Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I’m glad you joined Team MZ.

Urbain feels weird leaving you to go off in Wild Zone 3 alone. You’ve more than proven yourself, rising two ranks in the Battle Royale in under a few days, yet there’s something about your gait, slow and slightly unsteady, that makes him want to stick by you on the way to Emma’s place.

Maybe it’s ‘cause you’ve only got one pokémon. You still haven’t got any other members besides Chikorita on your team. Even the ones you catch for Ms. Mapel’s tasks are let free once you scan ‘em with your Rotom phone. 

Urbain doesn’t get it.

“I’m waitin’ for somebody real special,” You tell him. “You see, Chikorita’s gonna choose for me.”

“Seems weird,” Urbain returns as he scrubs a hand through his hair. 

You seem utterly unaffected, sending him a big smile like you always do. Maybe you’re a bit high on caffeine. Urbain certainly is—the brews at Nouveau café are weirdly stronger than the ordinary. It’s like they set those coffee beans on fire with a flamethrower.

Urbain thinks about coffee beans, about coffee in general, and follows you in a wandering meander. He watches with interest as you duck into tall grass to scan Budew while they’re not looking.

You’re good at that sort of thing. Not even the Patrat scare you, as aggressive as they are, instead making you laugh as they run furious circles around Chikorita’s flitting attacks. You look like you’re havin’ fun.

Yet Urbain gets bored. You do everything almost achingly slowly. The way you walk, the way you speak, even the way you move your head—it’s like an old grainy film on a creaky reel. 

He yawns as you stop at the base of trees and stare up into their shimmering leaves like you’re seein’ ‘em for the first time. Slouches as you crouch next to the lake and stick your hand wrist-deep into the cold water. You seem utterly fascinated by the ripples.

It’s so boring.

 “You see somethin’ in the water?” Urbain swallows his sigh, sticking his hands into his sweatpants pockets. “‘Prolly just the Magikarp. Don’t mind ‘em. If you’re goin’ for a new teammate, I’d really recommend—,”

Chikorita chirps as though she’s saying something to you. You stand up and spin around.

“Hey,” Urbain says. He watches your wild golden hair twist and lift like a Pyroar’s mane. “Hey—!”

Your thin legs stumble forward with no hesitation, your eyes wide with reckless abandon, and your old trainers scrape up and onto the rounded top of a steep, tall rock. Urbain finds himself cast in your long shadow as you climb beyond the boulder’s jagged peak.

He’s suddenly breathless. “What are you—?!”

You run and you jump, the back of your shirt flying up to reveal a huge stripe of white rippling through the skin of your back. 

Urbain’s chest ripples with a noise he’s never heard before. He launches after you and screams your name, his arm and side slamming into the rough stone, watching you plummet through the air, wind gusting in a roaring storm at his back. Chikorita shrieks at his side.

For a second you fly. You cut a shape into the clouds, you hover in a streak of sunlight, and then you disappear into a bursting crest of shimmering, crystalline water. It explodes up and around in a waterfall.

Urbain’s shaking legs take him to the mossy edge of the shore. Your head breaches the surface, mouth opening to gulp in a breath. Then you dive back under.

Urbain feels his trainers sink into the mud, the slick soles barely keeping him from sliding down the mossy shelf. He sees a shining flash of yellow, bright as a light, sloshing near the surface. Then your arms, reaching, scrambling, and splashing. 

When your head returns into the air, he can almost hear your smile, shaped by halting, strangled bursts of laughter.

“Chiko,” Chikorita wiggles happily.

“Are you alright?!” He shouts at your flailing visage.

“Mhm!” You return, your voice faint in the wind.

You wade up to him, clutching something large against your chest that kicks up sloshing billows of sand at the shore. When Urbain gets a good look at your face, he finds it half-caked in mud and tangled reeds.

“Magikarp,” You say to him nonsensically, grinning like a fool. Urbain’s gaze falls down to the wriggling pokémon in your mud-speckled arms. “It’s gold.”

It really is gold. Golder than he’s ever seen. Like the necklace of a kind old lady, like the cords on AZ’s curtains—like Tepig’s flames when he gets real angry. It’s a special, weird, and funny Magikarp, golden just like you.

Urbain stares at it, at you, at the mud all over the both of you. The Magikarp flops around frantically, and the sight of you, soaked to the bone and ever-smiling, has laughter shaking through him with such force he suddenly can’t breathe.

“Wha—What’re you gonna do now?” His face hurts from how hard he’s smiling. “You’re—phht—you’re totally soaked! You gonna show up to Emma’s like that?”

“I’m great at first impressions.” Magikarp’s tail fin flaps against your face with a wet slap. 

Urbain hunches forward with loud, boisterous chuckles. “Clearly!”

You smile again, the expression crinkling into your eyes, flattening all the moles and mud-splatters on your face into discus-like shapes. Urbain’s chest shakes with gleeful sounds. He can’t remember the last time he laughed like this. 

“You’re good, right?” You ask him, a long lock of hair flopping over your cheek. “I didn’t get any water on you, did I?”

Magikarp wriggles with a defeated, wobbly cry. Chikorita nods twice at Urbain’s side. Magikarp has been chosen. Urbain’s laughter fades as he watches you smile and gently stroke the top of the pokémon’s head. It settles in your arms without another sound.

Urbain thinks you’re the type of person to have lots of people think about you all the time. ‘Cause you’re an unforgettable type of person. Somebody who’s never left behind. Your warm skin has the tinge of his mom’s old jacket, like it’s seen twice a lifetime. 

Of course your Magikarp is gold. There’s no way it’d be any other color.

He’s jealous. He’s in awe. He thinks maybe keeping you at his side could transform him in some way, make him equal to you—a person who will never, ever be forgotten—in some sort of messed-up osmosis. 

“Do you think you could teach me?” He blurts.

You blink at him with your half-lidded eyes. “Teach you what?”

“Uh.” His mouth catches up to his brain, a bit too late. “Uh, your catching style.”

You raise both brows. “You really wanna learn this?”

His smile wobbles down his warm face. “Nevermind.”

Lida’s real curious about you.

I’m sure Naveen will warm up soon, too.

It’s good if he helps. It’s good if he changes people’s lives. He changed things for you, made you laugh like that in the lake—he even gave you Chikorita, who trots alongside you lookin’ at you like you gave her the whole damn world. 

He tries so hard to help everyone, to change Lumiose for the better. Then you change people’s lives without even trying. 

That crazy inflatable pool has Lida laughing so hard she cries—Magikarp keeps splashing all the water out and you have to keep filling it again and again. 

Even Naveen starts to smile. It’s a small, wiggling, Wrumple-like smile that peels through his cheeks with a wobbly flush—but it’s a smile. He’s never smiled like that around Urbain before.

You smile too. You grin and laugh. Chikatoria dances in rainbows of sputtering rain, shimmering down in specks like glitter. Magikarp splashes and blows sputtering bubbles. It sounds like he’s laughing too. 

Urbain’s jealous. He’s so damn jealous he doesn’t know what to do with it all. He feels the weight of the worn leather jacket on his back. He sees the ghost of the Nobody he’s chasing, darting through the city street. The rooftops sink a hundred miles down into the ground, the big awning above him tries to smother him, and the sun barrels down on him in a scalding, accusatory shroud.

He knows he’s being selfish. Yet it’s nothing he can stop. He just sits there in your big shadow as AZ taps and shuffles his way over. 

Shuffle, tap. Shuffle, tap.

“AZ! Buddy,” Urbain greets him with a big, friendly smile. A gust of cool air speckles dewdrops of water against his arms, but he ignores it. “How’re you doing?”

“Have you made any progress?” AZ asks him in return. Urbain has to strain to hear him; his voice sounds quiet and breathy for a man so formidably large. 

“..Uh, with what?”

“With the person you’re looking for.”

AZ asks this, but his eyes aren’t on him. Instead, he watches you. 

You put your thumb over the nozzle of the water hose. Water splays outward in shimmering, bright ribbons, clear walls warping the surroundings into colors and shapes. Lida shrieks with delight and laughter, ducking under the spray, but Floette and Naveen fail to dodge the stream, letting out nearly identical high-pitched shrieks.

Giggles waver through the air, cut through by gusts of wind and bright beams of sunlight. Staryu and Scraggy chase Chikorita in circles around the pool, chattering at each other with joyful cries. Magikarp bounces upward, sending a wave of water washing over your feet. You stumble back, that grin of yours never faltering. 

Urbain turns his head to catch the small smile on AZ’s face. At the sight of it, something in him pauses. He feels full, he feels empty. An awful envy twirls in circles in his gut. It stings as it chews on his stomach lining.

“I’m glad she’s arrived here,” AZ murmurs, his voice a small, scratchy thing. It’s almost like thorns have lodged themselves in his throat. “...It feels like a new wind is blowing.”

“I guess so.” Urbain ignores this, too. “...AZ, have you taken your cough meds?”

I know that this is a lot to ask.

All Urbain’s money goes to a man on the street who said he needed it badly. He said that the money would turn his life around, and Urbain wants to turn his life around. 

A wallet’s a big, important thing. It’s somethin’ heavy that he probably shouldn’t be carryin.’ It’s good if he uses it to help instead. Yeah, it’s good when he gives people the stuff they need because sometimes that’s the only thing that makes him feel like he can do anything.

So Urbain gave the guy all his cash. Maybe he wasn’t thinkin’ straight. It was the stranger’s big hungry eyes that drew him in, that pulled the wallet from his hands like somethin’ magnetic.

He couldn’t help it. That man was starving. And Urbain can tell when people are starving. 

He sees it in AZ’s ribs when he takes off his vest, sees it in his Magnetric’s desperate growling as Urbain pulls him away from garbage scraps. He sees it in the way you sometimes shovel down your dinner as though somebody’s gonna take it away from you—how you sometimes only pick at the edges of the rice like you’re nauseous. 

Mostly, he sees it in his own scratchy patches of skin in the mirror, blotches of imperfections like a can that’s been kicked around.

Urbain thinks someday it’ll go away once he saves Lumiose. ‘Cause right now, he even dreams of it, of that frigid black night under the neon red lights, of hard brick digging into his skin, and of trash scraps covering him like a blanket. 

There’s still a ghost at his back, the same ‘Nobody’ he’ll be chasin’ forever until he dies. 

Then he hears it. Tapping, clunking, skittering, chittering. A massive man’s huge feet shuffle across that cold ground. Shuffle, tap. Shuffle. Tap. 

Urbain is a boy with huge, hungry eyes. He says, do you have something to eat?

I will feed you, The giant returns, a warm smile on his face. Come with me.

Urbain feels full as he feels hungry. He forces a smile on his face. Cold speckles of water brush against his skin and catch on his mom’s leather coat, almost teasingly. 

Urbain glances at AZ beside him, at that quiet contentment on his face, and thinks of your hair curling and twisting mid-air, glittering and golden. He sees your thin legs, weak and trembling, lunging forth into a fearless jump. The way the wind coaxed him forward, pushing at his back. 

Did the wind change when you met me? He thinks to AZ like a big, selfish idiot. 

Probably not. The wind that night was still and cold as ice. It felt syrupy and heavy, the kind of wind that goes nowhere and does nothing. 

Your wind—your wind is as warm as the sun.

Thanks, you’re seriously the best!

“You’re certain?” Mr. Philippe asks, his voice flat as sheet metal. 

The man’s like a mountain. Like a damn Avalugg. The way his words rumble over Urbain in a heavy breath almost makes him think twice.

Maybe he’s not thinkin’ straight. Not bein’ himself. But he wants to forge ahead this time, just like you do, jumping straight into the world with reckless abandon. This time, he’ll do things right. The winds in Lumiose will kick up with such force he’ll create a whole damn storm. 

He’ll repay you for everything you’ve done for him. He’ll repay everyone else, too. Lida, Naveen, Floette—and AZ. He’ll make a video so good that even ‘Nobody’ will come by to look. 

Urbain already has a plan for when the guests come in droves. He’ll make a huge pot of croissant curry for dinner—a yummy and hearty meal so filling that no one will ever starve again—and Hotel Z will be full of people with happy faces who go to sleep in warm beds and slather soothing ointment on their blotches.

He’s not scared when he looks at Mr. Philippe, even though he feels like he’s facing a mountain. He’s not scared when he picks up the fancy fountain pen with poison-purple ink. 

He only thinks of you, taking up the mantle for Team MZ like he never could. He thinks of Lida struggling to pay for her dance classes, of Naveen always runnin’ out of sewing supplies—and he thinks of AZ, with his awful cough that never goes away.

That debt’s bigger than anything the Rust Syndicate could ever give him. So yeah, he reads the fine print.

I really dunno what I’d do without you.

It comes to you the way most things do, slowly, your heels digging into warm, worn floorboards, a sharp sip of tea tinged with something sweet. You could stay here, you think. You could try to stay. 

It would be easier than getting back onto that crowded train, where everything smells of grease and fabric softener, the air slimy with a thick humidity. It’d be easier than packing your worn coat into your ripped faux-leather travel bag and lugging it as far as you can. It’d be easier than finding somewhere else—this imaginary place called ‘anywhere’ that you’ve always hoped to find.

This revelation comes to you during your fifth month in Lumiose City, three cups deep into a floral-scented teapot. Perhaps it’s a bit overdue. 

“—Are you guys payin’ attention?” Urbain calls loudly, sounding as impatient as he always does. Surely he’d much rather be helping stray Meowstic out of trees, but he’s stuck here trying to puzzle out where these Mega Energy readings are coming from. “Hey. Earth to Team MZ?”

“Uh, I promise I wasn’t distracted!” Lida calls sheepishly, smudging her hand onto the whiteboard. She smears her sloppy doodle of Staryu with her sleeve. “I’m on task! Definitely!”

“I’m not,” Naveen states, unabashed. His Rotom phone hovers low in front of his face, ringing with a series of chirpy dinging noises. You hear the low cursing of his favorite streamer’s voice buzz from the screen.

