Chapter 20: Finals | Finally

Sunday, October 12. The day of the final battle of IPL 64: Red Akahata versus Cely Sosa.

The Indigo Plateau enjoyed a steady stream of tourists the entire month-long tournament, evenly mixed between Kanto weekenders and global diehards. Now, though, the Plateau descended into logistical nightmare. Seemingly all 8 billion humans alive accumulated in this head-of-a-pin resort town. Massed bobbing faces swarmed pavilions and parking lots. Officers directed foot traffic via megaphones, temporary barriers prevented crowd crush, and flying Pokémon circled overhead with cameras for a constant eye in the control center, but it barely mattered.

Immense police presence was essential. Team Plasma's terrorist attack at IPL 51 doubled annual security expenses, and now one couldn't go three steps without bumping into a uniform. Anyone seeking to enter the stadium passed a stringent checkpoint. Poison Pokémon were unilaterally banned, Pokémon above a certain size or level were also banned. These policies continued to provoke controversy, and old timers or wannabe old timers groused incessantly about how the spectator experience was "meant to be shared by people and Pokémon," or explained "I went with my Scolipede as a kid and it was fine."

Regardless, the atmosphere contained the electricity of only so many bodies brought together. Kinetic and potential alike as people funneled into the stadium between behemoth posters of Red and Greninja, Cely and Azumarill. Under Red, text the height of a story read: ALL TIME. Under Cely: RIGHT NOW.

MOTHER turned off the holoscreen as Nilufer entered. The words ALL TIME, RIGHT NOW remained, a phantom. "Well?"

"Eighty-five percent of the Pewter police force is at the Plateau."

In most regions, the police were a branch of the regional league, generally obliged to assist an IPL event if asked. In Kanto, where the regional league was the IPL's direct subsidiary, it was beyond doubt.

"What about Leader Brock?" MOTHER asked.

"The IPL has requested all Kanto gym leaders be present for the pre-battle trophy ceremony."

"Exactly as your insiders reported. Excellent work, Nilu."

Nilufer briefly smiled, then returned to business. "They've left ten plainclothes agents around our headquarters to report our movements. I've identified their locations, but eliminating them isn't an option; they're on a regular check-in schedule."

MOTHER waved a gossamer hand. "I anticipated this, more or less. Are they strong trainers?"

"Surveillance specialists, mainly. I doubt it."

"So they'll report what we do, but not impede us directly." MOTHER held the table to help herself rise. "What matters is they don't realize the significance until too late."

"That depends on Bill. Are you confident—"

"I am."

"Very well," Nilufer said.

"Are our operatives in position?"

"Yes, they're ready to make the call now."

In the end, she didn't need Cely. She didn't. "Fetch my parasol," she said.

A few minutes later, the agents outside RISE headquarters saw, and reported, that MOTHER and her aide-de-camp left on what looked like a pleasure walk around town. No other RISE members accompanied them, no suspicious behavior. It was hard to tell if MOTHER, with her broad dress, carried any Pokémon, but Nilufer certainly didn't. MOTHER held an umbrella, and Nilufer a long, cylindrical umbrella case.

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Only one place on the entire Plateau was free of people: the competitors' hotel. Since Dad remained in recovery, and Red was a ghost, and the IPL put a freeze on interviews the final twenty-four hours, Cely existed in a state of isolation. She stopped listening to MOTHER's tapes, so what human voice remained? She tried to exist as Toril did, with her Pokémon lounging in the room (someone needed to watch them anyway), but all they did was make a mess. Ziggy pulled the sheets off the bed, Slowking snored, Momokins coughed up pungent green hairballs, Scizor stood around like a total weirdo and freaked her out.

Alas. In her heart she must love them. These, the heroes of our modern world. She gave Scizor a pat on its sleek metal head, which it regarded with complete confusion.

When she led her army of oddities down the tunnel that connected the hotel and arena, she noticed the distant pair of figures before they noticed her, even though they were waiting for her. She said nothing until recognition lit up their expressions, which came (for one) with a sudden squeal of glee:

"Celyyy! Omigosh, Celycelycely!"

