Chapter 48: Samuel VS Alejandro
The battle arena smelled like ozone and old blood.
Samuel stood at the edge of the chalk circle, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged Doduo. The rooftop courtyard overlooked Aethelburg's eastern canal, and the evening light painted everything in shades of rust and honey. A crowd had gathered—maybe thirty people, maybe more—drawn by the promise of violence and the rumor of a League qualifier desperate for wins.
Alejandro stood across from him, all tan skin and sharp angles, his open shirt catching the breeze like a flag of surrender he had no intention of raising. His smile was a knife wrapped in silk.
"Three on three," Alejandro said, his voice smooth as honey poured over broken glass. "Standard League rules. No items. No switching out unless a Pokémon faints."
"Fine by me."
"You understand what's at stake, yes? For you, I mean." Alejandro's green eyes glittered. "One more loss and you're done. Finished. All those months of training, wasted."
Samuel didn't flinch. "I know the math."
"Good. I'd hate for you to be surprised when I destroy you."
The crowd murmured. Someone laughed—a sharp, ugly sound.
Axel stepped between them, his Rotom flickering at his shoulder. The older man's expression was unreadable, but Samuel caught something in his eyes—concern, maybe. Or warning.
"This is an official League challenge," Axel announced, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "Three Pokémon each. The battle ends when all Pokémon on one side are unable to continue. Trainers, ready your first Pokémon."
Samuel's hand moved to his belt.
He'd spent the morning training. Doduo had worked on its coordination, the two heads finally finding a rhythm that didn't involve snapping at each other. Aipom had practiced its aerial maneuvers, using its tail to swing from imaginary branches. Hippopotas had focused on endurance, burying itself in sand and staying there for hours.
They weren't ready.
But they were as ready as they'd ever be.
"Let's go, Doduo."
The twin-headed bird materialized in a flash of light. Its two heads swiveled independently, scanning the arena, assessing the threat. The left head—the more aggressive one—let out a sharp cry. The right head—the cautious one—remained silent.
Alejandro's smile widened.
"Haunter," he said. "Come out and play."
The ghost type emerged from nothing.
One moment the space before Alejandro was empty. The next, it was filled with shadow and malice—a floating mass of purple gas, two disembodied hands, and a grin that promised nothing but suffering.
The crowd drew back.
Doduo's left head screeched. Its right head whimpered.
"Begin," Axel said.
---
Haunter moved first.
It didn't walk or run. It simply drifted, its body phasing through the air like smoke through a keyhole. Its hands twitched at its sides, fingers curling and uncurling with anticipation.
"Lick," Alejandro commanded.
The ghost type's tongue—impossibly long, impossibly wet—lashed out. It caught Doduo across the chest, and the bird screamed. Both heads screamed. The paralysis hit instantly, locking Doduo's legs in place.
"Shit," Samuel hissed. "Doduo, Quick Attack—break free!"
Doduo tried. Its legs twitched, its body strained, but the paralysis held firm. The bird stumbled forward half a step and collapsed.
Haunter laughed. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard, like someone dragging a fork across the inside of Samuel's skull.
"Again," Alejandro said.
The tongue lashed out a second time.
Doduo took the hit and crumpled. Its left head went silent. Its right head let out a weak, gurgling cry.
"Return," Samuel said, his voice tight. He held up the pokéball, and Doduo dissolved into red light.
One down.
The crowd murmured. Someone near the back shouted something Samuel couldn't hear. He didn't care.
"Aipom," he said. "You're up."
The purple monkey materialized with a flip, landing on its tail-hand and bouncing back to its feet. Its eyes were bright, curious, fearless.
"Aipom," Samuel said quietly. "That thing is faster than you. Stronger than you. It doesn't fight fair."
Aipom chattered.
"So don't fight fair either. Use the environment. Keep moving. Don't let it touch you."
Aipom nodded.
"Begin," Axel said again.
This time, Aipom moved first.
It launched itself sideways, using its tail to grab a flagpole at the arena's edge and swing around it like a gymnast. Haunter's Lick missed by inches, the tongue snapping through empty air.
