Corrupt Authority

Pokémon are creatures of unconfirmed origin, bearing elemental powers of epic proportions. They stand superior to most other animals on the planet, and are to be regarded with utmost respect for their capabilities. Hell, if they all were to join forces tomorrow, it wouldn’t be farfetched to suggest that pokémon could overcome people and take charge of this world. But what have we humans done with these magnificent creatures? Rather than worship them as the gods they are, we have enslaved them, and forced their natures for the sake of petty sport.

Six pokémon to a trainer. Unlimited holding space to store the other, unneeded captives. Billions upon billions of yen invested each year on capture balls, potions, and other devices created for the sole purpose of promoting perverted tyranny over innocent creatures, in the name of greed. And to think, we’re teaching our children that this despicable evil is not only acceptable behavior, but somehow honorable? What have we become? Where is our shame? Whatever happened to virtue?

It must be stopped. It MUST come to an end!

***

"Put on your raincoats, front row folks, because Brendan's Swampert has just summoned a tidal wave from the field's pool!"

The roaring of the stadium crowd was drowned beneath the mighty echo of rushing currents as a wall of water stacked itself between the two pokémon combatants. A gargantuan blue creature leaped upon the Surf attack it had created, and from ten feet below, its rocky opponent stared up with a mingled expression of defiance and horror. One moment later, the massive wall of water smashed relentlessly down upon its victim, crushing the target into the dirt. As the water drained, the blue creature stood victoriously over its fallen foe. The referee held up his flag.

"Adamanteres is unable to battle. Swampert is the winner!"

As the stadium erupted into cheers, Valtor vaguely heard an indignant voice issue from behind him.

"Will you turn that television down? You have the volume up WAY too loud."

"Sorry, Mom," the fourteen-year-old replied without taking his eyes off the luminous screen. "It's hard to keep it constant. The commercials are even louder than this match, and the stupid people in the audience keep screaming at the top of their lungs. Kenta must be going deaf out there."

"Have you seen him yet?" called a masculine voice from behind Valtor.

"No, not yet, Dad." Valtor turned briefly away from the T.V. to observe his father, who was standing on a stepladder in the middle of the living room with a lightbulb in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. "You're still working on that fixture?"

"I'm getting there, but this damn ladder-"

"Nathaniel!"

"Sorry Selena- this ladder is wobbly, so I'm going to have to tighten it up first. Who's winning, by the way? Birch, or that girl from the Herron Region?"

"Well, Rosette was winning. But now they're tied with-"

***

"-one pokémon left on each side, and the tension is rising as we all eagerly await the sight of Trainer Rosette's final battler!" roared the commentator over the din of the crowd. Down in the stadium's third row, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the spectators, two young men sat side by side waving banners with the Hoenn League symbol stamped upon them. Kenta Daitan, a fairly long-haired man with a youthful face, turned jubilantly to his companion in glasses and a traditional kimono. "You see, Curtis? What'd I tell you, dude? Didn't I say this would be the greatest match ever?"

Curtis Kuchinana, who at age eighteen was a year younger than Kenta, looked down at the mess of popcorn at his friend's feet, which Kenta had spilled when leaping out of his seat at Swampert's defeat over Adamanteres. "I'm glad that your hero is making a comeback," he said collectedly. "But you're acting even less mature than usual, Kenta. I've never seen you so pumped up over a match before."

"We should savor every moment of this," Kenta mused, leaning forward in his seat and watching as the female champion from Herron tossed her last pokéball down onto the battlefield. "Dont forget, we're viewing the last big match of the year. The toughest of the tough pokémon."

"And Rosette summons Revelashine, the All-Seeing pokémon!" cried the announcer, as a glowing quadruped with enormous eyes appeared before Swampert. "Well, Brendan has fought this whole match against unfamiliar pokémon from the elusive Herron region, but now his Swampert wages war against a newly-discovered type! Who will take home the trophy; the pride of the Hoenn region, or the first Champion of the mysterious Herron land?"

"Time to get the cops' input on this," muttered Curtis with a smirk, eyeing Kenta cheekily. Kenta returned the grin with an apologetic smile. "Now, now, Curtis. That's classified information."

"Oh, bull crap. Come on, Kenta, don't dangle it over my head."

"You're right," Kenta laughed in defeat, "what kind of a friend am I? Alright, the Herron pokédex is still under construction, but we know that there's at least one official new type, possibly the ONLY one. It's called the Light-type, and Revelashine is a third- evolution pokémon of that attribute."

