Archer Apollo may not have been born in Viridian City, but after living in it for over twenty years – and being the Gym Leader for a fifth of those, besides – he thought he’d earned the right to consider it his city.
In substance, at least, if not in spirit.
“Challenger Shinichi, approach the podium!” the announcer roared, and the crowd followed with a massive cheer. Archer smiled; the end-of-season battles were always the most popular, and a full Gym was a profitable one.
On some days, they made fully twice the amount the mayor sent for the entire year – more than enough to keep the largest stadium on the continent running, even after… other expenses.
Ten seconds passed as Archer let the challenger sweat it out. After all… A lord does not move until he deigns to move. The sound of the crowd echoing into the tunnel, the announcer’s exclamations, the rush of his own blood – all of it melded together into a discordant symphony… Or, perhaps, a marching song.
His thoughts turned dark, mirroring the cool interior of his entrance hall. Today would tell if it was a triumphant song of victory… or a bitter recounting of defeat. If they strike now, before things are ready…
But no, it helped nothing to dwell on hypotheticals – not when it was, finally, out of his hands. The dice were cast; they would fall as they would. He rose, armour softly scraping against itself, and at last strode into the light. The crowd roared again, louder, as the great screens on either end of the stadium showed his entrance.
They displayed a slender man, clad in armour greener than any leaf. Not a single speck of skin was showing, even his eyes obscured by a ninjask-shaped mask. Other Pokémon features were evoked as well; the helmet curved up from the brow, becoming a crest not unlike the horn of a heracross, while the shoulders and thigh guards were obviously shaped like a scyther’s chitinous exoskeleton.
And this was not mere mimicry; the armour Archer wore, like that of Kanto’s rulers of old, was crafted from genuine chitin. Each piece was worked meticulously by hand, the overlapping plates shaped with fire and fine tools until they fit together seamlessly – something that could never be done on an industrial scale, as each giant bug left behind a subtly different husk. Not only was it functional – stronger than steel, by certain measurements – but it did the much more important job of evoking the correct image.
Archer was the Great Green Shogun of Viridian – the man who would turn the future into a recreation of a rose-tinted past, where the Evergreen City was king, and the rest of Kanto was forced to bow its head.
Yes. Today, of all days, the image must be perfect.
His eyes turned down from the screens as he took the first step up to his podium. The climb was long, narrow stairs taking him a full five stories into the air, but perched on the very top he was still only standing level with the middle stands. The challenger was clearly visible despite the large distance between them: a man in rough clothing, aged somewhere between late teens and early twenties.
“Richard Shinichi,” he spoke, the Gym’s speakers carrying his voice to the entire stadium as he repeated the information his aide had fed him – an absolute necessity given that he sometimes battled two dozen different trainers in a single day. “This is the third time you stand before me. Are you prepared?”
The man’s lips curled into a wave, unable to be discerned as either a smile or a frown. “I’ll defeat you this time, Gym Leader.”
“Very well.” From a pocket in his armour came a small enamel pin – Viridian’s Earth Badge. Archer held it up for a moment, then placed it delicately on the console in front of him. “The prize, should your soldiers defeat mine. I assume you are familiar with our customs by now, so…” His voice rose. “Send out your Pokémon!”
For the eighth badge, there was no referee; he, the Gym Leader, would call the match, and if his opponent forced their Pokémon beyond their limits… Well, that was their decision to make.
Two balls arced down to the recreation of Viridian Forest far below, and Archer turned his attention to the podium’s console where a set of screens gave him – and his opponent; the two sides were, at least where visibility was concerned, afforded the same advantages – a close-up view of the action. The balls struck the ground like tiny meteors, somehow managing to avoid the criss-crossing branches, and two large, delicately hovering shapes were released with overlapping warbling cries.
The podium’s speakers continued to feed him the sound as it morphed, technology melding with biology as a butterfree and venomoth cried out in battle-lust – and in a flash Archer recognised the trainer he was facing. They’re both slightly larger than the pair he sent out last year, but the wing patterns are mostly the same.
Archer smiled again beneath the rigid mask. Perhaps he will actually win this year. Bug specialists – and Archer would count himself among that number, though the Gym’s roster was as much the product of his trainers as himself – were as much Pokémon Breeders as Pokémon Trainers. The short lifespan of their chosen partners necessitated it; even with Pokéball stasis, any given capture would be old and grey by the time they reached their full potential.
