#novelistash

[trainerspiral]

Forrest leads me through the gate into the orchard, the Lombre marching at his side and muttering sullenly to itself. I can't help but sigh at the beauty of the old trees, their branches clustered with berries of all colors.

My mind glances back to my previous visit here, so long ago. Ro and I had been traveling together, and things between us were getting tense. The Berry Master's house had been a bright spot on that difficult journey--a much-needed reprieve that allowed us to clear the air while we did humble chores in exchange for berries.

Back then, though, a simple wooden fence had enclosed the orchard, providing a lovely view of the woods beyond. Now a formidable stone wall topped with spikes hides the outside world completely. Stretching over the trees, its jagged shadow casts a sinister pall over the idyllic orchard.

"Why the wall?" I ask.

Forrest sighs. "Same reason we need to patrol." He pauses at the end of a row of Oran trees and points. "See there?"

I draw in a sharp breath. Three of the trees at the end are stunted and dead.

The Lombre mutters in a discomfited way. Forrest pats its head. "That's from a Grimer outbreak."

"Grimer?" I ask in disbelief. "Out here in the woods?" There are some naturalized Grimer in Hoenn, but the only places I've ever known of them congregating in significant numbers are the underground passes near Mt. Chimney, where they enjoy the heat and volcanic fumes.

Forrest nods grimly. "That big tech company, Koynlab? They started mining up around Mt. Chimney three months ago. Grimer and Koffing are dangerous for the workers, so the company has made an effort to clear them out of the mines." He scowls, anger darkening his amiable features. "Of course, they insist that they're keeping their environmental impact low. There's been a media campaign to convince the public the outbreaks are caused by stuff like trash burning and littering and unsecured dumpsters. But they can't fool us."

Koynlab. I think of the V4ST, of Nifti, and my stomach sinks. "I'm guessing the government hasn't been much help?"

"You guess right," he says drily. "We think their new lab in Sootopolis is creating a lot more waste than they say, too...the outbreaks seem to be moving in that direction." He shrugs. "But nothing's come out in the official inspections, so who knows."

"Anyway." He gestures at the dead trees. "A few months after they started mining, some Grimer squeezed under the fence and did this. A couple weeks later a bunch of Koffing ruined an entire crop of Cheri berries. Our Pokemon are mostly grass types trained to help with planting - our main defense was a team of Gloom that kept pest Pokemon out with their smell. No help against Grimer and Koffing, obviously. So we had the wall put in, and me a few others started training guard Pokemon." He sighs. "Unfortunately, the berries are too tempting to Pokemon to leave them in here unsupervised. So someone has to patrol when there's an outbreak."

"That's terrible," I say sympathetically.

"Yeah. We're dealing with it though." He smiles. "Anyway, it's getting dark. I better start working on that garden. Just walk around the perimeter with your Pokemon and keep an eye out. If you see anything sneaking in, you know what to do."

I'm not so sure, but I make my best attempt at a reassuring smile and thumbs up. He returns the gesture and goes back to the garden with his Lombre, leaving me alone in the swiftly darkening orchard. I turn and begin and steady march along the forbidding wall.

As the orchard falls into twilight, electric lights on poles flicker to life among the trees. My shadow stretches and shrinks as I pass each one. An evening wind rises in the trees. After 30 uneventful minutes, my nervous vigilance dulls and my less immediate anxieties slink back into my skull.

I hate how much the Berry Master's words bother me. It's you that doesn't know how to fight. Despite the pain of losing my Pokemon and the shame of my years in obscurity, there's still a nasty little piece of ego left to wriggle to the surface. I think of my Kalos team, my Champion team, of all the hard years of training and battle. I think of the world-class trainers I defeated, the talented upstarts whose meteoric rises ended with me, and my pride burns like dragonfire in my chest.

Then I think of ASH's face, of his poor Metagross, of the satisfaction I felt as I ordered my Eelektross to deliver the attack that would prove fatal. The fire churns inside me, but it doesn't go out; it only ignites the old argument with myself again, the schism between the part of me that wishes I'd been the loser and the part of me that could never have swallowed that loss.

And I think of Coba, tangled in String Shot as the Silcoon prepared to strike. Would he have survived if it had hit him instead of me? Logic says the answer is almost certainly yes--Pokemon do get killed, but they're tough, so much tougher than humans, made for fighting in a way we can only envy. Jumping in front of him was pure stupidity. The old me would never have done such a thing, treating a Pokemon like a helpless baby.

I stop in my tracks. Why did the Silcoon attack Coba? I squeeze my brain, trying to remember every detail of the scene. I was yelling at the V4ST, and when I turned back around he had been attacked. And while it was not strictly impossible that I'd be stupid enough to turn my back on an aggressive wild Pokemon, I didn't think that was the case. After all, Coba had not been hostile to it in any way. He had refused to even approach it.

But I started yelling at the V4ST, and Pokemon almost universally hate yelling. Maybe I had been the one the Silcoon perceived as dangerous.

And if that was the case, maybe Coba got hit because he'd tried to protect me.

Pokemon may have trouble understanding your words, but they understand your heart just fine.

It's not that Coba can't fight. It's that he knows I don't want him to.

