Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The last of the boxes are a painful thing to move, leaving her muscles straining after a long day’s work. Her sweat-slicked forehead is covered in matted, damp flyaway strands, but at this point, she has long since passed the point of caring; her body merely wants respite.

At least the view is lovely, she thinks in exhaustion, leaning heavily against a precarious pile of boxes. To her left lies the large glass-doored balcony, showcasing an absolutely stunning view of the Alolan sunset; myriad magentas and roses filter through peach and heady orange, melting together into rich violets and indigos as the colours spread across the seemingly endless horizon. It is this very view which had convinced her to come to the isles of Alola to begin with. Just one look at a travel influencer’s unedited photographs of the idyllic, tropical island sunset had been enough to finally give her a destination after months of dallying on a choice.

The choice is made now. She is here. It is strange to think that this view- this little, hollow apartment with bare walls of neutral grey adorned with naught but her Unovian boxes and pockmarked paint from previous inhabitants- is hers.

“About time, I suppose,” she whispers to herself. Her words echo in the empty apartment; all that rests within aside from boxes are the scant necessities, the Spartan bed consisting only of a single sheet and an uncovered pillow, and her dresser still nothing more than disassembled plywood in a large box. She decides that the dresser shall be for another day. She can put up with living out of a suitcase a little while longer. There is no one to judge her for her laziness now.

It could’ve been our bed.

Shaking her head wearily, the woman stands upright and sighs, stumbling over to the front door of her apartment, ensuring it is locked. After all the movement from that day, she can hardly remember to keep track of herself. Running her hands over the deadbolt, focusing on the tactile sensation of cool metal and clinking chain, is a welcome distraction from that train of thought. It is a dangerous path, that one- to let herself fall back into bad habits, thinking of how empty her hands feel without another filling the spaces between her fingers, or how there will be no body to warm her side when she finally goes to sleep. She knows this pattern, though.

More distractions are needed, so she sighs, eases aching limbs over to the box labelled as carrying her toiletries, and sets to work setting up her bathroom. The moment she is done arranging her necessities, she showers.

The water’s warmth is both luxurious and not. The muggy humidity of Alola has seeped into her lungs already, it seems; she exits the shower feeling warmer, yes, but more relaxed, no, for steam scarcely rises when the surroundings are already too warm for comfort.

She sighs, glancing up at condensation on her ceiling. She had picked this freshly-built apartment complex for the price, but it’s a little jarring to see not even a simple fan in the bathroom, although the sparse commodities make sense given the price. At least there won’t be mould any time soon. Paint’s too new.

There is only one escape from the heat, it seems, since she has absolutely no desire to step out into the streets and begin her exploration of this tropical paradise. She just wants quiet, and fresh air, and that view which continues to glimmer over the world, but the road outside is full of trainers and pedestrians and tourists, the hustle and bustle of the front of the building far too rambunctious for her aching bones. No, a walk will not do. She wants a nook, a quiet spot away from it all- somewhere magical and fresh, somewhere only hers alone- untainted by memories of anyone else. Pure. Safe.

Her balcony is not exactly pretty. “For a new building, it kind of looks like shit,” she mumbles, nudging the thin, rickety-seeming iron grate fencing off the five-by-eight foot balcony. It’s a tiny space, but the smoke stains riding up the side of the wall give more than enough indication as to how the previous tenants used this space. “Huh. Maybe I’ll be allowed to paint over that.”

It feels jarring to see stains on a building barely a year old. Ever since the Elite Four gained acclaim in the overall Pokémon League, people have been flocking to the Alolan Isles from the world over; thanks to this sudden boom in tourism due to the frequent tournaments, the fast-housing market had skyrocketed in all of the major island towns. She had originally wanted to find a residence closer to the action, but with the prices for even the dingiest apartments near the League skyrocketing, this cheap, haphazard complex on Melemele will have to do.

She leans her elbows on the guardrail, feeling the warm, fresh dusk breeze flutter through her long, damp hair. It’s alright. Maybe this air will give me the inspiration I need to write.

A buzzing in her pocket brings about a message from her best friend. The young man is still in Unova, the picture sitting as the backdrop to his message showcasing the same Pokécentre in which he has worked for the past three years. His concerned expression is echoed in his words, so she idly replies with a photograph of the ocean, then turns off her phone. That photo is all he needs to know, after all; she is there. She is safe, she is in her apartment with the very view that had brought her to this land to keep her company. A cheap building is better than being homeless, after all. His thoughts are with her, so she isn’t lonely.

Her fingers tense, gripping onto the iron with far more force than she thought she still had. She isn’t lonely. I’m not. This will be good for me. A fresh start, I guess.

She may or may not be lying about being lonely. That is an interrogation for a different night; tonight, all that matters is the sudden, acute, spine-chilling awareness that she certainly is not alone.

The chittering and clicking is what gives the beast’s presence away. She spins on her heel and spots it at last, its face pressed against the glass of the neighbouring apartment whose balcony is far closer to her own than she had realized from looking at the schematics online. She does not bother worrying about the closeness of her neighbour’s balcony, however, with eyes fixated on the creature’s hulking figure. It is massive, at least two metres tall, the top of its carapace hidden slightly by the top of the glass door. The monstrous thing’s eyes dart left and right before landing upon her, then it forces a giant hooked claw into the gap between the balcony door and its cage.

She gulps, her mind racing. Before coming to the islands, her best friend had drilled her on the types of Pokémon native to the isles; her memory is not perfect, but now, she flips through pages of notes written in his immaculate writing carved into her brain, panic slowly rising in the face of this creature of which she has never seen.

Finally, it clicks. A Golisopod. I’m going to be eaten by a giant isopod. Yup. A lifelong fear of skittering creatures makes her skin crawl as the Pokémon’s mandibles click, the beast’s claws growing more and more insistent as it reaches out, groping for the handle to open up the balcony door and reach its victim-

Then, it strikes her. Wait… this thing belongs to someone, right? Where’s its owner? A gulp. It’s not… gonna eat me, right? It’s used to humans by now. It’s gotta be. Right?

Even her inner monologue dies out with the strength in her knees as she clings to the railing, backing away to the other edge of her own balcony as silently as her chattering teeth will allow. Seeing her depart, the Pokémon chirps louder, its irregular clicking growing more forceful.

All of her questions are answered in one fluid motion as a large, pale hand reaches out and flips up the latch on the balcony door. The Golisopod seems to cheer, its claws rising in victory as it focuses its attention on the person which has freed it from its glass prison; said person becomes clear as a long, heavy sigh filters out into the violet evening air. A low, rumbling baritone peeks into range, the faint words calming down the creature as its presumable owner steps out onto their own balcony.

She gulps, fingers still clenched in a vice-grip around the iron handle. The man in front of her is just as tall as his beastly Pokemon, it seems; all muscles and skin which seem far too pale to belong to a local, the man’s comfortable attire, a simple black tank and shorts, gives him away as the resident of the place next door. His mouth is curved downwards into a chagrined grimace, eyes rimmed with heavy dark circles as they gaze out into the horizon, searching. The wind continues to breeze its way along, fluffing up hair painfully white from too many rounds of bleach in contrast to a short, buzzed black undercut. His back is straight, showcasing a strong build and a presence far more imposing than one in loungewear should possess.

Suddenly acutely aware that she is very much in her own pyjamas having just finished up that shower, she stands tall and bites down the terror which wells up at the sight of her neighbour’s Golisopod stepping out onto the balcony with its owner. Her stomach flips seeing the man reach out fearlessly to the insectoid’s face, tugging mandibles and spiny shells over to rest on his shoulder. The mere sight of it causes gooseflesh to rise upon her bare arms, phantom legs skittering across her own skin.

However, that fear quickly calms down. The man sighs, leaning his head against the Pokemon’s jaw. “What gotcha worked up, Gogo?” he murmurs, voice coarse and haggard. “Thought ya mighta spotted something but I ain’t seein’-“ Then, he pauses, eyes turning to land upon her.

She swallows down her fear and waves. “New neighbour. Hey.” She knows not what she expects; speaking to neighbours had frankly been nowhere near the top of her list of priorities during this whole settling-in process.

He narrows his eyes, giving her a one-over before something inexplicable flits across his gaze. Whatever it is in his mind, his night appears soured. Face scrunching up in disgust, he sneers. “You’re not from around here.”

“Are you?” she counters before biting her tongue. Her honeyed skin is far more passable as an Alolan resident than someone who looks like he hasn’t seen the kiss of sunlight in years, after all.

This man does not seem to want to act as expected, it seems. A twinge of hurt flashes across his eyes, and then, it is as if all the tension holding him upright has been pulled taut and snipped through. In the blink of an eye, he transforms- shoulders hunched, snide grimace turning into a full-on snarl, disbelief and rage mingling with haughty condescension. “You’re not from here. You won’t last, then.” And then, he turns away, shoving his hands angrily into his pockets as he stalks inside. To his Pokemon, he mutters, “Gogo, come in.”

The creature glances at her for a long, quiet moment. Awkwardly, she waves a hand to wave in response; seeing her movement, however, causes it to hiss at her, then follow its owner back into his dark apartment.

The curtains are drawn. She slumps over onto the edge of the railing on her own balcony. Squinting into the rapidly-descending darkness, there is no beauty to be found- it is rather cold as the sky turns indigo, it seems. Once she is back inside her own studio, her phone is properly turned on, the photograph she had taken on the screen displayed once more.

It still doesn’t seem as beautiful as before.

From the other side of the wall, she hears faint chittering and the pleased murmurs of the strange man. Those sounds worm into her brain, but she fights down the urge to speak, to call out, to ask them to quiet down or to simply block out the noise with her own voice. She cannot be angry at him for living his life when she is new here, nor does she feel anger at his earlier behaviour. She is too tired to care, too tired to do anything other than simply submit to the silence in her apartment, to the barrage of noise just beyond her four walls. These are the sounds of nighttime in Alola, she tells herself. The ocean waves in the distance- the creaking of her boxy mattress as she shifts- Wingulls squawking on the light breeze- an armored hulk and its gruff, rude master next door. This is Alola.

Home sweet home.

She tugs her sheets around herself. Tropical or not, lonely or not, nights alone are cold.

Chapter Text

The next few days are an efficient cycle, if not monotonous. She wakes up to a clear blue sky shining overhead, tiny wisps of clouds forming high above the earth. A quick shower and breakfast are taken care of, boxes checked on her mental list. She has a list of things she has to do before anything else, and she has to get it done, so into the routine she goes, day in, day out. The next item depends on her sanity, the list morphing as needed- some days, she unpacks and builds all day. Too many weeks of undereating then overeating before her move to Alola has seen her body atrophy slightly, her former strength all but gone, so putting together even the smallest furniture items takes far longer than she would like. But the list needs to be finished; her furniture must be built before she can unpack- unpack before the boxes can be put away- put away the boxes before decorating- decorating before the apartment truly starts feeling empty.

It’s empty.

That’s okay.

She tells herself that again and again. The apartment is empty. It looks like a veritable husk. That is okay. She is just starting. Nothing wrong with that.

Her fingers tap along to the sounds of Alola upon her thighs. It is okay.

But some days, it is not okay, no matter how much she listens to the wind or the ocean. Some days, the clicking and chittering from next door are not excusable, and the music in her headphones is not enough to make up for the fact that her own vocal chords are growing rusty from disuse, while her muscles are crumbling from overuse. On those days (or, as the first week progresses, every evening once she has given up on building or unpacking or pretending to live in anything other than squalor) she cleans herself up and grabs her backpack and heads out onto the street.

Her best friend calls her on these trips. He’s bored at the Pokécentre in their hometown, she’s too nervous to go out in public on her own in a new place. It’s a win-win, really; they make a game of it, with her explaining the sights and sounds and smells of Alola as she walks along. In return, he throws out guess after guess, trying to figure out what exactly her goal for her outing shall be. He never wins, of course; there is no way to connect his offer of, “That guy who said hey to you just now sounds like he’s got some Big Dick Energy, and combined with the groups of people on the street and the shopping district, you gotta be going to the strip club,” and her dry response of, “No, loser, I ran out of milk so I’m at the grocery store,” but the duo try their best. The sound of the waves and Wingulls and Pellipers overhead are always loud enough to be heard on the other end, he always says excitedly; due to the time difference, her evening walks coincide with his duller night shifts, so he is entertained at least. And, with her being able to raise her voice in response to his words whenever she sees a local- always so friendly, always so ready to cry out ‘Alola!’ thinking she belongs even though she doesn’t- she manages to ward off anyone looking to strike up conversation with the short woman looking lost in Aisle 3, unfamiliar even with the local brand of dairy.

She’s always lost. It’s a good way to find herself, she’s quickly growing to realize. Soon enough, she has city maps and vague trail routes etched into her mind after the numerous breaks taken amidst her unpacking. And, when the deed is finally finished ten days after her arrival in Alola, she can confidently say that she knows how to traverse Melemele Island without getting entirely twisted around.

It’s a start.

Her fingers tap on her leg to the rhythm of waves crashing upon the beach just beyond Ten Carat Hill as she walks along. Although she looks over the digital island guide she had scanned into her phone during a quick stop at a local café, it is the older, friendly barista’s words which she turns over in her mind rather than the print on the screen. The man had been extremely friendly, for sure; upon admitting her newness to the region, he had immediately listed out the best spots for newcomers to Alola to visit. Too many towns and sights had been listed for her to truly keep track of them all.

