pomegranate! it does taste like pomegranate, and honey, and everything good and right in the world. blythe can't help but literally sigh into her cup as bliss crosses her face, like fate has just drawn two very disparate strings into an incredible, melodious harmony. it's only when greyson mentions oldale that she opens her eyes to peer inquisitively over her drink's rim.

something clicks for her, too. yes, that's right! she's certain she saw him in the greenhouse once or twice—and, if not, definitely walking past the windows. a smile, big and broad, dawns on her face.

"yes, i am!" she chirps, seafoam glittering in her eyes. "i knew you looked familiar! you've got the oldale look to you."

alas, they were only ever passing acquaintances, if not less. she regrets there's no space reserved in her brain for his name—that means introductions are in order. resolved, having made up her mind, blythe holds out the cup she was given to greyson, urging with only a shimmer in her gaze that he should take it back. "it was really good," she informs him. "i'm blythe, by the way!"

---

Greyson Connors

that jacket. that mask.

it's unmistakable. he's from team rocket.

blythe can't recall how many horror stories she's been told of these fabled troublemakers. terrorism, drugs, smuggling, murder. their list of crimes is longer than she has time to recount. hell, some of these people are members of the most-wanted list back at the station. even more belong to a group of criminals so dangerous that blythe's been forcibly kept from conversations even mentioning them, lest she grows too much of an ego and imagines she can take them on herself.

that would never happen, of course, because blythe's biggest problem is likely her lack of an ego, but such big personalities are endemic to the newest cadets in the force. every precaution comes into play when interacting with team rocket.

so why does her heart slow? he's a part of hoenn's eternal bogeyman force, and yet her mind conjures reasons for why he couldn't be that bad. nurture, not nature, she tells herself. none of these people are born bad, and even those that embrace the label with open arms are still human; they still have the capability to be good. blythe knows some of her superiors would balk at this reasoning—just because they can be good doesn't mean they will, given the circumstances, but blythe can't ignore the possibility in good faith. if she didn't follow this man, blythe's certain she would live to regret it for many years after the fact. his logic's not half bad.

so, after a second of deliberation where she hurriedly works her lower lip between her teeth, blythe takes a chance and nods.

"ok," is her one-word admission as she draws closer to isaac with florges behind her. "lead the way."

---

Isaac Merlo

blythe, illuminated from the front by a fire set within a burning aluminum pyre and flanked by her florges, sweats when she glances at the man at her side.

Priya Kosch. symbol of her failure.

she's happy-go-lucky to a fault. too excitable for her own good, too. while others sometimes praise her for this, finding good hope in such naive optimism, it has proven to be her downfall more often than not. this particular outing comes on the tailwind of a failed operation on the docks of sootopolis, where she nearly died a watery death at the hands of the ocean after being pushed in, and the culprit she had been chasing went on to cause irreparable damage to the hoennian supply lines. she's been assigned a guardian, a watchdog, somebody to look and see every failure blythe still carries.

of course, she's nervous. how could she not be? every second spent in priya's unerring, stern presence is another second blythe spends wondering if she will ever be cut out for this job—if she should just quit while she's ahead.

nonetheless, a minute spent at ground zero dispels these worries entirely. she's reminded of exactly why she joined the force in the first place when she stomps toward a group of young masked individuals smashing a smoking storefront with bats, sending glass shards shattering out across the street. there's a young woman inside the store still, cowering behind the counter.

she stands no chance of arresting these people just by her lonesome with her pokemon. the true focus here is ensuring the woman is safe, regardless of any arrests made. this is the whole reason she's here—protecting people.

so her florges, without even being told, sends a curling vine through the air to mark a barrier between the three troublemakers and the shattered storefront they now eye. as the troublemakers follow the vine to its source, blythe does her best to look as stern and authoritative as possible, with her hands on her hips and her deep blue eyes narrowed.

