The Regular

  Cecilia had always told her not to be too proud.

  Told her plainly before she started the journey that while she might be skilled, the best by far at her school, that only made her a big fish in a small pond.

  Sarah never really believed her.

  Sure, she knew she probably wasn’t the very best of her generation or anything like that, but she was strong. Just because Cecilia had never finished her circuit before deciding to become a Coordinator didn’t mean Sarah would fail.

  Because she was good.

  Really good even.

  She’d crushed her first Gym without losing a single Pokémon, only dropped one close battle against trainers her own age, and after earning her second badge, Byron had actually bothered to praise her.

  A talent, he’d called her.

  Someone to watch.

  So maybe she wasn’t going to be a monstrous genius not seen in a hundred years, but she was still talented enough to stand near the top of her generation. Talented enough to finish the circuit. Maybe even take a few steps into the Conference.

  That was enough to be proud over.

  She believed that.

  Right up until she met them.

  She glanced across the campground of the halfway house, toward the table where the two of them sat.

  Flint, and Volkner.

  The two trainers everybody seemed to agree were simply the best.

  The most talented.

  The ones that would actually go far.

  And she understood why now, of course. She couldn’t have been shown more directly if she’d tried.

  Still, it didn’t change the fact that, when she’d first arrived, she hadn’t understood at all. Why people treated them with that quiet, invisible respect. Why one of the few tables in the halfway house always seemed to be left open for them. Why they were the only trainers still on their circuit who were offered a real room.

  It had taken actually meeting Flint for it to start making sense… or, well, that wasn’t even true either. Just meeting him hadn’t helped at all.

  Maybe it would have, in a different setting. If she’d bothered to get to know them first, or if she’d watched them battle.

  But as it was, their meeting had been pure happenstance.

  She had a habit of waking early, and Meditite preferred training alone, when the grounds were quiet. Flint had already been there, standing with his Magby as they drilled Ember again and again.

  She hadn’t planned to interact with him at all.

  Not just because it was early and she didn’t feel like talking, but also because he simply didn’t look at her level. The Ember he managed to coax out of his Magby was laughable—curving wildly, unable to even travel straight.

  So she’d planned to keep her distance. Focus on Meditite. Let him do his thing.

  Flint had other plans.

  He noticed her almost immediately.

  Grinning wide, he walked over, and like they were already old friends, he started talking.

  Her name. Where she was from. Why she trained so early. How long she’d been traveling.

  At first, she answered him neutrally, hoping he would simply go away. When it became obvious he wouldn’t, she told him—plainly—that she wanted to focus on training.

  And, to be fair to Flint, he seemed to understand.

  He blinked, like he’d just realized he was being a nuisance, gave her a shameless smile, and went back to working with his Magby.

  It lasted until she had Machop start training Mach Punch.

  Then he started talking again.

  At first, it was just a single comment—something about how she was focusing too much on having Machop complete the full motion of the move instead of perfecting the Type Energy manipulation behind it.

  She ignored him.

  Then it became two comments. Then three.

  About her timing. Her pacing. The way she corrected Machop between attempts.

  Each one delivered lightly. Casually. Like he just couldn’t help himself to point out something obvious to somebody who couldn’t see it.

  By the time she realized he’d fully shifted his attention back to her, he was standing close again, watching Machop’s form with open interest.

  So she snapped.

  Told him that if he knew so much better than her, he could prove it. Gave him a piece of her mind—about how he had no idea what he was talking about, how her older sister had trained her, how she didn’t need him explaining things she already understood.

  Then she challenged him to a battle.

  In hindsight—even knowing everything she did now—she still didn’t think she’d been in the wrong.

  Criticizing her training. How did he even dare? Did he not understand that people had started feuds over less? He was acting like he understood Machop better than she did after watching him for barely a few minutes. Like he understood Mach Punch better than she did—better than her sister did—when he couldn’t even get his Magby to keep an Ember on a straight trajectory.

  And, most importantly—

  Had she ever asked for his advice?

  Of course, now she understood how laughable the rest of her words had been.

  She had wanted to show him the difference between them. The difference between someone talented and someone mediocre.

  And, in a way, she had gotten her wish.

  The fight hadn’t been close.

  It hadn’t even been something that could honestly be called a fight.

