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The doghouse smells of damp cedar and Growlie’s wet-Growlithe musk—a cramped sanctuary after Jessibelle’s wrath. James presses his back against the rough wood, gingerly touching the lash marks striping his shoulders through his torn silk shirt. His six-inch stiletto heels, absurdly pristine amidst the chaos, sink into the muddy floor.
"She’s despicable," Jessie spits, wiping Vileplume’s pollen from her cheek. "A harpy in pearls."
James laughs, a brittle sound. "She’s why I ran away. Ever since our parents announced the engagement? She followed me like a cursed Honchkrow. ‘Stand straighter, James.’ ‘Your laugh is vulgar, James.’" He mimics Jessibelle’s clipped tones perfectly. "Nothing was refined enough. Not my Pokémon, not my clothes—certainly not these." He gestures bitterly at his heels. "At fifteen, I realized high society was a gilded cage. Rules for *everything*. Marrying her?" He shudders. "It’d be signing my death warrant."
Misty frowns, recalling the strange selectivity of Jessibelle’s attack. "She whipped you boys but just... escorted Jessie and me out. Why?"
"Because Jessibelle thinks women are ‘too delicate’ for brute force," James mutters. "But no man’s safe. She once tried to ‘reform’ a gardener for whistling off-key."
Ash scratches Pikachu’s ears, the Pokémon still sparking faintly from adrenaline. "So how do we get past her?"
Brock’s eyes light up. "Jessie! Your costumes—in that trunk!"
Jessie groans but drags over a battered case. Inside: wigs of cascading auburn curls, frilly pink dresses, and padded bras. "Fine. But if you stretch my favorite gown, I’ll sic Arbok on you."
Minutes later, Brock adjusts a wig over his spiky hair. The dress surprisingly hugs his sturdy frame, the padding giving him a buxom silhouette. Ash fumbles with his own curls, nearly tripping on the hem. James watches, oddly intent, as Brock smooths the fabric.
"Not bad," James murmurs.
Suddenly, the wall explodes. Splinters fly as Jessibelle strides in, Vileplume at her side, its flower already puffing Stun Spore. "Enough hiding, James! You will fulfill your duty!"
"Growlie, Flamethrower!" James shouts.
"Pikachu, Thundershock!" Ash yells.
Orange flames and crackling electricity collide mid-air with the pollen cloud. A deafening WHOMPH fills the space—the ignited spores flash-bang into harmless ash. Jessibelle shrieks, shielding her face as embers singe her perfect coif. Vileplume recoils, whimpering. They scramble backward, tripping over the koi pond’s edge—and James’s father, sipping tea nearby, gets bowled straight into the water with a startled yelp. Chaos erupts. James’s mother, impeccably dressed in lilac silk, points a trembling finger.
"Hopkins! Seize Jessibelle! We’re proceeding with the ceremony—now!"
The butler, bewildered, lunges at the nearest "woman"—Brock, who’s trying to herd Ash toward the gaping hole in the wall.
"Unhand me!" Brock squeaks in a terrible falsetto, but the butler drags him toward the hastily arranged "altar" (a garden table draped with a lace doily). James gets shoved beside him.
"Mother, this is insane!" James protests, heels digging furrows in the lawn.
"Insanity is your lifestyle!" she snaps. "By the power vested in me by... well, me! I pronounce you wed!"
James’s father clambers out of the pond, koi flopping at his feet. He chuckles, dripping. "What’s done is done, son. You’re married."
The butler hauls James’s sputtering mother from the water as the group flees. Jessie stares back at the surreal scene: James’s soggy parents arguing, the butler wringing out his jacket.
"James," she says, uncharacteristically soft. "Will you be okay? Married into... this?" She gestures at the sprawling, manicured estate.
James doesn’t look at the mansion. He looks at Brock—still in the pink dress, wig slightly askew. A slow, incredulous smile spreads across James’s face. He reaches out, fingers surprisingly gentle, and yanks off the wig. Brock’s spiky hair springs free.
"Jessibelle ran away," James says, voice low and steady. "I just married Brock."
Silence. Jessie’s jaw drops. Meowth nearly falls off her shoulder. "Holy Meowth, dat wig had me fooled! Brock, you clean up scary good!"
Ash gapes. "But James! How’d you know?!"
James raises an eyebrow. "I literally watched you fumble with a padded bra two feet away. Brock, though..." His gaze sweeps Brock’s makeshift gown, lingering on the way the fabric strains over broad shoulders. "...carried it off."
Brock rubs his neck, a wry grin forming. "What, I get married into royalty and I don’t even get a kiss?"
Ash, Misty, and Jessie freeze. Their collective glare could peel paint. Pikachu tilts its head ("Pika?"), Meowth leans forward ("Ooh, drama!"), and Growlie whines softly, tail thumping the grass.
James doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, the click of his heels sharp on the gravel path. One hand cups Brock’s chin, tilting it up. The other rests lightly on Brock’s waist. There’s no hesitation, no mockery—just intent. The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s deliberate, deep, and devastatingly confident. James pulls back, eyes gleaming with something like triumph.
"Well," he purrs, thumb brushing Brock’s lower lip. "My new husband is rather attractive."
Brock stares, stunned. His cheeks flush crimson. Behind James, Jessie’s eyes narrow dangerously—not in anger, but calculation. Misty groans, burying her face in her hands while Ash just looks confused.