The only information that had truly stuck out to her had been his warning. The one place where no one should go- where anyone, even locals, dared not enter. He had spoken in low, quiet tones, eyes darting around for ghosts she does not recognize.

‘Po Town’ had been the name of it. There is bitterness and disdain and frustration dancing upon his tongue even in her memory of the interaction. He had said to stay away from Po Town, off on Ula’ula Island. “Although they’ve been pretty quiet recently,” he had stated darkly, “the thugs who took over those parts a few years back were not the type to be tangled with. They caused too much havoc.”

With that nugget of wisdom lodging itself so firmly in her brain, she eventually tables the tourism guide and searches for information on this mysterious town instead. Leaning her back against a wild berry tree, she inhales as the screen shifts to white, the search results loading slowly. However, after a good ten minutes of skimming the first article which had popped up, she feels far more confident in her understanding of the situation. They were just a local gang, she thinks, chewing on her lip and tapping her thigh idly. Sounds like they were mostly minors. Petty crimes usually… Pokémon thievery isn’t ideal, but okay… their leader disbanded them six months ago? Pouting, she glances about herself; there are a few small groups playing along the beach, with more than a few people strolling along the paved road above. Pokémon run alongside their owners with comfortable abandon. The people of Alola live such peaceful lives, it seems. Other than tropical storms, there are no real threats running amok upon the island. Cultural norms and traditions unite them under the banner of their island Tapu Pokemon… it makes sense that someone ended up causing a fuss. It’s strange that the place is so unified to begin with.

But the barista’s sheer distaste for this group, this ‘Team Skull’, feels wrong, somehow. When she thinks of a gang of young adults acting out, she doesn’t see hardened criminals, nor does the profile written within this article even remotely match the crime syndicates which haunt other regions. Why would some local punk kids be so disliked?

Another article shows her a photograph of some of the members of Team Skull. Immediately, a smile tugs at her lips despite her near-constant fatigue these days. The duo captured within the photograph showcases two boys in long, baggy shorts, oversized black tank tops, backwards-facing snapbacks covering sloppily-dyed hair, and stylized bandanas covering their noses and mouths. The two teenagers are throwing up gang signs with no apparent affiliation nor meaning in the picture, their hunched shoulders and puffed chests clearly trying to showcase strength despite their scrawny forms. It’s adorable, in all honesty; a quick scroll down the webpage shows her their female counterparts, the false lashes and white shorts a decidedly cute look. With an impish grin, she tilts her head back and closes her eyes, momentarily flitting back in time a decade.

Would I look good in that outfit?

She sighs, long and low and rueful. No, even back then she always had too much hip and bust and colour to match the androgynous look of the Team Skull grunts. Still, she admires the aesthetic. Matching everyone’s hair colour must’ve been awful to keep up.

With her curiosity satiated, however, it is time to head home. Her fridge is stocked with food she had cooked earlier that week, so all she needs to do is reheat her pick: soup, or perhaps some pasta. It’s not exciting, but she doesn’t particularly care about variety if she’s just feeding herself.

Once she has arrived home, her fingers are a hairsbreadth away from pushing the microwave’s loud start-up button when suddenly, voices catch her attention from next door. She pauses, immediately homing in on the sound. Her neighbour has not interacted with her since that first night, and so it feels strange, almost perverse, to pay any attention.

She cannot help herself but to silently pad over to their shared wall once she hears a woman’s voice echo through the apartment. That’s new. Her fingers dig into the material of her sweatpants as she stands perfectly still, focus given entirely to the voices next door. The unknown woman’s voice cries out loudly, “You’re not being fair, man. To anyone, especially yourself!”

Faintly, the rumbling tones of the apartment’s owner filter through drywall, but whatever defeatist words were shared are quickly drowned out by a shrill, “We all did shit we’re not proud of for Aether! Get your head outta-“

“Fuck off!” the man suddenly roars. The volume and intensity startles her, causing her to jump and stub her toe against the leg of her small dining table-for-one. Biting her lip so hard it bleeds in order to fight back the quiet curses wanting to spill from her own mouth, she winces as the screaming next door escalates, growing more and more heated with frank insults until there is a slamming of a door, the walls of even her apartment seem to shake, and suddenly, there is silence.

Grimacing, she limps over to her bed. Retrieving her headphones, she slips them on and gets back to work on reheating her dinner. Her fingers tap against the countertop in time with the counter flashing upon the small digital display- two taps a second. It is soothing to focus upon that, upon the steam slowly fogging up the glass as her pasta bake reheats in its tub.

Only once the food is done and her belly is full does she realize that her fingers are still tapping along rhythmically. To the thuds. From next door. Repeated, muffled, angry. How long they last, she does not know; all she is sure of is that even after ensuring her balcony door is closed and locked, the sound still seeps through the drywall. Thud, thud, thud- and on the twelfth count, each and every time, she hears that same low voice curse and cry out in anger.

By the time the Alolan sky has turned to darkness, the thuds are gone. She has no energy to worry about what that means. She sleeps, fingers still.

Chapter Text

When the clank outside her window catches her attention, she is inclined to ignore it. She hadn’t set anything out onto the balcony since seeing her neighbour and his giant Pokémon that first evening, so if there was anything there, it certainly wasn’t hers.

Her fingers freeze halfway to her mug of tea. …That means I should definitely check, huh?

With a groan, she drags herself up from the floor and past her clunky furniture. After much debate, she had decided to also purchase a simple desk for herself; there is not yet a chair, hence her terrible posture on the flooring. A half-built drawer sits in clumsy outrage, teetering on an uneven corner as she shuffles over to the balcony, drawing open the curtains and stepping out into the picturesque Alolan morning.

At first glance, there is nothing to be found. No intruders are visible, setting her heart at ease. However, as her eyes trail to the floor, her gaze suddenly lands upon the one foreign object sticking out from her otherwise-empty space.

It is a beer bottle- empty, but still not hers. Grimacing, she glances up to see if it had come from the upper floors. There is no way for her to crane her neck to even look at her upstairs neighbours, though, so she turns her eyes to the most likely culprit, swallowing down her uncertainty.

She has not seen her neighbour since that first evening. His voice occasionally filters through the wall, low and warm as it speaks to creatures which chitter and coo back at him; even in her apartment, the gravel and huskiness of his voice echo through.

She doesn’t like it. Although she doesn’t wish any harm upon them, Pokémon that creep and crawl have always made her uncomfortable, so hearing the man’s giant Golisopod is not a pleasant accompaniment to any activity.

It’s because you don’t want to hear him, her traitorous brain reminds her every time his voice seeps through thin drywall. His voice is too similar to-

She never acknowledges it.

Still, this bottle clearly has come from his apartment; one quick look at his balcony door shows that it is open, and that large, unblinking eyes stare blankly at her from within. Mandibles click as the Golisopod shifts to stand halfway through the balcony, scrutinizing her carefully. A full-body shiver races up her spine as she shudders and places the bottle hurriedly onto his railing. “Were you the one who tossed this over here?” When it doesn’t respond, she sighs, gesturing weakly at it anyways. “There you go, buddy,” she murmurs softly.

Before she can run back into her apartment, her human neighbour steps out once more past the towering Pokémon. One lanky arm moves up to shade his eyes from the light of the morning sun, a sour grimace upon his face as he looks over to her disheveled form. “You’re still here,” he says blandly, voice scratchy and hoarse. “Haven’t moved out yet?”

She frowns, crossing her arms in discomfort. “Was I supposed to?”

“Nah. They always do, though.” With a humourless snort, he looks over to the bottle upon his balcony’s railing. Squinting, he asks, “You drink that brand?”

With a sigh, she shakes her head. “I think your Pokémon knocked it over here. I heard the noise. Isn’t it yours?”

Instantly, a curse slips past his lips and he steps forward. Immediately, a faint scent of liquor hits her nose. Definitely belongs to him, she realizes grimly. Before she can say a word about his apparent day-drinking, he mutters, “Gogo’s kind of a dick sometimes. I’ll tell him not to bother you.”

She blinks. Leaning to the side, she makes eye contact with the giant isopod still perched within the dark apartment. The creature chitters at her; she flinches in response, but her eyelids flutter, fingertips tapping upon her own balcony’s railing in time. The Golisopod’s cries are familiar, she realizes instantly, her fingers moving in the exact rhythm of the creature. She knows them too well from the other side of the wall.

The man does not notice her sudden illumination, sighing as he turns a sagging face up towards the sun. Looking at him now, she finds her gaze fixated upon his silhouette; it’s striking, in a rundown sort of way. A strong brow, sharp nose, and carved lips lead to a sharp chin and jaw; now that the morning sunlight can shine over them, the bleached strands of his hair are brighter, freer. Softer. Her fingertips trace the outline of his undercut upon her thigh on instinct, her mind instantly coming up with every which way to project that undercut overtop of the outline which she knows far too well.

It’s only been a month since it happened. Two weeks since her arrival. Nothing to be ashamed of. Just… get inside.

Awkwardly, she gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Well, if it’s yours, then that takes care of that. Glad it wasn’t… I don’t know, a robber or anything.”

To this, the man snorts again- but this time, he appears more genuine. The frown tugging his lips softens, although his shadowy eyes appear all the more exhausted for it. “Yeah, no. There’s a really low crime rate here.”

She hums, glancing out over to the sparkling waters beyond the shoreline. Even at this distance, the white, frothy crests of waves glitter in the sunlight, the peaks from breaching Pokémon glistening. “That’s what everyone’s been telling me,” she says softly. Her memory sparks. “One of the café owners was telling me about this one group, though- although I guess they’re gone now? I haven’t seen them-“

But suddenly, she jumps as her neighbour’s balcony door slams shut. Clutching her hand over her chest, she watches the man’s twisted, almost pained expression as he grabs his curtains roughly before yanking them back, no longer paying her any heed. The last thing she sees before the view into his apartment is completely gone is the sight of his Golisopod’s eyes, glittering, knowing.

She locks her balcony door upon re-entry to her own apartment. Headphones are a necessity. Biting her lip, standing to stretch, refilling her mug of tea- it is ritualistic, habitual, as she finishes building her desk. The immediate task is enough to soothe the raised gooseflesh upon her bared skin, although her heart still wonders.

That wonder lingers on. What it is fixated upon, she does not entirely know, in all honesty; all she can say is that there is something deeply embedded into her gut, refusing to dislodge itself. As the sun sets, rises, and sets again, her curiosity continues to haunt her. Her best friend asks her time and time again what is on her mind, but she is never able to answer. Is it her neighbour? The sadness which had flitted across a face far too pale to belong to Alola? His evasiveness, his anger? Or maybe it was something else- that giant Golisopod’s glittering, hollow eyes, watching her leave, or maybe the way-

He’s a project. She snorts as her best friend mutters this when she finally makes mention of her brooding neighbour. His words are firm and unyielding, his opinion matching that of the reason which occasionally makes itself known in her brain. He’s a project, and you don’t need a project.

They’re both right. She truly doesn’t need a project. Her hands will be full with taking care of herself soon enough, once the small amount of money in her account finally dwindles into nothing.

She’s never been too good at unpredictable ‘projects’ anyways. The fact that she had never even attempted a gym challenge, or even training a Pokémon in her childhood, is proof enough. Holding responsibility for another life when her own thoughts are constantly in such disarray is a fool’s errand. That’s why we split up, after all. I couldn’t be what he wanted.

There’s nothing to be upset over. Her fingers tap to the cadence of his laughter, anger, sorrow. She tosses and turns when she sleeps, but no headphones are ever enough to erase the low, raspy voice from next door. She doesn’t need a project. She doesn’t want a project. She barely wants anything, so wondering is all she can do.

Chapter Text

The guide who stands at the base of Route 2 looks bored out of his mind, so she finds herself asking more questions than she had originally planned. It’s his fault, really; she is more than ready to head out, but when she mentions that she is planning on heading over to another island to do some exploring soon, he warns against it, citing the tropical storm clouds brewing in the east upon the horizon. “It’ll be here soon enough, cousin,” he explains worriedly, “so it’s best to stay off the water till it blows over.”

She smiles with her utmost professionality as her brain works in overdrive. The trip to explore is not merely for her curiosity’s sake, after all; she also needs to find work. Well… there goes this week’s plans. With a twitch of her smile, she silently sighs, feeling the energy she had been building up in her core drain out of her until she is weary and slouched. I guess I’ll get to meet people later.

Before she can thank the guide for the warning, however, two slouching figures whose outfits she has only seen in the photographs online slink on by. Their postures are hunched, their sleep-deprived eyes glaring out into the world with hands stuffed into their pockets. She watches them skirt the guide with irritated petulance, her own eyes wide as their attire finally clicks. To the guide, she murmurs, “That’s Team Skull, right?”

The man’s smile had been so bright and genuine just a moment before; however, as the teenagers scamper off, his smile falters, gaze darkening in irritation. “Ignore them,” he replies tightly. “They are indeed Team Skull- or what’s left of them.”

This strange comment catches her off-guard. “What’s ‘left of them’?” Her memory races through what she knows until the response is clear. They were disbanded, right? “Weren’t they the local punks or something?”

The guide nods sagely, his dark hair falling into equally dark eyes. He pauses, brushing it up and out of the way in one smooth motion to block out the sun’s glare from overhead; squinting, he continues to speak, his manner instantly worn and world-weary. “They’ve become pretty tame since they imploded, so I wouldn’t worry too much about them, cousin. Just stick to busy areas.”

