Hoshi woke up with a girl in his bed, and being honest with himself, he kind of freaked the fuck out for a minute – at least until he found the used condoms in his wastebasket, put his scattered memories in order, and verified that he probably hadn’t set down the path to becoming an unmarried father at the age of twenty-two the previous night.

Actually, now that he had calmed down, the situation seemed pretty good. He had only the lightest buzz of a hangover, and an attractive woman in his bed – Casca, that was her name – wasn’t exactly a problem… Though it looked like she probably wouldn’t wake up before he left.

Construction work required him to get up before dawn, which wasn’t exactly conducive to other people’s schedules. Well, whatever. It isn’t like I have anything worth stealing. The most expensive thing in the apartment was his boots, and he would be taking those with him; if she wanted to nick his salvaged, two-generations-old CD player, or his tiny television, she was welcome to them.

Shame I won’t be here when she wakes up, though. He drew his eyes down the curves her body made under the covers, recalling the previous night. Or would she be embarrassed to see me in the light of day? She was probably drunker than I was…

He took his time in the bathroom, shaking off the last dregs of sleep as he shaved what little stubble had grown in and wrestled with his short but frizzy hair. The mirror showed him what it always did: a man of narrow figure with an equally narrow face, thin lips and a flat nose beneath small purple eyes. Short hair of the same colour, with a crinkled texture that made it puff out at the slightest touch of humidity.

Bob said he took after his mother, but Hoshi didn’t see it; dad’s old pictures showed a woman whose face was short and wide, not narrow, with a small pointed nose and large eyes. Maybe he just means that I’m thin like she was.

He was dressed and ready for work before the time his alarm would have gone off, if he had bothered to set the thing last night. But before he stepped out the door, he turned back and spent a minute fishing around for a pen and paper.

‘Sorry to leave you hanging,’ he wrote, ‘but I’ve got to get to work. Feel free to help yourself to something from the fridge.’

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Vermilion was, in his personal opinion, the most beautiful city in Kanto.

When he expressed that opinion verbally, some people tried to argue. They’d bring up Cerulean’s tourist-trap waterparks, or Viridian Forest’s unspoiled nature, or even Saffron’s big-city energy. Fuchsia’s Safari Zone and traditional architecture, Cinnabar’s active volcano, Mount Moon’s desolate atmosphere…

Sure, they were pretty. But to Hoshi, it wasn’t even close. Vermilion was strong, in a way that even the deep mountains of Pewter and Lavender couldn’t match. It remembered everything, in a way the rest of the country seemed to have forgotten.

On his way to the worksite he passed along the coastline, and the dark blue of the pre-dawn horizon blending into the sea, separated only by the lighter cream of the concrete pier and wooden docks beyond, caught his eyes. He nodded to himself as the perfect illustration of his musing was silhouetted against the gradually brightening sky.

Along the shore stood huge emplacements, giant cannons that could fire on both ships and aircraft – disarmed, obviously, but it wouldn’t take more than ten minutes for a trained professional to grab the parts from the nearby Vermilion Military Museum, and just slot them in.

A shiver went down his spine as Hoshi just stood for a long second, drinking in the steel machines, the weapons that hundreds walked past every single day without a second thought. The curve at the bottom where a voltorb would sit, ready to explode. The smooth, segmented barrels, kept polished despite the multiple years since they had seen action.

No, Vermilion wasn’t like other cities.

The rest of his trip to work was less profound, and it wasn’t long before he was once again in the Young District – the northeastern section of the city, newly built and bustling with life.

His boss spotted him as he came in – which made sense, since he was easily twenty minutes early, the first person besides the supervisor to arrive. The hefty man stood up as Hoshi approached, already sweating despite the morning chill.

“Early day today, Mutsu?”

“Eh,” he grunted. “Woke up before my alarm. Nice enough day to just sit for a while.”

His boss, Dedwin Everheart, fit the term ‘construction worker’ like he had been moulded for it. He was tall and more than a bit fat, a yellow hardhat crowning his bologna slab of a face. His overalls were worn over his lower half, yellow highlights gleaming over heavy blue fabric as the sun rose, but tied at the waist to leave his upper body covered by only a thin grey wifebeater.

The man had been a supervisor since before Hoshi started, and in those three years he hadn’t seemed to age a day; his thinning brown hair was combed over exactly the same, his chin sported stubble of exactly the same length each day, and his skin remained exactly the same shade of processed-meat pink regardless of the season.