And so, bug specialists had to commit to every aspect of their teams, raising them from generation to generation. Monitoring their diets, cultivating new moves and stronger bodies through successive breeding. Many thought the practice heartless – Archer himself would have said so, when he was younger. But as he had settled into his shell, he’d come to understand the truth.
Bug catchers were some of the best trainers in the world.
A minute passed as he took his time selecting his own pair, letting Shinichi scout the terrain. That was the one thing that set the two sides apart; the challenger, the invader, got a chance to make the first move. Archer’s Pokémon would be vulnerable in that opening moment, unable to react for the fraction of a second after release. In exchange he, the Gym Leader, the shogun, got to see the invader coming and prepare accordingly.
Not the most realistic metaphor, but such were the limitations of the medium.
Pinsir and Scyther, he eventually decided. Shinichi had sent out a thematic pair, and it was only appropriate that he do the same. His balls were thrown down, his eyes drifting to a different screen that captured the result of their long descent.
“Quiver Dance!” the challenger called out the moment the balls entered the battlefield, and the Gym Leader’s smile widened. Yes, he might just win this time. Shinichi had used his time well, positioning his bugs such that they could counter almost any starting position.
But it was not enough to counter any move. Archer did not need to say a word for his Pokémon to act; even before he fully coalesced Pinsir was leaping forward to block a Toxic and Sleep Powder with Protect, his shell taking on a hexagonal pattern for a heartbeat before the half-sphere of energy projected into three dimensions. Scyther took cover, placing her ally between herself and the butterfree, while the venomoth – which was already circling with shocking speed – was stymied by the dense thicket. A psychic glow enveloped her limbs as Agility multiplied all the movements she would be making for the rest of the battle.
“The butterfree first,” Archer ordered as a second Toxic was sent out, and his scyther buzzed menacingly as she began waving her scythes to the inaudible tune of Swords Dance. The giant mantis juked left and right, managing to avoid the deadly gunk in a display that only looked effortless.
Protect faded and Pinsir moved further in, taking a Psychic from one enemy while the other again spun in the complicated loops of Quiver Dance. Archer allowed his attention to wander to the distant crowd; unless his opponent showed something truly unexpected, his elite-level Pokémon would not require further orders.
Ah, there they are. He couldn’t be certain, not really, but the Indigo League’s black operators weren’t nearly as stealthy as they liked to think – or the rank-and-file weren’t, at least. Four, six… an even dozen ninja that I can see. It was the effort they put in that marked them out; the dyed hair to hide that Fuchsia purple, the overly-plain clothes where others were in their Sunday best. The way they never quite looked right at him, trained subterfuge working against them when the situation called for overtness.
No doubt there were an equal number of operatives he wasn’t seeing, but that was almost encouraging. It was imperative that they act on their suspicions – just not until tomorrow.
Another Protect blocked a combined Bug Buzz, the wavering cacophony amplified to a nearly deafening degree even with thirty metres of forest canopy and open space cushioning Archer from the attacks. The Gym Leader’s smile persisted even as the obnoxious sound penetrated his helmet like he was wearing a copper bell. It looks like Seto arrived in time, he thought as his eyes moved to the VIP box. Good. Such a man is wasted on those two.
It was a shame he couldn’t have had his chosen successor by his side, but such was life. The bulk of the League’s forces would fall on him here in Viridian, with Athena’s operations in Goldenrod taking most of the rest; the Electric Academy would be a tertiary target.
Scyther shook off the portion of the attack that had curved around her ally, her wings buzzing in an almost comically soft echo of the massive sound still rattling through the stadium. The moth and butterfly attempted to evade, and nearly managed it with their own enhanced speed – but Scyther’s Aerial Ace landed, her own boosts and familiarity with the terrain carrying the day as the butterfree’s left wing was very nearly sheared off.
It fell, managing to leave behind a billowing cloud of Sleep Powder before it struck the ground and Pinsir finished it off.
Good movements from the both of them. I’ll have to commend my trainers for their work while we… prepare.
Shinichi pressed a button on his console, red light flashing out from its base to sweep across the entire forest, sending the injured bug directly into the Pokémon Storage System. His mouth was a flat line, hard and straight; he wasn’t giving up despite taking the first loss.
“Good,” Archer spoke aloud, and the battle went on. It was still possible he would lose – Pinsir was on his last legs after blocking so many top-tier attacks, Scyther had taken a hit of powder, and the venomoth had managed a third Quiver Dance while its partner was being knocked out – but even if he did, the showing had been splendid.
