Archive of Our Own

“The usual for you, dear?”

Roxie shakes her head and leans up against the counter, tapping the toe of her heavy boots against the tile floor. “Just pickin’ up lunch for everyone back at base. I think Boss called it in like a half hour ago?”

“Alright, give me a sec; it’s all in the back.”

“Sick.”

She waits the best she can: nibbles at the nail of her thumb and spits out the little flakes of black polish that stick to her tongue, picks at the calluses on her fingertips. Balancing on her toes is as good a pastime as any, mostly because it’s hard as shit to do in these boots. She nearly falls over like, four times, but somehow manages to catch herself before she smashes her face on the countertop. Before she does end up doing that and breaking her nose, Jesse comes back out with three large bags held aloft. They hand them over and even though the total has popped up on the register, Roxie fishes the receipt out one of the bags and scans it over.

Quickly, her expression pulls into a scowl. “Hey, there’s a discount here for no reason: you have a newbie ring this up?”

“Hm? We just took off the cost for your usual order. On the house, hun.”

“What? That’s dumb, put it back.”

“I think it’s perfectly fine. You’re going to be back here for breakfast tomorrow anyway.”

“Nuh uh! Thursdays I stay home and have brunch with Dad.”

Jesse chuckles. “Well pardon me, dear.”

“You’re pardoned.”

Silence.

“Are you really going to just stand there and wait?” There’s an almost irritated edge to their voice.

“Not exactly. I might sit after an hour or so.”

“You will not be here for an hour, Roxie. I’ll report you for loitering if I have to.”

“While I’m trying to give you money? I’m sure that’ll turn out great.”

Neither of them make another move. Roxie wrinkles her nose and crosses her arms, feet spread shoulder width apart as she glowers. Jesse doesn’t do much of importance: licks their thumb and smooths down a few flyaways, opens the register and pretends to count coins for a little while.

“You know these things have pockets?” Roxie says, finally breaking the silence between them. “These shoes, I mean.”

Jesse quirks a brow. “Do they?”

“Yeah! Everything’s stored in its own little compartment so your stuff doesn’t get soaked with foot sweat, or whatever, wanna see?”

“You know, why not?”

It’s a tricky balancing act, keeping her foot hoisted up in the air with one hand while the other one tugs at a zipper along the side, and it would’ve been a lot easier to plop the sole down on the counter but she stepped in something weird last week and Jesse probably wouldn’t be too fond of her putting that mystery gunk all over their shit. The other customers probably wouldn’t like it either, to be honest.

It’s near impossible to pull off so quickly from a position like this, and it’s far from smooth, but Roxie just barely manages. Yanking a fistful of crumpled bills out of the hidden pocket she slams them down onto the counter, snatches up the bags and heads right for the exit.

She’s halfway to the door before Jesse finds their voice. “Roxie— get back here right now! I can already tell this is too much!”

She can’t help the cackle that bubbles up out of her throat. “Have a good one!”

Pushing open the door, she’s out on the street and home free. Well maybe not home, but close enough. It’s a quick walk back to the club and everyone’s down in the basement so she’s free to sit on and slide down the railing instead of actually taking the stairs.

“What took you so long?” Emir drawls from over on the stage, where he’s slowly coiling up extension cables.

“Dispute over the bill,” she says, thrusting the bags into someone’s unoccupied arms, digging her sandwich out of the first one.

“Big words for you of all people.”

Roxie rolls her eyes, and he sticks his tongue out.

“Quit trying to extort them, you hear?” someone else chastises, but she’s not quite sure who it is.

“I’ll extort whoever I damn well please.” She pulls up a chair and glances down the table, frowning. “Hey, does anyone have the good mustard or did we run out already?”

It takes like, ten minutes but Roxie finally gets her damn mustard, and as she wolfs down her sandwich the others start to trickle over towards the tables they’ve got pushed together. Once they’re all settled Boss gets up at the front and starts to talk, mostly about the anniversary and the mural and the party and making it clear that yes, they did order the cakes already and get the catering set up, and you can stop asking them about it. Other than that, nothing interesting happens.

She tries to get Boss to schedule her for more days during their battling hours and gets shut down with a glare.

Still, Roxie finishes off her sandwich and collects all the trash, helps break the tables apart and puts the chairs back where they belong. She spends maybe another minute pretending to actually do something productive before she gives up and disappears down the back hallway, tucking herself away into one of the practice rooms. Boss finally got the new soundproofing shit in there after like a week of all the walls being stripped. Honestly, worst week of her life.

Roxie pulls her guitar off of its stand in the corner, settles down onto a chair, and starts to play. Gig stuff goes first, of course, strumming the familiar chords and humming their rhythms under her breath. Soon, she starts to drift. Songs they haven’t played in months and some original ones they’ve never played onstage; Roxie fiddles with half-steps and harmonies and digs a stubby pencil out of a bin in the corner to scratch down some new measures.

At some point, there’s a knock at the door and the handle twists as Lacey opens it just enough to poke her head in.

“Yo, Rox? There’s some guy out here looking for you— says he’s from Castelia, or something.”

“What does he want?”

“Beats me. Seems one of those artsy types.”

Hmm. Probably here for the mural stuff, then. Roxie sets her guitar to the side. “I’ll be up in a minute! He out at the front front?” Lacey nods. “Alright, cool.”

Roxie tries not to dally, mostly because she doesn’t need the art guy mad at her, so she packs up her stuff and flicks off the light in the practice room. Stomping her way up the stairs, she pushes the door open, frowning at the man waiting for her as she leans up against the doorframe.

“You the artist guy?” Roxie asks, scanning him up and down. He sure looks the part: low cut top, decorative scarf and a ridiculously impractical belt buckle with twin gems set into it. And that’s not to mention the pants.