“Guys,” Urbain states flatly.

You’d once met a backpacker out on the road, and her thick, heavy gaze sits with you even now. She had Urbain’s intensity, Urbain’s wide eyes. By that you mean she looked straight through you the way Urbain tends to do—like you were a road to her next destination.

Urbain moves forward with a love for Lumiose. Yet all these sentiments and for a place seem nonsensical to you. It’s just a city, just soil and bricks. All you know is the weight you carry, its intrinsic heaviness, the way it settles in your hotel room, the key growing heavier in your satchel with each cup of tea—tinged with ginger for healing. 

It seems like you’ll be trapped here by all the things you’ve been given. It’s a good kind of trapped, though. But Urbain’s bright, intense gaze is something you’ll never understand.

“Please,” He scrubs a hand through his blush-tinted hair, his stare digging into the side of your face. “Let’s just figure this out—for Lumiose’s sake.”

You sip your tea loudly.

“Any ideas?” Urbain prompts.

“It’s likely a fluke,” Naveen finally tips his head away from the screen, his sharp eyes half-lidded and listless. “Every time we’ve had a Mega Energy reading, it has taken us to a specific location. But this time, it seems to be scattered around Sector 3 at random.”

“Vinnie wouldn’t call me about this if it was an error,” Urbain argues. 

“Maybe we should just search the area?” Lida suggests, holding up a hesitant hand. “I don’t see the harm—,”

“After everything you both just went through?” Naveen’s voice rises with a distinct upset. He glances between you and Lida with furrowed brows. “You two need to rest. You’ve had enough on your plate with the Rust Syndicate, and now this—,”

Urbain twitches in the corner of your eye. “That’s not a good reason to ignore a pokémon in pain,” He interrupts loudly. “And if it goes berserk, just imagine how many people could get hurt.”

Silence falls. Urbain begins to stand, his face slightly pink. “If…If no one else goes, I’ll—!”

“None of us are going.” Naveen slams his hands onto the table, rocketing upright. His tone lowers into a fiery hiss. “We are not risking our lives again, Urbain. Stop recklessly putting everyone in danger and take a second to read the fine print.”

Urbain’s cheeks burn crimson “I—!”

“Guys!” Lida shouts. 

“I’ll do it,”

Your teammates turn toward you at the clink of your teacup against its saucer. A stillness falls over the room, a silence heavy enough to trap every breath and small sound.

Lida murmurs your name with concern. “..I know you're strong, but you just spent all yesterday dealing with that Rust Syndicate job. We’d be putting too much on your shoulders again—,”

“It’s all right, Lida,” You say after another sip of lukewarm tea. Then you smile encouragingly. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, ‘kay?”

Lida opens her mouth but says nothing else. She turns her head away, her dark brows drawing tightly together. You’ve never liked that expression on her. You prefer her cheerful laughter, or gentle grins, or when she waves her arms around in excitement over heaps of croissants at Nouveau Café.

You smile wider as an afterthought, but no one is looking at you anymore.

“Thanks,” Urbain says finally, a tight emptiness in his voice. He exhales measuredly, his folded fingers tapping together on the tabletop. “..I’m glad we can rely on you. I’m…Lumiose...is always in your debt.”

Then he stands and ambles from his chair, his once confident stride a half-swinging shuffle as he scratches his hand behind his sinking head. Floette floats off at his side in the unsettling silence, sparing you one unreadable glance.

Lida scrubs a frustrated hand down her face, then takes a swig from her long-cold teacup. Your smile fades. Naveen says nothing, his gaze firmly fixed to his Rotom phone’s screen, his eyes half-lidded and unblinking.

“..What are you thinking about?” Naveen murmurs. 

“Nothin,’” You return, a bead of sweat dragging over your chin. You hastily wipe it away, forcing an easygoing smile onto your face. “You sure about gettin’ the bill?”

Naveen narrows his thin brows, making the sharp glow of his violet eyes seem stark. “...Are you serious? Of course I’m sure. You’re practically saving the city…again.”

You take another sip of your Flamethrower Roast and shrug. The coffee is piping hot, fragrant, and perfectly bittersweet. Nouveau Café never disappoints. 

“It’s ‘prolly just a cluster of crystals,” You tilt your head toward him, your smile sloping into something more real. “I’m not savin’ the city or anythin.’”

“This time,” Naveen corrects pointedly.

“This time,” you rectify, chuckling. You place your coffee cup down with a playful grin. “I sure won’t be jumpin’ off another roof anytime soon.”

Naveen gives you a long look like he doesn’t believe you. You punch him in the arm and he lets out a loud ‘Ow!’ as though you’d ripped his scrawny wrist off. Then he fires off a series of explicits like Canari on-stream.

“Dude, really?” You say, laughing.

“Do not ruin my precious arms. I need these to sew,” Naveen rubs his bicep with such velocity that he rolls up his cardigan’s patchy sleeve. When you reach over to fix it, he hisses, “Stay away from me.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “So dramatic,”

“Says the one who jumped off of a roof.”

You whiff at his arm again and he expertly dodges.

The waitress and barista start a loud argument over at the café’s truck. Or, more accurately, the waitress starts shouting about an order and the barista remains as nonchalant and unfazed as always. His countenance constantly astounds you—that waitress is honestly terrifying when she’s pissed, and she’s pissed practically all the time.

You avert your gaze to Naveen’s Scrafty and your Garchomp as they play beside your booth. Though much larger than his dark-type friend, Garchomp remains as docile as an Audino, rolling over onto his back, his huge, heavy tail wagging furiously and kicking up gusts of air.

Scrafty stares at him for a while, utterly nonplussed. Then he saunters over and dutifully begins rubbing Garchomp’s belly with one of his scaly paws. Garchomp’s tongue lolls from the side of his mouth as he thumps his tail happily. The road trembles. 

You bring your coffee cup to your flattening lips. “…Naveen.”

“Yes?”

“What was that about earlier?” You don’t look at him, keeping your voice carefully low and level. “With Urbain.”

Garchomp rolls over onto his stomach and nearly flattens Scrafty mid-pet. Scrafty jumps backwards with a yelp.

You hear Naveen scratch the back of his neck as he sinks into the booth’s orange cushions. The Nouveau Café waitress begins cursing up a storm. A gaggle of teens chattering at a nearby table start shouting over a game of cards and Garchomp happily stomps one of his massive legs into the earth. 

“It’s…a bit difficult to explain,” Naveen mumbles.

A nearby pile of shoddily-stacked scaffolding topples over with the force of Garchomps’ inadvertent blows. Scrafty flops onto his side and lazily rolls out of the way.

“Urbain is…” Naveen tugs his cardigan collar with another frustrated sigh. “He is reckless. He’s always worrying about other people, but he never thinks of himself. What happened with the Rust Syndicate was likely a serious blow to his pride. He hates inconveniencing people.”

Yeah, you’ve never seen him like that before. He looked defeated, almost humiliated. It puts a deep pit in your gut that you can’t explain. Plus, he still hasn’t been answering your calls.

“You think he was lyin?’” You ask Naveen. “About not readin’ the fine print.”

“Yes.” Naveen mumbles. “I do.”

Silence falls. Naveen kicks a pebble beneath the table, shoving his hands deep into his cardigan’s pockets. 

He sighs. “Urbain appears to be the kind of person who wears his heart on his sleeve, but honestly, I never know what he is thinking.” 

You nod, and your friend takes this as a cue to continue.

“It’s just that…we’re friends, so…” Naveen squeezes his eyes shut, yanks his head away, and huffs in frustration. “Ugh, I don’t know.”

Garchomp flops onto his side, making the earth subtly quake. Scrafty, as though sensing something, props himself up in the grass, watching both you and Naveen with a gaze both listless and unreadable.

“How are you doing, anyway?” Naveen asks you. “I’ve been really worried, ever since you and Lida went to the Rust Syndicate office alone…” He swallows audibly. “That man hasn’t made you do anything scary, has he?”

Your smile flattens. The sun shimmers in a searing beam. “‘S alright. All I’ve done so far is deal with a few wild pokemon. An’ the boss, Corbeau…” 

You pause, ruminating to yourself. “...Well, he doesn’t seem all that bad of a guy.”

“Are you sure?”

You shrug. “Sure as I can be.”

Naveen scrubs a hand down his face, shaking his head. “...Well, as long as you don’t get hurt. Don’t be reckless when you’re patrolling Sector 3, alright?”

“I’ll be just fine,” You repeat for what feels like the thousandth time. You fit another easygoing smile on your face, letting it warm your cheeks in the crisp fall air. “You know me.”

The wind settles into a quiet breeze, shaking the few remaining leaves on the nearby trees. All the while, the great, hulking spire of Prism Tower stretches its scaffolding-smothered walls into flat clouds overhead, casting the street in huge striped shadows. It’s beautiful, yet slightly eerie, the huge Quasitorno Inc. symbol glowing on its side like a burning brand. 

Seems like that scaffolding gets taller each day. Soon Lumiose’s greatest landmark will just be a big ol’ silver box with a fancy name on it.

You open your mouth to comment on this. Then one of the nearby teenagers slams a card onto his table with a bellowing, “ROYAL FLUSH!”

“KEEP YOUR VOICES DOWN!” The café waitress shrieks in fury. “What is this?! A casino?!”

Garchomp, excited by all the shouting, rolls upright, and then immediately flops backward onto his behind with a cheerful chirp. The impact rattles all of the tables around you, tipping over multiple scalding-hot coffee cups. Surrounding cafe-goers yelp in alarm.

“And you!” The waitress bellows, whirling around and jabbing a sharp finger toward your face. “Get your damn dragon under control! It keeps spilling all our freakin’ coffee!”

Your shoulders hike to your ears; you turn your head away with a bout of nervous chuckles. Naveen sputters with giggly laughter. 

Garchomp wags his tail, excited by the attention, and Scrafty lets out a long stream of air out of his nose.

You open your mouth to ‘control your damn dragon.’ Then your phone rings.

Rotom lurches out from your trench coat pocket, its white case flashing with reflected light. A familiar number glows green across its dim screen, making your lips curl downward into an uncomfortable shape.

Naveen notices. His smile fades into a worried, disquieted frown. After a moment, he nods at you wordlessly, busying himself with his coffee. You hesitantly tap your phone’s cracked screen.

“Pick up a little faster next time.” Corbeau’s voice filters through the tinny speakers, slightly rough and distorted by static. “I don’t have all day.”

Shoot. You’re supposed to deal with that energy spike in Sector 3 today.

“..Excuse me?” Corbeau asks, his flat voice taking on a sharp edge.

Oh, did you just say that out loud?

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” You state. “Got a job for me?”

“I’m sending you a location. Be there in thirty minutes.”

“Cool if I finish my coffee?”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

He hangs up with a low beep of the dial tone. 

You inhale deeply, then sigh so heavily you empty out your entire ribcage in a loud, whooshing rush. This lightens the look on Naveen’s face, his frown finally starting to lift into a reluctant curl. 

“Really, you’re the dramatic one here.” He jabs.

“Gotta go,” you grumble, standing from the booth. You drain your coffee in one long swig, then find Naveen grinning at you cheekily over the top.

“Take your ‘damn dragon’ with you.” He states flatly.

You lunge at him for a playful punch. This time, he doesn’t manage to dodge.

“So you’re sayin’...” You squint into the sewer’s dank, murky hall. “I just gotta clean up all these Mega Crystals?”

“That’s right,” The Rust Syndicate grunt states, pushing her deep black sunglasses up the sharp bridge of her nose. “Don’t leave a single one out, or the boss’ll be pissed.”

“..Got it,” You return, sighing. Seems like only a few months ago you’d been down here runnin’ around with that big oaf Ivor and Lumiose Detective Emma. At least the latter had been helpful, reigning in the former’s tendencies to try and pummel everything in sight.

Now you’re the one doing the pummeling—destroying pesky Mega Crystals in Syndicate-ordered community-service work. Those are two terms you never thought you’d use together.

You release Chandelure and Gyarados. Chandelure grows excited by the darkness, twirling in place and waving her flames, while Gyarados immediately darts toward a massive puddle of sewer water and begins flopping around in it. 

Chandelure shrieks and darts behind you as Gyarados flaps his tail sporadically. You casually lift one edge of your trench coat and block his unintentional splash of sewer water. 

“We gotta destroy these pink shiny rocks,” You say to Chandelure. “Think you’re up to it?”

Chandelure, suddenly uninterested, averts her glowing golden eyes. “...Lure.”

Gyarados continues splashing around.

“I’ve got an idea,” you say to yourself, shoving your hands in your coat pockets and stomping through a murky puddle without a care. “It’s a race. Whoever smashes the most pink rocks gets a huge cup of whipped cream.”

Both pokémon rocket off like a shot.

You stumble forward with a laugh, the sound echoing bright and loud through the catacombs all around you. “Wait—!”

You’ve gotten good at running. 

Though your gait feels a bit hobbling at times, it gets you places in ways it hadn’t before—your hip dipping to one side, your left knee bending a little too sharply with each stride. It’s ethereal to push against the swampy pull of gravity, and though it feels like you’re wading through packed sand, the moment you press from the ground you get to savor a brief burst of flight. 

“Wait!” You’re calling. “Wait—,”

You focus on that feeling—that very sticky feeling—which makes it easier to move your leg, left first, then your right follows—a too-stiff limb—and you pretend your foot is hitting the ground, that you remember what that feels like. It’s not too difficult. You continue remembering it.

Gyarados slams his bulky red side into a huge cluster of crystals, and they shatter into thousands of shimmering sparks. You collapse into a damp wall of slick, dark bricks, breathless with laughter.

“Excellent!” You’re laughing, “Excellent—!”

Flame explodes through the adjacent corridor, where Chandelure’s haunting cry spins in and out of existence, a hollow howl of lifeless majesty. You feel a chill in your bones as she draws nearer—what a beautiful glowing star she is. Slow-moving, drifting through the deep inky night, like a nebula of deep purple smoke.

