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The first thing she notices is lights–blinding, flashing lights, blaring from every direction.
The door to the waiting room shuts behind her. She steps forward.
The incessant beating of her own heart is muffled by the sheer noise around her. She looks around, taking in the sight–the crowd cheers her on, banners ( with her name! ) held high above their heads. Children and adults alike, their fists pumped in the air, voices muddled into one large uproar.
(She remembers being one of them–teetering at the very edge of her seat, eyes glimmering with hope, voice rasped from shouts.)
The grass gives way beneath her as she steps towards the center. It is soft and welcoming, a healthy, fresh green. Its scent drifts in the air. As she stands before them, the crowd goes wild with excitement, the anticipation of a good match ringing in their ears.
It is exhilarating, their support. And in the heat of it all, she almost forgets–forgets the shaking in her knees, and the sweat in her palms, and the dryness in her mouth as she glances around, taking all of it in.
Wyndon Stadium isn’t new to her–but, even now, it is filled with excitement, with the air of something new. It tastes of fear, and nerves, and loss and defeat–and of victory, short and sweet.
She steels herself, plants her feet in the ground. The announcer says something over the loudspeaker, but Gloria pays it no mind, her focus drawn only to the challenger in the distance. He strides towards her, grin set deep in his features, the length of his steps carefully calculated–
“Raihan,” she says finally, watching the man take his respective place before her. The crowd’s roaring is sharp–but, for a moment, Gloria almost forgets they are there.
“That’s me,” comes the reply, full of good-natured cheek. Raihan is the same as ever–a well-earned arrogance, a crazed, uncontrollable grin. His eyes, a cold blue, stare sharply down at her own, determination lacing his gaze–and yet there is a warmness behind them that feels just like him.
“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Gloria laughs. “Here for the title, I assume?”
“Just here for what’s mine.” There is a pause as he readies himself, knees bent in his usual battle stance. His fingers clench tightly over the pokeball in his hands. “I’ve spent months perfecting this. You ready to lose?” he asks, his grin growing ever wider.
“I could ask you the same.”
Raihan smirks. “Then let’s begin, Champ.”
There is a banquet that night at the Rose of the Rondelands, organized by none other than the League committee itself to commemorate the match.
Gloria doesn’t understand the occasion–even after her fated battle with Leon, she hadn’t been given much more than a pat on the back and a neat little trophy to take home. And now, for these challengers’ losses–a banquet?
(Though she has her complaints, she doesn’t think to protest against free food, let alone against free five-star hotel food.)
She expects the celebration to be small–a private gathering between the champion and her challengers, a place to congratulate one another on personal achievements, a time to get to know one another. And she’s dressed accordingly, a simple white blouse and black dress pants. She doesn’t even think to wear any makeup at all.
When she arrives, however, it becomes clear that the banquet is more than just that.
The hotel is crowded, filled to the brim with far too many people for comfort. She quickly recognizes more than a few faces–faces she’d only become acquaintanced with after becoming Galar’s champion. Important faces–the kind you only meet once in a lifetime, when you’ve finally reached your peak.
The kind with enough power to crush your career in an instant.
She is hardly past the entrance when the guests take notice of her, and run to her side. They all greet her warmly, of course; rosy cheeks and bright smiles, their hands gracefully outstretched. There seems to be a unanimous respect for her; she returns their gestures, saying hello to each of them, thanking them for coming, blushing politely at their compliments. They speak to her of many things–of her pokemon, of her future career, of her battle styles, of possible magazine appearances, of promotions she can hardly process.
They are not unkind, of course. They never are–but the experience is overwhelming all the same. She can hardly take a step forward without being stopped by yet another important individual–and after a while it takes all her effort not to just step away and breathe, to stand in a corner and ignore everyone around her.
Finally, she feels a hand rest on her shoulder.
It is grounding, and guides her gently away from the noise, takes her to a quiet place, where she can collect her thoughts for the first time that night.
She breathes. Feels the air in her lungs, moving inside and out. She takes in her surroundings–she is at the far side of the hall. Everyone else has busied themselves–many hold glasses of champagne and wine, others plates of food. Away from it all, she can finally appreciate the regality of the event: the shimmer of the chandeliers, the plush velvet curtains, the satin tablecloths, the luscious bouquets.
Finally, she looks up.
“You alright?”
It is Raihan, warm hand still rested on her shoulder, voice smooth and calming. Outside of battle, Raihan is a completely different person. Calmer, quieter–sweeter, even. Today, his hair is tied neatly back, his usual bandana nowhere to be found. He is dressed in a well-fitted suit, black from head to toe–save for the white shirt, and the orange tie he dons. He looks mature–put-together.
His eyes shine warmly down at her.
“Yeah,” Gloria breathes. “Yeah, I’m alright.”
“I’m glad,” he replies. His hands rub small circles into her back. “These aren’t the most fun, are they? God knows Leon hated them.”