“It seems to be the name I’ve amassed for myself.”

Talks like one too. Alright.

“Burgh,” he introduces; bowing with flourish and somehow managing to not make it look awkward, even with his lanky limbs. “Gym Leader of Castelia City.”

“Some guy, huh?” she grumbles. Damnit. Honestly, she thought the guy they hired was a bit more local, and Burgh of all people seems a bit out of their price point. Does he even do commission work anymore?

“You lead this establishment, don't you?” Burgh wiggles his fingers towards the building behind her.

“Establishment’s a bit of a funny way of putting it, but… sure. I help out where I can. Sorry for the wait and all that, Lacey’s new. And really cagey.” She shrugs, looks down and kicks a stray pebble. “I dunno who sent you the email with the mockups, exactly, but I’ll just go over things again anyways. The piece’ll go up on the north wall, and Boss is willing to cover the cost of materials and stuff: you’d just have to make sure not to make any personal purchases at the same time, or else you’re stuck footing the bill for all of the tax.”

Roxie stuffs her hands in her pockets and turns, reentering the building. With a glance over her shoulder and a jerk of the chin, she motions for Burgh to follow her. He does albeit slowly, moving in elegant, slinking motions.

They reach the bottom of the stairs and while there’s still a few people milling around prepping for tonight, none of them pay them any attention.

“There’s another mural-y sort of thing down by the stage— dunno what exactly Boss wants to do with the style ‘n stuff of the new one, but that’s a decent place to start with the colors and all.” Roxie shrugs. “Boss should be back soon, you can finalize the contract with them. Their money and all.”

“Oh, darling…” Burgh laughs, and there’s something about it that makes her skin crawl. Not quite haughty, more… pitying, with the faintest awkward stilt to the sound. Like he’s embarrassed for them both. “I hate to disappoint, but I’m not here for the mural.”

Roxie’s expression drops. “Then why the hell are you here?”

“League work, mostly. As I’m sure you know I’m currently the leader of Castelia City Gym, but what I’m sure you don’t know is that—”

Fuck. This again?

“No matter how hard you try, the Pokémon League can't shut us down,” she barks out. “We can’t be held liable if people call the club a Pokémon Gym, we never call it a Gym in any of the actual branding! And the battles are just a side thing anyway, so it’s not like we’re running a Battle Facility like how the subway is. It’s not illegal.”

Burgh toys with the end of his scarf. “I’m not here about that either, dear.”

“Oh.” Roxie crosses her arms. “Well I dunno what the hell else you’d want from us, then.”

“Just you, actually. See, the League is on the lookout for a new Gym Leader…”

Oh. Oh.

For a moment, Roxie swears her heart skips a beat. Her pulse quickens and Burgh keeps talking but she doesn’t hear a word he says, the roaring in her ears drowning out everything but her own thoughts. Her? For gym leader? Something warm sparks to life in her chest, spreading through her body in an instant.

Roxie forces herself to stamp it out.

She can’t, she just… can’t. A gym here in Virbank— she tries to imagine it and the thought only makes her stomach churn. The League might not ruin things outright but the aftermath could. It would. Everything she loved about it— the stupid seedy bars, their graffiti, the pitched roofs and the constant construction and every corner store and everything would be gone as it was polished and perfect for the sponsors. And leaving? Going to… wherever the hell they would put her and pretending that there isn’t something so wrong with the idea that she wants to gag? Sure, sure. That’s just fine. Dragons, and what would everyone think? Boss and the band and Bridget and everyone else: what would she be to them? Some fucking sellout who doesn’t know how to shut up and sit down and be happy with all that she has, that’s what.

“Not interested,” Roxie interrupts, because somehow he was still talking all this time.

Burgh startles, stares at her with wide eyes for a few moments before they narrow down into slits. He purses his lips. “Why not? From what I’ve heard you’re an excellent Trainer. One who already has a type specialty that doesn’t overlap with any of the existing League trainers, I might add.”

“Still gonna be a no.”

Burgh sighs, shakes his head and clicks his tongue as his eyebrows pinch together. He looks at her, cracks open just one eye and peers down at her with an expression so… so demeaning. Roxie squeezes her eyes shut, digging the heels of her palms into her face. C’mon, breathe. Don’t do stupid shit, not here, not now, not with this fucking guy.

“I understand trepidation, but this sort of thing…”

He keeps talking, she thinks, but Roxie isn’t really paying attention anymore. Just rolls her eyes and drags her hands down her face, cursing into her palms. “Would you shut up?” she barks.

Before he can respond, Lacey’s voice calls down from the entryway. “Roxie! There’s another artsy guy out there looking for you!”

“Finally.” She points to the door. “Alright. Get out of here.”

“But—

“Piss off!” Roxie yells over her shoulder as she stomps up the stairs. “We’re not even open until three!”

The actual artist they hired is nice, with dyed hair and a full tattoo sleeve on their left arm of Yamask and Claydol and a bunch of creepy Pokémon like that. The two of them don’t talk much but that’s mostly because Boss gets back with the cake and takes over, thrusting the boxes into her arms and shooing Roxie away. She stomps off and shoves the cake into the breakroom fridge, retreating back into the practice room. She’s there until they open for the night, and it doesn’t help as much as she’d like. She stays in the back as long as she can, reorganizing some random drawers in Boss’ office.

But Burgh doesn’t seem to know what’s good for him: comes back only two days later and ambushes her outside the record shop. “Just thought I’d scuttle over to Virbank again, how lovely to see you here!” he says with a smile and a twirl of the dumb parasol he brought to protect himself from the sun. He says the same stuff that he said before, and so does she. Roxie makes sure to flip him off this time. And then he shows up again. And again. Four fucking times he shows up, like he doesn’t have two other Dragons-damned jobs he could be doing instead of bothering her.

