“Mom! Dad! Brendan won! Brendan won!” cheered Hibiki, bouncing up and down in front of the television. He turned around and pointed eagerly at the television, and his parents moved forward to get a closer look at the screen. “Well, isn’t that nice?” said his mother, semi-interestedly. “Kenta was rooting for that young man. I’m glad for him.” She knelt down so that she was head-level with Hibiki, watching as the television switched pictures from an overhead view of the stadium to an up-close shot of Brendan’s impressive face. “Look at him. They’re about the same age, aren’t they?”
“I get to be an official trainer when school’s out next year, right?” Hibiki asked his mother forcefully, using the television images to emphasize the visions of his dreams he’d repeated to her a thousand times in the past. She smiled wryly at him. “The deal stands, young man. You have to graduate middle school with all A’s- no exceptions. And learn to feed your Munchlax regularly- have you done it today?”
“Yeah, I have,” Hibiki replied with the same determined fervor. “I’m responsible. I could’ve left four years ago, and you know I would’ve been fine.”
“You wouldn’t have even had enough money at that point,” his mother reminded him gently. “Hibiki. Why are you so anxious to leave us like this? When I let Kenta go at age sixteen, you can’t imagine how much I missed him every day afterward. Stay with me. With your father and older brother gone all the time, I need you to be my man of the house.” She looked at him with imploring eyes. “Won’t you reconsider?”
“Mom . . .” Hibiki looked at her helplessly. “Listen, I-”
Without warning, the television suddenly went snowy, and a moment later, an anchorwoman appeared on the set with the words “emergency broadcast” taking up the bottom quarter of the screen. As Hibiki looked on in surprise, the woman glanced uncertainly at something off the side of the camera, then hastily redirected her attention to the audience. “Hello, and good afternoon, Japan,” she started, “PKTV apologizes for cutting into your usual program time. We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special announcement live from the Government Restrictive Institute on Pokémon. Please do not turn your television sets off for the next twenty-”
“What’s going on?” asked Hibiki’s father, leaning forward on the ladder. Without warning, the ladder suddenly lurched over and shook the living room floor as man and contraption crashed to the ground. “Dad!” yelped Hibiki, immediately forgetting the broadcast, “are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he answered in an offhanded tone, glancing for a moment at the ladder. The metal was twisted at a bizarre angle. “Damn. It’s broken. But more importantly-” he knelt down in front of the television, “what could G.R.I.P. possibly have to say that’s so important as to warrant an emergency broadcast?”
“-go now to Department Chair, Silvaki Kurisawa,” the announcer was saying, and the camera changed from the PKTV newsroom to a completely white room with a speaking pedestal and several microphones at center shot. Behind the pedestal, an increasing group of middle-aged men and women wearing suits and formal dress were taking their seats in fold-up chairs. A single man took his place at the pedestal, with his hair combed completely to one side, and wearing particularly small spectacles just below his eyes. To Hibiki, the tops of the glasses gave him the look of a man with unnaturally thin-slitted, glaring eyes, while the lenses magnified the bags under his eyes to a larger size than usual. He took on the appearance of one who had been fighting something for a long time, and had become weary because of it.
“Pokémon owners of Japan,” Kurisawa began in a solid voice, as blue flashes from cameras illuminated him, “I come to you today with both sorrowful and joyous tidings. To begin, let us set aside every impression we’ve ever had of those mysterious, remarkable creatures called pokémon. Just for a moment. Now . . . consider their origin. Remember that ninety or so years ago, our parents and grandparents beheld a meteor shower above Mount Moon, carrying the bacteria which mutated the genetic codes of all animals in the vicinity. Mount Moon, the very center of the nine pokémon regions, gave birth to pokémon on that fateful night.”
Wait a minute . . . isn’t that just a theory? thought Hibiki, as he and his parents watched the television set in silence. Nobody truly knows where pokémon came from. He’s going on with this theory as though it were absolutely the only explanation.
“Ninety years. That’s how long it’s been. We’ve had electricity longer than we’ve had pokémon. Yet instead of carefully investigating these amazing creatures for the last century, we have been taking them for granted and ignorantly using them however we please. We’ve been most fortunate that, in all these years of handling the fire, we have not gotten burned.