Hoshi and his co-workers had a nickname for the man, which they kept well away from his meaty ears: Ditto.

“Well then sid’down. Won’t be long before the sun rises and things heat up.” He said the last few words with a grumble; Everheart was the sort of man who started overheating the moment the temperature ticked up past fifteen degrees, and it was liable to get closer to twice that as the day wore on.

The overweight man took his own advice, plopping down heavily as Hoshi manhandled the cooler containing his lunch and water down into a nook, where hopefully the summer sun wouldn’t get it too bad. A second later he sat down as well, and they watched the sun rise from their perch of evenly cut lumber.

Weirdly good day today. I feel like something bad almost has to happen, just to even things out a bit.

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

Despite his pessimism, the worst thing that happened to Hoshi was being needled a bit for taking a woman home the night before. Vermilion’s newest shopping mall took another step towards completion under the careful eyes of Everheart, men operating power tools as little blue-grey machop and their older machoke parents hefted the heavy loads in place of fragile human hands.

Lunch came and went – sandwiches of canned magikarp, flavoured with hot peppers and mayo – and as the radio tolled four o’clock, things started to wrap up. But as the equipment went back under lock and key, a grumbling bellow went up.

“Oi! Anybody seen a stray Pokéball floating around?!”

The Ditto’s yell spread over the shopping-mall-to-be, catching the ears of every man and woman. Over the course of the next minute people set their own end-of-day tasks aside and rummaged around; a missing ball was serious.

After examining his own section thoroughly enough to avoid a dressing-down, Hoshi went over with a shake of his head. “Nothing on my end, boss.”

Said boss grumbled, eliciting a flinch from his side. Beside the obelisk of sweat stood a smaller man, one whose figure fit his profession perhaps even less than Hoshi himself: Dabi Mokusen.

Mokusen looked like he would have been more at home in a classroom or laboratory than a worksite, even decked out in overalls and hard yellow helmet as he was. He was small, hitting four feet only with the aid of his steel-toed boots, and had glasses so thick it was hard to see his eyes through the lenses.

His voice was fit for his frame: nervous and small. “I swear I put it away with the rest of them, supervisor! Exactly the same place every day- it isn’t like I could forget!” He fidgeted as he spoke, his hands and feet constantly moving with anxious energy.

“Sure,” Everheart responded in an even-gruffer-than-usual tone. “But then where is it?”

More fidgeting. “I tried asking Benny, but…” He looked over to a machoke – Benny, probably; Hoshi didn’t know them well enough to have their names down.

The machoke blinked and tilted its head. The extremely muscular humanoid lizards were pretty smart as far as Pokémon went, but it wasn’t like they could understand more than a few simple commands – if you wanted a conversation, pretty much your only option was a kadabra, at least in Kanto.

Benny wouldn’t be telling them where his ball was, even if he had seen where it went.

Everheart huffed, visibly annoyed, and little Dabi Mokusen cowered. Come on, man. It’s not like he’s going to hit you; show some spine.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

The other workers filtered in, and their answers were universal: none of them had found the missing ball. The Ditto sighed, his meaty chin wobbling.

“Alright. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this. Everybody turn out your pockets.” The collective groan at his words only steeled his resolve. “Not a request, people! Those things aren’t cheap; nobody goes home until we find what's missing!”

They were each frisked, then their bags and other containers got the same treatment. The supervisor even made people unscrew their water thermoses so he could look inside – but no matter how thoroughly he searched, or how red and sweaty he became, the missing ball failed to appear.

In the end, Everheart was made a liar; they were sent off without anything being found, aggrieved workers grumbling all the way. Hoshi thought a little grumbling was more than fair; the useless search had taken nearly a full hour. He followed his usual crowd for a bit, heading north, but as they turned east to search for a bar or restaurant, he just kept going.

Mikan, one of his friendlier co-workers, turned. “Not drinking today, Hoshi?”

“No.” He adjusted the strap hanging off his shoulder, the weight of his cooler drawing a depression in the fabric of his overalls – and the meat underneath. “Sorry, I’ve got something to do – probably be late for it, now.”

Mikan gave him an upwards nod, but as they headed off Hoshi caught a little last-minute gossip. “Who drinks on Thursday but not Friday?” “Think he’s got that fat chick waiting for him at home?”

