bastion. But, now that everything's changed, there's no reason not to go give her the good news! "Umm, would you please excuse me—"

"Go," Mr. Zinnowitz says, still smiling. "Mr. Ward and I have a great deal to talk about, in any case."

I barely hear his last few words, because I'm already on my way out the door.


~~~~~~~~~~


"Rachel!!" Ellen shouts, leaping out of her infirmary bed and rushing to meet me. We collide in a massive hug, holding each other tightly. Then she looks up into my eyes and kisses me, long and deeply and intoxicatingly until only the need to hold her up stops me from collapsing. After some time, we disengage, and she gently lowers her head onto my shoulder. Then we just stand there for a few minutes, clinging to each other as if we'll never let go.

"I'm so glad you're okay," she says finally, choking back a sob. "When you and Brian went offline for so long, after he said he was going to join the fighting in the city, I was so worried...!"

"It's all right," I tell her, stroking her hair as I hold her close, more comforted by that tiny gesture than by every hug anyone's ever given me. Only Ellen can make me feel this way. "I'll always come back to you. Always," I tell her.

"The future," Ellen murmurs. "The one I've always told you about. It's going to happen, isn't it, Rachel? That's what all this is about... You're going to make it real, aren't you?"

"Yes," I tell her simply. "I'll do anything for your dream. It's who I am, who you made me... and I wouldn't change it for the world."

There's a long silence.




















"Rachel?" Ellen's voice is so very quiet, meant for only me in the entire world.

"Yes?" I whisper back, brushing my lips against her cheek.

"I love you."

"I love you, too, Ellen."

Ellen and I stand here, holding each other tightly, and I find myself thinking back a week— was it only a week?— to when my girlfriend was my best friend, my best friends were my worst enemies, and my worst enemies were people I hadn't even met yet.

My life has changed completely in these last seven days... and with it, so has the entire city of Seattle. Someday, I know, like a ripple spreading in the pond, everything will change.

I promise myself once more that Ellen will live in a world that's unlike the world of a week ago; a world that will be different in every way... except for one.

I'll always be by her side. That's the one thing that will never change, even as the world transforms into a place I used to think it could never be.

Imagine that!




---END---




Intended Captures:
---SCRAGGY, SOLOSIS, BLITZLE, LITWICK, MIENFOO, MARACTUS, FRILLISH, SCRAFTY, HOUNDOOM, LARVESTA---
Difficulty Rating:
---3x MEDIUM + 4x HARD + 2x COMPLEX + DEMANDING (210k to 315k characters)---
Length: 543,119 Characters

Claiming this, as discussed. In two months when this still isn't done and I'm cursing myself, I expect one of you to remind me that, at one point, THIS WAS A PERFECTLY LOGICAL IDEA.

...um. No, this isn't a grade. But in light of future events, I'm going to have to...er... rescind my decision to claim this story for grading. I'm really, really sorry, but... yeah. Good luck? ._.

Incidentally, I printed out a copy of this for grading while I was on spring break. It was 88 pages, while written in eight point font with half inch margins around the sides to save space. Eighty-eight freaking pages. You bastard. You wrote a novel, gave me carpal tunnel whilst I was annotating, and killed a forest.

I... am going to grade this.

Just need to limber up first.

*Emerges from the darkness with a blackened eye, a busted lip, and a wild look in her eyes*



*Cracks knuckles*

Story: It was long as fudge. XD It has never taken me multiple days just to read a URPG story. So congratulations, you are the first. Your prize is a one-way ticket to my crazy thoughts. Good luck finding a way out!

Before I start rambling about the inner-workings of this novel, which will more than likely end up sounding unnecessarily harsh or strict, I want to commend you a truly fantastic story. It really was a lovely read, and you did an amazing job. It's even more impressive that you managed to type up this monstrosity for a story competition (assuming you hadn't had it floating near-completed on your back-burner before the competition began - which could certainly be a possibility). The layers that are hidden in this story are significantly more complex than I'd normally see in this little forum section, and they definitely aren't something your average person could just come up with on a whim and place masterfully into a Pokemon story. It's refreshing, and definitely exciting. Color me impressed. Well done.

