A

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Shadow

Part I

Level 15

In fifty-five seconds, he lost his mind.

That was all it took in the end, he thought; that's what his reserves amounted to. His resistance training, as it were, was for nothing. Hours a day he watched the screen, studied every human that entered the Corner, anything to make up for the wilds—desperate to get a trainer, they said. It was the best he could do in the circumstances; it was all he could do to acclimate. If he could last a year in human company, he reasoned, without his sickness getting out, he may another, and so on. Then the evolution would save him: evolution changed everything, they said, one's whole character. So he'd be rid of it, cured forever; or it may get tenfold worse, this disorder, show him up at once as he lost all control. A Dratini they could forgive: a Dratini was dear and innocent; but a Dragonair was much more serious, and then, a Dragonite! No, he thought, evolution could only change what was present to work with, amplifying one's existing nature, rendering the difficult easy. So he had to cultivate his strength, his reserve, and if not destroy that part of him, subsume it entirely—that was his plan.

And then the bell rang, and she walked in, and the plan flew out behind her. There was always the chance of it, he thought, that he would simply go mad: today was the day. She held a Flaaffy in her arms, a Quilava following after, both looking about, both out of their balls but no question she was a trainer. She had the look of one who would carry Pokémon half the day and think it normal; who would carry a Dratini until the day he evolved.

She saw him through the glass—looked past him to the others, but she saw. Mr. Game rose from his seat. She was there for the Pokémon, yes; held her Flaaffy tightly; simply adored them, he knew, and wanted nothing but to lift one out and say, There! Don't you worry.

And how, how could a human girl, a species he had never seen before his capture, affect him so abominably? There was no reason to it. Nature threw its dice (so the show went) and laid out all ones and twos at best. So he knew the day it happened, when his confusion resolved into something concrete, there up on the screen: the Winter World Championship, the dance on ice.

—Introducing the lady Delacroix of Kalos!

That was the start of it, when the sickness first affected him. Then he knew exactly what he wanted out of the Corner. But then, the other Dratini said,

—Why's it got to be ice?

Instinctively he knew it had to be hidden, this rush of warmth, this heat that no sane Pokémon ought to feel for a human: telling would destroy him. Perhaps, he had thought, it would go away—perhaps it was actually common? But none of them quivered like that when a human came into the Corner, even such a girl as this who already kept Pokémon, looked warmly towards them, seemed somehow more alert than other humans, looking over things, dark-haired and dark-skinned … How could such a girl, just standing and talking, holding her Flaaffy in one hand and brushing back a strand of hair, obliterate his whole mind? What a fool to think he could think it all away! It was impossible; there was no losing a thing like this, not without evolution; it was only to hide it, that he was mad entirely. She had come in only a minute ago.

Mr. Game laughed, but not quite naturally, it seemed, as if he wasn't sure to laugh was the thing. And why not, the man said—but to what? He invited her to sit; the Flaaffy took her lap, the Quilava the seat beside her, and Mr. Game set the first round of Voltorb Flip. There was some sort of wager between them, it seemed, that he and the other Dratini in the farthest cage didn't hear. Of course Mr. Game never accepted a term that disfavoured him; he was nothing like his father, they said, turned the place directly to money. He rigged the table, they knew; he had a hidden trigger on his leg.

It wasn't all in his imagination, he thought: she beside him pressed to look as well, who judged a good human quite as accurately, or didn't they always show their character, making her their business? Trainers always came and looked, saw the cages, saw her at the end and then, of course, they had to play, their eyes showing it all, the stories they imagined: to have a pink Dratini! Mr. Game smiled and took their fee. Most lasted only two or three rounds; the lucky ones got an Ekans, a Sandshrew, an Abra, but never enough for even a regular Dratini, and anyway he priced her twice as much. But perhaps they could warn the girl about his trick—perhaps she would see? For he really did not misread her quality: she won three rounds already, a fraction of the usual time: everyone crowded at the glass. And she was a warm trainer, f0r certain, left them all out of their balls; she had wonderful hair; and she was clever, yes!—just the one he imagined.