A Gym Leader did not need to win every time – should not win every time, even – but to appear weak was simply unacceptable.
Archer allowed the roar of the crowd to seep into his bones. Soon his layers of armour would be stripped off, and the Viridian City Gym Leader exposed as Team Rocket Boss for the second time – but right now, in this moment, the mask may as well have been skin.
“Pinsir, Guillotine. Scyther, Double Team.”
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Garcia Seto watched the eighth badge challenge enter its final climax, the two remaining Pokémon standing off like a pair of samurai.
The pinsir still had one last Protect in him, and the challenger knew that – the battle’s end would revolve around how that move played out. If the venomoth could bait it out with a feint, its victory was all but assured; the beetle Pokémon would be left wide open when the shield failed. And conversely, should the moth attack recklessly and be successfully blocked, then it was the pinsir who would have the perfect chance to retaliate.
And since it had managed its own Swords Dance while hiding in the underbrush, that one hit would be enough; venomoth was not a bug type known for its durability.
“One hundred pokédollars says that the challenger takes it.”
Garcia looked to the side, eyeing Giorgio Sampo as he took a pull from his bottle. “Hm. No bet,” he decided, “Archer is sloppy today.”
“Too true.”
Of course, that was only to be expected; it was difficult to remain composed while the wolves closed in, after all.
“The stress of his position must be immense – I’m glad I’ve retired from the circuit.”
“Nonsense,” Giorgio countered. “You complain every single time we meet. ‘Oh, Garcia, it’s so boring in Vermilion. I really need to come back to the forest and just camp for a few weeks.’ Make up your mind.”
Garcia huffed out a chuckle. “At our age, being contrary is to be expected.”
“Our age? You aren’t even fourty, whelp.” Giorgio took another drink before replying. “Then again, you’ve always carried on like an old man.”
“I do have a wisdom beyond my years,” the Rocket retorted, and the richly appointed viewing room fell silent as they watched the match end.
The venomoth whipped through the trees, its many dances stirring the energy in its core into a frenzy, while the pinsir squatted low in the brush. It was obvious that each Pokémon only had an approximate understanding of where the other was; only the trainers and the audience could see the full picture, aided by the numerous cameras hidden in the indoor forest.
This one is better at commanding a step removed than most. Hmm, perhaps I can get a word in afterwards, see if I can’t find a match for Pierre. That moth’s colouration is-
The thought died as he recalled exactly what today was for. Ah. Yes. Suppose I’ll have to stay close to Mister Apollo…
The challenger’s Pokémon arced around the pinsir’s location, dropping Stun Spores that glowed like phosphorus – a feint; the volume was too low to be effective. It had another attack in the chamber, either a Psychic or Bug Buzz ready to unleash the moment Protect failed.
And evidently Archer was sharp enough to notice, because he simply clicked his tongue and continued to bide his time. The challenger’s eyes sharpened, his frustration evident on the massive screens – the Quiver Dances would turn from boon to curse any minute now, the immense strain of holding them sapping his venomoth’s stamina.
“Ah, I should have taken that bet. Look, he’s panicking.”
Giorgio frowned. “Hmm.”
“Mephisto,” the Gym’s speakers projected to the audience’s benefit, “Flush it out. Psychic, wide area.”
The venomoth alighted on a tree – and then, so slowly it might have been mistaken for a gust of wind, all the leaves and stems around it began to bend down. The foliage descended over what must be approaching the footprint of a city block, undergrowth pressing to the ground in a show of immense, if diffuse, power.
Archer’s answer came with contrasting swiftness. “Rock Slide. The unbowed tree.”
Young Richard Shinichi’s eyes went wide as he realised the mistake his Pokémon – and therefore he – had made. “Bug-”
Before he could get more than a word out, the pinsir rose up from its hiding place – but it did not merely stand. Its back appeared first, then a brief pause as it strained…
And then its mighty horns, dug into the earth, flung upwards. A great mass of tight-packed stones, more than any healthy forest floor could have ever had lurking below, followed the arc of its movement, rising into the sky like an avalanche being rewound through time. The venomoth took to the air, its Psychic telekinesis attempting to bat away the rain of boulders – but it was not nearly enough.
