there are times when they feel there is no true justice.

the evidence to prove that was everywhere. all anyone needed to do was take a closer look. not adele veronesi, when it was incontestable enough that permanent shadows hang low beneath their slate-gray eyes.

not them, when the only wrong thing that they've done recently was walk past a volunteer without looking.

adone—was a problem child. they'd thought nothing of his absence at first. the chatot was a regular escapee, ill-tempered and often as bored as their gastly was but with none of the patience to at least stay quiet about it. it was a rare occasion that they let their pokemon meander about on their own and rarer still that they'd even brought their pokeballs with them to work.

a bit of kindness, then. a change in pace.

( an insistence on their boss's part, in the case of an emergency, though adele finds themself hard-pressed to tell them that they can hardly think of a situation where any of theirs would be welcome help. )

just one problem. they'd forgotten just how much they talked to themself at home, forgotten just how attentive yet gabby that bird was. if there was any such thing as karma, they are convinced that that vague, arbitrary hand ought place a visit with the powers that be and were instead of punishing them for having an opinion.

many, many opinions.

hand shielding their face as they avoided the sharp, critical glares of a few other colleagues who’d likely been on the receiving end of their supposedly unpleasant behavior, adele makes their way down. he often came to sit here, didn't he?

they cycle through the folder somewhere tucked into the back of their head of names, faces, identities. lands on, "mr. logan!" lam, their brain supplies belatedly.

it's fine.

formality is better.

"you haven't seen my chatot around, have you?"

lam logan

in no certain terms are they proud of the fact that they'd spent the better part of this trip thinking about this.

a reasonable person would've walked away. there's plenty of coffee shops in rustboro. there's even more reasons to not have a cup. too expensive, not very good, always up-charged. it wasn't as though it were the morning proper, either, when they might've needed one. they weren't even going to be here for that long. they had to catch a flight in a few hours back to ever grande. he probably didn't get paid that much. on any other occasion, they might've been reasonable.

on any other occasion, they might not have risked the shame of re-acquainting themself with that barista.

they should be embarrassed.

they aren't.

the doors slide shut seamlessly behind them and adele takes a cursory glance behind the counter. a couple of unfamiliar faces, but that one isn't. they join the line. it passes smoothly. arms cross over their chest and they eye him quietly. there's a couple of seconds of debate on whether they should or shouldn't. it was petty. at their age, shouldn't they turn the other cheek? teeth rest on the tip of their tongue. but, he was grown enough too to know better. so, the order comes out:

"a medium, hot flat white with a double shot of espresso. half oat milk and half almond. extra foam, but only on the bottom half of the cup. add an extra shot of espresso on the side for me to pour in myself. one pump of vanilla syrup, one pump of hazelnut, then half a drop of caramel with a bit of cinnamon on top. not enough to sink, but enough to decorate. then, in a separate cup, two pumps of roseli syrup and one pump of lavender with nonfat milk, foamed, then in a third cup, ice but only ice with a bit of frost on it."

a pause.

"got that?"

Blake Wright

fire and water? great, so it would be their luck that they have neither of those weapons on hand.

did they even have the phials for their—well, it'd have to do. it was their mistake for having brought something specialized for flying-specialized moves when they could've just as easily have wielded something a bit hardier. maybe even having a few barrel bombs would've been useful for blast damage. fireworks, if they'd kept any from the last event, to distract it—the earth rumbles beneath them as the duraludon lurches forward, the shine of the game's virtual sun gleaming off of the glossy windowpanes that composed its body.

silver comes in a gasp, the sound of the steel beast thrumming with energy as the blast skirts the field and sends bakingfeuille aback again, arrow nocked but not flying even as their avatar holds their position.

the warning to hide is lost in the motion, adele locked into their attack animation as glaive strikes the ground and volleys them through the air. the duraludon howls as its gaze tries to follow where it cannot. clouds of colored smoke appear and damage numbers flash: small, negligible. 30. 40. 41. 23. the beast swings in search of its would-be assailant, its head swinging to graze them just as their attack lands.

their avatar hits the ground, a little worse for the wear but pathetically less than their newfound opponent.

they glance only then at the messages.

