For a city so obsessed with electricity, Vermilion sure does have some shittily lit businesses.

They were probably going for some hokey ‘local culture’ shtick, with the dugtrio-themed lights and the sea-coloured stone tabletops and the ugly brown-orange walls. She loved orange, it was her second favourite colour, but whoever painted this shitty pub had chosen a tone that made her gorge rise.

And the furniture was obviously cheap, store-bought crap, too. Nothing made custom, nothing with effort put in. None of the many clashing aesthetics really matched; even the employee uniforms failed to stick to a theme, just a generic apron-with-white-shirt ensemble.

The people, at least, were promising enough. There were a few construction workers clustering like exeggcute along the left-side booths, with a smaller number of business-casual suit-and-tie types scattered around nearer the bar.

The rest of the pub’s patrons weren’t readily sorted into any one category, which was good – it meant she didn’t stand out too much. Just enough to get noticed.

And she was noticed, alright. Every time she turned her head, she saw men – and a few women – looking her way appreciatively. She mentally marked out a few, some with potential… and some to ignore.

Those guys in the corner are definitely Weepinbell Riders; better to stay away. That duo of girls are wearing ‘Free the League’ patches – I’ll have to talk to them at some point. But not today. She had only been let loose in Vermilion City for four days, and would prefer to take it slow for a bit. Find her footing with a few easy, solitary, marks.

One in particular caught her eye. Dressed like a construction worker, but sitting alone. He’s scrawny, and sort of foreign-looking, too. Big poofy eyebrows that didn’t match his face at all – a bit of Fuchsia blood, maybe?

For a moment she hesitated. He almost looks like me – exotic, but safe. He isn’t a plant for someone else, right? But then she let the suspicion flow away. Well, so what if he is? Information is information.

There was a trick, a way of angling your body, that they tried to teach at the Rocket academy. She liked to think that she had already known it before hitching her cart to theirs, but wherever it came from, she was good at it. A tilt of the chin, a motion of the eyes and spine, and suddenly the isolated worker’s attention snapped right to her. That’s right. I’m sitting here, drinking by my lonesome.

Come on, talk to me.

He hesitated, eyeing the other men who were obviously building up their courage to chat up a young, attractive woman… but in the end he stood up before anyone else. He was tall, and though he didn’t exactly rush there was only enough time to blink before he was sitting on the shitty, Pokéball-patterned stool next to her own.

“Hey,” he said, and she smiled; his voice was more attractive than his face, stronger and deeper than she would have guessed. “I’m Hoshi. You here to meet people, or just to drink?”

They talked for nearly a half-hour. He wasn’t charming, or witty, but within the first few minutes she started feeling pretty good about the situation; even if she didn’t hook him, she’d at least have someone interesting to spend the night with.

She fed him bits of her story – which was even mostly true, for now – but most of the time she was able to steer him into talking about himself. He was harder to reel in than some men she had gotten on her line – he was obviously carrying a big mass of bullshit on his back, enough daddy issues sloshing around in his head to make a teenage call-girl blush – but the words started to flow easier as he drank.

“Yeah, I’ve been here in Vermilion since I was… a year old, I think.”

He’s somewhere in his early twenties, so… “Your family moved because of the dragon attacks?”

His eyes were just the slightest bit unfocused, beginning to fill with liquor. “I don’t know. Dad never… That makes sense, but I don’t know.”

She let her hair fall forward over her face as she leaned in. “You’ve lived a pretty hard life, haven’t you?”

His face went tense, then slack again as he met her eyes, and she knew right that second she had him.

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Hoshi Mutsu was twelve years old when his father began to die.

The exact moment it began was etched into his brain in too-vivid colour; the yellow-red-gold floral pattern of the wallpaper set behind his father’s imposing features, the deep purple of his hair forming a halo around his head as the shining blue of his eyes reflected the television.

“What.”

The word was not loud, but it was intense. As the news lady drawled on his lips split to reveal white teeth, the enamel somehow duller than his eyes despite the former’s mirror sheen. “They have to be joking. Some little Johto punk is Champion? They want us to believe that?”