"Shadow Punch," Alejandro said.
Haunter's fist glowed with dark energy. It shot forward like a bullet, and Aipom barely dodged—the punch clipped its shoulder, sending it spinning through the air.
But Aipom was grinning.
It caught itself on another flagpole, then another, moving in a dizzying pattern that Haunter couldn't track. Left, right, up, down—the monkey was everywhere at once.
"Swift!" Samuel shouted.
Aipom's tail-hand glowed, and a volley of stars erupted from its body. They homed in on Haunter like missiles, striking the ghost type from every angle.
Haunter shrieked.
"Enough games," Alejandro said, his smile finally fading. "Haunter—Night Shade."
The ghost type's eyes blazed. Darkness poured from its body like ink from a broken pen, flooding the arena in shadow. Aipom couldn't see. Couldn't dodge.
The attack hit dead center.
Aipom flew backward, slammed into the arena wall, and slid to the ground. It didn't get up.
"Return," Samuel whispered.
Two down.
---
The crowd was silent now.
Samuel's hands were shaking. He could feel the pokéballs on his belt—Doduo, Aipom, Hippopotas, Bonsly, Carnivine, Nosepass—and he knew which one he had to choose.
Hippopotas. His starter. His partner. The one who'd been with him since the beginning.
He released the ground type onto the battlefield, and Hippopotas landed with a heavy thud. Its eyes found Haunter immediately, and something hardened in its expression. It had watched Doduo fall. Watched Aipom get blasted into the wall.
It wasn't going to let that happen again.
"Haunter," Alejandro said. "Finish this."
The ghost type lunged—Lick, Shadow Punch, Night Shade, all in rapid succession. Hippopotas took the hits, its heavy body absorbing the damage. It stumbled. It bled. But it didn't fall.
"Sand Attack," Samuel said.
Hippopotas whipped its snout, spraying a cloud of grit at Haunter. The ghost type recoiled, its eyes temporarily blinded.
"Now—Bite!"
Hippopotas charged, its jaws closing around one of Haunter's floating hands. The ghost type shrieked—not the laugh from before, but something more primal. The hand dissolved, reforming a few feet away, but Haunter was rattled now. Its attacks were wilder. Less precise.
"Yawn," Samuel said.
Hippopotas opened its mouth wide. A pink cloud drifted toward Haunter, wrapping around the ghost type like a blanket. Haunter's movements slowed. Its eyes drooped.
"No," Alejandro said. "Haunter—snap out of it!"
But it was too late. The drowsiness took hold, and Haunter's form flickered, faded, and finally collapsed into a deep, impenetrable sleep.
Samuel didn't celebrate. He knew what came next.
"Return," Alejandro said, his voice colder now. "Arbok."
The snake materialized in a coil of purple scales and venom. It was enormous—easily twelve feet from head to tail—and its hood flared as it rose, revealing the terrifying pattern of eyes on its back.
"Begin," Axel said.
Arbok struck first.
It didn't lunge or leap. It simply extended, its neck telescoping forward with impossible speed. Hippopotas tried to dodge, but the snake's fangs found its shoulder, sinking deep.
Poison.
Hippopotas roared—not in pain, but in fury. It clamped its jaws around Arbok's neck, biting down with all its strength. The snake thrashed, trying to dislodge the ground type, but Hippopotas held on.
"Crunch," Samuel said.
Hippopotas bit harder.
Arbok's tail whipped around, striking Hippopotas across the back. Once. Twice. Three times. The ground type's grip loosened, and Arbok tore itself free, hissing with rage.
Blood dripped from the snake's neck. Purple venom dripped from Hippopotas's shoulder.
"Glare," Alejandro said.
Arbok's eyes flashed. Hippopotas froze, fear overriding its body. Every muscle locked. Every instinct screamed to run.
"Now—Poison Tail!"
Arbok's tail glowed with toxic energy. It slammed into Hippopotas, sending the ground type skidding across the arena floor. Hippopotas tried to rise, but the poison was working through its system now, weakening its legs, clouding its vision.
It fell.