She bobs straight into you and bumps her semi-opaque orb into your chest, her whole body reverberating with a near-noiseless coo. You collapse into her head of flame. None of it burns you; it never will. You let her wispy nebula drift around you, hold you upright, and think that she understands you better than anyone else.

Gyarados burps. 

You nearly fall over Chandelure’s head as you whirl around. Gyarados predictably crunches a mouthful of Mega Crystals in his jaw.

“Gyarados!” Now you’re running again. “Don’t eat that!”

When you amble out of the sewers you smell musty and damp, your hands covered in crystalline powder. When you try to wipe it on your tights, it simply dusts off and sparkles all over you. 

You wince at the sight. It’s gonna be impossible to get this stuff out of Gyarados’ teeth.

Corbeau stands at the entrance, his back to you, and at the sound of your footsteps his head turns to glance at you over his shoulder. At the edge of the deep, dark canal, he makes for an imposing figure, his black suit and sharp glasses absorbing all light.

Without preamble, he stomps toward you, a stray lock of his greased, dark hair shifting over his brows. “Good work in there.”

The female grunt behind you leans over into a respectful squat. Chandelure crackles in greeting at your side. You do nothing but shed some more crystal bits onto your plaid skirt, blinking at Corbeau lazily. What’s he gonna want you to do next? Clean public bathrooms in the park?

When you’d met him in his office, each inch of the room coated with dark mahogany wood and pure gold linings, he’d imparted his proposal: a lineup of ‘unsavory’ jobs. 

Lida nearly lost her mind, and it was as difficult to reign her in as an unruly Tauros. She pulled her hair and her sleeves, two nervous quirks rooted in a buzzing fear that yanked her shoulders up into tight, stiff shapes. 

Yet you felt nothing but relaxed contentment. The couch beneath you felt as comfortable as Corbeau said it was—you could sink into it for hours, you thought, if someone would just bring you a fresh cup of espresso. That office seemed like the sort of place that would have good refreshments.

The jobs and the money didn’t concern you much. In fact, it all sounded like some sort of haphazard movie plot. Considering the Syndicate hadn’t been abolished by the local police, you weren’t too concerned about the moral implications of whatever you’d have to do. 

You mostly thought about Urbain.

You knew he would often go out of his way to help others, yet why would he disappear like that, leaving you and Lida to clean up his mess? It was utterly uncharacteristic; he was always independent to an awe-inspiring degree.

That was more of a concern than the debt itself—the fact that your friend had fallen off the face of the earth without a word to you at all.

Urbain’s obsession with debts has always stuck out to you, his desire to repay AZ and support the hotel bleeding out into his love for this unruly, chaotic city, so his entanglement with the local Syndicate didn’t surprise you in the least. 

Though perhaps you should’ve acted at least a little bit ruffled, as Corbeau appears emboldened to give you job after job. Being treated as an errand girl wasn’t exactly on your vacation to-do list.

“Say,” Corbeau questions, “Is it true you’re going around calming Mega-Evolved pokémon?”

“Yeah,” You return thoughtlessly. Then you run a hand through your hair and realize that you weren’t supposed to tell him that. Whoops. 

Though Corbeau seems unsurprised by this, nodding sharply. Perhaps he already knew. He adjusts the lapels of his striking suit jacket, then folds his arms behind his back. “One more question. A man showed up after you calmed those Rogues. Who was he?”

“Honestly, I dunno for sure.” You shift your weight to your opposite hip, shoving your hands back in your pockets. “Calls himself ‘L.’ Seems like an honest guy, but I’m not sure what he’s after.”

“...Good answer,” Corbeau praises flatly. “I will fill in the blanks. That gentleman’s name is Lysandre.”

You blink again. “...The old boss of Team Flare.” 

The man has shown up on multiple occasions, ambling into your space with cryptic words and even more cryptic questions. With his single pale eye and his sinking, stark-white hair you hadn’t recognized him. It seems obvious now that Corbeau has connected the dots.

“Correct.” Corbeau pushes his glasses up his nose. “In the past, as you recall, he was an incredibly successful businessman. He helped me out when I was a kid. Provided me with support since I had no family to rely on.”

“You know him.” You say carefully. “..Do you know why he did what he did?”

Corbeau shakes his head, his brow pinching harshly. For a moment you see something dark flicker over his flat yellow eyes, the hue harsh and thick like guck. “He disappeared after everything that happened five years ago. But if he’s alive, that means I can repay him for everything he’s done for me.”

More debt talk. It seems as though this pseudo-interrogation is over, so you shift your weight again and relax your shoulders with a noiseless huff. All you need to do now is somehow get to Sector 3 before anything goes too terribly wrong. 

“Ah, look at me, talking to myself.” Corbeau rubs between his brows, the motion pushing his glasses upward. “You’d better not breathe a word of this to anyone, understand—?”

“Wait.” You state gravely.

Corbeau pauses. His frown presses into a thin line, his brows furrowed as though he’s unnerved by the flat expression on your face. “What is it?”

“I promised my pokémon whipped cream in a cup.”

“...Excuse me?”

“Whipped cream,” You make a swirling motion with your finger. “In a cup.”

Nothing looks out of place in Sector 3.

Corbeau follows you along the neatly paved bricks, his round glasses catching bright streaks of afternoon light and shrouding his near-impenetrable expression. You feel his gaze on you, his path following alongside yours, each footfall thudding in tandem. 

Perhaps he notices your flitting gaze, jumping from the awnings of colorful booths, pattering against groups of laughing children, and skittering across the busy sidewalks. Yet he doesn’t say a word, his hands stuck deep into his pockets, and his mere shadowy presence makes people scuttle out of your way as you pass by.

Really, doesn’t he have anything better to do? You thought your ridiculous proclamation would scare him off or at least bore him to death the way it would Lida or Urbain. He’s oddly unfazed by you—a rarity that fazes you.

In the silence you pause to glance probingly into empty alleyways. You peer up at the rooftops of old, hulking buildings. The Sector flutters with Pidgey who cut gashes into the low-hanging clouds, yet still you can’t find anything amiss.

Was it really a fluke like Naveen said? 

Something in your gut tells you otherwise.

Chandelure, still floating at your side, doesn’t seem to sense anything either. Rather, she keeps sending Corbeau careful glances, her flames whirling close to him, though not close enough to touch. Seems like she’s feeling him out.

You want to tell her to focus up, but then your true purpose here would be obvious. As much as you don’t give a damn, Urbain wants to keep your noble goal of quelling Rogue Megas a Mega Secret. And you’ve already told Corbeau way too much.

You pause mid-step.

Corbeau crinkles his nose. “What’s wrong with you? Pick up the pace.”

An explosion of fire erupts from a rooftop overhead.

You hardly think as you dart toward the nearest holovator. Eyes whizzing into a glow of neon-yellow light, you blink in and up onto the rooftop just as a blaze of white-hot fire gusts past your ducking head.

Corbeau blinks into existence seconds later. His eyes blow wide, and whatever he says immediately gusts off into the wind. “What the hell—?!”

—is that? He must be saying, as a Rogue Mega’s a real sight to anybody who hasn’t seen one. 

You duck into a whirling wind and hear a reverberating, crackling roar as an all-black Charizard floats and hovers in a shroud of blue flames. It warps with heavy, thick streaks of crimson-pink energy, the concrete roof cracking and rumbling from its mere presence.

Shoot, you think. You tuck Chandelure into her pokéball then bring out both Garchomp and Gyarados without any other thoughts.

Garchomp stomps against the concrete, holding his ground as Charizard lets out an ear-piercing, agonized howl. You hear the fearful shouts of bystanders down below. Hopefully they’ll evacuate in time.

You hold up a hand and Garchomp sends out walls of stone and scattered spikes across the field. This isn’t his first rodeo. Gyarados, however, has only recently evolved; he stares at you with big, trusting eyes as you hold up your Mega ring.

Energy fills you. You see glittering spray from a water-hose. Fly in a pale-blue sky. You stick your hands into bubbling, muddy muck, then cradle a wiggling, glimmering pokémon in your arms.

Crystals, you think absurdly. Red fish.

Mega Gyarados shatters from the shell of a pearl. His compacted body wavers and cuts through the air; you can feel the humidity growing until it clogs your heavy breaths.

Corbeau stumbles backward, staring at your partner, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his small nose.

“Red.” He states simply, like he’s not sure what he’s looking at.

“Waterfall,” You order.

Gyarados collides with Charizard in a frothing, cresting wave, sending sparks and water droplets spitting all over the roof. You run away from Corbeau’s side—it’d be bad to get him caught up in the fray—and as Charizard readies up a Flamethrower, you quickly instruct Garchomp to dodge.

You swing your hand out again. Garchomp lunges forth with a bellowing roar. The rooftop shakes, stray tiles tearing free then launching through the air in whizzing spirals. Some whirl then shatter beside you against a nearby wall of concrete. 

A huge gust of wind cuts over your head, whipping your hair around your face in flapping spirals. Charizard reels back, its massive dark maw spitting purplish-blue flames. It roars, the sound splitting through you, your legs planting stiff into the concrete.

Corbeau shouts something far behind you. A blue gust of flames swirls straight toward you in a burst of hot heat, and you leap to the side, turning on your heel. 

“THE AWNING!” You bellow at Gyarados.

Your partner twists and swirls through the air, conjuring the storm he was born with. Great spirals of lightning shoot from thick, dark clouds. He ducks beneath the broken bit of awning just as it’s blown apart, then as Charizard is shrouded by the fluttering tatters, lets the lightning loose.

You brace yourself as you’re nearly blown from the ground. The lightning spirals in huge, flashing arcs, rain flurrying into shining torrents, cutting through gasping bursts of flame. Charizard darts through, yet not fast enough, and lightning strikes against its great wings. 

It howls in furious agony. A burst of Mega energy warps through the air; your eyes glare into the array of dust and smoke, teary yet unrelenting. Charizard tumbles like a broken kite and collides straight into Garchomps’ trap of spikes.

You run forward. 

Corbeau shouts something else now—a command, a frantic reverberation—but you’ve already started to fly. Your stumbling, hobbling gait begins to leap through gravity, rain on either side of you, wind at your back, and static bounding up from the concrete ground. 

Garchomp lunges at your side. Gyarados streaks through the sky like a gash of blood. You feel your coat flutter from your back, flapping like a pair of wings. “NOW!”

Charizard’s next gusting attack crashes into an erupting wall of stone. Concrete dust explodes from the cracks in sparkling clouds. 

Gyarados dips through the sky in a crack of sound. His hard head collides with Charizard’s side and sends it spinning, tumbling from the air. 

You lunge into a roll just as Charizard crashes down onto the roof. The earth jumps and trembles with the impact, the building swaying in the wind. When you rush to stand, you feel the ground press up against your knee, the storm roaring as Charizard stomps to its feet, frothing in rage.

Gyarados zips forward. You brace yourself against the earth. A sparkling eruption of energy twists and tears against your face. The air pulses pink, and Charizard’s flames whip out in bright lashes, its blue eyes bright and brilliant like twin stars.

You turn to look over your shoulder. Corbeau meets your gaze. He stands braced and taught in the bright blue light, his gold eyes wide, dilated, not leaving yours. One of his pokémon stands by him—a tall, stiff Scoliopede whose side shines with an old white scar.

“Garchomp,” You state flatly, wind rushing around your face. Garchomp rushes away from your side, and you turn back into the flames.

Gyarados dips down beside you. Heat flares away from your back. A ball of red-hot light spins just beyond Charizard’s snout, and it lifts its gleaming dark head. 

A red supergiant pulses beyond the breath of a black hole. Looking straight at it blinds you, as brilliant yet dark as a void.

You hear a reverberating roar as Garchomp tears up a wall of stone behind you. Corbeau shouts something in protest. Seems like your little straggler will be just fine. You don’t have to worry about him anymore.

Charizard lifts its chest, and the world feels suddenly crisp, empty, and silent, like you’re standing beneath the dry desert sun. Orange light pulses from its shimmering scales. Its eyes are red, manic, and weeping with pain, its tears burning away and sizzling into the air.

Gyarados’ waves flicker down from the clouds. 

“One more time,” You repeat quietly. “Waterfall.”

A red flash. All raindrops pause, then shoot forward with the delayed gush of wind. You watch your partner spiral into Charizard’s side, and the blow collides with such force that the winds crash and gust upward, splitting the clouds open into a blue pool of sky. 

You exhale heavily as a soft wind settles. Charizard stumbles, then collapses into a heap, black light melting from its body in pools of syrupy ink. Gyarados’ body fades, melting into soft light, until he once more returns to his original form.

Running a hand through your hair, you huff at the injured, now-pacified Charizard. Seems like those Mega energy readings hadn’t been a fluke after all. 

Without preamble, you approach the pokémon, patting a happy, wiggling Gyarados as you go. You crouch down and spray a Max Potion over Charizard’s scales; its visible bruises and scrapes sizzle away. Charizard lifts its head, sniffing you with its snout. Its jaw lolls open into something like a giddy smile. Those fangs look pretty sharp.

Emboldened, you pull a charred-looking Lumiose Galete from your satchel, unwrap it, and hold it out in your hands. 

“Take this, too. It’s the extra-crunchy Canari special.” You grin at the memory of the streamer girl cussing you out. “You’ll ‘prolly like this one.”

Charizard immediately gobbles it up, leaving your hand coated in a fine film of saliva. Then it stands, gazing at you, looking tired but healthy; with two buffeting gusts of its wings, it launches back up into the sky.

You peer upward and watch it circle twice overhead, its every motion slow and thick with gratitude. Then it streaks off into the horizon, at once disappearing into the clouds above.

“So that was a Mega Rogue.”

Corbeau saunters over to you, the odd, poison-like flaps of fabric on his suit jacket catching gusts of Charizard-induced breeze. He appears almost irritatingly unphased. 

