Chapter Text
The subway-train downtown is lined with half-chairs. The ground shudders faintly, the churn of wheels. People dressed in colorful shirts. Others stand, clinging to the ceiling-handles, fighting the faint toss and rumble of the wheels over the track. A few sit with their hands folded. Some curl over their phones, tired eyes.
It’s too far past the afternoon, but not quite evening. A strange, quiet time of day.
There’s an elderly man who has forgotten to select silent mode. Luckily, the blare of his ringtone is lost beneath the chatter. He types, gingerly, with only his index finger. He’s been doing this for a while, now. Eventually, he’ll complete a message.
In another row, some unfortunate woman wrestles two young girls. They seem to have an insatiable urge to yank on one another’s pigtails. They’re yelling, punching one another. And their mother seems to consider joining in the violence.
Occasionally, a pokemon will bark. Some growl at one another. Most on leashes, in carriers. Huddled close to their trainers. No one takes notice of the Pidove.
It chirps. It flutters from window-to-closed-window. The poor thing took a wrong turn, and then, an engine was roaring. All the exits had closed. It has no choice but to smack against the wall as the train barrels forwards. Cling desperately with small talons to the hanging rail.
It had already lost three opportunities to leave. But beneath trampling footsteps, the bird couldn’t quite flit through the gaps. It was left dizzier, uncertain, and the strength in its wings is beginning to falter, too.
“Come with me, my friend.”
His voice is barely a whisper against the prattle. But the bird looks down. There’s a man with soft gray eyes. A thoughtful expression. He extends his hand, towards the little creature on the railing. He’s still sitting against the row. A chair among many.
N’s long green hair is still tied back into a ponytail. Messily cut, jagged ends. Some strands stick up the top of his head, the type that always grow back despite copious amounts of gel. Pidove hops into his open-palm. He moves, bringing it closer to him.
There’s a lady sitting beside him. She’s quiet, hands buried in mittens, a purple scarf around her neck. She shivers, though she’s done an awful lot to fight the cold. Her Pansage is hanging off her shoulder. It makes an occasional attempt to munch on her ear.
She’s watching the man. He’s murmuring to himself, combing a hand over its feathers. Its tense wings seem to settle, and slowly, she watches it calm. It breathes out, relaxed, flattening its wings.
She watches the man carefully raise the Pidove. He tucks it into his white overcoat. It coos. A round silhouette. She hasn’t spoken to him, all this time. But she can’t help herself.
“… That’s very kind of you.”
He looks up. A smile softens his lips. “It’s my responsibility to care for my friends.”
The woman leans back in her seat. The shudder of the wheels, the faint drone of metal. N hardly moves. No impatient tapping, or fidgeting. He doesn’t seem to have a phone.
He’s watching the world pass by through the window. Though, it’s not much of a world to see. The underground road, the ground, metal bars…
“It’s only been a second.” She sees the way Pidove turns over. A little chirp, only a figure under fabric. “But it seems to really trust you. That's so sweet.”
“Just now,” he says, “.. she was saying I resemble a lovely forest tree. It was very kind.”
The woman laughs. N does not. There’s a flicker of confusion in his face, and he doesn’t seem to understand what’s so funny. For the first time, she notices the leaf in his hair.
Then, they fade back into silence. She has a good wait until her stop. The strange man occasionally brushes a hand over the Pidove. Conversations, overlapping voices. They’re giving her a headache.
Pansage taps against the side of her forehead. It pulls on her scarf, from time to time, in a way that makes her have to tug it right back over her face. It’s starting to get colder. The monkey makes another attempt to gnaw on her ear.
She thinks the man won’t speak to her again. So she nearly jumps in her seat when the stranger’s head swivels back her way.
“.. Is that so?” he wonders.
She looks over her shoulder. But everyone behind her seems engrossed in their own conversations. She turns back— offers him a smile of her own. It’s a little nervous. “… Did I say something?”
“-- Ah, sorry.” When he speaks, his words are quick. They jumble into one another. She’s sure she doesn’t hear him right, because he finishes, “Pansage– he’s talking.”