"Get up," Samuel said. "Hippopotas—get up!"
The ground type stirred. Its eyes found Samuel's—and for a moment, something passed between them. Not words. Something older. Something deeper.
Hippopotas rose.
"Impossible," Alejandro muttered.
But Samuel saw it—the way Hippopotas's body was shaking, the way its breath came in ragged gasps. It was running on fumes. One more hit would finish it.
"Earthquake," Samuel said.
The attack wouldn't be strong—not in this state—but it would buy time. Hippopotas slammed its feet into the ground, and the arena trembled. Cracks spiderwebbed across the stone. The crowd shouted in alarm.
Arbok stumbled, momentarily off balance.
"Doduo," Samuel whispered, even though the bird was already unconscious. "Aipom. Keep them safe."
Hippopotas's eyes met Samuel's one last time. Then it charged.
"Arbok—Poison Jab!" Alejandro shouted.
The snake's tail glowed. It shot forward like a spear.
Hippopotas didn't dodge.
It took the hit—drove straight through it—and clamped its jaws around Arbok's throat. The snake thrashed, its own venom coursing through its veins now, weakening it, slowing it.
Both Pokémon fell together.
The crowd erupted.
Samuel stared at the two fallen forms—his Hippopotas, breathing shallow, struggling to rise; Alejandro's Arbok, unconscious, defeated. The snake had been stronger. Faster. But Hippopotas had refused to give up.
"Hippopotas is unable to continue," Axel said. "Arbok is unable to continue. Both trainers must send out their final Pokémon."
Samuel's hand trembled as he returned Hippopotas to its ball.
Three down.
He had one Pokémon left.
Alejandro smiled again—that knife-in-silk smile—and held up his final pokéball.
"Grimer," he said. "Show them what filth really means."
---
The slime Pokémon materialized in a puddle of purple sludge.
It was grotesque—a living mass of toxic waste, its body dripping and shifting, its eyes wide and vacant, its mouth just a hole in the ooze. The stench hit Samuel immediately, burning his nostrils, making his eyes water.
Samuel sent out his last hope.
Bonsly-Bonsly was tiny—less than two feet tall—and its eyes were already welling with tears. But there was no fear in its stance. No trembling in its legs.
"Bonsly," Samuel said, "I need you to trust me."
Bonsly looked at him.
"I know you're scared. I know this thing is disgusting and dangerous and everything in your body is telling you to run." He paused. "But you're not just any Bonsly. You're a Bonsly who survived being abandoned. Who learned to fight when everything was against you. Who chose to come with me when you could have stayed hidden forever."
Bonsly's tears dried.
"Let's show them what you're made of."
"Begin," Axel said.
Grimer attacked first.
It lunged—not with teeth or claws, but with its entire body, sloshing forward like a wave of poison. Bonsly dodged, rolling to the side with surprising agility. The sludge just reformed itself and came again.
"Sludge Bomb," Alejandro said.
Grimer's body convulsed. A glob of purple filth shot from its mouth, arcing toward Bonsly like a cannonball. Bonsly tried to dodge, but the bomb splattered on the ground beside it, and the splash caught its leg.
Bonsly screamed.
The poison worked fast—Bonsly's leg swelled, turned purple, began to shrivel. The pain was immense.
"Bonsly—Rock Throw!" Samuel shouted.
The rock type fought through the pain, summoning a volley of stones from nowhere. They struck Grimer head-on, but the slime Pokémon didn't even flinch. It ate the rocks like they were candy.
"Acid Armor," Alejandro said.
Grimer's body gleamed. Its defense doubled.
"This is over," Alejandro said. "Grimer—Sludge Bomb, full power."
The attack was enormous—a ball of poison the size of a beach ball. It flew toward Bonsly, and Samuel knew, with total certainty, that it would be fatal.
"Faint Attack!" he shouted.
Bonsly vanished.
The Sludge Bomb passed through empty air and splattered against the arena wall. The crowd gasped.
Bonsly reappeared directly behind Grimer.
"Rock Tomb!" Samuel shouted.
