“Hello hello, listeners! This is Trainers Daily, and I’m your host, Jackson. I do hope you are having a wonderful day, I know I am! Welcome back to the podcast, or welcome to the podcast if it’s your first time joining me. As we always do, folks, we are working our way down the list of trainers to look out for on this year's Kalos gym circuit. This episode we’re covering numbers 25 to 20.”
Jackson’s excited intro is infectious; it’s his love for his job and positivity that keeps me coming back to his show. While there are more popular podcasts to choose from, they tend to tear into trainers for mistakes - or worse, lambast the pokemon themselves to shift the blame - Jackson always speaks of trainers and their team's merits, discussing ways they could potentially cover their weaknesses. It’s a solo affair, but he occasionally snags a trainer he’s analysing to join him, like this episode's guest.
“Coming up for the 25th spot, we have Butch Sullivan. This coming circuit is to be his second time around the block. This guy is absolutely fascinating; from the unique pokemon who make up his team to his eccentric style in battle, we have a lot to cover, folks. But before we start, I have a message from our sponsor-”
My Holo Caster pings, so I skip past the sponsored section, pause the podcast, and tap on the messenger app.
Message from: Dad
Hey, sweet pea! Me and the guys at the site have run into a bit of a problem, I’ll be home an hour later than planned for our afternoon together >:(. I’ve transferred some money into your account so you treat yourself to lunch at the cafe. Xx
Message from: Me
Aw man, that sucks :(.I could order that BLT you love to go?
Message from: Dad
Don’t worry about me starving, Frankie. The boss is getting us all lunch. It's the least he could do, clearly.
Message from: Me
Demand hazard pay.
Dad has laughed at a message
I smile before turning off my Holo Caster, getting up from bed and stretching my arms up as I head to the kitchen to clean up, starting with the dishes.
Dad’s boss always has him hard at work at the construction site; he enjoys his job and the people so he never complains, but I know he appreciates it when chores are done after he’s spent the whole day on his feet lugging stuff around so he can just collapse on his chair when he gets home. Plus, I’m still in my loungewear; no sense in getting ready to go out for lunch only to splash myself with dirty dishwater.
After I’ve set the dishes in the sink to soak, I dry my hands and pick up my Holo Caster, though I’m interrupted before I can unpause my podcast.
“Ten?” I glance over at my Litten, Oscar, and roll my eyes.
“No, Ozzy, I’m not putting on wrestling just for you. This shouldn’t take that long.” Turning off the tap, I walk to my room and give it a brief once over for any truant dishes, though Oscar weaving between my feet and rubbing his face on my legs makes the walk more of a challenge. He looks up at me with pleading eyes as I check the living room, picking up a couple of Dad’s mugs.
A thud has me look over to see Oscar, trying to work the TV remote while standing on the coffee table. If his goal was to batter it off the table with clumsy paws, he succeeded.
He looks disdainfully down at it as if it’s the remote’s fault for not working, not his lack of opposable thumbs and dexterity. I stifle a snort at his antics, his ears still flicker towards the sound.
Lowering into a crouch, he wiggles, in an exaggerated manner I might add, before pouncing with a fierce battle cry of ‘Litten’. He catches the remote, and his fur has puffed up in a dramatic fashion as he continues batting the remote, scampers away, holds his position, and pounces again.
You know, to surprise the inanimate object.
The remote slides beneath the couch while he valiantly tries to squeeze underneath to continue his vicious assault. I break the act first, snorting at his tomfoolery, before picking him up and setting him on the couch, and then returning the remote back to the table.
“Fine, fine, you win. For that performance, I’ll award you some wrestling.” Oscar preens at the praise, purring but unfortunately, I’m still smiling as I sit up, so his affectionate headbutt results in:
“Blugh, gross! Fur in my mouth! Dude, why?” I sputter dragging my teeth across my tongue at the sensation of hair and smacking my mouth at the nasty taste reminiscent of how gasoline smells.
Oscar mrrowls apologetically while his paws pat at my face, failing to help remove the fur from my mouth. I pull away before his claws can catch my skin. I know Oscar would never scratch me on purpose, but - like any pokemon - he has the capacity to slip up and easily dangerously injure anyone . With one hand I rub the space between his ears, then smooth my hand down his back and up his tail, while trying to pull the fur out my mouth with the other.
I do not succeed.
He shifts on his feet, nervous I’ll rescind the wrestling because of this. Ridiculous. I’m not a petty enough person to do that.
