Chapter Text
The S.S. Aqua cast a long shadow along the Cherrygrove Docks. The cleaning crew changed shifts as dusk approached. Sacks of guano swapped hands in the backdrop of a snaking queue. The ship’s hull gleamed like a polished clamperl, a blinding jewel against the grimy port.
At the gangway, a conductor took his time clearing attendees to an event aboard the ship. He wielded his stamp like a master of his craft, screening passenger after passenger without a single wasted motion. These people were a class apart: human gemstones in pressed silks, their jewellery casting the glow of pulsing stars.
The queue stiffened as something tore through it—elbows struck ribs, shoes trampled boots, and a man yelped as his footing tumbled. An outrage barely veiled followed in its wake, silk sleeves snapping back with their recoiling owners.
An ambitious young dragon cut through the hoard with a glint of mischief shining in its eyes. The bagon’s skull reflected the sheen of the ship’s hull, and its foot flattened the conductor’s nose as though it were a stepping stone, throwing him off-balance. Heads turned as the man fell overboard, and panic struck the lifeguard who suddenly had to earn his pay.
“Sorry about this—” A boy of about fourteen and a brown head darted across a flustered socialite with the man’s own ticket in hand. He deftly slid under the view of two hulking sailors at the entrance of the gangway, using their disorientation to disappear into the crowd.
Both the conductor and the life guard came up drenched to a furious young noble in a now-soiled white suit.
“That little brat! He took my ticket!”
The conductor’s brows furrowed as he evaluated this boy. His clothes spoke of a sheltered upbringing, but there had been no sightings of the thief or this socialite’s ticket.
“Really now? That’s convenient,” sneered the conductor, squeezing water out of his hat. “Think that’ll fly with me, laddie? All I saw was a wild pokémon; my crew’ll take care of it.”
“What are you trying to say? Do you know who I am?”
“Unless you’re the League Champ, I don’t give a raticate’s ass, son–” the conductor snorted. “No, wait, even if you were the Champion, you can’t just barge into this ‘ere ship without a ticket, so scram!”
The prim-clothed boy went red in the face, livid and steaming. “You have the audacity to question my integrity? I’ll have you fired! You hear me? Fired!”
“Arceus help me, I guess. Ay fellas! We got a wannabe stowaway!”
The two sailors strode down the gangway and promptly dragged the raving nobleman away by the collar. His wails and screams fell on deaf ears.
Zack felt completely out of place among the affluent crowd. He had gotten past security, but he was no closer to locating the reason he was here—his runaway partner.
Sapphira had never been a kind mistress to him. Bred for combat, then tossed callously to the scavengers to survive–She had let little Zack know who was in charge ages ago, when she bit him to his bone with a single chomp. He thought they had come a long way since then.
Not long enough, apparently, Zack sighed as he moved ahead, his eyes peeled for his bagon. He was turning heads, sticking out like a sore thumb. His hair was a ruffled mess, his racing-green jacket was worn and creased, he was the only one wearing shorts, and his sneakers were the only things overpowering how the rest of him smelt in the face of branded perfume from Kalos and Unova and Sinnoh. A low profile—while desirable—was well beyond him.
Around him was discussion—society’s elite detailed among themselves politics, pseudo-ethics, current affairs, and power dynamics in a tone so conceited that Zack felt like he was being suffocated slowly. A lonesome corner welcomed him, and he capitalised to compose himself as much as possible. Only as his mind cleared itself did his gears begin turning, and he remembered something his mother lovingly taught him for times of stress—conversation let one breathe easy.
Zack flipped out his pokégear and dismissed an on-screen warning before accessing the front camera. The sound of static then escaped his mouth, and the recording began with the camera opening to him attempting to straighten his uncooperative hair.
“You’re probably wondering how I got here… and I don’t know who I’m talking to.
“Zack Lance, fourteen; I have no idea where the hell I am.”
It was working. As he descended into the lower floors of the cruise ship, Zack found himself calming down enough to think straight thoughts. His commentary became more cohesive, and his jokes began hitting the right beats.
“I’m out here looking like a fool among these Richie Riches, but once I find Sapph, I’m getting the hell off this boat. If I gotta swim, I'll swim.”
The ruffled young boy had become a ghost to the aristocrats on the main deck.