“At least, not all of us. But I’m afraid this is where the sorrowful tidings come. As some of you may remember from last week’s news story, Pokémon Trainer Suzu Yukinari lost the use of both her hands when attempting to harness a Rapidash in her local ranch. And a month before, the late Yahiko Tskune was electrocuted to death by a wild Raichu, during a failed attempt to capture it. He was eleven. Of course, let us not forget the various orders of rogues who have tried exploiting pokémon to achieve their own ends. Rocket. Magma. Aqua. Snagem. Cipher. Galactic. Innuendo. Do any of these names ring a bell? Countless casualties and thefts have resulted from irresponsible trainers having pokémon available to do acts of evil which would have otherwise been almost impossible.
“But be of good cheer, for now it is time for the glad tidings! G.R.I.P., after years of debate and reasoning, has achieved cooperation with the whole Japanese government in a joint effort to make this land a safer place for all. Effective January 1, 2008, new conditions for pokémon training will be set down. Some renovations will result from these plans, and some hopeful future trainers may have to wait a couple years longer before making their journeys, but for the most part, nothing will change.”
What’s that supposed to mean? wondered Hibiki furiously, staring at the television screen in a panic as Kurisawa was handed a piece of paper by one of his associates sitting behind. Renovations? New conditions? An age limit? He bit down hard on his lip, barely feeling the sweat slide down his temple even as the blood trickled down his inner mouth. I think the government’s about to screw me, big time.
***
Kenta’s mind dimly registered the sound of his cell phone ringing as he and Curtis pushed their way slowly through the tightly-packed stadium chambers. Pulling it out, his eyes widened as he recognized the music: Metal Gear Solid, death theme. Looking around quickly, Kenta noticed a door marked “DO NOT ENTER: EMPLOYEES ONLY”, leading in to a food concession booth. He waved Curtis over, and the two of them broke off from the main crowd and stopped at the door. Kenta raised his phone. “Sorry Curtis. I gotta take this.”
Before his friend could nod any confirmation, Kenta ducked through the door and knelt to the ground, facing the wall. “Hello?” he muttered into the phone. “Sergeant Nyna here.”
“Kenta Nyna,” came the familiar voice of his laidback acquaintance, Captain Wester Arcada. “How are you? How was the match?”
“It was great, thank you, sir. Brendan’s Swampert was amazing.”
“I just heard about it myself. I’m very glad that your hero got to take the trophy home.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“. . . are you all right, my boy? You don’t sound nearly as happy as I thought you’d be.”
“It’s just . . . no, it’s nothing.”
“Oh, come now, you can tell me, Kenta.”
“Alright.” Kenta sighed. “I didn’t tell anyone about the broadcast that’s airing right now. I couldn’t stand thinking about it myself, and I didn’t want anyone else thinking about it either, until they’d have to. Hibiki . . .” Kenta cringed as he spoke. “He’s probably watching his future fall apart, even as we speak.”
Captain Arcada was silent for a few seconds. “Hibiki,” he said, finally. “That’s your younger brother, right?”
“Yeah.”
“ . . . I’m sorry, Kenta. I truly hate disrupting your happiness with reality.”
“It’s fine, sir,” croaked Kenta miserably, hurriedly wiping away a threatening tear that was welling in his right eye. “So, um . . . not to be hasty, but why did you call me?”
“Yes, about that . . .” Arcada laughed nervously. “Again, I’m sorry. I know it’s your day off, but it seems we ran into a slight problem with the Silph Investigation. I . . . I don’t hear any noise in your background, are you alone over there?”
Kenta, who upon hearing the word “Silph” had involuntarily swallowed a great gulp of air, tried not to choke as he responded with a hammering heart. “Alone. Yes. Yes, I am alone, sir.”
“Good.” Arcada’s tone changed to a much more official manner. “As you might remember, you and your partner, Lieutenant Shatu Shen, were to be the backup team in case Dei and Sosuke ran into any problems.” Arcada cleared his throat, then continued. “Their communication equipment went dead about fifteen minutes ago. We haven’t heard from them since. We’ve no reason to suspect that their lives are in jeopardy, neither from previous dealings with Silph, nor the officers’ dialogue before the radio failures. It could just be equipment malfunctions.”
Equipment malfunctions. Kenta seriously doubted that. Maybe the rest of the army believed Silph Corporation was no threat, but he’d heard otherwise from his partner, Shatu. Lieutenant Shen had been a Saffron City resident during the time of the Rocket Takeover Incident nine years ago. His best memory was a recollection of the time a traitorous Silph scientist had sent an Electrode at him, and threatened to blow him to pieces on the spot. Shatu was convinced that guys like him were still employed there amongst the normal employees, and over the months he’d worked with Kenta, he’d convinced the latter as well.
