Pokemon: Undertow (PG-13)

[Kentucky Fried Torchic]

Pokemon: Undertow

Foreword:
From a young age, my favorite trope in anime series was the "tournament arc". Whether it was Yu Yu Hakusho, Naruto, or the perennial classics Dragonball and Dragonball Z, a multi-episode fighting tournament was always a favorite of mine because it gave me the chance to see some unique characters, unexpected strategies, and truly incredible fights. Plus, there was often a level of behind-the-scenes intrigue or conflict going on to keep things interesting. To this date, among my favorite episodes of the Pokemon anime are Ash's battles in the Indigo League culminating in his heartbreaking match with Ritchie. The story that follows is my attempt to follow in those hallowed footsteps, giving you action but also a deeper story as well. I hope that you enjoy it.
- KFT

Table of Contents:

Spoiler:

Chapter One
Chapter Two

Chapter One

As the unimpressive ferry crested another wave and landed with a heavy splash on the tumultuous sea, Sisi Lothringen’s stomach performed a backflip as well. Even though the summer sky was a bright and cheerful blue with nary a cloud in the sky, the sea was still a violent concert of water courtesy of the strange combination of currents that met in the center of the Whirl Islands. It was almost funny, she thought bitterly as she tasted sour bile in her mouth. Despite all of her planning and preparations, she had not counted on seasickness.

And if the rocking, swaying motions of the vessel under her feet wasn’t bad enough, there was also the din of her travel companions. Out of all of the passengers on the cramped boat, Sisi felt like it was she alone who was immune to the gaiety and camaraderie that seemed to have infected everyone around her. The teenager clung to that feeling of lonely superiority that was the one bright spot on this otherwise miserable trip like it was a life preserver.

She could hear the chattering of the people and Pokémon all around her in the ferry’s cramped interior. To try and distract herself from her upset stomach, the young woman hazarded a look around. Unwilling to spend more than the absolute minimum to get to her destination, Sisi had been consigned to what could have only been described as a cargo hold. There were no windows and the wood-paneled room’s only illumination came from a few haphazardly installed bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling.

But if anyone else down here was unimpressed with their traveling conditions, they were hiding it well. The human passengers, mimicked by their Pokémon, were swapping stories, comparing their prized battlers, forming friendships, and doing everything else they could to make it all the harder for them to actually win the tournament that they were headed to. Amateurs. That observation brought on another swell of pride in the young woman that was quickly met with a rising bout of nausea, but that did not mean that she was wrong. Seasickness or not, the fact remained that she seemed to be the only competitor taking this seriously.

This year’s Whirl Cup would not be the first tournament she had battled in, not by a long shot. Sisi had dedicated herself to the thrill and the glory of tournaments since her first Pokémon journey, and the years since that fateful decision had produced an impressive bounty. While she had not been able to place higher than the top four in any of the national leagues she had competed in, the black-haired teenager had taken it upon herself to seek out any local contests of skill and ruthlessly conquer them. After a while, they all started to blur together, and, in time, the memory of winning the Whirl Cup would become hazy too. But there was nothing wrong with that, Sisi assured herself. The principles necessary for victory were still the same and she would apply them as methodically as she ever had.

Those precepts were simple enough to remember, but they had not been altogether easy to develop when she was still a naïve and careless girl just starting out. Another heady rush of selfish pleasure came to the girl as she observed all of the mistakes that the Pokémon trainers around her were making. Chief among them was to never ever let any potential opponents see your Pokémon until it was absolutely necessary. The second that any battler worth anything saw a new Pokémon they sized it up, evaluating its strengths and weaknesses. That some of the morons around her were actually bragging about their strongest Pokémon and their best moves was utterly baffling. “It’s far harder to defend yourself when you don’t know how long the blade will be,” Sisi repeated quietly under her breath, only to immediately regret speaking aloud as the sour taste of bile made its appearance. The girl tamped her nausea down to a more manageable level, but her mood was not improved by that small feat of fortitude.

Would she have liked to let her own Pokémon out to stretch and get some fresh air? Of course, but it just wasn’t worth losing the element of surprise. All of her Pokémon, not just the ones chosen for this particular tournament, knew the value of discipline. Victory, even over this motley collection of amateurs, would be a much greater reward than a few measly minutes outside of their Poké Balls.

A blonde-haired boy about her age stumbled over Sisi’s sandaled feet and, before he could finish uttering his much-needed apology, his portly Quagsire did the same thing. The touch of the periwinkle Pokémon’s cold, slimy skin on her bare legs was the last thing that the teenager needed right now and her queasiness went into overdrive. Sisi lurched toward the room’s trashcan, pushing brusquely through several trainers debating the merits of Bubblebeam over Water Gun.

