This is a story about not being okay. There will be attempts to recreate the language of downward spirals, suicidal ideation, eating disorders, personality disorders, anxiety, and possibly other things. I will do my best to provide chapter warnings for chapters dealing explicitly with suicidal ideation or eating disorders. If there are other notices you would like me to add, feel free to ask. Mild references to substance use, but nothing will be ever shown on page.
This story deals with analogues to real world groups, albeit through an alternate universe lens. I have personal experience with some, but definitely not all of the things this story deals with. I have tried to read enough to not make big mistakes in my knowledge gaps, but I'll probably screw up. Feel absolutely free to point out any portrayals that don't sit well or quite work. As a minor disclaimer, not all POV characters are terribly knowledgeable about things. There are some "mistakes" made that I know full well are mistakes. And also the usual "no character could possibly encompass all aspects of an identity" thing.
Mission One: Normal
"Times of transition are strenuous, but I love them. They are an opportunity to purge, rethink priorities, and be intentional about new habits. We can make our new normal any way we want."
-Kristin Armstrong
*
Normal 1.1: Silver and Lead
The room is cold and clean and empty.
You drum your fingers on the table and hear the sounds of metal being struck and all the little echoes bouncing off of the glass and the walls. It fills the room but hurts your hand; you stop and the room is empty again. You think about going back to swinging your legs and sometimes kicking the side of the chair on accident but that hurt, too.
It has been a long time since the police officers left you in here. You don’t know how long. You’re pretty good at reading clocks now, even the old ones with the moving sticks, but there isn’t one in this room.
This is maybe the longest time out you’ve ever been given.
You’re cold. You’re cold and you want to cry. You’re cold and you want to cry and you want Dad to come and hold you but he can’t because Dad’s
The door opens with the sound of metal scraping across metal.
Two police officer men walk in. Their footsteps echo on the floor and fill the room with a power that none of your sounds ever matched. They sit down across from you and the door swings shut.
One leans forward and he clears his throat. Then he presses a finger against the part of the shirt right over his heart like he’s pressing a doorbell. “This is Sergeant Rick Johnson of the Virbank City Police Department. The time is 14:29 on May 11th, 1999. Can you state your name for the record, ma’am?”
You stare at him until he clears his throat again and you realize the last part wasn’t directed at the air or his pocket, but at you.
“My name is Rachel Eliza Bell.”
You speak as clearly as you can, but your voice doesn’t fill the emptiness of the room like the police officer’s does.
“And what’s your date of birth?”
“Um…”
“What’s your birthday?” He clarifies.
“April 16th.”
“And how old are you now?”
“Seven.”
The other officer pulls out a notepad and a pen and starts writing on it. Did you say something wrong?
“Miss Bell, do you have any idea why you’re here today?”
Dad.
You try to put words together but the officer gets bored first and speaks up.
“The department has been looking into a murder. Husband of a police officer found dead in the woods outside of town, anti-police graffiti on the trees around the area. The deceased was Marcus Bell.”
He looks you dead in the eyes for a few seconds. Was… was that a question?
“Yes,” you say.
“What was your relationship to the deceased?”
“I’m sorry—”
“How did you know Marcus Bell?”
“He’s my father.”
Everyone else keeps using past words. Was. Were. It’s… he’s still your father. Even if
“Right. Miss Bell, do you know what ‘death’ is?”
“Yes.”
Your herdier (Fluffy) was playing in the street and got hit by a car when you were six and a half. You know what death is.
The man keeps going, barely letting your tinny echoes ring before he smothers them.
“We still haven’t found a suspect in the case. Now, your teacher says that you have an… interesting theory on the matter.”
You don’t like his eyes. At all. They’re the eyes your mom has when you spill things or interrupt her while she’s on the phone.
“Well, we’re here now. And we’d certainly appreciate it if you knew who did it.”
The other police officer has put the notebook down. He’s also showing you mean eyes, but… less. More like Dad’s mean eyes than Mom’s.
“Mom did it,” you whisper. It’s so quiet that there isn’t an echo at all.
“Can you speak up, miss?”
“My mom did it.”
“Your mother is Evelyn Bell, correct?”
You swallow down nothing and try not to cry. Your mom hates it when you cry and it might be a police thing.
