. . . approaching Route 30: the burden of being a token 'best one'
There was a scarcity of actualized people. People who could, and wanted to, rely on themselves, who had ambition of their own, and some dedication, just enough. When things slowed down, there weren't enough people trying to pick things up again. They only circled the one or two others they perceived as 'higher' than them, hungrily, waiting for other people to do the heavy lifting.
—a scarcity of actualized Pokémon. But she didn't mean 'Pokémon' — it wasn't a word she had recognized, or even today, casually used. She even hesitated to call it the 'correct' word, just the human one to describe… what she herself could only describe as the miscellaneous 'others' of this society. The bizarre and the eccentrically outlandish with a whimsical biology to them that seemed to fit squarely in the round peg of humane mundanity. And yet 'Pokémon' were the foundation to the everyday. What would a person be without a Pokémon?
Girafarig considered herself a very smart 'other,' — 'person,' ''Pokémon,' what-have-you — but when it came to existential stuff like this, she was in the dark, her brain caving in on itself; all this was just impossible to figure out on her own. What was she even vying to know? Perhaps some founding understanding of how the world around her worked. She couldn't wrap her head around what the people of Johto actually 'talked' about when they stood about, meandering. She couldn't even comprehend the problems they might face in the everyday. In the end, everything came down to 'Training,' and even then, Girafarig couldn't recall anyone who returned from the general act as a bettered and enriched persona, only the handful of familiar names of kids who would become so 'eventually' if they left.
Her tail maintained vigil behind her, so veering from her tangent, she was alerted to Mihra's stunning lack of self-preservation come alive again. The girl was all sunshine, skipping and smiling beside the slow-moving pickup steered by their 'aides.' Caleb Goodman — Goodman-sama — a portly man whose edges spread greasily across his forehead, manned the wheel in his long-sleeved Alolan shirt. Next to him sat a younger man of somber disposition, slouching stark against the vibrant colors and laissez-faire, 'fuck it' disposition of the driver. Yoshi-sama wore a dark hoodie and was busy lighting a cigarette.
They were only important for Mihra's insistence to strike a conversation. She was asking about the Pokémon here, and if 'Killian' was a name you could trust, because she didn't really think so.
When her tail gnashed its teeth, the girl listened, albeit with unneeded hesitance, eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment, but she shrugged it off and took a brisker pace, falling more into line with Girafarig. The 'aides,' she anticipated, were relieved at that. Order was stored, for a moment, before they united with the group.
So she returned to her tangent, which had soon become a rant against 'Pokémon' as a whole, those like the Murkrow who relucted to rely on humanity like humanity so relied on them; she didn't understand why they clung to fragile primalities like this 'food chain' where the bigger man, who was always human, was the anchor for everything in their life. Ultimately, they relied on humans to give them meaning, but they ignored the aspects of being human that were objectively better than being a 'Pokémon.'
It wasn't cathartic being a self-proclaimed genius, because she was isolated with the understanding that no one else wanted to improve themselves. She was an exception — that stung badly, because it also compelled her to believe she was and would the best at everything she set her mind unto, now and hereafter; it was false self-aggrandizement. Any 'other' that could outmaneuver her would destroy her in a fight. She was strictly talented in the department of thought, and in this world, it wouldn't help her one bit.
She thought the journey would give her a sense of escape, or at least of empowerment. Or maybe she was naive as these kids they were going to meet. Alternatively, they just hadn't gotten far enough, if there was a true sense of progression to be felt at all.
It's only posing as a Pokémart.
------She knows the moment she halts in front the double doors and they fail to open for her. But, unfaltered, despite the incessant tug of a Girafarig's teeth on the hem of her skirt, she pushes through into the convenience store.
------Immediately, the place smells cynical and chemical to her — a hospital smell, and she would know. The nefariousness is as palpable here as the irony of the peeling, Clefairy-print wallpaper; she recalls all those efforts to reverse the "Big R" days, and what aspects of prior criminality went unaccounted in the process. It's apocalyptic, the floor and shelves swathed in disarray. Amidst the snap and crackle of the sound system, a man belts from a time past:
------Are you happy? / In the warmth of last night / I softly whispered as I held you tight.
------Though there isn't any use in studying — everything else is all just first impression — and she is very much sick of sightseeing in this town, so she strides to the countertop at the face of the room. And the cashier just watches her. Respiration mask on his face, yet a lit cigarette in his fingers, the butt red-hot. A reminiscent round scar, a perverse bindi of a burn mark on his forehead. Besides that, he is tensed figure of gauntness and steady black eyes.
------A Murkrow partner peers imperiously overhead. Silent — even as the music croons, this place is
silent. And the way Lana-Noon forces through to stand beside her, she anticipates any attempt to leave will be more so them being let out of this place.
------And yet, there is very little for her to fear. Oetsu Mihra smiles and says to the shopkeeper, "Good morning."
------No response.
------Nothing lost.
------"Let's cut the crap, yeah? I have the money for ten Pokéballs. But I know the system."