Another thing I want to add: Something I dislike about grading, is that (as a grader) we have no idea what you already know and understand in terms of writing knowledge. We can get a basic grasp of it based on the clip of fiction that we critique, but it is only subject to our perception. What we see as a flaw, might have been done intentionally by the author. What we see as a creative stroke of genius, may have been a completely subconscious and unintentional inclusion. So saying that, it is our job to point out what we see and how we see it. It is your decision to figure out how you want to use this information. If you aren't interested, and simply wish to skip ahead to the part about whether or not you capture your pogeymons, I won't be offended in the slightest. But, seeing the time and effort that went in to crafting this gargantuan excuse for a Pokemon story, I am going to respect it and give you my maximum effort in return.

--Intro: The opening of a story has a huge impact on your reader's mood. If you have ever been to a bookstore, you often decide what you want to buy based off of the first few pages of said novel. While you don't want to bombard your introduction with a clash of complex scenes and imagery (the reader hasn't even had a chance to enter your world yet), you also don't want to lull them along with some drone about your setting and your character. Unless of course, you can write it with the amount of skill needed to make it incredibly interesting. Unfortunately, I did not feel this was done. Remember that when it comes to fiction, people read for entertainment. If they are not entertained by your intro, they will more than likely decide to not purchase your novel, or worse, not continue to read past the first chapter. I have several books that I have purchased based on the merit of their summaries, but never finished reading due to the lackluster beginning chapters. There could be an incredibly enjoyable and interesting twist of events that happened later on in the story that I will never have the pleasure of reading about, because I gave up on the book out of boredom a third of the way through.

Fortunately for you though, seeing as this is a fan fiction I bestowed upon myself to grade, I had to continue reading in this case. And I am certainly grateful that I have done so, because your opening does not give the rest of your story justice. Yes, it is important to clarify your setting, your character, her history, and even the entire dang world she finds herself in; it is more important to entertain. If a reader is enjoying your story, they wont care if they don't know exactly how dull Bastion high school looks from outside, or if they don't really have a big grasp on how society works yet. They will keep reading anyway because they are entertained - thus leaving you ample opportunity to explain this to them later.

Something that I kept thinking about after I'd reached the point in the story where we found out the history of the Golden Boy and his Lugia, was how awesome that could have sounded as an opening or prologue. It was a wonderful plot-device that answered questions at the perfect time, and developed Mr. Ward as a character, yes. But, had I read that story as some form of a flashback at the beginning, even just a piece of it as a hint of what is to come or what had been, I would have been leagues more excited to proceed reading - rather than the slight groan I remember making when I read the first several paragraphs and thinking 'Another one of these...'. Now, I don't mean to say this in a sense that translates to 'YOU SHOULD ORGANIZE YOUR EVENTS EXACTLY HOW I THINK YOU SHOULD', because looking back in retrospect - as I have said - this revelation in your plot came at a perfect time. It almost gave me chills reading about a Legendary Pokemon for the first time, and how epic the creature and his trainer were in their day. What I actually mean is that that level of entertainment should also be brought to the beginning of a story as well. It's why you often see prologues or flashbacks inserted at the chapter's front when the author chooses to begin a story how you have (with a seemingly ordinary person doing something mundane such as walking to school) - because people don't find immediate enjoyment out of simple things like that. Once you have captivated us with your wonderful world and relate-able characters, sure, but we need something that keeps us here first.

And again, sorry if this is sounding rude. It's difficult to critique and sound happy without using dozens of emoticons. Words sound cold on the internet. Do know that I enjoy reading and sharing my opinions on stories, and I am especially pleased to provide whatever insight I have on this one.

--Plot: As I have mentioned earlier, there were many levels to your plot. They kind of unfolded themselves as we went along to make your story increasingly more complex; you pretty much recapped this perfectly in one of the last few lines of the story.

Ellen and I stand here, holding each other tightly, and I find myself thinking back a week— was it only a week?— to when my girlfriend was my best friend, my best friends were my worst enemies, and my worst enemies were people I hadn't even met yet.