A feminine chuckle. “No way. I’ve seen the inside of that apartment; once was enough.”

Hoshi went on his own way – and found that, strangely, the banter hadn’t dampened his spirits at all. Do I have someone waiting..? No, there’s no way she’ll still be there. It was just a one-night stand; by now Casca’s at some other bar, probably picking up some other guy.

I only mostly remember our conversation last night, but I know she isn’t local. Given the hair… probably a tourist coming down from Cerulean. I’ll be just a memory to her.

The thought wasn’t sad; today really had been a good day. At least so far. Let’s see how that keeps up.

He adjusted the lay of his strap again, and headed off.

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

To the north of Vermilion City stood a power plant, similar in structure to its abandoned twin over on the east coast, its bright red paint dominating the coastline like a hundred-year gyarados. Then, even further north, was something a bit less majestic: a junkyard, hugging the invisible line where Vermilion turned to Route Six, just large and close enough to qualify for grants as a city service.

The owner was a man who went by Danny Houndoom – and in addition to being a literal garbage-tier human being, he was also, quite possibly, Hoshi’s closest friend.

As the stink of trash – and the even more potent fumes of semi-wild grimer – grew stronger, Hoshi’s thin smile became increasingly wooden. He didn’t mind the dump, not really…

But something about the mere thought of poison gas always put him on edge. It’s stupid. They tested me for the allergy way back, and I came back clean.

Putting aside his paranoia, he entered the fenced-in area through the open gate. Despite the stink the air retained some of the freshness of the surrounding countryside, and as his eyes scanned around he beheld a salvager’s paradise: mounds of garbage, almost entirely discarded electronics, plastic and silicon piled up like mountains.

The owner himself was nearly hidden, camouflaged by his stained jacket against the background of refuse – Hoshi only saw him because of the weird, multicoloured cap thing the older man always wore.

“Danny,” he hollered as he approached. “Sorry to drop in unannounced, hope I’m not interrupting.” His smile gained an edge as he hefted his cooler.

But as he stepped closer, the old man failed to reply. He was kneeling, working on something that might have once been a car engine, seemingly completely absorbed in the task. To his side one of the tamer grimer – Hoshi recognised it by its brighter green sheen, just slightly different from its more desaturated brethren – leaned close, making bubbling sounds like the mass of slime it was.

“Danny.” He stepped right up to the man’s side – still no response. He was wedging a screwdriver into a crack in the metal jumble. “Danny!”

Hoshi snapped his fingers directly in front of the salvager’s face, and he finally jolted to attention, recoiling.

“Damnit!” he cried, his voice overly loud in the nearly silent junkyard. “Whazz- Hoshi? Damn kid, don’t do that when I’m working!”

Though he had known the man for years, Danny Houndoom’s origins were mysterious; his skin was weathered enough it could have started as any of a dozen colours, his facial structure was just plain aberrant, and his accent wasn’t anything Hoshi had ever heard before, a slurred-together river where each word bled into the next – his sentence had actually sounded more like ‘Damkid, dundoo tha’wenay mworkin.’

But while the length of time they had known each other did little for Hoshi’s knowledge of the man himself, it was really useful in determining what the fuck he was saying.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hoshi replied. “But I thought you’d want to see what I’ve got right away. Check this out…”

He plopped down his cooler and bent to pop open the top. Inside were a few wrappers, an orange he should really eat before it went off, and, most importantly, a few bags of slightly-melted ice.

Or at least, that was what they appeared to be. With a grin, Hoshi opened one of the bags, then reached in and drew out a second plastic bag hidden inside. While the outer bag was clear, this one was white-blue, nearly invisible inside the tube of ice.

Danny abandoned his mystery machine, standing up to look as the second bag opened to reveal a standard-issue Poké Ball, the classic red-top white-bottom an increasing rarity as newer models came into fashion. Hoshi rolled the ball around in his palm; it was in its storage mode, half the size of the orange it had been sharing the cooler with since lunch break. Dabi was lying; he didn’t put the ball in with the others at all. Dumbass left it out in the open while he was eating his overpriced fast food.

Well, his loss was Hoshi’s gain – or the company’s loss was his gain, at least.

Danny eyed the ball with speculation behind his dark glasses. “Used?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

The junk dealer shrugged. “No skin off my nose. But I’ll need to reset it before selling – that’ll lower what I can pay.”