------Lala-Noon strangles a cry of resistance; Mihra makes her offering in clattering, flattering coins, falling over one another from the girl's hands onto the countertop. The cashier considers it with little more than the metallic reflection in his eyes; he's staring at
her.
------"So," Mihra continues. "Let's barter. 2000 Poké, exactly, for one Premium Ball." She leans over her hoard, supported on freckled arms, with the same crooked, cocky smile. "I don't need to explain how that's the
perfect deal, you know."
------But she was going to, anyway, until the cashier interrupted.
------"Kid. You know the Professor?"
------Her Girafarig swallowed hard. And Mihra, she dialed back, confused. "Uhmm." Not knowing how to answer, and sufficing, in a mumble: "I guess."
------In that instant, it wasn't a matter or question of "whether she did" as he rasps next,
"Do you know them." There is something in the man's hand as his arms hang unfolded, and as he slides his thumb across it, Lala-Noon recognizes before she can even rephrase - a blade juts to life between the shopkeeper's fingers: a box cutter.
------The girl is stricken with a sense of mortality that she hasn't in a long time. Physically, she freezes, but the words come flying: "You can pull a weapon on me if you want, doesn't matter, if you know me, you know I don't have that long anyway, so you're just loading even
more charges on you then you'd reasonably need already, what with being a retired gang lord."
------Lala-Noon moves first. She is between Mihra, the counter, and the cashier as the cashier vaults the latter. One arm is poised with the box cutter, the other acts as leverage, just as Mihra had propped herself. Seconds before. With it pressed against the counter top, she perceives the bulge of lean muscle, once subtle. The man is pale, not with sickness but an apparent hunger that brings color to his dark eyes. He has dropped his cigarette in the space behind him.
------They can't break for the door, though Lala-Noon glimpses back anyway with a longing. The Murkrow adds a low croon to tune of
Yukata Ozaki1, a putrid, black reminder of its presence like the subtle insignia of a cigarette burn. There are close to a thousand scenarios of what it could do, many of which involve uninhibited Pursuit, none of which they are in sufficient position to counter.
------The cashier rasps,"Don't care. And not retired.
Do you know them."
------Mihra doesn't dare to breathe, but at least knows exactly what to say. "I don't have contact information, but I have a location. I'm meeting three other Trainers at the base of Route 30: Jack Siegal, Kilian Warren, and Hugo Colthearts. I can give you contact information for any of them, at least one of them probably knows more than I do, and I don't know much. But we're inevitably going to meet them either on the way or at Violet."
------"So you don't know where they are."
------"No, and I don't know anything about who they are or what they do. I'm just like everyone else there."
------The more she speaks the more breath she loses, like running, running for her life on automatic, nothing going to her head. The cashier is strangely cool throughout it all, and she manages to channel that survival instinct so arbitrary to her into a loathing, having her
spill and continuing to stand there, blade in one hand, brow heavy with disgruntlement,
like he's the one at a loss.
------Begrudgingly, he does retract the box cutter to his side, behind the countertop. "Nhh,
fuck." Set back a bit, he dips into the store depths to recuperate, leaving Mihra and her partner under the gaze of the Murkrow.
------He appears shortly after with a package, plunks it on the counter, tears it open with the cutter, still in his hand. Everything in and about this place
lingers. When he opens the box, he takes out a little white sphere and hands it to Mihra.
------"Seriously?"
------"You paid for it. Overpriced rinky piece of shit."
------"This is seriously supposed to pacify me."
------"Dumb kid. I'm not letting you go."
------She shuts up.
------The man turns to vanish again, behind the curtains. To busy herself, she turns the Premium Ball over and over as it grows to fill the cup of her hands. Lala-Noon nuzzles her shoulder in the current span of peace— a
CRACK echoing from the back sends her taut again, as the cashier
CRACKs and
CRACKs again, barking,
"HUH!? That's
fucking right, punk!That's fucking right! You won't say SHIT—!"
------"Oh, no" It hits like a spell. Mental tumult, and not enough time to register, and a certain self-hatred from failing to register in the first place. Dumb, dumb kid - it was true. But she didn't deserve this. Fuck, she just wanted to catch a Rattata or something in a fancy ball.
------The cashier reemerges, again, all too casual. "Don't cry, kid. Don't wanna scare the cops."
------"Mm." She's heard that quip before. She hadn't planned to, but wipes her eyes all the same.
------"What're you gonna do…?"
------In response, the cashier jabs a finger towards whence she came. "In a few minutes, some 'personal aides' are gonna escort you through Route 30 with your gang: Siegal, Warren, Colthearts. They're not gonna do anything to you.They're just gonna
follow you, and you get them through the route."
------There was no successive, affirmatory, "Got that?" There was simply quiet, steady understanding. And regardless if he knew, the silent swear of revenge, that this was
not over.
------Lala-Noon was wracked with anxiety, and she put a hand on the Girafarig's shoulder in an effort to steady her as the Murkrow launched into motion, wheeling overhead like a bird of prey.