“You're good, dude.” He angles his head for another scritch, then settles down on the couch. Flicking to where we watch reruns of old matches, I select one of Oscar's old favourites.
“None of the new stuff, Dad wants us to watch it together.” I glance at Oscar to see if he agrees but he’s already too absorbed in watching the old match, all his paws hidden as he loafs on the couch. Huffing slightly in amusement as good natured exasperation floods me, I stroke up his soft ears then stand.
Oscar loves watching the wrestlers put on their performance, a well-crafted angle riling the crowds up, and he’s always been right there with the audience on the edge of his seat to see whether the heroes would triumph or if the villains would dominate every move, raising the tension.
He’s fallen off the couch in his excitement a few times, and it's adorable how invested he gets. When we first began bonding with each other, I’d been a bit confused at his taste for the sport. Dad has always been a big fan of wrestling and I’ve always been game to watch a match, so seeing a tiny Litten sat right in front of the TV utterly enamoured by the sport was a little bit odd, but not unwelcome in our household. It was only when a team from Alola debuted with an Incineroar as their mascot - the cat spoiling to join in on the fun, their manager holding his arm to keep him on the bench - when I thought to look into Oscar's interest a little deeper.
As it turns out, the Litten line are known for their love of wrestling, Incineroar especially love to play the part of a Heel - the ‘villain’ in wrestling. A sneer is often found plastered across their muzzles, mockingly mouthing off anyone close by, body language tailored to being imposing and intimidating. They’re notorious for cruelty and arrogance, which worries me for Ozzy’s future attitude once fully evolved.
While I’m not expecting him to evolve for quite a few years now -without a constant stream of battles the strength needed in body and mind for a pokemon to evolve safely grows slower, albeit at different standard rates depending on the species- I’ve been careful with how he understands the role of being the Heel.
Incineroar are seen as their entire personality being a mix of sadism and arrogance, not as though they are simply playing a part. I’m sure some people have raised their Litten without helping them distinguish between the stage and reality, resulting in an indiscriminately cruel pokemon who would blow off commands in battle from their trainer, but I refuse to do the same and let Oscar become that.
Patting down my pockets, I frown. Where on Earth have I left my Holo Caster? I wrack my brain for where I could have put it down, but come up empty.
Oh well, it’ll turn up. Still, I’m a little disappointed. I’d been looking forward to hearing about Jackson’s list; he always has interesting choices focused on potential rather than who’s consistently made it to the conference.
I’ve followed along a few trainers’ journeys on Jackson's recommendation, though in the last couple years I’ve both been more dedicated in seeing them progress–trying to follow along their posts and comments on the Kalos League Forums, watching their Gym battles live on tv, joining in discussions with their other ‘fans’ on the forums–and decidedly less dedicated because these last two years of senior school have been a mush of constantly cramming for tests, which eats up my free time.
Teachers, obviously, make the most of pupils' attendance being mandatory - I mean, 63% of 16-year-olds strike out on their own and try to be a trainer. Keyword: try. 70% of them fail in their first year rather than be anything of note, slinking back home with tails between their legs. Olivia and I made so many jokes about which of our yearmates were most likely to give up first; we ended up organising a betting pool including a variety of categories: first to come back, worst first Gym battle, most embarrassing showing of ego before being crushed - my money is on Bruno, personally - etcetera, so we’re looking forward to this circuit.
Hell, it’s not like I can claim I never fantasised about becoming a trainer. The profession is incredible and the people at the top are always a marvel, but I just can’t see myself succeeding if I tried. The statistics don’t lie, so why even try when I would only be dooming myself to failure?
I can make do with an office job. It’s not as if they aren’t in high demand, what with people lacking the education to qualify for them because they fucked off to play at being a trainer.
The dishes don’t take long to wash despite my musings, and while they’re on the drying rack, I wipe down surfaces and hoover the floor, idly wondering who had thought it was a good idea to have a carpeted kitchen.
The amount of stains I’d caused and had to confess to Dad in my clumsier younger years is abysmally high.
I spot my Holo Caster on the countertop, quickly playing Trainers Daily and pocketing it before I can misplace it again. Of course it was exactly where I had left it, where else would it be? Sarcasm is the only true way I’ve found to deal with object permanence issues without feeling like too much of a fool.
