Chapter Text
The air conditioning in the Ever Grande City League Headquarters hummed a little too loudly. Norman sat rigidly in an ergonomically designed leather chair that was far too comfortable for the sheer amount of dread he was experiencing.
Across the sleek, mahogany conference table sat the heavy hitters of the Hoenn League. To his left was Charles Goodshow, the beloved, rotund President of the Pokémon League, currently happily munching on a jelly donut. In the center sat Steven Stone, the Hoenn Champion, looking effortlessly sharp in his tailored suit, idly turning a polished piece of Agate over in his fingers. Flanking them were three nameless League PR officials holding thick, terrifyingly glossy manila folders.
“Steven…” Norman said in a low tone, his deep voice conveying a sense of calm that, if listened closely to, was actually a well-covered up sound of a man who had been told he was going to be given a death sentence. “How long have we known each other now?”
“I would say about 12 years,” Steven said in a voice that said he knew what was underneath Norman's and was trying to calm it.
“Yes. 12 years. Back when you started training with Wallace to take over from him as Champion,” Norman nodded slowly. “And in addition to those 12, I have worked 8 more before then as a Gym Leader. A combined total of 20 years.”
“Very impressive,” Steven said calmly.
“And in all those years,” Norman continued, his voice slowly picking up in slight pitch, “I would like to think that we've established a comfortable rapport. Not just as Champion and Gym Leader, or co-worker and boss, but as friends.”
“I would like to agree, Norman.”
“Then, please,” Norman stated, leaning in his chair to place his elbows on the table and clasp his hands together desperately, “for the love of Arceus, why are you doing this to me?! Did I do something wrong? Say something that offended you? Did I take too long in the executive washroom? Just tell me and I'll do anything to make it up to you!”
“For pete sake, Norman,” President Goodshow said, swallowing his bite of donut. “The way you talk, it's like we asked you to jump into a pool of Carvanha.”
“To be honest, that would be a walk through a field of flowers compared to this,” Norman groaned. “And maybe throw a Sharpedo in for good measure.”
"Look, Norman," Steven said, his tone dripping with the kind of smooth, diplomatic sympathy only a billionaire could manage. "Nobody is questioning your strength as a Leader. Your record is impeccable. But... public relations is a pillar of our modern League infrastructure."
"I'm not some dancing circus Furfou to prance around in the center ring," Norman grunted, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "I’m a Gym Leader, Steven. I teach discipline, balance, and tactical execution. I don't do... parades."
One of the PR officials, a sharp-looking woman with geometric glasses, cleared her throat and slid a tablet across the table. "With all due respect, Leader Norman, this isn't just a parade. It's a crisis management deployment. Look at these metrics." Norman glanced down. The screen displayed a localized heat map of North Petalburg, glowing a violent, angry red. "The toxic fan culture in that specific municipality has reached a tipping point," the official explained. "Last month, a fellow from Kanto attempted to order a coffee at a North Petalburg café. He was wearing a shirt featuring a Machamp. A mob of local citizens chased him into a tree, claiming the shirt was a 'direct visual threat' to your Slaking's dominance.”
“And it's not just regular travelers and passersby,” another PR rep, a tall man with a pencil-thin mustache, stated with a frown as he handed over his folder and Norman looked at a list of incidents and names, of which there were at least over a good 200. “They've done the same thing to rookie Trainers, harassing and belittling them to the point where they're potentially too afraid to challenge another Gym. Some have even been stated to have quit their journeys early!”
“They're even doing it to Trainers with the recommended four or more badges and required three or more Pokémon,” the last, another man who was much fatter with a tiny toupee, added, passing his and showing a less extensive, but still long, list. “By League standards, that would assuredly put them on equal footing with you and give you a fair fight, but they always deem them ‘mediocre’ and ‘unworthy’.”
“And to make it even worse,” the woman spoke up again in a grave tone that seemed like she didn't want to discuss it, “the abuse has even directly started affecting the Pokémon of the town and surrounding area. Last year, we received word the town council had passed a ban on all Fighting-type Pokémon within the city limits, including the woods. If you think their treatment of Fighting-type merchandise is bad, you should see them react to the actual Pokémon.”