She regards him at a distance, a creeping discomfort rising up her spine. His face is twisted around sour words, eyes flashing with memories that she cannot comprehend. “You don’t seem like you’re ‘not too worried’ about those kids,” she says slowly. Her voice drops lower as she asks, halfway testing him and halfway annoyed at the lack of clarity, “They seem like a bit of a sore spot for a lot of people here, actually.”

With a sigh that is far too drawn out to be considered normal, but the guide indulges her. Route 2 is empty at this time of day, after all; other than a few Rattatas scampering about in the undergrowth and tall grass by the hill, there is nothing else for him to attend to, and they both know it. “Rumour has it that they were involved in the Ultra Beast incident,” he murmurs carefully. “Their leader disappeared ‘round then, too.” He pauses, clearly noting her growing concern at his mention of the Ultra Beasts- she can faintly remember seeing news articles about vicious, strange Pokémon appearing for a short period of time in Alola perhaps half a year earlier, but back then, moving to Alola hadn’t even been in the faintest realm of possibility, so she hadn’t paid it much mind- so he smiles, white teeth contrasting sharply against umber skin as his tour guide persona slips back into place. “Don’t you worry about them, cousin! The beasts were all rounded up and brought back to where they belong safely, thanks to the kahunas and the Tapu.”

She nods, silently jotting this information down in the back of her mind. Absently, she asks, “But why would that little gang disband because of some wild Pokémon?”

The guide shrugs. Then, his eyes widen joyfully as two figures crest the hill coming southward into the city. Sensing his escape, he says abruptly, “Their leader did it, apparently. Hasn’t been heard much of since, although knowing him, he’ll pop back up soon enough.”

She does not get to ask the man more questions. The sightseeing couple who finally reaches where she stands alongside the guide steals his attention fully, his tensed shoulders and uneasy manner fading away as the duo asks about far more conventional, lighthearted things. She lingers for one minute, hoping to get a response.

She gets nothing. Strangely, she isn’t surprised.

Her lip is captured between her teeth the whole way home. She chews until the faint tang of blood hits her tongue, thoroughly distracted the entire trip thanks to this newfound information, as sparse as it is. She has some research to do, she thinks.

And research, she does. The rest of the day is utterly consumed by research about the Ultra Beasts, about the incidents which had haunted Alola just over six months prior over the span of one horrid week. They had kept the entire thing fairly under wraps, it seems; as it is, however, she is able to find more than enough videos on social media of these creatures fumbling about, rampaging through various parts of the islands. While some of them look more conventional, more than a few of the Pokémon are downright horrifying.

Still, the islands seem peaceful enough now. By the time dinner rolls around, the sky painted in voluminous hues more layered with colour with every breath, she finds herself back on the streets once more. I should get a schedule for the ferry terminal, she decides firmly, looking odiously out into the distance where the storm clouds creep ever closer. Once that typhoon’s over, maybe I’ll head over to the nearest island. Akala, was it?

She does not get much more time to debate on the matter, for her gaze lands upon the very object of her intrigue barely two blocks away from her apartment building. These former Team Skull kids are different from those she had spotted earlier, she realizes after a moment of staring. Three teenagers sit around a speaker that is too scuffed and damaged to even function, and yet, here it is, blasting tinny rap music with a broken bass level. The girl in the trio fiddles with the equalizer, but none of her efforts prove to be fruitful. Her companions pat her shoulder warmly and sigh, lifting their heads up with scowls turned towards the dimming sky, their skull-emblazoned bandanas hanging limply from their necks. Their attire, all black and white and oozing rebellion, is certainly an aesthetic.

From her safe vantage point from farther up the street, she feels her heart tighten in her chest. There is a spark of life in these kids, she thinks- an air of arrogance and youthful invincibility that is tantalizing. Maybe I’d’ve joined them if I grew up here, she thinks distantly, crossing her own arms and leaning against the fence at her side.

She wouldn’t have, though. She knows what it is to want for money, for peace, for belonging, yes- but there is something different with these Team Skull kids before her. These three teenagers sport clothes that are too ratty to be intimidating, their roots having long-since taken over their hair, their garish blue and pink hair dye a thing of the past, now naught but colour-tinged bleach. Her fingers clutch at the fabric of her shorts as her eyes rove over scuffed knees and lanky wrists, one boy groaning as he places his forehead wearily against the clunky speaker system. The last boy in their group points at the sky, slopes up into a stand, and shoves his hands into his pockets. Then, the trio retrieve the speaker, hoist backpacks that seem too empty to be of value over their thin, defiant shoulders, and lope off.

She swallows down anxiety and bile-covered guilt, the lump in her throat thick and taunting and painfully heavy as it finally settles in her stomach. If the storm’s coming in, they can’t get back to that Po Town, right? That’s on another island… So where are they going to stay? She shifts uneasily, digging her toe into the packed dirt of the road. The air is thick, heavy, humid- ozone is starting to build, and her nostrils flare at the electric scent. Something about the way the guide had reacted to seeing those other Team Skull grunts on Route 2 is enough to tell her that these kids probably will not be allowed into the stores in the shopping district to take shelter.

But helping them isn’t her place. Her voice rises up into her throat in instinctive protest, but a memory steals away her breath before she can utter a word.

What good are you to anyone? You can’t even take care of yourself.

She could. She could, dammit.

Her stomach growls. Without another sound, she turns on her heel and scurries back inside, fingers tapping in time with her neighbour’s footsteps and the microwave’s beeps as she nukes a container of week-old pasta up to a human-adjacent temperature. She should have thrown it out before heading out for her ferry adventure, but… things happen for a reason, it seems. It isn’t sour, at the very least.

Nothing is warm that night. Piles of blankets are not enough to give her shelter. She wouldn’t look good even as a teen in Team Skull, she decides. She remains tossing and turning throughout the night, wondering whether she should really want to fit in- something in their eyes seems broken.

Even though her shoulders are not as thin, her knees not as wobbly, she remembers a time when they almost were-

Then, that low, husky voice drawls through the wall, and she remembers how warm that type of voice feels in her ear, and she stays cold, as she is meant to be.

Chapter Text

She does not need a project, so she does not pry. She does not knock on the neighbour’s door. Once, she hears something clattering on the balcony once again, but her feet remain planted upon the cheap rug she has bought to cover the awkward emptiness underneath her desk. She does not look, nor does she deign to give any attention to the chittering, hissing creature just a wall away. If everyone’s reactions are to be believed, it is best for her- and her future employment on this island- to stay in her own lane.

So, she counts down the days until the week-long storm passes, never leaving her home without an umbrella and rain boots that feel silly to wear in a tropical climate. There are no interactions with the gaggles of teenagers she catches out of the corner of her eye, no conversations had, no questions asked.

She does watch, though.

Team Skull remnants are everywhere in Alola. She cannot muster up even the faintest shred of distaste towards them, even as she starts spending more of her energy on watching the reactions of those around the teenagers. Despite the distaste and disapproval sent their way from all directions, the children she spots never repent- nor does she want them to.

When she explains this under her breath in the grocery store over the phone, the familiar voice on the other end merely sighs. “We’ve been over this, girl,” he mumbles, the telltale sounds of hefting merchandise boxes on his side matching with her motions as she sifts through unknown cereal brands on the shelves. “You’re not intervening.”

“I’m not,” is the bemused reply. “Never hurts to be informed, though.”

“Yeah, yeah.” A beat, a grunt of effort, the sound of cardboard slamming on metal shelving. “I looked them up, y’know?”

“And?” She clicks her tongue, finally realizing that the price of her usual brand has been marked up.

“You couldn’t pull off that aesthetic.”

She pauses, considers, then sighs. “Neither could you.”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one considering it.”

Although she knows he will be able to sense how she rolls her eyes, she does it anyways; the smile on her lips is enough to offset it. He knows her well. The more she sees the Team Skull beanie and bandana, the more she genuinely wishes she could wear them herself. It’s a good look. “I just respect commitment. Sticking to their guns.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies noncommittally.

It is a charitable assumption, this idea that she locks in on them out of curiosity, out of lighthearted envy. It’s certainly the most lighthearted perspective. They both know it isn’t true. She doesn’t fixate on things unless there is a need, and if there is a need, it rarely ends well.

No projects for me, she reiterates silently, her fingers tapping upon the shelf. The echo is tinny, muffled by cardboard box after cardboard box, reverberating in her brain as if in mocking derision. No cereal, either.

So, her feet carry her over to the healthier side of the store. Produce falls into her basket, then bread, then some protein; the accessibility of goods is one which she has always taken for granted, but the sheer freshness of things sold in Alola still stun her, although it has been many weeks since her arrival. She doesn’t know how to feel about it, in some ways. Intellectually, she knows it is healthy- that fresh fruits and vegetables have, despite her poor diet, contributed to her filling out, her formerly wasting frame almost back to what it had been a few months before the move.

Emotionally… it’s not the best thing.

But the flavour is there, and her basket is full, so she needs to pay. Her best friend approves of her purchases as she lists off her choices, so goodnights are stated, with quiet I-love-yous echoing from his end before they end the call. She lines up at the open register, reaching into her pocket to grab her wallet when she overhears raised voices near the door. Glancing over her shoulder, she locks eyes with one gruff, scruffy teenager in that familiar bandana-beanie combo, his eyes dangerous and scathing as his buddy argues with the store manager. She doesn’t catch the conversation- something about shoplifting, although the boy profusely denies it- nor does she get the chance to listen as the boy staring at her calls out, “What, you got a problem, lady?”

Stunned, she looks over to the cashier. A portly older woman, the cashier struts out confidently from behind the counter, her nostrils flaring as she opens her mouth to scold or chide or insult or-

She steps in front of the cashier, then turns to look at the Team Skull grunt. “Not particularly,” she replies, her voice far more present, engaged, than she ever truly feels. “May I help you?”

Before either boy can retort, the loud grumbling of an empty stomach echoes into the store. A flush fills pale cheeks, the boy responsible spitting some kind of retort to the shop manager before grabbing his friend and dragging them both out. In their wake, the manager and the cashier instantly trade murmured, irritated whispers.

Her eyes do not leave their backs- not until the door has shut behind them. Then, she glances around. No one else is here, so she asks to the grumbling woman stepping back into her post, “May I quickly grab something else?”

Instantly, the older woman’s demeanor shifts. “Of course! So sorry you had to see that, sweetheart, but-“

She does not hear it, having already abandoned her groceries in favour of jogging to the deli. Prepacked meals await her, so she grabs four diverse meal sets and rushes back through the snack aisle. It is instinct, the drive which moves her as she scoops a few bags of snacks indiscriminately into her basket. Bottled drinks are next, and then, a bag of dried fruit. Once all of those things are tossed in, she grabs a few of the boxed meals they keep at counter and then pays for it all with trembling fingers, eyes anxiously flitting over her shoulder again and again to ensure they have not escaped.

It takes barely a moment to find them sitting forlornly outside of the Pokémon Center, their hunched figures bent over in the shadows of neon signs and normally-welcoming entrances. Sucking in a shaky breath, her feet carry her over until she is in front of the duo. A few feet separate them by the time one boy glares up at her through a fringe of dark green hair that is far too long to be comfortable. “Whaddya want?” he growls, irritation mingling with fatigue in his eyes.

Teeth tug a bitten lip. Fingers tap against plastic, flimsy material dancing upon her leg as she tap, tap, taps again. Then, before she can change her mind and turn tail, she thrusts out the plastic bag towards them. “Take it.”

The other boy lifts his gaze, scowling with a bitterness that is far too world-weary for a kid who couldn’t be a day over fifteen. “What the hell, lady? What’s your problem?”

“I bought too much,” she says softly. “Do me a favour and take it.”

The first boy sneers, “Oh, it was an accident?”

“Kids never buy stuff that actually fills you up,” she explains absently, halfway torn between the anxious desire to run and the gawping awe at the sheer attitude encased in two little teens.

“We’re not kids,” is the immediate snarl.

“Okay,” she replies tepidly, “in that case, adults with rad aesthetics never buy stuff to fill themselves up, so here’s something more substantial.”

The one who had glared at her softens slightly. “We… don’t need your pity.”

“And I’m not giving any,” is the honest truth.

They do not respond. For one long, terse moment, the only thing which speaks is the wind whistling through the palm trees, sending her frizzy, uncombed hair into further disarray as strands escape her hasty ponytail. She scrabbles at it awkwardly with one hand, but her feet do not budge until the teenagers finally relent, splitting up the offered food into their own backpacks. Then, they up and leave, stiff nods of acknowledgement the only other interaction between them before they lope off. There is no need for pleasantries, after all.

She sleeps well that night. It does not matter if she can hear her neighbour argue with his giant isopod Pokémon next door, nor does it matter that the winds beat down upon her little apartment so heavily she wonders whether she shall be swept away in the torrent. The only thing which lingers in her mind is the satisfaction, the knowing, of what she has done.

She wants to speak to them more. There is something strange about Alola, something which no pamphlet or tourism guide will ever explain. Maybe knowing will finally put her heart and mind to rest- or, perhaps it shall finally ignite the spark she has come here to find.

Only one way to find out.

Chapter Text

After much urging from her faithful best friend back home, the journal which she had packed with her is finally unearthed from where she had stored it in the closet. Once upon a time, she had never left home without a journal in her hands; there had always been an opportunity to write, to jot down ideas and allow them to blossom forth in her heart. Her pen had never ceased to allow ink to freely flow. A certain creative verve had lived within every movement.

That’s what had won her everything.

