Round 2, Entry 2
The crimson bubble swelled at his lips. Pale fingers worked away, fashioning a delicate funnel. Soft palms coaxed out any imperfections; a rippled surface metamorphosed into gossamer smoothness beneath a sure and skilful touch.
*
Hands steaming from his newest creation, the glass blower's apprentice placed the Red Flute beside the others on the workbench before fastening up a jacket, throwing a rucksack over his shoulder and slipping out of the door. Shielded from the sooty belch of Mt Chimney by a makeshift canopy-style porch, he gazed out at the ensuing Pokémon battle between two wannabe ninjas - by the side of one floated a Koffing, by the other, a robust-looking Ninjask. Its command was muffled by the sound-swallowing curtain of ash, yet the Ninjask's wings worked furiously as it sped through the air at Koffing, striking it and sending it whirling away. Its trainer disappeared into the grey after it. The apprentice had seen this battle many times over, from his soot-stained window at the lodge, until he knew their offensive pattern of attack by heart. He smiled at the swords they carried, sad-looking artefacts; crusted in muck from being dragged along the ground.
The apprentice made his way along the route until the falling ash thinned and cleared, revealing a weak sun. Trainers engaged in challenges frequented his path. He cut an odd-looking figure amongst their bright, have-a-go daywear and battered sneakers - he wore linen trousers, Tauros hide boots, and a black turtle-neck sweater underneath his torn rain jacket. He examined their Pokémon with interest, his eyes lingering over the vivid blossoms of a Roserade. At the accusatory glare of a trainer, he forced himself onwards.
"“Hey!"” came the disembodied call from over his shoulder, “"I saw Pokéballs!”"
The apprentice turned, feeling his fingers twitch involuntarily towards his belt. A gesture was made towards at the hem of his jacket, from under which the tell-tale base of a Pokéball glinted brazenly. It was the trainer to whom the Roserade belonged. A wry smile played around the corners of the apprentice's mouth.
"“You'd like a battle?"” his voice was quiet, and hoarse from working with the soot.
“"Why else would I call you over? To ask where you got your dirty rain coat?”"
A female trainer snickered. The male's lip curled. Head bowed, the apprentice drew a Pokéball from about his waist. Its appearance made the trainer's sneer falter – the outer casing was a deep, diaphanous blue; glass. Regaining his swagger almost immediately, the trainer whipped a Pokéball of his own from his belt and tossed it overhand with a deft flick of the wrist. A Charmeleon leapt from its confines in a burst of white light. The apprentice's sapphire coloured ball span in the air before releasing a Weavile. The trainer snorted and wasted no time at all in commanding a "“Flamethrower! Now!”"
In the instant that Charmeleon began to inhale, the apprentice gave the order of “"Extremespeed!"” A torrent of white-hot flame shot from the Charmeleon's jaws to consume the space that Weavile had occupied only milliseconds before. A streak of black, Weavile slammed into the Charmeleon. It staggered, swiping blindly back at its enemy.
“"Fire Punch!"” the trained cried.
Burning embers engulfed Charmeleon's clenched claw. It drew back and punched at Weavile, letting loose a battle cry as it did so. Weavile parried the attack. Its scythe-like talons clashed with Charmeleon's flaming ones, the heat from the attack turning both sets of claws a sizzling ruby red.
"“Let's have some Fury Swipes,"” the apprentice called.
Weavile guided the now momentum-less Punch into the ground swiftly and effortlessly, freeing both claws to jab at the opponent with lightning speed. Charmeleon howled as the blows struck it sharply all over its body. The apprentice was satisfied to note that a glimmer of panic had entered the eyes of his opponent. The Weavile was incredibly disciplined, in fact, so were the rest of his Pokémon. They never let a blow go to waste.
When Weavile relented, the Charmeleon keeled over on the ground, panting heavily. The apprentice allowed a fugitive smile to steal across his lips; it had taken only two well-placed attacks to down the Charmeleon.
The trainer stepped forwards and recalled his Pokémon. Silent with frustration, he snatched another ball from his belt and threw it into the air. A Magcargo landed squarely at his feet.
"“I can't believe that just happened, but it doesn't matter,"” he scoffed, "“no matter how quick your pet weasel is, it can't escape an Overheat attack. Go, Magcargo!”"
The Magcargo's body began to glow orange. An Overheat would engulf the width of the route – but only if the fire was allowed to start.
“"Ice Beam!"” the apprentice ordered.
A stream of ice poured from Weavile's throat with predictable speed. Ice crystals, fine as sugar, wrapped themselves around Magcargo's volcanic frame, unfazed by the mounting heat that sat beneath them. The trainer gaped as his Pokémon became encased by solid, glittering ice.
Eyes gleaming, Weavile turned towards Roserade.
The mountain range above Mauvile Town was a haven for martial arts masters in training. The lack of shelter from the glare of the sun and the unforgiving rock underfoot provided a challenging terrain for the serious and strong-minded. It was the apprentice's favoured training ground; however, today, he was here to meet someone.
