Haruka of Hoenn
Rolling writer
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- Seen Nov 3, 2019
Here's chapter thirteen, everyone. Hope you like it!
A note before we begin: In one scene, you'll find Bertha talking to some people about chemicals. I'm not a chemistry major, nor do I intend to be, so I don't get too detailed in the names. I use the term 'fluorine compound' loosely, so if any of you happen to be learned in chemistry and think its placement here is completely bogus, know that I just use it for literary purposes. If it's that bad, then feel free to tell me how to make it better. :P
That is all.
The next morning, a thin layer of fog hung over the town. Michael and Henry had slipped out of bed early, and by the time the sun showed, they were in Route 205, walking in the generous shade of the trees along the path they had traced the previous day.
The Starly they captured had remained obedient, thanks to a spare pokéball Henry happened upon in his bag. The previous night, he had captured it and made it his own. The Starly was now perched snugly on Henry's arm, where it pruned its feathers with its beak and squawked every so often.
They had practiced with what they had, shouting commands back-and-forth and directing the attacks towards trees. Their lack of a fire type still worried Michael, and he wasn't sure if he could devise a good plan without one. He had brought his chart along, and managed to take down some notes. So far, their circumstances looked pretty bleak. He didn't even know what pokémon Bertha had.
They were now walking back to her house, Michael in the lead. His stomach was beginning to rumble, and after the previous night's dinner, he was eager to see what she would have for breakfast.
When they got to the house, however, what Michael saw surprised him. Bertha was stepping down from the porch, dressed in a stiff, formal dress, and carrying a large handbag that could only mean she was going somewhere.
When she saw them, Bertha paused mid-step, lips parted. "Boys? What are you doing? I thought you were still sleeping."
"We went out early to train," Michael said. "Where are you going?"
Bertha zipped open the purse and placed her keys inside. "That's not important. But I'm leaving you two in charge of the house while I'm gone, okay? Make breakfast, but clean up after you're done. I have pancake mix, eggs, anything you like. Cereal's in the pantry. Got that?"
Michael and Henry nodded.
"Great. I'm off then. Don't burn the place down." She winked, and walked off.
"Wait!" Michael said. "What about the battle?"
Bertha turned around. "Oh don't worry, I'll only be about two hours. Two-and-a half tops. What you should be thinking about is a plan! Remember, I'm not easy to beat."
"Okay. Thanks."
"Bye." Bertha waved, then went on her way. Michael entered the house, going immediately to the kitchen to get the pancake mix from the pantry.
"So she's leaving the whole house to us?" Henry said. He looked around in wonder.
"Yep. Two hours all to ourselves." Michael turned the box over and read the back cover. He had never tried to cook before, and almost all early childhood attempts at make brownies had resulted in failure, mostly due to his lack of patience when it came to the baking part. Richard would often sabotage the liquid mix while it was still in the oven, leaving next to nothing when Michael took it back out.
"Well, we should probably get started," Michael said. "Do you know how to make pancakes?"
Henry shrugged. "No. Just follow the instructions, I guess?"
Michael read the label again. "It says I need an egg, butter, half-cup of milk, and one cup of mix. Can you get all that?"
"Hey, why me?"
"Because I'm the director of this project, and you're the one who gets things done." Michael had said this completely seriously, but he couldn't help but smile at his own tone.
Henry obliged, and placed the gathered ingredients onto the counter. For the next few minutes, the boys struggled with the ingredients, opening packages, tossing scraps into the waste basket, and stirring the liquid mix with a beater Michael had found in one of the many kitchen drawers. The sink was soon filled with piles of dirty dishes and utensils, as he and Henry sampled and measured the ingredients.
When the time finally came to ready the stove, Henry approached with a heat-resistant glove on (Michael told him not to be a sissy, but he didn't listen) and carefully buttered the skillet. They ladled the mix in parts, flipping the pancakes until they were brown on both sides, and divided them onto plates.
They sat down at the dining table twenty minutes later. Michael took a bite out of the finished product, and was pleased when it tasted all right.
"She has a really pretty house," Henry commented from the other chair. In the morning, the sunlight scattered around the walls, and seemed to light the kitchen up from the inside.
"Yeah, I guess." Michael looked around. Bertha had a fireplace, and it faced the kitchen from a small anteroom that accommodated an armchair. There were photographs on her mantle, but what Michael's eyes lingered on was a small metal tray at the center. It was made of black wire, though he could see what it contained—three silver balls.
He got up.
"Where are you going?" Henry lowered his fork.
"I think this is where she keeps her pokémon," Michael said. He approached the mantle. Sure enough, there were pokéballs in the tray, winking at him in the light. He took one into his hands, and smiled.
"Wait!" Henry ran after him. "I don't think we should be touching them."
"Why not? Think about it. We have the whole battle in our hands right here." He held up two pokéballs. "If we could release them and take a look, I could get a better idea of what their types are, and how to counter them! It's a total save!"
"I don't know. Bertha's really nice, and it wouldn't be right to snoop around while we're guests in her home. It's cheating."
"Please. If she really didn't want us to look, she'd have taken them with her when she left." He twisted the knob on the first one, but Henry grabbed his wrist.
"No!"
Michael pulled away. "Let go!"
"It's not right!"
"Don't be a baby. She won't even know we looked. We'll just put them back exactly as we found them."
Henry crossed his arms and turned away. "Fine. You can look, but I won't."
"Suit yourself." Michael unscrewed the knob and shut his eyes against the burst of light that followed. When it faded, he looked down.
A Turtwig lay at his feet, shaking itself awake. Its back was to Michael, and for the first few seconds, it stared at the opposite wall in confusion. Then it turned around to face him.
From the side, Henry looked over his shoulder. "A Turtwig!" he said. The curiosity was edging back into his face, though he did not move as Michael kneeled down and looked at it. The Turtwig had realized that Michael was not its trainer, and was looking at him with its head cocked to the side.
"These things are everywhere," Michael murmured. "I don't think there's anything special about this one, do you?"
Henry shook his head. "It doesn't look like it. And well, it's not different-colored like yours."
"Let's just hope it can't shoot a sonic boom out of its mouth," Michael said, and returned it back into the pokéball. "Why else would a Gym leader have a Turtwig?"
He swapped the pokéball for another, and opened the second. Out came a Cherrim. The pokémon had been sleeping too, and its petals were still folded in a shell around it.
"Hey, it's a Cherrim!" Henry said. "Like the ones we saw on the bushes the other day."
"They're grass types too," Michael said. "Still no surprises."
"It shouldn't be too hard, though, right?"
"Don't know. Have you ever seen a Cherrim battle?"
Henry shook his head.
"Well then, I guess we will tonight." Michael called the sleeping Cherrim back inside, and took down the final pokéball.
He opened it, shut his eyes, and when he opened them again, they instantly widened in surprise.
"Whoa!" Henry slid down to the floor for a closer look. "What is that?"
"It's a Roselia," Michael said, though he himself wasn't so sure. The pokémon that had appeared was bigger and bulkier than any Roselia he had ever seen. The pokémon had a tuft of white hair growing from the crown of its head, and some more forming a ring around its neck. Its head was rounder, and the blooms at the end of each arm were larger and frillier.
"I mean... it looks like one, but—"
"But its growth spurt went out of wack?" Henry looked at him. Coming from his mouth, Michael's words took on a new light.
The Roselia-thing was looking at them in confusion, probably wondering why these two random kids were staring and chattering at it. Michael reached out to stroke its head. The thing permitted the contact, but never took its eyes off him. The hair on its head was soft and wispy.
"Maybe it's the factory again," Henry said. "You know, all those chemicals everywhere could be causing mutations. Remember the Horsea in the river?"
Michael nodded. "Yeah..."
"Well, that's enough looking I think." Henry snatched the pokéball from Michael's hands and returned the Roselia-thing. He placed the pokéball back on the mantle. "So are you gonna add them to the chart? They're all grass types, so we only have to think of one counter."
Michael was still on his knees, staring up at the window. "But the mutation. How could a Roselia change like that? If it's from the chemicals, I bet you that its appearance wasn't the only thing they altered."
"Well, we could ask Bertha about it," Henry said. "But that would kinda give us away."
"We don't have to ask her. I have a better idea." He got up and went back to the kitchen. Henry followed.
"We're going to find out more about these mutations," Michael said. He took his backpack from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. "Let's go."
The Eterna Courthouse was the town's oldest standing building. It had been built in 1704, a date which was engraved on a gold plaque right above its giant wooden doors. The building itself was huge, with a giant bell and prim-faced statues flanking its sides.
A few years ago, a restoration project had reinforced it with steel beams and replaced the roof with shingles, but other than that the building's original architecture remained untouched. The imaginative mind would fill its seats with juries, its podiums with wig-wearing judges, and the cells of its tiny jail with stooping prisoners.
But aside from being a tourist attraction, the building itself served little purpose. Crime had never been a pastime in Eterna as far as Bertha knew, and she would often spot the sheriff walking around with an apple, his handcuffs clacking emptily against his belt as he searched for something to do with himself.
Bertha pushed open the double doors and went inside. The interior of the courthouse was almost entirely made of wood, and the main feature was a pair of stairs that stood on either end of the lobby, leading up to the balconies. It was not the stairway that she turned to, however. Bertha went immediately to a side door—one that was plain and mostly unnoticeable against the wall—and stepped through into a tiny, musty room.
The room's only piece of furniture was a large wooden table, one that took up almost all the space and left only a little wiggle room for chairs. Three men sat behind it, through there was enough space between them to affirm that they were not together. The man on the left was dressed in full business attire, and his hair had that wet, gelled-back look that made him look suspiciously fish-like. The man in the middle wore a simple shirt and tie, without any other accessories. The last man had abandoned formality altogether, sitting quite comfortably in a t-shirt and jeans.