Despite all of her efforts to avoid pulling it out, she inevitably cannot deny the fact that she is genuinely in need of a job. Her savings are whittled down day by day. There is a sense of detachment in that fact; a few times a week, she finds herself opening up her bank account, the application on her phone showing her the same steady decline as always. The numbers grow ever smaller. It shouldn’t be a surprise. I should’ve taken the passive revenue deal rather than the immediate payout, is the miserable, yet hollow thought which rings through her mind again and again. A few cents add up.

There is no point moping. The journal is tucked away in her bag, her constant companion once more. Although it feels unnatural to be searching for inspiration in a world which feels so far away from her, she is ready to write.

So, days pass. Eventually, the storm clears and she finds herself able to head over to the next Alolan island; an uneventful voyage on the ferry come morn days after her initial plans is exactly what she needs. Although there are Ride-Pokémon swimming through the waters, and although the ferry is bustling with travellers and their Pokémon companions, she enjoys the trip in silence, in solitude. Her headphones keep her safe, calm. The only rhythm she needs to follow is the waves lapping upon a pristine hull.

Akala Island is just as stunning as Melemele, she learns quickly. There is beauty to be found in every corner of the isle; very soon, her drive to complete her original task of finding potential job opportunities wanes in the face of getting to travel across meadow and sand and coal. Her explorations of Akala Island are punctuated by tiny moments of victory, of blissful respite from everything which has been holding her back for so, so long. She passes through gardens and trails idly, using enough repellent to drown a small army of Ratatta whenever she is out in the wilds.

Much to her best friend’s chagrin, she does not take pictures here. It is beautiful, but her phone remains sorely emptied of any trace of her journeys. She does not need pictures, she insists. “It’s better to be in the moment, isn’t it?” she repeats as he complains each night during his shift. “I don’t want to regret just staring at it through my phone.”

“...at least write something down. Don’t forget it.”

She smiles and says nothing. She’s avoiding it. They both know.

He is never pleased with this response, but he never pushes too hard. He understands, and for that, she loves him all the more. He understands. Pictures of the Malie Garden had once been tucked away in her old journal, awaiting the day when she could take the hand of the man who had been by her side for all those years and finally go forth on the adventure for which her heart longed-

She isn’t here for adventures. Or maybe she is. Her fingers tap against the screen of her phone, drumming a steady, yet idle beat whether it is on or off. She doesn’t know.

The things that she picks up with this new sombre, sober state of mind in which she finds herself constantly are uncomfortable. Rather than soaking in the sights, she finds that her evening thoughts stray more to that one group whom she cannot ignore as much as she tries. The locals on this island seem to ignore the ghosts which haunt Akalan roads, but she finds herself unable to look away from scuffed shoes and ripped, stained clothing and greasy hair hanging limply around faces that look too gaunt to be so young.

Team Skull is everywhere. It is the shadow of the whole region, she is starting to believe. They lurk in the shade- in the alleys behind restaurants and the coves along the beach. They posture and try to make a name for themselves but, as she is quick to discover from accidentally running into some Team Skull kids battling with some sightseers, these gangly teenagers are bad at fighting. It’s almost refreshing, in all honesty, seeing so many trainers completely failing at commanding even a single Yungoos to victory. She hasn’t seen this kind of ineptitude since watching her best friend struggle to tame his own Tepig years back.

How these teens even still seem to function as a unit is the bigger mystery to her. It takes a few days of exploring Akala before she finally works up the courage to simply go and ask a gaggle of teenagers what in the world is their deal, what they’re trying to prove, why they don’t do just about anything else-

And why they’re still together, even though they’ve been disbanded. Even though their uniforms are ratty and their clothes are tattered. Even though they’ve lost their supposed leader. Even though no one else looks their way.

At her oldest friend’s urging, she writes. It is only ever about one thing, aside from hastily-scribbled notes and grocery list reminders and so on- the locations of the scrawny kids on the island, ignored by everyone else.

Alola is a tropical paradise. Everyone works together. Everyone is a family, a ‘cousin’- even her. Everyone is safe and welcome in Alola. She smiles whenever people greet her throughout her travels, her wanderings. It is not genuine. She doesn’t really know what the word ‘genuine’ feels like in her mouth anymore.

The words scribbled hastily down do not explain anything when she glances back over them, however. Immediately, the urge to know more overwhelms her from top to bottom. Before she can even understand what she is doing, long strides take her towards the nearest group of Alolan stragglers, the words spilling from full lips without her knowledge or consent. “I’ll buy you all malasadas or whatever you want for dinner if you chat with me. Nothing weird, no strings attached- we’ll just have a picnic out here.”

Blankly, the group stares at her, jaws quickly growing slack as they come to understand just how serious she is. The leader of the group awkwardly steps up, striking a pose that forces her to use all of her strength of will to not laugh aloud at. “And what the hell is in it for you, lady?”

She pauses. Takes in what he says. Sucks in a deep breath, ready to explain and reason, to provide allyship whilst also preparing to flee-

Then, one of the other boys squeaks out, “Yeah. I don’t recognize you, lady. What’s your deal?”

She snorts, unable to fight back her laughter at the audible crack in his voice. “Kiddo, I’m new in town. I don’t know who you are, but I want to know about your gang. Also,” and she grins, suddenly inspired, unable to contain the feral delight growing in her heart as she dares to ask what she has dreamed of for weeks, “where do I get one of those hats?” One of the girls spits out the soda she had been sipping on noisily, so the woman clarifies, “Look, it’s cute. I might not wear it, but like… I wouldn’t be opposed to having one on my shelf.”

All five pairs of eyes stare up at her in complete disbelief, the air hanging heavy with silence. Her fingers tap against the strap of her bag, her brain idly jumping between, Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that, and Oh god I want that hat in equal, unabashed strength, swelling with a force she hadn’t known she possessed. She is world-weary and in her mid-twenties, and she does not fear some awkward, hungry teenagers.

Finally, one of their stomachs speaks for themselves. The guilty party immediately flushes, his compatriots punching his shoulders in shame; she merely laughs in response, swallowing down the sting of recognition. These kids really are exactly like the two she had met on Melemele. Before they can brush it off, she pulls out enough change to buy enough malasadas for all of them. Gesturing to the shy boy fluttering at the leader’s right-hand side, she says, “Hey, could you do me a favour and pick up the best flavours? One for each of us. I haven’t tried the local shop so I don’t know what’s good.”

With a disgruntled chuff, the teen squawks, “I could run off with this, yanno.”

“Your friends get to stay here with me and hang out till you come back. Also, I don’t really care.”

“What,” the soda-sipping girl leers, “you rich or something?”

“Nah,” is her airy reply. “I told you, I’m new. Just job hunting.”

“Then why feed us?”

“I’m not leaving a bunch of hungry kids. Besides, you’re smarter than me about what goes on around here, right? I have questions, and you’ll probably have answers.”

“Why us?”

“I don’t want any touristy garbage, so why not ask the experts?” she replies.

There is a unanimous intake of breath, and in that moment, her heart shatters, watching these punks preen and flush and stutter as they avoid eye contact at this slight praise. One tries to laugh it off, and one clumsy scuffs their toe into the sand. Although the boy offered the money still looks suspicious, he takes the money from her hand and calls out, “We’re goin’ spicy, right boys?”

“Hell yeah!” the others chorus.

She smiles, sitting right down on the grass beside the leader. “Alright then,” she says frankly. “Let me pick your brain till he comes back.”

The children share glances, and then, they nod.

Her questions are answered. It’s liberating to finally have people who will so unquestionably respond to the queries plaguing her for so long. No matter is too invasive to ask about, she soon finds out; in a mere few minutes, the teenagers are spilling their life stories to her without restraint. The leader had been kicked out of his house after failing the island challenge not once, not twice, but three times. The soda-sipping girl had been attacked by Pokémon as a child, and thus had refused to join the challenge when at the appropriate age out of fear; soon, her peers and siblings had drifted away from her until all she could do was flee. The ruddy-faced boy in their group had been unable to defeat the old trial captain of the Water Trial, eventually giving up in the face of all of the disdain shown to him by his older cousins. The younger girl says softly that she had been in an accident on the trial, and the others did not offer further details, so the woman does not ask.

“And Mikey? The one who’s buying dinner?” the leader murmurs wearily. “He likes his Pokémon, but he hates gettin’ them to fight, man. It sucked. The kahunas and all that were up his ass all the time and wouldn’t listen, so he ran away.”

She sits with this knowledge silently, soaking it in. They’re all homeless, they confirm. Some of them still live in Po Town, as the old barista had stated, but many have become drifters now that the banner under which they had united, Team Skull, has been disbanded officially.

“So why are you all still wearing those outfits?”

The youngest girl shrugs. “Boss gave us a home,” she whispers. “We ain’t about to give that up.”

Finally. “What happened to him?”

The sadness is instantaneous. “We coulda conquered the world with him at our side,” the leader whispers. “He wouldn’t’ve, but like… we coulda.”

As the others hum in solemn agreement, she pushes further. “Is he… still in Alola?”

“Yeah. He can’t leave. Alolan through and through,” the older, soda-sipping girl says through a mouthful of malasada. “He won’t ever leave.”

“He probably should, though,” the malasada-buyer comments.

“Because he’s basically wanted around the entire region?” she replies, stomach turning despite the untouched pastry in her hand.

The leader shakes his head. “He doesn’t deserve it,” he mumbles. “Boss is our hero, y’know? But he’s probably off somewhere getting ready to kick some ass again.”

“Yeah,” the ruddy boy adds, “Boss is the best. Probably training Golisopod to destroy the current Champ.”

“Or the entire League!”

“He could conquer it, just him and his starter!”

She barely hears the rest of the conversation, in all honesty. All she can do is suck in breath after breath, the image of beady red eyes glaring out at her through the gap in her neighbour’s curtains burning into her heart.

“Your boss…” she interjects suddenly. “What’s he like?”

She hears their description. Pauses. Her heart sits firmly lodged in her throat, the questions and the worry and the knowing weighing down on her.

How long has it been since something had stolen breath away from every fibre of her being?

It can’t be… can it?

The woman does not eat her share of the malasadas. Instead, she leaves it to them to divvy it all up. “If you ever see me around,” she states solemnly, “you’ve always got a meal. It won’t be fancy, ‘cause I’m also… kind of broke-” A round of chuckles, wry and knowing and filled with far too much camaraderie to belong to a group who had just met her thirty minutes before, “-but I’ll help if I can.”

The kids smile. Salute. Wink and tuck hands into their pockets and lope off with their newfound energy, their stomachs full and gaits brisk. She watches them go in silence, a slight twinge of regret pulling her empty gut.

Her fingers dial her best friend’s number before she knows it. The situation is explained in scarcely a minute- the people of Alola believe in unity and shut out anything aside from the norm, the kids who don’t fit in are abandoned, those same kids used to be in a local gang which was forced to disband after the Ultra Beast incident, and-

“I think my neighbour is their former gang leader?”

He pauses. Hums. The whirring of the cash register and a points card on the other end shows that he is brazenly on his phone at work in front of a customer, a tight-lipped “Have a good night,” echoing through to her ear. Then, he finally replies to her, “Well… I don’t want to say I told you he’s going to be too much work, but…”

“I’m not interested in him.”

“Can’t seem to get him off your mind, though. Is he that hot?”

She sighs, leaning her head back to soak in the stars. Although she is near one of the central hubs on Akala, the stars still shine through without hesitation, flooding the skies with twinkling lights and comfort. She doesn’t know if he’s attractive. The two times they had actually interacted had left her uneasy and worn out. However, as she conjures up the man’s visage in her mind, the title of ‘gang leader’ definitely fits more than anything else she could have come up with.

And yet… these children seem to all unanimously love and praise him. They don’t seem evil. They just seem hungry.

Her stomach twists. The malasadas here are delicious. Spicy was indeed the right choice, she longs to tell Mikey- but she is still hungry, too.

…is her neighbour empty, too?

Suddenly, her journal is open, her pen moving. A plan forms. She wants to know.

Chapter Text

Akala provides no work aside from temporary retail jobs. Upon her return to Melemele, however, she flits through the shopping mall in search of anything to keep her days from becoming fruitless. Luckily, she succeeds; the two-week stint she manages to claim during a local shopping event is enough to keep her going. She has no fondness for this kind of work, but she is not about to look a gift Mudsdale in the mouth.

It is after her first shift (and, courtesy of the kind store owner, her first paycheque in Alola) that she finally returns to the café nearest to her apartment. The pinap juice which she orders is refreshing and delicious, but that is not her main goal. No, it is the sign by the register which she homes in on, her fingers tapping the counter as she negotiates the free combo deal available to patrons with Pokémon. At first, the owner is reluctant- she doesn’t have a companion, after all- but she speaks no lies when she explains who the recipient of the complementary Poké Beans shall be. 

Her neighbour is huge, after all. She doubts just one bean will be enough to sate its hunger. But, she is happy to ask this of the café. She needs to have some kind of explanation for what the Team Skull kids had told her, for her curiosity is all-consuming when she locks onto something despite her apathy. It’s not going to be more than that, she tries to convince herself- just satiating her curiosity. She just needs to know. Ever since hearing about the former Team Skull leader’s identity- ever since searching up his image, ever since finding a face and name she both recognized and didn’t know- she can think of little else.

Luck is on her side. The gesture is received as being sweet. “A true Alolan gesture if I ever did see one, cousin!” the barista announces with cheery pride, handing her a swollen bag of treats and a slice of cake for herself on the house. Soon enough, she is walking out with her juice and cake and the tools she needs to unearth what she longs to learn.