“Your mother is—”
“Yes.”
It’s a quiet yes, but he doesn’t make you speak up again.
“She is currently an eleven-year veteran of the Virbank Police Department, correct?”
“I… I don’t know how long she’s been your friend.”
Officer Johnson sighs, rolls his eyes, and leans back into his chair.
“And why do you think Mrs. Bell killed her husband?”
You squirm in your seat. You just know. The feeling in the back of your head that tells you who took your pencil, or that Ms. Bethany thought you were annoying, or that Officer Johnson doesn’t believe you, or that the other police officer does but doesn’t care.
“Well, speak up.”
“A feeling,” you say. “In my head.”
Officer Johnson smiles. It’s very… wrong with the subject and the feelings.
“Rachel, I can’t imagine what you must be going through right now. But your mommy loved your daddy very much, and she has an alibi. Unless you have some real proof…”
He trails off. Gives you a chance to prove it to him. Which you can’t.
Even if you know that you’re right.
*
Three firm knocks on the door.
“Miss Bell? Mr. Sanchez is here.”
You look up and blink. Had you fallen asleep at your desk? It… happens, but you thought you’d gotten better at noticing.
“Send him in, Sheryl.”
The door opens and a tall, tanned man in an ill-fitting suit walks in. He glances around your office before his eyes finally settle on you. Only then does he walk forwards, hand extended.
“Hey. Manuela Sanchez. With The Battler.”
You stand up and shake his hand. His grip is a little too firm, but you’re just mature enough not to crush him back.
“Rachel Bell. Vice President of VStar.”
You both sit and he flicks out a notepad.
“Alright, so VStar.”
A feeling flashes in the back of your mind and you know that he’s cheating on his pregnant wife.
Eh. Could be worse.
You smile. “VStar,” you repeat.
“So, uh, Rachel—can I call you Rachel?”
“Sure.”
“Right. What does VStar do? Just to make sure that I’m on base.”
“Of course.” You never stop smiling. “VStar helps fund trainers who might not have the means to complete an island challenge, or trainers who just finished an island challenge but can’t afford to keep all of their partners. We help them get rid of excess pokémon and give them to people who want them and can’t get one. Busy professionals and parents, the disabled, or just people who don’t have a team strong enough to go into the species natural habitat. Everyone wins.”
“Right, right. And how many users do you have?”
“Depends on how you define ‘users,’ Manuela. Right now we have 166 trainers currently on their journey with the app. Not all of them are active users. Several hundred trainers traded their pokémon in last year, a few thousand purchased a pokémon on the app.”
“Okay.”
More notes. He doesn’t press into what your vague numbers mean. He’s not normally on the business beat, usually just does puff pieces on trainers in the Americas. Excused or not, it’s terribly sloppy. Not that you’re going to give him ideas.
“So, Rachel, are you a trainer?”
“Espy,” you call.
Your espeon gently rises to his paws before moving from his climbing structure in the corner to your desk in a single, elegant leap. He walks over to you and nuzzles your hand.
“I know the name’s basic, but come on, I was ten.”
Manuela laughs in a way that might be flirtatious appeasement or genuine amusement. Just on the border of being genuine. “I named my growlithe ‘Fuego’ back in the day, so I can’t really talk.”
{Espy, can you pay attention to him?}
{Treat?} he shoots back, mentally.
{Later.}
Satisfied, Espy walks across the desk and looks at Manuela expectantly. He starts to rub Espy’s ears without asking your permission. Espy recoils slightly and his tail flicks in disgust. Espeon aren’t that fragile, but they can feign injury better than a pro footballer.
“So, you bring your pokémon to the office?”
“Of course. We are a pokémon company, after all.”
Espy starts to turn away from Manuela and he rubs a hand over his back as the espeon leaves.
{Two treats,} you signal.
Espy turns back around.
“How long have you had her?” he asks.
You don’t bother to correct the gender. Espy doesn’t really care, and most people think of all espeon as female. “Since I was ten.”
“I meant how many years?”
You crack your smile a little wider. “Since I was ten.”
It takes him a half second, but he starts to laugh and you join. This time you get a better read on him, and you’re pretty sure he’s more interested in you and your body than the company right now.
“Is she your only pokémon?”
