Act 2: Chapter 1

Act 2: Chapter 1

Rookidee bounces across the lavish sitting room table impatiently, waiting for his master to ready himself for the day. They'll be exploring the mansion grounds to find pokemon to battle, and after so many weeks of solo training, Rookidee is ready to pit himself against another in glorious combat in the name of his master.

Well, sort of. His master's father, The Lord of the Manor, is coordinating a grand event in the background. The 'wild' pokemon are actually all in the care of the manor's servants, and each pokemon has been given instructions to provide only a light challenge for the young master and Rookidee. If one were being entirely truthful, this is more a confidence-building exercise than a glorious gauntlet that the Galarian nobility of old would traverse as a coming-of-age.

Not that Rookidee minds, however. Any period spent with the young master is time well spent.

A sound like a great, harrumphing cough pauses Rookidee's pacing. The raven chick bounds over to the side of the table and peers down.

There, gazing up at him with droopy eyes is Stoutland, the Lord of the Manor's First and Most Faithful. The eyes of the great dog pokemon are just as droopy as the blonde fur upon his chops, which forms a long and majestic mustache.

Perhaps "majestic" isn't quite the correct word, but it's the one Stoutland insists upon, so Rookidee will acquiesce. His respect for the prestigious station Stoutland holds as Lord of the Manor's First and Most Faithful demands it.

"Pace not upon furniture within this parlor," Stoutland's tone is sharp and criticizing despite his rug-like countenance. "It would do you well to not mar the table with razor claws and impatience when there exists a perfectly fine floor below you."

"I assure you that mine talons will only tear into those who would challenge the young master," Rookidee's tone is even, but he bows his head and turns his eyes away...surreptitiously checking to see if his claws had indeed left any marks in the richly colored wood.

Stoutland harrumphs once more, a deep sound that reverberates across the painting-adorned walls. "Then perhaps learn patience. The young master shan't be long."

Rookidee bows his head again, not replying and thus not inviting retort.

It takes ten and five minutes more, but the doors to the sitting room slowly swing inward on soundless, oiled hinges. From the entrance steps the young master and his father, Lord of the Manor. The young master is still dressed smartly in his school uniform, though his tie is loosened.

Without much of a thought, Rookidee flutters from the table to his master's shoulder. Leaning down, he takes the tie in his beak and gives it a short tug, returning it to a proper, pristine noblesse.

"Oh, Rook, must you?" The young master complains. The sparkle in his eyes is all humor, however. A thin, fair hand rises so a finger can stroke Rookidee across the bottom of his beak, and the raven chick savors the contact. "The tie is perhaps the worst bit of the academy attire. I feel as if whoever conceived this uniform must have been a hangman in a life prior."

The Lord of the Manor allows a thin smile to grace his angular features as he watches. "Come now, my son. It is the duty of the First and Most Faithful to care for their master. Spurn not his dedication, even in jest," he says, putting a hand on the boy's unoccupied shoulder.

Rookidee can't help but puff up in pride at the words of his Lord.

He would see to the young master's every need without fail! That's what a human's First and Most Faithful does.

...Nay, that's what any good pokemon does.

With a start, Corvisquire awakens. He blinks his blurry eyes and takes the sight of the foliage around him. With a glance down, he confirms where he is, finding rough bark instead of finely polished wood, or the scratchy shoulder of an academy uniform.

Mauville Central Park, perched high in a tree and hidden from prying eyes.

With a beak-cracking yawn, the raven stretches his wings, working out kinks and warding away the pins and needles of sleeping in the wild. For a moment, he debates scavenging a breakfast for himself, but his stomach still feels full from the night prior. With nothing to do, he takes flight and lands on the edge of a building overlooking the streets closest to the park.

Standing high above the land-bound crawlers below on his perch of brick and mortar, Corvisquire surveys the city of Mauville with a narrow eye, taking in the people and pokemon below. He recognizes none of them, and for that, he's thankful. He's been blessedly alone since Swablu's singular visit.

'I've lingered here long enough,' he muses to himself, thinking of the prior night's dinner of greasy, stolen stromboli that still sits heavily in his stomach. The more human garbage he stuffs down his gullet, the less appealing it becomes. 'Greener pastures are quite literally green in this case.'

He goes to spread his wings but hesitates. Again he looks down, and again he spies no one of note. With a huff, his wings shoot out before he springs into the air with a mighty flap. Beneath him, the ground falls away at a pace anyone else would find alarming, but to a Flying-type such as he, it's practically leisurely.

As he levels off high in the sky, he banks to the west, lazily riding a thermal of warm air rising from the city below up to the edge of the clouds. When his thermal putters out, he glides back down until he reaches yet another thermal, where he starts the cycle anew, flying slowly with barely a single flap of his wings.