“Yeah. A pretty prime example,” You return, fixing the collar of your turtleneck. “Did anyone get hurt down below?”

“From the looks of it, no.” Corbeau returns. “Though I suggest we go down to check.”

You nod. So far, you and your team have been lucky enough not to catch any innocent passerby in the chaos of your Rogue Mega battles, but you’re not sure how long this luck will last.

Also, this is the first time you’ve taken on a Rogue alone—it was hard just protecting Corbeau, a single bystander—so you’re not sure if you managed to keep all of the carnage contained.

But after another hesitant glance at your surroundings, all that appears to be damaged is an awning and this building’s rooftop. Hopefully no chunks of concrete were thrown off of the edge. It seems like a pokémon—likely Corbeau’s Scoliopede—had reinforced the rock walls Garchomp set up with globs of sticky poison.

You glance at Corbeau, but he’s not looking at you, running a hand through his windblown hair.

At your side, Garchomp and Gyarados congratulate each other with varying hiccup-like bubbling and growls. Scoliopede watches on with an innocuous stare, while Corbeau’s gaze remains fixated on your giant red water-type.

“A shiny pokémon, huh?” Corbeau’s smile curls into a pleased grin. After Gyarados sends him a sniff, he reaches out and pats the pokémon’s glimmering crimson scales. “You sure are a rarity—just like your trainer.”

Gyarados grins at Corbeau in response. His smile looks very pink and sparkly. 

Corbeau’s shoulders stiffen. “..Did he eat Mega Crystals?”

“I’m not obligated to tell you that,” You return, flat-faced.

“You have told me much more important information,” Corbeau’s face quivers as he turns around. “Yet this is what you refuse to divulge?”

“I’m a serious girl,” You tell him as you stride away, your hands in your coat pockets, your eyes on the glimmering skyline. “I’m true to my heart. I do what I want, and I say what I mean.”

Then you hop off of the roof.

The wind whizzes by you, swallowing the sound of Corbeau’s frantic, strangled shout, which twists into a rushing funnel. You fly, feeling your hair, coat and skirt pillow into a great big umbrella. The wind stings against your bared grin.

Rotom zips out of your pocket and you latch onto it. You swing from your momentum, gravity shifting with the tails of your trench coat, and plant your feet onto solid ground.

With a buzz, Rotom zips back into your pocket. A few scant passersby scuttle away from you with judgmental looks. Seems pretty peaceful down here, and it looks like no one was hurt. Your breath settles with relief.

Gyarados and Garchomp fly down to your side, the latter landing hard on the concrete with a heavy thud. Then an angered yell reverberates from high above, as harsh as a roaring flame.

You peer up from where you’ve jumped from, holding up a hand to shade your eyes from the sun. Corbeau leans over the side of the three-story building, glaring down at you. 

Even from far below you can tell that he’s furious.

“What the HELL are you doing?!” He bellows.

“Café’s right here! Easy route!” You call up to him beside your cupped hand. “I’ll grab us a table, yeah?!

“DOS!” Gyarados shouts at the prospect of food. Even his drool sparkles.

Corbeau’s expression flattens out, his face as pale as the clouds curling beyond his head. You whirl on your heel and shove your hands in your pockets, thinking surely that will shake him off. 

Yet as you saunter away, the sky begins to quiver, colored with his faint and disbelieving laughter. 

You tip a cup of whipped cream into the flame on Chandelure’s orb of a head. Her flames grow bigger as it absorbs and burns the sweet treat to ash, as prompt as a fiery furnace. Chandelure crackles happily and wiggles for more.

Corbeau watches on across the table with an utterly unimpressed expression, his glasses sliding low down his small nose; with his mouth and brows furrowing downward that nose of his appears even smaller. 

He holds his dark espresso cup in his hand but does not drink it, despite you audibly asking if it’d grown cold.

You slurp your cappuccino, unaffected by his glare. You’ve grown used to his thorny words, finding them like Substitutes that shield whatever’s truly on his mind. He’s spewed many threats at you the past two days, but he hasn’t acted on a single one.

Gyarados burps. Once he and Garchomp finish their treats, you tuck them back into their pokéballs, as their large statures can create chaos in their own right. Only Chandelure remains at your side, her peaceful bobbing casting you in a gentle purple glow. 

When the waiter returns to your table, you can see his shoulders dip in relief now that you’ve stowed away your massive monoliths. You don’t blame him for this reaction in the slightest.

Though Corbeau’s reaction has grown a bit uncomfortable. Throughout this whole café pitstop, he hasn’t said a single word.

“Got the check?” You prompt the waiter.

He shakes his head. “It’s on the house,” 

You blink dumbly. 

The waiter smiles at you. “You were the one who calmed that big Charizard down, didn’t you? I thought it’d set this whole place on fire, but everything’s alright now, thanks to you. So—,”

“Nah, I’ll pay like usual.” You slap a big bill on the table. 

“Oh.” He stiffens hesitantly. “Well, thank you.”

“Keep the rest. It’s a tip.”

He no longer looks hesitant. “Thank you so much!”

Corbeau, still silent, stiffly retracts his empty hand from his pocket. The waiter bows enthusiastically and makes off with the check.

Corbeau glares at you over the table and finally opens his mouth to speak. “Why did you just pay for mine?”

“As thanks for the escort.” You state flatly. “‘S only polite.”

Corbeau bares his teeth like a territorial Houndoom. “I don’t take handouts.”

“I just told you why I was payin’ for you.” You state flatly. “You an’ Scoliopede kept the carnage to a minimum, didn’t you? Nobody got hurt and I have you to thank.” You roll your eyes and pretend to mimic his fancy talk. “Or you can think of it as a payment toward Urbain’s interest, if you are so inclined.”

Corbeau’s brow twitches at your rudeness, but his hiked shoulders ultimately settle.

“Speakin’ of which,” you continue. “Your partner want a treat? I’ve still got a cup of whipped cream.”

A pause. You hear a clatter and a rumble from high above as the Racine construction team goes at it on the roof. Their chatter drifts down over you in a fluttering wind.

You’d called Tarragon up just twenty minutes ago and he’d gotten right to work on fixing the Rogue Mega’s damage, laughing about ‘another honest day’s work.’ That truly says a lot about what goes on in this wild city.

“..Fine.” Corbeau returns frigidly. He releases Scoliopede out of a well-polished Dusk Ball.

Scoliopede appears in a flash of purple light, then stomps her scaled hooves into the earth in greeting. Her whole back, head, and parts of her tail have been covered in a finely-scattered layer of red, orange, and yellow leaves. 

A chuckle bubbles from your lips, melding into the calm, comfortable chatter from the surrounding tables. She’s absolutely covered. When did that happen? Did she roll around in a leaf pile or something while Corbeau was climbing down from the roof?

“Looks like the fall leaves have been kind to you today,” You say, carefully reaching over and plucking one off of her tall head. Scoliopede rumbles in response, a sound from deep inside her throat, then shakes her head and body much like a Stoutland. She looks pleased by the sun’s beaming warmth. 

You smile. “..You like basking in the sun, huh? So do I.”

You close your eyes for a moment. Your spine keeps you upright, somehow. A wind brushes past you, as warm and full as that one on the roof. You think of an orange blotch in the sky, of tears burning into the air, and hope the Charizard’s pain went away, that it stays gone for a long time.

Today, you hope that the sunlight on their scales will feel fresh and brand-new. 

“When I bask in the sun,” you mumble to Scoliopede, “I never feel alone. That big ol’ star watches over me wherever I go.” 

Your hand moves thoughtlessly beneath her chin. “Since the sun is watchin’ over us, we’re stronger than anyone. All our pain burns away into warmth.”

You open your eyes again. Now that you’ve relaxed, your body slumps with the exhaustion of your prior battle. Scoliopede looks at you, into you, her golden gaze silently knowing. She lets you brush a hand over the large white scar on her neck. 

“Scoli,” She buzzes, blinking at you with her huge eyes. Corbeau is a pale, curved reflection in one slitted pupil. When you smile and scratch beneath her striped, worn chin, she wiggles and shines in the sunlight. 

She’s a whole damn mosaic with those bright scales of hers. “Want some whipped cream?” 

Scoliopede begins vibrating at a startling frequency. When you stick the cup of whipped cream under her nose she inhales it in one sloppy bite. You laugh as you mop up the remains beneath her chin with a napkin, the cream thick and foamy like an all-white beard.

“...I’m wasting time.” 

At the sound of Corbeau’s voice, you turn to find him staring at you blankly, his brows furrowed tight and low. 

“We need to return to base.” He states. “I have one more job for you.”

“Alright,” You return, standing from your chair. 

Scoliopede wiggles around some more, the remaining leaves sliding off of her back in a spinning, flickering shower. Chandelure chirps at the display, amused. 

Then the waiter once more rounds the corner. “I brought you your to-go refill, miss.”

You whirl around and find a cup shoved in your face. It’s not an ordinary to-go cup. It’s been covered in multiple sparkling pink stickers that layer over each other, all a variety of shapes and sizes.

“Woah, thanks!” You exclaim, grinning wildly. “Did you put stickers on this?!”

“Thank you so much for everything!” The waiter rockets forward into a deeper bow. It’s way too much, and you’d usually stop him, but your to-go cup is covered in the most adorable Swirlix stickers that you’ve ever seen.

“This is so damn cute!” You turn it around in your hands. “Thank you so much!”

“We need to go.” Corbeau repeats, now looking thoroughly pissed off.

“Thanks again!” You call to the waiter. The waiter echoes this with a jovial: “Thanks so much!”

You both continue waving and thanking each other until you and Corbeau turn the street corner. Then you sink into your heavy, swinging stride, feeling the thud of each footstep reverberating through you.

It doesn’t feel amazing, to be honest. But this coffee and this sunlight are brightening up your whole damn world. Chandelure twirls at your back, Scoliopede trots along with a happy coo, and the clouds curl into circles high above, telling you that you did somethin’ great. 

Yeah. You did somethin’ real great today.

“..Thank you.” Corbeau states beside you.

“Hm?” You blink at him, sipping from your sticker-covered to-go cup. “For what?”

Corbeau's hands twitch at his sides like he’s not sure what to do with them. For the first time, he seems at a loss for words. “Never mind.”

The sky sinks. Each cloud dangles under it in stark shadows. With the sun as bright as it is, the two tall, lavishly-dressed trainers before you cast formidably long shadows. 

They pretend not to notice the way you slurp your coffee obnoxiously loud.

You want me to chase some folks off your turf? You’d asked Corbeau, flummoxed by the ominous way he’d phrased it. Who, exactly?

“Your mere existence is an affront to the SBC!” Exclaims the ornately-dressed woman, her large pearl earrings bobbing as she swings out an affronted hand. “I simply must beat you to the ground—if not for myself, then for the club I represent!”

You’ll know when you see them, Corbeau had said, wearing a strange grin that’d been difficult to decipher. I’d wish you luck…but I don’t think you’ll need it.

“Fall to the might of my dragons!” Shouts the man. His all-white suit reflects sunlight with his every movement. The trio of children grouped behind you yelp and shield their eyes as he steps forward. “Now face me in battle, you uncultured boor! You’ll never be able to—,”

“Wait.” You hold up a hand. “One moment.”

You take another long, slurping sip of your coffee. One of the kids beside you bursts into giggles. 

“Are you mocking us?!” The SBC woman shouts.

Though irritating these two high-class bozos proves highly entertaining, you’re doing this more to prove to the surely-watching Corbeau that you still have agency and thus you will be slacking on the job. 

It’s the only way to prove your independence here, as last-ditch of an effort as it is.

Though this coffee tastes truly delicious. You hum through another slow sip. Then one of the children, a little boy, tugs the end of your coat. You meet his gaze, his innocent blue eyes wide and admiring.

“I like your stickers,” The little boy says. “Where’d you get them?”

“Really? Thanks!” You return enthusiastically. You move your cup toward him to show it off better. “A nice waiter gave ‘em to me. Do you like cute things?”

“Yeah!” The boy exclaims excitedly.

“I do too,” You return, then lean in and cup your hand around your mouth like you’re divulging a secret. “I love cute stuff the most.”

The boy giggles happily behind his hands. “Can I show you my Spinarak after this? She’s super cute! ‘Prolly the most cute!”

The kids behind him laugh as though he’s said this before, a young girl who highly resembles him—likely his sister—playfully punching him on the arm. But before they have a chance to dissuade him, you crouch to his level and send him your most encouraging smile.

“Absolutely.” You say to him, emboldened by his big, sparkling eyes. “I bet she’s the cutest.”

The little boy grins, bashfully pulling his web-patterned beanie down over his brows. 

“Enough of this pointless drivel!” Bellows the SBC man behind you. The children yelp. “Face my sublime strength and be crushed to the ground! I’ll have you running from this city crying rivulets of tears!”

Your mouth quivers upward into a hilarious smile before you force it away. Corbeau’s threats could use some of that ridiculous vocabulary. If he’s watching this, you hope he’s taking notes.

“Let’s do this safely, yeah?” You suggest with a smile. You meander to toss your empty cup into a nearby trashbin, then hobble back into the battle court, plucking a pokéball from your satchel. “Everybody take a step back.”

The three kids dart to the side, chattering excitedly, the little boy holding his sister’s hand tightly. When you turn back toward your opponents with Garchomp’s pokéball pulsing in your hand, slightly nicked with wear and radiating a gentle warmth, you find that your opponent has already tossed his pokémon out onto the field.

A Gabite.

Your thumb closes onto the button, your smile stark. This is gonna be fun.

All your life, you’ve been underestimated. It’s not something that ruffles you anymore, instead flickering throughout your days in dull instances that serve as a subtle reminder. 

So fear, shame, self-consciousness—those are emotions you can no longer reach. They sit in a bubble high above ground, staring at you standing far below. 