Fortunately, she made it in time. After she had finished vomiting, Sisi looked up to try and find that boy and his stupid Pokémon so that she could give him a piece of her mind, but the duo had disappeared into the sea of people. Anger flared up in her before the girl took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down.

There was nothing to get worked up over, no reason to stress. Soon she would be off of this miserable excuse of a boat and on dry land, then she would compete, and she would win. After all, the Whirl Cup was just another tournament.

***

As far as competitions outside of the nationally-sanctioned Pokémon Leagues went, the Whirl Cup was definitely something special! It was the biggest event for water Pokémon trainers in all of Tohjo, maybe in the whole wide world! And finally, he, Fritz Yakavenka, was going to compete in it!

He had grown up on the island of Cianwood, just a few miles away from the Whirl Islands and had been privileged enough to watch the annual Whirl Cup for as long as he could remember and witness the best and most passionate water-type specialists gathered in one place in order to test their skills against one another. Some years, Fritz had actually been able to attend the competition in person, cheering as loudly as anyone for his favorite trainer. On other occasions, such as when he had been participating in Sinnoh’s Pokémon League three years ago, he caught the broadcasts.

In fact, it was the Whirl Cup that had inspired his own dream of becoming a trainer, and he had raised only water-type Pokémon from the beginning in fervent anticipation of one day taking part in the tournament himself. Now that day was here, and he could hardly contain his excitement.

He was brought back down to earth by a gentle tap on his leg. “What is it, Skipper?” Fritz asked his Quagsire as he wiped off the Pokémon’s slimy residue.

The bulky blue and purple Pokémon pointed back behind them.

“Ah, she looked fine,” the trainer said, dismissing the shorter creature’s concerns with a wave of his hand. “Kind of cute too, except for all the-“ Fritz made some sort of vague gesture around his face, in response to which his Pokémon could only shrug.

The duo finished making their way to the stairs leading out of the cargo hold, with the human saying hello to friends he hadn’t seen since the last Whirl Cup and the Quagsire leaving a trail of disgusted Pokémon and people behind him.

A burly man dressed in a wife-beater was standing there, his thick arms folded across his barrel chest and a gruff expression on his face to show that he meant business. When he saw Fritz, however, his expression immediately softened, and a wide grin spread across his rough-hewn face. “Hiya, Fritz, enjoying the ride?”

“Sure am!” he replied happily. “Mind letting me up to see my dad?”

“Not at all,” the older man said as he stepped aside to grant Fritz access. “Don’t let any of the riffraff see you going up.”

“Thanks, Jerzy!”

As they ascended up to the deck, Skipper the Quagsire inquired, “Quag, Quagsire?”

“I guess I’m a little nervous,” Fritz replied as the pair climbed the stairs up to the main deck. “But that’s okay, because I know that we’re going to win this thing! I’ve got the best team a trainer could ask for!”

The teenager had spoken that last sentence just as his head cleared the hold and his lungs were filled with the salty breath of the ocean, and had not gone unnoticed.

“You think you’re a real hotshot, huh, Fritz?” someone jeered in a strangely friendly manner, the source of which became apparent as a boy about the same age as the other trainer with a spiky crop of black hair made his way brusquely between a conversation between a few older men and women.

Fritz smiled and braced himself for the inevitable hand that raked roughly through his honey-blonde hair. “Heya, Andrey, how’re you doing?”

“Not bad, my friend! What’d’ya think? This leaky excuse for a ship gonna make it to the islands, or are we gonna hafta swim for it?”

“You’re lucky my dad didn’t hear you say that or else he’d have thrown you overboard!”

Andrey grinned a wide toothy smile and threw his arm around his friend, pulling the other boy close. “Nah, your old man’s a big softy and besides he’ll be beggin’ me to give him my business after I win this thing.”

Fritz shot back, “You really think that you and your motley team can beat mine?”

The expression on Andrey’s moon-shaped face darkened almost imperceptibly and he pulled Fritz uncomfortably close. Although he was smiling and laughing while he said, “Listen here, you lil’ turd. I said I was goin’ to do it, and I mean what I sez. You got a problem with it?” There was an edge to the teen’s voice.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Fritz insisted as he extracted himself from the rough grasp of his friend. After he had done so, the boy could not resist the urge to try and get the last word in. “You’ll have to get through me and Skipper first though!”

Instead of reacting like Fritz wanted him to, the darker-featured teen simply laughed the implicit challenge off. “Oh, Fritz, you’re such a riot! You’ve never beaten me once! What gives you the right to start talkin’ tough?”

Without any good response to that uncomfortable truth, Fritz had to admit defeat in the time-honored way of begging off from the conflict due to some other pressing commitment: “I’ve gotta go see my dad, but I’ll see you later!” Beating a hasty retreat, Fritz and his Quagsire pushed through throngs of people and Pokémon who were enjoying every single minute spent out in the open and in the sun in contrast to the unfortunate souls stuffed away in the hold below. Despite their generally greater age and social standing, the reaction of these trainers and their partners to being slimed by Skipper was the same. Again, however, the duo paid them no mind as they continued their way to the bridge.