Shinichi furiously mashed his console, returning his Pokémon a split second before it was buried beneath the stone waterfall. The tree it had been sitting on disappeared into splinters, along with dozens of its unfortunate brethren as the Rock Slide lived up to its name.
Garcia clapped politely. “Good show!” he cheerily exclaimed, the man to his side only grumbling. Oh, what has you in a huff today, Sampo? You aren’t even about to be exposed like we are. The crowd, meanwhile, cheered loud enough to rattle the glass of their private chamber – but the announcer was silent; he dared not take the Shogun’s proclamation from him.
Archer took his sweet time, allowing the dust to settle before uncrossing his arms. “Your troops have quit the field,” he growled, with greater showmanship than Garcia usually saw from him. “This battle is decided. Challenger Shinichi, you have yet to impress me. This badge will not be yours today.” He plucked the symbol of the forest from its place and returned it to his pocket as the trainer looked on, and the crowd’s tone turned consoling.
Shinichi balled up his fists, but managed to take the loss with good grace. “I’ll be back,” he promised, lowering his wide-brimmed hat to hide his expression. “Stronger.”
The Gym Leader’s head inclined. “I will look forward to it. Your Pokémon and their balls will be waiting for you at the front desk.”
Both of them began to descend the long flight to ground level, and the screens switched to showing highlights of the battle as the announcer prattled on.
“Terrible battle,” Giorgio commented. “Too reliant on boosting moves, both of them.”
“You’re grouchy today,” was all Garcia replied before reaching down to pick up his own drink. Unlike his friend, the old bug catcher had yet to even open it. Can’t get drunk just yet, after all; there are shinobi about. He felt a mild embarrassment as the highlights went on; Protect hadn't factored into the ending at all. I suppose I'm not quite at that level yet…
The Sampo patriarch was silent as the cork came out, and that silence continued as Garcia poured himself a small glass of sweet wine. “Come on, out with it,” he cajoled. “You’ve been making faces for a minute now.”
Giorgio huffed. “Arcus forbid I get a moment to think.” But the comment did its job, and after a few seconds he opened his mouth again. “Why shouldn’t I be grouchy? My son’s off in a different city entirely, forced into those two’s madcap schemes.”
“Yes, he’s probably having a right adventure at the moment.” Garcia took a pull of his drink, savouring the taste; Archer continually refused to tell anyone where he got his wine from, so his trips to the Viridian Gym were always a special treat. I suppose that’s why he does it. No better show of power than complete exclusivity. “But that was always the plan, wasn’t it? He was never going to be satisfied with being a silk merchant.”
Another huff, then Giorgio took his own pull of wine, right from the bottle. “It’s happening too fast. The boy’s nineteen.”
“You were the same age when you took over from your grandmother, weren’t you?” His friend grumbled, and Garcia shook his head. “Don’t be a worrywart; Archer’s given him that delightful little dragon to protect him. He’s safer than you are, and you aren’t even in the crosshairs.”
Giorgio continued to be a grumpy old man, and endured a few more teasing comments about his son before forcefully rerouting the conversation to the local baseball team.
But even as the words turned mundane as could be, a certain tension continues to underlay the day’s events.
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“How long do I have?”
Archer’s personal aide, an overwhelmingly fat man who went by Hagegeki, flipped a page on his clipboard. Despite looking like the most stereotypical of roughneck gangsters, Archer had yet to meet any person with neater handwriting – or a better head for names and numbers.
“Forty minutes before the next challenger. Are you sure that’s enough time? We can push one of the later challengers to tomorrow. Give your team a few minutes more.”
Archer shook his head. “You know why we can’t.” We need to keep it packed to the brim – every person in those seats is a potential hostage if the League tries to push things during business hours, so they need to stay filled.
His Gym team would just have to deal with only short rests.
“Of course, sir. End of the year rush, and all that.” Another page turned. “On that note, your next opponent… Joanna Mako. Seventh badge, second time here. First was… three years ago, where she won at the first badge level.”
Archer grunted for him to continue as they walked the Gym’s service corridors. “…Nineteen, got her license through the standard test at eleven. Used a rattata and female nidoran when she was here last.”
Like ninety-nine percent of his repeat challengers, the name failed to elicit any recognition. “I’ll prepare for a nidoqueen, then.” A few more steps, and they came up to a semi-hidden door – not properly concealed, since the stadium had been built in obedience with all municipal fire codes, but flush with the wall in such a way that it was obviously not for public use. “Please make sure I’m provided a butterfree with Psychic.”
