Chapter 13: R4 | Missing No.
When the phone rang Toril yelped. Lights out, curtains drawn, she hadn't left her hotel room since the battle. She had no idea what time it was and only a vague conception of the day.
So she—and Heidi, her Mawile, in her arms—watched it ring.
Only one person would call through the hotel phone. Only one person would call.
Unluckily, even in avoiding her, Toril was enveloped in her. She didn't spend her time cooped up screaming at herself—only the first hour. She researched. Every second of tape on Aracely Sosa, competitive battler. She watched most of it already, before their first match, but back then she didn't know who Sosa was.
Sosa's group stage wins looked entirely different now. Predictions Toril once thought were baseline competence rewrote themselves as savant invasions of her opponent's subconscious. Toril paid attention to Sosa herself: her face, her posture, her hand signals. Instances where uncertainty transformed to epiphany at the last moment.
The phone kept ringing.
Sosa's tape pissed Toril off because it didn't help. Sosa's weaknesses were blatant. A Pokémon she never saw before showed up, and she hit it with an ineffective move or failed an easy switch or refused to account for an ability. With Mawile now known, Toril only had one Pokémon left in her back pocket. One surprise wasn't enough for Jinjiao or Gladion. So she watched the tape over and over, searching for something else.
It was so stupid. Toril was the third seed, Sosa fifteenth. Toril won their last match. By rights this should be Lachlan Nguyen again, a blowout. Why, then, did it feel like Sosa was favored? Why didn't Toril have enough faith in herself to be the hero of her own life?
The phone kept fucking ringing.
Toril pushed Heidi off her, danced between Ingmar and Gustav curled on the carpet, and wrenched the phone off its hook.
"Wnrrrgh?!"
"Miss Lund this is reception. We've received a call from an outside number. Normally we wouldn't bother you, but he claims to be your father. Will you take it?"
"Hgh?!"
"Thank you. I'll patch him in shortly."
As Toril wondered whether this were a plot, the phone clicked. A heavy, rasping breath crackled.
"Toril? That you?"
Her father's voice was long purged from her mind. Or so she believed. Suddenly, she smelled alcohol.
"What do you want?"
Breath. "You've done good for yourself." Breath. "Not like your brothers."
"What do you want?"
"That's how"—breath—"you talk to your dad? It's been. Five years?"
"Seven. I left seven years ago."
"Funny. Life feels so short when you're living it." Breath. "Tell me how you've been. They pay you good in those tournaments?"
"Just ask for what you want. Don't give me this I-wanna-reconnect shit."
Breath. Breath. Breath.
"Big popular girl on TV. Don't need to talk to your dad, do ya? Got lots a friends now do ya?"
Toril said nothing.
"I know my Toril. You don't talk to anyone. You don't like anyone. So spare a minute for your dad can't ya?"
Toril's thumbnail twisted between her teeth.
"Your dad's not doing so hot. Thought you might like to know. Got jabbed by a Croagunk few weeks ago. Lungs ain't been right since."
Breath.
"Need an operation. Got a few debts, too."
"Just ask for the money already."
"I just thought, since you're famous now, you might have a dime for the man who raised and fed and clothed ya." Breath. "Your mother sure didn't do shit, skipped out first chance she got. Hell. I had half a mind to ditch you on some doorstep, but did I? I stuck with it. I did the responsible thing. You owe me."
"I owe you?"
"You were always a little shitter. I mean it. When you were a baby you shat all over the place. Foulest diarrhea shits and I cleaned it up. Cleaned it up and changed your fucking diapers Toril."
"Operation my ass. I give you money you're drinking it. Fed me? You fed me? I sure don't fucking remember it. I don't remember having more than one fucking shirt and it's snowing outside and you're out somewhere doing who knows what and there isn't a fucking crust of bread in the whole house."
"Toril. This is your personality. You always hate people. You always think the worst of them. You know what that teacher of yours said? She said you had 'antisocial tendencies.' She said you might be retarded. I said 'hell no my girl's not retarded.' I fought for you. Now you're remembering what you want to remember to forget your duty to your family."
"Duty! I made myself, okay? At least I can say that."
He coughed. "My chest's on fire, Toril. I ain't gonna ask for a lot. Enough to get me back on my feet. I know you got the money."
"It's not about the money. I have tons of it. I don't even spend it. I just hate you."
Breath. Cough. Breath. Breath. Cough.
