Chapter Text
"You've always liked flowers, didn't you boy?"
Ranger Timothy Hawthorne reached down and gave Stoutland's fur a good tousle. The mutt was sitting on his haunches, wagging while his nose was parked in front of a bush with little cone shaped clusters of purple flowers. Lilacs. He sat there, sniffing the sweet, powdery scent as he did every morning during the bloom.
This particular bush was part of a small community garden near Driftveil's fisherman's wharf. He rounded a corner to the garden's rain barrel, unhooked the tin cup tied to its side, and dipped it in the cool water. A Surskit skittered across the surface to greet him, four thin legs floating above the water. The back of his hand brushed against its slick skin in acknowledgement as he drew his cup from the barrel and poured a small bit of water into a bowl for Stoutland.
The mutt sat in front of the bush, unmoving. It seemed he was not yet done. That was fine, they had time. After all, they were not yet on the clock. But they did have to be mindful not to let the morning escape from them, because they did have an appointment to make before work started. In Hawthorne's pocket, enveloped in a small cloth was a Poké Ball with Mareep, who was due to meet his new family and enter his forever home.
Three months ago, he had spotted the overgrown electric sheep from a rooftop while on an unrelated inspection. Its owner had purchased it to diversify his income, but when he realized that the raw material wasn't worth all that much, he left his asset to its own devices in his backyard. Over two years, its coat had grown, and the poor thing was suffocating under six inches of dense, yellowed wool. The man had been reluctant to part with his 'investment.' Reluctance was a solvable problem. Hawthorne opened his citation book and began to write. A fee for unlicensed livestock, a penalty for obstruction of a easment the city had on the property, a fine for improper waste containment. None of them were real. He pressed his notary seal beneath each figure, slow and deliberate, until the numbers grew large enough to adjust the man's calculus. People respected the seal. It was the only thing in the office that still meant anything.
The rescue had been quiet, almost boring. Hawthorne showed up with Stoutland, a pair of rubber gloves, and heavy-duty shears. Mareep was situated in a dirt patch behind the townhouse. The mutt kept the distressed Pokémon calm as he worked his way through the greasy topcoat of wool, while the pungent odor of dirt and dried suint surrounded them. With each cut the pressure eased, and the breathing came rhythmic, less sharp. When he peeled back the final layer — six inches of matted wool falling away wet against the dirt — Mareep dragged in one full, unobstructed breath, and nuzzled its face into his shins.
It had taken months of physical therapy, desensitization, and more than a few shocks, but Mareep was finally ready. So was the Carroll family. Homeowners, two young kids, a backyard, and no Pokémon already in the house. Last week, the whole family had come to the station in person for a visit. He had even checked the husband's social media for the phrases of a man who would lose interest in a Pokémon by Christmas. Mareep also responded well to their children. It was a good match.
If you asked him why he had bothered, he would answer Because that's what a ranger does. They rescue. It was an awfully grand thing to say. He said it often, and only ever to himself.
Stoutland finished his floral appreciation, lapped up a few mouthfuls of water, and then they were off, trotting down the streets of Driftveil. The city was just beginning to stir, shaking off the damp mists that crawled up from the harbor each morning. Halfway up the hill to the Carrolls, Hawthorne paused beneath the awning of a closed bakery to pull out a small, slightly wrinkled blue ribbon. It was a soft, faded thing that smelled of pine and fabric softener. Families loved the bowtie. Hawthorne smoothed his own uniform, fighting the little ripples and waves.
By the time they had reached the block of neat townhouses, the sun had burned through the mist, and the brilliant Unovan sky was pure blue for anyone who looked. The entrance to the Carroll family residence was adorned with red roses in a planter to the right of a red door, and a red mat below it that said WELCOME in big letters that were altogether too cheery and bright. He stood studying the grain in the wood, and would have lingered if Stoutland hadn't pressed a nose to his thigh to break the spell.
He pressed the doorbell. A small child, no older than eight, answered the door. Her eyes grew wide.
"Hi."
"MOMMA!" The child ran off, leaving the door wide open to any stranger on the street. He debated if he should close it or not, but decided touching someone's property, even a door, uninvited was a bad idea. A harried woman answered the door, hair half-done and pants loosely hanging off her hips. She smiled, but they both knew he had come at a bad time.
"You must be Ranger Hawthorne. Please, it's an honor."
And so he went in. The hallway had four sets of shoes of different sizes. The living room was modest but lived-in. Two couches on either side of the wall, a rumpled carpet in the middle, and a set of stairs that climbed up the back. Inside, a man in a pink apron was furiously straightening up the various toys and cushions scattered over the floor. A toddler next to him 'helped' by picking items up and throwing them a foot or so in a given direction.
"Please, sit." The woman pointed to a clean section of couch. Her voice was slightly strained. Framed on the wall behind her was a photo of a smiling young lady with her arm around an Ampharos, the light of its tail washing them both gold. The woman when she was younger, he realized, and filed it away. Ampharos. Electric. Fully evolved. He turned back to the children.