It's unclear how long I stand there in the deepening dark, feeling the weight of that thought, before the wind shifts and I notice the smell. Rank, rotten, rancid--few words are adequate to describe it. Sewage, formaldehyde, body odor, brimstone--a rich, full orchestra of putrescent notes.

It's not hard to pinpoint the direction it's coming from. Against all desire, I cut across the orchard and head toward it, praying it's coming from the other side of the wall. At first I see nothing; I think I've got lucky. But then I notice a gleam--wetness caught in the electric light. A mucilaginous tendril of purple ooze creeping through the tiniest hole in the masonry, already puddling on the dirt below. Within seconds a wide, wet eye squeezes through.

I tear out the V4ST's ball and throw it to the ground in front of me. The Porygon2 bursts out.

"V4ST! Psychic attack!" I order.

The V4ST looks at the quickly-coalescing Grimer. Then it spins in a circle, looking all around itself. Then it looks at me.

"Drr-drr," it drones.

My heart lurches, but maybe it just doesn't know that attack. "Tri-Attack!" I say. No Porygon2 would be without that attack.

"Drr-drrrrr," it repeats, with more emphasis this time.

"Why?!" I shout.

The V4ST swoops toward me with a series of caustic beeps as the last glob of the Grimer begins to slide toward the ground.

"Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you!" I say, my voice high and tight with fear. "I'll be nicer, I promise, but please, please help me!"

The V4ST beeps harshly. Then it taps its beak hard on my breast pocket, making a dull clunking noise as it hits Coba's ball through my coat.

"Drr-drr," it reiterates.

I lurch back as the Grimer makes a sudden lunge in my direction. The V4ST whirls around to look, but the sludgy beast seems satisfied that I'm no threat. It starts to ooze toward the trees.

There's only about 30 feet between the wall and the first row of trees. Grimer are slow, but if I don't do anything it will get there and start destroying the orchard.

And I understand the V4ST's meaning. It can protect me, but it can't act as my Pokemon.

It has to be Coba.

I look hard at the V4ST. It looks back at me, impossible to read. I feel my hatred for it rising and swallow it down. It's not fair to blame the V4ST for doing what it's meant to do. I have to trust it to take care of things if they get out of hand.

Even if getting out of hand means Coba turns out to be a Missingno. Even if it means losing him.

As I pull out his ball, I'm more afraid than I've ever been going into a battle. But I remember the words of the Berry Master--words that old youngster me apparently needed to hear after all--and I do my best to call up the old battle-readiness of days past, and I throw the ball with all the ferocity I can summon.

Hearing the ball, the Grimer whirls toward the new threat with a wet snarl, and its stench hits me with nauseating force. Coba squeaks in shock and turns, scampering back in my direction.

"Coba!" I say, speaking to him for the first time in a commanding tone. He stops, studying me quizzically with one little black eye.

Through the sickness and pain and fear, I manage to stab my finger toward the Grimer and snarl, "Mud-slap!"

For a terrifying second, Coba simply looks at the Grimer, which has fixed him with its full attention now. He takes a bound in my direction, and I'm afraid he's going to refuse again.

But then he digs his little forepaws into the earth and shoots backward, sending a plume of mud directly into the Grimer's face.

The Grimer folds in on itself, handlike pseudopods swiping at its mud-caked eyes. I let out a shrill whoop of triumph, then choke on it as the V4ST drifts forward, its eyes laser-focused on Coba. My heart throbs in my ears and I feel my knees weaken as it hangs there, calculating, and then slowly turns to face me.

"Bi-bing," it chirps.

A beautiful sound. An undeniably affirmative, happy sound. I fold over with a sob of relief.

But I can't collapse in a blubbering heap just yet, because the Grimer makes a disgusting phlegmy noise and hawks a glob of Acid in Coba's direction. It goes wide thanks to the blinding mud, but it's a timely reminder that the fight isn't over.

"Great job, Coba!" I shout hoarsely. "Mud-slap!"

Coba performs the move again, and the Grimer burbles with pain and rage. It flings out a pseudopod and this time the attack connects. Coba shrieks as he rolls end over end toward me, and the Grimer surges forward.

"Coba!" I shout, locking every muscle in my body to keep myself from repeating the stupidity of my Silcoon encounter. He stands up, looking shaken, but he turns and hisses at the Grimer. I order another Mud-slap as the toxic Pokemon bears down on him, but this time his aim goes wide and the Grimer's Acid attack hits true. He screeches in pain and staggers to the ground as the poison seeps in.

I withdraw him and turn to the V4ST. "Help!" I plead.

"Drr-drr," it says, and I realize the Grimer has turned from the fight and is closing in on the trees. The V4ST is under no obligation to protect the trees, and now I have no way of protecting them, either.

Except one.

Clenching my jaw, half-thanking and half-cursing Ro, I pull out an empty Ultra Ball and let it fly before I have a chance to change my mind. It pulls the Grimer less than a yard from the nearest tree. It rolls around a few times, and then the light goes out.

"Bi-bing," the V4ST says.

@novelistash

[novelistash]

Wattpad & Twitch?