“We need you,” Arcada continued, “basically just to walk up to the front desk and ask for Dei and Sosuke. Simply for standard procedure. If they are indeed experiencing some technical malfunctions, Lieutenant Shen will have replacements ready for them.” He paused, then spoke again more gently in his casual tone of voice. “I’m sorry it had to be you two, at this time. We would’ve sent someone else, but . . . well, as you can imagine, the GRIP people needed a large chunk of the force present for their own protection. No trainers will take kindly to Kurisawa’s announcements. Rumors are buzzing around here that someone actually tried to shoot him not too long ago.”
“If I may ask, sir,” Kenta pressed, trying to return to the mission he’d just been given, “do you have the time to be waiting for me? It’d take me over an hour to get to Saffron by plane. What if the worst case scenario is realized?” He didn’t need to say more. To be honest, he was surprised Arcada hadn’t addressed this topic already. In the worst case scenario, officers Dei and Sosuke would have uncovered proof of Silph Corporation attempting to recreate the illustrious Master Ball. However, they would also have been caught by Silph masterminds and held captive before being able to relay the information to the Japanese military police.
“We are always prepared for the worst,” came Captain Arcada’s smooth reply to Kenta’s question. “Head to the Ever Grande K-9 Growlithe Unit. A Pidgeot will be stationed there to fly you to Saffron. The navy reports excellent weather; if all goes well, you could be in Saffron in twenty minutes. Any questions, Sergeant?”
That meant it was time to stop asking questions and get moving. Kenta saluted automatically, in spite of the fact that he was crouching on the floor, and his superior couldn’t see him anyway. “I have my orders. Sergeant Nyna, moving out.” Kenta closed the phone in his hand, thought for a moment, then turned and opened the “Employees Only” door, to be met with Curtis’s inquiring face. “Listen,” he said quickly, looking him seriously in the eyes, “I’ve just gotten a very petty mission, which could turn out to be more serious than it’s being treated. I need to leave you, but I just want to make sure you remember-”
“I know, I know,” said Curtis, without smiling. “If anything happens to you, I need to get rid of the stuff in your closet and under your bed.”
“Yeah. And keep your eyes open to everything that’s going on around you, okay?” Kenta waved to him before turning and sprinting towards the exit. “Stay well.”
“Same to you, Kenta.”
“I get to be an official trainer when school’s out next year, right?” Hibiki asked his mother forcefully, using the television images to emphasize the visions of his dreams he’d repeated to her a thousand times in the past. She smiled wryly at him. “The deal stands, young man. You have to graduate middle school with all A’s- no exceptions. And learn to feed your Munchlax regularly- have you done it today?”
“Yeah, I have,” Hibiki replied with the same determined fervor. “I’m responsible. I could’ve left four years ago, and you know I would’ve been fine.”
“You wouldn’t have even had enough money at that point,” his mother reminded him gently. “Hibiki. Why are you so anxious to leave us like this? When I let Kenta go at age sixteen, you can’t imagine how much I missed him every day afterward. Stay with me. With your father and older brother gone all the time, I need you to be my man of the house.” She looked at him with imploring eyes. “Won’t you reconsider?”
“Mom . . .” Hibiki looked at her helplessly. “Listen, I-”
Without warning, the television suddenly went snowy, and a moment later, an anchorwoman appeared on the set with the words “emergency broadcast” taking up the bottom quarter of the screen. As Hibiki looked on in surprise, the woman glanced uncertainly at something off the side of the camera, then hastily redirected her attention to the audience. “Hello, and good afternoon, Japan,” she started, “PKTV apologizes for cutting into your usual program time. We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special announcement live from the Government Restrictive Institute on Pokémon. Please do not turn your television sets off for the next twenty-”
“What’s going on?” asked Hibiki’s father, leaning forward on the ladder. Without warning, the ladder suddenly lurched over and shook the living room floor as man and contraption crashed to the ground. “Dad!” yelped Hibiki, immediately forgetting the broadcast, “are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he answered in an offhanded tone, glancing for a moment at the ladder. The metal was twisted at a bizarre angle. “Damn. It’s broken. But more importantly-” he knelt down in front of the television, “what could G.R.I.P. possibly have to say that’s so important as to warrant an emergency broadcast?”
