Chapter 4: R16 | Media Day

Raj Viswambaran found Red Akahata leaning against the wall in the waiting room's corner, obscured by a fern. Rajred. Redraj. Raj did the talking, animated, hands aflutter, but—here's the spice—trying to hide it. From time to time he recognized his obvious infatuation and pulled back. Nervous chuckle or awkward brush of hair. Red was his idol—but an idol he was not allowed to worship. They were competitors in the same tournament. And Red by contrast was so cool, so detached, one leg drawn up against the wall, fingerless gloves tapping the plaster in asynchronous rhythm, head turned down so the brim of his hat covered his eyes. He didn't look up. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. He won the IPL World Championship six times over his twenty-year career. No other trainer—ever—won more than three. He was, in fact, an idol. A god.

But. But! An idol Raj must topple. As a child Raj watched Red on TV, and watching was inspired as if by god's breath to become a battler himself. Now here they stood, opponents. More than that—Raj was the first seed going into bracket stage. The upstart, the flash of fire, favored to win it all. Red was past his prime. His last IPL win came almost a decade prior. All respected him, but he was only fifth seed. He dropped two games in groups. Cracks appeared across his stone edifice.

Who would prevail? The old veteran, self-assured, experienced? Or the young buck seeking to overwhelm with passion and vitality? And that age gap! Red was thirty-one, Raj seventeen—same age as Toril.

From behind her pillar, Toril—seed 3—nibbled her finger and watched. And imagined:

Their hands lock together, vying for supremacy. In a tangled wrestle they drop sideways onto the bed. Raj tries to scramble on top. But Red won't let him, his strong hand pushes Raj down, now Red is on top, and for a moment—a fleeting flicker—Raj surrenders, overwhelmed by his idol, the one he spent his life training to emulate. Then his head shouts: No! To emulate the best, you must surpass him. He renews his strength. With a burst of force he pulls Red down. Their faces press together, their lips touch, but it's quick—violent—they bite at each other, rolling, tumbling across the bed—

"Raj! You're up first! This way!"

That shrill voice pierced Toril's fantasy. The look pierced it even more: pink, blue, and yellow. That streamer whore they hired for some ungodly reason—to finally admit the analyst desk was staffed by retards—her name a crass joke. Iunno. Iono.

Iono seized Raj's hand. She tugged playfully, and like a magnet drawn too far from its opposite his gaze slowly, then suddenly, left Red and turned to her. Toril's fingers hooked into the column. No! Get her out of here! Kill her. Roast her on a spit.

None of the other bracket stage competitors, not even Red—who remained against the wall, disinterested—rose to do their duty and irradiate this multicolored carcinogen. Unmolested she dragged Raj, and Raj had the gall to wear a screwy expression as he stared at her hand gripping his. They vanished into the adjoining studio for publicity shots and interviews.

Just wait, bitch. Wait until your nudes leak and your subscribers turn on you. When you finally do the world a favor and kick the chair out from under you, your final thought will be about how a thousand fat slobs are jacking off to—

"Look who it is. How's Gustav?"

Toril whipped around, hand already on a Poké Ball—which they actually let her keep during Media Day. Then she realized who spoke.

"Cynthia," Toril said.

"I half expected you to forget," said Cynthia. "You weren't one for talking when we met last."

Toril averted her eyes. Unlike Iono, she couldn't outright despise Cynthia. Cynthia was—or had been—a real trainer, which dredged up a modicum of respect. Only a modicum.

Looking another direction didn't improve matters. Amid the other competitors in the waiting room, her eyes somehow settled on Aracely Sosa, seed 15. Sosa didn't see her, thankfully, but she was engaged in conversation with Lachlan Nguyen, seed 14, who happened to be Toril's next opponent. Why him of all people? What was she doing? Undermining?

"Hello? Toril?"

"Uh," said Toril. "What do you want?"

"Well, for a start"—Toril hated the sound of for a start—"I was hoping you could answer my question. How's Gustav doing? It's been a few months since you took him off the sanctuary. How has he acclimated to the outside world?"