I saw the term Writeblr. Am I a Writeblr? Is Writeblr a page or a person? Well, this Jon Snow has been dipping their toe into the wide world of Wattpad. Any other writers on there? Drop your links! I've been reading stories live on Twitch, and it's been a lot of fun! There's a lot of lost talent there, as with all writing spaces, but it definitely needs some help finding air to breathe.

Why did I decide to read Wattpad stories live on Twitch? Read more. (I hope I'm using this feature right.)

About two and a half years back, I decided that it was time to stop dragging my feet and get traditionally published. (Well I try to get trad pubbed.) I knew that Twitter would be the place to promote and Wattpad would generally be the place to share, but I also knew those places would be full of competition. November was coming up so I thought, "why don't I live stream Nano? That'll be fun." It wasn't.

As much as people don't want to read, they definitely don't want to read while an author is writing. Twitter had a very small writing community then and I haven't seen it get any more popular. Which isn't to say it couldn't get popular, but I don't think it works as a way to GET an audience. I could talk about those who've found moderate success, but if I'm going to do that I'd like to talk to them and maybe interview them. Something I've considered putting on my ghost town of a YT channel.

Regardless, I was on Twitch for about a month. I never gained any kind of following and every viewer I saw on those channels were people like me, those who were trying to promote their own writing. So, yes, I could gain followers of other writers, but I couldn't build a brand that way. I had too much experience with similar platforms to think otherwise. If I wanted to get readers, I needed to be on the platform that readers were using.

That lead me to more or less wasting two years on Twitter. I mean, I met some cool people while on there and had good interactions. But was it good for my brand? Did it help me find readers? I'd say a resounding "no" on both parts. The funny thing about Twitter is that it's great at making you think that people care about you. Shit post about a bad day? Hundreds of replies. Link to a blog going into detail about that bad day? Now you're starting to see how little people actually care. At some point I can go into the nuances of my time in the trenches of Twitter, but the point is that it didn't help my writing career.

For me, the biggest problem with Twitter was the same problem with all writer-centric spaces: we are sellers without customers. I like to describe these spaces as towns of vendors. We each have our vendor stall set up, and see lots of people walking. This is great! That means there are customers! Except all of those people walking on the street are also vendors. They're only there to sell their own wares. Yes, there's mutual inflation and reciprocal commerce, but writers make a poor basis for a readership. If someone is selling eggs, they want to sell to bakers, cooks, and the common man, not their fellow ranchers.

Regardless of fame and fortune, I want a readership. I write for myself, yes, but once those words are on the page, I want someone to read those words. I've been writing for over twenty years by this point and during that time my perspective has almost always been, how do I get readers? It's a natural question to ask, but it's driven by selfish desires at its core. I think for the writers of today, the bigger question might need to be, "how do I get people to read?"

The larger problem with readers, is that there aren't that many of them. If there are ten billion eggs in a town of a hundred, most of those eggs are going to rot. And even though most everyone knows that the general public doesn't habitually read, there seems to be this stigma against talking about it. Ever since I started writing, the talking point has always been "people thought comics would destroy the novel, but it didn't."

Okay, so, there are still readers, but could you say that a majority of the people read? Comic books, television, movies, and video games all offer more senses than the written word. They offer experiences that books never can, so why would anyone choose to read a book when they could instead watch that same story play out on screen?

Well, the written word can actually offer things that other media can't. In general, novels are closer to the emotional landscape of the story. Books invite the reader to be a part of the creation process, rather than a passive observer. The lack of a spoken word or portrait lets the reader construct whatever voice or face they desire. Beyond all of that, readers tend to spend more time with a book than any other media. (I'll hold off on a thorough debate of the narrative quality of iterative gameplay loops in video games for the time being, but I'd be hard pressed to find someone who enjoyed Preston Garvey's procedurally generated missions more than any of the designed quests in Fallout 4.) The point is that the written word is not without value, simply that its qualities are losing appreciation.

That's where the idea of reading stories came about, not as a way to increase my visibility, but as a way to increase the number of readers in the world. Opera single handedly created a boom in book sales by doing little more than talking about books. I think that modern entertainment can take interest in reading farther. Podcasts and Twitch streams are filled with content that is actually dead air, but people will tune in and listen. They connect with the player, the streamer, the speaker, and they are content to be apart of somebody else's discovery. A big part of what makes Twitch successful is simply watching these personalities react.

Wattpad is literally an endless supply of new stories that are available for free online. For some, anything that isn't traditionally published is a book not worth anyone's time. But there are hundreds of thousands of people submitting entire novels to literary agents every single year. Statistics alone supports the idea that great books are not going to get the representation they deserve. What are those thousands of unpublished authors supposed to do with their novels, wait patiently for exterior validation?

I don't think there's any shame in self publishing a novel and Wattpad and platforms like it are a perfectly reasonable way of putting out that content. Is there under edited content on Wattpad? Of course, but can anyone in good faith say the same isn't true of all published works? Yes, some writers are just starting out, and they dump their content onto Wattpad, but I don't understand why that's immediately a reason to balk. The writers liked the idea enough to bring it to life. Sure, finding a way to manifest those ideas is complex and difficult, but I honestly believe that a first body of work can still have an unironic entertainment in them.

