Untitled Quilava Lemon

He stumbled, tripping over yet another loose can in the floor of the alley. Dim, fluorescent lights were dug into the walls of each side, each fitting fuzzing and clicking like broken machinery, making it impossible for him to gain any night vision of any kind – even in the bright day, just before noon, it was impossibly dark, and the alley seemed ridiculously long – the hell was he doing?

Briefly, he stopped. This was crazy; no sane, or even safe, vendor would ever sell Pokemon down so far from the market where the signs had been posted. That man – Joel, or something - had pointed him this way. There had been a sign - he couldn't read kanji, but a sign had absolutely, most definitely, held the term 'Pokémon' on it – everything suggested that at least something was down here, but even so, it was simply ridiculous to think that he'd find what he was looking for so far from the bustling commune of the main city streets...

No, he couldn't give up. The sign had said Pokemon, and he was following the sign, even if it seemed ready to take him to the most unlikely areas of the city. His daughter counted on him for this one. He couldn't imagine the pain he would have felt, should his own parents failed to have produced his companion-

Absent-minded, his gloved fingers brushed the minimized Ultra Ball clipped to his belt, as if to reassure him, or to remind him, of the nature of the Trainer's bond, the strength and sanctity of the very friendship he hoped in a week, or less, to provide to his daughter. If there was a chance of finding his beloved a friend - well, he simply had to follow through.

A hand on the wall helped his navigation. He didn’t know how far he’d walked - minutes, it seemed, just spent traipsing through a dark alley; regardless, it was long, and dark, and when he had finally reached the end, turning round a sudden corner in the tight passage, uncovering an exit that led out into the relative freedom of a street, it was with no small sense of relief.

Clear and bright, but still low in the sky, the yellow sun hung lazily, shining down; yet, as if tired, it held no warmth - it was still a cold January, harbouring no affection for a man used to the warmer climates of a sunnier Region. Despite the bright rays, the sun's shine held no reassurance, and, as if to reaffirm his own growing unease, as he finally stepped out of the alley, and truly down into the road, a cold wind blew raggedly through it. He clutched his coat to him, cursing quietly. Kyogre, it's freezing...

It was icy, and penetrative; he glanced downwind, down the length of the street, to avoid the worst of the chill on his bare cheeks.

It was empty.

No market vendors, here - there were no bright lights, there were no bustling crowds. Here, there were no yammering salesman, who were so eager to ply their trade in the name of their commission that they forgot the true nature of the cheap, plastic crap they were always hired to sell. Here, it seemed, there was nobody.

Nobody but him and the chill. He sighed, low, and slowly... his breath condensing to vapour, and trailing, as if uninspired, upwards, to be caught by the winds... he watched his mist for a moment, reflecting on the nature of his life, and comparing it to the seemingly carefree molecules of water - and caught his thoughts again with a mental slap, chiding himself for personifying his breath. With a shake of the head and a muttered curse - insulting himself, or the silence, he couldn’t tell - he turned back to the alley, disappointed, to seek to rejoin the loud, bustling, annoying world that might, maybe, have just hidden what he was looking for.

Out of nowhere, suddenly, a voice sounded. It was low, and heavy; seedy by sound, and definitely one of an aged man, elderly, perhaps, before his time; or maybe so very old, he exceeded elderly. It wasn't a reassuring sound, nor inviting; but it caused no fear, and held no malice. A quiet whisper, as if the man who said it was speaking merely to himself.

“An Ultra ball... expensive technology...”

It had come from his right. Down, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was a figure; and one could tell he was old. Very old. The tartan shawl that covered his legs, body and arms, and which shadowed his face, was worn; his bare feet were clean, but wrinkled. He sat a metre or two from the empty cobble-stone street's edge; slightly in, but slightly out, of the path that a typical pedestrian would take.

The wind stirred once more, to billow out the spare slack of the large drape that covered the form, like the sail of perhaps one of the ships that crested the sea, visible on the horizon, some miles away, reflecting the white light majesty of the sun that lay behind him in the sky, and a million miles above - and, stilling, brought the cloak back down to the floor. The figure still did not move.

The trainer glanced left. No, nothing, nobody. Right, down the street - again, empty. Just this strange, silent, and unmoving beggar, he thought... but, well, the sign, and Joel, had pointed him here, to this point. It must mean something.

He stepped back out of the alley's entrance, taking two, slow, indecisive paces to stand in front of the covered figure. Several seconds passed in silence.

The trainer glanced left and right, again. Feeling foolish, he cleared his throat.

Nothing happened, for what seemed like a long, long while. The trainer continued to stand, absorbing the cold January sun, on an empty street, with his hands in his pockets, as silent in thought as the empty market.

Finally, a rustling. The shawl crinkled and moved below him; the shadow of an arm formed inside it, and brushed the hood from the figures head, before grasping at a silver-coloured dish at his side. Decloaked, he looked as old as his aura implied; his slight, but well-trained, beard hung silver from his chin, and wrinkles creased his face. But there was no cruelty; either indifference, or a life of laughter. The trainer couldn't tell, and considered it briefly, before being shaken from his reverie by the words that floated like air from the old man's mouth -

"Spare change-?", he croaked, as quietly as the wind. The shoal trembled around his form, though through a silent wind or the shaking of the body, the Trainer couldn't discern.

The trainer sighed, again. He closed his eyes... he'd placed a sense of mysticism, of secrecy, around what was exactly what it had appeared to be: an old beggar, in an empty street. Fuck it, he thought. There's nothing.

He played with the change, the loose yen, in the bottom of one of his pockets. He fumbled it quietly between his fingers, as he fumed silently inside, enjoying the feelings for a few, deliciously irritated, seconds, before letting them go.

"Sure," he mumbled. "Here."

The coins made several, pure-sounding 'tings' as they bounced onto the metal dish; scattering across its surface, two or three bashed into each other, and knocked smoothly away like the balls on a bowls green. He turned to leave.

"You folks usually come later," said the old man, in a voice filled with sudden strength. One of stone, and many years filled by labour; the syllables were clear, ringing in the cool, still air. "It was for the Pokemon, yes?"

The trainer turned back round to face the older man - and couldn't believe what he saw. The 'old man' had rose; now, he was the image of a powerful, dignified senior - the shawl wrapped around his body with the same sanctimony as a monk's robe, and his bare feet stepped into sandles previously hidden behind the once-sitting figure. His face was set, and not stern, but uninquisitive; the blank stare of... well, the Trainer could only relate it to his own experience as someone who was used to upholding exclusivity. A bouncer. But one, as old as this?

"You’ve an Ultra Ball clipped to your belt. Forgive the ruse; it's early. Too early for normal custom, but you are not a normal customer, hmm- ?" - the inquiry was phrased without invasion, but it invited no friendliness. It was asking for a matter of fact, and left no room for redundant terms. The Trainer could only stutter, taken aback by the transformation. What was going on?

Half-formed syllables escaped his mouth as he attempted to answer, and the elderly bouncer watched impassively.

"First-timer?"

This man was direct, conceded the Trainer, and somewhat... impressive.

Collecting himself, he finally replied. "A- uh, yes. Yes, I guess. You mentioned Pokemon..?"

A chill wind blew through the silent, empty street.

The impressive senior, once mistaken for a beggar, made a hmph in his throat, before stepping backwards, turning, and made as if to walk back down the alley.

"Yes, I did." He smiled, as if smug, or just caring - condescension, perhaps... "They're this way."