She had opened her mouth to speak. She closes it. Opens it, again. She’s sure she hasn’t heard him right. Pansage chitters from her shoulder, adjusts her scarf. She says, “—I’m sorry?”
Sincerity blinks in his gaze. “I forgive you.”
Usually, she thinks, that would be an invitation for someone to say more. Right? Repeat their previous words. After all, it’s a noisy train. She can hardly hear herself think. So, this wasn’t what she’d meant at all.
But there’s something terribly earnest about the way he says those words. There’s nothing in his tone but warmth, unusual conviction. She finds herself feeling very much forgiven, though not sure what she’s repenting for. Pansage chatters on her shoulder, still.
“I’m sure. But is it really that way?” The man asks.
Pansage waves a tiny paw. The same gibberish noise, like a baby with a mouth full of applesauce.
They chatter back and forth. It lasts no more than a few minutes. Her pokemon erupting in nonsensical noise. The man, listening, as if beholding some great philosopher. The woman stays. There’s no other seat around, and he seems the friendly sort of crazy person who would warn you of the rapture.
The more she stares at him, the more she feels.. he seems familiar, somehow.
But Castelia is a crowded city. There are a lot of faces. So she could very well be mistaken.
Some minutes pass, before the churn of brakes. They hear the train skim along the rails, the world shudder to a stop.
Loud voices seem to only grow louder. People unload bags from higher shelves. The elderly man has turned his phone upside-down, and seems to be terribly distraught. One of the girls from before has successfully knocked the other in the head with a plastic train.
Pansage makes a garbling sound. It climbs higher onto her head. The green-haired man gives him a wave.
“Well,” the woman says, with a nervous gesture. “This is where Pansage and I will be getting off.” And when he says nothing, only that same smile, she adds, “It was nice meeting you!”
When he nods, she takes it as permission to go. She’s lost in a sea of people, dragging herself through gaps in the crowd. Maybe the man isn’t to his destination yet, because he doesn’t seem to follow her. She manages to slip through the doors, but it’s taken her far too long.
The faint speaker. It’s the conductor, again. The train is closing, soon. Heading to the next stop.
“We made it, bud!” She gives Pansage an affectionate pat on the head. It leans up into her touch, eyes narrow in contentment. She nearly jumps out of her skin when a voice says, “Stella!”
The man from before. He stands in the train doorway, oblivious to the people coming-and-going. But before she can comprehend that she doesn’t quite remember introducing herself, or acknowledge the way the Pidove has moved to nestle atop his head, he extends a hand.
He’s a little too far for her to shake it.
“Pansage was saying… it wanted me to tell you: happy birthday!”
The way he smiles makes his eyes wrinkle. The Pidove atop his head extends its wings, too. “This wonderful life you’ve been given— never forget it!”
And the subway doors roll closed over him.
She stands for a long time, in that doorway. Unable to shake the image of him. The man sitting beside her on the train, open-palm, the little bird flitting into his hand. She’d seen him before; she was almost sure of it. But she’s just not quite sure where.
—————
There is a small diner in the south-side of Castelia City. Through the front windows, dim lamps glow like they would beside a bedroom dresser. Though the old radio speakers don’t play like they used to, there’s a faint rumble with each swing of the front door. The dying ring of the bell that’s seen too many years.
A sign, framed by sparks of red, blinks in the shadows. Words scroll in loop across the screen: ”PICASSO’S PIZZA! OPEN!”
It creates an eerie light that lands somewhere between welcoming and off-putting, since, every-so-often, the lights will decide they don't want to work any-more. A weird sputtering that lasts for thirty or so seconds. Enough time that anyone walking beneath it will walk a little faster.
Perhaps it's good marketing. Some duck inside to avoid trudging through the pitch-black-street.
Blane is handling the interviews today.
It’s a simple name. He’s fine with that, since he’s an ordinary person. Below ordinary, maybe. He’s seventeen years old, and failing half his classes. It could be more than that, since he hasn’t checked for four days. With each circle of the clock on the wall, the lump in his throat gets a little bigger.