I've been streaming on Wednesdays from 10am-noon pacific time. I might change that moving forward, but right now it's looking like I'm only going to be adding more time. If you're interested in joining me for story time, check me out on Twitch.

https://www.twitch.tv/ashnovelist

[trainerspiral]

When I wake a few hours later, the sun is setting. I sit up, feeling completely refreshed. Pecha juice straight from the Shuckle, while disturbing, really does the trick. I'm not even groggy.

The first thing I do is reach for Coba's Pokeball, wanting to check if he's injured, but both his ball and the V4ST's are nowhere to be found. Heart rate rising, I bolt for the door and barrel straight into a person. When the shock of the impact clears, I find myself looking down at a stringy young man sitting on the ground in exasperation. A wooden tray, a bowl of rice and veggies and a cup of water are scattered around him.

"Oh...oh man. Sorry." I reach out to help him up. "Really sorry."

He pushes a mop of green hair out of his face and takes my hand with a grimace. "Guess you're feeling better," he grunts as I pull him back to his feet.

I kneel down to help him gather the fallen items. "I uh...my Pokemon?" I manage through the haze of embarrassment.

"All healed up and playing in the garden." He gives me a lopsided smile, then a curious frown. "Have you been here before? You look familiar."

I sigh. "I'm former Kalos Champion Spiral."

"Oh! Yeah...maybe that's..." He squints. "You were knocked out by a Silcoon?"

"Long story," I mutter. My face is on fire.

He gives me a curious look and shrugs. "Well, I'm Forrest. Nice to meet you." We shake hands, and he continues, "I'll take you to your Pokemon."

I follow him out into beautiful evening air. The sweet smell of berries floats over the rich musk of well-tended earth. To my right, rows of berry trees, aglow in the rosy light, peer over the top of a gated stone wall. Around me, a charming pathway of smooth stones leads through a modestly sized but abundant garden - more like a nursery, really, so full of lush potted trees and flowers that I can't see from one end to the other. Forrest leads me along toward an ivy-laden wooden awning peering over the greenery.

Just when I'm feeling my blood pressure drop, I hear a familiar squeal, an angry snarl, and a series of beeps. I bolt past Forrest toward the sound, soon coming upon a vegetable garden neatly laid out with worn wooden beams dividing the plots. The plots are all green with vegetables except one, which has been reduced to a big conical hole surrounded by torn-up plants and humps of earth. A Lombre stands over the hole, squawking and waving its arms and jumping up and down. The V4ST spins overhead, giving a running commentary in beeps.

I hear Forrest let out a dismayed exclamation behind me as I slap myself in the forehead. "Coba!" I call sharply.

The end of a blue snout pokes out from the hole, and the Lombre stumbles back with a startled yelp as Coba charges out of the hole and puts his muddy front paws on my shin, squealing with joy.

Forrest is staring blankly at the damage, his hands at his sides. "I didn't think Trapinch would burrow in wet soil."

I sigh, gathering Coba into my arms in spite of the mud. "Yeah, he's a weird one. I'm so sorry. Please let me h--"

I jump a foot in the air as the V4ST, suddenly inches from my head, whistles. I glare at it, but Coba squeaks with excitement and strains forward in my arms. The V4ST dips in the air, stretching its beak toward him.

"Hey!" I snap. "Get away from him!"

The V4ST pulls back, giving me a blank look and a low, flatulent beep. Forrest's eyebrows lift at my tone, and I feel myself heating up with embarrassment again.

"Sorry," I mumble. "Let me...show me where their Pokeballs are, and then please let me help you clean this up. Maybe we can fix it before--"

"Your Pokeballs are right here, youngster," a gravelly voice behind me says. I yelp and spin around to find the old man holding out my Pokeballs. "And don't trouble yourself about the garden. My great-grandson here can right his own mistakes."

"But sir--"

"I'll fix it tomorrow, Gramps," Forrest says, holding a hand up to me.

"Tomorrow is for tomorrow's chores, youngster. Won't take you more than an hour."

"I'm patrolling the orchard tonight, Gramps, remember? The radio said there was a chance of an outbreak."

"Outbreak?" I frown, tucking Coba and the V4ST back into my pocket.

"Glenda will take care of all that," the old man says.

"Glenda's not here. She went down to Verdanturf for a contest. It's just me," Forrest says with well-practiced patience.

"Ah? That so?" The old man tugs his beard thoughtfully, staring off for a long moment.

"Maybe I could fix the garden while you patrol?" I ask Forrest in a tentative voice. "I'm not a professional, but I did have my own garden before--"

"Ah! Of course." I whip around to find the old man's hooded eyes fixed on me. "This youngster here can help."

"Absolutely. Just show me where the shovels are and I'll--"

"No, no, you won't need any shovel for patrolling. Just your Pokemon."

"Patrol?" I squawk. "Hold on...I don't think I can...my Trapinch doesn't know how to fight, and the Porygon2 is--"

"Pish! All Pokemon know how to fight, youngster. It's you that doesn't know how to fight. And the only way to learn is by doing."

