Chapter I: Tension

Brock felt tense. He often did, having the responsibility of his seven younger brothers and sisters. It was a unique situation, and required a particular breed of caring person to raise them all without complaint or without losing hope. Brock had been complaining more often as of late. Brock was beginning to lose hope. Fourteen years is a long time to raise a family for, especially when you start at the age of ten. Brock rubbed his temple, his short black hair bristled against his fingertips. He shifted through bills meagerly. Running the Pewter Gym was a successful career- one of the best, but with such a crowded household, Brock couldn’t find where all of their money seemed to end up. A few of his siblings were old enough to work now, but he tried to let them spend their money on themselves. Give them the opportunity to have a normal childhood. Brock didn’t want to force his responsibilities onto anyone else.
Somewhere, his mind went to Ash. The young man who was so inspired by Brock. They had never met before, and yet he told tales proudly about Brock from the coma he’d been in. About someone so caring and selfless that he taught Ash without losing hope. Brock wanted to join Ash. To find the opportunities his father had stolen from him.
Now there was a sore spot. Brock’s father. He disappeared when Brock was ten years old to become the world’s greatest trainer. Brock let out a low chuckle. ‘Never did make a name for yourself, did you?’ He thought bitterly. His fingers continued to brush along his temple. He moved to the next piece of mail. Addressed to Forrest. The second oldest of the bunch, but also the bad apple. Forrest had been brought home a number of times by the police, and had once been bailed out of jail. Brock worried about him, but felt that it was unfair not to let him have his youth. Brock may never have experienced a real teenage childhood, but Forrest sure had. He turned twenty years old in a little less than five months, and Brock was worried he wouldn’t grow out of this phase. Brock took the liberty of opening his mail, as he did for all of his siblings. Forrest had been asking Brock to “stay the fuck out of his business” but unless he started shaping up, that wouldn’t happen anytime soon.
Brock’s letter opener cut the seal crisp and clean, leaving a uniquely pristine envelope in its wake. The letter contained therein proudly wore a peculiar emblem. A thick red and black ‘R’ that forced Brock to look over his shoulder before reading its contents.

“Dear Forrest Harrison,

We humbly invite you to participate in a preliminary screening and exam on the next Tuesday. Due to your preceding reputation and the referral by a Ms. Attila Z. we would be honored if you would participate in an internship at our nearest location. We at the Rocket Enterprises are a family, and we welcome you with open arms and an open mind. Because you already have your trainer’s license, you will not be required to catch any pokémon before taking your test, but be sure to pack for travel.

We have many available positions here at Rocket Enterprises, and hope that you can find one you will truly enjoy. Details of your test will be few here, but expect to work in a team of four to six members, yourself included, and expect to encounter many rare and exotic pokémon not native to Kanto. We thank you for your interest in us, and you can reach us at (253) 555-7599, or by email at questions@rocketent.com. We look forward to you joining our family.
Sincerely,

Giovanni Deniaud”


Brock was shocked. Even scared. What had Forrest gotten himself into this time? This was serious, dammit! Forrest couldn’t grow out of a mischievous phase if he got himself involved with Team Rocket. Brock pursed his lips. He looked down and read the letter again. His fingers rubbed at his temple with growing agitation. He found he was unsure of how to approach the situation. Perhaps, wait until after Tuesday so that when he approaches him about the letter, Forrest can’t show up regardless. Perhaps-

“I get anything today?” Brock jumped in his seat. He had been so deep in thought he didn’t hear Forrest get home. His other siblings were all still in school, so they wouldn’t be home for a few hours, but Forrest came and went as he pleased. “What’s got you rattled?”

“Nothing,” Brock said, “Just met someone at the gym today who got me thinking about Dad.”

“Hey, now,” Forrest said, “Fuck that guy. Don’t even give him the honor of being on your mind. You got enough shit to deal with anyway.”

“Like Rocket Enterprises trying to recruit my family?” Brock said accusingly. He meant to wait, but it just came out. He hadn’t had a chance to decisively think about the approach. ‘Shoot.’ He thought.

“You read my fucking mail, Brock?” Forrest shouted. “What the fuck? I told you specifically not to read my fucking mail!”

“I’ll stop reading your mail when you can grow up and take care of yourself on your own.” Brock said sternly, consciously trying not to raise his voice.

