ACL: 38. Cloudy with a Chance of Friendship

Chapter 38: Cloudy with a Chance of Friendship

Brockton Bay, NH, USA
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Type: Ice

I’d captured the Vasil brothers at about half past noon and spent four hours flying to Los Angeles to dump them on Alexandria’s lap. Now that I didn’t have to worry about dropping an oversized snow globe, I was free to break as many aerial traffic laws as I pleased.

Which meant going as fast as I possibly could and watching the sonic cones bloom behind me like snow-white lotus flowers. I was traveling more than three times faster than I was when I’d carried the brothers. I would have put on some theme music to go with my Santa-bird mayhem, but sound itself was too slow to keep up.

There was a simple joy to be found in blitzing head-first into a cloud formation and shattering it like a glacier. Because clouds, as it turned out, were not fluffy and bouncy. At the speeds I was traveling at, water droplets were quite solid. It was actually a little like voluntarily sandblasting myself with billions of needles of water.

Fortunately, I was an iron bundle. Stupid name aside, I was a pokemon designed to be faster than a pidgeot, and damn near invulnerable to weather conditions. The needle-like droplets felt like a soothing massage against my metallic feathers.

I returned to the New England area in just over an hour of breakneck flying. Boston appeared in the distance as I slowed to a cruising speed. The metropolis looked a little like a moldy orange, to be honest. Brockton Bay, so much smaller, was the size of a thumbnail in comparison.

These “paradox pokemon,” especially ones from future timelines, were growing on me. Not only were they quite powerful, they were also loaded up with convenient technology.

One of the biggest weaknesses of my power was that I lost contact with my phone when I transformed. It wasn’t like I could carry a cellphone around in my mouth as a luxray or something. I didn’t have that weakness as an iron bundle because its cyborg body had a communication suite already installed.

Now that I’d dealt with the Vasils, I gave Faultline a call. She deserved to know the danger had passed, and I still needed to ask her about potentially taking Grue on at the Palanquin.

X

“So that’s how it is then?” Faultline hummed on the other line.

“That’s how it is. Would you mind arranging a job for Grue in his civilian identity so he can stop being a villain?” I asked nicely. “Please? Cherry on top?”

“Menagerie, this really isn’t how normal people find employment. He doesn’t even know you’re asking on his behalf.”

“I’ll approach him myself in a day or two once I have your go-ahead.”

“I’m not even in the city to hire him.”

“Where are you right now anyway?”

“Las Vegas. They have a thriving mercenary subculture and I have a feeling we might be getting a new teammate here so I can’t come back on a dime for you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” I told her, “but I’m sure you’ve got someone who handles the civilian side of your business. There’s got to be someone who handles hiring, logistics, and engagement for the Palanquin while you’re away.”

“There is…” She sighed and I knew I had her. “Alright, Menagerie. I’m leery about hiring an Undersider, but I’m willing to give him a chance. I’ll give him a legitimate-sounding job and decent pay. It won’t be extravagant, but it should be enough to impress his sister’s case worker if he’s frugal.”

“Thanks, Faultline. I mean it. I owe you one.”

“No, you don’t. I’m just paying off the debt I already owe you.”

“Still, thank you.”

“If that’s all, I’ll be off. I need to speak with Satyrical in a few minutes.”

“Who?”

“Vegas Protectorate Leader.”

“Why would he talk to you? I thought the Protectorate hated mercs.”

“I did say Vegas had a subculture, didn’t I?” she said with an amused chuckle. “How do you think they keep an eye on so many organized crime syndicates and casinos?”

“I… Fair enough. Whatever works, I guess. Tell the rest of them I said hey.”

“I will. Goodbye, Menagerie.”

The call ended but I did not sink below the clouds. That was one Undersider dealt with, which left me with Bitch and Regent. I didn’t want to approach the remaining Undersiders as a group until I had a feasible plan for all three of them.

