About five minutes later, the Daitan brothers had resumed their flight as it had been before they’d been called down by the cop. Valtor raised Officer Takinawa’s badge over his head and tossed it down into the treetops below, then leaned back and rested against Munchlax’s torso. “I’ve got a question about the battle, Kenta,” he declared, looking behind him at his older brother. Kenta looked back at him invitingly. “Fire away.”
“Bolt and that Tyranitar were about the same level, right?”
“Uh-huh.” Kenta patted the Salamence’s head fondly. “Bolt may have been a little bit higher. We’ve been through nine circles of Hell over the past few weeks.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Valtor waved his hand impatiently. “One Brick Break knocked that Tyranitar completely out of the picture! Was that really just a regular attack?”
“Sure. It was just a little something I had a friend pick up for me in Celadon Department Store.” Kenta knocked his fists together, symbolizing impact. “But you’ve gotta realize stats and type advantages if you’re ever going to be a pokémon trainer someday, Valtor. Bolt’s Attack stat is his pride and joy, and Brick Break is a physical move. But more importantly, it’s Fighting-type.” Kenta punched the air animatedly. “And against a pokémon with a type combination of Rock and Dark- boom! That’s a quadruple weakness. All clear?”
“So why’d you do an Aerial Ace earlier?”
“I was hoping to knock his item off.” Kenta reached into Valtor’s bag and pulled out an oddly-shaped shell on a string. “See this? It’s a Shell Bell. This is the perfect thing to have when you’ve got a really strong fighter pokémon on your team, but no healing items to keep up its health. With every attack you make, it restores hitpoints to your pokémon.” He made a grimacing face. “If that Stone Edge of his had hit first, Bolt would’ve been crushed, and Tyranitar would have probably risen to full health. That was a closer match than you know, dude.”
Kenta’s comment set off another question in Valtor’s mind. Still seeing no sign of Azalea Town in the distance, he let it go freely. “That sure was close. How’d you know to give Bolt a Cheri Berry in advance? I didn’t know Tyranitar could learn Thunder Wave.”
“Ah, yeah . . .” Kenta scratched the back of his head, looking uncomfortable. “Again, good thing I did, huh? Here’s what you should understand, Valtor.” He pointed his finger upwards, to indicate he was “making a point.” “The pokémon follows its trainer’s personality, if the two are close. I’ve been told that I’m a jolly kind of guy by many people. Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know. Marina tells me you were always cold-shouldering her.”
Kenta twitched at hearing Marina’s name, turned a little red, then shook his head rapidly. “Beside the point! Anyway, Bolt here also has the ‘jolly’ nature, which appears to make his fire breath weaker than usual, but his speed higher. So he’s pretty darn agile.”
“What does this have to do with the Cheri Berry?”
“I’m getting there!” Kenta held up his finger again. “Bolt excels in speed. But if we were ever to lose that edge, we’d be toast in battle. The quickest way to do that is for the other trainer to hit him with a paralyzing effect. I never know when that’s going to happen, so I usually have Bolt keep a Cheri Berry in one of his cheeks at all times.” He saluted Valtor briskly. “A good cop is ready for anything.”
Valtor eyed Kenta carefully. “I’ll say you were ready . . . you must’ve anticipated being shocked by that officer’s taser, too. How’d you avoid being fried by that?”
“Well that’s-” Kenta stopped, noticing something out of the corner of his eye, then twisted completely around so that his back was to Valtor again. “Look!” he said distractedly. “There’s Azalea Town, dead ahead. Hold on tight, Valtor, we’re going down. You too, Munchlax!”
***
Over its years of being a quiet little town in the middle of nowhere, Azalea had become overrun on the outskirts with thicket bushes and wildlife. Since it was the first day of January, all plant life was dead except for the surrounding evergreen pines and the cold-resilient Pecha Berry trees. Even the town’s Slowpoke population, which matched the humans as closely as kangaroos did Australians in numbers, was nowhere to be seen on the streets. The only signs of life were two woodcutters returning from the Azalea Forest to the west, and one middle-aged female jogger wearing headphones.
Bolt hovered to the ground in a backyard behind a particularly traditional-looking Japanese house, which appeared on first impression to be hundreds of years old. Kenta leaped off the Salamence’s back, and bade Valtor to follow him while keeping a hand on the dragon pokémon’s head. “You stay here, Bolt. We can’t risk anyone seeing you in the open, even if there is practically nobody out today.”
