DARWIN

Monday, March 19, 2018

"ATTENNNNN-SHUN! Straighten up, punks!"

The worst thing about Rustboro Trainer High's Battle Branch is probably the drill sergeants. One in particular.

Sergeant Marshall — who was apparently so married to his rank that he had refused to drop it, even after mustering out of the Hoenn Navy — marched up the line of my classmates, his steel-toed boots hitting the asphalt track like he wanted to leave behind craters. He probably would've liked it if he did — anything to make us feel smaller and him larger than life, despite being only 5'8".

I felt small enough already today, mostly because half my body weight was sweating out onto the track. Friday's rain had hammered hard through the weekend and then tapered off Sunday night, leaving Monday morning sunny, hot, and worst of all, humid, enough to boil my blood. What's worse, there was no wind, leaving everything still and dripping wet: the athletic field sported several huge standing puddles of water that made the air smell like a stagnate bog, and hordes of bug-types were buzzing around, looking for somewhere to land. It was completely disgusting. Class hadn't even started yet, and already the pits of my Operational Dress Uniform were soaked with sweat. Ditto for my scalp — the moisture had transformed my hair into an itchy mess of gray tangles, which I knew was not going to go unnoticed by Marshall.

And what do you know, I was right — as he stomped down the line, he came to a halt in front of me, squinting derisively. "Blakesley!" he shouted in my face. "What did I tell you about bringing that unkempt tumbleweed to class? It's an affront to my eyes. Get it out of my sight!"

I should've been used to getting yelled at, considering the military-school-style of the Battle Branch, but I still found myself seizing up. "Uh—"

"What was that? I can't hear you, recruit!"

"Yes sir!" My voice came out surprised and high, and cracked in the middle — humiliated, I ducked my head as he huffed and continued down the line, knowing that some of my classmates, despite their expressionless faces, were probably sniggering on the inside. Overbearing prick! It wasn't the first time he'd called me out because of my wild hair — sometimes I felt he was jealous because his own head was as smooth as a bowling ball.

Straightening my bandanna and trying to wrangle back some of my curls, I joined the rest of my class in waiting motionlessly as Marshall completed his inspection of our green uniforms — green for sophomores. We were the only branch school at RTHS that had to switch uniforms for certain classes. When Battle Branchies were indoors, listening to Mr. Andrews drone on about matchups or Mr. Mason about TMs and HMs, our regular navy blue slacks and white polos were fine. But if we put so much as a toe on the track or blacktop, we had to be in a set of our military-style ODUs. And despite the minimalist design, these things were apparently complicated to put on; at every inspection, Sergeant Marshall found someone's pockets inside out or a collar out of whack.

Case in point, plenty of my classmates got yelled at after my hair was chewed out — the cuffs of Veronica's sleeves were missing a fold, and Malcolm had forgotten to tuck his pants legs into his boots. Marshall stayed in front of Thomas for a full three minutes, coming dangerously close to stroking out; apparently, Ryans-Wade wasn't saying "yessir" loud enough and he was refusing to drop his smirk. I sighed inwardly; Marshall was wasting his breath. To Thomas, the Battle Branch was a means to an end, and in some ways a joke — I doubted he'd ever take the routine seriously unless he somehow wound up standing in front of a real Company Commander.

Eventually, Thomas was ordered to crank out fifty push-ups, and we all had to stand around in the baking heat and wait until he was done. At last, the class truly began.

"Midterms are coming up fast," Marshall said in disgust, "and you guys still can't tie your laces right or tuck in your shirts! And some of you—" he glowered at Thomas—"still have a problem with giving me lip. I wish you would join the Coast Guard in this sorry state — I'd love to see any one of you try, when you don't even know how to put on the uniform!" He shook his head and screwed up his face, as though wondering whether or not to continue on his tangent. Thank Arceus, he didn't.

"Well, today's class will beat some of this foolishness out of you! For the first fifteen minutes, we will be doing a warm-up — six laps around the track, and then a full-body workout on the asphalt." He paused and cocked his head, listening for audible groaning, but we'd learned our lesson in doing that already. I was cursing up a storm on the inside, though. With the humidity, this was the worst possible day to run laps and exercise on a blacktop in pants, socks, and close-toed shoes. Not for the first time, I wondered why I'd been crazy enough to join this branch of RTHS. The Professorship Branch, with their indoor studies and cold laboratories, sounded so much better right now; I wouldn't be surprised if some of the Brain Branchies were watching us from the SciTec Building right now, laughing at our sweat.