I pass Oscar on my way to my room and rub his head, a purr bursting to life at the brief contact. He’s almost done with this match, but autoplay is set to ‘On’ for a reason, it would take some time for me to get ready. If I time it right, the lunch rush might be over when we get there.
I kick my slippers off and grab my jeans and a plain black tank top from my wardrobe. Sliding on my favourite pair of black boots and I zip them up before heading to the bathroom and using the mirror and lighting to do my makeup.
Ah yes, eyeliner. One of the great evils in this world. I frown at my reflection as it continues to be imperfect, I have to be careful to make them even or I’ll end up drawing on wings that could fly away by themselves. Thank Arceus my eyebrows are nice shapes already. I don’t think I could go through shaping them consistently without letting my sanity go to the wayside in the process.
I gently add some to the right side before stepping back and taking stock of everything. I swipe at my slightly smudged lipstick, fix a stray curl and smile. Perfect.
I pull on my leather jacket, Dad got it for my birthday just over a year ago, and pat down my pockets to make sure I have everything. Keys, purse, wallet, Holo Caster, and Oscar’s luxury ball - rolling my eyes at its ostentatious nature - I press the button on the front to shrink it and drop it into my jacket's inside pocket.
“You ready to go, Ozzy?” He meows in affirmation, waiting at the door as I turn off the TV. Opening the front door, I let Oscar weave through my legs before he runs excitedly into the front garden.
Sunlight plays across Litten’s fur beautifully, the sheen of his black fur reminiscent of petrol spilled across tarmac. His red whiskers twitch as he shoves his nose into some dandelions, sneezing a small flame which, thankfully, dissipates before he can start another fire.
I click my tongue to get his attention and he trots over, tail high and happy chirps sounding off. Smiling at Oscar I raise an eyebrow and gesture at my shoulder. He hops up and I scratch him under the chin.
We set off for the cafe in comfortable silence with Oscar on my shoulder; he knows by now not to scratch up the leather. Even so, he likes to shadow box low branches and leaves which I would’ve otherwise ducked under.
----------------------------------------
The crumbling stone wall marks our passing into the old part of town, more commonly referred to as old-town. Cobbles underfoot vye to trip me up for the folly of not paying close enough attention to them. I’ve always found this part of town beautiful: the idyllic way cobbled streets wind to and fro lined with more modern flower boxes to add pieces of colour into the otherwise entirely cramped urban area, uneven brickwork angling its way up and up, buildings crammed together leaving the barest space for an alley between them.
It all speaks of a time long past, back when this town was confined to the now crumbling stone wall as their only protection. History books claim it was for their own safety from the wilds, but I think it’s more because the old monarchy didn’t want to spend more money on those in the Third Estate by expanding their small town.
I step off the path and through the bollards marking the town square as a no traffic zone. A weathered stone fountain has water flowing over the bowl's edge. A woman's Furfrou is lapping up water, panting from the Summer heat. The square is the only place in old-town which doesn’t feel cramped; its open space holds the sole grassy parts in this part of town, they lay in each corner. On one there is a rickety bench that has an illegible plate affixed to its back, likely a memorial for one of the wars. Nobody risks the chance of splinters in exchange for a quick rest, preferring to sit on the fountain's edge, even with the perilous nature of its slipperiness often leading to a dip in its cool water.
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Old iron street lamps have electric light bulbs fitted discreetly into them, the only visible modern technology is the local news shop with an old box TV, its antenna sticking straight up. A grainy video of the local station silently playing behind the shop window. The cafe is across the square, but Oscar hops off my shoulder and makes a beeline for the fountain—even a Fire Type can overheat in these conditions.
“Oscar! Get back here!” I stumble on the cobbles trying to catch up. Legends, I hope he doesn’t make a scene.
My Litten’s standing on the fountain's ledge, drinking water I nervously stand by, and while the Furfrou hasn’t noticed us yet, its owner certainly has.
“Oh my, look at him! He’s marvellous, a Litten, yes?” She’s smiling as she speaks, petting her Furfrou’s back.
She seems like a perfectly nice woman, one genuinely excited to meet an exotic pokemon, and yet-
A spitting hiss rises up from Oscar, he arches his back menacingly. Fur puffs up to appear as a bigger threat.
The woman’s eyes widen in shock and she drops a hand to her chest, taking a step back. Her Furfrou barks loudly at Oscar, teeth snapping shut and drool flinging from its mouth. Lunging towards us, only held back by its owner's death grip on its collar. I stare at the ground, quickly scooping Oscar into my arms as I duck around the fountain, all the while Oscar swipes his paws over my shoulder, yowling at the woman and her dog. I stroke his back trying to soothe him enough into lowering his hackles.