About two yards away from the door there were two men, one of whom was, despite the warm summer weather, wearing a light jacket that did next to nothing to conceal the corded muscles in his arms and tying a complicated-looking knot in a length of rope while the other, a sailor wearing the same informal uniform that the one guarding the hold wore, watched. “Hey there, Fritz!” the observer called when he saw the boy and his Quagsire. “You going to see your dad?”

“Yup,” Fritz said and he vanished through the door with Skipper without a second thought.

Before the door closed, he caught the deckhand saying, “That’s incredible! Can you show me that knot again?”

***

Matar Ahmad wordlessly untied the knot and carefully replicated the intricate process so that the sailor could follow it. After he had gotten the gist of it, the muscular man was dismissed with a happy “thank you!” As he walked back to the main section of the ship’s deck, Matar chuckled darkly under his breath at what he had been reduced to. Once he had been somebody important and powerful, and now he was reduced to anonymity, performing valuable skills he had learned during the war to amuse simpletons.

Even if his reputation had been eroded by time and his appearance altered by surgery, Matar still possessed enough of a physical presence that the other passengers on the boat hastily got out of his path when he approached. It was pleasing to wield his physical might with such impunity, but it was still a far cry from the intimidation he had been capable of not long before. But he would be capable of eliciting such fear soon enough, if everything went according to plan.

The last few years had been a wake-up call for Matar Ahmad. While things had not been exacting comfortable in his home country, but exile had forced him into his lowest point. From there, he had been forced to rebuild everything from scratch. New relationships had to be forged, some with fellow exiles and some with those who had no connection to the cause for which he had fought and killed. But he had developed and was ready to emerge once again and reclaim his rightful place in the sun. Then he could deal with that witch.

But that was not for a while yet. First, he would have to go through the tediousness of this farce of a competition. It would not be hard, that much was clear just by a quick survey of his surroundings. Humans were gabbing happily with one another, enjoying the sun and the sea. They were going on vacation, but he was going to war.

Decadent trainers raising their Pokémon to be showy ornaments of their own egos were focused on putting on a performance in their battles. Their contests were dances rather than true tests of combat prowess, a far cry from Matar’s experience. In their sheltered subculture you could be inefficient and sloppy, just as long as you weren’t boring. That entire philosophy was an anathema to a military man, but disgust did not mean defeat. He would crush his foes without mercy or pomp, and through these victories his glory could be reclaimed.

He leaned against the ship’s railing, thinking. Maybe it was a dangerous stunt to put himself out there, but there was so much to gain. The rest of his life would not be spent skulking in shadows and harboring increasingly delusional dreams of his rise to power as his stature in the movement degraded into dust. Matar raised his hand and closed it into a fist, then opening it, and repeating the process. The tattoos on his hand had been removed out of necessity, but the swirling design that had been etched onto the back of his right hand were still stark and black in his mind’s eye. He could project the vision onto his appendage and the imagined sight soothed him.

Matar’s concentration was broken by a tremendous din rising from the east. A helicopter with a stylized logo of a white letter “S” inside of a blue “C” painted on the side was approaching at a leisurely speed, lingering briefly over each of the boats in the migratory chain before moving onto the next. When its shadow darkened the faces of the passengers on Matar’s boat, a cheer went up from the crowd, although it was not uniform. One dark-haired youth hurled a can of soda up at the aircraft with a hearty jeer. Matar watched the spectacle with bemused detachment and traced the high arc of the aluminum can as it barely cleared a fraction of the helicopter’s altitude and landed into the sea with a pathetic splash.

No, Matar thought pleasantly, beating this rabble would be nothing.

***

The thrum of the helicopter’s blades was muffled inside of the aircraft’s cabin, but it was still loud enough that Stanislav could pretend that he had not heard the bad news. “Can you repeat that, Marv?”

The needle-nosed man sitting across from Stanislav Coburg sighed heavily and took off his glasses to wipe off some imagined speck of dust. “Bankrupt, sir,” he said simply. “Actually, that’s not what you are, it’s what you will become if you are smart. You are actually seventeen million dollars in debt.” Before his client could ask the question, Marv already had the answer, “That is Unovan dollars, not Orre dollars or Hoennese dinars. This is serious.”

The other man opened his mouth to say something, but then apparently thought better and closed it. Instead he looked out the window, first at the passing waves, then at the growing shape of the islands ahead, and finally at the shrinking boats they had just passed. Then Stanislav sunk his head into his well-manicured hands and just held it there, elbows on his knees. The helicopter’s cabin was silent save for the monotonous drone of the spinning blades.