You see a woman, still and motionless, laying curled inside that bubble, gazing through its shimmering, damp barrier. The desert sun curls around her, relentless, and she glares down at you with listless eyes, her silence asking, are you afraid?

Not anymore, you return, reaching up to embrace her. In your arms she explodes into thick rivulets of blood and diluted honey, dripping away to feed the shrubs at your feet.

Once the world becomes your personal obstacle course, you find that there’s nothing left for you to fear. 

There’s only joy. Teeth bared against the wind. Open sky and Garchomp roaring like a wildfire, relentless, his blows beating alongside the thudding of your heart. In battle, you are strong—in battle, your body is a simple vessel—in battle you hardly feel your legs on the ground, in a beautiful game where you can put your best foot forward, made of the same skin and bone as everyone else. 

You love standing against your weakness. Garchomp loves it too. When he jabs streams of poison from his hooked claws you hear him howl, the sound jumping and flickering like reverberating laughter. 

“Earth Power!”

You swing your arm through the air, the grand ending, the finale, even though the motion makes you stumble on your feet. After all of this, you think you deserve a bit of dramaticism. 

Slurpuff shrieks. Garchomp lunges forward. The earth splits open, gasping bursts of hot magma in steaming clouds.

Silence. Then the children across the court erupt into adrenaline-filled shouts. The SBC woman slaps gloved hands against her face, her dark skin flushing with a furious blush that shines in the midday sun.

“Impossible!” She manages. “We’re both members of Jacinthe’s illustrious Society of Battle Connoisseurs!” 

So that’s what that odd acronym stands for. 

“Well, it was a good battle.” You return. “Thanks. But I’ve been told to ‘chase you off,’ so..” 

You stick your hands in your pockets. “Now that you’ve lost, mind clearin’ out?”The SBC man completely ignores you, turning to his companion. “Vivica, we need to call for reinforcements to sort this out.”

..That’s bad news for you. Corbeau’ll have your head if all you do is manage to cause a bigger commotion. The children scuttle up to your side, appearing nervous, and you huff a huge, loud sigh, rubbing the back of your neck.

The SBC woman, Vivica, nods. “Yes, François, I agree! We cannot allow our brand and image to be damaged by some—!”

“Hello there, you two.”

The little boy jumps, bumping into your side. You lift your head to see Corbeau striding across the battle court in his usual saunter, his frown flat and unrelenting.

“I’ve heard word you’ve been acting like you own the place. Too bad you had to go and lose so miserably.” He tilts his head. “People are on edge as it is these days, what with all the wild pokémon showing up in town. Hardly seems like a good time to be going around troubling our city’s children, now does it?”

SBC Vivica rolls back her shoulders. “You’re Corbeau of the Rust Syndicate, aren’t you? The one who fancies himself some kind of outlaw hero for the masses,”

“You’re the one who sent this rude boor to humiliate us?” SBC François crosses his arms and turns up his nose. “Poor taste on your part! She walks like she’s inebriated!”

You open your mouth with a witty retort on your lips, but Corbeau’s loud, icy voice barrels over you. “You say that when she was the one who crushed you both with a single pokémon. Her strength outmatches yours in leaps and bounds—I don’t see what walking has to do with that.”

He strides toward the pair and glares up at them, his countenance utterly unbreakable though they’re both about two heads taller. You feel a strange weight layer over your shoulders, watching his narrow eyes widen behind the thin lenses of his glasses, bright golden and as sharp as a knife.

Vivica audibly swallows, her hands tightening into fists, while François, sweating, takes a large step back. “You—,”

“I advise you to leave this place,” Corbeau states quietly, “before I do something drastic.”

François jabs a finger at him as he’s stumbling back. “We’ll have our revenge someday!”

Both of them turn on their heels, then, scrambling, slam out of the chain-linked fence and sprint away out of the Bleu Sector. They shout at each other furiously, their voices cracking and their poised composures lost, each angered proclamation echoing until they disappear behind a nearby apartment complex. 

“A ‘hero’…like I’m someone like that,” Corbeau grumbles to himself, a deep upset creasing his fine features. 

You glance at him, then look away. You don’t think that was something you were supposed to hear.

“You should head home for today too, kiddos!” Corbeau calls behind a cupped hand. All traces of his fury have dissipated into the meandering breeze. How strange. Has his tone warmed for the children, or are you imagining it? “Watch out for any strangers!”

The kids chorus a series of chirping gratitudes, but the little boy in the webbed beanie appears hesitant, fiddling with the sleeves of his neon-green puffer jacket. 

“Show me that cute Spinarak next time, ‘kay?” You say to him with a small smile, shifting your weight to your opposite hip. “‘And be proud of yourselves. You all did a great job holdin’ your ground.”

The boy’s dark eyes shine. His grin wobbles higher as his sister grabs his hand, and though he says nothing in response, he waves to you as long as he can, even as his sister drags him far away from the battle court.

Corbeau’s voice startles you out of your thoughts. “You really are strong, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” You return bluntly.

Corbeau chuckles. “Most would call that attitude of yours ‘boastful,’ yet—you don’t ever show off that strength of yours. You only act as though it’s obvious.” 

He runs a hand through his hair, that slim smile creasing his face. “Why, nobody even knows that you’re the one calming the Rogues. You’re an interesting one.”

You don’t care for this interest of his; it feels odd, stifled by something Corbeau won’t say. Regardless, it’s none of your business, and you don’t feel the urge to pry further. Whatever he thinks of you, you’re here to clear Urbain’s interest and that’s all.

Yet your stomach shrivels at the prospect of his steady footsteps no longer following fast at your back. You see the fury on his face, blaring and roaring in a silent, rushing flame. What’s walking got to do with that? Then his flat proclamations—praises, almost. 

Corbeau walks with a dark hue stretched over his shoulders. When he spoke of L and when he showed upset at being called a hero, that darkness never faded. Only once did you hear something real: his faint, quiet, disbelieving laughter, as light as a cloud.

Maybe you’re findin’ him interesting too. A puzzle—one you'd like to solve.

“Corbeau,” You say to him. “Thanks for defendin’ me earlier.”

Corbeau’s face smooths into blankness. He takes a moment to answer your words, turning his head away from you. “..Think nothing of it. Though you may just be a temporary hire, you are part of the Rust Syndicate now. I won’t have anyone badmouthing my grunts.”

“Well, thank you regardless.” The sun bares down on you, warming the top of your scalp. You rub the back of your head, your grin feeling wide and crooked. “I appreciate it.”

Corbeau is still staring somewhere else, a thin bead of sweat dragging down over his thin jaw. You follow his gaze, then squint. 

A huge crowd tumbles outside of a nearby building, lapping and wavering against large marble pillars in a colorful wave. Voices resound from it faintly, loud, angry, and sometimes pleading, the sounds making you amble forward with a pulling frown. You’ll need to get closer to see better.

“What’s happening now?” Corbeau grumbles. He turns away, narrowing his eyes at you over his shoulder. “You’re coming with me to find out.”

You sigh. He’d never mentioned anything about overtime.

A bumbling crowd of rioters proclaims nonsensical things about Quasartico Inc. draining and destroying the city. They throw out complicated accusations that wouldn’t make sense to you even if you were listening properly. 

Not that it matters much anyway—your eyes are on Urbain, never once leaving him.

He still stands like something heavy’s on his shoulders, his big fiery eyes clouded with uncertainty when he spots Corbeau fighting alongside you. Scoliopede crushes the rioter’s Heracross with little aplomb once Garchomp’s spikes pin it down. 

“Never thought I’d be protecting a scoundrel who won’t even repay a debt,” Corbeau states blandly once the rioters retreat. “What an interesting turn of events.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re a good person,” You return flatly. This is obvious. 

Corbeau scoffs, smiling sardonically. “You say it so matter-of-fact.” He rolls his eyes away. “Like it’s that simple.”

‘Cause it is, you think but don’t say, watching him pat Scoliopede’s side in a quiet form of praise. Maybe he’s running shady deals and sapping interest from anyone he ensnares in his charismatic charm, but he’s always kind, and that’s something that matters.

Maybe that’s why you felt so comfortable in his formidable office, on his stiff pleather couch. You sensed that kindness there from the beginning—wrapped in hundreds of expensive gold layers.

Corbeau turns toward you as Scoliopede disappears into her perfectly-maintained ball. “My Scoliopede is pretty strong, huh?”

“Yeah,” You return, feeling a smile gently lift your face. “She really is.”

The fall leaves rustle and scrape overhead. Corbeau’s strange, sharp eyes briefly widen.

“Thanks for the help, both of you.” Urbain cuts in. You feel Corbeau’s eyes still on you as you turn toward your team leader. “I was really at a loss on how to handle that many people..”

“Couldn’t have you getting injured,” States Corbeau gruffly. “Or we’d have to wait even longer to get our money. Not that we mind you racking up more interest.”

Urbain pauses with a visible flinch. He glances at you as though he hadn’t wanted you to hear. 

Corbeau has already moved on, his eyes on President Jett. Her neatly-styled hair hardly shifts as she folds her hands over her embroidered suit-dress, her slow blinking eyes sparkling, revealing nothing.

“Thank you for your help,” She says smoothly.

“All that rabble wasn’t true, right?” Corbeau asks her. “About Quasarito Inc. bringing in all those wild pokémon,”

“Our goal is to create a city where people and pokémon live in harmony. Thus, our holotech exists to create boundaries for safety,” She returns, her smile kind yet businesslike. “Though I hope someday we can remove those walls between us.”

“...I hope so too,” Corbeau returns, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It would be a shame for something to happen to this city. I do love this place, in spite of everything I’ve been through here.”

With a noiseless huff, you glance at Urbain.

Of course he and President Jett are familiar—of course he knows her somehow. Surely there’s more that he’s not telling you, more that has to do with why he took on this stupid debt in the first place, why he lied to Lida and Naveen about ‘not reading the fine print,’ and why he slinks off during the days and nights, only returning when it’s time to pacify a damn Rogue. 

You know he notices your probing stare—your emotions always show all over your face. You’re an open book. So why’s he avoiding you, why’s he glancing away? You can’t read anything on his pleasantly-smiling cover.

“A moment, if you will.” Corbeau requests you.

You nod to him, then look at Urbain over your shoulder. “..I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”

“I—yeah. See you,” Your friend returns hesitantly, his polite smile never faltering.

“We’ll be havin’ a chat later.” You try on Corbeau’s ominous, flat tone, staring at your friend. “..You won’t be able to run this time.”

You turn on your heel and hobble toward Corbeau’s stiff back. Urbain makes a half-swallowed noise behind you, sounding faintly nervous. Maybe this whole ‘threatening’ thing has its merits.

You stop beside Corbeau under a pale blue awning. A few Pidgey chirp, hopping atop it, their clawed feet gently scraping the taught fabric. You gaze up at their flickering shadows.

“I think you have the potential to be a Rust Syndicate member full-time,” Corbeau proclaims unprompted.

A baffled, stretching silence. You slowly turn your head and send him an utterly flummoxed look, and he spasms with an odd, choking sound like a half-swallowed laugh. 

“Well, anyway,” He continues amusedly. “I do appreciate you putting in overtime.”

“What did you need?” You prompt him.

Corbeau’s lips slowly begin to tilt near the corners, an almost-smile, the expression strange and not nearly as fake as the smiles he’d worn before. “I would like to see you again.”

You tilt your head. “Another job?”

Corbeau’s lips quirk higher. His face curls with the shadow of a flitting Pidgey above. “Always straight to the point, aren’t you? I like that about you.”

You have no idea how to respond to that, so you don’t. 

“Meet me at the Syndicate building in an hour,” He says, sticking his hands in his pockets. That saccharine smile of his never falters as he steps from the shadows out into the sun. “I’ll be in touch.”

Two missed calls from Naveen, and three from Lida. 

Four of which you missed while you were clambering through the sewers with no service, and you tell them as such on your way back to the Rust Syndicate’s hulking step pyramid. 

Your voices meld together into the gentle hum of your hovering Rotom phone, its white case catching nearby lights as the sunset falls into a fading blue-gray. 

As you stride past a dimly-lit cafe, you hear the low thrum of music humming through the glass doors—some sort of Unovian jazz—the sort AZ likes to play on his antique radio.

“I’m glad you got through all that.”

“Yeah.”

Live music, reads the sign out front, chalk falling from the halting letters and pooling into a poorly-rendered drawing of a swaying Spinda. Crowds of people chatter in low chairs, their evening espresso clinking into polished, gold-rimmed saucers, their eyes bright beneath dark felt hats. 

You turn the corner to the pleasant rumble of the bass.

“So the Sector 3 readings—?” 

“A Rogue Charizard.” You lean out of the way of a passerby, who sends you a dirty look. “Guess it wasn’t a fluke after all.”

Naveen’s response buzzes through the speakers of your Rotom phone: a sympathetic hiss. “And you took it on all by yourself?”

“Corbeau was with me.” Your words break into a halting yawn. “..He helped support Garchomp’s barriers, so the carnage wasn’t too bad.”

Naveen grumbles something that you can’t quite catch. A Panpour peeks down at you from a tree high above the street, the corners of its bright eyes curling into a crescent-like squint.

“Then he forced you into another job, didn’t he?” You hear Lida sigh. “You’ve really been through the wringer.”

“When are you returning to the hotel?” Naveen asks promptly.

“Well…he wanted to see me back at base. So I honestly couldn’t tell you.”

“I should’ve come with you,” Lida proclaims, her voice wavering and taking on a frustrated pitch. “Forget stupid dance practice, leaving you to face that crazy stuff all on your own—,”

“Nope. Don’t start,” You interrupt firmly. “Lida, bein’ here to dance is your dream. I’ll handle this, okay? I’m sure it’ll all be over soon.”

A stretch of silence. You stride through Bleu Plaza, the shallow fountains shimmering alongside your halting steps. Glittering stars fall from the maw of a stone Magikarp, the water’s creased ripples cutting through the faint reflection of the shriveled, glowing moon.