The men had all been staring in separate directions, each perhaps going off on his own trail of thought, but when Bertha stepped through the door, their eyes locked on her.
Bertha lowered her purse onto the table, but did not sit down. She gave a curt nod. "Hello."
The man in the t-shirt nodded back. "Hello, Bertha. Glad you could make it." He attempted a smile, but it quickly faded, and the room returned to its previous gloom.
After a brief pause, the man in the middle spoke. "All right, we're all here, now let's get to the point. What's the problem and why've you called us here?"
"You know what the problem is," Bertha said. "The whole town knows it. We see it every day when we look north."
"If you're talking about the factory—"
"Yes! I'm talking about the factory, Darrel! That thing's been a problem since the day it got put up, and it's getting worse and worse every day."
"To my knowledge," the man in the suit cut in, "everything's been fine up to this point. I don't understand where your complaints suddenly came from."
"That's because you live by Cycling Road. Of course you don't have any complaints, because you're not the one who's up all night not able to get a wink of sleep while there's a fucking earthquake in your backyard!" This last shout had been loud, and Bertha felt a tiny ripple of pain in her throat. She suppressed a cough. She had planned to start off calm, but apparently her control wasn't with her today.
"If the noise is so bad, why hasn't anyone complained?" Darrel said. "Surely if it was an issue worth pointing out, somebody would have said something in... oh I don't know, the past year or so?"
"Oh, they have. I personally went around and gathered these statements." Bertha took a folder from her purse and opened it. She took out a single paper and laid it down on the table. "You might know Mrs. Danbury, the lady who keeps a berry farm right by the forest. She used to be able to bring basketfuls of Orans and Spelons to the market. Now, every other season of crops ends up dropping dead. Look."
The men leaned in closer. Clipped to the papers was a photograph of a field, each bush dotted with berries of various colors. Everything was covered in a white Christmas of tiny flakes.
"I took that picture last year, in July. All the plants from that season ended up shriveling, and Mrs. Danbury said that she couldn't plant anything in the soil for over five months. Then there's this." Bertha took out another paper-clipped stack that she placed on top of the first one. "This is a medical report. The Eburway's kids all got sick a few months ago. Headaches, dizziness, weak bones, and lots of coughing. Before that, they were in perfect health. They played in the meadow every afternoon, but now they can hardly walk."
Devon looked at all this, and shook his head. "So? It's illusion of correlation. Maybe it was a blight that killed Mrs. Danbury's plants. Maybe the Eburway kids have inherent disabilities. Maybe the flakes are the result of insecticides. There are hundreds of factors that can be in play. What makes you think the factory is the one behind all this?"
Bertha's face tightened. "Don't think I haven't done my research! I keep a garden of my own, right by the meadow, and every time a breeze comes around from the factory's direction, I see those flakes. If the wind's strong enough, they'll get into the streets too, and slip in through the cracks in people's doors!"
"It's a baseless assumption!" he protested. "You can't possibly prove that the flakes are coming from the factory from the simple observation that they come from its direction."
"Then maybe you'd like to explain why there were none before?"
"This problem could easily be solved by chemical testing," said Darrel. "We need to know exactly what the flakes are in terms of chemical structure."
"Way ahead of you." Bertha placed yet another sheet of paper onto the table. "They're a fluorine compound, which is produced under extreme conditions when certain gases are mixed. Now I don't know about you, but I can't imagine anywhere in Eterna where people mix gases for a living."
Thomas exhaled. "Bertha, I'd love to believe you, but unless we know the factory's exact chemical procedure, we can't safely assume that they're the cause of this."
"And besides," Devon said. "They are making computer parts. I've done my fair share of reading, and I can say that nowhere in that process is a fluorine compound used."
"Then they must be making something else," Bertha said.
"Look, we could argue about this all day," Darrel said. "Bertha, you get us real, solid proof that these flakes are coming from the factory and nowhere else, and then we'll be happy to talk with you. But until then, goodbye." He gave her a casual little wave, but Bertha did not move.
She leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table, trying to keep her voice steady. "You guys are the heads. Of. Council. You have got to stop living in this dream, where everything's going great and the town's this perfect picture of happiness, because it's not. I know things have been pretty smooth for us before; you can ask anyone else who's lived here since they were a kid and they'll tell you the same. We've gotten away with hiding from the world for a damn good while, but now's the time to come out. This factory is the perfect example. Out there," Bertha stretched out her hand panning it across a general direction, "past our little farms and houses, is a world that's moving forward. We can either step up and move along with it, or get sucked dry by assholes like them."
"We've maintained amiable relations with Galactic so far," Devon said. "Hell, they're helping us. Without the twenty-grand bonus they pay us every year, we'd have gone bankrupt a long time ago."
At this, Bertha lost all poise and control. She threw her head back and began to laugh, clutching her stomach as she gasped and shook. The men watched as she stumbled back, hit the door, and came back to the table, wiping her eyes.
"I really don't see anything funny—" Devon began.
"Oh, look around!" Bertha cried. "That damn company is sucking us dry! Every year, when we're supposedly getting our bonus, our streets crack and the houses rot on their foundations! I've been trying to get a Gym built here for months now. Months! Do you know what that means for me, being a Gym leader? It means that I have no facility. I have to conduct battles in a basement, for God's sake! Trainers go through hell and back trying to find the place, and then they have nowhere to stay too, so I have to give them any extra room I can spare and give them the food off my own plate so they don't starve! I wouldn't mind it either, if it were necessary. But it's not. Go to any Gym town in Sinnoh, and you'll see huge, beautiful Gyms and luxury hotel rooms. And what do I have? Garbage!" She slapped the table, and let the silence hang for a moment.
"I don't know what the hell you're spending that money on, but if it's more important to you than our town's image and success, then please tell me what it is so I won't have to waste my time on this anymore. Celestic's been wanting a Gym standing for a while now. Maybe I should give ours to them."
For the first time that morning, the three men exchanged a single glance.
"Galactic is eating right out of our plates," Bertha pressed, "and we're not doing anything about it. This 'business deal' you have going on is killing us. Not only that; it's practically killing the Pokémon League. There hasn't been a single Gym repair or full trainer scholarship since Galactic rose to power."
"All right, so what do you want us to do?" said Devon. "You want us to go in there with torches and pitchforks? Maybe form a mob or some protest rally, demanding that they leave?"
"Diplomacy isn't exactly working either, if you haven't noticed already." Bertha pulled out a stack of letters from her purse. The rubber band that held them together was pulled thin. "I've written to them a thousand times, and all I get are stupid delays; morons trying to bide time and stretch words."
Darrel looked up at her, eyes narrowed. "Have you written to Thealus?"
"If the henchmen haven't given me anything, what makes you think their boss will? Sure, I can spend the rest of my life writing to Veilstone, waiting month after month on some false hope that someone will hear me. But why should I? Galactic's shown me that it can't negotiate. Either that, or it doesn't want to. Now, they can go to some other industrialized town and by all means spew their nonsense there. But not here." She took a breath, and continued. "I want to settle this as peacefully as possible. I'm planning on starting a petition. If I get the signature of all the Gym leaders plus a backing from the Gym towns themselves, then maybe, just maybe, that old coot will hear us. By all means, I want Galactic and the League to coexist. Is it possible? I think it is. And maybe we can. But we'll never know for sure if the only person trying to do something is me."
She stepped back away from the table and crossed her arms, a gesture she hoped would tell the men that it was all up to them now. They looked to each other again, and whispered back and forth for a while.
Finally, they parted. Thomas was the first to look up. "All right. We'll back your petition."
"But I beg you, be careful!" Devon cut in. "We can't make a public scene of this. These are very strenuous times, and if we make one wrong move, it could destroy us! Galactic is what's moving the country forward, improving millions of lives, and if we throw mud at their image, the consequences could be disastrous!"
Bertha smiled. "Disastrous? Who the hell cares about some tiny farm town?"
On the subject of Team Galactic's boss, Thealus Blue, little is actually known. To Bertha, he is a faceless entity hiding behind a letterhead, as two-dimensional as the stamped logo of his corporation. To the rest of Sinnoh, he's the inner mechanism of the Space Race, the mystical force that turns the wheels of progress.
The associates of Team Galactic never communicate with their boss, yet strangely, his presence can be felt everywhere. Behind the company's logo is a story, they say, though the man who wrote it has been lost to the ages. The few who are lucky enough to be in daily contact with Blue are as tight-lipped as he himself.
Thealus Blue made one public appearance in 1949, under a different name, while the Space Program was still in its first years of life. However, all recordings are now lost to history, and anybody seeking to contact him will get the address of a P.O. box in Veilstone, a bleak, dead end.
"Hey! Sir, wait! Wait up!"
The crowds of the Eterna marketplace parted as a woman pushed her way through, leading with an arm stretched high over her face. In her hand she clutched a microphone, pathetically offering it to the air while she trudged through the tents and stands. A bulky cameraman trailed after her, and as they neared, all people within a ten-foot radius scurried away, baskets pressed to their chests. Their eyes lingered on the giant, gleaming device balanced on the man's shoulder, and the speakers that protruded like menacing horns above the lens. As the woman plowed relentlessly forward, he scurried in her wake, shooting quick glances of apology to the people she shoved aside.
The woman paid them all no mind, for her hawk-like gaze was fixed on something in the distance. It captivated her whole attention, blocking out everything else around her. She was the image of exhaustion—skirt splattered with mud, hair disheveled, press badge hanging askew, and yet she still managed to hold onto a businesslike composure that set her apart as a professional. She waded through the crowd as if through water.