For his part, Marv the accountant just watched his employer without comment or judgment. It was only when the seconds had stretched into minutes that the slender man interrupted Stanislav’s thinking. “Just declare bankruptcy, Stan. It’ll be easy. I can walk you through the forms and we’ll have it done before the opening ceremonies are over.”

Stanislav lifted his heavy head to look at Marv, and the accountant was silently disappointed to see that the normally stately sight of the champion of the Whirl Cup was besmirched by his muddy brown eyes being bloodshot and misted over by tears. But there was no tremble or weakness in his voice when he said, “Bankruptcy won’t solve everything.”

“That’s true, sir. There’ll be plenty of ugliness in the press, certainly some damage to your brand-” Despite the validity of those concerns, Stanislav did not appear to be listening too carefully, so Marv let it drop.

The middle-aged man blinked a few times as though he were just waking up and then reached over to the fridge between the seats, pulled out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. As he poured the drinks, Stanislav adopted an unconvincing tone of innocent curiosity and asked, “How much is the prize money for this tournament?”

“Fifty thousand crowns, sir, coming out to roughly thirty-five thousand dollars Unovan after taxes.”

“And the egg.”

“And the egg, sir,” Marv agreed. “There might be a little money there, but nowhere near enough to make a dent.”

Stanislav grunted and held out one of the glasses. When Marv refused it with a polite, “You know I don’t drink, sir”, the other man set it next to him and began nursing his own glass of brandy.

“This isn’t the first setback, I’ve had,” muttered Stanislav.

“No sir.”

The older man chuckled bitterly and ran his free hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Of course, I was a lot younger then.” There was a pause, then he looked out the window again. “Did you see how they waved at me, Marv? When we flew over all of those people?”

“Some of them were definitely doing something besides waving, sir.”

“Psh, only a tiny insignificant minority. You know how long I have been winning the Whirl Cup?”

The question was a test and fortunately the pinched-faced accountant knew the answer. “Seven times, sir.”

“Precisely,” said Stanislav with obvious relish. He took another swig of his drink and elaborated, “As I long as I keep winning, I will always have support here. And not just from the competitors, either. My presence has helped raise awareness of what used to be just another backwater competition to a bona fide attraction. Every sailor and shopkeeper between Olivine and Cianwood ought to be hanging my picture up right next to the Savior.”

Now it was Marv’s turn to be dismissive. “I deal with numbers, not feelings, and I’m telling you, Stan, community goodwill is not going to pay your debts. You could convince Hoenn to disarm, cure cancer, and discover a thousand new species of Pokémon and these banks would still be crying for your blood.”

Stanislav gave the accountant a hard, appraising look, but the other man’s expression was perfectly neutral. There was no malice in his analysis, just the unwelcome facts. “I cannot declare bankruptcy right before the tournament begins. That would look horrible and taint everything I do in the arena.”

“If you declare after the tournament, it is going to overshadow your successful defense of your title.”

The two men contemplated the path before them. Once again, it was Marv who spoke up. Years of trusted advice had given him that privilege. “This is not my department, but what if you file for bankruptcy during the tournament?” Stanislav gave him a curious look, but did not shoot down the idea, so the financial advisor pursued the idea further, “This is more your speed, but since you’re going to get attention for it no matter what we do to try and keep it quiet, why not trumpet your financial difficulties far and wide? Make it part of a storyline: the old washed-up trainer beset on all sides and written off by everyone triumphs by winning one more time.”

“You think I’m washed up?” laughed Stanislav. Marv did not join in his merriment, thereby passing another test. “The trouble is, no one doubts that I am going to win. The Veilstone odds have me as the clear favorite.”

“That is an easy fix, sir. Just feed the story to the right reporters and then falter a bit on the field, maybe even appear infirm during the opening ceremonies. Then those vultures will start falling over themselves to repeat the story until it becomes an accepted fact.”

This did not sound like a bad plan to Stanislav so far. “Then I win, and I bet on myself to do it.”

Marv’s voice cut through his enthusiasm like a cold steel blade. “No, Stan. Under no circumstances are you to wager money during this tournament. You win the cup, announce your retirement, take the best book and endorsement deals you can get. It won’t be nearly as extravagant as you’ve become accustomed to, sir, but after a few years of prudent investments you should be living comfortably again.”

“What do you mean by ‘retire’?”

“This is your last Whirl Cup. Hell, this is your last competition period. That is the only way anyone is going to want to pay money for your story when this is all over, because it has to be all over.”

Stanislav swirled what was left of his drink around the glass and let out a heavy sigh. “I suppose I’ve had a good run.” Marv didn’t say anything, and he wouldn’t until his client folded. “Fine,” the champion said, “this is the end. I’ll follow your plan.”

