Both brothers sat for a moment in complete silence, their food being finished along with Kenta’s story. Hibiki tried to look down at the place on Kenta’s stomach where he’d been penetrated by a bullet, but the table was blocking it from view. He looked up at his big brother, his awe renewed by all that Kenta had been through. “How on earth did you survive?” he asked in a hushed voice. “After losing so much blood?”
Kenta shook his head very slightly, barely moving it from side to side. “I don’t know,” he murmured quietly. “It may have been raw willpower to live. The proper condition had been fulfilled.”
“What condition?”
“I was shot by the right person.” Kenta narrowed his eyes. “Arcada. My own chief.”
Hibiki heard a humming noise coming from the other side of the table, and Kenta looked down at his pocket. “Phone’s ringing,” he said, pulling out a green cellular phone. Hibiki looked at it curiously. “Hey, that’s not your old phone, is it?”
“Nope. Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me,” came Curtis’s voice in Kenta’s ear. “Uh, could you come over here real quick? We’ve got a problem.”
Kenta’s eyes widened. “The Master Ball isn’t giving you trouble, is it?”
“No, it’s not that, though that was a surprise,” said Curtis in a nervous voice. “But we found out what the Master Ball’s made of. Hurry over, okay?”
“Alright, but hold on.” Kenta motioned to Hibiki to listen carefully, then annunciated his words very carefully into the speaker. “From now on, don’t give your secrets to anyone who doesn’t enter your house with a password. We need to be secretive, or the lot of us will likely be hauled off to prison again. And this time, it’ll be much more serious.”
He heard Curtis gulp. “If you say so. What’s the password then?”
***
“Why that password?” asked Hibiki, as he and Kenta left the restaurant and began their short walk down the freezing street towards Kurt’s house. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t like it, I’m just wondering.”
“It’s an antonym,” said Kenta, already looking happier now that he was moving again. “It symbolizes our cause, like a good password should. Tell me, Hibiki, who are we against?”
Hibiki thought for a moment. “Silhouette?”
“Not them, but you’re close. Think bigger.”
“ . . . G.R.I.P.!”
“Right!” Kenta shot him a thumbs-up and smiled. “The Government Restrictive Institute on Pokémon. They were the forerunners of this whole mess to begin with, and it’s in their name that the government has stolen our pokémon away.” His face darkened. “How appropriate, that the acronym spells out the status of Pokémon Japan. They’ve got a death-grip on every trainer in this country, and they’re not letting go.”
They had reached Kurt’s doorstep. Kenta raised his voice. “That’s why we demand a release!”
The sliding panel door opened, and Curtis poked his head out and looked at them. “Welcome back!” he said jubilantly, bidding them to come in with a swinging of his hand. “Thank you, thank you, thank you for getting Grandpa back! Maisy’ll be so happy when I call her!”
“Well, it’s about time you showed some gratitude for that,” said Kenta in a grumpy voice, crossing his arms. Hibiki looked at him in horror, and immediately his face cracked. “Ha, ha, just kidding. How’s Elder Kurt enjoying his freedom?”
Curtis poked a thumb at the work bench in the back of the room and smiled, rolling his eyes. Kenta shrugged, putting up his arms. “Of course. He’s not happy unless he’s working on something. There’s a good man.”
“Yep.” Curtis turned and waved Kurt over, grinning. “Grandpa, take a break.” He looked back at Kenta. “Hey, do you have the time?”
“Yeah, uh . . . it’s 2:25. Why?”
“I reviewed the television guide earlier today. There’s this thing that’s airing once every three hours for the whole week, discussing how active pokémon holders are to train now. I figured you might want to take a look at it, and see for yourself what G.R.I.P. is expecting from Pokémon Japan. But before it comes on . . .”
Curtis lowered his voice. “I’ve still got something to ask you. What’s this I hear about you wanting Grandpa to make as many Master Balls as he possibly can?”
Hibiki looked at Kenta expectantly. He himself had already known from earlier in the morning that a plethora of Master Ball duplicates was part of Kenta’s plan, but he’d been flabbergasted by the news when he first heard it. Kenta gave Hibiki a reassuring nod, and motioned to the floor mats around a traditional Japanese ground-level table. “You guys may want to sit down.”
It took Kenta about half an hour to discuss his reasons for needing Kurt to make as many Master Balls as humanly possible. Curtis made a few astonished interjections at Kenta’s daring, but Kurt retained a face of silent awe. When he’d finished, the two pokeball-makers gave each other a lasting look of silent agreement, then gave Kenta a firm nod.
