A/N: For any Pokémon Tower veterans who still remember me, I’m back after eight years of absence! As you probably figured out, I’m still as big a Kenta fan as ever . . . and yes, his name is Kenta, NOT f$%^ing “Jimmy.” I just wanted to say, this story has nothing to do with the universe portrayed in “The Ultimate Rival.” This is a different Kenta, the REAL Kenta from “Raikou: Legend of Thunder” as closely as I could portray him. Keep a lookout for canon references! I’ll be happy to take any reviews and criticisms, of course. Thanks for reading- now back to the story!

********************************************************

Compared to being hovered around in the tight clutches of his Beedrill, Spear, Kenta found Pidgeot flight to be much less claustrophobic. Having never ridden on top of a giant bird before, he’d initially expected falling off to be a constant problem. Yet the Pidgeot’s training made the flight a pleasant experience rather than a worrisome one. Kenta felt weightless, free, as though he weren’t being supported by anything, and any fear of heights was nullified to the thrill of being alone in the skies with the cold wind blowing through his waist-length hair. As his mount dropped altitude over the many building roofs of Saffron City, Kenta made a mental note to travel by air more often, as long as he was on a strong pokémon’s back.

Kenta’s enormous feathered transport landed gracefully at the end of a one-way street he recognized, blowing dust everywhere as the wings pumped rapidly to secure a smooth landing. He’d barely leaped off when the Pidgeot took flight again, rising about twenty feet up and then bursting off into the clouds like a bullet. He watched the great bird go, never ceasing to be impressed by the awesome might of pokémon, and almost didn’t notice that his phone was vibrating. Shaking himself back to reality, he pulled it out of his pocket and raised it to his ear. At the same time, he began to jog down the familiar road towards the looming Silph building in the distance.

“Hello?”

“Kenta? It’s Mom.”

“Oh, hey.” Was it just his phone, or did her voice sound congested? Kenta’s stomach flip-flopped, as he considered what she’d probably just heard on the news. “Is . . . is everything all right?” He paused. “Mom, are you crying?”

“No, no . . .” There was a silence, and then his mother’s voice returned, stronger than before. “We were watching the match you’d attended when the television suddenly changed to a live broadcast from G.R.I.P., and Valtor . . . Valtor, he . . .” She stopped again, and Kenta could hear her swallow over the phone. “Valtor heard some things that caused him to go out of control. He shouted at me. He’s never done that before in his life.”

“ . . . Oh.” Kenta subconsciously slowed his pace to a walk as he tried to think of a response. He’d known for weeks that this phone call would be coming, yet now that it was here, he had nothing. No advice, no words of comfort, nada. He didn’t even know whether or not to feign ignorance of the Japanese government’s restrictive policies on pokémon use. His only wish now was to somehow comfort Valtor. He desperately wanted to be done with the errand he’d been sent on, so he could rush home to New Bark Town and put a consoling arm around his brother’s shoulders. Valtor would never get the chance to experience the life of a pokémon trainer now. He might get to have a mock shot at the adventure much later in life, but it wouldn’t be the same.

“Kenta,” whispered his mother dolefully from the other end of the line, “What should we do? Your father and I aren’t nearly as close to Valtor as you are. Only you can talk to him now. Can you be home soon?”

Kenta looked up; he’d reached a crossroad intersection swarming with cars and trucks. Directly on the other side of the road stood the Silph building itself, its front entrance blocked from view by the constant flow of traffic. The traffic light was changing, and he hurried to make his reply. “Mom, I’ve been given a small task by one of my bosses. I’m in Saffron City right now, but this shouldn’t take long. With any luck, I can be home in a few hours. Valtor should’ve calmed down a little by then.”

“You may be upset by the news also, Kenta. I just thought I’d warn you.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you soon. Love you, Mom.” As Kenta snapped his phone shut and pocketed it, the cars before him halted and the crosswalk appeared almost magically. Standing on the other side, with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, was an elderly man in police uniform whom Kenta recognized immediately. Sprinting to the other side of the road, he halted and saluted his superior subtly. “Lieutenant Shen. Sergeant Daitan, reporting for duty, sir.”

“At ease, Kenta,” muttered his companion quietly, and the two officers strode smartly towards a nearby park bench surrounded by a group of pecking Pidgey. They’d barely sat down when the latter reached into his side pocket and pulled out a box of chocolate snack sticks. “Here. Have some pocky.”