Hours pass as the land below slowly passes him by and the sun gradually climbs to beat down upon Hoenn relentlessly. With his metallic feathers hot and his stomach growling, Corvisquire looks down, spying a human town much smaller than Mauville. The greenery surrounding the artificial oasis is encroaching on the edges, unlike the conquering city of Mauville.

'Verdanturf town?' Corvisquire wonders to himself, recalling the map L - the human would show everyone before they hit the wild trails. 'A town renowned for its clean airand integration with nature. The wind patterns keep it clear of ash despite its proximity to Mt. Chimney. Or so the map blurb said.' The avian shrugs to himself. 'Not important. If it's so clean, then perhaps I might finally stumble upon something lacking the taste of grease to eat.'

His mind made up, Corvisquire partially tucks his wings and descends in a sharply angled glide.

The town below is even more quaint than expected, with the largest building being the tall, four-story pokemon center. The people and pokemon milling about below are ignored, however, as Corvisquire banks to the south and soars mere feet above the treetops. Peering downward, he looks for bright colors in the rushing sea of green, a telltale sign of fruit to enjoy.

There! A succulent purple!

Corvisquire folds his wings to his sides and dives down, nimbly twisting around several tree limbs before snapping his metallic blue wings open a foot away from the ground, halting his descent. He smiles at what he finds.

A large, full bush of Bluk berries. The beautifully purple sweets gently wobble in the breeze on their branches, almost begging to be eaten.

"Well well, don't mind if I do," Corvisquire purrs, hopping forward and snagging a berry in his beak. The force breaks the skin of the delicate fruit, dribbling sweet violet juice down the raven's throat. Wasting no more time, he bites down and savors the flavor dancing across his tongue.

"Ahem!"

The sweetness coating his mouth stays Corvisquire's anger at being rudely interrupted, so rather than snarl, he turns with a grunt. "Ah, rabble. Wonderful..." He sighs.

On the branches of the trees around Corvisquire are perched countless Taillow, all of whom glare down at him with no small amount of displeasure. At their center a puffed-up male sucks in a breath that makes his breast feathers swell even further. "This grove belongs to our flock and has been our territory for generations. You best get going before something bad happens, outsider," he spits.

Corvisquire sneers back, his own feathers ruffling in agitation. "Such bravado for such a thin-feathered, runty fledgling. Tell me, were you the last to hatch amongst your brood? You certainly sound like you were oxygen-starved as a chick. Or perhaps your oaf mother cracked your shell with her fat rear and let an infection permanently addle your already small brain? Begone and waste someone else's time, dullard."

The young Taillow reels back at the vitriol, then grits his beak as he flushes so red in anger that the color bleeds through his feathers. "Y-You! You stupid thief! I'll make you regret that!" He says nothing else, diving at Corvisquire with his talons bared and murder in his eyes.

'How dreadfully slow,' Corvisquire watches Taillow close the distance between them without alarm. 'If Queen Furball and the Treehugger were good for anything, at least they were decent sparring partners.'

At the last second, Corvisquire powers up a Steel Wing and holds it before him like a broad shield, digging his talons into the dirt to steady himself. A moment later, Taillow crashes into the raven's wing and painfully rebounds with a sound like a gong.

Taillow flops to the ground with a wheezing gasp, winded. Before the tiny bird can stand, Corvisquire swings his wing around like a battering ram and slams it into Taillow, making the smaller bird breathlessly cry out in pain as he's thrown tumbling through the air towards a distant tree with almost no arc to his flight. With a thud that makes the surrounding flock flinch, the young Taillow smacks his skull on the unforgiving tree trunk and falls once more to the dirt, dead to the world.

Chuckling deep in his throat, Corvisquire haughtily stares up into the infuriated flock, drinking in their uncertainty and slowly mounting dread like one might a fine wine. "Just a single strike and the mouthy brat falls. Truly, an outstanding display of defense for an ancestral feeding ground," he mocks. "Do I have any other challengers? I've nowhere to be other than this bush enjoying a meal. And I do so enjoy working up a proper appetite before eating."

The countless glowers sent his way bother Corvisquire none. He answers them with a malicious smile, openly inviting them to try where their friend failed.

From the leaves above, a large form zips down and lands before Corvisquire with a flutter of sleek wings.

Corvisquire takes in the newcomer with a raised brow. "Oh? A Swellow?"

Standing before the raven is a larger bird pokemon than the nervous, agitated Taillow up in the trees. She shares the same coloration with the Taillow, with a red face and breast, white underbelly, and dark blue back, wings, and tail. The Swellow differs from her fellows only in size, being two feet tall to the one of the various Taillow, and possessing a backswept fringe of feathers on her head. Corvisquire might have found her fetching if her unmarred coat of feathers didn't announce her weakness like a wailing siren.