And presently—and she always said he must stop moping, mustn't be sorry for himself, always so timid, always so melodramatic like the evening shows Mr. Game watched with his tea—presently as the girl stood up, won them all, however she liked, that would be it: she would take another and leave him behind for Mr. Game, no use at all: then he would expire. Absurd, he knew, but there it was: he would lie out and faint forever. For a hundred trainers came before, walked in with a sort of story he imagined, the champion to come and save them, and of course most proved lacking, folded quickly even before the cheat, quit the Corner with another Pokémon. But this girl! No such story came to mind. She only looked and seemed to say, Little things! Let me take you. And why especially her? (If he could understand it, he may not lose his mind.) He couldn't say precisely; all he felt was that she—how did the show put it?—tore the sham to ribbons: he was born sick and unable to get well, evolution bound to fix nothing. Some fibrous muscle—dragon heartstring was the technical term—plucked and began to resonate, to begin a long crescendo (as the people said on Kanto Classical Radio) that, however long it strung out, would only reach a dissonant climax and tear to pieces on the final chord. But there must be a reason, he thought, why her particularly. (He must understand it.) She was leagues ahead in cleverness than all the others, that was clear, in the fifth now without even slowing. She was darker than most Goldenroders, more than summer on a beach did, and wasn't it winter? Her belt was shaped like Kalos crescent bread with compartments on every twist; her hair had enormous volume, seemed split into feathers as if by wind, long days on the routes and nights camping in the open air: a serious trainer, the kind who felt Pokémon better company than humans—just the right sort! She wouldn't mind him curling on her lap; she would hold him against her shirt and stroke his neck. And she was deliberate—that was it—looking through her glasses (she put them on after the third round) over her Flaaffy's head, seeing many combinations at once (it wasted her to play a game like Flip)—and with a few touches, selecting those and only those necessary to win the round. So the round was won. The others pressed forward, pushed against him, and for a moment he could not see her clearly, so that looking up she missed him; and there, again, he saw it: standing, picking out another, leaving him behind.

One of the other Dratini turned to her and said, "[She's not bad at all! What do you think?]"

She smiled and said, "[Give her a few more rounds.]"

He wanted to protest; felt a wild urge to snap and say she was a rot—she his only friend! (Already he was quite mad.) Of course she would get the pick, if it came to that; for why not take the best, not only in appearance but ability as well? A pink Dratini was wonderfully rare (how many yen did Mr. Game profit by her in the last year?); no one more deserved a warm trainer, one who wouldn't treat her as a prize, she who was after all the kindest of all the Dratini to him, talked to him when he was alone watching the screen, started up the conversations that lasted for days for lack of other distraction. She would make a fine battler, always so free of concern: she would become the core of some great team and she knew it. So naturally when she arrived, carried in on the same truck as him from some lake or other, something far from the cave he remembered (so long ago it seemed now, all the details missing)—naturally he and the other three deferred to her, the model Pokémon, all the qualities any trainer would desire and all he lacked in himself.

—You've got a good brain. It's just a shame you don't always use it. You'll find a trainer: you will.

So she said; it was a kindness to overlook his defects. Next to her, he was just a quivering thing; couldn't battle even in the wilds, only fell into a catatonic wrap; totally without strength; totally without proportion, spent all day watching the screen at the feeding dish until now, just short of a year later, he was an inch wider than he ought to be (though he could not recall ever being different) and still cave-pale for lack of exercise: the worst in a clutch of five. He was the longest, and yet his head was always below the others; he felt wary of the Ekans even when they slept. No, he thought; this girl, probably fourteen years old, a trainer for a few years already, would never pick him, not when four others pressed ahead against the glass, and she at the head of them, by every right the first to be chosen. And who would take more than one Dratini? for they were slow to mature, the show said, even if they did become powerful, had sharp weaknesses. She came to build up her team: one Dratini, perhaps two, but not him—not the rot in the corner.

But he never imagined this!—a thing so strong, that even as she only studied the table, touched a square, it seemed to fall by steps and levels farther, mounting mathematically: a tingle tracing from the tips of his flares, through his throat (he could hardly swallow now), down his whole length. Some sort of pressure was building; some paralysis seemed to set in, made it difficult to breathe. Perhaps, he thought, in a minute he would overflow and the dragon's fire would fly out, what went through everything—crisp them all! He turned away—and back, for what if she finished and left? Any second the board could flash, and she'd be out the door, not another look behind her. Could he possibly bear, after seeing her, only going to a nursery, all the humans passing or touching him until, in the best case, some simple human family came and took him, left him to curl up on a chair and forget everything? Yet any life with her would only end in horror: the sickness exposed, flung into a little cage or back into the wilds, not for human company. He had to look appealing and then keep it all somehow bottled in; to bear, to hide was the thing.