  Monferno hadn’t looked like it was trying all that hard. Every battle it started the same way—with a Mach Punch so fast that even after she’d warned Meditite, her ace still couldn’t react in time. Once that opening landed, everything fell apart. Caught off balance, her Pokémon never recovered, barely managing to land a hit on the Fire/Fighting-type before being overwhelmed.

  And yet, the fact that she’d lost so decisively wasn’t even the worst part.

  She could stomach losing. She’d never thought of herself as the protagonist of one of those journey novels where the hero never seemed to lose a single battle.

  Power gaps happened. People borrowed Pokémon from older siblings. Some—like the clan heiress she’d once read about—were even said to have been handed powerful Pokémon outright. Those trainers often did well at first, only to falter later when raw power stopped being enough.

  But this wasn’t that.

  It didn’t feel like that. She had battled her sister and her sister’s boyfriend before, and back then she’d tasted just how overwhelming raw power could be—how impossible a fight became when the difference was purely one of a Pokémon’s base level.

  But this just wasn’t that.

  Monferno was clearly a tier above even her ace, but not impossibly so. It wasn’t unreachable. Flint’s partner was fast, but not so fast she couldn’t track it. Strong, but not so strong that her Pokémon were blown away in a straight clash. If Meditite had managed to meet it head-on—if things had broken just right—she might have even stood a chance.

  The real difference?

  It was technique.

  Strategy.

  A little bit of everything, and a whole lot of something.

  She had always known that higher-level battles became more complex. She’d even looked down on the others at her school for not understanding that. Looked down upon the ones who still barked commands nonstop, who hadn’t realized that only the weakest trainers micromanaged every move.

  And yet…

  She had never seen it taken this far.

  Monferno’s control over its moves was absolute.

  Ember wasn’t just a projectile like every other time she had seen it, but a living thing. The flames would move like a snake through the air, following her Pokémon as they tried to dodge.

  Quick Attack wasn’t just an attacking move, either. It was a way to move—used to close the distance, to disengage, or even as a straightforward strike. Each use opened up more options, made it harder and harder for her Pokémon to read what was coming next.

  By comparison, her team suddenly looked… crude.

  Machop’s Karate Chop was exactly what it sounded like—a straight, downward strike with his hand.

  Croagunk’s Poison Sting fired in a single, linear barrage.

  Clean, effective and—

  —so, painfully, obvious.

  She had trained her Pokémon to use their moves on their own, but she had never trained them to fight on their own. She had given them freedom, yes—but no nuance. No adaptability. No instinct beyond execution.

  It was almost funny. She’d mocked people for micromanaging their Pokémon, only to forget that a trainer still had to train them beyond simply acting independently. Because the way Monferno fought wasn’t natural at all—it was planned and calculated. Trained.

  So she had been smashed.

  Destroyed so thoroughly that she couldn’t even tell why she had decided to go on a journey in the first place, why she had even begun to imagine herself as talented.

  And it was there—standing in the dirt, tears burning at her eyes—that she finally understood.

  Why everyone had given her those pitying looks.

  It took her a full day to leave her room. Another before she stopped hiding from everybody by burrowing herself inside her hoodie. And one more before she worked up the nerve to seek Flint out and apologize.

  Or—well—try to anyway.

  In the end, Flint was the one who apologized first. He said he’d been stupid. That he shouldn’t have given her unsolicited advice in the first place.

  Then he refused to accept her apology.

  Not unkindly. Just… firmly.

  She spent the next few days observing them. Asking questions. Trying to figure out who they actually were.

  She learned that while she hadn’t heard of them, she probably should have. Their names had come up more than once in trainer rags and circuit gossip—flagged as trainers worth keeping an eye on, held up as examples of how proper trainers were made.

  She learned she wasn’t the first to underestimate Flint. Not even close.

  She also learned that they rarely battled trainers their own age. Instead, they sparred against some of the older Coordinators at the halfway house, who deliberately used team members that weren’t fully trained, or practiced by battling one another.

  And after all of it, she realized one thing.

  Trying to compare herself to them was pointless. She might be good. Might even be considered talented.

  But that was it.

  Maybe she could make it as a pro trainer, but that was also her limit. Unless she worked her ass off, and even then, she was never going to get onto the Elite Four or become a Gym Leader. With a little luck she might become locally famous, but unless some star shone over her she wasn’t going to be a household name.

  And so she let the comparison go.

  Not her dream of becoming a pro trainer—never that—but the need to measure herself against them.