"Can you see him? Can you see him?" The cameraman strained to look over her shoulder.
"He went behind a stand," said the woman. "Shit, this guy's good."
"You know, I think we're being too obvious," said the cameraman. He looked to the side, just as a group of shoppers turned away, muttering. "Can we at least lose the equipment? The camera just gives it all away."
The woman shook her head. "No. He already knows our faces. We'll just have to be fast."
A man, seemingly from nowhere, presently stumbled onto the path with an armful of fruit. The woman wedged herself in front of him, bumping him against a pole.
"Move it!"
The man doubled over with a grunt, and the fruit spilled over into the dirt. The cameraman stepped around and hastily picked them up.
"Sorry! Sorry. She didn't mean it. She's usually really nice, it's just that—"
"NED, GET OVER HERE!"
"Coming, coming! Here." He shoved the fruit into the man's hands and scurried off, leaving the unlucky patron to his own devices.
Ned hobbled over to the place where the woman was standing. They were at a crossroads within the marketplace, bordered on all sides by noise and movement.
"Nancy, how much longer is this gonna take?" said Ned. "My shoulder's about to pop."
"It doesn't matter. He can't run forever," said Nancy.
"Well, neither can we..."
Nancy gritted her teeth. "We will if we have to. I don't care if it takes the rest of the day. We'll catch him."
"We've been at this for half an hour, and all on the slim hope that this random guy will talk to us. But what if he doesn't?"
"He will. Now will you help me look or not?"
They walked, and passed another booth. This one had a small circle of people around it, slowly growing. But despite the crowd, the salesman managed to lock eyes directly with Nancy. He waved.
"Hey, miss! Care to try the new Wonder Fish? Caught right here in Eterna, and only sixty cents a pound!" He held up a strip of pale meat.
Nancy bit her lip and kept walking. The best tactic to ignore a pesterer was to give them the cold shoulder. Once she affirmed that Ned was following along, she picked up the pace and began to search.
The market was nowhere near as packed as the city was, but it lacked an internal infrastructure, which made it all the more chaotic. What could have been a nice street block with sidewalks was a jumble of tents and stands, with people running about like ants in a hole. The grass was expired—uncut, and in some places, trampled down to dirt. But one of the things Nancy Bryan was good at was adapting, and adapt she would.
She panned across the scene, shielding her face from the light, trying to discern something among the hundred moving bodies. She had not seen the man's face yet, but she had seen enough to pick him out of the crowd—tweed suit, hat, briefcase. A typical businessman, on a not-so-businesslike regime.
"Got him." Nancy spoke without turning. The man had reappeared again, and was now retreating into a tent, the brown of his coat passing in and out of view. The briefcase, black and sleek, was held stiffly at his side.
The other shoppers—who either didn't notice him or were too busy to care—moved out of his way as he literally cut a path through them.
"Where is he? I can't see him." Ned spun around in circles, bending under the weight of the camera.
"By the tent. Come on!" Nancy broke into a jog. She dodged her way through the tent, keeping the man in view. When she came upon him he was out in the open, slowing beside a meat booth.
Careful to stay quiet, Nancy jumped behind a nearby pile of crates. Ned followed suit, and they both peered over the top to get a better look.
The man had not noticed their approach. He was looking around at the stand, though he didn't seem particularly interested in anything they were selling. He leaned over and muttered something to the salesperson, who chuckled.
Ned lifted the camera to his eye, closing in on the briefcase. "Whoa. Double-whammy. I wonder what he's got in there..."
Nancy waved the camera away. "Not yet!"
Ignoring her, Ned continued to focus the lens. "No way. I'm getting shots of this." The camera began to click.
At that moment, something in the man's bearing changed. His shoulder's stiffened, as if someone had blown cold air down on his neck. The man turned around slowly, and his eyes locked on the camera.
Nancy froze. A second later, she ducked back behind the crates, but by then it was too late. The man's eyes widened, and then he walked off briskly in the opposite direction.
"You idiot!" Nancy slapped the camera away from Ned's face. "He heard you!"
"Hey, relax! I just wanted a picture."
Nancy rolled her eyes. She straightened, brushing crumbs of dirt from her white skirt. "Fine. Let's go."
They started forward again, following the man's beeline through the marketplace. He continued to stop at several booths along the way, and did the same thing at each of them — paced, looked around, and left without a word. And no matter how crowded it was, every time the crew approached, the man would turn his head to the exact spot where they stood, look at them for a few seconds, then disappear again. He moved effortlessly, and even with all the effort in the world, still too quickly.
Nancy was exhausted. She began biting her lip again (which she swore she would never do again after a viewer had laughed at the red blotches), and pushed up the sleeves of her shirt periodically. Her eyes were restless, scanning the crowd for any sight of the man. Behind her, Ned paused frequently to rub his back, shifting the camera from one shoulder to the other.
When they finally overtook him, the man was well on his way towards the exit. Nancy ran up to the sidewalk, waving her microphone in the air like a flag. Her skin gleamed with sweat, and her hair stuck to her face and neck.
"Sir!" she called. "Wait!" The man turned around. The discombobulated crew of two pushed pulled themselves up onto the sidewalk. Nancy scampered over, blocking the man's path before he could leave. "Sir! Can I get a moment?"
The man looked up, a sneer turning his lips, as if it had all been some game of chase. Nancy ran a finger through her hair and flashed a smile.
"Hi! My name is Nancy Bryan, and I'm with Sinnoh Now. I'm on the hunt for everything that's hip and happening all across the country. I'd like to take no more than two minutes of your time to ask you a few questions. Is it true that Team Galactic is building something in the Eterna factory?" She thrust the microphone into the man's face, and he shook his head.
"No comment." He turned to leave, but Nancy jumped in front of him again.
"What's the nature of this project?" she pressed. "Is it a new piece of technology?"
"I said no comment." The man continued walking. Nancy Bryan followed, her voice rising.
"Is it an electronic device of some sort? A computer? A—"
"Enough!" The man pushed the microphone away with his fist, just inches away from hitting Nancy in the nose. "And get that blasted camera out of my face! If you even think about putting this on TV, I'll put a million-dollar lawsuit on your heads! You hear? Go home!"
Nancy watched him leave, her shoulders drooped. Forgetting her businesslike composure, she hung her head like a child, letting the microphone dangle from her hand. "Turn it off, Ned."
The cameraman lowered the device and placed a lens cap over the camera's gaping eye. "Hey, no worries. At least we tried."
"Tried doesn't cut it!" Nancy snapped up, turning to face her companion. She tightened her grip on the microphone. "What's wrong with me? Everywhere I go I get spat on like some creature! The SNN reporters don't get half as much bullshit as I do, and their stories are crap!"
"Calm down," said Ned. "I'm sure we'll find a good one if we keep looking. No offense, but Eterna's not the best place you could've picked."
Nancy glared at him. "Gee thanks. Thanks a bunch. That really makes me feel better, you know, especially after I drove twenty miles over here, no air conditioning, the sun baking my skin like a freakin' toaster, having to fix two flat tires along the way, and dealing with you and Tom singing karaoke songs in the back!"
Ned raised both hands in defense. "Nancy, just be rational. Team Galactic obviously doesn't want to talk to us. That's not worth beating ourselves up over. There are a lot of good stories out there, and I don't see a point in spending the rest of eternity chasing this one."
"No! Don't you get it?" Nancy said. "Team Galactic has never done an interview before. Never! Just think of the credit we'd get if we got just a one-page story about them. A single sentence, even. But they won't fucking let us in! I hate that!" She doubled over, and her eyes spilled over with tears. Wet mascara ran down her cheeks in little gobs. "I hate this! I just... I'm just so sick... and tired of constantly having to accept junk! You know that? And when you keep accepting junk over and over and over again, that's what you become. My life is junk." She buried her face in her hands. Pretty soon, her sobbing could be heard from within.
Ned patted her back. "Come on. Don't cry, Nancy. Your life's not junk."
"Yes it is!" Nancy wrenched out of his grip. "I am sick of you and Tom and Bobby always bugging me about doing some random story. Yeah, sure, I could give up and just do a report on a supermarket scandal, what will I be doing different from the other hundred networks out there? That's right, nothing! If I can't get people to talk to me like I'm normal and the SNN people can, then my life is pointless! I might as well just go back home and stay there with a paper bag over my head."
"It's just one story. I really don't think SNN will care if we do something else. They're not expecting us to break ground — they just want to see that we can support ourselves."
"No!" Nancy said. "That's the thing — they don't expect us to break ground. They don't expect us to do anything. They want to watch us fail, which we will, so they can buy our network and leave us broke." Her voice cracked, and she spilled a fresh downpour of tears into her palms.
"Relax. We'll keep trying. What's the deadline again?"
"J-J-July t-twenty-fifth..."
"Okay. That's more than enough time. We'll just have to think of a better way to talk to these people. No offense, but I think you come on too..."
Nancy looked up before he could finish. Her face was blotchy and streaked with ruined makeup. "Too what?"
Ned chuckled. "Never mind."
Nancy wiped her eyes and yawned. "All this heat is making me hungry. Let's get something to eat before we go."
They went back into the marketplace and found the Wonder Fish stand. The man was still selling, and by the looks of it, selling well. People stood on all sides with fish sandwiches, filets, and still more fish wrapped in foil. Nancy made her way to the front of the line and dropped a pile of coins onto the counter.
"Two sandwiches please."
The man smiled. "Coming right up!" He withdrew and came back moments later with two sandwiches wrapped in paper. "Tell your friends!" he called as she walked away.
On their way out of the marketplace, Nancy peeled away the wrapping and took a bite of the white meat. It was soft and tasted like... fish.
