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  "description": "I have made the eyes of those passing by bleed with the awful quality of my early work. So I'm going to be re-releasing my chapters, polished to my current standard of care, for new and old readers to enjoy. I will also be updating the chapter tags so they reflect the whole fic.\n\nThank you so much to those who suffered as I shook the rust away these last few years.\n\n---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n[b]Emil is a quiet man with a well kept secret; he has little to look forward to but even less to complain about as he works his life away and puts up with his obnoxious wealthy neighbor.\n\nThat is until a once-in-a-lifetime sequence of events threatens to upend everything he has, should he go for the catch.[/b]",
  "description_bbcode_parsed": "<span style='word-wrap: break-word;'>I have made the eyes of those passing by bleed with the awful quality of my early work. So I&#039;m going to be re-releasing my chapters, polished to my current standard of care, for new and old readers to enjoy. I will also be updating the chapter tags so they reflect the whole fic.<br /><br />Thank you so much to those who suffered as I shook the rust away these last few years.<br /><br />---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /><strong>Emil is a quiet man with a well kept secret; he has little to look forward to but even less to complain about as he works his life away and puts up with his obnoxious wealthy neighbor.<br /><br />That is until a once-in-a-lifetime sequence of events threatens to upend everything he has, should he go for the catch.</strong></span>",
  "writing": "[center][b]Forbidden Waters – 1[/b][/center]\n\n\n“Alright, here we go again,” Emil said, gripping the aging steering wheel of his 533 Economy model Aron.\n\nThe car was a blocky, beige, working man’s affair with dents and scratches like acne scars and lights that needed re-soldered from time to time because of the way the car vibrated in regular use. Inconvenient to almost anyone else, but Emil had the skills to pay the… well, he had the skills to pay his debts; paying the bills might’ve been a bit much to ask for.\n\nIn truth, the thing was hideous to behold by any man or mon. It was that cheap sort of model meant to scare middle-class rattata-racers into finding something more respectable on the lot, but he knew the guts of the economy frames were all the same. It didn’t make sense to re-kit production for the real mechanical deal after all. All that mattered to him was that the thing was reliable and parts were plentiful.\n\nUnlike in Kanto or some of the other more community-oriented regions, Hoenn invested in roads and local business infrastructure instead of sensible public transit. Every man woman or lemonade-stand-running child was expected to find their own way of traversing the desolate, asphalt deserts that paved Mauville to glory, and this was his attempt.\n\nThe car rattled like a chingling chapel as he tossed a throat full of caffeine pills in a mouthy cauldron of canned espresso and shook his face awake as he choked down his twice-daily dose of cardiac arrest. Then, sapience returned, he corrected his thin rectangular glasses and pulled out of parking space ‘Silph Co. 3,’ smiling with content as he drove for the exit gate. Freedom, for a little while at least.\n\n“Oh, youngun. Bless me, yer still with us. Good t’ seeya!” crooned an elderly lychee-haired woman with a breezy ex-smoker’s voice. Her bones wobbled around with a shaky gait, draped in mottled skin graffitied in faded tattoos, stretch marks, and working scars. A living tapestry of lower class Hoenn life.\n\nEmil gave her an out-of-order ear-to-ear grin and quietly handed her a laminated badge. “Good to see you on shift, Bridget. You're gonna retire today, right?”\n\nShe scoffed and flipped the card back into the cabin like a shuriken with a suspicious degree of accuracy and pressed her big orange button with an animated stab of the finger. A fwip-click sounded from below her and a second chair rustled behind her. “Emilio Malison, my crusty ass’ll retire as soon as ya get some sleep.”\n\nSlakoth yawned and extended his long twin clawed paws up to her, handing the woman a small slip of paper. \n\n“Thanks baby,” she said, scratching at her adams apple in time with her pokemon scratching his hind end. “Can send ya home with Molasses here, I trust ya. Yer pa was good folk and so’r you. Paid a pretty pokedollar to learn‘m Yawn so I could find some shuteye myself.”\n\nIt took Emil an extremely uncomfortable amount of time to register the offer and respond. “You’re sweet, ma’am… but last thing I need is a fine for keeping a mon that isn’t mine. Not if I want a license someday.”\n\nShe glared at him from the time-frosted windows of her little shack and shook her head. “Ye always remind me of muh late husband,” she said, then wrote down something on the slip of paper. “Seriously, baby. Y’get discounts work’n for the man. Nab a hovel-tel over-yonder and shut yer distorted eyes.”\n\n“Got a house to pay down, got other loans. Shoot, ma’am, I gotta pay my league fees so I can catch a Molasses all my own.”\n\nHe twists his wrists around the wheel at the old-lady’s judgemental gaze. “Alright, alright… I’ll pull over and take a nap on the road, just for you. See ya next week!”\n\n“Stubborn shit. S’all I can ask fer, I guess,” she said and, against her better judgement, flicked a switch to set the man free. “Keep that promise, honey. I wanna see ya with a lover rid’n shotgun, not rolled up in a shit tin ball.”\n\nHis jaw clenches as his heart starts to race and he hastens his breathing to keep the air flowing through his lungs to keep up. “I’ll let you have that second promise, all for free.”\n\n“Good luck on yer license. I heard they’re tightening the number they hand out again,” she said, and the one-way spikes laid down with a smack.\n\nEmil gave a lazy goodbye wave as he manually cranked his window up and then coasted out onto one of a thousand industrial intersections to hide behind a crumbling old potion packaging compound.\n\nHe promptly ignored her warnings, knocked back the last of his pokecent store drink, and crushed the can in his hand. He could handle this, he always did. He had to. Papá’d twist around his coffin box if he let a single second slack away.\n\nHe always enjoyed watching the skyline now and again as he left Mauville Regional Airport, where the whole city spread before him like a map. The huge luxurious living centers, made popular by Gym Leader Wattson back in the day, could easily be picked out amidst the ashen landscape like gemstones set in a sheet of gabbro. Their bejeweled windows, gold-accented marble, and resplendent horticultural rooftops were a dazzling sight to behold.\n\nNot that he could ever expect to afford to live anywhere near those postal codes, but their shadows still cast a bit of value on his humble little home. That was the story he told himself every day, anyway.\n\nHe swerved from time to time, but the caffeine and the everpresent threat of a judicious roadside beatdown by an overworked cop kept him going. Juuust long enough to finally glide off into his hometown field of abject homogeneity.\n\nYou might not expect there to be perks to driving home tired, but each of his neighborhood’s streets had the curb-appeal of a row of corporate cubicles. Same tiny patches of faux grass, same blue-gray paint jobs, same double-tall fences, and his was at the farthest edge of the project, where some older, more organically grown properties finally came into view.\n\nShit, even the news-print companies ensured their deliveries were dropped by empty-eyed machop in slate-gray jackets. Why waste brain space remembering [b]that [/b]liminal journey week-in and week-out?\n\nHis vehicle sighed in relief as he pulled into the cubby the city called his driveway, tucked snugly between both his neighbor’s homes… and the front of his [b]other [/b]neighbor’s debacle of a property. Then, as his journey came to an end, Emil wobbled out of the driver side door with a careless smack of his head on the lip of the door, and cajoled the trunk open with a slam of his fist.\n\nHe popped the buttons of his corporately garish, painfully mandatory, pokeball-pinstripe overalls and  peeled them away in the dark like an insect molting its carapace.\n\nA metal tag dangling from a klefki-shaped ring in his hands still read, ‘Lil’ Maniacz: 520,” in bold saccharine font, desperately clinging to some of its original Dipplin-Red enamels.\n\nPulling at a grungy recycled rubber band that wound his hair into a bun, he twisted it around his wrist until it snapped free, letting his long silky-brown locks spin loose and drape around his shoulders.\n\nA well loved home left empty for a while always has a peculiar smell, it’s invigorating every time; the scent of dust along with all the deeply personal and comfortable aromas only you noticed being gone for a week or more. The man had made a habit of closing his eyes as he walked past the precipice, navigating his sanctum by smell alone until his shins hit the bed or he found the fridge to dine on some dubiously carcinogenic snack with a best-by date.\n\nHe always caught the scent of the neat librarian rows of academic texts first. Stacked on shelves specifically arranged to block the windows out, featuring such riveting titles as, ‘Chemical Pressures on Wormdam Silk Variety,’ by Dr. A. Kawananakoa. Or maybe ‘Scriptography, 535,’ a collection of coding-language material released for the express purpose of collecting dust in college computer labs.