“..Okay,” returns Lida reluctantly, her voice small. You hear a rustle, likely Naveen scrubbing the back of his neck. 

Your footsteps slow. If you listen closely, you can hear the faint clattering of pots and pans, the flicker of the dusty chandelier, and Floette’s soft, gentle coos. It strikes you once again, as bold and bright as it did the first time, that you have someplace that you can return to.

“We’ll save you some dinner,” Naveen says finally. “Don’t do anything reckless. And that includes getting yourself trapped in a battle zone.”

You scoff lightly. “That was one time.”

“We’re still waiting on Urbain, so,” Lida’s lighthearted tone falters. “No croissant curry tonight! AZ is making a big pot of soupe à l'oignon. I’m sure it’ll still be good left over!”

“Anything’s better than that ‘croi-curry’ monstrosity.” Naveen tacks on flatly. “...But if you hear from Urbain, let us know, alright?”

“I will.” You return, a small smile resting over your lips. “Thanks for checking in.”

“What are friends for?”

“Not a problem. À plus.”

A beep as Naveen hangs up. Rotom swings into your pocket just as you wobble up to the Rust Syndicate’s foreboding front gates. It seems darker here, the stars above blotted out into pale, half-shaken shapes.

A long, stretched desert sinks into your memory. Its white hot, curling sands gust into whistling winds, its waves and peaks curling into the side of a mountain’s rocky cliff-face. 

The peaks of volcanos—long-dormant—cast shadows twice their size, yet the relentless sun above burns them into a purple-toned grey, their stained layers following you up the trail in crooked shapes.

Those tinted sands remind you of Corbeau’s eyes—his gaze, sharp, fiery and flickering—and the way his slitted pupils widen with exhilaration. As you sink deep into his faux-leather couch, the faint buzz of a heater gusting warm air at your feet, you accept your fate.

You were always going to stay in this city.

At first it was only Urbain’s faith in you, his blind and reckless faith that you’d be a champion in the Z-A Battle Royale. Then it was Emma’s tasks—then it was your pokémon, their bright, trusting gazes—then Naveen and Lida’s smiles—then AZ’s warm hand as he gave you that key to room 202.

“So I’m your next Z-A Royale opponent,” Corbeau’s gaze continues to glitter—he’s excited, you think. “It feels like fate brought us to this moment. What do you say? Will you face me, no-holds-barred?”

Now, as you face Corbeau across a stretch of white sand, fate feels like something you can taste—salty like sweat, espresso’s bitter afternote—and you think perhaps that desert taught you more than just heat and suffering. 

It taught you about the worlds you’ve walked through, how they’d all led you here to the place that you were meant to be.

You are a box. You are a bubble. You are a girl who never-walked-right. Yet your feet relentlessly thud into the earth, taking step after step—one after the other after the other.

What’s walking got to do with anything? Rushes the sand next to your head.

Nothing, the flames return. Absolutely nothing.

You swing out your arm. “Fire Fang!” 

Scoliopede ducks, but not fast enough, Garchomp’s huge jaw closing in alongside an eruption of white-hot flames. The room implodes in a clash of fire, suctioning heat, and bellowing sound.

Sand explodes outward, whipping against your tights. Your skirt and big coat flare outward. You feel the heat gust over you, bursting bright and brilliant, like the final moments of a collapsing star. Your eyes can’t quite drink it all in.

At the opposite end of the field of glass, Corbeau reels back with a grin of bright-white teeth, his shoulders hiked to his ears, his eyes two golden warping suns. The rushing wind can’t swallow the sounds of his manic laughter. 

When his hand cuts through the air, Scoliopede rolls back—but obsessed with the chase, Garchomp lunges forward.

You shout your order. The earth splits once more.

Sand sparkles. The room shakes. 

You’re leaping through the air into a crystal-clear lake. You’re running through an endless dank corridor. You’re dragging your hand along smooth, slick scales that could slice your skin open if you rubbed them the wrong way.

Mega Garchomp manifests, his scythe-like arms splitting through the sand as he drags them forth with a bellowing roar.  

“Scoliopede!” Corbeau shouts from across the desert sands. “I’m counting on you!”

Corbeau grips the Mega stone pinned to his jacket. What does he think of, you wonder? The nights he spent in the streets that he’d mentioned offhandedly until they echoed in your ears? A city he loves? A city he hates? A cold stretch of stone that he wants to rule over?

No, he thinks of none of that. His smile burns bright and his eyes burn brighter as power erupts beneath his pale, callused hand. Mega Socliopede’s armor layers over itself in shiny sheens, sheets of slate as thick as metal. 

Perhaps he’s thinking of kindness. Perhaps his mind runs with his usual praise. All for the giant of a pokémon who stands beside him—a pokémon so wonderfully and beautifully loved.

Sand explodes from Garchomp’s eruption of destruction, and Scoliopede falls with one last warbling roar. She returns to the Dusk Ball in Corbeau’s hands, her fading glimmers falling alongside the sand trickling from his outstretched sleeve.

You return Garchomp to his ball before his wagging tail can kick up a sandstorm. Corbeau slumps before you, seeming stunned by his loss. He recovers quickly as you watch.

He runs a hand through his hair and scrubs his sweat-slicked face. His smile curls into an expression small, elated, and real—he seems to have forgotten that it’s there. When you watch him melt with the heat in a slouch, a buzz of something syrupy sweet washing over you, you see it: the proof of somebody who’s lived.

Then his hand drags down and erases the expression from his face. He straightens to tuck his hands behind his back, then stares at you quietly. 

“...Excellent.” He states. “Thank you. That was a good battle.”

“No, thank you,” You say, smiling so he knows you mean it. “I had a ton of fun.”

All around you, the once beautifully raked sand has been blown out of proportion, white powder scattered alongside craters of crescent shapes. Nearby boulders melt together in places, partially charred, and a huge scorch mark still sizzles through the ornate wallpaper on the wall, curling up chunks of burnt paper and paint. 

That damn desert. You’ve finally destroyed it.

You stick your hands in your pockets and relax into the elated rush of victory, watching the wallpaper’s dull embers glow in the corner of your eye.

“You sure are one interesting person, aren’t you?” Corbeau says suddenly. He tucks his hands behind his back. “More than anything, I love that you can hold your own in a battle! So I’ve decided you’re done working for us. I’ll clear all the interest, as promised.”

You blink at him wordlessly. 

Corbeau’s shoulders shake with a noiseless laugh. “..Don’t look so surprised. I won't go back on my word. Though…” He trails off, tilting his head to the side, a small smile on his face. “We could really use someone like you in the Rust Syndicate. What do you say?”

“Nah,” You state bluntly. 

Corbeau scoffs a laugh. “What a direct refusal. Won't you at least consider it?”

It would be fun, you think, to keep running around the city at Corbeau’s every whim. Yet the safety of Hotel Z, of your team—it’s a quiet warmth. It’s a sizzle of steam from your moka pot in the kitchen, a tickling smell of home cooking, and a plush room filled with quiet laughter.

“I’ve got my team to go home to.” You tell him, still smiling. Your city—your place. “And I love ‘em so much.”

Corbeau’s grinning again. His eyes curl into the expression. He doesn’t look so menacing like this, his hands twitching at his sides as though he’s not sure what to do with them. 

“Right.” He confirms, the expression quivering away. “I respect that.”

He dips his head. “..I see what you can do for this city. In retrospect, it should’ve been obvious to me the day you walked into my office.”

You turn your head to find Philippe still watching the two of you behind the safety of the battle room’s glass, his expression openly lax and awed by the destruction. 

Corbeau follows your gaze, then seems to remember where you are. He lifts his twitching hands, then cracks his knuckles in the stretching silence. 

The sound pops like a sizzling bubble.

“..See yourself out.” He states.

You nod, still buzzing from the adrenaline that makes you feel like your insides are turning inside-out. You take a breath, then another, so silent you can hear your heart beating. Then you turn and make your way to the door.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook just yet.” Corbeau announces suddenly.

You freeze mid-step. On the glass wall you can barely see that pale reflection of his, the way his frown deepens into something harsh. 

You turn around and watch him stride across the room, his footsteps precise and measured, tapping slowly toward you. It feels as though the patches of sand around you are quivering, each glittering speck rising up from the earth, parting out of his way.

Corbeau takes another achingly slow step toward you, adjusting his glasses with his thumb. 

“There are many things about you I don’t understand,” He states without infliction. “Why would you repay a debt that never belonged to you in the first place? Why do you consistently, voluntarily take everything upon yourself?”

You’re not sure if you’re supposed to say anything, so you don’t, stiffening as all the sand around you glows.

“I’ll be honest.” He stares at you. Into you. Two wide, slitted eyes as bronzy as freshly-brushed gold. “I’ve become rather fond of you. Not just because of your strength and your goodness.”

His glasses slide back down his nose. “You see, my entire life, I’ve worked hard to understand others. Their motivations. What makes them tick. That’s what’s gotten me this far, all the way up to the top of the ladder.”

“But you…” His wide eyes stare at you, into you. “You make absolutely no sense to me.”

This close, you can almost feel the warmth he radiates. You smile on instinct as his breath gusts against your chin. “What do you mean?”

Corbeau tilts his head appreciatively. He looks at you as though drinking every inch of you in—as though trying to see through his reflection in your eyes.

“I want to understand you.” He says into the room. “Each time I stand beside you, I see something incredible. I want to see even more.”

You blink slowly for a long, uncertain beat. 

Corbeau’s shoulders suddenly go rigid and tight. “Don’t make me say anything else. Now get out or I’ll rip your damn head off.”

“That sounds insane,” Naveen states flatly.

“You guys should battle ‘im sometime,” You return, sipping your evening decaf with a pleasant smile. “I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”

“Why would you even suggest that?” Lida shudders.

Your voice floats through the room as you recall the rest of the day’s events, feeling vaguely like a news reporter commenting on the weather.

Naveen sighs, his forehead in his palm. “..You really never catch a break, do you?”

You set your coffee cup into its saucer and throw your arms over the back of the plush couch. “‘S cool,” You say, your head tipping back into the cozy cushions. “I still had a great day.”

Naveen squints at you. “I think you’re a little bit crazy.”

“Definitely.”

“…You’re supposed to deny it.”

Both you and Lida laugh, the sound ringing up into the high ceilings of Hotel Z’s ornate lobby. It layers down over you like a warm summer rain. 

“Well, I’m glad at least the interest has been waived,” Naveen says as he sips the rest of his tea. His delicate teacup is painted with the figures of dancing Flabébé. “That definitely puts less pressure on us…though we’ve still got to deal with paying back Urbain’s original debt.”

“I’ve scraped my savings together,” Lida pipes in.

“So have I,” You return. “I should have enough from my Royale battles to cover a significant portion.”

“I’m almost done pulling together my share.” Naveen adds. Then he reaches into the table full of mismatched china cups, grabs a ceramic teapot, and wordlessly pours himself another huge helping of dark black breakfast tea.

“Naveen, slow down!” Lida lunges forward. “You’ll be up all night at this rate!”

“I need to be. I’m finishing my sewing commissions.”

“Jeeze, I guess I can’t really argue with that..”

Your eyes flicker between Lida and Naveen with a soothed crinkle. 

When the three of you first met, pulled together by Urbain’s unrelenting selflessness, you’d been little more than strangers. Yet the days planning, cooperating, and fighting together had built something comfortable between the three of you—something words can hardly express.

“Hey!” Urbain pops his head out of the dining room. “Anyone up for a second dinner? The curry I started is ready—!”

“Absolutely not.” Naveen states at the same time as Lida shouts, “Me! I want some!”

Yet despite Naveen’s grumbling protests, he lets Lida drag him into the dining room by the sleeve, slurping his sloshing cup of tea as he goes. You chuckle, hearing their combined chattering meld together in the warm room.

You start to follow them, but pause. Behind you, the evening fireplace crackles, its dim light wavering throughout the room in striped shadows.

“AZ,” you address, leaning against the side of the doorframe.

AZ lifts his head from across the lobby, his hand brushing his reception desk. His dim eyes crinkle slightly at the sound of your voice, and Floette immediately floats toward you with a warbling coo.

You walk with her by your side as you approach the hulking giant of a man. Urbain once told you he’s lived for over three thousand years—a number so great and unfathomable you feel like you have no choice but to believe him. 

AZ cuts a foreboding figure into the world, often whispering of a conflict running through the very foundation of this city—yet when he looks at you, it is only with gentle respect and admiration. 

Even now, his quiet kindness pulls his drooping face into a small, wrinkled smile, his stark-white braided hair falling long over his hunched shoulder.

“Want some dinner?” You ask him.

Once again, the fire crackles.

“I’m quite alright, my young friend.” AZ reaches out over the desk, and lightly ghosts the top of your right shoulder with his huge hand. His knuckles are covered in old scars. “Please go and sit with the others. You’ve worked hard today.”

“So have you,” You return, to which he chuckles, bracing himself on his cane. “I’m serious, you know. Make sure you get some rest, alright? Or at least have a cup of tea before bed.”

AZ dips his head. “I shall heed by your words, and I thank you for them.”

“Not a problem,” You return, rubbing the back of your neck. He really talks like an old man. “..I’ll see you, then.”

Floette follows you into the dining room. AZ’s weighted gaze never leaves your back. Sometimes you feel that he sees something in you that you cannot—a stretching desert with burning sands, a sun that drags sweat down the small of your back. 

The odd feeling follows you through dinner, thick and syrupy as the heap of croissant-curry that you push around on your plate.

“You need to eat more than that,” Naveen scolds, sounding unimpressed as he cuts off a portion of his contrarian jambon-beurre. “Here. Have this. Don’t let it go to waste.”

He tosses half of the sandwich across the table. It lands straight into your curry-rice combo with a nauseating splat. You stare at it blankly. Floette chitters a low, amused chirp at your side.

“Do you want some of mine, too?” Lida asks you, waving her spoon next to her head. “I’m starving, but…but I can definitely share! Definitely!”

