“Oh, right. Sorry. But anyway, yeah, these balls are the highest-quality pieces of work we’ve ever made! I wish we could make more.”
“Don’t say that!” Kenta’s rebuke from the other end was loud and sharp, and Curtis heard it painfully clear. “Those balls used to be Magneton! Our ancestors killed animals for their meat and skins, as a survival necessity, but we can live without these Master Balls. Whatever amount you end up with will have to do!”
Kenta listened from his end for Curtis’s reply, but the pokeball-maker was silent. Feeling he might have hurt Curtis, Kenta followed up apologetically. “Besides,” he murmured more gently, “I’ll always prefer your Friend Balls. They make pokémon happy.”
“ . . . Thank you.”
“Curtis, I just want you to know that I’m deeply grateful for all the work you’ve been doing,” Kenta added on quickly, still feeling insufficient. “I mean, you’ve been working on those things nonstop for an entire week now, without a nickel of pay, and at constant risk of being taken in by the police. On top of that, you’re also having kids walking into your house from dawn ‘til dusk, demanding all the apricorn balls you’ve ever stashed away. I don’t think I could ever repay-”
“Hey, hey!” interjected Curtis, stopping him. “It’s fine. Really. Do you know how happy Grandpa is?” He smiled. “We’re total heroes, over here. Grandpa feels more important with every trainer that calls ‘release’ through our door. They know, and we know, that what we’re giving them aren’t just some balls- they’re the balls. Through us, people are becoming trainers again. And through us . . .” He spoke closer to the receiver. “Well, you know. ‘The tide will turn.’”
“That’s what today’s field trip is all about,” said Kenta briskly. “Wish us luck.”
“Do you have your Master Ball with you?”
“Uh-huh.”
Curtis smiled again. “Then that won’t be necessary.”
As both parties hung up, Hibiki tapped Kenta on the shoulder from his seat behind. “Did you tell him what we were doing today?” he asked, holding tightly to his hood. Kenta nodded. “A while back, actually.”
“Before or after your first speech to the fan clubs?” asked Hibiki, somewhat skeptically. “You know, that talk where you said ‘the only thing worse than a thief is a thief who says he’s done nothing wrong’?”
“Hey, I know it’s wrong, but it’s the only way to take back what’s ours,” Kenta responded, shrugging his shoulders. “Besides, we’re not stealing anything. We’re borrowing it without permission.”
“G.R.I.P. could use that same excuse about our pokémon, Mr. Sparrow.”
“That’s Captain Sparrow to you. Don’t forget your gloves, now.”
***
Kenta's outer mannerisms maintained a facade of confidence quite contrary to his innermost thoughts.
I’m already getting butterflies in my stomach over this. I’ve been planning it for weeks, but there’s so much that could go wrong. I’m not worried so much that we’ll be beaten, but more over the possibility that we could finally be identified for who we are. Krane’s lab has security everywhere. There’s just overwhelming protection guarding the most valuable thing in Orre.
The Snag Machine.
Up until six years ago, it had been impossible for any trainer to steal another’s pokémon. Loyal as dogs, and dependable as lifelong friends, pokémon had always shared a tendency to follow only the orders of their own masters. If a pokémon was ever taken forcibly from its trainer, the case was constant: it would not yield to its new master. Even if a would-be thief attempted to catch another trainer’s pokémon, it would be in vain; the capture ball would simply bounce uselessly off the pokémon like an acorn. Until the pokémon got the trainer’s consent, it would obey nobody else.
That was before the Snag Machine. A device of sinister genius, invented by a group of desert brigands known as Team Snagem, the Snag Machine’s purpose was to alter normal pokeballs so that they became artificial will-breakers. If a Snag-Machine-modified pokeball were to be thrown at a trained pokémon, it would not only suck the pokémon in by force, but strip the creature of its former loyalty. In a way, the machine stood as a different form of rape. A truly terrible contraption, it went against every definition of nature, disgusting all but the most apathetic of criminals.
And now Kenta needed it.