\n\nIf Emil felt the need to reminisce, he might pry open a portfolio or two, alphanumerically arranged with his own high-definition photos of the gorgeous Pokemon he’d captured all around the world. With film at least. In truth, it was a coin toss as to whether it relieved or intensified his desire for comfort and companionship.\n\nIf he was craving some less sobering activity, he might reach for one of a thousand hand-picked favorites littering the ledges of his home. ‘Sea to Sea with Mr. G.’ was always a great way to revisit those nicer childhood memories, of course. But one such tome stands out amongst the rest from its hallowed space beside his favorite chair, its antique canvas cover stained by the oils of loving human hands; ‘Through the Tall Grasses,’ by Ranger Solana.\n\nEvery single one had been divvied up with scrawled sheets of notes slipped between their yellow-cornered pages. A meticulously growing archive of education and expertise that matched the mind of a man cursed with a consummate compulsion to know more… for nothing but the twisted sake of knowing more.\n\nAs always, next his nose caught the whiff of his usual pile of mass-produced stationary heaped beneath the mail slot of his front door. He snatched up an old newspaper that must have made it in as a free sample, trashing it after a quick scan confirmed nothing new was brewing and nothing good was afoot.\n\nBuried in the soil of scam and spam, a highly-decorated intraregional parcel caught his nostrils’ eye. It smelled of kneaded dough and freshly-tilled soil, accented with the unmistakable stench of his mother’s favorite perfume. He opened his eyes again and found it sat beside a dusty plushy pokemon bed with a matching pair of bowls languishing in a darkened corner.\n\nA gift from home, a la Cortondo Paldea.\n\n\n[b]“¡Suerte, míjo!” [/b]it read, in the hand scrawled ink of a thrice-stolen ball-point pen.\n\n\nIt was nice to feel his heart warming up as the furnace roared back to life with the smell of baking dust. “Graci, Mamá.”\n\nHe’d get to writing his response later, though, and felt like taking Bridget up on that bet of hers. Who knew, maybe he would get some real sleep for once and finally catch her wasting away her best years in some gold-glassed game corner up town.\n\nDarkened by windows caked with industrial grade umbreon-black paint, he tiptoed his nose through the house.\n\nRotting coffee-grounds he’d forgotten to toss before he left the house a week ago. The spot atop his mantle designated for incense and diffusion lamps. That spot on the sofa he just couldn’t scrub free, left by the wine he spilled drinking himself to sleep the night his father’d passed away.\n\nDown the hall he went, banking right at the scent of lavender soap and his creamsicle shampoo, then blindly stumbled into his spartan excuse for a bedroom. The bed he had made for himself lay waiting in a wavy wrinkled heap for his eventual, exhausted, spinning leap.\n\nWith hair lashing around to smack himself in the face, he finally allowed his tired body to find its place.\n\n\nMeanwhile, outside, a very different spectacle was unfolding.\n\n\nAround the corner of the residential block, inches beyond the lines drawn specifically for low-income development, practically visible from space, was a gratuitously luxurious bachelor home. Its backyard was strewn with all manner of expensive pokemon training equipment, a paved running track, and even a reinforced pad with league-standard half-court markings. Its driveway formed a massive U through the perfectly manicured yard of genuine grass and berry-salad bushes that then branched off to a massive two-truck garage.\n\nThe place reeked of the worst kind of privilege, earned or not, took up a whole quarter of the block in and of itself and, as a bachelor pad will, never liked to remain silent.\n\nHip-hop music pulverized the air so hard that all of Hoenn could follow the noise like a northern star as a monstrous SUV in glossy black and a golden Metagross hood-ornament roared around the corner. Behind it came a vulgar cavalcade of vehicles pulling in to park anyplace they damn-well pleased, creating a discordant blockade guaranteed to irritate the neighbors in the morning.\n\nOut of the SUV hopped a stunningly-handsome, olympically toned, impressively-dressed young man with a belt of custom luxury Pokeballs worn bare to the metal from their use. Watching his step for rogue scuffs of mud and, of course, wearing his designer sunglasses in the dead of night, he carries himself with a rapturous confidence chiseled into his marble-carved face.\n\nThe leather jacket bearing his battle-family name swirled in a grand circle like the cape of a pretentious medieval lord as his fist punched the sky, “Welcome, everyone, to [u][b]STONE[/b][/u] CASTLE!”\n\nHe slipped a remote from his pocket with a lazy click over his shoulder and every light in his home, including the porch, interior mood lamps, and the vanity spotlights came to life in a miniature city of sin.\n\nEveryone piled out of their vehicles, storming the front door with assorted boxes, packs, and bottles of booze in a wild parade of revelry. At the entryway the words, ‘Richard Stone,’ stood engraved in a granite plaque above the door. Everyone released their Pokemon all at once, drinking, mingling, creating raucous impromptu dance areas wherever their drunken fancies saw fit, and played dangerous drinking games anywhere they didn’t.\n\n\nEmil’s bloodshot eyes stared up at the ceiling as empty-headed insanity skittered across his once relaxed face, like a clean GUI broken down to incomprehensible code. “Petitil’s sake…”\n\nTossing, turning, tumbling around the bed for hours through the party, especially when the drinking games began, he gazed at the ends of his eyeballs in a desperate search for slumber. Until he finally gave up and fumbled around the nightstand drawer.\n\nHe popped the stop of a quartz-glass bottle of unmarked capsules filled with a sparkling white powder. “Mareep, Mareep... carry me on butterfree wings…” he recited the lyrics of a classic rock favorite, cracking a capsule into his palm like a tiny egg in a pan.\n\nShowered in what looked like cheap craft-store glitter, he brought his palm to his nose and snuffed it up both nostrils in one swift mouthless breath of air.\n\nHe coughed in a violent, irritated fit... He always did, hating the way that stuff felt on the way in as he wheezed and spluttered a bit out in tiny puffs of dust that coated the sheets in a snowy glow that reflected the dim, red, hallway lights he always left on for comfort.\n\nBut, without fail, as soon as he hit that fifth lung-full of air, his world began to wilt and twirl and his body numbed inward from the fingers and toes as an electric chill tingled the base of his spine.\n\n His heaviness of his eyes began to sink like rocks gently laid onto a pool of silt…\n\n “Take me…. on...”\n\n He smiled as the euphoria rippled over his icy nerves and his vision blurred away…\n\n “Take me where the Ampharos swan…”\n\n\n\n\n[center]\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/[/center]\n\n\n \nIt took the brightness of the midday sun to finally penetrate the mammoth cloud of unconsciousness coccooning his mind throughout the night… and the entirety of the next morning.\n\nWrenching his body into something that resembled sitting up, Emil’s legs hung at the side of the bed like a stiff-limbed doll posed for tea as he slowly rocked himself to and fro, breathing in and out, regaining some measure of composure. “Aaalways leaves me dragggn’ ass,” he uttered to himself as he stood and shuffled out into the light.\n\nHis corner of a kitchen was an itsy bit of a place, that was until you accounted for his avionics-grade use of storage and countertop space. He reached up, down, over, under, and through secret nooks and interlocking crannies honeycombing the room as he assembled his brew, never once touching anything more than was mathematically necessary.\n\nNothing but the clashing of Arceus and Giratinna could stand between a noctowl nerd and his precious supply of methyltheobromine.\n\nEyes barely open as the sun sneaking in through the blinds of the back sliding-glass door seared his retinas, he busied himself with bubbling up a particularly unhealthy and delicious brew to soften venomoth dust hangover. Then he swiveled a remote he’d abandoned in the kitchen weeks ago at the edge of his lonely two-chair table and clicked around the dividing wall of his personal cafe.\n\nThe gloom of the television light was much more inviting than that cheery death-blaze of the midday sun, so he elected to seal the curtains, block the doors, and hole himself up like a troglodytic diglett. Gripping his triple-strength mocha-mint espresso, the smell of peppermint and white-chocolate teased the nostrils and tickled the tongue with each and every sip, nursed from his favorite coffee mug sporting the image of a cute little koffing with the line formula for caffeine scribbled on its tummy in crayon.\n \n“Alright,” Emil said with a relaxed, exhausted sigh, “how’s the world burning now?”\n\n[b][i]A stunningly-handsome but remarkably-humorless man with concrete hair and faded green recycling-bin eyes popped on screen, examining a stack of papers from a glass platform desk, smiling in a way that says everything’ll be OK.