“I’ll drink to that,” the accountant said and held out his hand for the other glass. A wide grin spread across Stanislav’s face, wiping away any traces of hesitation and doubt.

They clinked their glasses together. “To the future,” said Marv simply.

“To the future.”

[Kentucky Fried Torchic]

Chapter Two

The boat laid anchor in the Scarlett City harbor not a minute too soon for Sisi. Unfortunately, she still had to wait with the rest of the passengers holed up in the ship’s depths until everyone who had paid more than the absolute minimum for a ticket had departed. It was not a short wait, nor a pleasant one, with everyone doing their best to keep a cautious distance from the seasick girl despite the cramped quarters. That was all forgotten, however, as soon as she stepped out of the hold into the sun and stepped onto sweet merciful terra firma. A brief twinge of annoyance clouded Sisi’s immense sense of relief when she saw the boy with the Quagsire that had bumped into her during the trip.

He was milling about on the dock, alternating between talking to the ship’s crew and attempting to engage in conversation with other passengers as they disembarked. Sisi made sure to keep a wide berth from him and his slimy companion. Soon, the duo was out of sight and out of mind, leaving Sisi to try and locate her hotel.

Many years of traveling to and competing in tournaments had left Sisi with a good sense of how to stretch her money as far as possible in pursuit of a trophy and a title. Accordingly, while many competitors from outside the area were flocking to any one of the numerous hotels and inns that were experiencing their boom season (and poorer trainers who qualified for Johto’s aid program were filling the city’s expansive Pokémon Center to its brim), Sisi had chosen a more frugal option. Trainers and spectators who had not properly planned their trip to the Whirl Islands were stuck with lodging at one of Scarlett City’s less impressive motels, such as the Mant Inn. That was where Sisi was staying as well, except she had actually called ahead and made a reservation at the much-maligned business.

Part of her had wondered if the bewildered staff would actually honor the booking that she had made six months in advance, but sure enough, when she had told the mousy-haired woman behind the desk that she had a reservation, Sisi did not even have to give her name before the receptionist’s dull eyes widened in surprise and she exclaimed, “So you’re the one!” The older woman handed Sisi a key and gestured vaguely with one hand tipped in pink, obscenely long fake nails. “You’re in room 108, just at the end of the hall down there.”

Sisi took the proffered key, grimacing only slightly at the green discoloration on its bow, and took it to her room. After only a cursory look at the haphazardly applied duct tape sealing the emergency exit next to her room shut, she stepped inside. Once inside, Sisi unslung her backpack and purse and laid them carefully on the mostly carpeted floor. She checked the time and saw that there were still hours before she needed to be anywhere. Her stomach was in no condition to hold anything down, but a nap would be nice, especially considering what she had planned for the night.

Glancing at the analog display of the clock on the bedside table assured Sisi that she had slept for just a little under two hours, and she rose from the lumpy mattress to plot her next move. As much as she wanted to hole up in this sorry excuse for a room and think strategy until the battling began tomorrow, she was undeniably hungry now that her stomach had settled. The opening ceremony for the tournament that was touted at the top of the week’s itinerary was supposed to have a few platters of food. Attendance was not mandatory, but the food was free, and it might be another chance to scope out her competition, laughable as it probably would be.

Her mind set, Sisi took a quick shower to remove the layer of sweat and grime that she had acquired during the boat ride and then dressed in the only semi-formal outfit she had packed: a pair of black slacks, matching sensible flats, and a plain white blouse. After trying to do something with her dark hair that wouldn’t result in her looking like a librarian or a little girl, Sisi had to be content to just let it lay heavy on her shoulders. This sort of primping and preening had never been her thing, and her body was growing more and more insistent in voicing its need for sustenance.

Sisi retrieved her purse, had an agonizing debate about what to do with her Pokémon before deciding to leave them in the room so she would not run the risk of tipping her hand to anyone at the event, and left the room, locking the door behind her. No sooner had the ancient bolt lock clunked into place that there was a sound of something very heavy and fragile being smashed. The receptionist at her desk seemed oblivious to the commotion, idly turning a page in her tabloid magazine without even batting an eye. Very quickly, Sisi stepped back into her quarters and moved a set of Poke Balls to her purse and did her best to shove her backpack as far underneath the hotel bed as it would go. Then she set out again, forcing herself not to imagine what might be causing all of the ruckus in the other rooms and whether or not she had made a grave mistake in not spending a little more money on a decent hotel.