Six laps later, I was the eighth student to cross the finish line, and I was a stumbling, cross-eyed mess. My entire top half was soaked in sweat, and my hair was plastered to the back of my neck, now more black than gray. Wheezing, I trudged over to where my other classmates were waiting on the blacktop and collapsed onto the asphalt. My temples throbbed and my skin felt feverish. And I was going to be wearing my body out even more in a minute. Exercising sucks!

The last of my classmates — Quentin Flowers, huffing and puffing — came in from laps way too soon, and Marshall ordered us to start doing flutter-kicks and push-ups on the blacktop. This, the heat, and Marshall's nonstop shouting — "Legs higher, Hughes! Up, Flowers, up! Blakesley! Who told you to stop?" — was a recipe for a powerful migraine, and one appeared right between my temples as we were put through our second set of high planks. Pain pounded against the inside of my head like a second heartbeat, and I feared that if I didn't stop soon, my skull plates might splinter open. So, when I saw Marshall at the end at the far end of the group, shouting down at one of the girls doing incorrect side crunches, I collapsed and took the opportunity to breathe. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the heat.

Mistake — moments later, I heard my name being roared out of Marshall's mouth, and someone dumped lukewarm water over my head. Choking, my eyes opened to see Thomas squatting beside me, holding my empty water bottle.

"Sorry, Snowman," he said with a less-than-apologetic grin. "He told me to wake you up."

"Thanks." –a lot, asshat. I flinched when I saw Marshall towering over me at my other side, looking seconds away from blowing his top. "Sorry, I—"

"Who said you could sleep, recruit?" Not wincing at the spittle that spraying from his mouth was impossible. "Are you in kindergarten? Do you think that we have nap time in the middle of this class? Maybe you expect snacks, too? And crayons and coloring pages?"

I know we weren't supposed to respond but I couldn't help it: "N-no, I—"

"I DIDN'T ASK YOU TO SPEAK, RECRUIT!" His face was inches away now, and so red that I suspected, for sure this time, he was closing in on a full-blown stroke; how he'd survived twenty years in the Navy without a medical emergency, I would never know "Between this foolishness and that disastrous hair of yours, the Coast Guard will eat you alive, Blakesley! Alive! Now get down on your hands and knees and give me fifty push-ups!"

I was aghast; I'd just done fifty f*cking push-ups. "But—"

He glowered at me. "A hundred push-ups!"

The muscles in my face tightened. "What—"

"A hundred and fifty push-ups!"

I scrambled into position, swallowing the rage boiling at the base of my throat. This wasn't worth an argument, or so I tried to convince myself — anything I had to say would probably earn me a thousand more push-ups, plus half a dozen more laps around the track.

Thank Arceus, Marshall finally turned away from me. "What's this, Ryans-Wade?" he snarled. "Think that's funny do you? Maybe you'd like to join him?"

"No thanks," Thomas grunted.

"You do, you say? Then get down there and give me fifty!"

Thomas didn't like that, and made the mistake of opening his mouth, like I did. By the time he finally shut up, he'd racked up three hundred and fifty push-ups. I might've grinned and chuckled at his idiocy, but I was too busy trying to keep my biceps from combusting — if this intense burning feeling was any indication, they were pretty close.

Marshall called in Coach Mack, our relatively tame Conditioning instructor, to keep an eye on us as the rest of our class hiked over to the Pokémon Depository Shed standing at the back of the Rose Building, or Battle Branch HQ. Mercifully, Coach Mack cut us both off at fifty push-ups — it would've probably taken Thomas the rest of the class to finish three hundred more. By some stroke of luck the two of us were able to withdraw our pointers from the Depository Shed and rejoin the rest of the class back out on the track in time to catch Marshall's instruction for the next part of the class period.