[/i][/b]\n\n[i][b]“Good afternoon, men and women of Mauville city. Aaand all who visit our fabulous home; I’m Jackson Steady and this is the esteemed Hoenn News Network Midday Roundup. We’ve got a couple-of-doozies for all-of-ya fine folks today, so I won’t waste a [/b][/i][u][b][i]single[/i][/b][/u][i][b] minute of time,” he dictated with a nod that seems to agree with a panel of someone-more-important behind the camera.[/b][/i]\n\n[b][i]“Historic downtown Mauville is in disarray this morning as protestors surrounding the recently announced Apogee Nature-Clinic have shut down any hope for those of you around the area wanting to drive instead of walk ‘neath the blazing summer sun. Be sure to send your complaints to menformon.org as soon as you see fit.[/i][/b]\n\n[i][b]“Participants in the demonstration claim that Apogee is… ahem… ‘a soulless driver of Pokemon suffering all around the world and that the permanent alteration of a personality is a ‘[/b][/i][u][b][i]crime against life.[/i][/b][/u][i][b]’ Our trusted reporters in-association with Jadelabs cite that the company has been the spearhead of progress these last thirty years, benefiting both men [/b][/i][u][b][i]and[/i][/b][/u][i][b] [/b][/i][b][i]mon, and that [/i][/b][i][b][u]their[/u][/b][/i][b][i] studies have shown zero discomfort in mon undergoing their procedures.[/i][/b]\n\n[i][b]Frankly, pedestrians are getting tired of walking to work from the green-top off ramps and scraping protest fliers from their faces after getting to their desks.”[/b][/i]\n\n[b][i]He flipped a paper out of his hand, tossing it over his shoulder with dramatic flair as exclusive protest footage shows brightly colored Silph Co. placards graffitied with corny declarations of hate painted on in stark red paint. One image strikes the mind in particular, that of an apogee delivery vehicle set ablaze and burning with the words, ‘Progress is Death!’[/i][/b]\n\n[i][b]“A record breaking [/b][/i][u][b][i]ELEVEN[/i][/b][/u][i][b] Ultra Class trainers from our own jewel of the region climbed the rankings in one single battle event. Leading the effort is Richard S. Stone, whose ranking has rocketed to one-twenty-fourth after an unbelievably earth-shattering turn around in the final moments of his last match with an opponent far above him in the ladder.[/b][/i]\n\n[b][i]“Gratitude from us at HNN, and a hearty congratulations to all those who make Mauville proud. Also, I’m sure Richard’s grandfather is glowing with pride.[/i][/b]\n\n[i][b]“Carry that baton son.”[/b][/i]\n\n\n \nEmilio stares deadpan at the screen, head nodding as the rumble of Richard’s caravan leaving shakes the windows. “Yep, that tracks.”\n \n\n[i][b]“Do you need comfort? Does it feel like love is a million miles away?  Are you grieving for that long-lost loved-one of old? If so, perhaps you should consider TabulaRasa, a company that’s taken the therapy world, and many other industries, by storm.[/b][/i]\n\n[b][i]“Should mon be therapists? When is a job so much you have to pay a ‘mon? Is it ethical? We here at HNN can’t say for certain, but we’ve personally interviewed the fine folks at Ta-Ra and we can say that the ditto in their employ are happy as a clamperl.[/i][/b]\n\n[i][b]“Nonetheless many questions are still being asked. Perhaps we should take a step back and let these questions get answered by philosophers and kings before we get them answered by the captains of industry. That could be dangerous.”[/b][/i]\n\n[b][i]He set the papers down on the desk, rolling his shoulders, and stared into the camera with metal-typed seriousness as a horribly drawn cartoon ditto is rendered with fishnet stockings and a bra on a street corner appeared to the host’s right.[/i][/b]\n\n[i][b]“One of those questions in particular; can you love a ‘mon? Well, of course. They’re like family in some cases. But how much ‘love’ can we give before affection should become incarceration? Can a critter who’s not even capable of signing Battle League papers give informed consent?”[/b][/i]\n\n[b][i]Steady shudders.[/i][/b]\n\n[i][b]“My rockruff at home would sooner die than kiss me on the couch, let alone…” He stops himself short with a raised brow.[/b][/i]\n\n\n[b][i]“A tiny minority of deviant enthusiasts has filed yet another petition to the Hoenn Supreme Court to abolish the laws banning Man-Mon intercourse.” Jackson gives a tired sigh. “Thankfully, like every time before now, the gold-standard of society since time-immemorial stands with firm resolve.[/i][/b]\n\n[i][b]“In a stunning coincidence, two groups of criminal activists radicalized through dex-net dark-threads have been taken into custody yesterday. Alleged to have taken Pokemon… ‘Partners’ if you get what I mean. The primary investigator, Mauville’s own Lieutenant Keenan Steel, has made only one public statement about this record-breaking tag-and-bag of twenty-three people…[/b][/i]\n\n[b][i]Pictured at a podium in dress uniform, covered with shining medals and multicolored ribbons, an officer bears The Seal of Hoenn in bronze at his breast. The surprisingly-young hard-nosed man with aggron-tough features stands with his jet black hair chopped to neat dimensions and a discerning gaze that matches the pair of Lucario at his side. The ancient gaze of a justiciar whose heart is charged with the righteous fury of the people.[/i][/b]\n\n[i][b]Jack peered into the last page to recite,[/b][/i]\n\n[u][b][i]‘Pokemon abuse of this kind is a blight set upon the world, of the worst possible kind. Such garbage should never walk the streets of Hoenn. So long as I live and breathe, every scrap of their sort of trash will be TAKEN OUT.’[/i][/b][/u]\n\n[i][b]Jackson pounds his chest with his lips pursed in appreciation for what he just read. “Truly a man in a class of his own, but we do love a rousing debate. Let us know what you think; hit us up on the HNN official Razzberry page where we, in proper Hoenn fashion, knuckle up and get down to what’s right.[/b][/i]\n\n[b][i]“Thank you for listening in to this very special Midday Roundup, don’t miss me in the eve----”[/i][/b]\n\n\nEmil flicked the TV off. “Gross. What is it that distorts these kinds of people…” he uttered into the last sips of his coffee.\n\nBody beginning to feel some semblance of normalcy, he ran over to the massive pile of bills and junk mail to look for some ‘thing’ in specific. He spotted it immediately, attracted to the bright red and white stylized Pokeball sticker seal on the fold. Frantically opening the parcel, full of enthusiasm, he remarks for the eighth time at the faint sterile nothingness of the letter’s odor.\n\n\n[b]Salutations, Emilio Malison![/b]\n\n[b]This letter comes to you in response to your Pokemon League D-Class Licensure application for belt slots:[/b]\n\n[b]1 - Hobby[/b]\n\n[b]0 - Labor[/b]\n\n[b]0 - Battle[/b]\n\n[b]0 - Special[/b]\n\n[b]These are the the results of your evaluation:[/b]\n\n[b]Knowledge Testing - 98th percentile.[/b]\n[b]Support Network - 55th percentile.[/b]\n[b]Lifestyle Choice - 35th percentile.[/b]\n[b] [/b]\n[b]Your knowledge of Pokemon at the Hobby Trainer level is more than sufficient to meet our qualifications. It is clear that you are an enthusiastic learner with a deep appreciation for everything there is to know about Pokemon in this big wide world of ours. If you were not already considering a life of research, we would encourage you to seriously seek out this profession.[/b]\n\n[b]Your ability to support yourself and your potential Pokemon partners is sufficient in our opinion. We would prefer a strong support network of identifiable friends and family, and at least one letter of recommendation from a current license-holder goes a long way. Why not get out of your comfort zone and make a friend or two at your local gym? Each is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, every day of the year![/b]\n\n[b]Based on the demands of your current position with your employer we cannot recommend that you take on the rigours of sustained pokemon partnership. Pokemon training is a big responsibility, and it is not good for Pokemon to be cooped up in their Pokeball all the time. We sincerely hope that you’ll enter a phase in your life where you can devote four hours minimum every single day to them.[/b]\n\n[b]It is with much regret that we here at the Hoenn Pokemon League have to reject your application for: Hobby Trainer Certification – No Battle – No Labor. You may retest again in 3 months from the date mar—[/b]\n \n\nHis hands folded the letter carefully with a slow steady blinking pace. Hiding the nugget of toxicity sprouting inside him with a cool collected breath, Emil crumpled the sheet into a crackling apricorn ball.\n\n“No point in keeping this around,” he uttered as he tossed the thing into the trash. “Crazy how those perverts wasted such a precious thing,” he mused, reaching into the fridge for a tall can of Pecha Berry tea. “No way I’d ever do something so stupid.”\n\nEmilio unwrapped a vacuum-sealed package. A book titled ‘Somethings Fishy in Here; Inconsistencies in Water Egg Group 2 Taxonomy.’ Truly engaging, but this was the kind of stuff he enjoyed, unfettered knowledge bunched into neat succinct piles, laid out with intensity of argument. His ability to cement such immense quantities of information into his brain with a single reading is how he’d managed to hold his current job without an ounce of academic degree.