"Wow, this is really good!" said Ned. "Better than Horsea, in my opinion. I wonder what it is."
"Not now, Ned. We have to think. How are we going to get a scoop on that factory in a month?"
"I don't know. We'll have time to think about it, though, right?"
"The point of all this is not to wait till the last minute!" Nancy ripped another chunk from her sandwich and chomped it down. "We've tried writing, and that failed. We've tried live interview. Failed. What else is there?"
Ned shrugged. "I don't know."
"Don't tell me there's nothing left! I know for a fact that SNN is doing something else. They did a whole freaking segment about Fuego Ironworks. Fuego Ironworks, Ned. Those guys don't just take live interview requests."
"Are you kidding me? SNN practically snuck inside. There's no other way they could have gotten pictures like that."
All of a sudden, Nancy stopped. "Wait."
"What?"
Nancy smiled. "I think there's one option left for us." She looked north, where she could see faint puffs of smoke from over the trees.
"What are you looking at?" Ned pressed.
Nancy ignored him. "Come on. We have to meet the others." She stopped beside a garbage can and threw her sandwich away before moving on.
That morning, a beat-up van had been parked on the curb by the marketplace. A logo, pasted in bold letters on the side, read: Jubilfe TV. The van was bulky and dirty, something that would be the subject of ridicule in most large cities, but here the sunlight gave its curves a pristine glow, a mighty symbol of innovation against the plain, undeveloped town.
Two men were leaning against the van's side, sipping Coca Cola and staring absently into space. One wore a baseball cap, its visor lowered over his face. The second stared lazily up at the trees. A cart with various sound equipment stood between them.
"This place is such a bore," said the first man, lifting the visor to rub his eyes.
"Tell me about it. This place is practically a jungle. I haven't seen this many trees in, like, ever."
"More than Jubilife Park, you think?"
The second man took a sip from the can and waved his hand. "Nah, this place puts Jubilife Park to shame."
Both men began to laugh. The moment was as fleeting as the breeze, and then they settled back into an awkward silence. The trees seemed to soak up every attempt at conversation, leaving nothing to do but stare at one's shoes. Even the Starly which they often spotted passed by without a sound, as if silence was a community rule.
"That's it, I can't take it anymore." The man in the cap crushed the empty can in his fist. "I'm turning on some music." He climbed into the van and started the engine. The radio came to life, and began to blast an upbeat song through the empty street.
He came around and slumped back beside the van. "That's better."
"Aw come on, that's all that station ever plays. Be a man, would you?"
Bobby grinned. "Fine." He went back to the van and turned the radio's dial, scrolling through a string of random songs. He didn't have time to settle on one, however, for when he stole a glance through the windshield, he saw Nancy and Ned coming up the road. Eterna was the only place in the world where you could cross the road without looking and not have to worry about being squashed.
"There they are!" He and Tom looked over as they approached. The pair looked as if they had walked for miles—their clothes were stained with dirt, and Nancy had two black lines streaking down her cheeks.
"Whoa, Nancy, what happened to your face?" said Tom.
"Later," Nancy said. "Come on, we're packing up. Get the sound equipment and put it in the back."
Ned opened the van's double doors and placed the camera inside its holder. Bobby and Tom lifted the cart.
"Well, did you get the story?" said Bobby. "Did that Team Galactic guy talk to you?"
"Not yet. But I have a plan."
"What plan?"
"I'll tell you as we go."
Nancy climbed into the passenger seat and took a mirror and tissue from the glove compartment. She began to scrub her cheeks, succeeding in removing most of the mascara and leaving the rest in two circular smears. She'd take care of those later. Nancy dabbed her shoulders and chest, which had become moist with perspiration during her run.
As the rest of the crew climbed in the van, she cradled her head in her hands and took a slow, deep breath, a calming routine she had developed over many years in the business.
Relax. You can do this.
Tom closed the driver's door and started the van. Nancy adjusted her mirror to check her hair. A-ok.
Behind her, the van's window showed a slip of sidewalk sprinkled with leaves. Not long after the van pulled out of the curb, the figures of two boys could be seen strolling down the sidewalk.
The fisherman's stand was at the edge of the marketplace, an island surrounded by a small circle of people. Michael pushed his way to the front, and saw the man wearing an apron, holding up two wrapped packages.
"Two Wonder Fish sandwiches with lettuce? Anybody order two Wonder Fish sandwiches with lettuce?"
Someone held out their hands, and the man graciously exchanged the packages for a handful of bills.
When the man saw Michael, he grinned. "We meet again! I'm afraid if you want a sandwich, you'll have to wait in line." He indicated the mass of people in front of him.
"It's okay," said Michael. "We don't want a sandwich. I was just wondering if you could give me one of those pokémon. Whole."
The man's eyes widened at the unusual request. "I'll see what I can do, but you'll have to wait in line."
"But we don't have — oh, fine." Michael recognized a losing battle when he saw one. He edged himself into the mass of people, who struggled to arrange themselves in a line.
Apparently the meat had been a hit—everyone was leaving with two or more of those same sandwiches, happily eating them as they walked.
"That must be some meat," said Henry. "I wonder what that pokémon was that he discovered."
"That's what we're going to find out."
Several minutes passed before they got to the front of the line. The man beamed down at them.
"So what did you want again?"
"One of those pokémon," Michael repeated. "No sandwich or anything. Just whole."
The man wrinkled his nose. "What for?"
"What does it matter? We're paying for it," said Henry.
"Well, I can't argue with that logic... all right." The man withdrew and came out with a large mound of tinfoil. "Tell your friends!"
"But of course." Michael faked a smile and hurried off.
Henry caught up with him. "Where are we going now?"
"We're going to make a call to Sandgem Labs."
Henry gaped. "Why?"
"You'll see. Come on."
They hurried back to Bertha's house and found a telephone in the living room. Michael bent down beside the table and picked up the receiver.
"How do you even know the lab's number?" said Henry.
"You'd know a number too if your mother kept it pinned to the fridge for three years," Michael said as he dialed.
The phone rang, and a breezy female voice answered him. "Hello! You have reached the office of Sandgem Labs, pioneering the field of pokémon research since 1866, this is Rebecca speaking, how may I assist you?"
"Hello," Michael said. "I have a report to submit to Dr. Emerson, concerning a sighting of a new pokémon."
The clerk paused. "What is your name?"
"Cory... uh, Hershey."
Henry snickered.
"I'm sorry Mr... Hershey, but we don't accept tips like these from callers. If you'd like, I can mail you a form that contains the instructions for a proper submission."
"No!" Michael said. "Look. This is an emergency."
"I am sorry, again, but there is nothing I can do. Protocol is protocol."
Michael took a moment to think. "Okay. Okay, so can you tell me something else? I understand that... ah, that there's a summer program going on in the lab sponsored by the professor?"
"...Yes," the clerk answered stiffly. "But registration has closed, I'm afraid, as the program is already in session—"
"Yeah, I get that. It's just that I know someone who is currently in the program. His name is Leroy, and I have an important message for him. Do you, by any chance, know his number or something so I can call him?"
"Even if I did, giving a personal number out to a third party is strictly against our policy. I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere for this Leroy." With that, she hung up. Michael slammed the phone back down and groaned.
"Why did you want to talk to Leroy?" asked Henry.
"I wanted to get him to report this to the professor.
Henry picked up the phone. "Hang on. Let me try something. What's the number again?"
Michael told him, and Henry dialed. And waited.
"Hello?" said Henry. "Yes. Hi, my name is Henry McPherson." He hesitated, but he was obviously doing this for effect. "Sorry, I um, thought that the professor would pick up. See, I went to get my starter from him yesterday, and I noticed a problem with it, and the professor told me I could call him anytime to ask a question. So if you don't mind... could you forward me to him?"
Michael lifted an eyebrow. Henry smiled and winked. Whatever he was doing, it was working.
A second later, he beamed. "Hi, professor! It's me, Henry, remember? No? Well that's okay. You'll remember Michael." He quickly handed the phone to Michael, who brought it to his ear slowly.
"Uh... hello?"
The wheezy voice of Professor Emerson answered him. "Ah? Who is this?"
"It's Michael Rowan. I have something important to tell you. It may change your life." The professor paused. He didn't hang up, so Michael continued. "See, while I was walking the other day by a river, I saw a weird pokémon. It was a Horsea, only it looked kind of different. Bigger, for one thing, and the meat was white instead of pink. Horsea meat is always pink, you know, so I knew it was a different pokémon."
The professor seemed to be scratching his chin. "Did this pokémon have a longer, thicker snout, and were its fins larger?"
Michael opened the package. The description fit the bill. "Yep."
"It's a different pokémon. That's a Seadra."
"Is there any relation between the two?"
"Somewhat," said the professor. "Though their physical structures may seem different, there are certain similarities in their DNA... but that's too much to get into right now. I say it would be fine to use either in a battle. The Seadra does not present any powers significantly superior to the Horsea as far as we know. Good bye." The professor seemed eager to hang up. Michael leaned back against the armchair.
"That guy sucks," he said.
"What did he say?"
"Basically that it won't make a difference if you use a Horsea or a Seadra—that's the pokémon's name—in a battle."
Henry shrugged. "So... it's a good thing then? Bertha's Roselia could be one of those look-alikes too."
"At any rate, I think he's lying," Michael said.
"Why?"
"Because, two different species don't look similar just for the heck of it. Chrome Dome said that there were similarities in their DNA, and that means that they can't be two completely different species."
Henry just looked at him. "So what are you saying?"
"I think Bertha's Roselia is like Horsea and Seadra. It's the same as a Roselia... but not quite different." Michael looked down at his shoes. "I don't know what it means for the battle, though."