Though it was a surprise to see them here, Cely found herself needing to act surprised. Facing a mirror, it was no difficulty. "Haydn? Haydn! Omigosh, Haydn!"

Haydn! Her beloved and adorable friend since childhood! Stalwart companion through successive intervals of elite private elementary, middle, and high schools. The sharpest dressed person Cely ever saw (besides Mom), an especial feat because Haydn did not have a model's physique.

In custom-fitted haute couture Haydn bounded the space between them and careened into Cely with an all-consuming hug. "I missed you so much, omigosh. Sososo much!"

"You have no idea how much I needed you here, Hayds. You would not believe the neanderthals I deal with on the daily."

Ziggy and the other Pokémon gathered around Haydn like she was a potential recruit into their ranks, though unsure how exactly she fit into the team dynamic. Haydn relinquished Cely to crouch beside Ziggy and squeeze. "Ooh! He's presh personified. Omigosh."

"You'll break his back, Hayds. I need him today."

"Right, right. Wow. This is, just, wow. So cool!"

"Cely," said Charlie as she finished walking the distance Haydn ran. Charlie wore an asymmetrical particolored blazer and a hairpin shaped like a tiny top hat, giving very much solve-my-riddles-three. Her flat affect shuddered only when, looking over Cely's Pokémon, her eyes met Momokins', who obligingly manifested a flower out of thin air for her.

"This is crazy. You both came to see me? I thought tickets were like, totally impossible."

Haydn giggled, the giggle of a secret she couldn't wait to spill. (Which was every secret. Gossipmonger extraordinaire.) "We-e-e received, two! VIP passes. Courtesy of, drumroll, your super cool mom!"

"Mom? Seriously?"

"Yep! She told us to surprise you. So, surprise!"

Cely was, in fact, surprised. "But don't you have school?"

"Pfft. Missing one day is whatever. Actually, we got your ticket for the return flight, so we can all go back to Visia together. That'll be so much fun, right?"

Aha. Mom's motivation revealed itself. Sorry to disappoint, Mom, but MOTHER was probably making her move about now.

"That sounds fantastic," Cely said. "Those all-day flights are complete killer solo. Or with Dad."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Tell me about it. If I wasn't so freaking excited I'd be jetlagged to oblivion."

"I'm ecstatic you're here. I'd love to talk more, but they need me at..." Her voice trailed off.

Haydn stared blankly, then her face snapped into focus. "Right. Of course. We won't keep you. After the battle, though, we're totally partying, right?"

"Unless she loses," said Charlie.

"Omigosh. Don't say that, dummy. Losing isn't in Cely's vocabulary."

"Not everyone can twist fate with their bare hands."

"Charlie, you say the strangest stuff. Still feeling the zolpidem?" Haydn whispered conspiratorially to Cely: "We only landed an hour ago."

"I am lucid," said Charlie.

"Suuure. Anyway, we party tonight no matter what, comprende?"

"Duh," said Cely.

"Now I'm sure you gotta, like, focus and stuff before your big match. Good luck! Break a leg! Hugs and kisses! Bon voyage! Knock em dead! Uh, whatever the heck else people say!"

Haydn waved exuberantly and did not stop. She waved at Cely, at Ziggy, at each and every Pokémon in the procession. Cely copied her enthusiasm, blew kisses, mwah-mwah, et cetera, but as the pair receded, her eyes lingered on Charlie, who while affixing Momokins' flower as a boutonniere mouthed three words: Remember your sins.

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Obviously, the broadcast crew couldn't be busier. Rehearsals went all week, but in these final moments before showtime everything whirled anyway. The analyst desk needed to be de- and reconstructed to include additional promotional material of sponsors paying premium for finals exposure, rendering the whole place a mess. Fiorella Fiorina barked orders at blue collar stooges carting the wrong thing the wrong place, then scolded someone wielding a slab of wood too close to a highly expensive and thus highly fragile camera. Only her force of will prevented everything from shattering into a million pieces.

So she was understandably irked when Iono of all people wandered into her zone. "I'm busy," Fiorella said.