"disperse." her voice cracks. "or be detained."

detective kian forrest! blythe squares the name away into the back of her mind and hopes that it will edify, as very few pieces of information tend to do in her mind. luckily for both of them, it's unlikely she'll be forgetting this encounter anytime soon, if only because it marks the very first instance in her incredibly short career that she's stared death so closely in the eyes.

of course, he's a detective, so it's likely not the first time for him. in that case, then, she'll defer to his judgement, living up to the 'sidekick' title he so eloquently and generously bequeaths to her. while the title could be insulting for some individuals claiming fame to far more pride than blythe does, it is nothing more than another sign that she should be following kian and not the other way around. he's evidently more experienced, almost supernaturally intelligent, and incredibly keen to the invariable details and superficial clues endemic to murder investigations. in some ways, it is flattering that she's been chosen to be the sidekick of somebody so illustrious! the idea nestles deep in her heart and warms it, even as kian stumbles back out of the house and fumbles for the smelling salts. she follows suit, and finally, both of them reenter the house with no more waterworks or vomiting.

it's still unpleasant, though. the body lies slumped against the far wall, a mess of blood and viscera, barely recognizable as a human rather than a miserable pile of flesh and violence. some officers meticulously collect photos of the crimescene with respirators strapped to their faces, while others seek fresh air out the back door, many in the same state blythe and kian had been moments before.

of course, blythe is also averting her eyes. she's seen the body enough to know what it looks like without even glancing at it.

"i think because, maybe, the calling card is... on the body," blythe manages through a gag and a cough. she sends a pointed glance back at kian with a tepid smile. "i dunno... if you look at the face, the corners of the mouth are... cut. upward. y'know, like..."

like it's smiling at us. she shudders.

---

@kian

the sailors, though friendly, provide little to no help in regards to blythe's investigation. though she maintains a polite smile as they speak to her and each other, occasionally calling over their shoulders or mustering a grunt beneath their supply loads, she can't help but grind her teeth. the culprit is still out there, perhaps lurking within the very ship that they all stand upon, and she's just wasted precious few moments getting information that may end up leading nowhere!

until the winds change, bringing better fortune with it. a white jacket turns up on the deck, and quickly comes into blythe's custody at the behest of the sailors. finally, something she can make use of! with the appearance of this single piece of evidence, blythe summarily reasons that she need not harry the sailors any further. they have work to do, and so does she.

"thank you, both of you!" she affirms with a quick bow of her head to each sailor in turn, all while clutching the white coat tightly between her seeking fingertips. "i'll get to the bottom of this!"

and then she turns, police coat streaming behind her as she descends into the cargo hold from a staircase on the brig.

she can't ignore the instinct that rises up inside of her throat like magma in a volcano. she firmly and sternly believes that the suspect is inside of the ship as she walks the long, winding hallways beneath the deck, dark and damp and plagued by a heavy, all-encompassing atmosphere. what he's doing within, though? that remains a mystery, and it's the most concerning mystery of the entire case. that single unknown could dissolve the entire job she was assigned to within seconds, which makes it doubly important that she find this white-cloaked individual as soon as possible. so she walks quickly, feet moving faster than even her mind.

when the officer rounds a corner, though, she finds herself looking squarely at a stranger on the opposite end of a long hallway. blond, rough and tumble, but not wearing white. he doesn't fit the description, and yet...

blythe raises the white coat in his palms and then glances between him and it as if judging whether it would fit him or not. it's not difficult to imagine that the suspect could be shearing such a noticeable outfit in an effort to avoid detection. could it be that she's actually found her culprit?

---

Isaac Merlo

it seems she's found a thread of commonality between him and her! blythe smiles at the mention of a slowpoke clinging to a ceiling fan for dear life. the story conjures an image in her mind that she can't help but laugh at. she understands where he's coming from in that regard—perhaps it's old-fashioned of her, but she cringes at the thought of keeping her pokemon in their balls for too long. she much prefers allowing them free reign of her cheap slateport apartment, even if it does result in frequent landlord visits. she laughs as diantha peers from behind her forearm blades to observe bongo, slowly warming to the idea of interacting with unfamiliar pokemon.