  They were the real stars of their generation. Probably the two trainers who would end up standing at the very top. The ones people talked about when the year ended. The ones sponsors fought over.

  Her sister’s generation had William Twinleaf.

  She was unlucky enough to have Flint and Volkner.

  Two protagonists, instead of just one.

  The thought settled in quietly—

  —and lasted until they arrived.

  …

  When she walked over to where Flint was about to battle a newcomer, she hadn’t really thought about how the match might go. Honestly, she hadn’t been thinking about the battle at all.

  Watching Flint fight had become rare enough that the outcome almost felt like a formality. You showed up to see how he’d win, not if he would.

  She’d come mostly because she was curious about who had arrived, and after she saw the challenger, she stayed because—if she was being honest—he was her type.

  Tall, with long black hair and striking blue eyes that drew her attention whether she wanted them to or not, he had the kind of sharp, aristocratic features that belonged on a school brochure—or the cover of a magazine.

  …Okay, that might’ve been a slight exaggeration.

  Objectively speaking, he was a little too thin for his height. Built more like a pretty boy than a brawler, maybe even leaning a bit too far in that direction.

  But still.

  A neutral expression rested on his face, his eyes scanning Flint without even a hint of the usual underestimation most people showed when they didn’t know who he was. At the same time, his posture stayed loose and relaxed as the two of them traded banter back and forth.

  He was confident—but also smart enough not to dismiss Flint outright just because he looked like, and to be fair to everyone who fell for it, often acted like a complete moron.

  In other words—

  —definitely her type.

  …Maybe she could use the fact that she had also lost to talk to him afterwards?

  Bond a little over shared misery?

  For a moment, she imagined it.

  After he lost, she’d walk over. While he moped, she’d give him a light pat on the back and introduce herself. He’d thank her, a little distracted, and she’d make some small talk before casually asking if he wanted to train together sometime.

  She’d show him a few tricks she’d picked up from her sister. He’d be grateful—maybe even a little shy. And they’d keep meeting up, keep talking, until one day it would feel natural to agree to travel together.

  On the road they’d bond over stupid little things, and eventually he would confess that he couldn’t live without—

  The handsome mystery challenger released his Pokémon.

  She let her eye move to it—

  A Bunneary.

  —and the fantasy collapsed on itself so fast it almost gave her whiplash.

  She stared, every dramatic thought screeching to a halt.

  …What?

  She wasn’t the type to underestimate Pokémon. She really wasn’t. But Bunneary had a reputation, and it wasn’t a good one. Hard to train. Temperamental. A Normal-type that didn’t even learn many useful moves. Even if you poured time into them, they rarely gave much back. Most of the time, the only people who bothered were Coordinators—those who cared more about appeal than strength.

  Things got better after evolution. Lopunny were known to be genuinely strong Pokémon, after all. But still, according to her sister almost none of them ever actually made it that far. Evolving a Bunneary was easier said than done. Whatever the condition was, it clearly wasn’t as simple as just getting stronger.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  So, in the end, there was a reason Bunneary were so often associated with girls who never got anywhere on their journeys.

  As the referee cut off the banter and began the countdown, she glanced away from the Bunneary for a moment, her thoughts drifting despite herself.

  He wasn’t one of those guys who…

  She cut the thought off before it could finish.

  Thinking like that wasn’t just rude, it was downright distasteful. The kind of garbage the boys back at school used to spout, and they were all complete morons.

  Her gaze flicked from the Bunneary to Flint’s Monferno.

  Still… this wasn’t going to be fun for him, was it?

  …

  She dunked her head in ice cold water, trying to use the shower to calm down.

  What the hell.

  What the hell.

  What the hell.

  Her sister had called Flint and Volkner geniuses among geniuses, but if that was the case, what did that make Myst?

  A monster?

  Pure strength-wise, maybe he wasn’t that much further ahead. But after watching that battle, raw power was the furthest thing on her mind. Honestly, Myst could have lost and she still would’ve walked away thinking he was the most impressive trainer she’d ever seen.

  How did you even get a Pokémon to fight like that?

  To use moves like that?

  She’d once thought Flint’s ability to train Monferno to use its moves with that level of flexibility—like he had against her—was incredible. But it didn’t even come close to what Myst’s Bunneary had done.

  Everything she thought she knew about moves, everything she believed about how they were supposed to work, he just… ignored. It was like he’d never learned what a move was meant to do—only heard somebody describe it once and then decided to figure it out from scratch.