"Wh...hey! I do too know how to--"

"Pokemon might have trouble understanding your words, youngster," he continues, raising a finger, "but they understand your heart just fine. With a strong heart, there's nothing you and your Pokemon can't do."

"My heart? Seriously, it's not--"

"Be dark in not a moment. Forrest, show this youngster what needs doing. I've got to go tend the Shuckles." He gives me a nod. "You'll do fine, youngster. Trust in your Pokemon, and in yourself. Do a good job and there's a rare berry in it for you!" He winks.

"Now hold on! You might think I'm some youngster, but I'll have you know I'm the former Champion of--he's not listening." The old man is walking away toward the house, humming to himself.

Forrest shrugs, half apologetic and half amused. "Yeah, sorry. There's no winning an argument with a hundred-and-three-year-old."

"A hundred and--" I stop, gears turning. The carefully tended garden and berry orchard. The promise of a rare berry. I turn and take in the lovely old red-roofed house for the first time, and find it distantly familiar.

"The Berry Master," I say in disbelief. "Your great-grandfather is the Berry Master."

Forrest grins. "The one and only. I'm guessing you have been here before, after all?"

"Yeah...a long time ago." I shake my head. "I can't believe he's still...I mean...he's not retired?"

"Well, he can't do everything like he used to, obviously," Forrest says, "especially since my great-grandma passed. But he won't give it up, so my sister and my parents and I help out when we can, and sometimes young trainers will do things for him in exchange for berries."

"Which includes me, I guess," I grumble.

Forrest laughs. There's not a trace of meanness in it, and his good nature helps me shrug off some of my ingrained tension and shame. But I'm still worried.

"My Trapinch really doesn't know how to fight," I say. "Until a few days ago, I had given up on Pokemon entirely."

"Your Porygon2 seems pretty strong."

I shake my head, shivering. "I don't think I can rely on it."

"It saved you from the Silcoon," he says gently. "Maybe you're being too hard on it."

I frown, but he's right. The V4ST's only real job is to monitor Coba, but it seems it's also willing to fight for us when we're in trouble.

"Besides," Forrest says, "there's a good chance you won't have to fight. We put up a pretty solid wall around the orchard last month, and we spray Repel along the perimeter. Not much gets in anymore."

I look at his kind face, and I know I can't refuse. These people saved my life, and if it's likely paying them back will cost nothing more than a sleepless night, I don't have any excuse to turn them down save cowardice.

"Okay," I say. "What do I need to do?"

@novelistash

[trainerspiral]

I am standing in a grassy field. Berry trees sigh in the wind. The drone of a Combee hive seems to permeate the air like ink in water. 

Far away, an eerie bird Pokemon’s cry rises and falls. I look around desperately, see nothing but white sky.

“He is not meant alive to be,” says the woman standing across from me. Her face is grave; a scar marks its left cheek from temple to jaw. Her fuschia hair blows in the wind. “You should make die. It is kind.”

I look where she points. Frankie, sweet Frankie, my Dracovish, his odd face always smiling, his huge head bobbing atop his strangely curtailed lower body. He has a ball in his mouth. He shakes it at me and shrieks, urging me to take a break, to come and play.

I shake my head. “I made him,” I say. “I’m responsible for his suffering.”

 The woman shakes her head gravely. “It is always suffering. You can’t stop it.”

My eyes snap open. The silhouette above me slowly resolves into something like an enormous newborn with a long white beard.

“Ah, are you awake? Dear girl, we thought you dead. Or are you a boy? Either way, you are lucky. Lucky you are!”

“Flow, flowww, flower!”

I will my eyes to focus. The giant newborn is, in fact, an extremely old man, his cheeks flushed with afternoon heat. Above me, dust motes dance against exposed ceiling beams. To my left, a Bellossom undulates upon an ornate side table, dancing against the soft flicker of a rectangular bamboo lamp. From time to time it murmurs the same rhythmic refrain: “Flow, flowww, flower!”

“Ngh,” I groan.

A hand like a ginger root draws a very long straw with loops and swirls to rival any rollercoaster toward my face. “Drink, child.”

I do. The juice that flows from the ridiculous straw tastes like hot summer air and blooming trees. I feel stronger with each sip. 

“Coba?” I raise my head.

“Your Trapinch? He is just fine. What a lovely name for such a Pokemon, eh, Liechi?”

“Flow, flowww, flower!”

“Where am I?”

“Your Roto-phone automatically called us when you passed out. There are no official Pokemon Centers nearby; we act as a volunteer center for travelers along this route.” A gray eye glitters at me from beneath a steep fleshy lid. “A young lass should not be traveling with untrained Pokemon alone.”

“Flow, flowww, flower!” 

“Don’t...don’t call me a lass,” I groan.

“Youngster, then. All the same, you might have been done for, if not for your Pokemon. Drink, youngster. The Pecha juice will do its work.”

I do, closing my eyes as I draw in the sweet liquid. 

“The Porygon2 is not mine,” I mutter. “Neither of them are mine.”

“They fought for you. They are yours.”

I shake my head weakly. “I’m not a trainer. I can’t...I can’t be responsible for their suffering.”

“Suffering?”

“Yes.”

“Flow, flowww, flower!”