Kenta reached out and took the box, noticing it was bulging at the sides even before he felt the hefty extra weight tug his arm down. He pulled open the side tab and glanced a peek inside, then stared incredulously at his partner.

“Shatu, what is this? Are either of us supposed to have one of these?”

“Yes,” said Shatu matter-of-factly, not looking Kenta in the eye. Kenta shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. Within the pocky box was a S.W.A.T. lockpick gadget. It was about the size of a large Swiss army knife, and among the devices was a switchblade, a heavy-duty wire cutter, the actual lockpick, a lighter, and a laser. Kenta shook the military appliance into his pocket and discarded the empty pocky box, knowing full-well that he could be charged for treason if caught in possession with the lockpick by another officer. He looked at Shatu, bemused, and raised his eyebrow. “Is that all you have for me, then? No smoke or stinger grenades? I’ve heard those are useful.”

“We can’t be too careful, Kenta,” said Shatu in low voice, looking at the main front doors of Silph out of the corner of his eye. “D’you think it’s an accident that our communicators would die in the very building where the Master Ball is being made? I’m not going in there with reliance on any electrical devices, and my partner will do well to follow my example.”

Well, there goes my taser, thought Kenta. Any combat situations will require deadly force, now. We sure have a lot of power.

“Shatu,” he said suddenly, as a thought came into his head. “Before we go in, I’ve got a hypothetical question.”

His companion smiled. “I like that sort of thinking. Ask away.”

Kenta clasped his hands together. This thought had been on his mind ever since he’d first been told about G.R.I.P.’s intent to seize thousands of trainers’ pokémon. He had never voiced his opinion, out of fear that he’d sound disloyal to the military. The thought hadn’t gone away since then, but buzzed in the back of his mind like white noise as he’d sought constantly to preoccupy himself. Now, he needed to get it out. And there was nobody, nobody he trusted more in the militia than Shatu.

“Let’s say that Silph has managed to perfect a new Master Ball,” he started, looking down at his hands intently. “We’d have to take it away from them, because it falls outside the pokémon registration system. Otherwise, they and whoever else has a Master Ball would be able to capture as many pokémon out there as they wish, and we wouldn’t be able to do jack about it.”

“Correct. The Master Ball is too dangerous to risk falling into the wrong hands.”

“Yeah, but here’s my question.” Kenta gripped his fingers together harder, bracing himself as he let the words tumble out of his mouth. “Who can we trust to be the ‘right hands’?” He looked up and stared Shatu directly in the eyes. “In less than two months, we’ll take possession of almost every trainer’s hard-earned pokémon. Can you imagine how many Tyranitar, Slaking, Milotic, and Dragonite we’re going to have? Those are just examples. And now, on top of that, we’ve got the Master Ball, which is guaranteed to catch even legendary pokémon in one go.”

Shatu’s face was impassive. “Keep your voice down,” he mouthed, and leaned closer until he was only two inches away from Kenta’s face. “You can’t let anyone know you’re thinking such things,” he whispered. “Nobody, do you hear me? Now, listen closely.” He swallowed, and Kenta barely heard a man mutter “faggots” as he was passing by. “I share your sentiments. I’m certain many people do. But we can’t just go spitting such words like you’re doing right now, especially at this time. It will have to be done in the politically correct manner, at a later date. That’s how the system works.”

“There’s a total power imbalance between the government and the people,” Kenta whispered back, furiously. “But we can halt it somewhat, possibly this very hour. If the Master Ball does exist right now, its makers are the only humans in the world who know its perfect design. Them, and nobody else. If we get the opportunity, I say we destroy the ball.”

“It’s no use, Kenta,” replied Shatu in a sad tone. “You can’t keep forbidden knowledge locked away forever. Remember Hiroshima and Nagasaki. We were bound to have atomic weapons someday, and there’s no turning back now. The Master Ball is no different.” He stood up from the bench and looked down at Kenta. “Someone will harness its power. We just have to do what we’re told as soldiers, and hope that our government superiors are indeed ‘the right hands’ for holding such a weapon.”

Kenta smiled bitterly. “That’s ironic, coming from the guy who just gave me the key to the city in a pocky box.”

“It’s a funny old world we live in. Time to move in, Sergeant.” Shatu motioned him to rise, and Kenta unhappily did as he was bidden, knowing the conversation was over. The two police officers waded through a sudden crowd of pedestrians, and when the group was past, the glass double-doors of Silph Co. loomed before them. Ignoring a flamboyantly-colorful “closed” sign, they pushed the doors open and were met with a small gust of warm air.