He earned a pittance as a trainee glass blower. It had always been his intention to leave once he became proficient in the art, and open a stall on the Slateport seafront. After several years of offensive soot, the salty breeze of the ocean desperately appealed to him. But he found that all the visitors were looking for at the market were Pokémon supplements - they wanted Iron to toughen their Onix to diamond standard; Carbos to boost their Swellow to the speed of sound; Calcium to aid their Grumpig to bend and break the most dedicated of wills. He had determined there would be no market for his wares. Dispirited, he had consigned himself to a future of wallowing in soot, with his haggard old superior huff-puffing down his neck.
But he had met a customer about a week ago with a strange request – decorative weaponry. With anticipation of a job possibility in a region far, far away from Fallarbor Town, the apprentice had come to meet his prospective client for a second time, baring samples.
A figure sailed into view from the horizon, dark and indecipherable. As it drew closer, four powerful wings distinguished themselves. The Crobat, larger than average, deposited its rider on the ground, keened at the sky, and settled on top of a nearby boulder. The apprentice looked into the stony eyes of Janine, the alias of Kanto's most widely renowned female ninja. She lowered a magenta scarf from her mouth.
“"Jerrie?”"
The apprentice inclined his head to her. She nodded, but did not remove her sweeping travelling cloak; “"what have you got to show me?”"
Jerrie lowered his bag, unzipped it and removed a folded fleece blanket. He placed it on the rocks between himself and Janine and proceeded to unfurl its layers. Janine leaned in with interest; on the fleece lay a couple of hand-crafted throwing stars. Two halos of Skarmory feathers –– inch-long; short, shining and razor sharp –– each embedded in a knuckle of coloured glass; one blood red, the other a poisonous green. Janine reached out, and then stopped herself, her fist closing slowly over the air above the stars. She cleared her throat.
"“My apologies. Instinct.”"
Jerrie bowed his head once more. “"Please. I'm flattered.”"
But Janine withdrew her hand. "“These are beautiful. What else?”"
Jerrie retrieved a second blanket from his rucksack, unravelling the fleece as he did so. This piece was a sabre. Janine held out her hand for it; a single Skarmory flight feather, around half a metre in length, slightly curved, rooted in a hilt of bevelled turquoise glass. Moistening her lips with a pointed tongue, Janine asked; "“your bird, is it?”"
"“Yes, indeed.”"
“"Can it fly?”"
Jerrie paused, his gaze on the flight feather. "“Not presently,"” he acquiesced, "“but they do grow back over time.”"
Janine returned her attention to the sabre. She swiped it deftly through the air several times before returning it to its wrappings. Jerrie withdrew a final blanketed bundle, from which he presented Janine with a set of two nunchuks. Thick twine interlinked two cylinders of glass; the left nunchuk gleamed a royal indigo, while the right one shone jet black. Janine inquired as to the nature of the twine.
“"Zebstrika hair.”"
“"Yours too?”"
Jerrie nodded. Janine looked impressed. “"The egg was a gift from a customer. My master is rather condemning of accepting gifts in way of payment, so…… I felt it best to keep it with me.’"
Janine handed back the nunchuks. “"Thank you for coming to meet me. Yes, I’m interested. My only concern is the glass. Under what circumstances might it shatter?”"
Jerrie swung one of the nunchuks in a rapid circular motion before swinging it into the face of the boulder. Janine's Crobat screeched in annoyance. A deep gash was left in the surface of the mineral. Jerrie held up the nunchuk; there was no trace of the collision whatsoever.
“"Tempered.”"
Janine smiled. “"Wonderful. When can you be expected in Kanto?”"
Jerrie's face split into a wide grin.
Knowing that this night would be the last he spent in Hoenn, Jerrie slept soundly.
The following day, having handed in his notice and packed up what few personal treasures he owned, Jerrie mounted his Zebstrika and journeyed towards Mauville. He felt the steed’s lithe muscles tense beneath his seat and static crackle benignly between his fingertips as they wound their way through the barren desert route and out into the centre of the town. Upon reaching the shallow waterway interconnecting the town with the next route over, Jerrie recalled his Zebstrika and retrieved a Pokéball from his pocket. The casing was translucent glass, frosted with the aid of Weavile. The scales of the Pokémon inside cast marvellous colours, making the plain white of the ball shimmer electric magenta.
The Milotic soared from inside the device and into the water in a graceful arc. It stared expectantly at its trainer. Jerrie cast one last glance over his shoulder in the direction of Fallarbor Town, way up in the mountains, before settling himself on his Milotic'’s polychrome back and surging onward.