"too late" they hastily type back, watching to see if the ground lights up with any precursor to a larger, more dangerous move. "barely made a dent can you hold it off while i switch weapons"

bwOtyAYL

Fenelle Miller

emma stone's never been told no a day in her life.

not in the ways that matter. and why would she? adele doesn't have to know her personally to understand what it seems the rest of hoenn does: that she has a sharp tongue and an even sharper wit, that she has a taste for wines that cost more than their entire net worth and that she knows what she wants. lying there, her head resting soft against their desk with her hair like a crowning halo.

her viridian eyes, equal parts entertained and inviting: who would pass up the opportunity to be wanted by someone like her? who would deny her?

"that can't possibly be comfortable."

adele retrieves their hand from her side, allowing their knuckles to fall against their lips in mock defeat. a break, and don't they deserve that? they sit back in their chair and the wheels spin just slightly beneath their weight as the thought of continuing their work falls off to the wayside in favor of thinking of what people might say were they to cross the paths to their desk now. they reach out anyway and gently tuck a few strands of gold behind her ear. away from her face.

( she doesn't think of this, and they wonder privately if she has ever let anything that she wants go without first reminding them that they've always been hers. )

emma stone

the moment splinters, and adele sees all the horrible ways that this interaction could go.

all of it ends the same way: adele exits stage left and leaves. there's no good reason to find a person in an alley. even less with a pokemon that cries as pitifully as this. they don't really stop to think on the why, but the how it is that they've unwittingly placed themself in this situation and the what it was that they were supposed to say to depart without drawing unwanted attention.

hoenn is full of infinite troubles and they decided a while ago that they need not invite more of it.

"um."

but. but.

their attention flicks briefly to the creature hidden behind the stranger. they can't really pick it out. but, it's small. probably a young one, or at least something that wasn't evolved. not someone's kid, they have to assume, and so their conscience absolves itself of responsibility to intervene. they've never had much luck with pokemon. they had three of their own, but those were kind of things that they just ended up with.

calming them down was—well, they had a psyduck.

they got flung across the room often.

their acupuncturist could confirm it.

the pause becomes a protracted silence. their lips seal together and they steady themself before pointing behind the stranger with a weak gesture. "you draw more attention by letting it out here," adele sounds certain, at least, even as they hastily construct their sentences one word after another. "might want to do it somewhere crowded." another brief quiet. they inhale.

"if you're going to abandon it, i mean. pokemon control, or—someone will pick him up. don't have to leave it here. it'll just cry louder." they mumble.

"someone might get the wrong idea."

cassidy

comparison is the killer of joy, and adele replies:

"not by a long shot."

there is adele veronesi, then ada. neither led compelling lives. it was work, then home, then work again until the weekends came. then, it was lounging about their apartment browsing online catalogs for anything that might've given them something to look forward to. that was how they ended up with manual arm massagers to use while watching whatever broadcasters saw fit for daytime television. "plenty of more interesting people on this floor." nevermind the rest of the building.

nevermind, their desk. their reply comes without missing a beat. no self-loathing, nor are their words saturated in that piteous need for reassurance that they've heard now and again. adele does not require placating. emma—in all their vague memory—does not.

they rifle through their papers with feigned interest, then take another passing glance at their screen.

still more things to fill out. another eternity. they gesture toward one of the chairs left at a vacated desk in quiet invitation, but leaves it at that if she saw fit to claim their desk. they should be grateful that they never put up anything personal to mark it or they might've found any personal photos and knick-knacks swept into the train. feel blessed, she says, and adele barks out a laugh.

that didn't even deign an answer.

instead, they pluck a pen from their desk and scratches a little black line into the cheap facade—just in the space against her thigh. a would-be barrier between this would-be heiress and everything else, including them. "whatever you have to tell yourself." they answer, anyway, because it's hard to help themself.

