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Jean's first Pokemon is a Chewtle.
You would think, being the eldest child of the Professor Gunnhildr, she would have her pick of any of the league-bred Pokemon starters offered to every ten-year-old on their birthday. And, for the most part, you would be right: she knows the perfect spot to scratch behind Scorbunny's ears, and the right oil to preen a Piplup's feathers, and the best berry to offer to a sick Bulbasaur. But when she's not in the Mondstadt lab, scrubbing surfaces free from Mud-slap residue, she's out in the field, skirting the edge of the Whispering Woods with a bag full of empty Poke balls and wide-eyed wonder.
It's almost by accident, really. Picking through swamp grass and Wingull feathers on the shore of Cider Lake, she finds a small clutch of shattered eggs buried into the sand. It's sad, but it's nature, and she almost moves on until—yes, there. One, perfectly round, white and green spotted egg saved from the carnage. And it becomes her everything.
She wraps it in her sweater, shivering from anticipation or the chill of the dipping sun, it's hard to say. She presses it close to her body, hoping that the small life within has not yet been snuffed out by the cold. And when she makes it back to the lab, stars watching over her, she does not do the smart thing of asking her mother to look after it—maybe, because she cannot bear to learn hope has already been lost—but instead, builds a nest of blankets and desk lamps and body heat, and refuses to spend more than a few hours away from her bedroom for the next two weeks.
She almost cries when she finds its caved-in shell. She bites back choked sobs that it really was fruitless, all for nothing—a dead egg collapsed under its own rotting weight.
Then it moves. And chirps. And wails. And it's hard to tell who is more joyful: the small turtle breathing its first gulp of air, or the young girl, finally, finally, having something to call her own.
She names him Chewie.
Lisa's first Pokemon is a Gible, born and bred from three generations of League Champions that could trace their bloodline back to Cynthia of Sinnoh. It was 2 feet, four inches—perfect regulation size—and 45 pounds even—perfect regulation weight. It said all this and more on its birth certificate, made complete with a solid white Premier ball: the young pokemon a gift to Lisa for her acceptance into the elite Trainer club, the Sumeru Academia. Its meals were prepared, its moves regulated, its opponents carefully chosen. All Lisa has to do is direct it.
She names her Bergamot.
The Pokemon always get fed first. Mostly, because it's easier—if they're already eating, they won't be staring up at Jean with begging eyes Lisa knows she can't resist. There's a rhythm to it: Drednaw first, her oldest and most spoiled, even though Jean won't admit to it. Then Wartortle and Tirtouga, the babies, happily share mouthfuls of stringy kelp and crunchy sea beans between the two of them. Then, Turtonator, keeping its bowl of charcoal secured beneath a cage of it's claws. Lastly, Torterra and Torkoal, happy enough resting beside one another and picking at the dandelions springing up between the roots of the great tree at Windrise. For once, Lisa is grateful Jean decided to leave her second team at home. Although it's technically illegal to carry more than six Pokemon at a time, Jean gets a lot of leeway thanks to her position. Not that she abuses it—she only does it to make sure all of her partner Pokemon get the chance to enjoy the Mondstadt sunshine.
Lisa only has one mouth to feed, and Lampent isn't too picky. But it hovers protectively near her, eyeing Jean's rambunctious team with curiosity only it's trainer could detect. Lisa loves the team like they are her own, but she doesn't know how Jean handles them all and all their loud personalities.
Jean pours some water out of her bottle and rinses the scent of Poke Food off her hands before sitting beside Lisa, already sweating. But the breeze is cool and Lisa has already set the picnic: a menagerie of cold meats and salad and slices of bread and, of course, a pot of tea with two porcelain cups.
It's less than five minutes into their picnic—carefully planned around Jean's increasingly busy schedule of traveling, training, and of all things, paperwork—that a shadow crosses their field of vision and a voice clears.
"I challenge you to a Pokemon battle!"
It comes from over Lisa's shoulders so of course she turns. League rules dictate that Pokemon battles begin as soon as two trainers make eye contact, but most trainers have enough etiquette to not disturb two people on a picnic. If it was a kid, it would be one thing but, no: a young adult, hat turned backwards, boots still muddy from the trek across the open field. He likely followed them from town.