"Gotcha, totally! But I uh, got word from, on high"—Iono lurched onto tiptoe and extended her hand, barely reaching above Fiorella's forehead—"and they, uh, said..."

"Camera F is out of position. I know. I sent someone already."

"They said you're not doing the winner's interview."

"There. Set it down right—What was that?"

"You're not doing the winner's interview."

Fiorella, finger aimed in a point, felt a slackness in her muscles though her arm did not waver. Her hands continued to work while her mind processed this information.

"I've done the winner's interview for twenty years."

"The word is—and I'm only telling you what they said, don't shoot the messenger—they think it's time for you to transition to behind-the-scenes."

"Who's doing the interview?"

Iono hesitated. She was already in full costume, wig and hair accessories and an oversized jacket to make her look smaller than she really was. Usually, in costume meant in character, but she seemed now as she did when Fiorella took her to the Old Man to finalize her contract: gray, unsteady, demure.

"I am," she said.

Fiorella heaved a sigh, which was the only outward display of displeasure she allowed herself to indulge in. These were the times to remember her self-help books: Nothing they do harms you. You are only harmed if your character is harmed, and you always control your own character.

"Okay," Fiorella said. "Thank you."

Iono buzzed off. Fiorella's arm motions and commands slowed. Curiously, the workmen kept doing what she wanted them to do, as if her thoughts transmitted via telepathy. Or as if they already knew what to do regardless.

Why cut her? Age? But her regimen worked flawlessly. No gray hairs, no wrinkles. Obviously nothing lasted forever, even with botox and facelifts and miracle ointments too expensive for your average UBI leech. Fiorella remembered her interview with "MOTHER," back before they called her that. "You have three PhDs, two grown kids, your own conservation organization, and you look the same as you did at twenty-two—I've seen the photos. What's your secret?" "Oh, nothing special," crossing lethally veinless legs as she brushed back a lock of platinum blonde hair. "Willpower." They laughed together.

That woman seemed like she would be young forever, but now even she hid her face from view. When reports later emerged about "willful negligence" and "scientific misconduct," Fiorella knew it was bunk. An accident happened, someone needed to be blamed. All the stuff about mistreating her children—when you're down, they'll find anything to justify kicking you. (If a woman didn't fit a stereotypical ideal of maternal warmth, if she urged her daughter to succeed rather than mewlingly comfort her for failure, she was the problem. The person actually trying was the one blamed.) So of course, Fiorella thought nothing of sending Cely to her health program. That hadn't been a mistake. It was quiet, secluded, way out in Kanto, explainable as an internship, nobody needed to know, nobody needed to meddle, it was the right decision, unquestionably. Except now, having been inside, having seen the clinic firsthand—

What was she thinking about? Everyone kept rushing around her. (You always control your own character.) Right, age. Age always struck eventually, it made sense the broadcast wanted a pretty face, but Fiorella still looked as she should. She looked younger than Cynthia, not so stringently dedicated to her appearance, of course she was a trainer and these trainers always let themselves go when the world no longer wanted them and they realized they didn't even want themselves, Cynthia now chatting with a reanimated Iono and Fiorella detected a few creases makeup only mostly concealed, a shimmer in certain lights that suggested strands of gray, plus the slight limp she tried not to show.

So age couldn't be it. Why, then? Only one other explanation. That Old Bastard still knew how to stab a back.

(Let them call her a bad mother now. See how many of them would do what she did. Oh, alright, go have an "emotional bond" with your child, go be the "loving parent" who tells jokes while you sit on your lazy ass drinking beer. When it comes to responsibility, duty—when it comes to character—let's see who stands tall. When it comes to how much of your neck you're willing to stick out for your daughter, let's see who wins. God. That heart attack should've finished you off.)

You always control your own character.

Right. She was allowing her character to fall apart, tumbling into these endless tunnels. The set was finished. The workmen cleared their tools and stepladders while Iono and Cynthia inspected their assigned chairs. Bill kept to the side, talking into a strangely antiquated flip phone. Behind him stood the tough-looking bodyguard who followed him everywhere.