"Take Down," he told us. He'd released his Vigoroth, Jamie, who was giving us all the stank-eye — between the two, it was sometimes hard to determine who was the bigger asshole. "Most assume that only Pokémon of human size or larger can perform this move on an opponent. Those are the idiots. Take Down is not the move itself; Take Down is the goal, to put the opponent on the ground. How you get there is up to interpretation, so even the little ones can do it — they just need the right technique. Now pay attention." He turned to Jamie. "I'm only going through this once.

"Now, for medium-sized Pokémon like Jamie, Take Down usually involves a heavy-handed impact to a sensitive target." He nodded to Jamie, and the Vigoroth backed up a few paces before ramming his shoulder into Marshall's stomach. I winced — a blow like that would have laid me out, but to his credit, much as I wanted to see it, Marshall didn't crumble. He folded a little, absorbing the impact, and then straightened, turning to glare back at us.

"See that? A shoulder in the stomach is a good place to start. The rib cage also works, and so does a palm or a fist here—" He jabbed the dip between his neck and shoulder. "Sometimes a single blow isn't enough — this is especially true for smaller Pokémon ; they don't have enough mass to make much of an impact. In those cases, breaking Take Down into two moves works best: one to unbalance the foe, and another to knock them to the ground. Watch."

He released his second, a Volbeat named Junie that looked way more war-torn than a Volbeat had any right to be. As crazy as it was that this tough-talking bastard had a Volbeat on his team, I was more curious about the scars that the Pokemon had on his skull and the missing part of one of his antennae. Maybe one day, when Marshall and I were on better terms, I'd ask him about it.

Marshall and his Volbeat circled each other for a moment. To my surprise, the Pokémon didn't leave the ground and buzz through the air; he was also missing a wing segment. Turned out that he didn't need it — in the blink of an eye, Junie had gotten in close and Head-butted Marshall in the belly. As he stooped, the Pokémon grabbed his sleeve and swung overhead in one fluid motion, coming down on the back of Marshall's neck like an anvil. The sergeant wound up flat on his stomach, eating grass; Junie sat on his back, buzzing in triumph.

I was impressed — it wasn't my first time seeing Junie fight, but it still amazed me that this Volbeat was as tough as he looked.

"That's just one example of Take Down," Marshall said as he clambered to his feet. "There're infinite variations to the move, but, again, the intent is the same: to take down your opponent. For the rest of the class, you're going to create a Take Down technique that fits your point Pokémon. And it better be a good one, because your midterm grade depends on whether or not you can Take Down Jamie." He patted his Vigoroth on the shoulder. "You make him eat weeds, you get an A. Anything else and you fail."

No one said a word, but the air was suddenly weighed down with fear. F*ck! These either or grading systems were the bane of my existence. I lived on partial credit, something that Marshall obviously didn't give a rip about. As the drill sergeant released us to get started, I cast a despairing look at Jamie, who glared back at me. This Pokémon would only eat weeds if he had an appetite for it — how could I possibly think that Don, of all Pokemon, would be able to bring him to his knees?

I felt depressed as I released him onto the grass. He looked about as forlorn as I felt — of all the Pokémon I could've gotten, they'd stuck me with a Smeargle that liked graffiti-style vandalism and hated fighting. As a point Pokémon no less. The universe hates me.

I forced a smile onto my face as I squatted before my Smeargle — my emotions were contagious when it came to him, so if I was upbeat, he was more likely to see this task for midterm as an interesting challenge rather than a stark impossibility. "Hey, bud. Ready to work out with me today?"

He leaned in as I scratched him behind the ears, but paused when he saw that we were in the athletic field. He looked left, then right, and then paled, wringing his tail anxiously between his paws and shedding a cloud of golden fur. I already knew what he was thinking: Oh Arceus, I'm in Combat. I wanna go home! This might have had something to do with the fact that in our first class period this year, we'd been put in skirmishes with my other classmates, and Don's clumsiness had gotten us both an earful from Marshall. Don had been scared witless of my teacher — and skirmishes — ever since.

"Don't worry, no practice matches today," I told him. His shoulders drooped in relief, and I continued: "It's more of an...independent study. We're working on a new technique today: Take Down."

He cocked his head, listening, and I explained to him Marshall's instructions and how we might go about the task. "You're smaller, so we'll break the move into a couple of steps," I said. "One to unbalance the other guy, and another to take him the rest of the way to the ground." I rose to my feet. "Come on, let's give it a try."

