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Eternally Vernal, Chapter 4: Rise Of The Bran Muffins.

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At first they were seen as a generous and unexpected treat. Now, on day eight of a second big favor and day four of fresh-baked bran muffins, they were dreaded as anathema. It was time for Carol to put her tall-leather-boot-clad foot down. “Gates! If you're hoping to change your application to house chef, I'm not looking to fill that position." As she passed by the break room hopper, she noticed that Warden's ball again rested within it. A sticky note affixed read, “Please put me back when you're done. I keep the seat warm." It was “signed" with a very crude drawing of a sawsbuck's head, antlers in full bloom. She continued into a somewhat hidden alcove containing the prep space and shoved Gates' left shoulder. “More muffins, really?"

“Don't ask," he muttered as his eyes shifted leftward. She glared at him till they shifted back to the timer he had just set. “Childhood trauma."

Carol stepped back a bit and glanced over her shoulder at the rejuvenation machine. “I've cut you all the slack I can and then some. Look, I've lost a pokemon, too; two. When you go into the wild, you're taking a risk. That's why we make them fight, so they will find their inner strength; and why they fight for us, because we give their lives a mission—one way or another."

Gates watched the oven timer click down to nineteen minutes. “I should've recalled him right away."

“I guess the rest of the details are coming back?"

He raised his right hand and gestured flippantly at his forehead with his fingertips. “Most of 'em have. Banging your head against a rock does a hell of a number."

“Having a rock banged against your head is worse. Well, what did you do instead?"

“I asked him to come back to me."

Carol's brow furrowed. “He didn't want to come back to you?"

“He wanted to come back to me in triumph. I wanted him to obey my command. We disappointed each other."

The door opened and an established house trainer stomped over to the hopper. Annoyed by its hopeless occupant's ever-presence, he threw Warden's ball long toward a rubbish bin in a distant corner. Then, Carol grabbed onto Gates' left arm and made faint squeaking sounds: One, from the friction between her being-dragged-along boots and the floor. Second, a meek vocalization begging him to stop walking. The next sound was that of a cold-cocked gentleman falling to the floor. Carol released Gates' non-punching arm and looked alternatively at the two men. With a similarly careless action, Gates stripped away his magnetically-affixed nameplate and threw it at the same bin, hitting its metal flap squarely-centered and with enough momentum to put a dent in it and to break the tag's plastic into two. He traced an approximation of Warden's ball's path to recover it, and—her having followed closely behind—faced MacLeod when he turned about.

“Anthony, please, calm down and listen to reason. He was a cute little thing, but it's time to let him go."

She yelped a little as he snatched her left hand and pressed the ball against her palm. “Feel that? It's still warm. It hasn't popped the cap yet. The ball hasn't given up, Warden hasn't given up, I'm not giving up."

“Anth—" Carol started as Gates, with Warden in-hand, passed her by.

The fellow began rising from the floor as Anthony neared the door. Mostly to his feet, stabilized by one hand on a table, he heard, shouted at him, “You fell down some stairs and if you have a problem with that and bitch to the fuzz, when I get out of district hold I promise I'll throw you down a few flights of them!" Gates swung the door violently and exited without explaining how he intended to arrange such a circumstance. The gym leader turned off the oven before approaching her remaining employee. Rubbing his bruise, the employee grumbled to her, “I told you there was something wrong with that guy."

“Yes. I'm sorry I kept him around. And, I'm sorry, but you're fired, too. I have no place for anyone who treats a pokemon like trash, and I'll be sure to let the police know what you did to make him need to fight you to protect his pokemon if they come asking."

“I can't believe you're taking his side." He took a deep breath. “Actually, I can." He slapped his nameplate upon the table and cleaned out his locker.

Carol leaned against the counter beside the rejuvenation machine after the room became empty of all but herself. Withdrawing her trainer's device, she made a call on pretense. “Yeah, one of my machines is acting funny. Could you send a full report of all transaction data for the last ten days? If I said 'pretty please,' would you do it? Okay, but just this once. What's your private contact?" She and her T.D. hid in the alcove for a brief moment. When she returned to her office, a printout awaited her. Browsing over it, she noticed a pattern in its entries.