Cynthia, upon retirement, invested her winnings into one of her hobbies: archaeology. This culminated in her operating a nature preserve in her native Sinnoh that specialized in the near-extinct Hisuian variants of certain Pokémon, Hisui being the ancient name for Sinnoh. Or something. Toril didn't care about the history, she went for the Pokémon.

"He's fine."

"Let's get tea sometime and chat about—"

"No."

Cynthia tapped her chin and smirked. "Well, come on. We're gonna do a segment."

"I'm not up until after Jinjiao." They did publicity shots in seed order, spending more time with higher seeds. Hair, makeup, puff pieces, gag. "It's an hour until my turn, at least."

"Not your regular interviews. A special segment."

"Hard pass."

"You're already here, Toril, you might as well find a better way to spend your time than ogling the competition."

For a moment, Toril died inside. If Cynthia caught her watching Red and Raj—but Cynthia's glance shifted to Sosa and Lachlan Nguyen. Sosa scowled when Toril looked, and Toril scowled back, only to realize Sosa wasn't looking at Toril at all, but at Lachlan Nguyen's feet, splayed out in front of him. What was that about?

It didn't matter, because a woman from the broadcast crew—the interview woman, Fiora or Fiona—stopped beside Sosa and interrupted the conversation.

"Boredom is better than torture," said Toril.

"I can't say I don't understand," said Cynthia. "I was never a fan of the showbiz stuff. But—"

"Don't give me that crap. You're on the broadcast team."

"Times change. People change. You know, you could do this segment as a favor to me. You don't think just anyone received an invitation to the Hisuian Nature Preserve, do you? Look around. How many trainers here have Hisuian Pokémon?"

Toril—only half paying attention, because Fiora Fiona led Sosa to one of the publicity rooms, and what did that mean?—got halfway into a curt response before she realized what Cynthia implied. Every muscle in her upper body went taut. A ragged scrape built in her throat.

"You—if I knew you were giving me—special treatment—I never would've—"

"Calm down, Toril. I didn't mean it like that." Cynthia held up her hands. "You could be a bit more personable. Sooner or later you'll be retired like me. You won't be able to get by simply roaming the countryside with your Pokémon. Then you'll need social skills."

"You have no idea what I need!"

"Please. Quit shouting. Come on, one little segment. It won't kill you."

Fingers locked around the wrist of Toril's ungloved hand. Toril's first impulse was fight, with teeth if need be. Only the realization of how much attention she'd drawn to herself—everyone staring—stopped her. Her head shrank into her jacket collar.

With one firm tug, Cynthia dragged Toril into motion. The gazes grew bored and fell away. Then, Toril saw where Cynthia was taking her: the same room as Sosa.

Bile gurgled in Toril's gut. Some segment! They intended to rake her over the coals, force her to relive that wretched match. Though spite overflowed down her chin as black mud, Toril didn't fight it. After all, that spite was for herself. She deserved the raking, deserved the torture. Their lashes would be just recompense, a necessary reminder, scars engraved on her soul to keep her from making the same mistakes twice. Like the scars on her body, like the half-missing hand she kept gloved: mistakes, reminders.

When she actually entered the publicity room, it was worse than she imagined.

Other than the camera crew, Fiora Fiona, and Aracely Sosa, there was one other person in the room. This person made Cynthia's true intention clear.

Yui Matsui, seed 11, from Sinnoh. The third of the three female trainers in the Top 16. They were doing a fucking gender thing.

----------------------------------------

Omigosh. What was that? He wasn't seriously wearing...?

"But truly, I find the demographic aspect of the Top 16 so fascinating," Lachlan Nguyen said, ignorant of the eldritch horrors on his feet. Really, Cely shouldn't be mean. He was the only person in the room not murdering her with glares, even if Cely suspected that was because he thought she was cute. Was this nerd ramble an attempt at flirting?

"Demographic aspect? You mean like, the ethnicity of each competitor?"