"Me neither," Henry said. "Let's just hope it can't shoot missiles out of its hands."
A note before we begin: In one scene, you'll find Bertha talking to some people about chemicals. I'm not a chemistry major, nor do I intend to be, so I don't get too detailed in the names. I use the term 'fluorine compound' loosely, so if any of you happen to be learned in chemistry and think its placement here is completely bogus, know that I just use it for literary purposes. If it's that bad, then feel free to tell me how to make it better. :P
That is all.
1.3
The next morning, a thin layer of fog hung over the town. Michael and Henry had slipped out of bed early, and by the time the sun showed, they were in Route 205, walking in the generous shade of the trees along the path they had traced the previous day.
The Starly they captured had remained obedient, thanks to a spare pokéball Henry happened upon in his bag. The previous night, he had captured it and made it his own. The Starly was now perched snugly on Henry's arm, where it pruned its feathers with its beak and squawked every so often.
They had practiced with what they had, shouting commands back-and-forth and directing the attacks towards trees. Their lack of a fire type still worried Michael, and he wasn't sure if he could devise a good plan without one. He had brought his chart along, and managed to take down some notes. So far, their circumstances looked pretty bleak. He didn't even know what pokémon Bertha had.
They were now walking back to her house, Michael in the lead. His stomach was beginning to rumble, and after the previous night's dinner, he was eager to see what she would have for breakfast.
When they got to the house, however, what Michael saw surprised him. Bertha was stepping down from the porch, dressed in a stiff, formal dress, and carrying a large handbag that could only mean she was going somewhere.
When she saw them, Bertha paused mid-step, lips parted. "Boys? What are you doing? I thought you were still sleeping."
"We went out early to train," Michael said. "Where are you going?"
Bertha zipped open the purse and placed her keys inside. "That's not important. But I'm leaving you two in charge of the house while I'm gone, okay? Make breakfast, but clean up after you're done. I have pancake mix, eggs, anything you like. Cereal's in the pantry. Got that?"
Michael and Henry nodded.
"Great. I'm off then. Don't burn the place down." She winked, and walked off.
"Wait!" Michael said. "What about the battle?"
Bertha turned around. "Oh don't worry, I'll only be about two hours. Two-and-a half tops. What you should be thinking about is a plan! Remember, I'm not easy to beat."
"Okay. Thanks."
"Bye." Bertha waved, then went on her way. Michael entered the house, going immediately to the kitchen to get the pancake mix from the pantry.
"So she's leaving the whole house to us?" Henry said. He looked around in wonder.
"Yep. Two hours all to ourselves." Michael turned the box over and read the back cover. He had never tried to cook before, and almost all early childhood attempts at make brownies had resulted in failure, mostly due to his lack of patience when it came to the baking part. Richard would often sabotage the liquid mix while it was still in the oven, leaving next to nothing when Michael took it back out.
"Well, we should probably get started," Michael said. "Do you know how to make pancakes?"
Henry shrugged. "No. Just follow the instructions, I guess?"
Michael read the label again. "It says I need an egg, butter, half-cup of milk, and one cup of mix. Can you get all that?"
"Hey, why me?"
"Because I'm the director of this project, and you're the one who gets things done." Michael had said this completely seriously, but he couldn't help but smile at his own tone.
Henry obliged, and placed the gathered ingredients onto the counter. For the next few minutes, the boys struggled with the ingredients, opening packages, tossing scraps into the waste basket, and stirring the liquid mix with a beater Michael had found in one of the many kitchen drawers. The sink was soon filled with piles of dirty dishes and utensils, as he and Henry sampled and measured the ingredients.
When the time finally came to ready the stove, Henry approached with a heat-resistant glove on (Michael told him not to be a sissy, but he didn't listen) and carefully buttered the skillet. They ladled the mix in parts, flipping the pancakes until they were brown on both sides, and divided them onto plates.
They sat down at the dining table twenty minutes later. Michael took a bite out of the finished product, and was pleased when it tasted all right.
"She has a really pretty house," Henry commented from the other chair. In the morning, the sunlight scattered around the walls, and seemed to light the kitchen up from the inside.
"Yeah, I guess." Michael looked around. Bertha had a fireplace, and it faced the kitchen from a small anteroom that accommodated an armchair. There were photographs on her mantle, but what Michael's eyes lingered on was a small metal tray at the center. It was made of black wire, though he could see what it contained—three silver balls.
He got up.
"Where are you going?" Henry lowered his fork.
"I think this is where she keeps her pokémon," Michael said. He approached the mantle. Sure enough, there were pokéballs in the tray, winking at him in the light. He took one into his hands, and smiled.
"Wait!" Henry ran after him. "I don't think we should be touching them."
"Why not? Think about it. We have the whole battle in our hands right here." He held up two pokéballs. "If we could release them and take a look, I could get a better idea of what their types are, and how to counter them! It's a total save!"
"I don't know. Bertha's really nice, and it wouldn't be right to snoop around while we're guests in her home. It's cheating."
"Please. If she really didn't want us to look, she'd have taken them with her when she left." He twisted the knob on the first one, but Henry grabbed his wrist.
"No!"
Michael pulled away. "Let go!"
"It's not right!"
"Don't be a baby. She won't even know we looked. We'll just put them back exactly as we found them."
Henry crossed his arms and turned away. "Fine. You can look, but I won't."
"Suit yourself." Michael unscrewed the knob and shut his eyes against the burst of light that followed. When it faded, he looked down.
A Turtwig lay at his feet, shaking itself awake. Its back was to Michael, and for the first few seconds, it stared at the opposite wall in confusion. Then it turned around to face him.
From the side, Henry looked over his shoulder. "A Turtwig!" he said. The curiosity was edging back into his face, though he did not move as Michael kneeled down and looked at it. The Turtwig had realized that Michael was not its trainer, and was looking at him with its head cocked to the side.
"These things are everywhere," Michael murmured. "I don't think there's anything special about this one, do you?"
Henry shook his head. "It doesn't look like it. And well, it's not different-colored like yours."
"Let's just hope it can't shoot a sonic boom out of its mouth," Michael said, and returned it back into the pokéball. "Why else would a Gym leader have a Turtwig?"
He swapped the pokéball for another, and opened the second. Out came a Cherrim. The pokémon had been sleeping too, and its petals were still folded in a shell around it.
"Hey, it's a Cherrim!" Henry said. "Like the ones we saw on the bushes the other day."
"They're grass types too," Michael said. "Still no surprises."
"It shouldn't be too hard, though, right?"
"Don't know. Have you ever seen a Cherrim battle?"
Henry shook his head.
"Well then, I guess we will tonight." Michael called the sleeping Cherrim back inside, and took down the final pokéball.
He opened it, shut his eyes, and when he opened them again, they instantly widened in surprise.
"Whoa!" Henry slid down to the floor for a closer look. "What is that?"
"It's a Roselia," Michael said, though he himself wasn't so sure. The pokémon that had appeared was bigger and bulkier than any Roselia he had ever seen. The pokémon had a tuft of white hair growing from the crown of its head, and some more forming a ring around its neck. Its head was rounder, and the blooms at the end of each arm were larger and frillier.
"I mean... it looks like one, but—"
"But its growth spurt went out of wack?" Henry looked at him. Coming from his mouth, Michael's words took on a new light.
The Roselia-thing was looking at them in confusion, probably wondering why these two random kids were staring and chattering at it. Michael reached out to stroke its head. The thing permitted the contact, but never took its eyes off him. The hair on its head was soft and wispy.
"Maybe it's the factory again," Henry said. "You know, all those chemicals everywhere could be causing mutations. Remember the Horsea in the river?"
Michael nodded. "Yeah..."
"Well, that's enough looking I think." Henry snatched the pokéball from Michael's hands and returned the Roselia-thing. He placed the pokéball back on the mantle. "So are you gonna add them to the chart? They're all grass types, so we only have to think of one counter."
Michael was still on his knees, staring up at the window. "But the mutation. How could a Roselia change like that? If it's from the chemicals, I bet you that its appearance wasn't the only thing they altered."
"Well, we could ask Bertha about it," Henry said. "But that would kinda give us away."
"We don't have to ask her. I have a better idea." He got up and went back to the kitchen. Henry followed.
"We're going to find out more about these mutations," Michael said. He took his backpack from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. "Let's go."
//////
The Eterna Courthouse was the town's oldest standing building. It had been built in 1704, a date which was engraved on a gold plaque right above its giant wooden doors. The building itself was huge, with a giant bell and prim-faced statues flanking its sides.
A few years ago, a restoration project had reinforced it with steel beams and replaced the roof with shingles, but other than that the building's original architecture remained untouched. The imaginative mind would fill its seats with juries, its podiums with wig-wearing judges, and the cells of its tiny jail with stooping prisoners.
But aside from being a tourist attraction, the building itself served little purpose. Crime had never been a pastime in Eterna as far as Bertha knew, and she would often spot the sheriff walking around with an apple, his handcuffs clacking emptily against his belt as he searched for something to do with himself.
Bertha pushed open the double doors and went inside. The interior of the courthouse was almost entirely made of wood, and the main feature was a pair of stairs that stood on either end of the lobby, leading up to the balconies. It was not the stairway that she turned to, however. Bertha went immediately to a side door—one that was plain and mostly unnoticeable against the wall—and stepped through into a tiny, musty room.
The room's only piece of furniture was a large wooden table, one that took up almost all the space and left only a little wiggle room for chairs. Three men sat behind it, through there was enough space between them to affirm that they were not together. The man on the left was dressed in full business attire, and his hair had that wet, gelled-back look that made him look suspiciously fish-like. The man in the middle wore a simple shirt and tie, without any other accessories. The last man had abandoned formality altogether, sitting quite comfortably in a t-shirt and jeans.