\n\nHe was going to spend some time out in the sun, whether he liked it or not, because venomoth dust sucks Vitamin D straight out of your body and he was out of supplements. Besides, he was curious enough to want to lay eyes upon the destruction wrought on his rich-ass neighbor’s property by that disparate hoard of party-goers.\n\nEmil didn’t hate Richard at all, though the wannabe master-trainer gave him lots of reasons to. A terrible neighbor, even if you set the noisy block parties out of sight, he constantly contracted loud obstructive construction adding expensive training equipment or some other luxurious expansion to his abode. His Pokemon, especially Rhydon and Torterra, shook the ground with every step and one of his other ‘mon lit fire to a patch of Emil’s fake lawn the week prior. The black hole in his turf is still there, covered with a wooden sheet, waiting for a response from ‘Team Stone Legal’ to send him a fucking check.\n\nIt was an open secret that his wealthy family ties allowed him to influence the city, altering the working class housing development they lived on to set aside a gerrymandered plot at the very edge especially for Richard Stone… at rock bottom prices… Multiple times.\n\nBut, all that aside, Emil put up with the racket because his home value skyrocketed when that rich brat’s home absorbed that half of the block. Also, it [b]was[/b] nice to see Pokemon every day he was home, even if their intensity threatened the foundation of your home. Unlicensed pokemon maniacs like him don’t complain about catching the glimpse of a Seismic Toss or two.\n\nHowever, when he finally braved touching synthetic grass he was surprised to see that not only was the entire property spotless, Richard was out there in sweat pants and a hoodie, running with a couple of his Pokemon at full trot. Old Machamp and his Incineroar jogged behind him, every one of them just as motivated as any other day, despite the hangover. He couldn’t help but be impressed by the guy’s work ethic; he played hard, so [b]so[/b] hard, but apparently worked just as hard to back it all up.\n\nIn the unused part of his estate a crew of orange-vested men took measurements of the ground. Richard from time to time would stop and give them some directions, slapping them on the back with jovial conversation. Heavy lengths of pipe were being trucked in from one side, laid out in neat lengthy pyramids, where at least one Dugtrio could be felt rumbling the soil beneath his feet.\n\nEntranced at this point, Emil dragged a lawn chair to stand and peer over the fence and bear witness to that latest-and-greatest pretentious thing Richard intended to erect in his own honor now\n\nEmil’s heart fluttered and sank all at the same time when a pair of six-thousand-pokedollar shades caught his gaze like a tossed pokeball and Richard interrupted one of his hundred morning laps to trot towards him. “HEY! HEY!”\n\nThe anxious strung-out shut-in slunk down past the fence in the vain hope his neighbor was calling the foreman over again. For one itsy-bitsy, single, solitary second of his life he decided to be a nosy neighbor and instantly knew he’d regret the decision for the gods-damned rest. He slowly slid into the wooden chair and started trying very hard to look like he was reading his book.\n\n“Hey there!” Richard shouted over the fence at Emil. “Yo, my man! How are ya?”\n\nEmil, realizing he’s doomed after all, looked up with a humiliated smile. “Hola! Heh, sorry, I didn’t mean to be a Snoopy Frou.”\n\nRichard laughed with both of his muscular arms leaned over the boards bending with the strain of his weight. “Nah man, got a lot going on, can’t go pretending like people can’t see me. Nah, nah man. I actually was, like, thinking ‘Ah man, I’ve never seen that guy before!’ Holy shit, we’ve been neighbors for, like, a year and I’ve never even [b]seen[/b] you!”\n\n[i]Not really neighbors[/i], Emil grouched, feeling that the more appropriate term was fence-huggers since his actual address was the other side of the block and Richard’s back yard was his one and only view.\n\n“Shoot, everyone arounds’ at least come to say hi or drop a complaint in the mailbox! Hahaha!”\n\n[i]Actually, there is that matter about the lawn[/i], he thought, but in a stroke of social wisdom, he chose not to correct him at all and nodded as he sipped his tea. “Well, I guess there’s a first for everything. I’m Emilio. You must be Richard Stone. Nice job on your jump in the ranking.” Emil said, thankful to Arceus above that he had something to talk about other than his most recent social felony.\n\nRich smiled with one arm pumped. “Ah yeah! You follow the rosters, my man?”\n\nEmil shook his head and stood, realizing that remaining sat would have been awkward as hell. “Nope… Ah, well yes but no, you were in the news just now. Word gets around quick. I do follow battle stats though. I guess I need to look at yours more closely, I heard you came in clutch at the very end.”\n\n“I won’t spoil anything, watch it on League Net.” The toned and tanned jock grinned and grabbed his shades, wiping some sweat from his brow, showing off the emerald-green eyes that fucker had also won in the genetic lottery. So, like, what on Earth do you do, man?”\n\nEmil raised an eyebrow. “What’cha mean?”\n\n“Like for work, man. First guess…. undertaker or some shit.”\n\n“Oh, nah. I work for Silph Co.”\n\nRichard bobbed his chin up and down, interested in what Emil has to say for some gods-known reason. “No shit? You a factory worker?”\n\nEmil, suddenly filled with prideful energy, wanted to immediately set that record straight. “Nope, I fix the equipment they make and sell. Literally anything they make or sell. If it bears the Silph Co. Logo, I’m the guy that fixes it when it breaks.”\n\nRichard’s eyes opened at the implications of that. “Whoa! I pegged you for a big brain, but I thought you might’a been a lab researcher or something. That’s dope; no wonder you’re never here, Silph Co is everywhere! Where’s your Pokemon? You work for the Big Guy, no doubt you got a sick partner.”\n\nEmil all-at-once went from full-of-pride to deflating like a day old birthday balloon. “Oh… no, no. I can’t get a license yet. My job doesn’t let me have Pokemon when I’m on call. Contract stuff with all the factories. Too many 'Liabilities'.\"\n\nRichard snapped his fingers, scrunched his face up in frustration as he realized he’d touched a soft spot. “Yeah, no way you’re gonna meet the daily regiment requirement. That sucks, I bet you’d make a kick-ass Labor Trainer. Get you a meltan, you’d never regret it.”\n\nEmil was taken aback. This neighbor of his, who he assumed was a complete jackass, was having a polite and somewhat enjoyable conversation. Even though he’d admitted he thought Emil was a gravedigger keeping bodies in his basement. “Thanks, I… I kinda needed to hear something like that today,” Emil said, feeling himself opening up bit-by-bit to this lunkhead that came across as genuine.\n\nAnnoying, but genuine.\n\nRichard brandished a dastardly double thumbs-up. “No problem, Em.”\n\nEmil snapped back to reality, remembering the thing that started their conversation in the first place. “What’s going on back there?”\n\nA soft roaring rumbled across the fence and Emil could feel thunderous sets of footsteps approaching from behind Richard. His Rhydon grunted in displeasure and his Incineroar blowing smoke.\n\n“Ok, ok. Sorry I’m slackn’. Just made a new friend though!” He then put his shades back up on his eyes, nodding in approval at Emil. “Building a pool. I qualified for my sixth slot with that last match and I need a water type to round out my strategy.”\n\nEmil perked up immediately. “What are you getting? Do you have them already? Do you mind if I meet them?”\n\nRichard laughed with a confident smile. “Ha! There’s the maniac I pegged you for! Don’t have her yet. And now I know how excited you are, I’m definitely gonna keep it a secret.”\n\nEmil’s face flushed with shock, then he chuckled and gave Richard a thumbs up, mirroring the man’s macho pose and demeanor. “I’m even more excited. You’re evil, Richard.”\n\nHe nodded, rolled his shoulders, and jogged backwards as he said, “you don’t know the half of it. Catch ya later, Em!”\n",