"No, that's irrelevant. Consider this. Of the Top 16 competitors this year, only six have ever reached the Top 16 before. Only two—Red Akahata and Jacq Ray Johnson, Jr.—have won the championship. Last year's winner isn't here. The winner the year before that isn't here, or the year before that. Yet! A whopping 14 regions represented in the Top 16 were represented last year. Alola and your native Visia were the ones that weren't. Visia was last represented two years ago, while Alola was last represented five years ago—with Alola being something of an asterisk in general, given the whole Ultra Beast controversy. (Ironically, Alola's representative this year was also Alola's representative the last time it reached the Top 16, making him one of the six who reached the Top 16 before. Isn't that crazy?) Anyway, the point is—"

"So like, the point is, you can be on top one year, and totally out of the scene the next?"

"Right! Rightrightright. Although regional strength remains consistent year to year, the turnover rate for individual battlers is sky high. Then, combine that with the ages of competitors in the Top 16. The average age is 18, and that average is skewed by Red Akahata, who's 31. After Red, the next oldest competitor is—me, actually, at 25. But why is it that top trainers are so young? Even in physical sports, where you'd think age matters more, players reach their late 30s before physical deterioration necessitates retirement. What gives?"

"That's so crazy. My Dad actually retired in his twenties. I always assumed it was because, like, he knocked up Mom, but maybe there was some other reason. Spooky."

"Then, and pardon my saying, there's the gender situation. Why are top battlers overwhelmingly male? Present company excepted, of course. There's no physical barrier. So why—"

Cely noticed Tors briefly break from her conversation with Cynthia to emanate pure disgust at Lachlan Nguyen's feet. Cely tried to send a look like, "I know right? Socks and sandals?" but their glances never synced and Tors got pulled back to Cynthia.

"In my opinion, a woman can theoretically battle just as good as a man," Lachlan continued. "There are simply societal pressures that funnel women into different facets of Pokémon training, like breeding or contests. Actually, I saw a paper published last week in the Kalos Journal of Population that posited—"

"Is your father around."

Standing suddenly in front of Cely was the IPL's longstanding chief interviewer, Fiorella Fiorina, also known as Mom.

"Excuse me? My father?" said Lachlan.

Mom ignored him. Her gaze bore down on Cely.

"They wouldn't allow him at Media Day since he's not a battler," Cely said. "Besides, we kinda got into a spat."

"Well. Come with me. You're needed."

Without further explanation, Mom strode off. Cely gave Lachlan an apologetic shrug, then trotted after her with as much fake pleasantness humanly musterable.

The highly corporate convention-feeling room they ended in was too quiet for Cely's taste, despite the crewmen setting up cameras and the girl midway between theater kid and emo scenester rocking out to earbud music in the corner. Stiff, adjusting the surface of her cerise coat, Mom only took a few moments to get into it:

"We made a deal, Aracely."

"Yes, Mom."

"The terms of this deal were quite clear, Aracely."

"I know, Mom."

"Can you tell me the terms, Aracely?"

"I'm allowed a gap year before college to do the battling circuit."

"One gap year. One. That was last June, when you graduated high school."

"What do you want me to do? I won the Visia regionals. That auto-qualified me for—"

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"I want you in college, where you belong. Haydn and Charlie are there. They're sophomores now."

In the corner, the girl mouthing karaoke (Yui Matsui, Cely remembered) opened her eyes, realized people were in the room with her, and yanked the earbuds out abruptly.

"Mom," said Cely. "Can't you be happy? I'm extremely good at this. I'm a top sixteen trainer in the world."

Mom expelled one of her trademark hard sighs: HAH. "Don't get full of yourself. You're still lightyears away from winning this pointless tournament."

"If it's pointless why do you—"

"You've heard the story of the shaggy Furfrou, right?"

"The what?"

"There once was a boy with a shaggy Furfrou. Everyone in town remarked: That's the shaggiest Furfrou I've ever seen. He entered his Furfrou in local contests for shaggy Furfrou and won every time. They flew him to the capital, and he won the regionwide shaggy Furfrou contest too. So they sent him to the biggest contest for shaggy Furfrou in the world, with the shaggiest Furfrou from all corners of the globe. The judges took one look at his Furfrou and said: It's not all that shaggy, is it."

"Wow! Cool story, Mom."

"If that court had any sense they would've given me full custody. What were they thinking, sending you to him for a whole month?"

"At least Dad believes in me."

"Your father believes in himself. He's insane."

"Then why'd you marry him?"

