Chapter 10: R8 | Chilly Reception

Each quarterfinals match was a full day event, with live performances, meet-and-greets, and celebrity showmatches. The latter saw Iono, the analyst desk host, face Leon, the previous year's World Champion. Iono shockingly won, though online commenters suspected the battle was staged to showcase the new Terastallization tech being incorporated into the IPL rulebook next year. Iono's fan legion formed a counter-commentary force that analyzed Leon's post-defeat facial expressions frame-by-frame to determine whether he was suitably upset, and enough subjective data points were produced that truth became impossible.

Afterward, Leon gave an interview where he hyped Raj Viswambaran, who beat him in the Galarian regional finals, while also promising to be back on the IPL stage soon. "Simple facts. Galar's got the best trainers in the world."

The match that followed proved his point. Raj took the stage against Unova's Jacq Ray Johnson, Jr., a former World Champion and consistent presence in the IPL Top 16. When Jacq shut down Raj's signature Ribombee with smart Cinderace play, Raj kept his cool, navigated Jacq's always nasty mystery box Smeargle, and regained the lead. The match remained close to the end.

On the analyst desk, Bill called it the highest quality match ever played in quarterfinals. He highlighted how Raj intelligently sacrificed his Gholdengo to draw out Jacq's Ditto, which allowed Raj's final Pokémon, Kingambit, to snag victory.

"Raj did with his Gholdengo exactly what Jinjiao was too timid to do last week. That's World Champion-caliber play. If Jacq was on the other side of the bracket, this would've been our finals."

The next day's match, Red Akahata versus Minhyuk "SkiLL" Park, impressed Bill far less. It was hard for anyone to deny the outcome hinged on a completely unforced error SkiLL made when, predicting a switch that didn't happen, he allowed Red's Greninja to get a free KO, activating its Battle Bond ability.

"Red's obviously still good, don't get me wrong," Bill said, "but he gets a lot of leeway from name alone. People are scared of him. Sure, he's a six-time champ. But his last championship was a decade ago. The guy's gonna retire any year now. These young trainers need to stop losing their minds against him."

Then, on Sunday, September 28, Aracely Sosa faced Gladion Mohn.

The match generated buzz well before it began. Aracely's spectacular upset over Jinjiao and subsequent media spam made her an overnight sensation. A cute, charismatic girl in an arena typically dominated by the world's most antisocial dudes got people talking—a lot. Every angle seemed designed in a lab to stir discourse: the feminist question, the validity of her win over Jinjiao, her nepo baby status, even her use of a shiny Azumarill (shiny Pokémon having the reputation of upper crust luxuries). The amount of controversy itself created controversy, as a vocal group of online commenters became convinced Aracely was an industry plant meant to undermine the Battler's Union long a thorn in the IPL's foot.

Under ordinary circumstances, the pro- and anti-Aracely factions would've been evenly matched. A serendipitous twist of fate tilted the matter: by complete happenstance, Aracely's opponent was the most hated trainer in the tournament.

Gladion had never shaken his popular association with the Ultra Beast incident five years prior. While his younger sister did a media tour (or, as some called it, a forgiveness gauntlet, resulting in the erstwhile meme "LEAVE LILLIE ALONE") during which she loudly decried her mother's behavior, Gladion never said anything publicly. In absence of evidence, most defaulted to the interpretation they preferred: he was his mother's stooge. After his mother dropped off the map, Gladion's semi-frequent appearances as the IPL's Alolan representative made him the sole remaining visible target of scorn.

Thus, even those otherwise predisposed to emerge as Aracely's biggest haters muted their response to avoid being necessarily associated with Aracely's opponent. Every post against Aracely began with a hedging "I'm no fan of Gladion, but" that presented a wishy-washy front. The pro-Aracely crowd gained ascendancy. "This is the jolt the IPL's needed for years," they proclaimed.

The loudest voice against Aracely came, shockingly, from the laconic Gladion himself. In a pre-match interview, amid a sea of characteristic I-don't-want-to-be-here responses, Fiorella Fiorina asked his opinion on his opponent.

"Many consider her victory over Jinjiao a fluke. Do you agree?"

Gladion, arms crossed, narrowed an eye through the scrawl of studio lighting. "I don't care." It was the kind of response he usually gave, and Fiorella had already started her next question when he interrupted her. "Whether she should be here or not, that doesn't matter. What I know is, she can't win."

"You're that confident?"

He scowled. His blonde bangs bobbed. "She can't be allowed to win."

"What do you mean?"

"Look into her connection with RISE. That's all I'll say."

Fiorella cleared her throat and moved to the next question.

It failed to dim the aura. When Aracely walked onto the stage that Sunday, the stands exploded. Enough of them loved her that all of them loved her. As Gladion stared her down from his platform, she waved to the crowd. She didn't even look at him until the match began.

Gladion sent out Banette. Aracely sent out Galarian Slowking.

It was an unorthodox opener for both trainers. The announcers scrambled for an explanation. In the VIP box, Raj asked Domino what exactly his plan was.