I close my eyes. Frankie’s face still hovers behind the lids.

“You think too much of yourself, youngster.”

My eyes snap open. I glare at the old baby-man with contempt and rage. 

“Rest,” he says languidly, just preventing me from gathering another thought. “And drink the juice.”

I take another sip. As I do, my eye travels up and down, up and down, along the loops and whorls of the straw to its end, where it rests in the lumpy, oblong shell of a Shuckle.

I cough violently. The straw shoots out of my mouth and spins like a stupidly elaborate top. The Shuckle’s head and limbs shoot back into its shell.

“Flow, flowww, flower!”

“Rest, youngster.” The old man pats my head. “In a few hours, the sun will set.”

[trainerspiral]

"That's impossible. Look how tame he is." I tap the Trapinch on the snout. He leans into the touch, squeaking. A wild Trapinch would take my finger off. I know.

But this stupid clone isn't listening to me. I shouldn't call her a stupid clone, even in my thoughts. Clones have it tough. There's a retired Jenny-clone who lives down the street from me. Super nice old lady, always says hello, tells me about her knitting classes and offers me oatmeal cookies and Pecha berry juice. She goes by Gloria now. It would probably really hurt her feelings if she knew I was calling her a Jenny-clone in my head.

But this Joy-clone, man, she's really getting under my skin. She flips the tablet on the counter around so I can see the interface. "He sure is a sweetie, but it says right here, 'no trainer data.' That means he's free for you to capture if you wish, Champion Spiral!"

I cringe internally at the title, fighting the urge to look around and see if anyone heard that, fighting not to snap at this poor clone. I'm not even sure she's a clone anymore; I wonder if she's one of the new bio-androids they've been testing while clones are supposedly being fazed out. Her skin is the color of PVC and her smile is a little too gentle and patient for my liking. But I can't be outright mean, just in case. Would it even be right to be meaner to a bio-android than a clone? Do they have feelings? I haven't been reading the news. Spending all my time in the garden, trying to get rare berries to grow.

"Listen," I say slowly. "I can see what it says. I just don't see how it's not a mistake. I mean, come on. A shiny Trapinch, this tame?"

"Hey, if you don't want him, I'll take him," a guy behind me says in a mock-jovial voice. I glance sharply over my shoulder at him before I can stop myself. Some teenager, Cooltrainer type with slick yellow and black athletic gear and an expensive-looking cap. He smiles less genuinely than the Joy-clone and I can feel him taking me in. Loose black pants, sneakers, plain black henley with no design on it. Blue hair hanging limp in my face; no hat, no bag, no style at all. I don't look anything like a trainer anymore, much less a Champion. His eyes shift avariciously to the shiny Trapinch. He's thinking, this wash-up doesn't know what she's got.

But I do know. That's the whole point of this horrible scene.

I force myself to ignore the Cooltrainer and smile at the nurse. "Can you give me any more information? Region of origin? Hatch date? Anything?"

The nurse lifts the Trapinch back into the metal tray and taps on the tablet. He waits there patiently, cocking his head to look up at the nurse, like he's done this a million times before. Wild Pokemon my ass.

The nurse shakes her head and smiles with a touch of regret around her too-gentle eyes. "I'm afraid the system isn't returning any of that information."

I frown, stare at her. She smiles a little wider. I hear the guy behind me sigh impatiently.

The nurse flips the tablet around again, displaying a table that should show all the Trapinch's data. Question marks flood the vast majority of fields. "I'm afraid the system is only returning data for species and sex. Nothing else has been registered, which means this can only be a wild Pokemon."

My stomach lurches. The last time I saw that many question marks, I was banging on a PC that refused to return my Pokemon to me. "Are you saying his data is...corrupted?" I ask slowly.

The nurse shakes her head and laughs. "No, no, your Trapinch is perfectly healthy. He just doesn't have a trainer yet. But if you'd like to visit the counter to your right, you can purchase Pokeballs, which will register him to your trainer account automatically when you--"

"I got it, I got it," I groan, my head suddenly swimming. I stagger away from the counter, careful not to look at anyone else in line behind me. "Excuse me. I have to make a phone call."

I can feel the nurse smiling at my back as she chirps, "We hope to see you again!"

___

I wait at the cafe for a half hour before Rosette finally shows up. It's a Pokemon cafe, of course--a place that serves both human and Pokemon food, so trainers and their partners can eat together and take pictures and be oh-so-cute. There's a couple of teenage girls baby-talking to a Plusle on my right; a middle-aged man making kissy noises at a Grumpig behind me. At least I have my own Pokemon to focus on, but the fact that he's not really mine almost makes it worse.

And yet, Rosette's entrance manages to break the tension up for a few moments. It's been far too long since I've seen her in person, but she smiles and waves and squeals hello like we do this every week, and I can't help but smile back, and that makes all the difference.

We hug, and I'm reminded how tiny she is. Her green hair falls over her shoulders in effortless waves, gold highlights twinkling at the ends. Everything about her is shiny--her highlights, her glossy oilslick-purple blouse, her carefully-painted nails, the six stones glittering along the ridge of each ear. Even her orchid-colored eyeshadow sparkles. And accompanying her is a tall, confident shiny Roserade with a jaunty gold bowtie around his neck. L'Amour is his name, I think. What a beauty. He does a sassy little twirl as he hops up into his chair.