Something tapped the glass: one of the Sandshrew. The others listened as she said, "[The Ekans said the Abra said she made a bet. If she wins enough for all of us we're all set free and Mr. Game won't keep Pokémon any more. Otherwise she gets nothing no matter what she's won.]"

That was why the man laughed: he didn't believe she was serious, that such a girl could exist who flew into his Corner just to save them, some wilders she didn't even know. And the Sandshrew said she paid an enormous fee; arranged herself one error for fairness; threw herself, in other words, at no chance at all, needing dozens of wins at the highest level even if the man didn't cheat her, and of course he would. But none of them seemed to think clearly now; not in months, not in years as some were, did they see such a thing!

Perhaps, a Dratini said, they only misheard it; perhaps the Abra were having them on. But—and how could he know?—she had the look of one who felt a need beyond it, just to release some Pokémon. It was more personal, he believed, with her: Pokémon weren't meant to be in cages. She would save them if she could—this perfect girl! She paid some outrageous sum and still had to win many times in succession at the eighth level, surely something absurd, ten or more; no one did that. Even if she did (it was technically possible; and she was at the seventh already) Mr. Game would throw up the cheat. How he despised that man! What did she once call him, looking over the cages? A slavering slaver. (Another said the words didn't rhyme.) Now he sat between them and the perfect human, waiting to spring his rotten trap. And she could easily win just one, had already won enough for two of the others. But the Sandshrew had said she surrendered everything unless they all were free. It was the most admirable thing, he thought, the greatest thing he had ever heard.

He moved beside her and said, "[Could she really take us all?]"

"[That's a strange team if she did,]" she said. "[She probably only wants a few. But you know he won't allow it.]"

She had reached the eighth round without an error, every round the same from here, each enough for half a Dratini or more but almost impossible, and now she took longer, looked over many times. There was a documentary on one of the schools in Kanto where talented young humans trained. A boy calculated two absurdly long numbers quicker than the computer. The things a human could do, that even an Alakazam had to work at! Her eyes moved just the same way. So she was that too, perhaps; humans were so wonderfully gifted; how could they possibly reprove? For they thought it fine in her case. She must be delighted, they said, such a girl arrived; would certainly pick her, if she won; was not a trainer worth the time if she did not. And they all now wanted to remind her of their time and conversation, all suddenly pressing near her, what good friends they were, as if she could somehow persuade the girl to take another. None of them knew how it felt to want a thing! They didn't care for her at all, only wanted to get advantage. They wouldn't feel a thing if she lifted them, held them against her neck; wouldn't react at all if she only pecked his nose, only put a hand—oh! the table flashed. The others went silent. The girl had struck a Voltorb.

But did the man cheat her? He didn't catch it; with all their chatter no one saw clearly what happened. But the odd thing was she did not react at all, only looked at the board, held her Flaaffy on her lap.

Mr. Game crossed his legs and seemed to put on a show of magnanimity—he must have done it—savoured it, the rot, but he wasn't calm as usual, wanted her gone, far more than he expected already. He said, "Well, now, that's unfortunate. Back to level four, and another error and that's it, didn't we say? But why don't I make you a new offer? You can finish now, and I'll let you cash in what you have so far—plus fifty percent! That's nearly four thousand, enough for one of every Pokémon here! That's your whole team filled, isn't it?"

He looked to the cages, glanced at her. She was twice the regular cost, of course, still in his hands; but the girl would have enough for any other Dratini: she might leave with him at once! (Of course it wouldn't happen.) So the others thought, each of them twitching, and she felt it, looked to him: that was how far they really counted friendship.

But the girl only looked at the table; and, leaning down to her Flaaffy's ear and whispering something, kissing her on the head—the perfect trainer!—she put the electric Pokémon on the floor, touched the table, and said, "I'll continue."

Mr. Game raised his hand, settled back again. The man would let it go a few more rounds to avoid suspicion, he knew, then send her away with nothing. It would be the last they ever saw her; the rotten man would spend her fee on a hat from Kalos, wear it once and hang it where he had to look every day and remember. She had to know it was rigged! must have worked it out, seeing every option, that his trigger to force the orb was suspicious. There was still a chance; and now she was even more concentrated, leaning over the game grid, a few hairs wrapped around her finger as her Flaaffy rummaged about at the base of the table. One of the living bronze statues of Goldenrod—that was how she looked, he thought, only her skin was less shiny. She rested her hand; she wouldn't act, he thought, until she calculated every probability.