  "writing_bbcode_parsed": "<span style='word-wrap: break-word;'><div class='align_center'><strong>Forbidden Waters &ndash; 1</strong></div><br /><br /><br />&ldquo;Alright, here we go again,&rdquo; Emil said, gripping the aging steering wheel of his 533 Economy model Aron.<br /><br />The car was a blocky, beige, working man&rsquo;s affair with dents and scratches like acne scars and lights that needed re-soldered from time to time because of the way the car vibrated in regular use. Inconvenient to almost anyone else, but Emil had the skills to pay the&hellip; well, he had the skills to pay his debts; paying the bills might&rsquo;ve been a bit much to ask for.<br /><br />In truth, the thing was hideous to behold by any man or mon. It was that cheap sort of model meant to scare middle-class rattata-racers into finding something more respectable on the lot, but he knew the guts of the economy frames were all the same. It didn&rsquo;t make sense to re-kit production for the real mechanical deal after all. All that mattered to him was that the thing was reliable and parts were plentiful.<br /><br />Unlike in Kanto or some of the other more community-oriented regions, Hoenn invested in roads and local business infrastructure instead of sensible public transit. Every man woman or lemonade-stand-running child was expected to find their own way of traversing the desolate, asphalt deserts that paved Mauville to glory, and this was his attempt.<br /><br />The car rattled like a chingling chapel as he tossed a throat full of caffeine pills in a mouthy cauldron of canned espresso and shook his face awake as he choked down his twice-daily dose of cardiac arrest. Then, sapience returned, he corrected his thin rectangular glasses and pulled out of parking space &lsquo;Silph Co. 3,&rsquo; smiling with content as he drove for the exit gate. Freedom, for a little while at least.<br /><br />&ldquo;Oh, youngun. Bless me, yer still with us. Good t&rsquo; seeya!&rdquo; crooned an elderly lychee-haired woman with a breezy ex-smoker&rsquo;s voice. Her bones wobbled around with a shaky gait, draped in mottled skin graffitied in faded tattoos, stretch marks, and working scars. A living tapestry of lower class Hoenn life.<br /><br />Emil gave her an out-of-order ear-to-ear grin and quietly handed her a laminated badge. &ldquo;Good to see you on shift, Bridget. You&#039;re gonna retire today, right?&rdquo;<br /><br />She scoffed and flipped the card back into the cabin like a shuriken with a suspicious degree of accuracy and pressed her big orange button with an animated stab of the finger. A fwip-click sounded from below her and a second chair rustled behind her. &ldquo;Emilio Malison, my crusty ass&rsquo;ll retire as soon as ya get some sleep.&rdquo;<br /><br />Slakoth yawned and extended his long twin clawed paws up to her, handing the woman a small slip of paper. <br /><br />&ldquo;Thanks baby,&rdquo; she said, scratching at her adams apple in time with her pokemon scratching his hind end. &ldquo;Can send ya home with Molasses here, I trust ya. Yer pa was good folk and so&rsquo;r you. Paid a pretty pokedollar to learn&lsquo;m Yawn so I could find some shuteye myself.&rdquo;<br /><br />It took Emil an extremely uncomfortable amount of time to register the offer and respond. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re sweet, ma&rsquo;am&hellip; but last thing I need is a fine for keeping a mon that isn&rsquo;t mine. Not if I want a license someday.&rdquo;<br /><br />She glared at him from the time-frosted windows of her little shack and shook her head. &ldquo;Ye always remind me of muh late husband,&rdquo; she said, then wrote down something on the slip of paper. &ldquo;Seriously, baby. Y&rsquo;get discounts work&rsquo;n for the man. Nab a hovel-tel over-yonder and shut yer distorted eyes.&rdquo;<br /><br />&ldquo;Got a house to pay down, got other loans. Shoot, ma&rsquo;am, I gotta pay my league fees so I can catch a Molasses all my own.&rdquo;<br /><br />He twists his wrists around the wheel at the old-lady&rsquo;s judgemental gaze. &ldquo;Alright, alright&hellip; I&rsquo;ll pull over and take a nap on the road, just for you. See ya next week!&rdquo;<br /><br />&ldquo;Stubborn shit. S&rsquo;all I can ask fer, I guess,&rdquo; she said and, against her better judgement, flicked a switch to set the man free. &ldquo;Keep that promise, honey. I wanna see ya with a lover rid&rsquo;n shotgun, not rolled up in a shit tin ball.&rdquo;<br /><br />His jaw clenches as his heart starts to race and he hastens his breathing to keep the air flowing through his lungs to keep up. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll let you have that second promise, all for free.&rdquo;<br /><br />&ldquo;Good luck on yer license. I heard they&rsquo;re tightening the number they hand out again,&rdquo; she said, and the one-way spikes laid down with a smack.<br /><br />Emil gave a lazy goodbye wave as he manually cranked his window up and then coasted out onto one of a thousand industrial intersections to hide behind a crumbling old potion packaging compound.<br /><br />He promptly ignored her warnings, knocked back the last of his pokecent store drink, and crushed the can in his hand. He could handle this, he always did. He had to. Pap&aacute;&rsquo;d twist around his coffin box if he let a single second slack away.<br /><br />He always enjoyed watching the skyline now and again as he left Mauville Regional Airport, where the whole city spread before him like a map. The huge luxurious living centers, made popular by Gym Leader Wattson back in the day, could easily be picked out amidst the ashen landscape like gemstones set in a sheet of gabbro. Their bejeweled windows, gold-accented marble, and resplendent horticultural rooftops were a dazzling sight to behold.<br /><br />Not that he could ever expect to afford to live anywhere near those postal codes, but their shadows still cast a bit of value on his humble little home. That was the story he told himself every day, anyway.<br /><br />He swerved from time to time, but the caffeine and the everpresent threat of a judicious roadside beatdown by an overworked cop kept him going. Juuust long enough to finally glide off into his hometown field of abject homogeneity.<br /><br />You might not expect there to be perks to driving home tired, but each of his neighborhood&rsquo;s streets had the curb-appeal of a row of corporate cubicles. Same tiny patches of faux grass, same blue-gray paint jobs, same double-tall fences, and his was at the farthest edge of the project, where some older, more organically grown properties finally came into view.<br /><br />Shit, even the news-print companies ensured their deliveries were dropped by empty-eyed machop in slate-gray jackets. Why waste brain space remembering <strong>that </strong>liminal journey week-in and week-out?<br /><br />His vehicle sighed in relief as he pulled into the cubby the city called his driveway, tucked snugly between both his neighbor&rsquo;s homes&hellip; and the front of his <strong>other </strong>neighbor&rsquo;s debacle of a property. Then, as his journey came to an end, Emil wobbled out of the driver side door with a careless smack of his head on the lip of the door, and cajoled the trunk open with a slam of his fist.<br /><br />He popped the buttons of his corporately garish, painfully mandatory, pokeball-pinstripe overalls and&nbsp;&nbsp;peeled them away in the dark like an insect molting its carapace.<br /><br />A metal tag dangling from a klefki-shaped ring in his hands still read, &lsquo;Lil&rsquo; Maniacz: 520,&rdquo; in bold saccharine font, desperately clinging to some of its original Dipplin-Red enamels.<br /><br />Pulling at a grungy recycled rubber band that wound his hair into a bun, he twisted it around his wrist until it snapped free, letting his long silky-brown locks spin loose and drape around his shoulders.<br /><br />A well loved home left empty for a while always has a peculiar smell, it&rsquo;s invigorating every time; the scent of dust along with all the deeply personal and comfortable aromas only you noticed being gone for a week or more. The man had made a habit of closing his eyes as he walked past the precipice, navigating his sanctum by smell alone until his shins hit the bed or he found the fridge to dine on some dubiously carcinogenic snack with a best-by date.<br /><br />He always caught the scent of the neat librarian rows of academic texts first. Stacked on shelves specifically arranged to block the windows out, featuring such riveting titles as, &lsquo;Chemical Pressures on Wormdam Silk Variety,&rsquo; by Dr. A. Kawananakoa. Or maybe &lsquo;Scriptography, 535,&rsquo; a collection of coding-language material released for the express purpose of collecting dust in college computer labs.<br /><br />If Emil felt the need to reminisce, he might pry open a portfolio or two, alphanumerically arranged with his own high-definition photos of the gorgeous Pokemon he&rsquo;d captured all around the world. With film at least. In truth, it was a coin toss as to whether it relieved or intensified his desire for comfort and companionship.<br /><br />If he was craving some less sobering activity, he might reach for one of a thousand hand-picked favorites littering the ledges of his home. &lsquo;Sea to Sea with Mr. G.&rsquo; was always a great way to revisit those nicer childhood memories, of course. But one such tome stands out amongst the rest from its hallowed space beside his favorite chair, its antique canvas cover stained by the oils of loving human hands; &lsquo;Through the Tall Grasses,&rsquo; by Ranger Solana.<br /><br />Every single one had been divvied up with scrawled sheets of notes slipped between their yellow-cornered pages. A meticulously growing archive of education and expertise that matched the mind of a man cursed with a consummate compulsion to know more&hellip; for nothing but the twisted sake of knowing more.<br /><br />As always, next his nose caught the whiff of his usual pile of mass-produced stationary heaped beneath the mail slot of his front door. He snatched up an old newspaper that must have made it in as a free sample, trashing it after a quick scan confirmed nothing new was brewing and nothing good was afoot.<br /><br />Buried in the soil of scam and spam, a highly-decorated intraregional parcel caught his nostrils&rsquo; eye. It smelled of kneaded dough and freshly-tilled soil, accented with the unmistakable stench of his mother&rsquo;s favorite perfume. He opened his eyes again and found it sat beside a dusty plushy pokemon bed with a matching pair of bowls languishing in a darkened corner.<br /><br />A gift from home, a la Cortondo Paldea.<br /><br /><br /><strong>&ldquo;&iexcl;Suerte, m&iacute;jo!&rdquo; </strong>it read, in the hand scrawled ink of a thrice-stolen ball-point pen.