Bonsly slammed its body into the ground, and enormous boulders erupted from the earth, encasing Grimer in a prison of stone. The slime Pokémon shrieked, trapped, unable to move.
"Flail," Samuel said.
Bonsly launched itself at the rocks, striking them with every ounce of strength it had left. The boulders crumbled on top of Grimer, crushing it, burying it.
When the dust cleared, Grimer was unconscious.
And Bonsly was standing.
Barely. Its poisoned leg shook. Its tiny body heaved with exhaustion. But it was standing.
The crowd went silent.
Then—slowly, tentatively—someone started to clap. Another joined in. Another. Until the rooftop courtyard echoed with applause.
Alejandro stared at his defeated Grimer, his smile gone, his eyes cold. He returned his Pokémon without a word.
Samuel walked to Bonsly and knelt beside it.
"Hey," he whispered. "You did it."
Bonsly looked up at him with those big, tearful eyes.
"I'm proud of you. So proud."
Bonsly leaned into his hand, and Samuel felt the warmth of its small body against his palm.
"You won," he said.
---
Axel approached, his Rotom flickering with what might have been approval.
"Samuel Moodsway is the winner," he announced. "The victory has been recorded. You now have two wins and one loss."
Samuel nodded. Two wins. Eight more to go.
The odds were still impossible.
But he'd taken the first step.
Alejandro was gone—vanished into the crowd without a word, his defeat swallowed by the growing darkness. Samuel didn't care. He'd won.
"You're bleeding," Axel said.
Samuel looked down. His hands were scraped and bloody from training earlier. He hadn't noticed.
"I'll live."
"Foolish," Axel said. "But impressive."
He turned and walked away, his Rotom following close behind.
Samuel returned Bonsly to its ball and stood alone in the center of the arena, the applause fading, the night settling in.
Two wins.
Eight to go.
---
He found the others at the inn an hour later.
They were gathered in the common room, a half-eaten meal spread across the table, their expressions shifting from worry to relief to joy when he walked through the door.
"You won," Patricia said. "We heard—someone came by and told us."
"I won."
Briv stood up and pulled him into a rough embrace. "Two wins, man. Two wins."
"Still eight to go."
"Then we'll get you eight more."
Samuel sat down, and someone pushed a plate toward him. He ate mechanically, not tasting the food, his mind still in the arena.
Bonsly's final stand. Hippopotas's refusal to give up. Aipom's fearless flight. Doduo's sacrifice.
He'd earned this win. Every inch of it.
But somewhere in the shadows of his mind, that shape from the marsh still lurked—waiting, watching, patient.
Nosepass had sensed it.
And Nosepass had nodded.
Something was coming. Something worse than Alejandro, worse than the Eclipse Squad, worse than anything he'd faced before.
But that was a problem for another day.
Tonight, he'd won.
Tonight, that was enough.
=====
The night air clung to Nicola's skin like a second layer of sweat.
She stood on the rooftop of The Sleeping Snorlax, staring at the canal below. The water reflected the city's lights in fractured ribbons of blue and gold. Somewhere in the distance, a street performer played a violin badly, and the sound grated against her nerves like sandpaper.
Samuel's victory had been impressive. She'd admit that much. The way his Bonsly had refused to fall—that was the kind of grit that separated real trainers from pretenders. But it also meant the pressure was on. Everyone was advancing. Everyone was clawing their way toward qualification.
Everyone except her.
Four wins. She needed ten. And the clock was bleeding days she couldn't afford to lose.
"You're brooding."
She didn't turn around. She knew that voice—smooth as aged whiskey, sharp as a blade hidden in a boot.
"Go away, Briv."
He didn't go away. He never did.
Instead, he appeared beside her, his shoulder brushing hers, his warmth cutting through the night's chill. Monferno's tail cast flickering shadows across the rooftop, a dance of orange and black.
"You won today," he said. "That counts for something."
"One win. I need six more."
"Then you'll get six more."
She finally looked at him. His brown eyes held something she didn't want to name—confidence, yes, but also something softer. Something that made her chest tighten in ways she hated.
"You don't know that," she said.