"I'm dying, Toril."
"Then die."
"You bitch. You little bitch. Like your mother. Worthless skank whore."
"There we go. That's it. Some honesty."
"Honesty? You want honesty, Toril? For all your money you're gonna end up like me one day. Yep. It's in your blood. Antisocial tendencies, ha. These bigshot trainers get old and drop off the planet. What'll you have then, you stupid bitch? When I die I'll laugh, cuz I know one day you'll die like me, sad and alone. Sad and alone—"
Toril hung up.
Hand pressed to the receiver, head stooped, her shoulders heaved.
She smiled. She laughed. Her Pokémon tilted their heads.
"I did it myself," she said. "Nobody helped me. Aracely Sosa can't say that."
Heidi waddled up to her. Toril bent to scoop her up, then saw the letter clenched between her jaws. An envelope, pretty pink stationery.
"Where'd you get this?"
Heidi pointed to the door. Light spilled under the crack.
Toril shredded the envelope. Inside was a card.
Don't CHU know? the front read. A Pikachu poked its nose inquisitively toward a morose Mimikyu.
We're best friends! said the inside. Pikachu and Mimikyu hugged each other. Mimikyu's shadow arm patted Pikachu on the back.
Florid but precise penmanship read: Let's talk! Promise I won't read your mind :p Kisses, Cely
Toril almost tore up the letter, but a second look at the squiggly smile on Mimikyu's fake face and she tucked it into her pocket instead. She gave Heidi the ripped envelope and Heidi squeezed it to her chest in glee.
"Dammit."
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The hotel restaurant advertised a five star chef at brunch to prepare sausage and bacon. If you reserved enough in advance, they offered to show you the free range imported Lechonk before they slaughtered it, but Domino forwent that luxury.
Not that Britt let him eat bacon anyway. Grains and fruits and whatever he snuck on the sly, but damn was it tough to keep secrets from an empath. His plate looked pathetic. Britt looked sanctimonious.
When he and she took up fork and knife, a magazine slapped the tabletop between them. Cely stood beaming.
"No scandalous exposé in sight."
Domino lowered his utensils and motioned her to sit. (Britt, after a pause, tucked a cut into her mouth.) Cely didn't sit, so he rifled through the pages.
Sure enough, nothing. Aside from the typical quarterfinals recap, puff piece interviews, and next round predictions, the only bit of investigative journalism involved Yoshinobu Ito's match fixing scandal.
"They pulled it."
"And you were so worried."
Domino tapped the spine with one finger to slide it back to Cely. "So your team put pressure on them."
"They're not a team, Dad."
"So your health and wellness center put pressure, same fucking difference. I know this mag. I did interviews for them too you know, way back when. If they can't publish the article they'll leak it."
"Nobody cares. I'm already giving them a better story."
"You're young." Domino speared his cantaloupe and shoved it into his mouth. "You don't know. Only thing they love more than a rise is a fall."
"You sound like Mom. Besides, in two weeks there won't be time left for that."
"The hell does that mean? Sit down. Let's talk strategy. Toril Lund Part 2. We lucked out last time to get that lead, don't expect it again. She's been in the box all your matches studying you. What I think is—"
Britt pointed and Domino looked up from his plate to see Cely dip out the gold-lined restaurant doors. Before he shouted, Brittany reached over the table to press her hands to his chest. He relented, sagged back, and tried to enjoy the meal, since it cost an arm and a leg anyway. (Just being here did. The hotel was reserved for competitors. He basically bribed his way in.)
"She doesn't care what I think, Britt. Two months ago, hanging off my every word. How's that work Dad, what's best against this Pokémon Dad. That's how we won regionals. Now she thinks she doesn't need me."
The worst part, though, he didn't say. Not that he needed to. Brittany understood whether he spoke or not, and after years in that condo he got used to speaking for his own benefit. It didn't benefit him to speak the worst part, the fear churning in his chest. The fear she was right.
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Within its trainer's phone, Rotom sorted data superfast. Its goal was simple: to make its trainer happy. The best way to accomplish that? Show her what she wanted before she even knew she wanted it. By analyzing prior behavior, Rotom identified patterns and extrapolated into the future.