The Golisopod is surprisingly dextrous, she learns. When she steps out onto the balcony, she spots another beer can on the floor, likely thrown onto her side of the railing by the creature just like before. When she places the can upon the bannister railing of her neighbour’s balcony, the echo is enough to draw the giant Pokémon’s attention; in a flash, beady red eyes peek out of the window, flipping open the balcony door. Sharp mandibles stick out as the creature chitters in recognition first, then in delight as she holds out a handful of Poké Beans. 

The beans are deposited onto the counter beside the empty can. Before she can even step back, the gigantic isopod stands firmly before her, insectoid eyes bearing down heavily upon her in judgement. She gulps audibly, gesturing towards the can and beans. “Hey, bud,” she mumbles awkwardly. “These are for you. Could you not throw cans onto my balcony anymore?”

The creature moves closer. Her knees shake, but she stands her ground. The hairs on the back of her neck and arms raise with the sudden proximity. Thankfully, the creature does not lunge, does not act suddenly or screech or attack. Instead, it chirps, bending down to sniff the treats. Then, with more delicacy and grace than she could have ever expected, the Golisopod picks up a bean and nibbles on it, its eyes unblinkingly lighting up in joy.

She gawps. It is… strangely cute to see this creature daintily nibbling, the waning day’s light casting an ethereal, golden-olive glow upon its carapace. It titters and chirps as it grabs one, then another, never advancing, never pushing. 

Her fingers tap in time upon her leg. It seems that she knows the sounds of this creature’s joy, too. It is not a Pokémon that is wanting for peace.

After a few beans are gobbled down, this quiet moment of companionship amidst the golden sunset rays is broken. The door to her neighbour’s balcony opens wide again and the man steps out into the sunlight himself, squinting, clearly having just woken up. She bristles, seeing the unkempt bedhead and the stubble along his jaw; it is too personal somehow. 

When his bleary eyes focus upon her, the man instantly allows anger to twist his strong, if exhausted, features. “Whaddya want?” he snarls, stepping between his Pokémon and his uncomfortable neighbour. “You got a death wish?”

“Your Pokémon seems to like me,” she points out softly.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re feeding him,” is the irritated response. 

Anxiety creeps up her spine, a spider clawing its way into the nape of her neck. She shivers, nails digging into her sides, the question she has longed to ask for days finally upon her lips. “I… since we’re neighbours and all,” she said awkwardly, “I thought I’d introduce myself.”

“You never heard of a fucking door?”

With a perfectly curated smile, she shakes her head. “You didn’t respond,” she fibs. “Were you sleeping?”

To her surprise, he groans at this piece of information, deflating slightly. “Shit, I- yeah. Sorry. I work night shift. Just woke up.”

Her brain instantly latches onto the information. Seeing the softening of his features, she sucks in a breath, then steps forward properly once more. The gap between their balconies is so, so miniscule; she is easily able to reach over the gap, holding out her hand in friendly welcome as her words rattle off her name, her home region of Unova, her joy at making his acquaintance. The words are practiced, even and rhythmic, moving to the beat of her heart.

Stiffly, he nods. A beat. Another. 

His hand is warm, large, rough and calloused and bony, yet not. “Guzma,” his rasping, rough voice murmurs, eyes glancing down and to the left as if ashamed to let the word spill past his lips.

Her heart swells, then shrivels. Names are not dirty things, she wants to say. She does not. 

And yet, as she looks up at the tall man across the balcony railings, his hand remains in hers. Even as her eyes examine his face, quickly analysing every feature and committing it to memory, he does not pull away. 

Guzma. 

Apparently, her hand twitches, suddenly reminding him of their contact. He pulls away, stunned and uncomfortable. At his back, the Golisopod chirps worriedly, but he merely reaches a hand up to stroke the long mandibles hanging over his shoulder in concern. “I’m good, Gogo,” he mutters.

She smiles at the interaction despite herself. “You’re not exactly what I imagined you’d be.” Her voice is rueful and wry, the fear of nearing the giant isopod waning as she watches it nuzzle against Guzma’s fluffy white hair. 

The words are a mistake. The moment she says that, he glowers, glaring down at her through furrowed brows and eyes lined with so many bags she wonders if any amount of rest could ever heal them. “What, you think you know me? Checking out rumours, huh, new kid? Scared of big, bad Guzma?”

She bites her tongue. Fingers freeze in their rhythms, clutching onto the hem of her shorts for dear life. “I don’t,” she replies honestly. “I’ve heard of you, though. Wasn’t sure if it was actually you, or if someone else had a Golisopod around here, but… here you are.” 

Her heart sinks as she watches his shoulders hunch, nostrils flaring, the weariness slipping off like a falling cloak to reveal naught but unbridled anger. The man sucks in a deep breath, ready to spit out a response with vitriol clearly readying to hang upon every word.

Thoughts of another life flit back into her mind. She’s so, so good at being yelled at. Back then, she hadn’t run- but she hadn’t responded, either. She hadn’t defended herself. She had just listened, nodded, accepted.

She’s too tired to take it anymore.

Her hands rise up, protesting her innocence, calm and assured despite the turmoil in her heart. “I’m happy to explain, but I can see you’re getting upset, and I won’t tolerate being yelled at.”

He blinks, pauses. She holds her breath, readying herself to continue speaking. Instead of carrying on, however, he deflates. A scowl replaces the scorn. 

Sighing silently in relief, she carries on. “I’m new to Alola. I didn’t know your name until a few days ago, but I wasn’t even sure it was you.”

“I bet you heard all the best things about me, huh?”

Her smile returns despite herself, small but strangely true. “Locals all seem like they’ve got poles up their asses when talking about Team Skull,” she says bluntly, relishing in the shock which registers in his eyes at her crassness, “but the actual former members? They’re good kids. I’ve talked to a bunch of them.”

For a long, tense moment, he is silent, examining this information with terse discomfort. “You like talkin’ to people about my old crew, huh? Most folks steer clear.”

“I’m a writer,” she explains softly. “It comes with the territory. You can’t write what you don’t know, right?”

His eyes narrow in suspicion, broad shoulders shrugging in defeat. “I wouldn’t know.”

Her fingers dig into her thighs. There’s more. There is so much more than she has not unearthed, and she wants to know more. Questions bubble up onto the tip of her tongue, flooding her veins with a fervour she has not felt in months. She wants to ask this hollow, ashamed man so much more-

She knows this expression. She has seen it in the mirror too many times. 

Softly, she steps back. The taut rope between them relaxes, and she clasps her hands behind her back. “Hey, Guzma?”

“...hm?”

“The Team Skull kids. When I asked them about the gang, they all said it was their favourite place to be. That kind of thing is so validating for kids to have, you know? And they really seem to adore you, for what it’s worth.” She smiles softly. “I’m a little jealous. Could’ve used my own Team Skull once upon a time, it looks like.”

His eyes bug out of his skull as she turns to leave. Before she can escape, however, large claws hook over her balcony railing, the sound echoing and abrupt. She squeaks, jumping slightly before looking over to the Golisopod, preparing emotionally to see it ready for battle. Instead, the Pokémon chitters and holds open its clawed hands politely, asking for another bean after having cleared out what she had left upon the railing.

It bubbles up first from deep within her gut, growing in strength, building more and more until she can scarcely bite it down. She is so close to holding it back- that is until the former gang leader blushes a deep scarlet across gaunt cheeks and round ears, the man instantly crying out, “Gogo, stop it! How the hell am I supposed to go around with pride when you’re like this- god, what are you-”

She laughs, and she means it. Right before he pulls his Pokémon back inside, she reaches into her pocket, pulls out another bean, and tosses it into the giant creature’s awaiting, needy hands, chuckling as the joyful chitters of victory echo in the air and through the drywall long after they have both shut their balconies. 

Guzma isn’t that bad- at least, he’s not what Alola seems to make him out to be. That much, she knows for sure. 

Chapter Text

The light flickers. She pauses, sucking in a deep breath, steadying herself. Her diet has not been the best as of late- ever since trying out malasadas, she has slowly been eating more and more of the delicious pastry rather than anything more substantial- so perhaps it is a bout of anemia, or perhaps-

The light bulb within the fixture above her head flickers once more, shuddering with an audible crackling. Alright, well. Guess I’m not sick. 

Sighing, she stands, inspecting the ceiling above. It is far too tall for her to reach, the spacious ceiling above her head almost at double her height. When moving in, she had bought a few extra bulbs in preparation, but had never given thought as to how to actually change the damn things. A quick survey of the chairs in her room proves that she will not be able to reach it, even if she were to move her bed or her desk to use as a ladder. 

With an exhausted groan, she flings herself backwards onto her bed. The mattress squeaks, but for now, it holds her weight still despite its cheapness. “Do I call the landlord?” she mumbles, scrabbling for her phone near her side. Did she even still have the landlord’s cellphone number saved?

Suddenly, the sound of a key in a lock, a door squeaking open, and shuffling against the wall shared with Guzma catches her attention. She freezes. He’s certainly far taller than her. With the way that his frame looms high over hers, able to stand even against his Golisopod, then he would have no issue-

I’m not asking for help from him. What is this? Am I asking for a cup of sugar?

She squints against increased flickering, wincing as a sudden pop leaves her in shadow.

Well… shit.

There is something so unnerving about approaching his doorway. She takes two steps out, attempting to cross the yard-long space between their front doors, but soon she is cowed back into her apartment. How tall would he loom over her standing face to face, no longer without the safety net of the balcony railings?

So, she does the next best thing: grabs a Poké Bean from the bag she had acquired two days earlier and steps out onto the balcony. The air is warm, humid and muggy even in the early morn, the sea breeze having yet to develop and cool down the island. Sighing, she takes a deep breath and calls out softly, “Hey, bud. Golisopod? You there?” Can invertebrates even smell? Hedging her bets, she holds up the bean into the air, praying that it catches a whiff of the treat before a Wingull decides to swoop down and attack her. “Here, Golisopod.”

Whether it is by scent, by sound, or by pure stroke of luck, the curtain hanging over Guzma’s balcony door flutters and familiar red eyes peek out. At the sight of her and her offering, the latch is opened and the Pokémon scurries out, its lumbering figure poised to strike immediately. She winces, but the attack never comes; there are merely opened claws, excited chittering, and- Is- are its eyes sparkling, or am I really losing it?

With a clumsy smile, she passes off the bean, taking care to not touch smooth chitin. That is still too intimidating, although she does not feel the urge to flee at the mere sight of the creature any longer. “Hey, bud. Can you do me a favour?” she asks softly, calling out to the happily nibbling isopod.

The Golisopod tilts its head. From within Guzma’s apartment, she can hear the sound of running water- most likely the shower.  She smiles, thin and wan, bracing herself. “Can you call your… trainer- dad- person?” Her nose wrinkles, fingers tapping out potential monikers upon her stomach until she gives up entirely. “Um… Guzma. Can you ask him to come out?”

The creature pauses for an interminable moment before nodding, chittering loudly towards the opened door. The shower stops running, that familiar, rumbling voice calling out, “Gogo, why’re you outside…” Then, after a moment of shuffling around, a dripping Guzma emerges in sweatpants and a towel hung around his neck.

She gulps, unsure of where to look. The best option for modesty’s sake is to simply crane her neck upwards, but the man looks utterly unamused, glaring down at her from above with droplets creating rivulets from his hairline down a furrowed forehead. “Isn’t it too early for this shit?” Guzma grumbles bitterly.

She is about to speak when she suddenly puts pieces together. “Wait…did I catch you right after work?”

A roll of his eyes, a groan. “Good work solving that shit, I guess.”

Instantly, her brain backpedals. Oh god, I didn’t- I’m such a pain- I shouldn’t be bothering him, I’ll deal with it myself, I- “Oh- don’t worry about it then. You must be exhausted.”

To her surprise a flash of remorse flutters through his gaze. Slightly defeated, he sighs, rubbing the towel through the back of his hair. “No, what is it? You called me out here for a reason, right?”

With a sheepish grin, she explains, “You’re tall, right?” His deadpan glare doesn’t sway her. “Look, my lightbulb died.”

“Okay.”

“I can’t reach it.”

A louder groan. “Fuck off,” he mutters, turning to head back inside.

She leaps out towards him, grabbing onto his railing. “No, Guzma! Come on. Just think of me as some old granny. You wouldn’t abandon me, right?”

“No granny wants help from me,” is the bitter, irritated answer.

“This one does.”

He leans on the railing, and she finds herself shifting uncomfortable as she finally finds herself in much closer proximity to his pale, glowering visage. “You’re not older than me,” he mutters. “Deal with it yourself, kid.”

“Okay, I’m not a granny, but twenty-five is exactly a kid, either,” she offers by way of explanation.

He frowns. “Twenty-six,” he replies at last. “Kid.”

Her heart aches. For some reason, a year older than her feels far too young for him, given his reputation. And yet you made a place for all those kids, huh? She smiles despite herself, crooked and wry. “Well then, won’t you help a poor kid like me out?” When he merely narrows his eyes, she insists, holding out her arms feebly. “Look. Can’t possibly reach. Tiny little arms, see?”

He does a curious thing, then. He frowns. Steps back. And, even though it lasts for naught but a moment, his expression softens, head tilted back, mouth open as hearty chuckles rumble through him. “God, fine,” he relents, the glimmer in his eyes strangely sincere. “Gimme a few to fix up.” When she blinks blankly at him, he clarifies dryly with a wry, raised brow, “Unless you want big, bad Guzma shirtless in your apartment?”