The first floor of Silph’s interior was vastly occupied by a great water fountain in the center of the floor. In the room’s corners, and other various places, potted flowers and trees stood sentinel. A constant breeze swept through the room, and Kenta suspected that it was because of air pressures coming from temperature differences between the cold fountain water and the heating system. It sure has a relaxing effect, he thought, as he and Shatu approached the receptionist’s desk. It makes you feel serene, and lowers your guard. Most visitors probably don’t notice, for instance, the glare of camera lenses within the tree leaves. We’d best be on our toes.

The receptionist received Kenta and Shatu with an artificial-looking smile, sitting rigidly in her chair and observing them with a bowed head and upturned eyes. “Can I help you, officers?” she asked in a brisk tone. Shatu took the lead, reaching his left hand into his uniform and pulling out his badge. “Lieutenant Shatu Shen,” he spoke in an equally business-like tone. “We received a notice that two other officers are already here, with malfunctioning equipment. Could you please call them down to the lobby for some quick repairs?”

“Ah, that’s unfortunate,” said the receptionist airily, ducking down and reaching under her desk. “Thankfully, your friends won’t need to be bothered to come down. I’ve got your stuff right here.” Kenta’s heart skipped a beat as she held up two military ear- microphones, wired to their battery cases. There was no reason, none in the world, why she should've had them under normal circumstances. Even as he and Shatu exchanged a horrified glance over the reality of the situation, the secretary held out her hand.

“I’ll have yours, now. It’s off for the moment, but it’ll work again as soon as I’ve given my superiors notice. Please don’t waste time, now. The military will get suspicious if they decide your radio has gone permanently dead, too. At any time, we can blow this building sky-high with the number of Electrode we’re holding in here. Think of the hostages. Do the right thing.”

Kenta knew better than to assume this woman was bluffing. Heart pounding, sweating from every part of his body, he handed his communicator to Shatu, who in turn handed both to the receptionist. “Good,” she muttered, placing them onto the counter, still within reach of the officers. “Now disarm. I’ll take those utility belts you’ve got.” Again, after waiting for Shatu’s confirming nod, Kenta did as he was told, and handed over his pepper spray, handcuffs, his taser, his cell phone, and worst of all, his gun. The receptionist took the weapons more hurriedly than before, and tossed them on the floor behind her, out of everyone’s reach. She turned her eyes on Shatu.

“If you want to keep a hundred lives safe, you will do exactly as I say. Your communicator will be back on in a moment. Tell whoever’s on the other end whatever it takes to keep them believing that everything’s going smoothly. Don’t try anything stupid. Our technology is better than yours. We just might be able to read minds.”

Kenta stiffened as the receptionist turned to him. “As for you . . . go to the third floor. Take the elevator. Someone will be there to escort you to your destination. I expect your cooperation, too. No releasing your pokémon at any time, is that crystal- clear? The consequences will be the same. Go.”

There was nothing to be done. Kenta felt his legs move automatically, as if he weren’t controlling them, and he headed for the elevator numbly. Desperate to keep a level head, he forced himself to analyze his foe in his mind. One thing was for sure: Shatu’s suspicions about Silph were dead-on. Not only had these people anticipated their coming, but they’d defeated Shatu and himself as soon as they’d come in through the door. Now they were on their own, without anyone from the force to back them up. They couldn’t even use their pokémon. Kenta knew better than anyone that pokémon training was different as a police officer. If anyone’s fingers but the original trainer’s touched the pokéball, the pokémon inside would know automatically to go berserk on the stranger. He’d taught this “first priority” training to Spear the Beedrill, his Shelgon, Bolt, and Bakuphoon, his ever-reliable Typhlosion. What impressed and depressed Kenta was the fact that the Silph receptionist had known not to ask for his pokémon. In a way, pokéballs were like grenades. If they weren’t thrown after activation (his own touch), they would explode open by themselves. His pokémon knew to assume the worst. His enemy knew how to avoid it.