You shake your head. “I also raise an alakazam. But he’s moving up in the years and doesn’t really like coming to the office.”
His eyes widen.. Any half decent pokémon journalist know what alakzam ownership means. It’s why you aren’t going to replace Allen when he dies.
“So, you’re psychic?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“You in my mind right now?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
“I’m not that kind of psychic,” you say. Even though you essentially are that kind of psychic. But you really don’t think he’d appreciate it if you went into the details of the Standardized International Psychic Application Assessment, General and Specific Forms.
He relaxes. A lot. So much that he consciously corrects it by stiffening a little.
“So, what kind of psychic are you?” he asks.
You really doubt this is returning to the company, which is probably for the best. He clearly doesn’t have an interest in it anyway.
“Precognition. Get about a half second warning before I get physically hurt.”
“Huh. So, never been in a car crash?”
You laugh. “No, but that’s because I’m an excellent driver. Not because I’m a psychic. Really just means that I never stub my toe.”
“Oh.” He half-frowns. The kind that’s more unconscious than not. “Thought it’d be more useful.”
“It lets me train my alakazam,” you suggest.
“Yeah. I guess. You battle with them?”
“On the weekends. Chris likes his lieutenants to be halfway decent in a fight.”
He perks up at the casual mention of your boss. Because of course they do. You’re a pretty girl with a brain quirk and an espeon. Chris Foster? He’s the eight-time-running United States champion, highest ranked trainer in the world, tamer of victini, and at least the seventh biggest pain in the ass in Alola.
Yeah. Seeing that light in his eyes, you doubt Chris can mess things up too much. Maybe Manuela would be even more impressed by the man behind the curtain.
“You know, I think I can set up an interview with him.”
“Really? I had been told that he’s too busy.”
“Of course, but you’re The Battler. I’m sure he can find the time.”
You don’t doubt that. Competitive pokémon journalism and competitive trainers have this self-validating cycle where the journalists build up the trainers into semi-divine heroes in the public eye, and then revel in the attention they get from the celebrities they created. But you still have to screen these interviews, in case the sky fell and The Battler decided to blaspheme their gods.
You’re still reeling from a Hau’oli Tribune column last month calling VStar “Evil Incorporated.” It had taken you two hours on the phone with Chris to talk him down from making that the official name of the company.
You give Manuela the number of Chris’s secretary, exchange the parting pleasantries, and sit back down. Espy looks at you expectantly, so you take two treats out and put them on the table. It’s always fascinating watching the espeon eat, even after seventeen years. He nudges a treat into place with the tip of his claw, steps back, and lifts the treat just a little bit into the air. Then he pulls back his whispers and brings his mouth around it before swallowing it whole. No crumbs ever touch his fur.
With his food eaten, Espy levitates the crumbs off the desk and into the wastebasket. Then he stretches out, walks in a circle, and gracefully sits down with his tail outstretched and a paw on your hand.
{You’re tired.} he says.
“I could use a nap.”
{Mind tired.}
You pull up your schedule instead of giving him an answer.
New journey group initiation today. You should stop by that, scan for potential problems before they blow up in your face.
The governor’s having a fundraiser tonight and you’ll be there. He’s a nice man. Genuinely likes you. Has a tendency to talk a little too much when he’s lonely and just a little bit tipsy and trusts someone. And given the way that things seem to be going at home and in the polls, well, he’s very lonely and probably drinking a little more than he should with his office. And it’s your job to be likeable and trustworthy. When the public thinks of your company, they should think of their beloved sports star and hero. When the elites do, they should think of the pretty blond girl who either kind of flirted with them in just the way they liked or who gave them the kind of compliments they needed. Put a pretty face on your operation so no one ever wants to peel off the surface and look beneath.
Between the two meetings? Email. Hours of email. And maybe a quick nap, if you’re lucky.
*
It’s an hour into orientation. Sometimes you’ll stay to watch the full thing, make sure that you know what’s being taught and how. Saves you time when the wrong person leaks the wrong thing (that they remembered wrong) and you have to figure out what really happened before you can tell the press what pretty much happened.
First few hours are nothing important, anyway. Here’s a little about Alola and the island challenge. What are tents and why should you use one? Like your food? Try not to get it stolen. Budgeting could maybe be helpful. This predator lives in these places and here is how you avoid it. The basics of life on the trail, with or without VStar.