---

Aside from a depressive funk that hung heavily like a fog localized about his lordship, home felt like Home to Seth. Just the three of them. Just the three. Cyrus was not buying that, of course. Seth could not not-notice and Cyrus had the more experienced nose of their two. Another advantage of living in a Warden-less world: No risk of him overhearing anything and tattling to their master. Once Cyrus had informed Seth of that particular speech T.M. development, the latter accepted his brother's offer to spill his guts in a safe harbor, in case Warden may be recovered at any moment. During the days that followed his return from the hospital, Gates had completely ignored the intermittent vocalizations exchanged between his houndooms and a few other clues that interesting things happened during his absence; his mind was elsewhere, often wandering off to recover stray bits of memories of what had happened in the cave. Tonight, he lay crashed on his couch, rolling Warden's ball around in a small circle upon his chest. It had gone cold long ago; unable to labor without steady power, it had fallen back into its normal stasis mode and its only warmth was stolen from Anthony's palm. The television was on but its sound, not. Something about the flickering colors in the corner of his eye usefully distracted him and slowed his thoughts enough to blunt them.

No money. No job. No deerling.

Well, not a deerling anymore. Gates closed his eyes. He saw in his mind Warden as he was every time the little pink bastard glanced at him with that look on his face. Even inside the cave in his greater form, that look. That look. “Bastard!" Gates launched himself from the couch and across the room as though a bee in the cushion had stung his ass. He fumbled a wad of garbage stuffed in one pocket of his wallet until he found Mister Syfax's spent card filling a spot where money was supposed to live. He swiped it through his T.D. and hesitated with his thumb over the button. No, Maximilian was not to be solicited for a favor. Yes, Warden was worth it. Anthony had no choice; he had to—figure out why his houndooms had just charged the door. Both sniffed at the gap the instant a knocking began and they responded by dropping their guard. They communicated while Gates walked over to answer it.

“I'm not doing you any more favors. But," Carol bobbed her head as an expression of irritation made overly dramatic as though she were still a teenager, “he's too cute and spunky to let die. Gangway!" She marched past him carrying a large metal case. After quickly forming her first impression—as she conversationally described it, a, “Quaint place you've got here"—she slammed the case onto Gates' coffee table and swept away surface clutter before opening it. “Find a socket for this plug," she ordered while unreeling a retractable cable, “This box has a dead battery so it needs a mains line even if this were a quick fix."

Gates jammed the plug into a large power strip that supported his entertainment center. “You're doing me a favor, anyway. You stopped me from doing something drastic."

Carol tried to look around again, hopefully inconspicuously, for something like a loaded pistol laying about. With a chuckle, Gates gave her a glimpse of his T.D.'s display, still on its ready-to-call screen.

She recoiled. “Ewww! I met that guy once at League headquarters when my application to run the gym went through. He's a total creep."

“That's what I thought at first," he handed her Warden's ball, “but then I got to know him. That's just the tip of the iceberg. He's gotta be a sociopath."

“Whatever you say, dude who hit his head and thinks he's a psychiatrist. Okay, let's hope this works so you won't have to push that button." She closed the machine's switch. “Here's the deal. I pulled a string and got the logs for the gym machine so I could check the details on Warden's scrambled, fragmentationed, whatever, getting fixed process. It was about sixty per cent when I let you put him in, and over the first two days, it got up to the eighties, then it stopped. It was still running but it wasn't getting better overnight. Then you came in for pick-up work and started making muffins, and, and I think this is the thing, you were talking to yourself, talking to him, while you were in the kitchen. Every day, mid-day, muffin time, the image integrity improved a few points. So, here." Her machine now charged and indicating readiness, she tapped a button—its power indicator light began burning amber—and, gripping its case, turned it around. Sliding it to the edge of the coffee table toward Gates, sitting in a spare chair nearby, she demanded that he, “Talk to him."

Gates blushed. “I—ugh, gah. I don't know what to say."

“Liar."

“I can't. You'll, they'll hear," he gestured roughly at where he thought his dogs were resting and switched to a whisper, “I didn't know anyone heard me talking to him in the lounge."

“Either it was making the muffins, which I doubt, or you talking, which I suspect, or it was coincidence, and you have nothing to lose. Let him hear your voice. Talk with me, at least. I can't leave this machine; in fact, policy is I can't take it out of the gym except for emergencies, so I'm stuck here for as long as it takes. Don't make me sit here and stare at you being too embarrassed to tell your deerling that somewhere along the line you stopped taking care of him because you felt guilty and started taking care of him because you fell in love with him."