***
Ever since his first spy visit to Krane Laboratories back before he’d gotten Hibiki, Kenta had held a constant opinion about the location. Rather than a research facility for heart purification technology, the place would’ve done better as a nuclear testing zone. Outside the lab’s two-mile radius of vegetation, there was nothing but desert sand and rocky soil as far as the eye could see. Nobody would be calling in to visit way out here, nor would anyone without an all-terrain vehicle simply be able to come. Kenta couldn’t imagine who in their right mind would consider building any sort of human structure out here, except maybe for mining or archeology expeditions.
Bolt rocketed over Orre’s enormous stretch of sandbeds, hovering less than ten feet off the ground. In the distance, Hibiki spotted a greenish-black patch of land and pointed ahead at it. “Look, Kenta! I think I see it.”
“I think you’re right,” answered Kenta, over the blowing of the wind. “We’ll touch down once we’re in a thick enough patch of trees. We can’t have those guys seeing Bolt . . . yet.” He turned around from where he was sitting behind Bolt’s neck and looked Hibiki seriously in the face. “Now, do you remember the plan? Or would you like to act it out first, before we go in for real?”
Hibiki shook his head. “No, that’s okay. I remember pretty well. Acting it out now would dull the second performance.”
Kenta grinned and ruffled his hair. “Don’t lose that self-confidence, now. We’re gonna need it very soon.”
***
In the middle of the Orre desert stood the few acres of forest where Kenta and Hibiki landed. In the middle of the forest acres stood Krane Laboratories itself, surrounded by dirt paths leading up to the doors. In the middle of Krane Laboratories sat the first-floor reception room, and in the middle of that, the receptionist’s desk. When Kenta and Hibiki entered through the sliding panel door leading to the center of centers, it was as if they’d walked into the center of attention. Three guards eyed the brothers suspiciously as they strode towards the woman behind the desk, and she herself eyed them with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes? Can I help you with something?”
Hibiki pulled his traveler’s cloak tightly around him, so that he’d have as little of himself showing as possible. Kenta pointed at him, putting on a stern, yet sympathetic face. “Please, could we get a cup of water for this kid?” he asked emotionally. “I was on my way over here when I found him wandering around in the middle of the sand dunes. The lad seems to have gotten separated from his caravan, passing through here.”
“Oh!” Like magic, the receptionist’s defenses vanished. “Yes, yes, just wait here, and I’ll be right back!”
She hurried out of her seat and walked smartly towards the double-doors in the back left corner of the room. They opened before she got there, and two people walked out, apparently in the middle of conversation with each other. The first was a middle-aged man in a white lab coat, with untidy brown hair and a pleasant smile on his face. The other was a boy of about twelve years in age, wearing a gentlemanly suit and tie. It clashed terribly with flamboyant hairstyle, which was a mane of long red hair that clashed between spikes and dreadlocks.
The two parties looked at each other for a moment in mild surprise, then the receptionist stepped hastily to the side. “Oh dear, pardon me, Professor-!”
“Not at all, Kaoru, go right ahead . . .”
“That’s him,” muttered Kenta in undertone, so that only Hibiki would hear. “Professor Krane himself. And it looks like his office is still unlocked during business hours.”
That’s odd . . . I was expecting more resistance than that. I know for a fact that he stored the Snag Machine in there the other day, before closing up.
Kenta had only seen the Snag Machine one other time from when he’d spied Krane carrying it into his office. It had been a couple years back, during an Internet search he’d done on criminal-made tools and technology. A file photo titled “snag machine” revealed a mechanical arm of sorts, wired to a metallic sphere shaped like a trash can lid. The photo bordered on classified information, and Kenta felt lucky to have seen it at all. It would definitely come in handy now.
The receptionist bustled out of Krane’s office with a glass of tap water, and handed it to Hibiki as soon as she’d returned. Hibiki, who was actually somewhat thirsty after riding through the high-winded sky environment on Bolt, snatched the glass and gulped down the water instantly, putting on a convincing show. Kenta silently congratulated him in his mind, and pulled out his Master Ball to show the receptionist.
“Um, I’ve been asked to deliver this to Professor Krane,” he said in a modest voice, looking over the receptionist’s shoulder at Krane’s retreating back. Playing dumb, he pointed in Krane’s direction. “That wouldn’t happen to be him, would it?”
Kenta glanced at the receptionist; she was staring at the Master Ball in silent astonishment. Remembering that the Master Ball was a very sensitive item, he pushed it back into his pocket. She looked back up at him. “Krane? She asked distantly, then came to her senses. “Oh! Excuse me! Professor Krane!”