"Ask Cely," Domino said hopelessly.

"Better question: What the fuck is Gladion doing? If Cely opens Meowscarada like last week he's fried."

"Gladion sucks," Yui said.

"No," said Toril. In her corner of the box, she was easy to forget. "It's Mega Banette. Prankster, Destiny Bond. If Meowscarada knocks Banette out, he faints too."

"That's a good trade," said Raj. "Waste Gladion's Mega turn one. We take those."

"Meowscarada's her fastest Pokémon by far. There are situations where losing him is a disaster."

"Either way. Cely's gotta switch now. Banette can OHKO Slowking with a ghost move."

As Toril predicted, Banette Mega Evolved. Its ghostly shroud unseamed. Unable to contain its newfound malefic energy, zippers of skin opened, and from them extended fleshy pink talons. The look was, Toril realized, similar to Gladion's trademark sweatshirt with its own needless zipper.

Then, Mega Banette danced. It started to rain.

"No fucking way," said Raj. "Rain Dance? He's using Banette as a stealth rain setter?"

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"He has Pokémon good in rain," said Toril.

"Then set with Pelipper like everyone else," said Yui.

"That's the thing, he usually does run Pelipper," said Raj. "What's he smoking bruv?"

Domino paced like a madman, wringing his hat through his fingers.

"It's the element of surprise," said Toril. "He studied what beat Aracely before."

Rain pounded the glass canopy over Aracely's platform. It collected on the arena in pools. Slowking stood, arms folded behind his back, unperturbed.

"Chilly Reception," Aracely said.

The VIP box went wild. At least, Raj and Domino did. Toril zoned them out. How? What was Aracely's thought process?

Slowking tilted his head. At his own leisurely pace, he regarded the audience, regarded Gladion, regarded Banette.

Then he told a joke.

It came out like garbled nonsense, of course, because Pokémon couldn't talk. That didn't matter. Everyone watching knew this wasn't just any joke, it was a bad joke. An awful, wretched, painful joke. Banette's face matched Gladion's exactly: one strained eye tip twitching.

The temperature plummeted. The rain turned to sleet, then snow. Within an icy mist arising, Slowking shrugged at his joke's reception, turned, and waddled back to his Poké Ball, allowing Aracely to switch in Gliscor.

It made no sense. As Raj said, Mega Banette could OHKO Slowking. To have Slowking use a move at all required Cely to predict Gladion wouldn't attack. And even then? Chilly Reception, an oddball move only Slowking learned, did nothing unless you expected rain. How was a move that summoned a snowstorm useful when Aracely didn't have a single ice type? In any circumstance other than this exact one it was pointless.

Toril conceived of two possibilities:

1. Aracely used Chilly Reception solely for its secondary effect, the automatic switch. Slowking was a scout, slow enough to let the opponent act first before swapping to a counter. Cely predicted Gladion to not attack (probably predicting that Gladion would predict her to hard switch), but the snowstorm screwing up Rain Dance was dumb luck.

2. Aracely read his fucking mind.

Credit to Toril's own capacity for rational thought, she deemed the first possibility more likely. She hated the temptation of the second, though.

That opening set the tone. Aracely read Gladion at every turn. When he expected her Gliscor to set up hazards, Gliscor used Earthquake instead. Rather than gamble away his rain setter with Destiny Bond, he switched in a Weavile that surprisingly benefitted from the snow, but Aracely saw it coming and switched to Rotom at the same time.

Amid Domino's shouts of joy, Toril realized: Aracely was actually a serious threat.

The IPL's format was her greatest ally. Each trainer registered nine Pokémon for the tournament, but these nine weren't revealed to opponents until they were actually used in battle.

A shit rule. Total crap. Toril admitted it, though it helped her. It lacked competitive integrity. Trainers who stomped groups without showing their hand got advantages in bracket. Sponsors liked it because it ensured favorites lasted longer. The broadcast liked it because it manufactured narrative excitement: endless speculation about the identity of Mystery Pokémon X culminating in a dramatic reveal to turn the tide of battle. Fans liked it for both reasons.

Toril hated it because she hated anything the sponsors, broadcast, and fans liked.

Aracely must have hated it too. In groups, she constantly battled Pokémon she never prepared for. Hence her unimpressive group stage record. Now, though, fewer and fewer Pokémon remained unknown. Even a favorite like Jinjiao only had one when he faced her. Gladion had none.

Rain Dance Banette was the right idea, but not enough. Aracely anticipated him switching Weavile into snow because she knew he had Weavile. She anticipated everything, and only needed to read his face—his extremely unsubtle face, twisted in rage—to determine what he'd do next.

The battle ended with the outcome never really in doubt. Gladion's pathetic, poorly supported Barraskewda flopped in the snow until it was outsped and deleted by Aracely's Choice Scarf Meowscarada.

"LET'S FUCKING GO." Domino shook Brittany violently. "It's fucking happening. We're winning the whole fucking thing!"

"Cely Sosa, semifinalist." Raj whistled. "We in it now."

"Bracket needs dynamic seeding," said Yui. "One upset and she gets the easiest opponent in quarters."