“That’s what I’m trying to do for myself! Rocket Enterprises is a completely legitimate business opportunity that will put me in the field and help me make a name for myself!”

“So they’re already brainwashing you with that bullhonkey?” Brock shook his head in disappointment. Actively, he tore the letter up in his hands. Forrest was shouting and trying to grab the bits of paper that had fallen to the floor. Brock was careful to leave himself with the bit of paper that claimed the exam was on Tuesday. Brock walked away, Forrest swearing at him profusely, and Brock pocketed the piece of paper. The rest of the letter was formalities, but without what Brock had, Forrest had no way to become a member of Team Rocket. This was one of the times that Brock wished he didn’t have to deal with such stressful matters.

Forrest meanwhile picked through the tiny pieces of paper left strewn about the kitchen floor. The tiling was the same it had been since their parents were around. They never had the money to redecorate how a bunch of young adults would want it. The flower-print backsplash and the mustard yellow cabinets were what home felt like, but it was too outdated. Forrest, on his hands and knees reading small bits of paper for details, was the spitting image of his father. Brock looked more like his mother, with the black hair and black eyes, but Forrest had his father’s facial structure, the green eyes. His mother’s hair, but then again, Yolanda was the only child who got their father’s curly red hair. Finally, Brock long gone from the room, Forrest sat up and leaned back on his feet. He had a bit of paper with a phone number on it. He looked around out of habit, and pulled out his phone. Forrest walked out of the house. He slammed the door on his way out, while a man answered the phone.

“This is Grey Pearce with Rocket Enterprises, how can I help you?”

-----

“Let’s start with our names,” the man said. He was somewhat short, with spiky blonde hair. His smile was thin and forced, but not fake. It just felt as if he smiled less often than most people. “It’s good to know who you’re working with- who might be there to have your back. Who you might have to save.” He was a representative for Team Rocket, or financially Rocket Enterprises. “I suppose I’ll start,” he said. He brought his hand up and indicated to himself with his right thumb. “The name’s Orm. I’m an expert at knifeplay and I’m very fast to act in a tense situation. I’m a take-charge kind of guy. For your test, kiddies, you’ll be doing what I say.” With a nod of his head he set off the circle of guys talking, giving their names, what they excel in, and occasionally someone would mention a relative or friend who was already a member. They seven of them were all in an alleyway in downtown Pewter, a few blocks from the museum.

“My name is Franklin, I uhh, I like to practice hunting with my older brother so I’m pretty okay with a rifle.”

“I’m Mark. I’m good at stealin’ shit. I like to fuck girls, smoke pot. Sometimes I sell cigarettes to the kids at my little brother’s school.”

“Forrest Harrison. I’ve got some strong Pokémon. My brother taught me everything he knows. I think outside the box. My penmanship is probably better than any of yours’. I forge signatures.” Orm waited until Forrest was done introducing himself before asking him any questions.

“You think you have strong Pokémon, huh? Well, I’ve got a team who earned me six badges.” At this there were a few exclamations by impressed candidates. “Shut up. That still isn’t good enough. Those whose specialty within Rocket is Pokémon battles have teams that get them eight, ten, sometimes more. I already told you my specialty is knifeplay. In fact, I’m not a very good Pokémon battler. So, if you think you’re good, then you have to at least beat me. We’ll have a two on two match, uhh, Forrest? If you win, then we’ll make you our defense for the test. If not, then I hope you’re better at something besides forging signatures. Rocket’s got girls for that.” There was snickering, and suddenly Forrest felt as if he were in the center of the spotlight. The five other candidates stared at him curiously, judgmentally, as if he was about to get tossed. Forrest knew he was good, but at the same time he wasn’t one for travel- he only had two badges.
Orm took two balls from his belt, releasing two Pokémon that Forrest wasn’t familiar with. Definitely not native to Kanto. The first was an odd, tentacle mess. It had a red shell and its head turned 360 degrees full-circle to look at everyone around it. It had a glare in its eyes that said it wasn’t afraid of any or all of us. The other seemed less powerful. It was small and blue- Forrest quickly identified that it was a grass type. That meant trouble for Forrest. He had three Pokéballs containing a Graveler, a Geodude, and a Diglett. He picked the first and the last. Orm smirked. Forrest’s confidence was lessening quickly. ‘Just remember everything that Brock had taught to me.’