Years later, Hoshi would begin to put together the context; he had been only nine when Red had become Champion, and he hadn’t seen the strangeness of two boys his age taking the title in sequence – it had just been how the world was. Normal.

But that late fall day, with red light streaming in through the windows courtesy of the thick clouds of Cinnabar ash still drifting in the air, his father had seen something he couldn’t believe. His arm moved, and empty cans – soda, not beer, that wouldn’t come until much later – went flying, dull aluminium coated in electric yellow labels catching the light as they tumbled.

“They think they can-”

He cut himself off. Shenja Mutsu always loomed large in Hoshi’s memories, but that day he had been a towering skyscraper – a thing of hard steel and fragile glass. “Lance thinks he can pull something like this? We’ll see about that…” The anger in his voice went cold, but his face never changed from a rictus scowl. “I’ll call up Surge and some of our war buddies, see if we can’t-”

Again, he cut himself off – but this time, it was different. Hoshi watched from the doorway as his father’s eyes bugged out, something strange dancing in the black of his pupils.

“…Dad?” That was when he had become afraid; it was normal for his father to yell at the TV, especially the news. It was not normal for him to freeze, still as a statue, his eyes focused on nothing.

The man jerked, his chin snapping to the side in a move that must have been painful, and for a fraction of a second Hoshi saw his father look at him without even a hint of recognition.

Then it was gone. “Hoshi.” Shenja blinked, the strange energy in his vacant eyes draining away. “Hoshi,” he said again, putting a hand on his forehead.

The anger was softened, cut with embarrassment. He looked at the scattered cans. “Ahh, I really overreacted there, didn’t I?” A bit of fumbling with the remote turned off the news, the lady’s yellow dress and green hair replaced by dull black-grey. “Did you see that? Nonsense. Like some kid from out west could do what our home-grown Pallet boys did, trained by the Pokémon Professor himself!” His voice had transformed from cold rage to consternated amusement, but an echo of that previous anger still showed itself in the tenseness of his jaw, the angle his fluffy eyebrows made as they met.

He laughed, and despite the lingering weirdness the tension in Hoshi’s gut uncoiled.

They had gone out for ice cream, later, after visiting Uncle Bob. His memories of the rest of the day were unclear, the colors washed out, faded like they had been left out too long in the sun.

But years later, he could still remember his father’s eyes as he stood, immobile, strange colours dancing somewhere deep inside.

It was far from the last time he would see it.

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Hoshi Mutsu was sixteen years old when his father took his last breath.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The hospital was clean, white walls and cream floors almost glowing in the bright fluorescent lights. It wasn’t at all like their apartment, dirty and torn-up by his father’s intermittent rage.

Shenja lay on the bedding, and for once he seemed small. He wasn’t actually small; his arms were still thickly muscled, even in his forties, connected to a torso that more resembled a machamp’s than the average human’s. His face was stately, carved from hard stone by a harder chisel. He didn’t look like he was dying.

But somehow, he was diminished. His candle was guttering, and there was an animal part of Hoshi's brain that could just tell.

“Bob will take care of you,” his father said, because he could tell, too. “You still have the land in Viridian. You’ll be fine.”

Hoshi couldn’t open his mouth. His lips may as well have been welded shut for all he could move them, stuck together by dreadful anticipation. Because any second now, it would-

And then it happened, right on cue – he had more than enough practice predicting it, after all. Shenja’s limbs seized, his eyes bulging out as his tongue lolled, pink against the white pallor of his skin, completely different from the clean, painted brick of the walls. A thousand years of agony passed in the span of a second before the man’s muscles released, returning to normal.

A rare type of seizure, the doctors said. Caused by an allergic reaction to the barely-refined gasses used as plane fuel in the later years of the war, they said.

Easily treatable if it was caught in the first few years, they said. If you didn’t scoff at the notion of visiting a doctor, if you didn’t write it off as stress, then an old injury, then a Johtonian conspiracy…

Hoshi watched his father gather himself back together. It didn’t hurt – even now, in the end, his father said it didn’t hurt – and yet the flame guttered, finding the end of its wick. They looked at each other, and suddenly every emotion in Hoshi’s body turned red.