Anthony struggled to maintain his composure. “Oh, did I, you think? I love my dogs. They've always been loyal to me and they've always given me their all when it counted. And more than that, it's because they want to be where they belong; we're a pack, sorta thing. Warden—he followed me home only because I took from him the one thing he needed, a father whom he could trust to give him an approving nod to confirm that he did his best. He's just using me to fill that hole in his life. That's why he wouldn't quit. He didn't want to win my approval with a close-enough." Gates sat silently for a minute, although to him it was no different than if he were repeating what he had just said, to himself, at himself, with a few words changed. His own voice in his mind made a point. Hoping to mask any visible emotional response with an overt opposite, he leaned over Warden's ball and shouted. “Fine! You've shown me what your all can do and you've won my approval! Now, pull yourself together; god dammit! For years I've wanted a—I can't have—I ne—I want you. To; come back to me, Warden. Come back to me. God dammit." Gates fell back into his chair, propped his elbows on his knees, interwove his fingers, and used them to support his chin after he soon leaned forward again to stare at the hopper. Another minute of silence later, he sweetened the deal. “And I'll let you sleep on my bed. Even though you're about too big for it, now." He muttered something more under his breath.

Carol, gazing at a simple display embedded in the case, noticed one of its indicators click from ninety-two to ninety-three per cent.

Gates rose to excuse his turning and stepping away to face an non-judgmental wall. “I can't talk about this anymore. What do you want to talk about?"

She monitored the monitor. “Anything. As long as it'll keep your deer interested, I guess it'll work."

Anthony began to pace about aimlessly. “Name something."

“Anything?"

“Anything else."

Carol turned to lay across Gates' couch. “Alright, old man. Is this what you wanted?"

“Pardon?"

She raised her arms. “This. A two-and-a-half room, three-quarter-kitchen apartment just north enough of the prime real estate to keep the tourists and premium rent costs away, living alone with two dogs, a deer, and probably a dozen dirty magazines stuffed beneath these cushions."

“There aren't any."

“I feel some sort of a lump. Should I peek?"

“Whatever's down there is probably worse. The dogs spend four times as much time on that couch than I do."

Carol squirmed a little. “We'd better leave it alone, then. My question stands."

Still, as Anthony now became. “No. What I wanted was to be the best there ever was, but after badge number four I realized that I wasn't ever gonna be, and after badge five, that I liked spending time in the woods more than I did training. So, I found other trainers for my team and got a job as a ranger for a few years; liked the job and the company, hated the paperwork, so I said 'goodbye' to my partner, came back to town, and got along one way or another."

She took a deep breath and held it conspicuously while their conversation died.

Sitting again, Gates revived it. “Is this what you wanted?"

With a sarcastic inflection, she replied, “Pardon?"

“To be a gym leader. I've heard it's a curse enough times to start believing it."

She began by drawing another deep breath, but this time she put it to words. “Grandma ran it, dad ran it, I run it. It's okay. I traveled the whole region twice over before dad got bad. I did kinda want to try for some overseas titles. Maybe after I find someone to sire me a kid so I can pass the gym on and get back to having fun—I hear Mount Silver's a fun climb in the winter. Our mountains are boring; anybody can make it up as long as you can handle a few bears and a horde of starving sneasels along the way."

“Are you really that anxious to start a family?"

She fussed and scraped some dirt from beneath a fingernail. “No. God, no. It's creepy to think about. You get this creature inside you that drinks your blood, makes you throw up in the mornings, gets all big and heavy, it punts your bladder for fun, and when it's good and ready it explodes out of ya' not caring a whit about what gets torn up on the way out. Seems kinda selfish."

“Is that how your mom felt about it?"

“I don't know," she answered abruptly while glancing at the display—ninety-four—and swinging herself around to rise from the couch. Down the hall she walked and into the bathroom she vanished. Gates reached across and placed his palm on the ball in its cradle. He felt a faint but intense vibration as it operated, and after a moment sensed a strange sensation as though his hand were tingling. He lifted his hand away. It was warm.

A moment later, his trainer's device chimed. Activating it, “Hey, are you still nursing that fawn?" he heard, along with some highway noise.

“Not exactly, Vel. He's evolved, but he's kinda… on the mend."

“Then put some tape across his dangling bits because we'll need him on this job."

“What's this 'we'?"

“It's an honest job; some socialite lost track of her pokemon at one of those villas near Palmitoy Cove. Bring it back, earn big bucks. I got to thinking, who's near Palmitoy and knows about big bucks?" Gates sat long enough for Carlos to call out, asking if he were still present.

“Let me think about it. I might be busy this week."

“Think fast, we're there tomorrow. I'll be holed up at the mote' overnight, and the appointment's early enough to matter."