Lisa reaches for the Luxury Ball at her belt, but stops herself. He isn't looking at her. Of course, why would he? Who is she, when face-to-face with the Champion of Mondstadt?
Jean hides her frustration well. Another unexpected necessity of her newfound role. She made a promise to Varka, when he shook her hand and passed along his title, that she would never turn down a challenge. It is nearly a year later and, dimly, Lisa wishes she would.
Jean finishes her sip of tea with a long sigh and wiry smile. She's clocked her challenger in an instant, same as Lisa. Young, cocky, and with no regard for decorum. Someone who saw the chance to challenge the Champion on her day off, when she would be caught without her team. Not that this would be a Contender fight, but still. Word of any victory against Jean travels fast, and Lisa has no doubt this plucky youngster would not keep such an accomplishment to himself.
Jean glances at the Pokemon laid beside them, silent and watching the intruder with suspicion. "I accept."
"Six-on-six, singles?"
A full battle of singles takes forever. There goes their picnic.
"Sounds good." Jean nods and stands, blowing a clear whistle that both Lisa and the team knew to be the heads-up for battle. With an echoing roar, the team returns to their individual Poke Balls, secured at Jean's hip. Lisa does not miss the apologetic smile that says all Jean cannot not in the moment. It's a small consolation.
Lisa stays where she is as Jean and the youngster shake hands and take off in opposite directions. As Jean slips on her battling gloves, her entire demeanor shifts. Eyes sharp, shoulders rigid—everything soft becomes precise and calculated. This is not her Jean , this is the Champion, Mondstadt's own Dandelion Knight.
Lisa hears the click of a Poke Ball and Drednaw takes the field, roaring and digging his claws in the damp earth. Jean wasn't holding back—that, too, soothes Lisa's ire. The challenger sends out Garchomp, but even from here Lisa can tell by its unmarred, freshly evolved skin, that the outcome of this match is already secured.
"Dazzling gleam," Jean says, beaming. "I had a feeling that's what it was, but I'm glad I could still come by and see it for myself."
Kaeya was notoriously difficult to read—he was known as the Ice Prince for a reason, after all—but in the small raise of his smile and the widening of his eye, Jean sees that he's delighted. He leans back over the gym barrier and claps his hands, and the tiny, silvery white Vulpix in the center scampers over. He grabs her, raising her high above his head as she gives excited yips, before curling her in the crook of his elbow with a long scratch behind the ear. She's so young, she only has three of her six curly white tails, but each one is wagging happily in Kaeya's arms.
Jean puts out the palm of her hand, and she goes still. The Vulpix cautiously sniffs forward, then presses her ice cold nose to the tips of Jean's fingers. Jean pets the young Pokemon but can only stand so much of the radiating chill from the silky fur before she is forced to pull away and massage feeling back into her hands.
"I've never used Fairy type moves before, much less raised a Fairy type Pokemon," Kaeya muses. "I suppose you can teach an old Growlithe new tricks."
"Oh come on," Jean elbows him gently. "You've got this. Fairy types are no more temperamental than Ice types. Plus, she'll be a dual type."
"I happen to like the temperament of Ice types, yes I do," Kaeya says, a sweet lilt to his voice as he continues to pamper the Vulpix in his arms. She barks in response, and more of Kaeya's icy expression melts into adoration. He nuzzles her nose before he seems to remember Jean is still watching, then sets his Vulpix back down on the floor.
The Frostwind gym—Kaeya's gym—is located in the small town of Frostwind at the base of Dragonspine mountain. Chosen out of necessity, really. There was nowhere else in Mondstadt, known for its perpetually mild seasons, where Ice type pokemon could live somewhat comfortably all-year round that wasn’t the peak of a mountain.