Conversation petered out; everyone knew, he felt, to speak would only jinx it. She had to know how much they wanted it; had to care strongly for Pokémon, oh, more than humans to put herself at, what, how many yen's disadvantage? Only a ridiculous amount would have made the man laugh. The Quilava observed them, seemed intent to be seen near. What sort of trainer was she? She had two Pokémon out of their balls. Usually even the warmest trainers had only one, a sort of representative—why not all? he said. It was certainly fonder than keeping one on one's belt. It always seemed odd, seeing champions on the screen, saying the important thing was the bond between trainer and Pokémon, and there they were on a belt—some bond! Perhaps she gave them many liberties, he thought. Perhaps she spoiled them. Either would do. She was back again at the eighth round.

She said, "[Why doesn't she have more Pokémon?]"

It was fair to ask; most trainers her age had a clutch already evolved. Perhaps—and they would not want to hear this—perhaps she did not really care about battling? Some humans only loved Pokémon, loved to have them near. She would be happy just to sit with a Dratini on her lap; laugh if he touched his nose to her chin; stroke him if he curled around her and, if he slept, only keep still so as not to disturb him. Was she the sort who cared as much for a weak Pokémon as a strong? The Quilava looked hard at them: she knew the girl had come to fill out the team, he thought, and she would have less time for herself—that or she split her time in any case. She'd mind him, then, give him time, even if he was timid; and then waking beside her, tucked beneath her arm, in such a warmth what other want was there remaining?

But what was he thinking? he thought. There wasn't the slightest chance of it; he set himself up for certain torture. So she meant to free them all; it didn't mean she chose him. More likely she passed right over, missed him in the corner even. Mr. Game would shut the cages and sell him on the corner for fifty yen, buy a cup of tea, all that bother done. And all this ignored that she couldn't win, because the man was a rotten cheat; he wouldn't be alone in any case. But when she left some invisible thread, he imagined, would pull apart his skin: there, all the black rot slopped out. It was all over soon in any case.

"[What round is it?]" he said. The third of the eighth, she said.

Impossible choices she made, found the best squares in what seemed a wash of equal risks and losses, not a number under two. Of course there was risk in it—no one could continue forever, took a chance with every game—or perhaps there was a secret method they never spotted, some algorithm in the table only a genius could see? Perhaps she'd know, when Mr. Game cheated, that it was impossible; proved it at once. The round finished. The man had to be worried; kept turning his foot; gave some casual remark: Oh, what luck! The next round, he thought, and Mr. Game would end it. There she was into it now, clearing a zero line at once. It was something about the right timing, that he always looked carefully so he could get away with probability, his shield from all accusations. He shifted his leg: that was the control, some hidden trigger no one would spot under the fabric. Just a press, and the next she touched would be a Voltorb as he liked. What a giant rot he was! They ought to cry out when he tried it and startle him! She was just a few squares away from the next level, just a few left to win them all, and … almost impossible to spot, even looking for it, there it was. Mr. Game brushed his knee against the other, and smiled as she pressed the table.

The square turned over a three.

They must have broken something, crushing him against the glass; he didn't feel it. The Quilava looked at them. Mr. Game brushed his forehead. It was meant to be a certain thing, never failed all the time he used it, but there it was: the orb was lacking. The round ended.

Mr. Game said, "Ah—very good! Would you, ah, like some tea?"

"Please," she said; didn't look up. "Actually would you mind bringing the pot? Dyna likes hers over-steeped." The Flaaffy looked up from below the table. And in any other case, he thought, the man would begin asserting himself, say it was his shop and his tea; but he only stared and went away, back to the little kitchen. Somehow she got the better of him, and did she know? She didn't look up, but she had to feel it, from their excitement, how they knew it was really possible!

But now he felt worse rather than better: now the thing really felt unbearable. For perhaps he was wrong all the time: the sickness he felt was not for humans in general, but her specifically—the others caught up only as approximations of this girl. What kind of fate produced that? he thought, to be built by nature destitute without a one, without any guarantee he would find her, before whose meeting he had only the idea of some great and necessary figure. This girl abolished every one of them—this girl, who just by coming through a door lost his mind. And he would be dead, of course; couldn't live without her, now; ruined entirely, for want of a human who would never feel the same, as no one could. Yet it was worth it, he felt—melodramatic they called him, yes, but wasn't it worth it after all, living in whatever cave alone and then locked up for a year, and now even a future life without her, slipping away as it must, but at least to have seen her, and to know?