As the elevator doors opened to receive him, Kenta looked back for a moment at Shatu. The receptionist was holding the communicator speaker to his mouth, and both were standing stock-still. However, as the elevator doors closed, Kenta heard Shatu begin to speak in the distance. “Sir,” he said in a casual reporting tone, “This is Lieutenant Sha-” Before Kenta could hear any more, the doors shut firmly in his face. He reached out and pressed the “3” on the button pad, and it lit up in recognition. The elevator began to vibrate, and Kenta felt his weight shift as it rose steadily to higher floors. Once the elevator had confirmed he was on floor three, Kenta braced himself as the double-doors slowly parted before him.

***

Midnight, January 1, 2016, proved to be one of the darkest nights Japan had ever experienced. All over the country, television sets sat with a blank screen, showing nothing but the miserable reflections of whoever happened to be sitting nearby. Nobody’s lights were on. Nobody’s house made a sound. From the humble town of Pallet to the mighty Pokémon League HQ, pokémon fans of all ages sat in the shadows of their homes, brooding sulkily. While some were quiet, others were vocal, though their complaints were unheard by anyone other than themselves.

“Training will never be the same again,” muttered a seventeen-year-old boy, lying on his couch and watching a feeble attempt at fireworks through the window outside his house. He looked down at the things he was holding; in his left hand was a red cap he’d worn for four years straight during his pokémon training days. In his right hand was a bottle of sake, which he’d attained illegally by having a vagrant buy it for him. He raised the bottle to his lips and took a great drink, stopping only when he had to gasp for breath. As he belched, his companion in the next chair over looked at him with a mixture of disgust and concern.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Takeshi?”

“Blow me. If I die from alcohol poisoning, I’ll be the happiest bastard of this year.” Takeshi glared at the colorful fireworks bursting merrily in the sky just outside his window. “Pfft. Happy New Year, my ass.”

Most households in the active pokémon regions of Japan were more or less the same way. New Bark Town was no exception. While Mr. and Mrs. Daitan halfheartedly celebrated the coming of a new year with two drinks in the kitchen, Valtor remained alone in his room, reflecting on the events that had ended 2015 so bitterly.

Kenta was gone, reported missing a little under two months back and presumed dead after the Silph Corporation incident. An officer from the New Bark Police Force had stopped by at their house several hours after the event, looking somber and holding his hat in his hands. His mother hadn’t stopped crying for hours after the news, and his father had gone into a daze. Valtor himself remained hopeful for a while that Kenta would miraculously pull out of this mess as he’d done a few years in the past.

One particular incident of Kenta’s trainer day heroics stood out in his mind. Back when he was sixteen, Kenta had rescued Johto’s legendary god of electric-type pokémon from the nefarious Team Rocket, with the help of friends. During that time, he’d risked being crushed and eaten by the foe’s Steelix on several occasions, and had nearly been electrified to death by the very creature he was trying to save. Somehow, Kenta, Marina, and Juni’chi had all pulled through, but it could have turned out much worse.

Unfortunately, Kenta’s luck hadn’t held out with Silph Corporation. The news revealed that they had indeed been holding blueprints for the Master Ball’s design, and though the government had seized the information and successfully arrested all known perpetrators involved, Kenta hadn’t made it. The criminals had put up a tough fight to keep their precious information, all in vain, but not without consequences. Valtor had gotten to see Kenta’s coffin at a quiet memorial service, empty, but still symbolically woeful. All that remained of his brother’s memory was his room, and the Munchlax he’d captured in the Sinnoh region and given to Valtor as a present.

Less importantly, but still devastating to a certain degree, remained the fact that disheartened so many other trainers on this gloomy night. Valtor checked the clock: 12:08. It had been eight minutes since pokémon trainers all over Japan had lost every pokémon they’d ever captured, save two. Valtor felt sorry the trainers who’d suffered under G.R.I.P.’s new decrees, but he couldn’t fully pity them. He hadn’t become a pokémon trainer thanks to his mother, so he hadn’t lost anything. He’d even gotten to keep Kenta’s Munchlax, under the condition that his father register as a pokémon trainer and re-adopt the plump little creature under his own name. Munchlax also had to wear an Everstone on his collar at all times, and he’d often tried vainly to eat it. Valtor had grown closer to the pudgy little pokémon over the last month, because Munchlax was still originally Kenta’s pokémon after all, and the last living memory of him as a trainer.