Thus, it decided its trainer would definitely find interesting the new thread titled "IPL SEMIFINALS PREDICTION THREAD," trending at over 70,000 likes and 9,000 comments. These were the three comments Rotom thought its trainer would most enjoy:
1. From Scolipede4567, "I emptied my account when I saw the books still had Toril favored. About to make the easiest mil of my life. New pair of shoes inc"
2. From R0cketWillReturn99, "sad pathetic toril lundt ripping off selys fashion. shows shes completely lost the mental game. gg"
3. From tsareena_sniffer, "I predict Cely will wear her sandals again. FREE THOSE HEALTHY TOES" (Plus replies: "The only thing she wears more than once is her bracelets." "Limiters for her psychic powers. Like Sabrina." "LMAO")
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
These posts combined heavily favored keywords like "Toril," "Cely," "shoes," "fashion," "sandals," and "psychic." Rotom offered them ecstatically, but its trainer engaged less than hoped. Okay! Rotom filed this behavioral pattern into its repository of observational data to provide better results next time.
Rotom's trainer manually searched for "Aracely Sosa RISE." After Rotom provided her with the most relevant results, she emended to "Aracely Sosa RISE Health & Wellness Clinic."
This search bore fruit! Rotom would remember this additional context for the string "RISE"! It hoped to be praised for a successful result, but silence was good too. Rotom's trainer spent particular time reading the following thread:
"Apparently Cely is in with that weird health & wellness center."
"RISE? Who cares? She interned there two years ago. Is that place even that bad?"
"They opened a branch in my city recently. My brother went to check it out and they kept him inside for EIGHT HOURS. They made him watch a million videos for a 'screening.' He barely made it out, the vibes were totally off."
"But they haven't actually done anything right."
"There was that story a year ago. Some lawyer looking into them disappeared."
"Who runs RISE anyway? Their site just lists the CEO as MOTHER."
"Who knows. You have to 'work your way up' to see her."
"How do you even work your way up a health & wellness center?"
"Yoga idk"
Rotom's external sensors, which detected electronic devices, picked up the approach of another individual. To Rotom's delight, this individual was also carrying a Rotom phone! Wireless signals swapped instantaneously:
"Hello other Rotom (Phone). I am the Rotom (Phone) of Aracely Sosa! How are you?"
"I am happy, Rotom (Phone) of Aracely Sosa. I am the Rotom (Phone) of Rajesh Viswambaran!"
At the same time, the trainers passed each other in the lobby and shared pleasantries of their own.
"Sup, Cely."
"Ready for Red on Saturday?"
"Been ready my whole life. First thing I remember is him on the telly."
"Good. I better see you in finals."
"I'm not one to miss a date. Seeya."
The fleeting moment of harmony ended, but Rotom remained pleased, especially since it stored the event in its memory to recall at any time. It hoped its trainer would soon encounter the trainer with the Porygon-Z named Rune. Rotom normally detested glitches, but erratic behavior aside, Rune proved pleasant company. Unfortunately, Rune's trainer did not possess a Rotom phone or other electronic device beyond the laptop, making them difficult to detect.
Everyone should possess a phone! Connectivity was a wonderful thing. Rotom remembered when no humans carried phones. Information was much more difficult to gather then. You could always count on humans to improve the world over time, though.
Rotom's trainer received a text message from a member of her friends list, Charlie. Rotom brought it immediately to her attention:
"Why the beret?"
"what beret," Rotom's trainer typed, then deleted.
"huh," she typed, then deleted.
"what are you talking about," she typed, then deleted.
"funny way to say hello but ilu2 xoxo," she typed, then deleted.
"surprised u watched the matches or did haydn make u," she typed, then deleted.
Rotom registered perceptible changes in its trainer's heartrate. After several furtive glances, she deviated from her expected route between the lobby and her room. Rotom accessed an online map of the hotel to determine she had entered a loading dock, intended for staff access only.
The electric character of the surroundings shifted. Lighting arrangements altered from aesthetic to functional. The familiar and pleasant pattern of keycard readers evenly spaced down the corridor disappeared. Nobody else, human or Pokémon, registered at all. Rotom's trainer often had unusual reactions to messages from her friends list, which Rotom assumed meant she was happy to hear from them.
"it made her cute," Rotom's trainer sent.
Soon, Charlie replied. "You ripped out that girl's soul and replaced it with your own."
"melodramatic much?"
"You trample the aesthetic of everyone around you."
"charlie off her meds again"
"You cannot let them be themselves. They must be you."
"its clothes. cute clothes but clothes"
"You don't believe that. That outfit was 4 out of 10 maximum."