A very clever summary, which also made me realize how short of a time span the story really happened in. It's crazy how much shiz went down for the poor girl over the course of one week. You did a great job keeping it realistic. I felt the realism was a huge part of your theme. I love the real world view on Pokemon, and how they could possibly affect it. They are giant monsters with godly powers! Of course our society would crumble! You portrayed this hypothetical world wonderfully, and even went all the way down to tiny detail. It truly felt like this could have actually happened. I didn't sense any plot-holes, and I didn't feel deprived of any information other than the actually origin of the Pokemon. It was touched on vaguely, but I really wanna find out how the creatures started even existing in the first place. Perhaps that was written about in your other story...

That said, you should pay close attention to your pacing. It decides a lot about how we, the readers, take in your story. You gave us a lot to chew on, but for the majority of the story, it felt to go by far too slow. You do, after all, have a 550k story telling of events that happened over the course of 7 days. :P I was intrigued and wanted to find out the mystery of Brian's Pokemon, of Rachel's Pokemon, of the gangs, of her father, of the civil war... but I felt like a donkey with a carrot dangled in front of my face. Here I am, walking along, making clear progress, but I can never reach that dang carrot! At least not until I'm all sweaty and worn out, and the dude who I've been dragging behind me in his cart finally decides to drop it. By then, I am way too exhausted to truly enjoy the carrot. :(

This is the pesky thing about hype. When something is over-hyped, you go in expecting some fantastic thing to happen, and if it doesn't meet those unrealistically high standards, you are let down. Even if the material was actually great. On the other hand, if you feel no hype at all, you don't even want to bother with it in the first place. Pace your story gradually. Give us a piece of that carrot, then make us work for it some more. Then give us another piece and continue the process until we reach the climax. I felt starved most of the time, and then was presented with an enormous feast at the end that would have felt even more enjoyable had I not been so worn out with anticipation. Arrange your events so that our questions are answered before we forget we had them. You decide our journey. Your suspense was amazing, and certain things definitely are meant to be kept until the finale. We do need some sustenance in the mean time though, or interest fades.

I noticed that you often used the gangs as a remedy for the downtime in your flow. There were several battles that seemed random and unneeded, specifically the one with Jazz and the white-bandana'd thug. I am sure you used these battles as a means to develop the gang members as characters, and create the loyalty that they eventually acquired for Rachel, but the repetitiveness of them made them become increasingly less exciting. Be creative and original when you invent obstacles and conflict. Try even to not use the same method twice unless it is specifically necessary to move your story forward. This will keep us on the edge of our seats throughout the entire tale.

I would now like to point out my approval of this story "having it all". Drama, Action, Adventure, Mystery, and even Romance. While the romance bit was not in my taste, I am sure someone with similar interests as Rachel would have found enjoyment out of it. You pivoted your plot very nicely, and I think the subplots did their jobs well.

--Setting: It was set in a futuristic, almost post-apocalyptic world, eh? Not as in the sense of atomic bombs destroying the earth, or Hell being released, but in the sense of the government crumbling and humans almost devolving to a barbaric 'everyone fends for themselves' sort of state. A very interesting concept. Your setting crafts a large part of your mood. This felt grim and dire. I worried for the non-trainers, as I should have. They were practically bleeding meatbags for anyone with a Pokemon to have their way with. You conveyed this setting with skill and detail, but not too much to make me drown in it.

The literal setting however, felt hit or miss. At times you showed us everything, at others you showed us nothing. And even other times, there was so much to see I got tired just reading it. Moderation is key, my friend. Remember what things are important, and what things are not. What should we see vividly, and what should be blurry? A specific thing I remember is the alleyway where Sunshine died. I distinctly remember all the trash. XD That's awesome, and I thought it was well-written. But what about more important locations, the warehouse where Rachel was captured, or even the space where the Seattle's Elite and the It's Not Right organization joined forces? Your focus puts importance on whatever is being told of. If the scenes are out of balance, I get the impression that one is more important than the other. If you want to stress importance of one, keep in mind how much you focus on it in comparison with your scenes elsewhere.

--Conflict: So much fighting! It didn't feel forced for the most part, but as I have already mentioned, remember that it all impacts each other. The first fight will always feel the most exciting until something new happens. If you want a specific conflict to stand out, tone down the others or make it individually unique.