His body vibrated with it, and it was all he could do to avoid lashing out, hold back from beating his fists against his father, or the stupid infantile clefairy-branded bedsheets, or his own body. Shenju eyed him with tired understanding – Hoshi hadn’t inherited his father’s build, or his skill with his hands, but when it came to anger, they were exactly the same.

That was the last time Hoshi saw his father as himself, his eyes clear, full of understanding and regret, the madness finally gone for one last, clear moment.

Shenja Mutsu died December sixth, 2004, in the early hours of the morning. He was forty-one years old.

Hoshi watched as the doctors moved in their eggshell coats and vibrant candy-blue gloves, their hands swift and dextrous as they attempted to restart a corpse’s heart. They brought in a raichu, the Pokemon’s movements, too, swift and self-assured, like it had gone to college to learn medicine the same as the doctors.

Hoshi left the room. It wouldn’t work; even then, he had known it wouldn’t work. The fire was gone. He leaned his forehead against the smooth, clean bricks as a crackle of lightning accompanied by a resounding “Chuuu!” echoed through the painted stone.

“Chuu! Chuu! Chuu!”

And then, silence.

Hoshi’s fist met the wall, producing only the softest sound of impact despite the immediate pain he felt cutting up his arm. It felt good, so he did it again, and again. His anger, his frustration at the sheer tragic stupidity of the world travelled down his arm, returning as cathartic suffering like copper turned to gold in an alchemist’s alembic.

But no magic or alchemy would appear to return his father – or his smashed fist, for that matter. He spent the next week in the hospital as they put his bones back together, then went back home to his dirty, empty apartment.

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Hoshi Mutsu was eighteen years old when he killed for the first time.

…Well, maybe killed was a bit dramatic. It was only a Pokémon. But the incident stood out all the same.

He had a job as a cook in a burger joint, back then. It wasn’t the worst job, or the best, but it was money. He could feed himself, clothe himself, and keep the apartment himself.

He had proved that he didn’t need Bob Surge’s charity, no matter what the old veteran wanted.

“Number two, extra mustard,” came an order from the front, and he flipped the disks of frozen meat like he had been taught.

Orders, and orders, and orders, grey and pointless in the painting of his memory. The morning passed, the lunch rush ended, and then he was off for the day.

It had been a completely normal afternoon, from what he could recall; the sun shone down, reflecting off the waters of Vermilion Bay like scattered jewels, beachgoers frolicking in their preferred habitat even as the heavy rhythm of construction sounded out from the northeast. The Young District had been just starting to go from idea to skeletal foundation, and the city was booming.

Hoshi had walked along, not thinking much, just taking in the city – and eventually he reached the point where civilisation turned to wilderness. The transition was immediate; his foot left concrete to set down in grass that reached his ankles, green dotted with the red-blue-yellow of coloured wildflowers like drops of paint.

Travelling outside the city was dangerous, doubly so when he didn’t have a Pokémon of his own, but Route Eleven had been – still was – safer than most.

Safe, and full of gamblers. TauroBurger had paid well for the hours, and on a lucky day his paycheck could double in the span of an afternoon.

Or at least, that had been his plan; he never reached the gaggle of old men, who wore their rags with an odd sort of pride.

“Hey you!” The voice was an obnoxious screech in Hoshi’s memory, tones only a young child’s immature vocal cords could produce. Time was probably exaggerating it – or maybe not. It was impossible to know.

What he did know was that the following sequence was burned into his brain just as vividly as that day six years before:

Hoshi turned to see a boy dressed in denim shorts, a sky-blue t-shirt, and a red trainer’s cap – branded with the League symbol, an L stylized to form most of a triangle, because of course he would be wearing a rare collector’s item. He brandished a Pokéball, one of the newer ones that Silph had been sending out. Hoshi had seen them now and then, displayed front-and-centre in the neighbourhood Pokémart’s display window, easily five times the price as an upgraded Great Ball.