The men had all been staring in separate directions, each perhaps going off on his own trail of thought, but when Bertha stepped through the door, their eyes locked on her.
Bertha lowered her purse onto the table, but did not sit down. She gave a curt nod. "Hello."
The man in the t-shirt nodded back. "Hello, Bertha. Glad you could make it." He attempted a smile, but it quickly faded, and the room returned to its previous gloom.
After a brief pause, the man in the middle spoke. "All right, we're all here, now let's get to the point. What's the problem and why've you called us here?"
"You know what the problem is," Bertha said. "The whole town knows it. We see it every day when we look north."
"If you're talking about the factory—"
"Yes! I'm talking about the factory, Darrel! That thing's been a problem since the day it got put up, and it's getting worse and worse every day."
"To my knowledge," the man in the suit cut in, "everything's been fine up to this point. I don't understand where your complaints suddenly came from."
"That's because you live by Cycling Road. Of course you don't have any complaints, because you're not the one who's up all night not able to get a wink of sleep while there's a fucking earthquake in your backyard!" This last shout had been loud, and Bertha felt a tiny ripple of pain in her throat. She suppressed a cough. She had planned to start off calm, but apparently her control wasn't with her today.
"If the noise is so bad, why hasn't anyone complained?" Darrel said. "Surely if it was an issue worth pointing out, somebody would have said something in... oh I don't know, the past year or so?"
"Oh, they have. I personally went around and gathered these statements." Bertha took a folder from her purse and opened it. She took out a single paper and laid it down on the table. "You might know Mrs. Danbury, the lady who keeps a berry farm right by the forest. She used to be able to bring basketfuls of Orans and Spelons to the market. Now, every other season of crops ends up dropping dead. Look."
The men leaned in closer. Clipped to the papers was a photograph of a field, each bush dotted with berries of various colors. Everything was covered in a white Christmas of tiny flakes.
"I took that picture last year, in July. All the plants from that season ended up shriveling, and Mrs. Danbury said that she couldn't plant anything in the soil for over five months. Then there's this." Bertha took out another paper-clipped stack that she placed on top of the first one. "This is a medical report. The Eburway's kids all got sick a few months ago. Headaches, dizziness, weak bones, and lots of coughing. Before that, they were in perfect health. They played in the meadow every afternoon, but now they can hardly walk."
Devon looked at all this, and shook his head. "So? It's illusion of correlation. Maybe it was a blight that killed Mrs. Danbury's plants. Maybe the Eburway kids have inherent disabilities. Maybe the flakes are the result of insecticides. There are hundreds of factors that can be in play. What makes you think the factory is the one behind all this?"
Bertha's face tightened. "Don't think I haven't done my research! I keep a garden of my own, right by the meadow, and every time a breeze comes around from the factory's direction, I see those flakes. If the wind's strong enough, they'll get into the streets too, and slip in through the cracks in people's doors!"
"It's a baseless assumption!" he protested. "You can't possibly prove that the flakes are coming from the factory from the simple observation that they come from its direction."
"Then maybe you'd like to explain why there were none before?"
"This problem could easily be solved by chemical testing," said Darrel. "We need to know exactly what the flakes are in terms of chemical structure."
"Way ahead of you." Bertha placed yet another sheet of paper onto the table. "They're a fluorine compound, which is produced under extreme conditions when certain gases are mixed. Now I don't know about you, but I can't imagine anywhere in Eterna where people mix gases for a living."
Thomas exhaled. "Bertha, I'd love to believe you, but unless we know the factory's exact chemical procedure, we can't safely assume that they're the cause of this."
"And besides," Devon said. "They are making computer parts. I've done my fair share of reading, and I can say that nowhere in that process is a fluorine compound used."
"Then they must be making something else," Bertha said.
"Look, we could argue about this all day," Darrel said. "Bertha, you get us real, solid proof that these flakes are coming from the factory and nowhere else, and then we'll be happy to talk with you. But until then, goodbye." He gave her a casual little wave, but Bertha did not move.
She leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table, trying to keep her voice steady. "You guys are the heads. Of. Council. You have got to stop living in this dream, where everything's going great and the town's this perfect picture of happiness, because it's not. I know things have been pretty smooth for us before; you can ask anyone else who's lived here since they were a kid and they'll tell you the same. We've gotten away with hiding from the world for a damn good while, but now's the time to come out. This factory is the perfect example. Out there," Bertha stretched out her hand panning it across a general direction, "past our little farms and houses, is a world that's moving forward. We can either step up and move along with it, or get sucked dry by assholes like them."
"We've maintained amiable relations with Galactic so far," Devon said. "Hell, they're helping us. Without the twenty-grand bonus they pay us every year, we'd have gone bankrupt a long time ago."
At this, Bertha lost all poise and control. She threw her head back and began to laugh, clutching her stomach as she gasped and shook. The men watched as she stumbled back, hit the door, and came back to the table, wiping her eyes.
"I really don't see anything funny—" Devon began.
"Oh, look around!" Bertha cried. "That damn company is sucking us dry! Every year, when we're supposedly getting our bonus, our streets crack and the houses rot on their foundations! I've been trying to get a Gym built here for months now. Months! Do you know what that means for me, being a Gym leader? It means that I have no facility. I have to conduct battles in a basement, for God's sake! Trainers go through hell and back trying to find the place, and then they have nowhere to stay too, so I have to give them any extra room I can spare and give them the food off my own plate so they don't starve! I wouldn't mind it either, if it were necessary. But it's not. Go to any Gym town in Sinnoh, and you'll see huge, beautiful Gyms and luxury hotel rooms. And what do I have? Garbage!" She slapped the table, and let the silence hang for a moment.
"I don't know what the hell you're spending that money on, but if it's more important to you than our town's image and success, then please tell me what it is so I won't have to waste my time on this anymore. Celestic's been wanting a Gym standing for a while now. Maybe I should give ours to them."
For the first time that morning, the three men exchanged a single glance.
"Galactic is eating right out of our plates," Bertha pressed, "and we're not doing anything about it. This 'business deal' you have going on is killing us. Not only that; it's practically killing the Pokémon League. There hasn't been a single Gym repair or full trainer scholarship since Galactic rose to power."
"All right, so what do you want us to do?" said Devon. "You want us to go in there with torches and pitchforks? Maybe form a mob or some protest rally, demanding that they leave?"
"Diplomacy isn't exactly working either, if you haven't noticed already." Bertha pulled out a stack of letters from her purse. The rubber band that held them together was pulled thin. "I've written to them a thousand times, and all I get are stupid delays; morons trying to bide time and stretch words."
Darrel looked up at her, eyes narrowed. "Have you written to Thealus?"
"If the henchmen haven't given me anything, what makes you think their boss will? Sure, I can spend the rest of my life writing to Veilstone, waiting month after month on some false hope that someone will hear me. But why should I? Galactic's shown me that it can't negotiate. Either that, or it doesn't want to. Now, they can go to some other industrialized town and by all means spew their nonsense there. But not here." She took a breath, and continued. "I want to settle this as peacefully as possible. I'm planning on starting a petition. If I get the signature of all the Gym leaders plus a backing from the Gym towns themselves, then maybe, just maybe, that old coot will hear us. By all means, I want Galactic and the League to coexist. Is it possible? I think it is. And maybe we can. But we'll never know for sure if the only person trying to do something is me."
She stepped back away from the table and crossed her arms, a gesture she hoped would tell the men that it was all up to them now. They looked to each other again, and whispered back and forth for a while.
Finally, they parted. Thomas was the first to look up. "All right. We'll back your petition."
"But I beg you, be careful!" Devon cut in. "We can't make a public scene of this. These are very strenuous times, and if we make one wrong move, it could destroy us! Galactic is what's moving the country forward, improving millions of lives, and if we throw mud at their image, the consequences could be disastrous!"
Bertha smiled. "Disastrous? Who the hell cares about some tiny farm town?"
//////
On the subject of Team Galactic's boss, Thealus Blue, little is actually known. To Bertha, he is a faceless entity hiding behind a letterhead, as two-dimensional as the stamped logo of his corporation. To the rest of Sinnoh, he's the inner mechanism of the Space Race, the mystical force that turns the wheels of progress.
The associates of Team Galactic never communicate with their boss, yet strangely, his presence can be felt everywhere. Behind the company's logo is a story, they say, though the man who wrote it has been lost to the ages. The few who are lucky enough to be in daily contact with Blue are as tight-lipped as he himself.
Thealus Blue made one public appearance in 1949, under a different name, while the Space Program was still in its first years of life. However, all recordings are now lost to history, and anybody seeking to contact him will get the address of a P.O. box in Veilstone, a bleak, dead end.
//////
"Hey! Sir, wait! Wait up!"
The crowds of the Eterna marketplace parted as a woman pushed her way through, leading with an arm stretched high over her face. In her hand she clutched a microphone, pathetically offering it to the air while she trudged through the tents and stands. A bulky cameraman trailed after her, and as they neared, all people within a ten-foot radius scurried away, baskets pressed to their chests. Their eyes lingered on the giant, gleaming device balanced on the man's shoulder, and the speakers that protruded like menacing horns above the lens. As the woman plowed relentlessly forward, he scurried in her wake, shooting quick glances of apology to the people she shoved aside.
The woman paid them all no mind, for her hawk-like gaze was fixed on something in the distance. It captivated her whole attention, blocking out everything else around her. She was the image of exhaustion—skirt splattered with mud, hair disheveled, press badge hanging askew, and yet she still managed to hold onto a businesslike composure that set her apart as a professional. She waded through the crowd as if through water.
"Can you see him? Can you see him?" The cameraman strained to look over her shoulder.