Stoutland sat at attention, proudly showing his bowtie. Suddenly, the eight-year-old child slid into view, gliding over hardwood on socks. She could grow up to be a skater.
"Now, now, sweetie. Calm down," the man said. He got up, then shook Hawthorne's hand. "I'm Eugene Carroll. It's a pleasure to meet you." He turned to the children. "Girls, I know you're excited, but sit, please." The toddler sat where she stood, and the eight-year-old got in close on her knees. Her eyes were locked on Stoutland. He seemed to appreciate the attention.
Hawthorne looked to the man, Eugene, who gave a nod. He stood up. Stoutland stood up with him. He steeled himself and called out, "Come on out, Mareep!" A brilliant flash of blue filled the room, and the electric sheep materialized next to Hawthorne. The little girls squealed in delight.
Mareep wore a little blue ribbon. He looked around the room, then dashed behind Stoutland. The kids rushed forward, but he held out a hand. So far, everything was going as expected.
"Hi, ladies. I'm Ranger Hawthorne," he continued. "Remember Mareep?" He reached over and stroked his head. "You visited him a while back. He's your new family. Mareep gets a little scared sometimes, so you have to be real quiet and gentle. Can you do that?" The older child furiously nodded her head, and the toddler looked at her and then nodded her head furiously too. Stoutland caught his cue, and gently nudged Mareep towards the children. His hooves echoed against the floor as he took a step. Then another, and then two more.
The eldest put out her hand, and after hesitating for a moment, Mareep leaned in and pressed his nose into her palm. Her eyes lit up, and she turned to Hawthorne excitedly, before catching herself and whispering, "I love him." Little sparks of electricity danced between her fingertips as she ran her hand over his woolen coat and stifled a soft giggle. She leaned in for a full hug, but Mareep stepped back. She let him. She was showing restraint. Good. Hawthorne watched carefully.
He had taken months with this one. Hawthorne had chosen him for the Carrolls because he needed noise and physical contact, which the children had in spades.
Absentmindedly, he began to stroke his own partner's fur. The wiry texture was calming. Eugene walked around the children, so he was beside Hawthorne. They watched together. The toddler grasped a fistful of Mareep's fur. He bleated, but did not otherwise react, and the child let go.
The woman, now fully dressed, sat quietly on the staircase, watching. In her hands she cradled a beat-up Poké Ball, its shell gone matte with handling. Her thumb moved over the seam of it, back and forth. She did not enlarge it. Whatever it held, or had held, stayed inside.
"Are you ready?" Hawthorne asked.
"Yes," Eugene answered.
Hawthorne laid the adoption papers on the coffee table, and Eugene worked his way through the pages, signing his name in neat script. He read each page unnecessarily close, but it was fine. The paperwork was all in order. Hawthorne had made sure of it. When Eugene reached the intake history his pen hovered. He frowned.
"Is this right, Ranger Hawthorne? I thought you said his previous owner surrendered him."
Hawthorne leaned in to glance at the forms. There was no checkbox for neglected or abused. Only WILD or ABANDONED. He had circled the latter. Under LOCATION ENCOUNTERED, he had written 4th and Lockwood, a vacant lot down the street from the actual townhouse. Under PROVENANCE, he had added: no collar, no human in proximity, registered trainer unreachable.
He smiled. "Just a quirk of the paperwork. Nothing to worry about."
The explanation seemed to mollify Eugene, and he nodded, sliding the final page forward. It was time for the final step. Hawthorne picked up the brass seal. He held it to the ink pad, lingering as the blue was drawn in, mixing with the red still drying there. He gripped, pressed, lifted. The mark came away fuzzy, blue smudged into the red still drying beneath. He let it be.
As he swept his hand across the finished stack, a thin line of red bloomed across his palm. He cradled it. For a paper cut, it was unusually deep.
Eugene looked up and got quiet. "Thank you."
"No need," Hawthorne said. "That's what a ranger does. They rescue. Take good care of him."
Hawthorne looked at the carpet, then at Eugene's hand resting on his daughter's shoulder.
He let himself look at the family once more. The toddler patted Stoutland's side, reaching for the ribbon. The eldest had pressed her cheek into Mareep's wool, and the electric sheep let her. A good match. He had been right about the match.
On the staircase the wife sat with the old Poké Ball in her lap. She was watching the Mareep, and her mouth was doing something complicated, something that was not quite a smile and not quite a frown. Hawthorne saw that she was happy. The children were happy, so she must be happy to. He let himself believe it, and looked back at the kids.
Stoutland's tail thumped once against his leg. They walked out into the afternoon.
When he came back to the station, a new folder was squared on his desk. Greenroof tax credit. A blank line where his seal would go. The letterhead read GREYSCALE HOLDINGS.
He turned it over.