Don looked uncertain — his tail was still gripped in his paws, wringing, wringing. Wondering how to reassure him, I looked across the field and saw Junie the Volbeat observing one of my classmates take a blow from his Delibird. When the boy recovered, the Bug-type stepped in, buzzing contemptuously at Delibird and fixing his form.

"See that Volbeat?" I said, pointing. Don craned his head to look, and I said, "That's Junie, one of Marshall's Pokémon. Earlier, he took down Marshall in two moves. Two moves. Brought him right down to the grass." Don's ears perked. "Yeah, I know — I wish I had footage to show you. I bet Junie was scared when he first learned this move too. But then he found the right technique for him, and now moving like that is second nature to him." I looked back down at Don. "And if a Volbeat can do it, so can you, Don. I know you can."

The Smeargle glanced down at his tail, finally dropping it. Looked like he was ready.

***

Thirty minutes later, Marshall was mad at me again.

"Blakesley! Get your butt over here!"

I stiffened, a cold line of dread spreading down my back. Marshall was at the far end of the field, standing at the corner of the Rose Building with a face as red as a stoplight. I also saw Junie waddling towards us, a hard, unfriendly, and generally un-Volbeat-like look on his face. "Bzz," he told me when he got near, pointing to his Trainer. I guessed he was here to supervise Don while I got my ears blown out by Marshall.

The Smeargle glanced at the Volbeat and then looked anxiously up at me, tail back in his paws.

"It's okay, bud," I told him, bending to give him another scratch behind the ears. "I'll see what this is about, and be right back." I hated how upset he looked as I headed across the damp grass — I hoped Junie wouldn't bully him. But I wouldn't hold my breath when dealing with one of Marshall's Pokémon.

Honestly, I was upset too, and not just because Marshall was singling me out again. More accurately, I was depressed again, because Arceus, it's worse than I thought. By that, I meant the likelihood of Don taking down Jamie at midterm.

We'd tried out Junie's variation of Take Down, and Don's blows to my belly had been feather-light, barely there — I'd actually had to pretend to wince as not to wound his pride. Besides that, any attempt to assume a position above my prostrate form had been clumsy and slow — I knew that in a real fight, Jamie would, one, not blink at the blow to the stomach and, two, likely be more than fast enough to grab Don and hurl him to the ground when he tried to get above him.

I'm going to get an F, aren't I?

For the second time in as many hours, I wondered at my choice in joining the Battle Branch, especially after I'd been saddled with Don. From the second I had met my Pokémon at Summer Bridge last year, I'd known that he was weak, hesitant, and painfully shy, and today's training session just hammered the point home. I struggled to imagine working with him in a professional setting. Most graduates of RTHS's Battle Branch entered careers where they and their point Pokémon encountered perilous situations daily: police departments, Ranger corps, security details, militia or military outfits, things like that, all places where the Trainer and Pokémon worked as a team in physically dangerous situations. Me, I was personally interested in the financial security and upward mobility of Hoenn's Air Force or Coast Guard. But how could I be expected to do my job with a Pokémon who couldn't even Take Down his own Trainer in a training session?

I tried not to panic as I reached Marshall, leaving my classmates and their point Pokémon practicing in the middle of the field. Don't panic, there's a way to do this. Training Hall. I can practice with him during Training Hall. We'll get it, we just need time to figure it out. And there's plenty of time before midterm. Nothing but time.

I reached Marshall, who was a welcome distraction to my worries — when you're in this guy's presence, I swear all you can focus on is how to make him stop yelling. Unfortunately, Marshall stopped yelling when he wanted to stop yelling.

He was holding a clipboard in hand, and he started spitting as soon as I was in earshot: "Blakesley, are you trying to make me rip out my hair this semester?"

I couldn't tell whether or not this was a rhetorical question, so I decided to stay quiet. Wise of me.

"Can't put on the uniform right, can't do exercises right, can't comb your hair right, and now I've learned you can't even catch a water-type Pokémon right. Even with explicit instructions! Are you trying to make the world see you as a special case?"

I said nothing. He shoved the clipboard in my face.

"What does that say?" he asked. I stammered, trying to speak, and he roared, "What does that say?"