It was a nonsense statement – they all had Psychic – but Hagegeki took the dismissal for what it was. He stepped away, allowing Archer to exit into the public area of the Gym alone.
A brief journey along which he felt eyes digging into him from every shadow, and then he was inside the VIP box. The door closed behind him, and Archer let out a silent sigh of relief as he saw two of his main supporters – friends, even, if such a relationship could exist among men like them – bickering like schoolchildren.
“Giorgio,” he greeted. “Garcia. You two seem lively enough today – how have you enjoyed the battles?”
“You’re a disgrace to the title of Gym Leader,” the head of the Sampo crime family replied. “Guillotine, in an elite match? They should have you put in with the laundry; you obviously need a thorough wash.”
Ah, drunk already? Archer rolled his eyes inside his helmet, then pulled the stuffy thing off. “And I suppose you could have done better?”
The man snorted, taking a long drink of genuine Stadabora Brixswein, and so the other Viridian native answered in his stead. “Of course not,” said Junior Executive Garcia Sato. “Everyone loves Guillotine – you have a crowd to play to, after all.”
The subtle way that the Executive agreed with his friend made Archer’s lips quirk. “Indeed. It also distracted my opponent quite thoroughly as I set up Double Team.” He found his own chair – and bottle – and settled in.
For a brief moment, no longer than a breath, the Rocket Boss simply looked at the two men who had come to support him. Both of them wore their years poorly; Garcia was thirty-five but looked a decade older, while Giorgio was nearly fifty but looked closer to seventy.
Part of it was natural; both men had hair colours that looked aged – grey and white, respectively. But that alone could not account for it.
Garcia’s face was weathered, his skin more like old leather than anything a man in his thirties should have sported – and Giorgio was even worse. The patriarch boasted a number of discoloured patches across his face, the darkened, near-purple skin competing for space with the smaller but more numerous deep wrinkles. Only his eyes seemed to have any vitality, a bright grey that shone even in the shaded viewing room.
It was a stark transformation from the man Archer had met in 1990, at the height of the war and a year before the birth of his son – the young man Archer had chosen as his successor, then sent off to be a pawn of the two overly-zealous fey creatures who were Team Rocket’s most loyal soldiers. I haven’t the vaguest idea how they’ve avoided time’s march; even I feel the stress of it, these days.
Arcus, I hope I don’t look like Giorgio in ten years…
Then Archer let the moment pass, the weight of his ambitions again settling around his neck. “The crowd isn’t all I have to play to.”
Two solemn nods. “Fancy a battle later, then?” Garcia asked. “To take the edge off.”
‘Are we expecting them to attack tonight,’ was what he was really asking. “Apologies,” Archer answered. “But I’ll have to decline. While my personal team should be fresh, I will likely be completely wiped.”
Giorgio raised his bottle. “The blasted rush.”
“Blasted is one word for it, yes.”
They clinked their drinks, and Archer took a long, sweet gulp. Amazing what those primitive northerners can do to grapes. Almost as good as Kalosian, and at a tenth the price.
The toast ended, and Archer stood. “Going so soon?” Garcia remarked, his cheeks showing just a hint of blush. “Today will be long.”
The Gym Leader nodded, returning his helmet to his head. “It will be. But that is the job.”
He left, not looking back as the conversation started up again behind him. This is my last day as Viridian City’s Gym Leader, came an introspective thought as he returned to the employee tunnels. It was not quite morose, but he was already feeling the sting of it. Four years of constant work. Four years of pouring every waking moment into both the Gym, and my own Pokémon. And, of course, Team Rocket.
His lips again curved up, though the expression was not happy. Tomorrow, everything is turned on its head. What is it that Jessie and James are always singing? Team Rocket blast off… “At the speed of light,” he murmured in-time with the music in his head, voice coming back to him inside the thick helmet to create a one-person duet. “Surrender now, or prepare to fight…”
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Koga felt, more than heard, the man pass below him. For a moment the urge to simply end it was overwhelming – but then the adrenaline roaring in his veins froze over, stillness replacing motion.
No, not quite yet. It needed to be public – not as assassination, but an arrest. A Gym Leader was simply too respected a position to disappear.
Tomorrow, everything is set right, he thought as his heart was once again allowed to beat. Team Rocket will be pulled up, root and stem – no matter how many thorns abjure our hands.