People are starting to talk about it, why Burgh showed up and all that. And it’s not everyone, mostly Emir and his circle of favorites, but any time she walks by him Roxie can’t bring herself to laugh along with his jabs and jokes about her leaving them to become an artiste in Castelia.

Roxie’s never been kicked out of her own band practice before, but apparently there’s a first time for everything. She doesn’t even really remember how it happens. She says… something, she doesn’t really remember what, and it sets off Lacey who throws a drumstick to the ground and starts yelling. Roxie screams right back and before she knows it her bass is wrestled out of her arms and Billy Jo orders her to “Cool off or go home,” before turning to Lacey. Roxie scoffs, stomps offstage and thunders up the stairs leading out of the basement. She rips one of the old fliers that line the walls of the stairwell and slams open the door to the outside, dropping down to sit on the steps.

Roxie crumples up the flier and stares out onto the fog that blankets the town, blood roaring in her ears as her fingers find the edge of the paper and begin to rip it into strips. A nearby street lamp flickers and dies, casting Roxie in shadow. She breathes in through her mouth and out through the nose, and she’d be lying if she said the fresh air didn’t help. But she’s still teetering on that edge, that fine line between okay and not.

“Hey, Grumpus.” Roxie’s eyes snap open at the voice, alert to the presence looming over her shoulder. “Whatcha doing out here?”

“Don’t play dumb, Bridget. I know you heard what happened back there.”

“This isn’t— ugh, whatever. Teenagers.” She makes a noise that’s kind of a groan, almost a laugh. “Lemme do this again from the top, hold on.”

“Please don’t.”

“I’m gonna do it again anyway.” And so she does: opens the door and heads back inside. Roxie can hear her through the door, counting beneath her breath for fifteen seconds before stepping back out onto the stoop. “So? Better?”

“That was so dumb,” Roxie deadpans, ripping off another jagged strip of the flier and balling it up.

“I’ll take it.” After a moment of contemplation, she doesn’t move from her spot standing behind Roxie. “So what’s up with scarf guy? That’s like the third time he’s shown up.”

“He hasn’t been here for the past week, Bridget,” she grumbles, almost grateful Bridget wasn’t actually keeping track of that shit. Hopefully no one else was either. “But just… bothering me. That’s what he was doing.”

“About what?”

“None of your business.”

“Sure, sure.” Bridget rolls her eyes. “But I’m serious— what does he want? He shows up and goes straight for you, so don’t try and tell me that something isn’t going on.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just trying to recruit me for some dumb scheme.” Just move on. Don’t linger.

“Doesn’t really seem like your scene, ‘specially with a guy like that.”

Despite it all, she smiles. “I know! It’s so stupid!”

“I mean really, he was a walking shampoo commercial. A fruit smoothie, even. His belt was bedazzled.”

Roxie laughs. “I feel like bedazzled is a big word to use there—”

“What would you know about it? You know back in college I used to bedazzle shit that drunk people left behind at frat houses.”

“There’s no way you did that. I still don’t buy that you even went to college.”

“Tell that to my degree, Pinap Head.” She smirks. “I’ll bring it here, I’ll show it to you— has my name on it and everything.”

Roxie groans. “Someone tell Bridget to shut up! Please!”

Because there’s no one else around to begin with, no one does. Obviously.

Silence settles between them and when Roxie glances over, she sees something in Bridget’s expression shift. Lines settle around her mouth and the corners of her eyes start to crinkle.

“Do you want me to go to Boss about this guy? We could get him blacklisted if he keeps bothering you.”

“We both know what happens when you ‘blacklist’ someone, Bridget. That guy isn’t like the other ones, I’m pretty sure if I breathed on him too hard he’d keel over.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” Bridget relents, flicking the zipper of her leather jacket as she settles down next to Roxie. Her legs stretch down to the very bottom of the three steps and the heels of her shoes almost touch the sidewalk. “You sure we don’t need to tell Boss about it?”

“Yes! I am! It was a me thing, not a we thing. Dude just caught me here because I’m like, always here. Makes perfect sense,” she mumbles, turning her gaze away. She spends a few seconds studying the graffiti tucked away into the alley beside them. “I can feel you staring at me.”

“There’s something more to this.”

Not a question. Something catches in her throat and Roxie struggles to swallow around it.

“Why don’t you go help Nicky at the bar?”

Bridget furrows her brows. “He’ll be fine; slow night, not much to clean up.”

“His puny ass still won’t be able to take the trash out on his own. Go help.”

“Guess that’s true. Make sure to get that shit off your face though, mkay?” she insists, gesturing vaguely towards Roxie’s face. “You’ll break out if you sleep in it. Especially because you probably haven’t changed your sheets in months.”

“I know, Bridget.”

“Say you’ll do it.”

“Yes, fine I’ll do it.”

Bridget’s not satisfied until she gets a pinkie swear and a good noogie in, laughing in delight as she leaves.

Roxie stares out at the empty streets for a few moments longer before rising to her feet and heading back inside. She throws away the remnants of the flier, heads back to the stage and packs up her things with few words. Billy Jo tells her to have a nice night, sticking out their tongue and flipping her off with a mischievous smile. Roxie returns the favor before turning and starting to walk home.

Things go… fine after that. Nice and quiet, or as quiet as Virbank can get. Burgh doesn’t come back, thank the Dragons, and Roxie falls back into routine. The artist keeps up work on the mural, forms it with loud colors and sharp edges, and it’s finished just in time for the anniversary party which is fucking ridiculous because the thing is huge. When they have the staff party the artist comes along, obviously, and together with Bridget those two rip through one of the two cakes in less than fifteen minutes; Boss has to go out and get two more so there isn’t a riot. Roxie doesn’t get back home until around midnight and she has to spend fifteen minutes bent over the bathtub, scrubbing all the icing out of her hair— then she’s up for another two damn hours because she just can’t sleep but that’s not really anyone else’s fault.