She pressed a square and turned a number; and with each, as the options constrained, she chose more quickly; and then the round was over. One of the others said it was only two or three left to finish. Mr. Game returned with the tea. He seemed a little more collected, put the pot beside her, and perhaps— But even Mr. Game was not evil enough to try it, to drug her or some abominable thing just to save his prizes. There were two cups; she gave one to her Quilava, kept the other for her Flaaffy, none for her, didn't even think of herself over her Pokémon. She was perfect, he wanted to say, turning to the others (didn't they see?), and when she's won us—She pulled her pink tail behind her, seemed to turn away.

Mr. Game watched the girl and sipped his tea. This was the point, he thought, as in a few instances before, a phone conversation, a Pokémon delivery gone sour, that he regained his wits and mustered up a righteous indignation. Extraordinary—that was it, his first go. Soon he would accuse her of cheating directly, the wretched man; he tapped his leg again as she pressed but still it came up a number. In the adjacent cage, one of the Sandshrew curled into a ball and quivered. The round ended. The Dratini farthest from him, the rash one, said it was a wrap, and the others shushed him; but the numbers were so high, he saw, so close that this could only be the last one.

He was going to be sick, he thought: she pressed five at once, one of the lines a zero, a lucky spread. Now Mr. Game began again. "This is quite fascinating!" he said. "It's a record, surely. I've never seen a run so long. I didn't think it was possible, such luck."

And the girl—she ought not to speak, only let him distract her!—she tapped the rubber frame and said, "It's not really luck. It's— My tutor used to play with me. He taught me the formula."

Mr. Game looked at her. "A Flip tutor?" he said.

"A maths tutor," she said. "An Alakazam."

And how else would she demonstrate herself? he thought—as if he could be further affected! Suppose she lifted each of them out; suppose he plunged his nose into her hair, let the warmth overwhelm him and faint entirely, and she didn't let him go in case he was seriously ill? He needs us, she'd say, patting the Quilava.

"[Are you all right?]" she said.

After a long pause the girl pressed a square, and no burst; another, and he couldn't look—only heard Mr. Game twist in his seat, no flash or burst, surely just one or two more from the end. He would faint; he would be pressed back, stuffed in his little compartment to be missed, wake up in Mr. Game's hands as he tried to pawn him off to some small child as a doll or such, the very last in stock.

And the girl paused; leant back and called her Flaaffy, Dyna, the name was, helped her back up on the seat—poured the tea. Mr. Game took a cloth from his pocket and pretended to wipe his nose. And as she tousled her Flaaffy's wool, and her Quilava, still looking back at them, suddenly the girl reached forward. Mr. Game coughed and mashed his leg—and with a flash, the next square came up a Voltorb.

"Oh!" he said. "Oh, that's a grave shame, isn't it? Oh, you were so nearly there! But you know how it goes, games and chances—"

But she said, "We won."

That was, he thought, possibly the only thing preventing a faint—that in a second the evil man, looking at her, might actually turn violent, and all depended on uniting as a force to somehow break the glass and save her. He was going to burst into accusations; already he was turning red, starting to straighten up; and then the girl pointed at the table.

"That orb is impossible," she said. "This line was all ones and this is three-three, so it can only be a two and three orbs remaining. This line, with the three, is six-one so it can only be ones and an orb left. I pressed the corner, here, and it shows an orb—but that leaves a one on the three-three line. But with three squares left and three orbs, the line can only come to two-three. So it's impossible. Either the marker or the square has to be wrong. In either case it's a forfeit because it's table error, and by Flip rules I win what I've collected, which is just enough for every Pokémon."

So she knew, he thought; saw it looked suspicious earlier and formed a plan, tricked him into using it on a square that exposed him, if the table really proved it (he did not exactly follow). But how did she block it?

Mr. Game said, "Young girl, my board is in perfect working order—and, if you mean to imply something, you had better be clear. You'll find it's also in the Flip standard that unjustly accusing a licenced proprietor of misconduct is cause for forfeiture—by the player."