“-go now to Department Chair, Silvaki Kurisawa,” the announcer was saying, and the camera changed from the PKTV newsroom to a completely white room with a speaking pedestal and several microphones at center shot. Behind the pedestal, an increasing group of middle-aged men and women wearing suits and formal dress were taking their seats in fold-up chairs. A single man took his place at the pedestal, with his hair combed completely to one side, and wearing particularly small spectacles just below his eyes. To Hibiki, the tops of the glasses gave him the look of a man with unnaturally thin-slitted, glaring eyes, while the lenses magnified the bags under his eyes to a larger size than usual. He took on the appearance of one who had been fighting something for a long time, and had become weary because of it.
“Pokémon owners of Japan,” Kurisawa began in a solid voice, as blue flashes from cameras illuminated him, “I come to you today with both sorrowful and joyous tidings. To begin, let us set aside every impression we’ve ever had of those mysterious, remarkable creatures called pokémon. Just for a moment. Now . . . consider their origin. Remember that ninety or so years ago, our parents and grandparents beheld a meteor shower above Mount Moon, carrying the bacteria which mutated the genetic codes of all animals in the vicinity. Mount Moon, the very center of the nine pokémon regions, gave birth to pokémon on that fateful night.”
Wait a minute . . . isn’t that just a theory? thought Hibiki, as he and his parents watched the television set in silence. Nobody truly knows where pokémon came from. He’s going on with this theory as though it were absolutely the only explanation.
“Ninety years. That’s how long it’s been. We’ve had electricity longer than we’ve had pokémon. Yet instead of carefully investigating these amazing creatures for the last century, we have been taking them for granted and ignorantly using them however we please. We’ve been most fortunate that, in all these years of handling the fire, we have not gotten burned.
“At least, not all of us. But I’m afraid this is where the sorrowful tidings come. As some of you may remember from last week’s news story, Pokémon Trainer Suzu Yukinari lost the use of both her hands when attempting to harness a Rapidash in her local ranch. And a month before, the late Yahiko Tskune was electrocuted to death by a wild Raichu, during a failed attempt to capture it. He was eleven. Of course, let us not forget the various orders of rogues who have tried exploiting pokémon to achieve their own ends. Rocket. Magma. Aqua. Snagem. Cipher. Galactic. Innuendo. Do any of these names ring a bell? Countless casualties and thefts have resulted from irresponsible trainers having pokémon available to do acts of evil which would have otherwise been almost impossible.
“But be of good cheer, for now it is time for the glad tidings! G.R.I.P., after years of debate and reasoning, has achieved cooperation with the whole Japanese government in a joint effort to make this land a safer place for all. Effective January 1, 2008, new conditions for pokémon training will be set down. Some renovations will result from these plans, and some hopeful future trainers may have to wait a couple years longer before making their journeys, but for the most part, nothing will change.”
What’s that supposed to mean? wondered Hibiki furiously, staring at the television screen in a panic as Kurisawa was handed a piece of paper by one of his associates sitting behind. Renovations? New conditions? An age limit? He bit down hard on his lip, barely feeling the sweat slide down his temple even as the blood trickled down his inner mouth. I think the government’s about to screw me, big time.
***
Kenta’s mind dimly registered the sound of his cell phone ringing as he and Curtis pushed their way slowly through the tightly-packed stadium chambers. Pulling it out, his eyes widened as he recognized the music: Metal Gear Solid, death theme. Looking around quickly, Kenta noticed a door marked “DO NOT ENTER: EMPLOYEES ONLY”, leading in to a food concession booth. He waved Curtis over, and the two of them broke off from the main crowd and stopped at the door. Kenta raised his phone. “Sorry Curtis. I gotta take this.”
Before his friend could nod any confirmation, Kenta ducked through the door and knelt to the ground, facing the wall. “Hello?” he muttered into the phone. “Sergeant Nyna here.”
“Kenta Nyna,” came the familiar voice of his laidback acquaintance, Captain Wester Arcada. “How are you? How was the match?”
“It was great, thank you, sir. Brendan’s Swampert was amazing.”
“I just heard about it myself. I’m very glad that your hero got to take the trophy home.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“. . . are you all right, my boy? You don’t sound nearly as happy as I thought you’d be.”
“It’s just . . . no, it’s nothing.”
“Oh, come now, you can tell me, Kenta.”