"He deceived me as to the extent of his insanity."

At the IPL finals thirteen years ago, a radical Pokémon rights team gassed the audience. Mom ran toward the gas instead of away and wound up in a coma for a month. Still, she called Dad insane.

"Am I in the wrong place?" said Yui Matsui. "I'm in the wrong place. Yeah. I'll go."

"Don't you dare move." Mom's finger transfixed Yui to her spot. "We're not wasting energy corralling you three again." Then, to Cely: "It ends with this tournament. Understand? As soon as you're eliminated, you are no longer a Pokémon trainer. Straight to university. Say it to me now."

"Mom—"

"Say it to me. Now."

"When the tournament ends, I'm no longer a Pokémon trainer. Happy?"

"No, I am still quite upset. Now here's Cynthia."

Cynthia entered, Tors hangdog at her back. Yui made for Cynthia immediately and Cely did not blame her in the least. Mom was giving very much Category 5 hurricane and Cynthia's confident elegance looked like a particularly solid rock to grip onto.

"Oh uh, hey Cynthia," Yui said. "I wanted to ask you—"

"After." Cynthia nodded to Mom. "Fiorella. Okay, everyone's here. Thank you for showing up. I know none of you are too thrilled about the whole media machine thing. Trust me, when I was your age, I hated it too. I just wanted to battle. To experience the thrill of a close match that pushed you to your limits. To delight in your own power, and the power of your Pokémon with whom you shared so much of your life."

Cynthia paused and considered Cely, as if she wasn't sure how much of what she said applied. Was that better or worse than Mom, who assumed everything she said applied?

"Now that I'm older, though, I've come to believe in a different type of power. The power of narrative. My focus in retirement as an archaeologist and occasional IPL analyst is exactly that. Whether it's mythology, ancient culture, or the simple story of a trainer advancing through the bracket, narrative is what takes happenstance and imbues it with meaning. So, I've brought you three—Yui, Aracely, Toril—to help me create that meaning. Create that story."

"What story," Tors said flatly. "What possible story."

"Well—" Cynthia said, "the story of women in top level competitive battling."

"Knew it," said Tors.

"The story is that, in sixty-three years, no woman has ever won the Interregional Pokémon League World Championship. In fact, no woman has ever even reached finals. Only one has reached semifinals."

"You," said Yui.

"Right." Cynthia smiled at her. Cely idly remembered they were both from Sinnoh. "At the time, they called me abnormal, a deviation. But I don't think that's true. I think women are perfectly capable of competing at this level. That's where you come in. I may have started the narrative, but you'll finish it. There are three female trainers in the Top 16, more than ever before. This is the perfect time to—"

"I'm done," Tors said. "Cut me out of this shit."

"Toril, please."

"No! I see what this is really about." Toril bit her lip, looked from face to face. Cely's first, Cynthia's last. "It's about you, Cynthia."

"I can see how you'd think that, but I promise you, it's not true. For some reason, I don't exactly know why, I'm popular with the viewing public. If you appear with me on this segment, it'll boost your profile—"

"You want—to lump me in with these losers?!" Toril's hand chopped the air, cutting through Cely and Yui. "These first round dropouts? That's an insult."

"Tors babe," said Cely, "you were pr-r-retty close to losing to me. So maybe try not to get so uppity, mhm?"

"I blundered my ass off and still beat you, shut up. All of you—shut up. What's the connecting line between us? We're girls? Who gives a fuck? You said it yourself Cynthia, you're taking random elements and making up a story. It's not real. It's bullshit."

"Many question whether mythology is real too. But it shaped our culture, which makes it valuable."

"The story of the IPL is simple." Toril's hand that didn't jab aggressively lingered over the Poké Balls on her belt. "One trainer wins. One trainer is the best. That's the only person who matters. Them and their Pokémon. No coaches—no analysts—none of this extraneous nonsense. You're just a loser of yesteryear, Cynthia. Desperately trying to attach like a Remoraid to someone younger."

"Toril—"

"You create this fake narrative that you somehow paved the way for me, so when I win it's your glory too. Giving me Pokémon you wouldn't give anyone else—oh I get it. I get it now! Scum. All scum!"