“Bring it.” Orm said. Forrest sent them out, and the crowd snickered, seeing the advantage that Forrest himself had. Graveler stretched, not used to being out this late at night. Diglett looked energetic at least. And then: “Rock Slide!”, “Rollout, to your left, dammit.”, “Go under, quickly!”, “Into the air, high as you can!”

What Forrest first assumed to be a grass type had launched itself on a breeze and was soon becoming smaller, like a child’s balloon becoming a small blue dot against the white clouds during a summer festival. The shelled octopus tried to dodge Graveler’s rockslide while also attacking Diglett, but it missed and was also clipped by a few rocks. Graveler was catching stray stones and whirling them into the air, aiming for the steadily smaller blue speck. The shell began to constrict Graveler’s arms at Orm’s command, but Graveler was too strong. Straining, the shell was thrown loose and tumbled out of the circle. The five candidates watched entranced. The blue speck suddenly grew larger, and Forrest realized it was diving at them. “Brace yourself, dammit!” Graveler ground its feet into the tarmac pavement of the alleyway, and as the blue dot’s finer features came back into detail Graveler jumped to meet it, bringing one of its arms back. Graveler knew what Forrest intended, but he shouted it out regardless- “Mega punch!”
Graveler’s fist collided not with the plant, but instead with a solarbeam. The plant lost its velocity, catching on a passing breeze, and launched the blast it must have begun charging while in the air. Large, plasmatic forces of energy bounced from his fist, raining down on the pavement below. Everyone’s hands covered their heads as the 200 degrees energy fizzled out against their forearms and their shoes. Graveler landed on both feet, not quite reeling like Orm and the audience expected. From such a blast, even Forrest expected Graveler to be down and out. His confidence rose.
The shelled pokémon wrapped its tentacles around Graveler once again, but in his weakened state he was unable to break free. The blue, cottony plant bounded into Graveler, delivering small punches and kicks with its stubby hands and feet. It didn’t seem to affect him, but it was foreboding, nonetheless. It was the only opportunity to turn this around. “Now!” Forrest shouted, his voice guttural and animalistic. Diglett, underground up until this point, exploded from beneath the tentacled mess’s shell. The creature’s eyes widened in fright as it fell into a deep pithole that Diglett had carved out under it. The dirt poured in around it, burying the shelled pokémon. Graveler, no longer restrained, launched a four-fisted attack with each arm into the blue plant, knocking it backward and into the air. No, it purposefully went airborne; the blue puffball began to produce massive amounts of the white fibrous hairs that it was rippled with. The entire alleyway was a mess of cotton, and Graveler and Diglett were forced into a sluggish pace. Diglett threw mudballs at the cotton monster, but with no success. Graveler was more successful, when ordered to give another rock slide the plant was unable to move quickly enough. It was buried beneath a heap of stones and rocks. Orm returned both of his unconscious pokémon.

“No shit. You fuckin’ did it.” Orm said. Graveler and Diglett set about gathering the cotton spores and depositing them into the hole that Diglett had dug. When that was complete Forrest returned both of his pokémon. “Forrest on defense.” He announced, and a small round of applause was delivered, albeit with a hint of quietness due to the time of night.
The last three candidates introduced themselves, and Forrest learned they were Al, Craig, and a girl named Marcy. Their specialties were strength, stealth, and lockpicking/knifeplay respectively. Orm challenged Marcy to a knifefight, also promising not to stab her. It was an amusing fight, although not as interesting as the pokémon battle had been. They each pulled out their blades, and Forrest saw that there must be variety within this field. Orm had two knives. The first was a short bladed butterfly knife, and the other was much larger, almost like a meat cleaver with a pointed blade. Marcy had a switch with a six inch blade on it. Orm blocked with the butterfly knife, while swiping with the cleaver. Marcy was more offense than defense, rarely using her knife to block. She jabbed right- he caught it with his butterfly knife, which he had to cross over his other arm to get at, and he swiped underneath his other blade catching her arm. She cried out a little, and looked at him in awe.