"I know you."
"That's not the same thing."
"It's enough."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to push him away, to retreat into the armor she'd spent years building. But his hand found hers in the darkness, and the contact sent electricity up her spine.
"Briv," she warned.
"I know," he said. "I know."
And then he kissed her.
It was hard and hungry—no pretense, no gentleness. His mouth claimed hers like he had something to prove, and she answered in kind, her fingers twisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, tongues sliding, teeth grazing, and she felt the familiar heat pooling low in her belly.
"We shouldn't," she breathed against his lips.
"Probably not."
"Patricia—"
"Is asleep. Has been for hours."
He kissed her again, dirtier this time, his hands finding her hips and grinding her against him. She could feel him hardening through his pants, and a moan escaped her throat before she could stop it.
"Fuck," she whispered.
"That's the idea."
---
They didn't make it to a bed.
Briv pushed her against the rooftop's maintenance shed, his mouth on her neck, his hands working at the buttons of her shirt. She arched into him, gasping as his lips found her collarbone, her chest, the sensitive hollow of her throat.
"You're such an asshole," she managed.
"You love it."
She did. That was the worst part.
His fingers found her breasts, rough and impatient, tweaking her nipples until they peaked hard and aching. She bit down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. The last thing she needed was someone hearing them.
"Get your pants off," he growled.
"Bossy."
"You like it."
She shoved her pants down her thighs, and he did the same, his cock springing free—thick, flushed, already leaking. She'd seen it before, felt it before, but the sight still made her mouth water.
"Turn around," he said.
She did.
Her palms pressed flat against the shed's rough wood, and she felt him behind her, his hands gripping her hips, positioning her. The cool night air hit her exposed cunt, and she shivered.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Just fucking do it."
He did.
The first thrust stole her breath. He filled her completely, stretching her in that perfect way that made her see stars. She clenched around him, and he groaned, his fingers digging into her ass.
"Fuck, Nicola."
"Move."
He moved.
Each thrust was brutal, relentless, his hips slamming against hers with a rhythm that bordered on violent. The shed rattled with every impact, and she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.
"Harder," she gasped.
He gave her harder.
His hand reached around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight circles while he fucked her from behind. The dual stimulation was too much—too good—and she felt the orgasm building, coiling in her core like a spring about to snap.
"Don't stop," she begged. "Don't you fucking stop."
"I'm close," he grunted.
"Not yet. Not fucking yet."
She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, taking him deeper. The angle shifted, and suddenly he was hitting something that made her vision white out. She came with a choked cry, her body convulsing around him.
He followed a heartbeat later, his release hot and pulsing inside her. He collapsed against her back, both of them gasping for air, slick with sweat despite the cold.
"Fuck," she whispered.
"Yeah."
They stayed like that for a long moment, tangled and spent, the city humming below them. Then reality crept back in, and Nicola felt the familiar weight settle on her shoulders.
"I need to win tomorrow," she said.
He pulled out slowly, and she felt the loss of him like a physical ache.
"You will."
"You don't know that."
He turned her around, cupping her face in his hands. His eyes were serious now, all traces of humor gone.
"I know you, Nicola. I know what you're capable of. Tomorrow, you're going to walk into that arena and destroy whoever's standing across from you."
She wanted to believe him.
She almost did.
---
The challenge came at noon.
Nicola had spent the morning running drills with Starly, Sharphoning its reflexes, pushing it to its limits. Magnemite had practiced its electric attacks until sparks danced across its metallic body. Shieldon had done nothing but sit there, patient and immovable, its armored face gleaming in the sunlight.
She was ready.
The arena was a converted warehouse near the eastern docks, its concrete floor scarred by years of battles. A crowd had gathered—smaller than yesterday's, but no less hungry. Trainers, gamblers, League scouts—all of them watching, waiting, judging.
Axel stood at the center, his Rotom flickering beside him.
And across from Nicola, a woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a nightmare.
Shego was tall, athletic, her pale skin almost luminous in the dim light. Her jet-black hair fell past her shoulders, and her emerald eyes—those eyes—held something dangerous. Something predatory.