Things run their course. After a week she gets Lacey a new set of drumsticks and stays after to help them scrub down the bathroom, so she’s officially off the shit list.

Now though, the dressing room is quiet, always is right before a show. They’re all in their own little worlds: Billy Jo is blasting music through her headphones as she does her hair, Lacey sits perfectly still with their eyes closed and hands resting on their lap— shit like that. Friday nights are always their busiest and even from here Roxie can hear the roar of the crowd, she can’t imagine how much Nicky is making in tips right now. She forces the thought out of her mind and starts to rummage around through the fucking mess that the countertop of her vanity has become, accidentally knocking over a tube of mascara that rolls off the side and clatters to the floor. She tries to find it, she does, but the thing disappears and she’s not in the mood to crawl around with her face pressed to the floor looking for it. Roxie leaves it.

After a moment of contemplation she goes back to fussing with her makeup, pressing a hand to her face and rubbing until her eyeliner smudges, then doing the same thing to the other eye. She checks the time, still like six minutes until they have to be anywhere—

Her train of thought is cut off by the harsh bang as the door hits the wall behind it, the pathetic little coil-style door stop trembling from the force. Roxie twists around in her chair and glares at the man that lumbers into the room. With broad shoulders, close-cropped hair and a ridiculous outfit that’s complete with Pokéballs at his waist, the guy could only be here for one thing. Well, probably.

He scans the room, eyes narrowing as his gaze lands on her. “You’re Roxie.”

A statement, not a question. Roxie scowls. “What’s it to you?”

“I am Marshal of the Elite Four, apprentice to Alder.”

Fuck. Okay. Weird way to lead, but she can work with this. “Oh, that weird old guy with the hair? You’ve gotta be pretty lost if you’re looking for him: Floccesy is a town over.”

That does the trick, in some way. Marshal stands completely still for a moment, bewildered. “I’m not looking for Alder.” His sigh is sharper than Burgh’s, slices straight through the air like a blade.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Why are you even here?” Billy Jo asks, headphones dangling around her neck. “We don’t do battles until after the show.”

“Her.”

“And what do the Elite Four want with me?” Dragons, it’s so easy to play dumb. The subtle tension of Marshal’s jaw as he heaves another sigh is delightful.

“You know exactly what. The only reason I’m here is because Burgh gave up after a week of trying.”

“So what? Your plan is to just barge in here and tell me what to do? Yeah. Okay.” Roxie turns back to her vanity and snatches up a tube of liquid eyeliner. Still, she watches his reflection. “And why you, of all people? Can’t imagine you’ve got much experience getting anyone to do anything.”

“I didn’t ask your opinion.”

“And I asked you to leave.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Roxie groans. “Would one of you go get Boss or Bridget or just like, anyone? This guy doesn’t seem like he’ll be fucking off anytime soon.”

Billy Jo and Lacey share a look, before one of them stands and darts out of the room.

“That wasn’t my intention, no.”

“It’s a damn miracle that you got let back here in the first place,” she grumbles.

“Not really.”

“Ugh, of course. People like you always pull rank to get places you’re not supposed to be.” Roxie glances over to the clock on the wall. “We have to be onstage in like, three minutes, don’t expect me to stop our entire schedule just for you.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t do anything really. Roxie tries to ignore him, she does, but she’d be lying if she said it worked at all.

“So, you really are here to try and convince me to join the Pokémon League?”

“Of course I am.”

“Feel free. Won’t change anything.”

“Why are you so against this?”

“Because you’ll fuck up my life, that’s why!” she shrieks. “Hard goddamn pass. If I wanted to do this, don't you think I would’ve become a Gym Trainer or some shit?”

Marshal crosses his arms, looks down at her with the same fucking expression Burgh had when he first met her. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t even be here. You’re too immature. I don’t get what he sees in you.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who gets a lot of things.”

“That’s not—” Marshal cuts himself off, grinding his teeth together.

Roxie turns in her chair, glowering. “If you’ve got something to say, say it to my face, you piece of shit. If not, get the hell out.”

“Roxie, knock it off,” Lacey hisses, face pale.

“Bite me,” she snaps. It takes hardly two steps for her to be right in front of Marshal. She barely comes up to his shoulders so she juts out her chin and crosses her arms and glares with all the vitriol that’s swirling around in her. “So? Say it.”

“You’ve made it quite clear you’re going to be impossible to work with. I don’t know how Brycen ever heard of you, but he better change his mind after he hears about this.”

“So he’s the one dragging me into this fucking mess? Dick.” A moment later, the realization sets in. “Wait, and you expect me to do that Gym shit all the way up in Icirrus? Fuck that. No.”

“If you have such a problem with it, talk to him.”

“I don’t want to do anything about it, asshole. That’s kind of the whole point.”

“Never said I wanted you to do that either.”

“No one asked, you Dragons-damned clown. Now leave,” Roxie hisses through her teeth, fingers curled around Scolipede’s Pokéball.

Marshal’s eyes linger there for a moment before pinching closed. He huffs out a long, exhausted breath before turning around and leaving without another word. God. Finally. Roxie rolls her eyes and picks up her guitar— they’re probably late by now, but who really cares that much.

“C’mon, Lacey. We’ve got shit to do.”

Their set goes fucking amazing and Roxie can’t stop herself from grinning, chest heaving as the last note reverberates off the walls and the crowd roars. Lacey gets so worked up she tosses her drumsticks off into the mass of people. They’re the old ones, patched together with colorful tape and covered in childish stickers; a few people in the audience shriek, scrambling to grab one for themselves. Roxie doesn’t see where the first one ends up but the second was thrown up so high it hits the rafters, spends a few seconds tumbling down through the metalwork before falling into the hands of a girl right by the front of the stage. She beams and holds the drumstick up over her head, whooping in delight. Roxie recognizes her. She wishes she didn’t.