Hoshi continued to roll the ball around in his palm. “Obviously. A hundred even?”

Danny’s tongue peeked out, clenched in his remaining teeth like he had swallowed a lemon. “Fuck no. Fifty.”

“You owe me for that speaker, still. Eighty.”

The sixty-something man in his stained jacket and weird hat made a noise like he was watching his family be dissolved in acid, but Hoshi was familiar with this song and dance. He held steady with a raised eyebrow.

“Fine,” Danny finally gave, “Eighty. Half now, half when I sell the thing.”

Hoshi tossed him the ball underhanded, and the old man caught it with a sharp motion, obviously familiar with the tool’s use. “Deal.”

As the scrap – and contraband – seller went to stow the merchandise and collect his pay, Hoshi’s eyes went down to the mechanical heap, and the grimer still leaning in, seemingly as curious as he was about what the thing did.

A minute passed, but no matter what angle he looked at it from, Hoshi couldn’t determine what the machine was. It’s definitely made from mostly engine parts, but… No, I’ve got no idea. “Hey Danny, what the fuck is this thing?”

The man emerged from behind a pile of computer bits and rusted turbines – clutching a few wrinkled bills in his hand, to Hoshi’s satisfaction.

“Hm? Oh, right. The thing.” He drew close, his lips pursed. “Sorry, can’t say. Gang shit, you know how it is."

Gang shit? Hoshi’s brows rose. “Fuck off. That ain’t a bike or a weapon or anything. It’s a modern art piece at best.”

The old man snorted. “I wish I could sell it for that kinda cash. Naw it’s- it’s not anything like that. Don’t worry about it.”

For a moment Hoshi’s curiosity burned blue like a torch behind his ears, but it was snuffed out as he reached for the bills. “Well, whatever. Pleasure doing business with you, Danny-”

As his fingers grasped for the cash, Danny angled them away. “Wait,” he broke in. “I had an idea. Instead of me voiding the thing, scrounging up a buyer, and then paying you… Why don’t you just keep the thing?” He smiled, surprisingly well-cared-for teeth peeking out from the crescent of his dark lips. “I’ll just take a little fee for my technical expertise, and you get a whole-ass Pokéball for a fraction the going price. Savvy?”

Hoshi frowned. “No, Danny. A few years ago, maybe, but…” With the league cracking down after all those accidents, if I get caught owning a Pokémon without a license…

That’s jail time. A fucking lot of jail time, maybe.

The good mood he had been basking in since he woke up began to curdle slightly. “That’s not gonna work. Just give me the money.”

With a reluctant face, the old man relinquished the pair of twenties.

In an effort to rekindle his previous emotion, Hoshi spent a while shooting the shit with the older man. They left work to the side, just talking about the summer weather, their lives, and a little bit of politics near the end – luckily, they were birds of a feather when it came to those opinions.

Hoshi kicked around a worn soccer ball for the grimer to chase, and after about an hour he made his way home, money in his pocket, some edge of good feeling regained.

In the waning light before sunset, the city seemed to be tinted gold. No, he thought, not gold. It looks more like vermilion.

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If a child were to draw a map of Kanto’s booming port city, the largest building would be the Pokémon Gym. It wasn’t actually the largest, not even close, but in terms of cultural impact it towered, leaving the rest of the city in its shadow.

Hoshi’s apartment was well into that shadow, both figuratively and literally. Standing all the way to the southwestern edge of the city, right near the water, the nondescript block of concrete rested behind the gym, a red roof and white walls blocking the tenant’s view of both the ocean, and the sun. Again, literally in the gym’s shadow.

It was a supremely shitty place to have built an apartment building – but that was fine with Hoshi. It meant his rent was cheap.

Other than its location, the building was actually fine. He had never had problems with the heat or water, and his neighbours kept to themselves. As he ascended the stairs, he was struck with the thought that things could actually be a lot worse.

Got a roof over my head. Food. A job I don’t hate. Yeah, he was doing pretty okay.

And as he unlocked his front door and swung it open, the thought repeated itself. Holy shit. Yeah, I’m doing pretty okay.

Against all his expectations, Casca seemed to have stuck around. She looked over from where she was perched on his couch, watching his shitty junkyard TV, and raised her brow.

When she spoke, her voice was a playful drawl, perfectly taking the edge off of what otherwise might have been a statement of annoyance. “Wow, you like to leave a girl waiting, don’t you?”