  Double Kick flowed through every limb the Bunneary had, looking like it should’ve been called Double Strike instead. And the elemental punches—moves she was fairly certain Bunneary weren’t even meant to learn—were chained together so fast it felt like the Normal-type was using multiple at once.

  Nothing about that fight lined up with what someone with two badges should be capable of. Hell, forget two badges—she wasn’t even sure she’d be able to make her Pokémon fight with that kind of control by the end of the circuit. It was like watching a Conference final in miniature.

  She let the icy water keep pouring over her hair, not caring how long it would take to dry or the fact that she’d washed it just yesterday. It didn’t matter, not compared to the single thought dominating her mind.

  How did you train your Pokémon to do something like that?

  The thought almost felt unfair—because it wasn’t like she wasn’t trying.

  She was.

  She woke up early. She trained hard. She thought constantly about how she wanted to fight.

  So how was she still this far behind?

  She’d thought she’d accepted that some trainers would simply be stronger, but maybe that wasn’t really it. Maybe all she’d really accepted was that Flint and Volkner were stronger.

  That there existed very few, very strong, outliers that she couldn’t compete with.

  She was still talented, just not quite the best.

  But if that was the case, what was the chance of just stumbling on one more equally talented trainer?

  How many trainers like Flint and Volkner—like Myst—did she have to meet before she was forced to admit the obvious?

  That she was just… regular.

  She leaned back against the shower wall and slid down until she was sitting on the tile, knees pulled in, cold water still pouring down over her shoulders.

  Fuck.

  Why did she even care?

  So what if they were stronger? Did it actually matter? She wasn’t in their league—fine. She didn’t need to be. She didn’t need them. Myst didn’t need her either; walking up to comfort him would’ve been pointless anyway.

  She was fine.

  And honestly? It wasn’t like he was even that great. Sure, he looked good—annoyingly so—but the way he talked to Flint? All dismissive and smug. That was irritating, wasn’t it? Just because his Bunneary could pull off insane tricks, just because his Kirlia was nearly as ridiculous—and shiny, for fuck’s sake—didn’t mean he wasn’t kind of a tool.

  If anything, he felt less like a hero and more like a villain.

  The way he fought, almost gloating as everything went his way, a smile slowly working its way up his lips as his eyes shone like stars—

  She slammed her forehead into the shower wall.

  Hard.

  …

  The Former Ace

  He had no idea why he had decided to join them.

  For protection?

  He only had a single Pokémon left, and while Flygon was strong, he wouldn’t pretend the Dragon-Ground type was enough to keep everyone safe, not if the Leavanny decided to get hostile anyway.

  So, really, there was no good reason for it.

  He was exhausted. His feet felt like lead, and some part of him knew that even if everything went perfectly, he still had a long day of paperwork and reports waiting for him.

  “Thanks for coming along,” Johanna said suddenly.

  William looked over, only to find the same worried frown she’d been wearing ever since they’d left the battleground.

  Oh.

  Yeah.

  That was why.

  “…No problem. Wouldn’t feel right letting you go alone.” he replied slowly, following her gaze.

  It settled on the two kids walking ahead of them—Cynthia and Myst, Johanna’s two tagalongs.

  Honestly, he could understand why she was worried. Since they’d started walking, neither of them had said a word. Both looked lost in their own worlds.

  Myst moved as if he had no thought beyond putting one foot in front of the other, pushing forward as fast as possible—like he was afraid the Leavanny might somehow go back on their promise if he didn’t reach them immediately.

  By contrast, Cynthia barely seemed present at all. She followed Myst almost mechanically, her steps unsteady, as though she were only half aware of the ground beneath her feet.

  It was a sharp contrast to how Johanna had spoken of them, to how he had usually seen them act.

  William pursed his lips, and then glanced at Johanna.

  “Is this a good time to say I told you so?”

  “If you think Flygon can hold back both Midna and Sassy, then sure.” She replied immediately.

  William smiled slightly.

  “I mean, historically—”

  She turned to him, a glare in her eyes.

  “Shut.”

  He shrugged.

  “I just wanted to lighten the mood…” He trailed off, then sighed. “And—I guess—give me a chance to say sorry.”

  Johanna paused for a split second.

  “For what?”