When Cynthia reached a hand out, Toril swiped it away. Then she stormed off, trying to slam the door except the door had a pressurized lever system that made it impossible to slam, so it caught halfway in its arc to hang lazily in place until Toril flung out her boot and kicked it to create the sound she wanted.

"Uh, so. We still doing the segment or?" said Yui.

Mom made herself known again. "That girl has done incredible harm to her own soul."

"Don't worry guys," said Cely. "I'll calm her down. I'm kind of a people person."

She left the bewildered Cynthia and Yui behind before she heard another sanctimonious word out of Mom. Toril cleaved through the waiting area and was gone into the hall before Cely could call out to her, plus it wasn't really a call out kind of vibe. The situation necessitated intimacy. Tors felt encircled. Track her to a close, quiet setting, then—Cely conceptualized the line of attack.

Rather, she tried to, because before she reached the end of the waiting room's smelly gaggle of male competitors, a little kid threw himself in her way.

"You!"

A flick rendered his arms dramatically at his sides, laying bare his scrawny form in a tight-fitting changshan, black with gold embroidery, overlapping jackets knotted around his waist a dramatic flair as they fanned with his every motion. (He made many.) The gold surfeit extended to his hair, streaked by highlights, and even his glasses: yellow-lensed gamer goggles.

He barely went up to Cely's chest. He was Jinjiao Zhang, seed 2: Cely's next opponent.

"Save that energy for the game, Jinj. I've got catharsis to administer, k?"

"Aracely Sosa of the Visia region," Jinjiao declared. "Heh. That's funny. I wasn't aware you could speak without Domino's hand in your back to make your mouth move."

Cely understood what Jinjiao was saying, but his bon mot went a smidge long. Distinct impression the snappier alternative was "Domino's hand up your ass" and leave off there, but perhaps that was too sexually aggressive for a thirteen-year-old boy to a girl six years his senior.

Either way, his pipsqueak frame did nothing to impede her. But when she tried to pass, something faded into existence. First a few disembodied gold rings and a pair of red eyes, then the sleek black body of a creature midway between canine and feline. An Umbreon.

Since Dad, despite their earlier drama, already assembled the requisite oppo research on Jinjiao, Cely knew Umbreon was one of his favorite Pokémon. But now, seeing them side-by-side, she stopped. Omigosh. He—did he really—?

"Did you color coordinate your outfit with your Pokémon? That's actually so precious. I cannot even."

Flustered, Jinjiao staggered out of his pose. Cely took the opportunity to renew her escape, but Umbreon gave a low growl that put pause into her.

"You know Jinj, Pokémon aren't allowed in the waiting room. The smell's already bad enough."

"Hah?!" Jinjiao recovered, pushed up his Gunnars by the bridge, and flicked back his dangling jackets. "You're one to speak of flouting convention, Sosa! The only battler among us who declined membership in the Battler's Union!"

He said that last part especially loud, with a glance to the other trainers. A few dweebs nodded in agreement, but most shrank deeper into whatever mental or technological hole they employed to pass this day of mandated social proximity.

"That's right! The Battler's Union! You're not a member. Which is why you're able to bypass the Union's sanctified and widely respected regulations for trainer behavior."

"You're chewing me out over a union? You're thirteen. Go ride a skateboard or something."

"Heh. I'd expect someone like you to not even comprehend the significance of their transgression! The Union's laws are no mere bureaucratic entanglement. No! They are a set of rigorous checks and balances to protect the individual battler, and the sanctified relationship between them and their Pokémon, from the vicissitudes of corporate control!"

"Vicissitudes? Swallow a thesaurus much?" Cely tried once more to slip past the Umbreon, she knew objectively there was no way Jinjiao's Pokémon would hurt her, it would be the most ridiculous scandal and definitely disqualify him, but its mean look was enough to keep her from fleeing. "So I have a coach. Who cares."

"She doesn't see. She doesn't understand!" Another appeal to the crowd.

"Look. Jinjiao." Lachlan Nguyen rose, approached. "I'm part of the Union myself, but I don't think there's a need to humiliate—"

"Did I ask you? No. Hmph."