I would need to approach the PRT if I wanted to relocate Bitch to establish a dog sanctuary and training center. I was no businessman. I had no idea how to start a business, acquire land, establish a supply chain, or find prospective buyers. I had no choice but to rely on the government in this regard. It should be possible, though I doubted it’d happen overnight.

The real problem was Regent. Having spent some time mulling it over, I still didn’t know what to do with him. He had no marketable skills. By Lisa’s own admission, his personality kinda sucked. Most damningly, he had no real ambition beyond staying away from his father. I was, of course, happy to help him do that, but what next?

‘Maybe the best option is to simply ask him what he wants,’ Victini observed. ‘It strikes me that we don’t know much about the young man at all.’

I let out a rueful chuckle. ‘I guess you’re right. It is pretty weird that we’re basically deciding his future for him. I’ll approach them first and figure out what options Regent is even willing to entertain.’

‘Good plan. Now, it’s about dinnertime and I think we should revisit that macaron place.’

‘Don’t you ever get sick of them? I can buy you a pack of Oreos on the way home. They’re basically the same thing anyway.’

‘Gasp! Blake Montgomery Isley! How dare you!’

‘That’s not my middle name,’ I replied with a snort of laughter.

‘What is it then? I need to know so as to express my great disapproval with your snacking knowledge.’

‘I don’t have one. I’m an orphan, remember? No one knows who my parents are. I’m pretty sure the orphanage I was dropped off at gave me “Isley” as a name for legal purposes.’

‘Well it’s Montgomery now!’

‘Sure. I am now Blake Montgomery Isley.’

‘Good… Gasp! Blake Montgomery Isley!’ she repeated. ‘Do you feel properly shamed?’

‘I don’t. I don’t think that’s how middle names work.’

‘Or you’re just shameless. As expected of an uneducated plebeian. Only someone who is so shameless can be willfully ignorant of the glory of macarons.’

‘Fine, elucidate this unworthy soul, oh enlightened one.’

‘Good, admitting your ignorance is the first step to enlightenment,’ she said imperiously. I could imagine her stroking an imaginary beard. ‘Listen well, young kricketot: There are many sandwich cookies in the world, but only one has been blessed by my father to be the most perfect, most delicious of them all. Only the macaron can be called the king of sandwich cookies. Nay! The king of pastries!

‘The worth of a pastry is judged on its creaminess, crunchiness, chewiness, appearance, and versatility. Only the macaron can be said to possess all these traits in perfect, holy balance. There is the indulgent cream in the middle, the crunchy exterior, and the chewy interior of the cookie. A macaron can come in every color, its pastel roundness a gentle balm for the eyes.

‘And best of all! The versatility! The cream can be any flavor under the sun! Strawberry! Vanilla! Pumpkin spice! It matters not, for the majestic, marvelous macaron can accommodate them all. The cookies can perfectly complement any filling, adding a wondrous layer of texture to an otherwise amorphous blob.

‘Or! Or! Or! The cookies can be different from the filling! Imagine it, Blake! Imagine the glory of biting into a hazelnut cookie. Just when you think you’re done, when you’ve appreciated the fullness of that crispy, chewy bliss, bam! Strawberry cream! Or maybe cream cheese! The cookies can even be different from one another! There is a trifecta of heavenly bliss somewhere out there, just waiting for an Arceus-inspired patissier to discover! 

‘Truly, the macaron’s versatility is unmatched. It is a font of endless possibilities, the mysteries of father’s Thousand Hands condensed into a single, almighty cookie. It is the holy grail of pastries, the divine manifestation of father’s glor–Wait, what are you doing? Are you listening?’ she demanded.

I walked into a 7-Eleven. “Hi, can I get a pack of Oreos?”

‘BLAKE!’

I walked out again. ‘I’m kidding. Anyway, what were you saying?’

‘Blake… I’m so disappointed in you… I don’t even know why we’re friends,’ she sulked.

‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Macarons are the best and anyone who dares say otherwise deserves death.’