“I didn’t know there would be so many people here,” she says, letting out a weak chuckle. “The League committee never told me we’d be doing something like this. I thought it’d just be us tonight–the challengers, I mean.”
“These are pretty standard. Leon had banquets like this all the time.” The rubbing on her back continues. “Part of maintaining public image or whatever. Champion of Galar is a pretty hefty title, y’know.”
“I’ve been Champion for a while, though,” she wonders. “I didn’t even get a banquet when I was first crowned.”
“Committee probably had to smooth issues out with Oleana and Chairman Rose first.” He leans back against the wall, his arms moving to cross over his chest. “And anyway, you’re at one now, aren’t you?”
Gloria doesn’t reply, instead opting to lean on the wall beside him. The hall bustles with noise–but it is just the two of them in this corner, and Gloria almost forgets where they are for a moment, too comfortable to pay much notice.
Until, that is, a voice draws her back to reality.
“Gloria!” The call is familiar–almost too-much so. Because it is Hop, bounding towards her from across the hall, entire face illuminated with excitement. He’s grown a lot since their days at Postwick, since their start as challengers. He is taller now, just above Leon’s height, his face matured; his voice has deepened well. But his dimpled smile remains the same, and his aura retains a youthful charm.
Raihan chuckles. . “There’s your Postwick loverboy,” he teases. “Studying to become a professor, I hear?”
Gloria rolls her eyes. “We’re not like that, Rai.” The nickname rolls naturally on her tongue–it makes the man next to her falter for just a moment. “But, yeah, a professor. He’s under Sonia.”
He clicks his tongue. “It’s a shame,” he comments. “He would have made a good gym leader.”
Gloria nods in agreement, her eyes watching as Hop scrambles through the crowd, trying desperately to make it to her corner, apologizing profusely as he stumbles over everyone. He is still horribly clumsy–perhaps more so than before, despite now working in a laboratory. When he finally makes it to Gloria’s side, his face is contorted in a sheepish smile.
“Hi,” he says, finally approaching the two. His face is flushed in embarrassment. “It’s real crowded, innit?”
Gloria lets out a laugh. “It is, Hop. It really is.”
The two friends settle into comfortable conversation, with Raihan joining in on occasion–they start out discussing the banquet itself, eventually moving on to talk more about their lives, Hop expressing an earnest awe at all her Champion-like work.
“You’re as strong as Leon now!” he exclaims at one point, eyes twinkling admiringly up at her. Gloria’s heart swells with pride, and a grin makes its way to her features.
“Maybe even stronger,” Raihan adds, watching as Gloria’s face lights up. He lets out a soft chuckle.
“Oh, shut up, you two,” she murmurs, face flushed.
“Oh, don’t be humble, Champ,” Raihan says, voice drawling playfully. When Gloria turns even redder, he lets out a hearty laugh, and pats her on the shoulders. “I’m feelin’ kinda hungry, so I’m gonna leave you two to talk here.” Then, turning to Gloria, he smiles. “Call me, yeah?”
Gloria can only nod as the man walks away, waving warmly at her.
A moment of silence passes.
And then Hop snickers.
“So,” he whispers, leaning closer to the girl, “Call me, huh?”
Gloria groans, burying her head in her hands. “Oh, shut up!”
She remembers their first meeting, years ago, in Hammerlocke, just before visiting the Vault for the first time. It had been winter–relentlessly, unforgivingly cold, but beautiful all the same, snow piled up all over town.
He’d met her at the gates. “The vault, huh?” he’d asked, cocking his head curiously to the side. “Not often we have someone show an interest in the historical stuff. Other than Clever Clogs Sonia, of course, that old shoe.”
Gloria lets out a breathy laugh at the nickname, imagining the poor redhead’s reaction.
Raihan laughs along with her good-naturedly, before patting her on the head. It is at that very moment that Gloria realizes just how large he is; he stands a good head and a half taller than her, his chest broad and limbs strong. “I like your spirit, kiddo,” he says, smirking. “You’re on what, your third gym badge now?”
“Give or take,” she replies, albeit somewhat meekly. He isn’t that much older than her, being just Leon’s age; they are separated by just a few years, and yet he feels leagues above her.
“You’re Gloria, aren’t you?” he asks. She nods. “Anyone endorsed by the Champion himself is bound to be strong,” he remarks, smiling down at her. His eyes curl up in a smile as he speaks. “You still have some time before we battle down at the gym, but I can already tell you’ll put up a good fight. I might even struggle against you.”
“We’ll see about that,” she retorts, though uncertainty still weaves through her voice. She is still so early on in her journey–thinking of the future makes her head spin, and thinking of battling against Raihan, second only to Leon himself.. Well, that would be another story.
Sensing that fear, Raihan suppresses another laugh, instead placing his hands on her shoulders. His eyes gaze directly into hers; she finds herself unable to look away, paralyzed in place. “Look, I’ve seen how you fight. You’re a skilled trainer, Gloria. All you gotta do now is train for it.”
“I will,” she replies, all-too-quickly.