In her head, she knows that the smile he sends her way is handsome in a rough way. Crude, uncut diamond. Genuine, unlike all of the bristling anger or defensive bitterness she has seen thus far. Her best friend would tell her to play along, she just knows it.

However, her heart is ice cold, whether she wants to join in on his teasing or not. She barely notices how the smile on her lips falls away. “I’d much prefer you dressed,” she replies placidly, the humour dropping from her voice. Weary, she steps back. “I appreciate the help, Guzma, especially after a workday. Just knock whenever.” And with that, she steps back inside, setting the kettle to boil and leaving her fingers to tap anxiously in time with teeth pulling an over-bitten, scarred lip. 

It takes barely ten minutes for the knocking to resound upon her apartment door. Opening it up, all she can do is gulp, shifting uneasily. As expected, it feels unnatural to have him at her doorway; as it is, his frame is almost tall enough to need to duck under her doorway. The (now fully-clothed) man barely makes it a few steps in, however, before he pauses in surprise. Why, she does not know; when she comments on his sudden stillness, the man merely clears his throat, shakes his head, glances around in furtive discomfort, and mutters, “Hey, we have the same layout, right?”

She shrugs. “I’d assume so.”

“...well, fuck.” 

The actual task is done with little fuss. He changes the lightbulb with ease, stepping onto her desk chair carefully to reach the high ceiling with a reach she can only dream to possess. Then, he steps down, hands her the dud, grunts his goodbyes, and shuffles back to his apartment, a yawn on his lips the entire way. She barely gets the chance to thank him before he is gone, his own apartment closed behind him. 

The light switches on, her apartment once again illuminated by fluorescent yellow-white. She sighs. He’s basically my age, she thinks wearily, still stricken by that thought. Basically my age. And yet-

And yet, he’s a pariah. For what? 

She knows she cannot ask. So, she merely leaves a sticky note upon his balcony railing- a thank-you message, set along with a small plastic sandwich bag full of the rest of her Poké beans. It is all the interaction she can muster. She has more important things to interrogate: what that expression in his eyes had meant; what she wants out of life on this island; what there is to be afraid of; why she cannot let go. Too many questions, not enough answers, her fingers never moving fast enough upon the page to write out explanations her heart does not yet know how to face.

Chapter Text

His name is Hala. She knows his face from travel guides hastily glanced over during her initial packing sessions for her move to Alola; she knows his reputation from the many, many stories of praise showered upon his name whenever she mentions she is new to the region. “Our kahuna Hala will help you out if you ever need it!” is the ongoing, consistent messaging she continues to receive again and again. She has yet to run into the man himself before now, but she is unsurprised at that. The heavens know that she keeps to herself for the most part.

So, this sudden encounter is far more than she could have expected. Her best friend had suggested going to the beach for once, so she had managed to find a nook free of Staryu hidden in the sand and other beachgoers relaxing on the shore. It is not exactly the most lovely day- stormy clouds linger over the tropical seas, although they do not promise a raging storm like the weeks before. It is muggy but pleasant, embodying everything she might need.

At least, until Hala arrives. The older, brown-skinned man lopes towards her with an amicable ease that all of the older folk in Alola seem to share. His smile, hidden away by white facial hair, shines in the scrunched crow’s feet along his eyes, his age not hiding his robust presence. With all the energy she cannot claim to hold herself, he calls out, “Alola, friend! I don’t recognize your face. How are you?”

Small talk. Easy enough. Her lips move with the rhythms of normalcy, her responses simple, straightforward, welcoming. She introduces herself, pointing out her apartment down the road without hesitation, knowing his status on the island. He laughs, pointing out her lack of a Pokémon companion; when she replies that she is, in fact, alone, he does a small double-take before finally accepting her answer. “It’s rare to see people without even a companion Pokémon, even if you are not a trainer,” he says wryly. “You are a strange one, but still, you are welcome here.”

Her mask is secure, although she cannot guarantee that her eye does not twitch at these words. “I actually did have a few questions,” she murmurs, meek and unsure. “Things are run so differently here compared to my home region… would you mind if I ask a few questions?”

His expression softens. Throwing his arms open wide, he laughs, hearty and deep, before he sits with surprising spryness upon the soft sand. “I’d be happy to explain, cousin,” he responds.

She beams, her movements practised and comfortable despite the unease in her heart. She has heard the perspectives of enough folk on these islands that she has a decent picture of the good and bad, but to speak to a kahuna is a largely alluring prospect; they have a very different insight than most, being the protectors of the islands chosen by the Tapu Pokemon themselves. At least, she assumes it to be so. 

Therefore, it is time to ask. Questions about the trial challenge and the social structures upon each island come spilling from her lips, each query having raced its own way around her mind hundreds of times before over morning coffee or as she brushed her teeth before going to bed. He is patient with her, thankfully, explaining with ease the route most young challengers will take to confronting every single trial and Grand Trial upon the four Alolan islands. His voice pitches upwards when he mentions the League, a mixture of uneasiness and pride causing his brow to furrow, his chest to puff outwards.

She nods, taking it all in with rapt attention. Even when she begins jotting information down, he merely laughs and praises her commitment to learning more. “Soon, you’ll be walking ‘round these parts like you’ve been here your whole life!” he teases warmly.

She laughs with measured precision. He reminds her of her favourite professor in community college. He was different, but their welcoming aura warms her heart. She is at ease.

Soon enough, she finds herself even asking about work. Pulling up a digital copy of her resume, she meekly asks him to take a look. When he sees the list of accolades won just a few years earlier, all he can do is gawp. “You’re quite accomplished,” he comments, scrolling through a curriculum vitae with the squinting, confused pleasantness only older folk can maintain whilst trying to focus in on text on a screen. “We’d be lucky to have you.” With a snap of his fingers, he laughs brightly with sudden clarity. “In fact, I’ll put in a word for you at the Pokemon League. You know where it is?”

She nods. Theoretically, she knows a lot of things; have her feet actually stepped foot upon Ula’ula Island? No. She wants to go there, though. Po Town is too alluring to stay away from forever. The urge to see the centre of Team Skull grows by the day. 

Hala is still speaking. She fights back the urge to jump as she tunes back in, nails digging into her bare thighs exposed by her shorts; caramel skin hides crescent moons enough for her to focus back onto his words. She catches ‘copywriting’, ‘publicity’, and ‘advertising systems’ and she is up to speed. “I’ve got some experience in copywriting,” she says smoothly. “I’d prefer to not be travelling to Ula’ula every day, but if there are remote options, I’d be very pleased!”

His grin is infectious. “I’m sure they will be happy to hear it.”

She likes Hala, she thinks. He’s a kind man. 

At least, until she mentions Team Skull.

His smile tilts, moustache drooping. His narrow eyes squint, the crow’s feet smoothing out in what can only be suspicion peering out from under thick brows. “What would you like to know?”

For a brief moment, she wonders whether there is any point in lying. There is no benefit which comes to mind, however, so she sighs, shrugs, and ruefully admits, “Well, I’ve seen them around quite a bit. Sweet kids. Also, I’m apparently living next door to Guzma-”

And then, watching him, she realizes faintly that she might not quite like Hala much at all.

The reaction is immediate as Hala’s face fills with worry and woe, mangled together underneath the clearing of his throat and the aversion of his eyes. When his smile returns, it no longer reaches his eyes as it had before; instead, she can hear the stiffness in his tone as he murmurs, “And you and he have been doing fine?”

She squints back, her smile dropping off her lips ever so slightly. “He’s fine. Helps me out once in a while,” she says. The words are slightly hyperbole, for one lightbulb a friendship does not make, but she does not care, for her chest is squeezing too tightly with what can only be described as a strange sort of… protectiveness? Disdain? Contempt?

She does not know. The sand does not provide a surface strong enough for her fingertips to work it out. 

There is a strange sense of relief which plagues Hala’s broad shoulders as the man visibly sags for a moment. “Good, very good. He’s… been going through some things.”

“Something a neighbour should know about?”

His wry smile is humourless. “Should? Ideally. Will? No. It’s not my tale to tell,” is Hala’s eventual response. When she hums and nods, sensing the end of their conversation has come to pass, Hala finishes it off softly with, “He’s a good one. Just gone through some tough things. The road isn’t meant for everyone, you know?”

“He’s been on the island since he was a child?”

“Indeed he has.”

Then isn’t it your job as kahuna to make a road for him if the one you expect him to take is too much?

She smiles politely as he stands. She will not pry. “I’ll come to the League soon to look into that copywriter position!”

And just like that, his persona returns. With a big smile and cheery nod, he says goodbye and trots off, presumably to find another person to check in on this early morning. The sun is rising higher, after all.

She is still cold. She will not pry about Guzma’s life. They all have their reasons for why the road was too treacherous. God knows I’m not one to talk. I still don’t know how to start climbing again anyways.

Chapter Text

With a newfound lead on where to try her luck next, the real issue of her job hunt becomes clear; there is much work to be done in preparing an application. My old resume probably is enough to get me considered, but cover letters… Silently griping at her situation, her fingers cross the bare skin of her thigh, charting out the rhythm of the day. She’ll need to get to work. It will take a decent amount of time, and if she lurks inside any longer, she’ll lose motivation. The darkness of her apartment can be an all-consuming beast if she allows herself to just sit in it. But I don't want to go off somewhere…

And so, she finds herself lugging back a small, flimsy parasol and a roll of duct tape to her apartment on her way back from the beach. It grows so ungainly that she almost finds herself wishing she had a Pokémon of her own; that Golisopod’s sheer size and strength would be more than a little useful. 

Not like I’m getting within two feet of that thing. It’s horrifying, she thinks wearily. Then, she turns her attention back to the task at hand and drops her purchases unceremoniously onto her balcony, wiping sweat off her brow and quickly tying her hair up.

The set-up is easy enough, although taping the cheap handle to the railing of her balcony is far more precarious than she would like. It takes just a few more minutes to pull out her supplies- a chair, some tea, her laptop- and create a little workspace in the breezy morn. 

The actual making of her application is not as simple, she finds. When applying for the small temporary gigs around Melemele, she had been using generic cover letters without much thought. As she rereads it all now to cater it to the Pokémon League, however, she finds that every word stings. She remembers typing it all out, dictating it back to another, going over every single word until it sparkled with potential. 

He hadn’t been good for many things, her ex. However, he knew how to do business. He always had. The fact that she hadn’t seen how she’d simply been an investment-

She shakes her head ruefully, deleting words that sound far too promising, too energetic and bubbly for the weariness of her soul. I’m not ready to settle down, she reminds herself for the nth time. I couldn’t take care of him forever. That’s okay. Her fingers tap rapidly against her keyboard, words flying onto the screen. He wasn’t the one. That’s okay.

A twinge of pride causes her to flush her chest out slightly. Does it still ache every night, knowing that she was abandoned the moment she wasn’t useful anymore? Yes. 

Yes. But it’s fine.

She gulps down an involuntary shudder. A few months earlier, she would not have been able to say that, but here she is. She’s not great, but she’s okay, and that’s better than she could have expected.

Glancing over to the inside of her apartment, she snorts a wry little laugh. Moving from a fairly lush condominium to what truly was a shoddy, low-income housing block had never been in her plans, but she does not mind. At least rent is dirt cheap. My savings’ll bounce back pretty quickly once I get something permanent.

As she ponders this, a clattering across balconies startles her. Jumping in her chair slightly, she squeaks, stiff in her chair as Guzma’s Golisopod chitters his lumbering way onto the adjacent balcony. Upon seeing her, the giant creature rears up, his body wide and imposing; if he had been standing in the way of the light, she is sure he would have blocked out the sun itself, trapping her in shadow. 

But he doesn’t screech at her. Instead, she watches in open-mouthed awe as the hulking Pokemon shuffles over to her side of the balcony, its eyes lighting up. Long, intimidating claws curl easily over the edge of her apartment’s railings. Then, in a chitter that is almost cute, the Pokemon’s eyes close, its misshapen face forming into what can only be construed as a smile. 

Softly, she calls, “Hey, Gogo. How are you?” 

The Pokemon lets out a whistling noise. After a moment, she realizes that it is a yawn. “Sleepy, huh? Do you help Guzma when he goes to work?”

Gogo nods, chirping. Its claws extend, palms open. In response, she shakes her head. “Sorry, bud. I left all the beans I had out for Guzma to take. I don’t have any more, sadly.”

The way the giant isopod’s shoulders slump is baffling to her. How does it manage to somehow strike her to her very core?

Before she can properly interrogate herself, the screen door opens to Guzma’s apartment. The owner himself takes pause as he yawns, looking at her blankly through exhausted, bleary eyes; his hair is wet from a shower and a beer can sits in his hand. She fights back her instinctive urge to wrinkle her nose at the alcohol hours before the sun has hit midday. He works the night shift. This is probably before he goes to bed. 

However, she flinches when recognition finally alights in his eyes. There is a distinct shame, a distinct discomfort, in his gaze as he finally comes back to the present and notes her presence. They have not spoken since his entry into her apartment, his assistance, her clumsy note. 

They have not spoken since he had looked at her, and she had shut him out.

We can’t be awkward forever. With a clumsy wave, she calls, “Hey, neighbour. Good night at work?”

He raises a brow at her, taking a swig as he slowly meanders to the railing of his own balcony. Looking out into the distance, it is a few minutes before he bothers to reply. “Good enough, I guess.”