“Nobody has ever cut me before.” Marcy sounded mystified. Forrest checked her attire. She was dressed for trouble- professional or amateur was somewhat unclear. She had black slacks that were new enough to still have creases down each leg. She wore a dark blue blouse that was cut low to reveal a decent amount of cleavage. She looked to be about Forrest’s age, maybe a few years older. She wasn’t too tall or too short at 5’5. A few inches shorter than Forrest, and the perfect height to hold her to him. Forrest glanced sidelong and saw that most, in fact, all of the other boys looked at her similarly. He wasn’t fond of competition, so he’d see how it plays out.

“There’s a first time for everything.” Orm said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He brushed his bangs out of his eyes, but a few moments later they fell back in place. “And if you do get in a knifefight during a job, it won’t be until first blood is drawn. They’ll be going for your jugular, for stabs that are accurately placed between two ribs and collapse a lung, or even right into your heart. Professionals know these points. You weren’t bad, but you need to be aware of where your opponent’s knives are at all times. Several times I was in more of a position to stab you in the gut than I was to leave you with a flesh wound. If I was going to kill you, I would have scoffed at your attempts to defend yourself. Also, how’s your wielding with your left hand?”
The two got into a conversation about professional knifeplay, and most of them weren’t very interested. They began to talk amongst ourselves while Orm and Marcy talked. Forrest found himself talking to Al and Franklin, who were charged with offense. They’d have to be working together often, Orm said, if they both made it into TR. “Have you ever used a gun?” Franklin asked. He had an army buzz-cut that looked to have been growing back for a few weeks. No more than an inch long. Light brown or dirty blonde was unclear at this point.

“No, but I’ve been in hundreds of fist fights. It’s become a passion of mine. I started training when I was eleven to be stronger than anyone else. I’m definitely in the top percentile now.” Al wasn’t tall, but at average height, and with muscles as big as his were, he looked massive. 5’10 and 235 lbs of well-oiled machine looked like a fight Forrest was not willing to gamble on. Al’s hair was almost white it was so blonde, and his eyebrows matched, which made them nearly invisible against his pale skin. Forrest wondered if he were albino, or just really white.

“Have you ever shot a gun, Forrest?” He had not, and he told him so. “I doubt you need one. Your pokémon were masterful out there. Who’s your older brother?”

“Brock Harrison.” Forrest said, unable to help but break out into a smile of pride. The two oohed and awed, asking what he was like, and if he got to watch the gym battles. “Fuck that,” Forrest said, “When Brock doesn’t feel like battling he sometimes lets me take his place. I’ve given out a few of the badges myself.”

“That’s really fucking cool.” Franklin said. “Do the two of you ever battle?”

“Only with words.” Forrest said. “Brock and I argue a lot, but I love him. Can’t help it, he raised me.”

“I know what you mean. My brother raised me. Taught me to hunt. Taught me about girls. Taught me how to steal beer from the corner store.”

“I don’t think my brother knows about girls.” Forrest said laughing. “He said he read about them once online, but he’s yet to see one in person.”

The two other boys laughed, and Al said, “Is he really so,” Al paused, looking for the right word, “virtuous?”

“Dude, he so fucking is. He opened my letter from Rocket Enterprises and flipped the fuck out. When he got really mad, he called it bullhonkey instead of bullshit. Sometimes I wonder how I turned out how I did.” They laughed together, and soon Orm was getting everyone’s attention.

“Five,” he said, looking at a wristwatch on his hand. “Four, three,” Everyone gathered around, curious as to why he was counting. Forrest hoped he wasn’t acting like a teacher, counting down until her class was silent. At three it was dead quiet, but he continued to two. “One, zero. Midnight. We have fifteen minutes to get to the airport. You amateurs ready, because it’s twenty minutes away by foot, and you’re all getting there yourselves. Anyone not there in fifteen gets left behind.” Orm walked away, leaving everyone standing in the alleyway. Orm drove off in his Bonneville, leaving everyone staring at one another. Marcy and Forrest made eye contact, staring at each other. For a moment, Forrest considered grabbing her by the wrist, leading her around a corner, and fucking her against the side of an empty manufacturing building, but he knew they’d both miss out on this opportunity. Forrest drove, so he could be there in five minutes, except for that when he called, they specifically asked that he walk or bus to the location. The look on everyone else’s face said that they were all asked the same thing.