The sensitive stuff—payment methods and tables, how to stay within the letter of the law, corporate facilities and affiliates, mortality rates, advancement paths, mission assignments, legal duties to the company—that all gets crammed in at the end.
Room’s emptier than usual. Only eight initiates, most mid- to upper-teens. It’s to be expected. October is a garbage month for starting a journey since it’s in the middle of a semester and right at the start of the rainy season. Most of your new trainers come to the April, May, and June sessions. The people who come in October are the really over-eager ten-year-olds who can’t wait to get on the trail or teenagers who can’t stay in their home a second longer.
Group isn’t bored yet. Doesn’t pay you too much mind when you sit down in a corner chair. Half of them look at you for a moment before glancing back to the presentation. One girl’s eyes linger for a little until she makes eye contact and immediately turns away.
Okay. Time to start scanning.
A lot of telepaths just read minds like a book. Or a monitor with code shifting faster than you could ever hope to read, as a former roommate put it. Your talent doesn’t work that way. It’s more akin to sonar. Send out a wave, wait to see what image you get back. Usually it just dredges up a secret or two: the thing that there’s the most resistance to you knowing. If you really focus you can get a general profile of all the parts and how they fit together, but you don’t get any of the details. Just the strengths and weaknesses and thought structure.
Theoretically you could have your scan bring everything back, but it’d probably take you a week to process and land you in a hospital bed for a few months. If you were lucky.
You click your tongue on the roof of your mouth (not necessary, but it helps you focus) and look at the first kid. And he is very much a kid. Ten, probably. Biggest secret is that his parents don’t want him to do this. Definitely an overeager child whose family won’t or can’t pay for the journey. No security risk, as long as someone sits him down and explains what the non-disclosure agreements mean.
Second ping. Another boy, late teens this time. Got a girl pregnant and ran away to avoid the fallout. Probably doesn’t have the money to pay for a journey and parental assistance is very unlikely. Life choices are crap and he might not stay for the full journey, but he’ll be good for some low-level missions up front and he’ll probably trade everything in when he does decide to face the consequences. Moderate security risk. Probably shouldn’t be told anything really sensitive, but you’ll greenlight him.
Third kid. Girl, mid-teens… scion of one of the Big Six landowning families. You automatically fire off a contour scan to supplement the secret dredging. Your main question is why she’s even her. VStar gives structure, but it’s not the most efficient way to go on a journey. And the money can’t possibly matter to her unless she’s been exiled or she ran away.
Exile is unproblematic, although it’s the type of gossip you’d like to be aware of. If she did something bad enough that her family would bring hell down upon you for sheltering her, you would have heard what she did by this point. If she’s a runaway her family might give you endless PR and legal hell until you give their daughter back.
Supplemental scan doesn’t dig up much. Kid’s kind of flighty, kind of lonely. Cautious and kind at her core. Very recent trauma with a trail of shame before and ahead of it. And maybe something buried. Supports either theory, but her temperament makes you think she’s not a runaway. Minds like hers are allergic to rebellion.
Fourth is an addict to harder stuff than anything you’ve ever dared experiment with. Only mid-teens, too. What a waste of a life. Moderate security risk.
Fifth is female, probably native. Kleptomaniac. Old enough to have been involved in Skull back in its heyday. Very high security risk. Shouldn’t let her download the app or sit through the last hour of the presentation.
Sixth. Young girl. Probably ten, maybe eleven. And she’s… oh. Abuse. Probably getting away as soon as possible. Smart kid. You’ll look the parents up so you have blackmail at the ready if they try and take their kid back. Low security risk.
Seventh is… familiar? You try to never forget a face but it still just eludes you. By the second minute of staring he’s (she’s?) definitely noticed and you avert your gaze. Secret dredging time then. See what you missed…
Yup. You recognized her. Jabari’s little sister. And for some reason she really, really doesn’t want you to know that. Definitely need to look into that situation. Could be a high risk or a very low one. Probably shouldn’t do a further scan. Jabari might take it the wrong way.