Carol's voice came through the hallway. “Are you talking to Warden like you're supposed to be?"

Carol's voice came through the T.D. one way, and then, Carlos's the other. “You dog! I knew you had something going on."

“Goodnight," Gates growled. Abruptly disconnected, Carlos assumed the click to be an agreement.

“A friend of yours?" Carol asked as she reclaimed her position on the couch.

“Occasionally an accomplice, occasionally a coworker, never a friend. We both train houndooms and we both do a little poa—odd job here and there."

“Pod jobs? Is that what you guys call it, now? I wonder if I've crossed your friend. I've ordered a few rock-slides against guys with houndooms doing the kind of odd jobs that sometimes require an accomplice."

“This one's straight and narrow. Lost pet reward. Now that I'm unemployed, it's a simple decision. But," he shifted his attention, “I can't do it without Warden so he needs to hurry up and get fixed."

Carol scolded him playfully. “He's doing his best," she shifted her attention to the warm ball, “aren't you?" Still ninety-four. “Why not go without him, though? I mean, pretend I broke all of the rules that are left and let you have the box here and keep him running in it while you're off taking money to do good deeds like that silly import show that Fire-types can't get enough of."

“With the rude mohawk guy?"

She hummed.

“It's the only thing on that those two agree on watching without surfing during the ad spots."

“Figures. Why couldn't you go without Warden?"

“We could. Velasquez's bitch is a pretty good tracker. She can lose a faint trail that Cyrus can hold, but she catches things that my dogs run right over. I wouldn't mind adding one from her bloodline if I could."

“Is that why he's not a friend? Because he wouldn't let you put one of your two and her together, or she turned them down?"

“He's not a friend because of other reasons. About that, though, he had her on the shot for a while. There's a rumor that sometimes the hormone change can ruin a 'doom bitch's nose when bred. I think it's like, one in ten at worst, but he didn't want to risk it. I guess I could ask him again, since I'm doing him a favor here."

“Without Warden?"

“Oh, yeah. Two things why not. One, Warden's Grass-typing. You train Rock and Ground; you know that Palmitoy's no place to be Water-weak. Two, because there's so much water, any trails are going to be broken up. Sure, three noses are already better than one, but—I don't know how good a sawsbuck's nose is for tracking, but I know the wind will make or break a hunt for one. If he's got a different kind of sense, it could help. So without Warden, aside from our company, my dogs and I aren't helping much but giving a second opinion and being able to cover a little more ground, faster."

Ninety-five. Carol asked Gates if he had anything to drink, and commented after he went to the kitchenette, “You should catch something Water-adept and bring it home. Maybe, after a few years of intense training, there might be a chance of you getting my badge." She watched him as he opened his refrigerator door. “Yeah, grab those."

“Those?"

“That cheap beer you've got; there's not much else in there."

He retrieved two glass bottles. “What good would getting your badge do me? I'm not aiming for the League."

Carol withdrew a pocket knife with an opening tool and applied it as soon as she received a bottle from Gates. “It'd pad your résumé, and look a litt—what the hell?" She read the label. “Sars-appa—"

“Sar-sapa-rilla."

“No alcohol content. What a waste of a glass bottle. I may currently be your ex-boss, but if you patronized me like this at work I'd throw you out and revoke your membership for it." She took a swig anyway.

“Currently?"

Her left cheek twitched as the fluid's flavors played upon her palate. “You're fired, not banished. You didn't have your dogs burn up your member card, did you?"

Gates wrenched off the cap of his bottle. “Honestly, I was thinking—ugh, shit. Have you ever had one of those urges to go into the lion's den just to get it over with, even though there ain't anything to get over? I was thinking about getting back into the ranger game."

“The Mount Buchu thing?"

“Sorta. I like the chase. That's why I train houndooms and take jobs tracking things in the forest. And why I haven't bought butcher meat at a store in a decade."

“Specifically from a butcher? It's easy to have a record like that if you don't count fast-food."

“I can't count it. That's not a meal; that's stuff's just for pacifying hunger until I can get a pound of prime-cut pokemon in the pan. You've harvested the wilds, haven't you?"

She took another swig, the action to cover a slight blush. “A few Flying-types. Order a stone-edge, bring a pidgey down, you're fed."

Gates chuckled. “Honestly, I've never wasted my time on first-form squabs. How was it?"

“Tasted like chicken."

“Figures. The best meat is young but fully evolved. That's why Tauros is a star in the market. Hatch 'em, fatten 'em up just a little, and as soon as you've got replacement eggs, dinner is served."