“I’m in. My years are many, and I’ve seen mostly everything there is to see. What can they hope to do to me at this point in my life, if they catch me?”
“And if I’m caught, I can always flee to America . . . joking! Joking!”
Kenta shook his head very slightly, barely moving it from side to side. “I don’t know,” he murmured quietly. “It may have been raw willpower to live. The proper condition had been fulfilled.”
“What condition?”
“I was shot by the right person.” Kenta narrowed his eyes. “Arcada. My own chief.”
Hibiki heard a humming noise coming from the other side of the table, and Kenta looked down at his pocket. “Phone’s ringing,” he said, pulling out a green cellular phone. Hibiki looked at it curiously. “Hey, that’s not your old phone, is it?”
“Nope. Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me,” came Curtis’s voice in Kenta’s ear. “Uh, could you come over here real quick? We’ve got a problem.”
Kenta’s eyes widened. “The Master Ball isn’t giving you trouble, is it?”
“No, it’s not that, though that was a surprise,” said Curtis in a nervous voice. “But we found out what the Master Ball’s made of. Hurry over, okay?”
“Alright, but hold on.” Kenta motioned to Hibiki to listen carefully, then annunciated his words very carefully into the speaker. “From now on, don’t give your secrets to anyone who doesn’t enter your house with a password. We need to be secretive, or the lot of us will likely be hauled off to prison again. And this time, it’ll be much more serious.”
He heard Curtis gulp. “If you say so. What’s the password then?”
***
“Why that password?” asked Hibiki, as he and Kenta left the restaurant and began their short walk down the freezing street towards Kurt’s house. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t like it, I’m just wondering.”
“It’s an antonym,” said Kenta, already looking happier now that he was moving again. “It symbolizes our cause, like a good password should. Tell me, Hibiki, who are we against?”
Hibiki thought for a moment. “Silhouette?”
“Not them, but you’re close. Think bigger.”
“ . . . G.R.I.P.!”
“Right!” Kenta shot him a thumbs-up and smiled. “The Government Restrictive Institute on Pokémon. They were the forerunners of this whole mess to begin with, and it’s in their name that the government has stolen our pokémon away.” His face darkened. “How appropriate, that the acronym spells out the status of Pokémon Japan. They’ve got a death-grip on every trainer in this country, and they’re not letting go.”
They had reached Kurt’s doorstep. Kenta raised his voice. “That’s why we demand a release!”
The sliding panel door opened, and Curtis poked his head out and looked at them. “Welcome back!” he said jubilantly, bidding them to come in with a swinging of his hand. “Thank you, thank you, thank you for getting Grandpa back! Maisy’ll be so happy when I call her!”
“Well, it’s about time you showed some gratitude for that,” said Kenta in a grumpy voice, crossing his arms. Hibiki looked at him in horror, and immediately his face cracked. “Ha, ha, just kidding. How’s Elder Kurt enjoying his freedom?”
Curtis poked a thumb at the work bench in the back of the room and smiled, rolling his eyes. Kenta shrugged, putting up his arms. “Of course. He’s not happy unless he’s working on something. There’s a good man.”
“Yep.” Curtis turned and waved Kurt over, grinning. “Grandpa, take a break.” He looked back at Kenta. “Hey, do you have the time?”
“Yeah, uh . . . it’s 2:25. Why?”
“I reviewed the television guide earlier today. There’s this thing that’s airing once every three hours for the whole week, discussing how active pokémon holders are to train now. I figured you might want to take a look at it, and see for yourself what G.R.I.P. is expecting from Pokémon Japan. But before it comes on . . .”
Curtis lowered his voice. “I’ve still got something to ask you. What’s this I hear about you wanting Grandpa to make as many Master Balls as he possibly can?”
Hibiki looked at Kenta expectantly. He himself had already known from earlier in the morning that a plethora of Master Ball duplicates was part of Kenta’s plan, but he’d been flabbergasted by the news when he first heard it. Kenta gave Hibiki a reassuring nod, and motioned to the floor mats around a traditional Japanese ground-level table. “You guys may want to sit down.”
It took Kenta about half an hour to discuss his reasons for needing Kurt to make as many Master Balls as humanly possible. Curtis made a few astonished interjections at Kenta’s daring, but Kurt retained a face of silent awe. When he’d finished, the two pokeball-makers gave each other a lasting look of silent agreement, then gave Kenta a firm nod.
“I’m in. My years are many, and I’ve seen mostly everything there is to see. What can they hope to do to me at this point in my life, if they catch me?”
“And if I’m caught, I can always flee to America . . . joking! Joking!”