" 'C-Combat II, March nineteenth roster'—"

"By your name, recruit! What does that say?"

It said— Oh. " 'Sharpedo'."

"Sharpedo," Marshall repeated, yanking back the clipboard. "One of the most dangerous predators in Hoenn waters, and he decides to catch one, like an idiot. And not just catch it — train it, like he's some kind of Pokémon Master, and can handle any type, even one that preps its palate with human blood. 'I'll do it!' he says. 'And I won't lose any arms or legs in the process! Just you wait and see!'" He got up in my face now, his breath spreading across my cheeks. "I thought Ryans-Wade was the epitome of idiocy, but now he's got competition. The other faculty speak so well of you, saying you've got smarts pouring out of your ears. But when it comes to practicality, I've don't think I've ever seen someone so witless."

Psyduck, I thought as my hands balled into fists. You're like a Psyduck. Insults roll right off. "Sorry, sir," I mumbled, keeping my mouth a tight line.

"That's not good enough, recruit. Because of your Sharpedo, you're forcing me to split the class in two: those that are docile, and those that'll likely eat your face off. Because by having this thing as your second, you're putting you, your classmates, and most importantly, me in all kinds of danger. What, were there not enough Magikarps in the Safari Zone for you? Or did the Magikarps not suit your tastes? Maybe you have something to prove to your classmates? That you aren't a pussy, and you can tame a beast that'll likely serve your ass on a plate?" He jabbed me in the chest. "Answer me, recruit."

Oh, I wanted to, and holding back my response was like holding back a flamethrower: my mouth burned as a consequence. Because how dare he make assumptions about me because of the Sharpedo? He hadn't been there, so how could he possibly understand? I don't think he wanted to in the first place — I was inconveniencing him with my choice of Sharpedo, and he'd lamb-basted other students for less. So I didn't try.

"I said answer me, recruit."

I swallowed, imagining I was sending my rage down to my stomach. "Sorry, sir," I said again, more stiffly than the first time.

That didn't satisfy him. "I ought to hold you back for this," he snarled. "Send my recommendation up to Mr. Reyes and have your ass back in the sophomore class next year. More importantly, I ought to keel-haul the idiot who let you keep this monster for this long." He poked me in the chest again, harder than before. "But you know what? Why rush? I'll let you see for yourself how stupid you were to saddle yourself with this brute. Then I'll hold you back." He straightened. "Get your beast from the terminal and meet me at the pool. Five minutes. Go."

I walked woodenly back to the Depository Shed, feeling cold as I put my Trainer ID in the terminal. Here it is. The threat of being held back, losing my scholarship, my place at RTHS, only this time it was staring me right in the face like an oncoming train, and I was tied to the tracks. This fate suddenly seemed unavoidable: I may have calmed Sharpedo down that one time, but in no way did I have control over her, not enough to satisfy Marshall. The very sight of me irked her, and that would be all he needed to decide that she was too violent to train. I'd be cleaning out my locker by the end of the week.

A ways away, I saw Don. Junie was still with him, buzzing angrily down at the Smeargle, who hung his head in misery, his tail in his paws. His ears pricked hopefully when he spotted me, only to turn to dismay when I headed back across the field with Sharpedo's Pokéball heavy in hand. Maybe after I dropped out, he would be reassigned to a better Trainer, one who could help him grow to be a little more confident. The thought made me sick — suddenly, I was fighting tears.

The pool was located not far from the track, a gated, water-filled rectangle a stone's throw from the equally unimpressive Rose Building. A sidewalk took me to the outer gate, which stood open. Marshall was inside near the deep end, still looking pissed. Gathered around him were three men in uniform — school security guards, I realized, who you really only saw around the Armstrong Ed Building and the Pokémon Depository Sheds. They were armed; they cradled long tranquilizer guns in their arms, the ones they used on Pokémon when they got out of hand. I wondered if someone had told them about Sharpedo's two temper tantrums back in Slateport City. Clearly not, seeing as there were only three of them.

"Well?" Marshall said expectantly when I came up. "Don't keep us waiting — these guys have better things to do. Put it in the deep end."