I throw a rushed apology over my shoulder as a I run to the cafe, something to the effect of ‘I am so sorry about that, he is awful with strangers,’ but since my words melt together in my haste, So I have no idea if any of it was intelligible or if she thinks I’m insane. She probably thinks I'm insane.
The bell chimes, marking our entrance, and cool air blasts into my face; a stark difference to the muggy air outside. By now, Oscar is lying in my arms, giving me innocent Litten eyes and purring as I pet his fur in a soothing manner.
My head lolls back as I huff in frustration at the ceiling, unceremoniously dropping Oscar on the ground.
I compose myself until I won’t stomp up to the counter despite my mood, and sit down, lay my head on my arms, and take a deep breath, slowly letting it out. Either that or scream in rage, but deep breathing disturbs the public less.
It feels like every time I go out with Oscar, I always end up carting him away from someone after he loses his shit for no reason. The first few times it happened, I froze. I’d hoped that it would peter off as he got older, but if anything it’s worse. Nowadays I try not to get mad at him because Arceus knows it only makes things worse, but it’s embarrassing. The fact that I can’t train him enough to be near strangers just proves I’d be an awful trainer anyway, so I suppose I have to thank him for making me realise that sooner.
I don’t need him to be friendly, just not make such an awful scene everywhere we go.
I’ve read up on it to see if there’s any decent advice, but it appears as though this is the expected behaviour of a Litten. Some even say they act this way towards their trainers, so that avenue of research was less than useless. The most annoying part is knowing he can be an absolute angel - most of the time - if he just gave people a chance.
I sit upright with a sigh, running a hand through my hair while I think and actually check out the current patrons of the cafe. It's pretty dead, since it’s after most people’s Friday lunch break. There is a guy on his laptop with headphones, nodding to a beat, a Whismur is dozing on his table next to an abandoned cup of coffee. A girl sitting at a table for four, entirely engrossed in her Holo Caster, her table empty except for a Sunkern shivering behind the napkin holder.
Oscar sits on the chair next to me but refuses to acknowledge me. He must be in a huff because I dropped him. I know he landed on his feet no problem—to him, it’s the principle of the matter.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts, this is supposed to be a fun outing for us. We can deal with this at a later date. I look down at Oscar and lightly click my fingers. His ears swivel towards the sound, so I know he’s listening even if he’s giving me the cold shoulder.
“Hey, Ozzy,” I softly say, “I’m sorry for dropping you. I knew you would catch yourself on your feet but it was still rude to do.”
He’s looking at me now, head cocked to the side, and when I offer my hand he butts his head against my palm, purring.
“I just don’t get why you do it, man.”
A scowl mars his cute face before he puffs his chest out and sits up taller. “Ten, Lit itte. Litten, ten Lit, ten en. itten.” His tail flicks in an agitated manner, the last word is spat from his mouth in a growl.
From what I can parse, Oscar thinks anyone could be a threat towards us? Or perhaps he’s articulating he finds them unworthy of our time?
I sigh and stroke his back. “Guess we’ll have to agree to disagree for now then, huh Oz?”
He nods at me and settles on his chair, careful not to scratch the leather cushion. Thank Arceus he knows scratching up furniture is bad. Having said that, I have no doubt that his ridiculously expensive cat tree curbs the impulse around the house.
It’s difficult to understand pokemon. Oh, there are stories telling tall tales of people able to understand them word for word, but that’s all they are. Stories.
Even people who’ve spent decades with their pokemon still struggle at times. Every few years, a new ‘high tech’ way to translate pokemon will be made, taking the internet by storm. It always ends up being a scam or under tested. The only tried and true method is with Psychic pokemon or those who can learn human speech like Chattot for direct speech.
There are some pokemon who learn how to type and use things such as text to speech or use sign language, which is something I want Oscar and I to work on once he’s fully evolved. Though for now I’m just teaching him how to read. His favourite genre of books is, hilariously, organised crime fiction, although he still prefers audiobooks despite being able to scroll on my Holo Caster using his paw pads.
“Ah, Miss Jones, how are you doing on this fine day?” I startle, pulled out of my reverie by a raspy voice, and turn back to the counter grinning.