  “For not putting my foot down. None of you should ever have been involved in this operation. In the first place, I should never let it happen. If I’d really wanted to, I could’ve just refused to participate—then the captain would’ve had no choice but to call everything off… No—honestly, even if I didn’t want to, I should have put my foot down. This entire idea was fucked from the start. I—”

  For a second he struggled for words, as his hands twitched, unsure if they wanted to grab hers or stab towards some imaginary opponent.

  He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t, in all honesty. It wasn’t as though he’d never disagreed with other Rangers before. Really, if it had been literally anyone else—up to and including the Ranger General—he was certain he would have walked out of the room in protest. It went against everything he stood for, every lesson he’d learned.

  He clenched a fist hard enough for it to hurt.

  And yet, he hadn’t.

  He had plenty of excuses, of course.

  Because he’d served under Graham since the day he’d joined the corps.

  Because the old captain had taken him under his wing and trained him as his successor.

  Because if he lost his position with the Rangers, his sister, his four brothers, and the orphanage matron would all suddenly be facing money troubles.

  In the end, none of it really mattered.

  He had voiced his protest—and then he’d stood down and obeyed.

  Johanna lightly touched his arm.

  “Will, it’s fine. Everything turned out all right, didn’t it?”

  William let out a breath, forcing the spiral away.

  “Turned out fine,” he echoed. “I guess that’s one way to look at it. But you know why this situation is problematic, right? It might have turned out fine—but not because of what we did.”

  He shook his head. “If that Scovillain hadn’t acted the way it did, we would’ve all been screwed. You didn’t fight the Majesty, so you might not understand—but there was nothing I could do. Nothing Graham could do. It was playing with us. Plain and simple.”

  Johanna didn’t respond right away. A few seconds passed before she let out a quiet sigh of her own.

  “If you were wrong to obey orders,” she said slowly, “then what does that make my decision to just let them walk all over me? I brought them into the forest. Because of that, Cecilia and Oliver brought everyone else in. The fact that we were even here—for the captain to plan around us—wasn’t that my fault?”

  “You couldn’t have known—”

  She cut him off.

  “But I should have.” A light smile crawled up to her lips, even as her eyes stared flatly ahead. “I mean—considering how things ended between us, shouldn’t I have been the first to refuse when I heard they wanted to walk into an area full of dangerous Pokémon?”

  He slammed his mouth shut.

  Shit.

  They’d danced around the topic before, but they’d never quite reached the point where either of them had tried to talk about it. He knew he should have—but in the end, it had been easier to pretend nothing had changed since the day they’d walked out of Twinleaf together.

  It had been too nice, pretending things were the same. That nothing had changed, and just relive those days where they would talk to each other every second, where she would complain about how hard it was to perfectly plan for her upcoming gym challenge, and how he would pretend to struggle so she would feel better.

  Just—reliving those days.

  But things had changed, hadn’t they?

  The words he’d said that day. Her leaving before he could apologize. Those weren’t things that could be taken back. Their relationship was never going back to what it had been.

  Johanna looked away, pain flickering across her expression as her arms curled around herself.

  For a split second, he just stared.

  If he did nothing, they could both ignore it. Pretend everything was fine—that nothing had happened.

  He’d help Myst get Swadloon back. Guide them out. Then they’d part ways amicably.

  She’d probably say it was nice to meet him again. He’d agree. And then they’d never contact each other again—unless a second meeting like this somehow happened.

  He didn’t want that.

  He reached out and grabbed her arm.

  “Me losing Torterra wasn’t your fault.”

  Johanna stopped.

  “…That wasn’t what you said back then.” She mumbled after a moment, the words so spiteful that he almost smiled.

  She glared.

  “What?”

  Back then, he’d always been the mood-maker—the one who smiled and joked around. Most of the time she’d been the opposite. Not moody or withdrawn, but sharp. Every comment edged, sarcastic, poking at you in that way only she could manage.

  It had been annoying at the time, when she slipped into one of those moods—but now he simply felt a dull ache of fondness.

  “It wasn’t your fault. I mean, honestly, do you even remember what happened that day, why we were there?”

  Her glare faltered, and she looked away.

  “I thought we could handle a mission about containing and pushing back a horde of Snover. You disagreed—you said we couldn’t handle it. I forced it through anyway, and because I was too weak, Torterra had to bear too much weight.”

  Her voice wavered. “He took too much damage, and before the Rangers arrived he had already passed away holding back the Abomasnow who showed up unexpectedly.”

  William didn’t hesitate.