To help make it a bit more bearable for the Pokemon, the interior of the Gym was more built to suit the needs of them than their trainers. Always kept just below freezing, the walls and floors of the inside were coated in a thin, perpetual layer of frost that revealed the footpath of its inhabitants. It was a weekday, so the Gym was mostly empty. Today it's staffed just by Kaeya and one of his trainers, a tall and rather intimidating woman named Rosaria, who is going through some stretches alongside her team of Weaviles and Sneasels. Jean couldn’t see them from her position half-leaned over the barricade of the Challenger’s field, but she could hear them just above the drone of the air conditioner.
Kaeya’s Vulpix gives a huff before laying her head on his shoes. Jean can't help but smile.
"You're babying her," Jean says. She doesn't intend it as a scolding, and luckily Kaeya doesn't take it as one. It's his first new Pokemon in years, and the fact she was a gift from a brother he hasn't spoken of in the better part of a decade does not escape her knowledge, either.
Kaeya shrugs, coy as ever. "Maybe. Do you have any tips for raising her?"
Jean didn't keep any fairy types on her regular roster, but had helped Barbara raise a Primarina when they were both younger and much less busy.
(Well, mostly Jean is the busy one. Barbara always seems to make Jean's impromptu dinner reservations work, despite her tight touring schedule.)
Primarina had been…a challenge, for sure, but it was hard to say what had a bigger impact on her personality: her typing or her nature. Primarina was sweet, but a diva as well—she didn't work well with other Pokemon, and was not a battler by any stretch of the imagination. But, that was fine for Barbara, since she couldn't stand to see Pokemon get hurt. Like Pokemon, like trainer, Jean supposed.
"I think you've got a pretty good handle on this little one already," she remarks, smiling.
"Maybe she'll help me finally take down those Fighting type jocks that always seem to floor the gym," Kaeya says, watching the Vulpix nibble the end of his shoelace. "I know part of the job is losing," he adds, "but it's humiliating to watch one Machoke, fresh caught from Mt. Tianheng, not even break a sweat as it goes from trainer to trainer."
"She'll definitely be able to help you with type coverage on that end. But Fire and Steel types are still major concerns."
"Some of that is inevitable," Kaeya shrugs. "After all, I can't make the gym impossible to beat, else we're both out of jobs." It's light, and they both laugh, but Jean can tell Kaeya's mind is still churning with possibilities.
This is where Jean feels her own lack of gym experience begins to show. It's not technically a requirement to become one before challenging the Elite Four, even though most owners of the Champion title do start out as one. She’s never worked in a Gym before, much less run one, and has no experience building or raising a monotype team before. It takes a specific finesse and intimate knowledge of one's chosen type—what Pokemon make up that type, what moves are learned and how, and the most optimal way to counter type disadvantages—that Jean only marginally learned when raising her Championship team. She feels out of her depth, and just as she is about to say as such, Lisa speaks.
"Hidden Power," Lisa says. They both turn, and Jean feels the wave of relief wash over her. If anybody were to know, it would be Lisa, of course.
Lisa's in the back bleachers of the Challenger’s field, content and bundled up in a coat and scarf. She often accompanies Jean on these visits, satisfied with appearing the silent and aloof observer in public, but capable of delivering a full and comprehensive debrief with Jean on the trip home. It's not often Lisa speaks up, but when she does, Jean knows to listen well.
A beat of silence passes, and Lisa flips the page of her book, not elaborating.
Kaeya, not unconvinced, but understandably skeptical, clears his throat: "What do you mean?" Lisa closes her book, catching the glare of the cool white lights on the rim of her reading glasses.
“Hidden Power,” she repeats. “Not a powerful move, but an interesting one. Although most pokemon can learn it easily enough, the move's typing changes between individual pokemon. Ninetales can make good use of it, because of the species’ decently high special attack.” Lisa pauses, setting her hands in her lap. “If you get lucky, the move can be a good counter against types that would normally resist Ninetales’ moveset, like Steel and Fire types.”
Kaeya thinks for a moment, before bending down to pick up the Vulpix at his feet with an easy grin. “Sounds like it could be worth a shot, then.”
"Alright, and finish it off with a Bulldoze!" Lisa calls. She can feel the sweat sticking to her temple and her fist clenched tight at her side.