“Hey Mr. Martin, pretty good, though this guy here,” I rub Oscar's chin, his eyes closing, head tilting up, “continues to be a menace.How’ve you and Mrs. Martin been lately? And for the last time, call me Frankie, Miss Jones makes me feel old.”
Mr. Martin has run this cafe for longer than I’ve been alive, he recently turned 67 and hosted a small get-together which Dad and I were invited to, it was a lovely party. Grey hair is thinly combed over the top of his head, he is built rather stoutly, his voice is gravelly from his old habit of smoking but kindness is still easily read in his tone. His glasses are very thick, though he tends to hold things out in front of himself and peer at them making me think they are the wrong prescription. Overall, he is an excellent cook making homely filling meals and a jovial man and has an appreciation of every facet of his life.
He chuckles fondly at me, but it strained his throat at the end and he coughs into an embroidered handkerchief, “And I’ve told you Miss Jones to call me André. Mr. Martin was my father, I’m not that old!” We both laugh at that, “But yes, the wife’s been good, though she has been getting on my case about my salt intake, I can’t help it makes the food taste better. Whatever do you mean that the young Mr. Jones here was misbehaving?”
Oscar sets his forepaws on the counter to lean over it, vying for Mr. Martin’s liver spotted hands, they sink into the black fur of his cheeks slowly rubbing in, “This young man here is an angel.” He delivers assuredly, nodding resolutely.
He lets go of Oscar's face and pats his head once. Turning around he runs the tap on the other counter behind him to wash away any of the flammable oil Litten’s skin secrete even though he knows it evaporates within seconds.
“You can never be too careful in the kitchen.” he would always tell me.
Mr. Martin is very dedicated in his defence of Ozzy, ever since they’d first met Oscar has completely loved the old man, which made his tendency to act out even more baffling. It depends entirely on the person and some unseen quality he hinges his judgement on.
“To you,” I say in mock reproach, “he can be a total nightmare when he wants.” I lean in closer, looking left then right for potential evesdroppers as if we’re about to share something classified, “Don’t tell Mrs. Martin, but I agree on the salt front. If she cracks down on it, I can be your dealer on the sly.”
His boisterous laugh cuts through the quiet in the cafe, but he quickly arranges his face into one of solemn sincerity and plays along, leaning over the counter he offers his hand to shake, “You have yourself a deal Miss Jones.”
His voice is grave and his grip is firm, warm though not clammy. A black and red paw pats down on top of our hands and we turn in sync to see Oscar matching the serious energy, making us break our act of solemnity.
“Now, I know you’re not just here to chat. What’ll it be today?” He adjusts his glasses, pulling the towel off his shoulder to wipe the counter, pushing the few crumbs that’d accumulated into his hand and dusts them off into a bin.
“Hey! I reject that sentiment. I’m also here for the fine company, as you well know, but I am half starved. I’m not entirely sure I ate breakfast today, so a ham and cheese panini with today's soup would be appreciated, Mr. Martin.” I pull my card out to pay, tapping it on the reader when the price flashes up.
Mr. Martin clutches his hand to his chest in mock horror, giving me a stern look. “Miss Jones, that is an atrocity! Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I’m afraid I must tattle on you to the missus. I’m sure she’ll provide some sort of delectable pastry free of charge if we swing it right.”
Mrs. Martin runs the bakery semi-attached to the cafe, though with her skill she could easily rebrand into a high-class patisserie. Mr. Martin bustles around to prepare my food, hiking a thumb over his shoulder at the side entrance to the bakery with a raised eyebrow, but I shake my head.
“I’m not gonna scrounge for more free food, I still think you should let me pay for Ozzy. The readily available duplicity, however, is appreciated. I might pop in to say hello and buy a couple of chocolate twists; Dad was held up at work. He always perks up when presented with Mrs. Martin’s baking.”
He nods, but not without half-seriously stating, “I’m still telling on you,”
He then focuses on making an undoubtedly delicious panini. After he puts it in the panini press, he ladles some tomato soup into a bowl while waiting for it to toast, and the two of us continue our conversation over my dad.
Eventually, I turn to Oscar and say, “Choose what you’d like, freeloader.” He regards me superiorly, deciding to ignore the playful jab…
Until he ruins his entire attempt at appearing serious and mature by standing upright, balancing on his hind paws to better read the menu displayed high on the wall behind the counter. I snort at the sight, stifling it as a cough. Pretending to clear my throat when he twists to peer at me, head tilted in confusion, but I wave off his confusion before subtly taking a photo - important blackmail material for a later date - while waiting for him to decide.