"He went behind a stand," said the woman. "Shit, this guy's good."
"You know, I think we're being too obvious," said the cameraman. He looked to the side, just as a group of shoppers turned away, muttering. "Can we at least lose the equipment? The camera just gives it all away."
The woman shook her head. "No. He already knows our faces. We'll just have to be fast."
A man, seemingly from nowhere, presently stumbled onto the path with an armful of fruit. The woman wedged herself in front of him, bumping him against a pole.
"Move it!"
The man doubled over with a grunt, and the fruit spilled over into the dirt. The cameraman stepped around and hastily picked them up.
"Sorry! Sorry. She didn't mean it. She's usually really nice, it's just that—"
"NED, GET OVER HERE!"
"Coming, coming! Here." He shoved the fruit into the man's hands and scurried off, leaving the unlucky patron to his own devices.
Ned hobbled over to the place where the woman was standing. They were at a crossroads within the marketplace, bordered on all sides by noise and movement.
"Nancy, how much longer is this gonna take?" said Ned. "My shoulder's about to pop."
"It doesn't matter. He can't run forever," said Nancy.
"Well, neither can we..."
Nancy gritted her teeth. "We will if we have to. I don't care if it takes the rest of the day. We'll catch him."
"We've been at this for half an hour, and all on the slim hope that this random guy will talk to us. But what if he doesn't?"
"He will. Now will you help me look or not?"
They walked, and passed another booth. This one had a small circle of people around it, slowly growing. But despite the crowd, the salesman managed to lock eyes directly with Nancy. He waved.
"Hey, miss! Care to try the new Wonder Fish? Caught right here in Eterna, and only sixty cents a pound!" He held up a strip of pale meat.
Nancy bit her lip and kept walking. The best tactic to ignore a pesterer was to give them the cold shoulder. Once she affirmed that Ned was following along, she picked up the pace and began to search.
The market was nowhere near as packed as the city was, but it lacked an internal infrastructure, which made it all the more chaotic. What could have been a nice street block with sidewalks was a jumble of tents and stands, with people running about like ants in a hole. The grass was expired—uncut, and in some places, trampled down to dirt. But one of the things Nancy Bryan was good at was adapting, and adapt she would.
She panned across the scene, shielding her face from the light, trying to discern something among the hundred moving bodies. She had not seen the man's face yet, but she had seen enough to pick him out of the crowd—tweed suit, hat, briefcase. A typical businessman, on a not-so-businesslike regime.
"Got him." Nancy spoke without turning. The man had reappeared again, and was now retreating into a tent, the brown of his coat passing in and out of view. The briefcase, black and sleek, was held stiffly at his side.
The other shoppers—who either didn't notice him or were too busy to care—moved out of his way as he literally cut a path through them.
"Where is he? I can't see him." Ned spun around in circles, bending under the weight of the camera.
"By the tent. Come on!" Nancy broke into a jog. She dodged her way through the tent, keeping the man in view. When she came upon him he was out in the open, slowing beside a meat booth.
Careful to stay quiet, Nancy jumped behind a nearby pile of crates. Ned followed suit, and they both peered over the top to get a better look.
The man had not noticed their approach. He was looking around at the stand, though he didn't seem particularly interested in anything they were selling. He leaned over and muttered something to the salesperson, who chuckled.
Ned lifted the camera to his eye, closing in on the briefcase. "Whoa. Double-whammy. I wonder what he's got in there..."
Nancy waved the camera away. "Not yet!"
Ignoring her, Ned continued to focus the lens. "No way. I'm getting shots of this." The camera began to click.
At that moment, something in the man's bearing changed. His shoulder's stiffened, as if someone had blown cold air down on his neck. The man turned around slowly, and his eyes locked on the camera.
Nancy froze. A second later, she ducked back behind the crates, but by then it was too late. The man's eyes widened, and then he walked off briskly in the opposite direction.
"You idiot!" Nancy slapped the camera away from Ned's face. "He heard you!"
"Hey, relax! I just wanted a picture."
Nancy rolled her eyes. She straightened, brushing crumbs of dirt from her white skirt. "Fine. Let's go."
They started forward again, following the man's beeline through the marketplace. He continued to stop at several booths along the way, and did the same thing at each of them — paced, looked around, and left without a word. And no matter how crowded it was, every time the crew approached, the man would turn his head to the exact spot where they stood, look at them for a few seconds, then disappear again. He moved effortlessly, and even with all the effort in the world, still too quickly.
Nancy was exhausted. She began biting her lip again (which she swore she would never do again after a viewer had laughed at the red blotches), and pushed up the sleeves of her shirt periodically. Her eyes were restless, scanning the crowd for any sight of the man. Behind her, Ned paused frequently to rub his back, shifting the camera from one shoulder to the other.
When they finally overtook him, the man was well on his way towards the exit. Nancy ran up to the sidewalk, waving her microphone in the air like a flag. Her skin gleamed with sweat, and her hair stuck to her face and neck.
"Sir!" she called. "Wait!" The man turned around. The discombobulated crew of two pushed pulled themselves up onto the sidewalk. Nancy scampered over, blocking the man's path before he could leave. "Sir! Can I get a moment?"
The man looked up, a sneer turning his lips, as if it had all been some game of chase. Nancy ran a finger through her hair and flashed a smile.
"Hi! My name is Nancy Bryan, and I'm with Sinnoh Now. I'm on the hunt for everything that's hip and happening all across the country. I'd like to take no more than two minutes of your time to ask you a few questions. Is it true that Team Galactic is building something in the Eterna factory?" She thrust the microphone into the man's face, and he shook his head.
"No comment." He turned to leave, but Nancy jumped in front of him again.
"What's the nature of this project?" she pressed. "Is it a new piece of technology?"
"I said no comment." The man continued walking. Nancy Bryan followed, her voice rising.
"Is it an electronic device of some sort? A computer? A—"
"Enough!" The man pushed the microphone away with his fist, just inches away from hitting Nancy in the nose. "And get that blasted camera out of my face! If you even think about putting this on TV, I'll put a million-dollar lawsuit on your heads! You hear? Go home!"
Nancy watched him leave, her shoulders drooped. Forgetting her businesslike composure, she hung her head like a child, letting the microphone dangle from her hand. "Turn it off, Ned."
The cameraman lowered the device and placed a lens cap over the camera's gaping eye. "Hey, no worries. At least we tried."
"Tried doesn't cut it!" Nancy snapped up, turning to face her companion. She tightened her grip on the microphone. "What's wrong with me? Everywhere I go I get spat on like some creature! The SNN reporters don't get half as much bullshit as I do, and their stories are crap!"
"Calm down," said Ned. "I'm sure we'll find a good one if we keep looking. No offense, but Eterna's not the best place you could've picked."
Nancy glared at him. "Gee thanks. Thanks a bunch. That really makes me feel better, you know, especially after I drove twenty miles over here, no air conditioning, the sun baking my skin like a freakin' toaster, having to fix two flat tires along the way, and dealing with you and Tom singing karaoke songs in the back!"
Ned raised both hands in defense. "Nancy, just be rational. Team Galactic obviously doesn't want to talk to us. That's not worth beating ourselves up over. There are a lot of good stories out there, and I don't see a point in spending the rest of eternity chasing this one."
"No! Don't you get it?" Nancy said. "Team Galactic has never done an interview before. Never! Just think of the credit we'd get if we got just a one-page story about them. A single sentence, even. But they won't fucking let us in! I hate that!" She doubled over, and her eyes spilled over with tears. Wet mascara ran down her cheeks in little gobs. "I hate this! I just... I'm just so sick... and tired of constantly having to accept junk! You know that? And when you keep accepting junk over and over and over again, that's what you become. My life is junk." She buried her face in her hands. Pretty soon, her sobbing could be heard from within.
Ned patted her back. "Come on. Don't cry, Nancy. Your life's not junk."
"Yes it is!" Nancy wrenched out of his grip. "I am sick of you and Tom and Bobby always bugging me about doing some random story. Yeah, sure, I could give up and just do a report on a supermarket scandal, what will I be doing different from the other hundred networks out there? That's right, nothing! If I can't get people to talk to me like I'm normal and the SNN people can, then my life is pointless! I might as well just go back home and stay there with a paper bag over my head."
"It's just one story. I really don't think SNN will care if we do something else. They're not expecting us to break ground — they just want to see that we can support ourselves."
"No!" Nancy said. "That's the thing — they don't expect us to break ground. They don't expect us to do anything. They want to watch us fail, which we will, so they can buy our network and leave us broke." Her voice cracked, and she spilled a fresh downpour of tears into her palms.
"Relax. We'll keep trying. What's the deadline again?"
"J-J-July t-twenty-fifth..."
"Okay. That's more than enough time. We'll just have to think of a better way to talk to these people. No offense, but I think you come on too..."
Nancy looked up before he could finish. Her face was blotchy and streaked with ruined makeup. "Too what?"
Ned chuckled. "Never mind."
Nancy wiped her eyes and yawned. "All this heat is making me hungry. Let's get something to eat before we go."
They went back into the marketplace and found the Wonder Fish stand. The man was still selling, and by the looks of it, selling well. People stood on all sides with fish sandwiches, filets, and still more fish wrapped in foil. Nancy made her way to the front of the line and dropped a pile of coins onto the counter.
"Two sandwiches please."
The man smiled. "Coming right up!" He withdrew and came back moments later with two sandwiches wrapped in paper. "Tell your friends!" he called as she walked away.
On their way out of the marketplace, Nancy peeled away the wrapping and took a bite of the white meat. It was soft and tasted like... fish.
"Wow, this is really good!" said Ned. "Better than Horsea, in my opinion. I wonder what it is."