  “Nope.”

  Johanna’s eyes snapped back to him.

  “Nope?” She said, like she almost couldn’t believe that was his response.

  He shrugged.

  “That’s not what happened. That’s what I said happened.”

  “Well then,” she shot back some heat entering back into her voice, “what did happen—since you remember it so much better?”

  Even now, the memory of his own words felt like a haunting—something ugly dragged up from the past and thrown back in his face. Proof of his immaturity. Of how completely he’d failed to face himself back then.

  He still spoke.

  “First off, yeah—I did say I wanted to take another mission. But not because I thought we couldn’t handle the one we chose.”

  He met her eyes.

  “I wanted to take a harder one. We ended up facing a single Abomasnow and barely lived because of Torterra, if we had taken the one I wanted to we would have ended up dead facing five.”

  Johanna stilled.

  “Second,” he continued, quieter now, “I didn’t fail to protect you. That’s not what happened either. That’s just how we fought back then, how we planned it. Your Pokemon would focus on offence, mine on defending and disrupting.”

  He swallowed.

  “Torterra didn’t die because you fucked up. He died because I did. Or—at most—because we both did.”

  His voice tightened.

  “I blamed you because I couldn’t handle it. I was too proud to face the idea that my own mistakes had cost me my Ace. So I pushed it onto you instead.”

  He met her eyes and didn’t look away.

  “I’m sorry—for what I said back then. I had no right to say it.”

  He hesitated, then asked softly, “Can you forgive me?”

  Saying it felt freeing. Admitting his mistakes—out loud, to the person who most deserved to hear them. A few years ago, he never would’ve been able to. Back then, he’d still been bitter, angry at everything.

  Graham had been the one to force him to face himself.

  So now, the words came without resistance.

  Even if she didn’t forgive him—

  Even if she hated him for what he’d said—

  At least he’d finally said it.

  He thought that—until tears began to spill down her cheeks.

  Oh, shit.

  Panic surged through him. He moved without thinking, gently but quickly pulling her a step behind him as he glanced ahead. Myst and Cynthia were far enough away now that he could barely make them out.

  Fuck.

  His hands dove into his pockets as he scrambled for a solution—some way to stop them without tipping off the fact that Johanna was crying.

  Nothing came to mind.

  He also didn’t have a handkerchief.

  Obviously. Because why the hell would he?

  He hesitated, then awkwardly offered her the sleeve of his jacket, holding it out like it was a peace offering.

  Johanna didn’t hesitate. With a motion so practiced it instantly reminded him of the way she used to dry her hands on his jacket when they traveled together, she grabbed his sleeve and wiped her face on it.

  For a few seconds, she kept using his arm, soaking the sleeve until it was wet enough for the cold to seep through. Then she looked up at him again, red-eyed and puffy, and let out a small, breathless laugh.

  “I hate you.”

  In another world, those words would have been enough to kill him where he stood.

  In this one, he just laughed with her.

  “Couldn’t you have said that before you soaked my sleeve?”

  She rolled her eyes, then turned and started rapidly walking towards where Myst and Cynthia had vanished.

  “Instead of me forgiving you, or you forgiving me, how about we just call it even?” She asked.

  He caught up.

  “Even? That would imply there is an even share of the blame. I want at least seventy.”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re hopeless.”

  He smiled just staring at Johanna.

  For you, may—

  He stopped the thought before it began.

  No.

  Nope.

  Nada.

  Desperately, he searched for another topic—only for his eyes to land on his sleeve again.

  “You know, you soaking my sleeve reminds me of something. Do you remember my old sweater?” he asked. “The black one I loved more than life itself?”

  Johanna paused, then shot him a look that was somewhere between hesitant and guarded.

  “What about it?”

  William hesitated. He’d only meant to make conversation, but something in her tone—

  He lifted his eyes to meet hers.

  “Wait. Did you take it before you left?”

  Her step faltered, just for a moment.

  “…I might have,” she admitted, then let out a breath. “I packed in a hurry. I guess I didn’t realize it was mixed in with my clothes, so I took it.”

  She glanced away.

  “I noticed later. But I was still angry back then, so I didn’t feel like sending it back.”

  After a beat, she added quietly, “I still use it when I’m home, honestly. It’s a very good sweater.”

  William stopped walking entirely.

  “…You still have it?”

  She nodded, continuing forward without another word.

  Hope surged in his chest.