“Please don’t force yourself,” You feel your flat expression tremble upward into a laugh. “I have more than enough,”

“Make sure you eat it all!” Urbain announces firmly from the table’s opposite end. “Croissant-Curry is Hotel Z’s specialty!”

“I think it’s actively keeping guests away,” Naveen returns flatly.

Just then, you hear the opening of the lobby’s front door. The creaking wood then rings the brass bell high above, and the thuds of footsteps signal a stranger’s entrance. Hotel Z hadn’t expected any visitors tonight—which can only mean one thing.

“Hello, hello?” A faint voice drifts across the floorboards. “Anyone here?”

“A guest?!” Urbain bellows, launching from his chair. 

“A guest!” Lida bounds upright with a clap of her hands. “Finally!”

Naveen’s jambon-beurre falls lax in his hand. “...Seriously?”

Your three friends dart from the room, Lida bounding in a bubbly skip, Urbain grabbing the doorframe to launch himself out of it, and Naveen stumbling forward with an anticipation that even he can’t hide. 

You take a bite of your curry-smothered jambon-beurre, Floette chittering giddily at your side, and hear their voices float over you in an anticipatory murmur.

“Welcome to Hotel—huh?” Urbain manages. 

“Well, don’t you all sound cheerful,” Muses the familiar voice from beyond. Urbain makes a choking noise that compels you to stand from your chair. As you approach the dining room’s open doorway, your coffee cup in your hand, the voice grows more clear. “Say, where do I check in?”

You spot a crisp shadow cutting through the faded green wallpaper, hazy in the fireplace’s dim light. Lida makes a swallowed gulping noise and steps three paces back to your side.

“Oh, hey, Corbeau,” you greet. You lean against the doorway to the dining room, your cup lax in your grip. “Why’re you here? Did I forget something?”

Corbeau’s low-lidded eyes slide to you, their yellow hue catching the fire’s flickering reflections. That sharp smile of his minutely softens. “..Not at all. I’m simply here as your guest. Take good care of me, will you?”

“Well, alright.” You take a sip of your drink with a crinkling smile. “I’ll do my best.”

“Why are you accepting this so easily?!” Lida whispers to you frantically. She shakes your arm and you lull into her movements without protest, lifting your cup away from her so that she doesn’t spill your drink.

Urbain gawks, at a loss. You don’t blame him; you certainly hadn’t expected this either. Corbeau seems to take amusement in pulling the carpet out from under one’s feet, perhaps as a method of intimidation. Is this his way of telling you to hurry up and repay Urbain’s debt?

Lida seems to come to the same conclusion. She doesn’t seem to have forgotten Corbeau’s initial threats. 

“Please don’t send the whole Rust Syndicate here to battle!” She shouts, her hands clenched into fists over her chest. “We’ll pay Urbain’s whole debt back tomorrow! I promise!”

“Now, now, what’s got you so on edge?” Corbeau steps forward with a quirk of a smile. “Like I said, I’m here to book a room. Or what? Is Hotel Z too fancy for the likes of me?”

“Flo,” Floette coos, drifting down to his shoulder. Corbeau barely sends her a glance; she doesn’t seem too unnerved, and after what you’ve seen of Corbeau, you’re sure he doesn’t have any bad intentions.

Your friends, however, appear less than convinced. Luckily, Urbain’s calling as a bellboy wins out. He hesitantly steps forward, his blush-tinted brows pulled up across his forehead. “...If you’d like a room, I’d be happy to get you checked in…sir. Follow me, please.”

You slurp your coffee, the sound obnoxiously loud. Naveen sends you a thinly-veiled glare. You suddenly want to laugh, though that would be inappropriate. 

Lida has no such qualms anymore, as whatever politeness she’d had has been scared out of her. She slaps your arm and yanks the coffee cup out of your hand. “Give me that.”

Then she throws it back and chugs it in seconds.

You sputter with a laugh so loud that both Corbeau and AZ glance at you from the check-in counter. Corbeau’s smiling again, both of his brows raised high. 

You cough and stick your hands into the pockets of your coat. Lida’s cheeks puff out like a Skwovet.

Naveen’s shoulders twitch upward with a shudder; his lips spasm and press together. You think you’re the only one in the world who knows how susceptible he is to giggles. 

The elevator’s doors open. Corbeau strides in through them, the golden light from its brassy walls curling over his back.  

His eyes trail back to you over his shoulder, and he sends you one last long, unreadable glance. His gaze trails from your slow-blinking lashes to the bits of sand you didn’t manage to dust out of your hair.

“..It’s time for me to retire.” He states finally. “A pleasant evening to you all.”

The doors close, leaving the lobby silent in disbelief.

You put on another pot of decaf coffee. After your day today, you need it, no matter what Lida says. 

Behind you, she and Naveen are engrossed in rapid conversation over the scary Syndicate Boss currently residing within the safety of your home base.

“Don’t worry about it too much,” you tell them as your moka pot begins to boil. “He doesn’t have any bad intentions, ‘prolly.”

“Well…from what you’ve told us, he doesn’t sound like a bad guy,” Naveen returns, “Though now that I’ve seen him in person, I kind of struggle to believe it. He’s as terrifying as Lida said he was.”

You shrug and pour your espresso into your mug. “I’ve never thought he was scary. He has a friendly smile, you know?”

Naveen balks. “Huh—?”

“—Do you think he’s here to help Urbain?” Lida suggests over Naveen’s baffled protests. “You know, by staying here as a guest and all.”

The three of you stare up at the ceiling for a second.

“..Nah, that’d be wild,” Lida states finally.

You chuckle to yourself as you pour coffee into your mug. “Where is Urbain, anyway?”

“I saw him head upstairs after Mr. Corbeau ‘retired.’” Lida returns, resting her elbows on the kitchen table. “Though...will you talk to him? He seems fine, but you know him. Both Naveen and I tried, but..” 

She trails off, tugs her long dark hair in frustration, and then huffs a loud sigh. “..Maybe you’ll be the one to get through to him.”

You nod, setting your cup down next to the sink. You can always re-heat it later; grilling Urbain about his recent activities feels much more important. He might run off into the night again before long, getting himself tangled in endless Royale Battles—and then all of your questions will never be answered.

“..Thank you,” Naveen states quietly. You can see the relief in his eyes even though he won’t look up from his glowing phone. 

You’ve stood in front of the old oven too long, now, the heat burning against your shins. When you turn and stride into the lobby, your left leg dragging behind you like a rock-smothered stone, you feel as though you’re on that trail again, the sun seeping into the crevices of your spine.

It’s painful, and more than slightly foreboding.

You find Urbain on the roof.

He leans over the cold metal railing, his back to you, the ends of his worn jacket fluttering. You’re reminded of the day he brought you here, his knuckles knocking against yours under the pale, thin light of the moon. 

Back then, his trademark jacket was tattered in places, as Naveen hadn’t yet redone the threading. Yet Urbain still smiled, his proclamations loud with an open end, the pink tips of his fringe pulling back into a cool spring wind. You’re the best!

You slink up behind Team MZ’s leader and swing your arm around his shoulders. 

Urbain yelps, nearly falling forward from the impact. He whips his head toward you, his big blue eyes staring into your murky green. “Wha—?!”

“Found ya,” You state icily. “You tryin’ to hide from me, Urbain?”

Urbain shouts your name, shuddering from head to toe. “—Quit actin’ like Mr. Corbeau! You scared me half to death!”

You laugh, and the tension melts from Urbain’s shoulders until he’s laughing too—his light chuckles pulsing through you, quiet and hiccupping.

“Oh c’mon, my impressions are great, aren’t they?”

“Your impressions are awful and you know it.”

The two of you shake with each other’s laughter. Urbain playfully bonks into your side and the two of you stare out into Lumiose’s horizon, its shimmering, blocky shapes curling up into the tall mountains beyond.

Urbain swings his arm over your shoulders in turn. A shadow creaks beyond the rooftop’s metal door. You pretend not to notice.

“Hey,” Your tone levels out. “Urbain.”

Urbain hesitates beneath your arm. He turns his head toward you, his gaze wide and unblinking. “Yeah?”

You smile at him. “You know I owe you everythin,’ right?”

“I,” Urbain pauses, his shoulders curling inward. “..What?”

“The reason I’m here, right now, is all because of you.” You feel a lock of your face-framing fringe pull free from the tight hold of his arm, dropping to brush against your face. 

You exhale into the cold breeze. “I don’t know if I’ve ever said it directly.” Then you grin at him. “Thank you, Urbain. For everything. The way you’re always thinkin’ of other people…it’s incredible. I really look up to you, you know?”

Urbain stares at you. You watch his eyes well up like two huge pooling fountains. Then he opens his wobbling frown and yanks his head away from you, frantically scrubbing his face.

“I messed up, didn’t I?” The words flow out of him, bursting and halting. “All—all this time, I was tryin’ so hard to help, but I was just messin’ it up for everybody. I wasn’t even strong enough to fix all the stuff with the Syndicate. I’ve always said that I’m the leader, that I’ll keep everybody safe, but—,”

“I just messed it all up. I ruined it all,” He hunches forward, his face red and weepy, clutching the sleeves of his worn jacket. “I let everyone down. I let AZ down.” 

“You didn’t ruin anythin,’” you tell him. “And you didn’t let us down, either.”

Urbain shakes his head frantically, his face bright pink. After a moment, he lifts his head to stare at you with huge, hungry blue eyes. “I just want…I just wanted to be more like you.”

You blink, then laugh loudly. “So we both want to be like each other?”

“I guess so.” A smile shakes up his face. “Like true rivals. Always tryin’ to best each other.”

“And true friends.”

Urbain’s grin widens slowly. “And true friends.”

You let go of him and he steps away from you. Flowers shift in a nearby cracked clay pot. 

Urbain’s voice comes to you faintly, warped as though heard in a dream. “That scar on your back. Does it still hurt?”

You pause for a long time. Long enough that you see the strange shadow shift in the window of the heavy green door. You suddenly feel exposed, your lungs fluttering inside you, like laundry stretched out on this railing to dry—your stains and loose stitching bared to the moon.

“...We’ve all got somethin’ that hurts us.” You say finally. “I’m sure you’re hurtin’ too. Sometimes getting better takes a real long time. Even longer than you’d think.”

“And what if things never get better?” Urbain returns quietly.

“Then you’ll have to contend with that pain forever.” You state. “All you can do is keep livin’ the best you can. That’s the honest truth.”

Urbain’s head sinks forward.

You slap him on the back. He jolts upright, gawking at whatever amused expression’s crinkling into your eyes.

“Quit makin’ that face,” You laugh. “It’s not all bad. Some things keep hurtin’ forever. I know that sounds depressin,’ but—,” 

You grin at him, your eyes squinting together. “But when I look up into a tree’s leaves and find the sun shinin’ through them like glitter, or when I taste a fresh cup of coffee on a cool day, I think, ‘man, I’m so glad to be alive!’”

You look back into the glittering horizon, that warmth lingering on your face. “You know what I mean?”

Urbain scrubs a tear away with a slow-spreading smile. “..Yeah. I think I do.”

Silence falls. The cool evening wind tickles your nose. 

“I’ll feel better, soon” Urbain tells you quietly. “I promise.”

“Take your time,” You say. “We’re not goin’ anywhere.”

Urbain smiles in the corner of your eye, his profile curling into the horizon beyond. He really looks like he belongs here. When you stand by his side like this, your hands cast in the pale light from the stars above, you feel like you belong here too.

Yet the cracked tiles of the rooftop serve a painful reminder. You wince at the inky clouds above.

“You alright?” Urbain carefully pokes your arm. “...You must’ve jumped through a ton of hurdles today, haven’t you?”

“It’s not that,” You lean your cheek into your palm and slump over the railing with a heavy sigh. “‘S just...I’m gonna have to tell Naveen that I jumped offa’ roof again. He’s gonna make fun of me for weeks.”

Urbain’s laughter sounds as bright as the moon. 

The prior day’s fatigue pulls into every nerve in your body, and you practically fall out of bed the next morning.

“Ugh,” you groan into your pillow, a dusty sunrise leaking through your hotel room’s patchy blinds. Gardevoir perches at the other end of your bed, her legs and long white tendrils folded beneath her. 

She gives your leg a poke. When you don’t react, she does it again.

You’ll usually have one of your pokémon out of their ball each night, as they’re all too large to have out all at once. Though some are more comfortable companions than others.

As you get ready for the day, Gardevoir stares at you with her big, empty eyes that don’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. Looks like she’s spacing out again. Must be tough, bein’ able to feel every emotion of every living thing around. 

“Mornin,’” you greet her with a gentle pat on the head. Gardevoir startles then chirps at you gleefully, as though she’s just noticed that you’re there. “Somethin’ bothering you?”

Gardevoir shudders, her eyes staring off into space again, generally glancing off somewhere beyond your hotel room’s deadlocked door. Then, with a frustrated huff, she sashays to your nightstand, presses the button of her pokéball, and disappears into it.

After you’ve brushed your teeth, a yawn overtakes you, so breathless and wide you stretch your whole body up into it. You wince when your spine pops. When you catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror, your huge sweatshirt and messy hair poke out at you and make you smile: a small and giddy thing. 

Sure is nice to see yourself up and about.

You slide on your mouton boots and shuffle out into the hall, not bothering to brush your hair. Then you blink and stop in your tracks, your eyes zeroing in on a splotch of shadow.

That’s right—Corbeau stayed the night. It’s odd seeing him here, with his suave aesthetic and pointy black regalia. He’s already fully dressed for the day, even at the early hour.

He looks a bit out of place against the warm-toned antique furniture and hand-stitched curtains, glaring at a pastel blue vase in the hall as though it’s personally affronted him. Maybe he feels out of place too, because he doesn’t notice you until you’ve ambled right up beside him.

“Mornin,’”

The famed Rust Syndicate boss jumps a half-foot into the air. It gets him some more height, at least.