Bergamot rushes forward, ramming straight into the still-dazed, stumbling body of her opponent's Drednaw. Lisa can feel the tremor ripple out from the impact even from the sidelines.
When the dust settles, Drednaw is still, while Bergamot preens. The early morning sun glistens on the Gabite's beautiful and battle-worn skin. She should be close to evolving soon.
"Good work, Bergamot," Lisa says, unclipping the Premier ball at her belt and returning her in a single motion.
Opposite the battle field, Lisa can see her opponent running across the battlefield, open arms. A wandering trainer with a rather eclectic team, about the same age as Lisa herself. The mixture of Poke balls at her belt reveals her status as a freelance trainer: not funded by any trainer club or sponsorship deal. Such trainers were typically lower quality—homey, as they were known in Lisa's circles—but this one had been a surprising exception. They had both been down to their last Pokemon. Lisa was just glad that the Drednaw hadn't surprised her with an Ice Fang, or Bergamot could've been done for. She'll have to do better next time.
"Chewie!" Her opponent cries, scooting close to the giant turtle with a distressed expression. Her blonde hair is tossed with sweat and anxiety, and she runs her hands across her Pokemon's scales and face.
Why didn't she just recall her Pokemon? It'll be fine, all it needs is a night at the Pokemon Center. But still, Lisa watches with a mixture of disdain and curiosity.
"Oh buddy," she hears the trainer—Jean, she remembers belatedly—coo sweetly. Then, surprisingly, the fainted Pokemon's tail wags and there is split second where Lisa can only watch as the giant snapping turtle goes straight for Jean's face. Gnawing gently, tiredly, the Drednaw has its trainers hair in it's mouth, like a baby sucking a pacifier.
"Chewie, enough," Jean attempts to sound stern, but she's too busy laughing for it to be believable. Finally, Lisa sees her reach for a Poke Ball, and fumbles a bit before the Drednaw disappears in a burst of red light.
Now, what Lisa should do is shake hands and set off for the next city. But she can't help but feel awkward, privy to a scene the likes of which she's never experienced between herself and her own Pokemon. It aches, for just a moment. Then, Jean looks up at her, and her smile does not waver. She crosses the distance between them, but Lisa finds her voice first.
"Thank you for the battle," the script is dull and rehearsed, at odds with the sincerity Jean returns.
"No, thank you. That was exhilarating." Jean says, pulling down the edges of her rolled-up sleeves. "I don't think I've ever met someone who battled so elegantly before."
Lisa's never been called elegant before. Practiced, talented, calculated, arrogant, even cold are all much more familiar terms, especially by spiteful opponents. The praise is uncomfortable, and sits like lead in her stomach.
Before Lisa can step away, Jean flashes a smile, bright and charming. "I'm starving. Care to have lunch together before we head to the next town?"
Lisa doesn't know why, but she says yes.
It turns out, Jean is also from Mondstadt. A strange coincidence, with them both more than 500 miles from home. She's got 18 badges under her belt across three different regions, but has no plans to challenge the Elite Four just yet.
"My eyes are set on Champion Varka," she explains, slurping too-hot noodles from an instant cup. "And he doesn't hold back. So, I need as much experience as I can get before I walk through the halls of the Ordo Favonius."
Lisa knew about Varka, the self-titled Grandmaster of Mondstadt. An easy-going, mild-mannered man with a devastating battle record. He was not to be underestimated.
In a way, just like Jean.
Lisa nods, swirling the styrofoam cup.
"And you? Lisa, right?" Jean's eyes are bright: more than polite, she's eager and waits patiently.
"The same, actually." Lisa says, and it's partially true. Lisa's eyes are also set on Mondstadt's Championship title. But before then, she has to build a team to perfectly counter the four type mastery of the Elite Four. Not that she will raise them herself—she just needs to catch a Pokemon of the same species and pass it along to one of the many breeders the Sumeru Academia trainer club employs. But admitting that to Jean feels strange, in the face of Jean's clearly travel-worn boots and freckle-lined skin. The weight still sits in her stomach.
"Then we're rivals," Jean beams. "Only if you want, of course."