They walked around to the front of the house, with Munchlax waddling slowly behind, and Kenta knocked on the door. He turned to Valtor, poking a thumb at it. “Don’t be surprised at anything you may hear, when old Kurt answers. He’s a little out of it in his senior age. But don’t worry . . . we go back, Kurt and I.”
The door slid open, revealing a young man with a pokéball in his hand, holding a hammer in the other. He stared in shock at the two strangers on his doorstep, partially at the youth in Kenta’s brown traveler’s cloak, but primarily at Kenta himself. “Y-you!” he stammered. “But . . . but you . . .”
“Curtis!” said Kenta sternly, pointing at the pokéball in the other man’s hand, “What do you think you’re doing, answering the door with that in plain sight? Have you forgotten what I told you?”
“Uh . . . oh! Sorry. Get in, quickly!”
Kenta reached out and pulled Valtor through the threshold of the sliding door, and Curtis pulled it shut behind them a second later. The three of them stood looking at each other for a moment, and Curtis pointed at Valtor. “Erm . . . who’s he?”
“Oh, him?” Kenta patted Valtor’s shoulder affectionately, giving Curtis a reassuring smile. “We can trust him. He’s my younger brother. Valtor, this is Curtis Kuchinana, a personal friend of mine, American exchange student, and apprentice to the pokéball master craftsman, Kurt.”
“More like adopted grandson,” coughed Curtis. “Kurt’s getting on in years, and he thinks I’m his actual blood relative these days. My real last name is Sanders.” He looked at Kenta seriously. “But- you’re alive! How did you survive the Silph Incident?” Curtis looked at Kenta’s choice of dress. “And why’re you wearing Brendan Birch’s clothing?”
“There’ll be time for that later,” said Kenta hastily, checking around the room to make sure all the window shutters were closed. “Curtis, is your grandpa in? I really need to talk to him about something. It’s very important!”
Curtis didn’t answer. Instead, he stood with his shoulders slumped, and his eyes gazing dully downwards, an expression of misery pasted on his face. “Grandpa . . . isn’t here,” he said despondently, staring at the ground. Kenta looked at him interrogatively. “Not here?” he repeated. “Well . . . where is he, then?”
“He’s been taken to the local jail.”
Valtor heard Kenta gasp. The two brothers looked at each other, then back at Curtis. “Why’s he in jail?” asked Valtor nervously. “Did he do something wrong?”
“Of course not,” insisted Curtis angrily, glaring at the door. “Those pigs issued a decree about three weeks ago, declaring that custom-made pokéballs were no longer allowed to be made without a permit. Can you believe that crap? We’ve been following a tradition for more than seventy years, hand-making apricorn pokéballs for needy trainers since before Professor Samuel Oak received his first Charmander. They can’t just step in now and halt our life calling!”
“You weren’t able to get a permit?” asked Kenta, watching as Curtis stomped his way moodily over to a workman’s bench in the far corner of the room. The latter shook his head, his back turned to the Daitan brothers. “Only big merchandisers like Devon and Sierra Mana can get permits. We’re just two people, keeping an ancient way of life in practice to this day.
“Anyway, Grandpa declared the decree pish-posh and went right on with making apricorn pokéballs.” Curtis held up his arms, as if trying to reason with an invisible enemy. “You have to understand- he feels old and useless, and needs to do something to keep his hands busy. When the fuzz found out he was still working, they came in one night and just took him away. I tried begging them to let him do what he wants until his arthritis made him too clumsy to carry on, but they wouldn’t listen.” Curtis covered his face with a hand, looking ashamed of himself. “Then they hauled him off to the police station about six blocks away. They let me remain free, with a warning to keep my nose out of mischief. Lousy bunch of high-and-mighty . . .”
Kenta cleared his throat. Curtis stopped immediately, and waved his arms frantically in front of him in apology. “Oh, no, I don’t include you with them, Kenta!”
“And it’s just as well you shouldn’t.” Kenta gave him a small smile, winking at Valtor. “Curtis, we need a favor. My brother and I have two pokémon that are outside the government’s tracking system, and they’re both getting pretty darn cold without a pokéball to stay in for the winter. Do you have any apricorn balls we could use for storage?”
“Oh, um, sure. Two unregistered pokéballs coming up.” Curtis shook his sleeve, and three different-colored pokéballs immediately rolled out and bounced to the ground. He looked down at them, grinning innocently. “Sorry, heh, heh, heh. When I heard you knocking, I panicked and shoved ‘em up my sleeve.”