Numbly, I pressed the button twice, aimed the Safari Ball at the water, and cracked it open. There was a flash of red light, and water splashed against my black boots as it rose over the lip of the pool. When the light faded, the water appeared to darken: Sharpedo floated near the bottom of the pool, a giant shadow, her long dorsal fin rising from the water like a jet-blue knife. She was so huge that she seemed to fill the entire deep end — I had to cock my head to make sure that it wasn't an optical illusion, and it wasn't. I stepped back, heart pounding feverishly — would I ever get used to her hellish size? Even now, after having been in her presence three times before, it still made me physically ill.

"Sh*t." Marshall let out an assortment of other colorful curses as the security guards cocked their weapons and spread out in a hurry, taking up positions around the pool. "Goddamn it," my teacher continued. "Dorothea told me, but... Arceus above."

He was talking about Ms. Scales. I tried to imagine that conversation in the employee lounge. Uneasily, I watched him pace across the front of the pool, his eyes nearly bugging out of their sockets as he took her in — looked like he was searching for an optical illusion too.

Sharpedo suddenly surfaced, her broad snout jutting from underneath the water up to her eyeball. I stiffened, and Marshall nearly leapt out of his boots; the security guards hastily took aim, knees shaking, as my instructor tore at his belt for a weapon that wasn't there. Sharpedo's red eye rolled as she took us all in — her savage face was hard to read, but her mouth kept opening and closing, and I wondered if she was confused. She had to be, having had appeared in a tiny pool filled with chlorine-laced liquid instead of salt water.

That didn't seem to bother her as much as I did — her ruby-red eye found me, and very abruptly she spun, throwing up a wave of water. Me and two security guards were instantly soaked head to foot. They cried out as Sharpedo knocked her nose against the side of the pool. Recoiling, she submerged, her snout wrinkling.

One of the security guard spluttered as he re-aimed his weapon. "What the hell is it doing?"

I wondered as I stood there, frozen. Was she trying to get me again? Even after we'd come to an agreement back in Slateport City?

"No idea," Marshall snarled as he stomped over to me, "but I changed my mind. Return it, Blakesley. I'm not taking a chance on this bastard."

The Pokéball was in my hand, but I didn't move. I couldn't. Not taking a chance? What did that mean? Was it over? Already? Was Sharpedo going to be taken away, leaving me to repeat the tenth grade?

"Blakesley!" Marshall roared. "Are you listening? Return that beast to its Pokéball!"

My hand shook — it felt like I was standing at a crossroads, and being pushed in the wrong direction. "I-I—"

Growling in rage, Marshall reached down for my Pokéball, and it was only in that moment that I was able to move again. I swung the Pokéball away, lifting it high above my head as I took a couple of stumbling steps back, out of Marshall's reach. The Combat instructor stared after me, mouth hanging open in disbelief. Then fury colored his face.

"What do you think you're doing you little maggot!"

Finally, I found my tongue. "S-sir, please." I held out a hand to stop his threatening approach. "You haven't given me...her a c-chance. I can do it. I just—"

Marshall reached out again, but not for my Pokéball — his fingers found my collar, and he dragged me close. "Open your eyes, Blakesley! Do you think this creature can be caged or commanded? I've seen beasts like this at sea. This monster would eat you as soon as listen to you."

"W-we have an agreement," I said weakly. "I s-spoke to her in Slateport City, a-and—"

"Idiot! You think you have an agreement. You think you're beginning to tame her. And you only think that because you know no better! The moment you let your guard down, you'll find yourself without an arm or a leg, and the school will suffer for your idiocy." His breath steamed across my face as he hissed, "Return it to its Pokéball. Now."

"Boss," one of the security guards said nervously, "what do you want us to do? It's looking at us again."

I glanced their way and saw that Sharpedo had indeed resurfaced, and had successfully shifted to her side without bashing her nose. She was glaring at me, I was certain of it — I wondered if she was remembering my words back in Slateport City, our little quid pro quo: Help me and I'll help you. Back then, she'd stood down, which I'd taken as assent. Was she still serious about it now?

Marshall released me. "Now," he repeated.

Wordlessly, I stepped to the edge of the pool and lifted the Pokéball, staring down at my massive water-type and barely able to believe that I was this close to such a dangerous creature with no protective glass between us. Glass that she'd cracked, twice. Yet now she didn't move. Was it because there were guns pointed at her? Or because she was keeping her word to work with me? My heart pounded. Suddenly, I...needed to know. I needed Marshall to know. And the need to know in this moment felt inexplicably more important than my own safety.