The streets of Scarlett City were alive with activity and color. Bright banners hung from nearly every storefront and lamppost, many of them looking painfully homemade. Anyone who had been to the Whirl Islands at any other point during the past three years would have been shocked at the transformation that had seized the archipelago, turning sleepy communities into bustling hubs of activity. For Sisi, however, the egregious displays of color and sound were par for the course when it came to these kinds of local tournaments. As was the price gouging. One restaurant that she passed on the street had a barely illegible sign in their window offering a “special deal” on their local brand of vegetable soup for a price that would have made even some famous Kalosian chefs scoff at the arrogance. Some of the locals on the street were hardly any better. A nearly toothless man chattering quickly in the local dialect grabbed a trainer and started tying a piece of twine around his finger. When the foreigner attempted to say thank you and walk away, the beggar began accosting him for money, following his mark and shouting over and over again something that sounded like “Thief! Thief!”

Sisi sidestepped a number of potential episodes like this on her way to the hotel where the opening gala was being held. If she had to practically power walk through the city and look straight ahead lest she inadvertently catch some scheming native’s eye, that was a small price to pay to make it to her destination undisturbed. Besides, she was sure that there was nothing that this place could offer that she had not seen before.

That being said, she did have to admit that the site hosting the ceremonies was an ostentatious one, a bit of a step up from some of the small townhalls and community meeting places that had served similar purposes for other competitions. This hotel was bold and strikingly garish in the way that only the well-to-do in Johto managed to pull off. It was tacky and overdone in a way that screamed nouveau riche to her, but Sisi had long ago learned to overlook such obscenities as peeling wallpaper and unshaven bellhops and she stepped through the gold accented doors into the lobby of the monolithic structure.

There was no need to ask for directions; a small flock of twenty-something-year-old men in jeans and ill-fitting jackets of different material were making their way down the stairs and toward the hotel’s ballrooms. From the snippets of conversation that she caught, Sisi took it that this group had not traveled to the island together but rather had met in a bar mere hours ago and hit it off. She could not be sure because she was keeping a careful distance from the back of the men lest she get drawn into their orbit. It was a feat that Sisi was not sure if she would be able to pull off during the event itself, but she told herself that she could handle a few empty-headed conversations if it meant a free meal.

It became apparent when she slinked through the double doors after the group she was tailing that she did not have to be worried about keeping her distance from anyone this evening. Firstly, because the ballroom had been reserved solely for the Whirl Cup competitors, there was not likely to be a huge crowd. Secondly, because the sheer size of the ballroom meant that it was entirely possible for Sisi to keep a safe distance of a few yards lest she be drawn into any unwanted conversations. That being said, the teenage trainer noticed with a small amount of mingled curiosity and pity as she passed the haggard-looking police officers flanking the entrance, that not as many competitors showed up as the organizers of the event had apparently been expecting.

Oh, to be sure, there was a nearly steady dribble of people of all sorts who made their way into the cavernous ballroom before the scheduled speeches began, but it never rose to anything more than a few people at a time. In fact, Sisi thought that the group of boisterous young men that she had tailed from the hotel’s lobby was the largest single group that had shown up. She tried not to notice that said cluster was somehow not the worst dressed people in attendance, but that was unavoidable. With some of the motley collection of attendees dressed in t-shirts and jeans, the feeling of ramshackle disappointment was very nearly palpable, even before the venue’s waitstaff dressed in their immaculate formal outfits complete with bowties and began taking away some of the many patters of food back into the kitchen.

It was into this sad scene that the boy from the boat entered, sporting a second-hand jacket and a wide grin. Sisi was not pleased to see that his Quagsire was sauntering alongside him, wearing a comically small bowtie tied around his thick blue neck. The disparagement that she felt for the odious pair only seemed to intensify as the boy spotted her, raised a hand in greeting, and began making his way over to her. It was then, much to her mounting horror, that Sisi realized that the ballroom’s emptiness meant that there was no way for her to lose her unwanted company. Without a sea of people to blend into, she was a sitting Psyduck for whatever inane small talk this moron wanted to subject her to. Her only small blessing was that the Quagsire in the ridiculous get-up had decided that scavenging for hors d'oeuvres was more important than tormenting strangers.

“Hey there,” the boy said with grating cheerfulness as soon as he was in range of Sisi. “You were on the ferry today, right? The two o’clock from Olivine?”

With a face as impassionate as the side of a mountain and a tone of voice to match, Sisi answered, “Oui.”

If the boy was picking up on her annoyance, he was doing a marvelous job of feigning ignorance. While maintaining a respectful distance, he leaned on the section of wall that she had staked out as her spot. “Isn’t this incredible?” he wondered aloud. “The biggest tournament for water-type Pokémon trainers, and we get to compete in it!” When he glanced over at her with his big brown eyes, the boy’s enthusiasm waned, but only slightly. “Say, have you competed in the Cup before?”

“Non,” Sisi said, and she turned to face the stage which held a posh-looking glass podium and was festooned with banners bearing the tournament’s logo: a silver spiral on a blue background. A few men dressed in fine tailored suits were off to the side having an animated discussion that was punctuated by wary glances at the middling crowd before them and at their watches.