He’s accepted this. He’s never liked himself much. He’s a bit of a letdown, and even his tie— an attempt to become, as his mother asserts, ‘more professional’— has come undone. It hangs loose on his chest. It wriggles when he breathes. Like some sort of lowly worm a rainy day away from putting itself out of its misery.
I’d put myself out of my misery, too, he thinks, if he had to be a part of this horrible uniform. Red and green are Christmas colors. And I don’t need a pizza hat. It’s a pizza store. People get it.
Most of Blane’s interviews went the way they always did. He didn’t particularly mind them. They didn’t tend to last very long. People stumbled through the door, answered a couple questions.
They always seemed to be in some sort of awkward hurry. He couldn’t blame them. He wouldn’t want to be trapped in Santa’s Pizza Workshop, either— and, at least, it’ll give him more time for schoolwork.
It’s seven hours past noon, and the sun is beginning to set. He can hear people hurry in-and-out the front, making requests, the cashier blabbering. But Blane has stopped. The man paused in the kitchen. He seems polite enough. He’s hardly said a word yet.
He’s staring. He waits for him to say something. But the man… he just stands there.
He stands there for so long that Blane begins to wonder if he’s eaten something wrong. But no– the stranger is still a figure over the oven. He’s watching the warm yellow light flicker over the pizza. The faint whirr of the machine.
He leans over onto his knees, inspecting the dials, as if he might find some fantastical secret no one else has ever seen in a wall-oven.
“Um,” Blane starts, fingers fiddling with his collar. He’s turned it over. It’s totally bent. The man doesn’t move. Not even a muscle. He wonders if he can even hear him.
“—If you follow me, I’ve got.. a place we can sit, in the back..” Blane’s still not so sure of himself, so his voice comes out a little squeaky when he adds, “... for the interview.”
“… Yes, thank you.” When he speaks, it’s a little hard to follow. His words are quick. Rushed. But there’s a brightness in his tone.
When the man glances up at him, he leans back. He presses his fingers against the glass. He’s leaving blurry prints behind him.
“It’s wonderful how the dials are connected to the thermostat. I assume this controls the gas valves. The elements that handle broiling and baking inter-lap. But they’re unique, still, and separated.”
He taps the glass, again. His shoulders are loose. There’s a contentment in his voice as he adds, “The heat creates a brilliant glow.”
“Um.. yeah. It sure does.”
Blane teeters back-and-forth on his feet. He casts a look over his shoulder. The back-room awaits them. An empty notepad in his hands. Unmarked. He doesn’t want to be disrespectful, so he tries, “… I’ve got an oven at my house.”
The man smiles at that. He twitches. For a moment, Blane thinks he might stay put. But he rolls over, onto his feet, and dusts off his jeans, which have grown a little dusty from the ground. “I hope to someday have an oven, as well.”
And with that, he manages to lead them both to their chairs. It’s an awfully boring room. Mostly storage. Pizza boxes are stacked haphazardly against the far wall. There’s a faint, yet obnoxious ringing noise, which no one could ever seem to locate. Both of their seats are cold metal, the type that shock you as soon as you sit down.
“First up..” Blane’s pen hovers above his unmarked paper. N can see the back of the sheet— doodles of robots. “Can you introduce yourself for me?”
“My name is Natural Harmonia Gropius.”
“Interesting name…” As the boy transcribes it, he spells it more like, Natural Harmonea Gropeus. can’t say I’ve ever heard that one…”
N’s turned to fold his hands in his lap. He’s watching the light blink above their heads. It’s an old one, and from time-to-time, it flickers. “My name was a representation of my destiny; to foster harmony between humans and pokemon.”
“.. That’s cool…” As Blane writes, he drifts off. He manages to sit upright. He crosses out the first word, which he’s somehow combined with the second. He’ll write it over again. This pen is running out of ink. “.. My dad named me after, like, a race car driver or something..”
He’s a little scrawny, and shivers, though the room isn’t too cold. He checks his watch. Taps his foot repeatedly against the checkered marble floor. He’s waiting for his shift to be over. Hopefully, he’s got a couple extended due dates.