"Annoying," muttered a trainer leaning near the door, wearing an edgy mallrat hoodie with a gash across the chest. He blended into the shadows a lot like Umbreon.

"Don't get me started on you, Gladion." Jinjiao looked about ready to get started anyway, but remembered himself. "Just a coach, you say. Hah. Imagine this. All of you, imagine it. What if every trainer here had a coach. Why just one? Why not a whole team of coaches. And why should the trainers here have to catch their own Pokémon? That's so inefficient. Why not have a group of professional catchers go to the far-flung reaches of the planet to assemble the perfect team, while the trainer doesn't lift a finger? Then an army of breeders to generate perfect pedigree, chefs to cook the food, physical fitness instructors to push them to peak physical form, and so on, and so forth? What would the trainer be then?"

"An absurd hypothetical," said Lachlan. "Completely unpracticed. There's no modern example. It can't be discussed in any but the most speculative tones. Besides, who here could afford such manpower?"

"Heh. Ironically, you've blundered onto my exact point, Nguyen. None of us can afford it, even with our prize winnings. You know who can afford it? Big business. Billionaires. If the Union allows coaches and analysts and the rest, then there's no longer any room for individuals like you or me. The tournament becomes nothing more than an advertising exercise. The prettiest, most marketable faces"—he shot a poignant glare at Cely—"responsible only for memorizing flowcharts while their unstoppable teams and unmatched prep work do the real competing. It's only because of the Union that individual trainers have any power at all!"

"Aracely being helped by her father isn't like what you're describing."

"You're enamored with her, aren't you, Nguyen?"

"What? No—"

"To be expected. Aracely Sosa is the harbinger, fellow trainers. She is the horn heralding the end of the world—our world. Mark my words: If she wins, and the corporations see what's possible with puppet trainers, an apocalypse will descend upon us. Doomsday, complete cataclysm!" On October 12, this world ends. "That's why it's my duty to stop her here. I am the last bastion against annihilation. I am—"

"Heya, Jinjiao! Your turn now!"

Out of the crowd popped Iono. Instantly she had Jinjiao by the hand, stunning him speechless. His blush bloomed as she dragged him away. He was gone so fast, it was like a tornado descended from the sky and sucked him into nonexistence.

His Umbreon faded into the shadows. Cely no longer felt transfixed.

"Sorry about that," said Lachlan. "Jinjiao is very young and very good. They call him a prodigy, the next Red. It's given him an ego."

"I don't mind." Aracely slipped out the exit, turning briefly to wave with wiggling fingers. "Makes the game more interesting, mhm?"

As she left, she caught a glimpse of Jinjiao's Umbreon. Not nearly as invisible as it first seemed. She waved at it too, smiling, imagining kicking it.

Then she went to find Tors. She had an inkling where she'd be.

----------------------------------------

Everyone called Kanto's Indigo Plateau the grandest, most modern stadium in the world. Bleeding edge tech. Endless amenities. Capacity for eighty thousand. Not to mention the mountain resort tourist trap city that serviced it.

Everyone was fucking stupid. They built the place for humans only. Anywhere Toril went, same story: Pokémon above human size must remain in their Poké Balls at all times. Lounges, check-in stations, waiting areas, observation decks, the hall of fame—no Pokémon above X size allowed.

Here, though, in this gigantic empty women's restroom, she had the space she needed. No eye-in-the-sky cameras to smack her with regulation. They appeared: Rillaboom and Baxcalibur, Ninetales and Porygon-Z, Volcarona and Annihilape. And, of course, Zoroark. She ran her ungloved hand through Gustav's mane and the coagulated hatred in her heart eased. Without words her Pokémon communicated her worth to her, and without words she communicated theirs. They were worthy, after all. Even in the Sosa match. They didn't fail her, she failed them.

No, they said back, in their low murmurs and (in Porygon-Z's case) blips. We're stronger together. We're worthy together.

That's why we'll win, Toril told them. To make them see that we're worthy, we matter, we have a right to exist.