"Uh-HUH." Curtis adjusted his glasses and watched with interest as Rosette's Revelashine charged down the field at Swampert in a burst of golden light. "He looks kind of puny for a third form. How are their stats?"

"Better than average. You could say he's like an Ampharos, or a Nidoqueen, or critters like that."

"Oh, okay. Basically, he's like the first pokémon you'd get in your party who remains reliable throughout the whole region?"

Kenta took his eyes off the match for a moment to look at Curtis in wonder. "That's actually a really good observation," he marveled. "Are you sure you don't want to come work for Silhouette someday?"

"Nah," said Curtis, watching Swampert bulk up its chest and absorb slam after slam from its glowing foe. "I can't stand taking orders. I get enough from Grandpa already, y'know? He takes more apricorns than he can handle, and then I get stuck with a majority of the load because his hands are getting too old and shaky. He's always yelling at me to- woah, did you SEE that?"

Down on the battlefield, Brendan's Swampert had unleashed Bide, drawing back a fist and mashing it into Revelashine as the glowing ball of light shot past. The skull- shattering blow sent its unlucky target skipping over the field like a flat pebble on water, and only the arena wall brought Revelashine to an abrupt and resounding halt. The crowd let out a collective “ooh!” as they cringed at the brutal attack, and after a few seconds, the referee raised his flag.

“Revelashine is out of the match. The victory goes to Swampert!”

The crowd erupted into a frenzy of cheering, and everyone bounded to their feet. “That’s it!” came the announcer’s excited, booming voice, “This year’s tournament is finished! Brendan Birch of Littleroot Town has defeated Rosette Cedars of Russet Town in the deciding battle for the pokémon international championship, with a final score of six to five! Well done, trainers, well done!”

As the announcer continued to issue congratulations to all of the League finalists of 2015, Kenta took his eyes off the two pokémon gasping on the battlefield and looked instead at their trainers. The defeated Rosette Cedars was no longer on her command platform, but he could see her sliding recklessly down the side of the battlefield wall towards the spot where her fallen Revelashine lay. Her down-turned face was invisible under the hair which covered her eyes, but Kenta could guess she was probably in great emotional pain. Was it from losing the final match? No, too petty. It was Revelashine. How badly hurt was the poor bastard? That final Bide attack had been overkill. He’d been smashed harder by Brendan’s Swampert than almost any other pokémon that Kenta had ever seen in his life.

Almost, but not quite. He’d seen worse.

On the other side of the field, the champion himself stood in a hunched posture with his fingers gripping the safety bars of his platform. Because he was seated much closer to Brendan than to Rosette, Kenta could actually see the young master’s face. Brendan’s eyes were glazed over as though in stupor, yet alive with an absolute battle frenzy. Kenta could see his teeth; though they were bared and clenched tightly together, Brendan appeared to be chewing on something. Being a major fan of Brendan (to the point that he’d actually dressed up as him for the match), Kenta had observed Brendan’s zen-like battle state in the past, mostly through the television set. He chewed nothing during battles, lest it hinder his vocal commands. Yet here he was, chewing on all the pressure that came with a major pokémon battle, rather than letting the pressure eat him up. That was the cost of being a good trainer. In order to bond as one with your pokémon, you simply had to empathize with their pain, and bear the emotional grinding mill of six exhausting battles in a row. From what Kenta could tell, Brendan was still catching up from somewhere further back in the battle, perhaps from when his Gardevoir was pressure-hosed by Rosette’s Narwill, or when his Slaking had been incinerated by a devastating Flame Pillar from her Liegorin. He bore the pain from it all. Soon enough, he would also bear the pain of the dentist’s drill for ruining his own teeth.

“Man, what a match!” beamed Curtis, as the spectators around them began heading for the exit. “The ending was a bit anticlimactic, though. I thought Rosette’s last pokémon would’ve lasted a lot longer than that.” He looked at his friend, who appeared to be in a trance as he stared continually out at the battlefield before him. “Hey, Kenta. Kenta. Officer Daitan. Look, that woman’s being harassed by somebody!”

“What? Where?” Kenta tore his eyes away from Brendan and stared intently at Curtis. The latter raised his hands and smiled. “Ha ha, I kid. You were in a daze.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Kenta grinned punched him playfully on the arm. “Don’t do that, man. I thought you were serious.”

“Hey, ow!” complained Curtis, rubbing his arm. “That was hard. You know what? I was about to tell you something good, but I don’t think I will, now.”

“I’m sorry. What is it?”