<br /><br /><br />It was nice to feel his heart warming up as the furnace roared back to life with the smell of baking dust. &ldquo;Graci, Mam&aacute;.&rdquo;<br /><br />He&rsquo;d get to writing his response later, though, and felt like taking Bridget up on that bet of hers. Who knew, maybe he would get some real sleep for once and finally catch her wasting away her best years in some gold-glassed game corner up town.<br /><br />Darkened by windows caked with industrial grade umbreon-black paint, he tiptoed his nose through the house.<br /><br />Rotting coffee-grounds he&rsquo;d forgotten to toss before he left the house a week ago. The spot atop his mantle designated for incense and diffusion lamps. That spot on the sofa he just couldn&rsquo;t scrub free, left by the wine he spilled drinking himself to sleep the night his father&rsquo;d passed away.<br /><br />Down the hall he went, banking right at the scent of lavender soap and his creamsicle shampoo, then blindly stumbled into his spartan excuse for a bedroom. The bed he had made for himself lay waiting in a wavy wrinkled heap for his eventual, exhausted, spinning leap.<br /><br />With hair lashing around to smack himself in the face, he finally allowed his tired body to find its place.<br /><br /><br />Meanwhile, outside, a very different spectacle was unfolding.<br /><br /><br />Around the corner of the residential block, inches beyond the lines drawn specifically for low-income development, practically visible from space, was a gratuitously luxurious bachelor home. Its backyard was strewn with all manner of expensive pokemon training equipment, a paved running track, and even a reinforced pad with league-standard half-court markings. Its driveway formed a massive U through the perfectly manicured yard of genuine grass and berry-salad bushes that then branched off to a massive two-truck garage.<br /><br />The place reeked of the worst kind of privilege, earned or not, took up a whole quarter of the block in and of itself and, as a bachelor pad will, never liked to remain silent.<br /><br />Hip-hop music pulverized the air so hard that all of Hoenn could follow the noise like a northern star as a monstrous SUV in glossy black and a golden Metagross hood-ornament roared around the corner. Behind it came a vulgar cavalcade of vehicles pulling in to park anyplace they damn-well pleased, creating a discordant blockade guaranteed to irritate the neighbors in the morning.<br /><br />Out of the SUV hopped a stunningly-handsome, olympically toned, impressively-dressed young man with a belt of custom luxury Pokeballs worn bare to the metal from their use. Watching his step for rogue scuffs of mud and, of course, wearing his designer sunglasses in the dead of night, he carries himself with a rapturous confidence chiseled into his marble-carved face.<br /><br />The leather jacket bearing his battle-family name swirled in a grand circle like the cape of a pretentious medieval lord as his fist punched the sky, &ldquo;Welcome, everyone, to <span class='underline'><strong>STONE</strong></span> CASTLE!&rdquo;<br /><br />He slipped a remote from his pocket with a lazy click over his shoulder and every light in his home, including the porch, interior mood lamps, and the vanity spotlights came to life in a miniature city of sin.<br /><br />Everyone piled out of their vehicles, storming the front door with assorted boxes, packs, and bottles of booze in a wild parade of revelry. At the entryway the words, &lsquo;Richard Stone,&rsquo; stood engraved in a granite plaque above the door. Everyone released their Pokemon all at once, drinking, mingling, creating raucous impromptu dance areas wherever their drunken fancies saw fit, and played dangerous drinking games anywhere they didn&rsquo;t.<br /><br /><br />Emil&rsquo;s bloodshot eyes stared up at the ceiling as empty-headed insanity skittered across his once relaxed face, like a clean GUI broken down to incomprehensible code. &ldquo;Petitil&rsquo;s sake&hellip;&rdquo;<br /><br />Tossing, turning, tumbling around the bed for hours through the party, especially when the drinking games began, he gazed at the ends of his eyeballs in a desperate search for slumber. Until he finally gave up and fumbled around the nightstand drawer.<br /><br />He popped the stop of a quartz-glass bottle of unmarked capsules filled with a sparkling white powder. &ldquo;Mareep, Mareep... carry me on butterfree wings&hellip;&rdquo; he recited the lyrics of a classic rock favorite, cracking a capsule into his palm like a tiny egg in a pan.<br /><br />Showered in what looked like cheap craft-store glitter, he brought his palm to his nose and snuffed it up both nostrils in one swift mouthless breath of air.<br /><br />He coughed in a violent, irritated fit... He always did, hating the way that stuff felt on the way in as he wheezed and spluttered a bit out in tiny puffs of dust that coated the sheets in a snowy glow that reflected the dim, red, hallway lights he always left on for comfort.<br /><br />But, without fail, as soon as he hit that fifth lung-full of air, his world began to wilt and twirl and his body numbed inward from the fingers and toes as an electric chill tingled the base of his spine.<br /><br />&nbsp;His heaviness of his eyes began to sink like rocks gently laid onto a pool of silt&hellip;<br /><br />&nbsp;&ldquo;Take me&hellip;. on...&rdquo;<br /><br />&nbsp;He smiled as the euphoria rippled over his icy nerves and his vision blurred away&hellip;<br /><br />&nbsp;&ldquo;Take me where the Ampharos swan&hellip;&rdquo;<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div class='align_center'>\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/-\\|/</div><br /><br /><br />&nbsp;<br />It took the brightness of the midday sun to finally penetrate the mammoth cloud of unconsciousness coccooning his mind throughout the night&hellip; and the entirety of the next morning.<br /><br />Wrenching his body into something that resembled sitting up, Emil&rsquo;s legs hung at the side of the bed like a stiff-limbed doll posed for tea as he slowly rocked himself to and fro, breathing in and out, regaining some measure of composure. &ldquo;Aaalways leaves me dragggn&rsquo; ass,&rdquo; he uttered to himself as he stood and shuffled out into the light.<br /><br />His corner of a kitchen was an itsy bit of a place, that was until you accounted for his avionics-grade use of storage and countertop space. He reached up, down, over, under, and through secret nooks and interlocking crannies honeycombing the room as he assembled his brew, never once touching anything more than was mathematically necessary.<br /><br />Nothing but the clashing of Arceus and Giratinna could stand between a noctowl nerd and his precious supply of methyltheobromine.<br /><br />Eyes barely open as the sun sneaking in through the blinds of the back sliding-glass door seared his retinas, he busied himself with bubbling up a particularly unhealthy and delicious brew to soften venomoth dust hangover. Then he swiveled a remote he&rsquo;d abandoned in the kitchen weeks ago at the edge of his lonely two-chair table and clicked around the dividing wall of his personal cafe.<br /><br />The gloom of the television light was much more inviting than that cheery death-blaze of the midday sun, so he elected to seal the curtains, block the doors, and hole himself up like a troglodytic diglett. Gripping his triple-strength mocha-mint espresso, the smell of peppermint and white-chocolate teased the nostrils and tickled the tongue with each and every sip, nursed from his favorite coffee mug sporting the image of a cute little koffing with the line formula for caffeine scribbled on its tummy in crayon.<br />&nbsp;<br />&ldquo;Alright,&rdquo; Emil said with a relaxed, exhausted sigh, &ldquo;how&rsquo;s the world burning now?&rdquo;<br /><br /><strong><em>A stunningly-handsome but remarkably-humorless man with concrete hair and faded green recycling-bin eyes popped on screen, examining a stack of papers from a glass platform desk, smiling in a way that says everything&rsquo;ll be OK.</em></strong><br /><br /><em><strong>&ldquo;Good afternoon, men and women of Mauville city. Aaand all who visit our fabulous home; I&rsquo;m Jackson Steady and this is the esteemed Hoenn News Network Midday Roundup. We&rsquo;ve got a couple-of-doozies for all-of-ya fine folks today, so I won&rsquo;t waste a </strong></em><span class='underline'><strong><em>single</em></strong></span><em><strong> minute of time,&rdquo; he dictated with a nod that seems to agree with a panel of someone-more-important behind the camera.</strong></em><br /><br /><strong><em>&ldquo;Historic downtown Mauville is in disarray this morning as protestors surrounding the recently announced Apogee Nature-Clinic have shut down any hope for those of you around the area wanting to drive instead of walk &lsquo;neath the blazing summer sun. Be sure to send your complaints to menformon.org as soon as you see fit.</em></strong><br /><br /><em><strong>&ldquo;Participants in the demonstration claim that Apogee is&hellip; ahem&hellip; &lsquo;a soulless driver of Pokemon suffering all around the world and that the permanent alteration of a personality is a &lsquo;</strong></em><span class='underline'><strong><em>crime against life.