“You’ve still been carrying on apricorn-crafting?” gasped Valtor, amazed at Curtis’s daring after having the police visit his house. Curtis smirked proudly. “Like I’d stop working in Grandpa’s absence. He’d create a pokéball out of my skull! I visit him in jail every day, and he always asks me about my progress.”
“Really?!” Valtor’s jaw dropped in amazement. He barely felt Kenta push one of the apricorn balls hastily into his limp hand. “You must have over a hundred custom- made pokéballs done by now! I mean . . . three weeks is a long time! Where do you store them all?”
Curtis looked at Valtor with a hint of skepticism in his eyes. “Um . . . well, I don’t know if I should be telling you that . . .”
“Classified information?” asked Kenta playfully, observing the green pokéball he’d chosen from the three on the floor. “Curtis, this Friend Ball is amazing. I can’t wait to try it out on Bolt.”
Valtor looked down at his own ball; it was colored black and white, and seemed a bit bigger than Kenta’s Friend Ball. Curtis walked up to Valtor and pointed down at Munchlax, who was eying the refrigerator in the northern corner of the room. “You’ve got a Heavy Ball. Go ahead and re-capture your pokémon in it. Un-cork the top, and give it a good toss.”
There was a plug in the top of the Heavy Ball, and Valtor twisted it off before letting the ball fly. “Hey, Munchlax,” he muttered, “think fast.” In a flash of light, his gluttonous companion pokémon was gone, and the Heavy Ball lay dormant on the floor. Curtis gave a triumphant bark of laughter, and picked up the Heavy Ball with a delighted grin on his face. “Worked like a charm! Here,” he said, giving it back to Valtor, “there’s one captured pokémon that those pigs won’t be able to warp away from you. Use it well.”
“Thanks, Curtis,” beamed Kenta, tossing the Friend Ball to himself. “I don’t suppose there’s any way we can repay you, is there?”
“Well . . .” The young pokéball craftsman pushed his glasses up his nose, not looking directly at either Kenta or Valtor. “I don’t suppose . . . if it’s possible . . . could you somehow get poor old Kurt out of jail?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Kenta shot him a thumbs-up. “Leave it to us. Valtor, let’s get a move on.”
“Wait!” Curtis held out his hand. The brothers stopped at the door, and Kenta turned and looked back at him. Curtis looked bewildered. “Just like that?” he asked blankly. “You’re really going to rescue him?”
“Of course,” said Kenta, grinning at him. “After what you’ve done for us, it’s the least we can do.”
Curtis continued to look at Kenta with a strange expression, then shifted his eyes slowly to Valtor. “Something’s going on,” he said slowly, crossing his arms and watching the brothers. “Kenta, you came here because you wanted to talk to Grandpa. You’re in disguise, so you obviously want people to continue thinking you’re dead. And the only reason you’d want to consult Grandpa is because he knows the deepest secrets about making pokéballs.” Curtis raised an eyebrow. “Training and capturing pokémon in secret? It’s almost as if you’re operating under the radar . . . Sergeant.”
“Perceptive as always, Curtis,” laughed Kenta easily, shaking his head. “Like I keep saying, you’d make an awesome detective if you were ever to work for Silhouette.”
Curtis tried, and failed, to conceal a smile. “I’d just like to know what you’re up to,” he said in a sincere voice, looking down and kicking his foot back and forth. Kenta gave him a wave, as he slid open the door. “Don’t worry, Curtis. I trust you. Before the day is out, we’ll be back to tell you how the jail visit went. Then I’ll give you your answers.” He stepped outside, moved to shut the panel door, then paused, thinking. “Oh, and Curtis, don’t let anyone find out you’re making pokéballs. Unless, that is, you want them to know.”
Kenta let the door shut with a snap, and Valtor’s last glimpse of Curtis was the abashed-looking young man performing a somewhat-shoddy salute, wearing a determined expression. The brothers looked at each other, and Valtor shot Kenta a thumbs-up, grinning excitedly. “All right! Phase one complete!”
“You said it, bro,” Kenta smirked, twisting his fist playfully in Valtor’s hair. “But we’ve still gotta get to Kurt, and see what we can do about this Master Ball. Get my uniform out of the pack, would you please?”
Valtor removed his school backpack and zipped it open, remembering almost instantly where in the bag Kenta’s military getup was folded after having taken inventory on it twice. “Here you go,” he said, handing Kenta the pants, jacket, and police cap with the wig sewed around the edges. His brother accepted the clothes in his arms with a self- satisfied grin. “See? Look at that,” he said, turning around and trotting off. “When you double-check inventory, you know where everything is when you need it later.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get you. See you in a minute.”