She leaves the stage, puts away her guitar so fast she nearly crushes her fingers as she slams the lid of the case shut.

By the time she’s stepped back into the pit, battles have already started. Billy Jo and her Seviper move in time with the beat, stomping and slithering together as one while the challenger’s Sawbuck struggles to keep itself upright. Roxie thinks she recognizes them, but she can’t be sure: everyone looks the same under these lights. She glances around and sees Nicky and Bridget are at the bar, serving colorful mocktails and probably making a shitton in tips already.

It takes barely thirty seconds to find who she’s looking for when she actually stops and searches; the girl sticks out like a sore thumb wearing all that pink in here. Roxie elbows her way through the crowd before she can give it a second thought, coming to a stop next to the drumstick girl.

She doesn’t notice Roxie at first, too busy mouthing along to the nonsense lyrics of the song. She bounces on the balls of her feet, face split by a grin.

“This doesn’t really seem like your scene, Princess.”

She startles and turns, eyes lighting up as she sees Roxie.

“It’s not! But it’s cool, I like it!” she shouts over the noise, grinning from ear to ear. “You have a nice voice!”

“Uh, thanks.” Fuck, okay. Focus. “It’s Iris, right?”

“Yep!”

“Cool, cool.” Slowly, Roxie’s mind comes back to her, the reality of the situation sinking in. “Are you here to try and get me to join the Pokémon League?”

“Yeah. Is it working?”

Roxie crosses her arms. “No.”

“Darn.”

“Why did you send-” she struggles with the name for a moment, “-Marshal if you were going to show up yourself?”

“‘Cause Marshal isn’t the best with people, but he really wanted to give it a shot, and I wouldn’t be able to make any of your other shows.” Iris smiles, bright and easy, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“I’m not doing it. No matter what you do I’m not going to join the League. Send whoever you want, I just can’t.”

Iris cocks her head, brows set quizzically. “Will you tell me why?”

“Huh?”

“Why you won’t do it, like, Burgh told me you said the same thing to him when we got him to show up and ask you.” A pause. “Like… tell me why you don’t want to,” she clarifies with a shrug.

Roxie spits out a sigh, starts to pick at the nail polish on her thumb even though she’d put it on just two days ago. “I don’t take goddamn handouts, that’s why.”

“It’s not really a handout though, is it? You’ve still got to go through all the screenings and approvals from the board and, like, be a good Trainer? I don’t… get it.”

“Brycen’s the one retiring. Only reason he knows about me is because of the Pokéstar Studios that’s around here.”

“That doesn’t make it a handout.”

“Doesn’t make it fair, either.”

“Huh?” Iris blinks. “You aren’t like, blackmailing him or anything. How does him existing near you mean it’s cheating?”

“I, you—” Roxie groans. God, of course she wouldn’t get it. “Get one of his Gym Trainers to do it, then.”

“We don’t want to, and none of them want to in the first place.”

“So get someone else’s Gym Trainer to do it!” Roxie catches herself, the reality of the Champion’s words sinking in. “I— what do you mean you don’t want to?”

Iris rocks back and forth through the full arch of her foot, humming under her breath. “Icirrus City has had a Gym for decades, is all; Brycen’s granny was the one who ran it before he did, you know.”

“Yeah, I do know.”

“You like any of her movies?”

“What? No!” she sputters.

“My favorite is the one where she kills the husband. Great drama.”

“I— we shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“Why not? They’re good movies.”

“That’s not why you’re here and it’s not you telling me why the League won’t leave me the hell alone.” Roxie starts to pick at her nail polish again, having long since gouged through the topcoat. “You said the League didn’t want to use one of the Gym Trainers, why the hell not?”

“Icirrus’ Gym is old! And yeah tradition is important and stuff, but new stuff is just as important. Change’ll be good, won't it?”

“You sure it won't come around to bite you in the ass?”

“Not really. But you have to make those choices sometimes. And I think that giving Virbank a Gym will mean more than carrying on the legacy of Icirrus’ or whatever.” Iris starts to play with a lock of her hair, twirling it around her fingers and watching it recoil once she lets it go. “Plus, just taking a Trainer from someone else’s Gym misses the whole point: we’re supposed to have people from all over the place with all sorts of different strengths and ideas. If they’re all sourced from Nimbasa there's no point in having the Gyms scattered around the whole region.”

“What’ll happen to Virbank if we put a Gym here?” Roxie demands, voice terse. “We are who we are because we don’t have a Gym, so how is one going to change that?”

“I dunno. But, you know there weren’t always Pokémon Gyms. People are still going to grow without them.”

“That’s not what I said. You can’t… I can’t do that. I can’t be the person who fucks this all up and makes it fall apart. Shit like this,” she gestures around them, “is what makes Virbank special, and I can’t invite someone in to destroy it.”

“That wouldn’t happen, Roxie.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I can give you my word it won’t.”

“And how strong is your word?”

“I’m the Champion, Roxie, it’s worth a lot more than—”

“No, I don’t think it is. Because the Pokémon League is international and there’s a bunch of Champions, and those corporate assholes don’t have to listen to you if they don’t want to.”

“I mean, I guess, but that doesn’t mean that Virbank is going to change like you say it will.”

“Don’t you even try to get me to move to Icirrus. That shit is not happening.”

Iris thinks for a moment. “So… none of the reasons you said no are because you don’t actually want to be a Gym Leader?”

Her heart catches in her throat. “That’s what you’re taking away from this?”

“Pretty much!”

“Leave, Iris. Don’t waste your time anymore.”