“What do you do, anyways?”

“None of yer business what big bad Guzma does,” is his low growl.

It shouldn’t sting. It doesn’t, in all honesty. She flinches anyways out of habit, of practice, and apparently, he spots the tiny twitch of fingers digging into her shorts, pressing into cloth and lush thigh. A wave of regret passes over his expression, and then, he sighs, running his fingers through his hair. The movement sends water dripping down his hairline to his chin, collecting across stubble; she watches it, counting the heartbeats it takes for the droplets to fall. 

It takes too long. She stares for too long; there is a distinct discomfort upon his face as he notes her focus, her entranced expression. A question flits across his face as she returns to awareness. She does not answer.

After a clumsy moment, she finally murmurs, “Did… Gogo like the beans the other day?”

He hums with a stiff nod. Gogo chirps happily in turn in that low, inhuman tone, making Guzma roll his eyes. The tall man mutters, “Just wait here,” completely ignoring his Pokémon’s clear plea in favour of going back into his apartment. 

She winces at what seems to be clear, concise rejection of her presence, only to freeze as the man returns just as quickly. In his hand is a plastic back, the distinct aroma of sesame oil and peanuts wafting from within. “Catch,” he calls, tossing it over the balcony. 

How she catches it without dropping her laptop, she does not know, but it is done. Peeking inside, the familiar face of a nearby Kanto-style restaurant peers back at her. “You… bought me takeout?”

His eyes bore holes into the horizon. Through tight-pressed, reticent lips, he responds wearily, “You fed my boys. That’s thanks for them.”

“I didn’t do it to get anything in return- I mean, I did, but it was just information about the islands. You don’t need to-”

“Look,” he sighs, glaring at her. Rather than carrying on, however, something in his expression catches, stiffens, darkens; he frowns, fighting something within himself before he leans his head back, chugging the entire can. Once it is downed, he crumples it against one thigh with his hand. “No one usually takes care of them ‘cept for me. Just shut up and take it.” With that, he pats his Golisopod on the arm and lopes back inside, shoulders hunched and expression sullen. 

A part of her tells her to throw it out. Yet, as the sun continues to rise into the blue Alolan skies, her stomach grumbles. Her work can wait, she thinks; so, she puts it down, goes back inside to reheat lukewarm noodles, and returns to eat comfortably upon her balcony, looking out into the distance. 

It is delicious. He’s not a bad guy. It is the truth, she thinks. No one else in this building has helped her, after all. I guess he really is used to taking in strays. 

She laughs at that final thought. There is no joy in it, albeit she cannot deny her begrudging respect. Self-hatred aside, he is not a bad person. That is something, at least.

Chapter Text

By the time her applications are finished and submitted, nearly a whole week has passed. She has spent as much time as possible doing anything but finishing up her work; instead, she has made it a game to roam Melemele upon the island trial route. It is a strange fixation, to be sure, but something draws her irrevocably to the paths followed by so many of the island’s youth. Perhaps she just wants to see the moment someone fails- the moment someone gives up. Perhaps she just wants to understand how Team Skull came to be. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t see anyone, doesn’t get answers, anyways; the closest she gets is running into more shabbily-dressed teenagers, offering as many malasadas and cocoas as she can with her pathetic budget. It’s not much, but it’s something, and they always smile at her gratefully afterwards, so it is enough to quench the niggling discomfort in her heart even if just for a little while.

“God, I’m tired,” she mumbles, throwing open her balcony door unceremoniously. Her bones ache after having just come back from the post office after a night of finishing up her applications. Theoretically, it should not have taken this long, but the hurdle of banality is a high one to conquer. She struggles. She always does, much to her chagrin. 

Still, it is done. A folding chair has been added to her balcony ensemble, the setup looking halfway like that of a vacationing beachgoer upon the cold, rough surface of that flimsy terrace; she sinks into her chair with a cup of pinap juice, attempting to relax as sunlight rolls in. Her phone sits precariously upon her shoulder, cheek holding it in place as she sighs, taking in the sight of the peaceful sea and the sounds of her best friend cursing on the other end of the call. 

“You’re tired? You’re telling me. These fucking pieces of shit,” he gripes endlessly, “just fucking up the schedule, putting me in the morning- I work with nothing but incompetence, you hear me? My goddamn life, oh my god-”

She sips her juice. It is delicious, although it does nothing to ease the fatigue in her veins after spending the entire night on a hyper-fixated work binge. She does not respond to his complaints, as there is nothing to say. He is not a morning person, and she’s not good at consoling others. He merely needs to vent about his sudden morning shift, anyways, so it does not matter either way if she speaks. 

Suddenly, the neighbouring balcony door clatters open, another string of curses flooding out from Guzma’s apartment as the man himself steps forth, looking distinctly haggard. Upon catching sight of her, he freezes; before she can say a word, however, he groans, a scowl masking his previous discomfort. “Aren’t normal people supposed to be asleep right now?” he grumbles, running a hand down his face wearily. The action causes a streak of grime to worsen down the side of his face. She notes it silently, although her questions are kept to herself.

On the phone, her best friend’s voice suddenly pierces her eardrums. “Wait, is that him? Hot neighbour?”

“Stop it,” she scolds him softly, keeping her eyes locked upon Guzma’s slouched, weary figure. Her body sinks back into her chair, fingers drumming against her glass of juice silently. She had received a small bundle of treats for Gogo for free from the cafe on her way back from mailing her application in, but Guzma’s sour mood gives no indication that he’ll be happy with it-

Red eyes peek out from the neighbouring apartment. Upon spotting her, Gogo chirps brightly, the noise far too loud for the early morning. To her surprise, the sound brings a smile to her face unlike the terror of their first meeting; making up her mind, she creakily stands, pulling out the little paper bag of beans and setting them upon Guzma’s balcony railing. “I got more Poké Beans for free,” she explains, covering up the microphone of her phone as she speaks. “Give them to Gogo.”

Although it is clear that he wants to gripe at her interaction, Guzma’s eyes soften at her words. “...fine.” He pockets the bag without another word, turning back to the horizon as he leans upon the edge of his balcony. 

Content with the minimal, yet civil exchange, she takes a seat once more. Now that he has been thoroughly distracted by Guzma’s entrance, her best friend does nothing but harass her for information about her neighbour. “No,” she says softly in response to his demands to talk about the other man. “C’mon. The faster you’re done stocking, the faster you can go home, right?”

“You are sorely misinformed about how shifts work,” is her friend’s bitter reply, huffy on the other end.

Her quiet comment elicits a glare from her neighbour, so she merely points to her phone. “Best friend in Unova,” she mouths simply, turning her gaze back to the glowing orange light painting the morning sky. 

She hears Guzma’s grunt of acknowledgement, but no other words are shared. Realizing that she will keep mum on the subject, her friend continues to complain about incompetent colleagues as she sips her juice; a few minutes later, Guzma stretches and lumbers back into his apartment. The sounds of the shower distantly reach her ears over muttered curses. Then, after twenty minutes (and one ended call later, as her best friend finally had to start interacting with customers), the man is back outside in casual clothes, a beer in hand and the Golisopod back at his side. One by one, he fishes the beans she had shared earlier out of his pocket to share with the Pokémon. “Thank her,” he states blandly when Gogo nuzzles against his cheek. “She shared them.”

Gogo whistles and chitters, waving to her before snacking on yet another treat. Why is it so sweet to see it so happy? she wonders idly.

A few sips into his drink, Guzma decides to break their impasse. He growls out, “You haven’t been around much.”

“...just been wandering Melemele in the mornings.”

“Ran into some of my boys recently,” he carries on. Glancing awkwardly over his shoulder, he adds, “A lot of them aren’t doing so hot, man. Why do so many of them talk about some girl?”

“Girl?”

“Don’t bullshit me. Short. Probably can’t reach lightbulbs for shit. Feeds people.” Another swig, a quiet sigh. “She sounds like you.”

She narrows her eyes, watching him carefully. He is testing her. He is gauging her intentions, distrust oozing out of every anti-authoritative bone in his body. So, she shrugs, tucking her phone against her stomach and leaning her head back. “You’re really protective of them,” she comments.

“They’re good kids,” is the snarled response. 

His immediate defence is strangely heartwarming to her, her stomach tightening, her breath hitching. It’s simply so genuine. “I believe you. They seem like it,” she replies gently after a moment. 

Apparently, it seems like that answer had not been within his expectations. When she finally points out his awkward, stunned silence, he merely splutters out, “No one tends to gives Team Skull a chance. You want me to believe that you really like them? That you’re just buying them dinners to be nice?”

“Of course no one gives them a chance.” She sighs, setting her emptied glass upon the floor by her chair. The faces of the most recent Team Skull grunts she had met- two boys whose ribs were beginning to peek through their skin, visible through clumsily cut-off sleeves- flicker through her mind. They had been sweet, offering to keep her company as she made her way through a nearby meadow. Like they could’ve ever protected me with that ratty Yungoos, she muses sadly. “People… like to see what they want to see rather than admitting that they’re lacking themselves.”

To this, the man simply snorts, amusement draining away. “Oh yeah, Ms. Philosopher? And what the hell are they lackin’ in these parts, huh?”

She chews her lips, fingertips tracing circles into exposed thigh. “Something to help those kids. They’ve all been really sweet, and they shouldn’t be going hungry. It’s not their fault, it’s this whole region.”

Something in his eyes shifts. She wants to interrogate it, she does; as she is about to speak, however, her phone rings, her best friend’s silly expression flashing upon the screen. So, she picks it up, immediately returning to a near-vegetative state as she allows him to vent about whatever problem plagues him now. 

By the time her phone call has finished, Guzma is gone. She thinks little of it. The sun is growing too warm, anyways; he doubtless needs to sleep, and it is time for her to retreat to the shade of her apartment to rest. Why does writing take so much energy? she thinks bitterly, burying her face into her pillow. 

Once upon a time, it hadn’t. But now is not then, and she needs to rest. 

By the time she awakens from what ends up being a full seven-hour sleep, her stomach is growling and the time for dinner is growing closer. One look at her scant-filled kitchen puts a sour taste in her mouth, so soon enough, she is heading back out, grabbing her keys and stepping away from her front door. 

There is no need to buy dinner. Hung upon the handle is another bag of takeout. It’s cold, and the noodles are thick after absorbing too much sauce and congealing for hours, but it clearly had been bought that morning. Did he bring me…? 

Something about the gesture causes her throat to tighten. He is no longer affiliated with Team Skull, right? 

He still cares about them. Someone has to. 

Chapter Text

The grocery store is always fairly empty at this hour, just before the waning of the sun’s light. Her mouth twists as she wanders down the aisles, up and down, repetitive and soothing; she craves something that she cannot seem to satiate with her cooking. After making half a dozen different dishes at home, she had given up, deciding to buy assorted trash and see where that left her hunger. Her best friend had been no help in the matter, merely telling her that what she’s craving is ‘more of Guzma’s takeout’ which has far more innuendo than she’d like to even begin addressing. So, she wanders, waiting for something to catch her eye.

Halfway through perusing different frozen dinner options, a figure standing a few feet away catches her attention. She straightens up, glancing over; to her surprise, the person who stands there is someone clearly dressed in Team Skull attire. Unlike the rest of the teens she has met over the past weeks, this young woman seems closer to her in age than not. Pink and yellow-dyed hair almost glows underneath the fluorescent lighting of the mart, and thick dark eyeliner shows far too much effort put into her appearance to be anything but completely committed to the Skull signature. 

She gulps, staring down this stranger. Did she used to be in the group, too? Does Guzma know her? Maybe she’s heard of me- if rumours have reached him, then-

Her mouth betrays none of these frantic questions. “May I help you?” is the calm, steady offering.

The other woman crosses thin, bony arms, those dark-rimmed eyes and long lashes boring a hole into her skull. “You’re Guzma’s neighbour, right?” asks the woman bluntly, her voice surprisingly high despite her fierce appearance. 

She blinks, cocks her head, processes this demand- the weight, the anger underlying it all, the stakes. The strange, distant familiarity of her voice. “...yes,” she admits finally.

“What do you want from him?”

Is this an ex-girlfriend? Who are you? With a sigh, she shrugs. “Just a cordial, neighbourly relationship.”

She turns to go the opposite direction down the frozen meal aisle, but finds herself cut off in a heartbeat. “And what are you now?” The woman’s gaze is accusatory, a finger pointing towards her in condemnation. 

Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, she shrugs again. “I think we’re good neighbours. I give food to that Golisopod whenever the cafe gives me some. He fixed a lightbulb I was too short to reach. It’s not that deep.”

The other woman thinks on that answer, silently assessing the response with thin lips pressed tightly together. At last, it seems she has come to a conclusion. “You’re really not there to pull anything on him?”

“I’m ‘there’ because I’m broke and it’s cheap housing. Have you seen how bad the paint job is? Why would that be someone’s actual first choice?”

To her surprise, the young woman snorts, nods, and turns on her heel, strutting away without a word. It’s wholly jarring, completely leaving her in a lurch as she stares at the stranger’s back until it is out of sight. Just what the hell was that for? Who is she? What’s her issue?

One answer is found upon returning home, a bag of assorted snacks and microwave lasagna crinkling in a plastic bag. As she locks her door behind her and sets down her keys, the sound of a woman’s voice filters in through the wall. Instantly, the pieces are put together; the woman at the grocery store had been the voice she had heard upon first moving into this complex. She certainly does know Guzma, then. It matters little to her; headphones are more than enough to drown out the idle conversation between the two in the other room. As long as it stays as conversation, it’ll be fine, she thinks uneasily. Are they dating? It doesn’t matter to me, but… are they?

