I notice a thrift store jammed between a payday loan shack and a vape lounge, its window's chaos: one mannequin in an Aerodactyl-pattern windbreaker, another drowning in a suit clearly meant for someone wider, arm propped up like it's calling me out. I step inside, mostly to get out of the wind, partly because even though my Garbodor hoodie's been gone for a while now, I still reek like I've been swimming in Grimer sludge.
The bell above the door coughs more than rings. Inside smells like mothballs wrestling with whatever industrial-strength Febreze they're using to mask decades of other people's lives. Inside, it’s all noise—fluorescent lights buzzing loud enough to rattle teeth, clothing racks mashed so tight you have to sidestep just to breathe.
"Help you?" The clerk doesn't look up from their phone, where a Pokémon battle plays out in miniature. Their nose wrinkles—yeah, the stench followed me in. I give her a half nod and drift into the maze of shirts.
I pull out something that passes for respectable—a stiff blue shirt, the kind serious people wear. Sleeves seem right. Then a jacket from the “Outdoor/Utility” section catches my eye: heavy canvas, worn at the edges, pockets roomy enough for all kinds of secrets. I grab a black beanie too—big enough it covers most of my head but not so much that I look like I’m auditioning for an indie band.
The fitting room’s basically a storage closet at the back, walls littered with ruined stickers and one of those cheap mirrors that stretches you out and gives your reflection extra baggage under the eyes for free. Clothes off in record time; my old ones hit the floor like trash no one wants—which is exactly what they are. The city probably won’t even notice them going extinct. Shirt goes on, buttons fastened, jacket next, and finally the beanie. Instantly I feel different—like walking around in new skin or at least decent camouflage. The mirror shows me sharper cheekbones than last week, courtesy of not eating much. The beanie does its job hiding the scar from Beldum’s little upgrade surgery. Staring back at myself, I see neither a headline nor some cornered anima—just another face in the crowd. Exactly how I need it.
I check out. The woman behind the counter gives the jacket a once-over, then shrugs and rings it up for “special clearance,” which I’m pretty sure is code for “donate and get out.” She bags the old clothes separately, slides them under the counter, and barely even looks at the cash when I pay. “Stay warm out there,” she says, and for a second, I almost believe she means it.
The cold snaps my joints as I step outside, but the new jacket takes the edge off. I hunch down and follow the wind tunnel of the avenue, ducking under a tangle of power lines and the blare of a delivery van. The city is in a kind of low-grade shock—sirens still somewhere in the distance, but mostly it’s people standing around electronic shop windows or hunched over their phones, waiting for the next update on the “terror suspect” still at large. My photo’s on half the screens I pass, but now I’m in a blue button-up and a jacket that eats my frame, and nobody looks twice.
On the corner, wedged between a bar that never closes and a half-lit insurance office, is a bodega with the aesthetic of a bunker, windows barred, shelves packed to the ceiling with the edible and the inedible mixed together. I duck inside, the bell overhead a flat monotone that immediately gets steamrolled by pounding dance music.
I browse the aisles, working fast. Instant noodles. A sack of day-old ‘soft’ rolls. A plastic tub of honey, the label featuring a grinning Beedrill in a chef’s hat. I grab two packs of dried sausage, the expensive kind, and a large bottle of water for myself. On a shelf by the freezer, I spot a row of “Pokémon Care” products—probably a front for something, but I’m not picky. I select the cheapest fur shampoo and a travel-size disinfectant spray shaped like a Marill.
On the way out, I notice a display of water purification tabs by the register, priced for the apocalypse. I pocket two packs, then make a show of buying the rest. The cashier doesn’t even look up; he rings me out with one eye still glued to the screen, then slides my change over in a plastic tray, fingers never once touching mine. I pop out past the bar and nearly collide with a guy in a purple vest walking a pack of Lillipup. He side-eyes me, but I keep moving, head low. The cheap bodega food is already weighing down my jacket, but the thing my body wants most is protein, real protein, the kind that doesn’t come freeze-dried or flavoured like “Neutral Berry.” The craving hits so hard that when I spot The Raging Bull Grill—big neon Tauros in mid-charge, all horns and cheap testosterone—I veer off course and get in line.
Inside, the place is a riot: industrial lights, sticky floors, every surface covered in a thin film of grease and bravado. Most of the crowd is construction—guys in high-vis, hands still dusted with sheetrock, voices pitched up a notch by the week’s first cold snap. I fit right in, or at least I think I do, because none of them look twice as I slot in at the end of the queue. The menu is a lurid mockery of regional cuisine: “Unovan Double-Stack,” “The Bovine Inferno,” “Locomotive Fries.” My stomach picks for me.
Two League cops standing near the soda fountain don’t even glance my way. They’re busy arguing about football or something equally pointless. I catch a few words—“terror at the bridge,” “Plasma freak,” “Skyla herself, can you believe it?”—but otherwise they’re just two more bodies waiting for lunch to end. One of them has a Bronzor hovering behind his head, spinning slow in an invisible updraft, its reflective surface catching every movement in the restaurant. I keep my eyes down, counting the seconds.