emma stone

"mm, i believe you."

the coffee is better this time. it hadn't been to their taste before. emma doesn't know them. emma would like to know them. adele doesn't make it easy. less sweet, but not black either. they try, poorly, to hide their amusement. it isn't convenient. they glance at the logo on the side of the cup. la belle is not an easy place to order from. not at this time of the day. it'd be more convincing if she'd at least thought to change them out in the breakroom for their cheaper, flimsier cups.

but, that would beg the question of what a stone was doing in the league breakroom.

not even the good breakroom, either.

ada, right? she'd asked. and so, they don't call attention to it. they want to keep getting free coffee. the games that come with it, however—"i couldn't even if i tried." as in to say, have they ever made themself unavailable for her attention? as in, they'd both be bored if adele actually gave an answer. she still came looking for them.

be it when the situation had been different before, then now: her graceful return from wherever elsewhere that she'd flitted off to for a time.

they couldn't help but feel a little bad for her.

as emma leans forward on their desk, adele does not flinch away. they peek up through their lashes instead. cross their legs. take another sip.

"haven't found anyone more interesting to talk to yet? or did those people avoid you?" they set the cup back down on their desk, then retrieve a few of the papers nearby.

emma stone

lilycove sleeps.

for a city, it's awfully quiet this time of night. adele half-wonders if it is more tourist than it is resident. the streetlamps guide the way back to their hotel. most of the businesses turned out their lights before they'd ever reached this street corner, though they spy the distant, but inviting lights of the department store just over the hill. when they blink, the windows blink back too as if in greeting. if they're lucky, they'll find a bar. if they're luckier, they'll find someone who can buy them a drink.

adele isn't lucky by a long shot.

instead, they hear a loud, strangled cry of something that sounds halfway to human but isn't as they walk. ignore it, because they can't do anything about it either way. not their job. not their circus. not their mankeys.

not their problem to deal with.

their steps fall a little faster. there it goes again, the wailing louder. not human. probably a pokemon. not any pokemon that they know. home was always full of those. little odd and quiet pleas. sometimes, it was people mourning. most of the time, it was pokemon realizing that they weren't what they thought they were.

adele walks a little faster.

it cries again, louder, and their tired mind works ahead.

were there pokemon that mimicked crying? pretended to be? break room trivia doesn't serve their memory well. their fault for thinking the reading out of dex entries was inane. it screams, louder, and their pace slows to a stop at the mouth of an alleyway and their gaze falls on the retreated back of a stranger and asks outloud unconsciously: "is everything alright?"

cassidy

somehow, they knew waking up was a bad idea.

nothing was exceptionally different. just the same procedures and protocols that they droned on about in the event of an emergency. exits are there. try to avoid breaking windows. leave your things behind. avoid confrontation unless absolutely necessary. barricade yourself inside with the furniture until rescue teams could arrive. whatever. the thought occurs briefly that they wouldn't really need to hear these more than once a year if the league stopped painting a target on the doors of a building that was mostly civilians.

it never really feels like they're the ones who suffer for it. no one likes to hear that.

adele idly picks at their cuticles.

their pinky bleeds a little.

it's always going to be people like them. them, and this spunky little ranger trying her best to engage patent indifference to keep them up to date. a few weeks ago, it'd been fires. last tuesday, it'd been about floods and tsunamis. yesterday, earthquakes. every eventuality was possible when you co-existed with little monsters that could reshape the earth they stood on as they knew it. monsters is thought with just a touch of fondness, still. it's fine. an hour-long seminar about safety was doable.

what wasn't is being called upon for a demonstration.

adele glances up slowly, staring down robin's index finger like it was the barrel end of a gun. "volunteers are—" voluntary, as is implied in the word. don't sigh. don't make it obvious. they step out of the crowd and shuffle towards the center of the room at her invitation. pokeballs click together as they settle in and they pluck one after another off their snap locks. upon release, each look to their owner, then back to the stranger girl beside them. "alright, now what?"

robin coello