Gustav's claw gently stroked her glove, where her ruined fingers were hidden. The meaning of the gesture did not escape her. Who was that washed-up bitch Cynthia anyway? She wasn't on that mountain, in that blizzard. It wasn't her fingers that curdled black on a hand otherwise still alive. None of them shared Toril's experience: only these, her Pokémon, who'd been beside her, warming her with their bodies.

Through the door someone trespassed on her space. Aracely Sosa, nonchalant and humming as she—without glancing at Toril—went to the sink, unscrewed a tube, and padded at her eyelashes with a tiny brush.

Maybe if Toril and her Pokémon remained absolutely still, Sosa's reptilian brain wouldn't perceive them.

"Gosh. Isn't this all the worst?"

Dammit.

"I swear. Cynthia's crap about narrative. Like, hello? A story can only have one protagonist. Why'd she drag all three of us there then?"

Because Cynthia considers herself the protagonist.

"I guess Cynthia thinks she's the protagonist, right?"

"How—how'd you know—"

"Mm?" Sosa tilted her head so her eyeline ricocheted off the mirror into Toril. "Basic psychology. Beautiful women hit forty and feel their star fade. Especially Cynthia. No children of her own. I wonder, do you think she's gay?"

Toril was stunlocked.

"Anyway. Let's totally skip town as soon as Media Day's over. You and me, girl's night out. I'd love to pick your brain about things, Tors."

"Wha—? Why would I go—anywhere with you? I hate you!"

Sosa gave her this look, this infuriating look, like what Toril said lacked any logical connection to what Sosa said. "I have this bestie back home, Charlie. I hate her freaking guts. Feeling's mutual of course. We still go out together."

"I don't want to be near you. I don't want to see you. I want you to leave." In solidarity, Toril's Pokémon gave Sosa a unified glare of hatred, which Sosa shrugged off like a speck of dust.

"Tors. We're gonna go out and have a gr-reat time together. You know why? Because I have something you want."

"No you don't. I don't need a friend. I have friends. This is them."

"No-o, silly. Not a friend. I know how to make you a better battler."

This mentally deranged claim merited no response. Any response was caught in the catarrh lodged in Toril's throat.

"Tors." Sosa finished her eyelashes and switched to lipstick. Her lips contorted comically, but her voice stayed clear. "You're smart. I know you're smart because I played you. You knew exactly how to beat me with that Rillaboom illusion."

"You really intend to rub it in?"

"Rub it in? I'm being sincere. Forget the analysts. We both know they're full of it. They think I saw Rillaboom was Zoroark because of Grassy Terrain. I didn't."

Since that match was blotted from Toril's mind, it took a second to recall the exact circumstances. She did, though, perfectly: Turn 1. Rotom-Wash versus Hisuian Zoroark, disguised as Rillaboom. Nasty Plot, Volt Switch.

But beyond the detached play-by-play. The moment. Aracely Sosa's face in those thirty seconds.

"You were right. A Pokémon I wasn't familiar with? That Dad didn't prep me for? Hopeless. You would've done exactly what you wanted: expose me to the world as a fraud. That's what you wanted, right? Don't deny it."

"You—figured the trick out some other way? Not because of—Grassy Terrain."

"Omigosh, yes, that's what I'm saying Tors, please don't play dumb, it does not suit you. I had another way. I can teach it to you if you want. But you have to do something fun with me first."

Framed like so, it no longer became a question. Toril lost two fingers to frostbite to become a better battler. A night with Sosa was only equivalent to losing one finger.

"What's in it for you, though?"

Sosa smacked her lips at the mirror, scrutinized her face one more time, and gave herself an approving nod. She quit seeing Toril through the mirror and turned her head to see her directly.

"What's in it for me is... you're gonna help me become a better battler too. Dad, I love him, but he's gotten me as far as he can. I need to beat Jinjiao Zhang. You're gonna tell me how."

Toril snorted. Jinjiao came off as a cocky punk, but he never—ever—made blunders. Ever. It might be fun to give Sosa a deep dive into statistical calculations based on expected peak physical attributes and watch her head explode, though.

"Okay," Toril said. "But I'm making a demand too."

"Anything for you, Tors."

"You're bringing a Pokémon with you. And it's out of its Poké Ball the entire time."

Sosa's face turned stone. Maybe this night wouldn't be so bad after all.