“Don’t say that!” Kenta’s rebuke from the other end was loud and sharp, and Curtis heard it painfully clear. “Those balls used to be Magneton! Our ancestors killed animals for their meat and skins, as a survival necessity, but we can live without these Master Balls. Whatever amount you end up with will have to do!”
Kenta listened from his end for Curtis’s reply, but the pokeball-maker was silent. Feeling he might have hurt Curtis, Kenta followed up apologetically. “Besides,” he murmured more gently, “I’ll always prefer your Friend Balls. They make pokémon happy.”
“ . . . Thank you.”
“Curtis, I just want you to know that I’m deeply grateful for all the work you’ve been doing,” Kenta added on quickly, still feeling insufficient. “I mean, you’ve been working on those things nonstop for an entire week now, without a nickel of pay, and at constant risk of being taken in by the police. On top of that, you’re also having kids walking into your house from dawn ‘til dusk, demanding all the apricorn balls you’ve ever stashed away. I don’t think I could ever repay-”
“Hey, hey!” interjected Curtis, stopping him. “It’s fine. Really. Do you know how happy Grandpa is?” He smiled. “We’re total heroes, over here. Grandpa feels more important with every trainer that calls ‘release’ through our door. They know, and we know, that what we’re giving them aren’t just some balls- they’re the balls. Through us, people are becoming trainers again. And through us . . .” He spoke closer to the receiver. “Well, you know. ‘The tide will turn.’”
“That’s what today’s field trip is all about,” said Kenta briskly. “Wish us luck.”
“Do you have your Master Ball with you?”
“Uh-huh.”
Curtis smiled again. “Then that won’t be necessary.”
As both parties hung up, Hibiki tapped Kenta on the shoulder from his seat behind. “Did you tell him what we were doing today?” he asked, holding tightly to his hood. Kenta nodded. “A while back, actually.”
“Before or after your first speech to the fan clubs?” asked Hibiki, somewhat skeptically. “You know, that talk where you said ‘the only thing worse than a thief is a thief who says he’s done nothing wrong’?”
“Hey, I know it’s wrong, but it’s the only way to take back what’s ours,” Kenta responded, shrugging his shoulders. “Besides, we’re not stealing anything. We’re borrowing it without permission.”
“G.R.I.P. could use that same excuse about our pokémon, Mr. Sparrow.”
“That’s Captain Sparrow to you. Don’t forget your gloves, now.”
***
Kenta's outer mannerisms maintained a facade of confidence quite contrary to his innermost thoughts.
I’m already getting butterflies in my stomach over this. I’ve been planning it for weeks, but there’s so much that could go wrong. I’m not worried so much that we’ll be beaten, but more over the possibility that we could finally be identified for who we are. Krane’s lab has security everywhere. There’s just overwhelming protection guarding the most valuable thing in Orre.
The Snag Machine.
Up until six years ago, it had been impossible for any trainer to steal another’s pokémon. Loyal as dogs, and dependable as lifelong friends, pokémon had always shared a tendency to follow only the orders of their own masters. If a pokémon was ever taken forcibly from its trainer, the case was constant: it would not yield to its new master. Even if a would-be thief attempted to catch another trainer’s pokémon, it would be in vain; the capture ball would simply bounce uselessly off the pokémon like an acorn. Until the pokémon got the trainer’s consent, it would obey nobody else.
That was before the Snag Machine. A device of sinister genius, invented by a group of desert brigands known as Team Snagem, the Snag Machine’s purpose was to alter normal pokeballs so that they became artificial will-breakers. If a Snag-Machine-modified pokeball were to be thrown at a trained pokémon, it would not only suck the pokémon in by force, but strip the creature of its former loyalty. In a way, the machine stood as a different form of rape. A truly terrible contraption, it went against every definition of nature, disgusting all but the most apathetic of criminals.
And now Kenta needed it.
***
Ever since his first spy visit to Krane Laboratories back before he’d gotten Hibiki, Kenta had held a constant opinion about the location. Rather than a research facility for heart purification technology, the place would’ve done better as a nuclear testing zone. Outside the lab’s two-mile radius of vegetation, there was nothing but desert sand and rocky soil as far as the eye could see. Nobody would be calling in to visit way out here, nor would anyone without an all-terrain vehicle simply be able to come. Kenta couldn’t imagine who in their right mind would consider building any sort of human structure out here, except maybe for mining or archeology expeditions.