</em></strong></span><em><strong>&rsquo; Our trusted reporters in-association with Jadelabs cite that the company has been the spearhead of progress these last thirty years, benefiting both men </strong></em><span class='underline'><strong><em>and</em></strong></span><em><strong> </strong></em><strong><em>mon, and that </em></strong><em><strong><span class='underline'>their</span></strong></em><strong><em> studies have shown zero discomfort in mon undergoing their procedures.</em></strong><br /><br /><em><strong>Frankly, pedestrians are getting tired of walking to work from the green-top off ramps and scraping protest fliers from their faces after getting to their desks.&rdquo;</strong></em><br /><br /><strong><em>He flipped a paper out of his hand, tossing it over his shoulder with dramatic flair as exclusive protest footage shows brightly colored Silph Co. placards graffitied with corny declarations of hate painted on in stark red paint. One image strikes the mind in particular, that of an apogee delivery vehicle set ablaze and burning with the words, &lsquo;Progress is Death!&rsquo;</em></strong><br /><br /><em><strong>&ldquo;A record breaking </strong></em><span class='underline'><strong><em>ELEVEN</em></strong></span><em><strong> Ultra Class trainers from our own jewel of the region climbed the rankings in one single battle event. Leading the effort is Richard S. Stone, whose ranking has rocketed to one-twenty-fourth after an unbelievably earth-shattering turn around in the final moments of his last match with an opponent far above him in the ladder.</strong></em><br /><br /><strong><em>&ldquo;Gratitude from us at HNN, and a hearty congratulations to all those who make Mauville proud. Also, I&rsquo;m sure Richard&rsquo;s grandfather is glowing with pride.</em></strong><br /><br /><em><strong>&ldquo;Carry that baton son.&rdquo;</strong></em><br /><br /><br />&nbsp;<br />Emilio stares deadpan at the screen, head nodding as the rumble of Richard&rsquo;s caravan leaving shakes the windows. &ldquo;Yep, that tracks.&rdquo;<br />&nbsp;<br /><br /><em><strong>&ldquo;Do you need comfort? Does it feel like love is a million miles away?&nbsp;&nbsp;Are you grieving for that long-lost loved-one of old? If so, perhaps you should consider TabulaRasa, a company that&rsquo;s taken the therapy world, and many other industries, by storm.</strong></em><br /><br /><strong><em>&ldquo;Should mon be therapists? When is a job so much you have to pay a &lsquo;mon? Is it ethical? We here at HNN can&rsquo;t say for certain, but we&rsquo;ve personally interviewed the fine folks at Ta-Ra and we can say that the ditto in their employ are happy as a clamperl.</em></strong><br /><br /><em><strong>&ldquo;Nonetheless many questions are still being asked. Perhaps we should take a step back and let these questions get answered by philosophers and kings before we get them answered by the captains of industry. That could be dangerous.&rdquo;</strong></em><br /><br /><strong><em>He set the papers down on the desk, rolling his shoulders, and stared into the camera with metal-typed seriousness as a horribly drawn cartoon ditto is rendered with fishnet stockings and a bra on a street corner appeared to the host&rsquo;s right.</em></strong><br /><br /><em><strong>&ldquo;One of those questions in particular; can you love a &lsquo;mon? Well, of course. They&rsquo;re like family in some cases. But how much &lsquo;love&rsquo; can we give before affection should become incarceration? Can a critter who&rsquo;s not even capable of signing Battle League papers give informed consent?&rdquo;</strong></em><br /><br /><strong><em>Steady shudders.</em></strong><br /><br /><em><strong>&ldquo;My rockruff at home would sooner die than kiss me on the couch, let alone&hellip;&rdquo; He stops himself short with a raised brow.</strong></em><br /><br /><br /><strong><em>&ldquo;A tiny minority of deviant enthusiasts has filed yet another petition to the Hoenn Supreme Court to abolish the laws banning Man-Mon intercourse.&rdquo; Jackson gives a tired sigh. &ldquo;Thankfully, like every time before now, the gold-standard of society since time-immemorial stands with firm resolve.</em></strong><br /><br /><em><strong>&ldquo;In a stunning coincidence, two groups of criminal activists radicalized through dex-net dark-threads have been taken into custody yesterday. Alleged to have taken Pokemon&hellip; &lsquo;Partners&rsquo; if you get what I mean. The primary investigator, Mauville&rsquo;s own Lieutenant Keenan Steel, has made only one public statement about this record-breaking tag-and-bag of twenty-three people&hellip;</strong></em><br /><br /><strong><em>Pictured at a podium in dress uniform, covered with shining medals and multicolored ribbons, an officer bears The Seal of Hoenn in bronze at his breast. The surprisingly-young hard-nosed man with aggron-tough features stands with his jet black hair chopped to neat dimensions and a discerning gaze that matches the pair of Lucario at his side. The ancient gaze of a justiciar whose heart is charged with the righteous fury of the people.</em></strong><br /><br /><em><strong>Jack peered into the last page to recite,</strong></em><br /><br /><span class='underline'><strong><em>&lsquo;Pokemon abuse of this kind is a blight set upon the world, of the worst possible kind. Such garbage should never walk the streets of Hoenn. So long as I live and breathe, every scrap of their sort of trash will be TAKEN OUT.&rsquo;</em></strong></span><br /><br /><em><strong>Jackson pounds his chest with his lips pursed in appreciation for what he just read. &ldquo;Truly a man in a class of his own, but we do love a rousing debate. Let us know what you think; hit us up on the HNN official Razzberry page where we, in proper Hoenn fashion, knuckle up and get down to what&rsquo;s right.</strong></em><br /><br /><strong><em>&ldquo;Thank you for listening in to this very special Midday Roundup, don&rsquo;t miss me in the eve----&rdquo;</em></strong><br /><br /><br />Emil flicked the TV off. &ldquo;Gross. What is it that distorts these kinds of people&hellip;&rdquo; he uttered into the last sips of his coffee.<br /><br />Body beginning to feel some semblance of normalcy, he ran over to the massive pile of bills and junk mail to look for some &lsquo;thing&rsquo; in specific. He spotted it immediately, attracted to the bright red and white stylized Pokeball sticker seal on the fold. Frantically opening the parcel, full of enthusiasm, he remarks for the eighth time at the faint sterile nothingness of the letter&rsquo;s odor.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Salutations, Emilio Malison!</strong><br /><br /><strong>This letter comes to you in response to your Pokemon League D-Class Licensure application for belt slots:</strong><br /><br /><strong>1 - Hobby</strong><br /><br /><strong>0 - Labor</strong><br /><br /><strong>0 - Battle</strong><br /><br /><strong>0 - Special</strong><br /><br /><strong>These are the the results of your evaluation:</strong><br /><br /><strong>Knowledge Testing - 98th percentile.</strong><br /><strong>Support Network - 55th percentile.</strong><br /><strong>Lifestyle Choice - 35th percentile.</strong><br /><strong> </strong><br /><strong>Your knowledge of Pokemon at the Hobby Trainer level is more than sufficient to meet our qualifications. It is clear that you are an enthusiastic learner with a deep appreciation for everything there is to know about Pokemon in this big wide world of ours. If you were not already considering a life of research, we would encourage you to seriously seek out this profession.</strong><br /><br /><strong>Your ability to support yourself and your potential Pokemon partners is sufficient in our opinion. We would prefer a strong support network of identifiable friends and family, and at least one letter of recommendation from a current license-holder goes a long way. Why not get out of your comfort zone and make a friend or two at your local gym? Each is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, every day of the year!</strong><br /><br /><strong>Based on the demands of your current position with your employer we cannot recommend that you take on the rigours of sustained pokemon partnership. Pokemon training is a big responsibility, and it is not good for Pokemon to be cooped up in their Pokeball all the time. We sincerely hope that you&rsquo;ll enter a phase in your life where you can devote four hours minimum every single day to them.</strong><br /><br /><strong>It is with much regret that we here at the Hoenn Pokemon League have to reject your application for: Hobby Trainer Certification &ndash; No Battle &ndash; No Labor. You may retest again in 3 months from the date mar&mdash;</strong><br />&nbsp;<br /><br />His hands folded the letter carefully with a slow steady blinking pace. Hiding the nugget of toxicity sprouting inside him with a cool collected breath, Emil crumpled the sheet into a crackling apricorn ball.<br /><br />&ldquo;No point in keeping this around,&rdquo; he uttered as he tossed the thing into the trash. &ldquo;Crazy how those perverts wasted such a precious thing,&rdquo; he mused, reaching into the fridge for a tall can of Pecha Berry tea. &ldquo;No way I&rsquo;d ever do something so stupid.&rdquo;<br /><br />Emilio unwrapped a vacuum-sealed package. A book titled &lsquo;Somethings Fishy in Here; Inconsistencies in Water Egg Group 2 Taxonomy.&rsquo; Truly engaging, but this was the kind of stuff he enjoyed, unfettered knowledge bunched into neat succinct piles, laid out with intensity of argument. His ability to cement such immense quantities of information into his brain with a single reading is how he&rsquo;d managed to hold his current job without an ounce of academic degree.