It's not the first time someone has asked to be rivals with Lisa. But it is the first time Lisa accepts.
More than her closest friend and fiercest rival, Jean is also fairly certain she's in love with Lisa Minci. This is a stark realization to have as she watches the closest Contender Match of the last decade, surrounded on all sides by her friends and family in the living room of the Gunnhildr laboratory.
Lisa is the first challenger in recent history to actually have a shot at taking Varka's title, but it has not been an easy road. Substitute, U-turn, Sunny Day, and Trick Room have all made their appearances over the course of this battle, now down to the last half-hour of the three-hour allotted battle time. The normally cool facade of both trainers has been broken and reduced to heaving, clenched fists as they each attempt to calculate seven steps ahead of their opponent and secure a victory. But it's their Pokemon, truly, that show the wear of the last hours.
Pokemon battling, for better or for worse, is not for the faint of heart. It is dangerous, violent, and destructive—facts Jean herself has only come to terms with as she moves into the highest echelons of competition. It's only by strict adherence to league rules that fatalities have become an anomaly rather than an expectation. But they are never an impossibility.
Lisa and Varka are each on their last Pokemon: Lisa, with her beloved Garchomp and Varka, with his signature Rillaboom. Each is exhausted, bodies covered in scorch and gashes and blood dripping from open wounds that will definitely scar. But neither is willing to back down, either. They roar and snarl at one another, titans at the height of their power, and Jean cannot help but revere the first human who approached a Pokemon and realized they could be friends.
"Bergamot! Fire fang!" Lisa's voice barely registers on the screen before the mouth of her Garchomp is glowing with dripping embers, and rushing headfirst across the arena. She makes impact, but not without a cost.
The room around Jean gives a collective gasp as Rillaboom's fist collides with Garchomp's jaw, the dragon's Leftovers long-removed before by the very same Knock-off. Jean knows that Lisa registered Fire Fang over Stone Edge specifically for this moment: of course she predicted it would come down to these two. The only thing Lisa hadn't accounted for was how fast her opponent's pounding fists could counter Garchomp's fangs.
Bergie slipped back behind the centerline, Rillaboom lumbering but never approaching. Varka doesn't have to win to defend his title—he just has to let the clock run out. Lisa on the other hand feels the looming dread. Jean can see the way her brows furrow and her muscles tense, even through the grainy bars of the television feed.
Then, all the tension fades. The storm that has been brewing in the tightly wound sinews of Lisa's body calms and stills. She makes a motion with her arms that Jean only belatedly registers as reaching for a Poke Ball before her Garchomp disappears in a flash of light.
The room is silent around Jean. The TV announcers have gone quiet. Even Champion Varka, who's known for always getting the last word in, seems caught off guard. After all, what more is there to say?
Lisa gives up.
It's incredible how quickly one fades from the spotlight. Oh, of course the most diehard trainers still talk about her—those aiming to someday take Varka's crown. They study her tactics trying to pinpoint the exact moment it all fell apart, citing hopelessness, a nervous breakdown, or worst of all, resignation to her inevitable defeat.
It's all conjecture, of course. Lisa gives no interviews. No explanation.
So once the op-eds have been published and the speculations have stopped selling, Lisa fades into the background. She's just another name on a long list of people who tried and failed to make something of themselves.
For her credit, she can't really explain it to Jean, either, when she comes knocking at her door days later with only a single Premier ball where her Championship team once occupied. Jean doesn't ask any questions, and instead shows her an empty bedroom with no conditions about her length of stay. Lisa is grateful beyond words.
And so she stays. One week turns into two, and then a month, and when her grief proves too much, Lisa turns to the only thing she knows how to do: train Pokemon.
Not her Pokemon, of course. She didn't have a team, not anymore—the Pokemon she had traveled with were raised by and owned by the Sumeru Academia, and when she lost the match to become the Champion of Mondstadt, she lost them too.
But Jean's Pokemon are kind and eager. Jean is, too. The two of them work together, late into the evening, devising strategies on how to beat each member of the Elite Four in seven different ways. Lisa's own attempt is as invaluable a source of information as it is an open wound. The hurt Lisa feels when she talks about it is made easier by long conversations over cold cups of tea by lamp light.