Of course, there was also Marina and Juni’chi, who called the house sometimes, but Valtor wanted nothing to do with them. Marina always sounded close to tears over the phone when Valtor talked to her, and he suspected that she’d had a major crush on Kenta back during the good ol’ days. She was depressing to listen to. Juni’chi, on the other hand, frightened him somewhat. Although they looked nothing alike, Juni’chi seemed to almost consider Valtor a smaller version of Kenta, and treated him as such. He’d ask Valtor about Kenta’s team, and compare it to his own, then offer to battle Valtor when they were both old enough. At that time, Valtor would use Kenta’s pokémon, and the match would be two-on-two, and blah, blah, blah . . . the guy was just plain ignorant. Valtor couldn’t hate him though, because in spite of his strange requests, Valtor got the feeling that this was Juni’chi’s way of coping with Kenta’s absence.

Something clicked to Valtor’s left, but when he glanced over to the other side of the room, all that he saw was the blackness of night outside through a raindrop-dotted window. He shifted his weight on the bed to a more comfortable position, so that he was fully facing the window, and stared dully as his own image reflected partially in the glare of his room’s lamplight. Hmph. It’s the coldest season in Japan, and we’ve got rain tonight. Well, no fireworks for New Bark Town. I wonder if the snow will-

At that moment, Valtor’s reflection in the window vibrated wildly, and his walls came to life with a humming din. He sat up straight in bed, immediately awake and heart hammering, and his reflection also shifted to reveal something large and blue moving outside of his window. Out of the blackness, a human fist suddenly appeared and knocked thrice on the window. “Valtor!” came a muffled voice from outside, veiled by the noise of the vibrating walls and the rattling window. “Valtor!”

Nothing could have prepared Valtor for this. He shrieked in terror at the ghastly apparition hovering from just outside his window, and fled the room still shrilling at the top of his lungs. Tearing down the stairs, skipping every other step, Valtor dove into the kitchen and hid under the table, pulling down the tablecloth to hide himself. Dishes left out on the tabletop came crashing down to the floor and broke all around him, but he could care less at the moment. Shaking from head to toe, he lay curled on the floor, hardly daring to breathe. Looking around the kitchen floor for something to use as a weapon, possibly a long shard of broken glass or a dish fragment, his eyes stopped on a familiar-looking black backside. Munchlax was standing in front of the open refrigerator, frozen in guilt, one paw on the door, and the other holding a plate of leftover New Year’s cake. Valtor’s brain clicked.

“Munchlax!”

He grabbed hold of his pokémon’s paw and hauled the bamboozled Munchlax away from the refrigerator and into the living room to where his mother and father had been drinking sake. “Mom! Dad!” he shouted insistently, shaking both of their still, toppled- over forms on the couch. Neither responded, and when Valtor stood and listened for a moment, he could hear both of them snoring gently. They were out cold from drinking. He was on his own.

With some hesitation, Valtor made his way slowly towards the stairs again, stopping short when he heard a loud bump issue from his room just overhead. He turned to Munchlax, who was chomping down his stolen New Year’s cake, and looking very content in spite of the ruckus going on all around him. Valtor stared at his gluttonous pokémon, almost impressed at its total lack of fear. “You are incredible," he muttered. "How can you be so relaxed at a time like this?”

Munchlax finished the last of the chocolate cake, licked his fingers, and burped in reply to Valtor’s question. Valtor sighed. “It’s your nature, I guess. Well, I’m not feeling so calm at the moment, so how about you take the lead? Wait, hang on.” Valtor dashed to the kitchen, and returned a moment later holding a meat cleaver clasped in both hands. He and Munchlax inched up the stairs quietly, and Valtor leaned close to his companion’s ear and cupped his hand. “Okay, here’s the plan,” he whispered, heart still pounding uncontrollably in his chest. “If it’s a ghost, you cast Shadow Ball on it. I’ll go find any of Kenta’s spare pokéballs and try to capture it, so we don’t cause any more damage to the house than we have already.” He narrowed his eyes. “On the other hand . . . if it’s a burglar, we’ll attack together. Let’s show this guy not to underestimate the Daitan name, just because Kenta’s gone. Are you ready?”

They’d reached the top of the stairs. Valtor summoned up as much courage as he could muster, and peeked around the corner. He nearly fainted in shock. Standing in the hallway, arms crossed and smiling confidently, was a young man with long white hair wearing a brown traveler’s cloak that covered the rest of his body. “A question then, Valtor,” he said in a soft voice, and Valtor’s heart gave yet another jolt as he recognized the voice. “What if I’m neither a ghost nor a burglar? Did you have a plan for that?”

Valtor stared at him. But it was impossible. How could it be? “. . . Kenta?”