There is a pit which grows in her stomach. As much as she would like to pretend that nothing had happened, she remembers their awkward exchanges when he had come to help her with her lightbulb. She remembers his smile, the teasing lilt in his low, husky voice, the broadness of that frame standing tall before her in her living room, stealing away her sense and oxygen and safety. She hadn’t felt comfortable with it to begin with, but with the knowledge that there is indeed a woman in his life who can come to visit- a woman who feels entitled to harass his neighbours, too- the entire past exchange feels… almost sinister.

She has no answers. 

So, she searches for them. 

The next morning finds her upon her balcony when Guzma steps out, freshly showered and exhausted after work. Although she does not want to come off as overbearing, her fingers cannot help but dig into her calves as she curls into her chair, making pleasantries about working hard and good weather. Then, as he begins to ease, she breaks their rapport by asking, “How’s your girlfriend doing by the way?”

The sudden question causes him to snort into his beer, the tall figure doubling over and coughing to clear his throat. She leaps to her feet in response, worriedly clutching her balcony’s railing as she watches him; thankfully, he manages to spit out a few moments later, “Girlfriend? What the fuck are you talking about all of a sudden?”

Hearing his voice, as warbled as it is, eases her concerns. Relaxing, she smiles thinly. “That girl from Team Skull. Yellow and pink hair? I ran into her at the grocery store the other day.”

His glare is so deadpan, it would almost be funny if she hadn’t been so focused upon satiating her curiosity. “Why in the world would you think I’m dating Plumeria?”

Plumeria? What kind of name is that? Betraying none of her confusion, she explains simply, “Because she came to talk to me about you, and she’s not a kid like the rest of them. She also knew we were neighbours.” With a wry chuckle, she adds, “Basically interrogated me like an anxious girlfriend.”

It takes all of her willpower to not laugh at the sheer incredulity upon his face, his expression quickly morphing into disgust. “No, we ain’t dating. Gross. She’s like a little sister.”

Oh, thank god. She freezes, but does not further that thought.

They are quiet. In the distance, Wingulls caw relentlessly in time with the horns of the day’s second ferry leaving Melemele’s harbour. After the horn’s echo has completely died down, he clears his throat again, capturing her attention; as she peeks over to him, he asks gruffly, “What about you?”

“...what?”

“Dating?”

“Oh. No.”

“Hm.”

She chews her lower lip, feeling her head grow heavy, fingers tightening their hold upon the railing. The weight of the words builds upon her tongue, her throat choking upon a sudden desire to spill it all; she swallows it down until she can breathe easily once more, then adds, “I… broke it off before moving here.”

Although she can feel the weight of his gaze landing upon her, she does not tear her own eyes away from the view before her. He asks awkwardly, “What, your boyfriend didn’t want to come to Alola?”

He didn’t want me to go anywhere, she longs to respond. He wanted me to stay there and mother him and be a good trophy. Nothing about me works like that. She does not say it, though- until she is sure of whether the words will be hateful or scornful or lonely or mature, she refuses. She is sick of sounding like a child when she speaks about him, so she instead responds tightly, “He… wanted me to give up things I cherished for him. It wasn’t really equal.”

“Sounds like a dick.”

She snorts. “I wouldn’t say that.” Then, she pauses, surprised by the relative sincerity of that statement. “He just… wasn’t very aware.”

“You had a lot to lose?”

“I don’t know.” She closes her eyes and breathes deep, sucking in the faint briny tang of ocean air into her lungs greedily. She had certainly treated life as if she hadn’t had a lot to lose. If she had, then why else would she be here? “I wish I knew.”

He snorts, rueful and weary. “Fuck, that’s too real.” To her amused eyebrow, he rolls his eyes and sips on his beer. “I mean, don’t people our age already have shit figured out?”

You’re not wrong, she ponders, leaning her forearms upon the railing. Her hair bounces in the wind, gooseflesh rising upon her skin as a cloud briefly covers the sun’s warm rays. Most people in their mid-twenties settle into a career early. It is easy, after all; years spent on the road challenging Pokémon gyms and earning badges tends to give youth a solid idea of what they want to do with the rest of their lives. And those lives are always intertwined with whatever Pokémon they’ve grown closest to.

However, for people like her who never enjoyed working with Pokémon and training and battling…

But Guzma is different, isn’t he? He has Gogo. He has a Pokémon, and he’s lived life exactly like all the others had on the islands. Before she can even think of whether it is appropriate or not, she finds herself asking, “What about you? Doesn’t everyone here figure out what they want to do after the trial challenge-”

It’s a stupid question. She realizes that the moment the words leave her lips, but the damage is done, and her awareness comes too late. His face clouds over. He pushes off the balcony. The door slams shut behind him, glass rattling in the pane, and she does not blame him. 

After all, he had started Team Skull. Those kids are no strangers to living on the street, but no one decides to live like that.

The taste of bile haunts her for the rest of the day. She deserves it- that, she does decide.

Chapter Text

A cherubic bag of Poké Beans and a six-pack of cheap beer is not an ideal apology, but as Guzma stares blankly at her offering perched precariously upon his balcony railing, he has little choice but to accept her presence. She withers internally at his irritation- two days of staying cooped up in her room, music blaring through her headphones during his off-hours, had done enough to blow guilt and anxiety well out of proportion- but she does not shy away. Two days is more than enough time to grow sick of the tension lingering in the air. 

Also, she wants to use her balcony again. It’s hot inside, dammit, and she can only handle being trapped while typing away at job applications for so long before losing it. I’ll try this, and if it fails, at least dinner’s ready for tonight. It feels like a crime to have cooked roasted chicken and sides before noon, but another peace offering felt necessary. She knows his schedule anyway. The thin walls make sure of that.

Folding her arms across her chest, she says plainly, “I’m an asshole, okay? I acknowledge. Couldn’t remember what brand of beer you like though, so you’ll have to settle with that.”

His eyes slowly narrow before he lets out a bitter, irritated sigh. “Whatever.” Still, he grabs hold of the beans and beer roughly and turns on his heel, holding them close as if he would shove them into his pockets had he the chance. “Fuck off, though.”

The immediate rejection strikes far too sore of a spot for her to not retaliate. It is too familiar of a reaction, after all. “Oh, stop it. What are you, a kid?”

Those words give him pause. The man freezes and glares over his shoulder, hunched figure beginning to appear almost menacing in the waxing morning light. “What did you say?” he growls, words tight-lipped through his clear exhaustion. 

She bites back her discomfort and stands her ground. This is a routine she has done too many times before, the steps standard and easy. “You have got to stop doing that to me,” she explains bluntly. “Just walking away when a conversation doesn’t suit you. It’s rude- tell me to my face to leave if you want, but don’t just walk out.”

Rather than arguing, Guzma merely sneers in reply, “Thought I was being mature about it- y’know, better than punching my way through it.” His tone darkens as he adds, “What, you wanna throw down instead?”

She groans. A part of her wants to shrivel and hide away at this clear threat, but the bigger part of her just feels weary, more on his behalf than anything. “I’ll take leaving over being punched,” she acknowledges blandly. 

Apparently, her lack of fear is disconcerting. He puts down the six-pack in favour of running his fingers through damp hair, grunting, “What, you’re not scared?”

“I’ll be scared when I have a reason to be.”

“I’m Guzma,” he spits back, holding his arms out in defiance. “That’s usually reason enough.”

Although she tries to bite it back down, it is a familiar regretful pity which rises back into her throat, thick and stinging. One attempt to clear her throat turns into two, but neither are successful, leaving Guzma suspiciously watching her as she quickly sniffles and tries to push down the shame from their previous encounter. She doesn’t think poorly of him- she’s never felt scared of him, not really- she’s not worried about being next to him, she doesn’t think he’s a bad person, she just-

“All I see,” she says softly, taking a tentative step towards his balcony, “is a guy who’s locked himself up in his apartment whenever he’s not contractually obligated to be anywhere else-”

Guzma rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck off-”

“-who’s missed by a bunch of lost kids who he gave a home,” she carries on, “who people seem to fear despite him being just a softie with decent taste in takeout.”

Thankfully, these words finally seem to be enough. Guzma’s menacing air drops entirely, thick brows furrowing together in confused discomfort as he searches for a response. 

She doesn’t give him time to formulate one. “From what I’ve seen, you look like a decent enough person, at least to your Pokémon… and the people who look up to you. I don’t really know you outside of that, though, so who knows?” She attempts to shrug, her crooked, wistful smile feeling forced, disingenuous despite her best efforts. “Maybe you actually like to kick Rockruffs and steal from old ladies out in public.”

This actually makes him snort, much to her secret delight. The man’s shoulders begin to tremble as he tries to hold back his laughter, but soon enough, he throws his head back and allows himself to let go, heartily chuckling as he leans upon the door to his balcony. After a moment, he calms down again, crossing his arms and watching her curiously. “I really don’t know what to make of you, you know that?”

“Why’s that?” she asks, daring to step closer. Her elbows rest upon the balcony, her heart pounding as she hides her immediate relief. Thank god he’s laughing about it, she thinks wearily.

Finally having lowered his defences, the tall man ambles over to the balcony a few feet away from her. Leaning heavily onto the railing, he hangs his head low, his voice soft and fatigued. “People like to just judge immediately, y’know? They lose their damn minds whenever they figure out who I am.”

“...and who are you?”

“To them, a failure.”

Her lip is between her teeth, chewing mercilessly as she tries to smooth out the anxiety growing in features desperate to twist in concern. She wants to know, god she wants to know, but there is shame in wanting answers and closure and- “Why?”

A long, heavy exhale fills the air, the distant cawing of Wingulls and the breeze rocking the sea flooding her ears. Then, he admits to what she had been expecting since their argument. “I failed out of the trial challenge. Wanted to become a captain, couldn’t do it. Tried again, kept fucking it up.” He sighs, roughing up bleached hair until it stands at spiky ends all around his head. “Then some stuff happened, Team Skull happened, and… yeah.”

“Becoming a captain of the island challenge is really difficult though, isn’t it?” she asks, scrounging up whatever information she has still floating around from her research on the current League. “You’re not a failure for-”

“Current champion beat me just a few weeks after starting their challenge. Humiliating.”

She winces, then bites her tongue, praying he did not witness it. The memory of the current champion of the Pokémon League comes to mind, the image she had seen on social media clear as day. Isn’t that just a child though? “I don’t really see an issue with that though,” she tries gently, her mind frantically turning. What angle could she possibly tackle this with? “Maybe… maybe you’re just not spinning it right.”

His deadpan gaze displays his weary disbelief immediately. She does not back down, however; fingers tap, tap, tap against her thigh, tracing connections as she maps out an argument the best she can. “You’re saying you’re good at nothing, but honestly?” On her fingers, she begins to keep track. Maybe I’ve just been writing too many job applications. Too good at bullshit. “Charismatic to lead a large-ish, fairly coordinated organisation. Strong and able to command respect from subordinates. Tenacious and hardworking. Persistent and reliable.” She pauses, then throws in meekly, “Has a conscience.”

Throughout her entire list, his ears and neck had grown more and more red, utter discomfort For what feels like an eternity, there is not but silence, the only sounds echoing in her ears being her pounding heartbeat anxiously taking over, reverberations from her fingers drumming piercing through her very bones. 

Finally, he shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. Buzzed black is mostly covered by a large, scarred hand, the man looking away from her, burying his face into his opposite arm. “For what?” he asks, voice muffled and hesitant. “I haven’t done shit in front of you.”

“You bought me food.” Then, meekly, she adds, “I know now that your history is a sore spot, but… you still talk to me. That’s more than I might’ve deserved for prying.”

A few incoherent splutters and refusals spill forth before he simply sighs, deflating. “Look, I dunno what to say right now, okay? People usually hate my guts. Destruction in human form, and all that.”

She blinks at him. Something similar filters into her memory- probably a stupid catchphrase on some article or something she had seen in her research on Team Skull. “You named your giant bug Gogo and feed it snackies while you drink beer at eight in the morning. I don’t really know how that translates to ‘destruction’- more a lonely old man energy, y’know?”

His squawking of protest nearly brings her to tears. “Shut the hell up!” he manages to splutter out. 

Fingers no longer drum, anxiety replaced by endorphins and endearment as she replies, “Fine, fine, you’re destruction. You know what I am?”

With a pout that is far too soft for his hard, haggard face, he plays along grumpily. “What?”

Her laughter softens, relief coursing through her veins fully. “A good cook. I made extra food. Want some?”

Stunned, he stares her down. That does not stop him from, twenty minutes later, standing on her doorstep, freshly showered and sheepish beyond measure. Without complaint, he hunches his shoulders and shuffles inside. His giant frame is still intimidating beyond measure up close, but he moves with a gentleness around her that warms her heart. 

The three jokes she makes about him needing to ensure ‘Mr. Destruction-in-human-form’ doesn’t break her plates don’t exactly land. She has fun, though. And, as he passes her a beer, she finds herself actually comfortable enough to take it. With his long legs sprawled out across her floor, they eat, drink, chat. He washes his dishes. She thanks him, he thanks her, they toss the cans into her recycling bin, and he heads home to rest.

Despite her discomfort from a slight buzz and full belly so early in the morning, she is content.