[attr="class","luxray-header"]

[attr="class","luxray-post"]
The paperwork hadn’t gone through yet, and they were really, really sorry, but everything was backed up and chaotic.[break][break]

The woman at HR had looked apologetic, chewing her lip as she clicked and typed with deft efficiency. She couldn’t have been much older than Althea – and it was obvious in the way she apologized for things she couldn’t control. Althea had started and then she had apologized because, really, it was so sudden of her to come up to HR without calling and she was just nervous. The two of them had gone back and forth with their apologies until, finally, Althea broke the cycle by complimenting the woman’s pretty, sparkly nails. The HR woman recommended her favorite salon with the biggest smile, and that had been that.[break][break]

The paperwork hadn’t gone through for payroll and insurance, but she could wear the uniform and respond to any calls or alerts. [break][break]

Hemingway was a familiar weight on her shoulder in a city that was so different from home. Castelia was congested with tight, winding alleyways and the pervasive smell of sewage and hotdogs. Slateport was a sprawling city that smelled of the sea and not much else. Althea had spent the first few days in Slateport City sleeping off her jetlag, unpacking, and exploring. Still, it was hard to catch her bearings. Her Raichu was chewing a pecha berry noisily in her ear, tail curled around her shoulders. At her heels was a Skiddo, content to suck on a fistful of grass. [break][break]

Then Hemingway’s ears twitched. He didn’t stop chewing, but turned his head minutely and glanced from her, down the street, and back again. [break][break]

Althea scratched him behind the ears as she turned. The years had done nothing but honed his razor-sharp senses…and maybe made him a bit rounder than he ought to be. Actually, no, that was her. [break][break]

The theater loomed over them – all grandeur and dusty windows. Atop a spire was a lone Scyther, pruning her sickles. [break][break]

“Come on, Sabina.” [break][break]

There was a flash of green at Althea’s side as she pushed the heavy doors of the theater open. Sabina matched her pace, but Picasso bleated and darted ahead of them. Somebody had come in when they weren’t supposed to…and that somebody was playing a song. The tinkling notes came soft, at first, dulled by the walls and the thick flowery carpets. It wasn’t hard to follow. There was something about the song that made Althea reluctant to see who was at the end of it. It was too sad, and Althea was already frazzled by Slateport. If she saw someone crying, she’d probably get emotional herself. [break][break]

It’d be a great way to establish herself as a respectable figure in the Slateport community – sniffling because someone played a pretty little tune. [break][break]

She didn’t get lost. Althea found her way easily, leaning against the doorframe of the auditorium. There was a slight man on the stage, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight. [break][break]

Oh, god, she was right. Something about him just read sad even from a distance. [break][break]

I need to see your hands, sir. I received a call from a citizen about entry into the theater afterhours. [break][break]

She almost said it, but the words died in her throat, and Althea couldn’t do much but lift Picasso into her arms and shush him gently. The song needed to end properly.

The doors opened, Everett didn't bat an eye and kept playing, the sonata meant for someone already long gone. His soul was crying in every note, reaching just inches from the stars themselves. Until the last note came, he would stay here, remaining even if cuffs clasped his wrists, and his body was beaten into a pulp, he wouldn't leave the melody.

The dark-skinned musician did take notice to the woman who was there, watching his performance for no one. A fake smile slightly curved his lips upwards, a feeling nostalgic of times long since gone hanging on his heart. Like a bitter pain of waking up from the dream. It was a performance for one now. Was that a serenade? Maybe so, but Everett would play so regardless. Even with his fake smile, he played as though he could touch the edge of joy itself. Of happiness, yet obviously too far away from it.

Tears didn't fall down his cheeks, but they threatened to fall like rain.

The final notes played. As the acoustics bounced off the theater's walls, Everett leaned back finally, his golden eyes to the moon.

"Are you here to wake me from my dream?" his words were sad, but echoed from the stage around the theater, his golden eye finally resting on her. Seeing her for who she was. Her Pokemon accompanied to her. Harmony and Lyric looked over her direction, both Pokemon with that same sad shine to their eyes. Wanting something to save this musician from his pain. "I've forgotten what it meant to dream." a sad laugh, an attempt at one anyways.

His gaze was now fully on her. "Good evening." He tried to smile. But no matter how wide he tried to make it, it wasn't real.

[attr="class","luxray-header"]
         
       
       
       
     

[attr="class","luxray-post"]



“No,” Althea spoke quickly - probably too quickly, but he sounded so sad and she couldn’t help it, “I...It’s late. You can stay a bit longer.”[break][break]


Nazaire Bianchi’s daughters didn’t much resemble him, everyone said so. Anyone who remembered Althea’s mother said they looked alike (and they emphasized looks, not personality) with thick, black hair and their slim faces. Scholastica had red hair and stood at six-feet-and-one-inch: pretty, intimidating, and muscular (she was proud of her deadlift for good reason). The youngest, Carmina, had black hair cut short - pin straight where Althea’s had the softest curl - and a smile that was wild. They all had gray eyes, though, like their father. And when people got to know Althea more, they always said she was like Nazaire and Carmina’s late mother, Teresa. Nazaire was the baby-faced darling of their neighborhood, and grandmas still wept when they talked about Teresa because God took her home too soon.[break][break]