The week after arriving in Kanto was a blur. Jerrie was given modest lodgings in Fuschia City. He could gaze out at the ocean from his single window. It was no Slateport coastline, but Jerrie relished the vast, aquamarine blanket on his doorstep, just as he’d dreamed he would. He would spend his evenings on the beach, a salty fire burning on the driftwood in front of him, blowing his glass by the eerie light of the Tentacool. Ash reached him nightly from the shores of Cinnabar Island; packed tightly and bound to the astral bodies of Staryu.
Janine’'s school of female ninjas were suitably impressed with the new selection of weaponry available to them. A graded colour scheme had been devised for ranks; the single sabre a ninja-in-training was permitted to own was cast in a hilt of uniform forest green glass, a far cry from the sorry-looking play swords that Jerrie had witnessed being fought with outside the workshop in Hoenn. The expert, sylvan movements of the most learned ninjas were complemented by weapons set in glass of simple frosted white.
Jerrie was paid handsomely for every batch of blades he produced, and by the end of his first month in Fuschia, he left his little shack on the beach front in exchange for a wooden lodge on the outskirts of the Safari Zone. Soon, he was employing new techniques to further enrich the beauty and practicality of his creations; dried Venomoth toxin glittered bewitchingly in the sunlight, and melting a nunchuk cylinder around a fallen Rhydon horn gifted it extra weight.
One mild morning, Jerrie was awoken by a brisk knock on the door. A young man dressed in black stood on the threshold. By his side he held a blackened, but intact, throwing star. Holding it up, he said: “"We want these. Name your price.”"
Jerrie looked back at him coldly. “"And you are?”"
The young man bypassed the question. "“We want your work.”" He proffered a price.
Jerrie raised an eyebrow witheringly. "“I don’t want for money. I’'m well looked after"” He gestured towards his beautiful home.
The young man crammed the singed star into a pocket, and withdrew a sheaf of photographs. He offered them to Jerrie. When he declined to take them, the man pulled a single picture out of the bunch and held it up. It showed a green, draconic creature, with enormous spines and silver claws. Jerrie’s lip curled. He prized Pokémon far more than he valued cash; as he had revealed to Janine, his harmartia was accepting eggs over monetary payment.
“"It’'s a Tyranitar. From the Johto region. Have you seen one before?”"
Jerrie gazed into the impassive face of his young questioner. Another photograph was forced into his vision. A powerful-looking bug Pokémon was displayed in it, scarlet pincers gleaming. "“Nice, aren’t they? Work with us. These two can be yours, along with a whole host of others. Gorgeous creatures. You'’ll love them.”"
"“What is it exactly that you need my work for?"” Jerrie inquired.
The young man squared his shoulders. His voice took on a brusque, matter-of-fact tone. "“We are a wealthy syndicate in the Johto region, working to establish an international reputation. We work with trained ninjas who were recently defeated in a clash with the ninjas of Fuschia when we arrived on some business. They used these-"” here he brandished the throwing star "“- among other things. You weren'’t hard to trace.”"
Jerrie merely looked at him. The young man breathed heavily through his nose. He held out an odd-looking Pokéball. It seemed to be made of black oak, with two raised bluish nodes on the top half of the sphere. “"I'’ll leave this with you for a day. I'’ll be back tomorrow morning.”"
He tossed the ball upwards sharply and departed. As it hit Jerrie'’s palm, it burst open. A fountain of white light shot from its innards and formed a huge shape in front of him. It seemed to be an Onix, only three times as large. The mineral segments of its body glimmered dully, and were a rugged, battleship grey. Large square teeth were set in a grin inside its angular head. Jerrie was enchanted.
So it was that Jerrie left behind the peaceable bliss of Fuschia for the concrete density of Goldenrod City in the Johto region. The Magnet Train was crowded, and smelled of sweaty commuters. The building in which he was based was decrepit. Quotas were given to him, and it was imperative that these be fulfilled. The walls of his dingy workroom were plastered with photographs of exotic Pokémon; the Tyranitar and Scizor from the pictures he was originally shown placed mockingly to the fore. His own Pokémon were taken from him. Once, from his grimy window, he saw his Milotic being beaten in the square below; electric attacks from a Magneton striking distressed rainbows from the prismatic hearts of those scales.
There was a shriek of laughter, and a bullwhip struck.
He sat bolt upright, the wood of the workbench soaked in perspiration.
*
The cerulean bubble swelled at his lips. Pale fingers worked away, fashioning a delicate funnel. Soft palms coaxed out any imperfections; a rippled surface metamorphosed into gossamer smoothness beneath a sure and skilful touch.
Settled in the corner of the room was a small Sneasel, sound asleep, while an even smaller Feebas drifted benignly in its bowl on the mantelpiece.
Behind him came the gentle huff-puffing of his master crafting the tabletop of an opulent desk.
The glass blower’s apprentice had hoped one day to create such masterpieces, had hoped to leave the guidance of his master and become an acclaimed craftsman in his own right; to earn fame, a tidy fortune - the classic regalia that came therewith. However, he thought, as the glass blower’s lined face creased into a kind smile over his finished desk, he was fine where he was, thank you very much.