Iris’ gaze falters and she lowers her eyes to the ground, bowing her head ever so slightly. “Well, I… I am sorry we keep bothering you. Thank you for your consideration. See you around?”

A scoff. “I hope not.”

Her expression falters even more, twisting from cordial detachment into genuine hurt. “Oh. If you’re sure, then.”

“No I- I didn’t mean it like that.” Roxie swears under her breath, mind scrambling. “I… you paid for a ticket to get in, and everything. Stay and watch some battles.”

The joy returns to her face, but it’s dampened once more and her eyebrows knit together. “Could we go somewhere with like, a little less people? Just for a little bit.”

“Uh yeah, actually. C’mon.”

Iris trails after her as Roxie dives back into the crowd and gestures vaguely towards the far wall, the one with all the albums hanging up, before breaking away and ducking behind the bar. Crouching low to avoid being told to do shit, Roxie steals two energy drinks from the minifridge and an armful of miscellaneous snacks— only she hits her head on the ledge she forgot was there and drops like half of it. Bridget glances over as one of the cans rolls over and hits her foot, gives her a look.

“Two? Did you make a new friend?” she coos.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? I’m not doing anything!”

Roxie squints up at her. “Can I have your jacket?”

“Why?” Bridget asks, even though both her arms are already out of the sleeves.

“Not something you need to worry about.” Roxie takes the jacket from Bridget and drapes it across her knees, piling on the snacks and the drinks. “I’ll give it back.”

“You play nice, okay? No biting,” Bridget says as Roxie zips up the jacket and folds the sleeves around the middle, turning it into a makeshift sort of cradle for the bags of chips.

“Yes, Mom.”

Bridget snickers but doesn’t say anything more and Roxie leaves the bar with the jacket tucked under her arm making lots of crackling noises every time she takes a step. When she reaches the wall with the records Iris looks quizzically at the jacket but doesn’t say anything, following Roxie as she heads down a hallway deeper into the back.

Pulling a right just before the hallway splinters off, Roxie yanks open the hefty door and steps inside, dropping the jacket and pushing her back up against the door as she slides down to sit on the floor. Iris does the same and tucks her legs beneath her, glancing around.

“Isn’t this like, at least a little bit gross?”

"You sayin' we don't know how to clean properly?" Roxie snorts. "Besides, this is the staff bathroom. No one comes in here."

“Not even the staff?”

“Nah. It’s easier to use the other ones.” She unfolds the sleeves and drags down the zipper, snatching up the cans first and frowning at the dent in the pink one. “You want one? We’ve got uh,” she squints down at the labels, “toxic waste and strawberry lemonade.”

“What’s in the toxic waste one?”

“I dunno.”

Iris shrugs and takes the can from her anyways, popping the top and sniffing experimentally. Roxie opens her own and takes a swig, using the other hand to snag a bag of chips from out of the pile.

“I’ve never been in a bathroom like this before.”

“What, a single stall?”

“No! Like, with all the writing and stuff. It’s kinda cool.”

“Oh. Yeah, it is.”

“Is there something for your band in here?”

“Yeah.” Roxie points. “Smacked the sticker on the side of the tampon box thingy but that was a while ago. Might put a new one up.”

“Cool.”

There’s something about the way she says it that makes Roxie believe she means it.

Iris finally takes a sip of her drink and they sit in silence for a while, because it’s decently muffled but you can still hear the music and the battles through the walls. Lacey’s up there now: they always liked using dumb dubstep as their walkup. Roxie listens for a few more seconds before letting her eyes slide shut, breathing in through her nose and letting the sounds of the fights and the music and the people fade into a cacophonous background.

“You ever figure out what flavor it is?” she asks, voice thick.

“I kinda want to say blue raspberry, but I’m not super sure. There’s probably something else in there too.”

“Cool.”

They sit and eat, opening up every bag they have to mix and match the flavors, but they’re the dinky little snack sized ones you give out to seven year olds after a soccer game so Roxie doesn’t feel that bad about it. It doesn’t take long for the both of them to empty out every last bag. Once the last one is empty Iris stands and starts wandering around to read the writings scattered around the walls, giggling.

“They really let this stuff just sit here?” she asks, pointing to a particularly vulgar line written on the underside of the soap dispenser.

“Every now and then we have someone who writes something like, actually not cool, but it's pretty easy to get it off with the right cleaning. The empty spot is covered up again before long.”

“Neat.”

Roxie gathers the jacket and all the empty chip bags in her arms and stands, shaking the crumbs out above the trash can; steadying herself with one hand on the paper towel dispenser, she sticks a foot into the trash and stomps it down.

“You want to do it?”

“Huh?”

“Leave a message.”

“Hell yeah I do.”

Grinning, she sticks her hands into the pockets of Bridget’s jacket and rummages around, yanking out a thick black Sharpie with purple duct tape wrapped around the barrel. Fishing the stool out from where it’s tucked under the sink, Roxie uses it to step right up onto the counter— both feet firmly planted on the countertop to the left of the sink.

“It’s not wet or anything, you shouldn’t slip,” she says when Iris doesn’t follow.

“Let me think about what I wanna write first!”

“You’ll think better when you’re up here. Better air circulation and all that shit.” Iris laughs. “‘Sides, who’s gonna stop you from coming back and writing something new?”

“No one, I guess.”

She hops up onto the counter as well and scans the area laid out in front of them, eyes settling on a decently-sized strip of blank wall just above the top edge of the mirror. From the state of the paint, Boss probably had to scrub off some particularly unsavory message off the cinder blocks with a wire brush.

Iris twists the Sharpie around in her hands, gnawing at the inside of her cheek as she squints at the blank spot on the wall.

“I’ll just pick for you,” Roxie decides as she snatches the marker out of Iris’ hand, standing up on her tip-toes and starting to write. A simple thing really, just “IRIS WAS HERE” in big blocky letters with a simple drawing of an Axew next to it. Well, it was supposed to be an Axew but she definitely made the tusks too big so it’s more of a Fraxure.