"tors loved how she looked"
"She tore her clothes to ribbons onstage."
"she does that every time shes losing its her fun quirk"
"You know what you did. I only end your self-deception."
"plz charlie. ur in college. get laid already. i beg u"
Charlie sent no reply, though Rotom's trainer paced the dock for five minutes and twenty-seven seconds, weaving between piles of unused crates and dangling metal hooks. Then, something strange happened.
The dock's sole security camera turned off.
While it was common for lights to turn off, security cameras were another matter. They ran consistently, sometimes with a motor that made them turn. (Rotom loved the motorized ones. Whirr, whirr!) This unfortunate malfunction must be reported at once, though Rotom's only way of communicating with its trainer was via preprogrammed messages intended in response to specific uses of the phone.
Rotom then sensed something else electrical, though it had no idea what it was, which was extremely abnormal. It seemed to be some sort of handheld device, neither phone nor music player. This fascinated Rotom to the exclusion of all else. What could this device be? A novel creation of human ingenuity? Hardly surprising!
Fast footsteps came from the side, bringing the device with them. Rotom's trainer yelped; her heartrate skyrocketed. She dropped the phone. Its screen cracked against concrete.
The jolt shifted Rotom's focus. Could this be danger? Rotom was not supposed to leave its phone unless asked, but clearly irregular events were occurring. It initiated emergency override protocol, but someone snatched the phone and shut it off, instantly putting Rotom to sleep.
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Nilufer kicked the deactivated phone aside while her two male subordinates gagged Aracely, bound her wrists, and worked on her ankles despite her thrashing.
In the end, Aracely's status as weapon meant nothing when she rarely carried Pokémon on her save Rotom.
Other than a single yelp, everything happened too quietly to draw notice, and the loading dock wouldn't be used until that night. Upon scouting the area beforehand, Nilufer discovered most of the IPL agents Fiorella mentioned were stationed at the stadium, leaving the hotel a vulnerability. Still, Nilufer watched the door with MOTHER's device, just in case.
"Back the truck into Port C, like you're here to unload," she said to a subordinate.
Nilufer didn't anticipate Aracely entering the loading dock. Aracely did it on a whim, apparently provoked by something she read on her phone. However, their kidnapping plan involved spiriting Aracely away through this exact loading dock, making it an uncanny stroke of serendipity.
She disliked it. Though MOTHER praised her rational mind, Nilufer considered herself superstitious at heart. Or perhaps logic, rather than superstition, guided her intuition here. Aracely proved twice before capable of anticipating and neutralizing RISE's attempts to return her to the fold, so it wasn't absurd to imagine her overly fortuitous entry into the isolated loading dock a trap.
Nilufer knew staff shifts and schedules, though. As far as guests, only a few remained this late into the tournament. Seconds passed and nobody came through the door. This did not allay her suspicions, but in absence of further evidence she decided to proceed.
She lowered MOTHER's device and reached out her hand. Her fingers pressed to the smooth ridge of bone along Aracely's upper chest. She felt the beat of the heart. Fast. Aracely made muffled cries through her gag. Her eyes were, for the first time Nilufer ever saw, full of fear.
A violable creature after all. No favor of fate, no more than anyone else, who might be lucky sometimes, and unlucky others.
"I prefer you this way," Nilufer whispered. If only MOTHER saw her like this. Then her sentimental delusions might be dispelled. Aracely was not vital. She was not worth jeopardizing so much. This kidnapping plot was dangerous beyond compare, it threatened everything even if it succeeded. What happened when a semifinalist vanished? The IPL would snoop. They would know where to look. Even one misstep might undo all.
Still, Nilufer did as MOTHER ordered; a weapon, nothing more, perfect in this one point of specialization, honed ways no human had ever been, capable of actions they thought no human could ever do. And she'd prove it, and in their fear they would respect her, and in their respect they would love her.
What was Aracely Sosa to that? A smooth talker, an insightful listener? Or simply lucky? Luck was no substitute for Logos. Luck was its antithesis. MOTHER must know. Sentimental attachment...
Her second subordinate opened the gate to Port C. Dawn light stabbed into the zone until eclipsed by the truck backing inside. For only a moment, the interior flared, but even so Nilufer saw an image that filled her with shock and horror.
She spun and pointed MOTHER's device. "How? How are you here!"