The girl looked uncertain, he thought. Of course she was young for a human, possibly still in the Dratini stage—no doubt he would collapse under that look! But she touched her Flaaffy's wool and said, "Also, while Dyna was under your table, she was putting out a static. I know Flip circuits are insulated, but if there's something extra inside that makes it faulty … It only failed after she stopped. So I think that shows the table isn't working properly. The Gaming Control Board will want to look at it, to check what's causing the error."

So she not only knew but guessed the mechanism, some hidden device in the table—and was correct. Mr. Game turned purple. "Are you confessing, little girl," he said, "to tampering with my Flip table, in my establishment?"

"No," she said, "Static can't affect the table. But it might affect something that's tampering with the table. We just can't know without looking inside, and, you know, that means waiting for mechanics from the Board to arrive. But we can do that if you want—they have an office in Goldenrod, don't they? Do you want to call them?"

The man said nothing. But that was worse, he felt, unbearable!

"I don't mind waiting," she said—still trying to make it easy for him, as if she didn't crack his scheme! "If you'd rather not we can just take it all in good faith and agree since, I mean, you can just see the table's wrong. But if you want to follow the Board's guidelines I don't mind waiting to give a statement."

Perhaps that was what the man needed, the idea that they were all witnesses, that the Abra, all psychic, who knew for months he was a cheat, only waited for a chance to spill their secrets on the record and destroy him, for Mr. Game turned; said something indistinct; looked away. And as if some barrier dropped, she smiled and stood.

At once everyone pressed against the glass and he lost his spot. There was no space for friendship now, no thought to how badly he wanted it: all smitten by her, the idea of her, this perfect trainer, though half never even wanted one. She came from nowhere and, in an hour, released them by a feat of mind and strategy an Alakazam would approve, ruined the man as he deserved, and now they all adored her. But none of them really meant it; none of them felt it anything like him.

"I can't take everyone," she said. They ought to give it up! "I can take a few, but more than that and I couldn't give you the attention you deserve. But you'll find a good human at the nursery. They'll give you all a good life."

A good life, he thought—that which the others, natural as they were, had a chance to get elsewhere. Now the girl stood just outside the glass: she had brown eyes. Of course the pink one was first—they wouldn't even fight it—but she had a warm heart, and humans thought Dratini were adorable: mightn't she want more than one? But everyone knew it wasn't possible, if a trainer wanted success, to have two of the same in her team, and by battling standards there was no chance for him at all as—how stupid he was!—he never exercised himself, never really tried to change his nature but let the smallest fears affect him, let himself curl up behind the rest when it ought to matter more than anything she saw him. She opened the glass lid. But to fight for second choice, or third, to tear them back as in the wilds … Her hand was inside the enclosure, actually within his power to touch, to press his nose into her palm and trill, make it clear how much he wanted it! But he was paralysed. She was already lifting her out.

"The trouble with shiny Pokémon," she said, "is people treat them differently when what they need is to be treated just the same—that's what I'll do."

"[Sorry, boys,]" she said, looking back down at them. "[It's been fun. Best of luck.]"

Like that a year's companionship all spent, he thought; like that, she had the trainer she always wanted. She would become a champion and grow extremely happy, they said. And she looked toward him, seemed to want to say—But the girl closed the lid. The great arm withdrew and tightly held another. She walked away toward the other cages; she did not even notice him, thought nothing at all.

Now she went to the Abra and said something, the others still pressed against the glass. Didn't they know it was all over? One of the Abra looked up at her and she opened the lid, and the psychic teleported out, right onto the sofa, gave her both Pokémon a start and the Flaaffy fell off the seat. He could have escaped any time! could have fled and yet it had to be now, taking up her spaces. Perhaps that was the idea, to keep him away, prevent him causing harm, for it was possible they knew all about his sickness, being psychic. But that was absorbed; he was only a rot in a cage; she went to the Abra because she was wise, and knew how powerful they became, a wonderfully clever Alakazam as she knew all about. And her new pink Dratini, for she was hers, now, looked back again—a great Dragonite, she would become. Whereas he would have made a trembling, feeble thing, no use to her at all, only good for letting parcels slip into the sea.

"I don't know if I can take any more," she said.

For Pokémon should have a dedicated human, she said; better to get a young trainer and be their first, or a family, which was just what the nurseries did best, and she would see they all went that same afternoon, that Mr. Game did as he said, and not to worry, and they would all be very happy, and he could not look any more: he withdrew to the back of the cage. He mustn't look, he thought: if there was any chance to prove he could go without, he wouldn't look again; and there, he saw, she was speaking to her Quilava, something about just as much training, and the fire Pokémon looked sourly at the Dratini on her arm.