‘Maybe not death… But they should be forced to keep a raikou entertained for a week.’

‘I think that’s what most people would call a death sentence,’ I replied dryly. A raikou wasn’t technically a cat, but pretty much every one I’d met had the personality of one. ‘Is it actually though?’

‘Is what actually?’

‘Is a macaron divinely blessed by Arceus?’

‘It should be,’ she huffed. ‘In fact, when you get dad’s cult up and running, I expect offerings and sacraments to include macarons.’

‘Of course. Until then, you need to earn them. And last I checked, I did all the flying today.’

‘Was the raikou not a big enough clue? While someone was pretending he was Santa Claus, I was off talking to a raikou that wandered into Unova.’

That brought me up short. ‘Wait, really?’

‘Yes, really. He agreed to lend you his form, you know, after you pass a test.’

‘Huh… Okay, so I guess you did earn a macaron. I’m kinda broke though. Three cookies.’

‘What? I snagged a raikou for you! That’s worth at least ten!’

‘Five. I still need to pass whatever he decides is a fair test. Did he say?’

‘Tch. Stingy,’ she grumbled. ‘And yeah, he did. He said you should master Aura Sphere again. If a human can do that, he’ll recognize you.’

‘That… Yeah, I guess I really have been slacking, haven’t I?’ I admitted with a frown. I’d resolved to practice more several times now, but that was easier said than done. Truth was, I had too many commitments that couldn’t be put aside, like the Vasils.

‘I quote, “It’s pathetic. Are you sure he’s the foremost aura master of his time? Even I can make an Aura Sphere. He’s like a pidgey without wings. Or a limbless octillery. Have you ever seen one of those? They’re just fleshy ink pouches.”’

‘Ouch. I felt that in my soul. Alright, fine. Intensive training time. Who needs sleep anyway?’

‘That’s the spirit! So…’

‘Fine, let’s go get you your damn cookies.’

‘Not “damn” cookies. Sacred cookies. I’m a demigod and I consecrate them as such.’

‘I’m not sure you’re allowed to do that.’

‘Of course I am. I’m Victini,’ she said smugly.

‘Hard to argue with that logic.’

X

I returned home after feeding the insatiable, butt-flapping god-squirrel in my head. Which, if I ever voiced it aloud, would probably get me institutionalized.

As I’d promised Victini, I decided to kick my training into high gear. Mark and I helped Mrs. Wells put the kids to bed before retiring to our own room. At ten, when I was sure most people were already asleep, I found an abandoned corner of the orphanage and transformed into jynx. I’d snuck out before, but seeing how I had the option, there was nothing wrong with playing it safe.

Jynx weren’t known for their musical talents, not like a certain jigglypuff, but that was more a function of their rarity. Most people simply never encountered a jynx, or if they did, seldom off the battlefield. Hikers might occasionally hear a jynx’s song, but there was a good chance it might be mistaken for the whistling wind.

They actually had nice voices, melodic and haunting. Being as intelligent as they were, they often sang lullabies for their smoochum. I’d once heard from a researcher that the exact lineage of a jynx could be identified from the songs they knew. Mothers sang the same songs they’d heard as smoochum, which were then passed to the next generation.

For once, the Egg House’s thin walls worked to my advantage. My voice carried across the orphanage, gently lulling the last stragglers into slumber.

Once I’d done that, I went from room to room, tucking in anyone who’d fallen asleep at their desks. Or, in Leah’s case, with a toothbrush in hand and mouth half-full of foamy toothpaste. Snickering to myself, I snapped a picture for future blackmail before rinsing out her mouth.

Admittedly, helping my unconscious sister finish brushing her teeth wasn’t the weirdest thing I’d done today, but only because I’d spent most of the day as a robot-penguin-owl-Santa.