In the corner, amid hooks and crates, a single person stood. More dangerously, beside her stood a Pokémon, having only just emerged from its Poké Ball. The ice dragon, Baxcalibur.
"Let Cely go," said Toril Lund.
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That stupid cutesy card thawed Toril's ice bitch heart the bare minimum to get her stumbling out her room, muttering some self-justification: hit a wall, change of scenery, food maybe good, whatever. She spotted Cely leaving the restaurant and hid behind lobby foliage. After a brief encounter with Raj, Cely descended into her phone, which gave Toril opportunity for stealthy pursuit.
Who knew what she expected to see. Some true Cely, stripped of tricks and charisma. (The Cely she almost saw that day, in her room, until she cut her off. Unless even that Cely was another trick.) Maybe she only wanted Cely to notice Toril being a creep and say something catty enough to justify hating her. Either way, Cely's phone occupied her full attention. She looked upset.
Which fueled Toril's appetite. She hurried when Cely entered a side door marked STAFF ONLY and slipped inside as it shut. The darkness and clutter let Toril hide among crates at a perfect viewing angle.
Then this shit happened.
"Let Cely go," Toril said.
"Did she tell you to be here? Did she plan this?" said the RISE woman from Pewter City.
"I came here myself."
The woman was pointing a bizarre, long object. Two men watched by the loading gate. Everyone looked terrified. A reasonable reaction to Toril's competitive-level Baxcalibur.
"Do you," the woman said, "know what this is?" She indicated her object.
"A camera?"
That was Toril's gut guess, but it looked like random junk. A pair of black pipes taped to a board. A handle and wayward wires. Cely kept screaming into her gag, fidgeting as best her binds allowed, trying to tell Toril something, but it came out unintelligible.
The woman said, "It'll kill you faster than god."
Cely nodded fast, as if saying—what, exactly? The woman wasn't full of shit? Vague unease penetrated Toril's heart, where the stupid store-bought card burned within an inner coat pocket, but she crushed it. Even if that ramshackle piece of junk was some kind of weapon, it was nothing compared to what stood next to Toril. She placed a hand on Baxcalibur's shoulder. She hardly needed to reach, she was that tall. She towered over them: Aracely, the woman, even the men. Toril had always been tall. Ungainly but tall. Here, for the first time, it seemed to matter.
Her defiant stance struck the woman, who kept her object raised while her face faltered. An instant of doubt. Toril knew from that alone who had power here.
"Instructor Nilufer," one of the men hissed. "They'll realize the camera's out soon."
Nilufer said, "I don't want to kill you, Toril."
"You won't."
This, too, struck Nilufer like a blow, but she continued like it didn't. "I've researched you since Pewter. I feel some... empathy... for your life experience."
"Who the hell are you to feel sympathy for me?" Toril almost laughed. Giddiness surged through her. She was, she realized, one of the most powerful weapons in the world. Sympathy? And they felt sympathy? Because of what, some rotten backstory, some father from a world seven years removed crawling out the cracks of time to clutch pleading at her boot? She did it herself. From nothing, not even a scrap, pure dedication and will. Sympathy!
"You realize," the woman said slowly, stilted, "Aracely is your enemy."
Toril snapped back to reality. "She's my friend."
"If we take her. If you say nothing. You advance to finals. You understand?"
"A trainer of my caliber"—Toril's tongue stumbled, she started over—"A trainer of my caliber would never—"
"She manipulates you. She planned for you to be here. There's your precious friendship." Nilufer's face contorted. "She knows what this device does and still she dragged you here. To die for her. Control and companionship, the forces of this world, wake up and see which side of the coin you fall on, Toril!"
"A trainer of my caliber would never take a free match. The point is to prove yourself!"
Nilufer opened her mouth to say something, closed it, then opened it again. "The dragon beside you is domesticated. It knows to never hurt a human. It'll hold back. I won't."
"You don't have a single Poké Ball on you. You only have that piece of junk."
The woman split an upturned corner of her mouth. Under industrial light shone the barest glint of tooth. "Don't tempt me. You're not the only one wishing to prove herself."
Toril stood tall. Her smile felt wild on her lips. Do it, she thought. Fuck with me. All the endless idiots watching at home laugh when Garchomp wipes Ingmar with Iron Head, but none would do better. Eight billion chaff bodies beneath her boots and she towered, colossal, Toril Lund.
"Instructor Nilufer!" a man said. "We don't have time. Whatever you're gonna do, do it!"