“So, why do you want to work for us?”
The man sitting across from him considers the question.
Blane tries his best not to be judgemental. But he can't help but think him a bit odd.
He’s got, he notices, a leaf in his hair. And he talks almost too fast to follow. He’d never seen hair so long— or so green, for that matter. He’s got some sort of rubix cube hanging from his neck.
But it’s fine. They get a lot of strange people drifting through. And it’ll be over, soon, anyway.
“Pizza,” the man says, as if pondering the word. “It’s a wonderful creation. It surprised me. Seeing all the ingredients come together in such a beautiful formula. Alone, they are bland. But together, they create an entirely new resultant. I’d never imagined it.”
N pauses. He leans forward. “It’s unity— and in such an unexpected place.”
“Um,” Blane says. “Yeah. That.. makes sense.”
He pretends to be writing something on his phone. N can see the reflection of his screen. It shines off the metal cabinet lining the wall. A game with a flapping starly. He watches the boy avoid several barriers. He begins to feel impressed.
“And, uhh…” Starly runs into the wall, and has to start again. “..do you have any prior experience?”
N leans back in his chair. It creaks. He’s staring into space. Blane isn’t paying much attention. But the man’s voice has grown a little sorrowful. “Long ago, I was the king of Team Plasma.”
There is a momentary silence. Blane twitches. Nods, Ever-so-slowly. “So that's… a pizza place?”
The man only shakes his head. “It wasn’t a pizza place at all.”
Again, the room falls into silence.
"Um,” says Blane, at a loss of sorts. “Okay. Good to know, good to know...” He pretends to write something down again. The Starly runs into the wall, again, and is sent back to the beginning.
Blane moved to Unova 3 months ago. He should not be the manager. It was his mom’s shop, anyway. That was the only reason he was managing anything. He’s never heard of Team Plasma— and well, if he has, he’s just never cared.
N pauses. He blinks. “I believed in something that wasn’t true. I realize now.. admitting fault is not a weakness. I see perspectives that I refused to see.”
“Got it…” Blane writes, agnostic?
“I hope to experience such things… new realities… at Picasso’s Pizza.”
Blane studies the man sitting across from him.“That's pretty cool,” he says, again. There isn’t much else to say. Silence falls over them, a blanket. The only noise is the distant thrum of ovens.
“I’m in highschool,” he shares. It’s a weak attempt to lift the awkwardness. And… he’s forgotten the interview questions. “... It sucks. Do you um, have school or something? Anything you’ll have to balance with work?”
“I never went to highschool.” The green-haired man blinks at him. His eyes are gray and kind. “I spent my childhood in my room, analyzing patterns. Only once I had grown into adulthood was I allowed to see the world.”
“Oh,” says Blane. He’s starting to feel like he’s in a hostage situation, but is not quite sure who the hostage is. “That… doesn’t sound cool.”
“It wasn’t. Difficulties come and go,” he says. “We are individually unique. Tell me. Do you envision a beautiful future for yourself?”
“Uh, not really?”
“Why?”
Blane sits back in his chair.
The question swirls around his head— aches in his heart. “I guess I.. don’t know.” He’s forgotten the interview now. Lost among the thoughts, the doubts— he forgets about the watch on his wrist, the game blinking on his screen.
“I’ve failed a couple times. different things and— I guess I just… I feel insignificant. Like I’ll never be enough. I don’t deserve a beautiful future. I'm not smart enough for something like that.”
He shrugs. "But I don't wanna just... it's weird to make you listen— I mean, I’m just some random guy—“
“Failure is not the end,” N tells him. You think too little of yourself. Those with a kind heart deserve good things.” He’s not looking at him, anymore. N studies his own reflection in the metallic wall. “Stranger, yes. But I truly think so. You’re as important as anyone else, Blane.”
Blane blinks. "Uh, wait… how did you know my name?”
The man spares him a glance. “You’re wearing a name tag.”
Blane looks down at his shirt. He notices, now, the red splotch of pizza-sauce on his torso. And the tag. Which he'd forgotten- though he attaches it to himself on the daily.