I'd like to applaud you on pulling off inner conflict as well. Almost every single person in your story had some. It was quite nicely done. It was interesting to see the toll that the Second Civil War had actually put on all of the older characters. The adults were deeply affected by it, especially Rachel's Dad, Hayes, and Mr. Ward. They all responded to this tragedy very differently - which was pleasantly unpleasant to read. :P I got to witness the turmoil through many different eyes. Sunshine's story in relation to this was a creative touch as well. (I wish I understood how that medallion worked a little better! Did it turn her into a Pokemon? Did it turn her into a ghost and a Pokemon? If so, are all ghost-types the reincarnation of former people? Why did Lugia make it and how?)

You did a good job of not solving a problem until more arise to take its place. As I mentioned with pacing, however, be careful about stringing the reader along for too large of a gap. It can become very frustrating. And on the other hand, be wary about arising too much conflict. You can easily fall into chaos.

--Characters: Some of the best characterization I have seen. They felt real, and human. People didn't always have the perfect lines to add, or witty retorts. I especially liked your usage of AIM chats to bring even more realism to this story. The conversations included typos and so person-like responses that it made the characters seem so real, it was almost creepy.

What impressed me the most about their realism, is the fact that the majority of them are all so individual. You have a large amount of characters in this story, it is often difficult to create that many distinct personalities - but you've done it; it was a fine job.

• Rachel: Something about Rachel that I liked, was her 'to the point' attitude. It made her an unusual teenager, and added to the fact that it made her worthy of a main-protagonist-playing role. Something I disliked though, was her somehow apparent characteristic of being a leader. It seemed so sudden that everyone started bestowing leadership roles upon her. I didn't feel wisdom, grace, or persuasion from her until the very, very end. All I heard was her rambling reiterations of Ellen's beliefs. I realize this was her coming to the realization that Ellen had changed her views of the world, but that doesn't account for the demeanor of a leader. It was significant enough to bug me at several moments throughout this story. Tom and Mohawk were the most random followers of all though... Rachel never showed them kindness, bravery, or compassion. She didn't commit any act of strength. none of this happened until the Epilogue. The only thing that set her apart was the ghost inside her, fueling her with fire powers. The only place that could have even remotely been taken as a display of unique power was when she burst into flame in the rain and set the cactus on fire. But even then, she unintentionally popped her sleep pellet and ended up falling asleep. xD A normal person would have seen this as a sign of weakness, not strength. I wish there had been more fleshing out of her development into a leader, because I unfortunately wasn't feeling it.
• Mom: This woman is a badass. I felt she was perfect in every way. She filled the motherly role, without being forced into the story as some overbearing figure. It felt natural, and motherly, while also being unique. She also set into motion a good amount of plot devices without needing to actually appear in the scene.
• Dad: Another good use of someone providing content to the story, without needing a significant presence in it. I do wish he hadn't been injured the entire story, as we didn't get to seem him develop much at all. It was also a bit confusing to read how Rachel seemed to know a lot more about him than I did by the end, even though we both met the man at the same time. In addition, I would have loved to see them grow together more than what was actually created, but in your defense, this all happened within a week. :P Not enough time for a realistic human to develop pure emotion over, especially a pair like father and daughter.
• Ellen: She was funny, and very modern teenager. Hah. I loved the awful chatspeak she had in virtual conversations, as well as the innocence she brought in others. It was very awkward for me to read her as a romantic interest, though - partly because I am heterosexual, but mostly because she seemed so childlike. There was a long history between her and Rachel that we don't know the details of, but I didn't really understand what put Rachel over the edge enough to realize that she was in love with her. To love emotionally is one thing, to love romantically is another. I guess I just never felt the sexual tension!
• Brian and Tyco: These two could have probably been merged into one. Tyco didn't seem to have any significance to the story whatsoever other than a fourth person to participate in the AIM chats. Brian was a great character, and I enjoyed his bashfulness. His having a romantic interest for Rachel was kind of awkward and out of the blue, though. Heh. At least with Neil it built up into an amusing subplot. Whereas here, it just kinda fizzled into a weird bubble. :P
• Bullies and Thugs: I loved the increasing level of antagonists that this story had. We go from the biggest threat being simple schoolyard brutes, to immature and inexperienced trainers, to veterans of war. This is fantastic. You kept it interesting by never letting us get too comfortable with one threat before another got thrown in. You also developed actual relationships out of these; this blurs the lines of good and evil, and further emanates your theme of realism.