All hung suspended on the head of a pin. The card in her inner pocket burned so hot Toril didn't realize the heat was her heart pounding. Cely ceased struggling, only stared in stupor, brow covered in sweat, a detail Toril would have never noticed if it wasn't Cely. In that sweat shone the collapse of the final barrier. Great ease took hold, the kind of tranquility Toril only before felt in wildernesses beyond reach of civilization. Their eyes met in the mutual understanding true vulnerability formed. Was it so much easier to bond with Pokémon because, once captured, they were at your mercy? The delight of one's own intoxicating magnanimity? Was that what parents felt? Was what he said on the phone not a lie, at least in his own mind, was it what he really believed? The fantasy was always that you could love another. In loving another, you might be able to love yourself...
These confused thoughts gave way. The realization gripped her that Nilufer might actually be dangerous. The object she held remained ominously level at Toril's face. Blackness peered from the twin tubes, as though something faster than god waited inside to spring out.
Nilufer's smile shriveled. Her eyes glinted to the door leading to the hotel.
Then, abruptly, so fast Toril nearly told Baxcalibur to attack, she seized Cely's shoulder and threw her onto the ground at Toril's feet.
She kept her object trained as she retreated toward the truck. "There's no point ruining everything here."
"Are you sure, Instructor Nilufer? MOTHER demanded—"
"Let her vent her frustration on me. The world ends in twelve days. Someone has to keep their head."
They climbed into the truck. In seconds, they were gone.
Toril briefly considered stopping them. But if her Pokémon got wrapped up in violence, it spelled real trouble. Those IPL assholes were always looking for excuses.
Instead, she went to Cely. The thing to say in this situation was—
"Are you okay?"
Cely couldn't answer. Placid, she watched Toril expectantly. Toril had no idea what she expected until she finally nodded at her binds and Toril went "Oh yeah" like a dumbass.
Increasingly annoyed tugs managed to free ankles, then wrists, and finally the gag.
"Toril." She spat flecks of material. "Toril. What the—what the fuck."
Toril knelt over her, aware she wore a weird smile. Fear drained out, but a residual rush remained. The sense of height. When Cely rose, brushing dirt off herself, Toril rose alongside her, remaining a head taller. "I did it," she said as though she needed to say it to believe. "I saved you. I was—pretty cool, right?"
"Toril. If you ever see that woman again, do not fight her. Okay? Not for any reason. You don't know how dangerous she is."
"I—I had it under control." Her gloved hand gestured at Baxcalibur. "Didn't you see?"
"That object—you don't get it—" Her hands fell on Toril's shoulders.
Toril brushed them off. "Fine then. You're welcome." One arm extended and Baxcalibur returned to his Poké Ball.
Confusion more than anything prevailed as she turned for the door. The card in her pocket still burned. As if this time the barrier between them came from Aracely, as if either of them were only willing to truly—connect—on their own terms, and not the other's. Or could it not come otherwise? They were competitors. Not simply against one another, but in their souls, their identities staked on this concept of winning, and there was only one winner. A story can only have one protagonist. A world only one master. People—Pokémon.
Aracely tugged her jacket from behind.
"Wait. I'm—sorry, Tors."
Toril stopped.
"I'm just—I was just shook up, y'know? You're right. Thank you so much. Without you, I would've been in big trouble."
Toril sighed. Her shoulders slumped. "It was nothing. You're—you're sure you're okay?"
"They only tied me up."
"You really need to keep your Pokémon on you. Should we—uh—call the cops?" This sounded like the right thing to do, but Toril hated bureaucracy, so she was glad when Cely replied:
"No. No, that'll just cause trouble. There's no reason to tell anyone. They didn't actually do anything." Cely skipped past Toril, taking her by the hand as she did. "Come on, let's get out of here. Want something to eat?"
"Um. Yeah, okay."
As Cely led her out, Toril noticed something on the ground and stopped to pick it up. "Hey. You dropped this."
"Omigosh! I'm such a ditz, I to-o-otally forgot." She tucked the cracked Rotom phone into her pocket and, together, they headed to lunch. If some obstruction remained between them... Toril wasn't sure, but she thought she saw something shining through like a crack of light. As Cely spoke enthusiastically over a no-carb vegan burger, ideas manifested in Toril's mind one after another, the ideas that failed to come alone in her room: ideas how to beat her. Ideas how to win.