Norman's jaw locked and his heart clenched a tad. “They… they haven't actually…”
“Thank the Legendaries, no,” the woman said, shaking her head. “Despite their questionable mental states, they haven't moved to full-blown extermination. However, the actions they have taken have been just as bad. Any Fighting-type Pokémon found within North Petalburg's limits, including the 50 acres of forest along Route 104, are instantly chased out in a mostly mob-like fashion, or they call in a Pokémon catcher to have them catch the Pokémon and take it far away to be relocated.”
“And… the Fighting-types that BELONG to people? Surely, some people had to have had some in the city before they banned them. Or if any are caught by accident.”
“Any Fighting-type Pokémon caught by a person is immediately released and then chased out, no exceptions," the thin man piped in. “And when the law was enacted, any Fighting Pokémon that had been owned by someone was instantly released, and again, chased out and relocated. We had to deal with a MASSIVE influx of Machop and Machoke being relocated to Mt. Chimney. We had to call in Brawly to help. He ended up taking a lot of them in on Dewford Island because they were largely too domesticated to really survive in the wild anymore. We also had to call in a Nurse Joy from Johto that's a Pokémon psychologist to help the more traumatized ones deal with being abandoned like that after sometimes many years of service and loyalty and their Trainers suddenly turning on them like that.”
“The law even bans the use of Fighting-type moves,” the fat man added. “No moves like that are allowed to be used within the town and any that are learned are immediately taught and overridden with a new move, or the learning is actively suppressed.”
Norman set the tablet and all the papers down and rubbed his temples. "Look, I agree that what they are doing is awful. But as horrible as all of this is, try to understand that I am not responsible for the psychological stability or actions of the citizenry of North Petalburg."
"Ah, but Norman, my boy!" Goodshow chimed in, wiping a speck of powdered sugar from his white beard. "They do it all in your name! They love you! To them, you aren't just a Gym Leader. You are the vanguard of Normal-types! The Stoic Sovereign of the Center!"
"Please never call me that again," Norman said, his voice flat.
"The point is," Steven interjected, giving Goodshow an amused glance before looking back at Norman with a more serious expression, "they are actively terrifying traveling Trainers who need your badge to enter the Ever Grande Conference. They're essentially abusing Pokémon just because they are a specific type. Their attitude is hurting our tourism revenue, and quite frankly, it’s a very bad look for the Hoenn League. We need you to go up there, do a mandatory 'Hometown Hero' public relations tour, sign some autographs, and subtly tell them to stop acting like a localized cult before they truly hurt a person or Pokémon."
Norman looked at the contract printed out in front of him. A little asterisk next to his mandatory Gym Leader obligations section had been highlighted in yellow. "Can't I just send Max?" he muttered, desperately. "He loves talking about League policy."
"Max is twelve, Norman," Steven smiled, a bit mischievously. "And he already formally declined via email three minutes after we sent the initial brief. If I recall correctly, he used the words, 'absolutely not, those people are unhinged'.” He chuckled. “He’s a smart kid."
“What about you?” Norman asked incredulously. “Steven, you're the Champion, for Arceus's sake! Practically the ultimate authority in the region and my boss! Surely they would listen to you!”
“If I do this, it would possibly simply be interpreted as me trying to flex my authority over the populace of a municipality,” Steven explained. “Remember, we're trying to help the League's image. Besides, Norman, as Charles has said, to them, you are higher above than even me. It would likely mean a lot more coming from the man they do it all in the supposed name of.”
Norman let out a long, defeated sigh that seemed to vibrate the water glasses on the table. He then picked up the League pen. "Fine," he growled, signing his name with a sharp, aggressive stroke. "Twenty-four hours. I sign the papers, I nod at the Mayor, and I leave. If anyone tries to touch my hair, I am authorizing my Vigoroth to use Slash."
The Sneasel named Steven Stone smiled at him and nodded before sliding a folder over. “Here is the itinerary for the visit, Norman. I do hope it will be an… interesting experience.”
Norman grabbed the folder harshly and fought the urge to leap across the table and strangle the Champion. “Thank you,” he ground out.
Goodshow beamed, clapping his hands together. "Safe travels, Norman! Oh, and do try the North Petalburg local delicacy while you're there—I hear they bake bread shaped exactly like your face!"
Norman then closed his eyes, already feeling a migraine forming behind his eyelids. ‘Twenty-four hours,’ he told himself. ‘Just twenty-four hours.’