When Jean becomes the Champion of Mondstadt, Lisa feels like the last decade of her life hasn't been a complete waste after all.
Yet it still aches, watching Jean pin a ribbon on the shell of her Drednaw and hold aloft the trophy. It's not jealousy—Lisa doesn’t wish that was her. But when the massive turtle starts to gnaw on Jean’s hair and the sound of Jean’s laughter fills the hall with warmth and adoration, Lisa cannot help but think of Bergamot and a life that could have been theirs, but isn’t and would never be.
Besides, Bergamot wouldn’t even look at her now.
Lisa has called her from her Premier ball only a few times since that final match: Bergamot's wounds had healed, yes, but it was her pride that had been shattered. They had been partners afterall. Two souls, bound by their shared desire to be the best they could be, no matter the cost or sacrifice. Bergamot always knew what she was: powerful and beautiful, tenacious and unflinching.
Lisa had known, once. Or, had thought she knew. But now she didn’t, and she had taken Bergamot down with her. Of course the dragon was furious. Lisa was furious at herself, too.
“Hey Bergie,” Lisa says, softly.
The day is perfect and mild. A soft breeze carries with it the scent of blooming apples and, with it, the earliest signs of an autumn chill. The grass is turning a sickly ochre color in preparation for its seasonal slumber, but for now it remains pliable under the heel of her shoes.
From where she stands behind the Garchomp, Lisa can trace lines of raised skin on her back. Lisa winces as she imagines the pain of old scars, and the tightness that comes from the changing weather, and the aches that came with a lifetime of battle.
She sits beside the Pokemon, and Bergamot gives a huff of acknowledgement.
“Fair,” Lisa nods, digging through her bag before finding what she was looking for: a soft, yellow apple. Lisa knows Bergamot can smell it, but the dragon refuses to turn her head away from the valley below.
To Bergie’s credit, it's a beautiful scene. She can see the lake, and the city within it, from here. She can see the tall arms of the windmills lazily circling, like a trio of halos above the horizon line. Lisa watches for a moment, too, before she tries again. She nudges the apple into Bergie’s field of view.
“You can’t stay mad at me forever."
Bergamot shifts in her spot—wrong emotion then. That made sense. Lisa was beyond denial, beyond anger, even beyond sadness. Mostly, she was tired.
“Hurt, then?" Lisa tries again. She feels small in her Pokemon's shadow, and maybe there's fear, too, at the massive form her oldest friend takes. But when Lisa touches her skin, it's surprisingly soft, like leather that has been sanded smooth, and she realizes she hasn't touched Bergamot since she was just a Gible.
She's never been physically affectionate with her Pokemon, but she's seen Jean pet, hug, even wrestle with her Pokemon before, and maybe Lisa would like to be.
So she scratches beneath one of Bergamot's dorsal fins, and the Pokemon cannot hide the low rumble of joy that escapes her chest. Lisa laughs.
“I know all your secrets, you know.” Lisa reminds her. “I raised you, remember?”
Bergamot makes a sound almost like a laugh, and concedes. She nudges forward, reaching for the apple Lisa has set in front of her. In one bite, she devours it, and Lisa doesn't miss the brief pleading glance in her eyes that asks for more.
"In a bit. I have someone I'd like you to meet, first."
And with a swift movement, the setting sun is competing with the glowing purple light of her Lampent, casting shadows that bring Bergamot's life of battle into focus. By contrast, Lampent is relatively unscathed: a life centered on providing light and comfort during long research nights, instead of training for battle.
Bergamot sniffs cautiously, raising her massive head to easily meet Lampent floating beside Lisa. In turn, Lampent trills, flames flickering with hesitant curiosity. A moment passes, and then another, before Bergamot sets her head back down, and Lampent returns to Lisa's side. Lisa breathes a sigh of relief.
It's not friendship, not yet. But as the cool wind picks up in the fading daylight, Bergamot tucks in a little closer, Lampent shines a little bit brighter, and Lisa cannot help but smile at her team.
Art by @pkshslash!