If someone looked sad or lost, Althea would pounce. Instead of claws, she would unsheathe baubles or trinkets or whatever else she could find in her pockets. She couldn’t offer a miracle, but she could offer comfort and give some of her time.[break][break]


Picasso was getting fussy in her arms. She let him down gently, and the Skiddo went frolicking off towards the stage - bleating all the while. The flight had its run of jetlag on them all, and Picasso’s already tenuous sleep schedule had been obliterated. It was late, and the Skiddo was wide awake. While Picasso wiggled his bottom from sheer excitement, Althea and the rest of her team were much calmer. She followed the thin partition between the rows of seats, hands away from her belt. It was a sign she would not be cuffing him just yet. [break][break]


(She wouldn’t be cuffing him at all. God, she was such a pushover - but come on, just look at him.)[break][break]


“Good evening,” Althea managed a small smile in return, but hers was genuine, “That was really amazing.”[break][break]


He looked very small on such a big stage. His hair was black, his eyes gold, and his skin - olive like her own - was limned in moonlight. It was a romantic image, and Althea wanted to ruffle his hair and ask him what was wrong. She didn’t, though. She couldn’t. At least, not with a fully grown stranger.[break][break]


“Officer Althea Bianchi,” she said, tipping her cap. She pointed to each Pokemon in turn as she introduced them, “Hemingway, Sabina, and Picasso.”[break][break]


Picasso, of course, bleated happily by way of greeting.



       
     

Truth be told, romance had never been his strong suit. Devotion to his craft left little to be desired in his heart. Strength was one of those desired traits, yet never found. That's why when his muse died, he didn't know how to handle it. It felt like every color was monochrome, and getting out of bed every day was a challenge.

The moonlight illuminated her form, and Everett saw the officer for what she was. With a hand away from her belt, it allowed peace of mind to Harmony and Lyric, ready at a moment's notice to pounce. One small whisper under Everett's breath calmed the two down, and neither even hinted at the idea.

Exchanging names, the musician heard her compliment his music, and something peculiar happened. Everett's false expression was disarmed. His vision got blurry, his cheeks grown wet. With a hand, he wiped his face.

He was crying.

"Thank you." he spoke softly to her, his voice on the edge of breaking. He had missed it. He often played his songs, but without a muse it felt so hollow. He forgot how much it felt to feel it in his heart.

At her introductions, he so too responded, bowing for his performance. "Everett Moreau-" hand to the Milotic, who coiled tighter. "-Harmony-" hand to the Eevee, who sat, watching Thea. "-Lyric." Lyric and Harmony relaxed, as he turned from the bench, the moonlight cascading through the skylight to wash him a deep, sorrowful blue. If this were any other night, he would ask her to dance.

No. That would hurt too much.

"I won't be long. Though, while you're here Officer Althea Bianchi, can I trouble you to stay for just one more song?" he looked with a pleading golden gaze, hoping the younger lady would let him play for her. Perhaps a happier song to see her smile.

That's all he wanted. He wanted to see others smile. Ever since he was a young boy.

[attr="class","luxray-header"]

[attr="class","luxray-post"]
There was an old saying that the Pokemon resembled the trainer. Looking at Harmony and Lyric, Althea couldn’t help but think that old wives’ saying was a bit true. Milotics were beautiful, sinuous and strong – and she could see that in the musician up on stage. Eevee were cute. When the man – Everett Moreau – turned to her, she could see he was cute as can be. He was even pretty when he cried, that wasn’t fair.[break][break]

It hit her then that he was crying. Althea had the sudden impulse to clamber onto stage and dab at his face with a handkerchief. Her sisters were both taller than her, but they had only been ten and eight when she came along that fateful day and they had both been angry criers. It was in her nature to soothe and nurture. Even before she knew what it was like to be cared for properly, she had always done it. Hemingway had been a filthy Pichu muddling around in the dumpsters behind her underfunded middle school. It had taken two months before he stopped eying Althea suspiciously. [break][break]

It was like denying years of primal instinct chiseled into her DNA, but Althea restrained herself. No mothering on her first night out on the job. [break][break]

“Alright,” Althea conceded after a pause, “One more song. I’ll lock up after that and escort you home.” [break][break]

The chairs of the theater creaked when she sat. Hemingway was a soft, warm weight as he made to sit on her lap. Picasso leapt to join him and nuzzled into both of them. Sabina, always cool and collected, primly took a seat behind Althea – mindful of her cruel sickles on the dusty upholstery. [break][break]

She could never afford prime seats like this in her day-to-day life. She was more than a little jetlagged, a little homesick, and the moonlight falling over Everett made everything feel like almost dreamlike. [break][break]

One song, Althea reminded herself. Out of uniform, she’d let him play a hundred songs and she’d let him. As Officer Althea Bianchi, however, she was already taking liberties with letting him trespass this long. Althea, you pushover. This is supposed to be a new you.