The eighth is in her mid-teens? Early teens? Still very thin, but her features make her look a little older. Native girl, if you had to guess. Jade green hair. If it’s natural, it’s rare but not unheard of. If it’s dyed, then you need to ask her where she got it done. Big thing? She’s blind. Half-closed eyes, white cane, whole deal. Can she really do this? You aren’t going to send a kid out into the woods knowing that she’ll get killed by the first predator she can’t see coming.
Still, in case you don’t rule her out, a secret scan can’t hurt.
A moment later alarm bells of panic and despair and random memories and pain rock your mind. The thoughts came back to you after the scan but it’s like they were cut up in a blender, sharpened into daggers and then launched straight back into your brain. An attack? How? She’s…
Yours eyes open wider as it dawns on you. She’s psychic. Probably another telepath. Strong. And not trained in any style you’re familiar with. All that? And native? And blind? This definitely shouldn’t be the first you’ve heard of her. You like to think that you’ve met every other psychic in the commonwealth and not a one has ever mentioned her.
You got her attention. She’s slowly rotating her head to survey the room with either sound or some remaining vision, her foot tapping nervously the whole time.
How do you salvage this? It’s literally never happened before, and that’s not something you can say very often these days. Thought process isn’t helped by the thrum of pain in your head, alternating sharp and dull so you never quite get used to it. You breathe deeply and send her a special ping, one with a message attached.
{Sorry. I’m Rachel. Work for VStar. Talk after this?}
Short, simple concepts. They translate best. Especially if she mostly thinks in Hawaiian. And it’s all you’re really capable of now after the beating you just took.
There’s not an immediate response, but you can feel her mind through the partial connection. It’s a terrible risk, leaving the connection open. If she’s a stronger telepath than you are, and you just gave her an access point to your mind… well, who knows what she could do with that. You’ve seen enough telepaths in your life that you don’t even want to imagine it.
{…hi?} You let out a sigh of relief. She’s not hostile. Not yet. {Are you human?}
You smile in spite of yourself. She might be strong, but she’s either bluffing or she has absolutely no idea what she’s doing. You could probably take her in a fight in your own mind while injured, if you had to. And she’s kind of cute; it’s fun watching the babies learn.
{Yes. I’m Rachel. Work for VStar. Talk after orientation?}
{Okay,} she shoots back almost immediately. A second passes as you ready your response. {Am I in trouble?}
{No. Want to talk.}
{Okay.}
She leans forward in her seat and sets her arms down on the table. She sends no further messages. You should probably leave her now. Let her pay attention to the boring travel stuff. She, of all people, is going to need it.
*
Your alarm goes off at 3:00 P.M. and you swear at the ceiling before awkwardly rolling over in your pop-up hammock and turning it off. It had been a ninety-minute nap (really forty-five since you replied to some emails while lying still with the lights off). And you still feel miserable. How does that work?
Well… part of that’s the mental bruising. A cold and empty memory that keeps resurfacing, feelings of panic when looking at random objects, a slight fog over everything, and random sights and sounds getting turned into metal walls and tinny echoes. Plus you have an absolutely brutal headache. You make a point of taking an aspirin, knowing that it won’t really help but hoping the placebo effect does enough to make you comfortable. Which might negate the placebo effect. Is there a placebo effect where you know that the placebo effect does make people feel better, but that it doesn’t actually do anything physically, but the thought that this might make you feel better even though it doesn’t work makes you improve anyway because you half-expect it to? A placebo placebo effect.
This definitely isn’t making your headache any better.
First things first. You text the instructor to make sure that the possible Skull defector gets kicked out before the mortality tables come up. VStar’s mortality rates are lower than the League’s, but dead kids are dead kids and it never feels like there’s anything to say, much less anything good.
Second: a phone call. Two rings. Voicemail. Saw it but can’t or won’t answer. Understandable, since his job involves herding dragons. The room is cold and clean and empty. Focus. Deep breaths. The third ceiling tile diagonal from the corner does not want to kill you. Voicemail. You’re in your office, the year is 2020, and you are leaving a voicemail. The metal—not metal—walls have light blue wallpaper. “Hey, Jabari. This is Rachel. Call me back when you get a chance. It’s about your sister.”