"Mad Yui?" said Raj. "Must suck facing Tors tomorrow."

"Don't call me that," Toril snapped.

"Catchy, innit?" Raj grinned at Toril and Yui, both giving him death glares.

"I'm loving the energy my fans bring online," Aracely on the jumbotron said to Fiorella Fiorina. "But I'm still not quite seeing the adoration I expect, y'know?"

Fiorella looked queasy, which made Toril queasy too. She went for the exit.

"You die tomorrow," Yui said before the door closed. "Say hi to the GF for me, Tors."

Those assholes. Toril's own fault for standing in their box. She'd get revenge on Yui soon enough anyway. It was Aracely that consumed her thoughts, Aracely entangled in her brain, probing folds of gray matter.

Toril couldn't shake the feeling it was a cosmic joke on her specifically. Even in her own head she now saw the reality where Aracely Sosa was World Champion more clearly than the reality where it was Toril Lund. Fate enshrouded Aracely, prophecy and mystic mumbo jumbo. It worked its magic, no matter how many invisible bugs Toril swatted around her face. A story can only have one protagonist. Her face on magazines, her voice in interviews, her name on everyone's lips.

Toril needed to murder these notions. In the end, skill won. Not fate. Exactly what Toril cut Aracely off to say. (Shouldn't have cut her off. Or maybe she should have. Falling under Aracely's spell was how she trapped you.) Honestly, Toril, go back to basics. Your classic strategy, barricaded in your room memorizing tape, blocking out distractions—

"Tors!"

And she was there. Toril didn't understand how. She'd been on camera only moments ago. How was she already here, how did she even find Toril? Or had Toril walked around the stadium grumbling to herself that long?

"I've gotten good, right? Giving very much actual skill, right?"

So she thought about that too. Toril stared straight down. "I—guess, yeah."

Ziggy was with her, wiggling in circles on his underdeveloped legs. Seemed she took Toril's advice to spend more time with him, at least.

"Remember our deal?" Aracely tapped lavender nails on the stitching of her handbag. "I need you to beat Yui, it'd be lame if we didn't rematch. So let's mess around with your hair a bit and I'll give you the insider intel."

"I'll—maybe—just watch tape—"

Useless. At this moment, Aracely radiant in the afterglow of victory, resistance accomplished nothing. Within minutes Toril sat in a chair in a lifeless women's restroom, confronted by a massive mirror.

"Just your hair. No makeup or anything. Unless you like it. But no! Just hair. I mean look at this, Tors. Doesn't it hurt, having this many little knots? Let me try detangling spray at least."

She spoke as though Toril had not hopelessly acquiesced, as though some barrier still remained between them—and one did, Toril understood. As Aracely spritzed her scalp, Toril felt like she was inside a submarine being swallowed whole by some monster. An oppressive identity weighed on her, massaging through biotin and collagen oil. Yet her hair loosened. Sharp snags unraveled. A peace came with the unfamiliar feeling of someone else's hands upon her, though her heart still pounded.

The fingers flowed through her hair, through her scalp, through her skull, into her brain. "You hate Yui, don't you? You can say, I won't tell. It's only you and me."

"I—she—ngh."

"She acts so superior, with her snarky quips. She won't admit how much she relied on Cynthia to get here."

"Those Hisuian Pokémon—" Toril ended there, thinking about her Zoroark, Gustav.

"Don't worry. You're nothing like her. You never clung to Cynthia's knees, begging. (Your hair is actually such a nice shade of blonde, we can do so much with this.) That's what I admire about you, Tors. You're so... independent."

While Aracely played with her hair, Toril realized she must be able to see the back of Toril's neck, the scars there creeping down into her collar. Maybe Aracely saw everything, with x-ray eyes, the monstrousness and devastation, the marks of an "admirable" independent life.

"Nobody has ever controlled you," Aracely continued, manipulating strands into styles, trying them against the mirror. "Nobody has ever made you do something you didn't want."

A bitter, ironic pang lanced Toril's heart. Aracely smiled, maybe seeing a style she liked.

"Why are you really doing this," Toril said.

"Don't you like it?"

The image of herself in the mirror looked like a prophecy. A few quick clips fixed it into place.

"I understand, Tors. I get it. Deep down, you want to be seen. You want everyone to see the you that you see in yourself. You hide because you're afraid they'll see something else entirely. Isn't that the problem, being independent? You stop people from changing you, but you can't stop them from inventing whatever image of you they like."

"When I win—they'll have to see—"

"You play for yourself. That's your strength. Yui's weakness is that she doesn't. She's playing for someone else."

Toril said nothing, expecting more, but Aracely spoke as though this aphorism was self-evident.

"Remember that and I know you'll beat her," Aracely said. "Now! Hair's done. Cute right? Do we stop there? Or do we continue...?"

Misgiving remained, the sense of a great mistake on the cusp of being made, but the fingers were inside her brain, ebbing through a barrier rendered semipermeable, and the mirror image—somehow—appealed. Toril gave her decision as a whisper.