Curtis pointed down in the battlefield, where a PKTV Network crewman with a camcorder was coming around with the camera pointed at the audience. “Didn’t you say your brother was watching? That guy down there is about to pass us. Since it’s a live broadcast, nothing will be censored . . . want to moon the camera, or give him the finger or something?”

“Nah.” Kenta lowered his head a little and turned to get in line with the retreating crowd, feeling suddenly depressed. “I would have, earlier. But there’s no point now. I’m going to go before the street gets too crowded.”

“Eh? But he’s right here! . . . Kenta!”

***

“Mom! Dad! Brendan won! Brendan won!” cheered Valtor, bouncing up and down in front of the television. He turned around and pointed eagerly at the television, and his mother 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 Valtor, 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?”

“Look at who?” asked Valtor’s father from behind. “Did they just go by Kenta? I can’t see, dear, you’re blocking the screen.” His wife cast him a casual glance; he was sitting on the second-highest rung of his ladder. “You really can’t see from there? Aren’t you supposed to be fixing that bulb?”

“Yes, dear.”

“I get to be an official trainer when school’s out next year, right?” Valtor 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,” Valtor 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. “Valtor. 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 . . .” Valtor 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 Valtor 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 Valtor’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 Valtor, 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. “Son of a bitch. 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 Valtor, 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 first 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 Valtor, 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 when 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, 2016, 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 Valtor 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 through 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 Daitan here.”

“Kenta Daitan,” 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. Valtor . . .” 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. “Valtor,” 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 six 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 G.R.I.P. 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. If this were to be confirmed, the job would be out of Kenta’s hands, and the S.W.A.T. force would be called in.

“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 Daitan, 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.”

***

“The following pokémon training conditions are to be met by the first of January 2016, starting at midnight,” stated a woman's monotonous voice, as words appeared on Valtor’s television screen in place of Kurisawa at the pedestal. “First condition: no minors may be registered as trainers. Only adults with a completed high school education will be legally recognized as responsible holders of pokémon.”

“What?!” roared Valtor at the set, causing both of his parents to jump beside him. “That’s not fair! They can’t do that!!”

“Second condition: henceforth, all trainers are limited to two pokémon per trainer, except for special circumstances. Exceptional situations will be provided at a later date.”

“WHAT?!” Valtor bellowed again, even louder than before, managing to cause his parents to jump a second time. “TWO pokémon?? I can understand their wish to keep trainers from having unlimited pokémon, but they’re going way too far!”

“Third condition: Uber pokémon, or pokémon with exceptionally high power levels, are no longer permitted to any trainers except military officers. These pokémon include . . .”

“Is Kenta a military officer?” asked Valtor’s mother from behind him, to his father. He shook his head. “I don’t think his rank is high enough. That’s probably why they make him keep an Everstone attached to his Shelgon at all times.”

“-All current trainers, be advised: all boxed and party pokémon are scheduled to be sent to rehabilitation centers, where they will learn how to live in the wild once again. G.R.I.P. recommends that you start thinking now about the two pokémon you wish to keep. Preteen and teenage trainers may register online to keep their pokémon temporarily detained until-”

“I wonder if Kenta knew about this,” Valtor muttered aloud, thinking so hard that his temples began to throb. “He was never a big pokémon collector. He just sought a pokémon to commemorate every region. His Beedrill represents Kanto, his precious Typhlosion is Johto, Shelgon stands for Hoenn, and he gave me my Munchlax as the Sinnoh pokémon. Okay, think, think . . . he hasn’t been keeping the Beedrill with him lately, which is understandable, I guess . . .” Valtor’s eyes widened. “Wait, of course! That leaves him with only Typhlosion and Shelgon. Two pokémon. He did know about this!” Valtor punched the carpet furiously, and his mother and father inched silently away from him. “He knew, and he never told me! That jerk! What kind of a brother keeps these things from his only sibling? He’s nothing but a selfish ass!”

“Now Valtor, calm down,” said his father in a reasoning tone, placing his hands up disarmingly. “We don’t know that Kenta was told anything in advance. He’s still only a foot soldier.”

“That’s right, Valtor,” added his mother, in the same calming voice. “Why don’t we call him? He’s still in the Hoenn Stadium, so he wouldn’t have seen- where are you going?”

Valtor, who’d gotten up to leave as she was speaking, looked down angrily at her. “Oh, I’m not going anywhere. Not for another five years, at minimum. There’s no need to keep it hidden, Mom, I know you’re happy that they’ve just blocked me from my life’s biggest ambition. Smile, why don’t you?” With that, he turned away and darted out of the living room and up the stairs. His parents listened to the door slam, and looked miserably at each other.