Fiorella rubbed her temples. She knew she controlled her own character but times like this the whole great big worthlessness of her life crept onto her shoulders. So many years dedicated to nonsense. Entertainment. Nothing serious, nothing real. Still she stayed dedicated, because if she did a job, no matter how stupid, she would do it well, she would do it the best it was ever done. It chewed her up, now it spat her out. Iono. Replacing her with fucking Iono?!

Bill snapped his phone shut. His face was severe, something Fiorella never saw before. Since he only did this gig because he loved Pokémon, he usually brought a lax (and unprofessional) atmosphere to the set.

"Can't do it today," he announced.

"WHAAAAAT?" said Iono. "We're on in twenty! It's FINALS!"

"I can't." Bill shook his head. "Something came up."

"It better be something très sérieuse!"

"It's uh"—Bill gestured—"a machine at the lab's malfunctioning. One of my techs called, they're worried it'll explode. We'd lose months of research. I have to fix it."

"Yourself? That's bonkers!"

"You think it's sabotage, don't you?" Cynthia said.

"No, it's, I don't know what I think, but I have to fix it. I can't trust these idiot techs. Sorry, everyone." The sorry of someone too rich to ever face consequences.

"Should I go with you?" asked Cynthia.

"No, non, nein, nyet!" said Iono. "I'm not losing BOTH my analysts!"

"I'll be fine." Bill backpedaled toward the door, followed by his bodyguard. "You guys worry about the show."

"Bill," said Cynthia. "If it's serious, I should go with you. At least tell the police."

"No time. Probably a loose screw. Nothing I can't handle! If I'm quick I can be back for postgame."

Then he was gone. The studio stood silent, confused, lost. The digital timer counting down to showtime kept counting, while a set with three chairs only had two people.

Fiorella realized this was the perfect time to take charge.

"Alright guys!" One sharp clap of Iono's hands summoned everyone's eyes to her. "We're makin' lemonade out of these lemons, pronto. We got all sorts of celebrities at finals, right? Someone get Leon. Or Lance, or Steven, or someone! Anyone! All of em! We'll make it a thing. Yeah! Rotating guest analysts, new one each segment. That'll grab people's eyeballs. Content diversification. It's genius!"

She flapped her sleeves and workmen went running. Someone at the command console shouted they had Leon on Camera J, VIP Booth SW-2 (the Kangaskhan Lounge). After frantically snapped fingers, a phone shot into Iono's hand. "Ah, yeah, hey, hiiiii Leon, I was wonderin' if maybe you could help a girl out? You see, we're in big, BIG trouble right now... Eh? You haven't even heard what—Right, the studio. Perfect! You're the best EVER, Leon."

Fiorella walked out of the studio. Her fingers tried to worm their way past her eyeballs into her brain.

Her cameraman, Lutz, caught up to her. "Uh, so what are we like, doing now?"

Whole worthless lot of them. Worthless tournament. Worthless scam and they dragged Cely into it too. Fiorella once had a future. Something real. Something that mattered to this world. Bill got to leave whenever he liked. Machine malfunction, sabotage—

Sabotage.

The moment she thought that word, she passed one of the million IPL agents posted across the stadium. The agent spoke into an earpiece. "Roger. MOTHER confirmed entering the Pewter Museum now. No activity on the Plateau."

Serendipity's stroke fell so thick Fiorella barely believed it. She accosted the agent. "The museum? Bill just left for there. He said something's wrong."

The agent dismissed her with a sharp cutting motion. "Do not speak to me, ma'am."

"No, you don't get it. It's—"

"Ma'am, what I'm doing is incredibly important for the safety of this event. If you continue to disrupt me, I will have you detained."

Well fuck them all then! Why would she ever expect the mechanisms of bureaucracy to function with base level competence? It was as it always was: Fiorella could only trust herself to do a job. And maybe she liked it better this way. She felt the poison in her lungs, smelled sickly sweetness even though no crowd roared. A blank woman in the dark, a friend perhaps, speaking behind a screen. Her fingers snapped at Lutz. "With me. We're going down the mountain."