Unlike the smooth red-top standard Poké Ball that he remembered drooling over as a ten-year-old, the one the boy held was textured with small bumps, its top jet black while the bottom remained white. “When trainers’ eyes meet, they have to battle! Send out your Pokémon!” With a warbling whoosh-oosh-oosh, the ball popped open, unleashing a torrent of red light that resolved into a lavender rat the size of a medium housecat. “Go, Rattata!”

Fucking really? That’s what he had thought. He looked back up to the kid, who couldn’t have been more than six, and irritation spiked up and down his face. Those balls cost an arm and a leg. Who’s shelling out that kind of cash so their brat can play around pretending to be a trainer? A fucking rattata. What a waste; at least get a magnemite or drowzee or something. He isn’t even old enough for a license! He scowled. “Sorry kid, I’m not a trainer. Go bother someone else, ‘kay?”

He turned, but the kid failed to do as he was told. “Not a trainer?” He sounded so confused, Hoshi just had to turn back to give him a look. “What’re you doing out here? Only trainers are allowed to go in the tall grass!”

That’s just something your mom told you so you wouldn’t get eaten by an ekans before she got you a four-figure birthday present, you snot machine. “None of your business. Piss off.” He was officially done talking to kindergarteners for the day; he had money to make. Dirk probably has a poker game going on right about now. I don’t know why he keeps it up, he must be the worst poker player in Kanto, but as long as he does…

But again, the kid was undeterred. He pointed, still holding the nonsensically expensive prototype ball. “If you refuse to send out your Pokémon, that means I win!” His stupid voice combined with his smug grin to make Hoshi’s vision tint red. “And that means you’ve gotta pay up! It’s the Pokémon law!” His other hand made a grabbing motion.

At the mention of paying, the red filter over Hoshi’s vision doubled. His teeth clenched as muscles stood out along his arms and back, rational thought being washed out by a torrent of fury. “The fuck did you just say?”

He took a step, and the kid, now sporting a worried look, retreated – but his legs were short, and Hoshi grew closer. “You think you can push me around? Because you have a fucking rat? Fuck off.”

He hadn’t actually meant to hit the kid. Even in the privacy of his own head, he swore he didn’t. He was just going to scare him.

But when the little shit with his blue rat and his expensive fucking merch stepped back, he must have turned his foot over a rock or something – because he reversed, stumbling forward, and Hoshi’s soft backhanded swipe caught him right in the eye.

“Oh, fuck.” The kid stumbled away and fell on his ass, holding his free hand over his face. Then, expression filled with real fear, the stupid fucking child said the words that would turn this into one of the worst days of both their lives.

He pointed again, choking out a command. “Rattata, help! Use B-bite!”

The memory stopped at that point, or maybe it would be more accurate to say it skipped ahead, his brain simply lacking any coherent information to dredge up. There was nothing but a sea of pain and fury, red of a dozen different tones mixing together, and when whatever had happened was over, Hoshi was standing over a pile of crushed meat. Hints of lavender mixed up with red and brown and sharp bits of white.

The kid was still on his ass, his expression horrified, his mouth open, brandishing the now-useless Pokéball. No words came out; maybe he had been screaming and had run out of air, or maybe he was too scared to breathe.

Hoshi ran, then, and kept running all the way through Vermilion until he hit water, only stopping when his socks were soaked through with salty ocean suds. His clothes were ruined, soaked through with blood – mostly his own – and his arm felt like it was hanging by a thread.

Later, in the hospital, he would tell Surge he had been bitten by a wild Pokémon. Whatever happened to the kid, he never found out.

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He stared at the woman, his eyes tracing from her sky-blue eyes to the sapphires dotting her nose and ears, down her bust to the curve of her stomach. I must be drunk, he thought. I’d never tell anyone this, otherwise.

He obviously hadn’t told the whole story – he was trying to get laid, not be put in a psych ward – but he had told this woman more about himself than anyone he had ever met. He wasn’t even sure why; something about her just made him… talk.

“Sorry,” he sputtered. “What was your name?”

A strand of fluorescent orange hair moved, tucked behind her ear by the motions of her fingers. “Cascade,” she reminded him. “But call me Casca.”