Third: Ernest Gage’s daughter. That one you might have to deal with in person, or at least at the fundraiser tonight. He and his wife will probably be there. It would be rude to get the information directly on such a sensitive subject, but there will be other attendees who love nothing more than swapping secrets. The room is cold and clean
Fourth: …nah, Chris can’t screw up the interview that badly. You’ll save that for tomorrow.
Fifth: You pull up the new trainer’s files. Abused girl is Aiko Katou. Mother is a barber, dad is a plumber. Good news is that they can’t really go after the company.—They don’t believe you and never will.—Bad news is that if the family’s got nothing, they’ve got nothing to lose. Blackmail won’t do much. It might only succeed in letting them know where their daughter went. Still might try and get your hands on Why does the ceiling have teeth? By the kings, this headache sucks.
Sixth: Blind girl is Cuicatl Ichtaca. Nahua. Fifteen years old. Here on a challenge visa. Explains how you’ve never heard of her. Didn’t report any pokémon. You’ll need to start her off slow or put her with some strong teammates for her protection, but if she’s psychic then she might be worth keeping around. If your interview checks out. Moles can be annoying; a telepathic mole could be a catastrophe of the highest order. The room is cold and. Stop. Breathe. You can’t find anything online about her and the commonwealth’s immigration services can be annoyingly leak-proof on minors, so that’s the end of that investigation. For now.
Seventh—something brushes against your leg. You look down to see Espy looking up at you, holding his leash in his mouth.
Seventh: Go outside. Take your fox on a walk. Stop thinking about work for a minute. Make new memories. Be calm. Outside is warm and dirty and open.
*
You pull two water bottles and two packets from the refrigerator tucked under your desk and place them on the table. “Water, if you’re thirsty. I know those meetings last a while. And I put some gummies there, too. Good to eat every two hours or so. Good for your brain.”
Her hand freezes in midair right before taking the water. It’s only for a moment, and she proceeds on like nothing had happened.
“Hey, it’s fine. You can’t be responsible for things you didn’t know to do.”
She doesn’t answer that. Natural shyness? Nervousness? Poor English? You never realize how much your scans are a crutch until you find yourself without them.
“Who are you? Besides your name,” she asks.
You smile. Uselessly. Doesn’t matter either way.
“Right. I’m Rachel. I’m one of the Vice Presidents for VStar. I handle new recruits, among other things.”
“…and I’m not in trouble?”
“No. No, not at all. Just don’t get many psychics passing through. I try to meet with them individually.”
“I meant for the, um. Did I hurt you?”
Yes. Yes, you did.
“Not very much,” you say, bringing a smile into your voice. “Napped, took a walk, cleared my head. It’s fine now.” And it mostly is. Espy could help a little once he had some sunlight to focus on.
Her head dips a little. Shame, probably. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
“No, no. Don’t worry about it. I’m the one who,” time to take a drink of water and figure out how to finish that sentence without sounding invasive, “reached out to your mind first. Should have asked. Standard for new psychics.” You set the bottle down. Nailed it.
“Oh.”
Is there a polite way to ask her about her English skills? Because you don’t actually have a Nahuatl speaker in the building. That you know of. Might be a good idea to check.
“You don’t have much training with your powers, do you?”
She gently shakes her head. “No. My mom’s reuniclus taught me a little. I figured some of the rest out. Never met a psychic but my brother.”
“You grew up around pokémon, then?”
Her lips curl into a smile and she makes (near) eye contact as a hundred tiny things change in her expression. She goes from sullen and afraid to absolutely adorable in the blink of an eye.
“Yes. My mom’s team lived near the house. I took care of them. She had a reuniclus, a heatmor, a swanna, a klinklang, a conkeldurr,” she really is infectiously cute when she’s excited, with her kind of high pitched voice and its rapid pace, “and a hydreigon.”
Your heart skips a beat. Her face is the exact same but all of the cuteness gone.
“A hydreigon?”
“Yes! Her names are Alice, Dorothy, and Ilsa. Alice was first so that’s her one name. But she prefers her three names.”
A wild hydreigon flew within thirty miles of the academy once and they shut down classes for a week. Parents accused them of underreacting.
“Uh huh. And, um, you took care of her? Them?”
“She likes ‘ellas.’ She doesn’t know that there’s more than one language and they have different words,” she says. As if this is just a normal thing.
“I see.”