"Nicola Sunfall," Shego said, her voice a purr. "I've heard of you."
"Wish I could say the same."
Shego smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.
"Three on three," Axel announced. "Standard rules. Begin when ready."
---
Starly versus Baltoy.
The ground-type materialized in a spin, its clay body hovering just above the floor. It had no face—just a single red eye that swiveled and locked onto Starly with unsettling precision.
"Starly—Quick Attack!" Nicola commanded.
The bird shot forward like a bullet, faster than sight. But Baltoy was faster. It spun sideways, and Starly's beak snapped through empty air.
"Rapid Spin," Shego said.
Baltoy became a blur, its body rotating at impossible speed. It slammed into Starly, sending the bird tumbling across the concrete. Starly recovered quickly—it always did—but Nicola could see the damage. A cracked feather. A bruise forming beneath the wing.
"Wing Attack!" she shouted.
Starly dove, wings glowing. The hit connected, but Baltoy didn't flinch. It just kept spinning, kept moving, kept coming.
"Confusion," Shego said.
The psychic attack hit Starly like a wall. The bird screeched, its body twisting in midair as invisible forces wrenched it in directions it wasn't meant to go.
"Starly—fight it!"
But Starly couldn't fight it. The confusion was too strong, the pressure too intense. The bird crashed to the ground, twitching.
"Starly is unable to continue," Axel said. "Trainer, send out your next Pokémon."
Nicola's jaw tightened.
One down.
---
Magnemite versus Makuhita.
The fighting-type was massive—easily four feet tall, its round body packed with muscle, its hands wrapped in tape. It stomped forward, each step shaking the concrete floor.
"Thunder Shock," Nicola said.
Magnemite's magnets hummed, and a bolt of electricity arced across the arena. It struck Makuhita square in the chest.
The fighting-type didn't even flinch.
"Arm Thrust," Shego said.
Makuhita's fist shot out, catching Magnemite in the center of its body. The electric-type spun backward, its magnets flickering.
"Again."
Another thrust. Another hit. Magnemite was fast, but Makuhita was relentless. It kept coming, kept striking, kept closing the distance until there was nowhere left to run.
"Thunder Wave," Nicola said.
The paralysis took hold just as Makuhita raised its arm for another strike. The fighting-type froze, its muscles locked, its body trembling with the effort of movement.
"Now—Thunderbolt!"
Magnemite's power surged. The bolt was enormous, a spear of lightning that struck Makuhita dead center. The fighting-type screamed—actually screamed—and collapsed.
"Shego's Makuhita is unable to continue."
Shego didn't react. She just returned her Pokémon and reached for her next ball.
"Tyrogue," she said. "Show them what discipline means."
---
Shieldon versus Tyrogue.
The fighting-type was small—barely taller than Shieldon—but its eyes held something that made Nicola's blood run cold. Focus. Patience. The kind of stillness that preceded violence.
"Shieldon—Iron Defense," Nicola said.
Shieldon's body gleamed, its already formidable armor hardening further. It planted its feet and waited.
"Tyrogue—Fake Out," Shego said.
The fighting-type moved with blinding speed. Its palm struck Shieldon's face—not hard enough to damage, but enough to disrupt. Enough to make Shieldon flinch.
"Now—Brick Break!"
The attack was devastating. Tyrogue's fist drove into Shieldon's side, and cracks spiderwebbed across the steel-type's armor. Shieldon staggered but didn't fall.
"Counter," Nicola said.
Shieldon's body glowed, and it slammed into Tyrogue with all its weight. The fighting-type flew backward, skidding across the concrete.
"Good," Shego said. "But not good enough."
Tyrogue rose.
It moved again—faster this time, more precise. Each strike found a weakness in Shieldon's defense. Each hit widened the cracks.
"Shieldon—Metal Sound!"
The screech was deafening. Tyrogue recoiled, its ears ringing, its balance disrupted. Shieldon took advantage, driving forward with a Headbutt that sent the fighting-type sprawling.
But Tyrogue got up again.
And again.
And again.