Oscar lowers back onto all fours just as Mr. Martin plates up my panini and soup, setting them in front of me with a flourish, before turning to Oscar with a gesture towards the menu.
“And for you, Mr. Jones?”
Oscar points a paw up. “Litten, en ten. Itten lit.”
Mr. Martin squints for a second, before hesitantly offering, “The skin on salmon?” as his best guess.
“Ten.” Oscar says with a nod.
I can see Mr. Martin discreetly celebrate while he fetches a fillet of salmon. His insistence upon treating Oscar as though he’s human is always entertaining to watch. Whenever something gets lost in translation, he‘ll pick Oscar up and raise him up to the menu so he can pat what he wants using his paw. I’ve never managed to figure out where he decided Oscar fits in our family; brother? Best friend? Some secret third thing?
Nevertheless it’s an enjoyable internal debate trying to solve, and asking directly would ruin the fun, though sometimes I cave and ask a subtle probing question to suss something in particular out.
The food is, as always, excellent.
The panini has just the right amount of crunch and fluffiness, the texture matching the scrumptious filling, cheese melting on the tongue with delicious ham, dipping it in the creamy tomato soup only elevates the experience. I smile as I hear Oscar’s purring, only interrupted by happy eating noises as he tries and fails to neatly eat his salmon, fish flaking off and sticking to the bridge of his nose which he can’t quite lick off.
At some point, a cup of coffee is snuck in front of me, and since I’d already drunk some before I noticed, that meant it was free via the rules of the strange game the Martins and I play. Mr. Martin regales us with an anecdote from yesterday while we eat, overexaggerating his skill at haggling in the town market for fresh ingredients, jokingly vilifying the fishmonger for not lowering his prices in spite of bringing his best deals to the table.
Right after I’ve finished my soup by mopping up the last of it with the remains of my panini, the bell above the door chimes.
Snippets of a loud conversation float over, and I glance over right as the group dissolves into laughter over something one of them said.
It’s three girls from my year, Emily, Gemma, and…Arceus, I can never remember her name, Clara? The girl at the table for four looks up from her phone and takes out her earbuds revealing herself to be Olivia. I quickly turn back to Mr. Martin, trying to tune back into his rambling tale and hoping they’re too caught up in their own world to notice me.
If it was just Olivia, I’d have said hello. It’s not that I don’t like the rest of them; we’re friendly to the point of sometimes eating lunch together in school and I share classes with all of them except for…Clarise?
I’m just looking to avoid awkward greetings. I sometimes struggle to do those when passing them in hallways, never mind going through the whole ordeal out in the wild. Suppose that’s what I get for going to the most popular cafe in town.
A tap on my shoulder brings me back. “Miss Jones, did you hear me?” Mr. Martin looks at me with a mix of vague concern and suppressed amusement.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine, don't worry.” I resituate myself so I can actually focus on what he’s saying, sheepishly adding, “I zoned out a bit, where were we?”
Mr. Martin chuckles. “I was just saying I’m out of bread and I’ll need to go plead with the missus for some of her fresh baked stuff. I’ll be back in a mo.” He waggles his fingers over his shoulder while wandering into the bakery.
Well crap. There goes one excuse for not talking to them.
A moment for him and Mrs. Martin takes at least fifteen minutes of adorable but time-consuming flirting, so I pull my Holo Caster out of my pocket, hoping that mindless scrolling will be enough to distract me. Wonderful day to forget my headphones.
Unfortunately, the girls are - and always have been - loud, so I overhear everything despite my best efforts to ignore them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the guy with a laptop slouching further in his chair and fiddling with the volume on his headphones. His Whismur is shifting in its sleep from the sudden ruckus, causing the guy to nervously pull out some ear muffs from his bag and cover the Whismur’s ears, allowing it to settle back into deep slumber. I vaguely recall Whismur’s can become distressed when disturbed by loud noises, and can cause headaches when crying due to their sheer volume.
“Gals! I’ve been here ages, where the hell have you lot been? Sunkern’s half asleep from the wait.” Olivia’s picked up her timid pokemon, protectively cradling it in her hand while the rest settle into their seats, their phones and bags strewn across the table.
“Sorry Olivia,” Emily says, genuinely apologetic, “Gemma got a notification from one of her socials about the most exciting thing this Summer break.”
“We got a little bit caught up discussing it on the way,” Gemma chimes in.
