Well, you suppose this was bound to happen eventually. Honestly, you're a little surprised it didn't happen sooner. Skimming that Skeledirge off the top from your smuggling runs? Egregious, but it somehow went unnoticed. Yoinking that Mega Accessory? Even more egregious, but you didn't get caught on that, either. But trying to pocket that Shiny Axew? That was pushing your luck, and as it happens, you don't have that kind of luck to push around.

But you suppose you still have some to spare, because you're getting off pretty light for it. A few verbal lashings that you couldn't give less of a shit about, and a hundred hours worth of mandatory training over the course of the month. They're not even making you give the sucker back! The only logical conclusion you can possibly reach is that you really ARE just that good.

Still, you've got to work off these hours sooner rather than later, so here you are...

"Hey, you." You approach the other woman in the training facility, only for your brain to stall out. Shit, what was her name again? Did it start with an M? Mar-something? You idly click your fingers a few times, before giving up. Fuck it, you'll just go for what. What's the worst that could happen? "You're Mareanie, right? Shred Zeppelin, reporting for community service."

---

Marza Volchitsa

"The idiot with the sticky fingers", huh? Well, that was an ungenerous reading on the situation. You like to think of it more as "The well-meaning clerk who was overusing his employee discount", because that makes you sound like less of an asshole. Besides, your fingers aren't that sticky. You wash your hands at least once or twice a day.

"No." You reply bluntly, your voice a little too casual, given that this is supposed to be a punishment for your wrongdoings. Then again, why lie at a time like this? "They did teach me how to make a mean pipebomb, though. So, really, I guess they taught me the opposite?"

Ah, yes, those halcyon days spent in the Isle of Armor Republican Army. A formative experience for your formative years, where you learned all sorts of essential skills. Good times, Good times... Well, except for all the unintentional bloodshed on both sides and the mass casualties of the innocents and the politics and the corruption and the betrayal and the death squads and... Okay, on reflection, they weren't really good times, and you've never needed to make a pipe bomb since then, so it didn't teach you any practical skills whatsoever. But, hey, you're here now, so maybe things didn't turn out that bad for you in the end.

"Look, that's a long story, and also neither here nor there. The point is, I was born ready... I, uh, just don't know what I'm supposed to be ready for, exactly."

...You get the sense that you're saying exactly all the wrong things here. At this point, you're just hoping she doesn't punch you here.

...Actually, fuck it. You've been punched by uglier women before. You can probably tolerate that, as long as it's not one of those side-of-the-head punches that kills you instantly.

...Y'know, thinking about it, you've had a good run. Maybe that wouldn't be the worst way to go? Something to think about.

---

Marza Volchitsa

"GYAH!"

As the Kommo-o comes crashing down, you throw yourself out of the way just in the nick of time, tumbling on the floor milliseconds before the dragon hits the floor. Cursing under your breath, you quickly scramble up to your feet, and look to Marza with disdain. Cheeky fucker! Couldn't spare a few seconds to explain what you'd be doing, huh? It seems like this was going to be a dirty fight, but that suited you just fine. After all, you work better without rules and laws weighing you down.

Let's see... Kommo-o, that's what? A Fighting Dragon? Ghost for the Fighting, Fairy for the Dragon, that's a job for a Mimikyu... which you don't have. In terms of Pokemon you actually own, the closest you've got is...

"Doublade, get out here!"

"Oho!" The spectre of swords emerges from its Pokeball with a red flash, performing an exaggerated flourish as the eyes upon its crossguards twist to face its foe. "And so, our hero faces down the fearsome dragon, with naught but his blades and his wits, hoping to earn the--"
”Doublade! Blade blade, blade blade blade blade--”

”Just shut up and hit it!!”

"Very well!" The swords decree, swooping forth with a pair of parallel swings. Though it may seem like a slash, in reality it’s closer to an Iron Head, and it’s ready to hit the Kommo-o straight on the head. "Prepare to taste steel, you glorified drake!"

---

Marza Volchitsa