Kenta returned from Curtis’s backyard a short while later, looking to all the world like the cop he once was. Valtor marveled at how well the wig suited him; the only difference from before was that Kenta now appeared to have shorter hair. In actuality, he had it tucked away in his hat, still dyed white and all compacted together in a tight bundle. Even after first impression, Valtor still couldn’t tell that the wig was fake.
“You look . . . very professional. If I didn’t know better, I’d behave around you.”
“Oh, ha, ha. You’d better watch it, kiddo, or I may have to use the pepper spray!”
The brothers began their walk down the empty street of the chilly town, and Kenta busied himself with shoving Brendan’s clothing back into Valtor’s backpack. Looking at Bolt’s Friend Ball and considering it for a moment, Kenta shook his head and pushed it in as well. “It’s not your old Luxury Ball,” he muttered, “but it’ll hold you fine just the same. Stay in the bookbag for now, buddy, this next mission’s a covert operation.”
Seeing a police building about five blocks off in the distance, Valtor pointed it out to Kenta. “Wow! It really is close by. What can I do to help out?” he asked eagerly. Kenta stopped, and Valtor halted next to him, looking to his brother for instruction. Kenta’s face was impassive.
“. . . I hate to say it, but you won’t be able to come with me for this one.”
Valtor looked at him, mildly surprised, and a tad bit disappointed. “I can’t? Then what’ll I do?”
Kenta pointed to a tiny building across the street, titled Hikita’s. “I ate there once with Bakuphoon, back during my trainer days. Go ahead in, and order us some chicken and rice for lunch, while I’m away.” His head was lowered. “Sorry, Valtor. We can’t afford to be seen together in front of the police. It’d be too suspicious.” He looked his brother directly in the eye, glaring passionately at him. “Understand this. If I fail this mission, or if I ever get caught when I’m not with you, I need you to stay where you are, and not come after me. Deny you know me, if you’re called as a witness. Will you do it?”
Valtor looked at him, horrified, and after a long pause, barely nodded. “I’ll do as you say.”
“I won’t be long.” Kenta smiled at him. “We’ll be eating together while the food’s still hot, count on it.” He patted Valtor on the shoulder. “See you in a half hour or less.”
***
Azalea Town’s Officer Jenny was reading the morning paper at the desk of the police station when the door jingled and she saw a figure entering in with a stride to his step. She straightened up out of her seat and saluted her fellow officer smartly, as the custom went.
“Good . . . late morning, Jenny,” Kenta said with a brisk smile, returning the salute. She relaxed and looked him up and down guardedly, putting a hand under his chin. “Good morning. Let’s see . . . do I know you?” she asked with an eyebrow raised. “I can’t explain it, but you look . . . awfully familiar.”
“Fa . . . miliar?”
Officer Jenny suddenly snapped her fingers, her face brightening. “Aha! I thought I recognized your face. You’re Kenta Daitan, aren’t you?”
Kenta tensed, gritting his teeth to keep from giving his shock away. No! She knows who I am? Have I been found out already?!
“Oh, come here, come here!” cheered Officer Jenny elatedly, putting out her hand and beaming enormously. “I had no idea you’d become part of the force! But after that incident three years ago, I’m not surprised. Congratulations!”
Relaxing on the inside, Kenta put out his hand and shook Officer Jenny’s gloved one, grinning modestly. “Eh, heh, heh, I’m surprised you remembered.”
“Who could forget?” Jenny pumped his arm continuously, still smiling widely. “You and old man Kurt were something else, when you went down and rescued all our town Slowpoke single-handedly from that horrible Rocket tail-cutting operation. I should’ve known it was only a matter of time before you became a real officer!”
“Y-yeah,” said Kenta, flexing his fingers a bit in Jenny’s grasp as his hand continued to be rattled up and down. Getting the hint, she let off, and saluted him again proudly. “So! What brings you back to Azalea Town, Officer Kenta?”
“Well, it’s funny you should bring up the past,” said Kenta, scratching the back of his head casually. “I believe you have Kurt Kuchinawa himself in your holding cells, right now. I need to interrogate him, if now’s a good time.”