  Who said forgiveness never got you anything?

  He hurried to catch up and shot her a smile.

  She didn’t return it.

  The smile faded. He cleared his throat.

  She hummed softly.

  “Hmm?”

  He glanced at her.

  “Do I really need to ask?”

  She shot him a look—half warning, half challenge.

  “Do you?”

  He paused.

  Some part of him knew she’d already been more than kind. That her day had been awful. That she was probably exhausted even before their conversation. That she’d pulled herself together far too quickly after crying. That she’d already forgiven him.

  That today probably wasn’t the day to ask.

  Ordinarily, he would’ve listened to that voice.

  But he loved that sweater.

  He opened his mouth.

  “Can I have my sweater back?”

  Her face went blank for a few seconds. Something like frustration crossed it—then something softer. Almost fond.

  Eventually, a small smile appeared.

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  She didn’t even slow down as she answered.

  “Can I have my virginity back?”

  …

  The Captain

  “I knew I was right to rely on you!”

  The voice crackling out of the satellite phone was excited—almost giddy—and painfully immature. It didn’t suit a man in his forties.

  It certainly didn’t suit a Mayor.

  “It was simply my duty.”

  A barking laugh burst through the line.

  “But it was still excellent work! And just in time, too. The election’s coming up, you know. If I hadn’t managed to reopen the passage through Mount Coronet, I’d be finished. People have already been sniffing around for weaknesses after those kids somehow got lost down there. But if the public found out I couldn’t even stop a few wild Pokémon from occupying the mountain?”

  The Mayor scoffed.

  “I’d be a laughingstock.”

  Graham didn’t bother replying.

  A few seconds passed before an awkward chuckle crackled through the line.

  “Well—enough of that. I just called to make one thing clear,” the Mayor continued, his tone shifting. “My involvement has to stay confidential. Involving civilians the way you did was… honestly, brilliant, but it’s also going to turn into a complete shitstorm if it’s traced back to me. Let’s make sure it’s not, all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t sound so dour.” The Mayor laughed lightly. “You remember what I promised you, right? Even if you are unlucky enough to actually get discharged from the Rangers, with the Kamado clan backing you, that’ll be nothing more than a minor speedbump. After all, there are plenty of positions open for somebody of your station. It won’t even look strange—after all, your clan has been our retainers for generations.”

  Graham let out a slow sigh.

  “Is that all, sir? Or did you call me for something else?”

  For a few seconds, there was only silence.

  Then the Mayor’s voice returned, quieter. Colder.

  “You should remember why your family enjoys the privileges it has…”

  A pause.

  “But yes. That was all.”

  There was a soft click—the line going dead.

  Graham stared at the phone for a few seconds longer, then leaned back in his chair and drew in a slow, deep breath, filling his lungs with the free air drifting in from outside the mountain.

  What a disaster.

  He let out a small laugh at the thought.

  Because that was the only way he could call the current situation. A complete and utter disaster. From top to bottom everything had been a mistake.

  And the worst part?

  He didn’t even think he would change any decisions he had made.

  He loved his job. Loved being a Ranger. But in the end, he was Densuke by blood. His clan had served the Kamado clan as loyal retainers for generations, rewarded with wealth and status so tightly bound to that service that refusing an order had never truly been an option.

  He might survive the fallout.

  But what about his family?

  What about his grandchildren?

  His nephew?

  In the end, he knew what was at stake. His duty as a Ranger superseded ninety-nine percent of his other obligations—but that remaining one percent was enough. When the Mayor called, he couldn’t say no.

  He reached down, picked up the glass he’d set in the grass, and took a long swallow of whiskey.

  Of course, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to ask for help. Involving civilians in something like this was the last thing he would normally consider—something he wouldn’t even dream of unless he was completely out of options. So when he first realized what was probably happening, he had asked.

  For support.

  For reinforcements.

  For anything.

  The Mayor wasn’t able, or willing, to help.

  The other Rangers in the area were tied up—buried under their own assignments, stretched so thin that none could be spared. Hiring professional trainers was deemed too expensive, and even the most obvious solution, bringing in the current Gym Leader, had been dismissed.

  Graham’s jaw tightened.

  No, dismissed was the wrong word. It had been blocked. The Mayor had shut that door personally, unwilling to risk losing favor, or public appeal, to a younger man.

  It all left him with very few options.

  Almost none, really.