"Matriarch Swellow is here!" One Taillow hollers in excitement, hopping in place. "She's going to put this thief in his place!" The rest of the flock needs no other encouragement and breaks out into cheers, broken only by jeers hurled at Corvisquire.

Swellow raises her head higher, and at some unseen signal, the noisy flock quiets into total silence. Swellow then levels Corvisquire with an even stare. "This land is the territory of my flock." Her voice is hard, yet matronly. "Why are you here?"

"Why am I here?" Corvisquire guffaws. "A flock of fools picks a blind leader. The jokes write themselves these days. Why else would I be here?"

Corvisquire smiles nastily. "I'm taking this grove."

Swellow's eyes narrow. "It belongs to us."

"Duly noted and disregarded." The raven steps closer, looming over Swellow. He's easily a foot taller than she is, perhaps a little more. "What sort of stratagem do you have for me? Will you meet me one-on-one? Pile upon me with the bodies of your compatriots? It matters not, but please, do try your best."

Despite Corvisquire being well above her weight class, Swellow's stare remains unimpressed. After a long moment, she says; "I know your sort. You're too large, too groomed to be wild. You belong to a trainer."

Corvisquire sees red.

With a moan of pain, Ralts slowly gets back to his feet, standing with a heavy wobble and unfocused eyes.

Corvisquire sighs. "Today really is an exercise in frustration," he murmurs, raising a shining golden wing again. "Begone, I have no interest in a pair of weaklings like yourse-"

Before he can finish his sentence, Wally falters, then falls to the ground in a heap on his back, clutching at something in his breast pocket with clumsy, nerveless fingers. His chest is heaving so quickly that it's almost like-

Corvisquire banishes the thought before it can form.

"Wally!" Ralts forgets all about the battle and the Swift burns adorning his chest as he rushes to his trainer's side. "Wally?! What's wrong?! Oh no, oh no!" Ralts frets, his voice warbling and eyes glistening. He turns to Corvisquire, face pleading. "Please! I need your help! I-I need to get him back to town! I don't know what's wrong with him!"

Corvisquire tilts his head, hardening his heart. "Are you listening to yourself, you little fool?" He mocks. "You're asking a pokemon you were fighting but ten seconds ago for help. In what world does that make sense to you?"

"Please! I'll do anything! Anything!" Ralts begs, tears beginning to pour down his cheeks. "Wally is my trainer and I love him! I don't want him to die!"

"I love him."

"I don't want him to die."

"I love him."

"I don't want him to die."

"I love him."

"I don't want him to die."

"Nothing can be done."

"There must have been something I could've done!"

Images flash by Corvisquire's eyes, and as though in a trance, he marches up to Ralts' side. "His condition. What's it called?"

Ralts' teary face snaps to look up at Corvisquire. "W-What?"

"The boy's ailment, fool!" The raven barks, making Ralts flinch. "What is it? What's the name?"

"I-I-I don't know!" Ralts cries and flinches away when Corvisquire glares down at him with barely-contained fury. "Wally came to Verdanturf because his lungs are bad, and living in the city was making him sick. I don't know what it's called!"

With a click of his tongue, Corvisquire pushes away his disgust at touching a human for just a second and grasps the boy's wrist with a set of talons. The instant Corvisquire confirms his suspicions, he steps back as if burned. "Tachycardia with a regular rhythm, shallow hyperventilation..." He looks at Wally's pale face, noting the boy's wide eyes looking at him without really realizing what he's looking at. A glance at the boy's lips confirms that they're gradually turning a worrying blue. "Oxygen isn't getting to where it should be. This looks like a stress-induced asthma attack." He looks over to Ralts. "Does he carry some sort of medication? Like an inhaler?"

"I-Inhaler?"

Corvisquire growls. "Are you the boy's pokemon or not?!" He demands, once more making Ralts cringe and bow his head. "You should know these things! I'm talking about a small, plastic apparatus with an aerosol canister sized to fit in a hand."

"His shirt pocket!" Ralts answers instantly. "Wally keeps that thing in his shirt pocket!"

With no finesse, the raven bites the breast pocket on the child's shirt and rips it open without regard for the button keeping it closed. Sure enough, inside is an inhaler. He takes it in his beak and tosses it to Ralts, who fumbles and nearly drops it. "Take the cap off the end and hold it to his mouth. Press down on the aerosol canister as he's breathing in to administer the medicine. Quickly, now!"

Ralts wastes no time in doing as ordered, rushing to Wally's side. "Don't worry Wally, j-just hang on!" He pleads, shakily holding the inhaler to the boy's mouth and depressing the canister. A puff of white gas is shot down Wally's throat and almost immediately the green-headed boy breathes a bit deeper.

In his confusion, Wally tries to weakly resist with a distressed gasp, but Corvisquire clasps the young trainer's wrist in his talons once more, this time pinning him to the ground. The raven looks over to Ralts. "Again."