But the boy was not to be deterred, and he inserted himself back into Sisi’s periphery. “I’m Fritz!” he said, extending his hand.

Sisi did not respond in kind to his physical gesture but found it in her heart to at least throw the strange boy one small bone. “Sisi.”

He stood there with his hand out for a few seconds before awkwardly pulling it back and stuffing it into his pocket, and then pulling it back out again hang heavy by his side. Although her continued stony silence had further dented Fritz’s good mood, he was not completely discouraged, and, after a few seconds of blissful silence, he opened his mouth again to ask, “Are you here with anyone?”

“What?” replied Sisi, her voice caught somewhere between offense and bewilderment.

Fritz did not seem to pick up on his faux pas, but mercifully elaborated all the same, “I was supposed to meet my friend here, but he still hasn’t shown up.” The teenage trainer shrugged and added, “It can be lonely being in a strange place without knowing anyone. Not a lot of kids are participating this year.”

“Not a lot of people, you mean,” muttered Sisi behind her plastic cup of punch.

“What was that?” When there was no further elaboration, Fritz let the matter drop.

There was movement on the stage now as the stodgy men were joined by an attractive young woman with dark features that made her look exotic compared to the others. She was dressed in a long flowing white robe and a crown made out of Corsola horn polished so that it danced with light reflected from the ballroom’s chandelier. In nearly any other circumstance, the whole situation would be laughable; her outfit and the pomp and circumstance with which it was treated belonged in a different century altogether. Yet, Sisi did not laugh and had to begrudgingly admit, if only to herself, that the solemn demeanor of the woman underneath the weight of all of the assembled audience elevated the event from something camp to something nearly regal. Even the half-drunken young men stood up a little straighter and ceased their ribald jokes as the slight woman took to the podium and adjusted the microphone perched atop it.

“Greetings, trainers,” she said in a pleasant but authoritative voice. “I bid you all welcome to the Whirl Islands. My name is Adelaide, and I am the current Sea Priestess of these islands. My duties are twofold. First, to keep alive the sacred history and traditions of this competition dating back many generations. Second, to serve as an impartial master of ceremonies and authority. You are all talented users of water-type Pokémon, inheritors of the legacy of the ancient heroes of the sea, but only one of you will be able to claim the title of the ‘Alpha-Omega of Water Pokémon’!” Adelaide waited for the polite applause to come to an end before she spoke again. “And, as is tradition, the current holder of that title will speak a few words.”

With that, the young woman stepped away from the podium and gestured for a man in the audience to join her on the stage. A reverent hush fell over the crowd as they parted to make way for a dignified man with salt and pepper hair. It took him awhile to make it to the front of the room because he seemed to know half of the people in attendance and greeted them by name and stopped frequently to exchange a few words. The middle-aged man did the same with the people he apparently did not know. Sisi was far from the center of the room, but she could still feel the charisma emanating from him. Next to her, Fritz was, in a phrase, star struck, his mouth opening and closing ineffectually as he watched the man’s journey.

“Who’s he?” whispered Sisi.

Fritz was snapped, sputtering, out of his daze. “What do you mean?” he hissed through clenched teeth. After a quick check to make sure that no one was paying any attention to the two teenagers, he elaborated further, “That’s Stanislav Coburg! He’s been winning this tournament since before we were born! He’s a legend!”

As Fritz was speaking, the object of his admiration was mounting the stage, only to stumble. In a flash, the nearby people were there to catch Stanislav and help him finish his journey. There was a light current of murmuring in the gaudy ballroom. Fritz, away from anyone who understood the significance of this with whom he could murmur with, just gasped audibly.

The champion did not seem to mind the swirling innuendos; rather, he seemed to revel in the attention. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began in a firm, articulate voice, a showman’s voice. “Obviously, some of you may be wondering if my age is catching up with me. Rest assured, I have competed with you for as long as I can remember, and I will be doing so-“ He stopped to bring his fist to his mouth and cough into it. “Well,” Stanislav resumed his speech, “needless to say, my last Whirl Cup will be a very bittersweet one. I have watched many of you grow into the fine trainers that you are today, rising through the rankings every three years and bringing new strategies and Pokémon to bear in pursuit of the glory of this title. My title is one that anyone of you can claim for yourself! As soon as the matches officially begin, I will be just another trainer like all of you. All you have to do to win the prizes and the fame that come with the rank of Alpha-Omega is to be the best and prove it out there on the battlefield!”

