Chapter Text
As Ghetsis finishes his speech, the crowd erupts into chatter. Natural fights the urge to cover its ears. It’s a little too loud, too much, too close, after what’s already been a more eventful day than normal. It needs to get used to this, so it can’t. As it tries to drown out the noise, its hands fly over its cube. The motion settles its nerves a little.
“Liberate Pokémon? That’s not even possible,” one of the humans says.
Is it really that difficult for them to envision a world where Pokémon are free? Is it really that difficult for these people to understand that the state of their world is not permanent? How can they act like it’s too much to even consider that they might be in the wrong?
Natural’s teeth are showing. It’s not smiling.
Calm, the Zoroark tells itself. It can’t get mad. If it’s mad it gets snappy and when it gets too snappy it bites and growls, and it’s supposed to be human. Father will be so disappointed if it slips on its first mission as Plasma’s king. Don’t growl.
Around Natural, the crowd disperses quickly, apparently settled with pretending nothing can change. Two people stay behind: a boy with glasses and sharp, analytical eyes, and a girl with a high ponytail and mouth set into a line. Will they be sympathetic to its cause? It hopes so.
“Let’s go,” the boy says. “We have places to be and a Pokédex to complete.” He pulls on the girl’s arm. “Hilda, hurry up.”
The girl—Hilda—stays rooted firmly in place, and shakes her head. “Give me a moment, okay? I’ve never heard anyone say stuff like that.”
“Because it’s nonsense!” the other teen shouts. The sound hurts a little. His voice is sharp, too. “Trainers and Pokémon help each other. We covered this in elementary school, remember?”
“Sheesh, Cheren, you don’t need to yell.” Hilda sighs. “It’s just weird.”
Cheren, like most of the crowd, is a lost cause. Hilda, on the other hand…well, she seems at least interested. Perhaps she could join Team Plasma, given time. It wants to at least talk to her Pokémon companions before it counts her out.
“Hello,” Natural says. Hilda looks at it as if suddenly remembering there was someone else in the vicinity, then back to the ground. “My name’s N.”
“Hilda,” she says. “This grump is Cheren.”
Cheren rolls his eyes.
“Care for a battle?” It readies the single Poké Ball it has on it—a Purrloin who said they were willing to fight for it, so long as they could return home in a week. “I’d love to meet your companions.”
“Me?” Hilda says. Natural nods, and catches her eye. Is there a difference between trainer, battle-starting eye contact and normal human eye contact? Ghetsis was always telling it that eye contact isn’t inherently aggressive, but with trainers it seemed to be. Why else would it start a battle?
Hilda nods. “Smug, go!” she yells, as she sends out her first companion.
“I’m gonna win!” the Snivy announces with his head held high.
“Calm down.” The Purrloin Natural sent out stretches, then looks back at it. “You want to try this whole coaching thing out, or should I just go for it?”
What does it want? It’s probably best if it gains experience as a trainer, no matter how much it resents the title. “Coaching.”
“Got it,” Purrloin says, just as Hilda yells, “Smug, use Tackle!”
Purrloin dodges. Smug slams into the ground and slides on the pavement.
“So, do you have a nickname?” Natural asks. The Snivy doesn’t respond as he pushes himself up with his vines.
“Vine Whip!” Hilda calls.
“Scratch,” it says. Purrloin lands a hit at the same time the Snivy does. As vines lash at their face, they yowl. Natural winces. Smug flinches and the edge of his leaf-tail tears. How do humans stand it? Just the battling Pokémon’s cries hurt.
“Tackle!”
With a thud, Smug lands a blow to the disoriented Purrloin, who falls and doesn’t get up. “Poké Ball, please,” they whimper. (According to its friends, wounds don’t hurt inside Poké Balls.) Natural recalls them. The ball feels even more uncomfortable in its hand than before—it’s perfectly smooth, yet it scrapes at its essence like sandpaper. The Zoroark shoves the feeling away, the same way it always does. If it’s going to become the hero, it needs to build up a tolerance to Pokémon battles and Poké Ball use, and that’s that. (It doesn’t matter if it hurts.)
Smug cheers. “I won! We won!”
Hilda smiles and pumps her fist. How can either of them be so cheerful? Perhaps the human doesn’t notice, but there’s no way Smug didn’t. Why doesn’t he care about Purrloin’s wounds, or his own?
“Did you speak Pokémon earlier?” Smug asks Natural, once he calms down a bit. “I didn’t know any humans could do that.”
“Yes,” Natural says. The Snivy startles this time. (Was he too caught up in the battle to do it earlier?) It’s not exactly human, but it doesn’t feel like explaining that right now. “I go by Natural.”
“My human calls me Smug, so you can use that as a nickname.”
That’s right. It wanted to know about Hilda. That was the point of this. “What’s your human like?”
“She’s cool! I like her. She chose me, which is great because I was clearly the best option. We’re going to the Pokémon League together someday.”
Smug seems… happy, excited even, to have been chosen by that human. What a strange result. Once he’s had more time to think about his predicament, it’ll probably change. The Snivy is clearly young, and judging by his species never had the chance to live in the wild.
Hilda says, “You sure have a talent for Pokémon cries.”
“It’s not— It’s not just mimicking cries. I can speak to Pokémon in their language.” (It’s language too.)
Cheren sighs, then adjusts his glasses. “Sure. Why not. Can we get moving already?” His foot makes little tapping sounds against the pavement.
Hilda looks down at Smug, then to Cheren, then to Natural. “I think I should go,” she says. “Thanks for the battle.”
“Bye!” Smug says.
Cheren finally pulls Hilda away, off towards the next town, and Hilda waves as Smug runs behind her. Natural waves back, still holding Purrloin’s Poké Ball. They’re injured. It should go to the Pokémon Center.