You are very, very glad that she can’t see the color of your face right now. You know full well that you command a telepathic monster that can fry a man’s mind in seconds, but you will never, ever be comfortable with dragons. And why should you? You’ve seen one absolutely shred a tank without breaking a sweat. Do dragons sweat? You have absolutely no desire to look that up.
Focus. You need to change the subject a little. Useful information in those statements? She has a brother, but he’s presumably not here. If Cuicatl cared for her mom’s hydreigon, her mom also can’t be in the picture anymore. Or she was horribly irresponsible. Either way? Dangerous topic. Cuicatl said she doesn’t have any pokémon on the form. How did that happen? Did it happen? She wouldn’t be the first kid to tell a lie on their paperwork. Okay. Alice. Ellas. How did she find out that Alice liked ellas?
“Can you speak to pokémon?”
“Sometimes. Not with Alice. In her mind, at least. But we understand each other.”
“I see. What all can you do with your mind? I can tell secrets and foresee pain.”
“…secrets?”
She runs a shade paler and you can hear her foot tap against the side of the chair. Nervous tic that you share.
“Not yours. Your shielding is very good. Not trained, but effective.”
“Oh. Thank you. Renfield—reuniclus taught me that.”
That wasn’t an answer. But it does explain why it felt so much like the headaches Espy can give you when she’s really, really angry.
“Talking to pokémon is usually telepathy, then. Projecting and reading thoughts. Empathy is sensing emotions. There’s usually some overlap, but not always.”
She frowns. “I think I just have telepathy. Do people usually only have one thing?”
You shake your head. Um. Time to fix that. “Sometimes. You don’t see things before they happen? See things you shouldn’t? Move things with your mind?”
“I don’t see anything.”
Poor wording. Anne would’ve torn you a new one if she’d heard. But Cuicatl doesn’t look too offended. Even smiling, just a little. But not nearly as brightly as before.
“But you can’t do any of those things?”
“Right.”
You give her a chance to follow up. She doesn’t. Just shifts in her seat and idly taps a foot on the floor, soft enough that she probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it. Whatever rapport you built talking about her pokémon, it’s gone now. Time for another subject change.
“What brings you to Alola, then?”
“I wanted, um, to go on a journey? And Unova didn’t want to take me. I don’t have much money so a girl in the Pokémon Center said I should come here.”
There’s a shred of truth in there, but she’s an awful liar. Don’t even need your telepathy to see through that. New topic options: PsiTests seems a little too close to the last questions, she doesn’t want to talk about why she’s here, so… old pokémon.”
“Did you bring any of your mom’s team with you?”
She freezes up. Full deerling in headlights. **** **** **** **** abort abort abort.
“Hey its—”
“No, I didn’t.” Speech is off. Breathing is erratic. Approach and escalate? Keep quiet and seem callous? Response depends on the type of breakdown you’re seeing.
…the kid has to be alone here. Half an ocean from home, at least one parent out of the picture, apart from her pokémon for maybe the first time…
She shouldn’t have to have panic attacks alone.
You get up from your seat and move around the desk to kneel beside her. Then you put a hand on her shoulder and press down a little bit. “It’s alright,” you whisper, “we can get you new friends and a new pokémon.”
The waterworks open in full. Before you can decide if you should hug or not, Espy jumps into her lap. Kid didn’t mention owning a dog, fox, or cat, but she’s a gentle petter. Holds out her hand for a second for Espy to sniff. Then gently pets the ears and runs her hand back in slow, light strokes.
You take the moment to think as Cuicatl’s breaths get steadier. You remove your hand from her shoulder to avoid smothering her. Homesickness? Trauma? Other mental illness? Kid needs emotional support in any case. Ideally something intelligent enough for her to talk to, social enough to cuddle, and fluffy enough to pet. Difficulty of care shouldn’t be a problem. Neither should difficulty of bonding, if she got a hydreigon to not snack on her. Maybe something a little difficult to distract her. Eevee would work. Not big enough to be a good guide, though, even when fully evolved.
…
There is a pokémon that fits all of those criteria, but she’s trouble. She’d either be a silver bullet for Cuicatl’s problems or a lead bullet straight to her heart.
You put your hand back on Cuicatl’s shoulder and she flinches from the touch.