"you too?" blythe chirps as she draws closer to ash and the surreptitious red checkered blanket on the ground. "i'm pretty sure my landlord is on the verge of kicking me out!"

luckily for her, there's no need to dwell on the looming threat of incoming homelessness. ash is quick to indicate the picnic basket and the wealth of good food he's prepared just for today, a sight that nearly draws tears into blythe's eyes. she's all smiles, excitement, and relief, emotions that burst forth from her chest and spill out through her eyes, the only outlet that seems right for such thoughts and feelings. she can't help herself as she plops down onto the indicated blanket, at which point she carefully unpeels her fomantis from her arms to set her down alongside her hips on the blanket.

"you're so kind!" she enthuses, blue eyes glassy with her overwhelming happiness. "it all smells so good! i've never tried alolan stuff before, but i promise i'm not allergic to anything!"

she nearly reaches into the basket with aplomb before recalling that such eagerness could, in many cases, be seen as rude. she draws her hand back as if she's been burned, recalling her manners under the duress of her childhood guardian's distant visage. "may i?" she murmurs and glances up at ash, pleading.

---

Ashley Shepard

blythe sees her life flash before her eyes as the detective summarily decides that he'll remember just how much she likes coffee.

what does that mean? does that mean he'll be getting her coffee more often? that he'll show up to every case with a cup of coffee just for her? that she'll have to deal with this petty, white lie for the rest of her damn career? absolute despondency floods into the woman's consciousness as she stares blankly at kian with a dopey, vague smile that doesn't reach her eyes. old man fylleman's words echo into her mind once more, that it must mean this man is a good person with how eager and willing he is to gift her something so special, but the words have been tainted, poisoned. how will she survive like this?

"aha... thanks!" she says, face blank, voice trailing. what has she gotten herself into?

finally, he moves onto the case, putting coffee into the past for good. apparently, he's the detective on this case, here to help! so blythe follows eagerly after him, only to very soon thereafter stumble back outside of the house, vomiting and retching and struggling to keep their stomachs down. yes, the detective surely misunderestimated the state of the house, rife with vermin, viscera, and gore, and he's dearly paid the price for it, along with blythe. somehow, the sweet scent from her fomantis only makes the stench worse. the aftertaste of the coffee even worsens the sting of bile on her tongue.

in the immediate aftermath, sweaty-faced, the good-natured officer glances back up to the detective. are bodies supposed to look like that? "i don't know!" blythe exclaims, throwing her arms up, complexion a little green. "this is my very first one..."

wait... weren't detectives supposed to be used to this?

so used to it he is, he even offers to let her go in first! this must be the mark of a real detective, blythe decides with a nod and a smile. first, though, as they're standing outside in the tepid warmth of a midsummer night, blythe finally realizes she has yet to introduce herself to the man she's been vomiting beside for the last five minutes. "i can go in," she proffers him a trembling smile before extending her palm to his. "i'm blythe, by the way!"

regardless of the status of their handshake, blythe will soon thereafter point a pale finger to a pile of smelling salts nearby. "you'll wanna put those against your nose."

---

@kian

a man with black hair sidles up past the yellow crime tape, flashes his badge, approaches her, and then shoves a coffee into her hands.

a coffee. a single cup. she looks down at it, and then she looks up, and she searches his hands for another cup, imagining that he might just be helping her out, but when she finds nothing, she looks back down at the single cup. is it a gift? is that it? blythe must confess, she's not very thirsty right now on account of all the vomiting, but old man fylleman always told her never to look a gift horse in the mouth. so, blythe, mustering the biggest smile she can (which looks a lot like she's genuinely in pain), lifts the drink to her lips and takes a very demure sip.

and it tastes like shit.

it tastes so bad tears spontaneously reappear in the corners of her eyes and she can't help but cringe, which she masks with another incredibly painful smile.

"mhm, mhm!" she hums, pressing her teeth up against her upper lip with a caged look in her eyes. "soooooooooOoOoOoO yummy!"

oh. thank god. he's asking about the case! she can finally stop acting like she likes coffee. it's with a wider smile that she sets it down on the house's stoop, clutching her fomantis even closer to her chest in the process. she looks even paler than she did before—is it the coffee's work or the fact that there is a dead body just about three meters further into the property? it's anyone's guess, and blythe knows the least about it.