Still ninety-five. “What do you think about sawsbuck?"

“Best kept secret off the menu. I wouldn't save up for a license every time they issue if it wasn't worth it."

“What do you think about your sawsbuck?"

“I think—I think I bagged a prize. If I saw him in the wild, I'd take a shot at him, license or no. But, it'd be bittersweet; he'd be too damn tough for good eating. I know some guys who would drop a heap of cash on me to let them have him for a standing mount, though."

“How much is a heap?"

“Just guessing, a buck like him done up right as a standing mount would be fifteen-hundred, maybe two-thousand pounds, retail."

Her eyes sparkled. “Tony, skip being a ranger and get into taxidermy!"

“No. To hell with the show-offs. I hunt to eat, I hunt for pride, I hunt for the thrill. I don't hunt so some pinhead can invite other pinheads to his villa and look at the stuffed buck in his study, filled with books he bought and shelved to fill space and make him look studious."

“I appreciate your philosophy, but Warden can't eat it. How are you going to keep your sawsbuck's bigger belly fed in this town? There ain't much graze land on this side of Main Street."

Gates sat, pondered, and relaxed. “Ranger service it is. The forest is where he belongs. I never liked this place, anyway. The bathroom's too small."

MacLeod placed her bottle on the table beside the machine. Ninety-six. “I don't like this place, either. No offense intended, but it smells like despair in here."

“I can make it smell like spaghetti if you prefer. Or bran muffins."

Carol cringed and glanced at Anthony through a furrowed brow. “Do your pokemon like bran muffins?"

“I don't know. I haven't made any in years."

“You're shitting me."

Gates pushed ahead. “I guess I could get us some fast-food, to pacify our hunger, before they all close."

Carol hummed dismissively and relaxed after nodding, closing her eyes. Listening intently, she kept track of his motions as he rose, found his billfold, quite possibly fished some notes out of what sounded like a cookie jar, took his keys, called for Seth's company, and departed. Now alone, except for the other houndoom resting in another room, she leaned up and over the machine. “Hey, Warden. It's Carol. Listen. I'm sorry that I told Tony he should give up on you. I just didn't want him to lose his marbles from being unable to let go. I don't know what it's like in there or what you're going through; that might be impossible. But, whatever you're doing or the ball's doing to fix you, you're almost done, so… don't give up. I'll—I'll be honest, I liked watching your fights. Even though you got clobbered most of the time, you looked good, hit hard, and always left them reeling, and that's something for a little guy. I'd like to see you in my ring again, even though you'll think it got a little smaller since last time. And, you can have pink spots and flowers and whatever else you like. Just pull through, okay? None of that stuck forever at ninety-nine per cent crap. You know Tony can't take that sort of thing." She stared at the display, which lay unchanged except for a ticking clock that counted off each passing second.

---

Adrift. Upended. Twisting again. Too hard. Lost one. Come about. There! Reclaimed. Integrating. No, back, twisting again. That's better. Settle down. Sinking further. Find the rail. Loosen, coil, tension, release, and upward, upward, toward the light, the lights so many, the lights only one, the lights that guide, the lights that shine, the lights that cast the shadows. The shadows so few now. Find the shadows. Find the pieces. Feel. Compress. The seams. The holes. Fill them relentlessly. Find the pieces. Find the shadows. Fill the holes. Straighten the seams.

A glimmer in the darkness.

Nothing to kick. Sink again. Watch the light. The light that guides. The light that finds. Only it can reveal. Focus. So deep. So dark. Fading, fading, and gone again. Tense. Don't look away. Don't lose the line. Don't waste more time. It's all running out. The fluid is cooling. The basin is warming. The humming is fading. Find the rail. Loosen, coil, tension, release, and upward, upward, toward the light, toward the shadow. There, adrift. Upend, twist, not hard enough. Thrash, kick, cry out with lungs stuffed taut with the same aether in which you glide. There! Reclaimed. Integrating. The pain there is dulled, the pain elsewhere is sharpened. Find the shadows. Find the pieces.

A dull, faint tremor in the aether. Only the lowest vibrations carry through, but carry they do. “Ninety-seven," it spake.

That's better. Settle down. Sinking further. Find the rail. Loosen, coil, tension, release, and upward, upward, toward the light, the lights so many, the lights only one, the lights that guide, the lights that shine, the lights that cast the shadows. The shadows so few now. Find the shadows. Find the pieces. Feel. Compress. The seams. The holes. Fill them relentlessly. Find the pieces. Find the shadows. Fill the holes, however. Stitch the seams, somehow.