When I get to the counter, the kid at the register looks fresh out of high school - acne scars still healing, name tag crooked - but somehow he's already developed that thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen too many late-night shifts. "For here or to go," he mumbles, then catches himself and asks again with forced customer service enthusiasm.
“Double-Stack, to go,” I tell him, voice pitched low and rough. He punches it in and never once looks at my face. Maybe the disguise is working better than I thought. The whole transaction is robotic: he hands me a slip, tells me to wait for my number, then returns to poking the register with one hand and texting with the other. I step to the side, keeping my back to the wall and my eyes on the floor.
The order comes up fast—suspiciously fast. I take the bag, thank the fry cook, and bolt out to the street before anyone can look too closely at my face. The wind’s picked up, biting through the new clothes and setting my teeth on edge. I turn down a side street toward the river, but I keep my pace up for three blocks, cut through a parking structure, then double back to the laundromat. The city is running on adrenaline and fried food; every shadow feels like a cop, every side-eye a threat. I take the back stairs to avoid any window-watchers, and let myself in through the cracked alley door.
Stolen story; please report.
Inside, it’s still and empty, the only noise a distant pop of pipes settling in the ceiling. I set the greasy burger bag on the counter, double check the deadbolt, then let Beldum out first. They clatter to the tile, magnets barely keeping them aloft, and settle instead of hovering. They look smaller than ever, eye dim and ringed in a shade I’m not used to seeing. I guess three consecutive days of running on fumes will do that, even to a steel type.
I scan the windows, then set the food down between us. The burger is still warm, the wrapper fogged from heat and sweat. I tear off a chunk and set it on the floor in front of Beldum, not sure if they even care about meat, but wanting to offer anyway. They flick an eye at me, then the burger, and pulse a faint thought: recharge.
Right. I dig the napkin out of my pocket, unwrap the last chunk of ‘meteorit’e from the vendor, and set it next to the burger. Beldum ignores the food and goes right for the rock, closing their jaw over it with a crunch that’s almost gentle. Sparks rattle out, quick as a hiccup, then silent. There’s a pause, then Beldum shudders. Their eye goes from dim to sharp, a red point of clarity as the mineral gets crushed and digested. I watch, half-hypnotized, as the little flecks of iron vanish, then look up to see if they need more. They flicker: sustenance acquired.
I’m halfway through my burger before I even register the taste. It’s salt and protein, grease and something sweet in the sauce. I chew with both hands, head down, not caring about anything but the animal satisfaction of eating. When I’m done, I lick my fingers and try to remember the last time I finished a meal.
Beldum is already done with the rock, not a crumb left. For a minute, they just sit, eye cycling through the room in slow, deliberate sweeps. The shared calm is so strong I almost forget that I’m still wanted by both the League and Team Plasma, that there’s a kid in a hospital somewhere who could ID me, and that my only allies in the city are a traumatized Lotad and a bear cub with anger issues.
I let Luna out next. She tumbles from the ball with a grunt, then stretches out long, hunched and stiff, eyes darting side to side. The moment she smells the burger wrappers, she’s under my elbow, pawing at the bag. I give her the last bite and she demolishes it, tongue flicking over the wax paper like she’s mining for bonus calories.
I leave Muse in his Poké Ball for now, then turn my attention to Luna, who is currently rolling belly-up on the utility blanket, chewing on her own paw with a glazed satisfaction that says “I just ate lunch and now I am Arceus.” The effect is ruined by the state of her fur: what the burger wrappers don’t cover, the rest of her is caked in Trubbish snot and green-black sludgy mats. One ear is glued to her head, Trubbish-style, by something I know is not old honey.
I squat down next to her, take a slow breath through my mouth, and say, “You smell like the wrong end of a Muk.” She ignores me, just sprawls wider, batting the empty wrapper around the floor with a lazy flick. For a second, I think about just letting her ferment. Maybe she’d be happier that way.
But the memory of the Garbodor fight sneaks in—her shrieking, eyes wild, every muscle locked up—and I can’t quite let her go to seed. I poke her gently on the belly, and she snaps her jaws like it’s a game, then lets her head flop sideways, exposing the matted line of fur running down her neck.
“Bath time,” I say, and instantly regret it. Luna’s eyes go wide; she scrambles upright and bolts for the gap between the washer and the wall, limbs pinwheeling, claws scrabbling for purchase on the tile. She makes it two steps before tripping over her own feet, skidding straight into the side of the dryer with a thunk that would concuss a lesser creature. She hisses, then freezes, half in and half out of the hollow behind the machine. If I were her, I’d be plotting a new life from inside that safe, unreachable space, and maybe she is; but the sound of the honey lid popping open is enough to break the stalemate.