• Sunshine: Probably my favorite character. She had a mysterious history, a great personality, and I honestly feel like she affected Rachel more than Ellen did. It wasn't until Sunshine came along that Rachel noticeably started changing as a person. Rachel and Ellen had known each other their whole lives; it seems oddly coincidental that Rachel targets all these new feelings to Ellen the moment Sunshine comes along.

For me to be able to even analyze your characters is thrilling. I hope you take it as a compliment, because I feel like I am talking about actual people, not figments of your imagination. I have some qualms, sure, but I also have similar feelings about characters in a published novel as well.

--Dialogue: The general consensus is that this was achieved fluently. Everyone had their own voice, and some even their own accent. It didn't seem to consist of too much or too little dialogue, and that is a nice accomplishment to have found a happy medium. As humans, we all have different vocabularies and thought processes. You can pull off more realism if you capture this within your speech as well. A couple people had similar dialects, and even phrased their thoughts in identical tendencies. You had a lot of people to worry about though, so I can understand the similarities that bled through at times.

I heard many characters' attitudes through their words, and to me, that is the most important of all when writing speech. It crafts a person, not an NPC.

--Style: I am going to finish the story evaluation here before things start getting redundant. Your style was again, nice. This writing seemed significantly grim/drama. It carried the same feeling consistently throughout the entire story, and I want to praise you for a job well done. You set your tone with your word choices, and all of them complemented each other and flowed nicely. Sometimes your styling felt a bit uninspired, as in monotone, so be aware of moments where you tell of a scene too simply. Especially with a story this long, it is good to have extra spice thrown in. I noticed the most interesting bits tended to be when dealing with emotion. Something to stew over, I suppose, if that lights any bulbs in you.

Details: Vivid. Specific. Wide. Figurative. You had it all. I rarely felt deprived. I especially loved your use of symbolism with all the references to candles. It was quite lovely. I don't think I have ever enjoyed someone's descriptions here as much as I have enjoyed yours.

I felt emotion in all the right places. I'd go back and search through this story to find examples of my favorites, but there were so many, I'd never be able to narrow it down. Rachel using the raw emotion of anger to fuel her and Sunshine's fire abilities was both creative and developmental. You expressed color clearly, interestingly, and effectively. And most of all, I saw your world, and I am pretty positive I saw it through your eyes and not mine. That is a feat only accomplished by the best of authors, in my opinion. You left nothing to the imagination while also not boring me with a hammering of adjectives. It was truly impeccable. Well done.

Anything constructive I should say here has pretty much been said elsewhere, and I don't feel the need to grind anything into the dirt. I simply want to give credit where credit is due.

Grammar: It was... virtually flawless. I saw so few typos that it was almost unreal. How you managed to present this large of a story with so little error all on your own is beyond me. I usually proofread my writing a dozen times before I submit it, and still manage to miss a dozen typos. There are probably more mistakes in this grade than there were in your story come to think of it.

The only thing I can really even mention, is that you have a bit of a habit of writing extremely lengthy sentences. While they are grammatically correct and properly written, you use many combinations of semicolons, dashes, parentheses, or all of the above which often leads to a single sentence being the length of an entire paragraph. It is not necessarily a mistake so much as it is simply tedious to read repetitively. I got lost in Rachel's narration at times because of this. The subject would get taken off course multiple times in a single sentence to lesser ideas of the one being told of, which made for some unnecessary bumps to your flow.

But again, your grammar is fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. If there was anything that I should be quoting and correcting here, I did not see it, because I was too busy enjoying your story. And I am certainly not going back through that thing for some petty nitpicking. :D

Outcome: I hope it was obvious that I very much liked this novella. :P I also hope that you can take at least one thing constructive from this grade as a token of my appreciation. The story was an impressive tale, and I feel it deserves more than this wad of pokes that I'm about to give you...

Scraggy, Solosis, Blitzle, Litwick (most definitely!), Mienfoo, Maractus, Frillish, Scrafty, Houndoom, and Larvesta all captured!!!

Congrats. You are more than deserving.