The battle stretched on—minutes that felt like hours, each exchange more brutal than the last. Shieldon's armor was shattered now, its body battered. But it refused to fall. Refused to give up.
"Enough," Shego said. "Tyrogue—High Jump Kick."
The attack was perfect—a flying kick aimed directly at Shieldon's exposed flank. If it connected, Shieldon would be finished.
But it didn't connect.
Shieldon shifted at the last second, and Tyrogue's kick slammed into the concrete floor instead. The fighting-type screamed—a raw, animal sound—and collapsed, its leg bent at an angle that wasn't natural.
It didn't get up.
"Tyrogue is unable to continue," Axel said. "Shego's final Pokémon has fainted. Nicola Sunfall is the winner."
---
The crowd erupted.
Nicola stood frozen, her heart pounding, her hands shaking. She'd won. She'd actually won.
Shieldon limped toward her, its body broken but its eyes bright. She knelt beside it, running her hands over its cracked armor.
"You did it," she whispered. "You beautiful, stubborn bastard. You did it."
Shieldon let out a low rumble—the closest thing to a purr it could manage.
Shego approached, her expression unreadable.
"Impressive," she said. "Your defense is remarkable."
"Thanks."
"You're still going to lose in the League."
"We'll see."
Shego smiled—a real smile this time, sharp and knowing and almost respectful.
"Maybe we will."
She turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.
Nicola stayed where she was, kneeling beside her Pokémon, the applause washing over her like rain.
Four wins.
Six to go.
---
She found Briv outside the arena, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette he'd bummed off someone.
"I won," she said.
"I heard."
She punched him in the shoulder. Hard.
"Ow—what was that for?"
"For doubting me."
"I didn't doubt you."
"You thought about it."
He grinned, stubbing out the cigarette. "Maybe for a second."
She grabbed him by the collar and kissed him—hard, fast, hungry. When she pulled back, his eyes were wide.
"What was that for?" he asked.
"For believing me." She released him, stepping back. "Now come on. I need a drink."
---
They found a bar near the docks—a dive with sticky floors and cheap booze and a jukebox that only played songs about heartbreak. Nicola ordered whiskey. Briv ordered beer.
They drank in companionable silence, the weight of the day slowly easing from Nicola's shoulders.
"You know," Briv said eventually, "if we both qualify, we could end up facing each other in the finals."
"I know."
"That would be... complicated."
"It would be a battle."
"That's not what I meant."
She looked at him—really looked at him—and felt something twist in her chest.
"I know what you meant."
He reached for her hand across the table. She let him take it.
"Whatever happens," he said, "I've got your back."
"I know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
He laughed—that stupid, charming laugh that made her want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure.
"Fair enough."
They finished their drinks and walked back to the inn together, shoulders brushing, the night wrapping around them like a blanket.
Tomorrow, they'd train.
Tomorrow, they'd fight.
But tonight—just for tonight—they had this.
And for Nicola, that was enough.
---
She woke to shouting.
The inn's common room was chaos—people running, Pokémon crying out, the smell of smoke drifting through the halls. Nicola threw on her clothes and ran downstairs.
Axel was there, his Rotom sparking wildly, his face pale.
"What's happening?" she demanded.
"The eastern canal," he said. "Someone's attacking the bridge. Multiple trainers down."
"Who?"
"I don't know. But they're using shadow Pokémon." He met her eyes, and she saw something there she'd never seen before.
Fear.
"Shadow Pokémon," Nicola repeated. "That's impossible."
"I know."
Briv appeared beside her, his face grim. "We need to go."
"Wait," Nicola said. "Where's Samuel?"
They found him outside, staring at the smoke rising from the eastern district. Nosepass stood beside him, its nose glowing red, its eyes fixed on the flames.
"I felt it," Samuel said, not turning around. "An hour ago. Nosepass woke me up."
"Felt what?" Briv asked.
Samuel finally looked at them. His eyes were hollow, haunted.
"The thing from the marsh," he said. "It's here."
The night shattered with the sound of an explosion.
And somewhere in the darkness, something laughed.