---

“Because it's polite," she said. And so, Anthony returned to the kitchen yet again, this time to get a fork. A fork for fried potato wedges. He returned, handed the tool to Carol, and knelt beside the coffee table and the mobile rejuvenation device gently humming away upon it. As he reached for and consumed a wedge of his own using his fingers, she glared at him.

“I'm not a polite man," he proclaimed with his mouth full. “That's why I live alone." Although that was not why, such an attitude suggested another possible cause.

Skewering a wedge with the fork, she waved it gently in a circle. “You don't live alone." She bit into it.

Gates glanced aside. “I got a little something for them, too, but they wait their turn. It's a pack order sort of thing I heard about. If you start 'em eating first and then you start, it looks like they've got a higher rank."

“I didn't think the dogs were giving you any obedience problems. How about the other one?" She pointed at Warden's ball with a half-eaten wedge.

“He's a carnivore and a thief."

“You're a carnivore and a poacher. Is that slight difference why you didn't get him anything?" Carol asked.

“I didn't get him anything because—well, first of all he has to get right and out of his ball."

“And second?"

Gates cleared his throat. “And that's none of your concern."

Carol swallowed a laugh. “Touchy, touchy. That's okay, I'm pretty sure I've got your number already." She sipped from her drink. “But let's assume I'm wrong. Then, do you think that not including him will make him more obedient?"

“What'd-ya mean by that?" He again spoke with his mouth full.

“You got all this food, and didn't invite Warden to join you, or even the dogs. It's almost as if you changed your mind about wanting him out and okay." She glanced at the display; aside from the clock it remained static.

“If it were that easy, I wouldn't be worried. I think it's in his blood; this attitude like he's got something to prove and that it's better to get smashed and show he actually ain't up to snuff than to let a chance to show off pass by. When I first took him in for a medical clearance, he got into a fight with some exotic bird on the center's front lawn. The bird was squawking like it wanted the fight, but now I'm thinking Warden called him out. I don't know, it's—he's a buck. He was born to charge head-long and antlers first into anything that seems like a threat. But, that ain't always the right way. If he doesn't learn how strategy works, I'm gonna wind up keeping him in that ball more often than not. Locked, since I've seen him force it open a couple of times already. That ain't no life."

Carol wadded up some food packaging and tucked it into a sack. “Is this?"

Gates thought about her question. He thought about its answer. He thought about his reply. He spoke no words, and thus said everything.

---

A few hours later, Anthony, Carol, Cyrus, and Seth each awoke with a start at a discordant tone emitted by the device on the coffee table. As they roused, it ejected a small card. Carol took it up and read it aloud. “Operation complete. Corrected 19,181,252 error(s) in image pattern. Ignored anomalies: 53,525. Physical examination advised." She then ground one palm against her right orbital bones while flicking the card toward Anthony with her left hand. “Alright, time for a trip."

Gates glanced at the card, saw big numbers on it, and gave it to Seth with a gestured disposal order. “Trip?"

She perched Warden's ball upon the mouth of an emptied bottle and closed up the device as it was when she arrived. “It's pokecenter time. Anomalies usually don't mean much, like a chipped tooth that wasn't fixed for want of spare calcium, but fifty thousand—either it's nothing and he'll just be sore through and through when you let him out, or—" she huffed and walked toward the door, “look, have med staff around when you let him out."

Cyrus and Seth leaned against Gates' legs soon after his door shut behind MacLeod. They whimpered a little in their voice's varied timbres, Seth a little more, because he had hoped that she would be staying the night and causing better meals in perpetuity. Gates petted them gently for a moment. “He's not out of the woods yet, boys, but like hell I could keep him in the woods when I wanted it."

Gates stood and slipped on a pair of loafers. “You two can split the last of what's in that bag and get some rest. I can sleep on the drive and let Carlos do the talking, but you two need to be in top form for work tomorrow." Cyrus brought Warden's ball to his master. “And Warden will be in whatever condition he'll be in." Anthony palmed the ball in his right hand and brought the back of that hand near his mouth. “He's never called in sick before."