“Oh. that makes sense, actually. Thought you had like, superpowers for a second.”
“I know how you feel.”
His attention is drawn back to the man- he looks at him, but his eyes are in the clouds. Far off, and almost haunted. “It is a devastating thing, to fail. To have everything you believe collapse around you. It makes you feel like a fraud, unworthy of being a hero.”
Blane nods. “Yeah, I’m not really a hero though. Just like, a student… and stuff.”
“The world makes a mess of you,” the man continues.
“But it’s important to keep this love— this dream— within you. Recognize the beautiful complexity of the formula that created you. No matter how impossible it seems- no matter what they tell you- this is a truth that I've found undeniable.”
Blane takes the time to switch off his phone. He won’t look up at N. “What about, like, getting into university?” His voice grows a little smaller. “.. My mom really wants me to. But I ... I don’t feel like I can.” He shrinks into his shoulders.
"I'm kind of ..." And his voice shrinks only smaller until he’s a speck of dust. "... I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like.. everyone who knows me deserves somebody better.”
The man's eyes soften. Some emotion he can't deduce. He considers this, too, for a moment. Runs a hand through the green of his hair. He fluffs his hat.
“University is a wonderful dream,” He says, slowly. It’s strange to hear him speak that way. “Someone with a heart like yours will find it easier than you believe.”
“Thanks.” Blane manages to sit up, all the way. He adjusts his pizza-hat. “Thanks a lot, man. I needed to hear that, I think.”
N has half-risen, as if he might get up from his chair. But his voice is patient. It’s kind in a way he hasn’t heard in a long time. “I am glad that others can find solace in words I once needed as well, but couldn’t find.”
“You seem like you have a really good heart too,” Blane tells him. And the man smiles, a real smile that spreads to his eyes. Something tells him that the stranger may have needed his words, too.
—————
“Hey!” Blane calls out to the darkness. The interview is over and the man has taken his leave. He stopped for a bit, before. Something about the fantastic machinery behind the oven. Blane didn’t really get it. But a shadow casts over them, now. The moon hangs above their heads.
“I think I’ll probably hire you! But, like, is email or phone better?”
The man has turned back to watch him. He takes a moment, entertaining the thought. His hands are still stiff at his sides. “I would prefer an email. I have had a phone once before, but it was destroyed in the wilderness.” He makes a vague gesture. “The local library.. I will visit it.”
It takes Blane a moment to process this. He shrugs, again. He turns away into the doorway. “Yeah, that checks out, I guess. Goodnight, dude! Try not to.. destroy anything else in the wilderness!”
A pause. He waits for the man to disappear into the dark. But N hesitates. His face is hardly visible beneath his hat. “Blane,” he starts. “… this dream, of university.” He raises a hand to wave goodbye. “Never give up on that dream, no matter what may happen! Despite what you say, you can be a hero.”
He offers him another smile. “You can be the hero of Picasso’s Pizza!”
“Thanks.” Blane wipes a sleeve over his nose. Almost laughing, but a little touched. “I’ll do my best.”
“Your dream will come true,” N says. His arm slinks back to his side. He begins to turn the other way again, the silhouette of his hair. “I believe that.”
Blane hopes the shadows conceal him. He’s quick to swipe the tears from the corners of his eyes. He knows it might be a little stupid. But something about the strange man— it’s made him feel a lot better. That cold fear in his throat has gone away. "Man,” he says. “I hope your dreams happen, too."
—————
N has to kick the door a little for it to creak open. He steps
through his apartment. The floor always seems to screech beneath him, and the wood is not far from giving out. There’s too much colorful, torn wallpaper. It’s peeling off the walls. He has little besides the mattress he’s placed in the center of the floor.
It doesn’t bother him. It’s nice. It feels close to a home.
That boy— he had said, I hope your dreams happen, too.
It had been a while since he’d had one. They’d all crumbled away. He had spent far too long without them. But for now, yanking his blanket over half-his-chest, he thinks of the oven. The electric currents running along the wires, how it glows around the pizza. He decides he would like one at his house.