“Oh.” Officer Jenny’s face fell. “Yes, go ahead. Now’s a good time all right, but trust me, the bad times are imminent.” She pointed out the glass doors, through which Kenta had entered, to the empty streets outside. “There are a lot of angry pokémon trainers out there- or should I say, former pokémon trainers- who are still waking up this morning to realize that their pokémon are really gone. It’s the quiet before the storm, I know it. Be careful, Kenta, there may be quite a few rioting incidents in the next couple of weeks before everyone’s used to this new system.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” answered Kenta, waving as he pushed through the door leading to the back of the police station. Yes, there’s going to be trouble all right, he thought grimly, heading down the hall towards the cells downstairs. But with any luck, we can resist assertively without being flat-out violent. People with hope are a lot more reasonable than people without it.
As Kenta passed the jail cells, a couple of the prisoners leered at him, and one made a hacking noise in his throat, as if to spit up a ball of mucus at him. “So,” came a sneering voice from a cell he’d just passed, “the little hero returns.” Kenta stopped, staring straight ahead. He vaguely recognized the voice, as the speaker went on cynically. “Come to take something else away from us, huh? I can’t imagine what more you could want.”
“Do you think I’m here to talk to you guys?” he asked quietly. A splatter of of spit landed a few inches away from his shoe, and he smiled bitterly. “Well . . . you’re right. But wait your turns, okay?”
“Who’s that?” came an elderly, wheezy voice from the furthest cell at the end of the room. “I know that voice from somewhere . . . you’re not Curtis though, are you?”
Kenta stepped in front of the bars and looked through, smiling at the man he saw on the other side. “Hello, Elder Kurt,” he said, pulling up an interrogation stool sitting against the wall and seating himself on it. “You’re looking good for your age.”
The short and balding man gazed keenly at Kenta with a pondering hand over his mouth, and his eyes widened in recognition. “Well, I’ll be,” he said, breaking out in a semi-toothless smile. “It’s the boy with the Cyndaquil from back in the good old days. You’re taller than me now!”
“Heh, at this point, Maisy probably is, too.” Kenta pointed over his shoulder. “I meant to ask Curtis about her, but it slipped my mind. Is she still with you?”
“No, she’s been home with her parents.” Kurt shook his head sadly. “It’s just as well. I wouldn’t want my granddaughter seeing me in here like this. It would break her little heart.”
That’s it. Play the heartstrings!
Kenta leaned closer to Kurt’s cell and lowered his voice. “But you didn’t do anything wrong,” he whispered in a reasoning tone. “You were just doing what you do best- helping pokémon trainers during their journeys, and keeping alive the tradition that your parents started.”
Kurt snorted. “It doesn’t matter anymore. The good days are over, anyway. It’s just as well that I’m confined to this cell . . . at least I can be ignorant of the outside world, as it is these days.”
“Oh, don’t say that. We’re just going through some hard times. It’ll get better.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m offering you the chance to continue doing what you do best,” said Kenta calmly, reaching into his pocket and feeling around for what he was looking for. His fingers passed over the cold metal of Shatu’s lockpick, and rested on the cool cylindrical sphere which never left his side. Pulling it out, he passed it through the bars to his jailed companion. “Do you recognize what this is?”
Kurt stared down at the Master Ball in Kenta’s hand, then picked it up in his own and examined it with fascinated eyes. “But . . . but . . . where did you get this?” he whispered loudly, his voice choked with awe. “This is the World Wonder of Japan!”
“Yeah, and soon the world may very well wonder how we became the next WWII Germany,” Kenta said dourly, narrowing his eyes. “You may not know this, but our government seized all data on the Master Ball after shutting Silph Corporation down two months ago. On top of that, they’ve got over ninety percent of all the trained pokémon in Japan, and the few remaining people who can still be legally considered trainers have barely any power at all.
“Do you understand what I’m getting at? Led by G.R.I.P., the government now has control over an obedient army of super-creatures who can do virtually anything. They don’t need us normal people for anything but work. How long will it be before some corrupt politician attempts to become a ruler with this new power? What will we do, then?”
Kurt looked horrified. Around Kenta, he could hear eavesdropping prisoners muttering to each other. He caught little bits of words and phrases, such as “got a point,” “never liked them,” “conspiracy theorist,” and “I knew it!” Ignoring them for the moment, he focused his eyes on Kurt, who was still grasping the Master Ball. “Maybe I’m just paranoid, but there’s no excusing the fact that we have a major power difference between the government and the people of Japan as of this morning.”
Kenta pointed at Kurt’s gnarly hands. “That’s where you come in. Kurt, you’ve got the experience and wisdom needed to analyze the Master Ball to the fullest. I need you . . .” He annunciated his words intently. “To duplicate it.”