Throughout the walk to Guaiacol Pokecenter, Gates rubbed the locking ring of Warden's ball. With a circular motion, he spun it, locked, unlocked, locked, unlocked, locked, unlocked… the rhythm came into synchronization with his gait as he considered the possibilities. Most pessimistic, the ball activates and a red beam releases a sawsbuck-shaped lump of disorganized organic matter that gravity then pulls downward, creating a slowly spreading blob for a janitor to shovel into a yellow plastic bucket; later, to scatter skitty litter over the wet spot. Most optimistic, the sawsbuck-shaped form bounds across the room, knocks him to the ground, and licks his face for half of a minute. Locked, unlocked, locked, unlocked. If the last-good image data was enough to fill the gaps, he would probably be in the condition he was when withdrawn across the battlefield—battered, bruised, and bleeding from cuts and gashes all over his body. His wounds numbered fewer than fifty thousand, but maybe that was much of it, of the numbered damages that the machine endeavored not to repair. Locked, unlocked. What if even only one of those errors ruined a major organ? Or, if the ball failed to re-assemble him properly and just stuck parts together? Even alive, Warden may be destined for a calm garden at a refuge, pending a merciful execution. Gates looked to the sky and cursed, “All I wanted was a good dinner, dammit!"

Locked, unlocked, locked, unlocked. He did not notice himself entering Guaiacol Pokecenter until he was well within its lobby.

Gates related Warden's story to a desk nurse. She gave Warden another rejuvenation cycle, now in their machine. Making funny faces while reading all of the messages appearing on her terminal, she did not notice Anthony's staring at her, awaiting news. She told him no details before picking up a handset and calling an administrator at home. When she addressed Gates, she was obviously off-script. “Uh, okay, the ball seems to be live and says its data passes its check, but our system thinks it's all kinds of crazy, so I called the manager and he's going to come down and we'll see what happens. If you'll take a seat—"

Part of an hour later, a manager entered with a weary expression that lightened slightly when he saw that the man responsible for his summoning looked equally weary with an added dash of concerned. Mister Harrison led Gates down a long hallway and down a long staircase. Together they entered a special room with a large observation window viewing another room. It had padded surfaces, including the floor, which also featured a drain. “Place the ball in that little socket and press the button. It will go through the wall and be triggered to release its contents, and if nothing strange happens, we'll go in and investigate your pokemon's condition." Doing as he was instructed, Gates weakly bit his tongue upon touching the button. The ball in its socket shifted through the mechanism to be exposed in the other room and activated. Its red scanning beam fired throughout the chamber for three seconds before calculating a target position near the twelve-foot high ceiling. Then, as though there were no such thing as anomalies, an energetic form appeared and solidified.

Gates rushed out of the observation room in favor of the room observed. Mister Harrison locked the latter's door behind Gates, just to be safe.

“Warden! Warden!" Gates shouted as he stumbled across the mats and once more, falling to his knees. He lifted his sawsbuck's head and then cradled it in his palms, using a thumb to gently pull downward an eyelid. The eye was there, but unresponsive. Letting Warden's head rest upon his kneeling knees, he shifted his grip to sparsely flowered antlers, and leaned over to speak against the top of his skull, “God, Warden, you gotta wake up. You didn't put me through all this shit you've put me through just to die like this."

Anthony felt a sudden jerk, as a couple hundred pounds of muscle suddenly tensed. Warden raised his head and raised Anthony with him for a moment before his master slipped away and fell to the mat. The sawsbuck coughed, gulped, tried to stand, failed, landed on his side, and sneezed so violently that some bloody matter blasted against the nearest wall and all the flowery buds on his antlers somehow erupted into fullest possible bloom. Serving first as extra muscle and second as a counterweight, Gates helped Warden stand balanced on his hooves while Harrison permitted entry of a nurse and a chansey. Carefully taking one step at a time, they guided Warden out of the padded room. Left alone, Harrison went to a nearby supply closet and returned to the padded room to collect a sample before summoning the janitor.

Standing still was a struggle for Warden, because slowly moving his head with a bobbing motion seemed to suppress the nausea that gripped him. However, his x-ray pictures required a fixed pose. Once they were done, he delighted in resting on the floor quietly. Gates was gripped not by nausea but a suspicion that word had gotten out. It was long past midnight, and every minute it seemed like somebody new appeared in the halls to check out the strange case under investigation.

“Can I take him home?" Gates asked of somebody dressed in a medical fashion as he ran his fingers along Warden's neck.

“We'd much rather keep him here for observation till our investigation—"

“Warden is not your science fair project. He's my pokemon and I want to put him to bed."

The doctor intended to contest, but Harrison intervened. “Mister Gates, your Warden is something of a unique case. There have been similar incidents, but none with such a disrupted image have recovered so well. It's something that pokemon researchers will be interested in for years to come. But, we have all the information we need tonight, and—" the doctor tried to interrupt, but was immediately silenced by Harrison's glare, “—and since we've found no life-threatening issues, it will be best that Warden rest wherever it feels most comfortable."