“Well don’t tease girls, spill!” Olivia says, their tardiness instantly forgiven in the face of new gossip.
I sigh, resigning myself to listen to the four of them blether away at something inconsequential. They can be good fun when it’s interesting gossip, but they can find almost anything to be ‘the most exciting’ piece of news. Ruthlessly picking it apart is the real fun.
Carrissa? starts, “Right, so y’know Audrey Davis-”
My knuckles go white as my hand clenches around my mug's handle, my stomach dropping at the mention of her name. Oscar stiffens beside me, claws threatening to dig into the leather of his stools cushion, so with my other hand I put my Holo Caster down and smooth his ruffled fur.
“Oh my Arceus, isn’t she Frankies’ Mum? Frankie Jones?” Olivia interrupts.
I can hear a smattering of disbelieving gasps going through the other three.
Rats. Maybe not so inconsequential then.
“Nahh, you’re having me on, pull the other one. I mean, she’s Audrey Davis. Frankie’s just, well no offence to her ‘course, Frankie. Where’d you hear that nonsense?” Even though I’m determinedly staring at my phone, I can practically see Emily leaning over the table in interest.
“Swear on my Mum's life, it's true.” I twist and see Olivia has her hands up in mock surrender while the other three have leaned in close.
I feel like I nearly gave myself whiplash from turning back around so quickly. Shit, I can’t leave now, they’d totally notice.
“I heard it from Bruno, he said he’d heard it from Casey. They say they overheard their Dad on the phone to Frankie’s Dad talking about Audrey Davis. Apparently it was something real private so the only thing I know for sure is Audrey Davis is totally Frankie's Mum.”
“Wait, was this the rumour from the end of last year? That thing about someone’s parent being famous?” Claire? What’s-her-name, sounds convinced.
“Yes!” Olivia's relief is clear now the heat’s been taken off her. “Thank you, the timing was shit it didn’t have time to get around. Honestly? I can see it.”
I can feel myself shrinking into my leather jacket. I want it to swallow me whole, compressing me down until I’m nothing but a speck of dust floating out the room.
I can still hear them debating the validity of it all, as if they’re great connoisseurs of information, experts in this field of study. Judging my appearance compared to Audrey Davis. Ripping apart my speech patterns, tearing into my mannerisms to see if there’s even a slight similarity.
I’m falling apart at the seams, being torn to ribbons so they can dig around at my insides, interesting parts yanked out for inspection, the boring pieces being discarded uncaringly to the wayside. My ears are ringing and I can hardly see what’s in front of me. I feel like I’m going to vomit. I’ve been dreading the day I’d be found out for years, naively hoping it wouldn’t come. Gossipping is pretty fun until you're the subject of today's session.
I feel a slight pressure on my thigh and blink, vision focusing to see him.
Oscar is looking at me, concern in his eyes. One paw is pressed against my leg, and he’s gently nudging my hand with his nose until I let go of the death grip I have on the mug. I flex my fingers to get some feeling back into them.
Crawling onto my lap and sits, Oscar is nosing at me until I pet him, digging my fingers into his warm fur until some semblance of sanity has returned to me. I can finally hear the world around me again.
Gemma cackles, “You cheeky bitch, why didn’t you tell us, Liv?”
“I thought you knew!” Olivia defends herself laughing lightly.
“Anyway, unless you have anything else earth-shattering to drop on us,” Gemma pauses, “No? Well then, back to what I found out today.”
“Yes, please Gem, update me on something new so you can recover from the embarrassment of being out of date.”
“Rude!” Gemma tries for offence but lands at amused. “Soo, Audrey Davis is finally leaving Alola and coming back to Kalos! Apparently, her new movie is set here and it’s taking her back home…”
The rest of her chatter is halfway unintelligible to me, some hogwash about her new husband joining her in Kalos, before devolving into a very heated debate about his merits in Smash or Pass.
What a horrible thing to listen to while having a crisis.
It feels as though someone has thrown icy water on me to study my reaction. Then moving on to stage two of the experiment, shoving me into the lake, forcing me deeper under the ice, and shrieking with laughter in the face of my terror, giggling at my desperate attempts to fight for air. I can feel pure dread soaking into my clothes, freezing me down to the bone, creeping cold clawing its way into my heart. Sharp, high-pitched ringing dominates my hearing again. I barely feel present in my body. I’m floating away. Or drowning.
So. My mother is returning to Kalos.