I tucked her in and spotted Cherie, face planted unceremoniously into her laptop. She’d been watching a dark comedy series so I paused it for her and set the laptop to the side so she wouldn’t drool into the keys. I considered dragging her out so I could teach her the finer points of meditation but as they said, a cornered rattata would bite a persian.

I headed out to the old ferry station. It was as abandoned as could be, and therefore the perfect place to train. I phased through the walls as froslass again and shifted back.

The abandoned station had been a mainstay of Brockton Bay for over a decade now. As Mrs. Wells told it, there was a guy who tried to get it up and running again every few years, each time to be shut down by the simple question, “What’s worth visiting?” Truth was, the ferry wasn’t worth anything if this part of the city remained undeveloped.

That could change. It’d only been five weeks or so since I’d moved the tanker and people were talking about rising real estate prices. The ferry probably wouldn’t come back, but there was a good chance that this place would be remodeled into some other tourist trap. I didn’t know when that would be, but it was good to remember that the relative obscurity this ferry station had enjoyed had a shelf life.

I headed to the supply closet furthest from the main entrance. There, I’d torn out the flooring and dug a tunnel into the dirt, forming a secret hideaway. It actually led to several places around the city, tunnels that allowed me to move unnoticed. Excadrill was great for that sort of thing.

It was also the perfect place to meditate quietly. I’d quickly learned that capes were public figures. No matter what I was doing, people sometimes felt bold enough to come say hi. If I stayed still in public long enough, people would probably think I was conducting a stakeout or something.

My boots made the remaining floorboards creak. I was about to climb down the stone ladder I’d made when I heard someone hiss out, “S-Stop! S-Stay away! I have a knife! And pepper spray!”

I knew that voice. It was husky and low, but familiar. I frowned. She wasn’t supposed to be here. “Emily?”

“B-Blake?” my artsy friend squeaked out. The huskiness vanished in an instant. “I-Is that you?”

“Yeah, one sec. I’m climbing down.”

“O-Oh, okay.” A second later, a soft, orange glow filled the hideaway. It was good to know the portable generator I bought her was working. “Come on in.”

I did so. Emily sat in a corner, atop a twin-sized futon and sleeping bag. I remembered dipping the dirt there a bit and filling it with fine sand to brace her makeshift bed. At the food of her bed was a desk lamp and a fantasy romance book I heard some of Vicky’s friends talk about.

The girl in question looked a bit haggard. Her hair was disheveled and she held in either hand a can of pepper spray and a knife. The knife was maybe four and a half inches long, a spring-loaded affair that reminded me of our fair state’s extremely loose knife laws.

She saw me looking at it and snapped it back with a sheepish chuckle. “Sorry. It’s just… can never be too careful, you know?”

Her emotions were a mess; she was so much easier to read than the Vasil siblings. There was affection, a not-so-subtle crush I put out of mind. There was also relief, because I wasn't a serial killer or something. There was also concern, and a timidness that hadn’t been there in weeks.

“Em, why are you here?” I asked gently. “I thought you were staying at the women’s shelter.”

“I-I was just leaving. I just had to pick up a few things,” she stammered.

“The light was out so you were obviously about to turn in. Please don’t lie to me, Emily.”

“I just… I left,” she said quietly. “Can I stay here tonight?”

“You don’t have to ask. This space is as much yours as mine,” I told her comfortingly. I sat down next to her and put an arm around her. “Tell me what happened.”

The story came out, haltingly at first, but Emily became steadier as she spoke. The gist of it was that she had two problems:

First, she was too wealthy for the shelter. It was disappointing, but people were people. They saw that she’d acquired new clothes, shampoo, and whatnot and grew jealous. The cash she had in her wallet went missing because she hadn’t thought to open a checking account yet.

Second, she told me about a new volunteer named Courtney who made her nervous. The woman was Vietnamese, with coiling tattoos of Asian dragons around her forearms. She said they were there because she was born in the year of the dragon. The dragons were red and green because those colors represented good fortune and prosperity.