He releases her. “Good.” He grins yet again. “Better head upstairs, don’t you think? I’m sure Sonia’s waiting for you.”
Gloria nods profusely. Then, just before she makes her way up the stairs, she hears Raihan’s voice again.
“If you ever need anything,” he says, “just call, kiddo.”
She smiles.
“Thank you.”
She makes her way back to Postwick after the banquet. She usually stays in the hotel after matches, but tonight something in her tells her to return home, to see her mother–and so she does, calling a Flying Taxi to her side and paying the hefty nighttime fee. The cabbie, bless his heart, recognizes her, and makes eager conversation all the way; a part of her she wonders if he notices the fatigue in her voice.
“Here we are, lil’ Postwick!” he chirrups, ever-enthused. “That’ll be eighteen-hundred, Champion.” As soon as Gloria hands the money over, he hops back on his taxi. “Goodnight, ma’am!”
The Corviknight flies away.
She lets out a sigh as soon as the door clicks shut behind her, all the events of the day finally sinking in. Her pokemon, equally fatigued, start crawling out of their pokeballs, curling up in odd places around the house; her Toxtricity conks out in the living room, her Inteleon in the kitchen and her Arcanine right by the front door.
She wonders what her mother will think the next morning, when she awakens to Gloria’s pokemon, scattered all throughout the house. It’s been months since her last visit home, her schedule full of mindless interviews and grueling matches; her mother is sure to be surprised when she wakes up.
Gloria heads to her room almost immediately, changing out of her blouse and pants and into her childhood pajamas. She is taller now, and they don’t fit her like they used to; the pants are too short, and the sleeves oddly sized–but it is comforting, inhaling the scent of her own home for once, surrounded by the things she grew up with.
It hits her all at once: the fatigue and the nostalgia, the overwhelming doubt and confusion. She sits at the edge of her bed, the weight of it dragging her head down–
She dials the first number she can think of.
“Hey,” comes the answer, groggy and drawled.
“Rai,” she sighs, pulling her phone closer to her. “Rai.” His voice is familiar, soothing, grounding–just as it always is.
She hears him shift on the other line. “Gloria?” he says, voice suddenly brighter–awake. “Hey, Gloria, are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” she whispers, nodding to herself. “I’m okay.”
“Hey, I’m here, Gloria.” Another shuffle–she imagines him sitting up in bed, clutching his phone to his chest. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
“I don’t know what to say,” she breathes. “I’m just… Tired. I’m so tired, Raihan.” Her voice breaks as she speaks, tears welling up in her eyes. She isn’t sure why she’s upset anymore–but she’s scared and tired and alone and she needs someone right now –
“I know,” he says. His voice feels like a warm hug, feels like the friend she has always known, the same Raihan she has walked beside for so long. “I’m here, Gloria.”
She lets it all spill out.
“I want to be more than this,” she blurts. It almost comes from nowhere–and yet it spills so violently that she realizes how tightly her chest constricts her, how little air reaches her lungs, how little she understands. “I want to be stronger, Raihan, and I want to understand, but I don’t, and it scares me–I want to be the Champion that Leon was and I don’t know how.”
“Gloria,” he says. She can hear his concern, hear the furrow in his brows and the clenched, balled fists on his lap. “Gloria, you are strong.”
“I’m not,” she cries. A tear creeps down her face. “What if I shouldn’t be doing this?”
“You’re stronger than anyone I know,” he whispers. “Stronger than me, and Hop, and Leon. And not just as a trainer. You’ve worked so, so hard for everything–and you deserve it all.” She hears the quiver in his voice, the fear of stepping past his bounds–and yet he continues. “You deserve this more than anyone, Gloria. Please don’t doubt yourself.”
She lets the tears spill.
They talk for hours after that–she pours her heart out, talks about her childhood, about her fears, about the one time Hop spilled an entire pot of curry while they were camping. She tells him of the people she met growing up, of the pokemon she’s had, of the dad she wishes she could meet–she tells him of Leon, and of Hop, and of Milo and Nessa and Kabu–she talks, and talks, and he listens.
And then she quiets down, her voice drawing out into a murmur, the exhaustion finally slowing her thoughts down.
“I’m sleepy,” she whispers.
Raihan lets out a noise, an affirmation. “Get some rest, Gloria.”
She shuts her eyes. “Thank you,” she says, voice barely audible. “Thank you, Rai.”
“Always, Champ.”
The next morning, she awakes to a notification.
@raihaaan tagged you in a post.
She opens it up to a photo of Raihan and her, arms wrapped around each others’ shoulders, cheeks pressed together, the two of them grinning from ear to ear. It’s an old photo, taken right after their first battle at the Hammerlocke gym–they are so much younger, their faces so much rounder, their eyes shining with the gift of youth. Their faces are drenched in sweat and grime, and their clothes are cloaked in sand–all results of his weather-focused moves.
She scrolls down to read the caption–
And a smile creeps onto her face.
Strong.