The speech was met with applause more enthusiastic than that which had greeted the Sea Priestess, but for most attendees the words were an unnecessary interruption into their gossip. Gossip which had only grown more widespread and less discrete at the sight of the champion having to be helped down from the stage by two of the organizers. If the majority of the room, Sisi included, did not put much stock in Coburg’s address, their disinterest was balanced by the reverence with which Fritz had absorbed it. Even after the Sea Priestess had thanked the graying man and one of the grim-faced organizers had taken back the podium, he was still slack-jawed, his mind whirring almost audibly to register what had been said and to cement it in his mind forever.

“Ahem,” the man said, but it was only after several attempts that the volume of the ballroom settled down into a manageable din. “Thank you all for your participation in tonight’s reception and the events to come. It is an honor for our humble community to host such an impressive gathering of talent and spirit every three years.” The gaunt figure on the stage dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief procured from his jacket’s pocket before continuing, “Tomorrow will be the Whirl Cup’s preliminary. You will be required to win a single one-on-one Pokémon battle in order to compete in the tournament proper. Battles will be arranged on a first-come, first-served basis, so it is in your interest to make sure that you arrive at the city’s Pokémon Center to receive your match-up and location and see if you qualify as soon as possible.”

The man continued to drone on about minor bureaucratic matters, so Sisi leaned over to Fritz and asked, “You have done this before, right? The Whirl Cup?”

“Well, uh, actually no,” replied the boy.

“Oh.” Sisi shifted away back to her previous distance.

Fritz followed and whispered, “But I’ve been following them for as long as I can remember! Did you have a question about it? Ask away!”

Sisi gave him a quick once-over, skepticism evident in her blue eyes. But she relented and said, “He said that you only needed to win one match tomorrow in order to compete.”

A quick bob of Fritz’s blonde head confirmed the unasked question in that statement.

“Past tournaments have required more wins though. Two, three, or even four. Is that so?”

Fritz thought a moment and then said, “Mhm, I guess that just means we’re lucky! We have a better chance of getting in!”

His enthusiasm was met with a cold look, not of disappointment but that worn by one who has had their low expectations confirmed. By then the stage had been cleared and the crowd was dispersing despite entreaties by the tournament officials to stay a little longer. Sisi took that as her cue to do the same. A half-hearted wave was all the goodbye that Fritz received from her and then she was out the door and headed back to the dingy Mant Inn.

There were more people out on the street than there had been in the hotel she had just left and Sisi felt a renewed sense of ease at the comforting anonymity that the crowds of milling humans and Pokémon afforded her. She was still a little hungry, but there was a plethora of food trucks and carts serving the city’s burgeoned population. The lines weren’t short, but the mobile restaurant that Sisi decided to patronize was more concentrated on speed than quality and it was not long before Sisi had in her hands a warm wrap consisting of some indigenous combination of meat, produce, and condiments. It was filling, she could eat it while continuing her trek back to her lodging, and, as an added bonus, it actually tasted surprisingly good was a bonus.

As she walked, Sisi’s mind was ablaze, weighing the value of different answers to the question of when she should schedule her battle for the preliminaries. It was a question that most of her fellow competitors were either ignoring or trying to ignore in the city’s atmosphere of celebration and abandon, but Sisi was not here for fun, she was here to win. The idea of just competing when she felt like it was profoundly alien to her being. It was the attitude of an amateur.

Going first could have some benefits, mulled Sisi between bites of her dinner, it would afford more chances to observe others’ Pokémon and strategies and give her more time to refine her own. Plus, there was the chance that trainers who had forced themselves to get up early in order to battle would be sleep-deprived and prone to making stupid mistakes. On the other hand, the kind of people who would show up at the last minute would be the kind of low-quality trainers who put everything off until the last minute. That might be the easier route, but it also might deprive her Pokémon of a valuable chance to go up against a decent opponent before the tournament properly begun. Of course, less than satisfactory foes might end up being the rule rather than the exception.

Then there was the matter of deciding which Pokémon to use tomorrow. That was an entirely different web of factors to consider, and Sisi was still mentally running through the roster of Pokémon she had brought with her when she walked into the Mant Inn.

The lobby was almost completely deserted with all of the rambunctious activities that had seized the island and its visitors in a celebratory frenzy drawing away the clientele from even dumps like this one. But there was at least one other guest who was not out making poor decisions. Standing at the front desk, chatting merrily with the receptionist, was the annoying boy from the party, Fritz.

In an instant, Sisi upped her walking speed and passed behind him as inconspicuously as she could on her way to her room at the end of the hall. Then, she allowed herself to drop her composure and collapse on the lumpy mattress, her black hair splayed against the covers like a shotgun blast caught in a freezeframe. The idea of having to avoid that unbearable character was not a pleasant development, but at least Sisi could tell herself that there was a really good chance that he was not going to qualify for the Whirl Cup and then he would check out of his room with his tail between his legs.

That thought comforted Sisi enough that she could happily return to planning for tomorrow, and she fell asleep with visions of water-type Pokémon violently clashing in her mind’s eye.