“Oh, why’d you do that? That’s like, the lamest thing you could’ve picked.”

“So? It’s a classic.”

She laughs, and Roxie does too.

Eventually, when the crowds die down and start to filter out, Iris leaves with them. Roxie leaves the bathroom and sits at one of those really tall barstools, sticking a straw in her energy drink and nursing what’s left of it as she fucks around with some stupid game on her phone. She gives Bridget’s jacket back and stomps the can of her energy drink flat, chucking the disc into the recycling. Then, she goes home.

Just like she said, Iris doesn’t show back up. No one from the League does, which is cool. Things are back to normal, except… not quite. People talk and they just don’t seem to know when to shut up because no one in town is shutting up about the Iris thing. Someone must’ve snitched about her being at the club or something. Roxie ignores them for the most part, tries to at least. Billy Jo asks her if she knows what’s going on, if it has anything to do with the Marshal thing, and it takes everything in her not to bitch about Billy Jo calling it the Marshal thing. It’s not a thing, and will never be a thing, no matter how badly the League wants it to be or how badly everyone in Virbank wants to know about it.

She makes it to the Wednesday two weeks after Iris and Marshal showed up. Roxie likes Wednesdays: they’re usually pretty slow so Boss always uses them to push out new drink specials and hire different bands to test them out with the crowds. Roxie’s the only one who does battles on Wednesdays, too. Draws a bigger crowd than anyone else might, but it’s not so many people she’s guaranteed to get knocked on her ass from exhaustion alone.

So, better than usual weekdays, but not groundbreaking or nothin.

She’s had a few new people come for a battle today but none of them manage to get past her first Pokémon, and of her regulars that stop by for a battle only one whittles her down to only Scolipede. An actual challenge is just what she needs, but her mouth still goes dry as the next challenger joins her onstage.

“I told the League to leave me the hell alone. Why won’t you?”

Brycen smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not here as an ambassador, nor as an extension of the Pokémon League: simply an old man looking for a good fight. Would you be so kind as to indulge me?”

“Nothing more to add to your goofy monologue? Fine.” She adjusts her guitar strap. “You’re the one who got me into this mess and you’re gonna have to deal with the consequences.”

“I’m sure our battle will be one of epic proportions.” Dragons, okay. This guy is just like that, huh?

It’s easy to get the crowd invested— they’ve been buzzing with barely-contained energy since Brycen got onstage, and as they both throw out their first Pokémon that energy only builds. Crobat is sure to give a little back to them, skimming over the tops of their heads and flying in a magnificent loop before returning to Roxie’s side. Brycen’s Beartic lets out a rumbling growl, and their battle begins.

The first few moves are a blur, but as Beartic faints and Brycen moves to release his next Pokémon, she can’t help but notice how fucking flouncy he is. And yeah, maybe flouncy isn’t the best word to use but the guy doesn’t seem to know how not to perform— that stupid plastic smile, chin tilted just so to keep his face from falling into shadow. Ugh. She might’ve forgiven him if he did it the fun way but he’s ignoring the entire crowd, even as he releases his next Pokémon and they roar in approval. Vanilluxe is a little better behaved than its Trainer, spraying a fine powder of snow into the crowd.

The more she watches Brycen, the more her blood starts to boil. As Crobat faints Vanilluxe dances, and that’s the most natural thing that’s come out of him so far. Dragons, he’s just so fucking fake— every move, every pose, every anything is planned. Like a machine, he works fluidly through each movement, all smooth arcs and clean lines.

Garbodor takes Vanilluxe down with it, and they’re both down to one each.

Scolipede feels her frustration, attunes to her anger and rushes in without a second thought. Cryogonal gives up a good fight but in the end, it’s not enough.

Brycen bows to her once he’s recalled Cryogonal, says something from all the way across the stage. She can’t hear it and she doubts anyone can, but she can read his lips.

“Well done, Miss Roxie,” he says.

She lets out the breath and it feels like every muscle in her body relaxes at once. The crowd continues to roar: Scolipede tosses its head and looks back to her, pride shining in its eyes. Roxie should be happy, she knows that, she should rile up the crowd or pull Scolipede under her arm— anything will do. Instead she stands frozen, unable to wipe the disgust off of her face. Her heart soared, and now it plummets.

Something in her, it screams. Like a thick wave of sludge the anger rolls through her, spreading like a sickness.

From across the stage, Brycen looks at her like he knows exactly what's going on in her head. There’s a sort of serenity to the expression. An emptiness to it.

She turns and leaves the stage before she ends up doing something really fucking stupid. Being away from the spotlight helps, but not near enough; rushing past piles of equipment and coiled-up cables Roxie runs for the back exit. Behind her, she can hear the scuttle of Scolipede’s legs against the floor as it follows. Slamming open the door and stepping into the alley, Scolipede follows closely, brushing up against her side and making a clicking noise from the back of its throat that sounds worried, somehow. She pulls his head into her arms and cradles it, running a thumb along the edge of one of its horns.

The fresh air and the natural light doesn’t clear the smog from her lungs, doesn’t clear the poison from her veins.

She marches over to the dumpster and grabs one of the empty boxes resting beside it. The cardboard buckles beneath the weight of her shoe and the force of her stomp, pressed flat in a matter of seconds. She stomps and she rips and she flattens. It isn’t enough.

The door opens again, but it’s eased shut with a gentle hand. Roxie tosses another flattened box to the side and keeps her back turned.

“I don’t see why you left; I was the one who lost,” Brycen says, his tone light. Almost friendly.

Roxie grinds her teeth. Scolipede paws at the ground, the sound of its claws against the asphalt reverberating off the narrow walls of the alley. It only takes a few moments for the echo to stop, a few seconds of silence following it.