"uh, yeah! sooo," she begins, gently tapping her fingers together as she glances back to the murder house behind her. "guy got stabbed a bit. really messy... not very fun to be around. um... if you wanna go in, you better prepare yourself. it's not really pleasant to the nose."

blythe then glances back to kian and takes a closer look, peering with narrowed eyes. "so, are you, like, the..." she pauses, searching for the right moniker. "...deeeetective?"

yeah. he looks like a detective! ...sorta.

---

@kian

today is the first time blythe has ever had to speak with such authority!

alas, it seems even her best efforts at intimidating the white-clad figure into jumping away from the ship are useless at best. her high hopes, as they astronomically soar, are immediately grounded in a blinding flash of light as a volbeat apparates from the stranger's newly-wielded pokeball. blythe barely gets time to shield her eyes before the firefly pokemon's tail flashes into incandescence, spreading light in every direction and stunning every civilian without the wherewithal and swift reflexes to throw their arms over their faces.

a few moments pass as blythe recovers, stumbling on the dock in a dizzy haze. donmai steadies her with a single, reaching vine, but that's all she can offer, blinded herself. all around her, innocent dockers also rub at their faces and eyes and cry out in confusion and concern, but their spurious sounds only give cause and reason for blythe to pick up the pace in her own recovery. the culprit could be getting away as she stands there like an idiot, goddamnit! it's with a grit of her teeth that blythe blinks rapidly before finally forcing her eyes open, only to discover that the white-robed stranger is completely gone, now entirely absent from the ship's white hull. she frowns and scowls in response, a twisted expression twinkling deep in her ocean blue eyes. this can't go unpunished!

with rapid economy, blythe rushes away from her spot on the docks with only a hand motion to signify that donmai should be following. from there, she surges towards the docked ship and, with a few mumbled apologies, boards the ship past stumbling sailors and young men and women carrying heavy wooden boxes. before long, she's on the ship, and her eyes are rapidly scanning her immediate surroundings.

luckily for Isaac, she manages to overlook the makeshift dhelmise grappling hook linked across the side of the ship. instead, she seeks information in the sailors themselves. with a look of utmost sincerity, she rushes towards the nearest sailor, and with a great sense of frenzied energy, she immediately begins her interrogation!

"you! have you seen a man in white clothing around her that you don't recognize?" she queries with wide eyes. before long, she digs her police badge off her lapel to present it to the sailor. "i have reason to believe they pose a danger to this ship!"

---

Isaac Merlo

on a dreary night in the outskirts of slateport city, blythe recovers from her third bout of vomiting that day.

though her fomantis is in her arms, emitting a sweet scent from the bulb atop her head, the heady aroma does little to completely extinguish the rancid stench of rotting flesh, trash, and refuse emanating from the cordoned off house blythe now stands in front of. she's already expelled the contents of her stomach three times since attempting to enter the house with her coworkers and gather evidence, and yet every subsequent attempt has resulted in her eyes watering and her mouth filling with saliva. the body, stabbed 19 times and carved in such a way to make the corpse seem as if it is smiling even in death, must have been sitting there for weeks to stew in its own stench. it's only now that the police have been called for a wellness check, so they're left to pick up the pieces and bear the malodor.

it's been hours since she's been called here. while her coworkers forge ahead, pressing smelling salts to their noses and praying it will help, she's remained outside for as long as possible. it's the first time she's ever seen a dead body. the first time she's ever even had to smell one. what could have ever prepared her for the visage of it's bloated corpse, the way the blood seemed to coagulate into a gelatin-like consistency around his midsection?

she shakes her head. god, if she thinks about it any longer, she'll go crazy.

the best she can do is scan the horizon, clutching her fomantis, diantha, close to her chest as if the little bug is a stuffed animal. her colleagues said the detective would be here soon. she hopes that's the case—maybe she'll finally be able to go in.

---

@kian

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