"Oh my gooooood, what a cutie!!" Rosette squeals, scooping up the Trapinch immediately. "Oh Spiral, he's beautiful! You found him in your backyard?!"

"He destroyed my whole garden! You saw the pictures I sent!"

"Aww, he's a bad bad boy!" The Trapinch squeaks happily as she scratches his belly. "What a bad little stinky blue boy!" Her bright jade eyes snap up to mine with sudden ferocity. "You're keeping him."

I'm already shaking my head, prepared for this. "Ro, no. You know I can't."

"Spiral, he already loves you."

"He does not. He loves people. He has a trainer he loves even more. Someone who's missing him. How can I keep him?"

"But the Pokemon Center said--"

"They're wrong. How can he be wild, Ro? Look at him!"

The Trapinch is trying to wiggle his head under my hand, begging for pets. Rosette pouts. Her dignified Roserade looks on from his seat with an air of superiority and mild disapproval.

"And besides..." My eyes slide to a vague gray corner of the cafe as shame turns my insides to curdled milk. "I don't own Pokemon anymore."

Her hand slides across the table and grips mine tight. My eyes slowly slide back toward hers. The look she gives puts me in serious danger of public crying.

"What happened was not your fault."

I can't answer.

"And you were not the only one affected."

I nod stiffly, remembering the yellow Swablu in her hands in that old, old photo.

"And you were a good trainer. A Champion. And you love Pokemon."

I sigh, take my hand from beneath hers and press it against my eyes. And neither of us says anything for a long, long time. I can't articulate what I want to say about that last point just yet, even though it's been gnawing my brain to shreds for years and years now.

I'm not sure I do love Pokemon in the way she thinks. I used to be so certain that I did. Now I'm not confident anyone does.

Finally, I say, "He belongs to someone, Ro."

She sighs, looks down at the happy little creature wiggling on his back between our too-sweet cups of milk tea. "You might be right."

"I know I'm right."

"But in the meantime..."

"No, no, noooo--" But the box is already in her hands, and she snaps it open with a flourish L'Amour accents with a sweep of his florettes. Just like I thought. Ultra balls. A twenty pack.

"I don't need--"

Her hand is on mine again and her eyes are piercing me like a Luxray's. I have to shut up.

"Spiral. If you want to return this Pokemon to his owner, you will have to go on a journey."

I groan.

"And that probably means travel."

I slump back in my chair.

"Maybe just to the next city, but maybe across multiple regions."

I let my forehead fall against the table. The Trapinch headbutts me and chews on my hair.

"And you will need support, and protection, and a way to keep that sweet little guy safe."

My head rocks up just enough for my eyes to keep hers, and for a moment I'm unbreakable. "I only need six."

She sighs, smiles gently, and squeezes my trowel-calloused fingers. "Pokeballs break," she says.

I sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, they do."

"And you don't need to catch more than six."

"No...I guess I don't." Don't you dare sound bitter about that.

"And..." A carefully weighted pause. "Even after you register him, you can trade or gift him back to his true owner."

I stare into middle space. My hand mindlessly strokes the Trapinch's head, and then finally takes the box.

"Thank you."

She beams at me for a moment. She's thinking, This is going to be so good for you. I'm thinking, you're so wrong. This will finally destroy me. But there's no point in saying it. The last time we really got into this, we had to stop speaking for a long time. And I can't afford to fight with my friends. For all I know, she's the only one I have left. I certainly haven't talked to anyone else in recent memory.

Rosette clears her throat. "I'm sorry about your garden. I know you really loved it."

I sigh. "Yeah. My Coba berries were finally coming in."

She groans, and we both laugh. And then we drink milk tea for awhile and feed cute little flower-shaped snacks to our Pokemon, and everything feels peaceful.

But then she clears her throat again and says, "So, I told you I've been organizing this year's Kids' League Festival."

"Uh-huh." Rosette works for the Pokemon League as an event coordinator.

"It's in Mossdeep this year, so I've been over there a lot."

I nod and feel guilty that I haven't contacted her sooner. Lillycove isn't that far from Mossdeep by boat, and she's been telling me about it for over a month.

A careful pause. "I saw ASH there."

My head snaps up. The angry blonde guy in the photo leaps into my minds' eye. ASH. All caps. He said it was because those were his initials, but he would never tell me what they were. Called me his rival. Why was I his rival? Why is him being back in town freaking me out so much? All that stuff was so long ago. I have no reason to care if he could beat me in a Pokemon battle now. I don't want to battle anymore.

Clearly, Rosette predicted this reaction better than I could have. She raises her eyebrows and gives me a painfully compassionate look. I want to pretend I don't care, but it's clear I've already given myself away.

"What's he doing? Training?"

"I don't know. I didn't talk to him. I just saw him walking down the street."

I think hard for a second. "Must be working at the space center or something."

"Maybe."

Something tells me it's more than that. But I don't want to talk about ASH yet. I haven't figured out what it is that's bothering me about him.