  Even setting aside his belief that he could hold back the Majesty alone, the threat profile was simply too large. With only his Rangers, even in the most optimistic scenario—where the Leavanny could be trusted and there were truly only four Royal Guards accompanying the Majesty—they lacked the manpower.

  In hindsight, of course, he knew that wasn’t entirely true.

  The Majesty had only revealed herself after Arboliva fainted. If nothing else had changed, then technically there had only ever been four Royal Guards to deal with. It would have taken more effort to bring one down alone—sure—but if he’d mobilized his full team from the start, he could have done it. And once a guard was down, as long as William, Karina, and Brian could hold the others at bay, the situation might have been resolved without outside help.

  Might have.

  He took another sip, letting the alcohol burn its way down his throat.

  What a joke.

  In the end, the Royal Guard had never been the real problem.

  The problem was the Majesty.

  He couldn’t handle her. Not in a straight fight. Not in a prolonged one. Not even with tricks.

  …And honestly, even now, that last part still didn’t quite sit right with him.

  There had been a reason he’d been confident. For all how extraordinary this situation was, it wasn’t unique. Every decade or so, something like this happened. A relic uncovered. A place where the lingering power of a legend latched onto a Pokémon and twisted it into something more.

  Back when he’d first joined the Rangers, he’d even taken part in a similar mission. A Rapidash had gotten its hands on a fragment of Heatran and begun terrorizing the areas around Mt. Stark.

  It had been a hard-fought battle, no doubt about that. In the end his captain had to resort to Embargo, just to stop it from continuing to rampage before taking it down.

  But that was it.

  As long as you landed Embargo against a Pokémon wielding a relic, the battle was already over. That was what the move had been designed for in the first place. Not for ordinary battles, not for humbling rich kids who’d slapped some cutting-edge status item onto their Pokémon, but for relics. For situations where a direct clash simply wasn’t winnable.

  For an Embargo to break on its own, he had never even heard about it happening. Not in any of the situations that the Rangers had encountered, not in any of the records he had read after the Rapidash incident.

  And yet, that wasn’t even the thing that shocked him the most.

  Relics were powerful to be sure. Give one to a regular Pokemon, and they would become a threat to an elite trainer. Give one to a powerful one, and they could even take on something like him.

  But that was also it.

  Trainers of his caliber—when they encountered Pokémon empowered by relics—usually suppressed them directly. The battle might be hard-fought, but in the end a relic was still just that: a relic. Maybe the very strongest Pokémon, given the right relic, could push him to his limits—but even then it should have been a struggle. A drawn-out fight, ending in his eventual defeat.

  Instead…

  He let his hands tighten around the glass.

  Instead, it hadn’t even been a battle. Never mind winning—he hadn’t even managed to land a scratch. If the Majesty hadn’t been distracted, if she hadn’t given him the opening to land Embargo, he wouldn’t have forced her back even once. In that sense, it hadn’t felt like a Pokémon empowered by a relic at all.

  It had felt like something more.

  He’d dismissed the Shirona girl when she brought up a legend, and reality had proven him right. Still, thinking back on it now, maybe she’d been closer than he wanted to admit. Maybe the fight hadn’t carried the same absolute despair as his encounter had with—

  His eyes slid to the grass as his grip tightened further.

  With—

  He stared downward, into the shadow.

  A darkness that covered the world.

  A nightmare that lasted days.

  A single moon.

  CRACK!

  Pain exploded from his hand as the glass simply shattered.

  He sucked in a sharp breath, more reflex than choice, as blood welled between his fingers and spilled onto the grass below. The sting cut through the fog in his head, anchoring him in the present.

  Cursing out loud, he flung away what remained of the glass and fished a handkerchief from his pocket. Holding it to his bleeding hand, he pressed down, then opened his mouth to call for Karina—

  He paused instead as blood dripped onto the ground.

  Blood soaking into the earth.

  He stared at it for a couple of seconds.

  Then, slowly, he felt his mouth curl into a smile.

  He started to laugh—softly at first, then steadily.

  It was comedic, wasn’t it?

  After all his mistakes, after everything that had happened, the blood staining the ground should have been innocent. It should have belonged to the civilians he’d dragged into this for nothing—or to his Rangers, who now looked at him with eyes colder than he’d ever seen.

  But it didn’t.

  Luckily, it didn’t.

  No—in the end, he was the only one who had spilled blood.

  And it sure as hell wasn’t innocent.