“I don’t see why—”

“Heard you the first time!” she barks.

“My apologies,” Brycen laughs, “you seem to be having a nice time out here, I hate to disturb you.”

She rips off one of the flaps for no reason other than that she can.“So don’t.”

“You never did answer my question.”

Something in her fractures, splinters and breaks away. “Dear fucking god, would you shut up? Quit, quit pretending that you didn’t throw the match!”

Brycen raises an eyebrow. “Whatever reason would I have for doing that?”

The rest of that thing, whatever it is, breaks too. The floodgates are thrown open and the sound that forces itself up and out of Roxie’s throat hurts even her own ears. A swirling concoction of hatred and something she can’t quite put her finger on.

“Because your Pokémon are actors! And you are too and you’re old and senile and you’ll do anything to get someone’s signature on your resignation so you can leave! You did it to prove that I’m a better Trainer and you did it in front of everyone so I can’t call your bullshit!”

“Did I now?”

“Fuck off,” she spits.

“I’m simply wondering: you don’t sound very certain.”

“You, you brought me into this Pokémon League mess, and for what? I don’t want this. I never have and it’s getting really annoying trying to get you assholes to leave me alone. I’m tired of repeating myself.”

Brycen smiles. “Even during the chorus?”

Her chest heaves, and as she gasps for air that all-familiar emotion bubbles back up. “Am I a joke to you?”

He blinks. “No, no. Simply trying to bring some levity to the situation.”

“You’re doing a real shit job.”

“Noted.” Brycen folds his arms behind his back, eyes fixated on her. “Why don’t you want to?”

“I told Iris already.”

“Do I look like Iris to you?”

Fuck. Are they all like this? Instead of answering, Roxie spits down at her feet. “If the League is so amazing, why are you leaving?”

If he finds anything strange about the question Brycen doesn’t let it show on his face. “I don’t want to be a Gym Leader anymore: I never wanted to be one in the first place.”

Blood is still roaring in her ears but her heart is starting to slow. “Reassuring.”

“Not even going to bother to ask why?”

“You’re going to tell me anyway.”

“Fair enough.” Brycen huffs out a laugh. “I was in my twenties when it happened… A foolish stunt had me in and out of the hospital for months, left me out of a job for even longer— that sort of aimlessness isn’t good for a person, you know. The uncertainty, it eats away at you.”

“So you became a Trainer.” Exhaustion is starting to take over her limbs, hands hanging limp at Roxie’s sides.

“I did. And over the years, I came to understand what Alder meant when he turned me towards such a path.”

“And now you’re leaving.”

“I am. But simply because I don’t wish to be a Gym Leader anymore doesn’t mean I won’t be a Trainer. Pokémon have given much to me, and I hope to give something back to them through my acting. After Team Plasma… I suppose I was reminded of that.”

“Just do both.”

“No good will be found by tying myself into knots to try and please those who think I should stay.” Something in his face fails when he tries to smile. It was supposed to be like all the ones before: mysterious and reassuring and… whatever else. There’s something in the set of his mouth and in the shine of his eyes that just makes it hard to look at. “My passion is no longer found at the heart of Icirrus Gym. The people of Unova deserve more than that.”

“And you think I’m the answer.”

“I do.”

Roxie exhales through her nose, long and harsh. “Are you saying that I don’t know what I want?”

“I’m saying that what we want can change.”

“How do I know if that’s what I want?” she bristles, panic found only in the edges of her tone. “You poisoned yourself— you could only have one or the other, and now you want me to do the same thing. What I have now, I… I can’t fuck that up. I’m happy, goddamnit, and I won’t lose that because I’m too stupid to take it to heart!”

“Not everyone's the same as I am, Roxie. Most are not so single-minded when it comes to matters such as these; I consider the two of us quite estranged in that sense.” He takes a singular step closer. “My grandmother did both. I see much of her in you, as odd as that might sound.”

“What makes you think I’m like that? You hardly even know me.”

“What makes you think you aren’t?”

“I shouldn’t be,” Roxie says before she can stop herself. “This, all of this is good enough for everyone else— so why can’t I just be happy?” The panic is back, more potent than before.

Something in Brycen’s stance crumples. His shoulders sag. His expression weakens. “…There’s a difference between happiness and contentment, Roxie. It would do you good to remember that.”

When she speaks again, her voice is painfully small. “Does it ever go away?”

“Nothing is enough for people like us.”

She squats down, rakes her fingers through her hair and tries to keep the tears down. It doesn’t work. “Why not?”

He thinks for a moment. Half a second, maybe less, before giving his answer. “We see the possibilities.”

Roxie draws a breath. Then another. After a few more her chest doesn’t tremble like it did before. Something in her, it stills. “…I’ll do it,” she says, rising to her feet and squaring her shoulders. “Oh don’t look so surprised, that’s just embarrassing for both of us.”

Brycen laughs behind a hand, clutching at his ribs with the other.

“But don’t think this means you League assholes are going to get me to bend at the knee for anything— I’ve already got plenty of fuckin’ rules that’ll be obeyed, or I’m out.”

“I don’t believe I’m the person who needs to hear all of that.”

“Then start taking notes, chump. Cuz I won’t be saying it again.”

“Tired of repeating yourself?”

“Something like that.”

Roxie returns Scolipede to his Pokéball, tries her best to get the snot and tears off her face without smearing her makeup or staining her sleeve. It doesn’t work very well on either account.

“I… do you really think it’s true?” she asks, staring down at the mess on her sleeve.

“What's true?”

“All of the stuff you said. I dunno.” It feels dumb saying it out loud.

Brycen shrugs. “All I know is that Roxie is a promising Trainer who wants to make a change where she can. And I believe that she can.”