The Psychic-type obeys immediately, puffing another dose into Wally's mouth as he breathes in again. After a tense ten or so seconds, Wally's breaths begin to deepen and color starts to return to his face.

Corvisquire watches silently, tracking Wally's eyes as the glazed look in them begins to fade. "Fool."

Ralts turns to look at the raven, rubbing at his puffy, teary eyes as he does so.

"Stay with the boy. He'll recover over the next few minutes." Corvisquire spreads his wings. "Cherish what you have while you can. That naive happiness of yours will run out soon, mark my words."

Without looking back, Corvisquire rises up and into the sky, his thoughts in disarray.

"Nothing can be done."

"Nothing can be done."

"Nothing can be done."

"There must have been something I could've done!"

"So this Courtney lady is no good?"

"Try and keep your voice down," Grovyle hisses to Marshtomp. The Gecko pokemon looks over his shoulder to the trio of nearby trainers, each one looking down at a picnic table with a paper map spread across it. Brendan and Zinnia argue animatedly over differing routes while a stoic Courtney watches the bickering.

Lee, along with Vulpix, are away for a last-minute, early-morning meeting with Doctor Lanes. Considering the harsh route and probable two-to-three-week walk ahead of the group, Grovyle can't help but applaud his master's initiative, though anything that speeds Lee's recovery is something Grovyle will support.

His thoughts return to the matter at hand as he lets his yellow-eyed gaze wander, taking in the small groups everyone's various teams have divided up into. The hotel grounds where everyone stayed their final night in Mauville is a regular circus of pokemon, one passersby can't help but slow down to observe. With so much attention fixed on the more boisterous of Grovyle's fellows, no one noticed him quietly gather Marshtomp and Shelgon for a private conversation.

One far away from Courtney and her pokemon.

"Zinnia hasn't told me much." Shelgon's voice has a metallic timbre inside his shell. The encased dragon looks between Marshtomp and Grovyle. "We did room with Courtney last night, however, so Zinnia was likely being cautious. Considering her hotheaded nature..."

Marshtomp laughs. "A Dragon calling someone else a hothead? You see somethin' new every day," he grins widely, then sobers up. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense that your girl is treating this so seriously. Don't wanna tip your hand early, or that's how Brendan phrases it." He gives Grovyle a sidelong glance and crosses his muscular arms, drumming his thick fingers on his bicep. "Did Lee call my boy's dad about this yet?"

Grovyle nods, shifting his twig in his mouth; he's going to need a new one soon, at this rate. "Last night. Professor Birch was understandably cagy when details came to light but understood in the end. We have only my master and Zinnia's word on Courtney's true allegiances, and while we know they can be trusted on word alone..."

"The Pokemon League will want 'proof.'" Shelgon finishes with an annoyed grunt. He paws the grass in irritation. "Stupid humans and their stupid rules. This would be so much simpler if humans would trust their instincts properly. None of this bureaucratic nonsense is needed, you just dispose of bad eggs before they ruin the clutch."

Marshtomp shrugs. "Would you not have trusted her from the get-go? I mean, she seems kinda creepy, but not bad to me," he asks, playing devil's advocate.

Shelgon snorts. "That's because your sort can barely tell mud and water apart."

The mudfish scowls, a vein bulging in his forehead. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Enough, please. Let's return to important matters here." Grovyle sighs and raises his claws between Marshtomp and Shelgon before they can level the area over a disagreement. "We need to be wary and ready to act at the first sign of foul play. According to my master, Courtney presents a very real and significant threat due to her status within Magma and the prowess of her team. Zinnia and my master are going to try and pump her for information during our travels, and in a best-case scenario, convince her that Magma's mission is demented. Until she is gone or neutralized, we need to be ready at all times." Grovyle pauses to rub the Miracle Seed woven into his neckerchief, feeling the vibrant life energy within. His master insists the Grass-boosting trinket should be kept close at hand from now on. "Are we in agreement?"

Shelgon rumbles in thought. "I'll not be passing this information to Goomy." He declares. "He has enough on his plate. Zinnia's upcoming acquisition will also be kept in the dark until properly vetted."

"Um..." Marshtomp rubs his chin when the other 'mons look his way. "I'm pretty sure both Breloom and Mawile can handle the info. If my boy gets any new teammates, I'll make sure they're trustworthy first."

Grovyle nods. "Vulpix already knows. Understandably, I will refrain from informing young Shinx for some time. Hopefully, this is all wrapped up before she can begin to comprehend things like subterfuge."

Marshtomp grins at his friends. "Man, what a journey this is turning out to be, huh?"

"I'm certain some could do without the drama," Grovyle's retort is as dry as the desert they'll be braving in the coming days.