He looked away. It was all over. He may as well lie down in his compartment and not come out for the nursery people, be forgotten by the rest and, months later, be found as they dismantled the cages, a pile of shed skin and bones.

But wasn't it better, he thought, curling up, if she left? For beyond all doubt he knew he was beyond fixing: this sickness would never leave him, this feeling for humans that in any other Pokémon would be a breeder's flush. Mr. Game looked every morning for an egg but she didn't like them that way; only spent time with him because he didn't bother her. Now she wouldn't think again about him, had her human: the perfect trainer. Any life with such a girl would have been unbearable, always seeing and wanting to be close—so she would let him. She would kiss him on the head, as she did all Pokémon, on the nose, and hold him close. Eventually he would slip: he would let show a warmth reserved for like kinds; and being wise to Pokémon, she would understand precisely his feeling and, finding herself at risk, fling him away. And if she didn't see, if he smothered it, it would only be worse: at the mercy perhaps of a dragon many times her size with unquenchable feeling, possibly in evolution having lost all ability to control it if it only increased all things in proportion, so that he became a beast entirely; seized her; carried her away like some legendary bird to a far-off roost where she could not abandon him. No. Anything could have happened if she took him. His reserves were all spent; he felt only exhausted, now, as if his energies were ready to fade, as if he might sleep through a flute or revival herb, and wasn't that a relief? It would be an end to the sickness, always bound to happen in the end and now, all beyond his control and capacity to escape, it mercifully fell and shattered on top of him. It was for the best she went, he thought, and left him. Did she go already? He did not hear the bell.

But—for it was so still, and everyone, he felt, everyone was watching—as if he were in danger a long time and only just felt it, he turned and—oh! there she was! There she stood at the glass, looking right at him.

She said, "Please don't be sad."

She had seen him; actually noticed and stopped to think, returned to check. And she in her arms looked up at her, for it had to be her, looking back, that made the girl think of it, that he was torn she was leaving, his Dratini friend, and she looked very sorry, and she returned, and she thought of him.

And with her free hand she touched the lid and said:

"Do you want to come with us?"

And at that he did not recall moving; at that he was right against the glass before her, all the others knocked aside, as looking up at her he said the only thing he could communicate:

"Dra—!"

If she looked away for an instant, if he blinked, he felt, he would lose her, cut the connection, see her stepping out the door. But she did not look away: she undid the latch without looking, only smiling to reassure him. And then the lid went up, and her hand—

"It's all right," she said. "Shh."

And she needn't hold him: her waist, her shoulder he could not let go. Was it possible he was weightless, he thought, hovering as a Dragonair did, all full of air or fire? For some warmth he never felt before suffused him, something spreading through his middle where her hand touched, through his entire head in her hair, all sensation gone but a berry scent, the slightest bit of damp—whatever it was he could not move, could scarcely feel the wrap now. For the sickness had won: his reason remained in the cage, melted away: all boiled off in a rush of warmth. For now he was her Pokémon, and so she was his human.

She said something to the others, a reaffirmation that they either got a nursery or, if they preferred, returned to the wilds: her voice vibrated through him. She must have thought him such a weak little thing; pitied him; determined he would be lost without his friend, and that as he needed someone to protect him, she would be the one. That was the reason for it: collapsed, she thought, for loss of a pink Dratini. Was it wrong of him to take advantage, then, to go, when if she could see the truth she would throw him right back, lock the lid and call a Jenny? She lifted up his middle again and he coiled tighter, smothered a reflexive tremor into her neck. But that would all sort itself out, he felt; no, none of it mattered now. Why ever worry? And through her hair he felt her other Dratini move across her other shoulder, and looking he saw her nose a few inches from his. Oh! he thought—but now they were together as well. He reached and touched her nose with his; for was there anything better, now, he would say, than this—both finding their perfect trainer and still having each other as friends? She laid her head on the shoulder, looked at him through the strands.

But now the rotten Mr. Game was collecting himself, starting to argue the point, and he wrapped tighter. He was under no compulsion, the man said, not to give Pokémon as prizes: it was perfectly legal, his whole income (a rotten lie), his livelihood. Suppose the man grew violent? Suppose the man grabbed him, pulled him off her like a strip of cloth, all the others kicked away, thrown back in the cage until a Jenny arrived and took him away as evidence? Wouldn't she run? Could the others prevent him? But she only listened—no legal power, he said, no written contract—until finally she said:

"My family said if I ever had a dispute I should call our family's counsel—Stone and Barrow. They're good at this sort of thing. Why don't I call them? Then they can call the Board and send someone over and everything will be fixed."