Bolt rocketed over Orre’s enormous stretch of sandbeds, hovering less than ten feet off the ground. In the distance, Hibiki spotted a greenish-black patch of land and pointed ahead at it. “Look, Kenta! I think I see it.”
“I think you’re right,” answered Kenta, over the blowing of the wind. “We’ll touch down once we’re in a thick enough patch of trees. We can’t have those guys seeing Bolt . . . yet.” He turned around from where he was sitting behind Bolt’s neck and looked Hibiki seriously in the face. “Now, do you remember the plan? Or would you like to act it out first, before we go in for real?”
Hibiki shook his head. “No, that’s okay. I remember pretty well. Acting it out now would dull the second performance.”
Kenta grinned and ruffled his hair. “Don’t lose that self-confidence, now. We’re gonna need it very soon.”
***
In the middle of the Orre desert stood the few acres of forest where Kenta and Hibiki landed. In the middle of the forest acres stood Krane Laboratories itself, surrounded by dirt paths leading up to the doors. In the middle of Krane Laboratories sat the first-floor reception room, and in the middle of that, the receptionist’s desk. When Kenta and Hibiki entered through the sliding panel door leading to the center of centers, it was as if they’d walked into the center of attention. Three guards eyed the brothers suspiciously as they strode towards the woman behind the desk, and she herself eyed them with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes? Can I help you with something?”
Hibiki pulled his traveler’s cloak tightly around him, so that he’d have as little of himself showing as possible. Kenta pointed at him, putting on a stern, yet sympathetic face. “Please, could we get a cup of water for this kid?” he asked emotionally. “I was on my way over here when I found him wandering around in the middle of the sand dunes. The lad seems to have gotten separated from his caravan, passing through here.”
“Oh!” Like magic, the receptionist’s defenses vanished. “Yes, yes, just wait here, and I’ll be right back!”
She hurried out of her seat and walked smartly towards the double-doors in the back left corner of the room. They opened before she got there, and two people walked out, apparently in the middle of conversation with each other. The first was a middle-aged man in a white lab coat, with untidy brown hair and a pleasant smile on his face. The other was a boy of about twelve years in age, wearing a gentlemanly suit and tie. It clashed terribly with flamboyant hairstyle, which was a mane of long red hair that clashed between spikes and dreadlocks.
The two parties looked at each other for a moment in mild surprise, then the receptionist stepped hastily to the side. “Oh dear, pardon me, Professor-!”
“Not at all, Kaoru, go right ahead . . .”
“That’s him,” muttered Kenta in undertone, so that only Hibiki would hear. “Professor Krane himself. And it looks like his office is still unlocked during business hours.”
That’s odd . . . I was expecting more resistance than that. I know for a fact that he stored the Snag Machine in there the other day, before closing up.
Kenta had only seen the Snag Machine one other time from when he’d spied Krane carrying it into his office. It had been a couple years back, during an Internet search he’d done on criminal-made tools and technology. A file photo titled “snag machine” revealed a mechanical arm of sorts, wired to a metallic sphere shaped like a trash can lid. The photo bordered on classified information, and Kenta felt lucky to have seen it at all. It would definitely come in handy now.
The receptionist bustled out of Krane’s office with a glass of tap water, and handed it to Hibiki as soon as she’d returned. Hibiki, who was actually somewhat thirsty after riding through the high-winded sky environment on Bolt, snatched the glass and gulped down the water instantly, putting on a convincing show. Kenta silently congratulated him in his mind, and pulled out his Master Ball to show the receptionist.
“Um, I’ve been asked to deliver this to Professor Krane,” he said in a modest voice, looking over the receptionist’s shoulder at Krane’s retreating back. Playing dumb, he pointed in Krane’s direction. “That wouldn’t happen to be him, would it?”
Kenta glanced at the receptionist; she was staring at the Master Ball in silent astonishment. Remembering that the Master Ball was a very sensitive item, he pushed it back into his pocket. She looked back up at him. “Krane? She asked distantly, then came to her senses. “Oh! Excuse me! Professor Krane!”