“Alright.” Kenta sighed. “I didn’t tell anyone about the broadcast that’s airing right now. I couldn’t stand thinking about it myself, and I didn’t want anyone else thinking about it either, until they’d have to. Hibiki . . .” Kenta cringed as he spoke. “He’s probably watching his future fall apart, even as we speak.”
Captain Arcada was silent for a few seconds. “Hibiki,” he said, finally. “That’s your younger brother, right?”
“Yeah.”
“ . . . I’m sorry, Kenta. I truly hate disrupting your happiness with reality.”
“It’s fine, sir,” croaked Kenta miserably, hurriedly wiping away a threatening tear that was welling in his right eye. “So, um . . . not to be hasty, but why did you call me?”
“Yes, about that . . .” Arcada laughed nervously. “Again, I’m sorry. I know it’s your day off, but it seems we ran into a slight problem with the Silph Investigation. I . . . I don’t hear any noise in your background, are you alone over there?”
Kenta, who upon hearing the word “Silph” had involuntarily swallowed a great gulp of air, tried not to choke as he responded with a hammering heart. “Alone. Yes. Yes, I am alone, sir.”
“Good.” Arcada’s tone changed to a much more official manner. “As you might remember, you and your partner, Lieutenant Shatu Shen, were to be the backup team in case Dei and Sosuke ran into any problems.” Arcada cleared his throat, then continued. “Their communication equipment went dead about fifteen minutes ago. We haven’t heard from them since. We’ve no reason to suspect that their lives are in jeopardy, neither from previous dealings with Silph, nor the officers’ dialogue before the radio failures. It could just be equipment malfunctions.”
Equipment malfunctions. Kenta seriously doubted that. Maybe the rest of the army believed Silph Corporation was no threat, but he’d heard otherwise from his partner, Shatu. Lieutenant Shen had been a Saffron City resident during the time of the Rocket Takeover Incident nine years ago. His best memory was a recollection of the time a traitorous Silph scientist had sent an Electrode at him, and threatened to blow him to pieces on the spot. Shatu was convinced that guys like him were still employed there amongst the normal employees, and over the months he’d worked with Kenta, he’d convinced the latter as well.
“We need you,” Arcada continued, “basically just to walk up to the front desk and ask for Dei and Sosuke. Simply for standard procedure. If they are indeed experiencing some technical malfunctions, Lieutenant Shen will have replacements ready for them.” He paused, then spoke again more gently in his casual tone of voice. “I’m sorry it had to be you two, at this time. We would’ve sent someone else, but . . . well, as you can imagine, the GRIP people needed a large chunk of the force present for their own protection. No trainers will take kindly to Kurisawa’s announcements. Rumors are buzzing around here that someone actually tried to shoot him not too long ago.”
“If I may ask, sir,” Kenta pressed, trying to return to the mission he’d just been given, “do you have the time to be waiting for me? It’d take me over an hour to get to Saffron by plane. What if the worst case scenario is realized?” He didn’t need to say more. To be honest, he was surprised Arcada hadn’t addressed this topic already. In the worst case scenario, officers Dei and Sosuke would have uncovered proof of Silph Corporation attempting to recreate the illustrious Master Ball. However, they would also have been caught by Silph masterminds and held captive before being able to relay the information to the Japanese military police.
“We are always prepared for the worst,” came Captain Arcada’s smooth reply to Kenta’s question. “Head to the Ever Grande K-9 Growlithe Unit. A Pidgeot will be stationed there to fly you to Saffron. The navy reports excellent weather; if all goes well, you could be in Saffron in twenty minutes. Any questions, Sergeant?”
That meant it was time to stop asking questions and get moving. Kenta saluted automatically, in spite of the fact that he was crouching on the floor, and his superior couldn’t see him anyway. “I have my orders. Sergeant Nyna, moving out.” Kenta closed the phone in his hand, thought for a moment, then turned and opened the “Employees Only” door, to be met with Curtis’s inquiring face. “Listen,” he said quickly, looking him seriously in the eyes, “I’ve just gotten a very petty mission, which could turn out to be more serious than it’s being treated. I need to leave you, but I just want to make sure you remember-”
“I know, I know,” said Curtis, without smiling. “If anything happens to you, I need to get rid of the stuff in your closet and under your bed.”
“Yeah. And keep your eyes open to everything that’s going on around you, okay?” Kenta waved to him before turning and sprinting towards the exit. “Stay well.”
“Same to you, Kenta.”