He knew the name, but where he couldn't remember, some show or report—the big trial? Mr. Game at any rate was not persuaded; he was working up into a fit again; this child, he was thinking, tried to get the better of him, tried somehow to brush him off. "Us rubes in Johto, little lass," he said, "aren't much impressed by names and dangling privilege. We stand our ground and stick to justice, and don't give into threats."

Justice! he thought. The man only knew justice as his own advantage. And he would curl up at such talk; but as if Mr. Game only grew less frightening, the girl lifted his middle again. "I know … I like that about Johto," she said. (Then she wasn't from the region; he could never tell with accents.) "And you're right—I've had too much privilege, and I shouldn't really use it. But there's one case I don't mind."

"Oh?" the man said. "Do say."

"Pokémon," she said. "We'd do anything for them, if we can help."

And the man said, "And who, pray tell, is we?"

And she looked down, held his tail up again as if she were embarrassed to say, and said, "Do you know the Pondelores?"

It was like the touch of a legendary, that word: whatever the man said about names he shut up at once. And what did it mean? But he remembered now, heard it somewhere before, said many times in a short period—a show? A documentary, he thought. That was it, not two months ago, a documentary on an old human family called Pondelore; a long history in Kalos, part of the medieval aristocracy; founded what would become the first Pokémon Centres, worked out a deal with the government at the time that still persisted, gave them constant wealth to that day, bothered many people; lived in an estate valleys wide in Hoenn that bred Pokémon, specialised in shinies; and a history in battling too, gym leaders, even champions behind them, a whole school of training that became a word: pondelorian. And a daughter, they had—not her, this wonderful girl, but older, a trainer as well—one they said may be the next champion.

Then she was what humans called famous; or at any rate she was the daughter of a famous and powerful family. But did the others understand? he thought. For that made the whole thing incredible: this was a girl who could have nearly anything she wanted, could buy the whole Corner if she liked, who in terms of Pokémon might want for any in the world and, like that, they were bred just for her—that power she had! And not an hour ago she entered the Corner and, by pure effort and quality, won their freedom, demanded nothing in return but rather giving of herself, offering without knowing any of them to be their dedicated human for all life, even though they were wilders, even though they were weaker than anyone they might have bred. Could there be a more remarkable creature? he thought; could his nature have fixed on any better? Privilege did not engender such a view she showed for Pokémon, but the opposite: from a life of power and wealth derived through Pokémon, she turned away, said she would only use it for their good. And she had to know, looking over her shoulder, what a girl they found! She had to know everything was different.

"Let me just call Steven Stone," the girl said, reaching past him to her bag. "It's obviously bothering you and I don't want you to think I'm acting outside law or justice."

"No, no, please," he said. And he called her a little lass! "Of course, I didn't mean to suggest, Miss … Manda?"

And she knelt down to her Quilava, who looked quite ready to leave. "Runa," she said. "Her sister."

Runa, he thought: Roo-na. A red moon, he imagined, a total lunar eclipse (so said a documentary): the convergence of heavenly bodies. Which was not to say he was heavenly, but such was the image: this girl, Runa Pondelore, occluding every part of him but the warmth itself. The rest would get a nursery that very day, she said, and find their good trainers or families, and she would call the Stone and the Barrow to check they arrived happily.

And that was it: she went to the door, and the man only stood, folded his arms and looked past her at the store window, the picture of a pink Dratini on the glass. The Abra teleported after; the Quilava glowered up at them; the Flaaffy picked at her wool and waddled. And then they were out into the air of Goldenrod City, all tall and broad and white, what they never saw from inside; and across the road a horn chirruped, some long car waiting for her, and she said it was just to move everyone, that they walked the routes, only arrived in Goldenrod yesterday and would be off again in a week, by which time they would be already a perfect family, and they would see the Pokémon Centre and be very healthy, and the markets to get anything they may want, and now they could decide, she said, looking and crossing the street toward the car as the window rolled down and a driver wearing glasses looked and smiled, what they wanted to do. For they had to have dreams; and she, she said, was to help achieve them.

But what did he ever want apart from this? He pressed his nose into her hair.