I set the tub on the edge of the sink and call her again. “Luna. Come here.” Her head emerges, ears back, every inch of her vibrating with suspicion, but honey is honey and eventually her stomach wins. She edges out, snuffling at the tub, then gives me a full-body glare as I pick her up and set her in the sink. The moment her paw touches the metal she tries to leap again, but I’m ready, and the promise of honey is enough to get her to hold still while I run the tap.
The first blast of water is freezing, and she yowls, claws clutching the edge of the sink, whole body writhing as if I’m drowning her on national TV. I pour out a spoonful of honey and hold it in front of her nose; she quiets, then latches on, tongue flicking, and for a second she forgets the water entirely.
The shampoo is a lie—“Deluxe Fur Formula,” the label says, but the consistency is pure dollar-store blue. I lather it into her fur, feeling the crust and grit dissolve under my hands. She growls at first, then, gradually, surrenders to the massage, eyes rolling back in something like bliss. Typical: fight the world, then melt to nothing the minute someone puts hands on you. I keep working the shampoo in, watching the water in the sink go from clear to a pale, sickly green, then finally to a half-decent brown as the worst of the grime lets go. Luna moans, the sound echoing in the metal basin, then slumps against my wrist, paws splayed out like she’s been tranquilized.
I rinse her with slow pours of warm water, careful not to get it in her eyes or ears. She shudders as the last of the suds run down her back, then shakes herself hard enough to splash water up my sleeve. When I lift her out, she’s limp, barely protesting. I towel her down with a faded Pikachu hand towel from the lost-and-found, which probably dirties her up again, but at least it’s the right kind of dirt. Her fur fluffs out, almost double its usual volume, and she looks up at me with a drowsy resentment that lasts all of three seconds before the honey tub appears.
She launches herself onto the counter, wraps both paws around the plastic tub, and begins alternating between licking the surface clean and plunging her entire arm into the honey to shovel it into her mouth. She makes these quiet, satisfied grunts, eyes half-closed, every so often glancing at me like she’s checking to see if I’m going to take it away. I let her have it. She’s earned it.
While she’s busy, I clean out the sink, scrub away the worst of the sludge, and fill it up with cool water. I drop in two of the purification tabs, watching them fizz and bloom into a cloudy swirl that settles in under a minute. I fish Muse’s Poké Ball from my pocket, press the release, and let him materialize into the water.
The moment Muse touches the sink, he makes a sound—less a croak and more a song, a sustained note of pure aquatic pleasure. He floats, eyes closed, lily pad quivering, then submerges just enough that water runs over the top of his head and down his back. He surfaces, spins a smooth loop, then latches onto the edge of the sink with all four stubby feet, breathing slow and deep. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a creature so instantly and completely at home.
For a minute, nobody needs anything from me. Luna’s face is glued to the honey, Muse is in his element, and Beldum has wedged itself into the corner of the ceiling, eye dim, running diagnostics or whatever it does when it’s not actively saving my life. I rinse the shampoo off my hands and hang back, watching Muse for half a beat as he lets himself go boneless in the tap water. His body sinks, lily pad floats, then his head just barely pokes above the rim, eyes at half-mast, humming again. I envy him. He doesn’t know or care that the world above hates us. He just needs a little water, a little sun, and something to sing about.
I’m suddenly, acutely aware of my own smell. Not just sweat or Trubbish stink, but the old chemical burn, the cheap detergent, the leftover tang of river rot that clings to skin even after days of running. There’s a bar of soap in the bag—still wrapped, probably the fanciest thing I own now—and for a second I consider just slamming it on the table and scrubbing there in the open. But even rock bottom has its protocols.
The back of the laundromat has a closet-sized toilet. One bulb, zero fan, paint peeling in flakes that look like dead moths. I shut the door behind me, peel off the jacket and shirt, and get to work. The bar of soap is labelled “Cleansing Dew”—a lie, but better than nothing. I fill the sink with the hottest water the pipes will manage, then lather up and dig in. Every pass of the soap stings; my skin is raw from the Garbodor and the acid, but I keep going and I scrub until the water in the sink turns grey, then brown, then finally pale again. I catch the reflection in the mirror—half-steam, half ghost—and for a moment I don’t recognize the face staring back. The beanie’s off, and the scar at my temple is this pale, shiny crescent, just visible above my left eye. It’s still numb where the wires meet the bone, a souvenir from the day Beldum made itself at home in my head. The rest of my face is angles, more sharp than soft, eyes sunken but not dead yet. My jaw looks older than I remember, like someone’s been chiselling away at it while I wasn’t paying attention.
I towel off with the last clean square of cloth from the lost-and-found, then spray my arm with the disinfectant. It’s a cartoon-blue mist that burns and smells like a dentist’s office. The skin where the Garbodor got me is a weird mix of new pink and scabby yellow; I hit it with a second spray, then wrap the arm in a strip of bandage I tear from the bottom of the spare shirt. When I’m done, I lean into the mirror and just… look.
Not at the disguise, or the scars, or the bone structure. Just the space where a face should be. Who am I?