"Not now, Ned. We have to think. How are we going to get a scoop on that factory in a month?"
"I don't know. We'll have time to think about it, though, right?"
"The point of all this is not to wait till the last minute!" Nancy ripped another chunk from her sandwich and chomped it down. "We've tried writing, and that failed. We've tried live interview. Failed. What else is there?"
Ned shrugged. "I don't know."
"Don't tell me there's nothing left! I know for a fact that SNN is doing something else. They did a whole freaking segment about Fuego Ironworks. Fuego Ironworks, Ned. Those guys don't just take live interview requests."
"Are you kidding me? SNN practically snuck inside. There's no other way they could have gotten pictures like that."
All of a sudden, Nancy stopped. "Wait."
"What?"
Nancy smiled. "I think there's one option left for us." She looked north, where she could see faint puffs of smoke from over the trees.
"What are you looking at?" Ned pressed.
Nancy ignored him. "Come on. We have to meet the others." She stopped beside a garbage can and threw her sandwich away before moving on.
That morning, a beat-up van had been parked on the curb by the marketplace. A logo, pasted in bold letters on the side, read: Jubilfe TV. The van was bulky and dirty, something that would be the subject of ridicule in most large cities, but here the sunlight gave its curves a pristine glow, a mighty symbol of innovation against the plain, undeveloped town.
Two men were leaning against the van's side, sipping Coca Cola and staring absently into space. One wore a baseball cap, its visor lowered over his face. The second stared lazily up at the trees. A cart with various sound equipment stood between them.
"This place is such a bore," said the first man, lifting the visor to rub his eyes.
"Tell me about it. This place is practically a jungle. I haven't seen this many trees in, like, ever."
"More than Jubilife Park, you think?"
The second man took a sip from the can and waved his hand. "Nah, this place puts Jubilife Park to shame."
Both men began to laugh. The moment was as fleeting as the breeze, and then they settled back into an awkward silence. The trees seemed to soak up every attempt at conversation, leaving nothing to do but stare at one's shoes. Even the Starly which they often spotted passed by without a sound, as if silence was a community rule.
"That's it, I can't take it anymore." The man in the cap crushed the empty can in his fist. "I'm turning on some music." He climbed into the van and started the engine. The radio came to life, and began to blast an upbeat song through the empty street.
He came around and slumped back beside the van. "That's better."
"Aw come on, that's all that station ever plays. Be a man, would you?"
Bobby grinned. "Fine." He went back to the van and turned the radio's dial, scrolling through a string of random songs. He didn't have time to settle on one, however, for when he stole a glance through the windshield, he saw Nancy and Ned coming up the road. Eterna was the only place in the world where you could cross the road without looking and not have to worry about being squashed.
"There they are!" He and Tom looked over as they approached. The pair looked as if they had walked for miles—their clothes were stained with dirt, and Nancy had two black lines streaking down her cheeks.
"Whoa, Nancy, what happened to your face?" said Tom.
"Later," Nancy said. "Come on, we're packing up. Get the sound equipment and put it in the back."
Ned opened the van's double doors and placed the camera inside its holder. Bobby and Tom lifted the cart.
"Well, did you get the story?" said Bobby. "Did that Team Galactic guy talk to you?"
"Not yet. But I have a plan."
"What plan?"
"I'll tell you as we go."
Nancy climbed into the passenger seat and took a mirror and tissue from the glove compartment. She began to scrub her cheeks, succeeding in removing most of the mascara and leaving the rest in two circular smears. She'd take care of those later. Nancy dabbed her shoulders and chest, which had become moist with perspiration during her run.
As the rest of the crew climbed in the van, she cradled her head in her hands and took a slow, deep breath, a calming routine she had developed over many years in the business.
Relax. You can do this.
Tom closed the driver's door and started the van. Nancy adjusted her mirror to check her hair. A-ok.
Behind her, the van's window showed a slip of sidewalk sprinkled with leaves. Not long after the van pulled out of the curb, the figures of two boys could be seen strolling down the sidewalk.
//////
The fisherman's stand was at the edge of the marketplace, an island surrounded by a small circle of people. Michael pushed his way to the front, and saw the man wearing an apron, holding up two wrapped packages.
"Two Wonder Fish sandwiches with lettuce? Anybody order two Wonder Fish sandwiches with lettuce?"
Someone held out their hands, and the man graciously exchanged the packages for a handful of bills.
When the man saw Michael, he grinned. "We meet again! I'm afraid if you want a sandwich, you'll have to wait in line." He indicated the mass of people in front of him.
"It's okay," said Michael. "We don't want a sandwich. I was just wondering if you could give me one of those pokémon. Whole."
The man's eyes widened at the unusual request. "I'll see what I can do, but you'll have to wait in line."
"But we don't have — oh, fine." Michael recognized a losing battle when he saw one. He edged himself into the mass of people, who struggled to arrange themselves in a line.
Apparently the meat had been a hit—everyone was leaving with two or more of those same sandwiches, happily eating them as they walked.
"That must be some meat," said Henry. "I wonder what that pokémon was that he discovered."
"That's what we're going to find out."
Several minutes passed before they got to the front of the line. The man beamed down at them.
"So what did you want again?"
"One of those pokémon," Michael repeated. "No sandwich or anything. Just whole."
The man wrinkled his nose. "What for?"
"What does it matter? We're paying for it," said Henry.
"Well, I can't argue with that logic... all right." The man withdrew and came out with a large mound of tinfoil. "Tell your friends!"
"But of course." Michael faked a smile and hurried off.
Henry caught up with him. "Where are we going now?"
"We're going to make a call to Sandgem Labs."
Henry gaped. "Why?"
"You'll see. Come on."
They hurried back to Bertha's house and found a telephone in the living room. Michael bent down beside the table and picked up the receiver.
"How do you even know the lab's number?" said Henry.
"You'd know a number too if your mother kept it pinned to the fridge for three years," Michael said as he dialed.
The phone rang, and a breezy female voice answered him. "Hello! You have reached the office of Sandgem Labs, pioneering the field of pokémon research since 1866, this is Rebecca speaking, how may I assist you?"
"Hello," Michael said. "I have a report to submit to Dr. Emerson, concerning a sighting of a new pokémon."
The clerk paused. "What is your name?"
"Cory... uh, Hershey."
Henry snickered.
"I'm sorry Mr... Hershey, but we don't accept tips like these from callers. If you'd like, I can mail you a form that contains the instructions for a proper submission."
"No!" Michael said. "Look. This is an emergency."
"I am sorry, again, but there is nothing I can do. Protocol is protocol."
Michael took a moment to think. "Okay. Okay, so can you tell me something else? I understand that... ah, that there's a summer program going on in the lab sponsored by the professor?"
"...Yes," the clerk answered stiffly. "But registration has closed, I'm afraid, as the program is already in session—"
"Yeah, I get that. It's just that I know someone who is currently in the program. His name is Leroy, and I have an important message for him. Do you, by any chance, know his number or something so I can call him?"
"Even if I did, giving a personal number out to a third party is strictly against our policy. I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere for this Leroy." With that, she hung up. Michael slammed the phone back down and groaned.
"Why did you want to talk to Leroy?" asked Henry.
"I wanted to get him to report this to the professor.
Henry picked up the phone. "Hang on. Let me try something. What's the number again?"
Michael told him, and Henry dialed. And waited.
"Hello?" said Henry. "Yes. Hi, my name is Henry McPherson." He hesitated, but he was obviously doing this for effect. "Sorry, I um, thought that the professor would pick up. See, I went to get my starter from him yesterday, and I noticed a problem with it, and the professor told me I could call him anytime to ask a question. So if you don't mind... could you forward me to him?"
Michael lifted an eyebrow. Henry smiled and winked. Whatever he was doing, it was working.
A second later, he beamed. "Hi, professor! It's me, Henry, remember? No? Well that's okay. You'll remember Michael." He quickly handed the phone to Michael, who brought it to his ear slowly.
"Uh... hello?"
The wheezy voice of Professor Emerson answered him. "Ah? Who is this?"
"It's Michael Rowan. I have something important to tell you. It may change your life." The professor paused. He didn't hang up, so Michael continued. "See, while I was walking the other day by a river, I saw a weird pokémon. It was a Horsea, only it looked kind of different. Bigger, for one thing, and the meat was white instead of pink. Horsea meat is always pink, you know, so I knew it was a different pokémon."
The professor seemed to be scratching his chin. "Did this pokémon have a longer, thicker snout, and were its fins larger?"
Michael opened the package. The description fit the bill. "Yep."
"It's a different pokémon. That's a Seadra."
"Is there any relation between the two?"
"Somewhat," said the professor. "Though their physical structures may seem different, there are certain similarities in their DNA... but that's too much to get into right now. I say it would be fine to use either in a battle. The Seadra does not present any powers significantly superior to the Horsea as far as we know. Good bye." The professor seemed eager to hang up. Michael leaned back against the armchair.
"That guy sucks," he said.
"What did he say?"
"Basically that it won't make a difference if you use a Horsea or a Seadra—that's the pokémon's name—in a battle."
Henry shrugged. "So... it's a good thing then? Bertha's Roselia could be one of those look-alikes too."
"At any rate, I think he's lying," Michael said.
"Why?"
"Because, two different species don't look similar just for the heck of it. Chrome Dome said that there were similarities in their DNA, and that means that they can't be two completely different species."
Henry just looked at him. "So what are you saying?"
"I think Bertha's Roselia is like Horsea and Seadra. It's the same as a Roselia... but not quite different." Michael looked down at his shoes. "I don't know what it means for the battle, though."
"Me neither," Henry said. "Let's just hope it can't shoot missiles out of its hands."
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