“Arceus,” He hisses, roughly shoving his glasses up his nose. “Where did you—?”

You throw your thumb over your shoulder with a tired smile. “I’m room 202.”

“I know that.” Corbeau rubs the bridge of his nose. “..You can be stealthy when you want to be. That skill is an important one.”

He says the most odd and ominous things sometimes. It’s too early for you to comprehend any of it. “Want some coffee?”

Corbeau squints at you and stops pinching his nose. “There were refreshments provided in my room. I’ve already had a cup.”

“The brew downstairs is real good too,” You say, already turning and shuffling toward the elevator. 

You hear the muted thuds of Corbeau’s loafers against the plush carpet. It sounds like he’s following.

For the first time, he doesn’t strike up some sort of power-play small-talk with you. Philippe always calls him ‘dangerous and intoxicating,’ but for a man with so many intriguing monikers, he seems to be more of the quiet type. That’s cool, you’re that way too.

Unbothered by his silence, you press a button, watching it glow gold beneath your finger. The elevator shudders, creaks, then slowly begins to dip down.

You stick your hands in your hoodie’s pockets. Corbeau scrunches his nose. The elevator continues to slink down the floor, its cozy lights flickering overhead and the doors shuddering unsteadily. 

Corbeau huffs a disgruntled stream of air. “I’m beginning to understand why Urbain took on that debt.”

You chuckle. The elevator doors open to the lobby. When you step out, neither AZ nor Floette are behind the desk to greet you. You rub the back of your head, then lazily push back a few of your unruly curls. “...What time even is it?”

“Around six.” It’s Corbeau who answers you. He’s staring at your hair. You don’t blame him; it’s a real beast of a thing when it’s untamed.

“Hm,” You return, once more disinterested. You sidle around the desk and open the doors to the kitchens, lazily leaning your body against the door to hold it open.

The low ceilings sink over the kitchen counters and antique stovetop, the room’s chipped white paint alight by sunbeams slinking through the wide paned windows. Corbeau strides into the room, his gaze briefly pausing on a wilting vase of green hydrangeas. 

“...This place is a maze,” He declares, poking one of the crinkled petals.

“An’ yours is a mausoleum,” You return, stepping away from the door.

Corbeau chuckles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Inside the Hotel, mornings in Lumiose city feel deceptively quiet. Sometimes when you’re the only one awake, you feel as though you have this big wide world to yourself, its plush antique carpeting, dew-speckled grasses and gentle, golden sunrays existing all for you.

Corbeau stands at your side, a strange and stony presence. His gaze never leaves you, trailing to your hands as you methodically spoon fresh coffee grounds into your moka pot’s funnel. The aroma of the grounds, comforting and familiar, doesn’t distract you from his relentless stare.

You set the moka pot down onto the stovetop. “Wanna sit down?”

“Look at me when you’re talking to me,” Corbeau says beside you. It sounds like it should be an order, but his tone softens with a strange curl of affection.

You’re probably reading too much into it. You turn to the side, lean against the countertop, and repeat yourself to his face. “Wanna sit down?”

“..I’ll stay here,” he states.

You shrug and turn back to your work. Corbeau doesn’t move, watching you gather two mugs from an adjacent cabinet. 

He relaxes after a while as you froth milk, and your shoulders slump in turn; his stretching silence layers over you like an early snowfall, pale and chilling, muffling all other sounds. 

You lift your head and turn toward him. You find him still watching you. His eyes meet yours over his serious expression, utterly unfaltering. You stare back at him for a long time, feeling your head tilt in silent askance. Still, he does not speak. It feels like a competition of sorts.

A smile curls onto your lips, and you see Corbeau begin to smile in return. Then the moka pot begins to boil.

“Smells good,” Naveen’s voice follows him in from the lobby. “I’m hearing a good sizzle. Moka espresso?” 

“That’s just what I need—it’s freezing in here!” Lida announces her entrance by shivering violently and rubbing her arms. She calls your name then stops in her tracks. “Wait, you made him the special coffee?!” 

“We gotta show Corbeau a good time,” You say as you pluck the big moka pot off of the stovetop, grabbing a mug designed like a Mareep.

“What kind of nonsense are you saying now?” Naveen sighs as he slumps into a rickety stool.

“I say all sorts of nonsense all the time,” You return flatly as you pour a generous amount of coffee into the mug. “That’s why I’m so great.”

Naveen sighs even louder, the breath gusting and dramatic. Seems like he picked that up from you.

You wordlessly hand Corbeau his coffee and he takes it with a nod of thanks, a subdued, humored smile on his face. He gingerly sips the warm drink, then seems to like it, as he begins drinking it much faster. When a stern man like him holds that silly Mareep mug, it looks doubly ridiculous.

Your smile quivering with humor, you pour a much more generous amount of coffee into your own cup—this one patterned with a multitude of Weedle. Corbeau eyes it with a dubiously raised brow, but you tactfully ignore him.

“You used all of it,” Lida whines, sidling up to you and wrapping her cold hands around one of your arms. You dutifully do not flinch.

“I’ll make more,” You return, “It’s a special occasion.”

“Nonsense. Everything you say is nonsense,” Naveen complains.

“It’s gonna be a real nice sunny day today,” You proclaim to no one in particular. “Who else wants moka espresso?”

Lida shakes you in excitement. With both her and Corbeau boxing you in on either side, it’s difficult to dump the used coffee grounds into the sink. 

When you do, your arm collides with Corbeau’s chest, and you glance over to find him smiling at you sharply, a self-satisfied expression crinkling the tip of his nose.

“Corbeau,” You call him, smiling through a breathy laugh. Why’s he still standing so close? “Are you cold too?”

Corbeau’s expression suddenly disappears. It wobbles into something twitching and unrecognizable. He’s gone stiff, staring at you, yet still won’t step back as you start to rinse out the funnel. 

Lida leans her head on your shoulder; she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hurry up, please?” She coaxes you, patting your arm repeatedly and squishing further into your side. “You move so slowly, I’m dying.”

So dramatic. You huff a sigh, tap your spoon on the edge of the sink, and drift through the motions, occasionally pausing to take sips of your warm coffee. 

The sunlight moves, first lowering to trace your ankles, then illuminating Urbain’s form as he bounds into the room.

“Hey, guys—uh,” He makes a choking noise. “Urk.”

Next to you, Corbeau smiles over the rim of his Mareep coffee mug. His designer glasses cord shifts when he turns his head. “Urbain. Just the person I wanted to see.”

“Uh. You. Wanted to see me, sir?”

“Don’t look so frazzled. I had a surprisingly good night’s sleep.”

The moka pot begins to sizzle, its warm aroma bubbling into the golden-lit room. You pour equal amounts into two more mugs; Lida takes hers from you gratefully, and Naveen nods to you as you set his down beside him, Canari’s ‘Good Morning Stream’ chirping on his phone.

“Come with me to the lobby,” Corbeau states to Urbain ominously, his cute Mareep mug stiff in his hand. He smiles sharply. “Your hard work deserves a…special reward.”

A petal drifts down from the wilting hydrangeas. Urbain audibly gulps.

Urbain gawks over Corbeau’s bounteous tip for nearly ten minutes. At his side, Lida continuously pats his arm, while Naveen pokes the bills with wide, glittering eyes. 

“I don’t understand what’s happening anymore,” You hear him voice in the stunted silence.

You don’t blame them. For weeks, your team had been working hard to collect funds to pay off Urbain’s hefty debt, yet Corbeau himself has just paid it off in full.

AZ congratulates your huddled group of friends with quiet words, his gaze unaffected and strangely knowing. You sip your coffee, watching as the three of them hustle into the adjacent ‘Strategy Room,’ likely to organize the funds.

Corbeau saunters over and sits in the chair beside you, huffing as he relaxes into the plush seat. His gaze layers over you once more, that oddly warm expression focused solely on you—yours alone, like a morning sunbeam.

An odd thought. You wonder what you’ve done to be so deserving of his full attention. What exactly is he searching for when he looks at you like that?

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” Corbeau muses randomly, setting his mug on the table. “You were never afraid.”

You raise a brow at him. “Why would I be?”

Corbeau hums vaguely in response, pushing back his hair. You really can’t figure him out.

Silence sinks once more. You set down your Weedle-covered mug to find him staring at you again.

You feel your brows scrunch together, and uncomfortably tuck back some of your unruly hair. It’s unnerving to be so often at the other end of that intense gaze of his. “..Is something wrong?”

“Your pullover.” Corbeau returns nonsensically. “It has a hole in it.”

You stiffen as he raises his arm. Corbeau reaches over, crosses the gap between your chairs, and pokes your side, his innocuous touch reminiscent of Gardevoir this morning. His fingertip brushes against the open threading of the hole.

You shove his hand away wordlessly. “What’s with you?”

Corbeau’s smile spasms. He tries to poke you again, the motion stiff and oddly terrifying. 

“Don’t poke the Usaring,” You threaten flatly.

“Or what?” Corbeau returns, his glasses sliding down his nose. “Shall I take back the tip I gave Urbain?”

You let him poke you with a heavy sigh.

“You’re easy.” He states menacingly, his smile growing into a baring of teeth. His finger jabs into the side of your arm. “Too easy.”

You roll your eyes. “So you’ve finally gotten comfortable, huh?”

Corbeau glances at you probingly, his brows furrowing together. His incessantly poking finger falls back to his side with an unnerved twitch. “What do you mean by that?”

You tug your pullover around your torso to tuck in the small hole. “You seemed a bit ruffled.”

“Well,” Corbeau pauses, his face unreadable. He plucks his coffee from the table, takes a long sip from it, and sets the cup down with a near-inaudible clink. “Now there’s nothing to be ruffled about.”

“That’s good,” You return, shoving your hands in your pullover’s pockets. Sure is warm and comfortable in here. Reminds you of—, “Oh, and sorry ‘bout earlier—in the kitchen. I didn’t mean to move so close.”

“No need to apologize.” Corbeau returns flatly. That strange, sharp smile makes a fierce return, and he leans toward you over his chair’s plush armrest. He lifts his hand. Is he gonna poke you again? “Actually, I wanted you clo—,”

“Boss Corbeau!” Philippe’s huge, resounding voice echoes and barrels through the hotel’s front doors, which slam open alongside the stomps of his heavy feet. “I’m here to pick you up!”

Your eyes slide to the side. You pluck your cup off of the table and take another long, slurping sip of your coffee. Corbeau’s making that frustrated expression again. You’re really curious about what’s wrong with him.

He launches from his chair, speed-walking toward the door, but Philippe makes a Combeeline toward Urbain almost immediately. 

Corbeau hisses something to Philippe once he reaches his side. Boss and Underling argue with each other in hushed whispers for nearly five minutes, Urbain visibly sweating before them.

“Are you prepared to pay off your debt?” Philippe announces to Urbain suddenly.

“Uhm—yeah. Here’s your money, sir.” Urbain hands Corbeau’s tip to Philippe, who takes it with a nod. Lida and Naveen stand in anticipation behind your team leader, though after Philippe counts the bills, he seems to find nothing wrong.

“Excellent.” He states, slotting the cash into a white envelope and tucking it into his suit. “..I should hope that you have learned a valuable lesson from this experience, Mr. Urbain.”

“...Yeah,” Urbain returns, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve still got a lot to learn.”

“Then, we will be departing.” The hulking Avalugg of a man turns on his heel, Corbeau still stiff in front of him. “I can tell that the Boss appreciates your hospitality.”

“I can speak for myself,” Corbeau states scathingly.

“Apologies, sir.”

What an odd duo. You watch them meander toward the lobby’s door, their footsteps falling in tandem, their sharp postures never wavering. Corbeau’s hand reaches out but pauses on the doorknob, and he turns his head your way.

You stand from your chair at his wordless call, hobbling toward him. Corbeau digs into his suit jacket’s pocket, then hands you a shiny slip of paper.

You take it, staring down at its gold-lined edges. It’s some sort of pass; Corbeau’s written something on it in a looping scrawl, signing his name next to the Rust Syndicate emblem at the bottom. You’d like it more if the Rust Syndicate had a cuter logo, but all the gold is pretty nice.

“That is for you, as thanks for the trouble.” Corbeau rolls back his shoulders pridefully, the motion so slight you almost miss it. “It’s a pass for our base. Show it to the guards and you’ll have no trouble getting through.” 

His lips lift upward. “You didn’t expect me to have such nice handwriting, did you?”

“Hm,” you return in interest, turning the ticket over in your hand. “Thanks! This is pretty cool,”

Corbeau nods with a sharper grin. “Stop by if you want to have a good time.”

The pair leave through the front doors, Philippe leaning over to mumble something to the much-shorter Corbeau in hushed conversation. Yet something sinks in you—a loose thread that you still have to address. 

“Corbeau.” Corbeau turns toward you at the call of his name; you lean readily against the open doorframe, letting it hold up your weight. 

“I dunno what it’s like on your turf, but…” You look away from him and rub the back of your neck, remembering his shadow standing behind the rooftop’s metal door. “Here…eavesdropping’s a bit...”

You trail off, your eyes meandering back toward him. Then your stomach does a strange sideways flop. 

Nothing about Corbeau has changed, not his posture, not his intense gaze, not his flat, frowning expression—but his ghostly-pale face has flushed a vibrant, blotchy red.

“Thanks for what you did for Urbain, though.” You state hastily, suddenly unnerved. “We all appreciate it. So, don’t worry about it, yeah? I know you’re a real good guy.

Philippe’s stark grey, wide eyes are darting between you and the Tamato-red Corbeau with such whizzing velocity you’re growing dizzy. Veins bulge harshly above Corbeau’s twitching brow. 

You can’t tell if he’s furious or humiliated about being caught, and he looks like he’s about to explode. Either way, you’re not sticking around for the aftermath.

You send him a casual wave. “Thanks for stayin’ with us.”

Then you shut the door on his face.