I lowered the Pokéball and dropped to a knee.

I heard the breath leave Marshall. "What are you doing?" he hissed.

I barely heard him — my heartbeat drummed inside my head, my skull, my jaw, drowning everything but my own voice out. I reached out a shaking arm. "Sharpedo," I said. My blood may have been boiling in my veins, but my voice came out calm, icy calm, frighteningly so. "You h...hit your nose earlier. Can I see if you hurt yourself?"

"Stop," Marshall said, in a tone I'd never heard before: one of uncharacteristic desperation. "Blakesley, get away from there! Now!"

Sharpedo didn't move, but she didn't have to — she was close enough that if I leaned, I could reach out and touch her skin with my fingers. I dropped to both knees now, and leaned forward.

"Do we shoot?" one of the security guards asked.

"No!" Marshall screeched. "Shoot and it might attack. Blakesley, stop! NOW!"

I didn't stop, and I knew I would catch hell for it later — I wouldn't be surprised if Marshall, ironically, tried to get me expelled for this. But with dropping out the only other route at this crossroads, I had no other choice — I had to show Marshall that Sharpedo was not a raging savage like he thought, and that though she was extremely dangerous, she was not without reason. I hope. Arceus, I hope.

My fingers found her skin. She didn't even twitch, but I did — her flesh was strange, a little slimy in one direction, rough in the other, but not with scales, none that I could see. I stared at my fingers a moment, fingers touching nightmare incarnate, and felt dizzy — I'm touching her. I can't believe it. Touching the same beast that had been bashing against glass in an attempt to kill me not five days ago. I was touching her, and I was fine, and while it was terrifying, it was also incredible.

I glanced back at Marshall. He was standing a ways behind me, his face a pasty white color, like curdled milk, and his bald head slick with sweat. His legs were spread, like he was resisting the urge to dash forward and drag me away from the edge of the pool. I opened my mouth to say something — See? We're fine. Or Can you give me another chance? — but he beat me to it. A look of abject horror came over his face, and he shrieked, "Blakesley! Look—"

I felt Sharpedo's flesh move under my fingertips, and spun back around in time to see her mouth spread open, a gateway to hell rimmed with brutal teeth. Before I could snatch my hand away, those teeth descended on my arm, sinking into my flesh.

(Ver. 3.0)

—

Darwin's Trainer ID, 2018 Version

Darwin's hair is a little too straight in the original. It's way wilder than this!

FLOOD Settings: Rustboro Trainer High School, Battle Branch

From my actual sketch of the location:

RTHS is located in the business district of Rustboro City, about five miles from the Pokémon Center, Pokémart, and Devon Corp. building on a couple dozen acres of land owned by the city. The campus is larger than most high schools, as it incorporates all four of the institution's educational subdivisions — the branch schools — and extensive outdoor exercise areas for both students and Pokémon.

Rose Building – Named after the first Building Administrator of the Battle School, Leticia Rose, the building is located closest to the PE complexes — the arena/track, the gymnasium, and the school pool — and hosts classes for the Battle Branch of RTHS, where students are educated in human-human and Pokémon-Pokémon combat. The building is brick, sparse, and squat, despite its name, and does not have many classrooms — most classes are held outside, rain or shine, any time of the year.

- Current building administrator: Brent Wright

- Vice administrator: Hugh Schultz

- Staff: Felix Kennedy (Pokéballs and Battle Gear); Elvira Cain (Battle Mechanics); Ryan Andrews (Match-Ups and Tactics); Tyrone Mason (TMs and HMs); Ana Mack (Conditioning); Hubert McDaniel (Training Hall); Unwin Marshall (Combat)

-  Branch Counselor: Cesar Kelley

Bonus Art: The Battle Branch's ODUs

Students of the Battle Branch are required to wear ODUs akin to those new recruits wear in military boot camps. The uniform is a visual representation of the Battle Branch's approach to instruction: from freshmen year, students are immersed in a more rigorous learning environment where hard work, discipline, obedience, and perseverance are held in high regard alongside academic intellect. This helps students transition more easily into the military and Battle College.