“Thank you, Sir," Gates respectfully, if quietly, replied.

“Take five to get it on its feet again, and on your way out, we'll have a report for you regarding our immediate findings." Harrison shooed away the gathered staff members in the room and hallway.

Gates knelt beside Warden again and scratched around his ears. They twitched chaotically. “We're supposed to be doing a job tomorrow, but since you're not going to feel up—"

Warden grunted and, after a few brief setbacks, stood on his own. His stance was his battle-ready, although he faced no visible foe. He spoke as though each syllable hurt: “Home, bed, sleep, job."

Although the clatter of gentle applause and occasional hollers sounded more like a cacophony in his addled head, Warden showed no weakness as he steadily emerged into the pokecenter lobby. A nurse brought Gates a still-warm printed report which he unceremoniously rolled up and gripped in his left fist as he guided Warden to the door. Harrison called out behind them, “Come again soon. I'm expecting frequent check-ups until we're sure he's alright."

Gates waved with the rolled report, “Fair enough."

---

Locked, unlocked, locked, unlocked. The timing was off because of their slow pace, but Gates did not want to pressure Warden. “We're alone. I don't even have the dogs on my belt. You've got nobody to impress; no saving face. It's just you and me. Tell me straight, if you can: how bad is it?"

Warden stopped walking and tensed up. “I… can. It, I see, I can't see what I see. Just one thing." He began walking again; Gates kept pace. “All of me, I feel, different. I feel more. Before, I licked you, I felt licking you. Now," Warden demonstrated, “I feel licking you, I feel my tongue, I feel my jaw, I feel my neck, I feel my—all of me."

“Does it hurt?"

“I woke up and you were there and all of me hurt, but, it's not pain. It's just, feeling. It's different now. It's still changing. I'm—" Warden licked him again—“finding which part of me feels where. I like it."

“Since you like it, once in a while is okay, but don't make my cheek your salt lick." Gates scratched Warden beneath his chin, along his neck again, about his shoulders; “Is this helping?"

Warden staggered a bit, grunted a chuckle, and sped up a little. “Yes. I feel it everywhere but it's more where it's at when you rub it a lot. Mentor, I don't like being out here. I want to feel all of me in our bed."

Gates refrained. “I guess you were listening to me the whole time."

Warden replied, “Of course," but carelessly spoke in terms fit for his previous, not his current, mentor's ears. Focused on his goal, Warden had been speeding up and building a lead, but he stopped at the end of the block. “Which way? Mentor?" he asked shyly.

“We've gone this way before. Have you forgotten? Are you forgetting anything else?" Gates' mind flew to imagining what beyond Warden's sense of touch could be mixed-up.

“Why is the sky dark? Not again…" Warden shook his head and suddenly half-collapsed, but recovered before falling to the sidewalk, not so much by finding his footing but kicking about as though his hooves were sinking through.

“Warden?" Gates gripped his sawsbuck as though he could help. “It's dark because—it's like, almost two in the morning."

“Morning? No, morning is bright. In the morning, I can see him. I can see Mentor, and the sky, and…"

Gates struggled to restrain Warden as he lurched forward by scraping his fore-hooves against the sidewalk in a way that could throw him into a sign or into the road. “It's still night, but morning is coming, and you can see me and the sky in the morning after you sleep."

“Not you, him." Thankfully, Warden steadied his legs.

Gates wondered, “Him? Oh. I might have a picture of him," albeit one of him soon to be gutted and hanging from a tree.

“Not now, then. Now, I see you. Help me, Mentor, like Mentor did." Warden lowered his head, nearly touching the concrete with his nose, “Help me up."

Gates placed his hand on Warden's neck, and felt an instinctive impulse to grip the flesh of his nape and to pull upward after moving to stand before him. Warden stared forward, centering Anthony in his narrow field of binocular vision. “Follow me home, Warden; sleep in our bed until it is morning and bright. You will be okay."

Warden grunted an acknowledgment and walked directly behind Gates for half of their way home. More than once, he prodded Gates' lower left side with his right antler. That behavior stopped when Gates realized what Warden was trying to do, and stopping for a moment, stepped back to drape his left arm over his sawsbuck's back. Even though Warden could never again be carried along this way by his mentor, and the relative size of that arm was now much smaller, it gave Warden a desperately needed sense of comfort and safety.

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