<br /><br />He was going to spend some time out in the sun, whether he liked it or not, because venomoth dust sucks Vitamin D straight out of your body and he was out of supplements. Besides, he was curious enough to want to lay eyes upon the destruction wrought on his rich-ass neighbor&rsquo;s property by that disparate hoard of party-goers.<br /><br />Emil didn&rsquo;t hate Richard at all, though the wannabe master-trainer gave him lots of reasons to. A terrible neighbor, even if you set the noisy block parties out of sight, he constantly contracted loud obstructive construction adding expensive training equipment or some other luxurious expansion to his abode. His Pokemon, especially Rhydon and Torterra, shook the ground with every step and one of his other &lsquo;mon lit fire to a patch of Emil&rsquo;s fake lawn the week prior. The black hole in his turf is still there, covered with a wooden sheet, waiting for a response from &lsquo;Team Stone Legal&rsquo; to send him a fucking check.<br /><br />It was an open secret that his wealthy family ties allowed him to influence the city, altering the working class housing development they lived on to set aside a gerrymandered plot at the very edge especially for Richard Stone&hellip; at rock bottom prices&hellip; Multiple times.<br /><br />But, all that aside, Emil put up with the racket because his home value skyrocketed when that rich brat&rsquo;s home absorbed that half of the block. Also, it <strong>was</strong> nice to see Pokemon every day he was home, even if their intensity threatened the foundation of your home. Unlicensed pokemon maniacs like him don&rsquo;t complain about catching the glimpse of a Seismic Toss or two.<br /><br />However, when he finally braved touching synthetic grass he was surprised to see that not only was the entire property spotless, Richard was out there in sweat pants and a hoodie, running with a couple of his Pokemon at full trot. Old Machamp and his Incineroar jogged behind him, every one of them just as motivated as any other day, despite the hangover. He couldn&rsquo;t help but be impressed by the guy&rsquo;s work ethic; he played hard, so <strong>so</strong> hard, but apparently worked just as hard to back it all up.<br /><br />In the unused part of his estate a crew of orange-vested men took measurements of the ground. Richard from time to time would stop and give them some directions, slapping them on the back with jovial conversation. Heavy lengths of pipe were being trucked in from one side, laid out in neat lengthy pyramids, where at least one Dugtrio could be felt rumbling the soil beneath his feet.<br /><br />Entranced at this point, Emil dragged a lawn chair to stand and peer over the fence and bear witness to that latest-and-greatest pretentious thing Richard intended to erect in his own honor now<br /><br />Emil&rsquo;s heart fluttered and sank all at the same time when a pair of six-thousand-pokedollar shades caught his gaze like a tossed pokeball and Richard interrupted one of his hundred morning laps to trot towards him. &ldquo;HEY! HEY!&rdquo;<br /><br />The anxious strung-out shut-in slunk down past the fence in the vain hope his neighbor was calling the foreman over again. For one itsy-bitsy, single, solitary second of his life he decided to be a nosy neighbor and instantly knew he&rsquo;d regret the decision for the gods-damned rest. He slowly slid into the wooden chair and started trying very hard to look like he was reading his book.<br /><br />&ldquo;Hey there!&rdquo; Richard shouted over the fence at Emil. &ldquo;Yo, my man! How are ya?&rdquo;<br /><br />Emil, realizing he&rsquo;s doomed after all, looked up with a humiliated smile. &ldquo;Hola! Heh, sorry, I didn&rsquo;t mean to be a Snoopy Frou.&rdquo;<br /><br />Richard laughed with both of his muscular arms leaned over the boards bending with the strain of his weight. &ldquo;Nah man, got a lot going on, can&rsquo;t go pretending like people can&rsquo;t see me. Nah, nah man. I actually was, like, thinking &lsquo;Ah man, I&rsquo;ve never seen that guy before!&rsquo; Holy shit, we&rsquo;ve been neighbors for, like, a year and I&rsquo;ve never even <strong>seen</strong> you!&rdquo;<br /><br /><em>Not really neighbors</em>, Emil grouched, feeling that the more appropriate term was fence-huggers since his actual address was the other side of the block and Richard&rsquo;s back yard was his one and only view.<br /><br />&ldquo;Shoot, everyone arounds&rsquo; at least come to say hi or drop a complaint in the mailbox! Hahaha!&rdquo;<br /><br /><em>Actually, there is that matter about the lawn</em>, he thought, but in a stroke of social wisdom, he chose not to correct him at all and nodded as he sipped his tea. &ldquo;Well, I guess there&rsquo;s a first for everything. I&rsquo;m Emilio. You must be Richard Stone. Nice job on your jump in the ranking.&rdquo; Emil said, thankful to Arceus above that he had something to talk about other than his most recent social felony.<br /><br />Rich smiled with one arm pumped. &ldquo;Ah yeah! You follow the rosters, my man?&rdquo;<br /><br />Emil shook his head and stood, realizing that remaining sat would have been awkward as hell. &ldquo;Nope&hellip; Ah, well yes but no, you were in the news just now. Word gets around quick. I do follow battle stats though. I guess I need to look at yours more closely, I heard you came in clutch at the very end.&rdquo;<br /><br />&ldquo;I won&rsquo;t spoil anything, watch it on League Net.&rdquo; The toned and tanned jock grinned and grabbed his shades, wiping some sweat from his brow, showing off the emerald-green eyes that fucker had also won in the genetic lottery. So, like, what on Earth do you do, man?&rdquo;<br /><br />Emil raised an eyebrow. &ldquo;What&rsquo;cha mean?&rdquo;<br /><br />&ldquo;Like for work, man. First guess&hellip;. undertaker or some shit.&rdquo;<br /><br />&ldquo;Oh, nah. I work for Silph Co.&rdquo;<br /><br />Richard bobbed his chin up and down, interested in what Emil has to say for some gods-known reason. &ldquo;No shit? You a factory worker?&rdquo;<br /><br />Emil, suddenly filled with prideful energy, wanted to immediately set that record straight. &ldquo;Nope, I fix the equipment they make and sell. Literally anything they make or sell. If it bears the Silph Co. Logo, I&rsquo;m the guy that fixes it when it breaks.&rdquo;<br /><br />Richard&rsquo;s eyes opened at the implications of that. &ldquo;Whoa! I pegged you for a big brain, but I thought you might&rsquo;a been a lab researcher or something. That&rsquo;s dope; no wonder you&rsquo;re never here, Silph Co is everywhere! Where&rsquo;s your Pokemon? You work for the Big Guy, no doubt you got a sick partner.&rdquo;<br /><br />Emil all-at-once went from full-of-pride to deflating like a day old birthday balloon. &ldquo;Oh&hellip; no, no. I can&rsquo;t get a license yet. My job doesn&rsquo;t let me have Pokemon when I&rsquo;m on call. Contract stuff with all the factories. Too many &#039;Liabilities&#039;.&quot;<br /><br />Richard snapped his fingers, scrunched his face up in frustration as he realized he&rsquo;d touched a soft spot. &ldquo;Yeah, no way you&rsquo;re gonna meet the daily regiment requirement. That sucks, I bet you&rsquo;d make a kick-ass Labor Trainer. Get you a meltan, you&rsquo;d never regret it.&rdquo;<br /><br />Emil was taken aback. This neighbor of his, who he assumed was a complete jackass, was having a polite and somewhat enjoyable conversation. Even though he&rsquo;d admitted he thought Emil was a gravedigger keeping bodies in his basement. &ldquo;Thanks, I&hellip; I kinda needed to hear something like that today,&rdquo; Emil said, feeling himself opening up bit-by-bit to this lunkhead that came across as genuine.<br /><br />Annoying, but genuine.<br /><br />Richard brandished a dastardly double thumbs-up. &ldquo;No problem, Em.&rdquo;<br /><br />Emil snapped back to reality, remembering the thing that started their conversation in the first place. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s going on back there?&rdquo;<br /><br />A soft roaring rumbled across the fence and Emil could feel thunderous sets of footsteps approaching from behind Richard. His Rhydon grunted in displeasure and his Incineroar blowing smoke.<br /><br />&ldquo;Ok, ok. Sorry I&rsquo;m slackn&rsquo;. Just made a new friend though!&rdquo; He then put his shades back up on his eyes, nodding in approval at Emil. &ldquo;Building a pool. I qualified for my sixth slot with that last match and I need a water type to round out my strategy.&rdquo;<br /><br />Emil perked up immediately. &ldquo;What are you getting? Do you have them already? Do you mind if I meet them?&rdquo;<br /><br />Richard laughed with a confident smile. &ldquo;Ha! There&rsquo;s the maniac I pegged you for! Don&rsquo;t have her yet. And now I know how excited you are, I&rsquo;m definitely gonna keep it a secret.&rdquo;<br /><br />Emil&rsquo;s face flushed with shock, then he chuckled and gave Richard a thumbs up, mirroring the man&rsquo;s macho pose and demeanor. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m even more excited. You&rsquo;re evil, Richard.&rdquo;<br /><br />He nodded, rolled his shoulders, and jogged backwards as he said, &ldquo;you don&rsquo;t know the half of it. Catch ya later, Em!&rdquo;<br /></span>",
  "pools_count": 1,
  "title": "Forbidden Waters - 1 (Remastered)",
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