---

I start to figure it out, some time after Rosette and I have said goodbye, when I'm alone again and walking down the seashore with the Trapinch in my arms. Memories of a long boat trip from Hoenn to Sinnoh, being stuck with him on the deck at night. Maybe not quite stuck, but enjoying his company for the first time. Finally in a situation where he had to talk to me about something other than battle strategy.

People are made of atoms, so when a human dies, that's it. Their matter disperses and breaks down forever. Their essence, their data, is concentrated in the matter we see, and once that bond is broken they're gone. But Pokemon are different. Whatever part of them is like...like the essence, or the soul, or whatever you want to call it, is located outside of our reality, right? And that essence attracts matter like a magnet. That's why we can break them down into data and bring them back so easily. It's not because of pocket dimensions or any of that bullshit, otherwise why couldn't we do the same thing with people? And why couldn't we bring people back from remains just like we do with Pokemon fossils? It's because Pokemon don't exist completely in this world. They're just tethered to it, but their attraction to matter is harder to break than a human's.

My jaw pops and I realize I'm grinding my teeth. How long did those words keep me chasing false hope? That whatever had happened with the PC could be undone, and the essences--the souls--of my Pokemon could be brought back?

I look down at the happy little Trapinch in my arms, and that sea of question marks swims in front of me. Flashes of science beyond my comprehension come back to me in a rival's grating voice. And the seed of a terrible idea begins to open inside me.

I want to stomp it out, but I have a shiny Pokemon in my arms and a pocket full of Ultra Balls, and something dormant deep within is coming back to life, and the cruel fear inside me is powerless against it.

"I'm going to call you Coba," I tell the Trapinch. "Ok?"

He squeaks happily. I put him down in the sand, pull an Ultra Ball from my pocket, and toss it lightly.

After he disappears in a flash of red light, I cradle the ball in my palm and whisper, "Let's go to Mossdeep."

@novelistash

[trainerspiral]

As soon as we cross the harbor, the fun stops.

The eastern tail of Route 123 is a small but dense forest. Despite consistent human traffic, it has a fairly large population of common Pokemon. 

Coba won’t battle any of them.

When he hid behind me from the first Poochyena, I thought, well, they’re kind of scary. And they can travel in packs, so maybe it’s best to move on. Zigzagoon also move kind of fast and erratic; I can understand a small Pokemon being wigged out. Oddish, with its grass typing, I can see being vaguely threatening to a ground type. 

But now we are staring at a Silcoon. Silcoon. And he will not go near it. 

“C’mon, buddy. Sand Attack!”

“Eeee.”

“Bite! Mud-slap!”

“Eeeeee.” He nudges my ankle with his head. 

“Drr-drrrr,” the V4ST drones.

I bite my tongue so I won’t yell at it. This has been the worst part of the whole ordeal--having to work with the V4ST. I already feel more hostile toward it than I ever have toward a Pokemon--I’m trying not to, but I can’t help it. The thought of it disintegrating Coba at any second just keeps me from seeing it as an ordinary Pokemon. But worse than that, it makes that noise every time Coba does something that isn’t a proper battle move. Drr-drrrr. An irritating error message noise, like what you get when you accidentally enter your trainer number wrong at the department store. 

I kneel down next to Coba, patting his head. “I don’t get it. You’ve had a trainer, clearly. You have to know some of these moves.”

“Eee.” He chews on my shoelace. 

“But it’s like you’ve never done this before. Did your owner never battle with you? Do you even understand the concept of battling?”

“Eee.” He jerks his head a few times, and the shoelace comes untied.

“Well, that’s it then.” I open my arms and turn toward the V4ST, eyeing me from its patch of air. “I can’t get the data they want. What am I supposed to do, train him from move one?”

The V4ST responds with a complex series of beeps. They rise and fall in pitch in a manner close enough to human speech to be eerie.

“No. I’m not doing it. I didn’t even want to battle him in the first place.”

More beeps.

“And there’s no way he’s a fake, right? Look at him.” I gesture at an empty patch of twigs and dirt. “Where’d  he go?”

“EeeeeEEEEEEEE--!”

My head snaps up. Coba is kicking and struggling, his body tangled in a mass of pale gray silk. The SIlcoon is in full defense mode, spikes bristling, its swaddled shell glistening as it hardens itself.

“Coba!” Without thinking, I charge forward and seize his little body with both hands, tearing at the sticky thread. As I painstaking pull the thick mess away from his face, I feel a sharp pain in my left shin.

I look down, observe a two-inch stinger extending from the fabric of my pants. A fierce burning sensation courses through my leg, which buckles as a wave of faintness hits me. I raise my head weakly, stare the Silcoon in disbelief. Its body tenses, readying another attack. I pull Coba close to my chest, turn my body away from it. I shut my eyes.

The air sizzles. A tide of hellish heat washes over me. I’m dead, I think.

A few seconds later, when I am not dead, I open my eyes. The Silcoon is unconscious. Twigs smolder around it.

I let my head loll back so my eyes aim up at the too-bright sky. The blurred silhouette of a Pokemon hovers over me.

“Drr-drrrr,” it drones.

And I black out.

@novelistash