I listened closely. Emily felt like she’d been keeping an eye on younger women at the shelter. She had no proof, but the tattoos and obvious attention to younger girls made her nervous.

“That… That doesn’t make her ABB, Emily,” I pointed out gently. “Or maybe she broke away from the gang herself and is trying her best to look out for other young women.”

“I know, I just don’t want to risk it,” she said. “Blake, do you know what the ABB does with girls like me?”

“I’ve heard stories, but no, not concretely.”

“Blake, they have whorehouses for people like me. Young, not hideous, someone no one would miss… I can’t risk it. I know I can defend myself, but…”

She spat napalm. She had no middle ground between “be the victim” and “commit a war crime.” It was no wonder she was so conflict-avoidant. I pulled her tight. “I’d miss you. And you did the right thing. You should always trust your gut. If you don’t feel safe, get out.”

I took a deep breath. I’d… not forgotten, but overlooked the ABB. Emily’s concerns were valid, and a stark reminder that despite the Empire’s downfall, I wasn’t done in the city.

The illegal sex trade was… It wasn’t really something I’d had to deal with in my past life. Kidnapping attempts were extremely rare, and seldom motivated by lust. They certainly weren’t systematized as they could be in this world.

Even a weak pokemon could do devastating damage to a human if pressed, and nothing pressed a pokemon quite like threatening their trainer. When most of the migrant population were trainers and a fourteen year old girl could have a dragon in her pocket, people tended to behave themselves. 

Usually, it was one, desperate fool who thought kidnapping someone’s kid for ransom or revenge would be a good idea. It wasn’t. That was the kind of shit that got elite-level psychics sniffing around, and with the usual legal restraints waived.

I obviously wanted to stop human trafficking in my city, but I wasn’t sure how. For that matter, I wasn’t even sure how big the scale was. It wasn’t really a single villain I could beat up and call it a day. Or, maybe it was?

Of course, my mind turned to Lung, the nominal head of the organization. Nominal, because he likely wasn’t the one who managed the network, if a single person existed at all. He was just the beatstick that other, smarter men used to keep their rivals in line. Eliminating him could make things a lot easier. It’d drive home the message that while I understood crime would never go away, certain lines couldn’t be crossed without consequences.

But Lisa said I shouldn’t. She, both her current and future versions agreed, said that removing Lung could spark another Boston Games, a wild, free-for-all between gangs that would make the Empire’s final gambit look like a tantrum.

That was a good point. She was probably right, to be honest. The city’s geopolitical balance was important. Lasting peace could only be achieved when there was an understanding between the lawful and criminal elements. I’d seen it before in my old world, too.

But not like this. I refused to accept that this was how things had to be. After the Vasil affair today, I’d considered going after Heartbreaker. I still wanted to, but I was starting to realize that I’d yet to clean my own house if the thought of the ABB had my friend shirking back into our hideout like this.

Then, the clock struck midnight. The gear turned and my type shifted again. If there ever was a sign that the Alpaca-Almighty wanted to weigh in, this had to be it: Dragon. I was a dragon today, with all the pride and wrath and power that the type was infamous for.

I had plans for today. I couldn’t remember what they were exactly, but I did have a calendar on my phone. My to-do list was seldom empty.

But as they said, “Men make plans. God laughs.”

Author’s Note

Fun Fact: Raikou is one of two electric type pokemon to learn Aura Sphere. The other is Zeraora from gen 7. It is also one of three pokemon to ever receive the move via event, with only Mew and Mewtwo holding that distinction.

Because I know that at least one person is going to “But ackshully” me: Yes, I know. Napalm is not technically a war crime. However, using incendiaries against civilians, is. And yeah, Emily doesn’t spit napalm; it’s just the closest analog to whatever comes out of her mouth.

That dragon type wasn’t intentional. People who were around when this was a quest can confirm: I had seven rolls previously to mark out daily types in advance. 

Random Fact: The typical cumulus cloud weighs 1.1 million pounds (550 US tons).